Congratulations and ejaculations to you, Sue Casa — a new “talent” taking it back to the Trannyshack old school last Friday. (Hey, she beat out the poop-eating.)
GayGayGay
Out of the Batcloset
marke@sfbg.com
VISUAL ARTS “When I first saw the 1970s comics version of Batman by Neal Adams, I got a bit weak-kneed — though I was too young to know what that meant at the time,” comics artist Justin Hall (“No Straight Lines: Four Decades of Queer Comics,” “Glamazonia”) told me over a beer at his Mission apartment. “Here was a more realist Batman, with muscles and chest hair … and he had gotten rid of Robin at that point, which left room for me!”
Venturing into a comic nerds’ den — especially one containing Hall and Rick Worley (“A Waste of Time”), two of SF’s comicus nerdii ne plus ultras — can make for a heady experience, involving intricately detailed discussions on topics as varied as copyright infringement, Tijuana Bibles, Bob Dylan vs. Roy Lichtenstein, Alfred Hitchcock’s lesbian subtexts, the evolution of the muscle daddy in popular culture, and recent scandals like that of Vertigo Comics executive editor Karen Berber’s rather abrupt departure from the DC Comics fold.
In short, in this case, a delectable mental Bat Cave full of Gotham arcana pertaining to the hoariest slash-fic topic this side of Kirk/Spock, the enduring homo subtext of the Dynamic Duo. With “Batman on Robin,” a group art show at Mission: Comics and Art opening Fri/8, Hall and Worley are displaying the works of dozens of comics artists willingly tackling the theme — and finding that beyond the Boom! Pow! Splat! of the men-in-tights 1960s camp TV classic or the suggestively archetypal narrative of brooding, rich, handsome Bruce taking in and mentoring (and, in the ’40s, even sharing a bed with) young orphaned circus hustler Dick, there are innumerable points of entry and intrepretation for queer fans.
Of course, that candy-colored, vaguely existentialist TV show does have a lot to answer for, along with its direct descendants. “I’m pretty sure I first encountered Batman when the Tim Burton movie came out in 1989,” Worley told me. “I saw a table display at a B. Dalton in a mall, and I was intrigued because it was the first time I had ever seen comic books displayed like that in a bookstore. The comics there were Grant Morrison’s Arkham Asylum and Frank Miller’s Dark Knight Returns, and my mom wouldn’t let me look at them because she said they were too dark. I would have been about seven, and in the case of those comics she was probably right. So obviously, that just made Batman all the more intriguing to me.
“The first time I actually saw something with Batman in it, though, was probably afternoon reruns of the Adam West show, and I’m pretty sure I enjoyed it because I really wanted to bang Burt Ward as Robin. The Robin costume has always been hot to me since then.”
But once Worley and Hall put out the call to other artists for their graphic interpretations of Batman-Boy Wonder relations, they were inundated by all sorts of personal takes.
“The pieces we have in our show are amazing,” Worley said. “We have paintings, like a Gustav Klimt homage by Andrew Guiyangco. We have more indie style comics. We have some more Yaoi looking-ones, a cute chibi one, one by Brad Rader in a very classic ’40s Batman illustration style, only with Robin butt-naked. We have a story of a lesbian encounter between Batwoman and Catwoman by Tana Ford, which she did with sort of JH Williams-style layouts. Justin’s doing a Batman Kama Sutra. There’s so much stuff.”
The broader history of interpretations of the Dynamic Duo’s sexuality is full of twists and turns. “I think what has changed most over time is the awareness of gay identity,” Worley said. “If you were gay in the ’40s, there was almost nothing gay available for you to see. It was exciting when you found things [in comics]. I think what’s happened in the meantime is a kind of convergence. As people don’t have to be closeted, figuring out if somebody is or isn’t gay isn’t as much a part of gay life. Now in comics, there are superheroes who are gay, you don’t have to find signs and create your own interpretations of ones who may or may not be. And if you’re a gay writer trying to include that subject matter in a comic you’re writing, you don’t have to encode it, either. But because mainstream superhero comics are dealing with characters who were created decades ago and who have been worked on by hundreds of artists, those characters have now accumulated the baggage of all those interpretations and it’s part of what is always present when they’re being used.”
Hall adds: “In his 1954 book Seduction of the Innocent, Fredrick Wertham pointed their relationship out as particularly unwholesome, and so I think it’s fair to say that ever since Robin burst onto the scene in his little green Speedo and elfin shoes, there have been suspicions about the goings on in the Bat Cave. The Batman-Robin fantasy has changed some over time, as queer relationships have become more normalized and mainstream. But many readers still have a perverse joy in finding unintended homo subtext in work like the Batman comics.”
“BATMAN ON ROBIN”
Opening reception Fri/8, 7pm, free.
Show run through March 3.
Mission: Comics and Art
3520 20th St., Suite B
Bizarro mainstream SF sweeps Grindr’s “Best of 2012” — pukes us in the mouth a little
Dear gay hookup app Grindr,
Maybe it’s just an indication of the type of homosexual who uses your service, and who deigns to participate in surveys like your new “Best of 2012” attempt to broaden your reach into hyperlocalism (soooo 2k9, btw). Or maybe its merely very telling of how you’ve lost any edginess to rivals like Scruff — which, judging from a Scruff glance, is very sad indeed.
But thanks for the violent retch and terrified giggle yesterday when you unveiled the reader-selected wieners winners of your besties awards. You somehow managed to record every crap gay mainstream stereotype of San Francisco you could, sorry. Also, craaaazy. Scott Wiener as “best community advocate”? Is Pottery Barn a community?
