he gay

On Silence

2008-07-25T23:15:00.000-05:00

After what has seemed an interminable amount of time, I find myself moved to return to my blog. During these past several months of relative cyber-silence, I have felt the steady vibration of this space; I knew I would eventually return, but was uncertain of when or how.

The well has not been dry; inspiration presented itself on an almost daily basis. Rather, I was deeply certain that I needed to steep, rather than step.

I'm excited to begin this journey again. The time is write.

So Said . . . Karl Marx

2008-04-21T09:46:00.003-05:00

"Religion is the opium of the masses." -- Karl Marx

". . . and the methamphetamine of the asses." - he gay

Minor Obsessions: Big Booty Bread Co.

2008-04-18T17:30:00.007-05:00

I need to write about this particular obsession before its classification shifts from minor to major.

Truth is, the point is rapidly approaching where I'd sell my ass for one of Big Booty Bread Co.'s peanut butter cookies -- big discs of peanut butter perfection, covered with chunks of crumbled Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and baked to that elusive point of crunchy, crumbly moistness.

Big Booty, probably best known for its killer red velvet cupcakes, sits on the North side of 23rd, just East of Eight Avenue, a couple doors down from the rotting corpse of what used to be Burgers & Cupcakes; thankfully Big Booty kicked its ass (and that ridiculous, monster pink cupcake spinning on top of its awning) back to its Hell's Kitchen location. Moral of the story: if you're gonna bring carbs and calories to Chelsea, they better damn well be worth it. And Big Booty bends over backwards (er, forwards?) to give you a lot of bang for the buck.

It all started when I was walking out of my gym after a workout and feeling like a reward. The mind behind Big Booty cleverly chose a location between New York Sports Club and David Barton gym and it wasn't long before I was swinging by on a daily basis.

Big Booty's treats aren't limited to the cases either; the now-bearded booty behind the logo (Jose Rojas) is easy to spot and has somehow managed to simultaneously keep the bakery namesake in perfect shape while clearly working it off.

Keep a lookout for Big Booty logo t-shirts and underwear, which fly out of the store as almost as quickly as its homemade goods.

h[eBay]: Warhol's "Trash" Poster (original)

2008-03-27T01:53:00.009-05:00

After three years of searching for an affordable version, I finally scored an original movie poster from "Trash." The Warhol-produced 1970 film stars the incredible Joe Dallesandro and Factory superstar, Holly Woodlawn.

The U.S. version typically costs $500 and remained out of justifiable reach, so I compromised by buying the poster at right, measuring 23" x 33", from the German release of the film. It arrived in perfect shape, no holes or tears; an eBay score for $125.

The only poster that remains on my to-find, to-afford list is the original poster from Edith "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale's 1978 cabaret show at NYC's Reno Sweeney. Any leads?

Aha Moment: 03/26/2008, 1:28 PM

2008-03-26T12:27:00.001-05:00

Awareness of one's insanity kinda defeats the purpose.

Aha Moment: 12/06/2007, 9:48 PM

2007-12-06T21:48:00.000-05:00

Many who consider themselves invisible are often merely transparent.

So Said . . . Mother Teresa

2007-12-02T17:54:00.002-05:00

"We are all pencils in the hand of God." -- Mother Teresa

". . . not red pens." - he gay

On this the first day of December

2007-12-01T21:04:00.005-05:00

December 1st is a day when I stop, take a moment, and touch gratitude.

Forty-two years ago today, my best friend Brad was born in Dallas, Texas. Three years later, my cousin Kari was born in Manchester, New Hampshire, And, three years ago, the first "World AIDS Day" was observed after a campaign spearheaded by UNAIDS (Joint United Nations Programme on AIDS/HIV). World AIDS Day is dedicated to raising awareness of the AIDS pandemic caused by the spread of HIV infection.

Brad, Kari and AIDS have been the greatest teachers that I have known; each has brought me closer to truth in the midst of both laughter and tears; each has treated me with complete acceptance and non-discrimination. I have been so blessed by each.

December 1st is a good day, indeed.

A Day Early and a Dollar Short

2007-11-30T12:23:00.001-05:00

The Bush administration placed this red ribbon in the North Portico of the White House earlier today in recognition of World AIDS Day, which is tomorrow, December 1, 2008.

Project Runway 4: The Catwalk Fight Begins

2007-11-14T08:23:00.000-05:00

Admit it: Project Runway ("PR") is the shit. The 4th season of Bravo's hugely successful reality show began tonight and I'm already hooked (again). The 15 designers hell-bent on making it to a tent in Bryant Park are as varied and talented as each of the prior seasons and this season has all the hallmarks of another successful season. PR's formula is genius: unknown raw talent, huge egos, impeccable style, throw-away trendiness, highly caffeinated genius under impossible deadlines, catty homosexuals, bitchy male & female judges, beautiful clothes, stunning models, celebrity cameos and a drop-dead Supermodel with an accent and "Voila," [or whatever the German word for "Voila" would be].

The first episode, "Sew Us What You Got" challenged the designers to sprint across Bryant Park to snatch up material ($50,000 worth from Mood Fabrics -- ooh, ahh, ooh) and create a garment that represents their design vision. My assessment follows:

Carmen - SCAD graduate, attractive, but annoying; seems to be over-compensating for something. 1st design: vest and balloon pant outfit, uninteresting 1970's knock-off. "Retro nightmare" is apparently her vision.

Chris* - Love this man. Already exhibits confidence in his abilities and that certain flair. 1st design: regal, very Adrian, very strong. He's the real deal.

Christian - HUH? Has already built a respectable resume (McQueen, Westwood, etc.) but how fucking annoying is one gay boy allowed to be. So cocky, so soon; but he does make great TV. This bastard gay offspring of last-season's Malan & Keith is high drama, but he'll eventually trip over his own veil.

Elisa - She's an artist, and don't you dare forget it. She should have been "Auf'd," but saved due to technical ability. Quirky, weird, subtle charm. No staying power as, I suspect, she will be uncompromising and will eventually refuse to sacrifice her Art.

Jack - This season's (surgically-altered) eye candy is a shoe-in for at least half the season on the basis of abs alone. Dress was adorable, but safe; vision reminiscent of Robert Best (last-season's "Barbie" designer). A+ for sincerity.

Jillian - She's utterly forgettable. Red "poppy" dress looked like a 80's prom dress gone bad. Nothing to hang onto with her.

Kevin - Wasted no time in telling the world he was straight. Newsflash to Kevin - that ridiculous beard / sideburn thing you have going told me before you did. He may be a victim of editing and I'm willing to withhold judgment at this point. Kinda liked the pinstriped babydoll thing he did; silver bullet-proof vest was overkill though.

Kit - She reminds me of last-season's Alison. Dress was basically a flowered breast bullseye. Not very flattering to my sensibilities. She's adorable, good for ratings, but don't really get her vision.

Marion - owns a florist shop in Dallas?? Yikes. I've done my time in Dallas and I feel for the boy. The dress? Over-the-knee goth prom. No Thanks. He seems sweet, though a bit lost. Lose the hat. Shave your head if you have to.

Rami - Won first challenge with beautifully done Grecian-inspired dress. This season's Uli. Beautiful, but there is this looming sense that he's a one-note queen. Time will tell.

Ricky - Former lingerie designer who remains kinda adorable despite an ever-present train conductor's hat. Dress was, uhm, boring. Undecided otherwise.

Simone - Adios Ms. LeBlanc. She was humorless (who can blame her), but her dress wasn't so bad she should be packing her bags.

Steven - I want to take him home to my mother, but I'm afraid he would spend all his time talking to her and make me wait while he whipped up a new set of curtains. He is adorable and the dress was sweet. As much as I like him, there doesn't seem to be much originality here.

Sweet P - The female version of Jeffrey, last-season's winner. Too edgy, too nuts. Adios by Week 3 or 4.

Victorya - Hate the name, loved the dress. Talented, but a little bitchy. Kinda would like to see more of her.

Not planning on writing every week, but only when the urge strikes.

____________________________________________________________________
* Full disclosure: I have a working relationship and friendship with Chris March. Although I will not benefit from any success he may garner as a result of this show, I have to admit that I have everything I possess crossed and re-crossed hoping that he takes the whole thing. You go, boy!!

Dirty Little Secrets: Go RHS Eagles!

2007-10-22T23:35:00.000-05:00

In 1984, I graduated from Richardson High School ("RHS") located in Richardson, Texas. Notable alums include Anne Rice (the novelist) and Jay Johnson (the creepy ventriloquist). RHS, however, is probably best known, without being really known, as the school where, in January 1991, Jeremy Delle (the inspiration for the Pearl Jam song Jeremy) blew his head off in front of his second period English class. One of my favorite English teachers, Faye Barnett, was teaching at the time; she deserved better.

Here's the secret: my senior class elected me as Mr. Spirit. That's right -- not Mr. RHS (that was Doug Miller), not Class Funniest (that was Ben Beckham) and not Most Likely To Succeed (that was Scott Miller). Mr. Spirit. As Captain of the Eagle Guard, which was the bell crew that rang the bell and ran the field each time the football team scored, I was a shoe-in. It was the closest thing to being a cheerleader without having to put your hands up some bitchy girl's skirt. I now realize that the title of Mr. Spirit was actually the de facto name for the title of Most Gay.

I'm not quite ready to discuss this any further, but there it is. There it is indeed.

So Said . . . Quentin Crisp

2007-10-05T07:42:00.000-05:00

"The very purpose of existence is to reconcile the glowing opinion we have of ourselves with the appalling things that other people think about us." -- Quentin Crisp

". . . or vice-versa" - he gay

Lennox Delivers Songs of Mass Depression

2007-10-02T14:54:00.001-05:00

In 1981 The Eurythmics, consisting of the then-yet-undiscovered Annie Lennox and Dave Stewart respectively cast as a glamdrogynous Eve and an ambiguously-straight Adam, released its first album, "In the Garden." It took another two years and the release of their second album, "Sweet Dreams," for the duo to have their first bite of real success.

Dave and Annie left Eden 26 years ago and, to hear Annie tell it, the fruits since then have been bittersweet.

Lennox's eagerly awaited "Songs of Mass Destruction" was released today and I had it in my hands and on my iPod by Noon. While standing in line at the Union Square Virgin Records Megastore, that sinking feeling that on the album assured me it was, indeed, going to be classic Ms. Lennox. They include "Dark Road," "Love is Blind," "Smithereens," "Through the Glass Darkly" and "Lost." You get the idea, right?

And, to make sure you included, and expected, are two anthems for women. The first, "Womankind," is like every other song she's ever written before that I would have sworn I already heard it. The other, the much-hyped "Sing," is dedicated to stopping the mother-to-child transmission of AIDS in Africa -- worthy endeavor indeed, but again tirelessly familiar to the ear.

Although the album is less than what I'd hoped, at least it isn't a repackaged reunion record of re-cut Eurythmics tunes.

Aha Moment: 09/23/2007, 7:20 AM

2007-09-23T08:30:00.000-05:00

The best revenge isn't looking good; it's looking elsewhere.

Had He Forgotten He Had a Lesbian Daughter?

2007-09-22T03:12:00.000-05:00

Much has been made over the tearful announcement by Jerry Sanders, Republican Mayor of San Diego, regarding his last-minute (almost literally) decision to reverse his previously announced intention to veto a San Diego City Council resolution that had been passed by that body challenging California's gay marriage ban.

Sanders' emotional announcement appears below and is worth watching if you haven't seen it yet.

While I ultimately applaud Sanders' decision, I have ask, "What took you so long, Jerry?"

As Sanders states in his speech, he is the father of an adult lesbian daughter who came out to him over two years ago. He was aware of her orientation when he campaigned against same-sex marriage, offering up "separate but equal" civil unions instead. At this stage of the national debate, I think this is unacceptable. Politicians with LGBT family members who continue to advocate against equal marriage rights for gays and lesbians need to be asked, point-blank, why.

As funny as the title of the "New York Blade" article announcing the birth of Mary Cheney's son was ["Mary Cheney Gives Birth to Human Boy"], it also strikes the truest, albeit saddest, note in this entire issue. Elected officials are campaigning on, advocating, drafting, pushing, lobbying for, and signing intolerance against their own flesh and blood into law.

As Larry Kramer would say, "Where is the outrage?"

My deep suspicion is that many relatives of gays and lesbians who actually voted for Bush/Cheney in the last election were voting their subconscious, allowing their internalized homophobia to pull the lever.

I intend to ask each person in my birth and chosen families whether or not they intend to vote for any candidate who does not support full marriage rights for gays and lesbians. The truth is I'm not even sure I ever want to get married, but I do want to know why anyone in my family thinks heterosexual love deserves privileges that love between homosexuals does not.

The stakes are too high. Too many LGBT teenagers die, become addicted or infected, or suffer unnecessarily because this culture of hate exists.

In this time of senseless war, inexcusable poverty and famine, and spiritual desolation, I'm done apologizing for demanding answers and explanations on what should be the biggest no-brainer, non-issue we collectively face.

If we can't come together on love, we are a society lost.

Don't bullshit yourself, it is that simple.

Dale Jr. Comes Out with Big Mo'

2007-09-19T16:48:00.003-05:00

Dale Earnhardt, Jr., NASCAR poster party-boy and former winner of the Daytona 500 Race, launched a candy bar today. The Big Mo' chocolate bar, which will hit the shelves in January 2008, will come in two flavors -- caramel and peanut butter.

Earnhardt, Jr. reportedly said "[a]t one point or another everyone has had their own idea of making the perfect candy bar [uhm, they have?], and this was my chance to do it." The name supposedly relates to Earnhardt, Jr.'s hometown of Mooresville, N.C. and is a reference to the name of his group of friends, charmingly known as the "Dirty Mo' Posse." There is, however, a big difference to me between a "dirty mo" and a "big mo." Dale Jr. is 32 and I find it tough to believe he hasn't himself called or made reference to someone as a "big 'mo" in a derogatory manner and meaning a "big homo." In all fairness, the apostrophe is in the wrong place, but, the reference seems too blatant to be disregarded.

Is the name the result of some gay adman's pitch that miraculously slid under the radar all the way to production, or, is it Earnhardt & Company's tongue-in-cheek, fratboy humor poke at gays?

I know what I'd like to believe and I know what is likely true.

It will be interesting to see if there is any fall out from the LGBT community on this. I suspect it's inevitable.

Good News for Forty-Seven Percent of America

2007-09-12T06:21:00.000-05:00

As I tried desperately to exorcise the demons from my day out of my body using the elliptical machine at the New York Sports Club on 14th Street I couldn't help looking at the 20 television screens facing my stationary vehicle of self flagellation. Half of the screens blared Drew Carey's new game show, "Power of 10." The premise of the show is that guests compete by estimating how Americans responded to various poll questions. Carey -- overweight, loud, crude -- seems the perfect host for "Power of 10," as he is clearly "Made in America." Who better to confront us with the truth about ourselves?

My iPod was delivering "The Pussycat Dolls," as I started to work up a sweat, so I could only read the screen, which flashed each poll question. The first question I saw grabbed everything -- my gut, head, heart, balls.

"What percentage of Americans would swim in a pool with a person they knew was infected with HIV?"

Again, I couldn't hear the banter between Carey and the two contestants as they prepared to enter their guesses. The contestants were two men, both as large as Carey, who appeared heterosexual and more ethnic than the host. They were literally and figuratively large slices of the American Pie. There was a great deal of laughing as they entered their respective estimates: one guessed 23% and the other thought it was in the low 30's percentage area.

My jaw dropped.

The poll results revealed that 53% of Americans polled indicated that they would swim in a pool; 47% apparently felt that they would not take that "risk."

My heart joined my jaw.

I'm not going to say anything more about this, other than it encouraged me to be more open about my HIV status and the fact that when I discovered my status I actually had an AIDS diagnosis. Ignorance on this issue is inexcusable in this country at this point. For that many Americans to think that any risk whatsoever exists for swimming in a chlorinated pool with someone who had HIV is shocking. Shocking, and deeply sad.

The good news for that 47% is that every single person I know who is HIV+ would refuse to swim in a pool with someone that ignorant or bigoted.

So, you're safe America.

Go have another Big Mac.

Six Years

2007-09-11T06:39:00.000-05:00

I notice that I still only discuss September 11th with people that were here that day. I'm not sure why.

I know that I deal with anger, or whatever it's actually masking, when I see tourists taking pictures in front of the hole, or the vendors who are selling books with pictures of the destruction, or the protesters using the location as a "provocative" spot to bring their message.

September 11th sneaks into my consciousness whenever I see a sky as gloriously blue as the one that morning or pass the bus stop in front of St. Vincent's, remembering it covered with pictures of the missing, when I see the remains of a melted candle in the cracks of a city sidewalk., when I see a face in a crowd, moving forward, but numb.

I still won't watch footage of the impacts or the jumpers; I avert my eyes from images from the day.

What is gone is the smell that lingered from the first year -- smoky, burnt, electrical. What remains is me, getting up and trying to make a life here, in spite of . . .

I'm Behind You NYC: Gone Fishin'

2007-09-10T18:57:00.000-05:00

Date & Time: September 11, 2007

Time: 8:00 p.m.

Location: 8th Ave., b/w 23rd & 24th Streets

Reason: In the age of subway metrocards, sightings like these have become rare. This is an image of a subway grate fisher using a pole he constructed himself and many other "implements" to reach through the grate to pull dropped things up including, but not limited to, money, jewelry, and cigarettes (seriously). A scene straight out of Henry Roth's "Call it Sleep."

When Words Fail

2007-08-28T23:00:00.000-05:00

I love words.

Words have romanced, enhanced, healed, inspired and empowered me.

I would like to believe that all problems eventually kneel before the intellect and soul as they are expressed in words, that their power, whether oral or written, is without limit.

I now know better; I now understand that words can fail.

I have come to know, in an undeniable way, the inabilty of any vocabulary, regardless of breadth or depth, to convey the unutterable.

Today, I sat with one of my dearest, most fiercely loyal friends as he struggled to absorb the news that his mom was suddenly, tragically killed in a plane crash.

Together we stared blankly at a computer screen as it showed video footage of the crash site, vainly straining to grasp the incoherency streaming from a reporter's mouth.

As my mind raced, heart wrenched, soul numbed and throat steeled, words betrayed me.

I did, in the midst of an exhale, humbly discover the power of silence, the comfort of complete presence, the fullness of peace, and quiet.

Perhaps the fact that we are born with two ears, and only one mouth, is meant as a reminder of their relative necessity.

I love words, but I know their limits.

Craig Cops to Conduct (and Clinton Crush?)

2007-08-27T04:15:00.000-05:00

Sen. Larry Craig (R-ID), the closet's latest casualty, denied that he was gay today, despite the fact that it was discovered he recently plead guilty to a reduced charge of "disorderly conduct," rather than face prosecution on charges of "public lewdness." Craig was arrested by a plainclothes officer he "met" in a Minneapolis airport bathroom.

My initial reaction when I heard this story was the same as it always is in these circumstances -- why don't they ever, ever let us know what the undercover cop looked like. Seriously. Was he hot? Should it have been obvious? Is he straight? It drives me nuts.

Once calmed though, I have to admit that what I then felt was a sadness for the fact that anyone -- even a pompous, finger-pointing hypocrite like the "distinguished gentleman from the fine State of Idaho" -- should choose, particularly at his age, to live the life of a closeted gay man. The closet is cruel, unnecessary -- so 70's, so "Merv."

