Nissitified

I have a holding pattern of about 10-12 weeks where I’m okay being a country girl, but then I get the city itch going into the 13 & 14th week. Luckily, I went “uptown” this weekend visiting Notorious Lors for her birthday.

I took the scenic Milwaukee route to Chicago this time and it was actually rather pleasant. Better than the muck you get stuck in around O’Hare. I’m also lucky to have an I-Pass, so I can bypass the awful toll lanes (what’s up with the “open road” tolling concept, G-Rod?). It took about the same amount of time, but the road signs were different, and I got to pass the Bong Recreational Center I’ve always heard (and dreamed) about.

Poor Lors had just gotten rid of one of her more toilsome clients. Let’s just call her BH. I guess she had been complaining to Lors that her colorist was out of town and how she couldn’t stand it much longer. She also demanded that Lors give her a shoulder massage for an aching muscle. What? Totally insane.

Anyway, after some laughs at the gallery, Lors and I went to Davis Street Fishmarket in Evanston for dinner. We gorged on seafood, beers and Bloody Marys. Man, that restaurant went totally upscale. What the hell happened to the seafood shack chalkboard atmosphere? I preferred the old, but the good conversation and alcohol helped me forget the over-stuffed upholstered chairs. After dinner, we tried to get tickets to “Blades of Glory,” but they were already sold out (damn it), so we headed back to her (and Ms) super chic and cool lofty like condo. T was going to meet us later, but he was suffering from a back injury and was "high on Aleve." M and Mr. Cheese were both home, so we all caught up with what was going on. M relayed to us some interesting tidbits about some of the “male clubs,” shall we say, in Chicago. For example, I guess the Eagle and Man’s Country have a list of rules one must adhere to before you enter the club (women are not allowed):

· Uniforms are encouraged (e.g., cop, fireman, UPS driver, Good Humor driver, etc.)
· A major piece of leather must be worn
· No gym shoes
· No deodorant
· No cologne

I mean seriously. These are the rules? Well, I don’t think I need to tell you what goes on in the back rooms where one must disrobe and wear towels only. It is a fascinating world – the gay club culture.

Saturday, we caught up with lots of much needed shopping – including the Broadway Antique Mall (totally cool shit in this place), CB2, Trader Joes, Jake, beers at that Irish pub place, and some shoe place on Wells where I got these awesome little Ked/Converse-like sneakers with a Jolly Roger (or rancher like I say, or “rogers jolly” like the German says) embossed on the top. Super cute. Good for the boat (and punk bars). The booze and shopping made us drowsy, so we went back to her pad for a nap and watched the reality show, “I love New York.” Yeah, like her name is fucking New York, and her mother’s name is “Sister Patterson.” That is one fucked up show. Jesus!

I treated Lors to dinner at the May Street Café in the Pilsen neighborhood. It’s a cute little funky Cuban BYOB restaurant, and it’s located in some god-forsaken area on Halsted and Cermak where there’s nothing but industrial smoke stacks. We had super yummy slow cooked pork and some spicy shrimp dish. Man, that place is now on the radar for people because it was packed and loud, but we had fun. After dinner, we headed to Wicker Park and settled on the bar/club, Subterranean. Kendall, the (hot brother) bartender, hooked us up with some Jim Jones Kool-Aid drinks that he said would not be a problem mixing with the bottle of red wine we had at dinner. He never told us what was in them, but we each had three and were feeling almost sober. I thought this may have been a dangerous sign. Speaking of Jim Jones, I was also jonesing for a smoke and spent $9 on a pack of Camel Lights like some asshole. Kendall told us that some of the other bars in the neighborhood were charging $15 a pack!!!! Unfuckingbelievable. Lors and I managed to smoke 18 out of the 20. The club was fun. It was a strange mix of hipsters with faux-hawks, a smattering of Indian IT guys with bad sweaters and glasses, and some Louis Farrakhan looking brothers. The music totally kicked ass. It was old school, new school, good “heinous” shit, and just good shit. Closer to midnight, we were feeling the groove (possibly from the Kool-Aid) and got out on the dance floor. We sang some Biggie Smalls tunes on the way home and gulped a few hits of aspirin before we hit the sack.

Sunday morning, Lors had to meet a contractor at her new condo, but I stayed back and laid around with a slight headache, but nothing too terrible. We both met up with M, R, E & J for brunch at Reza’s. Once again, we gorged on a delicious Middle Eastern buffet and caught up with what everyone was doing. R hooked me up with some free Nars shit, and I was as happy as a little school girl. The funny part of the brunch is when M started to tell E&J that they should marry the Guatemalan nannies who work for B (the owner of the gallery where they all work), so they can stay in the country and then E&J would be able to use the Guatemalan dowry as a down payment for a condo. After some champagne, we all figured out the Guatemalan beach wedding, some important Spanish words and phrases E&J should learn for the INS officers, and the flower arrangements. We cracked up. E&J also told us about “Blades of Glory” which they had seen the evening before. They relished us in details about the tie-dyed unitards, bad feathered hair, famed Olympic ice skaters making star appearances, and the JFK & Marilyn Monroe skating pair who choreographed something to “Secret Lovers” while adorning sequined presidential seals emblazoned on their costumes. Imagine if we all had to wear unitards?

After all that fun, it was back to reality – reality in the country. I won’t “get citified” again for another 13-14 weeks.