My road to corporate America began in the San Francisco District Attorney’s office. I got a job as a clerk there and after a few months was transferred to their law library.
The librarian was a wiry little leather queen named Bob. He lived his sex life 24/7 and made no attempt to filter private affairs out of workplace conversation. He could just as easily say “the 27 Bryant was 15 minutes late this morning” as “I had a fist up my ass last night.”
The library was a big, open room lined with books where the attorneys sat and read. While I’d be shelving or checking in periodicals, Bob would be on the phone at his desk gossiping about his latest orgy or making arrangements for the next one. For everyone to hear.
One time he was talking to a friend about how he’d blacked out the night before. He’d failed to wear the proper protective equipment as he mixed up a batch of homemade poppers in the bathtub.
Bob took me under his wing and wanted me to succeed. He told me the only way I’d make any money was to get into the corporate sector. I started going to the monthly law librarian lunches with him. There I made connections.
I’m a huge believer in natural poses
I ended up at a prestigious international law firm where I worked for 30 years. It was like being part of a family, a family who retained the services of Dr. Kervorkian when elderly overhead got in the way of partner profits.
Before the bean counters took over, the office Christmas Parties were truly exercises in 1980’s corporate excess. Tons of food and liquor, live music, great venues and everyone in their finest.
Of course “finest” was a relative term when it came to the secretaries from the outlying suburbs. They made such a production of their Dynasty dresses, Flock of Seagulls hair do’s and heels they could barely balance in. It was painful to watch their discomfort.
They seemed to think if they dressed in this special way there was a way they had to act too. And they weren’t sure what that was. It’s a feeling I got over the first time I was in drag: it’s a look, it’s not who you are.
I actually felt sorry for them being so self-conscious. Thankfully, their unease was only temporary and natural instincts soon prevailed. You’d hear the urgent rustle of puffed qiana as they spotted the mounds of cocktail shrimp and made a beeline for Seafood Island.
The midnight rambler; everybody got to go
Not many of my friends were interested in attending office parties with me but I could always get David to go. One of the many things I loved about partying with him was he knew how to make an exit. He’d just say “let’s go” and we’d vanish. No seeking out the host for thank you’s or long good-byes to friends. We were there and then we were gone.
One year at the Christmas Party we made a swift exit and decided to head to the Castro. We’d had cocktails and qualudes so trying to recall the drive over in the rain was a blur of disparate images: cement mixers, white-hot lights, piles of sand bags, windshield wipers working overtime, City Hall golden dome, and a thud.
Miraculously, we found parking right in front of the Midnight Sun (or at least we thought it was a spot). We got out of the pink and white Nash Rambler and noticed it was covered with sand. Except for the path of the wipers, it was completely coated in a layer of silt.
David and I stood there not knowing what had happened. So we just laughed and went into the Sun for a nightcap.
In 1971 egg nog was something Richard Nixon and distinguished diplomats sipped at Georgetown parties. Not drug addled, wafer thin, gay hippie boys in Bloomington, Indiana. That contradiction alone was enough to inspire my first big Christmas party.
The egg nog parties became an annual tradition. The first two were in Bloomington then five more after I moved to San Francisco. The last one was held in 1977 at a friend’s basement shop on Commercial Street in Chinatown. Nog was made available but also lots of champagne. So I rented about 8 dozen coupe glasses from Abbey Rents. By the end of the evening only one dozen remained.
It was the height of the punk era and destruction was the name of the game. Someone started it innocently by accidentally dropping their glass in the corner of the stairway. It was answered with a couple more throws into the corner. Soon it was a barrage, a constant din of shattering glass as every available coupe was hurled onto the pile. When no more glasses could be found, empty bottles were bounced off the walls.
I was left to clean up this heap of broken glass and repair the divots that had been taken out of the plaster. No dummy, I realized I’d lost my deposit on the glasses. But it had been entertaining so I rationalized it was cheaper than hiring a band.
Still, I didn’t have the courage to face Abbey Rents and asked David to take the survivors back on Monday. Even he, who can talk himself out of any situation, was at a loss. “What do I tell them?”
“Just say the buffet table collapsed.”
Posing with the debris, including that which was wrapped around my ankle
Madonna and child invite, 1975
Fragment from an unknown year
The mess
Art deco motifs were the rage in 1974. Among other things.
The 2nd annual was 6 weeks after the pink suit triumph. So we slapped some green and red on the theme and called it Christmas.
