Coffee House Nerd

Scarves, pea coats, and fancy sweaters, it was officially fall in New York. While riding the L train to First Avenue, I had insatiable craving for a piping hot coffee and bagel. Emerging from the subway, I was greeted by a welcoming cold front. Not being well prepped for the temperature, I declared, “Oy, should’ve layered up, but I’ll defrost in the coffee shop,” said I, practically skipping around the East Village in delight.

I stood in line for the breakfast of New York champions, when he appeared. He being the desire of all caffeine addicts, the beanie clad barista. His eyes were a brightly lit shade of blue. I kept myself from drooling. “Don’t act like a love struck school girl,” said I, internally. I walked up to pay for my order. “Bagel and a large coffee, that would be $5.00,” said he.

While handing over some cash, he had a surprise of his own. “Hey you wanna see my band play?”He asked, handing me puke green flyer. I giggled, “Holy shit, I just turned into a lovesick school girl,” I told myself. While gazing into his round blue eyes, I dropped the silly giggle and cleared my throat. “I’ll check my schedule,” I replied. The smiling fest continued as I awkwardly took a seat.

My table had views of red hued tenements and with delis below. I was fixated on the cute barista. I sipped my coffee. While further falling into the seduction of a well brewed coffee, I wondered if I should ask barista boy out? I took one glance at the coffee shop.

“If this doesn’t work out, it would be awkward to hang out here (the coffee shop) as much as I do,” said I. There I sat with a first world dilemma. “Do I choose between asking a boy out or possibly not hanging out in my favorite coffee shop, if it doesn’t work out?” asked I.

With one bite into my bagel, I made a bold decision. “Dudes come and go, but shit, I can’t give up my favorite coffee shop for a man, “ said I. After a charming late morning, I defrosted from the cold and reveled in my decisiveness.

“In the meantime, I’ll shall get a gym membership and wow the men with my biceps or lack there of,” said I. Instead, the universe gravitated me toward the Waverly Restaurant. “Geez, every time, I try to join a gym, I end up at the diner,” said I with a giggle (and no I really did not want to join). That afternoon, I ordered a patty melt. With one enormous bite, I celebrated fall, being single, and still slightly neurotic.

Crocodile on a Cardigan

The marching band paraded merrily down Central Park West. Each member was perfectly color coordinated in red and black cardigans. Gold confetti flew from the sky over the Upper West Side’s iconic apartment houses.

In the celebration of New York’s most beloved season, fall, the band played “danke shoen.” Revelers screamed with great joy. Unfortunately, the fall parade happed in my own imagination. What did Central Park West really look like on that first chilly day?

Beep, beep, beep, hello, gridlock. Traffic was halted, as I attempted to go crosstown in a cab. While I glanced at the meter, positive thinking kept me from going insane in the membrane (90s rap reference).

“Oh, I like my outfit today. The black cardigan goes well with my checkered shirt and grey tie,” said I, attempting to keep Zen like. Miraculously, I survived gridlock and flew through Central Park. Hello, Upper East Side, I am ready for friends and burgers,” said I.

At my friend’s BBQ, I was reunited with some of my favorite New Yorkers. We sang, gabbed and most importantly talked about our love lives. “I’ve been on tinder. If I had a dollar for every hipsters and post-collegiate banker I found on here (pause), I’d buy us all co-ops,” said I with a giggle.

With a smile, I pulled out at the app to show my gal pals. Suddenly, I received a message. “Wow, that never happens,” said I in amazement. Typically, I had to send the first message and typically didn’t a get a respond back.

The following song played in my head. “Finally, it has happened to me, right in front of my face and I just could not hide.” Sang I with a distinctive Broadway edge. This folks is another distraction brought to you by great dance songs of the 90’s. Thank you, Cece Peniston. Back to this romantic New York story.

