No particular birthday plans this year, thanks for asking. As this is my 31st birthday ( Saturday night, should you see me out working ) it only stands to reason that pomp and circumstance have been supplanted by toil and slavery. I'm a big boy now.
And don't try that birthday spanking shit, either. It ain't cute.
It's not often I play dress-up. The normal morning routine consists of scooping up whichever pair of jeans happen to be closest to the bed and selecting my T-shirt du jour. But Thursday gave me an opportunity to spiff up a bit. It was Windy City Times' 20th birthday at The Park West ( no pictures—I was off the clock ) and I put together what I considered to be a smart ensemble: Tuxedo jacket with jeans, red cap to match my red striped Adidas.
I'm not usually one for outward approval of such things. For most intents and purposes, I could give half a monkey fuck what anyone else thinks of my image. But there has always been one individual whose guidance and acceptance I had always ( well, since a few years ago ) sought. And at Sidetrack, I got that thumbs up I'd been craving from none other than... wait for it... wait for it... Clinton Kelly of TLC's 'What Not To Wear'!
As I strode past him, I caught a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye. He resembled an ex of mine, one whom I did not relish having to encounter. You know, one of theses pricks that breaks your heart in two, drops off the face of the earth for a year and then one night sends you a series of lurid e-mails ( Yes, I am aware I look hot in camouflage. And that has what to do with you? ) . I almost continued on, but decided to glance back surreptitiously. Thank God I did.
He has one of those familiar faces that seems to be a part of that everyday gay street scene. He could have been walking his chihuahua or sipping his chai latte in front of Equinox just last week. Maybe it's because I am a fanatic for his show and I have often fantasized about being stolen away in the night by my closest friends and deposited at his NYC loft, where I would be berated and rebuilt anew: Kirk Williamson—fashion plate ( ? ) .
Starstruck, I stopped dead and exclaimed in a 10-year-old-girlish shriek, 'Oh my God, I love you! I have to take your picture!'
He was amenable. And lovely. And all I ever imagined.
And the icing on this fashion cake—he loved my outfit.
Yeah, that and 8 million Halloween things happening. See the calendar for full disclosure.
Minibar is now open on Halsted. Stop in for a smoke-free, swank filled experience.
Briefly, my apologies to a few certain suburban bars for a lack of pictures in this oh-so-exhaustive issue. A minor miscommunication with a photographer led to the lack of your smiling faces. I promise you special attention this weekend.