u s e y o u r h a n d s

This is a feeling I haven’t had since high school community theatre: the post-show letdown. And this case is a pretty tough one.

I learned a lot during the rehearsals, backstage, and most definitely, onstage. I’m not sure if I’m done learning yet.

I am still completely perplexed as to why I decided to do the burlesque show. Certainly, I’ve been interested in the artform for some time, but from the audience, not onstage. So, what was it? I’m highly insecure about my physical appearance. I don’t even wear skirts above the knee.

I think I was suckered onstage by the performers’ moxie. All types of bodies, all kinds of tattoos, all sharing the same crazy chutzpah. But they weren’t alone. The audiences, man, the audiences. All the burlesque audiences I’ve seen have been so supportive, so kind.

Once I got into the show and attended my first rehearsal, I relaxed a lot. The artistic director and other performers offered great tips that I integrated into the act. I was inspired by the other performances which showed so much moxie, talent, sexiness. And how can you not bond with someone when you’re both holding your breasts while pastie glue dries?

I feel so proud that I performed in front of 1,100 people. I feel good about my body, in clothes and without. And though I’m not “perfect” I’m pretty good nonetheless, even without corsets and fishnets.

Thanks to all the performers and crew I worked with during the show. And, of course, many, many thanks to Red and Gwen, the Sissy Butch Brothers themselves. Their project will preserve the history of burlesque while making a scene here in Chicago.

And I think I’ll keep performing. What’s a better excuse to by lace and glitter?

That’s how I’ve been feeling. And it’s weird.

Do most people have this moment, where they realize that they’re racking up frequent flier miles in life? Does it show on my face yet? Because my hands are looking older. Thanks, drywall. And dishes. And everything else.

I’m starting a new job on Monday. I’ll be working downtown like a real grownup. And I’ll wear grownup clothes. The days of flip-flops and pajamas at work are so over.

And, all this is going on while I’m engaged and shit. My chosen life partner is at home, actually, sleeping off a nasty ass cold in the next room. He is not perfect, of course. But he’s totally perfect for me. I’m pretty sure about him, and that’s as good as you can get without a crystal ball.

I feel good about it, though. Plus, I’m very very excited about the burlesque show. Besides from being crazily attractive, they’re all equisitely kind. I feel cute and talented amongst them. But not so cute as to stop practicing my act. That’ll be me up there with the fake money. Hot-cha.

Tomorrow is my last day of weekday freedom. It’s been nice. And I’ll fucking miss it. But I have fun “working-girl lunches and after-work drinks,” just like Rachael mentioned in my comments the other day. And that’s pretty good, too.

Come to the show. Tell me I’m fabulous.

What has driven me to update during my delicious stay-at-home time? The floor is wet and Jerome McDonald is boring the shit out of me. C’mon, Jer’! Put some energy in that voice. And NPR, between talking about AIDS in Africa and the war in Iraq, how do you possibly make time to suck at Millennium Park’s fat teat? Oh, you do manage to work it in!

Tavis Smiley!!!!!!

So, I’m at home during an unexpected two-week vacation. I’m about to start what promises to be a dream job at a downtown ad agency which will remain unnamed. I’m thrilled. I’ll be working at Michigan and Wacker, taking the train to work. Cue the opening credits to “Working Girl”.

But during my time at home, I’m revelling in the life of a housewife. This is awesome. I get to putter around all day, scraping paint, sweating, cleaning, cooking. Man, this is awesome. No, really, if someday I’m able to be a housewife, I’m down. This rocks. Plus, I get time to read and catch up on writing. And let’s not forget all the time spent in silence. Divine.

I’m practicing for the Sissy Butch Brothers Burlesque Show this weekend. My act is primed and I am practicing the whole makeup thing. I feel good about the show and am not particularly nervous about performing in front of 600 people. The mostly female crowd is wonderfully supportive, the show benefits a good cause, and I think I’ve put together a good act. I am not rail-thin, but I look good in fishnets. I could be worse off.

Wedding plans are progressing. We have found a reception site and I’ve scored some tacky silk flowers from eBay. Corsages and boutonnieres for all! It’s still weird for me to say “wedding.” We usually just refer to it as “the fete.” We went to a really good wedding this weekend, for our friend Leigh Knight. It was a darling, darling affair, original and very well-executed.

I have to go blow a bunch of cash on new school clothes. Nordstrom? Marshall Field’s?

