On the cab ride home from Ficken 3000, I witnessed some of the aftermath of the May 1 parties/riots/political actions that happened in the city. I’m embarrassed to say that until the cab right home I had all but forgotten that it was International Workers’ Day, a fact that no doubt made Miss Forward cry. Sorry, workers of the world! I was too busy seeing operas, buying sunglasses, and accidentally walking into sex parties to honor your sacrifices past and future. One thing I’ll say for the detritus that I saw on the cab ride home: maybe the Germans aren’t as restrained and austere drinkers as I had initially thought.

The next morning I met up with Earl, who was staying at an apartment generously furnished by a friend of John Joseph‘s. Judging by this photo that Earl took of me on my arrival, I was a bit worse for the wear, I suppose:

I had previously been wearing all my clothes but removed them after the heat of lugging my belongings to the apartment from the hostel got the best of me. I was quite hungover.

Later that afternoon, following a disco nap and a much-needed but pretty disgusting burrito, I met up with Colin and Earl at a resale shop where I procured a lovely vintage leather daddy hat at a very reasonable price:

As you may gather from upcoming posts, the hat became a staple of my wardrobe for the duration of my trip. Earl, Colin and I then stopped at a nearby restaurant that was recommended to us for its traditional German and Bavarian fare. And let me tell you: judging by the amount of cabbage and meat on the menu, it was Germanian indeed.

Following this lovely meal, I met up with an old friend of mine, Gordon, and his lovely girlfriend Franka. Gordon used to play in an amazing band called The Giddy Motors. We met when they toured through Madison, WI several years ago and have been friends ever since. Gordon is one of those guys where you can pick up with him with years intervening and feel like no one’s missed a beat. He’s just the friendliest, funniest, funnest guy on earth. His girlfriend, whom I met last time I was in Berlin, is also a complete gem: dryly funny, incredibly smart, and totally easy-going. Such a treat to hang out with them.

I was also super proud to hear that Gordon had given up drinking. Although he was always the most pleasant of drunks, it seems to me a very good idea to give it a rest, and I was super happy to learn that he was on the wagon. Although in light of how inebriated he, Cynthia and I were on our last voyage to Berlin…

…it was a bit of an adjustment to only be drinking Apfelschorle. Hats off to Franka and Gordon! And hats off to anyone taking steps to improve themselves!! Makes me really happy, I’ll tell you what!

Gordon, Franka, and I eventually made our way to Monster Ronson’s, a karaoke bar and live music venue where the Pussy Faggot party was being held. The space itself is amazing, with private karaoke booths decorated with images of deceased legends such as Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, and Divine:

I really would have been happy if they had spelled her name correctly, but pobody’s nerfect, as they say.

The performances were amazing at Pussy Faggot and kept driving home to me how small even the international queer scene can be. Are you ready for some name-dropping and little linkages? Here we go:

My friend Nick came to the show. I met him at summer camp like 14 years ago; Nick was an extra in the movie Otto; Or, Up With Dead People which also starred my tourmate Gio Black Peter. Nick’s ex-boyfriend was also good friends with the director of L’Orfeo whom I had met the night before.

The show was hosted by John Joseph, who plays in an incredible disco band called Alexander Geist, which sometimes features Joey Hansom, a boy who promoted the Pussy Faggot show and hails from Madison, WI. In attendance that night was Sarah Adorable, an old friend of mine who plays in Scream Club and who knew Colin Self from their days back in Olympia, Washington. The incredible performer Mary Ocher was also on the bill. Her album is currently being recorded by King Khan, who also showed up to cheer her on. I had met King Khan last summer when I opened for him at the Empty Bottle in Chicago.

Did you catch all that? The specifics don’t really matter, but I was still blown away at how closely connected queer performance can be even when you’re on the other side of the Atlantic.

King Khan was super sweet and wonderful and kept talking about how he wants me to be featured in his new hip hop project while playing me demos of tracks. We’ll see what comes of it, but rest assured: I’m TOTALLY down. I guess we’ll just see how good my “rapping” skills turn out to be. Color me trepidatious.

We look pretty serious, don’t we?

Anyhow, as things progressed, we all got a little drunker and a little sillier than we had intended to, and stayed out a little later than we perhaps we should have–just the way things ought to go down in Berlin. I had a wonderful time in Berlin and can’t wait to come back. Sooner rather than later, dammit. And without a flight to Barcelona the following morning. Sheesh.

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My girl Cynthia and I had embarked on a splendid vacation in Berlin two summers ago, so I already knew I loved the city. I also felt relieved that I wouldn’t feel too guilty if I didn’t do a lot of sight-seeing as we had covered quite a lot of ground last time I was there. That meant one thing: guilt-free relaxation in a town I loved!!

I woke up in Mitte and had a leisurely stroll to Kreuzberg, where we Pussy Faggoteers were to meet up for a performance of Monteverdi’s opera L’Orfeo starring none other than the sexu-electro queen herself Peaches.

It was nice to be in a place where my outfits garnered double takes and giggles rather than constant warnings that I would be killed. Not gonna lie: it was nice to go back to just feeling ridiculed rather than in danger. Although I was a bit surprised that my appearance took others aback: Berlin is the land of Hard Ton, Nina Hagen and The Weimar Republic, after all. But in general there is a more libertine vibe on the streets compared to Zagreb, as well as people with subcultural markings in their dress–an element that was noticeably absent in my time in Croatia. Perhaps this a superficial observation, but I think to some extent punks, hippies, and hipsters do speak to the openness of a city.

That said, the city also has a somberness and austerity to it that I find fascinating in conjunction with its otherwise licentious reputation. For example: almost everyone waits for the “Walk” signal when crossing the street. Even if there’s no oncoming traffic. Even if it’s the middle of the night. And although people drink everywhere–the streets, the subway, probably the waiting room at the doctor’s office–I never witnessed anything near the fuckery I’ve experienced in other places where heavy drinking is de rigeur. That said, I wish Berlin would follow New Orleans’ lead in banning glassware on the street; the number of smashed bottles on sidewalks made me sad for the bicycle and dog populations.

On my way to the theater, I picked up these sunglasses:

and a really cute plastic bow ring for my boyfriend that has subsequently shattered

At the shop where I bought these goods, a guy came in and grabbed my wallet and started laughing and shouting incoherently. I playfully pretended to punch him and took my wallet back and he laughed and laughed. “He’s not speaking German,” the shopkeeper told me. “No one ever knows what he’s saying.” Apparently the harmlessly mentally ill are an international phenomenon.

En route to the theatre, I took in a Doner which was disgusting but satisfying and made use of stamp vending machines to send some postcards. Any trip in which I actually make the time to fill out postcards as well as acquire a stamp AND put them in a letterbox to boot makes me feel like the most organized, competent traveler in the world. A pat on the back to you, Shane O’Neill. A pat on the back to you.

