October 2001 Archives

My parents and my Aunt Karen and I feasted on caprese salads and capellini at Puccini and Pinetti tonight. The folks spoke of the convention parties they had attended, odd jobs from their early years, their plans for the remainder of their journey since they leave San Francisco tomorrow. My Aunt spoke of the home she purchased in Claremont, the disapopintment of her trip to Italy being cancelled when the airlines were all grounded, and of her plans for retirement. I informed them that I will be all finished with my psychic seminary program on Halloween - which they found amusing.

I walked my Aunt to a bus stop and waited with her after dinner. It was great to have some private time for just the two of us. She asked the real questions surrounding the details of my life, while my parents prefer highly edited CliffsNotes. A woman at the bus stop broke in on our conversation to tell us that she had seen the bombs being taken off the BART train. It wasn't until quite awhile later, when she was insisting that no one should open their mail, that we started realizing she was out of her mind. Nonetheless, it paints a picture of The City right now where even the stories of the mentally ill sound alarmingly real without further investigation.

Here Ye! Here Ye! If we're going to be spending a long ass nuclear winter in a bunker and be faced with the prospect of rebuilding society I'm SO glad it's going to be with Ginny, not only because she has the right anatomy for reproduction, but because she's just one right-on kick-ass soul sister. What follows is her big 50K East Coast/West Coast acceptance speech. All Hail Queen Ginny:

I'd like to thank Choire and Philo - without their wit, wisdom and guidance (and their amazing amount of traffic), such an achievement would never have been possible. Their commitment to my survival makes me feel all warm and bubbly inside. That, or I might just have to go to the bathroom. So, let me be sure I've got this right: I get to spend Nuclear Winter in a bunker with a group of predominantly homosexual men, wearing a gas mask and listening to such classics as "War" by Frankie Goes To Hollywood and "War Baby Son Of Zorro" by Hall and Oates. Be sure, I'll pack my dancing shoes, a vibrator, and PLENTY of batteries. For the CD player, of course.

And you know, if I'm lucky, maybe Choire will throw in the Band Aid he's been wearing for the past few days and Philo can give me the piece of toilet paper that's still stuck to his boots from Folsom Street Fair.

Of course, I have a few questions. Because, you know, I'm a Queen now:

Where, exactly, is the bunker located? I'm picky about my subterranean vacation spots. And are we able to leave the bunker? We could loot some of the more swanky shops and decorate it in a most splendid manner. Are animal prints passé? And the toilet facilities? I refuse to squat on a can--please keep that in mind. I'm sure you won't mind providing me with a floor plan of the bunker, so I can pack accordingly. NOT that I'm high maintenance or anything. I do feel a bit guilty that only Choire, Philo, myself and a few others will be the only ones alive for the Endless Nuclear Winter. Maybe we can have some sort of Pre-Nuclear soiree--people can come dressed as their favorite post-nuclear war survivor. Because in addition to cockroaches and Keith Richards, I'm pretty sure Cher and Michael Jackson will be around too.

Oh, and we'll also need access to an ample supply of Prozac, because ya'll will definitely need it to spend Eternity with me. Kind of goes without saying, eh?

The hypnotic sounds of Martin Denny presented hallucinogenic visions of cultures lost long ago, recalling a tropical temple paradise as seen through the sacred eyes of a beloved witch doctor, someone akin to Vincent Price as Professor Whitehead on that particular cave ridden episode of The Brady Bunch. America's perfect family searching in the darkness to return the evil taboo to it's rightful resting place in order to stop the evil. If only our current dilemma was so simple I'd swim the Pacific for everything to be just the way it was, before the bombing.

I dreamt I was in a smoke filled bar eating wild shrooms with the disenchanted as we stirred our Blue Hawaii cocktails with little pink paper umbrellas. Someone wanted to play limbo, but there wasn't time for limbo today. The fake palm trees were coming down. Preparations needed to be made, caves needed to be located, bomb shelters needed to be built in the backyard beside our redwood look hot tub. As I soaked in the warm bubbly water earlier staring up at a half moon that appeared to be a giant lemon slice of citrus candy, the stars in Orion's belt shining brightly, rhinestones on an organist's neckbrace, a black canvass sparkling like mutant fish swimming in a mural sea. It was all so clear then. I'm still alive dammit! I'm alive and living on that late great planet Earth! But as I heard the distant church bells from Mills College remind the neighborhood that once again it was 1:30 am, I'd forgotten what the point was. It had something to do with Ginny winning that contest we were having, but now it's forever lost like tears in rain.

