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29 June 2004
I saw Bill Clinton yesterday.
And pictures are up from the Forgotten Opera Ball.
27 June 2004
Happy Gay Day! Happy 228th Birthday to San Francisco!
After the farmers' market I headed to the Castro on Saturday
to see my last two movies in the film festival this year. They were running late, but it was sunny and the street was thronged.
I whiled away the time counting former tricks pass by. The first movie was forgettable; the second, “Hellbent,” a gay slasher movie, was loads of fun. I went to bed early, missing a late-night phone call from my Future Canadian
Boyfriend. Fuck.
I wasn’t going to go to the Parade at all this year,
but it was so sunny and warm when I got up that I sewed the button back on my tuxedo (ripped off by Mr. Big last Saturday),
got on my bike, and rode with Mikes on Bikes again. Our assembly area was sandwiched next to the gay line dancers, Bruce Vilanch, a lesbian drumming group (or cult),
Alan Cummings, three or four very earnest squads of gay cheerleaders, and the Dykes on Bikes.
I like Mikes on Bikes because it’s a trace of what
the parade should be in San Francisco and what used it to be: Gay Freedom Day. There are no politics in “Pride," which
is why it is the wrong organizing principle. The parade should be about having the freedom to be gay and to be yourself, not
"pride" in something that you cannot properly be proud of (or ashamed about). Gay
Freedom Day means no corporate sponsors, and no oxymoronic “Official Pride Merchandise Booth.” Take down the barricades and be the parade, my fellow fags!
After a post-prandial nap, I walked back over to the
Civic Center for a few hours, hung out with the usual suspects, and meandered home for a pre-bedtime nap.
23 June 2004
A woman in line with me today at the Hall of Justice tried
to pick me up. She was from Oregon, so she didn’t realize that a nicely groomed man in a Bradfordian outfit (purple shirt with French cuffs) would probably not be interested in availing himself of her charms or her bare
midriff. I got out of jury duty (I think). A short criminal trial would have been fun, but not one that will last until mid-July...
I got my pre-Parade haircut, my last haircut until I shave
it off again. I can’t wait to see the pictures of my Future Canadian Husband with a shaved head...
22 June 2004
I'm counting the days. School starts in about eight weeks. I'm leaving
work in about six weeks. I love my job (most of the time). The two other managers at work told me today that they were going
to write to my law school to convince the dean of admissions to rescind my acceptance (on the grounds of "low moral character")
so that I wouldn't leave the project.
The next phase of my life is about to begin; this one is ending. I'll probably
never cook professionally on a regular basis again. I won't have a regular job for a few years. I won't have much of an income
for a few years. I won't be in my thirties by the time I finish school.
In other news, I haven't gone on a date in
how long? Five months? I now have the phone numbers of two guys who are interested (a friend of a friend and Mr. Big from
last weekend), but I haven't "gotten around" to calling either one. Why not? Good question. I'm seeing Dr. Melfi tomorrow;
maybe he'll know.
20 June 2004
Happy Father’s Day to whom among my readers it applies.
Where have I been? Thursday night was the opening night of
the Gay & Lesbian Film Festival. This is my thirteenth year as a member; Steve got me started. He was one of those people who always scheduled ten vacation
days at the end of June to coincide with the film festival so that he could see as many movies as possible. I arrived before
B., got my favorite seats, the ones Steve and I always tried to get — front row of the balcony, right side — and
left the theater to have a pre-film martini (gin, of course) at Twin Peaks. The first one tasted so good I had another. The
opening night film, Touch of Pink, was fluff, but not bad, and since it was set partly in Toronto, the Canadian consulate sponsored the showing (in other words,
they paid for it with some of their cute little money). I can’t imagine an American consulate sponsoring a gay movie
at a gay film festival in Toronto or Vancouver or Montreal. Just one more thing to love about Canada. B. and I decided that
the party afterwards was devoid of future BF material, so we decamped early. On Friday night, I saw a great documentary about
Fire Island, When Ocean Meets Sky.
