Chicago and I have an odd relationship. It used to feel like an escape, a city of vibrancy and edge. But this time? It was quieter. More internal. I didn’t go to be social. I didn’t go to indulge. I went for the art.
And thank God for that.
I made a quick trip to see Bust at the Goodman Theatre, one of my all-time favorite venues. If you’ve never been, the Goodman is hallowed ground for thoughtful storytelling, and Bust, written by Zora Howard and directed by Jess McLeod, was no exception. It was lyrical, raw, and familiar in the way a poem you’ve never read somehow knows your name. The show asks big questions without offering clean answers—deliberately. At its center is the haunting, poetic voice of someone who’s survived being unseen, perhaps unheard, and dares to say what hiding really looks like.
The poem “Times I Have Hid” by Michael Dean, featured in the Goodman’s Play on Words companion piece, echoed in me long after curtain call. Lines like “i will only feed on the silly! rest my serious stew on the sill to stew!” felt like a salve. A whisper of defiance in a world that often demands performance over presence. And maybe that’s why I was there—not for escape, but for confirmation that art, especially Black art, still moves, still matters.
After the show, I ventured over to AMC Dine-In 37 to see Final Destination: Bloodlines. I’m still processing that one. What I can say is, I like the direction it took—especially that things happened without the usual premonition formula. It’s a refreshing risk in a franchise that could’ve coasted on familiarity. A full review is coming once I’ve had a chance to really unpack it, but the franchise might have just earned a new breath of life.
The trip itself? Not as easy-breezy as I hoped. A minor transportation mix-up meant I took FlixBus into the city and Greyhound on the way back. And let me just say—Greyhound’s decline is…stark. The bus stations? Destitute. Like if depression had a waiting room. But I survived. That’s what matters.
Chicago’s energy this time was isolating. Not cold, just…off. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was posturing in some way I didn’t realize. People said some out-of-pocket things to me, and service workers either had no interest or no energy left to do their jobs. I don’t fault them—capitalism is killing us all slowly—but it did affect the vibe. Still, I wasn’t there to interact. I was there to witness. To observe. To be moved.
I missed Fat Ham, and I’m still bitter about it. That was the one I’d planned to see with a specific cast, but life had other plans. If anyone knows where it’s playing next—drop a pin. I’m willing to travel.
I didn’t buy a coat in Chicago this time, which is a first. Usually, I forget how cold it is and end up with a last-minute purchase. But the weather held up, and I packed just right. Small victories. I also walked everywhere, which probably knocked off ten pounds, so that’s another win. The food? Trash, but the fun kind of trash. The “I’m on vacation and I deserve this” kind. No regrets.
To the cast and crew of Bust—bravo. Truly. The performance was layered, heartfelt, and unflinching. Special shoutout to the woman working the bar during intermission, who somehow only managed to serve two people in fifteen minutes. Queen of the slow pour. Iconically inefficient. But hey, I figured it out.
Chicago may not have the same pull it once had for me, but the Goodman Theatre remains a spiritual checkpoint. A place I’ll always return to, even if the rest of the city has lost a bit of its shine.
Here’s to the next adventure—and to the art that makes the detours worth it.
