Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Haha! Let it be known, I saw it first. Well, maybe not, but I'm claiming that I did regardless. Most of you at the U of C might know that Margaret Cho is coming to campus. The posters for the show are already up, but might I note that they list the date of her gig as January 10, 2003. 8:08 PM
Crescatier and former housemate of mine Amanda Butler posted last week about the issue of allowing gay men - or any man who has slept with another man - give blood, or, in her specific case, donate marrow. (scroll down) Today there was a blood drive in the RC and my friend Dave came up to UT and expressed shock that such a regulation existed. I told him it's been around for a very, very long time as a way to prevent AIDS transmission through blood transfusions. I have, in fact, given blood before, but not since I've been sexually active, and people continue to amaze me when they're shocked by that regulation exists, especially since we have a better understanding of HIV and better testing and screening to prevent transmission via transfusion occuring. I sort of shrug and say, "well, that's the way the world is." Another moment of institutionalized homophobia, perhaps? Or just concerned medical science (usually an enemy of the gay)? Or both?
Scott told me that I'm no longer his favorite blog. Sad. I told him that I was planning on writing a big post today and he said, "Sometimes it's not quality, it's quantity. Not that the quality is really ever great, but whatever." It seems that I have at least ONE loyal reader, so I must press on. But seriously, as I told Scott, I've been pretty busy lately. I've also been doing a little bit of personal inventory lately, thinking about how things have changed and/or are changing. So sometimes the blog becomes a little less of a priority.
Heidi changed the name of her blog! Sadly, she didn't take my idea of "Time to Bitch."
A brief report on what happened since I've posted, then, is in order. I totally had an awesome time with Ms. Molly Proue, even though I never got to say goodbye to her (tear!). That was due largely to my state of intense busy-ness over the weekend. I watched a really amazing but sad movie about AIDS for Chauncey's class on Thursday night. And it was good to see it because, as I wrote to him in an email, my generation lives with AIDS as an objective reality, but not, necessarily, a lived experience. It's important for us to understand the impact that it had on individual lives and communities. Anyway. Afterwards I needed a drink like nobody's business, so Sara accompanied me so I wouldn't be alone and we discussed gay marriage. Friday night was spent at Japonais with my MCA crew. The drinks were very good, but the crowd was a little weird, and the bar was not THAT cool. Anyway, it was so fun to see them all again, especially because the five of us haven't had a chance to hang out together, alone, for an extended period of time since the summer. Saturday and Sunday were mostly spent obsessing over Gay Thanksgiving. And planning. And calming Christopher down. And him calming me down.
But Gay Thanksgiving went off very well, despite the fact that the whole apartment got really smoky when some of the hen's juices burned. We had feta/grape/herb fougasse bruschetta, a pear/blue cheese/candied almond salad, butternut squash risotto, cornish game hens, and a LOT of wine. And pernod. Hot French TA was there and I think he had a good time and he made us all go "awww" when he said, "Yes, my boyfriend is back in Paris. We talk every once in awhile using the webcam." And the lebsians were a riot, and Mark was there, and it was fantastic. Suffice it to say that aside from the joy of entertaining and camping it up, THAT we do Gay Thanksgiving and THAT people come and enjoy it is really, really important for me, and I think Christopher and Joe feel similarly.
Oooh! Ohh! I got my tickets to my husband's show in the mail on Monday! And hey, you! Write me back! I stay at home all day bawling my eyes out over our lack of daily contact.
Monday, November 24, 2003
So I'll need to write a post about how fabulously AWESOME Gay Thanksgiving was, but I'm a little too hungover to do that right now. It will have to wait until tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
I don't have time for a really long post here, since I have to run to the Reg and do a lot of reading and write a response for my Camus independent study before I watch Henry V (Scott directed it) tonight with MOLLY, WHO IS GOING TO BE HERE FROM ARIZONA. I'm so excited to see her.
Everybody is hailing the Goodridge decision, and many are saying that a court ruling that would effectively legalize gay marriage is not far down the road. And while I certainly support the ruling, I must give a nod to people who hold true to the argument that marriage serves a procreative function. I don't necessarily agree with this argument, but it's articulated well by many people, and it's been around for a really, really long time. So I'm hesitant to dismiss it out of hand as an outdated or outmoded argument. At the same time, I certainly feel that gay people, just like straight people, should have the right to marry if they so desire. But I don't know if I ever want to get married - partially because I respect the importance of the institution, and also because, like some of the radical gays, I don't know if it would work for me. I don't know if it works anymore. Now what might be required to fix it is for those who are planning on marrying to come to a greater understanding of the seriousness of the bond, but I don't know if I want to be a part of that system. It's not like it's a serious option for me right now, anyway, so there's no rush.
