Memoir Outtake: Baker Beach Bliss

photo by Juan Alvarado Valdivia, 2005

The city was scorching, afternoon temperatures reaching the upper seventies (which is considered hot in San Francisco any time of the year). Paola suggested a trip to Baker Beach. She was a sucker for the beach, which I always found endearing. I was still reeling from the horrendousness of her birthday three nights before. I gladly accepted her invitation. I was beyond grateful for it. In the four months we had been together, she had already been witness to three instances in which I drank myself to a state of oblivion. A significant part of me felt I didn’t deserve to have a tranquil afternoon at a beach with my forgiving girlfriend. 

Shit I Learned in New York City

me took this picture!

Last week I spent an exhilarating, bedazzling week in New York City reuniting with friends. It was my third trip to one of the world’s greatest cities. (I would argue that it’s the only great metropolis in the United States.) I learned a few things while I was there:

What’s a Suicide drag?

My good friend Chris and I hunkered down at a gay bar in the West Village called Pieces. (We’re still unsure how it got its name.) Around two or three in the morning the karaoke deejay and our emcee—a tall, muscular, irreverent drag queen—announced that they would hold a “suicide drag.” For the next fifteen minutes or so, the deejay played a relentless medley of high-energy dance songs while the limber drag queen proceeded to dance up and down the entire bar as though she was born in three-inch heels. It was quite a performance.