By midnight a glittery lineup of Club Kids and Drag Queens had reached the end of the block outside Brooklyn’s Don Pedro. It was the final installment of Macy Rodman’s BathSalts, a weekly drag show for fuck-ups, and everyone wanted in. Groups huddled inside bathroom stalls, smoking indoors rather than risking banishment to the never-ending line. Regular floor-seating had been transformed into a pseudo mosh pit of leather and ruffles, forcing 7-foot-tall Drag Queens to push their way through the belligerent crowd to get to the stage. It was a sloppy end to an even messier series of performances, exactly how a farewell to BathSalts should be.
Farewell to BathSalts
BY TAYLORE SCARABELLI
By midnight a glittery lineup of Club Kids and Drag Queens had reached the end of the block outside Brooklyn’s Don Pedro. It was the final installment of Macy Rodman’s BathSalts, a weekly drag show for fuck-ups, and everyone wanted in. Groups huddled inside bathroom stalls, smoking indoors rather than risking banishment to the never-ending line. Regular floor-seating had been transformed into a pseudo mosh pit of leather and ruffles, forcing 7-foot-tall Drag Queens to push their way through the belligerent crowd to get to the stage. It was a sloppy end to an even messier series of performances, exactly how a farewell to BathSalts should be.