Once upon a time, Laguna Beach was a haven, an oasis, a protective cocoon for men who loved men in ultra-conservative Orange County.
An entire block of South Coast Highway hosted gay bars, the most famous perhaps being the raucous Boom Boom Room, which served its last drink 15 years ago as folks danced on the bar and the crowd went wild. The Little Shrimp, a beloved piano bar, was reborn as Woody’s and then Avila’s El Ranchito Mexican Restaurant. And on Saturday, Oct. 22, the owners of the Anchor Line Bar, aka the Main Street Bar & Cabaret, are slated to serve their final libations as well.
The Anchor Line is the last of Laguna’s vintage gay bars, a fixture since 1958. Its future is murky — it may be resurrected with new ownership and new name and new design and new zeitgeist — but the Nelson clan, which has run it for nearly two decades, is done.
“My brother Jimmy bought this bar 18 years ago to save what was left of gay Laguna,” said sister Wendy Nelson, sitting at the bar in the dim afternoon light. An “I can’t even think straight” sign hung on the wall behind her.
But Jimmy Nelson died in August. Business was tough even before COVID, as Laguna’s land values skyrocketed and much of its gay community moved east to the Palm Springs area. Then came pandemic closures and rent hikes and personnel conflicts and open hostility — the bar’s windows were smashed in 2020 — and Nelson said it’s just time to let go.
It feels like the end of an era. But it’s happening all over the nation, not just in Laguna: Half of American gay bars disappeared between 2002 and 2021, according to listing data compiled by Greggor Mattson, professor and chair of sociology at Oberlin College.
Why?
Chalk it up to the rise of virtual gathering places — it’s easy to find like-minded people online — as well as climbing rents, competition for the entertainment dollar and a growing climate of inclusion that makes these sorts of physical spaces less vital than they once were for LGBTQ+ folks, experts say.
But much is lost when they disappear.
“I sometimes like to think about gay bars as archives,” Mattson said. “They can be very literal archives — in their attics are the account books that measure the economic life of the community, the Pride parades and floats that have been organized there, the squares of AIDS quilts that have been sewed.
“They’re also metaphorical archives, containing the life experience of our elders. We are a people who are not taught our history in high schools, so often our history — especially our local history — is there. What was it like to be LGBTQ in Orange County in decades past? That comes from our elders. When we lose connection with them – who are often not online as often as younger people — we lose a part of our community and our history.”
Jordan C. Grasso, a doctoral student in criminology, law and society at UC Irvine who is researching the history and culture of these spaces, is skeptical of the “increasing tolerance” explanation for their decline.
“We can look no further than the recently proposed nationwide ‘Don’t Say Gay’ bill,” Grasso said by email. “Moreover, 2022 saw more anti-LGBTQ+ laws proposed than any other year in recent history. Laws like these create incredibly unsafe environments, not only for LGBTQ+ children (who are either forced to stay in the closet and develop psychological strains from internalized homophobia or experience potential abuse and harm for coming out) but also for LGBTQ+ adults who are scapegoated by right-leaning politicians at every turn in states like Florida and Texas but also locally in Orange County.”
Economic reality, Grasso believes, plays a big part in the decline.
Grasso has found that gay bars increasingly use ambiguous marketing to attract more customers in an attempt to generate greater profits, which can be especially problematic for queer women “doubly marginalized” by an emphasis on male-centered programming, as well as an influx of straight women seeking safety from the male harassment they find in regular bars.
“In my research sites for my study on queer female-centered bars and events, I have at least one or two people approach me every night and ask, ‘Since when is this a straight bar?’” Grasso said. “So, bars have choices: open up to a more extensive clientele and no longer truly be an LGBTQ+ bar, or financially struggle.”
In the past year, Grasso has spoken with several people struggling to open new gay bars for queer women and gender-expansive people in Southern California. “Even with investors, business plans and proof of success from previous events, it is virtually impossible to afford a lease on a building, especially as gayborhoods become gentrified and bought out by more prominent investors and companies,” Grasso said. “The buildings simply cost too much money. Couple this with the growing inequality gap following the pandemic, and it’s no wonder that these businesses are not staying open.”
Resistance
Historically, these places have been vital. The early civil rights battles for LGBTQ+ people were spearheaded by bar owners insisting on the right to serve homosexuals.
New York had the Stonewall Uprising of 1969, when New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay club in Greenwich Village, confiscating its liquor stash and roughly hauling away patrons. Six days of protests and violent clashes with law enforcement followed, and Stonewall became a catalyst for the gay rights movement in the United States and around the world.
Before Stonewall, Los Angeles had the Black Cat. It was New Year’s 1967; police beat patrons and arrested more than a dozen people for “lewd conduct” — same-sex kissing as the new year arrived. Peaceful protests ensued around the Silver Lake bar, and led to the birth of The Advocate, the oldest and largest LGBT publication in the nation.
“Post-Stonewall, bars have often served as community centers, yes where people found romance, but also where they found jobs and friends and information,” Mattson said. ” ‘Where is a gay-friendly doctor?’ ‘My relationship is in trouble, where can we find a gay-friendly marriage counselor — even though we’re not allowed to get married?’”
It’s great that people can easily find each other online, but one of the lessons COVID taught us is the importance of having physical places to gather together, Mattson said.
Grasso agrees on the importance of meeting in real time in real space. “People meet online through social media and dating sites, but they still need a safe physical place to meet, interact and develop relationships without the burden or fear of anti-LGBTQ+ sentiments and harm,” Grasso said. Every person Grasso interviewed “lit up as they discussed the first time they entered a gay bar … often one of the first times they feel entirely at home or at least understood and unquestioned about the love they experience for others.”
There’s hope, even as bars decline, both Grasso and Mattson said. “Underground parties and events” are organized online, as are “pop up parties” and “guerilla queer bars” where folks meet at an otherwise straight venue, “tipping big to show they’re there in peace,” Mattson said.
Gay bars won’t disappear entirely, but they’ll have to adapt, Mattson said. Many of the old ones have been “White men’s clubs,” and the ones that survive will have to appeal to the broadest reach of the LGBTQ+ community.
Once, Anchor Line was Fleur de Lys, and Bounce, and Main Street Bar & Cabaret. We’ll see what it morphs into next.
