Praise Satan, It's Friday

It is Friday. Ben is up in Philly, Jenny is somewhere in the heartland, Zack and Michael are shooting craps in Sin City, and Amy is local, but buried under books and prose. She will return, or so she promises. In short, everyone is gone and I am in charge. I feel like my parents just went out of town! I am the lone guy holding down the fort. Given my track record, that is probably not a good thing. Those of you who read TNG regularly may have noticed the site was out of whack yesterday for a good two hours. Yeah, that was my fault. If something goes wrong in the next three days, I will most likely be responsible. What better to do when the big dogs are out of town? Leave work early.


Obviously TNG is not my real job and the other writers are not my bosses (well, they are, but not in the "I determine your pay and office size kinda way"). In my real job I have the luxury of coming and going as I please. I work in a regional office and my boss is three states away. There is no one monitoring our time in and out of the office. From now until about mid-September, the office starts to clear out on Friday around 1:00 in the afternoon if not earlier. Judging from the half empty cafes downtown around lunch time and the low density in the metro, this seems to be the case for many of you. With the weather warming up and spring being a showcase season here in the district, I plan on pulling the early Friday routine quite a bit. It is no doubt hard to work when the sky is just that blue and the weekend is oh so close and you are ever so hungover from Thursday night. And so, you leave work on Friday to see what you can find.

While DC can admittedly feel monotonous at times, the most fulfilling moments for me are discovering something new, or just simply being reminded of the existing elements of the city that make it so great. Last Friday, with almost DC-spring-perfect weather saturating the streets around metro center, I snuck out of the office early to run some errands and pick up some odds and ends (I mean, I was "working from home"). Along the way, my coffee addiction landed me at 14U cafe, a coffee shop at the corner of 14th and U Street (hence the name, for those of you drinking pints of water with tylenol and various hands stamps wearing off). I went a couple of times when it first opened, but hadn't been there since. To my surprise, they get their beans from Intelligentsia, which in my fair opinion is one of the best coffee roasters in the country. (Blue Bottle out of San Francisco edges Intelligentsia, but just by a wee bit.) Being a coffee geek, I became super giddy. This was a small gift from the gods, right here on 14th street. I cannot rave enough about Intelligentsia coffee.

So a coffee discovery makes for a swell spring Friday, no? For a small few of us, yes. For the rest of you booze hounds, a beverage that requires an ID would make for an even better Friday. I got one for you: Green Tea Vodka. Now admittedly, the whole flavored-vodka craze has become a bit excessive, with very few newer concoctions becoming main stays. This, however, was a surprising addition. How did this happen? Well, not shortly after my coffee-bender at 14U, I ended up at Vegetate for a belated birthday dinner. Being a herbivore, I was looking forward to trying Vegetate, the all-vegetarian restaurant on 9th street just a ways up from BeBar. I had heard mixed reviews about the food, but I was pleased all around. What left the biggest impression, however, was their "Green Tea Cool Out" made with Charbay green tea vodka, lemon juice, and agave nectar. It tasted like iced tea (made with green tea, obviously), with some crisp notes of lemon. It was clean and not tart. This is definitely is the drink of the summer. Who wants to go back with me?

Following dinner at Vegetate, I headed up north to Nellie's Sport's Bar to take in some beers on the roof deck, which just recently added lighting in the form of Christmas tree light ropes. Now, Nellie's isn't new to me, or to many of you. However, standing on their (very spacious and comfortable) roof deck under a star-lit sky with a large number of gay guys socializing and unwinding after a long week, I was reminded that we have it okay here in DC. This is a common sight in our city - groups of lesbians and gay men, comfortable being out, and enjoying the range of activities and night life offerings that cater directly to us. I think it is easy to forget how fortunate we are to have such freedom and resources at our disposal. We experience these activities with such frequency that we don't think twice about it. Generations of lesbians and gay men before us did not have it so easy, and many others living outside of ultra-blue urban locations like DC would kill to have access to a place like Nellie's on a Friday night in the middle of spring.

Now that is what I call a full Friday. Recap: perfect spring weather, leave work early, discover favorite coffee roaster has a local outpost, indulge in summer liquor, and take advantage of the well-developed gay nightlife and community. Life ain't so bad.

Now back to the matter at hand. Today is another spring Friday with blue skies and the weekend is in its infancy. What are you going to discover here in DC when you take that (early) step outside the office?

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Slum Historique

On a weekend night a couple of months ago, an SUV passed me on 9th Street as I walked home from DC-9. A black woman leaned out of her window and screamed at me, “Be careful, this is a dangerous neighborhood!” I yelled back, “I know, I live here.” Momentarily stunned, she still managed a good natured “I live here too,” before riding off into the night. While it’s now common for gay boys to walk this stretch of road between Bebar and Nellie's, the area of Rhode Island and 9th is anchored by a large housing project that keeps the neighborhood hot. That very night there was a shooting a block from where I had the SUV conversation, and a block from where I live.

