Do Gay Martians Have the Right to Marry?

It’s unthinkable for an American male of my age to say this, but it’s true: I do not, as a rule, care for science fiction.

I learned years ago not to air this singular lapse at parties. People don’t take it well. They insist, horrified, that I cannot be serious, as though I’d confessed a fondness for kicking stray dogs or pushing old ladies into traffic.

“What about Star Wars,” they gasp. “Didn’t you love Star Wars as a child?”

I didn’t, because I never saw Star Wars as a child. I still haven’t seen it, though I was persuaded to watch the final installment on a big screen. For a few minutes, it turned me into the screaming, bouncy second-grader I never was. But the thrill faded quickly and I’ve never bothered to watch the rest.

My imagination, I’m afraid, simply doesn’t thrive on what’s to come. I prefer to wander in the past. Given the chance and a time machine, I’d be tickled to pieces to sail around the world third class on a 1920s Cunard liner. If you handed me a first-class ticket to Mars, however, I’d hand it right back. I don’t want to visit Mars, don’t want to wear a space suit, don’t want to play zero-gravity badminton with little green men from some nebulous nebula.

It’s difficult to voice any of this without being accused of snobbery. And that’s funny, because it’s perfectly acceptable in America to say, for example, “I hate opera.” I happen to love opera, and when someone tells me she hates it, I often ask which opera she went to hear. The answer is almost invariably, “Well, I’ve never actually been to the opera…” Which is what I've always thought snobbery was–assuming that something (or someone) is not worth your time without taking a closer look.

In my defense, although I escaped immersion in Star Wars I’ve still sampled enough other stuff from the genre to have formed what I think is an educated distaste. Some of it was moderately highbrow (2001: A Space Odyssey) and some of it low (the original Battlestar Galactica). None of it grabbed me.

So imagine my surprise when, after watching the trailer, I conceived an undeniable urge to see Star Trek at the theater.

Now, skipping Star Wars is a walk in the park compared to evading Star Trek. There’s been so much of it; our culture is marinated in it. And it began as television. We didn’t go to the movies much when I was a kid, but we sure as hell had a well-used television.

Yet I never watched it, in spite of fierce peer pressure. When my friends wanted to play Star Trek, they always had to tell me what to do. Otherwise I’d act wildly inappropriate and order Scotty to beam me to Paris. (Hey–they said the transporter could send you anywhere.)

I hadn’t the faintest idea why the new movie caught my attention; but when Tom said he’d like to see it, I agreed to go. By Sunday afternoon, I was munching candy and watching everybody fight the Romulans.

Needless to say a whole bunch of the film zoomed right over my head, you should pardon the expression. Still, I enjoyed it. About halfway through, I realized why.

First, I love period pieces, and this is a period piece. It’s set in the future, yes, but it’s the future as imagined in the 1960s, re-created at the top of the twenty-first century. The costumers were splendidly faithful to the ironed hair, jump suits and go-go boots¬–indeed, the attention to detail is worthy of Merchant-Ivory.

Second, it’s one of the best gay films I’ve ever seen. It’s gayer than Milk.

I’ve been hearing for years that Star Trek, unlike a lot of other space epics, used futuristic situations at metaphors for contemporary issues. And so it is with this movie, which I interpret as a roman a clef exploration of the twinks vs. bears conflict within the gay community.

No, seriously. It’s so obvious.

In case you’re not familiar with the differing camps, twinks are the sort of gay person familiar to television audiences: young, fair, slender, with a fondness for form-fitting clothing and hair products. Twinks have taken over all the best-friend roles that used to go to actresses like Eve Arden.

Here, from the box cover of a gay Art Film celebrating (ahem) the twink lifestyle, is a representative sample.



Bears, on the other hand, are seldom represented in gay media and certainly never show up in mainstream media. Bears tend to be older, rougher, hairier, and heavier, with a fondness for tattoos, stout boots, and other trappings of untamed masculinity. Bears don’t appear in straight television or film because straight male executives can’t handle the idea of gay men who could kick the crap out of them.