Due to a mix up, we all arrived at the opera half an hour late. This ultimately wasn’t that big a deal, but sure made me feel embarrassed when we tiptoed into the nosebleed section and sat in the aisles. The show was great. The voices were incredible and the staging was clever, stark, and beautiful. I found it a really strange choice to cast Peaches as the title role in an opera whose final moral message is that unrestrained passion leads to the ruin of humanity. Ironically, even though I never would have had any interest in seeing the opera if Peaches weren’t involved, I found her participation the weakest element. She clearly worked hard and did a phenomenal job considering that she’s not a professional opera singer (although her singing voice is quite pleasant), but I ultimately found her and her contribution to the show–a vulgar rap about sucking tits, witchcraft and healing–to be a distraction. Not to be a negative nelly–I love Peaches and seeing her in any capacity is a treat. It was just a bit of stunt casting that didn’t work perfectly for me. On the whole, however, I was super impressed and super thankful for Earl’s generosity in getting us tickets.

Following the show, we all went to a cafe nearby for the afterparty. While we enjoyed Prosecco cocktails, Peaches herself showed up and came to our table to say hi. She and Kier have met before, and she was incredibly gracious and friendly considering how exhausted she must have been after her opening night debut.

I, of course, was completely starstruck and could not think of a single thing to say to her. All the best, I suppose, since all I really wanted to do was be like, “I think you’re great. Will you be my friend?” Which may not have gone over perfectly.

Visual proof that we saw Peaches:

Or, at least, visual proof that Kier saw Peaches. WHATEVER. Swear to god I was RIGHT THERE.

We all stayed at the cafe for quite some time, eagerly listening to Kier’s stories of tribulation and triumph, drinking, laughing and carrying on. Once again–an honor to get to hang out with such a bad-ass woman. And it was truly incredible to see M Lamar–who is usually pleasantly contrary at all times–simply moon over how great Kier is. That alone is a triumph in my book. We also met the director of the opera–a sweet, humble, and adorable gentleman–and flagged down a man wearing a beautiful seafoam dress for conversation and photographs.

After everyone had left, I decided to take a walk to Ficken 3000 a gay bar known for its weekly Pork Party. I thought that I had visited Ficken 3000 during my last visit to Berlin, but as soon as I walked in I realized that I had never been. And as soon as I walked into the basement, I realized that Ficken 3000, in addition to being a gay bar, had a sex club in its basement.

Now, I hadn’t really planned to go to a sex club in the first place, but if I had, I probably wouldn’t have opted for the outfit I had on: floral polyester purple turtleneck, tan corduroy vest, green and purple coulat shorts, aqua leggings, loafers, and a modest bun atop my head. Walking into a cavern of gay men doing their thing while dressed like an eccentric librarian circa 1988 made Faye Dunaway-as-Joan Crawford’s voice screaming, “BONER POISON!!!” echo through my head. Needless to say, I didn’t stick around Ficken 3000 for too long, and was VERY glad that my (very open-minded but heterosexual) friend Gordon declined my earlier invitation to accompany me.

I drank a beer, then the complimentary beer that came with the first one, and hailed a cab back to Mitte.

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The morning of Monday, May 30 began the long and winding preparations for our voyage to Berlin. In an incredible stroke of luck, a friend-of-a-friend who lived in Berlin and had just met Earl days ago had agreed to transport a contingent of Pussy Faggot performers from Berlin to Zagreb and back again. Lucky for us, he was incredibly rad, patient, generous, and–perhaps most importantly considering our lengthy voyage–in possession of a huge and bitchin’ car:

Before we left, we got a chance to chit chat with our hosts who rented us our apartment in Zagreb. Turns out their daughter, who does PR for Bumble and Bumble lives on the Upper West Side of New York City. Ooh la la!! They also have kids in Moscow and–I think–Berlin. “It’s nice,” he said, “it gives us an excuse to travel.” And how. He also told us how much he liked renting his apartment to Queer Zagreb performers. “We don’t have time to go the festival,” he said, “so this way part of the festival comes to us! Last year we had a woman who was a porno actor from Madrid!” Despite our host’s cheerful demeanor, I couldn’t help but feel that after a Spanish porn star, he had to have been a *little* disappointed to have us three fags in her stead.

We also got a crucial bit of advice re: crossing the Slovenian border. See, although the car was massive, we had 6 passengers and only 5 seat belts, thus relegating Colin to a cozy perch on our luggage in the back of the car. Our host–whose name escapes me, I’m embarrassed to say–told us that we should drop one of our passengers off one mile before the border and meet them on the other side. The idea struck me as funny, obvious, exciting, and a little bit scary. Travel adventure!!

After much deliberation, dilly-dallying, and generally running on Gay Person Time, we left the apartment several hours after we had intended to. We then swung by the Queer Zagreb office to work out payment and say our final farewells. We found the organizers sitting in the courtyard drinking beers, smoking cigarettes, and relaxing after what was no doubt an exhausting week for all of them. While Earl talked turkey inside, we all happily accepted beers and commenced to doing what we do best: sharing the various debaucheries and absurdities from the nights previous, mocking ourselves and each other, and offering alternately worshipful and cunty appraisals of others at the festival.

In the middle of this repartee, one of the Queer Zagreb organizers interjected.
“This is amazing,” he said.
“What?” asked Colin.
“It is so interesting to hear gay men doing this.”
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Sitting around talking openly about all of this. Being so flamboyant and talking about the things that you’ve done.”
“You mean having girl talk?” asked Colin.
“Yeah, I guess,” he replied.

Once again, Zagreb, in one little interchange you turned a bright light onto my presumptions and privileges as an American homosexual. It had been quite some time since I had thought about what it was to kiki, and how important it was to my development as a gay man. There is a wing of gay men that I frequently encounter–a wing that I used to align myself with in my early 20′s–that loves to say things like “Most of my friends are straight” or “I hate gay bars” or “I’m gay but I just can’t get into gay culture.” I understand the sentiment, as I used to ascribe to it: it’s not fair that one’s queer sexuality should dictate one’s culture or explain one’s identity, especially since it doesn’t have the same implications for heterosexuals. But when I made a conscious decision around the age of 24 to involve myself in gay culture, to actively seek out a circle of gay friends, and generally turn up the fag several notches in my daily life, the experience of small groups of queens gossiping, reading each other, and making a giggly spectacle of themselves surprisingly ended up being the element of gay “community” that I most responded to.

The fact that this man–a man who is out of the closet, working for the Queer Zagreb festival, and is presumably one of the more outspokenly pro-gay men in Zagreb–found this concept so foreign was–once again–humbling and mind-blowing. Rupaul is fond of saying “Every time I bat my eyelashes it’s a political statement.” I don’t mean to put too much stock in a bunch of Americans sitting around being faggy, but in an unexpected way, it seems that kiki-ing around beers in the afternoon may have had political implications I had never banked on. You’re welcome, world. You’re welcome.

