I realized as I sat down to write my column for the Pride Issue that this year indeed marks my 20th Gay Pride Day in San Francisco, something I’m not so sure I should admit in such a youth obsessed nation to an even more youth obsessed community, but I was of course only seven years old for my first one in 1983. If you believe that I’ll let you. No, maybe I wont. I think it marks an achievement of sorts to be a (gasp) middle-aged gay male here in the year 2003. A lot of us didn’t make it this far and a lot of us still won’t, the AIDS epidemic making certain that we wouldn’t have to worry too much about a place to put elderly gays, out of the way so as not to serve as a constant reminder that growing old is indeed what happens to everyone…usually.
In the gay community you would think people would cool it on all that ageist once-you’re-past-30-you’re-over attitude, because here in San Francisco, the former Gay Mecca, we’ve had far more than the elderly to put us in mind of our own mortality. We’ve had earthquakes, Jonestown, and the AIDS epidemic to name a few, and there were times when the harsh reality of living in San Francisco prompted many of us to really wonder if we would actually make it to see our forties. Well many of us have and with a certain sense of pride and accomplishment, yet invariably surviving means losing many loved ones along the way and carrying and knowing the pain of such loss. It can get difficult to be thankful and positive about surviving this disease holocaust when the ones who helped you along the way aren’t here to share reaching this goal. So here in the year 2003 not only are you “old” in the minds of many, the likelihood of bitterness is huge, and if you’ve been kicking around here for 20 Gay Days your view of the event and festivities is definitely going to differ from those attending for the first time or the fifth time.
Some of us recall when San Francisco was still clearly and unmistakably the Gay Mecca of the world. I believe that our Gay Pride celebration still ranks as the largest of its kind but so many of the elements that made this city the singular homo destination point for millions of queers to flock to have systematically disappeared, often without much of a warning or explanation. One example would be reasonable rental rates, remember? Where did they go? Another example would be the world famous Ringold Alley. Sure, it’s still there, a half block off Folsom between 8th and 9th streets, but what was once a bustling 2:00 AM cruising alley lined with men is now fully dormant, thanks to the police practically arresting anyone for just walking down it. You can’t stop to tie your shoe without running the risk of being arrested. It still perplexes me just when martial law came to Ringold Alley and changed it forever, but it has. The same thing happened to Dore Alley a few years earlier. It’s amazing how many out of towners I’ve seen standing at the end of Ringold looking perplexed. There’s nowhere to cruise, what kind of Gay Mecca is this?
Yet another missing element would be this year’s obvious lack of a definitive and huge Gay Nightclub, a void left by the demise of the long running Pleasuredome, the space being taken over for development like most property near the new Stadium. I know there has been some new large club endeavors launched to fill that void but I haven’t attended any yet. Along with the disappearing large venue, a host of small popular neighborhood bars citywide seemed to bite the dust as well over the years, including Maud’s and several other lesbian bars. I could be in the dark on this detail but I think there is currently only one lesbian bar in all of San Francisco, The Lexington. Doesn’t that seem odd? Face it, we have less Gay Bars to choose from in this city now than we had ten years ago or even twenty years ago, less variety, less thematic choices and less devoted and identified crowds filling them up. Add to this a once booming network of bathhouses and sex clubs ravaged by the AIDS epidemic in the early 80’s then eventually the banning of all such institutions in the city of San Francisco and it seems Mecca is lacking in some of the basic expected amenities of a world class city and hub of all that is Gay. I don’t mean to put down the fine selection of great mainstay watering holes and clubs that remain here. There are many excellent places to drink and convene and a few of these are definite San Francisco institutions with a lot of heart and history, (The Stud, The Eagle, The LoneStar, The Powerhouse, The Hole In The Wall, The End-up), but there’s just a lot less bars than there used to be.
Although I might seem to be setting myself up for a gloomy and critical and nonplussed Parade Day I assure you that a few things about the celebration never fail to thrill me no matter which side of the ditch I wake up on or how cynical my mood may be. One is the traditional lead contingent of the parade Dykes on Bikes. They never fail to make me smile with the roar of hundreds of motorcycles rumbling by, every manner of handsome, beautiful, and outrageous woman imaginable, of all ages, proudly showboating on their polished rides. For some reason the dykes on Bikes make me feel safe, kind of like the rolling stones must have felt when they hired The Hell’s Angels to handle their concert tour security just before Altamont. And safety is a continually pulsing tangible feeling radiating from the heart of Pride Day—and many people present are feeling a sense of safety that they have possibly never felt before, a different world than the one they came from where attacks and ridicule and harassment may have been commonplace. That feeling is the truest most valuable dynamic Gay Day usually can provide, next to catching a glimpse of the NAMBLA contingent (National Association of Man Boy Love) marching by but they haven’t represented in years it seems, leaving no need for you to scream “Hey Daddy, how come your “boy” is like 32 years old?” Of course there are a few other highlights of the parade I particularly enjoy, one of which serves a distinct utilitarian purpose personally, and that is watching the gigantic Living Clean and Sober contingent and crossing people off my Christmas card list. I might also test a theory formulated over my many years of Gay Days and that is, try as you may, no one ever gets laid by going to the parade. Go ahead, try it. You’ll see. I’d love to be proven wrong.
As I mentioned earlier, sometimes the parade proves a bit difficult when you’re reminded of the many friends who are no longer here to enjoy it with you. Their pictures start flipping through my mind, what they were wearing for the last pride day I saw them, where I ran into them, what we did, the moments we shared and eventually you realize that you’re doing exactly what you need to do to fill the void, you’re keeping their memory alive and that is all you can do and short of a massive head injury or amnesia or Alzheimers, no one can take this away from you. Soon these memories will make you smile instead of feel sad because you’ve given them life again, as only you can. I’m remembering right now my happiest Gay Day ever, about 3 or 4 years ago. I can’t really provide much more of an explanation for my effervescence that day besides the fact that I was in the company of my boyfriend Jeffery Hicks and feeling very much in love, almost floating on air, talking fast and laughing at things together, eating meat on a stick, roughing up hippie-types for aggressively peddling rainbow painted crap in our faces, etc. My whole world was right there, on my arm and all around me and I’d never been so happy for this event. I was with the love of my life and everything else felt like a reward to enjoy together. I’ll never forget it. My beloved Jeffery Hicks died on June 10, 2003. I didn’t think I could muster the strength to go on, let alone celebrate Pride when so many things constantly reminded me of this loss, the pain, the anger, my inability to save him and a new sense of the word alone, one so extreme you start not wanting to endure it. But my memories have started to synthesize into the strength I need, all that is left to construct any sense of what we shared, to hold onto and be proud of and never forget, and to know he would want me to continue doing the things and being the person that he loved. That I will do.
So I’ll probably walk down and catch the Dykes on Bikes Sunday morning, I’m always happy to witness this display of freedom, individuality and spirit, it’s bound to be uplifting. I doubt I will challenge the “nobody gets laid at the parade” theory this year though because I will be heading off to work, DJ-ing at the infamous SF Eagle’s beer bust starting at 3:00 pm and I’m very excited and honored to be playing rock and roll music for such a huge crowd at the Queer bar that rocks harder than all the rest, staffed by the best bar crew ever assembled. And you know, I can’t wait to be there. I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing for Pride day 2003. This will be good.