The 1976 film roll invitation
The spool of film invitation, 1976
The last egg nog party, 1977
David and me on the trash heap of egg nog memories
The Kremlin during the Cold War, 1985. I thought it great kitsch to put this on tacky Walgreen’s prefab cards. Sadly, some of my friends thought I was trying to be poignant.
It’s hard to convey to those who didn’t live through the 1970’s what the counterculture was like and the residue it left behind. It wasn’t really as strident or militant as anti-liberal revisionists would have you believe today (damn that Hanoi Jane.) There was just an overall rejection of middle class, nuclear family values and religious doctrine that had never been allowed to be questioned. Basically, we were blocking out the mainstream.
Life was subterranean and we made our own rules. Until it came to the holidays. We weren’t about to squander a day off and a chance to party.
Be it Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Valentines or Arbor Day, the resulting fetes were pretty much the same. Only the decor changed. Virgin births and body resurrections were left to others while we focused on bacchanals that were a hell of a lot of fun and completely devoid of meaning.
It was with this tongue in cheek attitude that Kathy and I began our annual Christmas date. In 1977 I had my first real private sector job and we planned to meet after work. That alone had many of my friends thinking it was a goof. Me? In corporate America?
Those friends also thought it kind of dumb that we were getting together for something so mundane as looking at decorations and shopping. Our generation didn’t do that. But really it was just an excuse to take a qualude and have a martini. We enjoyed that first date so much we repeated it the next few Christmases.
Our routine was to meet in front of Frank Moore’s on Union Square because we both loved his shoes (Kathy: his cuban heels; me: his vintage stilettos). We’d drop the lude then ooo and aah at the department store windows. When it was time for drinks and dinner we mock-honored tradition by choosing that film noir institution, John’s Grill.
As our stomachs matured and lost their cast iron lining, we couldn’t take John’s cooking after those first few years. But that didn’t stop us from popping in for a cocktail before heading off to dinner somewhere else. Which we’ve done every year except one.
Kathy moved to Los Angeles and was not in town for our date in 1984. Her life there was nothing but trouble: with her relationship, with her job, with housing, with her general well-being. She had problems. After a year she moved back to San Francisco.
I tried to be conciliatory and supportive when she returned but I felt compelled to point out that misfortune might not have befallen her had she not skipped the annual date. Although still not one for immaculate conceptions, I’m not above an occasional mystery curse.
Last night we had our annual drink at John’s and, for the first time ever, cameras were allowed on the date. There’s a possibility that one or both of us may not be living in San Francisco next Christmas but we’ve vowed not to let tradition die after only 37 years. Neither of us can afford another 1985.
Counting to 63 in a downpour is not so easy.
Horned for the holidays
Kathy and her favorite bartender.
Making our own kind of traditions
Waiting on the man. Ludes aren’t as easy to come by as they were in ”77.
Actually there has not been much yule life in the Jones Street apartment since the mid-1970’s. After David and Muni moved out next door, then Jeffrey, I was here by myself. And I didn’t need more than a Barbara Mandrel Christmas Special to get me in a festive mood.
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.
Jeffrey was going through his depression era decor phase as evidenced in the zen-like serenity of our kitchen.
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.
Babysitting Dalia. The things that child saw….
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.)
The early days of our open door policy. David, per usual, in various states of undress.
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.
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.
Staggering grief
Leading the national mourning
I received special catechism. My priest was from an obscure Orthodox Catholic sect.
Crippling grief
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.
With the booty-meister, my favorite Bay Area performer. On stage, anyway.
Friday night of Gay Pride weekend this year I saw Planet Booty at The Great American Music Hall, my neighborhood music hall. I didn’t get much sleep the night before so I was tired and had to be content just observing and head banging on the sidelines. Usually I prefer to be in the middle of the mosh.
Planet Booty was laying down a solid groove but no one in the hall seemed to be able to break at the waist. The pelvic block in the room was palpable. It dawned on me that millenials may not know how to dance. A lifetime of looking at apps in their laps had left them with no feel for the rhythm of life.
There was a kindergarten sense to it what they did, which may also have been the last time they were encouraged to use their bodies. We’re jumping! And we’re jumping! And we’re jumping! Sloshed childishness.
To their credit there was some creativity like the violent one shoulder twitch. Or the fire hydrant, bending the leg at the knee and doing repeated lifts. One heavy guy kept trying a drunken double dutch, elaborate cross over steps that he could sustain for about 4 seconds then would stop and start over again.
What was happening on the floor was in sad contrast to what was happening on the stage.
