Throwback Thursday: American Boyfriends Edition

Fun fact: The house in Grant Wood's American Gothic is a real place that Grant Wood happened upon in his August 1930 wanderings around Iowa. It's in the city of Eldon 120 miles southwest of Cedar Rapids, so Grant Wood had to do some serious wandering to stumble upon it. He made a sketch of the house, painted his sister and his dentist in front of it when he got home to Cedar Rapids, and got a measly $300 when he sold it to the Art Institute of Chicago after entering it in a competition there.

Other fun fact: There's a visitors' center near the house that has an array of calico dresses and overalls you can borrow for keepsake photos, but if your boyfriend at the time is a no-fun stick in the mud you have to resort to getting photos in whatever you happen to be wearing.

Other fun facts: The house is built in the Carpenter Gothic style. The curve-up-to-a-point top of the Gothic window is called an ogive. The 1930 painting (Grant Wood conceived of and completed it in a matter of weeks) is in the Modernist style. You're welcome.

Throwback Thursday: Proto-Gay Edition

Things I had discovered in 1984: The stinky-feet defiance of going sockless in cheap canvas shoes from Target. The gender-bending subversiveness of wearing a hand-braided ankle bracelet. The surfer-wannabe failure of black board shorts decorated with gracefully swirling fish in trendy shades of neon. The glee-club weirdness of fake Ray-Bans with little black music notes all over them. Hair mousse.

Things I had not yet discovered in 1984: Going to a gym. Having the good sense not to wear tank tops in public. Having the good sense not to wear white fake Ray-Bans with little black music notes all over them. Having the good sense to make sure I didn't look like I was in a low-rent Flock of Seagulls cover band before I left the house.

Flashback Friday: Bow Ties And Billowy Pleats Edition

This—THIS!—is what I thought was acceptable attire for setting foot in Washington DC's Kennedy Center to see Tyne Daly in the 1989 revival of Gypsy. (Early non-linear side note: You never forget your first Gypsy. And while I don't l-o-o-o-o-o-v-e the show like other card-carrying-Platinum gays, I still love Tyne Daly as Rose more than any other women I've seen in the role since then. And that includes Patti. Because she's never met a vowel she couldn't chew into a meaty, puddingy, distractingy triphthong.)

Anywho ... THAT OUTFIT ...

Nothing says "I sit down to pee" quite as efficiently as a bow tie. I taught myself to tie a bow tie when I was in high school, while all the other kids were doing more useful things like—oh, I don't know—hanging out with each other and forming meaningful friendships. I thought my little Madras plaid bow tie made me look so throwback-non-conformist hip 'n' cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one my gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like the much-ballyhooed-about-to-be-launched Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. And as we all know, efficiency is the DNA of questionable fashion. You can't see it clearly here, but I also had a coordinating Madras plaid watch band. As in a bow-tie-matching watch band made of sweat-absorbing-and-quickly-gross fabric. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! I somehow decided it was totally-probably-sexy-cool to wear it with the watch face ON THE INSIDE OF MY WRIST. Because WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? And let's not overlook those voluminous pleated khakis—not that we could ever tear our eyes away from the uncharted galaxies of animal-balloon space they occupied around my wispy little goblin hips. They were from The Gap, see, and I'd had a bit of an inferiority complex as a younger person that—and I am not making this up—made me feel not cool enough to shop at The Gap. I'd literally walk by it at the then-fancy Westdale Mall and feel awkward and panicked and a little bit resentful. Do not fear: My therapist has been alerted. Anyway, one fateful day I scrounged up the courage to wince timidly into that Gap and find the men's section (which in the gender-bendy '80s wasn't clearly delineated to me as I entered the store) and immediately found these dream pants with all their essential dream details: classic khaki coloring, heavy cotton poplin (a natural fiber! in the '80s! I KNOW!) (also: like every socially awkward fashionista, I knew what poplin was as a young gaylet ... and why it was more laid-back-casual-and-therefore-better than twill) (also: twill is for librarians who aren't allowed to sit with the other librarians at lunch), voluminous pleats, super-dramatic taper, securely tacked ankle-strangling cuffs. TOTAL MEGA COOL-KIDS FASHION. And I'm pretty sure I was wearing my white suede bucks with red fake-rubber soles with them. Because PLEASE BEAT ME UP I'M SUPER '80s GAY.

