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1998

The Idiot Factor

The Harder Side of Sears:

A certified letter arrived the other day from…well…let’s just say a major US retailer. Planet SOMA is forthwith and heretofore advised to cease using the term “the Wish Book” anywhere within the site, as this term is a registered trademark of said major retailer. Mind you, the only place in the entire site this term was used was in a link to another site, the title of which was, surprisingly enough, “The Wish Book”. Never mentioned the damned catalogue at all on my own. All the same, it seems I’m guilty of suggesting that there is some connection between Planet SOMA and this…ummm…major US retailer.

Another letter arrived today from this same retailer, begging me to accept a pre-approved credit card. They must need the extra income to pay their context-impaired lawyers to sit around doing Internet searches…

Funny, they didn’t seem upset by my admission that I used to suck dick in the mens rooms of their stores…

These People Are Allowed to Count Money?

Also in today’s Chronicle was an article on the parking crisis in San Francisco (way to grab those breaking news stories…). The manager of the Bank of America branch in the Castro was quoted as saying it was unfair that her employees had to go out and move their cars every two hours to avoid tickets.

Earth to manager: anyone who DRIVES to job at 18th and Castro and expects to be able to park on the street all day is a fucking IDIOT who deserves whatever tickets he or she gets. The Castro has more transit service than almost anyplace else in the city. Jump on the clue bus people. Hell, jump on ANY bus…

Flaming Idiots:

It seems the US Congress is precariously close to sending out a Constitutional amendment to permit laws banning “desecration” of the American flag. Aside from the pure idiocy of altering the Constitution to punish those half dozen annual flag burners, just who exactly gets to define “desecration”? I think that allowing the flag to fly over the current Congress shows a pretty flagrant lack of respect for the old red, white, and blue.

Too bad we can’t come up with an amendment to render idiots ineligible for elections…

San Francisco, Herb Caen, and Me

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…

Gay Pride 98

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…

Work and Stuff

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

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…

Vegas Revisited

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?

Yet Another Visit

Matthew offered to show me DC during the 1997 Planet SOMA US Tour, although I somehow never GOT to DC. We met during his last stay in the city. The catalyst for this trip was the Joni Mitchell show in San Jose Tuesday night (which also featured Van Morrison and some old nasal-sounding guy named Bob something). Matthew took me to the show. Matthew slept in my house. Matthew drank with me. Matthew went with me to see a friend play at Brain Wash. Matthew understood that I was completely beat by the time he arrived, and was not offended that I was being such a lethargic host. We LOVE Matthew.

Matthew is also allowed to visit again. And I promise to be more entertaining. Matthew is also seeking the perfect green-haired boy (other hair colors considered). If you are that boy, ask me for Matthew’s email address. It’s the least I can do.

The smoking reference for this part of the story? At the show, people were smoking pot all around me. This is illegal (although I do not necessarily agree that it should be). Even though I really cannot stand the smell of marijuana smoke, I did not complain. On the other hand, had I lit a (tobacco) cigarette in the same place, security would have been on my tail in no time flat. This bugs me a little…

More Visitors

 

Rae and Dawson don’t need my permission to return. They used to live here. Rae now lives in Portland. Dawson lives in a mystical far-away place called Redwood City; the distance explains why I never see him. Anyway, we all used to work together. OK…actually, to varying degrees, we STILL all work together.

We tried, as always with mixed success, to avoid talk of this loving company. We drank. We played with the juke box at Jack’s. We broke the law by smoking in Jack’s on 16th Street and by putting ashes in the ashtray which the bartender at Jack’s provided. So was SHE breaking the law too?

 

We ate dinner at Art’s. We didn’t smoke there. I believe that people should not smoke in restaurants. I do not share this belief about bars.

But I do love Rae and Dawson. And Rae doesn’t even smoke.

Visit from James

One of the benefits of living in San Francisco is that one’s geography tends to motivate friends to visit regularly. This is a good thing. Sometimes, when a lot of these visits happen at the same time, it’s also an exhausting thing. But still good. Got me?

 

James is a friend of a friend…neither individual being someone I’d ever met before. Two or three years ago, this would have sounded a little odd to me, but my biases against getting to know people in “text only” format first have slowly disappeared of late. James was introduced to me by my friend Andy in London. He was here for the non-standard San Francisco vacation (“screw the cable cars…I wanna see the giant icon sculptures at Apple”). I was more than willing to assist.

How could I not love someone who wanted to spend an afternoon with me and Sarah visiting a bigger-than-life manifestation of Clarus the Dogcow? And before your correct me, yes it IS spelled with a “u”, thanks.

Other highlights included burritos at Pancho Villa, hamli and okra at Massawa, really uninspiring pizza at Sbarro (on the obligatory mall visit), and a trip to Green Apple Books. Oh, and there was a bit of drinking. And a little civil disobedience as we ignored the law and smoked actual cigarettes in actual bars. This will become a running theme as you read on.

We like James very much. He is allowed to return.

My Sensors Weren’t Working

So one night I pick up this boy at Hole in the Wall. It’s last call, he’s cute as can be and he seems no more intoxicated than anyone else there. His look is a tad preppier than I usually like, but he’s got a vaguely unkempt mop on top of his head, which sort of makes up for the Gap boy look. Nothing about him sets off any alarms. We venture off into the night.

Back at my house, I realize he may be a bit drunker than I realized. He keeps telling me how much money he’s carrying. He keeps opening his wallet and showing me. And then he passes out on my bed, fully clothed, about five minutes after arrival. He snores so badly that I decide to sleep on the couch.

About 5:30 in the morning, I hear him moving. Next thing I know, he’s in the living room and on the couch with me. He snuggles up to me and without saying so much as a word, he begins…umm…orally coupulating me. Suddenly he looks up at me and asks me who I am and how he got here. I tell him. He goes back to “work”.

He looks up again, this time as if he’s about to cry.

“I’ve been treated really badly. I’ve had a bad night.”

I wonder at his memory of how bad the night was, especially since he’s not even sure where he is at present. I don’t mention it, though, because now he really IS crying. Seems his boyfriend threw him out last night for some unspecified reason. He starts sucking my dick again. Then he asks me if I’m a white supremacist. I tell him I’m not. He assures me he isn’t either. I’m strangely relieved.

For the next half hour, he alternates between sucking, crying, and plotting revenge against said boyfriend. At some point, I mention the money he’s carrying, and then he really gets freaked out. How did he get so much money? What did he do for it? He rememebers a restaurant. And maybe a hotel room, And maybe some cocaine.

Then he asks if I want to fuck him. To shoot him full of jism. I decline, only partly because he’s crying again and wondering where the money came from.

He’s very excited that I have cranberry juice in my refrigerator, even though he doesn’t drink any. By the way, where is he? Oh…only four blocks from home… He lives in an upsacle apartment building on Folsom. And he’s wearing Banana Republic underwear. He’s very proud of the Banana Republic underwear.

He determines that he needs to go home. He asks if I want to cum before he leaves. I “deserve” it since I’ve been so nice and didn’t rob him and all. He offers me some of his money; after all, he doen’t know where it came from anyway…

Finally he leaves and I get to sleep, secure in the knowledge that he probably couldn’t ever find his way back to my house. I resolve never again to pick up anyone at last call, or at least not until I figure out what the hell is wrong with my usually trustworthy freak sensors…