The Death of Imagination

Today's depression caught me even more off guard by coming on the heels of a delightful weekend. Sure, Sunday I was moody and draggy, but that's typical when I've been out late. It usually doesn't carry over into the week.

It was also a beautiful day, so I wasn't the least surprised to find that I'd managed to schedule a four-hour RPG session for the heart of it. This was JB's idea, and I was looking forward to it. He told us to scare up some players, so I asked Sad Cub, who initially agreed, but never asked me the time and then informed me that he had to run errands.

I find it ironic that JB initially objected to him because he'd thought he'd be "dull" given that the player he did invite didn't seem to contribute much. To be fair, I don't think any of us was at our best. I even dozed off at one point. (In my defence, it was after the homemade apple pie with homemade ice cream.) The game itself was another PbtA, Zombie World, with the twist that it used cards as a mechanic rather than dice.

We ended with about an hour of fading sunlight left so I got to fit in a bit of a stroll. I suspected the leaves would be particularly striking after having been washed clean but the previous day's storms and I was right. Any doubts I had about how pretty this fall would be have been laid to rest.

It was a marked contrast to my stroll along many of the same streets the day before. Then it was pouring rain and so, despite being the same time of day, quite dark out. I was too stubborn to call a ride, a decision I came to regret almost immediately. Thankfully, I wasn't completely soaked when I got home and my friends came to pick me up for the next event.

The afternoon get-together was another wine-tasting at mikiedoggie's. It was one of the best yet: everyone agreed that there wasn't a stinker in the pack and the final tally was very closed. Yet again, I placed near the bottom, so I think my faith in Independent Spirits may be wavering. After the prize was awarded, I inadvertently started a run on Mikie's 12 year-old Yamazaki (which I would feel worse about if he hadn't been going around himself giving generous pours).

However, the most interesting feature of the tasting from my point of view was a beefy daddy from Boston. He and his husband were friends of the organisers and in fact spearheaded a similar club in Boston. At first, I tried to be subtle in my appreciation, balancing my time between chatting him up and chatting up his husband. But after tasting a dozen wines, that caution went by the wayside.

Just before our outrageous flirting got too out of hand, I discovered that he was going to be at the same Halloween party that evening. I didn't know quite what to expect from it; I knew the crowd was mixed, so there would have to be some breaks on lewd behaviour. But I also knew how to get away with quite a lot even in an environment like that.

So I showed up ready, but even I wasn't ready for the Bostonians to arrive in TERRYCLOTH BATHROBES. It was only a wig party, but apparently their friends thought they needed to put in a little more effort. Although I appreciated the easy access this afforded, it did make it rather difficult to pretend to care about making conversation with everyone else.

Finally, after a couple hours, I invited Beefy to "tour the upstairs", which I'd seen once before. After a bit of Feydeau-esque comedy, we finally slipped out onto the upper deck for some hanky-panky in the cold rain which had thankfully slowed to a mere drizzle. He urged us back in before we got too carried away, but he connived with me to engineer a couple more opportunities over the course of evening. It probably ended up being more fun than a straightforward hookup would have been.

I ended up mooning over him a bit the next day. Besides being sexy and very into me, he was also smart and interesting, a prison psychologist who was happy to talk wine and gay media and probably a bunch more topics if only there'd been the opportunity. I was left with that familiar melancholy of being reminded how many supremely attractive men there are out there and, at the same time, how I don't have one to come home to.

At least I found a temporary respite from that in a three-way with my hosts. I'd had it in my head as a possibility ever since meeting them, so when it unfolded it did so very naturally. Given how drunk and exhausted we were, it was surprised we had as much fun as we did and we agreed to pick up again at more convenient time.

It was another quiet St Patrick's for me. I'd promised a friend and colleague I'd help out with his therapy-dogs-for-students event on Sunday and he was kind enough to give me a ride there and back. (Vague notions of having brunch in E-town first came to naught.) It was the easier gig imaginable: I stood at the door and chatted with the fellow volunteer holding the clicker and occasionally did head counts to make sure we weren't over capacity. And at the end, I went around and took pics of dogs wearing kitchy green headgear.

Back at home, I fixed me some colcannon and oven-fried fish. I managed to forget my wallet, but Devon is still the kind of market where I can leave my bag at the checkout, run home, and come back to fetch it without anyone raising an eyebrow. I got a surprising amount of reading in (finishing a short story i nGaeilge about ducks from Ó Flaithearta) given that at points I was so sleepy I nearly conked out on my feet.

