From Corgis with Love

There was a corgi meetup in Washington Square Park today, and huge crowds of people gathered around the Large Dog Park (you can't go in without a dog) to observe the mini-celebrities at play. SE and I were among them. What is happiness, really, if not a herd of corgis running at you full speed?

Good Dates, Part II

It seems to be that time of year where we are all doing our best to tide ourselves over with the drunken evenings or brunches that define our friendships before we're resigned to spending time with our families for the next week or two. Fine by me.

SJT

Having mistaken the time we were to meet for dinner by a full hour, I am a half-hour late to meet SJT and my brain is falling out of my head. I am many things but a flake is not one of them, so I am instantly forgiven. Nevertheless, we meet at a different restaurant than we originally intended, one closer to a train we'll need later in the evening, but it's just as lovely. We avail ourselves of Nepali soups (dal, a lentil soup, for me and chasha thang, a shredded chicken and corn soup, for me) and sha momo (beef and herb dumplings) at Cafe Himalaya on 1st Avenue and 1st Street and make it to our next destination, an opera house in Brooklyn, in plenty of time.

I have written this before, but perhaps one of my favorite things in the world is to go to the opera with SJT. A dramaturg, opera writer, and self-described "opera queen," he affords me deep insights into an arts field I'm not the most familiar with, so even if I don't particularly enjoy the opera, I've learned so much about it that the evening is never a waste. Such was the experience we had on this jaunt to the Gowanus-ish neighborhood in the wilds of Brooklyn, where we saw an opera in English of which I didn't understand a word. First I thought it was me, that perhaps I was so dense about opera and that my ears just didn't work. Thankfully, though, this was not the case--SJT shared with me there were incredible problems with the diction in the show and I was so happy when, during intermission, he shared with me the story of what was actually going on. I did like that the company featured performers with gorgeous voices who were our age--so often, SJT tells me, there are 50-some-odd year-olds who will play teenagers just because their voices are so much more well-developed and, well, they're stars so who wouldn't want to come see them. But the younger age of the cast I think lends itself to expanding the notion of who opera can be for. Next time they just need a better director, or maybe even a dramaturg like SJT.

On the train back, we are both feeling nibbly, so we stop into one of my favorite haunts, the Olive Tree Cafe on Macdougal Street in the West Village, for babaganush and chicken wings. By the end of the evening my eyelids are drooping, but that's how you know you've had a full, and fully marvelous evening.

MS

On a Wednesday night at around 8:45pm, I see a text from MS. "What are you doing tonight?" he says. Having just come back from yoga, I didn't really have any plans other than to shower and lope around the house in my sweatpants. I wrote this to him. It turns out his parents had tickets to a gala at the Neue Galerie, a museum of 20th century German and Austrian art. It ended at 9:30pm. Could I make it? he asked. I hemmed and hawed probably for a little too long before I said, Oh hell, I'll give it a shot. Worst comes to worst, I said to him, we'll just grab a bite and have to actually talk to each other. I threw on a cocktail dress, smeared some eyeliner on my face and raced a razor over my legs before hopping into first heels, then a coat, then a cab to hustle to the museum. I got there at 9:35 and the girls at the front door were like, "Uh, I guess you can come in..." Thanks, guys. People were in line for their coats and the bar had closed. And I didn't really care at all because I'd still get to spend time with my friend just the same. MS got his coat and we hobbled (rather, I, in heels, hobbled) over to Bocado on 87th and Lexington for late-night vittles. We dipped bread in olive oil and I tried valiantly to stab a brussel sprout with a fork but to no avail, while we chatted about dating and MS's potential move to Nashville. We ended up shutting the restaurant down, the lights turning from dim to bright as the clock reached a certain hour and we parted ways.

RaGo

"Wanna see a Broadway show with me?" RaGo asked.

There are few things that I will drop all planned activities for, perhaps none more than an activity like this. I was raised going to the theatre--when I was growing up, my mother got tickets to almost any show that came through South Florida: Fiddler on the Roof, Chicago, Cabaret, Cats, you name it--but strangely, now that I live in New York, mecca of theatre that it is, I hardly ever go. I simply cannot afford the ticket prices, so I usually only go when my parents come to town because that's one of their favorite activities. But RaGo had a gift certificate to the TKTS booth in Times Square that was soon to expire, and she had been kind enough to think of me to accompany her on her theatrical sojourn for the day. I of course agreed, and we met on the TKTS line at 10am on a Sunday morning. A line had in fact already formed though the booth would not open until 11am. We were in line with many a backpacked out-of-towner, their Midwestern or Australian accents giving them away. I realize now that I may have appeared as a city dweller, as the woman behind me began asking me for recommendations while I was waiting for RaGo. This fills me with pride as I write this, and a small smile crosses my face. Anyway, once Rachel arrives we gossip and then decide what our top shows would be. It's her birthday present, and her top choice is An American in Paris which as a huge dance nerd I am more than excited to see. We luck out with a crisp, 60-degree weather day, so waiting is not an issue; though I can't imagine what it would be like in the summer or in the depths of winter. Sheesh.

