How I Escaped From the Hotel Diva

It was a warm, early February afternoon in 1987. It was Friday, I had the rest of the day off. So I had an idea: Why not see if the hotel where I was staying had a rooftop deck? Wouldn't it be nice to get some sun?

I took the elevator to the top floor of the Hotel Diva in San Francisco. I found an entrance to the roof, opened the door, and peeked out. It was just a bare, flat roof, with no formal sunbathing area. A sign on the door told me the roof was not for guests.

I returned to my room, grabbed one of those plastic laundry bags, and stuffed in it a couple of towels, some sunscreen, and the local newspaper. I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and off I went to the rooftop, energized by mischief.

Onto the roof I ventured for a delightful two hours. Whenever I grew restless, I'd walk over to the edge of the roof and look down on busy Geary Street below, with the Curran Theatre across the street. The theatre had me thinking that I'd like to see a play soon. Or maybe I'd go to a movie that night. I'd just seen Woody Allen's latest, Radio Days, and was hungry for another good film.

Then it hit me. Radio Days! There's a scene in the film in which Mia Farrow and a man venture onto a rooftop and later discover the door has locked behind them! So I rush to the door, pull its handle. It's locked.

Since this event happened 26 years ago, I had no cell phone in my possession. I banged on the door and yelled, but no one came. The sun was starting to slip behind some of the nearby highrises. On one side of the building, which fronted an alley, there was a rickety fire escape. Relieved, I gathered my stuff and began my descent. The first hallway window I came to, directly off the fire escape, was locked. So was the next. And the next. When I reached the bottom of the fire escape, I discovered a two-story drop. There was a ladder built into the fire escape that would presumably stretch down to the street level, but I couldn't get the ladder to release. It looked as if I had a big jump to take.

By now it was dusk. I climbed back up the fire escape, looking for windows off to the side that might possibly be open. I traveled up what must have been six floors until, at last, I found one window open.

The window led into a hotel room. I called into the room, to see if there were someone who might help me. No answer. I listened closely, but heard no sounds coming from the room. It was difficult to be sure, however, because of the street noises below. I took a chance, creeping into the room as silently as possible.

About midway from the window to the door, I heard sounds coming from the bathroom. How shall I put this? The bathroom occupant had explosive diarrhea. I inched my way to the door, hoping to not make a sound. It was then I noticed my plastic hotel laundry bag had developed a hole in the bottom; my room key had fallen out.

I looked around and spotted the key, on the floor back towards the window. The man experiencing gastrointestinal distress went silent, experiencing a lull in his operatic evacuations. I froze for what felt like ten minutes but in reality was probably ten seconds. His stomach gurgled and rumbled, a signal that another wave was arriving, and when it hit, I quietly went back to retrieve my key and make my way to the door. Just as I opened it, the man in the bathroom experienced an explosion that made the Krakatoa volcano sound like a July 4th fireworks show.

As I hurried into the hall and back to my room, I felt a thrill. This had been the end of my first week in San Francisco, and my new life here promised to be full of adventure.

Why is There a Gorilla in Our Living Room Every Christmas?

On the eve of Christmas Eve, Nick and I are taking a break from our dinner party preparations. It's quiet, except for the sound of something thrashing around inside the clothes dryer. The windy rain has momentarily stopped.

And there's a gorilla in our living room.

Any reasonable person might ask, "Why is there a gorilla in your living room?" The unreasonable answer is, "He visits us  every Christmas."

About nine years ago, Nick and I threw a big anti-Christmas Christmas party built around the theme of a Tahitian disco. It's not that we dislike Christmas; it's the same-old-same-old Christmas decorations we'd grown tired of. So we bought two faux palm trees with white lights in them to serve as our Christmas tree, with a leopard-print sheet wrapped around their base. (Leopard print, in my opinion, is suitable for any occasion, especially Christmas.)

