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Archival Abby
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Thanks for the Parties
San Francisco Parties Thanksgiving Weekend
Ah,
Thanksgiving. It’s all about stuffing yourself, watching football and
fighting with your family. Oh! And giving thanks! This year I have to
say I dined pleasantly, saw only a few minutes of football and managed
to refrain from family squabbling. As for the thanks part, well,
I’m thankful that I get paid to go to parties and write about them for
you people! Amen!
So, I began my celebration of the holiday by hostessing a Sexy Salon at
the Center for Sex & Culture. I told a rambling tale of my
post-Black & Blue Ball strap-on escapades. Diana Cage shared
stories of backseat lust. The Indra serenaded us. Daphne Gotleib gave
us a couple of sexy spoken word pieces. Larry Utley provided a slide
show of his latest work. Fudgie Frottage gave a rousing round of “Cock
All Day,” sung to the tune of “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” Ah, the
classics! Sadie Lune writhed with a serpent. Cara Vida vamped through
the hilarious “I’m Blasé.” Humidity brought the house down my
performing a saucy little burlesque number that culminated in some
serious onstage insertion. And the inimitable Flash kept the cold
Tecates coming. I saw some old friends, met a few new ones and we
raised a few extra dollars for The Center.
From there it was off to Bondage a Go-Go, where they were celebrating
their twelfth anniversary with a Fetish Prom. You gotta appreciate the
theme, but when a guy in a white tux ran by squealing “Let’s all do the
conga line!” with absolutely no trace of irony whatsoever, I
experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance. Even the voting for prom
king and queen seemed a little too earnest. But the winners, Polly
Pandemonium and Scott Levkoff. did their best to take the piss out by
hamming it up onstage. Of course, their silly matching latex “spoon
head” ensembles were also a far cry from the pouffy dress and ruffly
shirt ridiculousness usually associated with prom wear.
There were performances, including a nostalgic homage to Prince, but
the real entertainment at BAGG is always the crowd. Upstairs in the
roped-off play space, there was plenty of action—more than you
ordinarily see on a Wednesday night. And while I enjoy a good ass
beating as much as the next guy, I sure do love the cast of characters
that shows up, like, every week. I especially enjoy the guy with the
long hair who insists upon dancing shirtless. He’s a fixture. And
ohmigod, the dude who was channeling early 80s Van Halen! He was
showing way too much skin in that shredded singlet or whatever the hell
it was. Whoa, that sweaty mullet! Stylin’ dude! The gaggle of go-go
girls is always good for pouting, posing eye candy, while on the dance
floor, everyone does their best “pick up the penny, give it to god”
goth dance or swirly solo shit. Ah, I find comfort in the familiar.
George is a sweetheart and the fact that this party’s been going on for
a full dozen years is a testament to not only his stamina but that of
the San Francisco scenesters who’ve helped keep it alive. Congrats and
happy prom!
Friday night I was to attend The Fencesitters’ Ball for the purposes of
writing a party review. My evening began at a birthday bash for a
friend of my sister’s. After milling around in the kitchen getting
primed with a few beers, we were all off to see Tainted Love, an
inspiring 80s tribute band. But alas, the club was over capacity and
the line was a mile long. So we trudged up the hill to a bar, where we
found temporary safe haven and, thankfully, 80s tunes. At midnight I
announced that I was departing for “a bisexual bash” and everyone was
welcome to come along. I said there’d be great DJs and three rooms of
fun, but the crowd seemed a bit skeptical. I hailed a cab with one of
my sister’s friends; a half hour later we were joined by my sister and
I, accompanied by her husband and all his friends. Somehow the wives
had miraculously vanished. Though that suited me just fine, I was
a bit worried about a dozen straight guys in button-down shirts at a
bisexual ball. But hey, it’s San Francisco. I’d already wondered “Why a
bisexual ball? Isn’t everyone in San Francisco at least a little bit
bi? And thus isn’t every party unofficially full of fencesitters?”
Anyway, it was the perfect opportunity for all the usual suspects to
escape their families and dance off all those servings of mashed
potatoes and gravy.
The scene was like some sort of oddball Noah’s Ark: at least two of
everything. Trannies and dykes, leather daddies and latex fetishists.
Goth kids and gawkers. The only canoodling I noticed was between a man
and a woman—not very bi—but I figure there was plenty I was missing. I
saw familiar faces: Pony Girl Tori and the trannnie with the neck brace
that shows up at just about every party I’ve ever been to in San
Francisco. Tommy Hot in his impressive cassette tape curls and my
omnipresent friend Chaz. Paul Nathan and Random were bustling about
being hosts
The moment I walked in the door and ordered a beer, the music shifted
from the early DJ to Laird, much to my excitement. My first encounter
with DJ Laird was on an art car at Burning Man. He was spinning the
most amazing mix of obscure 80s tunes and we were worshipping him. An
hour later he had an outdoor dance floor jumping and pumping with
earth-moving thumpy-thumpy. And of course I made a point of finding him
at the SF Decom. But here he truly demonstrated his versatility,
spinning weird mixes of—I don’t know what, was it dosco? Anyway, it
took me a while to get into that groove so I made a detour to the
smaller room upstairs, where DJs Lowlife and John were spinning, you
guessed it, more 80s gothy, new wavey type shit. I suppose that was the
evening’s overriding theme… But in the end it was us, jumping to
Laird’s thumpy-thump, until they turned on the lights and kicked our
asses out.
Not to be discouraged—or sent home early!—we trundled to the after
party and spent a hilarious hour in the “shroom room,” which was really
the blinkie-flashy room, surrounded by EL wire, blinkies and black
light toys for sale. We turned it into our own not-so-private VIP
lounge, relaxing on the couch and spilling our drinks, which we really
didn’t need by that point.
I ended my night—and my San Francisco celebrations—by chowing down on
cold leftover turkey, sprinkling it with salt over the kitchen sink,
the way leftover turkey is best enjoyed. I, of course, had a blast, as
that is what I do. Hey, I’m a professional. But everything seemed just
slightly out of synch to me. Maybe it was the fact that people were
feeling guilty about dodging their familiar duties. Or they weren’t
sufficiently thankful. Me? I’ll blame the tryptophan. Urp!
[Written Nov. 2005]
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