Oddly, I didn't do any drinking at all the night before, even though I did lead a little posse from the neighbours' to sample my alcohols. But I was up later than recommended because one of the posse was just so fucking cute and sweet that I didn't want to let him out of my sight if I had another option, which I did until nearly one a.m. so there it is.

No, all my drinking was Friday night when I was out seeing the aforementioned friend and colleague play a show with an old classmate at a local pub. I talked one of my neighbours into coming along and it was quite gratifying seeing her and another colleague's wife get on like a house on fire. She brought along a gay friend, as did I, and it was gratifying seeing the two of them form a burning building of their own.

Rounding out the weekend was lunch with zompist and his wife at a location he selected in Albany Park. Unfortunately it was something of a bust, a grimy hole-in-the-wall with oldschool American Chinese food. I suggested we get dessert at a big pink neveria I'd ridden past on the bus and that made the whole trip worthwhile. Plus I cadged a ride home with them and offloaded some old books on them.

But maybe the most worthwhile bit of the past three days was waiting for them to arrive (they are chronic lateniks) and retreating to a park where I could lie back in a sheltered spot and soak up the sun. It was hardly above freezing and not a thing is in leaf yet, but after the winter we had it felt like full spring.

The weekend was packed with incident I might like to remember someday so I should summarise it here.

Saturday morning was dim sum for Jiggly's birthday. I tried to coordinate with him so that we could ride down together but apparently neither he nor anyone in his merry band had ever tried to do this before so it was kind of clusterfucky. I arrived with plenty of time to ride one station north and get on with them but instead I had to car hop until I reached them.

After that, everything went fine. From the instant we detrained, I was in tour guide mode. He impressed me at Phoenix by ordering the chicken feet despite his misgivings about not liking them. "You're not paying!" I reminded him. We were all pleasantly surprised by how tasty they were. Nothing else really stood out for me though.

When it came time to pay, I played the big man and covered the whole bill and telling them to pay me back if they felt like it. His boyfriend did (though it took three tries for the electronic payment to go through); his roommate and the boy toy they dragged along didn't and didn't thank me either. I shrugged it off and put them on my Deadbeat list. (Jiggly's technically on it, too, but it doesn't apply to birthdays.)

The boy toy was cute but had minimal social skills. He could answer direct questions with full sentences but had no conversation and spent much of his time playing Pokémon Go. The roommate was even less interactive, but I'm not interested in nailing his roommate so whatever. (I'm only mildly interested in the boy toy, so there's only a slight chance you'll be hearing of him again.)

I left them at Aji Ichiban so I could run to the el and ride up to mikiedoggie's for the sparkling wine tasting. They'd started promptly so I had lots of catching up to do. Once again, I dissed my own wine, which turned out to be much sweeter than I'd remembered. (It has been four years after all.) But it was a hit, coming in second place.

I thought this meant I'd achieved what I'd set out for--bragging rights but no bottles I don't need--but I was wrong. The short shrift I'd given the tasting bit me in the ass when it came to picking out the wines. At least the organiser was kind enough to take the Kirkland.

Normally two events in a day would be my limit, but that night was a party for the beefy boy I'd blown off last year in order to sleep with Ginger Farmboy so I thought I'd make it up to him by putting in an appearance. 10 o'clock at SoFo turned out to be about 10:40 GST; I'd gotten there early, drunk the worst Old Fashioned of my life so far, found no one to talk to, and been bored to tears. If not for Pasillero texting me, I probably would have left before the festivities.

They were fun. We took a million ussies, I chatted with some nice guys, and one of them tried his best to get me to come home with him. I thought that would undermine my whole reason for being there so I deferred. I slipped out shortly after 1 a.m. in order not to be too wrecked before my rendezvous with bunj the next day.

TBC

Bear Pride is still dead, Bearfest is basically stillborn, but the Mem Day weekend traditions live on. Sort of.

I didn't go to any parties all weekend. I didn't really go out in the evenings at all. I considered it Saturday night after a leisurely supper that stretched past what would've been my bedtime on a school night but I still ended up in bed (alone) before midnight. I also didn't make it anywhere near the IML host hotel or the leather mart. Last year it just seemed so sad and there wasn't anyone there I was anxious to meet up with.