Gay men have long been targeted by undercover sting operations, selectively enforcing these out-dated, ill-conceived statutes. The only time these arrests seem fair is when the occasional politician, preacher, law enforcement officer, judge, reparative therapist, or the errant Exodus International employee gets stung; men who despite being in positions affording them opportunities to positively affect the way gay men are treated by the law, their families and their communities, fail to do so. The truth is, however, that the ones who suffer the most -- young boys grappling their evolving sexual selves in a society that says they are freaks, married men living tortured lives in the closet, self-hating men hellbent on self-destruction -- are the one's who need our understanding and compassion the most.

Every gay man has either dealt with this exact scenario or knows dozens of others who have; the implications of this public shaming of gay men are impossible to calculate, but easy to imagine. It needs to stop.

Thankfully, I have noticed a growing impatience with this law enforcement tactic, which actually bears an undeniable similarity to the raids of gay bars that sparked "Stonewall." Brave men are refusing to plead guilty and spending their own time, energy, public clout and a lot of money to challenge the laws and their selective enforcement. The gay community needs to recognize their efforts and vocally and financially support the same.

What follows is a clip from a "Meet the Press" show from 1999 of Sen. Craig publicly chastising then-President Bill Clinton over the Lewinsky debacle. Seen today, in light of the recent revelations, Craig's words take on an entirely new meaning, I think.

After viewing the video, I'm convinced that Senator Craig has it bad for Clinton and would love to run into him in a restroom somewhere.

You be the judge:

". . . nasty, bad, naughty boy"???

You can't make this shit up.

Aha Moment: 08/23/2007, 5:42 AM

2007-08-23T10:09:00.000-05:00

The part of him that got me is the part of him that got me.

Dirty Little Secrets: Little (Major) League

2007-08-22T13:34:00.004-05:00

Since public humiliation seems to be a recurring theme this month (uhm, wink?), it seems fitting that this month's Dirty Little Secret be my earliest, un-fondest memory. The time frame is sketchy, but I believe I was about eight. I was whatever age one is when Little League first becomes an option. Rest assured, it wasn't my idea; I hadn't yet warmed up to the idea of balls flying at my face.

Regardless, I ended up on the team sponsored by Burger King. If you remember from last month's Dirty Little Secret, I was Sears-Husky chubby, in addition to having little innate athletic ability. I'm convinced to this day, I only agreed to play because I assumed free whoppers, french fries and milk shakes were inevitable, which, in fact, they were.

The memories surrounding my time in Little League are seriously impaired due to the strength and relentlessness of the repression impulse. Piecing the bits together is challenging. I have a vivid memory of going to a sporting goods store and purchasing a baseball mitt and athletic cup. My Dad made a rare weekend appearance for these purchases and it marks the one and only time that the fact that I was in possession of a pair of testicles actually came up between us; it's bittersweet to realize that he stepped up the the plate when their vulnerability and ability to pass on his DNA became an issue. I know for a fact he has never called his or anyone else's testicles "balls" or "nuts;" for him they were, and I assume remain, forever "testicles."

Thus equipped, Little League practices began.

My coach, Arthur Demers was about 4o, with shoulder length black hair that with beginning streaks of gray. He was one hairy Greek guy. Tufts poured out of whatever shirt he had on -- from the sleeves, from around the neck. He had one of those 70's Harley-Davidson mustaches that drooped all the way down to his jawline. If Tom of Finland were casting a 70's gay porn version of the "Bad News Bears," Coach Demers would have been a shoe-in for the Walter Matthau role. He exuded testosterone and could pitch, catch, and hit balls with his eyes closed. If you saw him at The Eagle, you'd be tempted, but a bit concerned about your wallet.

My recollection is that I spent a great deal of time in the outfield; it was either left or right; it was never center. I prayed (out loud and occasionally to the point of tears) that no one would hit it within 100 feet of me. When the inevitable ball did come me way during practice, I made awkward, slow movements in its general directions, secretly courting a spastic infielder or over-zealous center fielder to step in and steal the spotlight. This tactic frequently worked, but Coach Demers was not fooled.

The only moments more tormenting than those spent in the field were those at the plate, facing the pitcher. I could puke thinking about it right now. As my turn to bat would approach, I would beg God's forgiveness as I wished that each of my teammates would make an out. I didn't really have a batter's eye; I swung at balls that were thrown towards third plate and would let balls gently lobbed over home pass by, or swing after it was resting safe in the catcher's mitt. There was no predicting how my ineptness would manifest itself -- swing too soon, too fast, too high; one never knew.

Every practice was torture to be eclipsed only by the games. I suffered silently, sullenly chewing on burgers and soggy fries after the games. We were young enough that my lack of ability was tolerated by the other kids, but I only recall having one friend on the team. All I remember of him is that he had glasses, dark hair and was a skinnier version of me in every other respect.

Amazingly, and dare I say without any of my assistance, our team somehow landed in the finals for the Little League championship. And like a scene straight out of a movie, I ended up facing the pitcher for what would either be the last out or the last chance to get two guys who were on base home. I know for a fact that we were still in a position to win if I was able to get on base -- somehow, anyway.

Walt Disney didn't write the script for this game and I struck out. My parents and brother had come for the game and were in the stands. There was an audible groan as I moved to the plate; it was coming out of my mouth. I know that the ump called one of the pitches I didn't swing at a ball. But I know I swung like the Tasmanian Devil at the others -- too no avail.

The game ended. We lost. Members of my team were throwing their mitts on the dirt and cursing loudly (with parental supervision and permission). Others were crying, clearly devastated. I went to that place -- the shivering spot in your chest that echoes, while your face turns beet red. I didn't cry and my parents' ushered me and my brother, who remained unbelievably silent, to the car. In retrospect, I suspect they may have feared some sort of Yankee redneck lynching; who knows.

Regardless, as we driving home I was stunned right out of numbness to see my parents' pulling into the Burger King parking lot. I literally go blank at that point. Literally. I can't tell you what transpired at that place.

Postscript: I wasn't forced, or even asked, by my parents to play Little League the next year. In fact, we have never discussed it since. After my father left the next year, one of my mother's boyfriends of the week had my brother and I signed up for a basketball league on Saturdays. Bigger balls seemed a better idea, but coordination became even more crucial. My first complaints that I didn't think I was getting it were heard loud and clear and I was spared another harrowing season.

Leona Helmsley: Death and Taxes

2007-08-20T23:45:00.001-05:00

The death of billionaire hotelier and real estate maven, Leona Helmsley, today, at the age of 87, serves as testament to the truths of two adages; first, that "the only certainties in life are death and taxes" (Benjamin Franklin), and second, that "only the good die young" (Billy Joel's rock-and-roll twist of Oliver Herford's lesser-known quotation "only the young die good."

The reported cause of death was heart failure, which no doubt comes as a surprise to those, including former employees, certain that she somehow lived her life without that particular organ.

The former model (huh?) and real-estate agent became Mrs. Helmsley in 1972 after convincing Harry Helmsley to divorce his wife. She quickly settled in as his full business partner, and together they built a hotel chain and real estate empire, which at its height included ownership of the Empire State and Flatiron Buildings. She once said that Harry loved having her as a business partner because "the board meeting was over as soon as they got out of bed in the morning." Go ahead and let that visual sink in.

Leona eventually became the face of the brand and centerpiece of a 1980's ad campaign touting the Helmsley Hotels as personally overseen by "the Queen" -- Leona herself. The campaign spotlighted Leona's insistence on having the "very best," indirectly referencing her indifference to and intolerance with the working class who were, to her way of thinking, there to serve her purposes. The campaign resonated with the new wave of high-spending, cold-hearted elitists spawned during the "Reagan years" -- an era for which Leona has attained iconic status. It seems somehow fitting that as she aged, she came to resemble Reagan himself, in very bad drag.

Dubbed the "Queen of Mean" [also the title of the 1990 made-for-TV biopic, which brilliantly cast Suzanne Pleshette in the main role], Helmsley was notorious for her ill treatment of employees, a wickedly short fuse, and insurmountable arrogance. In 1988, the Helmsleys were targeted by then-NYS Attorney General, Rudolph Guiliani, in a tax evasion scheme and were prosecuted. Mrs. Helmsley took it on the chin for her husband, who was declared mentally incompetent for trial, ultimately serving 18 months in a minimum-security prison. The highlight of the trial and the source of the quote most often associated with Leona came in the form of testimony from a former employee of the Helmsleys, a hotel maid, who testified that Leona once bragged that she and her husband "don't pay taxes. Only the little people pay taxes." Charming lady, no?

Harry Helmsley died in 1997 and Leona slithered out of the spotlight saying "[m]y fairy tale is over." She was, however, mistaken. A new "fairy" tale with grimmer consequences brought her back into court in 2003. She was sued by the former manager of the Helmsley Park Lane Hotel, Charles Ball, who claimed he was terminated because he was gay. A jury awarded Ball $1.2 million in compensatory damages and $10 million in punitive damages; the award was subsequently reduced to approximately $550,000. Testimony was clear that she created a hostile environment for Ball and was not a friend of the gays, but the underlying story is a bit more sordid than is often reported. Apparently, Helmsley was incensed that Ball had rented out so many of the rooms to attendees for New York's celebrated night of leather, The Black Party. What I would have given to have been a lady-in-waiting within earshot of Leona Helmsley when she was informed that the lobby of the Park Lane was littered with leather-clad and unclad circuit queens. The world hadn't seen a square-off between two queens this evenly matched since Elizabeth I and Mary Queens of Scots.

Some of those reporting on her life have made special efforts to highlight Leona's philanthropic and charitable deeds in some sort of twisted balancing act to offset the "mean, greedy, bitch" side most people know. For instance, CNN has reported that in her lifetime she likely donated approximately $50 million to hospitals, black churches in the South, and victims of September 11th and Katrina. My response: Yeah, and your point? Frankly, the amount is peanuts in comparison to her worth (estimated by Forbes at $2.5 billion in 2007). My assumption is that the donations were motivated more by tax consequences than any real concern for its beneficiaries.

Mrs. Helmsley will rot alongside her darling Harry, holding what is, I suppose, an eternal board meeting, inside a marble mausoleum worth $1.4 million at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery (ironically the same cemetery where Brooke Astor was recently buried). The mausoleum reportedly has a magnificent view, huge columns, and a breathtaking stained-glass window representation of the New York skyline, including the jewel of their earthly empire, The Empire State Building.

I hope to hell someone remembered to put a mint on her pillow before she arrived at the mausoleum or there's going to be hell to pay.

Every Pot's Got a Lid

2007-08-16T22:01:00.000-05:00

The White House announced today that First Daughter Jenna (the chubbier, party twin) became engaged to Henry Hager (son of a Virginia Republican fundraiser) on August 15, 2007. I "image-googled" them and found this amazing photo on the left. Is there anything purer, more inspiring, than young love?

What I love about this particular photo is that it could have been taken anywhere: GOP picnic, NASCAR race, NRA Convention, KKK rally, WWF Friday Night Wrestling event. Or maybe Karl Rove, in a swan song act organizational brilliance brought all these interests together for one night of "white magic."

When I initially read the news, and then again when I saw the photo, I heard the unmistakable voice of my grandmother, Florence ("Flossie") Morin, in my head saying, "every pot's got a lid" -- it's sorta the working girl's version of Cinderella's glass slipper.

Coincidentally, while I was scanning the day's headlines, I came across this image on the right of Nathan and Kelly Devalos, another couple who beautifully illustrate the truth of Flossie's words. Nathan and Kelly were married on August 11, 2007 in the first ever wedding to be held simultaneously in real and virtual worlds. These two, die-hard players of the online game "Everquest," actually met while playing the game online; the rest is history. People all over the world were able to "attend" their wedding -- physically and virtually. Sounds great until you start thinking about 'thank you' cards.

[NOTE: From what I can gather, this online gaming thing is what kids who were playing D&D when I was in high school are doing now, as adults. I don't get it at all, but it gives me insight into what I think some straight people must feel when they consider "the gays" -- their interests, lives and even weddings, for that matter. When I see this, my gut says "Holy shit, are they fucking serious?" But, after a moment, I'm able to step back and recognize that they're not hurting anyone, no one is making me watch and they seem to be extremely happy. As a community, we just need to figure out how to convince straight people to step back for a second. I digress . . . ]

At 4'10" and 170, my grandmother, Flossie, was equal parts boobs, butt and unsolicited advice; her purse was full of pennies and she never hesitated to throw in her two cents. Although I'm not even sure if she finished high school, she was, and remains, the wisest woman I ever knew. Flossie's pithy comments could hardly be described as profound, but they cut to the heart of the matter and held incontrovertible truths.

Over the years, the idea that there is a lid somewhere out there for me has brought me comfort. Don't get me wrong; there have been times when I have ignored the implicit, equally true, flip side of the statement, which is, if the lid you've found doesn't fit your pot, put it down and move on. I have spent significant time and energy trying to make certain lids fit. I have attempted to force the lid to cover openings for which they were not designed. I have also banged numerous lids and even my own pot against walls, denting and distorting both, ultimately decreasing their effectiveness, in vain attempts to make a fit possible. In the short term, these efforts have had the appearance of working. But, once the heat is turned on and things start cooking, the forced fit fails and steam spews from the seams.

Flossie was always right, but without losing her sense of humor about things. I know that given the opportunity, she would have pulled both Jenna and Kelly aside and asked them if they had slept with their fiancés before agreeing to the engagement. If either had said "yes," she would have been admonished and told that she was lucky to have been asked because, as Flossie liked to say, "why would anyone buy the cow, if he's getting the milk for free." And if one of these young woman had replied "no," she would have been told she was a fool and encouraged to sleep with him as soon as possible, saying "you wouldn't buy a pair of shoes without trying them on, would you??"

Even though she's often in my head, I miss Flossie more today than ever.

I suspect that both of these pot/lid combinations are nice fits; each person seems made for the other. The only nagging question I have is what level of financial contribution did this Virginia RNC fundraiser have to make in order to receive the donor incentive of a Bush twin for his son? The entire thing has "Karl Rove" written all over it.

I'm Behind You NYC: Chelsea Chicken Leg Syndrome

2007-08-14T20:01:00.000-05:00

Date & Time: August 14, 2007

Time: 6:00 p.m.

Location: 6th Ave. & 22nd St., NYC

Reason: This is a rare example of a Chelsea boy who is not suffering from Chelsea Chicken Leg Syndrome (CCLS). CCLS is a mental disorder that causes its sufferers to believe that one only need weight train the upper half of his body. Advanced cases may obtain calf and/or buttock implants in an attempt to conceal the disorder; look for telltale scarring.

Brooke Astor: The Last of the Ladies Who Lunched

2007-08-13T19:53:00.001-05:00

Brooke Astor died today at the age of 105. All New Yorkers, whether they realize it or not, have suffered a great loss in the passing of this great lady.

Mrs. Astor, who received the Presidential Medal of Honor from President Clinton in 1998, gave away over $200 million dollars in her lifetime and was largely responsible for saving many of what she called the city's "crown jewels" -- among them the New York Public Library, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Carnegie Hall, the Museum of Natural History, Central Park and the Bronx Zoo.

In addition to the "jewels," she spent considerable time and effort personally evaluating grant applications made to the Victor Astor Foundation, the philanthropic foundation established upon the death of her third husband in 1959 and for which she served as Chairwoman. Victor Astor inherited his fortune upon the death of father, John Jacob Astor, IV, who died in the sinking of the Titanic.

Shortly before his death, Victor reportedly said that Mrs. Astor would have a great time giving away all of his money once he was dead. She spent four decades doing just that, following his wishes that the money be spent on New York, where it had been made.

Soon after moving to NYC in May 1997, I read an article about Brooke Astor. The article described her as one of the "ladies who lunch," a phrase popularized by Steven Sondheim in a song of the same name from his Broadway show, 'Company.' These "ladies" -- stereotypified Upper East Side biddies, included the likes of Mrs. Astor, Kitty Carlisle Hart, Nan Kempner, and Pauline Trigere, among others. While Sondheim's lyrics celebrated their resilience, they also cast them as slightly out of touch with the rest of the world, "dinosaurs surviving the crunch."

The article that I read made it clear that while Mrs. Astor lived the rarefied life of one of these ladies -- heiress, doyenne, patroness, socialite -- she also retained a "common touch." I was intrigued. So, with the annoying vigor of a new-to-Gothamite, I decided to do some research. I was simultaneously shocked and thrilled to discover that Brooke Astore had been born "Roberta Brooke Russell" in New Hampshire -- my home state. Suddenly she made complete sense to me. 'No-nonsense' is in New Hampshire's water supply and earnest pragmatics are taught in pre-school.

This realization -- in those first crazy months in the City -- was supremely comforting to me. The fact that a skinny girl from Portsmouth could impact this great city in such a profound way made it seem conceivable that this chubby gay boy from Manchester might also have a shot.

Despite my best efforts, I haven't yet been able to land an Astor husband, which seems crucial to the successful implementation of the "Brooke Astor Masterplan." I thank each of you in advance for any leads in this regard.

Although they would not be my first choice, I will entertain inquiries from Rockefellers and Vanderbilts, as well.

I Just Saw: R2D2

2007-08-13T06:28:00.000-05:00

. . . on the corner of 6th Avenue and 34th Street. Upon closer inspection. I realized that it was not, in fact, R2D2, but instead an United States Postal Service mailbox cleverly disguised as such. The mailbox was designed to commemorate the issuance of a new series of stamps based on the movie "Star Wars." As much as I love the mailbox, is it really necessary for the the USPS to "advertise?"

Note: Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe R2D2 and C3P0 were the first gay robot couple to appear together on the big screen.

Minor Obsessions: BUTT

2007-08-12T22:46:00.001-05:00

This is the first installment in a new series that will be devoted to discussing the many people, items, and/or ideas, about whom or which I have developed "minor obsessions." The distinction for me between major and minor obsessions is that, for the former, I will forego sleep, food, and common sense.

And for my debut "minor obsession" I'm thrilled to offer up BUTT -- the pocket-sized, quarterly magazine, always printed on pink paper, and unabashedly dedicated to "all things homosexual." BUTT began publishing in The Netherlands, in 2001 and it's latest edition (No. 20) for Summer 2007 (pictured left), the theme of which is the Los Angeles Boys of Summer, is currently available at a few local bookstores (including the St. Mark's Bookstore, Rainbows & Triangles), as well as all American Apparel clothing stores.

What's not to love about BUTT? It has consistently delivered provocative, intelligent content since its inception without sacrificing a bit of its gritty, underground feel. A treat for the eyes and mind, it is a page-turning, threesome: tongue-in-cheek raunch, balls-out candor and edgy charm.

The submission guidelines are non-existent; editors encourage contributions from all forms of "homosexual artistic expression," hoping to be surprised. The published results of the editor's pickiness are riveting -- amateur and professional shots of real boys and men from all walks, taunting interviews of underground gay heroes and daring virgin fiction. It's a visual and mental massage, with release.

BUTT recently published BUTT Book: Best of the First 5 Years of BUTT Magazine, a soft-bound publication (also in pink paper) with a self-explanatory title. It's a perfect compilation for those not interested in chasing down the 20 issues, which are rapidly becoming collectible. One of the reasons BUTT is a minor obsession is because I was introduced to the publication in its earliest days and, consequently, own all but a few of the back issues for which I do frequent eBay searches -- yes, astute 'he gay' reader, that is an example of a minor obsession riding piggy back on a major obsession. It's all good.

Go grab BUTT -- it's ready when you are, never disappoints, won't walk out the door after you've come, and you don't have to worry about its boyfriend suddenly appearing.

"Who is Merv Griffin?"

2007-08-12T11:36:00.000-05:00

In the category "'Zsa Zsa's Closeted Companions," the answer for $1,000 is: "Talk show host and creator of "Jeopardy!" and "Wheel of Fortune," who died today of prostate cancer at the age of 82."

