A recent flyer from the Alice B. Toklas Gay and Lesbian Democratic Club informed me how nice it will be to “celebrate our sexuality” in a new GLBT community center. Why does this phrase annoy me so?

“Celebrating our sexuality” brings to mind the image of some pagan sex ritual. I visualize a circle of Radical Faeries dancing around a giant phallic symbol on a pole and then retiring to the bushes. Sounds kind of fun, but sadly, I don’t think this is the image the authors had in mind.

Just what the hell does the phrase “celebrating our sexuality” mean? Should I be celebrating the fact that I have a sexuality or just the fact that I have a specific TYPE of sexuality? Since the goals of the community center — as stated in the article — pretty much suggest that this is supposed to be a sex-free, cruise-free environment, just how am I supposed to celebrate it?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting shagging in the community center. I’m just annoyed by yet another warm and fuzzy — but ultimately meaningless — cliche. I’m balking at the idea that sexuality implies something more than…well…sex. And I’m questioning the idea that people who share a certain sexual orientation must, by definition, share any other particular bond.

“Gay pride” is starting to grate in a similar way; how can I be proud of something I had nothing to do with? I’m quite happy and satisfied that I like sex with boys better than with girls, but I’m not especially proud of this fact. I like the fact that I have brown eyes too, but it’s not an accomplishment which I celebrate on a day-to-day basis.

A large measure of pride can obviously be taken in triumph over adversity and discrimination, but simply being proud of an inborn characteristic itself is a little ridiculous, isn’t it? To me, “celebrating sexuality” sort of implies that we should start throwing orgies to commemorate the onset of puberty. And dammit, I’m really pissed that I missed my party!

Frankly, it could be argued that the idea of a GLBT community center in San Francisco is a little ridiculous from the onset. Just what we need: another “safe space” in which to ghettoize and ignore the outside world and vilify those nasty evil heterosexuals. It might make sense in Des Moines, but in San Francisco? Gimme a break…you can’t walk a block here without seeing another “safe space”.

I used to fantasize that San Francisco was a world where people could move beyond defining themselves solely in terms of who they sleep with. I fantasized about a place where an individual could have a number of interests, one of which might happen to involve screwing members of the same sex. Unfortunately, I now find myself in a place which — in many ways — is even more segregated than my hometown in the south.

Silly me…I didn’t understand that here in the ghetto, people are even MORE self-conscious about sexuality and race and gender, mainly because we’re constantly calling such attention to them. And making such a big, divisive issue of them. And letting these traits define us so completely…

“Celebrating” them, even…

Eventually, it becomes possible to avoid having one’s own identity at all; just adopt a few characteristics of “the culture”, learn to speak in cliches, and you’re all set. In some ways this is even worse than the poor souls whose sole self-definition stems from what they do for a living.

I think I’ll throw my own “celebrating our sexuality” party. Should there be cake? A buffet? Balloons? And how should I explain to my straight friends that they aren’t allowed to come?

I guess it’s officially all over now. I’m home. The bags are unpacked (this alone took a good week). The stories and pictures are posted. I’m back into the San Francisco rut.

Was it worth it?

Of course it was! I met great people, saw incredible things, and have a pretty good feel for what’s “out there” in the USA now. I’ve made new friends, and I got to experience things like a local. I’m forever indebted to the people who put me up along the way, changed their schedules for me, showed me around, took me out, and made the trip such a great thing.

Would I do it again?

Damn right! I’d make the same trip again in an instant. In fact I fully intend to, although a five-week grand tour might be out of the question for a while. If I learned anything on this trip, it is that I love seeing new things as well as seeing old things in a new light.

Was it awful traveling alone?

Actually, there’s no better way to travel. I think I hit just the right balance between my need to set out on my own and the need to have people around. It would’ve been nice to have had a guide in one or two places, but I think I did OK.

