It took me by complete surprise when I read it in an e-mail from a friend who obviously thought I knew about it already, as it had been in the gay newspapers locally but I somehow missed it. As far as I know, the queens didn’t produce a makeshift shrine at the B of A on 18th and Castro like when Lucille Ball or Princess Diana died, so the actual news managed to evade me that our community lost a member who has always stood out in my mind as a true original, a master at her many creative endeavors, from her amazingly funny pitch-perfect work as a cartoonist, her incredible ability and masterful skill with the written word and the multitude of styles of writing she embraced over the years—poetry, prose, lyrics, speeches, sermons, spoken word and the nearly lost art of storytelling, perhaps what she was best at. I felt a tremendous loss when I learned that Kris Kovic, a gifted, vibrant and constant source of inspiration for me as a writer, a queer, an activist, and a party monster, succumbed to a long battle with breast cancer. Kris was a real live wire, a creative catalyst, always in motion and often prompting that creative flow in all those she touched as she traveled through the years like a jack-of-all-trades, trying her hand quite effectively at so many different artistic accomplishments. Kris fucking rocked and news of her death really hit hard. Rationally I knew that she had been struggling with breast cancer for quite some time, but when I learned Kris had died it took the breath out of me, the thought of such a vibrant, amazing, inspiring creative force, so important to so many, a friend to so many, forever taken from our midst by a medical malady, I was overwhelmed by sadness. I thought I had gotten used to this death thing during the body count early 90’s. I wrote about death so much I thought my byline should have had a Kubler-Ross thrown in the middle. I processed through it very openly in print, eventually almost leading readers through the process like I was an aerobics instructor leading a class to Buns or Abs of Steel in just 10 minutes a day. I learned the value of helping others as a way to help yourself in time of crisis, but you never get used to losing people you have such a great amount of admiration and respect for.
I believe I first met Kris Kovic at a staff meeting or party for a now-defunct local gay community paper we both worked for in the late 80’s. She was a regular cartoonist whose contributions were hilarious depictions of dyke life, from ribald and sexually explicit to politically urbane and self-deprecating, Kris poked fun at the lesbian scene she was unquestionably a part of with a refreshing honesty and candor that really chiseled away at the walls of separatism between gay men and lesbians, kind of showed a side of the dyke scene that many hadn’t been prithee to, in a time when the gay and lesbian communities were rapidly re-defining and growing and changing. When we were introduced she shook my hand and said, “You really have a way with the turn of the phrase. I like your work.” I thanked her and complimented her similarly and we got to talking and before too long others joined in and an immediate rapport among a few of us writers and photographers on staff began.
We’d attend Kris’s various readings and events regularly, have occasional small dinner parties where we would listen to Kris tell us the most incredible stories about her family and her past, like a certain thanksgiving dinner with her family where her brother showed up careening a loud muscle car into the garage and quickly shutting the doors as if the cops were on his tail and entered the house with a beautiful transvestite hooker on his arm to meet the family. Kris got to talking with the tranny later and learned that she was notorious in San Diego for picking up service men and taking them to her apartment and slipping them a mickey so they’d pass out and then she would proceed to shave off their pubic hair and save it, using it as the primary stuffing material for these little handmade throw-pillows she crafted as a hobby. She also told us about a time when she got on a municipal bus in a hurry one morning, and it must have been many years ago as she was wearing a long skirt and no underwear (“my hippie days,”) and while depositing her coins in the fare box she heard her pair of steel Ben Wa balls fall and hit the floor. She bent to quickly retrieve them and the bus accelerated and they rolled all the way to the back. Like this, many of her stories were bawdy and for me quite shocking. With a curt “this is off the record” intro she would relate a small handful of past sexual exploits with certain notable figures that would leave us cackling or with our jaws dropped open in disbelief.
One time she invited us to one of her organized readings at Red Dora’s Bearded Lady Café and we arrived just as they started to show a short film by a local dyke filmmaker. We were the only men present, me, Marc Geller and Adam Block. We took our seats and the film started, which was simply a series of odd tortuous things inflicted upon someone’s penis, including pounding a nail in the end of it, and letting a jar of stunned wasps loose on it, and a few other choice, well beyond pleasurable manipulations. The dykes were roaring with laughter and various cat calls and when the lights were turned up they all turned around and looked at us and we looked back at them and we all burst into laughter. That was typical of Kris, pushing for a dynamic that was unfamiliar or unusual or just plain funny, linking varied people together who might not generally mix it up, often bringing talents together that could benefit from or inspire each other or collaborate or just have dialogue and conceive of new possibilities. She always seemed to be thinking of infinite possibilities and capabilities when considering her fellow artistic peers. Her enthusiasm in this way never waned.