Here, from another box cover from a very different gay Art Film, is a group of bears.



In Star Trek, the twinks are all aboard the Enterprise, along with their signature companion: a sexy, sassy female best friend. They're all wearing the same labels. The ship is new and exclusive, with custom retro furniture and perfect lighting–the de rigueur elements of a twink nightclub.



They are fighting the bears–thinly disguised as the Romulans–led by a pugnacious leather daddy named Nero, who struts around brandishing his gigantic staff. Aside from a nasty case of cauliflower ear, Nero is a prime candidate to get his own calendar from Colt Studios.

Nero’s ship, the Narada, is black and spiky on the outside. Inside, it’s all shadowy corners and well-worn industrial fittings, with no women in sight–the spitting image of your typical corner leather bar.



Let’s do a side-by-side comparison, shall we?

Twinks and the crew of the Enterprise.





Bears and Nero the Romulan.





I rest my case, earthlings.

Drag

I need to decompress, darlings, so let's chat about something entirely frivolous and off-the-wall today. I spin my mental Wheel of Fortune, and it lands on...drag.

One of the gay stereotypes that absolutely refuses to die is that we all like to wear women's clothes, or that we all have a sexual attraction to men who wear women's clothes. Going about thus attired is commonly known as "doing drag." Those who cross-dress are known as "drag queens."



While it is true that drag is an old and established part of the gay scene, wearing dresses is no more a universal practice among gay men than the taking of Roman Catholic Holy Communion is a universal practice among Christians.

And oddly enough, all of the men I've known who expressed a sexual fascination with cross-dressing were heterosexual. You think I'm kidding? Think again.

Mind you, I'm sure there are gay men who find a guy in a Jean Harlow wig a turn-on. I just haven't met any in the past 36 years.

My first encounters with drag queens took place when I was a mere stripling of 15, lying about my age to get into bars. (Sorry, Ma. They didn't have high school groups in those days. Unless you count Drama Club.) The very first was either Jerry or Charisse, depending upon the day. Jerry was an amiable fellow who wore bow ties. Charisse was a spangly, red-hot mama with an Anita Baker fixation who scared the living daylights out of me.

I've often wondered why. She never did or said anything threatening. In fact, she never spoke to me beyond a casual greeting. I think the fear must have arisen from my lack of experience with those who defy category. At that age, I needed other people to fit neatly into the little boxes stacked in my head. It was difficult enough not knowing what my place in the world was supposed to be.

These days I've relaxed sufficiently to appreciate people who wander hither and thither, obliterating the boundaries that separate male and female, gay and straight. If that sounds anarchistic and objectionable, try to see it from my side. When you're a member of a minority group so controversial that your fellow citizens consider your right to exist open to debate, you welcome almost anything that makes it more difficult to decide what exactly is "normal."

However, even though I've come to appreciate drag, I still don't enjoy it. Not on me, and not on others. I once got suckered into attending a performance at a local club called "Night of a Thousand Drag Queens." I made it to number 26, but my nerves were shot for the rest of the weekend.

And I'm no better about wearing women's clothing.

It has happened twice, both times on stage. First, I played Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest - a stunt that got me into hot water at my lousy high school. Our costumer was a stickler for period detail and I wore a corset, a fifty-pound brocade dress with underskirts, and a fifteen-pound hat with an entire stuffed bird on top. By the end of our two performances I had aches in my back and neck that lasted for two solid weeks.

Years later, with a company in Boston, I played a nun in John Guare's The House of Blue Leaves. I had to shave my tough beard every night just before the show in order to avoid five o' clock shadow, and my starched wimple chafed terribly.

Some men are just not strong enough to be women.

