QUEER WINDOW

Out and (Not) About

by BYRON BECK
bbeck@wweek.com

"We do not 'out' people," says Willamette Week Editor Mark Zusman. "But it isn't accurate to say that we have never done so." WW once outed a county commish campaigning on an anti-gay platform, because the newspaper viewed the hypocrisy as an invitation to invade his privacy.

On the whole, though, WW stays out of the biz of outing queers. But as a queer columnist, I've run into a few problems caused by this well-intentioned rule.

Example: Looking for a way to cover the musical Rent's recent stop-over, I suggested to the promoters that I interview a queer member of its cast. The answer? No. Seems none of the cast wanted to be gay-identified. And, as stated above, if someone won't come out and play, we won't make 'em.

This brings me to the "Gay Life Now" issue of New York magazine. Maer Roshan's essay on how the media blatantly ignore the lifestyles of the homofamous--one of several articles about gay subjects--is under fire. The reason? He names names.

So what's the big whoop!?! This has happened for years. And is it a surprise that Rosie is a big lez? Or that Kevin Spacey likes his meat pink on the inside?

Well, it may be old news, but outing people is still a problem, especially here in Portland.

Critics say I spend too much time talking about myself. Fair enough. But it's hard to get fags to discuss their personal life. And it's even harder when they're one of the local glitterati. Even though many of my friends are A-list queers (some of whom work in the mainstream media), I can't tell you who they are. It could jeopardize their jobs.

That doesn't mean their recognizable mugs are invisible. They still show up at the bar, and even pride marches, surrounded by "family." But their queerness is off limits. This close-mouthed attitude goes ditto for the unglamorous world of cops or anyone who wants to keep the closet door shut in front of our straight neighbors.

It's sad that P-town is the type of place that makes clean-living queer folk believe they have something to lose by telling the truth. I understand. Sort of. I, too, have that queer fear that my openness will relegate me to some ghetto where the g-word will always be attached to my moniker. I also believe everyone has a right to privacy. What I really don't understand is, What's so private about love? I love my partner and he loves me. I'm proud to be in his company. In Jerry Maguire terms: He completes me. This is no secret. And if I were a straight person, it'd be no big deal.

I think it's time for so-called "important" gays and lesbians to share their real stories. If other people don't start yakking, I'll be forced to keep talking--about myself.

At the other end of the yardstick, there's a whole generation of g/l/b/t's who can stop yakkin.' They're the young ones, a.k.a. Generation Gay. Recently, reps from one of their budding youth groups visited me to talk about the Rosebud & Thorn Court, a teen drag-queen competition that's been going non-stop for 25 years--and almost came to a screeching halt this year.

"We didn't think it would survive," said 30-year-old court adviser Denise "Beamer" DePrada. For several years this queenly scene was held at the dearly departed City Nightclub. Before that it was at Mildred's Palace and Metropolis. For the past few seasons, this event, which amounts to the Rose Court for queer kids, occurred at 333 SW Park Ave., an address that has seen more name changes than a gay porn star. "We weren't even sure we had a club to hold it in," said fellow court adviser/show coordinator Danny Deiss, 29. "But we knew we wanted to keep doing it, even if we had to do it in the street." Luckily for them, the 333 spot came through again this year.

For Charlie Rascher this gathering has become more than just a show, it's a place where he can be himself. "Going to a show, or club, like this helps me destroy all the stereotypes I grew up with," said the 18-year-old.

More than just a drag-queen training course, this event actually builds self-esteem and encourages its "royalty" to be role models for other queer youth. As cutie patootie Charlie says, "it becomes more than just a club, it becomes a community."