San Francisco dreamin'
By SCOTT LIND
SAN FRANCISCO AND THE GAY DAY PARADE
June 26, circa 8:00 p.m.:
I arrived here the night before the June 25 gay parade going by way of Highway I up the coast, meeting
along the way two friendly lovers from Ontario.
As I travelled on Highway 280 bordering the
per, I began to feel a surging exhilaration
not imagine unless you, yourself, have also encroached on this world's boundaries. I felt as if I
were on the verge of something special, for the
meaning of San Francisco I already had internalized
long before I left Austin.
My beachbathing in San Diego — all the many thousands of young people jamming the shoreline, not to
ition La Jolla
only the prelude t<
climaxing in San F
seeing, from a dis
and mood inscribed
I was about to ent
and expeditions :
what I expected to 1
ce, downtown, the more meaning
tself in my heart. For, I felt,
the land of freedom, limitless
any human circumstance can be
discovered. The Holy Land, this special
heaven, just some miles ahead, and with quickening
speed I reached the spot where I viewed for the first
time the object of my aspirations of months' dreams
and plannlngs. Before stopping, I crossed the Golden
Gate Bridge. I had finally arrived.
member, Anita had countered gays' calling for a celebration with her call for prayer and fasting. On this
day, thousands of conservative churches preached sermons on homosexual infiltration and the liberal ones,
by and large, remained totally silent. So much with
dependable allies. We have to do it ourselves.
But in this city, 240,000 strong I
thousands marching, chanting o
their presence. Unless you, yo
parade or the one the year before, you simply
imagine the reality of seeing before your very
startled eyes, miles of spectators, a whole downtown area comprised of people like you in one signi
ficant respect. And, at the parade's end, after
having winded down Market St., at Brooks Hall with
its ornate green dome in the United Nations Plaza,
the gathering of all to witness two bands, one of w.
men and the other of men, making music, attractivel;
July 4, Independence Day:
I stand gazing out a third-story bay window of a
house situated on one of this city's highest hills.
A stretch of brightening, dawning blue skies contrasts with settled black-gray fog clouds, and firsi
glows bathe houses of hills below and beyond. I
could be looking upon some Mediterranean Spanish
town, the type favored in tourist posters, but the
view here is real, and not much Spanish and very
cosmopolitan and compacted despite the breadth,
lend for the viewer at least that particular air.
a new-found friend ;
■ open, then shut cli
i Quebec, his eyes
He arrived at this
city some months ago from Montreal, and he has grant,
me his hospitality and his bed. He recognized me as
traveller, and since I am not unattractive and sinci
I had betrayed some wit and daring, the initial bar
riers vanished the night of one of my revisits to
Black and Blue. Neither he nor I have yet slept. 1
kiss and caress him, and he responds.
So far, I have spent
week and two days.
the gay parade. If you :
i week in San Francisco, no, a
, I am not at all sorry to be
of Austin. I face the inevitability of
having to leave this heaven, but I push that idea
aside and gaze out again at what the rising sun and
newly rolling fog clouds, appearing over the western
hills and flowing downwards, are doing to this remarkable world. Presently, this luxuriance of sight
satiates me. I shall go to the kitchen and write a
How nice it is, on Independence Day, not to have to
see even one American flag. America is out there, and
San Francisco is thankfully here, a world totally
apart. To have to return to America, to leave San
Francisco, is a paining thought. But meanwhile I
shall enjoy and return to Danno.and sleep. Here I
wish time could last forever. What a strange sight
it is to see leather people board buses to Castro
Street, a strange hut extremely interesting sight.
And to see all the other people, strong in their un—
icy of experience, and warm and casual. And the hundreds, nay, the thousands, putting up with high rents
and simple food for the pleasure of relating in absolute confidence and assurance in the goodness of life
Say some to me: Don t overestimate San Francisco.
It's Mecca, but different if you live here." Oh, I
know that, but would any of those beautiful souls
leave in order to live in Houston? I doubt it very
[ am taking one last view of San francisco from Saus-
ilito across the Golden Gate. I confess that I feel
an immense sadness upon leaving her. I confess my
soul weeps. But I shall return to you, dear city of
hills and white-gleaming face. Now I journey upward
and hope to make Portland via the Redwood Highway
ON THE WAY TO VANCOUVER
July 11, 6:00 p.m.:
This morning around 3:00 a.m. 1 reached Portland. I
rapidly met a guy named Jesse C. Scott, a model whose
picture has appeared in American Airlines ads. He
disparaging remarks people make about hustlers or
models gaining their livelihood for their services,
but people like Jesse pay and pay and pay for every
monetary reward they receive. These people are exceptionally strong and exceptionally weak: strong for
enduring whatever slight to their dignity their benefactor throws out in addition to his money; and exceptionally weak for having traded their freedom for
this inhibiting security.
Jesse was thrown out of the house by his adoptive
parents at the age of 13. He rapidly learned that
'tis better, much better, to hustle than to starve.
With his earned money, he went to one of the two
best modelling schools in the country and graduated.
Though with his early success — signified by the
picture the Airlines ad paid for — he could certainly have gone farther, made a good living in New
York or wherever he has settled for this life. This
man has written him into his sizeable will, but he
could just as easily write him out once he gets
tired of him.
Jesse doesn't seen to care anymore to hold on to that
money, for now he snaps back at his primary benefactor, and today will cut his hair in the style shown
in his pictures. Perhaps he will return to modelling.
1 a-n at Timberline Lodge at the snowline of Mt. Hood.
1 shall go onward to Seattle.
■ontinucd on page 8
llustrations by David Dole