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See This, BSA? This is Why No One Likes You

Douchebags.

From ARS Technica:

In August, a small Oakland-based kids’ group called the Hacker Scouts received a letter from none other than the Boy Scouts of America. The letter insisted—to the group leaders’ disbelief—that the term “scouts” is trademarked to the BSA via a 1919 Congressional charter (the charter extends to select other groups, like the Girl Scouts, as well). The BSA demanded that Hacker Scouts change its name or face legal ramifications.

At the time, Hacker Scouts said it would decide how to respond “based on advice from our lawyers and our own sense of duty.”

But last week, the BSA sent a second letter to the Hacker Scouts leaders. As Hacker Scouts cofounder Samantha Matalone Cook wrote on the group’s site: “[W]e have received another letter from the BSA refusing to compromise or consider a licensing agreement and reaffirming their demand that we change our name or they will take legal action.”

As Hacker Scouts Director of Guild Development and co-founder Garratt Gallagher told Ars in an e-mail, the group has decided to change its name rather than face litigation. “Hacker Scouts is focusing its efforts on its primary mission: educating kids,” wrote Gallagher.

(more)

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In a Nut Shell

Can I burn down your house?

No

Just the 2nd floor?

No

Garage?

No

Let’s talk about what I can burn down.

No

YOU AREN’T COMPROMISING!

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Pig People on the March

Bill Kristol thinks Republicans should carry the shutdown fight on for a couple weeks.

“It’s not going to be the end of the world, honestly, even if you’re on nutrition assistance from the federal government,” Kristol added. “I believe that no one is going to starve in Arkansas because of the shutdown.”

How about you go without food for a couple weeks, asshole?

I think we’re way beyond time for pitchforks and guillotines in this country.

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Asshats!

From Margaret and Helen:

“…the more Republicans I meet, the more I like my dog. Just once I would like to see a politician with an ass too small to fit his own head. It has been a rough few weeks sitting back trying to get my rest and stay out of politics, but honestly, there seems to be no end to this madness and I once again find myself not able to keep my mouth shut. I used to have a handle on life, but it broke. Let me count the new ways the Republicans found to wear their ass for a hat…

One. I heard a Congressman from Texas today say that Obamacare was forcing hard-working, middle class families to purchase health insurance they don’t need. Now there is a congressman who has definitely put his head in a place where the sun doesn’t shine. Show me someone who doesn’t need health insurance and I’ll show you the second coming of Jesus. And for the record, it’s called the Affordable Care Act because before it was passed, healthcare was no longer affordable for most Americans. Do these Tea Party asshats really take us for fools?

Two. We are a country that blindly followed Bush’s codpiece into “preventive” war not once but twice. Now a bunch of children get gassed to death by a dictator and we are suddenly too weary for war. Really? Republicans too weary for war. Sounds to me that they are too weary for a black commander-in-chief. Oh dear me. Did I say that out loud? God forbid someone suggest that Republicans are racists. He’s a Muslim from Kenya with a fake birth certificate…short version: he’s black.

Three. Not crazy enough for you? How about thinking the answer to gun violence is more guns? We’re up to what, about one mass shooting a month now? It sure seems like there are plenty of guns to go around. How about we try a different approach like asking ourselves why we need more guns than actual people in this country. Are there really that many deer to hunt? And something tells me if the British are coming again, it’s not with muskets. One thing is for sure: Guns don’t kill people… but they make it real easy.

Four. Oh but for the love of God if Texas wasn’t dealing with enough crazy already with Rick Perry, we now have to deal with Ted Cruz. Now here’s a guy who talks in circles so effectively, it’s no wonder his head eventually ran into his ass. In an effort to show off his grasp of the situation, he had to go and bring Dr. Seuss into the mix. For the record Senator Cruz, the moral of Green Eggs and Ham is to try something new… you might like it. For example, 40 million people might actually like having access to healthcare. Cruz staged his ridiculous talk-a-thon against cutting off debate only to then turn around and join 99 other senators in voting to cut off the debate. He’s no Wendy Davis. That’s for sure. But exactly what should we expect from a man who said, “We need 100 more like Jesse Helms in the U.S. Senate.” If brains were leather, Cruz wouldn’t have enough to saddle a junebug.

I could go on, but must I really? Let me sum it up for you. Now that the government is closed, will hard-working, middle class federal employees get paid? No. Will Congressmen get paid? Yep. They’ll continue to get their $174,000 a year, and they will have health insurance as well. Asshats everywhere. I mean it. Really.”

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Traitors

String the House Republicans up, the whole fucking lot of them. Osama Bin Laden’s stated goal was to bring the USA to its knees economically. He called Iraq war “America’s gift to me.” He’d be so proud of the GOP and their Sociopathic Teabagging Masters.

