Chirky

I’m not sure why I’m obsessed with celebrities. I’ve never had an upclose encounter – I mean, I’ve certainly never squeezed Gavin Rossdale’s bum – unless you count that quazi-brush with Imelda Marcos last year in Manila. If you would even call it that.

Still, I have an obsession and I think it’s high-time that I admit it. Roger and I are in Chicago right now, home of Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey. When we were wandering around the Hancock Tower observation deck, in fact, I couldn’t stop thinking OH MY GOSH, I’M STANDING ON TOP OF JERRY SPRINGER’S CONDO RIGHT NOW. Which: Why? I don’t even like Jerry Springer. And then I would look out the South window, and there! There is Oprah’s penthouse! All the blinds were shut, but I was convinced that if I stared long enough, she would peek out and I would see her and…then what? Maybe she’d invite me over for coffee and dessert?

That’s why, when we walked past the Park Hyatt and saw the Maybach and Lamborghini parked directly in front of the hotel, we knew that Something Important was about to happen. We stood around, inspecting the lines of the Lambo and the drooling over the buttery leather interior, waiting to see what happened. And then they walked out. No one we recognized, unfortunately, but they were all dressed in white – head to toe in white hats and white shirts and white pants and white shoes – and I was wondering if they ALWAYS dressed like that, because how inconvenient would that be if it was after Labor Day? And did they coordinate, or was it coincidence that they all showed up wearing white?

And then he was there, among them, his corn rows weaved tight and his bling, well, blinging. He was wearing a black leather shirt and jeans, and I didn’t know that he was anyone important until I caught a glimpse of his watch, because no one I’ve ever seen has worn a watch like this one. The diamonds were so bright and so glittery that it alone could have funded quadruple my expected retirement. The wristband was probably two inches wide, and the face of the watch was as big around as my thigh, all diamonds. I grabbed Roger by the arm and excitedly said, “Watch – just watch – I bet he’ll get in the Lamborghini. Who do think he is? Snoop Dog?” It was the corn rows, I swear. I actually don’t even know what Snoop Dog looks like.

Turns out, it was R. Kelly and a group of all-white-wearing friends, who were having dinner at NoMI. Which leaves me to hypothesize: Do you think R. Kelly has some sort of rule that forces his friends to wear white when they spend time with him? I don't think that would work for me. I look much better in ivory.

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