Saturday was the event at the baths that Miss Cleveland and BigBones dragged me to last year. It's still a shadow of its former self. I had lunch with the lads, who were leaving for Santa Fe the next day, and didn't arrive until about 2:30. Used to be if you came that late, there'd be a line out the door. Now there was a bit of one, but it seemed as much due to the doddering nature of the attendees as anything else. Not auspicious.

I wasn't expecting anything of the magnitude of last year's Flying Pig, which was good, because the one daddy who really grabbed my attention wanted nothing to do with me. I attempted to do something with a local who I've been promising to nail ever since HiBearNation, but the scene got too weird and I fled. I was beginning to question the wisdom of even coming, but eventually another local who I'd fooled around with back in...February? coaxed me up to his room and we had a pretty enjoyable time.

I left with a warm glow, but that faded the instant I got home and discovered the destruction wrought by my plant-hostile condomates. That plus the late dinner made for a terrible night's sleep and an anxious morning waiting to confront them. That all worked itself out better than I'd hoped for, but it left me physically exhausted (from four hours gardening on by far the hottest day of the year so far). Still, I was determined to go to the beach and I did.

Supposedly, there was an official "Bears at the Beach" event being organised, but again so haphazardly that as I was preparing to leave hours later, I ran into two guys visiting from Milwaukee who'd been there all afternoon and never managed to locate the gathering. I'd very quickly found my way to the Rogers Park Bear Crowd, who were arrayed in their usual spot. There were a couple new faces and I quickly made time with one of them. We goaded each other into diving under the water and would have stayed there making out in time-honoured Hollywood Beach fashion if it hadn't been so gosh-durned cold.

So instead I took him home. Not immediately, of course. I still wanted to greet some other friends and faces, which I did (most awkwardly the Clueless Furball just as I was leaving), though it was so crowded that I still missed several people I'd really hoped to see. He was an out-of-towner staying with mutual friends, and they were pleased to have him off their hands for a few hours.

We spent at least three of those hours in bed, which despite the circumstances came as a surprise to both of us. He had an honesty and vulnerability which was touching and refreshing. (Despite being two decades my junior, he's already seen some of the shit gay life can dish out.) Eventually we had to eat so I took him to Nori, which was completely off its game, and then walked him to the el. On the way there, he struggled to put into words what the day had meant to him I realised that I'd been for him what men like Flying Pig had been for me; after all these years, the daddy hunter has become the daddy.

I hope I followed the campsite rule with him. At least I saw him the next day and he didn't seem broken up or clingy. That was at Sidetrack, which finally had a glimmer of its past glory. I credit a past Bear Pride chair, who actually got people to come out. I managed to start conversations with at least two different people by telling them, "Facebook wants us to be Friends."

Now three years ago at the Farewell Party, something happened that I never wrote about. It involved a hot man and a basement apartment in Portage Park but it ended badly for reasons that were mostly my fault. It had occurred to me fleetingly that there was a chance I'd run into the guy again and fortunately, when I did, it wasn't until after my second drink, so it happened quite naturally: he checked me out, I checked him out and walked away, then I went back and said, "I think I know you".

He didn't recognise me at first and there was no Aha-Erlebnis where it all came back to him. I shared some details, he surmised some others, and we left it that we'd arrange to have a proper date and hash it all out without the distraction of disco and alcohol. Only after I was back at home did it occur to me that he might have been lying, that he might not want to get together again and was only putting me off. I don't think that's likely, but past experience has taught to me expect anything, so we'll just have to see how this all goes.

All in all, it felt like my expectations were pitched about exactly right. I had some moments of intimacy without getting too attached, I was gregarious without (I think) being obnoxious, and I've made the transition back to ordinary life without (I think) coming down with anything awful. Twenty-four years of this nonsense and I've finally got it about figured out.

I vacillated about hosting cocktails tonight. I wondered whether people would be up for more pseudodebauchery so soon after New Year's. Then my cold really took hold and I questioned whether I wanted a bunch of drunk people over at my house. I decided to take the path of least resistance and wait to see if anyone contacted me. No one did until yesterday when Fig responded to my New Year's wishes with the question, "Are you hosting?" And I was like, For you, yes. I contacted the couple across the street and secured their participation, then notified Scruffy and left it at that. I also moved up the time an hour in deference to an Baoigheallach, who had just flown back from Ireland, and to facilitate monshu's participation. This worked out beautifully, as things broke up shortly after ten and before much longer I will be crawling into bed.

