Aug. 12th, 2007 12:11 am
Take me out to the fair!
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muckefuckWell, I've never closed out Northalsted Market Days before, but it wasn't entirely bad. Incredibly, no stumbling drunk queen spilled evil-coloured alcoholic slush on me, for which I am exceedingly grateful. And I made up for last year's icky portobello thing with top-notch Polish Catholic ladies' auxiliary food. Add in the funnel cake, and it was like a trip back in time to the VP Fairs of my youth. Only better music (or, at least, a different and more tolerable kind of awful) and hotter men.
I wouldn't have gone at all if Blondie weren't in town. I originally thought it was his idea to come, but I should've known Nuphy was behind the idea all along. It worked out well, however; he'd hooked up electronically with a gay Arab contingent in town, so after the fogies left, we repaired to the apartment of a pair of Lebanese queens to recover from the heat. Lovely people--how could I say otherwise about complete strangers who would let a foafoaf barge into their apartment when they were just waking up? But even Blondie got some untrustworthy vibes from most of them, so we quietly slipped back to the street fair.
ObLangGeek: By the time we left, we had native speakers of English, French, and at least three different Arabic vernaculars. I found out that the Frenchwoman (une vendéenne,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moominmolly!) had actually studied German, so while the others were speaking Arabic, we chatted auf Deutsch. She spoke French with our host, however, at a clip too fast to follow. Sometimes, I just sat there and let one French and two independent Arabic conversations wash over me.
In any case, we soon decided a return to that crushed corridor of sweaty humanity had been a mistake and sought refuge in the nearest Caribou as we waited for our friends not to call. After a fantastic two-hour discussion of our favourite recurring themes--Arab nationalism and identity politics--Blondie decided he needed to get back to the hotel and prepare for his departure tomorrow. And I could not shake from my head the memory of those perfectly-fried potato pancakes. Proustian, I tell you!
While woofing them down alongside Evil Santa and his latest minion, I ran into my artist friends and their supercute buddies. I'm sure that had NOTHING TO DO with the fact that I dragged along with them to a concert up the street, because I could NEVER BE so superficial. Fortunately, the Powder stage show was pretty much all it was cracked up to be, which mitigated the competently-executed cock rock covers almost entirely. And that's how I came to be sharing a cab back north at a very late hour for this old man.
I wouldn't have gone at all if Blondie weren't in town. I originally thought it was his idea to come, but I should've known Nuphy was behind the idea all along. It worked out well, however; he'd hooked up electronically with a gay Arab contingent in town, so after the fogies left, we repaired to the apartment of a pair of Lebanese queens to recover from the heat. Lovely people--how could I say otherwise about complete strangers who would let a foafoaf barge into their apartment when they were just waking up? But even Blondie got some untrustworthy vibes from most of them, so we quietly slipped back to the street fair.
ObLangGeek: By the time we left, we had native speakers of English, French, and at least three different Arabic vernaculars. I found out that the Frenchwoman (une vendéenne,
moominmolly!) had actually studied German, so while the others were speaking Arabic, we chatted auf Deutsch. She spoke French with our host, however, at a clip too fast to follow. Sometimes, I just sat there and let one French and two independent Arabic conversations wash over me.In any case, we soon decided a return to that crushed corridor of sweaty humanity had been a mistake and sought refuge in the nearest Caribou as we waited for our friends not to call. After a fantastic two-hour discussion of our favourite recurring themes--Arab nationalism and identity politics--Blondie decided he needed to get back to the hotel and prepare for his departure tomorrow. And I could not shake from my head the memory of those perfectly-fried potato pancakes. Proustian, I tell you!
While woofing them down alongside Evil Santa and his latest minion, I ran into my artist friends and their supercute buddies. I'm sure that had NOTHING TO DO with the fact that I dragged along with them to a concert up the street, because I could NEVER BE so superficial. Fortunately, the Powder stage show was pretty much all it was cracked up to be, which mitigated the competently-executed cock rock covers almost entirely. And that's how I came to be sharing a cab back north at a very late hour for this old man.