Like the Birds to Capistrano: Part II

1994

By 1994, I had my first flip phone—a plastic brick that made me feel like an international man of mystery—and the internet was still a screeching dial-up ghost in the machine. But the gay homing signal was louder than ever.

I told my Mother that Tom and I were heading to Pensacola Beach for Memorial Day weekend. She didn't blink. She just offered the standard Southern benediction: "Remember to use at least number 4 sunscreen. You don’t want to burn and get cancer." In her world, a sunburn was the greatest threat to our longevity.

On Saturday morning, we were trapped in a two-hour crawl of stop-and-go metal, inching across Pensacola bay and through the Gulf Breeze speed trap. My flip phone chirped—a voicemail from my Mom back home, so I pressed ‘callback.’

"Hellooo?" she answered, that familiar lilt stretching the word into three syllables.

"Hey Mom, it’s me—your better-looking son. Did you call?"

"Yes, I did, and well..." There was a dramatic pause—the kind only a Southern mother can deploy. "John, have you seen CNN this morning?"

"No, ma'am. We’ve been a bit busy with travel. Why?"

"Did you say you were in Pensacola?"

"Yes, ma'am. Why?"

"Well, now it’s on the news. They’re saying estimates are that up to a million gays and lesbians will be there this weekend."

I looked out at the endless sea of cars, the rainbows pinned to every antenna, and the sheer, vibrating volume of the crowd. "Mom, I told you we were coming here to meet some friends."

"Well, you didn't tell me it was a million of 'em."

"Well, of course, we don’t know all million, Mother. I hardly know any of the lesbians."

She went quiet for a moment, clearly running the logistics through her head. "Well, John, I’ve pondered on this all morning—and I just have one question."

"What’s that, Mom?"

"Well, honey... who sent out that memo?"

I sat there, the engine idling in the Florida heat, and for the first time, I realized the sheer, unadulterated magic of what we’d built. Before the internet, before smartphones, before we were connected by anything but our own survival, how did we all know where to congregate? How did a million nomads find the same coordinate on a map that didn't officially exist?

"Mother," I replied, "I don’t know what to tell you. I suppose it’s like the birds to Capistrano. Maybe there’s a little gay magnetic compass in our heads that points us to the nearest gay party."

Oh, could you please be serious, just once John Kelly!" She obviously wasn’t satisfied, but I was getting more frustrated with the traffic by the second.

"Mom, I’m gonna need to call you back," I quipped, and flipped the phone shut.

The Crossing

It took nearly three hours to cross the Sound. Eventually, we inched through Pensacola Beach and started toward Navarre, cars lining both sides of Highway 399. Less than a half-mile out, we could see what looked like a scirocco—a sand storm blowing up from the beach and across the dunes toward the Sound. As we approached, we realized it wasn't the weather. It was people.

Masses of people lined the shore from the tide line to the dunes. Umbrellas, tents, and towels were everywhere. 

"Should we turn around and park?" Tom asked.

"Dot left a message that our group would set up camp exactly 2.4 miles past the Pancake Palace sign," I said, checking the odometer. "We’re now at 3 miles."

"Ugh," he sighed. "We have a full cooler, two backpacks, and a tent, John!"

"Well, I don't know what you want me to do. We'll u-turn, park, and walk back."

Luckily, Tom and I had been building our leg strength. We unpacked, strapped the backpacks to our shoulders, and hefted the heavy cooler between us, each gripping a plastic handle as we headed down the beach like pack mules. Barefoot, the walk was a strange sensory cocktail: the squeak of white sand and the hush of breaking waves mixed with the yelps and laughs of the human mass and the thumping house music from each camp we passed. Every hundred feet or so, someone would offer us a beer, a toke, or a bottle of water.

The diversity was staggering—old gays, butch women, granola hippies, and earth mothers—stretching as far as the eye could see. Eventually, the "rainbow" began to narrow into boys, then more boys, and then finally hot men. Suddenly, a seven-foot glittery slipper appeared on the horizon—a replica of the Priscilla bus prop, complete with steps so you could slide down the instep.

"John!! Tom! You found us!" Dot ran down from a tent near the dunes. "We’re all up here. Put your things down. We’ll work you in… right... here," he said, pointing to a five-by-five patch of sovereign sand.

He gestured to our neighbors. "Atlanta is next to us," he said, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "They’re cute and all, but look—no camp. Just a line of towels. No games, no creative element. I mean, really! Couldn’t they at least make an effort?"