I also question the belief in the inevitability of such a ruling - a belief based on a progressivist notion of gay history, something that Chauncey's really started to get me to question. If there's an idea that gay people in America have gone from oppressed to less oppressed, then gay marriage would appear to be the next logical step. But I don't think it's that determined a history - it's almost like a sine wave of oppression. To go from relative openness in the WWII years to a swift crackdown in the McCarthy era to the growth of a complicated subculture in NYC to huge crackdowns in the mid-60s to Stonewall to intense political activism to all these challenges to gay rights ordinances in cities around the country in the late 70s, and so on. There's reason to hope, certainly, that the ruling brings good news with it, and the possibility of greater hope, but there's also a warning sign attached - that we must not sit back and let what we think is inevitable disappear because of yet another backward step.
Oh, and the resurrection of the UOFCSTALKER for one quick sighting:
Slightly disgraced professor Julius Kirshner, changing out of his gym clothes in the men's locker room at the Ratner Center. Boo-ya!
This morning in class:
As you know, where there are sailors, there are gay men. -George Chauncey
Sunday, November 16, 2003
Yet another thing: Last night Sara and I watched the video for "With You," the newest single, on Launch. I hadn't intended to watch it - it was apparently the next video in the bizarre randomization that they have on the site. It goes without saying that the song is absolute ass, but the video for the song is perhaps the most amazing video since, oh, Benny Benassi's "Satisfaction." Because of the following:
1. During the first segment, Ms. Simpson cleans house in the kitchen and struggles to operate the cleaning equipment at her disposal. She wears a white t-shirt that says "*plata*ma*pus*" on it.
2. During the second segment of the video, Ms. Simpsons sits on a couch and eats from a can of tuna.
3. During the third segment, she crouches on the floor of a hallway and proceeds to devour an entire HUGE FUCKING TRAY of buffalo wings.
4. During the final segment, she struggles to drive golf balls on her back porch.
It's a fascinating article, and I'm really glad the paper is writing a series about this issue - something that the university tends to try and hush up. Sometimes, of course, this is done for very good reasons: respect for the dead, respect for the privacy of his/her family, issues of confidentiality, worries about copycat suicides. But the LACK of an engaged campus dialogue on the issue is something that further stigmatizes mental health issues, and further isolates students who feel so troubled as to consider suicide. The article demonizes, perhaps a little unfairly, Dean Susan Art and Director of Student Counseling and Resource Services Tom Kramer. But in doing so, because it is so specific, it opens up the administration to charges that they handle the issue of suicide, or attempted suicide, in a messy way - a change that I think is reasonable, based on the number of suicides that have taken place here since I was a first-year.
I am three. Hours. Late. To work. Shit. If anything I need to get this job at the MCA so I won't have to worry about closing a building at 2 AM and then opening it up at 8 the next morning.
Speaking of which, I emailed Michael, the man who supervises this position (who I know from working there), on Thursday evening at around 5:30 to ask about the job. He emailed me back an hour and a half later to let me know that Natasha, the woman who has the position now, would be working her last day on Friday - yes, that's right, TWO days ago. So he wanted to finish up interviews early next week and would be more than happy to consider me an applicant and interview me if I could work full time BEFORE June 2004. So I was like, "oh, well, I guess I'll just miss out on this one. Then I went to my advisor's appointment on Friday to fill out my degree application (easy to do, scary to think about) and told her about the whole situation. She said, "Oh wow! Do it! Go ahead and apply." I pointed out that I thought I still had two more classes to take before I could be considered "done," and she said, "No, as long as you pass all your classes this quarter, you will have more than completed the number of courses needed for graduation. So you should really apply for this job and, if you get it, take a leave of absence for winter and spring quarters and then graduate with your class in the spring."
So that's what I'm going to do. Wow.
