Queer and Loathing: Rants and Raves of a Raging AIDS Clone Read Online Free PDF Page B

that point, members may leave for the demo. Megamouth whines (if it is possible to whine at 150 decibles) that we have to seize the moment, and by ten the police will be there. Was there a vote? Just some more virulent discussion.
    The local coordinator of the FDA action leads the group in our “Seize control” chant. Rumors are flying left and right. “Is it true that the Health and Human Services demo is off?” No. “I heard that ACT UP/Boston is pulling out of the demo.” No. “Is it true that there’s no more housing available in D.C.?” No. ACT NOW is having a lot of problems reconciling the different AIDS-ACTIVIST groups. ACT UP/N.Y. was behind the FDA action; the HHS demo was added at the request of L.A. and S.F., to broaden our goals for maximum inclusiveness. I imagine that ACT NOW’s meetings are just as disruptive as ACT UP’s.
    Someone asks the facilitator to repeat the demand: “If there is any on-duty member of the police, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or any other law-enforcement agency, you are required by law to identify yourself.” A policeman identifies himself. We never expected this to happen. The meeting continues. There were no contingencies. We’re all so tired and jaded, it doesn’t matter anymore. The meeting ends at ten. Half of the group leaves en masse for Sixth Avenue, blowing whistles, shouting slogans, screaming chants. Is this any different from our other demos? Only that as a purely spontaneous demo, an unplanned event, it is unchanneled rage, unfocused anger—the closest thing to a lynch mob. Wanting no part of this, I turn left and head for the subway instead.

True Stories, Part II
     
    Robert started crying at lunch because his cat was dying of gingivitis, and Robert’s blood counts were off and his doctor had him take the HIV test and he was certain that his doctor would tell him that the good news was that he was antibody-negative but the bad news was that he had leukemia like his father, and of course Robert was exactly wrong in this particular circumstance, which is to say that he didn’t have leukemia and he was antibody-positive, and what could I do but tell him that, listen, he could fall off the face of this earth and I wouldn’t blink an eye, I’d just continue shoveling down my pasta primavera; a Mack truck could go out of control, mow down several hundred pedestrians, and crash into a plate-glass window, and I would just step over the bodies on my way to the men’s room and deduct five percent from the tip, annoyed at the lack of decorum. You won’t get any sympathy from me. I mean, back in 1981, when the first person died, it was something different. Maybe then it was like Love Story and tragic and dramatic and poignant and full of pathos and grief. But now that everybody’s dropping like flies, who even notices? This is not an attention-getter. This is everyday life.

The Homo Conspiracy
     
    I was sworn to secrecy; I’m not supposed to tell anyone about the Homo Conspiracy to take over the world, but life is cheap and so am I. So here’s the deal: After we’ve recruited every Boy Scout and junior programmer analyst, we’re going to place the breeders in camps, with constant disco music, which will either drive them crazy or bring them over to our side.
    These are our plans: We’re going to poison the blood supply. We’re going to tattoo William F. Buckley, Jr., on his hindquarters with a branding iron. We’re going to butt-fuck Dannemeyer and then toss him into a concentration camp. We’re going to chug-a-lug Drano and hemorrhage on the Commissioner of Health’s desk. We’re going to slit our wrists and spurt blood from the jugular on the mayor. We’re going to scarf down our favorite diuretics and piss on City Hall; we’re going to mainline horse and vomit in front of the President; we’re going to jerk off on the Pontiff’s personalized toilet seat.
    You’ve tried to get rid of us: Now it’s our turn to eliminate you. Imagine a