We Had One Question

As usual, Kitty and I went north for the Christmas holidays, and as usual, my mother "asked" us to go to church on Sunday with the folks.

We took our place in the pew, and took a look at the church bulletin. At the bottom of which it read:

Have A Mary Christmas!

A "Mary" Christmas? How did they know we were coming?

I Love A Bargain, But...

Seen on a trip to Michigan for the holidays, at the side of a country road, next to the driveway: two Porta-Johns, with a "for sale" sign attached.

Are there really people driving those country roads with a burning need to buy Porta-Johns? And if you need to buy Porta-Johns, do you really want to buy used Porta-Johns?

If You Say So, Ma'am

CVS Pharmacy, Clark at Halsted, Tuesday evening. Woman is buying a gallon of milk.

Cashier: "Would you like a bag?"

Customer, rolls eyes: "Uh, hello? I'm not retarded. So, no, I don't need a bag."

Cashier looks suprised at this outburst.

Customer points to handle on milk container: "See?! It has a handle! Duh!"

Astounding Grasp Of The Obvious

Overheard from nearby cubes:

From two cubes away: "It's raining!"

From cube next door: "Outside?"

(Cube next door was immediately mocked for such a silly question. Cube next door made a lame attempt to cover by explaining she wasn't sure whether the person in the other cube was commenting on the weather, or singing the classic song by Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer.)

Note To The Man On Halsted Street

Walking to work at the theatre, I saw a young, muscular man walking in my direction. Dressed in workout clothes, his jacket unzipped to show off the tank top stretched across his firm muscular torso; he was obviously headed to the gym up the street.

And as he passed by, I wanted to say to him: "Generally people don't wear so much cologne to go work out."

What Happened At Macy's On State Street

I was enjoying a day of shopping and people-watching in downtown Chicago. At one point, I was sitting near the food court on the lower level of the State Street Macy's store.

A panhandler came up. "Can I have fifty cents for coffee?"

"No."

He tried again: "Can I have a dollar?" (Because of course I'll be willing to hand over twice as much as I wouldn't give him initially.)

He paused, and tried again: "Maybe we could go out sometime, hang out, you know, kick back?"

Who Knew?

I've been looking for the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers Collection Volume 2 set of DVDs, for Matthew.

Shopzilla.com suggests that if I'm interested in Astaire and Rogers I might also be interested in...

Let Me Die a Woman (DVD)

Uncut, Transgendered Edition
Description: This hilarious and horrifying documentary on transsexuals includes actual surgical footage of the operations and close-up looks at the results, inside and out. Not for the faint of heart.

The Sounds of the Holiday Season

Friday 17 November, within a block of Marsh.... Macy's State Street:

Christmas carols playing in the stores.

Cashier to customer: "Happy holidays!"

Pedestrian to pedestrian: "Have a happy Thanksgiving."

Oddly dressed woman to person(s) unknown: "I'm gonna fuck shit up your fucking ass!"

Word from the Next Cube

"I was there when the placenta started coming!"

Awkward Conversation

At a party one fine Saturday night, a young man stepped out of the bathroom, and seeing an empty spot next to me, took it. A handsome young man, his tight white t-shirt showing off his muscular torso to best advantage.

This young man decided, for some reason, that the ideal conversational opener would be:

"I just had an orgasm! [He nodded his head towards the bathroom.] I haven't had one in like two months since my doctor put me on anti-depressants."

Let's see now, what have you told me that would be among the things I don't want to learn about someone within the first ten seconds of meeting them:

-You're clinically depressed.
-You're on antidepressants.
-You generally have no sex drive.
-You just had an orgasm.

I wasn't even sure what to say.

Thank you for coming sprang to mind, of course, but I didn't say it.

Did He Leave His Wife At Home?

Customer came to the theater window to buy a ticket.

Customer did not want a seat in the poncho section, where patrons wear plastic ponchos to protect their clothing.

Why?

"I am on a business trip, and I cannot wash my clothes."

Imagine This

That Maya Angelou was recently reading "Mary Poppins" by P.L. Travers.

That Maya Angelou decided she simply must dress like that dapper British nanny. Exactly like her.

Then you will know what I saw at the CVS Pharmacy near Union Station recently, right down to the umbrella.

This Guy Really Had A Screw Loose

Walgreen's, near Sears Tower. 9 November, late in the afternoon.

Man goes up to Maxine, one of the cashiers.

(Maxine has no eyebrows, and so pencils them in each morning. And she always looks like someone startled her as she applied her left eyebrow, for it starts near her nose, quite normally, but then wanders off upwards into her hairline.)

Man purchases six-piece tool kit. Maxine offers a bag. Man declines, exclaiming "I only need this!"

He rips the clamshell packaging apart and extracts the screwdriver, and leaves.

I'm Not From Around Here, But I Can Puzzle It Out

Caller: "We're at Michigan and Wabash, where's the theater?"

Me: "You're about five miles south of the theater."

Caller: "So..... we need to go.... um..................................five miles..................................north?"

Truth in Advertising

Union Station, Friday, 3 November. Panhandler asks for money:

"Five bucks, wanna fuck a whore."

The Food's Not That Bad

Outside the Subway restaurant, on Broadway, just south of West Sheridan.

Young man stops right outside the door. Gets on knees. Begins to pray.

Concierges: Living In Their Own World

I took a call this morning at the box office from a hotel concierge, around 9.30 am.

"What time," she asked, "are your phones turned on?"

"9 am," I replied.

She laughed her little concierge laugh. "I'm sorry, I though they were turned on at 10."

I wanted to ask why she had called if she thought no one would answer the phone.

No, actually, I wanted to ask why she had wasted valuable time that I could have spent making fun of a fellow box office employee, the muscular Barbra- and Madonna-loving bartender I chatted with the night before, or whatever member of management was out of the room at the moment; time that I had to waste talking to a woman who had dialed a call with no expectation of talking to anyone.

Guess What? I'm Not From Around Here

Box office, Saturday morning, 30th September...

Caller: "I'd like to buy tickets for the show, for Saturday October 14."