I rushed to the Castro after the farmers’ market on
Saturday morning to see the program of Boys’ Shorts, but the films were uniformly disappointing. I worked at the restaurant
(frisée salad with pickled cherries, roasted figs, and a lovely liver toast) that night. I came home, showered and shaved,
and changed into my tuxedo. The Forgotten Opera II ball was a blast. Almost everyone was in elaborate costumes. The few who came in street clothes looked silly. It was
about 60% gay, 40% straight, and it reminded me why I love living in San Francisco. I saw lots of the cool freaks from the
gym. And, Dear Diary, touching ensued, some of which may have been inappropriate, given the location. He came back to my place,
which was embarrassing, because my apartment looks like some drug addicts have been squatting there. We didn’t get much
sleep.
I went to my parents’ today for Fathers’ Day
and to see my little nephew. I had to take a nap in the middle of the proceedings, but I didn’t say, “Sorry, Dad,
but some 230-lb. 6-foot-4 guy kept me awake last night.” He (the sleepover, not my dad) left his leather mask at my
house, so I know we’ll have to get together again.
16 June 2004
I picked up a copy of Tender is the Night yesterday
and I can’t put it down. I hated Gatsby when I was forced to read it in high school. This is so much better.
One jewel-like sentence after another.
On an impulse I got a ticket for Forgotten Opera. I got the discounted ticket to force myself to dress up. After work today I cancelled my gym membership downtown and headed
to Goodwill with a goal and a budget: a drag outfit or a tuxedo for less than $20. It
says a lot that I found my tuxedo in the women’s section. It looks like something Duran Duran would have worn at a wedding
in Hong Kong in 1983. An odd polyester crepe, with super-wide shoulders, high-waisted pants with a vestigial built-in cummerbund,
and tapered legs. It fits me perfectly. I’m thinking of going shirtless (so tacky), but this is hopefully the one occasion
in my life I could get away with it.
15 June 2004
I’m still recuperating from Vancouver. I left work
a little early on Friday to catch my plane. My friends called as I was walking off the plane (one always feels so important
when one’s phone rings when one is walking down the jetway). The customs official kept asking me lots of questions
about why I was going to Canada for only three days, who I was staying with, how did I know him, and so on, and so forth.
When he finally asked where I’d be staying, and I responded “Coal Harbor,” he shut up, scribbled something
on my declaration form, and waved me on without another word. My host and his consort were waiting for me at the airport.
We went directly to Coast in Yaletown (overwrought food (flank steak with crab and a gorgonzola sauce and a roasted tomato
and one fig (!)), smelly oil-burning lamps on the table, ridiculous hippie bread), but a lively crowd of bright young things
and a decent décor scheme. We skipped dessert in lieu of port. We went home to
change and a little nasal decongestant pick-me-up. Then off to the Odyssey (no waiting in line for us, thanks to the consort),
for more pre-NAFTA music. I tried to pick up my second choice of Future Canadian Boyfriend, but he was very self-contained,
so I got nowhere. My first choice of FCB (tall, blondish, hunky) I basically ignored, even though he was smiling at me, since
I was under the impression that he was straight. Alas, when I saw his business card back at my host’s the next morning,
I learned that he’s bi. Fuck fuck fuck.
Saturday, my host made a lovely breakfast, in much the same
manner as our mutual friend who introduced us: hummus, tomatoes, and feta cheese in a little meze platter, a fruit salad,
slow-cooked buttery eggs, toasted bagels, and a caffè macchiato each. We then
rode our bikes across the West End, along English Bay, and across the Burrard Street Bridge, to the Granville Island Market,
which was much nicer than I had expected. Beautiful looking organic beef. Delicious charcuterie at Oyama. I could not resist buying some mangosteens, since they are illegal in the US. They weren’t as tasty as I had hoped. On the way home, we stumbled across a lovely
cheese shop on an unlovely street, and had a long discussion with the staff about why there was no good, genuine bread in Vancouver.
