NOTICE: The names have been changed to protect...somebody.

Yesterday I worked a catering job, which in itself wouldn't have been so weird except for the fact that it was at the Lakeshore Drive condo of Father Steve, the gay priest. And while Father Steve has to sleep and live in the rectory for the most part, nothing prevents him from having a 19th floor, 2 bedroom condo on Lakeshore Drive. Well, except for common sense. So Kami, Frank and I loaded up a car, headed over to Father Steve's, and set up camp for his little Sunday afternoon party which we soon found out consisted of other gay priests and ex-boyfriends.

"Did you have to work today?" Kami asked as we entered the apartment. "Is the Pope Polish?" Father Steve replied. Finally, a gay priest with a sense of humor!

The apartment itself was amazing, forcing me to comment to Kami, "I think I joined the wrong religion." Views of the lake, the park and the city, and mirrors on almost every wall, at which Frank commented, "I've seen angles I haven't seen in years!"

For most of the party Frank was out serving martinis while Kami and I stayed in the kitchen, me mixing the martinis while Kami made us memosas to get through. "I love parties!" Kami kept saying.

Several overheard lines included:

Random Priest: Yeah, I worked under him. That Cardinal was such a bitch."

Gay Priest #1: Hey, John is it?
Gay Priest #2: No, Jim.
GP #1: Right! I knew that. I have an uncle Jim, a brother Jim, a nephew Jim...Well...used to be Jim, now it's Rachael.
GP #2: Now it's Rachael?
GP #1: Well, he had a sex change.
GP #2: Really?!

Oh, the secret lives of priests. I am just going from one bizarre circumstance to the next.

Last night a 17-year-old was having her birthday party at Kit Kat. She was there with her mom, aunt, and 10-year-old little sister.

"Dear God," I said to Shane, "get them out of here!"

Just then Tracy, one of our transexual performers came out and did a number to Madonna's "Hanky Panky" (sample lyrics: "Before I get to cranky, you better like hanky panky, nothing like a good spanking"). Tracy came out strutting her stuff, in tiny underwear and a small top.

I went on, "I mean, just flash forward seven years to that little girl in therapy because of this." Then I paused a second. "Or ending up just like me."

Either way.

Yesterday Shane, Scot and I were standing around working, talking about words we hate.

Shane: Whoever invented the word 'bling'...I'd like to have a few words with him. New words are never created on an intellectual basis.
Scot: Well it's harder when it comes out of this kind of culture.
Shane: And metrosexual too. I just hate that term.
Scot: Yeah.
Shane: I mean, just because I can cook and dress nice doesn't mean that any day now I could just go out and suck dick.
Scot: Why do they have to put the word 'sexual' in there?
Me: Maybe we should come up with our own new word.
Scot: Why can't they just say 'well dressed man'?
Me: It's too many words, we need something short and catchy.
Shane: Like a renaissance man.
Scot: You mean like a carny?
Me and Shane: A carny?
Scot: Yeah. People that work at the circus. Like the renaissance fair.
Shane: No, no. A renaissance man. You know, someone who knows a lot about a lot of different stuff. Smart and cultured.
Me: Maybe we should call them a Renny.
Shane: Ooh, that's good.
Me: Yeah, no sexual connotations whatsoever. I'm gonna try and get that word to catch on. Instead of Metrosexual, Renny.

So that is my message to you readers. Down with 'metrosexual' and it's connotations! Instead, use the word 'renny' to describe that well dressed man with an extensive wine knowledge and nice shoes.

Elijah, a fellow circulation assistant at the library recently got a transfer to a new job in the Museum Education department. His last day is in a week.

This morning, while sitting and talking with Maggie, Shirley comes up to me and says, "Congratulations on the new job!" I stare at her for a minute and then realize what she's talking about. "I'm not Elijah," I say. She looks at me intently for a minute, as if trying to realize what's going on. "Oh," she says, "well...you didn't want that job anyway, did you." I tell her no, and she smiles and walks off, saying, "Well wish him luck."

It's nice when someone who you've been working with for three years confuses you for someone else that you work with. It really makes you feel appreciated.

The other day I was hanging out with a friend of mine who lives in Hyde Park. She was telling me how she had fallen under the thinking that people in Hyde Park were attractive, but then she'd come up to Lincoln Park (where all the pretty people live) and realize that she'd been fooling herself.

