Free Now and Yesterday by Stephen Greco Page A

You’re nostalgic for the fabulous parties they used to throw back then and dubious about the music they’re playing nowadays, yet you’re game to keep going out and pretty sure that some of your great old party clothes still look timeless. But for the first time you don’t mind missing some of the supposedly essential parties you hear about in the media, even if you are a bit lonely. You have a theory about why social life in the city peaked ten years ago, which may or may not have something to do with the fact that your work is more important to you than ever—which means you like to get to bed at a reasonable hour and may even watch more TV than you’ve ever watched since childhood. And sometimes you find yourself telling people that “television writing is getting better and better . . . !”
    Rico’s entire bill that night was devoted to nouveau burlesque, gay- and tranny-style. It looked like Tyler’s crew was scheduled to go on last. The show opened with Foxy Love, a group of girl and girl-like dancers working hard to keep their Vegas-tribute-type moves synched with the naughty energy of Kelis’s “Got Your Money.” Sloppy dancing begged the question of unison and symmetry. Then came a tall, leggy male diva named Momus, who did a kind of strutting and posing routine to Jonté’s “Bitch You Betta.” A backup duo of dancing twins, a boy and a girl in matching miniskirts and pageboy wigs, did a series of tight, angular moves that paralleled a noisy, electrically colored anime that was projected on the wall behind them. Then there was Mister Mad, an act led by an angry ringleader-type character in a black plastic helmet and boxy yellow suit emblazoned with expletives. With the help of some henchmen in black suits and shades, Mister Mad cleared a runway from the stage into the middle of the club’s floor and “punished” a series of selected guests by making them dance to jagged excerpts of vintage German electro. Then there was Cherie La Bête, a squad of tawny fembots in total-body-workout gear, who parodied a Jane Fonda–type aerobics routine from the ’80s, accompanied by a vocodered version of “Life Is But a Dream.”
    All quite diverting, in a way, thought Peter.
    By then, Rico’s was buzzing and the place was packed. Peter was about to head to the bar once more when a cute Asian girl standing next to him asked if he was gay.
    â€œWhat?” he said, beaming. He had just been thinking that it was nice to be in a room with so many cute girls who looked like they were having fun. Some of them would look at him, occasionally—a man standing alone.
    Who knows? he thought. Maybe some of them find an older guy attractive.
    â€œMy friend thinks you’re hot,” said the girl, indicating a slender twink who was dancing with some of the other girls in their group. The kid was pretty, in a high-school-student way, but Peter hardly knew what to say.
    Maybe it’s a joke? he thought—and then he wondered if he should feel flattered, though the kid himself didn’t seem aware of what was going on.
    â€œLet’s talk later,” said Peter. “He’s cute but I need to be drunker.”
    Then Tyler appeared onstage. The troupe he was performing with was called Davidsbündler. The stage was set with cardboard flats depicting the fountains, balustrades, and topiary trees of a formal garden. Characters in a low-budget sort of eighteenth-century French royal attire entered and milled about, greeting each other with bows and curtsies; then they were joined by a towering, ten-foot-tall gentlewoman—part performer and part puppet—in panniers and a powdered wig. This was Tyler. The lady paraded, ponderously, greeting the audience and those onstage with gracious arm gestures—controlled with two sticks by Tyler from underneath the massive skirts. Then the lady lowered her arms and turned her