It was the end of the eighties. One depressing Sunday night in Edelweis Hattie was tending bar, and I was complaining about the poor quality of the trannie chasers. When it was so close to the old 42nd St. they were particularly scuzzie. Hattie said "I think you might like a club I know about," or something to that effect. One night I went down to Pyramid and saw Blacklips, and realized I wasn't crazy after all. I was awed. Wendy wouldn't let me pay for drinks, and no one-absolutely no one- made fun of my half-assed suburban matron drag outfits.