A lot of gays adore opera, ballet, and special exhibits at the Met, but get them in a bar or a nightclub and their taste suddenly sinks lower than a rat’s rectum. Why is it that walking into a nocturnal establishment automatically means the intellectual level plummets to sewer-level and everyone ends up in wet T-shirts, shooting Ping Pong balls out of their Speedos?
The gay clubbing scene will apparently never let go of the following demeaning yet indestructible cliches:
*Drag queens making jokes about giving head to Puerto Rican busboys
*Drag queens imitating Whitney/Britney/Mariah’s meltdowns
*Hot ass contests, with the MC making leering remarks
*Shirtless bartenders on steroids serving watered-down drinks
*Waiters in silver hot pants unable to make any small talk except for “Want a Jello shot?”
*And beer pong, for Chrissake!
Yes, these are all comparable to lowdown activities that take place in the worst straight places, but can’t we rise above and show our class for a change?
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on July 7, 2009