Archive for the ‘Drag Queens’ Category

In which The Gay Recluse decorates the office. Today in my office I hung up a color print I recently made to test out a new printer we recently bought after the old one died. The photograph was taken a long time ago, if you measure time in hours. It was Friday afternoon and difficult […]


In which Dante files a book report. Recently we heard from a publicist at Viking, who asked us to review the latest book in a series of “transvestive detective stories from Turkey.” Our editor agreed, although — because he does not deign to immerse himself into “genre” fiction — the task fell to yours truly. […]


In which The Gay Recluse remembers subtle forms of fourth-grade terror. It’s not hard to remember a phase we went through in elementary school, specifically fourth and fifth grade (and possibly sixth, although even now it pains us to think about this) when each Valentine’s Day, we took it upon ourselves to make increasingly elaborate […]


In which The Gay Recluse clarifies his thoughts on gay marriage after years of skirting the issue. Since we are gay and in a long-term relationship — almost ten years! — we are constantly besieged by frenz and relatives with questions that more or less could be summed up as this: “Oh it’s so sweet that you’re […]


In which The Gay Recluse is entranced. Tonight we watched A Story of Floating Weeds, the 1934 film by Yasujiro Ozu.  It’s a silent movie, which takes some getting used to (and we say this with regret, not about the movie, but the state of our frenzied existence). Like the other Ozu films we’ve seen […]


In which The Gay Recluse provides a postscript to our gay alternative to this week’s Modern Love piece in the Times by Kayla Rachlin Small. (For those looking for our informal-but-telling quantitative analysis of Modern Love, click here.) Dear TGR, I loved your riff on “The Steep Price of Your Forbidden Kiss” (a title which, […]


In which The Gay Recluse thinks about shit on the daily commute. As we walk through midtown each morning and each afternoon, we often pause to observe a fading silhouette on a wall; while somewhat decrepit, it provides comforting evidence — of a sort we are always on the lookout for — that Andy Warhol […]