Me: "At 4, 7, or 10?"

Caller: "We're coming in from Grand Rapids."

Me: ...waits patiently for caller to expand upon statement.



No such luck. Apparently, the fact that they are coming in from Grand Rapids should have been all I needed to figure what time they wanted to see the show.

"I'm sorry, the show for people from Grand Rapids is already sold out on that day. We still have seats for the people from Grand Rapids show on the following Saturday, though."

I'm Still Not From Around Here

Conversation with box office patron, by phone:

Patron: "Are there little busses that go to your theater?"

Me: "Ah, there are several public transit busses that service the area...I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean by little busses."

P: "Well, I'm not from around here."

M: "Ah.....:

P: "We're going to be at Navy Pier [which she pronounced as if very carefully enunciating a foreign language out of a guidebook]. Are you far away?"

M: "The theater is about five miles north of downtown Chicago."

P: "How far are you from the Magnificent Mile?"

M: "That's downtown, and the theater is about five miles north of downtown."

P: "Oh, so you're by University of Chicago."

M: "Well, the University is south of downtown. The theater is north of downtown."

Heard On The Street

9 September, Balmoral and Lakewood. Woman pushing stroller, while her perhaps five year old daughter walks alongside.

Mother to daughter: "And my vagina says you're not."

Why Computers Are Not Always Smart...

I have just received an email from Hyatt Hotels. Based on the information I provided (with an eye toward getting a graphic design gig with the company), they say, I am qualified for the position of Manager, Quality Assurance. The job involves...

"management, analysis and reporting results of Guest and Meeting Planner satisfaction surveys, including vendor management, contract/pricing management, communication (written, verbal and formal presentations) and partnership with the corporate stakeholders (Operations, F&B, Marketing, Sales, Development, HR/Compensation, etc.)"

It looks like English. Doesn't make much sense. Partnership with corporate stakeholders?

• Primary vendor contact and management associated with special proprietary projects appended to these studies

Sure. I'm all about special proprietary projects appended to studies.

• Responsible for relationship-building with corporate stakeholders and hotels

Those stakeholders again. Who are these people?

• Responsible for traveling and conducting work sessions with individual properties to

I'm all for traveling. I wish they hadn't left off the last part of that second sentence, though.

A Day At The Box Office

Woman cuts in line at window.

Woman leans in.

Woman says: "We ordered our tickets with American Express. We don't have to wait in line, do we?"

Sadly, "we" did.

Look For Me On Project Runway

Not one, but two people at work today told me I was dressed drably, and not up to my usual standards. As my boss put it: "Jeans? A polo? K-Swiss sneakers? Where are the great clothes?"

Which means one of two things, I think.

I am incredibly stylish.

Or the people I work with are so incredibly not stylish, that I seem to GQ material by comparison.

Give Me An S!

I was at Chicago's Shedd Aquarium recently, in the company of some dear friends from Michigan and their (as it turned out) adorable children. We made our way to the elevators that take guests down to the Wild Reef exhibit.

There was a woman there, we'll just say an older woman, a Shedd employee.

Was she enticing guests to visit the Wild Reef with charming patter, or a winning spiel?

No.

What she was doing was this: she was (almost) yelling "Sharks! Sharks! Sharks"

She would occasionally mix things up by adding "S! H! A! R! K! S!"

Where's My Geritol?

Late summer, 2000. Around 10 o'clock in the evening.

I stand at the corner of Broadway and Montrose, waiting to cross the street.

Someone calls out, "Ooooh, daddy." It's obvious from the tone that the young man calling this out has seen someone he would like gain conjugal knowledge of.

I look around, to see the young man, and to see who he might be referring to.

I see a young, muscular man, shirtless, glistening with sweat.

I see no one else.

I realize he was referring to me.

I realize that the young, muscular, shirtless, and it appeared, non-underwear wearing, hung, young man, who is smiling at me, was referring to me.

I realize he just called me "Daddy."

I feel old. I appreciate the obvious compliment... but... daddy?

A Brief Update About The Airline

A letter arrived yesterday, addressed to me, from that airline I loath.

I opened the envelope. I pulled out the letter.

Dear Ms Yvonne Cole*, it began.

I can't figure out if Ms Cole had the same complaint that I did, or if they are just utterly inept.

*Name changed.

News From The Cube Next Door

Friday, 18 August.

Woman in next cube over is on a lengthy personal phone call.

(This may be due to the fact that she left her Blackberry -- given her by the company, that her clients may call or email her at any time, and she can respond immediately -- at home. Because she uses it as an alarm clock, which means she puts it under her pillow, which means that it's not in her purse, which means that she doesn't think of it when she leaves in the morning.)

Woman in next cube tells her friend on the phone -- and thus tells the entire office -- that all of her log-ons and passwords -- work, banking, shopping -- are exactly the same, as she can barely remember the one set of log-ons and passwords. Why, she'd be lost if she had different ones for different sites.

I consider pointing out to her that announcing such information to the entire office is, perhaps, not wise.

I decide not to.

Step On A Crack

Friday, 18 August. Adams Street, between Clinton and the river.

Mother and child strolling down the street.

Child is enthusiastically stomping on each crack in the sidewalk, yelling with great delight "I broke your back! I broke your back!"

Why I Loath That Airline, What I Learned About Warts, And Other Things From My Voyage To Virginia

I recently flew to Virgina for an extended weekend.

Last year, when I flew to Virigina, the airline made such a muddle of the flight (I don't want to refer to them by name, so I'll make up a clever fake name to use... um... ah! Untied Airlines!) that they sent me a $100 voucher good against another flight. I figured, one flight, $100 voucher, my out of pocket expense will be minimal.

So I logged on Untied's website. Turns out you can't use such vouchers online. You have to call. So I call. Turns out you have to pay a $15 fee when you phone Untied, they'd really like you to book online. At the time, I was tired, it was late, I just wanted to book the flight, so I said nothing.

Later, though, I emailed Untied and expressed my disappointment that they would require me to book by phone and then penalize me for "choosing" to book by phone.

