It’s Gay Pride AGAIN? Already? I can tell because the lovely warm weather we had for the better part of a week has imploded and we are back to the San Francisco norm: chilly and gray and foggy. As a San Franciscan, that’s ok with me (I always feel underdressed without a sweater or two,) but one does feel sorry for the pathetic tourists, foolishly dressed for what they thought was California as they stand around shivering and their bare legs turn blue. I snuggle into my summer suede coat and think “Sorry, suckers,” and hurry past them. Sad, really.
Tourists were very much on my mind this afternoon hanging around my favorite little cafe, Peet’s, trying to read as a table of them loudly debated the correct pronunciation of the local major thoroughfare, Gough Street. There were several brave cracks at it, including the classics “Goh” and “Gow” and “Joff” and one of them even landed, briefly on the correct “Goff,” but was voted down by his fellows. Again, sad, because I’m sure the snotty cab drivers hereabouts will refuse to take you anywhere you can’t pronounce to their satisfaction.
|Possible gays, but pretty much what representative of what you can be sure will be in the decided minority come Pride Day.
Sos anyway, I’m preparing to hunker down and ride out the rainbow colored madness of it all. I have some errands on Friday and after that, it’s me and the cat home all weekend casue I’m already plenty gay enough, thanks.
I’m pretty sure I have no truck with astrology. After all, my own birthday is the day after that of R Man’s father, and that poisonous old fart was the nastiest iceberg of toxic waste I have ever met so maybe it’s just that I hope there is nothing to the notion that the heavens rule our spirits.
There may be, though, an overlooked horoscope sign: the Gay Icon. In the less than four week spread between mid March and early April we have
Liza Minelli, March 12. “Hold it together, Minelli.”
Joan Crawford, March 23. “Don’t fuck with me boys.”
Aretha Franklin, March 25 (seen here in her short run Yes, I Skinned Big Bird, Whatcha Gonna Do About It Bitches? cabaret act.)
Diana Ross, March 26. “I’m just gonna run down to the corner for some 40’s and then I’ll be ready for another goddam chorus of Toss Me in the Morning.”
Bette Davis, April 5. “I’m the nicest goddamn dame that ever lived.”
If only Judy Garland (June 10, bizarrely enough) were in the mix, we could rename the whole thing as Mary Month and be done with it.
Oh, Castro Street Fair. Super Agent Fred and I stumbled into each other there yesterday and that was pretty much the highpoint of the day. That and the vicodin I washed down with a dainty little Cosmopolitan. If you’ve been to any street fair, I’m sure you know the drill:
Smoldering fajitas contributing to global warming.
And semi-naked boys, contributing to nothing.
My favorite booth was the “Girl on Girl Dodgeball.” Plus, I accidentally bought raffle tickets to win admission to Cirque du Soliel when I thought the prize was a pass to a bunch of art shows instead, but by the time I figured it out, too late. I suppose that means I will inevitably win to see, as Carmen on South Park says, “a bunch of gays in sequins.”
What could be more appropriate for Gay Pride week than Cyndi Lauper’s birthday? I love this remake of her old Money Changes Everything. I think her voice is better than ever and she’s toned down the idiosyncratic yips and yaps and barking she used to decorate her singing with. Plus she’s rocking a zither, or as much of it as she can reach around her enormous knockeroonies, and some guy is playing a squeezebox.
Are you sufficiently gaye? Find out. Get your Gay card
Tip: raise your score by answering “yes” to everything just like the real mos. “Wanna drink?” “Suck my dick?” “D&D free, right?” I would have had a perfect score, but I hit the last question, which implies black and brown do not go together, and I had to refuse to lower my standards by saying yes. I know they’re shooting for sartorial solecisms, but I also have my eye on an antique chair upholstered in black leather with brown velvet stripes I’m mad for. Plus, if you really think black and brown don’t go together, you have obviously not been paying enough attention to Kristen Bjorn’s smut.
Tragically, in light of mrpeene’s devotion to celebrating queer sensibilities, he has sprained some stupid tendon in his right hand. Since I am right handed, this is getting in the way of a number of things I need to do, things like grab a bottle of Mineragua (my new fave bebeda,) or clutch pearls when shocked, or snatch up a baseball bat, or lots of things. Lots of things.
OK, so baseball bats don’t really come my way that often.
I know I’ve been slack on posting lately. Sorry. R Man is really sick and taking care of him wears me down. But now I am revived by listening to Dusty Springfield over and over, like some teenage angster.
Also, porn helps.
Besides, I stumbled on Joel Burns
, the gay Fort Worth city council member’s immensely moving video dedicated to gay teenagers who are thinking of offing themselves begging them to understand that things get better. I’m sure you’ve seen it, everyone has. So sweet and heartfelt and right on.
I should have stopped at getting all teary eyed and just though happy warm thoughts about how outstanding Burns is, but oh no, I had to go read the Fort Worth newspaper’s story about it and its online comments, many of which were supportive and many of which were the sort of moronic asshattery I knew to expect. Why don’t I ever learn?
I have mentioned that I was originally from Texas. I am, in fact, the fourth generation in my father’s family born there. I am proud of my heritage (or “mah hairtudge” as I would have called it in my youth.) All it takes, though, for me to realize that, yes, getting the fuck out was way the right idea is to read some ass wipe’s assertion that Burns’ list of children who have recently killed themselves to escape homophobic bullying is nothing to be so worked up over, that they should have “sucked it up” and, I don’t know, gone on to lead a life as equally miserable as that of the commentor.