The cold is fading, but it's leaving a painful sore throat in its wake. I'm nursing myself the best I can with mug after mug of tea impregnated with the raw honey monshu's folks sent us from Oregon. My cocktails were hot toddies with only enough whiskey for flavour. The transition to my ordinary schedule will be rough enough without any additional burdens.

[Fuck it. It's post something like this or get into more pointless arguments on FB.]

#1

We arrived at New Wave Coffee on Friday to find Stan taking out the trash. I ran up to him and gave him a no-hands hug. "Have you been to Longman & Eagle yet?" he asked. "We just got here!" I said. "It's a little early in the day to start drinking!" Not if you're an artist, though. He said he orders the "PBR breakfast" there and when they ask, "Are you sure you want the PBR?" he's like "Uh, yeah[*]!"

Nuphy took a wrong turn leaving the station and stumbled in around twenty minutes later. With that in mind, I decided to proceed cautiously, getting my bearings at every corner and circling around the square before heading up one of the radial streets. Even so, he thought we were headed north instead of south at one point. After hitting City Lit Bookstore and exploring the monuments in the square, we doubled back to Lula Café for lunch.

After that, it was back to Uncharted Books, which had opened in the meantime. Then we parked the GWO at another café before striking out along Milwaukee. Nuphy said he'd come to walk, but after getting a scoop at a gelateria, he toddled back to monshu and left me to explore on my own. Though Stan had suggested there might be some interesting stuff near the theatre, it petered out quickly. I turned onto Diversey, which is totally residential in that stretch, and then headed back myself.

Longman & Eagle is so unassuming we weren't sure we had it until we were upon it. We went to the back bar for the outside seating; I'd go back again for the utterly simpatico barman, who was willing multiple times to run to the front to see if they had some liquor we were interested in (such as the Angel's Envy or some ginger liqueur for Nuphy). The Old Man was able to complete his survey of Islay (though both the untried Scotches turned out to be produced by Bruichladdich).

I instead went for perhaps the priciest Manhattan I've ever had because I called my rye (actually, the barman suggested James Oliver) and my vermouth as well (Carpano, natch). I followed that up with a Rittenhouse Sazerac. Then Nuphy scooted off and we went on to have one of the best meals I've ever eaten in Chicago: appetisers of rabbit au jus and veal brains (though I think the favas stood out most in that dish) and then seared tuna for monshu and a "duo of pork" (tenderloin and belly) for me.

The server was outstanding. The only flaw I could find in the entire experience was that the hush puppies (one element out of many in my entree) were room temp instead of piping hot. I ordered an intriguing "house shot" of Letherbee's Malört combined with Dolin Génépi and it came with a discreet little candle on the side since monshu had tipped him that it was my birthday. Dessert was black sesame mini-donuts with lime gelée and coconut gelato and it was amazing. I stumbled home drunk and happy--and surprised to be back home in about and hour and a quarter, despite taking the Clark 22.

#2

Bigbones assented so readily when I invited him and Miss Cleveland to Ombra on Saturday that I assumed they'd been there before. They hadn't. Miss C had some issues with our server, who wasn't one to linger, but none with the food as far as I could tell. The menu was completely different from our last trip, which meant no pesce en saor for me. But the calamari were very good, and there were fried squash blossoms stuffed with ricotta.

I considered a spritz, but was lured instead to order their take of the Manhattan, a "San Marco": Templeton, Carpano, Averna, and raspberries. Initially I mused that it was too smooth, but Miss Cleveland took a sip and told me to "quit complaining". I got a lot of grief from him that evening. It was almost a relief to slip away to meet Scruffy (despite their best attempts to delay me) and leave monshu to enjoy their company a while longer.

#3

I arrived at SoFo at only ten after eight, so within the negotiated window, and expected to find only Scruffy keeping the table warm. But, no, there were at least a half dozen pals of one or both of us there already, and twice that by half past. I wanted to make up for contributing nothing to the cost of the cake by buying some beer, but chalk this down as the first gay bar I've been in that "don't do pitchers". (Somehow, not surprised.)

