In which The Gay Recluse is blown away by grand, tessellated spaces.
On Friday we went apartment hunting with a friend of ours who wants to move uptown. We didn’t have much time — we were with a realtor — but managed to snap a few shots of these foyers. (We’ll try to get some more in the coming weeks.)
All of this work was done between 1910 and 1930. Incredibly, this was before they had computers!
Washington Heights is filled with these buildings.
None of them are landmarked.
Of all the Manhattan venues available to the gay recluse, Washington Heights is undoubtedly the preferred. Here we live among extremes of material decadence and breathtaking neglect, apparent in the crumbling cornices of Ft. Washington Avenue and eroding limestone facades of St. Nicholas, not to mention the tiled mosaics in the entrance foyers of the apartment palaces of upper Broadway — grand, tessellated spaces reminiscent of The Alhumbra — through which uncountable millions of apathetic feet have passed in the decades since their painstaking construction. Only here among the ruins can we permit ourselves the indulgence of a certain wistful nostalgia for the past, knowing it is one that we can never hope to live.
The Gay Recluse, September 2007
Filed under: Architecture, City Pattern Project, The Gay Recluse, Washington Heights | 4 Comments
Tags: apartment palaces, Foyers, Landmarks, Mosaics
In which The Gay Recluse is like wtf.
Ok, The Times has been on board with gay marriage for a couple of years now. Great! What’s not so great, however, is their continuing use of the term “longtime companion” to describe long-term gay relationships, e.g., the following quote in an article about Russell T Davies (Torchwood!) that appeared in today’s Arts Section:
He lives partly here and partly in Manchester and has a longtime companion who works as a customs inspector for the British government. (Ital ours.)
OMG! Barf! New York Times, please please please use “partner” or even “relationship partner” but not “longtime companion” with its echoes of bachelor/spinster closet-cases and a type of friendship that really has nothing to do with romantic love (or at least takes a way-back seat to it).
Nor can we advocate the use of “husband” and “wife,” as The Times attempts to do in its rather ridiculous and filled-to-the-brim-with-stereotypes front-page shocker “Gay Couples Find Marriage a Mixed Bag“:
Ms. Bullock, who is dating another woman, is buying a duplex with her former wife so both can see their son daily.
The problem with “husband” and “wife” is that — in case it’s not obvious — the terms will always be gender-specific, which in addition to being very last century constrains the institution of marriage, which (and we’re not debating this) should be between two people without any regard to how they want to define their gender.
So get with the program, New York Times! If you’re really serious about changing attitudes toward gay marriage, stop using “husband” and “wife” in any context and replace these needlessly archaic and restrictive terms with either the gender-neutral “spouse” or “partner” or — if there’s any confusion at all — “relationship partner.” And yes, this goes for all couples, including the heterosexual ones! At a minimum, “longtime companion” needs to go on the garbage heap.
If we’ve learned anything in the history of our country, it’s that separate-but-equal treatment is never fair, and as much as that applies to the laws, copy-editing policies should reflect the same.
Filed under: Drivel, Gay, Language, Sickness, Stereotypes, The Gay Recluse, The Times | 4 Comments
Tags: Longtime Companion, Relationship Partner, Russell T Davies, Spouse, The New York Times, Torchwood
In which The Gay Recluse holds a contest. Sort of.
Ok, submissions from the American side of the Atlantic have been kind of weak lately, so we thought we’d treat you to a taste of the big leagues in Hot Gay Statuary. Yes, Paris, City of Light! Reader CBNY sends us the following pix and accompanying note:
Men, men everywhere, atop buildings, atop pedestals, out in the garden, inside marbled halls. Why does this mean nothing more to the French than just one more beautiful thing to look at?
That’s an interesting question, CBNY. Let’s check out a few of these shots and perhaps we’ll have a better sense of what’s going on.
Smokin’ hot dad in a Farrah wig.
CBNY: Some Neptune-ish daddy/merman with armbands (versatile, apparently) and an extremely potent jet of water gushing from his… fish. Place de la Concorde, of course.
CBNY: One of Rodin’s Three Shades taking a respite from the Met rooftop, to perch awhile in the Tuileries. Gay probably by dint of his thighs, alone.
TGR: Whoas! Smokin.
CBNY: Nothing to hide, and plenty to show off, in one of the world’s most visible, and stellar, locales.
TGR: Hot!
ZOMG. Smokin.
Seriously. Hot.
This guy is smokin hot.
CBNY: I don’t know if this centurion high atop a two-story pedestal is gay. (Aren’t most centurions?) But his sculptor clearly was.
TGR: Are you kidding? This guy is completely gay and hot smokin’ hot.
CBNY: Door handle, Palais de Tokyo.
TGR: Every door handle should be this hot and gay.
CBNY: Oh, those fey, 18th-century aristocrats. But he’s definitely been to the gym.
TGR: Hotter and gayer than 99 percent of American statues!
CBNY: is this gay? Let’s go around back.
CBNY: Yep, it is.
TGR. More like, yes he is! Smokin’ hot. Too bad some crazy like Mike Huckabee got to his package.
Hand-on-hip guy is smokin’ too! Damn, is there no end to hot gay statues in Paris?
