muckefuck | Can't pick my nose either

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Can't pick my nose either

They say you don't choose your friends, your friends choose you. I'm not exactly sure how this is supposed to work, but I always seem to have a slot for an insecure gay narcissist. Typically a fascinating self-promoter. For years, Despina fulfilled this role, dropping in and out of my life infrequently enough that I could keep a safe distance and avoid getting sucked into his drama.

And now there's Dale, another writer with a seriously bifurcated life. He reminds me that however much I fear I bang on about myself and my obsessions around other people, I'm really just a piker in this regard. Every rendezvous ends up being a kind of talk therapy for him; I'm less sure what exactly I get out of it. But then again, friendship is hardly a purely transactional exchange.

Tonight he invited me out to Madonnarama at Berlin. I agreed to come out of sense of obligation, since I've been blowing him off for the past couple weeks, and because I knew that the alternative was spending the entire day (rather than only half of one) sitting by myself and messing around online. And this being July 4th, getting out to someplace where the only explosions would be simulated promised relief.

On my way down, it occurred to me that one reason I wasn't going out was because I truly wanted to spend time with him per se. But that's just being an adult, doing things for other reasons than because they're what you feel most like doing at the moment. Oftentimes, I leave for a gathering not feeling like I want to see anyone only to realise some time after I'm there that I'm glad I came. That never really happened tonight, but at least I drank enough that pretty soon I didn't really care.

All in all, it was the last time I'm going to Madonnarama, probably the last time I'll go to Berlin, and certainly the last time I'll go to Sheffield's. (He picked it because "you're a beer fanatic". Really? When the server informed us that they were out of pulled pork, smoked chicken, barbecue brisket, and ribs, I replied, "That makes my decision pretty easy." I turned to Dale and said, "You do know there was a Cubs game today, right? Even people who don't give a shit about sports--like

monshu--know when the game days are.")

It's the not the last time I'm going out with Dale. Amidst all that neurosis and need for attention is a deeply thoughtful and intelligent man. But next time I'll be sure to take someone else along to dilute the effect. I've learned that when dealing with these kinds of sparklers, it's best to have another still pool who can take turns reflecting the light.

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Perhaps the contrast of your life and his makes your own look so much more normal in comparison. Like the poor woman on the bus who's wrangling five children, two sets of twins, and all of them clearly coming off a pixie-stick, double-espresso shot breakfast. I heave a sigh of relief, and look at my messy life with new eyes. Gwyn

Well, when you write about yourself (here) - at least its interesting, engaging and I have some idea of your state of being. This I assure you is much better than wondering aloud, "Golly, I wonder how he is?" with no recourse. There is the value add of your giving me my City of Chicago fix, and I do love your culinary adventures in the neighborhoods and other tales of you - a reminder of what I will bring back to my life when circumstances permit. Also I don't know how I would get on without knowing someone is putting the universal translator phrase book, one timely phrase at a time...I ask you, how would I get on?

apparently, my inner second grader will not go quietly....

Game days? Is that a Chicago thing?

(I've recently disgraced myself twice in a row in my mother-in-law's eyes: by not knowing which channel the world cup was showing on and then, while she was waiting for the game to start, by not knowing what she meant by "Federer. You know, the English tournament.")

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