YOU'RE WRONG 

An Irregular Column

by Mykel Board

I'm readier than a thirty year old virgin. I'm going to the Great Washington Homomarch. This column's half written though, before I even get on the bus.

This is the world's only protest march with more mustaches on the marchers than on the cops. That'll be my first line. Then I'll write They should serve twat juice as a calorie booster for all those kids in Somalia. No dying of starvation then. Look at what it's done for the lezzies. The drag queens and the leather boys. The sequence dresses and the musclemen. Maybe even some homopunks. Why bother going at all? I know just what it'll be like. I'm wrong.

I take the bus from New York to DC. My t-shirt the occasion: A quote from Frank Perdue, "It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken."

The march organizers suggested "Peter Pan" lines. I thought it was a joke (something to do with "Tinkerbell.") But they really exist-- and they're cheaper than Greyhound.

I leave Friday, two days before the march. ARTLESS is playing a benefit Saturday night. There's a Bisexual Conference during the day, Saturday. I want it all.

At the normally black and bum filled bus station, a crew of cheery whiteboys (and some girls) waits at the Peter Pan gate. A skinny boy with his blond hair buzzed at the side, holds a picnic basket. Next to him is an overweight guy with a crewcut and a single subtle earring. No one screams. No one shouts PU-LEEZE MARY! There're no drag queens.

The bus normally makes a few stops in Maryland before it gets to DC. Today they run two busses. One local. One for us.

Inside the bus, video screens hang on either side above the seats.

"Welcome to Peter Pan buslines." says the driver, "where every ride has free movies. Today we'll have a double feature, La Cage Aux Faux and Tootsie."

The passengers laugh quietly, as if they're not sure they should. Then the driver gets on the mic again.

"Not really," he says, "you just have a bus driver with a sense of humor."

The movie is Bull Durham a stupid baseball movie. It's about as homosexual as Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles. [Less! --TY] I'm annoyed there are no headphones. You have to listen to the movie. (No choice.) Many people used the bus's restroom during the trip, one at a time. It's disappointing.

In DC, I head for the Bi-Net (Bi-sexual Network) meeting, the only interesting action on Friday. I take the DC metro to get there. The metro uses little cards with a magnetic strip on them. You put the cards into a turnstile and enter. The turnstile deducts a certain amount of money each time you use the card.

I go to a vending machine to buy a card. Out it comes. On the front is the regular metro ticket. On the back is some information about the fare. There're also the words Overlooked Opinions printed over a pink triangle-- and an advertisement. Community Spirit: Long Distance Phone Service For Lesbian & Gay America. Then the phrase Welcome to the '93 Lesbian, Gay & Bi March on DC!. This is the first sign that this march will be a bit different from what I expected.

The official march t-shirt is white with a picture of the capital in a triangle. They're everywhere. In the subways. On the streets. In restaurants. Washington DC has become homoville. Guys and gals, mostly white, mostly between 23 and 40, walk around holding same gender hands. They wrap their arms around same gender necks. They're natural, relax, as if they did it all the time, everywhere. There are a few mustaches and trucker-dykes. Most could be college kids on spring break-- and this could be Fort Lauderdale. The only difference here, is the greater number of military uniforms.

Everyone is sociable. "High, where're you from?" "What do you think of this subway system?" "Do you know where The Mall is?" It's all friendly and as matter-of-fact as a giant picnic.

I get off near AMERICAN UNIVERSITY, site of the Bi-Net meeting. From the subway stop, I look for the bus to the campus. It's easy to find. A bunch of young men and women, mostly wearing white t-shirts with triangles on them, stand peaceably in line at a bus stop.

Tiny homoflags (the Roy G. Biv spectrum) decorate the college campus. A huge "welcome Bi-sexuals" flag hangs over one building, apparently a gym or student union. I walk through a lobby of bewildered students, following signs that say "Welcome Bi-Net" with a big arrow. I walk downstairs to the gymnasium. People sit in a wide semicircle on a gym floor. I spot Donny The Punk and pull up a chair next to him. A few chairs down, a guy with a long beard and a few nose rings doses, occasionally jerking his head back before he refalls into sleep. A handsome young man seems to be co-chairing with an attractive Jewish looking young lady. People shout things at them.

They speak in code. Point of order! someone shouts. Obviously an insult in Bi-lese! Point of information! comes the quick retort. Out of order! is the piercing repartee. I'm lost, but things get stranger.

