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Fair’s A-Comin’

Folsom Street Fair weekend has arrived. I’m having a hard time deciding if I should leave town Saturday or just wait and flee on the actual day of the event.

Decisions, decisions…

It’s been an incredibly busy week, both at the part-time job and on the web design side of things. My apologies to everyone to whom I owe email. I’m planning to try and catch up today before the exodus and before a possible afternoon “coffee moment” with my pal Mark. I offer no guarantees though, only more apologies if I don’t succeed.

I do, however, promise to write something a little more interesting than quickie journal entries in the next few days. OK…maybe “promise” is too strong a word…

Anybody got any information on weather conditions in the Wyoming Rockies in late October and early November?

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…

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…

On Personal Ads

I read the personal ads once in a while. It’s pretty much more for amusement than out of any quest for “the right man”, for a couple of reasons. The first is pretty simple; I’m not really looking for “the right man”.

Reason number two is that somehow I never seem to qualify as worthy of attention in these ads. Seems I just don’t measure up. Or don’t want to. Does anyone?

Let’s take a close look at the typical gay personal ad.

GWM, straight acting/straight appearing, seeks same..

First of all, I guess I am a “GWM”, though it’s definitely not the primary way I’d identify myself. I’m not sure what “straight acting” means to this guy, but to me it means he’s an asshole. How exactly does he “act straight”? By lying to his friends and dating women he feels nothing for? By being “butch”? By pretending he likes football when he really wants to go to the opera?

“..35 (look 26), attractive…

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a personal ad from an unattractive person. Or from one who looks his age.

“..not into “scene”, looking for friendship first and then maybe more… 

Isn’t that just so fucking coy you could puke? Gimme a break. He’s looking to get laid. If it’s fun, he might want to do it again. And just what “scene” is he so not into? Would that be bars? Or bathhouses? Or alleys? Or poetry readings? Bake-offs maybe?

…Me: gym toned body . You: height proportionate to weight…

God knows this is important to any loving relationship. If the body types don’t match, what else is there?

…professional and career-oriented…

Translation: “yuppie corporate suckup”. In other words: “my job comes first and you get the crumbs”. And in extreme cases: “I am incapable of conversing about anything not work-related”.

…love long walks in the park, candlelight dinners, the Sunday New York Times in bed…

Even if someone really likes this stuff, it’s such a cliche as to become an instant turnoff. Jeez…

If you’re (insert age range younger than the age of the advertiser), hot, and ready to commit for a lifetime…

Why, of course! I’m itching to give you the rest of my life just from this tremendously appealing ad. Really. But since I’m approximately two months older than you, I guess that’s out of the question since I’m no longer “hot”. Pity.

I will say that it’s very comforting to know that all the people posting personal ads are so young, attractive, healthy, financially stable and emotionally centered. And all of them so relationship-oriented. And moral. Veritable poster children for the Advocate’s version of queerdom.

I guess there’s something wrong with me for not finding most of these clones particularly appealing. Especially when they post their ads online to inappropriate newsgroups. But that’s another story…

A few suggestions on placing ads:

  • If you’re looking for a relationship, it might be a good idea to tell something about yourself AS A PERSON. Your vital stats are a nice touch, but (I hope) most people who want to “settle down” are looking for more than just a warm (firm…trim…proportionate…) body.
  • If you’re looking for sex, a few interests (sex-related) might be nice as well, for the same reasons.
  • No “moonlight walks on the beach”, “candlelight dinners for two”, or “looking for that special someone”. If you are no more creative than this, maybe you SHOULD stick to vital stats.
  • The “1962 model (insert name of car)” bit has been done to death. Skip it, wouldja please?
  • The “I’m writing this for a friend…” bit has also been done to death.
  • Many publications will no longer let you say “no fats, no fems, no (insert minority)”. I like these publications.
  • If “dominant/top” is among the first three words in your ad, it’s pretty obvious that you’re more interested in sex than a relationship. This is fine, but it’s a little transparent to lie about it.
  • “Complete discretion and satisfaction assured” makes you sound like a prostitute. Again fine, but you may alienate people who aren’t looking to pay for this guarantee.
  • Don’t be surprised if your ad pops up someplace other tan where you sent it. I had a friend who was really freaked out once to find an ad he placed in a small regional paper appearing in a national porn magazine.
  • Don’t post your goddamn personal ad on a newsgroup which is clearly devoted to some other subject. No one cares. You will be flamed. You will deserve it.