We pulled out white ceiling lights and replaced them with green, blue, and yellow bulbs. We bought a big disco ball and hung it from the ceiling. Our dining area monkey chandelier dripped with plastic leis. Paper pineapples proliferated, to the extent that our living room resembled a tiny Dole plantation. We didn't go over the top, because there was no top for us to go over.

The party was a hit. We held onto all the decorations. And every Christmas since then, we bring out a subset of them to transform our living room into a Tiki hut.

About a month ago, we came to a crossroads. While cleaning out our garage, we pulled out our traditional faux Christmas tree. We hadn't used it since 2003, the year of our big Tahitian party. It was taking up space. So the question arose: Keep it or donate it? After the briefest of pauses, we looked at each other and added the traditional Christmas tree to our Salvation Army pile.

Oh yes, you're wondering about the gorilla.

He's a life-sized cardboard cutout that Nick discovered in a party shop when buying decorations for our Tahitian disco. Every Christmas, he is unfolded and propped up to silently witness the shenanigans around him. He is ingeniously named "Christmas Gorilla."

Christmas Gorilla

The first day or so after Christmas Gorilla returns, he invariably startles us. About a week ago, I came into the kitchen late at night to get a glass of water, saw the big dark shape, and jumped. Nick has had similar episodes.

On a few occasions, Christmas Gorilla has come out at other times of the year. When a close friend of ours was recuperating in the hospital from surgery, Christmas Gorilla went with us to visit her. Even the nurse, who had presumably seen many strange things in her line of work, took a look at our friend and said, "I've seen some jackasses in the hospital before but never a gorilla."

On New Year's Day, we fold Christmas Gorilla, wrap him back up in black garbage bags, and store him behind a tall Japanese tansu. The Tiki hut is transformed back into a living room, and another year begins.

How I Missed the Chance to Be on the Radio

While spending the afternoon on a clothing-optional beach, I missed the chance to be interviewed on a radio program about public nudity.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

In San Francisco, our summer weather usually arrives in mid-late September and sometimes lasts as long as early November. Nick and I had noticed that the middle of this week looked ideal for playing hooky from work and going to our favorite beach, the ever-elusive and, yes, clothing-optional Gray Whale Cove. I say 'ever elusive' because too often, we've ventured down Highway 1 from San Francisco on a warm, sunny day only to discover the beach had disappeared beneath an impenetrably gray, chilly fog.

This is why I call Gray Whale Cove 'the Brigadoon of beaches.'And on Wednesday, it materialized out of the mist to deliver a spectacular, warm, sunny beach day. Nick and I settled in for the afternoon. My beach bag bulged with an iPad, a Kindle, an iPhone, the day's New York Times, a notepad, and other stuff I'd planned to get to. There was this blog to update, some research to do, email to answer, stories to read about the previous night's presidential debate.

Before long, Nick and I became absorbed by the spectacle of waves smashing against distant rocks, exploding into what looked like fireworks. I felt the coarse, golden, warm sand against my bare feet.

Gray Whale Cove, as seen from the hill above the beach

The beauty of our surroundings led to a discussion of spirituality. Nick told me of the time when, as a boy, he'd endured another long, drunken argument between his parents and had felt completely alone in the world, until he looked out the living room window into the clear night sky and saw one particularly bright star. I was reminded that I don't currently have any particular spiritual beliefs or strong disbeliefs, and maybe now would be a good time to start figuring things out. Religious and spiritual practices have always felt too dogmatic for me. But it occurred to me I might approach them the way a seasoned cook follows a new recipe: Read the steps, line up the ingredients, but follow your instincts and make it your own.

Periodically throughout the afternoon, a tension crept into my body. Since it was midweek, there must be email that needed my immediate attention. And yet, here we were, taking much-needed time away from work on a beautiful beach, a place where one day long in the future, I would like some of my ashes scattered. The iPhone stayed in my backpack along with everything else I'd brought until about 5 p.m., when we were packing to leave.

