[Note: if you read yesterday's post before I managed to add the video at the end, please scroll down and watch it. My heart is too full to say more.]
When I “came out” -- how odd that the term for identifying myself as homosexual should make me sound like a former debutante -- or not -- one of the great things that happened was being initiated into the lore of the tribe. In those days (yes, children, it was “When Dinosaurs Roamed the Earth”), older gay men were eager to pass on to us young’uns the oral history, the Mysteries, as it were, of our sect.
I have no idea whether this oral tradition still exists. I suspect that it died out rather quickly with the advent of bourgeois faggotry, by which I mean the glossy magazines, television shows, and -- that indispensable sign of a group having been co-opted by the money culture -- advertisements targeted at them as a niche market, portraying them as youthful-at-any-age, pretty, and stylish consumers. If so, I am particularly grateful for the privilege of having been heir to a long-ago kingdom of fairies.
So at the risk of apostasy, let me share a few tid-bits of what was poured into my young ears by The Ancients when I came of age: Milton Berle had the biggest dick in Hollywood. Rock Hudson -- also horse-hung -- loved taking it up the ass. One must learn and be able to recite “The Women”, “Stagedoor”, and Ruth Draper’s “The Italian Lesson” or risk having your "Gay Card" taken away. Cary Grant and Randolph Scott were lovers. Guys who wear leather and ride motorcycles spend most of their time exchanging recipes. Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel were lovers.
[OK, listen to "The Only Living Boy in New York" and remember that these guys called themselves "Tom and Jerry" on their first record. If that's not a break-up song, I'm Ethel Merman.]
Much of this oral tradition (why do I feel like I am punning all the time?) consisted of a roster of famous men who had huge penises. In addition to the aforementioned, one heard of the prodigious endowments of Yule Brenner, Frank Sinatra, et al. More importantly -- and, yes, one also learned that “important” is French for “big” -- one heard wonderful anecdotes and thereby inherited a sense of the wit that made our kind so eagerly pursued by the best hostesses in society.
For example, Noel Coward, whose ability to turn an awkward moment into a bon mot made him the source of more of these stories than I can remember, was once being followed about a cocktail party by a good-looking young man. The youth said nothing but trailed close behind Coward and edged as close as possible to him whenever Coward stood still. Eventually irritated beyond any ability of maintain his usual polite composure, Coward turned to face the young man and declared, “Young man! Sharing a sexual vice does NOT amount to a social introduction!”
But, of course, it did. I have known -- and known well -- a Trotskyite steel worker, who along with his brutal physical labor (God, did that man have a body!) worked relentlessly to convert his fellow laborers to the gospel of the Socialist Workers Party, and I have known the Ambassador to Luxembourg. I have dined with Virgil Thompson, Madeline (“Jackie”) Horne, James Merrill, Phillipa Foote, Edmund White, Stephen Spinella, Felice Picano, Coretta Scott King, and Paul Rudnick. I have known people from all strata of our society. Furthermore, I have been able to move back and forth, up and down, among the classes, something that is extremely rare, for the structure of class has, like time, an arrow: once you set foot on that ladder moving either up or down, you seldom get a chance to change direction.
I do not think that any of the straight guys I grew up with could have had the range of acquaintances that I have had. A few of them, I know, have risen to higher and higher planes and moved in ever-more-glamorous, powerful, and wealthy circles. A few have also foundered, one in particular about whom the last thing I heard was that he had been spotted dumpster-diving in Berkeley -- and that was 40 years ago. But I believe that not one of those normal people has moved with ease in the company both of the mighty and of the downtrodden, and moved with ease among every class of person between those extremes, as I have.
And that has been a privilege of the greatest order.
When I “came out” -- how odd that the term for identifying myself as homosexual should make me sound like a former debutante -- or not -- one of the great things that happened was being initiated into the lore of the tribe. In those days (yes, children, it was “When Dinosaurs Roamed the Earth”), older gay men were eager to pass on to us young’uns the oral history, the Mysteries, as it were, of our sect.
I have no idea whether this oral tradition still exists. I suspect that it died out rather quickly with the advent of bourgeois faggotry, by which I mean the glossy magazines, television shows, and -- that indispensable sign of a group having been co-opted by the money culture -- advertisements targeted at them as a niche market, portraying them as youthful-at-any-age, pretty, and stylish consumers. If so, I am particularly grateful for the privilege of having been heir to a long-ago kingdom of fairies.
So at the risk of apostasy, let me share a few tid-bits of what was poured into my young ears by The Ancients when I came of age: Milton Berle had the biggest dick in Hollywood. Rock Hudson -- also horse-hung -- loved taking it up the ass. One must learn and be able to recite “The Women”, “Stagedoor”, and Ruth Draper’s “The Italian Lesson” or risk having your "Gay Card" taken away. Cary Grant and Randolph Scott were lovers. Guys who wear leather and ride motorcycles spend most of their time exchanging recipes. Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel were lovers.
[OK, listen to "The Only Living Boy in New York" and remember that these guys called themselves "Tom and Jerry" on their first record. If that's not a break-up song, I'm Ethel Merman.]
Much of this oral tradition (why do I feel like I am punning all the time?) consisted of a roster of famous men who had huge penises. In addition to the aforementioned, one heard of the prodigious endowments of Yule Brenner, Frank Sinatra, et al. More importantly -- and, yes, one also learned that “important” is French for “big” -- one heard wonderful anecdotes and thereby inherited a sense of the wit that made our kind so eagerly pursued by the best hostesses in society.
For example, Noel Coward, whose ability to turn an awkward moment into a bon mot made him the source of more of these stories than I can remember, was once being followed about a cocktail party by a good-looking young man. The youth said nothing but trailed close behind Coward and edged as close as possible to him whenever Coward stood still. Eventually irritated beyond any ability of maintain his usual polite composure, Coward turned to face the young man and declared, “Young man! Sharing a sexual vice does NOT amount to a social introduction!”
But, of course, it did. I have known -- and known well -- a Trotskyite steel worker, who along with his brutal physical labor (God, did that man have a body!) worked relentlessly to convert his fellow laborers to the gospel of the Socialist Workers Party, and I have known the Ambassador to Luxembourg. I have dined with Virgil Thompson, Madeline (“Jackie”) Horne, James Merrill, Phillipa Foote, Edmund White, Stephen Spinella, Felice Picano, Coretta Scott King, and Paul Rudnick. I have known people from all strata of our society. Furthermore, I have been able to move back and forth, up and down, among the classes, something that is extremely rare, for the structure of class has, like time, an arrow: once you set foot on that ladder moving either up or down, you seldom get a chance to change direction.
I do not think that any of the straight guys I grew up with could have had the range of acquaintances that I have had. A few of them, I know, have risen to higher and higher planes and moved in ever-more-glamorous, powerful, and wealthy circles. A few have also foundered, one in particular about whom the last thing I heard was that he had been spotted dumpster-diving in Berkeley -- and that was 40 years ago. But I believe that not one of those normal people has moved with ease in the company both of the mighty and of the downtrodden, and moved with ease among every class of person between those extremes, as I have.
And that has been a privilege of the greatest order.
Mr. Tharsing, I should have realized that it would be your words which would lead me back to you. Guitar Steve, SF, 415-879-3808
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