San Francisco Sentinel
June 14, 1990
Street Talk
Birthday Boy
By Doris Fish
Before I regale you with “The Phil Ford Party Saga”, I must clear up slight blurring of the facts from a few weeks ago. It seems I suggested that my good, good friend Miss X was a lush! Not in so many words but by innuendo. “But darling,” I explained, “I’m a gay columnist. If I don’t have innuendo, I’ve got nothing.”
“Anyway, I don’t ‘bray’,” she continued. “And I want you to retract that.” Okay, Miss X does not bray, though she might slur a few phrases at the top of her lungs in an impersonation of a drunken chanteuse. But it seems she has retired ‘the act’ as of this week.
A non-braying, non-slurring Miss X greeted guests last week at her home, to celebrate Phil Ford’s 29th birthday, and I must say for someone of her generation, she looked ravishing. With hair by Desiree, and a beautiful couture blouse of silk, with a tasteful black skirt, she was the epitome of a society hostess. “You look faaabulous!” And I added, “But darling you don’t need to paint all those wrinkles on to look like an old matron.” She foolishly denied that the lines were fake! She spent a great deal of the evening in her room, sitting on her bed guarding all her lovely things.
I threw my coat at her and headed for ‘the thick of things.’ Hordes of wild young things had strewn themselves across every surface, and I was immediately sympathetic for Miss X, who had graciously put out food and party favors. I politely informed one young lady who had mismatched broken jewelry stapled to her facial appendages, “I’m sorry, the food is for the party guests only,” which was greeted by a half-smile and a confused look. I thought, “How does she expect to get a husband with that chain stretching from ear to nose?” As I was not her mother, I thought better of ripping it off her face and saying, “There now isn’t that much prettier?”
But prettiness was not a popular commodity among these young folk. I’ve always tried to get attention by being breathtakingly beautiful, but I guess if you can’t have beauty, who am I to to deny you attention?
Ironically, I was not breathtakingly beautiful, as I had wanted to sneak about incognito to get the best dish, but I was still clean and well-kept. My ‘disguise’ worked, and I was able to move about unmolested. Later someone asked Miss X, “Who was that spooky old Queen with the glasses insulting people and making rude comments?” I looked about to see if I could spot the party-pooper and perhaps get the bitch to leave, but the only person fitting that description was Diet Collins of the Popstitutes, and I felt too sorry for her to say anything. This was probably the only party she’d been invited to, ever!
My being nice to her had a soothing effect and I continued to smile condescendingly in her direction as she babbled excitedly about her pathetic life as a Popstitute. It seems they were in Mexico and a poor young girl almost got killed when they did this benefit — wait a minute, no, they were doing benefit in a church for a poor young girl who was in a car accident in Mexico and her mother was trying to raise money for an operation. I don’t think the church audience really grasped the socio-politico-sexual agenda of the group (hey, it goes over my head, too) as they applauded wildly although some young children were escorted from the church.
I used to think the Popstitutes were just awful, not that I was wrong, I’m sure they can still be pretty awful, but last week they were just about the nicest folks who ever shaved their heads in weird patterns. Their garb was of the weird variety, too. Diet had spilled some vodka on his red tights to make his genitals more alluring. People looked, but more in amazement than longing. And Bad’s wig-coat needed a little coiffing about the shoulders, which I was happy to do, giving him the chilling look of a cute young victim who’d wandered onto the set of “Frankenstein Does Dynasty”.
Then there was Alvin, whose luscious arms upstaged any sartorial mistakes he may have made. There were others: the nice one in the red coat (just like the coat I couldn’t give away) and the new one in the wonderful Pilgrim platforms.
Oops! Here it is next to the last paragraph, and I haven’t even mentioned our guest of honor, Phillsy. He was adorable as ever and with his freshly bleached hair and rosy cheeks looked more like a healthy, bouncing baby than someone heading towards thirtysomething. “It’s not the wrapping, it’s what’s inside that counts,” he said as he inspected the pile of tawdry gifts. I gave him some glue so he’ll be able to repair all the other cheap presents.
Speaking of cheap, Ira Kleinberg, a former writer for this very paper, was displaying a fresh love bite while his date was up-chucking in Miss X’s toilet. It seems the only other nice people there were Kitten (with a camera) Kafton and her husband cutesy Bootsy, who is one of the few married men from the East Bay that I have not had sex with. When they left, all hope of scintillating conversation went with them, so I got a ride home with someone named Fruitfly. Oh, and happy birthday, Phil.
