September 2006 Archives

I've been trying to write about my trip to SF and more specifically about the Folsom Street Fair which I'd made such a big, sloppy deal about over the last six weeks, but honestly, every post started veering off into some melancholy, melty thing about how ridiculous I am. How I get there from a balls-to-the-wall, Leather Pride festival with a ton of mostly naked and assless-chapped hairy homo's (and large, bare-breasted Lesbians of Fierceness) beats the hell out of me.

So I was in San Francisco for work and flew out last Sunday in time to attend the street fair. Jeff believes that it was too much of a coincidence that I just happen to have a work event out there during the time of the street fair, but I just call that providence. I had scheduled the work conference before I found out that it was falling over the street fair weekend but I can say that I thought it was an amazing coincidence, none-the-less.

Because I don't know anyone in San Francisco, I went to the fair alone and didn't know what to expect other than the aforementioned naked and assless-chapped hunks of meaty men, but who am I to let that deter me. Also, because I am a leather fan and observationalist rather than a participant in the leather culture, I was a total tourist at the event. Jeans and tee for me without a harness, jock, cock-ring, piercing, tat, or aviator sunglasses to make me in any way pass. As I've mentioned to a few people who have asked, the fair can be divided into two groups, participants and tourists; either you're at the party or you're watching it from TV and it was clear to me, in my frame of mind, that I was there alone, in unfamiliar territory, WAY overdressed and under accessorized. The fun of the fair, I believe, is it being taken in as a group event. It's a get drunk with your friends and abandon all hesitations and self-censorship kind of day. Swing out, sister. And I don't do that well at all, especially not alone. I'm a feeling introvert and my safe haven is standing in the middle of something that big and removing myself from it mentally as far as possible so I can observe how I'm feeling about the whole thing. It seemed extraordinarily fucked up at the time when I was able to actually watch and feel myself doing it. Of course the easy road would have been to just get beer. There was a lot of beer flowing and I could have easily lubricated myself back into a real person with enough beer but I could also recognize that beer would have been a crutch and dangerous because I could very easily have just slid way past good behavior.

So I walked the fair for two hours, peering and leering at everything and everyone, enjoying people enjoy themselves and their friends but feeling rather melancholy about being there alone. I saw everything I'd only ever read about or seen in pictures and it was pretty cool. The boundaries some people set for themselves simply amaze and confound me. Every time I walked past the naked, old guy handcuffed to the corner light post letting people alternatively flog, verbally abuse, or yank on his wang made me want to deconstruct him into finding out at what point is this something that someone feels they need to do, either to get off or get on with their lives. It was hilarious and wonderful that in this place, on that day specifically, it was part of the grand show and was awesome. I felt that way about everything I saw, whether I understood it or not. It was all just good color to a great day.

UPDATE: Bill from SF, who reminded me that infact I DO actually know someone in SF, sent me this picture as he was looking at Folsom pictures on Flickr. All I can say is the proof is in the pudding (Not Safe For Work! Seriously, not even if you work in a pork-processing factory)...I'm so deep in thought about seeing this guy (and reading "CRISCO PIG" written on his back and looking at the piggy tail butt-plug he had inserted) that I was oblivious to anything else. I swear I was having a better time then what the picture conveys...and damn, look at that gun I'm carrying around in my pants.

Two separate social situations in the past week, his 40th birthday party last weekend and his book signing party last night, have both produced attractive, vivacious women approaching me to ask whether anyone has every told me I look like George Michael.

What?

Of course with all his recent publicity, the trysts in the parks with fugly truckers, the sleeping in the car thing, I wasn't sure how to take the question. Well, that's not true, I knew how to take it if they meant, "did I know that I look like the recent George Michael", but they clarified they were talking about the post-Wham, solo George Michael.

So in the spirit of honesty, I will reveal a few things. The first is that even back in my late teens/early 20's, people would mention more times than I care to admit I favored GM. Every time I've ever played that who-I-remind-you-of celebrity game where you have a mystery celeb taped to your back and you go around asking people questions to deduce who they picked for you, inevitably I always get GM.

The second thing is that while I dont' actually see any similarities myself, I would be an idiot not to take this as a compliment. GM, back in his zenith of stardom, wasn't such a bad looking guy. In fact, his "Father Figure" video is one of my all-time favorites because I think he's a hot looking homo mofo. Now where did I store my big, dangly crucifix earring?

I was doing some shopping today because even I'm fed up with my lack of style and how schlubby I always feel I look, unless I'm in my crappy black suit at work which is on it's last legs as it is. So of course not having any business in Bloomingdales, that's where I end up, somehow quickly swept into the multi-leveled men's department like so much jetsum on a river. I'm deposited, quite by architectural/marketing flow, into the very white, very minimalistic Hugo Boss area.

I have no business being there, because it's an actual designer's name I recognize and if they are such a brand that even I know who they are, then I can't afford them. This is a very true fact. Somehow this space/time continuum maze in which I took a half an escalator down when I first walked in pooped me out a whole floor above where I started. Bewildered, I stumbled into the DKNY section. As with the Hugo Boss thing, I know I shouldn't be here. But I spot the half-lenth black overcoat I've been looking for. And it is GORGEOUS. Soft yet formed perfectly and exactly, exactly what I want. It's a super-sophistocated coat that fulfills my lust for a pea-coat but with more class. Of course the $800 price tag all but makes me throw up a bit in my mouth. Can that even be right? Can that even be not a little bit out of my range but so far out of any reasonable sense of responsible material consumerism that I start thinking about how mis-marked it must be? And then I look at it, closer. I look at the lining a bit and the seams, rubbing the fabric inbetween my fingers. I look at the inside tag and find it's some kind of badonkadonk wool...and then this:

"I could probably make one of these for myself, couldn't I?" Only to be followed with, "It's just a spot of sewing once you find the right fabric."

I'm so fucking fucked on this one. I mean, come ON.