That’s why I think the “It Gets Better” campaign is admirable. If I could have just had someone say that to me when I was trapped in Baytown Texas with no idea that anything like an escape actually was waiting for me, I would still be grateful to them.
Does this post make any sense? I don’t think I care. I have a valium and my bed waiting for me. See ya.
I am such a cheap slut for the most paltry compliments. I received the following in my email sort of recently, as have a number of my little blogging pals, and reprint here:
I noticed your deliciously mrpeenee blog. Fun stuff! I’m also a blogger, but from the other side of the border… Montreal. I provide content for The Montreal Buzz, it’s Tourisme Montreal’s official blog. I’m was wondering if your readers would be interested in a contest we’re holding called “Queer of the Year.” It’s the international search for a fab individual who will be crowned (you guessed it) the “Queer of the Year.” Here’s what’s at stake: · 5 free trips to Montreal · Spa package, fancy restaurant dinner, and $3000 shopping spree for the winner · The title of “Queer of the Year” Heck, YOU should be entering! We still need an entry from San Fran! Anyway, all the deets can be found at www.queeroftheyearcontest.com. And if you have any questions about the contest, let me know. Let me know when you’re in Montreal. I’mma buy you a drink. PS: We just got posted on The Advocate yesterday! (http://www.advocate.com/News/Daily_News/2010/07/07/Montreals_Search_for_Queer_of_the_Year/)
He called my blog delicious. Isn’t that adorable? I feel like voting for him as Queer of the Year based on that alone. As for casting myself, alas, I do not make the videos.
Also, while noodling along over on the famous gay blog http://www.towleroad.com, I stumbled on an odd comments war between men who embraced the term “queer” and those who felt insulted by it. How bizarre. I thought this whole thing was a relic of the 80’s. I remember the older generation of gay men then saying almost exactly what these guys (who mostly identified themselves as under 30) were saying in this comment section. So now many of us seem bracketed by fellow travelers who still take exception to our calling ourselves queer. Again, bizarre.
I remember the defiant thrill of taking up the label, of applying a name to myself that seemed to thumb my nose at those who would use it to deride me. I still do. But for those ‘mos who are upset by it, I say OK, just don’t get in my face. Or I will call you a nancyboy.
There is no evidence that this young man is a poofter, sissy, knob jockey, fag, shirtlifter, fairy, pansy, fudge packer, queen, ladyboy, bender, flit, Mary, pillow biter, sodomite, or queer. I just prefer to think that he is.
I took the subway up to the Castro after work this evening to meet R Man. Naturlement, it was jam-packed, but I nimbly snagged my favorite place to stand if I can’t get a seat and then, as a reward from the goddess for all my sweetness and wonderfulness, this terribly cute young man in a lovely black suit with charcoal pinstripes wedged in next to me. Even our positions were ideal, I was able to ogle him without being vulgarly obvious. Not that that has ever slowed me down particularly, but it’s nice to avoid it, if one can.
But the very most best part? As we pulled into the Castro station he bent over to pick up his briefcase/backpack/manpurse/clutch/whatever and bumped his ass very firmly into my hand. Not on purpose, get real. And I WAS NOT GROPING HIM. Had I been doing so, I certainly would have done a better job of it than the brief, but thrilling contact I managed. I got off the car humming, it takes so little to make me happy in these, my declining years.
Unfortunately, he was not Ross Hurston, pictured above, although he was dressed even nicer. I’ve seen Hurston on the street here a couple of times. One of the sweetest things about San Francisco are the feral porn stars we get to observe. I was surprised to find out he has an Australian accent, but then I was surprised to find out porn had dialogue, so I guess that makes sense.
Oh. Right. Gay Pride Weekend. It is, of course, impossible to overlook in San Francisco, but It fails to stir me. Sorry. A huge parade of every possible sub-group known to queerkind. S&M lesbian-supporting vegan gay members of a co-opertive bike repair store will probably have their own float tomorrow. And I say yay, right on, etc., but I plan on skipping it once again.
The first year we lived year, I got involved in the Pride Committee, editing their magazine/program and was so thoroughly appalled by their petty, small mindedness, I fled, never to return. The old saw about “the smaller the stakes, the more vicious the politics” applies to these warped queens with a vengeance. I got to be one of the flag bearers at the front of the parade, (in front of the Dykes in Bikes, bitch) but even that was not enough to change my mind. I don’t need a parade to be proud, I live a life that would need a tattoo that read “FAG” on my forehead to be any more out.
Instead, I’m staying home listening to music and playing solitaire. Even my music is gay. Here’s a partial rundown of what I’ve heard tonight:
“Homosapien” by Pansy Division
“But Not for Me” by Judy Garland
“Dirty Back Road” by the B-52s
“The Crying Game” by Boy George
“Dancing with Tears in My Eyes” by Ultravox
“This Time Baby” the classic disco hit by Jackie Moore as re-interpreted by Lulu
“Dancing Queen” by the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus
and, of course, numerous tunes by the Pet Shop Boys.
As Lucullis Trajen (below) remarked when he brought in a tray of petit fours, “It doesn’t get any gayer.”
A flurry of emails between the divine Diane von Austinberg and me throughout the day (which I barely was able to squeeze in while working like a dog, slaving away, hardly able to look up from the grindstone, etc. etc. etc…) included the following from Diane:
speaking of food (as we so often do) here’s my new favorite summer salad: corn, toasted walnuts, feta, olive oil, lime juice, with a little black pepper.
Doesn’t that sound fabulous?
So now I’ve gone from Brazilian porn stars to Barbie dolls to recipes. To paraphrase Neil Patrick Harris:
This blog could not be gayer
if Liza was the mayor
and Elton John took flight.