Holy shite. Is this really Birmingham?

I’ve been warned that Chicago will be cold when I arrive this weekend, and I’m totally fine with that. Looking forward to it, in fact; one of my biggest gripes about living in the south is that we don’t really get winter. Ever. Once every few years, you get a week or two of sub-freezing temperatures, but for the most part, it’s a perpetual half-spring; just like everything else in the south, the seasons only have so much energy, and they only get half there.

This is one of the aforementioned weeks, apparently. While I would love it, normally, it comes after a week of what the weathermen have been referring to as “unseasonably warm temperatures.” Which is total bullshit, because January is also known as “time to start pulling out the summerwear.”

I still remember coming back from Chicago three years ago, where we had driven through ice and snow and played in constant twenty degree temps. We returned on a Sunday afternoon, and I had to run into the office for some inane reason or another, and I wore shorts and a t-shirt, and still got a little warm.

600 miles should not make such a difference, but it did. And does. Watch — I’ll return from what I’m forewarned will be lows in the teens to highs in the upper 60s or lower 70s. And once again, I’ll wonder why it was that I came back.

Been thinking about this a lot the past few weeks, especially since this weekend. Once you start telling people about your plans or intentions, those plans and intentions become solid and real, no longer ideas that you might give weight to later but something that you’re actually setting in motion. I needed to do that, the talking; I’ve put this off for years, eleven, twelve now, thinking about a move but never getting any further than that, and I apparently needed to kick myself in the ass to get the ball rolling.

I will miss some things, I’ve been realizing. A lot of things, I’m sure. I think the only irreplaceable thing is the Exhibit(s) — Eric and Chance are unique among rarities, and the three of us and Carlos have a chemistry and a combined perspective that I’ve never found and can’t imagine ever finding again. There are things like Sidewalk (and my fairly intensive involvement over the past few years) — but that’s growing well into it’s own entity now, and there are still plane tickets for sale in September.

As much as I realize that friends and family can come visit, I count you guys in the category of things that would make me stay. I’m going to avoid using names, uncommonly — it’s really getting too confusing to remember which of you bastards are pseudonymous online and which aren’t. But I love you all; you’ve really shown me over and over that my cynical attitude towards mankind might be a little misplaced. Probably just ahead of it’s time, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. For now.

Except you, Wade. You’re a heartless bastard, through and through, and I leave both cats to you in my will. And my old wedding rings. And I use your name shamelessly.

Most of you know, even if you don’t admit it, that friends don’t come along very often. Acquiantances, sure — some of us have a billion of those. But real, true friends — not so much. And I’ve got my share plus two or three other shares worth. You should all know that I recognize that, and when I’m rich and famous and ruling over the midwest with Chicago as my fortified stronghold, you can all be part of my entourage.

If you need to prepare for the cold weather up there, that snow and ice and bitter chill that you’re all trying to warn me about (forgetting that cold is where I’m my best) — just come hang out at this apartment for a night. You’ll be all set.