Friday, June 02, 2006

Fundamental Summer Listening

Pet Shop Boys' new release Fundamental, which has already gone to #1 in ten countries, is their best work since 1993's Very, and that is saying something. I recommend getting the limited edition double-disc Fundamental/Fundamentalism. I particularly like the track The Sodom And Gomorrah Show. On the remix disc, Stuart Crichton's remix of In Private is a grand trance production that will take many of you back to the circuit heyday of the late 90's.

And here's a real treat: The BBC is streaming last week's PSB performance with the BBC Concert Orchestra and a cast of special guest stars, including Rufus Wainwright, who performs Casanova In Hell, and Robbie Williams who sings Jealousy. This concert was edited for broadcast and you can really feel it at times, but Neil Tennant is in great voice.Trivia: Although Pet Shop Boys haven't had a Top 40 hit in America in 18 years, they have had 38 Top 40 hits in the U.K., the all-time record for a duo. Erasure isn't far behind, with 30 UK Top 40 hits.

Silver Membership

Most of the media will observe this week as the 25th anniversary of AIDS, as it was on June 5th, 1981, that the Centers For Disease Control's Morbidity And Mortality Weekly Report first mentioned a "strange cluster of pneumonia cases" in five gay men (although the unusual illnesses were first mentioned 3 weeks earlier in the gay paper, The New York Native). Below is one of the earliest stories from this blog, in which I explain how AIDS first entered my world in 1985.


Membership


Michael didn't look good.

We were at his annual Christmas Luau party. Tons and tons of people in the house and the backyard. Standing in his kitchen, wearing a grass skirt and a ridiculous Santa hat covered in sequins, he was acting like always...all flamboyant and silly and adorable.

But he didn't look...right.

It was 1985.

My boyfriend Ken and I stayed until the end of the party to help clean up. I busied myself in the kitchen, washing glasses and cleaning ashtrays. Through the kitchen window, I watched Ken and Michael in the backyard, stacking up the chairs and dousing the dozens of tiki torches, the trademark of Michael's party. When we were finished, Ken and I stood for a few minutes on Michael's front porch, reviewing the party, who came, who didn't, who shouldn't have come.

Finally, I yawned and stretched and nudged Ken. "C'mon babe, let's roll. Michael, lots of fun, as always. Try and get some sleep, you look like you need it."

Ken shot me a scowl.

I tried to recover, "I mean, you must be exhausted from getting that party ready."

Michael laughed and lit a cigarette. "Oh, you know me. I'll bounce back. Nothing that can't be cured by cigarettes, coffee and cocaine!"

We giggled and waved and headed down the driveway. When we reached our car, I looked back at the house. Michael was struggling with the garbage cans, then broke into a hacking cough.

For the first few minutes of our ride home, Ken and I didn't say anything. Then, at a traffic light, I looked over at him. "Didn't you think Michael..."

"He's FINE!" Ken cut me off.

"You didn't think he looked kinda thin? And that coughing..."

'Well, you know he smokes too much. And you'd look worn out too if YOU threw a Christmas party for 100 people.'

"Yeah, I guess."

Ken knew what I was talking about, even if we didn't actually talk about it. For two years, maybe three, we'd been following the developing story about AIDS. First, the press was calling it 'gay cancer'. Then GRID. Gay Related Immune Disorder. Then AIDS.

We lived in Orlando. Almost all the cases were in New York or San Francisco, and that made us feel safe, in a strange way. Neither of us had been in either place, except as children. And we didn't have any friends from either city. Then Miami began to report cases.

Michael was from Miami.

A week after his Christmas party, on New Year's Eve, out at the club, Michael uncharacteristically left early. Before midnight. He said his hip was bothering him. Our friend Jack teased him as he was leaving. "Oh, is Grandpa having some problems with his rheumatiz?"

Michael just smiled and blew us kisses from across the room and limped out.

