Sweet Home Chicago

I just got back from the Windy City.

The trip, while not bad, has helped me reinforce a few things.

Namely, that I hate people.

Let's dial this one back a moment.

On Friday, I, along with two friends, ventured north from this little patch of swampland in order to attend Games Day Chicago- effectively a giant Games Workshop commercial disguised as a convention.

We did this for a number of reasons, but at least in part because we, as servants of a dreaded and dastardly games store, needed the inside skinny on what exactly the GW staff were going to do.

The convention was a big steaming pile of "all right." Not bad, but not good.

We learned a few things, but we also had to endure countless man-child reenactments of an Ork battle-cry.

The things I do in the line of duty.

Now, we've been wallowing in nerdishness all day.

My good friend and esteemed associate Bob hints that he has a line on a party we can go to.

So, after letting my mood spiral down into the basement, I agree to go.

Big mistake.

You see, it's a cast party.

Now, keep in mind that I majored in theatre. I have danced the dance of the performing arts. And knowing what I do, I should have taken the rain check I was earlier inspired to do.

Because theatre folk, for those of you just joining us, are cliquish, introverted, selfish creatures. They are convinced that what they are doing is important. They are, of course, possibly right. Sometimes.

Most of the time, they're a collection of indolent twits divorced from reality.

Which leads me to the party.

This is an apartment near Wrigley Field. Now, despise the Cubs as I may, I know that they sell a lot of tickets. And I know that real estate near Wrigley field ain't cheap.

The apartment is a luxurious affair.

Clearly, then, someone's Mommy and Daddy are forking over some dough.

I say this because the group throwing the party has just perpetrated Shakespeare in the Park, which is not exactly one of the bigger-budgeted shows on God's Green Earth.

Thus, it was like being in high school again... but without the desire to fit in.

No, this time, my bitter, scorched, blue-collar in spite of having every advantage ass was out for blood.

Particularly since these are people I have no intention of ever seeing again. Bob knows.... one or two of them.

The rest are an enigma to me.

So when a corpulent fellow in a white suit is introduced to me, and I am told he is the show's fight choreographer, my response is, "You poor bastard."

"Whoa, whoa, man, we just did a show, I don;t know if you wanna be so disparaging..."

"Look, I majored in theatre-"

"So did I!"

"... and I feel sorry for anyone who has your job."

Had he actually had the courage of his convictions, I would have been told to get the fuck out. Perhaps he might have punched me. I certainly wasn't the one with the most people in his corner.

Instead, adopting a wounded expression, he drifted away.


Which leads me to the point of this whole, ugly, rambling mess.

I often blame Indiana University for beating my love of theatre out of me... and they did their part.

But I'll be damned if, after several years of working freight, demilitarization, and retail, I'm going to put up with people so neurotic and thin-skinned. I get plenty of that shit from John Q Public.

Surrounding myself with a bunch of prima donnas convinced of their importance?

Bad move.