Monday, June 19, 2006

Islands of Sun

This Sunday was much like the previous, but sunnier. I was never cold in my short sleeves and I was warmed by friends I’d known for between 15 years and 20 minutes.

San Francisco is a lot like Honolulu in more ways than one would think. Pay no mind to the allegations that San Francisco is attached to some larger body of land, it is an island. It’s true, even if you insist it is an island of its own choosing. And just as any place that is disconnected from the larger world around it, San Francisco is unique. Its geology, architecture, politics, art, history, and current residents reflect and perpetuate its uniqueness.

Like islands are, it’s dirty, too. But all the dirt and grit doesn’t really bother me, as there’s so much other beauty.

On the way up the first significant slope to the God of Biscuit’s house, we passed another house of god where an authentic supposed miracle occurred. But I would never have noticed the church itself, because I was always caught up in the brilliant Christmas-red swaths of fabric looping and draping from the limbs of the giant tree out front.

So sayeth the GoB, a silhouetted image of the virgin Mary appeared in a weathered sign at the little Catholic house. We mused that Mary’s silhouette looked a lot like the shadowy image of the Emperor of the Galactic Trade Federation. And we noted with mock suspicion that we’ve never seen them together... I’m not saying they’re the same person, but of course, no one’s saying they’re not, either.

We drove right past the site of the "miracle" for our current version of church: Beer bust with the bears. Not really bears ourselves, we still find the easiest company with the hirsute jolly men. I nursed a beer or two while they indulged, smooched, and groped. I held hands with men so familiar that I could call them family, and laughed louder than was probably even appropriate. I was assaulted by cigar smoke from one side and pakalolo from another and rather than cringe or crave, I just basked in it all.

I left feeling full. Reinvigorated. Connected.

Head Chef will join me for more of this next weekend, and I cannot wait. The island of San Francisco is holding its gay pride celebration then, and it sounds like the Pink Saturday block party is the biggest attraction of all.

The forecast is for sun. I’m going to hold my Chef’s hand amidst thousands of other island people and just bask and bask.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Straight Pride

It’s gay pride month all over the nation, and that means controversy. Probably this year more than many others, gay pride is disgusting, offensive, and a threat to children and the American way of life.

So what I want to ask is this: Why not do something about it? Show your side! Have a Straight Pride Parade!

I have said for years that heterosexuals should get their own parade, too. Despite everything they say in the media, there’s nothing shameful about gettin it on with a member of the opposite sex. You were born to love the way you do, and you should be proud of your opposite-sex attraction. So have a parade!

Gay pride parades are a little shocking to suburban dads and church ladies, and I understand why. For one, the gayness gets on their nerves. Boys kissing boys like they mean it – well, that’s not something they see on tv. But then heap upon that the topless women, the nearly bottomless boys, the dancing, the displays of bizarre fetishism, and the politicians, and it’s all just too much for even God to witness.

So I say have a straight pride parade. Set up a nonprofit, get sponsors, file for a license, and get those volunteers working. We need floats for soccer moms, the PTA, the Southern Baptists, and Republican gubernatorial candidates.

Sound boring? Well, of course it would be. There’s nothing there to shock you. That’s why, in order for the straight pride parade to be a success, you’d have to welcome all interested groups from all facets of the heterosexual spectrum.

Bring in the shock value.

Bring in the swingers, the National Order of The Dominatrix, furries, bondage fetishists, and a huge float of a woman’s foot with two dozen guys licking it. The Polyamory Society could enter a huge free love exhibition on wheels, and just think how much the children would love to see that. Strip clubs could have floats with scantily clad dancers on poles, and the local sex workers union could hand out flyers on why prostitution should be decriminalized.

Now that’s a parade I would go to. All straight, all the time, and plenty to see.

But that’s why there’s no straight pride parade.
If they held a straight pride parade, it would be too boring to see, or too titillating not to, and nobody who’d organize one wants either of those. Because each of us is just as obsessed with strange sex as the next demographic, and straight pride parades would show that once and for all. They’d show how multifaceted heterosexual sexuality is, and that’s not good for the party line.

Even if it might be good for humanity.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Saying Too Little

Normally, I say too much.

Sometimes at work I become a running narrative of my work. I don’t know why, I just find myself so incredulous that I feel compelled to share. Or, at least, I’m too friendly and not straight.

But how dare I reduce this to a gay stereotype? Probably the same way anyone else would, but shouldn’t I be better than that? Maybe not. Lately, I’ve been enjoying stereotypes.

Just an hour ago, the client stepped in to ask what we were listening to on our headphones. I was listening to Raiatea Helm, a Hawai`ian beauty with incredible talent and skill. And the client immediately thought he knew what my co-worker was listening to based on his preconception of what/who my co-worker is.

I work with a Good Mormon Boy out here in the Valley of Silicon, and he is so very, excruciatingly Mormon. I just love how he doesn’t drink alcohol, has a fierce work ethic, and blindly obeys. How could you not love that? Really?

But I also love how GMB jokes about having an open relationship with his wife. How hilarious, stereotype-busting, and progressive of him! How obviously absurd - or not - and sexually subversive he is! How brazenly he doth simultaneously violate his stereotype and reinforce it! To him, I say, “You are the Mormon we need, with your compliance and sly nod to rebelliousness.”

I would like to slyly nod to rebelliousness, too, but I am not doing it. I, who say too much, am staying mum about certain things like wives. And where I hung out during the weekend…

And so I wonder which stereotypes I’m adhering to, here. Am I suddenly the eidos of mid-thirties professional closet cases? Or am I failing my stereotype as the shows-no-shame-gay-man with a sense of self? Is it shame, a lost opportunity, or just discretion?

I wonder if I am just not saying too much, or if this time I’m saying too little.