THE GREAT GADFLY:

My Dinner With Fade-In

It's easy to forget that the other people who write these things are warm, breathing, flesh and blood people with laughter and hope and thick yellowed fingernails and bobbed tongues, and oh - just all those other humanizing features this fellow scribe struck home for me upon our meeting yesterday.

I have to admit I was taken aback a little bit when we first met for lunch, because he arrived at the scene dressed in full U.S.S. Enterprise regalia, circa "Star Trek: The Next Generation" (for those of you keeping score). It was a little awkward at first, I will admit, but when he explained that when he's home in Chicago, he feels able to live his fantasies, I couldn't help but have a little respect for his need for individuality.

And the Burberry beret was a nice touch to the whole outfit, I must admit.

We found a cozy booth at which to chat 'n' chew, and after we doffed our coats and got comfy, he started pulling Ziploc sandwich bags from his coat pockets, each half-filled with a different color goo. I asked him what he had there, and he informed me that he always brought his own condiments to dining establishments, because he didn't trust bottled sauces offered in public. Something about anti-Thetan energy blockers or something.

Okay. Well. I reminded myself that hanging out with this guy beats the hell out of what I would have done with my day - namely sitting on my broke ass watching videotaped Molly Dodd reruns for the eleventeenth time, while grazing from a bag of stale mini-marshmallows.

My dinner companion shocked me with a long story about how everything he's ever written in his diary is a complete sham, and how he's really a kept man (no namedropping, but let's just say a certain purse-clutching cast member of "The Golden Girls" is apparently a very satisfied woman) who writes a monthly column for "Cat Fancy" under a nom de plume (maybe you've read his column - it's called "Cries and Whiskers"), and how in his spare time he's written an entire series of homoerotic slash fiction thrillers based on the show "Highway to Heaven".

"That's great," I said. "Oh, my bladder." And with that, I excused myself and stumbled to the men's room to fight the psychotic episode that was brewing in my nervous system.

Of course, I couldn't get a moment's peace in the bathroom because I can NEVER get a moment of peace in a public bathroom. It is my curse. Every time I walk into a public bathroom, a bunch of guys are always washing their pits over the sink or comparing colostomy bags or something equally unsettling. At least on this particular occasion, I'll admit I was thrilled by the latest in the series of urinal distractions to come my way.

Apparently, on this day, this very Chicago diner's men's room was chosen to be the location for none other than the "Gummo Holiday Special", featuring special guest George Michael. Idiot savant director Harmony Korine was right there, filming the reunited cast of his infamous cult film, all joyously huffing red and green bags of glue together in a bathroom stall, while George Michael climbed over the partition singing an emotional a capella version of "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

"Oh, hi Harmony," I whispered. "Don't mind me. I just need a minute."

Harmony shot me the "OK" sign with his free hand and went back to work.

I stole a moment for myself in front of the mirror to gather my thoughts as the cast of "Gummo" and special guest George Michael performed Christmas songs in a nearby bathroom stall, and I said out loud to my reflection, "you can do this."

And I marched out of that bathroom and back to the booth, and don't ask me how he did it, but somehow my new friend had completely transformed while I was away, now suddenly clad in a shiny black PVC catsuit, black lipstick, huge Jackie O. sunglasses and a long red Cher wig.

"I am Nukleopatra," he said to me, acting all fierce and shit, before continuing with, "and I only want to be loved like anyone else."

And then he burst into tears.

As if on cue, the cast of "Gummo" stepped out of the men's room and George Michael flipped a quarter into the jukebox by bouncing the coin off his amazing denim clad ass (you had to be there), and we all burst out into a heartfelt rendition of "We Are The World". I sang the Bruce Springsteen part in full grunt, and my wigged friend belted out a tear-stained vocal of his own, performing the Cyndi Lauper part AND the Bob Dylan section of the song without even taking off his shades. I have to admit, hearing him do that "well well WELL!!!" Cyndi part of the song was nothing short of absolutely impressive. He's got some set of pipes on him, he does.

Fantastically, we were not charged by the restaurant for our meals. "Just seeing everyone come together like this is payment enough," the manager said.

It was truly an amazing visit. I know I will always be touched in a special place from the whole incident. My expectations of this fellow diarist were not only trumped immeasurably, but they were dangled gleefully from a hotel window in the Germany of my soul.

Oh, but before I knew it, the "Gummo" people and Mr. Michael left the diner and then I knew it was time to say goodbye to my special friend, who was doubled over near the counter vomiting into a Rubbermaid wastebasket, chunks of our holiday feast dangling in his festive red wig.

"I'll never forget this day," I said gently.

"Blllurrrgh," he replied. "Glurble bleargh."

And I knew exactly what he meant.

Happy holidays, my colorful friend. Happy holidays.