While living in Derry, NH in the late 70's, I would arrive home from school each day, let myself in (we were called "latch-key kids" then), fix an obscenely large bowl of cereal, squeeze my chubby pre-teen ass into my mother's faux-fur black beanbag chair and watch "The Merv Griffin Show." I remember a distinct preference for Merv Griffin over Mike Douglas and Dinah Shore, who had similar shows at the time.

I now realize that my instinctive draw to Merv and his fascination with pop culture, his clever version of cattiness and his impeccable taste in ties was actually my pre-pubescent gay gene in action. I received some of my earliest training in the fine art of being a gay male without realizing it. [Note: Griffin self-identified as "bi," by which I have to assume he meant,"Oh, bi the way, I'm 100% gay" because he so clearly was just that].

As we aged, Merv and I grew further apart. He bloated as I thinned. He became a mogul as I became impoverished. He began rubbing elbows with the Republican woman, as I started rubbing other parts of Democratic men.

I was, however, genuinely saddened to hear of his passing and remain grateful for his subtle schooling on getting in a good dig without sounding like a complete bitch; he was the master.

And I will, undoubtedly, continue to think of him every time I polish off a box of Cap'n Crunch in one sitting, which, on rare occasions, still happens.

YouTube: Making Insomnia Tolerable

2007-08-02T04:47:00.000-05:00

Insomnia sucks. I'm usually able to fall asleep without difficulty, but wake up at least six times a night, finally resigning myself to being "awake" around 4ish.

Thank God for YouTube; it's been saving me.

My new favorite clip is:

The Gay Weatherman vs. The Cockroach

There would have been a time when the internalized homophobia would have absolutely recoiled at seeing this clip.

Today, I'm able to celebrate this man's unique [albeit incredibly high-pitched and shrill] voice.

Healing happens beautiful people.

I Just Saw: Henry Rollins & Janeane Garofalo

2007-08-01T21:45:00.000-05:00

. . . shopping together at the Borders Bookstore on Sixth Avenue at 22nd Street. They are my version of NYC chic -- sloppy designer threads, tattooed, smart as all fuck and fit. The kind of chic that hasn't sneaked out of NYC and moved to Berlin during this all-too-long season of cultural drought. They both have to be mid- to late-40's, which makes them contemporaries of mine, and I really respect each one's passion, compassion and commitment to finding the truth.

Are they dating? They should be.

And why aren't they (or at least one of them) running for office? What a hot-ass White House that would be.

UPDATE: I was informed that these two are, in fact, dating. They appeared together at the premiere of 'Ratatouille' (click for he gay's review), in which Garofalo voiced the role of "Collette."

Édith Piaf: Not So Pretty In Pink

2007-07-26T19:33:00.000-05:00

". . . there were periods when I had an irresistible urge to destroy myself."

- Édith Piaf

I am not sure whether it's ultimately tragic or fitting that I chose to see La Vie en Rose a few days before deciding to take a medical leave from work and enter an out-patient rehabilitation program.

La Vie en Rose, directed by Olivier Dahan, is the life story of chanteuse Édith Piaf [France's version of Judy Garland]. Piaf, whose stage name means "sparrow" in French, has the distinction of being the only female singer from France to have become known in the United States.

I'm going to cut to the chase and recommend that you skip the film, or at least wait until it's available from Netflix.

The film's lack of balance leaves its audience dizzy. While purporting to cover her entire life, it, in fact, omits decades at a beat, exclusively focusing on the lowest notes sustained by this high-note warbler. There is little humor and no real triumph in this story -- only sadness, deep pain and isolating addiction.

In short, Dahan's slanted lens turns this biopic, myopic.

Marion Cotillard, the French actress portraying Piaf, has the unenviable task of stepping into the itsy-bitsy heels and huge voice of one of France's most beloved women. Physically, the resemblance is astonishing, right down to the creepy, drawn-in eyebrows (think Joan Crawford, Lana Turner, and that pre-op Latin tranny that's always sitting near the corner of Seventh Avenue and 15th Street). Cotillard is beyond compelling, but her efforts are undermined by a badly conceived script and inconsistent direction. I can't believe I'm going to suggest this, but it's a film that should have been done (and probably will) by an American. From a cultural perspective, it's my instinct that when the French revere something or someone, which is extraordinarily rare and is certainly the case with Piaf, they became incapable of distancing themselves enough to convey the truth of the matter.

Piaf's legacy is based as much rusted life as it is her gilded voice. And again, I can't believe I'm going to write this, but she's as much Judy Garland as she is Liza Minelli and Anna Nicole Smith. The entire lot were (and in Liza's case, still are) capable of delivering train wreck after train wreck.

The simultaneous rawness and clarity of Piaf's voice reaches into one's chest, grabs the beating heart and stops it for a second. She demands your full attention, if only for a tremulous note or tortured turn of a lyric. Her voice is the sound of defiance, kneeling for a moment -- equal parts Holliday, Simone and later-Garland. Tears come without any understanding of French; the universal communicability of her torment is neither helped nor hindered by mere language.

Piaf came from the Parisian slums, the daughter of a circus performer father and a street-musician mother. She was raised for a time in a brothel, eventually leaving as a small girl to join her father making money on the street. She was devastatingly poor all through childhood. She became an unwed mother, only to lose her daughter to meningitis at a young age.

She was discovered singing on the streets of Paris. Almost overnight, she was a sensation. She had actually done it; she had moved beyond her circumstances and could have lived a wonderful, content life doing what she loved.

Unfortunately she carried her demons everywhere. Alcohol, heroin and painkillers stopped the inner voice that tortured her. She suffered well and publicly, married poorly, and lost the one man she truly loved in a plane crash. Hers was a life of tragedy, of epic, Greek proportions.

She died a sparrow silenced, unable to sing or soar, at the age of 47.

Dirty Little Secrets: Sears Husky Jeans

2007-07-22T16:33:00.000-05:00

Whenever I recall the particular fact of my existence that I am about to disclose, I reexperience the intense shame I felt the first time I realized it existed. The moment, which occurred in two feet of snow at a bus stop in Derry, New Hampshire when I was in the 6th grade, is so vivid, I can feel my cheeks burn the way they did that day. I have to trust the process at this point, but I have to admit I felt woozy even looking for an image to use for this piece.

The simple truth is that I wore Sears brand Husky jeans for boys from the time I was about seven all the way through sixth grade. For those of you that don't know, Husky jeans are what little fat boys wore. While everyone else was wearing Levi's, Lee Jeans, and even old-school Gap jeans, I was religiously sporting Huskys. My distinct recollection is that I was not at all aware that these jeans were, in fact, target marketed for young men of my proportions. It took some skinny-ass, future teen bride to point out that I was wearing jeans for "fatties." I can still see her standing there -- straight stringy hair, pink parka, hugging a green notebook, wearing mascara and smelling like fruity lip gloss; her name was either "Stacey" or "Tracey." Today, I would describe her as a "skank," but I'm fairly sure I didn't know that word then.

For some reason, she felt the need to point out in front of the everyone (okay, there were 4 of us, including her, me and my brother) that I was wearing the jeans that her brother had to wear because he was fat, just like me. What kills me is that there was absolutely nothing I could say to that. Nothing. Almost 30 years later, as I write this, I'm still dumbstruck. I still can't think of an adequate retort. Well that's not entirely accurate; I would probably say something along the lines "Well, one day I'll be a smoking hot gay lawyer living in NYC and you'll be trying to figure out if your sixth kid is your husband's, the mechanic's or your cousin's." But I didn't have the verbal wherewithall at the time that I command today.

Honestly though, there is precious little in this world that prepares one for the rough times that we all eventually face in this life like growing up fat -- especially in America, especially today. Back then, it was certainly less common than it is today. And (at the time) I could never figure out exactly why I was fat. No one around me was -- no one. I realize now it likely had a bit to do with the fact that I was particularly "sensitive" (their word) and smart as a whip. I started doing the math earlier than most and could see the trouble up ahead. I was a worried child and nothing calmed my nerves like food, lots of food. And sugar. And chocolate. And cake; I really liked cake. And fudge.

I gotta tell you, this secret-revealing stuff works. I feel great.

'Ratatouille' is Delicious! and Gay?

2007-07-09T14:03:00.000-05:00

How could I resist movie night at a 12-screen movie theater in an authentic upstate strip-mall? The viewing options, as presented by Peter, who's an editor and frequent contributor to 'Filmaker' magazine and can be quite the cine-snob, absolutely shocked me; 'Knocked Up' or 'Ratatouille.' Although 'Knocked Up' seems to be garnering serious praise (huh?), we decided on 'Ratatouille,' which is latest offering from wicked talent at Pixar [the guys behind 'Toy Story,' 'Finding Nemo,' Monsters, Inc.', and 'The Incredibles']. Peter and I both laughed like 10-year-olds (with really deep voices).

Don't wait for Netflix; the stellar animation merits a trip to the big screen.

Peter and I disagreed on whether Remy, our rat-hero, is a metaphor for a young gay boy in the process of coming out. I think it's fairly obvious, while Peter (more Sontag than Kael) looks for the universal truth, seeing Remy as more symbolic of the misunderstood, "queer" individual, though not necessarily gay. I know I'm right, but I nodded as Peter postulated; that's the kind of guy I am. Patient with other's process. (wink)

Without giving away too much of the plot, I've listed those "hints" that, I believe, support my interpretation. They are:

Remy exhibits a refined "sensitivity" (smell), which makes him different from all the other rats in his colony;
When Remy's stereotypical macho brother sees Remy walking on two legs, he says, "If Dad sees you walking like that he's going to lose it.";
Remy is obsessed with the beauty and smells of gourmet food, while all the other rats are content to eat garbage;
Remy leads a double-life, hiding from everyone the fact that he sneaks into the human's home to watch the gourmet cooking show;
Remy feels conflicted about being what his family expects him to be and what he knows in his hear that he is; and finally
the transformation of our villain "Anton Ego" is clearly one of a gay male coming out of the closet later in life and the price he paid until that point. Watch the scene with his mother as he comes home from school crying because of the bullies. And then watch the last scene when he's in the restaurant. So, so gay.

And don't miss the reference to May Day's (Grace Jones) Parisian romp from "A View to A Kill." [Grace Jones!!?? -- Uhm, hellooooo!]

Gay or not the film is as good as slice of a gooey, stinky Epoisses.

As a kid, I was completely obsessed with Julia Child on PBS; suffice to say, Remy has become my new hero. And it's so wonderfully subversive that the folks at Disney (who own Pixar) have made a rat the dalmation or Nemo for 2007.

I love the idea of small kids all over middle America carrying around stuffed rats.

Celebrate America's Independence?

2007-07-04T07:09:00.001-05:00

It seems a bit ridiculous, considering.

The He(Art) of Chris Schiffelbein

2007-07-03T23:12:00.000-05:00

Chris Schiffelbein and I began exchanging e-mails in March, after meeting on the Queer Justice League listserve. Chris sent me kind note of support after I had responded to a posting of another. He was one of two people (randomly, the other was ex-NJ-guv McGreevey) to send me a private response. It was brief, but its simplicity and implicit sincerity made an impact; I felt heard, accepted.

So, of course, I googled "Chris Schiffelbein," followed the breadcrumb trail of internet links, and, within 10 minutes, I was reading his blog, Queer on Paper, and being introduced to his art. Surprise, surprise. Turns out, this gentle, thoughtful soul is also capable of creating some balls-out, in-your-face "queer" art. After 20 minutes of "click-enlarge," "click-enlarge," I dashed off an e-mail to Chris, which including my version of kind support; I insisted we meet and figure out a way to get a "Chris Shiffelbein" on my wall.

It actually took three months for Chris and I to coordinate schedules, but we finally met tonight for Indian food at Mitali's on Sixth Street. Chris is currently living that part of the NYC "art hipster" experience, which requires one to simultaneously juggle school, partner, art and a table waiting gig. That notwithstanding, he arrived early, in good spirits and appearing well rested.

We sat down, ordered an appetizer of mixed vegetable pakoras (Chris has the heart of a vegetarian, but admits a weakness for the occasional steak) and started talking about the Queer Justice League's baby steps, queer advocacy, and our backgrounds. Chris grew up in Topeka, obtained his bachelors degree in Fine Arts from KSU and is currently working towards his masters in Social Work at CUNY Hunter College. His commitment -- artistically, personally and professionally -- is to the queer community. He is adamant and consistent regarding his use of the word "queer," unapologetically reappropriating it for himself and his people.

Before the pakoras hit the table, I insisted Chris open his portfolio. Several series emerged during my first look through. The first two draw from the same inspirational roots: the homosexualization and subversion of traditional religious imagery. This inspirational launching pad, though not uncommon among gay artists, can teeter towards triteness or careen into caricature when not carefully considered. Take for instance, Delmas Howe 's, recent show "Stations: A Gay Passion," which was at the Leslie/Lohman Gay Art Foundation earlier this Spring. The paintings in "Stations" bordered on garish. The subject matter (the Twelve Stations of the Cross) begged for intimacy, which would have balanced beautifully with the depictions he chose. It was as though he drew a sledgehammer, when a meat tenderizer would have sufficed.

Despite his relatively young age, Chris ably ambles this line, creating compelling pieces that retain a provocative quality without sacrificing subtlety. In a sub-series, which I'll call "Haloed Holies" (Chris tends to "untitle" his work), he gives us solo and partnered men, in various states of undress, but always halo and a hard-on; the gay male equivalent, perhaps, of the heterosexual male (or lesbian, I suppose) ideal of a "lady on the arm, whore in bed." The males, as depicted, are certainly do-able, but aren't those unattainable, over-idealized creatures dominating much of gay art. The pieces are, in a word, delightful.

The next sub-series, "Sacred Texts" (again, my name), includes collages of gay male sex created from pages torn from religious texts, including the Bible and Koran. [click right image]. They are studies in stealth genius; one is drawn in by the simplicity of shapes and deft use of line, and then repelled (or, for some, repulsed) as the words rise and the pages reveal themselves. They are equally engaging in both small and large sizes, in which he's executed them. One of the larger pieces was part of a recent silent charity auction, attracting a lot of interest and raising some nice coin for GLAAD. They are deliciously illicit.

The more I saw, the more determined I became to support this guy and his art; both of which I grew to consider wonderful and necessary additions to my life and this community. But how to choose? I finally decided on piece from a series I'm calling "Dukes of Bio-Hazard," [click left image] which is a title I think Chris would hate, thereby encouraging him to, perhaps, name them himself (wink, wink). The series evolved when Chris, who frequently uses discovered materials in his collages, "came upon" some medical lab test bags [it's pure coincidence that at the time he was working at a clinic as part of a Social Work related to his masters' work]. He felt drawn (bada bing) to them and was determined to incorporate them into his work. And incoroporate them, he did. The small (9" x 6") blue and yellow ink and acrylic paintings are inserted inside the clear bags, with the red bio-hazard box, which adorns each bag, cleverly marking the area of greatest hazard, in the the primary color scheme. So smart.

Besides the aesthetic appeal, I chose this for what it says, or actually for what it doesn't say that I thought it did. I'll explain.

At 30 and 41 respectively, Chris and I exist on opposite edges of the "AIDS gap" - that gap, in time and perspective, separating adults into two groups: those who were sexually active prior to the onset of AIDS and those who became sexually active later. While I was having my first sexual experiences in the late 70's and early 80's largely unaware of the virus, Chris came up and out with the virus as a known entity. Obviously, the gap affects all people, but in this context, I exclusively refer to its impact on the gay males.

This gap, I think, was responsible in large part for my first (gut, default, automatic) reaction to the bio-hazard bag works; I initially assumed they were another artistic response to the epidemic. For such a long time, too long actually, any medical reference in gay art, for me, has conjured the virus. And then I stopped and looked closer. I smiled when I realized I had presumed incorrectly. I asked Chris to confirm the same, which he did. I was completely humbled and felt myself move one more step forward on my journey, with my load lightened.

That voice in my head that often complains about my HIV status, the pills, the doctor appointments, the stigma, blah, blah, blah, was stifled for a moment. The pieces reminded me of the truth that love and sex is a risk for everyone -- not just me. It reminded me that the Universe hasn't singled me out for a tougher slice of love. That I share the reality of this risk with the world, and that reminder brought me back into relation with the rest of humanity.

And that, beautiful people, is what Art can do.

Thank you Chris. Thank you so much.

h[eBay]: 1950's Male Nude Drawing

2007-06-26T07:49:00.001-05:00

As I've expressed, I'm a bit of an eBay aficianado [read: whore]. One of my saved searches on eBay is "vintage male nude." I'm not quite addicted to pre-Stonewall, homo-erotic art, but I am as close as one can get without needing 12 steps.

I saw this drawing the first day it listed, which a blessing and a curse. While it meant that I would have plenty of time to consider the purchase (maybe investigate market value), it also meant I would have to suffer through six days of internal debate. I'm a wicked debater, so this aspect of the purchase is not to be considered lightly.

To be honest, though, this was one of those items that I knew I'd own the second I set my eyes (er, cursor) on it, which is another blessing/curse. That little voice that tells you it's already yours and is deciding where it's going to be hung, is the same one that will overbid when it comes down to the last minutes of the auction.

The solution? eSnipe it!

eSnipe is an online service that places your highest bid on an eBay item in the last seconds of the auction. You pay a nominal amount for "points" and each time eSnipe is used in a winning auction, some of these points are deducted from your balance. eSnipe allows you to set a maximum price that you're willing to pay and enters that final seconds before anyone can "respond" to the highest bid you're willing to make. Obviously, if you're highest bid is not higher than the existing bid when eSnipe places it, you lose.

Also, no one who is bidding on your item during the six days it's posted has a clue that you have an eSnipe bid in the wings. You are able to swoop in and snag it before anyone knows. If you have ethical problems with this, read eBay's and eSnipe's policies on it. They don't mind and neither should you.

So, back to my new drawing [click to see image in larger size].

It was not done by a "listed" artist, but the quality is excellent and it's rare because of it's size, which is "huge," measuring in at 40" x 18", without the frame. I asked the seller to ship the drawing without the frame, significantly reducing shipping costs.

I Am Proud Of You

2007-06-24T21:50:00.000-05:00

One of the only things I actually remember from junior high school, I heard from Mary Beth Benham, my Speech teacher. For those of you who don't know, Speech class is the pre-requisite for, among other things, high school Drama class, so it is typically filled with debate geeks, gay boys, and chubby girls (hags-in-training).

Ms. Benham began her lesson one day by asking the class whether we knew what the the five nicest words you could say to someone in the English language were. After several minutes of unsuccessful guessing (I ventured "How much do you need?"), we admitted defeat. Her answer surprised me.

"I am proud of you," she said.

My intitial reaction, after making sure that there were exactly five words, was "That's it?!" And now, over 25 years later, that information is still holding space in my consciousness. Why? I believe the main reason is that what is expressed in those words resonates with me on some base, core level -- that there is some psychic itch scratched, some metaphysical discomfort soothed, by those words.

Try it yourself: sit back, shut your eyes and hear the words in the voice of a loved one.

I am proud of you.

Kind of amazing, right?

The last few months have been a time of increased awareness and recognition of the immense power behind, and energy within, words. Science may tell us that words are merely sounds, created from impulses from our brain communicated to our vocal chords, which tremble and dance, sending vibrations through space, which are funneled into our ears, bounced of our eardrums, signaling new impulses to the receiver's brain. And while I accept the science (quite unlike the current administration), I do think there's more to it. I believe that words come to us, irrevocably laden with the energy of their source and the essence of the emotion behind them. I'm convinced that words have potent power to heal and a daunting ability to destroy.

So on this last Sunday in June, the day we set aside each year to celebrate Gay Pride in New York City, I want to send these words from the best part of myself to every gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender person of this tremendous city -- I am proud of you!

I am proud of you for getting up & walking out of your house each day.

