Sociability

I’ve been meeting a lot of interesting people lately. In a way, I’m finding that I’m more social right now than I’ve been in a long time, despite my recent bouts of cynicism and “I’m bored with fags” attitude.

Friday night I was at the Hole in the Wall. First time I’d spent a really fun night in there in quite a while. It was as if all the tweaker trash had decided to go someplace else for the night, and people I knew and actually liked were lurking around every corner. It was a strange collection of people who — like me at the moment — used to go out a lot but seem to have developed a little perspective and are doing other things more frequently now. It was sort of nice.

It was also a collection of people I’d met in a number of ways, quite a few of them being people I’d met online. Not in chat areas or on IRC; I absolutely detest that whole online chat thing. It’s good for some, but it just doesn’t work for me.

Most of my online friends are people I’ve met as a result of the web site, or related to the occasional Usenet posting about whatever subject. I think it bodes well for the medium that a few people who I knew as text-only before I knew them in person have become some of my closest friends: a recent case in point being Sarah.

Yes, it is very true that I have slept with people I initially met online. That number is probably about 10-12 or so at this point. The really interesting thing, though, is that I’ve kept in touch with most of these people after the fact as well. Much better average than for those I’ve picked up in bars or sex clubs.

Many readers know I haven’t even walked into a sex club in over six months. It’s a little hard to maintain a web presence which promotes them without actually doing the…ummm..legwork, but I’m trying. This is because I still think sex clubs are a good and healthy thing. They’re just not the thing for me right now, for a number of reasons.

It is possible to have dialogues and actually “meet” people (not just their penises) in sex clubs. I met my longest-term “serious” boyfriend ever in one. The first time we had sex, fifteen people were watching and we found nothing particularly odd about that at the time or later. I used to be fairly known for having long conversations in the kitchen at Mike’s Night Gallery. Made a lot of observers really nervous; guess I wasn’t being “anonymous” enough for some. Fortunately, my conversation partners were no more bothered by it than me.

Maybe the fact that this stopped happening to me, even occasionally, is part of the reason I gradually just stopped going to sex clubs. I never consciously stopped; I just sort of realized one day that I wasn’t going anymore. I may start again just as unconsciously. Who knows?

The explanation of why I’m not going out to bars much now that I can go out any night I choose is no doubt more complicated, and I’m still working on it…

Anyway…Sunday night I did something I really haven’t done in a long time. I picked up someone at My Place, made out a bit there and brought him home. What’s odd about this? To start, I’ve had an annoying habit lately of only bringing home people I already know (repeat performances, so to speak). Also, most of my activity at My Place has been confined to the actual bar lately.

This turned out to be a special case, though. If there was even a “match made in heaven” for me, this was probably it. He was 31, casually employed, a smoker and a drinker and meat eater but not a drug freak, he liked fucking to Sonic Youth, his sweat tasted great, and it was REALLY fun sex, with an intensity level I haven’t experienced in a good while. And he was capable of having a conversation afterward. As luck would have it for me, I’ll probably never hear from him again, even though he seemed enthusiastic about the idea as he left.

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.

I Love San Francisco

It is good to be back in San Francisco. I missed my neighborhood, my friends, my computer…

It continues to be freezing cold here. Granted, freezing cold in San Francisco means the temperature dips into the 30’s occasionally. But we’re all major weather wimps here, so if it’s below 45 or above 75, everyone sort of freaks out.

I love San Francisco. It’s as if the cream of the crop from around the country — the deviants, the psychos, the geeks, the skaters, the punks, the sluts, the artists, the musicians — all converged here in order to pay ridiculous rents to live in old buildings with less than adequate heat but to have stunning views (and viewpoints) thrust on them constantly.

Got picked up on the subway yesterday by a way cute boy who has not as yet called back. Neither of us had time to do anything right then and there (pity…), but we did manage to play the game and moved really fast into the conversation stage,etc. This doesn’t happen so easily other places. In most other cities, you have to go through the “is he queer or just trying to sell me drugs” phase, which wastes precious time. Depending on your tastes, there’s also often the “does he just want to rob me” stage. Here, you can be pretty certain that (a) he’s queer and (b) even if he wants to rob you or sell you drugs, he’ll probably have sex with you first.

I love San Francisco.

