Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, I hope you all had a fine weekend. Mine was spectacular. It started with a field trip to the Newberry Library in Chicago on Friday, I got back with enough time to head over to Carribean Cove–the best waterpark hotel off of 465, and a slam poetry reading had me hooting and hollering til my throat went dry. Today is Sunday, December the 2nd, and for whatever reason there was a parade in downtown Crawfordsville. I was headed off campus with the original intention of checking out the town’s new coffee shop, but when that turned out to be closed I figured there must be something important going on. Highway 231 was littered with C-villians on both sides of the street. I thought surely there had to be a monster-truck rally to get this many people away from the Wal-mart. But in my two minutes of spectating I only saw boy-scouts marching with slumping shoulders and an old guy on an even older firetruck. Whooopee.
The Popul Vuh, written by Francisco Ximenez in 1715 in Guatemala, is the story of how the Quiche Mayans came to be.
Ximenez’s written account of the sacred myth successfully preserved these people’s way of life, which catholic conversion threatened to erase. In my freshman tutorial class, archaeoastronomy, we spent a great amount of time studying the native meso-American way of life and their mythology, with a great emphasis on the Popul Vuh. It was an honor to be able to travel to Chicago and see this text in the flesh; it was also an honor to escape my psychology exam and my two other classes that Friday.
We met outside Detchon Hall at 8:45 and departed for Chicago with the company of two other Spanish classes on a mini bus. Our bus driver Anthony was kind enough to allow me to play my anthology of James Brown for all to enjoy. Nothing makes a trip through the endless cornfields and the dying industrial towns of northwest indiana more electrifying than ten minute long saxophoning and heavy sensual screams from the Godfather of Soul. In a horrible recollection of my learnings in 7th grade spanish, I warned Lucia, the female spanish intern, that I was known for having the dancing ability of a “Chupacabra en fuego”–she was not impressed, actually she was quite startled. Overall, the trip was great, I don’t know of many other places where you get to take a day trip to Chicago on a Friday; shit, I haven’t been on a field trip since 8th grade. Thanks Wabash!!!
We made it back by 7pm, which meant I still had time to head over to my girlfriend’s business frat’s celebratory banquet in Indianapolis. After an arduous semester of pledgeship she can finally call herself a brother, and I can continue to try to explain to my friends that ‘yes my girlfriend’s a girl, even though she’s a brother of a fraternity.’ This night of celebration meant three things for me: I finally get to stroll around in my business suit that’s been hanging in my closet since August, free prime rib buffet, and the correct venue to justify my flaming chupacabra claims. And justify I did.
As loose as a goose, I danced for about three straight hours. On a chair, on a table, on the floor while playing dreidel, it did not matter to me y’all. There were times when I intentionally distanced myself from my girlfriend so I did not hit her amidst my violent spurts of appendage flailing. At one in the morning the party police, aka hotel staff, informed us that our time reserved for the ballroom was over. It wasn’t long after that before the real police, aka the five-0, informed about thirty of us to disperse from hotel room 482 (the post party party). I was under the assumption that all hotel staff and police abided by R. Kelly’s rules for hotels, which states that ‘Around about fo’ (4 a.m.) you gotta clear the lobby, but I was mistaken. Still a free citizen, I went to sleep.
I wish there was more to tell, but I’ve got that Psych exam to study for, TOOT TOOT BEEP BEEP.
Have a good week y’all,