All language subtitles for The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me (2000)

Thank you.

Thank you. Bye.

My sixth birthday, June 27th, 1969.

The night the Stonewall riots erupted
onto the village streets in New York

The night Isaac Grip glued to the edge
of my seat as the

stage of the Baltimore County Community
Theater erupted with a story that was

also happening live.

erupted with a story also of the streets
of New York, right in front of my six

-year -old eyes, as that Baltimore
County Community Theater stage erupted

West Side Story!

With gangs and cops and switchblades and
rape and rumbles and bullets and

big black wigs and screaming and
fighting and... singing and dancing

and dancing and dancing and dancing and
dancing and dancing and dancing and

dancing and love and kisses

and blood.

Somewhere.

My 16th birthday, June 27th, 1979.

The night I held two theater tickets in
my hand, one for me and one for him.

Tim, the older man, 17.

Swim team Tim.

Debate team Tim.

Title role in our high school musical,
Pippin Tim.

Yeah, that one.

The one I had never been totally alone
with until this night. Now driving me

crazy with the scent of that chlorine
bleached hair.

filling the air, driving me crazy all
the way into downtown Baltimore to see

that show. That show I'd wanted to see
so, so badly, to see those stories of

Broadway gypsies, to hear those stories
of New York City come to life from

behind, each 8x10 glossy in a chorus
line.

God, I really loved it. I really loved
it.

How many nights I'd spent locked alone
in my room with the original cast album,

singing and dancing and singing and
dancing and dancing and dancing and

to the sounds now happening live right
in front of my 16 -year -old eyes,

surprised by the stories between the
songs, the stories not heard on the

The album that gave me no warning that
one story would appear told on the

all alone, that was not my story.

But was my story.

Out of the mouth of that Puerto Rican
dancer boy, Paul, telling the story of a

boy who loves boys.

A story that had seeped into my
childhood sleep at seven.

Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
thirteen,

fourteen, fifteen, now sixteen, hiding
my swollen eyes from him, Tim at

my side, driving silently through the
night on the highway, driving home to be

alone with the embarrassment of this
exposing moment, displayed on my tear

-smeared, red -blushed face, displayed.

In front of him.

Tim.

Ignition clicked off.

Engine stopped.

Parked in the driveway.

Watching the fluorescent blue television
glow silently explode through the

living room's lace curtains bay window.

I gotta go, I said.

No wait, he said.

You'd better wipe your face.

As he gave me the white...

handkerchief from his blue blazer
pocket.

Thank you, Tim.

So, I guess you know that Puerto Rican
boy in the show?

is like me.

I'm like that.

I know, he said.

And I like that.

As he reached across the bucket seat,
taking a hold of my tear -smeared cheek

gently place upon my 16 -year -old lips
one singularly sensational

ooh -sci -kiss.

Porch light. Car door. Dad.

Living room light.

Explosions, eruptions, discussions held
behind the lace curtain bay window all

through the night.

Held very far away from what had
happened out there in the driveway.

Held far away from what had happened out
there in that story told from the

stage. Held far, far away from what must
be allowed to happen somewhere out

there in the night.

Somewhere out there. Far, far.

Far away from my sweet 16 -year -old
birthday sight, they said, you can't be

gay. I said, I am.

They said, it's a phase.

I said, I don't think so.

They said, well, even if you were gay,
which you are not, we don't care. We

don't care. We really don't care. And I
said, well, I do.

We blew their arms and voices through
the roof. Oh, great, great.

Now what are we supposed to do? You
know, there's a place for people like

Yeah, New York.

My 22nd birthday, June 27th, 1985.

The night I went to see a play, one that
I had heard was gay, it held the

promise of a real live kiss from a real
live Brad Davis upon the lips of a

real live man.

That's the kiss that I wanted to see,
but not the one that stayed and stayed

stayed with me after June 27th, 1985,
the night Larry Kramer kissed me

with his play, The Normal Heart, that
shot through a loose cannon mouth and

exploded my soul into a thousand
teardrop deaths, leaving my eyes bruised

the damp fingerprints off of my public
theater playbill.

And from the cradling palms that smeared
my snot -run face with black ink blood.

The same stains I wiped daily from my
New York Times hands and face.

From the pages, pages, pages, I snapped
past to find the news. All the news that

wasn't there on A1.

2, 3, 4, 5, 6,

7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12,

13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18.

19, 20, 21, 22.

On B1, 2, 3, 4, 5,

6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12.

13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18. That was not fit
on D1, 2, 3, 4,

5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,
16, 17,

18. To print on D1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8,
9, 10, 11. Stop.

Ballet dancer 32, dead.

