Loring Park Episode #65: Garbage Person Dumpster Fire

It took 65 episodes, but I officially became the Vicki Gunvalson of Loring Park. I am not the star of this fake show anymore. I am the maligned villain who thinks she's all that and a bag of Fritos.

In the past, I have written about other people, whether they wanted me to or not, and when they treated me wrongly I called them out. So it is only fair, dear reader, to divulge that in the past month I turned into a full-on garbage person. I cannot present myself as a perfect bastion of innocence who everyone is trampling on for no reason at all. The truth is far from that, children! I turned 30 and evolved into an anxiety-ridden, possessed demon.

I told my friend Tanya about it and she said not to worry because she puts her dumpster fire status on full display. Then I combined the two and decided I was a Garbage Person Dumpster Fire.

In no particular order, here are the horrible things I have done in the past month and a half:

• Made comments in a group setting that I thought were hilarious but instead were hurtful
• On the way to The Saloon for the RuPaul's Drag Race viewing party, I pet a stray dog and realized I somehow stepped in his shit and had dog shit all over my hand. I wanted to run home to wash my hands, but my companion insisted we just stop at Target instead. This would be an apt metaphor, because when our large group got back to the house, I really stepped in shit. I had an impromptu private conversation with somebody in my bathroom. Unfortunately, I have no inside voice despite the sink and the fan running, and everyone and their dog heard it (and whether or not the conversation even needed to happen is up for internal debate). You're an asshole, said a third party in a broken voice, and we did not speak for ten days, ten days of constipation in which I saw their birthday and alma mater everywhere and even watched an HBO show where a character had the same obscure last name. It was not a good stretch of time.
• Made passive-aggressive Facebook posts whose subjects were open to interpretation
• Told a woman my brother was interested in all about our tumultuous teenage years
• Locked my keys in the car twice and then lost them again for the 87th time

Now, let's put our thinking caps together. What could possibly be the common thread in all of these events?

Well, okay, but if we're gonna be a little less self-victimizing, the other answer is ...

Vodka! Sweet and glorious vodka!

And I love vodka.  I love vodka on the rocks. I love vodka with lemonade. I love vodka with Sprite. I love vodka in shots full of sugar and calories. But it was becoming excessive. I searched what little of my soul there was left and decided that I needed to put a moratorium on booze. It was time for Ocsober.

It was October 4th and I could go until Halloween weekend without a drop. It would be hard, but I could do it! When I hosted at the '90s, Tim could make delicious Shirley Temples or anything else that you put Sprite and grenadine with. I could still have sugar! My skin would clear up, my waist would get smaller, and I would stop destroying all of my interpersonal relationships.

I read articles about how to stop drinking for a limited time. They said to tell a lot of people because then you are held more accountable, and that the first week will be the hardest and the last week will be the easiest.

I lasted three days.

Wait, wait. I have a half-assed explanation.

We were all at The Saloon for the RuPaul's Drag Race viewing party. I told people I wasn't drinking. "But you're horrible sober," someone said. "How will we understand you when you're not slurring everything?" At the end of the show, we were all standing in a group: Me, the usual suspects, and our friends including Carter, who is born in the mid-to-late '90s and is blonde with dimples and a really good body. Did I mention I was feeling anxious about situations that I may or may not have created in my own head? Okay.

This older man -- good-looking, though! Short but like a stacked body -- was drunk and was trying to mingle with all of us. Which is fine. I don't think we're a cliquey or snotty group. Just don't be obnoxious about it, y'know? Anyway, Joey, Reid and Steve were annoyed with him so he moved on over to me.

"You're like me," he said. "You're the eccentric one."

Well, I ... guess that's a fair snap judgment? Yes, I have the worst body in this group and I am wearing a hoodie and I am in a weird mood in which I don't want attention (I told y'all it was a weird month. I still went up on stage anyway throwing a plastic bag at a cute boy performing -- it makes sense if you were there. He was lip-syncing to "Firework" by Katy Perry and I happened to have a plastic bag with me because Joey and I went right to The Saloon from Nordstrom Rack. Or maybe that happened a week later. I can't remember.) But, still? I was uneasy. Was this me now? Next year? In five years. I wanted to go home and drink.

"And YOU," the guy said to Carter. "You must just be the pretty one that people only hang out with because you're gorgeous."
Carter smiled nervously through a smile that was tighter than his butt.
"Now, that's not fair, " I said. I don't even know Carter that well, but he's always been kind to me and it was a nasty comment to make. "Carter is not just eye candy. He is also a painter and a sculptor."
"Wait, what?" Carter asked. "No, I'm not."
"Shhhh," I said. "Just go with it."
"Wait, really?" said the creepy guy. "I own an art museum."
Oh, shit. Of all the fake careers and facts I could have made up about Carter, I chose one that actually applied. This was worse than when Erin and I went to Jetset and tried to pretend we were from Seattle and the one hot guy we talked to was from there and our cover was blown.

It was torrential rain outside, and Markie drove Steve, Joey and me to the house. Joey took my car to go to the liquor store. I left my phone in Markie's car and he dropped it back off. I took a shower and shaved my face because we were going to go back to The Saloon. Jared and Mitchel came over. It kept raining. We played Uno. And I got hammered.

                           ***

Not all was awful in the past few weeks. The hilarious Maggie Faris took me on the road with her to Eau Claire to perform at The Plus! I got to be off that Saturday, so first I went to LUSH to play bingo with my friend John from the '90s. I didn't win.

I was sure to be ready on time, because lesbians are punctual! They also drive like demons, because we were in and out of Eau Claire in record time. The crowd was older than I anticipated because it was homecoming weekend, but the show went great and I was able to mingle with friends from Stout who I hadn't seen in nearly ten years!

Maggie and I drove back and I brought her to The Saloon, where she was more popular than I was. She did lament the lack of females there, but, like ... fuck. It's The Saloon.

***

Year in review

A week later, Reid and I went to karaoke on a Tuesday, where I serenaded the crowd with "What A Man" by Salt 'n' Pepa. It was a good time and laughter and deep conversations were had.

And the next morning, we were at Stage Four Nuclear Meltdown all over again. I don't even fucking know. It was 7 A.M. I left the house to drive in my car and scream, and then I came back and tried falling back asleep, but I couldn't, and my heart was going to fall out of my chest. I debated going to a free counselor at a walk-in clinic, but I had to work at 2 and the earliest I would be seen was 1 and I am still new in my job and I didn't really want to tell my new manager, Hi, I'm gonna be late because I'm going crazy but I'll see you at 2:45!, so I sucked it up and even went to work early. In my half hour of down time, I got a call from a study I am participating in saying that I had an STI, even though no one has been back there since the Stone Age.

I clocked into work and didn't need to be around anybody for two hours, which was a nice bonus. I could do this! I clued in Reid that I was not feeling awesome. At 4 PM I reported to my work station, where I am to smile and greet customers and take care of things. I couldn't stop pacing.

"Are you okay?" asked a co-worker.
"No," I heard myself say.
"Do you want to come to the back with me?" asked another co-worker who has turned into my Work Mom.
"Uh-huh," I said in the distance.

