Studio Dirty Whore Anniversary Party Title

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Last modified: Mon Jul 2 02:13:44 PDT 2001

...quite a mouthful



pansy division

Studio Dirty Whore: June 8th, 2001

"Save some room for Jesus!"
- Sisters Saki Tumi, Penny Costal, and Lolita Me Into Temptation, gleefully opening video booth doors and tossing handfuls of condoms at the writhing couples/groups within.

The searchlight truck parallel-parked at the curb at 9:15 pm, and by 9:30 the four enormous white beams rolled and twisted their slow pattern through the Tenderloin sky. A red carpet extended from the gutter to the front door of the Campus, San Francisco's 50-year-old gay strip joint/porno theater. Several individuals, way too familiar with the newly-carpeted gutter, approached the theater for some sort of answer. One wanted to sell a stack of stolen CD's. (That's the great thing about CrackMart: it never closes!)

Well, the answer, oh ye squanderers of the teeth God gave you, is Guerrilla Queer Bar. It's an Internet-mediated phenomenon that descends on specially chosen bars unannounced, in order to have a free-form party. Tonight, we have done things differently, to celebrate a full year of our ridiculous existence. We rented out this smut palace. Into it we will cram as many people as possible for a barely orchestrated night of bands, comedians, drag queens, surrealism, and guilt-free sexual celebration.

The delegates from the crack community readily approved, so the party got underway.

Theater staff opened the front door a bit after 10:00, and soon the main theater floor was crowded with the randy, the curious, and the anxious. Upstairs, in a room crammed full of desks and computers, the cream of the San Francisco drag crop tucked their dicks between their legs and glued on eyelashes. Peaches Christ, the brave emcee who had lined up the entertainment, was at the reins, in control. Riveting. Classy. Baffling.

Downstairs, in the video booths and the Arena where they have the guys who choke the chicken for tips every hour or so, the middle-aged and older regulars were curious. They wondered why there were so many cute young guys all of a sudden, looking around too quickly to be cruising for sex. The next minute, two guys came around and changed all the sucky-fucky videos to a full range of cinematic entertainment, including The Beatles' "Yellow Submarine," Andy Warhol's "Bad," Fellini's "Satyricon," women in prison in "Unchained Heat," the 1930's drug-sploitation epic "Cocaine Fiends," horror classic "Prom Night," and the jugs-galore mayhem of "Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" Huh? This was not the regular Friday (when the wife has book club) at the Campus. Time to pull up the ole Dockers and get out of here.

Back to the main floor, Peaches Christ had things sufficiently in hand to start the show. She introduced the reason for the season, this first birthday, and then ushered Peggy Leggs onto the stage. Ms. Leggs broke up her "Girl from Ipanema" with graphic fantasies about a stud in the supermarket. Riveting. Classy. Baffling.

After that, the legendary Pippi Lovestocking blessed us with Tammy Wynette's "Your Good Girl's Gonna Go Bad," with added crudeness for the Dirty Whore occasion. This was followed by precise stand-up insights, e.g. "San Francisco: come for the drugs, stay for the crime!" She's funny. (Go see the Gay Comedy Night at Piaf's on Mondays for Pippi and much more.)

All this time, people were thronging in the front door, until the theater staff decided that that was eee-nuff, and the line got held. Smokers and liquor store shoppers ran in and out all night, while several noble Sisters watched the re-entrance door and hustled for donations that were being missed at the main door. Truly saintly service, Sisters. It's probably better not to talk about capacity and crowd numbers here, so as not to incriminate the venue. The line threatened to bring the cops and the Fire Marshall, who apparently make a regular habit of visiting the Campus even when there are no searchlights nor lines nor lesbian couples rolling all over the sidewalk in a joyful love embrace. And we really did not want SF's Finest wandering in to get a load of our scene inside. So that's why we were trying to disperse the line to Aunt Charlie's and elsewhere, while asking people to come back in an hour or so. Aunt Charlie's had its own crowded celebration, a great party in itself.