The drive from Zagreb to Berlin was my least-anticipated leg of the trip. But you know what? I wouldn’t trade a single moment of that long drive for anything. My fears of restless leg syndrome were quelled by a spacious ride and my fears of awkward silences were quelled by the diversity of our posse which included:
-A Minnesotan adopted from Viet Nam who graduate Law School at the age of 21 and is currently married to a member of the Royal family
-A Guatemalan-to-New York emigre who started go go dancing at Tunnel at the age of 14
-An Alabaman with an identical twin sibiling who transitioned to live as a woman
-A queen from the Pacific Northwest who graduated high school at 16 and has been doing amazing performance work ever since
-A leftist from New Mexico who has built a career as an independent promoter from the ground up
-And, um, me.

I don’t mean to be reductive in how I’m describing my fellow travelers–lord knows they’re those things and much more–but it goes to show that there was plenty to talk about.

And talk we did. There’s an alchemy that occurs when you put people in a car that get along but don’t know each other that well. The conversations run a little bit deeper, the stories go on a little bit longer, and the vulnerability rises to the surface a little bit more easily. I relish the topics that tend to come up on long road trips: family stories, paranormal experiences, childhood foibles, and–especially when you get a bunch of gays together–formative and embarrassing tales from our sexual pasts.

Once again, I’m blown away at how lucky we were to be having fascinating conversations, rolling past the Alps, past green forested hills…

stopping for photo ops in Slovenia…

…and generally having a lovely, introspective yet social time. The trip made me nostalgic for the tours I’ve embarked upon with my best friends in the world, Screamin’ Cyn Cyn & The Pons. So nostalgic, in fact, that I ended up listening to one of our own albums all by myself in the car. I SWEAR TO GOD I don’t do this often, and I can’t really believe that I’m admitting this for all the world to see. But fuck it, I’m proud of that album and I’m only mildly ashamed to admit that I rocked out to it all by myself.

OH–and I forgot to mention–our little ruse to cross the Slovenian border was a success. We let M. Lamar out of the car about a kilometer before the border and had him cross the border on foot. In retrospect, it was a pretty funny choice. M Lamar is a bit conspicuous anywhere he goes, and it probably wasn’t the wisest choice to send a black goth in full makeup with no luggage ambling across a border. But there was no problem at all, it all worked out…..except, funnily, when M Lamar got back in the car and we were stopped at another checkpoint 5 minutes later. Luckily for all of us, the border patrolmen were only grumpy at our use of cell phones and didn’t care at all about our seating arrangement. And luckiest of all, Colin survived his seatbeltless gamble to no consequence. NOT THAT I’M ADVOCATING TAKING SUCH RISKS. Just glad everything worked out.

We got to Berlin in the middle of the night. Earl and I had foolishly not nailed down plans of where to stay. While I was initially excited at the concept of an all-night Berlin adventure, an hour of lugging my baggage around the cold streets made the romance fade quickly, and I opted to check into a hostel in Mitte that Nathan generously hooked me up with. I laid down in my bed at 7:00 in the morning, blinked, and woke up at 2:00 in the afternoon.

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I am back in Brooklyn after a bit of a whirlwind return voyage. Having woken up at 7:30 AM the morning of my flight, halfway across London from where my bags were, and trying to make a 10:00 flight–well, it just didn’t work out. Luckily it didn’t end up being costly or difficult to rebook, and a man at a shop at the airport liked my wacky clothes so much that gave me a free neck pillow!! I’d call that a success!

As you may have noticed, there are many cities on which I have not properly reflected. I am going to attempt to return to where I left off and proceed chronologically. Here goes nothing!!

The morning after the Pussy Faggot Zagreb party I found myself shockingly fresh and coherent. The lovely Colin Self joined Jonny, Earl and I at our apartment for a lovely breakfast whipped up by Mr. Dax. Sunshine pouring in through a window, mimosas, the sickly haze of a hangover, with three other fags debriefing after a wild and fun-filled night: it’s a scene with which I’m all too familiar and one that I always treasure. It was a SPLENDID way to spend the afternoon/morning. Mornfternoon.

Due to events that I can’t quite recall, I ended up with Lady Miss Kier’s hotel room key. To remedy this, Colin, Jonny, Earl and I trekked over to her hotel across town so she could lock her room and see the city.

The five of us ended up at Nokturno once again for a late lunch. Considering how grumpy our (incidentally quite attractive) waiter was at the sight of us, I worried that we hadn’t properly tipped him last time, but there wasn’t much I could do at that point apart from making sure to tip heavily this time around. Our meal marked my first experience sitting rapt as Kier regaled us with story after story from her exceptional life. Kier has lived roughly 1200 lives so far and while she’s the first to tell you about her foibles, injustices, and pitfalls, she is always upbeat, hilarious, and full of positivity. We should all be so good as to have an attitude like Kier’s. Her good vibe was gravy to the fact that I had the privilege of eating a meal with someone I worshipped as a lil’ baby homosexual. Color me lucky, ladies and gentlemen. And color us all lucky to have Kier in this world.

After the meal we rushed over to the Croatian National Theater. It is difficult to overstate how breathtaking the space is.

It looks like this from the outside:

and like this from the inside:

And has railings that look like this:

The five of us were literally speechless for several minutes when we walked in, which is really saying something considering the chatty, queeny company we were keeping. Finally Kier broke the silence by saying “Shit like this makes you understand why they had a revolution in Russia.” I suspect that if I had a better grasp of Russian history I might have had some corrections to this statement, but we all understood exactly what she meant: the rich had it goooooooooood in Croatia, apparently.

After a somewhat lengthy introductory speech conducted in Croatian, we took in a choir of lesbians wearing red overalls singing the Croatian national anthem as well as some song that made everyone laugh that we subsequently found out made extensive use of the Croatian word for “pussy.” Folllowing the musical festivities was a short documentary about the Queer Zagreb festival. It was mostly a love letter to its founder, Zvonimir Dobrovic. Did you know that the nickname in Croatian for “Zvonimir” is “Zvonko?” Isn’t that the cutest thing you’ve ever heard? I’m fascinated by how nicknames work. Why is “Jack” a nickname for “John?” Why is “Panini” a nickname for “Pilar?” Why is “Peggy” a nickname for “Margaret?” The world may never crack this case, but the fact remains: Zvonko is an adorable name.

The documentary was bittersweet in that this festival marked the final installment of the Queer Zagreb Festival in its current incarnation. While part of their decision to end the festival came from plain ol’ exhaustion–seeing as Zvonimir and his tight circle of helpers have been single-handedly running the festival for 10 years–but also as a way to mark what they termed “the end of the beginning” of queer consciousness in Zagreb. That is, the end of containing queer culture in Zagreb to a weeklong festival and the beginning of queerness permeating all of Zagreb’s cultural landscape throughout the year. This idea struck me as incredibly profound and forward-thinking. I’m sad to think that I’ll never be able to return to the Queer Zagreb festival ever again but I think it’s ultimately a noble and beautiful notion to start a new chapter in queer life in Croatia. Hats off to you, Queer Zagreb!