Random Updates

Just for today, I’m not going to rant or rave about much of anything! The only thing on the agenda is an update of what’s going on in my life at this point in time, in case anyone cares…

A few carefully lit fires — no pun intended — have started getting a bit of reaction out of my insurance company in relation to the pile of ashes which used to be my car. I’m expecting a settlement any day now. I think informing them that they’d be paying for a rental repalcement of my choosing until I have a check in hand may have helped a bit.

No job yet, but so far I’m pretty much convinced that giving Kinko’s the heave-ho was quite the right thing to do. Today was especially convincing; the yuppie slimebags were as annoying as usual. Yesterday I taught an Internet class at one of the outlying San Francisco stores. I was amazed at how different the neighborhood atmosphere was. People were actaully smiling and walking down the street at a normal pace. No one had the perpetually constipated look of the Financial Distrist corporate automatons. It was really nice. It’s a sad thing that so many people let work rule their lives to the point of making them such unbearable substitutes for human beings. Note to the Financial District crowd: take a Valium or at least take a break once in a while!

Side note: a rumor is floating about that Kinko’s is advertising on Pat Robertson’s Family Channel (formerly the Christian Broadcasting Network). I cannot confirm this rumor. Has anyone seen commercials on this highly offensive, rabidly anti-gay and pro-enforced childbirth network? If so, please let me know, and I’ll keep you informed of how my complaints are received.

Had dinner last night with my ex David at the new IHOP South of Market. It is, without question, the creepiest IHOP atmosphere I’ve ever seen. It’s in the basement of an old commercial building and is just too damned well-lit and pastel-tinted. It’s located next to Moscone Convention Center, but the crowd seems to be more “downtown drug dealer” than “conventioneer executive”, although one middle-class mother with teen-age son was inside and looked a little horrified when David and I began discussing watersports. Denny’s is scheduled to open a few doors down very soon. Should be fun to watch.

Ran into Ron, a guy I “went out” with a few times, at lunch today and found out that his band (which was one of two whose debuts I attended recently, the other being Lucifag) is fizzling. We did the “lost your number…give me a call” routine. I never know when that’s meant sincerely or not (sometimes I really DO mean it); we did have fun…

Speaking of bands, I’ll be seeing The Third Sex at Faster Pussycat tonight. It’ll be kinda cool seeing a band on the midwestern end of a tour and then at home on the same tour. Love them…they’re great. (Note: missed ’em…the show moved…found out too late…hate life…)

As for the weekend, I’m geeting back together with this guy named Rob who I recently met in a dark back corner somewhere. He’s terminally cute, fun, shares some of my perversions, and is a pretty danged OK kinda guy, despite being from L.A. He follows orders well, and he scores major points for suggesting — without prompting — Jack in the Box as a food stop on the way back to his apartment Sunday night. More points added for being suitably worshipful about Planet SOMA…I’ll work on pictures soon.

Mom and Dad’s anniversary yesterday. Forty-seven years. Scary. I somehow doubt I’ll have a relationship last quite that long.

Gotta run now…food calls.

Thanks for checking in…

Sex, Love, and Relationships

When I was coming out at age 17, a major theme in my writing was that sex and love were essentially the same thing…there was (and could be) no difference between the two. “How can you be with someone if there’s no love?”, I asked. “How can gay men be so promiscuous?” “Sex without love is meaningless.” I was very young and idealistic. I was later to find that sex and love were not necessarily related in any way.

As I aged, I began taking to heart the 70’s texts which were the only ones available in the Greensboro Public Library . Gay relationships did not need to “ape” heterosexual marriage. A relationship not based in total freedom and mired in jealousy and suspicion is invalid from the onset. Queers are free to develop new concepts where love is concerned. Even now, I don’t disagree; I’ve developed a whole lifestyle based on divorcing the concept of sex and love. It has suited me well for many years.

Or has it? Sometimes I think I have rendered myself incapable of having a relationship based on love, trust, and (assorted gods forbid) monogamy. I tell myself repeatedly that this is not what I want.

I spent a lot of time alone as a kid, and I’ve continued doing so as an adult. In junior high and — to a lesser extent –high school, I was not what you would describe as popular. Most of my weekends were spent alone, reading, driving around aimlessly, and immersed in thought. A positive result of this is that I’ve become quite comfortable with my own company. I don’t need someone around in order to complete every little activity like eating, going to a movie, traveling, etc. In fact, I often prefer to do many of these things alone. Unfortunately, the experience has also left some of my critical social skills a bit lacking.

