The Geography of Memory: A Real San Francisco Character

I suppose it was nothing less than destiny the night I spied John Waters hanging out at my local watering hole. While my chums made the the usual polite small talk, I had the gall (drunken idiocy) to go and suggest that his next cinematic venture should be a overtly homoerotic revision of Moby Dick. Yes, I probably should have been working on my paper about Moby Dick instead of out gallivanting but at some point you have to let go of conscious control of your life and just trust that all the loose ends will come together in the end.

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To say that growing up in San Francisco exposes you to gay culture is an understatement. I got full exposure, honey. In fact, I probably would have irreperable skin damage from years of wantonly sunbathing under those flaming hot rays, if the the mantra, "moisturize, mositurize, moisturize" hadn't been so thoroughly drilled into me somewhere a long the way.

Blair and my Sister

Now, I wasn't born yesterday I know that not all gay men prance around with and say "honey" as they give you beauty tips. On the other hand, it is naive to think that some cultural stereotypes have no foundation in reality. In the early 90s my mother would take me to her friend, Blair, to cut my hair. There are a lots of pictures of him holding me as a baby. His uniform at that time was a plaid button down shirt, unbuttoned just enough to expose the gold chain that nestled in his sleek, and silky chest hair, tight high waisted jeans always with a comb in the back pocket. The shirt was tucked into the jeans, of course. I never realized he was gay until much later when I learned that he died of aids. All I remember is that he refused to cut my hair short like a boys. When he got sick, we started going to Supercuts. They did it, no questions asked.

Serving Some Infant Realness

My first conscious exposure to male homosexuality came at age ten when my friend Linden's dad came out of the closet. A Vietnam veteran and ex marine, he had a magnetic Michelangelo's David on his fridge that you could dress in a sparkly red dress, or cut off shorts. A helpful introduction to homosexual male culture if there ever was one. You think I'm kidding but the shorts shorts were truly a harbinger of the future that was to come: Lending out all my spare leggings because everyone forgets that after the sun goes down in San Francisco, the temperature drops from just above booty short weather to 15 degrees below freezing your ass off.

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My friend's dad carved boats and dreamed of adventuring at sea. He was kind of burly, rode a motor cycle and wore leather. The polar opposite of Blair. I could only wonder that he is what planted the seed that later germinated into the Moby Dick fascination.

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One of my mom's pet phrases was, "so and so is a San Francisco character." It's hard to understand exactly what that means. The explanation that my mom gave was frustratingly obtuse: something to the effect of "you know it when you see it." As I've gotten older, the more and more I realize this is true. Like the flick of a wrist, it is both a slight gesture and a flamboyant marker of identity. There is a difference between judgment and intuition; You know it when you see it but can't technically describe it.

Mary dressed as Divine

This is my friend Mary. I feel like our relationship to her is similar to the my connection to the city itself. She is a great influence on me but not in aggressive, domineering way. It is much subtle than that, but also more powerful. It is the difference between imposing yourself on yourself on your surrounding environment, and letting it shape you. For instance, her blog about style was somewhat of an inspiration to me. In particular, her writings about gay culture and San Francisco have been the template for writing this entry.

I've been thinking a lot about how place shapes you. As you can see from my mom's diary from the sixties, it was impossible to escape the hippie wave. (For Mary and I, it was the rainbow tide). She did a lot of drugs, saw Jimi Hendrix, the Grateful Dead, the Beatles, wore peasant blouses, moved to Mendocino to live with a group of artists for a couple months, threw the e-ching, hitch hiked around Europe.

On road trips my mom and dad would play their Doors and Pink Floyd cassettes on a loop. I suppose it was their feeble attempt to make an 8 hour ride in a stuffy car that reeked of coffee and orange rinds a bit less oppressive. Unfortunately, it backfired miserably and since then their music has been synomous with boredom and nausea. When I was thirteen, 60s music was all the rage with my friends. I went out and bought Door and Pink Floyd compact discs as soon as a got tthe chance. Unfortunately, the urge to conform wasn't' strong enough to overpower my pavlovian associations, Rather it just added another layer. Now the queasy ennui, and stale car smell is mixed with the shameful memories of being a adolescent tool. Having hippie parents really takes the wind out of teenage rebellion.

People who move here pride themselves on their openness, their flexibility, their willingness to thumb their nose at tradition. On Saturday night, they go to clubs in Oakland where few white people dared to venture a couple years ago. The next morning, they drink lattes from four barrel and nurse their hangover. (single origin, roasted in house.) What a wild night they had! Better take it easy today. Hey, maybe we should get some ice cream later! There's this new place with a bunch of crazy flavors. My favorite is curried dill pickle drizzled with McCoy's cold pressed extra virgin olive. It sounds weird but its really good. Trust me.

I often hear complaints about crazy homeless people. Yeah, tell me about it; I grew up with it. I'll never forget the first time I rode a bus at age eight. A visibly drunk man got on. As he weaved down the aisle, his slurring loudly, his pants fell down. He wasn't wearing underwear. When I was a teenager a homeless man with the ruddy complexion that comes from a life time of alcohol consumption sneered at me and asked, "Why you got so many pimples? You got Aids or something" From my experience it usually the most hopeless cases that go for straight for the jugular. Toothlessly gumming gibberish soliloquy's you assume they are completely gone, off the planet. No, not true. Some how they know. And Just as it hits you that he is calling your friend "A Fag," he spits in his face too.

I watch my friend Phoebe pour a gallon fake blood on her friend in front of the Castro theater. When I take a picture, it is the cue for the iphone cameras to come out. Everyone wants a piece of San Francisco character for themselves. As long as it is through an instgram filter.

It doesn't take a genius to realize how antithetical it is to try and inject mass consumerism with the spirit of adventure. And, I guess the problem that's the problem I have with all of this: how dull it becomes. The current ice cream trend- choose from a million different crazy! (bland) flavors is an apt symbol for what this change has wrought upon the city and society in general. Much like these hideous shorts, it represents triteness with a disconcertingly tasteless edge. Cloying in it's flavorlessness. A stultifying similitude of options. The same old oppressive standbys dressed up as "rebellion." People really swallow it up. Interactions with deranged homeless people are a walk in the park in comparison: they may sometimes leave a bad taste in my mouth but at least I know to spit it out before it poisons me.
Not to say that I am immune to to the evils of capitalism. I have (eaten) the kool aid and cyanide flavored ice cream too. We all have. Nobody is perfect. That doesn't mean we should give up striving towards our ideals though.

I have fond memories of decorating eggs with my mother on Easter. The thick wax candles used to scribble pictures that only could be revealed after being dunked in the dye, the funny yellow plastic pump that had a needle you stuck in the egg. It would making a wheezing noise as the yolk slowly dribbled out.

And of course, she had a streak (or patch, rather) of homeland pride 7 miles long and 7 miles wide: "You pronounce it Kearney (rhymes with Ernie) not kEARney, I don't what you heard the robot on muni say."

She could be cantakerous about such things, but I paid that it no mind. I knew that she held on to the past because she cared deeply about it. Style isn't some silly trifle, after all.