The Mark of Kane

Ordinary World

2010-07-16T14:34:00.004-04:00

...with apologies.

It's been over a year since last I wrote in these pages. Much longer, if you were looking for anything of substance.

Blogging has changed...it's certainly not the animal it was when I started doing this back in 2005. Rather than sending missives out into the ether, where they would float and languish in the brackish backwater that is this blog, occasionally snagging the odd wayward traveler, I've been availing myself of the much more immediately gratifying social interaction platforms since invented, and pretty much now regard The Mark of Kane as one would, say, a first generation iPhone; still interesting, but almost quaint in it's obsolescence.

I noticed that this wasn't only happening here. Many of the blogs I once read have changed, or disappeared. When I started, I would often devote a couple of hours a day catching up on the blogs I favored. My daily required blog-reading list has dwindled down to a mere handful of familiar names requiring perhaps a daily allotment twenty minutes, if that much. In addition, I've been excised from many of the blog rolls I was once formerly a part of. I can imagine those parties felt no need to continue checking this page, only to be confronted with the same old Shirley Jackson novel title and stolen photograph of the building in which we reside.

Which brings me to this: I really did not want to write about the past year. I didn't much feel like sharing the intimate details of how Tim and I cobbled our lives together, after 14 years of living apart. Suffice to say, we have been rather successful in that regard, and the general consensus is that we should have done it years ago.

In the process, much has changed. Tim is no longer bartending at the Dugout and the Dugout, of course, is no longer. After a dozen years of Sundays spent slinging cocktails (Tim) or leaning against one jukebox or another (Me), surrounded by many, many dear friends, we found ourselves without so much as a home base in the world at large. For a time we tried a few other options, anything to avoid the dreaded Sunday Scaries, but after a while we came to realize that there really weren't many palatable options out there for a couple of gentlemen so clearly in their fifties.

GAY is a radio frequency I find I'm having trouble receiving these days. I'm sure the transmitter is as strong as ever, but now the signal arrives full of static, broken up, or not at all. After tuning in for well over 40 years, I suppose I should be more upset than I am, but there you have it. I'm not.

A fairly recent blog purports to be a guide written for the "postfabulous" homosexual. Upon perusal, one finds that there's very little "postfabulous" about it. It's pretty much your standard up-to-date gay gazette of all the latest, greatest notions put forth for the elucidation of those denizens of a world I've left behind. For me, it might as well be written in Farsi.

I realize that I'm not post-anything.

I've turned a corner in my life which has afforded me a vastly different panorama, though no less wondrous.

I have a home and a husband now, and I enjoy them both to the such an extent that I don't often want to leave. That outside world we've both known so well is now pretty much gone. We still go out and walk among the ruins sometimes, pausing to view the new city built on the ashes of our own.

Then we head home.

We Have Always Lived In The Castle

2009-06-30T16:50:00.002-04:00

Home Sweet Home!

If You're Going To San Francisco...

2009-04-01T12:02:00.001-04:00

with thanks again to Liz Hickok

I think I'm a little too old to wear flowers in my hair, although Harry Hay may have had a difference of opinion on that subject.

We're off to celebrate Tim's 50th birthday in our favorite city.

When we return, we begin the process of combining our households.

Lots of excitement afoot!

See y'all soon!

Twilight

2009-03-13T18:20:00.013-04:00

with apologies to JL1967

I just wasn't feeling it.

After so many years of heading down to the bar on Sunday afternoons, I've lately become rather recalcitrant about making the trip west. It's odd, but being at the bar for those couple of hours is yet another way I get to spend time with Tim. We share glances, smiles and short updates over the bar all through the evening. The nights that I rebel and stay home strangely feel like punishment. I revel in those evenings when my pals turn up en masse, but then there are those nights when I'm mostly left to my own devices, doing all I can to fade into the jukebox, watching the passing parade of disinterested men and fighting off impending panic attacks. But I'm a creature of habit and devotion, so mostly, I grab a sandwich for Tim and head on over to take my place and make my stand.

That night I arrived more than an hour later than I usually do. Tim saw my face and quickly passed me a shot of bourbon and a beer in hopes of awakening my liquid personality. As always, I short circuited the on-going Madonnathon for my own amusement and arranged myself in the same place I've stood for nigh onto a dozen years. In the dim red light, I caught sight of my grim, grey face in the mirror on the opposing wall and smiled ruefully.

As luck would have it, I was soon pulled from my doldrums by the arrival of a very small group of friends who piled their gear behind me, grabbed beers and arranged themselves around me, surrounding and distracting me from the dark thoughts that have nagged at me all season. I was most grateful for their smiles and small talk, the hugs and hilarity that ensued. The bar was filling up when the side door opened, and he walked in.

I recognized him immediately.

Though it had been over thirty years, he still pretty much looked the same. Tall, taller than me, age had filled out his rangy limbs and softened his lupine features. The same hank of sandy hair hung over his forehead. His pale hooded eyes searched the room as he walked to the bar. I could not take my eyes off him.

He wore a heavy black leather jacket, perfectly tailored to a man his size. I watched him as he made his way to the bar and ordered a drink. Leaning back, he sized up the crowd. Our eyes met briefly.

I saw him order another drink and make his way around the room. Various denizens of our forest stopped him, engaging him in conversation. One of our more forward souls cornered him against the bar, chatting him up as he reached and opened the top three buttons of his shirt, revealing his pale furry chest. Though he broke away minutes later, his buttons remained open.

Brushing up against him in the crowd as I made my own way to the bar, he smiled at me and muttered "Handsome man". I grinned back, stroked his arm and kept moving.

Later, as the bar slowly emptied, I returned back to my post at the jukebox to find him standing in my spot, grinning at me. I took a very deep breath and walked over to him. We smiled, exchanged names and a slow meaningful handshake. As he was about to make his move, I asked him:

"Did you live on the Upper West Side?"

He stopped short and looked at me.

"Did you have a boyfriend with dark curly hair?"

His eyes widened and he nodded. "David", he added.

Thirty five years, when Christopher Street was at the peak of it's glory, we'd promenade from Greenwich Avenue all the way down to the abandoned elevated West Side Highway. In an effort to brighten the waterfront and lessen the late night truck carousing, Mayor Lindsay had caused there to be a small waterfront park built adjacent to the open-air Morton Street Pier. Now, many of the other piers in vicinity are considerably more storied, but in those days the Morton Street Pier was our Piazza San Marco, our Grand Central Terminal. It truly was the crossroads of a thousand lives. Christopher Street was a mere thoroughfare for the crowds that would head down to the river and spend their weekends in the sun, breathing the fetid river air.

I first met John and David on that pier some sunny summer Sunday all those years ago. David was short, a muscular fireplug with dark curls. John towered over him, handsome and thin, regarding me with his gray wolfish eyes as David chattered away. I joined them for a drink outside Keller's shortly after we made our acquaintance. After a couple of beers, David mentioned that they thought I was really cute, and would I like to come home with them? I glanced first at John, then David, and decided it definitely would be a good idea. They hustled me into a taxi, placing me between them as we headed uptown.

I relayed in great detail the many and varied activities of that evening thirty five years ago to the gentleman leaning against the jukebox, watching as his smile grew wide in amazement. At first I'm sure he didn't believe my tale, but as the details I sketched fell into place, he began to warm to the notion.

"Well, you are just the sort of man I would have liked", he said.

"I was 20", I mentioned. He frowned.

"May I?", he asked, as he unbuttoned my shirt, revealing my chest.

"Oh, yeah", he breathed, "exactly the sort of man I like".

I shuddered, feeling every single one of those intervening years. I stepped back and took a deep and thirsty drink. He did the same, his eyes glowing at me. He pulled me forward by my shirt, close to him.

"It's really odd. Right at this moment, I feel so much love for you", he whispered.

His long arms draped around my shoulders as I wrapped my arms around him, our lips meeting.

Tightly, we held each other as years raced around us.

...To Wrestle The World From Fools

2008-11-11T15:19:00.003-05:00

In 1988, when all my friends were either newly dead or preparing to die, Patti came back from retirement to leave this gift.

I would listen to it over and over, feeling completely powerless over what was happening around me.

I don't feel that way now.

It's time to man the barricades again.

People Have The Power.

The Folks Who Live On The Hill

2008-11-06T23:03:00.003-05:00

I was asked not to write about our wedding. And I haven't.

The requirements we met to satisfy the state, the traditions we chose to uphold, the words we selected to say to each other are all sacred to us, now even more so as our very right to be together in this manner is threatened.

This past election day I sat teary-eyed and hyperventilating, watching the results of democracy in action. My fellow countrymen had spoken with their collective hearts and minds in a way I'd never seen before and I was completely bowled over by the outcome. The man who inspired this avalanche of emotion spoke eloquently, accepting the difficulties and challenges that lay ahead of us, and attempted to make sense of the events of the day.

I listened incredulously as he attributed his election to the:

"young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled; Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals...".

When we first met David, the gentleman who joined us together, he asked our reasons for wanting to get married. I explained that the two of us could not have been more committed to each other. A ceremony and a piece of paper with an official seal would not change that or make it any more so. What we wanted was our place at the table; and here was our chance to take that seat, no more, no less.

Now I'm a fairly basic man; my wants and needs are simple. There's an old song I know, written way back in 1937, sung by people as diverse as Irene Dunne and Nina Simone, and then forgotten. It has always brought tears to my eyes and longing to my heart.

Many men with lofty aims,
Strive for lofty goals,
Others play at smaller games,
Being simpler souls.

I am of the latter brand;
All I want to do,
Is to find a spot of land,
And live there with you.

Someday we'll build a home on a hilltop high,
You and I,
Shiny and new a cottage that two can fill.
And we'll be pleased to be called,
"The folks who live on the hill".

Someday we may be adding a thing or two,
A wing or two.
We will make changes as any fam'ly will,
But we will always be called,
"The folks who live on the hill".

Our veranda will command a view of meadows green,
The sort of view that seems to want to be seen.
And when the kids grow up and leave us,
We'll sit and look at the same old view,
Just we two.

Darby and Joan who used to be Jack and Jill,
The folks like to be called,
What they have always been called,
"The folks who live on the hill".

It seemed a dream I could never take part in. Until now.

I will never forget the way Tim and David held me as I struggled through my marriage vows, fighting in vain to staunch my tears. Nor I will forget the way Tim looked at me as he bound his life to mine.

These are things that no one can ever take away from me.

Let it be known:

I am prepared to fight.

My Back Pages

2008-10-02T23:56:00.006-04:00

The picture?

Probably 1984. I'm not certain. It was taken one rainy Memorial Day weekend at Arthur & Barry's old farm house in Atwood, New York. Nolan, my schnauzer, still had her puppy coat. I'd just crawled out of bed to walk the dog. She never did like getting her paws wet.

I might be 29 years old here, perhaps 30. I can't remember my exact age, but I can remember how the cold wet grass felt on my bare feet and I can clearly conjure up the smell of wet puppy. I also recall how Robert and I hurried back upstairs to our tiny guest bedroom, skinning off our damp clothes and jumping back into the ancient iron bed and each other's arms as the puppy whimpered a bit and then settled into a sleepy heap on the floor.

That morning, 24 years ago, crept in my thoughts during my shower today. I generally wake up in a fog, groggy and sensitive with sleep. I need a bit of quiet and solitude before I can face the world. By the time I'm in the shower, I'm planning the day and ready to strategize my upcoming battles. Today, as I gazed out my bathroom window through the morning's hazy Autumn air and worked my Brazilian Rosewood soap into a lather I remembered today's date.

I nodded and took a deep breath.

A few Octobers ago, I wrote a small piece here entitled My Best Friend. As is my wont to do, the title comes from an ancient Jefferson Airplane song. It briefly detailed the years that Barry and I spent together before he died at the age of twenty eight, some twenty one years ago, last night. My great friend and blog mentor, Joe, graciously linked the post in his blog and I was visited by several hundred people in short order. Forty or so of them were thoughtful enough to express condolences and outrage. One reader even admired the tie Barry wore in the faded Polaroid I included.

Shortly after the piece was posted, I received an e-mail from Arthur. We had not been in touch in several years. A friend of his had followed Joe's link and forwarded the post to Arthur, now relocated to Fort Lauderdale. He was deeply touched and told me to watch the mails.

Some weeks later a large brown envelope arrived from Florida, containing a short note, a color copy of Barry's 1979 New Hampshire driver's license, and neatly folded within, the narrow Thai silk tie that Barry is wearing in the photograph. Arthur had a notion that I might want to drape it over the picture of Barry that graces the top of my piano. Instead I put it away, to rest along side a cache of old photos, notes and letters, ephemera that Barry and I exchanged. It held way too much power for me to view everyday.

It's unfathomable to think that we've not laid eyes on each other in all this time. Twenty one years later, I wonder what we'd have been like today. Back then, I would sit with him, laughing in the face of oncoming tragedy, then go home and cry until I could no longer. I wonder what two such young men might have grown to be, if both their lives hadn't been so cruelly waylaid, one way or another.

Even as i was blogging it, I knew I was not happy with the tone of the original piece. In fact I said:

"it doesn't convey our life, the humor, laughter, the sadness and pain of that time. I'm just not able to capture the very essence of Barry, in the much same way I can't remember the sound of his voice, no matter how hard I try".

Tonight, alone, I sit here and try to comprehend the dark and complex emotions I've been steeping in all day. Once again, I'm not happy with what I've written, if perhaps for different reasons.

An hour or so ago, I retrieved the tie and knotted it around my neck.

A deeply foolish and sentimental gesture, I know.

It's hard for me to look back at those days and I mostly avoid doing so. Most of the stories I could tell of that era don't include anything that even resembles a happy ending. I have great difficulty relaying the horror of those days to the bright eyed and eagerly curious young men I meet today.

Someone should, though, even if it's just a sentimental old fool like me.

Now That Everything's Been Said

2008-09-12T14:20:00.011-04:00

Could it be more obvious?

Does it have to be made any clearer than this?

with thanks to Jeffrey Anderson of Jeff's Fancy Blog

& thinkprogress.org.

Summer Crossing

2008-09-09T20:47:00.003-04:00

"They say it's not the same anymore...all in all, it would seem that the change in Provincetown which people speak of, especially those who contrast it to their salad days, is not so much that it is any less alluring or it's gay life less vigorous, but rather that with the New Conscience gaining ground elsewhere it is no longer one of (a) few ports in the storm. It is not quite the never-never vacationland of one's wilder dreams it once seemed to be, because you can believe it's really there now. It is beautiful, beautiful people live here, beautiful people come here. But no longer...on parole".

This heady, albeit heavily edited prose comes from John Francis Hunter's lengthy 1972 epic "The Gay Insider", a moldering copy of which presently sits at my left hand. I bought the book when I was all of 17 years old, and it still has some value as sort of WABAC machine to our not so distant past. In spite of the lovely and then brand-new liberation rhetoric, it only seems to reinforce the idea that people have been complaining about Provincetown changing for a great many years. One feels that perhaps even the Wampanoag must have complained about the changes wrought by those awful Pilgrims after they picked up and headed off to Plymouth for more fertile ground and potable water.

It seems like almost everyone had something to say this summer. Dear friends had taken to referring to the place as Problemstown. But the concerns at hand were no longer my issues.

Here it is: Perhaps it's not actually Provincetown that changes. Certainly, retail establishments open and close, new restaurants appear as some old standbys drearily trudge on, real estate prices creep ever higher. One generation is given the gift of growing old; another blithely replaces it.

Basically, the town seems to stay more or less the same; it's we who change within it.

And for some of us old yearly trustees, it's only the conditions of that parole that have changed.

We are sentenced to return year after year.

Hitched

2008-08-19T20:36:00.004-04:00

In a prospect of Wisteria, somewhere near Lafayette Park in SF, last spring.

Last Thursday,

on the 14th of August, 2008,

at 4:00 PM,

in a small, maple-shaded garden on Court Street in Provincetown, MA

Tim and I were married.

McSuper, indeed!

See Ya Later, Alligator

2008-08-08T17:10:00.001-04:00

Cruel Summer

2008-07-18T13:59:00.007-04:00

So here it is, a couple of weeks into summer, and, well, you know that summer body I was supposed to have by now?

Clearly not happening.

Not this year anyway. I used to be in pretty decent shape. I worked out several times a week. I hired trainers to torture me every six months or so. I've donned headphones and run umpteenth miles on the treadmill. As a result, I've had the chance to watch men's eyes slowly gazing downward towards my chest during conversations, and had an inkling of what some of our better endowed sisters have had to endure. Frankly, I liked it.

However, two ruptured discs, gall bladder attacks and subsequent surgery and injuries to both knees and my right forearm all in the course of the last eighteen months have conspired to make me fall way off my gym routine. The fact that I've also come to hate my gym and everybody in it has not helped matters one bit.

I have a nearly seven foot tall pile of neatly folded t-shirts, none of which look particularly good on me at this moment. As their collected value is higher than some small nation's gross domestic income, clearly something has to be done. Of course, the fact that many of these shirts no longer seem exactly age-appropriate weighs on my mind, but none too heavily. I mean, what's the problem with a 54 year old in a skateboard t-shirt? Must I be condemned to a lifetime of Maude-wear?

But I waited a little too long. Oddly, even though I'm not all that comfortable in my skin this season, a whole lot of other people seem to approve of my newly acquired, um, coziness. A young man of my acquaintance, after I'd complained bitterly about my current shape typed: "well, get over it. I like you all broke down". So comforting.

I've noticed my popularity has only grown since I've added the avoirdupois. I may not be lovin' myself right now but a whole slew of guys seem to have a midsummer hankering for silver haired middle aged beef, if a bit run to seed. I'm not complaining.

In just a few weeks time, I'm heading up to the beach, and strangely, just when you'd think I'd be in a panic, I'm actually fine. I'm temporarily essaying that middle aged over-the-hill preppy look, and I must say, Bleeding Madras is my friend. As are seersucker shirts in Lily Pulitzer palettes. I'll still stomp around in a black motorcycle t-shirt or two, just to keep things interesting, but don't be surprised to see me decked out in Orvis, Pendleton or Vineyard Vines.

I seem to have received a new mantra:

Basically, I just don't care.

Really.

1973: Pride (In The Name of Love)

2008-06-25T14:30:00.019-04:00

Stashed somewhere in my apartment is an issue of David magazine, dated August 1973. It's really not much more than a glorified national bar rag, a prehistoric version of HX. In fact the ratio of drag queens to naked boys was pretty much the same then as it is today.

On page 19 there's a half-page photograph of that year's Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade Rally in Washington Square Park. Yes, children, that's what it was called way back then. A march down Sixth Avenue, and a rally in the park, attended by oh, perhaps several hundred. It's a beautiful warm and sunny end of June day. The photographer is shooting from the elevated make-shift stage, capturing a panoramic view of the large crowd of attendees enjoying the speakers and entertainment. Sprawled against the police barricades up front are a rather inelegant group of revelers, set slightly apart and thereby in relief from the rest of the mostly young, mostly long-haired throng. They've been caught in mid-cheer!

There's William, my very first boyfriend, standing a little apart from the group, looking bemused and skeptical. He's not sure the libertine sentiment of the day meshes with the conservative rhetoric he usually spouts. There's Peter, the very first human being I came out to, the bright sunlight illuminating his halo of red curls. There's Liz & Eileen, great and good friends from high school who took me to my very first gay bar, and Miles, who I was crushing on real bad for a while back then. I even wrote a song about him. You'll never hear it. Oh yeah, his boyfriend is sitting on the barricades. I forget his name.

A the apex of this group is your correspondent: tall and thin with aviator glasses, horseshoe moustache extending to my chin and that black curly hair. I'm wearing a blue chambray western shirt and my arms are straight up over my head applauding. Can you pick me out?

I have no idea who was on stage at the time the pic was snapped, but I do remember that it WAS a show. The stars of our very small orbit, Alaina Reed, Sally Eaton & Cliff Grishman, our singing buddy Steven Grossman and Miss Bette Midler performed as Sylvia Rivera of S.T.A.R. waged war with Jean O'Leary, sparring for stage time to vent their opposing viewpoints as regards drag.

My very first celebration of Gay Pride and and my personal Liberation.

I marched the next year with Bobby, my second boyfriend. That June we marched up Sixth Avenue to rally in Central Park. The following year I marched solo, but made out in a summer storm with Gary, whom I met at the rally. I remember licking the rain off his teeth. Funny how some details never fade. The next several years fade into a blur, and then I have no recollection of parades or rallies. Robert and I would spend Saturday night deep into Sunday morning at Flamingo, 12West and later The Saint, and would be too wasted from our weekly ritual to partake in the yearly ritual.

Flash forward several years...a much less happy time. I'm completely cut off from anything that resembles a gay community, such as it is. My friends are either in the process of dying or have just up and done it. And I'm feeling the need to re-connect on any level. With anything. In fact, I mentioned this to the woman I worked for at that time. Who told me it wouldn't be good for our business for me to attend the parade, and besides, people like us didn't associate with that riff-raff. Or words to that effect. Needless to say, that Sunday I was down at the corner of 12th and 5th Avenue, watching the parade from start to finish. I stood, all goose flesh, during the minute of silence, and gasped, moved to tears, by the cheer that roared up immediately after. The young Act-Up boys and girls were tremendous; just what my anger needed. Was that the year they lay down in the street at various times throughout the parade route to dramatize our impending deaths? Perhaps their courage planted a seed in me to seek my own freedom again.

I went back to the parade, either by myself or with new-found, hard-won friends in later years. Of course Tim and I got to go for a few years, and had the best time of all. We would marvel at recurrent themes: screaming Hispanic drag queens, topless lesbians in wheel chairs, pneumatic muscle boys in ice cream colored wigs and matching speedos.

But Tim's been working the bar on Sundays for the past several years. And it's PRIDE now. On Christopher Street! Big business. It used to be his best day of the year, even if the work was grueling, and the bar never seemed prepared for the hordes of humanity that would descend, post-parade on the foot of Christopher Street and the river. He still does pretty well, but there are other, more popular bars now, and at least he's out of there at a somewhat decent enough hour.

So Pride has become an excuse for me to spend the day at the gym, clean out my kitchen cupboards, or mope at home. I won't go down to the bar, it's just too insane, and I hate to see Tim so stressed. Valium only helps so far.

I posted this three years ago, found the picture two years ago, and combine them here for you today. It's still a heady rush to see those young people on the barricades. I'm not sure of my Pride schedule this year. I still won't head down to the bar, and the notion of watching the parade appeals in a rather limited fashion. However, I could very much do with an event that reinforces the idea that we might still be a community, something I'm finding difficult to believe these days. I would like to be proven wrong. I'd like to believe that all I fought for, all I marched for, all I protested and all I lost in the battle was not in vain. That the rights we're still trying to attain, are in fact, attainable. That, when push comes to shove, we will storm the barricades again, young and old.

Cuddle Up

2008-06-17T16:49:00.003-04:00

This made me very happy today.

McSuper

2008-06-13T14:14:00.001-04:00

I am affianced.

I'll Keep It With Mine

2008-06-11T10:57:00.005-04:00

...as much as the priest tried to capture the importance of Mr. Saint Laurent, it was his former companion and business partner, Pierre Bergé, who spoke most movingly.

The two men, who remained business associates and friends long after their romance ended, decided to create a civil union together in the days before Mr. Saint Laurent died, Mr. Bergé said. The French union, known as a “civil pact of solidarity,” carries mutual rights and responsibilities, but is short of a marriage.

“It’s going to be necessary to part now,” Mr. Bergé said, addressing his friend in the coffin. “I don’t know how to do it because I never would have left you. Have we ever left each other before?"

Mr. Bergé’s voice broke. “But I also know that I will never forget what I owe you, and that one day I will join you under the Moroccan palms.”

-an item that appeared in the Paris Journal of The New York Times on Friday, June 6th that made me cry on the PATH train to Tim's house. The gentlemen in question who created their Civil Pact of Solidarity were 71 and 77, respectively.

I personally do not intend to wait that long.

All Tomorrow's Parties

2008-06-06T18:30:00.003-04:00

Tim and I enjoy a good German meal now and again.

Years ago, we'd hop on the IRT and hit Yorkville, having lunch at the Ideal on 86th Street. Sometimes, we've had late night dinners at Rolf's. But those days are over. The Ideal is long gone and Rolf's has gone from bad to wurst. We've been hitting Heidelberg these days, with mixed but mostly pleasing results. I could and have complained about the heterosexual-to-a-fault clientele and the staff that seems to have been cast from a roadshow production of Dracula's Daughter.

So it was with great joy that we remembered another neighborhood option. This particular restaurant is located on a popular Gramercy Park side street, across from one of Zagat's big boys and a myriad of boites that serve as gathering places for all those newly revived Sex And The City zombies.

Now, I've spent quite a bit of time in this part of the city. I worked on Park Avenue South for several years. I went to college just a few blocks away. One of my best chums lived in the Hotel Irving, now a smart condominium, then a Single Room Occupancy hovel directly overlooking the gated Park. To cheer his tiny space up, we painted it Kim Novak lavender, replaced the dim bulbs with orchid tinted spotlights and played the Velvet Underground non-stop. Why is it that the coolest people always come from Ohio or South Dakota? When not cutting classes to promenade down the Morton Street pier, we'd climb a bar stool at mid-period Max's Kansas City, which was on it's way from the Bad and the Beautiful to the Scrawny and the Strung-out. Our tenure there coincided with the Glitter and Glam days, and it was not surprising to open Rags or Interview and spot one or another of my classmates adorning a banquette in a Biba shirt and the latest maquillage for men.

William, my first boyfriend, moved to this neighborhood from Clinton Hill shortly after I left him in a most unceremonious manner. Broadway, in those days, was lined with printing and publishing establishments, and he relocated to those empty streets to be closer to work. His previous position had been a bit further down the avenue and I was heading there to meet him one Friday afternoon when the Broadway Central Hotel collapsed in a huge heap right in front of me. Though we were no longer together, we did remain friends, at least for a while. Now the Broadway side streets were peppered with photographer's studios. I spent many nights crashing on his sofa, staring out the window as flashbulbs exploded, momentarily illuminating the varied ateliers across the alley.

I've had a long and storied history with these blocks. The restaurant we were heading to has been in place for probably 18 or 20 years. I'd always noticed it in passing, but in those days it seemed a bit expensive. Today, that's less of a consideration. So we made our way there, entered, noting the lively yet low key scene at the bar, and were seated in the intimate dining room beyond that. The room had clearly seen better days. One could see ancient ghostly shadows where artwork had once adorned these walls. Those had been replaced by framed magazine ads, an intriguingly motley collection of cookbooks and an odd assortment of seemingly random bibelots scattered here and there. But it was dark enough not to matter, and the beer was excellent. As was the meal that followed.

Tim feasted on Oxenmaul and Schweinshaxen. I had herring and a rack of wild boar. We were extraordinarily happy with our choices. As the neighborhood crowd began to slowly vacate the premises, Tim and I shared strudel and coffee. Studying the room, I became aware of a dark lithe woman, who was in the process of pushing the vacated tables up against the walls, changing the linens and tidying up. As she worked her way around the room, I could hear the bar behind me beginning to fill up. She finally reach our table, and in a basso profundo whisper said:

"Hi, I'm Ina. We have a party here every Saturday night and you are both more than welcome to stay as our guests".

Thanking her, I looked around. The bar was now full and spilling over into the dining room, where we were being regarding with curiosity. We had much curiosity of our own, as the denizens were decked out in ways we had not seen in years.

There were huge Amazonian women in miniskirts with hands the size of dinner plates. One, in particular towered in the vicinity of seven feet, aided by platform shoes and a back combed wig. Her skirt was slit to reveal linebacker legs and her polyester lace blouse was torn at the seams from the strain of those powerful latissimus dorsi. There were women who looked like Donna Jordan, the eyebrow-less star of Andy Warhol's L'Amour. There were women who looked like Rose Kennedy and and women who looked like Sister Parrish. There were women in smart business suits and women in couture that could only have been purchased on E-bay. There were women who looked like Reba and women who looked like Tootsie. And there were just a few well dressed men scattered among them like Arctic explorers.

Tim and I glanced at each other, not quite knowing how we'd slipped from Teutonic to Tranny in such a short time.

When I got home that night I Googled the name of the restaurant and that of the hostess we'd met. I was amazed to learn that this was a rather long standing and famous party for gentlemen who enjoy the company of gentlemen who enjoy the company of gentlemen in dresses. It had been going on for at least seven years, and we had no clue, never knew of it's existence. But then, these are not circles we get to travel in frequently.

Of course, we've gone back since, to partake of the excellent cuisine and watch the beginnings of the evening take shape. We don't stay too long. I wouldn't dream of ruining the fun. We brought M. one evening, but he was severely traumatized when he entered the Men's Room and was confronted by a lovely lady with her skirt hiked up at the urinal.

For those so inclined, I've left enough clues here to lead even the living dead to this spot, if they were of a mind to attend.

Where The Kissing Never Stops

2008-05-30T17:45:00.005-04:00

So, a while back I went to San Francisco, and all you people got was this lousy....wait, y'all got nothing. I didn't write about it.

I know. It's weird. I just wanted to keep it to myself for a while. Talking about it, I mean. Just to maintain the buzz; keep it a little precious, keep it mine. I'll explain later.

After my long dark season, it was just ever so slightly amazing to have all our travel plans unfold before us so smoothly. In our household(s), I'm the one in charge of travel arrangements. Mostly this has worked out just fine, in spite of a few mishaps and one major blow-out akin to W.W. III in a hideously post-modern hotel in West Hollywood, but that's another story. In this story, the limo picked us up right on time. The plane took off on time and even got us into San Francisco early. Our luggage arrived with us. Our cab driver did wonderfully until he left the freeway and made a right turn on Market Street instead of a left, but we straightened him out fast. It's not like we're tourists, or something.

We arrived at the convent formerly known as Beck's, checked in, and headed out immediately, as is our wont to do. I love walking up Market to Castro, noting what's changed, what's new, what's gone. All of our old favorite haunts were still in place, some having received a new coat of paint, and so after a nightcap or two, we headed back to our monastic cell and crashed.

We really didn't veer too much outside of our regular program of things we like to do in San Francisco. These include walking, shopping, drinking and meeting up with scads of handsome men. I'm very thankful for my many years of service given at the Dugout. Almost to a one, so many of the men we saw were people we've met in the past decade or so at the bar. Over the years, some people have taken to referring to me as The Dugout's Mayor. When people laughingly approach me and ask if I am the Mayor, I always reply: "Why, yes I am, and I hope I can count on your vote and future support!". In fact, Tim's been working there for over 10 years, and we've been hanging out there much longer than that, and so it would seem a pretty sad state of affairs if I hadn't actually met all the people I have.

We spent Friday, navigating downtown, visiting the California Historical Society and doing some shopping at Gump's and Old Navy. Tim napped and I hit the gym. We headed up to the Edge for yet another festive Friday after-work gathering, where we were greeted by our pal (from the Dugout) Bruce, who tends bar there. It's a merry room, full of happy handsome men ending their week in much the same way we did so many years ago, but no longer do. After a couple of drinks and much flirtation, I spy Bob (from the Dugout), who's stopped by on his way to Michael and Larry's (from the Dugout) house for a drink. I shamelessly ply him with bourbon; we hug and kiss as we catch up. Just out of sight, I can catch the sound of one of Tim's old friends complaining that I'm hanging out with "that beary boy" too much. Tim shrugs. I send Bob weaving up Collingwood to Michael's house and talk to the new bartender, as the shift changes. A fireplug of a man introduces himself as Henry. I smile and shake his hand, just as he leans in and sinks his teeth into my left pectoral muscle. Hard. I yelp as Tim walks by, surveys the scene, smiles and says "I think you could do much better!" I gingerly extricate myself, and follow Tim into the bathroom, where, over the trough, we decide it's time for dinner and a change of scene.

Saturday, we trolley down Market to Polk Street, and walk it's length to Russian Hill. There exists a plethora of shops we like to poke around in, though, like everything else in the world, it's changing too. We go to the Swan and Bob's, rituals we'd never forgo. We try on several garments at Johnson Leather; the gentle people who work there could not be more accommodating. I spy a really nice CPO-style jacket that Santa will be bringing to a very deserving man this year. We drop into Naomi's and afterwards have a Bloody Mary at the Cinch, so potent and chock full of garnish that it almost requires a knife and fork to consume.

With new found vigor we climb up the hill to Lafayette Park, only gasping a little at it's summit, to watch the white caps break on the bay. San Francisco is in full bloom, and I stop every three minutes to inspect flora such as I have never seen before. I'm never going there without a guide again (this one will do quite nicely, if you're of a mind!). Tim is very patient with me, and indeed, enjoys pointing out the houseplants gone mad that we see all around us. We can't look at the towering Jade trees without thinking of those poor dessicated plants in dusty McCoy cachepots that we both remember from our varied childhoods. After a brief rest, we walk the rest of the way back to the Castro, through Japantown, haunting the edges of the Fillmore and collapsing in our room.

