Category: Reminiscing

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I Was Incorrigible

Doorman at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, March 1989

…even when I was using a film camera.

I lusted after this gentleman on the daily since I walked past the hotel on my way home from work.  He was always very friendly—bordering on flirtatious—so I finally got up the nerve to ask him out. He ever-so-politely turned me down.

I suppose I should also add the Palace Hotel to the list of venues from my previous post, although I never really frequented the place. It was one of those locales that had a reputation for a very low tolerance for menz gettin' busy in the restrooms, and arrests were commonplace. I happened to stop in for legitimate reasons once, and immediately understood why it was so popular—and so risky. The floors were a mirror-finish marble, and you could easily see everything going on in the stalls.

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An Impossible Task

Whenever I read a gay autobiography of someone my age—a child of the 60s and their subsequent trip through the disco 70s and the AIDS slaughterhouse of the 80s and 90s, I think that I really should record at least some of my own adventures posterity. I fear that those adventures—as salacious, funny, and heartbreaking as many of them were—won't ever measure up to the accounts that inspired me to do it in the first place.

I started thinking about all the people who have touched my life—family, friends, friends with benefits, brief and/or anonymous sexual encounters, lovers, partners, coworkers—people who each in their own way contributed to shaping me into the man I am today, I soon realized they numbered in the hundreds, if not thousands.

I mean, if you're in your 20 or 30s (I know no one reading this is, based on previous surveys), listing everyone who has passed through and influenced your life—would be a much more manageable task, but for me, someone who is just a few years short of retirement, the task is near impossible.

Hell, I tried listing all the audio equipment I've bought over the years and that task became so horrific I gave up.

What do you think? Should I write at length of my adventures in the Whispering Bushes at the end of Golden Gate Park? the nights spent looking for love and dancing the night away at HisCo Disco, Moons Truck, and Bullwinkle? how I met my first long-term partner and some of the other men who were to become lifelong friends?

As the YouTubers say, "Let me know in the comments below."

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Wayback Machine

Al Parker and Will Seagers

This picture was posted on Instagram yesterday by @robzstuff57 and it immediately took me back to my first few years in San Francisco.

Sometime in 1989 I ran into Al Parker at the Whispering Bushes at the end of Golden Gate Park. He took a liking to me, following like a lost puppy. It was obvious he wasn't going to give up the chase and I ended up leaving the venue altogether just to ditch him.

I can hear you all now: "You turned down AL PARKER?!" Yes, my faithful readers. I did. I thought, "No way Al—I've seen what you've done with your dick and where it's been and NO THANK YOU!"

Around the same time, I was at aThai restaurant on 24th Street in Noe Valley one evening and Will Seagers (of L.A. Tool & Die fame) walked in with friends. We locked eyes and spent the rest of the evening flirting. Nothing came of it, but it was definitely an ego boost.

To this day I am gobsmacked that I survived the 20 years I called San Francicso home and somehow managed to come out of it alive and HIV negative…

Of course, it was also there that I probably came in contact with HPV and the resulting laryngeal cancer that sprang from it, so I can't say I was completely unscathed.

 

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Blast from the Past

It's amazing the things you find packed away when you're forced to move and someone else boxes everything up.










This was published in October 1987. I never realized how many of these items were long gone from Jack's menu until I saw this. I miss the Monterey and Mushroom burgers; also the Taco Salad and the Supreme Nachos.

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Down the Rabbit Hole I Go

The first thing to go is the memory. Or the knees. Sometimes both at once.

In my case, it's definitely memory. While some aspects of life in my 20s stand out very clearly, others are more…muddled. And what I'm increasingly discovering is that things I swore happened one way—or in such a such a month—actually did not, as backed up by photographic proof.

And while it could be that those photographs are nothing more than a glitch in the Matrix, I find it far easier to believe that I just got it wrong and it's a glitch in my matrix.

I don't exactly remember how I got there or what I was searching for, but last week I found myself knee-deep in the online archives of Arizona State University; more specifically, their collection of Arizona gay rags from the 70s onward.

