Performances and misconceptions

PERFORMANCE
Last night the chorus sang a short 10-minute set to kick off an evening of song and dance called Jubliate, a fund-raiser for Bonaventure House, which provides housing and assistance for people living with HIV and AIDS. What made the event different from our regular appearances is the fact that Bonaventure House is not your typical gay-run organization. In fact, it’s a Catholic thing—and the event purportedly draws its audience from the rich straight white see-and-be-seen Gold Coast socialite demographic instead of the rich gay white see-and-be-seen Attitude Queen demographic, which is what we’re used to singing for. So we got exposure in front of a whole new segment of the population. And, as usual, we rocked.

And the hope is that after seeing and hearing just how much we rock, this new segment of the population will think we’re handsome and talented young men and will 1) adopt us in a benefactor sort of way and 2) tell its friends (and elected officials) that Those Gay People sure are nice—and handsome and talented!—and maybe everyone should stop discriminating against them.

What was even cooler was that the event took place in the brand-spanking-new Harris Theater for Music and Dance, conveniently located under (as in many stories deep in the earth below) Frank Gehry’s magnificent new Pritzker Pavilion in Chicago’s magnificent new Millennium Park. Though the new theater suffers from a bad case of Butt-Ugly Lobby, the performance space itself is spectacular, with amazing sightlines and acoustics that border on perfection. It was a total trip to sing on the stage—especially so soon after it opened.

I’m always interested in comparing the public spaces of great theaters—and this place is destined to become a great theater—with their backstage spaces. The backstage spaces at the Harris Theater are decorated in an efficient military-blah style, with floor after floor of spacious—though sparsely decorated—dressing rooms organized along endless corridors filled with exposed pipes (for easy access!), whitewashed to cheerless uniformity and stenciled with minimalist signage pointing you anywhere you want to go. It’s all very Titanic steerage, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to stumble on a poor Irish girl or two struggling into a life jacket or two as I walked the halls last night.

And there’s a rumor—just a rumor, mind you—that this theater will become the chorus’ new performance home as soon as next season. Which gives me a huge, all-singing, all-dancing boner.

MISCONCEPTION
As many of you more regular readers know because I pathetically won’t stop carping about it, I have been single for more than a regular human could be realistically expected to bear quite some time now.

And last night I might have figured out one of the obvious to everyone but me reasons why: It seems that there’s this misconception that I already have a boyfriend.

As we were changing clothes after the concert last night, hunky little Rick turned and asked me a question that I suddenly realized I’d heard in one form or another about ten times in the last month alone: “You have a boyfriend, right?”

AS IF. Would a man in the throes of romantic bliss have the time to write Pulitzer-worthy endlessly entertaining blog entries day in and day out? Would a man with a bottomless pit of sexual need boyfriend have time to run a marathon? Would a man who’s been validated by love spend his evenings killing hookers in the basement spend his evenings killing hookers in the basement?

In a word: No.

Once I realized there was a pattern here and explained it to Rick, he responded—without coaching of any sort—honest!—with a charming rationalization: The world thinks I’m such great husband material that everyone just assumes I have a husband.

Which pretty much floored me. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a sweeter compliment. Especially one that also managed to fill me with gut-wrenching despair concern that this find-a-boyfriend project is even more of an uphill battle than I’d feared.

And it didn’t do much to stop me from going to bed bitter and alone and reeking of smoke after yet another unsuccessful evening of husband-hunting at Sidetrack last night.