I just realized that I forgot to post the actual text of my WeHo memory! The photo of it blown up to poster size will not do, as I don’t imagine everyone has a magnifying glass.

So, here it is. It’s reality, not fiction, so perhaps not as exciting as it would be if I embellished. I erred on the side of truth as I remember it. Text below photo.

MY FIRST BIRTHDAY IN LOS ANGELES/WEHO

I moved to Los Angeles in January 1981, back when there were no computers, no Internet or mobile phones, or any other recent innovations like marriage equality, gay community centers, or the ability to serve openly in the armed forces.

I’d packed everything into a rental car. I didn’t have much, but I did have two crucial items for my new life in L.A.: my bicycle, and my Damron Gay Guide.

Every day was adventure, learning the city and doing my work at the university. But I hadn’t made friends yet, and I didn’t know how to navigate the overwhelming gay community.

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I lived in Echo Park and was carless. I rode the bus, so the main gay districts of Silver Lake and West Hollywood were either a semi-short ride or an excruciatingly long ride away.

I’d ventured into West Hollywood once to get my bike fixed. Old Pacific Red Car tracks were still visible on Santa Monica; those storied outdoor burger shacks still open everywhere. Hot, shirtless hustlers, channeling classic surferboy looks, “hitchhiked” along the Boulevard.

I got the bike repaired and fled!

But my birthday arrived in March and I was 26 and I wanted to do something. I’d never been to Beverly Hills, so I told myself I wanted to see Rodeo Drive—why, I have no idea, it was just a place I’d heard of.

I would ride my bike. It’s 10 miles. A straight route all the way down Sunset, then a quick turn down Rodeo.

That was to be my birthday celebration. I rode out there by myself on a dark Saturday night. Once I got there, all that greeted me were closed, if glittery stores. A few pedestrians were out; certainly not many: no cake shop was around to assist.

To say this was anticlimactic is an understatement. I was lying to myself. I didn’t want to see Beverly Hills; I didn’t care about that. I wanted to see what was always there for me in West Hollywood, and I knew this land of desire was just blocks away.

I’d copied the WeHo pages from Damron’s and brought them with me just in case. There was a place called the Blue Parrot (where Revolver is today). It sounded tropical; I’d had a fantastic gay time in Key West a year before this so I figured this might be a theme.

I tethered the bike to a pole in front. I went into the crowded, boisterous bar and the smiling, flair-juggling bartender made me my first ever West Hollywood birthday drink. I don’t remember what it was and I didn’t stay too long—I had to ride home.

I got the sense that I belonged in this place where gay bars fronted main streets and had picture windows looking out—and which also looked in. Although it took more time and more experience, that for me was the seed to loving this spot where one could hope to live a gay life free and authentic.  — Jim Arnold