Last modified: Fri Jun 8 06:22:31 PDT 2001

Queers NOT on Ice, but Up with a Twist; December 2, 2000: Wholesome Winter Recreation Nixed; Bars Provided Comfort, Groping

“We don’t go anywhere. Going somewhere is for squares. We just go.” – Marlon Brando, in The Wild One

Inquisitive nine-year-old skater, stopping at the side of the ice: “Are you an elf?”
GQB’r in green tulle, red ornaments, & tall,star-topped hat: “No, I’m a slutty Christmas tree.”

“Oh boy, the Shatner's really hit the fan now. I'm up Dawson's Creek without a paddle.” - Space Ghost, in Space Ghost Coast to Coast (1994)

So, dammitall, there was precious little skating done by any queers on the first Saturday of the Big Holiday Month. As you all know by now, whether you were there, or read the email, or read the SF Gate story, or talked to your friends, the rink sold out at nine o’-freakin’-clock. Whereas the weekend before, it sold out never, with tickets available after ten-freakin’-thirty. It was enough to make me want to pull a Tonya Harding on those people who managed to get tickets for a twirl on the Kristi Yamaguchi Holiday Ice Rink. Where is the respect for drag time in this town? And it didn’t help that the rink is smaller than its name. They wouldn’t even let me drive the Zamboni from 9:30 till 10:00, for chrissakes (and he IS the reason for the season, folks). “What would Jesus do?” indeed. Walk on water, sure, great, but could He skate on a sold-out slab of ice?

So yes, it went over like a pregnant pole-vaulter. But bitterness will do no good at this remove. We are the Guerrilla Queer Bar after all, and in that spirit we are adaptable, flexible. This is not processed entertainment. This is not the place for easy answers. This is the opportunity for teeth-gnashing frustration and ecstatic stimulation. This is not easily explained to bystanders. (“No, I don’t work for the hotel, I’m just in a costume and I’m with people who have megaphones. And, yes, the rink is sold out.”) We had at least three tutus among us, a new record. Santa Chica was there in roadkill makeup and fishnets, very eager to show anyone who spared a sideways glance her garter belt and all the other confusing equipment under her skirt. And a sultry Santa woman in a red bustier ran around with the bullhorn getting our people out of the futile line with “Queers can’t skate!!” Which meant, “It’s sold out!” but confused the hell out of all the regular, non-affiliated people there, mostly high-school age couples and parents with small children. It confused me, too. I mean, c’mon, figure skating is OUR Olympic event. Fag-O-Rama.

So we tried to collect ourselves enough to move to a new destination, which became the lobby bar of the adjacent Hyatt Regency. People were still arriving, so we needed to stay close. All pimped out in tiny lights and even more-tacky seasonal décor, the Hyatt was really not ideal due to: a) the deathly silence inside, and b) the solitary, slow bartender. By this point the evening was starting to take on the disappointed, less-than-erect stance of a bad porn experience. Action had to be taken to revive the spirits of the revelers, and fast.

So, so , so, eventually the party moved back outside and then to an Irish pub called Harrington’s a couple blocks away, which, well, didn’t work out either. Shit, shit, shit, waaahhh. The private party the door guy had said the weekend prior was not exclusive, now was. (We had gone scouting earlier and coyly asked if anything special was going down the next weekend.) And people were still arriving at the Skating Rink this whole time. Semi-salvation was found (by those who had yet to give up in utter exasperation and desperation for a drink) at the weekday-happy-hour/weekend-Chinese-karaoke bar Attitudes on First Street near Market. Our numbers were sufficiently strong to cram this smallish place to the gills, and soon enough we took over the karaoke machine for a thrilling “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” followed by some other never-say-die cheese that included Cher. Our Attitudes numbers included two dozen or so who stayed on the sidewalk, listening to MP32M versions of your holiday favorites, including that really tasteless ditty from South Park aimed at Muslims. Ho ho ho.

So after this tense whirlwind of scouring downtown SF for the right bar, happiness was finally found courtesy of a cramped karaoke bar. But lest anyone relax, we were on the move again. A portion of the too-crowded crowd headed to our old stand-by 711 Club (711 Market at Third), to be followed by the crooners a few tunes later. At the 711 (previously graced by the W Hotel Leather Night crowd), we met up with many GQB folk who had forsaken our bullshit earlier in the evening, but kept up with our whereabouts through their helpful friends with cell phones. The bartenders here seemed too drunk to care what was happening, but still managed to get us drinks.

The warm and happy 711 was as crammed as Attitudes, because for the first time all night we were in one place. For a while it was “glad I wore my diaphragm” crowded, leading many to juggle inside’s smash-up-warm against outside’s elbow-room-cold. The crowd prohibited any monitoring of the door, so “Bingo!”: sidewalk drinking comes to San Francisco. Another thing about the crowd: all the groping one’s heart could desire. Hearts desired a lot. I felt like the guy in the glass casket at the Ayatollah’s funeral. There were hands in places I thought clothes prohibited. Yowza.

There was long-term frottage and heavy smooching between two guys propped against the bar, which ended up in the skinny one losing his (fagged-out) 2(x)it tank top. He really could not find it. He came dashing out of the bar, nipples to the wind, and snatched the Santa hats off of two unsuspecting smokers, clamping one over each pectoral. With all the false modesty that a man who has been sucking face against a bar for over an hour can muster, he shrugged demurely and shot back into the bar. I love the holidays.

And all of this happened by about midnight. And some frisky types started asking “Where to now?” as soon as we all seemed comfortable at the 711. Huh? It was heart-warming, downright chestnut-roasting, to discover that even though we had been on a 15-or-so-block circuit of downtown already, many among us were still chomping at the bit to venture and arrive at another damn bar. But the trainwreck had to shriek to a halt somewhere, and the general consensus was that this was the place.

So it was loud and friendly and other very festive stuff went down (yeah, okay, I’ll say it: naughty, nice, har har [gag] ). And dash away, dash away, dash away all, some to the EndUp, some to a nearby hotel, and some just stood outside for days trying to hail a cab. You know, a tulle Christmas tree is not really a warm thing to be at 2 a.m. on Market Street at Third. But there is plenty of time to thaw out before the next event.

May your days be merry and bright. And may all your tighty-whities be white.