All i have time for right now is a little teaser from last night.

But take a look at this. Think Cattrina had fun on her birthday?

And much of this merriment was thanks to a very special gal, Miss Chaka Khan, aka Fancy Frank!

I held the camera up when she was singing her song at the Closet karaoke competition, and her aura was simply blinding. This is going to be the cover of her comeback album.

  Halsted Street’s latest HOTSPOT has gotten even hotter!

Apparently Scarlet is burning to the ground. I knew all that varnish was a fire hazard.

Any updates? I want pics, people!

In the meantime, here’s one not of Scarlet.

Her nose is bulbous, like W.C. Fields’ and her face is the exact texture and color of a basketball. She’s sitting on a stool in the front window of the coffeeshop, her legs spread wide apart, which pushes her pants down, revealing the hint of a crack in that generous expanse of ass.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” she shouts, and all four us, me, Duke, Jeff and Penny Farthing, are all airborne for a second, our bodies jolting heavenward in unison.

My eyes go as wide and round as quarters, and I see that Duke’s have as well.

“It’s been like that all morning,” Jeff grumbles, shaking his head. He pounds out the used espresso more violently than usual.

“She’s been cracking me up,” Penny Farthing giggles. “Earlier, she was all, CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET? Like, she shouted it so loud the entire coffeeshop could hear, even the people in the back. Then she said, YOU KNOW HOW I SAID I TOOK MY MOM TO THE HOSPITAL? WELL, I LIED! THE HOUSE BURNED DOWN! BUT I CAN’T TELL MY SISTER CUZ SHE’LL KILL ME!”

I laugh at the story, and Penny’s giggling too, her giant black plastic-frame artsy geek-chic glasses bobbing up and down.

“FUCKIN’ A!” the woman shouts.
   

We’re in bed and Duke is reading his new Chip Kidd book (too depressing for him).

“This girl is SO YOU!” he exclaims suddenly. “Listen!”

“A pale girl toting a Howdy Doody knapsack padded up the walk, two blonde pigtails sprouting from her skull at unexpected angles, like stalks of spring wheat in a high wind. Heavy black eyeliner gave her the invasive look of a hungry raccoon. No lipstick, she didn’t need it. The tails of a boy’s pale blue dress shirt fluttered out beneath her moth-eaten L.L.Bean checked cranberry sweater. She was maybe seventeen, if that. She used a banana yellow-on-black polka-dotted umbrella as a walking stick, though the weather was clear.”

He looks up, smiles, eyes wide, then continues:

“Petty had on a pair of saddle shoes, but they were entirely — soles, eyelets, laces and all — lime green. It was as if they’d been lethally exposed to kryptonite. ‘You know, if I do say, those are some great shoes.’

“She smiled. ‘Oh, THANK you. I customized them myself. I love shoes. I have a zillion of ‘em.’”

He skips ahead a bit: –”‘Sometimes I think it’s a shame I only have two feet!’”

Duke puts the book down. “Come on — tell me that’s not totally you.”

“You’re ridiculous,” i say…though i of course take it all as a compliment.

Now let’s head over to Balmy Alley. This was the original graffiti art project, and it’s in a semi-dicey Latino neighborhood. Duke and i were ever so hungry, so we went into a local taqueria…and promptly left. I’m not snobby — i’ve even from street vendors in Bangkok, fer Buddha’s sake — but why risk it?

This is totes one of my faves of the trip! She just makes me so happy.

I didn’t pick the best backdrop for my glamour shot — i was seduced by the rainbow and flowers. Goddamned hippie!

Don’t you love that there was a tiny yellow chair just waiting for us to sit in?

Now, Dukes’ backdrop is hella radder.

Strange birthing woodcut at the end of the alley.

Moxie calls up this morning and says, “You’re not gonna believe this story…”

“I like it already!” i tell her.

An injured raccoon has taken up residence on the porch of her South Loop house, and Moxie can’t even open the door without ramming the poor critter, so she called Animal Control and she said she’ll keep us posted, and she took some pics, which she’ll email to the office.

Sure enough, we get these shots soon after:

Her email reads:

Anyone want a new pet? He/she is a great guard dog. Very loyal, won’t leave your side. A little ferocious and likes to hiss, but looks cute sleeping and when pawing at your door.

What’s sad is that they’re going to kill the (vicious) little bugger, aren’t they? With this guy and Dawn’s skunk-infested ventilation shaft, it’s a regular wild kingdom round here.