Thanks for that exhilarating tour, CBNY! We think we can safely speak for all 350 million Americans when we say how awestruck we are by the example of Paris, but also humiliated by the relative dearth of hot gay statues stateside. But we’re confident that once word gets out, government at all levels — from rural municipalities to the U.S. fucking Congress — will take steps to rectify the situation in the near future. In the meantime, readers, please don’t hesitate to send in your examples to both inspire and instruct.
The Hot Gay Statue Contest Roundup:
- Rules and Guidelines
- Dan Savage Endorsement
- Washington Heights (New York City)
- Washington, DC
- The London Eye Clarifies an Important Issue
- Florence (Italy)
- The Park Avenue Amory (Upper East Side/NYC)
- Murray Hill (New York City)
- Madrid (Spain)
- Los Angeles
- Philadelphia
- The London Eye: “In Your Face”
- The J-Man Inspires
- George Washington
- Georgia (Republic of)
- New Orleans
- Columbus Circle (New York City)
- Two Davids (Florence)
- Franco Harris Statue (Pittsburgh)
- London Firefighters and Other Heroes
- Columbus Circle Mall (New York City)
- Miami
Filed under: Architecture, Athletes, Competitions, Gay, Government, Hot Gay Statues, The Gay Recluse | Leave a Comment
Tags: Centurions, City of Light, Door Handles, Eiffel Tower, Farrah, Gay Dads, Hot Dads, Palais de Tokyo, Paris, Place de la Concorde, Rodin, Three Shades
In which The Gay Recluse updates his informal but rather telling quantitative analysis of Modern Love, the weekly Style Section (of The Times) column in which openly gay writers almost never appear, and even less frequently describe a romantic relationship.
This week’s piece: As a Father, I Was Hardly A Perfect Fit by Tim Elhajj
Subject: A father describes buying a hat for his son mostly as an act of vengeance against his ex-wife and as a way to make up for never visiting the kid. Feelings are hurt, but of course it all ends up happily ten years later. Zzzzzz. For our more impressionistic version, written from the son’s perspective, click here.
Filed under: Straight Man on “Family”
The updated tally (or why we feel like animals in the zoo): 7 out of 183 columns by openly gay writers; 2 out of 183 on female gay relationships; 0 out of 183 on male gay relationships. In what is arguably the “gayest” section of The Times, more women have written about gay men than gay men have.
Straight Woman on Relationships iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iii (43)
Straight Woman on Family iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii i (36)
Straight Woman on “Looking for Love” iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii (35)
Straight Woman on Breaking Up iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iii (23)
Straight Man on Relationships iiiii iiiii ii (12)
Straight Man on Breakup iiiiii (6)
Straight Woman on Gay Men iiiii i (6)
Straight Man on Family iiiii ii (7)
Straight Man on “Looking for Love” iiiii ii (7)
Gay Man on Family ii (2)
Gay Woman on Relationship ii (2)
Gay Woman on Family i (1)
Gay Man on Self-Hatred i (1)
Gay Man on Prom Date i (1)
Ambiguous/Nurse on Drugs i (1)
Filed under: Conspiracy, Drivel, Gay, Sickness, Stereotypes, The Gay Recluse, The Times | 2 Comments
Tags: Daniel Jones, The New York Times, Tim Elhajj
On Gay Modern Love: My Father’s Nostalgia for the Past Blinds Him to the Reality of the Present
In which The Gay Recluse presents a gay alternative to this week’s Modern Love offering in The Times. Those looking for our quantitative analysis should click here.
I grew up without my “real” — by which I mean biological — father, who lived in New York City. One summer I made the mistake of mentioning to him over the phone that I wanted a fitted baseball hat, even though I knew he couldn’t afford it and my mother and stepfather didn’t have the money either. Plus, how was I supposed to figure out the size of my head? Fractions were scary!
He kept bugging me about it on the phone all summer — we almost never saw each other in person — until finally I gave him some number that a friend of mine told me, which was way too big. If he had ever come to visit, he would have known I didn’t look like Humpty Dumpty!
But he sent it anyway, even though apparently every store he went to was like, “why would you buy such a ginormous hat for a ten-year-old kid?” I really hated him then!
But now that I’m older and living in the city myself, I don’t really think about him anymore. I’m more ambivalent, and I consider our relationship a complete accident.
I see him once every few years and he never shuts up about that hat. Oh and whether I have a girlfriend or not.
He just assumes that I’m not gay.
Filed under: Gay, Longing, Memory, New York City, Nostalgia, The Gay Recluse, The Times | Leave a Comment
Tags: Gay Modern Love, Gay Sons, Modern Love, Oblivious Fathers, The New York Times, Tim Elhajj
On The First Time I Met Frank O’Hara and a Few Thoughts on Whether Gay Culture Is Really Dead
In which The Gay Recluse files a book report and rambles on.
Recently we finished The First Time I Met Frank O’Hara by Rick Whitaker, a collection of essays about gay writers culled from the past 150 years or so of American/English literature, ranging from titans such as Melville, Wilde and Dickinson to the more obscure Carl van Vechten and Charles Henri Ford. While there’s not much logic behind who is and isn’t included, this for us was part of the appeal; the book is more about Whitaker’s interest in these particular writers as opposed to an encyclopedic survey. We were frequently impressed by Whitaker’s ability to convey his genuine appreciation for the authors included, even when we didn’t quite share his enthusiasm about a particular subject (e.g., the last chapter devolves into a discussion on “spooky magic” and “spirit worlds”). Also moving were Whitaker’s descriptions of meeting authors who subsequently died, in some cases of AIDS. This is ultimately why we would recommend reading it to anyone: you will definitely learn a few things.
