The BGM Thursday Night Wake Up Call

Since I’ve been 19, I’ve always enjoyed partying on Thursday nights. Now, that I don’t work two jobs, I look forward to getting my Thursday…

by j. brotherlove

Since I’ve been 19, I’ve always enjoyed partying on Thursday nights. Now, that I don’t work two jobs, I look forward to getting my Thursday night groove back. Last night, to kick it off, I punched it to Bulldogs and met Wood.

When I was still on weekly rotation, Bulldogs had become the spot on Thursday nights in Atlanta for black gay men. But, that was then. Last night was ghost town in my favorite hole-in-the-wall, with plenty of ghouls and goblins prompting me to ask Wood: “Is it Halloween?” I ran into Stunt Man who told me Bulldogs’ crowd was being stolen by 708’s weekly party. Oh?

Armed with another option, Wood and I hopped in our cars and drove on over to 708 (formerly, The Sequel, formerly Loretta’s, formerly…) Once I joined Wood in line (a line on Thursday night!), I knew I was in trouble. I didn’t see anyone near 30 in the line. After an intrusive frisking which left me feeling like Diana Ross, I entered and unexpectedly paid $1. The cover posted on the door was $3. Wood and I figured we got a senior citizen discount.

The club was crazy hot, unnecessarily dark and thick with smoke; but, that’s a club for you. Hip hop reigns in Atlanta (even at gay bars) so the dancefloor was packed with plenty of young men popping and swerving to the Hip Hop Top 40 with pants and shorts falling off their ass, revealing underwear or a thong. Yes, I said thong. And did I mention young? “They look like they’re about to play ‘Duck, Duck, Goose!” Wood said, at one point.

The “house” music room was worse. House music is stigmatized in black, gay Atlanta (an oxymoron for sure). With so many Atlanta gay men clinging desperately to anything masculine, house music is mostly left to drag queens, ball children and those of us older folks from Chicago, Detroit and New York. The truth is, few Atlanta DJs even play true house music. They play dance music and these girls don’t know the difference. But that’s another story, and a subject for another post. Suffice it to say, hell would freeze over before you heard a Masters At Work remix or a tune Vikter Diplaix or Lazy Dog would spin. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna dance to “Cunt. Cunt. Pussy. Pussy.” What the fuck is that?! And, while I’m on the subject, even when vogueing was cool (as it certainly is NOT any longer), Atlanta never made an impression with its vogue houses. Yet, swarms of rail thin, baby queens switched, pranced and hammed it up in the “house” room, last night, encircled by onlookers.

*sigh*

This entire scene reinforced that I am growing old. And gay men are not allowed to grow old; at least not gracefully - and never in public. Either we act/dress/speak like we’re 25 for as long as we can or risk becoming extinct. Time to diversify my social outlets to include see-and-be-seen premium spots, white gay bars, and the straight set. Variety is the spice of life.

And as there was no variety at 708, I grew bored, and attempted to stake a claim on a young, shorty. His initial response was positive, but he was typically scattered; most likely thinking: “Maybe there’s someone better, here”. I didn’t have the patience to pursue. After my initial cocktail was depleted, I adopted the attitude: “Screw you guys - I’m going home” and left Wood, presumably to make a dollar out of fifteen cents.

Hmmmm … I’ll take the hint and remember to bring PLENTY of house CDs when I visit. Um, did you know Mr. Duplaix is doing DJ duty at Central Park’s Summerstage on July 4th? That is, if you don’t come up to celebrate the 25th Anniversary of the Paradise Garage on June 29th. There’s a secret performer - word on the street has it that it’s Grace Jones … so get here early!

Grace Jones?

Then, you mean I should get there late! I’ve seen this enigma, twice. Each time, she arrived onstage at least two hours after the scheduled time and performed an average of 30 minutes. Yet, I still love her!

I think Jean Paul Goude sums it up best:
“Grace likes to party… She won’t work. She’ll show up whenever she feels like it. She has an entourage that encourages it. But ironically, the fact that she’s fucked up her career only proves how genuine she really is.”

*grin!* You’re right! Hmmm … that’s probably why it’s such a big secret - just in case she doesn’t show up! She is irreplacable. You can’t advertise her and then say “Sorry, instead of Grace Jones tonight we have … Rochelle Fleming!” (Even though Rochelle is still fierce … proof that REAL disco didn’t suck.)

Who could pull that off? Maybe her child Kevin Aviance?

See, I’m going to reveal my age here, but back in the day (when I was a cute little baby bi-dyke), I used to live in Loretta’s and Traxx (the first, the original, not the pale imitation that opened back in 1995). The music was good, much better than at any of the other pale boi clubs around town (the Armory being the sole exception) , and far, far better than any of the music at lesbian bars (what is it with dykes and Diana Ross’ “The Boss”? And if I hear “I Touch Roses” one more time, I’m gonna slap somebody upside the head with a sweat-drenched brassiere).

Ah, memories. If I come back to ATL in December, I’m looking you up, J.

Funny, you should mention that, Cecliy. Loretta’s was one of the reasons I fell in love with Atlanta some 10 years ago. I’ll never forget my first visit: The music was hot, the boys were hotter and three admirers bought me drinks (a lost art). sigh >> I’m guessing that my memories echo yours (in warmth of nostalgia - if not the same time frame). And, I suppose, the twenty-somethings will feel the same in ten years. Although, I swear their party attitudes and expectations are already jaded.

By all means, shout at me when you bless Atlanta with you presence!