Formidable Power

Quoth Rich Tramontozzi, president of the Bears of San Francisco:

“..it’s more of a, ‘We’re here to stay, and we’re only going to get stronger in our cohesion and in our ability to be a formidable power within the gay community.”

This is absolutely the stupidest thing I’ve read all day.

Please don’t assume that I’m slighting da’ bears here. No, my slight is much more universal and is directed at anyone who can speak without irony about becoming — or even wanting to become — “a formidable power within the gay community.”

What a ridiculous notion.

Just what does one do when one is “a formidable power within the gay community?” I envision warring fetishist factions slugging it out in some student council chamber, trying to decide what this year’s uniforms will look like and who gets to be (pardon the expression) the prom queen.

Seriously, against whom would one wield “a formidable power within the gay community?” The editors of The Advocate? The publishers of PlanetOut or Gay.com? The bouncer at the queer bar? Some guy who won’t “friend” you on MySpace?

It all sounds a bit like an episode of “The Young and the Restless” to me. In other words, who the hell cares?

S&M, Boys to Men, Etc.

Unearthed on a photo expedition over the weekend: the tattered remains of Winston-Salem’s first leather bar.

OK, maybe not. But it was found just three blocks from this building, which, ummm, separates the men from the boys:

Downtown Winston-Salem. Your home for unintentional architectural homoeroticism. Or stupid jokes. You be the judge.

WTOG, As Far As The Eye Can See

Caption: Yer Humble Host. 1976. Aunt Mildred’s living room couch. Somewhere near Tampa, Florida.

I ran across this cool bunch of stuff from my childhood while looking for something else today. The interesting thing is that I didn’t spend my childhood in the Tampa Bay area. I was in the area, at most, for about a week or so each year when we visited my aunt and uncle there. And I STILL remember this whole campaign, from that breezy “WTOG, as far as the eye can see” jingle to the “extended remix” instrumental versions. In fact, I’d actually looked for some of this stuff online before.

WTOG was one of those great 1970s independent stations, all of which were remarkably similar despite their lack of a network affiliation. Mornings were always given over to black-and-white sitcom re-uns from the 1950s, an assortment which always included “Father Knows Best, “Leave It to Beaver”, “Dennis the Menace”, and “I Love Lucy”. Afternoons were about “Speed Racer”and “Brady Bunch” re-runs, and primetime was invariably filled with either a movie or Merv Griffin, followed by “Marty Hartman, Mary Hartman” at 11.

any of these stations later became the first round of Fox affiliates. Some, as of this week, have traded The WB orUPN for The CW or My Network TV. Very few, I imagine, have “Father Knows Best” reruns or a jingle that 10-year-olds will remember thirty years from now. KOFY in San Francisco may have had the last one of those.

I watched way too much TV when I was a kid. Even when I was on vacation.

I’m Old

God, what a codger I have become. It just struck me that my last two consecutive posts have contained references to “thirty years ago” in one form or another. And yes, the hubby and I were looking at rocking chairs at Lowes the other night, now that you mention it.

Bug Spray

We had the exterminator here yesterday, mainly because he’s on retainer and therefore we can. He sprayed the baseboards and did a few other things, all of which have saturated the house with a very distinct (and not entirely unpleasant) aroma. I finally figured it out: it’s like a combination of candy and stale popcorn.

Essentially, our house now smells like Woolworth’s.

I’m hoping it doesn’t progress from “nostalgic” to “nauseating” too quickly.

Randomly Monday

It’s good to have multiple beds to choose from on an insomniac sort of night. I’ve never really had that luxury before.

For the record:

  • This place has absolutely the best Mexican food I’ve had since moving from California.
  • Interesting story on the 1957 homo crackdown in my hometown, that sort of mirrors The Boys of Boise.
  • Those of you who remember “Adventures in Success” by Will Powers, circa 1983, will be either excited or horrified by this.

Stupid Drunk Tricks

While it’s good to have multiple beds to choose from on an insomniac night, it really sucks when the power goes out and you pretty much can’t do anything but sit in the dark and think about not being able to go to sleep. This was more the husband’s problem than mine last night, but I got my fair share as well.

What really sucks, though, is that one stupid drunk driver named Alex Dwaynard Miller can cause so much trouble for several thousand innocent bystanders. People couldn’t get ready for work — or even work at all in some cases, like mine. Traffic was a nightmare due to non-functioning stoplights. Businesses had to close. And it was all due to one moron who didn’t know when he’d had enough.