She told me to go get water from the espresso bar. I started stirring my straw furiously. The loss prevention agent asked if I was okay. I was silently tearful at this point. I said no but I told him it had nothing to do with work (customers are, like, nice to me in this job). He politely encouraged me to go upstairs to the Human Resources office. It was like school. I walked the escalator up three floors and walked by Reid, who saw the whole thing but was with a customer.

The HR lady sat me in a private office. Oh my god. We officially have a crying room.

"It's not work," I kept saying. "I'm fine. I'm fine."
"Shhhh," she kept saying. "Breathe. Anxiety is physical. You have to ride this out."
I looked around nervously. "This has been going on for a while," I said.
"Should we call your mom?" she asked.
"My mom is on vacation," I sobbed. "And she deserves it! I've drained her out of so much money."
"Do you live with your mom?" she asked.
"No," I said. I don't think the HR lady knows I'm 30!
"I'm gonna leave and shut the blinds," she said. "And I don't want you to do any thinking."

Half an hour later, she snuck me a bag of animal crackers. Having a nervous breakdown at work is a lot like having a nervous breakdown at daycare.

The situation would repeat itself the next night at The Saloon. The Saloon! My safest, happiest, place. I can't go anywhere anymore! I was talking down a friend from the proverbial ledge and maybe I took on his feelings after our conversation ended, because after I was done wiping his tears away and sent him to the dance floor, I saw another friend was holding hands with one of my eight million crushes, and my brain went snap-crackle-pop. Why was this the catalyst?? It makes absolutely no sense. It's not like they were making out or banging each other on the table, and even if they were, it would have been their right! (Well, maybe not the banging on the table thing because of laws about that stuff, but they could have gone home to bang) The bouncers were very sweet and gave me Sprite and even asked if I wanted to sit in the office. Tim let me stay at his place. I lost my keys and my left shoe. Also, Tim has a gorgeous apartment and I should have gone into bar tending.

My shoe was retrieved, but my keys never were, so I had to walk of shame it to my leasing office, which was thankfully in the North Loop (Tim is in the adjacent Warehouse District). There is nothing to re-iterate your newfound trash box status like walk of shaming it in the North Loop, past all of the salons and expensive brunch places and condos you will never be able to afford. I debated telling the leasing company a whopper of a lie (I got mugged! But only my keys!), but decided to just be honest to the beautiful young woman behind the counter.

"I had an ... episode last night and lost my keys," I said.
She found out who my agent was and told me to wait. "Would you like some coffee or water?" she pleasantly asked.
Go big or go home. "Coffee with a LOT of sugar, please," I said. They had a black lab in the office that made everything better. If I ever get my money right and my own, bigger place, I am getting a labrador.

The leasing agent came in shortly after with my keys (and news of a $50 deposit). "Everything going okay?" he asked.
"Oh, well ..." I began.
"...With the house?" he was sure to clarify.
"Oh, just great," I said.

I then stopped at The Saloon for a cocktail. My phone was going to die and my charger was in my car so I bought one of those boost charger things, although St. Loretta made plans to come over to get me a new car key. I felt bad because Johnny was the bartender and he was one of the first people that I told I was doing Oscober (and we know how that went). Nina DiAngelo, out of drag, was putting up Halloween decorations. A handsome 40-year-old from Orlando was there and Johnny and I told him where to go every night as far as the club scene. An athletic man of the same age sat by me but only ordered a water with cherries and said he was kicked out of an earlier restaurant. He later told me his husband was cheating on him and wanted an open relationship. I told him monogamy is not for everyone but both partners need to be on the same page or it's a deal-breaker. An elderly gay couple told me I was cute. You find your people when you're day drinking.

I took an Uber to the government office (I lost my ID on a different night, for the 87th time) and got in touch with St. Loretta, who was beyond annoyed but made plans to deliver a car key to my house. I cried all the way on the walk home and made awkward eye contact with handsome young lawyers. None of them asked what was wrong and for my hand in marriage, but a boy could dream.

Maybe you should get sober

You will make a better atmosphere for everyone

I am trying to help you help me

Sobriety = Rehab

Rehab = Going far away

Going far away = Never coming back

Never coming back = I would miss everyone

It was a lot to think about.

I made plans to go to her house later and then went to my appointment at Planned Parenthood. They were busy! 7 PM on a Friday night at "the clinic" is apparently the place to be. They asked if Joey was still my emergency contact and he had been upsetting me all week, so I let out a big "Awwwwwwwwwwwww. Yessssssssssssssssss." and the lady behind the counter nervously smiled.

I decided to get tested for everything. Considering I probably got an STI from a sex dream, one could never be too careful.

"A lot of girls would kill to be your weight," said the nurse.
"I almost did," I replied. She politely laughed and then I drank the antibiotic-in-a-cup that tastes like sidewalk chalk.

Things got back to normal in the next few days. I was lucky enough to participate in the 10,000 Laughs Festival. My show was at the new Royal Comedy Theater in Hopkins. Even my brother came! It has the fanciest green room I have ever seen in my life. Basically, it's like a kitchenette with a stocked fridge and food and it felt like I was in the Big Brother house. I was especially excited to see Tiffany Norton (a.k.a. Bangs from KS95) again, because she's one of the first people I met doing comedy and I always gravitated toward the ladies.

After the show, we met with people from the city who were thrilled that Hopkins has a comedy club. "We've wanted to do this forever," a lady said.
"I love this downtown," Tiffany said. "It's like Edina."
"Don't say that!" the lady cried. "We'll never be Edina!"
"No, I just mean the architecture," Tiffany clarified. "I used to work for a construction company."
The Hopkins natives invited us for drinks, but we had to go previous social obligations. I kind of felt snobby about it.

Dane and I drove to Plymouth to my friend Lee's house, where he was having a neon-themed party! I didn't own anything neon, so we all just threw neon headbands at each other. It was fun until we played "I Have Never" because I have the sex life of a nun and always feel inadequate about myself playing that game (I spent my prime years living with my parents having emotional affairs on the Internet), and someone divulged that they had sex on someone's blanket, and the owner of the blanket STARTED SHOUTING IN VERY HIGH DECIBELS and if I had the money I would have just ordered him a new blanket from Amazon right then and there. Dane was a very good sport during all the gay sex talk, though. I think he was less fazed than I was!

I still had a good time as Lee is always a gracious host. I left my 10,000 Laughs t-shirt there. Of course I did. They even spelled my name right.

The next day, Steve and I went to Spring Street Tavern where all the comics were having brunch! We got there late (which was my fault -- shocking, I know), so we just sat at the bar and had bloody Marys because I was driving and needed something to sip. Tiffany hung out with us and later she met us at LUSH along with David Harris. Then we went to the mall so Steve could find last minute outfits for his upcoming trip to Hawaii, and my quest for dress pants was fruitless. I literally only bought Chap Stick. It was a sad day in the world of retail.

That night, I did my '90s hosting gig (where I beat Steve at darts in a miracle of miracles) and we were back at The Saloon. Joey reneged on coming to the '90s but made it to The Saloon and he explained that extenuating circumstances were making him act differently than usual, and I understood it. Then Sexy Jesus bought me a shot. Hallelujah.

