Hank Naczas

By Steve Weltman

My lover, Hank Naczas, was nothing if not a political activist. Like many of his contemporaries, Hank's activism had its origins in the anti-Vietnam War movement at the University of Massachusetts, where he was also a Phi Beta Kappa graduate in Russian language and literature. Later, in L.A. during our 14 memorable years together, he was a much loved out-to-everyone lesbian and gay rights activist, serving for several years as treasurer of Stonewall Democratic Club, as well as being a participant in every gay and lesbian rights protest and march. The photograph shows Hank, on the right, standing proudly with me before the Washington Monument at the 1993 Lesbian and Gay March on Washington, the last political event Hank and I attended before his death in December 1993. His memorial service in January 1994 was attended by over 300 people, including the entire Los Angeles IRS, where Hank worked as an appeals officer, as well as most of the state's Democratic elected officials.

Connie Norman

By Michael Weinstein

Connie Norman was the most original person I ever met. Connie and I met in ACT UP. I wore a suit and tie and she was often in something floral. I remember when I rode with her in Gay Pride she was wearing a bra made out of coconuts and carrying an obscenity laden sign against Sheriff Block. Connie and I spent endless amount of time dissecting the issues of the day and we developed a profound respect for one another. Connie always spoke her mind and did not worry about offending anyone. Yet, Connie was also able to bridge so many worlds. She had a knack for putting people at ease while provoking them. She was as comfortable in the halls of power as she was at the ACT UP meetings. What distinguished her was that her anger never overtook her love. There were so many outrageous instances it is hard to pare them down to one. Every year Connie would make a motion on the HIV Planning Council to defund any Catholic programs. I was the only one who would second her motion. During the discussion she was fond of saying that if the Catholics needed money they should pry some gems loose from the altar at St. Peters. Connie had many loves in her life, Bruce her long-time companion, her many friends and comrades and Kauai. I had the great fortune of visiting the island with her twice. In a rented house right by the water she held court and brought community along with her. It was one of the most special experiences I have ever had. Connie died at the Chris Brownlie Hospice in 1996. It was a very bittersweet day for me. I arrived back in L.A. from the International AIDS Conference in Vancouver that Saturday night full of optimism about the new HIV drug cocktails. We had finally broken through. Sunday when I went to the hospice I found out that she had died the night before. How do you replace a spirit like Connie Norman? - you don't. Sometimes when we ask ourselves what happened to AIDS activism you have to say a big piece of it died with Connie Norman, Chris Brownlie, Mark Koustopolous and so many others. Before she died Connie gave me her favorite teddy bear and I often reflect on Connisms when I'm deciding what position to take on an issue. Connie had a spirit that will never die. Love and kisses Michael.

Remembering Connie Norman

By David Reid

Connie Norman with a bullhorn. It served more as a prop than a utility. Her rage did not need the amplified assist. Whether it was outside the FDA, on the streets of New York, or the three-day vigil at L.A. County/USC hospital, her anger drew people. She was a magnetic for activism. And she was a she. As she told homophobic callers on her week-nightly radio call-in show, "I paid for my surgery and I can damn well chose my pronoun." And like much of her commentary, it flew right over the heads of the homo-haters.

Until the radio station sank in a sea of red ink, Connie was at the mic for three hours every night challenging change-making it happen. She did not care what you thought of her, but she did care that you would think. She loved logic and would relish turning a caller around in their way of thinking.

And it wasn't solely sexuality that Connie discussed; she went so far beyond that. She understood the fear America has toward sex and she challenged it. She faced down Wally George on his show as a caveat to get him on hers and he became a fan.

Connie saved lives. She wasn't alone; a lot of activists in the streets cut red tape and fast tracked drugs that have extended countless lives. But she was special. She had a power that changed people. Which seems apropos for a person that had undergone such a radical change herself. Radical was a word she embraced.

She had heroes, radicals too: Larry Kramer, Mark Kostopolous, Wayne Karr, and anyone else that put themselves on the line to affect change. She helped dispel the innate fear a person has to challenge "authority." She empowered others to take up the bullhorn.

There were many at the launching of ACT-UP/LA in December 1987, including Connie. But she later recalled it was for the selfish reason of not wanting to die that motivated her to join. It was at these meetings that she "got it" and became the voice of our community that she was. She did more in 10 years of activism than most do in a lifetime.

During her last days at Chris Brownlie Hospice she seemed resigned to forced retirement. She met with visitors between cigarettes, talked of her husband Bruce's new lover, who she was wildly fond of, who would "replace" her after she died. Like that was possible. She knew time was short, yet she didn't show anger, didn't regret nor show remorse for her path. Connie Norman chose the road she took and led the parade along it.

-David Reid is a producer and founder of AIDSWatch.

Rembering my friend The Owl

July 19, 1941 - July 22, 1991

By Richard E. Settle, photographer

The Owl, known affectionately by his friends as "T.O.", was born Phillip Anthony Bierly in Columbus, Ohio. His fascination with owls began at age seven on a camping trip with his family. Later, when an uncle gave him a blue glass owl, it was the start of a collection that grew over the years to be unique, beautiful, and vast.

Home was a special place for The Owl. Nestled in the Hollywood hills above the Sunset Stip and dubbed "Owl Mansion." The Owl limo was parked in the garage. His landscaped gardens, fishponds, and rare palms were a site to behold. On the 4th of July the interior and exterior was decorated with American flags of all sizes and red, white, and bunting adorned the balconies. Halloween saw a coffin in the living room, tombstones in the yard and ghoulish sounds wafting over the grounds. A 12-foot Christmas tree decorated with over 851 owl ornaments and thousands of twinkling lights filled the living room with a festive spirit. New Year's Eve everyone would gather around the Duo-Art player piano and sing songs to ring in the new year.

