The Castro

The Castro drives me nuts! Twenty-five years of building a “gay neighborhood” have resulted in building nothing more than a “gay marketing plan”, helped along by the so-called gay press (The Advocate, Genre, GQ, Men’s Fitness). The neighborhood strikes me as a sort of package tour aimed at one very strictly-defined type of gay (white) male who reads the right magazines, spends the required hours at the right gym, has the right job, and possesses the necessary cash (or plastic) to carry it off.

Recently, people have been horrified that homeless street urchins, skaters, and panhadlers have invaded “the mall”. I’m all for keeping them there; frankly, they add the only color to the neighborhood (aside from the ubiquitous rainbow flags) and they provide a crucial reminder to the shoppers, the residents, and the tourists that Castro Street is in no real way related to the rest of the world.

Read any mainstream gay magazine and you’ll see what I’m saying. There are no blue collar queers, most certainly no under-employed ones, and (God forbid) no homeless ones. If you’re in a band, it’s dance-pop. If you work the midnight shift at a convenience store, don’t know or care where the nearest gym is, or don’t have a tasteful and well-furnished home, you can’t be in the club.

Leatherfags and most dykes are not invited either, unless they’re discreet and know their respective places. Discussion of having had sex with more than three people in the last year, or in any public place, is not permitted. As a matter of fact, any discussion of sex is frowned upon. Pretty ironic, isn’t it, for a group whose only commonality IS sexual orientation?

I realize that I write from some sense of privilege myself. I’m a white boy, on the cusp between the Boomers and the X-ers, earning a thoroughly middle class living (albeit not at a “prestige” job), and I have pretty much everything I want and need. Maybe it’s liberal guilt, but I don’t think I fit into this package either. I know I don’t WANT to. I wouldn’t know how to do anything but cruise in a gym, and I doubt I’d be successful even at that. I’ve never made a purchase at the Body Shop.

Do not for a moment think that I’m on a “gay culture bores me…I want a straight acting and straight appearing lifestyle”. That is most definitely NOT what I want. People who are obsessed with their “normalcy” and “masculinity” bore me no end. Give me the choice between a date with a tight-assed butch football player and a date with a cute boy who may be a bit “effeminate” and I’ll tale the sissy any day. But the currently media-packaged, corporate and retail-driven version of “gay culture” doesn’t hold a lot of interest for me either.

My idea of a “gay community” does not involve a strip full of stores all my straight friends (hell, even my mother) would feel comfortable in. Frankly, even most of my straight friends find the Castro a tad sanitized.

So just what is my point? I don’t know for sure. I think I’m just a little disillusioned that decades of fighting for the right to be ourselves and to love as we see fit has evolved into such a de-sensualized party line of fitting into cute little assimilated pigeonholes, with Tommy Hilfiger and Ralph Lauren providing our role models. Maybe, as some suggest, this means our movement is “growing up” and I’m just lagging behind. Could be some truth in this; people my own age are starting to bore me tremendously. But if being grown up means becoming nothing more than a demographic profile, I want no part of it!

Folsom Street Fair

The 13th annual Folsom Fair was…well…crowded. And the crowd was as entertaining and picturesque as usual (“Marjorie…look! Homosexuals!”). Precious little sin was to be found on the street, but the bars afterward had their moments — and their lines. All in all, a pretty interesting afternoon, if not the debauched festival may people have come to expect. The gawkers were well-behaved.The fog held off ’til near the end. I still like the Dore Alley Fair better, though.10 11 12 13 17 18 19 21 22 23 25 28 36 104 105 109 111 112 113 114 115 118 119 122 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 133 135 136 137 138 140 142 143 146 148

They Burned My Car

A memorial to my car…struck down by an arsonist in the prime of its life on 17 September 1996, at the tender age of six.

On Tuesday afternoon, I went out to my car, hoping to drive to Safeway for a reckless grocery spending spree. Unfortunately, my car wasn’t there. Being the jaded city dweller I am, I didn’t think much of it. “Guess I hit that five parking ticket limit”, I thought, as I walked to the police station a block away to pay my way out of the tow yard once again. Only this time, the Department of Parking and Traffic was not involved…

“Sir, your car was towed on an arson hold.”

“Oh great! Someone stole my car and started a fire?”

“No sir, that’s not exactly what ‘arson hold’ means…”

The next day, when I went to Pier 70 to identify the body, I was shocked. The car which brought me to Planet SOMA, among other places, resembled a charcoal briquette. I was not really prepared for the immense destruction. It was pretty ugly. I was really shocked most by the fact that what used to be the spare tire was sitting in what used to be the front seat. I was also pretty amazed that what used to be everything else inside the car wasn’t much of anything anymore. Looks like it was a pretty dang nasty fire. At first I thought a street person might have decided the car looked comfy enough for a cigarette and a good night’s sleep. Now I’m not too sure.

Maybe someone was pissed off by the ACT UP sticker. Maybe some some crazed tourist was retaliating against my “Mystery Spot” sticker. Maybe the commercial radio “powers that be” were not amused by the college radio ads. Could it have been a rabid environmentalist? Or perhaps a psychotic suit monster from Merrill Lynch or Charles Schwab upset that I turned down his request to do the impossible (immediately) one day at work? What do you think?

