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Oh, the drama of it all. If Manhattan
is to money what Washington is to power, then it's all about the
drama of power. From that on-again, off-again shirt controversy at
the Mellon Auditorium right through to the drama of Moody's Moody
Dearest and all the dramatic sightings of various circuit legends
and locals and the late entrances and the missed connections, Cherry
Drama 10 was the most thrilling melodrama of the spring season.
And it starts with the drama of departure from The Island City we
inhabit which is impossible to leave on Friday afternoon, and so
we're thinking, Fine, we missed that flight but somehow we race
through JFK and onto the plane before the doors slam shut in our
wake. Okay. That's a good start.
Then the host hotel, the Beacon, which is so very perfectly located
across the street from the Human Rights Campaign Fund headquarters
with its proud yellow equality flag flying just below the stars and
stripes. It's just that the Beacon initially gives us a
less-than-perfect room, so a few Jacksons later, and we're more
happily situated on the 7th floor and soon a couple bottles of
wine arrive, and now we're feeling hosted because it's a
brand-new, reconverted hotel with well-designed butter leather
headboards and chairs and marble baths and a huge Phillips
flat-screen t.v. All the perqs you need for a circuit weekend
Except that then there's the little drama of someone in our party of
four dancing in the room with a lit scented candle until hot wax
(red currant) is splattering jeans (Seven, no less!), carpets and
bedspreads. Fortunately, Heloise manquι emerges with iron and
paper bag. Didja know? Heat on paper lifts wax?
And this is good because D.C. is all about clean, especially NW, and
particularly when compared to New York. And come the next morn,
Dupont Circle positively shines in the Saturday sun and we're
walking 17th Street, where the boys are shopping and eating and
drinking and who do we spot coming at us, in mufti, or his version
thereof (skintight, lowrise jeans with red cap and red leather shrug
and bare chest) -- it's none other than POWER INFINITI. And so we
fawn and gurgle and kiss him good luck for his (shirtless)
performance at Main Event.
And now it's heading on time for Moody Dearest and so we glam up
according to the paper-covered wire hangar invite, which given the
locale, means jeans and a flossy top, and maybe a little more bling.
And into a cab for the three-block trip (who knew?) to Club Five
where the entrance is covered with wire hangars in the shape of the
letter M and there she is, just inside the door, Moody Dearest
Herself, greeting her guests who are pouring into the club and up
the stairs and past two pitch black floors of dark throbbing beats
and out into the bright sun which covers the rooftop deck. Tiki huts
and wire hangars everywhere it's Joan Crawford in South Pacific.
We're sitting there, soaking it up, the alcohol and the spirits and
the boyz and then, the drama of it all, there they are as the
crowd parts and they make their entrance, the boys, our It Boy
Couple. This is their town, their turf, and sooner or later, we knew
we'd see them, and now, here they are, and the sun is shining on
their beautiful faces and we're having a moment. We're beside
ourselves, giddy and happy, because now it's right. They've arrived.
They're here and we are too. We're where we want to be. It's
Cherry 10 in D.C.
And Moody's party has kicked in. Rick Mitchell at the controls and
he's taking the packed floor into overdrive with a mix that makes us
feel as if we're seeing the circuit from the past five years mashed
into one continuous song loop. Our It Boys are dancing on the floor,
with a boy who wants to be their puppy and then there's Flava all
in white fox and feathers and white leather thigh-high boots which
she kicks to the mirror balls. She works the stage and makes the
boyz scream. And we run into Moody and grab him and he says, "Didn't
I tell you? It's off the hook, right?"
Which is merely preparation for his own performance onstage where an
acid-yellow blond Christina is merrily skipping in front of a flower
garden and picket fence before, the drama of it all, MOODY DEAREST
singing Mary J.'s "No More Drama," gets wheeled through the crowd in
a botched-lobotomy get-up and proceeds to FREAK OUT onstage,
complete with garden shears, scissors, and axe ultimately wreaking
utter devastation so that nothing onstage remains standing save for
an illuminated sign flashing Moody Dearest as glow sticks and
t-shirts fly through the air and into the crowd. No more drama
indeed.
We have to eat. Food. We have to sleep. We have to rest before
there's MORE DRAMA at the Main Event which is at the most
dramatic Mellon Auditorium with its huge marble colums and gilded
ceiling, chandeliers and lanterns, sconces and staircases the likes
of which Scarlett could practice falling for days. Marble and more
marble and so much space so much space and no coat check. So we
stash the rags under the seats in the balcony and wait. Because in
spite of all the warnings about getting there on time, there's NO
ONE in the space before eleven p.m. and even at eleven, the place is
taking its very sweet time to get crowded. In fact, this space is so
huge, it could take a month to fill, because it's not only about the
auditorium itself, but also the huge foyer/gathering hall, and the
two magnificent staircases on either side leading up into the
balcony which overlooks the immensity of the main room itself and
all its thirty columns. A marvelous piece of architecture of which
Stanford White would've approved (and just who was the architect
here?)
