K.M. Soehnlein

An interview with Sarah Schulman, author of "Let The Record Show," a history of ACT UP New York

I interviewed my friend, author Sarah Schulman, about her recently released nonfiction book about ACT UP New York. It's called Let The Record Show: A Political History of ACT UP New York, 1987–1993. You can read an edited version of the interview on Queerty. 

The full interview lasted an hour and a half. I'm making the (lightly edited) version of the transcript available by clicking here: Download Transcription of Interview with Sarah Schulman.Share

 

What If? Ten Years Without John John

Monday is ten years since John Kennedy Jr.'s plane disappeared somewhere in the stormy waters off New England -- that's half a generation without John John, once everyone's favorite Kennedy, the chestnut haired golden boy whose pedigree and stunning looks made it all too easy to attach so many hopes and desires. Sigh. The mind reels with "What if?"

What if we could had him around during the Bush years, a dashing, progressive figurehead for the scattered Left. ... Maybe George, the political-junkie magazine he'd been editing, would have resisted the post-9/11-with-us-or-against-us rhetoric that so much of the mainstream media fell prey to, and served as a voice of clarity during those manipulative, Rovian days. ... Maybe he'd have been tapped by John Kerry in 2004 as a vice-presidential candidate, saving us the disaster-in-the-making of that other pretty-boy Johnny, then-Senator Edwards, who brought so little to the ticket and has since been forced to slink away in scandal and disgrace. Maybe with a Kennedy on the ticket, we'd have been spared four more years of W. What effect would a living John F. Kennedy Jr. have had upon the political opportunities for Barack Obama two years ago? ... Even if everything else had gone the same, it seems certain that JFK Jr. would have been the one hand-picked to take over Hillary's Senate seat, sparing us the ignoble public flame-out of his sister Caroline, under-equipped for the public spotlight during the brief attempt made to ensconce her in the halls of power, where she so clearly never wanted to be. (Had JFK Jr. lived, would anyone know who Kristen Gillibrand is today?)

Yes, yes, I'm romanticizing. The passage of time has that effect, especially on a fiction writer. Ten years ago I wasn't so squishy-headed about the whole thing, when I chewed through the media coverage of John John's disappearance in a piece I wrote for the Cubby Missalette called They Killed John-John: "The Famous Show" Claims Another Victim. Click that link and follow the essay all the way to the end, where, for kicks and giggles, you can hear Message to John John from the Gays, an underground Cubby Creatures recording featuring a wispy-voiced, tuneless me warbling "Where did you go, in your little plane, Johnny K?"

Lit for Pride

Few things put a smile on my face more than walking into my favorite bookstore and finding my novel on special display, complete with a Staff Favorite card attached. I snapped this pic at Books Inc. in the Castro, where their LGBT Pride Month rack gave a top-shelf slot to You Can Say You Knew Me When.

Most gay writers seem to object to the "gay writer" designation to some degree -- David Sedaris just put his ambivalence on record, saying that yes, he is a gay writer, but please don't shelve his books in "the ghetto" -- though you can't deny that this kind of prominence puts you right in the face of potential readers. (In San Francisco, June is a big month for queer tourists, some of whom are going to wander into a store like Books Inc. and buy something the staff recommends.) No writer wants his or her audience limited, but not everyone has Sedaris's platform or visibility.

Indeed, invisibility is an ongoing issue for books by queer writers, as yesterday's infuriating column in the Washington Post Book World makes clear. Asked by a reader to recommend a "new gay book," editor Dennis Drabelle responds, "not many of these are being published anymore," then goes on to recommend a single British novel many years out of print. As awesome queer website Band of Thebes observed of Drabelle's idiocy,

A more helpful answer might have steered readers toward the annual Lambda Literary Awards, the Publishing Triangle Awards, the ALA gay book prize, and the revamped Alyson Books.

