AatomBomb

ButWhoWasMoreDapper?

I got a request recently from a website asking me to add them to my blogroll. After perusing some of the lengthy archival information, I gladly did so. History of Gay Bars in New York is a treasure trove of gritty history, with a particular fondness for exposing the longtime links between New York City gay nightlife and the mafia. Makes me wonder who wore the more dapper suits, the mob or the men who frequented their bars.

Check it out, it's riveting.

TheAbsurdityOfFear

Everyone's buzzing about today's WaPo article regarding drug-resistant killer staph infections. A report issued yesterday by the CDC estimates that as many as 19,000 people die each year from these brutal infections. I personally know a handful of friends who have been unfortunate enough to deal with a case of staph, and even the ones that can be treated are no laughing matter. Some cases are the result of unclean hospital conditions, but many of them are linked to crystal meth use among gay men, and the extremely unclean conditions that result during the orgy portion of the experience. A good friend of mine ended up with a hole the size of a softball in the middle of his stomach once. Absolutely horrifying.

The most interesting thing to me, however, is this little nugget: staph is "killing more people in the United States each year than the AIDS virus". There is most likely a link between HIV infection, staph, and the lifestyle decisions that often lead to one or the other. In other words, there's more than one reason to reign in your wild PNP ways. But isn't it intriguing that the spectre of AIDS still instills more fear in the human mind than something like staph. Getting staph is just bum luck, maybe some dumb decisions, but can usually be dealt with, you know, unless you die. Same with HIV. But staph doesn't have the cultural inertia of fear and hysteria attached to it like AIDS still very much does.

This reminds me of the way that many of my friends are still ridiculously scared of flying on airplanes, but will pile into a small metal deathtrap and cruise down a highway drinking and smoking weed. They are far more likely to end up in a morgue riding in a car, but never give that a second thought. Then in the relative safety of an airplane they hyperventilate and pop enough Xanax to kill a small dog. I find human mind tricks like this fascinating. Here I sit, HIV-positive now for almost a decade, and I still get the dramatic sympathy and look of pity when I confide in people. Well-meaning people, mind you, but people still mired in the earliest conceptions of what having HIV means. Yet if I confided in the same people that I had recently suffered through a staph infection, which is more likely to actually kill me, I would get thoughtful questions and sympathy, but probably not the same look of melodramatic concern.

What does all this mean? Not much, really. Both staph and HIV are still real concerns for those out there living life to the fullest. But it does draw the curtain back a bit on the mythology of fear, and how it affects us in the most absurd ways sometimes.

HappyGayShame

UPDATE: I've carefully re-read this post and come to the conclusion that it is a complete load of pretentious horsecrap, and I don't think I even agree with myself. Oh, the crippling shame.

There has been a bit of a media tempest in an urban gay teapot about this year's Pride festivities. Who are we? What do we need this parade for anyway? Is there a division between the affluent white gays and the adorable (but do not fuck with them) street urchins that inhabit (inhibit?) the piers every year for the strangely controversial Heritage of Pride street festival at the end of the parade in the Village? This year's clusterfuck of an attempt to move the street fair to Chelsea blew up in our collective faces, highlighting the awkwardness between the demographic divide forming in the New York gay community. The relationship between the mostly white male activists of the AIDS generation and the new-gen genderqueer types from the black/latino/trans/lesbian ranks that are currently screaming for attention has always been a strained one, but until now we have all put on a somewhat happy face together, fighting much larger powers-that-be for several decades.

Now, a sense of achievement has set in among the well-heeled 8th Ave. set, who no longer feel that the fuss is worth it every year. In other words, if we can't bring the festivities to us, we just won't go at all. Collectively, we've made incredible progress in such a short amount of time - it's almost a given that in the next 10 years New York will have full gay marriage rights, NJ is already experimenting with civil unions, popular culture has come a long way in portraying us in a somewhat positive light. AIDS is still a haunting but less immediate spectre in our lives. Perhaps the time is ripe to recognize that indeed, we are all just people, living the lives that people live. Complicated, messy but sometimes rewarding lives. Some conservative gays (of which I tend to find much agreement with) closed their eyes this year and wished upon that star.