The collection is far from complete, but reading the smattering of articles and opinion pieces pointed out exactly how far we've come as a community and our standing in society at large in the last 50 years.

It was also a wonderful trip down memory lane.

Phoenix Gay Bars/Bookstores, October 1979
Tucson Gay Bars/Businesses, October 1979

(Click either to embiggen.)

Seeing the ads and logos from all these long-gone establishments especially brought me back.










And then there was the card shop on 7th whose name I was searching for a few weeks ago…

…where I bought this treasure in 1983:

Done by a probably local artist, "C. Ruth", it thought it was adorable. I loved the colors, I loved the subject matter, and while my partner at the time, Dennis, didn't have a beard, he was a ginger…

Frankly, I'm amazed that it's survived the 24 moves it's gone through since then.

But I digress.

Lastly, who could forget this information-packed reference? Kids wonder how we met up before the internet? This is how.

(I never bought one. Six dollars was a lot of money back for me in 1979; it was an hour's work!)

I decided to enlist Google Maps to see what now stood on these once-hallowed locations.

To say it was a sobering experience would be an understatement. While I knew instinctively that the bars came and went even back then, it was still disheartening to see that so many were now just vacant lots, or had been torn down to make way for new strip malls and condo/apartment complexes.

Interestingly, the one bar that still remains in business and at its original location is the Nu-Towne Saloon; the one bar I have never visited. Back in the day it was "way out east" and basically surrounded by little more than open desert. Now it's surrounded by development and doesn't seem nearly so far east as it once did.

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Flashback Friday





El Torero Restaurant, Tucson AZ, June 2007

I've been going here since I was in college, and even though I haven't lived in Tucson since 1985, it's always a must-stop location for dining whenever I'm in town.

Now I want some patty tacos.

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Prime Time (Part Three)

It goes without saying that Fred offered me a job after only chatting with him for a half hour or so. He was impressed with both my continued architectural history as well as my knowledge of AutoCAD and the systems behind it. "We're always having to call in our outside consultant when something goes wrong. It would be nice to have someone in house who can troubleshoot this stuff."

From my Journal of July 9th that year:

I called Fred yesterday morning with every intention of turning down their offer.  I knew I was probably throwing away a great opportunity, and the thought of going through this whole temp thing one more time didn't exactly appeal to me, but the more I thought about what Jim (Fred's partner)  had said during our interview last Wednesday, the more I was convinced this was not some place I wanted to work.  However, after voicing my concerns about working hours and overtime with Fred it became abundantly clear that, unlike Jim, he was willing to make whatever reasonable accommodations were necessary to get me in there.  When I questioned him about this, Fred said, "Aw hell, you aren't going to be working with him anyway."  Yeah, right.

Someday I'm going to start listening to my inner voice, because this was most certainly not one of them. Things started to sour almost immediately, as the job I was promised by Fred was most certainly not the job his partner had me performing.

From the resignation letter I left on Fred's desk the day I walked out:

Despite your assurances that I was not hired as simply a "warm body to fill a chair" that's exactly the feeling I've gotten since I started working here.  It became increasingly obvious that my getting any sort of IS responsibility was never going to happen; control of that system is never going to be wrested from the other members of your management team.  As just one example, the ongoing problems with Lisa's computer could be easily solved if anyone had bothered to listen to what I had to say.  Unfortunately it was always the mantra of "Call Emron! Call Emron!" whenever something went wrong, even though the man has demonstrated again and again his inability to provide long-term solutions to these problems.  I even got to the point where I stopped fixing the easily-repairable glitches with my own setup because I've received the definite message from above that I'm not to touch anything.   Fred, I've built systems as complex as yours from scratch and don't appreciate being treated as if I don't know where the on/off switch is by management personnel who have demonstrated time and again they don't know an icon from a hole in the ground.

So two months later, after receiving (and cashing) my pay check, I left my resignation letter on Fred's desk and walked out after lunch.

I did find work in the I.T. department of one of the country's most prestigious law firms in the country shortly thereafter. While stressful, I learned a lot, made friends whom I'm still in contact with these many years later, and decided that yes, this was the career for me.