The evening is spent having pre-dinner cocktails at 440 Castro, where the boys are amusing themselves by reciting the dialog along with Mommy Dearest, which is being broadcast on half a dozen monitors. This movie has always made me itchy. It's so poorly done, and by one of my-then favorite directors, Frank Perry. It looks cheap. It destroyed Faye Dunaway's career. The child who plays Christina is frightening, as is the adult that follows her, and who did the wigs in this movie? Mostly, it's a bunch of mean-ass one liners strung together with some frighteningly violent scenes. My friend Eric always refers to the wire hanger sequence as Kabuki Joan. Needless to say, we don't stay long, but wander the area, dropping into various bars at our whim until it's time for dinner. The weather turns very cold very fast and my teeth chatter as they haven't since I was a child. We think we'll have a night cap at the Twin Peaks, but the bar has been commandeered by a gentleman who is clearly under the influence of something that has made him a desperate dervish. He bounces from lap to lap, begging people to come home with him. It's our turn to head home, instead.

The following morning, we rise early and cross the street for a quiet and lovely breakfast at 2223. We're among the first people to be seated, and it's a pleasure to watch the dim, coppery room fill up with handsome people. I'm so relaxed I almost hate to leave. Instead, we board the Divisadero line on Castro and hop off at Haight, where Tim walks me past the men and the mansions of Buena Vista Park and all the way to Amoeba Records. In the past, I've been so in awe of this temple, I walk out empty handed. Not so this time. I filled a basket with things I had to have, and two hours later paid just under $60.00 for a pile of music I'm still exploring. Tim loses himself in the extensive jazz and vocalist section, and even lucks out with a bargain priced sinister-looking Johnny Cash box set. Sated, we decide to take Stanyan Street back. Astute Tim points out the huge and handsome Victorian house that appeared for years on all of Rod McKuen's Stanyan Street records, and I could just hug him. We head up into the hills, admiring the groves of eucalyptus trees towering over our heads and the beautiful houses we pass. At 17th Street, we climb until the City and points beyond are completely laid out at our feet. Better than church, I tell you. We check out all the little staircases that abound in this area, stopping to admire the prehistoric plants that grow everywhere. I point out the turn, where just a year or so ago, Tim and I spent a morning dreamily exploring the Vulcan Steps and Saturn Street Stairs. We mosey downhill towards the Castro again, stopping at Medium Rare for some "good soul choices", as the proprietor once said of my selections. This time, I'm studying the galvanized box that contains Jerry Bonham's "Remember The Party". The shopkeeper asks if I'd like to see a copy of the play list, and I have to admit that I own the set, courtesy of a great friend, and listen to it frequently. He seems impressed.

We work our way down to the Eagle later, to continue our Sunday worship services. My old pal Doug is at the bar, and the patio is filled with friends: Stephen (the Dugout), Noah (ditto), and many others. We don't stay long at the Eagle these days; the collision of so many diverse tribes makes for a sometimes uneasy afternoon. This afternoon it's a group of gentlemen who seem to have engaged in either a riotous powdered paint pigment war or some arcane occult ceremony. Dreading the messy and inevitable contact, we head instead over to Bear Central and immediately find Guy (the Dugout) and his partner, Mark, and Chris (the Dugout) and so many others. Much hugging, drinking and general merriment ensues. At some point, Tim tells me that he's got to stop kissing guys who are standing around the peanut barrel. His allergy is kicking in and his lips are tingling. In the midst of all the fun, I am noticing the condos that tower over both patios at the Lone Star and the Eagle and know that there will be trouble ahead with both due to newest group of marauding Yunnies (Young Urban Narcissists, don'tcha know) that are invading our once crumbling turf again. We kiss all our friends, old and new, one last time, and bundle into a taxi and home.

The following day, we hike through Chinatown to North Beach, past the Italian restaurants, pausing only to watch the birds and the Tai Chi people in Washington Square. As Tim explains the meaning of the barnyard animals and angels that solemnly protect St. Peter & Paul's, we climb, climb, climb up Filbert Street to the top of Telegraph Hill, only to catch our breath before we trot down the Greenwich Stairs to the Embarcadero. We share a sandwich with some seagulls, leaning on a railing over the Bay.

Our last day is always sad. Both of us would like to be here permanently. But it would be very hard to extricate ourselves from our middle-aged lives here and re-settle. I have an elderly parent. We both have great long-standing real estate deals here, unmatchable in San Francisco today. It's like spending a week in the paradise of your choice, knowing that time grows short, the meter's ticking. We love the pace of this city; it's decidedly unflashy demeanor. We long to be a permanent part of it's citizenry, knowing that it most likely will never come to pass.

I can see us growing old here.

So we dream.

And return every year.

Next year, if the Gods allow, we'll go twice!

It's A Great Big World!

2008-04-22T15:54:00.024-04:00

Coincidence?

I think not!

I've been watching a bit of the news coverage, and wondered what that odd resonance I was feeling was all about. It took a bit of observation to note just how high the hair is; just how tailored those "plain" dresses are. Were those shoulder pads I spied under those leg-of-mutton sleeves? Were there rats in those hairstyles? I seem to remember my Mom in a similar style back in 1947, when she was a swingin' high school bobby soxer.

I guess I'm just wondering which old perv has a thing for post-World War II babes.

The many wives of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young certainly didn't look like this.

It warms the cockles of this old-school fag's heart to see that the MGM glory days of Virginia O'Brien, Cyd Charisse and of course, Judy Garland, have not been for naught.

This Flight Tonight

2008-04-02T02:00:00.000-04:00

I've had enough of winter.

I've had enough of New York.

I've had enough construction sites.

I've had enough of high-end office furnishings.

I've had enough of mid-century modern.

I've had enough of the Dugout.

I've had enough of the L train.

So it's time.

Time for Tim and I to head west to the one of the few places we know that are guaranteed to have us feeling much, much better in no time at all.

Liz Hickok's San Francisco in Jell-O: Alamo Square

We have loads of plans, and a bunch of people to catch up with.

I hope to come home revitalized and happier than I've been in months.

If you're out there, I hope to see you tomorrow or the next day. Or the next. Or the one following that!

If you're here, I'll see you soon.

Hopefully, with my smile restored.

Winter's End

2008-03-07T18:35:00.003-05:00

It seems the storm clouds are lifting.

Man, it's been a long, bleak winter for me. Perhaps I should have hibernated.

I've never been a fan of winter, but this year was ridiculous. Normally my seasonal malaise lasts the month of January. I'm old enough to realize that it's mostly caused by the emotional letdown of that follows the long season that begins with my birthday at the end of October and runs through New Years.

I've also learned how sensitive I am to the lack of light at this time of year. I live in a rather bright apartment, but I seem to be leaving and entering it in twilight at this time of year, and it makes me feel rather grim.

There's also the possibility that I'm actually dealing with something deeper and darker; depression, if you will. When I find that I'm thinking of consulting psychopharmacologists, and my partner is suggesting therapy and/or a 25 year old boyfriend, it's basically time to check the lock on the henhouse. Again.

So, it was with great pleasure that I felt the storm slowly abating over the last couple of weeks. Small epiphanies and episodes have gotten me through some of the events that darkened me these past few months, and I intend to hold these hard-won lessons close. I've even learned a bit about myself, and I've decided to leave myself alone for a while.

The above drawing was done by my great friend Rob, who I've known for years and is one of the very few redheads who actually like me. I met Rob well over a decade ago at the Spike. If I remember correctly, I was rocking out to Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" when he approached me. This drawing is the cover art he created for a cd compilation he sent me at the height of my dark season. It starts with a cover of that same song by The Bad Plus. The cover art seems to be a Rob's-eye-view of me. It made me very happy when it arrived.

I was at my desk, working until 11:30 PM last night. Today it feels like small sandy creatures are paddling through my eyes. I'm looking forward to the weekend.

To that end, I'm about to hop on the E train down to WTC, board the PATH train, and head for Tim's. I'll have a couple of his superlative martinis and he'll decorously sip a Manhattan or two. I'll get a good night's rest and tomorrow night we'll dine with M. at one of the Village's old school Spanish restaurants. I'm not saying which one, because it's mostly a low key scene, and I'd like to keep it that way. Later, we'll have some drinks at Ty's and head home, to set our clocks ahead.

I'm going to do the same thing to myself.

Swords, Sorcery & Savagery

2008-02-29T10:40:00.002-05:00

It's been one of those weeks, uh, months...I mean years.

Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel

2008-02-15T17:55:00.002-05:00

We were going to head up to Syracuse this weekend.

Tim's cousin had passed away, and we were to meet up with the rest of his family to attend the memorial taking place on Saturday. We had planned on flying up Friday, spending the long holiday weekend visiting Tim's old haunts, hanging out with his siblings and casting an eye on the local real estate market.

It would have been nice to get out of the city, and the rut I've been in since the holidays. Work and a lingering illness have both conspired to leave me grim and cantankerous. Some of you may have seen me once or twice in a cantankerous mood. It's not pretty, is it?

Like any other project management type, I rearranged my week in preparation for our departure tomorrow morning. I got the laundry done early and rescheduled my bi-weekly haircut appointment for Wednesday.

Now, John has cut my hair since 1974, and trimmed my beard since shortly after it appeared in September of the following year. We were introduced to each other by my late, lamented friend Arthur, way back in those plummy days when he and I were involved in an oddly successful cultural exchange program. Through the years my grooming habits have evolved from a once a month mowing to the every-other-Friday-morning-at-8:30 that it's been for the past ten years or so. I like the ritual of getting up early, hauling out the laundry and heading for a cafe on University Place, where I can sit in the window and drink my coffee, watch the world go by and listen to the extremely well progammed music, always thoughtfully selected. Sometimes it's jazz vocalists, sometime a British Invasion band. Sometimes it's a new jangly tune, or some long lost treasure I haven't heard in decades. Sometimes, in my vulnerable early morning state, I'm moved to tears.

As I sat there on this grey and rainy February day, I was intrigued by a turn the music was taking. The mix seemed to heavily favor dance music of the mid 70's, an atypical choice. There was a fair amount from the Philadelphia International stable, then the music veered from Lou Rawls, to be followed by Tavares. I had been lost in my reading, but the combination of "You'll Never Find (Another Love Like Mine)" and the LP version of "Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel" made me raise my head and smile. These songs are so time-and-place specific for me, never failing to momentarily transport me back decades. As the songs faded, I grabbed my umbrella and headed for my barber.

John and I exchanged our usual pleasantries as I grabbed a magazine and he prepped me for my haircut. Robed and toweled, I sat back and concentrated on the sounds of combing and clipping while John commented on how quickly my beard grows. "It's more white than black now, too", he helpfully pointed out. Noting my scowl in the mirror, he added "At least your beard is white; we have a lot of friends whose beards never had the opportunity". It's true; I had to agree. Once there was a rowdy gang of us that frequented John's chair; now the shop is quiet and mostly patronized by neighborly older gentlemen.

As I regarded my face in the mirror, "Heaven Must Be Missing An Angel" began to play again, this time on the radio. I smiled, recalling the summer of 1976.

It was the last week of June, and hot as blazes. It was the weekend of Robert's 36th birthday. In years past, he traditionally spent this weekend as a guest of one of his many friends with houses that abutted both bay and beach in the Pines. Not so, this year. There were no such invitations forthcoming. We'd met some eight months earlier; been a couple for the past 2-1/2 months. It seemed to me that the notion of Robert dating a 21 year old rubbed people the wrong way. It wasn't until some time later that I became aware of the two other men he'd been seeing concurrently. Both were socially prominent in this small community. They'd deigned to tolerate each other. I was just too much. I hadn't realized my function as his escape valve from that high pressure situation.

Stranded in the city, Robert was mad and growling. Brightly, I promised him a wonderful weekend, wondering how I could compete with the carnival that was taking place out on the South Shore. It wasn't necessary. Robert showed up at the door of my Sixth Street railroad flat on Friday night with a grin and a small suitcase, fanning seven one hundred dollar bills at me, telling me to pack my bag. I was young enough not to question him.

I'd been to Fire Island several times before, mostly day trips, with the occasional overnight stay, when I was lucky enough to charm my way into an invitation to do so. Robert and I, along with his friend Jeffrey, had even taken an early ferry out to escape that year's overheated spring, spending the day huddled in the wind against a storm fence on the beach, dreaming of the season to come.

It seems to me I can't remember the chronological occurences of that long ago weekend. Instead, vivid memories fly out at me like pages from some precocious child's picture book. I do remember checking into the Boatel, a three story cinder block horror overlooking the deck of the Blue Whale. The room itself was grim: a bed and some ancient rattan furniture. A shared bath. But our balcony overlooked the harbor, and the room overlooked the daily tea dance ritual.

I remember:

Walking the beach arm in arm, graciously greeting the amazed and more than slightly put-out faces of the gentlemen who had neglected to invited us.

The sandy sheets and oil slicked skin when we returned to our room.

The bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor at the side of the bed.

Waking up to the pulsing music from the deck below as it filled the room, and sent us, sunburned and satiated, to shower and shave and join the throng.

The amusing melange of chemicals we managed to ingest during the course of that evening.

The phosphorescent water breaking over me as I stared, slack jawed, from my seat on the water taxi, as we headed towards dinner in Cherry Grove.

Robert handing me my very first hundred dollar bill to pay for dinner, which mostly went uneaten, due to that same amusing melange of chemicals.

Dancing barefoot and shirtless at the Pavilion, my white painter's pants rolled up around my calves, as the two gentlemen looked on.

Collapsing in a heap on the bed in the early morning hours, the music still insistently playing.

Robert whispering in my ear that heaven indeed must be missing an angel.

The next morning we agreed to share a grudging birthday Bloody Mary with Bill, one of the two gentlemen in question. As we sat on his deck overlooking the Atlantic, I saw that Bill was wearing a small amulet, a medal I recognized as Robert's. Noticing my eyes fall on it, he fingered it, lifting it from the chain around his neck and winking at Robert. Foolishly, I took his action as a formal and open declaration of war; a battle I would ultimately win.

We spent the rest of the day jumping like dolphins through the rough surf, our swimsuits worn around our necks for safe keeping. We returned to our room just in time for the final tea dance of the weekend. Full ferries were pulling out of the harbor as men got once last dance in, heard one more song, snagged another kiss that would carry them through to the following Friday afternoon.

Showered, Robert and I stood on our deck, watching a late ferry head out into the setting sun. The evening was warm and I had wandered out, a thin towel knotted at my waist. I gazed out as Robert wrapped his arm around me and waved to Bill on the top deck of the boat. I could well gauge his expression from my perch. As the ferry left the harbor, I raised my arm in farewell as the sky filled with lead and gold.

"You haven't even looked at your magazine", John said, gesturing to my lap. I looked up, surprised to be sitting on 12th Street.

I shrugged. "I guess I'm just not awake yet".

John turned off his trimmer, and lifted the hexagonal gold framed mirror off the counter. With a sweeping motion he showed me my cleanly shaved neck, the back of my head, and lingered on my bald spot, waiting for me to frown or comment.

"Excellent", I said, and stood up.

I paid him, confirmed my next appointment, and headed out into the cold February morning.

I'm Still Here

2008-01-04T18:37:00.000-05:00

You might have noticed that I've been around even less that usual.

In fact, I took a month off to see if I actually wanted to continue blogging and suss out what my possible reasons for continuing might be. I wasn't sure I wanted to share every hue and cry, every sigh and whimper that my aching psyche endured last year.

Having successfully ridden my wave to shore these past several years, I made landfall most ungracefully, skidding and bumping my way across a rocky coast. It has not been pleasant. I've had to learn to undo many of the social and behavioral traits I developed over the past forty years and suck up a few hard lessons along the way. Old dogs can learn new tricks; they mostly don't want to. However, sometimes they're forced to, and so, here we are.

I've been spending time trying to figure out just who I am at this point in my life and thinking ahead as to where and how I might want to live out the next 20 or so years if the fates are kind enough to allow me that much time.

Armistead Maupin has said: "Age is the last closet you come out of in the gay world. There are such gloomy visions of gay men aging. But if you worship beauty above all else, if you worship sex above all else, you're in trouble. If you're not working on your heart every second, you are going to have a very sad old age."

Now Armistead has a year or two on me, but I've never been anything if not precocious. And he's right. It is a painful process, akin to coming out all over again, but with considerably less stellar results. While I've not been one to worship sex and beauty, I have been known to use both to my advantage, at times. I'm well aware that those days are numbered, if not over. It wasn't easy leaving the dance floor, but I've done it, thinking I'd just try to find a good perch on the sidelines where I could still listen to the music and watch the other dancers cavort.

Tim watches, aware of what I'm going through. He's been a comfort to me when that was necessary; laughing with me when that was necessary, and cheering me on pretty much full time. We've been discussing plans for the next year and several years to come.

So here's one of them plans:

I'm going to give myself one last spin around the floor. I'll spend the spring pulling my act together, dropping some poundage, getting back to my work out. I'll do my level best to avoid the unopened and unused box of Just For Men (Real Black) that's been taunting me from my medicine cabinet for the past year. I've adjusted my level of expectation to almost nil. We'll have a bit more fun, then cede the floor to anyone who wants it. I can retire as an elder statesman and write my memoirs.

Aren't you glad you didn't have to go through the past couple of months with me?

Having said my piece, I am planning to continue with this blog. Perhaps more anecdotally, if that's even possible. Short pieces. Observations. Hopefully not about this old canard, either.

We shall see.

We Gather Together....

2007-11-23T18:30:00.001-05:00

Pretty Hate Machine

2007-11-16T13:44:00.000-05:00

portrait of the author by Marilyn Cullen

I don't know why, but lately I just hate everything and everybody.

It could be the change of seasons. Perhaps it has something to do with my advancing age and diminishing hormones. It might even be about the 70 hour weeks I've been putting in for the past month or so. I am fairly exhausted, and my mind doesn't seem to be firing on all cylinders. In fact, only the part of my brain that controls my snarling mechanism seems to be functioning correctly.

I was reading this morning about how awful our life is going to be shortly, due of the effects of the writer's strike. Apparently, our insatiable appetites for crime dramas, explosions and cheap sexual innuendo are not to be whetted any time soon. The threat of having to wait until next year to catch up with "Lost" is looming largely on the horizon. And I thought, how does this affect me? And I realized, it doesn't. At all. I guess between reading and my computer, I've mostly weaned myself off the boob tube. Does Project Runway count?

And if America was so convinced a few months ago that Britney Spears is a talentless slag, then why did her album go to No. 1? Who's buying this tripe? The other day I had cause to notice that Robert Plant and Alison Krauss' new album Raising Sand was the #2 seller on Amazon, which made me want to know what the #1 choice was. That sound you heard was my head exploding when I discovered that spot occupied by Josh Groban's Christmas album. Is this the price we're paying for not teaching Music Appreciation in our schools anymore?

Who are the people moving into all the new glass condominiums going up all over my neighborhood and it's environs? A couple of years ago, I bemoaned the destruction of two century-old edifices within a block of my apartment. The church was torn down, save for it's Manhattan schist steeple and a 26 story NYU dorm is nearing completion in it's place. Just what my poor neighborhood needs is another thousand freshmen with entitlement issues arriving next September. The handsome old theatre, also demolished at the same time had been standing peaceably for over 100 years, starting life as a nickelodeon, then continuing as a neighborhood movie theatre, a grind house and finally reborn as a legitimate theatre. It had a beautiful neon marquee that, when I first spied it in 1969, seemed to be a welcoming beam, inviting one into an older city with a different scale. It was replaced by a 21 story glass ice cube, with floor to ceiling windows, interspersed with the odd blue or green panel, giving the whole project the air of a rather overblown cabana. Signs were posted on the building's framework announcing studio apartments starting at $885,000.00. The one and two bedroom apartments were considerably more, and I wondered who in their right mind would pay such prices to live on Third Avenue between 13th and 14th Streets. Not exactly a glamorous setting. Well, the project sold out immediately, and the owners have been moving in for the past few weeks. You'd think if you were spending that sort of money on a glass cubicle with floor to ceiling fenestration, you'd give some thought to your window treatments before you moved in. This is not the case with these millionaires. Third Avenue strollers have been treated to a display that rivals Calcutta as the new inhabitants have attempted to gain some privacy and light control by hanging garbage bags, shower curtains, cardboard boxes, anything but the floor-to-ceiling sheer curtains these residences scream out for. The effect is both comical and unsightly. Lately, a few residents seem to have caught a clue and hired the designers they should have in the first place. I can see that my binoculars will finally come in handy.

And what's with the casual homophobia I've been seeing among young people lately? Tim and I had dinner on the Upper East Side last Saturday. It was a chilly evening and we broke our leather jackets; mine an ancient Schott Racer, Tim's a handsome motorcycle jacket I had custom-made for him last Christmas. We stood at the bar and enjoyed a couple of beers while waiting for our table. When we were finally seated, we were exposed to 15 minutes of pointing, snickering and whispering behind hands by the two heterosexual couples seated opposite us. At first, I tried to ignore it, thinking I was just being paranoid. Finally, it reached such a frenzy that I asked Tim if he had noticed it. He had, and mentioned that it had been going on since we were at the bar. As usual I was oblivious. Finally, I just stopped, met their stares with a scowl and looked at them. At first they looked back, but my scowl deepened and I growled "WHAT?" at them. They quickly averted their eyes. I remembered then that my ex, Robert, had taught me to fight many years ago, concerned about situations just like this. When they next looked up, I was sitting back in my chair, punching my right fist into my left palm and staring at them. They never looked at us again, quickly finishing their dinners and leaving silently. I'm not sure what set them off. Two men dining together? Our leather jackets? Who knows? It's 2007. I didn't have to deal with this in 1977 and I'm certainly not putting up with that kind of bullshit now.

Finally, I just came back to the office from a meeting with a very nice client (my age!). She'd shown me around some upcoming projects and introduced me in an extremely complimentary fashion to her boss. I was putting my coat on and saying goodbye when I noticed an exceptionally handsome young man walk in, and speak with the receptionist. As I was taking him in, in all his glory, my client called him over. She then took me by the elbow and said:

"Mark, I'd like to introduce you to my son............"

Crabby? You betcha.

Maybe it's the moon. Or something. All I know is I have to shake this off, and fast. After all, it's the holiday season.

Another Day

2007-10-26T18:00:00.000-04:00

...with thanks to Nick at Satan's Laundromat

Am I still supposed to look forward to my birthday?

I have yet another one coming up in three days, and I'm just not up for too much fuss. That is, if there is any fuss at all. If there isn't, I'll probably be an interesting combination of peeved and relieved at the same time.

Actually, I know there will be an assortment of the standard events, because I've made the reservations for a couple of them myself.

I know that Tim has something up his sleeve this evening, and tomorrow evening Tim and M. and I will visit one of my very favorite establishments, throw down some serious bucks and drink and eat ourselves into a semi-catatonic state. A visit to an Upper East Side Older Gentlemen's Drinking Establishment may or may not follow. Sunday will be spent recovering and/or at the gym and a bit later at the (sigh) Dugout. Monday, the day itself, I will be working on a bid for miscellaneous furniture to be installed at New York's largest and currently most dangerous construction site. There may be a lunch involved, and possibly birthday cake. I think I'll hide in the evening, to recover from this surfeit of birthday gaiety.

Once again, I've prepared myself by telling anyone who asked during the past several months that I was 53, when in fact, I was enjoying my 52nd year. It's a simple way to prepare myself for the inevitable. And of course, one hopes to garner compliments along the lines of: "Gee, you don't look so bad for 53!". It rarely works.

If you see me out and about, know that I'll be accepting all manner of birthday wishes, various hugs, multitudes of kisses from them that wants to offer 'em, and commiseration from those who join me in my advanced age.

Non, je ne regrette rien

2007-10-18T18:36:00.000-04:00

This past week, Tim worked seven days. I worked six.

It's not completely unusual for us to do this. In fact, it's rather standard for both of us to work like dogs. Tim always works six days a week, and my ten to twelve hour days add up to at least the same.

But this weekend, we barely got to see much of each other.

I rushed to his house after work on Friday, where we had a couple of late cocktails, hit the diner and crawled into bed. The next morning, we didn't even have a chance to have breakfast together. We both boarded the PATH train and headed off to our various responsibilities. I finished up in the late afternoon. Tim would be done at 8:30.

The plan was for me to pick him up, and then we'd have a quiet dinner. I met him just as he was coming out the door and we headed off directly into the madness that is Times Square these days. Our goal was a small French restaurant in the West Fifties that we tend to get to at least once a month. It dates from the early 1960's; a time when this neighborhood had several such establishments, due perhaps to the proximity of the passenger ship piers directly west. It is one of the very few survivors of that era, and it mostly attracts a clientele of a certain age, along with the occasional Hell's Kitchen claque of neighborhood gay boys and a smattering of theatre-goers. It is always packed pre-curtain, but the scene mellows out nicely as the evening progresses.

We took a table in the quiet back corner. The very lovely French women who work there know us now, and they bring us our Manhattans and a slice of pate, while we unwind a bit. Tim has learned this from my uncle, who wouldn't even open the menu until he was well into his second cocktail. We're not quite that severe. We order our meal along with our second cocktail, as the world becomes slightly bourbon-tinged and we're able, momentarily, to be together. I enjoy a perfectly sauteed trout, and Tim works his way through a hefty portion of Choucroute Garnie. The table is cleared, and now we're among the last few diners. Coffee and spirits are due to arrive. We lean back and regard each other. Tim reaches his hand across the table, and places it gently over mine.

We sit quietly, listening to the wonderfully endless Edith Piaf recordings, drinking our Delamain and Poire William, basking for this short moment in each other's company. Tomorrow, Tim will be back at work, and I'll have to make do with the occasional glance we share over the bar, from time to time.

But for now, we'll head off into the balmy autumn night, our shoulders brushing occasionally as we commence our journey home.

...Wherever You Are...

2007-10-11T19:49:00.000-04:00

So, apparently, yesterday was National Coming Out Day.

I had no idea. I Googled it. I learned that it had been so decreed way back in 1988, on the first anniversary of that huge march on Washington. Why hadn't I heard of it before?

I continued reading the entry to discover this:

"It is highly encouraged for participants in this movement to wear gay pride symbols, such as the pink triangle, the Greek letter lambda, and rainbows, in jewelry and on their clothing, to demonstrate their presence in all walks of life, all ages and all ethnic groups, this contributing to being open, or "coming out", about being queer in every day life."

I wore khakis yesterday. And a short sleeve plaid shirt. So not gay.

It's sort of funny. With my sense of recall , you'd think I could pinpoint the exact day I came out. In fact, I can't. I know the year, and the season, but coming out was something that happened progressively.

Though I'd been sexually active for years prior, I did not come out until I was 18. Not out of any sense of propriety. I'd pretty much run the gamut of all the assorted late '60s/early '70s meet-and-greet places in the past couple of years, and I certainly was not shy. I just never had the opportunity nor the inclination to let anyone I was relating to on a social level know that I was gay.

Like so many others of that time, I had basically spent much of High School denying I was gay, even as I was acting on those desires. It was only in my senior year that I could uncomfortably admit to a crush on George Harrison, and then a bit later, on a man who sort of looked like George Harrison.

It wasn't until I was in college and actually interacting socially, as opposed to sexually, with living, breathing homosexuals that I felt comfortable enough or lonely enough or desperate enough to answer affirmatively when the question of my gayness arose among them. And it was with a huge sense of relief that I answered. The changes were immediate. No longer was I on the outside, judged with suspicion by one side or the other. Admitting I was gay was like jumping into a huge, warm, welcoming pool, much akin to this:

After all, it was the early seventies!

I was to find myself instantly part of a nascent community, seemingly full of people just like me. I was able to discern life patterns among my new found family and realize that there were viable options for me to live the life I wanted the way I wanted to.

Some months later, I was perhaps blinded by some safety-in-numbers notion when I decided it was time to tell my mother the truth as I now knew it. My mother always had her suspicions and was not shy about vocalizing them. I'm she enjoyed the sheer terror her inquisitions caused, but I don't think she was ready for the buoyantly affirmative answer she received that evening. In fact, she suggested I needed help. Perhaps of the electro-shock sort. Or, horror of horrors, aversion therapy. I was too far indoctrinated by that point, and refused her kind offers, much to her chagrin.

Having conquered strangers and my mother, I wisely held off having the same conversation with my father, letting him draw whatever conclusions he might from my arriving at his house in a Gay Activists Alliance t-shirt.

There was a point in my young life when I measured time by how many years I'd been out. I can clearly recall boasting that I'd been out of the closet and proud of it for three, then five, then ten years.

It's been 35 years since those heady days, and it seems I'm now heading out of another door, perhaps the other side of that self-same closet. The world that welcomed me so many years ago is now a distant Arcadian memory, rendered in sepia and sadly faded hues. I'm heading into much colder uncharted waters, with neither map nor guide. Those same desperately anxious emotions I endured prior to coming out are plaguing me again. I'm at least aware of what some of my viable options are, but I'm not sure I like many of them.

Once again, it might be cool if some of the other participants in my new journey could wear some sort of identifiable symbol, to demonstrate their presence in all walks of life, to show me how to navigate this voyage, to surround and support me in the way I've long become accustomed to.

Long Tall Glasses

2007-09-24T21:55:00.000-04:00

Photograph courtesy of Dr. Jeff by way of Tom (who thought it would be alright if I used it).

I couldn't dance.

This fact in itself was enough to drive my sister insane. Here I was, a newly minted teenager, and I really couldn't dance to save my life. Early in the 60's, I had mastered the twist, but here it was some five years later, and it was clear that I could not Frug, Jerk, Pony, Swim, Monkey, Mashed Potato, Watusi or Boogaloo. I had years of opportunity to learn by watching the gyrating dancers on the Clay Cole show and Where The Action Is. But I didn't. Given the chance to move different parts of my body in diametrically opposed directions, I'd melt into a flailing mess. My sister and her friends would giggle, roll their eyes and bemoan my future.

Thank heavens for Archie Bell & The Drells, who released their seminal recording "Tighten Up" that spring. In addition to a spoken introduction, relentless beats and a great horn chart, there apparently was a dance that accompanied it. I think my sister felt that this was her last chance to save me from a life of wallflower hell, and she decided I would have to learn the rather basic steps that was...The Tighten Up . If I remember correctly, it consisted of a semi-graceful shrugging gesture combined with mild hip thrusting and some alternating foot extensions. There might have been some finger-snapping involved. Simple. Any 13 year old could do it. In fact, it took me much of that Spring, my sister marshaling me much like Velma Von Tussle, inciting me to dance faster and get on the beat. Or off the beat, as was the case here. For that was just one of my problems; I was dancing on the beat. In hindsight, I've come to realize that my basic issue was executing the pelvic thrust necessary to successfully master the dance. I'd had little opportunity at that age to practice that particular movement. I've since learned. Eventually, I got the knack of it, and was able to Tighten Up to any song that came out.

It took a while, and a whole lot of Rolling Stones records to learn how to move my body in some sort of semblance of dancing, and eventually I learned to love it, dancing where ever I could; at summer camp socials, college mixers and finally gay bars. I actually entered my very first gay bar, The Ninth Circle, under the pretext of going dancing with two female high school buddies. Apparently, they could dance there and not get hit on by guys. I thought I could do the same, plus get a some of their unwanted attention paid to me. My thought process turned out to be entirely correct.

From there, I moved on to the Gay Activists Alliance Firehouse, where I spent a couple of seasons dancing on cobblestones in platform shoes. Friendships were made on dance floors all over town. We danced wherever we could to whatever was playing, a live band, a jukebox full of 45's or some young man mixing magic before our eyes. We danced at the Mercer Arts Center to the New York Dolls, before it collapsed into a heap in the middle of Broadway one afternoon. We danced at Cheetah, listening to Eric Emerson & the Magic Tramps. A bit later, we danced at the discos of the day, commencing with Flamingo, 12West and the Loft, with visits to Paradise Garage, Les Mouches, Infinity, The Sandpiper, and many, many, yes, many more. We learned to arrive late and stay until the next afternoon, fueled by no end of Mother's Little Helpers. We'd stay on the dance floor for hours at a time, taking short breaks to rehydrate and re-energize. We'd leave, our clothes completely saturated with sweat. Even our leather belts and shoes were salt stained. Eventually we would dance under the dome at The Saint, and then we didn't dance again for several years to come.

So I pretty much haven't been on a dance floor in well over a decade until a few weeks ago. Tim is not from the dancing stock I am, and has a limited attention span for this sort of thing. I, on the other hand, will get up and dance around my living room, should the spirit move me. But those marathons just aren't quite the same without the various requisite party favors, and I'm of an age where I no longer indulge in most of them. We have danced here and there; at a friend's big 40th birthday celebration, when the DJ played Jimmy Ruffin's "Hold On To My Love" and all of us old Saint boys hit that dance floor real hard. Or the time I dragged Tim onto the crowded dance floor at the Boatslip to dance up a sweaty storm. Exiting up Commercial Street, I realized that I no longer looked good dripping wet, just haggard, and that, as they say, was that.