I stood there watching and let my mind drift off to Zimbabwe. The only time I’ve ever been white water rafting was on the Zambezi River in 1993. On one of the rapids I was thrown from the boat. Immediately I felt the serenity of floating backwards at high-speed in warm water. I was digging it until I heard the screams: “The rocks!” “Grab it!” I began flailing to catch the buoy on a rope so they could pull me back in.
That Friday night at Great American there was a woman dancing who honored me with arm movements I’d not seen since Victoria Falls.
Walking home in the 2 a.m. summer fog I thought maybe I was being too harsh on the kids. I was inventing excuses to dislike the techies just to rationalize leaving the City. I should play nice and accept that it was time to go. Fuck that.
Checking out the ancient trunk.
Saturday I spent a beautiful summer day on the couch conserving senior citizen energy for Gay Pride Sunday. I had participated in one of the first Chicago Pride marches in 1971 but it had been 25 years since I’d been to one out here. That day in Chicago there was a real sense of relief for being able to walk 20 blocks without getting beaten up. Today’s pageantry does a much better job of capturing the essence of gay life with the drag, the bulges, and Gloria Gaynor for the trillionth time.
Still, 25 years was too long. I needed to check in and take the local temperature, preferably rectally. If nothing else I thought I might get the opportunity to throw a tomato at the Mayor.
Riding the Rapid the Natives Called the Devil’s Toilet
My vintage midriff tee. Unofficial and unlicensed, the best kind.
I was back east and couldn’t attend the World Series parade on Friday. I’m extremely bummed I missed my shot at a pair of Mad Bum jockeys.
These championship celebrations always remind me of the best one ever: the first Super Bowl win. What helped make that one so great was, after years of mediocrity or worse, it was so unexpected.
I watched halfheartedly the first part of that season since the Niners always fizzled out in the end. As they kept winning, however, I started talking them up to David on our Sunday evening trips to the Midnight Sun. He didn’t care about sports but as momentum built he sensed history and became a fan.
After the Clark catch we couldn’t decide where to watch the Super Bowl. It had to be in public but the only gay venue with large screen television was the Sun. Gay men were apathetic sports fans at the time, we weren’t sure they’d even show it. Taking our chances and we went over to the Castro at halftime. It was on and there was a decent crowd.
The drink of the day was Cape Cods because the color matched the Niner’s uniforms. After the thrilling victory David and I went out into the street. The crowd of 50 began to grow exponentially.
We went into the package liquor store for a pint of Hennessy, then into the Star Pharmacy for all the value packs of toilet paper we could carry. The teepee-ing the intersection commenced. Soon the mob caught on and every available roll in the Castro was hanging on the cross-wires at 18th.
The crowd was now thousands. Cars couldn’t get through and Muni, though a little more persistent, gave up too. The driver on the last bus just stopped. He emptied everyone off, locked the doors and abandoned the vehicle.
The vacated bus was a challenge I couldn’t resist. Squeezing through the pneumatic doors, I danced alone up and down the aisle. The crowd rocked it back and forth. I sat at the controls and got the wipers going. Then the lights flashing and plenty of horn.
I realized it was electric and didn’t need a key so I started it and put it in gear. It lunged about 2 feet and I thought: “danger zone: drunk, thousands of people, heavy equipment–not good.” I shut it off then opened the doors to let the masses stream on.
David and I went on to other neighborhood celebrations like the bonfires in the Mission and the Broadway crowd in North Beach. It was such an odd feeling. Kids who would have beaten me up any other day of the year were high -fiving and hugging me that night. The next morning we each woke up with an aluminum crowd control barricade in our apartments. We weren’t sure how they got there.
David. The best PR in town.
Friends soon learned about our wild night. David’s version had more legs than mine since he emphasized I “stole” a Muni bus. So effective was he that 20 years later people still asked, “did you really steal that bus?” They acted as if I’d taken it on the 49 mile scenic drive. I knew better than to trample a good image, I just shrugged and smiled.
Last year I finally asked David what he’d actually said. He replied sheepishly, “oh, that you drove it to the end of the block.”
***
I once told Carl about my game day superstitions. Not watching a batter and the guy would get a clutch hit. Scrubbing the bathroom and the Niners would pull out a last-minute victory. He was skeptical, “you really think you have that much power?” Yes, I think I do.
I’ve lived in San Francisco for 42 years. Before I moved here neither the (San Francisco) Giants nor the 49ers had ever won a championship. In the past four decades we’ve won 5 Super Bowls and 3 World Series. If I lose my apartment in the City and am forced to move away, well………
