  Tonight's romantic near miss was named Jim. Or possibly Joe. And where urlLink Matt was hot in a muscleboy-who-may-or-may-not-be-gay kind of way, Jim or Joe was hot in a definitely-gay-muscleboy-circuit-whore kind of way. He had a boyishly cute round face and a massive set of pecs that looked a little out of proportion next to his only moderately large arms. But he was friendly and charming and his breath smelled faintly of sweet alcohol. And for a self-aware circuit boy, he was a proud fan of all the show tunes playing at Sidetrack tonight -- though the poor boy couldn't sing for sour owl shit. There was only a minimum of touching between us, and he kept talking about heading to the Green Dragon (Greek Pickle?
Green Mile? ), some Chicago dance club that's gay on Monday nights -- all of which I took as a sign that our conversation was nothing more than a conversation. He was from New York, here on business. So it's not like I really needed to make a serious connection with him anyway. And when he headed out to the Green Tambourine, I left with him. (Hey, if you're not gonna score with the hottest guy in the bar, at least let the whole bar think you are.
) So we kiss goodbye in front of his taxi and I head up the street to my car. Which is blocked in by a big ugly maroon double-parked sedan. No note. No flashing lights. Just double-parked, as though to say, Hey, world! I have a freakishly small penis, and the only way I can feel important is to inconvenience other people.
Not sure what to do, I got in my car and turned on the lights and honked the horn a bit. I tried to escape via the sidewalk, but there were parking meters and trees in the way. I found a scrap of paper in my glove compartment and was in the middle of penning a brilliant missive ("The street is not a parking lot, ASSHOLE. Move your fucking car! ") when I realized there was no way I could leave it anonymously on the windshield. Suddenly another maroon car pulls up across the street and honks and signals for me to roll down my window. "Are you trying to get out? " the driver, a master of the obvious, asks me. Well, DUH. Suddenly unwilling to be mature about this, I shout back, "Do you know whose fucking car this is? " "Yeah, I do. It's a fucking cop car. You better lose the attitude, my friend," comes the equally mature reply as the driver speeds off.
Friend? As if I would be friends with someone who saw my predicament as not attitude-worthy. AS IF. Now I figure one of two things will happen: The other driver is a cop and has the power to call someone to come move the car but won't do it just to perpetuate the whole assholeness of the situation OR he will call someone who will come pull me out of my car, throw me violently across the hood of the maroon sedan and cite me for public belligerence.
Before I can fully contemplate just how screwed I am either way, a shadowy figure creeps up, climbs in the ugly sedan and speeds off, leaving me free to go but genuinely irritated at the whole situation. Fortunately, I have the power of The Blog to exact my sweet revenge. Take THAT, you stupid, small-penised copper! 