The night after the night Larry Kramer
kissed me, I threw down those pages,

pages, pages from my New York Times and
ran for days to escape the invisible,

unprintable killer stalking me.

I ran for a fantasy. I ran for a fix.

I ran for 42nd Street.

The musical.

Flamming the gilded doors on the news,
all the news that had never appeared, or

rather disappeared, as house lights fade
to black.

Kick, fall, change, pretty quickly,
pretty ladies are squealing with Warner

Brothers glee.

A circus of cotton candy wigs, Bob
Berkeley, back and forth, up and down,

in the money.

Guys, it's honey, honey, time stepping
me.

Lullaby. Listen to the lullaby.

The lullaby, baby, that don't sleep
tight until the dawn.

The lullaby that floats the depression
away.

House lights. Exit Broadway.

After the night, after the night, after
the night Larry Kramer kissed me, the

lullaby of rest would not sleep with me.

Only the missing breath of lovers
tricked me.

Anyone moaning into warming up on
sliding down on ice

thin sheets.

The month.

After the night. After the night. After
the night. After the night. After the

night. Larry Kramer kissed me. My heart
wouldn't stop letting me lie.

Awake.

Terrorized with shortness of breath.

With shortness of life gone.

Bye. Bye, baby. With the lullaby.

The lullaby.

The lullaby that never put anyone to
sleep gently into any night

or day. Hey, hey, hey, good night, baby.

Sleep tight, baby.

Milkman's on his way to smash and
splatter his carton upon the wicked

your face, baby. Yeah, sleep tight with
the lullaby.

The lullaby, the lullaby that swelled
and swelled and swelled and swelled for

year after year after year after year
after month after month after week after

week after night after night after night
after night after the night Larry

Kramer kissed me with his smacking swag
that hurled me out onto the street and

into the folded arms of a New York Times
nation that refused to embrace my fat,

run face.

Yeah, it was the night Larry Kramer
kissed me that I stood day... single in

street, public theater playbill twisting
in my fist, waiting for the others who

had also been kissed, watching for the
others whose faces were bruised with

black ink blood, and listening to the
lullaby that I've stood enough of!

Until this dawn.

When I hear the early voices cracking
the Sunday summer sky with the hated

lullaby that now marches.

With the lullaby that's taken eleven
hundred twelve and counting past the

with the lullaby. The lullaby.

The lullaby that has left so many others
like myself single in the street.

until I finally found these hundreds of
thousands of solitary others at Columbus

Circle on June 24th, 1990 and blew Larry
Kramer kisses

all the way down to the Hudson.

splashed bank of the Christopher Street
river of pride, I tossed hundreds of

silence equals death, read my lips,
Keith Haring large, medium, small t

over a cardboard box fort to a busy
beaming man of a certain age working

the booth, spending a time like me to
fight the lullaby.

He said, I'm going to wear this read -my
-lips one for People magazine photos

with my family because tomorrow, the
25th, it's my birthday.

Oh, happy birthday, I said. My
birthday's on Wednesday, the 27th.

June 27th, he said.

Do you know that is the actual date of
the Stonewall riot?

Yeah.

I know.

His eyes and teeth lit up the falling
twilight as he reached for my face.

That was the night Larry Kramer kissed
me.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake, I pray
the Lord my soul to take.

God bless Mommy and Daddy.

Do you know what?

Mommy and me went Christmas shopping
tonight at Golden Ring Mall, and I got

really cool paperweight with a purple
and blue butterfly in it for Daddy.

They had other ones with, like,
different colored air bubbles and junk

whole bunch of different insect ones,
but this one, it was the best one.

It's kind of like my science fair
project for Mr. Bomb Butter's class when

caught that butterfly and then I left it
in my peanut butter jar for a whole

week.

That was the same jar that I used to
catch lightning bugs last summer with

Janice Gerver.

Oh, yeah, like the night, like the
night, like the night, like the night,

night we turned out all the lights in
Janice's basement, and we put the peanut

butter jar with all of the lightning
bugs inside Janice's Barbie dream house.

And then I brought my Barbie over, and
with Janice's Barbie, Ken,

and Skipper, we had this, like, seance.

in a circle around the dream house.

It was really spooky.

Just like Night Gallery.

But nothing really happened because
Janice's brother, Brad, he came down and

wrecked everything.

He let all the lightning bugs go and he
threw my Barbie into the woods.

I think Daddy will like this.

