Last saturday, Eamon and I ventured out to Midsommerfest, Andersonville's annual summer street fair allegedly commemorating the Scandinavian holiday. Aside from a prominently displayed maypole, it's pretty much like every other neighborhood fair in Chicago.
Anyhoo, I'm not in the market for Swedish authenticity, so the generic quality of the fest bothers me not one iota. So we stroll, him with a beer, me with a plastic cup of wine, down the length of Clark Street, marveling that so many crappy artisans live and breathe in the Chicago metro area.
Eamon stops me suddenly. "What are you doing?" Puzzled, I explain I wanted to inspect samples of a new power drink.
He shoots me a "do I have to do everything" look, and turns me, physically, toward a booth I'd just passed. Tarot card readings. Then he points me toward the booth, tells me he's going to get a beer and he'll meet me back here.
There's a 45 minute wait for readings, so I text him, and he arrives, almost as I hit send. I explain the wait, and he takes my arm and says "Come here."
Tap dance troupe. On stage. Dancing to David Bowie.
Clearly, I married the best man ever.
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