I was at the Lambda Awards last month, and I can assure you that many, many queer-themed books are being published. (Check out the gathered GLBTerati from that night on Homo-Neurotic.com ... I was there in a chartreuse ascot, and posed for this pic with short story writer Justin Torres.) Band of Thebes offers a list of authors whose "new gay books" might have made for a better answer from Drabelle. A couple of current suggestions from my own shelf: Rakesh Satyal's Blue Boy, a beautifully composed tale of a grade school baby-gay who finds transcendence through voyeurism, the Hindu god Krishna and early-90s-era Whitney Houston; Vestal McIntyre's Lake Overturn, which weaves together many stories of the residents (both gay and not) of one Idaho town; Drew Ferguson's The Totally Screwed Up Life of Charlie the Second, a funny, sexy first-person teen romp; and Trebor Healey's A Perfect Scar and Other Stories, just re-released , which includes a heartbreaking favorite, "The Mercy Seat." And those are just by the boys.

Seems to me that Dennis Drabelle and The Washington Post Book World ought to print an apology. And how about reviewing a couple of new queer titles while you're at it?

Meanwhile, if anyone needs any evidence that those who hate queers understand the power of gay-themed books, check out this story about Francesca Lia Block's Baby Be-Bop, first posted on Salon and then covered on the Advocate. A wingnut "Christian" group has not only attempted to ban this book from a library's shelves -- they actually WANT TO BURN IT.

Literary Death Match and other balancing acts

That thing on my head is a crown, not a dunce cap, though I do feel a bit duncey today after publicly displaying my complete lack of knowledge of pi... But I'm getting ahead of myself. The crown was what I got, along with the medal around my neck -- which, if you could see it, would show a fist-bump comin' at ya -- for winning Literary Death Match. The event at the Elbo Room was packed; I wasn't really sure who was in the crowd because I was pretty much blinded by the spotlights. (Seriously, how do performers ever get used to that?)

I read a heavily-edited-for-time version of "Harmony Moore Has To Die," one of the autobiographical stories I've been writing over the past few years about the years I spent in New York in the late 80s-early 90s and was involved in ACT UP. I was right out of college, and I thrust myself into the world of social-change-through-civil-disobedience in a big way, and so went from being a barely out of the closet student to a more or less full time queer activist. "Harmony Moore" is about a character named Eliot, a fictional composite of two different friends, both of them now dead: Luis Salazar, a very sweet boy who I spent a night in jail with in Albany, New York, after we were arrested at a "die-in" outside the state legislature, and Bradley Ball, a larger than life figure who once threw a birthday party at which he invited all his friends to bring a cake, and then, over the course of the night, threw every last cake out the window of his midtown Manhattan apartment. In the story, Eliot comes out in drag as Harmony, wearing "a platinum wig that had seen better days," and for the hell of it, I pulled from my pocket a wig of that description and wore it for part of the reading. It helps to have a husband who's both peformed in drag and directed theater if you're going to try that outside of your home.

The crowd, and the judges -- Josh Kornbluth, Peter Sinn Nachtrieb and Ayelet Waldman -- all responded strongly to what I wrote, but in a very hilarious Death Match style, which meant jokes about prison sex, points deducted for cliches ("sunken cheeks" was kind of lame, I admit) and observations about how the spotlight shining through my ears turned them a distracting transparent pink. Public comments about the way my ears stick out...jeesh, it's like I was back in middle school...but that's the nature of Literary Death Match, a fine balance between public glory and public humiliation. They picked me as the winner of my round over a very droll Jim Nelson, who read a funny, sexually explicit and somewhat cringe-inducing story about an awkward threeway in a hotel room.

