Faith in Gay Humanity: Safe for Now

The recent finale of "Make Me a Supermodel," or rather more specifically, the fact that Ronnie did not win, has bolstered my faith in gay humanity.

You know the homos were coming out in droves to watch those boys love themselves week after week. And week after week, polished, hairless gay hero Ronnie Kroell, glowing like a like a spring pig scrubbed in buttermilk, was snatched from the jaws of death.

Ronnie is hot, but not supermodel hot, whatever that is. And he's nice. And he's one of those people we hate who will be successful at everything he does. Yet there can be no other explanation than an army of gay well-wishers with cramped thumbs and light hearts sending text messages from far and wide to vote him back on the next week.

I was one of those gays. No matter the options, honestly, shirtless boys will win out every time.

His not winning was one of the few things that gave that show any credibility. I have a hard time feeling sorry for really beautiful people. I have a hard time believing that it's so hard to walk down a cat walk. But after watching the show, I am willing to concede that there is in fact a skill to modeling. Not a terribly complicated skill, but a skill nonetheless that clearly comes more naturally to some than others.

So, now I can believe that the contestant with the most — a-hem ... skill won. As long as Holly avoids talking to her clients, I think she has a long and successful career ahead of her.

"Let me see, kid... Republican, Democrat or gay?"

Just before my husband voted yesterday, one of the ancient poll workers was chatting him up.

"McMillan!" he said, looking at his last name. "Ah... like McMillan and Wife."

"I can't believe he turned out to be a homosexual," said a woman.

Another woman spoke up. "It seems like everyone is. There's 10 million of 'em."

"It's terrible," said another. And everyone at the table murmured and shook their heads.

Truly, you never know where one will end up. Maybe even right in front of you. Trying to vote. Doing his civic duty. Well, way to go, old folks! You've just committed voter intimidation.

But what's Jeff going to do — yell at an old man? His calling the election board to report the situation was probably more effective. And by that, unfortunately, I mean "probably not effective at all."

Is the board really going to screen for anti-gay bias? They should. Would it be acceptable for one of them to spout off their views on a racial or ethnic minority? About women's rights? Never. Especially on a Primary day, when every citizen can cast an equal vote.

New York Gay Rugby Team Reaches Milestone Game

UPDATE: The game will be at Wassening Park in Bloomfield, NJ, at 1 p.m. on 10/27. See gothamrfc.org for directions.

Following their defeat of Fordham University's Old Maroon RFC 41-5 on Saturday October 20, 2007, the Gotham Knights will advance to the the final round of the New York Metropolitan Rugby Union Division III playoffs this coming Saturday.

This is unprecedented for a gay rugby team in New York, or rather, a gay team that plays rugby. But since we've got a few straight guys on board, we can't really say that, so we say "predominantly gay." Which is fine by me, because even that is unprecedented. The win last weekend also makes us the first such team to play in the Northeast Rugby Union championship tournament in he spring, the first stage of the USA Rugby national championship playoffs.

And, wouldn't you know it, this happens during a season I happen not to be playing. (Maybe these two things are not unrelated...)

The championship game will be played at Brookdale Park in Montclair, NJ. I won't be there, because I'll be cleaning house for my husband's birthday party. But I will be on pins and needles waiting for that email from someone's Blackberry. Stay tuned.

More Than Broomsticks and Skeletons in Hogwarts Closets

J.K. Rowling outed Albus Dumbledore on Friday. From the BBC:

She made her revelation to a packed house in New York's Carnegie Hall on Friday, as part of her U.S. book tour.

She took audience questions and was asked if Dumbledore found "true love."

"Dumbledore is gay," she said, adding he was smitten with rival Gellert Grindelwald, who he beat in a battle between good and bad wizards long ago.

...

Rowling told the audience that while working on the planned sixth Potter film, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, she saw the script carried a reference to a girl who was once of interest to Dumbledore.

She said she ensured director David Yates was made aware of the truth about her character.

There is a lively and thorough discussion going on at AfterElton.com. One of the major criticisms of the revelation is that it's too late, and she should have been more forthcoming in the novels. I agree that her not revealing this fact before the publication of the final volume may smack of a cynical fear that sales might have been adversely affected. Religious zealots had enough to complain about with witchcraft (even though the characters clearly celebrate Christian holidays throughout the series), let alone the Gay Agenda. A scandal might have actually increased sales. Who can say? But clearly she was playing this carefully.

