West Hollywood Is Burning

Perez Hilton was on the show tonight, dishing about celebrities for Tabloid Tuesday. Perez used to be on the show all the time when he was thin and living in New York and running Page Six Six Six. But then, the NY Post, egged on by eternal wet blanket James Edstrom, went after him and he became PerezHilton.com, moved west, gained weight, and became as enormously famous as he was enormous. He hasn't been on our show so much since then (busy with subpoenas and exploring the wonders of the House Of Pies, I suppose), but tonight he returned, and in time for a heartbreaking breaking story: West Hollywood was burning.

Micky's burned (ironic, apparently), and with it a million memories of my life in West Hollywood in the 1990s (also known as the last time anyone dared show their face inside that clap trap bar). When I was first coming out, Micky's was the first gay bar I ever went to. Michael and I were roommates at the time in Pasadena. I worked days in the drug clinic while he worked evenings for the Sheriff department, both unlikely careers for two young guys out drinking and dancing every single night of the week. We'd go to Micky's until close, then head to the Denny's across the street from our tiny apartment on Vinedo. Michael would head to bed while I would catch two hours sleep before getting up, showering and heading to the drug clinic at 7:30am. I am certain the drunks and staff could smell the booze on me and you didn't need to be a trained clinician to know that the wall I would hit each day around 3:00pm couldn't easily be satisfied with a Snickers bar. But I would leave at 4:30pm on the dot and race home to sleep until Michael returned from his shift and we'd start the process again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It was at the fire sale one night outside Micky's that we met the twink who invited us to the "after party" in someone's apartment in Hollywood and Michael met (and slept with) Eric Mueller. Michael and my friend Geoff basically stalked Ben Patrick Johnson through A Different Light next door until, tired of their shenanigans, I walked over to Ben and started a 15 year friendship. I met director Bryan Singer at 18 and over night at Micky's in 1996 with a teenager on his lap and a song in his heart.

The DJ at Micky's was the first (and certainly not the last) DJ I befriended. He had a "I won't play Vogue, don't ask me" sign firmly affixed to the glass on the booth. I danced many, many times there to Whitney's remake of "I'm Every Woman" in billowing print shorts, slouch socks and a backwards baseball cap, and I can't hear "Justified and Ancient" without thinking of that awful bar and those terrible clothes. Paul and I ended our longest day of drunkenness on the patio once, after starting with a seemingly innocuous brunch at Marix that turned into drinks at Micky's until dark. A day happily wasted.

My last trip home to Los Angeles in July was drenched in nostalgia. I haven't been inside Micky's in years but I stood outside it waiting for Ben to start his book signing at A Different Light, so many years after our first meeting there. Paul and Michael and I then had a drink at East West (formerly Revolver) and laughed about the good old days so filled with alcohol it's a wonder we have any memory of them at all. But with Micky's gone now, all we have are our memories. You feel old enough talking about a bar that used to be, but at least in the case of Revolver and East West, the bar is still there, just with nicer furniture and pricier drinks (hate it). With Micky's, it will make us sound especially old, like reminiscing about the Hippodrome or the Pan Pacific auditorium, although decidedly less historic and interesting.

When I called Paul tonight, he said, "Now all we can do is point to the sidewalk and say we threw up there." I didn't but Paul's friend Manfred did, on New Year's Eve, and then I made out with him. In retrospect, not a good idea. But I was young and foolish and figuring out my life. Like most everyone, I have ridiculed and derided Micky's for a solid decade, but now it's gone. In a way, it's like the death of an ex-boyfriend. I may have been over him for years, but now that he is gone, all I remember are the good times.