Back in the 202

Hotlanta, aka IRS Summer Camp, was a hoot. I got my Polynesian ON with my first visit in decades to my favorite childhood restaurant, met up with some fellow Illini for tater tot nachos, watched my beloved shut out the racists to sweep a doubleheader, and closed all too many bars with a man called Buster.

The Buster stories are too numerous to mention. I'll simply say he's an enigma, a man worthy of both mockery and reverence. And thereby well worth the time.

Also, just because I feel like it, here's some laffs.