For a while I wondered (hoped?) if Harry might be gay. But it was soon put to rest. There certainly seemed to be some gay fodder with Remus Lupin, a character whose status as a werewolf inspired such discrimination against him, I thought for sure Rowling was making a statement about intolerance of homosexuality. But then she threw me for a loop when Lupin married and fathered a child with Tonks, a witch who surely could have been a lesbian. Lends credence to that common pitfall of American gaydar: Is he gay or just British? But I gave up on the notion that there might be obvious gay characters in the series.

Ultimately, though, I think the news about Dumbledore is good. If it's true that she sent a note to the Half-Blood Prince director to ... er, straighten out the script, it shows some integrity on her part. Makes me wonder what else just didn't make it into the books. There is an opportunity in the two final films to make more of his relationship with Grindelwald, if even only visually and subtly. Let's hope that Dumbledore's official outing encourages the filmmakers to not ignore the subject and to treat it with some dignity.

Tomas Mendes: Worst Cab Driver Ever

Sometimes you just don't have any luck with a cab driver. Jeff and I were once refused a ride home because the driver didn't feel like driving to Queens. He told us this after we were in his cab. he just refused to move until we got out. (This is against the rules, by the way. But what am I going to do? Take the wheel myself?)

Once a driver took offense when Jeff asked him to hang up his cell phone. He was rude and unresponsive to the point that he wouldn't look up to take our money when we reached our destination. Jeff dropped the cash in the front seat and got out. Thinking he hadn't been paid, the driver started shouting at us, calling Jeff a whore in Spanish.

Jeff is extremely friendly and respectful to cab drivers. He's a little picky about cell phones, maybe, but unlike many people in this city, he does not treat taxi drivers like servants. If they're amenable to conversation, he'll lean forward and chat them up. "How are you doing tonight?" "Where are you from?" And that kind of thing. "Pakistan? Ah. You from Lahore? Oh, yeah? I'm told it's a great city."

We're all people, and why shouldn't we talk to strangers? They don't always love it, but usually they'll at least be friendly. Sometimes it charms the drivers. Sometimes it just sort of fizzles. A couple of nights ago, however, it inspired something close to rage.

At closing time early on the morning of October 6, we hailed a cab outside of Xth Ave. Lounge in Hell's Kitchen. Jeff leaned forward to strike up a conversation with the driver as usual. He started out asking the guy about his name, Tomas Mendes, and tried to guess the origin. Mendes with an S indicates one thing, whereas Mendez with a Z indicates another, he was explaining to me.

"I don't like guys," the driver shouted.

Jeff paused. "I asked, 'Where are you from?'" he said, at which point, the driver pulled over and started shouting. I was so confused by the reaction, I couldn't even follow what he was saying. But it was soon clear that he was threatening to throw us out of the cab.

What? OK, I'm not going anywhere, I thought.

Jeff recoiled, wide-eyed, and sat back in the seat. The car came to a stop, and Tomas Mendes wildly gestured toward the door and continued ranting. I half expected him to reach back and hit one of us.

"Wait a minute. What are you talking about?" I said, raising my voice.

He turned in his seat and kept shouting and waving his hands. "You get back. I don't want to talk! I don't like mens!"

"OK, then. Just drive us home!" I shouted back.

"I don't like mens! I don't like mens!" he kept shouting.

You don't like English, either, do you? I thought.

"You know ... I was just trying to talk to you," Jeff said.

The note of confusion and dejection in his voice made my heart swell and raised all the hate I had in me toward that driver. He seemed to be waiting for us to exit the cab, but I was not about to get out of that car. Not for some homophobic moron. And if our presence irritated him so much, the back seat of that car is exactly where I wanted to be.

After a moment of silence, we began to move and we rejoined the traffic of 45th Street — and I fantasized about all the things I would do upon exiting the cab.

By the time we hit the 59th Street Bridge, I decided I'd spit on the back seat and then slam the door.

He studiously avoided eye contact in the rear-view mirror with either of us, but I kept a steady, scowling stare at the reflection of his large forehead in case he were to glance up.

At 21st Street in Long Island City, I decided to slam the door hard enough to break a window.

At 36th Street, I realized I had to pee, so I considered pressing hard on my bladder as long as I could stand it, and slightly undoing my pants, so I could open the door, let Jeff out, and piss in his back seat in one swift movement before slamming the door and running.

65th street: I'm going to take a shit right on the floor of the cab and leave him with the aroma of disappointment all the way back to Hell's Kitchen or the West Village or the East Villaqe or Midtown or Chelsea or Downtown — wherever else he might just pick up another drunk couple of fags.

