Category: Reminiscence and Reflection

R.I.P. Troy Reed

This day sucked like no other day has sucked in a long, long time: transit nightmares early in the morning, an absolute mess at my part-time job, the little bug I seem to be catching, etc.

But most discouraging was the realization that my voice mail has been screwed up for a week. Upon checking the messages I didn’t know I had, I found that my friend Troy died Friday down in Riverside. Troy had been a co-worker and one of my first good friends in San Francisco. He was responsible for much of my love for the city and for much of my attitude about it. I still think of things he taught me (or made me notice) almost daily.

  

We’d pretty much lost touch a few years back. Drugs were a factor; watching what they did to him was too painful for me. I was selfish.

Eventually, he moved back to his parents’ home in Southern California. Just this year we’d been in touch via email, and we’d actually talked on the phone for an hour or so one night this summer. We weren’t altogether chummy again, but I was guardedly optimistic. He was planning to move to Seattle this fall and I was looking forward to seeing him on the way up.

Troy lapsed into a coma last week at his home and he never woke up. He was not yet 35 years old. I’ll miss having him in this world, and I will always be glad to have known him.

The Neighborhood Grocer

There’s a stereotype of the old-time neighborhood storekeeper, probably named Mr. Feeney, who ran the corner grocery store, watched out for all the kids on the block, disciplined them in the absence of their parents, and dispensed cheer and advice all around.

I guess such a fellow existed in some places, but my family must have lived in a different neighborhood at a different time. We were in the spacious suburbs of Greensboro NC, but oddly enough we did have a corner store right at the end of the block. It was a ratty little place called Mike’s Food Mart. Prior to being a dumpy corner store, it had been a dumpy house and then a dumpy antique store. Needless to say, my parents didn’t patronize the place.

I, on the other hand, patronized it pretty often, starting when I was about 14. I patronized it because I realized the slimy guy who ran it would sell me just about anything I wanted, no questions asked. This I discovered on Halloween night when my friends and I walked in, purchased four dozen eggs and two packs of cigarettes without any hassle at all. No ID check, no “why do you kids need all these eggs on Halloween night”, no nothing.

Over the next two years, I regularly bought cigarettes, beer, porn magazines, and more at Mike’s, always from the same slimy guy, who was always there and who never once questioned me. So much for the nice neighborhood grocer who looked out for the neighborhood kids. This guy was out to make a buck. Period.

Of course, I paid a premium. Cigarettes were 55 cents, a nickel more than at the 7-11 or the gas station at Zayre’s. Budweiser was three bucks a six-pack, compared with $2.25 at Winn-Dixie or Big Star (where I got carded about half the time). But it was worth the extra money to know that “Mike” would take care of me.

The dumpy little store finally closed about the time I graduated from high school, and it was then converted, ironically, into a dumpy little church. But I still remember it every time I visit my current corner store on Folsom Street in San Francisco. I think it’s owned by the same family…

Anniversaries

It’s all about anniversaries for me. When I was keeping my journals in high school, even, I used to keep up with them sort of obsessively. I’d cover the one-year anniversary of the first time I got caught smoking, or the ten-year anniversary of the very first “Brady Bunch” or whatever. Maybe that’s how I get my frame of reference in life. Or maybe it was an early indicator that I’d grow up to be an obsessive nerd.

Anyway, today’s the anniversary of the day in 1992 that I landed in San Francisco. Eight years. Jeez. It doesn’t seem like that long. And it definitely DOES seem like that long. Understand?

Suitably enough, after I crossed the Bay Bridge into the city, my first stop was at Safeway, the one on Market Street, where I called my friends and warned them I was coming. I was nervous. I was also anxious to converse with an actual friend in person after having just driven across the country alone. I calmed down later that night, with significant assistance from Henry Weinhardt. I went to work two days later, moved into this apartment a month later, and all of a sudden, I realized that I lived here.

This week in Planet SOMA history:

  • 11 October 1980: I got my first blowjob in an adult bookstore at the tender age of 16. Being a precocious sort, I also got fucked for the first time. I didn’t much care for it.
  • 4 October 1982: I was breaking up with my first college boyfriend.
  • 3 October 1983: Danny Elfman rode in the front seat of my car.
  • 1 October 1996: Feelin’ Minnesota.
  • 5 October 1997: Gallup, New Mexico, as I completed the Planet SOMA US Tour 1997.