AND–if you yourself would like a taste of Zvonko’s expert work in festival-organizing, check out the Queer New York festival happening June 7-15!

Following the documentary was a dance piece by Angelo Madureira, a phenomenally skilled dancer whose presented a history of Brazilian dance in the time frame of 45 minutes in the space of a bedroom. To be honest, it kind of reminded me of this guy but on a much more skilled level.

After Angelo’s piece there was a reception with Champagne and cake. It speaks to the severity of my hangover that I couldn’t even choke down one piece of the free and abundant cake offered to me:

For those of you who have met me, you’ll understand how dire the situation was. I also was experiencing a sudden and acute case of “tired-of-talking-to-anyone-regardless-of-how-nice-or-attractive-they-are Syndrome” and remedied the situation by enjoying a beer alone at a bar, a beer in the company of the queers at Hotbox, and several hours of solo internetting at the apartment before drifting off–or really, plunging into–a very pleasant sleep.

Hvala, Zagreb! I think you’re tops!!

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OK, jerxx. I know I’ve been terribly remiss. But I’ve been busy and on the go and haven’t had the time to sit down and organize my thoughts about all the stuff that has happened. So I’ll use this lil’ blog as a way to outline my future posts and give you a SNEAK PREVIEW of all the exciting places and corresponding themes that you can expect from ShaneShane.net in the coming few days. Or weeks. Years. Whatever.

End of Zagreb / Road Trip to Berlin
-The value of Gurl Talk among gay men
-The exciting state of international gaydom in which our identities are multiple
-The terrifying realization that I drank so much in Zagreb that cake no longer seemed appealing to eat

Berlin
-The unique character of an austere but decadent city
-How small the world really can be
-Celebrity appearances from Peaches and King Khan

Barcelona
-Avant Garde movies, fancy afterparties, and art openings all of which were too fancy for us
-Hot Spanish bears contributing to a boner crisis over delicious Tapas
-Medieval architecture, gay clubs, and Transvestites Launched Into Space

Porto
-Incredible art communities where you’d least expect to find them
-The charming character of smaller cities with slight inferiority complexes
-How everyone parties later than Americans

Paris
-The captivating beauty of hipster power promoters
-The discovery of a new anti-assimilationist queer movement called “Nazzi Gay”
-perhaps the most insane party I’ve ever been to

Dublin
-The ominpresent specter of the Catholic church
-How Irish machismo translates to sexually aggressive gays
-Craic, pints, and sitting around a table singing in unison at 5 in the morning.

We’re off for a day trip to the coast right now. I can’t believe I’ll be back in the US on Tuesday. SHEESH.

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I awoke at the ungodly hour of 10:00 AM.  Poor Jonny, who was supposed to share a room with me relegated himself to the kitchen floor because I was, in his words “snoring like a volcano.” What can I say? I am my father’s son.

I was quite proud of myself for being conscious, and excited at the prospect of doing a little sightseeing. Jonny and I started at The Croatian Museum of Naive Art, located just blocks from our apartment. I had thought “Naive Art” was a poor translation of “folk art,” but it turns out that Naive Art refers to a specific art movement. Who knew?

Much of the work was phantasmagoric and cartoony. My favorite piece was this portrait of myself in the future:

We then hopped right across the street to The Museum of Broken Relationships, perhaps the best-named museum in the entire world. The collection consisted of vestiges from, yes, broken relationships that were accompanied by brief descriptions of how the relationships fell apart. 5 minutes in, I found myself thinking “this is stupid. It’s just a bunch of garbage. And I don’t care about these people’s relationship.” 10 minutes in I was hooked. I read every word of every inscription. A strangely compelling and arch museum, that.

Did you notice the way I wrote that last sentence? It’s illustrative of my embarrassing tendency to adopt the linguistic mannerisms of people around me. While hanging out with Jonny, who is British, I found myself doing all these weird things with my vocabulary that I never do: using the word “bit” instead of “part,” starting sentences with “I actually quite like…” and ending them with “…in’t it?” I even used the word “fancy” as a verb, I’m ashamed to say. It’s not quite as bad as my grotesque impulse to get slightly “ebonic” around black people, but it’s still such an embarrassing phenomenon. Here’s hoping Jonny didn’t notice!!

Whether he did or not, there will be an audio record of my speech patterns in the form of Jonny Woo’s podcast which we recorded over breakfast. It’s funny: Jonny and I had settled into a kind of comfortable reticence, but as soon as that tape recorder turned on, our posture improved, our voices got louder, and our conversation took on new life. If I were an academic I would study the brain chemistry of queens and recording devices: it’s like blood to a shark. I found myself nervous that I was ineloquent and unfun during our podcast, but luckily it didn’t matter since Jonny is so goddamn entertaining on his own. His stories of London nightlife and tales from his days in New York were an absolute treasure to hear. A treasure!!

OH. I forgot. On our way to breakfast, this happened in the City Center:

Not sure exactly what it was for or if it happened all the time or what. But it sure seems CROATIAN, doesn’t it?? And it’s fitting that all we can talk about is their hats.

Following breakfast, we visited the Zagreb Cathedral, the tallest building in Croatia! It was predictably stunning inside, and featured a mock tomb of Blessed Aloysius Stepinac, the former Archbishop of Zagreb. I suggest you read his brief bio on wikipedia. Political intrigue! Poisoning! Controversy! I also lit a candle for my beautiful–and baptized!–niece Lucy. As you might imagine, the Catholic faith in which I was raised has little impact on my life now. That said, I have more respect for the church than you might think and I love some of the rituals, particularly those co-opted from the pagans. Hence the candle. Whatever. I don’t have to explain myself to you.

After the church, Jonny and I were touristed-out and returned to the apartment to rest up before our 7:00 soundcheck. When we arrived, a circular center stage was in the process of being constructed. The venue looked incredible. Massive stage, full light rig, booming bass, and tons of nervous organizers running around putting out fires and calmly freaking out.

I had the distinct pleasure of watching Angie, Zagreb’s only drag queen do a sound check:

Did you catch that? Zagreb’s only drag queen. In a city of one million, in the capital of Croatian gay nightlife, there is only ONE drag queen. This means that Beloit, Wisconsin has a drag queen population that outpaces Zagreb by a ratio of roughly 15:1. This positively blew my mind. Her performance was nothing short of incredible. She sang LIVE, people. LIVE. And while her song selections were nothing groundbreaking–Abba, Dana International, and Tina Turner–I cannot tell you how great it was to watch her perform.