On Friday night I went to see A 60-Minute History of Humankind at the Neo-Futurarium. I really, really wanted to like it, because I'm a fan of every show I've seen there but one, and I think they do really interesting and well-thought work. And while there were a few good moments, and the staging was really interesting, it addled my History of Western Civilization (I, II, and III, bitch) educated brain. Aside from getting the Greeks TOTALLY wrong, simplifying Marxism by saying that it was simply about "the abolition of ALL private property," implying that the United States brought violence to Japan, and demonizing Christianity by equating Christ's command to "seek and ye shall find" with imperialism (that Christianity-hating is SO hip right now I can't deal), it was ultimately a relatively unoriginal, naive leftist take on history. Wow! Anyway, whatever.
Yesterday, of course, I worked. But I woke up, thinking it was around 11 AM, to a cloudy gray sky that made me feel like fall's full weight had finally fallen upon the city, only to realize that it was actually 1 PM. So I made myself breakfast and read and showered and, armed with my recently cashed paycheck, walked to Hyde Park's Borders. I planned to buy myself a present, a reward for getting through seven full weeks of fall quarter, and I was going to buy stellastarr*'s album after all the exhortations/threats to do so that Ryan has hurled my way. I realized how much I really LOVE 53rd St. on the walk there, though, because one guy offered to sell me socks, two people asked me to buy Streetwise, and another man asked me if I'd accepted Jesus Christ as my "personal Lord and savior." (No, but I've accepted him as my IMpersonal Lord and savior) I got to Borders unscathed and unconverted, looked up the album on their "Title Sleuth," found that it was in the store, and started searching for it. I couldn't find it. I got some help from one of the employees and, despite our best efforts, we couldn't find it. Saddened but determined to purchase something, dammit, I bought Josh Ritter's latest album, Hello, Starling, which I've been meaning to buy for awhile. It's very good! He's playing at the Old Town School of Folk Music on November 29, the Saturday after Thanksgiving.
Anyway, I think that's it for now. I'm going to drop the links now and bounce.
The Reader this week has a profile of my friend Pam's birthday party, a short take on her friend Jason's non-profit, Split Pillow, and the release of their big project, "The Cliffhanger," as well as a profile of Book Slut.
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Fuck it dammit shit. I had a HUGE post ready to drop, and INETEXPLORER just quit on me. I'll write more tomorrow morning. Fuck.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
I don't feel like writing up a full post, even though I missed yesterday. I'm not in the best of moods right now (email me for details, if you like...jrquinn at uchicago dot edu).
Needless to say, Mr. Chauncey continues to amaze me with his great teaching, as well as his approachability (is that a word?). I went by his office hours and we talked about a billion different things - or, at least, as much as we can fit in 35 minutes.
There's a job opening up at The MCA. The Special Events Coordinator is a development position and is responsible for planning and executing all of the museum's annual events, member's openings, galas, and acting as a liaison to the Women's Board. It would be the perfect unification of my socialite and organizational skills. Even though I don't graduate for another seven months, I'm going to apply, especially after several conversations with some helpful people at my various jobs.
That's all for now, so I'm going to drop the links and run.
Queer Day also has a link to a story about Moises Kaufman's new play, I Am My Own Wife, which workshopped here in Chicago as part of About Face's 03-04 season. It's a great show. I recommend it to my NY readers - if any people in NY read this.
D'Emilio's new book is reviewed in this BOSTON GLOBE article (again, via Queer Day).
Yesterday featured the first snow of Fall 2003 in Chicago. (So, it has begun) I worked until 2:30 on Friday night here at the Reynolds Club and woke up at 9:30 yesterday morning, where I worked from 12-5 to house manage Resfest, which is making its stop in Chicago at the MCA this weekend as part of its world tour. The city's been sweating this gray, cloudy, gloomy, "hey bitches, it's fall" sky lately. There were some breaks in the clouds here on the South Side, directing light towards downtown from a perilously "hey, JRQ, you're up north now" low level in the sky. As I stood on the station platform at the Garfield stop on the Red Line, listening to my husband sing "Movies of Myself," noon felt like 8 or 9 AM, and the downtown skyline looked like a painting on a dark grey background. I ran through most of the rest of the CD (as I suspected, a great CD for traveling) and tried to read John D'Emilio'sSexual Politics, Sexual Communities, but I continued to get distracted (or to distract myself?) by watching the city pass by and relishing the bizarre beauty of a rather gloomy mid-fall day. Listening to "Beautiful Child" while walking from State and Chicago to work (only about three blocks, but perfect for the length of the song), as flurries fell in the shadow of the Hancock Tower, as tourists muddle-headedly meandered about me, as I hung my head towards my chest to protect against the cold (every once in awhile gazing up to glance at the flurries make thread their way through the airways of downtown).
