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They order a round of beers, then another round after that.
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Like the kind of guys who might crack open your skull with a bass drum mallet if you looked at them funny. Up close, the band looks kind of sketchy.
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The scooters all open their throttles at the same moment, which rattles the beer bottles on our table.Ī little later, the guys in the marching band wander over to the bar where we're sitting and install themselves at a half-dozen tables. This saintly mission accomplished, the motorcycle cop revs his motor and zooms away, followed by a swarm of motor scooters who've been waiting impatiently for the show to end. Once the mayhem reaches an acceptable pitch, the guys in charge of the saint hoist him on their shoulders and usher him into the church.
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Then they dump a bag full of balloons which drift down onto the fireworks and pop. Through the smoke, I see a couple people climb onto the roof of the church and dump big plastic garbage bags full of confetti onto the crowd below. The street fills up with smoke and the smell of black powder: a little bit war zone, a little bit Fourth of July. your close friends that I had a dream about my boyfriend cheating on me.
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It is focused on the exchange of meanings, arts and broadening your. One of the trombonists lights some fireworks: black cats and spark fountains. But one day he told me he was poly and I told him ok I still love him but I. This club also organizes the BRANDONgayday and hosts artistic activities in the nearby park. As the band plays on, traffic backs up in the street, because Palermo is a town where saints cause traffic jams. The parade pulls up in front of the church at the corner. A few more guys bring up the rear with a little cart that has a statue of a saint teetering on top. Then out of nowhere, a marching band appears: a dozen guys in white dress shirts banging on drums and tooting trumpets and trombones. While we're sitting there, a motorcycle cop (or maybe he's a hunky male stripper in a motorcycle cop costume it's hard to tell the difference in this town) zooms by with his flashers on and blocks the street. The bartender is blasting Suicidal Tendencies and wearing a Descendents t-shirt (Milo Goes to College). They're a place where you can get a drink, break up with your boyfriend, and tune up your motor scooter. But what to do when you're over the rainbow rodeo of happy hours and go-go boys? Venturing outside nightlife venues can be daunting, but there are some options that don't involve being squashed between two hunks in a bar while you sweat in an unfortunately chosen coat (although if that's your thing, babe, keep doing you).S. Where straight people have systemic heteronormativity and The Notebook to turn to, we have diverse clubs where it's basically a law to play impeccable pop music.īut not everybody wants to slut drop to Madonna every evening, and despite how much of LGBTQ herstory is indebted to bars and clubs, I know how exhausting and monotonous the late nights, overpriced drinks, and gross bar bathrooms can be. And as we get older, gay clubs can become our sanctuaries, our safe spaces. As little gay boys, many of our first flirtations with the scene were surreptitious visits to bars where we'd drink cheap beer, underage, and get shit-scared the minute that someone spared a prolonged glance in our direction. If this nightmare sounds familiar to you, it might be because it's what actually happens to me almost every Saturday night whenever I go out on the gay scene.ĭon't get me wrong: The gay scene can offer the occasional magical and informative experience.
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When I finally manage to claim my spot at the bar and snag a vodka soda (which costs $15, mind you), I find I have no cash. I'm also wearing a coat, and because of said coat-that for some reason I haven't taken off-I am sweating profusely while all around me, shirtless, muscle-y men are pushing to get to the front to order. and I'm queueing at a busy gay bar to buy a drink. Let me tell you about a recurring nightmare I have: It's 1 A.M.