Category: Gay

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Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe

Last week I visited my parents and childhood chums in Alabama. I spent one of my first nights with my high school buddy James, sipping cocktails and munching on really the best fried green tomatoes of my life at The Club, atop Red Mountain, a swanky private club where Frank and Sammy probably would have hung out if the Rat Pack ever swung through Dixie. Built in the early 1950s, the streamlined curvilinear architecture provides panoramic views of the city, and several dancing, drinking, and dining opportunities, depending on what you’re wearing. We were the guests of James’ friends Barbara and Anneta, two really fun midwestern transplants who share a home with 5 lady dogs. James and his boyfriend have 6 dogs of their own. They all share such a strong bond, I foresee some sort of Brady Bunch union in their future, the 11 dogs and 4 parents cohabitating in a zany suburban household and exploring contemporary issues of gender and cross-breeding.

My mom and Dad took me to the Birmingham Museum of Art the next day, for a stunning display of quilts, and another fantastic show of African pottery and iron work. We stopped by the Aldridge Botanical Gardens afterwards to see the snowflake hydrangeas, discovered and patented by the former owner of the estate, Eddie Aldridge. It’s not often that you get to see snow in Alabama, and these blooms were like an early summer blizzard. My junior high buddy Susan swept me away that night to the Irondale Cafe, the real-life inspiration for Fannie Flagg’s Whistle Stop Cafe. I don’t think I’ve ever so thoroughly enjoyed such thoroughly fattening fare. Susan drove me through the devastation caused by the recent tornadoes that swept through the area. A giant tree fell smack dab in the middle of her daughter’s trailer, who fortunately had earlier sought shelter elsewhere with her husband and newborn. Enormous trees, snapped like twigs.

Saturday James and I took a drive down the Alabama Wine Trail. We visited only three wineries, but there seemed to be a consistent theme of sweetness running through the wines. Not cloying or subtle, but syrupy, lip-puckeringly sweet. The first place we stopped at, Vizzini Farms Winery, in North Calera, featured several “dry style” wines. I asked if the iron-rich southern soil and hot humid climate imparted any particular flavor into their wines. Asking each successive winemaker the same question, I received only blank stares. Terroir doesn’t seem to be much of a concern. Ozan Winery in Calera was the most beautiful, the tasting room atop a hill overlooking the vineyards, with grapes that are actually used in their wines, which we sampled in plastic cups. They make wines with not only the southeast native muscadine and scuppermong grapes, but also with local peaches and other fruit. By the time we got to Morgan Creek vineyards in Harpersville, I gave up on seeking out the essence of place and climate contained in the grapes, and slurped down their undated treacly concoctions, which seemed just the right thing in that hot Alabama sun.

While on the Wine Trail, we stopped for lunch at Pa Paw’s Restaurant, a meat-n-3 in Columbiana. I had the finger-lickingly delicious fried chicken with sides of field peas, mac-n-cheese, turnip greens and corn bread. After the wineries, we headed to deSoto Caverns. Outside, the cicadas chirped hysterically. The cicadas of the southeast materialize only every 13 years, emerging from the earth in the millions. After their 13 year adolescence underground, they shed their shells, and then enjoy six weeks of adulthood, screeching and mating and laying eggs. The cave had been a speakeasy briefly in the 20s, and a former indian burial site. After turning off the lights at one point, and leaving us in absolute and scary darkness, we were dazzled by a laser and spurting water display about the creation of the universe—the 7 day theory—ending with this broadway marquis style glittering crucifix glowing on the wall. A sacred indian burial chamber named after the destroyer of their culture, now a Christian propaganda theme park. Only in Alabama.

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The Dating Game: HoHo, Heff, Pinky and JB

Since my most recent paramour and I have separated, I’ve been flirting up a small tempest. I’ve lined up a gaggle of eligible bachelors to appear on my Dating Game, and thus far have personally interviewed four: HoHo, Heff, Pinky, and JB.

