In which The Gay Recluse leaves New York.
Last month we went to Pittsburgh for a few days.
Even though we “grew up” there, it was almost like visiting a new (as in unfamiliar) city.
We always lived in the suburbs, and almost never went into the city except to see the Penguins!
This time though, we stayed downtown at a former railway station called The Pennsylvanian.
During the dark ages, they were going to tear it down.
Thankfully they turned it into condominiums!
It’s the most beautiful building in the world.
And as far as we’re concerned, the real reason Pittsburgh is known as “The City of Champions.”
This is the top of the dome when viewed from the inside.
We were reminded of the great cathedrals of Europe.
And how like so many of the great cathedrals, there is something sepulchral about The Pennsylvanian; its grand spaces are now almost always empty.
We went to the Strip District, which is only a few blocks away.
On the way we admired old signs for dead companies.
In person, you can see the ketchup pouring out of the bottle, which makes this the Times Square of Pittsburgh!
Heinz doesn’t make anything in Pittsburgh anymore, but its corporate headquarters are still here, in the Death Star U.S. Steel Building, which hovers malevolently over everything downtown.
Growing up, we always liked to tell people that this was the tallest building between Chicago and New York!
These companies don’t seem to have prospered the way Heinz has.
We passed an old church that has apparently been “rezoned” into a gay dance club.
We had our doubts, but the front door of “Altar” seemed to prove it! It made us remember how we watched every episode of the worst series in the history of television Queer as Folk, which hilariously was set in Pittsburgh.
Finally we arrived at the Strip, which was filled with Hillary Clinton supporters people!
The Strip is like “the Queens” of Pittsburgh, but all in a few blocks.
Here’s one of two Italian places owned by the Sunseris. When we were growing up, the Sunseris (or at least some of them) lived in our town and we thought they were the richest people on earth because they had a pool in their backyard and columns in front of their house. They have great Italian food though, so they deserve to be rich!
Chipped ham is something everyone in Pittsburgh remembers. Sometimes we meet people from Pittsburgh in other places around the world and they go on and on about how they miss the chipped ham, which is fun for about a second and then gets annoying.
“Wholey’s” is a combination fresh-fish market and Zabar’s mixed into one well-oiled operation. It pretty much has always ruled the Strip and we can see why.
This is a billboard they have on the side of their building: “Vote for Hillary Clinton or I’ll smash you over the head with this pot!”
We ate lunch at Primanti’s, which is where they serve the fries and slaw right on the sandwich! We thought it was pretty awesome, but our nephew was like: “Yeah, except now they have one in every mall in Pittsburgh.”
We had dessert here, which was fucking great. We would pretty much give anything to have one of these within walking distance of us in Washington Heights. (Even if it does make us evil gentrifiers!)
On the way back to the Pennsylvanian we passed the 16th Street Bridge, only one of hundreds in the area, almost all of which are achingly dignified and beautiful.
Here’s another shot, somewhat marred by the obnoxious Tequila sign.
And another.
And then we saw this: ha!
And the best sign ever for a dentist.
Back at the Pennsylvanian, we spotted this “DONT WALK” sign: we’ve met a lot of people in New York who are nostalgic for these more acerbic signals. Guess what? In Pittsburgh they still have them! (Also note the “Purple Belt” sign, which is part of a hidden code to navigate the city that nobody understands, but has existed for centuries!)
We took a picture of the Civic Arena, which is where the Penguins play. (Nobody in Pittsburgh calls it the “Igloo.”) They’re going to tear it town to put up something with luxury suites. Which makes us a little melancholy when we remember all the games we saw there.
But we suppose we’ll be able to relive all those great memories of the Penguins here, once the Sports Museum is finished.
People sometimes ask us why we don’t watch sports anymore.
Part of it for us was growing up in Pittsburgh during the 1970s. For us, nothing will ever surpass the Chuck Knoll era Steelers, or — because we lived and breathed hockey for so many years — the Mario Lemieux Penguins in the early 1990s.
We see all the rabid sports fans now and we can relate: how desperately we wanted the Penguins to win — we literally prayed to god for them to win — and they did! Twice!
