Subject: TAN: A Dark Weekend in Chicago, A Loy Perspective
Date: 4 Aug 1998 16:43:40 GMT
From: mloy@indyvax.iupui.edu (Mark Loy)
Organization: IUPUI Department of Physics
Newsgroups: rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan

Before I begin, I would like to take this opportunity to swear, on all
that I hold holy, or Drew's Cub's hat, whichever is more significant, that
everything I'm about to write is the absolute, 100% truth.  I'd _like_ to
say that.  I _really_ would.  But, being that I have an advanced degree in
hyperbole and I never met a truth that I didn't feel needed a little
jazzing up, _you_, the unfortunate ones who did not go to the DFS in
Chicago, and you know who you are, will have to ascertain the truth of
what I say using your vast experience with my writing coupled with what
you may or may not know about the participants--whose names have been kept
*unchanged* to increase as much as possible the amount of discomfort I can
cause.

Oh and, don't pay any attention to what other people may or may not have
written about the social.  It is my belief, having met most of these
people just this weekend, that they are without a doubt the most
_untrustworthy_ and totally full-of-shit individuals to have ever walked
into a relatively scuzzy neighborhood bar and taken a group leak on the
juke-box playing country western music before their ears began to bleed
and they lose the will to live.  BTW, thanks for that suggestion, John D,
as it not only was a relief to finally urinate but it was quite touching
to provide my wizz for such an important purpose.  Might I humbly suggest
that this become a tradition at any and all DFSs everywhere.  Well, unless
you've got some clueless newbie type to ceremoniously relieve yourselves
upon, of course.

Okay, enough preambling, on with the tale.

The weekend started for Deb and I as we left the friendly, sisterly warmth
of Indianapolis and headed north toward the waiting arms of that coldly
sophisticated whore, Chicago.  And what a whore, she is.  High priced.
Big time.  Oh I'm not saying that she wasn't worth it.  No.  On the
contrary.  It was a servicing that I felt was well worth the price of
submission.  Chicago laydown in front of us with legs wide and beckoned
for us to slide on in and get busy.  Oh yeah.  And busy, we did.  From the
moment we arrived in town it was non-stop, in and out, doing the town hard
and fast.

Deb and I did not arrive at our hotel, The Raphael--and -what- a hotel it
was, valet parking, 24 hour room service, fully stocked bar, hot and cold
running blow jobs, everything--until 4:20 PM and were supposed to meet
everyone at "The Stars Our Destination" on the mucho importante, Belmont
at 5:00 PM.  Needless to say we felt rushed and barely had time to refresh
ourselves in the hotel's private champagne--Domestic, but I guess you
can't have everything--filled jacuzzi before dashing out to get a taxi.

I think it would be prudent at this juncture to tell you what it's like to
ride in a Chicago taxi.  Imagine, if you will, a hot, cramped vehicle
piloted invariably by someone named Mohammed that travels at one
speed--sorta like the speed of light, I guess--flat out in and around,
darting back and forth in ways that would make a Grand Prix driver
envious, deftly avoiding the everpresent bike riders and rollerskaters and
random pedestrians as well as other vehicles operated by amateurs and
tourists and other cabbies all the while being able to answer questions
like, "So, how long have you been a cab driver?" with, "Oh I like drive
taxi very much" and still get you to exactly where you want to go before
nary a whimper of awe infested fear can escape your lips.  That's a fairly
typical cab ride.  Add rush hour into the mix and you have the stuff of
legends.

Which is what we had, Friday afternoon rush hour traffic.

We arrived at the bookstore at around 5:30 and I, being the person who
_supposedly_ knows what the fuck I'm doing in bringing Deb to the social,
began to scan a group of men standing around outside the bookstore for
signs of the one person on the group that I have met...Steve "man
mountain" Monahan.  No luck.  So, we entered the establishment walking
right past the men outside and begin to wander around aimlessly trying to
pick up a clue, _any_ clue as to the identity of any darkfriend on the
premises.