HoHo is from the midwest and has a warm welcoming smile, a big furry body, and twinkling eyes, like something Hanna-Barbera would have created for me to snuggle up to. Tonight we met for drinks at Sens in the Embarcadero Center, with a spectacular view of the Bay Bridge. We spoke of blackberry jam, gin, stepdads and gardening in a mild-winter climate. He’s cautious about steamrolling into a new relationship, so it’s an unpressured delight to be with him as he slowly reveals more and more of himself. Little Heff is everything but little, with a bounteous reservoir of wit and intelligence. This weekend we Kabukulated* and noodled** in Japantown. He’s a great guy to talk to, and it’s always about something that no one else is talking about, or even thinking about, actually. Pinky I thought was going to be this sex-crazed pervert, but he’s a mellow former hippie type who is sensitive, politically and socially aware, easy-going, and just a complete pleasure to be around—someone your mom would love to smoke pot with.

JB is married, which in the San Francisco bear world means that his heart belongs to his husbear, but the rest of him is up for grabs. Well, he is so cute I couldn’t resist grabbing some myself, and spent the better part of yesterday afternoon and evening with him in a mostly non-vertical configuration. And what a lot to grab onto: milky white skin as soft as a baby’s butt peppered with downy black fur; a full black beard on a solidly square jaw; and those big dark eyebrows that absolutely drive me crazy. He was very anxious and self-conscious and at times I wanted to shake him and scream Don’t you realize you’re one of the most desirable men in this time zone, and quite possibly in this hemisphere? What on earth do you have to be anxious about? Just relax and let Dr. Coco treat this nervous tension with his magical elixir of love! but instead performed my thoughts in an arduous four-hour interpretive belly dance.

After the elation of our ecstatic encounter, and upon dropping him off at home, a deep sadness overwhelmed me. He had been very clear about the parameters of our encounter from the get-go, that he was in a serious relationship and nothing, not even regularly scheduled get togethers, was possible beyond our limited engagement. Of course, during our brief relationship we had talked for hours, sharing a depth of experience and ideas, aspirations… oh, and he did that porn talk, you know “Yeaaaah, uh huh… oh yeaaaaah…” but anyway, so there we were, with all these restrictions, but completely open and vulnerable, sharing everything there is to share. I could have easily told him I loved him. I could hear my heart splinter as he shut the door. Whoever coined the term “little death” got it right.

* To kabukulate: to partake of the communal baths and steam facilities at Kabuki Hot Springs
** To noodle: consume mass quantities of Japanese noodles in a sophisticated urban eatery

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Makropulos, Clomiphene, and San Francisco’s Finest

Dean W and I saw Leoš Janáček’s The Makropulos Case last week at the SF Opera.  It’s a stunning opera—visually, conceptually and musically—about the meaninglessness of a life without end, without enduring love.

This weekend I went a-gallery-hopping with Emily and Big Chrissy.  Nothing really exciting, except for a fascinating show by Ishan Clemenco at NOMA Gallery of chalk drawings on light filters and film.  Ephemeral and delicate, their existence impossible to imagine outside of the show—just for us.  Oh, and Bruno Fazzolari’s show at Jancar Jones, a small grouping of paintings with colorful squiggly gestures and jiggly lines that almost coalesce into something recognizable, and a perfume that when sprayed at Emily, coalesced into too much association.  And stayed with us the rest of the afternoon.  Bravo, what a great show.

Earlier in the day, I was told by my then current paramour that he was feeling depressed.  I promised to return as soon as I could to check in on him, and that we would have the evening to spend together to get to what was going on.  After galleries, I ran up to his place to check in on him, and in his place found used condoms and condom wrappers scattered about.  Actually, they weren’t scattered about—not by him, anyway, and not to begin with—they were in the trash, which I had dumped out on the floor before tossing them onto his bed.  Then I called and left a message on his voicemail, an angry but concise admonition saying I looked forward to hearing about the DNA I had just encountered.  See you at 6, honey.

