(The Streets of) Philadelphia

It’s kind of a travesty that I hadn’t seen Philadelphia all the way through yet.  When you ask most people to name a cultural touchstone that combines the themes of LGBT and Philly, OutFest usually isn’t the first thing that comes to mind, so in a sense perhaps it should be required viewing for every Philadephia queer.  On the other hand, I feel like it’s become so dated, and kind of a hackneyed example of gay narrative; people only remember it at the expense of other, better films because it has Tom and Denzel.  Still, I figured it deserved another chance, as I hadn’t seen it since the eighth grade.

My initial thoughts were varied.  First, I can’t stand the damn Springsteen song.  I’ll say it.  It’s saccharine, and overplayed, and my dad played it so many times while I was growing up that I can’t even listen to it without hitting the mute button.  Second, the montage of street scenes was really cool – I kept jumping up and down shouting “omg I know where that is!”  – but really, a lot of it is pretty different now.  (No Comcast Center?)  (I do the same thing when watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, for the record.)  Third, I think everyone in the movie is listed in the opening credits.  EVERYONE.  There’s only five or six we really care about, so do we have to know who plays the guy who hits on Denzel in the drugstore before we’ve even seen the beginning?  But then, as you get into the meat of the film, once Tom Hanks starts being all suave and energetic…

…well, it’s really not a very good movie.  A lot of people swear up and down that it’s the cornerstone of gay-themed cinema, that it’s solid gold all the way through, and I agree that it was an important, landmark film for it’s time, but from a cinematographic point of view, it’s pretty awful.  Half of the shots are extreme close-ups of things like, I don’t know, Antonio Banderas’ very INTENSE FACE, or the random friend of Tom Hanks walking towards the bathroom with A CONCERNED EXPRESSION when he hears puking, a friend whom we don’t see for the rest of the movie.  And the acting.  Oh, the acting.  Aside from Tom Hanks – who was very good, and was entitled to the Oscar – and Denzel Washington – who wasn’t perfect, but had his moments – by and large most of the cast was wooden, and those that weren’t had far too little screen time (e.g. Jason Robards).  Antonio Banderas was very pretty, but aside from adding his Spanish Intensity to the scenes, he didn’t do much; Mary Steenburgen’s opening to the jury in the courtroom scene is a snoozer.  A lot of the dialogue seemed to be taken from a junior-high afterschool special on AIDS; given the climate in 1993, I can understand why audiences might need to be educated in this way, but 15 years later, it’s one part of the movie that definitely hasn’t held up.  Does anyone watching this not know how HIV spreads?

The best parts are where timeless emotions associated with the epidemic come through: Denzel’s awkwardness in dealing with Tom Hanks, simultaneously wanting to defend him and not wanting to breathe near him.  The moment in the courtroom where Denzel holds up the mirror to show Tom his own lesions.  The infamous, “ARE – YOU – GAY!?” scene.  (And hell, even Antonio gets a good moment when he breaks down in the hospital.)  It’s those uncomfortable emotions, not those extreme closeups, that are pertinent to a contemporary audience – and it’s weird to say that, since 15 years, when you think about it, isn’t that long a time.  I suppose it’s a testament to how far we’ve come in our education.  Spending time saying, “Well, duh, everyone knows you can’t spread it from a baseball cap” lets us devote more interest to those rawer feelings we all still share.

One more thing bugs me, though.  This film didn’t need to be set in Philadelphia.  Sometimes, you can’t even tell that it’s Philadelphia (aside from geographic references, like when Jason Robards talks about “those sleazy bars on Chestnut Street”).  I’m glad it was, but at times I wonder why; is it just because it means “brotherly love”?  Is that really it?  Corny.  It was fun, though: “OMG Denzel is at 4th Street Deli!  OMG Denzel lives in QUEEN VILLAGE!”

At least the opera scene was good.  Oscar material right there, Tom.

~~ PQ

Hair

OK.  Body hair.  Different people obviously have different opinions on it, but by and large, it seems like most of the gays I know choose to remove it in one way or another.  I don’t get it, but at the same time, I do; there’s this almost visceral urge to just get rid of it.  What’s funny is that I never felt that way personally until the first time I shaved large portions of my torso, and for whatever reason, it just really stuck.  I guess there’s just something attractive about looking like a 12-year-old when your shirt is off?