After a few too many glasses of wine, I developed liquid courage and messaged him back. He was cute, nerdy and drank a bloody Mary like a champ. Also, we shared similar interests in books and museums. After that last glass of wine, I messaged him, “let’s hang.” He agreed.

The next day, I woke up and reviewed our conversation. “Shit, if I say anything I am blaming it on the pinot,” said I. “Okay, one cheeky question, but overall pretty tame,” said I. Afterwards, I messaged him my number. Immediately, we were to meet a wonderful wine bar in the East Village.

On that faithful day of the date, I prepped myself. “Hello, luxurious cardigan. You shall adorn me, since this guy may potentially be my future husband, but I won’t get emotionally attached. That’s right no emotional attachment,” said I. That night, a bit of humidity had returned to the city. I texted my date, “are we still meeting up tonight?”

While crossing Park Ave, I received a text. It read, “sorry for the short notice. I have to stay at work a bit later, need to postpone.” I shook my head with bewilderment. “Not to sounded jaded, but I think he’s lost interest, “ declared, I.

I texted him back, “ I am booked until Saturday (it was a Tuesday).” He never responded back. Disappointingly, I met with my single gal pals, Natalia and Aura. As our glasses of wine arrived, I proclaimed, “I don’t think this guy is interested.”

“What did you text him?” asked Natalia. I handed over my phone. “ Oh Anthony, you should never text a guy, are we still meeting up. It gives them a way out of the date,” said Aura. “Shit, I declared. Indeed, I never heard back from the charming tinder guy.

After wine, I walked toward the Upper West Side. While crossing fifty-seventh street, Midtown was quintessentially spectacular. The window displays were chic. Yellow cabs decorated the grey pavements, while perfectly manicured men dashed into the subway.

“Oh, New York, you’re dating scene sucks, but at least you’re entertaining,” said I. As I entered the subway, I cooled off with the Arctic chill of artificial air. “Yo, DJ pump this party,” sang a familiar voice from the 90s.

That’s right. “Even with being stood up, I could always have a party in my head with a marching band, disco balls and plenty of glitter, “ said I. Then I boogied down, mentally, of course.

That Coffee Shop In Brooklyn

A parade, street markets, protests; it was end of summer in New York City. “Oy, I can’t deal with crowds, today,” said I. Naturally, I fueled up my private jet and set off for a trip to Palm Springs. This scenario happened in my head. Here’s what really happened.

Randomly, I hopped on the subway to escape the crowds gathered for a parade on my street. I planned on eating Chinese at my favorite mom n’ pop’s restaurant in the Village. The need for escapism persisted, while riding on that downtown train. “I need a day trip to an exotic land, I just don’t spend enough time in,” said I.

“This is a Brooklyn bound 3 train,” announced the train conductor. “That’s it, I am going to Brooklyn. It may not be Palm Springs, but by George, it’s certainly a different island,” said I. Excitedly, the train traveled underneath the very depth of the East River. “Hello, island getaway,” I proclaimed.

After a long voyage, I felt slightly jet lagged (hold the time zone change) and emerged from the subway. “Boom, hello crowds. Shit, it’s another street festival. I thought I was going to escape this,” said I. Frustration turned into euphoria. I starred at the signs, which dazzled my eyes. “Oh, it’s the Brooklyn Book Festival,” said I, with eyes open wide with joy.

I excitedly wandered around the tents, browsing the titles. Poetry, LGBT literature, classics, obscure short stories, there was something for everyone’s literary palate. I was dazzled. This was my kind of day trip. For a moment, I pushed the delete button on my jaded self. After immersing myself in the world of literary candy, I decided to get lost.

The humidity levels rose. I complained. “Oy, I can’t. It’s like I am taking shower in my own sweat,” said I, while schvitzing up a storm. Then I found an adorable coffee shop in Cobble Hill. The breeze of a well-fused air conditioner beckoned my heat sensitive senses. I bought an ice latte and pulled out my notebook. Finally, I was able to relax. It was heavenly and had the benefits of a proper trip to Palm Springs.