For the finale, I was up against Katharine Noel, who, along with her husband, Eric Puchner, won the second round with their completely charming essay about being writers in a relationship; Eric's text was frequently intercut with Katharine's "footnotes," as she was quick to correct his version of things, usually declaring them "total exaggerations." They also ran down a "scorecard" that tallied which of them had more Amazon reader reviews, translations, prizes and so forth. (This seemed to horrify Ayelet Waldman, whose husband is the super- successful Michael Chabon, and who for her own peace of mind is clearly not keeping that kind of scorecard.) Eric and Katherine had been selected over Michelle Richmond, who read a really enjoyable piece called "Turndown Service" written from the point of view of her husband, Kevin, a man no one in the literary community is sure even exists, because he never shows up at any of her readings. Michelle, you've only deepened the mystery!

Our lovely and sadistic hosts Todd Zuniga and Alana Conner forced Katherine and I to step into garbage bags, then hop across the stage and write on a posterboard "ten different digits that are part of mathematical pi" (a trick, since there are of course only ten digits, right? But I still got totally flustered and wrote somethign that began with 2.14....Oy!). Then each of us had to balance a copy of David Foster Wallace's big, fat novel Infinite Jest on our heads, and walk back and forth across the stage. I hit the finish line first without dropping the book -- all those years of practicing my supermodel posture paid off -- though I'm told that Katherine, who was in the lead up until then, had waited for me before she started the final leg, so maybe I only won by a gift? Oh, well, what's winning anyway, when you look so darn ridiculous in your paper crown?

By far the best boost of the night for me was the praise I got for my story, which has given me the push I needed to get back into this material. With "Robin and Ruby" already in production, I've been feeling around for my next big writing project. I'm pretty sure that these ACT UP stories are what I need to be writing. Over a post-Match dinner at Corner, Kevin went out of his way to convince me that it's time to finally commit to this. I've been reluctant, I think, because that time was so important to me, and important to history, too -- ACT UP was instrumental in changing the way AIDS drugs were tested, and the way AIDS was talked about in the media and viewed by the government. How to translate something so big into what is essentially a rather modest form, a series of short stories, linked together by the point of view of one unformed young man? Talk about a balancing act.

UPDATED: Changed the original pic to this one, taken on the street outside.

Read to the Death

I haven't been this excited (or terrified) about a reading for a long, long time (probably since I had to read an Armistead Maupin story at an Armistead Maupin tribute, with Armistead himself in the house). I'm talking about Friday night's Literary Death Match, sponsored by Opium Magazine, at which I'll be one of four writers competing (or five, since two are teamed up together, which seems like an unfair advantage). It works like this: two writers read and are judged by a panel seated on stage, usually with drinks in their hands. Then two more read, and then the winners of each round compete in a "death match" that has nothing to do with writing -- stuff like laser tag, shooting hoops with Nerf balls, or a staring contest. (If I make it to the final round on Friday, please, please, please no sports-like activities. A staring contest, now that I can handle. Bring it on.)

The LDM phenomenon has been one of the best things to happen to the writing world in a long time -- the competitive aspect is pretty good-natured and mostly provides an entertaining frame around the well-written fiction that gets read. The couple times I've been to LDM the crowds were big, much larger than most of the bookstore readings I've been to, but usually as respectful. I say "usually" because there was the time a very drunk heckler stood up and tried to shut down Wesley Stace, shouting "No, you're doing it wrong!" Of course, if you can handle your heckler in style, you'll likely score some points with the judges.

LDMs have been held in New York, Boston, Chicago, and as far away as Beijing. I hear there's one planned for Rio de Janeiro. Hats off to globe-trotting organizer Todd Zuniga, who'll be c0-hosting Friday in San Francisco:

Literary Death Match
When: Friday, June 12; Doors at 6:30, show at 7:15 p.m. (sharp)
Where: Elbo Room, SF
647 Valencia St., (415) 552-7788
Cost: $10 (and an issue of Opium8--$2 off the cover price!)
With: K.M. Soehnlein, Jim Nelson, Michelle Richmond and Eric Puchner / Katharine Noel