                 ***

Steve was gone for a week and I didn't know what to do with myself! It's not like we hang out all the time -- I'm kind of like a whiny mosquito -- but who would listen to me repeat the same 50 stories over and over? Thankfully, my work schedule didn't leave much room for partying, and I stayed at my parents' at least one of those nights. That Friday night, Joey and I went to Mansion!

He only want me when I'm not there
He better call Joey with the good hair

We were nervous because we read so much about the dress code and I've read about people being turned away at the door, but I think if you wear black shoes, you're fine (also, Joey graciously let me borrow a sport coat). Also, be sure to go in the regular line and not the bottle service line. I still had my yellow papers from my lost ID but the bouncer was cool. "I don't need that shit, Jacob," he said good-naturedly.

Y'all, Mansion is fancy! We met a friend of Joey's who later lamented that she was turned down by Ricky Rubio. "I even spoke Spanish," she pouted.
"You already have a boyfriend," I said. "You were just talking about how hot he is."
"But it's Ricky Rubiooooo," she whined.

We walked to The Saloon where Joey talked to his hot and ripped neighbor, and across the bar I saw the boy who broke the heart of the boy who broke my heart, and I kind of got it.

(Sometimes you just need some Stevie)

Work at my regular job is steady. Wish I had more gigs but I have to get myself out there more often and no one is gonna do that for me.

I'm working on a book.

I think my Rogaine is working and I am currently less than my drivers' license weight.

I'm trying to have adult conversations about things.

Not everything is about me.

Talk is cheap, though. It's your actions that people will truly remember you by. I can only hope that I would be remembered as a good person instead of a garbage person dumpster fire, but I have no control over that shit. As long as they spell my name right in the yearbook, I'm good. It's Emmert, not Emmret.

Next week: Our Halloween episode! Scarier than me without make-up!

Loring Park Episode #57: Hard Wired

Because I sincerely miss blogging and need to go back to it and not do it about things that happened months ago, we're just gonna recap everything that we missed and then do, like, a real episode soon*

*We celebrated Christ's 2015th birthday

It is always so nice to see Danny, who has now been made "Mr. Manuary" courtesy of FM 107.1! He can now join Jason Matheson in the annals of local celebrities that my mother finds more interesting than me.

Oh, I forgot to tell you guys. I was in a play!

I haven't done theater since the failed play five years ago, unless you count If They Shoot 25-Year-Old Gay Men, Don't They? -- but I don't count that since I wrote it, directed it, and played myself. Instead, I was cast as Danni in "Hard Wired", a romantic comedy about a couple who breaks up but then finds themselves accidentally dating again via technology. My part was the easy Sean Hayes part while the other three actors (who were so amazing and gracious) had to do the, y'know, actual ACTING. With all that, I wasn't mad when a review said I stole the show with a stage presence concealed beneath my small frame. I was so happy for the opportunity and felt so blessed by all the people that came to see it. We had four performances at Bryant Lake Bowl in January.

Erin extended her stay in town, in part for a cheaper flight, but also in part so see she could see the show! Here she is with my parents and grandparents. My dad was there and chose to be paparazzi instead.

On the left is my lovely and ageless Auntie Lynn. She doesn't like to drive so her husband drove her to the show and then got coffee for an hour because he doesn't like plays. It's a good thing we weren't doing Angels in America. (See, because that show, is like, six hours long. Also, who the hell would I play in Angels in America?)


Tan Man came to the show and brought a gaggle of gays who all sat in the front row. The other actors were amused by it. "Is that front row all your friends?" they asked. "Why are all they so hot?"
"Because they all do fitness and that crap," I said.

Martha and Deborah came, Joey and his work friends came, two aunts and another uncle came, my friends Julie and Adam came (I agreed to go on a cruise with her this year, then had to tearfully call her two weeks later and tell her I can't afford a piece of shrimp on a cruise -- she was kind about the whole thing), and I felt very blessed for the great turnout. There were a few people whose absence was a bummer (my brother and my roommate), but people have their own lives to live.

Did I mention I'm super poor? And when I say that I'm poor, I mean that it's my fault I'm poor. Capital One is suing me. I am finally living out my dreams of being a Real Housewife on Bravo when I can talk incessantly about my upcoming lawsuits.


Anyway, everyone but me went to Vegas, and I got to field questions for a month about why I wasn't going to Vegas. The Vegas crew was Jared, his boyfriend, his mom, Fred, Steve, Joey and Liam. Girls from work were ALSO going to be in Vegas at the same time. I felt like hot fried shit. On a Thursday night when I was in my pajamas for money, I saw that they were checked into the Mariah Carey concert at Caesar's Palace and I went from feeling like hot fried shit to hot fried shit AND a side of bacon.

Steve texted me that night and said that they didn't go, and the person who tagged them in that was trying to get attention from me -- oh, I forgot to mention I was tagged in it, too, with a super cute "Jakey would be jealous." Yeah. Because that's what friends do, right? After a few more instances of idiocy, I effectively cut that person out of my life. It's a weird thing that happens when you get older. Yes, I hate that I'm bald and fat and act like a puffy coke whore, but I love that I don't care about toxic people anymore. I have so many wonderful sources of positivity in my life (see above! all the people who came to the show!), that I don't need to fake-nice to people who don't deserve it from me.

Loring Park Episode #51: Roll with the Punches (SERIES FINALE!!!!*)

Previously on "Loring Park": TJ the bartender moved across the world! A friendship went off the rails! Terri Runnels!

Lessons in Comedy

March began with me doing three shows in a week! I loved how busy it all felt. On Tuesday, I was invited to do a showcase at the VFW, on Thursday I performed at Bryant Lake Bowl for the LOL/OMG show, and Friday I had an awesome time slot in the Die Laughing marathon, where I got to do a half-hour set (that's the fundraiser for which I did "Brunch with Jakey" last year).

Show business, it seems, is kind of the devil. Yet you are always learning when you are in the trenches, and that is what I love.

First of all, the VFW show is really fun because they have a DJ by the stage and you can kind of riff with him and it's like having your own Paul Schaeffer. Bryant Lake Bowl was fun because I got to work with my friend Chris again, and Jason Schommer always puts together an eclectic and fun group. And Die Laughing was fun because of what I made out of it.

Other than my mom coming to the Bryant Lake Bowl show (which I really appreciated), nobody else I knew came to any of these gigs. Which is fine because no one owes you anything. I always believe that! But when people on Facebook insinuate they're going, and say they're gonna bring four of their friends, and then they don't, it becomes kind of a letdown. It especially felt his way at the Die Laughing Marathon, because I was led to believe that several folks from my high school were coming. I even brought my old yearbook! Also, the room was held in a HUGE banquet hall, so the audience of less than 20 looked even smaller.

But right before I got onstage, I realized the lesson. It does not matter how big your audience is, or who necessarily is in your audience. I mean, work certain angles if it makes the show better, but don't obsess over it being all women or all dudes or young/old whatever. It matters that you do your best to better yourself as a performer but more so for the people that are there. I let go of my disappointment that none of my friends showed up and had a damn good time on that stage. I was happy to learn that Fearless Comedy Productions achieved their fundraising goal over the weekend. Without them there would have been no Fringe Festival show for me, and I will always be grateful.