I am proud of you for allowing yourself to love the person you love.

I am proud of you for holding hands when you walk down the street.

I am proud of you for getting married.

I am proud of you for registering at Bloomingdale's.

I am proud of you for taking care of yourself when no one else will.

I am proud of you for opening your mouth when it's easier to stay quiet.

I am proud of you for walking through fear to do what you know is right.

I am proud of you for taking care of your brothers and sisters.

I am proud of you for choosing to live.

I am proud of you for looking beyond the obstacles.

I am proud of you for having and raising children.

I am proud of you for taking your medication every day.

I am proud of you for going to therapy.

I am proud of you for taking an active interest in healing yourself.

I am proud of you for loving yourself.

I am proud of you for honoring those who went before you.

I am proud of you for dropping bread crumbs along the way.

I am proud of you for reaching out.

I am proud of you for being financially responsible.

I am proud of you for never forgetting how to laugh.

I am proud of you for learning how to cry.

I am proud of you for continuing to be teachable.

I am proud of you for voting.

I am proud of you for telling your story.

I am proud of you for continuing to be part of your biological family.

I am proud of you for refusing to hate.

I am proud of your willingness to share your talents.

I am proud of you for trying to learn a better way.

I am proud of you for getting up when you fall.

I am proud of you for not knocking someone down.

I am proud of you for living as honestly and honorably as possible.

I am proud of you for making this world a more beautiful place.

I am proud of you for making this world a more livable place.

I am proud of you for defining "fabulous."

I am proud of you for never, never, never giving in, or giving up.

I am so proud of you.

The following is a list of GLBT men and women who have been, in small and large ways, instrumental on my journey as a gay man. They have made me proud of who I am and have given me direction, inspiration and hope, directly and indirectly, by their words and example.

* Brad * Casey * John * Kevin * Peter * Billy * Michael * Dave * Jim * Mark * Colly * Luigi *Frank * Tom * Dan * Todd * Frédéric * Bob * Ryan * Victor * Salvatore * Barbara * King * James * Antoine * Frédéric * Jean * Mark * Aldo * Achilles * Karl * Fabian * Randy * Deirdre * Graydon * David * Frank * Jeffrey * Jonah * Keith * Mirch * Eliam * Steven * Nicholas * Arthur * Ricardo * Jean-Michel * Jerome * Toby * John * Bob * Reggie * Todd * Bill * Shawn * Daniel * Tom * David * Melissa * Chloe * Daniel * Michael * Kevin * Skip * Artie * Dairmid * Robson * Kata * Christopher * Bill * Thad * Adam * Frank * Chris * Christopher * Charlie * Matthew * Alex * Ricardo * Bo * Kevin * Van * Anthony * Sammy * Terry * John * Kevin * Michael * Rob * Chris * McKenzie * Craig * Andy * Grant * Eric * Harvey * Rob * Charles * Fritz * Read * Michael * John * Steve * Bob * Henry * Sven * Michael * Ricardo * Kevin * Chris * Nelson * Mark * Rob * Fred * Matt * Gary * Thomas * Bernard * Bob * William * Jim*

Thank you so much for sharing yourselves with me.

Happy Gay Pride 2007!

Romeo & Beverly

2007-06-24T00:21:00.001-05:00

As I strolled into Central Park tonight, the sun was beginning its descent. A gently breeze carried the unmistakable smell of summer grass (both kinds). In my bag, the perfect picnic -- duck liver pate, French ham, Swiss cheese, a crusty baguette, jars of cornichons and Maille mustard, a quart of fresh strawberries with a container of freshly whipped cream. [Okay, so I did learn a few things from my Ex, the Frog.]

All the elements of a perfect date were in place. I had the entire evening planned. We'd start with a romantic picnic in Central Park, just the two of us, before taking in "Romeo & Juliet" at the Delacorte Theatre, which was being presented tonight as part of the Public's annual "Shakespeare in the Park" series. The only thing missing was my date. I strolled deeper into the park, keeping a lookout and then, "Voila!" I saw her. Yes, "her."

Beverly and I have been friends for over three years, and for all intents and purposes and for lack of a better name, she has assumed the role of my "fag hag." Though she's not in love with the moniker, she often refers to herself in that way. A native New Yorker who will be 80 in September, Beverly lived in the West Village during the 50's, 60's, and early 70's; she's had a long list of boys before me, but is quite certain I'll be her last.

Beverly, who gets around in a motorized wheelchair, is what my grandmother would call a "big girl." She constantly mentions how "tall and sexy" she used to be, bemoaning the fact that, as she puts it, she's nothing but an "old fat lady in a wheelchair" now. I've learned how to roll my eyes convincingly and, although I never contradict her, I am able to insist she "stop it" because she's "boring me." That ends it immediately; Beverly "loathes the boring and stupid."

Despite her numerous physical ailments, she still manages to live alone in her Tribeca apartment with a home health aide assisting only a couple of hours a week. She leads a largely independent existence and I find her both courageous and remarkable. Don't get me wrong; she also tortures me, as only an old lady is capable, but I love her to death.

We actually take in a fair amount of opera and Broadway. And as a former actress [her high water mark being a bit part in a national tour of "Desire Under the Elms" with George C. Scott and Colleen Dewhurst], she has an appreciation for and an encyclopedic knowledge of every opera and show that's been presented in New York City in the last 60 years. She's forgotten more than I know, but is patient and generous in sharing her memories.

And a date, after all, by any other name, is still a date. So, during this low-interest-in-dating period of mine [Note: I didn't say sex; please don't think I meant sex.], we're spending a lot of time together. The pricing for handicap seating (and tickets for those accompanying them) is incredible and she often reminds me that I'm only getting in for cheap because of her.

This season's production of "Romeo & Juliet," directed by Michael Greif, and featuring Lauren Ambrose from "Six Feet Under" (Juliet) , Oscar Isaac (Romeo), Camryn Manheim from "The Practice" (Nurse) and Austin Pendleton (Friar Laurence) was a mixed bag.

There must be a lot of pressure when mounting a production as known and loved as "Romeo & Juliet." Pressure to stay true to the text, to push the envelope, to make it relevant today, to respect the context in which it was written, blah, blah, blah. And pressure is often the catalyst for both the dreadful and delightful.

The dreadful in this production, takes the form of a huge puddle. By "huge," I mean the entire size of the circular stage, less the three-foot plank walkway that surrounds it. In addition to the circular walkway, the only place to stand that ain't wet is on the black metal pipe, stairlike structure, that morphs, as needed, and traverses what must be called "Lake Verona." Try as I might, I just didn't get it. Not even for a second. It was so distracting (i.e., "Are those actors freezing?", "Is she wearing shoes?", "How deep is it there?"). Beverly "was not amused." And while we're discussing the dreadful, the costuming was inconsistent and confusing. Sometimes I thought it was the 1920's, sometimes the 1940's, sometimes I had no idea at all.

The delightful presents in heart-stopping moments of superb acting. Michael Cristofer gives us a complex, multi-layered "Lord Capulet" from the moment he first hits the stage. Midway through the second act, he crescendoes, almost literally reaching out, grabbing the entire audience, squeezing them into a tiny ball and shoving them in his pocket as storms off the stage. The scene begins as Lord Capulet is informed by his wife and daughter that Juliet doesn't want to marry Paris three days hence. The snarling rage of his response, and the reactions of the women, leaves you certain that he has beat both women in the past. No words or actual physical contacts allude to it, but you know. I was left with goosebumps.

Ms. Ambrose does an above-average Juliet, altough she comes across as a bit too sexually savvy (and dare I say, hungry) for a 14 year old girl. If it were staged in modern times, it would seem more believable. And our Romeo, Mr. Isaac, gets high marks overall. As Nurse, Manheim, chews the scenery with too much gusto, too often for my taste. But her scenes with Mercutio [brilliantly played in every scene by Christopher Evan Welch (when can we move beyond these three-named actors?)] are priceless. Finally, Austin Pendleton, as always, shines. He is one of our little New York treasures and I could watch him read the back of a cereal box and be delighted.

I was most proud of the restraint I showed during Juliet's balcony scene as she was lamenting, "Oh Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo?" I so wanted to scream, "He ain't out there honey. Believe me, I've looked and he ain't out there."

Dirty Little Secrets: Sic 'em Bears

2007-06-22T12:20:00.000-05:00

As you know, I've dedicated this space on a once-monthly basis to revealing one of my "dirty little secrets." I had barely recovered from last month's revelation, when I realized it was time for another. Apparently, time flies regardless. So, here goes.

My "dirty little secret" is that I graduated from Baylor University. There, it's out. What's the fuss? Read on.

I transferred to Baylor in 1985, after completing my Freshman year at the Unversity of Texas/Austin. Truth be told, I never wanted to go to Baylor or UT. In high school, I had my heart set on Vanderbilt University. Not quite Ivy, but sounding like it was, Vanderbilt appealed to my white-trash soul. I had been accepted and assigned a roommate before my father reneged on his eve-of-the-divorce concession to my mother to "pay for my education." Plan "B" was put into action and I crammed my life into a baby blue 1973 VW Super Beetle and drove from Dallas to Austin. Tuition at UT in the Fall 1984 was an unbelievable $4 an hour; I spent more on dry cleaning a month than I did on tuition for that entire year.

One of 50,000 students at UT, where dorms are large enough to merit their own zip codes, I came to define "lost." I lived at The Goodall-Wooten on Guadalupe Street, a dorm that catered to the white fraternity pricks from the Houston and Dallas suburbs (my high school friends), and had a decades-old reputation for materialism, elitism, misogyny, and racism. I pretended I was spoiled. I was convinced that I had finally arrived. Ahhhh, the arrogance of Texas in the early 80's.

Closeted beyond belief, I was the guy who always disappeared before the end of the evening. Three alcoholic anythings and I was out the door, sneaking across town and slipping into gay bars and peep shows. Needless to say, it was a dark, confusing time.

At the beginning of my second semester, in the midst of a gray out, I was sexually assaulted by two men [Note: men can't technically be "raped," as the legal definition requires a vagina]. It completely rattled me, particularly because I had never had sex [read: penetration] with a man prior to that, so that was actually my first, and I suppose, second time. It's only hot in porn. I didn't/couldn't/wouldn't tell anyone.

My first semester 3.8 G.P.A took a heavy hit attempting to balance out the 1.2 G.P.A. from my second semester. I drank non-stop, became more withdrawn and deeply depressed. At a place like UT, no one notices. I left for the summer, knowing I wouldn't be back.

I knew little of Baylor other than it was in Waco (remember, this is pre-David Koresh). That summer I drove to Baylor with a high school friend -- a good Baptist girl -- who had to do some late registration. While she was in the Registrar's office, I wandered into Admissions. I'm still a bit fuzzy on how it happened, but when I left, I was admitted (in less time than it took my friend to register). Since this was also a time of significant spiritual growth, deep suffering serving as a powerful catalyst for that, I took this as universal affirmation that Baylor was the next step.

And in many ways, it was. Things worked out; four years later I left Baylor with a B.B.A. (Economics and Finance) and an acceptance letter to start at SMU School of Law the next Fall.

So why is Baylor my "dirty little secret?"

Baylor, long considered the "crown jewel" of the Southern Baptist Convention ("SBC"), was largely funded by the religious right. Neither drinking nor dancing was allowed on campus and there were no co-ed dorms. Generations of the Baptist girls had arrived and departed Baylor, hymans intact. I'm quite sure that the Baylor "experience," affectionately described as living in the "Baylor bubble," remains a comfortable, although unrealistic, one.

Like many American colleges, Baylor was founded as an institution of higher education based upon religious ideals. But unlike most, Baylor remains firmly commited to "its interpretation" of those roots. So commited, in fact, that violations of Baylor rules pertaining to drinking and sexual activity can, and often do, result in immediate, severe disciplinary action, up to and including expulsion.

Here's a copy of Baylor University's "Sexual Misconduct Policy" [Warning: The following material is highly offensive in nature]:

"Baylor will be guided by the understanding that human sexuality is a gift from the creator God and that the purposes of this gift includes (1) the procreation of human life and (2) the uniting and strengthening of the marital bond in self-giving love. These purposes are to be achieved through heterosexual relationships within marriage. Misuses of God's gift will be understood to include, but not be limited to, sexual abuse, sexual harassment, sexual assault, incest, adultery, fornication and homosexual acts."

They are serious; no tongue in cheek (or anywhere) here.

What's ironic is that the campus is full of "bad girls" and gays. The joke when I was at Baylor was "Where do Baylor girls go to have sex with men?" The punchline, "Texas A&M, just like the boys." In retrospect, the reason seems obvious. What better place for closet cases to hide and "pass" than a conservative, religious school that forbids pre-marital sex. The peer pressure at Baylor is too "not" sleep with girls. ["Oh, okay, twist my arm. If God really doesn't want me to have pre-marital sex with women, then I guess I won't."]

In 1985, Baylor's "bubble" was, without a doubt, exactly what I needed. Still smarting from the first 18 years of life, and licking my UT wounds, Baylor became a coccoon, of sorts. I made wonderful, albeit naive, friends. Learned how to learn, and discovered a love for literature and writing that continues today.

I also picked up a great deal of Baptist baggage, that took me years to unload. College, a time many spend "coming out," was time spent fine tuning the art of self-repression. For a while, I tortured myself with the mistaken belief that something was inherently wrong with my sexuality and that if I tried hard enough and prayed hard enough (to the right God) this affliction (my "cross to bear") was conquerable. My closet not only expanded at Baylor, it was redecorated and had locks installed on both sides.

After law school, I moved out of Texas and, over time, teased out what was valuable and true from my Baylor experience. It's taken a lot of time and effort, and the assistance of many great therapists and good friends.

Despite officially separating from the SBC in the early 1990's, Baylor has continued along the same path of intolerance, becoming more shrill and judgmental over the years. Here's a sampling of Baylor's most recent acts of idiocy.

In February 2004, Baylor revoked a full scholarship it had awarded theology student, Matt Bass, when the university discovered that he was a homosexual.

In September 2005, Baylor banned Starbucks coffee cups on its campus that included a quote from gay author, Armistead Maupin ("Tales of the City"), because Baylor felt that it "promoted homosexuality." Ironically, Maupin's quote echoes the same sentiment I have been expressing and is pictured below [click image to see larger size]:

In November 2005, Baylor's Hankamer School of Business dismissed 1983 Alum Tim Smith from its advisory board after learning that he was gay. This, despite the fact that Tim had donated over $65,000 of his own and raised an additional $60,000 on behalf of the university.

And most recently in March 2007, Baylor had six individuals, including one current student, one alumnus and four members of the Soulfource Equality Ride 2007 team, arrested on campus for chalking the sidewalk (a Baylor tradition) with scripture quotes promoting tolerance and acceptance of gays and lesbians.

As an educated, spiritually-awake, gay male living in New York City in 2007, I consider Baylor's policies and actions highly immoral, inexcusably intolerant, and patently illogical -- in short, completely unacceptable.

Every cell of my physical being and every vibration of my sacred soul rejects Baylor's interpretations of scripture as dead wrong and wholly inconsistent with a loving God. Baylor is uniquely situated to take a strong lead in bridging the gap that has existed for too long between the GLBT and church communities. Not only are they not leading, they are squandering immense resources and deepening the schism that already exists. As an institution, Baylor has chosen Fear over Love, and has sown seeds hate, dissension and intolerance.

Shame on you, Baylor. You break my heart.

And just when you thought it couldn't possibly get worse: Baylor University has announced that it is one of two universities left vying for the "honor" of becoming the home to the "George W. Bush Presidential Library." They want it bad and, in fact, they're a perfect match. The sole remaining competition? You guessed it -- SMU -- my law school alma mater. It never ends!

Drag Show Video Vérité

2007-06-21T21:02:00.000-05:00

Birthday's can be a drag, so Billy decided there'd be no better way to celebrate his, which was actually yesterday, than by inviting friends to join him at the free screening of "Drag Show Video Vérité: The Ultimate NYC Drag Show on Video Tape," at the Bruno Walter Auditorium, New York Public Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center earlier tonight.

The video presentation, curated by self-tagged "drag historian" Joe E. Jeffries, included 32 clips spanning over 35 years of rare and never before publicly screened footage capturing the faces, places and performances, past and present, of New York City's drag scene.

The first video clip was of Rollerena (more drag persona, than queen) who rolled onto the 1970's NYC drag scene wearing black roller skates, rhinestone-studded cat eye glasses, a small crown, leotard top and layers of petticoat skirts (think Glynda the Good Witch in head-to-toe East Village thrift). Rollerena, who attended the screening in full regalia (sans skates), appears in the black-and-white footage spinning and sparkling her way through the streets of Manhattan, magic wand in hand. The 1970's New Yorkers seem absolutely childlike marveling at Rollerena's antics as she skates through crowds and traffic, pirouetting and circling surprised pedestrians, whom she gently taps on the head with her wand. In Greenwich Village, mid-town, Fifth Avenue, and Washington Square Park, the reactions were all the same -- instant smiles and stares of wonder elicited from queers, tourists, elderly, suits, bums and children alike. Lovely, really. Rollerena's magic is as simple as it is pure.

Other favorite clips included televised performances of Jim Bailey, channeling Judy Garland, and Charles Pierce, sharp as a razor as he slices through a monologue/improv as a high-camp Bette Davis. These two represent the very best of the 70's/80's night club female impersonators. I was able to find a youTube clip (below) of Jim Bailey, as Garland, performing for Prince Charles and Princess Diana in the early 1990's. [Note: he ain't lipsynching, folks.]

The three other pieces that were worth the price of admission alone included Jimmy James' vidoe montage entitled, "The Marilyn Years", which played as he sung "Stay Gold." I was in complete awe; visually and vocally, he is she. The next, 1988 backstage footage from the Pyramid Club's dressing room that included candid video of Lypsinka (chatting incessantly as Joan Crawford while snacking on her macrobiotic "din din"), RuPaul (arms, legs, hair flying through the camera shot) and a delightfully young and lithe, Lady Bunny (without a wig!!), who vamps and bats, licking her overly glossed lips, looking more like a slutty redneck than drag-royalty-in-training. Completely and totally awesome. And finally, a 1988 clip of International Chrysis doing a Burlesque strip act at boy bar (down to panties and garters only, mind you), which is simultaineously impressive and moving. Now dead, International Chrysis really had mega presence and was gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.

I was most disappointed in the clips of Kiki & Herb (just plain bad footage from their Tony-nominated, Carnegie Hall show "Kiki & Herb Will Die for You"), Holly Woodlawn, and that of Jackie Beat (2004 rehearsal footage of "Love Hurts" from Squeezebox), which failed to capture her unique talent.

Like every drag show I've ever been to, there was one "performer" that can only be described as "tragic." Noche, a "mature" Latina, miss-synchs her way through a 2005 cellar video of "Too Darned Hot." It was like watching an ambulance (with lights & sirens blaring) crash into a Washington Heights bodega. The droopy eyes, sweat-rivulet encrusted pancake makeup, crooked wig, overly mascaraed false eyelashes and too, too tight 1984 prom dress castoff bedeck this "lady" as she earnestly twists, turns and winks her way through this drag classic, desperately trying to keep up. I loved it. The only thing better than good drag, is bad drag.

We finished off the evening with too much sushi at Momoya, which seemed appropriate.

Trans-gender Rock Needs Your Support

2007-06-20T11:54:00.000-05:00

One of the things I've slowly accepted during my ten years in Manhattan is that the majority of my friends living here have more interesting jobs than I do. Granted, I work in a nice place, have a great view and occasionally get to go to Court, but the closest I get to the entertainment industry in New York is when I have to step over the camera wires when they are filming an episode of "Law and Order" at New York Supreme.

