The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 2001-2004. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

She kept talking about September 11. This was a problem, because I was trying to hit on her, and discussions about massive terrorist attacks are not exactly conducive to setting a romantic tone. She was talking about this documentary she had accidentally caught on PBS the other night that made her relive the experience all over again, and how sad she was, and what a black mark on American history it's always going to be, and I've got the wine bottle half-up and am nodding silently, wondering to myself when we can get this part of the conversation over and move on to much more fun subjects like kissing and dating and smoking dope and what wonderful things all three of those are.

But the documentary now has her thinking about Television and the Truth, and how strange it is to try to tie those two concepts together in the first place, and I'm holding my hand over half my face, wondering if we're ever going to get back to the hitting on each other stuff - which marked the beginning of our evening, don't get me wrong. I wouldnt've invited her over in the first place if we hadn't started by hitting on each other; I just assumed that more of the same would take place once we got back here.

But now she's thinking about reality television, and she starts telling me about American Idol. Which, by the sounds of it, she has watched religiously both seasons it's been on. Which I haven't, because, let's face it, do I look like the kind of guy who gives a shit who wins American Idol? But she's throwing all these names at me, Ruben and Clay and Justin and Kelley and Ryan and Simon, and it becomes obvious that she takes this shit pretty seriously, and she starts telling me about all these people in earlier rounds who got cut but shouldn't have, like some military guy and some girl who got caught doing porn or something.

And I'm trying to play along, but part of me keeps thinking, What am I doing here? How did I get myself in this situation? God, if she's seriously into American Idol, just think about what else she might be seriously into - boy bands? J-Lo? All those new MTV shows I've never seen 'cause I don't even own cable? Jesus, what did I get myself into here?

Then she yawns and puts her hands in the air and says that it's probably about time she started heading home, and even at this point there's still a small part of me that's wondering if I can somehow salvage this evening, at least get a makeout session out of it before she heads off. But then I think of exploding airplanes and bubblegum pop, and the strange, surreal society that could somehow come up with both of these things at the same time, and so I hand the girl her purse and thank her for coming over. And then I take off my clothes, unplug my television and go to sleep.