I remember (in the late mid-’90s, when I was in my early late 30s) dropping by the Woody’s for some reason. As it was early evening on a weekday, one could hear oneself think. One could also overhear.
I overheard someone make a request of the DJ. I would dare to do the same. But all the while I had been watching, from mezzanine level, four or five of what I would later know as eldergays standing around, as one did in that century at what Rick Bébout called the Bar. I didn’t have words for it, but I remember not understanding and being vaguely repelled by their general mien, since they all seemed to be in good shape and well dressed (in Viyella shirts or equivalent – high quality even then) and were just basically having a great time.
My request came up. “Now: Iggy Pop!” the handsomest eldergay laughed loudly, and they all joined in. Yes, I had asked for “Homeboy” – a comeback novelty number, but nothing like the later music video for “Wild America.”
— America, I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
— Not so easy to do.
Indeed not.
Who’s the eldergay now? (But not a rock snob.)