Unfortunately, that all fell apart about eighteen months later, when the management team left en masse, resulting in the promotion of a micro-managing mess (who had no leadership experience and even less people skills) to oversee the department. Within months, all of the desktop techs (including myself) had quit.

I spent one more short period of time working as a temp at St. Mary's Hospital. I'd been referred by a previous coworker from the law firm, who had left St. Mary's for a permanent position at another business. The money was good. Too good. (Something else that's been a red flag for me in years since.)

The department was run by a nurse, who attempted to police us as if we were nursing staff. One morning I arrived ten minutes late and was told my tardiness would go on my permanent record. I bit my lip to prevent laughing to her face and saying, "Bitch, I'm a contractor. I don't care about your permanent record bullshit." I quit shortly thereafter. It was no wonder they couldn't keep people…

My romantic life continued to be a hot mess, although there were no lack of sizzling encounters. My journals for those last years of my 30s are littered with the names of men I hooked up with but whose faces I cannot recall for the life of me. Again, I think unrelenting search for connection stems from the underlying loneliness I wrote of earlier.

My housemate Michael, however, was doing much better on the romantic front, and started dating a man named Raymond. Raymond and I did not get along, and while it hurt me deeply, it came as no surprise when Michael announced that they were moving in together, and I would have to find another place to live.

At this point, with both my professional and romantic lives in shambles, there was precious little holding me in San Francisco. After arranging to stay in my Mom's spare room until I found work, I packed up and moved back to Arizona again.

Michael and I did not part on good terms, despite our near ten-year friendship. I left without saying goodbye. (Michael and I have long since patched things up and he now one of my closest confidants.)

Long story short, I ended up back in Phoenix in my mom's spare bedroom. I found a job relatively quickly at Avnet, and ended up celebrating my 40th by myself; all my long-time friends still in SF.

(To be continued.)

 

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Prime Time (Part One)

I still find it hard to believe that 1990 was thirty years ago.

As the calendar turned over from 1989 to 1990, I was a little over a year into my thirties, a time in life that my dad often told me would be my best.

Unfortunately it wasn't.

If the specter of AIDS and friends dropping dead almost weekly weren't enough of a "prime time" buzzkill, I wasted a good portion of the decade pining over a man who would never—who could never—be the man I so desperately wanted him to be.

From the moment our eyes first locked on the outbound L-train at the Montgomery MUNI station, I knew he was going to be trouble. That did not, however, prevent me from bounding off the train after he turned and winked at me when he got off at the Civic Center station—even though it wasn't my stop and getting a seat on the next outbound train was going to be a bitch.

To this day I still don't know what lesson the Rory Hansen affair was meant to teach me. While he admitted shortly after we met to once having a problem with crystal meth, he assured me that he was clean and everything was under control. Nothing in his behavior indicated otherwise, so I took him at his word. It wasn't until a year or so later that his behavior changed, no doubt prompted in no small part by my own manic behavior in trying to get him to commit to something more than just casual dating. There was a lot going on behind the scenes (his bisexuality, his continuing deep emotional attachment to his tweeker ex) as well, and it was obvious it was not under control. When we finally split up it was not pretty.

Over the course of the next year we tried several times to reconcile, but each time it never got beyond a single dinner together. It was obvious that we were never going to find a resolution to our differences in this life, and finally we both moved on.

Shortly thereafter, and before I moved out of the building where Rory and I had separate apartments, I ended up becoming infatuated with the ex of my next door neighbor. Ron and I actually became friends. But a year later I finally confessed that I loved him and—after him all but laughing in my face by saying, "How could I fall in love with you?" We parted company.

At this point—a little more than halfway through the decade—I'd had enough of San Francisco. Additionally I'd reached the point after eight and a half years with the same architectural office I'd worked at since shortly after arriving in the City, that I'd stopped caring whether public toilets needed to be spaced at 2'-6" or 2'-8" on center—and knew I needed to make a change. After an early abortive attempt to leave The City at the start of 1995 failed, I successfully cut my ties returned to Tucson that summer.