It’s not the first time shots have been fired in this project. I’ve written about life in Shaw previously, and not much has changed except that there is a police vehicle parked near my house on a semi-permanent basis. On the weekends they sometimes park a giant strobe light machine near the Metro station, the idea being that drug dealers, psychopaths, and general miscreants scatter like roaches at the first sign of light. How’s that for 21st century policing.

If you’ve ever walked up 9th Street you’ve seen the “Bienvenue a Shaw; Slum Historique” text that is painted on the side of a vacant commercial property at the corner of 9th and Rhode Island. Around the time of my conversation with said SUV, someone painted over the “Slum Historique” part, apparently asserting that Shaw was no longer a slum.

More than a year of living here provides me with many words to describe my area of Shaw, but “slum” is the most efficient and honest. I can respect the optimism and desire for increased property values that would inspire a person to slather white paint over those black words, but I respect truth and its searing judgment even more, and that’s why I painted them back. For every optimistic intention, I can show you a decaying and neglected building with a homeless man sleeping in its doorway, a bush festooned with the ornamentation of condoms and syringes, a constant call for my dollar by vagrant parades running past my stoop, and the kaleidiscope of police lights spinning across my living room ceiling, a gift from the patrol car parked across the street in a state of perpetual alert.

I'm not complaining, because these conditions keep my rent cheap. It’s unfortunate that my life expectancy drops a couple of percentage points by living here, but I can accept that. I can even find benefit in that. What I can’t accept is pretending my neighborhood is something it’s not. To me, that’s a more dangerous proposition than eating taquitos at the 7-11 on 7th Street, because it tells the rest of the world that rolls through Shaw that everything is OK here, and it lulls the gentrifiers into a false sense of security.

I don’t know how long “Slum Historique” will stay up this time. I’ve already decided that I won’t put it back if it goes away again, but if it does get white washed, it will be a shame. This weekend I repainted the “s” in slum (long story) about an hour before a hard rain fell consistently across Shaw. It wasn’t enough time for the oil-based paint to dry, yet not a sliver of paint smeared from the letter. I take this as a sign that Shaw is not yet ready for the ideals of those bearing white paint.

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Spring

Is it really? I notice it sneak up on me, sweating in my heavy coat while the people who read weather reports laugh and soak sun. I don’t want to believe them, so I keep the coat on. Later in the week I walk from my office to the corner of 17th and I streets and I feel naked and vulnerable to the elements, clutching my hoodie while the street embraces short sleeves. I’m a coma patient jerking upright after a long sleep, my head off the pillow and staring straight ahead, not making any sudden movements until I gather my bearings—an abuse victim unsure of this trick of kindness—untrusting—waiting for the next punch.

Everything about me shuts down in winter except my ability to accept the cold. 7 years of DC winter and I still don’t layer myself properly, and my boyfriend laughs at me for being miserable yet unwilling to allay my mental state by dressing appropriately for the temperature. It’s my internal summer, I tell him—too strong in my nature to admit the obvious or acquiesce to any other state of mind.

I have tried to fight my internal summer, particularly these last few months. Every morning I look from my 2nd floor window and see what people on the street are wearing, and I apply twice their amount of thickness. If I overdo it, it’s no big deal, because I like to sweat.

When I go to the gym, my favorite part isn’t the workout, it’s the steam room. In the harshest moments of February the steam room is one of my few smiling pleasures. I sit there like an animal in a zoo, sweating in my cage, connecting to my natural habitat. With these first days of warmth I should feel a return to equilibrium and freedom from the cage, yet this year, I’m sluggish. Tense. Frustrated. Even depressed. I’m beginning to wonder if there is such a thing as post-winter stress disorder.

My roommate went to Results this weekend and barely got out of the place alive. The inspiration of the male reproductive cycle as it emerges from the dormancy of winter is thicker than water vapor, and the smell of men in heat makes free weights and cable pulleys sticky with the stink of lust, propagation, and ass babies that never live. One shot from a starter pistol and this Gomorrah would tear itself apart in a shrieking fury of baboon screams, burning cum, and shredded spandex. I’ve noticed this imprint of male biology in my own gym, but instead of joining the pack and reveling in blood frenzy I feel like a vernal abortion—primed for new birth but instead discharged through Winter’s asshole and left shaking and uncertain under the sun.

But there’s hope for me. I realize that sometimes you must kickstart your own engine, so this Saturday I spent 8 hours painting, shoveling, and cleaning the front yard/foyer of my place, otherwise known as “Castle Greyskull,” AKA the ugliest house in Shaw. It’s amazing what a fresh coat of paint, a little elbow grease, a progressive intention, and a day outside under beautiful weather can do for a person’s spirit. Furthering this attempt to meet spring half way, I renamed my domicile “Casa Villa,” with an understanding that said name would only be spoken with a slow, deep, heavily accented growl one might hear from a tactless Latin American pimp after two packs of unfiltered Pall Malls and a tequila bath. I feel prickly and awake just thinking about it.

A little madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own!
-Emily Dickinson

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Ode to DC

This poem was submitted by Justin M., who is 21 and live in Silver Spring. He was originally from NYC and came down to the DC area for college. Now he works full time doing software/web development. In his free time, he enjoys playing sports, video games and walking around the city. He recently started "writing" and is starting a blog of his own, soon.