Anyway, San Francisco itself won every local category of the national survey. Also telling! What uncruisable gym queen with expensive hair is sitting in Badlands right now, possibly Scott Wiener’s best friend, refreshing Grindr and voting wildly? Can someone call their alcoholic Rihanna fan roommate in embroidered jeans and wraparound Gucci shades and find out?
Below is the list of top vote-getters, with commentary.
National winners
Gay icon of the year: Anderson Cooper
Straight ally of the year: Barack Obama
Best TV show: “Modern Family”
Best TV host: Ellen DeGeneres
Best source for gossip: TMZ
TIE for best comedian: Kathy Griffin and Margaret Cho
Best athlete: Orlando Cruz
Movie of the year: “Magic Mike”
Song of the year: “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen
Gadget of the year: iPhone 5
Every one of these things is the exact color of water, but somehow boringer.
Grindr users picked these local landmarks to come out on top:
Gym with the hottest guys:
Fitness SF (San Francisco)
It’s not the winner per se that horrifies — FitnessSF came into being when it cast off the shackles of its homophobic Gold’s Gym franchise early last year. It’s the category itself. Claim that shallowness!
Best place to get a haircut:
Salon Baobao (San Francisco)
Waxing available!
Best place to take a first date:
Castro (San Francisco)
… to steal their wallet and leave them there.
Best Sunday funday:
Jock Sundays at the Lookout (San Francisco)
Cute but meh.
Favorite gay bar/club:
Badlands (San Francisco)
Fuck noooooo.
Favorite bartender:
Mike at Lookout (San Francisco)
If they mean our cute and dear friend Michael — we wholeheartedly agree with Grindr on this point. He’s a great argument for why you should just stick to bars for your pickups, maybe.
Best gay night/party:
Beatbox (San Francisco)
This is neither a night nor a party.
Best DJ:
Haute Toddy (San Francisco)
OK they could have done a lot worse than this completely inoffensive fingerful of vanilla frosting.
Fiercest drag queen/nightlife personality:
Pollo Del Mar (San Francisco)
If anyone deserves the incredibly contemporary gay slang term “fiercest,” it is Pollo for sure.
Local hero/community advocate of the year:
Scott Wiener (San Francisco)
According to our new sister paper SF Weekly, Wiener said this win finally “put to rest the issue of whether the nudity ban was a gay thing.” That was never the issue. But Scott is the mayor of Grindr!
Best local gay news outlet:
The Bay Area Reporter (San Francisco)
I am so surprised that GLOSS Magazine did not win this!!!
Eh, maybe we’re not so surprised by this list after all
Nite Trax: Roasting SF club legend Timmy Spence
If you think you’re cool (or merely interesting) — please drop everything and watch this clubkid-packed 1981 video masterpiece by scene terror Timmy Spence. He’s being shamelessly and publicly roasted on the occasion of his 60th(!) birthday this Saturday, courtesy of some might big drag queens. After the jump, Trannyshack’s Heklina dishes the dirt and gives the deets.
Well, there’s a few things I thought would never happen!
First of all, I never thought we would be celebrating Timmy Spence’s 60th Birthday…if there was ever someone with nine (or more lives), it’s The Tammers. We’ve been through a lot together; thrown in jail together in Mexico, a cross country road trip where I got so mad at him we didn’t speak all the way through Texas, a near death experience while hiking in Nevada, cruising the Christopher St. Piers in drag in NYC together back when that was fun, the list goes on and on. And she’s still kicking. Even after countless trips to the hospital, she’s still here, shocking and offending everyone and really serving as an inspiration to countless young queens. Like an Auntie Mame from hell, every fiber in her body screams, live….LIVE!
Won’t you join me in honoring this queen of queens this Saturday?
Timmy Spence’s 60th Birthday Bash!
Saturday January 12- Join us as we pay tribute to this legendary drag fossil! Who would have thought she would live this long?
With your hosts Peaches Christ & Heklina, and appearances by Arturo Galster, Ethel Merman, Matthew Martin, Miss X, Laurie Bushman, Darlin’, Pippi Lovestocking, D’Arcy Drollinger, Deena Davenport, Sexitude, and more! With DJ’s Chicken and Dank.
Rebel, 1760 Market St. @ Octavia. 8pm. No cover, RSVP here
Lamebows 2013
marke@sfbg.com
POODLES ON PARADE Marriage, the military, nudity bans, Bravo TV: queople, why must we torture ourselves! It’s true that we are everywhere, lurking even in the aeries of stupid-headedness. But queen, please, put down that can of mentally challenged and back slowly away in your new cha-cha heels. Here I am once again to call my people out for their foibles of faggotry with the annual Lamebow Awards. Even in a banner year for LGBT wins, we still clutched a Gucci full of dumb.
The cliches write themselves: My Dearest Scott Wiener, I write this not as someone who disagrees profoundly with your “moderate” politics or your collection of Banana Republic v-neck sweaters. I write this because, this year, a supervisor named Wiener, representing the Castro, got so obsessed with a few naked guys that he rammed through a nudity ban (oh, and a bunch of other awful stuff, too) that made national news. I have to talk to my relatives back East about all this. My great-aunt-in-law almost choked to death on her turkey from laughter. Please stop.
Not helping: Mountain-out-of-molehill blogger Michael Petrelis in turn became obsessed with Wiener’s penis, attempting to snap a pic of the Supes’ member at a City Hall urinal. Not making this up. Nor this: it took too long for Petrelis’ camera from the ’90s to warm up, so he only managed a shot of Wiener brushing his teeth, post-pee. Petrelis is being sued by Wiener.
Seriously not helping though: In August, 28-year-old Floyd Corkins II, a former LGBT center volunteer, attempted to storm the Washington, DC headquarters of the Family Research Council (recently and correctly categorized as a hate group by the Southern Poverty Law Center), shooting a security guard.
