Wednesday Morning is the New Tuesday Night

When I got to B Bar, Justin was being harassed by some drunken moron named Steve.

"My good friend is friends with Sandra Bernhard. They do Kabbaaaaaaalah together. She was like, 'You have to hire Saaaaaaandra.'"

Steve was rattling on and on about his column in some sort of automotive magazine, his book deal, the book party he wanted to throw at Bungalow 8, his small airline.

"So Saaaaaaandra and I reeeeeeally hit it off. If you want tickets to her show just caaaaaaall me."

I had no intention of ever calling Steve, and I was more than a little worried, after he bought me and Justin a round of drinks, that he might follow us to Happy Valley. Thankfully, he went home before I finished my first lychee martini.

It was almost empty when we got to Happy Valley a little after midnight. Apparently, Tuesday night doesn’t start until Wednesday morning.

"Give it an hour," Justin said. Sure enough, everyone arrived at once, and by 1:30 it was packed. It makes you wonder what the hell these people do before going out.

My favorite go-go boy is back in town. I’d heard he’d moved away, but I’ve been seeing him everywhere lately.

Formika was there, in boy drag, looking fab in a pair of pink suede cowboy boots. I think I need me a pair of those. Sophia Lamar brushed past me, caught my eye, and muttered something bitchy about the gay boys. I love her so. And I know Musto said something brilliant and eminently quotable to me, but I forgot it almost immediately.

Kenny Kenny was working this wig that looked like a big blonde penis. Kenny, baby, is that hair new or have I just not been out in a month? Susanne Bartsch, on the other hand, seems to only have one look. And she's still walking around with that mountain man cane. Isn't that foot healed yet?

"She's in heels," Justin pointed out, "so it must be on the mend."

Oh, and by the way, Linda Simpson is the new Linda Perry. She did this acoustic cover of Blondie’s "Maria" that made me want someone to play it at my wedding. My mother had "Ave Maria" at her wedding, I’m having this.

A word about attire: I know there isn't a dress code at Happy Valley, but I thought it was the kinda place where you were supposed to, I don’t know, make an effort. Justin and I counted somewhere between five and seven boys wearing shorts. Unacceptable. And while being scantily clad and gloriously accessorized is sort of the point of going out, simply dancing around shirtless in a pair of Deisel jeans is so tacky/boring.

"I guess they must think this is Heaven," Justin said.

A good rule of thumb: If the bartender is wearing a shirt, keep yours on.