East Goes West Goes East

By Shelly Leachman

I go both ways. That's right, I admit it: I'm an Eastside girl known to sometimes dabble in the West. Just because I left my heart in Echo Park doesn't mean my soul can't now and then get its groove on in WeHo. There are other such anomalies as me, who can enjoy the Abbey as much as Akbar, but we are fast becoming an endangered species—the unicorns of Los Angeles lesbians who otherwise appear to observe a great divide that runs right up La Brea.

What is it about Hollywood giving way to WeHo, and vice versa, that suddenly makes a girl feel like she's been cast in a gay remake of The Outsiders, with the greasers and the socs protecting their respective turf like it's the only place that matters?

Of course in this case, it's not so much about defending our environs from visitors—everyone's welcome everywhere, as far as I can tell. It's just about not leaving one's chosen locale. Ever. I know an Eastside girl who claims to so badly suffer from a self-diagnosed allergy to WeHo that she fled a friend's Sunday afternoon birthday party at the Abbey after a 45-minute-bathroom-wait-induced panic attack and walked all the way home, half drunk, to Boyle Heights.

Similarly, I know some Westside girls who would rather endure the lines, the prices, the paparazzi and inner-circle snobbery of Les Deux (yes, there are lesbians at Les Deux) than venture East. Me, I don't get it. Sure there are geographic issues, but haven't we all by now accepted, as one of the foibles of our fair city, that it may sometimes take a full-hour to go five miles?

Suck it up, I say, because a smorgasbord of fun awaits at every turn.

The Westside offers up the finest in swanky chic, from Eleven to East/West to O-Bar, plus the sweaty go-go-girled glory of Truckstop and celesbian sightings aplenty. The Eastside has the always-thumping diversity of Akbar and the young indie chick haunt we still call the Gauntlet (technically it's now the Eagle), not to mention MJ's for your gay-boy fix (I know, I know, their girl night fell flat), Jumbo's Clown Room for your lap-dancing needs, Jenny Shimizu everywhere you turn and more unbelievable art shows than you can shake a stick at. And everyone should at least once make a run to Redz—a Latina lesbian bar on E. First Street where the Budweiser is $2, the ever-smiling bartender speaks only Spanish, the music is always salsa and the vibe is always upbeat.

Besides, aren't we all just out there looking for our own Sherri “Cherry” Valance? That's who the greasers and socs were fighting over—the one girl in town who didn't discriminate by geography and found a good time wherever she went. That Cherry was one smart cookie. So can't we all just get along and stay gold, Ponyboy? It's a big gay world out there in Los Angeles, ladies. Get to travelin’. Let's do it for Johnny! I'll be doing it right along with you and reporting back here every issue, delivering dispatches from la vida lesbiana on all sides of the city. I'll discuss it, dissect it, break down and, often, send it up. Should be quite a ride. All aboard!

I’m always looking for new nightspots or exciting events. Drop me a line at TheBroadcastLA@gmail.com with any suggestions.