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People who see people
This weekend was a testimony to the power of getting out of the damn house. I spent yesterday afternoon hanging around since I realised it was my only chance to get any laundry done, as I already had plans both Saturday and Sunday evening even before ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu announced he was taking me out for brunch Sunday morning. He prepared dinner for the nice couple upstairs who weren't expected before 7 p.m. and I was killing time on Facebook as I waited for the clothes to dry. The second or third time my eyes fell on a photo posted by mikiedoggie, I suddenly processed the associated address and realised it was five minutes walk from my house.
So when the load was out, I put on a nice shirt and went for a stroll right into a neighbourhood block party. Graysong was the first familiar face I saw; I'd never realised that his pal Big Tim lived so nearby. BT's hands were greasy with pork fresh from the grill, so we chest bumped and then I got introduced around. In the midst of this, I was suddenly eye-to-eye with a coworker who was visiting friends down the street. Sometimes your worlds collide and it's awkward, but the atmosphere was so mellow and chummy there wasn't a hint of that. Sadly I was only able to stay for an hour, but I left determined to further cement relations with that gang before Graysong left me bereft.
I'd accepted Mazeppa's invitation to read his new musical script as soon as I could. It's a parody of Bewitched and he assigned me the part of Larry Tate, Darrin's sleazeball boss. I didn't bother checking the address until today so I had no notion that, like the block party, it was also five minutes away just across the border in Edgewater. So not only did I not need to pubtrans it after all, I was even able to walk home and retrieve a house key I left in my other pair of shorts.
He had assembled a dozen people, ranging from a professional voice actor through rusty amateurs like me to those with no experience at all (thankfully mostly there just to listen). None of the bear crowd was present; I knew no one. But just like at the block party, it didn't matter. Our hosts, a young gay couple who were to write the score, provided us delicious terrible food. (How many years has it been since I had a pig in a blanket?) Afterwards, we hung out and offered up critiques. I gave the dogs ice cubes to play with (the first time one hit the floor, it was by accident, but then I couldn't help myself: Watching a small sausagey dog scrabble across hardwood never gets old). Then I stepped out on the porch and sought connexions.
One of the women, a bighearted extrovert who'd drunk more than her share of wine, turned out to work at a different location of the same institution. She ended up hooking up with an old schoolmate of Mazeppa's, and was hilarious open about it. We left together, and as I knew that the schoolmate lived near Granville and she had to make it back to Wicker Park, I innocently said, "Heading to the Granville el stop?" "I don't know," she replied and turned to the guy, "I'm following you." Then to me--in a voice you could hear halfway down the block--"It's a not a secret, we're going to have sex." I kept cracking up about that all the way back home.
When I got back, I found the book I'd borrowed from the Nova Scotian wasn't on the patio table any longer, so I assumedmonshu had had a chance to give it to him until I came in and found it sitting in the dining room. He wasn't in but his wife was--and charmingly shitfaced. Normally she can hardly get a word in edgewise, but tonight her companion stood silently by while she enthused about the upcoming exhibition my oral history will help inform. I couldn't help it; she got me going and it was another half hour or so before I extricated myself. She had combed old Maroons and remembered seeing my photo from one of the two times I ran for StuCo. Even stranger, she gushed over a friend's writing in such a way that if it had been anyone else, I would've assumed a piss-take, but she is nothing if not disarmingly genuine. One of you should be expecting a mash note pretty soon.
monshu announced he was taking me out for brunch Sunday morning. He prepared dinner for the nice couple upstairs who weren't expected before 7 p.m. and I was killing time on Facebook as I waited for the clothes to dry. The second or third time my eyes fell on a photo posted by mikiedoggie, I suddenly processed the associated address and realised it was five minutes walk from my house.So when the load was out, I put on a nice shirt and went for a stroll right into a neighbourhood block party. Graysong was the first familiar face I saw; I'd never realised that his pal Big Tim lived so nearby. BT's hands were greasy with pork fresh from the grill, so we chest bumped and then I got introduced around. In the midst of this, I was suddenly eye-to-eye with a coworker who was visiting friends down the street. Sometimes your worlds collide and it's awkward, but the atmosphere was so mellow and chummy there wasn't a hint of that. Sadly I was only able to stay for an hour, but I left determined to further cement relations with that gang before Graysong left me bereft.
I'd accepted Mazeppa's invitation to read his new musical script as soon as I could. It's a parody of Bewitched and he assigned me the part of Larry Tate, Darrin's sleazeball boss. I didn't bother checking the address until today so I had no notion that, like the block party, it was also five minutes away just across the border in Edgewater. So not only did I not need to pubtrans it after all, I was even able to walk home and retrieve a house key I left in my other pair of shorts.
He had assembled a dozen people, ranging from a professional voice actor through rusty amateurs like me to those with no experience at all (thankfully mostly there just to listen). None of the bear crowd was present; I knew no one. But just like at the block party, it didn't matter. Our hosts, a young gay couple who were to write the score, provided us delicious terrible food. (How many years has it been since I had a pig in a blanket?) Afterwards, we hung out and offered up critiques. I gave the dogs ice cubes to play with (the first time one hit the floor, it was by accident, but then I couldn't help myself: Watching a small sausagey dog scrabble across hardwood never gets old). Then I stepped out on the porch and sought connexions.
One of the women, a bighearted extrovert who'd drunk more than her share of wine, turned out to work at a different location of the same institution. She ended up hooking up with an old schoolmate of Mazeppa's, and was hilarious open about it. We left together, and as I knew that the schoolmate lived near Granville and she had to make it back to Wicker Park, I innocently said, "Heading to the Granville el stop?" "I don't know," she replied and turned to the guy, "I'm following you." Then to me--in a voice you could hear halfway down the block--"It's a not a secret, we're going to have sex." I kept cracking up about that all the way back home.
When I got back, I found the book I'd borrowed from the Nova Scotian wasn't on the patio table any longer, so I assumed
monshu had had a chance to give it to him until I came in and found it sitting in the dining room. He wasn't in but his wife was--and charmingly shitfaced. Normally she can hardly get a word in edgewise, but tonight her companion stood silently by while she enthused about the upcoming exhibition my oral history will help inform. I couldn't help it; she got me going and it was another half hour or so before I extricated myself. She had combed old Maroons and remembered seeing my photo from one of the two times I ran for StuCo. Even stranger, she gushed over a friend's writing in such a way that if it had been anyone else, I would've assumed a piss-take, but she is nothing if not disarmingly genuine. One of you should be expecting a mash note pretty soon.
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True.