It was at this point that Deb and I managed to walk past EVERY SINGLE
ATTENDEE OF THE SOCIAL *without* ever ascertaining anything.  I remember
looking at a man who looked rather stern--a stern look that I was later to
realize is pretty much standard issue for John Novak (John wears his
stern-ness with pride and in fact is so ever-present that one imagines he
would even manage to look thusly while on the receiving end of a
professionally applied knob job, while of course barking out instructions
and insisting that she do a better job than that or he wasn't going to be
happy--and she wouldn't like him when he wasn't happy, but I digress)--and
thinking "hmmm...that guy looks familiar" without ever making the
connection.

Finally, I spied a young woman wearing a button that said "Drew's Love
Scrunt" or something similar--which I thought was, while double meaningly
ambiguous was so obviously true that the need for a button escapes me, but
I digress, again--and being that I knew that Drew Gilmore was going to be
at the social, my computer-like brain immediately made the connection and
I shouted the now infamous words..."Here's one of them!" to which indeed,
there was one of them...Maggie, to be exact.  Of course I called her Noell
but was corrected immediately by Noell who appeared almost by magic--at
this point, all the darkfriends were coming in for a closer look, or a
quick jab with their daggers--at my side.  A jumble insued.  Out of the
jumble I ran into a man who introduced himself as "Jim Hill" which I
_immediately_ ascertained with my supercomputer-like brain was "someone
that I should know".  I walked away from this puzzled man about ten feet
before I made the connection that Jim Hill might in fact be the very same
_James_ Lloyd Hill whose posts I read religiously on the group who had
e-mailed me not two days before about info regarding the social.  Damn
you, Jim, for trying to confuse me like that.

Anyway, in short time I had put faces to the names that I throatily
whisper while making love to Deb.

There was Drew, Maggie, Noell, John Novak, John Dilick, Annette Dilick,
Pam Korda, Flavio, Paul Khangure, Jim, and Steve Monahan who had managed
to change his appearance--or his appearance and other things about him had
been selectively removed from my memory for protection of my fragile
psyche--since last time we'd met.

After the introductions, along with the obligatory sniffing of crotches,
dry humping, and urination to mark territorial boundaries was completed,
the call came out, "Darkfriends Ho!!" which caused us to move as a herd on
to the preferred food aquisition establishment.  I, being totally
overwhelmed by the close proximity of so many much revered posters,
remember little of the journey to the restaurant except we walked there
and while doing so some people said funny things.  I didn't cause I can't
think of funny shit unless I have a keyboard in my lap rubbing ever so
suggestively against my pelvis in perfect synchronization to my
key-strokes prompting me to write and write and write until I am
thouroughly satisfied or I go blind, wichever comes first.  But I
digress.  Luckily, others do not share this affliction and can walk and be
witty at the same time.

Upon arriving at the Ethiopian restaurant--which until this social, and as
a random darkfriend so aptly put, I thought was an oxymoron--we were
seated in what has to be one of the most beautiful rooms in all of
Chicago.  For very small values of beautiful, of course.  Behind us, on
the wall, was the entire Gilligan's Island series--including the pilot and
the reunion show--rendered in pictographic splendor.  Man, those
Ethiopians, do they ever love their Gilligan.  Directly behind Steve was
an incredibly lifelike picture of Ethiopia's greatest male stripper and
fashion consultant, Fabio Woolery.  This picture made all the women hot
and all the men...er, uh, well, let's just say that if any of us had a
homo-bone in our body, we sure squirmed around on it, that evening, let me
tell you.

It was at this time that I, being the person who likes to do these sorta
things--see the DFS in Atlanta for reference--brought forth the bounty of
the plastic bag I had that contained souvenirs for everyone and had John
Dilick reach in and extract them.  He wouldn't do so.  Wimp.  But finally
we shamed him, or his wife, I can't remember, into relenting and in he
dipped and out came the buttons.  The first button was "Moistened Bint"
which his wife, Annette, shrieked and grabbed for like the last hot cross
bun at a weightwatchers convention.  The next was, I believe, "Enormous
Schwantztooka" which caused almost everyone to say, "Hey, I want an
enormous schwantztooka!".  Who doesn't?  Next and in no particular order
came...well, a buncha them.  Including one that was made specifically for
Paul Khangure that almost made that big ol' lovable koala bear of a guy
cry.  It said, "Khangure 1998 USA Tour".  God, Deb and I wanted to adopt
him he was such a cutie.  Anyway, the others buttons will undoubtedly be
talked about and discussed and will all, I'm sure, become fabulously
valuable collectors items.  See...see what you missed by not attending the
social?

