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Harvey Milk Day

I was 8 when Harvey Milk was gunned down by an assholes bullet.

I was a little too young to know anything about Milk - or politics in general.

I just coming to understand and accept my confusing sexual orientation.

Compared to some friends I came to acceptance younger than most.

For a brief spell I thought I was the only one like me in the world.

Until Anita Bryant came along with her anti-gay crusade.

I suppose I should thank her for...

Letting me know that there were more just like me out there in the world.

I knew in time that I would find them. And I did. Lots and lots of them.

But that was a long way off. So a closet became my safe place.

I knew Anita was talking about me. And I didn't like it.

I was a good kid. Eff her. I'd like to throw a pie in her face.

That's My Twin Brother

Once upon a very long time ago...

Back in the olden days when I went to the gym everyday.

There was this guy that seemed to be into me.

Or was he. It was really hard to tell.

For about a month he'd smile at me - but only every other time I'd see him.

The other times he'd walk right by me rather aloof. It was really confusing.

Finally one day he introduced himself to me.

During our initial conversation I asked him why sometimes he ignored me.

He replied, "Oh, that's my twin bother. We use the same membership."

Of course! Why didn't I think of that? Derrrrr.

He was quite the flatterer. I don't remember why we never yet there.

But I often tell this story and it makes me wonder what happened to him.

I wish I'd have kept in touch.

***

That's actually him on the left. Or the right. But I think he's on the left.

I didn't know it at the time but they were "adult" actors from Madrid.

They were controversial as the first set twins to appear 'together' in porn.

I guess his porn shelf-life expired and he must have returned to Spain.

Who's to Blame - Part 5

This is my senior picture. It was taken in 1982. I graduated in 1983.

The evening of my commencement ceremony I went to Studio 9.

Studio 9 was a small under-21 gay dance club in San Diego.

It was here that I found friends, acceptance, courage and a dance floor.

For the next couple of years I spent at least 5 nights a week there.

We'd successfully 'fish' for wine coolers at the AM/PM down the street.

"And dance our lives away. 2000, zero, zero party's over - oops outta time..."

Funny how those long-ago hangovers seem like total cake compared to now.

We'd dress only in clothing purchased at thrift stores - blame Angela Blaine.

Ang would call, "Let's go a-thriftin'." I'd reply, "Pick you up in 20."

We'd be so upset if we scoured and still had an "unpurchaseful day" - ugh.

When we did have "many fine purchases" we couldn't wait to present them.

My hair went thru a lot of changes too - lengthwise and color.

I even went thru a crazy wig stage - blame Robert Smith and Siouxsie Sioux.

See, that's me... in a very cool ratted out wig waving my fist in the air:

I really wish I could blame the drugs. But I can't - I wasn't doing any.

It was all done on vodka. And grilled cheese sandwiches.

And the occasional hit of poppers. And vodka - there was a lot of vodka.

So bottom-lining it for you fine folks...

For the man I am today you can like so totally - blame the 80's.

Best Gym Buddy Ever or, Cotton Candy

My friend Sammy has happily reintroduced the gym into my life.

We go (on average) 4 times a week. Lots of laughs. Best gym buddy ever.

The other day after our workout we were walking by the nearby CVS.

I said, "I'm kinda hungry, can we go in for a sandwich?"

Sammy replied, "Sure." We settled for a chicken pesto pita thing. Tasty too.

There was nowhere to eat so we just ate it at the trash can out front.

We looked decidedly homeless - made worse by the driving rain.

After it was consumed we walked a couple blocks before Sammy mentioned,

"Today is Jordan and my one month anniversary. What should I get him?"

I said, "Well, we were just at CVS - you should have looked around there."

So we went back.

We walked up and down every aisle but found nothing to his satisfaction.

I noticed that security was following us and made mention of it to Sammy.

Sammy said, "Well, I am wearing this gigantic backpack!"

I continued, "And it probably doesn't help that we ate over a trash can."

We enjoyed a laugh as the guard switched his observational gaze to a glare.

Eventually Sammy settled on a multi-colored bag of cotton candy.

I asked, "Isn't cotton candy suppose to come on a stick?"

Without missing a beat Sammy lowered his voice to a growl, "It will."

Poof, Another Appears

There are only two real reasons to visit Mykonos - one is for the bar scene and the other its striking beaches. Every summer the warm Mediterranean winds sweep tourists the world over to the tiny Greek island to savor its recreational charms. Although it's a bit of a trek to get out there, I find it's an exceptional way to enjoy a couple day's leisure while traveling, often to exhaustion, throughout Europe.

Evenings in Mykonos begin to excite around midnight at Bar Portas with the gays fervidly throwing-back starter drinks all the while engaged in well-barbed acquaintance chatter. An hour later the crowd moves almost collectively to the larger more accommodating outdoor patio of Pierros Bar and Disco, which is hosted by two German drag queens. They flit about in outrageous get-ups dishing libidinous gaiety all the while successfully braiding the assembly into one grand and cohesive inter-mingled late-night party.