I went on to Chris J’s 70th birthday party, with Big Chrissy and my sister, June.  Chris lives in an environment that seems dreamed up by Armistead Maupin.  From a south-of-Market alley, you pass through a low-ceilinged walkway into a lush garden, with overgrown tropical plants and a giant redwood tree, a koi pond and bridge, antique asian garden ornamentation, lanterns, and oversized mirrors that extend the garden into impossible space.  Hovering over one side of the garden, above the entryway, is a quaint little Victorian cottage.  To the left is a showroom featuring asian and european antiques.  The showroom is a cavernous space, a giant fireplace on one side, flanked by 2nd floor balconies overlooking the main gallery, packed with polychromed crucifixes from 16th century Genoa, antique phalluses, masks, japanese pottery…  Chris lives in an apartment adjacent to the main gallery, stylishly decorated to match the asian sensibility on display next door.  A magical space.  I mingled with the glamoratti of the San Francisco landscaping world, as well as old buddies that I hadn’t seen in decades, all of us middle-aged and beyond, and looking it with our graying whiskers and expanding waistlines.  Except for Michael Brown, who looks exactly like he did when we tossed dough at Marcello’s Pizza 25 years ago.

When I got home, he was there, my depressed paramour, in my bed. He claimed that he didn’t know how the condoms got there. The used condoms in his studio apartment.  Where he lives alone. We’d been through this before, so I calmly, no, hysterically and yes, okay, histrionically, asked him to leave, that I’d finally had enough.  Get out. I left the bedroom to cool off and when I came back he was in the kitchen, trying to cut his wrists with the wrong side of the knife.  I rolled my eyes and asked for the knife.

“I took your Vicodin,” he said.

Where? How many? I had a prescription that my oral surgeon gave me last week following a wisdom tooth removal. I checked them, they seemed all there.

“Oh, is that your Vicodin? I took something from the cabinet.” I went to the cabinet and noticed the empty bottle.  You took my Clomiphene??  Do you know how expensive that is?  How many?

“7. What’s Clomiphene?”

I ignored the question.  I don’t know if that’s a lethal dose, I have to call 911.  I called.  “What’s Clomiphene?”  the operator asked.

It’s a fertility treatment for women.

“Do you have a roommate who wants to get pregnant?”

No, it’s mine.  I use it because my testosterone level was low.

“A fertility treatment for women?  What does this have to do with your testosterone level?”

It works this way in men, increasing their testosterone level.

“Oh, that’s great.  We’re sending someone out immediately.  Is he suicidal?”

Are you suicidal?

“No, I just want to sleep.”

No, he says he was just trying to sleep, but earlier he was depressed and then I went to his house and found these used condoms and confronted him about them.  I think he’s been cheating on me.

“I’d say you’re probably right.  Well, the paramedics will be there any minute.  Stay with me, let know if he looks drowsy.”  There was a knock at the door.  6 police officers came up the stairs. 6 incredibly handsome burly pink-faced men in black.

“What’s the problem?”

I batted my eyes. He took an overdose of Clomiphene. I pointed at  him.

“What’s Clomiphene?”

It’s a fertility treatment for women, induces ovulation.

“Why did he take it?”

He thought it was Vicodin.

“Why do you have it?”

My testosterone level was low, it stimulates testosterone production in men, even though it wasn’t designed to do this.  My doctor is at the forefront of studying this drug’s effect on testosterone levels.

“How is that working for you?”

Fine, thanks.  I blushed.  The paramedics then arrived, 6 more guys in my little bedroom.  6 more handsome burly lifesavers. “What’s going on?  What did he take?” one of them asked.

He took 7 Clomiphene.

“What’s Clomiphene?”

“Evidently, it induces ovulation in women,” the first police officer replied.

“Who does it belong to?”

“Him.”  All 12 guys looked at me.  Before they opened their mouths to ask, I blurted, It also increases the production of testosterone in men.  My testosterone level was low.  It’s an alternative to taking testosterone shots, inducing the body to produce it naturally.  But could we really stop talking about my testosterone level?  Is he going to die?  Do you have to pump his stomach?

“That’s so interesting,” one paramedic said, “I haven’t heard of Clomiphene being used for low testosterone levels.”

“Yea,” said another.  A third cleared his throat, then turned to my suicidal bed guest.  “Are you suicidal?”

“No, I just want to sleep.”

Earlier he was depressed and then I went to his house and found these used condoms and confronted him about them.  I think he’s been cheating on me.

“I’d say that’s a good guess,” he snickered at me under his breath.  Turning to the furry little man who was supposed to love me and only me forever, he said “Okay, let’s get you to the hospital.”

And away they went.

