Market Days - Saturday

So one thing has led to another and now I'm confronted with the neglect of my blog. I have this feeling of accountability for my online presence like it's some electronic pet that will die if I don't "feed" it. Worse yet, I've experienced plenty of bloggable events since this weekend and I see the tales piling up before me.

This past weekend was spent in Chicago exclusively along the L red line. I went up for Market Days, an enormous GLBT festival held in Boys' town. Halsted St. is closed to vehicular traffic for six blocks from Belmont up to Addison and is lined with tents selling all kinds of goods from t-shirts to tequila (frozen with fruit juice served on a stick!). And the mad swarm of people filling the street is breathtaking - literally. Saturday afternoon people were packed in so close there were times when I couldn't move in any direction. All I could do was wait for traffic a few feet over to clear and make my way through. It was glorious! To be in the eye of a pink storm is a wonderful experience for many reasons, but the vibe alone is worth it. I haven't been called baby, honey and sweetie so many times in my life. Events like these are powerful affirmations, and seemingly everyone in attendance feels friendlier. I know I did.

I only wished there were more ladies out. There were clusters of women running around, but they had places to be. They were going somewhere or doing something that wasn't whatever it was they were doing at that precise moment in time. I needed information on where the girls party in Chicago and my attempts to approach these fleeting ladies left me feeling like an interloper. I was informed that I was in the place to be for women, too. Looking around that didn't seem to be the case. Don't get me wrong. Boys are beautiful. I enjoy a ripped chest as much as the next gal, but when it comes to a dance partner I want to get down with a member of the fairer sex. Perhaps, they were afraid I was trying to crash their group. Perhaps, I need to work on my approach. Perhaps perhaps perhaps.

More and more I feel groups of lesbians are like groups of nymphs; world weary, quicker than lightning in their own element, and protected by a powerful deity. In many ways I feel like an insecure version of Pan with cloven hooves, bare breasted and twigs in my hair approaching the handmaidens of Artemis and fearing they will light off and report my behavior as a grievous recrimination to their lady. I need to get whatever mojo that ugly fucker had going for him because this self-doubt thing is cramping my style.

But this is about Chicago - not my insecurities - well OK. It's about whatever comes out of my head. Back to the windy city, I met up with the gang at Sidetrack. Men were flirting and drinking and carousing and having a grand old time shoulder to shoulder in a sea of humanity with music blaring and videos playing on flat screens around the bar. Again, all wonderful to see. FN, HR, Blanche, Romeo, and Mom were all at the front of the house strapped with fans compliments of gAyT&T. There were also a couple others from Indy whom I've met before, but I've not yet come up with blog names for them. Fitness Nerd informed us all that the crowd was comprised almost exclusively of people from the Midwest and perhaps most of the locals were simply taking the day off to avoid the crazies.

Mom and I ended up taking a leave in search of water and a little breathing room when we came upon Beatnix, a store where even the tallest drag queen can find a pair of ruby red slippers or a silk kimono in her size. My next trip to Chicago is going to involve a credit card and a shopping frenzy. The t-shirts are so funny how can I refuse? And seriously, I've not found another location where I actually want to accessorize - a talent I've not nurtured. I picked up a shirt from a street vendor that states, "The best way to get over him is to get under me." with a silhouette of a hot lady in repose in the middle. Faboo.

Eventually we all wandered back to their hotel south of the party site for naps and workouts. I got to reunite myself with my favorite institution, Jamba Juice and talked with Romeo for a while. Eventually, I made it back to my own accommodations to meet up with DeeDee at the Chicago International Hostel. shudder.

The CIH is the first hostel I've stayed in State side so I don't have any North American frame of reference, but I know bad when I see it. I have to say after reading reviews of the place I wasn't all that surprised when the gentleman behind the counter couldn't find the reservation DeeDee had placed online. I did what I could to remove my own corporate mindset and personal ideals of service as the kind middle-aged man doddered about behind the counter trying to find the reservation. I didn't get the impression he knew where to look to begin with. I mentioned he was kind, and it is somewhat accurate. He somewhat owned responsibility for losing the reservation and offered me a bed in a dorm room which was the original arrangement at the start. I was alright with this.

Charitable reviews of the CIH mention the "fun and funky decor". This is code for mismatched mishmash of smelly items purchased from various estate sales of old ladies who have passed away. Turning the corner from the front desk selling an assortment of instant foods such as mac and cheese and ramen noodles one encounters a Mediterranean scene painted on the wall behind a plaster cast sculpture of a woman holding a water jug. I got the impression that at one point in time water flowed through the sculpture, but now it was dry and still. There are two sets of track lighting above the sculpture one of which works. The common area is painted in blue and the furniture therein is covered with white sheets. On the south wall hangs a combination world map and international clock that no longer works. It's about eight feet wide, three feet tall, and looks to have been made in the 60s. Everyone in the common area appeared to be silent and glass eyed from traveling. The front stoop was far more hopping, but to my own loss I was trying to either get going or get to bed whenever I passed through. When DeeDee and I had changed for the evening we were out of there lickity split.

Dinner was pizza at Renaldi's - wonderful - followed by a caffeine stop and the whole gang was off to Sidetrack. The line to get in was long, but that allowed us to watch the unfolding of a street drama starring a fat, drunk, belligerent man and a couple police officers armed with hand cuffs and a golf cart. We had a good time at his expense led by Fitness Nerd. I kept switching from joining in with quips of my own and voicing my distaste at calls for the tazer. I am inconstant and often I fail to get jokes when my own seriousness gets in the way. On a trip to find an ATM (the line was so long we had ample time to walk off and look for banking options) DeeDee spied women going into Spin and suggested we go there. I refused stating that Sidetrack should have women, too, andthat I wanted to hang with the group for a bit. And I did enjoy chilling with my posse, but she had the right idea as I would soon find out. We returned to the line and eventually entered the club.

As the day continued the crowds got bigger and the space got tighter. That trend was not broken at Sidetrack at night. However, bar service was really speedy. I wonder what kind of bank the bartenders made that day. Ugh, I can't even imagine working a shift though. The group broke up, wandered about and mingled, reunited and repeated. When we're all out and about we expand and contract like heavenly bodies, each individual a planet with his or her own specific gravity. Eventually, we all make it back to the group's own solar system huddled around a star of familiarity and common experiences. Romeo was the first to cut out followed by Blanche, H, and Mom. I was buzzing on Red Bull and ready to go shake my booty. H gave me directions to Charlie's and FN, DeeDee and I set out for the after hours dance club.

Charlie's is a lot like Gregg's in Indy. They even have line dancing until 2am. Rather than naked men on the video screens Charlie's has a text message board. One can send a text to a number where it is then sent to the video screens throughout the bar. Oh yes, all the different combinations of good and bad you can imagine came out. This club was the most packed to date. Dancers on the floor were topless, sweaty, and gropey. Occasionally, a smoke machine would fill the floor to such degree that visibility was 0. I could not see my hand in front of my face, and the air was filled with white. The white outs were created to encourage more groping I'm sure, but unfortunately, I was not to participate in such matters. The ladies who were at Charlie's were most definitely straight. I actually approached one lady in particular offering to buy her a drink and received a confused look followed by a pity smile. sigh. Getting off the dance floor proved to be difficult. Imagine a car wash only substitute men's chests for brushes and sweat for soapy water. DeeDee described it as a re-birth. It was a tidge icky.

This is all just day one. I need to stop for now. More later.