That is, until September 8th, when the whole bunch of us attending Blowoff NYC. Now, I'd read and heard so much about Blowoff in DC, and greatly admired the men responsible for the music. I bought tickets, figuring if we changed our minds, we could always blow off Blowoff, but as the date drew near, I grew excited. We arrived en masse, meeting the rest of our party in the mostly empty HighLine Ballroom. I was a bit dismayed to find no one dancing, and the room vibe not unlike the dance in the gym in West Side Story. But the room was lovely, and the music was intriguing and insistent. I downed a couple of cocktails and talked to friends, inadvertently twitching to the beats. Eventually, I could stand it no more, and heading to a slightly secluded corner near the DJ where I could begin the dance.

There, in the shadows of the alternating DJ's I started moving my body, joined by Tim and an assortment of friends. It took a few moments to see if everything worked, and in fact everything did. My body seemed to have a few new gestures it had acquired, God knows where, and was insistent about trying them out. We danced in various configurations, merging and focusing our attentions elsewhere. I noticed a friend or two nudging each other and gesturing towards me, and thought, Ah, they're just pointing out their wacky old uncle Mark...all that's missing is the fringed lampshade on his head. I was having too much fun to mind.

Study the picture above and you'll see Tim and Joe and Little Tim and Jerry and Lars and possibly Tom and maybe Glenn. A holy host of others. I'm half hidden, partially obscured by a shaft of light, lost in music. Lost in thought, as well. I marvelled at how I pretty much dance exactly the same way I did back in 1975 at Flamingo. Not much has changed. The same sort of men dance their way over to me, communing for a few endless minutes on the dance floor. The same wordless energy is exchanged. I thought of the long line of men I had danced with over the past 35 years, most gone, some missing. For a moment, I entertained the idea that I might be acting as a sort of museum installation, a hazy time capsule view into the dance and mating mores of that long lost age. I jettisoned that thought completely, happy as I was to be right there, among my friends, back in the tribe.

Spell Check

2007-09-14T15:41:00.001-04:00

If you are one of the many people who has been steered to this site looking for information on that new documentary about Russian prison tattoos, please note: it's The Mark of Cain.

Biblically, Cain was a son of Adam and Eve. Cain appears to have been a rather lackadaisical farmer, while his brother Abel was quite the cattleman.

Apparently, the good Lord accepted Abel's sacrifice of prime meat, while spurning Cain's offering of so-so grains and leafy things.

I understand this every time I dine at Peter Luger.

It seems that this put Cain crazy, as we used to say down south. He killed his brother, and then lied about it. When asked about Abel's whereabouts, he said: "Am I my brother's keeper?". This caused the Lord to get mightily pissed at him.

He forced Cain to wander the earth, and marked him with a sign, as a warning to others that Cain was not to be meddled or interfered with, but left to suffer in his endless punishment.

The Bible makes no mention of what form this mark took.

You can all see the name of this blog up there in the left corner. Can you guess what my name is? I don't have a brother and I have very few outwardly discernible markings. I am partially of Russian descent, but I am not inked. The name Kane is derived from Gaelic, and seems to mean Little Battle, which seems to suit me just fine. How my family came to that name is another story for another time. When you combine it with my given name, which means war-like, it seems I must be quite a handful.

If you stick around, you'll be party to sporadic tales of long forgotten days (and nights), travels to our gay capitals, some whining about my impending dotage and the occasional rant.

But that's probably not why you came here, is it?

Mark

2007-09-11T10:07:00.000-04:00

I wrote this a couple of years ago to commemorate a guy I'm thinking a lot about today.

I met him on a Saturday night at Ty's a few years ago.

He was tall; quite a few inches more than me. Now I'm normally not much interested in people taller than me. I don't like looking up. He was nice looking, just a regular guy, but he had a killer smile, which he turned on me like a klieg light.

"I'm talking to you because you're the most handsome man in this bar", he said, with a wolfish grin.

Oh, jeez, I thought. That old chestnut. I tossed him back one of my own.

"I bet you say that to every guy you meet".

In fact I learned later that he did exactly that. That he had learned that flattery would disarm a person long enough to drop their guard and talk with him. I was to prove no exception.

So we talked. He was new in town that winter, having just re-located from San Francisco. He was flying back and forth, setting up his dot-com PR firm here in New York. He wanted a chance to play in the major leagues, he said. He pumped me for information, all the while flirting outrageously. What did guys like me do for fun around here? Where did we hang out? So...I obliged and filled him in as best I could. I told him that we all tended to assemble at around 5 or so on a Sunday afternoon at the Dugout. That it he'd find people much better looking than me to work that line on. He asked about various neighborhoods and such. In the course of our first meeting, many friends came up, drawn to his animated features and begged introductions. I explained my situation with Tim, got a big kiss anyway. I knew he'd fit in just fine. When Tim collected me to go home, Mark said:

"I owe you dinner. Do you like Nobu?"

Well, in point of fact, I can take it or leave it, but I said yes, and we exchanged cards. I knew I'd probably never see him again.

The following night I was in the coat check line at the Dugout. Remember how insanely crowded that bar used to be at 5:30 on a Sunday? It was moving slowly and I was impatient. Suddenly I felt someone rubbing against my butt. I turned around and it was Mark, right on schedule. I showed him around and made a few introductions. Mark worked the room like a pro, grinning like a madman, introducing himself and buying many shots for any takers. He had a small fan club swarming around him. I was sure he would do fine. My friends and I watched him in amazement.

He came over at the end of the evening and thanked me.

"I owe you dinner".

"I know" I said, "Nobu".

One evening Mark had one of our more psychotic bears pinned against the bar, and was moving in for the kill. Tim caught my eye from his place behind the bar and bit his lip. This looked like trouble brewing. I shook my head. Tim grabbed a Sharpie and a cocktail napkin. He jotted something down on it and held it up behind psycho-bear's head so Mark could read it. Mark laughed and broke up the clinch, smiled and moved on. I walked over and asked to see the note. Tim had written "FLEE!!!"

Mark came over later and said "I owe you dinner; both of you!".

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

That summer, Mark crept up behind me and stuck his hand down the back of my jeans. If you know me, you'll know this doesn't happen all that often. I jumped sky-high. He just laughed. While he played with my butt, I brought up the famous dinner. We both laughed. Business was kind of shaky, I knew. Dot-coms were dropping like flies...the boom seemed over. He was going back to San Francisco in a couple of days to hustle up what business he could find.

The last time I saw Mark was on TV. September 12th, 2001. His mom, Alice was talking about him and all the other men Flight 93, and there was a picture of Mark in his baseball cap, flashing that lunatic grin.

I'm thinking Tim and I are going to finally have that dinner this week. We'll drink to him.

The morning of September 12th, I woke with Tim at 5:40 AM, and looked out my terrace windows at the column of smoke rising from the pile of rubble where the Trade Center towers had been just the day before. Tim and I were not sure how this day would play out. He went to work, not knowing if he'd be able to get back to Jersey City that night. I sat down in front of the television to see if and how our city would be running. My neighborhood had been cordoned off the previous afternoon, and it would be weeks before I'd be allowed to venture about without showing ID. My office was closed that day, like so many others in NY, and I wondered what fresh new horrors the day would bring. I watched the news reports, almost numb. Within minutes of Mark and Alice appearing on the TV screen, my phone started ringing. People had recognized Mark and wanted to know if this man was my friend. After a very short time I turned off the TV, got dressed and walked the deserted streets to my equally deserted office. My plan was to bury myself in work for a few hours and get away from the mounting horror story.

I didn't realize there would be no escaping it.

I still come across Mark's name in my contacts and his card still resides in the ancient Rolodex on my desk. I keep them there, just as I'm keep a small part of Mark's spirit alive in this rememberance of the fun we had. I had a small laugh this grey, grim morning, thinking of all the bearded "Bingham Widows" that appeared as the news became widespread. I think Mark would have been mightily amused and bought them all a shot, if not dinner at Nobu.

The Song Remains The Same

2007-09-04T17:40:00.000-04:00

I've spent the better part of the last week pondering the notion of Gay Music.

There are so many possibilities, so many sensibilities that makes it almost impossible for me to quantify music into such a category. Do artists of the 40's and 50's like Chris Connor and Billy Strayhorn qualify? Would the work of the Velvet Underground be somehow considered gay?How about 70's singer/songwriters like Steven Grossman and Michael Cohen? Was Glam gay? Is dance music other than Disco gay? What about Laura Nyro? Or Blowoff?

Or is it just that so-called thumpa-thumpa music, with or without vocals, that qualifies as Gay Music? The collected canons of Kylie, Madge & Donna?

I simply am not qualified to answer this.

Tim has bartended every Sunday for very nearly ten years at one of our local bars. Perhaps you know it. He has a regular job that he works at diligently five to six days a week. This bar gig started out as a just a way for him to earn a little extra beer money. At one point he was working every other Friday night and every Sunday, but we were younger then. If you're there, you've probably seen me. Yes, I'm that big guy by the jukebox. Always have been. Tim and I have seen people come and go. We've seen crowds assemble to overflowing, and ebb to a point where it's just me, him and the bar backs. We've been a popular hangout, and then, not so much. We've stuck it out through 5 different management teams, each with very different ideas of how to run the joint. The point is, the joint seems to run itself. I'm not sure why people come and hang on Sundays, but they do.

Years ago, we would listen to the same old and crusty dance mixes gleaned from the piles of sticky cassettes stashed under the bar. The jukebox was not turned on, and when it was, contained many of the selection were remnants of the days when one could two-step upstairs one night a week.

In our travels, I'd listen to the music at bars like the SF Eagle or the Lone Star and ask Tim why we didn't have many bars in New York that played a mixture of dance, rock and obscurities and classics. Tim likened the idea of playing that sort of thing to a house party on your dorm floor. You know, great loud music and a bunch of sexy guys getting drunk. I know...the Boiler Room and the Phoenix did start doing just that, but these were rooms filled with actual college kids, and we weren't looking for that.

I asked the manager if it was possible to add some CD's to the jukebox, and he said: "Sure, give me a list!". Which I did. Because I'm that sort of person. Read about it here. The first list added Radiohead, Iggy Pop, Roxy Music and Prince to the mix. There were to be new lists every couple of months, and I took great pleasure in spending my five bucks to hear a more varied mix of music. Many, many people liked it. A few did not. I remember clearly having a currently popular DJ come up to me as I was feeding the machine and say: "So, you're the one who plays the music we hate!" I had to admit that I was.

Management changed. The jukebox was removed. Management changed. A new jukebox showed up, and I was asked once again for programming suggestions. I made lists. The jukebox died. I got a call, simply asking me to bring a pile of CD's from home. I did. Management changed. I was asked to make a few CD's for the bar. I wound up making 15 or so. Many people liked them. A few did not. A new digital jukebox with an on-line library was installed. One could select just about any genre of music. I'd walk into the bar on a bright Sunday afternoon to a sad round of tunes by Willie Nelson, or a selection from the Josh Groban catalog. Management would beg me to please commandeer the jukebox and play something upbeat. I know how to do that, and was obliging. Since then, I've dropped a few dollars in every Sunday and played some drinking songs for the two hour window that everyone seems to show for these days.

Within the ofttimes difficult constraints of what is actually available, I've managed to find things to play. I've played songs that remind Tim of his college days. I've played songs that call back the years Robert and I got high in our Living Room with our big Koss headphones listening to the latest British import synth bands. I play songs that make Joe sing, and I try not to play songs that make him sad. I play songs that Damian and I laugh (or cry) about. I play songs that remind me of a dear friend who used to stand beside me every week and has since moved away. I miss him. I play songs that cause Tim to look up from his work and smile at me. I play songs that Aaron can rock out to! I play songs we can sing all together, or I can dance in place to. Many, many people like it. A few do not.

Last week, I was approached by someone I hadn't seen at the bar in quite some time. He looked over the jukebox while I talked with his partner. He came back to us angry and red-faced.

"What gives you the right to program the jukebox like that?", he asked.

I put my arm around his shoulder and gave him my usual line: "I'm just trying to avoid a Madonnathon".

Furious, he asked me his question again, as he shoved me off him. I straightened up and told him that when his boyfriend was the bartender, he could play what he wanted. I know, it was a dumb thing to say, and I sincerely regretted it.

"We're gay men. Why should we have to listen to this shit?"

It was then that I started pondering the concept of gay music.

He continued.

"You're the reason everyone left this bar and went to the Eagle!"

I looked around the currently packed room, and gave some thought to the that perhaps the three floors, the cheaper drinks, the proximity of all those hot men and a roof-deck might have had something to do with that decision on their part, but decided not to say anything.

"I put money in that jukebox, and I won't hear it for hours! I'm leaving and it's because of you, and your shitty music!".

He stormed out as I turned and walked away.

I have to say that I was floored, and filled with doubt. Perhaps, I thought, I should stop. I'd surely save a shit load of money. Some friends saw the change in my demeanor and inquired as to what was going on. They were supportive, but still. I told Tim, who said "Screw it!".

A bit later, the gentleman's four selections finally played. Three of them were tunes I'd played earlier in the evening and the fourth was from Madonna's Erotica album.

I just wonder why it is that many, many people can be so supportive and encouraging to me, but all it takes is one negative comment to send me into a tailspin.

Then I think, maybe next week, I'll play "Heroin".

Fess Up

2007-08-28T13:45:00.000-04:00

Okay.

Who Googled this?

mark hot bear joe my god

If it was me you were looking for, I'm flattered, as among the other searches that brought people to The Mark of Kane these last 24 or hours or so were:

Major Breast Augmentation

Hair Dye & Bald Patch in Beard

After Dinner Cocktails of the 1930's

Winter Vomiting Disease

1972 High School Class Ring

Oddly enough, most of these actually pertain to me in one way or another, with the possible exception of breast augmentation. That's just push-ups, and I've been slacking off (a lot) lately.

Of course, Joe probably knows lots of Marks who might be construed as hot bears. Some of them might even identify as such.

Humor me and say Hey!

If You're Fond of Sand Dunes and Salty Air...

2007-08-23T18:08:00.000-04:00

What is it about this place that makes grown men cry when they leave?

You cannot underestimate the number of friends who have admitted to the shedding of tears as they were packing, or driving off down Bradford Street towards Route 6 and home. My own moment inevitably comes after I place our luggage in the car and walk back to lock up the condo. It's early morning, and the sun is rising out over the East End. The streets are silent, with the exception of the occasional gull's cry, and the distant stirrings of the trash men as they once again take up their daily task. I stand quietly in our yard at the edge of Winthrop Street, looking down at the Bay, promising myself I'll return next year. Then I go all silent and get into the car, biting my lower lip.

This year Tim made our farewell just a bit more bearable, by turning left on Bradford Street and pulling into the lot of Tip for Tops'n to enjoy one last Provincetown breakfast, thus prolonging our stay an extra half hour.

There's lots I might squawk about. It's too crowded. It's too expensive. Real estate prices would be comical, if they didn't foretell the demise of so much of what is nice about this town. It's too gay. It's too straight. It's over-built. Everything has gone condo. The beach is too far. You take your chances skinny-dipping. The water's too cold. People drink too much. The bars suck. The art scene isn't what it used to be. Too many of the restaurants don't use enough native ingredients and rely too much on Cape Cod staples. It's a god-damned tourist trap.

None of this matters.

When I'm there, it's the most beautiful place on earth. People who normally wouldn't know their impasto from their gouache get to talking about just how they would paint the scenery. If they could paint. I study the way the light reflects and refracts, fetishizing an aluminum chimney stack that I can see through our living room window, noting it's changing character throughout the day. Tim will wait patiently wait for that sunset moment when the sky flashes green and then turns the deepest Prussian Blue. Usually at that moment, we can be found enjoying jazz and cocktails on our little deck behind the hemlocks, having endured MaryAlice's pots-and-pans dance set, and looking forward to an evening out and about.

Truth to be told, we were rather mellow this year. Extending our stay beyond the usual Saturday to Saturday routine was a brilliant idea, and I'm not sure why it hadn't occurred to me before. Oh yeah, time and money. That would explain it. But now I'm older and can spare a bit more of both. And we have a very sympathetic landlord, as well. Knowing that we had several days to cut loose, we managed to crash every night for the first few days around 10:30, sated with too much sun, food and drink. It was only after I put my foot down on Monday night that we made plans to go out and stay out the following night, at least until the bars closed and we could join the masses at Spiritus. I'm glad we got there once. It doesn't quite seem to have the appeal to me that it once did. Mostly, we'd stop by around midnight and watch the cast of players gathering on stage. That was satisfying enough for me.

We've taken to having a nightcap on the porch of the Gifford House in the late evening with the other, more mature gentlemen, as I could never spend much time upstairs at the A-House without starting to twitch. I can remember cold, late August evenings in that room, when the lighting, decor and music combined to make it seem as if all the handsome men in the world were present in that very spot. Alas, while there are still many lookers, the room is not the same. The lighting has been minimalized to the point of inky darkness, all the better to view the second rate porn projected on the giant screen just above head-level. The decor has been stripped to accommodate said projected image, and all eyes in the room tend to fasten on the filmed action, making it extremely difficult to have any sort of meaningful eye contact, or strike up a conversation with a sympathetic stranger. While the upstairs DJ amuses himself with his home-made techno travesties, the overly eclectic melange of music available on the downstairs jukebox saturates the room with Lipps, Inc., Toby Keith and Julie London. In fact, we were witness to a gentleman who had chosen that moment to propose marriage to his young boyfriend, kneeling right there on the ancient stone floor, while "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" blasted forth.

We were happy to learn that our favorite bartender, Jimmy, who we have dined with frequently in the past at his post in the Lobster Pot has opened his own restaurant, Jimmy's Hideaway, creating a elegant series of darkly paneled rooms out of that sketchy old basement where the Szechuan restaurant has been for years. Friends have told us that Jimmy has a way of making everybody feel as if he wants them, and in fact he does. I like to think he's extra nice to me. Maybe it's the way he calls me Daddy. Or the fact that he came out from behind the bar to attack me while we were waiting for our table. He's just friendly that way. By the way, try the cod.

Most of all, it was wonderful to catch up with all our friends. We've been going the same week for years, and as such, have met and maintained friendships with a large variety of guys from all over the country, even the world. We decided that we're summer camp friends now. We exchange the occasional e-mail during the year, but pick right up where we left off the previous summer. Bo and Jeff, Chris, Steve, John, Pete and many others, all falling back into our old habits and rituals. Meeting at the pool. Comparing dinner notes. Drinking copious amounts of beer.

More than anything, I finally unwound and relaxed. It took several days, but I managed. Tim would nap and I would read as the bay breeze blew across our deck. I managed to finish Ed White's "My Lives", then read the autobiography of an obscure 70's rocker, Andy Pratt, and finally reading "Brideshead Revisited". I read portions of this aloud to Tim when he awoke, to his great amusement. Tim passed his waking hours reading an historical account of the Pilgrims, relaying to me just what despicable characters they were. Who knew?

I never called the office, and I didn't check my voicemail. I turned my cell phone off.

We enjoyed the envy of our friends, as we were the very last to leave. We extracted promises from all and sundry to meet again, same time, next year.

Our reservations have already been made.

Alright. Okay.

2007-08-01T14:15:00.000-04:00

You win. I AM the very worst blogger in the history of blogdom. In the history of computers, even. Possibly. There might be worse.

I told y'all I was ambivalent about this, right from the start. My life's just not that fascinating. I work way too much. I won't blog about that. When I'm not working, I'm trying to find time to spend with Tim. Between our various jobs and commitments, it's hard for us to find two consecutive days when we're both not working. We're able to deal with this, but it doesn't make for scintillating copy.

So let's see, I haven't been here in more than a month. Bad Mark. That's not true...I have been reading and enjoying your thoughts and comments. I had hastily posted an entry last month, entitled Another Country, regarding some perceived mistreatment I felt I'd received at the hands of some of the younger denizens of our forest. Having thoroughly vented my anger, shock and dismay, I went to bed and slept the sleep of the just, or at least that of the very tired.

I was surprised to see comments appear the very next morning. As I've mentioned before, this blog resides in a dark and mostly uncharted backwater here on the Internet, and only the most intrepid explorers seem to come upon it, and then again, only having followed the most explicit of instructions. Comments drift slowly through the ether on their way to the Mark of Kane. Therefore, I was surprised to see so many people I know and many I've yet to meet jump to my defense and offer consolation, advice and even a scolding or two. Many relayed their own encounters with other less than cordial bar habitues, some suggested delicately that perhaps it was time to hang up the old jock, and one gentleman even chastised me for the clique-ish behavior of my friends on the random Sunday afternoon. Imagine!

Just for the record, I don't actually spend an exorbitant amount of time in gay bars. Tim tends bar on Sundays and I spend (count 'em!) 3-1/2 hours there every week, meeting said clique-ish friends, playing the jukebox and roaring at an assortment of pirate jokes and John Waters dialog. I'm easy that way. Aside from that visit, Tim and I might drop by for a post-prandial at some local boite on the occasional Saturday evening. Mind you, we're generally home and asleep by midnight, way before the fun begins. In fact, both of the evil events I spoke of took place when I was out under the protective plumage of a bevy of bloggers.

So I was sort of surprised when I read this article. It seems I've been "mean-girled", not once, but twice. I am a fairly large target, so it's understandable. Maybe I should have seen the movie, just to know what my options for retaliation were. My only cinematic object lesson of that sort was Heathers, and we all know how badly that ended. When I was in high school, we much to busy extolling each other to "smile on your brother" and "love the one you're with", which sort of precluded this kind of nastiness. Our pettiness mostly extended to gossiping about who didn't inhale or couldn't handle their drugs. Well, forewarned is forearmed, and if anyone tries this shit with me again, I'll just have to kill them. Read about it here. If I ever write again.

So it's been that sort of a couple of months. Ask me what I've been doing? Working, mostly. Trying to go to the gym, and realizing I need to change facilities immediately. I'm just too old for the New York Sports Club, and the eye rolling is getting fierce. A few weeks ago, I was mistaken for the artist, Nayland Blake, and while on many levels I'm flattered, on others, not so much. Who here remembers the donut-feeding video? Though I did love his life-size gingerbread house. The whole gallery smelled wonderfully spicy.

We managed to get away for 3 or 4 days at the beginning of the month, heading off to New Hope, PA. We used to do this on a more frequent basis, but our weekend work schedules haven't permitted it in a couple of years. When Tim first brought me to the Raven ages ago, I was charmed by the drunken antics of the local country squires. It was almost sport to watch them lurch out of the bar, crawl to their respective cars and floor them out of the parking lot. I stopped staying at the Raven years ago, when I discovered that several locals had copies of the room keys and I was unpleasantly surprised to find one such enterprising individual entering our room late one night after the bar had closed. We moved across the street for a spell, but now it appears that both the Motel in the Woods and the Best Western have also been acquired by the Raven management. I was pretty disappointed by the lack of clientele, both at the bar and the restaurant, both of which I've enjoyed immensely in the past. All in all, it was rather lackluster, and the few people we actually spoke with were either staff or fellow New Yorkers. This left us lots of spare time to drive up and down both sides of the scenic Delaware River, poke through post-hippie New Hope and gentrified Lambertville, and hit the outlet shopping malls in Lahaska and Flemington. Oh yeah. Have I ever told you about our major requirements for vacation spots? Yeah. Gay bars and outlet shopping! See? We are shallow. That seemingly Venusian landscape above was taken at Peddler's Village, in Lahaska, PA. If you've never been, it can be overwhelming. Mind you, it's a sprawling complex of shops that specialize in collectibles, chotzkes and crap. And it's landscaped within an inch of it's life. There are expensive restaurants, and yes, you can spend the night in one of several hotels. Trust me on this: it's the whitest place on earth. Bar none.

When I wasn't working or outlet shopping (I bought one shirt...not exactly a great haul. Tim came home with bags!!!), I mostly spent the time reading. In the past 30 days or so, I have read the following books, in the following order:

Midnight at the Palace: My Life as a Fabulous Cockette, by Pam Tent.

Michael Tolliver Lives, by Mr. Maupin.

The Fabulous Sylvester, by Joshua Gamson.

Can anyone discern a theme here? Sherman, set the WABAC (it's okay, you can pronounce it Wayback) machine for San Francisco, 1969.

True confession: I once had Tim make a pilgrimage with me to 2400 Fulton Street. If you know why, you're definitely my friend. Anyway, Sweet Pam's book is very nice, and it's odd and sad that the only published record of the Cockettes was written by one of the 3 or 4 genital females involved in the group. Mostly, everyone else has passed on, in one way or another. The Cockettes came to New York just as I was on the cusp of coming out, and I remember that debacle well. My former next door neighbor was an Angel of Light, and I clearly remember the pailletted billboard of Hibiscus at the corners of Christopher and Seventh Avenue, about the smoke shop. In truth, I wish I'd been there.

Mr. Maupin's book was a lovely read. It's always nice to meet up with old favorites; past denizens of his stories and the City. As I mentioned before, Michael's voice is clearly Armistead's; it's pretty much the same first person voice as Gabriel Noone in The Night Listener, which makes me read much of this as thinly disguised autobiography. Again. I can say that the three-way pick-up technique is pretty much as described. I find it funny that many of Armistead's fans are having a small field day finding small errors in quotation and chronology! I mean, come on!! Don't fault the man for a couple of bong hits! Or is it a vaporizer these days?

Lastly, the Sylvester book is sheer and totally surprisingly genius. The man has caught the zeitgeist of those times, but exactly. I would have thought that the last chapters would be the hardest to endure, knowing quite well of Sylvester's sad demise. Instead, the chapter that recalls the concert at the War Memorial Opera House in 1979 completely shattered me. Yes, I have that concert on vinyl, and yes, Joe and I just did our best imitations this past Sunday (these girls don't need them jewelries!). It's a document of the way we were, and our very own amazement at just how truly fucking fabulous we were.

The thread that runs through all these books is the nascent, newly forming gay community that so many speak of, and which, in reality, seems to have splintered into a million different rainbow colored shards. Two of these books peer back to our beginnings, while the other is firmly entrenched in the now, glancing back with nostalgia and longing for what sadly no longer exists.

Finally, Mr. Tim and I are heading up to Provincetown for a full, that's right, count 'em, TEN whole days!!! Yay!! If you're there and see us, say hey! If not, could you be just a little envious that two total working stiffs are off having such a good time at last? We truly deserve it.

I'll tell you all about it when I get back.

Sooner or later.

Michael Tolliver Lives (So Do I!)

2007-06-12T10:27:00.000-04:00

Here you see my very first exposure to Tales Of The City.

I received the above from my dear, departed friend Arthur, who sent it to me mid-winter, 1977 as a sort of Valentine during the first year of his residence in San Francisco. Arthur and I had been all sorts of running buddies in New York, and upon his relocation to San Francisco during the previous summer, he became one of that city's most tireless boosters. We played a sort of snail mail can-you-top-this, each of us sending clippings and notes so the other could see what they were missing. I sent Arthur invitations from the most clever discos and all the news of Christopher Street and beyond. He'd return photos and bar rags, so I'd know exactly what he was up to; all the fun I wasn't having. Three months after this exchange, I trumped him by sending clippings from every local paper detailing the deadly fire at the Everard Baths, that prelude to the disasters that followed.

As you can see, Arthur has sent me "Love from the City that knows how...". I took great umbrage at that, being all of 22 years old. I wasn't sure what he meant by that, but I was sure I didn't like it.

The article itself was clever, though I had no idea who this Michael and Mary Ann were. I didn't quite grasp all of the references. Some of them seemed quite sophisticated and even daring to be appearing in newsprint. I pondered over such arcana as Oil Can Harry's, The Glory Holes, Fifties Queens and Grace Cathedral. I had no idea what an It's It was, or why one might want to consume more than one in a single evening. Michael seemed very exotic; both wise and jaded, a denizen of a city as foreign to me as Vale of Kashmir.

It wasn't until the following year that I was actually able to actually pick up the collection of these serialized chapters, and was disappointed to realize that the main focal point of the story seemed to be a singularly unpleasant opportunist named Mary Ann Singleton. I was not much interested in her foray into the provincial mating rituals of Men and Women of the Marina. I mean, I'd already read Cyra McFadden's "The Serial" the year before, and had had my fill of hetero high jinks. Michael doesn't even appear until page 45 of so, if you don't include a brief walk-on at the Safeway, where he rescues his boyfriend from Mary Ann's clutches.

It seemed that Michael was my age, but so much wiser. Even in my penthouse on 12th Street, I felt hopelessly inexperienced and woefully unsophisticated in comparison to his romps through the City.

But I did enjoy the book to a degree. I resented the truly byzantine plot twists required to keep a daily newspaper audience interested. The author, a nice looking man with a moustache and floppy hair, had an interesting voice, and when he wasn't sending his characters after child pornographers or trying to update Black Like Me, had a chatty and animated style that held my interest.

Unfortunately, by the time the second collection was published, I'd had my fill of Mary Ann and the Episcopal Cannibal Cult, and didn't read another Armistead Maupin book for the next couple of decades, until Tim brought me to San Francisco, and I understood. Upon my return to New York, I hit the Strand and assembled my motley shelf, volumes One through Six, all different editions. I plowed my way through, reveling his his love for the city, hating the mechanical plotting, and learning to completely despise his heroine. It wasn't until the final book that the author revealed his hand, showing Mary Ann for the bitch she'd always been. In an odd way, I felt vindicated.

My first encounter with Mr. Maupin occurred when San Francisco and I were still new. It was one of the crowded, rowdy after-work Friday afternoons at the Edge. There were men in jeans and men in business attire. There was a slightly manic air about the room, and it was clear that many of the assembled had started the weekend early. Tim and I found a place and were about to settle in, when I turned and faced an older gentleman about my height, whose eyes were literally inches from my own.

Now, Tim and I had enjoyed a rather silly adventure the night before, when we'd entered Daddy's and literally had to peel some of it's inhabitants off us. One benighted soul approached me with his arm outstretched, zombie style. I gulped and glanced over at Tim. The man in question wrapped his arms around me, settling his cheek on my chest and looked up at me with seemingly puppy dog adoration. Quickly, and out of desperation, I shouted "Look!", and pointed to the street. The man turned, freeing me, and I yelled to Tim "Run!", and we did, laughing out of the bar. If you're going to act like a cartoon, you might get treated like one.

The gentleman at the Edge the next evening wobbled a bit, and fixed me with what seemed to be the same doggy stare. In our extremely close proximity, I noted that his eyes were among the saddest I'd ever seen; he seemed to be silently beseeching me. After the previous night's escapade, I smiled and excused myself. As he wandered off, I heard the man behind me mention something about Tales Of The City, and I realized I'd been locking eyes with the author. But the author had moved on, finding fans elsewhere in the bar who recognized him and who rushed over to acknowledge his stardom. I felt awkward after our encounter, and watched a bit from afar. He seemed more happily engaged, and Tim and I continued our evening.

A couple of years ago, I was standing in the Dugout on a Sunday night as the bar began to empty out. I was bouncing from the jukebox to the bar and back again, as it my wont to do. A man bounded up to me, pointed to my chest and asked if I was from California. I was wearing my California Golden Bears t-shirt. I laughed and said: "Nah, I'm from Brooklyn, I just like the shirt!", and smiled. He mentioned that he was from San Francisco and I told him I would be heading out there in a couple of weeks. I noted my then-mania for walking the many staircases in the City and he laughed, telling me he'd once lived beside a prime example. As we talked, a considerably younger man walked over and joined us. We'd been discussing neighborhoods we liked when his companion volunteered that the two of them lived in Parnassus Heights. At that point my new acquaintance frowned and introduced himself as Armistead, his friend as Chris. He felt the need to mention that he was a writer, and I had the opportunity to say: "I know exactly who you are!". They were in town working on the film adaptation of The Night Listener, which they were shooting at the Jersey City Medical Center. The three of us fell into a rather deep conversation about East Coast winters and we discussed the casting coup they'd felt they pulled off. The two of them stared intently at me, all the while caressing and petting each other as they looked me over. It seemed odd, the now empty bar, the three of us held deeply enthralled by our conversation. Or whatever.

Tim finally bound up the stairs, exhausted, and took his place by my side. I introduced him, but he was too tired to take notice of who I was talking to and I soon begged off, bidding my new and clearly disappointed acquaintances a good night, as I took my boyfriend home.

Mr. Maupin's new book arrived yesterday and I've already read a couple of chapters. The voice is clearly Armistead's, and not that of callow young Michael. One could chalk this up to the many years between books and the fact that the author is a decade older than his character and no longer feels the need to pretend that he's anyone other than who he is. Here's Michael at 55, a report from the front. Here's Armistead at 63, handily surviving all the latest hurdles thrown up before us gay men of a certain age.

I'll tell you how I like it, soon enough. I might even pick up a few pointers.

Another Country

2007-06-07T22:34:00.000-04:00

"I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me."

-The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

I've written a bit on this subject a little over a year ago here, and posted some additional thoughts here.

At the time, I was feeling under-appreciated, and was dealing with my diminishing powers of attraction. Yes, I know, shallow. So be it. The feeling certainly haven't gone away, and as expected, has only intensified this past year. It's been made abundantly clear to me to that men of a certain age are at best tolerated, and at worst, scorned and shunned in this social whirl we call Gay Life 2007.

