Show Tune Therapy

So my week has royally sucked, but tonight I get to sing on stage at a benefit for Chicago House and the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus. The benefit is a birthday celebration for drag diva Truly Scrumptious -- and it should be a total hoot! Come join us at @mosphere tonight. Doors open at 7, show starts at 8.

I'll be the one belting Liza.

Wait. That sounds bad. I'll be the one belting a song made famous by Liza. And (this time) I'll be dressed as a boy.

So I crawled home last night around 9 and started fixing dinner. Then my phone rang.

See, there's this guy I've known very casually since I moved here three years ago. He's adorable. We've had lunch. We've flirted shamelessly. He was in a relationship. Now he's not. And now he lives in my building.

He had just gotten home from a long day himself, and he wanted to unwind together with drinks. He came down with his martini. We chatted. We went up to his place because he has a balcony and a MUCH better view. We chatted some more. We flirted.

But it was late. I was tired. But sigh. He sure is cute.

Summer is officially over.

Last night was the first rehearsal for the chorus' performance season. It was great to see everyone all tan and summer-slim and colorfully coiffed (including yours truly). And in addition to my usualy favorite eye candy, there was new meat to inspect and flirt with. Being gay can be so much fun!

Prurient interests aside, it was also great to hear us raise our mighty voices together after our long vacation. Our director always challenges us with spectacular arrangements and creates so much beauty with our raw talents. Plus, he's put his twisted mind to work dreaming up yet another fabulously clever season of music.

I picked up my half marathon registration packet last night. I apparantly can't cancel my entry, so I decided that since I trained for so long for the race, then damnit, I deserve the T-shirt and the free rice samples and the coupons for the running socks.

Then I hosted the first Big Gay Movie Night of the season. Ten fags. Two spiffy new chairs. Two fabulous DVDs. And now a refrigerator full of leftover pizza.

The dream dies.

So the half marathon is in two days. I haven't run in four weeks. You do the math.

While my hip-flexor injury is slowly getting better on its own (aided, no doubt, by lots of stretching, weekly yoga classes and -- oh yeah -- NO MARATHON TRAINING), it's still a huge barrier to completing little tasks like, say, running to catch a bus.

So I finally broke down and went to the professionals at AthletiCo. And when I learned my that free initial consultation would be with a male physical therapist, I started entertaining all sorts of porno fantasies. But they weren't meant to be; the guy was cute enough, but he was wearing one of those fashion faux pas WWJD bracelets. ACK!

Anyway, it took two cute-ish physical therapists to evaluate me, and they determined that 1) I have severe problems with inflexibility and 2) I should probably see a doctor and get X-rayed because there might be something more that's wrong. Yay.

In the mean time, I have an illustrated page of stretches I can do discreetly (or so I hope) at my desk. And a list of sports-medicine doctors to call -- after I figure out which ones are in my insurance network.

Stay tuned.

J. the dreamy dance captain for The Lion King didn't come to yoga today. Or last week. So it's been two weeks since our mini lunch date where we realized our lustful interest was kind of mutual. Sigh. At least I'm getting in a more focused yoga workout without him bending and stretching his lithe dancer body so distractingly on the mat next to mine.

Speaking of The Lion King, here's some interesting babboon news.

I suck at this game.

So I go to the EL last night and I walk past a hunky (though young-looking) dude sitting in a sleeveless T-shirt and baggy gym shorts on the platform. He doesn't even look up, and I keep on walking and I wait for the train at the other end of the platform. The train comes, I get on, I sit down, I start reading ... and I suddenly notice he's sitting right across the aisle from me.

Which means either:
1) He randomly wandered to the same train I'm on and my imagination's just in overdrive.
2) He followed me 'cause he wants me BAD.

And it definitely means:
1) He's smokin' HOT up close.

Then both of us keep "looking" around the train, craning our necks this way and that in a shameless effort to just happen to lock eyes once in a while. Which we do. A lot.

Then we get to the part where I have no idea what to say or do. "Excuse me, but I noticed we seem to be flirting. Wanna see my nipples?" "Dude. Nice legs. They'd look great wrapped around my neck." "Man, it's hot in here. Mind if I take off my shirt?" The possibilities are endless ... if you're doing bad porn.

Anyway, we get to my stop. He's momentarily distracted by his book. I get off. He doesn't notice until the doors close and the train starts pulling away and our eyes meet once more through the window.

And ... I guess this story doesn't have much of an interesting ending. I'm sorry. On many counts.

It doesn't get much better than this.

Sunday morning. Big-band jazz on the surround sound. The smell of coffee. The Sunday Trib. Strawberries and toast and orange juice on the buffet. Conversation with my folks. Ultimate hosting satisfaction.