This paperweight because he's always at
his desk working And there's so many

papers all over his desk that this will
really be useful Mommy says it's

practical and that's a good thing to
keep in mind when buying gifts

But whatever

I Just think it is super cool the way
they can get a butterfly inside all of

that class

They must, like, have to catch, like,
millions of butterflies from, like, all

over the world.

And they must, like, have, like,
millions and millions of peanut butter

And then, when they're all dried and
they're dead, they pin them on cork,

just like I did for the science fair.

And then they pick the prettiest ones.

And then, very carefully,

They pour boiling hot glass on top of
them in

some kind of metal mold machine.

And then, ta -da!

Paperweight.

And you know what else?

Mommy let me go Christmas shopping by
myself for a whole half an hour.

I wanted to get her a bracelet or a pin
or some earrings or a

necklace or something like that, but she
never really wears them.

I guess they're not really practical.

But Mommy really loves music.

Records. She's always putting on her
Supremes records and stuff and she's

cleaning up and stuff around the house.

She's always sort of singing along and
dancing around in her Supremes records.

So I was going to get her a brand new
Supremes record, but that man at the

record store, he said, there aren't any
new ones. The Supremes broke up.

Then I remembered when I got my hair cut
last month at Rudolph's Unisex Hair

Salon. Rudolph, he was playing this
record on his stereo.

And he was kind of singing along and
dancing around while he was cutting my

hair. It was really cool music. And he
told me that they were a brand new band

called Village People.

So I got it for Mommy for Christmas.

That's a useful gift.

Only when I told Janice about them, it
was right after I'd heard them at

Rudolph's. She said, they're fairies.

She said her brother Brad told her so.
Brad would know.

Brad's in a band.

But they don't look like fairies on the
record cover. They look really tough.

Really cool.

See, there's a cowboy.

And there's an Indian.

And there's a policeman.

And there's an army guy.

And there's this motorcycle guy.

And he looks really tough.

And there's a construction guy.

He's like the ones I saw working on
Route 40 last summer.

So why are they called village people?

Do they all like to live in the same
small town or something?

Maybe.

Maybe they all like to live in the same
housing development.

Like the one that we live in, Edgewood
Village.

Maybe like that. And like they all met
at the pool.

And that's when they all became friends.
Or like in that song, that one that I

heard at Rudolph's, at the YMCA hangout
with boys.

YMCA.

And that's when they made a band.

Just like Brad and his band.

Or like at school. Like Cliffy Bowman
and those guys.

Like them?

Boy, if I was being tough like the
village people, Cliffy, he sure wouldn't

with me.

Because then he'd be the one getting
chased through the woods.

And I'd pin him down.

And then I'd pin him on cork. And I'd
put him inside of a paperweight.

And then I'd put him on my desk.

I could always look at him and say, See,
Cliffy, you see what happens when you

mess with me?

if I was big and tough like the village
people.

You slap down that membership card that
lets you into the

warrior room.

Where the men dress like boys, but it's
only an outfit.

For the transformation turning the boys
into men.

In the changing room, it's hushed with
the concentrated effort

of removing all your clothes.

With or without attention paid to the
size of your cock.

Especially at the moment.

Amongst the other guys casually snapping
snap, bilf, and elastic straps against

their naked buttocks, brushing your own
wriggling naked buttocks into a pair of

gray cotton Calvin Kleins.

Mmm, yeah.

That's why I go to the gym.

Take a whiff of old Spife Locker. Damp
white towels,

musk, steam, soap, cream, and pubic
hairs dried

to the strangest places.

Catching glimpses.

Or staring right out.

At the guys you've wanted since the day
you first feared the sensations they

gave you in the junior high school
showers.

Only now, some of those guys are staring
back.

And you can do it.

Mmm, yeah.

That's why I go to the gym.

But be warned and beware, because it's a
mix of us and them.

Yeah, they're here too, pumping up.

Remember that.

You take a water fountain stroll that
gives you a chance to check out the

Hmm.

Not too crowded, but cute.

Yeah, Trey looks pretty damn good with a
salon -bought tan bursting over

depilatory tits and tummy.

Yeah, his bod sure did benefit from all
those winter workouts.

So did his T -cells. Nobody'd suspect
he's sick. Not the way he flaunts that

spandex -spread dick.

Hey, Trey, great shorts!

Mm -mm, mm -mm, mm -mm, mm -mm.

Yeah, that's why I go to the gym

They

go do some curls

My biceps look great, reflecting off of
every wall in the room.

While everyone in the room is watching
me curl and pump up

hard blue veins, snaking up my forearm
to my bubble, not bicep. Mmm,

yeah. That's why I go to the gym.

do some bulking up.