Traveling alone allows some big benefits. It’s not always necessary to maintain a rigid schedule. I pretty much chose my own pace. Compromises were limited. There were no fights over the radio station. And boy did I have time to do a lot of thinking. Usually this was great. In Nevada and parts of New Mexico, I must admit that it got a bit oppressive, but I survived.

Any regrets?

If I had it to do over again, I’d spend more time in a few places, of course. I hate that I didn’t hookup with a few people I was supposed to meet. I would definitely spare my dad the kidney stone he developed when I was home. A little more money might have been nice too. But all in all, I’m pretty satisfied.

Was it an absolute religious experience?

Keep in mind that I’m not a particularly religious or “spiritual” person. That said, the answer would be “yes, it was pretty damned close to a religious experience” but a personal one as well. And I’m still not sure exactly how to write about that in this particular context. Maybe I’ll save that for the book…

Anyhow, it’s time to move on. Thanks again to all who provided me with shelter, who sent suggestions, who emailed me on the road (and before and after), and especially to Bob in Indianapolis, who convinced me to do the whole thing.

It’s been fun.

 

 

Got the tire patched this morning in Kingman for only eight bucks. I seem to remember this operation used to cost like three or five dollars or something. I think I even got it done for free once. Times change, I guess. Anyway, I felt much more secure afterward, I must admit.

  

I stopped by Kingman’s Route 66 Visitor Center, about a week before its “official” grand opening. It’s got potential. And they put me one the right road up the hills. And I mean straight up.

 

Secure enough, even, that I managed to almost completely avoid the interstate all day. I followed the old road through Oatman; the drive to Oatman was great. The road wound and twisted and went up and down just like Lucy and Desi is “The long Long Trailer”. Trudging along even at 30MPH seemed to push things a little. The town was pretty cool too, if somewhat infested with souvenir shops. I managed to have a passable lunch at a decent cafe.

 

Had to rejoin I-40 at the Colorado River to cross into California. I tried to find the spot where the Joads stopped and gazed in “The Grapes of Wrath”, but the road construction required a little too much attention, and soon I was back in my own state, smack dab in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

  

Wow…my last night in the road, and I’m spending it in Bakersfield. Seems a little anti-climactic, I guess. I might have actually driven all the way back tonight, but once I hit Barstow and returned to familiar turf, some of the excitement wore off and I realized just how beat I am. After all, as of today I’ve been on the road for five weeks…

Wish I were more excited to be returning to SF. I am anxious to get home, of course, but the thought of being back in Sodom-by-the-Bay doesn’t fill me with the joy and thrills it used to. But I digress.

After passing through the oasis of Needles, I continued on the old road through Essex and Amboy and Ludlow and a host of other towns which really don’t exist anymore. On one 45-mile stretch I doubt if I passed five cars.

I should have called the return trip from Oklahoma on Route 66 the Joad Memorial Leg. It seems I’m following the route from “The Grapes of Wrath” almost exactly, even as far as the turn north to Bakersfield. Fortunately, thanks to a cold snap, my trek through the desert was less taxing than theirs. Last time I checked, there were no dead grandmas in the trunk. And it’s a good thing I had no problems ‘cuz that’s one severely godforsaken road.

 

Barstow signaled the beginning of the end of the Mojave Desert. Y’know, I never would have guessed that I’d find myself in Barstow three times in 1997. Before this year, I’d never been there; I’m starting to feel at home now.

By the time I hit Bakersfield, I was tired of driving, tired of smoking, tired of wind, and REALLY tired of brown scenery. I’d forgotten how much I missed the greenness of the east coast and the midwest. When I paid $1.48 for a gallon of gas, my attitude about California did not improve.