They warned us that the natives would get huffy if we were to tell them that Vancouver had no bread culture. I wish I
had listened to that advice.
After a nap we went to Fitness World for a workout, and I
saw several potential FCBs. We arrived home just before the guests came for the wine-and-wedge potluck. The wines were as
varied as the cheeses. The couple I liked the most (cool, smart, sexy, sly) gave me the cold shoulder when I gently mentioned
something about “hippie bread.” After about a bottle each (and my first cigarette in six months), and more nasal
decongestant, we headed out for the Tokyo Lounge and then the Odyssey (again). The consort and his friends saw no point in
waiting in the long line. We went to the door, they murmured something to the bouncer, and we were in. The glamour of it all.
We stayed till closing, came home, and talked till dawn. I couldn’t get a later flight back (thanks, United) so I left
before I wanted to, before we could get a chance to go for a sail, but not before a visit to the boat.
My host lives in a high-floor condo with views down Georgia
Street and views over Stanley Park and views over Coal Harbor to the snow-capped mountains beyond. He’s very, very tidy.
I live in a tiny, messy, cluttered, drafty, view-less apartment where the water heater nestles in the kitchen between the
stove and the fridge. His mortgage is probably about the same as my rent. We’re about the same age. Invidious comparisons:
don’t go there, I kept telling myself. I can keep the place tidier, even if I can’t afford a maid. I can clear
my clutter (with feng shui). I can get more sleep.
14 June 2004
I had a great time in Vancouver, despite the rain. I learned
the hard way not to criticize the bread (guess what, hippies, more is not better) or make references to “your cute
little money,” even when I meant it in a nice way. The music mostly sucked, but no one seemed to mind. More later. I’m
sleep deprived.
11 June 2004
My bag is packed, I’ve located my passport, and I’m
leaving work early for a quick trip to the land of pancakes.
10 June 2004
For Steve, my sweet baby (never again on earth responding)
26 October 1961 - 10 June 1996:
VIGIL strange I kept on the field
one night:
When you, my son and my comrade, dropt at my side that day,
One look I but gave, which your dear eyes return’d, with
a look I shall never forget;
One touch of your hand to mine, O boy, reach’d up as you
lay on the ground;
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle;
Till late in the night reliev’d, to the place at last again
I made my way;
Found you in death so cold, dear comrade—found your body,
son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding;)
Bared your face in the starlight—curious the scene—cool
blew the moderate night-wind;
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battlefield
spreading;
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night;
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh—Long, long
I gazed;
Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning
my chin in my hands;
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest
comrade—Not a tear, not a word;
Vigil of silence, love and death—vigil for you my son and
my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole;
Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was
your death,
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living—I think
we shall surely meet again;)
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn
appear’d,
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully
under feet;
And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his
grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited;
Ending my vigil strange with that—vigil of night and battlefield
dim;
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding);
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain—vigil I never forget, how
as day brighten’d,
I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his
blanket,
And buried him where he fell.
--Whitman, Leaves of Grass
8 June 2004
Well, OK, I was feeling a little under-appreciated and dispirited,
but that changed. Just before I woke up I dreamed that I had turned 40, and that the next milestone in my life would be turning
50 (pause to catch my breath here). But then I woke up and realized that I’m still technically in my thirties, and I
was in a good mood the rest of the day. A little touching ensued when I didn’t expect it (two at once, but I’m
a piggy), and then a dinner at Hawthorne Lane, where, in the men’s room, I
had an Adam moment when a hottie came in, stood next to me, pissed, and then engaged in an elaborate pants-re-buttoning and shirt-tucking
routine. WTF? What kind of freak undoes his pants and belt and untucks his shirt
to pee at a urinal in a fancy restaurant? Despite all that, he was a shaved-head muscle puppy, and I would have done him in a
minute.
