It’s Boots and Saddle (affectionately dubbed Bras and Girdles by the cognoscenti) on 76 Christopher Street, which isn’t really new–in fact, it’s been there since Liberace was in sequined diapers–but it’s the latest in my line of last-ditch choices which I’m suddenly popping up at every night.
B & S is a smallish, ramshackle place where the Diet Cokes are only three dollars and the people are super friendly, from the club survivor asking me if he should make cookie jars in the shape of Divine and Leigh Bowery to the British man begging me to recommend somewhere else he could go.
There’s a stage the size of a gay postage stamp, and fortunately nothing’s ever happened there in my presence. There’s also a large, red devil puppet hanging from the ceiling, and I have no idea if it’s there for Halloween, it’s part of the permanent decor, or it’s simply an uninivited ghost that only I can see.
The place is so delightfully off the radar that a man approached me there recently and said, “Boots and Saddle on a Thursday night, Michael? It’s come to this?” As he said that, three not very attractive men started kissing and groping on adjacent bar stools, and it was impossible to avert your eyes.
I only wish they hadn’t fixed up the bar so it almost looks like polished wood. The kind of sheen could destroy the grimy grandeur that is Boots and Saddle!