Bang Bang

20 years ago tonight, Seattle experienced the mini-version of the riots in L.A.. After the verdict in the Rodney King case had been read & news of the reaction in L.A. had reached Seattle, people were breaking windows & looting, but mostly the city was conducting business as usual.

I had stepped outside the restaurant where I was the weekend manager to drop some bags of garbage in the dumpster. I heard a sound like a child’s cap gun go off followed by a quick bright sound & the sting of metal. A car drove away down the small curvy side street.

I looked a few inches away from where I was standing to discover a small dent in the dumpster. I leaned over & picked up the bullet, still warm, & held it in my palm. It all came together in brain, I had just missed getting shot by a few inches. I still have that bullet. It is in a display case along with arrowheads, pins, shards & assorted jetsam & flotsam from my life.

My little case of treasures is in the middle foreground in this shot of my work space

I feel that I have used up my quota of personal violence, having experienced being mugged, shot, shot at & fag bashed during my considerably long life. None of those events compare to the freight induced by the release, 35years ago, of You Light Up My Life, recorded by Debbie Boone, which stayed at #1 for 10 weeks & became the most successful single of the 1970s. That was personal violence that I can still not recover from.

Sing The Sad Song Of Kurt Cobain

"Don’t tell me what I want to hear

Afraid of never knowing fear

Experience anything you need

I'll keep fighting jealousy

Until it's fucking gone."

I was living in Seattle when Grunge happened & young people around the globe embraced the “Seattle Sound” of sludgy guitar sound, fuzz & feedback. I became aware that the city was becoming the center of American culture for a decade. The look of angst & the raw sound jumped to the fashion world & a lifestyle of thrift shop flannel went international with the huge success of Nirvana’s album- Nevermind.  Amazing, this was 20 years ago.

Kurt Cobain’s music reflected his fractured childhood & disconnection from the world.  Kurt Cobain befriended a gay student at Aberdeen High School, & suffered bullying from straight students who concluded that Cobain was gay. He claimed that he liked having the identity of being gay because he didn't like people & when they thought he was gay people left him alone. Cobain: "I started being really proud of the fact that I was gay even though I wasn't". Cobain claimed that he was "gay in spirit" & "probably could be bisexual." He also stated that he used to spray paint "God Is Gay" on pickup trucks in Aberdeen. Cobain: “I am not gay, although I wish I were, just to piss off homophobes.”

The Husband & I passed through Aberdeen, 2 hours from Seattle, each time we went to our favorite spot on Washington’s Pacific beaches. Aberdeen should be, at a first easy glance, a touristy town with plenty of Victorian homes, or even an arts center with period, boarded-up warehouses & loft space. But the town, named for a dreary city in Scotland, has a perpetual grey, mist cloud of sadness hanging overhead. In 2005, a sign went up at the city limits, paid for by the Kurt Cobain Memorial: ‘Welcome to Aberdeen – Come As You Are’.

For a lot of the young people I supervise at my place of employment, Nirvana was the first music that they purchased. Nevermindcontributed to a period in music that, for a certain person of a certain age, has come to have lasting significance, because what was happening in Seattle in the 1990s.

Cobain was found dead at his home on Lake Washington on April 8, 1994, just a few blocks away from The Husband’s restaurant- Plenty. I was working there that day & we heard the sirens & the whirl of helicopters all day long. The staff were arriving in tears, some unable to work. Cobain’s ashes are scattered in the Wishkah River. He has no grave, fans visit Viretta Park  which borders the house where he lived with Courtney Love.

This world was just too much for tortured Kurt Cobain. He would have been 45 years old today.


I love this song. I would like to cover it. I believe it would translate well into a heartfelt saloon song:

What else should I be?

All apologies.

What else could I say?

Everyone is gay.

What else could I write?

I don't have the right.

What else should I be?

All Apologies.

In the sun

In the sun I feel as one

In the sun

In the sun

Married!