In response, they told me that, had I booked online, I could have avoided the fee.

In response, I told them that I would much rather have booked online, as I don't particularly enjoy talking to Untied employees; sadly, their own rules prevented me from doing so.

In response, they told me that, had I booked online, I could have avoided the fee.

In response, I expressed my concern that perhaps they were not actually reading my email, and if that were the case, I would prefer they simply ignore me altogether, rather than respond with foolish advice.

I have not heard from them since.

The flight took off just two hours after the scheduled departure time, something of an accomplishment for my Untied friends, and I was certainly better off than a young lady on my flight. She had booked an 8 am flight to Denver, which had been cancelled. She was on an early afternoon flight to Baltimore, to get on a flight from Baltimore to Denver, as that was the only way Untied could see to get her where she was going.

The flight itself was uneventful, and the delightfully warm weather in Maryland was most welcome. I caught the Metro bus to the Metro Green line station. I took my seat on the train, and, as it turns out, a young lady and her parents were seated close by.

Her first topic of conversation was warts. Specifically, hers. On her left hand. And how her doctor couldn't get rid of them. And it cost her $3o a visit. And her old doctor could get rid of warts, but she wasn't on the plan. This topic of conversation lasted through the first four stops the train made.

From there, she moved on to summer, and how it makes people stink, and how much she hates that. This consumed several more stops.

By the time the train arrived at the L'Enfant station, I was more than happy to grab my bags and go.

My first stop on my little vacation was the Arlington home of: Kim and Rich, two dear old friends from my days in Michigan; and a new friend, Jared. I spent several delightful days in the company of these fellows, enjoying delicious home-cooked meals, a visit to the National Portrait Gallery, and much beer.

From Arlington, the four of us motored through the lovely Virginia countryside to Arlington, where my sweetie Matthew was appearing in the Shenandoah University Summer Theatre production of "The Wizard of Oz" as the Scarecrow.

We enjoyed several delightful meals, and a disappointing one at the Triangle Diner, where Winchester's own Patsy Cline once worked as a waitress. Matthew and I had dined there in 2005; but this time, things were different. We especially enjoyed the show; Matthew was great, and the woman playing the Witch was wonderful, too.

The Virginia boys left on Sunday to return home. Matthew and I left on Monday, bound for Chicago and our own bed. Our plan was to stop at a hotel in Maumee, Ohio. The room was paid for with a coupon I'd gotten, good for a night's stay, after the awful time I'd had checking out at one of their hotels in 2005.

(What had happened was, the rate I'd booked online had not been put into the file the hotel had for my reservation. Which is fine, things happen. What made me angry was how unpleasant the staff was when I checked out: the old guy working complained about "You people" -- it seems he hates how we people think we can get things for free. And the young lady called me a liar, to my face. Subsequent conversations with the hotel's general manager led to the acknowledgement that I was right and they were wrong.)

You can imagine my concern, upon arriving at the hotel around 11.15 pm, to find that one of the two on-duty staff members had locked herself out of the hotel. She finally had to pound on a window, summoning one of the housekeeping staff to let her in.

The next day, many hours, many dollars of gas, and several thrift store stops later, we arrived back at Balmoral Avenue in Chicago, happy to be home.

Seen in the Subway

3 August, approximately 5pm. The L'enfant Plaza Metro station, Washington DC, waiting for the Orange Line train to Clarendon.

Panhandler approaches, asks for fifty cents. As is my custom, I pretend to be deaf and blind and unable to acknowledge existence of panhandler. Also, this was the very subway station in which I threw up, on a previous visit, due to overindulgence in alcohol, and I was trying to see if I could remember exactly where I hurled.

Panhandler moves on. Several feet away, he asks a man for fifty cents. Man digs in pocket, proffers quarter.

Panhandler is annoyed. "No. I need fifty cents. I don't need no quarter. I need fifty cents."

Man extends quarter, perhaps feeling that panhandler is simply politely protesting his generosity.

Panhander continues: "No, I need fifty cents! I know you're gay! But I need fifty cents!"

(Based on the yamulke and the copy of a Chaim Potok novel in his hand, I'd have pegged him for observably Jewish rather than observably gay, but whatever.)

Man returns quarter to pocket. Panhandler walks off.

Bitter, Party Of One...

Arlington, Virginia, around 8 in the morning. Friday, 4 August.

My hosts still asleep, I decided to shower, dress, and stroll down Kirkwood to the Giant grocery store. My morning Coca-Cola and the Friday New York Times in hand, I queued up in the express lane. Which is where I saw Bitter Bruce, the Crabby Cashier.

Bruce had struck a pose, one hip thrust forward. What few hairs remain atop his head were each brushed in very precise lines towards the back of his head. Bruce did not look at anyone, whether he was talking to them or not.

The customer being checked out, a gentleman in (expensive) casual clothes, made a comment about it being "casual Friday."

"Oh." said Bruce. The bitterness in that 'oh' was palpable. "Yeah. I remember casual Friday. THAT was a whole OTHER lifetime."

It's So Big

At the theater, Saturday, 29 July.

Selling tickets to woman on phone. Our conversation up to this point had quickly revealed that this young lady was not a clever lass.

Says I: "And the credit card number, please."

Says she: "............................um............................is that the big one?"

Seen On The Street

Chicago and Milwaukee, around 7 in the morning.

A man, walking down the street.

With a 12-pack of Budweiser.

Balanced on his head.

Look, Up In The Corner!

Yes, check out that lovely photo of me. It was taken at Wizard World, the big comic book con held each year out in Rosemont, many years ago.

Courtesy of a friend of mine, who made superhero costumes not only as a hobby, but for DC Comics and Alex Ross, among other clients, I am dressed as Tempest. (I had to wear a dance belt in that get-up. Never again.)

Anyway, the creator of Tempest*, an openly gay artist working for DC, was at the convention, and my friend made sure we stopped by the DC booth. He introduced us and the artist politely complimented me on what fun it was to see his creation come to life.

