Not-Windy City

I am so tired. It is only a slight exaggeration to say that I’ve talked more in the last three days than I have in the last three months. That’s probably true of a lot of us. It’s what happens when an independent producer emerges briefly into the Real World.

I’ve gotten to catch up with quite a few old friends and acquaintances. Here are Beverly Mire and Noah Adams.

I signed up for fifteen minutes of technical help from the wonderful Jeff Towne (right, below), but my session was over before I’d put a dent in my list of questions, so I signed up again, this time with a faked signature so no one would get mad that a greedy “Ginna Allison” had grabbed two slots. By the time we were finished, I had ordered a flash audio recorder and knew how to work it.

I went for a pre-trek pedicure from a woman named Alah from the Ukraine. A very angry person, she went after my toes with a vengeance. I hobbled out of there bloodied, a victim of overzealous nail clippers. Despite debilitating injuries I ran (literally) three blocks to see the lake before dark. It is, indeed, a great lake.

Dinner with Sue, Bari and Adi. The post-meal accounting, in which I did not participate, was epic.

It was almost midnight by the time we got back and I was ready for bed and solitude, but the others still had energy. They piled into a metal contraption to be towed by bicycle to the PRX dance. At the last second I decided to go-with, and perched upon my companions for the four-block ride. We careened down the street, shrieking with laughter.

Tom Marzahl got me onto the dance floor. In this picture we were doing something creative, handwise. Probably it’s caught on across dance floors worldwide by now. From the sidelines Karen Michel and David Goren watched the sweating mass of public radio humanity.

And here are a few pictures that Arthur Cohen took. Adi and I look like we’re plotting the overthrow of something.

Farewell to New York-bound Karen.

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