What did I do this weekend? I played host to an ex and his friend from Texas, partied like an ageing rockstar, and missed the parade. I am, after all, a somewhat privileged white man with a fabulous view of the city, and my sense of urgency for gay issues is also somewhat muted. Saturday night found us at the old Roxy space, which had been rented out one last time for an Arena reunion blowout with Junior Vasquez. For the low low price of $55 you too could have been witness to the tortured death throes of an entire generation of NYC nightlife. The aging queen of mega-club theatrics was in familiar form by now, re-hashing old standards and mashing sounds together inchoherently with the petulance of a fading monarch. The 'spectacle' consisted of a stage prop wall of hideous neon lights meant to suggest (one would surmise) the media-centric light show of the original Arena at Palladium (now poetically a student dorm). Some reported seeing a show or two (if one considers a Madonna impersonator doing 'Don't Cry For Me, Argentina' a show) but we saw none, instead forced to suffer through a peak-hour 'Peace Train' by Dolly Parton (not live, as he once would have been able to pull off), watching a confused and scattered crowd wander aimlessly in the middle of the dance floor hugging one another - out of misery or faux-ecstasy one was not sure. Sunday was spent blissfully enjoying the soft touch and gentle kisses of my boyfriend, using up the remainder of our own ill-gotten mood enhancers. There was indeed a sense of personal pride felt by us that day, as we watched the fireworks burst over the pier dance from my declasse Jersey apartment with unmitigated glee. 

Today, I saw two adorable boys walking across 42nd street, one white and the other hispanic, and I knew instinctively that they were gay. Not because of affectation, but you do learn to recognize certain demographic realities in this city. Call me racist if you will (everyone is a little bit, after all), but one of the interesting hallmarks of gay life is that it forces you to fraternize with other gay people that aren't necessarily part of your demographic set. It would be a shame to lose that unique edge in life, which seems to be what is happening recently.  I'm all for assimilation, but I wouldn't mind holding onto the things that make us unique in positive ways, including our ability to love one another regardless of race or gender, forced as it may have been on us.

Although I like where this guy is going with his thinking, I also hope that Pride doesn't become a completely anachronistic exercise for us. In our continuing effort to mainstream our lives, we should hold tight to the idea that the rising tide should benefit all ships, and not cut the ropes on those who lack more immediate mainstream appeal. We all experience our sexuality in unique, sometimes wonderful ways. But we all have secret shames to deal with - sometimes personal, sometimes public (note to Jr.: let go of the past, girl.) Let's not make our greatest shame an inability to empathize with those of us who haven't seen all of the advantages that some of us have been so lucky to see in our lifetimes. Wouldn't that just be so depressingly human and predictable? So I choose to not celebrate Pride this year, but Shame, because it is only in recognizing our own complicity in man's inhumanity to man that we will ever reach a place that recognizes all of us as the beautiful, fabulous creatures that we are.

FaggotSeason

There is a brilliant moment in an episode of 30 Rock where Liz Lemon, our scrappy heroine, is mulling over the idea of leaving New York for Cleveland.  She explains to her boyfriend that she could never leave this great city you see, because...and then a man interrupts her by spitting directly into her mouth.  She goes to Cleveland.  Comedy gold.

My friend and erstwhile editor Jeffery and I had just finished the RuPaul screening of Starrbooty, and were walking through the West 4th St area, right near where the Wendy's was shut down for being vermin-ridden.  I suppose we should not have been surprised to find vermin roaming the area, in retrospect.  We paused by a small folding table of books.  The usual street fare, strange adult-themed trash lit mixed with 10 year old magazines and a few piles of children's books.  One of the children's books caught our wicked eyes, as the title referenced the name of one of our friends trapped in a strange relationship.  Let's just say there was a lot of easy irony to be found in the synopsis on the back. 