That's when I saw it: an email from a producer at KQED, a highly respected public radio station in San Francisco. She wanted to know if, as the author of a recently produced play that addresses San Francisco's public nudity controversy, I'd care to speak on that topic during the next day's Forum program. Hurriedly, I tried to respond to the email, but the signal on the beach was too weak. Clearly, my response would have to wait until we climbed the many steps that led back up to the road and the parking lot. Over three hours had passed since the producer had emailed me; wouldn't they have found someone else by now?, I wondered.

Before I even started up those steps, however, something amazing (for me) happened. I was grateful I hadn't checked my email until then. Being on KQED the next morning would have consumed my thoughts the rest of that afternoon: What wise or funny things could I say? Who else might be on the program? How could I get a digital copy? The radio show would have drowned out the crashing waves, and it would most likely have derailed the spirituality discussion.

As I expected, when I was able to reach her, the KQED producer informed me she had made other plans. She encouraged me to listen the next morning and if I felt inclined, to call in. I did as she suggested, but the lines were jammed.

The road to talking about my play on a popular radio show had been sealed off, just as the fragile Highway 1 that leads to Gray Whale Cove often is after a strong winter storm. But that afternoon on the beach, another path started to materialize out of the fog. I move toward it, grateful.

Why I Wrote a Play About San Francisco's Naked Guys

Public nudity isn't something I was, pardon the pun, exposed to in the South. Private nudity wasn't even part of my upbringing. I may have seen my father's bare legs half a dozen times, usually as he dashed from the bedroom to the bathroom.

There was a time when, as a boy, I stumbled into a room in which a relative was breast-feeding her baby. All I can remember thinking was, "If you offer refreshments to one person, aren't you supposed to offer it everyone else?"

And so, I was a public nudity 'virgin' until I moved to San Francisco. It didn't last long.

Soon after relocating to SF from Atlanta, I heard about the nude beaches scattered here and there, such as Baker Beach, Land's End, and Gray Whale Cove. Nick and I, strictly in the spirit of research, hit them all. We rarely kicked off our own bathing suits, however. It wasn't so much that we thought it was wrong. It was mostly about maintaining a tan line.

There was the undeniable curiosity factor, too. You go to a place where naked people hang out, you're bound to come back with stories. For example: One day at Gray Whale Cove, a game of nude volleyball was happening. A good female friend of ours sat with us, not far from the players and their bouncing appendages, intensely reading a book about how to stop children from thumb-sucking. The juxtaposition still makes me laugh.

About five years ago, a slow-burning movement began, but at the time I thought it was simply an isolated case. A couple of guys would walk around San Francisco's freewheeling Castro neighborhood completely naked, except for shoes. They'd casually stroll up and down the streets, almost as if they were on their way to the grocery store. In truth, they were all undressed with nowhere to go because no business establishment, I assumed, would allow them in.

Upon first sighting, I was shocked. Who would do such a thing? Gradually, I began to see the naked guys with a bit more frequency. Each time, I was less surprised, but I was still baffled. What was the point of it? I didn't like how it made me feel: uncomfortable, annoyed at them, and annoyed at feeling Puritanical.

Not surprisingly, the naked guys grew ever so slightly in numbers over time. And then, the public nudity movement began in earnest about two years ago, when the city created a public plaza at the highly trafficked intersection of Castro and Market Streets (shown below). Suddenly, there was a place for the nudists to congregate, because it was public property. And this is where it gets even wackier: Public nudity isn't a crime in San Francisco, as long as you're not visibly aroused.

Photo: ABC News

Even in a city as liberal as San Francisco, feelings are sharply divided over the naked guys (and, by the way, the occasional naked woman). Some of my friends find it ridiculous, disgusting, pointless, an unnecessary 'political statement,' and an embarrassment to the city. 