A few weeks later Ken called me from his office. He was going to take Michael to the hospital. His hip was terribly infected, and Michael couldn't walk. I didn't ask him what was wrong, by now we knew. And Michael knew that we did.

Waiting for Ken to come home, I watched a TV report on AIDS. Specifically, it dealt with how funeral parlors were sometimes refusing to handle the bodies of AIDS patients. Fear of infection. Fear of loss of reputation. The narrator made a comment about the families and friends of those killed by AIDS. He called them 'this new and modern group' of grievers. When Ken got home, I told him about the story with indignation.

Over the next few months, Michael was in the hospital quite a bit. Ken got into the habit of visiting him on his way home from work, something I could rarely do, since I worked nights. When I did see Michael, he looked progressively worse. Skinnier, pale, his skin patchy and scaley.

But he always had that bitchy sense of humor and that chicken cackle. I'd hear that laugh from down the hallway as I approached his room, which always seemed to be full of friends.

Florida started its state lottery that summer. On the first night of the big drawing, I tried to stay awake for the results, but I fell asleep with the tickets in my hands. I was awakened by Ken sitting on the bed.

"Hey." I rolled over and looked at the clock. Three in the morning?

Ken still had his tie on. My throat clenched. I don't know why, but I pushed the lottery tickets over towards him.

"So, um...are we millionaires?"

Ken didn't answer me.

"Where have you been? At the hospital? How's Michael?"

Ken leaned over and started untying his shoes. He pulled them off and finally turned to face me. He looked so very tired. He laid down next to me and hugged me, then spoke softly into my ear.

"We've just joined that 'new and modern' group."
.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Don't Make Me Read Your Beads

It's been almost 30 years and despite challenges from thousands of hilarious contenders, Rita Beads remains my all time favorite drag name. Rita was a hairy chested, butch mustached, roller-skating, pregnant nun sort of drag queen, back in late 70's Orlando.

The reason Rita Beads is such a funny name is probably sadly lost to most of you, but the threat to "read your beads" was a common expression back in the day, one homo to another. Reading someone's beads meant to tell them off, to give them what-for, to put them in the their place, in the sort of high-drama that only can come from a place of great creativity and style. And cuntiness.

"Don't make me read your beads, bitch!"

The verb "read", by itself, in this context, continues to be used today, although I rarely hear it these days. "Is he over there reading my outfit?" And I've always like the adjective "readful", as in, "Ooh, I just gave him a readful rake and walked away! (Snap)" Reading often includes snapping but white guys can rarely pull off the snap. It's a black thing, really. Like the head swivel, which can also be a component of a talented read. Can anybody tell I took a walk on the pier last weekend?

Stop Blocking The Fan!

It's only the first day of June and I've already had more than enough hot. New York is just miserable during the summer and it's a freakin' 2-3 hour science project just to get to the beach. Not that I enjoy beaches all that much anyway, with my fishbelly complexion. Ten years in Fort Lauderdale and I probably went to the beach twice a year. San Francisco's freezing summers, which I used to bitch about so much, are looking awfully good right now. There's no making me happy.

MJB

West Village, Summer 2004

It's a beautiful afternoon. My friend Andy and I are killing an hour ambling around the shops on Bleecker street, wasting time before a show. Across the street, I spot a drag queen pulling off a spectacular Mary J. Blige impression. Big wig, big glasses, big bling, big Louis Vuitton handbag. I'm so impressed with how much the queen looks like Mary J. Blige, that I nudge Andy.

"Wow! Check out Mary J. Weave!"

I look at Andy's face but it's frozen in embarrassment.

"Joe, she heard you."

I snap my gaze back across the street. The queen is standing there giving us an angry look. I'm mortified. Her thuggish looking friend whispers in her ear and for a moment it seems like she is going to come across the street and give us a vicious read, pier queen-style. Then they turn their backs on us and step into a coffeeshop. I exhale in relief.

"OK, that could have really sucked."

