San Francisco (You Lost Me)
Oooo, and how was your trip, Johnny?
:::gritted teeth/forced smile::: Ummm....fiiiiiiine...
The purpose of this trip was to visit Baby Chutney's new Baby Nephew (aDORable, btw), and since we were up there, the rest of the Chutney clan as well. The drive up was nice, thanks to Sirius Radio with Howard and Robin Ophelia Quivers, and the occasional breaks to the New Wave station everytime Sal & Richard came on or Ralph called in. After checking into our hotel and taking a nice nap (MARRIOT BEDS RULE), we headed to the Castro Theater for an evening of Fashion in Film with special guests Santino and Jeffrey from Project Runway and a big-screen presentation of the Joan Crawford classic The Women.
Yes, we are faggots.
You'd think being said faggots, we'd like San Francisco. Wellllll, the city's okay, but the people - ye gods. Here's an example - during the lighthearted Q&A with Santino and Jeffrey, there's plenty of laughter and funny stories about Heidi Klum being a cunt until some skinny queen stands up and asks:
"This is all well and good, but what are you two doing for charity, specifically those living with HIV and AIDS?"
Seriously, do y'all have to politicize EVERYTHING, including my frivilous reality shows? Take me back to good 'ol vapid L.A. (By the way, the answer was nothing. I got the impression Santino is living off his lecture circuit cash.)
Saturday, we enjoyed a nice brunch with some Chutney friends, then some Castro time where we walked about and did some light shopping. I grabbed a double-DVD compilation of all of Divine's videos and TV appearances from a neat little record shop called Medium Rare. Number of times we were asked for money on Saturday - four. Oh, that reminds me - you SF bums really have to stop adopting the same new story all at once. It ruins the effect. The tale of woe du jour is as follows (change the state and arty occupation for variety as needed):
"Excuse me, sir, but I'm from Oregon and I'm a musician and my car broke down and I really need some cash to get it fixed and get home."
We heard this from three different people in two days. To the musician I said, "I was a musician, too! I quit when I realized it didn't pay and got a JOB so I'd never have to beg on the street."
He was not impressed. Later, when the girl "from New Orleans" who was a "painter" used the same story on us, I wondered why she spent the money to come to SF in the first place if her car was in such disrepair. I did not get an adequate answer and my money remained in my wallet.
That is, until Sunday when we went to Rasputin's downtown. Rasputin's is sort of a baby Amoeba records in a funky old office building with five floors. The first two floors are accessible by stair, but you have to take an elevator to the third thru fifth floors, sharing it with a guy whose job it is to press the appropriate floor button for you. There's a nice gig someone stuck in SF could score to get their car repaired! It was at Rasputin's that I found the ever-elusive Volume One of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 collection used for a cheap $34.95. Not bad, since it grabs $90 on Amazon. Score. Now I got 'em all. Love ya, Crow.
From there it was to the Levi's superstore where Baby Chut tried on 743 different pairs of jeans. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but I could have Twittered War & Peace while waiting. I don't mind at all, though, since this is the same guy who waits patiently and reads Peanuts hardbacks while I geek out at the comic shop weekly. It's love, I tells ya, love.
We made our way to Berkeley for another dinner with family, but since we had time, we stopped at the world-famous Comic Relief (see?) and Amoeba Berkeley, where I grabbed another sweet score - Vanity's hard to find second solo album, Skin on Skin. Gee, wonder what blog that's gonna end up on soon? Number of people who asked us for money in Berkeley - three. And boy, God love ya if you live there, but Berkeley is fucking filthy. Poor Green Day.
So, why was our trip so teeth gritty? Not to speak out of school, but it had a lot to do with Chut Chut's family. He's the youngest of three boys, and the eldest two are at least a good 13 years older than him, straight, married with kids, baseball nuts, etc. As a result, they have absolutely no clue how to talk/relate to their gay little brother with the scary bald white boyfriend. At the dinner we went to that was obstensibly in Chut's honor, they sat on the complete opposite side of the room with ten people between us and only spoke to us at the end of the meal when we got up and walked over to them. Chut's also a bit worried about his niece who's on the cusp of 30, yet still lives at home with her mother, seems to have no real career goals and doesn't see any reason to change this status.
The best I could do is assure Chut that my brother is the same way (hey, at least yours speak to you!) and we all have aimless relatives we worry about. I think gay people just hunger for more - the desire to succeed, leave home and the city you're from, etc. We're just driven.
And come Monday morning, we were driven the hell out of San Francisco. I know a lot of y'all live there, but...well, the Marriot beds sure are nice.