But first I'll rep, rep, repetition,
set, set, set to

build my pyramid up to the high.

That's why I go to the gym.

I think I'll push my lats up. There's
one coming towards me.

Push my lats out so far my arms won't
lie against my narrow, tight, slim hips,

which is where my V sits to support my
taut, broad, chip, kick, shoulder

spread.

Sure, go ahead.

I gotta get wide, wide, wide enough to
hold the world on. Wide, wide,

wide enough to knock the world down.
When they get too close to these top

broadship kicked off shoulders.

Yeah,

I'll spot you.

Keep pulling down, down, down with the
grip, grip, grip.

Tight enough to take the trip when I get
kicked. Down, down, down to the

ground, ground, ground.

By the shoulders who are knocking me
down on my street. Arm to arm impact

roam my street.

Roam my street, roam my street, roam my
street. Hunting down my kind of meat.

That's why I got it. No, it's all yours.
Knock yourself out. That's why.

Crunches!

To rip on my stomach. To wash for
endurance.

That's why I go to the gym. To get hard.

Get cold.

Get numb.

I want to feel the punches from the
straight oppressors.

Try to go to the gym.

To tighten up my ass.

To please the lover I don't have.

So I can get one. To fuck one with a
condom. To protect one

from the stalking that is going.

Down on my street, attacking dykes and
faggots who are dying as they're lying

down on my street.

Yeah, that's where I go to the gym.

So my pectoral rolls get pinched more,
my nipples, they get pinched more, and

chest gets tight like an armor plate, a
vest of steel, an armor plate, so I'll

be prepared to meet killers out there
waiting for the faggots like the ones I

love who pump up here beside me for the
day when they come round for us to kick

us and to kill us.

Queers who've gotten jabbed before.

Taken lots of stabs before.

Come before the day we join the gym to
meet the level of the hatred.

We're to build ourselves for hands on
war. Our bodies are our weapons for. The

day we bash the bashers back into the
graves they've dug for us. So we can

the final laugh. When we sit back and
tell the lore of how we won the final

When we began the pumping and the
pulling.

and the curling, and the cutting, and
the lunging, and the repping, and the

crunching, and the pressing towards the
day we win the final.

Gers is everything.

Inches count.

Six inches by six inches equals 12
inches equals me,

single, GWM295915OLBS,

blonde slash blue, a 12 -inch, single,
smart, smooth, swimmer seat.

You.

And you.

And you.

And you.

And you, and you, and you, and you, and
you, and you, and you. Hit the streets

at 1 a .m. Mellon Street, Eve St.
Laurent.

Leather jackets, t -shirt press, 501s,
and boots. We are set for walking.

Boots were made for walking.

Walking, walking, walking, walking on
the streets at 1 a .m. to the cell where

they keep the men.

A holding pen.

Enter! I'm smelling smoke.

Smelling piss.

Smelling coke.

Smelling jizz. Um, yeah, give me a
rolling rock.

Boys and boys and boys and boys. I'm
looking, looking, looking, looking.

All I need is love and you and music,
music, music. Thanks.

Casual consumption.

Single, single, single, single, single
boys all around. In every crook. In

crack. In every single square inch. Hit
the floor.

There's room for more.

Hit it hard.

Yeah. Hit on me.

Shake your booty.

Twist and quake. Hey, hey, hey, hey,
hey. Easy, boy. Don't break your shake.

Because you will bake.

Later.

Casual consumption of all these boys and
boys and boys and boys and looking,

looking, looking, looking. All I need is
loving you and music, music, music.

Music, music, music, music.

Music, music, music, music, music.

You there, Mr.

Care Bear.

Don't let HIV slow you down.

Upbeat and positive.

GWM 38 -510 -195 -LBS.

Brown slash brown.

Muscle boots topped with hair.

Play me once, flip me over, play me
twice.

Hit me.

Boys and boys and boys.

I'm looking, looking, looking, looking.

All I need is love and you and music,
music, music.

Cute.

He's cute.

And, uh, cuddly.

Cute and cuddly. G -W -M -32 -5 -2 -1 -2
-O -L -V

-S. Do we drop eyes?

Generous concern.

Looking for a good -hearted, age
-negative, regular guy for friendship,

time, and fist fucks.

Rubber calls that good.

Your dick gets mine, plus more.

Hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me, hit on
me.

Knocked out by your love.

Boys and boys and boys, I'm looking,
looking, looking, looking.

All I need is love and you and music,
music, music, you, Clark.

Kent. Me.

Jimmy Olsen.

Gladiator Guppy.

GWM 256525OLBS.