Andy and I walk around for another ten minutes, talking about what we might have done if that queen had decided to come across and get in my face for talking smack about her. We agree that running away from her would have been a strong possibility. Then, stupidly, we enter the Ralph Lauren store, only to come right up against her again. My stomach sinks for the second time.

It really IS Mary J. Blige.
.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Anthology Due July 28th

My book debut comes this July 28th, in the forthcoming Carroll & Graf anthology, From Boys To Men: Personal Essays Of Gay Coming Of Age. Rather than a traditional collection of coming out stories, "In these memoirs, coming out is less important than coming of age and coming to the realization that young gay people experience the world in ways quite unlike straight boys."The anthology is edited by Robert Williams and Ted Gideonse. Check out the Amazon link for the complete list of writers, which includes Alex Chee, Aaron Hamburger, and my own pal, Michael McAllister aka Dogpoet. I'm thrilled to be part of this esteemed group.

Is That Nana On The Overpass?

On a sunny day, New Yorkers are not above plopping themselves down just about anywhere to catch some rays, like this rather leathered old biddy who chose the pedestrian overpass of FDR Drive at 71st Steet. I guess the noise and exhaust of the 6-lane highway beneath her isn't a bother.

A Blaggle Of Bloggers

This weekend is the annual messy, sloppy, sodden gathering of gay bloggers in NYC. I stole this naughty graphic from Chris over at
See My Briefs, who has an amusing listing of the schedule of activities. I'm looking forward to seeing a lot of familiar faces from around the country and hoping to meet some new ones. Btw, blaggle? What should it be?

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

It's Getting Hot In Herre

So here's my dilemma: Do I go see the Al Gore's global warming documentary, An Inconvenient Truth, and come out with sharply detailed information over which to obsess and worry? Or do I not go see the movie and merely continue with this vague, unfocused sense of dread?

Remembering Memorial

Big weekend. Big in every way.

Saturday: Up early and out for the Superbowl of gay rugby, the Bingham Cup. Emerging from the 6 train up in Harlem, Eddie and I ran into podcaster/tough guy Mike P and blogger hottie Bryce of Plastic Music, and we joined the curious mix of locals, ruggers and gay rugby groupies waiting in line for the Crazy Bus.

Ah, the Crazy Bus, aka the X65. You see kids, the Bingham Cup was held on the sprawling athletic fields of Randall's Island, home to the largest mental institution in the world, the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. (Technically, the hospital is on Ward's Island, but the two have been joined by landfill over the years.) Having ridden that bus out to Randall's Island in years past to play homosexual softball, let me tell you...there are some very interesting characters on that bus. Take a dozen heroin addicts, some schizophrenics, a serial killer or three, then add 50 large hairy gay men. Interesting. You would have loved watching.

The rugby matches themselves were predictably hot, sweaty, violent, funny, and bloody. I'm still trying to wash my brain of the image of the guy getting his eyeball stitched up as I walked past the med tent. Eddie, Vasco and I hung out with Washington Renegade/superblogger Jimbo and he tried to explain the various rugby positions. I think Jimbo plays Wingback or Chickenwing or something like that. We also chatted with Renegade/blogger Seamus McStebbins and what is it with all ruggers being bloggers? At one point Vasco and I decided that all players wearing #13 were inexplicably super-hot. All of them. Especially you, Sydney Convicts #13. Especially you. And we missed seeing it, but blogger/glamour consultant Neil (husband of the above mentioned Bryce) scored his first goal ever for the Gotham Knights, then performed his ritual Zulu. Go Neil! Really sorry I didn't get to watch.

Saturday night we met up with Glenn and Vasco and attended a couple of the team's bar parties, both predictably rowdy and beer sodden, despite their relatively posh Chelsea locations. There was a lot of shouting and some rampant rugger-on-rugger hot man lovin. At least I got to watch.

