In high school, my friend Maria and I founded the Gay-Straight Awareness Club. Administration told us we couldn’t use the title “Gay-Straight Alliance” because it sounded “too militant”. Our high school was just down the road from a military base, and during my first three years there the word gay was only whispered, or shot derisively across the quadrangle along with a wad of spit or a launched handful of orange peels or french fries. However, after we started the club, every single homeroom teacher had to say the word gay out loud in front of their first period class every single morning, as in: “Gay-Straight Awareness Club will be meeting in room 201 during lunch period today to discuss zine publication.” For reals. It was a big deal.
Pride weekend (June 25-27), in San Francisco, is Gay Christmas. What we don’t have is Gay Advent.
With these things in mind, and in celebration of June aka LGBTQ Pride Month, I will take and post one gay picture every day. The definition of what is gay, of course, being totally subject to my own whims and inclinations.
May 30th: pre-holiday tractor
May 30th: pre-holiday boots
A pile of unpeeled fava beans and Whiskey Wilson the Pomeranian-papillon blonde make this a Wednesday in May, make this northern Californian spring. The shrinking potion and scattered clothing and my immigrant houseplant mark my arrival, as always – you will know me by the texture of mess in your apartment.
This summer we’ll both move away from trains and I’ll worry about everything – as usual: work, money, fiction, The Right Thing To Do – and you’ll continue to be too busy to stretch or ice your hurt knee. There is so much. Paperwork and bean-peeling and boxes to pack and suitcases to buy and airplane rides to pay for and sleep through. Tuition to earn. There is the sublettor to find and there will never be an end to the unanswered e-mails and phone calls. There will never be an end to the unread books and unwritten grant applications. And there is the bed-making and sheet-destroying, there are the songs to listen to and wine that must be drunk. There is always, always the necessary filming and performing of pornography. Mascara to put on and wash off.
I can’t believe we’re here: running the dog at seven forty-three a.m. in a deserted patch of Golden Gate Park with one leaky cup of coffee between us. The crows that Whiskey Will chases through the particulate grey are bigger than he is; they swoop black-patent-shine just above his head and land in a cluster, ten feet away from his frantic, galloping body before taking off again, with absolute grace and disregard. We’re sleepy and unwashed in elasticized clothing. Two different meanings for the word “jumper”. The dog eats two-thirds of a corn-cherry scone while we try to teach him to come when called, and I wish that someone would do this for me, would teach me my name.
Roles I have played in the last two weeks include:
“artsy bombshell” San Francisco swinger seductress
naughty psych-ward nurse
Valentines Day dinner involves pecans and pre-dinner sheet destruction. Pink food dye. Tiny, ball-shaped pasta with charred peppers and smashed olives. Turnips turned orangy with pimenton. Cut paper and new underpants and broom-swept ceiling fan and all-Springsteen karaoke. Photo exchange. Cave-grown albino asparagus. Timmy and Maria dirty-dueting into the champagne-bottle microphones.
This winter, I have missed every snowstorm. I’ve ridden down 101 in February with the windows down, bare legs and no sweater to Moss Beach Distillery where puppies steal twenty-dollar sandwiches off deck tables and my friend X “The Mayor” T deals with the rude comments of our staring, pointing, drunken fellow restaurant-goers by looking them right in the eyes and stating quite eloquently: “you’re just going to have to get used to the fact that people look all kinds of different ways.”
My man, only a little less calmly, says: “Listen Eddie Bauer, don’t mess with my girl just cause you’re stuck in khaki.”
California is astoundingly beautiful and solipsistic. Sunny and cool and utterly unaware of the weather conditions of others. On Saturday morning mid-winter, there are one million dollars worth of palm trees and fifty people in the park eating bagel sandwiches, sucking up the skyline. Surrounded by grass and babies and gay fathers in thin t-shirts, it is impossible to conceptualize snow. Back in Brooklyn on Wednesday night, I’ll have to remind myself to pull on tights and sweaters before I leave the house. I’ll have completely forgotten the numbness of an uncovered face on the train platform, tired and hungry and made impatient by an after-class pint.
And here is what you’ve all been waiting for
because I am about to get laid. Sorry dudes.
goodbye soupy sales
empty spray tan bottle
not enough hot water
cook for me please
hormonal birth control
what happened to daylight
limited text interpretation
finger and toe nail polish does not match
where are all the good shoes
the whiskey we bought when you were here has all been drunk
also my ring keeps snagging on my tights
also these shoes suck
also I need a bookshelf
I do not think it’s fun to be scared
please cook me something
please come here
upstate new york, northern california, why are you all so far away?