Don Baird: Glamor as Armor

Glam's Last Stand

If you are like me, you probably noticed that Justin Bond’s column hasn’t appeared in the last few issues of the Bay Area Reporter, leaving that publication devoid of its finest, most fun-filled, filthy and frank writing. From time to time in the past, Justin has taken a break from the grind of deadlines to facilitate his other artistic endeavors in the theater, as a vocalist, as wife of Elvis Herselvis, as a Sick and Twisted guest star, and an overall classy dame, brightening the lives of many with wit, outfit and a penchant for truth. After a second week without Justin’s “Glam on the Rampage” column, I asked a friend about the sudden absence of my very favorite columnist. He promptly informed me that Justin had been fired by the new Arts and Entertainment editor at the BAR.

I was outraged. Singing the praises of Justin Bond as a writer was a definite topic I had on my agenda for this column. Miss Bond has turned out the most vital, entertaining and inspired copy to splash down on the B.A.R. in many years. Her writing rests comfortably on that certain ability to write the way one talks. That in itself is an achievement and, if you ever heard the bitch talking, you know her writing must be fired up with real gossip, confrontational potty humor, ribald sexual fury, political rage and the goddamned truth. It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it, and now we have one less person able to do so because of the complacent, conservative, backbiting miasma of ego and mistrust and fear that is the world of gay newspaper publishing.

When I heard that Justin was not even allowed to write a farewell column, I offered up (with the blessings of our editor) my column space this issue for Miss Bond to tell it like it is—a “Glam’s Last Stand,” if you will. But do let me warn you, she isn’t over by a long shot. Take it away.

‘‘Never wrestle with a pig. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.” Trish Thomas said that to me a few days before I was “let go” from the Bay Area Reporter, over the telephone, by their new arts editor, Robert Julian. His reasons were sound. “My favorite magazines are Spy, The New Yorker and Vanity Fair, because they are witty, intelligent arid they have an edge. Your column does not embody those qualities so I won’t be continuing with it.’’

I wish him the best. And I’m thrilled for all of us that we will have such high quality infotainment from a weekly gay rag. We’re so lucky in San Francisco, for only in this town would such witty and intelligent artists as Joan Didion, Helmut Newton, Annie Liebovitz, etal., provide full access to their brilliant talents for $25 a week.

I guess I really was in over my head at the B.A.R. How silly of me. Now that the Republican Party has declared a cultural war to reclaim the soul of America, I’m sure that some people in the local media feel it’s very important as “gays and lesbians” to put our best face forward—not a queer face, but a nice face. It’s also become very clear to me that some people do not feel that firsthand accounts of a lifestyle which falls below the realm of white upper-middle class pretension does not well serve what they would term “our” community. Just like the fascists they coddle, they are living in a diseased dreamland. They wish to inhabit a world that does not exist. I do not spend my time in search of a world full of broken and impoverished people; a world in which gay boys, dykes and drag queens are casually beaten and ritually abused. I do not advocate looting and rioting, but if it happens I want to know why. I want to see for myself where the system has failed. The desire to escape into the glossy pages of The New Yorker, Vanity Fair andI Spy is understandable. But aping a dying, petrified, heterosexist culture? Is that a noble dream to which to aspire?

There is a cultural war going on in this country and we are the enemy. No matter how much we emulate, imitate and blend into the mass media we will remain the enemy. Only by looking deep into ourselves individually and as a community and discovering each and every one of our unique and individual truths, and by respecting those discoveries and the very different desires and dreams held by others will we have the strength to survive. In writing “Glam on the Rampage,” I had the privilege to write about what I consider to be some of the most courageous and inventive talents in San Francisco. People who come from a tradition of groundbreaking queer artistry which has cultural roots as far back as ancient Greece and beyond: the revisionist brilliance of Klubstitute and the Sick and Twisted Players; the sexual politics of performance artists Diviana Ingravallo and Kate Bornstein; the decadent intensity of Pussy Tourette; the high-camp television antics of Enrique; emerging queer artists whose voices must be heard, such as multi-media artist Rodney O’NeaI Austin, Elvis Herselvis, the Modacrylic Players, and queer filmmakers Marc Huestis and Sadie Benning. These people build, not by tearing down—or as The Advocate describes it, “Eating Their Own”—but by looking within to create powerful images that affect basic philosophical and spiritual renewal. People like them are our future, our hope. They deserve every bit of support we can possibly give them and, if my column helped them in any small way, I feel I have succeeded.

I enjoyed writing “Glam on the Rampage,” but now I have other new and exciting projects. My solo show, Dixie McCall’s Patterns for Living, which I describe as a White Trash Lounge Act, will be opening Sept. 9 at Athens by Night, 811 Valencia St. Call62l-2l52 for information. I’m also working on a few television and film projects as well. Elvis Herselvis and I will be emceeing the Castro Street Fair, so we’ll see you then. Thanks to Daniel Mangin, the former Arts Editor of the B.A.R., who understood the need for diversity and gave me the freedom to write anything I wanted—good or bad. And a very special thanks to Don Baird, the sexiest stud in San Francisco, for letting me write this final farewell. Just let me know when you want that blow job, baby. And finally, to all my readers:

Friends may come and friends may go.

Friends may peter out, you know.

But we’ll be friends without a doubt.

Peter IN, or peter OUT.




