I just bid goodbye to my mother, father, brother, and sister in law, who spent an action-packed weekend in New York with me. Their souvenirs are rolls of photos, Carnegie Hall and Blue Man Group ticket stubs, and Big Apple tchotchkes. Mine are a bloated tummy, bags unders my eyes, and a pearl of wisdom from my sister in law.
My sister in law Beau lives with my brother in the wilderness of Wyoming. Our warp-speed tour of Manhattan must have left her with the same dazed feeling I felt when I visited her a few months ago on their ranch. Our lifestyles could not be further from each other, yet we enjoy our visits, always leaving with a smile -- fueled by both the experience and the relief of returning to the familiar. Beau is a sweet, soft-spoken woman a few months my senior whose commentary is sometimes shared only with my brother. At Pipa last night, I witnessed her tugging on my brother’s sleeve and whispering in his ear, and decided to get in on the secret.
“What’s up?” I asked her, hoping she would share her comment with the dinner table.
She looked at me hesitantly, then turned to my brother for guidance.
“She’s asking a… cultural question,” my brother explained.
Since Pipa was a tapas restaurant, and judging by my family’s reaction to the cryptic menu (“Um, order whatever you think we’d like, Gina,”), I offered to be of some help.
“Well…" Beau said, finally mustering the courage, “are all of the men in New York such… girly men?”
It was hardly the question I was expecting, but a legitimate one nonetheless. We were in the sixth restaurant of the weekend in which we were served by a flamboyantly gay man. I was as comfortable in that environment as any, but I quickly realized that Beau, shadowed by my brother’s 6’2” hulking frame, was as perplexed as I had been in the Cody saddle and rifle shop.
When I explained that many of my friends were gay, Beau elaborated. “I don’t just mean gay, I just mean, everyone is so… small.”
She had a point. The small-statured nature of New York men has been the topic of many discussions between my friends and I. At 5’7”, I hardly qualified as tall in the midwest, but once I moved to New York, I found myself my eye to eye with my male companions. Add a pair of two inch heels to the equation, and I’m hovering over them.
My friends and I resolved that although New York is home to people from all over the world, historically there has been a large draw from European countries where men may be a little on the short side. Spanish, Italian, French… these men are not known for their vertical prowess. But when I apply that line of thinking to the west coast, where Asian cultures have immigrated, I am left perplexed. Men in California are just bigger than men in New York. My theory suddenly sounds like a bunch of bullshit.
I suppose that Americans are as a rule large people. A little known fact that we learned on our Circle Line tour yesterday was that when Yankee Stadium recently renovated, they eliminated about 9,000 seats. Why would they do that?, our tourguide asked us. Because over the past 50 years, Americans have become 3 inches wider, on average. Yankee Stadium is now built to accommodate couch potato ass.
This proves that there are still large people, men and women alike, in New York City. If time had allowed, I would have escorted Beau to the Upper East Side to show her an ample display of meathead men. But her point is not lost on me. The fact remains that men in the wild wild west are bigger than their New York counterparts, at least the New York men that I spend most of my time with. Whereas Beau found herself a 280-pound man who can mend a fence and tame a horse, body mass has never been a prerequisite for my ideal man. I admit it, I’m a sucker for the intellects. It doesn’t require much upper body strength to lift a book to one’s nose, and that’s about my only requirement for a male companion. Well, not just being well-read, but funny, well-traveled, passionate about music, and impeccably dressed. Aw hell. I should just face it. The best man for me is a girly man. What that makes me, I have no idea.
Single, I suppose.
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Happy Anniversary Jerry, Gina, and Madonna
By GxxP
Today marks the one-year anniversary of Madonna's Madison Square Garden show of the Drowned World Tour. I wasn't even supposed to go to this concert - I bought a single ticket as a contingency plan on the off chance that I wouldn't score tickets for her New Jersey show, which a large group of my friends from work (and of course Jen) ended up getting tickets to. (In an unfortunate turn of events, Madonna cancelled the Jersey show, but that is too negative a topic for the lovefest you are about to read.) Instead of selling the MSG ticket, I kept it, and decided to go alone. Jerry scored a single ticket to the MSG show, as did a friend of his, so we went to the show together, even though we figured the chances of sitting together were slim to none.