Things got off to a predictably late start, and quickly turned from fun to better. Lady Miss Kier arrived looking positively AMAZING. We wasted no time in getting our photo taken:

Colin Self, Lady Miss Kier, the most beautiful girl in the world, M. Lamar

Jonny Woo turned incredible looks and oozed charisma as the night’s MC. M. Lamar added a crucial element of the gothic whilst performing an excerpt from his opera “Negro Christ Superstar”  ”Negro Anti-Christ” in his haunting contralto.  Apologies to M Lamar for having screwed up the name of his opera!!  You can take the girl out of musical theater, but you can’t take the musical theater out of the girl I guess!  I’ve had this song in my head ever since his performance:

Incredible, obviously. We also had the privilege to take in the Italian drag troupe Eyes Wild Drag (whom Jonny Woo introduced as “Drag Wide Shut” much to my delight in making fun of him). They performed a capital-P Performance Piece involving S&M, silhouettes, and–you guessed it–gender bending. Watching them transform from three ladies who looked like Social Studies teachers into a high-femme domme and two handsome men was truly remarkable. Frankly, I’ve seen a lot of drag kings that I could do without; these gentlemen were at the top of their game.

Colin Self turned the shit RIGHT OUT. I think his song “Other Women” may be my new favoritest song of all time:

As for myself, I had a blast-and-a-half performing. From now on I’m going to put in my rider that I will only perform on stages in the round (I’m also going to get a rider, I guess). Can I possibly convey to you the joy I took in having people looking at me literally everywhere I turned? It was like catnip for narcissists. The crowd was so fun, I loved my B Calla singlet, and I generally just had a wonderful time performing.

Directly following my set, I had the distinct privilege of introducing Lady Miss Kier. If I could send a postcard to my 8-year-old self telling me that in 20 years I would be in Croatia sharing a bill with Lady Miss Kier, it would have been a terrible idea because I would have lost control of my bladder and suffered some horrible shaming by my peers that would result in future trauma. But I still would have been VERRRRRY excited at the news.

Kier is a phenomenal DJ. Passionate, involved, and totally compelling. She dances, she sings, she gets the crowd MOVING. She’s one of the only DJ’s I’ve ever seen that you want to watch. And I don’t have to tell you, but the crowd went BANANAS when she belted out Groove Is In The Heart What a party.

When Gio Black Peter took the stage, the party. Went. Insane. INSANE I tell you. Wild. Rambunctious. Debaucherous. Licentious. Without being indelicate, let’s just say that considering the number of cameras flashing during his set, there are many people at Pussy Faggot! Zagreb who should eliminate “politics” from their career plans. I wished that the homophobic citizens of Zagreb could have witnessed what was going on at the venue. “See?” I’d say. “When you try to repress people, do you see what happens? It leads to pent-up sexual energy that eventually just explodes all over your face. YOU created this! YOU!! You built this powder keg of homosexuality that is now combusting! THIS IS YOUR FAULT!! MWA HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!” Then I’d take a swig fro my goblet of grog and traipse off.

Speaking of swigs, let me be honest: my memory starts to fail me a bit at this point. I remember a group of people in the bathroom doing poppers while a man kept screaming “THE COPS ARE HERE!! DON’T TELL THEM WE ARE DOING POPPERS” and then laughing maniacally. For some time, the number of same-sex couples making out made me feel like I was finally at one of those junior high make out parties that I always saw in movies but was never invited to; I felt simultaneously heart-warmed and squeamish. I know that I had a marvelous time, got my picture taken a lot, and probably engaged in a few too many lemon beers and swigs from the bottle of Jack Daniels. There were many conversations about gay rights. At some point someone put a dab of black nail polish on my forehead. No regrets, no transgressions, mind you. Just a little too much fun.

And having had a little too much fun led to Earl, Jonny and I piling into a cab to go to an afterparty as the sun was rising. Instead of getting an address, we just told the cabbie to “follow that car!” I think we had seen too many movies. And guess what? Telling a cabbie to “follow that car!” only works in the movies. We had to go back to the venue, track someone down who knew the address and start over again. Luckily for Earl, this gave him more time to hang out with our taxi driver. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Earl Dax has fallen in love. And I’m sorry to report that it’s unrequited. Despite his best efforts and earnest pleas, the cabbie declined Earl’s invitation of marriage. Sympathy cards an flowers should be sent to Earl’s apartment in New York.

The afterparty was fun, but by the time I arrived I had come to my senses. The sun was fully up, I had CERTAINLY had enough to drink, and I found myself getting weirdly earnest and overly affectionate (“you’re trans! I have a trans friend! That’s amazing!! You’re so brave! I love you! Here’s my email address! I know a great therapist in Wisconsin!”). Jonny agreed when I suggested we call it a night.

Earl Dax, you’ve done it, alright. An amazing night, an unforgettable party, and a good ol’ queer time had by all. I’m ready to this….say, seven more times.

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So much has happened in the last 48 hours that I’m a bit paralyzed with where to begin. So, just like an alcoholic in recovery, I’m going to take this ONE DAY AT A TIME. *deep breath*.

After I closed my laptop on Friday, I met Earl at the Zagreb Student Center to attend a panel discussion called “LGBT, etc” about the politics, implications, and limitations of the acronym LGBT. While, to be frank, there wasn’t much new ground being broken for me personally, I was pleasantly reminded of the important meetings and conversations of my younger days that laid the foundations for my present ideologies. I also was extremely grateful that the discussion was conducted in English. It is totally no fair that English rules supreme in the international language landscape, but I am so very grateful to be able to listen to people from Serbia, Italy, Canada, Israel, and Croatia and understand every word that was spoken. I also was downright ashamed that while I can barely carry on a conversation in Spanish about the weather with my coworkers, people from all over the world were able to have theoretical, academic conversations in their second or third language. What the hell, America? What the hell, Shane O’Neill? Let’s get our monoglottal rears in gear, mmkay?

After the panel I swung by the Queer Zagreb office to make my headdresses from the supplies they generously provided!!

I feel like a bit of a yokel getting so excited about such things, but the experience of having organizers who ask you what you need and then provide it for you is so novel and refreshing! I am a BIG FAN of all the hard-working organizers of the Queer Zagreb festival: a funny, competent, severe, and attractive bunch, I’ll tell you what.

I also enjoyed the atmosphere of the Queer Zagreb office which featured:

sex toys….

half-drunk beers…

…and a modest library of gay adult movies!

