During the holidays I attended a party at Chicago reclusive author Clive Javanski’s place. There was a guy there wearing Jesus pants and playing acoustic guitar, but I’m not going to talk about that. I’m going to talk about the Weird Girl. I never have expectations when it comes to ladies when Clive hosts a social gathering, which is rare (the last time it happened, he was gone for three hours – turns out he was at Quenchers Saloon). I’ve seen models there, bookish-types, some that look homeless and one that had a penis. So I’m drinking a Polish Weiss in the kitchen and in walks three girls. One of them was the Weird Girl. She walked up to me and while I was…