He leaned in closer and continued, "But the New Orleans Boys are two camps down. Can you believe they stole the bust of Endymion from the Mardi Gras float and brought it out here? It’s gonna get ru-ined,” he sang.

"Memphis is a ‘Roll Tide’ football field that way," he said, pointing down the shore, then glancing at Tom with a mischievous grin. "And the funniest thing EVER. They all have 'MOM' tattooed on the back of their right thigh, just below the bikini line. Do you know why? Well, I’ll tell you why…. It’s so when their legs hit the sky, it spells 'WOW!' Get it? WOW!”

Tom and I shared a look. 

"I think I need a drink," I said. "You?"

"Yes, indeed," Tom replied. "Make mine a double."

High Court

The next morning, ever the planner, I headed to the beach at sunrise as a sentinel to stake our claim. The beach was a mess—the refuse of a thousand parties. All of us early birds spent an hour or two cleaning up our hundred-yard stretch, a quiet ritual of respect for the kingdom. By 10:00 A.M., the high-flying flags were back up—beacons making each of our camps distinct, identifiable, and easier to find.

While I was taking in the morning sun, my phone chirped again. I answered “This is John.”

"Hey, Honey, it’s your mother.”

Hi, Mom.”

“So I talked to Helen this morning. My friend in Pittsburgh…”

“Uh-huh?”

“She says her son, Allen is there."

"Uh-huh?"

"Have you met him?”

I exhaled quietly, a bit exhausted and wiped the sand from my face.

“She says he’s a nice-looking blond man—about six feet."

I paused, letting out a long audible, slow sigh. "Uh…No, Mom. I haven’t seen him. But I’ll keep an eye out."

"Allen from Pittsburgh." I repeated.

"Oh no.” she said, correcting me, “Helen says Allen lives in New York now."

"Well, that simplifies things, Mother," I said, wasting my sarcasm on the beach breeze. "I'll just check the New York blond section of the million-man lineup and report back”.

“Love you, Mom. Bye!"

I wandered over into the bleary-eyed Atlanta camp to greet some friends and check out the uninspired towel line. As I stepped over a cooler, a vaguely familiar tanned man in mirrored shades looked me up and down with the intensity of a diamond appraiser.

"John…?" he sighed. "The same swimsuit? Really?"

I turned to look, lowering my sunglasses.  “Excuse me?” I said "I packed three swimsuits specifically to avoid repetition," I defended. "This is day two. This is swimsuit two."

"Oh, I didn't mean this year. I meant you wore that same swimsuit on Saturday two years ago. I remember the print."

I stood there, paralyzed. Called out, in a crowd of a million. I wasn’t sure whether to be offended—or flattered. Either way, I had been cataloged. The meekness of my youth had been replaced by a spotlight so bright it could evidently track a polyester blend across a twenty-four-month gap.  

I just shook my head and continued my mission to bum a cocktail and a bump off someone.

A Popcorn Epiphany

I settled back in next to Dot under the tent, and almost immediately, the world began to liquefy… 

The sound of the surf hitting the shore breathed—a heavy, wet inhalation that seemed to pull the oxygen deep out of my lungs. The noise of the crowd—the yelps, the whistles, the distant thud of a bassline—melded, ebbing and flowing in a strange, elastic loop that stretched until a single laugh lasted an eternity. The afternoon heat fused the sand, the sea, and my own skin into one massive, breathing organism. Sinking into the center, the horizon line blurred into a soft, glowing smudge as time unspooled like a ribbon in the wind...

"John?”

The world slammed back into focus. The sand was just sand again. I blinked a few times, the salt air sharp in my nose, and looked over at Dot.

"Do you remember," Dot asked, shielding his eyes from the glare, "which year we rented that house with the pool in Navarre?"

"God, yes," I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a long way off. "I remember…"

That was the year we’d braved the gauntlet at the Red Garter. I remember the bible-beating preachers stationed on every corner of the Seville Quarter, shouting about hellfire and brimstone into the humid Pensacola night while we marched past them like glitter-covered infantry. Inside, we danced until the sweat pooled in our shoes. And just as the lights started to flicker for closing, the DJ’s voice boomed over the speakers:

"For anyone who isn’t quite finished, there’s an after-party at 1877 Coral Street in Navarre!"

I froze. Isn’t that where we’re staying? I looked up at the booth, and there stood Billy, sporting a Cheshire cat grin that told me sleep was officially off the menu.