And it takes a while for Alyson to take over, and maybe it's because
the sound system is not completely right, given the acoustics of
such an incredible structure. Something about the reverb and the
echo and the volume. But Alyson comes out onto the floor and stands
in front of the two speaker columns and speaks to her techies and
soon, yes, the sound is better, much, and now we're in her hands and
there's a version of critical mass on the floor and SHIRTS ARE OFF
and security looks blase, save for the few police who are filming
the event for their grandchildren.
Nobody seems bothered about anything and certainly not our It Boy
Couple who have finally arrived, albeit separately, but now they're
together again and we can feel their joy in having so many people in
their town and that's what this party is about, supporting those
organizations in D.C. which need our help. Apparently there hasn't
been a GLBT community center in D.C. until the Cherry Fund stepped
in. That's why we're here, dancing in a hall which is a little too
bright without the very best acoustics. This is the hall where NATO
was first signed into being and let's hope more alliances are
formed thanks to our presence in this hall.
And there's Paul Richard of the Cherry Fund who got the SHIRTS
policy rescinded and we bow to him in thanks, and then, OMG, the
drama of this arrival, but at last, there's JOE CARO, who's got a
story to tell, about his own dramatic missed connections and riding
the rails through the night and morning..... And Lawrence without
his Tigger ears or his Bunny ears, but Lawrence nonetheless,
although without his Marcia Brady, because of their own hotel room
dramas. Oh, the drama of it all And circuit husband Denver Random
City who knows every song title within three beats.
And then, the most melodramatic song of this moment in time starts,
Whitney Ho's "You'll Never Walk Alone" and it's POWER onstage, in
a black and white sequin splattered shrug with cherry red knee-high
leather boots and white honey hot pants hugging her crack, and she's
working that song, selling it to us hard, reminding us why we're
here, in this hallowed historic hall, and how it's all about keeping
on walking, walking, and never stopping, onward we go, as she kicks
and storms the stage and Moody's getting it on film at her feet, and
Power is sending it out to us, never missing a beat, catching it all
with her fluid body and then like that, she throws herself out and
off the stage and into the crowd, which carries her high above, our
arms upstretched, keeping her aloft as we pass her back, further and
further into the crowd, and we go, "Fuck, what an exit" and then
she's back onstage, for the final bow and that all-encompassing
smile which says, "To you, all of you."
Oh, yeah, we're there. And now we know that love will see us through
because Whitney just told us and Power showed us and there's no
reason to fear and really, who doesn't love Cherry in D.C.?
And so Sunday we take the moms to brunch and wander through the Mall
and into the Jefferson Memorial where we read the words Thomas
Jefferson wrote and which now engrave the walls of his memorial:
"Laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the
human mind as that becomes....more enlightened." And we toast to
enlightenment and hope that our bare chests have helped enlighten
D.C.
And then to Nation for Abel into SE D.C. which is not NW, and
Nation which is huge, if not quite immaculate In fact, far from
immaculate, but hey, let's not quibble about cleanliness when it's
all for a good cause, and besides, who cares about dirt and grime
when the boyz are so friendly and pretty and the crowd is ready for
a good time. Which Abel delivers, right on target, right after
midnight, starting off with Deborah Cox's "Easy As Life," and then
working his way into that beat which gets the boyz crazy. And we're
getting into his groove, when all of a sudden, the crowd parts
again, and OMG, another dramatic entrance, there she is, at last, in
spite of allergies and late trains, in person, it's NURSE, and we
shriek in delirium and generally wreck the nerves of everyone around
us as she receives her obeisances.
And of course, also, there they are, our It Boy Couple, they're
Hosts of the party, and gracious ones at that, naughty and gracious,
at the same time, especially our It Boy whom we watch working the
nerves of two newbies, cruising them with careless abandon and
sliding between them, just enough to rattle their calm, so that in
their wake, the question emerges, "And just who was that?" Who
indeed? You've been cruised by the best.
It's a very sweet crowd. One of the Cherry volunteers comes over and
puts VIP wristbands on us, inviting us upstairs where there's cake
and massage, though not necessarily in that order. And outside,
there's a rooftop deck and we sit and chatter with Lawrence and get
the lowdown of the real definition of circuit husband, which one
might say is equivalent to "friend with benefits."
And there's something about being in D.C. which seems very local and
easy. We tip a bartender a buck and he looks us in the eyes and
thanks us. And every cabbie is gracious and at the hotel every
request is greeted with politeness and the iced tea in every
restaurant is spot on and the sun has shone on us every day and now
it's Monday morn and for the last time of the weekend, we watch our
It Boy Couple on the box and send them good love, until we see them
again, at the next circuit party where the boyz live to dance, and
on to Abel, to nod to him in thanks, and then it's out into the
morning
And now Cherry 10 has ended, all the drama happily resolved. Happy
endings all around. May there be many more Cherries until the need
is no more.
With thanks and respect to all the most dedicated Cherry volunteers,
who embodied the best of our nation's capital.
Best always,
Mark and Robert
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