I had not intended to post this segment so early in my "Degrees" series. However, due to her passing this month, I am writing this as a tribute.
Etta James was residing in San Francisco during at least a portion of the time that I lived there. Contrary to many people's perception, San Francisco is a small city and paths cross easily there, sometimes crossing and recrossing until they occasionally resemble a plate of spaghetti.
I had hosted a party one Saturday night. One guest, an extremely cute, extremely well built friend of mine stayed the night as he was too intoxicated to get home across the bay to Oakland safely. To be completely frank, we had "enjoyed each other's company" on more than one occasion. As I said, he was cute, fun and had a body as hard and solid as a brick wall. I would have been a fool to not take advantage of these opportunities when they, well, arose. But on this night, drunk beyond all reason, we merely slept together.
The next morning we were walking to get coffee to help clear the spiderwebs in our heads brought on by the previous evenings revelry, when he stopped, went up to a building and without explanation rang a doorbell. A voice answered, my friend unidentified himself and we were buzzed in.
Once inside, we knocked on a door and were ushered into a beautiful vintage apartment by the extremely handsome, deeply tanned occupant. A redwood chair rail wrapped around the living room topping off redwood wainscoting. Molding graced the ceiling surrounding the period light fixtures. Morning sun poured in through generous windows.
The apartment's occupant proved to be intelligent and gracious, not to mention very easy to look at. He and my friend had met once in a donut shop and had "enjoyed each other's company" several times. I need to express that in San Francisco in the early 1980's our actions were not as slutty as they may sound today. He had, in the recent past, been Etta James road manager. He regaled us with an accounting of a party he had had featuring a group of hardcore punks in the kitchen, Etta in the living room and a reporter from Women's Wear Daily scurrying about busily recording and notating the various goings on.
When Etta first asked him if he was interested in being her road manager, he queried, "I don't know, what does a road manager do?" To which she replied "You'll find out."
Several months later Ms. James was scheduled to perform at the smallish yet legendary dance club I frequented in those days. It was a major event for the club. "Are you going" became the question of the day at San Francisco's lone gay video bar as they interspersed clips of her performing among their usual fare. I met up with, by chance, a friend of mine who knew her and we claimed a position directly in front of the low stage. Midway through her set he shouted to her that they were prohibiting him from photographing the event. She explained that the flash would be too disrupting and, as a consolation, dedicated her next song to him.
Upon hearing of her passing, I emailed a dear friend of mine, who was my roommate in those days, that I didn't quite know how to deal with losing a one of a kind talent like hers. He replied, be grateful for being able to hear and be grateful for the wonders of modern recording.
My wish is that her soul finds the peace and contentment it so richly deserves for her gift of bringing so much beauty and enjoyment to so many.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Degrees of Separation - Step Nieces
I have decided to embark upon a recurring segment to these posts regarding degrees of separation. As the well know play and movie theorize, everyone can be connected to anyone else, however loosely or vaguely, by six degrees of separation. While I doubt the truth of that, it is entertaining to occasionally explore how close to other random people I can come. Having spent much of my adult life in retail, and all of my adult life in densely populated cities, I have perhaps encountered more people than average. Therefore, it may be easier for me to "connect the dots" than others. However, if you begin to think on it you might be surprised at what you can come up with.
I'll begin with 2 encounters involving "step nieces".
As a retail manager one of my tasks is to make the bank deposits for my store. There is a teller there I gotten to know. One of her aunts was married, at one time, to the actor Victor Mature. Although she has never met the aunt, or Victor, she has connected me, loosely and vaguely, to the well known movie star.
Then there is the occasional customer in our store. Although she has thousands (and thousands and thousands) of dollars worth of jewels in her safety deposit box, she will wear our faux pieces due to the exorbitant insurance costs associated with wearing her real things in public. She is from a wealthy family with middle east connections. Her aunt was married to the Sultan of Brunei.
Although I have been referred to, and sometimes refer to myself, as a queen, I think this is the closest I may ever get to true royalty.
I'll begin with 2 encounters involving "step nieces".
As a retail manager one of my tasks is to make the bank deposits for my store. There is a teller there I gotten to know. One of her aunts was married, at one time, to the actor Victor Mature. Although she has never met the aunt, or Victor, she has connected me, loosely and vaguely, to the well known movie star.
Then there is the occasional customer in our store. Although she has thousands (and thousands and thousands) of dollars worth of jewels in her safety deposit box, she will wear our faux pieces due to the exorbitant insurance costs associated with wearing her real things in public. She is from a wealthy family with middle east connections. Her aunt was married to the Sultan of Brunei.