Around 2:30 the drag queens take to a small stage and lip-sinc (in the key of camp) some bitter ditty which is cheered wildly by the throng of inebriates who have long since come to adore them - rapturously. More importantly though, the spectacle serves as the commencement for wee-hour dancing and in no time the entire joint is an uninhibited mass of spirited gays grooving to the music pulsating on the intimate dance floor.

This summer's drag queens are polar opposites, one is quite pretty (photo above) and the other is a dog. On the last of my four nights in Mykonos a third gender illusionist mysteriously arrived and she was easily the best of the three. Concern, and bad make-up, was slapdash all over the lesser drag queens face.

I asked her about this new development and she said in a crisp German accent, "I don't know. Suddenly - poof, another appears. And the bitch is gorgeous. Still, nobody is talking. I think maybe I get fire tonight."

I wished her the best to which she shrugged her exposed shoulders, "Eh, I can always manage work in Ibiza; I am a bit of a famous there. Also, there is interest coming from Berlin."

As she walked away I wondered if the time hadn't come for her to contemplate retirement. I mean, at this point she just looks like a bizarrely painted-up Ethel Mertz - mad with fractured fantasies of drag celebrity.

Oh, who am I to judge? I'm wearing ankle socks and Sketchers.

***

Written: August 23, 2005

Only One Question More

How about an old story from my trip to Prague in July of '07...

***

Brad and I were told that the place to be in Prague on a Wednesday night was a club called Ter-Mix. Our hotel was near which allowed us a nice walk but we found ourselves a bit early so we ordered a couple of beers and made our way to the backroom and sat on a couch that was facing another couch with a coffee table in between.

Not long after another pair of guys came and sat on the couch across from us; polite smiles were exchanged. As Brad was rehashing something funny from earlier in the day I noticed the one of the guys pointed in my direction then leaned over to say something to his friend about me. Probably just discussing my handsomeness - which is totally understandable.

A couple of minutes later one of the guys got up and came over to me and introduced himself, "Um, halloo, I am called Johan. You are?"

I replied, "I'm Chuck. It's nice to meet you."

He nodded and continued, "And what city are you living from?"

Finding it cute I smiled at his broken English and answered, "We live in Los Angeles."

Johan grinned, "Ah yes, I have been knowing it."

There was a slight pause and then he said, "Ok, only one question more."

I replied, "Sure, not a problem."

He hesitated and then with a hint of embarrassment, "My friend and I think you have finding the wrong bar. We think you are hetero-sexuallies."

I wagged my finger as I laughed, "No, no. We are gay."

Johan gasped in delight, "OH! I go now to tell the news."

He returned to his friend and quickly briefed him on his successful sleuthing. The friend then raised his glass in approval and the four of us clinked them together in a silent toast of unity.

Brad shot me a confused look and asked, "What was that all about?"

I fired back, "They thought we were straight."

Brad furrowed his eyes brows and did a sweeping Vanna White arm-gesture toward me and said sarcastically, "Really?"

And though his comment did smart a little we laughed.

To show them just how gay we are I thought about getting my camera out to show them a picture of Brad a few nights earlier in London at a transgender bar called The Princess (that we accidentally stumbled upon) holding a tranny's purse while he/she used the restroom. Or the photo of Brad getting a big ol' smootch on the lips in thanks for doing so...

Yes Brad, I realize your mother will read this... Consider this big-time payback for that show-casing really.

She's Trapped in a Gay Sandwich

This is a photo from my kindergarten graduation in 1971.

(No wise guys, I am not the one in the dress.)

Even then, like my striped pants, I worked a lot of flair.

Here's the funniest thing about this pic: I'm not even the gayest thing in it.

What the hey hey hey is he doing?

Wot Yur Nom?

An old friend requested that I post this story. I wrote it 5 years ago which pre-dates this blog. She loves this story. She should, she is featured in it toward the end. By the way, it's a sex story - so (family) you've been warned.

***

While inebriated at a bar last Saturday night a guy walked by me and grinned. He glanced back to find a smile of equal value sprawled across my face and encouraged by our mutual interest he came up to me and asked, "Hey, wot yur nom?"

It took me a couple seconds but I made my way through his mangled English and decided that he was a foreigner asking my name. With all the tact that a six-pack and a couple of shots summoned I answered, "I'm Chuck. What's that accent you got there?"

Embarrassed, he looked to the floor and said, "Om deaf."

Whoops. But that would explain the pen and notepad in his shirt pocket. I offered my apology mouthing with great exaggeration, "I'm sor-ry."

I didn't know quite what to do at this point but I surely didn't want to let him get away so I shrugged my shoulders in an effort to imply "So, what's next?"

He said, "Dunt worry, I cun red lupths."

The warmth of my smile only slightly interfered with the importance I placed on enunciating every word for the rest of our encounter which began with what I felt would be a snazzy ice-breaker, "I can sign 'Purple Rain.'"

We both laughed at my goofy performance of the Prince classic but it turned out to be a wonderful transition to a wildly comfortable, albeit communicatively challenging evening together. In no time I had grown at ease with his odd accent and he with my overly articulate 'lupths.'