Back onstage, Squeaky Blonde, Vinsantos, and Metal Patricia were setting up their act. Squeaky, onomatopoetic drag monster and Charlie Manson's worst nightmare, roared into a literal interpretation of The Rolling Stones' "Paint It Black." She mauled, stripped, and painted two guys who seemed willing, but it was really hard to tell. It was like watching a drag snuff film. What was real torture and what was just great acting? Ahh hell, who cares. Then she did some other terrifying thing which culminated in spilling her gallon of paint on the stage and the floor. Then Metal Patricia came to the fore and really let it rip. She had on enough blue eye makeup to wipe a horse's ass (as we used to say in South Carolina) and a Van Halen-red electric guitar. She stomped around to Motley Crue's "She's Got the Looks that Kill" and then Vinsantos and Squeaky started blowing fireballs and burning up all the oxygen in the place and then Metal Patricia set her guitar on fire and then she slipped in the big paint puddle. Oh, and Squeaky had on a thong over her fishnets, and no one I spoke to could really say if that was sexy or not.

After that, there was paint and no air and it was 50 degrees hotter from all the fire, and everybody had that earthquake-survivor adrenaline rush feeling. And Luis from Pansy Division and Peaches were asking for help cleaning up the stage, so the last piece of the red carpet got spread over the paint slick areas, but not until at least three other people busted their asses in fine fashion. One helpful guy looked around for the black stain on the black floor: "Where is . . . ?" and before he could finish his question, his foot flew out from under him like he had stepped on a patch of ice with soap shoes. I really miss The Three Stooges.

After this mess was at least covered up, the Michael Jackson cover band Dangerous bunched up on stage. They pulled up earlier in a big white Impala, and one witness asked if they were from Fresno or what. We expected big things, and we were not disappointed. One of their singers showed up good and hammered, minutes before they went on stage. Cooler heads, the story goes, wondered if they should even go on. But they made it up there. And launched into several numbers, which may have included "Billie Jean" and "The Girl is Mine," but that's not important. There were strange cardboard props, including a cute painted tiger. About this time, the downstairs part of the party began. Guys who had earlier surveyed the video booths, Arena, and the shower room were down there again, with much more purpose this time.

Upstairs, Pansy Division took over, and crashed and grooved as they have done for ten years now. Songs like "Curvature" were great on the Campus's fine new sound system, and their lyrics about dicks and sex fit right in to the Dirty Whore vibe. They had plenty of fans in the crowd, and there was much rejoicing and dancing.

The ultimate act was Kennedy, drag sweetheart extraordinaire, and Precious Moments. Kennedy was in a huge checkered dress with a court of Louis XIV type flair (I think) and Mr. Moments was hidden in the skirt. As she sang an operatic number, she revealed him below her, wearing nothing but an earnest expression and a long, flowing mullet wig. They finished their soul-stirring duet as all the gay men drooled over Mr. Moments crotch-stirring body. Riveting. Classy. Baffling.

After that, Peaches presented the GQB birthday cake, emblazoned with an icing portrait of our beloved poor little rich guerrilla Patty Hearst. Disco tunes got the crowd dancing, and the fleshy festivities downstairs continued into the wee hours.

Outside, Dangerous was sitting in a huddle on the sidewalk, and a cry was heard as they watched their tiger ride off in a cab. (If you were the happy party-goer who got it, that's where it came from. They seemed like they really wanted it back. Email Barney with a ransom note if you are that mercenary.)

If you are thinking, "Well, fine, but where were the strippers?" . . . well, you are my kind of people. The strippers were there, having fun hanging out, but they never did their full act. As far as anyone can tell, they never really knew what was going on. Bands and fire and paint and drag and quite the crowd in the chicken-choke Arena seemed a lot for them to compete with, I guess. This absence of skin dancers was a smut deficiency, absolutely, but most horny guys figured out that there was a wagging willie behind nearly every zipper in the crowd. Quite a few guys proved this hypothesis, some several times over, and the video booths were busy till after 3 a.m.

We say Terrance was a brave man to subject his smut palace to our invasion. We will be on the lookout for upcoming events that will take full advantage of the newly dubbed Club 220, with its reputation, DJ booths, great new sound system, and other assets. Both Terrance and Tyrone at the door did an amazing job of managing the unmanageable: our huge group careening in and out all night long. True professionals. Michael, who did the sound for our very challenging mix of acts, was another party hero.

All in all, it was thrilling night for Guerrilla Queer Bar, with a rush like that feeling you get when you get invited to be the oral sex coach for LYRIC. We got enough money to pay for the space, the searchlights, and to give some money to all the performers. We will also be engaging in some guerrilla philanthropy for Artists' Television Access. Thanks for making this year wild and ridiculous for us, as we have tried to do the same for you. We will continue to offer events that achieve the three S's of Guerrilla Queer Bar: Silly, Sexy, and Surreal. Take good care.

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2001 (c) Urban Anthropology Institute