Someone makes a stirring speech. Another proposes a grandiose weltbilt, like bisexuals are people too. The audience members spread their hands as if they're going to applaud. They don't. Instead, they put their hands on each side of their head-- thumbs pointing toward their ears. Then, shaking from the wrist, they wriggle their hands back and forth. It looks like the way a mime would express snowfall-- or tinkerbell.

Later, I learn that they call this hand wiggling sparkling. It's a more modern form of applause. I haven't figured out why they do it, yet. My best guess is that applause discriminates against deaf people. But I'm not sure.

The great debate among the Bi-Netters is whether or not to change the name from Bi-Net, the Bisexual Network to Multicultural Bi-Net, the Multicultural Bisexual Network. The debate is long and heated. Someone offers a compromise, Bi-Net, the Multicultural Bisexual Network, combining the two proposals.

I look around the room. It's whiter than my bathroom tile. There are almost a hundred people there not one... wait... there's one. A Negro stands and speaks.

"Thanks," he says, "but we don't really need all this multi-cultural stuff. We are who we are and that's all. We don't have to prove anything."

A pretty mulatto is next to speak. "I'm a short half black female," she says, "I'm as multi-cultural as you can get. This is silly. We are organizing as bisexuals, that's all we need."

A few people wiggle their hands. Then the microphone moves to a hefty blond female with WOMYN figuratively imprinted on every inch of that multitudinous flesh. "My mother is Irish and my grandfather is Polish." she says, "We have to reach all kinds of multiculturals. We're all multicultural." Some more hand wiggling.

White boy/girl after white boy/girl call for some sort of name change to multicultural. Someone suggests that multicultural doesn't go far enough. They want to change the name to LETTUS. I forget what the LETT stands for but the US is United in Struggle.

After over an hour of this-- and references to "the many hours we've spent on this in the past"-- the group reaches a consensus. They decide that they can't decide what they should change the name to. They leave it the way it was. I leave the meeting.

I wander around town looking at the same-sex couples holding hands in the street. I watch how every subway stop seems informal, white, and friendly-- but not really homo. I feel a vague uneasiness at it all, as if something even worse than 'sparkling' were happening here.

That evening, I meet my pal Donna from Positive Force. We eat at a restaurant crowded with marchers-to-be. We have to wait on line.

The attractive boy in jeans and a white t-shirt in front of us says, "I came right in the middle of finals."

"Pardon?" I ask him, casually eyeing the front of his pants for a stain.

"Sure," he says, "I risked getting a B in sociology just to come here. But I'd rather live sociology than study it."

"That's right!" says the girl behind me. "We can't be anything in this world if we don't take risks."

Donna and I eat dinner, changing our table once to avoid the friendly invasion of fellow dinners. After dinner, we decide to hit the bars. We figure they must be overflowing with hormonally spiced folks ready to do more than march. Walking through the streets someone hands us each a card pack, like those you get in the mail offering opportunities in the Ostrich Business, or selling exotic vitamins.

This one comes with a facing card that says "Make sure you count." Inside, there's a survey with controversial questions like "Do you believe in equal rights?" Along with the survey is a suggestion (no obligation, of course) that you hook up with the Community Spirit gay telephone network. They don't say the service is any cheaper than MCI or Sprint. They do say a whopping 2% of the profit goes to "the gay or lesbian organization of your choice." I doubt if they'd give to the organization of my choice.

Also in the packet are cards advertising a florist, a few homo news magazines, and my favorite "A Must Have for Activists, Entrepreneurs, Business Owners, and Fundraisers." It's a subscription to The Gay Market Report. Four issues only $24.95. The publication covers Gay Economic Clout, Emerging Gay Trends and more!

A bum, unshaven and smelling of Thunderbird, lounges on the stoops in front of a bar on P street. "Got any spare change?" He asks. I give him the packet of cards.

We're right in front of The Fireplace, one of the many bars advertised in the March on Washington edition of The Washington Blade. That newspaper ran a large picture of the co-chair of the march. He's a pasty guy with blond hair. In the picture, he's wearing a white shirt-- and tie.

We go to the bar and meet a well dressed woman who asks us for money.

"Wow," I tell Donna, "They sure have high class bums here. That guy I gave the cards to looked pretty sleazy, but this girl is kinda cute."

She overhears me. "The money is the admission to get into the bar." she says.

