I thought it was a good idea to go out last night and finally celebrate the new year with something simple, like Evita. What’s more, I bought the most spectacular catsuit a few weeks back and I couldn’t wait another day to try it on. I hadn’t been out in a while.
Club Scholar’s mental health exile has extended from the Summer of Breakdowns to the New Year of Mental Health. I’m rebuilding this year, and the best way to begin that journey is to fart in a skintight lycra bodysuit at midnight on Sunset and Shrader.
You know, I used to go out at night and find danger in every constellation of the Gay Galaxy: the external world was out to get me. Now, I understand that there’s nothing wrong with bulimic strippers, shirtless couples, and golden boys who are 3,000 years old; they just act as avatars of my own insecurities. It’s not their fault that they’re awful.
Evita’s Madonnarama (not the official title) was by far the worst I’ve ever been to. The first club night I ever attended was a Madonnarama, and, five Disco Balls later, I can say that it’s not too hard to throw a good one. Just play deleted scenes from “Desperately Seeking Susan” and the homos will think you are a genius. But last night’s overextended remixes and lack of thematic focus threw everything off balance. The crowd was thin. I didn’t have pockets in my catsuit, so I had to wrap my jacket over my see through thigh panels. I felt like Tai in Clueless.
Looking around the room, I wondered: is there any hope for me? Do I want to be any of these people? Right in front of me, a tall loser in too much denim vogued until he was flat on his knees and elbows. Then he got up and vogued some more. A sad blonde hag tried to keep up with him, but she didn’t get the point: he wasn’t wildly freestyling but rather ironically repurposing an outdated form of dance that has no relevance in 2013 Los Angeles. Oh, Christ. He’s fine! Don’t try to help him off the floor!
Two handsome friends with trimmed facial hair, piercings, home-done tanktops, and generally agreeable biceps walked by. One of them was vaguely famous. They were cute, sure, but so put together that they could have been 19 or 45 and no one would have known. Those eyebrows alone…
Of course, in another corner, dancing to Fedde Le Grand, came together an oddly shaped Hispanic couple for a tender kiss. Void of individual thought or dancefloor charisma, they swayed in tandem and locked lips at every interval in which they didn’t know what else to do.
And, worst of all, were the clowns in the cheap seats. Perched in makeshift VIP booths, these thin bitties in crop tops showed us all the other side of 40.
Is this my future? Will I be sad, or worse, sad-looking? A voice in my head told me that it didn’t have to be like this: much of club culture (in other countries) is kitschy and purely fun and liberated of swine (pre-Gaga). And, as any boring girl you know would remind you when you’re single, there are plenty of great non-scene guys out there. Oh, go fuck yourself. That’s not what I needed to hear. Perhaps I should just summon one? Look, If any of those guys are alive, they’re either dead with Matthew Goode in A Single Man or coupled up in a cave with some horribly handsome dud.
But are they any better? Aren’t many of them idiots? And what about the remaining few? How many of these guys aren’t victims of body image dysmorphia or straight envy? Did I mention that the last two guys I dated* were so depressing, I just naturally assume they’ll end up killing themselves before age 29? I mean, is it just me or do people who take laptop selfies and post them as profile pictures stand out as the likeliest candidates to stick their hands in the garbage disposal? And what about online dating, you ask. Look, I quit the gym so I wouldn’t have to deal with my body issues. I don’t think chasing after men who list their life passions as hiking and paleo cooking are going to be phenomenal influences for me.
I wanted to leave. The music was going nowhere. I had gotten all zipped up for nothing. By the makeup of this outfit, I wouldn’t be able to unzip for the bathroom until I got him, which meant the night could end in two very different ways. I had to make this time last. I considered driving to Silver Lake and hitting Cafeteria, the aesthete bear bastion, but I wouldn’t have fit in there with my eyeliner and ruffled leopard prints. At least at Evita, I don’t have to strap on a homeless person’s beard and stick on a fake sailboat tattoo on my bicep to feel accepted.
Maybe, after some serious psychological drilling, I’ll be able to go out and not view the external gay world as a threat to my humanity. I won’t project my relationship and marriage issues onto happy, domesticated couples. Men with good bodies will have the chance to prove that they have personalities. The elderly and infirm men who populate the Silver Lake nightlife won’t loom at me like Ghosts of Christmas Future, complete with brunch reservations and a running route of Sunset Junction. People will carry on through the world, and I won’t be threatened.
Until then, I’ll retreat from the hedonism I once lived for. I’ll only seek solace in places void of any cultural dominance, like the sweaty Bootie LA or the ratchet Magnum. But I’ll take a break from the rest. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I may be too young for this. Or too old.
*pending new vocabulary