In the interest of not being fired from being your friendly neighbourhood gay, I thought I better get off my ever expanding ass and write something. Previously, I’ve extolled the virtues of the gay bar to you, but in my old age and increasing curmudgeonliness (also increasing hypocrity), I’ve realized the gay bar is completely and utterly whack (am I showing my age yet?). In a city where you can find a gay every few blocks, why do you need to localize all of us in one hot and sweaty location to listen to shitty beats? Let me explain to you a few of the finer points of the seventh circle of hell known colloquially as “the gay bar”. Let me just tell you that I’m not nearly as bitter and jaded as this is going to make me sound. I promise. Set me up with your friends.

Cover Charges
Have you seen those videos of people getting stuffed onto the subway in Tokyo? Think of that, but with beats. The dancey places have basically one goal: get you in there and get your cover charge (which, by the by, is always more than the standard five bones everyone else charges). A lot of places have escalating charges, like, before 11 is one price, after is another, and then after 12 is something fucking exorbitant like $20. Um, what the fuck? Maybe if these places were even remotely nice I could see paying that, but when every toilet is covered in piss and shit, the place kind of loses its magic. A lot of shithole bars charge that much because they’ve got some amazing DJ in from Berlin or something, but typically, it’s the same house DJ, playing the same music you heard last week. From his iPod.

Shit Music
Speaking of paying $20 to hear the same house DJ, let’s talk about how bad the fucking music gay bars play is. I often say that gays will dance to anything, and if you want evidence of this, look to the gay bar. OK, OK, Madonna is fun, I guess… But “4 Minutes To Save The World” is the worst fucking song in the entire fucking world. Just because Timbaland produces your shit don’t mean it smells like roses. For reals! And could Justin collaborate on a few more things? It’s not even that I don’t like that music, it’s just, literally, every week (or month), it’s the exact same playlist. Imagine having 300 songs on your iPod in 1998, going to genres, picking Pop, and pressing play. And never, ever, ever, expanding your list. So you’re stuck in Spice Girls and Aqua purgatory for the rest of your existence. You say they’re fun, but I guarantee you, you’d get sick of them if that’s all you could listen to. And if it’s not cheesy, terrible pop music (which, admittedly, I love in small doses), it’s terrible for another reason. There’s this music that I call “gay house” because it’s just pop songs with an awful trance beat layed on top, that the divas also go mental for. Mental, I say!

Too Many Chicks
I love women. I am only friends with women. I fucking write for SheDoesTheCity.com (there is a helluva lot of swearing this week!). But when I go to gay out, I don’t really want to fight for space with tits. Maybe it’s because the majority of straight women at gay bars are mainly there because of either the novelty of gays (OMG, there were guys in the girls bathroom!!!!!!) or as the company of some dude who will leave them within ten minutes anyway. How many bachelorette parties have I seen at a gay bar? A lot. WTF is that? Go to Devil’s Martini like all the other batch parties! I’m here to meet dudes. That cute guy standing in line can’t get in because you want to dance “without gross guys hitting on you”. Here’s a thought: don’t go to places with gross guys. Not trying to start shit here girls, so please, no angry comments… Wait, that assumes people read this. Nix that. But I still love women a whole fuckload.

Shy Gays
Notice I didn’t say pretentious or stuck up or anything like that because I don’t want to make that leap (although I kind of do think that). Even when you go to the bar to meet mens (they are my weakness, as you know), unless you initiate conversation, it ain’t happening. Maybe it’s because I look like I fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down (oh no I did-n’t), but I don’t think I’ve ever been talked to at the bar. Wait. Let me retract that. Think of the drunkest guy at the bar, multiply his age by 3, and then you’ve got the typical guys who talk to me. Other than that, you’ve just got a bunch of queens who stay amongst themselves all night. No meeting, no mingling. Just sidelong glances and missed connections. Maybe my Craigslist postings will get a hit!

Anyhoo(ters), guys, as much as I love to complain, I also love to be a (va)ginormous hypocrite. So, look for me on the long weekend at one of the gay bars I’ve mentioned. I’ll just be that douche standing around, not dancing, with his arms crossed. Also look for some future articles about how awesome I think g-bar is. I’m a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a vest. Happy last weekend of summer! Next week, I’ll be back with a much more positive article. Swearsies.