Vigilant Columnist Guards Fort As Troops Storm Capital

I didn't go to Washington, D.C., for the historic March on Washington '93. and this simple fact seemed to surprise a lot of people. I kept hearing. "Of all the local journalists, I can't believe you aren't in D.C.," and other such sentiments laden with an incredulous "You call yourself a journalist"-type attitude because I remained behind in San Francisco, not joining my 300,000 to one million gay and lesbian brothers and sisters in a beautiful, tearfully empowering show of unity and strength at our nation's capital.

Judging from the television coverage of the event and the varied reports I heard from people returning, the march spawned new feelings of optimism and power in countless individuals present who had been without them before. This is the singularly most positive effect of the march, and more than enough reason to justify the effort that went into this massive demonstration. The world wasn't changed, but hordes of people experienced the rush of political empowerment for the first time, a change they might remember as one of the major turning points of their lives. The fight for civil rights and political justice is at a new beginning. This is what the march accomplished, with dignity.

It pleased my soul that one of our local gay papers featured a photo of four young men glowing with that vitality of empowerment I've described, standing shirtless in a fountain mooning their gym-empowered buttocks at some monument or other. That's truth, that's beauty,that's empowerment, and it's just swell that incident was captured, chosen for publication and reproduced for all to share. I feel more powerful already.

I had an extensive chat about the March on Washington with Betty of Betty and Pansy's Severe Queer Review of San Francisco and more recently, ... of Washington, D.C. Those hilarious modern geographical queer guides have the total dish on bars, clubs, restaurants and where to go to gag on really big dick, indoors and out. Informative yet amusing, the books are written in a style that somehow aligns the blunt outlaw, spirit-smut of John Rechy, the meticulousness of an elderly aunt who always brings extra Kleenex on car trips, and the stance of a tough-talking, hung over socialite queen. Best of all, these girls tell the truth. And Betty gave me her true take on the trip to D.C. the other day when I unexpectedly ran into her at a very special photo session. Betty was a fluffer, so we had plenty of time to talk.

Betty asserted and reinforced the greatness of individuals feeling empowered and awakened to wonderful things, but the first words out of her mouth were,' 'Everyone was on the wrong drugs or something." She intimated her personal shock over the vast amounts of acid-wash denim being worn by our lesbian and gay brothers and sisters, saying she thought it was some kind of international gay law of fashion, not just a local SF ordinance, that acid wash should never be worn in public. She said that you had to wait in long lines to buy just about anything, and boy did people seem to be buying stuff. She said the drag queens were sad but Pussy Tourette did actually get to perform on the main stage-but, they wouldn't let her do the most appropriate, perfectly gay anthemic song in her repertoire, "Free Pussy," because C-Span was there and they apparently were upset that she snuck "French Bitch" in there 'for a second number. I think anyone who has a problem with "Free Pussy" is lame. Betty moaned about the overall tired entertainment presented on stage but she loved Melissa Etheridge. She said the March organizers did a pretty good job, and then shared with me one of those beautiful moments like the aforementioned four-empowered butt salute. Betty got to ride in a limo to the hotel, she said, a limo rented for the weekend by the esteemed staff of Mike's Night Gallery. "Hi, I'm Mike. Welcome to my limo." Now that's empowerment. I didn't ask, but I bet they didn't even ask Betty for money. That's a rainbow of beauty isn't it'~ I'm all choked up.

NOTHING IN TV-EXCEPT A BIBLICAL APOCALYPSE

Since I wasn't going to the march 1 had decided in advance to monitor the media's coverage so I kept the TV on starting Friday. But let me tell you, it sure wasn't much of a chore to keep up with nothing, which was basically what we got till Sunday morning. I chose to take this in on the wide screen at the lovely Giraffe on Polk Street over breakfast cocktails with friends. It was coverage of the main stage, and the block of speakers and performers I saw were frighteningly unexciting, even meek. The representation started to depress me and I wondered if I was really, truly just too goddamned negative to live, because what I was seeing was so ineffective. TV is the one medium that reaches the most people, and the coverage the march got was predictably small and stifled by an air of flat disinterest as usual. It was earmarked by the usual "gay discount" underestimated crowd wide-size figures bandied about-figures with a range that almost suggested a snide "you know, queers always exaggerate" bent to the first sentence of every local newspaper story on Monday. Little things all added up to one inescapable truth: The importance of the March on Washington was being totally, cleverly downplayed by television news. That strikes me as odd considering this march was the largest civil rights demonstration in the history of the United States.

Well, it's time we all face it. In a month the event will be forgotten and the strongest video memory of this period will be fat Texan medical examiners sifting through the ashes of Ranch Apocalypse, or Attorney General Janet Reno defending herself and her big decision again and again and again. And they're still at it, saying she should be fired for ordering the ambush of the Koresh compound that went up in glorious, mysterious televangelist hellfire Technicolor prophetic flames, with no rescues. Wait, that's the image that will burn in our minds when anyone brings up the month of April back in 1993; not the March on Washington but that screaming, evil ball of fire, that grisly reality that has TV movie written all over it, down in Waco, Texas. I love this story. I also happen to think that Janet Reno is really cool and has handled herself just fine as the biggest little attorney general in the world, but I've been down with Miss Janet Reno for quite some time. That's hip street talk for knowing and liking someone or something.