I took one more trip around the book festival. Shedding a tear, I returned to Manhattan. “Oh Brooklyn, you may have more baby strollers and hipsters than the average borough, but you still now how to charm a Manhattanite,” said I. Returning to Harlem, the noise and crowds welcomed me from a long voyage.

The beating drums of the parade shook my apartment building. However, I was oblivious to its effects. Instead, I reveled in my unexpected day of literary and caffeinated delights. “New York, I still love you, even with your endless street festivals and fondness of parades,” proclaimed I.

Free Fallin on the Jukebox

Back in the late 90s, I called the local mall, my catwalk. It was the place to window shop, grab a Frappuccino and watch all the cute guys walk by. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t drive and many of the cute guys, I admired were still closeted or not gay.

I didn’t quite bask in my high school existence, which screamed suburban America. There were many prominent subcultures in school. The jocks who played football, jocks who didn’t play football, cheerleaders, drama geeks, math geeks and the anti-establishment, hacky sack crowd, made up the quilt of existence for my local high school.

“Gee, where I do I fit in, here?” asked I. As one of the only openly gay kids at school, I lived in my own imaginary land. I dreamed of living in New York, seeing exotic lands, becoming a published author and of course, meeting a cute nerdy dude.

Once in a while, I departed imaginary land and was brought back to my very own brand of teenage angst. “Shit my grades suck, my face looks like a greasy pepperoni pizza and my stomach fat is giving me a muffin top,” said I, while in the back of the local convenience store.

My friend Clifford just shook his head. “That’s cool dude, just run with that,” said Clifford. He pulled out a precious white box from his backpack. From the box, he pulled out a cigarette. With great ease, he lit the cigarette. The smell was slightly intoxicating. More mesmerizing were his bright green eyes. He noticed I stared at his cigarette in curiosity.

“You want a puff?” he asked, with a calm exterior. “I’m okay,” said I with great confidence. “C’mon, it’s one puff, he persisted. “I am not one to give into peer pressure,” said I.

He handed me the cigarette, “c’mon give it a try,” he said. I peered into his eyes and took the cigarette. I examined it. With great ease, I took a puff. It was still wet from his saliva touching the tip of the cigarette.

After taking one puff, coughing persisted. “Shit, fuck, shit,” said I. “Wow, you’re one step closer to being a bad ass, said Clifford. “Really?” asked I. “No, dude,” he replied. “I can’t believe I smoked, my parents are going to kill me,” said I. Internally, I was delighted to have a bonding moment with Clifford, whom I regarded as an attractive confidant.

While basking in the initial glory of breaking the rules, I was later, riddled with guilt. “Oy, I pay too much attention in religion class. Should I go to confession and tell the priest I was smoking behind the convenience store?” asked I, internally.

As predicted, my guilty conscience persisted. Then I took a shopping and lunch trip to Newport Beach with my mom. We sat for lunch at the California Pizza Kitchen. As I sipped my soda, she asked me about school. Instantly I replied, “ I smoked a cigarette.”

My mother was a very conservative lady, who didn’t take kindly to smoking and booze. I was waiting for her face to fade into intense rouge. “Anthony, nothing you do surprises me,” she said. Rather than getting grounded until retirement age, it was dismissed as a life experience.

Years later I dropped the guilty conscience and enjoyed life. Being well-behaved gets old. A little rebellion and middle fingers to the air make life exciting. On the subject of exciting, I look forward to my next trip to California(where I grew up), since I still secretly love mall culture, especially the Nordstrom shoe sale and going to Cinabon for (you guessed it), a cinnamon roll.

Beatnik Heartbeat

In my last year of suburban innocence, I took one bold step. Upon entering a darkened basement, my eyes gazed into an unexpected sight. The intensity of a beating drum romanced my senses.