This morning, instead of going right to work, my art director “Heems” and i meet at the Field Museum for the media presentation of their new pirates exhibition. I was wondering if i’d see Todd, who works here, and sure enough, he’s there, leaning against a pillar by the Buddhist collection talking with another employee, a girl with dreads named Jen. (Her name is Jen; i’m not sure what she calls her dreads.)

“I should have known you’d be here,” Todd says, smiling.

We chat for a bit, and there’s a brief introduction before we tour through the exhibit. “It’s a bit theatrical for us,” Todd says. “You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

Heems and i really enjoy the exhibit — it’s about a pirate ship that was discovered off of Cape Cod. The Wyndah was laden with the booty from 50 ships and was only 500 feet from shore, when one of the worst storms to hit that part of the world ever, swept in. The mast snapped like a twig and the ship ran aground on a sandbar, and all but two of the passengers perished, quickly drowning in the freezing water.

The captain was en route to see his girlfriend. If he had made it, he’d be bummed to find out she had been convicted of being a witch.

There are some fun dioramas and mannequins of the pirates, which look pretty damn real. One of the employees tells us how every time he’d come into the re-creation of the cabin, the people setting up the exhibit would have moved Capt. Bellamy into a different place, which always freaked him out. I learn that it’s not so easy to hoist a Jolly Roger.

But what’s really mind-opening about the exhibit is how pirate ships were experiments in democracy. Naval and merchant ships had crappy food, strict hierarchies, enforced discipline and lousy pay. But on a pirate ship, no matter what color your skin, you got an equal share of the treasure and had the opportunity to become an elected officer. Pretty rad, huh?

Heems and i decide that we’re totes gonna become pirates.

After the exhibit, we wander around a bit, but we’re hungry, so we take some pictures in the lobby of the giant elephants and the pterodactyl and Sue, the T. Rex.

“Wanna see the scariest shot i took?” i ask Heems.

She’s all, “Oh, of Sue?”

I’m like, “Nooooooooo…..not quite,” and then i sic this zinger on her.

“MATTHEW!” she gasps. “I can’t believe you took a picture of that baby!”

“How could i not?” i ask.

On the way over to Eleven City Diner, where i will consume a sandwich on rye stuffed with a ridiculous amount of corned beef and pastrami, i have us stop and take some goofy shots of the sculpture garden at the south end of Grant Park. It’s called “Agora,” which is Greek for “gathering place.”

This is the Women’s Building in the Mission. Duke and i had to pee, so we thought it’d be delightfully ironical to take a whazz in here. They actually did have a men’s room — and the person working the front desk was an emaciated hipster boy. Go figger. We didn’t even know if they’d let penis-bearers in.

Founded in 1971, the center is designed to help women find jobs, get out of abusive relationships, file taxes and get food. The four-story mural is known to locals as the “Maestrapeace,” though its actual title is “Women’s Wisdom Through Time.” This  collaboration between seven women artists took a year to complete. It wraps around the entire building and features depictions of famous women, including Georgia O’Keefe and a lesbian activist of color, Audre Lorde.

This is the sign in the courtyard off to the left of the building, as you’re facing it. It cracked me up.

Let’s take a walk through Clarion Alley. Duke and i stumbled upon this Mission gem totally randomly on our first trip to San Fran together. We’re huge fans of street art, so this was a little taste of heaven.

Before the Oscar Party, Duke and I take a bath together. It’s another cold day, so we decide to warm up in the tub. I light a bunch of candles, turn on iTunes and pour in some mint bath salts.

I show Duke the joke that I’ve always wanted to videotape – which we can finally do if we ever open the damn digital recorder I got him for Christmas. I take one of my bath toys and put it under the water til it fills up and then I pretend like I’m cumming, and I squeeze the little froggie, which holds a surprising amount of water, and I start with a few small squirts at first, then build up to some forceful streams that reach my face and I ramp up the moans of faux-pleasure at this point, as squirt after squirt soaks my face and I swing my head back and forth as water drips down it.

It’s really quite adorable. Remind me to show you that trick sometime.

Of course by the end of the bath, Duke’s trying it out but he’s really just squirting water all over the bathroom.

