Swilladelphia - The Gayborhood

It's time I finally wrote this blog. There is no part of the city I have more of a love-hate relationship with than the Gayborhood. Now as you all may have guessed, Don Bito is not really what you'd call a "joiner." In fact my friend groups tend to be made up of people so different from one another that none of usual banal, incestuous drama has any damp, dark place to grow.

Contributing to my "outsider" status with almost every known grouping of humans are 1) my misanthropy, through which I naturally assume that very few people are worth interacting with and 2) my megalomanic facade, through which I quiet those nagging insecurities that arise from not belonging anywhere. To illustrate what I'm talking about, I'll give you a glimpse into one of the Bits' high-school experiences (as long as you promise not to sh*t yourself with excitement).

In 10th grade, which was the year I came out, I found myself a partner in crime - let's call him "Joe" - who also came out later the same year. Together we were a true force of misanthropy and megalomanic facades, feeding off of these energies in each other, alienating all those who dared enter our sphere of scathing sarcasm and affected superiority. Which I'm pretty sure is actually what everyone in the world is like in high school.

Anyway, one day we thought we'd stop by a meeting of the "gay club" as we called our high schools' gay-straight alliance, since we were newly-minted queers and thought we might benefit from associating with others in our situation. Needless to say we wandered within 20 feet of the classroom where the club was meeting, realized that the few people attending were all kids we found insufferable, and decided to throw snowballs off the roof and talk sh*t about them rather than join their stupid club.

Thus ended my association with any traditional concept of queer community.

Nonetheless, as a dyke and a genderqueer I can't help but love being out in the Gayborhood. (To be fair this may be because I have the soul of a gay man, but I'll let you draw your own conclusions on that one.) I love being in a place where I can give breeders dirty looks instead of the other way around, and where no one is agog when I use the women's bathroom. But I'm not going to go into a dissertation on visibility right now. Suffice it to say, in spite of my disconnect with a sense of queer community, the Gayborhood feels like home.

Which isn't to imply that it is not, in many ways, deeply flawed. Anyway, let's cut right to the chase and take you on the whirlwind virtual tour of my love-hate relationship with the Gayborhood.

Let's start with Sisters. Known amongst my friends as "the nightclub of sadness and haircuts," Sisters is the only dyke club in the city. Their Thursday night drink specials are the toast of the dyke town, because apparently the dyke town can't get enough Banker's Club vodka and almost supernaturally sh*tty music.

Seriously, you would think that out of a set of 10, one of the songs, JUST ONE, STATISTICALLY, would not suck. Well, the braindead DJs at Sisters have found some sort of cosmic loophole. Also in defiance of statistical probability, it has been shown that everyone who goes to Sisters has the exact same haircut.

"Maybe they should have a hair parlor on the side," my friend Szophey says of the dismal establishment, "take out the middle man and drum up more business." And not that you would, but don't ever venture into Sister's on a night that is not Thursday/Pridefest. It will get a little awkward when you discover that the only other person there is the bartender.

When to go to Sisters: At 1:45am on a Friday morning. By this time it will be too late to pay cover, and you will be so drunk that you can't hear the music you're dancing to anyway.
What to do at Sisters: Stand outside and smoke with the dykes, then go back to the bar you're actually drinking at.

Next up let's visit Woody's. Woody's is basically the gay man's version of Sister's, except without all the suckage. An old-school bar and nightclub, Woody's mixes strong drinks, plays decent music, and is dependably stocked with a diverse and energetic crowd. They also feature a "College Night" on Wednesdays for 18+, which is amazing if you're underage, but which I would avoid otherwise. I object not so much to the mobs of youth, but the disproportionate number of straight kids the offer attracts.

But we'll talk more about my territoriality some other time.

When to go to Woody's: Any time you want to dance. For me, Woody's is a reliable second bar, the one you retire to after hitting your stride at one of the more low-key bars in the surrounding blocks. But salsa nights on Thursdays are a lot of fun.
What to do at Woody's: Find the Asian bartender with the cutoff flannel shirt. He mixes the strongest drinks. Oh, and dance.

