By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
With gay nightlife in a transitional phase (i.e., it sucks), one grovels around looking for any small pleasuresyou know, ennobling things like a lineup of bare asses to gawk at in a desperate dive between midnight and the Celebrity Rehab rerun. You happen to get that very taste of crass at two, count 'em two, weekly events these days: XES's Ass Circus Thursdays, where a young lady recently snuck in, bared her breasts, and startlingly came in second (the drunken audience probably thought they were butt cheeks), and Ass Wednesdays at Urge, with drag MC Rajene leading the parade of guys dropping trou for cash prizes, with no love jugs for miles. Two weeks ago, a guy there begged me to cheer for his boyfriend's fleshy goods as the beau bravely took the stage. But his heinie turned out to look like a Yahoo map of Sherwood Forest! "It's so hairy!" declared my new friend in horror. "Wait, you've never seen it before?" I wondered, confused. "Not in the light!" he moaned, looking for a vomit bag.
Once calmand clean-shavenone visits Splash's Disco Tea on Sunday for a refreshingly nonDavid Barton crowd dancing to '70s stuff they actually remember from when it came out, with only an occasional hairy navel on display when the lights flash. Downstairs, there's an even more comforting game of bingo going on, and last week there was the extra attraction of the winner ballsily trying to sell his prizea $40 bar tabto various inebriated patrons. I was stunned that (a) he obviously didn't want to return to Splash to use it himself and (b) he didn't realize I get comps!
But your biggest Sunday bar tab will be rung up at Hiro Ballroom's Cuckoo Club, where the gays get their only taste of fish by being packed into the place like sardines. Looking over the sea of males pushing and shoving under a twinkly galaxy of glitter balls and writhing go-go boys' balls is amazing, but it would be more so if they weren't all 32-year-olds from the boroughs who work in retail. As midnight brought in Martin Luther King Day, DJ Honey Dijon nimbly mixed in the "I have a dream" speech, and you haven't seen so many puzzled queens since the Village People went new wave. These guys probably wouldn't even get "I had a dream" from Gypsy, but I will gladly educate them, one at a time.
The next night, my dream came true at Max Scott's Woof! Mondays at View Bar, where there's $2 pool and free chicken wings, and all for only five bucks' admission. Seeing as the door sign specifies "three bucks if you're hairy," I wouldn't be surprised to see the butt boy from Urge walking in there pretty soonbackwards and single.
For the Hair crowd, Scott Nevins's Musical Mondays back at Splash have a culty mass of Kool-Aid drinkers staring religiously at the large video screens showing classic Broadway production numbers, poignantly gesturing along with muted Fosse hands. At the peak moment, a large, brassy cabaret chanteuse generally barrels out some obscure Sondheimit ain't over till she singsand then everyone couples off to go home and perform duets from Mame. Bingo!
One ends the weekand in fact, your entire lifeat the Townhouse, the gentleman's bar with tasteful couches and lovely floral arrangements, much like your favorite funeral home. This used to be a meeting place for the wrinkle crowd and entrepreneurial young men, but now that those kids have gone online, it seems strictly for the oldies, the kind who take their shoes off and nod offthough one of them was quite alive, screeching at me that the pianist was a sub and had never heard of Eartha Kitt! But presumably, he knows the "I have a dream" speech.
Maybe I should talk about women for a change, just to build a little character. At the UCB Theatre, Jen and Angie was a lesbian crowd-pleasera 30-minute extended sketch in which, having crashed on an island, the ravenous Jolie zooms in on the needy Aniston and decides she wants to create Jengelina. Brad was played by a dummy in a blond wig and never spoke because, as a hyper-confident Angelina explained, "He's under my spell!"
A lesbian figures in the movie Caramel, which is a sort of Lebanese Steel Magnoliasa beauty-salon saga complete with waxing, plucking, and wisdoms like "Life is a melon. You must cut it to see if it's any good." (That's way more eloquent than "Life is cocaine . . . ") Salma Hayek look-alike Nadine Labaki wrote, directed, and stars as a non-virgin marrying a Muslim, telling me at a promo dinner: "It was No. 1 at the box office in Lebanon. It beat Hollywood blockbusters. It beat everything!" "So you're pretty much the queen of Lebanon?" I wondered while looking for a piece of caramel. "Yes, I'm the queen!" she agreed, laughing. "I'm the diva!" The movie, queenie added, is an escape from reality, "even though it's real. I wanted to make a film that shows a different face of Lebanon, with very colorful, warm-hearted people with a strong will to live." But that lesbian plotline! Did they plotz? "It was very well received," she swore. "It's not shocking or provoking. Everything is said in silence, in a soft way." Hmm, I bet they'd love Jodie Foster in Lebanon. She'd be their new queen! (Maybe they'd even like Ellen DeGeneres and Rosie O'Donnell; to dredge up an old shtick of theirs, they're Lebanese and lesbian-ese.)