Actually, in all seriousness, I do remember learning way back in high school bio that most species have the concept of neoteny, where certain youthful characteristics are retained and are more attractive to the opposite gender.  (This is in species that have gender, of course.)  Certainly the same thing applies to humans: most people would agree that the general conception of beauty is associated with youth, health, and perhaps the prime of sexuality.  But I think culturally, we might be taking it too far.   (For a hetero example, why do middle-aged men in Japan have a preoccupation with teenage girls in all their bubbly glory?)  Guys grow chest hair, it happens, yet there’s this compulsion, maybe even an obligation, to remove it; failure to do so means you’re a bear or maybe a hipster.  Youthful characteristics may be hardwired into our brains, but come on, shaving off the majority of one’s hair?  Where/when did this start?  I’m inclined to blame Ancient Greece…

I can understand that guys like to show off muscles, though I don’t really see how hair gets in the way of that.  I understand that some people have just absurd amounts of hair, like Greek guys, and removing it is the only way to walk around without feeling like you have a carpet stuffed down your shirt; I’ve been with a few guys like that and two days later I was still plucking the little bits out of clothes.  And for guys who are mega-twinks, under 21s who are tenaciously clinging to the adolescence that was theirs not so long ago, I have sympathy.  But for the majority of the gay population who falls between, say, 21 (when you can get into places where they know your minimum age) and 35 (when you start moving into “daddy” territory), the prime afternoon of your life, we’re not fooling anyone.  A 30-something with a shaved chest is still a 30-something, neoteny be damned.

I’m no exception to the rule.  I’ve been blessed to have relatively little body hair to begin with (except the legs, and I can’t bring myself to shave those; the idea of what that might be like growing back is too painful even to consider), and generally I hit all the major areas on Friday night for 20 minutes in the shower.  Under the arms, center of the chest, belly, and yes, down there (but I just trim).  I get carded regularly, so I feel young enough to justify doing it, and it looks better than the sparse patch of fuzz which would otherwise be on my sternum.  Doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally feel a little ridiculous while doing it.  On the other hand, I guess women do it all the time, and they don’t see it as weird; there’s no evolutionary rule that says they’re “supposed” to shave their bodies.  Lucky bitches.  Meanwhile, I’m fretting around trying to figure out if waxing would be better than shaving, or if I should try Nair, and should I work out more to have more muscle so it looks better if I don’t have hair on my chest… why do we subject ourselves to these questions unnecessarily, when we could all just let a reasonable amount of fuzz stay there in peace?

Not sure.  I’m not changing my habits, and I don’t expect anyone else, but damn is it weird to think about.

~~ PQ

Valanni

This being Restaurant Week here in the city, let’s have ourselves some food reviewed!  After all, there’s a certain order to the typical nighttime crawl in the ‘hood.  Before you have a wild night of sexy passion leading to a morning steeped in regret, you have to fortify yourself with drinks.  And before you fortify yourself with drinks, you need to fill your stomach with delicious foodstuffs.  For many of the regulars, Valanni* is the place to go, primarily because it’s right in the middle of everything (conveniently located at the corner of 13th and Spruce), but also for its merits as a chill evening spot.

* Some people swear by Bump instead, but I vote for the order Valanni-Bump-nightclub of choice.  Why pick just one?

For starters, the food is downright amazing.  You can start off with any of several tapas and appetizer dishes, from kebabs to assortments of cheese, to the outstanding ham croquettes or shiitake polenta.  An order of the red or white mussels is more than sufficient for an entire meal.  If you elect to (just) have an entrée, get the paella for two and make your date pay; otherwise, there’s duck, lamb, tuna, stuffed chicken, and the like, each with a distinct and mouth-watering flavor combination of sauce and spice.  Or, if you’re feeling less fancy, they make a mean plate of burger and fries too, with that spicy mayo that takes pommes frites to a whole new level.  End with one of their fantastic desserts: trust me, I’ve tried them all, and each one is an experience.  (I’ve had wet dreams about the bread pudding.)

(Well, okay, not really, but you get what I mean.)

