Bobby Pyron Was a Friend of Mine

Bobby aka Lee Ryder

 30 years ago on July 11th 1991, my friend Bobby Pyron passed away. We were not great friends with an enduring relationship or anything like that, but we were always very friendly toward each other and had a good deal affection for each other. Bobby picked me up at a gay chicken club in Hollywood called the Odyssey. We left the club and drove all the way down to his place in Laguna Beach where I ended up spending a couple of days with him. Bobby was about a year older than me and I was 18 at the time. His worldliness was about 1000x mine though and he was completely at ease being gay. I always looked at him as something of a mentor. He took me around Laguna and completely scandalized me by wearing jeans with cuffs in them. I thought that was the gayest thing on the entire planet and how could he possibly be flaunting himself like that? Nobody gave a shit. Bobby was conventionally very good looking, sort of on the rugged side. While he was obviously gay the minute he opened his mouth -- he didn't even have the gay voice -- it was obvious that his rugged good looks are what sold him. That and That Thing.

Bobby apparently lived in Huntington Beach for awhile which explains how he ended up knowing some of my high school classmates. He introduced me to Kenny Thornton who I had seen at school and was just utterly in lust with. He was a blond gymnast, lithe and strong. Kenny and I boinked a number of times but our paths were very obviously going in different directions as he was into the Hollywood entertainment scene of which I had no interest in. He also introduced me to Greg Martin who became a running buddy of mine, usually sniffing around for coke and getting in trouble in Hollywood. We even somehow wormed our way into Alan Carr's place in Malibu. Greg was really good looking too, but I always got the impression that he was sort of a gay-for-pay type. We fooled around a few times, but not much. Bobby later told me -- probably in 1990 -- that Kenny had died of AIDS. Greg and I drifted apart and I never knew what happened to him. Did he die of AIDS too? Did he get a wife and have kids? Maybe both? Who knows.

Bobby knew all about the goings on in Laguna. He was rather dismissive of the A-Gays there calling them "tacky queens". The fledgling gay porn industry made possible by the invention of VCR's was centered there with Catalina Video. He told me that quite a few of my classmates rotated in that universe but was really protective of me not to get caught up in it. I guess it shouldn't be a surprise that Huntington Beach would be fertile ground for gay boys going at it on film because there were lots of us and there were some ridiculously good looking surfer boys. Bobby and I drifted apart as he moved around quite a bit, but we'd bump into each other from time to time and were always friendly to each other if not affectionate in brotherly kind of way. 

I had started my career when I was about 21 and was super busy, especially 1985 onward. Unbeknownst to me Bobby had become Lee Ryder in 1984, joining the industry he made sure I kept away from. Apparently he was very well known and it's hardly a surprise because That Thing was huge. I never knew if he was a total top because it's a lot easier to catch HIV as a bottom, but I'm sure that's the only thing he did in porn. His stuff is still out there with the magic of the internet and I'm not going to lie that he was good at what he did, just pummeling bottom boys. It's really weird seeing it though. I'm not certain I knew he was doing porn while he was alive -- most likely  -- and I am positive I never saw any of it while he was alive. I didn't care of course, because to me he was just Bobby.

I saw him every once in a while in Laguna. I knew he ran a flower stand, but I never visited it. When I saw Bobby the last time around 1990 I knew that he had it. It was probably the time he told me that Kenny had died. He had The Look which you can't hide. He was probably the first person that I knew firsthand who had AIDS which is pretty amazing but that was how the suburbs were: unlike the city where you went to their funerals, in the burbs people just disappeared never to be seen again. I don't remember how I found out how he died. I think he died up in LA so I would have no connection.

It's funny how people who you interact with only a little can have an oversized influence on your life. Bobby was like that for me. He set me on a course of getting over my internalized homophobia which was severely at odds with the guys I had the hots for which was pretty much the gayer the better. Most people will only know Bobby for being Lee Ryder but I knew him for being out, proud, sarcastic and sassy, and being an altogether nice guy. Love ya, hon.