And someone last night asked me, "Why the hell would you want to stay in Chicago when you graduate? Move to New York."
I told him, "I feel like I'm more of a Chicagoan than a Floridian."
Last night was yet another birthday function at Funky Buddha (where the picture on my About Me page was taken, actually). This time it was for my dear friend Laura's 21st. As far as I know my birthday celebrating season is drawing to a close - everyone I know seems to have been born in October/early November OR April/early May. Anyway, Christopher and I made dinner beforehand and rushed up there so as not to have to pay the $24 (!) cover. We may well have been the first from the group there. Anyway, Laura had booked a few tables in the VIP room for us, so we sat down, smoked a few cigarettes, had a drink, chatted. The bar continued to get more and more crowded. At one point my next-door neighbor (straight) was dancing with a couple of people in the group as I was making my way to one of the couches. He said, "Jon, get the fuck out of here, you're not dancing." I took that as the challenge it was, asked him, "Do you want to see me dance?" grabbed him by the waist, turned him around, put my hands on his hips, and started "grinding" (as the kids call it) on him from behind (in spite of his protests), slowly reaching my hands towards his crotch. When I was THIS close he had finally had enough and pushed my hands away and said, "get the fuck off me." I just said, "well, you wanted me to dance," sat down, smoked another cigarette, and leered. Just before we left, Christopher and I ran to the pub across the street to buy cigarettes (there were a lot of "I only smoke when I'm drinking" people there, which meant that I was out of cigarettes in a flash). The dance floor was a solid mass of undulating bodies. People were yelling at each other and at the bouncers outside.
I realized, after we finally got out of there (we bought cigarettes and had to fight our way inside to give them to Laura), that I did not have that much fun. I mean, it was good to see my friends and I was happy to be there for Laura's birthday, but that bar was not my scene. I tried to figure out why, and Ryan hit it when he said, "I guess that's the place to go if you're a straight-o." Exactly. Exactly. Not that I didn't like it BECAUSE it was straight or BECAUSE there were no gay people there aside from him, me, and Christopher (although that was part of it), but that I simply could NOT understand the appeal of the place because I do NOT have access to the kind of perspective that the straights have. One might find, say, my next-door neighbor say the same thing if I dragged him to Roscoe's on the weekend.
One more thing: in response to my status as "The Brown Line" on my "Which Chicago el line are you?" quiz (see below), someone has called me "labrador-walking, latte-sipping, NPR-listening."
Pretty much. As I've noted before to my friends, "I like gentrification. It brings nice grocery stores, upscale bars, great clothing stores, and pretty people to my neighborhood."
Hello all. As Montel Jordan once said, "It's Friday night/and I'm feeling right/the party's here on the [South] Side/So I reach for my 40s and I turn it up/designated driver takes the keys to my truck."
And by that I mean, I'm working.
Not much doin' lately. As noted earlier this week, my life is slightly boring once I settle into my routine. The highlights have mostly come from my class about gay. To set the stage: Tuesday night, at gaytv dinner, Chris, Christopher, and I had an argument about what counted as sex (I was on the side of, at least for the gay, anything that reaches orgasm; Christopher believed it only counted if ejaculation occurred inside another person). Chauncey brought up the Kinsey Report and someone asked what Kinsey counted as "sex." He reached the same conclusion as I did. To mark my triumph I poked Chris, who was sitting right next to me. Without realizing it, he said, "Awww!" Everyone got quiet, stared at us, and I said, sheepishly, "We had a conversation about it on Tuesday night." Chauncey just shook his head and said, "I DON'T wanna hear about it." THEN, later in class, he was telling us about some homoerotic bath towel ads that appeared during WWII and interrupted himself to say, "You know, some of you probably have grandmothers who were alive during WWII. Next time you talk to them, ask them if they remember those ads." I raised my hand and replied, "What are we supposed to say, Mr. Chauncey? 'Hey, super-religious Grandma who lives in downstate Illinois. I'm taking a class about, well, um, stuff. Ahem. And I wanted to know if you remember those towel ads from WWII that were, you know, a little, um, funny.'" Class broke down, everyone laughed, Chauncey turned beet red and couldn't continue, trying to hid his blushing by holding up the article we were discussing and covering his face, which only led to more laughing.