Although I have been referred to, and sometimes refer to myself, as a queen, I think this is the closest I may ever get to true royalty.
Friday, January 13, 2012
A Character Study - My Roommate
In my postings about my Christmas holiday in Cincinnati I often mentioned my roommate who I made the trip with. Although our 3 years sharing our rambling San Francisco flat were filled with many moments both madcap and somber, there is one singular episode which might characterize him best.
One evening friends of mine, one of whom was a longtime bartender at the club I frequented, picked me up on the way to an art showing at the club. My roommate asked if he could hitch a ride with us as his destination that evening was on the way to ours., After dropping him off the bartender said to me, "I didn't know he was your roommate." I replied that he was and had been for a couple of years at that point. The bartender replied "She was a real madwoman in her day." I could barely wait to get home and relay this to him.
Upon telling him he instantly owned the comment and wore it as a badge of honor. For weeks afterward he was informing everyone he met, gesturing towards me, "One of his friends said the nicest thing about me".....
One evening friends of mine, one of whom was a longtime bartender at the club I frequented, picked me up on the way to an art showing at the club. My roommate asked if he could hitch a ride with us as his destination that evening was on the way to ours., After dropping him off the bartender said to me, "I didn't know he was your roommate." I replied that he was and had been for a couple of years at that point. The bartender replied "She was a real madwoman in her day." I could barely wait to get home and relay this to him.
Upon telling him he instantly owned the comment and wore it as a badge of honor. For weeks afterward he was informing everyone he met, gesturing towards me, "One of his friends said the nicest thing about me".....
The Magic of Fall Colors
I San Francisco there is no real fall color. The mild wet climate will sometimes allow half of the leaves on a tree to turn a mottled brown, half of these may fall off, the others will cling to life until the spring sun revives them and returns them to their former verdant state. There are certain trees that exhibit moments of drama. In the backyard of an ex boyfriends neighbor stood a 6 foot tall poinsettia. In winter, shielded from the ambient light of the street, it's leaves would transform into their well known Christmas red. In spring the cherry trees in the Japanese s gardens of Golden Gate Park produces a week long spectacle of fluffy, delicate blossoms. A short distance form the city are the famed California Redwoods. Their towering majesty and great age can make one feel tiny and insignificant by comparison. In the Oakland hills the scent of eucalyptus fills the air from the groves growing there. While not native, they were transplanted from Australia, they seem at home on their sun drenched slopes.
At the age of 27 I moved to Chicago, and, after going through my first, unpredictable spring, common in the Midwest. And sweating through my first blazing summer with it's occasional, spectacular lightening and thunder storms, also common in the Midwest, I experienced my first Midwestern fall. At the time, I had not the money or means to travel far from the city. Chicago was not as well forested as it is now, thanks to a massive tree planting campaign during the tenure of Mayor Daley the city today boasts a lush shady landscape, the leaves turning from summer green to their myriad of colors was magic to me and remains so to this day.
After several financially tumultuous years my fortunes turned and I was able to venture to other areas and broaden my fall vision. The colors of the eastern seaboard, from the pictures and descriptions I have seen and heard are vibrant due to a profusion of maples and other trees which produce bright fall hues. The autumn pallet of the Midwest, by comparison, is soft and muted, almost as if it was created by a French impressionist. Various shades of yellow and brown mix with bright orange mimicking the gourds and pumpkins stacked outside the farms along the winding country roads of Michigan and Wisconsin.
A large forest covers much of Michigan, sweeping up the shoreline of it's namesake lake. In the forest, scattered along the shore, you come across small victorian harbor towns which seem to be untouched by time. As you approach each one, your first sight are the church steeples rising above the thick tapestry of the tree canopy. Small streets lined with modest vintage homes give way to picturesque squares and tiny business districts. Churches are large, venerable, solid structures of stone and intricate stained glass. Equally solid, almost formidable gothic courthouses dominate the downtown areas of county seats. Grand, gingerbread laden homes have been converted to Bed and Breakfasts to accommodate the weekend visitors enjoying the warmth and nostalgia of the tree shaded streets.
In rural areas farmstands vend freshly harvested produce. Hay bales in the yards of farmhouses entice children to romp and adults to take in the seasonal scents and fresh air of the countryside as the varied colored leaves rustle in the autumn breeze.
Each year, we are treated to one last, warm, sweet, sunkissed moment before the leaves fall and the trees begin their winterlong nap.
