Article by Josh Kilmer-Purcell, originally published on Out.com (http://www.out.com/detail.asp?page=1&id=22551).

I admit it. When climbing the landscaped stairway in front of Armistead Maupin’s Noe Hill home, which backs up into the magical Sutro Forest in the heart of his beloved San Francisco, the first thing I look for is pot plants.
My stomach has been lurching over the hills on the taxi ride to his house, and a little of Anna Madrigal’s special blend would do wonders. Not spotting any plants, I continue climbing, aware of how much I desire Maupin to resemble, in spirit, the eccentric transsexual landlady-matriarch Anna Madrigal from his groundbreaking Tales of the City series.
We gays do that to our lions as they age. We desex them. We strip them of their power and influence. We mock their vast accomplishments as quaint. In an age when coming out can often be as breezy as joining a junior high gay-straight alliance, we look back on the hushed secret languages of those who came before us and think of them as somehow weaker than we.
So when the man standing at the door isn’t wearing a caftan and drinking Frannie Halcyon’s famous mai tais but is instead a sturdy, handsome, genial snow-haired daddy type, I think, To hell with the weed. Pass the poppers.