At least he hit a utility pole rather than, say, another car. Unfortunately, since he lived through it, he’ll probably do it again.

You may wonder if I’ve ever driven drunk. I have. Many times, in fact, back in my twenties. Am I ashamed and embarrassed by that fact now? Yes. Very much so. I’d even go as far as “horrified””.

Does the fact that I realized the error of my ways and stopped drinking and driving make me morally superior to people who still do? Does it give me the right to berate them mercilessly?

Why, yes. Yes, it does.

Roadtrip Preview

Because it’s been ten years since the first time I visited Chicago, and because it’s been nine years since my only real visit there, and because my betrothed has never been there, and, well, because we can:

The MurderingStream Fall Road Trip of 2006 is coming soon.

Ideal Personal Ad

Five years ago today, I posted an updated version of my Ideal Personal Ad. For some reason, it worked a lot better this time than it ever had before. Despite the fact that I received only one application, it was received in timely fashion, it was very neatly typed, and it came from someone who was not only qualified, but was quite clearly the best man for the job.

The funny thing, though, is that I don’t believe either of us had any idea at the time what the actual job was. Either way, I’m glad he got it.

Winston-Salem NC, 4:30 AM

The last time I found myself driving through Winston-Salem at 4:30AM was about fifteen years ago. A friend and I had hooked up with these two guys at The Edge in Greensboro (before they tore it down to build a Kinko’s) and we’d driven the 25 miles to their apartment in Winston for the ensuing cheap thrills. I probably wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been a little inebriated; they were relatively cute, I guess, but definitely not worth quite so much effort.

Today, it was different. Rather than being very late at night, 4:30AM was now very early in the morning. I was driving Mark to the airport so he could fly back to San Francisco for another two weeks in Purgatory. It was harder than usual to let him go this time, maybe because he was home longer than usual and I got more used to it. And maybe it was because I’ve had a fair amount on my mind the past few days.

Since I ventured out so early, I was able to have a Charlotte Observer and Greensboro News and Record in my hands before my local paper was delivered.

It’s interesting that, even though the airport here is twenty miles away and is actually in a whole different county, it takes about the same amount of time to drive there as it used to take us to get to the one in Charlotte when we lived there. Come to think of it, it also took about the same amount of time to get to the San Francisco airport, depending on traffic. This could be a pattern in my life, but it probably isn’t.

I also noticed today that the McDonald’s locations in Winston-Salem open earlier than the ones in Charlotte. The Target and Lowes stores stay open later here too, but I already knew that.

Once I’m up in the morning, I’m pretty much up for the day. That’s not to say I didn’t make a valiant effort to try to go back to sleep when I got home. My mind was occupied by a lot of things I have to do over the next few days, but I did manage to nod off for a few minutes while it was still dark out.

Preservation, My Ass

Far be it from me to rain on San Francisco’s parade, but — with the exception of this one — almost every story (and video) I’ve seen about this week’s opening of new mall on Market Street suggests that it was some sort of historic preservation triumph that saved the old Emporium store.

It just ain’t true.

Despite all the grand pronouncements from city leaders about how great it is to be standing in the middle of it, there is no Emporium store left. It was torn down in 2004. The only things that remain from the building are the Market Street facade and the interior dome, and even the dome has been relocated. No other walls were spared, nor was anything else other than these two architectural features.

It’s nice that SF has its spiffy new mall, because heaven knows San Francisco needs nothing quite so much as it needs another mall. It’s lovely they integrated these features into the new building they built. But the old Emporium building is not there anymore. It’s just plain silly to pretend that it is. I won’t make an argument about whether that’s good or bad, but can someone please at least acknowlege that it’s a fact?

Hell in the Desert

This is the funniest description of hell that I’ve read in weeks.

Granted, I’ve never been to Burning Man. I’ve also never been chewed up by a crocodile nor lived in a refrigerator box on Harrison Street, but I somehow instinctively know these things wouldn’t be my cup of tea, even though others might find them to be life-affirming growth experiences or important exercises in community-building.

Ditto for Burning Man, which seems to be pretty much nothing but “the San Francisco scene” relocated to some godforsaken desert in Nevada, featuring the same tired old cast of very conformist non-conformists, assorted art poseurs and hippie wannabes, and — most notably — thousands of middle-class white folks who want to be perceived as art poseurs and hippie wannabes.

The only difference seems to be that this collection of humanity manages to smell even worse at Burning Man than at home in San Francisco. Which is, I’ll grant you, a rather significant accomplishment.