Other than a few company happy hours, I had never gone out with Jerry before, so I can honestly say that July 25, 2001 was the beginning of an era. Not only did I get to dance with Jerry and John throughout the whole concert, but I realized for the first time the beauty of being sandwiched between two incredibly hot, sweaty, gay men. I was like the creamy filling of a big gay Oreo cookie. Not only that, but Madge knows how to put on a concert. It was a visual and visceral extravaganza (plus waiters walked around with trays of champagne and strawberries - nice touch, Madonna.)
Madonna is a legend, and after being an off and on fan for nearly 18 years, I was thrilled to finally have the chance to see her live. But she did much more for me that day than give an amazing performance. She brought me together with people that I consider good friends, people that I hope will still be in my life 10 years from now for Madonna's Sparkling Universe tour, or whatever she's into in 2012.
Thank you, Madonna. And Happy Anniversary!
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Just an ordinary night on the town
By Jen
A recap of yet another amusing night out on the town… As tends to happen while hanging with a gaggle of gay men, we ended up at Splash. On this particular evening we were eagerly anticipating the arrival of our friend Rafe, who was coming in from London. As you will see, there were a few logistical problems involved with his arrival. The plan was to connect via cell phone when he reached Penn Station, whereupon we would inform him of our whereabouts so we could meet up for a night out. As you will see, when one relies too heavily on their cell phone, a simple evening can quickly become quite complicated…
730: I arrived at G. Upon arrival, I quickly realized that my phone would not work while inside the bar. When I went outside, I realized that that it would also not work on the street immediately outside the bar. Apparently there is some sort of vortex on 19th Street, between 7th and 8th Avenue, where, when you place a call on a Sprint phone it says: "Service not available in this area," and starts roaming. (Jerry's did the same thing) I don’t understand it. We were in Chelsea for christ’s sake, not the middle of the wilderness. Fortunately for me, I found that when you step onto the corner of 19th and 7th, there actually was phone service. Go figure. While standing on the corner, freezing my ass off and waiting for a call from Rafe, I got a call from Stevie telling me that he's at Chase waiting for me. Unfortunately, as I stated previously, we were not in fact at Chase, but instead downtown at G. (Apparently there were some mixed signals.) Stevie mentioned that since Penn Station is at 42nd Street, and Chase is closer to 42nd than G, he would just stay put until Rafe contacted us. After I informed him that Penn Station is not in fact on 42nd street, he decided to come down to meet us. I then walked back to the bar.
745: Stevie arrived, and I walked back to the corner of 19th and 7th to see if I could find out if Rafe had arrived yet. Come to find out via a voicemail that of course I had not seen, not only had he arrived, but he was waiting at Penn Station for me. I then walked back to the bar, filled the boys in on what was going on, and left, by myself, to go find Rafe at an undisclosed location near or at Penn Station.
750-8p: While in cab to Penn Rafe called and started to tell me where he was...I hear: "On the corner of 33rd and....beep, beep, beep. My phone died.
8p: Pulled up to Penn in cab, left meter running, and found (a very anxious) Rafe on the corner of 33rd and 8TH. Got back in cab, went back to G.
801p: Walked into G, tossed my bag down, and proceeded to knock over a drink and break a glass.
802p-930: Love, kisses, presents, drinks. Blah, blah, blah... Jerry and I made friends with hot waiter.
931P: Jerry and I took pill.
932p-230a: (The exact order of the these events in this window are slightly unclear)
·Went to XL for drinks. Jerry and I became convinced that we were going to win one of the prizes in a "Queer as Folk" raffle, even though we had no raffle ticket, nor did we officially enter the contest. We did not win.
·Jerry and I went to the bathroom together where he pooped while in the stall with me.
