Further Tales of the City

I'm not quite sure how this all started but I'm kind of obsessed with prisons and prison sex. (Also public school boys and fagging, but that's a different story.) A framed poster of Andy Warhol's film Prison takes pride of place above the TV in my sitting room, then there's my in-depth knowledge of Prisoner Cell Block H and Bad Girls ... basically, all this means that a trip to Alcatraz was essential.

After a short boat trip across from the mainland, you arrive in a courtyard where the original bad lads of olden days would have been delivered to do their stretch. You walk up a steep incline and then go inside the prison and can visit the cells, the visiting area and also get a look into the control room.

There were no dormitories, each prisoner was allocated their own tiny cell containing a bed, a shelf, a toilet and a small sink. The communals areas were the dining hall and the recreation area out at the back. The rules of the prison stated, "You are entitled to food, clothing, shelter and medical care. Anything else you get is a privilege." The recreation area was the most popular privilege request. There was a library but prisoners weren't allowed to visit it, they could request books and they would then be delivered to their cell. There was no washing area so people must have got a bit whiffy.

When you visit the prison you get a head set that you wear walking around and you get to listen to stories about some of the inmates and some of the escapes that were attempted. There's also sound bites of the big heavy gates clanging shut and footsteps walking up and down the corridors. It would be nice to get the chance to go there alone, or just in a small group because, of course, other pesky people are there too and insist on wittering and taking photos of everything so you're unable to lose yourself and be fully immersed in the experience.

I stood in a cell for a few minutes but was more impressed with the control room and the nice smart uniform that the prison officers used to wear. On the way out I bought a badge that qualifies me as an Alcatraz Correctional Officer. It's official, so don't mess with me, right?

Making Ladies

After the seriousness and squalor of Alcatraz, it seemed logical to end the day with a camp laugh. I came across Veronica Klaus while stalking Trannyshackers on My Space, she is a jazz singer and performance artist who bases her show, Family Jewels, around stories from her childhood as a "big boned girly-boy" and her sex change.

The delivery is a little bit "jazz hands", her stories are personal and honest, but she performs them in character which loses a little of their poignancy, but she's also witty, confident and self-effacing. She makes a good point in refusing to tell us her male name, "because you'll whisper it whenever you see me and you might be tempted to think that was the real me." Then she talks about her journey of self discovery and how she set about contructing herself.

She is certainly a striking vision - tall and statuesque with beautiful copper hair and large breasts. I loved the line about her hair colour - "it's not natural but it is REAL." I think I lot of her look was inspired by Bette Midler who she cites as a major influence and talks of the many lonely teenage hours she would spend listening to Bette's music.

Veronica's biggest talent is as a singer, she has a rich, powerful voice that lends itself perfectly to the jazz standards and cabaret tunes she performs. She even made the Carpenters song she sang sound sexy. You can listen to some clips on her MySpace.

More Tales of the City

Wednesday was a day for quiet contemplation - cable car rides, hanging out on the outskirts of the city and going to see the sea lions at Fisherman's Wharf. I was slightly worried that there seemed to be less of them than last time, I'd hate to think of them dying out. Mind you, all they seem to do is just lie there all day going "arf", they don't get much privacy for mating and they don't really look like they could be arsed. Still, I gazed at them adoringly for half an hour or so, getting excited if one fell off the raft into the water and had to irritatedly clamber back up again. I also bought a toy one to keep as a pet.

Suicide Blonde

In the evening I decided upon a trip to the theatre. Hedda Gabler was playing opposite the hotel and, in keeping with my other theatrical outings, the poster looked good so I decided to go. The play is about a woman who feels trapped by her life and the limitations if offers her. She is bored and uninspired by the people who surround her and has married a rich man in the hope that his money will buy her some happiness. Six months into the marriage she is frustrated by the lack of attention that he pays her and, when a business deal looks to be in jeopardy, she finds she may not have married a rich man after all.

She sets about a plan of manipulation to ruin the people around her and ultimately reward herself. All the time she struggles with her combined feelings of admiration and envy for those that are taking control of there own lives. She admires her friend who has left her husband and is determined to make a stand on her own, but she can't contain her loathing at seeing somebody who has the courage to do what she feels she is unable to do.

