A glitch

He was already about half a block ahead of me when I hit the street and turned right, hurrying down Belmont toward Halsted. I wanted a better look, because I couldn't believe my eyes when I'd first spotted him on the platform, his impossibly blond head with a severe angle-cut soaring at least a foot and a half over the rest of the crowd.

Dressed completely in black with a flowing overcoat that whipped behind him in the wind coming up the street from the lakeside, he wore a pair of fuck-you sunglasses and drew on a European cigarette as he continued to make better time down the street than I would have figured anyone to be able, given he was also standing on five-inch platform heeled black boots.

He looked like the lead in an all-gay sequel to The Matrix, surging forward against the light without even looking left or right but managing to avoid cross traffic. Here, in the half-gritty, half-campy gateway to Boystown, was the quintessential Neo-fag, no doubt on his way to somewhere more fabulous than you. It was the first and likely last time I'll ever see someone actually sashay in bullet time.

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