"I mean, you just get so used to them," she said, "but then you come up here and you're like...wow."

Yeah, it's not easy living in Lincoln Park.

This afternoon Micah and I were hanging out and I picked up a new Reader. As usual we read Savage Love (this week some guy was writing about how he liked to be suffocated by bread - eep!) and also the Missed Connections (which have now been renamed "I Saw You" - boo!). We were browsing through the missed connections, past 'Retro on Roscoe - You're Handsome' and 'Red Line 8/5 Noon' when I saw 'Mr. Bartender at North End' and yelled out "Holy crap!"

The ad reads, "After Market Days. Me: drinking with girl and guy friend, white sleeveless T-shirt and jeans. You: hottie as always flirting behind bar in khaki shorts and black sleeveless shirt. I totally dig you but I am too shy to do anything but smile. You made us several Purple People Eaters. What do you think?"

"That's totally Russell," Micah said. "Yeah," I replied. "Too bad he's moving to Hawaii in three days." We both were stunned for a few minutes, shocked that a Missed Connections ad had actually hit so close to home.

About an hour later, after Micah and I parted ways I got a text saying, "OMG! Black sleeveless could be George too!"

...For those who know George, I doubt he'd be classified as 'hottie as always'.

Author Marcelle Clements once wrote, "Falling in love is life's best opportunity for pain."

I mean, shit.

Earlier this week on the phone Kellie was angry at me for misquoting her.

Kel: Josh! I don't say damnit! You know that!
Me: Yeah...well...
Kel: Do you know what happens to journalists who make up stuff?
Me: They get fired and then have movies made about them staring that young guy who's in the new Star Wars movies?
Kel: Jooosh!
Me: Sorry?
Kel: Damnit* Josh! My exact words were, "C'mon Josh, I'm funnier than a playlot." The mood was sad, not angry.
Me: Okay, okay.

(*This "damnit" did not actually occur. Simply for dramatic purposes.)

Today Kellie and I were out and about, Kel spouting off random things that she was trying to get into the blog. "This is good stuff!" she said, trying to get me to use something she was saying. At that moment we were walking past the playlot a few blocks from my house. I said, "Hmm, I've wanted to blog for a while about how they don't even call them playgrounds in the city. They call them playlots."

Kel stopped walking. "Damnit Josh," she said, "I'm funnier than a playlot!"

...I like to think everyone wins this way.

Last night Kellie and I went to go see Little Black Book, the new Brittany Murphy comedy. After the movie Kel was in the bathroom and I was waiting for her outside when two women walked out of the bathroom and one said to the other, "I'm so glad I didn't drag a date to that." Then both of the women looked up and saw me and smiled awkwardly. "No, it's fine," I said. "I'm...yeah." They both laughed.

I got dragged to a crappy movie.

Up on Lincoln there's a place called The Little Gym. It's a place for toddlers to go and play, climb on stuff and slide down slides. It's all plastic and colorful.

Then on Halsted there's a place called Little Jims. It's a seedy 4am bar in boystown that shows gay porn and has a vending machine selling chips and cigarettes.

It would be really horrible if someone confused the two places.

The other day Bernadette and I were taking the dogs out for a walk. A woman stopped us and asked

Woman: Aww, what's her name? (referring to the dog, not Bernadette)
Me: Vega.
Woman: How many months pregnant is she?
Me: (awkward pause) Um, she's not.
Woman: Oh. Really?
Me: Yup, just fat.
Woman: Sorry.

Perhaps it's time to put Vega on a diet. Poor fatdog.

Today it was in the air. Not the sound of construction a house over (even though it was), and not the exhaust from a large truck as it passed me on Fullerton (even though that was too). No, I'm talking about fall. And while it's only August and I'm sure summer will return, today fall was here. The wind was brisk, the sky was cloudy, and it seemed moments from raining.

As I went out I ditched my flip flops for solid sneakers, and instead of a t-shirt I put on a sweater and a tweed blazer with the collar up. Rather than pick up the newest Entertainment Weekly at the bookstore I got a Jonathan Franzen novel, and on the way home instead of getting Jamba Juice I stopped and got some tea. And it was then that I realized: Fall is one serious season.

Summer may be great for bright colors, but fall likes earth tones and layers. And summer may giggle and tee-hee but fall belly laughs and slaps it's knee. Fall is summer's older sibling, a little bit wiser and more reserved. Fall wouldn't dream of doing some of the things summer does, like going to the beach or not bringing a jacket along when it goes out. Fall rakes leaves and makes bonfires. Sigh. I'm glad it's here.