I walked to my car and made the drive back downtown. I realized it was a Friday night at 9 and were this just a week ago, I would have called Sean. We would have pre gamed at his apartment and maybe done Jetset or Saloon. Later in the month, Entertainment Weekly would do a full-length article on Delilah, the sappy radio DJ we both admired. It was an abrupt loss that, while certainly not romantic, was nonetheless difficult to process.

I had a paid gig that was cancelled a week later when I was the one who noticed the venue was advertising a completely different show for that evening. The booker felt bad and I didn't take it personally. Still. Show business is the devil.

I did the Tuesday Night Showcase the following week. I didn't do as well as the previous week because I was arriving right from work and was all frazzled and didn't have a clear routine. The crowd was still really cool. After the show, Gabe Noah, Isaac Witty and I went to The Saloon and drank Fireball and watched Latina drag queens and judged everybody doing karaoke. Life does not always have to suck.

My friend Sarah McPeck was the first ever female celebrity guest on Drag Queen Game Night! I was so proud of her. My friend Markie noticed my gut on this evening and later in the month an acquaintance grabbed a fat roll and on Easter Markie (again) would tell me to "suck it in". As stressed out as I have been lately, I am hoping some of it will lead to accidental weight loss.
     

Loring Park Episode #50: The Milwaukee Show

Here we go, children! This week's episode begins on location, because my friend Charlie and I trekked to beautiful Milwaukee!

Charlie and I are kindred spirits for a few reasons. We are both Cancers. We are both deep thinkers. We can both quote Alanis Morrisette at the top of a hat (him more so than I -- I can admittedly only do so for her first three albums). And while he is six years my junior, we both love that era of WWF/WWE that was the "Attitude" era, especially when the women are concerned. My favorite will always be 7-time WWE Women's Champion Trish Stratus, and his will always be Terri "Marlena" Runnels, who had a remarkably long tenure in the business for a woman. While Terri was never a wrestler (although she *did* win the Hardcore Championship once), she worked tirelessly in different roles, as a glamorous silent manager to Goldust, a shrewd businesswoman in "P.M.S.", a horny little she-devil in a rivalry with The Kat, and finally as an interviewer who would occasionally get thrown into the ring to make one of the bad girls look even meaner (see the times Victoria or Molly Holly/Gail Kim beat her up to get the crowd to boo).

"Do you want to go meet Terri in Wisconsin?" Charlie asked me months ago.
"Sure!" I said. I thought nothing of it. I went to school in Menomonie, WI (about 70 miles east of Minneapolis), so Wisconsin wasn't a far away land to me. I didn't ask any follow-up questions. I assumed we would have a lovely day trip in Eau Claire.

"I'm so excited to see Terri!" Charlie said months later. "Did you take the whole weekend off work? It's in Milwaukee."

My trepidation was quelled when I found out Sean would be there that weekend, too! His family is from there and he was going to be in the city at the same time as us. Charlie and I booked a two-night stay at the Hilton. I felt bad for missing Jared's birthday party and suggested that my mother go on his behalf.

"I'll go if he's not so drunk he can't keep his eyes open," she said. "Maybe next year when he outgrows that kind of thing."

Charlie is from South Dakota and is used to driving for hours at a time with no interruptions, but when I wasn't complaining about wanting to sleep, I was complaining about wanting to pee! We stopped in Menomonie, Wisconsin, so I could relive my college days. We stopped at The Acoustic Cafe, where I was impressed by their gender-neutral bathrooms and horrified by coverage of Scott Walker. Scott Walker is the dirt worst. He is so bad that Republicans from Minnesota are writing letters encouraging businesses to open up shops in Minnesota. True story.

In the car, I asked Charlie for chap stick. "I don't share that kind of stuff," he said. "You need to trim your nose hairs, too."
"Oh, no, I didn't bring my nose hair trimmer!" I cried. "Can I use yours?"
"Ew!" Charlie scoffed. "No."
I understand not wanting to share a nose hair trimmer (and I thought I looked like Cousin Itt until I looked in the mirror and realized that it wasn't that bad), but the chap stick thing threw me for a loop. Charlie would later apologize and I told him it wasn't necessary -- I just found it an interesting quirk. I think of myself as someone who shares everything, but I suppose I am in between the extremes of Charlie and my friend Jacey, who will walk up to you if you are eating ice cream and ask for some and when you tell her you don't have a spoon, she'll say "I don't care" and use yours without even asking. I love her, by the way.

We had a few stops before the hotel room. We had to pee so we found a Burger King and both ordered a small fries. We were the only ones there and it took five minutes. I was going to ask for ketchup but one of the girls behind the counter was crying and I decided my ketchup could wait. Then we went to a store that was part liquor store, part grocery store, and part convenience shop where you could pay your light bill and things like that. We were going to stop at a vintage store Charlie had seen on Yelp but it was all boarded up.

"This is ghetto," said Charlie, who is from rural South Dakota.
"Stop saying ghetto," I said.
"Why?"
"It just ... doesn't seem right," I said. Yes, Milwaukee is 85% African-American and most of its income is in the greater suburbs, and therefore the public schools are not very good, and there are some neighborhoods the police don't even patrol anymore, and this was the first time I had been panhandled walking outside of a Walgreens. Still, I do not feel comfortable using the term "ghetto" when describing an impoverished, mostly black neighborhood. It feels icky.

We finally arrived in downtown Milwaukee. Any fatigue I had left when we were greeted by handsome men in full formal military apparel. Our hotel was having a military ball!!! God is real. My favorite things are ladies in pretty dresses, Marines, and a good love ballad.

Sean was visiting with his parents and joined up with us about 10:00, while Charlie and I enjoyed the WWE Network (and being ripped off by the hotel which tried charging both of us for Internet access. Ugggghhhhh).

Charlie started drinking earlier, but I wanted to wait. If I'm going to be out at 2 AM, I don't want to be half in the bag at 11, y'know? We watched more wrestling and listened to sad Alanis and Mariah song, and Sean was our chaperone for the course of the evening.

First we went to a club called .... Liquid? ... They blur together. We saw some drag queens. It was nice. Then we went to La Cage, which had cash only cover. I was bitching about this because just before our trip Wells Fargo had completely decimated my checking account. It was between these two venues that Charlie was getting belligerent.

I played darts with Sean and two of his friends. A shot boy walked around with a tray.

Sigh.

I am the last person to make comments about somebody's body. When I take my shirt off, I look like an albino 16-year-old girl who is growing slight chest hair because her body is eating itself due to anorexia.

That said, I am not a shot boy. In Minneapolis our shot boys are people like my friend Tan Man who works at two different gyms and is 9% body fat, or my friend Robin who is a classically trained dancer and is 9% body fat. In Milwaukee, the shot boy had man boobs, stretch marks, and was wearing grey Hanes. If you would have asked him who Andrew Christian was, he would have probably thought you were drunk and talking about two of your friends.