At the age of 27 I moved to Chicago, and, after going through my first, unpredictable spring, common in the Midwest. And sweating through my first blazing summer with it's occasional, spectacular lightening and thunder storms, also common in the Midwest, I experienced my first Midwestern fall. At the time, I had not the money or means to travel far from the city. Chicago was not as well forested as it is now, thanks to a massive tree planting campaign during the tenure of Mayor Daley the city today boasts a lush shady landscape, the leaves turning from summer green to their myriad of colors was magic to me and remains so to this day.
After several financially tumultuous years my fortunes turned and I was able to venture to other areas and broaden my fall vision. The colors of the eastern seaboard, from the pictures and descriptions I have seen and heard are vibrant due to a profusion of maples and other trees which produce bright fall hues. The autumn pallet of the Midwest, by comparison, is soft and muted, almost as if it was created by a French impressionist. Various shades of yellow and brown mix with bright orange mimicking the gourds and pumpkins stacked outside the farms along the winding country roads of Michigan and Wisconsin.
A large forest covers much of Michigan, sweeping up the shoreline of it's namesake lake. In the forest, scattered along the shore, you come across small victorian harbor towns which seem to be untouched by time. As you approach each one, your first sight are the church steeples rising above the thick tapestry of the tree canopy. Small streets lined with modest vintage homes give way to picturesque squares and tiny business districts. Churches are large, venerable, solid structures of stone and intricate stained glass. Equally solid, almost formidable gothic courthouses dominate the downtown areas of county seats. Grand, gingerbread laden homes have been converted to Bed and Breakfasts to accommodate the weekend visitors enjoying the warmth and nostalgia of the tree shaded streets.
In rural areas farmstands vend freshly harvested produce. Hay bales in the yards of farmhouses entice children to romp and adults to take in the seasonal scents and fresh air of the countryside as the varied colored leaves rustle in the autumn breeze.
Each year, we are treated to one last, warm, sweet, sunkissed moment before the leaves fall and the trees begin their winterlong nap.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Mammoth Cave National Park
One of the largest cavern systems in the world is Kentucky's Mammoth Cave. On one of our road trips to Kentucky my travel buddy, I and our hostess decided to pay it a visit as it was just 2 hours away from her home on the Ohio river. We thought it would be fun, interesting, educational and allow me to add another National Park to my "been there" list.
The line between the Central and Eastern time zones runs down the center of both Kentucky and Tennessee. Our hostess lived in the Central zone, Mammoth Cave lies in the Eastern. Since that made us an hour late before we even got started we opted to take the 4 lane interstate there and afterward meander back along the smaller, more scenic state roads. As we neared the cave we entered a realm of delightful American kitsch. A Jellystone campground stood on a hillside. There are several of these spread across the country. Inspired by The Flintstones they contain fake rock buildings and concrete statues of the main characters waving at the passerby on the road below. A small, preserved retro amusement park, closed and vacant as it was early spring, accompanied it.
We had arrived between two tour times so grabbed a snack from the visitors center to fortify ourselves. While we were waiting, a van pulled up and a group of Mennonites, ubiquitous in Kentucky, emerged. Boys and girls in their mid teens and several adult chaperons. The girls and women wore the typical Mennonite mid calf dresses and white caps. The boys all had bowl haircuts and wore low rise pants with button front flaps, similar to the old Navy blues. Although their shirts were loose and bell sleeved one could sense their lean, taut muscularity, the result of long hours of hard physical labor on their farms. The adult men, all broad shouldered and powerfully built, wore the same bell sleeved shirts as the boys and loose black pants tucked into boots. One of the things I learned about the Mennonites that day, they do not wear deodorant. I discovered this as I followed one of the Mennonite girls down a staircase during the tour. Several people have confirmed since that Mennonites do, in fact, not wear deodorant and that this was not just an isolated case. Just something to think about if you see one waiting at your gate as you are about to board a plane.
Our forest service guide gathers our tour group together. We are led down a steep metal staircase inside the cave. The first thing I notice is a diminutive waterfall cascading down the cave wall. The water catches in one crevice, then spills over to the next as it travels down the wall to it's destination deep inside the cavern. It is at this moment that an albino bat appears. For some reason it decides to dive bomb my bald head. I instinctively duck down and cover my head with my arms just as it changes course inches from me. Occasionally someone still chides me about this reaction. My stock answer has become "Well what the fuck would you do if a fucking bat was dive bombing your fucking head?"
We are led into a spacious area inside the cave. We sit on benches as the guide relates the history of the cave, it's vastness and the unique subterranean creatures that reside there, many of them blind and lacking pigment after eons of adaptation to an environment completely devoid of natural light. He also mentions that the cave is completely earthquake proof since it has withstood several without incident. Being trapped underground in a collapsed cave in Kentucky as the result of an earthquake was something I had not even considered until he brought it up. Despite his reassurances, it was a vision that was difficult to put out of my mind until we returned topside.