Tucson was the wonderful change I needed. I moved back into the apartment complex I'd lived in right before relocating to San Francisco ten years earlier, and it genuinely felt good to be back. The first thunderstorm that rumbled through in August gave me chills and the smell of creosote in the air afterward was a slice of heaven.

Employment, however was a struggle, I'd hoped to get my foot in the door somewhere doing PC tech support, but it was obvious that wasn't going to happen because there was just no demand in Tucson at the time. So, after first working as an 1099 contractor creating production documents for a small, one-man builder, when the opportunity presented itself to work for one of Tucson's premier residential architects, I jumped on it. Hell, if I was going to be stuck in architecture for a while longer I might as well work somewhere interesting. But even that had issues. As I recall the pay was decent and I had full benefits, but the narcissism that went along with working for such a personality was wearing and I was summarily ignored when I offered suggestions based on my own experience on how to improve workflow or customize AutoCAD.

Along the same time another mess came knocking at my door in the form of Emmett Higgin. People warned me about Emmett, but did I listen?

Of course not.

In a nutshell, after dating for about three months, I learned Emmett was dating at least two other men on the downlow—while still living with and involved with his supposed ex. By the time this came to a head, I realized the old adage, "No matter where you go, there you are," was more truth than fiction. Even though I'd changed geographic locations, my relationship drama, the ongoing emotional fallout from Rory, had come right along with me.

I remember meeting one of the other guys Emmett was dating (a friend of my ex—for whom Emmett's behavior also came as a shock) one evening, and after comparing notes, the next time Mr. Higgin and I got together I told him I knew about everything that was going on and demanded that he get the fuck out of my life. Thankfully, he obliged.

This, combined with the ongoing narcissism of my employer, this was the straw that broke the camel's back. It was time to go home; to return to San Francisco and face my demons head-on.

(to be continued…)

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A Little Trip Down Memory Lane

Who else found one of these Guaranteed-3rd-Degree-Burn-Makers under the tree when you were a kid? Bonus points if you had parents who let you use it unattended! (Those open hot plates had to heat the molds to 390 °F (199 °C) in order for the Plastigoop to solidify.)

Creepy Crawlers was for…Christmas…1964, I think. It wasn't wrapped, and I actually received it before Christmas because I remember my folks had to call a dozen stores to find one in stock and we went to pick it up immediately. My ThingMaker craze was continued with Mini Dragons a couple years later as an Easter gift. My buddy Greg had Fright Factory (which I adored but could never convince my folks to get for me) and his sister had Fun Flowers.

Seems you never had enough goop—or the colors you needed—to create the fantastic creatures featured on the box lids.

50 years later, I have none of the thousands of bugs or the creatures from Fright Factory that my friend and I made, but I do still have one Dragon:

And I've got to hand it to Mattel. The plastic is still as supple and flexible as it was the day I made that critter in 1967.

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Yamaha

I've owned a lot of stereo equipment over the years. A lot. When I actually sat down and attempted to make a list it was embarrassing. I also missed out on–or consciously passed over—several pieces of gear I'd love to get my hands on today, as ridiculous as that sounds. Whole brands I casually dismissed because I didn't care for the aesthetics now hold unbridled fascination.

But what would I do with this gear? I already have a full system in use and a receiver that's sitting In the closet. And yet, I'd like to at least hear some of this stuff (not that my ears are anywhere near as discerning as they were in my teens and 20s).

I only bring this up because occasionally a piece of equipment shows up on Instagram that elicits an, "Awww…" reaction.

In my opinion, Yamaha's designs were almost always innovative and exemplary. The objects were stunning, the controls silky. The sound was awesome. But you paid the price. Among the big Japanese firms of the day, Yamaha was definitely considered a high-end, luxury brand—and it was priced accordingly. While price wasn't always an issue (I could justify pretty much anything if I wanted it badly enough), my Yamaha love was sidetracked by the arrival of Sony's equally high-end V-FET line of amplifiers. While I probably couldn't hear any difference between a V-FET amp and a regular transistor amp now, back in the late 70s, it was obvious and it the sound was so good it soured me to what were otherwise great pieces of equipment. As I'm sure I've written about before, I got my Sony V-FET, and then over the next decade, the amp proceeded to self-destruct on a regular basis, requiring an expensive repair each time to get it up and running again. I tried replacing it more than once during those ten years, first with a set of Technics Micro Series components that fired my imagination, but in comparison were ultimately disappointing sound-wise, and again with a different Sony amp whose sound was less engaging but at least reliable.

