I got up on Saturday at some ungodly hour to scrub off the
I have to say, though—and I mean this in an amusing-observation kind of way—that I have NEVER seen so many women with unflattering haircuts in my life. We shared the program in Bloomington with a lesbian/feminist chorus whose performance attire came right out of the Lesbian/Feminist Chorus Handbook: baggy black (or black and white) clothes, decorative vestments in Aztec or African patterns, and shortish hairdos. Our audience was mostly women who own back copies of the handbook, and they were distinguishable from the women on stage only because they didn’t limit their base wardrobe palette to black and white. These women were clearly happy with who they are and how they look—and they could NOT have been friendlier to us—but I had to laugh at the fact that they follow a small-town lesbian clone aesthetic that is just as obvious and pervasive as our big-city homo clone aesthetic. And for two-plus hours on Saturday, we were one big happy chambray-and-Lycra mixed marriage of gay love.
Sunday was even gayer than Saturday, but solidly on the faggy-clone end of the continuum. I joined Jim and Jeff and Jason (wow—if only MY name started with a J so I could be in their club too!) Sunday morning for a foo-foo fundraiser in the gorgeous Harold Washington Library Winter Garden (aptly named considering how witch’s-tit COLD it’s been here the last few weeks). The event was a spring-y brunch and fashion show with delicious food, a snooty gay crowd in an explosion of
And now it’s Monday, and my 37-year-old body is wrapped in couture from the House of Gap and stationed behind my office desk from the House of Formica and I’m happy to be living in the glorious melting pot of polite society.