The multi-faceted, uber-talented Colly Carver, who incidentally has one of the finest butts ever bestowed on a mortal, sent me an email about a documentary/rocumentary he's currently editing for filmmaker Becca Goldstein. "The Lisa Jackson Documentary" traces the unfathomable journey of trans-gender rock star, Lisa Jackson. Go ahead, take a second and try to get your little head twisted around that reality.

As lead singer of Girl Friday, Lisa Jackson is redefining what being a rock star means today. Hers is a story of raw determination fueled by even rawer talent. This lady has something to say and she likes to say it loud.

Take a minute to go to "The Lisa Jackson Documentary" website and read more about this talented trans-gender rocker. If you are so moved, please support their efforts to bring this film to distribution. The makers of this film are already in negotiations with a TV station to purchase the project, but are in desperate need of funds to finish the filming. Any amount helps!

Remember, it's PRIDE Week. Make yourself proud. Support the efforts to get this relevant, important message out.

Michael Moore for President

2007-06-17T23:00:00.000-05:00

Tonight I was lucky enough to be invited to a sneak preview screening of Michael Moore's new film, "Sicko," which is opening in New York City on June 22, 2007 and for general release on June 29th. The screening was held as a benefit for Center for Justice & Democracy (CJ&D), a non-profit organization dedicated to preserving access to the courts for those unable to advocate on their own behalf. Joanne Doroshow, Executive Director/Founder of CJ&D and former colleague, invited me and a guest (Jeffrey drew the lucky straw) to the screening and reception this evening at the Tribeca Cinemas. Joanne is one of the most commited public interest advocates I've ever met and has worked as a co-producer with Michael on all of his films. She also co-produced "The Panama Deception," winner of the Academy Award^® for Best Documentary in 1992. She's about as cool as cool gets.

Immediately before the screening, Joanne and Michael spoke to the crowd, which included two of the everyday "stars" of the film. He sincerity is unquestionable and he has become this generation's "Everyman," living and breathing the very ideals that most of our elected officials are merely able to mimic. He is smart as hell, self-effacing and courageous; our brave David in a world of too many Goliaths.

Michael spoke about the standing ovation "Sicko" received at Cannes Film Festival a few weeks ago, the same festival that in 2004 awarded its highest honor, the prestigious "Palme D'Or," to his last film, "Fahrenheit 9/11." He bemoaned the current state of healthcare in America and joked about the Bush Administration's latest attempts to discredit his work. We were then invited to sit back and watch "Sicko" unfold.

The film begins with a clip of George Bush's now infamous flub regarding OB/GYNs being unable to "practice their love" on their women patients because of the high cost of medical malpractice insurance premiums. Absolutely genius, and pathetic, all at once. Initially, it's funny, but mid-chortle one remembers that Bush is really still the President, and that he constantly says stupid shit, and that his Cracker Jack antics and cowboy shoot-from-the-hip bravado have made America, this country that we love, the international punch line for such a long time. Then it seems less funny.

The next two hours are meticulously edited "snapshots" of our healthcare system, delivered in the witty, no-nonsense style of Michael Moore. The truth is so shocking, that its mere presentation is enough to be compelling. Many moments of the film are gut wrenching and horrific, as the insurance industry is painstakingly revealed to be the soulless monster that it is. There were times when I had to look down, unable to watch the faces of the people talking. I felt such deep sadness and something akin to shame, that somehow my silence in the face of this great injustice, of which I was fully aware, somehow made me complicit.

In addition to the lead stories of loss suffered by individuals who were delayed and/or denied medical treatment, Michael also gives voice to those health insurer employees whose paychecks require them to implement the money-first directives of the insurance carriers. Their stories reveal another hidden cost borne by our nation -- the pain endured by those who job demands they participate in a system they find morally and ethically objectionable. They suffer as deeply as many of the more obvious victims.

Interspersed throughout the film are numerous clips of people from other countries where universal healthcare is the norm and people thrive and enjoy life in a different way than many Americans. They all express the fact that they feel sorry for us. We are the only Western country that still denies its citizens this basic, necessary social benefit. Reference is made to Ghandi's quote "A nation's greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members," suggesting that we are failing ourselves. And we are.

One often leaves these kind of films with a mixture of feelings -- shock, sadness, frustration. These residual sentiments are typically based on feelings of hopelessness emanating from a false belief that we are powerless in the face of such seemingly overwhelming circumstances. "Sicko" speaks to this, noting that the fearful and poor are often locked in a world of silence and non-confrontation; they don't want to stir the pot for fear that things may worsen. A tired, hopeless, fearful population is a compliant one. But the truth is that we are powerful beyond our wildest dreams, but unaware of that reality.

I believe the release of "Sicko" will prove a pivotal event in the awakening of the American consciousness. The timing couldn't be more perfect. There has been a growing impatience with the number of people "falling through the cracks" on healthcare insurance issues and a parallel disgust with the skyrocketing salaries of the CEO's of these same insurance carriers. We deserve to feel better about ourselves as a nation. Illness is frightening enough; the sick need our voices, our strength.

This nation is more than capable of building a better, stronger healthcare net that doesn't allow anyone to fall through. I'm reminded of Bill Clinton's quote from his first innaugural address in 1992, when he said "There is nothing wrong with America that can't be fixed by what is right with America." Can I get an "Amen?" I'm so "sicko" of feeling sad or embarrassed or ashamed to be an American. It's time to step up to the plate people.

Please go to Michael Moore's website, http://www.michaelmoore.com and find out what you can do today.

It's essential that this film open HUGE on it's first day. Please plan to go see the movie on June 22nd if you live in New York and on June 29th if you live elsewhere. Pre-purchase your tickets online to ensure that your voice is heard.

Michael Moore - you're a complete bad ass. Please run for President in 2008. It's not too late! Joanne could be your Vice President and I'd make some shirts. What do you think???

Thanks!

Gotta Love the Jitney!

2007-06-17T20:26:00.000-05:00

I finally made it out of the City for the weekend.

Billy invited me to his place in the East Hamptons for a weekend of guaranteed R&R with him and a friend, Jonah. Part of the "ritual" of the "Manhattan Summer-Weekend Escape" is the actual leaving. The Hampton Jitney bus has provided unparalled service from Manhattan (and now Brooklyn) to the Hamptons since the early 70's and the jitney ride has become part of this ritual for many.

Laden with gifts [two quarts of pickles (1 half-sour, 1 sour) and a bottle of fresh horseradish] for my host purchased from my LES neighbors, The Pickle Guys, and sporting my brand new Stingy brim hat (yes, it looks damn good), I boarded the 5:30 p.m. jitney at 40th Street between 2nd & 3rd Avenues, bound for East Hampton. Prior to boarding the bus, I dropped my bag as I was putting it down and thought I heard a crack. I looked in quickly, and saw the horseradish on top, which was in fine shape. Hmmm. I entered the bus, found a seat (by myself - Yes!) and settled in for the ride, light reading and fully charged iPod ready to go.

We were traveling down 2nd Avenue and hadn't made it more than three blocks before I was overwhelmed by the unmistakable smell of (you guessed it) pickles! The stench was strong and distinct, although I couldn't quite detect whether the smell came from the sour, or the half-sour; perhaps it was a lovely combination of both. Apparently that sound had been the plastic quart container splitting open. I refused to look and acted as oblivious as possible.

This is where the difference between traveling from NYC to the Hamptons and traveling to Fire Island becomes more striking. If I had been on van going from the train station to the Ferry or on the actual Ferry leg of the trip to Fire Island, someone would have screamed "Some bitch needs to shut her legs," but on the Jitney the perfectly surgeon-sculpted noses merely perked and turned ever-so-slightly in my general direction. I'm not yet sure which I prefer. I'm not going to relay any more of this leg of the trip, but will say I felt every second that passed intimately. It was as though time had slowed and I was trapped in a pickle barrel and there were moments that it took all the self-discipline I had not to stand up and ask if anyone wanted a pickle. I suffered silently, paying pennance by denying myself the iPod, lest I miss hearing some random comment about dill.

As I exited the bus, my ears craning for the sound of applause that I was sure would erupt upon my departure, I saw Billy looking very much like the worried parent of an errant camper. Big smile, big hug -- I'm here. As we walked away, he yelled back to a woman he had been talking to wishing her a nice weekend. She looked exactly like Mercedes Ruehl. "Who's that?", I asked. "Mercedes Ruehl," he said. "We were talking about her last show and how much I loved it." Mystery solved.

We made it to his house and settled in for a light dinner with another friend of Billy's, Peter, an interior designer. It's remarkable; there must be the highest per capita ratio of interior designers within 10 miles of East Hampton. Each time I've been out there, I've met at least 2 interior designers. How do they survive? We finished the night with drinks outside by the goldfish-stocked lilypad pond looking at the stars. Looking at the stars! You can actually see them out there. It's amazing.

I woke up hearing sounds of someone in the kitchen -- the tinkling of glass, the shuffle of slippers on the floor. It's a weekend/vacation sound that I adore. When it's accompanied with the smell of brewing coffee, well forget it. When I realized what it was, I smiled. Then, for a split second, I was hit by a wave of sadness, because it's a sound I hadn't heard since I had started living alone again. That shit is capable of rearing its head whenever and wherever. Whatever, I decided, and jumped up, snagged the paper, poured my coffee and sat outside in my undies in the early morning sun reading. I was in heaven. When did this become a luxury?

We made it to the Hamptons' version of the gay beach before noon and stayed until 4:00 p.m.. The crowd was mixed, attractive to be sure, but not blatantly cruisy. Nothing beats a beach picnic lunch of a cold roast beef sandwich, chips and ice-cold Coca Cola. And, yes, I'm Irish, it's a beach, there's a sun -- I burned. I could hear my mother saying, "It's your own damn fault" as I lathered on the cream, too late. She hates when I sunburn, and of course she's the one with the Portugese and American Indian versions of the family's genetics.

Billy, Jonah and I returned to the house for a couple of hours of Billy's musical choices; he's a disco / show-tune queen with an unmatchable repetoire and CD collection. We were tickled, awed and moved to tears listening to his music, while he ran between the kitchen and living room to keep us entertained. Speaking of running -- run, do not walk, and buy "Lena Horne: The Lady & Her Music," the original Broadway cast recording from her 1981 show of the same name for which she won the Drama Desk Award for Outstanding Actress in a Musical and a Special Tony Award that year. Incomparable. And believe it or not, her repartee in between the songs is as entertaining as her singing. [Note: I recently learned that David LeShay worked as General Press Associate on the show; what didn't that production have going for it I ask???]

Billy also played some Nina I'd never heard, which I honestly didn't think was possible. He played her final album, "A Single Woman," which includes her version of "Papa Can You Hear Me?". Yes, the song from "Yentl." And if Barbra Streisand ever, ever utters the lyrics to this song again, it will be clear to me that she has not yet heard Nina's version, which is the definitive recording of that song. No one will ever be able to touch it again -- not Barbra, not anyone. It left me numb and mumbling -- think "Little" Jimmy Scott wailing "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child" or Billie Holliday suffering through "Strange Fruit" -- that kinda numb and mumbling. The strong, uncomfortable sense that one is simultaneously isolated from, but undeniably connected to, the human race. The experience of listening to songs like these affirms in me the belief that, at their best, music and poetry are divinely inspired and capable of healing.

We awoke on Sunday with time left only for a little more gossiping, coffee, sun, oxygen and Billy's swan song, sing-a-long with Little Edie on her 11:00 o'clock, kick-you-in-the-guts number from the "Grey Gardens" soundtrack, "Another Winter in a Summer Town." A breathtaking performance by both; there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

I rode the noon jitney home, sans pickles, with Rufus Wainwright whispering, with iPod assistance, in my ear.

Thank you Billy!

What's Bloomberg Gonna Do About This?

2007-06-14T20:17:00.000-05:00

Just when you thought it was safe to venture out into the streets and onto the subways of New York City, our good friends at Empire Blue Cross/Blue Shield, want to remind you of a couple of things that could fuck up your day.

There are so many things wrong about these ads that its shocking they made it all the way to the phone booths that they grace downtown near Wall Street, where they stand today. Grabbing a surprisingly still effective page from the GOP playbook of fear, this health insurer seems to be sending a targeted message to some "consumer," but it's unclear exactly who that is. Did someone at Empire hear that there were almost 50 million uninsured Americans and decide that there was an unexploited market out there?

The CEO's of these corporations make so much money, it's literally obscene. The money that was spent on this campaign would have been better spent actually approving a procedure or test that the carrier denied to some poor bastard who despite paying his premiums on time, was caught in the insurance morass of constantly delay and deny.

I'm over insurance companies, completely over them. They operate under a thinly-veiled system of government sanctioned, insurance lobbyist authored regulations that are at their core a scam. The current laws, passed by legislators with price tags on their asses, are evil and one-sided, guaranteeing these companies hand-over-fist profits at the expense of the most vulnerable of our nation.

Please come quickly universal healthcare.

Duckie Comes Out, Finally

2007-06-11T19:43:00.000-05:00

Today is Amy's 41st birthday. Everyone say "Happy Birthday Amy."

Although I hadn't spoken with Amy in eight or nine years, there was a period in my life when I thought Amy was my life. We were inseparable. It was during the early- to mid-80's when we were both in high school in Richardson, Texas. Amy was a couple of months younger, but had skipped a grade, so was a year ahead. Despite hailing from Tennessee or Kentucky (I'm not sure now) she was, and I assume remains, "very Texas" -- oversized eyes, pug nose, tastefully highlighted hair, big boobs. She was also the most sophisticated woman I knew -- wise beyond her years and well-read. I remember adults being intimidated by her looks, confidence, and intelligence. She didn't suffer fools gladly, and Texas was full of them. In fact, I'm sure my mother adored and feared her in equal parts. It was Amy who insisted I read Ayn Rand's, "The Fountainhead," in 1982, which was the first book I read that changed the way I viewed myself in this world. Granted, other books had made impressions, but that one permanently shifted my vision.

We met while working back stage on a high school drama production -- yes, it's true, that's where they kept the gay boys even then. I think we were giving each other back massages and she thought I was very good. Gay or not, teenagers will do anything to touch each other. Within a month, I was with her every day after school, very often riding in the lime green Porsche 911 she'd borrow from her stepdad. I was in heaven -- white trash learns to ride high class. I became a fixture in her home, third child to her mom & step-dad and big brother to her little sister, Brandy. I adored that family. They were the first people who encouraged my potential, who helped me to think bigger than the place from where I'd come.

Amy was the first person who told me that Madonna was white, the person who went with me to the Madonna concert in Texas Stadium in 1982, the person who I listened to The Go-Go's with for hours on end (quite literally), the person I had a lose-your-virginity-first race with for $1 bet (she won, barely), the person who knew that it was sometimes hell living in my house, the person who bought me my first Polo shirt, and the person I went to see EVERY SINGLE John Hughes movie on the first day they would come out.

She may also be the very last person who was ever that close to me with whom I had not yet come out.

That was until today. I was riding on the subway this morning and I realized that June 11th was one of those dates. Then it hit me -- Amy's birthday. Ten minutes on the internet and I had her husband's phone number. I left a message and within an hour, Amy and I were speaking. We didn't exactly pick up where we left off, but we built some momentum by the end. She's the same woman I knew, and not. And I'm sure that she felt the same way about me.

We have lives that the other can only imagine.

She told me that she had thought of me a few weeks ago when she and her daughter were watching "Pretty in Pink." Amy said that while watching it, she told her daughter that, like Andie (Molly Ringwald), she too had a friend like "Duckie" (Jon Cryer). I laughed, because she was right. I now appreciate John Hughes in a way I couldn't have before, for his ability to so clearly capture that time of adolescence. The movie never says that Duckie's gay, and he may not be, or he may not yet know or be willing to accept it. But the confusion, the hormones, the frustration, and sadness, the general angst of puberty that Duckie embodies resonates for me; I know that boy.

I remember someone telling me as I was leaving college not to be too upset in ten years when I looked back and realized that I hadn't kept in touch with people that I was sure I couldn't live without. She had said it's very easy to maintain friendships in college because people are forced to see other frequently and there are many opportunities to come together. She also said that friendships are often for "a reason, a season, or for a lifetime" and that it's better to accept that now, rather than to decide down the road that the friendship wasn't what I thought it was.

Amy was in my life at a time when I needed an "Amy." She added intelligence, a bit of glamour and an bright laughter to a period of total confusion. She was shiny, when I felt dull. I treasure what we had, without having any expectations for what we might still have. I loved hearing her voice and the entire experience felt like a loose thread had been woven back into a favorite sweater. She reminded me that I had wonderful, intimate, loving support in my life exactly when I needed it. And that her friendship is always there.

I bought a "Pretty in Pink" DVD on the way home; I can't wait to watch it again.

The Ladies of "Grey Gardens"

2007-06-10T23:34:00.000-05:00

Although the Oscars are generally considered the gay man's Super Bowl, for Manhattan's gay population The Tony Awards, which aired tonight, rank right up there.

While "Spring Awakening" kicked major ass, winning 8 awards in its 11 nominated categories, I was thrilled to see the Best Performance by a Leading Actress in a Musical and Best Performance by a Featured Actress in a Musical awards go to the women of "Grey Gardens" -- Christine Ebersole & Mary Louise Wilson. The show was a tour de force for Ebersole, playing both the younger version of Edith "Big Edie" Bouvier Beales in the first act and the older version Edith "Little Edie" Bouvier Beales in the second. As complicated as it is to write, I can only imagine how Ebersole has kept her wits and vocal chords during this entire run. And remember, it had already completed a run off-Broadway and out-of-town.

For anyone who has seen the Maysles brothers' documentary of the same name [required viewing for gay man or fashionista worth his or her own salt] Ebersole's portrayal of "Little Edie" in the second act is so fucking on, that it's off again and then back on. She absolutely nails it -- voice, modulation, tics, gestures, rolling eyeballs, dance moves -- the works. And this is no slight to Ms. Wilson, who's theatrical pedigree and onscreen presence are to be duly acknowleged, she holds her own and then some, but the show belongs to Christine from the curtains rise to its fall at the end.

Brava ladies! And thanks for one of the most memorable, thrilling nights of New York theatre I've ever had.

Moti Hasson Hosts Silent Art Auction Benefiting HIV Law Project

2007-06-04T22:57:00.001-05:00

Tonight I went to Chelsea's Moti Hasson gallery to attend an exhibit and silent art auction benefitting the HIV Law Project. The show, entitled "Four-Handed Lift: Advocacy, Art, Spirit & Community," was curated by Koan Jeff Baysa, Almond Zigmund, Bernard Leibov and included works by 40 artists. The crowd was typical -- 85% contributing artists and their guests, 10% organization's employees and board members, 5% freeloaders (i.e. "Is there going to be an open bar?"). Regardless they dressed well and the weather was idyllic, so the mood was festive for a late-Spring, early evening event.

Since 1989, HIV Law Project has been providing legal and advocacy services to low-income, HIV-positive New Yorkers, particulary women and people of color. The organization grew out of a time when AIDS was primarily seen as a disease affecting white, gay, middle- to upper-class, men. The gap between services to these groups of individuals, which has only deepened and broadened over the years as minority communities became the hardest hit and the heart of the ruling party became harder still, is one that still desperately needs bridging; HIV Law Project has a proven history of building and sustaining these bridges.

The show was cleverly curated and one could sense a silent dialogue between the pieces as they hung, communicating messages of loss, of hope, of community. Academy Award^®, winner Kathy Bates dropped in to show her support the organization, as did one of Manhattan's ruling Renaissance men, Florent Morellet - restaurantaur extraordinaire, artist, activist, mapmaker, Grand Marshall of 2006 NYC Gay Pride parade, and saviour/unofficial Mayor of the last remnant of the "real" Meatpacking district -- providing food and even one of his own art pieces for the event.