If the L&E Manhattan was the most expensive Manhattan I've had in Chicago, SoFo's might've been the most overpriced. Not that it was bad, but that and a beer set me back $23. That brought me up to almost the perfect point of drunkenness, but then clintswan appeared and couldn't resist doing a shot of Goldschläger with him. That pushed me over into the realm of self-consciously modulating my voice and watching my steps so no one would know how besotted I was.

We had cake, then the party moved out to the patio. At some point, I glanced around and couldn't find Scruffy or most of my other friends; they'd slipped away like thieves. By 11 pm, the Otter Night crowd had taken over and the place was getting crowded. Forty-five minutes later, when it became time to clear the patio (damn neighbours!), I decided to slip away myself.


[*] Rendering the "well duh" intonation through typography is a challenge.

Apart from making oatmeal, reading a few pages in Steppenwolf, and feeding the cat, I accomplished nothing today of any value. What I did do was enjoy myself. Shortly before noon, I went to Sauce and Bread Kitchen near Clark and Devon and had a smoked salmon tartine with horseradish cream and pickled fennel. The Old Man and I bought a loaf of bread, a couple cookies, and came back home for a nap. Then I killed some time until Turtle and Turtlewife came by to pick us up for an early dinner on West Randolph.

The place they had chosen was Maude's Liquor Bar, a cozy bistrot that lives up to its pretensions. They insisted on ordering the cassoulet, which was good. But we also ordered the braised lentils, and they were amazing. So amazing monshu plans to roast a whole chicken just to see if he can replicate them. The rest of the meal--terrine, asparagus, salmon tartare--fully lived up to expectations.

But as it's a liquor bar, the focus must be on the cocktails? At one point I looked up from the table and realised the drinkers were packed three deep around the bar. I thought they were waiting for tables, but I saw there was no rush to clear and realised most were just there to drink. Three bartenders were working nonstop to cater to them.

And us: The GWO started with an Aviation, moved on to a pinot noir, and finished with a Nonino. I began with a St Germain Fizz (vodka, aperol, and St Germain, served tall), has pastis with dinner, and couldn't resist finishing off with a Sazerac. I don't know if it's the best I've ever had--though it was definitely a contender for the title--but it was undoubtedly the smoothest. Watching it made was a pleasure unto itself.

I also had a sip of Turtle's Corpse Reviver with smoked mezcal and found it...smoky. Afterwards there was a general interest in ice cream, so I suggested Paciugo in Lincoln Square (though the name escaped me) and had the joy of escorting Turtle & wife there on their first visit. I had the panna cotta gelato and the lemon fig custard.

It was their 22nd anniversary, and we finally got a more-or-less complete story of their first date. Their dinner that night was Subway sandwiches, which they occasionally order again for nostalgia. (monshu and my's first date involved a visit to a Michigan Avenue café whose name neither of us can remember any more.)

There have been a couple of memes circulating around Facebook lately reminding us of the anniversaries of great January snowstorms of the past such as the Midwest Blizzard of '78, the Chicago Blizzard of 1979 (infamous for its effect on local politics), or the Blizzard of '82 (responsible for one of the highest snowfall totals ever seen in St Louis). This prompted an interesting comment from my older brother, who said that storms created expectations in him of Missouri as a snowy wonderland (we moved there from Maryland in '76) which went increasingly unfulfilled in later years. I keep telling people who complain about what an extraordinarily severe winter this is that they simply have short memories. It's a sign of just how blasé this exceptional return to past form has made me that I hardly consider snowstorms worth mentioning in this space any more unless they actually result in work closures. monshu tells me that a couple hours ago it was really coming down, but I shrugged and went back to watching my movie. There was some yesterday as well, plus a couple inches overnight that didn't start until I was safely back home.

When I blew off the after-work event on Friday, I promised myself I would go out Saturday night despite my reservations. It was a party for someone I don't know well, and I'm just so used to everyone spamming their entire flist that I was taken aback to see that I was one of only about two dozen invitees. To dispel fears of there being no one there I knew well (compounded by the youth of the birthday boy--this was, in fact, in his big 21), I reached out to a couple of guys. It was very reassuring to discover that one of them was the host; I would've gone just for the pleasure of finally being inside his place. For good measure, however, I had old bud BDA ring up some others, none of whom attended in the end.