As we mulled over the idea of giving it as a gift out of sheer premeditated malice, I noticed a small rat-like man hovering around us out of the corner of my eye.  I figured he was the owner/operator of this fine card table of books, and paid him little mind.  Now, to be clear, I do not pass easily for a red-blooded butch American heterosexual, especially in the company of my friends.  It's New York, for fucks sake, I only feel self-conscious about my sexuality on the Upper East Side.  But I had my own Cleveland moment as I turned around and found myself face to face with the rat man. He was literally inches away from my chin, picking his nose in a deep and urgent way, while muttering what I imagine most salespeople find the best way to attract potential customers: "Get away from me, you fucking faggot." 

My first reaction, naturally, was to recoil in complete gay horror from the stubby, dirty finger digging for gold inches away from my face.  God knows what he intended to do with the treasures he sought so forcefully up there.  I think my exact words were "Eewwwww!" as I raised my hands to my face like a Hollywood diva and backed away from the rodent.  This had the odd effect of reinforcing his initial impression of me, so he slurred some more "faggots" as I happily obliged him and got quickly out of his strange little world.  Initially, I tried to make myself feel guilty over the fact that I didn't fly into a Joan Crawford rage, flip his sad little table into Sixth Ave. and kick his kneecaps out.  But it was clear to me that what we had here, despite the obvious homophobic outburst, was a plain old New York crazy person.  And I haven't survived for a decade in this city by getting uppity with crazy people.  So here's to you, you little rat-faced turd.  You just lost a customer.  But I'm not moving to Cleveland, so fuck you.

This strange encounter got me thinking, though.  June.  Gay Pride.  Kevin Aviance was bumrushed exactly a year ago.  I've noticed that there is almost always an uptick in homophobic slurs around this time.  Summer is upon us, the heat makes people a little loopy, and perhaps a subtle subconscious awareness of Pride brings out the inner macho douchebag in people.  It happens most noticeably in traditionally gay-friendly areas.  The West Village, Chelsea, the East Village.  Then, on Saturday night, my boyfriend and I are standing at my bus stop in NJ, and a cheap-looking red SUV cruises us while some angry and clearly repressed boy hangs out the window screaming "Faggots!!" at us.  I have lived on the river facing Manhattan for over 6 years, and I have never heard that word in my presence.  I know, it's surprising to me as well. 

So what the fuck is up with the June hate parade?  Is there some sort of subliminal signal that flips on during Pride month, activating a sleeper cell of frothing neanderthals?  I don't know, but it's certainly a healthy reminder that as we get more and more entrenched in mainstream culture, our gay ghettoes become fair game as the unevolved lash out at our inevitable domination of civilization.  I think my instinctive response is still the best one.  Eww.

Starrbooty!

Last Thursday I attended the press screening for Starrbooty, a feature length resurrection of the blaxploitation-style series of low budget episodes made by RuPaul in the Eighties.  Ru was there (and yes, he goes by Ru out of character, somewhat to my surprise) and was witty and effervescent, as always.  He confessed an unhealthy degree of excitement for the Judge Judy show, but gave a great pre-screening interview.  Quick, clever, and thoughtful, as all great queens must be to survive. 

Joe from Joe.My.God was there, and gives a nice synopsis of the thing over at his place.  My EIC and I enjoyed the film very much, as evidenced by our constant level of obnoxious laughter.  No punches pulled, this is not the safe-for-radio-airplay Ru of the Nineties.  She flexes all of her drag muscles, and the result, with stellar performances by Candis Cayne and Sweetie, is a wicked old-school romp through the Meatpacking District with a bunch of tranny hookers.  Kind of makes you nostalgic.  We'll be interviewing Ru for noiZe soon, stay tuned...

NoComment

I'm of the mind that if you can't say something nice about the deceased, you shouldn't say anything at all.  So...no comment.

But this is hilarious.

