Homecoming weekend

This weekend I went back to Chicago, mostly to see the Maye Queen run her first marathon (go Maye Queen!), but also to indulge in early nostalgia. "Too early!" said J-ka, "TOO EARLY!" And given that it's been just five weeks, she was probably right. But who knew I would have to overcome so many obstacles just to go back and (semi-masochistically) remember things the way they used to be? First, the dead car battery as I was leaving work for the airport. Then the unbelievable, flood-watch-inducing, torrential downpour added to the delight of Friday-afternoon traffic heading out of Spookytown. Throw in construction, and I was forced to call Stovie at his California office and have him talk me through an alternate route like a pilot talking down a 1970s disaster-movie passenger forced to fly a plane for the first time. But all the rushing was in vain, since my flight was delayed for 45 minutes. Which ordinarily wouldn't be a big deal, but I was connecting in St. Louis - ridiculous, yes, but cheap flights are hard to come by on marathon weekend - and my layover was but 20 minutes, with a 7:35 departure. We landed at 7:20, and reached the gate at 7:25. "I have to make that plane," I thought, "I'm meeting people at the Hopleaf at 9:30!" With motivation like that, and some judicious elbowing of passengers in front of me, I got out of the plane at 7:28 and began my headlong dash from C28 to C2. I ran and ran, and ran some more, knees pumping, backpack thumping, and got to the gate at 7:34. The door was closed, the AA employee tidying up. "I'm...(gasp)...on...(gasp)...that...(gasp)...flight...(gasp)," I choked out. We dashed down the gateway, already retracted from the plane, and as I stood on the edge, we slowly inched back out to the plane, which was preparing to back out of the gate. My friend (BFF!) knocked on the door, a peroxided flight attendant looked out in surprise, and he pointed at me as I held out my hands in a gesture of supplication. As they opened the plane door for me ("Watch your step," they said, since they hadn't quite linked gateway and plane once more), Blondie said to me, "It's your lucky day." "I know it is," I replied, "I know."

The things I do just to see you people.

So the Hopleaf was great, I got to drink one of my favorite Quebecois beers and see some of my favorite people. Friday quickly became Saturday (the Monsignor bore witness to my staying up past midnight) (as opposed to falling asleep in a bar before midnight, which he has also witnessed) and I bopped around town doing my usual stuff, except more hobo-esque, with my worldly belongings packed on my back. One theme of the weekend was visiting new homes. D-Dawg has finally made it back into his rehabbed house, and received with great joy his bacon-and-butter housewarming present. Mmmm, heart failure. The place is still en route to being done, but drool-inducingly lovely. The granite! The wood trim! The thematically-arranged-and-organized-by-color clothes in the walk-in closets! (So a man after my own heart.) Next it was off to the Ferret Machine's new Ukrainian Village palace for a "dots and stripes" party. He is a bit dotty, my friend:

Ladies, he wears the shirt so you'll want to rub his chest. Forewarned is forearmed.

I had planned on being stripey, but the combination of guilt-inducing e-mail (you could hear the sigh through the computer) and a lucky moment at a strip-mall Salvation Army down here meant wrap-dress dot heaven.


But I couldn't stay late, as it was off to Lake Shore Drive, where PJ and I relaxed in mid-60s splendor in the handsome Evil E's palatial abode, conveniently located just steps from the Frontrunners water station, where PJ and I were going to report for duty at a god-awful 6 in the morning the next day. Frontrunners, with its deadly combination of remarkable organization and Boystown fabulousness, regularly wins "Best Water Station" at the marathon. I'm guessing that this year was no exception, as hundreds of volunteers (seriously, like 300) gathered while it was still dark to set up Gatorade tables for the 40,000 runners soon to be streaming through. This year's theme was Hairspray, which is a pretty good theme for the tranny set, even if the soundtrack excerpts became tiresome.

I was a little disappointed when most people chose to wear the free volunteer jackets and hats rather than thematically appropriate attire (I had specially packed mine, though I hadn't had time to find my wig). Here PJ models his lime green hat and jacket combo from the Fall 2005 line, showing there's more than one way to look fabulous.


















A bit hard to see, bit this lovely queen managed to perch her hat atop her giant wig for a statement all her own.
Meanwhile, we were all busily setting up. The Gatorade needed to be mixed in giant orange cauldrons (we're missing just one witch here), and then paper cups were arranged on tables, filled halfway, covered with oaktag (posterboard for the rest of you) and topped with a new layer, with an end result of four tiers. Like a house of cards, but surprisingly stable.




















The first racers came through amazingly fast - first the men (and one woman) in racing wheelchairs twenty-some minutes in, and then, unbelievably, the first runners at 8:39. 8:39! Meaning that they had covered eight miles in thirty-nine minutes - the winner's pace was a 4:50 mile for the entire twenty-six miles. I realized as I watched them sprint by that I had never seen world-class athletes performing up close before. It gave me chills from head to toe, seriously - I guess that's what they mean by "thrilling."










Here is a demonstration of water-station technique. There was no time for posing once the runners started coming in earnest, though - just handing out drinks (you pinch with thumb and forefinger from the top, they grab with open hand from the bottom) and shouting out encouragement. I could only think of the stupidest things to say, like "good job!" and "good work!" and "woo hoo!", but decided sincerely meant encouragement was better than ironic wit. It wasn't about subtlety (in case the outfit didn't make this clear already).

By 10:30, most everyone had passed through, and it was time to step over rivers of yellow fluid (Gatorade is pretty unsettling when in giant puddles on the ground) and clean stuff up.












And look who placed ahead of 11,000 other runners!!! And got a medal!!! And is generally a rock-star like goddess! Here she is, Q of the M, with Colliculus and McFoolery looking on in admiration:

This is a woman who deserves my old apartment. And there aren't many people I would say that about.

Anyway, after eating post-marathon dim sum and visiting PJ's new Edgewater palace - so lovely that his tchotchkes are now objets, even the Tokyo-purchased Hello Kitty toothbrush holder (the man is lucky it wouldn't fit on my sink)- my little feet were tired and a bit traumatized by walking so much in hot pink fishnet tights.

So T-ka and I went for a Broadway pedicure, complete with bath salts and lotions and pumice and all kinds of footal goodness, where we sat and talked about men and pastries (what else?), and then I felt much better. Now I am back in Spookytown, and the feet and the soul are, if not rested, at least in better shape than they were before.