L.A. Scene is a monthly column that chronicles lesbian nightlife and events of interest in Los Angeles. Sarah Witness, an East Coast transplant and obvious femme, has been navigating the snark infested waters of Hollywood since 2001. Although she’s an NYU trained actress, she prefers sipping vodka and making idle chit-chat at really gay nightclubs. Prop 8 Protest I ran off to Vegas for Memorial Day weekend. Apparently the economy is on the upswing as it was a total mob scene. Bachelorette parties abounded and I spotted at least fifty women sporting penis hats and/or accessories. Tres elegant. A giant button in the hotel elevator said “chapel,” apparently so you could find your way to the altar even while inebriated. My only thought was, “These people are legally allowed to marry?”
So when I returned home to hear that the California courts voted against the sin and depravity that is gay marriage, I almost fell over.
Fortunately, the organized folks at www.dayofdecision.com had planned an evening event in anticipation of this verdict. It was a rally in West Hollywood, which seemed a bit like preaching to the choir, but at least it was something…and Drew Barrymore was there.
Ok fine, there were rallies in more conservative areas but that would involve getting in the car.
In addition to Drew, a number of celebrities spoke, including Kathy Griffin and her elderly mother who held a sign that read “GAY MARRIAGE. I’LL DRINK TO THAT.” Also in attendance were George Takei, Kelly Osbourne, Emmy Rossum, Sophia Bush, and Deborah Gibson who will always be Debbie to me. For reasons I didn’t understand because I was late, as usual, the rally was divided into several little mini rallies over the course of a few blocks. I can only assume that this was for traffic reasons, as it was on a major boulevard during the end of rush hour, but isn’t the point of these things to be somewhat disruptive?
Maybe if we started interfering with the otherwise apathetic commuters’ ability to get home to their own marriages we’d make some progress? “Hell I’ll vote to overturn your proposition if you GET OUT OF MY WAY!”
I understand we caused more traffic problems in Hollywood where apparently hundreds of cops were positioned outside of Target. Yes, Target. Perhaps they were afraid an unruly mob of gays and lesbians would storm the place in search of Michael Graves designed ice buckets and dented cans of cat food. Anyway, after the rally everyone marched several miles over to Hollywood and Highland, which is a major intersection with a giant mall that is home to the Oscars. It’s also part of the Hollywood Walk of Fame and, therefore, littered with fanny-pack sporting tourists who were likely not expecting to see scores of pissed off gaylesbitrans chanting, “WHAT DO WE WANT? EQUAL RIGHTS! WHEN DO WE WANT THEM? NOW!”
Surely the homemade signs, “How Does MY Marriage affect YOU?” and “Adam Lambert Lost Idol and Now This???” were reminders that they weren’t in Kansas anymore.
The evening was without incident, probably because there was about a 1:1 ratio of police to protestors. Also, no opposition showed up. I guess they were feeling smug about their victory so they stayed home and did something lame. Or maybe they were at Target.
The Dyke March and Truck Stop Pride weekend in West Hollywood typically kicks off with the Dyke March. I’d never attended the Los Angeles event, but I had seen pictures from San Francisco, where it appeared as though all of my overly aggressive seventh grade classmates who had tried to murder me during dodgeball were now the topless riders of gleaming Harleys.
The Weho march was predictably more tame. I got there for the tail end of the rally, just in time to hear that the Obama administration had decided to uphold the Defense of Marriage Act. So that was a buzz kill.
The attendees were mostly female, of all different ages and descriptions, some with children, many with signs relating to gay marriage, others with signs noting the power of their, uh, nether regions. The dykes on bikes were calmly parked to the side and one very nice lady let me take her picture before she and the others got some secret signal and the motorcycles roared to life, zooming down Santa Monica Boulevard. They were followed by an elderly marching band, some women in a pink golf cart, several hundred Doc Martin and Converse clad people on foot, and several impractically shod femmes and drag-queens who were bringing up the rear in their platforms and stilettos.
There didn’t seem to be a clear destination point so most women marched until they identified a suitable watering hole and called it a day. Some folks, like comedian Jennie McNulty, marched all the way … to their cars. About an hour later the march made its way to West Hollywood Park for the obligatory after party. I headed off for a quiet snack at a local café and was thinking of retiring for the evening. Silly moi. Naturally, that’s when a friend appeared wielding wristbands and before I could say “abracalesbian” I was sucked into the concrete vortex that is Here Lounge.
