I cut a brutal swath through the Chicago social scene this weekend. I was like a redheaded dancing sword wielded by a Norse god. And I wasn't the only one who thought so: everywhere I went, I heard it said again and again: "You are the redheaded dancing sword of a Norse God."

Friday night: West side spoken word in a basement club. Even when the Malcolm X poster fell on me, I was not deterred. Even when the giant dude with locks "spit his piece" about apartheid while staring at me, and then said that he thought of apartheid because "I saw black and white together," I was not deterred. East Coast kicked ass and won my heart. Someone spun disco classics and I danced. I even did my spotlight move for Zumehka, and whilst most people still refused to look at me, my friends were appreciative. Everyone needs a little light, no?

Then on Saturday I had a fancy meal at a fancy restaurant, paid in full. There is something so Big City about free bread in a restaurant that is not Olive Garden. The waiters are very, very, very serious, and despite my best Sweet and Humble Ohioan act, they think I am a tasteless monkey. This is because they are whacked out on cocaine. I asked everyone to describe their fanciest restaurant experience and then, with the conversational ball rolling, realized that all of my restaurant experiences are fantasies about Alpana Singh cobbled together from hundreds of 'Check, Please!' episodes. When my turn came I recalled the pork tenderloin from a quaint bistro on Rush Street--I liked the wine pairing, Alpana was ambivalent, but knew the owner. And then she and I made out on a bed of arugala.

After the meal: indie rock party! I was promised a dance party in honor of Keith Coogan, and he and I danced like mad all night long. In my head. Because young kids today do not dance, especially when hobbled by beer and cake. I danced. My cousin danced. Some guy in a plaid shirt was amazing--I bet he is my cousin. I hear cousins are the new handbags, and dancing is the new staring-in-distaste-and-fear.

Sunday I watched the Bears do something while I was yelling. Jill knows all about football and sporty girls are wicked hot--until they turn on you. Suddenly she was asking me what safety meant and why was I clapping? Because Chicago is clapping, girl who had a butch father. We hung out with the bartender for far too long. The Irish Bartender in Chicago is my kryptonite. What could deter St. Renegade from her service to the poor, the oppressed, and the sexually victimized? A tragic drunk with a wicked sense of humor named Timothy Patrick Joseph O'Herlihy McGrady. Probably he is also a poet, maybe a musician of some sort. They approach you like you've already broke their heart. It makes everything so easy.

There are weekends at the end of every week, forever, until we die. This was just the beginning, Chicago. Like our football team, the Bears, I refuse to hibernate in the winter. I am kicking ass. This weekend, I predict: art show, hot air balloon race, benefit show, hiding from cops, party on private yacht.