My return to Chicago; VII The End...thank God

I am swirling in circles with my legs split in the air. You would think I was having really hot sex, eh? Maybe the dreamy guy I was seeing showed up at last minute to fuck my cares away? Alas, no. My buddy Matty is swirling me, my gay buddy Matty, my super hot and sweet but gay and doesn't-fuck-girls friend Matty, is spinning me about his apartment. My sister lies prostrate on the couch, nursing her back but moving her ams and legs like those old people on public television doing aerobics from their chairs. She's a good sport. Kitty is jumping on the coffee table singing "I....had...the time of my liiiiiiife. No I neeeeever felt this way before--never felt this waaaaay--it's the truth...and I OWE IT ALL TO YOU!"

She jumps down from the coffee table and screams "REWIND!" We are taking it from the motherfucking top. Again.

We've been watching the end of Dirty Dancing on repeat for an hour. We've been dancing for as long. Kitty resets Matty's DVD to "Nobody puts Baby in a corner," cuts in and together with Matty, she perfectly mimics Patrick Swayze's spot on, blue collar, fuck the rich Jews who make me feel bad about myself speech. She is Baby. She is Johnny, and such is the plight of the bi-sexual woman. When it is time, she stands with her back to Matty, and he most delicately lifts her arm up and around his neck, his head nuzzled into her nape. When Kitty's lifted hand hits the back of his neck, he runs his forefinger down the length of her pale, Irish arm and tickles it down her armpit and side. He stands tall, a pillar of masculinity, though his bathroom is rife with French tea tree oil shave cream, and several different kinds of bronzer. He dapperly takes her hand, and--with just enough time to give her a quick buss on the nose--he moves his arms like a tiger, pow!, and she spins out and back into him to step in time on the 2, because you don't go on the one, you go on the two. It's a feeling. It's a heartbeat. Ga gung. Ga gung. Ga gung.

Oh, is there anyone sexier than Johnny Castle, in his black pants, with his back muscles, with his house painters and plasterers local number 179 card? He's wild. He's wiiiiiiiiiiiild!

I stand on the glass coffee table and take pictures of this. You can't imagine how magnificent they are. I would post the pics, but I don't want my friends to get fired from their cushy corporate jobs. Kitty babytalks, "Bunny, I take your picture!"

I say, "No," and hold my face in my hands, my own camera phone clacking into my forehead. No one takes my picture. Ever, if I can help it.

Kitty snatches my cell and tries to maneuver the keys into picture taking mode. I am aghast! I run away from her into the labyrinth of Matty's halls, toward a lockable room if I can help it. "Bunny, come on!" I find a bathroom, and lock myself into it to once again escape the horror of facial recording, body recording, or any evidence of my being on planet earth. I could really use a self-image makeover, but not today. I'm running far and fast as I can from Kitty and the camera.

In the bathroom, I play with the tea tree oil shave cream. I open up the tube and smear a little of it atop my upper lip. Smells nice. Kitty bangs on the door. She yells, "Bunny, lemme in this instant!"

"Put the camera away, Kitten. I love you, but you have to put the camera away, okay? I won't come out until you do. I'm perfectly okay hanging in here. It smells nice and Matty's showerhead is lookin' real good."

"Otay my Bunny. I put dee camera away." She's just the cutest kitten ever. I suppose if she has put it away I can open the door. I turn the knob and pull open Matty's door, only to find my own bleak, soulless camera phone going off in my face. Feshink! "Kitty no!"

"Bunny you are ridiculous!" She inspects the camera for the results (which I am sure are Quasimodo horrific) and says, "Hmmm. You're making a face. Okay, you need to smile, Bunny. Make a big smile!" I can't smile at the thought of having my picture taken normally, but I do smile, because Kitty grabs my crotch, and well...who can't smile when that happens? I grin and I put my two forefingers to my upper lip to wipe away Matty's tea tree oil shave cream. I can't believe I'm doing this; I must really love my Kitty.

We watch European Vacation and all decide that we must negotiate such a trip, particularly the Amsterdam and Absinthe portions of the journey. Kitty says she has money saved up and wants to buy a bar in Ireland. Aside from the "drinking all the profits" problem, I can't think of a better idea.

"Kitty, let's go over there and check the plot out!"

"Yes! Let's go Bunny! When do you want to go? When your book is done in March?"

"Yes, I think so. How about that? Oh my God, Kitty, that would be so much fun!"

"Eeeek!"

My sister interjects: "Okay. Hold up. I don't think that's such a good idea. Ireland is an island with a LOT of liquor on it and you two like to wake up in CAT scans."

"Nuh uh. Not any more. Why d'you have to always be such a downer?"

"ALSO--Ireland is really, reeeeeeally, super-duper Catholic. You know, that heterosexual religion? You guys'll go over there and get pissed drunk, start making out and find yourself at the stake. On fire."

She's raining on our parade. Somebody give her some drugs.

It is five o'clock on Sunday. Matty's Boystown eighth floor apartment has picture windows, and beyond them is the Chicago skyline. Beyond that is a moody Midwestern sky, all violet and violent, ready to drop cold rain and make everyone mad, and drunk and passive aggressive. I dont know how rain makes one drunk or passive aggressive, but that's what they are down there. The mean sky doesn't bother me. I barely notice it.

When I sit on the cold tile floors of the LAX baggage claim a half day later watching black bags roll by on the belt, I consider the trip I've just taken, as I always do. Everything must be pontificated. All emotions must be considered and realizations and conclusions must come about. I take into account my time spend in Chicago and my late January escape. I take into account the last day of my recent trip as well, the most fun day of it, and in mulling it all over, I feel pretty silly. Of course memories, good or bad, elude our grasp. They're just memories, perceptions, flashes in the back of the brain for chrissakes. They can't be recreated, only brought up and remembered, and even then, they're not tangible. Later and with better perspective, the good times you remember as good times turn out to be something else, or even the opposite. It is 4am in LA, and I am tired from traveling, and what could be considered the worst turbulence I've ever experienced, but still, the realization I should come to seems pretty obvious to me--why try to relive memories when you can just make new ones? Why try and relive anything?

Oh that's a damn fine realization. I'm pleased as punch with it. One by one, the bags disappear into the hands of the people of flight 119, Chicago to Vegas to Los Angeles, and I pray my bag will be the next to drop so I can shut down this infernal week, crawl into bed with my pups, snuggle my cares away and make all kinds of dramatic plans for self change. The buzzer goes off, the belt stops, and I am left alone in baggage claim.

Where the fuck is my bag?

Chicago Postscript: I would like to report that numerous skin abnormalities on my body have been evened out (to a baby's bottom type state) by Coconut oil. Beatrice was spot on accurate about the wonders of Coconut oil as a topical cream. Also the ass cheek and ankle burns healed miraculously well with Coco oil. I harbor no ill will toward Sheena's raw vegan store, for it gave me so much new age joy when I visited it during my tenure in Chicago, and now in California it has given my bum a positively fourth grade glow. Even NAMBLA would applaud.

Kitty and I are still arranging a trip to Ireland to pick out her plot of land. I'll keep you abreast of the details. A breast. Tee hee.

Comments

Posted by: SeasonTicketless at October 23, 2006 02:33 AM

Posted by: Kelsness at October 23, 2006 03:14 PM

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