I'll be 53 this year. In the ordinary work-a-day world out there, that's no big deal. I'd still be working, giving my children cause to roll their eyes, and no doubt bouncing a grandchild or two on my knee right now, instead of sitting at this computer ranting. I can clearly remember my grandfather at my age. He seemed infinitely old to me.

Among our so-called brethren, I seem to be viewed exactly the same way.

I have a fairly large number of friends and acquaintances and we travel grouped in various permutations thereof, as is our wont to do. I've been wondering why I sometimes find myself at the sidelines of a group, going completely silent, and feeling as if I have nothing to say or do with anything that's going on. As if I'm suddenly locked out. I certainly don't feel a part of any sort of community at large. It's as if a door is closing.

The sort of men that used to find me attractive mostly no longer do, which was a quite a shock, and took some getting used to. It's not a matter of whether my mojo's working, because it does work, if only for a much more select and rarified group. I've become an aquired taste, like anchovies. I'm a fetish object: the (much) older man. I have my fans, thank you! But I've continually seen men's eyes take on that opaque cast when they're introduced to me these days, their handshakes making very clear their complete and total disinterest.

"it's hell to lust for your tormentors, to know from the beginning that your deepest need can only betray you, only expel you from the tribe. So when you grow up, you find a tribe of your own, with guys just like you, to keep from feeling that way ever again. Only you do, sometimes..."

-Armistead Maupin, The Night Listener

In the past five months I've had a couple of experiences that, if I wasn't the stubborn man I am, would have sent me home permanently. Both occurred in waterholes I've frequented on an irregular basis, Therapy and The Boiler Room. Both times I was with a fairly substantial crowd.

At The Boiler Room, a young man was leaning against the corral, his legs sprawled out directly in front of him, into the passage. As I approached, instead of moving them in to allow me to pass, his legs remained there until I was standing right up against them. I felt as if I was back in grammar school, dealing with the class bully. Would he let me pass? In fact, he would not. Instead, he fixed me with a challenging glare, while all conversation halted around him. I looked at him, thinking it must be some sort of joke. It was. On me. I decided to step over him and head to the bar. Upon my return, he was ready for me, and I, him. Back in the same position with him, I reached out, and grabbed the front of his skinny ribcage in my fist, using it to balance myself as I stepped over him again. He gasped in pain as I walked away.

I thought this might be an anomaly, an encounter with some rude drunken fuck who was looking to make my night, or anyone's, miserable. As this seemed so random, I chose to let it pass.

Until I was in Therapy a few weeks ago, making my way towards the bar. I couple of young men were sprawled decorously across the service area, and as I jockeyed myself into a position where I could order my drink, I noticed one of them fix me with the exact same challenging glare. This time, both boys looked me up and down, in that cartoonish Marlene Dietrich sort of way. The taller of the pair reached out and ran his hand across my chest. I smiled, just to be friendly, and reached for my drink. The young man then leaned forward and said:

"You let just anyone touch your tits like that?"

I didn't answer, because I suddenly knew where this was heading.

"You're disgusting!", he spat, as they both laughed and quickly walked away.

I found a quiet place to stand in that very crowded bar; I had to collect myself before I could rejoin my friends. I stood, pinned up against the wall, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat over the thump of the cruddy music.

Perhaps Open Season has been declared on me.

I know, you probably think I should stay home, that I'm too old to stand around in bars anymore. I'm beginning to see why men my age seem to drift off and desert their bar stool after a while. We're just not welcome. I know what those glances mean now.

"He wants awfully to be on the inside staring out; anybody with their nose pressed against a glass is liable to look stupid".

-Truman Capote, Breakfast At Tiffany's

I think of all the men I know who are in their late thirties and early forties, who think their lives are going to be all over for them shortly. They won't be, not by a long shot. Gay life is just entering a new and unfamiliar phase, a journey with all the old points of navigation missing or long gone. We're each going to have to go it alone. Again.

Getting old in our community these days is even worse than you can imagine.

Discuss.

You're all going to get here sometime.

Playbill

2007-05-27T10:11:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, a nice young man approached me.

I turned and smiled, focusing on him, when he asked:

"Aren't you a character in Joe.My.God.'s blog?"

And it fact, I am.

Put Your Records On

2007-05-18T12:47:00.000-04:00

If you were to walk into my apartment...well, it's highly unlikely that you actually would walk into my apartment, because I seem to suffer from some un-named phobia as regards visitors to my private domain, and the fact that I am somewhat less than house-proud. In fact, I wouldn't allow Tim into my apartment for the first four months we dated. He actually waited until I was home and ill before showing up at my door with dinner from Balducci's. I told him to go away, but he used that tone of voice that makes me do just about anything, and I buzzed him up against my better judgement. Later that same month, he announced that he would have to stay with me for an entire weekend, as the PATH trains were to be out of service. Years later, he admitted that he'd completely fabricated that story, but he did spend the weekend with me, and we've been doing it ever since, with minor variations. Those who do forge ahead and gain entrance have compared my abode to an "Aladdin's Cave", or a "jewel in the rough". Very rough, I might add. I think I must suffer from some variation of Collier Brothers-type OCD. Tim just thinks I'm totally detached, and don't care. Both of us may be correct in our diagnosis.

But I digress.

If you were to walk into my apartment, you'd be immediately confronted with a seven foot tall record cabinet, filled to overflowing. If you were to take a left, you'd encounter another storage unit, not quite as tall, but equally as full. Making the final right into my Living Room you'll pass the Mission Oak upright piano. Stop to admire the many framed photographs of the two of us strewn across the top and then cast your eyes upon the third and final bank of LPs. Previously, if you continued on to the bedroom, you'd need to fight your way past racks of Cd's stretching towards the ceiling, as well as errant stacks and piles, placed like so many land mines, atop the speakers and turntable. One false move could and often did cause an avalanche of plastic jewel boxes.

The house I grew up in had a minimal hoard of recorded music; mostly my parent's distinctly different collections of 78's and a handful of seminal rock and roll 45's purchased in the late Fifties. My sister had a small collection of LPs by such current hit makers as the Beatles, Rascals and Doors, but these were stashed in her room, and I was under strict orders to avoid any contact with them under penalty of death, or at least a severe beating. Since we had nothing to play them on, I would mostly sneak in and study the cover art when she wasn't around.

I received my first two very own albums in 1967, when I was 12, and I was hooked. I had to visit the record department of any department store we visited. As I grew older, I could not pass a record store without entering. This habit stuck with me well into the last decade, when record stores basically disappeared off the face of the earth. I moved out of my mother's house in 1974 with a three enormous cartons of LPs, movable only with the aid of dollies. The boxes ran the full length of the living room wall at my tenement apartment on 6th Street. By the time I moved to 12th Street, the collection threatened to overwhelm the new apartment until I had shelving units made. There the records have remained, alphabetically, ever since.

I remember seeing my first CDs at Tower Records and feeling disdain, thinking here was yet another second rate method of selling recorded music, not unlike the 8-track tapes and cassettes I had little use and no respect for. Over packaged in their long boxes, they yielded little information about the product within, and I felt the reduced size of the album graphics, so much a component of my LP enjoyment, was laughable. I couldn't imagine paying twice the price for music I already owned.

I might have kept that attitude up if I hadn't been gifted with a miniature Sony CD player in the mid-Eighties, along with a $150.00 gift certificate to Tower for my choice of Cd's. I spent a Friday evening shopping, hooked the little beast up, and was instantly hooked myself by the sheer volume and brassiness of the sounds that issued forth.

The Cd's first were stacked on my mantelpiece; that pile grew too big, and begat other stacks and piles, as I assembled a veritable mountain range of music. Soon, even the old turntable was covered with Cd's; rendered inaccessible and all but unusable.

Until last week.

Now that no one buys Cd's and most music seems to be purchased via download, I had a large wall-length cabinet fabricated in which to put all those jewel boxes away. Last Saturday, the clearing process was completed and I spent a lovely afternoon alphabetizing.

Afterwards, harvesting a seed planted by the Farmboyz, I fixed some lovely Manhattans for the two of us: Knob Creek bourbon and some Blood Orange (not peach, but not bad) Bitters, and cranked up the dusty old and newly available turntable. I'd really not heard it yet, in conjunction with the monstrous Nikko amp Tim had gifted me with, and I was excited to haul out a stack of re-inaugural LPs.

As we'd watched the Cockettes documentary that morning, I pulled out the two Sylvester & The Hot Band albums I've had for years. I handed the first one to Tim, asking him to sample the ancient scratch 'n sniff gardenia affixed to it's cover. He grinned, and handed it back. It had still retained it's scent these thirty five years later.

From Sylvester's Bazaar album, I played "My Life" and "She", followed by:

"Gettin' Ready for Love" and "You Got It" from Diana Ross' Baby It's Me album

"Spoiled" and "Main Line" from Ashford & Simpson's I Wanna Be Selfish album

"Aching Kind" and "Trashy Rumors" from Michelle Phillips' Victim of Romance album

"I'm Not In Love" from 10cc's The Original Soundtrack album

"Introduction to the Concert (By The Women's Club President)" by Anna Russell

"Madeline's Theme" by Giorgio Moroder from the Electric Dreams soundtrack

"Nineteen" and "(If You Emptied Out Your Pockets) You Could Not Make The Change" from Maggie & Terre Roche's Seductive Reasoning album

"Love for the Sake of Love" from Claudja Barry's Sweet Dynamite album

"Changin'" from Ms. Sharon Ridley's Full Moon album

"Hold On (To My Love)" from Jimmy Ruffin's album of the same name.

One might say I was reveling in my long ago youthful glory; it's true, I was.

I went out to dinner that night humming, a very happy man.

Next week, we tackle the 45's.

Death of a Clown

2007-05-16T10:57:00.000-04:00

Though she wrote it 22 long years ago, nothing's changed.

Tax Free
by Joni Mitchell

Front rooms
Back rooms
Slide into tables
Crowd into bathrooms
Joke around
Cheap talk
Deep talk
Talk talk talk around the clock
Crawl home
Lie down
Teeth chatter
Heart pounds
I don't feel so good
I don't feel so good
Push a button to escape
Preacher on the tube crying "Lord!"
There's evil in this land

(Evangelist:)
"Rock and roll music!"
"Cast down these dope fiends
and there noisy bands!"
"Damn their souls!"

Preacher preaching love like vengeance
Preaching love like hate
Calling for large donations
Promising estates
Rolling lawns and angel bands
Behind the pearly gates
You know he will have his in this life
But yours will have to wait
He's immaculately tax free

"Multiple hundreds of thousands of..."
Tax free
"Hundreds and millions of dollars"
Tax free
"A hundred billion dollars!
And who is paying the price?
Who who
"Your children are"

Pissed off
Jacked up
Scream into the mike
Spit into the loving cup
Strut like a rooster
March like a man
God's hired hands and the devil bands
Packing the same grandstands
Different clothes
"Pot in their pockets!"
Different hair
"Sexually active"
Raise a screaming guitar
or a bible in the air
Theatre of anguish
Theatre of glory
God's hired hands and the devil bands
Oh come let us adore - ME!
Lord, there's danger in this land
You get witch-hunts and wars
When church and state hold hands

Fuck it!
Tonight I'm going dancing
With the drag queens and the punks
Big beat deliver me
From this sanctimonious skunk
We're no flaming angels
And he's not heaven sent
How can he speak for the Prince of Peace
When he's hawk right militant
And he's immaculately tax free

"Our nation has lost its guts!"
Save me
"Our nation has lost its strength"
Tax free
"Our nation has whimpered and cried"
Save me
"And petted the Castros"
Tax free
"The Khomeinis' and the Kaddafis'"
Save me
"For so long"
Tax free
"That we don't know how to act like a man"
Save me
"I think that we should turn the United States Marines
loose on that little island south of Florida and
stop that problem!"
"I am preachin' love, I am!"

Copyright © 1985; Crazy Crow Music

Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream

2007-04-11T19:25:00.000-04:00

Every year, we return to the City. You can practically set your watch by it.

It's perpetually Spring. The Calla lilies are in bloom, yet again. I stop and smell the jasmine draped haphazardly over the rotting eaves of some garage. I admire floral displays of such hue and abundance as I have never known back East. I ponder why that florist shop on Market below Noe has continuing success with their almost Martian xeriscapes, when there is such a wealth of absurdly lush and colorful flora to be found almost anywhere else. One could assemble a creditable nosegay just careening down any street. Perhaps that is the very reason. The palm trees bloom and send blankets of pollen to cover the cobblestones below them. I sneeze.

It's time for our yearly pilgrimage.

Extreme creatures of habit that we are, you could read last year's account, change a few minor details, and it would pretty much serve as a primer for this post.

To start, it didn't rain. Well, only a little. Of this, I am extremely thankful. I haunted weather.com for weeks prior, hoping against hope that we wouldn't have a repeat of last year's drenching, which truly put the word damp in damper. We were rewarded with a few days of sun, some dramatically foggy moments, and the odd downpour to be sat out beneath a bus shelter or random bar.

Our accommodations, such as they were, still provided a modicum of amusement, mostly when we would mention where we were staying. Oh, the faces! The shock! The requests for our room number! The gating of Beck's has pretty much ended the window shopping scenario that most people seem to imagine when they hear the name of the establishment. Truly, I saw nothing untoward at all this last visit. It's almost disappointing. I've been to cotillions with more action.

The Castro is undergoing the same changes that Greenwich Village and Chelsea have been affected by. Much of the younger, possibly more au courant crowd has moved on, leaving a generation of shopkeepers and tourists scratching their collective heads and wondering where everyone has gone. The Castro business guild has been debating ways of drawing people back to this ancestral stomping ground, including, but not limited to such ideas as a large rainbow arch over Castro, or a giant ruby slipper, or even paving the streets with yellow bricks. Though I fail to see the direct connection between this neighborhood and Oz, I do recognize the last dying gasps of some ancient Judy-ism, as much as I'm aware of all those youthful retinas detaching from the major eye-rolling that is sure to ensue if this plan is facilitated.

And so this is what the Castro seems to be all about these days. Scores of young people, seemingly off a recent MUNI or BART purveyance, haunt creatively named boites like the Bar and the Cafe, while those a bit longer in the tooth head for such old (and I do mean old) standbys such as the Edge and 440 Castro. Both camps pass each other, the older group eying the youngsters warily; the youngsters blank-eyed and mostly oblivious to the fact that they share this environment with fellow travellers on similar journeys. There is little to no interaction between said groups, except general annoyance.

As has happened elsewhere, it seems the received wisdom is that we no longer require a ghetto, that we can now be socialized and assimilated among the general populace. Apparently, the Internet has put an end to actual face-to-face encounters, and bars and meeting places have been rendered obsolete. Hmm, don't think so. I do think it is a function of overinflated real-estate values, and a symptom of the current herd mentality.

And I do find it very sad. Not that bars are closing, because they always have. The idea that we'll no longer be able to share common ground together, to honor and pay tribute to one another saddens me immensely, as does the cavalier attitude that is mostly displayed when the subject is broached.

That said, we had a marvelous time, as usual.

Though our flight was late, we still threw our bags in our room and headed out into the night and the Castro for a welcoming cocktail. At the Edge, we met up with Kelly, our bartender for the evening. He explained, when asked about the blindingly hideous rainbow awning and sign that had been erected at the sight of the extinct Pendulum, that though the new place had been creatively named The Bar on 18th, they have taken to calling it Skittles.

We crawled home shortly after, having been graced with the last two pizza slices at Marcello's gratis, and passed out.

We spent the next day wandering, checking out the new Bloomingdale's on Market Street and the huge mega-mall that surrounds it, which was surprisingly vacant. We headed to the gym, and met up with a bartender we'd made the acquaintance of last year. We work out hard, and head out to the Edge for it's very lively Friday after-work scene. We immediately run into our good friend Noah, who re-located here last year, and now is making plans to head back East. Apparently, it wasn't the end of the rainbow, after all. We hang with him and our bartender friend, Bruce, who we know from the Dugout, and who buys us drinks all night. We meet many new people. I run into the same intense gentleman I met there last year at the very same time. He doesn't seem to remember that he's hit on me before. This year he has a nose ring and tattoos on his neck. He still un-nerves me and Tim laughs at my awkwardness. Tim is very popular on this visit. I'm amused to watch the people behind him regard his hindquarters and take on the expression of drooling, hungry dogs. One gentleman lurches up to us and asks Tim if I'm with him. When Tim gives him the bad news, the gentleman looks me up and down, then plaintively asks him "How can I compete with THAT?". Another announces, as he is leaving late in the evening, that he's been captivated by Tim's ass for hours. Crawling up Castro, we run into our good friend Michael, who hugs us for hours, embracing us as we exchange updates.

The weekend progresses accordingly. We shop. We buy a pile of music at Amoeba Records and Medium Rare. This time I came prepared with a shopping list. We have an early Sunday brunch at 2223 Market Street, enjoying the peaceful half-filled restaurant at that hour. A while later, there's a line down the block. We inspect the new-ish Ferry Building. We hop an empty cable car up California Street, enjoying our very own personal amusement park ride. We jump off at Polk Street and troll the Swan Oyster Depot for bivalves, See's Chocolates for gifts and Bob's Donuts for, well, donuts. We stop into the Cinch for an excellent Bloody Mary. We stroll the SOMA area, looking for a leather vendor to replace the now closed Image Leather, formerly located on Market and Sanchez. I bought Tim a wrist band there years ago, and he wanted to replace it before it rotted off his arm. Unfortunately, the bored children working the counter at the two emporiums we tried before giving up just couldn't be bothered to deal with a couple of old dudes like us. Fill in random eye-rolling here.

We hit the traditional one-two punch of the Eagle/Lone Star Sunday afternoon beer extravaganza, getting to the Eagle just in time to see it fill up with an assortment of misshapen, malformed, downright scary supplicants this side of the Bar in Star Wars. We wave to fellow New Yorkers. We are then introduced to the largest, buffest, most handsome man I have ever seen, and I ask Tim if we can move; I can't stand next to him because he cancels out my mojo completely. Tim laughs and takes me to the Lone Star. I've had more than a few beers and several shots, so I'm in fine humor. In line for the trough, I suggest that if the boys were a bit thinner more people might be able to piss at the same time. A gasp goes up through the crowd, and I am pushed by unseen hands into the private bathroom. When I emerge, I suggest to the assembled crowd that there should be a law against serving vegetarian chili at a Beer Blast. I've had to hold my breath and look at the window the entire time I was in there. The very large handsome man from the Eagle arrived well lubricated and places his arms around me, smiling. I feel like I'm oh, maybe 14. Tim is followed around by a flotilla of darkly handsome Spanish men, who clearly would like to peel him off of me and have their way. He's loving every minute of it. We rock out to songs we haven't heard in years, nay decades, impressed by the scope of the playlists.

We visit friends and have dinner at Chow. We lurch up and down Market Street at varying hours. I look at a deeply discounted biography of Jackie Curtis, Superstar In A Housedress, complete with DVD documentary, and regret not buying it. Perhaps it will be there next year.

We discuss moving here. We do this every year, and stop at every realtor's office we pass to see what's available. It's a pipe dream we have.

I'm not sure San Francisco is the answer for me. But it could be a part of an answer. We'lll just have to figure out how.

On our last night, we have a farewell drink at Twin Peaks, where we are regaled with stories by an old-school New York queen who retired here a few years ago. In his rather Roger Debris (didn't I meet you on a summer cruise?) way, he tries to figure out our New York bar pedigrees. I'm not particularly forthcoming as I regard the yellowed painting hanging in a corner of the bar. It features the bar itself, as viewed from the balcony. A clearly young couple has just ventured in the door, attired in wife beaters, jeans and matching cowboy hats. The regulars have all turned en mass to view the new arrivals, who stand stock still, front and center. The painting has been there for years.

For years Tim and I have caused a similar commotion every time we ventured into this room.

Tonight, the men look up, slide down the bar to offer us a couple of stools, and welcome us into their fold.

A Kind of Magic

2007-03-20T14:52:00.000-04:00

Unusual weather we're havin', ain't it?

Because the tri-state area is seemingly composed of many micro-climates, our weather forecasters tend to alarm us city dwellers with warnings of major storms heading towards the Hudson Valley, or rumbling across Long Island Sound. In most instances, these meteorological occurrences have little or no effect on us, aside from a darkening sky or a few drops of rain. So, when a kind of snowy Armageddon was predicted for Friday, I paid little heed to the warning, heading off to the office in a little more than a black wind breaker. I mean, it is almost spring, and, all things considered, we'd had more winter in February than we had during the entire Winter season altogether.

Flurries came and went during the course of the day, but from my office windows facing West 15th Street, it didn't look like it was going to amount to much. I'm endlessly optimistic; what can I say?

We had quite a few plans scheduled for the weekend: dinners, theatre, celebrating St. Patrick's Day. I had some shopping I wanted to do before we head off to San Francisco later this week. I'm not one to let a little weather phenomenon knock me off my schedule.

I'm also not much of a fan of snow, altogether. I'm not sure why. I don't like the quality of the light reflected off snow drifts. Years ago while reading D.H. Lawrence, I made note of the following dialogue: "I hate the snow, and the unnaturalness of it, the unnatural light it throws on everybody, the ghastly glamour, the unnatural feelings it makes everybody have". I read this at a young and impressionable age, and it has probably informed my way of thinking to this day. I despise climbing snow drifts and sinking into ice-filled slush puddles. I hate the way the streets of New York look, later in the day, when the snow is forty shades of grey. I find myself praying for a cleansing rain to wash it all away, not unlike Travis Bickel.

So I was pretty much loaded for bear, as I waited for Tim to arrive for our pre-theatre dinner at our favorite old-school French restaurant in Hell's Kitchen. We had a truly lovely dinner together; warming soup and perfectly sauteed trout, a cocktail apiece, a half-carafe of wine, coffee and dessert. We then hiked through the drifts and boisterous tourists to the theatre we were to attend that evening.

We saw "The Year of Magical Thinking". I'd read the book in one sitting last year on our flight out to California, beginning it in Newark and turning towards Tim with tears in my eyes as we descended over the bay, landing in San Francisco. I could not imagine what would be performed on stage as a representation of Miss Didion's record of loss, but was more than willing to give all parties the benefit of the doubt, considering that the producers had enlisted Vanessa Redgrave.

It was spectacular. I've not witnessed much like it. Miss Redgrave is on stage, without intermission, for about 1-1/2 hours, reciting a continuous and torturously painful monologue. I found myself not breathing, so as not to miss a single syllable. Truly an amazing evening. Moving beyond belief. Strangely uplifting. The moment the curtain fell, the audience rose to it's collective feet, howling with praise. I couldn't even speak to Tim until after we'd left that theatre. In fact, my words, standing on under the marquee were: I need a huge drink.

Now there are dozens of places where one can have a drink in Times Square. In fact, we probably would have headed up to Therapy, where the bartenders can be counted on for an excellent pour, and the boys are not too bad to look at. But the weather was awful, and on a whim we crossed the street into the seemingly deserted lobby of the Marriott. Some years ago, we had thought it would be a hoot to have a cocktail some early Saturday evening at the View, a revolving bar that tops this dreadful piece of, dare I say it, architecture. At that time, we were confronted with a huge line of people wanting to do the very same thing, so we turned heel and left.

This time, there were no other people. It was strange to ride the unenclosed glass elevator by ourselves, and we were seated immediately at a small table adjacent to the edge. Of course, when we arrived the much vaunted view was invisible, hidden behind clouds of snow and steam and fog. We passed up the opportunity to indulge in either the buffet or the cheese and dessert bar, instead ordering a couple of Maker's Mark Manhattans, and waiting for the power of speech to return. We discussed the play, deciding that we'd see it again. The drinks warmed us up and we were amazed to see Manhattan slowly start to reveal itself, 50 stories up. As we were crept by the snow-covered tenements of Hell's Kitchen, a trio was seated at the table across the aisle from us.

Now, I'm an older gentleman, and I have some firm and rather antiquated notions regarding what constitutes proper comportment at various venues. The trio, a man, a young woman, and a large person of indeterminate gender all immediately pulled out their cell phones and digital cameras. The woman and her ambiguous friend, both of whom seemed to have recently received major breast augmentation, took a great deal of time adjusting them, so as to display them to their best advantage in their extremely tight t-shirts. Now, I've been guilty of this myself, but it just didn't seem the venue for this sort of manipulation. While shouting on three different phones, they started taking flash pictures of each other. As we were seated against a glass wall, there was no escaping the flash or it's reflection. They then began shooting pictures of the view, pointing directly at us. I glared at them, to no avail. This went on for about 20 minutes, climaxing with them standing directly in front of our table, and asking the waitress to take their pictures with each of the three cameras. Amidst all the shrieking and flashing, one of them chose that moment to break wind. Tim looked up at me and noted in a deadpan voice that Glamour, as we knew it, was dead. I reminded him that Gloria Vanderbilt had caught hell years ago for being photographed combing her hair while seated on a banquette at El Morocco. Tim pointed out this this was not necessarily the same thing. The waitress asked if we wanted to get in the pictures, to which I responded : Absolutely not! She caught on, and offered to move us to a much quieter area, which we accepted immediately. She moved our stemware, we carried the miniature cocktail shakers, and were soon settled a distance away, where we could watch the trio annoying every other patron in their vicinity from afar.

We managed 2-1/2 revolutions and three cocktails around Manhattan, noting that the View Bar doesn't really have that much of a view, least of all in the Times Square direction. It's set back too far on the building itself, and one cannot view the street scene at all, just the empty office space moldering away in the surrounding towers. The interior view is equally dull, as you pass brightly lit bars and buffets. It is rather akin to enjoying cocktails while seated in front of an open refrigerator. As we passed the dessert buffet, I asked Tim if he could see any sign of the cheese selection the menu spoke so highly of. Tim chortled, as he does, and noted that there was probably a can or two stashed somewhere.

We were finally able to relax and enjoy ourselves, luxuriating in that amorous sense of well being that several well made Manhattans can engender. Tim mentioned how cute he thought I looked in my baseball cap in the snow and I suggested we head home.

I was awakened the next morning by a small muffled voice coming from the pillow beside mine. I could just make out the following groan: Patrick, your Auntie Mame is hung. Poor Tim. We slept in very late, had coffee and Irish scones and crawled out to survey the wreckage of the city. Completing a few errands for our upcoming trip, we heading out to Tim's apartment in Jersey City.

Last year on St. Patrick's Day, we dropped into a local bar of considerable tradition for a holiday drink. We were greeted by a huge crowd of Tim's neighbors, a friendly mixed bunch. At one point, someone recognized us from around the Village and with great excitement announced to the bartender that Tim and I were gay lovers. The Irishman behind the bar looked us up and down and then replied: Tell me something I don't know. Everybody had a good laugh and the bartender bought us several rounds.

We had planned to go back again on Saturday, the day itself. After a traditional dinner, we headed over to the bar, only to discover that the local Hibernians had started rocking the boat early in the day, and by the time we arrived, had all decamped for home and Chinese delivery. We were greeted by an elderly inebriated bartender who'd removed his shirt, and a very large woman who was seated at the bar, singing Macho Man loudly with the Village People record playing on the jukebox. Time for us to go!!

As we walked home, I turned to Tim and asked him to please take me away from all this. It's our standing joke. He repeated the same thing to me on Sunday night, when I came to kiss him behind the bar because the Ronettes were singing "Be My Baby".

And in fact, we are getting away from all this.

Later this week we're heading west for five days of debauchery, Northern California style.

After this winter, we deserve it.

1972

2007-03-06T22:20:00.001-05:00

In response to the recent spate of High School year book picture postings, I hereby offer this snapshot for your delectation and amusement.

I think this picture was actually taken in 1971, given the extraordinary amount of time it took us to pull together the senior class year book for my graduating year. In fact, we didn't receive them for another year, returning in the Spring of 1973, at which point this picture and many like it had been reduced to the merely comical.

By the time I graduated High School in 1972, my hair had finally made it's way down to my shoulders, though it remained the mess of raven curls you see here before you. Of course, in my senior year, I had it cut in a then-fashionable shag haircut, losing the curls and gaining layers. It proved to be a highly unmanageable style for me, and a challenge to my Gillette SuperMax 200 watt blowdryer, which was incapable of producing neither the heat nor the wind required for that tousled, windblown look so many of us were attempting at that time.

Yes, I am wearing overalls in my High School graduation picture; such were the times. My mother was so proud. She refused to purchase the ready-for-framing 5" x 7" or the series of wallet sized prints the school was shilling. She should have been relieved. I did not, as others did, pose with a woolly glued-on beard. Nor did I pose in the style of Veronica Lake, or submit a cartoon in place of my photograph, as some of my more clever classmates did. Our yearbook, bound in faux silver leather, resembled nothing so much as Andy Warhol's Index, all moody black and white, with second-hand camp overtones.

For the photo shoot, I merely turned up in my teen aged notion of fancy dress-up. I'd had the overalls for a while, even affixing an applique to the rear yoke of an American Beauty rose, in tribute to the Grateful Dead album of the same name. I'd conspired to team the overalls with one of my very special and favorite shirts, a pearl buttoned western model; pale cream festooned with faded yellow cabbage roses and still paler green foliage. Paired with my ubiquitous Frye harness boots, I thought I looked terrific.

The hair was the first to go. Having spent the night dancing in the sweaty basement of the Ninth Circle, I happened to catch my reflection in the window of the D train carrying me back to my mother's house in Brooklyn. The hour I'd spent with SuperMax had been all for naught, and I was horrified to note that my hair had morphed into something resembling a Jewfro. I was at the Jack's Barbershop on Brighton Beach Avenue at 9:00 AM the following day, where Jack enjoyed himself immensely as he clipped, then cut, then sheared my hair down to a close cropped buzz. When I next appeared, my friends ragged on my new look, sarcastically calling me Lou Reed. I took it as a compliment.

A bout of mononucleosis that winter took care of the baby fat, and in a couple of years, contact lenses would replace the gold-rimmed aviator glasses. The flower-sprigged shirt still resides in the back of my closet. The fabric has faded and yellowed, and it now resembles some remnant of wallpaper as one might find in an old deserted whorehouse. Tim attempted to try it on some time ago, but stopped when his muscles threatened to burst the seams and shred the fabric. I hadn't realized I was such a waif.

The Gillette Supermax rests on the top shelf of my closet in all it's orange glory; a triumph of early 70's design and a failure in every other way.

I've never understood people who claim their High School years were the best years of their lives. Mine were hell. I look at this picture and all I can see is a young boy who is just about busting to get out of the life he's been living and get on with another; any other. I sort of want to pat him on the head, and tell him to take it easy... that things will work out alright in the end.

He would have decked me.

Pops Staples

2007-02-23T11:15:00.000-05:00

And no, my name ain't Roebuck, either.

It's a week or so later, and I'm finally back to tell the tale.

I've been plagued by gallstones for the better part of the last decade, but it wasn't until Christmas Day that I had an actual attack. Previously, the pain had been a dull, gnawing sensation in my right side, and for years I entertained the thought that I had some sort of crise de foie, or worse, a manifestation of the illness that brought my grandmother down at much too early an age. While doctor visits proved this not to be so, the pains remained pretty much a mystery, appearing now and again. But the holiday attack was like nothing I'd ever experienced, and something had to be done.

Unfortunately, nothing could be scheduled for at least a month and a half, leaving me uncomfortable and full of dread. I've discovered that the worst thing one could do was type gall bladder removal into Google. I'd come to dread websites like Citysearch and Trip Advisor due the utter amount of overly empowered semi-literates with ridiculous notions, and most of the medical sites I perused were no different. I was exposed to the very worst of scenarios every time I tried to do serious research. My doctor was pretty blase about the whole procedure, but try as I might, I just couldn't match his level of cool. At best, the past weeks have been tense. Coupled, as they were, with my yearly bout of seasonal depression, and I was not pleasant company. Least of all to myself.

Of course, the day of the operation coincided with the first snowstorm we've had all winter, and the city pretty much came to a standstill. Tim and I arrived at hospital at 5:30 AM, but my doctor was hours late. His greeted me by explaining that he felt he was still asleep in New Jersey. Pretty cold comfort, there. As the surgery was to be ambulatory, I was walked like through the early proceedings as if I was being kitted out for summer camp, handed a gown, pants and robe, then shown how to pack my personal belongings in a tagged garbage bag, not unlike a sex party. I was poked, prodded and tested, then marched into the operating suite, past all the other patients lying bloody and eviscerated on both sides of me. The anesthesiologist saw my panic and put me out quickly, as the doctor started shaving my abdomen. Good time to pass out, I thought.

I came to an hour later to see Tim working his way towards me, and my doctor mumbling something about complications. They were keeping me overnight. I stayed in the ICU for the next 11 hours, pumped full of morphine. I watched the seemingly unreal soap opera style drama going on all around me. Doctors and nurses fighting, nurses and nurses fighting, patients and nurses fighting, visitors and nurses fighting, all the while consuming boxes of chocolate. Did I mention it was Valentine's Day? A bed could not be located for me until 10:00 PM that evening. At that point I jostled through the hallways on a gurney and deposited in a teensy private room, hooked up to yet another bagful of morphine, and left to my own devices. I promptly passed out, dreaming that I was lying on the shore of a tropical isle.