HIV Law Project Executive Director, Tracy L. Welsh, Esq., thanked all in attendance, gave an overview of the work her group does, and then highlighted two pressing state legislative issues that need to be brought to light and defeated.

The first relates to the collection of medical information of people with HIV and the legislature's attempt to circumvent the written notice laws for testing people for HIV. The guarantees that are in place protecting the privacy of people with HIV and ensuring that individuals making the difficult, important decision to test for the virus are informed are at real risk. Waving the all-too-familiar FEAR flag, conservative legislators in the NY Senate and Assembly are citing the "super bug" scare from February 2005 as a legitimate basis for public health and safety to erode existing rights already provided in New York State. Take a moment to read the joint letter issued by the HIV Law Project, ACLU, NYCLU on this issue.

The second issue involves a bill stalled in the NYS Senate, called the "Healthy Teens Act," which guarantees that NYS provide its young people with comprehensive sex education including information on protecting themselves from sexually transmitted diseases and unplanned pregnancies. Incredibly, 25 years after the start of the epidemic NYS schools still do not have a comprehensive sexual education program in place! It's shocking! We can do better than this. New York State cares more about its kids that this President and recognizes that abstinence-only education is insufficient and dangerous. Ignorance is no longer bliss, today it can be deadly. The bill is stalled in the NYS Senate by its Majority Leader, Senator Joseph Bruno (boo, hiss, boo). To date, he's refused to bring it to the floor of the Senate and will only do so if enough NYS residents make enough noise. Do something to feel proud about today -- call Senator Bruno's office right now at (518) 455-3191 and tell whoever answers to ask Bruno to bring the "Healthy Teens Act" to the Senate floor imediately.

Did you call Senator Bruno yet? Because if you didn't, you really shouldn't read any further until you do. Seriously, call him, right now!!!

So for all of you who called Senator Bruno, I wanted you to know that I left the event before the bidding closed on the items, but I saw the sheets filling up as the bar worked overtime. Some things never change.

Bravo HIV Law Project -- keep up the amazing work!!

Drag Naming: A Proposal

2007-06-03T12:57:00.000-05:00

The generally accepted formula for determining one's drag name is fairly well-known, even among heterosexuals (although they often refer to it as their "porn name"). The first name is typically the name of one's first pet, and the last is the name of the first street you lived on as a child.

Mine, for instance, is "Bacardi Garden" -- swear to God. I'm lucky, I guess. When I was 9, my brother and I had a black cat for about a month and named it after Mom's favorite rum. [I was a bad ass little bartender at the age of 7 and could make a mean Cuba Libre]. Mom's other favorite rum was Don Q, but Bacardi sounded better. To be honest, there's always been a bit of suspicion around Bacardi's sudden death, in that no one really knows how she was able to get out of the house that day and onto the street where she was run over. It wasn't until I was well into my twenties before I realized Mom may have "unintentionally" let her out because she was mortified.

And Garden Street is where my newlywed parents (aged 18 & 19) first moved after they were married on December 31, 1965. I was born in April 1966. The difference in the two years -- 1965 & 1966 -- was the reason it took me until I was 15 to realize that my parent's wedding had been of the "shotgun" variety.

I was watching TV and started counting months, January, February, March, April. Hmmmm, that's only four. I remember yelling from the living room to my mother, asking her "Mom, was I premature?" She came into the room, looked at me very sweetly and said, "Oh honey, did you just figure that out?" I nodded, she came over, gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear, "I always knew I would have you. No matter what you're father said or wanted me to do, I knew I was going to have you." She's subtle, and ever so effective. Suddenly, the reason for the absence of wedding pictures of my mother resplendent in virginal white became obvious.

So "Bacardi Garden" it is. And, yes, with a name like that, you know I'm in therapy.

But in playing this drag naming game with other gay men, I've found that most aren't as lucky as I am and that many of the names are less than exciting. I mean, how sad to be stuck with "Spot Main," "Buttons East 57th" or "Whiskers Elm"?

So, in the spirit of greater inclusion, I have a proposal to make for a new way to drag name. It's simple and has greater flexibility, while retaining the "personal touch" that makes the name feel like one's own.

My suggestion is that each person -- male or female -- take the names of two medications that they are currently taking, for whatever condition they're willing to disclose, and smash them back-to-back.

Voila! Depressed about going bald? Keep that chin up, "Celexa Rogaine." Going bald, but fighting it with all you've got? Meet Celexa's twin, "Propecia Rogaine." Until I recently changed my HIV medication regimen, I could have been called "Kaletra Trizivir." Love it! Now it would be "Reyataz Epsicom," which is nice, but it doesn't have that same zing. Here are some more:

She's bald and broke, say hello to "Generica Minoxidyl"

Her tummy's upset from worrying too much, she's "Zantac Klonopin"

Can't rise to the occasion or concentrate, meet "Levitra Adderall"

The formula works with generic brands, over-the-counter medications, and even dietary supplements. Give a shoutout to these beautiful gals: "Bupoprion Diazepam," "Vagisil Aleve" and "Gingko Goldenseal."

Would love to hear some of your new names ladies!

Kick Me! Spank Me! Jackie Beat Me!

2007-05-27T22:09:00.000-05:00

Memorial Day weekend marks the unofficial beginning of summer and many of NYC's gays celebrate by making the season's inaugural exodus to Fire Island to show off their new spray tans and catch their first batch of crabs in the Meatrack. But for this gay man Memorial Day weekend means only one thing: Jackie Beat.

Ms. Beat makes an annual pilgrimage to Gotham from LA for this holiday weekend. She's merely moved the venue uptown a bit from the hole formerly known as Fez, to it's smaller, just as delightfully trashy little sister, The Cutting Room on West 24th. The show, entitled "Rehab," brought us a Jackie fresh from a seven-week Las Vegas gig opening for Roseanne Barr at the New York, New York Casino, who is now forced to face the consequences of the many addictions she discovered in Sin City -- everything from drugs, sex and gambling to the 24-hour all-you-can-eat dinner buffets for which Vegas is famous.

As she mounted the stage (there's no other way to describe it, that's what she does) she was the epitome of goth girl, all grown up. Clad head-to-toe in black, she was rocking an Ann Wilson 80's style wig, teased mile-high, a front and back bumper hugging knit sweater top that grabbed her in all the right places, a shredded skirt (à la Stevie Nicks) and knee-high, don't-fuck-with-me leather boots with heels. Always the last word in subtle elegance, Ms. Beat was accessorized in high Dynasty style, with several of what appeared to be the very first pickings from the soon-to-be-readily-accessible Tammy Faye Baker Messner's personal costume jewelry collection. It only took one bat of those false eyelashes (top and bottom, mind you), for the eternally understated Jackie to remind us that flawless is just a step away from lawless and we better fasten our seat belts.

My friend and I had arrived early enough to not have to sit in the back, but not early enough to avoid the front. In fact, we were front and center. So, what would normally have been time spent relaxing, scoping out the crowd and a little pre-show flirting with the muscles at the next table turned into 45 minutes of dreading the inevitable; we were too close for one of us not to get hit. My money was on my friend: taller, tanner, better looking; as far as I was concerned, he had a target painted on his forehead.

And then it happened. Just as Jackie finished her second song -- her latest paean to poo -- she asked (uhm, directed) me to fix the steps, then she slowly descended (literally and figuratively) into the crowd, zeroed in on my friend and shoved the mike in his face. She landed on her first prey and there was a collective sigh of relief as people edged forward to hear. Thank God he took my advice and kept smiling and played sweet and dumb. I've seen her in action when she smells "smart ass" and it ain't pretty. He survived and actually loved it.

The rest of the show was exactly what you'd expect from Jackie -- genius irreverant lyrics, telling the starkest, darkest truths, insinuated in innocuous melodies from long-gone days of relative innocence. And the bitch can sing. I mean really, really sing. She's a drag triple threat -- incredible glamour, razor sharp wit and undeniable pipes.

I had two favorites. The first, a reworking of "Fever," presented as "Beaver," warning about gender assignment surgery remorse. And the second, her finale, which was a rendition of "And I'm Telling You," that put both Jennifers to shame. Jackie's version emphatically tells a horse-hung suitor what he ain't putting where.

Jackie was brought out for her encore by surprise guest, Mistress Formika (where the fuck has she been?), who looked unbelievable. After the show, both manned (ladied?) the Jackie Beat merchandising table, selling and signing CDs.

As my friend bought two CDs and got his new favorite drag queen's autograph, Mistress Formika gamely elbowed my shorts. Who needs the Meatrack anyway?

Thanks for an incredible night Jackie. You rule!

Hello Sailor!

2007-05-23T15:07:00.000-05:00

Fleet Fucking Week is here!

What's not to love about Fleet Week? Tight white uniforms stretched across broad backs and taut butts; high and tights under cocked caps; big white teeth; dimples, dimples, everywhere; earnest, eager-to-please faces; and that whole "Yes, Sir!" thing.

And this year is my year. I refuse to go another Fleet Week (this my 10th) without finding a sailor, in uniform, to personally thank for his patriotic service. Unbelievably, I've never been to pull this off. I got soooo close in 2002, but was halfway home with my pirate's booty when I discovered that the sailor lolling all over me in the back of the cab was that of the drunk, lesbian variety. And, unfortunately for her, I'd stopped fishing from that side of the boat years ago.

As determined as I am to land a sailor, I refuse, however, to troll for them with the over 25 others desperately-seeking-seamen queens already listed in the "Men Seeking Men" section of craigslist. I, instead, am going to try a more subtle approach: target the drunk ones who stumble into Chelsea acting like they have no idea it's the gayest place on Earth. Those guys are the best; you can spot them up and down 8th Avenue, acting drunker than they are and loudly pointing out the "two dudes kissing" to their buddies.

My favorite Fleet Week memory to date, however, is from 2005. The Ex and I were walking to the flea market, when it was still in Chelsea. It was very early Sunday morning [read: walk-of-shame-you-ain't-been-home-to-your-own-bed-early], and there was the most stellar specimen of Navy pushed and prodded into dress blues, fabric struggling at all the right places, walking towards us. We were holding hands and we both, unrehearsed, said "Good Morning, Officer." He didn't miss a beat, cracked a big I-just-got-busted-but-who-cares-I-got-laid grin and said "Morning Gentlemen." As I write this, my memory tells me someone squealed at that point, but I'm not sure if it was me, the Ex, or even the Sailor. [We should also mark this moment as the first time I've mentioned the Ex without a snide tone and with a smile of my face. Apparently time heals, dammit.]

I would appreciate any nautical leads: I won't ask, won't tell, and would be grateful as hell!

Dirty Little Secrets: My Mental Muzak

2007-05-22T22:02:00.000-05:00

I've decided that I'm going to use this forum as a confessional, of sorts.

On a once-monthly basis, I will reveal one of my dirty little secrets. That's right. One of these innocuous little postings will now be endowed with the power to heal.

I look forward to the healing, not only for myself, but dare I hope, for the rest of the planet. It is my intention to lead the way on this journey and I invite those with the courage, the honesty and the self-respect to do so, follow my example.

Recognizing that the first time can be the most uncomfortable, sometimes bordering on painful, experience, I thought it made sense to come out of the box with a huge bang, and take on something that, to be frank, seemed too big for me. [And Yes, I have utilized this approach when facing other overwhelming "challenges" in my life and can attest to it's efficacy).

So please, be gentle. I may sound rough, tough and trade, but inside, I'm as frightened as a sexually confused, sixteen-year-old boy who just got tossed into the drunk tank at Riker's and suddenly overhears murmurs from the dark corners about how "it looks likes it's time to pick a new prom queen."

My dirty little secret:

The song that plays over and over in my head 70% of the time is 2 Live Crew's 1992 hit, "Pop that Coochie."

And for those of you who forgot how it goes:

I'm sorry, but "shake it, don't brake it, it took your momma nine months to make it." Ghetto genius.

And to those catty queens ready to yank my gay card over that revelation, I confess the following:

Twenty percent of the time, the song is "The Oldest Profession," Lillias White's showstopping number as 'Sonja' in Broadway's 1997 hit, "The Life."

I had a flawless video of Lillias White performing this number on Broadway, but it was removed by youTube for some sort of violation. How friggin' tedious is that?

I went to see "The Life" with my college roommate and one of my bestest friends, Van Wisdom, who died in 2003. It was during the the week he visited me from Houston in 1997. He scheduled the trip to come and tell me he had been diagnosed positive. In the scene immediately preceding this song, Sonja has just come back from the free clinic where doctors advised her that they couldn't diagnose her illness. They never say "AIDS," but it's pretty obvious. I remember sitting in the dark theatre next to Van, crying for him, unaware at the time that I was already infected myself. After she finished, Van, who couldn't even spell "subtle," screamed "You go, girl!"

"The Oldest Profession" was our favorite number and we walked around the entire week he was here singing the first verse, which is the only one we could remember. The complete lyrics are priceless.

I'm worn out

And weary

I ain't no machine

My head hurts

My feet hurts

And everything in between

I'm gettin' too old for the oldest profession

I'm gettin' too tired and to slow

I'm gettin' too old for the half-hour session

I'm gettin' too old for a pro

I'm gettin' too old for to climb all those stairs now

A half a dozen times every night

I'm gettin' too old for to take 'em in pairs now

Or to take off my clothes in the light

(This is where Van leaned over to me and said "I know that's right!")

I can't seem to manage those shriners who manage

To man handle me every trip

To tell you the truth I've had so many shriners

That I'm up for membership

When I was sixteen it was fun, turning tricks

I needed the money and I wanted some kicks

I ain't sixteen, I just turned 26

Time to come in from the cold

Looks like I'm gettin' to old

Damn, how good is that?

So, let's see, my second song is a late-90's Broadway tune, sung by a big, black diva, who was part of the original cast that I saw on Broadway, in a show whose main characters are NYC Times Square prostitutes living with AIDS; I'll take that gay card back, "thank you very much."

The rest of the time (yes, 10% for you anal math freaks) it's random snippets alternating between various Rufus lines (lately it's been "This Love Affair," "The Gay Messiah" and "Do I Disappoint You"), The Beatles, "Hey Jude" (which I can't for the life of me figure out), lines by Pink from "Don't Let Me Get Me," Christina Aguilera's "Ain't No Other Man," Sarah McLachlan's "Angel," Anita Baker (huh?), AC/DC, Journey (I'm actually typing this??) and, dare I say, Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Okay, that's enough. Thou dost reveal too much.

Although I am aware that a burden has shifted with these revelations, I also feel a bit dizzy.

My Little Chubby Tulip, My Ass

2007-05-21T13:06:00.000-05:00

Los Angeles - Paula Abdul broke her nose over the weekend after she fell while trying to avoid stepping on her Chihuahua, her publicist David Brokaw said on Monday.

"She's a little sore, but is doing fine," he said.

"I took a nasty fall trying not to hurt my dog. I bruised myself on my arm, my chest, my waist all the way down to my hip. All from my little chubby Tulip," Abdul said.

The dog was not hurt, Brokaw said.

Blaming the dog?

Granted, David Brokaw has one of the tougher gigs out there, but he reached new levels of lameness recycling every third-graders' excuse for missing homework and peddling it as a reasonable, believable explanation for Paula's broken nose.

My guess is that Paula doesn't have a clue what happened. I'm sure the evening started out innocently enough -- a glass of champagne, a couple of Vicodin, Elliot Yamin, Corey Clark and Justin Guarini shuffling on her stereo -- and then bam.

She comes to on the floor, lying in front of the refrigerator in a pool of melted ice cream, surrounded by empty food containers, with Tulip at her side, gorging "just like Mommy."

A Day With Art

2007-05-20T10:28:00.000-05:00

I visited two artists' studios today. The first belonged to Gary J. Speziale, an artist I came to know through one of the Dirty Little Drawings shows Leslie/Lohman Gay Art Foundation (L/L). Gary's works "Adam" and "Steve," pictured above [click images for larger versions] are fairly representative of his style and mastery. He draws and paints with amazing precision, imbuing each piece with palpable sensuality, equal parts angst and delight. The small, colored-pencil drawing that I purchased from the L/L show is called, "Twilight's Last Gleaming," and is a portrait of one of Gary's models, Matthew. I first saw "Matthew" from across the room, lost in a sea of dirty little drawings, his head cocked towards me, beckoning. I was immediately drawn in and crawled over two slobbering bears to get to him. It was as close to love at first sight as I've experienced in a while. And although it's not the first "Matthew" I've paid for, it is the first one who didn't talk back that I could bring home in an envelope with a red ribbon on it.

After making the purchase, I visited Gary's web site to find more images and was hammered. Gary's artistic ability is unquestionable and his passion is so apparent in every one of pieces, one begins to feel a bit voyeuristic. But what I think makes Gary's talent rare, is his ability to seamlessly incorporate imagery and references from both the sacred Catholic and profane gay. Granted, this is not novel territory for artists -- particularly gay -- to explore, but Gary's sublety, based I think, in his deep understanding and respect for these two sources of inspiration that inform his work, sets him apart. I contacted him to express my appreciation for the piece and his work in general, and to inquire into commissioning a piece. We're both busy guys, but diligence paid off and today I was able to visit his studio space, which is a 5-minute walk from the "Fresh Ponds" stop on the "M" line.

Entering Gary's studio is a bit like going to your grandmother's house -- if you're grandmother was a gay Italian guy who painted, I guess. What I mean by that is, his studio space, which is also where he lives is very homey. The walls are covered with gorgeous art, and the ceilings are exquisitely detailed and painted. We were together for over four hours, which I could hardly believe when I looked down at the clock. He showed me past projects, actually going back to when he was 6 years old, right up to drawings he did earlier in the week at a drawing workshop.

What an amazing experience. Thanks Gary!

Next, I stopped in to see the new Long Island City studio space of Eric Rhein. Rest assured that Eric has landed well in Long Island City after leaving the East Village. During the hour that I was there, he had many, many people showing up and complimenting his work. I'm looking forward to seeing what comes out of this new space for Eric.

Dammit Charlie - I Hardly Knew Ya

2007-05-17T09:12:00.000-05:00

While scanning my inbox last week, I saw several posts, originating from a listserve I'm on, titled "Charlie Kupfer's Passing." I didn't think I knew "Charlie," but recognized the names of the posters, which prompted me to read further. I soon realized that Charlie Kupfer, who died of lymphoma, was "hot, smart, funny-as-hell Charlie" that I had met a few times. My heart sank and within an hour I was suffering from a full-blown case of the "fucking dammits."

Last Fall, I went on a New Warrior Training Adventure weekend that The ManKind Project (MKP) chapter in this area offers twice a year. Prior to commiting to the weekend, I was invited to an informational potluck whose purpose was to introduce MKP to more "diverse" [read: gay] types of men. As I arrived, Charlie entered the elevator with me and the two of us rode up together, not speaking. He was my kinda hot -- solid little fireplug of a body, bearded, shaved, big smile; you just wanted to knock him over and start wrestling. Suddenly I was warming up to this whole ManKind-Project thing. He was also carrying his contribution to the potluck, some homemade-looking pasta thing, and I distinctly remember thinking, "Hmmmm, she cooks too."

As one who had recently experienced the training, Charlie spoke about its impact on him. I have to mention that his voice had just enough "queeny" in it to balance all the macho visual; it's a combination I find irresistible. Without going into too much detail, his words were the ones that pushed me off the fence and into a final commitment for the weekend. And for that, I owe him a great debt of gratitude. The experience is not one to easily put into words, but suffice to say I feel the vibrations of the internal work I started there continuing today. [Ironically, both Charlie and I spent that training weekend feeling like crap. He was on staff and had to leave early because he got physically ill and I was having trouble with severe side effects from a recent an HIV medication regimen change.]

