Wow. I believe it’s been years since my last post. I was just reminded of this blog by the real Jethro Scott, who is British, and who I didn’t know about until this morning.

“Jethro” came about because once upon a time I gave a friend of mine a hillbilly last name in my address book, then forgot about it and tried to tell her it was her idea, or her real last name. We had a good laugh and my appreciation for the charm of hillbilly culture was renewed. Later, when I started making plans to move to SF, I entered a phase of personal transformation and in the footsteps of some people I knew there, decided to adopt a new identity. I became Beverly Hillbilly-inspired Jethro on this blog and in San Francisco for about five seconds (while I was mildly ridiculed by those same people), with the middle-ish last-ish name of Scott as terribly improbable and fondly reminiscent of my beloved Scottish-American ex-boyfriend who drove away — leaving me in the rain — never to be seen again.

I have to say I thoroughly enjoy reading my own writing. It’s a shame it’s so time-consuming, otherwise I’d post more. You probably won’t be hearing much from me for a while since I’ve become addicted to the study of philosophy and queer theory (Though I’ve grown to hate that term. It’s like AIDS killed our heart and left us with a crippled brain, paving the way for “queer theory”. I’m actually focusing on pre-”queer theory” writings — Edward Carpenter through Foucault.).

Till later!

Love,

Jethro

This is what it feels like surfing manhunt in a deep depression, calling up all the loneliness and despair of high school and the gay dance clubs I never felt comfortable in.

So I am in the twilight of my youth
Not that I’m going to remember
Have you seen the moon tonight, is it full?
Still burning in its embers
The people dancing in the corner
Are so happy, but I am sad
I’m still dancing in the coma of the drinks I just had
Does anybody wanna take me home?
Does anybody wanna take me home?
Take me to your house and I’ll leave you alone
Of course I will, of course I won’t
It seems so tragic but it disappears like magic
Like magic
Like magic

Can you recommend an education or drugs
Because I’m bored with you already
I’m on Broadway and I think it’s a parade
Covered in pieces of confetti
And I am in the twilight of my youth
Not that I’m going to remember
Dancing and slowly and finding the truth
And it’s covered in coma
All these people in my life, they seem so in love
Well, I am not
Memorizing my shoes in a cigarette shop
Does anybody wanna take me home?
Does anybody wanna take me home?
I’m kinda lonely, will you take me home?
Of course you will, of course you won’t
Of course I’m crass, it seems so tragic
Of course you will, of course you won’t
But I’ll disappear, I’ll disappear
Just like magic
Just like magic
Just like magic

–Does Anybody Wanna Take Me Home by Ryan Adams

Let me explain what the gays are complaining about. Because I don’t even think we know what we’re complaining about.

Say I find myself in the company of straight folk. We’re having a good time. We’re laughing at shared experiences, maybe stories about people we know. Then I go, “That’s funny! That reminds me of the time my boyfriend and I . . .” Immediately everyone’s faces go blank. Someone looks away. I finish telling my story, nobody laughs, and there is silence. Then someone changes the subject.

That’s why we hate you. And that’s why we move to the city to get the fuck away from you. Because despite the fact that we have almost everything in common with you, despite the fact that we want to simply live our lives and be a part of society at large, any time we mention anything that reminds you that we’re gay, you act like we just took a shit it in the middle of the room.

Get over it!

This is why same-sex marriage is so important. We need to prove to you and to ourselves that we are, in fact, just like you. Has anybody ever read the Sneeches?

On the other hand, the backlash to that idea is, “No, you’re not like us,” and “No, we’re not like you.” Well, duh. No one is the same. But everyone knows that if you want to be friends, you’ve got to look for things you have in common. This is about being friends, so let’s celebrate the similarities. We can all be unique and individual snowflakes on our own time.

