Remembrances of a Terrible Ghey

For the past few weeks I’ve been living in the Boystown area of West Hollywood, better known as Weho, an unintentional misnomer for the neighborhood; I’m sure it’s been observed before that BigHo might be more appropriate. This is a temporary arrangement that will likely last the rest of the summer, which we don’t mean the same way in Los Angeles. It’s been observed before by anyone who’s ever set foot in Southern California that we don’t really have seasons, rather three stages of the year that might be titles taken from a Gershwin songbook:

The Rules of Attraction


by James Killough

After a steaming bowl of pho last Saturday night on Santa Monica Boulevard, my friend Richard and I walked over to The Abbey for a pre-Christmas drink-‘n-cruise, lured in by the massive festive tree in the courtyard speckled with clumps of cotton wool.  For those unfamiliar with the establishment, The Abbey is not a traditional gay bar any more.  It’s a tourist attraction that looks like a Mexi-Cali version of an Asian temple, in which straight people can feel comfortable because it isn’t really a meat market as much as it is a vast posing gallery.  It used to be the most beautiful gay bar in the world, but it was taken over by the evidently straight hospitality group SBE, gutted and given a disgraceful remodeling for absolutely no good reason other than it seems to pack more suckers in there.

After asking for a dirty martini on the rocks from a bartender who was clearly on a testosterone-and-salad diet, and instead getting a tankard full of pure vodka with five enormous olives thrown on top, transforming it from a cocktail into a fetish, Richard and I went outside to the patio.  Because we are both tall and have this Mr. Clean bald thing going on—I call us the Twin Towers—we stood behind the door that leads back into the club in order to be out of the way of the continual bumper-car stream flowing by.