Taking time to recover from the night before, Saturday was a lazy day. A little too lazy as phone calls to confirm the plans for the night weren't made. One bad thing about Halloween Gay Christmas is the preponderance of, well, amateurs that come out to play. With that in mind, Saturday was planned out to be a bounce through of private parties in the homes of friends and friends-of-friends. The plan was to costume up to first attend a party in midtown and then a few parties in Williamsburg. Those plans were unconfirmed.
As a leisurely afternoon catnap stretched into the evening, upon waking it was immediately dress for the night and get out the door to the first venue of the night. Feeling like exploiting an old-school rock vibe, a black wig was chosen, along with a sleeveless black jumpsuit with a front zipper that, when unzipped would reveal a black fishnet athletic shirt and a pair of pink American Apparel jersey shorts. Wet-n-wild body glitter was liberally applied to the exposed arms and face; the requisite mascara and Ruby Kisses 'Diamonds and Pearls' Crystal Lip gloss were quickly applied. Along with Mister Offender (dressed as Popeye) we headed for West 55th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenue.
Entering the apartment across from media power-restaurant, Michael's, one thing was quickly apparent - no one else was in costume. Undaunted, we proceeded to greet our hostess, the ever-splendid Gab, but something seemed off kilter. A certain amount of restraint was in the air. Gazing through the crowd several regulars were in view, but one couple was particularly interesting, a man and a woman in their early sixties. Perhaps, if we had called in advance, we would have had foreknowledge that Gab's parents were in town and staying at her apartment that night. Perhaps we would have known to arrive three hours previously and not at an hour when Gab's mother was ready to clear the apartment of guests.
Undaunted, and determined to be a gracious guest, the parents were chatted up and the conversation was actually fantastic and the parents warm, effusive, and fun. Unfortunately the conversation had to be brief and within an hour we were on 55th Street chatting with other guests that had just left. As 55th Street was not really matching my outfit, it was with a bit of eagerness that was calling me to the next venues in Williamsburg. But again, if we had made some calls earlier, we would have learned that was no longer the plan.
We instead were going to stay in the west fifties, heading to one of my least-liked gay bars in the city, which, in order to protect the innocent, we'll call "Generic". Although there were a few costumes interspersed in the Generic crowd, the dominant look was "thirty-something-guy-dressed-as-fratboy". Some of my favorite songs were being mangled in murky mixes. Three rather hot guys danced to the side of the upper floor bar, but when they were not dancing their twitching and jerking just begged the question of why someone would be doing crystal at Generic. In sheer and utter protest, when offered a drink, I ordered a water.
Eventually going outside for a group cigarette, the one mitigating factor of this suddenly Generic night was in view. A red wig over a brightly colored parachute jogging suit revealed Valerie Cherish was in the house, or outside it having a cigarette at least. Letting her know that she had made my night, she replied, "I don't need to see that!" As more Generic attendees flocked in though, it was obvious that I was out of my element and that this night was a bit beyond rescue. Kiss-kiss, good-bye, and "Taxi!"