After that weekend, I met Charlie once more. We both attended the surprise birthday party of a mutual friend, King, thrown by King's partner, James. These were the men who had invited me to the potluck in the first place. I took a train to New Jersey (which, if you don't know, is not in Manhattan) to attend this party, so that should be an indication about how I feel about these two men. One of the highlights of the evening was collapsing in chairs and couches in King & James's living room with a bunch of other gay men. We talked about McGreevey, the New Jersey civil union debacle, gay parenting, and the "state of the gays," in general.

These were sharp, educated, funny, spiritually "awake," thoughtful gay men, mostly 40+, whose experiences straddled the pre- and post-AIDS gay world. We discussed intolerance within and without the community, monogamy, and bemoaned the absence of the entire missing generation of beautiful, talented, courageous gay men -- our stolen mentors. It was deeply moving and each man in that room impressed me, but as you would probably guess, I deeply connected with Charlie.

He spoke as one who had "earned" his opinions. I didn't know it at the time, but Charlie had been raised in a large, fairly conservative Jewish home. Apparently his familiy had ceased all contact with him for 15 years following his coming out. Like many of us, he paid a price to speak his truth. The topics we bandied about that night were more than hypotheticals, postulations, and posturing. The struggle to be honest to one's very being had cost many of us dearly and there was a deep earnestness and real desire, to find the easier, gentler way for those gay men traveling with and after us.

Charlie's intellect, his unique style of wickedly sharp humor, and his charismatic presence gave his words weight. He sat like a rabbi, teaching and learning at the same time.

I was smitten; he was oblivious.

It strikes me now that the reason I was so taken with him, in such a short amount of time, was that on each occasion I saw him, Charlie "showed up" and "spoke his truth." It's what I strive to do and he appeared to do it so effortlessly, as though he had no other real choice. His example is still a strong reminder of how easy it can be -- show up, speak your truth, let what happens happen. Charlie died largely unaware of how the ripples from his actions affected me. And there's a lesson buried in that statement, as well.

The "fucking dammits" came because I get angry when any gay man dies, for whatever reason, before 50. It pisses me off. I feel like we've paid in advance for the next century and that all gay men should get a "pass" until, at least, 50. I'm so tired of hearing about gay men who have struggled so long and so hard, who are finally in places to start passing on truth, experience, hope, being taken out by one thing or another. I'm over it. Once I realized that Charlie's early death was poking that very sore spot in my soul, I was able to tease Charlie out of the pile of other corpses and independently honor his journey and story.

I wish to hell I had known Charlie better, wish I could have shared more time listening to him, challenging him, wish I could have pinned him down on the ground and made the big hairy-chested hunk squeal for mercy. But none of that's going to happen.

I do, however, have an to opportunity follow his brave lead. And that's why I wrote this piece about a dead gay man I barely knew, who reminded me that at the ripe old age of 40, I was still capable of developing a huge crush (what a gift is that?). In short, I sensed I had bit of truth I to share, and I was determined to show up.

Charlie,

I trust you have now found the peace,
unspeakable joy, and unconditional love
and acceptance that you so deserve.
Thank you for burning so brightly.

Aho!

What This Really Means is There's Going to be a Few Extra Donuts At Next Year's Prayer Breakfast

2007-05-15T13:42:00.000-05:00

Apparently the Rev. Jerry Falwell was found "unconscious in his office" late this morning and rushed to a hospital in Lynchburg, Virginia where he was declared dead.

Is this news?

As long as I can remember, all the statements coming out of Falwell's office have clearly indicated that he was "unconscious." And, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a man who lacks a heart already dead?

This guy was one of the meanest, nastiest, snidest, most intellectually dishonest, disloyal and conniving slimeballs who ever stood in front of a congregation. And that's a major accomplishment considering his competition. He never spoke, he spewed. He is the idealogical, idiot-illogical "God"father (think mafia, not Vatican) to Karl Rove, Ann Coulter, Bill O'Reilly and other noxious-fume breathers. We as a nation, a world, a humankind are better off without him. Period.

As the face of and force behind the Moral Majority [remember the bumper stickers from the 80s? - "The Moral Majority is Neither"], he was, perhaps more than any one individual, most responsible for putting Ronald Reagan in the White House. Fast-forward twenty years, and where are we? A world at war, on the basis of false information fueled by religious intolerance and zealotry. AIDS, ignored for too long and then the target of a campaign of disinformation, is still a pandemic, virtually threatening Africa with extinction. A woman's legal right to abortion is realistically in danger of being eliminated by the highest court in the land, now stacked with ideologues cherry-picked from the jurisprudential margins, chosen for their we-know-better-than-you willingness to legislate from the bench. Quite simply, a country in chaos, split in two.

Before anyone else, he determined how to galvanize the fearful and ignorant and get them to the polls. His legacy is one of pain, hate, lies, half-truths and human suffering -- all in the name of his God, who bears no resemblence to mine.

If Falwell were not a "man of the cloth," he never would have been given the pedestal upon which to posture and puke. A few of his more memorable quotes follow:

AIDS is not just God's punishment for homosexuals; it is God's punishment for the society that tolerates homosexuals. God continues to lift the curtain and allow the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve. Homosexuality is Satan's diabolical attack upon the family that will not only have a corrupting influence upon our next generation, but it will also bring down the wrath of God upon America. I am such a strong admirer and supporter of George W. Bush that if he suggested eliminating the income tax or doubling it, I would vote yes on first blush. If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being. The idea that religion and politics don't mix was invented by the Devil to keep Christians from running their own country. We will see a breakdown of the family and family values if we decide to approve same-sex marriage, and if we decide to establish homosexuality as an acceptable alternative lifestyle with all the benefits that go with equating it with the heterosexual lifestyle. I believe that all of us are born heterosexual, physically created with a plumbing that's heterosexual, and created with the instincts and desires that are basically, fundamentally, heterosexual. I believe that global warming is a myth. And so, therefore, I have no conscience problems at all and I'm going to buy a Suburban next time. I do not believe we can blame genetics for adultery, homosexuality, dishonesty and other character flaws.

What a prick!

I wish I could have seen his overfed, pudge of a face drop in shock and disappointment when he showed up in Heaven and immediately saw all the people he was sure wouldn't be there, kicking back with a God he didn't recognize.

Rufus! Rufus! Rufus!

2007-05-14T09:28:00.000-05:00

Thank God for Rufus Wainwright!

The sexy-ass, Viktor & Rolf muse dazzles once again on his new CD "Release the Stars," which became available today. Instantly recognizable as Rufus, the songs also take us further down the road in Rufusville.

His ready access the gay soul coupled with a keen ability to express that place allows him to hit anyone exactly where they are at any given moment. The songs hang together, while retaining their individual charm.

His humor, wit and courage continue. High spots for me include "Do I Disappoint You," "Goin to A Town," and "I'm Not Ready to Love, " the title of which alone reduces me to sniffles. It means so much to have an out gay male singing love songs to men, talking about heartache, remembering boyhood crushes on men who teach art, cruising, etc., etc., etc. Hearing Rufus is more affirming than it should be. The honesty and truth in the way he lives, writes and sings honors all of us -- gay, straight, or otherwise. I love this man.

Will you marry me Rufus?

My Son is Gay??

2007-05-13T16:26:00.000-05:00

The rule is that you're not really out of the closet, until you're out to your mother. So on this, one of the most holy days for gay men everywhere, the day we celebrate our mothers, I'm passing on a slice of youTube genius. We LOVE you MOMS!

And to my Mom,
who only said "I told you so"
after I'd accomplished something I didn't think I could.

I love you to pieces.

Nothing can replace,

-B

Queer Justice League Loses Asterisk & Me

2007-05-10T22:55:00.000-05:00

Tonight I finally made it to a meeting of the Queer Justice League. Prior to this evening, the name of the organization was Queer Justice League*, the * referencing the fact that the name was "not yet official". In the last ten minutes of a two-hour meeting (no breaks, mind you) the group brought up a vote on the name. There was about a 20-second discussion that merely made reference to the fact that some people hated the name (due to the use of the word "queer"), and then a vote was taken. The name was approved with no opposition and only one abstention. Suddenly, in the closing moments, they were cooking with gas.

When the vote passed and I saw what could only be described as "sheer joy" overtake the delightful face of Alex Kent (who I believe from what little I could gather, had been involved since the beginning of the early planning stages of QJL). The group was excited, something had shifted, and I was happy for them. And then it hit me, "for them."

As the meeting closed, I looked around the room at the faces -- young, eager, old, beleaguered, pierced, wrinkled, and one of a stunning curly headed, bearded boy angel, successfully channeling the best of 70's-gay-porn chic. I realized that if I were to return, it would most likely be to stare at this boy again. I had participated in the meeting and had a genuine sense that what I was saying was being heard, sort of.

Mis-Match.com

2007-04-24T13:28:00.001-05:00

K* called me today sounding high as a kite; he was wandering the streets, had lost his keys and wanted to know if he should hire a locksmith to break into his apartment. Typical-enough-sounding Chelsea story, except that it was a weekday at 2:00 p.m., and K hadn't used drugs or alcohol for over 6 years.

After swapping a few e-mails on Match, K had agreed to meet with a 40ish gay man (we'll just call him "Whackjob" from now on), who was a professional and published author, and appeared to be your average, well-groomed, well-mannered Murray Hill queen. They met at Border's for a "coffee date" to see if there was any chemistry. Whackjob, the soon-to-be-revealed sociopath, received a phone call from his building that a delivery man was there with a package (uhm, flag 1 - honestly, whose doorman calls them on their cell about a delivery). K's a trusting soul and had no reason to think anything was wrong so he agreed to go to the guy's apartment, even picking up a sandwich on the way to eat at his place.

At the apartment, Whackjob offers K some fresh-squeezed orange juice that he had sitting there that he mixes in a blender with some ice (uhm, flag 2 - fresh juice lying around? C'mon!). K eats the sandwich and drinks the juice. K said that the two just talked, but he sensed the Whackjob was watching him closely. K said the conversation was about dreams and how they can seem so real (not so obvious, but in retrospect, this is flag 3). Very soon, K was hit by a wave of dizziness (flag 4). K tried to stand up, but was unsteady on his feet. Whackjob didn't flinch. He asked K if he wanted to lie down on his bed (that would be flag #5, boys and girls). K, suddenly aware that flags are flying, decides to salute and get the hell out of there.

Once on the street, K called me and I was able to determine (based upon anecdotal information only, not any real life experience mind you) that he'd been dosed with a hit of GHB (a/k/a "the date-rape drug").
* Name deleted to protect my friend's anonymity.

Hitler, Grammy & Me

2007-04-20T22:27:00.000-05:00

Today Hitler would have been 118; my grandmother, Florence "Grammy" Morin, would have been 96; and I turned 41.

In the grand scheme of things, sharing a birthday with Hitler doesn't really mean much. Sharing one with your grandmother however, especially if you're her first-born grandchild, is a completely different story. It was pretty well known that I was "Grammy's favorite."

I spent every weekend at her house and I was her constant companion -- the "little dummy" to her Skipper. Every Saturday we made the rounds to the beauty parlor for her wash & set (it's actually where I got my first "hairstyling" at the age of 7 -- a Carol Brady shag -- loved it), to the grocery store where she turned in countless empty glass milk bottles and insisted on redeeming more coupons than anyone, to the rectory to drop of banana bread and vegetables from Papa's garden for Father Pat, to the bank to make $10 contributions to my "college account" and to funnel her bingo winnings into her "secret" account, of which the entire family feigned ignorance of, but was certain contained a fortune. Florence had a lot of secrets, and I was her little secret keeper.

Papa drove us home from the morning's errands and Grammy would be in her housecoat (ans still wearing her girtle) before I got all the bags out of the car. Saturday lunch was warmed up leftovers from Friday night's take-out (either the Clam Shack, the Greek place or chow-chow (I'm cringing right now, but that's what she called Chinese food). Then Papa would disappear into the garden and Grammy and I would play cards all afternoon while she made fudge -- both of these endeavors being serious business.

Je ne suis pas avec toi

2007-04-19T09:40:00.000-05:00

It's beautiful to watch love begin, but oh so sad when it ends. As you go through life, remember this rule, everybody's somebody's fool.
- "Little" Jimmy Scott, Everybody's Somebody's Fool
Sooner or later, we all sleep alone.
- Cher
"Moons and Junes and ferris wheels, the dizzy dancing way that you feel as every fairy tale comes true, I've looked at love that way. But now it's just another show. And you leave 'em laughing when you go. And if you care, don't let them know. Don't give yourself away. I've looked at love from both sides now -- from give and take -- and still somehow, it's love's illusions that I recall. I really don't know love. I really don't know love at all."
- Joni Mitchell, Both Sides Now
"Frogs do not turn into princes."
- T-shirt seen in Chelsea, NYC
"Anyone who hasn't experienced the ecstasy of betrayal knows nothing about ecstasy at all."
- Jean Genet, Un chant d'amour
"They seldom looked happy. They passed one another without a word in the elevator, like silent shades in hell, hell-bent on their next look from a handsome stranger. Their next rush from a popper. The next song that turned their bones to jelly and left them all on the dance floor with heads back, eyes nearly closed, in the ecstasy of saints receiving the stigmata."
- Andrew Holleran, Dancer From the Dance
"Let us go get the shit kicked out of us by love. "
- Sam to Daniel, Love Actually
You think you're a man, but you're only a boy. You think you're a man, you are only a toy. You think you're a man, but you just couldn't see. You weren't man enough to satisfy me.
- Full Frontal, You Think You're a Man
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times ... You are not gonna fool me three times.
- My grandmother, Florence, reinterpreting a Chinese proverb
Kharma's a bitch.
- Anonymous
"Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction."
- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
"The wing and the wheel... they carry things away. Whether it's me that does the leavin' or the love that flies away. The moon outside my window looks so lonely tonight. Oh, there's a chunk out of it's middle... big enough for an old fool to hide."
- Nancy Griffiths, The Wing and the Wheel
"Je ne veux pas disparaître."
- Jean Genet, Les nègres
"I don't know where I'm going. But I do know that I'm walking. Where? I don't know. Just away from this love affair."
- Rufus Wainwright, This Love Affair
"I wish I knew how to quit you."
- Jack Twist to Ennis Del Mar, Brokeback Mountain
"It's very difficult to keep the line between the past and the present. You know what I mean? It's awfully difficult."
- Edith "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale, Grey Gardens
"If you're going to let one little prick ruin your whole life, you're not the girl I thought you were."
- Professor Stromwell to Elle, Legally Blonde

A -
You were my orange plastic boy:
delightfully orange, regrettably plastic, almost a man.
Goodbye.

Eric Rhein 'Leaves' east village ...

2007-04-15T15:39:00.000-05:00

. . . and it already feels smaller, less exciting.

Multi-media visual artist and wire-bender extraordinaire, Eric Rhein moved his artist's studio from the East Village to Long Island City last week. Before relinquishing the space to the landlord -- who plans on gutting, renovating and rent-hiking it -- Eric hosted a final gathering. The apartment-cum-studio is located on the 6th floor walkup on East 14th Street, between Avenues A & B and is about as "East Village" as it gets.

Eric lived and worked in the space for over 26 years and it was where he created his most memorable works of art, including my favorite,"The Leaf Project," in which he formed over 120 different leaves from metal wire, each a tribute to someone who died an AIDS-related death. Seen individually or in a grouping, the "Leaves" are magical, striking a pitch-perfect triple balance between the cascading delicacy and light of the leaves themselves, the sharp metal corners that are their edges and the floating shadows they cast back on the pages that anchor them in space.

Much like its host, this last gathering was intimate and sweet, with an edge. And, at the risk of sounding like someone who says stuff like I'm about to, the space felt "sacred." The respect for Eric -- his work, his journey, his unique voice -- was palpable. It was moving to see Eric interact with each person as they entered the space. Each time his face brightened with genuine surprise and delight. One could sense that he was holding each person in his gaze, meeting him or her in the moment, gauging energy, and then bending to catch each word, like a priest hearing a confession. In the midst of "mourning" this space where he had squeezed his soul into art for decades, had learned of his own diagnosis, had laughed, danced, and cried with too many angels now departed, Eric's priority remained the comfort of others.

For those of us who feel most at home East of Fifth and South of 14th, each change in the neighborhood (and there have been so many) feels like a small death. And this was no exception.

Guests were asked to take the crayons and markers Eric had provided and leave messages (thanks, hopes, sadness, regret, whatever) on the walls to be brought down and carried out of the space after the gutting. I wrote a note of thanks to two people I've never met, but I feel I've come to know through hearing Eric speak of them. The notes were to his mom, Shelbi Rhein, and his uncle (Shelbi's brother) Elijah "Lige" Clarke, the gay rights pioneer and partner of Jack Nichols who was randomly murdered in Mexico in 1975. Eric's Uncle Lige served as the inspiration for one of Eric's recent shows, "Uncle Lige's Sword", which was installed at The LGBT Community Center in New York City.

The last evening in Eric's East Village digs was bittersweet to be sure, but I wouldn't have missed it.

Bravo Eric!

The page is turned and a blank one awaits.

You know what to do!

I'm Not in Love With You Anymore

2007-04-10T15:42:00.000-05:00

One hasn't quite lived (or died to illusion) until they've been on the receiving end of this sharp-ended, dagger-of-a-phrase sent hurtling across a room, launched from the mouth of someone with whom you (at one time, even though long ago) thought you would spend the rest of your life. It's deeply disturbing to discover that the very same mouth that so often comforted, tickled, promised, whispered, teased, and delighted reveals the unerring ease at which it can deliver venom as well. Regardless of whether the words strike the head or the heart first, or whether the relationship is rushed to intensive care and hooked to artificial means of "love-support," the wound will ultimately prove fatal because what that phrase really means is "I was never in love with you." And therein, my friends, lies the poison.

How does one fall out of Love? The answer is pretty simple. One doesn't. One falls, or more accurately stumbles -- bruising head, heart and soul -- out of an illusion of Love. At the risk of sounding like a wedding preacher: Love never fails. Love. Never. Fails. So, when a relationship purportedly based on "Love" fails, it's a fairly good indicator that what one was actually dealing with was one of Love's sneaky impostors -- infatuation, lust, physical desire, co-dependency.

I was treated to this (please God, let it be) once-in-a-lifetime lesson earlier tonight. I'd brought some things back to the Ex's that he'd left at my house after coming for Easter with a friend of ours. My intention was to drop the stuff off at the door and beat it. I was still smarting emotionally from Sunday's interaction, and we'd had one of our e-mail fencing matches earlier in the day. I was tired in every sense of the word.

A momentary lapse in judgment and I was goaded inside; suddenly I was on the wrong side of his apartment door. A veiled reference to the state of things between us and we were off. I don't remember what I said to compel him to say what came next, but I do remember his exact words. They were "I'm not in love with you anymore" and "I don't want to ever be in a relationship with you again." Uhm, ouch.

His delivery was too scripted not to be. I'd always had this upper hand with him; unlike me, he is incapable of any real subterfuge. I sensed that he'd been trying to say these words for a long time. So long, in fact, that the delivery at this time seemed cruel, unnecessarily so. We hadn't slept together for over a year and I could count the number of pleasant interactions during that time on one had.

I'm not sure why we were even interacting. I know I wasn't emotionally up to it, but I hung around. Did I think that we would get together again? Realistically, no, but something kept me hovering. I believe it had more to do with my New England-Irish-Catholic stubbornness and than with him. I hate losing, I hate not being right and I hate not being in control. With him I'd come up short on all three.

In my life, this in-spite-of determination has proved to be double-edged sword. While it's likely the reason I beat the odds early in life, it's also the reason I stay locked in losing scenarios, redoubling my energies.