So let's review:

Face-swallowing glasses + perfectly puckered plaid bow tie + inside-out sweaty watch + pleats with their own ZIP codes + legs tapered in the shape of super-pointy ice-cream-cones = man who goes to the theater to see angsty-gay-anthem-filled musicals with his mom. Every time.

Throwback Thursday: Wachoo

Blerg. I used to get up at 5:00 every weekday to take the train to the Loop and get physically abused by my cruel, brutal trainer at my appallingly expensive gym for an hour before hobbling off to work.

But sometimes I stopped to take pictures of pretty buildings along the way:

Willis Tower peeking between the Federal Reserve Bank Building and the City National Bank and Trust Building. 5:30 am.

The Hubble Telescope called. It wants its lenses back.

Flashback Tuesday: Aging Gracefully Edition

American artist Ivan Albright painted his lurid, mildewy Picture of Dorian Gray in 1944, inspired by Oscar Wilde’s 1891 novel of the same name. It hangs just around the corner from Grant Wood’s iconic 1930 American Gothic in the Art Institute of Chicago’s American Art wing.

But the point of this post is that some stupid white-shirted jerk totally photobombed this handsome, distinguished formal portrait of me.

Has it really been only two years?

Remember two years ago when KKK Grand Wizard (what the fuck is THAT stupid title about, racists?) David Duke responded expectantly to all your white-supremacist dog whistles when you started your appalling abortion of a presidency, trump? Now your inbred disciples are regularly following your orders to open fire on brown people with small-dicked-incel assault weapons. And you fucking SUCK at pretending you're shocked.

There is not enough piss in the world to properly drench your grave.

Flashback Sunday: More Underpants Edition

2011 Chicago Undie Run!

Fun fact: There are precious few places you can pin a running bib when you’re wearing only your underpants.

Flashback Saturday: Underpants Edition

Seven years ago I did my second annual Chicago Undie Dash, the title of which needs no explanation or clarification beyond the fact that it was a 5K and it ended with a private party aboard a massive yacht that was moored at one of the lakefront marinas whose name I can’t remember. A few years earlier I’d sung at a wedding on the deck of that same yacht. If I remember correctly, I wore Superman underpants that I bought just for the occasion. (The Undie Run, not the wedding.)

Flashback Friday: Granny Socks And Abs Edition

You know how when you get old and lumpy you feel compelled to show everyone how lithe and nubile you once were? It's a good thing I didn't put that into words here because what my cover story for reposting this picture is remember that one time I had to wear granny compression socks to keep my shin splints from exploding out of my legs when I ran a half marathon in epic EPIC heat and they were itchy and hot but they did their job and I managed to finish in a medal-winning time? (And don't listen to those losers who say that EVERYBODY gets a medal for crossing the finish line. We don't need that kind of negativity in our lives.)

I didn’t run the July 4 8K today for the first time in ever because my stupid five-week migraine prevented me from training

And it was soul-suckingly humid this morning, so I didn’t think it would be a good idea to try and power through it. But Facebook made a point of reminding me of a bygone day of 8K running and personal besting (8:32 pace!) and 32-inch waisting. So there’s that.

Remember when this POS literally hid in the bushes to avoid speaking to the press--WHICH WAS HIS JOB--and then later said it was because he was fat?

Raise your hand if you've ever body-shamed yourself to the point you've hidden in bushes to avoid doing your job. I'll wait.

Flashback Friday: Passing the Baton Edition

Nine years ago right now I was enjoying a nice, relaxing 200-mile Madison-to-Chicago relay with 11 other runners in two vans in some of the most sweltering weather in recorded history. We passed the baton for 36 non-stop hours with loads of sunscreen all day and reflective vests and road-finding spotlights strapped to our heads all night.

Fun fact: This all happened in a dark, purposeless, existential-void period in our history before smartphones and GPS running watches were invented (CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE?) and when people had something called "conversations" to pass the long hours of waiting in their leapfrogging runner vans. It was so bleak that WE ACTUALLY HELD SWEAT-STAINED PAPER MAPS IN OUR HANDS AND RELIED ON RANDOM ARROWS CHALKED ONTO THE GROUND TO FIND OUR WAY AS WE RAN ALONG THE RELAY ROUTE. And we hoped to hell that we didn't get lost on moonless, werewolf-filled country roads at 2:13 am because we'd basically have no way to figure out how to get back on track and/or how to let our teammates know where to find our fang-torn bodies come sunrise.

