Saturday, June 21, 2008
Duncan and I were on the Mission bus for Father's day listening to Guillermo Gomez-Pena comment on the vanilla hetero hipsters that displaced all the lesbians on Valencia street during the dot-com boomlet whilst Violeta Luna explicatively mimed the important points of his disquisition, the highest point being when she ascended the treads of the stairs to Mission Dolores on her knees, concomitantly scourging her back with a bouquet of roses. But his use of the word 'vanilla' reminded me of a story which I shall relate presently. This story tells of a time when Leslie Isaac accompanied me to one of the early Pink parties put on by the Mission Control people where we sat, untouched, observing the natives in their natural habitat. One of these locals, let's call him Mr A___, was sitting a few feet from us on the couch mounted by his wife in the reverse cowgirl position, her face planted in the uncovered and copious bosom of the host, wholeheartedly thrusting herself in a simple and straightforward but somehow agreeable rhythm. A few items of context: (1) I had just been on TV with Mr A___ taking about an upcoming performance and was intrigued to see him in this quite different scene, and (2) given the attractive and youthfully exuberant nature of the exhibition, the triad in question was subject to the gaze of about 10 other people all sitting quietly but intently about the room. After a few minutes of watching with the others, Leslie sighed quite loudly and whispered "this is so vanilla." Yes, dear Scarlett, we is powerfully jaded down here in the deepest darkest and most southerly parts of Frisco.