The Golden Cadillac was invented in the 1970’s. David and I immediately jumped on the bandwagon. We’ d order them anywhere we’d go but, considering the places we went, only a handful could make them.
The Alta Plaza on Fillmore and the Lion Pub on Sacramento could be counted on for a good Caddie. It was a crap shoot anywhere else. Still there was a sport to ordering them even if it did end in a blank stare from the bartender.
They were so creamy, delicious and smooth. One could easily become five. And the accompanying hangovers the next morning were some of the deadliest ever.
They’ve since fallen out of favor and have laid dormant for decades. I’ve been trying to bring them back and order them on many festive cold or hot weather occasions. Last week in a trendy south of Market restaurant I asked for one and the barkeep didn’t know what Galliano was.
So I’m often forced to travel with my own supplies as I did yesterday for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s a simple recipe: 2 parts Galliano, 1 part Creme de Cacao, 3 parts cream. And a whole lot of love.
My Galliano gendarmes guarding the library.
Start with the freshest ingredients
A battery operated shaker helps cut down on repetitive motion stress.
The Halloween night I won the contest at the ‘N Touch I stumbled home at 2 a.m. I could hear my roommate snoring so I tiptoed down the hall to my room.
I was half undressed when I heard someone stirring. This cute little Aussie boy opened my door wearing just underwear and a smile. Apparently roomie had passed out mid-coitus and Down Under had been left unfulfilled. We started making out and fell into bed.
As I pulled off the rest of my clothes he said, “leave the pantyhose on.”
I said, “nah, I’m not really into that.”
He immediately asked, “can I wear them?”
I said, “sure.” A good time was had by all.
Attitudes toward drag were changing. Ten years before I had started out innocently enough as an androgynous waif trying to look like Mick. It shocked the Indiana locals. That look was augmented when my friends and I began to mock old school drag.
The older queens’ goal in drag was to pass. My generation’s was to challenge. Old school gays were often filled with self loathing and seemed to accept that violence was a necessary evil in or out of drag. My friends and I were having none of that.
There were always stories of gay men being beaten up and, in particular, a carload of drag queens being shot at coming out of the Waffle House late one night. (Bloomington is 20 miles from the home of Indiana’s KKK.)
I was assaulted one afternoon just walking down the street. Wearing appropriate (for me) mid-day attire, a car of frat boys sped by calling me names and hurling a pumpkin at me. I was too quick, they missed.
What had been shocking in Bloomington was not so much in San Francisco. Charles Pierce, Goldie Glitter and the Cockettes had the local population somewhat inured. In the mid-70s drag’s new antagonist became the gay community itself.
As the gay rights movement became more middle class there was a feeling that male femininity needed to be purged from the image. Drag queens gave gay people a bad name.
The faux-butch lumberjack look became the antidote to the queeny hair dresser stereotype. This hyper-masculine uniform looked good. Until the guy opened his mouth.
In 1976 I was invited to an A-list party in Pacific Heights for someone leaving to study at the Comedie Francaise. It was going to be a pretentious and boring affair which I didn’t want to attend. The dress code would be strictly Macy’s Lifestyle.
But I was friends of the host and had no choice. I hadn’t planned on drag but at the last-minute I decided to act out and slapped on eyeliner, some Red Red, a wig and a dress. I was a disheveled but appealing mess. My signature look.
My arrival was like Scarlet at Miss Melly’s birthday, the entire room was in stunned silence. This was not the place for that.
In a kill or be killed moment I spotted a friend at the far end of the room. I calmly walked towards him ignoring all the eyes that were on me. Ernie greeted me with a big bear hug. Slowly the party warmed up again.
An hour later the ice had melted in the room and in the bourbon. A drunk hunk in his Castro flannel shirt, hiking boots and handlebar moustache cornered me. With a sense of urgency he asked, “What size are those heels? A 10? I think I can fit into them.”
Five years after that I was in the Midnight Sun talking to this cute kid 10 years younger than me. He was so excited, he’d just come up with a drag name and was getting ready to dress up for the first time. Drag had become an accepted gay rite of passage.
I held a few drag parties in the 80’s but AIDS took its toll on my mailing list. And my closest friends. I had done best when I was someone’s muse but, truth be told, I was never quite sure what I was doing. It wasn’t as much fun on my own.
The torch had been passed to RuPaul’s generation. Miss Paul took that flame and turned it into an oil rig fire.
Today I love watching Drag Race and queens like Alaska Thunderfuck (who I adore and want to marry. Or at least boink.) I wasn’t as accomplished as they are at producing a look but I’m satisfied with what I did.
Well, “life” may be an overstatement. I can only remember having one Thanksgiving dinner in this apartment. It was in the late 80’s.
My focus that year was on the centerpiece. I felt the traditional cornucopia was in dire need of updating. Who wants a bunch of fruit and gourds on the table that are just going to rot and be thrown out? Miniature airline cordials were much more practical. And popular. There wasn’t one left at the end of the evening.
There is that picture of Jeffrey and me cooking in this kitchen back in the 70’s. Which doesn’t necessarily mean the Thanksgiving dinner was here. It means there was a holiday and we had an excuse to dress up and take photos.
