Monday, December 18, 2000

Upon a winter’s night

There are several inches of snow on the ground and it's sleeting now. There's a wind chill of 51 degrees below zero, and the TV weathercasters are calling the temperatures "life threatening". In short, it's not a fit night out for man nor beast. Naturally, The Complex is packed.

So packed, in fact, that there's a line at the door when I arrive. I am wearing long underwear, a pair of cords, a shirt, two sweaters and a down-lined coat, gloves and knit cap. While I await my turn to pay the cover and ascend the stairs to the dance bar, I am joined in line by a guy I vaguely recognize from the gym, clad only in an Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt and jeans. He is followed by a zaftig drag queen in a sequined gown, fur stole, four pairs of control-top pantyhose and what appears to be an inch thick layer of foundation make-up. Of our trio, I'd wager she's the best insulated.

Once I'm inside, it becomes clear I missed the announcement on the Emergency Broadcast System ordering every gay man in the city to congregate here, presumably to huddle together on the dance floor for warmth. Cher and Madonna throb from the overhead speakers, doing their bit to encourage aerobic movement to stimulate blood circulation.

All of these people are obviously insane.

I, on the other hand, am here for one reason only: it's The Giant Queen's birthday. Not the official celebration, to be sure, but a local low-culture soiree for the homosexual hoi polloi. The big shindig will take place at sea, on a Caribbean cruise he's planned for the early spring, attended by what we have affectionately dubbed the Billionaire Boys in the Band Club. Not having the necessary scratch for that little party, most of our brood has gathered tonight -- the elements be damned! -- to toast GQ's encroaching middle age.

It's just past 11 o'clock on a Saturday night in the City by the Bog. Around 3 a.m., I will stumble out into the parking lot, freezing again, exhausted from dancing, a bit tipsy, and slightly nauseous from the swirling miasma of cigarette smoke, CK1 and Aveda hair products that lingered over the dance floor. The city is bathed in white...pristine, shiny, new, pure. Everything that we -- The Actor, Craig, Jeff, The Twins, Matt, Marc, Mark, Derek, The Giant Queen and I -- are not.

The Giant Queen clasps his beefy forearm around my neck. "Look at us. I never thought I'd be this young," he says, "when I got to be this old." He has a twinkle in his eye that says he knows he can count on me -- the one who presumably knows where all the strip bars, sex clubs and after-hours parties can be found -- to suggest something appropriately decadent to kick off his 51st year.

Which is why, at 3:30 a.m., we could be spotted at Denny's devouring ice cream sundaes with chocolate and butterscotch sauces, two booths over from a zaftig drag queen and an A&F gym bunny. And the snow continues to fall...