“I am the party star. I am popular,” sang the band. They were covering the anthem of 90’s teenage angst, popular. Quirky artwork filled the walls of the basement. The brightness served as a lighted candle. People sat in Indian style, bobbing their heads to the music. I smiled from ear to ear. Along with my friend, Nicky, we were taking in the intoxicating bohemian surroundings in the midst of our conservative town.

We joined the other revelers and sat Indian style. It was my first foray into open mic night at Back to the Grind, our local independent coffee house.

Poets went up on stage. Each spoke eloquently of their life experiences. Nervously, I fidgeted with my notebook paper. After one poet turned his poetry into a musical number to remember, the stage was left empty. I took a deep breath and galloped on stage.

The spotlight hit my face. It was harsh and intensified, when I read the first lines of the poem. I The words flowed with a proper theatrical accent. I took one last breath and quickly read the poem without stuttering. The audience clapped. I bowed and that marked my debut as poet. “This is going to be me, forever, audience applause, thought, I.

Years went by, and I didn’t write poetry. Instead, I wrote plays and short stories. Then one day, while sitting in a most cliché of surroundings, an East Village coffee shop. I opened up my $1 black marble notebook and filled the blank pages with a spontaneous poetry. “I’m back, I declared.

Soon, I immersed myself in New York’s poetry scene, attending reading after reading. Secretly, I longed to have the spotlight on my own work. My opportunity arrived.

A poet friend told me of open mic night at the Sidewalk Café in the East Village. Joyfully, I decided to share my poetry with an audience.

That day, the skies above Astor Place were an inspirational shade of hazy grey. I made my way through east Seventh Street. Nerves were ignited like fireworks over a darkened sky. “Oy, I need to go in front of perfect strangers and reveal my soul. This sounded wonderful an hour ago. Am I mad? Asked I, walking toward Alphabet City.

I took a seat on a bench in leafy Tompskin’s Square Park, Central Park’s grungy cousin. A sweet melody seduced my senses. “What is this most serenading sound?” asked I. To the corner of my eye was a folk band playing harmonious music. Instantly, my anxiety levels subsided.

“I just need to relax. This is the East Village, where (beat poet) Allen Ginsburg was inspired and famous punk bands played. I am joining a grand tradition of creative types inspired by the clash of folk music and grit, which engulf the landscape,” said I.

I left the comfort of a park bench for the venue. “ Nervousness, what the fuck is that?” asked I, practically skipping into the bar. The nervous fireworks returned. I stared into the crowd, which was half hipster and thought “I don’t think they’re going to get my poetry.

With great bravery, I signed up. “I’ll take a glass of wine and a burger,” said I to the waitress. “Food and wine will help ease my nerves,” thought I. An uneasy feeling lingered.

The first poets stepped on stage. “Sex, cultural differences and body image issues are going to be covered & the audience will applaud,” were my initial thoughts. “Fuck, I am genius, declared I. Most of the poems revolved around those topics. The audience ate it up like a warm knish on freezing cold day.

My name didn’t come up. “That’s weird I signed up for open mic, when am I going to be called? Asked I. After one last poem about lesbian desires, intermission happened. Suddenly, I was called up for the poetry slam, where one gets judged for their work. “Fuck, I signed up for open mic. This has to be a mistake,” said I.

I had preconceived ideas on a poetry slam. Shrugging my shoulders, I gave it a whirl. The first poet went up, she read a poem about Billy Holliday, which she later turned into a story about sex. “Oy, this story makes me happy to be gay, “ thought I.

The audience clapped. She left the stage. With much shock, she was given a score by random judges. “Shit, they’re giving out scores? You get judged for bearing your soul? How can people give out scores for this?” asked I with a swift eye roll.

Escaping was not a viable option. Soon, I went on stage. I made a joke. Nobody laughed. Then I read my poem to an ocean of emotionless faces. The experience was a speedy one. I finished and left the stage. The audience clapped, politely.

