In Which We Mourn Mimosa Sunday

Until very recently, every Sunday evening was what we cleverly titled “Mimosa Sunday,” during which, on Sunday evenings, we would drink pitchers of mimosa. Well, mimosa with a float of whipped cream vodka, that they’d do up especially for our fluctuatingly huge group that came ’round every week. There would be conversation and creativity early in the evening – I’d bring my notebooks, and work on whichever poem was currently giving me trouble; a few artist friends of mine would sketch furtively in their notebooks, another dear friend would sometimes bring her knitting, and so on and so forth. We’d discuss politics, current events, and all that rot; Atrocious gossip was de rigeur; it was very much our own little Algonquin Hotel. When the karaoke master arrived, art and projects would get put away, and drinking in earnest would begin – how else is one to sing?

Karaoke, Karaoke Cowboy, Karoke Host, The Mix Tacoma, Gay Bay Karaoke Host, Gay Cowboy

Seen here, without his boyfriend.

The evening shift bartender was an old high school friend of mine, as well.  Sometimes we’d skip the karaoke and hit a local drag show, or go up to the independent theatre to catch a local premiere, and other things of that nature. On more than one occasion, there would be an art show either at the Mix itself, or held at the cafe next door. For nearly two years, we had a self-contained little Peyton Place wrapped inside one of Gertrude Stein’s salons, and it was heaven, as is apropos for a group meeting on Sundays.

Liquorsmith, Liquor Smith, Gay Bartender, The Mix Tacoma, Gay Bar Tacoma

Seen here, without his husband.

Now, of course – and this has been coming for some time, you know – we are all in reduced circumstances. Frankly, it often makes me want to belt songs from Rent, but that would be antisocial behavior. The memory of those days: the larks and shenanigans, the friendships made, lived, and lost; trotting down to the Spanish Steps – replicated from a set at some bijou little Spanish palace, obviously – for a smoke or six; watching the nightlights of downtown rise behind the Italianate clocktower of Old City Hall!

Mimosa Sunday, The Mix Tacoma, Friends Drinking, Friends Drinking Together, Fucking Mimosas

Seen Here, without sobriety.

Tonight, we raise our glasses of rotgut vodka and rootbeer to those dear, distant, days.

Tyler J Yoder, Mimosa Sunday, The Mix Tacoma, Dapper Gay Gent, Dapper Gent, Gay Bars

Seen here, drink in hand

About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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10 Responses to In Which We Mourn Mimosa Sunday

  1. Gil says:

    I miss the memories I never had, and am glad I made it to one.

  2. Cutler says:

    Also glad I made it to a couple of them.

  3. ekgo says:

    But…they could potentially be resurrected, right? Once one of you becomes famous for your art? Maybe you should start motivating the group a bit more…you know, as a friend would…to work harder on getting noticed by a wealthy patron. Because the idea of Mimosa Sunday is beautiful and should not be left behind out of poverty and hard times.

    • paisleyglen says:

      We’ve had one or two for special occasions, such as when someone’s visiting from far away. My friend T. – a burlesque dancer – just got a patron, actually. She lives miles away, though. :p

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