You just helped, actually: We never knew we should be boycotting Sodastream products because they are manufactured in illegal Israeli settlements on Palestinian land. But thanks to a widely viewed YouTube video — in which it appears a peaceful Code Pink protest inside Sodastream-carrying Cliff’s Variety in the Castro is violently broken up by hysterically screaming Cliff’s employees — we know! Troll is successful.
The fact is, you’re late: “The fact is, I’m gay,” Anderson Cooper wrote to blogger Andrew Sullivan by way of coming out. Anderson Cooper is the Clay Aiken of our generation.
The fact is you’re veeery late: As her 50th birthday approached, Kristy McNichol came out. “She hopes that coming out can help kids who need support,” said her publicist. There are no kids who know who Kristy McNichol is.
And you’re just trapped in a closet full of spray-on hair forever now: Many, many of John Travolta‘s male masseurs “opened up” about his happy endings. His response? A horrifying Christmas album reunion with Olivia Newton John full of the most awkward sexual metaphors ever. Greased lightning!
Freedom to fly, to fail: Director Lena Wachowski came out beautifully, vocally, and powerfully as a transgender person with deep thoughts about the nature of sexual identity. Too bad Cloud Atlas had me rolling my eyes to the high heavens.
Hide your buns, hide your wings: Reviving his meme career somewhat, Antoine Dodson said she was gonna eat Chik-fil-A anyway. Well-played.
I’m sorry: Castigating Log Cabin Republicans is easier than finding Anderson Cooper on Grindr, but watching them bend over backwards to justify supporting the Tea Party party when even our president had “evolved” on gay marriage was a real hoot. Especially because they had to say “fiscal” so many times.
All of us: While we were all arguing over gay shit (as usual), a young musical genius named Frank Ocean quietly erased the goalposts and went public with his generation’s sublime, amorphous “meh” about sexual labels. Let’s catch up.
Live Shots: Drag Queens on Ice (with the SF Bulls!)
They twirled, twisted, leapt, and also sometimes fell, on their very well-padded booties. Glitter dusted the smooth rink, as the drag queens took the ice.
Fun for the whole family, except for maybe the last renegade routine that incorporated a taser (shield the little ones eyes!). Who knew that drag queens had so many talents? No seriously! There were some truly sophisticated ice moves dished out in this performance. I can see it now: a traveling ice capades performance by drag queens that becomes a hit worldwide. Disney on Ice, watch out! I can’t really think of a better way to ring in the holiday cheer than with beautiful ladies, dressed to the nines, giving their all as they slide, shimmy and slip across the frozen water.
And to top it all off, our fabulous professional hockey team, the SF Bulls, joined in! Happy Holidaze San Francisco!
Party Radar: Booty Call Wednesdays celebrates 5 years (of booty calls)
I remember it as if it were yesterday’s Instagram. Five years ago tonight, drag goddess Juanita More and club promoter Joshua J. took one look at the LCD mess the Castro party scene had devolved into and went, “meh!“
They decided to kick it up with some real glamour on the dance floor and some real house music (not the same 20-minute-long GaGa mixes from the gym) in the DJ booth. Who would have thunk this would fly in the Castro, where Affliction Ts were just then catching on. They took a risk, hunty.
Thus was the fab Booty Call Wednesdays born (the name was based on a series of cheeky ass-flash photos Juanita was then producing). The weekly party took over QBar and, for the scandalously low price of $4, brought in internationally recognized underground DJs, a crowd of the gorgeously mobile, and trippy performance art go-go dancers with nothing left to lose. There are a lot of cute pansexual beings and young gay guys there and you will probably get laid.
On top of that, they recognized the importance of social media: every week a cutting-edge artist decorates the backroom and photographer Isaac snaps the delighted and sometimes bewildered partygoers, who then post and share the pic … and thus promote the party! It was new then. And it still works.
For the fifth anniversary blowout, they’re bringing in killer tech-house DJ Christy Love of House of Stank in NYC, one of my favorite people, and are featuring VivvyAnne Forevermore and Dia Dear on the go-go boxes. Artists Jesse Lee Oberst designs the backroom, and Emi Photo shoots the crowd. It’s a beauty call!
BOOTY CALL WEDNESDAYS FIFTH ANNIVERSARY
Wed/14, 9pm, $4
456 Castro
You must have a Peaches Christ mask
Er, if you have $200 to spare for this flawless Nikki Dyer latex piece. Clean with warm water. Do not scrub; just wipe away dirt. And maybe keep away from kids?
Party Radar: Double Duchess will release you
Dazzling local Hi-NRG electro-hop sissy bounce-y duo Double Duchess graced our Club Action cover in February and has been slaying parties for the past year. Now we finally get an official EP release, Extravaganza, and of course what promises to be a totally insane event at Rickshaw Stop on Sat/31.
This one will bring together most of the city’s most colorful nightlife characters — its presented by the infamous Peaches Christ, and includes music by Hard French and Stay Gold DJs (also Bunnystyle and davO) and appearances by Some Thing queens VivvyAnne ForeverMore and Glamamore. Double Duchess nuts!
Gay-la time: LGBT Center’s annual ‘Soiree’ gets Frenched
Photos by Bowerbird Photography.
There couldn’t have been a better way to escape the dramatic, wet downpour the night of Sat/24 than to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the SF LGBT Community Center at the SF Design Center under the twinkling lights of a “gay Pah-ree” inspired party. (Never was “Paris” pronounced the clunky Anglo way, of course.)
There was amazing food, free-flowing booze, but best of all, crowds of beautiful, happy people, dressed in Parisian splendor (including stilt-walking Eiffel Towers a scruffy French poodle).
