Kyan Douglas from Queer Eye For The Straight Guy was due to appear, but he was a half-hour late. The regulars at Boom, the chic gay bar in Nordeast, nonchalantly settled into shiny silver perches around the bar. A few had dinner while the bartender confirmed and poured their usual drinks. Even with a twenty-five dollar cover charge for the main event, and the traffic that kept the celebrity from a timely arrival, the mood was strictly relaxed. The regulars were simply biding their well-groomed time until the pod’s scheduled return to the mother ship. There would be no need for fashion advice around here tonight; Kyan was coming home.
The bartender slid a Sam Adams to a handsome older man at the bar and gave his update: “My therapist won’t let me make any major decisions right now; I just had another divorce.” Next to Sam sat another good-looking gentleman, a single gold ring offsetting the dark skin of his hand, which occasionally touched his glass of white wine. Across the bar, two young couples drank cocktails and spoke like old friends, batting the conversational shuttlecock back and forth. Farther down, two neatly bearded professorial types and a plain middle-aged woman arrived. They accompanied a nervous-looking man with a slight combover. Were they his support group for his first night “out”?
“I know one good thing about breaking up,” said the bartender, patting his flat stomach. “And that’s going back to the gym.” Another regular named Anthony drank a rum and Coke with a girlfriend. She obviously wasn’t trying to hook up with Anthony or anyone else in the bar. “I just like looking,” she said, before shrinking back into her supporting role. Anthony didn’t see any other of his usual friends in the crowd. “All these weird people are freaking me out.”
Just as a woman wearing strappy spring sandals and nude pantyhose leaned in to order a pinot grigio, Douglas arrived. He looked slightly frazzled—no surprise, considering the full day of appearances he’d performed for his handlers from Clear Channel Communications. Douglas, though, looked like he’d barely survived his stop at the Mall of America, where mullets and nose hairs roam free.
If there really were a gay S.W.A.T. team, Carson Kressley (Queer Eye’s snippy fashion guy) would be the bad cop, arriving at the accident scene to check for clean underwear, ready with a naughty double entendre. But Kyan Douglas would be the listener, gently guiding the hapless breeder to the bathroom for a product check. Sending Carson to Minnesota may very well have resulted in a horrible necktie lynching incident. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, puttin’ my tie around my waist like a belt?” Douglas was the perfect fit for a Minnesota visit; locals here seem to like their queers a lot like their ethnic food: not too spicy—well, maybe with just a little “zhoojzing.”
Douglas moved through the crowd, displaying a tasteful medley of queer-eye tips on toast: firm handshake, direct eye contact, receptive and attentive introductions. He leaned in for questions and threw out a big laugh, while executing a perfect sister-don’t-I-know-it upper arm squeeze at the same time.
Asked if it felt good to return to the secret clubhouse where all the eyes were queer, he ducked in to share his answer, “Once I got here I realized I got to say ‘nice shirt’ and ‘nice pants’ a lot more.”
Reminded of the surprisingly transcendent episode in which Douglas coaxed a man out from under his toupee and his mother (and possibly the closet, according to fans on the Queer Eye Web site), Douglas closed his eyes briefly and said, “Yes, that was one of my favorites.”
Kyan Douglas, the patron saint of product, looked a tad overwhelmed by his own transformation to product. Luckily his fans were there to keep him in touch with his perfectly colored roots. As he passed through to the heavy curtains to Oddfellows, where he would dine with people who had ponied up a hundred bucks to watch him eat, a man standing at the coat check said, “No, I didn’t get his picture. If I want one, I’ll just call him. I’ve got his cell phone number.”—Sari Gordon
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