Jane and Walter who I spend many of the major holidays with. As well as all the major earthquakes.
My friend Barbara who would later marry into the French nobility and become the Countess of Tampa Bay France.
Sully doing the honors.
No matter where I serve my guests they seem to like my kitchen the size of a postage stamp least.
Liqueurs nestled in a Mae West “Way Out West” style postiche. So much to be thankful for.
When Jeffrey and I first lived in this apartment we were very good friends with David, Muni and Dalia who lived behind us. We shared the same back landing so our kitchen doors were always open and there was constant traffic between the units. When they moved out, the landlord’s cousin moved in. The Chins occupied four of the seven units and the back doors were always locked.
Above me was an older grumpy guy who went fishing early in the mornings. He could never manage more than a harumph for a hello. The other unit upstairs was a 60-year-old leather queen. Our relationship started off nice enough but then he started yelling at us for playing our music too loud. Things were tense after that.
As for loud music, the real culprit was the landlord’s brother who lived below us. When he got drunk, which could be any day at any hour, it would be nonstop “Get Down! Boogie Oogie Oogie!” Constantly repeated, it was so loud they could hear it in Milpitas. Sometimes it would be playing faintly then he’d suddenly crank it for “Boogie oogie oogie” before turning it down again.
When the Chins sold in the late 80’s only leather guy and me remained. New tenants occupied the other five units and there started to be turnover. By the mid-nineties the line-up had pretty much solidified and units rarely switched hands.
Everyone in the building was nice and we were all friendly but I started to pull back. I was getting sucked into the miasma of the corporate world and my few hours at home were my only refuge.
Then Biff moved in, he was so young and so cute. If it had been 20 years before I would have tried to pounce but all I could think was “leave the poor kid alone. Don’t shit where you eat.” The last thing I wanted was to create an uncomfortable situation for him, constantly avoiding the lecherous old neighbor whose drool was spotting the lobby carpet.
I kept my distance. I was polite and friendly but we never said much more than hello, hows it going. The more steely my reserve became the deeper I dug the hole. It might have been perceived as rudeness or arrogance.
It didn’t help that one Sunday when I was reading in bed his shades were cracked and I could see various moving parts of TWO naked young ‘uns jostling about. It made my defenses even stronger. (I now wonder what the neighbors saw of me all those years in the window wells.)
All of us respected each other’s privacy so it was easy to go a couple of months without seeing one another. When I’d run into Biff after an absence we appeared to be following many of the same trends. He would have bleached hair and I would have bleached hair. He’d grown a beard, I had grown a beard. He had a zero crop, I had one too. We were on the same path independently of each other, kindred spirits.
Last fall when we had inklings the building was about to be sold the privacy mechanisms came tumbling down. All the tenants were talking to one another. We got together a few times to strategize and commiserate over cocktails. Biff and his partner were so warm and open. It felt comfortable to hang with them. Even their dog liked me.
We sat around laughing like we’d known each other for years. Which we had except we hadn’t. I felt like such a fool for squandering the opportunity to make a friend.
Christmas is a time for thinking of others including my friends Daryl and David in Palm Springs. They have over 1500 ornaments and about 250 garlands to put on their tree(s). All by Christopher Rothko. Actually it’s Radko but their works cost about the same.
I’m living proof that age is just an accumulation of things. This eviction process has me thinking about the stuff I’ve bought over the decades and how to dispose of what is no longer needed. Someone suggested selling it in a Palm Springs antique mall.
So I visited my friends to scout out the storage situation. I happened upon them at their busiest time of year, decorating for the Holidays.
It truly is a huge undertaking for them. Weeks of ornament hanging, garland strewing and clip-on clipping. But the results are spectacular.
I did my part by helping to empty 31 of the 67 storage boxes in the dinning room. There were as many full ones still in the garage when I left.
I will be forwarding a copy of this post to the Betty Ford Center just down the street from them. I think Betty needs to develop new treatment protocols for this recently discovered affliction.
From the registered sex offender series
The gap on the sofa showing progress. Temporarily.
Awaiting the hanging
The goal is to obliterate that green.
Safety First. At Christmas time. At all times.
My favorite, the ruby encrusted Santa valued at over $5 million.
The sick thing is Daryl knows all the names of the garlands. “Oh, that’s Postpartum Parade. That one’s Regicide Regalia.”
The end result will be one blinding reflective surface, detail lost in the glow.
The design master contemplating his next move over some Kibbles.
In 1976 Jim published the final edition of White Arms Magazine devoted completely to me. It was called the B-Centennial Issue.
We decided it needed some photos featuring gravesite drama so I packed up a bunch of friends and we headed to this fabulous cemetery in Oakland. An afternoon of bereavement hilarity followed.
Grandmother used to take me to antique auctions when I was a kid and at one there was this beautiful 19th Century silk crepe widow’s veil. I asked her to buy it for me because it reminded me of the assassination. During the photo shoot I held it in place with a black beret–just like Jackie.
Leading the national mourning
I received special catechism. My priest was from an obscure Orthodox Catholic sect.
Channelling Liz in Butterfield 8
Preparing to receive his holiness
Although a tear may be ever so near
I thought we ordered the carrera
Yet another vision for Father. I looked forward to the laying on of hands.