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June 26, 1989


June 26, 1989
Monday, 8:50 am

On Saturday there was a re-creation of the Stonewall Riots that nearly turned into a riot, too. Two men were found stabbed to death on the piers the night before so activists stormed the 10th precinct in response. Some stupid straight kid tried to run everyone over so they trashed his car. The Post headline said "GAYS BASH BACK." It was the best thing that could have happened. Very satisfying for a little while at least.

Every once in a while it's a good idea to lighten up and get out so I went to the Gay Pride March on Sunday, enjoyed myself and even hung around at the end.

During the march I joined up the ad hoc "ART UP" contingent: Bill Arning, Steven Evans and Michael Jenkins, Julie Ault, Doug Ashford and their baby, Felix Gonzales-Torres, John Lindell, Hunter Reynolds, Tom Cougliani, Gary Indiana and others. This was the group for those in the art world who may have wanted to be activists but, well, you know how busy they all are...Simon Watson didn't show up, as usual, and I forgot to ask Bill how Josie and her baby were doing.

ACT UP didn't do much but carry signs and pass out leaflets, which is what they should do anyway. I found my friends Tim and John near the end and gave Tim my sign that read SILENCE=MORT. It's much easier to march when you carry a sign.

I didn't take off my shirt until near the end so I now have a "farmer's tan". Tim disappeared at the end but I found Paul, Mark, Brian, Phil and Cyrus so we went to the Cowgirl Hall of Fame for lunch because Cyrus is from Herford, Texas as is the owner. My hands got sticky from syrup and I watched men with fake breasts parade up and down the street through the window.

After lunch we walked over to the piers but didn't go to the $10 "official" dance and instead we hung out in the "3rd world" then later watched the fireworks, which were beautiful. I didn't think it was appropriate to sing "God Bless America." I don't believe in God and I HATE America and the last thing I want to do is bless it. I wore my whistle but nobody would let me blow it.

"The Butcher from New Jersey" was hanging out with friends on the street. I hadn't seen him in months but as soon as we said hello we knew we would go back to my place and have sex. It was very nice, very comfortable. We've been doing it so long we know each others' bodies like a map. We're comfortable with each other, as if we were an old married couple but we only sleep together. We've never been out to dinner or to a movie or been anywhere together but walking on the street back to my place from The Bar and to us that's a relationship. We slept with our arms around each other even though it was hot.

There is an ART+ meeting tonight to talk about the upcoming meeting with Ronald Feldman about Kostabi.