Glamor as Armor
Two weeks of this goddamned rain, plus all that extra time spent inside staring at a new month on a brand-new calendar for a brand-new year because of it, the mind reeling into retrospect on the year of living painfully—as I now refer to ‘92—and the pressure mounting to personally implement positive change as best one can in this new year, and it’s more than clear that the January/February doldrums have set in. Don’t pretend it’s not depressing. Financial woes have hit hard, there’s nothing to buy at the record store, people don’t go out as much, and Pac Bell commercials are twice as likely to make one cry. Work is hard, erratic bitchiness alienates your friends, and things seem forever fucked—no relief in sight.
Last Friday night these thoughts and feelings were swelling like an aneurysm in my head, producing a dangerous (but fun) bitchy edge that I couldn’t contain. I went to the opening of a new club called Star Bar that will be taking place twice a month at Lily’s, at the corner of Market and Valencia. This understated little endeavor will boast non-stop entertainment in the drag queen vein, but thus far what sets it apart from other more post-modem drag palaces of the night is simply the presentation side-by-side of new queens and, shall we say, elder stateswomen of the backroom stages that become a legend most. At long last we see an example of mutual respect between the elders and the upstarts of one thin slice of the gay community pie graph, free of friction or stratification.
We see Madeline/Gigi doing “Mambo Italiano,” followed by the infamous Kitty Castro doing a country-western tough bitch type thing, then Gentry—a real girl’s girl—really singing, then Jade synching Stevie Nicks, then an out-and-out drag queen who sparkled as an informal sort of MC/hostess for the night with the precious gems of old-school drag performance and the kind of nuance that can only come from decades of work and years in front of a mirror applying makeup. Oddly enough. Madeline, a mere babe in the lipstick woods, possesses a few of these old-school qualities, his Streisand being the main indicator. At any rate, the crowd was smallish, diverse, attentive and open, treating performers and patrons with consistent levels of respect. Other larger pieces of the gay pie graph should be humbled by the contrast between this well-mannered gathering and their own silly behavior, then just resume eating themselves.
So, Star Bar turned out to be a quaint and precious place, one that I highly recommend. When I walked into the place I was hell-bent on spewing out nasty diatribes to anyone who looked at me funny or even said hello. Who would ever think that a bar full of queens might stop my inner bitch from picking up the verbal black cat chainsaw and gouging away at the henhouse? But it did, and I suggest that a few local nightclub owners, members of their sometimes meddlesome gossip-damaged shit-stirring staffs, the entire board of the Lesbian/Gay Freedom Day Parade, and Prince Charles and Lady Di drop by and let the civility rub off on one and all.
Watching a queen on stage synching to “Cabaret,” I had a sudden revelation, which I promptly shared with Connie Champagne regarding the aforementioned midwinter blahs. I told her, “The only thing that’s gonna help get us all through this January/February depression syndrome is simply, succinctly, glamour. It’s all we’ve got, it’s brought us all closer together a number of times, it can be achieved on a budget and delivered upon request.” This glamour support system will culminate, naturally, on opening night of Philip R. Ford’s Dolls—when else, and in what other hands could it?
HILLARY TAEES CHARGE
Speaking of glamour, the new presidential administration certainly knows how important it is to fortify the inaugural ball with copious amounts of it. However, the strongest beacon of glamour in this administration is Hillary Clinton. She’s a lovely wife, career woman, fiercely independent, her haircut is sassy, her ball-do was classy and her inaugural gown was hot. Bill married into glamour and much more. His spouse. not your typical first lady, is bound to add to his popularity as she cleverly, quickly, begins her ascent to the most powerful and influential levels ever achieved by a first lady. This is a new and exciting morale boost for a nation resigned to the shame of a four-year term by a man who married his fucking mother, a token blue-light-toting puppet who writes children’s books from the perspective of a dog. Perhaps I’m being too optimistic, which isn’t my nature, but I think Hillary wants to fuck shit up... in that good way, and Bill had quite a first day, didn’t he?
Amid the inaugural hoopla I was incredibly pleased to learn that the ever-lovin’ Diet Popstitute and the Klubstitute clan planned to throw an inauguration send-up, a staged and scripted event called Ballstitute at 1015 Folsom on that blessed day. Some of SF’s finest underground cross gender and psychotic performers/personalities re-enacted the entire gala. I myself even participated in the show as Patty Hearst, aka Tanya, in a squelched assassination attempt, directly after Timmy Spence performed as Poison Wind doing an interpretive dance to ‘Highway to Hell,” as only he can. Ruby as Hillary Clinton was magnificent; she had that dress and the hair down. She also was one of the key organizers of the event with Diet and all, giving her Hilary characterization a marvelously symbolic “I’m running the show” type attitude, which the nation suspects already.