Among these sentiments, there's one I've heard expressed often that's a little troubling. To wit: The vast majority of the naked guys are unattractive and out of shape. In other words, the public nudity is bad--but maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they were cute and buff. Typical comments I've heard include "The naked guys are the ones you'd least like to see naked," and "Who wants to see Santa Claus nude?"

On the opposite side, I've heard friends say that the public nudity is yet another by-product of living in a liberal, tolerant city. They'd all lived in places that aren't so welcoming and relaxed and are downright hostile to people who are different. And while they don't exactly love the naked guys either, they accept them as part of the eccentric, accepting, be-whatever-you-want-to-be nature of San Francisco.

Where do I stand on this issue, you might be wondering?

I started off in the first camp and slowly moved into the second. And during that journey, I became fascinated with the emotions the topic stirred--enough so that I wrote a 10-minute comic play about it, The Buck Naked Church of Truth. The play is currently running in San Francisco through Oct. 13th. It's part of a show called Family Programming, an evening of seven short plays, all of them awesome. You can buy your $15 tickets (yes, please!) at Brown Paper Tickets.

In my play, a father (Jeff) who sees himself as liberal has come to San Francisco with his girlfriend, Joy, who's a bit conservative. They've flown in from Kansas City to visit Jeff's son Tony, a gay man who lives in the Castro.

Jeff and Joy arrive early and go to the Castro so that Joy, who doesn't think she actually knows any gay people, can get comfortable being around gays before they have dinner that night with Tony and his new boyfriend. But while Jeff and Joy are sitting at a sidewalk cafe, guess who shows up buck naked? Tony and his new boyfriend.

The father, who had no idea his son is a public nudist, is outraged. And before the lights go out, roles get reversed quickly: the liberal becomes conservative, the conservative becomes liberal; the naked get dressed and the clothed shed a few layers.

The Buck Naked Church of Truth is beautifully acted and directed. And it may end up being a historical play, perhaps soon. The naked guys controversy is in the news again because a city supervisor is considering proposing a ban or at least restrictions on public nudity. And in a twist that only San Francisco could have invented, the supervisor's name is Scott Wiener.

Top 5 "Only in San Francisco" Things to Do

"Only in San Francisco" is a term that's spoken in either a positive tone, with a warm smile and a beat of the heart, or a pejorative one, accompanied by an intolerant eye roll. Today, a few days after the Bay Area celebrated the 75th birthday of the Golden Gate Bridge, I'm feeling the love for my adopted home. So for any of you planning a visit, here are five of my favorite "only in San Francisco" things to do (in no particular order of preference). 

1. See a movie at the Castro Theatre. 

 It's a 1922 neighborhood, single-screen movie palace that still shows films most every night--usually of the vintage and independent variety--and still has a guy playing the Wurlitzer organ before screenings. Do you have one of those in your town? I thought not. 

I've seen everything here from the sing-a-long versions of Grease and The Sound of Music to Up in 3D to countless film noirs to Fun in Boys' Shorts, a staple of the annual Frameline gay and lesbian film festival. At the Castro, you're part of a community, not just an audience member--and it's OK to hiss the villain on screen, if not expected. Tip: Before the show, smuggle in a freshly baked treat from Hot Cookie, a few doors up the street.

The Castro Theatre

2. Check out the naked guys.  

The Castro is San Francisco's--if not the world's--main 'gayborhood.' In recent years, it's also become home to a tiny minority of nudists (in which "tiny" refers to their membership ranks, not necessarily their "members"). Mostly guys, mostly older, mostly not physically attractive, the clotheless contingent walks around the neighborhood as casually as if they were going grocery shopping. (Imagine them in the produce aisle, carefully selecting cucumbers.) 

The 'naked guys' also congregate in the public parklet across from that staple of middle America, Pottery Barn. Sometimes, the Creme Brulee Cart sets up shop nearby, though I think a hot dog stand would be more appropriate. 

