The Tao of Ho
By Jeff Walsh
I’ve always been curious about whether societal barriers are something that really exist or something that I invent to isolate myself.
I think I was initially attracted to journalism because it gave me an excuse to talk to people I couldn’t approach otherwise (read: cute college guys) because I was closeted. I was always the person who volunteered to do the man on the street section, where you have to ask a bunch of people some lame question and run their photo, and their answer underneath. I would ask women too, to make it look good.
Once I came out, though, things didn’t change much. I became a political queer college student, who used gays in the military, and right to marriage, and any other issue to keep myself one step removed from really connecting with other people. So, my sexuality went from being a closet to a shield, but I still kept isolated.
I still try to second guess everything, assume disinterest before saying hi, despite the fact that when I do push through that, it usually plays out fine. This gay pride, I went out alone to the bar where the shirtless boys dance, smile and have fun together. When I’ve gone in the past, I sit on the sidelines and watch, thinking I missed my window for all that. But thanks to some chemical help this year, I was on the dance floor just throwing myself into the mix, and it worked out… learning the way you can dance, touch, and interact without intent. Sharing moments with boys I didn’t know, didn’t introduce myself to, that were entirely genuine despite my sober tendency to overanalyze them. Just hugging and touching while dancing near someone, smiling with them, talking for a bit, and never trying to figure how to get this boy back home with me because there didn’t need to be anything beyond this pure moment. It was enough.
It was much easier to be cynical and on the sidelines than learn these people aren’t as standoffish as I would like to think. It would be easier on the perimeter if entry to the center wasn’t welcomed when you finally tried.
As much as I want to just become someone who can put themselves in that position, without needing rum or other spirits in my bloodstream to help it along, it doesn’t seem to be in me. I’ve questioned how I can get there, but a lot of the ways seems to require a façade, a way to substantiate going up to someone, in much the same way I used journalism when I was closeted.
The most obvious solution, of course, would be to become a drag queen, which I equally fear and am attracted to. But instead this year, I just became a Ho.
There is something really strange about being in your apartment and dressing up as Santa for the first time. Whitening your eyebrows. Putting on the whole red suit aspect in general. It forces you to smile. You can’t stop. The mood is perpetuated when you leave your apartment, and cars honk at you, kids wave at you, and gritty urban scenesters you pass soften and smile.
The event was the Santa Rampage, which is basically a 100+ Santas on an extended bar crawl, chaos-inducing mission through San Francisco. They are put on throughout the year by various cacophony societies in large cities. Santarchy.com will hook you up with archives of photos of past rampages and ways to find the cacophony society near you for other such events throughout the year.
After getting my Santa suit, I found out that the weather was supposed to be against the red tide we planned to stream through the city that day. Terms like urban flooding, hurricane-force winds, and torrential rain sounded like cause for cancellation to my inner yuppie. But, checking the cacophony mailing list, I found that the other Santas felt differently, saying it would be the best year ever and questioning how pathetic it was if people thought they would let the weather impede their fun. So, I put on rain gear underneath my already-hot Santa suit and went for it.
The first thing you learn in a random crowd of Santas in a motorcycle bar is that you can address one another with a singular “Ho!” or merely “Santa.” There is no need for all three hos within the Claus inner circle. As one would expect, Santas are generous with their pitchers of beer, pipes, and everything else, although I stuck with the fruity rum drinks with which I am accustomed. Some things don’t change as Santa. Trying ordering a Malibu and pineapple in a motorcycle bar still returns a strange look from the tattooed, pierced bartenders.
While I was prepared to make the most of my Santa mask in public, I still choked when one of the lead Santas looked at me and said, “Tell all the Santas we’re moving out in 15 minutes.” I walked into the next room but still didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Seeing one of the other lead Santas, who had a bullhorn, I said that one of the Santas said to tell everyone we’re moving out in 15 minutes. But instead of doing that, he handed me the bullhorn and said, here, tell them. Thankfully, some other drunk Santa grabbed it from me immediately and hammed it up, and sort of got the message across amid a lot of feedback and yelling into the mic.
A lot of the Santas, like me, were on their first rampage. Others had done it in the past, but seemed very casual about it. One did it a few years back. One did it in Portland a previous year. It was just apparently just something you could do if you were free and in the city that day, which was a bit foreign to me and my scheduling nature. While at the bar, I met Punk Rock Santa, and a few other random Santas while we drank, talked, and wrapped charcoal in pornography as gifts for people who might disparage the Santas during our mission.
On time, which seemed odd for an anarchy group, we moved out and headed into the Mission district, which is basically the Hispanic section of town. Our first stop was Esta Noche, which is a small, bar known for Latino drag and tranny cabaret. It was only 4 in the afternoon, with one patron, when we arrived. The bartender was playing pool to pass the time. Five minutes later, he had 100+ rambunctious Santas taking over his bar and ordering alcohol. You really have to hand it to him, though. The bartender embraced the moment wonderfully, and immediately warmed up to the insanity of it all, which would be a recurring theme in all the bars we visited.