The most spectacular portion of the tour is the "Drapery Room". Over the centuries deposits of water and minerals have created long wavy formations resembling drapes. A staircase carries you down to a landing where the length and enormity and sheer beauty of them can be fully appreciated.
Returning to the daylight we saw several of the albino cave bats emerge from a small opening created by a sinkhole and fly about flapping their opaque, fragile looking wings in the sun. The rangers were surprised saying that they had never seen the bats come out of the cave day or night. We were fortunate to be there at that time to witness this rare sight.
We returned to the car to begin our scenic country road trip back. This being Kentucky we passed horse farm after horse farm. From the looks of the large homes set back behind expansive gated lawns horse farming is either a highly profitable business or a hobby for the already wealthy.
As it was mid spring trees and shrubs were in full bloom, resembling puffy pink and white clouds floating along the roadside. The famed bluegrass of Kentucky, while not as blue as the name might imply, does indeed have an azure tint to it.
We stopped in Louisville for dinner. A small city famed for the Kentucky Derby and a baseball bat. Many streets are named for famous racehorses. None that we encountered are named for bats.
As we climbed the steep stairs up to our hosts home the scent of blossoming lilac added a soft spice to the spring night air.
The line between the Central and Eastern time zones runs down the center of both Kentucky and Tennessee. Our hostess lived in the Central zone, Mammoth Cave lies in the Eastern. Since that made us an hour late before we even got started we opted to take the 4 lane interstate there and afterward meander back along the smaller, more scenic state roads. As we neared the cave we entered a realm of delightful American kitsch. A Jellystone campground stood on a hillside. There are several of these spread across the country. Inspired by The Flintstones they contain fake rock buildings and concrete statues of the main characters waving at the passerby on the road below. A small, preserved retro amusement park, closed and vacant as it was early spring, accompanied it.
We had arrived between two tour times so grabbed a snack from the visitors center to fortify ourselves. While we were waiting, a van pulled up and a group of Mennonites, ubiquitous in Kentucky, emerged. Boys and girls in their mid teens and several adult chaperons. The girls and women wore the typical Mennonite mid calf dresses and white caps. The boys all had bowl haircuts and wore low rise pants with button front flaps, similar to the old Navy blues. Although their shirts were loose and bell sleeved one could sense their lean, taut muscularity, the result of long hours of hard physical labor on their farms. The adult men, all broad shouldered and powerfully built, wore the same bell sleeved shirts as the boys and loose black pants tucked into boots. One of the things I learned about the Mennonites that day, they do not wear deodorant. I discovered this as I followed one of the Mennonite girls down a staircase during the tour. Several people have confirmed since that Mennonites do, in fact, not wear deodorant and that this was not just an isolated case. Just something to think about if you see one waiting at your gate as you are about to board a plane.
Our forest service guide gathers our tour group together. We are led down a steep metal staircase inside the cave. The first thing I notice is a diminutive waterfall cascading down the cave wall. The water catches in one crevice, then spills over to the next as it travels down the wall to it's destination deep inside the cavern. It is at this moment that an albino bat appears. For some reason it decides to dive bomb my bald head. I instinctively duck down and cover my head with my arms just as it changes course inches from me. Occasionally someone still chides me about this reaction. My stock answer has become "Well what the fuck would you do if a fucking bat was dive bombing your fucking head?"
We are led into a spacious area inside the cave. We sit on benches as the guide relates the history of the cave, it's vastness and the unique subterranean creatures that reside there, many of them blind and lacking pigment after eons of adaptation to an environment completely devoid of natural light. He also mentions that the cave is completely earthquake proof since it has withstood several without incident. Being trapped underground in a collapsed cave in Kentucky as the result of an earthquake was something I had not even considered until he brought it up. Despite his reassurances, it was a vision that was difficult to put out of my mind until we returned topside.
The most spectacular portion of the tour is the "Drapery Room". Over the centuries deposits of water and minerals have created long wavy formations resembling drapes. A staircase carries you down to a landing where the length and enormity and sheer beauty of them can be fully appreciated.
Returning to the daylight we saw several of the albino cave bats emerge from a small opening created by a sinkhole and fly about flapping their opaque, fragile looking wings in the sun. The rangers were surprised saying that they had never seen the bats come out of the cave day or night. We were fortunate to be there at that time to witness this rare sight.
We returned to the car to begin our scenic country road trip back. This being Kentucky we passed horse farm after horse farm. From the looks of the large homes set back behind expansive gated lawns horse farming is either a highly profitable business or a hobby for the already wealthy.