I spent next day in a haze of opiates, of which I'd received a jug full. My first shower in days revitalized me, and a brisk walk through the slush threw off the dull drug haze. I was back! I realized that the worst pain I had was caused by the dressings and staples used to close me up. I removed the dressings and found four minuscule holes, with a staple or three across each one. My navel looked pierced. I could have hung some nice dangling jewelry from the staple and been quite fashionable. I discovered the doctor had shaved half my abdomen, leaving the rest of my chest hair intact. My stomach sort of resembled Cruella deVille; one side black and the other the color of fresh ham. Of course, this observation might have something to do with the drugs still in my system. I spent a couple of quiet days around the house, watching DVDs and reading, recovering.

By Sunday, I'd had a bit too much recovery and was definitely suffering from cabin fever. At the appointed hour, I through on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and headed down to the Dugout to see my friends. Tim had asked if I was ready to do this, and of course I was. He was also sure I'd show my staples to anyone who asked, and in fact I did. Even those that did not ask were treated to a view that ungodly sight. Joe was the first to arrive, delivering a Happy Gallbladder Day heart-shaped candy gram from Ed (delicious, and no gall bladder pain from eating chocolates, either) and christening me with the nickname used as the title of this piece. As the rest of our posse poured in, I was just so happy to be up, out and surrounded by my friends.

I've been back to work since Tuesday. The staples were removed yesterday and I can see that the scarring will be minimal, at best. I seem to be doing as well as can be expected, so far.

I think I'm back, kids. And as such, I hope to see y'all at our annual Blarg Hop tomorrow night!

Go Ask Alice

2007-01-26T10:34:00.000-05:00

In the winter of 1968, I applied to one of New York City's then-many specialized vocational schools, The High School of Art & Design, located on Second Avenue and 57th Street, a distance of 21 miles and a million light years from my Brooklyn home.

To my great surprise, I was accepted. This fact was announced during my 9th Grade Junior High art class, to the great chagrin of the very same boys and girls who had so enjoyed torturing me and calling me fag for the past six or seven years. I was unprepared and totally surprised when they expressed disappointment at the fact that we would not all be going on together through High School; all I felt was relief at the thought of getting away from them. Call it an early life lesson.

I had always been a restless child. At the age of 11 or 12, I would cadge some change from my mom, hop on a train and travel to Coney Island or Prospect Park. I enrolled myself in the Brooklyn Museum Art School at the age of 11, spending mornings sketching and painting in the galleries, and afternoons wandering the Botanic Gardens or haunting the dusky dells and hidden glades of Prospect Park. Just who were those men traversing the Vale of Kashmir, and why were they staring at me? Call it another early life lesson.

The opportunity to go to school in Manhattan was mind-expanding in many ways; the city was to become my Wonderland. It seems I spent more of the next three years wandering the streets than in classrooms. In the early, early morning I'd fall asleep on the Lexington Avenue express, only to miss my stop at 59th Street and awaken as the train pulled into 86th Street. This was usually taken as an invitation to write off the school day and spend the morning at the Metropolitan Museum and the rest of the day gadding about with friends in Central Park.

The photograph above was taken by my dear old friend Mark Horowitz on one such day. Judging by our clothes, it's early spring, 1970. We've reconnoitered at one of our favorite spots, the Alice Statue, to commune with some of our current literary favorites. There may have been refreshments consumed, which would account for my perplexed expression, and the general amusement of all concerned.

I was to have many such adventures in the thirty seven years to follow. Some have faded, some have disappeared, just like the New York City that existing in 1970.

Why is it that I can remember the moment this picture was taken, exactly?

Making Plans for Nigel

2007-01-16T23:08:00.000-05:00

Gosh, am I crabby!

It wasn't so much the weekend, which was rather nice as those things go. I can't quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it's that feeling of ennui that seems to settle on me like some heavy shroud after the holidays. It's been bugging the crap outta me.

Mind you, my holidays were a little rough, but I enjoyed them, in spite of all the drama. Strangely enough, I've been feeling so much better these days, which only serves to fill me with a bit of dread, when I think about going under the knife next month.

In order to keep my mind occupied, and avoid said dreadful feelings, I spent last week purchasing tickets to San Francisco in March, reserving our room, arranging for our time in Provincetown in August, basically making plans to keep all those nagging gloomy thoughts at bay. Could I be any more gay? The flight is $258.00 round trip, which means we'll have no end of extra beer money to throw around. The room couldn't be cheaper. Beck's, don't you know? And P-town? Looks like we'll be staying in our little Winthrop Street hideaway a bit longer than usual. Our landlord just wrote us a very nice note thanking us for our years we've spent in his condo, as if we were doing him some kind of favor, and asking if he could expect a return visit. I think we'll wind up there through at least a portion of Carnival, in addition to our regular time. I hope my gall bladder-less liver can stand it.

Of course, all this activity is just busy work. Not that I really need more. My job has kept me at my desk until all hours, and I find that I'm completely exhausted come Friday night. I crawled to Tim's this past week, not even going home to change, so complete was my weariness. I'm thinking we were in bed by 11:00 at the very latest.

We actually did nothing on Saturday, just chores around his house, then traveled back to town at dusk to run a few minor errands before settling down in my apartment for a couple of extremely lovely Knob Creek Manhattans each. I had purchased a few old English import CDs during Tower Record's awful demise, and I enjoyed Tim's reaction as he heard all 7:38 minutes of Propaganda's "Duel (Bittersweet)" for the first time on my monster Nikko amp. He said: "Wow".

We headed out for dinner, with the intention of visiting the new pub that has taken the place of the venerable Sazerac House on Hudson Street. Studying the menu outside, I found it lacking, until we entered to discover that aside from the porch the restaurant was almost non-existent, devoured by a huge bar with a scene not unlike the Blind Tiger, which took the place of another old favorite, One Potato, several years ago. The Village is completely over-run with young heterosexual couples seeking the latest trends and slumming in what's left of our hangouts. We repaired to a quiet Chinese restaurant, and watched them fighting each other for taxi cabs and lining up to get into swinging boites from the relative safety of our window seat.

After dinner, we swung down Hudson Street and around to Ty's, where Little Tim is now tending bar weekend nights. It was fun to see him in action, and he poured us several killer bourbon & sodas. We hung out with Dennis and Michael, discussing our penchant for staying at Beck's when we go to San Francisco. I explained that I've always been disappointed, that I've never seen anything come anywhere near the level of debauchery so many people have spoken of. And now, with the new gates, it's practically cloistered. A well known blogger has made his distaste for the place well known to me, suggesting that we could shack up in a four-star hotel for about the same price. When I point out that said hotel is not in the Castro, the conversation tends to die.

It was about that time that Ty's took to showing Gay Sex in the Seventies on their large overhead monitors. I hate watching television in bars; I get mesmerized, just like everybody else. I might as well be home. But I was completely sucked in when I turned around and saw my old pal from the Firehouse, Vito Russo, right above me. And then several others. And then the very bar I was standing in, only 30 years before. It was as if I had fallen through a tear in the time/space continuum. I found myself cheering as the bars of my youth appeared on screen, as well as the sites of many an enjoyable evening of exploration. I recognized one man after another.

I will have to watch this in a non-bar atmosphere, when I haven't necessarily consumed my weight in bourbon. To this end I ordered a copy of the DVD from Amazon on Monday. I'll be sure to have something to say about it here. Rest assured, it will not be about the unkempt hair, or the mustaches.

Sunday night, all my friends abandoned me to their various holiday weekend events, leaving just me, and then finally Damian, to act as representatives of our posse. My very excellent friend Ryan was in town from San Diego, and had come down to spend a couple of hours with me, to talk music, grab some ass and have a generally great time together. At some point in the evening, two California guys recognized Ryan from Palm Springs, and pushed their way over to talk and flirt with him. He introduced me, but one of them clearly wasn't about to pay attention to the likes of me, while his friend deigned to place his limp hand in mine and pointedly looked over my shoulder, all at the same time. I got the picture and cleared out. Ryan was back by my side shortly thereafter, telling me he thought they were assholes for their lack of manners and complete disinterest in me. I'm getting used to it, sort of. I actually had a chuckle over their behavior.

On Sunday morning, I picked a copy of David B. Feinberg's Spontaneous Combustion off my bookshelf, which deals with gay sex in the Eighties, quite a different time than the DVD I'd seen portions of the night before. I've been reading the short chapters over the past two days, and I find it quite startling to be completely thrown back in that landscape of pain and bewilderment once more.

I've sometimes thought that because we survived those trials together, we'd all somehow be nicer to each other. I guess I was wrong. Silly me.

Boy, am I crabby.

...And Presents Under The Tree....

2007-01-08T17:02:00.000-05:00

As you can tell, this is way past-posted.

Praise to the diety of your choice, but somehow I made it through a most difficult holiday season. I don't recall one quite so rough as this in several years. And the blame can be squarely laid at my feet. Or spine. Or the odd internal organ.

As I've mentioned before, I managed to somehow managed to mangle my spine on Thanksgiving Day, causing me no end of problems, even keeping me out of work and the Dugout for a day or two. Imagine! With the help of my good doctor, some excellent physical therapists and a couple of prescriptions I've grown a bit fond of, I was able to continue spending overly excessive hours at work, attempting to get my holiday shopping done, attend the bevy of work related lunches, dinners and sundry other functions, all the while enjoying the expressions on people's faces when I told them what I'd done to myself. That perverse pleasure was to be short-lived.

I spent the pre-Christmas weeks installing a project on 52nd Street and Fifth Avenue, right in the heart of New York holiday insanity. You could not walk down the street without being mowed down by groups of tourists walking five abreast. Bringing my trucks in was nigh unto impossible. The stress level was astronomical. To top it off, I'd not done much shopping, and the holidays were bearing down on me. I was feeling run down, but put on a brave face and did what I thought I had to do.

I was surrounded by no end of Scrooges, each expounding their own Bah! Humbug! theories on why they hate the holidays. Granted, there are myriad reasons. I know, it's a false construct, created by big business to force poor schlubs into debt, and it really doesn't mean anything. Right? Never the less, Tim and I have always enjoyed this time of year. I like planning things and December is nothing but plans. Our schedule was completely booked for every moment of every weekend, way back around my birthday. Lots to do, lots to do.

So, then, what was this random stabbing pain I'd have in my back? Was it related to my disc injury? Perhaps the physical therapy? Every now and then I would feel what felt like a sword passing completely through me, under my rib cage. I soldiered on, thinking I was perhaps favoring my injured side and had thrown my back out in doing so.

I had stopped going to the gym for the duration, and there were no end of client dinners and lunches, as well as the usual Christmas crap that fills most offices around this time. I must admit, I did partake a bit too much.

The Friday prior to Christmas, I noticed that I was having trouble bending forward without pain. I still attributed this to my back. Tim and I went about our business the next couple of days, preparing for our holiday feast. We spent a pleasant hour and a half on line at Ottomanelli's Butcher Shop on Bleecker Street, waiting to pick up our roast beast. Double decker tour buses passed every three minutes, and the guides would ask us what we were doing, as if this might be some new fabulous Greenwich Village boite with a velvet rope and misleading signage. We bought cheeses, olives, salmon, pate, rillettes; all the things that make a festive spread. By Sunday, I thought I might be having a heart attack. The pain had settled into my mid section, and was severe at times. I knew my heart was not located there, nor was I having any of the tell-tale signs. I was resolute in my idea of not spoiling our holiday, as I had on Thanksgiving.

The day itself arrived, and I was in flat out agony, yet we had a blast exchanging gifts. In the pic above, Tim's gifts are on the left and mine are on the right. You can also discern this by the Catholic School stocking that says Timmy, and the other stocking that features a bear rolling around under a tree. It looks like he has rug burn, too.

Tim listens to me blather on all year long, somehow remembers, and then gets me the gifts that I really want. As you can see, I got tons of music and books and DVDs, a great shirt, some beautiful antiques and an excellent bottle of cognac. I had a leather jacket custom made for him, and bought him a few trinkets to amuse him.

We took a walk and set about making dinner. I had prepared the standing rib roast a la Anne Willan, glazed with English mustard, and Tim made Yorkshire pudding. I was unable to baste the roast because I could not bend the upper half of my torso. Dinner was marvelous, however, and we enjoyed, as always, the soothing company of our dear friend M. We had a bit of dessert and port and collapsed into bed, exhausted.

I woke up feeling better the next day, and thought the worst had passed. Wrong. I went home on Tuesday, heading back to work Wednesday morning. My receptionist took one look at me and said I looked awful. I felt that way, as well, thank you. In a mere half hour, I was back to the same place I was in Monday. I called my doctor, who called a few specialists. Each and every one of them was on vacation. This was clearly not a good week to be sick. He asked me to come to his office. When I arrived, he took one look at me and sent me to the emergency room at Beth Israel, where I spent the next TEN hours. That's a horror story for another time, but I did learn that the gall stones I've had for some years had flared up, and guess what? My gall bladder would have to come out.

Well, the operation is scheduled for Valentine's Day, so that's another holiday I'm going to screw up. It's done laparoscopically, so I'll be home that night if all goes well. I'm planning on taking the next couple of days off, and Monday's a holiday.

Don't be surprised if you see me out and about on Sunday night.

Making Spirits Bright

2006-12-13T14:40:00.000-05:00

Slowly but surely, I seem to be coming back to myself.

It's not like I had much of a choice. There's just been too much to do. Work's been a bear for months now, and I'm beginning to realize it's been a hibernating bear all along that's only just now waking. This winter's work-load looks terrifying, but in a good way. I guess.

Of course, my recent injury has taken a huge toll. I have not been to the gym in over six weeks, and what muscles I have are melting away, only to be replaced by the fat caused by seasonal overeating. I am feeling much better, enjoying dope-free days, and am happy to report that I can actually move my hips independently of the rest of my torso again with a minimum of painful gasping. Tim's glad too. It was definitely touch and go for a while.

The past couple of weeks have been a whirl to teeters close to insanity. I returned to work the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and it's been a wild ride ever since. I'm glad to be the purveyor of ergonomic seating, because the lumbar support of my Knoll Life Chair has really been the only thing keeping me upright some days.

Forget about Christmas shopping. There hasn't been time. I've managed to walk into at least a dozen stores just as they were closing. Nothing suggests seasonal good cheer like a young sales clerk snarling at you when he's ready to go home. It's nice to see that so many of the angertwinks have found gainful employment for the holidays. Thank Christ for Internet shopping. And Fed Ex men! Now if someone would only come by and wrap Tim's gifts, I'd be in heaven. I'll supply the single malt scotch, along with the Scotch Tape. Really!

Two weeks ago, we had Tim's sister and husband, along with their children, aged 5 and 8 visit for the first time from snowy upstate. You haven't seen Manhattan until you tour the sites a 5 year old wants to see during the first weekend of December. There were lines everywhere. Thank Christ for the Central Park Zoo. Too many children were busy being dragged from toy store to Santa's lap to pay much attention to the monkeys and otters, who pretty saved the day for us. Not to mention the Zootique. Never was a drink so welcome as the one I had during our 5:00 PM dinner at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame. By the way, come the Revolution, I will assume the dark mantle of executioner, beheading the very small, smug and self satisfied patrons of the cafe located within F.A.O. Schwartz. I will gleefully toss their ice-cream stained carcasses to the screaming, teeming rabble below. Watch this space.

On a more peaceful note, I spent last weekend at Tim's putting up the tree and doing all sorts of Christmas-y things. This year our tree arrived in a box. Normally, we buy a tree in Manhattan and haul it out to Jersey City on the PATH train. You can only imagine the looks we get. You try finding a live tree in Journal Square! This year we ordered a 7' Fraser Fir from Vermont, not really knowing what to expect. It arrived in a love narrow box. It is possibly the freshest, most beautiful tree we've had in years. And yes, Martha Stewart, it does smell like tangerines. Thank Christ for Internet shopping. We relaxed on Friday night and then dedicated Saturday to decorating. We've amassed quite a few ornaments in our travels, adding to Tim's burgeoning collection of hand-me-downs from grandparents, aunts, and ancient monastery cast-offs. All the while, we listened to an eclectic array of seasonal music, including offerings from Sufjan Stevens, Jo Stafford, Michael Martin Murphey, Fred Waring and Herb Alpert. In fact, we listened to all five jingling, whispering CDs of Sufjan's Christmas sing-a-long...or at least until Tim complained that I was consulting the notes, the chord progressions, the commentary and the stickers that came in the box way too much, not paying enough attention to the tasks at hand. We had several drinks and a lovely supper, and as is our wont to do, wound up on the floor under the tree. Some people get to wear special Christmas outfits on the big day...I typically sport rug burn.

Tomorrow, we are heading for M.'s house in the wilds of northern New Jersey. We'll help to decorate his trees, and bring him several more of the bear ornaments he collects. Just for me, we'll light Hanukkah candles and I'll even attempt to make latkes, because I'm just not fat enough. We're aiming to achieve food coma tomorrow night. If you see me waddling at the Dugout on Sunday, you'll understand why.

Come the Christmas day itself, we're having a group of people, yet to be finalized, over to dinner.
I've been planning the feast for weeks. I don't know how or when I'll have a chance to get all this done without a major breakdown, but I've got to get a move on.

I hope your December has been equally frustrating.

Thanks.....

2006-12-07T09:30:00.000-05:00

Perhaps you've been asking yourself:

"Where has that lazy Mark of Kane gone to? What's he been doing these days? We haven't heard from him in ages!"

Well, gentle readers, it is with regrets that I tell you how I was laid low (and not in a good way) these past weeks.

It seemed as if it was going to be a rather fun Thanksgiving weekend. We had all sorts of plans to drink with family and dine with friends on the day itself. Tim and I spent a lovely relaxing evening in anticipation of the long weekend. We awoke on Thursday morning to troubled skies.

Now I'd spent the month of November at doctors and specialists, being poked, prodded and generally annoyed. My primary care physician had noticed that I hadn't had a physical in a couple of years, and at my advanced age, apparently, one needs a monthly tune-up. He scheduled a round of electrocardiograms, colonoscopies and the like. To his apparent disappointment and my relief, everything turned out pretty much alright. There are a couple of issues with my legs and running, but that can basically be resolved by choosing a different cardio training method. And I'm eating a lot of bran.

I've also spent the past six months working with a trainer, who concentrated, as they all do now, on strengthening my core. We'd spend hours doing plank exercises, and crunches, and the dreaded mountain climbers. I was rewarded for all this with the actual almost-appearance of abdominal and oblique muscles and a somewhat trimmer waist. However, amidst the medical testing barrage, I'd not been to the gym for three weeks.

I awoke on Thanksgiving morning and installed myself on Tim's sofa to watch the parade, something I've done since I was a very small child, and for some reason still do, even though I find the corporate sponsorship completely odious now. It was teeming rain, and poor band children from all over the country were doing their level best to smile and twirl and blow their horns through the downpour. I was cozily ensconced with a cup of coffee when Tim called from the bedroom and asked me to help move the mattress. I hopped up, tipped the mattress on it's side with him and headed back to my coffee and the Rockettes.

The morning progressed with family phone calls and the appearance of Santa Claus, who we know as a fellow Dugout habitue. It is a small world, after all. Tim and I went out to the diner to grab some breakfast, when I became aware of some discomfort in my lower back. During the meal I started finding it impossible to get comfortable, squirming around in my seat. By the time we'd walked around the corner and back to Tim's house, my back was in spasms of agony.

I tried a very hot shower. I tried stretching. I asked Tim to massage it. Nothing helped. And it was getting progressively worse. I needed help getting into my jeans, and then we hobbled across the river back to my house. There, in agony, I changed into visiting clothes, struggled to pull on a pair of boots and headed off to my sister's house for drinks. I was mostly unable to sit comfortably at my sister's, moving from chair to chair as I chatted with family. We took our leave at 7:20, in time to walk across town and meet M., Joe, Ed and the Farmboyz, who were joining us for our annual Thanksgiving dinner at Keen's.

Now nothing says Thanksgiving more to me than a big mutton chop and a series of very dry martinis, and I had been looking forward to this for some time. We met at the bar, where I started a steady regimen of medicinal cocktails, that were to help me through the evening. The night was a great success, and I hope my friends will indulge me again next year, and the year after that, if they will. You can read about it here, and I'll let you guess who the priest and ex-monk are.

After many Martinis, a sip of Ed's sidecar and a glass of port with dessert, I was apparently feeling alright enough to head on up to the Townhouse, which was fairly sedate. We took a seat on the small settee that is ensconced between the front and back bars, and watched the crowd. Tony says that an evening at the Townhouse is akin to a bubbly wake, and he's right. We're firmly convinced that the little alcove we staked out would a perfect place to lay out the body. A few drinks later and we were home before midnight.

Suffice to say, the rest of the weekend went steadily downhill. Friday, we hobbled around town, running some errands and doing a little pre-season window shopping. I was in agony. I thought it might be a good idea to repair back to Tim's, and we did. We fixed a vat of chili, and stayed home all weekend. I even stayed home from the Dugout on Sunday, remaining immobile and miserable on the sofa until Tim came back from bartending, relayed the various greetings surprised friends had left for me at the bar, and put me to bed.

I was scheduled for a stress test at 8:15 Monday morning, but could barely walk by this time. Instead, I went over to my doctor's office and was sent, posthaste, to the Spine Institute where they told me I could make an appointment for December 20th. As I was insisting that someone from the office get me admitted to the emergency room (ah, the vagaries of HMO's!), a gentleman who turned out to be the director asked me what the problem was, and then saw me two hours later. After x-rays and assorted tests, it was determined that I had ruptured a disc, which I'd been treating with Advil for the past four days.

Dosed with steroids, hillbilly heroin and a sense of purpose, I went back to work Tuesday, and I've been spending 10 to 12 hour days here pretty much ever since. I've since discovered that my drugs do not mix with diet beer, causing me to slur my consonants much earlier than usual when I returned to my usual spot at the Dugout the following Sunday.

This is the holiday season! I have too many things to do for work, and that doesn't even begin to cover the holiday chores I have to complete in the next couple of weeks. I can't stop!

I start physical therapy next week with Lance and Eric. It sounds like an 80's porn video, and I'm not sure if I'm looking forward to it or not.

I asked my doctor what could have caused the rupture, as I felt nothing actually happen. He gently suggested that it might just be my age, and the fact that things like this can just happen when you're over 50.

I'm beginning to agree with Bette Davis. Old age is no place for sissies.

Topless

2006-11-21T18:09:00.000-05:00

I came across this rather startling photograph this morning as I was riding the subway on my way to one of those pre-dawn job-site meetings in midtown, and it served to jog my memory about an incident that occurred this past weekend.

There I was, late Sunday afternoon, at my usual post near the jukebox at the Dugout. The bar started off fairly quiet, as it does these days, and it was a while before some of the gentlemen I usual socialize with arrived. I'd been to the gym for the first time in almost three weeks earlier in the day, and was beginning to feel that old, familiar soreness returning to several long neglected muscle groups. I had tugged on an old t-shirt which served to hide a myriad of sins.

I had been expecting a fairly quiet evening, and in the absence of my friends, thought for a moment that I might spend the night by myself, speaking with no one. Though this has actually happened on occasion, it did not come to pass. The usual suspects poured in, followed by a fairly large brigade of tourists and the like, many of whom had taken in the Gay Expo that had been held all weekend. Soon the intermingled crowds were enjoying that warm and fuzzy Sunday afternoon beer buzz and checking each other out. Trips to the men's room and the bar were utilized for general scouting purposes and preliminary flirtation tactics.

Midway through the evening, a rather handsome, bearded and burly redheaded gentleman appeared across the room from us. One of our number mentioned that he had just jacked-off the previous day to said redhead's picture on one of the many meat and greet sites that exist expressly for that purpose and more. We marvelled at the synchronicity of it all. He was pretty awesome, I must say.

Now, for the most part, redheads hate me. It's a fact. I must represent something evil to them, because they seem to shun me in droves. No one has quite made the sign of the cross at me, but you get the idea. And yes, I think red hair and red beards are beautiful. Of course. They've been mostly unobtainable. At least until recently.

At some point in the evening, after a few beers had kicked in, this man grabbed me on my way back from the bar. He was my height, which I sometimes find disconcerting, and we were able to look directly into each other's eyes. I was a bit awestruck in the presence of all that red. After a bit of small talk about his tourist status and the fun he'd had at the Expo, he managed to get his hand up under my shirt. I was okay with this, and silently glad I'd done all those crunches that afternoon at the gym. He pulled me close to him, managing to lift my t-shirt up over my midriff area. I smiled and pulled it back down. Just as quickly he worked the shirt back up, and attempted to pull it off me. I stopped him, and he looked at me quizzically. I pulled the shirt back down and flashed a steely little smile.

"C'mon", he said, "let's take our shirts off and rub bellies".

I explained that I don't take my shirt off in bars anymore, and watched his eyes glazed over and his attention drifted elsewhere.

So, there you have it. Mark's fashion tip for middle-aged men: Even if all the youngsters have stripped down, exposing acres of flesh and fur, you might want to consider leaving your shirt on. Now, for the record, I am not ashamed of my body. In fact, I rather like it. I'm hard and soft and furry in places that some guys seem to like. As I've said before, I have my fans.

At this age, I'm just not all that comfortable hanging out in public shirtless, and I think a variety of people are breathing sighs of relief as we speak, just to know that. Just like Mr. Stallone up there. Not that I'm comparing my body to his, in any way, shape or form. But muscle looks very different when you age, as does skin tone and quality. Quite simply, it's all a matter of blood flow to the skin's surface, which diminishes vastly as one ages. What was once a rosy glow now appears red and blotchy.

Now, you may be able to view me shirtless in some of the following venues:

Poolside

Sur la Plage

On my terrace, taking the sun

In the locker room at the gym

In my bedroom

Lounging around your apartment, apres sex.

Nora Ephron writes that one of her "great life regrets" is "not having worn a bikini for the entire year I was 26. If anyone young is reading this, go right this minute, put on a bikini. Don't take it off until you're 34."

She's quite right. I should have removed my shirt in 1974 and left it off for the next twenty years. Who knew?

Oh, well.

Now, can we please talk about what Sly Stallone has done to his face?

Billy Goats Gruff

2006-11-16T17:16:00.000-05:00

Well, it had to happen.

I've lived in fear of it for years.

I somehow knew that someday, some young person would look me squarely in the eyes, purse up their lips in disgust, haul off and call me a troll.

And not only a troll, but "the worst kind of troll there is"!

I'm not exactly sure what that kind of troll might be. I wasn't aware of the subtle levels and gradations of said trolls. But to be branded the worst kind? Wow.

I gladly participated in Joe's Special Open Thread Thursday today. You know, the one where he suggested that those of us so inclined might go to Paypal and donate some money to Mike Jones, who is having a rough time of it. I sent him my jukebox money. Those of you who know me will understand what that means. For the record, I have no compunctions regarding Mike's prior career choices, whatsoever. In the words of James Leo Herlihy, "a person's gotta make a living".

I'm real tired of being insulted and stepped on by religious zealots who, in their private lives, are doing things that would probably make me blush. And I'm ready and willing to support anyone who comes out swinging against them. This is guaranteed not a make that person particularly popular in places that are situated some distance away from major bodies of water. To me, what Mike Jones did was heroic. And here's what happened:

Lots of young gay men called him old and ugly;
No major gay-supported organizations (hint: HRC) have even acknowledged his small but potent role in last week's election;
He probably stands a very good chance of losing whatever legitimate employment he does have;
He's being cast as a pariah by many in his own so-called community.

When I've objected to any of this, I've been told to lighten up, develop a sense of humor, and now, I've been called a troll because I suggested that if you wanted to donate you should, and if you didn't, well then, did we have to hear that "hooker/crystal/poor Mrs. Haggard" diatribe again.

Oh yeah. Then I was told to shut up.

By an ex-blogger who has a photograph of young things toasting each other with jello shots on his page.

Thanks, Toby...you got me blogging again.

P.S. If you too feel so inclined, hit up Paypal, enter Mr. Jone's account (massageandmuscle@aol.com), and show some love.

Fitty Two

2006-10-18T13:59:00.000-04:00

Spoiler Alert: Whining Ahead!!

It's eleven days to my 52nd birthday, and let me tell you...I have that familiar gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach.

MySpace has already taken to posting my age as 52 in my profile; an event that has left me surprisingly less than happy. I mean, it's alright if I pre-date myself. I've done that for the past six months, telling anyone who asked that I am 52. It helps me prepare for the actuality of it. But to have an internet juggernaut do it for you, well....feh.

I'm just not feeling it this year. Wait, I'm going to consult my blog archives and see how I felt last year. Okay, I'm back! In 2005, I didn't even blog about the birthday itself, but I can see that we went to Keen's (a huge surprise, right?) and clearly, I was equally as non-celebratory as I am this year. In fact, I posted a blog entry entitled Pink Moon, after the Nick Drake song of the same name. Definitely not a good sign.

Surprisingly, I'm really not any more downbeat than usual, all things considered. It's been a tough month, so far. Our friend Richard passed away on October 1st, and then I found out that my dear friend Arthur had died in San Francisco on the same day. Both had been sick for some time, but each man made an accelerated exit. Tim had known Richard for the better part of a decade, and Arthur's been my friend since Hector was a pup. I've blogged about Arthur in the past here and here. Both represented a tie with the past that has now been almost completely severed. It looks like I'm it. Swell.

I have managed to keep my head above it all by keeping very busy at work, and then writing at night. I enjoy the exercise this blog has afforded me, and I'm seeing if I can actually parlay my scribbles into something a bit more tangible.

So...don't cry for me...I will no doubt go out on the eve of my, um, big day and have a nice dinner, receive some of nifty gifts and get drunk. My actual birthday's on Sunday. If you know me, you'll know where to find me. How grim can that be? We'll see!

Lastly, a style tip for those entering their 52nd year:

Never, ever let anyone point a digital camera equipped with flash within a foot of your face after you've spent an afternoon slamming beer with the boys in Brooklyn, then returning to Manhattan and making an ill-advised switch to bourbon. The results are unsettling, to say the least. You won't see them here.

My Best Friend

2006-10-11T23:45:00.000-04:00

I'd heard about Barry a while before I actually met him. This was inevitable, as I had succeeded him in a job, and he'd left quite an impression.

Barry was assistant to a fairly young and definitely high strung interior designer who was, at that moment, on the cusp of world renown. Somehow, Barry had always gravitated to jobs that seemed glamorous, but, in the long run, required major grunt work for rather low salaries. By the time he'd figured out that he could make two or three times the money as a tuxedoed waiter at one of Manhattan's many upscale steak houses, I was interviewing for the position.

Me? Well, I'd been working in some of the more established design houses in New York, but with my unerring sense of downward mobility had taken to looking for a position with a smaller firm, where I'd have an opportunity to study the business at extremely close proximity.

I took the new job as soon as it was offered, and was sorry almost instantly. My new employer immediately made clear his notion that I was a young, spoiled Jewish boy. His secret nickname for me was Private Judy Benjamin. He was completely shocked when he found out I'd been with Robert for several years. He'd entertained sexual fantasies about him since the days Robert managed a D & D Building showroom, dressed in torn jeans, a studded motorcycle belt, boots, and any number of my pearl-buttoned western shirts. I began to suspect my predecessor had fled for his life.

I was sitting, rather heavy-hearted, in the empty office one morning, when Barry called and asked if he could stop by. I'd never met him, just heard how charming he was from our various clients, as they'd eye me balefully. Needless to say, I was a bit nervous.

When I opened the door of our tiny Sutton Place office, I was confronted by a tan young man, taller than me, with curly black hairy and a radiant, disarming smile. He greeted me as if we'd already met and walked in. Picking up a package that had been left for him, he settled himself in and began to tell me about the camping vacation on Tortola that he and his now ex-boyfriend had just returned from. He pulled out a packet of photographs, laughing ruefully about the relationship that had fallen apart during the course of the camping trip. I perused the pictures, admiring the dark happy people amidst the palm trees and brightly colored tents, until I came across a photo of a scowling gentleman and gasped, "That's him!!". Barry laughed, and I realized I had to explain myself.

For years, since we'd moved to 12th Street, I would run into this same man, tall, built, darkly handsome. In the early throes of my captive relationship with Robert, I was supremely retarded in terms of dealing with other men I was sexually attracted to. I would stare, hard, at this man, wanting him badly every time I saw him. He, in turn, would smile broadly and wink. I was always to shy to speak to him. Barry explained that this was Bill, the man he'd just split with.

It turned out that Barry lived around the corner to the north of me. Bill lived around the corner in the opposite direction. I sheepishly told Barry my story, while he laughed. He'd seen Robert and I around the neighborhood; wondered who we were. We talked very easily for almost two hours and then I invited him to dinner the next night.