Back in Blog

I experienced a chuckle of recognition (or was it a shudder?) reading last Friday's New York Times piece about blogs that go dormant -- about 95 percent of all blogs started, it turns out. That's more than 130 million bloggers giving it a go, and then giving it up. Having more or less abandoned this blog for the past few months, I could relate. This isn't a money making venture, and there isn't anyone else doing the work for me. Time and money, those age-old excuses. OK, I've been pretty busy, planning a wedding and teaching two classes and traveling and writing various projects -- all of it took precedence over whatever observations might have been posted here, and then inertia took over. It's kind of like when you stop going to gym for a little while, and then a little while turns into a long while, and you find that you just can't...make...yourself...go back.

But! Having just been to New York, where I attended the Lambda Awards, met with my publisher about my next novel -- more on that in a moment -- and caught up with some family and friends in between all that activity, I'm feeling re-energized and re-inspired. So this post is mostly to say that more is coming soon, with more regularity.

My plan is to continue to blog about the topics that occupy my mind -- books in general and, in particular, the books that fall under the always morphing heading of 'gay fiction'; politics and current events, especially as they relate to the arts; plus all that other cultural stuff -- movies, music, the handful of television shows that keep me coming back for more, etc. -- that occupies my time.

And, more than before, I'll be putting a focus on my own writing. I've got another novel coming out next year. It's called Robin and Ruby and it's a sequel of sorts to The World of Normal Boys, updating the main character, Robin MacKenzie, and his younger sister, Ruby, to college age. The whole book takes place in the summer of 1985, mostly in Philadelphia and "down the shore" -- that's the Jersey shore, for those of you not in the know. The book won't be published until April 2010, but the folks at Kensington, my publisher, are already planning their promotions and marketing -- plans that include this little bit of the blogosphere as way to get the word out. Stay tuned.

If you're reading this, I'd love to know what you'd like to see here. And let me know your feedback, either in the comments, or by emailing [email protected]. Thanks.

Library Laureates

Last night at the San Francisco Main Library I was thrilled to be honored as a Library Laureate, one of 35 writers selected as part of an annual tribute to the local literary community -- and as a way to fundraise for the Friends of the Library. It was quite a schmancy night -- the wine flowed, the catered hors d'œuvres kept coming and folks were dressed to kill. The theme of the night was Evolution -- in honor of the Darwin bicentenary. A handful of men wore Darwin garb -- bowlers and beards -- and there were women dressed with feathery references to various exotic and endangered species. (Someone dressed as Annie Oakley and someone else as Indiana Jones, and though I didn't really get the evolutionary connection there, I do love a costume.)

After a group photo -- how do you corral thirty five adults onto a stage for a posed pic? very slowly -- and a wine reception, they sent everyone off to different wings of the library to eat dinner at tables for ten, with five tables in a room. I don't travel in the major-donor circle a whole lot, so I didn't know what to expect, but Kevin and I were at a lively table, which included another writer, an literary agent and a number of library volunteers. The two women I sat between were great conversationalists. (I learned a lot about Andrew Carnegie's role in creating free public libraries. "He wasn't very good to his workers," I was told, "but he was good to the public.")

The "laureates" had been asked to prepare five-minutes worth of remarks to deliver during the (very pretty) dessert course; our subject was to be evolution, or our own work, or libraries in general, and as is often the case with a rather loose assignment, some folks were quite prepared and held the room's attention, others didn't and rambled. The highlight for me was author and critic Jonathon Keats's commentary about how evolution has actually been a somewhat "stupid" process; he cited such evidence as the fallible human eye and our awkward spinal column, which doesn't make it very easy for folks to sleep at night.

For my remarks, I had put out a call via email and Facebook asking for "what the library means to you." Within a few hours I was flooded with replies -- everyone, it seems, had specific memories to share. I pieced them together and added my own; I even dug out my 1974 summer reading card, issued by the Westwood Public Library. Here's what I said:

In preparation for tonight, I polled a few family members and friends for their memories of the library as a way to stimulate my own memories.