But as much as we generally enjoyed Whitaker’s discussion of the authors, we were less convinced by his overarching thesis that gay culture is dead. “During the twentieth century,” he writes, “a subculture came to life — and eventually died out — that we can think of as a gay culture. By gay culture I mean all of the ideas, traditions, gestures, art and style that sprang from the resistance of gay men and women to the oppression they felt from a society that was contemptuous, fearful, and suspicious of those people who threatened the sexual ideals and fantasies of ‘normalcy’ cherished by the mainstream.”
Essentially, Whitaker sets up an inverse correlation between political “liberation” and gay culture, with the latter basically dying out as the former takes hold in our society. And on the most superficial level, who could disagree? Obviously, while there’s still plenty of homophobia and inequality under the law, these do in fact seem to be on the ebb, at least to the extent — as Whitaker points out — that gays no longer need to write “in code” or congregate in insulated urban societies as far away from the mainstream as possible. This is a rather popular viewpoint these days in political circles, with Andrew Sullivan being the most obvious proponent, lauding the death of gay culture — mostly in the form of gay book store and bar closings — as a sign of political/social progress, i.e., “We’re free and don’t need to segregate ourselves!”
As for literature, Whitaker goes on to say, “In the most recent years, gay American writing has necessarily changed in drastic ways…many of our most widely read and admired living authors are openly gay: Michael Cunningham, Dorothy Allison, David Leavitt, Blanche McCrary Boyd, Edmund White, Felice Picano, Fenton Johnson, James McCourt, Rita Mae Brown, Allan Gurganus, Craig Lucas, Mark Matous, Sarah Schulman, Eileen Myles, Terrence McNally, May Sarton, Mark Merlis, and many others. Any ‘gay novel’ written now…is situated within the mainstream, and there is every reason to believe that given good enough marketing and enthusiastic “word of mouth,” the work will reach a portion of the mainstream book-buying audience and attract some attention from the culture at large rather than exclusively from gay men and lesbians.”
While this may be true to the extent that some gay writers have achieved some degree of success, we are less optimistic. For starters, does it seem possible that any of the writers in the above list will be discussed in fifty years in the way Melville and Henry “Hot Bear” James and even Thoreau have been (and will continue to be)? We think not, and to the contrary, would say that the literary establishment — to the extent such a thing can be said to exist — has largely ignored gay writers; we have already documented our views on this and nothing about Whitaker’s book changed our mind. The stark fact remains that no gay novelist — and one writing about gay characters — has been accorded the respect or stature in the post-war literary canon as the same handful of tedious authors who are regularly held up as the best our country has to offer. Ultimately, until the gay story — particularly in the wake of AIDS — is recognized as integral to the American story, gay culture — at least in a literary manifestation — is not nearly as dead as Whitaker likes to assert. It would be more accurate to say that it has yet to be resurrected.
Which of course is to say that gay culture is not necessarily about gay bars or bookstores or singing show tunes, another tenuous (if moving, under the circumstances) assertion Whitaker makes. “There was a time, I remember, when most of us had at least one friend who would take great delight in singing in a full voice along with the original cast soundtrack of Hello, Dolly! or The Girl Who Came To Supper. Most of those friends are gone now, at least mine are, and it’s as if they took gay culture with them when they left us.” Really? We’re not so sure about that. Rather, it seems to us that this is one aspect of gay culture that was obviously decimated in the generation described by Whitaker, but which does not preclude another — and in our view, more important, at least in terms of literature — aspect of gay culture from being recognized — and one that will never die — i.e., the need to turn away from the mainstream, and ultimately life itself. Whitaker almost seems to grasp this when he writes, “All the writers I’ve briefly discussed here have, I believe it’s fair to say, been haunted to some degree by the feeling that they were in some sense or another in exile and apart not only from the masses of people in the world but even from those to whom they were closest and most intimate.”
Obviously, being gay is not the only avenue by which one can arrive at such a state of exile, but the fact remains that it is a very good route, and will continue to be so, particularly since it offers the added benefit of bringing into relief the “unnatural” — i.e., non-reproductive — nature of romantic love, which in turn gives so many of us such an appreciation for the artificial (i.e., the theatrical and ultimately, the city itself) as well as — ultimately — a keen understanding of the futility of life. Beyond the above quote, this kind of pessimism — in the philosophic (Schopenhauer!) sense of the word — is barely touched upon by Whitaker, who instead falls back on platitudes about individuality: “The meaning of life, it seems to me, must be the result, to some extent, of each of us being an individual distinct from every other person.” Which of course — again speaking politically — is one step removed from the f-word — freedom! — and we know where that leads.
For us, by contrast, the meaning of life lies in the fact that we are all — without exception — chained to it while it lasts, and so — for those of us who care to dwell on this most unpleasant of truths — leaves us with at most a few moments of relief and beauty (and comprehension) when and where we can. This to us is the key to understanding why gay writers once ruled the literary canon, and would continue to do so but for the fact that we are living in an era marked by a virulent optimism, which when combined with the deep strains of homophobia in our society has crushed gay — by which we mean American — literature into the insipid and superficial works that have long garnered the most praise, and will continue to do so into the foreseeable future.