On Thursday night we watched Advise and Consent, which was kind of creepy. But I have SO much fun sitting there with everyone from class and watching movies. Betty White was in it! She played a senator from Kansas! Before the main event we watched a couple of clips of Judy Garland performing. Chauncey, after they were over, said, "You see, she's obviously ridiculously drunk or on drugs during both those peformances, yet she still gets up there and gives it her all [I'm paraphrasing]. That bouncing back is one of the things gay men identified with." My friend Marcelle, who was sitting behind me, said, "kinda like Mariah Carey," to which I responded with a horrified shriek and, "Oh, NO you didn't." Chauncey looked up and asked what had happened, I told him, and he turned to Marcelle, glared, and said, "Get OUT of this room." Laughs all around.
I just received an email from my friend VA (like the state), and in honor of the Paris Hilton sex tape scandal, I thought I would share some of its content, as a way that we can memorialize her memory through our actions - much like Dan Savage has memorialized the distinguished junior Senator from Pennsylvania by using his last name to describe the "frothy mixture of semen and fecal matter that is a some-time byproduct of anal sex." Anyway, on with the show:
* there are 3 accepted definitions for "to do a Paris Hilton Shot:"
a) verb to do shots of a liquid normally used for automobile repair, ie wiper fluid, antifreeze.
b) verb to shoot alcohol directly into one's veins, preferably veins located in a "bathing suit area."
c) verb to receive a golden shower, while simultaneously shitting oneself from over-intoxication.
And, finally ladies and homos, here are the links:
Hot hot hot VANITY FAIR photos from the December profile of "gay per-view" television. (via Gawker)
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Really quickly: I don't have time for a long post - I've got to finish Part I of The Stranger and write a response by midnight. But, in brief: Chauncey lecture on Lawrence v. Texas: fantastic. I love love love him. We (his students) got a shoutout, too. Conversation with boy: good. I sort of opened up to him. The gym: fantastic place.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
This is going to be a pretty short post: I've got a fair amount of Camus to read before I head off to gaytv at 8:30. As in about 100 pages. I won't finish, but I should at least TRY to do some of it.
Six and a half weeks into a ten week quarter, I am finally starting to feel like I've established a routine. I'm making lists and managing my time well enough to manage to get to each item on the list.
Today was pretty uneventful: woke up at 8, ate breakfast, read for gay class while listening to Judy Garland, went to gay class, had lunch, read for Augustine, went to Augustine (good class today), met with boss about production managing for Little Shop of Horrors (I'm really gonna do it), came to work. That's pretty much it. See: my days are BORING when they're routine.
Instead, in the spirit of Mr. Buscher, I'm going to tell a story about my Spring Break 2001. I went with a few friends on what could only be called a Ghetto Lake Michigan Circle Tour: Chicago to Flint, MI, to Detroit, and then to the Upper Peninsula towns of Marquette and Houghton. When we were in Marquette, home to someone we knew at Northern Michigan University, we drove away from the town of 40,000 people to hang out in the woods and watch the stars and drink rum. I guess we drove three, maybe four miles outside of town, and then drove the car another mile or so into the woods. While it was Spring Break, it's still in the northern part of this country, and it's still the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We managed to miss a lot of the snow, and the temperature was in the low 40s, but only a week before a huge snowstorm had dumped many feet of the white stuff on the town and woods around Marquette - much of which had melted away. A thick layer remained, though, for us to drive over into the woods in our Chevy Beretta (remember that car?). We spent a couple hours or so sitting in this snow-covered clearing in the woods, staring at the expansive night sky, feeling a little cold, and musing about the creepiness of woods in general.
When we decided to leave, the car wouldn't move. It had gotten stuck in the snow. We tried pushing it while accelerating. We tried picking it up and pushing it. We dug at the snow around the tires. We tried all of these things many times. Meanwhile, my friends and I began to realize a few things: 1) none of us had a cell phone; 2) we were miles away, as far as we knew, from the nearest place of habitation; 3) we're in the middle of the fucking woods; 4) the Upper Peninsula is where all of Michigan's prisons are. It was a very Blair Witch moment. Everyone became so nerve-wracked that we stopped talking to each other - every sentence that came out of anyone's mouth was an angry accusation. We kept digging at the car's wheels. We used our hands and we used a piece of metal pipe that Sam had started to weld into a sword. Held from the bottom, it also looked like a cross.
