I wish I could tell you about the drag performance at The Kit Kat lounge (She was fabulous. And booty-licious.) I wish I could tell you about the near-empty duelling piano bar where we danced on pianos and I was hit on by a boy with a guitar pick on his hemp choker ("Do you like the Beastie Boys??" *shudder*)
I wish I could tell you about all this. But instead, my friend Maggie had the worst weekend in the history of weekends. So that's the Weekend Story you get to hear.
The reason for the drag show and the piano bar and the hemp choker is that we were out for Maggie's birthday. It was great oh-right-I'm-24-not-30 kind of fun. After we danced our tights off, Maggie +1 went one way and Erin (who is visiting from NYC) and I went another. The next day (Sunday) we met back up and discovered this story:
After we had split, Maggie and her friend stopped for some drunk food at the big McDonald's downtown Chicago. When she walked into the bathroom, there was a group of girls, loud and drunk. One was puking in the sink. God, what is NOT to love about twenty-somethings? Anyway, Maggie found a stall and did her biz. When she tried to get out, the door wouldn't open. So she put her weight into it and shoved. One of the girls was holding the door. Now, at this point, I'm not sure what I would do. But I tend to avoid strangers like they are chock full of leprosy, so I'm pretty sure I would have apologized, washed my hands, and walked out.
But not Maggie.
Maggie says something along the lines of "What's your f*cking problem? Why are you holding the door?" and ALL SH*T BREAKS LOOSE. Apparently this girl and her friends go into "oh no you di'int" mode and started beating her up! She tried to reach for the door and one of them actually grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back.
So a security guard helps her out, and they call the police. The girls actually take a while to high tail it out of there, so by the time the cops get there, the girls have only been gone for a few minutes. The cop tells her that, despite the fact that the girls were in a STRETCH LIMO and that the security guard had gotten the license plate of that limo, they could not find the girls. There are so many things wrong with all that, but whatever. Mags is fine, though shaken, so there's not much else Erin and I could do but listen to this whole thing with our mouths open wider than that damn singing fish.
While Maggie tells us the story, we have a lovely time walking around the annual market they set up downtown full of old-timey German Christmas foods and ornaments and carvings. And we're insinuating things about weiners and schnitzel and wood and it's a lovely time.
Eventually Maggie, who now lives downtown, drives us all back up to my place in Wicker Park. I tell her to park in the first spot we see, and we go inside to watch Muppet Christmas Carol (obviously.) After she leaves to go home, I get a call a few minutes later. Someone has broken into her car. The passenger side window is shattered and her iPod and GPS are gone. She calls her dad, who technically owns the car. He calls the police, and the only thing they do is say they'll mail her dad something. No one comes out, nothing.
The problem here is that I know EXACTLY who did it. There is this group of high school aged guys (gang members question mark?) who stand on my street all day. All the time. Doing nothing. They never bothered me when I walk past or anything, so I've never done anything but mutter under my breath about how they need to go inside and do their homework. And this spot where these guys chill is exactly where Maggie parked. When she got to her car, in fact, she said all those people were standing there looking at her, as well as the kids in the house there. Lovely. So either YOU are the ones who did it, or you stood idly by as someone else did (unlikely).
So in the end, we swept up most of the glass, put cardboard and a garbage bag over her window (WHY do I not own real duct tape?!) and sent Mags on her way.
Happy birthday, Maggie.