In January I embarked on a three-month research road trip for this project, starting from Los Angeles and driving through Texas, New Orleans, dipping down to Florida, up through Atlanta and the mid-Atlantic coast, then looping back through the rust belt and across the plains, the Rockies, and the Southwest.
I covered thousands of miles and visited gay bars and archives in dozens of cities. My trip, scheduled to align with a sabbatical, also took me through a newly charged political map; I started driving the week that Trump was inaugurated, and most of my route took me through red states.
In those places and in that moment, I not only found that queer people were indeed everywhere but also that we needed the sanctuary of gay bars more than ever.
The bar closed in September after thirty-eight years. It was located in a s-style strip mall, and a sign announced its name in large block letters; the front windows featured murals of Divine in Pink Flamingos and Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show , as well as a smaller but more elaborate logo for the bar. The joint had me before I even walked in the door.
Inside to the right, a sign announced a room flanked with red fringe as the Rouge Parlour; to the left, a chainsaw hung over the pool table and near a pair of disco balls. Both restrooms were gender neutral. It was quiet when I stopped in during my first night in town, but I noticed a flyer for an event called Glitterbomb two nights later and decided to check it out. That may have been the best decision of my life. On Thursday the bar was much busier, and before the show it was difficult to distinguish performers from audience members.
