Last modified: Fri Jun 8 06:12:48 PDT 2001

The *uck of the Irish, St. Patricia's Day, March 2, 2001: A Dubious Precedent is Set

"God invented whiskey to keep the Irish from ruling the world."
-- Ed McMahon

"I hear this is a roving party ... Just please stay on the sidewalks. Have fun. Be safe."
-- Very nice cop voice over the speaker of an SFPD cruiser

It's Saturday morning, and the attendees of the largest-yet Guerrilla Queer Bar squint from under the bedclothes. In that squishy, giddy haze that follows a long and memorable night out, our two-hundred-fifty or so minds start to twist and remember why the world seems a little more silly and sexy than it did 24 hours ago.

Images surface from overnight short-term memory:
At the Lefty O'Doul's piano, the effusive Sister Dana sang "Tranny Boy" (to the tune of "Danny Boy") from the official GQB song sheets. Those who were wedged close enough to hear were transported to a romantic Tenderloin-ish scenario that mentioned glory holes, testosterone levels, and drag shows. We were so jammed in this previously gaping space that it was hard to maneuver through this bar/hofbrau from the old days of San Francisco dining. (And I wonder, did that cute man get that plate of Polish sausage just to tease me?) For those who wanted to breathe, we could stand on the sidewalk and sing along with the piano player, by way of pedestrian-assaulting outdoor speakers.

The walk from Union Square to Chinatown was stirring to behold. We streamed steadily and sloppily, like a fourth-grade field trip to the science museum. The field trip where the class is about 250 kids, certain ones peel off for some inappropriate touching and/or pot smoking, and three girls come back pregnant. It felt powerful to be in such a horde; only we didn't have any demands of anybody other than a conspicuous passage. And we wanted to jaywalk a little and stop traffic and wave at honking cars. And stop in at a liquor store for some Bushmill's. And work it like we mean it. But that pretty much covered the goals part of the parade.

Those two geniuses of the zeitgeist really did shower a parading mob with Lucky Charms (the sugar cereal) as we walked up Grant Street through the Chinatown Gate. Lucky Charms were spotted later in the evening in sticky piles and puddles on the cocktail tables at Li Po, Buddha Bar, and Savoy-Tivoli. The innovative Cabana-boy handed out fortunes determined by a person's favorite Lucky Charms marshmallow. Purple horseshoe people, for example, "respond in bed like they owe you money," among other positive traits.

Over the course of the evening, about 400 overwhelmed innocents said either: "It's not St. Patrick's Day yet, is it?" or "St. Paddy's Day isn't for two weeks!" Like cruisy leprechauns don't own calendars. Please. This is a NEW holiday, folks. Go back inside your hotel.

When we got to Chinatown, the plan was to spread out to two bars across the street from one another: Li Po and the Buddha Bar. Much action could carry on in the street between. The crowd, still hovering at around 250 strong after all those blocks, quickly overwhelmed these two places. So we spread like an infection to Red's Place around the next corner, the liquor store two blocks away, and even as far as Specs in North Beach. (Note to Mr. Hedonist Mayor: Grant Street makes a charming Bourbon Street West. Call the Planning Commission.)

At some point during the parade, one guy yelled "Riverdance!" and several people within earshot did an eerily simultaneous jig. These jigs all involved an arm in the air, bowed out to the side like a ballet dancer, and some sloppy, manic footwork. The magic part was how all the instantaneous jigging ceased as suddenly as it had started. Clap on, clap off, everyone no doubt figuring that this jig thing was a FastPass to road rash.

The actual Irishmen-of-record, Grand Marshall-tourists Tony and Alan, handled their arbitrary fame quite neatly. They sported green wigs and special t-shirts we made for the occasion. Of course, Shannon the Sexual Steamroller had the green afro on as soon as she saw it, but it did make a nice white-girl/green-sploitation/Pam Grier effect with her tight green slip-dress thing. So she got to keep it. Everyone I spoke to all night had met Tony and Alan, and Gino (skinny is sexy, dear, stop your fretting) tried to convince everyone that he was Alan's real boyfriend. Fame whore.

At the night's final stop, the very large and very straight Savoy-Tivoli in North Beach, the bar was jammed with us and the regulars, and Tony was having trouble getting a drink. The GQB megaphone appeared over the heads of those waiting four deep at the bar: "An Irishman back here needs a drink!" And that worked like a lucky shamrock, so Tony's wig slid even further off-kilter in short order. (Incidentally, Savoy-Tivoli was very large and very gay in the early ‘70's; all the best drag queens hung out there).

One hot and bothered regular was overheard lamenting to her friend: "This is fucking torture! All these hotties making out with each other!" You are so right, sister. Eat your heart out. On a similar note, there seemed many a woman there eager to find the perfect fag for her hag. It seems "Will and Grace" may have really affected the American social milieu. One woman at the bar literally held her disinterested boyfriend at arm's length, in order to carry on with the two excited GQB boys on the other side of her. She listened, enraptured, but no doubt wanting to break in: "That's so cute. How do I look? . . . Call me. We'll go shopping."

And there were other Irishmen along for the parade, too, of course. Red-faced and horny, like we like them.

The commemoration of St. Patricia herself (patron saint of drunken sex mistakes and binge drinking) was easy enough: Her name was invoked many times over the evening. As far as the sex mistake part, there seemed very few individuals with whom a snog would cause regret. Magically delicious, yessirree.

Please continue to guarantee your lascivious way to heaven by calling on St. Patricia when her divine solace is indicated. St. Patricia's Day every day! If you needed any evidence that God finds Guerrilla Queer Bar amusing and worthy of his indulgence, you will do well to note that Friday night was the biggest break in this soul-crushing rain that has poured down both before and ever since our undampened party. There wasn't even a blistering wind raging down the sidewalk. Aye, laddies and lassies, the luck of the Irish. Erin go braugh! (or "Erin go bra-less," as some of our Friday night friends would have it.) St. Patricia preserve us.