Saturday, June 6, 2009

Fashion Victim

My inability to dress myself is well known. Look. I know I am not a fashion plate. No one is ever going to hire me again as a model. (Editor’s note: my one modeling assignment in Genre Magazine in the early 90s was not a fashion spread but instead a background shot for an article on gays on college campuses). When I try to wear fashionable clothes, I look ridiculous. It just isn’t who I am. Yes I can pass off a suit at a wedding, but as every homo with an online profile can tell you, that doesn’t make you special.

So I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when my outfit got me into trouble last night at Rockit. It was a rainy night and everyone looked a bit bedraggled. I was in my usual cargo shorts and t-shirt with a damp hoodie thrown over my head. Yes, I looked somewhere between a homeless man and a pile of discarded dishrags, but still, it wasn’t any worse than usual, or even the last time I ran into Derek the doorman. The difference of course was that this time I was alone.

Derek is a reasonably famous doorman in NYC and I believe I mentioned him in yesterday’s blog entry. (You don’t suppose he read it do you? Impossible!) I don’t really understand the need to have a who’s in/who’s out doorman in gay clubs. The power is in the mailing list. If you know enough hot and well known people, the right mix makes a successful party. The notion of a selective doorman worked for Studio 54 because it was world famous and all sorts of nobodies were trying to get in. This is not the case with Rockit Fridays. Studio 54 welcomed royalty (Princess Grace!) and children (Drew Barrymore! Anderson Cooper) and every sexy thing in between. In today’s NYC a nightclub that let a nine year old drink wouldn’t be celebrated, it would be razed to the ground.

“Is this how we dress to go to a nightclub in midtown Manhattan?” Derek queried me, rhetorically.

“This is how I dress.” I shot back.

His gaze narrowed in irritation. “Well, step it up for me next week, will you?”

Next week?! I thought to myself, as I descended (in every sense of the word) into the club. There won’t be a next week. For me, or maybe even for your party. You are running a Friday night party in the summertime in a town where everyone is away on Fridays at much better weekend places. The only people who are going to be at your party this summer are people like me, who don’t go to Fire Island or the Hamptons or Paris. You know, the unfabulous people you are so desperate to keep out.

Besides, next Friday, I will be the main attraction somewhere off the map. And the next Friday too. The Friday after that is Pride weekend and you can bet no one will be coming to your party when there are 100s of better places to be, no offense to your turpentine-laden open bar from 10-11pm. And then after that, it’s July 4th, guaranteed to empty gay Manhattan faster than fluorescent lighting. Suddenly it is more than a month later and before you can say “What’s Rockit?” the tastemakers will have moved on to greener, fresher pastures.

But most importantly Derek, you might think letting in weird drag queens and curious characters in pajamas makes you hip and interesting, but the one most essential thing that you don’t understand that separates your midtown Manhattan party from Studio 54 is publicity. Rona Barrett may have been a 100 year old midget, even in the 1970s, but they knew then that good publicity is important. The doorman knew who was whom and could separate out the Jersey trash washing up on our teeming shores from the badly dressed radio show host with the blog all of your friends read. So how about you step it up for me next week, will you?

1 comment:

Viewtiful_Justin said...

Beautiful. Cutting. Perfect.