I got some wonderful responses – my editor at Kensington Books, John Scognamiglio, wrote: "The library is where I first fell in love with books and why I have a career in publishing. My mom took me there when I was either four or five and we checked out HARRY THE DIRTY DOG and I was hooked …"

A couple of my friends who are now mothers bemoaned the fact that their children find everything online now, because they’re missing out on the more sensory aspects of the physical building. One wrote: "I was in love with it — the smell, the quiet, the shiny gloss of the card catalog. I really don't think kids get that love any more with electronic searches."

In fact the sensory, or even sensual aspect of the library was commented on by a few. One female friend wrote:
"The library meant a place where I could read what I want, uncensored, while still being able to make out with my high school boyfriend in the stacks… Libraries = rite of passage coupled with freedom of speech. Not easily re-created online..."
 
A male friend expressed how the library was the site of a recurring fantasy of coming upon one particular high school hunk – a lifeguard at the local swim club – in the stacks where a particular book with homosexual content could be found.

And of course like many young, closeted kids, for me the library was a place where I could learn about things that back then weren’t discussed in the government or the media, much less classroom.

But even before the library became associated with the sensual and illicit, the library was really important to me as a kid – our town library in Westwood, New Jersey was only three blocks from my house, and there was a large and active children’s room. The two librarians were sort of like good cop and bad cop – Mrs. B who always smiled and hugged you, and Miss T. who was more likely to shush you.

My sister Kim remembered that she was working at the library at one point, shelving books, and she heard Miss T’s “horrified voice saying…. 'Oh no!  Not the card catalogue!' and I knew she was talking about the movie, The Breakfast Club, which had just come out.  Perhaps you remember the scene where Judd Nelson is pulling index cards of out the drawer and stuffing them back in randomly.”

The library had a summer reading program. You’d read a book, then go in and report back on it to Mrs. B., and she’d mark it down on your card and at the end of the summer you’d get a certificate. I actually have my summer reading card from 1974, when I was in 4th grade and read 15 books. Here's what I read:

1. Encyclopedia Brown & the Case of the Secret Pitch
2. Franklin Delano Roosevelt
3. Paul Revere
4. Crazy Horse
5. Encyclopedia Brown Solves the [something?]
6. John F. Kennedy
7. Encyclopedia Brown Gets His Man
8. Nathan Hale
9. Encyclopedia Brown Keeps the [something?]
10. Encyclopedia Brown Shows the Way
11. Encyclopedia Brown Tracks Them Down
12. Johnny Appleseed
13. If You Sailed on the Mayflower
14. Farmer Boy
15. Abraham Lincoln

Apparently I was into mysteries and history. I don’t read as many mysteries as I used to, or as many biographies. But I still keep track of the books I read every year. There’s no librarian to report back to, no hug from Mrs. B, but that’s OK. Reading has become its own reward.

After I spoke, a woman at my table told me that the summer reading program still goes on at her local branch library in Noe Valley, in much the same way it did in Westwood. I was also told that the services the library provides are, since the economy tanked last year, in greater demand than ever. The good news from last night is that the Laureates dinner is going to help meet that demand: $250,000 was raised. That's a lot of Friends for the library.

The Seduction of the Closet

Brad Gooch's Daily Beast article a couple days ago was called The Art of Gay Cool -- which turns out to be a misleading title, once you actually read what he has to say. The Dilemma of the Gay Artist might be more accurate, though perhaps less seductive. I've been thinking about this for a day now (with thanks to fave blogger Christopher Hennessy for pointing me there to begin with). My response seems to be tied up in something I've been trying to articulate my entire adult artistic life; it has everything to do with the art I make -- my stories/novels/essays -- and the person I am, and the relationship between them, and the world in which all this happens. Let me try to explain.