Fast forward to the next day. There I am, dressed in normal clothes, standing in the men's room... well, doing what one does when one is standing in the men's room. When all of a sudden there's a voice over my left shoulder: "You looked really hot yesterday in the costume."

I turned my head. It was all I could turn. I was busy.

Yes. It was the artist.

It was an awkward moment. I couldn't really turn to face him, but I felt I had to respond. Two things occured to at almost the same moment: artist would not approach someone who looked really hot dressed as his creation in the bathroom unless he wanted a little somethin'-somethin', if you know what I mean. And artist didn't seem to have much common sense. If you're gonna approach someone in the men's room, wait until their hands are free.

(This reminds me of another awkward moment involving gay men. Many, many years ago, back in Grand Rapids, I was at the cast party for Blood Brothers, starring a perennial favorite of mine, Petula Clark. I was busily cruising an attractive young chorus boy, we were engaged in witty conversation, when all of a sudden he says, "Oh, I want you to meet somone." He grabbed me by the elbow and spun me around, and there was Petula Clark. Understand this: I LOVE Petula Clark. "Petula," he says, "this is one of our presenters." Pet looks me up. Pet looks me down. Pet says: "Where's dessert." Not even a question. Pet wanted dessert. "Um," I cleverly responded, "I think they're bringing it out now." Not only did I blow the one chance in my life to impress Petula Clark with my wit and charm, I didn't get the chorus boy either.)

*Fellow comic geeks: Yes, I know Tempest was a revamp of Aqualad. I didn't want to confuse the non-fans.

There Must Be An Easier Way To Say Excuse Me

A (very) north side bar, shortly after midnight. Waiting for the crowd to move a bit so that I could get through.

There's a tap on my right cheek. You know, down there. I ignore the tap.

Then there's another, and then one more. Partly to see who it is who's a-tapping on my ass, and partly to prevent them from doing it again, I turn around.

The fellow behind me very carefully, with two fingers of his right hand, touched his forehead. His abdomen. His left shoulder. And his right shoulder.

And then he nodded, and walked away and out of the bar.

My First Week On The Job

I have completed my first week of working for Ticketmaster. I have learned many things.

I have learned how to reclass seats to conform venue capacity to a show's requested onsale.

I have learned that it's vital that one's listop and secpoc match.

I have learned to linka.

And I have learned that, as a Ticketmaster employee, I am not allowed to buy tickets from Ticketmaster*....


(*Sure, I can order tickets through the executive secretary, but that doesn't mean I'll get tickets. If I buy tickets online or by phone, well, it seems Ticketmaster runs all orders against their employee database. Matches get no tickets.)

Gay Men Shopping

Jewel, at Broadway and Berwyn, 12 July, about 10 in the evening. At that hour, Jewel has locked one set of the entrance doors.

Two overly gay men approach the locked doors. They try to enter. The doors do not open. They push on the doors. The doors are locked. They attempt to enter through the exit. One of the fellows reads the sign: "Do not enter."

They come to the next set of exit doors. Same fellow reads the sign: "Do not enter."

The other fellow speaks up. "They are NOT making this very convenient!"

Sign reader responds. "Well..... this isn't a convenience store!"

I Thought He Was Talking To Me

My aunt's kitchen. The third of July. My friend Mark and I are standing at the counter. My uncle looks in our direction and says, "So, what're you doing for the Fourth, Sissy?"

As my uncle had never before been overtly homophobic, I was taken aback and left at a loss for words.

My aunt... his sister.... spoke up from where she was standing, right behind me: "We're just going to the parade is all."

One Man, One Vote

Seen at the Fourth of July parade in Whitehall, Michigan.

A pick-up truck in the parade, with a sign on each side announcing that the float carried the Whitehall City Council.

With one man riding in the truck.

Waiting at the Uptown Post Office

Which was, as always, a lengthy wait. I am certain that the training at the Uptown branch includes a day on delay, as Uptown has by far the slowest-moving employees around.

A young man and woman approached the window with a paper shopping bag of items to mail. Once the bag was emptied, the woman carefully placed the bag over her head, and stood there silently for a few moments.

A Good Plan Goes Awry

Man arrives at box office to pick up his tickets. Per policy, I ask for ID. He hands me a credit card, on which he has written in the signature space: "Ask for ID." I did. He gave me another credit card, on which, in the signature space he had written: "Ask for ID." I did. He gave me a third card. Guess what it had written on it?

Man whose every last credit card said "Ask for ID" does not carry ID.

People Will Talk

Chicago's 2006 Pride Parade. I'm standing behind two young gay men, waiting to be let into the theater to work. A man in a kilt passes by.

The one fellow says to the other: "You don't wear anything under a kilt. No. That's the traditional Irish way. Oh, if I wore a kilt... what if I dropped my coconut?"

Woman approaches theater doors. Tugs on one. Door is locked. Tugs on another. Door is locked. Reads the sign listing hours. Pulls out cell phone, calls someone. "They don't open for half an hour." Hangs up. Tugs on same two doors again. Hm. Still locked.

Where Do I Sign Up For That Raffle?

Seen at my local library branch, as part of a display promoting their summer reading program for children:

WEEKLY RAFFLE WINERS

What's New At The Chicago Public Library

Bored, I went to the Chicago Public Library website and did a search of their catalog for my favorite singer, Dolly Parton. Much to my surprise, they had a number of her albums, including several that have never been made available on CD (I'll admit, usually for good reason).

I was delighted to see the CPL had a copy of "The Great Pretender" in its collection: a mid-80s album Dolly did covering songs she liked. One of my favorite songs is Petula Clark's classic "Downtown," and Dolly does it. So I ordered the LP. I can copy it to CD and enjoy Dolly doing "Downtown" whenever I like.

I went to my local branch and checked out some books, and the librarian (unlike most CPL librarians, he was young, attractive and male) told me I had something to pick up. He got it. It was the Dolly album.

I asked if I could come back and get it, as I was riding a bike and the bag I had was not big enough to hold a record album.

"Oh!" He exclaimed. "Do you know what I would do?"

Um, no. What?