The apartment was in a corner of northeast Rogers Park I hardly knew existed and so exceeded my expectations that I would've passed it up had BDA not been at the door fighting the same misgivings. The first thing which caught my eye at the top of the stairs were the built-ins followed by the card catalogs. (Cupcake Man's roommate uses them to organise her jewellery.) It was a very open plan with a huge bay window in front overlooking a lakeside parklet and a small but functional kitchen in the back where I set up the bottles I'd brought. The Southern Tier Crème Brûlée Stout I'd brought along on a whim turned out to be a hit. So did the Redemption "High Rye"--though how much of that was due to its inherent quality and how much to the fact that it was the only hard liquor there is hard to say. (BDA told me he was dreaming of manhattans, so I brought along a small bottle of sweet vermouth I had stowed away for just such and exigence.)

As for the party, well, I feel for the guest of honour. Sure it was a shitty night to be out, but your 21st is a big deal and it was super lame of his other friends not to show. What saved the evening was that he was sharing the party with Cupcake Man's roommate, and she had a good half dozen there. After two drinks I was willing to chat up anybody and everybody and they were on the whole very receptive. Malört shots were downed, a fire was built in the fireplace, and eventually the guitars came out for a sing-along, finally putting and end to the dueling of Matisyahu on the stereo system in the front room and old school house/shoegaze coming out of the tinny speakers of an iPod in the dining area.

As nice as it was, I was very conscious of needing to be functional today, so I left right after midnight as the newly-legal young sprout was preparing to hit Big Chicks with his best gal pal. BDA walked me to the el and hugged me goodbye at Loyola. I stumbledashed home against the cold wind (which may be why my leg is giving me trouble today) and gabbled to the Old Man when I came in. So, selfishly, I can say it was a great night out even if by your man's lights it was probably a huge letdown. Ah, youth! If you only knew what kind of disappointment and betrayal was in store for you!

There was a chance I'd go into the office today. Not a good chance, mind you, but enough of one that I didn't automatically take the day off. If I didn't drink too much or stay up too late cleaning up, I might've gotten a decent night's sleep. The latter condition was met, but not the former: I accepted two cocktail challenges, which was at least one more than I needed in order to keep a clear heard. Both qualified as successes.

First Scruffy challenged me to make the blueberry liquor he'd brought before drinkable. I knew I'd need to cut the sweetness and settled on lemon juice since lemon is a natural pairing for blueberry. But I was stumped on the strong until I happened to think of sloe gin. Three parts gin to one blueberry plus a squeeze (about half a tablespoon) of lemon juice ended up being about right, at least according to two other tasters.

The Douglas fir eau de vie brought by lhn and prilicla also suggested a gin-based solution: a three-to-one "fir-tini". I momentarily considered using the Letherbee's until I recognised this for the insanity it was and went with Bombay instead. This eau de vie is considerably more mild than the infamous "Pine-sol liqueur" and I think more could be done with it. Having had a particularly successful fir-flavoured chocolate in Toronto, I'm particularly interested in trying it in a sweeter preparation. (The fir-tini is, as you might suspect, rather dry to say the least.)

Afterwards I found a nearly-empty bottle of cognac (as well as a bottle of vin santo the Old Man had completely forgotten about) and decided to usher it gently into that good night. The party was down to a pleasant core of a half-dozen and I was no longer having to hop up to open doors or mix drinks, so I could sit back and enjoy my guests. They never got to be too many; the one advantage to the terrible travel conditions is that it allowed us to spend a generous amount of time with everyone. Not as much as we might've liked (with the exception of Coleman, who wasn't even on the guest list but got wind of the gathering and crashed), but then it never is.

Luckily for us we'd bought supplies close to the date so we'd held back and, as a result, don't have more leftovers than we can handle: just one turkey breast, most of a smallish ham, a pound or so of gingerbread, and some bits of salad. Oh, and a shitload of chocolates and fudge, but that stuff keeps. The black cake was an even bigger hit than last year; hardly any survived the day. And hoppin' john (both veg and non-veg), beet salad, and Snore King's sugar cookies were all big hits.

If my hangover wasn't excuse enough, I had two other solid reasons: the snow, which was over nine inches by morning with wildly varying amounts predicted for the rest of the day (that's Lake effect for you); and a summons from an old friend. A college buddy--president of the queer student group when I was secretary and leader of the coming-out group before me--who'd I'd gotten in touch with as a result of the oral history project was in town for a conference and wanted to meet up.