Yesterday we played big-city tourists: The Museum of Science and Industry, which could use some updating -- and a good scrubbing. People-watching from the sidewalk window of the Boystown Chipotle, which is hands-down the best fast food ever. Reckless Records, where I got a kick-ass recording of Ralph Vaughan Williams' Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. DSW, my home away from home. Then a moonlit walk along the lakefront and home for small talk in my cool new club chairs.

Take me out.

We had a company outing this afternoon: a Cubs game and then a barbecue in Anders' back yard, which is just a few blocks from Wrigley Field. The game was fun -- the Cubs are apparently very close to some world series-type achievement, so the stadium was PACKED with rabid fans ... which always jacks up the emotion and excitement.

Our seats were pretty far back in the second tier of the stadium, which offered us a sheltered view of the game -- but it also offered the pigeons a handy place to roost directly over our heads. And in the third inning, one of them dropped a HUGE load on my arm and the front of my shirt. Which sent me -- for the first time in my life -- to the Wrigley Field men's room, the fabled trough farm that approaches mass bladder voiding with assembly-line efficiency. And the place is surreal -- I think I walked past a good 40 yards of pee troughs assembled along the sides of two aisles before I could get to the sinks to clean up.

And once I got back to my seat, the Cubs easily beat the Milwaukee Brewers in a game that ended after the top of the ninth inning. (I've been to two Cubs games this year and they won both times. Coincidence?)

My favorite part of my job has always been my co-workers, and the barbecue after the game only reinforced my happiness with them. They're bright and funny and interesting and fun to talk to, and we sat around laughing and shooting the breeze for a good six hours ... until I realized it was after 11 pm and I was getting pretty damn tired.

Now I'm off to bed so I can get up early and do a ton of laundry and scrubbing and vacuuming and dusting before my folks get here for a weekend visit.

My day just got a little bit better -- I just won $25 in a drawing at a company meeting.

Woo-hoo! Bring on the ... um ... Pepsi and Cheetos.

Yoga with a minor chest cold and related body aches. Not a good idea.

Especially when J. the dance captain for The Lion King doesn't show up for class, even though you saved him a spot right next to you so you could sneak a peek at his sexy feet during downward-facing dog.

It's not shaping up to be a very good day.

I have created a monster.

Now Bill wants to be mentioned by name here. But (he claims) he rated me a 10 on hotornot, so I guess I gotta acknowledge our friendship.

And it's my pleasure to introduce you to him.

Bill is kind of the first guy I picked up in a bar when I moved here. I'd been to Hollywood Beach that day, see, and I'd gotten myself fried to the point that the people at Red Lobster were trying to put me on the menu. But being new to Chicago and all, I had no intention of letting a severe sunburn keep me from exploring the bars that night. So I went to the Manhole, where you have to be shirtless to be on the dance floor and it's so dark no one can hear you scream when you get bumped on your burn. And that's when I met Bill. But being burned and all, the most intimate I was willing to be with a stranger was the exchange of phone numbers.

And (almost exactly) three years later, we've exchanged gifts, emails, phone calls and stories about our Chicago adventures. And now he's madly in love with a very cool guy. And I have first (OK -- maybe twelfth) dibs on being his maid of honor.

So the Iowa visit was great. Leslie and I always have fun road-tripping home together, hanging out with our separate families and then gossiping about our adventures all the way home.

This trip was all about eating and playing with the kids. We devoured Iowa pork chops and corn on the cob, had brunch in the Amanas, ate Tomaso's Pizza with Matt and Jeff and Jacob and Scott, and baked cookies that my nephew kept calling "fresh cookies" every time he ate them. (Does stuff like that mean he's gonna be queer? The jury is still out.)

I also kicked some serious family butt in canasta, but then I got my butt kicked the next day. We usually schedule our games when my niece and nephew are asleep, but thanks to a new Elmo video we were able to squeeze in some quality daytime card-playing as well.

I bought two kick-ass DVDs, and I may have also bought some fabulous club chairs. They're currently on hold while I decide if they'll fit where I want to put them. It's not easy packing comfort and style into my shoebox in the sky.

I also took advantage of the privacy and calm of my folks' driveway to prime and repaint some rust spots on my aging car. It's too dark to perform such cosmetic surgery in my Chicago garage, and I'd hate to do it on the street with cars whizzing by all the time. Grandma would be proud that I'm taking such good care of my things. Even if the thing in question here is one of the shittiest cars ever made.