Gooch's subject is the intimate, sexual relationship between painters Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns, a relationship that was largely kept hidden from the world while it went on; even Rauschenberg's death this past year left his sexuality cautiously veiled in obits like the one at the New York Times. Gooch links the love between these important 20th century artists to the film-bio of Harvey Milk -- out, proud, and revolutionary Harvey. Gooch found Milk-the-movie moving, but he then notes that "the children of Harvey Milk" (which seems to mean anyone who came of age in a world where "coming out" was the preferred mode of being) have made "nuance" unacceptable. Now that we expect everyone to come out, art -- which relies on nuance -- has suffered, and art made by those who are homosexually oriented has suffered particularly, or so this argument goes.

It's a little perplexing to read this from Gooch, whose own gay fiction (The Golden Age of Promiscuity, Scary Kisses) and gay biography (City Poet: The Life and Times of Frank O'Hara) has been greatly illuminating to me over the years. The gist of his article seems to be that back in the closety days, artists could just be artists (by staying in the closet, more or less) rather than being "put in a box and dismissed" as "gay artists." If you're forced to come out, your art career suffers, is the point Mr. Gooch seems to be making, citing Rauschenberg and Johns, and even Susan Sontag -- who trod the moral high ground in her public writing even as she lived in shame about her homosexuality in her diaries. Or maybe he's just suggesting that if you're out, any art you make gets read through one single lens: the gay one.

It seems to me that Gooch's premise only works for art that is abstracted -- like fine art, or philosophical writing. Rauschenberg and Johns may have expressed themselves in a coded gay sensibility, but their art wasn't representational, and so whether or not they were gay artists might be argued to be beside the point. But what if you're writing stories about gay characters, or making films that portray the full spectrum of sexuality in an honest way, or choosing subject matter in any form that is based on the reality of the life you live, a life that finds its way naturally into your art? The closet isn't an option. And so I find myself struggling with this conversation, struggling to even write this entry, because the whole thing strikes me as being wrapped up in a kind of idealized, wishful-thinking. We can't turn back the progress of time; we wouldn't want to (Rauschenberg and Johns learned to be closeted because the cost was too dear back in 1950s and early-60s America, when they established their reputations). Which is not to say that I don't understand that politics is damaging to art, and sexuality is tied in to politics. Thus, the dilemma of the artist who happens to be gay.

But can anything actually be done about this, short of recommending that gay artists stay in the closet and make art that isn't in any way "gay" in its rendering or content?

In my own life, I've chosen to embrace the labels "gay writer" and "gay fiction," not because I think they define me or my work, not because I think they even make rhetorical sense. (What is "gay fiction," anyway? A person has a sexuality; a piece of writing does not.) I've embraced them because they place me in a tradition that I understand and respect and see myself as contributing to -- a tradition that may one day seem antiquated but which strikes me as still being vibrant, alive, worth exploring and celebrating. And besides, even if I went out of my way to reject this label, I'd be fighting a losing battle, because my work -- which contains gay characters, gay themes, the struggles of gay individuals in a world still largely defined by homophobia -- would still be categorized by bookstores, by readers, by critics. So let it be. The label "gay artist" may have led me to being "boxed in and dismissed," as Brad Gooch puts it. I'd be lying if I said I'd never fretted about this "box" over the years. But what is the alternative? To stifle true expression? I think of it this way: There is no art without limitations. That's something Oscar Wilde once said. So let the label be your limitation; let it set your art free.

The Regrettable Demise of Eddie Socket

This year marks the 20th anniversary of one of my all-time most-treasured novels, The Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket, by John Weir. When the book came out I was about the same age (mid-20s) and living in the same location (the East Village) as the main character, Eddie Socket, and I became immediately attached to him a way that happens only every now and then in a lifetime of reading. Eddie was an unlikely hero for literature, a gay slacker with an artistic bent who was "out" but not necessarily "proud" and who was so focused on a handsome, unattainable older man that he wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to his own premature decline (a decline due to...well, it was the 80s...you figure it out). One of the central themes was how to overcome one's own very necessary denial about the worst of life -- how to grow up, in other words, when you're not at all ready. Weir's tone was funny, heartbreaking and angry in turns, and his skill as a storyteller was apparent from page one. The novel quickly became for me a model of the fiction I wanted to write.