The layout of the restaurant has a large square bar in the middle of the main dining room, with individual lounges stretching out from the corners, allowing for easy transport of your chosen alcoholic bev to the table.  They offer a wide variety of cocktails and liquors, and the wine list is ridiculous.  The added bonus of an extremely attractive wait staff is also nice; you’ll probably find several excuses during the night to call your waiter over, just to admire the view.  The music isn’t half-bad, and though the restaurant is full of cozy nooks, it’s never quite full enough to have volume be an issue.  Whether you decide to stop by at 6 or midnight (and they do offer a late-night menu featuring most of the starter dishes, at least), you and your posse will be able to enjoy a relaxing meal.  (At least, until you get the check.  Valanni is many things, but cheap is not one of them.  However, it is one of the few places where you honestly do get your chunk of money’s worth.)  In any case, check it out at www.valanni.com and see what’s what.

Conveniently across the street: Jay’s Deli, for cheaper and equally delicious paninis, Gatorade, and condoms.  Around the corner: Tavern on Camac or the Venture Inn, for putting 1 to 2 of those to good use.

~~ PQ

Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

I don’t know if it’s a typical gay thing, or a stereotype that’s been blown out of proportion, or what, but for some reason, every once in a while I get this weird drive to go be a go-go dancer.  And I know I’m not alone: many of my friends have said the same thing, that it would be fun to do for a living.  Sometimes it gets even more scandalous.  We talk about being strippers, or rentboys, or having sugar daddies, or being escorts…it’s really astonishing how many professions there are that center around being young and attractive with implicit sex for money.  But really, why?  I’d bet someone else’s left testicle that straight men don’t get the same inclinations, and I can’t remember the last time a lesbian told me how badly she wanted to be a call girl.  (Jury’s still out on straight women; maybe I should take a poll on the corner.)

Where does that drive stem from?  Maybe it’s connected to the whole impression of gays-are-whores thing.  Because let’s face it, 90% of gay men are faithless, fickle, and flirtatious, going from guy to guy like they’re sampling chocolates.  Is it hardwired into the gay brain, or is it a self-reinforcing subculture where commitment = weakness and sex = scorecard?  Either way, maybe the idea behind it is a need to feel sexy and beautiful, to make oneself as tarted up as possible, to sleep with as many people as possible as if this will justify your attractiveness and allure.  And you have to do this because… I don’t know, not being accepted in your youth for who you were, you need to overcompensate in adulthood?  And maybe go-go dancing and prostitution are even better, because then not only are you being admired for your body and appreciated for who you are, but you’re getting money for it as well.  You must be really hot.  Thank God club managers at least have a decent eye for their dancers, because if everyone who had this inferiority complex followed their desire and got naked onstage, we’d have some hideous sights to behold.  (Why do unattractive gay men still have this drive to be a stripper, but really hot straight guys don’t?  They don’t need to show off because society already loves them?  It’s a mystery.)

Another thing I don’t get: tranny prostitution!  You walk down to 12th and Spruce in the wee hours of the morning, and you’re bound to see Miss Thangs hanging out on the corners with 6-inch heels and enough makeup to paint a house.  I have nothing against transvestites, and I know a couple who are very friendly and together; likewise, I have nothing against prostitution as an institution, and know a few escorts as well.  But when their powers combine, I just don’t get it, almost as much as I just don’t get the fat ugly married old straight men that drive down Spruce Street cruising for them.  I suppose that as a gay man, even though one feels that level of social outcastiness, one is still pretty well-adjusted.  For someone who feels s/he should be dressing as a woman, there’s no hiding; if you want to talk about overcompensation, selling yourself for money to whoever’s willing to buy is just about as far as you can go for acceptance.  Maybe I’m psychoanalyzing this too much, but after all, it’s just a theory.  (But those old men are a whole different story…they either need to go home to their wives, or just suck it up and admit they’re gay, and get over it.  My pity level for their confusion only goes so far before sleaziness just puts me off entirely.)

I do feel fortunate that I grew up in a fairly accepting household in a fairly accepting part of the country.  Doesn’t mean I don’t feel the urge to get out there and strut once in a while, but it’s hardly a life calling.  Besides, at 30, it’s all over, honey.

~~ PQ

Oh Bama!