My score was low, very low. Oh, my poor poetic soul free fell into disappointed. I kept a brave demeanor, but bolted out of the venue after the show ended.

“This was such a disappointment. My first show in years and nobody got me,” said I. Like many disappointed writers before me, I took an obvious step.

“Dad, the show sucked. Everybody hated me. I don’t think I want to do this again,” said I, on the phone. My dad with a giggle responded, “You had the guts to go up on stage. I am proud of you. So, you feel like shit now, but you’re the type to just keep on going, no matter how much people hate you. After an uplifting conversation, I dusted myself off and carried on.

Rather, than feeling like a failure, I walked crosstown to the subway. “ This is only the beginning and fuck, if I didn’t do well on this show. My poetry-reading journey has just begun. While crossing Fifth Avenue, I let out the following words, “fuck it.” From there, I planned my next performance. More importantly, I know I did something right, when a group of silly hipsters just didn’t get it.

Mr. Pea Coat Goes to London

“I just can’t seem to get enough by Depeche Mode,” played in conjunction to my morning walk. This stroll was quite different from the norm. I wasn’t in America, but in jolly old London.

While I listened to the most British of new wave songs of the 80’s, I walked down the very British Mall. It leads to Buckingham Palace. Although this classifies me as a tourist, I found the walk quite refreshing and memorable.

In the grand tradition of London, the sky was grey. Color came through the beautifully manicured flower gardens and green grass, which accentuate St. James Park. The ducks quacked merrily away, while taking a late morning’s swim.

There stood Buckingham Palace, the tourists went mad snapping photos. “I really want a photo in front of Buckingham Palace. Gee, I know I’ll look like an awful tourist, but shit, I am one,” said I. I found a most splendid bench and took a photo of myself in front of the Queen’s magnificent residence. “This is much easier than, asking someone to take photo,” said I, internally. The photo shoots didn’t stop there.

“Oh look at these lovely red brick in South Kensington. I shall take a picture of myself in front of them,” said I. Snap, went my camera. ” Gee, the canals of Camden are grungy, but kind of cool, I don’t feel like asking anyone to take a picture of me, so here I go again, said I. As predicted, my camera went snap, snap, snap.

When the photos developed, I giggled. “Wow, I look silly taking photos of myself in London. I should’ve asked someone just to take the photos.

Years later, I found out my self portraits had a name. “A selfie? Is that what they call the process of taking a photo of one’s self? The selfies saw online, were typically folks taking photos of themselves in front of mirrors or with puppies. Either way, I like to think I pioneered the concept with all those selfies I took in London. Or should I say I like to think I pioneered the concept.

In tribute to the selfie, here’s an 80’s love ballad to ponder:

“All by myself. Don’t want to live, all by myself, anymore.”(Sang by Eric Carmen)

Always a Groomsman, Never a Groom

“I’ll have a martini, please,” said I. A few years back, I was fresh faced gay in his early twenties. On an average Thursday night, I enjoyed people watching with friends at Therapy bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Keenly, I knew Mr. Right was not in the room. Naively, my mind told me otherwise.

Like so many transplants, the city’s rich dating life seduced me. Thanks to Sex & the City, many flocked to New York, hoping to land their Mr. Big. Many came to the realization, dating was harder than finding a rent-controlled apartment on the Upper East Side. Hence, many of us, New York veterans, have come to find an alternative romance.

“Hi, I’ll have the chicken tika masala, garlic non bread and a mango lasse please,” said I, while ordering at my favorite East Village eatery. With years in New York under my belt, I have found pleasure in taking myself on dates.

I’ve been going to the same restaurants for years. The staff always knows my favorite table, order and even make wonderful conversation with me. It’s reminiscent of the cafe society (where regulars were always welcomed by their first name), which has inspired me to live in New York for life.

