I guess I will forever love — and forever be annoyed by — the city currently known as San Francisco. No better way to reflect on both extremes than by re-reading old Herb Caen columns. I used to fantasize about taking over for him, as a sort of “Mr. San Francisco” for the 90’s, although I know deep down that I’d never qualify.

There are minor similarities between us, I guess. Like Herb (if I may be so informal), I’m fiercely possessive of a city I wasn’t born in. Like the late Mr. Caen, I feel a tremendous sense of nostalgia for a San Francisco which is long gone. A big difference, however, is that Herb lived this past. I never did. Herb romanticized through reflection. I romanticize through Herb (and assorted others).

Thousands, even millions of words have been written about this city, past and present. The past, no doubt, could never have lived up to its reputation. And my God, what a reputation! From the crazy (or opportunistic) Emperor Norton to the “opium dens” of old Chinatown to the earthquake to the backrooms of Folsom Street…my God…

Thirty years ago, Herb wrote about how the corporate mentality was making San Francisco increasingly bland and generic. Today, I worry about the same thing. Herb was interested in the small places and unique individuals, and the historical context which added life to the present-day landscape. So am I. In many ways, the 60’s and 70’s were not kind to the city, bringing us such hideous bastardizations of urban space as Embarcadero Center and the “new” Japantown. Perhaps the prosperity of the 80’s and 90’s will prove even more destructive, as we build a theme park city so “cute” it is in danger of choking on its own espresso-flavored bile.

Maybe the romantic San Francisco of the past never really existed in the first place, or at least not for a large portion of the population. Maybe it’s always been “just a place” to many of its residents. Who knows?

It’s obviously “just a place” to a large number of its affluent new residents who obviously couldn’t give two shits about the history and customs of the place they’re helping to destroy with their “lifestyle lofts”, their Starbucks and Pasta Pomodoros, and their aggressively incompetent driving. Too many of these people are here simply because of the job market , and not due to any particular affection for the place. They have no context and can’t be bothered to try.

But San Francisco wasn’t “just a place” to Herb. It’s not “just a place” to me. I love it here, although sometimes I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I love what remains of the leftist, offbeat sensibility. I love not fearing violence when I kiss a guy goodnight on a street corner. I love knowing that San Francisco existed prior to my arrival in 1992 and I love knowing how this past affects the future. Unfortunately, the future looks a little frightening right now. But maybe it always has…

It’s almost that time of year again. San Francisco’s Lesbian – Gay – Transgender – Bisexual – Questioning – Curious – Insert – Appropriate – Label – Here Weekend. Time to start making plans for the big weekend. So far, the one viable suggestion I’ve received has been from my friend Sarah; she thought it might be a good day to go thrift store hopping in Stockton. Sounds like a winner to me. Beats last year when I cleaned the bathroom…

I know…the parade is tempting. Nothing like four (five?) hours of standing in the hot sun watching a bunch of groups with signs declaring their narrowly-defined labels drone past, with the occasional bar float blaring the latest techodiscohouse drivel to break the monotony. I only WISH the parade were as much fun as the 700 Club portrays it…

And nothing like fighting your way into a crowded bar and waiting a half-hour to buy a beer behind some drunk disco bunny who’s ordering seven DIFFERENT cocktails of varying colors and textures for his entourage, none of whom remembers what they wanted and all of whom must stand in the way for fifteen MORE minutes trying to figure it out…

The Saturday night before the parade is a special treat. The city becomes one huge circuit party, with rainbow-clad muscle boys in various stages of chemical disrepair all heaving and grinding to the happnin’ rhythms of Axel K or Simon Q or whoever. It’s great. Really…

When I was a young curmudgeon back in North Carolina, I used to love going to the Pride parades. It was all about visibility and making a statement of political and social power.

Of course, pride is about making a statement here too. And the statement is thus: fags have money. If you sponsor our parade, we will buy your brand of liquor or beer. If you set up a booth full of insipid T-shirts with slogans like “2Q2BSTR8”, we will buy them. If you say you’re working to fight AIDS, we will give you donations, no matter how much of this money goes to furnish your plush offices. If you have a petition about a “gay issue” (like, say, abolishing rent control), we will sign it without even reading it.

We are happy liberated gay men. We are secure in the knowlege that having a sexual orientation is an acceptable substitute to having a personality or an individual identity. We can think for ourselves, as long as the Advocate and Genre tell us it’s OK. And as long as there’s a snappy ad campaign (and a cool T-shirt) behind the recommended thought.

And we’re PROUD dammit. PROUD of our sexual orientation (even though we had no say in its development). PROUD of our ability to get liquor companies to sponsor our parade. PROUD of our muscles and our disposable income and our wardrobes from Bloomie’s. PROUD of the way we’ve made the Castro into a suburban shopping mall and kept those property values high. PROUD that we’re the only ones allowed to make jokes about ourselves.