Also, I am selfish by nature — blame it on being an only child if you like — and I often see myself as totally unwilling to commit myself to another person. This is not necessarily a bad thing, because I shouldn’t expect anyone else to do the same for me. But there’s a paradox here. Sometimes I do find myself willing to commit, and then I expect the return, which is often not forthcoming.

Is it any wonder the longest “relationship” of my life lasted a scant six months? It’s a very unusual thing when i find myself willing to commit to a relationship, and when I do this, I tend to expect a more than satisfactory return on my emotional investment. If I’m going to suffer and pine away, I want the other person to suffer and pine away just as much. If I’m going to break all my own rules and get completely “hooked”, I expect the same in return. No wonder things get so strange; life and relationships just don’t work that way.

Of course, communication is a big factor. I often complain that “I don’t know where I stand”. I think this is a pretty universal problem; there is precious little actual communication in most relationships. In my case, I realize that it stems from my inability to let myself show traces of vulnerability by actually admitting how involved I am. So how can I fault someone else for not doing the same thing? Also, I have a big fear of screwing things up by over-analyzing and of scaring other people off by “talking about it too much”, even though I realize I’m screwing up even more by NOT talking. Maybe I’m too worried about causing the other person problems to pay attention to the wear and tear I’m exposing myself to.

Why can’t sex just be sex? What’s wrong with a series of “fuck buddies” with whom you may also share friendship, but not necessarily traditional “love”? I’ve always thought I’d grow old with a few good, non-sexual friends and get my urges taken care of on the side. I have really high standards for the people I call my “friends”; very few manage to make it for the long haul. But what happens when someone meets these standards and there’s also a “romantic” connection? Is it time to re-evaluate the concept that the people I really like and the people I have sex with should be completely separate? Is it not possible that I’m not always after “the wrong boy”?

Obviously I have a lot on my mind right now, and while this current round of analysis may have been triggered by a specific scenario, it’s a pattern I often ponder, and obviously worry about as well. Boys will continue to come and go, but will I allow myself to keep them around for a while?

Anti-Gay

“Why (is) being gay like being a member of a religious cult, except not so open-minded?”

This note on the inside cover was almost enough in itself to make me buy this book. It’s rare that I run into a book that I want to make everyone read — rarer still that it should be of the “queer theory” variety. And it’s down right unlikely that a book like this should appear to me by accident right when I’m most looking for it. But here it is: “Anti-Gay”, a collection of essays edited by Mark Simpson (Freedom Editions, UK, 1996; ISBN 0-304-33144-9) gave me shivers, and had that rare quality of saying very coherently too many things I’ve been thinking of late. Ten thought-provoking essays for only $16.95.

A basis premise is that so-called “gay culture” in the 1990’s has become a bland mishmash of upper middle class stereotypes perpetuated by the commercial media (The Advocate, Out, Genre, etc.). Queers have been fed so much commercialized “pride” imagery and “gay is good” dogma that we have settled for a homogenized culture of mediocrity. We have, it is suggested, been far too willing to judge music, art, and culture more on the basis of its gay statement or context than by its actual artistic or cultural merits in a larger sense. Hence, we accept the one-sided and limited perspective of the Advocate as good news reporting, claim that the music of the Pet Shop Boys and Erasure is the fullest expression of our culture, and truly believe that films like “Longtime Companion” are great art, simply because they have a “pro-gay” perspective.

Obviously, there’s more (or I wouldn’t be so excited…) The essayists take on many aspects of the dogma that queers have been force-fed in the post-Stonewall era and dare to suggest that all things gay are NOT inherently good. A running theme is that by assuming that as “liberated gay individuals”, we allow ourselves to believe that all evil which befalls our community is due to external forces. We thus become unable to accept any responsibility for our own actions.

And even “community” is a misleading term. What about those a who do not fit the “majority” image of settled middle-class homeowners driven by consumer culture? What about punks, street people, low-paid service workers, closeted individuals living in North Dakota, etc.? Not everyone is willing to be drawn into the “one world culture” of Genre Magazine, with its gym memberships, Macy’s charge cards, drug-driven dance clubs, and freedom rings. In order to make gay people more palatable to the conservative majority, we have marginalized anyone who doen’t “fit” comfortably.