What I discovered tonight is the awesome power of words. I now understand that words are capable of stopping a heart mid-beat, of stealing breath, of sending ice through veins and fire into the brain, of blinding sight.

I also discovered that they can be the very things that steel one's soul and provide clarity. All that was confused suddenly snapped into order when the full force of his words landed, and I was able to look at him evenly in the eyes and say "Goodbye," really meaning it for the first time.

The tears that followed were not about pain, but release.

As I turned to leave, he said, "Why do you torture yourself like this?" I kept walking, strength mounting in each step.

On the street I answered him . . . "I don't anymore."

Alcohol 1, Susan Birmingham 0

2007-04-03T09:53:00.001-05:00

Today I received a call from an old friend telling me that our mutual friend and former colleague, Susan Birmingham, slipped into a coma on Friday after being rushed to the hospital and was taken off life support on Sunday, April 1, 2007. Susan, who was 51, would have rolled her eyes at the irony of dying on April Fool's Day. Apparently, she had been ill for a while, but had not sought medical care because like over 46.6 million other Americans, she had no health insurance. The cause of her death was acute pancreatitis, which often results from long-term alcohol abuse.

Susan came to work in fundraising and grass-roots development at a non-profit shortly after I had started as a research attorney in the same organization in 1997. We became fast friends, and even faster drinking buddies. Many nights were spent huddled on stools with the rest of our thirsty co-workers at the Irish bar in the first floor of office building. When we were feeling culturally superior to our colleagues or just needed to feel that I-live-in-fucking-New-York feeling, we'd end up drinking multiple dirty Bombay Sapphire martinis (up, exceedingly dry) at Raoul's in SoHo and splitting an order of Steak Frites. We both loved this city and knew that is was where we were destined to live.

Susan had achieved considerable success in the world of non-profits, as one on the initial architects of the PIRGs (Public Interest Research Groups) that brought grass-roots lobbying to college campuses. She was instrumental in bringing what had been so successful in the East out West. The contacts she made then sustained her in that world as she eventually set herself up as a freelance consultant in development in organizing.

She had so many abilities -- razor sharp mind that could strategize 50 angles at once, the ability to size a person up intellectually on the spot, incredible prioritization skills and she was a team and consensus builder beyond compare. Her issues were certainly to the left, but those around her considered her sharpest rebuke to be when she said you were acting like "such a fucking liberal." She had no patience for emotionalism of any kind and was equally intolerant of anyone's refusal to seek and reach his or her full potential.

Susan saw more possiblitity in me than I saw in myself. I, likewise, had the same ability when looking at her. We were, in many ways, each other's cracked mirror. Like so many alcoholics [she was of the self-admitted, non-anonymous variety], she held many inconsistencies in her life giving her, what I know she liked to think of as, mystery. As a grass-roots organizer, she was likely indirectly responsible for registering more voters in this country than any other person, yet she remained unregistered herself. She could manage millions of dollars of development without being aware of her checkbook balance at any given time. She organized multi-course fundraising dinners, seeing to the very last detail, but didn't have anything but frozen M&Ms and uncovered wedges of French cheese in her refrigerator. She was my kinda gal.

My heart sank when I received the call because I had not been in contact with Susan for a few months. We were just starting to speak again after a falling out about a year ago. I later learned that this pattern was one of Susan's and that her life had many similar loose threads. We deeply respected and cared for one another on a level that is irreversible. We had shared our truths with each other and remain connected in that place for eternity, but the ability to interact on an everyday basis eluded us. It had a bit to do with some unsavory hangers-on who had arrived on the scene and had started, in my opinion, to use her and syphon off energy and funds like parasites, but it also had to do with us, our stubbornness and our pride.

My life is a more honest one for having known Susan Birmingham. We were together on 9/11, walking below Canal Street listening to the sirens and joking about her mother being the only one in the world who didn't call her daughter in NYC that day, she threw me a wonderful 35th birthday party at her "fabulous Tribeca loft" (that's what she and I insisted on calling it), she gave me $20 when I didn't have it and I did the same for her.

We were able to see each other as the other really was. And neither of us flinched.

I already miss you SB. I can't believe I'll never hear your laughter again.

Drugs 1, David Zuch 0

2007-03-26T20:30:00.000-05:00

"A middle-aged man was found dead of an apparent drug overdose in his Chelsea apartment, authorities said yesterday. The body of David Zuch, 43, was found in bed in his West 24th Street apartment near Seventh Avenue at about 8:51 p.m. Saturday, cops said."
--NYPD Blotter, New York Post, March 26, 2007.

I was in Chelsea for lunch today when I ran into C*. He's one of the men in my men's group. I love seeing these guys in the "real world." It reminds me of when I was ten and would see a school friend at the grocery store or McDonald's -- the irrepressible goofy-ass grin riding the tails of a huge adrenaline rush. These men have been mirrors and sounding boards. They know me better than lovers I've had, and often better than I know myself. I've loved and hated each of them deeply.

We are all men, and gay, but other than that it's a mixed bag -- rich/poor, HIV+/HIV-, single/coupled, addicted to drugs, sex, drama and not. The "hot" ratio is exceedingly high and there's an abundance of biceps and bulges to keep the eyes involved when the ego's in denial. Honestly, though, I've gained more insight and practical self-knowledge participating in this group for 18 months than I learned in the ten prior years of individual psychotherapy and psychiatry.

C immeditately asked if I had heard about David, a long-time member who had left the group within the last year. In a way, he never really left the group. There just came a time when it became obvious he wasn't coming back. I had mixed feelings about his leaving; I was as annoyed by David's version of human interaction as I was amused by it. I did, however, recognize much of his baggage, which simultaneously matched and clashed my own. I now understand that it's these "hot button pushers" who are usually in positions to teach me something about myself.

C told me that David had been discovered dead in his apartment after friends who had planned to meet him for dinner were stood up and they couldn't reach him. They had convinced security in his Chelsea apartment building to let them into his apartment. When they arrived, the door was ajar and David was dead in his bed. There are salient facts surrounding the manner in which David was found that I'm purposely omitting because I wasn't there and no purpose is served by divulging them. Suffice to say that the police reported that the death was an apparent "drug overdose," the door was left open by someone(s) and it was a few hours before The Black Party. Those are the delightful dots, connect them if you wish.

David (he hated being called "Dave") was the owner of a custom drapery business, Mark David Interiors, which is located in the garment district. He had achieved the modern-day equivalent of the turn-of-the-century immigrant's dream, building a prosperous business doing something he loved. He was a natural salesman -- gregarious, stubborn, street-smart, charming, and loud. David actually had a twinkle in his eyes, the became brighter when he laughed, which was often.

He loved to talk about gay sex, regaling with past exploits and plotting as-yet-unrealized debaucheries. He had lost all twink qualities that he swore he once possessed and slid rather too easily into the younger version of the "leather Daddy" clone -- cropped graying hair, goatee, big belly, 501's, black leather boots and wrist band and a starched button-down. His belly was bigger than what I typically like to maneuver around, but with targeted marketing and the right sales pitch, his appeal was there. He was also someone who I'd discussed drugs with outside the group and he had his own version of negotiated sobriety -- abstinence from one things offset by permission to dabble in most others.

If you live in the City long enough, you start collecting these stories; particularly if you're in certain communities. And the older one gets, the quicker they come. To be honest, the most shocking thing about seeing David's story in the New York Post 'NYPD Blotter' section wasn't the fact that drugs had done him it, it was that the article referred to him as a "middle-aged" man. I distinctly remember gasping. He was only two years older than me, and (after a quick calculation), I realized that if I thought I was going to make it to 80 then, I in fact, was already middle-aged. Damn. [The irony here is that to describe David as middle-aged when reporting his death at 43 makes absolutely no sense; apparently he was middle-aged when he was somewhere between 21 and 22. I digress.]

In discussing David's death with friends, it became obvious to me that many were doing what I myself had done -- mentally placing myself dead in my bed, in that position, with my door open.

Oddly enough, David is, in a way, lying "on" my bed each night. Let me explain. A few months after I joined the group, my Ex and I had our first big break-up, moving into separate apartments. As part of creating a new-space-all-my-own, David agreed to fashion a "bachelor" duvet cover out of a old custom-made, late-1960's bedspread that I had bought on Ebay (it's crushed velvet -- grape purple, chartreuse, chocolate brown and teal striped Alexander Girard fabric that allegedly belonged to some queen who lived at The Dakota -- it's, uhm, stunning). It wasn't cheap and David didn't cut me a deal at all, but it's one of my favorite things in this world.

See, that's how it always happens. I start to examine what it means to die, to die sadly, to die alone and end up talking about creature comforts, beauty, the price of things. I suppose that's why I still go to group, because there's still work to do. I also go because I can. I wish David could. I hope he's finally found the peace, acceptance, real joy, whatever it was he was chasing. Big love to you Dave. Thanks for your contributions to me, my life . . . and my bed. [I can hear his dirty laugh right now.]

* Names negotiated to protect the not-so-innocent, but more importantly to honor the safety of the group. David is not afforded this courtesy, as he is dead. Dead men can't be libeled or slandered; it's one of the bitches about dying, I suppose.

Timing is Everything

2007-03-21T23:39:00.000-05:00

It was rush hour on a Friday night, four years ago today.

I was on the "A" train, heading uptown from Fulton Street. I had been with a friend Susan, and I was running late. The train was crowded and I was standing, holding the pole, and facing the doors as they opened on Chambers Street. This slight, dimpled thing walked into towards me, grabbed the pole and looked sideways (you know, how you look without looking). We soared through all the gay cruising signals before the first stop. He had the face of an angel and I tried to act cool. Finally, I was in the right place at the right time. Timing is everything.

Although the glances became less furtive as we looked each other up and down, the people surrounding us remained largely unaware of the homo-urban ritual taking place right next to them. We spoke without words, barely looking at each other. We shifted our weight, leaning into each other, while our fingers grazed each other's on the pole. He looked at my pants and smiled because I was hard. I could see he was excited too. His hand reached, grabbed and was gone without anyone noticing. The train pulled into 14th Street and I realized I hadn't been breathing for the last two stops. He started out, looked back and asked if it was my stop. The French accent was unmistakable. "It is now," I said and stumbled out after him, barely making it through the doors before they shut. Timing is everything.

Everything was communicated in silence from that point. We stumbled out of the station onto Eighth Avenue, falling all over each other. When we rounded the corner at West 19th Street, I remember pushing him against the outside wall of the Joyce Theater; that was where we first kissed. We made it into his apartment building and onto the elevator before the general mauling started, only to be carried over into his living room (for a while) and bed. In between, I noticed all the books (walls and walls) and the incredible art; this guy was something. We were lying on his bed, holding each other as a violent thunderstorm began outside. The moment will always be "one of those moments" for me -- safe, warm, exhausted from sex and laughing out loud in bed with a beautiful man, while hearing lightning crackle outside and steady beat of heavy rain agains the window. We had barely beat the storm inside. Timing is everything.

I Want to be a Teenage Lesbian

2007-03-20T22:35:00.000-05:00

Katherine Tuck (age 13) was named winner of the National Oder-Eaters Rotten Sneaker Contest, which was held in Vermont today. I have no idea of what Ms. Tuck's orientation is, but I would love to think that this is what 13 year old lesbians look like these days.

Her mom, Paula Tuck, said, "I'm so proud of the little stinker."

You go Tucks!

(AP Photo/Toby Talbot)

Perfect Storm at The Eagle

2007-03-18T21:59:00.002-05:00

In retrospect, I realize how close I was to total disaster tonight. All the elements of a perfect storm were present. But I had denied intstinct and ventured out to meet him.

I trudged through the grey slurpee-filled streets, arriving at The Eagle for its Sunday Night Beer Blast, which is touted as the "best beer blast in New York City" (is there another one?). My most recent ex had asked me to join him and a friend there because he felt that it would be "good for me." I should add that it took every ounce of self discipline in my body to refer to this man, er boy, as my "most recent ex." In fact, I'm a bit dizzy seeing it in print. Suffice to say, there is a lot of "there" there, which will not doubt drip into subsequent postings. Where was I?

So, I entered The Eagle slipping from cold darkness into a slightly warmer version of the same. Standing in the coatcheck line in dripping lumberjack gear, I was already contemplating a swift retreat when I was spotted. A flash of lightning, but still too distant to hear any attendant rumbling thunder. He offers to buy me a drink (we both know this means a Coke). He hands it to me, I take a sip and then actually exhale for the first time since entering. When I thank him, he tells me not to worry about it because the bartender didn't charge him, because it was only a Coke. The clouds began to darken and gather and I thought I discerned a familiar shape forming in the shifing pattern.

His friend (messed up, adorable Frederic) then arrives, a precious ray earnestly trying to shine. But the reprieve is momentary because before you can say "'Gun Oil' lube," this gaggle (there's no other way to describe them) of beards, shaved heads, pecs, tight jeans and gimme caps saunters over and starts air kissing my ex and his friend. Air kissing in The Eagle?! I promised myself a future spin in my own grave for having had to bear witness to that. It was obvious that some or all had met (read: fucked) before and they all were sniffing around evaluating weight gain, hair loss and imminent hook potential.

One (we'll call him Jeffrey) was introduced to my ex and moved between us to start a conversation with him. The ex is irresistable dimpled French, complete with the accent; he can't help it. The clouds burst; I was on outside, watching. Suddenly, it was 1979 and I was at a junior high dance in that school gymnasium during a slow dance song; I started looking for a lesbian, any lesbian. There was simultaneous lightning and thunder, with an echo sounding eerily like my ex saying "it'll be good for you."

Then I heard the Ex say, "Oh, he's from NH too" while pointing at me. The circle opened and I was let back in. Apparently I wasn't going to be picked last for dodgeball today. Jeffrey's interest bobbled between the Ex and I (his zipper and his head) for the next few minutes, but when the Ex turned to order another beer, I closed in.

Apparently, one of the other guys that had come with Jeffrey to The Eagle was his Ex of two days! Suddenly I wasn't the bravest one in the room.

Misery may love company, but two is company, not three (or six).

We left the group, went upstairs, kissed like teenagers in the back of a stolen car, felt each other up, swapped spit and stories, sad and sweet. In between bumps and grinds I actually heard the words "sweet" and "sexy." The storm had dissipated and only the slightest drizzle remained, more refreshing than annoying. Lost for a moment were the thoughts of how strong I was being; I was simply enjoying a new face, which, btw, is attached to a killer bod, that looked, asked, listened.

Then my Ex, with friend in tow, arrived upstairs, tittering like the French schoolgirls they are, sounding like raindrops being splattered to bits on the hard cement.

Jeffrey and I only made it to 2nd base, but I have his card. If I never see him again though, he will have given me a moment's shelter and warmth in the midst of roiling turbulence.

I hugged and kissed Jeffrey and my Ex "Goodnight," thanked one after the other for a fine time, and smacked each of their asses -- one rock-solid Daddy, the other boy bubble -- as I walked into the slushy night. I tread carefully, avoiding the deep slush at the intersections, and made it home, alone, with dry feet -- which is a good thing.

Lord Have MRSA on Me

2007-03-14T19:43:00.000-05:00

I've just spent five days attached to an antibiotic IV drip at St. Vincent's. Apparently, I contracted MRSA (Methicillin–Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus) by either direct or indirect contact with another infected person. Sexy, I know.

Last Thursday night, it felt like the bridge of my nose and my left cheek bone were broken. When I awoke, the pain was duller, but seemed to have moved outward. My left cheek was warm and it felt slightly swollen. I went to work and as the day progressed, I knew something was up. I had been visited by MRSA before -- about two and a half years ago. There was an small epidemic of it in the city, and it was targeting a "select group of gay men engaging in certain activities." I could be more specific, but I'm not in the mood right now. Regardless, over the course of six months I had approximately 10 or 12 MRSA outbreaks. They were localized and looked and acted like incredibly painful boils. A couple of months of unbelievably strong antibiotics and they disappeared. This time, however, it was different; it wasn't acting like the MRSA I knew, so I had no idea.

The problem with MRSA is that it is resistant to most antibiotics. It moves quickly and can be incredibly dangerous if it gets out of hand. I went to see my doctor -- HIV physician to the beautiful, gifted and talented -- Dr. Paul C. Bellman. He thought it might be a bacterial infection that had somehow made its way into my nose or tear duct. He put me on a 45-minute antibiotic drip and then sent me out the door with a script and a warning -- if it worsened, I would have to go to the ER. I was sure it was already getting better, so I left, filled the prescription, took my first dose and slipped into that type of sleep only afforded those fighting infection -- quasi-Zombie.

I was aroused by Chinese banter drifting into my studio windows from Essex Street. I stretched, yawned and opened my eyes, uhm actually one eye. The left one refused to budge. The image in in my bathroom mirror was a cross between the Elephant Man and that Hunchback guy from the Disney cartoon. The left side of my face was twice its normal size. I spent a full 15 seconds desperately trying to twist my mind into some shape that could somehow rationalize what was before me as "not worse" than the night before.

Mental gymnastics failing, I burst into tears, which (annoyingly) could only gracefully drip from my right eye. I can be a tough little fuck when the cameras are rolling, but the definition of a bitch sissy behind closed doors. I thought I heard distant strains of "will I lose my dignity" slowly filling the room as the cast from "Rent" (the younger original Broadway version, not the much older version that limped through the film) made their way up the stairs of my Lower East Side walkup, white sheet in hand to cover me up just like Angel. My brain instantly hit the "play"button on the "Death by AIDS-related Complications" mental video it uses to inflict terror. It's a film I know well, having seen its debut screening in 1984 when I first heard of "gay cancer." Of course, it was on Beta then, but it has faithfully been transferred to VHS then subsequently digitally restored on DVD. The scenes are always the same, but the color is more vivid than ever.

I snapped out of it and started dialing Dr. Belman. I paged, paced, waited, and dripped tears (unevenly). Fuck. I dialed the Ex. Damn, damn, damn. He answers and although I manage to start out strong, by the end of the conversation, I'm a mess.

The Ex, as exes do, seized this moment to become completely sane, loving and reasonable. Damn, damn, damn. He walked me through a checklist and promised to meet me at the St. Vincent's ER. He was there when I arrived, and twice a day every day I was at the hospital. I learned a lesson about not having expectations and about acceptance. I was also reminded that I always have what I need in the moment that I need it. "It" may not come from where I think, or even want, it to, but it's there. And, in fact, it never looks like I think it will.

In my experience, illness is the universe's not-so-subtle way of saying, "sit down and shut up." I tried to do both. I left the hospital recharged and grateful. And still a bit rattled about how quickly one's life can change.

What's in a Name

2007-03-01T23:48:00.000-05:00

It seems appropriate to start with a few words about the name of the blog.

It's actually a quote from a young black woman who was working at a McDonald's somewhere between Waco and El Paso in the Spring of 1987. It was Spring Break and eight of us were roadtripping from Texas to California. Four days driving for three days of Los Angeles. Tragic, I know.

It was after midnight and we stumbled into McDonald's. We were a moving menace of punch-drunk, sleep-deprived, fraternity boys from Texas. Woohoo! Three of us were gay, roommates, and closeted to the world and each other. Tragic, I know.

As we approached the counter, we all passed a stumbling, red-leather-coat-wearing Michael Jackson wannabe trying to get his drunk ass out of McD's. He was a sashaying mess of dripping Geri curl hair, flailing arms and swinging hips. He was every closeted man's nightmare -- obvious. We turned back to the counter after asked the girl what "that" was.

Deadpan as hell, she said, "he gay."

Sometimes the obvious needs to be stated and re-stated. My goal in this blog is to remind myself of things once known then forgotten, truths revealed then buried.

Thank you for joining me on this journey.