Gaily Proud, Proudly Gay

Every few years, mrpeenee overcomes his aversion for the gay pride parade and celebration thing and decides to attend. Every few years, mrpeenee is a sucker. This year, I noticed several gay blogs hectoring readers into participating in the parades around the country: gay civil rights are won not through complacency, they would shrill; you owe it to those who came before and lack this opportunity; a show of solidarity in the face of growing conservatism is important. And so I went and remembered, once again, despite agreeing with the high-minded sentiments, I do not like these gay pride celebrations. I find them tedious and crowded and shrill. My favorite memories of gay prides gone by were the ones where R Man and I would sneak down for lunch in the Castro, which was empty while all the reveling tourists were in the Civic Center and then come home to read.

Here's pretty much what today looked like

crowded, hot, filled with people I would not be enthused about sitting next to on a subway; not enough cute boys; a block long line to get in the fetish area (and honey, I can see that at Blow Buddies any weekend night I want to) and, in general, nothing that interested me. It was just another big street fair, with the same skeevy chicken fajita purveyors poisoning the unwary, speeches I couldn't hear and didn't want to listen to, and gangs of people rushing aimlessly around.

I wanted to like it. Honest. I tried to be open to it, to get into the mood, but the mood seems so artificially hedonistic and gay, like all those boa-wearing celebrants are just trying too hard. And Bank of America can put their GLBTQ employee task force in matching tee shirts all they want, I'm still not going to open an account there.

Nevertheless, here's some pictures I took.

Secret Agent Fred and his friend helped make the scene more bearable. So did some vicodan I took while I was standing behind a dumpster next to a cop. I am such a wild dog.

Tits. Everybody likes tits.

I asked the is guy "Can I take you picture?" He said no, but by then I already had (You need to

move fast around mrpeenee.) Sorry, bitch.

This guy, on the other hand, was very sweet about encouraging me to photograph his rather lovely man teats.

Steamworks, the bathhouse in Berkley, was advertising with high quality meat.

He was very nice when I asked him to turn around again and show us his butt. He even laughed when I said I was sure that wasn't the first time he's heard that. Harharhar. mrpeenee: crackin' em up in aisles.

More Steamworkers. Let me point out I have been a regular habitue of the old joint and I have NEVER seen specimens like this toiling away there. I must go on the wrong shift.

This is what most of the parade looks like, the wrong people in thongs.

I thought this was adorable; an adorable muscle boy and his adorable mother hanging at Pride with slightly less adorable boyfriend. Isn't that adorable?

I don't know what these guys were selling, but I liked their technique: large bare muscles.

Again, product seems unclear,

But the old tar seems like he might be interested in a pair. Or two. Or a six pack. Whatever.

Sling shot. He had a girl sort of hanging on him, but so was his chubby guy friend. Who knows what's going on?

Speaking of who knows what's going on, I was never ever able to discover what was so hilarious about this guy's back, but by then we were headed out and I had some more vicodan calling to me, so I wasn't pressing the matter.

Back from the Blind

Perhaps you already know about the wonders of Flexible Spending Accounts. Your employer deposits a chunk of your salary you choose each year and you get to spend it on your medical expenses. The money is not taxed and, in federal employees' case anyway, the entire amount you designate is available immediately so it's like an interest free loan for a year. The down side is any money in the account you don't spend by the end of the year, you lose. It's like a not very amusing game. In December you have to guess how sick you're going to get in the next year and how expensive it will be.

This year, I wildly overshot and so now I'm scrambling around trying to spend up all the money still hanging around my account. Since the pinheads at FSA will not recognize rentboys as legitimate medical expenses, I was considering decorative surgery, but decided to spring for new glasses instead. I picked them up this afternoon.

I assume plenty of you guys are myopic because, you know, so many of you use big words in your comments. Thus you'll understand the thrill of new glasses. Never again will the world look so crisply clear as it does through brand new lenses.

So what did I see, wandering through the Castro, my eyesight all tuned up?

(Of course I didn't think to take my camera, so all images are approximate and swiped from various websites.)