The time came to replace that amp after helping a friend buy a new Yamaha system. I decided it was time to revisit my dormant, but unfulfilled Yamaha yearning.

Unlike many of the Japanese audio manufacturers who had abandoned the "big iron" philosophy of the late 70s and started building what I not-so-affectionately refer to as "black plastic crap," Yamaha remained true to its roots, continuing to build high-end, metal-encased gear of heft. Yes, it was still expensive, but at least you felt like you were getting your money's worth.

I settled on a 100 watt per channel Yamaha A-700 integrated amp and the matching T-700 tuner. At the time I also decided it was also time to retire the aging Infinity loudspeakers I'd had since high school and replaced them with a pair of Phase Tech PC60s. The sound was…incredible. It easily rivaled the V-FETs and in many ways surpassed them. Coupled with the separate subwoofer I added a year later, the combination was capable of shaking the house to the foundation.

Sadly, I sold the amp and tuner a decade later, after having discovered the wonders of eBay, allowing me to pick up some of the gear I'd lusted over twenty years earlier for cheap. I replaced them with a Technics SA-800 receiver, a model only one step down from the all time monster SA-1000, the reigning title-holder of the receiver wars of the late 70s.

While I loved the look of the receiver, after only a couple months I was dissatisfied with the sound the Technics produced. When a set of the 700 series Yammies came up for auction on eBay I lept on it. After winning the auction, I drove down to Los Angeles to pick them up.

Getting them back to my apartment, I was honestly surprised how much better they sounded than the Technics. The bass was tight; the treble and mid-tones were distinct and well defined. I swore I'd hold onto these components forever.

Of course the Universe had other plans in mind and they were sold out of necessity in 2003.

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I Wonder Whatever Happened to the Old Girl

I saw this photo the other day and it brought back a lot of memories. I had this same bicycle throughout my high school and college years and it got me everywhere. It was my first "major" purchase as a teenager and became my pride and joy. I seem to remember obsessing over her cleanliness and function, spending every weekend dutifully washing and waxing her into a stupor. I used it to cruise through the neighborhoods being built near our house and learn how houses went together. It got me to and from high school and all over the UofA campus.

She fell into disuse and was cast aside after I moved out of my folks' house, ending up with my sister. I last remember seeing the old girl (the bicycle, not my sister, you bitches!) on a trip back to Tucson in 1989. I wish I'd returned with her, but I'd flown and certainly wasn't going to have the bike shipped. In the intervening years, I believe she was shipped off to Goodwill or The Salvation Army. My sister may have even asked if I wanted to keep her, but I'm sure I stupidly said no.

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The Best Laid Plans

Sometimes my best—or at least what I consider my best— writing ideas come to me when I'm laying in bed wide awake at 4 am, so I jot them down on my phone's notepad for further consideration when I'm actually in a position to sit and write.

One of those ideas was "The summer of '84." I was 26 and young, dumb, and full of…exuberance. It was a great summer filled of friends, unforgettable music, a lot of sex, and as it wound down, enough drama to last a lifetime.

I sat down yesterday to give it a go, and after several hours I read through the tome and thought, "This is rubbish. No one is going to care about any of this." I realized what may have been important to me and my need to share it all in minute detail may not be at all interesting to anyone else.