Brown plus green.

9 to 5 broker by deck.

Master of your universe by night.

Demands barely legal boy slave.

under endowed flight S &M funds?

Get beneath my Brooks Brothers and then
get on your knees.

Go fast.

No fans.

No. No. No. No. Just stay.

No.

Hit me.

Boys and boys and boys. I'm looking,
looking, looking. Hey, look!

Let me over, play me twice.

A man's need.

A glamorous life I only need.

A man's punch.

Hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me, hit. On.

Hello, Mr.

Speedo. Volleyball anyone?

Hey, my court's free.

GWM 22.

Circumstance. Alpha, beta, kappa,
banana, Republican.

Seeks fame for water sports on ecstasy.

Cool.

Straight acting, straight appearing,
only need apply.

Oh yeah, straight acting, straight
appearing, only need apply.

No chubs, no uggs, and no, no, no
ballerinas. Please!

Boys and boys, I'm looking, looking,
looking. All I need is love and you.

music. I'm a 12 -inch single.

Play me once, play me over, play me
twice.

Yo, Arsenio.

I see the myth is true.

GBM 3161191.

masculine, awkwardly mobile, like
skiing, sailing, saunas, seeks

roommates for straight acting, straight
appearing, white acting, white

appearing, relationship.

We do straight acting, straight
appearing, white acting, white

relationship.

I'm looking, looking, looking.

All I need is loving you.

You.

You.

You, you, you, you. 12 -inch single with
your back to my face.

Watching all us go -go boys twist in
place to the beat of our meat.

Pounding for who?

For you.

Yeah, you.

You.

You, you, you, you. Pierce the clips.

And ice blue eyes.

Staring at me.

You hear my cries.

Hey, soldier.

What's your size?

See, I'm a 12 -inch single. You can play
me once.

Baby, you can throw me over.

And soldier boy, you can.

play me twice I'll take it I'll take it
out I'll take it

out on me yeah you ice blue yeah cruise

me choose me abuse me lose me boy tie

me up boy tie me down hold on okay

Hey, hey

Mama's boy.

Nelly, Woody, Fett, Fruit, Queen, Freak,
Girly, Missy, Mary, Fairy, Popsucking,

motherfucking chickens.

Chickens!

Chicken, soldier,

chicky. Chicken, chicken, chicken,
chicken, chicken, chicken. Yo, don't!

Look and look and look and all I need is
you to hit on me.

And music.

Music.

Music. Music.

Music. Music.

Music. Music.

Music. Music.

Music. Music. Music.

Music. Music.

Music.

Yeah.

Music.

Yeah.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I
should die before I wait, I pray the

my soul to take.

God bless Mommy and Daddy and Grandma
and Grandpa and Uncle Jim and Aunt Barb

and Janet and Smokey and Misty and

God.

Bless the village people.

We have cleared off the table, the
leftovers saved, washed the dishes

and put them away.

I have told you a story and tucked you
in tight at the end

of your knockabout day.

As the moon sets its sail to carry you
to sleep.

I've got this one point of light to
steer me, guide me through the night.

With a thousand points of light that now
surround me, engulf me here on the

street.

We vigil.

We meet.

We carry the dead.

In a moment of stillness,

In a moment of semblance, in a moment of
silence,

we search in the night, with the night,

through the night that's hiding those
who went. So be careful when you blink

that someone else is missing.

Where did you go, Andy?

Bobby.

Frank.

Gary.

Gary.

Gary, you were the first.

A neighbor, right next door.

I could tell you were sick the moment I
met you, the night I moved into the

building, but you never brought it up.

And I didn't want to know about it.

I didn't want to start, but you kept
showing up at my door, bringing me

tapes, all of those tapes which started
with, I hate to bother you, but these

walls are so thin, and God knows I love
music, it's my life, and you're Dionne

Warwick.

Very nice.

But I just think you ought to try some
bet.

Here she is, live at last in Cleveland.

I only came to visit at the hospital
that night because you called and asked

your mail. I hate to bother you, but I'm
expecting the Divine Madness soundtrack

from Columbia House.

I was just going to breeze through, and
hi, here's your tape, how are you, bye,

as I entered into the ward and into your
room and into you, hacking your lungs

out, and into that big black man at the
foot of your bed, screaming into the

nurse's face, get me the bedpan, get me
the bedpan, get me the bedpan, get me

the bedpan, get me the bedpan!

It was like Shirley MacLaine in terms of
endearment, only better.

Then that big black man stepped into my
face and said, you the neighbor?

I said, yeah.