And on answering ads:

  • Like everything else, ads which say “too good to be true” generally are, and there’s at least a 50% chance that you “won’t like what you see” no matter what the ad promises.
  • If you do not in any way match the attributes requested in the ad, it’s pretty pointless to respond, now isn’t it?
  • People stretch the truth in personal ads. This is a fact of life. Be prepared to add 3 years and 20 pounds to your mental picture of the advertiser. Also be prepared to subtract about 10-15 IQ points.
  • Be descriptive in your response. Otherwise you’ll probably end up in the “so what” pile who never hears back from the advertiser.

I Was a Teenage Tearoom Queen

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This article was also published using actual ink on actual paper in 1997 in a North Carolina zine called Preparation X. It reflects a time and place in my life that its long past. Although it’s not something I regret, it’s also not a scene I pursue these days.

I was sixteen years old the first time I had sex in a public restroom. Predictably, it was at the mall. The basement of Montgomery Ward’s at Carolina Circle Mall in Greensboro NC to be precise. I later learned that this particular men’s room was a pretty lame cruising ground. Four Seasons Mall was much better, and it also provided a much enhanced shopping experience in between sessions.

There were many rules to this game, the first one being that not calling attention to oneself while entering and leaving the restroom was tremendously important. I never once had a serious brush with the law or with mall security mostly because I was cool enough not to lurk outside the door and keep going in and out, etc. It was also important to flush all those notes written on toilet paper (“Do you suck?”) and clean up the floor after you finished.

Technique and sign language and visual cues became very important as I grew more accomplished. Rule number two was that appropriate footwear was absolutely essential. Nothing pointed out a troll like cheap sneakers from Pic-n-Pay or K-Mart, topped out with dark blue dress socks. This being the pre-Doc Martens era of the early 80’s, any boots other than the cowboy or hiking variety signaled trouble as well.

Timing was important. On Friday and Saturday nights, the high school “hangout” nights, there was never anything much going on. Everyone was afraid of being caught, I guess. I always had my best luck on Sunday afternoons.

Location was an issue too. Penney’s and Sears seemed to be big draws just about everywhere, maybe because they spent less money on security and usually had bigger restrooms with better designs. I’ve heard stories about really active K-mart stores in small towns. Of course I was later to learn that college campuses could be even more fun.

The goal, of course, was to find someone your own age or reasonably close. Strangely enough, this was often not all that difficult; I learned some of my best moves from a 14-year-old I met at Penney’s when I was 17.

Since HIV was not an issue yet, there were tons of guys roaming around, representing every possible point on the old Kinsey scale. Rule number three was that the queers all said they were “bi” and the straight boys never said anything at all. Neither did one of my married teachers when I ran into him. My ethics prevented me from mating with Mr. D, though I sensed he was less concerned than I.

All in all, it was a pretty strange culture. It was usually very anonymous, although my personal rule was never to “do it” unless I’d at least gotten a glimpse of a face. Despite this fact, I did manage to meet some of my partners and I remain friends with a few of them to this day. The sex was adventurous (particularly given that the two individuals involved were separated by a wall) and dangerous. And it was usually pretty damned fun.

Of course, if all else failed, you could still go shopping…

Since I’ve gotten older and moved to San Francisco (where you can pick up guys at the bus stop), I’ve moved away from the tearoom scene. But these were a few of my favorites from my youth in North Carolina:

Four Seasons Mall, Greensboro:

This was where I really learned “the art”. I could be found here a lot as a high school senior, especially since I worked in the mall. My favorite was Ivey’s (now Dillard’s) before it was remodeled. I met lots of my favorites here including a couple of still current friends. Fond memories:

  • Mark: We met and retired to my car for a drive to some nearby woods when I was 17 and he was a year or two younger. I was amazed that he was so accomplished (and such a slut). This was the first time I ever “swallowed”.
  • Darrell: Short kid with a monster dick. We actually carried on an affair of sorts for a while. He was one of the only people who I ever enjoyed being fucked by.
  • Unnamed redneck boy: He worked at McCrory’s. We met after he got off and went to my car. We met again a year or so later and did it in his pickup truck, him feigning heterosexuality at the time. Then a couple of years later when we were both “of age”, we met again in a bar. He’d gotten over his bout with heterosexuality and was now begging to be treated roughly. I accommodated as best I could.

Carolina Circle Mall, Greensboro:

This was the first place I “did it” in a mall at age 16. I’ve never had good luck there since.