"Is there a band or something?" Donna asks.

"Or free beer?" I add.

"Nope," she says, "but it's a nice bar."

We don't go in. It may be a nice bar, but if I'm paying to drink, I don't wanna pay to be able to pay to drink. We go to another bar. They want money too. We go to a bunch of other bars. They ALL want money.

The natives say this is not the normal practice in DC bars. It's only this weekend that they're asking folks to pay to get in. Everyplace, all weekend. They all must've read The Gay Market Report.

Finally, we end up at a bar called Dante's owned by the drummer of GREYMATTER. Since the place isn't especially homo, they didn't charge to get in. It's packed.

A few Sam Adams later, Donna's roomie Todd, shows up. I'm still up for trying to find something homosexual to do. The others are a bit tired. Since I'm staying with them, we go back to their place.

Also staying with Donna and Todd are CHEESECAKE, a Riot Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl band. They'll be playing with ARTLESS at the Positive Force benefit the next night.

The CHEESECAKE grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls don't arrive until 4AM so I have no intercourse with them. All I see is a bunch of droopy heads with weird colored hair poking out of blankets and pillows thrown on the floor.

The next morning, Saturday, is the start of The National Conference Celebrating Bisexuality at American University. After perusing the morning Washington Post (business section headline: "Defining the Gay Marketplace."), I take the metro to the University.

Here too, a big banner welcomes bi-sexuals. The fee for attending the conference is $60. With Donny's help, I scam in as press. ("Yes, I write for Maximum Rock'n'Roll a distinguished publication based in San Francisco.")

With my registration, I get a conference packet. In it is a map of the building, a list of various workshops, an article about TRANSGENDER LIBERATION ("a Marxist view of when and why transgender oppression arose") and a listing of HIV National Resources. Mmmmm boy, I can tell I'm in for a good time!

The conference features a bunch of different workshops including, "Introduction to S/M, Jewish Internalized Oppression in the Bi-Lesbian and Gay Community (I'm not making this up!), Bis in Recovery, Coalitions & Autonomous Organizing (people of color only), Examining White Racism (whites only)" and other topics equally appealing. There is one on Aging and Bisexuality. I don't go to that one. Another is on Sex Positivism. That one, I DO go to.

Actually, I attend two of the almost 60 workshops. One called Latest Views on Sexual Orientation Variables & Dimensions is (unintentionally) hilarious. The workshop is run by Professor Klein, a greyish man with a beard and a dress shirt. He's rolled up the sleeves. He writes on the blackboard as he speaks. Using a pointer, he often refers to his little charts and notations.

He wrote a book about bisexuals. He says that the Kinsey idea of bi's simply being between hets and homos is wrong.

To correct Kinsey's error, he sets up a grid. Counting present, past, and future ideals. He rates fantasies, emotional preferences, social preferences, self-identification, and other stuff. Then he asks us all to fill in little charts from 0 to six on his grid.

"Once we have the charts filled in," explains Dr. Klein, "we can have a clearer picture of ourselves. We no longer have to rely on the vague term bisexual to describe our behavior. We can simply introduce ourselves like this." He goes on to explain his system. Here, let me show you:

"Hi, I'm Mykel Board. I'm a 5,1,6,3,4,2.5,4. in the present, but in the past I was a 5,4,5,4,3,3.5,4. Ideally I'd be a perfect 4 if I could. What about you?"

You've got to admit that's a lot more suave than saying "Hi, I'm Mykel Board. I'll fuck anything with a hole."

In the Sex Positivism workshop, a bunch of panelists sit on the stage. Unlike the "Latest Views" leader, there's a lack of professoriality among these folks: a large, attractive collegiate girl sporting a fine crewcut, a classically pretty girl, who probably gets whistled at by the frat boys, a skinny guy with a beard and an all-American blond surfer type and S&M practitioner.

The blond guy climbs down from the stage into the auditorium. He questions folks one at a time.

"What is sex?" He asks. Someone takes notes on the blackboard. The answers are pretty explicit, including all kinds of orifices and bodily (and not so bodily) fluids.

The point of the workshop is sex is good. I get a warm feeling from the meeting participants, although none of them stroked my leg. Besides a warm feeling, I got some hot gossip.

"They took away our sex," said the big girl with the crewcut. "When we asked that bisexual be added to THE MARCH FOR LESBIAN AND GAY RIGHTS they only agreed to add 'bi' not 'Bisexual.' They didn't want anything with sex in the title.