I'm off on a road trip to the homeland with Leslie. And my weekend schedule looks to be packed with fun: Cramming in as much play time as possible with my niece and nephew, helping Jeff usher in his 34th year, attending a 50th wedding anniversary reception for Bob and Alo, and endless hours of canasta with my sister, her husband and my folks.

Be good while I'm gone.

News from the Department of Goddamnit

So I'm sitting in yoga class today, hoping hoping hoping that J. the ultra-hot dance captain for The Lion King, takes the class too -- and maybe even puts his mat down next to mine. And -- YAY! -- he shows up and puts his mat down next to mine ... and I spend the next 45 minutes sneaking peeks at his sexy feet as I bend and twist my way to a better body. And once in a while, I catch him sneaking peeks back. :)

But I'd heard he was dating someone, and I'd given him my number a couple months ago and he'd never called, so I figured he was interested only in a say-hi-when-we-see-each-other-at-the-gym kind of relationship.

So class ends and he turns to me with those dreamy eyes and we make small talk about my running injury and how his show is going ... and suddenly we're making plans to have lunch. Today. And before I can say I have a lunch date with the dance captain of The Lion King, I'm having a lunch date with the dance captain of The Lion King. And it's going well and we're asking each other questions about our jobs and families and making other pleasant small talk ... and then he volunteers that he's "kind of seeing someone." And THEN he volunteers that he really wanted to ask me out when we first met.

ACK!

My heart almost catching in my throat, I reminded him that I had given him my phone number a couple months ago, and he said that was about the time that his "kind of seeing someone" romance started getting serious. CURSE THE TIMING.

Then he told me this amusing story about how his good friend Cher was in Chicago recently and the two of them went to see Seabiscuit together, but I was still reeling from the news that my silly little fantasy about dating the dance captain of The Lion King had not, in fact, been so silly. Or even a fantasy.

Sigh.

Dinner at my favorite fast-food joint and boy-watching with my favorite homo last night. Paul and I met after work and took the train to the Chipotle in Boystown, where we spent a few hours sitting at the window filling our guts with faux-Mexican goodness and smiling at all the muscle boys who walked by. We're the perfect boy-watching companions; our tastes in men rarely overlap, and when there's nothing to look at we're never at a loss for interesting conversation.

After we'd had our fill at Chipotle, we waddled over to T.'s salon so I could show him off to Paul. Then it was home to read to the sounds of Rosemary Clooney, Bing Crosby and my rattly old air conditioner.

It's been 10 days since my last run -- and it's 19 days until the half marathon -- and I'm starting to get antsy. My hip issues are still with me, and even running to catch the bus in the morning is pretty much out of the question. I did manage to log three miles on the elliptical machine today, though. And my ass is thanking me for the workout.

Now Anders is bitching because he hasn't been mentioned by name here. So let the record show this grave oversight has been rectified. And don't forget to check out his favorite sites.

And on the eighth day, we had a good old-fashioned date.

So T. picked me up from work tonight on his motorcycle (WOOF!) and we headed for an impromptu dinner at a boobie hutch. The food was pretty good, and T. even convinced our waitress to come to his salon so he could rescue her hair. And how often does a gay man pick up a waitress at Hooters? T. has magical powers.

Then we cruised through town for a bit on his hog (I'll take advantage of any excuse to wrap my arms around him in public) and we ended up at my place watching a very cool movie in our underwear.

I give the evening an A+.

Holy highlights!

These highlights are a total dick magnet. I've gotten more smiles, more stares, more of those look-up-and-down-the-bod-and-then-lock-eyes things -- all from way hot guys -- and more gushing compliments from the girls in the steno pool in the last 24 hours than I think I've gotten collectively all summer.

And get this. So I'm at the cable machines today when a stunning muscleguy in a suit walks through the gym, looks at me, smiles, looks away, looks back, smiles, rinses and repeats, and then does that follow-me-into-the-locker-room head thing. But good things come to those who wait, so I continue my workout and he eventually reappears -- still dressed but not in his suit jacket -- in front of me at the Hammer Strength machine ... and he proceeds to hit on me so aggressively I think I may develop bruises before the day is over. He's just as hot up close, but unfortunately he's covered in bling (and NOTHING screams desperate man strugging transparently to overcompensate for a small penis like bling) and he's obviously used to getting his way because he got kind of upset that I wouldn't go take off my shirt for him in the locker room and then cancel my date with T. tonight to be his boy toy. And he walked away in a huff when I finally gave him that Dude, you're taking this to a creepy place look.

Repulsive personality notwithstanding, I'd be lying if I said I didn't love every minute of the attention. And now I have a very special thank-you to give T. tonight.