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Big Dave

My friend, Big Dave in Australia just died. He was very big. Big hearted, big jolly pink cheeks… Big Chrissy and I visited him and Little Dave a few years back. I remember driving around Sydney and Big Dave pointing out all the “famous beats,” or public places where he had had sex. “What’s the largest number of guys you’ve had sex with at any one time?”

Stunned, I could only think of my tragic affair with D, of excitedly coupling with Bob a few hours after being so masterfully manipulated by D’s powers of arousal, of how I’d hurt Bob… “2,” I said with a tear in my eye.

“I had 13 blokes in one night,” he said, “13.”

He wore his excess weight like a tight little black dress, I was in awe of his sexual radiance and allure. When he and Little Dave came to town, it was like a carnal cyclone hit the city, everyone in their path devoured by the venereal tempest. Big Dave would take us to some fabulous old church, or an old Masonic temple hall and play Bach on their pipe organs, a private concert just for us. He loved the Queen and the idea of monarchy, and often referred to us (in the States) as turncoats. I loved him, and his big spirit. Bye bye Big Dave.

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I Thought I Lived in a Secular State

So it’s important to realize that Proposition 8 isn’t against anyone; it’s for marriage. It’s for our children’s future.

How is preventing me from marrying my boyfriend not against me?  It seems that the opposition is set to continue their fight to prevent us from filing divorce papers and joint tax returns like everyone else.  Like, why?  All of the arguments against gay marriage are based on religious ideas about biological and cultural imperatives that not even straight people follow, and it’s been my impression since my first civics class that we live in a country that keeps religion and government separate.

I’m not sure how marrying my boyfriend will destroy this idea of family that people are trying so hard to protect.  Isn’t it about us embracing the same notion of family?  If we can’t marry, not much will change—I’ll have to do a little extra work with estate and medical planning, and I’ll have to refer to him, pathetically, as my husbear instead of my husband—but our love won’t be taken seriously.  This isn’t about saving marriage, it’s about preventing people who love each other from having that love acknowledged.

There are no rational or unbiased arguments for preventing us from getting married.  Nothing is being protected, or saved.  No matter how you slice it, it’s all baloney.  Not that I’m the type to tell them what to do, but imagine if the religious people decided to put all this money and energy into something beneficial to humanity.

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Davide and a Mini Experimental Home Film-Fest

Davide is visiting from NYC.  As he might have to move back to Italy next month, he’s boinking all of the guys he lusted after when he lived here, and annoyingly, they’re all totally my type and have made themselves completely accessible to him.  And not me.  Of course, my pearl-beyond-all-price is collecting dust while my Palestinian paramour is hashing out his visa issues in Arabia, so I shouldn’t be jealous, I mean annoyed, okay I mean jealous, but still, I’m annoyed.  I mean jealous.

Last night we had pizza and then a mini experimental homo film-fest at the CocoPlex.  We started with Dean Smith’s beguiling thought forms, then Cocteau’s Blood of a Poet, and then finally James Bidgood’s Pink Narcissus.  It was a thrilling evening of visually and conceptually stimulating flickers of light, ideas, and flesh.  If you haven’t seen Pink Narcisssus, and you’re a baby gay, or a baby art fag, see it today.  It was filmed over seven years in Bidgood’s tiny apartment on 8mm, an orgy of color and form and homo-erotic desire and fantasy, with dizzying dissolves and the tightest pants you’ll ever see.

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Desperate Housecub, Episode 1: PG&E Delivers

I woke this morning to the sound of a large truck unloading heavy machinery in my driveway. Peeking out the window I noticed that the truck was blocking access to my garage and I was slightly annoyed that I’d have to subtract a few minutes from Tuesday’s dvd reviews and add them to my commute. By the time I was ready to leave for work, the truck driver, contracted by PG&E to saw a huge chunk out of Collingwood Street, had already started work around the corner, on the hill, so I looked out the side window to find him.

My driver. A big ol’ slice of sweet potato pie in blue coveralls.

I saw him making his way up the hill, so I scrambled to get ready and rushed out the side door with the intent to calmly ask if he could move his truck, but instead blushed and giggled and pointed and ran down the hill to my garage.

When I returned home at noon after a long day at work (I have Edina Monsoon’s job, remember?), I slipped my business card under the windshield wipers, and a note, “WOOF!” I know, I know, forgive my lack of creativity but the muse was elsewhere and I opted for directness. I scurried back up my steps to watch the truck from my window and see his reaction to my declaration.