After enjoying the best Indian feast, west of New Delhi, I head for a slice of old Manhattan. While walking toward the Strand Bookstore, I became reminiscent on my early years in the city. “Gee, I am awfully glad, I don’t have that naive notion, that Mr. Right will magically appear at Therapy (the bar). How silly was I to think he was around? I know enjoy more literary endeavors, who needs a boyfriend? Asked I.

The doors of the Strand open wide. Aisles with bookshelves recreating a canyon of mightiness rise above the antiquated facade. The sweet scent of books recreated a bit of nostalgia. “Do I want to read Gertrude Stein? Or should I go with Edgar Allen Poe? Who am I kidding? I just really want that quirky book by John Walters.

In the midst of old books, walks in the world’s most adorable gay couple. Of course, I stare and in wonder. They’re cute. I nod my head, “no, no, must not feel like a spinster for being a singleton at thirty. It would be nice to go to the Strand with another literary nerd,” say I.

I purchase my book and walk toward Union Square. Although, I am surrounded by a freak show of people, I feel completely alone. Am I the only person in New York, who feels completely alone? Why am I still alone and completely dateless? Am I doomed for eternal spinsterhood? Asked I.

“It’s so hard to date in this town,” said my friend, Natalia. “Oh, I thought I was the only one, I reply with great enthusiasm. “It’s getting harder as time goes by,” she continued. We took a sip of our wine. “Do you want to go to dinner?” I asked. She replied, “sure.”

The Empire State Building twinkled against the starless sky. We sat outdoors at a French cafe in the Flatiron District. While noshing on French staples, we celebrated our singleton status. “Hey remember, when we used to party?” she asked. “Yeah, this is as wild as might nights get these days,” I replied.

At that very moment, I realized that our twenties had officially ended. Late night drinking at the gay bar made me sleepy and I am a night owl. Now, we were now in our (relatively) laid back thirties. As I took the bite of Croque Madame, I smiled. “Sometimes, all you need a simple, laid back night out with beloved gal pals.

While venting, and talking about life, it made me feel a little less alone. My life isn’t “Sex and the City” and I am so glad it’s not. Like the old Beatles song goes, “I get by with a little help from my friends.” With that I truly believe loneliness is curable with a dose of laughter.

Gramercy Park

The following story is brought to you by this sponsor:

Wanna feel that burn from a good work out? Well, join the “I live in a fifth floor walk up club, today and burn, baby, burn (insert Saturday Night Fever soundtrack reference).

The fog lifted subtly from the serene East River. A yellow boat steered elegantly against a backdrop of an industrialized, but bustling Brooklyn. The Chrysler Building was engulfed by an adorably fluffy cloud.

This spectacular show was witnessed from my bedroom window. I adored my bedroom and it’s view, which were on the 14th floor of a brick building on Manhattan’s East Side. Although, I didn’t have a doorman, gym or functioning laundry mat in my building, there was one amenity, which tickled my fancy the most.

An elevator building, oh boy. Ever since I was a lad living in a closet in Queens, I dreamt of being lifted up into the sky. More importantly, I strategically chose my location for one very important reason.

“I would like an everything bagel withe scallion cream cheese. Oh and a large coffee, please,” said I with my mouth watering. Throughout my years in New York, I always lived around the city’s best bagel shops. In my east side apartment, I lived dangerously close to Essa Bagel, one of the city’s most highly revered bagel shops.

One faithful morning, I finished my scrumptious bagel and headed toward Gramercy Park. Unexpectedly, I heard a classic New York accent garner attention from my eardrum. “Hi honey, question?” asked the voice. An elderly woman stood in all black. She was wheeling a granny cart. It’s the closest New Yorkers get to driving. Granny carts are ideal for loading up with groceries and laundry. Her cart appeared especially heavy.

“Can you help me take my cart up? I’ll give you ten dollars,” she said. I have always hated lifting anything heavy, but at that moment, I graduated to a “pushover” status and agreed to shlep the cart up to her apartment.