I really liked this book; it makes points which too many queers have been afraid to make in recent years. People will read these essays and be extrememly pissed off. I have my disagreements with certain of the pronouncements, but the whole point is disagreement and the promotion of discourse, as well as the challenging of 90’s “gayspeak”. “Anti-Gay” most definitely succeeds.

Some Excerpts:

Mark Simpson:

As a measure of how successful and how popular gay is, every year the parades get bigger, the floats fluffier, and the male strippers beefier and oilier. In case we don’t notice this, the gay press carefully points this out — along with the cast-iron prediction that this year the parade will be so big, fluffy, and oily that the straights won’t be able to ignore it, like they somehow managed to last year…But perhaps the most encouraging thing about the rising attendance figures is that they bring ever closer the realization of the greatest gay dream of all: to turn the whole world into a gay disco!

…And what better image of freedom and love could there be than the gay disco? With just a teensy-weensy bit of help from mind-altering substances, the gay disco is the place where you can experience the most intense sense of well-being, belonging and happiness, not to mention some really interesting conversations about life, the universe and how difficult it is to get hold of good shit these days and how the tab you took last week turned the whites of your eyes yellow.

In the gay world, everything is reassuringly similar wherever you go. Gays are better at franchising than McDonald’s. Just in case you should feel homesick when traveling abroad or just around town, gay bars and clubs around the globe are plying the same music and the patrons are wearing the same jeans, haircuts, and even facial expressions…And wherever you go you can pick up a gay publication which is full of pictures of other people just like you and exiting information on just how many people there are just like you out there and how you can meet them. Once you’re out you need never be troubled by pesky old difference again.

John Weir:

The entire gay male community seems at times to be colluding against the possibility of independent thinking. The gay rights movement, too often, is focused on theatrics rather than discourse: we want to be entertained and flattered, not criticized. As a group, self-identified gay men are especially resistant to thinking about issues of class and race, and they steadfastly deny their sexism. The irony of gay liberation is that it has made room in the mainstream only for those white men who are already privileged, and disinclined to share their wealth.

Effectively, there is currently no more identifiable type than the self-identified, politically active, sexually predatory gay American man, the kind of gut who wants, not equality for everyone, but entitlement for himself. And big pecs. If gay men ruled the world, there would be tax credits for joining a gym. this was abundantly clear to me at the New York Stonewall 25 celebration…It was a week-long festival of pod people twirling their multi-colored freedom rings. there were so many hairless young men in nipple-hugging white T-shirts wandering the streets, that I began to wish it was 1969 again and the paddy wagons would come and take them all away.

Peter Tatchell:

Moderate accommodationist gay rights politics is, ironically, solely concerned with winning rights for homosexuals. It offers nothing to heterosexual people. Whereas strident, anti-assimilationist queer activists seek the extension of sexual freedom in ways that ultimately benefit everyone. The radical queer activists who are so often derided as separatists are, on the contrary, the proponents of a form of sexual liberation that is, in the end, more in tune with the common interests of gays, straights, and bisexuals than any purely gay rights agenda could ever be.

Lisa Power:

To put it plainly, I am sick of lesbian and gay people, especially those involved in political or social activism, who act as a photographic negative of the heterosexual society from which they have escaped and who do not adhere to the rigid sexual boundaries and rules they, in turn, prescribe. I am sick of seeing honesty punished and repression rewarded. I am sick of seeing people who feel forced to censor themselves or to live in two separate worlds. I am sick of seeing people who really don’t like themselves because they have swallowed the lie that their personal complexities and idiosyncrasies make them Not A Real Lesbian/Gay Man, or at least a second-class one.

Paul Burston:

Traditionally, two assumptions have shaped the way in which films are reviewed by the popular gay press. The first — that films made by gay people for gay people are somehow above criticism — is, thankfully, going out of fashion. Years of sitting through the most appalling rubbish, and feeling obliged to applaud the filmmakers efforts have clearly taken their toll…

The second — that films made for a mass audience are automatically suspect when it comes to representations of lesbians and gay men — still holds true for a significant number of gay film critics…(T)he bulk of what we refer to as ‘gay film criticism’ still starts from the premise that what matters most is not what the film in question contributes to the art of cinema or what pleasures it might hold for a queer-literate audience, but the degree to which it explicitly serves the gay political cause…not ‘does the character have an important or entertaining part to play in the shaping of the plot?’ but “is this character setting a good example?’.