The agapanthus on Market and Noe are remarkably brilliant blue.

The storefront that used to house Earthtones, a fairly charming tchotchke store, is now reopening as a combination wine bar and jewelry store.

What? Is their business plan that customers will get drunk and pop for overpriced bijoux? It seems like an unlikely concept.

Plenty, plenty of cute guys. Reveling in my new found ability to focus, I was looking around absentmindedly and suddenly realized I was staring at an absolutely ravishing boy. Good Heavens.

He had on a lovely olive green sweater, too.

Even as I realized what I was doing, I also saw that he was looking directly through me, invisible as a glass window in his path. That didn't bother me; I had my turn and now it's his. What it did do, however, was make me wonder what it would be like to be young and so very good looking and living in San Francisco. I know, I know, everyone has their own pains and sorrows, rain falls on the beautiful and the ugly alike, blahblahblah. Still, what is like, to turn heads everywhere you go? I'll never know, I'd just be satisfied with his sweater.

Jackass, Part Two

What is most remarkable is that queers everywhere were so incensed by whatshisname's interview, they were too distracted to comment on the fact his cover photo looks like he's wearing a kabuki mask composed of Estee Lauder Silly Putty. And you know, it takes a LOT to make us all overlook that.

Jackass

Just Jackass.

Begin at the Beginning

And then Uncle Mike told Tommy he liked gladiator movies, too!

Naughty, Not Nice

So Jason (or Jeisean as he sometimes known in the low-life cafes he frequents) from Night is Half Gone wins this season's Reindeer Game prize for having run across the first stripper-in-a-santy-hat, or at least the first one to admit it.

In looking for something to illustrate this time honored tradition, I ran across this
tarting up the place in a queer bar called New York, New York in Manchester, England. It scares me. I thought at first it was the color or the shininess, but now I realize it's the tout ensemble that willifies me. I look at the vaguely Victorian mantle mirror, the various equipment dangling about (are they games? Security apparatus? Who knows?) and the lovely peach colored walls and think "I'm glad I don't go to bars anymore."

Oh, Just Get Out Already

Not Kevin Spacey. And that's a good thing.

Since I have to replace the seal on my toilet today and, oddly, am not particularly enthused about the prospect, allow me to waste some time here ranting instead.

Over at www.expatriato.blogspot.com , our dear Muscato points out yet another profile of Kevin Spacey that tiptoes around his possibly poofiness cause, you know, innocent until proved, “Mr. Spacey does not comment on his private life,” it’s all just malicious rumors, yadda yadda whatever. As Tallulah once said “I don’t know, he’s never sucked my cock.” Personally, I don’t need his mouth wrapped around my manmeat to make the leap that a man of his age and background with no visible female attachments is, oh I don’t know, GAYGAYGAYGAYGAYGAY.

Ahem.

But this isn’t really just about him. It’s about me, of course. Isn’t everything? It’s about the damage that your life led in the closet does to my life led outside it. An important way in which homophobes have their fear and loathing of gay men (that would be me. Hi!) reinforced is by a lack of exposure to us. The less contact they have with queers leading lives out of hiding, the easier it is for them to convince themselves we don’t even exist and therefore our demands for equality are unwarranted. It’s like seeking protection for leprechauns.

So. Gays in highly public arenas (Oscar winning actors, for instance) could have a beneficial impact on breaking down that invisibility by stepping up and saying “I suck dick. Mmm, it’s tasty.” I understand they have no real individual obligation to do so. I’m explaining why I don’t respect their choice not to.

Oh, it’s their personal life? Please. They’ve chosen to enter a profession that features photos of Brittney Spears’ vagina. How much privacy were they hoping for?

Yep, it’s frightening to announce that you’re a perv, and when you’re trying to get started in that field the last thing you need is one more obstacle. Got it. But one of the reasons being gay is an obstacle is the closet of actors who’ve made it, like Spacey. OK, it’s chicken and egg, gay actors have to hide because there are no roles for gay actors because gay actors are in hiding. So Will on Will and Grace is a straight man; and Heath Ledger plays Ennis and grants detailed interviews about how icky it is to kiss Jake Gyllenhaal (ingrate); and all the other scraps of gay roles go to straight actors in a kind of sexual blackface. And even in 2008, you can still see polls of people who claim they know no gays or lesbians. Of course you do sweetie. His name is Kevin Spacey.