The menus were presented in traditional Ethiopian style--carried on the
backs of a thousand dung-beetles which, if we wished, were our
apetizer...dung-beetle sauce available upon request.

At the far end of the table, called thusly because it was at the far end
of the table, John Novak, being that he had partook of this food before,
ordered for the immediate vicinity.  Try as I might his words were nothing
but a jumble of klicks and klacks and random vowells and consonants put
together in heathen, un-English ways.  In short, try as I might I couldn't
get any "read" from him as to what the fuck to order.

The middle of the table was lucky enough to have the lovely Pam Korda to
do the honors.  She immediately spouted off a litany of similar John-like
rambling syllables and such that the waiter, alone, immediately recognized
and, dare I say it, envied.

At my end of the table none of us knew Jack Shit, nor even his religiously
inclined brother, Holy, about the food in question so each of us sorta
haphazardly/randomly picked a choice off the menu.

I do not know what criteria the others at my end used to make their
choices but I, being so old that I call dirt by its first name, couldn't
read the menu because I forgot to bring my reading glasses and therefore
based my entire choice on the word "hot".

I think that I need to explain something here for the uninitiated...the
food was going to be presented on one large plate in little
piles-o-differing-food and each of us, in our respective regions, of
course, would partake of the goodies with our hands using some napkin-like
carbohydrate wrap thingee to pick up a small portion to ingest, consuming
the starch bread stuff along with the menu-selected food item.

It is important to note at this point that at my end of the table we were
acting out of complete and utter ignorance while at the other sections of
the table, a certain informed expertise was being employed to insure that
the food selected was palatable and or at least complimentary to each
other.

No such luck on my end.  What we got was going to be anybody's guess and
whether it was food that went together or was such that the waiter, and
the cooks, read the order and laughed their skinny little Ethiopian asses
off from the sheer culinary audacity of it, nobody knew.

Regardless, we were committed.

When the food arrived and I saw it the first words out of my mouth, in an
obvious attempt at humor, was, "Well, it looks edible" to which the
waiter, hearing what I had said, replied, "Oh yes, it's edible."

A more succinct and sterling recommendation for the culinary offerings at
a particular food establishment does not exist and one that I fully expect
McDonalds to snap up in a heartbeat, but I digress.

The food was in fact excellent.

And, if I may be so bold, my "hot" selection was the hit of our end of the
table and the obvious envy of all who smelled our breath, and any other
gaseous body expulsions, as the evening progressed.

And progress, it did.

As soon as Flavio, who decided to pick up the check in an effort to make
ammends for generally fucking up the arrangements of what was _his_
social, paid for the check--thanks again, Flavio...you, sir, are a
gentleman and a scholar and not a bad little dresser, either...we headed
to...er, uh...we started out toward...uh, well, actually we stood around
outside hoping and praying that God would decide to spell out where the
fuck we could go in the heavens cause nobody had a fuckin' clue where to
go for the obligatory imbibing-fest yet to come.  And really, we had to
hurry cause Monahan hadn't had a Guiness in a couple of hours so he was as
close to death as Asmodean, and nobody wants that until he's bought a
round or ten.

Anyway, a decision was made..."Let's go this way and walk around until we
stumble across something that looks like we can get something wet while
not getting killed, much."

It was in this that we found a random neighborhood bar and went in and
generally took over a substantial section for our own nefarious purposes.

Once inside John Dilick began to twitch and convulse and sorta look all
icky.  It was the music.  This music was bad.  It was bad enough to make
John Novak look sterner.  It was at this point that we all went and pissed
on the bad music receptacle and hissed and moaned and said a prayer to the
Dark One to send us some reasonably decent music, oh Dark Lord.  All
except Monahan.  He had found Guiness Extra Stout and wouldn't have really
cared if a whale had shit on his head while bagpipes played along while
Merle Haggard did _Stairway to Heaven_.

But the Dark Lord heard our pleas and along with some people putting some
money into the evil box we ended up with some dated but yet only half-bad
musical accompaniment to our merriment and jocularity.

