No chaser

I should've known that Chicagoans are made of sturdier stock than to be put off by a few inches of white stuff: Cocktail Night was a success after all. Altogether we had seven. Yes, Coleman was there, but he redeemed himself by bringing Alex the Great, who nearly two years ago pulled the "meet someone, drop out of the scene" manoeuvre. I never had a chance to ask him if he and his young Yemeni friend are still an item, but his very presence most likely testifies to the contrary. Also, the Bolingbrook Bears (who need a new name now that they live in the South Loop), but this time instead of a whiny narcissist in tow they had someone young, bright, and superinteresting. (Come to think of it, perhaps it's a good thing that the Old Man decided to give the gathering a miss...)

But the party began with the arrival of two members of the Square Dance Cult who live mere blocks away. One I will call The Urge because that's the nickname he picked for himself when he joined Growlr--in my living room. (On the one hand, totally obnoxious that half the guests were checking theirs in the middle of a conversation; on the other, way cute to watch them walk someone near retirement age through the signup process.) They brought a bottle of wine and got the full tour. They were also game to try some wild boar sausage and smoked goose breast.

When everyone else took off for Touché, they left as well so that they wouldn't hold me up. But I wasn't interested; I explained that my evening had already been as enjoyable as it was likely to get and standing around on filthy floors having to shout over techno to be heard could only be an anticlimax. I got to talk about names, cities, languages; show off my home, my cat, my spouse's art; feed people and get them to try exotic new alcohols. Nothing I could reasonably expect to happen in a couple hours at a leather bar is going to top that.