Over the weekend. . .

. . . some friends from Kansas stayed with me.

Events of note include the 20-minute running tour of the entire Chicago Art Institute, the slut-fest which is First Fridays at the Museum of Contemporary Art (That night's feature exhibit was an installation of past their freshness date Lincoln Park-chicks close talking to chubby guys wearing too much hair product and embroidered shirts. The smell of Skyy vodka filled the gallery air.), and the kindly South African girl who I met outside the Hidden Cove Karaoke Bar - she liked the cut of my jib so much that she forced her drunk boyfriend to keep my friends and I soaked deep in Old Style and Jagerbombs.

Of the three guests visting, there was one I didn't know. While driving to the Art Institue this third guest asked, "How long have you been in Chicago?"

"Three, maybe four years. To be honest, it feels like I've been out here for only about one."

My friend riding shotgun remarked, "Really? To everyone back home, it feels like you've been gone forever."

"Really?" I asked, allowing my intonation to reflect my perplexity.

Onward, I drove. Quietly wondering who's getting the better deal.