Weekend Update...

Went to Chicago.

Saturday:

Woke up, packed, realised I couldn't find my boots. I still can't find my boots. Yelled at Angel about it. Recovered and apologised. It's not like he lost them. Went to the bank to deposit checks. Discovered a Payless next door. Bought a pair of big clunky shoes with like four-inch-thick rubber soles, and little black flipflop-style toe straps to hold them on. Well, at least I had shoes to wear with the club pants and the little black top. I was going to feel so uberstupid putting my ratty hiking boots on with that. (Gods, that sounds shallow.) Intended to study flash cards on Pharmacology while driving up, Angel could read them to me. Spent hour 1 singing Jesus Christ Superstar before remembering that all play and no work makes kittens fail the National Board Exam. Angel, my darling, was not feeling well. I am not always a slavedriving bitch. Sometimes I say "It's okay, really, I don't have to study, I'll catch up later." And we spend the whole ride singing Sondheim and enjoying each other's company. And then there was the Skyway. And the one-lane traffic with giant concrete dividers on either side of it. And while Mom's driving fear is ice, mine is having nowhere to go. I get all creeped out. So instead of admiring the view from the Skyway, I kept my hands on the wheel, and explained to Angel in great detail why concrete dividers are evil incarnate. They are. Survived Chicago traffic unscathed. Go me. Found the apartment. Go me, again. Correction: I found a parking space near the apartment, Angel found the apartment. I even had the courage to ring the little buzzer to the apartment. This is saying a lot. Went out for lunch with Mike and Erica. To this little hamburger stand that looked like a shithole, but had incredibly good burgers. We threw fries at the pigeons and pegged them with ice cubes and had a good time. Then Mike took me shopping for boots. Boots being, of course, what I originally had desired to wear with the pants. We went to The Alley. Which is extremely huge, very excitingly cool, and had two pairs of boots I liked. One in exclusively size 5.5, and the other at an exclusive sale price of $150. That's a negative. So we went down to Northalstead, alternatively titled "Boys' Town" for the creatively minded. Note that the street is lined by giant, vaguely phallic pillars with little rainbows on them. This should be your first clue. And if you had any lingering naïveté about the nature of the beast, the first store we went into would have disabused you of it. Now mind, I had a marvelous conversation about necklaces with the shop attendant who was helping me look for jewellery. And I know a certain firebird who would have been in orgasmic esctasies over the clothing on display. And I was sorely tempted to buy the little rainbow bracelet, or the rubber one that said SEX in big silver letters. Or the hematite rosary (cancelled because I just can't stand the idea of Jesus's face in my cleavage). But I settled for a cross with tasteful rhinestones on it, and we went to find the boots. At which point I turned to Mike and said "How about something a little bit less drag queen?" Reeeeally. Got in line to buy my cross behind a group of gayboys discussing the outfit one had gotten, hose, garters and all, and how s/he wasn't sure s/he wanted to go meet this guy. Much enlightenment was had in those few brief moments. And then I bought my cross from the counter boy with the I ♥ Lesbians t-shirt. And went on. Stopped into 99th floor (no website) and poked at the racks of boots they had. Man in a cowboy hat and guy with 3 left ear rings and a nose ring conversed with me, helped me try on the boots I loved. I have fat calves; no fit. "No worry," says cowboy-hat. "Try something with a lace up front, you can adjust it." So he found a pair I liked until I looked at the $178 price tag. Too much. Try these; $64 instead. We found the size I needed, tried them on, got them laced, and I made everyone sick by stretching in them to test ankle motion. I love 'em. Knee-high black pseudoleather, full lace-up fronts and a zipper for easy removal. Huge soles and clunky heels. They're a bit more butch than I had been looking for, but they are indeed beautiful boots. I was pleased. Then I found the chainmail choker drape. Four-rings informs me that it comes with earrings. I am in heaven. Back to the apartment. Dinner after the show, we decide, and Erica and I squeeze into clothing. Mike tries leather pants, then the zipper gives out, so it's the pants whose ankles I can (and do) zip together. Pictures of us here, and them here. Hitch the bus to Concrete Blonde. At the bus stop, we meet a couple of lost French tourists. I whip out my French, and they ask if I'm English. Good enough. We get them straightened out, between my French and their limited English, get lots of stares from everyone on the bus. The concert was good, marred only by the fact that my feet and the new boots weren't sure that they should be stood on for 4 hours. Music was...well, I could feel the bass in my bones, tremoloing through my body. It was beautiful to feel, and the lead singer has a fantastic voice, even if she was so obviously drunk and stoned that she couldn't talk straight. She could sing. And then we went to IHOP, where we were stared at by more patrons. And we had dinner. And the waiter, who was quite tall and brought Erica and I three litres of water, which we drank all of, told us that there was a tornado watch out. If there are tornadoes, I'd rather be here on the ground than in a third-story apartment. He laughed. Went back to the apartment, played Cosmic Encounter and read a tarot for Erica. Then collapsed.