No, that’s not a misprint on the headline there, but good eye, reader. I’m in Chicago, or “Chigaco,” as Jeanette and I have decided to call America’s second greatest city (HBO’s amazing new show, Tremé, has me convinced that New Orleans, even post-Katrina, is America’s greatest city. And screw New York) during our latest trip to the locale. We’ve decided to transpose the C and the G because we spied someone else doing the same at a service plaza in western Ohio. 

As we returned to my car following a hugely bready fast-food Italian lunch, we witnessed a pair of young women in their early to middle twenties writing messages on the back window of their car – messages in the spirit of “Go Team at State!” and “I Heart Dave Matthews” and “San Francisco or Bust!” Nevermind why a pair of young women in their early to middle twenties might be doing something best reserved for excited high school sophomores trying to win favor with Johnny Football Hero. Focus only on the misprint. As Jeanette and I slid into my car, one of the pair – the scholarly one, apparently – was leaning over the trunk of her own car, engaging in a valiant attempt to spell out on her back window the word “Chicago” with a truly sweet paint-marker. Trouble was, she’d forgotten to cross the H and had, as I mentioned, transposed the C and the G. 

Now, spelling “Chicago,” “CIIigaco” is one thing. Everyone makes mistakes. And when you’re young and stoked about a road trip (and not nearly tall enough to reach your back window while standing at your car’s bumper), mistakes are entirely understandable. No, the thing that tickled Jeanette and me was that it took these two geniuses a full minute of smiley bickering to determine whether they had, in fact, misspelled the word. They poured over “CIIigaco” like you and I might pour over a Carl Sandburg poem – like we’re staring at something beautiful and potentially skewed and certainly open to interpretation. (Bonus points that my simile was analogous to Chicago-related things.) 

Ah, America’s youth. At the risk of opening myself up to a savage host of “you must be getting old” jokes, I’m going to kick off my next paragraph with the words “These days.”

These days, computers have so bastardized the language that even college kids and young professionals don’t know how to write scholarly papers without trite acronyms like IDK. They honestly don’t know the difference between “your” and “you’re.” And forget about trying to have a conversation with them. The word “like” is, like, every other, like, word out of their, like, mouths. Back when I was twelve years old, that’s how I and other twelve-year-olds talked. But we grew out of it, see? For the generation that’s just now hitting its twenties, that important evolution never occurred. Like-heads are enrolling in colleges and engaging in literary discussion. Like-heads are taking jobs in boardrooms. They’re project managers and doctors and even teachers. I’m glad I’m not a college professor or an HR manager right now. I’d stab someone. Seriously.

So here we are in Chigaco. We planned this four-day weekend way back in December, right after I opened my Christmas card from Adama to learn that the thoughtful little scamp had managed to visit Stub-Hub and purchase a pair of Cubs tickets for Jeanette and me (all without the use of a credit card or even opposable thumbs!). Back in those carefree December days, the prospect of seeing the Cubs face their rival Cardinals on a late July weekend filled my heart with hopeful joy.

“That game could have serious playoff implications,” I said to Jeanette, beaming.

Fast forward seven months to find the Cardinals in first place in the Central, having won seven of their last eight games. The Cubs, meanwhile, are mired in fourth place, eleven games under .500 and at least 10.5 games out of the division lead (I can’t bring myself to look at the actual standings, I’m so depressed about this season). So much for playoff implications. Now I’m just hoping they don’t trade away my favorite players by tomorrow at noon.

That’s not to say that I don’t remain stupidly excited, of course. I’m stupidly excited. It’s still Wrigley Field, after all. I’ll still get to drink Old Styles and watch a game in the greatest sporting venue in the history of sportdom (that’s right, Roman Coliseum; you’ll forever be second best). I still get to smell the manicured grass and long to kick some dirt on the field. I still get to hear the PA announcer’s warbling call and I still get to study the intricacies of the hand-operated Wrigley Field Scoreboard. I still get to bask in the glow of a day game in Chicago, the most beautiful thing left in American sport.

So that was a long tangent. When I first sat down today, what I really meant to write about was how much I still have to share regarding the walk. I still have a number of pledgers who’re waiting to get the final tallies on my pledge-related events and milestones. Fear not, pledgers. I’ll have that information to you early next week, along with a nice, colorful map detailing my exact walking route. I’m excited to tally up my final mileage. I have a feeling that, with all my bending of the route, I might be up near 1,400 miles. So get your checkbooks ready.

Speaking of checkbooks, I want to take this time to thank the people who have successfully made a donation through my fundraising page. I say “successfully” because I’ve now had at least a half-dozen people contact me regarding an all-too-common error message received when attempting to make a donation. Customer service at the Network for Good (the company that runs the online donation services for Change.org) explains that if you’re getting the error message, it’s because either a) You’ve mis-keyed your credit card information or b) the zip code associated with your computer’s IP address doesn’t match the billing zip code attached to your card. So far, I’ve gotten plenty of explanation as to why the parameters are so stringent (these measures are designed to prevent fraudulent donations), but no help in resolving the problem. The worst part is that the would-be donors who receive the error message tend to later receive an email from Change.org thanking them for their donation. So in other words, even if you think you made a donation, you may not have actually made a donation (and were still led to believe that you had).

The only thing I can tell you at the moment is that if you go to the fundraising page and you don’t see your name amongst the list of donors, your donation never went through. If you have the time and the patience, I ask you to please try the donation again from your home computer. If it still doesn’t work, you can email me for information on how and where to send an old fashioned check to the CDF. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your efforts. I am truly sorry for the inconvenience.

Before I close (and on a much lighter note), I should also apologize for the Closest Near-Death Experience Award from Tuesday. As Tom and Justin pointed out, a not-so-scary encounter with a maybe-venomous snake ain’t exactly a near-death situation. I should have called that one the “Closest Encounter with a Potentially Dangerous Animal Award,” and properly cited its relative lameness. I wish I had some bear sightings or redneck standoffs to share with you, but I just don’t. America’s apparently not as dangerous as the local news would have us all believe. In any case, Tom and Justin, I’m sorry to disappoint you by remaining so very safe during the walk.

Alright. I’m off to enjoy Wicker Park – or at least watch Jeanette enjoy the shopping to be had at Wicker Park. Have a lovely weekend, dear reader.