"What is lesbian, gay and bi about if not sex?" She asked.

Evidently, she hasn't been around town. She would know. It's about marketing.

The workshop is a lively discussion with plenty of audience give and take. A few femino-prudes talk about sex as "a loving relationship" rather than the sport it really is. Still, the crew is mostly pro-porn, pro-prostitution, pro-fun. An arousing change from the detestable anti-sex leaguers who seem to be controlling things among the mainstream homos.

Even these guys, though, have succumbed to propaganda. The bearded boy shows a 'pro-sex' pamphlet written for Chicago high school students. Called "Just Say Yes" it's filled with more half-truths, contradictions and misinformation than a Chick religious comic.

Page 4: Incest is when anyone is forced to have sex with a relative. (Not true, of course, incest has nothing to do with force.)

Page 14: Nobody knows for sure if you can get HIV from oral sex.

Page 15 This is how you can get HIV:... licking clits and dicks without a condom or plastic wrap.

Huh????

During lunch, Donny and I go get some meatball heros. We eat 'em outside the conference building. There I meet Drew, The Piercer who looked more like Drew, The Pierced to me. I hope he never has to float to stay alive. He'll leak like sieve.

Back inside again, Donny and I go into the bi-merchandise room. You can purchase plenty of t-shirts, magazines, rings, pins, and other stuff, all cheap enough for the white folks in attendance. My favorite shirt says Blur Your Gender. The official march t-shirt cost $18.

A Lady Professor stands by the exit. She gives out a 20 page questionnaire "A Study of Sexual/Bisexual Identity, Community, & Politics." I take a couple, planning to fill one out when I get home. I love questionnaires.

Donny has to leave to lecture some students. I head for the ARTLESS show at St. Stevens Church. Hopefully, after the show, I can explore my own sex positivism.

Outside the bi-con I meet Shaun and his pal Brian, the punkest looking couple there. Brian has a car. I scam a ride with the two of them. Fine folks, they live in Delaware. Someday, I'll find a use for the line: as many ________ as homopunks in Delaware. When I do, you'll know where it came from.

Before the show, we go to this restaurant where other homopunks should be meeting. We eat there. Inside, nothing looks like old style punk (black leather) or new style punk (stupid shorts and a backwards baseball hat). Outside, things are different.

There they are. MRR's own Matt, John G. from PANSY DIVISION, Anonymous Boy who's the world's best homotoonist, some Riot Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls, and a buncha others. John G and I talk about old times. (I took pictures for his high school zine, Hoopla, around 1978. That's a long time ago, buckaroos.) Everyone is very friendly.

We meet up again later that night, at the church show. The rest of ARTLESS gets lost on the way. They show up five minutes before we're supposed to start. Typical. While I'm hanging out waiting for the band, this guy comes up to me.

"I guess we never met," he says.

"You and a hundred and ninety nine million others," I think, but don't say. I just smile, and think how much he looks like Ian MacKaye.

"My name is Alec MacKaye." He says.

It turns out Alec is a nice guy-- just like his brother. Absolutely unsnobbish-- also like his brother. He came to see us play and just wanted to say hello. I feel guilty, for thinking such snobbish thoughts.

Another guy comes up to me. He introduces himself: Mark, from Positive Force.

"We were pretty bothered by that stuff in Flipside." says Mark.

"Yo, Marky baby," I reply, pretending like I'm a New Yorker. "I don't write for Flipside."

He explains that former jailbird Shane Williams wrote about our Dupont Circle show. Shane said we annoyed Positive Force and The Riot Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls.

"A rumor," I tell him. "False!"

(I'll repeat it here for the print record. Positive Force has been good to ARTLESS, though some of the individual members would be less than inclined to give me a thorough rim job. Although I have some disagreements with Positive Force, they're not as closed minded as the cliche. They've been helpful and friendly to us and they don't deserve to be lumped in with the humorless dogmatic veggie-straights.)

(The Riot Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls, on the other hand-- at least most of the ones in DC-- are not wonderful people. They're sneaky and closed. They weren't even civil to us-- except to Big Mike, of course.)

On stage at the church: CHEESECAKE plays first. Then PANSY DIVISION-- as funny as a homo Ramones. There's a poetess. Then we play. Disappointingly, the only heckling comes from Donny, now dressed in his sailor suit. A buncha folks walk out-- a good sign. But nobody heckles.