University of North Carolina at Greensboro:

Aah the stories I could tell. The basement of Elliott Center. The library. I got together with every kind of people here in combinations of two, three, four, and more, including (I later discovered) with several friends who were in severe denial about their sexuality. A few interesting moments:

  • The shoe guy: He was a severe foot/shoe fetishist, about 22, who liked to lick my hightops and feel the soles of my feet. Then he wanted me to come on him while he did it. He was fun and always came around on Sunday nights. I always went sockless these nights for his benefit
  • The “tell me a story” guy: Little frat-boy guy who liked to be told dirty stories (which he always directed to the subject of dildoes). This was a little scary, as you never knew who was listening.
  • The exhibitionist: This was a really cute guy about 18, who would do damn near anything as long as someone else was watching. He wouldn’t do a damned thing otherwise.
  • The professor: This man defined the term “troll”. He was uglier than sin and about 107 years old. He’d learned the “footwear rule” and tricked a few unsuspecting souls this way, but usually he just grabbed a middle stall and kept anyone else from doing anything by perpetually and consciously getting in the way. I disliked him intensely and told him so on one or two occasions.

Duke University, Durham:

Duke had the most incredible collection of tearooms I’ve ever seen. I engaged in uninterrupted orgies in the basement of the library and Page Auditorium. Dozens of cute little rich boys were there for the taking on Sunday afternoons. These were the only tearooms I even saw where fucking was a major menu item. Some highlights:

  • The trekkie: A very cute little hippie-deadhead boy. I bent him over a toilet and fucked him for all he was worth on a couple of occasions. He gave me his phone number once, warning me never to call between 7 and 8 because he never missed “Star Trek”. Unfortunately, the one time I did call him, there was a marathon going on. He wanted me to call back in two days. I declined.
  • The drunk: Saw him twice. He was pretty unremarkable except for the fact that he always passed notes under the stall which asked “want a beer?”. I always opted against ‘cuz they were always warm.

Other spots:

Had some interesting moments as well at Eastland and South Park Malls in Charlotte, as well as Crabtree Valley in Raleigh and South Square in Durham. It was fun being a teenager with a car…

I sometimes wonder now if this scene has evaporated now, a victim of HIV and savvy restroom designers, or if I’ve just grown out of it.

Celebrating Our Sexuality

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?

Pride

Break out the tank tops, the rainbow flags, the freedom rings, the pecs, and the drugs. Gay Day is coming to San Francisco. Market Street will be magically converted into a giant disco. This is the weekend every gay commercial institution in the city lives for. There will be dance clubs running pretty much twenty-four hours a day, gay pride massage specials, and attractive four-color flyers all over town showing the buff disco boys and rainbow colors (that’s ink…not skin…) which are the absolute definition of “Gay San Francisco”.

Big fuckin’ deal.

OK…I’ll admit that Pride Weekend is no more or less commercialized than any other major urban street fair. I can get past the fact that two of the biggest sponsors are breweries and a third is a distillery (although an email correspondent quips “don’t fags ever buy GROCERIES?”). I can ignore the bars and businesses along the parade route which suddenly sprout heretofore unseen rainbow flags for the weekend. They’re seizing an opportunity to make a quick buck, whic not a bad thing in itself.

I’m not even worried about the “freak show” the media will portray. Frankly, they usually showcase a level of humor and diversity of thought which is often sadly underplayed in the actual monotony of the parade. Contrary to popular belief, the parade is neither a celebration of perversion nor a demonstration of strength and diversity. It’s not really anything but a long and usually boring procession of bar floats, politicians, and “people with labels”.

So what is this “pride” thing anyway? I know it’s an unpopular notion, but is one’s sexual orientation anything to be proud of, per se? Granted, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, either. Nor to be hidden. But does “being gay” automatically confer a sense of community on those to whom it happens? I don’t think so. Frankly, I find that I have very little in common with my “community”; maybe I missed the ceremony…

Yes, it is true that gay people are discriminated against every day and in many ways. Equal rights legislation and a change in prejudiced attitudes are absolutely necessary. But, contrary to the “groupthink” inherent to the SF parade, gay white men are not the most oppressed group on the face of the planet. Especially not in San Francisco. And let’s face it: Pride Weekend here (and in New York and Los Angeles) is largely about professional gay white men.

Perhaps in some smaller cities and towns, there’s some validity to the notion of a gay parade to promote a sense of visibility and community. But in San Francisco, the whole event is about throwing a big party and showing off how beautiful and buff and out and gay we all are. And making a buck.

