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!

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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.

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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 :)

 

Let me tell you about this thing called OXHEART.

There is a thing we are all searching for in New York, and that thing is community. A group of people like us who just ‘get it.’ Our crew, our group of lovers who blend perfectly with our selves and finish the sentences we’ve only just begun. I had it in college, and truly believed that eventually it would pop up here in New York. I’m proud to say, finally, it has.

OXHEART started with Bryn Larson, in a bar on the Lower East Side, the same night I heard Iced Ink for the first time. OXHEART was to be a new arts and music collective, a party, an event, a happening, a place where people could meet and share what they create, be it music or art. I didn’t know who this very happy tall, blonde woman was, but she was instantly welcoming. As if to say okay, I like you, we’re friends now. Done.

Two weeks later, we gathered for our first OXHEART meeting. I was brought in to do any and all things words or media. Ideas flowed, decisions were made, meeting times were chosen, roles were discussed. Though the lineup of OXHEARTers later changed, four original members remained and, frankly, we’re all the better for it.

In just three months, we had it all—a venue, artists, musicians, and it all was coming together. The Gowanus Ballroom was by day Serett Metalworks, a sculpture and metalworking space right next to the Gowanus River in Brooklyn. Gorgeously high lofted ceilings were swept through with beams, brick walls painted white, a sheen of beautiful dirt and use running across the floors. It was a venue that held many art shows, and they knew how to hold ours as well.

Artists rolled in courtesy of friends, connections, and reaching out to various schools and even strangers. It is mindnumbing to think so many people have the opportunity to call themselves ‘artist’ and have it truly mean something. But I think Bryn always knew that. A lady who appreciates people who do what they love, she wanted a way for them to get exposure, to have the beauty of their work seen by others. I believed in her vision and happily worked, as we all did, without pay. The lady worked tirelessly, as did Tech/Design Hombre Mike Krenner, myself, and Photographer Carlos Henriquez, within our own OXHEART roles. The motivation came from the spirit of doing something bigger. It wasn’t about the money now. It was about showing something beautiful and creating a community of people who all thought in the same ways.

**

 Fast forward to Friday, June 15 at 9am, the day of OXHEART’s first show, “Letter Red.” I hauled myself out of bed at 7am (I’m a freelancer, cut me a break), threw on my art-hanging clothes, and made the trek to Brooklyn. Arriving, I saw all of the metal working equipment still had to be put away. The floor had to be swept, seating to be arranged, the bar to be set up, all of the art to be hung. I tried forcing myself to relax but had trouble unfurrowing my brow. After a while, though, the kind gentlemen at the Gowanus Ballroom had cleaned everything and hidden it away. I had a quick lesson in hanging artwork and how to hammer nails properly so I did not stand idly by. I ran around greeting artists and assembling wall spaces, as did Bryn and the volunteers helping that day. By noon I was still terrified, but more art was getting hung. By 4 o’clock, my body ached and, though there was more art on the walls, I was becoming unpleasant and I took an ibuprofen and chased it with beer. I was speaking in loud, angry tones. If I didn’t leave, I would have become even more vile, so it was time to go. I got home, took four Advil, got in the shower, got dressed and ate a sandwich. It was 6:30. Time to go back to Brooklyn.

Uncrumpled and no longer a ticking time bomb, I sat calmly at the front desk at the venue and people began to trickle in. They looked appreciatively around at the artwork we had all hung. I heard cries of “Wow, this is incredible!” and “Whoa, cool!” In those instances, I knew everything was worth it. Throughout the evening I was able to circulate upstairs and watch people listening to the bands with rapt attention, holding up their iPhones to take pictures of the aerialists and firebreathers, climbing in the on-site treehouse. We had done it.

“When are you having your next party??” people asked me as they left. “Sign me up!”

Riding the high of an evening well done, we hung out at the venue long after the party ended, dancing and jamming and drinking. I took my shoes off and my feet were covered in dirt and it was brilliant. Bright, sunny energy and love echoed through all of us (The second night was just as successful). This is what it was all about. At the risk of sounding like an '80s coming-of-age-flick, my life is truly changed. I don't know what will happen next with OXHEART, I don't know what the future holds, but I know I just want to keep helping throw these parties as long as possible. Let's just do it, and think about how impossible it seems when we're done. 

If you’re interested in learning more about OXHEART, visit us online at oxheart.net, check us out on Facebook at facebook.com/oxheartnyc, or follow us on Twitter at @oxheartnyc. Our OXHEARTs hug you. OXHXO.

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.

Life's a (Manhattan) Beach

Having only been to the beach once last summer, I made it a resolution this year to get to the beach early and often. And, like most people, I started this past Memorial Day weekend. I had already been to Brighton Beach and Coney Island, so I wanted to try something new. Well, sort of. I consulted New York magazine's  handy-dandy beach guide to see what options were most feasible. I was looking to get to the beach in less than two hours (a far cry from the 30 minutes it takes at home in Florida!), and I was certainly not looking to pay for beach access! To be honest, I could not believe there was such a thing-- feel free to call me a full-on beach communist. I also didn't want to schlep anywhere that didn't take my MetroCard. So my choices were Brooklyn or the Bronx, and I chose Brooklyn. Tantalized by the suggestion of nearby beachside mansions to photograph, I chose Manhattan Beach, which is a hop, skip, and a jump from Brighton Beach.

