Namesake
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Sweet dreams
By
Mitzel
My friend Kitty died on SuperBowl Sunday. Kitty was at his home in Roxbury, Massachusetts, in bed, watching the television when he died. It is still too soon to know the cause of
death-- most likely a cardio-vascular event. Kitty was 54.
Kitty was his gay name. "When we all got gay names, I took mine from Kitty Carlisle." His born name was Harry Kevorkian. He grew up in Michigan. His uncle is Dr. Jack Kevorkian;
because of Jack's efforts in behalf of assisted suicide he became a man of considerable notoriety and was imprisoned. Back in the 90s, I once asked Kitty if his uncle's notoriety had changed his
life in any way. "Well, Mitzel," Kitty sniffed, "I no longer have to spell my name when I make restaurant reservations." Kitty loved good food and fancy restaurants.
I met Kitty when he landed in Boston in 1973 or 1974. We worked on the board of The Other Fund, which was a project to set up a gay/lesbian equivalent of The United Way-- imagine
the hubris-- to fund gay causes. Before Kitty hit Beantown, he had had a fabulous career in Ann Arbor. He was a gay activist there. Also a union activist. Was president of the union of bus
drivers and active in cross-pollinating gay and union issues. Kitty ran for the City Council. Kitty became friends with the man who became the fabulous Billi Gordon. They'd get up in drag and do
the black drag bars in Detroit. Kitty was a child of his times.
Kitty's career was expansive. Kitty was a Type A, full of energy, driven, not one to take it easy. He was, also, full of contradictions. He had a sweet side, yet when dealing with people he
could tease, excoriate, and even humiliate them. Kitty's family were Armenian immigrants and I think he was conflicted about that. After the terrible earthquakes in Armenia back in
1988 (Gorbachev was in the US and promptly flew home), Kitty got rung up by the Armenian relief funds and he made a contribution. When I praised this gesture, Kitty had a different take:
"Listen, Mitzel, never trust an Armenian. The slipperiest people in the world." Is this true?
I want to write about the Kitty I found most fascinating-- his private behaviors. Kitty loved drugs, he loved hustlers, he loved entertaining. I recall one conversation from back in the
1970s. I was with Kitty and another friend. They started yakking away about every latest pill, legal and illegal, every new club drug, etc. I couldn't keep up. Kitty did them all. He drank only
on occasion-- not a boozer at all. When Kitty moved to San Francisco in 1989-- he arrived there the day of the great earthquake (we seem to be developing an earthquake theme here)--
he quickly found the active hustler culture and the parties where-- in the midst of the HIV epidemic-- one could share needles while shooting up the scag. Kitty liked the hustlers, but was a
bit frightened by the casualness of the needle culture, but still participated. Kitty had to ankle SF-- too many airheads, he said, and not enough of a book culture. Kitty was an avid
and committed reader.
Back in Boston, Kitty went to university to get an advanced degree: he started writing. I was in the shower one morning in 1982 when I heard the news-- and, somehow, you just always
know. "Major Drug Ring Busted." It was Kitty, of course, not as a star but just a mule. The 50 tons of pot arrived on the Maine coast, got off-loaded, divvied up and sent out to the mules.
Kitty and a friend were waiting for the shipment. Suddenly the helicopters with searchlights were above them: "Don't move!" Kitty pled guilty-- this was the first case under the "harsh"
"new" RayGun anti-drug laws. Kitty went down to a fed pen in Connecticut and was put in with the mafia types (whom he liked) and did about a three month stretch. His sentence: time served
and five years probation. Kitty then got a job for the state of Mass. He often had to deny state wheelchairs to the needy because of financial considerations. When William Weld ran against
John Kerry, the Boston Globe exposed that Wm. Weld had on the state payroll a "convicted drug dealer" and a pornographer-- Kitty had been involved in the making of some porn flickers.
There was Kitty's pic in the pages-- Kitty was in Key West when he learned he had been canned. He came back and got a job with a fancy law firm.
Kitty loved the hustlers. He'd buy their services here in Boston as well as in New York and LA. One day, Kitty came to visit me and shared a recent worry. He thought he was getting too
high a profile in the Hustler Community. I asked him to explain. Turns out Kitty was cruising The Block (Hustler Heaven in years gone by) and spotted a new one, just his type, 19-year-old,
plump South Boston Irish type. Kitty parked his car, jumped out, and started negotiating with the lad. "He asked me what I wanted to do. I said: 'I want to take you home, strip you down, tie
you to my bed, take out my paddle and beat your butt till it gets bright red, then flip you over and mount your face and shove my hard cock into your face, and pump away until I shoot my
load down your throat.' He gave me the strangest look and then asked: 'Is your name Kitty?'" Kitty took him home and did just as contracted, a good time was had by both, and Kitty then
drove him home.
Oh, as to Kitty's last few hours in bed watching the TV? Well, he was not watching the pre-game SuperBowl fluff; Kitty was watching a hard-core porn video.
Sleep well, Kittens.
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