Everyone looked fabulous. Really fabulous! The entertainment included a song by the super sweet Honey Mahogany, surreal live decorations courtesy of a walking Matisse painting, a gorgeous half-nude contortionist, and, of course, a coterie of supportive politicians (including Mark Leno), raising their bubbly high to toast the Center on its birthday.
The Center eschewed long speeches to devote the evening to great dancing, beautiful drag performances, and those irresistible old school soul beats of DJ Carnita from Hard French, that lasted far into the evening.
Nite Trax: The fabulous creatures of Gaultier’s opening gala
Hyperproductive fashion designer and revered fantasy engineer Jean Paul Gaultier was in town last week for the opening of a (very cool) retrospective of his work at the de Young. His nightlife stops included the Some Thing drag show at the Stud on Friday, a cruisy interlude at the Powerhouse on Saturday — and of course a lavish opening gala celebration at the de Young itself on Friday evening.
The fantastic function included an exposed “backstage” area where models were fitted into Gaultier pret-a-porter, primped, temporary-tattooed, and hairdressed with amazing sculptural headpieces by SF’s Glama-Rama salon, before trotting out onto a makeshift runway. Attendees — not all of them our city’s social page elite, btw — wore their most unusual outfits. (There were a lot of sailor stripes, man-skirts, and Gaultier looks from the past three decades.) Even the servers were decked out in handmade kaleidoscopic Krylon smocks by graffiti gallery 1:AM. Tunes from the gorgeous, killer-bobbed DJ started out retro-cute and fun, including JPG’s own 1990 dancefloor hit, “How To Do That” before devolving into the standard party jams of today, which certainly got the singles (cougars) in the crowd “puttin’ their hands up.” It was a blast.
Soon the raucous and always riveting Extra Action Marching Band took over, the flowing cocktails kicked in, and we drifted down to the exhibit itself, which includes eerie singing mannequins with projected faces beamed in directly from Uncanny Valley. (There’s even an interactive one of Gaultier himself, which supposedly answers questions, although I think the ambient noise levelof the gala confused it.)
The amassed collection of clothing and concepts, of course, was overwhelming in its creativity and development — although I could have done with a few more iconic items from the “Chic Rabbis” 1993 collection (personal preference!) and some more recent work, and perhaps a wee bit less emphasis on the infamous Madonna-cone bra connection. But I did tear up at the site of Gaultier’s childhood teddy bear preserved in a vitrine wearing, yes, a miniature cone bra prototype.
I think the most touching thing in the show, however, was a Polaroid by Andy Warhol, taken of the young and not quite hatched Gaultier at New York’s Area club in 1986. Gaultier is caught in a stairwell, a bit Joker-like in what looks to be a purple silk suit with a gold lozenge pattern and his trademark bleached blonde hair. It’s accompanied by Warhol’s famous quote, ““I think the way people dress today is a form of artistic expression. Saint Laurent, for instance, has made great art. Art lies in the way the whole outfit is put together. Take Jean Paul Gaultier. What he does is really art.”
Get ‘Wilde’: Al Pacino’s new doc receives red carpet opening at Castro
All my amigo Morlock E. wants to know is where Frank Chu is, since Frank Chu is still a fairly good indicator of being at the most happening event of the evening — or at any rate the one with the most television cameras. But instead of Frank, all we see is a crush of autograph seekers pressed against the velvet rope separating them from the red carpet unfurled outside the Castro Theatre. They’re not here to see Frank Chu, and in truth, neither are we. We’re here to get a photo of Al Pacino and maybe touch the hem of his cloak, at the US premiere of his latest project, a documentary entitled Wilde Salome.
Since it’s not every day San Francisco gets to play host to a big premiere, the Wed/21 turnout is robust, convivial. Also a fundraiser for the GLBT Historical Society — there are some quite dapper dandies in attendance, an element one feels certain Wilde would have approved of. But one gets the impression that the autograph-hounds are less enamored with the Wildean aspect of the event rather than the chance to shake the hand of Scarface, but Wilde, with his penchant for “rough trade” might well have approved of that too.
Morlock perks up when a gigantic luxury mobile pulls up and disgorges a gaggle of socialites onto the red carpet. “Are they escorts?” he demands to know. He indicates the license plate, ESCORT1 as proof, but attempting to explain custom business plates to contrarians is really a wasted effort, so I let it go as the ladies line up against a somewhat unimpressive backdrop of sponsorship logos and dimple cutely for the cameras. In truth, it’s the mechanics of events like these that interest me most, everyone doggedly intent on playing their respective roles, from the principles to the sycophants.
Morlock’s base improv is a small wrench in the smoothly-rehearsed order of things, but fortunately we don’t have much longer to wait. Another sleek black vehicle rolls up and Pacino rolls out. And like the red sea caving back in on top of the Egyptians, the orderly crowd becomes a desperate, notebook-waving mob. Expertly hustled through the throng, Pacino poses quickly against the backdrop before being swept inside by security. And there, in his scattered wake, we finally spot Frank Chu. It’s always good to see a familiar face.
It’s been 130 years since Oscar Wilde was himself in San Francisco — March 26, 1882 to be precise — and close to 30 years since Pacino played The Curran Theatre as Teach in David Mamet’s “American Buffalo,” but in Pacino’s good-humored introductory speech, he expressed his fondness for his San Francisco days, appropriately framed against a similarly complimentary Oscar Wilde quote about our torrid Babylon.