“Thanks dahling, my apartment is over there,” she said. The charming grandma lived in an enchanting apartment block in Gramercy, an affluent neighborhood in Manhattan’s east 20’s.

I entered her building’s lobby, which looked like every other New York walk-up building. “My apartment is on the sixth floor. Remember, drag, and don’t lift the cart up the stairs. I’ll wait down here,” she said. “Oh, the Karma Gods better serve me up something wonderful for this one,” said I, internally.

The voyage up commenced. Instantly, I hated having to drag that heavy cart up the stairs. Also, I wondered, how old people survived in a walk-up. “Are you okay up there? Remember drag, don’t lift,” said, our lovable senior citizen. Her New York accent intensifying. Even on a winter’s day, the sweat poured. Every set of stairs was even more daunting than the last.

Eventually, I reached the top. I was awaiting a medal for my courageous voyage up. Exhaust-idly, I walked down the staircase. I reached the lobby. “Hey you looked stress,” she commented. “I am fine, thanks,” I replied. “Here’s ten bucks, thanks so much dahling,” she said, after going through an archaeological dig in her purse.

I really wanted the ten dollars. My conscience took over. “Look, it’s fine. I have a full time job. Consider it a favor,” said I. “Buy yourself a coffee or something, she said. I still wanted the ten bucks, but I walked out. “No, it’s really okay. Lovely to meet you. Have a great day,” said I. “Thanks again,” she replied, while cracking her coconut exterior and revealing a sweet smile.

I stepped into the bitter winter cold, which was quite refreshing after that work out. Passing the beautifully guarded and very private, Gramercy Park, (the actual park, which the neighborhood derives it’s name from) I thought to myself, “gee, must be tough being old and living in a walk-up, glad I could help that nice old lady out.”

Months later, I traded my elevator building for a fifth floor walk-up in Harlem. After dragging that granny cart up sixth floors, I had proper training in maneuvering a walk-up. I do daydream of living in an elevator building again. These days, I don’t need that gym membership, since every step up to my apartment feels like the equivalent of running the New York marathon.

 

The Blossoming Wallflower

Live from my modest New York apartment, it’s another trip down memory lane.

Through the darkened canyons, I drove. 80’s music blasted. I was a man on a mission. Along with my gal pal, Holly, we took the spontaneous voyage to Palm Springs, where gay happens.

The eerie darkness of the canyons gave way to a scattered city lights. Mountains were hidden in the darkness. Signs for Target, fast food restaurants and a casino, reminded us, that indeed this is not the barren desert. Windmills boogied to the rhythm of the wind. After another round of darkened canyons, we arrived in kitschy, Palm Springs.

“Gays, so many gays,” I declared. The sweat ran down our faces, even at night. However, the liveliness of Palm Springs was simply invigorating. The restaurants were bustling. There were plenty of interesting art galleries and shops selling knick-knacks. We had a most splendid dinner, at my favorite Mexican restaurant, Las Casuelas.

We skipped dessert, in favor of quality time with my people on Arenas Road. Cher impersonators, senior citizens and gym bunnies come together on the town’s main gay drag. Want a new speedo or the latest gay news? Arenas Road has it. The music was thumping, especially at Hunter’s nightclub, which is the grand dame of Palm Springs nightlife.

Only one obstacle stood in my way. “Shit, I am not twenty-one yet,” said I. Rather than sobbing, I asked Holly, ” Hey, I wanna meet a guy. Can you let me know how much approach is?” Officially, she became my love therapist. “But, which fellow should I approach?” asked I.

Predictably, I found two handsome fellows, who converged on the sidewalk. One guy was blond and classically handsome. The other fellow was a raven-haired Adonis with a slight resemblance to Zachary Quinto. I swooped in with Holly was my wing lady.

