MY BIG GAY TRAVEL BOOSTER

I’ve spent the last week swarmed by people, my ears abuzz from horns honking at all hours, my nose hit by a range of odors, ranging from the sweetness of icing piped out of a cake shop door to a muggy sweat emanating from alleys (imagine what it’ll be like in August) and dog pee on concrete (it is from dogs, isn’t it?). If New York City is the city that never sleeps, well, there are so many reasons why. My white noise machine from back home would be useless here.

 

I’m not sure if I could make it here amid all this steroidal everything. I tell myself it’s my kind of place, but it would likely wear me down. On this trip, I’ve watched seniors navigate crowded sidewalks. I worried about a blind man this morning walking along Fifth Avenue near 42^nd Street. I tried to give a little more space to a woman with cerebral palsy as she stepped out of a bagel shop. They all seem to manage just fine and the throngs of people instinctively offer an occasional ebb to the flow at just the right times. Maybe this is what Barry Manilow meant by a “New York City Rhythm.”

 

I wonder even more about tourists from small towns and places that aren’t even towns. What do they make of all this? What do they tell their neighbors when they get back home? 

 

I’m glad they made the trip. Their itineraries may be much different than mine. There’s not a chance I’d go to a Hard Rock in any city and certainly not in NYC. I don’t want a photo in Times Square with two Elmos and a Minnie Mouse. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty simply because it’s hard to miss, but it’s never been a destination of mine. Still, I think anyone who spends even an hour somewhere in Manhattan will be struck by the diversity of people here. It’s one of the things I absolutely love about New York and I believe that there’s great value to incidental exposure if not full immersion. The world is here. Let people take a bit of that perspective back to Antelope Hills, Wyoming and Montrose, Mississippi. Let a little Blue mix with Red. 

Most of all, let small town queers feel a sense they are not alone. While there are LGBTQ connections on Twitter and elsewhere on the internet, plenty of gay affirmations can be found In Real Life in The Big Apple. With only a tiny bit of effort, I got a potent gay booster shot during my stay. It wasn’t on account of Grindr or gay bars. I wasn’t involved in any of that. Gay things are just part of the rich fabric of this city.

To be clear, this wasn’t My Big Gay Trip to New York City. If I lived in Little Rock or Tallahassee or Missoula, I might feel an urgency to get double boosted in gayness, but spending my time in Vancouver and Seattle made any items on a gay agenda optional rather than required sightseeing. I passed by but didn’t take photos of Stonewall (there was some scaffolding obstructing the façade) and The New York City AIDS Memorial. I didn’t Google a gay-oriented show on Broadway. (I did see “Summer, 1976” with Laura Linney who will forever be Mary Ann Singleton from Tales of the City in my mind, but the play wasn’t overtly gay even if it co-starred Jessica Hecht who played Ross’s ex, Carol’s, lesbian lover, Susan, on “Friends.”) I just explored Manhattan, doing a gay thing or two, but mostly taking in familiar favorites that had more to do with food, art and exercise. 

But there was always a gay presence. I didn’t snap pictures of the young queer with eye makeup and long, shimmering fingernails, lined up behind me at Chelsea Market, waiting to order pizza. Nor did I get a shot of any of the older gay couples who dressed up to make an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art their own Instagram event, trying to out-Lagerfeld Karl Lagerfeld. There were plenty of other on-the-street gay-spotting moments, years and years more fodder for Bill Cunningham if he were still with us. Nonetheless, here are a few shots to document getting my Big Apple gay booster:

Painting by queer Chicano artist Joey Terrill at MOMA: "Making Tortillas in New York"

from his series Chicanos Invade New York. There's a delightful sense of humour in 

Terrill's work which made me linger. Note the Broadway poster on the wall. "Bent"

starred Richard Gere and premiered in 1979. The play was about the persecution of

homosexuals in Nazi Germany.

This photo at MOMA--"Las dos Fridas" (The Two Fridas).

Shame on me for making an Ellsworth Kelly painting background fodder for a selfie at MOMA.

Here it is without the photobombing: gay artist Ellsworth Kelly's "Spectrum IV."
I didn't realize Kelly was partnered with artist Robert Indiana from 1956-1964. 

