L.A. Nightlife Basically the Same as New York Nightlife, Except a Little More Insane
You might have heard, but I'm an L.A. virgin, cast aside from the shores of New York Shitty to the Best Coast, where I have reborn as a wide-eyed, optimistic, positive vibes, yoga-practicing girl. (However, please slap me if I ask for your astrological sign.) Still, when an old friend recommended Mustache Mondays, thus: "It's the most New York party in L.A.," I was compelled to investigate the truthiness of this statement.
Upon arrival at the 740 Club downtown (again, already?), I noticed the familiar elements of any proper gay party: Drag performers (they are only queens when they dress like divas IMO) stalking the dancefloor; half-naked go-go boys writhing on podiums; and a smattering of incredibly hot, well-dressed straight girls. Yes, I was home. Some NSFW photos after the jump.
The night doubled as an Outfest afterparty for two movies, "She's a Boy I Knew," and "Voodoo Woman," so the crowd arrived late, post-midnight. The party, which is going on a year—is in its third venue. Within the 740 venue, they've already moved around—from the smaller, cramped basement, to the bigger upstairs area, to accommodate the performances. (More on that later.)
First order of business: meeting Nacho Biz, one of the three men behind Mustache Monday. (The other two are Danny and DJ Josh). I soon find an adorable round bearded man (yes, with mustache) that I immediately want to put in my pocket and keep with me at all times.
The threesome are actually all roomies and live a few blocks away, which is a very excellent exit strategy. When we entered, DJ Josh was spinning "Music Sounds Better With You," before moving into other oldies but goodies, like "Oh Sheila." But I was too distracted by a very tall cheerleader to dance.
Across the podium, was this masked bandit.
He also posed karate style.
As promised, there were mustaches. This guy had the best stache.
For no reason whatsoever, there was a raver dude. With a backpack telling you the time. (Yes, but does he know what year it is?)
I unexpectedly ran into a few old friends: Solange—DJ Sol—an old pal from Seattle who I've not seen for over 8 years, is a DJ at the party.
And then I texted another friend, one Mario Diaz (of Dirty Sanchez fame) and formerly of the Cock in NYC, who is now throwing Swallow in Silverlake and Big Fat Dick in Hollywood (gee, wonder what those parties are all about?), and discovered he was somewhere on the dancefloor.
Unfortunately, I went up to some other Latin lovely and grabbed his ass. Awkward! Eventually found Mario and his hot lady friend.
Then, the performances started. They seemed to go from least outrageous to most insane. First up, was Lady Tigra; She was pretty and not without stage presence, but in need of some real beats and better songs. Someone hook this girl up—she's hot.
After Tigra, we were instructed to clear the floor. Mecca Vazie Andrews of Hysterica Dance Company, a professional dancer, came out wearing a red robe and accompanied by a helper with a box filled with some kind of food. She proceeded to dance and, perplexingly, eat and spit out the unidentifiable food (Nacho: "She kissed me afterwards, and it tasted sweet.") For some reason, the crowd loved it. OK, I'll just say it. They ate it up.
Finally, the crumbs were cleared off the dancefloor and a wooden box was placed in the center of the floor. Two men in bondage gear came out. This was Ara (of Mynx fame) featuring 2.0. One got on the box and assumed the position. The other sang operatically and whipped him. Cue: destruction of society, we're all going to hell, impending apocalypse, implosion of the world as we know it, ect.
Disturbed and titillated, in an attempt to regain my sanity, I went home and cuddled my cat.