He showed up that evening complete with his personal version of a perfect hostess gift: three Quaaludes. He'd thought my invitation was for a three-way, not an actual dinner. But we took the pills and I fed him Fettucini Alfredo, as we drank wine and laughed and collapsed in a large sodden puddle. At some point, the conversation turned to hair gel, and we discussed the latest French fixative, Tenax, which was just then gaining popularity. In our stumbling state, it was decided that we test the Tenax against Barry's unruly curls. Tenax was a terrible product, full of alcohol, that dried to a hard, brittle sheen and then crumbled into a whitish powder not unlike dandruff. The entire effect was completely unpleasant. I took Barry by the hand into my kitchen and washed his hair under the faucets. When he came up for air, he showed me how aroused he was. I smiled as Robert walked in. In those days, it was not to be. Robert would not have allowed it.

In spite of, or because of this, Barry and I became fast friends, best friends, completely integrating the other into the private menageries we both maintained. In those pre-NYU dorm days, I had a clear and unimpeded view of Third Avenue from my terrace door. The street scene was not unlike Edward Hopper's "Sunday Morning", and I would often play the Velvet Underground song of the same name, sending both echo and jangle down to the pavement below. To my consternation, Barry learned to spy me from the street and would yell out my name from half a block away. I'd be pulled out of some smoky reverie to find Barry hollering my name off the roof top of his building. I broke him of this habit very quickly.

We spent every weekend together, cooped in our living room, playing music, smoking, laughing and drinking until Robert got restive and Barry took his cue to leave. We'd listen to Johnny "Guitar" Watson's "A Real Mutha for Ya", Michael Frank's "Passionfruit", the first two DeBarge albums, no end of Prince and a lot of Pat Metheny. In later years, Barry was highly appreciative of my ability to mix Scritti Politti's "Flesh & Blood" with Wham's "Everything She Wants".

We raced around town for years, met each other's families and friends, and were, in short, inseparable. When Barry met Arthur, his future partner, I felt completely threatened. I was sure that Arthur would somehow spirit Barry away from me. In point of fact, he did; first moving him to the Upper West Side, then installing him in the glamour job he'd always wanted, as a video editor with a production house that was creating the majority of what one was seeing on MTV and Saturday Night Live. On weekends, they'd head off to Arthur's upstate farmhouse. I rebelled, I yelled, I carried on like a spurned lover. But in the end, our friendship somehow endured. We thought our friendship invincible. We'd go up to the farmhouse for long weekends of swimming, cooking and laughing.

In 1985, both Barry and I were feeling run down. I'd been through a few years of Robert's illness by that time, Barry by my side. He sat with me while Robert suffered through several operations, rode the trains with me up to 168th Street to visit him, and kept me company on the nights I was alone while Robert was hospitalized. I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders; Barry just felt lousy. We both went to the doctor together; a fancy Park Avenue physician that Arthur had recommended, with a waiting room full of Early American antiques and stacks of glossy shelter magazines. We both were given full work-ups.

In the week that followed, its was acknowledged that I was indeed run-down, and confirmed that Barry had a slight case of pneumonia. Robert and I agreed to rendezvous at his West Side apartment, hoping against the worst. We found Barry reclining on the American Empire fainting couch that Arthur had bestowed on him, looking and acting like a robust Camille. He had chores for us. I was to hook up his new stereo speakers, Robert was to cook dinner. Barry had a surprise for us. He handed each of us a small white pill. It was that brand new concoction, Ecstasy, and he could think of no better time to try it. Robert hit the kitchen and was soon frying chicken. I had the sound system up and running in almost no time. We sat together, huddled in a battered little group, none of us daring to put our worst fear into words.

Barry recovered and went back to work. He and Arthur started taking trips, following Robert and I to Key West, heading out to Los Angeles to visit Arthur's big-time TV producer friends in the hills of BelAir. The glamorous life he'd always desired was his. Arthur purchased a snow white vintage Mercedes convertible, upholstered in lipstick red leather. I called it his Debra Paget car, which he took umbrage to, but Barry loved driving it.

Of course, Barry was hospitalized again. This time, after a hateful bronchoscopy that left him ragged, it was determined that he was indeed suffering from Pneumocystis Carinii. Our worst fears confirmed. Barry and I sat in his private room, joking about the fact that Sunny von Bulow was comatose on the floor below him. We carefully brushed the subject of his illness, and I asked how he was dealing. He shrugged. He'd been expecting it for years. He would be starting a course of the only drugs they had at that point; the toxic, hateful poisons we had all our hope invested in. I expressed hope. He shrugged again.

We spent the time we could, running from pillar to post, stopping now and then when he was hospitalized with yet another ailment, or when the drugs he was given sickened him. We talked constantly. We made plans; plans for trips, and plans for parties, and plans to continue making plans. We were warding off the inevitable.

I started writing a book that last summer. It was called "See How We Are", and it was to be a document of those years. I pretty much disposed of it at the end of the decade, so tainted and grim, I couldn't bear to have it in my house. But the chapter names, found on a musty yellowed index card recently, are redolent of those awful days:

The Hall of Mirrors
Sunset at the Reservoir
Natasha Kinski Cocktail
Geronimo Contemplates the Waves at St. Augustine

The Hall of Mirrors refers to the AIDS wards one walked through then, seemingly identical rooms of quarantined young men, wasting away, alone. Sunset at the Reservoir refers to a conversation that Barry and I had as we strolled around the Ashokan Reservoir on a late summer afternoon. We discussed life after death, and the fact that if any two people would be able to communicate beyond the grave, it would be us. We talked about how John Lennon had told his young son Sean to look for a white feather falling from the sky, and that would be him. Barry and I tried to work out our own signal. Natasha Kinski Cocktail recalls the evening, not long after Barry's death, that I spent with his long-ago boyfriend, Bill. Bill and I had long since become friends. Beautiful Bill, with his thigh wedged between my legs, explained to me why he would no longer have sex, never again, with anyone, all the while drinking a club soda under a poster of a nude Miss Kinski and her overly friendly python. I stared into his eyes and tried not to study the lesions on his face. The last chapter refers to a vanquished, beaten man, his home destroyed, his people forced to suffer and die before him.

Towards the end of that summer, the lethal combination of Barry's disintegrating immune system and the toxic drugs he was given conspired to make appear as if he was fading away. His features became less distinct, his coloring seemed a careless blur. Though he never seemed to waste away like so many of the young men we saw, he became a colorless copy of the man I knew. He quietly told me that he'd had this idea that driving that Mercedes would change his life. And it hadn't. In the long run, it had meant nothing at all.

As the summer ended, I received the call I'd been dreading for two years. Barry had suffered a major stroke, leaving his one side of his body completely paralyzed. I ran to the hospital, finding him barely able to speak, his face twisted, Arthur pale and staunch at his side. I was heartbroken leaving the hospital that night.

Arthur called me some days later to let me know that Barry had stayed pretty much coherent, fighting to the end. On his last day, he waited until Arthur, stuck in traffic, arrived at the hospital before he left us.

Barry died on October 1, 1987 at the age of 28.

I started writing this piece two weeks ago, with the idea to post it as a tribute to my friend on the 19th annivesary of the day he died. I've been struggling with it since. I'm not happy with it. I don't like the tone; it doesn't convey our life, the humor, laughter, the sadness and pain of that time. I'm just not able to capture the very essence of Barry, in the much same way I can't remember the sound of his voice, no matter how hard I try.

To date, Barry has not sent me our pre-arranged signal.

I still wait.

..."the unkempt hair, the mustaches, the clothes"...A Prequel

2006-09-26T15:52:00.000-04:00

Summer of 1976.

The dark and sullen, aviator-wearing, facial-hair-experimenting gentleman is me. The ball capped, plaid-shirt-wearing man I'm about to attack is Robert.

I'm all of 21. He's just turned 36.

The scene? The automatic photo booth located at the long gone 59th Street entrance to Woolworth's, just across the street from the both Bloomingdale's and the D & D Building. These days it's the current location of the Bloomberg Building.

The store smelled of fried chicken and mothballs, as many Woolworth's did. Look how clever and even fashion forward I was then! I managed to turn Robert's cap backwards between the second and third pictures. Actually, I'm moving in for the kill. My technique is not more different, to this day. The errant arm around the neck, the unfocused, in this case cross-eyed, stare. And whamm-o! Mission accomplished.

Robert and I spent 19 years together; a few of them as wonderful as this looks, some that were pretty damned miserable.

But that's actually not what I want to talk about today.

For the past month or so, I've been stewing over this slight bit of writing that appeared in the New York Blade. I'm almost sorry to focus any more attention than it already has received.

The writer, who was three years old when this picture was taken, had viewed a DVD copy of "Gay Sex in the '70s", a documentary about the first years of gay freedom, and was much chagrined by what he saw. In fact, he found himself scornful of the men portrayed.

With blinding hindsight, he asks how men in the 70's could have been so stupid. How could they have danced on the edge of the precipice, so unmindful, nay, uninformed of the unknown consequences, and thereby ruining everything for all the generations yet come?

His scorn for a generation of men he never knew is palpable. He feels like he's watching a "foreign film", which makes him wildly xenophobic, if that's the case. He's clearly revolted by "the fashions: the unkempt hair, the mustaches, the clothes". And of course, he's completely horrified by the film's depiction of the many modes of anonymous sex that were available then, and amazingly enough continue to be available, albeit in mutated forms, to this day. He compares sex in trucks to the Holocaust, which is specious at best, and pretty damned insulting to all parties concerned. He asks himself "how those men in the 1970's could have been so stupid", and surmised that they didn't know any better. Good one, Sherlock.

Mostly, he just can't make the deductive leap and imagine what it might have been like to live in that era. There's no empathy here, no understanding of the cultural events that might have lead men to celebrate their sexuality as an intrinsic part of their identities. Seemingly no attempt has been made to actually research this subject, beyond the viewing of the film, and perhaps a bit of Googling.

The men today are "more clean-cut and better groomed than they were 30 years ago", and he acknowledges that many of them engage in the same risky behavior that doomed their forebearers. The question begs: Just who is more stupid here? The men who had no idea what was in store for them, or those that have been fully indoctrinated in the last 25 years of AIDS culture.

I'm thinking the major problem here is that so many people have no frame of reference regarding the men who lived and loved in the 70's and 80's. They never known any, and they're making no attempts to seek out the survivors. I've had twenty year olds tell me how it's all so much better now, how we're much closer, much more real, and we really don't need that gay thing anymore. This is one of the great tragedies of the plague years: the loss of an entire generation that has never had a real chance to tell it's story. A culture disappeared. The majority of those men? Long gone. The remaining few? Shell-shocked.

I've been skating around the edge of this subject for quite some time. I've been conflicted about consistently blogging stories of those years, and being labeled a memorist. I have a pretty great life right now, though it's a dual existence. I carry those years with me at all times. I walk through a freighted city, heavily populated with ghosts.

I hope you'll indulge me in further explorations of our mutual pasts. I was there, in the bars, the clubs and yes, the piers.

Let that picture up there show the men we were. Some of you know the man I am.

Apparently, I've survived to tell the tale.

Watch this space.

..."the unkempt hair, the mustaches, the clothes"...

2006-09-20T11:50:00.000-04:00

This film strip, cut from an weathered contact sheet and pressed, like an old boutonniere between the leaves of a book, seems more than a little like a relic from a past, long gone age. Oddly enough, I can remember exactly when these dark, early morning photographs were taken.

It is the dawn of August 21, 1977, and I have just just taken occupancy of the apartment pictured the day before; the very apartment I live in to this day.

Robert and I had just spent a year living in my railroad apartment in a tenement on East 6th Street off of Second Avenue. The second story walk-up, with it's loft bed, wood burning fireplace and bathtub in the kitchen was fine for one twenty year old, but a bit tight for two soon-to-be burly guys.

I'd fled from Brooklyn and moved there in 1975, some months before my 21st birthday. I'd saved $1,600.00 from my factory job and knew I could easily swing the $135.00 necessary to pay the monthly rent. Those were different times in Manhattan. The East Village was filled with vast Ukrainian families, fading hippies and nascent punks. There was a smattering of young gay guys embroidered around the edges, due to the neighborhood's relative convenience to Christopher Street. In those days, the East Village was considered the bedroom of the West Village. A cab ride from Ty's cost $1.25, including tip. Of course, the Budweisers we drank were all of .75 cents. It seemed that bartenders could make a very decent living on all the quarter tips we left. Broadway theatre tickets were all of $12.00, a movie 3 bucks, concerts a mere 5 or 6 dollars. The living was easy.

I lived there, enjoying my relative solitude, until I met Robert on the very eve of my 21st birthday. After an atypical nine month gestation period, he moved in with me, with the idea that we'd find a new place when my lease was up.

I knew I didn't want to live in a railroad flat again, if I could help it. A full bathroom would be nice, a shower most welcome. We walked around the neighborhood, looking at the "Apt. for Rent" signs. There was an apartment on St. Mark's Place that I entertained for a minute. I like the idea of being Mark on St. Mark's Place, but the rooms were too small, too cramped after 6th Street. Wandering a few blocks further, we came upon another sign on 12th Street. I recognized the building as one I'd spent the night in, some years back, with a man who took me home from the Ramrod. I forget his name. There was a management office on premises, and we walked in, expecting nothing. The woman in the office curtly gave us a key to an apartment on the 5th floor. Upstairs, I recoiled at the miniscule boxy darkness that confronted us. We closed the door without walking in, and went back down to return the key. On an off chance, I asked if there was anything else available in the building. She looked us over and mentioned that there was an apartment that had been vacant for the better part of the last year. The reason? Too expensive for the neighborhood, such as it was. Robert and I were both what-the-hell kind of guys and decided to have a look. The rent? $350.00.

We rode the elevator to the top floor, getting off in a skylit sunny oasis. We turned the key and entered a bright white apartment. A small vestibule, a decent sized kitchen. Turning the corner we found two windows and a french door leading out onto a terrace. I looked at the keyring and found the key that opened the french door. We stepped out to an 11th floor rooftop terrace that commanded 270 degree views of Manhattan, from the Chrysler Building down to the Verrazano Bridge and back up to Williamsburg. We looked at each other, amazed. We went back in and spotted the small wood burning fireplace in the corner. I walked into the bathoom and found it huge by Manhattan standards. I checked the toilet to see if it flushed, for some reason. I never bothered to notice that the apartment had no closets. Or that the bedroom was so miniscule as to hold only full size bed and a bookcase. We would have been happy sleeping on the floor. We never realized that living in a penthouse in a badly maintained East Village building would be akin to taking up residence in a trailer, albeit one with a view. We went back down and signed the lease.

In the 70's, we all helped move one another from apartment to apartment. You'd help move the boxes, and the host would buy beer and take you out to dinner when it was over. We called in our acquired favors, gathering our friends on a Saturday afternoon, and the move was over in a couple of hours. Even the piano movers managed to deliver my old Mission upright without too much damage. Dinner for ten was at the Ukrainian National Home.

That night we danced, as usual, at 12West. After dawn, we wandered the empty Sunday morning streets, walking up Second Avenue to our new home. I noticed I could see it from the churchyard of St. Mark's on the Bowery against the brightening sky.

Once home, I opened all the doors and windows to let the air streaming up from New York Harbor fill the apartment. I stripped off my clothes, soaked with sweat from a night of dancing. Robert and I wandered out on the terrace completely naked, completely oblivious to the world waking up around us. We went back inside to collapse on the sofa, which was still in the middle of the living room waiting to find it's home. Drinking coffee and listening to quiet, soothing music, I wrapped myself up in an old silk army surplus parachute, and read the paper, occasionally contemplating my new vista.

That's when Robert took these pictures in quick succession.

Robert is long gone. New York is not the city it once was. However, I'm still here, in these rooms, 29 years later.

Countdown

2006-09-12T11:32:00.001-04:00

The following is a transcript of Keith Olbermann's special commentary last night on his MSNBC show, Countdown, immediately prior to a 9/11 speech by George W. Bush:

Half a lifetime ago, I worked in this now-empty space. And for 40 days after the attacks, I worked here again, trying to make sense of what happened, and was yet to happen, as a reporter.

All the time, I knew that the very air I breathed contained the remains of thousands of people, including four of my friends, two in the planes and -- as I discovered from those "missing posters" seared still into my soul -- two more in the Towers.

And I knew too, that this was the pyre for hundreds of New York policemen and firemen, of whom my family can claim half a dozen or more, as our ancestors.

I belabor this to emphasize that, for me this was, and is, and always shall be, personal.
And anyone who claims that I and others like me are "soft,"or have "forgotten" the lessons of what happened here is at best a grasping, opportunistic, dilettante and at worst, an idiot whether he is a commentator, or a Vice President, or a President.

However, of all the things those of us who were here five years ago could have forecast -- of all the nightmares that unfolded before our eyes, and the others that unfolded only in our minds -- none of us could have predicted this.

Five years later this space is still empty.

Five years later there is no memorial to the dead.

Five years later there is no building rising to show with proud defiance that we would not have our America wrung from us, by cowards and criminals.

Five years later this country's wound is still open.

Five years later this country's mass grave is still unmarked.

Five years later this is still just a background for a photo-op.

It is beyond shameful.

At the dedication of the Gettysburg Memorial -- barely four months after the last soldier staggered from another Pennsylvania field -- Mr. Lincoln said, "we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract."

Lincoln used those words to immortalize their sacrifice.

Today our leaders could use those same words to rationalize their reprehensible inaction. "We cannot dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground." So we won't.

Instead they bicker and buck pass. They thwart private efforts, and jostle to claim credit for initiatives that go nowhere. They spend the money on irrelevant wars, and elaborate self-congratulations, and buying off columnists to write how good a job they're doing instead of doing any job at all.

Five years later, Mr. Bush, we are still fighting the terrorists on these streets. And look carefully, sir, on these 16 empty acres. The terrorists are clearly, still winning.

And, in a crime against every victim here and every patriotic sentiment you mouthed but did not enact, you have done nothing about it.

And there is something worse still than this vast gaping hole in this city, and in the fabric of our nation. There is its symbolism of the promise unfulfilled, the urgent oath, reduced to lazy execution.

The only positive on 9/11 and the days and weeks that so slowly and painfully followed it was the unanimous humanity, here, and throughout the country. The government, the President in particular, was given every possible measure of support.

Those who did not belong to his party -- tabled that.

Those who doubted the mechanics of his election -- ignored that.

Those who wondered of his qualifications -- forgot that.

History teaches us that nearly unanimous support of a government cannot be taken away from that government by its critics. It can only be squandered by those who use it not to heal a nation's wounds, but to take political advantage.

Terrorists did not come and steal our newly-regained sense of being American first, and political, fiftieth. Nor did the Democrats. Nor did the media. Nor did the people.

The President -- and those around him -- did that.

They promised bi-partisanship, and then showed that to them, "bi-partisanship" meant that their party would rule and the rest would have to follow, or be branded, with ever-escalating hysteria, as morally or intellectually confused, as appeasers, as those who, in the Vice President's words yesterday, "validate the strategy of the terrorists."

They promised protection, and then showed that to them "protection" meant going to war against a despot whose hand they had once shaken, a despot who we now learn from our own Senate Intelligence Committee, hated al-Qaida as much as we did.

The polite phrase for how so many of us were duped into supporting a war, on the false premise that it had 'something to do' with 9/11 is "lying by implication."

The impolite phrase is "impeachable offense."

Not once in now five years has this President ever offered to assume responsibility for the failures that led to this empty space, and to this, the current, curdled, version of our beloved country.

Still, there is a last snapping flame from a final candle of respect and fairness: even his most virulent critics have never suggested he alone bears the full brunt of the blame for 9/11.

Half the time, in fact, this President has been so gently treated, that he has seemed not even to be the man most responsible for anything in his own administration.

Yet what is happening this very night?

A mini-series, created, influenced -- possibly financed by -- the most radical and cold of domestic political Machiavellis, continues to be televised into our homes.

The documented truths of the last fifteen years are replaced by bald-faced lies; the talking points of the current regime parroted; the whole sorry story blurred, by spin, to make the party out of office seem vacillating and impotent, and the party in office, seem like the only option.

How dare you, Mr. President, after taking cynical advantage of the unanimity and love, and transmuting it into fraudulent war and needless death, after monstrously transforming it into fear and suspicion and turning that fear into the campaign slogan of three elections? How dare you -- or those around you -- ever "spin" 9/11?

Just as the terrorists have succeeded -- are still succeeding -- as long as there is no memorial and no construction here at Ground Zero.

So, too, have they succeeded, and are still succeeding as long as this government uses 9/11 as a wedge to pit Americans against Americans.

This is an odd point to cite a television program, especially one from March of 1960. But as Disney's continuing sell-out of the truth (and this country) suggests, even television programs can be powerful things.

And long ago, a series called "The Twilight Zone" broadcast a riveting episode entitled "The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street."

In brief: a meteor sparks rumors of an invasion by extra-terrestrials disguised as humans. The electricity goes out. A neighbor pleads for calm. Suddenly his car -- and only his car -- starts. Someone suggests he must be the alien. Then another man's lights go on. As charges and suspicion and panic overtake the street, guns are inevitably produced. An "alien" is shot -- but he turns out to be just another neighbor, returning from going for help. The camera pulls back to a near-by hill, where two extra-terrestrials are seen manipulating a small device that can jam electricity. The veteran tells his novice that there's no need to actually attack, that you just turn off a few of the human machines and then, "they pick the most dangerous enemy they can find, and it's themselves."

And then, in perhaps his finest piece of writing, Rod Serling sums it up with words of remarkable prescience, given where we find ourselves tonight: "The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices, to be found only in the minds of men.

"For the record, prejudices can kill and suspicion can destroy, and a thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own -- for the children, and the children yet unborn."
When those who dissent are told time and time again -- as we will be, if not tonight by the President, then tomorrow by his portable public chorus -- that he is preserving our freedom, but that if we use any of it, we are somehow un-American...When we are scolded, that if we merely question, we have "forgotten the lessons of 9/11"... look into this empty space behind me and the bi-partisanship upon which this administration also did not build, and tell me:

Who has left this hole in the ground?

We have not forgotten, Mr. President.

You have.

May this country forgive you.

I've Been To A Marvelous Party

2006-08-28T17:22:00.000-04:00

Though Mr. Coward might or might not have a difference of opinion as to what could possibly constitute said marvelous event, Tim and I had an utter blast at the first Big Lug BBQ, held this past Saturday afternoon in wilds of Brooklyn on the cusp of Gowanus and Park Slop, atop the almost autumnal roof deck of Cattyshack, a local hangout for BK gals and the boys that like 'em.

It was a pleasure spending an afternoon outdoors drinking beer with men we usually spend afternoons drinking beer with indoors. We got to see old pals and meet quite a few new ones. We ate and drank with abandon. In hindsight, I probably should have eaten a bit more. Neither the small hamburger I devoured, nor the solitary artichoke leaf or even the two hot dog end-tips I stole from cute boys did anything in aiding in the absorption of the estuary of Miller Lite I consumed.

Much too late, Tim and I adjourned around the corner to Aunt Suzie's, a neighborhood red sauce joint. It was there I mentioned that it seemed imminently possible we were actually in San Francisco at that very moment. The odd thing is Tim understood, and agreed. I mean, drinking beer outdoors in a semi-industrial neighborhood in broad daylight, followed by a drunken dinner at the Sausage Factory on Castro Street. It made sense to us. Not to mention the fact that I'd never been in this particular part of Brooklyn before, and had great difficulties getting my bearings. My sense of direction would just not function, even after Tim kindly pointed out the Woolworth Building on the distant horizon.

We returned after dinner, and jumped back in the fray. By this time, all participants were extremely well lubricated. With no hesitation, I headed straight for the deep end; drinking, smoking and kissing a handful of attractive men. As has been mentioned before, I'm quite kissy when in my cups.

Somehow we managed to pile into a taxi with handsome John and Dustin and were whisked in a blur back to Nowhere Bar on 14th Street. We had one last beer with the many other Big Lug refugees who had repaired there after the BBQ, even though few of them can even remember that far into the evening. Tim and I finally crawled around the corner and into bed.

For reasons that escape me, the following morning was not nearly as painful as one might suppose.

For your edification, pictures are available here, and elsewhere.

As Mr. Coward might say, I couldn't have liked it more.

Land's End

2006-08-14T17:00:00.000-04:00

We've been and we're back.

It almost seems dream-like, except for this high coloring I'm sporting.

What can I say? I plan on doing the exact same thing again next year. And , with luck, it will be the exact same thing I did last year and the year before that and the year before...well, you get the picture.

We made it up in record time, only hitting some traffic in the Bronx, of all places. Our secret? We leave at 5:00 AM. Our combined Adult Attention Deficit Disorders will not allow us to endure 10 hours of traffic jams. We wake up early, much like that young man in the Disney commercial who is too excited to sleep, throw it into gear and hit the road. There's something almost romantic about seeing the sun rise over the swamps of Secaucus. We stop for coffee and breakfast somewhere in Connecticut and we're on the Cape by 10:00, in Provincetown by 11:30.

We listen to soft, jangly music like Elliot Smith and Joni Mitchell as we ride in the dark, notching up to Mark Knofler & Emmylou Harris, Maura O'Connell, then both of us singing old Marshall Crenshaw songs as we ride up the Cape.

We arrive and park the car on the pier, awaiting access to our little condo. Some breakfast at Bubala's, where we receive our usual greeting from the taller of the two Hat Sisters, who is sitting at the bar. For years he and I have enjoyed a relationship that strictly consisted of sticking our tongues out at each other at the Boatslip, later blossoming into airborne kisses sent across the crowded deck, now relaxed into a warm welcome.

If fact, we received similar greetings from various bartenders, restauranteurs and even the lady who scoops up our ice cream cones each night before we hit the A-House.

It's great fun to see our Provincetown friends; those people from all over the country, and in fact, the globe, who return every year for the same week in August.

By the time we've unpacked, shopped and set up housekeeping, it's time to head over to the Boatslip. I've never subscribed to the fashion of pastel/jewel-tone/day glo vacation togs, and arrive pretty much in my standard NY gear. You know, black, blue or brown t-shirt, jeans and boots. Nothing fancy, just what works. And in that floral hued crowd, I stand out not unlike Maleficent, the evil fairy/dragon in Sleeping Beauty. Like I said, it works for me.

I must talk about the t-shirts here. There were no end of attractive, and not so attractive men in shirts with printed slogans like Catcher, Pitcher, Plow Man, Top Loader, ad naseum. What is Crewcut Wrestling anyway, if you don't have a crew cut, and you're clearly not in wrestling form? Morning Wood? Oh, please. The tall, rather burly young man in a tank top emblazoned with the word BUTCH and a drawing of a bear beneath it was clearly having identity issues. Guys, first of all, it's generally pretty easy to figure out who's fucking who in a relationship. And all I need is about 10 minutes, probably less, to suss out what you and I would most likely be doing in bed. Yeah, there might be some surprises, but generally, I find I don't need shirts that seem to have the equivalent of "I'm with Stupid" on them to figure out which way the wind blows. As a matter of fact, it's becoming something of a deal breaker for me. My apologies if you just bought one.

Another complaint heard around town this past week was that the young guys, mostly from Boston, were extremely nelly. Their word, not mine. First off, I've found that each new generation reacts to the very thing held dear by the previous one with a disdain bordering on the pathological. After 10 years of Chelsea boys and Weho wannabees, these kids have embraced a whole different aesthetic. They're slim. They're trim. They're wearing my old wardrobe from 1974. I think it's cute, as long as I don't have to fuck 'em. They haven't learned to hold their liquor yet, and now and again someone would just Girl Out, causing no end of eye-rolling among the more experienced crowd. It made for a great show.

A couple of years ago, we stood on this very same deck listening to a New York friend complain about the very same thing: the men in Ptown just weren't butch enough for him. Tim put an end to that conversation by announcing in his inimitable fashion:

"It's the Boatslip, not Sturgis!"

I agree.

I spent a good deal of time sprawled on the sofa in the late afternoon sunlight, reading "Summer Crossing", Truman Capote's unpublished first novel, and Alison Bechdel's "Fun Home", which might be one of the bravest things I've ever read, and Jay Presson Allen's "Just Tell Me What You Want", which I'd read about in her obituary and hadn't known existed as a novel.

I'd alternate between reading, push ups, and watching the family of Robins that were nesting in the cedar branch that brushed against our kitchen window. When we arrived I heard the tiny peeps, and located the four almost translucent yellow beaks sticking up, crying to be fed. By the time we left, the birds had grown enormously, all gray sticking-out feathers, in contrast to their dapper parents.

We managed to get out of town and hike some beautiful Cape beaches. That's Tim up there, about to venture out on the Great Island Trail near Wellfleet. You can walk miles of beaches, admiring the banks of cranberries and beach plums growing wild on the dunes, or laugh at the thousands of tiny crabs that poke their way out of the sand when they think no one is there, only to disappear as you lumber by.

I ate too much. I drank too much. I didn't stay out late nearly as much as I might have liked to. Like so many other cities, Provincetown has it's own Crystal Culture. It's settled in and has been going on for a few years now. The one bar I really used to like enormously has changed from a handsome, almost bucolic setting into a seething pit of bad moods, short tempers, too much machine-like porn and not a whole lot of the old camaraderie that existing before this current siege. It used to be a great room in which to actually meet people and talk to them. It isn't that at all, anymore. In fact, it's rather downbeat and depressing. We never really stayed that long.

None the less, we'll return next year.

I've made my reservations already.

I'm Back In Town

2006-08-01T11:54:00.000-04:00

But not for long!

Okay. I know. I've been remiss. Call it blogger's block. Call it boredom. Get fancy and call it ennui or mere malaise. All I know is that I couldn't get it together enough to string a few simple sentences together.

Lord knows, I tried. I put together a post about Folsom Street East, only to discover that it was pretty a complete redaction of last year's post, only with a different set of friends. At the time, I couldn't even find a way to frame the highlight of that Sunday, which happened to be concurrent with Father's Day. So allow me this totally gratuitous posting now:

Yes, one of my dearest friends, and his accomplice gathered wishes and signatures from other buddies on this lovely card through the course of the long drunken day and presented it to me later on. It really touched a cynical old fuck like me.

End of gratuitous Folsom Street East remembrance.

I tried writing a piece on Scritti Politti. I tried writing it three times. Blogger does not seem to like me at times. It wouldn't allow me to upload photographs. It wouldn't let me edit. It kept deleted the post. I grew tired of the subject. Quick synopsis: I was on the train at 7:00 AM reading the New York Times and spied a picture of what looked like a haggard Irish man on the morning after a bender. Perusing the article, I gasped when I learned it was Green Gartside, who has just released a new collection of songs. The piece I tried to write was a meditation on time and age, and was to be called Flesh & Blood, after my favorite song from the Cupid & Pysche '85 album. There were some vague Dorian Gray comparisons. It was turning into one of those sad recollections of friends who died. I worried that no one would know or even care much about Scritti Politti, or what I was doing in 1984-1985.

Knock-Knock.

Who's there?

Writer's Block.

End of joke.

So, I'm leaving town. Just for a vacation. Yup, we're heading back up the cape to Provincetown for a week of relaxation, or something like that. I need to recharge my batteries, bad. I need some new adventures, and I'm really, really, really up for whatever comes my way. I need some quiet time to get back in touch with Tim. And some really wild times to do the same.

It looks like the weather will be great up there, after this week seemingly spent in the mouth of Hell. I'm gonna sit in the pool at the Boatslip every afternoon and chill. I'm going to eat lots of great dinners. I'm gonna have way to much fun at Spiritus.

I will return with stories to tell.

Thanks for sticking by me.

Under Pressure

2006-07-21T17:12:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry I've been unable to blog lately.

Work has me completely swamped. New projects are arriving daily, sometimes in multiples. I'm not complaining, mind you, but it is more than a bit overwhelming. It looks like I'll have a bit of traveling to do this season for work. A trip to San Francisco? Oh please don't throw me in that Brier Patch, Br'er Bear.

My ex, Robert, is very sick down in New Orleans. He was hospitalized with a staph infection for about two weeks, came home and was re-admitted last Tuesday with pneumonia. His condition is stable, though he's in the ICU and on a ventilator. His partner is frantic. I would be too, but I've had years of conditioning, and I'm working at being stoic. I don't know what else to do from this long distance.

Finally, Tim and I will be heading up to Provincetown in a couple of weeks, so I have lots to accomplish before then.

Of course, with all this craziness going, I've literally had no life. I could blog about my Dugout jukebox play lists, but I think I've done that already.

So, bear with me, please.

I'm here and I hope to have something to report back with soon.

Hugs to all.

Meaty Beaty Big & Bouncy

2006-07-13T22:29:00.000-04:00

Two meals, yes, two meals framed this week.

It's a wonder I haven't destroyed all my hard work at the gym this season in one fell swoop. And this was definitely not a week in which to have a cholesterol test. Or a weigh-in.

'Tis the season. Lots of birthdays, lots of birthday traditions.