David decided we should all dress in homo ‘70s regalia to honor “Milk,” so I break out a couple of rad polyester duds I just happen to have in my closet, and earlier Duke was wearing this blue and white shirt with a funky pattern and a blue V-neck sweater over it, and sure, the sweater’s a bit short on him, but I have him leave the shirt untucked and he looks supercute and in theme – but when we get out of the bath, he puts on a new, non-thriftstore outfit and I purse my lips at him and call him Bitch Boy for a bit.

The lovah has never been to Uncommon Ground, so I suggest we stop there to grab a couple of lattes before heading to Greg Haus’ house for his annual Oscar Party. This adorable boy carrying a guitar is coming into Uncommon Ground at the same time we are – he’s totes just like Ugly Betty’s crush – and I hold the door for him, and while the host is telling him where to go to set up for his gig, even though the sound guy isn’t here yet, the dude with the guitarist turns to me and Duke and says, “If you guys are here at 8, you really should check him out. He’s got a classic rock thing going on. But on the other hand, he’s got this totally NOT classic rock things going on as well. He’s really quite good.”

As they head to the back room, I turn to Duke and laugh. “Well, that was about as useless a description as I’ve ever heard.”

We go to the coffee bar and chat with the woman making our lattes. She’s got all these stamps out and she’s decorating squares of paper cut up from old menus. “One more thing,” I say after we’ve paid for our drinks. “Could you stamp us?”

She smiles and asks which one I want and I tell her to surprise me and she stamps the back of my right hand with a man who has a pot for a head. Duke asks for a different one, and he gets this guy drinking a ginormous cup of coffee. “Aw, it makes sense that I got the pothead,” I say, and the barista tries to suppress a smile.

We head back out the door and swing down Magnolia to Greg’s house, and as we’re coming in we see Petey smoking a cigarette on the porch.

“Man, I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!” I call out, then add, “It’s OK, Petey – that’s actually not a bad word.”

I want to tell him he looks good, though it’s probably for the best that I don’t ‘cause when I ask what he’s been up to, he lifts up his shirt and shows us a thick scar that runs along his pleasure trail.

“What’s that?” I ask. “Well, I mean, I know it’s a scar – but what happened?”

And he tells us how he had some scarring on his colon, and it turns out it had happened a couple of times before – “That explains why I was doubled over in pain for two days,” Petey smiles sheepishly. “I just thought I had food poisoning or had partied too hard.” He tells us about his morphine drip, and we move inside, and greet Greg Haus, who’s running around, playing host and cooking up Oscar nominee-themed cuisine – a bunch of yummy Indian dishes to honor “Slumdog Millionaire” and a cheesecake (“It’s made with MILK,” he explains. It looks like it’s topped with apples. “And it’s a little bit fruity,” Greg giggles.)

Poor Michael is eternally banged-up and he’s got a shiner, a purple bruise under one eye – which he claims happened from one of his cats, and not from Kunt’s fist upon returning from a Michael-less Boys Gone Wild vaycay in Cancun.

It’s crowded, so Duke leans between Shaved-Head Pete’s legs and I lean into Duke. The ex-Mormon ‘mo who wrote the screenplay for “Milk” gets me all teary-eyed, and I’m happy for Penelope and Kate (though I wanted Heath’s family to get us all bawling, but alas, they were surprisingly composed) and it’s pretty rad when Sean Penn wins Best Actor – Greg Haus keeps shouting YES! YES! and pumping his fist – and Penn’s speech is awesome, talking about how people protesting gay marriage outside the Kodak Theater should be ashamed, and how we need to have equal rights for all.

Last year I simply couldn’t bear the Oscars, but I was actually excited for them this time, and for the first time ever, they whiz by. I’m not sure if it’s the company – Kringle and B.Hof and Mintie and Jena (“two times in one weekend!” she exclaims, “this must be a new record!”) and David Jacob and He Drinks A Lot – or that there seemed to be less lame montages, and I really love how they have the past winners come out and announce the nominees one-on-one, or maybe it’s the fact that I actually won an Academy Award. (Okay, so it was for WALL•E, but close enough). One of the guys who worked on “Dark Knight” was named Wally Fister, and I joke, “That’s what they used to call me in college.” Someone says, “Gosh, remember when you were just Wally Finger?”

But really, it’s probably mostly Alex Ross and his inappropriate and hilarious asides. When that homophobic fuck Jerry Lewis staggers onto stage, standing there all crooked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, Alex says, “It looks like his stylist put both his shoulder pads on the left side!” There were funnier lines, of course – but that’s all that I can recall right now.