"This!" Whereupon he placed the album carefully atop his head, spread his arms out, and took a stroll behind the desk.

Oh. Okay.

A Diva Detour

First: I was flipping channels the other day and when I came to C-SPAN, I stopped cold. I was looking at Cher.

Cher. A call-in show guest.

On C-SPAN.

Ater checking the window to see if frogs were falling from the sky like rain, I watched as Cher discussed her support for Operation Helmet.

Cher. On C-SPAN.

Second:

Barbra Streisand is being sued.

Why? Because the last time she went on a farewell tour, a number of people bought very expensive tickets for their last chance ever to see Babs perform live. Now that she's launching another farewell tour, they're (understanbly) miffed.

Here we've been mocking Cher for her Neverending Farewell Tour, and here she's just been a savvy diva, avoiding lawsuits down the road.

Detour ends.

More Fun With The TSA

Having successfully met the challenge of disinterested TSA employees carefully reading from prepared, and dreadfully dull, scripts, I went in for the required physical.

Now, I've been told by more than one doctor that I have high blood pressure, and I also have white coat induced high blood pressure. That is, my slightly high blood pressure skyrockets when I go to the doctor.

So: the nurse takes my blood pressure. 140 over 100. She's disturbed. Some time later, the doctor takes my blood pressure. 160 over 110. She's terribly concerned. Aside from that white coat induced HBP, I couldn't help but think that my experiences during the physical -- for example, when the nurse shut me in a booth for a hearing test and forgot that I was there -- made a significant contribution to that horribly high reading. The doctor thought not.

It should be noted that medical professionals saying, "Now, relax," as they strap that cuff around your arm for the fourth time and once again inflate it 'til it's so tight your fingers tingle, are not contributing to a relaxed state of mind.

Now I have medication. Three different pills to take each morning.

I realize the warning was placed on the label to reassure the consumer, but when I read a reminder about how my doctor prescribed the medication because the threat to my health is greather than the effects of the side effects, well, it doesn't exactly make me feel at ease.

When I read the potential side effects (dizziness, headaches, blurred vision, slurred speech, uncontrollable vomiting -- oh, and/or vomit that looks like coffee grounds, weakness, less urine, more urine, dark urine, yellow face, yellow eyes... to name a few) I'm left wondering about how worthwhile these drugs are.

A Momentary Temptation

I was at the Village Thrift today, the one on Clark Street near where I live.

(Unfamiliar with the Village Thrift? They're a chain of thrift stores. The stuff is cheap. The stores all smell bad.)

They play music with occasional announcements. Today, one of the announcements announced that the Village is hiring, full-time, benefits, just ask!

I seriously considered it, for about 2.7 seconds. Just think, dibs on the cool stuff that comes in... maybe an employee discount (Sure, a pair of jeans for five bucks is a great deal. But five bucks, 10% off? Better deal.)

Then reality reared its head. I don't speak the language, for one. I would end up smelling like the Village Thrift (see above).

At which point, I happened to look up. A woman nearby had decided to try on a skirt. This woman had dropped her pants and was shimmying into the skirt when I looked up, allowing me, and all the other folks around, the chance to take in her too-small panties in their valiant struggle to contain her posterior.

Fun With The TSA

Last summer, when I was looking for work, I was meandering around a federal goverment website. Which allowed one to put in one's qualifications and the system would find the perfect job(s) for one. So I put in my qualifications.

According to the system, I was well-qualified to be a Transportation Security Administration screener.

I wasn't clear on how "Demonstrated abilities in QuarkXPress and other design software" made one qualified to wear a white, short-sleeved shirt and ask people to remove their shoes, but, who was I to argue with the United States government? So I applied.

Some time later, I was asked to go in for a three-hour test. I did.

Mostly, they showed x-rays and you had to find the knifes, scissors, pointy-things and other dangerous items. I was there for an hour and fifteen minutes; I would have left when I was done, but I spent 15 minutes wondering if I should leave or not.

Some time later, I learned I had passed the test and could now take my e86 on-line assessment. How exciting was that? And they were very helpful: the email had four pdf attachments. The first one told you how to open the website. (I wondered about that. If you don't know how to open a website, how would you know how to open a pdf?)

Some considerable time later, I was called to schedule an interview/assessment near Midway Airport. Which is how I came to be riding my bike west on Archer on 1 June to the assessment center.

First, I met with Tim. Tim's job was to administer the visual test. (You line colored dots up in a row, lightest to darkest. Just to make things interesting, I flipped two of the dots. I still passed.)

Then, I talked to Shakita. Shakita's husband works by the theater, so we talked alot about that.

Then I waited.

And waited.

Then I talked to Mike. Mike was kinda cute. Mike looked at a laptop for a long time and then we got to take my fingerprints, using the inkless digital fingerprint scanner. This was fun. Mike had to manipulate each of my fingers across the scanner, and in order to do facilitate him doing so, I had to stand right behind Mike, brushing up against his backside...

Then I got to wait some more.

For entertainment, I listened in on one of the other applicants. (I was later told she had been in almost daily. She doesn't know how to use a computer, so one of the TSA folks had to sit with her and type her answers into the computer.) She knows her mother's date of birth, but not her father's date of birth. I know this, because she announced it, loudly, 17 times. In a row.

I was waiting for the manager to return. I had passed each of their seemingly low requirements and was now qualified to proceed to a conditional offer of employment (but, they urged, don't quit your job or relocate for the job!), once the manager returned.

Once he returned, it turned out he had been the head of security at the John Hancock building, when I worked there in the most nightmarish job I've ever had. We chatted, he signed off, and I had successfully completed my assessment session.

So watch out. I may be screening your luggage. Remove your shoes, please.

I'm Not From Around Here: A Variation

One fine day at the theater...

Caller: "I'd like to get some tickets."

Me: "For what day and time?"

Caller: "I'm from Canada."

Me: "....................."

Caller: "Is that a problem?"

Seen On The Street

Thursday, 25 May

Outside a Walgreen's, near 51st and Cottage Grove.

