Start building the basketball court. And make sure it has glass backboards and breakaway rims. While you’re at it, paint the White House black…at least half of it. If you’re reading this George Clinton – you predicted it a long time ago homeboy. Chocolate City baby.

Last night in Chicago was surreal.

That’s right Kanye – you’re no longer the most popular black man in Chicago. Until people are let out of work early to see you rock a concert, that title officially belongs to Barack Obama.

Loads of employees were released at three today, and, judging by the number of supporters swarming on Grant Park, I’m guessing that most of them didn’t stop at home to re-apply deodorant.

I’m not the only person in Chicago who’s excited about getting a socialist president in office. People have their dogs dressed in Obama sweaters. Hundreds are showing up hours early for the Grant Park rally. Somewhere, I’m sure some breasts are being painted.

The downtown loop is bustling. News vans are lined around the block, and the talking heads are doing stand-ups, most of which are hilarious.

Whether or not Chicago is Obama country largely depends on where you are and who you’re talking to. As anyone who’s ever met a Massachusetts Republican will attest, there’s ignorance and insanity no matter how blue the turf may be.

Last night I grabbed a drink before dinner at a hole outside the downtown loop. The joint – simply called Richard’s Bar – is the sort of spot where you’d expect to find McCain supporters, or at least Obama haters.

Before touching down in Chicago, I had a romantic vision that this would be some sort of blue Utopia – a prObama mirage hidden between New York and Los Angeles. In my dreams, Obama-Biden posters line every block, with small children gleefully hoisting “Change” signs on all corners.

And to some degree – depending on where you are – it’s almost like that.

I’m off to Chicago, but my original plan for this week was to hit Washington D.C. with a pit stop in Scranton. Even though the latter is a cliché reporter destination this election season, it’s as good a snap shot of the dummy belt that one can get without venturing too far off the coast.

But then I thought: who cares about Capitol Hill aides, Republicans, and foolish undecided voters? Sure, if newsroom budgets were what they were 30 years ago, every alt weekly in the country would even dispatch writers to Arizona just to watch John McCain’s presidential hopes dry up once and for all.