Haven’t posted in quite a while, but after a ridiculous week at work and a trip to NYC this weekend, I needed some recuperation time; sitting at Chapterhouse now, able to collect my thoughts for the first time in days.  And while I could talk about life things and stuff that’s pretty trivial unless you’re me (which you probably aren’t), I’ll do instead what everyone and their mom is doing and blog about the inauguration.  (Which I already did on another blog, but unless you’re one of the two people who knows about both of those, you haven’t read this yet.)

First and foremost, the Internet was really pissing me off at work due to its lagginess; I had to rely on minute-by-minute updates from the BBC website for the speech because CNN was so overloaded.  But still, got some of the chatter and musical interludes on streaming radio, which was cool; I won’t make a big ta-da about the historic occasion and being a part of it, et cetera, et cetera, because I wasn’t there, and really, I wasn’t part of it.  I merely observed, and felt a great sense of relief after eight years of bullshit.  I was reading a transcript of the speech here, and committed lots of head-nodding, but I was especially amused when I compared it to Bush’s 2004 speech, and even more so when I compared it to his 2000 speech.  (A one liner from that crisp January afternoon: “We will reform Social Security and Medicare.”  What?)  I think that Obama’s heart is in the right place, or at least a lot closer to the right place than most of the Washington folks we’ve seen in the past Long Time.  It’s unlikely he’ll get done all the grand plans he’s discussed both in his campaign and his speeches, but he appears to have integrity, at least; I would call him naive before I call him corrupt.  It’s important that he tries, sincerely, and sets this fucking country on the path it needs to travel.

Sidebar: Michelle Obama.  Holy hell.  I fucking love her.  Hillary wasn’t bad, but she was too schoolmarmish to really tickle me with her White House fashions — after all, the President not only has to be an effective leader, he must be a charismatic one, and apperances are, unfortunately, a large part of that.  The First Lady can be a potent force in her own right, but she has much more photo op potential than her husband, and Michelle Obama is (as one friend of mine put it) the “Beyoncé of the White House”.  (Who would Laura Bush be, then, I wonder?  The Tina Turner?)

As for the First 100 Days, what I would want to see is, in no particular order: an economic stimulus plan that has accountability for those who have caused the crisis (read: CEOs of investment banks, dammit) and distributes burden fairly; environmental policy worth a damn, be it through alternative energy funding or emissions caps or whatever; a re-alignment of foreign affairs with more emphasis on diplomacy rather than just sending more troops; and the first steps to overhaul American healthcare (I say first steps because I’m a realist about this one), especially as the majority of the workforce nears retirement.  If he can accomplish these four things by May 1st without royally fucking the taxpayers, creating new enemies in other parts of the world, or further imbalanced the wealth divide, then I’ll consider it a first few months well spent.  It would be nice if he could introduce some civil rights legislation while he’s at it, but I’m not holding my breath; it was pretty cool that he gave Robinson a spot in the Inauguration ‘09 Extravaganza, but remember he also let Rick Warren give the blessing.  Little bit of religious appeasement.

Also, Philly needs libraries.

Anyway, it’s quite an invigorating feeling to be suddenly living in a country where, just maybe, I can feel proud again to dwell.  Hope happens overnight, but change takes a while longer; until then, I’ll just continue speaking my little piece and sipping my lattes.  (Also, I’m people watching and I love it.  Inauguration night brings out the cuties.)

~~ PQ

Start Spreading the News

The main headline of the PGN this week is about Philly’s counterprotest to the Westboro Baptist Church.  Apparently WBC was planning a whole bunch of demonstrations as a response to the death of “a local doctor killed in Iraq”.  Because a doctor being killed in Iraq apparently has something to do with homosexuality.

I don’t think I’m alone in saying, “what the fuck?”