Fruit of the Vine

A show opening in mid-Ocotber at the LGBTQQTI ABDCEFG Center here.

Sort of a plump little faun. http://www.sfcenter.org/event/box_series/box_series.htm

Officer, Could I Borrow Your Tongue for a While?

ok, ok, ok, I swear I am not obsessed with Sen. Craig, but a friend just sent me a shot of the cop who busted him and suddenly the good senator's lapse in judgement becomes much more understandable:

tap, tap, tap

Play Spot the Homo. Win Fabulous Prizes.

Siegmund Heil, a conservative booger, sorry, blogger, reports on the matter of Sen. Larry Craig, the tearoom lurking, busted, disgraced and not very cute Senator from Idaho: “We must rally around Senator Craig and not allow him to be destroyed. Senator Craig is virtuous and truthful Christian. I can spot a homo at 50 paces and if Senator Craig were a homo pervert, I would be the first to demand his resignation.”

Amazingly, I too can spot a homo at 50 paces; it’s a little known talent I have honed over the years of looking for them. Actually, I can do it at more than 50 paces and can sometimes sniff ‘em out around a corner, but unlike Siggy, I don’t like to brag. It’s so unladylike.

My fans ask, “How, mrpeene, how can you do this? Tell us your secrets, we beg you.” Well, first there’s the passion amongst fruitcakes for fashion. Often, they will even shave their heads in order to fit in among the stylish set. Then there is the smirking, come-hither expression they hone to perfection, curving their consciously luscious lips into an inviting smirk. Finally, poofter poses are almost always a dead give-away; for example, they will often press their palm to the back of their neck in order to flex their bicep, give a peak of their nasty little pit and simultaneously pay homage to one of the icons of their perversion, the Betty Grable pin-up look. A demonstration, below:

Obviously, queer as Paul Lynde’s hairdresser. It’s also Siegmund Heil. Cute huh? Well, you know, for a moron, anyway.

http://www.siegheil.us/blog/_archives/2007/8/28/3190512.html

How the Mighty Have Fallen. And the Schmucks, too.

Loverboy

I’m willing to admit I know almost nothing about Sen. Larry Craig, the congressman who’s considering resigning because he got busted in an airport men’s room (or tearoom, as we used to say back in the day.) Merely his title, Republican senator from Idaho, makes me automatically assume he is not one with me in my opinions and values and that is so wrong on my part. Also, enjoying the vision of him squirming through this is wrong, wrong, wrong. Is he my gay brother? Well, let’s see, it would appear we have both looked for love amongst the plumbing facilities, so, you know, maybe.

What is troubling is not some apparently closeted power monkey getting thrown under the bus by his fellow senators. It’s the fact that in 2007, cops are still setting up stings to bust pervs looking for some action in the stalls. Don't they have anything better to worry about? Plus, doesn’t the evidence they arrested him on seem pretty feeble? He tapped his foot and waved under the partition. Sweetie, I’ve been around the block and I am fairly certain the good senator was probably looking to have his tonsils massaged with some stranger’s pecker. OK, given. Still, it just seems harsh that tapping and waving are illegal in the Minnesota airport. That that is all it takes to get you hauled off to the Twin Cities’ jailhouse. You might want to bear that in mind if you’re ever traveling through the Gopher State (I looked it up on Wikepedia. That’s really its nickname. Telling, huh?)

I would also argue that Craig’s real problem is not being dick crazed, but being stupid. Considering what security in airports has become over the last few years, could you think of a worse place to go manhunting? Was he so sex starved he couldn’t keep it in his pants until he got to the hotel and the services of an agreeable rentboy? Again, I’ve been there and am sympathetic, but even I know when to tap and wave and when not to.