Following the construction of my headpieces–which took WAY longer than I hoped and I am vowing to not do again on this tour, goddammit–I met up with a pink-haired anarchist from Israel named Yussef whom I met at the panel. He was invited to Zagreb to lead a discussion of how Israel pinkwashes the controversy surrounding its policy toward Palestine by promoting itself as a state tolerant of its LGBT citizens. Um, talk about having the courage to take an unpopular political position in your country. I was also heartened to see that the accoutrements of leftism–veganism, bicycle fetishism, patches, body odor–cross international borders; I found these details strangely comforting. Yussef taught me the most vulgar Hebrew term for semen: “Schpich.” Although its similarity to an ugly ethnic slur will probably limit my use of it Stateside, I found it a very fun word to say over and over again, much to my delight and Yussef’s tolerance.

We met up with Earl, who was with Jonny Woo, a London-based performance artist that I knew about via BUTT Magazine. I was excited and nervous to meet Jonny because, put quite simply, I thought he was way cool. Like, way way cool. As it turns out, my anxieties were grounded: Jonny Woo is, in fact, way cool. Like, way way cool. And also hilarious, smart, fascinating, and cunty. Just the way I like my fags.

We took in an INCREDIBLE performance by the Cape Verde-based performance artist Marlene Freitas. Marlene was wearing a backwards sheer blouse with one sleeve, a backwards sheer figure skater’s costume also with one sleve, a long clip-in braid, and a feather boa as skirt. In other words, she was my style icon. Her performance included sustained aggressive hip gyrations while she worked a set of wax lips in and out of her mouth, eventually chewing them up and spitting them out with much drool and fanfair. This literally lasted half an hour and was–a bit surprisingly–completely riveting. The racial implications of her exaggerated lips, her hip rotations, her repeated eye-crossing, and her gradual smearing of black greasepaint across her face all reminded me of one of my heroes, Josephine Baker and she made me feel verrrry verrrrry racist for liking her. Stupid art challenging my assumptions and tastes. *shaking fist* Where do you get off?

Following her show, we made our way to a restaurant called Nokturno where we ran into a group of other folks from the festival, including Marta Soares, the lady who had buried herself in sand the night before. I asked her if she was OK following the performance. “I am okay now, but I was not okay before,” she replied cheerfully. “That is why I made the piece!” When I asked her what had bothered her, she merrily told a tale of living in Tokyo to study Butoh under Kazuo Ohno, a legend in the field whom I had been introduced to via the cover of Antony & The Johnsons’ The Crying Light. “The classes were very strange,” she explained. “They were all at Kazuo Ohno’s house. We would meet in a studio in his yard. The other students would show up wearing jeans or leather pants and would smoke constantly before class started. Our teacher would then show up with a translator and give a lecture. Most of his lectures were very surreal and were about his relationship with his mother and the fact that we are all constantly caught between the realms of the living and the dead. After 2 hours, he would just say ‘Now, dance,’ and we would dance for one hour. I am from Brazil, and I have lived in New York and London and I have taken dance classes all my life. I had never experienced a dance class like this anywhere.”

Marta said she felt quite alienated living in Japan. As an example, she told a story of a weekend trip she made to Kyoto. Several weeks following her visit, a package arrived at her door back in Tokyo. Inside was a photograph of herself eating at a restaurant in Kyoto. Someone had taken her photo, somehow tracked down her home address, and sent her a copy of the photo.  Marta said that strange stories like this happened so frequently that she began to lose her grip. (SIDE NOTE: I just noticed that “Tokyo” is an anagram of “Kyoto.” You heard it here first.)

Her alienation in Japanese society, combined with the strange Butoh practice in which she had immersed herself led to a nervous breakdown. “It got to the point where I was so depressed that I was not eating and could not sleep during the night. I would only sleep during the daylight. Whenever I was asleep I thought I was in Sao Paulo. I could not tell the difference between being awake and being asleep any longer, so I never knew if I really lived in Japan or Brazil. After that, things got strange.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the inspiration for her epic piece “Vestigios.”

Following dinner, we rushed back to the apartment in a cab to change into our night looks. In a stroke of serendiptiy, Jonny and I both wore outfits involving Aquamarine spandex, although my outfit came from Rainbow and his was “a gift from my friend who met the Heatherette boys and snagged a free catsuit.” Lucky cunt.

When we arrived at Hotpot, Colin Self, Gio Black Peter  M Lamar and our angel Nathan who volunteered last minute to drive them, were JUST arriving from their 12-hour sojourn from Berlin. I just need to say that I adore those boys.  Just a wonderful bunch of performers.  It is an HONOR to tour with them and a fucking PARTY to hang out with them.  There was much hubbub and excitement since the “Diane Sawyer of Croatia” was filming in the bar, although I never saw a female among the camera crew and never was able to get a name of the TV show for which they were filming. I also got a taste of the fear some gays live with in Croatia when I saw a man cover his face with his jacket and flee the club once the cameras came out. Sad face.

Jonny and Gio turned out amazing, brief high-energy sets, Colin gamely honored requests for Madonna and Dead or Alive (although he didn’t get around to my request for Google Me), and much dancing and merriment ensued. An old man kept following me around the club and would repeatedly hug me and not let go. He whispered in my ear over and over again. “I am gay. I am gay. That is my girlfriend. She is lesbian.” I didn’t exactly know what his angle was, but if he was trying to get in my pants, he really needed to modify his approach. I also had a feminist crisis moment while chatting with a girl at the bar. “I had a terrible day. I have to go right now.” “What happened?” I asked. She looked at her watch and in a monotone said “My boyfriend. He rapes me.” Her blase attitude threw me for a loop. Is sexual violence so prevalent in Zagreb that women just accept the fact that they get raped? “That’s terrible!” I said and touched her arm in a way that I hoped would convey sympathy and comfort. “Yeah, I have to go now. He is in the car and he waits me.” I was very relieved.

The night was mayhem, the beers were flowing, and a good time was had by all.

And yet.

Once again, along with the revelry came lots of contemplation re: the state of gay rights in Zagreb and beyond. When I arrived at Hotpot, I realized that I had run out of cash. I asked the doorman where the nearest ATM was. His eyes widened. “It is three blocks away, but it is not safe for you to go if you are dressed that way,” he told me.

The genuine fear in the doorman’s eyes alarmed me. Although I have–knock on wood–never been gay bashed, I know it happens everywhere, and has happened to most of my gay friends at some point or another. While I was wearing a look that would have certainly turned heads in New York City (thankyouverymuch), and I was intentionally trying to provoke in my choice of clothing, being faced with the reality that I–me, my own self right now–could be in physical danger because of some leggings and a hairpiece was a scary, sobering realization. Scary, sobering and also infuriating. It’s no doubt a product of my position of privilege as an American (not to mention a cisgendered able-bodied white male….) that I was outraged at the prospect of being told what I should and shouldn’t do. A part of me wanted to stamp my foot like a child and scream “I DO WHAT I WANT!!” So I thought of my friend Justin, who showed up to his first day of high school in Wisconsin in the 80′s wearing a mohawk, and started walking with purpose to the ATM.