Buried!

I wish I was like you

Easily amused

Find my nest of salt

Everything is my fault

I'll take all the blame

I'll proceed from shame

Sunburn with freezer burn

Choking on the ashes of her enemy

In the sun

In the sun I feel as one

In the sun

In the sun

Married, Married, Married!

Buried!

All in all is all we are

Cobain

1990

One Degree Of Separation From Matt Dillon

I worked with him twice. He was every inch the gentleman, never mentioning our special moments together to the press. He could have chosen to have a special lunch in his trailer, but chose to sit with the other actors & the grips at a big table. He stayed to feed me his lines for the reverse shots, a generous gesture. He is funny, good looking, & gives off a true sexual heat.

 I might have wished to give the readers of my little spot on the Internet, some spicy anecdotes from my experiences of filming Drugstore Cowboy or Singles, but this is my most treasured Matt Dillon story: In the early 1990s, The Husband was working at an awesome antique store in Seattle’s Pike Place Market, repairing furniture & making displays. I had stopped in to visit & the Husband was gathered at the large front desk with the shop’s owner & a collection of assorted acquaintances. As the group made small talk, in strolled a solo Matt Dillon. Heads snapped & there was a low chatter of: “Oh my God, that is Matt Dillon! Really? I love him! Should we say something to him? What is Matt Dillon doing here?”

The Husband remarked: “Yeah, that’s him. Steve knows him, you know.” The hangers-on retort: “Yeah, right… sure he does." Dillon continued down one aisle & as he turned down the next & moved toward our group, when his head came up & we make eye contact.

Dillon smiled a crooked, come-hither, toothy grin, pointed at me & announced: “Yo, Steve!”. Heads whipped from Dillon to me & back to the actor. I attempted to be nonchalant as I crossed the store to spend a few moments chatting with the star. I then left him to shop on his own, then stopped by the front of the store to say good bye. The circle of Seattleites stood open mouthed as I made my exit with Matt Dillon tossing off: “Remember what I told you, Steve!  See ya soon, dude”.

I cannot reveal what he said to me & I have never encountered him again.

The never married Matt Dillon but he still looks yummy as he turns 48 years old today.

In the really terrific- About a Boy (2002), Hugh Grant’s character wears a black leather jacket that he liked to think made him look like Matt Dillon in Drugstore Cowboy when he goes on to meet his love interest. My favorite Matt Dillon film is Wild Things. If you have not seen this gem, I simply insist that you put it on your Netflix queue. It is a wicked little film with lots of twists & turns & full frontal Kevin Bacon in the shower. Be sure & stay with it through the ending credits.

Today in Post Apocalyptic Bohemian History

Presented by our agent on the day our house became ours- October 8th, 2001. Click on the image to enlarge.

Living in our beloved little cottage in the Wallingford neighborhood of Seattle, we loved to visit Portland for shopping, dining, & adventure. In the late summer 2001, before the world changed forever, the Husband & I were in Portland visiting friends. We had recently been given news by our very good friends, former next-door-neighbors, & landlords, of a sizable & shocking rent increase. Shocking, because we had lived in the cottage for 15 years, paying low rent, but improving the property with major construction, new windows & doors, decks & walkways, & a stunning & imaginative garden that would stop people who were passing by.


The rent increase was offered up by our landlord friends, a couple who we spent holidays with, traveled with, & gave our hearts to. They had explained that since their move to Mexico, the landlords felt that they were forced to get the best possible rent & no longer afford us a “deal”. Distressing news in any light, but complicated by the announcement that they would also be doing major construction, jacking the 700 square foot hovel up to accommodate their new mother-in-law unit. They would use the new daylight basement apartment when they were in Seattle.


The Husband & I were none to thrilled to pay almost twice as much to live in a major construction zone. After 15 years, we began to question improving someone else’s equity, & we began to explore the possibility of owning our own home. I took a one day class on house purchasing. When we received notice that the amount of our pre-qualified mortgage would get us nothing in Seattle (we could possibly get a studio condo way north or south of the city), we were disheartened.


