I wanna be a gay wingnut
San Francisco has its share of wingnuts – questionably
sane people who feel compelled to bring their offbeat beliefs to a
public forum. The guy who holds a sign saying aliens want to impeach the
president (it used to read Clinton, then Bush, now Van Buren), the guy
who says the Dalai Lama's a cannibal, the guy with the van covered with
information saying Stephen King killed John Lennon.
I want to bring my beliefs to gay people like that,
whether they want to hear or not. They’ve driven me that crazy.
I'm going to make big signs with my slogans (DISCO
CAUSES BRAIN CANCER – BAN GAY CLONING – GOING TO THE GYM MEANS LESS TIME
FOR ART). I'll make badly typewritten manifestos, with odd diagrams in
the corners, a bullhorn to announce my rants beneath the large rainbow
flag in the Castro. I want
to cultivate a wild-eyed stare, an uncomfortable manner, and bad body
odor. I want to fax newspapers my letters full of my crackpot theories.
Either by force, or by disguising myself as a spandex
and mirrorshades DJ with a crate of records, I barricade myself in the
DJ booth of San Francisco’s biggest and most vacuous disco.
Hordes of drugged out mindless gymboys gyrate to
whatever's still spinning on the turntable, not a thought in their
I pull the plug, and the record shows down – eeeer –
thud – thud – thud...
They come halfway out of their trance, looking confused,
like zombies in a horror film after the zombie master dies.
Hah! But I am the new zombie master. My voice echoes out
loud over the speakers, booms from the giant woofers designed to shake
bowels and numb brains. And this is what I say, in a voice colored with
"For too long you have escaped responsibility, escaped
meaning, escaped culture, escaped everything that ought to bring purpose
to existence, instead filling yourselves with drugs, pointless sex, the
gym, music with all the complexity of a car alarm, and the ceaseless
worship of your own vanity. But I am now holding up a mirror not to your
faces, but to your souls. The circuit party is like the repetitive track
worn by Shetlands shackled to the cross-arms of a county fair pony
"For too long a tiny cadre of activists has worked to
fight injustice without your help. For too long, a loyal audience has
supported live performance while you were a slave to canned rhythm. It’s
time for you to do your part."
But I know it’s futile. Their minds are as
well-barricaded as Fort Knox, and only hitting some sort of cultural
rock bottom will ever bring them out of it. I just can’t offer
sufficiently shocking therapy.
Larry-bob lives in San Francisco and holds
forth on the website