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Derek Jackson

Breakin' the Law, Breakin' the Law

By C. Silo

It's nearly 2am, I've just been accosted by a cretin in a Gotcha T-shirt, and someone's big old red-satin-encased booty is preventing my last chance to score a whiskey sour at the bar. My usual sweet nature quickly transforms. "Excuse me, honey, but could you move your thing for a second?" Not a budge. What is this creature, anyway? Hefty trannie with expensive tit job or Kate Winslett on stilts? Hmmm. Miss Some-Kind-of-Thing turns around, and good lord, it's the octogenarian-sex fiend, Anna Nicole Smith. "Ooo, I'm sorry, I didn't see you." Guess what, sugar, I can't see beyond your fade into oblivion, so you may as well step aside! Forgive me, please, but you know how it is when you're jonesing at Release, even if it is the VIP room (ooh la la!).

The Master of Release, Martel Toler, is working the bar (how cute!), and instead of my much-needed poison, he hands me a bottled water. Damn. I'm bewildered by the amount of time wasted on trying to move beyond the glamour butt, but artist and California College of Arts and Crafts professor Raoul Ollman saves my ass by handing me the remainder of his backwash. "Let's get the fuck outta here," says designer Michael Glasco, who is a dead ringer for slow-jam guru Levert. Along with glamazon Miss Emily D. and a purported filmmaker, we grab our boas and fake Gucci coats and escape out the back entrance.

Here's where the political drama begins. We take a cab to PK's warehouse party, enter, dance for approximately 59 minutes, and BOOM! The cops are in! The party is unified in shock, but we're all pretty drunk so everyone begins to laugh and crack pig jokes. Needless to say, my bitchy side has completely taken over, so I'm ready to rumble with the "Donut Crew" (I don't recommend this activity to anyone). A particularly fetching policeman in a gray handlebar mustache and an ample gut forces us all out onto the sidewalk, where at least 20 cop cars await. The men in blue begin to shout needlessly, physically directing us out of their own harm's way. But no, no, no. I've had too many sips of someone's Hennessy to allow them to get away with this. "Go back to the goddam Sunset, you fat motherfuckers! We're not ready to leave!"

Michael grabs my arm but I'm not yet done. "What the fuck do you all think you are anyway? Sexy? Smart? Interesting?" Yes, I am certainly asking for it. A cop pulls me from Michael and closes his hand over my wrist. I envision Gangsta 4 Life and Jesus tattoos on my chest, but since they won't match the cute one on my arm, I break free from the officer's grip and bolt across the street. "Man, you really are crazy," says the filmmaker. "And stupid, too," adds Michael. True. The good part is, cops are more lenient with chicks. The bad part is, the cops confiscated PK's sound system, and that's how he makes his living. Now that's no joke.

Moving on under the pouring rain, we wander toward the safest, most sacred place on earth: the EndUp. It's nearly 5am, only minutes away from early morning service, and we're all starting to feel the warm glow of god on the backs of our hedonist necks. Door girl Jenn ushers us in.

"Damn, girl, you look a mess!" Eduardo Parra of Wired magazine looks me up and down, not forgetting to spot the long black line of mascara extending from my eye to the center of my throat. "Yes, sweetie, it's been one of those nights." The only person cool enough to have a permanent VIP pass to the EndUp, Eduardo hands me a tissue and helps me straighten my gold sequined tube top. The last thing you want is to look messy at the EndUp on a Sunday morning--trust me, you don't want to blend in.

It's too early for most of the gay crowd, but nonetheless the music is still jamming, and a few freaks, including John Cornett of Om Records, are attempting to ignite the dance floor. DJ Noble drops a smooth house track and I completely forget that I look like a Capp Street whore. Soon enough, DJ Ruben Mancias arrives and the Latin Cha Cha Queens are starting to claim the dancefloor, stomping well-heeled hooves and providing healthy competition among the Prancing Gospel Queens.

Yes, children, the sun is rising among us ... Michael and the rest of my posse depart, but I've just bonded with an aging queen who keeps buying me Bloody Marys, so naturally I decide to stay. I'll probably regret this tomorrow, I tell myself just once; but as the gorgeous voice of Michael Watford emanates from the speakers, I realize that I really don't care ... .

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From the December 7-20, 1998 issue of the Metropolitan.

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