Howard

Howard, in the middle with Kevin to the right and Ken on the left

I've written about Howard Arthur Faye on many occasions and how he intersected my life at a critical juncture, but I want to put it into a single piece for the AIDS Memorial on Instagram/Facebook. Howard was one of the most brilliant people I've ever met and I have met many, many brilliant people over the years. He was about a year older than me being born in 1959. We met online on the gay Usenet newsgroup soc.motss (motss == Member of the Same Sex) which was the first gay newsgroup on the fledgling internet created in 1983. I started posting to it in 1991 way before anybody knew about the internet and Howard was there. We met in person in LA probably the next year or maybe a bit later and became friends. I had never met anybody even remotely like him. Howard always handled me with kid gloves which was funny because I was hardly a shrinking violet. 

Howard was mercurial and lived in the moment because that was all he had. He had a depth of knowledge of food and wine that was ridiculously deep. A group of us started calling ourselves the Cabal Noir with Howard as the unofficial head. Howard raved about a Chateauneuf du Pape wine, Domaine du Vieux Telegraphe, so that became our official wine. Howard could get very animated and was convinced taking away his foie gras and veal would spark revolution. He ate lustily and greedily but for all of this he wasn't a food snob. He was just as happy having a greasy burger in San Leandro as he was eating quail stuffed with foie gras in a huckleberry reduction. 

Howard lived in Hollywood and was the first person that I had really interacted with who was obviously sick. I had some interactions with Bobby Pyron (written about many times on the AIDS Memorial page, aka Lee Ryder) but those were mostly in passing. In Howard I saw upfront how devastating living with HIV was. I had moved in 1994 to San Francisco and Howard had always loved his North Beach boys so he came to visit when he could. I remember helping him infuse himself with his stent which made it all very real for me. But he was always very upbeat and enthusiastic about the next project or find.

One time he came up and I decided to throw a big party for him -- the HAF Bash -- with about 30 or 40 people for dinner with all kinds of fabulousness. I had just met a really cute guy, Aric my now husband, who I was majorly in lust with who I invited. Aric had told me that he was poz which was a little weird for me but in reality I had probably had sex with dozens of poz people over the years and just didn't know it. Aric was completely convinced that I would dump him because he was poz because that is what happened to poz people and that he'd be alone when he died. On my back patio, Aric poured his heart out to Howard. Howard responded by saying that I was not like that. I responded by not being like that.

I was a big Burgundophile at that time and pretty much a snob about it. Howard and I would go wine shopping together all of the time when he was up. Howard decided that I needed to appreciate Bordeaux more so we arranged a trip up to Rutherford Hill in Napa for a fabulous Lite Lunch (tm) at Auberge du Soleil. After, as we were driving to Gueneville to shoot some pool at a gay bar, Howard asked how I had liked Napa's best. This started a huge row but not between me and Howard, instead between Howard and his lover Ken. I'm not quite certain how that came to be but it was hilarious to me because of how much deference he gave me that he gave absolutely nobody else.

Howard wanted to go to Barcelona one last time because that is where he made love to the love of his life, Kevin, who had recently passed. He was convinced that he was skinny enough to throw himself out of the spires of the Sagrada Familia to die in a suitably dramatic fashion. He wrote about his aspirations in a post on soc.motss soon after Greg Louganis disclosed he was positive. We took the trip in March of 1995 but Howard was not among us because he was too sick to make the trip. When we went to the Sagrada Familia, Aric stood in for Howard to squeeze out of the spire windows with Ken holding his legs so he didn't go overboard. I was in abject horror.

We called Howard from the Barri Gotic telling him about all of our adventures including going to a restaurant he was raving about in Perpignon called Le Chapon Fin and stopping by the Dali Museum in Figueres. Aric and I on our way back to Paris stopped at Vieux Telegraphe in Chateaunef du Pape to the mild astonishment of the proprietor with our Vieux Telegraphe t-shirts on. "OH Kermit Lynch!" referring to the negociant in Berkeley where Howard had discovered it.

Howard's Memorial in Paso Robles

Howard died in June of 1995. He had figuratively passed the torch to Aric who survived but wouldn't become undetectable until 2003 due to resistance. Who knows whether protease inhibitors would have helped Howard. I had the honor of writing and delivering his eulogy at Forest Lawn. It was by far the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life. For somebody I only knew a relatively short amount of time he had a huge impact on my -- and hundreds of others' -- lives.