DC, oh DC, where do I begin?
Every time I try, I never seem to win.
You allure me with chance and possibilities
Even though you are one of the worst cities
Because most of your people, no matter what class
Always seem to have a stick up their ...

I feel like I belong
but know that I'm wrong.
Because every time I try
I tell myself this lie
"Justin you're cool, and not a fool for going,
just go, have fun and enjoy yourself, knowing
that every person alive, has their true place,
and also remember thats it not a race.
Failures in the past, will not last forever,
tonight you'll be on a new endeavor.
New people await, for you to get to know,
so get dressed, get ready, get set and GO!!"

With new motivation, I go and head out,
and leave my straight friends without any doubt.
sometimes i think that I'm treating them badly
because I don't, let them see the real me.
they never really know what goes on within,
and if they did, they would call me sin-
ner. not understanding how I feel,
and also not knowing how to deal,
with the old friend they thought they knew,
but now its different, cuz he's gay too.

Anyways, I leave my house and out I go,
first on the bus, then the metro.
Anticipation fills me, and my hope is high
Its too late to turn back, so I must give it a try.
I text,call, or IM "friends" to see if they're near.
Responses, if any, are "no" or "maybe" or "where",
their relplies don't affect me, cuz now i am there.

I go to a bathroom, and make sure all is well,
The next stop... only my feet can tell.
So I walk to the bar, club or a bookstore,
find my ID, and walk through the door.

I think of whats "me" that i can find in the place,
Books I like, pool table or just a section with space.
Sign up for karaoke or go and get a drink,
maybe somewhere else, I start to think.
vodka orange-pineapple, or amaretto sour,
my goal is one drink and/or one name per hour.

So I call next in pool, then drink & walk around
I look for someone to talk to and i think i found
someone, who doesn't seem too intimidating
so i just walk up, instead of waiting.
i make eye contact, and say "hi"
I anticipate a reply, but all I get is the eyes,
a look that says, "why's this guy coming to me,
I'll just turn and ignore him, and hopefully..
he'll get the message and go his way,
leaving me to enjoy my day"

"Ouch", the rejection how much it makes me hurt,
"Oh, if only I really knew how to flirt."
I see others do it, (not with me)
but they meet others, and seem so free.
I go outside to get some air,
gather my thoughts, make my mind clear.

I look for messages on my phone,
see who's online, and think about home.
I decide to try maybe another place,
and who knows I might see a face
that may want to talk back to me,
and so I head down the street,
wondering who'll be the next person I try to meet.

I walk inside, and look at the crowd
older than before, but the music isn't loud.
I go to a corner, and regret being there
all of sudden someone comes near,
Definitely not my type, but i dont care
i'm not looking for anyone, just to chill
its still early so i have time to kill.
I know what its like, to be overlooked,
so i chat for a while, and talk about a book
or anything else. that comes to mind.
While I keep my eyes open and watch the time.
Eventually, I say goodbye. and then head out.
So I walk back to whereever, this time with less doubt,
of myself and why and what I'm doing,
Instead maybe another drink will be renewing
my confidence, or helping me let loose
and not care about chasing that wild goose.

It's always been, so elusive,
and my search has not been conducive
to chillin, hangin out, and truly seeing
what I want. and who I'm being.
But i say "the night, is still young,"
and the battle's not over, it CAN be won!

I show my stamp and go back into the place,
with my head held high, and a smile on my face.
I check the floor, then walk up the stairs
then get a drink to calm my fears.
I think then text, IM or call a friend,
And then ask "If I should end-
my night and cut my losses"
and they reply that "they're not my bosses
make YOUR choice then go and do,
cuz its not up to me, its up to you."

So again I look around for someone to talk to,
Upstairs? downstairs? Why can't I find you?
Sometimes I just force it, and say somethin to anyone
other times I give up and leave, cuz the night is done.

Now its time to go back home,
often I'm makin this trip alone,
I sit and reflect as i wait or ride,
Returning home, like the oceans tide.
"Why did I, go out in the first place?"
"What proof did I use, to make my case,
that going to DC would be best choice,
just because it has a selection of boys?"

DC, tonight, again you have won
But from the start, the fight was done.
I wanted you to have a place for me,
but now I realize, it can not be.
For your world and your ways are not mine,
And you remind me of this, every single time.
I want to give up and tell myself I'll learn,
but after a lil while, where do I return.

In writing this poem, I see what is true,
the problem's in me, and not in you.
You are what you are, even if I don't agree
but the only thing that I can change, is just me.
I should be who I am, no matter where I may be
And when we meet again, I'll fit you into me.

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Earth Day: April 22

TNG reader Andi Woung is the Visual Director for Macy's downtown store. You may have passed by his amazing windows last Christmas or marveled at how beautiful his store looks these days. It's no wonder that Macy's chose him as the 2008 Visual Director of the Year.