Drinks were bought.  Drinks were drunk.  More drinks were bought.  More
drinks were drunk.  Still more drinks were bought.  Still more were
drunk.  Bought and drunk.  Drunk and bought.  Some drank drinks that were
strange.  Some drank drinks mundane.  Some drank drinks pure and chaste.
Some drank drinks that the Dark One himself would say, "NOT EVEN I SHALL
TASTE".  Drinks pink and green.  Drinks dark and light.  Drinks of
passion.  Drinks of despair.  Drinks to make a grown man weep.  Drinks to
make a good woman cheap.  Drinks that tasted slightly fruity.  Drinks that
tasted like my booty.  Drinks drinks drinks.  And with them the oral
sex...er, uh...the comments flowed like urine down a wino's leg in a
windowsill outside.

Here are a few that I "remember"...

While talking to John's lovely wife, Annette, Steve said, "Are there any
more at home like you, and if so, how much for them?  Ballpark figure, I
mean."

John Novak, "Get with the _fucking_ program!"...which immediately caused
me to hurtle across Paul, severely cracking my knee on a table and falling
into a heap  on the floor from agony but still crawling to sign up for
this program when I realized, sheepishly of course, that this was not what
John had meant.  Boy, was my face suitably chagrinned.

My wife, Deborah, talking to Maggie, Noell, Annette, and Pam about
something or other..."About four, maybe five inches, not very thick and
sorta wrinkled and mildewy smelling.  But cute, like a little miniature
weiner-dog only without the wagging tongue and the toenails and not
papertrained, of course, but will come when I whistle."

Drew, "This lady oders this chicken sandwhich and she gets it and it has
like this open sore on its back with this white puss all hangin' out and
dripping on the linoleum and she thinks that she didn't really want
mayonaise but what the fuck, over and starts to eat it and it tastes good
and she orders like, ten more and eats them all and ends up that a clerk
sees her eating those putrid sandwhiches and says like lady, you idyot
those chicken sandwhiches are rancid and she like vomits on the floor and
there were maggots squirmin' around in it but then she licks it up or
something cause she really liked those sandwhiches...so, anybody want to
go for pizza after this as I've got some pretty good pizza anecdotes,
too?  Anybody?  Whoo-hoo?  Anybody?"

Noell, "I think that we're gonna have to move out of California.  I mean,
my husband and I love it but if we don't, sooner or later we might have to
attend another social with Bill and Hawk and really, nobody wants that."

Paul, "America is absolutely wonderful.  Incredible.  I mean, there are
thousands of things I love about it.  Like when you go into a restaurant
and order a coke, they give you free refills.  That's really great.
And...uh...er, uh...well then there's...uh..."

Pam, "I'm working in solid state physics but really, biophysics, that's
the glamour area right now.  There's money in that, you see.
Biophysicists actually get to eat on a regular basis.  I know.  Lucky
fuckers.  Do you think they have any beer nuts around here someplace?"

Jim, "Get the hell away from me, Loy.  Jeez.  Ya sick fuck.  I tell ya,
with him around, I'm not gonna stick around for any social shit tomorrow.
That guy's a fuckin' menace."

Paul, "And there's...uh...hmmm...nope...give me a second...uh...huh, I
know there's something....gotta be something."

John Dilick, "I read like fifty books a day.  Our house has like fifty
books on every table and another fifty books on the bed and fifty books in
the refrigerator.  I spend like...I don't know...fifty bucks an hour to
satisfy my book addiction.  Er, uh, speaking of which, I uh, haven't read
any books since we got to the restaurant.  I read the menu a couple of
million times but books...no books.  C'mon, people, let me read some of
the books you bought in that bookstore.  C'mon, now...you've got to have
some, damn it!  Books!  I.  Need.  To.  Read.  I'm not kidding,
people...give me some books, please god, in heaven...don't fuck around,
now."

John Novak, "Well you're almost right.  We've been working diligently on a
really sophisticated drone to help with military command and control that
is completely self-contained and automated and uses a
beyond-the-state-of-the-art microprocessor that isn't available to the
general...er, uh...hold it a second.  Could you people look at this little
thingee here for me for a moment, please?
Thanks...<ZZZZZaaaaap-redflash>...anyway, as I was saying, the Aiel may
not be logistically accurate but it's a fuckin' work of fiction and
sometimes you have to just go with the story or you'll only get bogged
down in what are inconsequential bullshit details."