(Also, for those of you who are thinking "Where's the funny":

As I was walking out of the bookstore two kids were locking up their bikes. One said to the other, "I sure hope the combination is 1144!")

Today, two signs I saw that made me laugh:

The BP on the corner of North and Clyborn has four large banners that read NEW ATM! Now I can understand if they were just now getting an ATM and wanted people to know, but it's just a new ATM. Someone is a little too excited about that.

Facets, a movie theater and video rental place a few blocks from my house shows and rents small independent films. On the marquee outside it reads "Now showing Empathy. Thru Aug 13."

Last night while we were out drinking this guy with what looked like a lip sore was hitting on Kellie.

Guy: Dude, and like, everyone's like, 'What, you've got herpes or something,' and I'm like, 'Nah, I got this swimming.' 'Cause like, I love to swim, and I was turning around, and I went too quickly and like, totally hit my face on the bottom of the pool. It like fucked up my lip and my tooth and my chin. And I was like 'Oh man, how could I do that?!' But it's cool 'cause I totally love to swim.

Later, I was talking to Micah.

Me: I don't like that guy who keeps talking to Kellie.
Micah: Eh, he's gay.
Me: No he's not.
Micah: Hey, I can have fantasies, can't I?

Today at lunch Peter and I were sitting out in the garden next to the Art Institute. A woman walked by and Peter commented...

Peter: I've got to eat out here more often.
Me: Why's that?
Peter: A better chance to meet my intended.
Me: To 'meet your intended'?
Peter: Yeah.
Me: Peter, this isn't a Tennessee Williams play.

Today Bernadette and I were at the gym and CNN was on. John Kerry was on the TV talking about something and Bern said "He looks tired."

Me: Well of course he looks tired. He's been campaigning for months straight.
Bern: I guess.
Me: I think it's a good thing. All tired looking.
Bern: I just can't look at Bush or Kerry and think: I want either of these men being my president.
Me: Look at Clinton! By the middle of his second term he had huge bags under his eyes. In less that five years his hair had gone from black to white. That's the kind of president I want. A guy who's stressed out. Who doesn't sleep.
Bern: You want a president that looks like crap.
Me: At least you'd know he's working hard!
Bern: Maybe if he develops a nervous tick.
Me: That's what I'm talking about! That's a guy I'd vote for!

Kellie has finally gotten a blog. Not that she really needed one (who among us really needs a blog?), but it's nice to have - like caller ID. The title of her blog is 'Open 24 Hours', referring to her late night tendencies.

As most people know, Google has engineered a new kind of ad banner that searches through the page it's on and finds keywords to decide which ads it puts up. I just enjoy the fact that in the keyword-content-searching ads at the top of Kel's blog there's an ad for the latest season of the hit Fox show 24! I like to think that if my blog had those keyword searching ads it'd be something about veggie burgers. Maybe Ore-Ida fries. I dunno.

The other night Kellie and I went to go see The Manchurian Candidate. We got there early, and as it happens on Friday nights the previous show was not yet done and we were stuck waiting outside the theater, roped off into a small section. "That's fine," I announced, "just corral us off to the side." "They're not corralling us," Kel said. "They are. But it's fine, we're used to it." "We?" she asked. "My people," I informed her, "The Jews." Kel looked at me, not quite believing what she was hearing. "At least this time we know what's going on," I said. "Separate us out. That's cool. Oh! Oh, then put us on a train. That's right. Next stop Belmont. Yeah, right. Belmont Auschwitz! You've got to get up pretty early to pull one over on me!"

Needless to say I sufficiently embarrassed myself for the evening.

About two years ago I had a blog contest, though I forget the exact point of it - something about lists. As any good contest, there were winners and there were losers. The losers got nothing and, sadly, the winners didn't really get anything either, despite the fact that they were promised prizes. For whatever reason (I blame a mix up in accounting) the winners never received their prizes. My aunt was supposed to get a carton of soy milk, and the other people were supposed to get other crap. But this blog isn't about them. It's about the fact that yesterday I finally got my aunt some soy milk. Sure, it took me two years to make good on the prize, but isn't it the thought that counts? Even when there isn't really much thought behind it? Maybe?

Now the other winners are probably going to want their prizes too. Crap.