Oh, I'm so glad he stopped my boyfriend from seducing him, because honestly, I too was irresistibly drawn to his receding hairline, his sallow eyes, his body odor... There was such a thin line between Jeff's check-out line conversation and a sexual overture. There's no telling what might have happened ...

I felt like I had just been verbally gay bashed. And all we did was behave like any two inebriated but polite 30-something men getting into a cab at four in the morning. And, honestly, I thought about my ability to hide behind that. How did he know we were gay? Xth Ave. Lounge is only gayish. Everyone goes there. What gives him the right? How dare he?

But a bit of shame struck me. And then I wished I could show him just how gay I really am. I wished I could fellate some guy in the back seat of his cab. I wished I could spread the result across the Plexiglass barrier. I wished he had reached back and hit one of us. I wanted an excuse to hit him so bad.

Of course, I did none of these things. I just reached over and touched my husband's leg and scratched him gently with my fingernail and looked up at him and winked. That was as gay as I needed to be. He seemed still a little shocked, and I was proud of my anger. So I went back to staring a hole through the driver's head.

All through the long trip home, I thought what might happen if we refused to pay him. How fast would we run? Would he follow us, cursing and shouting? Should we be dropped off several blocks from our apartment to throw him off? But even that would have been a step too far. We were better than that. Jeff asked him in his native language: "Do you want a tip?" A nice touch, I thought. An olive branch.

He refused. "No, just the fare."

So Jeff paid him. And Tomas Mendes was silent.

Not much of a charmer, our Tomas. Lic. No. 418186, expiring 03/08/09. Taxi No. 1P25. Worst cabbie I've ever met. And that is saying a lot in this city.

If I had a jar full of loose change, I would have counted out the shit in pennies and nickels and dropped it in his front seat.

I slammed the door anyway. The window did not break.

United for Equality; Separated by Police Escort.

I don't get too worked up about the prospect of meeting famous people. I don't hound them for autographs. I don't wait in crowds behind theaters and arenas hoping to catch a glimpse or snap a photo. For heaven's sake, I felt nothing but guilt over trying to get a snapshot of Cyndi Lauper recently, and when the images didn't turn out, I thought: "Serves me right."

Let them be famous and worlds apart from me. Let them be extraordinary, in my mind, to a degree only I can know. And let them live their real lives without me. They are the performers. I am the audience. Let us not break this sacred boundary.

So it is a particular irony that my first interaction with Broadway phenom Idina Menzel was not only a complete fiction, but also an unfortunate and unpleasant experience involving the NYPD that I hope never to repeat again in my life.

I have never seen Wicked, but I own the soundtrack. I saw the movie version of Rent. Didn't care for it. A lot of people whining about the consequences of the bad decisions they've made, I think. But I guess I admire Ms. Menzel, and enjoy her work. A fan? Eh... not really. She was the headline performer at last night's annual NYC Gay Pride pier dance, where I was a volunteer. And truth be told, I was more looking forward to the fireworks than her techno remix of "Defying Gravity," but after seeing her sound check earlier in the day, I could admit to having a mild curiosity to see her performance.

Once again, my rugby teammates and I were bartending for the slick, gyrating masses of manflesh that make up the pier dance. On my way to the volunteer port-a-johns toward the end of the night, I ran into a crowd behind the main stage area, just a few tents down from ours. I tried to skirt around the edge of the crowd near the fence, and someone from behind me grabbed my arm just above the elbow and yanked me violently backward. I assumed it was just someone telling me that I couldn't go past that point for some reason, so I shook off the hand and stepped backward, with my hands out, trying to see what was going on. "Whoa! OK. No trouble. I can wait."

"What do you want to do with him?" I heard someone say.

I had my volunteer shirt on, and my credentials on me. Whatever was happening, I assumed I could just wait it out. At least they knew I belonged there.

But suddenly I was aware that I was being surrounded.

"He's out of here," said someone else.

Two police officers snapped to attention and guided me away by the arms. They marched me past my team's tent. A few of them saw me being led away, but the cops wouldn't let me stop to tell anyone what was happening. They were not rough, but they were direct and very clear about me moving along. I still had no idea what had just happened. And I still had to piss like a racehorse. So I asked them to explain.

"The head of security saw you," said one of them.

"Saw me?" I said. "I don't even know what it is that I've done. Can you at least explain to me what's happening?"

"He saw you go right for the talent," said the other one.

