“It is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.” -Oscar Wilde
As part of my plan of eventually relocating to Berlin, I have come to San Francisco. I could tell you that it’s because of the great German classes they have here or that I’ve got some good jobs lined up, but the real reason is because I had been drinking and driving a lot back home in LA. It was only a matter of time until I got busted by the cops or killed someone, so I sold my car and moved north. I now take streetcars to my language classes, bars and art openings.
My first opening in the city was at Space Gallery, a small, two-story gallery in the Polk Street area. The show was called “Vice.” As the title suggests, the art was supposed to represent people’s various addictions. As I walked toward the gallery, the street was full of transvestites and Muslims — all wearing dresses. There’s a mosque nearby and a trannie club with the marquee “DIVA’S!” in bright, red neon. That’s where all the “girls” were headed. It was an amazing sight.
Once inside the gallery, I immediately noticed that everyone there were friends and they all loved each other’s work. As I walked around and checked out the art, even with what little I know about what art is and isn’t, I couldn’t help but notice how boring it all was. There was one photo exhibit of people wearing S&M gear (yawn), a medicine cabinet hanging on the wall full of pills, illustrations of vaginas, (I kinda liked those), and other obvious choices. As I was finishing up my beer and getting ready to leave I was approached. “Hi there. You’re Scott’s friend, Kurt, right?”
“Yes. I remember you. What do you think of the show?”
“All I know is that it’s 9:30 and everyone is leaving. Not a good sign.”
“Are you one of the artists?” I asked him. “Naw, I live down the street. You want to come over? I got some pot cookies.” I thought about it for a second. I was bored. “Sure!”
We walked about four blocks up to his building. “Sorry for the mess. Let’s hang out on the couch.” On the way to the couch I detoured to the bathroom. I noticed small shiny packets lying all over the floor in front of the sink. They looked like little dead fish that had jumped out of the tub. After I zipped up, I picked one up. It was a topical medicine, Androgel. I put the spent packet down and returned to the couch. There was a very muscular black man on TV. Apparently he was a rap musician and was being investigated for steroid use. “They’re trying to nail this guy for buying steroids. He’s probably just using Androgel. Everyone’s doing it. You know, testosterone gel.”
“Is that what I saw in your bathroom? Are you using it?” I asked.
“Yeah. I get it from my friend. He’s a transgender guy. He gets it for free from his insurance and he sells me a little. I love it. It makes me feel like I’m thirteen again!”
“Your ‘transgender’ friend?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know how it is up here. He used to be a woman.”
I realize the City has a sizable population of them here. I have no problem with it myself. Hell, I thought I was transexual when I was 13.
I started telling my new friend how I wanted to be Pat Benetar. I used to wear my hair like her’s and sport really tight T-shirts. I would walk around sticking my lower jaw out as though I had an under bite like her. Then about a year later I changed it up and tried to look like Chrissie Hynde. I dyed my hair dark brown and wore bangs low over my eyes the way she does. For some reason no one ever said anything. I guess my mom thought it was a phase. My poor mom.
My friend was laughing pretty hard at this point. “Oh no! That’s brilliant!” The cookies were starting to hit me as I remembered my teens. I thought, what would my 13-year-old self think of me now — 40-years-old with no job, drunk every night and going to art shows surrounded by transvestites and Muslims? And then it came to me. I was a pretty smart kid. I would’ve said: “Well, all I do is sit in my room, smoking pot and listening to records. I sneak pain pills out of my mom’s purse and pop them while I put on her clothes and lip-synch to The Pretenders.
The air is full of hairspray, mist from the beach, car exhaust, pizza, cum and new records out of their sleeves. I realized, I’m still there. Only this time we gotta use some gel.
Posts