As I unlock my bike, elderly woman approaches and speaks:

"You! You! Young man! I know you know! I know! You know French and Greek and German and Spanish and all that! And you won't share it with me! You won't! C'mon seagulls!"

To Serve and Protect

So there I was one fine summer afternoon, sitting outside Moody's Pub (a North Side institution with great burgers, great onion rings, good sangria, and a great patio on which one can while away lazy summer evenings with great friends).

In the distance, I could hear the wail of the sirens on an approaching police car. Sure enough, a police car, lights flashing, came sailing up Broadway, zipping around cars.

Right in front of Moody's, the police car made a U-turn, coming to a stop right in front of Moody's! Naturally, I was a bit alarmed.

One of the officers got out of the car, and ambled... yes, ambled would be the word... into Moody's, cup in hand. He emerged a few minutes later with a cup full of something cool to drink, got back in the car, and off went the police officers, leisurely driving back in the direction they'd come.

Was It Something I Did?

A Tuesday afternoon, in a Taco Fresco restaurant near downtown Chicago. I was wearing an orange polo shirt with a little Mickey Mouse on the chest, a Mickey Mouse hat (by coincedence! I grabbed a hat as I left the house that morning) and jeans, and was carrying a small green man purse.

A young man in a sweathshirt and shorts looks at me, says "Hi."

I replied, "Hi."

He said, "Chess player?"

I replied, "Huh?"

He said, "Chess player?"

I said, "No."

(What I would like to know is, what, from my appearance, led him to the conclusion I was a chess player? Do chess players fancy Mickey Mouse? Do they wear orange shirts?)

First Day On The Job

Today was my first day on the job as a bicycle messenger. Being my first day, I had to go through orientation. (I was a little bemused by the notion of having to receive several hours of orientation. You get something from here, you take it there, you fill out the paperwork. How complicated is it?)

I was a little afraid. I was sure that I would be undergoing orientation at the hands of some shaved-head, multiply-pierced, repeatedly-tattooed youngster.

Nope. His name, Tom. He's 57. He's a very nice man, full of sage advice. Before we got started on our day in the Loop, he gave me some pointers. Always wear a helmet, always ride in the direction of traffic, never ride on the sidewalk. The bike cops, he said, were always eager to write tickets, even more so if they knew you were a bike messenger.

Having said that, he proceeded to not put on his helmet, and then we rode against traffic over to Canal Street, where we rode on the sidewalk up to Sears Tower.

Cher-ing is Caring

Many years ago, when I was in grade school, I had a friend who lived down the block in a stately brick home.

We were big fans of the Sonny and Cher Show, the popular variety show. One fine summer day, we decided we wanted to play Sonny and Cher Show, but quickly ran into a roadblock:

Neither of us wanted to be Sonny.

After a bit of discussion, we hit upon a satisfactory solution, and so whiled away part of the afternoon playing the Cher and Cher Alike Show.

Did I Ask?

Jewel, North Broadway, on Mother's Day.

Cashier has chosen to add a large note to her nametag:

"Please do not feel sorry for me that I do not celebrate Mother's Day. Because I don't."

Um... thanks for sharing....

Seen on the Street, in Leather

Seen recently, in Andersonville. Two leathermen. Muscular, confident, proud. These two fine specimens of the modern leatherman were out walking their dog.

Their dog is a petite poodle, on a pink leash, named Fifi.

Seen several years ago, Halsted Market Days. A different pair of muscular leathermen, walking down the street. One had a (leather) backpack. The other fellow turns to the backpack-toter and says, "I need to get my bottle of water out of the backpack."

What makes this story sad is that the voice that issued forth from that muscular leatherman was, well.... nelly. As in fey. As in by comparison, Paul Lynde was butch.

Are you a hot, muscular man thinking of going out and about clad in black leather? Please, take a moment to look around. Are any of your dog's accessories pink? Could you play Charles Nelson Reilly in a movie? Do you immediately know what I mean when I ask, "Does anyone still wear a hat?"

If you answer yes to any of these questions, please put the leather clothes back in the closet.

A Surprise At The Desk

I went to the doctor a few years back. Insurance red tape being what it is, I dutifully give my actual first name when making an appointment, rather than my middle name. (As a junior, I go by my middle name and let pops enjoy the first name.)

And so the receptionist called out, "Duane?"

I ambled up to the desk and said "hi." And the receptionist looked at me with a look of absolute amazement on her face.

"But... ah... "

"Yes?" I asked.

"Well... you're not black!"

I apologized. What else could I do?

Talk Sex With Sue

Do you have cable? Have you ever seen "Talk Sex With Sue?" It's on one of the women's channels, Oxygen, Lifetime, I don't know which. Sue's a lovely grandmotherly woman who talks about sex in a very direct way. Very direct.

While we were in Orlando we rode the safari attraction at Disney's Animal Kingdom: you ride in "trucks" through the attraction, driven by guides.

Our guide looked just like Sue from "Talk Sex." And guess what her name was?

I kept expecting her to pull a dildo out of her bag.

Third Time's The Charm

See, I didn't learn to drive until I was in my mid-twenties. (What finally cured me of my non-driving was a train ride to Philadelphia, PA. That is one long state to traverse by train.) Calling on various friends, I received a thorough course in driving.

The day came to go for my driving test. I was nervous. No, I was very nervous. I was, in fact, so nervous that the woman who gave the test had to do something she said she rarely got to do.

What I had to do, she said, was go practice driving faster.

Taking her words to heart, I exceeded the speed limit all the way home. (My dear friend Annie let me drive her car (with her in it, of course!) to the Secretary of State and back, not to mention the grocery store, out to eat, and anywhere else we were going.)

A few weeks later we returned to the SOS office. I went up to the counter and announced my arrival for my driving test. I was directed to the woman administering tests that day, who looked at me from across the counter and asked me how the hell was she supposed to know where my car was.

Impressed by her pleasant demeanor I spun on my heel and walked out to the car.

Some time later, when she found me in the parking lot (I helpfully pointed out that "This is where the hell the car is"), she gave me a series of directions, delivered in a foul tone which made me think even less of her.