In the vein of Looking for Richard, Wilde Salome began as a personal project of Pacino’s, who admits to having made several such documentaries in the past, though Richard is the only one that he’s ever released—until now. Tracing the circuitous path of a method actor in search of not just his character but also the motivations of that character’s creator, Wilde Salome is partly an exploration of Oscar Wilde’s most controversial play “Salome,” and partly an exploration of the man himself. Filmed in part during a run of Oscar Wilde’s “Salome,” at the Wadsworth theatre in LA, in which Pacino played King Herod, and in part in the company of “experts,” (Gore Vidal, Tom Stoppard, Tony Kushner, and Bono to name a few) fleshing out the historical details of Oscar Wilde’s life, the action unfolds in a series of non-chronological scenes with Pacino as the thread connecting them together.
Opening with the line “this is a story about an obsession” the film proceeds to delve into about a dozen: Pacino’s obsession with both his portrayal of Herod and Wilde, Wilde’s obsession with his boorish lover “Bosie” (Lord Alfred Douglas), Herod’s obsession with his step-daughter Salome, Salome’s obsession with the prophet Jokanaan, Film Producer Barry Navidi’s obsession with their tight shooting schedule, and even each individual actor’s quirky backstage rituals. In one scene, Pacino throws a party, in order to instill the impression of a raucous banquet gone too far in the actors, and especially in Jessica Chastain, whose intoxicatingly toxic portrayal as Salome speaks volumes on “the destructive power of sexuality,” a Wildean parallel.
In fact, if the movie has a sleeper star it is certainly Chastain, whose actor’s instincts appear as sharply honed as those of any of her older co-stars, and her wrathful dance of the seven veils reads as practically a throwdown challenge to the old guard. Herod’s certainly. And maybe even Pacino’s. Though seeing Pacino graciously holding court at the Castro did give the impression that he’s got a few years in him before he’ll have to worry about being summarily dethroned.
Where Jean Paul Gaultier should go out this week
Revered French bad-boy designer Jean Paul Gaultier is in town for the unveiling of a neat-looking “enfant terrible” retrospective of his work at the de Young. (Will there be anything in it as scandalous as the tribute to Naomi Campbell’s famous wipeout in the Vivienne Westwood show five years ago?). He also has a busy schedule: a red-carpet appearance at the new Al Pacino movie launch tonight, a private-ish A-gayish loft party on Thursday whose redeeming feature = drag goddess DJ Juanita More, and of course a lavish opening celebration at the de Young itself on Friday. ($300 per person — I’ll be blogging all the opulence and potential fashion faux paaaaaases.)
But us lowly club kids love you too, JPG.
Whether it’s for managing the Herculean task of making Madonna interesting for 10 minutes 23 years ago, costuming some of the coolest movies ever (stay tuned for a “Gaultier Fashion Film Series” just announced for April 5-6 at the Castro Theatre), foretelling the whole cross-over fashion designer movement with your dance floor classic “Aow Tou Dou Zat” (which sounds amazing right now btw), providing perversion fantasy spectacles for a pre-Internet world, or just plain making fashion crazy, gay, and fabulous — we’d like a chance to thank you by being fabulous back in your presence.
You should sneak out of the hoity-toity fooforaws and get some new, true San Francisco underworld inspiration from your spiritual children. Here’s where:
WEDNESDAY
Booty Call See Juanita More (and ever-energetic co-promoter Joshua J) in her native habitat, as she hosts this weekly queer night bursting with forward looks and youthful cuteness. The stated draw is the fun photobooth in back, tricked out by noted artists, but the free-spirited, non-pop house tunes are tasty, too. 9 p.m., $3. QBar, 456 Castro, SF. www.bootycallwednesdays.com
THURSDAY
Future Perfect Local underground pop apotheosis Alexis Blair Penney’s going away fiesta! This packed weekly party pretty much realizes its admirable aim to demolish all genre boundaries and just play “cool, contemporary music no matter what.” That makes it hard to write about, but easy to dig, especially with yummy weekly live guests that have included Light Asylum, Cold Cave, and Dubbel Dutch. 10 p.m., $10–$15. Monarch, 101 Sixth St., SF. www.monarchsf.com
Popscene All the bright young indie pop fans converge on this long-running 18+ party to peep up-and-coming international live bands often so fresh the Internet has yet to discover them — plus some touching nods to the alternative pop styles of yore. 10 p.m., $10–$15, 18+. Rickshaw Stop, 155 Fell, SF. www.popscene-sf.com
Relax Relate Release Three of the craziest (and cutest) mofo DJs on the scene, Vin Sol, Richie Panic, and 5kinAndBone5 indulge their deeper eclectic (yet still plenty bumpin’) sides, with schweet selections spanning classic disco to hyphy gems, bass oddities to vogue jams, for an adventurous crowd in a Tenderloin basement. 10 p.m., $5. 222 Hyde, SF. Facebook page.