Filed under: Gay, Language, Literature, Pessimism, Philosophers, Search, Sickness, Stereotypes, Writers-American | 2 Comments
Tags: Book Reports, Gay Culture, Rich Whitaker
On Orchids
In which The Gay Recluse admires orchids.
Orchids have a reputation for being “difficult” plants, which is one reason we love them.
We always feel a little sad to see them on display in office buildings, knowing that as soon as the blooms begin to show a little fatigue, the entire plant will almost certainly be thrown away.
The sadness we feel is not for the orchids, however, but for ourselves.
And the certainty that our fate is pretty much the same.
Then, there are flowers of noble lineage like the orchid, so delicate and charming, at once cold and palpitating, exotic flowers exiled in the heated glass palaces of Paris, princesses of the vegetable kingdom living in solitude, having absolutely nothing in common with the street plants and other bourgeois flora.
Joris-Karl Huysman, Against the Grain
Filed under: Capitalism, Dissonance, Orchids, Pessimism, The Gay Recluse, Writers-French | 4 Comments
Tags: Huysmans, Office Buildings, Orchids
In which Dante gets tough.
Friends. Not every cat is a lolcat.
Filed under: Animals, Gay, Not Every Cat a Lolcat, Stereotypes, The Russian Blue, The Spring Garden | 1 Comment
Tags: Blurry Cell Phones, Dante, Sphinx
In which The Jane Austen Watch reports on the intersection of two centuries.
Today we heard from our newest correspondent, The Jane Austen Watch, who filed the following report:
The roses in Astoria are in bloom, and all the local inhabitants are basing the horticulture of their small front gardens on the assumption that they indeed live in 19th Century England. Therefore, they plant rosebushes, to the infinity. Yet the perfection is stifling, and respect given to youthfulness slightly aggravating.
Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of seven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as consciously right as they were invariably gentle.
–Jane Austen, Persuasion
A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but not with a few months ended Anne’s share of suffering from it. Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect.
–Jane Austen, Persuasion
Filed under: Landscape, Language, Literature, Longing, The Gay Recluse, The Jane Austen Watch, Writers-British | Leave a Comment
Tags: Astoria, Blooms, England, Jane Austen, Persuasion, Pink, Roses
In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with MHCs (“manhole covers”).
Location: Broadway and 161st, Washington Heights
This pattern would look great anywhere, but mostly in the hospitals and office buildings.
Whenever anyone asks me for something to put into a time capsule, I tell them not to bother. The manhole covers will last longer and look better than anything I could give them.
–Andy Warhol
Filed under: Capitalism, City Pattern Project, Communism, Infrastructure, New York City, The Gay Recluse, Washington Heights | Leave a Comment
Tags: Andy Warhol, Hospitals, Manhole Covers, Office Buildings, Time Capsules
In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with The George Washington Bridge.
Time and Date of Pictures: June 10, 8:30-9:30ish
Sometimes you just know it’s going to storm.
Our windows were shaking, in part because they’re shitty windows, but also because it was so windy!
We wish we could say that the water was on the lens, and that we had braved the elements.
Still, lightning! On film!
For a moment we felt omnipotent, like it was coming from our fingertips.
And then we remembered that we have this new photo-editing software we have no idea how to use.
“The George Washington Bridge over the Hudson is the most beautiful bridge in the world. Made of cables and steel beams, it gleams in the sky like a reversed arch. It is blessed. It is the only seat of grace in the disordered city. It is painted an aluminum color and, between water and sky, you see nothing but the bent cord supported by two steel towers. When your car moves up the ramp the two towers rise so high that it brings you happiness; their structure is so pure, so resolute, so regular that here, finally, steel architecture seems to laugh. The car reaches an unexpectedly wide apron; the second tower is very far away; innumerable vertical cables, gleaming against the sky, are suspended from the magisterial curve which swings down and then up. The rose-colored towers of New York appear, a vision whose harshness is mitigated by distance.”
– Le Corbusier, When the Cathedrals Were White, 1947.
Filed under: Architecture, GWB Project, Technology, The Gay Recluse, Washington Heights, Weather | Leave a Comment
Tags: Le Corbusier, Lightning, Storm Fronts, The George Washington Bridge
In which The Gay Recluse describes a trip to hell the gym.
And speaking of music, we’ve already described our general aversion to the inexplicably horrendous 1970s AOR rock our gym sometimes plays, but today marked a special occasion: yes! they played “Stairway To Heaven.” Which might not have been so bad under different circumstances; after all, Zoso was one of the first records we ever bought — on cassette, through one of those 13-tapes-for-1-cent “clearinghouse” deals that we could not resist as a thirteen-year old — in seventh grade when we started lifting weights in the basement of our old house in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. Nor do we have anything against Led Zeppelin per se: they are obviously one of the greatest eighth-grade derelict arena-rock bands of all-time, and there is a certain thrill in being acquainted with that aesthetic, even if the thrill is long past.