Of course, I probably should have remembered that Justin also got beat up on the first day of high school. DON’T WORRY. Nothing happened. I barely even saw another person in my quick cash run. But for those three blocks, I found my heart racing. I immediately felt stupid for having ignored the the advice of the doorman, for not having the patience to wait for a friend to go with me, and for the fact that if my poor parents knew what I was doing at that moment they’d have a heart attack. I also couldn’t shake the fact that if–god forbid–something had happened to me, I couldn’t say that I wasn’t warned.

Even though I know in my heart of hearts that a world in which you can walk in public in any state of drag you’d like is a world I want to live in, I felt embarrassed at my insensitivity to the customs of Zagreb. Truth be told, there was a part of me that thought, “These people think they know all about the dangers of the street, but I’ve been doing this for years, and nothing’s happened to me! I’m from America, where gay rights were invented!” Yeah. That’s not exactly the kind of attitude I should be throwing around when I’m a guest in someone else’s country, is it? Even if I should be able to roam the streets in any clothes I damn well want, for crying out loud. Stupid real world, challenging my assumptions and decisions. *shaking fist* Where do you get off?

Anyhow, at the end of the night, we were figuring out our afterparty plans. We were given three options by Tina, one of the organizers: a mainstream dance club called Syrup, a dance party at a place called Slaughterhouse, or a party at an anarchist squat-turned-venue called Medika, where last year’s Pussy Faggot was held. I successfully campaigned for a trip to Medika.

Attention DIY proprietors of the world: check out Medika if you ever have the chance. Two massive spaces, a gorgeous courtyard, and hundreds and hundreds of people. And–of course–the familiar trappings of Anarchist Collectives all the world over, Crimethinc Gender Poster and all. I was, naturally, enamored of the place. And, also true to form, when i would express enthusiasm for the venue, the crusties would shrug and say “the scene here sucks. It is the same people all the time. I want to go to….” and would name some other city. The grass is always greener…

Colin, Earl, and our wonderful driver from Berlin, Nathan, were immediately swept up by two cute girls from Zagreb. In what was becoming a mantra I heard repeated everywhere I went in Zagreb, one of them said “Here, you can dress like this. Out there, they will kill you.” In addition to finding these comments scary and infuriating, I was also starting to find them quite boring. Just for a change of pace I would have liked someone to say “You should go jogging at night dressed that way! Everyone will think it’s a hoot!” Anyway, we were met with much curiosity, photography and giggling, as per usual. One boy in particular kept looking at me and audibly scoffing. When I would move my hair out of my face, he would imitate my gestures exaggeratedly. After a few minutes he came up to me.

“Why are you dressed that way?” he asked me. “I’m here for the Queer Zagreb festival,” I responded. “Yes,” he said, “and obviously you are gay and I have no problem with that. But why do you want to look like this.” Unexpectedly, this led to a long and interesting discussion of the merits of assimilation vs. radicalism. The point I kept returning to–a point that I’m increasingly passionate about–is that the LGBT community needs both wings in order to successfully coexist with the straight world. As much as I roll my eyes at the concept, “normal” and “straight-acting” gay people do serve a purpose: they ease heterosexual anxieties about the difficulties of living as a gay person, and can transmit a germ of tolerance that can eventually change the mind of someone with an anti-gay stance. But we also need the freaks and the weirdoes. LGBT people–youth especially–need to see that there are other people out there who also feel like misfits and have the courage to live radically, to look insane, and to “freak out the normies” as the kids say (don’t they?). Hell, it’s not just for the sake of gay people, it’s for the sake of all people that feel alienated. Blessed are the freaks, sez me.

Our conversation lasted a very long time. In addition to gay issues, we talked about Civil Engineering, architecture, and the unemployment crisis in Croatia. He then abruptly returned to gay issues. “Look,” he said. “I wanted to ask you about why you are like this for a reason.” As it turns out, his older brother recently came out to him. “He is gay. He is not a gay like you, he is a normal gay” (I couldn’t help but laugh at this) “But now he wants to tell my parents. I don’t understand why he has to tell them. I don’t care what he does, but this will break their hearts.”

I thought about the undertones of cultural imperialism that were informing my trip to Zagreb and felt slightly sheepish and very emotional. I came on this tour to party, entertain, network, and generally have a good time. But the message of Pussy Faggot! in general, and I hope Shane Shane in particular is that being gay is good, and that being loudly gay is better. But really, who am I to tell this man that his brother is right in coming out to his family? What does my (extraordinarily uneventful) coming out story have to do with a 25 year old gay man in Herzogovina whose Catholic mother is offended at the sight of straight people holding hands in public?

I struggled to offer advice. I told him, first of all, that he might be surprised, that lots of parents who start off as anti-gay come around one way or another to their gay children. This is true, of course, but it’s also a bit condescending considering that I have never met his parents and know next to nothing about his cultural heritage.

I thought of a friend of mine who works with children. She knew a biological boy who, with the support of his family and the care of a doctor, was transitioning to live as a girl. As you might imagine, the question of trans children is a bit of a hot button issue even among staunch supporters of LGBT rights. My friend made a comment that stuck with me: “I wish I could just convey to people that the decision to transition isn’t about the difference between things being OK and things being better, it’s the difference between things being unbearable and things being OK.”

With this in mind, i offered my advice. I told him that I hoped that his brother’s coming out didn’t destroy his relationship with his parents. I told him that his brother’s coming out may seem selfish, and it may seem like he’s “throwing it in their face” but to try to remember that not living honestly, not sharing a vital part of yourself with the people you love most and are closest to can cause deep pain. I told him that before I came out to my parents at 19 (well, really just to my father at that point but, um, my dad’s a pretty sharp guy so it wasn’t exactly a surprise….) I didn’t realize how much keeping that from my father had put a barrier between us that loomed larger than the details of my sex life and that telling him made my life better in ways seemingly unrelated to my sexual orientation. And I told him to remember that for his brother, coming out wasn’t a question of going from OK to better, it was a question of going from bad to OK.

I think it was good advice. I hope I’m right.

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Good morning, world!!  Waking up in a soft bed in an apartment filled with sunlight to the sounds of Earl Dax singing, with an abundance of chewy ginger candies and instant coffee….well, it’s a beautiful way to wake up!!

So far I am quite enchanted with my stay in Zagreb. I was picked up at the airport by a lovely lesbian named Sylvia.  She was holding a piece of paper with my name on it, which made me feel VERRRRRY important!  She had Californication-era Chili Peppers blaring on the system of her Octavia and told me that the Chili Peppers had “the most amazing guitarist in the world.”  I asked if she played and she told me that she had recently started an all-lesbian band called “Comuna” that would play Pride this summer.  “We are TERRIBLE!” she shouted mirthfully.  “None of us know how to play our instruments at all!” I told her that I, too, played in a band with similar roots and understood the joys of learning on your feet.