Jeff Visits, Continued

The day started earlier than it should have and ended much later. The early afternoon saw David guiding Jeff through a last-minute shopping extravaganza in the Haight. There was also a trip to the very top of Buena Vista Park, where the views were great and the cruising was unconsommated. In the early evening came Macy’s and Union Square, so Jeff could exercise his credit cards (which were, of course, positively dusty from lack of use).

Dan drove the vacation boys to Twin Peaks about 11, and then dropped them in the vast mall known as the Castro. The evening’s bars included Badlands, the Phoenix, and the Detour (which was surprisingly entertaining). A quick cab ride led to Planet SOMA, Hole in the Wall, and My Place. Jeff picked up two strays, J’Tao and John, but lost them trying to crash the oh so trendy “Piss Party” on Ringold Alley. Bedtime came late. The morning, and Jeff’s airport shuttle, came really early.

Jeff has returned to Greensboro, David must return to work, and vacation season is over.

Jeff Visits, Continued

About 3:00, Jeff and David attempted to take a Market Street historic streetcar to the Castro, but settled for a bus. Jeff shopped while david whined about the complete sterilization and gentrification of the Castro. Beer at the Detour, dinner at Welcome Home (yumm…), then home for the Simpsons.

The evening progressed to the Stud for 80’s retro night (which actually was much more fun than David expected), then to the EndUp (which was as scary as David thought it would be) and back to Hole in the Wall and My Place. Quick beer at home and then off to the Power Exchange Main Station. David was most favorably impressed with the changes. Jeff was thrilled to have sex in a tent. David met a very cuddly 22-year-old tow truck driver from Sacramento. It was a late night.

David Turns 32

The second of the historic west coast blackouts of 1996 occurred today, rendering grocery shopping difficult, transit unpleasant, and driving damn near impossible. The non-functional ATMs were a special added blessing. Planet Hollywood had power, although the food took so long I think it was cooked over an open butane lighter (but loved that Cap’n Crunch chicken…)

The birthday bash was…well…low-key. Let’s just say there’s lotsa beer and munchies left. That’s what David gets for planning a party at 5AM on Friday and sucking dick in an alley when he should’ve been out inviting. Jeff managed a little fun at My Place while smoking unknown subsatnces which made him dizzy. Derik was not at all pleased with the country music at the Lone Star (nor was David). After five minutes and one beer, Jeff had had enough too.

Derik and David went home (Derik being a wee tad fatigued) while Jeff trudged to Blow Buddies again: “more peering than action, but the peering was good!”. Extra points to the completely hairless boy in the jail cell (at Blow Buddies, not a real jail like where Jeff spent David’s 29th birthday).

David, being a discreet sort, will reveal no further details of his evening…

Jeff Visits, Part 2

Sleeping continued on until 1PM or so, at which time Jeff was introduced to the joys of real Mexican food in the Mission. A little thrift shopping followed, and then there was Baskin Robbins, a drive through the hills, and a trip to one severely foggy Ocean Beach. Dan and Jeff went to dinner at Tad’s Steaks while David stayed home and wrote HTML. David had arranged a late date in an alley at 2AM (it was well worth the wait). Jeff hit the local bars, occsionally bumping into David and the date. After a couple of beers at home, Jeff hit Blow Buddies (final score 12 encounters) and David planned a last-minute birthday bash.

Jeff Visits, Part 1

  

For my 32nd bithday weekend, I was treated to a visit by one of my best friends on the planet, Jeff Rainey from Greensboro.

Jeff showed up at a little after 2PM, on the only USAir flight in history ever to arrive early. There was shopping and boy-watching in Union Square, followed by afternoon nap time. The evening was filled with David’s excursion to the laundromat (Mr. Excitement strikes again!). Then off to the bars of Planet SOMA, where Jeff was introduced to all of David’s freak friends, and was treated to a bit of anonymous oral sex in the back of My Place. In the end, Jeff slept, and David and Tony didn’t (much).

The “Up Your Alley”Street Fair

doresignWithout question, this is the best of San Francisco’s queer-oriented street fairs. Smaller, more intimate, and just generally more of a queer bent, the Dore Alley fair is a pretty well-kept mid-summer secret. Not to say the crowd was not large, mind you. I just find it to be a more fun crowd…fewer gawkers, etc. It’s a very sociable and friendly gathering; I was amazed what a large percentage of the people there I knew (either as friends, sex objects, or both…).

There was actually very little formal entertainment (bands, etc.) but this really didn’t seem to matter. People-watching, cruising, and “hanging out” were pretty entertaining by themselves. And the flocks of crowds at My Place and Hole in the Wall afterward were great; the “geek factor” was minimized as was the proportion of slumming trendoids and tweaker club kids.The patio at My Place made one of its rare appearances and was full of…well…nasty happenings. Your host was pleased to be able to take advantage of a friend’s slave boy near the front bar as well as a very nice boy in a kilt (not the one pictured below).

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