Charlie somehow finagled a free shot. And then he continued being rude. He wasn't throwing drinks or anything, but he kept talking about how bored he was, and was generally acting like a 15-year-old girl that you bring to your grandma's house on the lake for a weekend. Also, at one point he made fun of someone's hair and apparently that person has had five rounds of chemo. Whoopsie.

In a surprising showing of maturity, Charlie agreed to go back to the hotel. I paid for his Uber and it was less than $5. And then I was able to see what Milwaukee is like on the town!! By which I totally made out with that shot boy. You can't shame the shameless.

Sean and I ended our night at This is It, which was really quaint and reminded me of the 19. And I met Season 7 RuPaul's Drag Race contestant Trixie Mattel!

No, she was actually there. I didn't just talk to a poster. She was out of drag and was super nice and friendly, and I'm sure I mortified her by trying to present myself as a peer ("I'm a performer, tooooo ....)". I'll be rooting her for this season (And Max, of course, because local girls gotta stick together).

Sean and I went to Toppers Pizza and I ate the whole damn thing. I think I gained a good ten pounds in Milwaukee.

                                            ***

The next day, Charlie felt terrible, both in terms of hangover and shame.

"Was I really that mean?!" he kept asking.
"Text Sean about it," I said. It was between the two of them. As embarrassed as I was about Charlie's behavior, he hadn't said anything mean to me, and I'm much more willing to forgive bad behavior if someone is trite about it immediately.
"That's why I don't drink that much," he said.

I do find this fascinating. I drink, um, a bit -- okay, a lot -- and I don't get mean. The worst thing I ever did was slap that kid's ass when he wore the Adrian Peterson family because I thought it would be funny! (Turns out his last name was Peterson and his boyfriend did NOT find this amusing). And there was the time a boy who was a thousand times better looking than me was going to sleep with someone I was in love with and I said "I know the score". Okay. Nobody is perfect, certainly not me. However, I don't get mean! I don't understand the concept of being a mean drunk. You drink to dull your pain, not maximize it. If you're a mean drunk, stay home or drink club soda.

On a lighter note, this is the AMAZING card that Charlie made for Terri.* How creative is he?? We went to Walgreens to buy 99 cent Wet 'n' Wild lipstick, and clearly Charlie is a better kisser than me. Then, on the inside, IT PLAYED TERRI'S THEME MUSIC.

*I suppose I can write here now a note about code names. By using real pictures and even evidence of real names, you might wonder why I am still bothering with the use of code names, at least for this particular "character". I can only suggest that, for this particular person, it is a matter of striving for consistency. There are few people who have never had code names, and they will stay that way. 

In the card, he wrote her a beautiful and heartfelt letter about how he was a gay kid from South Dakota and he found strength by doing the "Terri pose" against his fence (when Terri would enter the ring, she would lean against the ropes and do a kiss-face to the crowd, with her back leg raised up in coquettish fashion -- I would do the same thing climbing my bunk at summer camp). He wrote that he was here with his friend Jakey, who was also gay, also a Cancer, and also a fan of all things Divas.

He then wrote that he would love to take her out to dinner and gave her his phone number.

"Is that too much?" he asked.
"Well ... I wouldn't," I honestly said. Truth. I could be in an elevator with Channing Tatum and act like I didn't know him. "But it's also a now or never thing. When will you have this opportunity again? You are braver than me."

Of course, getting to the arena took forever because I left my debit card in the room, the ATM at the hotel wasn't working (but we did get to walk past the Broadcasters Hall of Fame plaques, and there was a guy whose name was legitimately Dick Record. I loved it!), and it was snowing! We arrived and the line to meet the wrestlers was a good 200+ people long.

The other wrestlers were Matt Hardy, King Kong Bundy, and Kevin Nash, the latter of which I was going to have sign my copy of "Magic Mike" and I forgot it. And I have two of them!! While in line we stood next to a young woman and her niece, and she went on and on about who she met and invited us to indie shows she was working on. While I don't follow wrestling nearly as much as I used to, it reminded me of conventions I would go to in Las Vegas with people on the forums of wrestling observer.com -- and as dorky as it sounds to someone not familiar with it, there is this instant connection of kindred spirit and brotherhood that happens with a fellow wrestling fan. Charlie and I driving six hours to meet a particular woman was ample evidence of this.

To meet the wrestlers you had to buy tickets to the hockey game, so we were at the Bradley Center, where the Milwaukee Admirals were hosting the Rochester Americans. The first period ended while we were in line. While I have never seen a hockey game, I was kind of bummed. Those tickets weren't cheap, and when would I ever see a hockey game again?"

"How long is a period?" I asked Charlie.
"Like ... a woman's?" he asked.
"No!" I cried. "In hockey!"
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Probably shorter than a woman's, though."
"Well, no shit, Charlie," I said.

A burly man came up to us as we neared the pillar. The signing went from 2-4, and it was about 3:40.

"FOLKS!" he cried. "At this time there are NO PICTURES!! JUST AUTOGRAPHS!"

My heart sank in my chest. I had begun to think this trip had all been a bust. What if I had had cash on me to begin with? What if I hadn't forgotten my debit card? What if Charlie had come back from lunch with his professor friend earlier? Would we just get her autograph, smile, and walk away?

Matt Hardy was up first. He can still get it, girls. King Kong Bundy didn't say anything but smiled. Then. Oh crap. Here we go. Terri Runnels.

"Hi, Terri," I said in lightning fast fashion and handed her the card. "I made this for you." I totally lied! Charlie made it!

"Open it," I cried. "It plays your theme music!"

She was elated. "Oh my god," she cried. "Oh, just get one picture."

WE TOOK THREE BECAUSE CHARLIE IS MUCH MORE CONFRONTATIONAL THAN I AM AND ON THIS OCCASION IT WAS FOR GOOD. THE GUY YELLED AT US THE ENTIRE TIME.

Amidst the yelling, Kevin Nash graciously signed an 8 x 10 for my mother (who loves him!), and Charlie and I hi-fived like Terri and Jacqueline of Pretty Mean Sisters.

Then we were finally ready for the hockey game! Charlie was too much on a high from the Terri moment to focus, but I wanted to relish the moment. I decided that I LOVE HOCKEY. I think I was spoiled because the game itself was really good and went into overtime. But I also loved the aggression of it. 85% of my love for hockey was heterosexual, but there was a 15% equivalent of me hoping that at one point the dudes would take their masks off and start kissing.

Nevertheless, my newfound passion of hockey only led to positive things, BECAUSE THE ADMIRALS WON IN OVERTIME!!!

They actually won 6-5, but that's the picture that came up. Okay, then.

Charlie and I prepared for a quiet night in, watching the Grammys. My favorite performance was Rihanna w/Jay-Z and Paul McCartney. I loved Sam Smith's speech about thanking the man who broke his heart. It was just like when I wrote a show in the Fringe Festival only not at all. Also, I have realized my celebrity doppelgänger is Beck and I am not sure how I feel about that.

We invited Sean out for Round Two, but he decided to stay in (a decision for which I couldn't entirely blame him). As the Grammys came to a close, Charlie's phone went off from a Florida area code.

"Who is ... oh, crap," he said. "I think it's Terri!"
"Answer it!!" I cried.