JANET RENO-SHE'S GOT TO GET IT ON

A friend of mine who is rather a music expert sent me a tape with a song by an all-girl rap group from Miami called Anquiette that came out in the mid- to late-'80s. They do a song called "Janet Reno." It starts with some crudely recorded chatter, "Janet Reno, that's her name... Call Janet Reno... Mmmm-hmmm, she's the one." Then the first four notes of the "Dragnet" theme play and a female voice says, 'In our town we have a state district attorney who goes by the name of Janet Reno." More "Dragnet" theme, then,

"She locks brothers up for not paying their child support.. In your town you probably have someone just like her." Then the song gets rolling, with verses sung or rapped to the tunes of children's songs like "Yankee Doodle" or "Knick Knack Paddy Whack." The first rap reads, "You think you're so slick you don't have to pay/ You stay, get a baby and you run away/ Oh, but I got a tip for your monkey ass/ The boys that don't pay get cased up fast/ You ask Janet Reno 'cause she lays the law/ And when she's through with you you'll wish you never saw/ me or the baby or the place that we met/ Diggin' up old woes that you wish you could forget/ The proof is right here, it's livin' and breathin'! And Janet Reno's makin' sure that I start receivin'/ All the checks that you get, all the money you make/ Janet Reno's gonna make sure and take." Is that right on or what! The last verse of the song even has a safe sex message to the tune of Knick Knack Paddy Whack" that goes, "So the, next time he makes a selection! Be sure that you're using some protection! Think twice the next time before you're jumping in the bed! Take a minute out and put a rubber on your head" Well, if the girls in Anquiette feel so strongly about Janet Reno then by gum I do too. Someone should try to find this obscure rap group and re-release this song. They could probably use some cash and Janet Reno could probably use the emotional support of hearing it on the radio.

As for the decision to invade the Branch Davidian compound, a maneuver that unexpectedly took the lives of several innocent but brainwashed white-trash cult members under the spell of a charismatic religious psycho freak leader who would escort you to the afterlife for a piece of your 12 year old daughters ass or a few semi-automatic rifles-too fucking bad they died. Perhaps we should be happy their possibly painful odyssey is over. But what's the big deal? Why are TV crews interviewing parents of dead cult members and glorifying their sadness? This only feeds the controversy over Janet Reno's actions and threatens the ouster of the first female attorney general this nation has ever had. Well, the loss of a loved one is tough but I didn't see any news camera rolling up to my place the last time a friend of mine died. and there have been many chances for well over ten years to catch that story at my house. So the place caught on fire, so 50 to 70 will-less white-trash Jesus freaks die-so fucking what? Who cares? It isn't half as heinous as the last administration's neglect of AIDS as an issue or reality, a wrong decision that's still claiming victims by the minute. and no one's standing trial for that. I'm glad Janet Reno handed down that order, and I find her defense of that decision graceful, honest and intelligent. Don't worry about Janet; she's the right woman for the job, and as Anquiette would say, "Mmmm-hmmm, Janet Reno... believe 'dat!''

Gee, rant on and on much? Afraid I did. In closing I would like to at least mention a bit about music, to validate the fact that I get an occasional free promo or two. I bought one CD recently to support the band that made it, a proper queer consumerist move for the rockin-est pack of dykes around, Tribe 8. Their disc, By the Time We Get to Colorado, has six songs, a great cover photo and a thick dose of punk-dyke anarchist angst running through each song. Lubricated by an unapologetic sense of humor, Tribe 8 strikes a fine balance of hating and laughing at others as well as hating and laughing at themselves. Tribe 8 is why I don't have to like Holly Near or pretend like I do ever again. Thank God for Tribe 8; now go buy their release on vinyl, cassette or CD. The vinyl format is only $5.99 at Rough Trade. Other "take-my-word-for-it" releases are the new three-song single by Hole, the lead cut of which is called, "My Beautiful Son." Three songs have never made me wish more for the release of an entire LP, which hopefully we'll see from Hole by summer. Another truly amazing disc is the Butthole Surfers' latest, Independent Worm Saloon, produced by Led Zeppelin bassist John Paul Jones. It's a brain-swelling guitar fest and a welcome change from their last two slightly lackluster releases. Buy it and give it some time to grow on you. If you own a bong you will most definitely enjoy Independent Worm Saloon- maybe even if you don't.

HAUNTED BY THE PAST

Finally, I'll close with a fun little blind item, an item designed to make the reader guess the identity of someone who will remain nameless to avoid any journalistic bitch fights or possible legal implications. Okay, here it is: On the closing night of Danielle Willis' Breakfast in the Flesh District, a one-person foray into the world of stripping. sex work and goth-damage, and the most successful long-running show in the Climate Theatre's history, guess what prominent, notorious porn king-whose recently slain brother figures prominently in Danielle's monologue, having once been her boss-was seen lurking outside the theater with the daughter of the deceased, hoping to join the cast party and hang out with Danielle? After all, it's been so long, and some meddlesome theater director probably went to a lot of trouble to arrange this unsavory meeting, seeing that the unnamed visitor is supposedly doing time in prison, we thought. Danielle, ever clever, dripping with integrity and still treated like a weirdo who does elaborate sex things for money, chose to skip the party and duck out with her friends for a less formal get-together at her house. She wanted to show us the coffin she sleeps in, order a pizza and listen to the fag neighbors upstairs install track lighting and rearrange the furniture-a fastidious late-night activity she claims they've never stopped doing since she moved in. 1 love San Francisco. Or do I just love hating it?