April 14, he gathered a group of friends together for a midnight trek to the Pacific ocean to scatter flower petals in memory of the survivors and casualties of the Titanic. Over the years he collected autographs and stories from the passengers who lived to tell of the disastrous voyage.

Devoted to the glamour days of old Hollywood, on Aug. 23 he would dress in a Sheik's costume and visit Hollywood Memorial Park to celebrate the life and death of Rudolph Valentino, giving "The Woman in Black" a supportive wink.

A very caring man and a thrill seeker since childhood, he was a member of Roller Coastering America and rode every wooden roller coaster built the USA. Donating many hours of his time restoring the coaster in Pacific Beach, Ca. to its former glory.

A wonderful friend and he is missed and remembered in my heart. PEACE!

James Carroll Pickett

By Michael Kearns

Among the things I miss the most about James Carroll Pickett are his insatiability, instability, and integrity: qualities that built the foundation of an emotional bond cemented by the intimacy of recognition. Pickett was my artistic soulmate, the brotherly love of my life.

For ten years, we voraciously explored AIDS through the theatre, raising the curtain on the (initially) silent disease. You might even say we were gluttonous, as piggy as we were when we were boozed-up and drugged-up sex addicts on the prowl. But the plague fueled our insatiability with a focused passion that neither of us had ever experienced, resulting in a shared hunger to produce-readings, benefits, and plays, oh my.

Our families reflected the stuff of Tennessee Williams' tortured scenarios, oozing with madness and reeking of debauchery, particularly when it came to our mothers, the desperate tragediennes, not merely housewives (think Blanche DuBois and Alexandra Del Lago). Sharing a restless instability that no amount of so-called "self-esteem" could quell, Pickett and I both feared mirroring our mothers' drunken manquests.

Finally, it was Pickett who taught me integrity, a trait that I endeavor to maintain. When we were producing an AIDS benefit, a closeted actor who was set to perform in the show refused to allow his photograph to appear on the cover of a gay mag. Pickett, one of the founders of the producing entity (STAGE), quit because of the insidious hypocrisy.

I breathe James Carroll Pickett's life on a daily basis and will continue to until that day that I die.

Johnnie Pipkin

By Karen Ocamb

I first learned about AIDS in 1984 in Salome Jens' acting class, where I was studying to be a playwright. A young man Salome had proclaimed was destined for greatness as an actor/director suddenly landed in the emergency room with an inexplicable brain disease. Salome rushed to his side; he died three days later. In class it was whispered that he was gay and had the new disease.

After that, several strapping young actors started wasting away. When Johnnie Pipkin first landed in the VA hospital, he was held in isolation, his food was often left outside, and we were ordered to wear masks, gloves and a surgical gown before seeing him. He wanted so much to be touched-his family had essentially deserted him-and we-the acting troupe, his 12-Step buddies, and his ex-lover-were the only ones this once brazen, funny, and sweet young soul had left to love him. His next bout landed him at County hospital where, uninsured, he was placed in a large room with straight macho men with a variety of illnesses. They didn't much care for the "homo pervert" hidden behind the hospital curtain.

One bout landed him a room of his own. But since County was a USC teaching hospital, he was hostage to the whims of the staff and was too often forced to endure trainees repeatedly sticking him with needles like a pin-cushion, trying, often unsuccessfully, to find a vein. I wanted to scream at them-to demand that they stop treating him like he wasn't human. But Johnnie screamed at me instead, begging me not to upset them lest they withhold pain medication when he most needed it at night.

So I railed at God instead. And I berated myself for not being Jesus, not being able to go in and wave my hands and heal him. I was utterly powerless. I failed Johnnie, too. Before he lost his voice to the cancer in his esophagus-the cancer which added to the yeast infection in his mouth and the assortment of fungi on his body and PAC-Man viruses eating at his insides as if AIDS was eating him alive-Johnnie asked me to help him die. It was easy, really-he pleaded. He would drink a bottle of scotch or two, pass out, and then I would hold a pillow over his face. I said no-I wouldn't help him relinquish his sobriety and die with demon alcohol screaming in his brain. I still wrestle with that decision.

The day before Johnnie died in 1986, I helped the homecare nurse lift his skeletal frame from his bed to the wheelchair so he could take one more look at his precious Silver Lake garden. I didn't know how to say goodbye so I just said I'd see him tomorrow. The next day, a Sunday, I was speaking at a straight 12-Step meeting in Pacific Palisades and when suddenly I felt a spiritual imperative to talk about what was happening to my gay friends. I spoke from the heart, and several people cried, including me. When I got home I found out that Johnnie died while I was speaking. I knew it. I felt him.

Johnnie Pipkin was my second AIDS death. My first was actor/singer Stephen Pender the year before. I was with Stephen when he died. I had stayed with him all day and night as his friends shuffled in and out of his room in the Betty Ford wing of Cedars Sinai Hospital. Stephen was my 12-Step sponsor-and miraculously, he remembered me from my first sober days at the meeting behind the red door in Greenwich Village. Not letting him be alone when he died was my way of thanking him and all those gay men for being with me as I struggled back from the death of addiction. I have often wondered: why them and not me?