Back to the scene of the crime

For the first time since I moved home, I visited an old friend. This old friend was there for me when I lost my job. This old friend was there whenever I needed to chat. This old friend was happy to welcome my friends, as well.

OK, it's a bar. I'm a little rusty at writing things that are longer than 20 words, so I'm going to write a clunker every once in a while.

Nonetheless, one year and one day after I drank my sorrows away in that bar, the Billy Goat Tavern beckoned again. I hadn't been there since shortly before I moved home at the end of August, and I needed a visit. A day with friends to mark my birthday and the anniversary of the layoff (a day late) was about the best way.

So after burgers and a movie, the friends and I dropped into the tavern. All the people I remembered were still there. The Cubs were on the TV. The cheeseburgers were as tasty and popular as ever. The beer was just as cold. And the friends, some of whom had been there the day I got cut, were just as talkative and vivacious as ever. It was like I'd never left the city -- almost like none of the bad stuff had ever happened.

Over the new next (you're mean, James A. Molnar) few weeks, I'm pretty sure I'm going to spend plenty of time talking about how I'm re-establishing myself in my old home. But never let it be said that I will ever forget Chicago, nor how wonderful the place is.

The next time I get to the Goat won't be soon enough.