InstitutionalizeMe

Towleroad reports that eight couples who have domestic partnerships in CT are taking their case to the State Supreme Court today.  A lawyer for the couples points out the fucking obvious for us:

"The legislature already determined a fundamental sameness between couples. Constitutional law has discarded long ago any notion that a separate institution for a minority can ever be equal."

Which is exactly what I've been saying to all of the pussies on our side who minge and whine whenever I insist that full marriage rights are the only logical goal for us.  The sheer inevitability of this kind of lawsuit makes compromise on this subject untenable.  If it is easier for us to sneak in the back door, so to speak, and demand a kind of grotesque simulacrum of marriage called something else first, then fine.  Although I refuse to call any future husband of mine anything but that.  But it's no surprise to me that our enemies are slightly ahead of the curve on this one, fighting any hint of partner recognition by the state.  They can smell the lawsuits and well-appointed wedding banquets a mile away. 

Best of luck to these courageous couples in CT.  And a hearty fuck you to anyone who still thinks it's possible to freeze time and prevent full marriage rights for gay couples. 

noiZe#2:TheFlamingBuckNakedPornIssue

Our spotlight for the second issue of noiZe will be Fire Island, the scrappy little sandbar that houses many of the A and B list gay celebrities of New York during the summer.  We did a marathon of interviews with figures like Buck Angel, Peter Rauhofer, Colton Ford, Babylon tour promoter Adam Gill, and circuit performers/decorators RKM. Pick up a copy to try to figure out which ones we were the most drunk for!

The Pines is a very special place to me, I wrote about it once before when we were still known as Circuit Noize.  Yes, momo, I love Fire Island and know how to spell Madonna's last name, fuck you very much.  I guess I'm just a little tired of trying to be astereotypical and ironic all the time.

Here's a snippet of how I feel about my summer home:

Fire Island allows you to experience it in a multitude of ways, depending on where your head is at and what you are trying to get out of it.  For many, it is merely a scenic place to strip down to party and play like it’s going out of style.  For others, especially the long-time residents, it is a very real community of artists, designers, politicians, activists and others who have called this bohemian haven home every summer for several decades or more.  If you are lucky or smart enough to tap into this side of the island, you will discover a form of gay life that is difficult to find in bars or online.  The rich mingle freely with the not-so-rich and all pretension is left in Sayville.  I have had the honor to meet some of the more fascinating members of our community, usually while doing the mundane tasks and activities that a summer retreat demands, like shopping at The Pantry or wandering aimlessly on the beach.  Even the notorious Meat Rack, an idyllic network of wooded paths between the Pines and Cherry Grove where boys gawk and fondle one another, resists the sinister implications of its name.  It’s hard for anyone to maintain an urban scowl in the midst of a place so innocent and beautiful.

WhenSissiesAttack

Joe.My.God has posted a follow-up to the brutal attack on Kevin Aviance last June.  I posted about the attack after it happened here.  All four of the boys involved pled guilty and were given sentences ranging from six to fifteen years.  A little justice is always a nice cherry to put on top of a shit sundae, but it doesn't make the pain and suffering that was caused go away. 

I still disagree with Joe (and most gay people) about the usefulness of hate crimes legislation (which should properly be called "thought crimes legislation"), which is not to say I don't think these boys deserve to be in jail, just that I don't see why they should get any more or less jail time than anyone else who commits such a heinous crime. 

I thought I'd post the article and interview that we did at noiZe with Kevin right after it happened as a tribute to this suitable ending.  This was truly one of the most entertaining and uplifting interviews I have ever done:

A giant preening mascot for the club-going set, Kevin Aviance is constantly coming up with a new way to wear a giant hat, some glitter and little else.  The lips, the face, his long massive legs, and that voice.  Booming with a low end that rivals the bass box on the floor next to you, he has pitch-perfect timing and always says just enough but never too much to inspire you to keep dancing the night away.  I only saw him attempt to share the stage once for a duet; he performed the male vocal himself with a sock puppet.  No one else could have done it justice.

