Blue Star Brewery. Friday, March 9, 2007
I’m in a mood. I don’t fucking want to be here on this fucking stakeout.
I want to be home, resting after a shitty day at work. The only thing I want to do before I put my feet up and tune into MSNBC is take Marlowe for a short walk so she won’t shitt on my carpet. I feel like shitt, double t and all.
This mood manifests itself in what the British call “whinging.” And this mood is fucking amplifying itself like a microphone next to a speaker. And me, I’m holding that mic, so to crown the mood I’ve got a splitting headache.
That’s why Elaine’s kidding herself if she thinks I’m leaving this table in the corner at ... where am I? The Blue Star Brewery. I’m going to order myself some comfort food, a beer, and whatever they’ve got for dessert. And I’ll wait for the “queer guerrillas” to show up, and if the bill comes and they still haven’t made me feel “fabulous,” I’m going to rub the bill along with her wrongness in my editor’s face.
She should have assigned somebody else. She’s got all those freelance food and arts critics, one of them has to be gay, or into gay-ass flash-mobs. Even better: why isn’t the intern here?
I am being a total bitch. Why can’t I just go home?
The reuben was excellent, but the sides are not worth the ink. The first half of the stout reminded me of Ghana’s national ale, Castle Milk Stout. The second half tasted chemically. The cheesecake was cold and sweet. The waitress was cute, in a Ghost World Thora Birch kind-of way, but definitely not up for flirting, not even with a miserable bastard like me. She’s all take-your-order/serve-you/get-you-out, which is odd, since the place is empty. About 10 guys in green shirts wandered in over the course of my meal (green being tonight’s secret identifying color) and all took their beers outside. I haven’t seen them since.
I am feeling a little better. Here’s what I’ll do: The email I was forwarded said this thing lasts until 9 p.m. I’ll go home, rest for an hour, and if my mood improves, I’ll come back. If I don’t, this is all I’m writing. It’s Elaine’s fault for not assigning someone else.
Note: Copy & paste Queer Guerrilla explanation from the calendar listing.
What a difference the Colbert Report makes. He’s better than Prozac.
I’ve been back about a half hour. I sat myself at the bar, ordered a root beer (hot damn, that’s a fine brew!), and waited for the next green-shirted queer guerrillas to order a drink. They were a couple of guys in their mid-’20s. One is becoming a spine doctor, the other is an Army brat who gave me the best, but hardest, advice I’ve had to face since arriving in San Antonio: I won’t feel right here for at least two years. Fuck, I’m impatient.
Anyway, the spine doctor gave me the lowdown on the Guerrilla Queer Bar Night; he’s been to these things all over the country. It started somewhere in about 2000 (I think he said San Francisco, but I’d think San Francisco was the origination for all things gay, anyway). The concept was for a bunch of gay men to start showing up at straight bars, that is, any bar that’s not a gay bar. It starts off small, but once you get enough gay men cramped together, things just happen. San Antonio’s branch is still small (only 80 people on the list), and Blue Star is too big. Still, it’s going pretty well considering the first local event was in January, he said.
They left and I spoke to the bartender, a bearded guy about as friendly as the waitress. He had no clue about the Guerrilla Queer Bar night. Why would he notice a bunch of dudes in green shirts? There were old guys in fancy suits coming in and out of the private room. Other than that, it was a fairly dead Friday night.
Well, that wasn’t so bad. Don’t paint me fabulous or anything, I’m outside now, but still sitting on the sidelines apart from the 30 or so green-shirted gay men who look like they’re having a pretty good time. They also seem cliquey. And some look like they’ve got their game on. Who wants a straight dude cock-blocking?
I’ve done my job. Now I’m going to go home and clean up the new shit Marlowe’s left on the carpet.
— Dave Maass