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Mark Twain Fried Chicken
Chicago's been kind of a lonely place lately, so I decided to turn 36 in Hannibal, Missouri. I didn't meet any ghosts, but I saw a lot of statues and several young fellows who may or may not aspire to become Huck and/or Tom. (Apparently, there is a tradition in Hannibal where a boy and a girl of the appropriate age are chosen to be Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher for the year. Hm.) I did not spend $70 on a set of Tom Sawyer/Huck Finn volumes illustrated by Norman Rockwell. I did go to the Mark Twain cave. I did not ride on a riverboat. I did eat a steak at a restaurant that was once a whorehouse. Also, I did take pictures, so my Flickr account actually has something on it now.
Also, ouch.
Also, ouch.
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I recommend God's Perfect Child--it's a great book on the origins of the church that is not colored by the very powerful lobby of Boston.
And yes, go. It is a magic place. Clams and fireflies and herons and lockmasters who have been reading Huck Finn for five years and are only fifty pages in, green, green water and strange winds and coyotes. Worth every second.
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But then, I have kind of a sick sense of humor.
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