The Cinch's "Charlie Horse":
It (d)evolved into bedlam on Friday nights. Hosts Anna Conda and Kiddie are to thank. Why? While "Trannyshack" was known for offensive entertainers at one time, rumor has it that drag performer Downey was refused a slot at the Stud this year because his divine act as someone with Down syndrome was too much for the famous club night to digest. "Charlie Horse" is getting head turns for its more feral acts, like "Bambi Lakes On a Plane" and other, um, stuff I can't put in print for fear that the fuzz might throw some of the clan in the clink.
Sacrifice burns to a crisp:
This blows, and not in a good way: The Mission's Sacrifice bar was gutted by fire, and closed. Seeing as how this was the first drinking establishment from which I had someone eighty-sixed she threw a drink at me, unprovoked, and while I deserved public scorn via liquid dousing on some existential level, the bitch had to go this news saddened me deeply.
Castro's resurgence with the hip:
Ever since DJ Earworm's "Faggot" at 440 Castro re-pricked the hymen of Castro's hipster cred, its flouncing inhabitants have seen a renaissance among Converse-sporting homosexual nerds-cum-scenesters. Places like the Transfer, 440 Castro, Moby Dick's, and even Twin Peaks (now littered with gay intelligentsia, who hold some sort of Algonquin Tablelike nights) get packed hard and fast with a diverse crowd.
Best, most offensive club night name:
"Chilidog" (at the Transfer on Tuesday nights) because sex and poop and the combination of the two makes me giggle, gag, and want to mutilate my genitalia simultaneously. (Oh, look it up on Wikipedia if you're curious yet fortunate enough not to know what a chilidog entails; I can't bring myself to type out such a tutorial.)
Shootings at 1015 and City Nights (aka 715 Harrison):
This year saw one fatal bout of gunfire taking the life of clubgoer Hao Tri Tu at 1015 Folsom, as well as willy-nilly shots being fired (witnessed from my bedroom window, no less) outside of 715 Harrison. Perhaps if there were more foot patrol officers available around SOMA, the nightcrawlers wouldn't be so heavily armed?
Downtown nightlife almost takes off:
With openings of chic clubs like Da Da, Slide, the prestigious but unpretentious St. Regis' bar, and the soon to be baptisms of Harlot and Vessel, the business district and Rincon Hill scenes are on the verge of greatness, save for the pricey drinks. My shakes just won't stop at one $10 martini, folks.
Bambi Lake and Pat Montandon readings at "Porchlight A Storytelling Series"
Hostesses Arline Klatte and Beth Lisick's nabbing of two of San Francisco's biggest divas both from "different sides of Market Street," as the saying goes was not to be missed.
The dance floors mimic the title of Naz's latest effort:
Hip hop is dead at least on the dance floors of some of our clubs, where the genre's been too often left off the set list. Will it return? Probably. But that's a flat-line din you're hearing, along with the zip-zopping of Ciara's what-the-fuck silver MC Hammer pants.
The Marina, North Beach, and Bayview nightlife:
I really couldn't tell you what the fuck happened there, because to the best of my memory, I never ventured to those hoods after dark. Perhaps next year they'll shine? (Chortle)
And finally, never paying for a drink again:
Behold: www.myopenbar.com. Now go out and get drunk for pennies. And here's to the portion of you who make it all the way to 2008!