I mean, I’m about as liberal as they come, and I’m about as spiritually accepting as they come; I have friends who are Satanists and atheists and pagans and Buddhists and conservative Catholics.  My personal beliefs are that there should be one common thread to all faiths: respect.  You can be totally pro-Jesus and believe that I am going straight to hell with every other homosexual on the planet, so long as you don’t use that as a basis for disrespect; I’d rather you try to “save” me and have me politely decline rather than just spit your venom without any reason or direction.  How do you found an entire “church” (I can’t even call it that; let’s call it a hate group and be done with it) on a totally non-dogmatic principle of hate?  The entire focus of this little cult is that God hates homosexuals, and that’s why we have wars, floods, famines, et cetera.  There are a thousand thousand arguments that one could use to counter these people, but the whole point is that they are absolutely, 100% unwilling to listen to reason.  Even Nazis, with the same fucked-up principles of hate driving their rampage, were occasionally swayed away from the atrocities they committed.  But WBC just counters logic with volume (thankfully, a pitifully small volume, so we don’t get headaches), like a bunch of four-year-olds throwing a tantrum because they lack the intelligence to understand how the world actually works.  I don’t even want to do cursory research to find out how this entity came into being; it’s one of the few things that I can say is just totally not worth my time, save for this dismissal.

And that’s why it’s nice to see that Philly won’t stand for it, to know that the Prop 8 protest easily drowned out the two or three dudes with signs by City Hall that day in November, to know that Central High has one of the largest and most active SGAs in the country to counterprotest like true champs, and to know that people in this city, while they might not be the most tolerant on Earth, are at least smart enough to look at a group of people blaming all of everyone’s problems on homosexuality, and say, “are you fucking kidding?”  Hitler tried it with the Jews (not to mention the gays) 60 years ago, guys, and it didn’t really work out so well, did it.

In other news: although the lesbian whatsername (I can’t even remember now, isn’t that horrible) didn’t make it into the Cabinet, Obama has appointed openly gay Bradley J. Kiley to the office of Management and Administration.  I keep trying to figure out who he would be in terms of The West Wing, but I don’t know that the exact position existed on the show; maybe a cross between Josh Lyman and Mrs. Landingham.  (I might have watched that show too often for my own good.)  In any case, Mr. Kiley will be the guy who keeps the office of the President running smoothly; considering that Obama seems to be much more well-connected to the goings-on of his administration than oh, say, the outgoing Prez (9 days!), it’s a fairly big deal.  And it’s comforting to all of those who are still uneasy about Obama’s relationship with the LGBT community.  Other other news: Philadelphia Family Pride just celebrated its 15th anniversary, the gay rodeo is hiring, and there’s some kind of naked party at the Sansom Street Gym today.  Goodness!

I don’t know about the naked party.  It’s a little chilly out today.  Maybe they’ll have a summer one too.

~~ PQ

The Hours

It’s been a while since I’ve done a movie post, probably because it’s been a while since I’ve seen a movie.  And then Netflix was kind enough to ship me The Hours yesterday, which is always a feel-good movie for a Friday night.  (Or, at least, it’s the kind of movie to depress you lots so you can go out and dance to feel good about yourself; negative incentive or whatever.)  But on top of that, it’s also a fantastic film, with superb acting (mostly), stunning cinematography (mostly), and lesbians (mostly).  If you haven’t seen it, I will attempt to describe!

In essence, it’s three storylines that revolve around the novel Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, perhaps the foremost example of stream of consciousness writing in literature (Joyce is too dense, imho).  The first of the storylines revolves around Virginia herself, and one day in her life when she first comes up with the idea for the novel, and begins to formulate its plot and text in her mind.  Besides this day (in 1922, England), we are introduced to Laura Brown, a 50s housewife in L.A., and Clarissa Vaughan, a present-day New Yorker who mirrors the character of Mrs. Dalloway herself.  The film goes back and forth between these three women, but the mirroring effect of their lives prevents the plot from becoming disorienting.  Laura Brown sums up the archetype represented by Mrs. Dalloway the best: “She’s a hostess.  And she’s incredibly confident, and she’s going to give a party…and, maybe because she’s confident, everyone thinks she’s fine.  But she isn’t.”  All three have this heavy shit going on in their lives that they conceal, and the three days that are portrayed, beyond being eerily similar, are Turning Points, capital T, capital P.

