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Time to Get Out of Town

Pride Weekend is almost upon us again, and I’m fishing for suggestions on where to go for the weekend.

By most accounts, the last weekend in June is San Francisco’s biggest tourist invasion of the year. I have nothing against tourists, mind you, but you can’t begin to imagine how upleasant it becomes around here during the influx. The bars are packed, parking’s a nightmare, and the rainbow-clad masses drive me into something resembling a homicidal rage.

Which is why it’s best for all concerned if I just get the hell out of town and skip the circiut parties and the five hour marathon of narrowly-defined labels and product marketing opportunities on Market Street. I’ll understand if no one misses me.

Now for a bit of good news: it turns out Tad’s Steaks on Powell Street will remain open in its current incarnation. A month or two back, it looked like this amazing piece of old San Francisco would be replaced by yet another foofy pasta joint. Word last night (upon dinner with Sarah, Dan, and Brad) is that the deal is off. Tad’s is safe, and we got free wine for caring.

I love Tad’s. Score one victory for the non-trendy, non-yuppie, non-fluffy, non-chain version of Sodom by the Bay. Herb Caen would be pleased.

As I close, let me rephrase my comments to stupid yuppie bitch in the Volvo who almost took out five pedestrians at Mission and Fremont this morning as she ran a red light (in case she didn’t hear it as I yelled at her): “You’re driving a car in heavy traffic. Get off the goddamned cell phone, you fucking idiot!”

Friday Afternoon Naughtiness

Just color me tickled pink (or brown). There is once again Count Chocula in my world. Newcomers, of whom there seem to be quite a few this week, may not understand how much I LIVE for Count Chocula. Problem is, the stuff isn’t sold in California. No place in the whole damned state, it seems. I have to smuggle it in from Vegas, Minnesota, North Carolina, or wherever else I happen to be at the moment.

Until this week’s notice from Grant, that is, that boxes could be had for $1.79 at the local dented cans and overstock outlet. I often find odd store brand merchandise from southern institutions like Piggly Wiggly or Winn-Dixie there as well. I have four boxes of the chocolate and marshmallow concoction now. That should last me a while.

While I’m not too old to enjoy the therapeutic powers of Count Chocula, I am DEFINITELY too damned old to be bar hopping and slutting around in the middle of the day. My first trip to My Place on a Friday afternoon proved most illuminating. Most fun I’ve had in a dark bar on a sunny afternoon in quite some time. I usually hate bars in the afternoon; the idea sort of gives me the willies.

But there was the cutest bunch of boys there you ever did see. There was my guest Mickey, a digital friend from San Diego who was getting his first taste of Folsom Street sleaze. There was Scottie, an accommodating little nymphette from Santa Cruz. There was Brian (with whom I have a past which he seems to have forgotten). And there was Johnny from North Dakota and his boyfriend from Texas or wherever.

Somehow, my life is really only decadent when I have company. I’m sure Mickey came out of this thinking that things are always this sleazy and sexy for me, but I can’t remember the last time I came twice in one afternoon (with an audience no less).

Beginner’s luck, of course. If I went back next Friday afternoon, not a damned thing would happen. Maybe I just wanted to show off for my guest. Either way, I was beat afterwards. My nap later in the evening turned into a coma which lasted until this morning. And I only had three beers…

But now I have Count Chocula. All is well…

When the World Saw My Weenie

 

So I was going to babble on about how annoying I find the term “wellness” and about the new Sony Metreon complex in my neighborhood. Feel free to read what I’d completed so far.

But that was before. Before the world saw my weenie.

Those damned folks at Nightcharm. They were so nice. They interviewed me. They reviewed my site. They even put me on the cover. And then they turned around and a published a still photo from a personal home video that Pamela Anderson, Tommy Lee, Brett Michaels, Dr. Laura Schlesinger, and I made in 1994.

It had been such a special and private moment between the five of us. Brett sang “Talk Dirty to Me”. Dr. Laura was behaving in a strangely non-bigoted fashion. Tommy was tied up so he couldn’t hit anyone. And the stories Pam told about those lifeguards!

And now, Nightcharm has ruined it all for me. I may never listen to Poison or watch “Baywatch” again. I may cry.