But anyway, here I am. In Bakersfield. With the heat on. After five weeks of roasting all over the country, it finally got cold today. For that, I must still love California. Tomorrow will bring thrift stores in Fresno, and then the long drive across the Central Valley, through Altamont Pass and the Oakland Hills and across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. Then it will all be over…

 

I’m quite excited with my huge 50-plus-year-old room at the Ambassador Motel (and for only $20). The only problem is that the floor slumps about four inches from the back of the room to the front. Good thing I’m not drinking…

Gallup is an odd little town with a colorful history as the “drinking and boozing center” for a whole region with a large Native American population. This is mostly in the past now, although I couldn’t quite figure exactly what it is that people DO here (aside from run motels). There’s an interesting downtown area and several shopping centers and fast food joints. It’s obvious that this is a town which grew primarily because of transportation, first the railroads, then Route 66, and more recently I-40.

 

It’s always a special joy to wake up in a strange motel a thousand miles from home, to smoke that morning cigarette, and begin packing the car. What makes it even more fun is that moment when you notice that you have a tire as flat as a pancake.

  

Fortunately, that trip to Target prior to my departure prepared me for this, as I picked up a can of new “non-explosive formula” Fix-a-Flat. All the same, I was a touch paranoid most of the day, and as it turns out, I’m still losing air. I would not be surprised to be greeted by a similar sight in the morning. Must be my revenge for being so fascinated by those Highway 666 signs…

 

Anyhow, I’m on my way to Arizona.

“Gallup, New Mexico…Flagstaff, Arizona…don’t forget Winona…Kingman…”

 

Despite the questionable tire, it was an entertaining day as I crossed Arizona, through the painted desert. First major stop was Fort Courage, a reservation gift shop and “salute” to F Troop. Then on to Holbrook, home of the original (and still operating) Wigwam Village Motel. It seemed pretty deserted on this particular morning, but fortunately I found a maid who let me go in and see what a regulation sleeping wigwam looks like. I was impressed.

 

I skipped Winslow because I do not break for Eagles references, and I had no desire whatsoever to stand on that damned corner. I did not, however, forget Winona. There’s nothing there, but I visited anyway. It was pretty.

 

A few miles past the intersction known as Winona, back on original Route 66, I started spotting the motels of Flagstaff. Flagstaff turned out to be a pleasant surprise.

 

Like I said, Flagstaff was an unexpected surprise. Not a surprise in that I wasn’t expecting it, but in that I wasn’t expecting to LIKE it so much. I’d never heard much about the place pro or con, but it’s a pretty cool town. Very collegiate, but not annoyingly so. Definite boy-watching haven.

 

I had lunch in the coffee shop of the Hotel Monte Vista downtown, just because I liked its looks as I drove by. As it turns out, this hotel is one of the few “gay-friendly” establishments in town, per Mr. Damron. I THOUGHT that waitress seemed a little butch…

Then I hit a couple of bookstores, looked over the 66 strip, called Deon to apologize about the change in itinerary and headed west, having opted out of the Phoenix/San Diego leg. Why? Because I’m running two-plus days late, because I’m digging this Route 66 tour an didn’t want to stop, and (I admit it) because I’m finally getting a little tired of driving.

 

This didn’t stop me from deciding on the spur of the moment to visit the Grand Canyon. This stroke of genius was thwarted, however, when I learned of the $20 “cover charge” to enter the park. Seemed a bit excessive for a one-hour visit, so I filed the canyon away for a future visit and went to the Flintstones gift shop at Bedrock City instead. The National Park Service, which seems to be charging a lot for its attractions lately, once again got nothing from me.

Back to the highway and on to Seligman, a cute town with a neat Route 66 trading post, where I found a reprint of the 1946 guide to Route 66 which I’ve been seeking for a long time. This was the good part of this stop; the bad part was when I noticed that the tire was still leaking.

 

I decided that (a) I’d skip the winding, old section of road to Kingman and opt for the freeway instead and (b) I’d spend the night in Kingman and get the tire fixed in the morning.

This was a mildly stressful drive, as it was getting dark, the road wound around lots of hills, and I was nervous about the tire. I also got very reflective about various aspects of my life. Remember Nevada? Something about those damn mountains… Anyhow, I’ll spare you those details for now.

Right now, I’m watching “Hawaii Five-O”. Looks like I may not quite make it home tomorrow…