From Craig’s List and the Chicago Reader, these Missed Connections struck me as particularly interesting. The classifieds in general fascinate me, and they’re the only part of the paper I read regularly. Whether selling concert tickets, looking for a baby to adopt, or praying to St. Jude, advertisers never cease to make me wonder.

And so, I’ll be publishing a column about classifieds every Friday in Gaper’s Block. Make sure to check it out.

blue line to damen - 6/30 - black hair, skirt, calculator watch - m4w

hey. you sat next to me on the train last night and my misanthropic ways interfered with a proper semblance of conversation. you asked me furtively what i thought of the purpose of the inconsistent foot rests, but like that, you had to go. i found you interesting, to say the least. perhaps you would like to join me for coffee, as this world is full of crashing bores and hopefully i am not one.

p.s. i don’t think that i am as pretentious as this message sounds.

“Is this for me?” Cynthia wondered. “Crashing bores?” She recognized the reference from her favorite track off Morrissey’s new album. “But I never ride the blue line.” It couldn’t have been here. Cynthia had read the Missed Connections for years looking for herself. And now, she had, but it wasn’t her. But she could see herself with this man in a sunny coffeeshop, talking about Morrissey. She drafted her response carefully:

Dear Missed Connector:

I am not your MC, but I got your reference, surely. And I don’t think you’re pretentious at all. Rather, you’re brave for seeking love any way you can. Should your true connection fail to reply, please “squeeze me into an empty page of your diary.”

Thanks,
Cynthia

Keep missing the opportunity at Reckless Records - m4w - 24

Me, a geeky, emoish-looking boy with AFI shirt and cordoroy sports jacket on looking at Alkaline Trio, Ataris, and AFI records in your store. You, short black, spikey hair with a black and pink top on, working behind the counter. I come in almost every Saturday, religiously, for window-shopping, we exchange glances but never talk. This day (6/19), I asked you if you could place some vinyl on hold for me, and we finally met for the first time, exchanging our names. Came back the next week to find you weren�t working. I always want to stay longer and talk, but don�t cause I am professional when it comes to people and their work settings. Don�t want to be a weirdo for asking your number at work. Hope you see this and wish to reply back. Would you be interested in getting something to drink sometime or listening to some records? Let me know, would like to get to know you more.

Hillary looked for any follow-ups to this ad and found one. “Dude, AFI? Alkaline Trio? Welcome to the ninth grade.” She chuckled. That dude really pegged the poster. She had worked as a record store clerk and DJ in college and these types of men were not unknown to her. These sweaty boys would stand in the back of their store, twisting in their hoodies, and eye her while flipping through Uncle Tupelo albums. She never dated one, preferring to lavish her love on alt-rock drummers with drug problems.

METRA TRAIN TO Fox Lake 12:25am, June 10th, your 46th birthday. Acting student on train with your teacher Dan. You had the whole train rehearsing your script (oh poor Maggie). You were drunk and hilarious. Would love to take you out for a belated birthday dinner. Thanks, from Al.

He’d found her lurching endearing. Has Tennessee Williams’ Maggie the Cat ever been more lovely than performed by this middle-aged platform-shod siren? It wasn’t the way she tried to seduce her drama teacher as he read the part of her husband that Al found charming; She turned his head because she was trying so hard. Beads of sweat formed at her temples and stained the back of her shirt. And still, she was no Maggie. But she was lovely all the same.

Chicago Diner waitress: Pride Parade, party @ front window - 25

You’re the waitress at Chicago Diner with the lip ring; I’m the guy with the spiky hair who came in with a bunch of people and watched the parade go by. We all thought the windows were going to shatter when that float went by with the jackhammers.

If I had to guess, I’d suspect that you don’t generally like boys so much, but I might be wrong. I also suspect that missed connections never work, but I’d appreciate being proven wrong: I thought you were beautiful and I’d like to have a real conversation with you, if you’re down with that, to see how we get along. So if this is you, definitely email me. If you know her, kindly direct her to this post within 30 days, because we all know that’s when this post will turn into a pumpkin.

Kevin sat back in his rickety desk chair and sighed. He’d hit submit, and his feelings were now out in the world. Most of him knew it would never go anywhere, but perhaps …? And this small sliver turned out to be correct.

Amy’s co-worked Ted saw this post and remembered that guy. He’d checked him out, ruled him hetero, and went on with his day. But Amy was single and flexible in her choice of partner, so why not? He forwarded it on.

Amy did indeed respond. And Kevin was floored. Their correspondence went on for a few weeks and then they finally met. She chewed with her mouth shut. He popped his knuckles incessantly. But at the end of the night, they made plans to meet again.