There had been volunteers and security folk and cops all around — as there had been all over the pier all night long — and there was no one turning people away or stopping anyone from passing. A slip in security allowed me unwittingly too close for comfort, and now it looked like someone was overcompensating for his error by making a spectacle of kicking me out. Maybe the security folks were starstruck, themselves.

"OK," I said. "I'm not going to try arguing. Clearly I'm out of here no matter what. But I have to tell you, I was just walking to the bathroom. I swear I didn't even know she was there. I didn't even see her. I don't understand how this is even happening."

One of the officers, perhaps beginning to believe me, explained to me that it didn't matter if I had done something wrong or not. The head of security wanted me out of there, so they were obligated to take me out of there. End of story.

"You're seriously telling me that I need to be escorted out of here like this?" I said. "I need to completely leave the pier?"

Yes. I did.

They walked me to the front gate. They allowed me to get my bag from the volunteer bag check. They made a guard cut off my wristband and said that I was not to be admitted back in. The whole thing was very humiliating and confusing. So I walked off down 14th street, ripped off my bar crew badge, stripped off my volunteer t-shirt and dropped it into a trash can.

I won't speak ill of Heritage of Pride as a whole. I know they're very careful and serious about safety. And they do a phenomenal job of organizing and coordinating the volunteers. But clearly some of the volunteers can be a little overzealous. I felt a lot better after speaking the next day to the volunteer coordinator, a very nice man, who asked me a lot of good questions and made sure he got the story straight before he apologizing and saying it shouldn't have happened. He was surprised that there was no first warning. My first indication that I was in the wrong place was being yanked out my skin.

I never even laid eyes on Ms. Menzel, let alone a hand. I didn't even get a chance to see who this security guy was. And perhaps the worst part of it is I still had to pee. Badly. So I high-tailed it to a bar nearby and answered nature's subtle call. I couldn't make out Ms. Menzel's voice from across the West Side Highway, but the fireworks were not half bad. Then I met my boyfriend and got roaring drunk.

"Is my 13-year-old son gay?"

The April 10 edition of Cary Tennis' Salon.com advice column, "Since You Asked," features a remarkable response to a parent's concern that his son is looking at gay porn online. I found this on OMG blog. I have never read "Since You Asked" before. I know nothing about Cary Tennis. But I think this is a really helpful way to think about the homo/hetero divide and, as Frank points out, a good way to think about anyone who is not like oneself.

Not Above Average

Garrison Keillor has issued an apology for an ill-timed and poorly executed attempt at satire he wrote last week, which I was hoping for and expecting. I agree with towleroad.com: It comes off as a bit disingenuous, because I know he knows better; I don't know how he could be surprised by the response. Keillor is no bigot. But even good Democrats can be a bit ham-handed. That column should not have happened, but I think the apology is sincere.

Not everyone gets Lake Wobegon. Not everyone thinks it's funny. I think Dan Savage overreacted last week — and I know even some of his shrieking might be taken as self parody — but he has some thoughtful things to say today.

UPDATE:
This is satire.

(Special thanks to Good As You.)

Lake Wobegon Gays

A friend pointed me today to this Slog entry by Dan Savage about a March 14 commentary by Garrison Keillor on Salon.com about taking care of the kids, in which he extols the virtues of heterosexual marriage and simultaneously defames same-sex parenting. Here's a sampling:

And now gay marriage will produce a whole new string of hyphenated relatives. In addition to the ex-stepson and ex-in-laws and your wife's first husband's second wife, there now will be Bruce and Kevin's in-laws and Bruce's ex, Mark, and Mark's current partner, and I suppose we'll get used to it.

The country has come to accept stereotypical gay men — sardonic fellows with fussy hair who live in over-decorated apartments with a striped sofa and a small weird dog and who worship campy performers and go in for flamboyance now and then themselves. If they want to be accepted as couples and daddies, however, the flamboyance may have to be brought under control. Parents are supposed to stand in back and not wear chartreuse pants and black polka-dot shirts. That's for the kids. It's their show.

Not sure what "stereotypical gay men," or America's supposed acceptance of them, have to do with any of the actually quite lovely things he says about kids and the way life can be. He's so much smarter than this, little more than a catalog of thoughtless stereotypes. Surely his world travels — and his social circles — must have delivered him a broader, truer view of gay men than he lets on.

It's a cheap shot. The whole two paragraphs are completely unnecessary. It's an intellectual and moral disappointment.

And then he throws the gays a bone: "I suppose we'll get used to it."

Well, thank you very much for that concession. I hope we don't inconvenience you too much in the meantime.

