Potluck at the Trump Hotel and Other Tales of Woe

Last night I went to one of my friend's bachleorette party. Her bridal party had rented a suite at the brand new Trump Hotel in Chicago. The view was magnificent. To make up for the splurge on the room, dinner was potluck in the suite with lasagna, meatballs, and shots of Jagermeister. I'm sure the Donald would approve.

Anyhow, we all drank and ate and "enjoyed" the entertainment, a bananahammock-free stripper who sounded a bit like Ahnold, the gubnerator. Hey, he licked my face and told me I was pretty. I bet he says that to all the girls. The better part of the evening was when we went out and managed to stumble into a club that had a great DJ working a small floor with a great sound system and filled with friends. I don't think I've danced that much in years. It felt really good. Possibly an alternative title for this post could be, "How Tenacious S Got Her Groove Back.'

You know, I've been a bit absent lately. I don't really know why. Just haven't felt like writing. While I was out, I saw The Squeeze for the first time (it was Glen Tilbrook's birthday and the other guys in the band surprised him with dancing girls with a birthday cake on stage and he got all sappy), RiotFest (which was highlighted by the final performance of The Bomb and a stellar set by The Horropops), and a very beat-heavy night at Metro watching Crystal Castles. So, it's not like I've been sulking around the house or anything. I've had some serious fun. Just didn't feel like writing.

For your entertainment, here's a sample of a couple of my woeful nights.