Once the booth opens, we are in and out in 15 minutes, with incredible orchestra seats to a Broadway show for a relative pittance. We squeal joyfully for about a minute, then RaGo says, "Now let's get out of this hellhole." It's true, Times Square is most definitely the bane of most New Yorkers' existence, but it also allowed us to get these amazing seats at unheardof prices, so it's a give and take.

We go for coffee at Kahve in Hell's Kitchen and then brunch at the ever-delightful BarBacon, where we stuff ourselves with mimosas and bacon-laced treats like a corn torta (she) and a BLT with sunny-side up egg and avocado (me). Pleasantly filled, we then head over to the theatre and our fantastic seats therein. The choreography, by Christopher Wheeldon, is so beautiful I well up several times watching it. After intermission we just look at each other. I squeal and she goes, "I KNOW!" We are having a blast watching dance together, a sheer delight I only rarely get to share with my friends. The second half is just as swoonworthy, and I well up again, not only loving what I'm seeing but feeling honored that RaGo wanted to share this day and her birthday present with me. We hug and part ways and, feeling particularly sappy, I listen to George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" as I walk down Fifth Avenue.

Think Less, Fierce More: Or, The Gayest Weekend Ever

“I’ve never been to a gay bar in Manhattan,” SC, my gay husband, said. Visiting from the not-as-gay city of Boston for two weeks, I made it my mission to make all his New York dreams come true. I would accompany him to whatever gay bar(s) he chose, but neither he or I knew any and he asked a friend. What’s funny, though, is that even though this was NYC Pride weekend in New York, this would really just be a typical night out for me as a proud hag.

We wound up in the East Village, at a place called The Cock. A bright red neon rooster hung subtly outside of it, black doors locked until 11pm. Not wanting to be ‘those people’ who showed up at the gay bar right when it opened, we had some cocktails elsewhere then eventually made our way over with a gaggle of boys we knew. Inside, giant signs condemned sex on the premises and warned against pickpockets. Lights above swirled red in the blackness and men in jockstraps danced on the bar, bare bottoms displayed to the gathering crowd inside. While most of the men stood there, either looking at the dancers or at each other, I danced to the actually really great playlist inside: Deee-Lite, Donna Summer, etc. Werk. SC, who is in a loving, long-term relationship with another boy, danced with me. We drank drinks and fended off men (from both of us, strangely enough). At one point I asked one of the jockstrapped dancers if I could dance on the bar with them, but he responded, rather politely, “No, sorry, sweetie.” I bet the ladies who come to the bar ask them that a lot (though I think I was one of two in there at the time).

A bit later, I had to use the bathroom, but there were no stalls. “Where is there a place for us gals to go?” I asked the lady bouncer. “Ah, right next door dahling,” she said in a thick Irish accent. “At Urge their bathrooms are even nicer than ours!” I made my way over to Urge, which I found out was also a gay bar. Sneaking past the man asking for cover, I dashed past the boys dancing on poles in tiny underwear and even more jockstraps to the unisex bathroom. Whew!

--

Also this weekend, I had the pleasure of photographing a gay wedding in Fort Tryon Park. I imagined informal acquaintances of the grooms asking them what they did for Pride, both of them responding casually, “Oh, nothing, we just had a gay wedding.” If such a situation did in fact happen, it would be the best answer ever. All of their family and friends gathered in support of their love, and it was so beautiful to feel the support for their loved ones.

It was a casual chic wedding, none of that cheesy two-grooms-on-a-cake thing. Children waved rainbow flags, and we all wore Marriage Equality bracelets. A perfect addition to Pride weekend.

