the [alternate] patriot

Gay review

the evening climaxed at Marie's Crisis, the fabulous wood-paneled West Village dive with hanging balloons and a piano player with a scarily encyclopedic knowledge of show tunes (though he probably doesn't know that Madonna musical yet). All the future, former, and imaginary stars gather here to tipsily "sing out, Louise" on numbers from A Chorus Line and Chicago, and terrifyingly enough, they know exactly where the pauses, modulations, and finger snaps go. When a solo performer—often a twinkly-eyed waiter with a tray and a dream—steps forward to deliver a spotlight turn, everyone warns "Shh!" as if this were Carnegie Hall, even if it's a white man belting out "Ol' Man River" or a middle-aged guy doing the starlet's number from Nine. And they're right—attention must be paid to anyone with nerve enough to sing those tunes (or "Mr. Cellophane" or "Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee") in public. Time has frozen here along with the margaritas, and it's so comforting you want to kiss today goodbye and point me toward Sheridan Square. Nobody, no, nobody is gonna rain on this—pivot, twirl—parade.

And it didn't rain on the parade the next day—thank you, Sam Champion—allowing for a wondrously mixed tapestry of gyrating go-go boys and ominous health messages. I had a special soft spot for the guy holding the sign that said, "We Want Anal Penetration, Not Israeli Occupation" and the AIDS-center float full of officials unsure of what pose to strike as the DJ played "So many men, so little time. . . . How can I lose?" -- Michael Musto, The Village Voice

Palema 4:56 PM