And I waited, and waited.

Finally, he loaded the machinery back onto the truck, hopped in the cab, filled out some paperwork, then noticed my note. He got out, picked it up, turned it over, looked at my stairway and got back in the truck again. He set the card aside, finished his paperwork and then picked up my card again. He turned it over again. He fidgeted with the paperwork again. He put my card down. He sat a few moments, staring straight ahead, undoubtedly imagining our home and children, me waiting for him after work with a hearty but calorie-cutting meal and some amusing anecdotes about my aesthetic dilemma of the day, with just enough energy after sawing and cutting roadbeds all day to give me a big hug and a “Coco, you’re the best–now take off that apron and let’s make love all night….” and he drove away.
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Release the Sausages

The gay film festival has so far been the exact same film festival that I’ve gone to since but a wee gay laddy. It was nice to finally meet Alonso and his fabulous husband Dave, though. Alonso presented film clips and comments from his recent 101 Must-See Movies Blah Blah that surely you’ve all read by now, and if you haven’t, be a good little homophile and pick up a copy today. Alonso, have you seen Black Lizard? It’s the 1 Film That All Gay Men Should See–and for literature buffs, you get to see Yukio Mishima dipped in wax for the infamous transvestite jewel thief Black Lizard’s wax human doll collection! I must know if this oversight was intentional, and why!

Anyway, back to the festival—no wait, first back to Alonso and Dave… Philip once again failed to live up to his user name (foodpoisoningsf) and this morning whipped up some tasty victuals for our hungry guests from LALA land and their 8 greatest San Francisco fans. I had 5 sausages. The pancakes were like the kind that usually have little fish eggs on them in really expensive restaurants, but with blueberries instead. Can we just call my life La Grande Bouffe?

So the film festival, yeah, I remember now why I haven’t gone the past couple of years. Gay filmmakers just don’t know how to make movies. Sorry, that’s “un-repressed” gay filmakers. They make gay film festival movies, with insipid twists on coming out and being all muscly. The week’s films are all a blur, what I’ve had to sit through… I could write Alonso’s anti-book, 1001 Films That Every Gay Man Should Never Have to Pay to See and Really Should Just Avoid at All Costs. There are a few promisingly bright cinematic points on the horizon, though, so all hope is not yet lost…

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Crrash in the Castro!

BC stopped by for dinner last night and we heard helicopters over the house, and then smoke coming from down the street. We rushed down, like most of my neighbors, to see that a man driving a white buick evidently lost control of his car and ran the redlight at Market and Castro, heading south on Castro, and crossed to the northbound lane and smashed into several cars, sadly killing a man who was turning into the parking lot behind the Castro Theater. Luckily, no one else was hurt, but here’s a video of the chaos, as well as amusing interviews with Dane, the homeless guy (wrongly identified as “Dade”) who pulled the guy who died from the burning BMW, and some other excited queens. Is that Timzilla? The other heroes of the evening were two gay men who saved a little doggy from almost certain death.

We got back in time for some split pea soup, yes, the same split pea soup from two weeks ago, like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, and something I whipped up from the back of the polenta bag called “San Francisco polenta bread.” The other San Francisco treat!

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Mugging

BC was beaten up last night. He’s visiting his mom and family in Illinois, for his mom’s 70th birthday. He was hanging in a gay bar across the Mississippi and offered to drive a guy home who seemed to have had too much to drink. The guy directed him to his home in a dark alley. He staggered when let out of the car, and when Chris got out to help him, BAM, punched Chris is the face, demanded his money. Well, the first rule of mugging, I think, is something like, “Always pick on someone smaller.” Chris is a big dude–he’s “Big Chrissy,” remember? He fought back, and ended up with a piece of the guy’s pants. He didn’t lose his wallet, but ended up with a black eye, some cuts to his face, and bruises. Gay on gay violence, I didn’t think it was possible. “Ape has killed ape!” I started crying when I talked to him this morning, imagining that I had received a call that he was found dead in that alley. Poor Big Chrissy, I feel just awful that I wasn’t there to protect him, but am so grateful that he’s (relatively) okay.