Apologies for the hiatus! I’ve been making excuses again. But, seeing as how all other forms of writing are back on the horizon for me, I figured blogging could squeeze its way into my schedule as well.

Here is a little something to satisfy your palates – literally. I realized with all the wining and dining I do in New York, it was high time I wrote some commentary on the subject.

This is a list that I started after a dinner at the West Bank Cafe, located at 42nd and 9th.

Enjoy!

1. The bathroom stalls have floor-to-ceiling length doors and sinks that look like bowls of pottery.
2. There is at least one item on the entree list that is in a foreign language – even if the restaurant is not ethic.
3. The “pre-meal” item does not consist of bread.
4. Sorbet is served between courses to “cleanse” the palate. We all know it’s served just because it tastes amazing.
5. The cognac list is as long (if not longer) than the regular dessert list.
6. Gratuity is automatically added to your bill regardless of party size.
7. The waiter is incredibly skilled at opening bottles of wine – you’re not sure, but you think you just saw him do it one-handed.
8. You don’t get a choice of salad dressing and there are no croutons.
9. There are no children in sight. If there are, they have napkins neatly folded in their shirts.
10. You know it’s going to be a night you’re everywhere you want to be – VISA is in your back pocket.

Something about having a new trumpet-playing neighbor whose music wafts through my open windows makes me feel even more New York.

I get to create a whole back story for this person – perhaps they’ve always lived there, but they just started playing. Or maybe they are someone’s child who has just started taking music lessons or an out-of-town relative staying for an extended period. It doesn’t really matter, plus, the mystery of it all is part of the fun.

It reminds me of another set of windows where another instrument could be heard. During my sophomore year of college, I lived in a dorm that was part of a  pseudo-quad set up. A very talented drummer lived across the way in the dorm just diagonal from mine. It was the only kind of noise I didn’t mind distracting me from a paper or reading. In fact, I welcomed it.

Now, here I am, six years later, in my apartment in the city that was only a dream back then…

The 40th anniversary of the Stonewall riots passed this weekend. Today, many people are aware that this anniversary coincides with gay pride festivities. There are parades in New York (where the Stonewall Inn bar still stands) and all over the country.

But just this past Sunday, June 28, police raided the Rainbow Lounge, a gay bar in Fort Worth, TX.
(Read more, here at Andrew Sullivan’s blog.)

This story is particularly poignant as my girlfriend is from Dallas. I think I will have to discuss this more with her and possibly update this post.

But suffice to say, I thought we really had gotten past this. In New York, on the east coast, in Texas, in the United States.

This is both a shout out to my friend, Stephanie who runs The Wander List (see blogroll) and a shameless plug for a piece I wrote called Bring Comfy Shoes, Appetite for ‘Upstate Manhattan.’ 

Check out her awesome travel blog right here at WordPress and find my entry on cool things to do in ‘Upstate Manhattan’ (aka, Washington Heights/Inwood) posted today, June 16.

Hopefully, I will be posting regularly in the future.

may save this adult’s sanity.

I attended a volunteer orientation at the non-profit’s Superhero Supply Co. store today. I left feeling invigorated at the idea of workshopping poetry and short stories with some feisty middle schoolers. Not to mention, 826 hosts a reading series for its volunteers called Knight of Time. Insert massive excitement here.

On a personal note (aside from the mention of saving my sanity), I think getting involved with an organization like this will be a huge positive change. I’m not sure how I’ll work with the kids, but most of my trepidation has subsided. Working with other artistic-minded people happily occupies me.

I love starting something new, especially a new writing endeavor, because just the thought of it motivates me to write more.

Hopefully, I’ll get an email from the volunteer contact at 826 and I can start TA-ing for a workshop this summer.
The sooner I take the plunge, the better.

We should all be so lucky to do something we love.

It’s June, aka gay pride, which means I’ll be searching for cool (and possibly free) gay events happening this month.

I’m really excited about this event which is being hosted by the New York Public Library.

And just for fun:

Then…

Gay Liberation Front, 1969 (by Diane Davies)

Gay Liberation Front, 1969 (by Diane Davies)

and now….

Gay is the New Black cover (courtesy of The Advocate)

Gay is the New Black cover (courtesy of The Advocate)

And this is why I say it’s a bad idea to rely on your parents for money. If you don’t, you’ll never miss what you never had.

Maybe thinking this way makes me way too proud and self-righteous. To this end, my father once said, “You’d rather slit your own throat than accept help.”
Of course, he’s also the same man who, upon my college graduation, said, “Congratulations! Now, you’re off the payroll!”  so I think he gets to take some responsibility for raising me to be so fiercely independent.

This personal essay/informal expository piece was originally posted on Livejournal in January 2009.

I may continue working with it, or expand upon it to create some sort of a series about gay/lesbian dynamics and the influence of nightlife.

Enjoy. As always, comments are welcome and appreciated.

Last night, Trisha and I went to the L Word premiere at this club on 46th and 11th Avenue (read as: the end of the universe – everything ends when you get to 11th-12th Avenue). It was ridiculous. Just plain ri-dic-u-lous.