But that obsession has given way to new ones, and we don’t need to relive the desperation of those years.
When these days, we are happiest finding bridges to the landscape of our forgotten past.
Filed under: Architecture, Capitalism, Communism, Decay, Dissonance, Gay, Gentrification, Infrastructure, Landscape, Language, Memory, Nostalgia, Television, The Gay Recluse, Travel | 7 Comments
Tags: Altar, Bridges, Chuck Noll, City of Champions, Discos, Gay Clubs, Mario Lemieux, Pittsburgh, Primanti's, Queer As Folk, The Penguins, The Pennsylvanian, The Steelers, The Strip, Wholey's
In which The Gay Recluse holds a contest. Sort of.
Today we received two unofficial entries for the contest, “unofficial” because 1) the first statue is in Europe and we are primarily interested in locating the hottest gay statues in the U.S., and 2) the second statue doesn’t exist except in someone’s photoshopallucination! Yet we still wanted to present both submissions to readers because we think the contrast reveals some interesting and fundamental points about statuary hotness.
Reader Mike writes about Statue 1:
I think it goes without saying that David sets the standard for the hottest gay statue ever, so I’m sending along a fabulous photo document for your enjoyment!
As for Statue 2, Reader Jeff writes:
I’m not sure this qualifies as smokin’ hot, but here’s my “chaser” entry.
Needless to say, we were intrigued! Let’s take a look, shall we?
This is statue one, a copy of David in the original location in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, in Florence.
Hello! Yeah, this guy’s obviously gay and quite smokin’, but he’s such a big star, we’re not sure he would give us the time of day. Do we sense a little backlash here? OMG have we been “Davided” to death?
Let’s check out the second David:
The “chaser” entry! Seriously, we’ve always liked our men with a few extra pounds, so let’s make it official: the big guy is also smokin’. (Oh, and it kind of looks like these two would make a good couple!)
Thanks for your submissions, Mike and Jeff! (And we apologize if readers have seen Jeff’s entry already, but it was new to us!) It’s always good to be reminded that smokin’ hotness is clearly in the eye of the beholder. Which is why we’re expecting a lot more statues to come in from around the country! Chicago? San Francisco? Boston? There’s still plenty of time and we would hate to see you shut out of such an important indicator of community spirit! Obviously, hot gay statuary comes in many shapes and sizes. (Woof.)
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)
Filed under: Architecture, Dissonance, Gay, Hot Gay Statues, Photography, Stereotypes, Technology, The Gay Recluse | 1 Comment
Tags: Bears, Chubby Chasers, Competitions, David, Florence, Gay, Hot Gay Statues, Woof
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: Was I on a Date or Baby-Sitting?
Subject: For some reason a “Scary Sadshaw” is surprised when — OMG! — an indie-rocker she’s lusting after fucks and runs (For our enhanced version of this pathetic story, click here.)
Filed under: Straight Woman on “Looking”
The updated tally (or why we feel like animals in the zoo): 7 out of 176 columns by openly gay writers; 2 out of 176 on female gay relationships; 0 out of 176 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 ii (42)
Straight Woman on Family iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii (35)
Straight Woman on “Looking for Love” iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iiii (34)
Straight Woman on Breaking Up iiiii iiiii iiiii iiiii iii (23)
Straight Man on Relationships iiiii iiiii i (11)
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 (5)
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: Disease, Language, Pessimism, Search, Sickness, Stereotypes, The Gay Recluse, The Times | Leave a Comment
Tags: Bad Prose, Daniel Jones, Gay Modern Love, Homophobia, Modern Love, The New York Times
In which The Gay Recluse makes fun of the sad straights who appear in this week’s Modern Love offering in The Times. Those looking for our quantitative analysis should click here.
Was I on a Date or Baby-Sitting? OMG! What an Asshole!
By JULIE KLAUSNER and THE GAY RECLUSE
Published: April 27, 2008
So this asshole in a rock band sent me an e-mail message. We had a friend in common, and he saw me sing “Christmas Wrapping” by the Waitresses one night in Brooklyn, at karaoke. (Yes, I’m kind of an asshole, too!) He wanted to say hi, he wrote, but was unshaven at the time and didn’t want to make a bad impression. OMG! What an asshole!
