Review: Beige at BBar

Does anybody remember Roald Dahl's book The Witches?

They made it into a fun little childrens movie in 1990 starring the incomparable Angelica Houston.

In it, a young boy living with his grandmother at a seaside resort is shocked to discover that it is the venue for the annual convention of England's witches. They all gather together in a grand ballroom to discuss their plans for vanquishing children for the next year, under the guise of the "Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children."

The poor boy is trapped in the ballroom while searching for his two pet mice when the witches, disguised as proper and sophisticated women, remove their clever disguises. Wigs come off to reveal their bald scalps, and gloves are removed, yielding long, bony fingers ending in razor-sharp talons.

Beige is kind of like that... except they never take off their disguises.

All of the worst gays you've ever encountered in this city gather under one roof to discuss their plans for being terrible over the course of the next week. That's right, they're so evil that a yearly meeting simply will not suffice.

The regulars are all there. Every single self-important, bitchy gay that you've ever encountered.

Remember that mannorexic sales associate from Barney's who snidely suggested that you try a larger size? He's there. Or the snotty brunch host that pretends to be sad when he tells you there's no tables available all day? He's there too. That overly-manicured asshole at the gym that thinks he can take your spot at the bench press because his pecs are bigger than yours? Yup. The go-go boy that walks around the club with his nose in the air as if wearing nothing more than a pair of aussiebum underwear makes him important? Definitely. The reality TV whore that thinks he's the Duke of Gaydom because he was a stereotypical cunt on national television? You bet. The former pop star who's convinced himself that he's our messiah after he was forced out of the closet by an overweight blogger? Hell yes.

They're all there. The tall and the small, the rich and the ones that seem rich because they're chest-deep in credit card debt.

Oh. Sometimes Michael Lucas is there. I like to think he takes the Angelica Houston role as Grand High Witch. Just imagine what he looks like without all of that botox! Hell, the two of them even have the same accent!




















Oh my brothers and only friends! You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy! Whereas the Hells Kitchen Horror (The Ritz) at least has some redeeming qualities, representing a kind of subtle, seductive evil, Beige is unapologetically malevolent. Few non-witches who are aware of this evil can enter without fear. There are others, unaware of the true nature of the Cult of Beige, who seek to be included in their number. The most they can do is look on in horrified awe at what transpires before them.

There is yet another group that haunts this locale: the corporate types. Yes, the bankers, lawyers, executives and suits of all ages are there too. When combined with the Cult of Beige, I like to refer to them as the "Terrible-Industrial Complex." With their respective powers combined their boring repetitiveness knows no bounds!

Why boring and repetitive?

Well... nothing actually happens at Beige.

There's no shows, no events, no drag queens, no games, no dancing. Nothing at all. If you listen closely you'll hear that there's hardly any conversation and people aren't even really hitting on each other. Everyone just kind of... stands around and basks in their own fabulousness. If that is an activity that you regularly enjoy, then you will like Beige and probably shouldn't be reading my blog for any reason other than to tell me that I'm terrible.

They can't even make up for this with alcohol, since their prices are practically in the Hiro-range. It's a real shame, since the patio is quite nice and, with another crowd, Beige could actually be a pretty fun Tuesday night destination.

Solution?

KILL THE WITCHES! *insert other Monty Python jokes here*

Actually, since we can't be rid of them, we might as well teach ourselves to recognize them. In Dahl's book, he lists seven signs that help to identify witches. They are as follows:

1. Slightly larger, shell-shaped nostrils.
2. Blue tinge to tongue and teeth (as their saliva is naturally blue).
3. Pupils that seem to change colour and have fire and ice dancing inside.
4. Always wears gloves to cover claw-like fingernails
5. Wear a wig to hide baldness and can be seen scratching hair due to wig-rash.
6. Wears pointy shoes and limps slightly because witches have no toes and square feet.
7. Always a woman.

I'd like to revise this list slightly in order to fit the situation at hand.

1. Eerily perfect nose and bone structure.
2. Pink tinge to tongue and teeth (too many cosmos).
3. Eyes that seem to be dancing because they're constantly rolling.
4. Beautifully manicured nails that hide naturally claw-like fingers
5. Strange, asymmentrical haircut. Looks like wig. Can be seen scratching crotch due to crabs.
6. Wears pointy shoes and limps slightly because... well... take a guess.
7. Looks like a woman (see also: The Arches)

Do yourself a favor and avoid this place like the plague. They probably won't turn you into a frog, but there's a good chance they'll make you feel like one. Which is worse?

This city deserves a better class of homosexual.