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Well, I clearly did not learn my lesson from last year, and went to Berkeley once more.

In the interest of accuracy, perhaps it should be claimed that it was Arne, my Boy, who had not learned his lesson - or taught it - or...maybe this metaphor was a mistake to pursue. :)

Anyway, he was back at the Mathematical Science Research Institute for a term of research, and, since he was off to the Far East from there, rather than back to Kingston, I figured I should go assert my droits de seigneur ("master's rights" - it's a Canadian historical thing - you, and most Canucks at that, wouldn't understand).

Besides, at the risk of being faggy (horrors!), I missed my Boy.

No real problems to report on from the trip down, as I did not get the homophobic Customs bastard with whom I was blessed last time. My seat-mate on the plane was talkative and friendly, and, as a teacher (I was an Education student a lifetime ago), she and I had much to discuss about the state of the profession in Ontario these days.

The shuttle-bus from the airport to Berkeley was not quite as pleasant, with numerous wrong turns and rather illogical routing, but, after what my watch said was a mere ninety minutes, I finally arrived at my destination, and I assume the other passenger left in the vehicle did as well, eventually.

Arne was staying in a basement apartment of sorts, though, given the hilly nature of Berkeley, it was more of a way-downstairs affair, with access to a gorgeous view, a lovely porch/patio and occasional sightings of the wrold's shyest, cutest miniature collie, which belonged to the landlady, a very sweet woman who did laundry for us (at a charge, admittedly, but still...) and occasionally drove us into town and back to get groceries, since, even for that athletic and shapely-legged Dane o' mine, the walk uphill toting bags would be a toughie (I confess I wimped out and made use of public transit much of the time).

I was of course, happy to see him, and you may feel free to insert sexual innuendo about something's being in my pocket without fear of contradiction. He was pleased too - both then and later after dinner (yes, sleazy, I know, but, I mean, we ARE 'married', so it's OK... :-) ).

The next day we went to see Cecil B. Demented, as it never made Kingston during its brief run that summer. It was entertaining enough - for more thoughts, see here.

However, the main reason I came to town when I did was for the Folsom Street Fair, THE big S/M and leather event. Heck, I went to the trouble of making myself 'woofier' by growing a beard and mustache to go with the rest of my Bear disguise. (Bears are big, hairy gay men, and have formed a subculture allegedly welcoming to same.)

It was cool, fun and sometimes even amusing, though, again, it seemed too commercial (but you don't actually have to buy anything in order to window-shop, after all). I enjoyed seeing folks in various states of undress and attachment to crosses/pillories/etc. I finally got to see ponyboys and ponygirls, people whose fetish extends to wearing bits, bridles, a tail, horse ears, hooves or other forms of animal appendages over their hands, and it finally dawned on me WHERE that tail would go.

I talked to some folks from Anything That Moves, the utterly groovy bi magazine that is one of my fave publications, despite my being hard-put to find it in Kingston, or even Toronto, anymore.

I dropped by some leather and fetish shops with Arne - got a Lick Bush 2000 button (though I'd probably wear a Gore Gore or a Spay Der Nader button too, honestly) - saw some handsomely woofy Bears - got to meet and chat with the queer-fronted LA/SF rock band Slojack at last, who were glad to put a face to the 'zines, thus confirming they belonged at a festival devoted to pain, humiliation and degradation - took in the song stylings of the lovely Gary Floyd of Black Kali Ma, not to mention the smashed standards of Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, who were something of a drag (ha, ha).

After the festival was over, we went to dinner at a quite nice restaurant, where I got to embarrass a fellow Bear by saying 'woof' to him in public, a little louder than I had planned to, thanks to the lingering effects of Slojack's concert volume. He briefly blushed, then reciprocated. Heh, heh, heh - so much for that polite, quiet Canadian reputation...

The next night, we took in a comedy event, as organized by Larrybob (of Holy Titclamps fame) and his partner Nick, and it was nice to see the fellows again, not to mention some of the same comedians we saw last year, and one or two new ones.

Arne did have to do some work while I was there, so I did wander around Berkeley a bit, cruising the record and book stores, finally managing, among other things, to find the magazine Bound and Gagged, which, given how badly Canada Customs wants to protect my 'homeland' from images of bondage, I was compelled to smuggle in...

We saw the film "Proposition 175" at the castro Theatre, a former playhouse with a high domed ceiling and gorgeous murals that was converted into a cinema. It was about the treatment of gays and lesbians in German concentration camps in World War II. In interviews with nine survivors, it made for compelling stories of gay lives from a different time and place. To see this old stooped gentleman just light up when he discussed his adolescent sexual play was delightful and moving...a marvelous piece of history...

We also saw another comedy night, as a benefit for a San Francisco City Supervisor candidate. Entertaining, if a bit disconcerting, since I foolishly outed myself as Canadian to a rather bitchy, unfunny performer who then proceeded to make juvenile remarks about Canadian men (I've never had a relationship with a Canadian man by birth, so I wouldn't know - I would guess he's had tons and tons of them... :-) ).

We also took in the castro Street Fair on October 1, where we met Larrybob again, and walked around a lot, looking at the best of Gay Commerce's respectable retailers. Boring, for the most part, except for the fellow who grabbed a hold of Arne's belt loops and used him to pull himself through the dense crowd, grinning all the way, while I was seething a few steps behind, and the snippy queen in some pharmacy who passed Arne and said 'Someone could use some deodorant!' - whatever, bitch! The sign language interpreter who accompanied queer country singer Doug Stevens was quite a looker (evidently, he won Mr. Leather SF in 2001), though, sadly, I caught but a few seconds of their act. Late in the evening, I could have gone to a poetry/open mic event that Lynn Breedlove of Tribe 8 might have been at, but I was too tired, and I wanted to spend my last night alone with Arne and be intimate, in every sense of the word.

Too sad, and too private, to describe that evening - but it was very warm, loving, emotional and tender. We both cried - I do that a lot, being an emo kinda dude, but I'd never known him to...and it was quite moving...

Hug - kiss - and on to the shuttle bus to the airport. It was an extremely pleasant drive, and I managed to give an 'I Am Canadian' temporary tattoo to an American, because, as the commercial was written in the States, I could not resist the irony. I DID have trouble at aiport Customs in Toronto, but everyone who approached that clerk did, so I didn't take it personally.

A nice trip, but the parting at the end was no sweet sorrow...see you again some day, min kaereste (my darling, in Danish).