Southern Decadence: the Glory Years

Today is the annual Southern Decadence in New Orleans. Years ago, when I was a mere baby gay living way down yonder, Southern Decadence, always the Sunday before Labor Day, placed second only to Mardi Gras as my favorite event of the year. Now the day is just one more excuse for a generic circuit party, but in my time, when dinosaurs were still grazing on the ferns in Esplanade Street, it was strictly a drag parade.

My friends and I, along with a few hundred other poofters, would doll up in regalia guaranteed to make real drag queens clench their teeth and shudder. Those true drag queens might aim for the illusion of femininity, the very soul of she‑ness, but Southern Decadence in general, and my pals in particular, shot more for a burlesque of all aspects of feminine apparel. We had an unhygienic collection we worked from called The Drag Bag, a seemingly bottomless supply of dresses, rhinestones, purses, chiffon what-nots, and wigs, wigs, wigs. Just getting together an outfit from all the scraps was pretty darned hilarious, believe me.

The “parade” would gather at a shitty little bar named the Golden Lantern, but much better known as the Golden Latrine, and slither off on a completely unplanned march from bar to bar though out the French Quarter. I never made it to the end of the route, since the aimless, drunken wandering always wore me out. One year, they wound up on the steps of the Moon Landing facing Jackson Square belting out “God Bless America”. I have no idea why, I’m pretty sure no one does.

Another year I was pretty, let me tell you, a lavender beehive, purple pumps and a gold lame miniskirt I made by sewing a scrap of fabric to a jock strap. I remember those damn pumps cause they were new and hurt so much I wound up jettisoning them and walking home in my stockings. I’m not saying that I’m certain I converted to HIV positive because of that, but you know, it’s possible. If you’ve ever seen the streets of the Quarter on a hot summer afternoon, I know you’d agree. My, how people stared. It might have been because of the beehive, or it might have been because I was barefoot.

One time my friend Robert wore a hoop skirt on his head like a mantilla from Mars and people cheered. Another year my other dear friend Magda blew up balloons and wore them like a crinoline under a gauzy little party frock. Again, cheering. We went out in the rain, we went out in the miserable heat, we went out in dresses so ugly they made you squint. I loved it.

I’m glad I got to experience it when I did. If you go to the main website for Southern Decadence now you will see not one reference to drag. It’s all muscley boys tweaking with their shirts off. Certainly, that’s not something I sneer at, I love dem mucscley boys. But it could be anywhere, anytime - Folsom Street Fair, Gay Pride in Sacramento, Halloween in Pittsburgh. It can never replace the thrill of appearing on Royal Street in a cherry red ball gown with plastic crystal chandelier pendants in my hair. Those were the days.

Oh, All right, Muscle Pussy Already

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O, Those Dirty French Boys

Thanks, and more than thanks, to thombeau of Fabulon (http://thombeau.blogspot.com/) for sending me the link for Un Chant d’Amour. I’d heard about this move for years, but never seen it. Jean Genet made it in 1950, it’s only 25 minutes long and it’s silent (You can watch it at work!) Calling it homoerotic is like calling Gilligan’s Island goofy; neither exist on any other level, but so what? It’s beautiful and fascinating and the best 25 minutes you’re going to have for a while.

http://www.ubu.com/film/genet.html

Sean Connery. Zardoz. Eeks.

All actors reach a nadir at some point.

Mt. Muscle Pussy

I'm only putting these in because jason asked me to. What a perv.

I'm Sure It's All Perfectly Innocent

Sure.

Pretty Puss

Classic Muscle Pussy

Tinseltown tart Guy Madison, ready for business.

The Sordid Side of Sordidness

These are the Carlson twins (the naked ones. I don’t know who the gropey girls are.) They seem so determined to assure every one of God’s creatures that they are not queer, nosiree, that they get on my nerves even as I admire their flawless buttocks.

If Fabulon is the fabulous planet, then these boys are from some bizarro opposite planet of homophobes making a buck off of peddling their joint pussies to the gays they’re so rigorous about denying. It is the planet Fabuless.