Last night, I sipped PBR in the corner, bummed cigarettes to passers-by (boostin’ cig karma important), but didn’t find anyone to dance with me. Why?
Because Elysium’s Nineties dancing night is fun, yes, so much potential for fun; the music is silly-giddy, like “If You Steal My Sunshine” or “Tubthumping.” Cheese. But no one was there. No queers, like on Tuesdays before when it was Sappho’s Isle, and we all tried hard to look hard and get drunk enough to dance.
So, there I was again, aching for Crown-lubricated dancin’ bravado. But I just couldn’t feel it. (I did get down for one, spinny song.) It was just me, the bartender, the owner who ran for office, and seven people who remember these tunes, tapping their feet at the bar. All of us happy there was no cover.
I wonder – is this better than when the queer ladies boiled the place over with short haircuts and ex-girlfriends? Hmmmm. Smoky.
This article appears in June 8 • 2007.