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Pinkyswear - the LA edition

I am sure that it wasn't just me, since I after all was one of the many this past weekend, but did anyone else notice that everyone was gone for the holiday? It seems like all the people that I asked about Memorial Weekend blacked out on Friday and came to on Monday. Were the few, the proud, and the nearly sober hibernating for the weekend? Not likely. It seems that everyone took their stimulus package to the four corners of the country sharing the SF gay party with our brethren from across the country.

In Chicago, the real party was going off from Thursday to Monday. It was the Grabby Awards, and the 30th Anniversary of IML, or International Mr. Leather, and Bear Pride all at once. It seemed, as TheSword.com reported, there was a field of cows somewhere just shivering thanks to the bedlam and broo-ha-ha in the windy city. Mister Palm Springs Leather took home the ultimate prize, and was crowned International Mister Leather.

However, the talk of Chicago was the San Francisco Party, thrown by Titan to promote their newest porno, Folsom Prison. It was jam-packed with horny motherfuckers giving blow-jobs at the bar instead of the bathroom. To see the looks on the faces of the travelers staying at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Chicago who were not there for IML. It was no Shriners convention, thatís for damn sure.

I didn't make it as far as Chicago. Instead, I packed my bags and headed south, heading down that lonely stretch of highway that could only lead to one place: Los Angeles. I still hold true to my original notion that Los Angeles is more of an experiment than a city, but for this one weekend it attempted to capture the magic of San Francisco. Not only was the weather cold and foggy, reminiscent of our home location, but even more truly San Francisco was the annual Trannyshack LA. Once a year, all sorts of freaks and weirdos pile five-to-a-Civic and head down the Interstate at obnoxious speeds, barely cresting the Tejon Pass due to costume overload and decrepit vehicular maintenance skills. They make it though, and what happens is a sight to behold.

Now, while you may think that I am just the craziest Tranny chaser ever, spanning the west coast to bring you, my dear reader(s), the latest news about the life and times of the ever colorful drag world, this was hardly the case. I am from the Greater Los Angeles area, so visiting home to see my family was simply highlighted by a chance to hang out with my performance art friends, and catch a great show at a seedy locale. That was just what happened.

While Trannyshack may be a bastion for the confused and quite possibly retarded in the performance art world, it always solicits a laugh. However, in Los Angeles, screams of joy turned quickly to FEAR and MASS HYSTERIA when Metal Patricia unintentionally lit the entire stage on fire. Not that fun when your front row seat is melting. The packed bar was moments from turning into a Rhode Island reminiscent deathtrap of mass proportions, even causing Heklina to quip in the aftermath that she would finally have something to remember on Memorial Day, all the people that died in her club!

Once the fire extinguisher fumes settled, it was clear that the show had the groundwork of a scary, never ending roller coaster. There where butcher knives be wielded, sparks flying, and more ghetto attitude than a Compton street corner. For LA, the show was pretty hot, no pun intended, but left me craving the Stud Bar as I perused the Abercrombied Energie buffs who sported abs and tans instead of jokes and friendly vibes that have come to define the SF crowd of the show. It was great to come back, as always, to my city by the Bay.

So while I was off chasing trannies and not getting tan, who was making the most of the many haunts in SF? Who was seen and not seen at The Babysitters Club, and who passed out at the urinal? What happened to one noted local writer when he showed up at the Gangway on the wrong night? And which hometown trannies got stuck in a Los Angeles elevator with a crazy cokehead, Americaís first Tranny Spokesmodel, two porn stars, a hippie gay polygamist and yours truly? Well, it would be great to tell you, but that would ruin my veil of mystery. You know I love a veil! Itís the Lucy Ricardo in me, natch. Actually, this time I really wish I could tell you, but to protect the innocent, I will once again hold fast, and keep the details sealed with a Pinkyswear!