But even though he was an asshole, he was hot! Which I discovered thanks to Google: lanky, thin, straw-colored hair, cheekbones so sharp they could…shave slices like Post-it notes off a block of Jarlsberg? (Remember: I’m kind of an asshole, too!)
He continued, in all lowercase, to introduce himself. I scrolled over his rambling exposition, waiting for the payoff. Was he going to ask me out? He didn’t. “i’m at home absolutely spazzing out because we’re leaving in a few days to make a record and i have to/really should finish a long list of songs. so, waving hello and/or re-hello! all the bestest.” OMG! What a major asshole!
My enthusiasm waned. A hot guy in an indie band waved me hello and/or re-hello mid-spazz-out? And he’s leaving in a few days to make a rock album? How old is he: 40 going on 19? OMG! What a fucking asshole! I rolled my eyes, but they only landed on those cheekbones on my computer screen.
I wrote back and made it easy for him. I even used all lowercase, mirroring his asshole casualness. “hi. let me know if you ever wanna get a drink sometime. it would be fun to meet up.”
A relationship book I once read told women to use the word “fun” whenever possible. The author claimed it had a subliminal aphrodisiac effect on asshole men, who want a relaxed girl attached only to good times — the human equivalent of Diet Coke. This is obviously not me: I’m an asshole, not fun!
Over the next month, I got a few texts from him reporting on his band’s stay in the Northwest: updates on their shitty album, the stupid weather. His texts were postcards; he was broadcasting, not communicating. OMG! What an asshole! But desperate as I was, I liked hearing from him and pathetically wondered if he would meet up with me in New York, or if he would flake out. Despite my skepticism, I still wanted to go on a date with a good-looking guy who went through the trouble of getting in touch with me after seeing me sing in a bar.
While he was away, I asked my loser musician friends what they knew about him. Joanna, a singer, summed him up: “Well, yeah…he’s a huge asshole.”
I was not that surprised to hear he was already a father. I was 28 then and had never dated a guy with a child. Also, like many assholes, he seemed like sort of a kid himself.
I have never been one for musicians. They’re such assholes! I know girls are supposed to go crazy for asshole frontmen who close their eyes when they sing and nod their heads when the drums kick in, but I’m like Shania Twain with that stuff: Assholes don’t impress me much. Even though they kind of do, as this story proves. I like to pretend I’ll take wit and brains over the ability to carry a tune any day, but really I want an asshole! You can teach a monkey to play the guitar, you know. (Remember: I’m an asshole, too!)
Still, any asshole who can make a living doing something creative is impressive. And he did have a nice face! I would have to take Joanna’s word for it about his lyrics, though, because I tried to listen to a couple of his songs online and was too bored by the melodies to pay attention to the words. (Remember: I’m an asshole, too!) It was typical emo stuff: every second was droney, thick, exhausting, tedious, disposable, putrid, nauseating bullshit, but I guess if I had a gun to my head I might call it “heartfelt.” Yuck.
He sent a text message when he was back in town and asked me out for Monday. I said yes, and he wrote, “actually, are you around tonight?” OMG! What an asshole!
“No,” I wrote. I felt like an asshole establishing boundaries. I heard back an hour later: “monday it is!”
The asshole already annoyed me, and we hadn’t even met! I would soon learn a lesson men have known for years: that it’s possible to be attracted to assholes, especially if you’re an asshole, too!
Maybe “like” is the wrong word. There was something clumsily endearing about him, or maybe it was just his looks. News flash for those who missed the last ten thousand years of civilization! Even cynical women can be reduced to “buttery puddles” by an asshole with a pretty face.
He told me to meet him at his subway stop in Brooklyn. OMG! What an asshole! Of course he was pint-sized with a huge Napolean complex but otherwise very cute. I wore heels and a dress, like an “adult” on a date. He wore corduroys and slip-on Vans sneakers. OMG! What an asshole! I hovered over his shaggy blond head, wishing I could smash it like a coconut!
