My brain and body are hostage to this flood of chemicals. I feel like primitive man. If only I were australopithecus, and didn’t have to deal with reason. Or patience. Just “oooh oooh aaah aaah” and wild monkey love.
Last night Justin Bond swung into town with his Kiki and Herb act. Justin used to live in San Francisco, and started the act here, performing at Eichelberger’s Restaurant, and other venues. He fled to New York around the same time of the Great Exodus, when Michelle, Nayland, Philip, Darrell, Christian, and everybody who had anything interesting to say or do decided that they had to make it there or anywhere. San Francisco is a great breeding ground for talent, but we don’t know how to keep it here. So there was Justin, living his dream, having made it in New York, returning to a sold-out show in San Francisco, and Kiki was just as fabulous as ever, drinking, slurring and scatting her way through lounge act not-necessarily-standards on up to Kim Carnes, New Order, and Pink Floyd. I remember seeing Justin every day at the Cafe Flor, surrounded by his adoring flock. When asked why he was there every day, he responded, “Do you think I like coming here every day? I have to be here every day. I have to be seen.” Kiki introduces her songs with long drawn-out rambling and outrageous tales of her many husbands, inter-racial offspring, encounters with Grace Kelly and Billie Holliday, and warnings to the few young women in the audience, “Don’t do it!”
“DON’T DO IT!”
Wait, do it with me, climb up my hill, sweep me away, make me promises, eat bananas with me and drag me by my hair through the Castro jungle.