Steve, "It's karoke night at the Bar and damn if I wanted to miss that to
come to this bullshit.  So, I had them tape it for me and I'll listen when
I get back."

Annette, "I don't read the group although I have read the books.  I mean I
can't think of a more pathetic thing than to spend all your time on the
group chatting about this that and the other instead of living your life.
I mean, have any of you ever actually kissed a girl?  Please, as god is my
witness, turn off the computers and get a real life.  Of course, I think I
might start posting, soon, so make of that what you will..."

And on and on it went until Deb, who by now was so hot to get me alone and
ravage my body in ways that would make the writer of the Kama-Sutra blush,
couldn't stand it anymore and said that we had to get back to the hotel.
Of course I think her ardor had been fueled by spending the majority of
the evening in close proximity to the men at the social.  A sexier bunch a
geekified motherfuckers does not exist.

After Deb and I left, I was later to learn the remainder of the people let
out an enormous sigh of relief and said, "finally" and moved in hypnotic
unified grace toward Flavio's regularly scheduled bar hang out where as he
entered a shout of "Dickhead!" greeted his presence, or something like
that, and much more imbibing and frivolity took place.

We, of course knew nothing of this as our taxi ride to the hotel was so
rapid as that we arrived back at the hotel before we had left, or
something like that.

Anyway we were met at the entrance by the semi-nude male and female
greeters, stripped and hand washed and then annointed with the finest oils
and lotions, rubbed and pampered some more and then carried, ever so
gently up to our room where we were assisted into our bed where finally,
although they whimpered and begged to be allowed to serve us more, we
deigned to let them lick our feet and then they must depart, a sadder more
miserable group of beauties never existed.

In the morning we awoke to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and the
soothing sound of violins as the deep Venetian tub was filled with
steaming hot spring water in preparation for our morning bath.  The tub
being quite sufficiently large for two allowed both of us to bathe
together, as nearly a dozen maidens from the isle of Crete gently rubbed
and stroked and cajoled our bodies clean of city dirt and grime and the
residual remnants of last nights unbridled passion.  In the end we were
clean enough to squeek and exited the tub to find that our robes had been
pre-worn by fat people--sanitized, of course, for our protection--so that
they were not cold to our skin.  We then were dressed in the finest gowns
of purest silk and hand carried by a team of eunichs to the private dining
area where they had arranged a plethora of gourmet foods so that we could
break our fast.  Of course we were not allowed to do for ourselve but
instead different maidens came forth to break up and place dainty bits of
the delicacies into our waiting mouths, and, if we had desired, a chewer
was on hand for the ultimate in sophisticated dining.

Pretty much standard fare for the Raphael Hotel in Chicago.

Most other people stayed at the Chicago HoJo Motel but I'm sure that their
experiences were of a similar nature.

Anyway eventually we returned to our room where we were each serviced by a
board certified sexual surrogate and then bathed again and annointed
and...<sigh>...really, it was getting a little tiresome by now but what
can you do?  Anyway we were dressed and made our way out into the city for
some shopping and general gawking.

We hit all the major shops, browsing, trying on, and looking and just
plain enjoying the fact that I was looking at Bruno Magli's new O. J.
Simpson brand of shoe "The Killer" and seeing just how much an Armani suit
goes for and what the fuck the rich and famous will be wearing at the
Cannes Film festival this year, that kind of thing.

Eventually we ended up in F.A.O. Schwartz and commenced to drool on all
the neat toys.

It was there that we happened to meet the very lovely Maggie and Noell and
Annette out for a morning of shopping as we were.  Really, this is hardly
surprising that in a city of six or so million you would run into three of
the ten people in the city that you know.

Note to you guys who were needling me about my going shopping...while you
were in your rooms looking at each other's grizzled faces, and smoking and
generally shooting the male shit, _I_ was out with four, count
'em...*four* good looking women.

_Now_ who's the chump, ey?

But I digress.