He took me for a walk around his neighborhood. OMG! What an asshole! I’m always suspicious when a guy takes his date on a walk, because it reeks of poverty and an inability to plan. And in this case OMG I was right! It seemed as if he was taking me on a stroll of his estate, and from the way people on the street greeted him with questions about his tour and album, it was as if he was the king of his neighborhood. Seriously, what a fucking asshole.
We wound up in a bar, where we sat next to each other on stools. Once I got my beer, he put his knee between my legs, I put my hand between his and OMFG I remembered why I agreed to go out with him: he had an A+ package! I felt my contempt for his Peter Pan posturing slip away as hormones seized my body. All I could think about was how “the corduroy” felt between my bare thighs.
He told me he bought a DVD of “The Electric Company” to show episodes to his son. I had told him that I was a fan of 1970s children’s television. “Do you want to come over and watch ‘The Electric Company’?” he asked. OMG. Creepy.
I squeezed his “knee” with my legs. “Sure.”
He lived in a one-bedroom apartment and had converted the bedroom into a playroom for his little boy. It was cluttered with wooden toys, and everything was at shin level. He kept this room for whenever his child came to visit him, which apparently was not very often. Which I could understand, because it was so creepy.
We retired to the living room, where dresser drawers hid a Murphy bed. His mattress lowered like a drawbridge, and we fooled around on it for a few hours. And even though he was a creepy, self-centered asshole, it was fun.
Three days later, I got a text message from him: “hope you got home okay last night!” OMG. Then, right afterward, “oops sorry julie. i thought i sent that text tuesday.” As if. What an asshole.
Thanks to technology, there are so many more ways to fail. OMG! What an asshole!
After the fail text, I heard nothing. I feel dumb admitting it, but part of me believed that making out with “moi” would launch the asshole into action mode, almost as if our respective asshole natures would cancel each other out, so we could relate to each other like sane people.
And even though I knew I should have written him off, I was being such an asshole! I craved him! A few weeks later, on a flight from Chicago back to New York, I couldn’t sleep: I had cast myself as the lead in the pornography looping in my head. Just like Splenda can make you hungry for more sweets, even a – and here’s another news flash for those who missed the last ten thousand years of civilization! — casual sexual encounter can breed a craving for what can’t be sated by a night of fumbling on a Murphy bed. Dumb pathetic asshole that I was, I sent a text message from the baggage claim area at Kennedy Airport.
He said he was “cleaning.” I offered to come over with my DVD of “Free to Be … You & Me” on the chance he was up for some ’70s children’s TV, which by now I assumed was a euphemism for “OMG will you please fuck me!”
I took a cab over to his place, where we hung out in his kitchen listening to music and eating ravioli while he told me about his son.
The custody proceedings in the last week had turned ugly. The child’s mother didn’t want him to have any visitation rights, and even though he was a huge asshole, he was heartbroken. Or at least pretending to be.
He quickly unleashed a torrent of lies: he told me they had gone out for three months but he had never called her his girlfriend; that when he broke up with “the dumb bitch,” she announced she was pregnant; that he thought she was on the pill and figured she had gotten pregnant so he wouldn’t leave; that he did anyway, after which she had the baby and moved overseas.
I felt bad for the woman if she thought a baby could act as “maturity Miracle-Gro” on such an asshole, given that he had dated her for months but still kept it casual. But because I too was an asshole — although of a more passively pathetic kind — I felt bad for him, sideswiped by this unfortunate side effect of a life lived dreamily. I remember Joanna telling me how many of his songs were about longing and loss: I thought about the love of his life, this little boy with yellow hair, living a world away. Still, he was a huge asshole: you couldn’t take that away from him!
One thing in his favor: He made sure to use a condom with me that night, on his son’s bed. (Creepy.)
Afterward, I didn’t hear from him. Asshole! I didn’t want to call, but I realized I had left my earrings and DVD at his apartment. I needed to get my things and move on, but I knew it was up to me. He wasn’t going to get in touch with me: I was waiting for the Great Pumpkin to give me back my earrings. Such an asshole.
