The Regulars 

Page 3 of 5

I first met Mike across the street from Toad Hall at the Edge, a bar some old-school folks say is the closest thing to how the Castro really used to be back in the day, when the patrons had to keep their gayness on the DL. There is no TV, or dancefloor, or even much of a sign out front. The walls are sculpted to literally look like a cave.

So anyway, there I was at the Edge, the only chick in a place with cut-'n'-paste dicks all over the walls. Mike sidled up and told me to check out the guy at the end of the bar. "Isn't he cute?" he said.

I figured out who he was talking about and nodded my assent. The cute guy's name was Kevin, and he was a bartender at Toad Hall. (Many of the bartenders in the neighborhood go to other bars to unwind after their shifts.) Mike said that Toad Hall was his regular place, but that he was such a fan of Kevin's that he had shown up here to see him during his off hours.

But "seeing" Kevin was all Mike was doing; he preferred to sit at the other end of the bar. I asked him why he didn't just approach Kevin and ask him out. "No way," he said. "I like it this way, from afar."

I warned Mike about the dangers of taking things to the next level. "Bartenders are like dudes in bands," I said, adopting my wisest, most insightful voice. "There is only heartbreak and VD awaiting you when it is over." He agreed.

"That's not to say, though," I continued with a wink, "that it ain't fun to party on the tour bus!" We clinked glasses and laughed.

Mike moved here in 2000 to escape his hometown of Los Banos. He came here for the same reason hundreds of gay people do: It is Mecca. And, like Mecca, you can turn toward it and get down on your knees five times a day (badum-bump). But seriously, folks: Imagine growing up in a town with few people you can relate to, and having to suss out who the other gay people are. Then imagine being able to immerse yourself in an entire community where everyone is just like you, sex is easily obtainable, and gay is the norm, not the exception. Maslow's third human need — to belong somewhere — is fulfilled.

"I'm a Kinsey 6," Mike informed me, meaning he is 100 percent gay with zero interest in women. He admitted frankly that he rarely spends time with straight people, that they make him uncomfortable: "I don't find them as interesting or accommodating. I'm a little more cautious of them."

"Cautious?" I asked. "What are you afraid of?"

He paused, and then said, "I'm afraid they will bore me to death."

Mike agreed to meet me the next night at Toad Hall at his usual time. The bar is named for the pioneering Castro gay bar from the 1970s, depicted in Milk. Its moniker is a literary allusion to The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame's children's novel about woodland creatures. To my knowledge, there is no gay subtext in the book, unless you really want to examine the leather-daddy relationship between Mole and Badger. Though not as obvious as Moby Dick, another watering hole down the street, I suppose the character of Mr. Toad has a foppish side that could be construed as, er, flamboyant. (Actually, the original sign for the bar had a toadstool. Once you see the similarity between the illustrated mushroom and the shaft and head of a penis, the allusion starts to make some sense.)

Mike has no idea what The Wind in the Willows is. He also doesn't know about the original Toad Hall in the '70s. All he knows is that he likes the music there, and the bartenders, and the clientele.

He rarely ventures out without his faithful sidekick, Dan, his friend of 11 years, who joined us at Toad Hall the next night. They didn't call each other by their first names. Instead, they refer to one another as "Didj," as in "digital." It's some inside joke that goes way back.

"Let's sit here, Didj," Mike said, gesturing to some seats.

"Oh, really now, Didj!" Dan said back to him, cocking his head dramatically and feigning a fake-game-show-host inflection. "Are you sure you want this option?" Actually, Dan never drops the fake-game-show-host inflection. It is how he communicates. He is sort of a mix of Jim Carrey and Monty Hall.

Toad Hall has the same ownership as Badlands across the street and has been dubbed "Badlands II," for good reason. The owner sticks to the formula of loud pop music, cheap well drinks at happy hour, and sexy bartenders. Apparently the two places are onto something, because they are consistently packed. The music they play isn't very inspiring — Cyndi Lauper's latest dance song (yes, it exists), Britney Spears' "Toxic," or the Pussycat Dolls. This is the shitty music of the young gay generation. The older gay generation's shitty music — Barbra Streisand, disco, and show tunes — is an ancient relic of a bygone era. Still, Mike has his limits. He hates Whitney Houston. "All of her songs are sung 'balls to the wall.' I mean, give it a rest," he said. "But I love Kylie Minogue."

Both places are sleek and stylized with banquette seating, high tables with stools, and dramatic bars staffed by good-looking guys. Toad Hall has backlit water running down the back of the bar, a small dancefloor, and an outdoor patio for smoking. To me, it lacks any semblance of coziness or personality. But for Mike, it is a home away from home. When he misses a day, the bartenders ask about him. "It feels nice," he says.

Like most regulars, he avoids the bar during peak hours, which means he visits only on Sunday through Thursday nights. Sometimes he comes because he is horny (he has had a few dalliances in the bathroom); sometimes he comes because he doesn't want to be alone; and sometimes he comes because it is just what he does.