Proof exists that Shakespeare was a rainbow flag–waving poof. “Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; a man in hue, all hues in his controlling, much steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.” (Sonnet 20) Pianist Jeffery Straker sits onstage at the Proud FM CLIMAX anti-bullying benefit. Like a little wind-up toy in tight pants, his head never stops bopping as he expertly fingers the ivories. “When I play, it’s an orgasm induced by laughter. It’s a laughgasm,” he says. “Bring a change of underwear.” Not sure, though, why The Berkeley Church isn’t packed. For a mere $10, guests support PFLAG and Laser Eagles and get an afternoon of entertainment plus an open bar. The always-gorgeous Danielle Loncar is here, as is the always-thirsty Mike Chalut. Headliner Kreesha Turner performs her hits, including my fave, “Dust in Gravity,” with cunty choreo-graphy that has Scott Fordham, Sheldon MacIntosh and their crew of dancers gagging in the audience. “My new video for ‘Keep Running the Melody’ is set to film in Ibiza,” Turner tells me after. So jealous! Hate her!
“Mine appetite I never more will grind on newer proof, to try an older friend.” (Sonnet 110) I present my ancient frame at College Night at The Barn. A party that mocks my age but can still arouse the fire burning deep in my pantaloons. Time for vodka-Redbull! Thanks, Russell Palloo! Tonight is so packed, some areas are like beaver dams — impassable. And not surprisingly, the loudest people are the drunken fag hags. Yakety yak, move snatch! “Something must be done,” promoter Daniel McBride jokes with fly manager Gilles Belanger and Tatiana as DJ Cajjmere Wray drops some beats that make them squeal even more. Upstairs is hot. Shirtless guys are grinding and winding to DJ Sumation’s dancehall and R&B beats. White boys whose booty shakes rival those of black girls are always bent-ertaining.
“To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still.” (Sonnet 104) Beautiful creatures of my past greet at the Joy Reunion at Buddies. Organizer John Wulff gives face in a Hannibal Lecter mask created by Nick Stryker, while onstage Rommel and crew prance in black heels and give good show. As projections play on the walls, pillars of club life past and present hold court. Jennstar still shines bright, Jason Ryde still wears the same size pants, DJ Cesar still dissects the beats, and Screaming Gina still screams her arias. Perched high in his tree-house booth, DJ Scott Cairns spins some old-school butch-queen vogue-femme runway classics, which is great, considering there is, sadly, lots of room on this half-full dancefloor to do runway. “The Joy brand will continue through quarterly events,” Wulff says. “The next one is Patty Hearst, where masked gunmen will break in and kidnap patrons.” Hopefully not too many.
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.” (Sonnet 116) I gaze with green eye across the room of The 519 Gala at all the happy couples, including El-Farouk Khaki and Troy Jackson, Mathieu Chantelois and Marcelo Gomez-Wiuckstern, Jim Searle and Chris Tyrell, and Enza Anderson and that black mini-dress. Dressed to the nines on this sweltering summer day, they cool off with cocktails before heading to the ballroom for dinner (VIP tables sold for $10,000) and the jazz vocals of Ms Jackie Richardson. Host Salah Bachir arrives by Rolls-Royce with etalk’s Ben Mulroney, who gives me a personal message to send to Rob Ford: “Attend Pride,” Mulroney says. “Your cottage will be there the week after.” Now if that doesn’t get the mayor-of-the-burbs on a float, nothing will. Not even Shakespeare waving a rainbow flag.