Back in “p.a.” (passive aggressive) asshole mode myself, I sent him a curt text on my way to the subway telling him that I wanted my stuff back and that I would be in his neighborhood later. In the meantime, I went to meet a friend for drinks at a bar not far from his apartment.
Hours after I had sent the text message, I heard back from the asshole: “hi julie. so sorry i’ve been out of touch. things have been crazy. the other thing is that i’ve started seeing somebody else and wanna see where it’s going. anyway, i have your stuff, just let me know where i can drop it off, xo” O.M.G.
I felt my cheeks get hot. How did this happen? Even though I had seen right through this clown, I still managed to get hurt. I did like the asshole, despite everything! It wasn’t fair. Why was I such a pathetic asshole?
Soon he entered the bar with a shopping bag and slid into the booth between my friend and me. The awkwardness was palpable, sultry, like…fondue?
“Hi,” he said, handing me the bag. OMG. What an asshole.
“Thank you,” I replied, passively staring at my drink like an asshole.
There was a long pause. We were both being such assholes!
“So,” he said. “What are you doing?” OMG. What a stupid asshole!
I took in a sharp breath and finally looked him in the eye. “Having a drink,” I said passive aggressively, answering the world’s stupidest question like the world’s biggest asshole.
He took a moment to assess, then rose silently from the booth and slipped into the night. I took out my DVD, put my earrings on, crumpled up the shopping bag and finished my Diet Coke. OMG. What an asshole.
Julie Klausner is a writer and performer who lives in New York City.
Filed under: Drivel, Gay, The Gay Recluse, The Times | Leave a Comment
Tags: Daniel Jones, Gay Modern Love, Jule Klausner, Modern Love
In which The Gay Recluse contemplates an uncommissioned masterpiece from the walls of an uptown subway station.
Consider the old panels on the subway platform wall, and observe the finely wrought precision with which each strip of peeling paint has by the hands of time been distressed in the subtlest shades of gold and silver, all displayed in a collage with the glue and paper of generations long deceased. We know there will be many who fail to see the beauty of these forgotten panels, and will respond to our assessment with scorn and disbelief. Yet before you judge, we again invite to you to behold the works in person. Here you have the abstract expression of the city itself, resplendent in decay and neglect, and to observe it for even these few seconds fills us with the transcendent bliss of true insignificance.
– The Gay Recluse, September 2007
Filed under: Graffiti, Search, Subway, The Gay Recluse, Washington Heights | Leave a Comment
Tags: 163rd Street, Abstract Expressionism, Art, C-train, Subway
In which The Gay Recluse contemplates an old friend.
Date of Picture: April 24, 2008
Location: Our garden in Washington Heights.
Even as a child in Pittsburgh, we loved this table.
All winter it would sit out on the porch as we stared longingly at it.
Every May, when it was finally warm enough (this obviously before global warming), our mother made the decree: the porch could be opened for business!
Of course we had to clean everything first: the cement floors, the screens, the table and chairs, the awnings. The indoor/outdoor rug was the worst: it smelled like a wet dog.
Our older brother was luckier than us: he got to spray-paint the table.
But then it was done and we could all go out on the porch. (There was even a television!)
As long as it was warm enough, we ate dinner here every night. Our mother cooked and passed everything through a window from the kitchen. (It was our job as the youngest to set the table.)
This was life in the suburbs. It was the 1970s.
Sometimes we look back and ask: exactly what made us so desperate to escape?
Filed under: City Pattern Project, Dissonance, Landscape, Longing, Memory, Ruins, The Gay Recluse, Washington Heights, Weather | Leave a Comment
Tags: 1970s, Chores, Porch Furniture, Porches, Spring Cleaning, Suburbs, Tables, Wrought Iron
In which Dante and Zephyr take over The Gay Recluse.
Friends! Laugh all you want, but the truth remains: Not every cat is a lolcat!
Filed under: Animals, Gay, Not Every Cat a Lolcat, Photography, The Gay Recluse, The Russian Blue | Leave a Comment
Tags: Dante, Friends, Lolcats, Slice Chair, Zepher
In which The Gay Recluse scores selected opinion pieces in The Times.