By 4:00 AM, the house was a humid crush of a hundred people. Most of them had jumped into the pool fully clothed. Billy and Stella held court in the kitchen behind the bar like high priests, egging the crowd on. I finally surrendered and headed toward my bedroom, passing Missy on the way. She was on top of the bar, eyes closed, swaying in a slow, hypnotic rhythm to the bass. With every theatrical nod of her head, the bill of his baseball cap scraped the 'popcorn' texture of the low ceiling, sending a steady snow of white insulation flakes down over the bar, the floor, and the unsuspecting guests.

What a mess, I thought, shaking my head. Who’s gonna clean this up?

I got my answer at 9:00 AM.

I was in the kitchen, standing in my muscle shirt and shorts, frying a pound of bacon to soak up the sins of the previous night. The smell—or maybe the sizzle—finally stirred Missy. She’d passed out on the sofa in the dining room, just across the bar from my frying pan. He hauled himself upright, hair matted and sticking out at schizophrenic angles. With a groan that sounded like a tectonic plate shifting, she dragged a barstool over to the counter.

"What are you doing?" she croaked.

"Making breakfast. It’s after nine."

He grunted in displeasure, his eyes half-closed, until they landed on the bar. There, in the morning light, lay a fine, chunky white powder.

Her eyes snapped wide. A predatory light flickered on. "Yes, honey!" she yelped, suddenly revived. "Somebody left Mama a little party favor!"

I didn't think much of it until she disappeared into her room and returned with her wallet. She pulled out a credit card and started manically swiping the white dust into a pile, chopping it with the edge of the card with the precision of a Vegas high-roller.

"Missy," I said, pausing with the spatula. "What are you doing?"

"Shhh!" she hissed, her eyes darting around. "I don’t want to have to share!"

Swipe, chop. Swipe, chop. She arranged the dust into two formidable four-inch lines. A rolled-up dollar bill appeared from thin air.

"Missy, wait—"

Before I could get the words out, she dove in. She snorted the line on the right with a violent inhale, exhaled a cloud of dust, and immediately attacked the line on the left. She threw her head back, shaking it furiously from the sting in her nostrils.

"Woo!" she barked, her eyes watering. "That is just what Mama needed! That's the good stuff!"

I opened my mouth to tell her the truth—but then I stopped.

I’ve never seen anything like it. For the next three hours, Missy buzzed around that rental house like a Tasmanian devil. She was a whirlwind of domestic fury. She scrubbed the floors, wiped down every wall, polished the counters, and even did my breakfast dishes before I could finish my coffee. She was manically, deliriously productive.

I just sat there and watched her go. I figured if inhaling ten years of cheap ceiling insulation was enough to inspire a full house-cleaning, who am I to stop him enjoying it.

Circus McGuirkus

Back at our hotel, I stood in front of the full-length mirror for a final check. I had a sudden flashback to the boy I’d been just a decade ago—the one who had cowered in the shadows of bars, praying to be invisible. Now, I looked at Tom, adjusting his red foam nose, and then at the two of us side-by-side: a handsome gay couple, tanned and painted as sexy muscle-clowns. I realized I wasn't afraid to be seen anymore. My "Mary" had stepped out of the shadows and into the spotlight, trading my invisibility for the glorious, empowered freedom of the Big Top Party, the main event for the weekend. We each placed our “‘Piren tablets” on our tongues, chugged the last of our bottled water and we were off to the arena.

The interior of the Pensacola Bay Center was a 20,000-square-foot fever dream. Overhead, massive swaths of alternating red and white velvet draped from the ceiling like the heavy peaked roof of a massive tent. Bunting in every shade of the rainbow crisscrossed the void, vibrating with the bass of the music.

A wave of music hit me and the room began to spin in a rhythmic blur. It didn't just move; it began to rhyme. We found our way to the middle of the dance floor and found our friends. After 15 or 20 minutes of greetings, hugs and kissing cheeks, we began to dance…And on Stage Number One, here is something quite new! From a country called Birmingham, and the Birmingham zoo, come the Drum-Tummied Snubbs who can drum any tune… 

In the center of the 3 rings stood the Ringmaster, a 1920s throwback in a scarlet tailcoat and gold trim, his whip snapping in time to the beat. I closed my eyes, and the McGuirkus inside me took the whip. But if I ran the circus...Step right in! This way, ladies and gents! My Side Show starts here in the next of my tents. When you see what they do, you’ll say no other circus is— Half the great circus, Circus McGuirkus it is…

I looked around me and saw a sea of muscle and makeup—men in white breeches and tall riding boots, others in little more than a top hat and a smile. There were men on stilts dressed as golden giraffes, gymnasts in sequined unitards swinging from the rafters, and "elephants" made of two men in grey spandex balancing silver balls—no really!

