Archive for July, 2008

In which The Gay Recluse reports on monthly traffic whoring metrix to the Board of Directors. I. Summary The month of July was our third best on record, and despite some anemic posting marked our entrance into the Technorati Top 100,000! OMG, when you find out why, you’ll understand why we were such total traffic […]

In which The Gay Recluse is increasingly obsessed with trees. Of all the French photographers who documented Paris at the turn of the last century (and we don’t mean 8 years ago), we are most obsessed with Eugene Atget. Who can resist his urban streetscapes, his ghostly renderings of the city of light? And his […]

In which The Gay Recluse visits a friend’s garden. Sometimes we long for more gardening space, so that we could enjoy exploding swaths of bee balm every July. But then we would have to drive everywhere. And our head would be filled with dangerous little songs. Don’t get me wrong, i think it’s terrible to […]

In which The Gay Recluse mercilessly slays giants. Hey, remember that stupid Nike ad we complained about last week? Guess what? According to a Reuters report, Nike is taking it down. From Reuters: The Oregonian’s report published on Saturday quoted a Nike spokesman, Bob Applegate, saying three separate poster and billboard ads would be taken […]

In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with the George Washington Bridge. We got home just as the storms were about to begin. I too had an obsession with the GWB when I lived in the Heights in the ’80s. Mine was doing as much cruising as possible under that majestic bridge. The “little […]

In which The Gay Recluse is increasingly reclusive. Sometimes things happen just the way you dream about. According to our research, the baby shoots will be 800 foot-tall culms within 60 days. The hope is that if we get enough of them, we won’t even be able to see the apartment building behind us. Remember […]

In which The Gay Recluse remains hidden in the summer garden. “[I]n the end we could choose only between the bleak and the bleaker – that was the extent of our freedom.” –Peter Nadas, A Book of Memories