M. was born on the Fourth of July. Growing up, he was told that all those fireworks were exploding just for him. We try to find an evening to gather and celebrate his birthday when our varied plans and harried schedules manage to coincide.

Most years Tim and I spend the Fourth down in New Hope, enjoying the new summer greenery, breakfasting daily at Snedden's in Lambertville, hanging out poolside, outlet shopping, and drinking and dining at the Raven on a nightly basis. Oh yeah, and making new friends. It's been a tradition for us for most of the past decade. This year, due to the way our holiday schedules meshed with the holiday itself, we stayed home. Good thing. Both Lambertville and New Hope were completely flooded by the Delaware River that weekend; both main drags totally submerged. We couldn't have gotten there if we'd tried.

M. always wants to try something new, but somehow we always wind up at Keen's. I'm not complaining. Some of the new (for us) places have panned out, others have been total busts. We have some rather basic requirements for restaurants serving celebratory dinners. It has to be casual, as in jeans & t-shirts. It has to serve an excellent cocktail. Years ago, a former friend who was then included in the celebration moaned: "Does it always have to be about Meat?". The answer is a resounding yes. It should definitely include a large portion of cow. Or whatever four-legged creature can be hewn large, thrown in a fire and slapped on a plate for our delectation. Proximity to a gay bar for post-prandial birthday beer is optional; that's why God invented taxis.

This year M. had three requests: Peter Luger, Angelo's of Mulberry Street and Keen's. I procured reservations for Saturday night at two out of three. Can you guess which one could not seat us, even though I called exactly a month before? That's right, Mr. Luger's establishment. Then, when M. shattered his wrist in a fall from his attic over Gay Pride weekend, comfort and familiarity won out, and we headed for Keen's.

We met up in the lovely bar, under the watchful eyes of Miss Keen, peering out nakedly from her rather oversized portrait. Cocktails were consumed, and we took our table. We knew one of our waiters from our many previous visits. The other waiter was quite friendly, smiling and winking at me all through dinner, all but climbing into my lap. The service was impeccable, as it always is.

I wish the New York Times would get over it's current love affair with Keen's. A whole new crowd has poured forth since the Times reviewed the restaurant favorably, and has continued mentioning it on a fairly constant basis. Instead of the usual crowd of carnivores, there seemed to be no end of picky people with special eating requirements and demands.

As M. was wounded and in a cast I announced, to our waiter's great amusement, that I would play Daddy, and serve everyone. In fact I actually said I would be SuperDaddy, but I blame that on the second Martini. I dished out the large seafood plateau, cracking lobsters with abandon, and helped him cut his share of the of the Porterhouse for Two that he and Tim enjoyed. I ate the Mutton Chop all by myself. More drinks, coffee, desserts and we trundled out into the street, spectacularly sated.

In keeping with the familiar, we walked up to the Townhouse, which was boring beyond belief. I ran interference for M., who was concerned that a passing drunk might crash into his cast. None did, though several tried. We had a few drinks and headed home.

My trainer was away on Sunday. Out of guilt, I worked myself out so hard I was sore for three days afterward. My stomach might have been a bit distended, but my arms looked damned fine.

I saw my trainer again on Tuesday and Thursday, which was a necessity, as my sister and I took my Mom out for her birthday on Wednesday at her favorite restaurant. Yes, you guessed it. Peter Luger.

The family, consisting of Mom, my sister and her husband as well as Tim and I, assembled at the bar at the appointed hour for a birthday toast. No sooner were the drinks half finished, then we were seated around a rough wooden table in that room that resembles nothing so much as an Upper East Side beer hall. The waiters were nowhere near as flirty as they were at Keen's but equally excellent. We have the meal down to a science. No menus are needed, nor are they proffered. We share appetizers of shrimp, tomatoes and onions and, of course, smoked bacon. Two orders of Porterhouse for Two, and of course, the usual steak house sides. More drinks, of course.

It must have been beef-driven testosterone that caused my brother-in-law to unbutton his shirt to show me just how buff his summer body was. It must have been that same surfeit of testosterone that caused me to unbutton the top four buttons of my shirt, and flex my hairy pecs back at him. He gulped. I wasn't done. I pulled back the sleeve of my short-sleeved shirt, and flexed my bicep at him. He turned ashen. My sister, who was enjoying this, asked to see to see my tricep. That's the real deal, she claimed. I complied. Tim rolled his eyes. My poor brother-in-law had to concede. "I win!", I announced happily. As I was rolling down my sleeve, I realized that one of the gentlemen seated at the next table had been watching our little show. He nodded and mouthed the words "You do win!" at me, and winked. I turned as crimson as the medium rare steak in front of me.

It looks like I'll be living on lettuce leaves and lemon juice for the next few weeks before we head up to the Cape. Perhaps I'll allow myself a Diet Beer or two.

Or six.

(T)here Comes (Goes) The Weekend

2006-06-29T22:10:00.000-04:00

Well, exciting Pride week came and went and there I was, staring down the shotgun barrel of summer.

Sounds ominous, I know.

For some reason, summer is my busiest of seasons at work. Witness my blog. Can you tell I haven't been here in a while? With good reason. I've had no life to blog about. I've been so busy at work, I've been blowing off the gym, except the days I have my trainer, which accounts for why I'm not losing weight. I'm just going to be fat, but with more muscles. Oh, well.

Anyway, you can imagine how thrilled I was at the prospect of an extended Fourth of July weekend. A full four days off. Yippee! Maybe I'd actually have something to blog about! The only issue was that between my work schedule and Tim's, we'd neglected to make any plans. Which sort of suited us, since we both needed to chill.

Friday night I arrived at Tim's house completely wound up. I'd had the day from hell and I was loaded for bear. Tim wisely fixed me a cold, crisp, clear Martini and then wisely fixed me another. By that point my leg had stopped vibrating from anger and frustration. We indulged in our yearly tradition of Christmas in July, even if it was the last day of June. What better way to cut through the heat and humidity, than with Jo Stafford winter collection, "Ski Trails". I know, we're either extremely eclectic, or definitely deranged. I was even awarded a third Martini. My man knows that desperate times call for desperate measures. Even jiggers. I had just enough life left in me to grab some dinner and collapse into bed.

After spending a couple of hours lolling around abed on Saturday morning, we heading into town to do some shopping for M.'s birthday. M.'s hit a bit of a rough patch. The house he's been renovating in Florida is taking much longer than he expected, and he's down there almost every weekend, on top of all the traveling he does for his job, as it is. He was in town a couple of weeks ago to go to Folsom St. East with me, but had to head right back out again. On the Sunday of Pride, he was in his garage doing chores, fell off a ladder and did such a number on his hand that he had to have three pins put in and he'll be in a cast until August, at least.

While we found nothing I liked enough to give him, we did spend an hour in J & R Music World where I picked up Joan Jett's newly released album "Sinner", the new release of the first American Humble Pie album called, oddly enough, "Humble Pie", and Teddy Pendergrass' first solo album. Did I say eclectic? Deranged? Demented! Joan is great, the record's totally dykey. I understand that this has actually been out for a couple of years in Japan, but I'm happy to have it now. "AC/DC", indeed! The Humble Pie album, which was released in '70, or '71 has been remastered to a fare-thee-well, sounding as if Steve Marriott and Peter Frampton (yes, the very same) were rocking out in my living room. And of course, I'd never played the Teddy LP for Tim, and I wanted him to hear "I Don't Love You Anymore" and of course, "The Whole Town's Laughing At Me". He was suitably impressed. Can anyone tell me the reasons why some much of what was recorded on the Philadelphia International label is no longer available? It's truly criminal.

I made us a couple of smooth Manhattans using Old Overholt Rye. Very smooth. Tim was suitably impressed. I, too, make a fine Manhattan. We headed out for dinner at an old haunt we like in the Village, peopled by folks who may very well actually be old haunts soon enough. It's God's waiting room on the west side. I won't mention the name, because you won't like it. We've been going for years, and we're younger than most of the clientele by at least two decades, if not more so. It's usually low key and relaxing, but that evening, some aged gigolo was reciting his sordid sexual history circa 1952. Boys, nothing has changed. There's few things more boring than being subjected to a rendition of somebody else's past peccadilloes. And it went on forever. The rest of the room, staff included, was reduced to such violent eyerolling I thought a retina might detach somewhere. I leaned over the table and recited "Liaisons" from "A Little Night Music" to Tim. Eclectic?

After a couple of rounds of grab-ass and a few beers at Ty's, we retired.

Sunday, Tim headed off to work and I worked out with the trainer. Ow. My Abs. After an hour with him, I foolishly put in another hour by myself, pretty much guaranteeing I would not be able to move that night or the next two days. I showered and headed off to the Dugout where I was greeted by Dr. Greg, Camacho, Joe, Aaron, Erik, David and others, of both blogging and non-blogging persuasions. Much merriment ensued. Tim took care of his patients, dispensing Long Island Trainwrecks and several of his special Manhattans. I took in the visiting eye candy, including a very attractive grouping apparently from D.C., judging from their t-shirts. When Tim got off we had a couple of drinks at Ty's, then heading home to collapse.

Monday was a quiet day for us, just some lunch and wandering around. Then Tim went home in anticipation of some big housekeeping chore he was planning for the following day, and I spent a quiet evening reading.

Tuesday, I too engaged in some household chores, then heading up in the stifling heat and humidity to Macy's to avail myself of the big seasonal sale. I needed stuff for work, which I tend to keep very basic. You know, black, dark blue, khaki, accompanied by varying shades of pale blue. The store was full of tourists stripping down to their skivvies in the aisles. It was not a pretty sight. I did what I came for and got the hell out. I walked home through the deserted streets of Chelsea, planning my evening.

I've lived in my apartment for 29 years now. I have seen enough fireworks to last a lifetime. Years ago, in the pre-Giuliani, pre-Dinkins era, the neighboring tenants would have firework wars, shooting rockets off their roof tops at each other. I'd come out on my terrace in the morning and find the detrius of the previous night's battle scattered about. For weeks before the Fourth of July, I could lay in my bed at night and watch the colorful explosions rising above the tenements of Chinatown and Little Italy. It was rather beautiful. Of course, this doesn't exist at all anymore. Just the big bombastic East River display that sets off car alarms and drives every dog in the neighborhood insane.

I had to get out of the house, and away from the crowds and the show.

I decided on a rare trip to the movies. I headed over to the Chelsea multiplex on 23rd Street, running into that other bartending Tim, who is 23 or so. He'd been to the Eagle and was quite happy to see me, jumping on me and throwing his legs around my waist. All I could think of was the core exercises, and how much they'd strengthened me, because I probably would have collapsed under the weight of all that attractive muscle.

I hit the theatre, choosing between A Prairie Home Companion and The Devil Wears Prada. A Meryl Streep double header. It was practically a Sophie's Choice decision, but Prairie Home won out. Robert Altman has been one of my very favorite directors since I was in film school back in 1972, and I knew this was probably his last outing. I was well rewarded. It was a remarkable elegy to a brilliant career. I was completely entranced for almost two hours, oblivious to the talkers and laughers and eaters that attend movies now, thinking they're in the comfort of their own living rooms.

I left the theatre and headed down Eighth Avenue, thinking I'd buy myself a nightcap or two. Young Tim did not appear to be bartending at the View, and I just didn't have the gumption to open the door at the Rawhide. I walk by Gym and thought, what the hell, entered and got a Wild Turkey and soda. An arm was waving at me, gesturing me over. It was Gregg, hanging out with Liam and Eric. My very own personal Three Little Pigs. They'd been to the Eagle as well. Apparently, I missed three different wet underwear contests. Quel domage. I guess a lot of boys were avoiding the masses that day.

After a couple of drinks, I accompanied Gregg onto the little smoking porch, which was populated by a group of short twenty-somethings who were speaking to each other in faux English accents. As the four of us squeezed in, one of the loudest children announced:

"I can hardly breathe out here, now that these Muscle Marys have arrived".

I looked around to see the muscular guys. There was no one behind me. I realized they were talking about us. Just as the familiar signs of anger started seeping into my brain, I laughed and turn the young man, thanking him, explaining that no one had ever called me that before. It was time to finish our drinks, hop in a cab and head over to Big Lug.

We were just about the only Big Lugs to be seen there. I guess the fireworks had scared all the boys away. But the music was rocking, and I had a couple of PBR's and talked to some nice boys from Texas. Fun.

So now it's the weekend again!

M. is coming into town for his birthday dinner. We're going to Keen's, because it's familiar. I'll have to cut his steak for him. We're going to hit some bars where he can stand in a corner and not have his cast jostled. He needs to get out!

I'll tell you all about soon.

(Pride) A Deeper Love

2006-06-22T17:02:00.000-04:00

Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade, 1973

This might as well be a daguerreotype for all intents and purposes, right?

Yes, if you look close enough at that blurry, yellowed, fading photograph, you just might find (with the added help of names inked in way back in the steamy summer of 1973) a familiar face.

I blogged about it here, last year.

This year, I'm planning on keeping it real low key, but please know I'm there with you, as always, in spirit.

And if you're out having a cocktail sometime on Saturday around dusk in the Village, keep an eye out for us. Lord knows, we'd love to raise a glass!

The Mark of Kane wishes y'all a very happy and fulfilling pride weekend.

Brooklyn Shame

2006-06-15T10:18:00.000-04:00

It was to be the most beautiful day of the month, to date. After seemingly weeks of clouds, cold and rain, we were finally blessed with singularly blue skies that morning. An impromptu invitation, tendered just days prior, summoned us to the borough of Kings where we were to take part in that yearly chimera, Pride.

The plan was to meet, greet, drink and snack at Bryce & Neil's new home, then head out to view the festivities. I was definitely on for the meet and greet, and even the drink portion. I wasn't so sure about the festivities to follow. I'm not a crowd person. I figured I'd be surrounded by my nearest and dearest and that way it would all be alright.

Our challenge was actually getting to Brooklyn. Stop snickering, please. Yes, I was born and raised in Brooklyn, but way out at the opposite end of town, out by the ocean. As a small child, I could to hear fog horns at night when I lay in my single bed. I've now been in my Manhattan abode much longer than I ever lived in the house I was raised in. I know certain neighborhoods, and how to get to the various landmarks of my childhood, in their current incarnations. So I consulted Mapquest to find that the address to which we were heading was indeed in the heart of a neighborhood I had lived in some thirty three years prior.

I hadn't been back. Well, maybe once. I didn't leave under the most auspicious of circumstances.

Back in the early spring of 1973 I followed William home on the train, one Saturday evening after the bars had closed. He didn't know quite what to make of me, this 18 year old trailing him down West 4th Street and onto the subway platform. He certainly gave no indication that he knew what I was doing. I followed, jogging behind him as the train pulled in. At the very last moment he locked eyes with me and reached behind to hold the doors open. I stepped in and fell into the seat next to him, smiled and said: "So, where are we going?"

I'd never been on this train line before, never set eyes on this man before.

In true William fashion, he seemed both annoyed and kind of fascinated with the stunt I'd pulled. He questioned me, asking what I would have done had he been in a relationship, or had no place of his own or just plain not interested. I shrugged. These were chances I liked to take then.

The neighborhood itself, one I'd never heard of, was called Fort Greene/Clinton Hill. He lived in the Clinton Hill section in a small double wooden house that had served as the servant's quarters for the Vanderbilt mansion on Clinton Avenue. The scant block and a half from the train station was fraught with danger, to the point where the blocks were impassable after dark. The sun was just ascending as we headed back to his house, and bed.

I spent the day and then the following weekend and then the better part of the next year until I convinced myself that I wasn't getting nearly enough attention and promptly went out and found more.

Though William and I maintained a tenuous relationship for several years, calling each other on our mutual birthday, I never returned to that beautiful terrible neighborhood. Well, maybe once, when a handsome artist took me home with him. But never again.

Until now.

Tim and I emerged from the train on Fulton Street, blinking in the bright sun, like the intrepid explorers we were. It took mere minutes for me get my bearings. I knew exactly where I was, and not much had changed. We wandered up to Waverly Avenue, to make a short pilgrimage to the place I lived. Strangely, little of the landscape had changed much, though the denizens populating it were quite different than what I remembered. I was almost giddy when I spied my former, albeit temporary, home, regaling Tim with ancient gossip and histories long past. We meandered along, admiring the architecture, as I mentally took inventory of the past.

At our host's beautiful and spacious home, we were greeted with surprise, as if we'd forded the Amazon to attend. We received an extensive house tour, and manned our station at the bar, fixing drinks for all who required them. Tim mastered the cranky blender and was soon sending out his trademark potent concoctions. I thought I might sip Bourbon through the course of the afternoon, to achieve a golden buzz to match the golden day. Cocktails in hand, we climbed to the roof, taking in the amazing views. We were suitably impressed by the Broken Angel building, which had not been there the last time I was in the neighborhood, and now loomed eerily above us. Tim was quick to point out the location of the Empire State Building, which thrilled our hosts to no end. My attentions were elsewhere.

Looking down Greene Avenue, I spied the former site of Adelphi Hospital. Back in 1973, my paternal grandmother, having lost her husband some months earlier, returned from the trailer park in Sarasota she and my grandfather had decamped to years before and came back to Brooklyn to die. It seemed to be her plan. There was ostensibly nothing wrong, she just didn't want to live, and so, wasted away. Learning that she was a mere two blocks from where William and I lived, I was moved to visit her. I'd neither seen nor spoken to her much in several years. We were emphatically not a close knit family. I spent a few evenings with her, mostly in light conversation, as it seemed we didn't have all that much to say.

Some years later, during one of the several unsuccessful reconciliations my father and I endured, he mentioned those visits to me, in concert with several other heretowith unknown and completely devastating factoids regarding my childhood and daunting adolescence.

Apparently he had visited his mother shortly after I left one evening. As the two of them lit up their respective cigarettes, my grandmother, a sort of Jewish gangster's moll in kewpie doll disguise, turned to my father and drawled:

"You know, Gene...your son's a fag".

All this came back to me, echoing loudly in my head all through that lovely afternoon, surrounded by all my wonderful friends. I laughed as I told the tale to all who would listen.

I've learned to compartmentalize the hurtful past, yet I'm still astounded that it retains the power to completely un-nerve me when it rears it's ugly head.

I went downstairs, grabbed the Maker's Mark bottle by the neck and poured a long golden stream.

Jukebox Hero

2006-06-08T21:59:00.000-04:00

It's a well known fact that I cannot be in the same room as an idling jukebox.

Decades ago, Robert would notice me twitching, and lean forward to tell me:

"Don't worry. There's always some nervous fag who'll put money in the jukebox."

To which I learned to reply:

"Uh, Robert, that nervous fag is me!"

Well, times have changed, I haven't been with Robert in years, but I'm still the man taking charge of the jukebox.

Now, this has nothing to do with the fact that I'm a total control freak.

Wait, that's a lie!

It has everything to do with it. It's a well known documented fact. It took Tim mere months to announce that he found me overbearing. I still am. He's just gotten used to me. Or maybe I've just mellowed some.

Doubt that!

But I digress.

Just as music often serves as a trigger to remind one of a special event or circumstance, to this day, some songs remain completely emblematic of the bars, restaurants and eras I first heard them in. Some of these songs were in the popular rock and soul idioms of the day, some show tunes (I am a middle-aged gay man, after all!), and a few of them are old hits that never went away.

The original jukebox that Robert and I discussed was in a small, dark bar/burger bin called One Potato, which stood on the corner of 10th and Hudson Streets up until a decade ago. Robert and I would head there on Thursday nights, way back in 1976, to start the weekend off properly. We'd often meet up with our pale friend Richard, drink several beers, pump the juke box and devour burgers at tables fabricated from old whiskey barrels. A waiter took to referring to us as The Men when we'd arrive. I'm not quite sure I understand what that appellation separated us from, as the room was invariably filled with only men, and the occasional sympathetic sister. The bartender soon upped the ante by announcing us as the Father (Robert was about to turn 36), the Son (I was 21) and the Holy Ghost (yes, Richard was that pale). The nickname stuck. I loved it.

The songs I heard there were Linda Lewis' helium voiced rendition of "It's In His Kiss", The Supremes singing "Stoned Love" and "Up The Ladder To The Roof", Melba Moore's "This Is It!" and songs from the first productions of Chicago and A Chorus Line, which were fresh and new then.

It's as if these songs are date-stamped or time coded, their association cemented with a specific venue in another time, another place.

Other Jukeboxes, Other Rooms:

The machine in the student lounge at the School of Visual Arts, where I was chided for playing David Bowie's "Changes" back in 1972. Too gay, apparently. I made the acquaintance of the kid who programmed the box and by the end of the semester it was stocked with New York Dolls tracks, as well as my very own T.Rex 45, "Ride A White Swan".

The jukeboxes at Village gay bars such as the Ninth Circle, Ty's and Keller's where I hung out from 1973, onwards. Endless Lou Reed, Rolling Stones and David Bowie's Aladdin Sane album bring the Ninth Circle crashing back, while the Ronettes "Walking In The Rain" and the Shirelle's "Chains" revive Keller's for me. The small jukebox at Ty's seemed to play the obscure Cy Coleman instrumental "Chloe" all the time.

Years later, a restaurant called 103 Second Avenue opened, amazingly enough at that very location. Periodicals of the time never failed to comment on the cool humans that provided the service there. If they didn't know you, or like the looks of you, service could be sketchy at best. It was next door to the entrance of The Saint, and had a bit of that element to it, but it managed to combine the remnants of the punk scene, the nascent New Wavers and neighborhood types like myself. It was a favored hangout, and we'd head there after long sleepless nights to drink coffee, have some breakfast and come down from whatever substance we'd been ingesting all night. On that jukebox I would play Kate Bush's "Wuthering Heights" and "Duel" or Femme Fatale" by Propaganda, or "Dazzle" by Siouxie & The Banshees. One of the minor highlights of my life to that point was stumbling into the restaurant at dawn, only to be handed money by the owner, and told to play the pretty morning music.

Which brings us to today. A wildly popular blogger who shall remain nameless has threatened to out me as a jukebox nerd. He's discovered that I have a pocket full of crib sheets when I arrive at the Dugout on Sundays, and he's looking to make the most of it. It's true. I am a nerd. I take notes. There's no way I can contain in my head all the songs I think to play during week. I write things like REM: "It's The End of The World As We Know It" and ABC: "The Look of Love" on my old business cards on a Wednesday or Thursday as the songs occur to me. Then I play them on Sunday.

I thought I better blog about this before he does.

Control Freak?

You betcha.

Rainy Night House

2006-06-06T22:24:00.000-04:00

It took us 1-1/2 hours to get from 12th Street to 47th Street last Friday night.

But we were men on a mission. Neither a subway system that seemed perilously close to total collapse nor a hike from 6th Avenue to 10th Avenue in a teeming torrential downpour could dampen, so to speak, our ardor. For we were heading to GB: NY3, a convocation of contemporary digital scribes, better known as bloggers.

The opening event, a meet and greet with cocktails, had called for us to assemble at 7:00 PM at Barrage, a chic Hell's Kitchen boite. We thought to make a smart New York Entrance around 9:00, but clearly the fates had other plans in mind for us.

Instead, we arrived at 10:00, less smart than late, and completely soaked to the skin. Umbrellas had proved completely useless on our crosstown hejira. Rain water poured from all our visible extremities. I'm sure we did not present a pretty sight as we stumbled into Barrage to face the battalion of bloggers assembled there.

A quick glance around provided me with the information that I needed to hit the bar post-haste to begin assuming my liquid personality in order to deal with the daunting multitude already assembled. We indulged in a fast bourbon to ward off any possibility of chill and dove in.

At first, I think my vast size and age, not to mention wetness, was a bit off-putting. I could see people regarding me from corners of the room with what looked like terror in their eyes. But friendship prevailed and what a pleasure it was to see so many of my local favorites, like Bryce and Neil and Eddie and Michael and Mike P and Glenn. And to meet locals I hadn't met before like Vasco and Vinny, or sort of met and finally connected with, like Eric. And to meet visiting dignitaries I'd corresponded with like Mark & Brian and Scott. And to make the acquaintance of people like Sean and Byrne.

And of course, no event, not even an ordinary Sunday night, is complete without my Blogdaddy.

The evening progressed with advanced alcohol consumption, accompanied by a blinding flurry of photographs. Some of these, mostly any that I might have appeared in, are quite frightening.

An aside: Clearly the camera and I are not friends. And I'm learning that flash photography is definitely my enemy. It didn't help that I was wet, either. I'm thinking I need practice sessions with some sympathetic photographer. I've tried ad naseum to take my own picture with my smart little camera, and have had to erase every single one in disgust. I know I don't look like that!

Among my vague recollection of the rest of the evening, I remember the appalling mirror and spotlight set-up in the Men's room, which could make the heartiest soul pee-shy. I recall an unwise attempt to have a shot with Scott. What was I thinking? A shot, while I was imbibing bourbon? When the shot turned out to be a Lemon Drop, I wisely declined. Someone else I know had one and soon confessed to being D.R.UNK!

Let's just say that Saturday was spent in recovery. We missed Part Deux, a meet and greet with cocktails that took place at the Eagle. We were in bed by 11:30, and therefore totally refreshed for Part Trois.

Imagine my surprise, while standing at my post in the Dugout, to see Mark & Brian wander in. They had planned to leave town on Sunday morning, but apparently there had been some changes made, and well, here they were! Followed by many of the same gentlemen from the previous night's frolics. There was dancing, there was singing. There was another armada of alcohol consumed. I became ballcap stylist to Scott. I even got to meet some non-blogging civilians, and to further an acquaintance with a very comely gentleman, who knows exactly who he is.

Sign me up for next year. I had too much fun.

Olla Podridas

2006-05-30T13:53:00.000-04:00

Etymology: Spanish, literally, rotten pot.
1 : a highly seasoned stew.
2 : hodgepodge.

So says Merriam-Webster.

It pretty much describes the past week for me.

Dinner and theatre last week with my friend Arthur, visiting from San Francisco. An odd evening. Neither one of us was sure we'd ever see the other again. Arthur's been ill, and after undergoing two rounds of chemo, is starting a third round in June. Due to his weakness and shortness of breath, we picked a restaurant that was both close to the theatre and his hotel, thereby pretty much guaranteeing an inferior meal. Does anyone have a really good theatre district suggestion? Tim and I eat with a fair amount of regularity at Chez Napoleon, but that's pretty basic, albeit Gallic fare. I mean something festive. We wound up at Thalia, which is around the corner from the Eugene O'Neill Theatre where Sweeney Todd is playing. It was noisy and emphatically nothing special. The check was close to $130.00, and both of us basically had salads, entrees and a shared dessert. It's not the money, but I would like to at least enjoy the meal. At least we were able to talk.

The play, on the other hand, gave great entertainment value. I'd seen the original grand production back in 1979, and it took a few minutes for me to scale back my expectations and enjoy the charms of this chamber performance. But I did, indeed. All in all, a great evening of music and theatre.

The following night, I had my first real session with my new trainer, the Nazi. Suffice to say, I'm getting back in the saddle, and I hope to see some improvements in the coming month or so.

I had a four-day weekend, and spent all of Friday and a good deal of Saturday hoeing out my apartment. My kitchen alone required a cleaning worthy of Augusten Burroughs. I got rid of books and periodicals, as well as no end of crap I'd stored that had been accumulated by my ex. All gone. After scrubbing the floors, I extended my arms in Maria von Trapp fashion and spun around once or twice. Alright, once. I'd actually forgotten that I have a decent size kitchen by Manhattan standards. It would be pretty wonderful, if I actually ever turned on my stove and cooked. But I don't.

Friday night, arriving at Tim's, I went to hug him, only to be told he had a miserable cold. Grrr. And he had to work all day Saturday. And Sunday. So much for our weekend. We had a quiet night. I went back to my house and cleaned all the following afternoon, with a few breaks to run around Union Square in search of some decent running shoes that won't bankrupt me. No luck there either.

I picked Tim up from work at 9:15, and we walked through insanely crowded Times Square over to the afore-mentioned Chez Napoleon, where we indulged in a few cocktails, some simple cuisine and a post-prandial eau-de-vie apiece. We had a couple of drinks in the neighborhood, which was refreshingly quiet due to the holiday weekend. There were more sailors on the street in Hell's Kitchen than gay boys.

Sunday I hit the gym again and headed over to the Dugout. I got to meet up with a battalion of bloggers who were traveling a circuit that included Bingham Cup rugby games, the Eagle and XXL. Frankly, I was jealous of their itinerary. I consumed a copious amount of diet beer and conversed with friends old and new. My dear friend M. even made a rare surprise Dugout appearance. I was hopeful that we would all head up to the Eagle for our bi-yearly visitation, but that was just not to be. Tim was exhausted. He suggested a stop at Ty's. With the heat and the over-crowding and the fact that he was tired from seven consecutive days of work plus a head cold, he became quickly short tempered at the bar. And suddenly, so was I. We managed to have a rare rip-roaring fight while hailing a cab and went home, both of us cross and sullen.

I hate the morning after a fight. I crawled out of bed so Tim could sleep in, undisturbed. We'd pretty much made our peace, but we were still walking on eggshells. We spent a quiet morning gradually getting back to some semblance of normalcy, had brunch at the Noho Star and looked in some of the neighboring furniture store for some nice storage pieces for my newly enormous kitchen.

So much for my exciting week. Feh. I think the rotten portion of that definition is most apt here.

Gone Fishin'

2006-05-23T12:20:00.000-04:00

I'd like to thank everyone who indulged me by allowing me the opportunity to vent the other day. I didn't really mean to mount the pity pot, and I sure as hell wasn't fishing for compliments, but I do want to say thank you to all of you who were so kind and so full of positive reinforcement.

While I thought I had put forward an honest assessment of how I was dealing or not dealing, as the case may be, with incipient old age, it seems what resonated most was the fact that I thought my drawing power was diminishing.

It's a fact. It is.

Does it matter in the long run? Absolutely not. I'm not the type to cry over old photo albums, mourning my lost youth. I don't have any photo albums, anyway. I've led a remarkably undocumented life, photograph-wise, which seems rare in this day and age. And if I keep forgetting my sexy little Canon SD-450 camera, it looks like this trend will continue.

As I've mentioned before, I have whole-heartedly embraced the person I've become. After all, I am Superdaddy (thank you Teddy, wherever you are), and I will defend that title to the death, or at least on-coming senility.

To that end, I did what any other self-respecting middle-aged gay man would do. I hired a trainer. Again. It's been a few years since I've worked out with a trainer. I hadn't actively thought about doing this. In fact, I was trying to avoid doing it. But I was approached a couple of Sundays ago while sitting on a Nautilus machine by Evaristo, a clever trainer-on-the-go, who offered a free workout with him. It seemed serendipitous, and I took him up on his offer. We worked out this past Sunday, and may I say that two days later everything still hurts? Big time. I'm shocked. I hit the gym three or four times a week, and clearly, I'm just massaging my muscles much the way Japanese farmer massage their Kobe cattle. I'm just been pushing the fat around. This man killed me. We did mostly floor work on the mat, and some stuff with cables. I was out of breath and scarlet in no time, sweat running off me like a river. So I hired him. I'm seeing him twice a week for the next 2-1/2 months. My goals are simple. I just want to fit into my old clothes. I have a small fortune invested in tight t-shirts. And it wouldn't hurt if I was happy with the way I look in a wife beater by the time I head to Provincetown.

Shallow? Who? Me?

Old And In The Way

2006-05-18T22:22:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure what's been bugging me lately.

No, that's not true. At all. I know what's been on my mind.

I'm getting old.

I know. Not big news. But I'm sure as hell feeling it lately. And it's been bothering the crap out of me. Not the actual act of getting older. That's inevitable. It's making peace with the Mark that's fading away, and trying to come to terms with the Mark that's coming into play.

For the most part, I've been more than mildly surprised and pretty much pleased with how I turned out. Neil Tennant says it best in Being Boring:

"I never dreamt that I would get to be
the creature that I always meant to be."

All through my early years I was convinced I would somehow manage to change into someone else. In my teens, I desperately wanted to be older, received and accepted among Men. In my twenties I was convinced that thirties Mark would somehow be different, more together, less emotional, better dressed, built built. It just wasn't to be. My twenties and thirties were turbulent. You couldn't pay me to relive them.

After living through the holocaust that was my fourth decade, turning 40 brought me a modicum of comfort. I was newly single for the first time in many years. A journal from that time notes that I was totally surprised to find I was this "growly old man". I'd lived for so many years under the influence of someone much older, if not wiser; a man who had definite ideas of what was or wasn't appropriate for gentlemen "our" age. It took a little while to shake free of those shackles and tend to the nascent Mark, so long neglected.

If you're thinking that 40 is the end, let me be the first to assure you it is not. I found it to be the beginning of a life free of self doubt. All sorts of social and peer pressures fell away. Compulsions that drove me dwindled down. I settled luxuriantly into a relationship with a man who was my equal. I learned to be comfortable in my own skin. All was good.

Now, I find myself standing on top of a hill looking down the road at the rest of my life.

I can deal with the physical artifacts of aging, so far. A friend, upon seeing an old photo exclaimed: "My God, you were such a babe! What happened?"