Tom and I danced through the Birmingham and Atlanta families, our foam noses bobbing in the strobe lights that blurred into the colors of the banners. Every few minutes, I’d spot a familiar face in the technicolor riot. I’d dive in for a long, intimate embrace, then shuffle back to Tom.

"Who was that cute guy?" Tom yelled, wiping a streak of clown white from his forehead.

"My cousin!" I shrieked back.

Tom looked skeptical. "Your cousin? We’ve been together four years and I’ve never seen him."

I tried to explain the family tree, but the McGuirkus meter was already running back into my head again...

And on Stage Number Three, see the Wily McWoos! Who come from a lineage of cousins and shoes! With a flip of the hip and a tail of this kind, Twelve out of twenty-five are dancing behind!... 

I took Tom by the hand and dragged him across the floor to introduce him to my cousin, a handsome man in a leopard-print loincloth. Then there was another. Then a third, who looked like a Ziegfeld Follies reject. By the time the introductions were over, Tom was howling. Between my mother and her siblings, twelve of the twenty-five grandchildren had grown up to be gay or lesbian.

My head was spinning -The Circus McGuirkus! The cream of the cream! The Circus McGuirkus! The Circus Supreme! Astounding! Fantastic! Terrific! Tremendous!... 

We had all run away to the circus only to find that the circus was us. Tonight, we were the jugglers, the acrobats, and clowns. But tomorrow we would all just head back to our own towns.

From a thousand and thirty-three faraway towns To the place that you see ‘em in, ladies and gents, in the World’s Greatest Show, the Circus McGuirkus big tent!...

Tom," I whispered, trying to steady my footing and leaning heavily on his shoulder. "I think I need to get some more water. I’m feeling a little lightheaded."

I staggered away through the crowd toward the bar...

The Jailbird 

The heat of Sunday afternoon on beach, day two, usually brought the "scouts" out—the men who wandered across Highway 399 into the sea grass and mangroves of the Santa Rosa Sound for a bit of private exploration. My friend Ron was one of them. In the heat of the day, he gestured toward the Sound and vanished.

An hour later, he still hadn't returned. Eventually, Billy knelt next to my chair and whispered, "We need to go into town and bail Ron out of jail."

"Jail?!" I hissed. "What did he do?"

"Solicitation. Undercover vice cop in the bushes. Ron thought it was a roleplay—but the cop took offense."

We made the somber trek to the Escambia County jail. And after a significant dent in our collective cash, Ron emerged looking like a man who had lost a fight with a shrub.

"Ya’ll… What am I gonna do?" he muttered. "I’ll never show my face on that sand again."

"The hell you won't," Billy snapped, a spark of his tactical mischief lighting up. "We aren't going back in shame. We’re going back in costume."

We made a high-speed detour to a sporting goods store for a black-and-white striped referee shirt and a pair of toy handcuffs. When we crested the dunes back at the MOB camp, we didn't sneak in. We paraded. Billy and I acted as guards, marching a shackled, striped Ron past the miles of umbrellas.

"Make way for the Jailbird!" I shouted. "Fresh from the pokey!"

The beach erupted. The New Orleans boys cheered, the Memphis camp threw him a beer, and by the time we reached our tent, Ron wasn't a criminal—he was a legend. 

The Gay Homing Signal

By Monday morning, the adrenaline had thinned, and the ‘Piren had long since worn off. Most of us were finally sitting down to our first real meal in days, nursing sunburns and trying to remember who we arrived with and where we left our dignity.

I remember on the drive to the airport, looking out at the sugar-white dunes in the rearview mirror one last time. My mind drifted back ten years to that first trip with Billy—how quiet the sand had been, how still the water, and how small our little circle of six had felt against the vastness of the Gulf.

Back then, we were marginalized humans creeping out of dark, hidden places—the movie houses, the tea rooms, the shadows of a world that didn't want us. We were a tribe of nomads searching for coordinates that didn't exist. 

But as I looked at the shimmering, exhausted heat-haze of the present, I realized we weren't nomads anymore. We hadn’t just survived the 80s—we had evolved. We were no longer defined by what the world took from us, but by what we had the audacity to create.

The crucible of the 1980s and 1990s formed us into one strong, ironclad community…We had learned that if we plant our flag and wait long enough, the world eventually catches up. And now, we've transcended same-sex behavior and the binary of gender to build a new world: our own caring communities, our own sacred rituals, and our own chosen families.

No one sent the memo. We are the memo. As long as we keep showing up for each other, our Kingdom isn't a place on a map—it is us.