Pete Bondurant

I meet a friend and colleague, Paul Castle and his wife Carrie at Petterino's before we go to a theatre production at the Ford Center. Carrie was a teacher, but now she stays home with their little girl whose name is Melanie(?) Or maybe it's Giraffe? Maybe they have a pet giraffe named Melanie, or maybe Paul was talking about buying a stuffed giraffe for his daughter whose name may or may not be Melanie. At this point, I am very tired. It has been a busy couple of weeks and I have not been sleeping well. Elspeth Shottenkirk also joins us. Elspeth and I frequently attend various artistic and social events together, although we are not romantically compatible. Elspeth is wearing a black, belted crepe dress, black closed-toe pumps and pearl stud-earrings with a pearl and diamond pendant necklace. Her black hair is worn up. She has acne scars on her face...visible reminders of a painful adolescence....aside from this, she would be considered cute. She somewhat resembles the English actress who played on the Emmy Award winning television programme Frasier, except with acne scars. The place is packed. Theatre people. Fat people. Rich people. Gay people. I am probably the only male in the place, perhaps even within a thirty mile radius, who is not a complete and total homo-sexual(Paul is questionable, in my opinion). Caricatures of celebrities adorn the walls. I can make out the likenesses of such luminaries as Red Buttons, Morey Amsterdam and Hal Linden. I am truly....awestruck. I have on an Alfani three-button black leather blazer, a grey, cashmere turtle-neck pullover and black wool flat-front trousers by Zanella with black boots by Salvatore Ferragamo.

Our waiter was an obnoxious, effeminate prick. I asked him if it were at all possible to have a chicken plucked and beheaded right at the table before it was cooked. He very non-chalantly explained that this would not only be unsanitary and illegal, but that the resulting noise and mess would most likely have a negative impact on the dining experience of the other patrons. I told him about this great new wine from Chernobyl, Ukraine and how I read in Bon Appétit that it was all the rage in...Luxembourg, or something. This was a complete fabrication on my part, but I was feeling a bit testy because I was not going to see a chicken get plucked and beheaded. I had sort of been counting on that. For an appetizer, I had the Jumbo Gulf Shrimp and for my entree; the prime rib - medium rare. I had a bottle of Cabernet, which I drank myself along with two glasses of Glenfiddich. For dessert there was chocolate cake with fudge and whipped cream. Paul keeps talking about work...the credit crisis....blah blah...The girls are gossiping away...allies in that cruel, bitchy world that women inhabit...what is she wearing? Look at her calves! Those have to be extensions... John McCain...economic bailout plan...credit default swapping... Sara Palin...dead moose...abortions...a dizzying cacophony of squawking on issues I care nothing about...

My original plan was to stay home and watch the weeks worth of Wheel of Fortune that I TiVo'd, but Elspeth was being pouty and annoying, and I really didn't want to hear her whine all week-end. As for the selection of entertainment, I suggested Revenge of the Enema Sisters..., but the girls vetoed that idea rather quickly. Instead, we attend something called WICKED...some sort of left-wing revisionist version of the WIZARD OF OZ...the entire production is tinged with communism...this causes me a great deal of consternation...which is only relieved with some Ativan and a few sips of bourbon from the flask I have in my jacket. The fact that I spent ninety dollars on this idiotic, feminist drivel is almost more than I can bear, and the only thing that keeps me from becoming completely unhinged is that Elspeth paid for her own ticket, although she did insist on sitting in the most expensive seats in the theatre. When the damned mess finally ends I see Elspeth to a cab and head off on my own...the lone wolf.

I go to a jazz bar on State Street. I hang out there fairly often. The television is on a college football game... Illinois beating Michigan. The music is familiar...old white men playing jazz. In twenty years all of this will disappear. Jazz will die. I wonder if someday there will be old white men playing rap music to crowds of well dressed senior citizens. I see some people that I know...although I only know them from this particular establishment. The bartender, Casey is in her late twenties and is taking classes at the Art Institute. She once told me that there were rumours I was either a gangster or a cop. I sit at the bar next to an attractive woman in her early forties. I've met her several times before, but I cannot remember her name. She says hello and we chat for a few minutes before Ivan shows up. Ivan is also wearing a black leather jacket. He is with a couple of Euro-whores. They go sit at a table and he joins me at the bar. We start drinking shots while we discuss various topics of interest....firearms, explosives, our mutual hatred of Muslims, the upcoming Japanese Grand Prix, Russian escort girls etc. I've known Ivan for about two years, but I don't know his last name and he doesn't know mine. That's the way things seem to be here, which is fine with me. I am pretty sure that Ivan is either a gangster or a cop. The band is playing "April In Paris," and I realise that I have never been to Paris in April, only in February and October. I wonder if the song would work as well if it were titled: "April in Marseilles" or "February in Paris" and I decide that it probably would not. Paris sucks anyway. I get a cab. I go home. Elspeth calls my cell phone. I tell her I'm fine. Tired.