I want to stage a secret takeover with some of the girls from CHEESECAKE. I wrote an extra verse to our song, Beer Is Better Than Girls Are. It's a take off on that Cucumbers Are Better Than Boys Are stuff. The plan is to have a CHEESECAKE girl pretend like she was wresting the microphone away from me. She'd then sing "her own" lyrics instead of my misogynist ones. The guitarist likes the plan, but won't do it.

"I'm no singer." she says.

I ask the singer.

"We don't play those kind of games," she tells me. Yikes! Well, maybe she didn't get any sleep or something.

I ask Abby, the cute little blue-haired girl working the door. She's anxious to do it. She copies down the lyrics but can't rehearse. When we do the song, she's too chicken to rip the mic out of my hands. I have to keep waving to her, whispering, Come on! Take it!

Finally, I push it into her hands and pretend to struggle. It's like a cheap horror movie, where the hero wrestles with a rubber monster and has to grab it and flail around pretending the rubber thing is attacking him.

Eventually Abby winds up with the microphone. The band has no idea where we are. Rehearsal-less, the poor girl can't make the words fit in with the music. It's a total flop. Still, some feminists in the audience cheer her. They think she tried to stop the show. She's a crusaders for the rights of wymmynn against the evil forces of ARTLESS. Here's a kiss from me, Abby, you're much cooler than those suckers.

After the set, Big Mike runs off to his adoring hordes of tough girls. (How does that guy do it??? Is it the youthful exuberance? The lack of bathing? What?) I see them on the stoop outside the church, eating something that looks like vegan puke. Having a grand ole time.

Me, I'm trying to get our $50 and arrange for dinners and transport to the orgiastic bi-sexual disco dance at yet another university. We leave Mike with the girls at the church and head on out for a Mexican dinner and disco.

Besides the band, I'm now traveling with Donny, my pal Barbara Rice (who used to edit Truly Needy the best DC zine ever), and her hubby Bill.

We get to this restaurant. It's the only place in town with hets, three quarter's empty. Donny's tales of jail and life in the navy fascinate Barbara. Bill looks worried.

Donny's still in his sailor suit. The waiters slip us glances of discomfort. Donny fascinates Barbara well into the night. We miss the bi-dance. It'll probably be the last one ever. My guess is that, starting next year, it'll be the Multi-cultural Bi-sexual Transgendered Left-handed Dance and (for the Physically and Rhythmically Challenged) General Move Around Party.

We take Donny home. I go back with Bill and Barb. Sleeping alone on the couch, I fantasize about Big Mike and his multitudes. I hope I don't make a mess.

The next morning Barb and I are off to THE MARCH. Bill has to work. I have no idea where or if, I'll actually march. I only came for the sex. I'd heard that the parade officials banned both NAMBLA and THE NATIONAL SOCIALIST LEAGUE (Gay Nazis). It doesn't sound like it's going to be much fun.

When we get to the Washington Monument there are tons of little groups-- each holding banners for their particular interest or location. It's hot! Steaming. At least ninety. No clouds. The sun reddens the back of my neck. It peels and flakes to the ground.

We pass the Gay Business Association and Lesbians with Disabilities. I don't see anyone I know. We hear there's going to be a "punk percussion" group. We head for the meeting corner. When we get there, there are one or two youngsters banging on cans. Big Mike sits on the grass, with his butchgrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl fans percussing to his right and left. I'm looking for Alekz V, Shaun & Brian, Joseph G, and lots of other people who said that they'd be there.

"They might be with the anarchists" spits Mike, his mouth full of something green, "over that way." He points to an even thicker morass of people huddled in the direction of The Whitehouse.

Barbara and I get jostled by neatly dressed people with bullhorns. The march is under way. The crowd shifts toward the street. It's either walk or be trampled. We walk.

Once out on the street, we hang back watching the people go by. I hate parades. This is no exception.

"Let's march." says Barbara.

"Where?" I ask, "We can't jump in just anywhere! They'll think we're part of some stupid subgroup. With all this military stuff and family values we could end up with the Gay Republicans!"

In answer, Barbara grabs my hand and plunges into the parade. I notice that we're with a group of women. They're all my age or older-- most of them pushing kids in strollers.