He said, good. He said, why don't you do
the neighborly thing and find me some

clean, dry sheets? Because these ones
here, they are soaking with shit.

Exit Harlow, your ex -lover.

We took you home at the end of that week
and back and home.

And back and home and back and home. And
sometimes, Gary, when you were at home

late at night, I'd turn out all the
lights in my apartment and I'd press my

to the wall to hear you puttering around
singing thoughtfully to those

records.

Just checking.

All safe.

And then I could go to sleep.

Knock at the door.

I was sure it was you, but it was Harlow
with his arms full of shoeboxes. Gary

was just cleaning up. He wants you to
have these.

But come on, let's get out of here. I'm
starved. So we took a stroll down into

the village for something to eat at the
Tiffany Diner. Harlow said, breakfast at

Tiffany's. I know exactly what we'll
eat. My treat. And Harlow ordered

and beer.

Breakfast at Tiffany's, Harlow's idea.

Yum.

Those shoeboxes. They're full of Gary's
tape.

But if you don't like any of them,
please, don't throw them out.

Just pass them on.

When we returned in a moment of
stillness, no Skylark.

Leap.

You were gone.

Where did you go?

But Gary, the night wasn't over,

for not a moment had passed with you in
it that Harlow You were sick. And so I

just picked up where you had just left
off, doing twice the things in half the

time. I was moving so fast, moving so
fast, and still, Harlow, all you kept

saying was, come on, baby, come on,
baby, come on, baby, come on, because I

an appointment to keep.

And you must have, in a moment of
semblance, caused in a month and a week

left. Where did you go, Harlow?

Jose?

Megan?

Paul?

Paul?

Paul, you singing, dancing, new age, let
go, gypsy chorus boy queen.

God, I love you.

And boy, I should have known you'd leap
to tour when I suggested that maybe our

dating was moving toward a relationship.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
no, no, no, no. You said, I have a

career. You've got to let go, let go,
let go. You said, because God, I'm a

dancer and a dancer dances. You people
pleasing prick teas.

But who kept calling from those midnight
motel rooms on the road? You, not me.

You, who closed in Phoenix and called me
at 3 a .m. saying, help, what do I do?

Come here, Paul.

Come home.

Okay, okay, okay, you said, but before
New York, I've got to see my family.

Soon, two months passed, Paul, too.

Where the hell did you go?

Except for that picture postcard at the
St. Louis airport that said, soon, Paul.

I didn't hear a goddamn thing from you.

Soon.

Soon. Yeah, soon the phone rang. It was
Tanya in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, your

sister, saying, you the friend, you
better come soon.

I was so fucking mad at you, Paul, I
waited a week before I got on that train

for Harrisburg.

You bounced around the country for the
past 11 months in those two horse towns

for those deadbeat hicks who'd never
heard of HIV, never gave a flying fuck

about that beautiful young man kicking
and belting his guts out up there on

stage to win their attention, win their
approval, win their praise without a

heartbeat of a glimmer of a pause of a
thought that that beautiful young man's

blood coursed with a poison that was
drilling his life away every second up

there. on that goddamn stage.

Those selfish fucking bastards and their
selfish fucking taste for fucking

escape. Escape?

What do they need to escape from? God,
to this minute, I still hate musicals.

Soon, Harrisburg, in that night, in that
room holding your hand, I sat by

your side, and though our hands held
contained, baby, you did not.

Rather, you seemed all...

over the room, wandering gently,
cautiously, in a moment, suddenly,

quietly of silence.

You got away.

Where did you go?

I went through the weekend, and the
family, and the food, and the flowers,

the phone calls, and the viewing, and
the viewing, and the viewing, and the

viewing, and don't Catholics believe in
cremation? What?

And the neighbors, and the priest, and
your mother's introduction, Paul's

friend, and Tanya's insistence, Paul's
lover.

And the whispers, you would have been
furious.

And the dare...

But I loved it.

And the limo? What did you tell her,
Paul?

I was your lover?

And the lowering?

Why?

And the dirt?

Is that how you told me?

We carry the dead.

Tanya called last Christmas.

She's pregnant.

Baby's expected to arrive.

Soon.

Terry.

Vito.

Will.

Will.

Will, where was I going that night?

to meet the boys of bereavement group
for coffee at the diner.

But I didn't have a dime, and so I stood
in line at the bank machine, watching a

baseball -capped, act -up warrior wheat
paste posters onto the building I was

about to take money from, who smiled at
me and came right up to me and said,

Haven't we met?

I said, No.

You said, Yeah.

You said, didn't we get arrested at St.
Patrick's together?

I said, no.