A very popular exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

Long lines meant more people-watching.

The mesh lower half of this dress reveals what resembles men's briefs according 

to my fashion-ignorant eye, giving the look a certain gay fetish appeal.

Karl's own iconic look.

This is the headquarters of TransPerfect, a company that specializes in translation services. 
I passed it many times since my hotel was a couple of blocks away. I don't care what the 
business is. For me, it was a daily affirmation that Trans Lives Matter.

Joseph Christian Leyendecker (1874-1951) was a gay commercial artist, best known for his drawings and paintings used to advertise Arrow shirts for men. His life partner, Canadian model Charles Beach, was frequently the subject of his illustrations. Leyendecker's work was the subject of a 

special exhibit at the New-York Historical Society Museum & Library.

The Strand is a fabulous bookstore at 13th & Broadway. I always go there when I visit.

This time, I noticed this prominently displayed poster for an author talk about Matt Baume's new book, "Hi Honey, I'm Homo! Sitcoms, Specials, and the Queering of American Culture."

Bookstores are a great place to find LGBTQ material, to validate queer lives and to instil greater understandings and connection to our identities. That's why some conservatives are aggressively trying to ban books. That's why we must read and promote these books and push back for a free press and free speech.

New titles I'll track down at home.

Yes, I went to the book talk! Came upon it by happenstance. I look forward 

to reading my signed copy of "Hi Honey, I'm Homo!"

Love this double-page spread from Gonçalo Viana's picture book, True Colors, 

which I discovered at the bookstore at New York Library's main branch, 

the stunning Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. 

Two boys, a dog and, yes, that's a green cloud.

A storefront. Can't remember where. Maybe a museum

gift shop? Rainbows will forevermore be gay in my mind.

(Perhaps a storm cloud--darkly grey, not green--symbolizes LGBTQ haters.)

 

 

  

STATE OF MIND

I’m a huge Sara Bareilles fan. One of my favorite songs is “Manhattan” which has the singer relinquishing the New York hub to an ex.

You can have Manhattan,

I know it's what you want.

The bustle and the buildings,

The weather in the fall.

And I'll bow out of place

To save you some space

For somebody new.

You can have Manhattan

'Cause I can't have you.

It’s a beautiful, melancholy song. A place with millions of people just isn’t big enough for the both of them.

For me, I’ve flirted with giving up an entire state. Oregon. After two and a half years of online contact and dating, my relationship with a Portland guy ended seven months ago. No more quick weekend flights. No more meeting halfway in Seattle. Just no more.

It doesn’t matter that I’m the one who ended things. The sting of failure still lingers. I suppose there’s a good chance that will last until a new relationship comes along to offer renewed hope and to show that maybe I am capable of negotiating through the good and the bad.

Why couldn’t it have been another state? I’m sure I could live the rest of my life with no effort at all in avoiding Boise or, god forbid, a smaller outpost. Yeah, you can have Idaho.

The thing is, I really like Oregon. I’ve been going to Portland and the Oregon Coast for years. I’ve gone to the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland a number of times. I’ve long felt that the state is a gem overshadowed by its neighbor to the south. I have no intention of surrendering the state to an ex.

But what I think doesn’t always jive with what I feel. This past weekend, I booked an impromptu trip to Newport on the Coast. I emailed my ex to say I’d be swinging through Portland, offering a chance to grab a meal or ice cream. I figured it would be a nice way to reconnect as friends—or something—, a way to move past failure. I like keeping people I’ve valued in my life.

He never responded.

It doesn’t come as a complete surprise, but it’s disappointing. In hindsight, it would have been better not to reach out at all. The silence did not surprise me, but still it came as a jolt and stuck with me during the entire trip. Suddenly Portland felt more like his town. When I went to my favorite spots—places I went to with him but had discovered before him—I struggled in my mind to take them back as my spots. Same with the hotel I stayed at in Newport. It’s my favorite spot. Yes, we stayed there together once, but I’ve been there many times. The visit was tainted. It wasn’t a full-on grieving; it just felt uncomfortable.