I mean, don’t get me wrong – it was entertaining, the first new episode and the various people watching.  But man, some of these girls…well, they just reminded me of the sluts hanging around Henrietta’s or Cattyshack. It was like I had seen them all before somehow, even in a city as big as New York. There’s also this perfume or cologne that always seems to infiltrate every lesbian/gay bar or club that I’ve ever been to (possibly even in London). It’s like the secret password I don’t know.

Maybe it was the fact that I waited alone in the incredibly long-ass line to get in which always sets me in a self-conscious mood. (Trisha was coming from the theater, so I got there before her.) I feel intimidated in front of that many girls, especially when I KNOW they’re all gay. Even when I have a girlfriend – an amazing one at that, who I’m completely in love with and practically live with, I get stupidly insecure. I felt like I was on display out there. Sure, I chatted with some groups of girls (friends) who were waiting and we made the best of the wait together, but it was awkward. And I’m usually okay with strangers. Not dykes, though. Especially not hot ones. 

When I finally got in, I killed time at the bar and then Trisha made it inside. We did some serious people-watching on a couch in the upstairs lounge. The place was HUGE, one of those warehouse-turned-nightclubs. Given the location, I wouldn’t be surprised if Pacha used to be the home some kind of distribution center. (I almost wrote “fish market” – ha, how appropriate.) It was three floors and on this night, jam-packed with girls from probably a 20-50 mile radius. The main floor was really insane – I only went down there for a few minutes, but I encountered many interesting characters along with go-go dancers. Yes, go-go dancers. Seriously, WTF, HRC? These were not cute, campy burlesque type go-go dancers. These were cheerleaders in heels. I’m sorry, do what you like, ladies, but it’s not my idea of entertainment. They were just so…gross. Maybe that’s harsh, maybe you just had to be there… 

After the show (and by show, I mean the actual television program – ha), we had to fight our way out through swarms of women to exit. (I actually thought of Jenny’s line from Season 1 – “women bodies.” The last time Jenny was remotely nice and endearing.) On our way, we stumbled across some more go-go girls – this time in glass boxes. Again, WTF? 

When we finally made it outside, I was so grateful to link arms and walk to the subway in the snow. It was cold and I had to pee, but I was happy. Happy to go home.

The whole night felt like a sociological experiment, like the producers of The Real World had hijacked the club and made sure every type of girl was present. Nearly every archetype was represented, there were even a few goofy in-love kids like me. However, overall, the meat-market vibe was the most predominant. But then I started thinking: hasn’t my clubbing/gay scene experience ALWAYS been more of a meat-market? Hardly anyone’s there to meet The One. But I used to…Then I learned that I was in the minority. So I tried to play the game and I sucked at it. (For the most part – I probably had more success in London than anywhere else and that was probably due to the fact that I was out of my element.) And then, I met Trisha. But not at a lesbian bar, thank the gods. (It just makes our story a little more original, to me, anyway.) 

While I’m a little disturbed and a lot disappointed in the lesbian/gay scene in New York, it also reminds me of conversations I’ve been having with a good straight friend of mine. She’s lamented how there are no good guys in New York and how cruel the dating scene can be. I never really GOT IT until last night when I scanned the rooms at all these women – some putting on a front, some blatantly putting their agendas out there, some not sure what the hell was going on. Everywhere you go – gay or straight – it does seem to be one big metaphorical game of Scrabble or Poker and you’re wandering around with the wrong letters or face cards. I know this is an understatement – and obvious one at that – but man, it’s rough out there.

This essay is inspired by true events. I’m hoping to generate some discussion and possibly send this out into the rest of the world…Comments welcome and appreciated.

I was standing at the corner of Bleecker and Father Demo Square when I heard, “Oh my God, those two girls just kissed!”

I whirled around to find a group of late teenage boys, possibly even of fraternity age, snickering and clapping.

I had just kissed a girl I had met a few weeks prior. It would be one of several unsettling encounters we would face in the beginning of our relationship. And one thing all of these encounters had in common was the location: New York. If someone had told me I would have problems being out in this city, I probably would have responded, “Yes, perhaps twenty or thirty years ago, but surely not now.”

Considering I wasn’t even alive thirty years ago, much less living in Manhattan perhaps elucidates my inability to appreciate or comprehend the progress gays have made toward acceptance in major cities and elsewhere.

Admittedly, I came out of the closet in safe microcosm: a private liberal arts college surrounded by supportive friends and family. The only people I had to do battle with were my parents and even they arrived at plane of tolerance eventually. I could hold hands with, kiss, and all but publicly declare my love for another girl in the middle of campus without one person doing a double-take.

I was fortunate, but also handicapped to come out in such a particular bubble. While it had the advantage of safety and comfort, it was also had a distinct disadvantage of a warped reality. I would soon learn what was acceptable in the foothills of  relatively progressive New Jersey was not always acceptable elsewhere.

Prior to the early evening encounter with our “frat boys,” my girlfriend and I also met the cat calls and whistles of a slightly older man. He called out, “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” as we kissed good night in front of her West Village apartment building. My first thought was immediately of an indignant and irritated nature. To a degree, this reaction was rightfully so – we were in the middle of gaytown in New York City. Muttering “duh” in response doesn’t even begin to cover it. However, to think I would never get hassled or receive an eye roll for what I perceived as a little harmless PDA was simply naïve.