As it was mid spring trees and shrubs were in full bloom, resembling puffy pink and white clouds floating along the roadside. The famed bluegrass of Kentucky, while not as blue as the name might imply, does indeed have an azure tint to it.
We stopped in Louisville for dinner. A small city famed for the Kentucky Derby and a baseball bat. Many streets are named for famous racehorses. None that we encountered are named for bats.
As we climbed the steep stairs up to our hosts home the scent of blossoming lilac added a soft spice to the spring night air.
Spelunking
First, let me make this statement. I have never put on a hat with a headlamp on it and wiggled around through tight spaces underground hoping against hope that I don't get permanently lost. This same fear of getting permanently lost is what compels me to keep a street map close at hand at all times when visiting an unfamiliar city. I have, however, clad in jeans, tee shirt and a light jacket taken several cave tours.
On one such tour, my partner and I were guided through a cavern located on a private farm in Wisconsin. Our guide was a member of the family which owned the land. She was in her mid teens and almost, but not quite, unbearably perky. In one of the underground rooms local teenagers over the years had written or carved their names into the rock walls. She pointed out her grandfather's signature, which dated from the 1950's. She also showed us stalagmites and stalactites and taught me an easy way to keep the two terms straight. "Stalagmites grow from the floor, stalactites hold tight to the ceiling." Mineral laden water dripping through the rock and soil above the caves create these fantastic underground structures. This same process created a massive block of black onyx worth thousands that was too heavy and too deeply embedded in the cavern floor to be moved.
In other caves we have experienced blind albino fish and amphibians inhabiting underground streams and, by dipping our hands into the dark waters, felt the icy chill of an underground lake.
On one such tour, my partner and I were guided through a cavern located on a private farm in Wisconsin. Our guide was a member of the family which owned the land. She was in her mid teens and almost, but not quite, unbearably perky. In one of the underground rooms local teenagers over the years had written or carved their names into the rock walls. She pointed out her grandfather's signature, which dated from the 1950's. She also showed us stalagmites and stalactites and taught me an easy way to keep the two terms straight. "Stalagmites grow from the floor, stalactites hold tight to the ceiling." Mineral laden water dripping through the rock and soil above the caves create these fantastic underground structures. This same process created a massive block of black onyx worth thousands that was too heavy and too deeply embedded in the cavern floor to be moved.
In other caves we have experienced blind albino fish and amphibians inhabiting underground streams and, by dipping our hands into the dark waters, felt the icy chill of an underground lake.
A Short Note on Grecian Men - Circa 1973
I have previously written about the summer my family and I spent traveling through Europe. One of the countries visited on that trip was Greece. Over the years, many things have been written and said regarding the swarthy, hot, studliness of the Grecian man. If one is to judge using the criteria of their ancient artwork, this reputation is not entirely unwarranted. Allow me to share a couple of my personal recollections with you.
We are at a service station getting gas, standing just inside the mechanics garage. Through a doorway comes a rather short man, bare chested, wearing worn, tight jeans. His large full muscles are straining beneath his olive skin due to the fact that he is carrying, in his massive, strong, rippling arms...A CAR ENGINE! At the time I had not yet come to terms with my sexuality. The repressed part of my brain told me that I was merely impressed by his great strength and was admiring his mega pumped, chiseled physique from an aesthetic, almost artistic standpoint. Like the appreciation one has when viewing the before mentioned Grecian sculpture. The deeply buried, unrepressed part of my brain wanted me to run my hands and tongue all over him.
I recall a host of young men in Greece. Many with tousled ,curly, black hair and well developed bodies.
My other most vivid memory is of three men. They are thick,defined, powerful and all wearing the tiniest of Greek bikinis, sharing a shower beachside. Nothing homoerotic about that......
We are at a service station getting gas, standing just inside the mechanics garage. Through a doorway comes a rather short man, bare chested, wearing worn, tight jeans. His large full muscles are straining beneath his olive skin due to the fact that he is carrying, in his massive, strong, rippling arms...A CAR ENGINE! At the time I had not yet come to terms with my sexuality. The repressed part of my brain told me that I was merely impressed by his great strength and was admiring his mega pumped, chiseled physique from an aesthetic, almost artistic standpoint. Like the appreciation one has when viewing the before mentioned Grecian sculpture. The deeply buried, unrepressed part of my brain wanted me to run my hands and tongue all over him.
I recall a host of young men in Greece. Many with tousled ,curly, black hair and well developed bodies.
My other most vivid memory is of three men. They are thick,defined, powerful and all wearing the tiniest of Greek bikinis, sharing a shower beachside. Nothing homoerotic about that......
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