		Vol. 13 no.25 Aug 25, 1992 SF Bay Times Glam's Last Stand If you are like me, you probably noticed that Justin Bond’s column hasn’t appeared in the last few issues of the Bay Area Reporter, leaving that publication devoid of its finest, most fun-filled, filthy and frank writing. From time to time in the past, Justin has taken a break from the grind of deadlines to facilitate his other artistic endeavors in the theater, as a vocalist, as wife of Elvis Herselvis, as a Sick and Twisted guest star, and an overall classy dame, brightening the lives of many with wit, outfit and a penchant for truth. After a second week without Justin’s “Glam on the Rampage” column, I asked a friend about the sudden absence of my very favorite columnist. He promptly informed me that Justin had been fired by the new Arts and Entertainment editor at the BAR. I was outraged. Singing the praises of Justin Bond as a writer was a definite topic I had on my agenda for this column. Miss Bond has turned out the most vital, entertaining and inspired copy to splash down on the B.A.R. in many years. Her writing rests comfortably on that certain ability to write the way one talks. That in itself is an achievement and, if you ever heard the bitch talking, you know her writing must be fired up with real gossip, confrontational potty humor, ribald sexual fury, political rage and the goddamned truth. It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it, and now we have one less person able to do so because of the complacent, conservative, backbiting miasma of ego and mistrust and fear that is the world of gay newspaper publishing. When I heard that Justin was not even allowed to write a farewell column, I offered up (with the blessings of our editor) my column space this issue for Miss Bond to tell it like it is—a “Glam’s Last Stand,” if you will. But do let me warn you, she isn’t over by a long shot. Take it away. ‘‘Never wrestle with a pig. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.” Trish Thomas said that to me a few days before I was “let go” from the Bay Area Reporter, over the telephone, by their new arts editor, Robert Julian. His reasons were sound. “My favorite magazines are Spy, The New Yorker and Vanity Fair, because they are witty, intelligent arid they have an edge. Your column does not embody those qualities so I won’t be continuing with it.’’ I wish him the best. And I’m thrilled for all of us that we will have such high quality infotainment from a weekly gay rag. We’re so lucky in San Francisco, for only in this town would such witty and intelligent artists as Joan Didion, Helmut Newton, Annie Liebovitz, etal., provide full access to their brilliant talents for $25 a week. I guess I really was in over my head at the B.A.R. How silly of me. Now that the Republican Party has declared a cultural war to reclaim the soul of America, I’m sure that some people in the local media feel it’s very important as “gays and lesbians” to put our best face forward—not a queer face, but a nice face. It’s also become very clear to me that some people do not feel that firsthand accounts of a lifestyle which falls below the realm of white upper-middle class pretension does not well serve what they would term “our” community. Just like the fascists they coddle, they are living in a diseased dreamland. They wish to inhabit a world that does not exist. I do not spend my time in search of a world full of broken and impoverished people; a world in which gay boys, dykes and drag queens are casually beaten and ritually abused. I do not advocate looting and rioting, but if it happens I want to know why. I want to see for myself where the system has failed. The desire to escape into the glossy pages of The New Yorker, Vanity Fair andI Spy is understandable. But aping a dying, petrified, heterosexist culture? Is that a noble dream to which to aspire? There is a cultural war going on in this country and we are the enemy. No matter how much we emulate, imitate and blend into the mass media we will remain the enemy. Only by looking deep into ourselves individually and as a community and discovering each and every one of our unique and individual truths, and by respecting those discoveries and the very different desires and dreams held by others will we have the strength to survive. In writing “Glam on the Rampage,” I had the privilege to write about what I consider to be some of the most courageous and inventive talents in San Francisco. People who come from a tradition of groundbreaking queer artistry which has cultural roots as far back as ancient Greece and beyond: the revisionist brilliance of Klubstitute and the Sick and Twisted Players; the sexual politics of performance artists Diviana Ingravallo and Kate Bornstein; the decadent intensity of Pussy Tourette; the high-camp television antics of Enrique; emerging queer artists whose voices must be heard, such as multi-media artist Rodney O’NeaI Austin, Elvis Herselvis, the Modacrylic Players, and queer filmmakers Marc Huestis and Sadie Benning. These people build, not by tearing down—or as The Advocate describes it, “Eating Their Own”—but by looking within to create powerful images that affect basic philosophical and spiritual renewal. People like them are our future, our hope. They deserve every bit of support we can possibly give them and, if my column helped them in any small way, I feel I have succeeded. I enjoyed writing “Glam on the Rampage,” but now I have other new and exciting projects. My solo show, Dixie McCall’s Patterns for Living, which I describe as a White Trash Lounge Act, will be opening Sept. 9 at Athens by Night, 811 Valencia St. Call62l-2l52 for information. I’m also working on a few television and film projects as well. Elvis Herselvis and I will be emceeing the Castro Street Fair, so we’ll see you then. Thanks to Daniel Mangin, the former Arts Editor of the B.A.R., who understood the need for diversity and gave me the freedom to write anything I wanted—good or bad. And a very special thanks to Don Baird, the sexiest stud in San Francisco, for letting me write this final farewell. Just let me know when you want that blow job, baby. And finally, to all my readers: Friends may come and friends may go. Friends may peter out, you know. But we’ll be friends without a doubt. Peter IN, or peter OUT.