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A Night at the Besties Oct 23, 2014 Celebrate CityBeat's "Best of San Diego" issue with live music from Little Hurricane and Steph Johnson, performances from the Fern Street Circus, an art exhibit from the Dream Machine Arts Collective, a mobile video arcade by Coin Op North Park and more. 60 other events on Thursday, October 23
 
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Epic San Diego Museum of Art exhibition promises a textbook lesson in the evolution of modern works
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Kevin Faulconer’s likely to tack left on sustainability
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Adaptation of Patricia Highsmith novel tops our coverage of movies screening around town
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With few specifics on who they were looking for, officers held the wrong man at gunpoint
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Home / Articles / Music / Below the Belt /  Tranny time in Tijuana
. . . .
Wednesday, Aug 31, 2011

Tranny time in Tijuana

Mike’s Disco stacks up

By Alex Zaragoza
mikesdiscotijuana
- Photo by Alex Zaragoza
Weeks ago, when I told a friend I’d be writing about Tijuana nightlife, he looked at me with the eyes of a fat child at Hometown Buffet.

“We have to go to a tranny bar,” he said.

I looked at him with those same hungry eyes and said, “Hell yes,” and all the talk of taped-back penises and Selena with stubble came to a head on Friday night.

We stepped onto Avenida Revolucion and made our way to Mike’s Disco, the least-tranny name for a tranny bar in tranny history. Not a single dick or Bette Midler reference. I mean, who is this Mike, anyway? Is he even wearing glitter?

We grabbed a seat with a full view of the long stage. The backdrop was two glittering Mexican flags draped down to the ground. El tri never looked so glorious.

A queen dressed as Mexican singer Juan Gabriel came out. He lip-synched to one of his classics while taking dollar bills in his crotch. With the lights, the fog machine, the terrible wig on Gloria Trevi -- who gave me the roughest lap dance of my life and then refused to take a dollar bill from my mouth -- my heart swelled with patriotic pride. A single tear fell from my eye.

As the cherry on top of a sweaty-testicle sundae, out came a male stripper in a silver space jumpsuit. Gay Buzz Aldrin struggled with his shoes and had to hop on one foot to get down to his tiny bottoms, but once he did, he grinded on anything within reach: a chair, a few girls, the stage and then himself with a moment of simulated masturbation. His extravaganza ended as all extravaganzas should -- he ignited sparklers and stood looking like an Adonis who still lives with his mom.

After all the hype, I was worried the TJ tranny experience wouldn’t stack up. I should’ve known better than to doubt a man in fuchsia lipstick.



 
 
 
 
 
 
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