Is anyone buying this? I didn’t think so. Oh well. I stand exposed…

It’s kind of fun, actually…

A Quandary of Queers, A Lick of Lesbians

Just like we have herds of cattle and flocks of seagulls, I’ve decided that a pack of queers is a “quandary” and a pack of Lesbians is a “lick”. Yes, faggots run in packs. That’s no secret. And it’s also no small source of consternation for me, as a bit of a loner and a hermit.

What really bugs me, though, is the type of fag who goes out to bars with his entourage and cruises up a storm but never once leaves his impenetrable fortress of friends. And then he complains about how he never meets anyone when he goes to bars.

“People cruise me and smile at me, but no one ever talks to me,” the little wanker whines. What the hell does he expect? No one could get near him all night.

I’m sure there’s some sociological explanation for this “herding urge” among Sodomites. And I’m sure it’s related to the reason why some people are completely unable to eat at restaurants alone, go to movies alone, etc. A lot of people seem completely terrified of EVER being alone, particularly in a public place.

Maybe I’m the weirdo here. I almost always go to bars alone, because I almost always go to bars to meet people or to run into acquaintances I wouldn’t see anyplace else. If I want to socialize and converse with friends, a bar would be the last pace I’d do so. Who wants to have a conversation when you have to shout and strain to hear every word?

A case in point from a recent Saturday night: I supsect that the aforementioned whiny wanker (so named because that’s how he’ll end up spending the evening) also wanted to meet people, which is why he came to the bar in the first place. But he was so terrified of being alone (or of being SEEN alone) that he probably didn’t meet ANYONE.

Very few people, in my observation, are willing to walk up to a crowd of strangers and just jump right into the conversation. I’m not. On the other hand, many people will walk upto an individual standing alone (trust me). If the guy above had just once stopped staring a hole in my crotch from within his crowd and had actually walked away and done so away from them, we might be going at it like rabbits even now.

Instead, he chose the coy option I refer to as “cutesy cruising”; he alternated between talking to his pals and staringing pointedly in my direction for 20 minutes, never leaving his perch. I got bored with it and moved on, even though I would like to have met him, particularly given his obvious and intense interest. I found a substitute. I’m sure he went home and pouted because no one would approach him.

A couple of tips:

  • First, try going to bars alone once in a while. Once there, try spending a few minutes not being in the center of a group of friends. Believe it or not, it is quite possible to enjoy being in a bar without spending every minute talking to someone. If nothing else, the people-watching can be fun.
  • If you’re really hot for someone and he’s cruising back, excuse yourself from your circle of friends for a minute. Go to the bar or the bathroom and take your time coming back. Get by yourself for a few minutes.
  • If you can’t do either of the above, then walk over and introduce yourself to the guy. He’s not going to invade your crowd, but you could invade his solitude. If he’s been cruising you too, that’s probably what he’s waiting for.

April Fool

Hee hee hee…

Fifty email messages and counting (which is by far a new Planet SOMA record) about yesterday’s April Fool gag (where I remade Planet SOMA in truly “gay” rainbow-laden style). It was fun. Y’know, it takes a lot of effort to design really ugly web pages. I’ve developed a new respect for those who can do it with a straight face.

I may, however, regret it as I spend Friday ANSWERING those fifty messages. Alas, everyone seemed to “get it” (a testament to the collective IQ of Planet SOMA fans), so there’s no hate mail to publish. But there’s still a few hours to go as I type this.

Recieved the above in the mail today (the REAL mail, with an envelope and a stamp and everything) from Jay. Alas, it was a day late for April Fool’s, but deserves a look anyhow. I guess I’m a real card-carrying homosexual now…

So I guess it’s back now to writing about whatever the hell Planet SOMA is REALLY about. Anybody with any clue what that might be is welcome to contact me. I’m not too sure anymore.

Maybe I’m just feeling blinded by all those animated rainbows…

Kvetching with Kmetko

So apparently I told the anchor of a daily nationwide cable TV show to “bite my ass” via email last night without even knowing who I was talking to at the time.

Before I headed out to the corner bar to celebrate my sexuality last night, I got this email message:

Not all gay people are as educated or sophisticated as you. High standards? Please forgive us, Mr. Snooty Britches. Far be it from me to assign blame, but aren’t you being just a tad self-important?