Today I will take it easy, because I work through the night tonight. I’m about to get out of bed at 2:05 PM. That’s late but I went to bed around 6 AM. I planned on reading ISOLT (In Search of Lost Time. I’m nearing the end of volume V — or VI, depending on how you slice it. Anyway, I’m reading The Captive.). A friend just invited me to pho. He must be massively hungover from last night. I’ll go since I need the nourishment and I enjoy the atmosphere of next-day recovery, the laid-back attitude of care for oneself and others. And because I can’t say no to friends. Well, reasonable requests I can’t deny. I can usually avoid obvious disasters. For example, last night I went out, but I only had one drink. God, that was stupid. I hate going to bars (or anywhere, actually) where I’m not attracted to anyone. Toward the end of the night, oddly enough, hot guys began to appear. It’s a dumpy “manly” bar but even cute boys get desperate at the end of the night and show up there. But I was not in the mood to hook up. It’s really not my thing at the moment. But then, I ask myself, what is?

I have been wanting tongs for a very long time. You use them to pick up pieces of chicken and dip scones. I have wanted them but failed to buy them, never remembering that I want them when I’m in the store. So I sought the assistance of the internet, and Googled “make tongs come to my house”. The following web page magically appeared: “Tongs: Come On-A My House“, which holds the lyrics to an apparently forgotten Rosemary Clooney song.

Maybe if I play the song tongs will come to my house.

I’ve been getting a little stressed out by my work, slightly because of taking on more responsibility, but mainly because of dealing with a torturous schedule that requires me to be awake and alert sometimes during the day, sometimes during the night, each week. Thanks in part to this inconvenient arrangement, last weekend I actually experienced two days-worth of strong anxiety. I couldn’t seem to think rationally, jumping to negative conclusions at every turn, while knowing that that kind of thinking wasn’t normal or healthy, and that it was due to sleep deprivation. One stumbling block to avoiding this situation came in the form of unwavering compliments on my looks from the guy I’m dating, despite my degenerating appearance and the facial sensations that forced me to be aware of it even when I couldn’t see myself in the mirror, which otherwise would have warned me of the impending crisis. Looking in the mirror, I contradicted my usual vanity and told myself that saggy eyes are, in fact, hot. This allowed me to justify putting off sleep and reap the harsh consequences — mental, forewarned by the physical — of sleep deprivation. But now I’ve learned my lesson, hard as it was, and won’t ignore that feeling of bagginess in my eyes, however endearing its effects might be to others.

Now that Hoes ‘n ‘a hood has been cycling through my head a bit, I’ve gained some clarity on the subject. What I really should have said is, “Alienation should not be a part of gay culture.”

I love gay culture, but it’s rife with alienation, which we always rationalize. We need to stop that. To re-hash what I think is the best part of what I said, the solution to being a victim of hatred is not a victim mentality.

Some who are contributing to our culture have found that truth. Many claim to have, and use it to justify their alienating, albeit entertaining, work. “Making lemons into lemonade.” But it still tastes bitter. Others’ work is pure reaction.

We don’t have to take what they give us. We know not to respond to violence with violence. But we have a difficult time not responding to violence by hurting ourselves. Let’s stop responding to alienation by alienating ourselves.

Lovingly,

Sexually Free in ‘23

The sex party was so funny. I made myself up like a whore (with some reserve, mind you) and went to the club alone in a cab, not knowing who was going to be there or what it would be like or if I could expect to have a good time. I walked in and a guy said, “Feel free to have a look around.” I did. The entire place was empty. (So much for the social bible.)

So I hopped in a cab and headed to Drunk & Horny, where I had myself a good-ass time.

Okay that title has nothing to do with what I am about to write. I think, anyway, because I have no idea what I want to write except that I am still alive. I didn’t die at that party. It was superfun. It was gay hedonism at its best. And, digressing a bit here, “gay” has become something of a bad word to me. Yes, we’ve all heard the twinks with one leg still in the closet say, “I sleep with men but I don’t identify as gay.” But I kind of feel for those twinks, trying to figure out who they are in the face of fear, hatred, and potential violence. While the last thing we should be doing is telling them who they are supposed to be, that’s exactly what we do. We put them in a box for their own protection.