In closing, at gatherings after he passed we would always open our dinners with a simple salute: "To Howard".

Epilogue

In retrospect it's pretty clear to me that I was falling in love with Howard. When I met him he was essentially asexual so it never occurred to me to think of him that way. And of course he was sick and I was very new to knowing somebody who was dying of AIDS. But thinking back, he was just my type: a wee cute bottom boy with a reported big 'ol flopper who I would have cuddled and loved and furiously made love to. It would have been wonderful and amazing and everything good. And terrible. There is no possible way it could have worked. We were way too bullheaded: A-personalities and both of us with huge tempers. He could have only have treated me with kid gloves for so long before that veneer wore off. Which would have been fine since who doesn't like a good donnybrook? We would have probably tried and failed miserably and had huge belly laughs after the fact -- yes, of course we would have continued to be friends. Gay guys have a huge capacity to be like "what *were* we thinking?!". Well, it's thinking with our dicks which is great while it lasts. And then funny in retrospect. Would that I had that chance.

The Fight As It Were

 

[this is a post that Howard wrote on soc.motss shorty before he died. it touched us all really hard. he didn't make it to Barcelona unfortunately] 

Howard looking over the Grenache at Joseph Phelps

From: foucault@netcom.com (Howard Arthur Faye)
Subject: The Fight, As It Were
Date: Fri, 24 Feb 1995 02:22:26 GMT
Sender: foucault@netcom16.netcom.com

The recent, angry response I made in the ongoing discussion of
Greg Louganis' revelation of his medical situation provides me
with an opportunity to reflect on my own situation, which I have
been convinced by my caretakers to regard as "wondrous". I
think they are fooled by a few good test results and the fortune
I have had in retaining my mental acuity despite the place on the
timelime of disease progression I find myself (somewhere between
"late stage" and "end stage").

I am profoundly unhappy that Greg Louganis or anyone else would
discover they are infected or that they are under the clinical
spectre of AIDS. At the same time, I am not so sure the quality
of life as an infected person cannot be kept quite high for quite
a long period of time. I have been symptomatic for more than five
years. When I began to feel ill, I was en route to Agrigento in
Sicily and I visited a Carmelite convent overlooking the sea. On
the bus I was sweating profusely and sliding against the bus window
lubricated by my sweat, trying to avoid being sick on my fellow
passengers by counting olive trees and anticipating the reemergence
of the sea after crossing the island stopping only long enough for
orange juice in Enna.

I told my companion, who was as impractical and romantic as I am,
that it would be perfect to die on a cot resting on those terrazzo
floors before a giant arched window facing the sea. At almost every
interval where I was feeling poorly and I found myself in a place
I liked, I had the same sense of impending demise. Attended by
WhoresWithHeartsOfGold/Nuns/Goatherds/RetainersOfBaronessRothschild,
I faded away swathed in a white sheet, mumbling nonsense verse.
[I recently amended by fantasy death throes after seeing _Queen Margot_
where Charles IX --Jean Hugues Anglade-- is borne on a silken litter,
sweating blood as death nears.]

Such opportunities have come and gone a dozen times in the last five years
ruined by the equal and opposite experience of visiting the Clinic, mostly--
nah, completely-- devoid of healthy fantasy. That such places are perfumed
by antiseptic cleaners and are inhabited by people obsessed with insurance
forms and patient identification cards doesn't help.

I almost feel guilty that I'm still here.

But even as I prepare to march through favorite cities in foreign places
again (a trip planned both as a gift to my Ken who has never satisfied
his passion for Joaquin Sorolla [!] and Arne, who needs to be in a place
more suited to his schedule *and* as a potential suicide location-- I
am just thin enough to squeeze through the open windows at the top of
Sagrada Familia's steeples), I spent the afternoon with a home care
nurse and a social worker making preliminary preparations for being
attended at home, powers of attorney/No Code/DNR, morphine drips, and
even more interesting spiritual questions that inevitably arise
around death.