June 9^th started like any other Friday for Kevin.  A photo shoot in the East Village, followed by cocktails at a local bar, finally ending up at Phoenix on 13^th Street and First Avenue for a nightcap. 

Phoenix is one of those bars that reminds you that gay people like to relax and play pool sometimes just like everyone else.  Very laid back atmosphere, and not as seedy as you would expect at first glance.  Lots of beer drinkers.  The most exciting thing that happens there is a periodic visit from Janice Dickinson, who will probably have go-go boys at her funeral. 

Kevin was relaxing that night as well, going casual after the shoot wearing a black muscle shirt with a hoodie, black pants down to his calf, and a Balenciaga bag on his shoulder.  He was still Kevin Aviance, who can wear little more than a thong and some pumps and look fully dressed somehow, but he was in a decidedly less glamorous mold that evening from all accounts. 

He left the bar early, probably 1:30am, to make the walk to his apartment near Seventh Avenue.  Approaching 14^th Street, Kevin thought nothing of it when he passed a small group of young men. 14^th Street is one of lower Manhattan’s most bustling thoroughfares, even at two in the morning.  Like much of that area of the city, it feels dirtier and more dangerous than it usually is in reality.  Even the junkies seem to respect the basic code of civility that every New Yorker learns to exercise. That corner, near the Phoenix, now houses three or four gay bars alone in a two block radius.  It’s probably safe to assume, therefore, that Kevin felt comfortable in full “Strut” mode, and was paying these children no mind. 

BuckingConvention

I had the pleasure of attending the premiere of the Black Party docudrama Schwarzwald - Rites XXVII last night at The Box.  I have to say it was one of the most enjoyable evenings I've had in a long while, for several reasons aside from the free vodka. 

As my boyfriend and I arrived at The Box, I recognized the face of Joe from Joe.My.God waiting outside for the Manhattan Offender.  I'd never had the pleasure of meeting Joe in person, but I recently used his formidable writing skills for the launch of noiZe, so I introduced myself and we ended up chatting for much of the evening.  We all swapped wacky backroom stories, and momo from Manhattan Offender turned out to be as witty and amusing as I expected.  Joe had the best stories of course, the man is a wealth of anecdotal information. 

The star of the evening, though, was Buck Angel, the female-to-male transsexual porn star who has been making a big splash recently.  It's hard to ignore "The Man With A Pussy", as his business card delicately puts it.  He turned out to be one of the sweetest and most interesting people I've met, and we ended up talking with him until one in the morning.  My boyfriend is absolutely fascinated, and is already planning a trip to Mexico for us to visit Buck, who actually put his money where his mouth was when Bush was elected and moved out of the country.  Take that, you Hollywood pussies!  The courage of his convictions is something that Mr. Angel is certainly not lacking. 

The movie was decent for an indie film about a circuit party.  The best parts were the footage of the party itself, interspersed with a nonsensical pagan storyline that occurs in the woods, amusingly accompanied by peppy disco tracks most of the time.  Buck was strangely adorable throughout, looking surprisingly innocent for a muscular bald man with tattoos and a vagina.  He told us after how fascinated gay men were with him, to the point of almost being gang-raped on the floor of the Black Party one year.  Men, as it turns out, are indeed pigs.  Joe summed it up nicely.  He said imagine a room full of the most hardcore sex freaks in the city, men who make a regular habit out of practices such as fisting and bloodletting (the bloodletting scene of the movie was by far the most disturbing - and kind of hot in a wrong wrong wrong way) and then put Buck onstage wearing nothing more than thigh-high leather boots.  It's the one perversion none of them have ever experienced before, and it drives them crazy.  That might help explain why Buck no longer goes on the main dance floor alone anymore. 

All in all, a fabulous evening.  I'm still working off a bit of a hangover (no more gin on long nights. Just no.) but it made me blog again so it must have been pretty fucking special.

Here's a pic of Buck and my angel of a boyfriend:

Aww.