Keillor's comments wouldn't hurt so much if I didn't respect him as much as I do. Savage, for one, is fighting mad. There's not much I can add that he hasn't already said.

In his misplaced, futile and delusional longing for the Goode Olde Days, I think maybe he's confusing the whimsical, kitschy, also-stereotypical world of Lake Wobegon with the real world. Billy Joel said it pretty well, I think: "The good old days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems."

Glass of Water for Mr Grainger!

Rest in peace, John Inman. Now you're free.

Can't Come Quickly Enough

Pop! [scissorsisters.com]

It's hard for me to say who opened for Scissor Sisters last night at the Madison Square Garden Theater. I managed to glean that they are from Youngstown, Ohio, but not much more. When the duo introduced themselves to the audience shortly before exiting the stage, I couldn't understand what they were saying. Neither could I understand their name when Jake Shears thanked them later toward the conclusion of the Sisters' own set. I guess I'd thank them, too. They're the kind of act anyone would want to follow. (A scattered few politely applauded between songs, but the loud, raucous, honest hooting and hollering came when they walked off.) Case in point: The three wigs on people-length sticks (one brunette, one red and one blond) set up on stage after Youngstown left, standing in a light show while '50s-style girl group tracks played in the background, was more interesting in every way than the mysterious human opener.

They were called Wigs on Sticks. It was cute.

Following this was a DJ, about whom I knew nothing. It was good, but misplaced, I think. It would have been lovelier if we were at a smaller venue, say a music club, where we could actually dance. This kind of show doesn't work well in a theater. Maybe I'm lacking in imagination, but a DJ set seems a little empty to an audience with seats.

By the time we had sat through an hour and 45 minutes of the Ohioans, the wigs, and the DJ — and by the time the audience was well and truly crocked, having been steadily streaming out into the lobby for cocktails and beers — we were positively starved for the Scissor Sisters. The long delay made their nearly hour-and-a-half show so much more the thrill. But so would it have done for nearly anyone with a microphone and a modicum of talent.

Hi, my name is Chip, and I'll be on your shoulder this evening.

Last night at the bar, a friend and I were distracted by a beautiful man taking off his shirt. He was standing with his back against the bar, facing us. A small cadre of piranhas had gathered around him. The guy who had asked him to disrobe — let's call him Chip — draped the shirt briefly and inexplicably across my friend's shoulder. Pleased to be included in the proceedings, we continued watching. How could we not?

Seconds later, the heavenly creature was persuaded to drop his pants to his ankles. We all cooed in approval. He was hairless, except for a trail of fuzz that ran south from his tight navel and dashed seductively under the waistband of his powder-blue briefs. Chip then grabbed the waistband and unceremoniously yanked the shorts down hard.

The guy put on a good show of being embarrassed and tugged them half-heartedly back up his thighs, but Chip was pretty insistent about leaving him exposed.

My friend and I looked at each other. "That's not something you see every day at this bar," I said, loud enough for everyone around me to hear. Like the red-blooded American homosexual males we are, we continued to react loudly and enthusiastically to the gentleman's sudden and unexpected nudity.

Chip turned half-way to us and said something we couldn't understand. Something about chocolate.

What?

He repeated himself louder, or said something similar, but it still wasn't making sense to us. It was something like: "You can stop talking about chocolate now. I know you don't like the chocolate boys."

My friend and I were incredulous. Who said anything about chocolate? Was he talking about black boys?

Whatever it was, Chip continued laying into us. It seemed that he was accusing us of being racist. Chip is African American. But we had said nothing about him. We had said nothing to him. We weren't even looking at him. We were too distracted — and rightfully so — by the gloriously indecent exposure before us.

"Dude," my friend said, "We don't even know what you're talking about."

"We're not talking about you, if that's what you think," I added. "We were talking about the naked guy."

Chip was clearly agitated, and he continued his tirade. The more he said, the more worked up he got. There was something menacing and cold in his voice. It was all so sad and stupid. A moment that was so frivolous and harmless and fun had been sucked dry in just a few seconds by this guy, and all because of assumptions he was making about us. Who's the racist here?

I wanted to try to figure out what he thought he'd heard us say so we could defuse the situation and move away without any trouble. I imagined we might laugh uneasily at the silly misunderstanding — uh heh heh heh... — and assume stations at opposite ends of the bar without any fuss. And I might have tried to play the peasemaker if he hadn't then turned to my friend directly and said, "And by the way, I'm better-looking then you are, too."

