There's No Accounting for Taste

I arrived in Iowa City on Friday, August 29th, 1993.

The sum total of people I knew in town was 2. One was my ex-girlfriend, who had left me the previous spring for a Mustang-driving-sweater-tied-around-the-neck assclown. The other was a moderately overweight male Chicagoan who I had gotten loaded with at Rocky Roccoco's in the "pedmall" and who, later that evening, attempted to crawl into bed with me whilst sleepwalking over orientation weekend. I knew what had to be done...find the smokers.

Burge seemed like a silly place to me and after wandering around a bit I couldn't help but notice how many WHITE people there were. White people as far as the eye could see. PRETTY white people too! I told a curious party that I was from Arkansas and they looked at me as if I might be lying. I guess my shoes, overall cleanliness, and similar skin pigment through them off, but not soon after the questions were flying...

"Wow! Where's that?"
"Do you drive cars and stuff?"
"There's an OUR-Kansas?"

It's what I would come to expect from Iowa and I'm From Chicago but Not Really Chicago More Like Downer's Grove or Willamette Chicago folk over my years there. People throw around terms like "Number One in Education" too much I think.

The next night I saw The Smashing Pumpkins alone at Gabe's Oasis with a surprisingly small crowd.

On Sunday I met Justin.