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.