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Advice Crush: Dear Boogie

July 21, 2010

Dear Boogie:
We need your sound advice seeing as you are one strappingly stylish lad. There’s this guy at work we’ll call “Walter.” Walter is a hard-working, 30-something, nice-enough guy who I think probably still lives with his mother. That’s not the problem. Well, not all of it. Hot mess doesn’t begin to describe what is going on here. I declare this a catastrophe in line with the eruption of Mount St. Helens. At the very least, he suffers from very bad taste combined with the lack of a mirror and good lighting.

He is sloppy, unkempt, mismatched, wrinkled, stained and often ripped. One day he had a hole in his crotch. It was all I could do not to look. I was afraid of finding out whether he had on any under drawers. Or worse – what condition they may have been in!

Thing is he’s an ok guy but no one can get past this colossal image disaster. Is this a disease? It there a cure? Can these people be rehabilitated? Should we stage an intervention?

Cubicles in Crisis

Dear CiC,

I appreciate your compliment toward my personal style. As it turns out, I am EXACTLY the right man for this question. I am about to share something with you that probably should never be brought back into the public consciousness. But I’m a healer and I’m here to help.

The stylish fashionista known as Brendan Boogie once looked like this:

Don’t avert your eyes! Drink it in! That’s what the ’90s were all about, kids!

What’s more – this photo was taken right before a gig with my college band. Think about that. I took a gander at that ensemble in the mirror and found it not only fit for wearing outside the house, but ON STAGE. Those were my cool clothes.

Why do I dredge up this past humiliation and put it on display for public consumption? Because I needed help. And luckily for me, I got that help in the form of a very kind, very gay man named Chris.

When the gay guys in college would get together, their banter would inevitably turn to who among us were secret closet cases. I listened to this speculation with mild amusement until one day, something occurred to me.

“So Chris,” I asked with almost adorable naivete, “Why doesn’t anyone think I am gay?”

Chris shook his head and said, “Brendan… gay guys take care of themselves.”

It hurt, but damn it he was right, CiC. I needed an intervention. You see, we straight guys have no idea how terrible we look. Sure, the metrosexual movement helped a little bit, but things got very douchey very quickly, morphing into spray tans and frosted tips. What’s a clueless fella to do?

Telling someone they have no style is a delicate business, but it has to be done. Point your most flamboyant gay friend in this dude’s direction and show no mercy. He’ll thank you in the end. And learn the lesson I never did – cream-colored turtlenecks and reversible flannel are nobody’s friend.

Soundtrack for your misery: Father Abraham “Hey Baby, You Look Better With the Lights Out” [download]

After you’re done scrubbing the image of that picture from your poor, unsuspecting eyeballs, send an email to

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