San Francisco Treats from the National Lesbian & Gay Journalists Association's Convention

Since I was in town to attend the National Lesbian & Gay Journalists Association's 10th anniversary convention, I could not fully explore. I did not wander around Haight-Ashbury, nor make the trek to North Beach or Alcatraz. I had to content myself with the superfluous representations of hippiedom stuck in my head from all those 1960s documentaries in history class. What I won't soon forget is the image of a staff writer at one of the top papers in the country, lying on the bed in my room, going on about his horniness and his need for release, asking for my "assistance." Which, by the way, I did not provide.

I arrived late Wednesday night. The Adelaide Inn, buried at the end of this alleyway called Isadora Duncan Court in the very touristy and heavily retail-oriented Union Square, is a gem. It's billed as a "Unique European Pensione" and does offer the usual continental breakfast and shared bathroom facilities. I was attracted to it for the location?near the still-gentrifying SoMa district, not far from a BART station, where one can be whisked away to Castro St. I got up before most of the city on Thursday to walk all the way down Market St. to the Castro to see what all the hoopla is about. I didn't get to explore much of it, however, until Sunday.

At Thursday night's opening reception I made eye contact with this thirtysomething guy who used to work for AP, but now works at one of the country's top daily newspapers. We'd met before at this NLGJA event in Brooklyn, but didn't get to talk then. After introductions, we went to eat at this adorable French bistro, Bizou, a few blocks from the Argent Hotel in SoMa. I felt as I imagine New Yorkers must have felt in Tribeca back in 1992: there were loads of warehouses, poor streetlighting and then, ta-da?groups of yuppies waiting for a seat in this comfy, rustic bistro. At the table, conversation turned to George W. Bush's calling Adam Clymer a major-league asshole. Everyone at the table had enjoyed Maureen Dowd's column that week, in which she argued that "major-league" meant more in terms of Dubya's fratboy mentality than the word most papers across the country did not print.

Things were going well. We kept making eye contact and smiling throughout dinner. Back at the hotel, he asked if I'd like to come up to his room, and two of the guys we dined with saw us leave the elevator together. I mentioned the tendency of gay men to be gossip queens. "There's usually more gossip about who comes to the next day's breakfast session holding hands than who was seen leaving the elevator together," he assured me. So we made a slight pretense of looking through guidebooks to see if there was anything hipsterish happening on a Thursday night, gave up, started making out and, well...I ended up leaving the Argent around 10 o'clock the next morning. And it was great. You never know about sexual compatibility with hook-ups, so we were both pleasantly surprised. I later found out that Bizou means "little kiss."

Friday there were workshops on gay-related journalism topics like "Do I Sound Too Gay to Be a TV Reporter?: A Voice Workshop" and "Just Like Everybody Else?: Mainstreaming the GLBT Community." The luncheon featured Gay.com's Michelangelo Signorile, Newsweek's Sarah Pettit and Linda Villarosa of The New York Times. It was planned as a reunion of the controversial panel of the first convention back in 1992, where sparks flew over disagreements about the outing of public officials, but Andrew Sullivan backed out at the last minute. Signorile joked that his no-show was because his views had come full circle over the years since the first convention. I found myself sitting two seats from a good-looking celebrity, Danny Pintauro. I grew up watching him as Jonathan on Who's the Boss? He was in town for his new show, The Velocity of Gary (Not His Real Name), showing at the New Conservatory Theater. He poured a cup of coffee for me.

The best part of the day was the Newsweek-sponsored party, way up in the Argent Hotel, offering breathtaking views of the city. I chatted with Jonathan Capehart, a Bloomberg columnist, and historian Charles Kaiser. I was introduced to Judy Wieder, editor-in-chief of The Advocate. At that moment, I was all about schmoozing and the energy; here I was at ground zero, with some of the best gay journalists in the country.

After having a few drinks at a lame "men's event" in the Metreon?a garish, Disneyesque entertainment complex near the Argent?I had dinner at Harvey's with another editor, Rob, before heading to The Cafe on Market St. My expectations were high: the advance hype was that this nightclub was a must-see. I appreciated that there was no cover charge, reasonably good house music playing and the crowd was equal parts male and female, with a strong number of gay Asian, Latin and black folks. The dancefloor was kinda small, but sizable enough to groove on without poking out some cute boy's eye. I'm fairly easy to please in this regard. Give me a vodka cranberry, some decent tunes and a friendly crowd, and I'm set. The club's patio, overlooking Market St., allowed us to get some fresh air and people-watch while cooling down. Bars close at the very early hour of 2 a.m. in San Francisco, so The Cafe?unlike, say, the Roxy here in New York?is not a place to dance the night away. By the way, the women's event for Friday was "Fog City Bowling." I'm not kidding.

Saturday's luncheon brought the good news that Dow Jones finally got with the program and offered domestic-partner benefits to all its employees. NBC's Paula Madison was booed, briefly, because the Peacock network, owned by General Electric, is the last major network to not offer domestic-partner benefits. The lunch panel star was George Stephanopoulos, who spoke both as a former political operative and as a commentator now for ABC News. The rumor was he's a huge closet queen. I attended a panel on "Gays & the Vote" that was informative and encouraging, until it devolved into partisan bickering between the National Stonewall Democrats and the Log Cabin Republicans.

At the convention's gala event I got a seat at a reserved table with the night's MC, Brooklyn comedian Marga Gomez. She did an hilarious monologue onstage, then worked the crowd Oprah-style. The term "gay formal" was the official rule for the night?encompassing a range that included the suit-and-tie types (mostly tv news and weathermen, along with upper-level editors), khakis and buttondowns, black dresses or clubwear; one outfit that caused quite a sensation was Rose Arce's black leather mini with a risque matching jacket. Watching a video of NLGJA members discussing the organization's impact on their lives, I felt a surge of pride unlike anything I'd felt since moving to New York to be a writer.

On Sunday, I went sightseeing with my friends Randy and David. We eyed the ingenues on Castro St., where I tried on some Spice Girl sneakers and a Macy Gray coat. I checked out the clubwear, shoulder bags, Prada knockoffs and cute clerks at Rolo. We also found our way into Rock Hard?a novelty leatherman's shop on Castro peddling a wide range of sex toys and gifts. I didn't buy any come rags, leather straps or flavored lubricants, and David laughed when I couldn't figure out the purpose of one long, U-shaped contraption perched next to myriad other dildos in the back of the store. We browsed in A Different Light bookstore, which seemed to have a better porn magazine selection than the New York branch, though the store itself was much smaller.

We hopped the Muni (the cable car system) to Fisherman's Wharf to watch the sea lions and take some cool pictures with the city's hills and Alacatraz in the background, while making snarky comments about the touristy, outlandish, gentrified waterfront theme park that is Pier 39. The Pier is a two-level outdoor mall packed with dozens of restaurants and shops near the Bay. We were quickly overwhelmed by the smell of fish. While walking in Chinatown we caught a glimpse of their Autumn Moon festivities, complete with a bright red and gold dancing dragon, music and enthusiastic clapping, in and around the area's narrow streets. I had my best, and most affordable, San Francisco dinner at House of Nanking. Owner Peter Fang said, "I'll take care of you," and did he ever.

I went to San Francisco to have a great time, to mix and connect with other gay writers, and to see the sights. Now I'm almost a convert. Sure, the bars close too early and everything is too political for my taste, but hey?you never know.