And since it’s a queer blog, I should point out the most pertinent common thread: all three are lesbians, or bisexual, or somewhere this end of the Kinsey scale.  Apparently (thanks wiki!) Virginia Woolf was known to have had relationships with women, though I’m not sure how intense the one with her sister – with whom she shares a kiss in the movie – was.  Laura Brown, who’s expected to have her entire life revolve around having a home and raising children, kisses her friend Kitty in one awkward scene.  And Clarissa Vaughan is partnered with a woman named Sally, but had a fling with her best friend Richard (for whom she is throwing the party); Richard himself is gay and now dying of AIDS.  I shouldn’t say that it’s a lesbian movie, because it’s much more complex than that: here we have people that are uncertain about their feelings, scared even, trying to decide what to do, having reached that impasse where they can’t continue lying to themselves about their lives.  Their sexuality only makes up a portion of the breakdowns they’re verging on (Virginia is confined for her bipolar disorder, Laura chafes under her pregnant housewife status, and Clarissa is strained by her love for Richard), but it’s nice to see it treated in the complex and timeless way it should be.  It’s more of a “queer” movie than a “lesbian” movie, perhaps.

But the execution of it is just so brilliant, too.  Michael Cunningham (gay himself), who wrote the novel, incorporated layers of meta-fiction and the style of Woolf into his prose.  Virginia ponders how Mrs. Dalloway’s condition mirrors her own, while Clarissa’s day echoes the character’s almost perfectly.  Laura connects with Clarissa’s storyline in a way that I won’t reveal, and all three women have things they say and do that show identical reactions to variations on the same situation of entrapment.  The acting is breathtaking: Nicole Kidman won the Oscar for her portrayal of Woolf, and both Julianne Moore (Laura) and Ed Harris (Richard) were nominated as well.  (I personally liked Meryl Streep’s performance as Clarissa more than Julianne’s, but I’ll forgive the Academy that one.)  The rest of the cast includes luminaries such as Miranda Richardson, Stephen Dillane, Alison Janney, John C. Reilly, Toni Collette, Claire Danes (for whom I confess I have a soft spot), and Jeff Daniels.  Eileen Atkins even shows up in a cameo.  Put it all together with a haunting soundtrack by Philip Glass, good costume design and art direction, and you have a more-than-worthy film.

I don’t know if I would call it the most depressing movie I know, but it’s up there.  I think what saves it from being too bleak (like Requiem for a Dream or something) is that it tells us, although no matter who, where, or when, we all feel that suffocation, but we can redeem ourselves in what we do for others.

~~ PQ

I _____ New York

So I made this big deal about posting more often, and I still haven’t gotten on top of that.  Mea culpa.  Life has been busy around here, though!  There’s ever so much going on, and I never have time to update.  (Right now, my coworker who sits at the computer directly behind me is out to lunch – in the eating sense, that is, not the crazy sense – so I’m seizing the opportunity.  It’s really goofy that I’m still not out, technically; I think most of the office knows by this point, but no one has outright said anything, to my amusement.  Trust me, this will be the first place I post when it happens.)

The reason I was gone for a few days was that I went to New York this past weekend.  Being from Philadelphia (or at least the environs), I find it disappointing that there’s this rivalry between the East Coast’s two largest cities.  Obviously, residents of both cities are intensely proud of their homes, but New Yorkers always seem to have a chip on their shoulder the size of a pretzel cart.  Their city is, to them, the best in the world, the most important, the most popular, et cetera, et cetera.  Philadelphia, in the eyes of friends and enemies I know from NYC, is merely quaint.  From my point of view, I love New York, but I’m just utterly perplexed by their attitude problem.  Guess what, guys?  You’re not the only city in the world.  You have great culture, great nightlife, and fabulously gorgeous men, but you’re also expensive, pretentious, seriously fucked up in terms of the wealth gap, and not the center of the universe you’d like to be.  Doesn’t mean I can’t go up and enjoy a weekend there, but something about Philly just warms my heart a whole lot more.  Give me Rittenhouse Square with some leisurely shopping down Walnut Street followed by dinner and dancing in the Hood over Central Park, 5th Avenue, Soho, and Chelsea any day of the week.  New York is so glitzy that it hurts your eyes, and until they elect me Queen Thang around here, my wallet can’t handle the expense.  Plus, the cabbies are absolute maniacs.