Charlie did his best impression of a teenage girl who is finally getting asked out by the star quarterback for spring formal.

"Hello?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
"Hi, can I ask who I'm speaking with?" the demure voice on the other end said.
"This is Charlie," he said.
"Oh, good," the woman said. "This is Terri. I just wanted to call and let you guys know that I fell in love with you two from the minute I saw you, and that card was so creative and warmed my heart. I just got back from dinner with Kevin Nash."

We invited her out to the gay bar but she said she was too tired. Maybe next time.

Oh, but this was the best part.

"If you guys ever need anything, let me know," said Terri Runnels. She, who kicked Marc Mero in the nuts and formed the first ever female stable in the World Wrestling Federation. She, who was sprayed by a milk truck by Kurt Angle. She, who had The Fabulous Moolah in her corner at WrestleMania 2000. She, who in the very building we had met her, was tarred and feathered by Stacy Keibler after a lingerie pillow fight and legitimately almost died because one of the feathers got stuck in her throat from the syrup. Okay, they're not all glamorous.

I decided to let Charlie keep her number under lock and key. I don't need to be texting Terri Runnels at 2 in the morning next time I'm sad about a dude.
But I love him, Terri, I will write. Even if he comes and goes like inclement weather.
You need to find a man who will be like Florida, she will write. Always warm and comfortable ;)

A boy can dream.

Oh, also, this:

                     ***

I was so saddened to find out that we had lost Linda Reed to esophageal cancer. I have worked at the Mall of America for six and a half years, and Linda, who was a cashier at Holiday on the first floor, was always a highlight of my day, especially on those in which I was sleep-deprived or hung over or crabby or broken-hearted or all of the above. She genuinely *loved* that job and the people she interacted with every day, and there was not a mall employee who wasn't affected by her genuine joy for her customers and occupation. They had this posted on the counter for about a week. I was most moved by the discovery that she had a family. I had no reason to think she *didn't* have one, but to all of us she was Linda. I had no idea she was a "wife of", a " mother of", a "sister to", or that her father was a reverend. I will think of her every day.

Loring Park Episode #46: I Left My Liver in Miami

Hello, children! We are in November already! It was a crazy October, and that’s even if I didn’t go on a trip that I couldn’t afford.

               ***

 

I saw Gone Girl. What did you think? They showed a preview of 50 Shades of Grey and I started giggling. It is worth noting that I saw it with two cute boys and purposely sat in the middle. I am 12 years old. The dude on my left yelled “Son of a bitch” at the two hour mark because he had a leg cramp and I almost spilled my orange soda on the boy on my right. I cannot have nice things.

Y’know what was nice? Doing comedy at Nye’s! It unfortunately no longer has the room because show business is the devil. I met up with Dennis that night and we went to the Gay ‘90s, which has a $10 cover on Thursdays. And I wonder how I went bankrupt (it’s because they have dollar drinks, but I am a princess who eschews rail drinks. Dennis bought me something with Ketel in it and I quit pouting). Dennis grew up in Miami, so I spent most of the evening asking him stupid questions about it. The essentials were that a) everyone looks like a body builder so I will fit right in and b) it is expensive as fuck. Oh, good.

We made our way down Hennepin to The Saloon, and I ran into Kevin! Kevin has a new job and a leather jacket and an earring and maybe it’s a total quarter life crisis (boy did just turn 31), but he was rocking a Johnny Depp look and I wasn’t nearly as sloppy drunk as I was the last time I saw him. I ignored him for 15 minutes even though he was right next to me because he had hurt my feelings.

“You told me to go home,” I told him

“You were really sloppy,” he said.

“I guess I was,” I agreed.

“I haven’t heard from you,” he said.

“Well, I didn’t know the boundaries,” I said. Kevin is living a new healthy lifestyle and I don’t know if it appropriate for me to make contact with him considering I am a partyhound booze bag.

“You have a phone,” he said. I told him that once and it really hurt his feelings.

We went to his house together. Jared was livid because he thought I was driving, but hell froze over and Kevin drives now! I am enjoying this new version of him.

There was no sexy time except spooning and that is fine because he is good at it. Some men really hate it (including Jared. He hated sharing a bed with Joey in Florida because “Joey is like a damn cat”). Kevin treats it like a sport. He takes it full on and puts his arms around me like he means it, and I slept like a smiling baby. His cat woke me up at noon while Kevin had been productive all morning, because I am a great guest that way.

When he dropped me off at work, I caressed his chest like a slut. I haven’t seen him since. Timing is everything.

                   ***

Paul Ryan and I enjoyed dinner at Hard Rock Café while I was on my break at work. I only had 60 minutes, so I practically sprinted to get there, which amused him as he glided in his Hugo Boss ensemble. I applied to St. Thomas, so I grilled him with questions because he is part of that educated, old-money world.

“I wore a suit when I took my tour,” he said.

“I’m not wearing a suit,” I blasted. He told tales of travel and debauchery and his plans for New Year’s Eve. I ordered a non-alcoholic drink with orange juice and Red Bull in it, because I like to gamble with my digestive system. He ordered a sparkling water and we got it comped when he was given flat water instead.

“It’s so nice to see you not drunk,” he said.

“And with clothes on,” I said, trying to be funny and sexy.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot about that.”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

“It’s fine,” I pouted.

Somehow my ID ended up on the table.

“You’re 27?” he asked.

“You’re bad at math,” I said, and then lowered myself to a whisper. “I’m 28.”

“You’re so cute,” he said. “With your big eyes and the fast way you walk.”

I squinted, because that is how I react to compliments.

                          ***

I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to University of St. Thomas! I still have no idea if I will get in, in part because it has been three weeks and I still haven’t sent my ACT scores and AP scores and I have to send a letter defending myself because I never officially withdrew from CUNY Brooklyn College and I might be dealing with a whole semester of F’s. Although, I don’t think I technically took anything higher than fourth grade math.

But that’s the strategy of my life lately. Throw things to the wall and see what sticks. My friend Shelly thought this was profound and took a weekend gig playing piano at a theater camp. “Theater people are so expressive,” she told me. “And my shower didn’t work so the choreographers said I could use their bathroom. I think they had every single hygiene product ever made in their shower! They had at least three different shampoos! And we were only there for a weekend!”

My best friend Erin works at UST, so she joined my tour. Since I hadn’t taken a college tour since 2007, I thought it would be a group setting. No! It was just me and an accounting major! She was very sweet and planned to return to Omaha after graduation to work at her parents’ landfill. This was the day of the shooting in Ottawa, and we had a measured and interesting conversation about guns. I enjoyed it. I also enjoyed walking by the gym, because I am only woman.

I didn’t feel like I totally belonged until I met my transfer advisor, who teared up when she told me how much she loved the university and when I told her about being named Funniest Person in the Twin Cities and writing a Fringe Festival show about unrequited love, her eyes widened.

“You’re not very old, are you?” she asked.

“I’m 28,” I said.

“Well, you look ten years younger,” she said. “And you’ve accomplished so much in your young life.”

That might have been worth more than the damn degree.