My friend sort of recoiled, wide-eyed and incredulous. It was making less and less sense. Chip then let loose on several aspects of my friend's appearance. Chip evidently did not approve of certain things. What the hell was going on? He was fighting back with personal insults when we never even attacked him (or addressed him, for that matter) in the first place?

"Whoa... wait a minute. Where did that come from?" I asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Hey, fuck you!" my friend shouted back.

At this point, I grabbed my friend's bag and pushed it into his hand. "This is crazy. Let's just go," I said, not wanting to see who might get hurt if the situation escalated (it was less likely to be my friend).

Neither of us knew what Chip had heard or what he was going on about. "Bravo," I said to him. "Have a lovely night."

"Yeah, you too," he said coldly.

"You bet," I said. "Of course."

I tugged at my friend and we headed toward the door. "Yeah, fuck you, you little asshole," he yelled to Chip.

And when I got outside, I realized that I was in such a hurry to get away from the danger that I had forgotten to say good-byr to any of the peopel we were with. A complete stranger's idiocy had just completely scared me out onto the sidewalk.

Getting the Feeling Again

I've had a spring in my step, humming Copacabana to myself — Her name was Lola! — all day today. Yes, it's Friday. But I've also been overdosing on Barry Manilow.

I've always had a soft spot for him. My mom had a bunch of records when I was a kid and, later, greatest-hits tapes. I used to rotate those records through my regular play list, which included Sesame Street Gold, Mickey Mouse Disco, and the E.T. soundtrack. (Turn on your heart light!)

He always made me think of New York. It was his accent. And something about his sense of style. These days, I guess he's more a figure of Las Vegas and cruise ships, but now that I live in New York, listening to him still brings it all back to mind, and it's still very New York to me. But it's an old New York. It's a faded, grainy color TV-screen, Solid Gold, polyester, white patent leather, pre-MTV, Chorus Line, afros and bell-bottoms sort of New York.

It's so delightfully old-fashioned. No one writes songs like those anymore. In our age of irony, no one can afford to be so earnest. But that's his schtick, and he can still work it. "I am music and I write the songs"? It's very hey-let's-put-on-a-show!

I've had a craving for a while now, so I recently downloaded a bunch of stuff the other day. I look around myself on the train in the morning. He's got hip hop. She's got reggaeton. Judging by that one's thrapping fingers and expressive eyebrows, he's probably listening to some sort of emo band. And I've got string arrangements swelling as Barry waxes melancholic over and over about Mandy. If they only knew, I would so get beaten up. I love it.

My mom and I sometimes listened to her tapes while cleaning house or sitting around on vacation. Up at the cottage one summer, we were listening to "Weekend in New England," and my grandmother put down her National Enquirer, folded up her glasses and declared: "I think he's a queer. Don't you?"

I'll never forget that. I think it was the first time she had brought up the topic. She regularly had a litany of offensive pronouncements about Blacks and Asians — without ever quite understanding why they were offensive. ("It's how I was raised," was always the excuse.)

"Nah," said my mom, vaguely put off, not because she was disappointed by my grandmother's deragatory tone, but because she saw no reason to discuss the love that dare not speak its name.

"You don't think so?"

"Well, he's singing about women, Ma."

"Huh," she said. "I don't know. Just something about him, I guess." Then she picked up her glasses and began to read again.

R.I.P., Oddfellows

[oddfellowsrestaurant.com]

My favorite restaurant in all the world was a darling little number in Northeast Minneapolis. ("was" ... It hurts just saying that.) It was attached to a gay bar called Boom! under the same ownership. I just learned that the venerable gay-owned Oddfellows closed down on the 10th and Boom! will pull up stakes later this month, which makes me very, very sad. Some heteros got in on the "Nordeast" economic boom and bought them out, I guess.

Oddfellows always claimed it wasn't a "gay restaurant," which I found to be a.) usually inaccurate given the clientel, and b.) irrelevant and a slightly off-putting designation.

However, their chow was magnificent. The menu changed every season and was always fresh. Oddfellows described its food as "Contemporary American Cuisine with an 'odd' twist of flavors from around the world." (Read the description here, before their Web site completely disappears.) Their orange-lacquered pork tenderloin was one of the finest dishes on earth. And I once had a lavender-infused custard dessert there that nearly made me mess my pants. Oddfellows taught me to appreciate excellent gourmet food in human-sized (read: non-Applebee's) portions, and to not be so uptight about a high restaurant bill — as long as it's worth it. And it always was.

The inimitable Dara Moskowitz of the alternative news and arts weekly CityPages predicted upon its opening that it would become a "big destination restaurant."