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Bar Hopping

As unlikely as it may seem at this point in my life, not so long ago—okay, it was ancient history—on any given Friday or Saturday night I could be found at any number of different watering holes in the Phoenix metro area. Sadly, none of them still remain except in memory and in scattered (because one did not take cameras into gay bars at the time except under extraordinary circumstances) photographs.

Maggie’s/Moon’s Truck/His Co. Disco

One of the first clubs I went to in Phoenix (on the occasion of my nineteenth birthday, finally legally able to get in) was a place that went by various names over the years. Located in a non-descript concrete block building on the east side of 16th Street just south of Indian School Road, on that particular night, it was officially going by the newly-rechristened name Moon’s Truck. The actual name was unimportant because I soon learned that regardless of what was on the sign over the entrance, everyone simply referred to it as Maggie’s. It changed names again about a year later to HisCo Disco before finally being forced to close by the neighbors’ continual complaints about noise and other goings-on in the area.

It was a cavernous, magical place, and at the time was known for playing the some of the best music in Phoenix. It had a slightly raised lighted dance floor and a sound system that would leave your ears ringing for hours. I would meet up there with my friend and dance partner Kent and no matter where the evening eventually took us, we always started at Maggie’s.

While outwardly an all-inclusive club (gays, straights, men, women, and people of indeterminate gender) were always welcome at Maggie’s, the one thing I remember most about Hubert, one of the DJs (who did not want women in the club) was how he’d always yell “Uterus!” when one walked in. I found it amusing at the time, even if it embarrasses me now.

I also managed to repeatedly bed two of the bouncers who worked there: Ken and Paul. They didn’t particularly like each other and both were aghast that I would have sex with the other. Awkward!

It was also there that I heard the debut many of disco’s greatest hits, including Donna Summer’s Once Upon a Time album, Cerrone’s Supernature, Alec Costandinos’ Romeo and Juliet, and African Queens by The Three Degrees. The arrival of Supernature coincided with the club putting up a huge new mural over the dance floor, and to this day I still don’t understand the meaning of it:

Both Kent and I had assumed at the time it had been done by some local artist, but I discovered it in a wallpaper sample book several years later—still with no explanation or even name attached to it.

Kent and I decided it was an underground temple discovered by archaeologists on some far off world, something that would actually figure in my still-to-be-completed novel about someone being reuined with his long-lost love from an extraterrestrial past life—an underlying meaning Kent and I also both quickly assigned to Donna Summer’s Once Upon a Time.

But I digress.

A few months later, one night I noticed a new face in the DJ booth. The most overwhelming sense of deja vu came over me, leading me to believe that perhaps this stranger was someone I’d known in a previous life. When I ran into him again working at the local mall, I took this as a sign that I should at least strike up a conversation, which is exactly what I did.

Steve Golden and I became great friends over the following months, with him eventually becoming one of the great unrequited loves of my life. When he lost his day job at the mall, I got him job in the mail room at the homebuilder I was working for, and later we both ended up as legal messengers for a prestigious law firm downtown. Unfortunately, it seemed after the Universe threw us together, time or circumstances were never right for our relationship to develop into anything more than an intense friendship; something I mourned for many years after he suddenly up and left all traces of his life in Phoenix for San Francisco in 1983.

Steve doing his thing.

I lost track of Steve after he left, but after I found myself in The City a few years later I secretly hoped our paths would magically cross. They never did. He passed from AIDS in 1991.

The Forum

If Steve wasn’t working or the music was off on any given night, we’d often migrate over to The Forum. This little dive with a sunken wooden dance floor was located in the corner of an L-shaped strip mall at the corner of East McDowell Road and North 41st Place. While a much smaller club, The Forum was still a fun place to go and the music was always good, even if the resident DJ—George—could get a bit surly if you asked too often what he was playing. I don’t remember it ever being a reliable venue for getting laid, but it was the first place I ever slow-danced with another man and I did form some very deep friendships there, a couple of which survive to this very day. 

Bullwinkle

In the weeks before Maggie’s officially closed, a new bar called Bullwinkle opened on the north side of East McDowell Road, just a few blocks east of 16th Street. It was a small club, on the end of a strip mall that had definitely seen better days. It had the distinct advantage of ample parking and no neighbors nearby who would complain about noise. The interior had also been completely remodeled from the ground up, so it hadn’t yet developed that stale beer-and-embedded-cigarette-smoke smell, and it was truly a joy to go to. Most of the staff from Maggie’s ended up there, including both Steve and Hubert.  I have many memories of the place, including the first time I heard the B52s’ Rock Lobster and Planet Claire. It was there that I also—on the eve of celebrating a year of involuntary celibacy—blew it completely by going home with a hunky, muscled psychologist who actually came up and asked me to dance (I was usually the initiator of these things). Mark was twenty years my senior and ended up taking quite a fancy to me.