Eventually 'last call' would pronounce us intimates.

The next morning as he was readying himself to leave he said, "I rally lock you. Give me yur phone numbah. Of courth I cun't call you but I cun tecth metheth you."

I happily complied and after he left I reflected on the nice time that unexpectedly sprang from our flirtation. I looked forward to our next rendez-vous as I fell back to sleep.

At work the following Monday I ran into Cristina, one of the many coworkers I treasure, and she asked me a typical week-starting question, "How was your weekend? Did you dirty pop?"

I smiled and told her my story of meeting the deaf guy - complete with an offensive over-the-top deaf accent. She laughed hysterically at the way I said, "I cun tecth metheth you." It became our thing and in the days that followed whenever we would see each other we'd pop-off with "I cun tecth metheth you' to see who could say it first and with the most exaggeration - much to the annoyance of the people trying to work around us.

Finally, Thursday morning she asked in all seriousness, "Hey, did you ever get your 'tecth metheth' from that deaf guy?"

I thought about it and said, "Actually, no. I'm really surprised."

She snapped her neck with Latina attitude and gave me a good dose of chola-nese, "Mmm, I'm guessin' you di-int lay it down on him like you saaaaaaid you did."

October 14, 2006

FAB-U-LOUS or, Without Reservation

Once upon a great long time ago I was saddled with a significant other who was - crazy. A couple years after we parted he was diagnosed as bi-polar but while we were together he was just plain ol' fashion crazy. Nut-bag crazy. Lohan crazy.

All of his friends (not to mention mine) would all ask me why I stayed with him to which I'd just shrug and say, "I love him." And I did, blindly. And painfully. Yea, his manic episodes were that bad. And I martyred the brunt proudly. Which probably made me a bit of a co-crazy.

On one successfully bar-hopped San Francisco night Crazy and I were getting an after-hours meal at a crappy little greasy spoon in the Castro called Without Reservation. Sadly it's no longer there anymore having gone the way of a swanky sushi palace or perhaps it's a cupcake emporium. Can't remember - I just know that it doesn't serve steak fries.

Anyhow, we sat at the counter and just as our food arrived an older intoxicated gentleman came in and sat next to me. He was very loud and speaking in a strange flow of consciousness punctuating each of his proclamations with the fact that it was 'fab-u-lous.'

"I just came from a fun night at the bars and it was fab-u-lous." "I love living in San Francisco cuz it's so fab-u-lous." "I'm gonna have the Apple Brown Betty cuz it's fab-u-lous." Some of his fa-u-lous-ness hued a little bluer even, but considering the locale and the early morning-ness of the hour it was fine. Maybe expected.

Eventually I couldn't resist and turned to smile at him and he bellowed, "Look at your eyes! I am a great reader of eyes and your eyes are fab-u-lous. Just fab-u-lous. I can tell that as a person you're fab-u-lous." (Well d'uh.)

I thanked him and he went back to his string of fab-u-lous things and he got choked-up when he came to this one: "I'm HIV positive and... I'm..."

I reached over and warmly squeezed his forearm as I offered my voice as empowerment and sang out with him in chorus, "Fab-u-lous." His lips quivered as he granted me a generous smile. Remember, this was back in the time when the futures of a lot of HIV+ people seemed desperately bleak. I thought that would make him feel good. It did.

It did not however please Crazy, "Ugh, don't encourage him."

Crazy then leaned around me to give Fab-u-lous a toxic dose of his well-polished stink eye. Fab-u-lous stopped everything instantly and his manner completely turned into that of the soothsayer who had famously foreshadowed the certain doom Oedipus was come to face. He pointed to and shook his fingers at Crazy's two eyes and moaned in a low slow eerie tone, "You. You're busy."

And after he called Crazy crazy he got up and fled - like the ceiling (or check) was about to drop. And as I reflect upon this little Greek tragedy-esque moment I'm left to ponder that just like Oedipus I too should have given greater heed of my seer's sound warning.

***

About the photo: While walking my dog yesterday I came across this stencil of Harvey Milk - who was also known as the Mayor of Castro. It is really quite a coincidence that I happened to write about a Castro memory on the same day.

Peggy

I had this brief conversation with a friend at happy hour on Sunday...

Him: Did you ever know that guy with one leg that use to come here?

Me: No.

Him: Oh yeah, we all use to call him Peggy.

Me: Wow. Sorry I missed that!

Him: He use to tell us about a lot of really sick amputee fetish shit too.

Me: Oh I bet. There are a lot of freaky people out there.

Him: He got more action than anyone I knew. He was quite the stumper.

We enjoyed a strange laugh together. Then I asked...

Me: I wonder if he ever went to that amputee bar in Hollywood?

Him: There was an amputee bar in Hollywood?

Me: Oh yes! Legend has it that it was quite hopping in the 80's.

Him: And no doubt had a cover charge that cost an arm and a leg.

Bah dum, bum.

***

I took that photo of the homeless shoe last week.

I had no idea what I would ever use it for - til I heard tale of Peggy.

Makes sense now, Peggy and the like would only have need for one.

Chuck the other.