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Feelin' Pretty

By C. Silo

'Sorry, honey, this is a private party. Ow-kayyy?" Although it helps to be a gorgeous Manhattan drag queen when uttering the above-mentioned phrase, the hep-cats of Lush took San Francisco clubbing to the next level with a neatly posted, handwritten sign. Those with adequate reading skills and average eyesight knew as soon as they arrived at the entrance of the Coco Club on a Saturday night that Lush was not an event for just anyone. Baby, no siree, this was a real, live "Private Party." A blatant yet clever lie, the announcement was actually meant to discourage ugly people with no style from bombarding the scene (but don't kid yourself if you think the place was full of Prada runway models). Clearly, it was by the divine grace of God that I and all my sweaty, warty, hunchbacked friends made it in--all we had to do was pay triple price! I couldn't stop singing "I Feel Pretty" once I got inside.

Well, OK--the lesbians did look like Mac counter girls, and everyone did look pretty trim and Euro-pop in that Diesel-angst way, but I must admit that I did spot at least a few cretins lurking in the corners (whom I eventually reported and had systematically extricated). Even criminal defense attorney Ken Wine, a.k.a. "The Shwizz," looked fairly hip--which is a lot for a guy who normally dresses like a non-makeup-artist lesbian. "Man, there are some hot, straight-looking chicks in here," he hungrily observed. LIMN Magazine and Dodge City Journal editor Andrew Wagner was equally impressed--"No one looks overtly unattractive."

After accidentally pouring the contents of my martini glass down Mr. Ken Wine's shirt ("So sue me!"), I pranced onto the dance floor and realized that the DJ looked vaguely familiar. Oh, yes, DJ Neal--the long-haired hippie dude who was brutally launched out of a party at the Werepad by two babes in tight black dresses! I immediately confronted him. "I was really drunk and being unruly in the DJ booth," he admited. His charm won me over, but I rudely implored him to play something "I can dance to" (now that I think about it, I'm lucky he didn't instantly launch me and my drunk ass out the door). Neal and turntable cohort Algae put me in check: "This is cocktail music, darling." Accordingly, I downed another martini.

"Let's blow this joint!" yelped Women of the Beat Generation author Brenda Knight. "We sure would make a lot of cash," I answered, quickly scanning the premises for horny straight guys. Apparently straight and possibly horny, artist Miguel Strong joined Brenda and me on our trek to DJ Felix the Dog's birthday party. The Shwizz stayed behind to continue letching on lesbians while Mr. Wagner, bored with meaningless chitchat and alcoholism, hailed a cab home.

It is hard to say which is more sublime: deep house or tantric sex. Arguably, deep house is the superior option because it is rarely messy, and it's usually quite thick. Helping me reach this decision is the bizarre quantity of infantile parts I've recently encountered and Felix's astounding record selections. By far the most amazing warehouse party I'd been to since the time I took two hits of ecstasy at a rave in Hunter's Point (how early '90s!), the party featured DJs Laron and Laird rotating with Felix on the turntables while everyone joyfully submitted to the sounds of divas belting and Miami bass pumping. Implanted on the dance floor, I lost track of my friends and had a stunning revelation: you can't wear high-riding granny underwear with hip-hugger pants. Luckily, my undies were a subtle shade of hot pink, so I was able to work a demoralizing faux pas into a sassy fashion statement (isn't this how Madonna got her start?).

"What's up with your underwear?" asked projectionist extraordinaire Jerry Gonzales of Visual Attack. "None of your goddamned business," I said as I made my way to the bathroom (where I quickly disposed of my little problem). Free at last, I returned to the groove fest and chatted with literary sex-pot Jamie Corcoran of Jossey-Bass Books, whose impossible beauty moved me to comment, "I'll bet they'd let you into the Coco Club tonight." I tried to convince another drop-dead male specimen, James Rimes of 3DO Design, to forsake his current plans for an evening at Lush, but, as usual, he regarded my sincere urgings with great distrust.

Sweaty, warty, hunchbacked and without underwear, I left the party in a fabulous state of mind--house music has the amazing power to alleviate almost any predicament. I forgot to thank Felix for being the most musically inventive Scorpio on the face of the earth, but as I zipped away in my cab I happily remembered that I would be able to catch him, along with Laron, Darkhorse and DJ Tim Lovely, at Black Diamond. Produced by Felix and Claire Rhodes, a.k.a. "Cool Lady C", the next Black Diamond will take place Dec. 4 at the large and lovely Cocomo Club. In the words of the guy who does the Ford dealership ads on late-night TV, "You won't want to miss it--so git yer butt on over!" Amen.

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From the November 16-29, 1998 issue of the Metropolitan.

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