“None of the bars in San Francisco are as bad as the bars here,” says the new guy I just met at an intimate pool party in North Hollywood. The typical refrain from one of our brothers up north rolled easily off the early thirty-something man’s tongue. His lack of self-consciousness was so striking I withheld my usual defense.
Is it the cleaner sidewalks, the safer streets, the urban forest, the sunny weather, the real beaches, or the prettier go-go boys? Why is it that the SF gays can so easily hate on the LA gays so much?
Hello international airport, and sunshine, and flip flops, and gay boys in tank tops, smoking men speaking Farsi, and black girls with cornrowed hair – hello over botoxed housewives, over blinged out black guys with loud bass booming cars, and girls stroking tiny dogs with rhinestone collars – hello dodge ball, and go-go boys, and yogurt stop conversations – hello hiking on Runyon, biking to the beach, and yoga on the roof of Palihouse – hello traffic, and homeless, and people who look through you who don’t want to know your name – hello gay two stepping, leather events, drag bingo, rainbow crosswalks, and naked brunch – hello gurl, and bitches, and cum on over – hello Oscars, and industry, and wanna be dreamers who refuse to give it up – hello kisses from my boy, grass-fed beef for dinner, and juice cleanses, and cuddling with the window open in February.