He sent us some pictures of his Earth Day 2008 window. He says:
"The Macys symbol is the star for those of you who don't know. My staff dug through the garbage of their apartment bulidings for this and hand glued everything! I really am a recycling tyrant ;-)"

TNG encourages you to put thought into your Earth Day activities this year, and recycle everything. There are two more pictures after the jump.

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Crack 5: The Circus (Videos Online)

Yesterday, the DC gay variety show known as "CRACK" announced that the videos from their latest show are available on their website.

CRACK is one of the best things about queer DC, and their last sold-out show, “The Circus”, was one of the most entertaining events I’ve seen all year (although I'm dissapointed that the "Right Now" video isn't reproduced on their website).

Stay tuned to TNG, as CRACK ringmaster Summer Camp will debut as a TNG advice columnist in the near future.

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Books: Lost in the City, by Edward P. Jones

Shaw may be the new gayborhood, as TNG has discussed here, here, and elsewhere, but its streets, rowhouses, churches and corner stores have a long history, one mostly inaccessible to us whiteys-come-lately. Ok, we're certainly not all white, and we're definitely not all gay, but most of us are new, and our histories are elsewhere. I've been here 11 years, and I still feel like a shallow-rooted transient. And of Shaw, my playground all this time, I know little more than what I've seen and heard myself. I didn't know until I just consulted Wikipedia that Shaw "grew out of freed slave encampments." Though of course I know that it's lightening up in a hurry: "According to Census records from 1970, 92% of Shaw's residents were black; in 2000, 56% were black. Shaw's notable place in African American history has made the recent influx of affluent professionals particularly controversial."

But D.C.'s "history" problem, our cloudy origins and confused identity, isn't all black and white: it comes from the lack of loving treatment granted by books and movies to other cities...even Baltimore has The Wire. We're stuck here in the shadow of the Capitol, and the political thrillers that generates have nothing to do with us. To the point: I hadn't read anything truly about the people of D.C. until Lost In the City by Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Edward P. Jones.


The collection is a street-level view of the African American experience in our city all over the latter half of the 20th century. Yes, these are fourteen relentlessly bleak stories. Sometimes I can't tell if I actually like them. But they're all here, on our Battleship-grid of quadrants: 13th, O, 9th, F, 12th, S....Northwest, Northeast, Anacostia, Chevy Chase, Petworth, and mostly, Shaw. And that's kind of awesome. And they're filled with indelible scenes and characters.

As Mr. Jones said in a Q&A with the Washington Post, "I had read James Joyce's Dubliners, and I was quite taken with what he had done with Dublin. So I set out to do the same thing for Washington, D.C. I went away to college and people have a very narrow idea of what Washington is like. They don't know that it's a place of neighborhoods, for example, and I set out to give a better picture of what the city is like--the other city."

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Homo-Hop Sunday: Katastrophe & Athens Boys Choir

One of our readers tipped us off about Katastrophe, a transgender rapper who will be performing at the Black Cat backstage on Sunday night. You can check out his myspace page here.

Also performing will be Athens Boys Choir. I won't try to explain him, but you can read about him here.

Black Cat-Backstage
9 PM
$8

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Haiku: Metro Delays

Haiku submitted by "onestepahead."

Delays on the Red.
Strangers' papers in my face
Doors closing! Ouch! Clump!

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Shiloh Slums of Shaw

I live in Shaw, the new gayborhood, and the old "slum historique." There are numerous dilapidated vacant buildings in the neighborhood, all owned by the Shiloh Baptist Church. You've seen many of them (and the church) if you've ever walked from BeBar to Nellie's.

Many people criticize Shiloh for not selling or developing these properties, and I agree they are an eyesore. While I have no love for Shiloh (they were behind the effort to keep BeBar out of the neighborhood), these buildings contribute heavily to the decreased life-span ghetto ambience that keeps my rent low, so praise Jesus.

To learn more about Shiloh's effort to keep it real against the forces of gentrification, read this blog.

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Forced Out

Have you followed the story in the Washington Post about landlords who have forced tenants out of their buildings in order to turn them into condominiums? If you haven't, it's well worth reading. At very least, watch this. I have several gay friends who live at the Norwood on N Street, around the corner from Whole Foods on P street. They have fought aggressive landlord tactics for well over a year, and their plight makes me concerned for not only the immigrant and blue-collar people who can't afford condos, but the young (gay) men and women who can't afford them either.

Here's the gist: In DC, tenants have strong rights. If a landlord wants to convert a rent-controlled building, tenants have the right to decline that decision. However, there is a loophole called a "vacancy exemption" which allows property owners to side-step a vote if the buildling is vacant. The result: since 2004 property owners have vacated and turned over 200 buildings--Many of them through harassment, intimidation, and lack of upkeep (no heat or air-conditioning for months/years, vermin infestation, plumbing problems, etc)--and little has been done to stop them. It just makes me heart-sick to think that such inhumanity can go unchecked for years, and our local government does little more than pat itself on the back for its "progress."

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Terror Food

February is "National Canned Food Month", so I'm reposting this piece from Oct. 07

In a staff meeting last week, my boss announced that since we are located so close to the White House, each employee should have "at least 4 days of food" stockpiled at our desks.