Celebrate, don’t denigrate. There’s room for all of us. You’re dangerously close to perpetuating the gay stereotype of homosexual cannibalism.

With all due respect, knock it off.

“Celebrate, don’t denigrate”? Give me a fucking break…

I’ll admit I was sort of amused by the “Mr. Snooty Britches” bit , but the “knock it off” bugged me, as did the fact that the poor soul couldn’t even tell me what specifically had pissed him off so much. So I replied, telling him “with all due respect, bite my ass”.

Little did I know, until Sarah pointed it out, that the name was a semi-famous one. A check of my access logs confirmed that I probably was indeed corresponding with the celebrity in question. Now that I know who he is, I’m even more honored to have annoyed him (and no, I’m not mentioning his name).

He wrote back, of course, as do most of the fluffy gay boys who are pissed that I don’t tow the Advocate-style “gay is great, gay is good” party line all the time. And, as usual, he was no more specfic the second time…just bitchier…

Of course, I probably deserved it for not being suitably deferential and for not knowing who the hell he was. Or for (gasp) stooping to criticism of some aspect of our “community”.

Naah. Fuck that. I’ll just look on it as a fun story to tell in bars. Besides, maybe I’ll get some extra hits when he sends all his WeHo clone buddies over to be horrified by my nasty attitude…

At the Laundromat

The uninspiring photos of consumer products continue…

I made my quarterly visit to the laundromat on Sunday. I’d never before hit the place so early (11:30) on a Sunday morning. What an odd cast of characters…

Most prominent was this vapid-looking fag who seemed to have just stepped out of the pages of Circuit Noise or some similar inanity. A classic 90’s clone he was, with his Adidas sweat pants and Kangol cap. I was fascinated by him in a disaster movie kind of way.

To begin with, I couldn’t quite understand how such a party boy could be functional at such an early hour on Sunday. Of course it finally dawned on me that he was probably still experiencing Saturday night at the time. His “designer scruffy” companion definitely looked a little disheveled, sort of like a street person who had nothing but skin care products in his shopping cart and did all his dumpster-diving outside The Gap.

But the thing that really fascinated me was his collection of laundry. How could one person own so damned many tiny little white knit tank tops? Each one he folded obsessively, as if they were later to be shrink-wrapped. It was mind-boggling.

Of course he may have been wondering about all those black T-shirts in my pile too…

There were others: the usual collection of street people, the disarmingly cute Russian guy, the evil bitch who dispenses change with a scowl (if at all), and a large number of Latinos, which is fairly unusual since the Tenderloin is primarily a Southeast Asian and skate rat neighborhood.

I like my laundromat. It’s huge. The machines are in good shape and there are dozens of dryers. And — this is a biggie when you only do laundry every three months — it has a parking lot. I was a little alarmed that I wasn’t very alarmed by very drugged woman who was sobbing loudly in said parking lot. At least she didn’t try to bum a cigarette…

To Have and to Hold

Many gay activists seem to believe that “gay marriage” is the single most important issue facing gay people today. I’m not inclined to agree. While I do believe that same-sex couples in committed relationships should have the same benefits as opposite-sex couples, I’m convinced that a far more important issue is the recognition of the freedom NOT to couple.

Here’s a bold statement: being paired off with a “life partner” or a “soulmate” ot whatever is not the end-all and be-all for everyone on the planet. Coupling is not the right option for everyone at evry phase of life. It’s not even the right option for some people at ANY phase of life.

I’m not sure why this is such a radical notion for some people. Our whole society seems to be designed for cute little pigeon-holed Noah’s Ark pairs, all the way from junior high dances to tandem burial plots. The tax laws favor married heterosexuals (preferably with children). The gay press is increasingly obsessed either with finding a mate or with what to do with one once you succeed. Singles are made to feel uncomfortable when they dine alone, go to movies alone, or when they just want to sit a home alone.

If the entire”gay movement” is about our right to choose our own partners, shouldn’t it naturally follow that we also have a right not to choose anyone? Is this not a valid viewpoint?

I want to make it clear that I’m not against coupling. I know many happy couples, and the happiest seem to be those where each partner has his or her own life. I’m not even averse to the idea of coupling myself at some point. But this notion that “finding the right mate” will somehow be the end of all one’s problems is just plain stupid.

