Best Tranny Bar: The Silver Platter

Finally! A crossroads convergence of self-involved, art-damaged 20-something kids and Third World gender illusionists at a water hole whose geography transcends the expanse of Silver Lake proper. Near transnational gang-infested MacArthur Park, at the corner of Seventh and Alvarado, the Silver Platter is a local jewel founded in 1963 by Rogelo Ramirez and then passed on in the early ’90s to his brother Gonzales Ramirez. A sort of gender-challenged Cheers — where everybody knows your name — this really queer bar is an endearing neighborhood landmark that all have come to know and love. Well, maybe not all, but one thing is for sure, tits and a dick are always on the menu at the Silver Platter, where he-shes punch the clock, working the block serving it up to lusty johns.

“Friday night, honey. Every Friday. Just for you,” big-boned Nicaraguan hostess Nicole looks longingly into my eyes as she lures me into a dark corner near the bar’s entryway. “That’s the Latina show. Friday night,” she snarls through throaty pipes as her gaze drifts south. “Come,” she licks her big red lips ... but I’m not sure we’re going anywhere together. Still, I can’t wait to come to the Latina show at the Silver Platter on Friday. Just after 11 p.m., trannies grace the makeshift floor-level stage behind the silver curtain and shake it like Jell-O to all of your favorite retro, international gay disco laments.

You’ll find fruit flies in the urinal and free chips and dip on Tuesday nights, when Wildness promoters infiltrate to host a free queer dance party and performance. They even have an informative Web site about their Tuesday Silver Platter experience (http://realwildness.com/she.com) with a picture of some gender-nonspecific (possibly Asian) person wearing a scary black-leather S&M mask with a zipper mouth. The site promises great dancing, intimate freaky actions and claims that they are a workshop with a theme, inviting you to present your repertoire.

I recently saw DJ Ra and a band called Milk Monster perform in the dank and sexy post-Pyramid Club melee when Wildness did its Tuesday best. Some of the boys in the band were dressed like girls. It was weird and arty and teased the gender identity line in a way that was a little more interesting when I used to shoot up back in the ’80s. Still ... it’s an indisputably lowlife affair, and you gotta love that.

This is not your Eddie Murphy, high-end tranny bar. This is not Peanuts on Santa Monica Boulevard. This is not Vegas. This is local. This is Westlake. This is a lovely little pit stop where a she-male doing car dates can stop in for a breather. A place where a lady-boy can take a load off her feet and wipe a load off her skirt before getting back to business in the back of a Toyota.

Silver Platter ... the classics ’50s neon sign on the outside cuts to the chase. It says yes, you’re in the right place. Look no further ... the drinks are strong, the chips are free and the girls are boys. Welcome home.

 
2700 W. Seventh St., L.A. No phone.