I've come to call this stash my "Terror Food" due to the reason for its necessity and in that I'm stressed about having it at my desk. There have been numerous moments in the past week, walking downstairs at midnight to guiltily smoke a cigarette or working out at the gym, when I've thought about needing to buy terror food just in case I get caught up in some act of jihad.

I settled on "Hormel Turkey Chili with No Beans." Gay uncle in the family of Hormel Chili products, It's super tasty, great with oyster crackers, and virtually fat free while being a good source of protein. It's also the only food I really feel that I could eat for 4 days straight and still enjoy on day 4.

Having this stack of canned meat under my desk is a little strange. It's always right there, reminding me of the fragility of human existence and sending my mind in directions I'd rather not travel, but probably should. Should I be working this close to the terrordome? Do I really want to die around these people? What other items necessary for my survival should I have at my desk? A walkie talkie? Water purification tablets? A good book? Oh, who am I kidding. KNIFE. KNIFE KNIFE KNIFE. I think of that one alot. Particularly considering that my radiation crazed associates, most of which probably have no terror food of their own will probably be coming for mine, particularly if 4 days turn into many more.

My terror food also provides a major temptation. I love Hormel Turkey Chili with No Beans (the distinction between beans/no beans does matter), and seeing it there staring at me is too great a distraction. After little more than a week I have significantly less than 4 days of Hormel Turkey Chili with No Beans, and my supply will probably hemmorage more before I can replace the missing.

I hate that the evil-doers make me deal with such things.

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Who's The Guy On The Horse?

I've often wondered about the "guy on the horse." I walk through Logan Circle almost every day, but I never took the time to read about him. Here's his Wiki entry.

Notable Facts:
-He had no schooling until age 14
-After serving in the U.S. House of Representatives, Logan was a Union general in the Civil War. After the war he was elected to the U.S. Senate in his home state of Illinois.
-He was known by his soldiers with the nickname "Black Jack" because of his black eyes and hair and swarthy complexion
-Logan was always a violent partisan, and was identified with the radical wing of the Republican Party (that doesn't mean the same thing it means today).

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The New U: Not For Me

Two Fridays ago I stopped by Marvin, the new restaurant/bar on the corner of 14th and U, for that evening's Guerrilla Queer Bar. I was actually pretty excited about that GQB location because I consider Marvin one of the best new bars in the area. That is, I did until the bouncer took a look at me that night and told me to "put on some shoes next time" I planned on drinking there.

For the record, I was not barefoot. I was wearing my Rod Laver's, the same green and white sneakers that I have sported every night in D.C. that I wasn't wearing a suit. I've gone comfortably from the Black Cat to Local 16 to Simply Home in those things and never once seen a raised eyebrow. So what crawled up Marvin's ass and died?

The reason I was so pissed off about this is that Marvin was a bar I really, really liked. They had a big outdoor deck with an expansive selection of Belgian and German beers, and the indoor lounge played good (albeit too-loud) music. Even the decor was perfect, dimly lit with tables lined up against a wall with baroque wallpaper. It always looked too crowded to comfortably attend on a weekend, but I was going out of my way to have my middle-of-the-week beers there. Unfortunately, though, my terrible taste in footwear means I won't be returning.

So where does that leave me to hang out in my own neighborhood? The Black Cat is a given, and Solly's is a great little laidback place, but so many venues that looked awesome when I moved here 15 months ago actually proved to be an anathema to the discerning gay man.

Bar Pilar has long lines, St. Ex gets so packed on the weekends that the combined body heat of its guests actually causes precipitation and when I was at Local 16 last weekend (for a birthday party) half the girls I saw there were wearing sunglasses. Its a wonder they didn't trip on something. Busboys and Poets is awesome, obviously, but hardly somewhere you park yourself to get drunk. A guy I met at Stetsons ended up being the only person I've ever gone home with from a bar (I'm kind of innocent that way) but I would still never go back.

I hear a lot of talk about what the U Street area was like ten years ago, mostly using the phrase "open air drug market," and I see what shape the 'hoods in currently. But was there ever an in-between phase when U Street actually was the young, fun, hip area that everyone claims it is now? Or have bars like Polly's and DC9 always been the exception to the "New U's" majority?

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Death of a God

I haven't been able to get away from the tragic death of Washington Redskins Safety, Sean Taylor. Every day for a week, whether it be television, print, or online, I've seen this story take a prominent position in the news of the day.

It's sad when people die, and it's great that he was much loved among his teammates, was a fantastic player, and apparently a good father. It's also touching how on the first play of the Redskins game this Sunday, the team fielded only 10 players instead of the usual 11 (that's class). However, do we really need to act as if a head of state died? It's not like he's the Pope, people. He was 24, had a relatively short career in the NFL, and other than being able to knock the shit out of people and being a good guy, I don't see why he would get this level of media attention for a solid week.

I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but I don't think even Mother Theresa got this kind of news coverage. Seriously. At this point I'm waiting for him to rise from the grave after three days, or at least become one of those conspiracy theory icons that people refuse to believe is dead.

