I awoke early that morning and packed. I always wait until the last minute. I find my focus to be more laser-like if I do. I usually pack light and return heavy, but this time, I had trouble zipping my bag shut, which worried me a bit. I always buy an outfit for CVK while I'm there, and this time, I wasn't sure if there would be enough room.

He drove me to LAX, and since we were yakking, we zipped up the Arrivals ramp instead of the Departures exit. "You can just take the escalator up," CVK told me. Walking? Ugh.

But that's what I did, and hi-tailed it over to a self-service machine which spit out my boarding pass. Next, on to the security checkpoint, where I pushed through my bag, my satchel, my portable dvd player and my shoes, the latter 2 in separate bins. A young TSA woman asked me, "Is this your bag?" after the x-ray machine shit out my possessions, all slightly more radioactive than they had been going in, I'm sure.

"Yes," I answered.

"I have to go through it, is that all right?"

"Sure," I said, wondering how long it would take for me to be wrestled to the ground if I'd said "no", and if any of the men doing the wrestling would be cute enough for me to hand them a business card.

She opened my toiletry bag. "Just as I thought," she said. "Saline solution. You wear contact lenses?"

"Yes," I replied. "If I didn't, I'd be walking around like this," at which point I put out my hands and mimicked cliched blindness. Actually, this is true. I am incredibly near-sighted, and without contacts or glasses, I can't see anything in focus beyond 3 inches past my nose.

She zipped everything back up, and I stood in line to go throught the metal detector. Now, the TSA people who work the metal detectors are 9 times out of 10, jerks. Either they are full of themselves and the power they imagine they have (which is always 10X what they really have) or they try to overcompensate for the passengers' nervousness by being "funny"—a condition my brother-in-law calls "Too Much Personality". I stood waiting while he dealt with a woman who had already gone through the screen, then she left and he immediately said to me, with a smile, "C'mon, you're holding up the line."

I looked behind me, and there was no one there. Odd sense of humor, I thought, already labelling him a TMP-guy. I walked through the screen, went up to him nose-to-nose and said (I can't help myself—I have trouble with authority, especially those who abuse it or use it in obnoxious ways), "Actually, you're directing people, so I'm not holding up the line, YOU are." Smile.

"No, I'm not, you are," he said, smiling.
"No, I'm not, YOU are," I said, smiling.
"No, you," he smiled.
"No, YOU," I smiled.
"No, you are," he said, showing more teeth. I was done by now and had a plane to catch, so I resorted to an incredibly childish Calvin & Hobbes method.
"It's Opposite Day," I declared, "so you ARE."

With that, he blinked, smiled even more broadly and laughed. "Opposite Day? I LIKE that!"

"No, you don't," I said, dragging my suitcase behind me as I walked away. "It's Opposite Day, remember?"

CVK hates when I do this, either figuring one day it's going to end up with me in the slammer (SLAMMER? Has that been a porn title?) or at its most basic, that it just makes me out to be as big an asshole as the other person. I don't care. I'm sensitive, and to let something like that go unchallenged can literally keep me up at night.

The plane was a 767, with seating 2, 3 then 2. I had a window seat. I prefer to have one when I fly because I firmly believe that if I don't hum the main title theme to SUPERMAN as the plane lifts off, we will all crash. I also have to touch the exterior hull of the craft as I board; another stupidstition of mine.

A petite woman plunked in the seat next to me. "Hi, my name's Diane!" Oh shit. A talker. A Chatty Cathie. I just want to watch my dvds in peace.

But I smiled and shook her hand, then was hit with a barrage of questions, including: What do you do for a living? Why are you going to Chicago? What's your middle name? Do you have pets? Where do you live? What's baggage claim like in Chicago? Finally, the pilot started the inflight movie, and she settled in to watch, as I pulled out my dvd player to watch ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN. "What are you going to watch?"

We landed in Chicago ten minutes early, and I grabbed a cab and headed off to my favorite stay, the House of Blues Hotel. It had recently been bought by another company and was soon to become the Hotel Sax Chicago. The outside was all torn up and the place looked frightful. Inside, I saw that the lobby had been moved up to the 4th floor (how W of them!). I checked in, almost getting an upgrade from a Junior Suite to a One-Bedroom Suite, when the registration guy realized that the reason they didn't have any more junior suites was because I had reserved the last one.

So, up to the room, which was very spacious and nice.


When you first walked in the door, you saw the desk area.


Turning to the left was the living area.


Further to the left was the bedroom.


With CVK back in California, this was only used for sleeping, watching TV and building a fort.

The House of Blues Hotel was always my favorite place to stay in Chicago, but its charming east Indian/art school student decor was being bulldozed under in favor of a white and grey boutique style, and it felt cold and sterile instead of warm and fun. I doubt I'll go back next year.

After unpacking, I jumped into a cab and headed out to Leona's Pizzaria in Boystown, where I had a dinner meeting with MATT COLE and his business partner MIKE. We talked about a new venture Matt and friends were launching, and I gave them some advice. I wish them well with it. Matt had to dash at 8:00 so he could get a facial and look glowing at the awards the next night. He was a bit embarrassed about it, which was all the ammo I needed. I wasn't going to let him forget it.

It was Thursday night, and in Chicago, that meant one thing to me: Sidetrack! The most fun gay bar in the city! Thursday night was Comedy Night there, so I sat and drank amaretto and Cokes and watched hysterically funny clips from movies and TV shows. I only meant to stay a couple of hours, but I ended up closing the place. A cab ride back to the hotel and a quick shower (you can still smoke in bars there) and I plopped into my big soft bed. I realized that my room was behind the elevators, but I couldn't hear the mechanics at all, only the sounds of air swooshing through the shafts as the cars went up and down. It created a white noise that helped put me out in minutes. Like I needed it.

To be continued...

JBK