The Tubesteak Connection After almost eight years of reviving rare 1970s and ’80s gay bathhouse disco in an atmosphere that encourages sleazy cruising (and bans all things digital), DJ Bus Station John’s club is still a sensation — DJs make the pilgrimage, often on their knees, from around the globe to catch up on the sex music of the past. 10 p.m., $5. Aunt Charlie’s Lounge, 133 Turk, SF. www.auntcharlieslounge.com
FRIDAY
Blow Up Perhaps the only place you’ll see Gaultier clothing being worn non-ironically (plus the awesome Ssion performs this week)! Fantastically glamorous and classy-yet-raging 18+ underground electro, nu-disco, and post-French Touch night, hosted by Ava Berlin and Jeffrey Paradise, now seven years old and as fashionable as ever with a slew of talented DJs, weekly guests, relatable moments, and incredible looks. 10 p.m., $10–$20, 18+. DNA Lounge, 375 11th St., SF. www.blowupsf.com
Hot Boxxx Girls Legendary gender illusionists of the Tenderloin shower you with bewitching beauty and ravishing razzle-dazzle in this must-see drag show (also on Saturday nights). Once you witness these spirited gals take on your favorite showtune, pop hit, or power ballad, you’ll never hear it the same. Bring lots of singles for tipping. 9 p.m., $5. Aunt Charlie’s Lounge, 133 Turk, SF.www.auntcharlieslounge.com
Some Thing Taking drag (and performance) into some incredible new and WTF zones — with lots of fun dancing afterward, and a fantastic craft table courtesy of Haute Gloo — the Some Thing trio of Glamamore, VivvyAnne ForeverMore, and DJ Down-E add some theatrical, dramatic, and loopy oomph to the SF weekend. 10 p.m.-afterhours, $7. The Stud, 399 9th St., SF. www.studsf.com
“Oops! Jean Paul Gaultier is so soigné!”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwR0OtBJpA0
SATURDAY
Go Bang! Tons of special guest disco-heat DJs this month from Shawn Ryan of Philadelphia to Tres Johnson of Omaha, Nebraska! DJ Steve Fabus has been spinning since the earliest days of San Fran-disco, and when teamed up with young fanatic DJ Sergio — it’s been fire. Each month brings an onslaught of disco heat, with repolished red-light classics and rare vinyl revivals stoking an eager, off-the-shoulder crowd. Fourth Saturdays, 9 p.m., $5. Deco Lounge, 510 Larkin, SF. www.gobangsf.com
Icee Hot This month with Siberian techno chanteuse Nina Kraviz, Detroit techno hero Rolando, and nu-vogue beats innovator MikeQ! The city’s best showcase for razor’s edge developments in underground bass music and the UK sounds of now — with some classic house and techno stunner guests thrown in for mega-measure. A lifeline for those tired of hearing this good stuff via Internet. Fourth Saturdays, 10 p.m.-3 a.m., SF. $5 before 10:30, $10 after. Public Works, 161 Erie, SF. www.publicsf.com
Rocket Cute scruffy dudes from kooky queer Burning Man camps dancing to cutting-edge techno, with a Space Age theme and a performance by SF’s own sissy bounce rap duo Double Dutchess? Amazing. 10 p.m., $7. Rickshaw Stop, 155 Fell, SF. Facebook page
Soiree 10 The queerati will be all exploding in a puff of glitter, feathers, and post-ironic jazz hands for the LGBT Community Center’s 10th anniversary celebration: Honey Mahogany, Anna Conda, Ambrosia Salad, Marga Gomez, Glamamore, Fauxnique, Hard French DJs, and more, plus a banquet to get excited about! Sat/24, 7-11pm, $95 (it’s charitable!). San Francisco Design Center Galleria, 101 Henry Adams, SF. www.soiree10.com
SUNDAY
Honey Soundsystem Timeless, pumping house music so well-curated, and scruffy hot queer freak dancers looking so high out of their minds on the dance floor, that I feel gross and a little violated just being there. 9 p.m., $5. Holy Cow, 1535 Folsom, SF. www.honeysoundsystem.com
MONDAY
Viennetta Discotheque What other intimate, kooky-lovely queer party would celebrate its recent anniversary with 40 McDonald’s cheeseburgers and a platter of fries for hungover voguers to “serve?” From over-the-top disco to tomorrow’s dub-techno to just WTF, DJs Stanley Frank and Robert Jeffrey whip it up. 10 p.m., free. UndergroundSF, 424 Haight, SF. 133 Turk, SF.
TUESDAY
High Fantasy Apocalyptically glamorous queer rabble-rousers Alexis Bair Penney and Myles Cooper make gutter dreams come true in the Tenderloin, with artistically challenging drag performances, international surprise guests, and polymorphous perversity on tap-tap-tap. 10 p.m., $2. Aunt Charlie’s Lounge, 133 Turk, SF.www.auntcharlieslounge.com
WHEW! We know you can doo eet, Jean Paul!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gZyEnMk68A
Oui, I cribbed most of this from our huge Nightlife 2012 guide and my weekly Super Ego clubs column. Check those out for more great, designer-worthy parties.
Mr. Black in SF: The Reckoning
Or, Rebel without a Cause
Groucho Marx once said, “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.” For you contemporary types, a similar sentiment was expressed by Blair Waldorf in the first season of Gossip Girl. “Watch and learn, ladies. The most important parties to attend are the ones you’re not invited to.”
I was originally invited to venue Rebel for the launch of much-hyped “branded” monthly NYC-LA-SF gay party Mr. Black on March 1. After interviewing promoters Joshua J and Luke Nero for this SFBG story, I got placed on the guest list. Without resorting to being totally tacky and asking, of course.
So imagine my utter horror and humiliation after glancing over said list last Thursday night and not seeing my name.
The only Oscar listed was Mr. Pineda (a.k.a. scruffy and lovely DJ Taco Tuesday) but I couldn’t go so far as to impersonate him, could I? What about if he showed up? He didn’t show up. Besides it had taken me almost all day to plan my outfit. Well, not really. I just grabbed my Normandy & Monroe sweater from my bottom drawer because a) you’re not supposed to hang sweaters and b) I “hadn’t worn it in a while.” But still.
At Rebel’s door with nothing to argue but a broken promise in the form of week-old text message from Joshua J, I paid $8 to go in. And I’ve never felt so… common.
Besides Cockfight and Dial Up and Pop Brownie and Honey Soundsystem and I Just Wanna Fucking Dance, San Francisco’s Mr. Black was the best gay party I have been to all year. So the cover charge, though steep, was worth it. Maybe it was because I had been uninvited and felt the rush from intruding into some secret underworld no one but me and 200 Facebook acquaintances knew about. Maybe it was the memories it brought back from the original underground Mr. Black in NYC. Maybe it was that I had shit tons of cocaine with me. Who knows?