My gut tells me that this is probably more about the power of football than any one person. The religiosity of this game and the way that its worship seems to overwhelm the minds of the plebian masses so completely as to undermine the importance of the things that really matter, is scary. I love football, and I've followed the New Orleans Saints religiously since I was a kid, but far too frequently I speak with people who can talk endlessly about football players but have next to no understanding of anything else. I'm at the point that when I see people with flags on their cars, I wince.

This weekend I saw many people wearing Sean Taylor Jerseys or having some insignia commemorating his life (mostly "21", his number). It was heartwarming to see so many people who apparently care a great deal, but something about it didn't sit well in my gut. You see, I couldn't remember the last time I saw anyone wear an insignia for the tens of thousands of civilians our country has killed in Iraq, the monks lost in Burma, or the thousands of lives destroyed in Sudan. Then again, I've never seen a monk stop a running back cold on 3rd and 1 from the goal line.

As disturbed as I am by this, I realize it is inevitable. In a world where we have made sport our religion, it's only fitting that we send off its greatest warriors as one might a God.

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The Death of the Gay Ghetto?

The New York Times ran a piece last week suggesting that gay enclaves face the prospect of being passé. The article starts with the cancellation of the Castro District's annual Halloween street party, and then somehow tries to make a connection (leap?) to the growing trend of gays dispersing from traditionally gay neighborhoods in cities across the US. This thought isn't new, and a similar/related concept was recently dissected by the Washington Blade. It seems that people who think they know a lot are seeing the Internet and gentrification thin out the gay neighborhoods a bit, and they're sensationalistically screaming FIRE! in the middle of our gay movie theater. But as usual, the situation is a lot more complex than that. I'll share some of my perspectives on this below the fold...

In order to understand what's happening to the gayborhoods, we need to take a look back at history. Gay neighborhoods haven't really been around that long. The Castro got gayed in the late 1960s. Chicago's Boystown, and Dupont Circle in the 1970s. But these neighborhoods weren't then what they are now. We have to look a bit further back in time to understand how this all really came about.

There were a lot of things that happened in the middle of the previous century that resulted in many city centers being abandoned: the creation of the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) and its practices of Redlining (1930s), the GI Bill (1944), the creation of the US Interstate Highway System (1956), race riots throughout the 1960s.

These all combined into a "perfect storm" for the death of the urban centers and downtown neighborhoods of US cities. (How you ask? Redlining prevented investment in black or Jewish neighborhoods, shifting home loans to the suburbs; the GI Bill provided soldiers returning from the war with the resources to suburbanize and start families [baby boom sound familiar?]; the Interstate Highway System made it even easier for people to live in the suburbs and get to their jobs in cities; and the riots in the '60s scared away pretty much everyone else who had the resources to leave the inner cities.) Demographically, these events, when combined, turned our cities into doughnuts, where the empty centers were filled with crime, violence, disinvestment and hopelessness.

Just then, something started stirring. The Stonewall Riots in 1969 began the process of galvanization of homosexuals around the country which eventually resulted in the gay rights movement. Kaboom. "We're Here, We're Queer, Get Used To It!"

Now, funny thing about being gay. We gays are the only "minority group" where you aren't born to people like you. You have to first realize that you are different from your parents and the rest of your family. Then you need to act on it, go out and somehow find "your people." A large part of the gay rights movement was for people to come out of the back alleys, off the piers, out of the clubs (dance, sex or otherwise), and onto the street. With gays on the streets walking around out in the open, businesses began to cater to them. And with business and gay people around, other gay people who wanted to be closer to the action moved in above or near by those clubs, bars, cafés, restaurants and theaters. Boom. The Gay Neighborhood was born. And what better to attract all of the new gays and lesbians around the country who were recently becoming aware of their right to be themselves out in the open.

But what else do you need to have in place for this to happen? How about a lot of undervalued real estate, empty store fronts, abandoned houses and apartment buildings... shells of neighborhoods, just waiting to be spruced up a bit. And that's exactly what the gays found sitting in the middle of nearly every major city in the country. The middle-class straights had all vacated the inner cities, leaving lots of really cool spaces for the homos to move into and call their own. And why not? No one else seemed to want these spaces. The Cairo apartment building on Q St. just off the 17th St. strip is a perfect case study.

So, what's happened since then? At some point in the past 10/15 years, people were somehow reminded that that cities were cool places that would be fun to live in. Gas prices started going up and people started thinking about living closer to work or near transit. Young breeders started to reject the boring sterile suburbs for places where you could party all night and be able to take a cab home. So forth and so on. In some ways, the gay neighborhoods are the victims of their own collective success. If we hadn't moved in and made the inner cities cool places again, (and really, who else would have done it?) the straights wouldn't have caught on and started to raise our property values.