So many worked so hard to grab today's prize package. Our newly formed nuclear winter family brings comfort to my media deluged senses, preyed upon by systems providing not information, but sales. Buy me. Buy me. Buy me, and yet I have no interest in the product. Knowing we'll all be together in the end feels like virgin orlon acrylic fresh from the dryer on a chilly Autumn night, soft and warm with only the slightest hint of static electricity as we stand together, shoulder to shoulder, to watch the blanket of our lives unfold. And in that instimatic Polaroid flash we'll slip underground, quietly hoping that Sleestaks were only a creation of Sid & Marty Kroft, becoming immediately aware of the omnipresent sexual tension that permeates everything in an enclosed environment without any privacy. But we're survivors and if need be Ginny and Nikki and our little group of predominately homosexual men could someday very slowly repopulate a new radioactive and deathly pale generation, emerging from the darkness someday to tell our future birth defective grandchildren that yes, once upon a time, we were there.

A whole barrage of Tomahawk cruise missiles causing you to flee your home and run for your life can certainly put a damper on things. Terrorism isn't pretty. War isn't pretty, but don't let that get you down entirely. Don't let the anti-American protests popping up all over the world dissuade you. Don't let the heightened threat of further retaliation in your own backyard bum you out. You could be the big winner of our Nuclear Winter Contest! That's right boys and girls, as we creep ever closer into total oblivion our 50,000th visitor is going to arrive soon and just think about how much better you'd feel with our deluxe 50K Nuclear Winter Survival Package! You could win big! Choire explains it all for you over there.

I was reminded of long ago during the American Civil War when Abraham Lincoln made a few comments that were positive about the South. Some old folks stood up and were upset. "How can you speak good things of the South when you should be destroying your enermies?" Abe's response was very clear - "don't I destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?"

I heard the news that we were bombing Afghanistan this morning as I sat with my parents and friends at Glide, my church. We were upset by the news as Pastor Fitch made a few points very clear. Whether you're Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist or a Hindu - all five of the world's major religions have the basic tenancy of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. When the Reverand Cecil Williams closed the service reminding us "Blessed are the peacemakers for they are the children of God" I was reminded without a shadow of a doubt that what my country did this morning is deplorable. Death, terror and destruction are not only viewed as such when they happen on our soil.

News reports today informed me that bombing began just hours after the U.S. rejected the Taliban's offer to bring Osama bin Laden to trial. A trial is what should be taking place. A crime has been committed against humanity. My government's response to this crime is another crime against humanity. When will we ever learn? France went to war against Vietnam and lost when the United States stepped into to follow in their footsteps. Now here we are again. Russia went to war against Afghanistan and lost and now we're stepping in to do the same. When I saw on the news today the seven cities we were currently bombing I just felt sick to my stomach. While my parents informed me of the 120 men and women involved in their conference that lost their lives in the World Trade Center, I couldn't help but wonder how many more have to lose their lives for "Enduring Freedom", whatever that is. 1.5 Million in Afghanistan are currently terrified and fleeing for their lives while we sat in a fine restaurant tasting roasted red bell pepper pasta and eating free-range chicken sandwiches, listening to the women at the table next to us argue about what the tail lights look like on the new Camry.

It's clear that I am a progressive. News reports I'm reading, which never seem to fail to point out that women in this extremist fundamental Muslim nation have to keep their faces covered, seem to be playing on the fact that ignorance breeds fear. Just because other cultures are different from our own does not necessarily make them wrong, it just makes them different. What will be the immediate and long range repercussions of today's actions? I sincerely doubt anyone can even begin to foresee them. I sincerely doubt they have even been given any rational human thought by our politicians who relinquished their decision making powers in regards to war and are blind drunk with patriotism and by a President who is running amok - far beyond the wide reaching perimeters established by congress.

It's true, both Choire and I are are still big fans of Bongwater. We've also done a pretty great job of following Ann Magnuson since as well. Her one woman show "You Could Be Home Now" is still the most brilliant piece of theater I've ever seen by a single individual. I was driving around earlier listening to her solo cd "The Luv Show" and I came home to find her formerly dead website is back online! Not only that, but she has a new show called Rave Mom currently running in New York. You better see it Choire.

They've wandered off to bed after a rousing day of sitting around reading and watching television. I have to say it is a little odd to spend the majority of the day in their company and know that we haven't had any real communication whatsoever. It's also a little strange to be in the same room with them and have them both reading cheap Harlequin romance novels when they could be asking me about my love life or getting the intricate details of my career - hell, they could even want to get the skinny on my past year and a half in psychic school. Is it just me, or does that seem a little weird?

