As usual, a bunch happened this week. So-and-so hooked-up with what's-his-face. Whoozits got drunk and slapped the doorman. Joe Blow blew everybody at You-Know-Where. But, you know what, I can't muster the strength to report any of that this week. Here's why.
Being 'That Guy From the Magazine' at first sounded like a dream job. Having everybody recognize my talents and making a name for myself was what I thought I wanted. I'd hit the streets, make a million friends and have a wonderful time everywhere I went. Which is to say nothing of the free liquor.
The reality of the situation is that while I do have a lot of fun on the scene, it makes it really hard to find people who actually care about me, Kirk Williamson, not 'That Guy From the Magazine.' One place, for me, gave me that oasis in the Gay desert. My haven. My heaven.
I live right down the street from Charmers but, for some reason, didn't really start going there until last May. Since then, after many a drunken sing-a-long, so many new, amazing friends and times I could go nowhere else, I can honestly say that Charmers has been a vitally important force in my life.
And now they're closing. Selling to become an Irish cop bar.
So as I sit here, feebly trying ( and in no way succeeding ) to fight back the tears, I want to tell all my friends from Charmers, namely Charlie, Liz, Dan, Lori, Bruce, Brian, Matthew, Joy, Pope Augustus, Lisa, Rolando, Dave, Dell, and anyone else I forgot to mention that while I may not see you every blessed night, I'll always keep you near.