Gail Collins/Hillary’s Smackdown
The Short Version: Don’t panic, it’ll be ok.
In her words: “If you want to worry about something, worry about the way both of them have been pandering themselves over the edge.”
Score: B (Benign)
Although we don’t want to be reading about Obama and Clinton at all these days — wake us up when it’s over! Zzzzzz — Collins brings some needed perspective to the table.
Nicholas Kristof/Better Roses Than Cocaine
The Short Version: Oh, and have I mentioned that I’m friends with the president of Columbia oops (see comments)! Colombia?
In his words: “I asked President Uribe on Monday if there was concern among Latin leaders that Democrats in Congress are tugging the U.S. away from its historic commitment to free trade.”
The Score: F (Failure)
This column is a standard “Mad-Lib” for free trade that appears every week or so in The Times. (Roger Cohen likes this one, too!) Except they’re not funny because you basically fill in a country (Columbia Colombia), an industry (flowers) and a worker making 10 cents an hour (Norma). Zzzzz. But at least Norma’s not starving to death or being gunned down by drug lords! Go free trade!
Roger Cohen/Bring on the Right Biofuels
The Short Version: Biofuel is not the problem but American tariffs that prevent Brazilian biofuels from entering the U.S. market.
In his words: “What sense does it make to have a surplus of environmentally friendly Brazilian sugar-based ethanol with a yield eight times higher than U.S. corn ethanol and zero impact on food prices being kept from an American market by a tariff of 54 cents on a gallon while Iowan corn ethanol gets a subsidy?”
The Score: D (Distraction)
We actually agree with Cohen that American farm subsidies for ethanol are a complete sham, but we would still make biofuel a low priority when it comes to “environmentally friendly” policy of any kind. On the fuel front alone, increased MPG, no new highways (and hello! better public transportation) should go at the top of the list, and as we all know, that’s been a big priority the last twenty years. And — here’s a good idea — what about congestion pricing in NYC?
Filed under: Capitalism, Drivel, Government, Infrastructure, Politicians, The Gay Recluse, The Times | 4 Comments
Tags: Biofuels, Columbia, Congestion Pricing, Flowers, Gail Collins, MPG, Nicholas Kristof, Primaries, Roger Cohen
In which The Gay Recluse becomes a flaneur.
Date of pictures: April 23, 2008
Location: 35th Street between 5th Avenue and Madison.
We often think about the city streets as we would the surface of a lake.
We imagine worlds beneath us we cannot ever see.
The windows down are beautiful, however.
Looking through them, we forget how much we long to be somewhere else.
Filed under: Architecture, Capitalism, City Pattern Project, Longing, New York City, Pessimism, Photography | Leave a Comment
Tags: Grates, Lakes, Metal, Patterns, Sidewalk
In which The Gay Recluse watches plants.
With a nasty apartment building looming over our garden, we felt we had no choice but to plant bamboo, and not the clumping variety either, but the running kind you read about taking over the earth. We rented a truck last summer and drove to a small town in New Jersey where we bought a special cold-hardy variety with yellow culms (that’s the technical word for “stalks”) and bright green leaves. We planted it in an elevated trough bounded on all sides by at least 8 inches of concrete block. It looked great!
Now it’s spring and we’re waiting for the new growth. Supposedly the new culms will grow to full height — which for our variety is like 800 feet tall — in just sixty days. Whatever happens, it’s going to fun to watch. Will we regret buying the running bamboo? Let’s hope not.
Hello, baby shoots! We’re very happy to see you!
According to our research, those 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 the scene in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon? That’s going to be our backyard in a few months! (Location scouts, are you li$tening?) We can hardly wait.
Filed under: Architecture, Conspiracy, The Gay Recluse, The Spring Garden, Washington Heights | Leave a Comment
Tags: Bamboo, Cement Planters, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, Elevated Troughs, Screening Trees
In which The Gay Recluse scores selected opinion pieces in The Times.