The reason I went in the first place was to visit a friend of mine who has held a place in my heart for quite a while.  Maybe I would go so far as to call it “unrequited love”, but even that’s not quite right.  The story goes, we met a little over three years ago, and hit it off; we traded numbers and agreed to meet a bit later.  He came to visit, but on our first date-like hangout, told me about how he was coming out of a lengthy depression after the sudden and tragic passing of his long-term (6+ years) husband.  He said he didn’t know if he would ever be able to open up again, or to get over what had happened, which I totally understand.  I told him that I didn’t think less of him, that I still found him to be an amazing person, and I would still like to be friends, which we are to this day.  I believe (or at least, I hope) he respects me because of that; as far as I know, no other guy who’s flirted with and made a move on him has stuck around when sex is taken out of the equation.

But this weekend.  We chilled in his apartment after a night on the town, passing out and watching a movie on TV.  And he said he was really glad I came up, was I going to go to sleep, and where would I like to do so?  I asked what my options were, and he responded on the couch or with him.  We’ve had cuddly moments for 3 years, but it was still kind of a weird moment; I wanted to say, “Are you okay with this?” or something, but I rolled with it.  It ended up that nothing more than cuddliness happened, at least not physically – but I don’t know if something in our relationship has changed, and I don’t know how to ask.  He’s an amazing guy, but I’ve discounted him, not unhappily, as a possible romance for so long that it’s totally thrown me for a loop.  And what about the other guys I’m flirting around with?  I can’t very well say, “Oh, I like you, but I might have a chance with this guy who’s been a part of my life for three years but hasn’t done anything but might someday soon.”

Maybe that’s another reason I don’t like NYC: too much off-Broadway drama.

~~ PQ

Another Year for PhillyQueer

Well, first of all, Happy New Year.

It’s been several days.  I totally bailed on doing my weekly PGN-reaction post thing, I tripped out of Philly for a couple days, and I haven’t even had being at work as an excuse.  But on the Resolutions list is to write more and blog more, so I’ll try to make it up: for it is Friday, once again, and I see some interesting news tidbits, once again.  I really like the PGN’s new format; it’s much easier on the eyes, much more colorful, and just better in terms of organization.  Not that there was anything terrible about the old one, but a fabulous newspaper should be fabulous in every way, nicht wahr?

Actually, first of all, the Mummers’ Parade.  I’m happy it didn’t get cancelled, and it lasted several hours as usual, because it’s such an integral, unique part of Philadelphian lifestyle.  Plus, look at those outfits!  Those mummers could give any drag queen a run for her title, which is really funny, because I get the impression that the vast majority of the mummers (at least the male ones) are exactly the kind of proud-to-be-hetero guys that would throttle you if you mentioned them in the same sentence as “drag queens”; the father of a friend of mine is one, and lord knows he’s as straight as they get.  Anyway, it’s nice to have a bit of color on New Years’, because the next display of out-and-out frippery of this magnitude won’t happen until Pride in six months.

In other news: apparently Campbell’s Soup (conveniently across the river, where I grew up) ran an ad with a famous lesbian chef with her partner, their son, and a bowl of bisque that’s causing an uproar.  (The ad, that is, not the bisque.)  And Campbell’s is refusing to back down because they’re awesome.  It’s like that ad from Britain with the chef guy making his kids and “husband” breakfast in the morning that caused such a fuss because there was a male-male peck on the lips.  I love when companies take chances like that, even if the decision is a logical one (such as “do we want to gain a large base of consumers from the LGBT community even if it means right-wing crazies are going to pitch a bitch?”) rather than a social-justice one.  Campbell’s, I fully support your businesslike approach to the issue of gay parenting, and your cream of chicken soup isn’t half-bad either.

The building at the corner of 12th and Spruce remains vacant and unloved, and it’s a damn shame because that’s prime Gayborhood territory.  It’s a little awkward with tranny prostitutes hanging out on that particular corner all the time, but even so, there have been numerous beloved businesses in there; Spruce Street Video lived there for 22 years, according to the article.  I know it’s a little pre-emptive, but I wish I could get hold of a space in there, either an apartment or (and this is a dream that’s going to be building over the next several years) a cafe-style establishment of my own.  I’ve always wanted to run a liberal, LGBT-friendly cafe, and there’s few better places to do it.  They’re in talks to pay back the owed taxes on the property, and get some renovation work done, so maybe someday it will be a possibility, but for now: don’t let 1201 Spruce die!