Setting sail on the Q train with my bagel and iced coffee like a good New Yorker, I headed out to my stop at Brighton Beach. Then I hopped on the B1. Unfortunately, I hopped on it going in the wrong direction, so I had to catch it again going back. Luckily it didn't take too much time and I was still able to hit the sand with plenty of sunshine to spare. Once I was going in the right direction, I got off at Oriental Boulevard as New York magazine suggested. The only problem was that it didn't say exactly where to get off, so I just hopped off on the first Oriental Boulevard stop. Little did I know, there are many more after that, all of which would have gotten me closer to the beach. No matter, I thought. Walking is good for you and it's a lovely day. Besides, getting lost is good for building up your sense of direction (judge away, iPhone users, but I bet my sense of direction is better than yours!). I just didn't really know where I was going. I knew I had to continue straight, obviously the same direction as the bus, but how far?

I passed a man and asked him how far to the beach. He uttered a response in a language I did not understand. Instantly noticing my confusion, he asked, "You do not speak Russian?" I had forgotten that this may have been an issue. Brighton Beach is considered "Little Russia," and a hop, skip, and a jump to Manhattan Beach is just close enough to maintain the language. "No," I smiled, remembering how much I love New York. How wonderful to be in a place where such a thing happens! He gave me directions in Russian-laden English, and I made my way on.

Manhattan Beach is essentially inside a park. It has picnic tables for people to barbeque, a playground and basketball courts close by, and a concrete boardwalk. Though the concrete boardwalk does not rival the wooden boardwalk on Brighton Beach or Coney Island, the beach itself is much smaller, with far fewer people. That means more space, more openness, more beach-y feeling and less New York-y feeling. And trust me, I love New York, but I don't want to feel like a taxi is going to drive past me while I'm on the beach. Sometimes it's nice to get away from the hustle and bustle, even if in a hot second you'll be back there on the train.

The water was a little too cold to swim in, but I waded close to the surf, taking pictures of the jetty (had never seen one of those in person! They sure make beaches differently up north.) and people on the beach. The sand was kind of powdery and hard under my feet, almost like I was walking in broken eyeshadow. Though perhaps Manhattan Beach is not the most scenic of beaches, I liked it because it was small and secluded--it felt like a place not many people go to. In fact, at a party recently I mentioned I went to Manhattan Beach and people, New Yorkers, looked at me quizzically--you mean California? No, no, it's in Brooklyn. Ohhhh.

All the more reason for me to want to go back. Here are some photos from the day:

Pop Souk

It's no secret that I have more than a passing interest in downtown nightlife. This is not to say by any means the clubs of the Meatpacking District, but rather the sublime underground culture where deliciously gender-bendy or genderless sparkling denizens of the night dance away in lavish costumes, makeup, and the occasional pair of Doc Martens. On the occasions that I have been able to inhabit the same spaces as downtown legends like Amanda Lepore, Ladyfag, and Susanne Bartsch, my heart has leapt and my breath has become as short as others' might upon seeing Brad Pitt or a Kardashian. 

Oftentimes, these people have created themselves from nothing, have put every last penny into a fabulous closet and have dedicated their lives to the artwork that is, well, their life. My brain pauses even thinking about the glitter, platform shoes, makeup and fishnets involved in such a lifestyle. Part of me is incredibly jealous.

So when I had the opportunity to attend Ladyfag's Pop Souk at Greenhouse last weekend, my heart leapt again. Every surface of Greenhouse was populated with delicious castoffs from the lives of these nightlife personae, from Gaultier corsets to vintage fashion magazines to sequined dresses to caftans to...anything you could imagine, really. But the event really describes itself best:

Nightlife personalities, artists, musicians, DJs, designers, fashion junkies, drag queens and the rest of us who make up the creative landscape of Downtown NYC, are usually blessed—and cursed—with fabulously overflowing closets.

More than just a marketplace, Pop Souk is an event where you’ll find some of the most talented New Yorkers hanging out in their own personal pop-up shops and hocking treasures from their own closets, selling their own designs, or tempting you with delights from their own kitchens. Come hear your favorite New York DJs spin, hang out with cocktails in the lounge, have your make up and nails done, get tattooed, taste the delicacies you never knew these night creatures could make and, of course, shop for your new Spring wardrobe!

Though I didn't come away with new additions to my wardrobe, I did snag some fabulous photos. Many thanks to Ladyfag for a delightful event!

The Chris Gethard Show-oh-oh

Before I continue, I must clarify: the gentleman’s last name above is pronounced “geth-ard.” This is not a post about porn.

The only live talk show taping I had been to previously was Live! With Kelly, and while it was certainly an experience, it wasn’t a goal of mine to ever again be apart of an audience filled with the Real Housewives of Middle America cooing at Daniel Radcliffe.