In our conversation, Joshua J mentioned that Mr. Black’s notorious edge would be all up to the crowd. Which is accurate because Joshua wouldn’t know edgy if it farted in his face. Thankfully co-hostess Terry Tsipouras managed to snatch the club Some Thing crowd away from Alexander McQueen’s funeral and had them come by and give dirty looks to everyone.
The dance floor got packed once one of the Aarons from DJs Aaron & Aaron (I don’t know, the cute one who kept winking at the crowd as if he was in some real-life iteration of Grindr?) got on the Macbook. I vividly recall the utter euphoria that overtook the club when he infused ABBA’s “Gimme Gimme” with Madonna’s “Hung Up.” Brilliant, if not because it’s actually the same song. And who could forget co-hostess Lady Bear’s lower lip trembling in utter forlornness, as she mouthed “I have one thing to say… sashay, shante.” There was also a thin, chic boy eating a banana off to the side, and Heklina sent one of her clones.
Seeing all the young, beautiful things strutting about in homemade Chanel, I had one thing to say: I need a retail job at Neiman Marcus. If only for the great discounts and the flexibility to black out on a weekday.
At one point, I thought I had caught a glimpse of the real Chloe Sevigny walking in our mortal midst, but it turned out it was just this girl.
Towards the end of the night, not one but two drunken J. Crew gays I have never seen before tumbled over me and onto the floor. Of course, they wouldn’t have made it that far had they just relinquished the drinks in their hands and used them to break their fall. But on these dark, blurry, self-important nights, a cold glass full of ice and one’s own saliva is the only thing we have left to hold on to.
MR. BLACK
First Thursdays of the month, 10 p.m., $8
Rebel
1760 Market, SF.
Mourning the death of an underground gay party: Mr. Black in SF
Once upon a time in New York City, on the intersection of Broadway and Bleecker, there used to be a club where the lights never shone. In the cavernous dark, Marc Jacobs’ Black Book of desperate, disposable, beautiful boys could blindly bump into one of club goddess Amanda Lepore’s naked body parts. But when you’re in one of the steamiest, most-crowded gay hotspots in the world with candlelit backrooms, a scandalous vibe, and servers in top hats and backless aprons, such concepts as personal space become fantasy.
This week, gay partygoers in San Francisco will get to experience the iconic Mr. Black nightclub thanks to a likely alliance between Mr. Black founder Luke Nero and SF party promoter Joshua J. Cook. On Thursday, motorcycle-themed club Rebel will host the launch of the monthly Mr. Black SF night with Stanley Frank of Viennetta Discotheque opening up for DJs Aaron & Aaron, Mr. Black’s original, signature DJs. The party will recur the first Thursday of each month.
“I’ve never worked on a party that so effortlessly promoted itself,” said Cook, promoter and creator of Big Top and Stallion Saturdays. “Everyone I’ve told about it wants to be involved.” (Representing the party with stereotypical-looking, half-naked go-go boys on the cover of the advertorial Gloss gay party magazine, however, may belie his statement.)
Not surprisingly. Mr. Black, the NYC version, was the well-kept secret everyone was talking about. A twisted funhouse for eccentric socialites and underground club kids, it was too perfect to last. In 2007, the brick-walled club was forced to shut down after NYPD conducted an undercover, in-drag drug raid and arrested two employees (including Nero) and 15 patrons. The club relocated shortly after to Hell’s Kitchen but failed to recapture much of its relevance. Recently the party started once again, this time in Webster Hall.
“When Stuart Black and I started it in New York there was nothing like it,” said Nero. “It’s as if we had created our own Studio 54.”
Proving that a great ass can take you places, Nero went from the infamously bare-bottomed bartender in New York to creative director of all things Black.
After the raid, Mr. Black, the brand, followed Nero to Hollywood, where he is currently the promoter of the LA version at Bardot. The cross-country relocation has kept the party “fresh” for Nero who enjoys seeing each city’s reinterpretation.
“In L.A. it’s more youthful fashion. It’s where the cool hipster kids go,” he said.
And as for San Francisco’s reinterpretation? Cook expects a crowd of “art people, fashion people, those who want to be seen. The crowd will be the main attraction.”
The promoter has already enlisted a circus of characters to liven-up his version, including Los Angeles-based Andres Rigal, Lenora Claire and William Cullen and from San Francisco, Lady Bear and Miss Terry T. Earlier this month, Rebel held a contest looking for a slew of bare asses to prance around for Mr. Black SF.
With such noted scenester talent, the Mr. Black allure, and Cook’s own connections, the party is sure to be a huge hit, although perhaps for a less cutting-edge gay crowd. The original Mr. Black club had a capacity of 162. For the SF launch, there are already more people RSVPs on Facebook.
The move out of New York, however, has smeared Mr. Black in some edgier eyes. The party once held in an unassuming basement in NoHo is now at a V.I.P. lounge in Hollywood. The party that once took great pride in not having bottle service and hosting the likes of Naomi Campbell, Chloe Sevigny and Boy George without much fuss now has a photo blog, a Facebook page, and hundreds of fans, including every contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Race.
“Those are my greatest memories, says Nero of the original Mr. Black. “Sneaking in all those people into the party and no photographic proof that they were there.”
Now, with the expansion to SF, some bristle at the idea of outside promoters coming into the city when there are already many native parties that appeal to art and fashion crowds, utilizing much of the same local talent.
Ultimately, though, and however fun this iteration may prove to be, Mr. Black itself is not really a brand, but a memory. For even if all the lights are turned off at legal venue Rebel on Thursday night, the camera flashes will probably reveal none of the spontaneous scandal or Marc Jacobs exes the original could brew up. Despite all the name-dropping, no party will ever be Mr. Black at its underground, unpretentious, dirty prime.
