Fried Cheese and Beer: Name that State.
Ah, but let’s not have that last post be the last post anymore, huh? I hate to think of it being at the top of things, here.

Quickest of updates: Best weekend ever here in Madison, visiting Hunter. My favorite thing about this place has got to be the profusion of weirdness. And by that I mean: buildings with ghost stories behind them, giant ears of corn, strange houses built by arch nemeses of Frank Lloyd Wright. And more. It’s a cornucopia of odd.

Yesterday and today, we hung out with Hunter’s two friends, George and Gretta. Adventures have included, but not been limited to: A visit to The Bar Next Door, which claims to have been a Prohibition Era hideout for Chicago gangsters, complete with a haunted staircase and a trapdoor that leads to underground catacombs that connect to the park across the street. Gretta claims she’s been shown said-catacombs once, one night when she and a girlfriend closed down the bar. “Where was the trapdoor?” we asked. “I don’t remember,” she said. “As I said, we closed down the bar.” She did show me the haunted stairwell, though, though she pointed out it doesn’t feel haunted, and I had to agree.
I ate fried cheese curds. They were satanically good. I drank three glasses of beer. Then we drove down this one street where an optical illusion makes the capitol building look like it’s getting farther and farther away the closer you get to it.

Then, another bar, and we accidentally separately purchased both a new pitcher of beer and two Rolling Rocks. We had surprising trouble getting anyone else to take the Rolling Rocks as a gift. Maybe we look like the poisoning types. I dunno.
We fed the jukebox mightily and toasted and reminisced over the Misfits, X, Devo and other bands of our formative years. T’was good, t’was good.
Tomorrow I have to leave this place. I am not exactly dancing a jig. Ah, well.