In 2001, a special edition of the book was brought out by Triangle Classics, an imprint of the Insight Out Book Club that was dedicated to overlooked queer novels and memoirs. I was enlisted to write the Introduction, and was all too happy to have my say about the book's importance, not just to me but in terms of its place in the lineage of gay fiction. Rereading the novel, I was thrilled to experience it all over again -- and newly struck by its balance of pop and sophistication. At the same time, Alyson, a queer fiction publisher, had picked up the title, too, so suddenly there were two new editions available.

And so I wasn't prepared for the email that came in yesterday, from Alyson, informing me: "Unfortunately, this title has long been out of print.  All remaining stock was destroyed a while back." I'd been trying to track down copies for my university bookstore, because I'm teaching a gay fiction class and I put the novel on my syllabus. The bookstore rep told had informed me she was having trouble filling the order, so I was doing some legwork myself.

Books go out of print all the time, but this one hurt. Maybe it's the violent sound of "destroyed stock," which conjures up a big, evil bonfire. Maybe it's the fact that The Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket has never stopped being alive for me, so it's impossible to imagine it only exists in the world in the used copies tracked down through Amazon or Alibris. Maybe it's the fact that Triangle Classics also seems to have ceased to exist. Maybe it's just the extra disappointment at not being able to share this beloved book with my students, most of whom were born after it was first published and who have never had to think about how gay writers addressed the AIDS crisis when it was at its most devastating.

John Weir's second novel, What I Did Wrong, came out in 2006, 17 years after the first one. It's another beautifully written, intimate, wise and funny take on urban life, this time set in the post-everything era in which we now live. I strongly suggest ordering a copy of it -- while it's still in print. Meanwhile, here's hoping that another publisher recognizes the value of Weir's debut, and that Eddie Socket's demise turns out to be reversible after all.

Perfect Days in San Francisco

When I was researching early-1960s San Francisco for You Can Say You Knew Me When, I came across a tattered, quirky guidebook in a used bookstore called How To Enjoy 10 to 10 Perfect Days in San Francisco written by Jack Shelton and published in 1961. Highly opinionated in a way that much travel writing wasn't at the time*, this little old guidebook gave Shelton -- a former advertising exec of the Mad Men generation -- a platform to both support San Francisco's uniqueness and get his jabs in, too. On p. 56 of You Can Say You Knew Me When, I quoted Shelton's snarky take on the counterculture:

If you have ever visited New York’s Greenwich Village, you will take San Francisco’s Beatnik Land in your stride. One suspects that the bohemians of the Village in the ’30s produced more genuine talent and creative accomplishments than today’s beatnik community. This is probably because the really creative beatniks have long since disassociated themselves from the over-organized movement. In fact, by the time you visit San Francisco, Beatnik Land might be completely relocated in Venice, California.

Shelton's book is revisited today by SFGate writer John King, who gives readers a chance to offer their own idea of a perfect day in San Francisco. What's yours?

*PS: A shout out to my favorite highly opinionated travel writer today, John Vlahides on 71 Miles, who's currently in Morocco.

What the 80s mean now

I suppose it was inevitable that the Passing on the Pen reading at the GLBT Historical Society would turn away from questions of gay fiction and toward those of history. Both Trebor and I read from stories set in those years I think of as the AIDSies -- late eighties/early nineties, at the height of the AIDS epidemic. Just saying "AIDS epidemic" positions me as someone who came of age at a time when the spread of HIV was exponential, unstoppable, and talk of "long term survival" was mostly wishful thinking.  ... We are each more than simply a member of a generation, but none of us can escape being shaped by historical forces, it seems.