Twice last week I was asked, “why do you do it, EVO, gay bars, why?” This was after conversations about the changing nature of gay nightlife, the ongoing and eternal combination of construction and crime, the $20,000 in vandalism the new space has been hit with in just four months, and all the other headaches of owning a business that aren’t unique to gay bars and that any other business owner can understand.
Jokingly I replied, well, it’s not for the money, that’s for sure. The days are gone when a gay club was a license to print money. Those days left when the rest of the world began to accept gay people safely into their spaces, and the need for gay bars began to get watered down. Half-jokingly, I also replied, what else would I do, fifty is too late to start over.
My standard, more serious answer though is that yes, there’s lots of problems and stress and it can very much feel like pushing a boulder up a hill without ever reaching the top, but when it works, it works. There are nights when the vibes are right, when the crowd is right, when the music is right, and when the problems that usually happen just for whatever reason don’t, and you’re standing in the DJ booth and looking out at a sea of people, and they’re glowing. The space is glowing. It is a golden moment that any nightlife entrepreneur knows.
Gay bars just aren’t any nightlife though, I will add, whenever I am asked that question. Pop up events may be dominating the scene in many cities, but for a visiting queer, they don’t know what straight bar on what night is safe for them to cruise and connect. They need the gay space. For someone just coming out, who’s always felt different, who’s never been in a space where they’re the majority, they need the gay space.
That’s all true, and that’s why it’s still #yourgaybar even though it might make more sense to just be a community pub, with less potential gay stigma. That’s why the pride flag is still in a window, even though that window keeps getting smashed. Because the cost of replacing that window is still less than the cost of changing what and who we are.
But, those answers, while true, aren’t necessarily the truth of why *I* do it. My journey into gay nightlife began 26+ years ago when I moved back to Edmonton from Lethbridge and sought a gay job, any gay job, as a means to re-create the connection and community I had found in Lethbridge. But even that isn’t “truth.” No, the truth goes back a lot further.
Picture it. Fort Saskatchewan (population 12, 500, circa mid 80s). Whatever popular was, I was the opposite. I was an overachieving teacher’s pet, with really only one good friend, and I spent most Monday mornings listening to everyone talk about their wild and wonderful weekends, parties I wasn’t part of. I was awkward as fuck, and probably only partly because I was deeply in a closet that I didn’t even have language to define. I was desperate to fit in, to be the life of the party.
Zoom ahead 20 years, skipping past some Roost dancefloor moments that reinforced the awkwardness of that kid (Jazzy, play Cyndi Lauper ‘You Don’t Know Where You Belong’). The year is 2005. I have carved out a niche for myself in Edmonton nightlife, even though my recent attempt at a monthly magazine has failed, as has my marriage. I am managing Buddys at its absolute height, as the Roost starts its descent from its decade and more dominating Edmonton gay nightlife. All the friends of my first few years have essentially deserted me, because they’re loyal to their bars, and Buddys is not theirs. No, in 2005, Buddys is, very much, mine. From sailor parties to Stardust Lounges, through an endless parade of twinks competing in an endless variety of amateur nakedness. I’ve got a hot boyfriend, and I’ve got a hot job, and I realize this is what that long forgotten kid wanted. I’m the host of the party everyone wants to be at. When all these people start their Monday mornings, they’re telling tales of their weekend shenanigans at the parties I was throwing.
It didn’t last, of course. In the end, very little lasts. But the moments of gold stay gold, even two decades later. You might think you know the answer now, to the question that started this Wednesday ramble. For 2005, read 2025, and for Buddys, read EVO, and of course it seems obvious: hosting the party everyone wants to be at. And that’s not… untrue… but the deeper truth is: I hold on, in 2025, to that moment in 2005, because it’s still 1985 and I just want everyone to be at my party.
So maybe EVO needs me because I’m the face of it all, but I need it, too. Maybe I do do a balance sheet every party where I add up the people there and subtract the people who chose not to be as if the sum I eventually reach has something to do with my inherent worth as a person, but I also know that there’s hundreds of people who will still spend a Monday morning reviewing their weekend, or their life of weekends, and I’ll be there, maybe in the background, maybe in the shadow, but part of their life. And even if I’m not front and center in their moments of gold, maybe I helped make those moments happen for them.
And that’s a legacy to be proud of.