Queer and Loathing: Rants and Raves of a Raging AIDS Clone by David B. Feinberg Read Free Book Online Page B

drugs now are CD4 and ddI. I don’t know what the acronyms stand for.
    A British Canadian long-hair in colorful tights talks about having to smuggle drugs across the border: The only approved treatments there are AZT and aerosol pentamidine. The word empowering is used at least three times this afternoon. An activist says that community involvement is empowering. I reach for my gun. There seem to be three levels of commitment: politically acceptable (and tax-deductible) service and health organizations, otherwise known as death services, underscoring the adage “the only good fag with AIDS is a dead one”; alternative treatments (holistic, guerrilla buyers’ groups, etc.); and political commitment (preaching to the converted, we are designated level three). As usual, the White Middle-Class Gay Men bemoan the fact that the political groups have so few members other than WMCGM: Is it lack of interest? Poor outreach? And, of course, a non-white, non-middle-class gay man in our midst takes extreme umbrage at this remark; I make my getaway on the pretense of running to the john.
    The bathroom (a stall-less toilet, a single urinal, and a sink) is identified by a sheet taped to the door, with the inscription “MEN” (crossed out), “BOYS” (crossed out), “MEN” (crossed out), “SAFE-SEX CLINIC-BRAILLE VERSION.” The alternative gender’s powder room has a similar sign: “WOMEN,” “WOMYN,” “WOMIN.” At this point, I find myself in an altered state brought on by sleep deprivation: My interpretation of these events is necessarily deranged.
    We are going to the seminary at 7:30. Unfortunately, the candlelight vigil at the Quilt is scheduled for 7:00. I sit on the floor and wait, passively, watching an attractive man in a leather jacket place a sticker on the floor. The sticker says “A GAY MAN WAS HERE.” He appends by way of explanation, “But the conference was boring so he left.” According to Susan Sontag, the only intelligence worth having is skeptical, critical, and analytical. I dig.
    We walk over to the church. Luggageless, curious Michael joins us. He had gone over to the ceremony at the Ellipse and met us on the way back to the now-locked junior-high school. Michael tells us that some ACT UP members started chanting “Silence equals death” during the candlelight march. Michael tells us in wide-eyed amazement that gradually the chant spread through the entire march. Jesus Christ! I think to myself. It’s just a metaphor, for godsake. It wasn’t meant to be taken literally. But some people just can’t keep their goddamned mouths shut for five minutes without bursting into some chant.
    We are staying in the basement of a church, which has dormitory bunk beds and several showers. There are enough beds and couches for everyone; unfortunately, we’re short on sheets and pillowcases. Charlie from Toronto makes an emergency run for bedding. I join a group of hardy rebels for a quick dinner, thinking I will collapse at ten. But we wait for news from Charlie. We finally leave at ten, when I’m just about to pass out from exhaustion. After a seemingly endless Metro ride and an equally taxing walk, we arrive at an Ethiopian restaurant, where we wait another half hour for Charlie. I pause to savor the oxymoronic irony of Ethiopian restaurants. I’ve seen too many posters for famine relief. Another Michael defends Megamouth during our hearty repast. “He’s not afraid of looking silly to make a point.”
    “But exactly what is his point?”
    I’m too tired for cynicism.
    We return by late-night cab. I stagger to bed, an upper bunk. Beneath me a woman sleeps. Eleven frazzled radicals are sleeping in this room. Someone asks me my name, shortly before I lose consciousness. “I like to know the names of the people I sleep with.” How eighties. I sigh, remembering the old days.

Making Out on the Names Quilt
     
    On Sunday I fall madly in lust with a Californian named Bill. Bill’s former lover died of