“Hi, I am Anthony, nice to meet you,” I said. They politely made conversation with us, but seemed disinterested. Rather than call defeat, I kept the conversation going. Holly seemed less than impressed with the boys. I was too, but they were so cute.

“Oh, this is I, improving my self confidence. I get nervous meeting guys, but here I am,” said I. Holly gave me an awkward smile. “You did alright to me,” said the blond guy with a cold expression. “We’re going to Toucan’s. Nice meeting you guys, enjoy Palm Springs,” said, the raven-haired Adonis.

“You shouldn’t tell a guy, that you lack self-confidence,” said Holly. “You’re right, I messed that one up,” said I. “They were kind of cold. You could do better,” she said with a smile. We headed back to Riverside (where I lived at the time).

That night in Palm Springs taught me a lesson, not typically grasped in musical theatre. Indeed, one must not put a hot guy in a pedestal; we must value our own self worth first.

Although, I’ve been rejected a ton, I still look on the bright side. Stories on rejection are often times more interesting and relatable, since it delves into the very core of our own insecurities. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go back to finding dates on Tinder.

 

 

Boy Crush

New York in the middle of summer, it’s hot and sticky. On weekend afternoons (in the summer), the city empties out. New Yorkers find refuge in beaches outside the concrete confines. There is one kind of New Yorker, who sticks it out even in the muggiest of situations.

“I am the weekend homeless?” asked I, while on the phone with Ben. “It’s the folks that stay in the city. They don’t have a weekend house share on Fire Island  (the gay New Yorker’s favorite summer spot),” he said. As he uttered those faithful words, there was truth to the term. According to social media, most everyone had congregated on fabulous beaches, while taking photos of their newly sculpted physiques.

“I feel like a rebel staying in my city, ” said I. In summers past, I very rarely left the city. I lingered on the pavement, schvitzing (sweating), wondering if relief from the heat was in sight. One afternoon typified the New York weekend summer experience.

“Shit, why do I always insist on wearing all black in the summer?” asked I, while strolling down Christopher Street. Sweat dripped from my head. My rosy cheeks turned a harsher shade of neon pink. The intense weather forced me to ask myself, “fall, where art thou? You lovable season of pumpkins and cardigans.

A soothing wind dried my melting skin. “Hello, gaydom,” I proclaimed. Even in the easy bake oven, which is New York on a summer’s day, something refreshing and gay was in the air. “Oh that’s right, there’s always Christopher Street Pier, said I. Crossing the West Side Highway, I locked eyes with imposing Hudson River, and (of course) Jersey in the distance.

Christopher Street Pier is located on the Hudson. As the name suggests it’s a pier, which is filled with gay patrons. It’s a slice of Fire Island, sans the remote location.

There are many gay subcultures, which frequent the pier. Twinks (skinny hairless gay guys), run around in colorful speedos. Bears hibernate along the sunny shoreline with their chest hair flowing freely. Muscle men become one with their yoga mats as their inner self abandons the gym for a more natural habitat. Silver foxes, regardless of body types, proudly show off their seasoned exterior.

Sitting on the grass under the sun, my cheeks were roasting like marsh mellows on a fire pit. I took a breath of Hudson River breeze and declared, “oy, this may not be my favorite season, but at least there will always be Christopher Street Pier,” said I.

The not so-starry night re-appeared. It was time for me to return to the humid concrete reality. “Oy, this little staycation was fun, but I don’t want to go to stand on the subway platform right now. I still long for somewhere gay and cool,” said I, walking toward Seventh Avenue.

Fortunately, I found my own rainbow colored and unicorn friendly oasis. Where did I end up? You ask; the Big Gay Ice Cream shop, naturally. I noshed away on the pecan praline ice cream sandwich. “Summer isn’t so bad, at times, proclaimed I.” Where there is ice cream, shirtless guys and a little bit of breeze, happy memories magically appear.  If only I could see a flying unicorn, then my summer would be complete.

 

 

 

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 467 other followers