The scene is massive

Items discussed: early 90s raves, gay flash mobs, the hopeless sincerity of youth Items pointedly ignored: death, disease, the stalled film career of Rick Moranis I was never a raver [ra-ver, noun: one who attends large dance parties; see also: casualties of the 1990s], though my flirtation with the early Midwest rave scene provided me just enough experience with glow-sticks and awful music to make me more than a novice. After a certain point, however, common sense and a natural aversion to giant pants got the best of me, and I left the scene behind, though not without some lingering admiration; from the stupidly infectious (and often chemically enhanced) sense of unity to the ridiculous lengths one had to go just to figure out where the damn things were held (call a certain 800 number, drive to a certain gas station, find of set of directions under a certain pack of Gummi Worms), the early rave scene had its wonky charms. Unfortunately (or, in hindsight, fortunately), I simply didn’t fit in. Two decades later, I make my way through the ravenous mob of homosexuals invading Steny’s Tavern, all of us trying to make some sort of sense of the monthly Milwaukee Guerilla Gay Bar. For the uninitiated, MGGB is a loose collective of gay and trans-type folks who stage “friendly takeovers of traditionally straight bars” on the first Friday of every month. Like the raves of yesteryear, part of MGGB’s appeal is the element of surprise – the group’s organizers reveal the location of each month’s infiltration less than 24 hours beforehand. Of course, disseminating this crucial information is much easier than it was 15 years ago: cryptic gas station directions have given way to MySpace bulletins and abandoned warehouses have been replaced by unsuspecting south side sports bars. I’m accompanied on this night of gay revelry by the lovely Amy Elliott. Doing our worst to fit in, we spend most of the evening talking about the least gay things imaginable (marriage, babies, movies not starring Kevin Spacey). Further proof of our naiveté lies in our unspoken expectations of unbridled flamboyance: flocks of hot pink boas, crotchless leather chaps, Bette Midler karaoke. Instead, we find ourselves surrounded by a fairly normal cross-section of the gay/lesbian/bi/trans-fat scene. In fact, if not for the three drag queens holding court near the bathrooms and one fellow’s insistence that Amy and I are actually a gay brother/sister duo, the scene could easily pass for any normal weekend bar crowd, albeit one with slightly more hair gel and collared shirts. Wondering how this sudden influx of hot queer action has affected the staff of the normally straight Steny’s, I sidle up next to the door guy: “So, is it always like this in here?” I ask. “Um, not really. Whatever.” Taking his indifference as a positive sign, I head back into the crowd and push my way towards the drag queens in hopes of a few quick questions. I’m too late, however, and they quickly […]