last modified on Mon Apr 2nd, 2001

It's Raining Men, and Women, and Gendernauts (Hallelujah!)

"...They said, "C'mon dudes", and we proceeded to tear that hotel down."
-- Grand Funk Railroad, "American Band"

"Confusion can lead to transcendence or to oblivion."
-- what I told the old lady in the GrayLine tour group.

On July 6, somewhere in the neighborhood of 120 people showed up for a very disarming happy hour experience in plastic–flower Polynesia. When I got there at 7:00 (in my tux and a large wig, by cable car), the bar was jammed with a glowingly queer crowd. Lots of smiley eager young men; a cadre of well-heeled yet raucous lesbians; thought-they'd-seen-it-all uber-urbanites; several studly men and women carrying motorcycle helmets (a very alluring fashion accessory); and a handful of Glamazon-type gender- and genre-benders. Oh, and then there was the elderly bisexual bon vivant Dutch aristocrat, the intimidatingly buxom alleged domestic arsonist, and the on-call, ravishingly handsome gun-toting cop.

We drank lava bowls, Singapore slings, and other Hi-C & gasoline potions. After a while though, I resorted to ordering several Buds at a time for myself. The one buzz-kill of the evening was the glacial pace of the bar staff. They were quite overwhelmed and never really got up to speed. One crafty attendee gave the dishwasher a chunk of cash to run drinks out to us. I even heard a maudlin tale of a tepid martini.

The cute disco/torch-singer on her thatched-roof lounge-band boat was overwhelmed, too. She chuckled through several lounge numbers before she and the band seemed to surrender by segueing into an efficient Madonna medley. "Do you think she's singing Madonna because of us??" someone asked me as I stood around on the dance floor. Um, is that a rhetorical question?

The busload of amiable codgers from GrayLine Tours were overwhelmed. They arrived just as we were feeling our sugar-booze buzz and finding the dance floor. People's grandparents really appreciated those of us who came prepared with umbrellas and shared with them when the half-hourly tropical rains poured down.

I myself was overwhelmed. Here we had assembled a large, very mixed, very queer crowd, who were hanging out, grinning like idiots and having a barely-contained time. In a huge, subterranean tiki bar. Freakin'Babylon.

I walked away, heading to further misadventures at Martuni's (Bad singers never die, they just go to Martuni's.) and then at a real-live restaurant. So, to all who came, you bustling, sexy mob: Thanks for making my week. Veni, vidi, Tonga, y'all.