Last modified: Fri Jun 8 08:30:00 PDT 2001

Midnight In The Hoasis : The World Premier of Guerrilla Queer Bar May 31st, 2000

"Good is a good doctor, but Bad is sometimes a better." – Emerson

I knew I was having fun when the really bitter, 65-ish queen grabbed my disco-freaker buddy by the front of the shirt and told him he was going to kick his ass. Ahh, the bliss of booze and an adrenaline rush.

Of course, my subtle friend had just called the guy "Mr. Asshole" quite loudly while he stood five feet away. But come on, we were at karaoke night at Tango-Tango. This is the gay bar where the same five guys have been walking in and staggering out for thirty years with the regularity of your German grandmother's cuckoo clock. Hardly the scene for violence. And the guy had been strangely mean to several of our friendly group of virile young bucks (and a few buck-ettes).

To the assembled smokers' relief, though, no blood or alcohol was spilled. Queer diplomat Sister Dana and I helped soothe the pitiable savage. My credibility with the aging and mustachioed Mr. Asshole was the direct result of my just-completed rendition of the country nugget "I'm Gonna Hire a Wino to Decorate Our Home." (Mysterious ways, indeed. Thankyew, Jesus.)

My loud-mouthed buddy sputtered in indignation for another hour, then retched his besotted way out into the Polk Street night and homeward. Oh, but only after leading an excruciating rendition of Tina Turner's "What's Love Got to Do With It?" with a half-dozen backup singers who all squawked the lyrics like the chicken in that John Waters/"Pink Flamingos" sex scene. It would have peeled the paint off the walls if it hadn't all crumbled off years ago. The crowd went from horrified silence to stomping and screaming adulation. It was like that recent Liza Minelli engagement here in town, from what I've been told (squawking, horror, adulation, and so forth).

Over the course of the evening, about fifty or so people showed up, everybody was cute and sexy and only a few boring ones left without introducing themselves. Not that I remember anyone's name, of course.

A writer from the Chronicle showed up, and the whole messy scene got a very dignified write-up in the new "Friday" section the other day (in the column "Between the Bridges," June 9). He must have left early.

Other songs that were sung (We had the karaoke turned off and then decided to have it turned back on. Scary.) included: "Beauty School Dropout," "D-I-V-O-R-C-E," some weepy ballads by the regulars, and Bonny Tyler's "I Need a Hero." And no, I wasn't seriously considering those entreaties to "Take it off" that came from the elder statesmen at the bar as I sang that last one. (They weren't waving bills, were they?)

Judging from the sum of my flashbacks and what I have been told, the IPO of guerrillaqueerbar.com was a jolly, belligerent success. Very guerrillesque (thanks, new list-member Carl for advising Mr. Schlockum of the adjective form). And the bartender went home happy (see Rule #2 on the GQB homepage).

Important note: The next get-together will NOT be for karaoke. So just calm down. (If this makes you sad, remember that you can be just as "Hooked on a Feeling" in the shower or on a crowded MUNI train. If you end up at the Psych E.R. on this MUNI suggestion, feel free to give us a call. We'll all come visit.)