Rosemary's Bears

The Bears Host Another Dinner Party

It's Tea Time at the Junkplex

Bears and Bread on Wheels in the Mission

Bears Gone Wild in San Jose

I'm not sure if they'll be marching in the parade for Sunday's Homosexual Festival, but the "Big Bad Boys" who've been described as having "big bellies, big hands and bad attitudes" are proving that the tales of "strong armed robberies" are not fiction. I've been criticized here in the past for trashing bears, but these boys (whom I suspect are straight) are giving a bad name to big boys that even their bear brethren don't deserve

More Wildlife News: Stop Feeding the Bears

Two things in so called" gay culture" that have made me want to run to the ex-gay conversion therapy with Ted Haggard are that Madonna creature (there is no excuse for 'it"; friends don't let friends listen to that Madonna creature) and "bears". The only thing more disgusting than the concept of bears is being around bears. The best way I can describe bears is that they act like a bunch of straight guys imitating lesbians aping straight male behavior. Although I'm attracted to a minor aspects of the look such as a certain amount of appropriately groomed facial and body hair, the overall package makes me want to start adopting 1950s screaming interior decorator behavior.

I recently got in trouble with a couple of friends who are self-identified bears who took me to a bear bar that I called The House of the Big Mamas. That didn't go over well. "How can you say such a thing, Junk Thief?!" "It's easy; I open my mouth and let the truth come out."

If I'm feeling fat an unattractive, the last thing I need is to hang out with a bunch of other fat and unattractive queens posturing as emotionally constipated straight guys with B.O. wearing flannel and pretending that they love the music of Steppenwolf. However, such places are a good wake up call to put down the milkshake and get back to the gym.

I would prefer using the name of my first crush as a moniker for any group that I would ever organize or seek out. So I was pleased to recently discover the Ministry of Sluggo which is run by a non-bear who is not exactly what I'd picture Sluggo to have grown up to be but will do just fine. I can even forgive him for having one song by that Madonna creature in his iPod since it's a throwaway novelty tune.

Of course, I don't think anyone could ever live up to what I thought Sluggo should be -- a slightly tough kid from the Bronx who would always be snuggly and sweet with me but could beat up anybody who insulted us or our BFF Nancy. But I'm not sure I like the idea of there ever being a group of Sluggos. I often wonder how Libertarians manage to get along since the very idea of coming together to organize a party counters their grounding ideals. Perhaps we'll someday have a Ron Paul Memorial Freeway, a patch of rock and tumbleweed strewn prairie that leads nowhere.

Further Signs of the Apocalypse

As both Salty Miss Jill and Bryce Digdug have shown us in recent posts, signs of the bacon apocalypse keep showing themselves. And just a few doors down at Carrer 63 Muntaner -- just a few doors down from my home at Hotel in Dante -- I discovered the apparently popular Bacon Bear Bar. And, in case you weren't aware, Bearcelona has become a quite popular event. I think I would have liked it more when it was Punto BCN, and you could go there "early" as in before 3 a.m. While the fur quotient in Catalonia is high, the chub factor is pretty low. So I think I might actually enjoy the event better than the local fetish fairs. All the same, my slight experience with el ambiente in Barcelona was at a pleasant neighborhood bar called La Chapelle with a sweet bartender and international crowd. A woman from London sat there with her seven-year-old son on her lap who was transfixed by Some Like It Hot playing on the screen with the sound off and English subtitles.

Toasting Melba and m00nchild

Some weeks, wasted hours of blog searches yield nothing but absolute crap, especially on the "LGBT" front, and especially when it comes to this particular group in SF. (Sample quotes from blogs discovered: "Here I am with my boyfriend and a porn star at the Castro Street Fair. Woof. Woof." "Here we are with all those hot, hot 425 pound bears at Hairison Street Fair. Aren't big boys just too caliente?" "Here was are at the La-Z-Bear Weekend in fabulously rustic Guerneville." My reaction: "Egads, no, give me back my chopsticks so I can poke my eyes out now!")

But this week I was pleased to come in contact with one super cool local who operates the sweetly sinister, viciously vivacious blog Lunacy's Child. Besides being cute as a button (I say that a lot, don't I?), he deliciously lays out everything in a way that's caustic but not completely jaded. His observations about gay life in SF are spot on, and he seems to find light at the end of the often hopeless tunnel called being gay in San Francisco. It can be a wretched little flower in this berg by the Bay, but sometimes in all its alienating friendliness comes a sweet, swift kick of hope.

On top of that, Lunacy's Child also has an great DJ site called m00nchild (zeros not Os) with some really great mixes. I'd given up on "dance music" eons ago, especially the soulless crap that I hear coming out of so many bars or pathetic HiNRG internet or air wave stations. His stuff has a great 1977-1979 vibe, giving a sense of a time that was not his and does not exactly embody what it really was but is still a wonderful place to make dreams of. I've been listening to his stuff all day, feeling a little more bounce in my step, twirling around the JunkPlex and thinking "Wow, I'd love to live in a city that had this kind of music. Oh, wow, I do."

And anyone under 40 that digs Melba Moore in her prime is pretty cool in my book. Glad I came across this child of lunacy and the moon, and I look forward to reading more of his blurbs.