Of course, we’re probably proud of some other things too, like our political gains, etc.. Some of us might even be embarrassed about a few things. Things like the way we elevate mediocrity to sacred status (witness “Ellen” and the Pet Shop Boys). Things like rampant commercialism, or a completely useless “gay press”, or a culture which completely ignores its youth and “marginal” elements. Things like our severe substance abuse problem and our body fascism. But we’ll be embarrassed quietly, so as to avoid disturbing the party.

Yup…I think I’ll be embarrassed in Stockton. Or maybe even Fresno…

I’m still back at my old location about 20 hours a week, and the freelance stuff has started to take off. A year has passed since I got marginally sucked back in to help open a new store. And suddenly, I find my store under construction, being totally remodeled. Haven’t we played this scene before?

I just don’t understand:

• Malls: What is the appeal?
• Why would Operation Rescue, an anti-abortion group, really CARE whether thousands of queers plan to descend upon Walt Disney World for a weekend in June? It’s highly unlikely that any babies will be either conceived or aborted as a result of this particular gathering.
• About fags who plan to descend upon Walt Disney World in June: Why would ANYONE willingly visit Florida in the middle of the summer?
• Why does everything Mc Donald’s touches taste so much worse than any other fast food?
• Come on…who gives a fuck if there’s one less Spice Girl? Will the world REALLY change in any significant way?
• Robert Kennedy was shot 30 years ago this week; there was a short op-ed piece. Waterbeds were invented 30 years ago this week; there was a huge photo-laden “lifestyle” story. Frightening thing is the waterbed probably seemed more important to most READERS too…

I really didn’t expect to be going back to Las Vegas anytime soon. The last trip was fun, but Vegas didn’t exactly rate among my favorite spots in the U.S. Enter one spiky-haired Minnesotan named Erik. Erik is not to be confused with any previously-mentioned Minnesotans within Planet SOMA. Erik convinced me that driving 500 miles into the desert to spend a weekend with someone I’d never met was a good idea. His subtle hints (over several months) as to how we might pass a good bit of our time were pretty enticing too.

Needless to say, I left town late. I made it to Bakersfield the first night. I slept (not much else to do there as I knew from a past visit). I woke up and drove through the increasingly hot Mojave Desert. 101 in Baker. But only 97 in Vegas. Aargh…

It’s always fun looking for someone you don’t really know in a crowded hotel lobby. Fortunately, Erik recognized me. We went to the room. There were naps. We ate. We made out. We hit a few bars. Repeat with a few variations for three days and you have the jist (jism?) of the trip. Don’t think for a moment, mind you, that this is a bad thing…

  

Of course, we didn’t spend ALL out time in the room. We took the Hoover Dam hardhat tour (where you get to keep the hardhat). There were the obligatory buffet moments. We also spent quality time in taxis with cynical drivers en route to and from bars. We hit Snicks, which was sleazy and empty, but remains one of my favorites from last year. We visited Angles, which has great chairs and too many well-coiffed customers. We snuck into (and out of) the Eagle in record time. And we were cruised by a cute boy in a striped shirt at Buffalo’s, but he somehow managed to activate both our freak sensors.

And then there was the Gipsy. my only “new” bar from this trip. Jeez, it sucked. This is the “beautiful people” bar. Translation: no one even remotely intersting to be seen, overpriced drinks, and really bad techodiscohouse drivel. A quick escape was called for, and my opinion of Vegas queer bars remains pretty damned low.

After lurking in bed until about 4 on Saturday (the original plan called for 6…or was it 7?), we hit the strip in search of rubber shirts and cute pirate boys at Treasure Island. Around this time, I discovered that I have become my father, patiently waiting outside mall stores. Malls scare me. Wayne Newton in a casino designed to resemble a mall (circa 1977) sacres me even more.

  

Best find of the weekend (aside from the realization that I CAN have sex with someone for five days in a row and not get bored with it) was pork chops and collard greens at the Motown Cafe in New York New York (the casino casino, not the city city). Other happy finds included gas which is about 35 cents per gallon cheaper than in San Francisco, the In and Out Burger, and (joy…rapture…) a supermarket which sells Count Chocula. I stocked up…

 

On Sunday, it was time to leave behind the room which housed several felonies and a view of the pink-domed Circus Circus Theme Park. Time to leave the cheap buffets, the prime rib, and the incredibly surreal world of the casinos. Time to leave the boy in the striped shirt, wherever he may have ended up. Time for a restful drive home. Or maybe not…

 

I never really considered Barstow, California a good place to buy tires until Sunday. It’s still not my first choice, but it seemed pretty damned convenient after realizing in the middle of the desert that my current had suddenly lost a good six-inch chunk of tread. Thank God for Wal-Mart. To hell with small-town Main Streets. When I needed cheap rubber, the corporate monster was there for me.

The overnight stop in Fresno proved uneventful. Seems we stumbled upon “Emperor/Empress Weekend” (read “bad drag”). I think Fresno works better for me when I’m there alone. On the other hand, Motel 6 sex can be fun…especially when the maid interrrupts just as you’re about to…ummm…

Now it’s back home for me. Anyone have a suggestion for the next adventure?