Suppose, say, that my problem is that I’m trying to figure out who I am and who I want to be — not an uncommon problem, I might add. How will having a husband help? If I want emotional support, I go to my friends. Frankly, bringing somene else into this situation would only make things worse.

Once again, I may indeed “couple” at some point. It will obviously not be because I need 24-hour companionship, because I’m usually more happy by myself. It will not be for the tax breaks, because there aren’t any. It will not be beacuse I need a date for the movies or dinner or parties; I’m a big boy and I can do these things by myself. It will not be for sex; that’s why there are sex clubs. It will not be to please Mom and Dad, or (God forbid) to have children.

And it will most definitely not be because “I’m supposed to” or because “that’s what people do”. It will be because I’ve met someone I enjoy being with…someone who doesn’t want to spend every waking moment with me…someone who understands that the first person plural needn’t supercede the first person singular.

I’m not so cynical as to think that most people are in relationships for the aforementioned suspect reasons. I just wish all the “we” people would stop trying to get ME into one for those reasons.

Faux Butch

When I splintered those closet doors at the tender age of 17, people often said to me “I never would have guessed you were gay” (a pretty back-handed compliment if ever there was one). Nowadays, I’m more likely to be told that I’m “masculine”. Hmmm…

I never really thought of myself as “masculine”. It’s certainly nothing I’ve ever aspired to. To be honest, “masculinity” is not something I really give a shit about, whether it’s my own or that of a friend or sex partner. I just don’t really care that much one way or the other.

Granted, it’s annoying to be in a bar full of affected idiots snapping their fingers and squealing “Oh Mary” this and “Miss Thing” that. But that’s not really about “masculinity” or “effeminacy”. It’s all about stupid learned behaviors. It’s no less annoying to be in a bar full of faux butch poseurs. Again, it’s got nothing to do with their “masculinity”, but with their inability to act like anything but cliches.

I’m not really talking about leatherfags here, although I do find the leather scene more comical than erotic most of the time. Leatherfags at least ADMIT that it’s all about costumes and fetishism. Once outside the drag, leatherfags usally have some balance.

No, I’m talking about the poor souls who go through life (both in and out of the bedroom) absolutely obsessed with being “masculine”.

Picture the wannabe frat boy who’s always off to the racquetball court in his monster truck, as if driving a Geo Metro might make his hair turn lavender. Off he flies in search of the latest “outdoorsy” drag from Abercrombie & Fitch, and then off to the gym to work on those grotesque pecs and lats and abs, all the time dreaming of a similarly “masculine” boyfriend. No fats. No fems…

He’s fiercely proud of being gay, and he’s perpetually annoyed by all the drag queens and anyone else who doesn’t meet his standard of “masculinity”. He thinks “fringe groups” present the “wrong image”, although he fancies himself politically progressive. He regularly reminds his straight friends that being gay does not mean being “effeminate”. No fats. No fems…

In bed, he may play “bottom” on occasion, but only with someone even more “masculine” than he is. No fats. No fems…

Think about it for a minute. Is he any less affected than the Southern belle in the pegleg jeans and the Chanel T-shirt? Is he any less contrived than the fey antique shop owner who refers to everyone — male and female — as”she”?

I don’t understand this whole faux butch dynamic. I don’t understand viewing life in terms of “masculine” or “feminine” any more than I understand anyone who describes himself as a “top” or a “bottom”. Maybe I’m missing something.

I’ll take a cute sissy with a personality over a tight-assed drag king with a macho complex any day of the week. As a friend or as a boyfriend…

Gay Resource?

Wow…I’ve discovered that Planet SOMA is now linked by the Advocate as a gay resource. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or horrified. I think I’ll choose “amused”, particularly given all the less than complimetary things I’ve had to say about the Advocate over the years.

Guess their marketing department wasn’t consulted…

Another great discovery today came as I looked for something in “the drawer”. Every house has one; it’s that place where stuff lands when you don’t know what else to do with it. Didn’t find what I was looking for, but we have masking tape. And chopsticks. Who knew…

Road Trip 98 now includes the first parts of the Minnesota story. Seems it’s going to take me as long to get the trip online as it did to actually take the trip.