[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
ReplyDeleteSomehow, I suspect this comment may not even find its way to you - distant as these blogposts are in time, now - but I'll try, anyway.
ReplyDeleteYou briefly speak of folks you knew growing up: I was one of them - although we weren't at all close. I lived on El Dorado Road, just around its bend from its hilltop connection with King Drive (before King Drive got extended up the hill that was, then, only a dirt trail behind the Warren's house - across from whom I lived).
You also beautifully describe that 'ladder' of social status, and the notably rarified ability for most of us to associate beyond our placements on it. I acknowledge that. However, I somehow got awfully lucky:
I have what could be described as a technical completion of secondary school (meaning I achieved the 200 minimum credits required, but not more than a single year was spent in a public high school - and not G.E.D.) and, later, attended DVC for one year. I ended up living in Canada, and completed one year of university and dropped in the second one. That's it. No PhD here!
Yet... I worked (briefly) as a live-in secretary, in Beverly Hills, to a pair of married Hollywood writer-actors (well-known). I worked on Parliament Hill, in Ottawa, as a political assistant to four federal Members of Parliament (including one so-called 'junior' Cabinet minister... in addition to a short stint in the Toronto-located provincial parliament, as senior assistant to a backbencher, there).
Needless to say, those opportunities provided me with access to some rarified levels of celebrity; however, these persons certainly didn't in any way become friends. No, I was just an employee who got to be in their spaces.
Despite this level of reach, I nevertheless (at one other time) lived for two years at what was once - before it burned - 1906-built the Atlanta Hotel (92 Seventh Street, at Mission - adjacent to what was once the SF Greyhound depot, before that moved to TransBay terminal). It's now the site of the newer federal building. I also have lived in several other places which are now termed SROs (single resident occupancy) in Hollywood, and in Vancouver, where I now am - though not in an SRO these days. Such a dissonant existence is apparently possible.
I'm a year younger than you. We weren't in school together, so I no longer recall why or how I knew you. I do, though, very clearly recall that your family's Freeman Road home was SOOOOOO scary on Hallowe'en that I was unable to approach the front door, one year!
I knew you had siblings but never met any.
If you even see this, I've left no way to reach me back, although I've given a few vague clues as to my own identity. I just occasionally use this wonderful 'internet' for its ability to find people I once knew... I was surprised and very pleased to see the life you've been lucky enough to lead - as it shows up online, and it led me to this particular post, which I must say I quite fully identify with - as it happens. And, of course - as befits the background you have - you write so beautifully!