Cupid was the very embodiment of Chelsea— quiet, slightly worried-looking, very into her cat and projecting that proper blend of woman/child that makes lots of men and women all over the nation want to do things to her in private. At both the real inauguration and Ballstitute the audience went nuts over the new first kid, chanting her name over and over with such vehemence that I bet Hillary will have her tucked away in an exclusive boarding school in the Alps. Former first kid Amy Carter made an appearance at Ballstitute with a few words of advice for Chelsea about how to handle Ted Kennedy at parties.
Musical guests included the newly reformed Fleetwood Mac, featuring the debut of Jade as Stevie “I’m twirling as fast as I can” Nicks, Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain, who pretended to shoot up their baby with heroin onstage, disaster-film theme singer Maureen McGovern, Flynn as Elvis. Dead Marilyn as Dead Marilyn, Gentry as Jackie 0, Tim/Ivana as Dianne Feinstein, Anita Hill, singing “Respect,” Matthew/Madeline/Gigi doing Barbara Streisand tunes from her flashy big band big mouth big bubble hair days, and Patsy Cline, in a special return from-the-grave appearance. There were hot secret service men just crawling all over the joint. I didn’t want to bring this up at the time but one of them cornered me and forced me to smoke pot. I always heard the CIA gets the best bud. Speaking of bud, Dennis Peron was named drug czar for this new administration and he suggested a pardon for all people in prison on drug charges. Later, when Hillary announced that she wasn’t a typical first lady and that she won’t be found in a kitchen baking cookies, she also passed off all future baking duties to Dennis Peron. His cookies beat jellybeans and pork rinds all to hell.
My favorite guest and the perfect cherry on top of a great creation was that great foe of censorship, former front man for the Dead Kennedy’s, basic shit-stirring spoken-word guy forever bat-ding and exposing reams of governmental injustice and absurdity, and a former mayoral candidate in San Francisco to boot: Jello Biafra.
The twist is, he played the lovely woman from Tennessee who was instrumental in campaigning for stricter censorship in rock ‘n’ roll, Mrs. Tipper Gore—or now I guess one would call her first vice lady. In real life, Jello himself was singled out and made a national example of when he was slapped with obscenity charges for some inner-sleeve artwork-featuring penises. The ensuing court battles nearly cost Jello his livelihood, the local record label Alternative Tentacles. Inauguration eve, with the help of the multi-talented Deena Davenport—wig expert, great actress and his babe—Jello became Tipper to a tee, not to mention a post-ban disc jockey. He played “Cop Killer” by Body Count first, wearing the headphones upside-down so as not to mess up the wig.
His music was like a little bit of heaven to me, or anyone else who likes rock and never gets to hear it in a nightclub because everyone is so lame and ready for techno retardo-romp. Thanks, Jello.
And thanks to all of those involved with KIubstitute in its new and free-floating form, producing special events such as this one; auspicious and certainly the most inventive Inaugural-related gala this city could muster up. I wonder if Klubstitute will ever re-open on a regular weekly basis again. I hope so, and soon.
New on the club scene
There are a number of new clubs or not-so-new clubs that I’ve neglected to write about yet, including a brief return from the dead of the spirit of the now defunct, forever legendary Club Uranus’ At Product no Jan. 30, Gregg Taylor and Jerome will be carrying on the fine to fetid, replete to retarded, scintillating to scatological 4th annual Miss Uranus Pageant. This fancy dress event (formal please) should produce a crop of fiercely competitive contestants because this time the grand prize is a brand-new washer and dryer by Speed Queen (my favorite appliance co.) and some of us have a lot of washing to do. The esteemed panel of judges are Miss Betty Pearl, Lewis Walden, Justin Bond and myself, so let’s get those really good bribes rolling in, and remember, there is no Miss Congeniality award in this pageant. To Lewis Walden and Michael Blue, thanks a million for letting this brilliant legacy continue. Sunday’s been a hard spot to fill since Uranus closed and one of the new choices cropping up on that night is Itch at the DNA Lounge. Overseen by the gregarious Waiyde Palmer, Katherine from Dekadence and a host of other life-lovers from various spots in club land, Itch is a pleasantly disposed and friendly place to go and hear something few clubs seem to offer these days:
musical variety. DJs Stephanie Phillips and Blackstone are a great pair. Stephanie is an archival Iron Maiden of kitsch, rock, disco and forgotten funk nuggets that have escaped your memory yet trap your ass on the floor ‘til you sweat. Steph is fearless and will play anything, anything at all, from your favorite Patti Smith song to pop dreg punishment like “Disco Duck.” After all an Iron Maiden is an instrument of torture. Blackstone blew me away there with one of the most human-feeling dance music sets I’ve enjoyed in ages, bouncing back and forth in time to deliver a groove that grabs your butt, not just the drugs you’re on. So come on down and tear into this place. It’s a unique venture to enjoy; free of the fear that high-decibel techno-monotony is mutating your DNA structure while you dance. Okay, maybe it was bad Ecstasy, but that one night at Carefree.. I swear to God... oh, never mind.