I was in Chicago over the weekend.

This is a good time to apologize to all my friends in Chicago who didn’t know I was in town because I didn’t tell them. I get nervous about informing people about a visit ahead of time because then it’s always disappointing if we don’t manage to get together.

As Sonya emailed me, “Fuck you. You never tell us when you’re around. I miss you.”

Of course, it’s arguably even worse when they find out I was in Chicago after the fact, via something as impersonal as a blog post.

I guess I’m just a colossal failure however you slice it.

But anyway, while in Chicago I took a walk past my old apartment, my first and only home when I lived there. My brother had given me some idea of what to expect, but I was still startled and a little bit sad to see it for myself.

I mean, don’t get me wrong: that place was in serious need of renovation. Parts of the foundation were sinking into the ground, so that our living room floor had a few degrees’ incline. And it’s not like the place was an architectural landmark or anything.

But we all know that human nostalgia runs counter to structural improvement.

It’s surreal to look into what used to be my bedroom.

Or that window in the upper right-hand corner, just inside of which I could usually be found every weeknight at six p.m., drinking beer and playing GameCube or watching Simpsons reruns.

So long, #3E. You were good to me. And Jason. And the sixteen roommates he had in the three years before I moved in.

And I can now say, with 100% confidence, that I know exactly how the residents of New Orleans felt after Katrina.