When she goads a male friend into killing himself, she is impressed when he goes ahead and does so. She is in awe of the fact that he actually *did* something and didn't just wait for life to happen. You get the impression she was spoiled as a child and has not been taught how to control her own circumstance. It's important not to watch the play with 21st century eyes and wonder why she doesn't just get up off the couch and make changes, but in 1890, when Ibsen wrote the play, the gender boundaries where different and women were bound by the restrictions enforced by their biological sex. Hedder despises this position and longs for the freedom that is afforded to men, but they laugh when she asks if she might join them.

When one of her friends out smarts her and she finds herself trapped by her own attempts at manipulation, Hedda finally takes control and reaches for her pistol. Ending her life may be the only decision she ever made unaided.

Tales of the City

Bow wow wow yippee-oh yippee-ay, I have found my spiritual home. It’s a little pet store on Castro Street called Best In Show, all the queens take their pampered pooches there to buy them doggie treats and toys. The queens coo, the doggies yelp, and it’s all just so beautifully moving. In fact my new favourite thing is seeing big butch bears with piercings and tattoos, cradling their little terriers in their arms because we wouldn’t want the poor dears to damage their precious paws by actually walking!

I know in my heart that if I could have a job at Best in Show and rent a nice flat upstairs, I could live out my days in contentment. I would make occasional trips to the wharf to see the sea, and on Tuesdays I would go to 9th St for Trannyshack, but mostly I would stay cocooned between 14th and Castro in my nice little rainbow flagged world and I would rarely want for a thing.

So yes, dear readers, I am back. And while I can’t say I’m glad to be home, my feet hurt. Everytime I go away it seems I completely forget I will get blisters and calf cramps and generally agonising trotters. If I somehow managed to bear that in mind I probably wouldn’t bugger myself my waking up on the first morning and thinking, “right, I’ll hit the streets at 10, stop of for a brief lunch about 1, return to the shops, back to the hotel about 6.30 then get changed and walk down to Trannyshack until 2.30am." Still, that’s what I did and now I have the scars to prove it.

There were many and varied highlights to my trip, I will set about them in a chronological way. Feel free to mix a cocktail and help yourself to nibbles, there’ll be more to follow soon. But first of all it started with this …

Dirty Cash

On Tuesday I awoke with just one thing in mind – SHOPPING. With Macy’s a gnat’s spit from the hotel and a virgin holiday budget to defile, my leopard skin Docs were a blur of excitement as I pounded my way down Geary Street. Having bagged a couple of pairs of Calvin Klein jeans in women’s wear, I crossed over the street to the men’s shop. It was here I was to experience pain. The revolving doors spat me cruelly into an endless mockery of ties. Ties of every hue and colour combination, ties of every pattern and print imaginable. Ties stretching an endless rainbow as far as the eye could see, and each with a price tag that would make a grown dyke weep.

Like a child denied Christmas I woefully fingered the delectable silk. I ached with longing for a majestic black prince that was adorned with diamante and pale emerald in a perfect diagonal stripe, but with a $440 price tag, I knew our union was never to be. Instead I purchased a bargain price shirt then limped to Loehmanns (think small-scale TK Maxx) where black and silver paisley neckwear was secured for a very reasonable price. My attire for the evening was set.

My Lady Story

Drumroll please, it is now time to recount my pilgrimage to TRANNYSHACK!! I had been warned that the place was small, but it was even teenier than I imagined. The stage is about the size of postage stamp and yet so much talent and inspirational performance has taken place in this seemingly innocuous back street venue. For their 11th anniversary show it was no holds barred and they were showcasing the best acts of the last year, I couldn’t have picked a better week to visit.

Just after midnight Heklina appeared to perform Stevie Nicks, a vision in ice-white hair and a beautiful glittery shawl - “You can’t do Stevie without a shawl”. She was flanked by two adorable backing dancers and one of them almost made me lactate - a beautiful, sweet, doe-eyed boy called Little John who was covered in glitter and wearing a unicorn horn. He was so heartbreakingly perfect I could have sworn, at that moment, that he was an angel plucked down from the sky and lent to the mere mortals for the evening. Such radiance is rarely witnessed, and here are some of my other favourite bits …



Putanesca is my penpal on MySpace and she wears the biggest wigs in the world. She did a fabulous version of Proud Mary then came back later for some hosting. Then there was Rentecca who mimed to You’re Gorgeous while spitting out entrails between her teeth, later she was joined by a boy with a very pooey bot-bot who fancied a bit of rimming. Juanita Moore shared a massive spliff with the audience while singing a song I didn’t recognise, then three queens performed the full career of Pat Benetar entirely in drag.

As usual my heart burst for Kiddie. I don’t quite know why but I ADORE this queen. She is bald, beautiful, frustratingly enigmatic and a bitch to take a decent on-stage picture of, but every new image I find brings on tingles of excitement and watching her perform I am in heaven. She did a murder piece accompanied by another Trannyshack regular, Mama Swamp. There were several wig changes, some comedy glasses and a gun, but I was a little too giddy to remember it clearly.

I spent the entire evening grinning from ear to ear, aided in no small amount by Wild Turkey, and am thrilled that Heklina announced she'll be back in London in May. She claims the London drag scene needs her, and I think she might be right.

I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane

Well, after all the anticipation I'm packing my bags and flying off to San Francisco TOMORROW. SCREAM !!

It's suddenly come around so fast that I haven't had time to plan an itinerary. I'm definitely going on Alcatraz, spending my birthday at the Zoo and going to see Veronica Klaus. Oh, and there's Trannyshack of course. I've kind of promised to put on a slide show of my drag queen stalking at VauxhallVille when I return. We'll have to see how my nerve holds and whether I consume enough alcohol to start collecting "this is me and (insert name of drag queen)" photos. I also intend to buy LOTS of new clothes.

Although I'm only there for eight days I have booked a massive two weeks off work. I've used them wisely so far. On Friday night I had a haircut then a few large Pinot's at Retro, then yesterday I couldn't resist another trip to Taming of the Shrew before it closes at the Old Vic. I was a little disappointed that my favourite actor, Simon Scardifield who plays Katharine, was off sick. His delivery of the character was brattish at the beginning then beautifully deadpan when she had been beaten into submission by her bullying husband. I didn't feel that Jon Trenchard pulled it off quite so well in yesterday's production, but this was countered by Joe Flynn being fabulous as Bianca. He made a superb job of portraying her as a rather spoiled teenage girl.

Tall Paul was my escort for the play and afterwards he very kindly took me for pizza and red wine as a birthday gift. We even had pudding, a rare eating out treat!

When I get back from SF I've got a birthday do at Trannyshack UK (you coming?), Blondie tribute night at VauxhallVille and a trip to see The Seagull, starring the rather lovely Kristen Scott-Thomas. So there'll be lots of blogs to look forward to, you lucky readers. But in the meantime there's just this... *starts gentle music* Bye!!

Scandalous

A few weeks ago I got a message from Justin Bond, congratulating me on inspiring Judi Dench’s role in Notes on a Scandal. At first I thought it was just because she plays a stalker, but having seen the film I realise his observation was more astute. She’s not just an obsessive, she’s also a misanthropic, bitter old bat. It was like watching a projection of myself in 20 years time, the resemblance was uncanny!

Judi’s character is Barbara, a school teacher who hates her pupils - “the future generation of shop assistants and plumbers” – hates her fellow teachers and isn’t all that keen on anyone else, come to think of it. When the waspish Sheba (Cate Blanchett) appears, Barbara initially dismisses her as fey, but when they speak for the first time she comes over all soppy and her thoughts turn to sins of the flesh.

Sadly Sheba starts banging a 15-year-old pupil and Barbara’s not a woman to be scorned. She decides she’s going to tell the headmaster but then stumbles on a more cunning plan. Why, she can use her knowledge of the affair to manipulate Sheba and trap her into becoming a friend in exchange for keeping her mouth shut. I like her style. Soon she has Sheba at her beck and call and is regularly invited to tea. Perfect! If it wasn’t for the pesky husband and children getting in the way…

Sheba makes the deadly mistake of being unsupportive when Barbara loses her cat, and for this she will have to pay. News of her tawdry affair is soon exposed and all manner of unpleasantness ensues. Sheba’s family is torn apart, her career is ruined and who does she have to turn to? Dear old Babs! In a Kathy Bates-type situation, Sheba is soon holed up in Barbara’s spare room, away from the glare of the press but right under the lecherous eye of the lip-licking, pant wetting nut-job who attends to her every need.

As you can imagine, it was never going to last. Barbara’s mistake was elementary – she kept evidence. Oh silly girl. Her regularly updated diary gave a day-by-day account of her stalking progress, not only with Sheba but also with her previous desire – a woman who moved towns to get away from her, especially after Barbara sent her fiancé a wreath.

So Sheba discovers the hideous truth of her deception and amidst much wailing and mascara running, she makes her bid for escape. Poor Barbara is once again alone, but thankfully not for long. She’s soon back to her bad old ways, salivating over a honey she bumps into on a park bench. You can’t keep a good stalker down.

Love is a Dog from Hell

Yesterday Toblarina and I went to see Low Life, a puppet show by Blind Summit Theatre inspired by the work of Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is my favourite non-queer writer, and possibly my favourite writer of all time. A deadbeat and a drunk, he was largely unemployable and rejected most of the values of conventional society. So long as he had a roof over his head, he didn't see the point in breaking his back just to buy a nice car or keep up with the Joneses, and had no real dreams of settling down.

Instead, he spent his time in whiskey bars, trying to make good as a writer, and sustaining his income by slacking his way through a position with the post office. He greeted the world with a misanthropic glare but was never more disparaging about anyone than he was about himself.

I think I kind of expected the puppet show to act out parts of his work, but instead they took his inspiration to produce characters of their own to present their hour-long snatch of life set in a back street bar.

The first character was a non-speaking barfly who refused to be separated from his beer, then we met the cleaner who arrived for her shift and then 20 minutes later sat down to lose herself in the pages of a good novel. One of my favourites was the wide-boy cockney plumber who turned up to fix a burst pipe with lots of “ooh yeah, soon ‘ave that sorted” type of remarks.

There was no attempt made to hide the fact that these were puppets, and their controllers where not hidden, they took the part of narrators and actors who conversed with the puppets and they were all an equal part of the show. In some ways this made the puppets seem all the more real - because we weren’t being asked to accept an illusion, we forgot that there was even one present.

My favourite clip was a series of little blue men performing a spy story loosely based on Bukowski’s novel Pulp, his only non-autobiographical work. About 30 different small puppets where banged up onto the table to deliver a fast moving dialogue with a new character introduced about every 2 seconds. A masterpiece of timing and wit.

At the end we met Miranda, a fallen glamour queen who sang about her loneliness while drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. She seemed very much the kind of woman the Bukowski would have fallen for, or at least regarded as a kindred spirit.

www.blindsummit.com

Men in Frocks: The Return

Yesterday I was back at the Old Vic for the Propeller production of Twelfth Night – a tale of sibling bereavement and men wooing women.

The set was darker than for Taming of the Shrew, but the performance was equally bright and uplifting with some hilarious comedy moments and contemporary costume accessories.

The play revolves around Olivia, mourning for her dead brother and being courted by three suitors. One of them, Malvolio, is unpopular with her friends and waiting staff, so they trick him into meeting her wearing yellow stockings and a permanent smile.

The tricking scene is the funniest, with the entire cast on stage hiding behind moving bushes and a comedy statue, snickering loudly as Malvolio reads aloud from a letter he has found, allegedly from Olivia, that encourages him to don this ridiculous attire.

He next appears looking slightly nervous to meet with his lady, then proudly rips off his black trousers to reveal not only the stockings, but an enormous studded, leather codpiece from Clone Zone.

Meanwhile Olivia has fallen for a messenger, Cesario, who is actually a woman, Viola, who disguised herself as a man after being washed ashore shipwrecked and believing her twin brother, Sebastian, to be dead.

Sebastian reappears and is amazed at the sudden affection he receives from Olivia, who believes him to be Cesario, but all is revealed as the two are wed and the twins are reunited at the end.

The productions have received a lot of press for the cross-dressing aspects of the shows, but, of course, that’s exactly how they would have been performed in Shakespeare’s day. In fact, while no-one quite seems to know what the origins of the word “drag” are, it is widely believed it dates from Shakespearean plays where he would write D.R.A.G. in the margin to clarify that the actor should be dressed as a girl.

Shakespeare believed that gender could be performed and in Propeller's Twelfth Night, more so than in Shrew, this became a proven fact. In Shrew the female characters are slightly caricatured - Katherine is brattish and Bianca is geeky - but in Twelfth Night, Olivia and her maid, Maria, are played “straight” and it’s not just about the putting on of female costumes. There are subtle mannerisms and movements that all help to create the feminine illusion, and while neither of the actors wore wigs and had typically male physiques, the fact that they were presented as women could not be questioned. In fact, Dugald Bruce-Lockhart’s Olivia reminded me very much of Dorothy from the Golden Girls.

I hope the company come back soon with other productions, while I’m now sold on Shakespeare I’m still not sure I could take it in without the energy and colour that they add to their performance. I very much look forward to seeing more.

Back in the (Gay) Day

February is LGBT History Month. I wrote about this event and published it as the top story on the tedious Council-day-job website. Needless to say, a few hours later I was asked to move it to a less prominent position. The wimp who runs the press office, who is also gay, got scared in case “the leader” didn’t like it. Apparently he (the leader) can’t even say the words “gay” or “lesbian”. Isn’t that nice? The man in charge of an environment that preaches integration, diversity and tolerance is a raving homophobe. Such a shame there’s a queer pub right opposite the Town Hall, it must make the poor dear weep. I hope he can see it from his office.

My own LGBT history began, as I may have mentioned before, at Jodys in Liverpool. It was a club near Moorfields station that was gay upstairs and goth downstairs. I met lots of new friends there and also met up with a few of the other freaks I'd gone to school with but never spoken a word to before. Annoying how you sometimes discover kindred spirits after the situation where you needed them.

There would always be a cluster of Gary Numan fans downstairs in the goth room. They dressed in suits with the blue and red striped tie that Gary used to wear. They also had their nails painted white with a black stripe that was a look he must have had at some point. They would mostly just sit and stare moodily around the room until the moment every week when Cars came on. Then they would suddenly move to the dance floor and do the sway from side to side and swing your arm across your body dance that Gary did. Then they’d all go and sit back down again.

Upstairs they played hi-energy and Divine, Holly Johnson would be dancing around. I don’t remember it being too druggy, but maybe I just didn’t notice. I do remember there were always lots of poppers. Somebody gave me some once and it made me feel about 20 feet tall, then 10 minutes later I just felt tired. I think that’s actually what put me off the drug scene, I was much happier with a bottle of lager.

Another thing I remember is a small number of girls who would arrive in long raincoats and then strip down to a bikini and high heels and just sort of … stand there. I never really understood what they got out of it. One of them was very slim and shapely with long blond hair, she said that posing in bikini made her feel good. Another was a short girl with a massive upright hairdo. Her name was Sonia and she ended up appearing in one of the Dead or Alive videos, I think she was in Frankie’s Relax one too, in a cage.

Of course, the Goths all had huge, huge hair. My first sort-of girlfriend, Laura, who I met at Jody’s, had a mass of black hair and looked a bit like Patricia Morrison. We had a fumbly teenage relationship for a few months until she got a job someplace where were her aunty lived and left without saying goodbye. To be honest, I got over it quite quickly.

Along with Jody’s we would go to Planet X – a basement goth club run by a face-on-the-scene called Doreen Inevitable. She had previously worked at Erics and was a friend of Geoff and Annie who ran Probe Records, my Saturday afternoon hang-out where Pete and Lynne Burns used to work. I remember the opening night they had really gone to town, putting cobwebs and fake blood on the walls and rubber skulls and dismembered hands on the tables and ledges. The decorations gradually diminished, as the thankless punters would take them home. Including me who kept my rubber hand with pride for years to come.

On Sundays we’d go to Macs on Bold Street. It was a full-on old-school gay club, mostly men and nearly all of them wore check shirts, jeans or leather chaps and the most enormous handlebar moustaches. There was also the handkerchief in the back pocket code going on. I can’t remember what many of them meant now, but can you believe there’s a fabulous little website that tells you all about it?!

Macs was a really friendly place, there’s something about Sunday night that always pulls the nicest crowd – Marvellous was the same. It takes a bit more effort to go out on a Sunday, and those that make it are focused on having a good time. I would see Frankie’s Paul Rutherford there, and assorted members of Dead or Alive. Paul and I were friends for a while but then he blanked me after he got famous. Oh well.

I remember this time as being really exciting, lots of people to meet and things to discover. It was definitely a formative period and I don’t know what I would have done without these places. It’s why I believe so passionately that gay space should continue, not just for me but for the next generations that need to find their way and develop a sense of belonging. For the sake of our history and our future, we need to maintain an identity.