Yet to hear this today in the gym was made oddly — hellishly — painful by the intermittent failure of the stereo, which would cut in and out every few seconds; clearly there was a bad connection somewhere. Not that it seemed to bother any of the staff! What this did for us, however, was bring into relief the fact that we knew every single note and syllable of the song; it was like one of those horrendous rock-concert scenes where the band will stop and let the audience sing along, except in this case we were the audience and the band was Led Zeppelin — and! “Stairway to Heaven” — being played over the shitty sound system at our gym.
This led to all sorts of doubts and questions about how it happened that our brain was needlessly filled with so much rock detritus from our youth, i.e., bands that in some cases we wish we’d never heard — e.g., anything by the Doobie Brothers (sadly — preposterously — we also heard “China Grove” today) but which in all cases we never really need to hear again. Oh and because we were in the locker room of our gym, we had to also listen to guys talk about a swimsuit model “babe” (imagine the word used with not even a whiff of irony) who was gracing the cover of some men’s magazine where one of them works. Except how could we view them with disdain when one of them was singing along to “Stairway To Heaven,” just like we were (albeit in our head)?
Yes, this was hell, yet somehow we survived! Next time we might not be so lucky.
Filed under: Athletes, Bad Rock, Dissonance, Gay, Memory, The Gay Recluse | Leave a Comment
Tags: Arena Rock, Babes, Gyms, Hell, Led Zeppelin, Stairway To Heaven, Stereo, Zoso
In which The Gay Recluse relives his past as an indie rocker.
Hey everyone, Saturnine is the WMBR “Breakfast of Champions” band of the week, which means you should tune into the legendary MIT station and rock out to some classic Saturnine!
For more info: http://wmbr.org/shows/boc/BotW.php
Filed under: Good Rock, Infrastructure, Memory, The Gay Recluse | Leave a Comment
Tags: MIT, Saturnine, WMBR
In which The Gay Recluse hears a song from another life.
Yesterday we turned on the stereo in our basement.
We hadn’t played it in years. Miraculously, it worked!
The receiver and speakers are from ninth grade.
Hey computers! Sometimes bigger analog speakers still sound better!
More miraculous was that a CD was already in the system. It was Compilation by The Clean!
We stood there paralyzed for five minutes of “Point That Thing Somewhere Else.”
Our mind was blown. It was shocking to remember that music could be so good. The drums — ambivalent, without a single roll — the two guitars droning and whining and distorted (but melodic), the bass only slightly less ambivalent than the drums, playing the same thing over and over, the lyrics disposable and not even really audible: of course The Clean wouldn’t have existed without the Velvet Underground. But seriously: haven’t we all heard enough of the Velvet Underground for a lifetime?
The last time we saw Hamish he was selling paintings on West Broadway. He had the last rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan: it was like $38.34 a month.
We were working in a record store around the corner. Like all of the employees there, we paid ourselves and needless to say, we didn’t hesitate to take a few extra CDs: Compilation was one of them.
We never could have predicted that The Clean would have sent us spinning back to that mostly unhappy period.
But we’re not inclined to regret it either.
Filed under: Capitalism, Decay, Dream, Good Rock, Memory, Obsession, Photography, The Gay Recluse, Weather | Leave a Comment
Tags: Compilation, Hamish Kilgour, Rent Control, Rocks, Sky, Soho, The Clean, West Broadway
In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasing obsessed with the George Washington Bridge.
Date/Time of Photographs: June 9, 2008/7am-ish.
Notes: We’re still getting used to our new computer.
Which is why some of these pictures look a little warped.
We kind of like them like that, though.
They’re more reflective of the real world.
I, too, have an obsession with the George Washington Bridge. However, mine involves a nagging compulsion to complete a football pass from the deck of the bridge to a buddy on the ground below.
Filed under: Architecture, Dissonance, GWB Project, Health, Photography, The Gay Recluse, Washington Heights | Leave a Comment
Tags: Big Sky, Heat Waves, Morning Light, The George Washington Bridge, Warped
On the Arrival of Summer Torpor
In which The Gay Recluse languishes.
Yesterday we went for a run, even though it was 156 degrees out.
When we were young, we laughed at the heat.
Let’s just say we’re not as young as we used to be!
Today we’re not going anywhere.
Even though we’re kind of in the mood for a coffee and a donut.
But like any longing, this passes after a little while.
And instead we go to sleep.
Filed under: Animals, Dissonance, Dream, Photography, The Gay Recluse, The Russian Blue, Weather | 5 Comments
Tags: Coffee, Dante, Donuts, Heat Waves, Jogging, Running, Summer, Torpor, Zephyr
On Hot Gay Statues: Miami Nice!
In which The Gay Recluse holds a contest. Sort of.
We’ve been wondering what the story is with Miami, which is supposedly a pretty gay city but is notable lacking in the Hot Gay Statue Roundup.
But! Our fears were somewhat alleviated when Reader CBNY sent in a submission with the following note:
[These statues are in] the gardens at the villa of Vizcaya, south of Miami. Vizcaya, a Venetian-style palace with formal gardens on Biscayne Bay, was completed in 1916 by the industrialist James Deering, who filled it to the brim with art and treasures from Europe. He never married, and counted among his friends the gay society painter John Singer Sargent. Later in life he became something of a recluse, and on his death, he bequeathed much of his fortune to art institutions, and the estate itself to his nieces. A public museum today, Vizcaya is the home of the iconic, circuit White Party every November. Deering might have appreciated the irony.