The sex with the shrink was great. In fact, I have to say it was the best I’d had at that point in my life. It turned into an a very enjoyable little fling, but eventually ended after I showed up one evening at his house unannounced. That night I learned two important lessons: (1) always call first and (2) don’t date psychologists. They’re more messed up than you are.

Bullwinkle was also the place where I finally made the realization that in those settings, everyone was waiting around for the other guy to make the first move. If you were that guy, chances were good that you wouldn’t be going home alone. Yeah, I faced my share of rejection, but the more it happened the easier it got, and eventually going up to complete strangers became almost second nature to me. It was never effortless, but it definitely put an end to that almost year-long dry spell.

After Hotbods opened and siphoned off most of Bullwinkle’s clientele (not to mention its employees), it turned into Trax, the closest thing Phoenix had at the time to a leather dance bar.

Hotbods

About a couple years after Bullwinkle opened, the owners of the now-defunct Maggie’s opened a new club called Hotbods. It was located at 3437 East McDowell road and dwarfed Maggies in size. I remember Steve (who of course had re-secured his employment with his previous employers) showing me the place shortly before it opened and I was duly impressed. The dance floor, mirror balls and neon had all been relocated from Maggie’s and had been augmented by a state-of-the-art sound system controlled from the second-floor DJ booth. There was a lounge-type bar closed off from the main disco for those who actually wanted to carry on a conversation without screaming, and the sheer scale of the place was something very new for Phoenix at the time.

Hotbods came into full swing after I’d moved to Tucson, but I made numerous trips back to Phoenix when I was single—and even after Dennis and I had gotten together—just to spend an evening there, and I have several strong memories of the place. One concerns the first time I heard the BAM-BAM-BAM Disconet remix of ABBA’s Lay All Your Love on Me, and how after dancing with an adorable little blond cub to the song, returned home with him  (on his birthday, no less) for a night of carnal abandon. The second involves the multiple weekends I came north with camera in hand to take these photos and watched in amazement as at one point the entire dance floor was taken over by leather-clad men dancing to Linda Clifford’s Don’t Come Cryin To Me. Hotbods was where I first heard Patrick Cowley, and where one night Steve came over the intercom to announce, “Mark, this is for you,” right before playing Paradise Express’ We are One.

Along with The Connection, Hotbods came to an end after I’d relocated to San Francisco. It will be missed.

The Connection

“Where the men are.” Never were more true words spoken. The Connection had been open for many years, but I never ventured there much until after Dennis and I moved back to Phoenix in 1983. Frankly, the place intimidated me. Silly when I think about it now. Funny how I had a preconceived notion of the type of men that went there, only to have those preconceptions totally thrown out the window once I stepped through those doors. Over the next couple years I made some wonderful friends and had lots of hot nasty sex via that place, and it saddened me no end to hear that it was another one of those venues that did not survive the ravages of the epidemic.

The group St. Tropez (or whatever group of performers they happened to scrape together to lip sync) giving a performance at the Connection’s 1983 Benefit AIDS fundraiser.
Bartender Brent Walker (who moved to San Francisco a few years after I did), the infamous Kenworth, and the dance floor/DJ booth. Ah, memories of all…
The back patio, where many a fine luau was held.

As I wrote earlier, sadly none of these places survive. Maggies/Moon’s Truck/HisCo. Disco is now a car stereo installer. The Forum changed its name and went straight. The space formerly occupied by Bullwinkle/Trax is now Karumba, described as “a latin dance bar.” The Hotbods building is now occupied by a company called Inventory Adjusters, something that appears to be a cross between a pawn shop and a second hand jewelry store.

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Meme: Seven Deadly Sins

Lust: Something that I find attractive.
Have you not seen at the pictures I post?

Pride: Something that I like about myself.
My integrity, the fact that if I tell you I’m going to do something I do it.

Sloth: Something that I dislike about myself.
My general laziness and lifelong antipathy for exercise.

Envy: Something I wish I was better at.
I wish I understood more deeply the core concepts that I’m supposed to know for my chosen career.

Gluttony: One of my favorite [fast] foods.
Jack-in-the-Box tacos.

Wrath: Something that gets me angry.
Willful ignorance and the increasing insouciance of the human population.

Greed: Something I can’t get enough of.
Money. Once you have enough of that anything else you might want falls into place.

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