·We decided to leave and realized that Stevie's jacket had been stolen or was lost. We gave up hope after an incredibly half- assed search on Jerry’s and my part. By that time Jerry and I were giggling like schoolgirls.
·Cabbed it to Splash.
·Got taken for tourists at the door to Splash due to the fact that Stevie was carting around Rafe's suitcase in the manner of a flight attendant on the way to a trip. In a sick and twisted effort to take advantage of us the supposed tourists, the doorman charged us DOUBLE the cover. The doorman then informed Stevie that there were no suitcases allowed in Splash, (huh?) and if Stevie wanted to come in he had to make it look "NOT like a suitcase." Stevie somehow appeased the doorman by picking up the suitcase instead of pulling it, thus making it look like a ...uh....well...it still looked like a damn suitcase to me.
·Continue drinking.
·Jerry was too f*&ked up to dance, and no one else would dance with me, so we stand around.
·A large group of people entered the club and crowded us into the corner. I realized that my purse was still UNDER the large group of people and I attempted to locate it. I tapped some guy on the shoulder and told him that I needed to get my bag. Someone then pushed me from behind, upon which I fell against the guy, and realized that it was Nathan Lane. I groped around under Nathan Lane's feet for a while and finally found it. He looked at me quizzically and I walked off.
·Dan arrived, and finally I got to dance.
·Jerry suddenly decided to depart, and I decided to leave with him. I threw a temper tantrum for a really stupid reason, and ran out the door.
·Jerry immediately got in cab and went home. I then realized that I didn’t have any money left over so I headed to an ATM.
·Naturally, my card was demagnetized. I went to about 43 ATM's in a desperate effort to get cash. I was not successful. I went BACK to Splash to see if I could find Stevie and Rafe. They were gone. I considered asking Nathan Lane for some money, but I decided that was a bad idea.
3a: Since my cell phone was dead (See events that occurred 750-8pm) and I had no way to contact anyone who could help me, I realized that I had to take the Subway home and proceeded to walk to 14th street. In keeping with the frustrating nature of the evening, the subway station at 14th street was not open and I had to walk to West 4th. While walking up to the entrance of the subway, someone pushed me down, kicked my bag away from me, and bent down as if he was going to steal it. Then, in a miraculous turn of events, out of nowhere someone came from behind and pushed the guy who had pushed me, and saved me from being robbed. This unknown hero then disappeared into the darkness. I took a breath and stood up. My stuff was everywhere. I believe at this point I yelled, "What else could possibly go wrong!!!"
430AM: Finally get home after a particularly long ride on the Subway. By this point I was absolutely FUMING.
431: Go to bed.
630a: Wake up and go to work.
See... Like I said,Just another night on the town.
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safe sex: the act of getting cock-rubbed during a makeout session with your best gay friend
(Wurd courtesy of Vivian Darkbloom)
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Jerry Meets Madonna... sorta
By GxxP
Due to a lack of response to our cry for help on June 27, Jerry set off for Vegas without many suggestions on where to go for fun, and was somehow roped into attending a performance of "American Superstars". From what I can gather this extravaganza features Vegas-ized celebrity impersonators, whose repertiores consist mainly of off-key pop tunes. Despite the dearth of talent on stage, the audience was wowed, and a large line of adoring fans seeking faux-celeb-photos formed after the show. Thanks to Jerry's sister, we are able to enjoy this souvenir from his night with the stars.
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ATTENTION GAY MEN IN VEGAS
By Gina
My friend Jerry is doing some research on gay bars in Vegas. I am disappointed to report that most of these bars are either located in strip malls or dark alleys. I don't think most gay men that I know would be caught dead anyway near these places (although should they venture out to any of them, it's likely they will be dead, as some of these places look like murder scenes.) Take a look and see for yourself.
http://www.vegas.com/nightlife/gayclubs/
Please, someone, send us some better ideas. Jerry's plane leaves tomorrow. Our request is urgent.
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