Sounds enticing. Let’s take a look, shall we?
Hey, are you here for the White Party? Woahs, you’re a hot gay statue!
Obviously nothing can hide how hot and gay this guy is.
Thanks, CBNY — these are some smokin’ shots! Miami owes you a serious debt of gratitude for putting them on the map. We wonder how long other cities not presently on the list will continue to suffer the indignity. San Francisco, Boston, Chicago? Sad.
The Hot Gay Statue Contest Roundup:
- Rules and Guidelines
- Dan Savage Endorsement
- Washington Heights (New York City)
- Washington, DC
- The London Eye Clarifies an Important Issue
- Florence (Italy)
- The Park Avenue Amory (Upper East Side/NYC)
- Murray Hill (New York City)
- Madrid (Spain)
- Los Angeles
- Philadelphia
- The London Eye: “In Your Face”
- The J-Man Inspires
- George Washington
- Georgia (Republic of)
- New Orleans
- Columbus Circle (New York City)
- Two Davids (Florence)
- Franco Harris Statue (Pittsburgh)
- London Firefighters and Other Heroes
- Columbus Circle Mall (New York City)
Filed under: Architecture, Competitions, Gay, Hot Gay Statues, Photography, The Gay Recluse | 1 Comment
Tags: James Deering, John Singer Sargent, Miami, Vizcaya, White Party
In which The Gay Recluse updates his informal but rather telling quantitative analysis of Modern Love, the weekly Style Section (of The Times) column in which openly gay writers almost never appear, and even less frequently describe a romantic relationship.
This week’s piece: Let’s Not Get To Know Each Other Better by Joel Walkowski
Subject: A college student describes hookup culture as if it’s a new thing. Of course, because this is a Modern Love column, there is a sad, wistful feeling to the column as the kid looks ahead to the inevitable torpor induced by the chains of his future suburban existence. For our version, in which we made him slightly less apologetic and slightly less oblivious, click here.
Filed under: Straight Man on “Looking”
The updated tally (or why we feel like animals in the zoo): 7 out of 182 columns by openly gay writers; 2 out of 182 on female gay relationships; 0 out of 182 on male gay relationships. In what is arguably the “gayest” section of The Times, more women have written about gay men than gay men have.
Straight Woman on Relationships iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iii (43)
Straight Woman on Family iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii i (36)
Straight Woman on “Looking for Love” iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii (35)
Straight Woman on Breaking Up iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iii (23)
Straight Man on Relationships iiiii iiiii ii (12)
Straight Man on Breakup iiiiii (6)
Straight Woman on Gay Men iiiii i (6)
Straight Man on Family iiiii i(6)
Straight Man on “Looking for Love” iiiii ii (7)
Gay Man on Family ii (2)
Gay Woman on Relationship ii (2)
Gay Woman on Family i (1)
Gay Man on Self-Hatred i (1)
Gay Man on Prom Date i (1)
Ambiguous/Nurse on Drugs i (1)
Filed under: Conspiracy, Drivel, Language, Search, Sickness, Stereotypes, The Gay Recluse, The Times | Leave a Comment
Tags: Conformity, Daniel Jones, Homophobia, Modern Love
In which The Gay Recluse presents a gay alternative to this week’s Modern Love offering in The Times. Those looking for our quantitative analysis should click here.
Gay Modern Love
Let’s Not Get to Know Each Other Better, Let’s Just Fuck
By JOEL WALKOWSKI and THE GAY RECLUSE
Published: June 7, 2008
A FEW months ago I liked a guy — a fairly common occurrence. We fucked, but then — being slightly ambitious and moreover drunk — I decided to ask him out on a date.
This was a weird choice, as I’m not sure I know anyone who has ever had a real date. Most elect to hang out, hook up, or Skype long-distance relations. The idea of a date (asking in advance, spending rent money on dinner and dealing with the initial awkwardness) is far too concrete and unnecessary. As the adage goes: Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? Why pay for dinner if you can sit around watching TV? If you stay at home, you hardly even need to stand up, let alone put on a nice shirt.
Despite misgivings, this particular foray felt legitimate, a coming-of-age moment “straight” (lol) out of a John Hughes movie. I had always wanted to go on a real date: flowers, dinner and all that. I thought that maybe in doing so I would feel more like an adult and less like a dumb little boy.
So I called this guy, feeling a little sleazy as I searched for the right words: “Hey, um, this is Joel. Do you want to, like, go out? On a date?”
“O.K.,” he said uncertainly, no doubt suspicious the whole thing was a joke.
His positive response did nothing to calm my jitters. Give me a party, a front porch gathering, or a random encounter, and I’m comfortable talking to anyone. But this kind of formal planning unnerved me. Riding my bike home, I realized I didn’t even know what a real date was, beyond some vague Hollywood notion.
In my 21 years, I have had my share of trysts and one-night stands. I’ve been in love. I know it was love because I shamelessly clung to him. I have had my share of ups and downs but have no idea if I’m doing the whole love thing right or wrong. We don’t tend to define it that way.
