Oh dear, I just can’t seem to keep up with this thing. It occurs to me that this is not so much because my activity level is high as that I can’t seem to keep my brain focused on a single task (even one so trivial as posting nonsense to my House of Self-Indulgence) for more than 15 minutes. So I’d better type fast.
Actually, quite a lot’s been going on. Two weekends ago, I attended the spectacular Big Gay Wedding of my dear friends Greg and David, in Memphis. Now, when I tell people this, they’re initially unsurprised to hear that I was in a gay wedding – but then, when I get to the part about it having taken place in Memphis, a look of bewilderment comes across their dear faces. Memphis? Surely not. I mean, if San Fran couldn’t keep gay unions legal, how is it possible that this should come about in the borderline baptist belt, yea, so close to the snake-handling counties of Arkansas? Much as I hate to disappoint, the marriage is not in fact legal, but when have we cared about the legality of our actions, anyway? It was a beautiful ceremony, presided over by the inimitable and lovely organic farmer/fairy/hippie preacher Larry Leonard (whose ripe green tomatoes are a delectable treat, should you ever find yourself down his way), attended by scores of friends and family, a reunion of folk who hadn’t seen one another in over a decade and a festival of bubbly-consumption worthy of the coming together of a new and improved circle of friends and relatives. I had a fabulous time, and while I am tempted to promise photos in the near future, we all know how awful I am about that (I can’t even seem to fix the stylesheets in the gallery, for crying out loud), I won’t get your hopes up. You’ll just have to take my word for it.
Since I’ve been back, it’s been a whirlwind of social and cultural activity – between dinners and outings with friends, I managed to have the fullest day of theatrical experiences I’ve had since college. Last Wednesday afternoon, a friend and I attended a dress rehearsal of Aïda at the Lyric. Just under four hours and an execution/suicide later, we emerged blinking into the twilight, in dire need of a drink. We had just enough time for a few quick ones with good old Pat at Nick & Tony’s before another friend came to fetch me for the evening’s production: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf at the Court Theatre. Now, this is not what anyone would call a feel-good show – in fact, it’s more or less witnessing a three and a half hour act of psychological terrorism. But I’m here to tell you, it was amazing. Utterly worth it. I said that evening, and have maintained since, that it is the single best production I’ve seen in ten years in Chicago. Huge kudos to the cast and crew and director, and also high praise to the scene design. I am almost tempted to rattle on about it at length the way I normally do about productions that I love, but you might leave me and never come back. Perhaps I’ll revisit this at some point – my only regret is that I didn’t get a review up early enough to encourage everyone in town to see the show: it closed on Sunday.
Friday saw another charmed dinner party at my house. Yes, I’m trying to cram in as many intimate gatherings as I possibly can before I quit the country, and even though from time to time I look around the room and get all misty, they are always such a splendid time. The menu for this one was Spicy Corn Chowder, followed by Chili-Lime Marinated Pork Tenderloin and Lime-Cayenne infused Shrimp on a bed of Cheddar/Chipotle Mashed Potato, with French Green Beans and a few cherry tomatoes for color. For dessert, one guest supplied fresh strawberries with a brown sugar-sour cream dip, and another gallantly arrived hours early to bake a wonderful apple pie. Yea verily, we were well-fed. Well-boozed, too, but that’s another story. I’ve still got a can of wine (!) in my fridge if anybody’s interested.
So what have I got that’s amusing and witty and clever? It shames me to say that I’m coming up snake eyes today, folks. Perhaps this evening’s outing to the north side will supply me with some comic relief, or at least some regrettable fashion, to share with you, but for now you’ll just have to make due with the facts.
At least I’ve written something. My guilt is partially assuaged.
Oh yeah, and if Bush wins next Tuesday, I’m leaving the country. Wait a minute… Well, ok. But vote anyway, would you?