As monshu can attest, I had cause to regret my promise to meet him. But my mid-morning the snow was tapering off and I was beginning to feel more human. I dozed on the train, but the bracing air made me a bit giddy. From the first moment, he was exceedingly warm and we spent a good two hours at the Purple Pig catching up and rehashing old times. He was dubious about the pig's ear, but I sold him, and in return I let him order the caponata, which I ate most of along with the charred cauliflower. Never before have I eaten so much in the way of vegetables and so little in the way of pork there.

Afterwards I swept into Eataly on an errand from the Old Man and left with my arms full. I really would like to be able to leave that place sometime without dropping $30+. But now I know that they do a fine cup of molten chocolate and porchetta that isn't a patch on what I had at Porchetta & Co. in Toronto. Tomorrow I'll be able to tell you if their fresh squid ink pasta is really worth the top dollar it commands.

Had I been thinking more clearly when I was trying to get myself out the door, I might've been able to make plans with bunj as well and complete my last gift exchange of the season. But as it was, I escaped downtown just as another "snow squall" was beginning to complicate the commute. When I reached the hood, visibility was down to a block or so and diminishing rapidly. Then, after an hour of getting cozy, the snow abruptly halted, the sky cleared, and for one thrilling moment everything was suffused with a rosy light.

Needless to say, there won't be any of that when I rise tomorrow to face my first day of work in nearly two weeks. Clearly I've got as much of a knack for retirement as the GWO. Shame I haven't earned the right to exercise it.

Yesterday traced an impressive arc from unexpected awfulness to heartwarming success. I woke up at 3 a.m. with terrible abdominal cramps and spent the next half hour on the pot praying for them to end. They eventually relented, but were back again three hours later. I ended up so sore that I was slathering my poor ass with lotion. I spent most of the day dragging around the house, feeling sorry for myself, and wondering if I should cancel cocktails that evening. I urged Nuphy to take advantage of the perfect weather and get himself to Von Steuben Day without me, but he declined.

Since the toast I had at lunch stayed down, and nothing more came out after that, I decided I could make it through a couple hours of hosting, especially if I had Graysong on hand to take the shaker from me if need be. Then I got another curve ball: Beardowski decided to call in a favour I'd offered months back and crash chez nous so he didn't have to drive back to Joliet. As I told the Old Man, "I guess the moral is never make an offer you're not willing honour when feeling your worst." (Fortunately, it didn't come to that as his first choice worked out in the end after all.) For dinner, monshu heated up the choucroute and served it with some spätzle; I ate mainly the latter, with just a little gravy for flavour.

By seven or so, I was really warming to the gathering. I prepared to hustle everyone out onto the deck by arraying it with tea lights (inadvertently immolating a poor spider in the process). monshu had discovered a cocktail recipe using rosemary simple syrup he wanted to try, so I tracked down a couple of others and created a menu. Scruffy was the first to arrive and, as always, game to try one. In all, I made three limoni frizzanti, a rosemary Old Fashioned, and four rosemary-chocolate martinis (a brainchild of Greysong's). Since the bitters rather overpowered the rosemary in the first batch of the martinis, I souped it up by dropping a couple sprigs in the shaker. My bear friend from work made a rare appearance for which I'd prepared by acquiring some ginger root. (He complained that the ginger liqueurs weren't gingery enough.) I let him peel and grate it himself, and the juice ended up in some vodka concoction.

One of the reasons I was so anxious not to cancel is that we had several first-timers. A couple weeks back, I ran into somebody on a mutual friend's wall who I hadn't seen in 20 years and didn't realise was still in Chicago, let alone in my very same neighbourhood. He handled very well being the odd man out, though he did ask me afterwards if we could meet for coffee some time and really catch up. And remember that block party I crashed thanks to mikiedoggie two weeks ago? Well I got Graysong to bring along Big Tim and one of his posse and they were model guests, instrumental in getting the party out onto the porch and game for a quick tour before leaving. Not getting my hopes too high, but as I've repeated well past the point of banality, it would be great if I could build up associations with solid guys who live near me.

So by the time people were breaking away for SoFo and Touché, I was feeling a nearly ideal level of tired satisfaction. A bit better-rested and I might've been tempted to go along (which I'm glad I didn't, since I'd've been a wreck today). But I felt pleased enough with how things had gone that I was content to stay in and regale the GWO with the details. I could even have been in bed by midnight if I'd only had a bit more sense, but I was too busy looking up loose ends from our free-ranging conversation out on the back deck.