How can this be? I still have cases of good claret to drink! Is this
kinetic energy, like a cartoon character that runs off a cliff but begins
to descend only after realizing the ground is no longer there? Zilch CD4's,
anemia, horrible edema in the ankles and feet. Shouldn't I retreat to
my goose down comforter and urinal?

I would love to have a witty phrase to delimit life from its terminal
phase but I don't. No one-- from all of the doctors, clergy, psychiatrists
and reasonably intelligent lay people-- has been of any help.

I had a momentary pang of practicality and considered not
going. But of course I am. It doesn't matter where I expire and I have been
hungry for oily squid and prawns in garlic and Asturian cider. The best time
of my life was making love with Kevin in the Hostal Palermo just off the
Ramblas in Barcelona. That won't happen again but now I can concentrate
on the food and drink.

I sincerely hope that Greg Louganis has the will and passion for life
to sustain him and keep him healthy for a long, long time. I attribute
my own longevity to such a passion, a regular ration of red wine and
using the minimum number of medications possible. Oh, and closeness
to my family. And maybe baseball (this year might kill me!). Maybe
Monteverdi too. Oh yeah-- foie gras plays a role, I'm sure.

--
               Howard Arthur Faye * Los Angeles, CA

'Wine is the professor of taste, the liberator of the spirit, and
        the light of intelligence' -- Paul Claudel

Howard's Eulogy

 [Howard Arthur Faye's eulogy I gave at Forest Lawn in LA]

   Every once in a while, a person will come into your
life and succeed in changing your entire outlook, or
cause you to rediscover passions long buried. That was
the effect that Howard had on me. Howard was a mercurial
spirit who never ceased to amaze me with the depth and
breadth of his knowledge. His passion for life was
remarkable, especially when you consider the pain that
he was constantly experiencing.

 Howard was one of the first people to make contact
with me on soc.motss. He was, I assumed, one of those
nameless people who "send me all kinds of supporting
email" that you always hear about. Of course, this was
completely wrong, as Howard was a regular poster for
quite some time. He shunned controversy, and this was
his ostensible reason for not posting (much) to
soc.motss. Really, I think, his mind was elsewhere:
his love of food and wine were the preeminent concern
in his life. Soc.motss was mearly a fertile recruiting
ground for similarly minded food queens.

 Arne and I came along within a month or so of each
other about 4 years ago. Howard remained a rather
enigmatic person to both of us. Arne told me that Howard
made and broke several dinner engagements before finally
making it to one. I didn't know this at the time, but
when Howard finally arranged a dinner at a Japanese
restaurant in Hollywood, it became clear why he phased
in and out of net life. (this was also to be Arne's
debut singing Ethel Merman at a Karaoke bar, which
mercifully was monopolized by a wedding reception).
I met Howard's Kevin, who I thought was very charming.

 Things remained somewhat distant for quite some time.
This was mostly of my doing, as I was in the midst of
a major change of life, and getting up to LA was not
generally high on my list. We did manage to get to know
each other better in those years, and had dinner on
a number of occasions. I was always impressed by the
depth of his knowledge -- I had never met such a walking
encyclopedia complete with lusty sound effects!

 Howard loved San Francisco, having lived here quite
a while. Mostly he loved North Beach, having met Kevin
at Rossi's Market, and having many good memories
associated with it (not to mention strapping Italian
boys, which he loved so much). After I moved, Howard
came to house sit for friend. Howard, well, Hurricane
Howard, was there for nearly a month.  We ate and ate
and ate and ATE. La Folie was probably the most
memorable; Roland Passot's magic is just too fabulous
for words, and Howard couldn't get enough of his
marvelous foie gras in a huckleberry reduction. Or was
it the squab stuffed with quail that he liked so much?

 I still remember Howard coming over to my house for
the first time. Howard had bought a Muni FastPass and
was determined to milk every penny out the thing. I
explained to him that my house is on the side of a cliff,
and told him the least exhaustive way to get here. When
Howard arrived, he was practically a ghost. "Did you
go the way I told you, Howard?", I asked. "No! That
was two blocks out of the way!", Howard replied in his
normal stubborn demeanor. Typical Howard.