I’m always amused when I see people I know in photos or articles.

There’s interesting theatre and performing arts bits here and there — Hairspray is still at Walnut Street! — but by far the most interesting in my book is Mauckingbird Theatre’s lesbian production of Hedda Gabler that’s coming up.  I can’t believe no one has thought of this yet.  If you want to talk about strong women, Ibsen wrote the original archetypes in a number of his plays, most especially this one; to take that scandalous idea of the independent female and update it for the 21st century, adding homosexuality into the equation is brilliant.  (Plus, Mauckingbird does a good job with this kind of thing, as seen in R+J.)  I might have to actually go see this one and report back.

I suppose that’s all for now.  Cheers!

~~ PQ

Complicate Me

My toffee nut latte tastes kind of like cheese.  Weird, and/or gross!

I did pick up a PGN, but I left it at the apartment, so now instead I get to regale any potential readers with sordid tales of how the past 24 hours have gone.  Reporting on the happenings of gay Philadelphia (I did see that the main front page article was a Year in Review thingee) will have to just wait another day.

So, the love life has taken another turn for the complicated.  Yesterday, Mike came back to Philly for a visit, and we hung out for a few hours.  Things I have learned: he gives exceptionally good backrubs; he says some weird things/makes some weird noises (like… romantic panting) when he gets excited; and he is built like an Olympic gymnast, with almost no body hair or body fat.  (Also, he had a cockring thing.  It wasn’t shocking or anything, but I was just surprised to see it, I guess.  It was an unassuming leather number with some metal studs around it; he just didn’t strike me as the type to be into that.  Or maybe it was just a fashion statement.  But now that I think about it, some of his bedroom demeanor makes more sense if he’s more into kink.  Hmm.)  We grabbed some dinner afterward, then he headed home and I made my way to New Jersey for a party.

The party was nice, except for the fact that I didn’t really know anyone except the friend I came with and her boyfriend.  (A few more friends showed up much later, fortunately.)  Throughout the evening, I was texting with this boy who had been Myspacing me for a few days, and he suggested I come over, since the party was a stone’s throw from his place.  But I felt bad, because at the same time, one of the partygoers, the only other gay one there, was really nice and friendly to me when everyone else was off doing their own thing.  And at the end of the night, I got caught under the mistletoe, one thing led to another, and we ended up trading numbers.  What’s really funny is that I think we actually met three or four years ago, out clubbing, and then ran into each other a few times at the diner in Jersey I used to frequent.  Strange how people can resurface at random times, get drunk, and make out with you.

Anyway, I didn’t get to Myspace boy’s place till about 1:30 in the morning.  We cuddled and watched movies for a few hours until semi-passing out.  I’m glad we didn’t hop on the good foot and do the bad thing, though, because it was our first time hanging out, and generally I don’t fuck on the first date.  We just kissed more times than is humanly possible throughout the night, and cuddled pretty hardcore.  You know how sometimes it just feels like your body is made to fit together with someone else’s?  I love nestling with people, and when it’s someone that feels perfectly suited to you in terms of body-shape, sex doesn’t even matter.  I can just cuddle with someone like that all night.  Then this morning, we slept in till about noon, and eventually I headed back to the city for a much-needed shower.  And when I got back, the other guy from Tavern (the depressed one from before) texted me to see if I was around.  I still haven’t answered, because I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.

I feel bad that none of these are Art Student boy.  I’m not committed in any way, and I don’t mind testing the waters of several different pools before taking a dip, but I always worry that other people will perceive my interest as more than it is, and interpret it as commitment.  I’m still carrying the torch for my Art Student, but he’s gone for two and a half more weeks, and in the meantime, if someone wants to flirt with me… well, I’m not in a relationship yet, am I?  Am I being immoral, or amoral, or neither?  I can’t help the fact that for a while, life was kind of a romantic dead zone, and now I’m rebounding to the best of my ability.  I like to feel wanted and desired, but the problem is that I care too much about other people’s feelings.

And they say Philly isn’t a cauldron of queer romantic chaos just like NYC.

I need another latte.  One that’s distinctly less cheese-y.

~~ PQ