Oddly enough, public nudity isn't a crime here (unless something lewd is occurring), though a citizen could make a beef about it if he or she wanted to. Do I love seeing these guys naked in public? The truth is, no. But I love what they represent: freedom and lack of shame. Here, in one of the country's most liberal cities, you can be who you truly are--and you can do it with pride. Tip: I've heard some of the naked guys will pose for pictures with you (if you ask nicely, of course). Won't that be something to show your friends back home?

3. Ride a vintage streetcar. 

I'm not talking about the cable car. I'm talking about hopping aboard one of the many mid-20th century streetcars from cities around the country--and some from abroad. (The loud orange trolley cars are from Milan.) Here again, this is where San Francisco goes against the grain. These cars had been cast aside, considered archaic by cities like Boston. San Francisco bought and restored them and now runs a fleet of them along Market Street, the Embarcadero, and a few other above-ground rail lines. To my knowledge, no other city has amassed such a collection of trolley cars. Tip: You can ride a vintage trolley to the Castro, if you're dying to see a movie and public nudity. And if you're lucky, you might even get to ride NewOrleans' streetcar named desire. 

Vintage streetcar in San Francisco

4. Ride the California Street cable car. 

I sensed your disappointment when I wrote about streetcars, not cable cars. Of course you must ride a cable car when you're in San Francisco. To many people, it's the definition of an "only in San Francisco" experience, as no other city in the world still operates cable cars. 

But don't do what every other tourist does and wait in the interminable lines at the Powell Street cable car turnaround. Instead, jump onto a cable car at either the top of California Street (at Van Ness Avenue) or at the bottom, near the Hyatt Regency on Market Street (not far from the Ferry Building). For some odd reason, the California Street cable car carries far fewer riders, so you'll probably be able to board without waiting. 

And frankly, I like the views better on this route. Along the way, you'll pass the financial district, Chinatown, and Nob Hill landmarks. And you'll go up or down some steep hills, depending upon where you board--which is, in itself, another great San Francisco experience. Tip: Fares at most times are $6 each way (with no transfers), which can you pay the conductor. Try to have the exact fare, if possible. If you plan to ride a cable car more than three times in a day or ride other local buses or trains, get the $14 day pass (which the conductor will also sell you).

California Street cable car

5. Eat a hamburger at Zuni. 

I know what you're thinking: You can eat a hamburger anywhere. But Zuni is and always has been, practically from the moment it opened, a quintessential San Francisco restaurant. Just about everyone I know who lives here loves it. You'll see all types at Zuni, from local politicians to leather queens (sometimes they're one and the same) to film directors. I once spotted cult film director John Waters having dinner here, went over, introduced myself, and enjoyed a brief chat with him. (He's as funny in person as you'd expect.) 

I almost always take out-of-towners here, who uniformly love it. Which brings another Zuni story to mind. Years ago, Nick and I brought visiting relatives of his from Alabama, a conservative but sweet couple of retirement age, to Zuni for lunch. They sat with their backs to the huge windows that look out onto Market Street, with Nick and I facing the windows. At one point, a trickle of leather queens in full regalia began parading by, including an unusually short man chain-linked to an unusually tall one. The trickle soon turned into a flood, as I realized that it was time for the annual Folsom Street Fair, a celebration of all things leather and kink. Nick and I struggled to keep from reacting as his relatives enjoyed their lunch, completely unaware of the parade going on behind him. 

Oh yes, the hamburger! I almost forgot. The Zuni burger is the bomb. Zuni mixes the meat with salt and lets it sit (refrigerated) for 18 to 24 hours. Then they cook it just to your liking, throw on some Gruyere cheese if you want, and serve it on fresh focaccia bread. Order it with the shoestring fries and you'll soon be smacking your lips double-time. Tip: You can only order the burger at lunch or after 10 p.m. 

Zuni's burger

Now it's your turn. What are your favorite "only in San Francisco" experiences?