SoMa Surrender
Well, I just moved into a new apartment in that ever- lovin’ neighborhood that I never fathomed living in, the fabulous Soma I was wracked with fear over this move and its implications or effects on my life. Would I get lost
in the miasma of nightspots within close proximity and drink myself to an early lounge-lizard-type death? Would I end up skinny as a Chihuahua, trembling and rapidly leafing through sex mags at that special bookstore at 4 am after I’ve run out of tokens? Would I become an even bigger trollop than I am now, and start dragging man after man up from the street, after striking a seductive pose in the front window facing Folsom Street? If so, would I finally read a character completely wrong and end up dismembered and in a plastic bag under the freeway? Would my roommates be mortally wounded by my own Mr. Goodbar when I chose to let him in the apartment just for the sake of another cheap orgasm? Would I die in the event of a strong earthquake because Soma’s built on landfill? Would my peers who live in warehouse lofts in this area dis me because my Soma home is a traditional flat? Would I get fagbashed on Fridays and Saturdays by the suburban boys I want so badly only because I know better than they just how badly they actually want me? (My friends throw up their arms in resignation on this one saying “If you continue to whistle at them and scream ‘blowjob or ‘work my butt’ or ‘hey, sexy,” you’ll get beaten up.”) Would I start listening to jazz in “jazz clubs” owned by supermodels and fulI of guys who wish and act like they’re from a different era? Oh my god, would I start doing my laundry at Brain Wash? Aaarrrggh’
DIRTY LAUNDRY
Only time will tell, but when I saw that this new pad included, unbeknownst to me, a washer and dryer, I jumped for joy. I wouldn’t have to face young single women on the make at Brain Wash pretending to be helpless. “ Excuse me ... ummm--Hi-eeee. Could you help me work this thingy that you put the coins in? I, like,
can’t do it,” delivered super-feminine while her eyes peruse your neatly folded intimate underthings. You’d be surprised just how often some confused girl plays the helpless trick in an attempt to ‘cute” her way into your attentiveness. It’s just as offensive as a lounge-y type creepy man approaching a woman with a line like, “if I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me, baby.” Sexual harassment can begin with the batting of eyelashes as well as a cavalcade of catcalls from a construction site during lunch break. Know what I mean?
Speaking of lunch breaks, my best friend Margret took one from her downtown job recently and set out for a restaurant. Dressed in the average skirt/jacket/silk blouse ensemble favored by downtown secretaries and office workers, she should have just blended in, but the uniform wasn’t enough to conceal this reckless, driven, vitality that is uniquely Margaret’s. As she strolled, a homeless woman of questionable mental faculties took
note of Margret and a visible fury swept over her. She started walking along hurriedly behind my friend and pointing, screamed really loud, “She wants to get fucked!” Margret heard her and didn’t think much of it but the woman persisted in her proclamation, singling out passersby to tell them what Margret wanted, repeatedly. I asked her what she did, having been pegged for almost three city blocks. “All I could do was laugh really hard because it’s true!” And it was a good thing it wasn’t happening on Sixth Street, where one woman’s moralizing could have led to a Night Train- powered gang rape. Harassment comes in all forms—too bad it’s seldom so absurd or amusing. But when you think about it, her statement was universal. Margret and I aren’t the only ones on the streets South of Market who want to get fucked. We are just some of the few who are proud of it.
Moving is a real fucking blast, and a lot of people I know have relocated recently. After all the boxes and furnishings have arrived, my favorite part of the moving process begins—hooking up the stereo and
christening the new space with high volume music. It took me a few days before I got around to this step. After hearing the constant throb of music from the bar we live above, I felt no guilt whatsoever in cranking it full tilt, knowing full well that no one would or could complain. I slammed on a smattering of my favorites. I played some Hole (my current fave), Cords, Fugazi, Butthole Surfers, Revolting Cocks, Bong water, Pussy Tourette, Klaus Nomi and a particularly hefty chunk of L7. which had mc head banging up and down our hallway and bouncing off the walls of my room. I love to jump around to rock music almost more than anything, even walking on public streets exuding my desire to get fucked. Oddly enough, dancing at Fiend in the Lower Haight every Saturday is a lot like combining the two. However just like the streets, Fiend’s dance floor can be problematic. You see, fags have discovered the joy of moshing around in what they laughingly refer to as a slam pit. It’s great that this sort of aggressive physicality takes place on the dance floor at Fiend, and in response to music that isn’t gay-nightclub-run-of-the- mill but rather rap and rock-and-roll and classic rock and techno of the edgier variety, but something about this whole dynamic just isn’t right. As I whirl around joyously on the dance floor, I catch varied attitudes, actions, motivations and reactions on people’s faces and bodies. I also catch an elbow in the eye, a fat lip, the full force of an innocent bystander’s body being pushed into me like a cannonball, the reaction of the people who are fully aware of my body flying toward them, who counter the motion by standing on the sides of the pit and taking great joy in pushing me really hard back into the fleshy, hot and sweaty center of it all, and then I fly into the joker-ass boneheads who like to push each other into the DJ booth and make the record skip on purpose, I realize that I could drown in one of those large glasses of beer as it flies over my face and down my throat. And it wasn’t even my beer! Since my shirt is drenched, I take it off and lose it and then some of those pussy motherfuckers on the edge of the pit pushing at people and giggling knock me back into the middle, and suddenly my unclad chest enables me to feel and understand slick sweaty bodies converging, colliding and sliding across each other, providing the illumination that this whole activity is a sensory wonderland for those stripped to the waist. Then I start to see that some of the hottest guys flailing around an the middle have their dicks hanging out of their pants, nonchalantly, as if it was just another fashion nuance of MTV Urban Dance Culture. And just as nonchalance starts to give way to erect some oversized bumbling retard of a new-wave-punk wannabe hurls himself in utter joy, taking seven people down and thinking to herself, the queen, “I’m really super punk and a good slammer.”
“I’m furious”. I think to myself, “These stupid little shave-headed pierced-up Ice Princess Cruisers are
such a lot of wanks. They don’t know what a slain pit is. None of these little bitches were at the Mabuhay Gardens seeing Black Flag back in ‘81 when a slam pit was a concerted effort, a coordinated group expression of probable possible nihilism. It was a concerted display of outward aggression, not inward choice. People didn’t hurt each other unless they were doing it wrong. I saw an able-bodied guy wearing long shorts and a simple elegant strand of pearls fly through the crowd, and recognized him as Keith Hennessey, queer pagan performance artist and regular patron of Fiend. Keith can be found slamming around in the pit usually every Saturday. So disgruntled with the actions of this so- called slam pit, I was moved to express my dismay and fantasize about delivering a full-on lecture on the Slam Pit Proper at Fiend one Saturday. I suggested that it would be great if Keith and I could collaborate on such a presentation—you know, one of those ideas of the moment that could be a lot of fun. Voted best local performance artist in 1992 by the SF Bay Guardian, Keith is a queer anarchist pagan artist concerned with radical democracy, sexual liberation and spiritual renewal—so much what I expect from a truly great slam pit situation. Keith’s solo works, self- titled holy male performance ritual trickery, include Saliva (1989), Sacred Boy(1990/92), The King Is Dead (1991) and Heat (1993). Keith and Josie’s Cabaret will be presenting his work. Sacred Boy, Dec. 1-12, at 8pm. Phone 861-7933 to make reservations for a show that most avid readers of this column should enjoy immensely, from an artist of awesome commitment and certain importance.
