Saturday, September 7, 2013

The Trannyshack is Where It's At



The problem with getting off of work at three o’clock on a Friday with the weekend off is that there’s no reason not to crack a beer immediately upon returning home.  So, that’s what happens damn near every week.  I’ve never seen the point in waiting until nine or ten at night to start having fun.  People put that shit off for way too long and it’s dumb.  Why not get right into it?  That way, you get it all out of your system and can pass out fairly early, leaving you with a good night of sleep to wake up and start drinking that last, warm, half-collapsed can of beer that ended up on your nightstand as soon as you open your eyes.  America-type shit.

So, last week, this is what I did.  Got home from work, was all excited, and started hammering booze while shadows were still pretty short.  Nothing new there.  However, there was a proposed idea of going to a tranny show down the street from my place which I planned on avoiding due to restricted funds.  But, after a few hours of playing cards and growing fitfully inebriated, I was open to suggestions.

So I ended up at the tranny show.


It was called Trannyshack, which is apparently a San Francisco show that comes to LA once or twice a year.  It just happened to be my fantastic luck that it was being held in a space about a cigarette’s walk from my apartment.

After a short text message conversation with a friend that was all jazzed up to go, I was talked into accompanying him.  However, as previously stated, I was already pretty drunk so I crossed my fingers and hoped nothing too weird would happen.

We walked into the building and found a full bar to the right, a large stage in the middle with booths set up along the outside walls, and another bar in an adjacent room to the left.  Behind the stage were hallways leading outside where groups of people chain-smoked cigarettes and ordered drinks from yet another bar.  I ordered a drink while my friends tried to take in their surroundings.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he asked me as I sidled up next to him with a plastic cup full of whiskey.

“The bar.”

“You didn’t wait for me?!?”

Drinks were ordered and we wandered around.  Not only were the performers dressed in ridiculous outfits including high heels, mini skirts, ostentatious makeup, and full beards, but a large percentage of the audience was, too.  Everybody had a, “Hey girl!” mentality and it looked like they all wanted to get royally fucked up.  I might have stood out in my plain black shirt, sneakers, and shorts, but I didn’t notice.  I didn’t notice much, actually, due to the Blackout peeking around the corner and trying to kick my feet together every time I took a step.  He would attack me soon, but he was giving me some time.

The first performer came on with a giant, flowing dress that went to floor and puddled around her (I’ll be referring to the trannys as “she” and “her” because that’s what they prefer).  This was pretty impressive seeing as how she was ten goddamn feet tall.  She remained in one spot throughout the song she theatrically lip-synced.  There might have been dancers around her but the Blackout was starting to put the blinders on me.  She finished, stepped off the stool underneath the dress, and retreated to the back as the host, a big beast of a lady with hair as big as a bean bag chair, came out to introduce the next performer.  She came out with an iphone attached to her mouth so she looked like some kind of futuristic, fucked up robot.  The iphone played a video of a mouth lip-syncing the song.  It was a little disturbing.

There were probably around ten performers that night, but this is the last one I remember.  The rest of the night was spent smoking on the patio, waiting at the bar for a drink, or cracking jokes in the bathroom (a drunken favorite of mine because it’s such an awkward place to joke with strangers).  Eventually, my friend bought me what I believe to be a jager bomb and the Blackout took a firm grip of me, taking me to different points in the night for quick peeks before fast forwarding to the next morning.  One story was related to me a couple days later:

We were standing outside when my friend saw one of the performers smoking a cigarette.  He told me how much he liked her and how great she was so I decided, “I’m gonna make his fucking day by going over to that tranny, dragging her over here, and introducing the two.  I’m the man.  Let’s do this.”

However, I apparently didn’t follow his point well enough because I grabbed the tranny next to the one he liked.  I brought her over, saying things like “My friend is a huge fan and he’d love to meet you.”  When we finally got back to my friend, he realized my mistake and was mortified.  “I’m so sorry,” he quietly said to her.  “I have no idea who you are.”

Another thing I remembered around four o’clock the next afternoon is how I spoke with a nice man named Loomis whom I knew from the Jackass crew.  I introduced myself and he didn’t seem too annoyed to have a blacked out idiot speaking to him for no reason.  Something tells me I’m not the first guy to do it.  We spoke of god knows what and then I basically jumped right into the subject of his friend’s death. 

“So, Ryan Dunn.  He’s dead, eh?”  I tactfully asked.

“Yeah, yeah man he is.”

“That kinda sucks, right?”

“Yeah, yeah it does.”

Keep in mind, these are all approximations of our conversation, but it wasn’t too far off from this. 

The show ended and I probably hit the dance floor or something.  I don’t think I took my shirt off, but there’s always a chance.  About a month or so ago, we went to a strip club to celebrate my friend moving to Michigan.  Afterwards, we found our way to the only bar that wasn’t full in the area (which happened to be a gay bar).  We entered and my girlfriend went to get a drink.  I, on the other hand, went straight to the dance floor with a few friends.  Upon entering the dance floor (and warming up with some very enthusiastic pelvic thrusts) I invented my new favorite move:  Flipping your shirt over your face like a soccer player celebrating a goal, and doing an approximation of the running man as hard as possible.  So, the precedent had already been set and although I don’t think I reached these heights of masculinity at the tranny show, there is always a chance.

Somehow it was about 2:30 in the morning when we left the show.  We found this out when we tried to go to another bar and the door was locked.

“Where are we gonna go?  What should we do?” my friend asked.

“Hey, hey.  Face it.  It’s over,” responded another.

Luckily, we were only a block away from my apartment.  I stumbled home and tried not to wake my sleeping girlfriend who had to work the next morning, but for some reason I lacked the ability to not trip over and drop everything.

I feel like I missed out on the show even though I went to it because I don’t really remember too much.  But that’s okay.  I’m willing to bet I’ll be able to make up for it in the near future.  Plus, if I really want to see a crazy dude dressed as a woman, I can always just bike down to Santa Monica and Highland.  They might not be dancing or singing, but they’ll definitely put on some form of a show.

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