Quotes du Jour:

  • “Very few animated cartoons are broadcast live; it’s a terrible strain on the animator’s wrists.” (Simpsons)
  • “More people would have babies if they came with free garlic bread.” (3rd Rock from the Sun)
  • “What’s the use of being a writer if you can’t irritate a great many people.” (Norman Mailer)

I Miss the Road

Eight years ago tonight, I was spending my last night in Denver on my first cross-country road trip, moving from Greensboro to San Francisco. I shan’t wax nostalgic about that exciting period in my life (it’s been done). That’s not really what I’m thinking about tonight, although I imagine that I will be soon, because that’s just what I do this time of year. It’s autumn. I get reflective. Always have. So sue me.

Tonight, though, I’m just thinking that I want to be on the road. On the road back east. I’ve got a big craving not to be in California for a while. I want to be driving I-95 or U.S. 1. I want to see trees where the leaves change colors, and mountains that aren’t brown (oops, I mean “golden”). I want White Castles and Stuckey’s and bars where you can still smoke. I want to go through those toll booths where you just throw your coins into a hamper.

I’m craving Boston and New York and Philly, with maybe a little Baltimore and some Providence thrown in for fun. This was the route of my first major road trip, back in 1988. I had a different agenda back then. I was with my friend Jeff and the itinerary was largely about partying, record stores, and clothing stores. I might do it a little differently this time.

I can state with certainty that I’d do one thing differently, though. I’d never again visit Mahattan in August.

Anyway, this is all leading up to the fact that I’m considering doing just this roadtrip in January, somewhere in the midst of a long trip home after the holidays. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to work out the details (money being a large one), but does anyone want to hang out? By that, I men once I get wherever I’m headed, since I always travel alone. Trust me, it’s better that way…

And does anyone want to remind me how much snow I’ll have to drive through in January?

Randomly Thursday

I feel a little dirty. I accidentally landed on Big Brother tonight while changing channels during a commercial. I saw about thirty seconds of it before I could get back to “King of the Hill”. Now I can no longer say (with a nice blend of smugness and haughtiness) that I missed all the stupid reality shows of the summer of 2000.

More stuff I could do without this week:

  • The current SF weather. It’s not all that terribly hot during the day (although it’s hotter than I like), but it’s also not cooling down at night like it should. I am not amused. I am also not sleeping.
  • The “Facts of Life” marathon on Nick-at-Nite.
  • Bad news about a friend I haven’t talked to in very many years.

Better news: my mom’s coming for a visit in a few weeks. I actually have room for her to stay here now, so I get a full-week visit. I probably won’t take her to the corner sex bar, but it should be fun anyway.

And now for an ethical question (gosh, aren’t we jumping around today?):

Supposing you used to have regular trysts with someone in a tearoom when you were in college. Supposing you had an awful lot of fun together on many occasions, even shared many of the same fetishes, and even made a little video together with your Fisher-Price camcorder. Even though you visited each other’s houses a couple of times, you didn’t officially know each other’s names. It was a tearoom thing, after all.

But supposing you (that would be me) really did know the guy’s name and just happened to do a Google search and find that he’s currently working as a college professor and thus has a very available email address. You’re sure it’s him (there’s a picture).

Do you contact him, offering to send him a copy of the video you promised him ten years ago and telling him you wouldn’t mind making another one the next time you happen to be in the same state?

What would Miss Manners say?

Commercial Archaeology

Thanks to Chuck in Columbia (who has some bitchin’ pictures on his site), I’ve now realized that I wasn’t smoking crack as a child and dreaming that Hardee’s restaurants used to look like this:

I’ve searched years for someone who remembered this particular design. There couldn’t have been many built because no one seems to remember them. Imagine my surprise when Chuck casually mentioned a “a pagoda-shaped Hardee’s” in Columbia. Of course, he had other things to say too, but this was a 20-year obsession.

