by Dana Miller

We’re passing the torch with cum on our toes, remembering old times and still wondering if the parade has passed us by.

I sat at Orso restaurant the other evening by myself, happily wallowing in remembrances of the days when it was Joe Allen’s. In whatever form, it was agreeable as usual. Back in the day, we would dine at Joe Allen’s, then pile over directly across the street to the bathhouse 8709 to have a ball or two. Both joints were on 3rd Street, next to Cedars-Sinai. At 2 a.m., on any pre-AIDS Friday or Saturday evening, the line to 8709 was clocked and cocked down 3rd Street to the 76 gas station at Robertson, with quite simply nothing but stupefyingly stunning men. If, for whatever reason, when you got to the top of the stairs at the baths, the hot attendant found you unacceptable and no towel and locker was awarded, you strolled an unseemly walk-of-shame down the narrow staircase, with all the queers queued up knowing you had just been rejected and thrown down. How gay is that?

As I gazed last week at what is now a bright, white medical building, I wondered who the hell pulled up that cum-soaked Astroturf during the remodel? I pray they wore gloves and masks. But lord, how and why did we walk around barefoot in that joint? Likely my toes have touched more semen than my cock. 8709 was full of dark mazes, gloryholes and the strangest damned thing: toilets without plumbing. One could sit on a seat in the dark while a mystery lad lurked anxiously down below. It’s not my thing, but is there any wonder why we as a community have self-esteem issues? I mean, shit on me or lick my a-hole in the black of night, and then let’s get a bite to eat at the snack bar downstairs. There really was a snack bar! Kept the toilet boys locked and loaded, I assume.

Just as I was spiraling into memories with romantic nostalgia in the air that Chi-Chi or Falcon would likely pay for, my dinner companion arrived. I have known and admired John Gile for a very long time. He is the august executive director of Project Angel Food. John is leaving Angel Food early this summer for his next life chapter. He and I have so many mutual friends and enemies. As you know, if you read my nonsense with any regularity, I’m an idiot. But John is a pro. Gile has class. He cares, and he has made a very real difference in the lives of people felled by illness. There is no better nonprofit executive director in town. John has always wished and hoped for consolidation and cooperation in the HIV/AIDS community, as did I. Yet over the past decade, so much has become institutionalized. So many fighters have been replaced by workers. Hell, it was bound to happen. It was a delightful supper filled with trash and tales. There are few I’ve met who approach philanthropy with as true a sense of purity as John. You can read most people in a second and determine if they are in it for praise or passion. John is all about passion. Gile has always been straight with me. John Gile did what he did, and succeeded brilliantly in what he set out to accomplish, for all the right reasons. With the new building and kitchen for Project Angel Food in place—and in the black— at 922 Vine St., Gile feels it is just the right time to move on. I honor his service and respect his desire. But we are truly losing one of the good ones. Project Angel Food’s motto is, “For life, for love, for as long as it takes.” John Gile toiled and embraced that blessed burden, and every damned day he delivered. He always delivered!

Over salads, John and I got to talking about one of Project Angel Food’s stunning old events, Divine Design. Beginning in the ’90s, just before Christmas, interior designers created just spectacular masterpiece rooms at the Pacific Design Center that not only allowed you to discover, respect and admire true talent, you could also buy the items in the rooms in the great and grand name of charity. I will never forget that first year. Project Angel Food raised $1.3 million and the highlight was the bidding for the loving master, saint and artist David Hockney to paint your pool just like he did at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. The co-chairman of the event for years was a sweet, sweet and wickedly funny man named Mel Lowrance. Via the organization DIFFA (Design Industries Foundation Fighting AIDS), Mel and his twin brother—my dear, dear friend Jack—produced the spectacular event year after year. Last Saturday I attended Tom Melvis Lowrance’s memorial. Brother Jack and Mel’s radiant partner of 42 years, Sidney Otto, hosted. Heroes leave. It’s what they do. They walk off the field. Some pass, and others search for a new chapter. I am in awe—truly in awe of them all.

As I’ve stirred up this crap all over again over our West Hollywood Gay Pride Parade and Festival via this column, I have had reason to speak with Rodney Scott a couple of times. In the past week or so I have received more than 700 e-mails regarding being proud in our principality. Rodney runs our local Pride thing, such as it is. Rodney would very much like me to shut the f--k up. I believe he may be the only man who can eat an apple through a tennis racket. That said, he always, without fail, says the things I want to hear when we chat. Rodney makes me feel like a young twink being pursued by an elderly banker. It is flattering, though quite likely not real. It is tough to not fall for his rhetoric. I submitted my nominees to be honored for 2008, and Rodney has invited me to meet with his parade folks to offer up suggestions and names of those who might improve this charade. For me, this is a dicey decision. On the one hand, I can’t sit here and pontificate without following through on my promise of assistance. On the other, I’m likely just being used as in the past. After solemn contemplation, words of advice from loved ones and several cocktails, I have decided to once again take the man at his word. I can’t bitch and moan and not step up when asked to be part of the solution. Neither can you. So here is my deal—our deal, really: I promise to update you in every issue of IN Los Angeles magazine for the next couple months on the progress, or lack thereof, based on my invited involvement. Once you read my take, I would like your input. Obviously, and finally, my voice and those who have written to the editor here have struck a nerve. So let’s keep the dialogue going. Let’s make this a true community forum. If we learn anything from this year, it’s that we all have a voice, and if we stay quiet it is wasted. Maybe they’ll listen; likely, they won’t. But it could be a fun initiative no matter what it does to my reputation as a semi-illiterate in this dreadful trade of journalism.

See You Out & About

Contact me at Malibudana@aol.com.