I'll confess. By the time the car actually started moving, I was well over this woman. I'd had it. I seriously considered cutting the test off halfway through, returning to the parking lot, and going into the SOS office for a discussion with the office manager. Instead, I amused myself making sure that every left turn we made slammed into her into the door.

I didn't pass that test, either.

I did, however, pass the third time, with flying colors.

(Aside to Mark: as noted, this was in my early twenties. I've matured in the ten years since then.)

(Second aside to Mark: yeah, and the same to you.)

A Woman Goes 'Round The Block

I don't mean to turn this into a list of "those kooky folks that come to the theater," but I can't help mentioning a certain woman of a certain age...

She turned up at the box office window to announce that she was parked in the alley, and would she get towed? We inside the box office exchanged looks. The alley? Which alley, she was asked? Right over here, she said, gesturing in the general direction of the rear of the theater. Was there a sign, she was asked? There was, she said, it said, oh, something about the management of the building and towing but, did that mean her?

You can park in the parking lot, she was told.

Parking lot, she asked? There's a parking lot?

There's where I had to turn away. The street the alley comes off of is a one way street, with traffic going towards the theater. So the only way she could have gotten 'round behind the theater to get to the alley was to go around the block, either to the south or the north of the theater. Which means she had to have driven past the parking lot.

Which means she completely missed a big, flat stretch of pavement filled with cars, with a sign out front identifying it as theater parking, right next door to the theater... but immediately recognized the back of the building.

I'm Still Not From Around Here

The theater, Tuesday, May 2.

Man calls to inquire after seats. I explain that the floor slopes down towards the stage.

Man is confused.

I explain that the floor slopes down towards the stage, like in a movie theater.

Man asks if floor slopes down towards the stage.

I explain that the floor slopes down towards the stage, like in a movie theater.

Man says he is not from Chicago.

I suggest to the man that movie theaters, generally speaking, regardless of geographic location, will slope down towards the screen.

Man says, "Oh, okay."

Holy Mackeral! Red Lobster?

So there I was one fine night. Kurt had just dropped Sandy and I off near the door to the Red Lobster out at Lincolnwood Town Center, so that he could go park the car.

Sandy and I amble towards the entrance. The door to the restaurant opens. A man steps out, a man with long flowing hair, a beard, wearing a white robe; he crosses the parking lot and walks away. That's right. Jesus eats at Red Lobster. (Unless he works there -- I mean, think about it. What a way to hold down your costs if you run a Red Lobster... hire Jesus, give him fish.)

Long-time residents of Chicago may know the fellow in question; he rides Metra in from the suburbs dressed as Jesus and wanders downtown Chicago.

The Gays Are Watching

One fine night at the theater....

The lobby was packed, thanks to a fellow who decided to have the busload of kids he was chaperoning wait inside the lobby (where they were pressed in together and no one was able to move with any ease) rather than on the bus (where they could have lollygagged in comfort in their seats or in the aisle).

Which, among other things, meant a fellow and his wife had no choice but to stand at the box office window, unable to move anywhere.

Those of us inside the box office (three, count them, three homosexuals) couldn't help looking at this fellow, with his platinum blonde hair, the piercings in his eyebrow and ears. While it's a fine look for a young, handsome man, this fellow must have been at least fifty (and that would be fifty years of rough living, my friends, from the wrinkles and the haggard look).

Unaware that we could hear him, he said to his wife "The homosexuals are having a field day looking me up and down."

It was true. We were looking at him. But not, as he apparently thought, because we were so taken by his masculine charms, his saucy piercings, that we would have been all over him given the chance. No, we were looking because we couldn't believe our eyes. His wife must really love him to a) let him leave the house looking like an old man trying deperately to appear young and b) having let him out of the house, to actually be seen with him.

While

Gay Much?

Seen at the local grocery store, the Tuesday before Easter. Young man, dressed in the designated employee ensemble of black pants, blue polo shirt. Young man in question chose to roll sleeves of polo shirt up, creating the effect of a sleeveless shirt that played up the lack of muscular definition on his string bean arms. He was a skinny lad. Young man chose to accentuate the masculinity of his outfit by wearing rabbit ears.

I'm Not From Chicago...

I hear this a lot working at the theater.

Now, usually, it makes sense. "I'm not from Chicago... how do I get to the theater?" "I'm not from Chicago... are restaurants near the theater?" That makes sense.

Personally, when I'm in a strange city and I need to, say, ask directions, I don't preface it with a disclaimer as to my place of origin.

I figure that a) the person I'm asking the question of, if blessed with even a small amount of intelligence, will be able to infer from the question itself that I Am Not From Around There, and b) the person I'm asking the question of really doesn't give a shit where I'm not from. But I digress.

What I find is interesting is when the phrase turns up in kind of a non-sensical way...

"I'm not from Chicago... do I put money in the parking meter?"

"I'm not from Chicago... is Indian food good?"

"I'm not from Chicago... will it rain when we're in Chicago?"

Scene on the Street

When and where: Friday, 7 April, approximately 8.45 AM. Chicago's Gold Coast.

A woman, dressed in a lime green chanel coat, with perfectly coiffed hair. Walking around the middle of an intersection vigorously trying to flag down a cab.

Seen at same time and location: a number of cabs studiously ignoring the woman in the lime green coat with perfect hair walking around the middle of the intersection trying to flag a cab.

Note to woman in lime green coat: If you can't hail a cab from the curb, or the side of the street, or the middle of the street, or the middle of the intersection, you may want to consider why the cabbies don't want to stop... for you.

Who Knew?

Wednesday, 5 April, approximately 3.37 PM. Man, accompanied by assorted family members, southbound on Michigan Avenue, suddenly realizes that Starbucks are everywhere.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

So I was riding my bike to work one fine morning in the spring. As I made my way through Chicago's Gold Coast, I went down a side street where I found two SUVs side-by-side, one facing north, one south. The drivers of said vehicles had their respective windows down in order to engage in a friendly conversation.