And Reagan’s still dead. Who could have asked for a
nicer present? I had a lovely time today announcing to the whole staff that
even though Friday would be a federal holiday, we’d still be open for business. I told them that they were welcome to
take the day off if they needed to mourn, but it wouldn’t be paid time off.
7 June 2004
Well, Reagan died. It had to happen one day; it’s just
too bad for all six billion of us that it didn’t happen 25 years ago.
And to those who blame him for turning the GOP evil—hello?
Remember Nixon? Well, I’m sure the both of them will have a good long time in hell to reflect on their misdeeds
. The “great communicator”—when I first heard that expression used to describe him I was in awe of its scathing
irony. Alas, people still believe that he was a great communicator instead of a simple-minded demagogue whose Delphic
utterances could only inspire dread, not optimism, in any sentient listener. Let me just remind you of two puke-filled formulations:
“Morning in America,” and “freedom fighters,” – it was all such depraved and malignant cynicism
that that we still haven’t recovered. Perhaps my anger is dismay that my dear countrymen could even give a moment’s
credence to his deranged notions. And, of course, he couldn’t bring himself to mention the word “AIDS” once
as president, and worse, actively impeded any efforts to prevent the death of tens of thousands here and hundreds of thousands
more abroad.
Yes, it’s that time of year again. I’m out of
sorts: my birthday and the anniversary of Steve’s death from AIDS. I’m in the last few moments of my life as a
plausibly mid-thirties guy; my late thirties begin soon, very soon. On the bright side, in five or ten years I’ll be
old enough to attend circuit parties!
Weekend update: Saturday started at the farmers’ market.
Blenheim (aka Royal) apricots are now in season: get them if you can. The perfection of fruit. Don’t bother with any
other variety; Blenheims are the glory of god made manifest.
The rest of the day: I cooked at the restaurant (grilled
lamb à la Marocaine: French technique applied to a Maghrebian palette). Sunday, I slept in for the first time in weeks and
then went in the afternoon sunshine to El Rio for a margarita or two, a nice long flirt with a married Australian
(three kids!), and then Salvadoran food afterward. Pupusas are the perfect antidote to tequila. And then a little touching
ensued (but not with the antipodean).
3 June 2004
Cranky. But it's that time of year. And it's mostly because of on-going
self-sabotage.
2 June 2004
Shower time.
1 June 2004
I got up early Sunday so that I could spend the day in Guerneville.
I had a pleasant drive (new tires on Little Debbie) up 101 and 116 through Sebastopol and Forestville and Graton. That was
the good part. What happened to the Russian River? With the exception of Tall & Freckled, it was all ugly drunks, yapping
on and on about their next SUV. Doesn’t anyone go to the gym anymore? Even the Willows was tragic. Dizzy queens (the
kind who aim to emulate the wit of the loud guy on Will & Grace but fail miserably) and their equally unwitty fag-hag
friends. “Pass me another Smirnoff Ice” was their mantra. All the advantages of being gay are lost on these guys.
Needless to say, no touching ensued.
I spent a nice while in the cool confines of the Encyclopedia
of Junk (the second-hand shop next to the Safeway parking lot, and now the only redeeming feature of the whole town). Then
B. came to rescue me. We took a walking tour back through town, and he had the same impression I did: no need to go back any
time soon. He led me down the road, through Monte Rio and Occidental and out of the redwood forests, past vineyards, and up
a thousand feet to the ridge of a hill and the new house of his city neighbors. They’ve built a beautiful glass, wood,
and concrete house overlooking a deep valley and the ocean, glinting three miles off in the distance. The house looks like
something you’d see in a magazine. I brought a pot of my strawberry jam and some new garlic from the farmers’
market as a housewarming present. We had a Tavel rosé and cornchips, and then I enjoyed the outdoor shower (pictures to follow
if you ask nicely). Dinner (a mixed grill) came late. We slept well in a big white bed and then I enjoyed the shower
again. Sunshine and fresh air and soap and hot water: bliss.
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