Except maybe the music. There was Madonna and her sophomore release Like a Virgin, but also The Thompson Twins, Cyndi Lauper, Laura Branigan, Prince, The Pointer Sisters, Lime, Quarterflash, Pat Benatar, Simple Minds, and dance-oriented one (or two) hit wonders like Paul Parker, Animotion, The Twins, Waterfront Home, Talk Talk, Lisa, and dozens more.

https://youtu.be/9dmTbLI5mA4

All I have to do is hear any of these songs and I'm transported back to my little top floor apartment at Crestwood and it all comes flooding back to me: my first brand new car, the architectural studio where I worked, Sunday afternoon Beer Busts at The Connection, cruising ASU, buying my first hifi cassette deck (I was a late bloomer), my friend John Fortenberry and one piece of advice he imparted that stayed with me for years ("Don't yell 'Baby' out the car window at hot guys. It's rude. Yell 'DADDY!'"), Jim, Jack, Brett—none of whom are still with us—and of course Frank—an ASU boy who ended up moving in with me and served more drama than I'd ever experienced.

It looks like I just wrote about the summer of '84 after all—and hopefully without boring anyone to death.

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Welcome to San Francisco

I had been in San Francisco for about five months. One weekend afternoon my newly-minted friend Kevin (also new to The City) and I decided to go exploring, so we bought tickets to the ferry and headed out to Alcatraz Island. The weather started out well, but by mid afternoon after we'd finished the tour and were ready to head home, clouds moved in and an epic downpour started. While we sheltered in one of the old guard shacks near the dock waiting for the ferry, one of the park rangers at the visitor center caught my eye. I do so love a man in uniform. But who doesn't? He was blond, bearish, and as I remember, sported an enormous mustache as did most guys in 1987. I guess I was being less than discreet, because I'd apparently caught his eye as well.

When the ferry finally arrived, like two drowned rats Kevin and I made our way to the dock, where said ranger was assisting passengers boarding the ferry. As we walked past, our eyes locked on each other and he said, "Hope you enjoyed your visit. Come back any time!"

I took that as an invitation…or maybe a dare. Kevin and I looked at each other after we'd boarded and Kevin said, "He was so flirting with you." "No way!" I said. "He was just being friendly." (Not believing a word, even as I was speaking it.)

As the week passed, I couldn't get that ranger's face out of my head. I resolved that first thing Saturday, I'd head back out to the island.

He wasn't at the visitor center when I arrived, and I was worried that I happened to return on one of his days off. After wandering the island for a half hour or so I returned to the center and asked if he was working, and they said yes; he was leading a tour in the cellblock—the one place I failed to look.

When I caught up with the tour group and he saw me standing there, he literally lost track of what he was saying and a big smile spread across his face.

After the tour ended, he asked what I was doing there and I said, "Hoping to run into you again."

"I'm just about ready to go on my lunch break. Would you like to join me?"

Duh.

We sat on a bench that afforded an incredible view of the city, and after finishing his sandwich, Jay gave me a private tour, including several "restricted" areas on the northwest side of the island.

No Virginia, we did not fornicate. But we did make out for pretty much the remainder of his break on a grassy area by the prison laundry.

We exchanged numbers and made plans to go out later that week.

It was at that dinner that he dropped the bomb: he would love to see where this would lead, but he was moving to Australia in two weeks and didn't think it would be fair to get involved with anyone only to say goodbye such a short time later.

We got together once more after that, and then as quickly as he'd come into my life, Jay was gone. And we never did get naked. Phone disconnected, a "For Rent" sign outside his flat, and all I had to remember him were my memories and a copy of "Gay Love Signs" he'd given me. I still have that book in a box somewhere.

Welcome to San Francisco, indeed.

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Time Flies

An anniversary of sorts passed without a notice last week.  I've been back in Phoenix five years now.

I realized this while searching through old offline journals this evening.  I had been thinking about pulling something from 1997 and posting it under the heading, "Ten Years Ago Today…" but once I actually started reading those old entries, it was very clear there was no way it was going to happen. I am not the same person I was ten years ago; too much has happened in the intervening decade and the things I considered important enough to commit to posterity in 1997 are simply embarrassing now.

It was when I fast-forwarded to 2002 and opened up the February 15th entry that I made the realization that I've been back here a full five years.  Half a decade since I even set foot in San Francisco, and despite the seemingly neverending dreams to the contrary, I still have no real desire to.

Life in Phoenix—while not perfect—is still quite good these days. And after everything that's transpired since my return, it's about time.