We picked up Earl at the Movie Hotel, an AMAZING hotel and bar with a Hollywood theme.  The walls of the bar were decorated with glossy photos of Jack Nicholson and Arnold Schwartzeneger (sp?) as well as a framed guide to adding coolant to a Ford radiator.  USA!  USA!  USA!  Sylvia then deposited us at our beautiful apartment, where Earl and I kiki’d for a moment, before I took a disco nap in preparation for the night ahead of us.

The first stop last night was a performance piece called “Vestigios” by the Brazilian performer Marta Soares.  Upon arrival at the venue, Earl and I were informed by the beefy gentleman (wearing a shirt that read, “Meat is Murder…delicious, delicious murder”) that the venue had changed and that a taxi was on its way to pick us up.

The performance was at a venue on the outskirts of town.  Apparently when the Queer Zagreb festival is not going on, the space plays host to a variety of other events including “Tripping Trolls,” “6 Hours of Depeche Mode,” “Dirty Dancing” and–my personal favorite-”Atheist Rap.”

The performance was quite beautiful and affecting.  It consisted of a pile of sand being slowly blown away by a fan….

….to reveal a PERSON!!!

Everyone standing around, waiting for a revelation, wondering how the artist was breathing (a screen at the bottom of the stage, I discovered) and hoping for a climax reminded me of the Arte Povera exhibit I saw at the Walker years ago, specifically Alighiero Boetti’s light that turned on for 11 seconds once a year, and Giovanni Anselmo’s “Untitled,” in which a slap of concrete was tied to a head of lettuce such that when the lettuce eventually rotted, the sculpture would fall apart.  In other words, art about expectation, waiting, and the human impulse to experience authenticity.  I also felt very cultured that I was able to draw such a (hopefully?) meaningful art connection!  Thanks, Walker Art Center for teaching me about Arte Povera back in my college days!

After the performance, Earl and I grabbed a (delicious!) salad and headed to Hotpot for the nightlife segment of the festival.  Hotpot opened just a few weeks ago and is one of only two(!!!) gay bars in Zagreb.  The atmosphere was warm, the staff was friendly, and the dance floor was packed with attractive and fun-loving revelers.  Since arriving in Croatia, I have been particularly happy at the preponderance of what my lovely boyfriend Dusty terms “high-concept” noses.  I think I read somewhere that in the 18th century literature a large nose was often used as a metaphor for a large penis.  Whether or not that’s true, big noses: hooray!

Anyhow.  I wish I had photos from this portion of the night, but as I only brought my iPhone as a camera and it is not equipped with flash, I am unable to share with you any pertinent photographs.  But trust me, it was full of fascinating and beautiful people.  And–though I was nervous as to how my wordy songs would go over in a country that speaks English as a second language, the reception was positive to my brief set.  It just occurred to me as I typed that sentence: last night was my EUROPEAN DEBUT.  Shane Shane is now officially international, bitches.  I guess I can go home now.

It’s impossible for me to spend time in a gay bar in Zagreb and not think hard about the differences in my gay experience and that of the people around me.  From what I gathered last night Zagreb is at a very interesting point in terms of the LGBT community.  For the most part, people kept repeating to me that although being gay is difficult in Zagreb, it is getting better, and more and more people are coming out of the closet.  That said, I was told again and again that there was a lot of “chauvinism and machismo” in Zagreb and that violence on the street was far from unheard of.  A trans woman I met named Angel told me she was hit over the head with a bottle while she was walking down the street; people frequently referred to the violence that erupted at last year’s Gay Pride in Split; I was warned over and over again that it was a bad idea to walk home at night dressed the way I was (um, fair enough).

Indeed, when Earl and I stopped to grab a sandwich and beer on the way home from the club, we encountered three boys who asked us if we were “faggots” and proceeded to engage us in the familiar giggly straight/gay repartee that lies at the intersection of teasing, threatening, and flirting.  It’s a dynamic with which most gay men are familiar but is hard to convey to straight people who haven’t experienced it.  It’s defined by lots of long staring, laughing and whispering and comments such as–and I quote from last night–”Oh, my friend would love to fuck you, but he only likes men with dicks larger than 23 centimeters” followed by peals of laughter and either punching on the arm or feigning buttsex.  Apart from this little encounter–which was mostly friendly, by the way–the walk home was uneventful and scenic.

From my vantage point, gay Zagreb seemed fun, free, and easy.  But then, we were celebrating at an international festival that happens only once a year, at a small party in a basement club that didn’t have so much as a sign out front, much less any indication that it was a gay bar.

In other words, like all of the US several decades ago–and much of the US now–Zagreb is a place where to be gay in private is feasible and somewhat cozy, but to be gay in public, one is either invisible or in a certain level of danger.

While the threat of violence is a scarier prospect, I found myself more disturbed at the thought of invisibility.  A woman came up to me last night and asked, “You live in New York?”  Yes, I replied.  “I am going to New York this summer,” she said.  “Will I be able to find lesbians in New York?”  Without thinking, I laughed out loud and assured her that she would have no problem.  “For you, this is a joke,” she replied, “For me, I am serious.”  I immediately felt ugly and entitled.  Before I left for this trip, I had contemplated the implications of living in a society with greater homophobia; I am ashamed to admit that I hadn’t contemplated the implications of living in a society where even the prospect of living as a gay person is viewed as an impossibility.  As she said to me later in our conversation, “I am excited to go to New York, where it is possible to be myself.”  I think of “being myself” in terms of radical self-expression, as living loudly and boldly and shouting your uniqueness on the streets via dress, performance, and fierceness; she was speaking of “being herself” as literally existing as a lesbian in society.  It was a humbling realization of the privilege I enjoy every day of my life as a gay man living in New York City.  It’s a privilege I am thankful for, one built on the backs of courageous predecessors in the Gay Liberation movement.  And it’s a privilege to which I feel entitled, a privilege to which all LGBT people the world over ought to feel entitled.  We need to figure out how to confer that privilege to people across cultural and geographic lines.

I’m on the case.  I’m thinking I’ll have it figured out by the end of this tour.  Because heaven knows, if there’s a problem that can’t be solved by a fat boy dancing around in spandex singing about anal sex with a cardboard ice cream cone on his head, then it’s a problem that can’t be solved at all.

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I realized that I landed in Croatia without knowing:
-how to say “hello” “goodbye” “thank you” “please” or anything else
-hat, exactly the local currency is
-how to say “Croatia” in Croatia
-Really anything about Croatia in general.

you know, I thought I’d learn something on the plane from my Let’s Go! book I got from the library. But guess what? I left it at home people, I left it at home.

Luckily I am in a beautiful apartment with WiFi where I can do a little research and become a SLIGHTLY less-ugly American.

ANYHOW. I perform tonight at the HOTPOT party curated by the lovely Earl Dax!! My head is spinning, and I’m thrilled to the teeth!! AAGHH!!

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