Bob Herbert/Clueless in America
The Short Version: Kids are stupid.
In his words: “While we’re effectively standing in place, other nations are catching up and passing us when it comes to educational achievement.”
Score: F (Forgettable)
If you’re in the mood to be scolded on account of how shitty the public-school system is in the United States, this column is for you!
David Brooks/The Great Escape
The Short Version: The world is not a machine!
In his words: “There’s something about obsessing about a campaign — or probably a legal case or a business deal — that doesn’t exactly arouse the imaginative faculties.”
The Score: A- (Almost)
We like this column, because Brooks at least recognizes that the mania surrounding the campaign is a distraction — like so much of life — from issues of “true” importance, which in the case of Middle Ages meant finding the hand of god in the sky and stones and other cool stuff, instead of viewing the world as a cold, soulless machine. Where we diverge from Brooks is in the implication that “faith” — at least in the right-wing sense of the word in which it has to be understood coming from him — is the modern salve to this mania; we by contrast think the answer lies in the (reclusive and inevitably lonely) psychology/philosophy of introspection, not chee$y (and often dangerous) religions that emphasize herd-mentality and conformity to an imaginary norm.
Filed under: Capitalism, Drivel, Government, Politicians, The Gay Recluse, The Times | 2 Comments
Tags: Bob Herbert, David Brooks, Education, Faith, Middle Ages, Religion, The New York Times
On the Dawn Redwood
In which The Gay Recluse works in the garden.
Of all the trees that populate our dreams and fantasies, the dawn redwood — a deciduous conifer — must go at the top of the list. Long thought to be extinct, it was discovered in the 1940s in a secret canyon in China. (And not just on Wikipedia!) These days it comes in many different shades of green and yellow, all of which have the same feathery, prehistoric needles that remind us what forests must have looked like when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Although our longstanding dream is to have enough money to plant an entire forest of dawn redwoods on an estate filled with architectural ruins, we have made do with planting a single dawn redwood in our Washington Heights garden.
Here are some pix:
Ours is a Metasequoia glyptostroboides ‘Sheridan Spire’, a relatively compact and columnar form of the species. (But which can nevertheless be counted on to block out the neighbors!)
These needles will turn yellow and fall off in October, which we hope will be a long time from now. Of all the conifers, the allure of the dawn redwood is perhaps the most ephemeral. Nothing so fragile and beautiful, it seems, could make it through the winter! (Which makes it all the more shocking to learn how old the species is!)
Filed under: Landscape, Photography, The Gay Recluse, The Spring Garden, Washington Heights | Leave a Comment
Tags: China, Dawn Redwood, Dinosaurs, Metasequoia glyptostroboides 'Sheridan Spire'
In which The Gay Recluse scores selected opinion pieces in The Times.
Paul Krugman/Running Out of Planet To Exploit
The Short Version: Let’s face it. We’re probably running out of oil.
In his words: “But this time may be different: concerns about what happens when an ever-growing world economy pushes up against the limits of a finite planet ring truer now than they did in the 1970s.”
Score: D (Deadly)
Like Krugman, we believe that oil is a finite resource and that inevitably higher prices are going to impact economies everywhere in different ways. Hey! We just explained this in twenty words, while Krugman doesn’t add much with an entire column at his disposal. We also didn’t enjoy the tone of his doomsday finale — “Don’t look now, but the good times may have just stopped rolling” — which struck us as smug, fatigued, artless and bitter.
William Kristol/Exodus Exegesis
The Short Version: Thank god for John McCain, who will surely bomb the shit out of all our our problems!
In his words: “Sacrifices for the sake of freedom, the triumph of good over evil — if John McCain was at a Seder this past weekend, he surely would have liked this passage: “In all ages they rise up against us to destroy us; and the Holy One, blessed be He, rescues us from their hands.”
The Score: F (Funny)
This column hilariously dissects the respective candidates’ Passover press releases to reinforce Kristol’s love of McCain (and the usual negative stereotypes of Clinton-the-stiff and Obama-the-ivory-tower-elitist). But still, our favorite part is at the end, when he mentions the candidates’ negligence in not mentioning the 233rd anniversary of the Battle of Lexington and Concord, so they could have identified with “political liberation, religious freedom and — yes! — the right to bear arms.” More guns — yes! — will save the world!
