The Wind Farm

I’m glad my dad warned me about it, because if I’d just come out of Gibson City and seen it with no warning, I would have had an accident.  But you round a corner and there, spread out as far as Bloomington, are miles and miles of windmills, enormous windmills with three long spiky arms, turning over and over and over themselves, like a poem or a prayer or a breeze just a little higher up than me.

It was like driving through some kind of avant-garde forest, silver suggestions of trees.

I should have taken a picture.  I will try to get back over there and take a picture.

I Think the ‘Ta-Da’ May Be More Broadly Applicable

Lindsey reports that our friend, Joey, is running around asking sex advice questions from circus performers.  He’s come a long way from the wide-eyed terror with which he faced my napkin cooter, hasn’t he?

Anyway, I’m going to start saying ‘ta-da’ after all kinds of different accomplishments.  What a genius way to end things!

You go along for a while like normal, shout out ‘ta-da,’ and it’s like you’ve accomplished something spectacular.