I've never even been arrested.

You said, oh, well, what are you doing
tonight?

Nothing.

into the hurricane of clarity, into the
organization of grieving, into anger

equals action equals life equals people
equals meetings and dittos and treatment

and data and posters and stickers and
speeches and point of order steering

committees, working groups, civil
disobedience training and chanting and

handcuffs and court orders and service
and sit -ins and kiss -ins and die -ins

and zaps and the night.

Equals the night we took back the
street!

It was the night we went to go see Ethel
Eichelberger.

Ethel!

In that show!

That show of his own solo!

Creation of smoke and mirrors and
mascara and stilettos and fire and

music and rhinestones and mischief and
magic.

Ethel magic.

Which sent us skipping...

village streets wailing songs of strong
women all the way into a queer cave club

to twist and flick a slick of sweat onto
the dance floors blackened cement.

And before the world called it day, we
fled to your fifth floor walk -up flight

to take and squeeze what little was left
of our night in with each other,

inside each other.

Tight. And as the sun cut a Venetian
blind slice across my face and into our

night, you covered my eyes with your
hands and inhaling my whispered breath,

you said, we're past the sex.

We're past the moment of one.

We're brother to brother.

And we slept, brother to brother.

In a moment of stillness.

Where did you go?

In a moment of semblance.

You moved out to San Francisco in a
moment, Will,

of silence.

Brother?

Or are you with Ethel now?

Ethel.

Where did you go?

You doing a show?

Somewhere?

Starring in a show tonight?

A solo star show?

A star?

There you are.

I've got this.

i've got this light i've got this one
point of light to steer me guide me

through the night toward a thousand
points of light that now surround

me engulf me here on the street we vigil

we meet in the night with the night

As the night that hovers with those who
went,

and they carry us,

our dead.

And so, be careful when you

blink or think a thing.

No more. I can't absorb another memory
cause someone else is missing.

I know where you went.

We're all here in the night.

Even you, little one, off to the right.
Have I seen you?

Have we ever met?

Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I
wonder who you are. I know

you.

You never famous.

Never counted, never quoted, never seen
nobody.

Somebody's best little boy in the world.

Maybe I never heard you singing softly
to your records, but my ears still

listened.

Maybe we never shared a breakfast at
Tiffany's of pancakes and beer, but

still serving an aisle treat.

Maybe I wasn't the one you called at 3 a
.m. asking for help soon, but my phone

still alarms in the middle of the night
and I awaken and I answer, maybe I never

pulled you onto the front lines and we
never got arrested together, but I'm

still fighting and maybe we never took
each other on a bed. Brother to brother,

but my eyes are still triggered to my
heart and to my flesh to lend warmth to

the brothers left here, left queer, left
together.

In the night.

And so, I know you.

I honor you.

I love you.

I light this light.

For you.

For somewhere.

In a moment of stillness, in a moment of
semblance,

in a moment...

We'll meet.

Stop it.

Just get the sparkling cider from the
fridge and get Richard and Bobby ready.

He is so frisky tonight.

Must have been the movie. We took
advantage of Blockbuster's New Year's

family rental special and picked up the
remake of that Redford Streisand

classic, The Way We Were, starring Ben
Affleck and Matt Damon.

so romantic.

And Ben is really moving.

I mean, he is really fierce in Barbara's
old role as the activist.

Yeah, but then who knew he was such a
Streisand nut until that Barbara Walters

interview with all those old home movies
of little Ben lip -syncing to people?

What, honey?

of the 2008 Stop the Hate March on the
Pentagon was very true. That was very

real.

Bill got into a fist fight at that one
with one of those Christian Coalition

kooks.

Lost a tooth.

My hero.

You know, we weren't sure if the kids
would like the movie, but they did.

You know, frankly, as a parent.

I think the VCR was just happy to have a
different cassette in it because ever

since he got the video for Christmas,
little Bobby has been playing Star Wars

12, The Coronation of Princess Leia.

Those Carrie Fisher cinnamon rolls,
they're bad.

Oh, God.

Of course, what does Bobby care about?
Hair.

That. is Richard's territory.

Last Halloween, he went trick -or
-treating dressed as his favorite

Wonder Woman.

Just loves the movie version with
RuPaul.

So for Christmas, we got him the action
figure.

But Bill and I did nothing.

Nothing, really. I swear, he just turned
out that way.

But I am so proud.

I mean, this is a kid who really knows
what he wants. The other day, he says to

me, Dad, I've decided after I graduate
from high school, I'm going to Harvey

Milk University.

I said, Richard, you are only eight
years old. There is plenty of time to

which Ivy League college you attend.

