wholesome street fair
25 september

I made one last trip to San Francisco, I'd be leaving Los Angeles in a couple weeks, and wanted to make some bank and see friends- oh yeah, and do the Folsom Street Fair. I'm not a leather type, contrary to the role I've played in many of my videos- I'm a fucking vegetarian- but I love the fair, and it might be a long time before I attended another.

So, I packed up Bruno and sped up I-5, and six hours later was back in my old home town. I can't help but get nostalgic for San Francisco, and maybe one day I'll return. As I rode across the Bay Bridge, I should have known by my misty mood that I'd be in an emotionally vulnerable position.

My lovely hosts were being evicted in a few weeks; my dear friends, while promising to visit, would be saying their good-byes; the city itself had changed so much since I moved; thinking about my last boyfriend (four years ago!)- with the ubiquitous sense of loss and uncertainty, I'm surprised I didn't spontaneously leap into performance art.

Did not work as much as on my last trip, but my mind was somewhere else. I concentrated more on visiting friends and just taking in all that I loved about San Francisco. It was while walking down from the top of Dolores Heights, where I found a single parking spot clinging to one of the steepest streets in the country, that I realized how wonderful it was to be sad about leaving. It meant that I enjoyed where I was. That was better than being in a place you couldn't wait to escape.

So a call here, a visit there, sometimes dovetailing: one evening I was being fed by my friends' months-old daughter- she'd take a morsel of food her mother had given her and offer it to me, I'd then pretend to eat it- what a beautiful gesture from a little baby! -when my pager alerted me. I excused myself (the whole house knows my professional side) and went off to work.

The day of the fair, I got suited up in racing overalls, a red one-piece with a gold lining and zippers all over the place. With boots and socks I was all set. Underwear? That was the sun's job. My friend Jeff and I were to meet my friend James, who would be sporting a menacing silver Mohawk which he crafted out of bamboo spears, at an agreed spot at noon just north of the fair.

At the same spot stood a man I used to work for when my four-years-ago-boyfriend and I started an errand service. I'd never seen this guy without a shirt before (but I know he uses Magnum condoms, just one of the tidbits you learn when you clean someone's apartment), though he had visited my website, so he'd seen plenty of me. He was truly glad to see me.

"I found a picture of Tim in a little shop in the Castro, I put it in a frame next to that greeting card you did." "Oh wow, I'd like to see it," I said, and I really did. Finally, James showed up, late but whatever, his Mohawk looked extremely dangerous but very cool. I was completely zipped up, and wearing the sunglasses I got from my great stylist client, and in the racer's hood, I looked like a glam Unibomber.

If you've never been to The Folsom Street Fair, god, it's like being at an over crowded international airport, with all the excitement of the anticipation of going somewhere exotic, but without the stress and travel rage. It's like a country fair where all the exhibits have escaped and reproduced, and the resultant spawn are roiling in slow motion, searching for their birthplace. A concentric cattle drive flavored with Mardi Gras and Carnival, with live bands at the poles.

And I joined one of the bands, Pansy Division, for their set. It was a complete surprise for everyone in the band except lead Jon Ginoli, whom I ran into a couple days prior. He offered I should get up and go-go for them again, like in the old days, and how could I disappoint? After getting warmed up during the first two songs I was back to my head-swinging old school punk-lite thrashings. And somehow the zippers began to peel away...

Went to a house party cum yard sale, just down the street from the fair, for another friend being evicted. He was one of the guys blowing Jeff Palmer at Will Clark's Bad Boys Pool Party. To return the favor I gulped a few laps on a skirted priest in whiteface.

There was a private sex party happening near the fair, and I received an invite weeks before but declined. I had a mixed experience at the last one, something to do with the small world that is San Francisco gay life, and some elitism angst, left-over from my earlier dabbling in socialism. Besides, it would be a big work night.

Or so I thought. At the very end of the fair, I decided to introduce myself to this beautiful man, a volunteer for the fair, and to my surprise, he seemed interested in me. Without getting too far into detail, we had a wonderful one night affair. He had an amazing charm that flared like a bonfire; I had never seen such a spark in anyone before. He happened to have an extra ticket to a concert, I happened to not care about taking the rest of the night off of work. I walked home the next day, still wearing my racer, wanting to move back to San Francisco. We agreed to meet after work.

Then Monday, my last night in the city, James and I went to see the awesome film Paragraph 175 about gay people persecuted under the Nazis. We thought seeing the movie might be a totally depressing way to end my visit, but besides being completely moving, for the stories were just incredible in their horror and emotional intensity, the experience was life confirming. We had both spent the weekend lamenting the slow death of The City. So disdaining was I of the yuppie invasion that I was actually perversely glad to see the destitute people struggling in the Tenderloin. And I shamed myself for such a shallow, heartless thought. And although we were not under such a threat as the survivors in Paragraph 175, we swore to keep being true to ourselves.

After the film, while James and I sat at the balcony of the Metro, a bar that Steve Carringotn might have frequented, I spied a guy whom I had a small crush on years ago. He still looked incredible. It reminded me how long I had spent in San Francisco, how much and how little I did there. Time to concentrate on something else.

Mr. Fair Volunteer had not called me and it was way past the time for dinner, and this wasn't exactly the kind of thing I needed to dwell on at the moment. James had made me a very sweet farewell card, my other friends had all been excited for my trip, there was no good reason to dwell on rejections past and present. Then my pager went off. It was Mr. Fair Volunteer. James and I headed to Church Street to meet up with him.

James wasn't going to go to dinner with us, so we said our goodbye's. Sure, I was a little sad, but I also had a date with this dazzling man. For appearances I tried to conceal my glee. After dinner we'd go back to his place, we'd sort out the details of his trip to London, which happened to coincide with my arrival, and I'd find out more about him.

That was my plan, but then when you get attached to your plans, you need to remember how gossamer they are, especially when you're the only one holding them. We did have dinner, I even got to see some of the Olympics on the tv at the restaurant- male gymnasts at that- but that was the extent of our 'date'. I walked him back home, he said goodbye. I trotted back to my hosts' apartment, crestfallen.

My friends were watching tv, one confided he hadn't found a place to live yet. I wished I could have done something, I had asked my friends on Henry Street if they'd be interested in taking a boarder but they already had plans for the spare room. I had offered that he and his boyfriend could sublet my place while I was in England, but they weren't ready to move to LA. My pager went off again. I figured, one last call, especially since I flaked off work the night before.

The Becks Motor Lodge was walking distance. I still had a few hundred dollars in cash in my belt bag, so I kept very attentive. When I got to the hotel, and the guy opened the door, I must have turned white as a ghost. It was the man I had spied from the bar balcony only hours before.

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