After digging and digging and digging and not talking and not talking and not talking, we saw two lights round the corner on the path we had driven into the woods. We all immediately stopped digging and waited, amazed at the possibility of rescue but at the same time worried that these might, indeed, be the serial killers dispatched to do us in. The lights stopped moving toward us. Two of the guys started walking toward the now-stationary car. The lights began to recede and my two friends tried their best to run after it, but the car was too fast for them.
After awhile we began to realize that a group of people digging at a car with a cross, dressed in dark clothing, in the middle of a clearing in the middle of nowhere at about 2 AM on a Saturday night, might have been just as intimidating to the people in the approaching car as they were to us.
We eventually gave up and set off walking in the general direction of the highway with only the light of the moon and its reflection off the snow to guide us. We figured that we would start walking back on the two-lane highway towards Marquette, knock on the door of the first house we passed, and pray they would let us in and use the phone. I hadn't even realized we had hit the highway until I felt the asphalt underneath my feet. We started walking towards Marquette and eventually decided to hedge our bets with Upers and hitchhike back to town, if the opportunity presented itself. The first car that drove by stopped: a two door Buick coupe driven by a man who, while more than willing to drive us back to town, was obviously drunk. While I sat talking to him, trying to stall, my friends got a flatbed truck to stop. I thanked the drunk dude, told him the truck would be best because there was room for all of us in the bed.
At about 3:30 AM, we made it back to Marquette, sore, exhausted, dirty. I congratulated my newly found masculinity and ability to face incredibly creepy situations ("I can't WAIT to tell my dad!" was all I could think while falling asleep) and also promised my psyche that I would never, ever leave the city again.
The next morning Sam and Hallie drove back out to the woods in Hallie's car to wait for a tow truck to get Sam's car pulled from the woods. While they were parked on the side of the road, waiting for the truck to get there, a state police officer pulled up, asked them if they were having any trouble, and, upon hearing that they were only waiting for a tow truck, pulled a picture of a boy out of his pocket and asked, "Have you seen this kid? He's been missing for a few days and we're looking for him."
I'm never going to the woods again.
1. You: I watched the video for stellastarr*'s "In the Walls."
2. You: lied to me. I know now that President Clinton was never at the BF show.
3. My friend Naomi just told me that she and her friends decided that I reminded them of Mr. Chauncey. I told her that's the best thing anyone's ever said to me. I can now die a happy man.
Monday, November 03, 2003
An addition to today's post:
At present I'm reading "Judy Garland and Gay Men" by Richard Dyer for Chauncey's class. I'm also listening to my husband's commentary to "14th Street." I finish up the first page of the article right as he says, "And here comes another Judy Garland reference."
I just got to work - earlier tonight I had dinner with George Chauncey and a few other people from class. It was so fun! A pretty good mix of people, too - a lesbian couple, a straight boy, a first-year gay boy, a gay Republican, and me - the dowager empress. Great conversation, mostly about the gay and the changes in the gay for ourselves and on a broader cultural context. I wish I could do it every Monday.
In that class on Thursday, we discussed the butch/femme dichotomy. My friend Chris (a junior member of the gay mafia) leaned over to me at a certain point in the discussion and whispered, "Oh my God. This is SO like the opening voiceover in Madonna's 'What it feels like for a girl.'" We tittered/giggled in agreement and I realized that I am too gay even for my class about gay.
As per Mr. Buscher's request, I am hereby linking to Upside-Down Hippo. You'll find a new link to the left.
You need to realize that he is MY husband. And I will fight you for him.
So, Sarah McLachlan is releasing a new album tomorrow. I've been watching the video for "Fallen" almost nonstop here in the basement, as much as I am slightly ashamed to admit it. And then I realized - like Aimee Mann, she is a central part of my gay high school angst music.
Wow, this post is overflowing with gay. I guess it's kind of been on my mind lately ("It's always on your mind," you might say, and I would react with a screech of horror and offense). Gene Robinson, boys, the class, the approach of Gay Thanksgiving, new episodes of Queer Eye starting November 18.