The shingle soon to be removed. [oddfellowsrestaurant.com]

The restaurant and bar occupied a historic building (c. 1891), the meeting lodge of the Independent Order of Oddfellows. Lots of exposed brick and holes in the wall where heavy timber floor joices once inserted. The high pressed-tin ceiling throughout was cool. The blonde woodwork was a little bit too "Target" for my taste, and the stainless steel bar felt a little cold to me. But it was always clean and bright.

I'll miss that place. Lots of anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine's Days and impromptu "fancy" dinners out.

As for Boom!, I can take it or leave it. As a bar, it was not remarkable. The burgers were fantastic, and the fries were tasty (both were from the Oddfellows kitchen), but the drinks were too pricey and it was famously impossible to get a bartender's attention on a busy night.

The one thing that impressed me about it (besides its Nordeast location — I lived in the neighborhood) is that it was the first gay bar I had seen in the Twin Cities that had enormous windows that were not blackened out or boarded up. It left the 'mos inside exposed to the blue collar and the sunlight. To me it represented a proud declaration that Minneapolis' queers would not be kept underground and in the dark.

Oh, how I used to love standing in front of those wide-open windows on Showtunes Night, belting out "Nothing Dirty Goin' On" from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, being gay and free.

More Gayness

When I came out nigh on 11 years ago, I vowed to resist the temptations of the dark side and to use my powers only for the forces of good, but yesterday I inadvertently grossed out two little kids.

Sometimes when you're gay, and you say good night to a gay friend, you give him a little kiss. Sometimes, after one too many at the bar, you give him a big one. Sometimes, less frequently, he might lay a good one on you — with some full-on tongue action if you're lucky.

In my world this is normal.

In the world of the little boys who captured the moment in their Fujicolor memories, it is not.

I was vaguely aware that they were posed behind me at the corner, standing with their dirt bikes leaning against their thighs, having just crossed the street. They had seen us, stopped still and went silent.

Then one of them piped up, "Ew! Oh geez! Those boys just kissed." His friend said nothing.

First, I thought, what are these two kids doing out on their bikes at this time of night?

Then I was transported back to my elementary school playground, the site of much juvenile character assassination, where the tombstones of egos are lined up along the edge of the blacktop.

He wasn't even making fun of us, but for a half a second his reaction got to me.

Mustn't ... kiss ... a boy. Going ... to hell.

I'd been there so often before, and on both sides. I don't remember ever being teased for being a homo in school. But I definitely was teased for other things, abundant athletic ineptitude being chief among them. But what is worse is that I — in fact I — did tease other kids about being homos.

Shame hung like the limp shadow of a memory, waiting for me to notice, draw it around my shoulders and wear it home with me.

But I left it hanging there. I turned and walked away, the kid calling out behind me, insistent that somebody hear him, "Ohmygod, gross! Those boys just kissed!"

I didn't have to turn around. I didn't have to look at him. Let him see what happens at the corner of 12th and A at 1 a.m., I thought. Let him remember it, and let his shock fade away to nothing.

What Are You Looking At?

I took great comfort this morning in the fact that, when I caught myself staring at a woman's ass this morning on the F train, it was not her ass that I was contemplating but the stitching on her back pockets. This is absolutely true, and a perfectly legitimate subject of homosexual male interest.

Lord... if someone had called me on it, I would have been far less embarrassed by my staring at a woman's butt than my staring at a woman's butt. I hope no one saw me. As Hollywood said in the tragically unrerrated Andrew McCarthy/Kim Cattrall star-maker Mannequin: "I have a reputation to uphold."

Burn the Witch!

This just in from the Morning Herald in Sydney, Australia, where it is already tomorrow:

BARE-FACED CHEEK
Who said Americans had a sense of humour? Our man in New York, Phillip McCarthy, went to see the Australian gay rugby team, the Sydney Convicts, take on teams from North America and Europe to win the Bingham Cup, named after a gay 9/11 victim, Mark Bingham.

When a couple of streakers from the Convicts section tried to cross the field, the hosts were not amused. Says McCarthy: "Americans don't really get streaking at sports events — it's considered an English peculiarity, like bad plumbing," and the incident brought a swift public address announcement from arena officials threatening to stop the match if there was a repetition.

I missed this incident, but I heard from many people afterward about the streakers at half-time during the final San Francisco Fog vs. Sydney Convicts match on Sunday, May 29. These may have been the same guys who ran naked somersaults across the stage during the kangaroo court at the closing night party at Webster Hall later that night. If so, I'm sorry I missed half time.