In this age of cyberselves, with hookups just a Craigslist ad away, the game has evolved to the point of no rules. It’s not the ’50s where I can ask some lucky guy to wear my pin and take a ride in daddy’s car. This change probably benefits me in the end, as I’m sure an offer of a ride in my dad’s Sable would be swiftly rejected.
For my generation – just like Generation X twenty years ago, and probably every other generation since time began except as portrayed in the movies — friendship often morphs into a sexual encounter and then reverts to friendship the next day. And it’s easy as long as you don’t put yourself on the line or try too hard. Don’t have a prospect? Check Facebook. Afraid to call? Text.
With so many avenues for communication, one might expect an onslaught of romantic soliloquies, but that isn’t the case. Casual is sexy. Caring is creepy. Part of this, of course, is because caring is associated with the feminine, which of course – if you’re a guy – is associated with being gay. And what’s really kind of pathetic now is that the same homophobic attitude that keeps straight assholes from ever showing emotion has crept into a lot of gay circles, too, so that a lot of gay guys basically try to “out-straight” their straight counterparts, and end up acting like even bigger assholes! Which means you don’t want to show your hand, and you certainly don’t want to fall in love. At least until you do, and by then it’s too late.
Planned romance is viewed as nothing more than ambition, so it’s important that things be allowed to happen naturally. Sex is great, and so are some relationships, but not to the point that they should be actively pursued.
It’s hard to even flirt with a guy without feeling obvious and embarrassed, since the greatest displays of cheesiness come from the pursuit, making it disgusting: “Oh, you drive a Volvo? What’s that like?” Realizing I’m flirting – which again is essentially an effeminate or “gay” activity – I cringe and do my best to restrain myself. An encounter is best when unsullied by intentions, leaving lust or boredom to take over.
For those born yesterday, the typical sequence goes like this: Friends meet up at some sort of bonfire or impromptu game of night volleyball. Maybe that guy from your history class is there, and you start to talk. Neither of you has expectations. But just hanging out and swapping stories, laughing a little, creates a spark and the attraction builds, eventually leading to the big wet kiss that changes everything and nothing. You fuck in the dunes and then head back to the party and get wasted. Obviously youth has been doing this kind of thing for five thousand years, any I feel bad for anyone who hasn’t had the opportunity to try it.
This is the perfect hookup, a pressure-free surprise. With a stranger, everything is new and acceptable. His quirks are automatically endearing. This first encounter is the perfect place, but where does it lead?
In the best case, nowhere at all! The next time you see him in class, you act the same as you did before, and so does he, except for the knowledge you share that what happened last week might happen again.
If it continues, you have an understanding, physical chemistry and great conversations. You meet two or three times a week for no-strings sex and long-winded “philosophical” talks about like, the new Grand Theft Auto.
Most importantly, you aren’t lonely. Maybe deep in the recesses of your mind you think about possibly loving this person. What’s the standard response? Nothing. If he asks, “How do you feel about me?” you answer from the heart: “I see you as an unexpected treat from the heavens. I don’t know how I deserve this.” And then you both laugh at how corny this sounds, because you both understand that this is not about feelings but simply having a good time for a few seconds before you hit the books.
Your relationship is “good.” Your relationship is “strong.” But it isn’t a relationship, and that’s the key. You aren’t hoping he will become your boyfriend, and ideally he is not looking for anything more, either. Because if he is, it’s basically, “smell you later, butt-munch.”
A friend of mine, a “normal” guy who is neither especially social nor aloof, engages in hookups unabashedly — he’s just doing what he wants and doesn’t regret or overthink it. He prides himself on being a huge asshole! Except for one time when he woke up in some pathetic loser’s embrace, got out of bed and noticed his bookshelf.
I’m not sure what it was about the contents that impressed or moved him; maybe the books suggested a gentle soul. I’ve only read like one or two all the way through – LoTRings! – so I’m just speculating. All I know is what he told me: “I only felt bad after seeing his books.” The books had made him a real person, I guess, one he liked. Or pitied. Because then it was on to the next. Let’s face it: books are for chicks and gay losers.
I might not be a typical youth, and maybe my friends aren’t typical, either, but hardly anyone I know aspires to be “that guy” or “that guy,” those once-dynamic individuals who “found someone” and suddenly weren’t so cool. In short, even if I am a stereotypically masculine homophobic gay guy, I think I’m really great! On some level, we envy anyone with feelings, but we certainly don’t want to become them. Even the word “feelings” = gay = barf.
But because I’m so great — and have a pretty sweet cock that everyone wants to wrap their lips around — staying out of relationships can be just as much work as maintaining one. After hooking up with the same person several times I’m sometimes haunted by the “Relationship Status” question on Facebook, and I’ll linger over the button, wondering whether to make the leap from fun to obligation. I envision holding hands, meeting his parents and getting matching ankle tattoos. (I’m totally lying about those first two, obvs.)
Then I come to my senses – do I want to be a loser? – and close the window.
Sometimes, though, it’s not up to me. I work at one of the campus libraries, and for some obscure reason my bosses, who because this an underpaid service industry are mostly middle-aged and female, decided to hold a Library Prom. How gay, right? But I had to take someone, so I asked a guy I genuinely kind of liked, one of the truly rare fish worth catching (or being caught by).
That didn’t stop me from introducing him as “my friend.”