Another day, another borough. We were on our way to Astoria, Queens on the N train. Leaning against the subway door, my girlfriend put her arm around me and whispered in my ear, probably just some sweet nothings to pass the long ride. At one point she caught the eye of an older woman, older than our mothers but not by much. This woman gave her one of those disapproving eye narrows combined with a slow, deliberate head shake. As though we were smuggling cocaine from Manhattan to Queens. I know there were – and still are – probably much more pressing issues to agonize over that day. But two silly dykes were became this woman’s ridiculous fixation.

Naturally, we both had to go all the way to the end of the train line so we did our best to dodge our ruffled passenger. Part of me finds us cowardly for going out of our way to keep this complete stranger a little more comfortable. The age-old mantra of “why should we be the ones to change our behavior and not the other way around” gets beat back into my head repeatedly. But, perhaps we are better people for it, giving that woman a slice of peace for a moment. Perhaps her daughter or friend or sister-in-law had just come out and declared herself Proud Lesbian, trademark and she just couldn’t take one more second of girl-on-girl lovey dovey crap.

Yet, in 2008 in the middle of an extremely liberal, anything-goes wear your underwear as your outerwear kind of city, you would think an eye roll wouldn’t be able to survive.

While these encounters all revolved around a kiss or hand hold, the most invasive occurred when my girlfriend were standing several feet apart on the 1 train in Manhattan. I was talking about some friends of mine who were having problems in their relationship when a man interrupted me to ask if I was gay. No exaggeration, he simply asked me that question as though he were asking for the time. I was so flabbergasted, I could barely form a response. I decided, somewhat idiotically, to go with the truth. Why lie, I thought? What’s he going to do? After I responded yes, he continued to hurl a barrage of questions my way.

“What’s that like?” (My favorite question of all time. You seriously have time for me to answer that question?)

“Have you ever been with a man?”

“Why didn’t it work out?”

And then finally, not so much a question, but a statement, “Maybe you just need to find the right guy” and something to the effect of “you’re a pretty girl…” Yes, sir, I know I am, but I really love my girlfriend, thanks.

This confrontation left me so shaken that as we left the subway, I began to cry. I couldn’t believe that a total stranger would think to invade someone else’s life like that. And furthermore, that I would allow them to do so.

Cut to a hot summer week in the middle of Texas. We traveled to Austin, more specifically the town of Kerrville, for a friend’s wedding. We were on my girlfriend’s home turf. I trusted her judgment to know how to act around fellow Texans – what was too much, what didn’t require caution – but when she took my hand in hers while crossing a parking lot in the middle of nowhere hill country, I thought she had lost her mind. It may have been the middle of nowhere to this suburban-raised, New York-dwelling woman, but there were still people around – and not the kind of people who would consider two lesbians inoffensive.

Yet, we received no disapproving looks, no cat calls, no gross stares. And this bizarre phenomenon of live and let live continued for the duration of our trip. We traveled around the middle of the state and I cannot recall one uncomfortable instance.

From the Big Apple to the Lone Star, I have experienced all sorts of decency and indecency. We are living in a country where most would have assumed what I assumed: New York = safe for queers, Texas = better get a gun at the airport. Part of this assumption has formed from the political climate of the last treacherous eight years – we were “feared” into believing in two Americas. One America declared as the two coasts combined with the smatterings of blue interspersed in the Mid and Southwest while the other had been deemed the “Real America” – the deep south, certain chunks of the Midwest – the parts of America where the working and middle class upheld traditional values and scorned any round pegs that didn’t fit into their square holes.

I admit I bought into this gimmick as well. I had never even been to anywhere west of the Mississippi that wasn’t California or Chicago until I traveled to Texas last summer. I believed the people of Alabama or Louisiana would hang me in a heartbeat and I’d do well enough to just stay away. Keep safe and happy in the carved out havens like New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Boston.

Then I learned there is no such thing as safe, and not just in the abstract Matthew Shepherd kind of way. All of our hearts bled that day, but I think those of us not living in Wyoming thought, “That would never happen to us.” Or, perhaps for older gay men and women, “Well that won’t happen here now.” But despite the previous battles fought and supposedly won, it seems we haven’t won all the hearts and minds necessary to freely co-exist in this world. From middle of the plain states to Lake Shore Drive to Bleecker Street to East Texas to the Castro, every American has their own idea about what is acceptable in their backyard. And surprisingly, the acceptance can come in the places you don’t always expect. Then again, isn’t that part of what makes this country worth exploring?

In the spirit of Andrew Sullivan’s blog, I give you the view from my Join the Impact protest (against Prop 8/for gay marriage), New York City, 11/15/08:

The crowd in the beautiful sun.

The crowd in the beautiful sun.

A sign waxing on current events.

A sign waxing on current events.

My favorite sign of the day

My favorite sign of the day

All pictures courtesy of yours truly. I’m not sure there are any words that could sum up my feeling of comradery with my fellow citizens.

Perhaps a piece of poetry to follow…