I would like to state for the record that the source of the displeasure was not an entity affiliated with the hosts of the tournament, my rugby team. No, we know how to appreciate a well-placed naked man in rugby boots. The announcement came rather from a joyless official on the loudspeaker at Icahn Stadium, which adjoined the pitch where the match was being played, and which was hosting a high school or junior high track meet at the time. I guess the guy on the mic threatened to call the police, with all the humor of a 17th century Puritan preacher and all the authority of your meanest uncle.

Yes, with naked men and women dripping from billboards up and down Manhattan and bullets and explosions all day long on television, heaven forbid we should allow people to see a fun, non-sexual and completely harmless expression of nudity in real life. This shame of the human body in America is freakish.

Bingham Cup 2006

On Memorial Day weekend, my rugby team, the Gotham Knights, hosted the third biennial Bingham Cup, the largest international tournament of gay rugby teams in the world. (Previous hosts are the San Francisco Fog and the King's Cross Steelers of London.)

Here's our latest press release:

The Sydney Convicts Rugby Football Club took top honors on May 28 at the 2006 Bingham Cup hosted this year in New York City. Having traveled half-way around the world from Australia to compete, the Convicts' victory against the San Francisco Fog in the finals closed out the international gay rugby tournament held in honor of United Flight 93 hero Mark Bingham.

Alice Hoagland, mother of United Flight 93 hero and gay rugby player Mark Bingham, presented the grand prize on Randall's Island, the site of the tournament. More than 700 rugby players from teams around the world competed in 80 matches. Ms. Hoagland passed up screenings of United 93 at the Cannes Film Festival to attend the tournament. Instead, she presented the Cup named after her son to the winning team on Sunday. Players from teams all over the USA and from Canada, England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Holland, and Australia, flew in for the tournament.

In addition to the presentation of the Cup, Boston Ironsides won the second division competition with a 3-0 overtime victory against the Dallas Diablos to take home the Bingham Bowl. The Sydney Convicts also won the third division by defeating a Worldwide Barbarians team by 26-7 to take home the Bingham Plate. In the first ever Bingham Cup women's rugby division, top honors went to the aptly named team from New York Rugby Club named "I Love Kuch," who bested the Scottsdale Lady Blues and a composite team to take the newly designated prize.

The Bingham Cup is the biennial international rugby competition named after Mark Bingham a hero of United Flight 93 on September 11, 2001. Bingham played for gay & bisexual rugby team the San Francisco Fog RFC after leading UC Berkeley to national championships. The Bingham Cup was first held in San Francisco in 2002 and in London in 2004. The 2006 Bingham Cup was hosted by the Gotham Knights Rugby Football Club, a team Bingham was helping to found in 2001 before his untimely passing, and proceeds will benefit both college scholarships via the Mark Bingham Leadership Fund and the United 93 Memorial Fund.

For more information about the Bingham Cup, participating teams and match results go to www.binghamcup.com.

Associated Press coverage of the tournament was picked up across the country in mostly smaller daily papers. We've been covered in the gay press and internationally, notably in Australia, the UK and South Africa. We've also had some strange appearances, such as on Chinese and Indian television.

Notable appearances:
• Outsports.com
• New York 1 television news (Includes video clip. Please excuse the silly spelling error in the headline.)
• Reuters.com (Includes video clip.)
• Newsday

Other appearances:
Time Out New York
New York Channel 9
MSNBC
CNN SI
Sports Illustrated Live
WNBC
LOGO
YES Network
Boston Herald
at least one TV station in mainland China
at least one TV station in India
Fort Worth Star Telegram
Arizona Republic
Calgary Sun
Hamilton Spectator (Ontario)
The Independent (South Africa)
Mail & Guardian (Johannesburg, S.A.)
The Trentonian (New Jersey)
Charleston Gazette
San Diego Union Tribune
WKNG Channel 6, (Orlando, FL)
Times Leader (Wilkes Barre, PA)
Findlaw
Auburn Citizen (New York)
Guelph Mercury (Canada)
Standard Speaker (Pennsylvania)
Edge (Boston)
The State (South Carolina)
Pioneer Press (St. Paul, MN)
Monterey County Herald (CA)
NEPA News (PA)
Kentucky.com
Kansas.com
Sydney Star Observer (Australia)
UK Gay News (London)
PM Entertainment (Long Island)
New York Blade
Southern Voice (Atlanta)
Houston Voice
Southern Voice (Florida)
Washington Blade
Gay Outdoors
365Gay.com
OutUK (London)
Gaysports