I have educated them on reality television though. I can pretty much guarantee they will be tuning into The Amazing Race every Wednesday. Tonight we watched the big Survivor Africa countdown show and they finally caught the wonders of sixteen somewhat warped individuals battling the elements and each other for the very first time. I can't wait for the new show to kick off next week and now neither can they. If it wasn't for my television interventions we would have had several more hours of watching Wolfgang Puck spill ingredients on the Food Network. I simply couldn't take it anymore.

The House Mate is off today, only he had his wisdom teeth taken out this morning so he's wandering around a bit dazed and confused. He's fitting into the parental environment quite well actually. He reminded me tonight that they're going to leave and tell everyone what a wonderful time they had here and that we can't project our ideals and expectations onto them at their age. I know he's right. I also know that when they say they want to see me, what they really mean is that they want to see me - and they've certainly been able to do that for the past 48 hours. Tomorrow they're shipping off to a hotel in The City for a five day conference related to my father's consulting work now that he's retired, then they'll be heading south to see my brother in San Diego. I guess the frustration factor simply lies in the fact that I like to communicate and they don't. While I'm feeling awkward, they're probably just as happy as clams.

My doctor told me I should quit smoking. Can you believe that? Have you ever heard of such a thing? I mean I could have just tape recorded the conversation we had during my last physical - the one where he put me on Wellbutrin to help me quit and it turned me into a neurotic hyperactive panic ridden freak. No Doc, I don't think we'll be doing that again, even if I do decide to pull the plug on the addiction. You know what he did say though? He asked, "What smart person do you know who smokes?" I told him I couldn't really think of any smart people, I mean look who is running our country?

As I was walking to the car afterwards though I thought about writing the guy a letter - cause let's face it - telling someone their stupid, directly or indirectly, isn't helpful - it's actually counter productive and rude. I mean hello, it's a complex fucking situation here, alright? I don't shoot heroin, I'm off the crystal meth, I'm not smoking crack anymore, no angel dust, no hallucinogenics, no smoking of the might ganga, hell - I don't even drink alcohol anymore for crying out loud. I'd say from where I'm sitting I'm doing just fine thank you very much.

If it wasn't for the fact my HIV test came back negative, my STD tests as well, and that my bloodwork overall was amazingly healthy - I would have chocked the whole appointment up as a total waste of time. My blood pressure is excellent. My skin is great. My balls are top notch. Cough. I felt so good about it all leaving his office that I lit up a cigarette to celebrate and was immediately surrounded by hospital security.

They said they would be here around noon, but what did I see driving up as I stepped out of the shower at 10 this morning? That's right, the silver Chevy Van known as "Champagne Country" which is my father's pride and joy. Within seconds there was a knock at the door. I threw on some sweats and a t-shirt and answered the door. "Where am I supposed to park?" Our street is just chock full of parking on the street. Looking out I could see there were many spaces to park. Hmmm, is this a trick question? And then I figured out what he was really saying is - "Why don't you move your car out of the driveway so we can park there?" I grabbed my car keys. And so it begins.

My parents are rather elderly. I mean they're about 45 years older than I am, old enough to be my grandparents basically. My mother told me about her cataract surgeries and informed me about what a drag her new hearing-aid is. I heard a squealing noise. It turned out to be that she had the volume a little too high and was getting feedback. After a half hour of chit-chat that I wasn't sure either of them even effectively heard, I took them on a tour of the place and showed them to my room. That's right, due to my Mother's arthritis and her tiny bladder which requires six or seven trips to the loo during the night - I'm spending a couple of nights downstairs in the guest room and they're sleeping in my bed. I'd planned on spending some time prior to their arrival making sure certain books and videotapes and other sundry items were not in plain view, but it's their fault they were early. They'll be in for a surprise or two.

It's rather draining hanging out with two people I love very much who aren't capable of carrying on much of a conversation these days. I mean they were better before, even if it was the same old stories and the usual rants and worries. Sometimes I tell them things and they are looking at me and I know they have no idea what I'm talking about. At one point talking about their motel on the trip down I said, "You stay there every time." My Mother answered, "You're nephew did what?" It's a little like a non-stop Emily Litella sketch that will continue through Friday.

