All-Big Ten

Happy. Rested. Still unemployed. Not totally broke.

Not too shabby at all considering I'm still dealing with another one of them life changes.

The funny is still there. Especially after last weekend's little jaunt to Chicago.

Giniqua was in Chitown for a conference and I figured, "eh, what else am I doing?" Joe and the Roger were gracious as ever to host us, so I knew it was gonna be a good time for all. And Max - Joe's gay dog - was so excited to see me that he just pee-pee-ed on the floor when I walked in the apartment. After Max, it's hard to believe that anyone is really happy to see me unless they pee themselves with excitement. Then again, the sentiment would be nice but, you know, eww.

Andersonville was even gayer than I remember from the Gaymes. In July, I was kind of surprised to see a bank sign on Clark Street flash, "Welcome Gay Games." After less than a day soaking in the gayness this time around, I half expected to see a line of lesbians waiting for Mayor Daley to marry them in front of Ann Sather. Andyville would have been LESS gay if there were guys blowing each other on street corners. I knew there was a reason I was sad that N & J weren't there with us.

I had a little bit of a time finding the apartment at first. I was distracted by the realizations that cities can, in fact, have sexual orientations. I was blind. I didn't have brake pads. And, I was told the address was "5605" (changed to protect the innocent...from Joe. Ha, just kidding. Or, not). After parking my car, I walked north past 5601, then 5603, then...5609.

Mike, who could see me from the apartment, told me to open my eyes. I - apparently - yelled something like, "why don't you get to the back of the bus, bitch." Which didn't go over well with the people around me. Read the crowd, I didn't. Instead of telling me that the door to 5605 was - in fact - at 5611, Mike giggled himself into a piddle.

Fortunately, after climbing the 20 flights of stairs to the loft, I found that Joe, the Roger and Giniqua had cleaned out some outlet liquor store.

The rest is pretty much a blur. Not because I was drunk, but because I was inexplicably exhausted the whole weekend. Okay, I was a little drunk. I can admit that much.

I remember some kind of reasoning about why Mike and I ended up at a McDonald's on Friday night instead of one of the cute little bistros in Gayville. The cashier asked what kind of sauce we wanted with the mcnuggets. "Surprise us," said Mike. Ultimately, not the best thing to say.

I remember being at Crew, Chicago's gay sports bar. Love it. Love it. Love it. Where else can a row of televisions be playing: baseball, hockey, Cher, SportsCenter, soccer and Project Runway? And, they had Blue Moon on tap. Heaven, I tell you.

I remember Giniqua and Winesha trying to talk Joe into accepting that Max is gay. And a big ole bottom. It's okay that Max ONLY sniffs guys crotches, or stretches out in front of guys by arching his back, or waits until everyone leaves the room to eat or constantly needing someone to tell him he's pretty. Come one now Joe, we're all God's little loveable snowflakes.

I remember someone - who shall remain nameless because, you know, Joe deserves a little anonymity, not being a "public figure" and all - saying to Mike's lawyer friend, "Can I just be my dog and put my head on your lap." I'm not gonna say that it was a tragic moment because everyone knows that context is important in judging tragicity. Context: Mike's lawyer friend is lying on the pullout sofa bed. A certain someone has had a few drinks, walks over to the sofa bed and says, "Can I just be my dog and put my head on your lap." There. See? Wait. Never mind. At least I told Joe that I wouldn't say it was him when I blogged about it.

I remember the Roger. And Giniqua. And stories that I probably shouldn't retell.

I remember lunch at Hamburger Mary's on Clark. There were three of us. Then four when the Roger surprisingly showed up. Giniqua piddled a little. Then our group became five after Giniqua sprinted out of the place to literally drag our friend's new "friend" in to sit with us. We met "friend" the night before at Crew, privately "impressed" at what working out 9 days a week can do. We all finished our lunches. And drinks. And drinks, round two. But, alas, the Roger's food didn't come. I surmised that it was because he was straight. "Maybe they put your food out back on the bench where the straightys are supposed to eat. I mean, it's not that being straight means you're not as good, just not as important." At the time, I thought it was the comforting and empathetic thing to say.

Good times. Ggood times.