Anyway the shopping and sightseeing had to come to an end and we went back
to our hotel for...<sigh>...more of the same kinda treatment.  Really, it
was getting so blase'.

Once we were dressed we went down stairs and got a taxi to take us to the
German restaurant that had been selected for the evening's
dinner...something like Frau Bloookers or some such, a Chicago tradition.

Once there and the identity confirming sniffing had been completed and
verified we entered what can only be described as the gateway into a Nazi
prisoner of war camp complete with Commandant Cunt.  Frau Cunt took great
joy in making us snap to and line up and heed the call of her
goose-stepping authority.  Shit, this dominatrix bitch had me so fuckin
hot that I was ready to get down and lick her testicles...but I digress.

Eventually Mistress Cunt let us into the restaurant where much good food
was consumed by all.

After this we headed to the El to take us _back_ to the one section of
town that we had already seen, Belmont Street, where the Blues club that
was going to be our evening's entertainment was located.

At this point I feel that it is prudent to describe just what it is like
to ride on the El.  Imagine standing perfectly still and the next second
all your molecules are expanding outward at the speed of light...the
g-forces on us when the train took off were an order of magnitude more
impressive than that.  But Jeezus Christ riding a bronco bull, man was
this a fun ride.  Ever the sophisticate I really had to restrain myself
from letting out a great big "Wee-Ha!!" when that baby took off and moved
around the turns and shit.  It was like a roller-coaster without those
annoying hills.

While on the train I had the great pleasure of seeing John Novak
dishevelled as he was tossed back and forth like a rag-doll by the eratic
movement.  It was also on this ride that I saw Pam do what can only be
described as a full underarm uppercutting flip off with half
nelson--degree of difficulty on a moving train, 3.79--she received all 10s
except for the Russian judge who gave her a 9.5.  I also came to realize
that if ever I want a job broadcasting information over the train's
loudspeaker, I'm a natural--I've got the totally incomprehensible mumble
down pat.

Anyway, we got to the Belmont Station and, sadly for me at least, left the
El.  Man, if ever I go back I'm gonna ride that motherfucker all the fuck
over Chicago and back just for shitty little giggles.

Once on Belmont we went to a little coffee shop and joked and laughed and
made fun of newbie scum and talked about the books and talked about my son
and Tynan and Ernie and Alex and about Noell's husband and Paul's
itinerary and listened to John and Steve and Flavio talk military bullshit
and made some comments about the social and each other and what we looked
liked and what we expected everyone to look like and who on the group we
liked and who on the group we didn't like and who we would slit open from
crotch to chin and pull out their intestines and choke them to death with
them and what it would be like to step on your own dick and what the fuck
happened to the Tree of Life or some such and who was the Watcher and on
and on and on until we each one just ended up twitching and drooling from
laughter induced palsy.

And after so much laughter you need, what else, blues.

So we went to be depressed.

And depressed we were as the music was quite excellent.

The only thing wrong with this part of the social is Deb got rather sick
and thought that she was going to have to give back all that she had taken
from the German place and what a shame _that_ would be cause she couldn't
possibly get a cab back there in time to let it go on Commandant Cunt's
shoes and she was really feeling bad so we had to excuse ourselves,
cutting the evening way to short for yours truly.  My only other regret
from this evening was that Jim was not able to be with us to experience
the gustapo tactics at the restaurant. Methinks that his insights into
this might have been...entertaining if not capable of getting us thrown
out on the street.

Anyway, before we left the cameras had to come out for a final blinding
tribute to the social.  I managed to shake hands with all and get hugged
and rub against Drew's leg a little and generally say my goodbyes and out
we went to hail a cab back to Xanadu...er, uh, the Raphael.

All and all it was a _wonderful_ time in Chicago.

The next day we got on the road and decided that instead of taking the
boring, direct root back to Indianapolis, we'd be _much_ better off going
east to...oh, I don't know...TOLEDO and _then_ head back to home.
Whatever, it was a great drive over with Maggie as I got to meet her
husband and her two adorable kids.

To all who were there, I thank you, I had a _wonderful_ time.  Chicago is
a great place and the company was even better.

I enjoyed meeting you and hope to see each of you again, soon.

Sincerely,
Mark