We loved our house & our neighborhood. The Husband & I had a 20 year history in Seattle. We had decades worth of friends & acquaintances. We had employment, friends, & memories. Discussing our situation while driving around on a visit to Portland, the Husband bolted from our automobile in order to grab the flyer from the Plexiglas holder on a for sale sign of a sweet Portland Victorian with a rose garden. This only confused us. Had the listing left off a zero? You could purchase a quality home on Portland, Oregon for $160,000? We felt as if we were in a haze as we motored around Portland. The Husband suddenly demanded- “stop the car, pull over, pull over! Oh my God, oh my God… we are gonna move to Portland!?!”


I came to ask a handsome interesting gentleman on Gay.com for suggestions & advice about moving & living in this beautiful & cool city. This man insisted that the1st step to relocating to Portland would be to engage Celia as my real estate agent. Celia, along with her charming girlfriend, remain friends to this day. She never seemed to mind picking me up in the morning at Portland’s Union Station, showing 10 houses, & getting me back to the train in time to go back to Seattle.


After a few tries of this method, I knew that the Husband would need to be involved in this important life decision. He joined me for 2 days of house hunting. We hated every house we viewed. We were completely discombobulated, not feeling that we lived in the Seattle cottage & not visualizing living in Portland. Celia, the agent: “well based on all the houses you have seen, which one can we get you into? I am not going to be able to show you your dream house. You need to get into a home, let it increase in value, & in a few years we can look for your next one, taking our time to you find that special home”. Hmm… we didn’t know that it worked like that. We chose the house that seemed to be the best blank slate; the cleanest, least offensive residence that we could move into being householders.


We picked Post Apocalyptic Bohemia. We made an offer, then a counter offer that was accepted by the seller. We didn’t love the house. We cried. The Husband returned to Seattle, & gave a month’s notice at his job. I continued to travel by train between the 2 cities to deal with the business of house buying.

The front door & walkway, summer 2010

9 years ago, on this very day, our house closed & I received the keys. I went to the Title Company office with Celia. I was shaking & crying as I signed paper after paper, as myself, & then as the Husband, as his power of attorney. It was frightening & emotional to purchase our 1st home without my man by my side. To add to the emotion, the next day was our 22nd anniversary, & we would not be together. He was living in our old world & I was starting my 1st day in our new world, but we were separated by 3 hours & a ton of doubt.

This Really Happened To Me... Baby, You Can Drive My Car

Seattle, spring of 1978, the Husband is part owner in a unique grocery store, delicatessen, cafe with the clever name- Plenty, & as would be expected, he worked long, problem plagued days. I had joined him a few months earlier as the dining room director of Plenty, because quite frankly, they needed my help. Plenty was a great looking space- designed by the Husband, that served excellent, innovative American cooking to go or to eat in, but the table service suffered. I wanted Plenty to be the big success it deserved to be, & I knew just how to fix the problems. This ruffled a few feathers. But, I was a gifted dining room manager, & a deluxe, distinguished waiter. I had the dubious honor of having been named 1992 BEST WAITER IN SEATTLE by the Seattle Weekly. I would like to have been named best actor, or even best lay. The staff at Café Flora, my place of employment, razzed, ribbed & ridiculed me, so I couldn't actually take any pride in the honor. They even defaced the article with my picture on the bulletin board. That crew really knew how to keep me in my place.