Roger Cohen/Of Wine, Haste and Religion
The Short Version: OMG! The waiters at a fancy Manhattan restaurant were pouring wine into my glass every time I turned by back. LOL!
In his words: “The uncharitable view would be that, guided by an acute understanding of the nature of commerce, servers are told by restaurant managers to hustle clients through a meal and as many bottles of wine as possible.”
The Score: D- (Deadly)
Cohen goes for laughs in this seriously unfunny rumination on Manhattan restaurant etiquette. Also! Is it just us, or did anyone else note his use of “unctuous” in the following: “Just as you prepare to dab bread into the unctuous leftover sauce from those slide-from-the-bone short ribs, the plate vanishes.” Oddly, we find it to be the perfect word to describe Cohen’s prose, but less than ideal for leftover sauce into which we might like to dip our bread.
Filed under: Drivel, Government, Politicians, The Gay Recluse, The Times | Leave a Comment
Tags: Guns, Oil Shortage, Passover, Paul Krugman, Roger Cohen, Unctuous, William Kristol, Wine
On Miranda
In which The Gay Recluse appreciates Miranda.
Many years ago we had a friend named Miranda. She was the coolest! She wore the smallest backpack ever! It was gold and she used it to carry her cigarettes in it and nothing else, and even that was a tight fit. She was a photographer and a filmmaker and we always loved seeing her at art openings — and she seemed to be at every single one — because she was very enthusiastic about everything we did! Some of our other enemies friends hated her, which we never understood. “She just wants to be famous!” they said. “That’s what’s so great about her!” we always insisted.
We have no idea where Miranda is now. Maybe she went back to her notoriously dysfunctional family in Connecticut. Or maybe she’s a huge filmmaker in Hollywood! But we think of her often because of a vine we bought last year, which for some reason is also called Miranda. It’s a variegated form of the climbing hydrangea. (Coincidentally, we bought it at a nursery in Connecticut.)
Here’s a picture of Miranda in our garden:
Hello, climbing hydrangea ‘Miranda’: You are indeed a beautiful plant whose variegated splendor does much to improve our garden! We always wonder exactly who you are named after. Could it be our East Village friend Miranda, who we haven’t seen in so many years?
Filed under: Dissonance, Memory, Nostalgia, Photography, Science, Search, The Gay Recluse, The Spring Garden | Leave a Comment
Tags: BackPack, Cigarettes, Climbing Hydrangea 'Miranda', East Village, Enemies, Fame, Friends
In which The Gay Recluse works in the garden.
Time of Photographs: April 20, 2008, afternoon (ish)
Today, a first in the garden! We heard an opera singer.
She was doing scales in a nearby apartment. Her window was definitely open.
She was loud! And she was struggling to hit her high notes. (She was a mezzo.)
There were some kids in another building who were echoing her, which was pretty funny. Until one of them finally screamed: “Shut up you fucking bitch!” We laughed at that, too. (But quietly, and to ourselves.)
She didn’t seem intimidated though! She kept singing, even when three stereos came on a few minutes later.
She’ll probably forget this afternoon a lot sooner than we will.
Filed under: Architecture, Memory, Opera, Resignation, Ruins, The Gay Recluse, The Spring Garden, Washington Heights | Leave a Comment
Tags: Frank Lloyd Wright, Garden Statues, Hinoki Cypress, Mezzo, Opera, Scottish Broom, Singing
In which Dante and Zephyr take over The Gay Recluse.
Friends! We have spoken on this subject before, but feel that it bears repeating. Discard your assumptions and stereotypes! Open your mind to new experience! And — most of all — remember: not every cat is a lolcat!
Filed under: Animals, Conspiracy, Not Every Cat a Lolcat, Obsession, Stereotypes, The Gay Recluse | Leave a Comment
Tags: Cats, Dante, editor, Lolcats, technical assistance, Zephyr
The Gay Recluse 