I’m in favor of partying, although Pride Weekend doesn’t provide a lot of opportunities which are to my liking. I’m usually in favor of making a buck too. But let’s not delude ourselves into thinking that this thing has anything much to do with “community”.

So celebrate on…just make sure you know WHAT you’re celebrating.

The Ideal Personal Ad

An ideal personal ad I’d respond to (Spring 1997):

Cynical queer loner, 32, recently committed to polygamy and recreational sex, seeks individual to challenge my resolve. Thoroughly bored with bars and sex clubs, but be forewarned: I’m not convinced a monogamous relationship is the right move for me now. Interests: road trips, lowbrow culture, text-based communication, obscure pop music, The Simpsons, and more. Zero tolerance for drug drama, pretentiousness, career or gym addiction, or attitude. Understand that I will eat meat and smoke cigarettes in your presence, and that I will not be willing to spend every waking minute of my life with you. Do not expect adventures on the great outdoors or candlelit dinners. Do expect drive-in movies, noisy bands, and Pinky and the Brain on Saturday morning. Sexual creativity a plus. Ability to be happy eating at Denny’s and Burger King essential. If you’re “straight acting and appearing”, you need to go have an affair with a woman and leave me the fuck alone.

An ideal personal ad I’d respond to (Summer 1996):

Queer-acting, queer-appearing omnivorous male into sleazy bars, pop culture, road trips, and “The Simpsons”. Hate long walks in the park and the “great outdoors” means an alley off Folsom Street. Meet me for dinner at Denny’s. We’ll have sex first and then see if friendship develops. I’m sometimes moody but generally cheerful, feel love intensely when I feel it at all, and have no patience with one-sided relationships. No gym clones, granolas, fashion victims, or people who act their ages. If you need drugs to have a good time, please do so with someone else. Must understand the irony of MTV planning a new channel which actually plays music videos. Understanding irony in general is also nonnegotiable.

An actual personal ad I placed online (Fall 1995):

MY STATS: Sodomite WM 30 (look 29 1/2), 6’2″, 195#, brown hair/eyes, stubbly goatee and head, lousy housekeeper, employed and in no major financial difficulty (for a change)

LIKES: Fog, Dragnet reruns, sleazy bars, Target, the occasional sex club, fast food, almost any boy on a skateboard, Camel Lights, roadside culture, Henry Weinhardts Red, okra, offbeat music (KABL to KALX), Converse hightops, funny porn, long-haired boys, grits, stubble-headed boys, driving aimlessly, cartoons, group sex, old movies, and white trash.

DISLIKES: Nature, Republicans, severe potheads, the Castro, sushi, people who act their age, romantic candlelight dinners, country music recorded after 1965, the Dead (as in Grateful), rabid Vegans, overabundant sunshine, upwardly mobile persons employed in finance, most art galleries, little rat dogs, and white trash wannabes.

WILL NOT TOLERATE: “Straight acting/appearing”, speed freaks, Southern Baptists, and closets.

LOOKING FOR: Well…I’m not sure. Someone maybe to have adventures with, to explore San Francisco’s hidden alcohol subculture with, or even just sleep with on a regular, sporadic, or one-time basis. (You maybe figured out by now that a one-on-one monogamous thing is not exactly what I’m looking for, but it’s not entirely out of the question, I guess.) I would prefer that you be in the 22-32 age range, open to experimentation, and not full of yourself, but I’m willing to negotiate. If you’re intrigued, interested, or curious, e-mail me. If I’ve pissed you off with my dislikes and lack of tolerance and sensitivity, then DON’T, ‘cuz I don’t care.

An actual personal ad I placed (Fall 1989):

Slightly depraved GWM, 24, cynical, sedate, and relatively harmless, into unnerving music, shocking video, stimulating conversation, sleazy bars,and okra, seeks similar individual with whom to share these interests and perhaps others. Basic intelligence and political awareness a plus. Coke heads, Republicans, and other losers need not apply. Respond creatively.

Avoiding the Bars

OK…here’s how this rant started at 3PM:

Good weekend. The weather’s nice, I got laid, the roommate got laid, the boys are semi-naked and the tearooms are hopping in Central park (oops…wrong city), a friend in Georgia is emailing me some decent grits, the Tories lost control of Parliament, I saw a good movie with friends, and “Married With Children” finally ends tonight after an interminably long run on Fox. What more could I ask?

