Brandon and I signed up a month ago to play in a summer softball league. Neither one of us is in any danger of being confused with hardcore athletes (at least as far as team sports go), so we signed up for the lowest level of the least competitive division available. And softball isn’t exactly the butchest of sports, so we thought this would be a great match for our
The league said they’d contact us when we were assigned to a team, and we’d start practicing and playing by early April.
Well, early April has come and gone, the league’s teams are already practicing, and we haven’t heard a word. And we can’t get ahold of anyone who can tell us what the heck is going on.
Which means we were rejected by the nelliest players in the nelliest summer sports league in Chicago.
Oh, the shame.
There’s this fabulous drag queen I often choreograph songs for and sometimes dance with in my limited capacities as a go-go boy. A couple months ago, he asked me to choreograph and dance in two songs for Who’s That Girl?, which for the last three years has been my favorite performance gig in Chicago. I called him last week to start talking about getting music and finding more dancers—and after a couple rounds of phone tag, he finally left me a message saying he’d already started rehearsing his songs with a different choreographer. And if I wanted to “help,” it was too late to get me in the program.
Which means that—after asking me to do this for him, and after I turned down three other things that weekend to be in the show—he’d cast his numbers with other dancers and booked another choreographer without offering me so much as an explanation or an apology or even a heads-up.
I’ve been bitch-slapped out of a drag show. Which TOTALLY trumps the nelly-rejection quotient of the whole gay softball thing.