Given all that, I have had more than my share of drag names, all bestowed during the operatic phase of my young adulthood:

• Mademoiselle Folie de Grandeur
• Signorina Cavatina Caballetta ("Tina" for short)
  
• Dee Fledermaus

Those rarified jokes tell you something–make that everything–about my friends at the time. Most drag names are more democratic (one might say blue collar) in their appeal. Among my favorites:

• Dieta and Tulita Pepsi (a sister act from, I believe, St. Louis)
  
• Formica Dinette
• Regina Upright
• Frida Lay
  

If for some reason you'd like your own drag name but don't feel up to the task of invention, experts suggest combining the name of your first pet and the name of the first street you lived on* as a child. Mine, following this formula, would be Sandy Pittsburgh.

Dear God, can't you just imagine the wig that goes with that?

*If you lived on 14th Street, you can substitute your mother's maiden name. If you lived on 14th Street in New York City, it's entirely possible your mother was a drag queen.

House Full of Pride

Did you ever have one of those days where you worked yourself into a froth at the office, came home in a stupor longing for a hot bath and early bedtime, and found two sheep and a flock of sock yarn building a Gay Pride float in the middle of your living room floor?


Me too.


As with so much that goes on under my roof, the origin of this project was a mystery to me. I didn't know about it until Harry asked whether he could put the best cloth on the dining room table for a committee meeting.


We've had a few committees in the apartment before and the result is usually messy, and often expensive. I pressed for details.


"Me and the guys are trying to get a spot in the Pride Parade," said Harry. "We want to show that the Manly Yarn Brotherhood Against Loose-Lipped Slurs is out and proud!"


"A noble goal," I said.


"Yeah!" squeaked Harry. "We even have a theme. Look!"


He held up a sheet of construction paper decorated with a fat rainbow and the slogan MYBALLS: FULL OF PRIDE.


"That'll get their attention," I said.


"Can we have the meeting here? Please?"


"Can you keep it neat and quiet?"


"I promise!"


"Then you may."


And then Dolores got involved.


The sock yarn wanted something simple, with balloons and streamers. Dolores quickly convinced them that no float worth riding on could roll without a hot theme and a resident diva. Add those, she insisted, and the group would be shoo-in for first prize.


"Oooh," said the sock yarn.


"Now," said Dolores, taking Harry's place at the white board and grabbing his erasable marker, "Let's brainstorm some fun themes."


"Yarn Through the Ages!" shouted a ball of bamboo. "Then we can all dress up in drag as famous knitters!"


"Yeah! I call dibs on Meg Swansen," said Harry.


"Hey! I want to be Meg!" said the bamboo.


"You lack the requisite poise," sniffed Harry.


"Your mother sleeps with Simply Soft," said the bamboo.


"Boys!" Dolores snapped, tapping the white board, "I said a fun theme. Something wild, something naughty, something that'll make the guys go crazy with desire when they see you coming."


"Have you ever spent a weekend with Meg?" said Harry.


Dolores wrote ISLAND OF THE FIRE GODDESS across the board in big letters.


"Ooooh," said the sock yarn.


I had to speak up. "Dolores," I said. "Fire? And yarn? Maybe not a great combination."


"We'll just pretend, silly," she said. "What do you say to a big volcano, boys? And lots of palm trees, and you can all put on flirty little grass skirts and dance around suggestively and throw flowers to the crowd."


"Ooooooh," said the sock yarn.


"And then every so often, the volcano will erupt! And Pele the Goddess will rise up from it and sing selections from her upcoming revue at the Lucky Horseshoe!"


"I know how to play 'Dancing Queen' on the ukulele," said a normally shy and taciturn ball of Lorna's Laces.


That settled the matter.


Victorine, who is between gigs, flew in from Quebec to help with the costuming. Never one to hold back from a chance to show off, she proposed that Madame Pele might share her volcano with a younger, slimmer, French-speaking cousine. Dolores took issue.


"One volcano, one goddess. How about we put an apple in your mouth and say you're the main dish at the luau?"


