FOR CRYING OUT LOUD

I was only a boy in 1973. Yet
I still can remember the first
time I saw Lance: I thought
he was witty and honest and
vulnerable. Both my brothers
thought he was a freak. Then
went on to say I acted a lot
like him. And I better learn to
watch my step. Or I'd wind up
in some sideshow.

I couldn't figure out why they
hated him so? He was the
most real person in that very
fake California Dreamin'
household. AN AMERICAN
FAMILY. Praised by the likes
of Margaret Mead. I knew no
families like the one Lance had.
They seemed too pretty and
plastic. Like the flowers that
were so popular at Woolworth's
at the time. At least Lance was
a true pansy. And not some fake
red rose in a Tiffany vase. I could
smell his sadness. Beneath all the
glitter and camp. He was my
first queer hero.

He actually made it to NYC. And
stayed at the crumbling Chelsea
Hotel: That holy place where so
many great artists once stayed.
Even though many were still
unknown while they were there:
Patti Smith once rented a tiny room
with Robert Mapplethorpe. Before all
the fame and fortune and notoriety.

Andy and Edie famously haunted the
dingy halls - while they were still alive.
And Janis always stayed there when
she was in New York: Little Girl Blue -
all decked out in silver bracelets and
soft boa feathers. And Sid and Nancy
played out their Punk Romeo and
Juliet tragedy in one of the small
rooms. And didn't Dylan Thomas
spend a night there in the 1950s?
Before all the booze and envious
poets destroyed him?

It's no wonder Lance felt like he'd
finally found a home. And if these
were the people that most of the
country considered freaks to be
laughed at - then I wanted nothing
to do with THE AMERICAN FAMILY.
And wanted to follow in the
footsteps of Lance. And Janis. And
Patti. And Andy. And Dylan - all my
brave and doomed outsiders. They
were my family. And when Lance
died - it was like losing a brother.
Because he taught me that it's
better to be a glorious pansy. The
real thing. Instead of a fake red
rose. Even if it means leaving the
world much sooner than all those
artificial flowers born in a factory.

*Lance Loud died in 2001. He was 50.

© 2009 by Dylan Mitchell