When the Santas moved on to Cha Cha Cha, a tapas joint, there was an initial sentiment of invading yuppie space, but the bartender who just got on duty as the Santas entered, and the owner (or something) just took it for the experiential gift it was, at one point the owner was wearing a Santa hat, and lifted a drink to toast the Santas with a “Ho!” that became a roar that filled the bar and no doubt poured out into the street past all the smoking Santas on the sidewalk.
From there, the red tide moved to the subway, where I ended up talking to Dave, a nice Santa with red glasses, and his friend, who was dressed as the Easter Bunny. Dave thinks he knows me for some reason, and we trade notes to figure out how that might be. I toss out gay bars when he asks where I hang out, he asks if I’m gay, says he isn’t, then we move on to other ways we may have met. I always love when the sexuality thing is just boring and is irrelevant. I leave San Francisco just enough to appreciate that it isn’t like that everywhere.
Inside the subway, Dave, the Easter Bunny, and I start a Santa pile-up in the station, which ends up with what seemed like 30+ Santas from the pictures that ended up online. We take the subway, amid a lot of incredulous onlookers not expecting 150 Santas to board the train, and head toward Union Square, the more touristy shopping area, now that we have hit enough bars to be ready.
Actually, the subway was when I got to see the Santa Rampage from both sides. Last year, I was going to a work Christmas party when I boarded a city bus, and 80+ Santas came on, decorated the bus, sang, and just threw the passengers into a smiling funk of wonderment at what was going on. That was when I knew I had to be on the other side of the Santa suit this year, but it was interesting seeing these people assume my previous role.
The Santas came up the escalators near where all tourists wait in line for the cable car. Some Santas danced in the subway station around the street musicians, and non charcoal-wrapped-in-porn gifts were given to children we encountered. A bunch of cute younger guys posed with me in the subway station, as people seem to have digital cameras on them as often as cell phones anymore. The cutest guy of the bunch thanked me, as Santa, and I asked him if he’s been a good boy this year. He said he had, so I told him he still had two weeks to work on that. Being lascivious gay Santa can be fun.
Our first stop in Union Square was, of course, a bar, as that was one of the few publicized meeting points where other late coming Santas could join the tide. While Santas were drinking inside, I ended up doing tequila shots provided by the Easter Bunny, and singing carols on the street with a seemingly wholesome choir, while being videotaped and photographed by tons of tourists.
Eventually, the Santas moved into the shopping area. I missed the contingent that swarmed FCUK, but was on the front lines when we stormed into Victoria’s Secret. Upon entering Victoria’s, two male Santas immediately hit the floor and started making out, as about 30 of us casually entered the store. Slutty Santa, with his spiked dog collar, and backpack of rum and cokes, was modeling a saucy red lingerie outfit for my camera when security said we had to leave and that no pictures were allowed inside the store. He seemed to grow irritated quickly by the slow exit of Santas, although I guess it is fair to get a bit irate when several dozen Santas enter your store, disrupt the normal goings-on, and could potentially rob you. But, we don’t steal anything (that I know of), we’re just giving people the experiential gift of chaos for Christmas, a few people are just skeptical of our intent, I guess.
The Disney Store was far more relaxed about our appearance, although that may also be due to the fact that half the store was filled with young kids wide-eyed at the appearance of many, many Santas. You really can’t tell Santa to “get the hell out of my store” in front of that demographic. Upon entering the store, one customer jokingly asked me, “Where’s the Easter Bunny?” Not missing a beat, I said he should be right behind me. I turned around to check, and there he was. Ha! Don’t try to trip up Santa, pal. While in the Disney store, one of the bullhorned Santas told us to move out as we were heading to Chinatown. Upon hearing this, one of the parents with kids in the store ushered his kids outside, ahead of the coming swarm of Santas, without realizing his little girl was pulling a Beauty and the Beast bag on wheels behind her in the store, which she dragged right behind her out into the street. So, her father took pictures with his little girl and a handful of Santas to commemorate her very first shoplifting experience. He said he was going to return the item, although we didn’t stick around to see if he did.
Chinatown was mainly a bar stop, aside from the now commonplace stupor of people trying to process a sea of Santas joining them on the sidewalk. The Buddha Bar was a bit crowded, so I went with Dave and the Easter Bunny across the street to Li Po, where we could actually get served quickly. At this point, I unfortunately had to leave my red brethren to attend a work party that I should have just opted out of, although I did show up as Drunk Santa.
So, for one day in December, I left my typical state of reclusiveness and became a highly-photographed, videotaped, public figure out on the town taking pictures with cute tourists, telling them to be more naughty next year, and having a great time with people I would never typically interact with, primarily because I’m usually here writing.
But even when I’m not writing, I usually stay on the perimeters, watch from the sidelines, and wonder how to immerse myself in the moment and not continually take everything in as an observer. I still need to work on that more. But, being a Ho for a day was certainly a step in the right direction.