This being a narrow side street, there were at least four cars in each direction unable to move thanks to these fellows and their huge vehicles blocking all traffic.

I went right between these two SUVs and, as I passed the drivers, tossed off a clever comment on whether they'd gotten their driver's licenses from a Cracker Jack box or a pack of bubble gum.

The fellow whose SUV was facing the direction I was traveling in bursts into motion, pulling up alongside me and rolling down the passenger side window (as I'd returned to the side of the street, where I was supposed to be). "You," he snarled, "disrespected me!"

"Well, " I said, "why should I show you any more respect than you were showing to the people behind you, who couldn't get through?"

"Because. You are a big HO-mo-SEX-ual." Well, sure, he was right, I am big, and I am a homosexual. But I couldn't quite believe he'd actually said that. So I gave him a second chance, and asked him again about the whole respect issue.

"I told you! Because you're a big HO-mo-SEX-ual!"

Oh. Okay. "Well," I responded, "who would know more about big homosexuals than a big ol' cocksucker like you?"

He did not find it as funny as I did. He gave chase on foot (!) and I went on to work.

What Are They Doing In There?

There's a Chinese restaurant up at the corner. They have great food... when you can get it.

We've called and been told we can only order if we can be there in ten minutes to pick it up. We've been told we can order, but it will take an hour. We've been allowed to order only after undergoing a quiz as to what exactly we might be ordering.

The best was, we called and were told they would love to take our order, but they were out of rice. Rice!

Does McDonald's run out of french fries? Does Starbucks run out of coffee? (And, they're a block or so away from a grocery store. Apparently buying more rice was not an option.)

We can't help but wonder what they do back in the kitchen, since it apparently does not involve running a restaurant.

On a similar note: next door to one of the places where I work is an accountant's office. Ah, but it's not just an accountant's office. It's also a notary public. Well, sure: I get that.

And, they've got a licensed realtor in there. Sure. Do your taxes, sell your house, one place. Cool. Oh -- there's also an ad agency in there. It's not much of an ad agency, since it's not advertised. But it's there.

But wait! Do you need promotional items packaged? They can do that for you. Hold on! Do you need a passport photo taken? They're there for you.

What especially fascinates me about this place is, with all these businesses going on, no one's going in. Not a lot of traffic there.

The Night I Got Picked Up

First let me tell you, there was this fellow I worked with. Let's call him Tommy. Nice fellow with a distinctive mid-Atlantic accent.

Okay then. So I was at this party one night and, at this party, was a fellow who looked very much like Tommy. Very much. As the evening progressed, eye contact was made, glances exchanged, smiles traded.

Finally he walks up. "Hi," he says, in a very distinctive mid-Atlantic accent, "I'm Tommy."

I had enough to drink to find myself suddenly in a panic, afraid that I had, in fact, spent part of the evening cruising the fellow I worked with. But no; a few moments conversation made it clear it was just a coincedence.

Suddenly, and completely out of the blue as regards the conversation we were having, the Party-Tommy picked me up. I mean physically. I mean in his arms. I am not a small fellow. I am not a light fellow. I was rather taken by surprise.

He then carried me from one side of the kitchen to the other, where he deposited me on the counter and began to explain, in explicit detail, what acts he would like to perform upon my private parts. He had, I must say, quite an imagination. Sadly, he never hit on one that caught my fancy.

Working On Sunday Morning

Several Sundays ago, as I was riding my bike to work, I saw a man.

He was very well dressed. Stylish, obviously expensive jeans. A sharp-looking sport coat. A professionally-pressed shirt, pink, with a white collar.

He was walking south on Clark Street, a cigarette in one hand, held, I would say, with a jaunty air.

Well, perhaps walking is a bit too kind. Staggering, if only slightly, would be more accurate.

He caught sight of me as I passed by. He called out to me: "Hey! How do I look?!"

I didn't respond.

At work, I related this anecdote to co-workers which led to a delightful discussion of The Things One Sees When One Goes To Work On Sunday Morning. Folks making the Walk of Shame, out and about on Sunday morning in clothes so well suited to a Saturday night at the bar.

I couldn't help but wonder, where was this guy coming from at 10 in the morning on a sunny Sunday morning? A bar? A party?

The Tale Of The Evanston Matron

Several years ago, I had a part time job up in Evanston (a suburb, just north of Chicago). One fine day, feeling thirsty, I hung my "Back in a few minutes" sign in the window and went down to the drugstore on the corner.

With my soda pop in hand, I got in line behind a woman, very nicely dressed, well-groomed, perhaps around 50 or so. She had her ATM card in hand, staring at Alma, the cashier. Alma was staring down aisle five. Alma... it was my opinion that Alma kept her job solely through inertia. She was rarely helpful and never efficient.

I noticed that the ATM keypad was blinking "Re-enter PIN." Since Matron was staring at Alma and Alma was staring down the aisle, neither noticed the message. Trying to be helpful, I pointed it out to Matron.

At some point, a man had gotten in line behind me, and was jumping around, muttering "Come on! Hurry up! Geez!" This will be significant in a moment, trust me.

Finally, Matron and Alma get it all straightened out. Matron looks back and says "I only took so long to annoy the man behind me." Not realizing she had thought the man behind me was me, I took offense. I had tried to help! "Well," I said, "I'm sorry you're too stupid to know how to use an ATM card."

Her eyes narrowed. "Fuck you!" said Matron.

"Honey, I'm gay. I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last thing alive on the earth."

She turned and left. I made my purchase. I walked out of the store.

To find Matron on the sidewalk, waiting for me. "And another thing," she says, "don't you ever call me honey again!" (As if she thought we would be meeting up again in the future?)

By this point, I was very amused by the absurdity of standing on a street corner in downtown Evanston trading insults with an impeccably-dressed matron with a potty mouth. So we stood there for a few minutes having our fun (or, at least, I was having fun).

Finally she pulls her herself up, breathes in, leans in and hisses "You..... have a tiny dick!"

As much fun as it was, I had to go back to work, so I left her there. Not with the last word, mind you. I returned her "compliment" with a comment about the state of her private parts.