OK…things might be better if said roommate would get off the phone so I could go eat, but this is a minor thing…

By the time I got home from “happy hour” Sunday evening, this is how my mood had changed:

If San Francisco is such a fucking fabulous queer “mecca”, and is the “greatest place in the world to be gay”, why is it that so many of us feel such a need to perpetually anesthetize ourselves in order to enjoy it? Or would that be “to tolerate it”?

Kinda makes you wonder why I bother going out, doesn’t it? I think last night just presented me with one “drunken idiot” too many (with two of them being idiotic drunken ex-“boyfriends”, for lack of a better term). A few too many glassy eyes. Way too much reefer aroma. I’m even learning to ignore the tweakers. Again I ask, if it’s so wonderful, why does everyone have to get trashed and act like such complete slugs to deal with it?

And it’s not just the bars I’m talking about. Sometimes it seems like half the city is damn near catatonic for the bulk of the day. Everyone’s stoned here. Does this not suggest some slight problems with the reality of the city, causing people to try and esacpe it?

All this — combined with my current homophobic state of mind — has convinced me it’s time to take a little break from the neighborhood watering holes. And maybe from San Francisco. And DEFINITELY from the little ordered and segregated and self-destructive world of SF queerdom.

To clarify, I’m not speaking from an “I don’t drink” soapbox. In fact, the scariest thing about the whole evening was how much I actually DID drink as a reaction. OK, maybe even scarier was the desire I felt to throw and/or break things. This sensation, alas, subsided before I could drag myself to the Castro, where it might have been more productive.

Lest this start sounding like an “origins of punk”piece from 1976 or a Queer nation pamphlet from 1990 or an AA brochure, I’ll move on now…

As for Friday night’s sexcapades, all I’ll say is that when this boy (who looked a little too much like a club kid for comfort on first glance) put in the AC/DC CD first thing, I knew everything was gonna be OK.

And as to the Sunday night fiasco, don’t look for me to be drinking on Folsom Street for a while. Time to find a new hobby.

The Gay Press: What I’m Not Reading This Week

The Advocate has been redesigned. Color me unimpressed. This magazine, which has been totally irrelevant to me since about 1983, now comes in a glossier, more graphically pleasing format. More in tune with the upscale professional lifestyle we urban gay men lead. The “heterosexual of the month” covers will have more shelf appeal. The marketing people have won. Note this announcement about news content from a recent editorial:

The Advocate has always been the leading source of in-depth analysis and original investigative reporting–the kind of forward-thinking news organization our discriminating readers demand. And now, beginning with this issue, in order to add new vibrancy to the way we do this, we’re pleased to debut a striking redesign…

The arts and media section has been expanded and integrated into the news section. Since gay arts and media stories can be significant political and social events, the new design does not draw conventional lines between news and entertainment. The most visible example of this philosophy is that The Buzz — where we report the inside scoop on the spiciest gay entertainment news — has been moved to the front of the magazine.

Isn’t that fabulous? At the Advocate, they know what’s really important. When we get tired of reading hard news, we can simply skip to the Madonna item on the next paragraph. Wow!! She’s REAL news. So is the White Party. And the latest dish on Ellen…

Not, of course, that this trend has been limited to the Advocate. Checked out your local news lately? Or better still, “Hard Copy”? OK…maybe O.J. Simpson really was the single most important news story of the past two years, but somehow I doubt it.

Lest I sound like I’m against the idea of a gay entertainment publication, I’m not. I more or less write one. What bugs me is that the Advocate has the audacity to call itself a NEWS magazine for the gay “community”, when essentially it has metamorphosized into a queer version of People or Entertainment Weekly, targeted at a very specific audience.

Which is all fine and dandy; that’s what today’s media marketing frenzy is all about. That’s the reason that instead of “rock” stations, “pop” stations, “country” stations, and “R&B” stations, we now have “alternative adult contemporary hits” stations (which translates to mellow “new wave” for those in their late 20’s and early 30’s) and “classic hits of the 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s with no be-bop or hard rock” stations. To question this would be to question all of advertising and demographic research.

But I digress. I was talking about news.

When I was a young fag, reading the Advocate was so much better than reading the local gay rags. The Advocate was real news, while the local papers were full of drag show reviews, bar openings, and tons of wire copy. The few local news stories were so biased and boosterish that they wouldn’t have passed muster in my junior high journalism class. A lot of the local gay press still is victim to this phenomenon — especially the “if it’s gay it has to be good no matter how bad it is” mentality.

The Advocate stood up for the “community” too. But it was different. It took more than 15 minutes to read a full issue. It said something.

No more, I guess.