"Ah sink no," said Victorine, "Ah sink instead, Ah take dis 'ere apple, and Ah shove eet up you beeg fat cu-"


That was two days ago, and I'm still picking false sheep eyelashes out of the rug.


It was Harry who ultimately solved the problem with a suggestion worthy of Solomon.


Two volcanoes.




Whether you're gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered, undecided; or a straight friend, parent, sibling, coworker, neighbor, employer, or admirer, Happy Pride from our house to yours.

FYI

I have it on the authority of a guy who was preaching in my subway car last night that because our city allowed a Gay Pride parade and hosted the Gay Games, Lake Michigan is getting bigger and deeper and is going to rise up and destroy the greater Chicagoland area.

I asked him if he knew exactly when this was going to happen, but he didn't. He just said we're living at the end of days, and so we have to repent now. Right. Like I don't have enough to do this weekend.

He couldn't even tell me exactly how to repent, although I understand vaguely that it involves a trip to the South Side. That's one heck of a train ride. Maybe I could get Aidan take care of it for me, since he lives down there anyway.

I also asked the guy if only the gay people would drown, but he said no, everybody's going under. Unless, I suppose, they've gone outlet shopping in Gurnee for the day.

On behalf of my tribe, I 'd like to say that I'm really sorry, especially if you just bought a condo near the lake. I didn't think repeated viewings of The Women and a fondness for leather motorcycle gear could lead to something so catastrophic or I'd have been more careful. But this guy swears it's true. Hurricane Katrina, it seems, was brought on by the evil convergence of lycra t-shirts, back issues of Honcho and old Barbra Streisand LPs.

He did take care to point out that it's just the gay men who are responsible. Lesbians, you're in the clear, because you're "kinda hot, whooo-eee!"

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pump up my Floaties and put on my swim fins.

The Warm Embrace of My Peers

For those of you who are slow to comprehend the obvious, I'm gay.



I don't write about it much, because frankly after 23 years (I started coming out at age 12) the novelty has worn off. I even forgot about National Coming Out Day until a straight lady reminded me of it.

So imagine my suprise at being listed among the "Readers' Favorite Blogs" in The Advocate, a gay and lesbian news magazine that's the community's equivalent of Newsweek. I'm not kidding. Here's a link.

This probably the closest I'll ever get to acceptance by the A-list gay community, so I want to make the most of it. David, who also made the list, says it doesn't entitle us to throw attitude at exclusive nightclubs. But maybe I can use it to wrangle a discount on the red underpants I saw in the window of Manifold that say DISCO BITCH across the butt.

All This Meat, and No Potatoes

Hi. It's Dolores.

I don't why this always happens, but Laughing Boy is behind in his packing for Knitting Camp and so he's shoving off the post on me today. Fine. I'm ready to go. I was ready a week ago. Don't I look ready? The tank was a lucky score off the sale rack at Nordstrom. I had to wrestle it away from another customer, but once I got the walker out of her hands the rest was easy.

This is definitely a good time to leave town. In case you didn't know, Chicago's been invaded by gay athletes and frankly, it's starting to get me down. For example, I was walking home from the market the other day since we'd run out of the breakfast cereal His Majesty must have every morning or he gets whiny, and here comes this absolute fleet of male muscle down the boulevard. I put a little extra hitch in my getalong, if you know what I mean, and...nothing. Not even a bat of the eyelashes. And then I realized. All seven of them...gay gay gay gay gay gay gay.

And when this happens to you eight or ten times in a day, which it did, a girl starts to feel invisible and that makes her crabby. Especially since the emotional wounds inflicted by Ted's inattention are still so fresh. My therapist said I should stop going after the pansy boys and take a pottery class to sublimate the impulse. But I can't help it. They're so yummy. And washing clay out of wool is a bitch.

A Gathering of the Herd

But enough about me. I just remembered I'm supposed to tell you there's going to be a knitting bloggers shindig at Arcadia Knitting on July 31 at 7 p.m. You don't have to be a blogger to go, I guess they're just going to have some on display in case you want check and see how misleading their photos are.

