Catharsis

I haven't felt very gay lately. That's not saying that I don't feel pretty, or even witty. It just seems that my gay soul has taken a vacation or something.

I've never really fit into one, specific group. In high school, I was on the football team, but was never quite comfortable with all the macho posturing, grunting and farting. I was also in band, but my ears just couldn't tolerate that much John Philip Sousa. Yes, I do love a parade - but come on. The Theatre Guild had the most fun and energized group of people, but I could barely handle one game of charades, much less an entire fieldtrip's worth. The burnouts were probably the most interesting group to hang out with, and while I could still listen to Pink Floyd all day for the rest of my life, I prefered my Rush, Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Nectar and Yes in moderation.

When I came out, the gay club scene seemed like it provided a fun congregation, but I soon discovered that I couldn't accept crystal meth as my personal lord and savior. DJing put me in a priest-like position hovering above all the circuit boyz, but they soon discovered that I did not share their love of the holy Madonna - or Cher, or the Pet Shop Boys. So, my musical tastes allowed me to spin in a variety of straight clubs and raves, bringing me back to the gay scene only when the 'edgy' sect needed a fix.

Right about that time in St. Louis in the early to mid-nineties, I was in my early to mid-twenties, and the Bear scene was starting to come around. At that point, I actually felt like I had a home in that scene because, physically, I fit the role. The popular bear hangout at the time in St. Louie - The Outpost - had a great jukebox, the clientele were friendly, and when I walked in, I felt skinny.

But, all good things must come to an end.

It had been obvious for some time that flannel/jeans variations were numbered, but somewhere around the time of the invention of the word 'husbear' the whole bear scene jumped the shark. I suddenly didn't know if I was a bear, an otter, a cub, a wolf or a lemming. The bear vocabulary puzzled me too. 'Grrs' were tired and boring, and instead of a compliment, 'Woof' became the equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard.

Newsflash: Bears don't say 'Woof'. In fact, they don't even talk. And even if I were a talking bear, I still wouldn't fucking say it! WTF?!

All good scenes and subcultures eventually spawn merchandise. So, like too many love beads, CBGB t-shirts or Flock of Seagulls haircuts, all the bear references, memorablilia and tchotchkes started to get under my skin.

Case in point:

Somewhere around 1998, my friend Trey and I made a 3-day marathon roadtrip to Red Rocks in Denver to see Radiohead. At some point in the trip, we stopped at one of those roadside 'art galleries' where everything is carved out of cedar with a chainsaw. It was all the bear statues that caught our attention though. Bear totem poles. Bear door stops. Bears benches. There were cutesy little squatty bears eating honey and big fucking fat bears sleeping everywhere and we joked about buying one and bringing it back as a sarcastic gift to the owners of the new bear hangout in StL.

The night we got back, we went to the bar and the first thing we saw to the immediate left as we walked through the door was a 6 foot bear carved out of cedar.

I felt then as I do now: completely annoyed.

This past weekend, Larry and I found a copy of Cabaret for $10 and bought it. As I watched it, I realized something that had never presented itself to me before in hundreds of other viewings. Liza Minelli never had classic hollywood looks or a classic hollywood voice. Her hair was short and wasn't blond. She had her own look and flauted her independence in a manner that made socially isolated gay men adore her. She was - and still is - fabulous in a way that the circuit clones and bear/human hybrids cannot say of Madonna, Kelly Clarkson or Beyonce. And that truly is gay.

I don't know. I could be completely wrong... or bitter... or just a bit nostalgic. But I'm definitely not comparing myself to Liza. That would be scary. One possibility is that I'm still settling into my own identity. But then again, maybe I still feel isolated, lonely and disconnected out here in California. Either way, writing is cathartic, and once again I feel pretty, oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty...



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