I left my estimable position at Café Flora, to jump on board at the Husband’s venture. After a fagged out & frazzled 15 hour work day, my man & I were anxious to get to our car & get home to our cottage & our dogs. In the spot where we had parked the automobile was… nothing. The car was gone. Vanished. We ascertained that it had not been towed, there was no restrictions on parking where we had left the auto & no violations.We were weary & worn down & wanted nothing more than to get home, but apparently someone had stolen “Granny” (so named because she was a gift from the Husband’s grandmother when she was no longer able to drive). Granny was a 1982, 2-tone Chevrolet Caprice & she was as ugly as my husband was handsome. Granny was especially lovely because we were never able to find the source & fix her considerable oil leak, & many a catering order had spilled inside of her on the way to the deliveries. Granny was temperamental, crabby, leaky & stinky. I eventually became just like her. We didn’t like her much, but on this evening we really wanted to get home.

We reported Granny to the police as stolen & thought it was the end of the story. Stolen autos are rarely recovered & being a 4 wheeled piece of shit, we couldn’t imagine the car’s fate. As we would have it, Granny was recovered, with the thieves riding in it, caught red-handed. The auto thieves had torn out the dashboard & burned cigarettes into the unholy upholstery. The crew was 4 Afro-American girls, all under age except for the ring leader- Clinique. The court had written me, inquiring what sort of punishment (community service, restitution) I would want for the minors, if they were found guilty. I answered that I wanted them to fry. I wanted them to suffer. I wanted to pull out their press-on nails. We had worked a long trying day & we just wanted to get home & the girl gang had taken my only transportation.

On they day of the trial,  I represented myself; it wasn’t so tough- they stole my car, simple & clear, the young ladies explained to the magistrate: “that man gave us his car to use, if we would perform certain sex acts with him. We needed the car, & we were afraid to bring it back, because we didn’t want to have to do the sex stuff with him.”  I was gob-smacked at the audacity of the gang.  It was however, one of the great moments when being gay had its own payoff.  I addressed the magistrate & the girls’ lawyer & stated: “I am an adult gay male, in a 15 year relationship with the same man. I like men sexually. Not young black girls. I really like firemen, if you know any. My boyfriend & I own the car together… & I need the court to understand, I am not above loaning out the car in exchange for sexual favors, but I was thinking of something along the line of Keanu Reeves as the loanee.  In fact there are a number of men that I would let barrow the car with the understanding of special favors as payment. Please, please… don’t tell my boyfriend.”

The girls did their short time & the restitution, but the story does not end there. For years later, we would receive calls on our answering machine (remember answering machines?) with the voices & the giggling of young black girls: "Hey, you got a new car we can barrow, faggot?"

This gentleman may borrow my automobile, anytime.

NEVER FACE THE FACTS

I did a post at the end of October, on the birthday of, about my muse- Ruth Gordon. I went on to state that this amazing actor gave me my motto- Never Face The Facts, which is a quote from one of her volumes of memoirs. Yesterday, the Husband, who is a stunningly talented artist, was sifting through his box of images that he uses for his collages & assemblages, & I spotted this page from a magazine article about our house in Seattle. We lived, for 15 years, in this tiny 600 square foot cottage in the Wallingford neighborhood. This house received quite a bit of attention, not just for the design work, but because 2 men & 2 canines were able to live in this tiny space. The house had 2 rooms- The Room & The Other Room. We climbed a ladder to our bedroom built in the rafters of the attached garage (it was the original Boy's Fort). From May-October the cottage increased in square footage, as we moved furniture & rugs to the outdoor rooms that we had created using decks, walkways, lattice & plants. The house had originally been a house boat on Lake Union, & had been brought up the 4 blocks our tiny street & plopped on cinder blocks, to become a "mother-in-law" unit for the manner house owned by our landlords & dear friends- Robert & Margo. This was a happy & productive time for us, & we had wonderful neighbors, who became important friends & major players in our lives. The house was featured in a book- Flea Market Decorating by Merideth Press. It is lovely to have such a gratifying archive from this period. We still have most of this stuff, but in very different configurations. Post Apocalyptic Bohemia is a much different house & a much different life. We are older & changed, but the Husband still provides an interesting, beautiful & provocative place for us to call home. He are some photos (by Mike Jensen) from the book, you can click on any image to enlarge: