Catching the Amy and Freddy show at Joey's Brickhouse on Friday, the RtVR entourage unanimously decided, "Best artichoke dip in the city!" Yet we were left to wonder, however, where this west Belmont bistro gets the inspiration for its flavorsome fare. The name "Joey" says Italian, while all the Yiddish and shellfish on the menu implies something different.
"What do you think Amy?" I asked of Chicago's attaché of gay cabaret, diva Amy Armstrong when she joined our table in between sets.
Her answer: "Knock it off whore!" before swilling back a Jager Bomb – mad at me for sneaking profile pics of her when she wasn't looking. Freddy Allen was forblungit in the bathroom wiping the shvitz from his brow and couldn't comment.
Perhaps Joey, much like yours truly, stems from the Island we call Long in the great state of NY. Then it would all make sense. I even bet he drives an Iroc.
And there's no better place to park that ride than on north Clark right outside of Smart Bar. That's where BOI Magazine's signature salon Urban Lift (located on Ashland and Addison, just a ½ block south of BOI HQ!) was represented for hair design in a fashion show taking place that evening. Yet fashion show or no fashion show, this was still Smart Bar and the straights were loud and in effect. Pretty in pink JP felt somewhat out of place and B-lined it to the first set of earthy girls, Juliesta and Maggie, he could find. They hit it off swimmingly! So much so, Maggie even promised me a CD. I'm still waiting for it.
What the show was actually benefiting, I forgot to ask.
You won't find Camaros parked outside of Uptown's Crew Bar and Grill. It's a bus stop; which made it perfectly easy for me to attend Dare to Dream, the gay sports bar's fundraising Ms. America contest. Hosted by Crew characters Dick Guhzinya and Crystal Fur, contestants were allowed to share the spotlight with the tiara contenders while the pageant played on the bar's many high definition screens. The event raised over $300 for AidsCare but neglected to name me Mr. Congeniality. When questioned why, both Crystal and Dick answered in unison, "Because you're an asshole!" My reputation precedes me.
Having nothing to do with late model Chevrolets – depending on your point of view – we went for Killer Margaritas at Ceasar's on Broadway for our final stop. This being the ChicagoPride.com Contributor Appreciation Party, all the cool columnists were present and accounted for -- sans Ms. Sterling off in Miami having fun without me. (Read: Jessika's SoBe VIP Tour) Sobriety was recommended for adequate schmoozing. Bummer I don't know what that means.
It was so awesome to meet all the other folk associated with the site especially advice guru Princess Darby. And winning free plane tickets in the Writer's Raffle rocked pretty hard too!
Amidst all the fun we were having, I did learn a very hard lesson that night. After three of these supposed killer drinks, on the rocks of course -- only a punk ass orders them frozen -- (not the mention the 4 to 5 shots, served by the event host Miss Foozie, so I had to drink them) The margaritas at Ceasar's really don't kill so much as they just make you drunk.
Perhaps the title implies more of a social death after the embarrassment of what they make you do.