12th Air Command was my favorite gay bar for a long time while they ran their Thursday night special ($5 cover and $1 top shelf drinks until 11pm?!?! Ugh, my heart still goes all aflutter at the very mention of that glorious time). Alas, probably due in large part to my friends and I, they stopped offering the special a long time ago. Since then 12th Air has fallen out of my gay bar repertoire, but it remains a great place to play pool. They also have a dance floor and competent DJs, although never having been there on a Friday or Saturday I can't testify as to how full the club really gets.

When to go to 12th Air: 12th Air depends a lot on their weekly events and happy hours. Check out their website and decide for yourself.
What to do at 12th Air: Play pool on their crooked tables upstairs.

I've never been to BUMP. Okay, that's a lie. I went there one Friday afternoon with a couple of friends, hoping to cash in on what I hear is a spectacular $3 martini happy hour. By the time we got there the whole place was so packed with twinks that we were forced to abandon our pursuit and look elsewhere. I suppose I've never been motivated to try again, for whatever that's worth.

When to go to BUMP: Not in the middle of happy hour on a Friday.
What to do at BUMP: Not get trampled by hordes of overly excited preppy twinks.

I have, on the other hand, been to the Bike Stop. On more than one occasion. Known for being Philly's premier LeatherDaddy bar, there is an upstairs lounge that captures the uber-butch-dive atmosphere without all of the chaps and ball gags that might make some uncomfortable downstairs. The multiple flat screens blare all number of sporting events and a serviceable pool table sits by the old wooden bar.

When to go to the Bike Stop: When you are dragged there by your gayboy friend who has a weakness for older men, OR: if you are a leatherdaddy.
What to do at the Bike Stop: Play pool, drink cheap pitchers of lager, and try not to imagine how quickly any one of the patrons could undoubtedly beat you to a bloody pulp if he so chose.

We're almost done with my whirlwind tour now, and you may be wondering why I've shown, at best, relative indifference to these establishments, and at worst I avoid them like leper colonies (Sisters). Why, then, would I so strongly proclaim that the Gayborhood "feels like home?" Well, cherished readers, it may be cliche, but I have indeed saved the best for last.

Feel free to listen to this song as you read the following lines. Perhaps then you will approach a true understanding of the feelings behind my unreserved declaration of love for this place.


Dearest Tavern on Camac,

If only it were enough to say "I love you." Oh, if only that could ever be enough.

Even were I possessed of the genius of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, counting the ways of my love would not be a sufficient expression of my affections. But let's face it, you're a bar and I'm supposedly writing this blog to be informational (commentary on that topic is unappreciated). So know that though mere words could never speak the depth and breadth of my love for you, TOC, still I shall compose them and hope that you receive them as a token, however insufficient, of my undying devotion to you.

Let's start with the downstairs. Your piano bar both relaxes and delights me every time I stumble in. There is something special, something warm and homey about walking into a bar and feeling compelled immediately to add your voice to the many crooning away to "Downtown" or "You're So Vain" or whatever predictable standard your piano player is pounding out. Perhaps the piano bar is what attracts all of the older gay men, causing Szophey to refer to you exclusively as "Tired Old Queen." But I don't care, TOC. I love the old queens who debate with me about musical theater and bum cigarettes from me and buy me drinks.

And your bartenders, oh! Your bartenders! They mix the strongest drinks in town. They keep up the banter, fill me in on the gossip, and when I order a Stoli and tonic, damnit, they bring me a gloss of Stoli with spritz of tonic and a wedge of lime.

Just like god intended.

Your upstairs has proven itself to be more than just a swanky neon lounge and a great place to drunk dance; it is also one of my favorite places in the city to people-watch. And your specials! What can I possibly say about your specials?

TOC, you have been a haven for me. Long have i listened to your trembling grand piano, partaken of your most excellent drinks and made drunk-friends with many of your patrons. I hope to see much more of you in the years to come.

With my love always,

-Don Bito.

When to go to TOC: Any time. But for those of us who love vodka, Tuesdays and Wednesdays are $4 flavored Stoli and Absolut nights, respectively. Be prepared to wake up 3 days later in a dumpster next to a complete stranger.
What to do at TOC: Become a regular.

Well, readers, I hope this brief and extremely biased guide helps you streamline your next visit to the Gayborhood. I will, of course, be covering more individual bars and clubs in the "Swilladelphia" segment in the coming weeks, so stay tuned. And feel free to quarrel with my assessments, or suggest new locations to review, in the comments.