Loring Park Episode #40: Mothers and Daughters

It has been so long, dear readers! I don't even have an excuse why this episode took two months to post. Some of it was kind of painful, so we'll go with that.

Chapter 1: Easter
                                 

I GOT PREGNANT.

Okay, not really.

But I'm struggling with my body.

When I'm naked, I have a flat somach.

When I put clothes on, this happens.

Yes, I *do* need to exercise more and tone things up, but I don't have a gut until I get dressed. Then a magic muffin top appears. I'm 5'7" with a crazy short torso, and I'm constantly standing next to people with great bodies. This is Robin, and he has abs you could grate cheese on.

Why did I bring up cheese? Now I just want some mozzarella sticks.

Anyway, this picture was taken on Easter Sunday, and was a lot of fun! I went with Jared, and we sat with some co-workers and Chuck. When I walked inside, Chuck's brother's roommate -- who is handsome and hetero -- was there with his girlfriend. I asked them if they would be willing to play a game with me. Let me tell you, this random 6'2" blonde dude played his part perfectly.

We went back to the patio where my friends were sitting, when the dude came up to me and said the line I gave him. "Jakey," he said. "You ... You didn't call me."
My female co-worker looked shocked.
"Well, I've been really busy," I said. "You look good."
"Thanks," he said. "I'm ... uh .... here with my girlfriend."
"Oh!" I cried, doing my best Emmy acting. "Hi. Nice to meet you."

They walked back inside and my co-worker was beside herself. "What was that?!" she cried. I love acting.

My mother soon picked us up to bring us to our grandparents' house for Easter. Jared had maybe one too many mimosas, and I was worried about him appearing too drunk for a religious holiday. Unfortunately, I was the one who came across as hammered when my Grandma Shirley opened the door.

"Where did the bathroom go?" were my first words. In my defense, they just moved to the townhouse and I had forgotten!

The dinner was delicious, and I felt grateful that my definition of family has been broadened. I was moving in with Jared soon, and while I describe him as my nonsexual life partner in a joking kind of way, he really is that, just in the way that Erin is my platonic soulmate and Joey is my adopted son. I fell asleep on my grandparents' bed, Jared fell asleep on the living room, and we were still more fun than my brother would have been. (I kid!)

On the way back to LUSH, I was freaking out because I thought I had left my keys in the car. Turns out I hadn't just left them in the car, I had left them in the ignition. I do not know how I survive, either. I am the reason my mother takes Lipitor.

Loring Park Episode #7: Aggressive Spooning

I was so excited to go "glamping" this weekend a la The Real Housewives of Orange County! Matt Iverson, a gay comedian who I've seen around the circuit, graciously invited me to be the opener for a GLBT comedy revue at CAMP Bar in St. Paul. I was excited for many reasons. First of all, I never go to St. Paul, which is rather shameful; My good friend Josh Florhaug would also be on the show; and it was the first time my name has ever been on a flyer! Anyway, I was looking forward to a good time, and my parents were in attendance, which is always awesome.

I decided to wear Kevin's Hollister tee, the purple one that says It Only Gets Sweet When You Get Deep. First of all, Hollister fits my figure really well and I don't know why I never wore it when I was actually the appropriate age to wear it. Secondly, stand-up comedy is really my therapy. I was still emotionally damaged from my super fun hang-out with Kevin turning into an episode of "Elimidate", and I decided that I was going to talk about it in front of my parents, lesbians, and a totally awesome group of gay guys sitting in the front row.

"I need to address the elephant in the room," I told CAMP bar. "Which is that I am born in the eighties and that I'm way too fucking old to be wearing Hollister. Here's the thing: I'm mad at a boy, it's his shirt, and in my teenage girl logic, I have decided that if I wear his shirt at a comedy show that he doesn't know about and therefore isn't attending, somehow it means he'll text me back. Just go with it.

And I knew it wasn't gonna end well. All of the warning signs were there. Strike one: I met him at The Saloon. Strike two: He was wearing a pouka shell necklace. And strike three: His name was [Kevin], which is only a step above Tyler when it comes to how messed up a dude is."

The gays appreciated it. Then I did my Gay Oprah jokes and they bombed. I am not destined to be the Kathy Griffin of Minneapolis and that is okay.

After the show, I mingled with the other comics, including the headliner Tiffany Norton! I took a picture of me, her, and our mutual boyfriend Channing Tatum:

　

Unfortunately, I do not know how the hell to use Instagram, which is why my face is grey. That would never happen to Chan Crawford.

My mom's high school friend Lori and her boyfriend (husband?) came to the show, which was awesome! I should have been less dirty. They maintained they had a good time, and I drove my Deathmobile back to Loring Park. I had no reason to go out considering I had to work at 10 A.M., but stand-up always leaves me with such adrenaline that I felt I had to celebrate, even though no one at The Saloon would have known I was telling jokes across the river hours ago.

I debated if I should wear the Hollister shirt or not. I decided it would be too creepy. It honestly wasn't that I wanted to run into Kevin, it was just, what if, in the 5 percent chance that I did, I would be wearing his T-shirt? How Single White Female would that have been? I opted for a different one, did my usual stop at the 19 for a quick cheap drink, and was on my way.

There is rarely a dull moment in downtown Minneapolis. On my way down 9th St, I saw a policeman pointing a gun at a dude and arrest him against his car, and then I graciously allowed a group of three good-looking guys and their gal pal to go ahead of me in line at The Saloon. This proved to be a mistake, as the jackhole was indignant when the bouncer told him that The Saloon does not accept American Express. The silly, silly boy said he would wait "all night" for a manager. Honey: AMERICAN EXPRESS CHARGES BUSINESSES $2.50 FOR EVERY TRANSACTION. BRING CASH TO THE GAY BAR. YOU'RE NOT SPECIAL. WE ARE THE 99 PERCENT.

I soon began to regret my decision to come to The Saloon. Most of the gays are hibernating until Pride weekend so their abs will be in full display (While I am down to my lowest weight ever, it's actually kind of gross and I am still going to be wearing a button-down all weekend. Or maybe a muu-muu), and I didn't recognize anyone, nor did I feel confident to make new friends (there's this blond guy I always see, but Jared and I are convinced he is an escort, and I'm broke). I finally recognized someone I barely know, and he was polite enough to make small talk with me on the patio for a few moments, but when he walked back inside with his friends, I was back to social square one.

I walked back to the large room, and took a picture for three good-looking gays. I had set my drink down and it was gone, so the bartender graciously made me another Three Olives lemonade on the house. Such good service (and why you always tip well, boys and girls!). I threw it back and walked back to the patio, and when I turned around to look back indoors, there he was.

I did not do what Old Jakey would have done, which is to ignore him like I am in middle school. I smiled at him like a grown-up, but I did make him walk over to me if he was going to engage in conversation. He was wearing a dark blue short-sleeve button-up. It looked nice. Wait, holy shit, that was my dark blue short-sleeve button-up!

"I think I'm wearing your shirt," Kevin smiled.

"I was going to wear yours but I didn't want to be awkward!" I cried.

"Let's go inside," he said, and I obeyed. We soon walked by a shirtless boy giving out $1 Red-Headed Sluts (the drink, not promiscuous women). Because Jagermeister gives you balls and Red Bull gives you wings, I couldn't resist.