Perhaps it is the Internet, that word of mouth now travels faster than the click of a mouse. Perhaps it is the promoters, who realized that there is more money to be made when there’s a line out the door. Perhaps it is the crowd, who wants to not only be seen but also immortalized via a mobile device. Perhaps it is our fault, that we now confuse reality show contestants for true stars.
Perhaps it is fate, that all great underground parties reach their capacity, die, and come back, bigger and sleeker. But not as Black.
Oscar Raymundo is a freelance writer and fabulous book club leader who blacked out plenty of times at the original Mr. Black.
MR. BLACK SF
Thu/1 and first Thursdays, 9 p.m.-3 a.m.
$5 before 10:30 p.m., $8 after
Rebel
1760 Market, SF.
Facebook invite
Hello, Carol!
FILM It is close to impossible not to love Carol Channing; those who would protest otherwise are simply heartless. The only adequate response to her is unconditional surrender, as if standing before an oncoming cyclone filled with puppies.
With her saucer eyes topped with false lashes that could give Bette Davis’ a run for her money and a mouth that seems as if it could swallow the world, Channing is a living incarnation of a Muppet (to watch her duet with Miss Piggy just seems natural, somehow). And yet, despite her cartoonish physicality and exaggerated appearance, there is nothing false or put-on about Channing.
When I hear that voice — dripping with whiskey, smoke, and honey, begging to be imitated — the effect is instant happiness. Everything just feels right. As Roland Barthes writes in his essay “The Grain of the Voice,” I then must face the task of articulating “the impossible account of an individual thrill I constantly experience in listening to singing.”
Dori Bernstein’s sweet if worshipful documentary Carol Channing: Larger Than Life necessarily fails at that task, even as it proves the now 91-year-old Broadway legend more than lives up to the second half of the film’s title.
Now slightly stooped, her hair in a choppy gray bob, which she occasionally pulls into a Peggy Moffitt-esque topknot, and her lips a smear of Malibu pink, Channing is still ever the professional, hilariously impersonating a Russian theater troupe one moment and chatting with young dancers in Times Square the next.
The life Channing recounts is an abbreviated and selective version of the one detailed in her 2002 memoir Just Lucky I Guess: her childhood in San Francisco spent being the class clown and worshiping Ethel Waters; her first big Broadway break playing Lorelei Lee in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes; and her career-cementing role as Dolly Levi in Hello, Dolly! And many of the memoir’s same supporting characters, such as frequent TV variety show co-star Loni Anderson and Dolly composer Jerry Herman, also make appearances here.
What Bernstein’s documentary offers is the rare chance to witness the palpable impact Channing has made on others. In personal interactions, she gives her attention equally and wholly to anyone who seeks it (including the camera). Those who have worked with her — particularly the many gay chorus members interviewed here — speak of her as a mother rather than a diva.
The film’s most touching footage is of Channing with her late husband Harry Kullijian, who passed away last year. The two were childhood sweethearts who some 70 years later tied the knot (in Channing’s fourth go at marriage), and seeing them joke together and read aloud poetry passages they shared as love-struck teens is the very definition of adorable.
Curiously, Kullijian’s passing is not mentioned in the film, even as a postscript. You get the sense more generally that Bernstein tried to stay clear of reopening any old wounds with her subject. The awful tempestuousness of Channing’s second marriage to her publicist and manager Charles Lowe is referenced by others but not Channing, who speaks only in passing of the toll life on the road took on her relationship with her son from her first marriage.
Additionally, despite her fame, Channing has always had to share the larger cultural spotlight with Marilyn Monroe and Barbra Streisand, powerhouses in their own right who became associated with the roles she originally made famous on stage (Channing would have her Hollywood comeuppance in 1967 when she was nominated for a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for 1967’s Thoroughly Modern Millie). Larger Than Life attempts to provide a corrective to this, but its motivations for doing so are as transparent as they are understandable. This film is a mash note to Channing as much as it is a gift to her fans, who, rest assured, didn’t need any more reason to love her. *
CAROL CHANNING: LARGER THAN LIFE opens Fri/3 in Bay Area theaters.
Live Shots: GAPA Runway 23, 08/13/2011
Fantasy Land was out in full force on the Herbst Theater stage this past weekend, for the 23rd annual Gay Asian Pacific Alliance (GAPA) Runway show and 2011 Mr. & Miss GAPA pageant. The contestants were dressed to impress and pulled out all the stops (and pulled off a few pairs of pants too), in hopes of winning over a panel of judges that included everyone from socialites like Holy McGrail and politician Fiona Ma. Everyone was bedazzled, especially by the host Tita Aida.
Working with a cold and a pesky iPad, Tita held the whole event together with elegance and poise, and enough inappropriate jokes to keep everyone laughing and wetting their panties for the entire four hours of the show. I hope to one day call Tita a BFF. Tita is my heroine, not only for her amazing style, but also for her never ending list of Daly City jokes.
And then there were all the sexy Gaysian fantasies on the runway, dressed in fairytales of Snow White and genies, who really gave their all. One of my personal favorites was an evocative and devastating performance by Jezebel Patel of the Dying Swan, feathers spewing in every direction after each perfectly performed pirouette. She was a runner up for Miss Gapa, but the gigantic trophies at the end of the night went to two wonderful talents, Lychee Minelli and Mike Nguyen, who stole the show with their school-girl good looks and baton twirling triumphs.
I’ve been to a pretty solid sampling of drag shows in my day, but I have to say, GAPA Runway was magical in so many ways and one that I hope to make a yearly tradition.