 I threw a party in Howard's honor, which was the first
of many parties that my poor recycling bin has witnessed
in the last year. Howard and I shopped all over the
place, and we put on a feast worthy of Luisa Tetrazzini,
whose great nephew I had met in New York earlier that
year. We shopped for wine all over the bay area, and
I still remember him transfixed by the selection of
old Sauternes at the Wine House here in the city. Howard,
in his humility relegated himself to my unassuming sous
chef (yeah, right) as he watched the horror and indignity
of Ireland beating Italy in World Cup Soccer. My long
lost love of food and wine was coming back to me in
full force, and having Howard around was high octane
fuel for that smoldering fire.

 Howard and I spent hours on the net and on the phone
talking about everything, but mostly about this dish,
or that wine, all the while giving me an education on
various wines. At the Las Vegas motss.con, there was
the perfect moment when Howard and I traipsed over to
the Mirage to take a look at the white tigers. While
looking on with the million and seven other tourists,
we simultaneously wondered aloud what wine one would
serve with tiger.

 I enjoyed Howard's unsnobbish and eclectic love of
wine. I think some of Howard's best moments were his
delight in finding some bargain basement wine at Trader
Joe's that he could drink with impunity. His own
mortality was always there in front of him ("this wine
will outlast me!"), but he still couldn't resist buying
for the future. This was, to me, the essence of Howard's
tenacity in life. Enjoy the present, that's all we're
guaranteed with; don't give up the future, since we
may yet live to reap its benefits.

 I had always wanted to make a trip to Europe. Since
I was officially bumming around, I figured that this
was the proper time to do it. I had never really been
all that excited about Paris, but Howard raved about
Paris, and Richard Johnson (practically an ex-patriot)
was going to be there at the same time. I was amazed
at the beauty of Paris, and even more amazed at food
and wine culture.  I kept thinking how much Howard would
have loved to be back in Paris for Richard and my dozen
or so Lite Lunchs (tm).

 Quite accidentally, I arrived from the Metro at St.
Sulpice and found an ACT-UP demonstration marching from
Montparnasse to Odeon as part of the World AIDS
Conference. I decided to join the procession, but unlike
most of the rancor around me, I could barely even speak,
let alone take part in the chants, hoots and jeers.
I just knew that my trip there was likely to be Howard's
last connection with the city that he loved so much.
It was all I could do to contain my grief and start
bawling in the street. At one of the clubs were bulletin
board-like sheets of paper where people wrote what they
liked, usually about loved ones departed. Practically
shaking, and about ready to burst into tears again,
I wrote an inscription to Howard vowing to be his eyes
and pallet. The Eiffel Tower that week, in the City
of Light, had a red ribbon done in lights. Paris grieved
with me.

 Upon my return, Howard enthusiastically decided that
we must go to Barcelona. It was his favorite city in
all of Europe, and besides he thought that he could
just fit through the openings in La Sacreda Familia
to have a romantic end. I had a lot of foreboding about
this trip, but Howard was very upbeat. I finally
relented, in part because I was intent on taking my
Aric to Europe too. Howard became seriously ill in
January, which was to be his final battle. We hoped
against all odds that Howard would be able to make it,
but the reality of the situation finally became evident
weeks before the trip. Howard insisted that Ken and
Arne make the trip, even though we were extremely worried
about him.

 We tasted the oily squid that Howard pined so much
for again. Arne and I timidly viewed out the portals
of La Sacreda Familia where Howard imagined his end.
We had one of the most fantastic dining experiences in
Perpignon, at a restaurant that Howard insisted we try.
Aric and I even managed to visit one of Howard's favorite
wineries in the Rhone: Domaine du Vieux Telegraphe.

 The missing element was, of course, Howard. I could
easily visualize him eating in his signature way:
messily, lustily and greedily. Such was Howard's spirit.
His love of life, and the good things to be experienced,
was tremendous. It was truly an inspiration, and a note
to everybody that life is too short to put off happiness.

 Howard's spirit, I know, will live on through the
people that he touched, and hopefully in the people
that we touch in return. I miss him already, and the
loss is tremendous, but I think his memory should be
toward the celebration of life. Howard's spirit will
live on through the never ending cycle of vine to grape
to bottle, and the toasts to our friends and our love
of life. This, I am sure, is how Howard would want it.