Margaret Cho has a joke that Jagermeister is the liquid equivalent of Wonder Woman's golden lasso, because it will make you tell everybody everything, and that was in the back of my brain the second after I downed the Red Headed Slut. Within two minutes, Kevin and I were on the subject of the Dismissed incident.

"Eric and I didn't do anything," he smiled. "You could have fought for me."

"I'm not gonna do that," I said calmly. "I'm above that. I like you, but I'm not gonna get in a catfight with some boy for you in the mud pit. It's not my style."

He was genuinely confused. "Wait .... mud pit?"

"Did I stutter?" I challenged, and chugged the rest of my Three Olives. "Let's go dance this out."

I wanted to go on the whorebox, but Kevin does not like the whorebox. There were four beautiful young women dancing on the whorebox, and I decided he was not going to dictate my night. I jumped up and booty-danced with them and got all their names, and it was like a weird Kardashian thing because I think they were all "K" names. Kaylie! Katie! Kara! They were there for a bachelorette party but the bachelorette could not be explicitly identified, because The Saloon has banned bachelorette parties long before The Abbey ever made headline news for it.

Kevin was legitimately scared of the whorebox, but he finally jumped up and danced with two of the girls. I would have understood his trepidation if there were other men on the box, especially older ones (he had told me that being sexually harassed was nothing new), but it took me a while to understand that maybe he was afraid of girls. Not in a juvenile, cootie-fearing way, but in a way that was deeper and sadder. I do not know how old he was when he came out, or if he had done so in high school or not. Unless you are witnessing his intimate moments, Kevin does not look or act gay in any capacity unless you are aware of his DVD collection, and I realized he had spent at least a decade fending off girls innocently hitting on him, never thinking that the reason they didn't have a chance was because they weren't the right gender.

"Is he your friend?!" one of the K's asked. Kelly?

"Yes," I smiled.

"Are you ----?"

"We're friends," I smiled through gritted teeth.

"Okay," she smiled knowingly. We danced some more, I might have kissed one of the girls (judge me not!), and Kevin jumped off the whorebox.

"C'mon," he said. "I want to go outside."

"Fine," I groaned, and I gave him my hand so he could escort me off the whorebox without me falling and breaking my nose (because that did happen once, in my most D-list of moments). Instead he grabbed me by the waist and carried me around like our team had won the pennant, and the K girls were cracking up.

"I know that's what you like," he said. "I just wanted to give you a little taste." Thank goodness I wasn't turned on at all.

We went into the big room, and I told him that I had to work at 10 A.M. He looked bummed.

"You don't have to leave with me," I said. "I don't have air conditioning, anyway." I believe in honesty, dammit. I bought a Three Olives lemonade for me and a Long Island iced tea for him.

He stared at me as my back was against the wall. "That's real early," he said. "It's Saturday. I want to sleep in."

He kissed me on the lips and walked back onto the dance floor. I had been Drive-By Kissed.

When I saw him again, he was dancing with an attractive, strapping young man in a pink shirt. My freshly ordered Three Olives lemonade was half-empty.

"Are you leaving?!" he shouted over the music.

"When I finish this," I said. It was about a quarter to two. There was an uncomfortable silence. He looked at the guy in the pink shirt, then back at me, and I began to realize that I was going to be dismissed again. I remember an episode of Elimidate when the guy made out with the slutty girl, then turned to the other contestant and told her he forgot her name, and she indignantly scoffed, "That's it! I am eliminating myself!" and walked out of the bar in triumph. I wanted to be her.

"Ten o'clock is early," he said.

"You don't have to leave with me," I said, and I genuinely meant it. Yes, I would sulk when I got home, but he certainly didn't owe me his presence outside of the club.

He jumped off the box he was dancing on. "All right," he said. "Finish your drink and let's go."

We took a petty cab back to my apartment, and all the cash I had left went to our "driver". What is the appropriate term? Bike pilot? When we got inside, he was wired as hell, ate my mac and cheese and a Hot Pocket, got cheese all over the floor, and we watched The Devil Wears Prada. He criticized more of my writing when the computer was open, and I showed him the first memoir I wrote and quit, about my mental illness when I was a teenager, because I was desperate to prove that I was deep, and depth, like hotness or class, is something that you only have less of the more you try to prove that you have it.

I fell off the bed, could feel myself falling, realized I could have helped myself back up if I wanted to, but I decided to make him rescue me anyway. For the two of us, that's like second base.

When I woke up at 7, I realized that I could not fall back asleep. I reached out to three co-workers to see if they could switch shifts with me, and none of them did. I know it's only spooning, and spooning means nothing, but I wanted to stay in bed for as long as I could.

***

My mother came over the following night because my freezer had gone off the fritz and I was still concerned about the DeathMobile. She noticed that some of my blinds were broken.

"How are your blinds broken already?" she asked.

"Because I fell off the bed!" I cried. "It's hard to fit two people!"

"Well, you have a sleeping bag if you want people to stay over," she said, and she was actually serious. I stared at her until she got the point.

"Well," she sighed again, "I guess you'll have to call your grandpa to borrow his pick-up so you can bring the bigger bed over here for your ... aggressive spooning."
***

Sunday night, I was going to walk to The Saloon to meet Liam, but the weather turned into the Rapture. I don't mean just a little bit of rain, I mean torrential downpour. I stood outside to watch it and appreciate its majesty, and debated going back inside when I realized I didn't have any alcohol in the apartment (and I had put my face on). I walked the two blocks to the 19 bar, thoroughly ruining my Polo shoes as I think I walked through a pond at one point.

I soon became friends with a young man who was the Latino version of me. He had my exact body type and I found out he lives on my street! He assumed I was 21 and we had fun picking out songs at the jukebox. He was from Houston and I enjoyed his accent. When I decided I really wanted to be friends with him, I told him my current fake boy problems and my real age, and strangely, his face fell.

"Really?" he asked. "You're screwed."
"But I've never dated!" I cried.

He was appalled. "Why not?"

"I don't know!" I cried. "It just wasn't ... in the cards."

And right as I said that, Prince Eric walked in the door with a companion. Of all people. Someone who I have never seen before last week, who lives in a third-ring suburb, who would never be downtown on a Friday night, and he's in a bar that I'm only at because there is a monsoon outside. You can't make this stuff up.

He smiled at me, and we shook hands, and told each other our names again. I turned to my new friend, who by this point had heard the whole Kevin/Prince Eric story. "I don't want to say this is fate," I said. "But it's cosmic, right? I can't show up at The Saloon because of the storm. I show up here. I meet you. Prince Eric shows up. It has to be mean something, right?"

"Eric is hot," New Friend said. "Everyone would like him. Tops. Bottoms. Jesus." I think he meant Jesus as an exclamation and not literally Jesus.

"Gilbert!" I cried. "Not. Helping."

"Sorry," he cackled. "Yes, I do think it means something."
　

　
It finally stopped raining. Gilbert and I walked home and he announced plans to cook for me. Yay for new friendships! And weird feelings.

Coming up: Pride weekend! OH NO.