We're marching with The Lesbian Moms! Dozens of ladies wearing purple shirts push wheel their kids down the street. The kids slowly toast in the hot sun as their moms wave to the cheering crowd. They don't know what to make of Barbara and me. We smile and wave back to the multitudes on the sidelines.

"I don't want to stay here!" I whisper to Barb, still smiling at the crowd.

We're so caught up in the moving procession, though, that we can't escape. I'm thirsty and baking in the skin-stripping heat. The kids agree. Those not passed out from dehydration are crying. I grab Barb and pull her into this big urban mall type store along the parade route.

We go in to eat something. Other marchers fill the place. One souvenir merchant, eager to cash in on the right crowd, took everything purple from his inventory and put it on display. He made a sign that said, Lavender, Show Your Colors" and hung it over the purple scarves, buttons, and notebooks on his cart.

After eating a salad downstairs-- and discussing the state of ethnic cuisine with a lesbian couple from Texas (who rightly identify their state as the source of the world's best Mexican food), we go back to the parade.

A Japanese couple, male and female, with cameras around their necks, have been caught up in the crowd. The shy thin woman shows white knuckles as, terrified, she grabs onto her husband's sleeve.

Later, we see a few het couples proudly holding hands, flying in the face of the homo majority. Saying, "See, we have pride too!"

"Where are the tits?" I wonder out loud.

Barbara looks at me questioningly.

"You know, those girls who really want equal rights. It's over ninety degrees out. A good quarter of the boys are topless. But where are the real tits?"

About this time a general cheer goes up from the crowd. We turn to see the color guard. Gay vets, dressed in their army, navy, marine uniforms. They hold the American flag and the flags of the various armed services.

Here comes Donny, holding a tiny American flag behind the first string, waving it along. Wave after wave of uniformed men and women march by.

End the Ban! Gays in the military!

There are vets, soldiers now serving, those kicked out, those with medals of honor, and cadets from the academies. There are more uniforms in the homo parade than in the Veterans Day one. With every passing uniformed wave, comes a rousing cheer from the watching crowd. I wonder which is more important, your right to shoot your M16 or your right to shoot your load?

A few people dissent. A few signs say:

But these groups are small.

Besides the militarites, other marchers include Gay Fathers, Families of Lesbians and Gays and a group called We Are Family, Too.

Jeezuz! This family values fad has gotten out of hand. I was worried about being caught up with the Gay Republicans. The whole parade is the Gay Republicans. What about those of us who want rights without being family or fitting into anyone else's idea of how I should live my life. I guess we should've made our own parade.

There are fewer drag queens and 'outrageous' queers than I've ever seen at a homo march. None of them gets press coverage, except by the extreme right wing media. The mainstream press only wants to take pictures of the respectable homo boys and girls. There is NO mention of sex (except "safe-sex") or that it is a something fun to do. It's all as depressing as a beautiful straight boy.

My favorite anti-mainstream group is a bunch transvestites, done up in 1940's dresses with big floppy hats and hat pins. They carry a sign that says: "Lift the ban. Gays in the millinery." There are fewer anti-homo protesters than I expect. It's hard to get up a hate for men in uniform. Maybe thirty hardcore homohaters flash signs like:

They all stand together on one wall overlooking the parade. Next to them: finally, THE BREASTS. Unfortunately, there are only a dozen or so. These breasts should sued their owners for support. Watching the sad pairs dangle navel high, I wonder if certain traditions aren't best left alone.

The parade ends at the Washington Monument. There's a giant video screen set up with lots of loudspeakers. When Barbara and I get there, Teddy Kennedy is on the screen with a commercial and a welcome to "The million Gay and Lesbian men and women who are assembled here." He goes on for a bit, stressing how committed he-- and Bill Clinton-- are to gay rights.

There are a lot of speakers, including a horrible lady from NOW and some even more horrible Lesbian folk singers. The tie-clad organizers scheduled the lone bi-sexu...er... bi speaker last. I doubt that any trans-anythings, S&Mers or other fringe folks got a chance to share the stage with Teddy Kennedy. (Who's more deserving of prime time at a homomarch, right?)

I have to get a bus back to New York. Barb and Bill drive me to the bus area. I'm going back on a specially chartered homobus. I flag it down as its leaving. There are two empty seats. I take one of them.

The guy next to me starts taking about what a wonderful time he had and how it was all so inspiring. I pull out my Japanese textbook and start practicing my verb forms.

"Are Japanese men circumcised?" he asks me.

