Barbary
Babylon Bitches
Like attracts like and on the food
chain of friends, my contemporaries are tantamount to a mirror. As a steadfast advocate for the
underdog, I empathize with those made vulnerable by the effects of their
choices.
In high school, I ate lunch alone and then by senior year, with a gaggly group of girls. In college, I alternated between hanging out with people from school, Hollywood bar trash and an extravagant flock of starfucker drag queens. The latter was a case study in double personalities. In the show biz scene, a person's given name was usually a secret while dropping a stage name with a club doorman could get you free admission or fifteen minutes of fame.
Now, in my 35 (ahem) years, I can look back and remember many different friends. It was not until I came to San Francisco that I noticed my regular group of cronies was made up of a dodgy set. A dodgy, communal set of my own Armistead Maupin variety. San Francisco is said to reflect human values of acceptance and less restrictions.
As I am presently temporarily unemployed and loath to drink I do not bar-hop with office boys or sit in stoic sober vigil. I have few vices but used to partake in the occasional shot. Of speed. This is something I had in common with most of the people I saw around the city on a regular basis. An injection drug user or IDU exists on a continuum of shared social stigma.
My friend Goldeholda is a 50 year old bleach blond bombshell with big boobs that were bought from a benefactor. In another life, in a quiet Santa Rosa suburb, she was Rhonda. Rhonda was a divorcee with two grown children. The ex-husband was a cranky French chef who treated her like a chamber maid and her
20 year old daughter is about as far from feminine as Goldehola aims to enhance hers. Aman-da, (pronounced A Man, duh!) the offspring effects the anger inherent in bitter, disenfranchised queer youth. All are wont to
pounce in judgment about Golde's new San Francisco life which includes
participation in the oldest profession, a new look complete with piercings
north and south and a full length tapestry of tattoos.
Goldeholda nee Rhonda has a tendency to attract fast-talking, flashy opportunistic men. She seems to be in constant conflict of one kind or another, so much that I sense she thrives on it.
I am sensitive to her right to re-birth as a wanton woman. After the oppression she suffered as Santa Rosa Rhonda, the femme fatale persona she projects is preferable. She does exude a hearty sense of executive sophistication and acts as a mother hen to Gracine, a girl that shares her choice of trade. The 25 year old working class Italian girl often often markets herself as second fiddle in a mother-daughter tag team on double dates. Her fantasy fulfilling postings on craigslist do not compete with the ones drafted by Karmarerra, an MTF transsexual former porn sensation. The easy money on the streets provides a stepping stone and security for a girl who never finished high school or learned to type. While Karmarerra is perpetuating a stereotype that transsexuals are prostitutes, she confirms the result of an existing cycle of poverty that limits opportunities available to openly gender-variant people. Goldeholda, on the other hand is coming into her own as a strong woman who takes pride in her sexuality. She takes classes at the Center for Sex and Culture and can cite Annie Sprinkle in her defense of sex work. Though prostitution, pilfering, philandering and street-walking are all considered vices worthy of arrest, a thriving subset of sex-positive workers has existed since the days of the Barbary Coast. The same goes for use of drugs, a behavior often relegated to back alleys and secrecy. My purpose in pointing out these characteristics is not to exploit. I certainly do not look begrudgingly on the choice to engage in these under-the-radar types of behavior. As for drug use, Goldeholda shares my firm belief in the principles ofharm reduction. Eschewing the negative connotations of the word, "addict" which implies a loss of control over one's use of drugs, she identifies as a drug "user". A responsible drug user is entitled to the same human rights as those who do not engage. I volunteer at the various needle exchange sites in the city where I conduct outreach and advocacy. Sometimes in the midst of juggling the plates of my life, I start to panic in fear that I'll drop one and won't be able to pick up the pieces.
Goldeholda often assures me that everything in the unknown uncertainties of my future will work out. She says this with such a degree of authority that I am obliged to believe her. By stepping out of Rhonda's shackles, she bid adieu to the judgmental restrictions of her nuclear family and thrived as a result. She is one of the happiest people I know and if the glittery eye-shadow isn't an indicator, the va-va-voom is. She can stop traffic and incite a crowd to rubberneck as we gaily sashay around Union Square. I enjoy the attention because it's as if we are stars of the show.
Once upon a time, we popped into a Starbucks on a sunny afternoon to partake in the hushed and rushed ritual of slamming a hit in the locked privacy of the bathroom, albeit if only for a minute. Upon emerging from the loo, we made our way through the snaking line as the crowd huddled around the barista waiting for their drinks and retreated to an outside table. "Excuse me is this seat taken?" said an old woman who I invited to sit. Introducing herself as Frida, she launched into a critique of the latest stage show being performed at the Curran Theater.
"Did you know that All About Eve was filmed at the Curran in 1950?",
I
offered in a desperate urgency matched by my rushing heart rate.
"Get slammed and talk to her-- fabulous"-- whispered Goldeholda. I giggled and took a sip of my tangerine juice silently thanking the Universe for providing me with friendship.