So, what's next? First, I doubt that gay neighborhoods nor gay bars will completely die. They may get thinned out a bit, but there'll always be a need for public meeting spaces. Secondly, no inner city has been fully restored to it's pre-WWII grandeur. There are plenty of underused spaces where the gays can spread into and sprinkle some fairy dust over. Finally, the collective "gay" identity is changing. The monolith that was GAY is now breaking up a bit into fragments, fragments that no one neighborhood or bar can serve. Hence our efforts here with TNG. Perhaps the one-size-fits-all gay neighborhood is passé, but it's possible that smaller more flexible mini-gayborhoods can better serve our needs.

I guess the thing to keep in mind is that no city is static. Cities are living breathing organisms that are constantly changing. The decline of 17th Street as the main gay ghetto in DC is just the opportunity for 14th street to become the next one. Or 9th street. The one thing that I know for sure is that you can't understand these types of events without understanding how things came to be. Only then can you see a clear course for what might become.

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I'm An Asshole: Halloween Edition

Last Saturday night I made a mistake and I feel really bad about it. I'm writing this post both as a public apology, of sorts, but also to assuage my embarrassment by sharing it with the public.

I was crossing 18th St. at Columbia around 2:30 a.m. when I passed what I thought was a female impersonator wearing gigantic fake breasts. It looked to me to be a shorter fellow, about 5'7", with dark eye-makeup and a wig of straight, shoulder length blond hair. It would've made for pretty subdued drag if not for this person's prodigious, (ostensibly) fake bosom. So great was the gravitational pull of her boobs that I had no other thought in my head, no other interest in our green world, then to reach over with my right hand and give the underside of her left (ostensibly) fake breast a little tap. But guess what?

That was not a drag queen. And those boobs were real.

You have to understand my state of mind. I was out with two homos and a lesbian (the entire TNG crew, actually) and was dressed as an American Apparels ad. Wearing tiny shorts, knee-high socks and green velour sweater, I had only dropped my boyfriend's hand to avoid any heckling from the post-Millie and Al's crowd. I thought I was radiating gay so intensely that I could've had intercourse with the crossing guard and she wouldn't have minded.

Less speciously, I had just left the second of two Halloween parties where the entirety of some woman's costume were plastic fake racks that they had worn outside their clothes. As for the gender confusion- that was a trick of the light. And feeling up a stranger? I was wasted. That's really my only excuse. And a paltry one, I know. But it doesn't change what I did or how she reacted.

As I stood at the corner, listening to the Tom Tom Club blare out of the Adam's Morgan McDonald's, my new friend whirled around, screaming "Why did you do that?" Now standing in the streetlight, it was clear that there was nothing boyish about her. It was clear that she was pissed - I would've been too.

She asked again why I had done that, and I was totally at a loss for an answer. I could've explained that her features took on severe, masculine appearance in the moonlight or that her breasts took on a elephantine, ersatz appearance under her sweater but I didn't think either of those explanations would've been a comfort.

So instead I stayed silent as she told me she hated me and slapped my wrist so hard that it stung for the next hour. I deserved it.

Saturday, Oct. 27th, can now mark the day when I turned into one of those AdMo dickheads that I try so hard to avoid.

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Homeless

The poverty rate in DC has increased significantly, in spite of our "economic boom."

Poverty Rate Grows Amid an Economic Boom (Thanks for the link, Tyler)

Also, here are some statistics on the DC homeless, courtesty of some.org:

Click Image to enlarge

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Review: Thad Wilson Jazz Orchestra

Despite having spent 13 years living in DC, I only recently made it to Bohemian Caverns on U St. A friend organized a get-together for his boyfriend's birthday, and had us all meet at Bohemian Caverns for the Thad Wilson Jazz Orchestra. It was a hot time.

The self-proclaimed "Sole Home of Soul Jazz" is in the basement of a building at the corner of 11th and U. When the door is open and there's music playing, you can't miss it. Otherwise, you can just walk on by without realizing it is there.

If you do venture in, a staircase that realistically looks like the entrance to Luray Caverns guides you down a flight of water-etched stairs to the main venue space, where you sit on petrified logs and wonder how the ceiling is supported by the columns of stalactites and stalagmites.

The Thad Wilson Jazz Orchestra plays this venue every Monday night with a $10 cover charge. The band was HOT. From the looks of the ensemble, I wouldn't have been able to guess they were getting paid for their efforts. They looked as if they belonged on the stage of a high-school auditorium rather than a downtown jazz club. But they rocked. Filled the club with the sounds of hot jazz, cool jazz, and maybe a bit of Dixieland. Definitely worth checking out.

On this particular evening, there was no one at the door. It appeared that the venue only had one person working there. And she was PISSED about it. She checked IDs when you ordered drinks, made and delivered beverages, collected empty glasses from the tables, and passive-aggressively reminded us that there was a $10 cover but failed to actually ask us for it... Until I went to the bar and she added the cover to the price of my drink. She was fierce, tall, dark, wearing a pink-red afro-Mohawk that let us all know she meant business. So if you go, be prepared for the troll that dwells in those caverns.

The Thad Wilson Jazz Orchestra performs Monday nights at Bohemian Caverns, 2001 Eleventh Street N.W. Washington, D.C. 20001; $10 cover, does not include tolerance for surly wait-staff.