I don’t want to avoid Oregon. I don’t want to avoid the places I like. If we can’t meet to redefine our connection, then I am left to redefine my relationship with these places. I need to take them back. I need to create new memories. To be sure, I made progress. My time of the Coast was highlighted by a bike ride that allowed me to get better glimpses of the views. I kept stopping to take in the gorgeous shoreline and to stare out at the endless Pacific. Remarkably, I spotted whales at each and every stop. Absolutely glorious! I felt utter serenity. For three hours, it was just the sea and me.

I’m headed back in a month, visiting Portland for five days with a friend. He’s got a conference so I’ll have plenty of time to revisit my favorite jogging routes, to get lost at Powell’s Books, to overindulge at Blue Star Donuts and to find new cafés for writing. I’ll also have the opportunity to find a balance between memories of us and memories of my own.

As much as I love Sara Bareilles, I have no intention of surrendering a place to an ex. 

TAKING A BITE OF THE FORBIDDEN BIG APPLE

I hear the stories. Gay guy goes on vacation, imbibes in a margarita or four, hooks up with a hot local guy and returns home with a scandalous story to tell for the next week.

How Steven got his groove back.

Apparently the chances are good. Barflies get tired of the same filler material. They keep their eyes open, waiting for the first “Say, you’re not from around here” guy to walk in the club. Well, maybe not the first. It takes a while for their own liquid relaxants to kick in.

New guy + barfly. It’s a potent combination. Two men with low/no expectations. One night. Maybe just one hour. It’s practically anonymous. Go in with a new name, the one you wish your parents had given you. Remember when “Dick” was acceptable? Try it on if you can say it with a straight face. If not, there are other studly names. Dirk. Gunnar. Just not Rolfe. (He turned out bad in “The Sound of Music”.)

Go wild. What happens in Vegas and all that. So what if your holiday is in Acapulco. Or Cleveland. Conjure up your own Vegas state of mind.

And, yes, I could stand to have a Vegas moment. I’m in New York City and there are so many attractive men. Men with a fashion sense. Men who clearly seem to be gay. Especially when I’m spending all my time in art galleries and in line for Broadway shows. Of course, the boys of Broadway march two by two. I wind up eavesdropping on two old Jewish women in front of me as they kvetch about all the stars of “Glee”. (They catch me nodding as one of them says Jonathan Groff and Darren Criss make a cuter couple than Kurt and Blaine.)

On my third night in Manhattan, I should be going to a gay bar. Perhaps even a bathhouse if I don’t feel like margaritas. But I get bored looking up gay bars on Yelp. I dash out with the clear intention of picking up Steve. I cruise the aisles of Whole Foods on 7^th Avenue until I spot him: a pint of Steve’s Mexican Chili Chocolate ice cream, the perfect way to end the night after a Broadway show. Yes, that’s the kind of Steve from Brooklyn that truly whets my appetite. I'm thinking I'd love another go at Steve. He’s my sure thing.

On my final day, I decide to walk through Greenwich Village and to check out the Stonewall Inn. For a Saturday afternoon, the streets seem quiet. I don’t get any sense of a Bohemian culture. Neither do I get a sense that this is a gay area. The Stonewall Inn appears to be a teeny establishment, a big surprise since everything in Manhattan seems so big. I had told myself I’d pop in for a beer but I see no one coming or going and, frankly, I have no desire for any kind of alcohol. I move on, stopping for a moment to gaze at a subpar all-white sculpture to commemorate the Stonewall Riots. The historical milestone deserves better.

If I’m going to stumble on a fling or at least a moment of flirtation, I figure my best chances are just off Christopher Street. I stroll into Big Gay Ice Cream.

Yes, this is my kind of cruising bar.

But, alas, the stereotypes must be true. Gays don’t do ice cream. Not in broad daylight, at least. There are twenty people in the shop. All families and straight couples. I no longer feel inspired to order the Bea Arthur. The camp factor would be fruitless. I settle on the Pumpkin Gobbler instead. I get it to-go.

Two days in a row of self-soothing with ice cream. I’m definitely staying in tonight. And I’ll be doing penance when I get back home—longer jogs, harder swims, heavier weights. It’s not the kind of penance I’d hoped for.