Sunday night was the NYC debut of popular UK bear dance party XXL at Webster Hall, where we arrived to find the place already packed at 11:30pm. Webster Hall sucks as a nightclub venue. The main room is on the third floor, the bathrooms are in the basement, and I'm sure a lot of those very sore ruggers didn't appreciate that. The very strange Webster Hall bartending set up, in which your order is taken, then ferried to some kind of master bartender, who actually rings you up, made it just impossible to get a drink in under 15 minutes. Just as well, at $7 a pop for a plastic cup of Budweiser.

But otherwise the party was great. Crowded, but not crowded. Bloggerati Robocub (and Robopapi) and Michael Hartney were tearing up the dancefloor. The music was well received, if a rather curious blend of recent hits (Hung Up-Madonna, Mary J. Blige - Be Without You) and early '90s diva house anthems (Gonna Make You Sweat- C&C Music Factory, Ride On Time - Black Box). My personal highlight was Donna Summer's I Feel Love, of course! Ultra Nate' performed early, singing her gay pride anthem Free. Around 2:30am, Barbara Tucker took the stage with four backup singers and delivered one of the best club performances I think I've ever seen, performing her immortal Beautiful People and her 2004 hit Most Precious Love, among others. Perhaps sensing that her audience was a bit longer in the tooth than during her other nightclub appearances, Tucker revealed that she had just turned 44 years old, generating huge applause.

The biggest downside of the evening was coming across an unconscious young man in the seating area above the dancefloor. I tried to slap him awake to no avail and finally left in search of assistance, once I got the guys seated nearby to agree to keep him upright until I returned. I have a feeling the kid was simply passed out drunk, not OD'd on GHB, but you can't be too careful these days. I encourage anybody who comes across someone in distress in a nightclub to be that person who goes for help. The first Webster Hall employee I found simply said, "Take me to him," and that was the end of my involvement.

Otherwise, it was a great night and we'll definitely attend another XXL, should the party return to NYC. We even got a free mix CD upon departure, which was a nice touch. And congratulations to the Bingham Cup winners, the Sydney Convicts who also won for overall hotness, not that I'm shallow or anything.
Top Left: Sydney accepts the Bingham Cup from Mark Bingham's mother, Alice Hoglan.
Top Right: Sydney Convicts.
Bottom Left: L-R: Eddie, Me, Michael, Tim, Glenn, Vasco
Bottom Right: Sydney celebrates.

Brokeback Mounties

Canada's upcoming high-profile gay wedding between two members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police is beginning to cause some stir in Canadian government, as Prime Minister Stephen Harper's office has issued a gag order warning Conservative members of Parliament to make no comments on the wedding to press. Harper is probably just really sick of hearing "Brokeback Mounties". (- via 365gay.com)

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Pat Robertson Found With Pants On Fire

Sports journalists are calling bullshit on televangelist Pat Robertson's claim to be able to leg-press 2000 pounds. CBS Sportsline columnist Clay Travis says: "There is no way on earth Robertson leg presses 2,000 pounds. That would mean a 76-year-old man broke the all-time Florida State University leg press record by 665 pounds over Dan Kendra. 665 pounds. Further, when he set the record, they had to modify the leg press machine to fit 1,335 pounds of weight. Plus, Kendra's capillaries in his eyes burst. Burst. Where in the world did Robertson even find a machine that could hold 2,000 pounds at one time? And how does he still have vision?"

Pat Robertson, blinded. Now THAT would be some biblical retribution.

Ed Lifts

A lot of the guys I saw at the Bingham Cup are of surprisingly normal size. I even saw a few guys that were rather tiny. But some of them, hol-ee cow, thems was some mooses! This guy picked up little Eddie like a sack of Puppy Chow.

UPDATE: Eddie suggested that I add this picture to get a better idea of the scale between he and the big guy. I think there's a least a foot of height and a hundred pounds between the two of them.(Thanks to Glenn and Vasco for the pics!)

Slaute!