This box has the added benefit of strengthening gay visibility. Unfortunately, in the name of visibility, the gay identity gets twisted and fucked up by people who have no business deciding what gay means. For instance, the gay admin/sales clerk/etc. who can’t stop making tasteless sexual innuendo, whom everyone else has to endure out of some sort of strangulated respect for diversity and/or fear of legal or social retaliation. Also, the queers and drag queens who, in the name of visibility — and pride, ironically — manage to act out the worst gay stereotypes, some of which many straights don’t even know about. The gay identity is a reaction to all the shit homosexuals have had to deal with as a people and in their individual lives. But it’s not the answer to those problems. As a reaction and a self-marginalization, the gay identity constitutes a tear in the fabric of society, something we need heal. To do that, we need to let go of the gay identity and the stereotypes it sanctions.

Gayboy: “But I AM the stereotype.”

Me: “Silly gayboy. You only act out the stereotypes because you feel rejected by society. Together we can repair society and get you a healthy new identity as an enfranchised member of it, without the barely-suppressed bitterness and loathing you live with now. And remember, less loathing means less male pattern baldness.”

Gayboy: “Oh, goody!”

I suggest we adopt a new and necessary identity, one that can encompass every being on the planet. Why not just identify as sexually free? Let me illustrate the idea a little bit. At a party, you meet a guy you’d like to fool around with but, damn, he’s straight! Oh well, too bad. He plays for the wrong team. Then a more adventurous friend of yours arrives, looks at the guy and says to you, “Best. Head. Ever.” Couldn’t you just kick yourself? The labels are superficial, but when we believe in them, we make them real for us, even when they’re bullshit.

The biggest consequence has little to do with getting more action. “Gay” keeps us in our little circles (the weakest of us anyway, and baby, I live in the Castro, so me too). It prevents us from repairing the rift in society. And the worst of gay culture, the in-your-face, “I’m gay, be afraid of me” behavior makes the rift worse.

I’m calling for radical change. I have one reader, and I urge you, dear reader, to get out there and make a change. It’s all in your hands. I’ll be in the Castro if you need me. Just kidding. You know I hate all the bars here? If you ever visit, your goal is to get out of the Castro, whatever you do.

Anyway, the party was the ba-omb! DJs played great music poolside almost 24 hours a day. Clothing was definitely optional. When everyone was sufficiently blitzed, costumes started appearing, subtle things like pajamas, bunny ears, boots, etc. The surrounding forest was beautiful. The house was its own light show with video projections tending toward a red, white, and blue palette. My friend and I camped out in the valley below the house, from which it looked like some kind of bass-pumping patriotic mothership. And it was.

I really liked the bathrooms, which were covered by white tile suitable for hosing off after some serious ass pounding, which, I did. Totally unforgettable. Everybody’s got this list now, of future events related to the people who produced the party. It’s like the social bible. There’s something going on this Saturday, a sex party, which kind of scares me. It sounds sexy, but think of it this way. Any party with faggots who know their asshole from a hole in the ground is, in effect, a sex party. So then, what is a “sex party?” I don’t know but it sounds a lot less sexy than a party. I’ll get back to you on that.

Rad times. I have to go out now. Positive energy. Good luck!

P.S. Sexually free does not mean bisexual. It includes bisexuals, homosexuals, heterosexuals, and everyone else, and does not sanction non-consensual behavior. Thank you.

P.P.S. I love drag. And queers. And gay culture. I am exploring a new frontier in this post. It’s difficult to describe something that’s inchoate. You fuck up and you step on toes. It’s the price you pay.

Okay. Thank god the boy I’m dating called to invite me to the party I’m already invited to. (But that became clear soon enough.) Thank god because I didn’t have a ride until now. I was going to have to beg someone for a ride, or rather, since I have some self-respect, not go. And yummy hot boy has a car and camping supplies. I just need to bring my ass.

I have to eat brekky and snooze for a bit before we head off, so this is it. I wish I could do more, but not much more is going on. Although, I have been coming up with some wonderful things about mental health lately that I would love to share at some point. Won’t we all look forward to that.