One time about ten years ago Kris called myself and Marc Geller and Adam Block on the phone and asked if we would meet her at a bar in the Castro one early evening. We all assembled at the chosen place and Kris announced that it was her 40th birthday and after being clean and sober for eight years she had made the conscious decision to step off the wagon, and she couldn’t think of three people she’d rather be in the company of for this auspicious occasion than us. I was so honored and couldn’t help but think, if she’s this much fun sober I can’t even imagine how much fun she might be in her planned departure from abstinence. I was also reminded of her whole-hearted endorsement of my own proclivities towards certain illicit substances and the forthright pro-drug, pro-honesty mini-crusade I had begun in my columns. She supported my position and did so while she herself was still very much clean and sober. I was always impressed by this because in the late 80’s AA groups were terribly rabid and overwhelmingly large and they knew it all and reminded me of the Jehovah witness people that used to go door to door when I was little with their glassy-eyed look and Night Of The Living Dead creepiness, telling you what to believe, knowing what you were and what you must do to save yourself.
It’s also hard to forget the surreal night when Kris, an ordained mail order minister, officiated at the blessed union of Elvis Herselvis and Justin Bond at Klubstitute. That was when the legendary club was being held at Brave New World on Fulton and was enjoying it’s most fertile, rich, and freak-happy time period. The bride and groom exchanged cock rings and Kris pronounced them man and wife. I believe she attended the bachelor party for Elvis the night before as well, departing before the mysterious exotic dancers and other naughty antics took place.
The last time I ran into Kris she appeared out of nowhere and solved a difficult situation like a guardian angel, and it all took place at the Walgreen’s on Castro and 18th. I had just undergone some minor unmentionable and very painful surgery and walked directly from Davies Medical center to Walgreen’s to get my post surgery prescriptions of antibiotics and pain medication filled. I reached the window and turned in my prescriptions only to be called back to the window and told that my doctor had failed to sign the prescription for the pain meds. Panic shot through me as it had become increasingly more apparent that my local anesthetic was wearing off rapidly. I asked the pharmacist if he could possibly just phone my doctor for verification as I had just come from there and had just undergone surgery and my anesthetic was wearing off. He said no, that wouldn’t be possible. I started raising my voice a bit, telling him it was ridiculous and absurd for him to deny me my necessary medication. People started to note the situation and I suggested as I grabbed the unsigned script from his hand that perhaps I should just mark my own fucking chicken scratched initials on it and take it to another fucking pharmacy where I’m certain they wouldn’t have a problem with it. He told me that would be against the law and he would phone the other pharmacies and warn them of my arrival. I was furious and I suddenly heard a familiar voice ask, “What’s the problem here?” It was Kris Kovic. I hadn’t seen her in about two years or more. I explained my predicament and she said, “Honey, you just come over and sit down with me, I’ll take care of your pain needs. Just forget about that jerk and sit with me. I’m waiting for some really excellent morphine-one tab works twelve hours and they don’t make you throw up or anything.” We sat and caught up and waited together, filling each other in on our particular ailments, latest projects, etc. She of course had a grand plan she was working on to as always connect varied people together that could all help each other further distribute their work to a broader audience more effectively. If Kris believed in your work then you better believe she wanted to enlighten as many new people as possible to it. She was slightly evasive about her own physical condition when asked but concerned about my own. The pharmacist behind the counter called her name and she went to pick them up and he asked if she needed a bag. She said, “That’s okay, I’m gonna tear into them right now. But wait, I do need a small bag so I can give my friend here a handful of these since you won’t.” My hero fucked up the nasty pharmacist and reigned supreme. He looked stupid, she distributed the meds to me with a warning not to over do it and we walked on out of the store. I said to her that I don’t know what I’d have done without her and she smiled and said she was glad she was there for me. She then invited me to an upcoming reading of hers at the John Simms center, saying there would be lots of fun people, “.people you should meet there.” I told her she was my angel of mercy. She smiled and we said goodbye. That warm dreamy carefree blanket of relief enveloped me just as I reached my bed at home. Thank you Kris Kovic, for everything.
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