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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…

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…

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…

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.

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…

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…

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!”

Avoiding Pride

For a few minutes this morning, I seriously thought about making signs and marching in the “people with labels” parade. Some possibilities I considered:

  • Proud of Our Internalized Homophobia
  • Acronym Power!
  • Transgendered Lesbian Caregivers To Supportive Straight People Living With Bad Credit

I figured I could find at least one or two people to march with. Maybe it’s best I skipped the whole thing, though. As originally planned, I didn’t even go to the damned parade and I still managed to be annoyed by it on three separate occasions this weekend.

On Saturday, I was at the library doing a bit of research for an upcoming project. My cubbyhole was apparently directly above “Thumping Disco-schlock Stage #3”. Concentration was not enhanced.

On Sunday, I had to change plans twice, the first casualty being some errands in the ‘burbs requiring my car. I was afraid to leave the house, fearing I’d probably have to park in Oakland when I returned. Apparently, the parade route has changed and my neighborhood has become the unoffical parking lot for all the idiots who were too stupid to walk or take transit to the parade.

So I decided to walk back to the library instead. It was closed, due to the very self-same parade. I muttered and bitched as I walked through the outskirts of the “festivities” and the several hundred thousand proud gay men (all of whom seemed to have purchased identical white tank tops for the occasion) and set out on one of my long walks instead.

All in all, not a bad day. My hike took me through the Tenderloin, the Western Addition, the Haight, and the Mission. I took great pictures. I remembered my sunblock this time. I even sweated a little. And I only got panhandled six times in four-plus hours.

Exosphere is today’s “link du jour”. You gotta love a site where the first sentence reads “This site has typos. Deal.”

Not in on the Joke

Did you ever get the feeling there was some sort of running gag and that YOU were the punchline? I’ve decided that’s how I feel in most social situations, particularly those involving he-faggots.

I know it’s not really true. I realize that most people at the average bar, party, or whatever don’t give a rat’s ass about me one way or the other. But I still feel that everyone’s looking at me or laughing at me or thinking “what a putz”. The feeling’s usally much more prevalent in queer bars, but it can happen anywhere.

Never having really been the sociable sort (despite some valiant charades), I think I’ve never become really comfortable with the idea that any group of people might actually want me to be a part of it. Of course, it all goes back to junior high and self-esteem issues (insert appropriate psychobabble here), but you’d think I might have gotten past it by now.

Of course, there are benefits. When Mr. Right shows up in a bar, I’m usually not surrounded by an impenetrable entourage. I’ve also managed to forge a certain appealing aloofness out of this particular neurosis. Or so I’ve convinced myself…

All the same, though, it might be nice to wander up to a group of acquaintances without feeling I was butting in and being barely tolerated. I also get the same feeling almost any time I have to call someone the phone, oddly enough. It’s a feeling I’ve been having weekly (or more) for almost twenty years now, and I think I’m ready to be rid of it.

Murder


Photo courtesy Sarah

Someone I know in North Carolina was murdered recently. It’s a little disturbing to me for two reasons. The first stems from the fact that the victim was, frankly, not someone that I particularly liked. Thus, I’m not sure exactly which emotion is required at this point. The other is that this is the second time in as many years that a violent death has hit my circle of friends in Greensboro.

The newspapers aren’t mentioning it (yet) but it’s pretty apparent that either sex, drugs, or both were major factors. Sex and drugs go hand in hand for lots of my fellow sodomites in the south (and everywhere else). The “restless rednecks” stereotype is more apt than many would care to admit.

I worry about a lot of my friends back home, for whom obliterating reality seems to have become the only way of coping with life. The image becomes even sharper as most of the new friends I make have (like me) abandoned the whole recreational drug scene years ago, looking on it as a pastime more suited to high school and college than to everyday adult life.

It disturbs me when I go home and see friends for whom nothing ever really changes, except the current venue for partying or the currently fashionable party favors.

Granted, I don’t even smoke pot, I rarely drink more than a beer or two anymore, and sex has become (at best) a peripheral interest for me lately. I don’t think this makes me a superior human being. I’m not interested in being a crusader. I realize that I haven’t made such a tremendous success of my life either.

But I do worry. Especially when people start getting brutally murdered for no apparent reason other than for bringing home the wrong boy…