So I guess I'll hit you with the links and bounce:
I just purchased a ticket to see my husband perform at The Vic on December 6. Yum, yum.
Saturday, November 01, 2003
It's another Saturday morning, another shift at the Reynold's Club. I'm finally feeling a little bit better - to the point where I drank, and drank a considerable amount last night. Dinner for Dave's birthday at Deleece (Irving Park and Southport, for all you Chicagoans, and GO, because it's AMAZING). I had butternut sqash soup ("thank GOD it was pureed!"), boneless breast of chicken over lemon pepper large cous-cous in a red pepper pesto, and pumpkin cake with cinnamon ice cream. And a lot of wine. And some Stoli. Then we went to the Ginger Man afterward and I had chartreuse and a peach stoli and sprite. Heidi, for once the sober one, drove back to Hyde Park and I lolled about in the backseat looking at the skyline, making Dave change CDs to fit my mood and musing about boys. Or at least one boy in particular.
When I got home I was planning on going to bed, but I called Christopher before I went to sleep and he talked me into going out again. I was going to go to a party towards which most of the world seemed to be streaming, and then suddenly streaming away from, with mutters about the cops. So we CROSSED THE MIDWAY (yikes!) and went to a party at my old roommate's new place in Woodlawn.
I did not get dressed up - aside from looking dashing as all hell in my newly-distressed-by-cheese-grater jeans, my blazer, and my pink shirt. I wanted to get a blonde bob wig and tool about with my cigarette holder, but no luck.
I guess I should quit now and accept my yuppie future:
You are the brown line. Inevitably, you are in a hurry to get somewhere, because you are so gosh darn important. Wouldn't want to be late for Tae Bo, would we? Aw, don't feel insulted. It's not worth crying over spilt venti mocha latte.
What have I been up to since we last talked, blogosphere? Well, like I said last time, I've been sick. I'm feeling pretty okay this morning, but last Saturday I woke up feeling pretty icky and, at project day at UT I ran up and down the hallways, screaming that I had contracted meningitis from the 40-year old who grabbed my ass at Showtunes two Mondays ago. I didn't die, so it was just a pretty bad cold - I was only AWAKE for six hours on Sunday, didn't go to the gym Monday OR Wednesday, and was disoriented as all hell by all the people and cars that I saw while I was making my way to campus all day this week. But I actually, seriously, took care of myself - limited myself to one, maybe two cigarettes a day, no drinking, more fluids than Lake Michigan, and lots of sleep. And you ALL REALLY CARE ABOUT MY health regime.
I finished reading Michael Cunningham's A Home at the End of the World on Thursday night. Reading the book made me think of you. It was good company for my sickness. Very, very good. Almost made me cry several times, but me crying is nothing new.
One of the best few phrases in an email I've ever gotten, from my friend Molly in Arizona: "how are you? are you feeling better? did you have a cold? colds are the worst. i would bring you soup if i didn't live approx v. far away."
Permit me to indulge in some senior-in-college dramatics. I was standing at the sink in my apartment, doing dishes, when I started to realize that soon, I will no longer live in that apartment. And then I thought: I don't know in what apartment I'll be living in next year. And then: I don't know even where I'll be living next year. And then: I don't even know what I'll be doing next year. And then, instead of "Shitohmyfuckingchrist I have no future:" Wow. I could live ANYWHERE. And do ANYTHING. Because I'm effectively dropping all the responsibility come June 04. (One hopes I will pick up more in the form of a job, but eh)
And I am working on a boy. That's all I'm going to say.
Megan from About Face came and lead a workshop for my training weekend a few weeks back. It was her third year. The theater's mission is something along the lines of using theater to investigate and explore questions of gender and sexuality - it's not the only, but it's the best, queer theater in Chicago. They have an amazing youth initiative. Anyway, they're doing a show at my old work, the MCA, in December. It's going to be holiday themed. So when Megan came, she used their story-telling method to have us tell stories about the holidays. I told the story of when I came out to my mother the day after Thanksgiving of my senior year in high school (almost four years, wow). Anyway, Megan wants to use it for the show, which is pretty exciting. We had a thirty-minute long phone conversation about it over the phone yesterday. It was a bit jarring - it's not like it's that big a deal anymore, and precisely BECAUSE of that I don't really talk about it. But I did.
I'm watching the video for "The District Sleeps Alone Tonight" by The Postal Service right now.