I brought two bags of old clothes to Out of the Closet this morning. It's good to clean up and get rid of stuff. I took Linda Dano's advice, from her article in Soap Opera Digest, a few weeks ago. Empty out the whole closet and get bags line up. If you haven't worn it for more than a year, out it goes.
Along with an old leather coat and countless belts that will never ever fit again, and tie that never should have been purchase, were two special items. There were two Christmas gifts from my dearly parted exlover, Knucklehead. In 1987 I was given the slightly insulting and unwanted black running suit. In 1988 I was given a rugby shirt that he ultimately wanted for himself, but I kept out of spite in the end. Well, I am no longer spiteful, but I never really liked these items or wore them. Why be reminded that the few gifts I received, besides the life lessons, were self-serving? Out they go.
What I love about Out of the Closet is the name. E says it whenever he answers the phone. It's an instantly activist statement, like the Body Shop bag that says, "It's the duty of every citizen to open his mouth." (Hers too, btw, you Body Shop people.) They ought to change that to "It's the duty of all citizens to open their mouths." Desexifying language isn't so difficult.
Later in the evening, I met J and B for dinner and a movie, which both took place at J's fabulous alcove studio apartment in the Chelsea Lane. Do you know the Chelsea Lane? Just about everyone I know has been in that building for one reason or another--lurid or not.
There is nothing more amusing than watching three Drama Queens trying to pick a video rental? It's a movie in itself. At first I bowed out. J retained veto power, and B was allowed to choose. He is very busy, what with a fabulous cable TV career and all. But even good stores like TLA video are oppressive in their boundless choices. After a while, I invoked my right to intervene with Emergency Powers. We settled on Where Love Has Gone--starring Bette Davis, Susan Hayward, the little piggy Joey Heatherton, and Mike Connors--TV's "Mannix."
So a delightful evening was had by all. I wondered what it would be like to live down there. I wonder if it would endear me or alienate me. As it is, I have no gay neighbors, and all too many of my straight neighbors have provided unattractive displays of venomousness. In the nine years I have lived here, every heterosexual couple in the building has fought with a great viciousness. It's never fun to walk past an apartment and hear someone yelling, "I hate you, you fucking asshole!" And yet they stay together year after year in these small apartments. There's even a fractious couple with a child in my building. I never see this place as suitable for children. I even feel sorry for my cats, sometimes, although they rarely complain. Just give 'em a belly rub and a cat treat and they are happy.
So I wonder what it would be like to live down there. To have gay neighbors. To have condoms distributed in the hallway, like at Tony's. To have the gay newspaper, the Blade, sitting nex to the Chinese menus, as they do in the Chelsea Lane. While I am seeing more and more gay couples up here in my area, it's just not the same. Neither is the incidence of homophobic attacks, though. Two doors down from me there is a gay couple with their dog Wiggles. Now I don't know them. Ulla and I were sitting on their garden wall when they came home. It was obvious they were a couple. My gut tells me they are actually safer from incidents up here than they are downtown.
Ghettos, you see, have their inherent downsides, even when they are upscale. Maybe especially when they are upscale, as homophobic attacks usually come from people lower on the economic ladder, and from a distinctly different class.
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