What, honey?

Oh, no, no, no, no. That's okay. That's
okay. That's okay. Let him. If Bobby

wants to wear his Darth Vader mask to
toast in the new year, it's all right.

I can just tell he's going to turn out
straight.

Whatever.

We'll deal with it as long as he's
happy.

What, 95 minutes to midnight? Okay,
okay, I'll be in. Oh, the kids are so

excited tonight.

Because not only does the stroke of
midnight take us into the 18th year of

21st century, it also marks my 8th
anniversary with Bill.

2010 is the same year we adopted
Richard.

Then Bobby, boy, who knew it would be
such a fight to claim our full lives

as citizens.

Inspired in the back of the bus spirit
of Rosa Parks, passed on to us queer

folks through you.

You.

You. And you.

And you. And you. You. You drag queen.

mashing down the invisible stone wall,
pioneering the frontiers for all of us,

crashing out of the closets into the
streets, paving our way through the

advocate years with Gay is Good, the Gay
Activist Alliance, Sylvester, I Feel

Mighty Real, and sex that flows like
Niagara.

But here comes the plague, and we're
crying like Niagara as we shovel dirt

everyone we know. Rock Hudson, The
Quilt.

Keith Haring, silence equals death.

Our eyes dry, crisp with anger. We're
smashing invisible, fearful, hateful

again. Act up, fight back, fight AIDS.

the drug pipelines that prolong millions
and millions of lives, fight AIDS with

the vaccine that stopped the plague
spread in a hundred countries. Who knew

cure was so close?

And so close to me.

Saving Bill's life.

In America,

The fight to end AIDS started with the
gay community, which today has begun to

heal the world.

That's a quote.

President Clinton.

Hillary.

And heal it, we did.

Exposing the fallacy of the religious
right claim that AIDS was God's divine

retribution was, in some ways, only the
beginning.

As their insidious mission of
intolerance, bigotry, and hatred

had for decades. Margaret Kammermeier
and the thousands, thousands of Don't

Don't Tell discharges. The gay teen
suicide race.

The kids denied adoption to queer
couples. DOMA, the Defense of Marriage

But marriage is one thing and murder is
another.

As HRC joins now.

Wham! GLAAD, PFLAG, the NAACP, the ACLU,
NGLTF, the

MCC, the AFL -CIO to take D .C. by
storm.

Irvish and Fade and Tom Duane and Jesse
Jackson and Barney Frank joined hands

with Liz Taylor and Tony Kushner and
Ellen and Ann and Marlo and Phil

and Magic and Whoopi and the Carters,
Jimmy, Roslyn, and Amy.

with her lover, Chastity.

It was five days into the occupation of
Capitol Hill that the Senate finally

passed the Matthew Shepard hate crimes
bill.

Almost unanimously.

One holdout.

Helm.

Yeah, of course, that was before the
start of ARC, the AIDS -related crimes

against humanity trial.

Because Helm, Pappy Cannon, Newt.

Gee, a lot of them went to prison.

George Bush disappeared.

Poof.

We think he went to South America.

That's where they found Falwell.

Oh, yeah, the blood.

It certainly was proven to be on their
hands.

But in the gay crusades of 2008, God, 9,
10, it was also dripping off our own,

right? From our own.

2010, the same year we lost Mr. Kramer,
which really sobered us

after the Rush Limbaugh assassination.

But get prepared, Atlanta, Orlando,
Denver, Dallas, D .C., Detroit, because

rage and the riots, they will tear right
through your cities.

Oh, God.

Chuck.

And Ed.

I still miss you.

But you shot right out there into the
National Guard lines. I couldn't stop

I couldn't stop the determination that
took your lives.

Or any of the lives that so many of you
would give in the name of your rights.

Chuck.

The monument goes up next spring in
DuPont's circle that kicks off the new

national holiday.

And Ed, I read on the front page of the
New York Times today that by 2027, the

queer culture's wing will be completed
on the Smithsonian.

Yeah, get prepared.

It won't be easy.

But it's good here.

What, Bill? The countdown?

Okay, I'm coming.

And you'll see people like Bill and me
out together

with our sons, Richard and Bobby, a
family walking hand in hand down the

of New York, Toledo, Portland, Oregon,
Portland, Maine, Wichita, Kansas,

Albuquerque, New Mexico, Baltimore,
Maryland, without restrictions.

condemnation or closets, but with the
freedom to love that we got

when we took.

You know, the truth will set you free,
but first it will piss you off.

You've just got to make it here if you
want to

see the way we were.

Happy New Year!