Chicago has journalists' bars, ethnic bars, neighborhood bars, even midget
bars, hundreds, maybe thousands of bars, on every neighborhood block.
I was drinking on afternoon in O'Rourke's, a bar on the Near North side.
It was dark and empty, which suited my mood.  A fat, stubble-bearded,
middle-aged man waddled in, took the stool next to mine, and ordered a
beer.  He was completely unremarkable, except that he was dressed, head
to toe, in a white-lace wedding gown.  After a silence, I said, "Been to
a wedding?"
	He brushed back his veil, rustled his petticoats and said, "Uh...
yeah."
	He silently finished his drink and left.  The bartender said, "You
know, even the transvestites in this town have five o'clock shadows."