I'm sure as hell not going to miss it. Every time those girls at Arcadia roll up the rug you are guaranteed an ass-shaking good time. Of course, Whatshisname is going to be there, so they might keep a lid on things out of respect to his Delicate Sensibilities. But we can always lock him in the storeroom or something if he's too much of a wet blanket.

Okay, I have to go. We're having dinner tonight with one of the gay muscleheads, some guy from New York City who is apparently an athlete and a cop and a knitter. I mean, can you imagine? Equal access to yarn and handcuffs. The mind reels, cupcakes. I was thinking of playing up the law enforcement theme by wearing this sweet top I got at Agnès B that has "BAD GIRL" written across the bust in red sequins.

I know. I know. What can I tell you? Emily D. was wrong. Hope is not the thing with feathers, it's the thing with fleece.

Moist with Pride

Hi. It's Dolores. What's new with you?

Yesterday was Chicago's Pride March, and the Boss had his annual two sips of Heineken. As usual, this knocked him flat on his caboose and so he's asked me to step in and give an account of the festivities. And they were festive in spite of the fact that for most of the day it was pissing down rain.

I'm only to happy to do the post after reading back through the past several entries and seeing what has been written about me. Were I not 1) bred to be demure and 2) a dedicated Taoist, I would fume and rage and sue for defamation. It's only too apparent that before I arrived this blog was a backwater, and my good character is being assassinated in order to ratchet up the numbers.

I trust none of you has been fooled by his lurid fantasias. I will admit to having something of a past, but when he tells you that, for example, I rode the former Bishop of Birmingham's wife like a show pony, please try to remember there are two sides to every story. Also that Anglican women have no sense of humor.

Where was I?

Pride Day. Yes. While the boys snored and drooled, I got up at the ass crack of dawn to fix a hearty, nourishing breakfast for all of us. Omelettes, hash browns, the works, plus a radiant rainbow salad of julienned vegetables with my own special vinaigrette. You have perhaps heard of my vinaigrette. There was an incident in the 70s when I caught Julia Child sneaking around the kitchen during one of my pool parties, trying to find the recipe. The press had a field day with the story. May I take a moment and set the record straight? It is true that I let Julia know I did not approve of her snooping. It is not true that I tried to feed her face-first into the Cuisinart.

Where was I?

Breakfast. Yes. It was all going splendidly and then there was a knock at the door from the Colt model who lives in our building. The poor guy was shirtless, in a frenzy, and told me he needed to borrow some Crisco. I chided him for leaving not preparing his pie crust in advance, whereupon he admitted to being a bad, bad boy. I gave him a little slap on his pert little bum, and then he said I really should get the Crisco, and then I did, and then we got to talking about grease and whatnot and before you could say "flaky and tender" the omelettes had gone and caught fire.

Well, you would think Franklin had never burned anything in the kitchen, which my taste buds and I will assure you is not the case. He was screaming and jumping like a man possessed, and even a quite appreciative comment from our neighbor when his kimono accidentally flew open didn't calm him down.

After a fashion we put the fire out, and cleaned most of the Crisco off the floor, but by that time I needed to start my beauty regimen so I headed for the tub. If my culinary efforts aren't appreciated, as far as I'm concerned the household may breakfast on cold cereal and toast.

Four hours later, on the dot, we were stationed in a prime viewing spot along Broadway with our upstairs neighbor Buzz–the Rhoda to Franklin's Mary as it were. Or the Ethel to his Lucy. Or the Gog to his Magog. Or the...forget it.

Franklin had his camera, and threw himself with great gusto into documenting the parade. Here are a few snaps, which I will organize thematically.

Theme One: Drag

For somebody who claims to find drag unnerving, Franklin can't seem to leave the queens alone on Pride Day. I think he's just afraid he might find that putting on a tiara and a pair of fishnets would make him feel a not unpleasant tingle in his tummy.