The Friday event at Here is called Truck Stop and is hosted by gal about town Charlene Borja of Gimme Sugar fame. As usual it was a mix of women from different parts of the Inland Empire, several Hollywood hipsters, a very tall woman with an unusually powerful handshake, and Michelle Wolfe.
The dance floor sees more action than at other events and is unavoidable as it’s what separates the bar from the bathroom. Every so often a siren blares and you hear Charlene on the mic beckoning, “LAAADIIIIIEEEES” and everyone goes running to watch the go-go dancers/bartenders gyrate on the bar. It sounds like a fire engine or a nuclear disaster alarm and it never ceases to terrify me. Honestly, I don’t get it. Is there actually something to witness or is this just a Pavlovian response? Maybe if you run fast enough you win your very own stripper?
The bar is supposed to look stark and modern … you know, like a parking lot. If you get there early you can secure comfy outside seating amidst the artificial trees. If you get there late you have to stand in line for ages. The music is great, particularly when D.J. Saratonin spins. The interior is somewhat plush, with plenty of VIP booths available in case you don’t want to speak to anyone other than your friends and your living room is just too quiet and inexpensive.
One of my barely of legal drinking age friends showed up late and I tried to chat with her. Unfortunately she’d had a long night and kept throwing up behind one of the fake trees. Obviously, it was time to go.
Pride Parade 2009 This year marked my fifth consecutive Pride Parade. You’d think I’d finally remember to bring sunblock. You’d be wrong.
I live smack in the middle of the parade route and normally the helicopters eventually wake me up and I stagger downstairs to watch. This year, I pretended to be a grown-up and made reservations at an outdoor café along the route and set my alarm clock.
The first thing you see when you walk out my door every year is the hate group. This consists of about eight obese men who stand behind a police barricade with signs bearing groundbreaking slogans such as “It’s Adam and Eve, Not Adam and Steve.” I’m sure there are plenty of couples out their named Adam and Steve. How much does that suck for them? They probably try to go with Steve and Adam.
Anyway, I hear these same eight guys travel around to all the Pride Parades in the country and develop melanoma while posing for photos with people who think they are morons.
I know at this point you’re thinking, “Oh man, sorry I missed it.” Well you should be. Everyone else was fabulous. The revelers ran the gamut from parents with children in tow, to drag queens who looked amazing, to men who should have thought twice before strapping on only chaps.
Why is it always the men who dress for this occasion, be it leather or tiaras, whereas the women just throw on their flip flops and go?
Good thing I found a place to sit because the parade took hours this year. Whoever was organizing the thing at Crescent Heights Blvd. where the route started must have been stoned, as there were five minute lapses between … between … What do you call them? Acts? Clusters? I can’t believe I missed the PFLAG parents this year. They are always my favorite. What’s a parade without a good cry? I must have dozed off.
Most of the, uh I guess I’ll go with “marchers,” held political signs, either about Prop 8 or in support of “Newsom 2010.” I’m ashamed to admit that I had no idea Gavin Newsom was running for anything. Turns out it’s for Governor. Guess that’s what signs are for. Also, guess that’s why I’m writing a column about lesbian nightlife and not working as a correspondent for CNN.
Chelsea Handler and her sidekick Chuy were the grand marshals. They looked beautiful and short, respectively. Why is the grand marshal always a straight woman who is favored by gay men? Why not someone who is, oh I don’t know, gay?
There were fewer floats and more random vehicles than in years past. A giant Gelson’s grocery store truck drove by, as did, inexplicably, an empty city bus with the word “SPECIAL” illuminated in the destination box.
When the parade finally ended I went to the festival in the park. Security stole my water on the way in so I only made it as far as the booths for Petco and laser hair removal services before I developed heatstroke. I’m told there was a very popular S&M booth. There’s always next year.
It was definitely time for a refreshment so I headed out. The Abbey is next door to the park and its walls were literally throbbing due to the mass of humanity inside. A fire truck was stationed directly in front as it appeared to be just a matter of time before the place exploded. I decided it was maybe not the place to be.
I walked down Santa Monica Blvd. and stopped at the usually vacant Normandie Room, a lesbian bar that I often forget exists. It was shockingly packed.
After chatting with several friends and drunk people who thought they knew me, I got a text from my friend, and everyone’s favorite character actress, Maile Flanagan. She had somehow managed to secure a table down the street and I went and joined her and her wife Lesa Hammett, along with another married lesbian couple. It was nice to sit with two of the lucky 18,000 who had gotten the chance to marry in the brief window. Maile and Lesa have been together for fourteen years and married last July. And they couldn’t be more proud.
And floats and crazy outfits aside, isn’t that what the day is really all about?