--

Last but certainly not least, though, was the actual Pride parade. Having missed out on it last year, I was determined to go and take some pictures this year. My partner in crime for all things gay, AS, and I made our way to the crazily barricaded West Village. Thinking we would be able to stand at the parade’s end without a crowd we made our way to the Stonewall Inn, but HAHAHAHA we were mistaken. We instead wound our way to the very, very end, at Christopher and Greenwich, where it was still packed but we were able to see all the fabulousness. Drag queens, gay nudists, gay Jews, gay Peruvians, gay cowboys, self-proclaimed ‘Lord Lovin’ Lesbians’, and just families showing their support for one another. In AS’s brilliant words, “Everybody’s gay today.” It certainly had the best soundtrack of any parade I’ve been to since I’ve been in New York, and there was fierceness abound, not just of body but of soul. The fantastic Gay Men’s Health Crisis, the first organization created in response to the AIDS crisis in the early ‘80s, marched out strong in bright pink, as did organizations of all flavors, shapes and sizes. The crowd was out in full fierce (pun intended), too. It's actually the first parade I've been to in New York that I would definitely go back to. Even as a straight lady I felt proud to be there in full support of everyone to love whomever they choose. I could go on and on, but the pictures below will have to suffice :)

 

Carpetbaggers(ish): Reflections on Fleet Week

They come to town when the war is over
Dirty boots in the middle of the night
Trolling the bars, hitting on the soldiers
Boys give it up without a fight

-“Carpetbaggers” by Jenny Lewis

*note: I realize at this point we are a few weeks outside of Fleet Week, but the thoughts and statements below hold true.

During Fleet Week, for just seven days the city is flooded with men in crisp military uniforms as massive ships dock in harbors around the city. The week is raised to mythic proportions—go out and find yourself a sailor (or Marine, or Coast Guard), love him, and then release him back into the water, as if capturing a goldfish for a short time purely for the shimmer of its gills. Rest assured that you have completed your duty and showed your appreciation for our troops. Aspire to that scene in An Officer and a Gentleman. Or just bang a sailor and have bragging rights.

I went out with AD last year, much to her success: “I have hooked up with a sailor every Fleet Week since I’ve been able to go to bars!” she said with a smile. While my goal is usually more to get one of those sailor hats on my head and take kissy-face pictures with the men in uniform, I respect a single lady’s right to get her some!

That being said, I was after a similar Fleet Week experience this year.

“Are you going to Brooklyn Navy Yard to take pictures of the men?” my mother asks, excited, no doubt recalling her days as a young single lass in the city. Well, no. But if all went as planned there would be pictures of a different kind.

AS, MD, and I plotted our plan of attack, down to finding a list of the best bars to pick up sailors (the West Village is quite good, especially on Macdougal Street). We gave ourselves a point system of buoys, seamen (ha-- mostly because we didn’t know enough nautical terms), lieutenants, admirals, etc.—three buoys for taking pictures with a sailor, five for kissing, and so on. Five buoys equal one seaman. Five seamen equal one lieutenant. The winner would be declared Queen of Fleet Week. This year, like last year, I hoped to rack up buoys photographically rather than…any other way. Who doesn’t love taking pictures wearing military garb that’s not actually yours?

So we met up first at a lovely, tiny little bar called The Otheroom on Perry and Hudson, and sipped wine and sparkling water. The evening was already going in a different direction than intended, but I didn’t realize it yet. Pinpointing our next destination (I had seen herds of sailors walking toward Macdougal, as anticipated), we made our way there.

But I had forgotten that the bars the sailors prefer are, shall we say, not my taste. They stink of aging frat boy, beer pong, and girls with bad dye jobs (on our scale, two anchors (negative points) for her.)) In we went anyway, thinking it wouldn’t be that bad. It was, though.

All of the sailors were drunk—and really, who can blame them, it’s their week off—and chatting up some not-so-nice-looking girls. We realized we had no interest in being one of these girls and found ourselves aching for drinks that didn’t have “-bomb” at the end of them. So we left.

To be fair, it would have been fun in theory. But I have never played beer pong, and I decided I would like to keep it that way. Stepping into that bar, I felt myself regress five years, actively surrounded by people I don't really enjoy and having beer all over my shoes. I had experienced great personal growth in the past year. Is this really what I wanted? The answer was unequivocally no. I have had several epiphany-style “I’m getting older!” moments since moving to New York, but this was one of the bigger ones I can remember. I just wanted to get out of there and have a martini. And I prefer men who don’t play beer pong as post-grads.

Incidentally, we found ourselves in a lovely bar just down the street after that, called Shade (241 Sullivan Street). I had a vodka martini made with pickle juice and garnished with a cornichon. We ate crepes. Ah, the taste of personal growth.