"No," I tell him.

"Are they clean?" he asks. "I can't stand men who don't keep themselves clean. They smell like cheese."

"They're clean." I tell him. "They love to bathe. They bathe six times a day. Actually, they work in tremendous bathtubs, wearing only a tie. That's why they're so short. They spend so much time in the bath, they shrink."

That shuts him up. I get a bit of peace and quiet for the rest of the ride home. I work on the survey (How has your racial or ethnic cultural background affected your sexuality or the way you think and feel about your sexuality?)

The day after I get back to THE CITY, my pals Glen and Christine invite me to a screening of their 'anti-feminist' video Cat Fights. They used our new song, Harass, for the soundtrack.

I'm still sick with the bile of Washington March's mainstream commercialism. The video should wash the taste from my mouth a bit. I go to the homobar where they're showing the vid. It's packed with all kinds of alternative people. There are a bunch of brochures on the table in front. I grab one. It's from the BIG APPLE SOFTBALL LEAGUE, the first Gay Softball league in the area. The sponsor, in letters as big as the league's name: BUD LIGHT!

-end-

ENDNOTES

--> Congressfolks Writing Time: Don't forget to write your Congressmyn and Senatperson about the newest combined righty/lefty puritanical plot. A Senate bill, S 1521, allows "rape and sexual harassment victims" to sue publishers of "sexual material degrading to women." The suit is in a Civil Court, so you don't even need a full jury to convict.

This is instant kibosh on the first amendment. Any (female) jerk who wants to make a buck can sue a publisher if a construction worker yells at her on the street. If it passes, I hope the families of the Waco crew sue The Bible publishers for their violence. Better it shouldn't pass.

-->Congressfolks with Balls Dept: Nothing like some crispy Christians to get the powers that be up in ... er... arms. You can bet your AK47 there's gonna be some new attack on the second amendment coming out of that FBI blunder. It takes someone with balls to go against the tide like that. (Like being a smoker in the '90s.)

Let's hear it for Congressman Roscoe Bartlett from Maryland. He's introduced a bill making it legal to carry a gun. Not only that, but it would be legal to use it to protect yourself.

I'd write my congressman to ask that he support this bill. It's a good one. He's is such a liberal, though, the only guns he wants to see are in the hands of homos in the armed forces. Maybe you'll have better luck with yours.

For more information about the Bartlett bill, write to: Gun Owners of America, 8001 Forbes Place (201) Springfield VA 22151.

--> Kisses to the artist dept: Special thanks to Anonymous Boy, the great homopunk cartoonist who I saw at the Washington March. He gave me a copy of his zine Violin Outbreak and a buncha cartoons. (I'm stealing at least one for the next NOTHING BUT RECORD REVIEWS.) The guy's a genius. You can see for yourself by writing to: Tony Arena, 321 West 16 St (2W), NYC NY 10011.

--> Special thanks to Lenya Papach (15860 Eagle Point Ct, Chesterfield MO 63017) for sending me a letter and her zine Peach Fuzz. It's a fun personal zine with interviews of friends and cut ups and drawings from who knows where. I love it when people just spill themselves onto paper and xerox it.

--> The new Loompanics supplement ($1 from Loompanics Unlimited, PO Box 1197, Port Townsend WA 98368) reprints a fine article about Black soldiers in the Confederate Army. It really helps give the lie to this "fight against slavery" and "the poor Southern slaves had it so hard" bullshit. Great to hand to your local liberal or other 'anti-racist' guilt-monger.

--> Got a spare grand? dept: Annie Sprinkle is teaching a course on Advance Erotic Massage for Women and Men. It'll meet in July at the Body Electric School in Oakland. It's a six day intensive with tuition of $1200. You can save $100 by registering before June 1. I wonder if I can scam into that one. "Hey, I'm a reporter for Maximum Rock'n'Roll. Can I get a press pass? "

--> The No First Amendments in Germany dept: A court in Germany has imposed fines and suspended jail terms on members of a right-wing skinhead band called Kraftschlag (Power Punch).

"We can't allow everything in the name of art," said the judge.

He imposed fines ranging from $940 to $1,2500 on the band members and gave them suspended sentences of between seven and nine months. In another case, a judge fined a Berlin policeman $2,484 for singing a Nazi song at a garden party. He also suspended him from the force.

I bet you're sad you live in America now. That could never happen here, right?

-the real end-

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