I was excited, though, when MV and AS invited me to attend a taping of The Chris Gethard Show. I had seen Gethard perform at a friend’s comedy show, the now defunct Mish-Mosh. I remembered that not only was he super funny, but he had an approachable-ness to him that I find a lot of comedians don’t have. It wasn’t just the fluffy blond hair or the thick-frame glasses because, let’s be real, you can find that anywhere in Williamsburg, but there was a silly goodness on the inside that came through. To the taping we would go!

At around 10:30 on a Wednesday night, we walk to the Manhattan Neighborhood Network television station (“You’ve always wanted to be on TV. Now’s your chance!” says the MNN website). What’s interesting about The Chris Gethard Show, or TCGS, is that it’s filmed on a public access channel. Even so, the show has a cult following and has been on the air since 2011. This following began at the legendary Upright Citizens Brigade improv theatre in 2009, where the show (not yet filmed) was known for attempting and following through on wild stunts like “using Twitter to book Diddy as a guest, staging a show to make a depressed teenager from Ohio have the best night of his life, and pulling off a cross-country tour.” Since then, the show has seen press in the likes of New York magazine and Splitsider.

Inside MNN, MV, who at this point is somewhat of a regular, says hello to some familiar faces in a small space already crowded with people. There are Taco Bell tacos up for grabs. Man-boys and girl-women with glasses wear brightly colored shirts with cute, funny cartoons on them and talk loudly about other times they’ve gone to see the show. A man with red glasses wears a banana costume and dances about. I have no idea what to expect when they say things like ‘Human Fish.’

At 10 minutes to 11, we’re ushered in to the small space, which includes a white sheet painted with ‘The Chris Gethard Show’ in giant black letters set up to designate a stage on the left. It is signed in permanent marker by all the bands that have played in front of it. On the right, there’s a series of chairs, a screen, and a three-person band called the LLC (including a singer who uses a kazoo and maracas).

Normally the show is centered around a theme, be it an International theme and ‘Foreign Language Bingo’ (in which audience members were given bingo boards with names of countries and languages written on them and asked to mark them off when a caller from a particular country called in) or ‘Fuck School, Fuck Math,’ (where callers were asked to share education horror stories and math problems). Then, Gethard talks to guests along with a cast of characters including but not limited to Random Melissa (a dark-haired young woman with thick black eyeliner and a hole in the knee of her jeans), 40-Year-Old Goosie (who is actually a 20-something man in a parrot costume, but was named such by a child who called in one time), Human Fish (a rather hairy gentleman wearing swim trunks, goggles, and flippers), Bethany (a sweet redhead with bangs wearing black thick-framed glasses who is known as the show's conscience)  and probably even more. In the background an older woman performs hula hoop tricks (“and we’ve got Mimi on the hoops!” Gethard says). There will also be shenanigans, stunts, and a musical guest who will perform twice during the hour-long show.

Viewers can watch the show on MNN or livestreaming online and tweet at Gethard as it’s happening—there’s a screen on the set that’s constantly refreshed, that Gethard and crew occasionally turn to to read especially hilarious or relevant tweets audience members have sent through. Viewers can also call in to the show and talk about anything related to a set topic up for a discussion on a particular night. Regular callers and Tweeters are known by name.

There are regular audience members, too. As we enter the seating area, they rush over to the seats they have perpetually chosen for themselves, like in college where you always sit in that same, perfect spot so you’re close enough to hear the professor, but far enough away so you don’t get accidentally spat on.

Tonight the show is purposely unplanned: “Whatta we got? We got nothin’!” we’re asked to sing, and we all comply with delight. As the LLC finishes playing the theme song (“Come take a ride with the weirdest guy I know!”), the audience begins chanting “Taco Night, Taco Night!” for the sole purpose of making Gethard uncomfortable (“Chris hates it when people chant things for an extended period of time,” MV tells me. But people do it anyway, for laughs.)

But the show doesn’t go poorly at all—Gethard, an amicable host who’s man-sassy with a lot of heart, takes some calls from viewers, who literally ask him about everything from the current state of hip-hop (Gethard prefers De La Soul) to advice on a ‘get wasted’ high school graduation trip. Human Fish contemplates ‘Bowties versus Taye Diggs’ and ‘Tupac Shakur versus Yom Kippur.’ A girl, Random Jean, gives out Swedish treats from Ikea that we all share and pass around the audience. Superfunky hip-hop/soul band Electric Monday performs and everyone gets up and dances. I’d say it was quite a success!

After the show, MV tells me, everyone—audience, cast, and crew alike—heads out to a bar called Lincoln Park close by. There’s a terrific sense of community that revolves around the show, a sense of belonging that’s not off-putting or exclusive. To be around it is to feel others’ excitement for it, quite honestly. And how delightful that Gethard and his zany television show are at the center of it, a playground for absurdity with a big heart.

If you’re in the New York area and interested in attending a taping, just email zerolaughs@gmail.com (it’s free, and you might get free tacos). To watch the show live or view past episodes, just visit thechrisgethardshow.com. Happy viewing!