We have had some great moments though, and this is the first time they've ever stayed at my house when they've come to visit. I took them out to the Red Tractor for dinner and they both enjoyed it. Today is The House Mate's birthday and earlier today I snuck away and picked up a birthday cake. He should be home in a little over an hour. All in all I'm extremely glad to see them and I know that when it's time for them to leave I'm going to shed a tear or two as I watch them drive away. In the interim, however, I think I'll be watching a lot of very loud television.

You might remember when he donated a few hundred dollars to our Ernie-Aid campaign. Rumors of a life in New York City, temporary residence somewhere in South America... We received a photo of him once. It was a picture of a park with a dark shadow cast across the grass by the noonday sun. We already knew he has a shadow.

Thanks Nate for the spectacular party package. I've got a great book to read, strange Scandinavian new tunes, and a favorite Italian op art new wave flick - all on my wishlist. I'm in 7th heaven Mr. Clark!!! God bless your little shadowy head!

After our day at Folsom Street Fair, an unraveled Hippie Chick and I eventually found my car and drove over to the Mission to feed our faces at Truly Mediterranean, home of the best darn shawarma and falafel anywhere. We even scored one of the little outside tables which was perfect on the hottest night of the year. With our blood sugar levels once again on the rise we made our way over to Bottom of the Hill for the concert.

I told the guy at the door I'd ordered tickets online. "Are you Philo?" Apparently I was the only one who did. Bonfire Madigan had just started playing. Madigan, the lead vocalist who can play her cello classically or like a instrument of punk rock was joined on stage by a blonde violinist in a sparkly shirt and a rather sexy drummer. The three of them created lush amazing sounds and songs which highlighted her vocals in a reminiscent of Bjork sort of fashion. They were a cool discovery.

The main event for us though was finally seeing Faun Fables. I met Dawn McCarthy almost immediately when I snagged a copy of her first cd at the concessions stand. I told her I was very excited. When they took the stage I was surprised to find the band consisted of just her and Nils Frykdahl. With Nils sitting beside her at a tiny toy organ, Dawn launched into songs from the old world, leading into selections from their cd and we pretty much just sat there with our mouths hanging open. Hippie Chick said, "This is the greatest show I've been to in years." I don't think anyone could help but stand in awe of Dawn's voice and presence - it just has this effect on you. Faun Fables have just started their tour (including several dates in New York City by the way) and I highly suggest you check them out.

Warning: This post is not safe for work and is inappropriate for minors. That being said, you were warned and all these photos were taken in public.

If you've never been to Folsom then you're simply missing out. It's one of the truly great freak shows of the modern world. Sure, I like it a little rough, but in the big scheme of things I'm probably more vanilla than most of today's crowd. That doesn't mean I don't have an appreciation for the leather community though. The way I see it, whenever almost anybody is out celebrating almost anything about themselves that isn't the norm, I say more power to ya baby. Hippie Chick and I set off in search of the flavors on a record breaking sweltering day. And yes I was wore leather - Diesel leather jeans.





Michael and Hippie Chick.

There's nothing like a little public humiliation and flogging on a hot day, particularly when it's somebody else doing it all. I prefer it as a spectator sport. I mean it's a tried and true recipe for a good time that dates way back to the middle ages!

While most people were wearing black, he was a vision in white. I'm also quite fond of the pregnant pause.

I don't know what they were about, but we followed them around for awhile.

On a day as hot as this was I have nothing but respect for this slave guy.

Why just be a flagger when you can be flagging for America?

He was so beautiful.

What's a day at Folsom without some bare assed men in chaps?

It is true though that the men that you wish would be wandering around naked are never the ones who actually are.

Sister knows how to recycle.

Jiffy Lube is a camp at Burning Man. This is the infamous sign that caused all the problems, but apparently nobody had a problem with it at Folsom Street Fair.

Clowns scare me. Leather clowns really scare me.

Isn't he spectacular? Wow.

Venus Bleeding performed. I really love them.

My friend Machiko looked amazing as usual.

Jane Wiedlin of The Go-Go's announced that she "was a good person before spending the day with this bunch of perverts." Then she shaved her head and had a naked lesbian in bondage at her feet.

We had a blast. We saw many things. We saw things that turned us on. We saw some things we can't unsee, even if we'd like to. I mean, did that guy's nipple ring really get torn out? Shudders. But no matter how you slice it, pun intended, it's still the grooviest day of the year in San Francisco. As we made our way to the exit a thought came to mind. "I wonder if any naked pictures of me are going to end up on the internet after all of this." Then I realized that's probably the most appropriate feeling to be having after a day at Folsom Street Fair.