hey, i'm that guy from the magazine

About three years ago when I took over as editor of Nightspots, I wrote a bit in my column about an experience I had at Clark’s On Clark. It was the story of a quiet Sunday night, before the 2 a.m. rush, and I was seated on a barstool talking to a friend. To our right was seated a behemoth of a man. He had begun to swagger and sway and I feared that something big was about to go down. Quite literally. He silently sipped one last sip from his beer glass and plopped full force onto the tile floor. I had likened the event to the scene in Jurassic Park when the growing ripples in the water glass warned of the encroaching mammoth dinosaur.

And I will always think of this story when I think of Clark’s On Clark. And after this weekend, ALL I can do is to think of Clark’s On Clark. After 19 years anchored at the corner of Argyle and Clark, our beloved Clark’s is closing down.

This and many memories came surging back to me this week as I went through, one by one, the 320 pictures on page 18. This loopy library represents a full three years of mayhem at Clark’s. If you look closely, you’ll see the time I had a fake-fur clad lunatic tossed out in the street for threatening to cut me. You may also notice action shots of the dancinest bartender team in town. And if you really zoom in, you’ll not be able to ignore one of Nightspots’ crowning glories: the aborted cover of a cherry in Stevie V.’s ass crack.

When I think of the conversations, the exchanges, the faces, the flirtations, the frustrations, the elations and, of course, the libations I’ve seen at Clark’s, I feel like I’m losing a part of my history. There’s just something about that shitty little hole-in-the-wall dump. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So I’d better see you Sunday night as they give it one last fling. I’ll be there with every last ounce of drinking strength I have. And I’ll be REALLLLLY late to work Monday morning.

For a spicy stew of sartorial splendor, you can’t beat the Paper Dolls Thursday night drag show at Mary’s Attic. Guest host Teri Yaki set the tone. I love drag queens that don’t give a fuck. I mean, come on, seriously, you’re wearing a fucking wig and a dress. Loosen up! But I digress.

She had a game wherein she took out her fake tits and threw them out, wedding bouquet style, to the crowd. Whoever caught the flying funbag got to redeem it at the bar for a free shot. Sounded like an apt challenge for me. The tit went flying and was caught simultaneously by me and two twinks. As they struggled to rip the fauxboob out of my hand, I simply maintained a firm grip and gave them a look that communicated, ‘I’m bigger than you, I’m stronger than you, I’m blacker than you. This shit is mine.’ Well it worked and fun shots were had by all. Let this be a lesson: There’s no tit I won’t grab for free liquor. Oh Jesus, now I have a new legacy!

kirk@windycitytimes.com