Archive for the ‘Memory’ Category

In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with the George Washington Bridge. For the past ___ years, I’ve been neglecting my guitars and amplifiers; for example, I stored my ‘blackface’ 1960s Fender Princeton Reverb at my friend John’s house, and everything else sat in the forgotten recesses of closets, which is not exactly the […]


In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with the George Washington Bridge. Today I read a disturbing post on the NYT’s City Room blog about a pair of teenagers who broke into a vacant apartment in Brooklyn, doused a cat with lighter fluid and then set it on fire. According to the article, “[t]he […]


In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with orchids. It is in the nature of certain people (ahem) never to be satisfied, which — depending on the context — can be a curse or a blessing. For example, I just finished a very delicious chocolate cupcake with chocolate frosting (but not too sweet!) and […]


In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with the George Washington Bridge. (American gay fiction writer and flickering beacon during the Dark Ages of post-war American fiction) James Purdy died today, and as so often happens, The Times obit neglected to explicitly state that he was gay/queer/homosexual/vext. Not that you could really hide it […]


In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with the George Washington Bridge. Today the sky was windswept, which reminds of when I first moved to New York City and me and my friend Mike were walking around the Lower East Side one night — it was definitely winter — and we saw what could […]


In which Death Culture at Sea looks back a few decades. Listen on our Tumblr or Download from the Death Culture at Sea site. “My Back for Thirds” Here I looked around In your dream I hit the ground I was bringing something wrapped in silk around to you But it was nearly cut in […]


In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with the George Washington Bridge. My fifth grade teacher, Mr. W, was a large, macho man with a mustache and a tight perm. (You could actually be macho and have a perm in 1978.) He liked to aggressively talk about boys and girls “dating” and “kissing,” and […]