Which didn’t stop one of my bosses from asking, “Are you two dating?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Um, we are?”
“Well, this is a date, isn’t it?”
He had me trapped. I nodded blankly. With one word, he had changed everything. Now I’m asked about him at work, even though he is currently hooking up with a friend of mine.
I wish I could explain this to the librarians, who are nice but are a bunch of downtrodden, undersexed cat ladies who had the misfortune of being born straight. They’re sympathetic to my other complaints: about studying, about having my license suspended, about taking care of my pet chicken, and so on. “I was there once,” they tell me. “You’ll be fine.”
But when it comes to love, all they can say is, “How’s that boyfriend of yours?” Sadly, they’re still enslaved by their suburban, bourgeois notions of what’s “right” and “wrong” in love, which is why most of them are doomed.
Maybe this disconnect has always existed. As one of my classmates, a genteel (I don’t even know that means, btw) 60-year-old, said to me, “Every generation thinks they discovered sex.” Which might be true, but I’m not sure any previous generation has our plethora of options and utter lack of protocol. This may reflect how our media obsession has desensitized and hypersexualized us. (Or at least that’s what I read in The Times once.)
But I think it goes beyond that. Our short attention spans tend to be measured in nanoseconds. Like the ancient Greeks, we float from room to room watching TV, surfing the Internet, playing Frisbee and finding satisfaction around every corner, if only for a moment; well, except for the watching TV and surfing the Internet part, but you get the idea.
There’s one big difference that has arisen as a result of living in these new dark ages. Out of a fear of seeming gay, we shrink ourselves. There have been many times I should have cried but stifled the tears. Instances where I should have said, “I love you” but made a joke instead. Once, a guy dumped me and it nearly ruined me. How bad was it? I ate nothing but Wendy’s for an entire week. You see, even here I can’t discuss it with anything even approaching honesty, because I don’t want to seem “gay” even though I’m a cocksucker, if that makes sense.
I’m fairly certain I could have saved the entire endeavor with a soul-baring soliloquy of what was true and what mattered to me, but I couldn’t muster the courage. I don’t know many who can. Plus I already had my eye on this other guy, who was h-o-t.
We’ve grown up in an age of rampant divorce and the accompanying tumult. The idea that two people can be happy together, maturing alongside each other, seems as false as saying that Hillary and Barack are good friends now. So when a relationship ends, it isn’t seen as bad. It’s held as evidence that the relationship was never any good to begin with.
MAYBE it’s just that we have learned nothing can compare to the perfect moment of the unexpected hookup — young teenage cocks, hard and glistening on the beach, lying in the sand — and so we aim to accumulate as many as possible. Or maybe we’re simply too immature to commit. That has been the rap against guys forever, but – from what I’ve heard – now women think the same way. With the world (and the world of sex) at our fingertips, it’s difficult to choose, to settle, to compromise.
But I do occasionally wonder: If we can’t get past ourselves and learn to sacrifice to be with another, then what is in store? A generation of selfish go-getters fueled by nothing more than our own egos, forever seeking that rare dose of self-esteem? An era of loneliness filled with commercial wants and mate selection based on the shallowest of criteria? So many hot guys, so little time.
As a mindlessly staunch proponent of my generation, I believe that, despite what it may seem, we appreciate the ways of love and affection but are simply waiting for them to take over. We too crave the suburban bourgeois dream that – for those actually enduring it – is the greatest nightmare of all. We might dally in the land of easy sex and stilted text-message flirtation, but deep down we crave the warm embrace of all-consuming love.
I do, anyway. What else could have been behind my crazy idea to ask a guy out on a date? Alas, we ended up going to Chili’s – see how classy I am? – and never went out again. But at least we fucked in the men’s room, which was hot. Welcome to adulthood.
Joel Walkowski, a runner-up in the Modern Love College Essay Contest, is a senior at the University of Southern California.
Filed under: Conspiracy, Dissonance, Drivel, Gay, Search, Sickness, Stereotypes, Technology, The Gay Recluse, The Times | 8 Comments
Tags: Assholes, Butt Munches, Feelings, Feminine, Gay Modern Love, Homophobia, Joel Walkowski, Losers, Masculine, Modern Love, Straights
In which The Gay Recluse becomes increasingly obsessed with The George Washington Bridge.
Time and date of photographs: June 6, 2008, sunset.
Supposedly tomorrow’s going to be a thousand degrees.
But the bridge doesn’t care: It looks great in any weather!
Even though it hasn’t even arrived, we’re kind of dreading summer.
We say that about every season.
“I, too am obsessed with the George Washington Bridge, and have been ever since as stoned youths me and my friends cavorted in the park on the New Jersey side that is directly below the place where the roadway meets the land. We were convinced that the Bridge is the largest thing in the world. For a true enthusiast such as yourself, I strongly recommend a stroll across the span, and then a picnic lunch along the walking paths underneath. Disclaimer: individual results may vary; inebriants are recommended to enhance the forcefulness of the desired optical effects.”
– The Blind Architect, 2008.
Filed under: Architecture, GWB Project, Resignation, The Gay Recluse, Washington Heights, Weather | 1 Comment
Tags: Dread, Heat, June, Spring, Summer, Sunsets, The George Washington Bridge
The Gay Recluse 