I’m so sorry, dearest gaymos. Dreadful news.

Now, I know how emotionally fragile we can all be about such things, so I need you to sit down, take a few deep breaths (preferably through a huge piece of hand-blown glassware), and brace your delicate soul for some devastating developments:

It seems another precious queer club is bound for queer club heaven.

Break out your best weeping hankies! Dust off your fanciest black veil! Gentelmos… start your mourning!

Completely unreliable, third-hand sources have reported that The Milk Factory or the Dairy Haus or whatever — you know, that rather schmancy and new-ish club down the hill — is, to put it indelicately, “circling the drain”.  Going fake-tits up! Utterly and irrevocably DOOOOOOOOOMED… over and out, the end!

Quel tragique!

This of course is a terrible blow to Seattle’s burgeoning community of younger drag performers and the resident club nights who found a home there, forcing everyone to retreat back up the Hill to old standbys like R-Place, and even (shudder!) Neighbours (or as I’ve always like to call it, eNeighblers).

It all just seems so unfair.

But why, dear God, why? Why must this fresh and promising new venue go on to meet its glurry so young, when joints like Re-Bar’s Place just seem to go on and on, century after century, pulled back from the brink again and again as if by a constant stream of miracles?

It’s a question for philosophers and fools.

But, in the end, my very shady sources report that two factors played an important role in the club’s impending demise: Club management not being very accommodating or generous with promoters (gotta grease them palms, baby!) and (most importantly, let’s face it), the place is just too far from the hallowed Hill (where the queers and the antelope play) to draw a consistently viable crowd.

Know what you get when you make people travel to your party? A bunch of gays with DUIs on their records, that’s what. It’s just science.

And so farewell, Dairy Haus or whatever. We hardly knew ye.

In completely unrelated other things: Did you hear about the 5 people at a music festival that were hospitalized for DRINKING poppers? Great, now they are all bottoms forever. Just what the world needs more of.

Jesus wept.

In even more blind item mud-slingings: Picture it! Two local queer club institutions, both party promoters and DJs of some renown, nightlife ringleaders and, now, bitter FORMER bosom buddies.

For the sake of discretion, let’s call them, “Alotta Macaroni” and “Stanley Applebutter”!

Now these two used to work together in harmony and grace, bringing us fagulous, booty-bumping events, but never again! There seems there’s a snake in paradise.

Alotta Macaroni took to the Faceberks late last week to vaguebook the hell out of her former friend and partner for sneaking behind her back to have her ousted from the party she co-created.

Allow me to paraphrase:

“That moment when some super big dickwad chooses to sneak behind your back and throw the party that you created together, under the same name, and then block you on the event page, so that you can’t see even it? #BEACHCHUMP!”

Well, it looks like the honeymoon is over. Also, the words, “privileged, tokenizing, sexist, classist, asshole” might have been used as well.

Just so you know.