  Chicago, the city that never pukes on its shoes. Something like that. Anyway I'm here and alive after a grueling opening day of The TFM Show. Things that happened that I can talk about: -I gave out lots of drink tickets to facility managers at the welcome reception. Now I'm Mr. Cool. -I begged KP to fly out here, changed my flight to Sunday night, and now we're staying the weekend. (Jim, if you're reading this, that means we're probably not fishing on Sunday) -I made fun of John for not using his inside voice at dinner.
-I let non-core columnists see my tattoos and took off my dress shirt in a classy restaurant (at my managing editor's prodding, I should mention). -I drank all of the Jaeger in Chicago. -I danced on the couches at a bar I could never find again. People were wondering who gave whitey the crack rock. -I beat a Marine for drinks, more than once, at this punching bag game that measures a hit's velocity in pounds. It was more a game of skill than strength, but the armed forces have never been big on finesse. -I bonded with a Paki cab driver. -And I still got up at 7am to be a bad ass at the sessions, dragging John with me to beat both the Bosslady and the Uber bosslady to the show.
-I cauterized the wounds to my internal organs with something called the Eduardo Burrito at 9am. Lots of Chorizo. And pulled it off without urping, that's right, urping all over my magazine's publisher. And that's the cat's ass. Just imagine the shit I can't talk about. 