Toby Manning:

Another given of gay culture is righteousness. Self-righteousness is perhaps an inevitable by-product of liberation movements, but gay righteousness is particularly offensive in its ability to be simultaneously apologetic and self-aggrandizing. Apologetic because it doesn’t challenge the structures of society, it simply says ‘straights are being horrid to us’…Self-aggrandizing because the mantra of oppression drowns out all else in its repetition, including an indignation out of proportion to the issue…

(T)heir constant, unquestioning invocation makes for dull, lazy speeches at Gay Pride festivals (of the “I am a one-legged lesbian from Lithuania’ variety); unanalytical, unobjective news reporting (…the respect given AIDS closet cases Freddie Mercury and Rock Hudson); sentimental songs that operate a kind of community thought-bypass (like those of Holly Near or Michael Callen at the Gay Games); and bland films (“Philadelphia”, “Parting Glances”, “Longtime Companion” all busily pushing the AIDS button). But these emotional response buttons are carefully chosen to keep the issues as mainstream as possible. Little righteous anger is heard on behalf of transsexuals or SM dykes. Anything that doesn’t fit the righteous reformist agenda is kept out of sight, ignored by the gay press and by gay political organizations — after all, if it’s not wholesome and easily understood, heterosexuals (read ‘powerful conservative figures’) might be scared off.

The collapse of Queer Nation is often taken as an example of the failure of queer/transgression as a whole, though the organization in fact had no connection to the queerzine ethos, simply appropriating the tern ‘queer’ for what was essentially just a more militant take on the usual gay reformist agenda. The extent of the organization’s separation from real queer culture is illustrated by their sending a death threat to Denis Cooper, a hero to queer zinesters. But it was this movement that came to represent queer in the popular imagination, the result being, as Bruce LaBruce has pointed out, that ‘the Queer nation sensibility and aesthetic merged with what (zinesters) were doing and watered it down.’ Unlike the queer zinesters wholesale rejection of society, the new militancy was easily assimilable into gay culture…

Meanwhile, many of the visible signifiers of queer (nipple rings, tattoos, and punk styles) were taken on by gays as fashion accessories, and thus stripped of their original meaning. Hardly surprising that ‘queer’ has come to suggest a pierced-nippled, brain-dead, club-crazy bimbo wiggling his hips to house music.

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!

Onward to Minnesota

Armed with knowlege gleaned from the Mary Tyler Moore Show and from Whip LeFever’s Walk on the Wild Side, I arrived in the home of Target Stores and Prince at about 8PM Friday night. American Airlines hadn’t fed me well at all and I was reassured by the first sight I saw on the road to Christopher’s house. Like a miraculous beacon, the White Castle called me from Lake Street. For those of you who don’t know, White Castle is the northern counterpart of Krystal in the south, serving 39-cent burgers which are basically an ounce of meat on a brown and serve roll. It’s an acquired taste. Anyway, I took this as a sign that this trip, which I’d had some reservations about taking, was gonna be just fine.

It was really great to see Christopher and Bil. Bil, who I went out with a few years ago, remains a good friend, and actually LEFT San Francisco, but is now forgiven. I took an immediate and intense liking to Christopher upon meeting him a few months ago in SF when he visited with Bil, and he offered me a temporary home. Together with a drum machine (temporary) and an occasional guest vocalist named Dawn, they form a queer metal band called Lucifag. Part of my trip’s timing stemmed from the fact that Lucifag was doing its first show while I was there.

I didn’t quite know what to expect, but they fucking ROCKED. One of the best and tightest sets I’ve seen in a while. And lest you ask, this is from my “former college radio music director” perspective, not my “friends with the band and infatuated with the guitar player” perspective. I think…

The show was Sunday night at District 202, a queer youth center, and was put on by Homocore Minneapolis. Also on the stage were Plain Jane, the Third Sex (love the Third Sex), and another band whose name I forget but they were pretty good too. The show was recommended in the Minnepolis’ City Pages and there was also press in the University of Minnesota Daily.

Later that night, I realized that I may be allergic to Minnesota, a condition which haunted me off and on throughout the trip.

Cars and Porn

Things look good in my insurance world (I was a touch worried) so I may have another car soon. And I finally got to see “Frisky Summer”. Johann Paulik gets fucked wearing his rollerblades. Love it; I’m thinking of blowing up a video capture to make all the “yuppie blader scum” really nervous.

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