Last weekend Chicago was debilitated by a snow storm. Snow everywhere. Cars buried in. A pile of dark gray slush on every curb that resembled a slurpee recipe gone terribly wrong. It was vintage Chicago winter.
So, naturally, we decide it's a good time to drive to our Friday night destination. I'm in the car with Sean and Dave, and we're off to the Double Door to go see a hip-hop show. I'm in the backseat; the music is loud, spirits are high, and we are off for our Friday night.
We turn the corner on a small side street to head back to Western Avenue, and right in the middle of the intersection is a snow mound left behind by a plow-truck. It's about three feet high, and there are no other people outside on the block.
"Woooooaaaah!"
"Let's drive around it."
"Yeah. Good call."
Five years ago - hell, three years ago - we would have smashed right through that bastage at 30 mph.
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1 comment:
wrinkled balls.
another sign of growing older.
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