At the time, I just growled at him, but the true answer to that question is: Life. Life happened, and I don't mind the markers it's left on my features. Time has sharpened and refined my face. I've grown used to it, as well.

However, I'm well aware that I don't have the drawing power I once did. Whereas once men would follow me home, now I can walk across Manhattan and garner nary a glance. Granted, in the right venues I still have my fans, but I am aware that my physical attributes have an expiration date, and I'm approaching it.

Maybe it's time to really cultivate my abiding avocations, music and reading.

I could get to many of the books I'd meant to read for years, albeit with fading eyes. Just recently I've started to need reading glasses when I have my contacts in. I have to take my regular glasses off in order to read when the contacts are out. I think I need to see my optometrist immediately.

As far as music goes, I find I need to gather up the patience to listen to new things, and it takes longer for me to absorb them, and even determine if I like them. I find myself delving deeply in the music of the past 40 years, as anyone in the Dugout on a Sunday afternoon can attest. Contemporary pop hold little to no appeal to me. As Joni Mitchell famously said about some young upstart: "That child has nothing to say to me."

Lastly, going to the gym these days has turned into a trial. I belong to the New York Sex, uh, I mean Sports Club. The gentlemen at my 14th Street location all seem to be between the ages of 18 and 35, putting me almost 20 years older than most of them, if not more. As has been pointed out in other blogs, some of these boys seem to have descended from Olympus, or other nearby mounts. They have little or no patience with an old duffer like yours truly. I might as well be invisible in my gym. Thank god some of the trainers say hello, or it would be a very lonely workout. I've had to learn to be mean and stand my ground there, because those kids will try to mow you down. If they're not pushing you out of the way, they're hooking up with gay abandon. I've learned to put my blinders on, work fast and get out. I think everybody's happier that way. But it would be nice if some of the people I've seen in social settings would at least nod in recognition. Ah, well. Fond foolish wishes!

So, this is going to be a learning process. With so few people to guide me, I'll have to blaze a new trail myself.

I'll probably be writing about these travails a bit. I hope you'll indulge me.

Cocktails for Two

2006-05-12T10:30:00.000-04:00

Life's in an uproar.

Our president is listening to our phone calls. Chris Daughtry was tossed off American Idol. Howard Dean's an ass. Rufus Wainwright is channeling Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall. Mary Cheney, the bitch, has written a book no one wants to read. Will & Grace is one episode away from it's conclusion.

I, of course, am concentrating on the important stuff. Reading the New York Times, I came across this.

Children, what are you thinking? Are you all that bored? Are your palates that jaded?

Furthermore, may I say: Yuck.

I'm a simple man. I prefer a simple cocktail. Trust me, a Cosmopolitan is something I find way too fussy and way too modern. Call me a Luddite.

If we're going to have cocktails, these are the rules:

Martinis:

I'd like vodka, please, straight up, very dry, with an olive. By vodka, I mean Stolichnaya, and none of those fruity flavors, if you will. I like Stoli because you can actually taste it, as opposed to Ketel One or Grey Goose. I love the sensation of the first Martini, as that silver ribbon of vodka travels down your throat, saying howdy in turn, to various regions of your alimentary canal. Ahhh. By dry, I mean I want you to pass the bottle of vermouth over the glass in a sort of benediction, but don't actually pour any in. No. I kid. I want you to pour a bit over the ice cubes, coat them and then throw out the excess. That's enough.

Manhattans:

I prefer a bourbon Manhattan. And I'm pretty happy with whatever bourbon you have on hand, with the exception of Jack Daniels. Which isn't bourbon anyway. It's sour mash. Marker's Mark, Knob Creek, Wild Turkey, hell...even Rebel Yell will work just fine. Now here you must follow the traditional recipe. If you make it like a Martini, it will be undrinkable. Here's how:

2 parts Bourbon
1 part sweet Italian Vermouth
Dash of bitters
A good cherry

If you make this I will drink several. If you'd like to get me in an amorous mood, give me at least two.

In the heat of summer, I can be tempted to drink Gin and tonic. A gin Martini is purely for those heading down those twelve steps.

On cold winter nights, a wee dram of single malt whiskey is lovely. I'm a fan of Lagavulin and Oban.

Holiday dinners at our house always seem to end with Port. Tawny and 20 years old, please.

Bourbon and soda is a fine drink for hanging out in bars as random as Ty's and the Townhouse. Actually those two are not that random, are they?

And if pushed I will consume Miller Lite by the gallon. Actually, you don't have to push me.

However, if you approach me with a glass of alcohol that's been sweetened with the essence of a lasered vanilla bean, or chilled with nitrogen, combined with agar agar, or otherwise bastardized with such foolish frippery, I may slug you.

There. Doesn't that look refreshing?

I'm going to have at least two of these, and possibly three tonight when I reach Tim's house.

What better way to cast off the day, and unravel the sleeve of care.

I'm so glad I have my very own personal bartender.

Chapter One. I Am Born.

2006-05-10T12:28:00.000-04:00

A Friday night, early last Spring.

Tim and I have the urge to shake up our routine. No jazz and cocktails tonight. The weather's warming up and so is Tim. He wants to be out and about! I'm all for that.

I'm kind of vague on the details. I'm sure he came by my house, consumed a drink or two, unwound some and grabbed dinner somewhere. It's fairly late when we pull up at the Eagle, thinking we'll see the sights and have some fun.

Imagine our surprise to discover that New York's hottest bar is almost completely empty. The first floor is closed. The second floor is deserted. The roof...well, maybe there's a dozen or so highly dispirited gentlemen eying each other warily. Puzzling, to say the least. We drink our beers, look around, and beat a hasty retreat.

The following day I call my good pal Eric, who keeps tabs on all things social. He tells me that everyone goes to something called Snaxx every other Friday. And by the way, nobody goes to the Eagle on Friday nights anymore, just the tourists. Oh.

Some time later I Googled Snaxx. Now, if you Google Snaxx, you don't actually find a Snaxx website. What was first listed then, and still is, was a certain blogger's post relating who he saw at the past Friday's event. Sort of like that Romper Room thing where one looks through the magic mirror and says: "I see Willy and Mike and Crystal and"...well, you get the picture. I wasn't so much attracted to what seemed like a really serious attempt at social exclusion. I could smell it a mile away. We're neither hip enough nor interested in being a part of the PLU (People Like Us) crowd.

However, I was intrigued by the weblog format. Some had comment sections and blog rolls. I liked the immediacy of the form, as well as the interactive aspects. So I surfed around. I spent the better part of a day at work reading, fascinated by the multifaceted views of thoughts and events that transpired daily. There seemed to be an entire community of sorts out there in the ether.

After reading quite a bit, I was able to identify vague groupings of these bloggers. Amazingly enough, local bloggers had just met up a West Side bar called Barrage for what looked like a great time!

A blog that appeared on the blog rolls of so many of blogs I was reading was Joe.My.God. I visited his blog, only to recognize him as one of the many people who used to hang out at the Dugout on Sundays a few years back when it was the place to be. So, I read. And read. And read. And read.

And then I posted.

It's been a time, baby! One year!! I'm really happy to have made the friends and aquaintances I have this past year, and to have the opportunity to deepen those already established.

I'm still kind of ambivalent about this, and a bit bewildered as to where this all might end up, but I'm here, dammit!

Daddy School

2006-05-02T17:24:00.000-04:00

I had a call late last night from my friend Arthur, who lives high on a (Russian) hill in San Francisco. I've known Arthur since I was a teenager, and if you've been hanging around here much, you might remember how we met.

After that initial meeting Arthur and I dated for a few months. Later, he hooked up with my then best friend, a fact I had some issue with, and subsequently broke my heart. He was vague about the reasons he ended our relationship, and I was puzzled. We spent a summer basically avoiding each other; he on Fire Island, me trolling the Village bars learning some hard lessons about what I had presumed love to be. It was a hot, lonely, dreary summer, and those dreams died hard. On the odd occasion when I would run into him, one or the other of us would pretty much flee after a few general niceties.

By the time Autumn rolled around, I'd managed to achieve some semblance of equilibrium. It must have been apparent, because somehow, slowly, we became friends again. I guess he sensed I wasn't putting out deranged stalker vibes anymore. We somehow managed, mostly through humor and flirtation, to cobble a friendship together.

We were a strange pair, he and I. I'd just turned 20 and he, 34. But apparently we shared enough things in common to mutually charm each other.

I enjoyed dancing at the private clubs of the day, and he had memberships to all of them. I was able to introduce him to the new dance music they were just beginning to call disco, and he showed me how taking Seconal could temper an errant acid trip. He would watch and critique my pick-up technique, giving me pointers, and I'd show him how not to dress like an accountant. He taught me never to make out with the host's boyfriend at a party, and listened patiently when I complained that the host had basically raped me a few nights later, when I met up with him on his own. I learned to never drink a tumbler of bourbon, straight up, unless I could deal with the morning after. I learned how to attract a third man of our liking, so we could drag him home and have our way with him. We became fuck buddies and theatre, movie, bar and bathhouse buddies, as well.

He encouraged me to write, calling me Wordsmith, and I began a series of journals. Some years ago he started his well-revered website which reviews all things cultural and asked me to write for him. I'm still a sporadic writer at best, but I think of him every time I sit down to do this.

He advised and consoled me when I thought I had met the man of my dreams, and it turned out to be Robert.

Arthur decided in 1976 to move to San Francisco. Could there have been a better time for that pilgimage? Robert and I were well together by then and Arthur's influence was waning under Robert's tutelage. The three of us spent the Bi-Centennial weekend that year walking around town cruising the multitude of sailors that had arrived on their tall ships, high out of our minds on THC.

Arthur sold his co-op and his furniture, and left. I still have his cocktail table in my living room.
He'd visit every year or so, but those dwindled off and we slowly lost touch in the 17 years that followed.

When I declared my emancipation from Robert, I sent Arthur a short note. He was on the phone offering a shoulder I didn't need almost immediately. We've seen each other many times in our respective cities. He's shown Tim and I all of San Francisco and Marin, and I go to the theatre and dinner regularly with him when he's here for reviewing purposes.

A year or so ago, Arthur and I sat in Cafe Luxembourg with another older friend of his. After some time, the friend wondered aloud as to the genesis of our friendship. Arthur explained that he had dated me when I was a child, and the friend was suitably impressed. He then asked why we had broken up. I did not know the answer to this. Arthur explained that we had been out on a date, and I had had the temerity to hold his hand in public. He knew then there was no future in our relationship.

I wish he had explained that all those years ago. I could have shrugged that off so easily. Instead, I carried that failure with me for many years, wondering why I was good for everything else, but not good enough to be his boyfriend.

He also told the friend that I had quickly met someone else, the world's most attractive man, and when the two of us walked down the street, we looked like an advertisement for Black & White Scotch, both of us bearded, such was the chiaroscuric effect. The jealousy was plain in his voice.

Arthur's had two courses of chemotherapy this year, and has endured all the radiation a body can in one lifetime.

He's coming to town at the end of the month. We're going to see a play and have dinner. Best of all, we'll talk.

Antic Hay

2006-04-27T22:35:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know I've been AWOL.

I'm not the most prolific of bloggers. Some of you manage two or three posts a day! I'm quite lucky if I can get two a week out. I'd been doing that with a fair amount of consistency, and then, well, April arrived.

We went to San Francisco. I know...weeks ago. Dammit! We came back. I had major projects at work that all managed to coalesce into some hellish, beastly thing that only now shows signs of retreating. There were religious holidays, requiring one to deal with one's familial unit(s). My allergies have been beyond fierce. Tim had his knee operated on. The dog ate my home work.

It just got away from me. Mea culpa.

I'm glad the month is winding down. It actually did feel overwhelming at times, and the fun to be had was a bit sketchy and spare.

However, there was a small Good Friday cocktail gathering at the Farmboyz pied-a-terre, where we enjoyed some excellent conversation with the usual suspects and, of course, some major Manhattans. Afterwards, we trekked down to my neighborhood and tipped a few at the Phoenix. By that time, I'd had enough alcohol not to mind that I was the oldest person in the room, by far. At least Jim, the barman, was friendly, and spoke with us at length. Otherwise, we might as well have been in exile.

There was the weekend it rained Friday, Saturday and Sunday, after having been lovely and spring-like all week while I'd been cooped up 12 hours at jobsites. We stayed in, mostly, dashing out now and then just to shake off the cabin fever that was setting in.

We took advantage of the downpour on Saturday to actually walk into Trader Joe's, newly established nearby. Since it opened, there have been lines trailing down 14th Street; people actually waiting to get into a grocery store. New Yorker that I am, I won't wait in or on line for anything. I had great fun walking past the people cued up and speculating whether any of them actually had a life, in my loudest Irish Whisper. As Tim and I walked down the street the past few weeks he'd peer into people's brown paper Trader Joe carrier bags, and report the contents to me: "Chips, chips, snacks, frozen desserts, chips, salsa". Upon actually visiting the store, that turned out to be fairly accurate assessment of the stock, plus some condiments. Tell me something's popular with everyone else, and I'll find a reason to hate it. That's just the way I am. It must be that musty old counterculture thing I picked up in the late '60's. I don't understand jumping on a bandwagon, and I guess I never will. Perhaps I require a tour guide to point the finer assets. I'm not getting it.

My allergies are truly beyond belief this year. I've managed to give myself a sinus infection and bronchitis, due to the incessant drip. I know, pretty image. My head feels like it's been filled with Portland cement, while my eyes have come to resemble burning lumps of coal. I'm sure you'll all be totally charmed by the effect when you see me. If I sneeze or hack in your immediate vicinity, please accept my apologies in advance. I've only just Googled Allevert Overdose. Apparently, I haven't. Yet.

Tim had a partial meniscectomy performed yesterday at Lenox Hill Hospital. It does sound rather worse than it is. A piece of cartilage was removed from his knee through a series of small incisions. We took him back to Jersey City for recuperation and Turner Classic Movies and hopefully he'll be back in the action again shortly.

When he's literally on his feet again, we'll be off for more adventures. He's asked me to take him to Snaxx some Friday. His curiosity has finally got the best of him. Be assured, there will be an open call for volunteers to escort us, should this actually happen.

And now off to bed. I have an early appointment to get my hair cut and beard trimmed, and then on to client meetings all day. I'm off to Tim's tomorrow night to check up on my favorite patient and collect a Martini or two.

I hope to see y'all as soon as we can.

Hold Your Head Up

2006-04-19T22:56:00.000-04:00

It was a run-down Victorian firehouse in an equally decrepit neighborhood.

Both would have been razed years earlier when the late and hardly lamented Robert Moses proposed running a multi-lane highway across lower Manhattan connecting the Holland Tunnel and various crossings over the East River to Brooklyn. God knows, no one wanted to live in Manhattan then, least of all in this godforsaken cast-iron wilderness.

Strangely, people actually did care that Mr. Moses was planning to ring this neighborhood's death knell as loudly as the one he rang for the Bronx and many said so, loud and clear. Somehow his plans were halted and the area between Houston Street and Canal Street languished; a moldering, vacant ruin.

Outcast artists, seeking space and cheap rents had been colonizing this area for the past decade. With no amenities to speak of, few other people wanted to live there.

During the days, the streets rumbled with the sounds of heavy trucks careening on cobblestones. At night, it was quiet as a church yard.

With the exception of a small corner where Wooster and Spring Streets intersected.

There, the Gay Activists Alliance had set up a community center, to be forever known as The Firehouse. Seemingly, no one cared that a few hundred hippie queers had elected to gather in this no man's land.

I first saw their listing on the back page of the Village Voice. Just two or three lines. Something to the effect of: Gay Dance! Every Saturday Night! Admission: $2.00! 99 Wooster Street!

Now, I was no newcomer to Gay Life. I'd been to a gay bar. Once. And I'd been haunting the bookstores and peepshows along 42nd Street since I was 16. My best friend's older brother introduced me to some of the finer aspects of male bonding when I was 12. A gentleman I met in the loge of the Oceana movie theatre during a showing of the film "Charly" was kind enough to help refine and enlarge upon that knowledge in 1968. I'd been to the Everard Baths, and had even stood on that little island created by the uptown IRT subway entrance in Sheridan Square until a man came by and took me home to spend the night. As I said, no novice I!

But dancing....somehow, that terrified me.

But not enough to keep me from trying to check it out. Hell, there were men there.

Of course, on my first attempt I realized that, while I thought I knew a good deal of Greenwich Village, I had no idea where Wooster Street was. I wandered up Sullivan Street and down Thompson, walking around Washington Square and finally asking a policeman. I was convinced he knew that only fags wanted to go to Wooster Street. In fact, the directions he gave me were so convoluted I gave up.

A month or so later, I was hanging out at a classmate's apartment. Tom had two room mates, Peter and Bruce, all living together in a large apartment in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. I was always cozy there. My grandparents had lived around the corner for many years before moving to Florida. We'd all finish our art classes, head back to their place, smoke and listen to the music of the day: Lou Reed, David Bowie and Bette Midler. She'd just released her first album, and we all joined in, high as kites, singing along to Leader of the Pack. It was a fun, giddy evening.

When I got home Tom called me, telling me that Peter demanded to know if I was gay. I gulped and told him to tell Peter I was. I'd never said those words before to anyone. Tom repeated my answer and I heard Bruce and Peter whooping in the background. Peter grabbed the phone and said:

"So, honey, you wanna go to the Firehouse on Saturday? "

Finally arriving, the Firehouse proved to be just that. A long, fairly narrow rather high-ceilinged room, paved in cobblestones, with a spiral staircase leading up to a second level, and a DJ stand where the pole would have been. A photo-mural covered one entire wall, depicting the first Christopher Street Liberation Day Parade, held two years earlier.

If you successfully navigated the wobbly sprial stairs you'd arrive at a large lounge, where, if you were careful and minded the gaping holes in the floor you could watch the Joan Crawford movie that always seemed to be on the Late Show every Saturday night in those days, and talk with friends as the music wafted up through the floor.

If you crawled down the sticky stairs to the cavernous basement, you could buy a beer, or drink free flat warm soda. The various vapors accumulating in that fragrant old building condensed on the ceiling down here, dripping down, much to the dismay of the inhabitants, like rain. Most would flee out into the street to sit and smoke on the rusting corrugated loading docks. Now and then, a cry of pure pleasure would echo off the steep walls of the narrow street; a pent up spirit, newly released.

Peter and I spent little time in either place, confining ourselves mostly to the dance floor. We took dancing very seriously then. It was confrontational; two men dancing proudly together. We'd see the older men on the side lines nodding and smiling towards us, as if signaling their approval. We made a game of finding their faces in the mural above them. We'd stumble and shake across the cobblestones in our high-heeled platform stacked shoes, purchased at Flagg Bros. or Arrowsmith, all the while dancing to:

Girl You Need A Change of Mind, by Eddie Kendricks

Armed & Extremely Dangerous, by First Choice

I Like What I Like, by Everyday People

Suffragette City, by David Bowie

Rain, by Dorothy Morrison

Law of the Land, by The Temptations

Hold Your Head Up, by Argent

and many so other songs I can still hear to this day, all the while pumping our fists in the air, shaking the sweat out of our long hair and dancing our way towards liberation.

I Met Him On A Sunday

2006-04-12T14:47:00.000-04:00

I was newly single and living on my own for the first time since 1976. It had been almost a year since I first came crawling from the wreckage of my previous relationship. I had cautiously re-entered the scene, chastened and more than a bit nervous, but none the less resolved to get on with my life, such as it was.

I threw myself into the current social whirl, albeit without a single clue as to how to interact socially in this fairly foreign environment. My teenage trick of leaning against a wall with a sullen, slightly wounded look clearly was not going to work for me twenty years later. I'd head over to the Dugout on Sundays, grab a beer and stand outside, glowering under the shade of a tree, smoking a cigar. Sometimes, men would approach and offer beers, but I truly could not decipher their motives. In some ways, I was a wild child, raised by wolves, and desperately in need of socialization.

Slowly this occurred. An assortment of men, braver than I, scaled the barriers I had erected, and I found I had a very small circle of acquaintances. We'd see each other on weekends and hang out at the Spike, the Eagle, Ty's and the Dugout. Creature of habit that I am, I immediately took to the ritual hours, assignations and rendezvous. Soon, I could be counted on as a regular.

Early that spring, I was standing in Weehawken Street with one such friend, Blaine. The weather had recently turned temperate, and the crowd filled the street from curb to curb, spilling all the way back to the old oyster house that has been standing there for over 155 years. Blaine had decided that I was "fun" one wintry Sunday evening, and had taken to showing me the ropes around town. We stood in the center of the street, as group after group of his NYC friends, his Connecticut friends, his Provincetown friends, his Florida friends came by and I was introduced. Most were moderately friendly to this new face.

A handsome blonde doctor from Hartford hung out with us for a while and passed a joint, as he regaled us with tales of a wild threeway he and his partner had had the night before. I felt totally unsophisticated, a country mouse in the big city, as I listened to his story. As the joint came my way, I partook, inhaling deeply. I wondered what part I might play in this new world and took another hit as the joint passed again. The sensation that I might be getting into something well over my head was amplified by yet another deep inhalation. We finished up and the doctor moved on, to be replaced by a group of men who had just gotten off work from their stint at the Spike, where brunch was served on Sunday afternoons.

I was introduced to all and sundry. I smiled and shook hands, well aware that the pot had plastered a stupid grin across my face, veiled my forehead with a sweaty sheen, and rendered me somewhat speechless. The last person was a good friend of Blaine's, and stayed to chat. I looked him over as the two of them laughed about various indignities suffered at the hands of patrons during the course of the long afternoon's brunch service. I took this opportunity to check him out. He was wearing jeans and boots, a white Russian River t-shirt and what used to be called bar vest: a black leather vest cut short and straight at the waist and deep at the shoulders to show both off to splendid effect. He had dark brown hair and clear blue eyes. I kept thinking how neat he was, not in that 50's Dobie Gillis sense, but just how well put together he was. While his upper torso was sort of boy-ish, his lower half was solid as a Shetland pony's. He had a winning smile and a laugh that cut through the crowd.

I realized after a while, that I hadn't said anything in all the time we'd been standing there. I'd been struck dumb by the pot. Aware of my appraising glances, he would look at me quizzically from time to time. Finally, I realized I must say something, anything. I leaned in, grabbed his wrist and said:

"I'm so sorry, I'd like to talk with you, but I've just smoked pot and I'm really high."

Oh. Great. The interior storm trooper, liberated by pot consumption, took control and began the self flagellation I felt I so richly deserved. What a moron. Those remained the first and only words that came out of my mouth as we stood there. I lost track of the rest of their conversation as I continued to inwardly kick myself.

The gentleman was gracious, however, and when he was ready to call it a night, announced that he was going to head towards the PATH station and home. We volunteered to walk him to the station, on our way to Ty's. At the station, I at least had the presence of mind to slip my hand under his vest and kiss him. He regarded me with his cool blue eyes and headed down the steps.

I found out he was in a relationship. Soon, I'd see him and his boyfriend out wherever we went. It turned out we had several mutual friends and orbited around one another for the next two years, meeting up, laughing, drinking with our respective intermingled groups of friends and enjoying each other's company when we spoke. Once, the New York Times ran an article about panhandling on the PATH train. It was accompanied by a photo of a poor destitute man working the car. Sitting behind him, quite proper and erect, was a man in a leather biker jacket. My telephone rang all day, as people saw it and called to ask if it was my friend. It was.

I saw him one night in Ty's, on his way out to a bigger and better evening, standing under a spotlight in a pair of molded leather chaps and that same biker jacket. The image remains seared in my brain.

After a year or so, he and his partner called it quits. I watched from afar, as he dated some other guys we mutually knew. He clearly wasted no time.

On a Friday night, some months later, I was standing against a column in the Lure. I had been talking with the bartender about the quiet evening. It was the first night of Passover, and all the Jewish leathermen were attending Seders elsewhere. In fact, I had just come from one, having eaten myself into a food semi-coma. I had gone home, changed clothes, and headed out, feeling bloated.

I was sipping bourbon, thinking it might have the effect of a Trou Normand on all that food. I peered out over the meager crowd, eavesdropping on the conversations going on behind me at the bar. Friends of a much younger gentleman I had been recently dating were discussing me. As I struggled to listen, a pair of strong hands landed on my shoulders and started massaging them. Clueless, I allowed this to continue for some time, before turning around. To my surprise, it was my newly single friend, with a most interesting look in his eyes I'd never seen before. I smiled and allowed him to continue a bit, before I turned around, put my arms around him, pushed him up against the column I had been leaning against, and kissed him hard and long.

This went on for some time, and the group of gossips sitting behind us started hissing like a gaggle of geese. I took his hand and led him outside.

I sat down on the rusting iron loading dock that adjoined the Lure, pulled him between my legs, and continued kissing him, pausing only now and then to look down and admire his growing excitement. I'd had no clue he felt that way.

I was in no shape to take him home that night, but I asked him to call me.

He did. The next morning.

We've been talking ever since.

Tomorrow, Tim and I will celebrate our 11th year together.

Fly Translove Airways....

2006-04-06T13:32:00.000-04:00

It rained every single day.

That said, we had a splendid time, as we always do. I was sorry not to do many of things I love in San Francisco, as most of them involve walking and being outdoors, which was pretty much limited, given the circumstances.

However, now and then, the winds blew the clouds away, the sun or moon would come out and illuminate the shiny new greenery, assuring us we'd be back next year, rain or shine.

On Thursday, we checked into the notorious brothel that is Beck's Motor Lodge and noticed a new addition. Gates! Yes, gates on every staircase. For years, men in the Castro have trooped up and down those storied steps to enjoy a bit of window shopping. I'd known of it's reputation for years before I first checked in, and frankly, I must say, I have always been somewhat disappointed. I know people who have had some very seminal experiences here, but it's always seemed rather tame to me. In fact, I think all that cruising around is fun. You know me. I don't mind it a bit. I guess enough patrons did, however, and now the place is as cloistered as a monastery. The boys are left to either import talent in, or mingle amongst themselves. The guys in the next room had set up their laptops in the window and were busily perusing Manhunt everytime we passed by.

I like the small town that San Francisco is. We change into t-shirts and head up to Castro Street for a welcoming cocktail. We walk into 440 Castro (nee Daddy's) and run into our friend Noah, recently relocated from New York. We make the passing acquaintance of young bartender Nick, who will reappear a few more times during our stay. We have several drinks, a slice of pizza at Marcello's and head home.

Watching the Weather Channel the next morning we note that it's going to rain the entire time we're there. I realize I've only brought my leather jacket and I need to get something lighter to run around in. We decide to walk through down 16th Street from Market, all the way through the Mission, down to Bryant Street where there's an Old Navy. I get a jacket, put it on, and as we stand on the corner, a truck pulls up and the guy inside shouts at us. It's our friend Flavio, who saw us standing there and rescues us from the downpour that has just started. We hang out, drive back up to the Castro and chill. Since it's raining, maybe we'll go to the gym. Sure! Good idea.

Pumped, we change and hit the Edge for Friday after-work drinks. It's packed to the rafters and we're surprised and happy to discover that our friend Bruce is now bartending there. We're meeting some other friends here in a bit, but in the meantime, we're enjoying the attentions of the rowdy crowd. I mention to Tim how nice it is to be fresh meat, to which he replies:

"Sweetheart, three months in this town and you'd go from prime beef to Mary Kitchen Hash!"

I do love my man.

We meet lots of guys, I get called Daddy a lot, and there's much drinking and random kissing. We have a blast. Several guys ask if they can feel my chest. Tim reminds me of what a well endowed acquaintance of ours says whenever he's asked a similar question:

"What kind of fiend would I be if I didn't let you touch it after I've been parading it around all night for all to see?"

It's winding down when we decide to head over to 440 again. At the bar, Nick reaches across and grabs my chest. People in this town are so friendly. We grab drinks and head towards the back only to be approached by a gentleman who is apparently Nick's wingman. He shares all kinds of good press with us about Nick, but it's not really necessary. Tim and I know a hot man when we see one.

I'm not sure where and if we had dinner. Actually, I know exactly what we did, but I ain't sayin'. We head back to our sequestered room, and sleep 10 hours.

We wake, refreshed, see the sun momentarily and then not again until Monday. We grab breakfast at Orphan Andy's and head down Market Street. I feel a hike coming on. We walk down to Polk Street and hang a left, traveling through such dizzyingly diverse neighborhoods as the Civic Center, the Tenderloin, Russian Hill, almost down to the Marina. We stop for a Bloody Mary at the Cinch. Hell, we're on vacation! We have doughnuts at Bob's. Hell, we're on vacation! We check the few remaining antique stores and visit a leather shop whose inhabitants seem to be playing the Stooge's "I Wanna Be Your Dog" just for us. In past years we've continued this hike up to Lafayette Park, then on through Japantown, stopping at Alamo Square and walking back to Beck's. Not this time. Our dogs are barking. We head back on Van Ness and avail ourselves of the public transportation.

We nap and dress for dinner. It's Tim's birthday. We're heading across the street to 2223 Market, one of the nicest places I can think of to celebrate such an auspicious occasion. It's a pretty room filled with pretty people. The service is sublime. The food is uniformly excellent. The portions are so big we could have shared everything. In fact, we should have. I was so full after dinner, I really wasn't in much mood to carouse. Or carry on. We have a nightcap at the Glass Casket and hit the hay.

Sunday was grim and grey. We have a quiet morning in the Castro, breakfasting at Harvey's and poking around that really nice shop that sells Stickley furniture on 19th Street, maybe. We parade past the Bitter Bear cafe, better known as Starbucks. Such a friendly crowd. Not. We wander. We nap. We ride the trolley down Market Street to see what the old Mint building looks like and head on over to the Eagle. By now the rain is getting serious, and the crowd is not as stellar as it usually is, nor as dense. We have a few beers before I switch to bourbon. Hell, a guy's gotta keep warm. We meet a few nice fellas and talk to with our handsome pal Doug, who manages the joint. We decide it's time for the Lonestar. It's packed to the overflowing in spite of the weather. The boys are having a cookout on the patio, and we realize we're starving. As the bourbon starts to kick in, the handsome hirsute guy at the grill tells me I definitely look like a burger boy to him. I inform him that I am, in fact, more wiener oriented. This provokes much mirth around the grill. Still, I'm very happy chomping on a hotdog under the tarp, surrounded by our unusually handsome new friends...kind of a surprise at this bar. After some serious imbibing, we need to hit the road. I'm done. Of course, it's teeming when we get outside...we walk a few blocks, trying to hail a cab, to no avail. I'm completely soaked and completely sober. Finally, a sweet lady cabdriver picks us up. In a scene reminiscent of On The Town, she tells Tim she thinks I'm very bite-able. I'm not sure about that. I do know I'm damp and tired. Time to get some shut-eye.

After breakfast on Monday, we decide we want go to an exhibit about the earthquake of '06 at the Historical Society. We trudge downtown in the rain, only to find that on Monday most of the museums are closed. Damn. We hit the gift shop instead and check out the books that have been published recently about the Quake Centennial. We get back on the trolley and head up to Castro, change for the Muni bus which takes us over the hill to the Haight. We wander down the street, admiring the formerly grand houses and the formerly funky shops until we come to Amoeba Records. Housed in a former bowling alley, I'm always in awe of this shrine to recorded music. They have everything! I'm always so overwhelmed, I almost never buy anything. On our way back to Beck's we stop at that little CD shop on the north side of Market Street that specializes in divas and dance music and soul. I always find something obscure like Valerie Simpson's solo albums on CD or the two Syreeta Wright albums produced by Stevie Wonder. When I pay for them, the owner invariably says "good soul choices", and smiles.

We meet up with our friends Eric and Tom and have dinner at Chow. We have drinks at the Pilsner while we wait for our table, and then enjoy a lovely low-key meal. I regret that I won't be able to have a burrito at Azteca, the tacqueria down the block, on this trip. We kiss our friends goodnight and head up to Castro for a farewell drink or two. We stop in to see Nick at 440, who tells us to save more time for him next year. A gentleman tells us it's Underwear Night, and we'll drink free if we strip down to our skivvies. I smile and tell him we're not wearing any. Time to go.

We stop one last time at...oh, okay...Twin Peaks and park ourselves at the bar. Tim orders a round of Manhattans. Then another. And another. They're small. We have four apiece, and sail on home.

Of course, it's still pouring when we get up. We say our good byes, check out, and head for the airport.

As the plane banks over San Francisco, I nudge Tim to look out the window. There it is. Our favorite town, all aglow. The sun has come out.

Westward Ho!

2006-03-30T11:11:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what's been in the air the past few days but the blogosphere has certainly been affected by it. There seem to be no end of just plain old mean spirits out there just aching to get in a good workout at other folk's expense. I'm distressed so see my blogging buddies being treated like the working end of a football.

So I'm taking a little break.

The Mark of Kane and his Trusty Sidekick are heading west for an extended weekend. We're decamping to San Francisco, where we'll run around and carry on and meet and greet. We'll see old friends and make new ones.

I'll tell you all about it when I get back next week.