My friends know my much-indulged hobby is commercial archaeology, or the unearthing of former chain-store prototypes, motels, fast food joints, etc. My supermarket fixation is only the tip of the iceberg. I’ve also been known to engage in such fascinating games as “find the former Sears” and “White Castle or White Tower”. Despite this fact, a few stout-hearted individuals are still willing to ride in a car with me.

The Hardee’s pagoda was one of the first warnings about my future hobby, way back when I was still in high school. Even then I’d ask people if they remembered that weird-looking Hardee’s on Battleground Avenue in Greensboro. I now know I wasn’t making it up. I am much relieved.

Hamburger Square

The last seedy hotel in Hamburger Square closed this week.

Hamburger Square was the closest thing to a skid row that Greensboro, North Carolina ever had. It got its name from two cheap diners, Jim’s Lunch and the California Sandwich Shop, which faced off on opposite sides of Elm and McGee for decades. This was the part of town where the few local drifters and winos lived. Until I was about 25, it was the only place in Greensboro I’d ever been panhandled.

I was always sort of drawn to the area, even as a kid. I liked the buildings and the seediness and the newsstand (with adult bookstore in the back) where I bought comic books and my dad bought the Washington Post. I liked the scary-looking people on the sidewalks and the railroad tracks and the old A&P. We lived in the suburbs, but I always begged to come along for rides downtown. I always wanted to eat in one of those divey old diners too. I never got the chance. This may be a good thing.

My great grandfather (who died about 20 years before I was born) had operated one of the hotels in the 1930s. It was pretty much a brothel, as its residents were largely prostitutes. I imagine my rather austere great grandmother was not amused at the thought of living there, but that’s how things were back then

My mom lived there for a few years as a little girl too. She used to be just a little embarrassed by it, but I think it now gives her just a little pride. We managed to get inside once when I was about 16 (with permission) and I took some great pictures.

My great grandfather’s old hotel is now a restaurant. The other buildings in Hamburger Square are being renovated one by one as expensive apartments, retail spaces, and restaurants. In Greensboro, a city which has bulldozed a disturbing amount of its past, this is probably a good thing, if only because it saves some great buildings.

But I sure do miss what Hamburger Square used to be. And I still find myself looking for it in just about every city I visit.

Radio Days

  

Eighteen years ago tonight I was on the radio for the first time. For some reason I always remember the anniversary. And before I go to bed, I’ll listen to “Big Science” by Laurie Anderson and think about how damned old I am and what a great album that was…

WUAG Greensboro, 1982-1984:

  

Yes, pictures are a great way to fill space when you don’t have much interesting to say. So what were you doing in June 1982? Could be a Message Board topic for someone, couldn’t it?

This Week in…

Until today, it had apparently happened to just about everyone in San Francisco but me. I was so excited that it was finally my turn to get hit in the head by a nice big gob of pigeon shit while walking down Seventh Street.

Other than that, though, it’s been a passable week. There was slutdom on Saturday night, followed by a different flavor of slutdom on Monday night, dinner and fireworks with Dan and Jamie on Tuesday night, and lots of sleep on Wednesday. I think I’ve recovered just in time for the upcoming weekend.

Sixteen years ago this week, I was dumping a boyfriend and actively seeking a replacement. Fourteen years ago this week, I was dealing with someone who sort of became a boyfriend but sort of didn’t. Thirteen years ago this week I was still dealing with him. Nine years ago this week, I had finally learned that having boyfriends was no fun and I was being a major slut on a two-month trip to Charlotte. Three years ago this week, I reconsidered briefly but I came to my senses pretty fast, and I’ve pretty much stayed sane ever sense.

While we’re in the archives (for this month’s “I can’t think of any original content” journal entry):

  • Twenty years ago this week, I stole my mom’s car. I was not yet 16. She suspected. It was not pretty.
  • Fifteen years ago this week, I quit being the rock and roll DJ at the local queer bar. I still stick by that decision and was proud of my stand to protect the downtrodden heterosexuals of the world.
  • Two years ago this week, I was taking on the idiots who wear giant backpacks in crowded bars at night. They continue to annoy me.
  • This week last year, I was having my annual midlife crisis. Let’s not speak of 1999 again. I didn’t enjoy most of it.