Throwback Wednesday: Old And Dysmorphic Edition

When you’re feeling old and invisible at your Pumped-Up Unabridged Encyclopedia of Hotness Gym, instead of working out, do something actually productive and emotionally healthy: Re-post a pic of yourself and your shirtless shoulders and your saucy instep from a long-ago gay cruise.

Flashback Saturday: College Graduation Edition

I guess I had a cute little habit of saying YAY! about situations that met my approval when I was in college. Unfortunately, Mom (who correctly thought YAY! would be fitting sentiment to express over a college graduation) and the cake decorator (who probably didn’t have an advanced degree in spelling) ended up producing a graduation cake that said YEAH in my honor. Which only underscores what the rest of this picture is saying about me. For instance: The glasses. Bigger than my face. Lower than my eyebrows. I’m just a home perm and a cameo brooch away from being Sophia Petrillo. And don’t get me started on the shirt. I’d thought it was one of the coolest shirts EVER when I first found it wadded up on the tumble table at the County Seat. It was red and white, see, but it had blue stuff sewn in to the collar and sleeves (and, inexplicably, that saggy pocket) to make it look like it was LAYERED. It was also probably a small, yet it hung on me like a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. And in any case, the whole look was in direct violation of the contract I signed when they gave me my English degree: no bright colors, no perky smiles, no Sally Jesse Raphaël glasses. And no misspelled pastries.

Flashback Friday: Personal Best Edition

I hit my never-to-be-beaten personal best (1:56:03, baby!) ten years ago in this half marathon, which weirdly tried to rebrand itself as something bigger than it was by calling itself the Chicago 13.1 Marathon.

Amateur runners of a certain size and weight strive to run sub-2:00 half marathons, and this is the only time I ever beat that milestone. I did it in part because an Ironman-doing friend of mine recommended that I take a handful of Advil before the race so I wouldn't feel any pain. Which worked like a charm because I felt awesome the entire time and the whole day afterward. AND THEN I WAS CRIPPLED FOR LIFE WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING. Word to the wise from the front lines of bad ideas: Never do this.

So four years ago this happened

Then it didn't happen; I ended up leaving what was to be my third production of A Chorus Line because I was a foggy, unreliable, barely functional, poorly medicated bipolar mess who was a drag on rehearsals and an admitted liability to the production. I was heartbroken. But I still got to keep this awesome photo. Which I truly cherish.

Has it really been two years since our modern-day Kennedys and beacons of sacred morality held audience with the pope?

Sigh. It seems like this was only 100 mortal embarrassments ago ...

Tossed salad and scrambled eggs indeed

Nine years ago tonight after seeing Sondheim on Sondheim at Studio 54 (where I just saw an appallingly lackluster Kiss Me, Kate tonight), I found myself seated at a table next to Kelsey Grammar at an après-Sondheim dinner at noted celebrity-sighting restaurant Joe Allen. I’d heard Kelsey was kind of a dick, but he demonstrated on no uncertain terms how he’d earned that reputation when also-celebrities Tony Shalhoub and Kathy Baker made an appearance at the other end of the restaurant. Kelsey jumped up from his table and pushed his way toward the two of them while yelling their names and knocking my coat off the back of my chair as he stumbled by. He stopped in his tracks, looked back at my coat on the floor, did some quick cost-benefit calculations, decided taking two seconds to pick it up wasn’t worth the effort, shrugged, and continued on his quest to meet up with his socially valuable celebrity friends.

Dick.

Flashback Friday: What The Hell Is That Theater Called Edition

This was the view from my office in the Chicago Loop. In the 15 years I lived in Chicago, this venerable theater (which was called the Majestic when it was built in 1906) changed names from Shubert to LaSalle Bank to Bank of America to Private Bank, and since I left three years ago it's become the CIBC Theatre. Amid all those changes, it's been home to some amazing shows, many of which I went to see multiple times because it was right across the street from work. Jersey Boys and Book of Mormon sat there forever, 9 to 5 made a brief stop (where Dolly Parton herself walked right by me in the tiny lobby), and now Hamilton has taken up long-term residence. If you go see Hamilton or whatever comes next to its stage, look up to the fifth floor on the big squarish skyskraper across the street and wave. The next credit-card solicitation you receive in the mail might very well wave back at you from its colorful storyboard.