This one calls herself "Miss Foozie" and she's quite a feature of the local landscape. Not unlike the Rocky Mountains are for Denver.


I'd been wondering what Tina Turner was up to these days.


After he shot this picture Franklin gasped, "Omigod, he's a trainer at my gym."


Auntie Mame says olives take up too much room.


The glamour of the lifestyle has faded somewhat for this title holder.


Define "fair."


Man? Woman?


When this one rode past Franklin said, "Hey, does she remind you of anybody?" and they all snickered. Must be some weird in-joke.

Theme Two: Groups

You have two kinds of groups who march in the parade. You have the kind who hire a generic float and take their clothes off and expect that to make a statement, and then you have the kind who put a little effort into it.

Without wishing to slight the barechested, we will here celebrate the creativity of the latter group.


I don't remember the cause, but I adore the hats.


Kings and queens, simultaneously. Top that, Mrs. Windsor-Mountbatten.

Art students from Columbia College...


...who were singing along to a phat house remix of "The Lonely Goatherd"

Theme Three: Chicks

The biological variety.


She's either happy, high, or hallucinating from dehydration.


This one's for Franklin's sister. (The photo, I mean. Not the woman.)


Woman? Man?


In my next life I wish to be Brazilian.


Zounds.


I wonder what she had to do to earn all those beads?


As the wonderful old Styne/Sondheim song says, all she needs now is the girl.


I'd heard them called "little girls" but never before seen it interpreted literally.


A naughty schoolgirl from the Tulip Adult Boutique float shows us what's under her kilt.


Buzz's reaction to the above. His enduring innocence is so cute.

Theme Four: Dudes

Franklin says he took these only in order to make certain he could present a well-rounded photojournalistic account of the event. What a trooper.

If you just scrolled right down to these without reading the rest, you go right back up to the top and start over. No cheating allowed.








Oh, the places that tongue must have been.


The Lutherans are apparently trying out new ways to win converts.


Care for a little Bacardi?


The Brazilian gene pool is so deeply unfair to the rest of us.


Which bit do I rub to get my three wishes?


You know what they say about the green ones.


Dresses funny, but has access to unlimited chocolate.


Peel back protective labels before use.




From a float extolling the virtues of cleanliness.


Nice hat.


Can you just imagine the fight they must have had about what to wear to the parade?


We do not approve of the rope belt trend, but we will overlook it this once.


I wonder if he caught cold. Note the banana in the background. You're about to read more about the banana.

Theme Five: The Banana Lady

In spite of all other attractions, Pride 2006 will forever be known to my boys as the Year of the Banana. No, not that kind.

There was this woman on the sidelines who had for reasons unexplained chosen to attend the parade dressed as a banana. She bore striking resemblance to Britney Spears in not only her fashion sense, but also in her deportment and appetite for cheap beer.

As is their wont, the boys immediately became obsessed with the Banana Lady. Me, I cannot imagine anything more revolting than a badly dressed woman exhibiting public drunkeness.

Franklin shot enough frames to create a montage of her many moods.



Banana Lady was not a registered parade participant, but nonetheless became the de facto cheerleader for an entire stretch of Broadway. She yelled her head off for every float, group, and straggler who passed by. As the Gay Something Something for Something Gay Justice filed past, she screamed "I love justice!"

C, whose mania for the abnormal knows no bounds (look who he's dating) had a picture taken with her.



We last encountered the Banana Lady sitting on a beer cooler (how fitting) after the parade. We waved and she waved back.



"You guys are my best friends!" she shouted. This, dear readers, is a banana with a hell of a lot of love to give.

As a parting shot, I give you Franklin's portrait of our little band of comrades after the last float, dedicated to a gay-friendly aluminum siding firm, had rolled past and yet another Pride Parade became only a beer-stained memory smelling faintly of body fluids.



Time for a cigarette. Peace out. Go hug a queer person.

-Dolores