Reducing the potential harm is evidenced by our stellar representation of responsible, safe users. Although it's subversive, I urge critics to question the reason. San Francisco is a historically tolerant city and I have traditionally pushed the envelope. It's a match of literary ilk.
In high school, I ate lunch alone and then by senior year, with a gaggly group of girls. In college, I alternated between hanging out with people from school, Hollywood bar trash and an extravagant flock of starfucker drag queens. The latter was a case study in double personalities. In the show biz scene, a person's given name was usually a secret while dropping a stage name with a club doorman could get you free admission or fifteen minutes of fame.
Now, in my 35 (ahem) years, I can look back and remember many different friends. It was not until I came to San Francisco that I noticed my regular group of cronies was made up of a dodgy set. A dodgy, communal set of my own Armistead Maupin variety. San Francisco is said to reflect human values of acceptance and less restrictions.
As I am presently temporarily unemployed and loath to drink I do not bar-hop with office boys or sit in stoic sober vigil. I have few vices but used to partake in the occasional shot. Of speed. This is something I had in common with most of the people I saw around the city on a regular basis. An injection drug user or IDU exists on a continuum of shared social stigma.
My friend Goldeholda is a 50 year old bleach blond bombshell with big boobs that were bought from a benefactor. In another life, in a quiet Santa Rosa suburb, she was Rhonda. Rhonda was a divorcee with two grown children. The ex-husband was a cranky French chef who treated her like a chamber maid and her
Goldeholda nee Rhonda has a tendency to attract fast-talking, flashy opportunistic men. She seems to be in constant conflict of one kind or another, so much that I sense she thrives on it.
I am sensitive to her right to re-birth as a wanton woman. After the oppression she suffered as Santa Rosa Rhonda, the femme fatale persona she projects is preferable. She does exude a hearty sense of executive sophistication and acts as a mother hen to Gracine, a girl that shares her choice of trade. The 25 year old working class Italian girl often often markets herself as second fiddle in a mother-daughter tag team on double dates. Her fantasy fulfilling postings on craigslist do not compete with the ones drafted by Karmarerra, an MTF transsexual former porn sensation. The easy money on the streets provides a stepping stone and security for a girl who never finished high school or learned to type. While Karmarerra is perpetuating a stereotype that transsexuals are prostitutes, she confirms the result of an existing cycle of poverty that limits opportunities available to openly gender-variant people. Goldeholda, on the other hand is coming into her own as a strong woman who takes pride in her sexuality. She takes classes at the Center for Sex and Culture and can cite Annie Sprinkle in her defense of sex work. Though prostitution, pilfering, philandering and street-walking are all considered vices worthy of arrest, a thriving subset of sex-positive workers has existed since the days of the Barbary Coast. The same goes for use of drugs, a behavior often relegated to back alleys and secrecy. My purpose in pointing out these characteristics is not to exploit. I certainly do not look begrudgingly on the choice to engage in these under-the-radar types of behavior. As for drug use, Goldeholda shares my firm belief in the principles ofharm reduction. Eschewing the negative connotations of the word, "addict" which implies a loss of control over one's use of drugs, she identifies as a drug "user". A responsible drug user is entitled to the same human rights as those who do not engage. I volunteer at the various needle exchange sites in the city where I conduct outreach and advocacy. Sometimes in the midst of juggling the plates of my life, I start to panic in fear that I'll drop one and won't be able to pick up the pieces.
Goldeholda often assures me that everything in the unknown uncertainties of my future will work out. She says this with such a degree of authority that I am obliged to believe her. By stepping out of Rhonda's shackles, she bid adieu to the judgmental restrictions of her nuclear family and thrived as a result. She is one of the happiest people I know and if the glittery eye-shadow isn't an indicator, the va-va-voom is. She can stop traffic and incite a crowd to rubberneck as we gaily sashay around Union Square. I enjoy the attention because it's as if we are stars of the show.
Once upon a time, we popped into a Starbucks on a sunny afternoon to partake in the hushed and rushed ritual of slamming a hit in the locked privacy of the bathroom, albeit if only for a minute. Upon emerging from the loo, we made our way through the snaking line as the crowd huddled around the barista waiting for their drinks and retreated to an outside table. "Excuse me is this seat taken?" said an old woman who I invited to sit. Introducing herself as Frida, she launched into a critique of the latest stage show being performed at the Curran Theater.
"Did you know that All About Eve was filmed at the Curran in 1950?",
I
offered in a desperate urgency matched by my rushing heart rate."Get slammed and talk to her-- fabulous"-- whispered Goldeholda. I giggled and took a sip of my tangerine juice silently thanking the Universe for providing me with friendship.
Reducing the potential harm is evidenced by our stellar representation of responsible, safe users. Although it's subversive, I urge critics to question the reason. San Francisco is a historically tolerant city and I have traditionally pushed the envelope. It's a match of literary ilk.