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Life In Shaw

As I approached the street corner on my way to work this morning I noticed a new pair of orange flip flops on the sidewalk, both pointing in the same direction toward the street, stride length apart.

It was as if the wearer, in a moment of decisive momentum thought "fuck this shoe shit", and left their flops without modifying speed or gait. Where this person went or that they went barefoot doesn't much matter to me. What moves me is that the decision was so fluid and efficient that no time was wasted in stopping to remove the flops in a methodical manner. Is this act evidence of grace, or just fuck it? Perhaps the two are necessarily conflated. Both seem evident as I attempt to define my new neighborhood.



Shaw is a place waiting to be defined as something more than what it can currently claim. The neighborhood clings to overt signs of poverty and hopelessness even as the forces of gentrification slowly spread a fresh coat of caucasian incursion from the sharp bristled brushes of homosexuals and DC townies. Everywhere the signs of restoration clash with those of poverty, and you rate streets in terms of how long it will take to make them submit. I describe my apartment's location as "the ragged edge between gentrification and Thunderdome", being that I am just across the border between Logan Circle and Shaw. I find it funny that so many I speak with think of Shaw as being distant and inaccessible, as if beyond the border of Logan Circle exists a desert that only black and Hispanic faces have the appropriate reservoirs of courage needed to cross.

When I moved here I was under the impression that I actually lived in Logan Circle, but even now that I know better I prefer to say that I live in Shaw. This is because it smiles. Dupont doesn't smile anymore, probably because it's tired from working so hard at being perfect, or maybe it's been posing so long that it forgot how. Logan smiles, but always demurely and with excellent posture, its thin lips slanted and closed while its eyes look down at you with old money disdain and new gayborhood supremacy without the benefit of either. Shaw, by contrast, is plump stretched lips and arched eyebrows with blood on its face and grit between its teeth. No desert here, its face says, daring you to believe it.

I find Shaw far enough away to feel like I'm in my own hood, yet close enough to visit his less interesting siblings west of 13th street. I'm a 5 minute walk from both BeBar and Nellies, but I've only gone a few times. I spend more time at the 7-11, which is less than a block from my house. It's common that I'm the only cracker in the joint, but I'm already known as a local of sorts, and sometimes a few familiar people tell me hello when I sit out on the stoop in front of the store. At any one time there are no less than 2 or 3 vagrants asking for money, but I ignore them. A number of them sleep on the sidewalk around the corner from the store, which I guess makes 7-11 a defacto community center. Last week, in the middle of the day, a friend and I walked past an old black man on a 7th street corner wearing ragged grey sweatpants with the legs bunched around his knees. He had no shirt, was barefoot, and with cosmetic eyes stared blankly into a void only he saw, his body an inconvenient obstacle to joining his mind, wherever it lived. Who is he? Where does he go? Who takes care of him? I remember his slack face, but when I think of him now I envision a cascade of bright green, orange, red, and white light emanating from his silhouette, a large 7-11 sign above his head. A freshly minted deity. A patron saint of convenience.

I walked by the Muslim brotherhood on a Sunday afternoon while walking down 7th street. They gave me some pamphlets they use to educate people about the non-violent nature of the Muslim faith and how radicalized Islam doesn't reflect the true teaching of their religion, a PR move much needed and infrequently replicated in their community. The literature informed me about their neighborhood watch group and how they aggressively try to shut down drug houses in the neighborhood. I saw several young Muslim men kneeling in the direction of Mecca, lying prostrate, speaking words of prayer in a manner I found beautiful and moving. Later that week I visited a friend and noticed that people, mostly African-American and Hispanic, inhabited the street at greater volume than in neighborhoods I've lived in previously. There is a sense that familial bonds run strong in this neighborhood, with many homes alive with people laughing, drinking, and dancing to music, sitting in their yard and barbecuing on the street. It gave me a feeling I haven't experienced since I lived in Louisiana, a joie de vivre you inhabit and express when life is hard and the need for release adjusts in kind.

I was having sex with my boyfriend one night, a month ago. It was so intense that the first few bursts of automatic gunfire was lost in the ambient sounds of urban living, but they continued beyond the threshold of where the mind convinces you that what you heard was a firecracker, a slammed lid on a garbage can, or the muffled backfire of an automobile. We stop. Silence. Stillness. "That was a handgun", I say, staring out of into the darkness beyond my open window. I've heard sounds like it three times in the last week, but I could never be sure. This time, I'm sure. Several days later I hear it again from my couch. I go to the window across from me and see bicycle lying in the middle of the side street across the road, near the metro stop by my house. Moments later there are police everywhere, shining flashlights, looking for lead in the late evening dusk. I know my boyfriend is taking the metro over so I call him, just in case. It's the first time I've ever been afraid of my neighborhood.

I'm told that there is a conflict between the "7th Street Gang" and the "9th Street Gang" that has led to the upsurge in small arms fire. I live between these two streets, so I experience their disagreements in stereo. Across the street, by the metro, there have been several muggings by a machete wielding villain. I'm told that at a local elemen