The Word Builder winner screen at SoFo. pix by Kirk___________
As any astute reader of this column, and by extension, this magazine could surmise, I've got plenty to write about this week. Like Chauncey, the cover pumpkin, and how we splashed hot wax on his mouth to look like cum at Touché and left him in a cage. Or how I felt like any one of a roving band of pervs snapping unwitting shots of stripper boys at Hunters. Or even the outre artist girl at Big Chicks who handed me a set of arms constructed from old phone cords, and how we put those arms to use in lewd and lascivious ways. But I won't speak of any of those things, no. I mean today to write about what happens after the craziness settles... and the aggravation I've managed to find therein.
This past week I pushed myself to limits not reached since my 20s. I was determined to cover as many bars as I could. A major part of that plan was to have my failsafe decompression activity lined up. And to me, nothing says 'decompress' like a filthy martini, a cigarette and the touch screen machine found in so many local bars. Lately, I have been finding respite in all three at SoFo.
I am an editor; I am a lover of words. My favorite games on these dollar-chewing machines tend to be the word games ( despite the efforts of Jeff and Brian, who keep kicking my ass at Photo Hunt ) . And of the word game set, my clear darling is Word Builder. What glee to sit with drink in hand and construct as many words as possible from a slate of eight letters! Even though I find relaxation and recovery in this race to reassemble, the competitive aspect really gets me all testosteroney. And this is where Liz comes in.
When I started playing on the SoFo machine, Liz clutched on to the number one spot, leaving all comers in her sizable wake. Eager, I learned the finer points of the game: anagrams are key, pray for the 's' or the 'ed' or 'er' combos. And before I left that barstool, I had usurped the treacherous Liz and taken over the pinnacle spot. But there she was, still, hovering at number two. I knew then what I had to accomplish: achieve the top ten spots and erase the stain of Liz from the board. Forever.
And so I soldiered on. She tumbled to number three. I cheered. She sank to four. I grumbled in consternation. How could it be so difficult to push Liz off the island and claim it for myself, where I would run naked and free and the king of all I survey?
I knew at the onset this was not to be an easy battle. What goal worth achieving is? She now stands at five. I am all else.
So should you see me perched glowingly over the radiant glass sipping a dirty marty and focused like a laser beam, give me a little cheer. And if you're Liz, it's on, bitch!
kirk@windycitymediagroup.com
