So last night at Cafe Apocalypse (a cyber-coffee joint over by the University of Memphis) they were having this thing called La Nuit Mortel, supposedly a gothic-industrial musicfest featuring the new album by Switchblade Symphony. We told our friend and stylist, Shawn (of Cole-Haysten fame), who is also interested in all that spooky music. He was excited, we were excited. Off we went.

Sad, sad, sad.

Okay, Cafe Apocalyse is a neat place, I'll give it that. Lots of weirdo art, cool lights, gutted computers hung on the walls and a dark, cozy vibe. The coffee was pretty good, too. There was a cover, though, which I still don't understand.

The Memphis gothic crowd is pretty small, I guess, 'cause there were maybe ten or fifteen people there in their gloom-and-doom drag. The rest seemed to be regulars who were puzzled at the strange people hanging out in their midst. Me, Sonya and Shawn had the black goin' on, sure, but apparently all these people knew each other. We got some drinks and parked it a corner table, where we discussed our varied places in high school society (Shawn and Sonya were the outcast loners, I was the heavy-metal hoodlum). Shawn also enlightened us a bit on the incestuous nature of the hairstyling business in Memphis. And we made a little fun of the other customers.

Still, shortly before midnight all we had gotten for our three bucks apiece was some fairly good music in the background. When all the mope-rockers started to leave we decided to find a new place - preferably one that served alcohol.

Shawn recommended Backstreet, a fabulous disco just a couple of blocks from his apartment, where we stopped by briefly for Shawn to retrieve a bottle of vodka.

[A note on Memphis' byzantine liquor laws: for a bar to serve hard liquor it has to serve food. Without serving food a bar can serve beer and wine coolers. The places that don't serve hard liquor, though, will let you bring in a bottle of your choice and happily serve you mixers to go with it. I don't understand it, but it works out pretty well for you if you mix your own drinks.]

Backstreet was pretty darned cool, y'all. Right after we came in the owner came up and told Sonya, "the drag show is in the back room." That's good business, you know? Being helpful to the new customers and all.

We went in the back to watch the show.

"Do you think I'm appealing to the fetish crowd?" I asked Shawn. I was wearing combat boots, some cutoffs and an Absolutely Fabulous t-shirt with Patsy swigging vodka on it.

"Harold," he said, "with that shirt on you fit right in."

The drag show was excellent - them's some pretty men, you know? The hostess, Starr Queen, even worked old seventies commercials for Shower-To-Shower and Playtex tampons into her act. A scream.

Towards the end of the show Ms. Queen invited all the the drag queens in the audience up to the stage for a toast. This included Sonya, who was sitting at the end of the bar, wearing her burgundy bob wig.

"You too, honey, in your wig," Ms. Queen said, grabbing Sonya's hand.

"But I...but I'm really a..." Sonya stammered.

"It don't matter, sweetheart," Ms. Queen said.

After that I think Sonya's night was officially made.

Sonya had a big week last week, so she chose last night as one of her rare drunks. She swilled beer all during the show. Then we went to boogie, with Shawn leading us through a long, unlit hallway that wound from the showroom and towards the dancefloor itself.

We danced for a while, but then Shawn went off to find this guy he was supposed to meet and Sonya got to feeling a touch queasy, what with all that beer sloshing around in her stomach. We left the dance floor and found Shawn near the DJ booth. Sonya hopped up on a nearby speaker and sat down, where she held court for the rest of the evening.

"Always make straight women happy," one of the guys we hung out with said. That seemed to pretty much be the rule last night, too. This same guy (John, who runs the karaoke contest at Backstreet every Monday night) went and got Sonya a glowing rainbow necklace when she admired one. Ryan, Shawn's friend, sang to Sonya all night. Gary, Sonya's masseur and Shawn's coworker, came by.

"I don't know why straight guys don't flock to this place," Sonya said, "the girls are pretty."

It was true, too. The ones that weren't lesbians (or men) were fine as hell. Most guys wouldn't expect to do much girl-watching at a gay bar, but I always do. I get the eye from girls at gay bars, too. Last night was no exception. I don't consider myself terribly macho or anything, but I guess I just throw off straight-guy vibes.

Around four o'clock this morning the crowd had thinned out a bit, Shawn's friend had left and Sonya and Shawn were slowly sipping cranberry-and-vodka.

"I am so drunk," Shawn exclaimed, "and so horny."

I looked at him. "Then you are standing with the two most useless people in the place."

"I'm gonna have to go home soon," he said.

"Take your time," I said, "finish your drinks."

Sonya and Shawn both shook their heads slowly. They were done for the night.

So we left, and Sonya and I got home about four-thirty. It's been a while since I (or Sonya) stayed out that late, but it wasn't a terribly hard night, really. I could have easily done another hour. But I wasn't drinking, either. I slept 'til one today, too. Haven't done that in a while.

We'll definitely have to do that again.

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