“Straight Acting” review. again.

A reader contacted me today after having difficulty locating an Edge review of mine from March. She was looking over a follow-up post concerning my review of a book entitled Straight Acting, after being approached by a friend on the issue of her gay friend who loathes himself because he’s super feminine.

So I did some digging and, after not being able to locate the review either, I decided to post it here for her. Gender identity seems to be the hot topic right now; from transgender workplace discrimination issues to Barbara Walters specials on how families cope with their trans-minded children at alarmingly young ages, to men who were once women having babies, it’s tough to know for sure what notion will be left standing once the music stops. It’s one thing to be born in the wrong body. But how does identity become such an issue if the individual feels right at home with his or her biological gender?

THIS ADDED 07/03 3:19PM EST: After seeing a considerable amount of traffic from and to trans sites, I thought it might be helpful to say that this review/discussion is not specifically geared toward trans issues, but gender issues, which I feel encompass a great deal of topics within the LGBT community. It’s important that educators convey the correct message here, regarding gender expression.

For gay men, saying “to be masculine is wrong” and “embrace your feminine side” are not enough. The idea is to love and respect who you are, whether you are gay or straight. It’s important to lose the fear of embracing diversity (no matter how different someone appears to be). The tragedy of Lawrence King is a clear illustration of how ignorance can easily lead to death. But the last thing we need is for self-respecting gay men who positively identify as masculine to experience reverse discrimination for the sake of wanting to right a wrong. If you are masculine, be masculine. If you are feminine, be feminine. If you are a mixture of both, be both. Do what feels right. Let (gay or straight) society get over it.

So in the meantime TRS, here’s my review of Angelo Pezzote’s Straight Acting:

There’s no question that what Angelo Pezzote says is rooted in a genuine desire to help homosexuals everywhere find love and acceptance, all the while dodging the depression and insecurity that stem from inevitable dystopian social pressures. But by the second chapter of Straight Acting, a seasoned reader might go so far as to say that certain passages seem trite, even condescending.

For instance, the metaphors: he states that “as gay men, we can use our fortitude resourcefulness and determination as a super glue that sticks us together, rather than treating each other badly, which is a bomb that blows us apart,” and asks us on the book’s back cover if we’re “fed up with the fact that men have a shorter shelf life than sushi.” He speaks of the “sly Gay Shame Monster” that creeps up, and in one ridiculous passage tries to make us feel better by citing a long term relationship between two male flamingos in England. Granted, in casual conversation one might often indulge by giving examples of how homosexual behavior exists in the animal kingdom, but examples like this don’t belong in a book that claims to be one step ahead of the “I wonder if it’s ok to be gay?” argument.

But beyond the nursery rhymes and tired anecdotes lives a somewhat major inconsistency.

On the one hand, Pezzote makes the point that “sex, gender identity, gender expression and sexual orientation are separate,” reminding us that “having same-sex fantasies doesn’t mean you’re gay,” I tend to agree, as do many experts in the field (enter the Kinsey Scale). yet on the other hand he suggests that men who put out sex ads for other men are gay, “even if it’s just a little,” simply because they might lust for other men. What makes this difficult to comprehend, especially for the lay reader approaching the subject from a fresh vantage point, is the fact that labels are being interchanged like outfits before a dinner party; trying them on for size, so to speak, is something you do before you write the book. In other words, it’s not advisable for an author to interject hypothetical (and personal, perhaps) notions of sexuality when it’s that author’s job to present the facts. What if my fantasy is to put out a man-for-man sex ad but not actually have the sex? Does that make me gay? Or just “curious”? What if I lust for a woman I see dancing in a burlesque show? Does that make me straight? And so on…

On a positive note, Pezzote’s point that the overbearing and contrived masculinity of some gay men that comes from self-loathing or insecurity can be self-destructive and hurtful towards others is well taken. However, what Straight Acting lacks is a clear thesis; we’re left guessing who exactly the target audience is. Take the fact that not all masculine gay men act the way they do out of fear or a need to overcompensate. To hypothesize so would be to contradict the book’s major claims, indeed the cornerstones of Pezzote’s research and practice.

It seems as if most of Straight Acting, and perhaps the bulk of Pezzote’s columns, are geared toward the self-loathing homosexual; the effeminate-at-heart who destructively seeks to be masculine and the effeminate gay man who feels inferior or ugly because of his flamboyant tendencies. Yet, he preaches to a wide audience and in doing so, threatens to flip the prejudice on those gays who in fact positively identify as masculine. After all, being masculine is not any more wrong or misplaced for a gay male than is being effeminate, regardless of the current patriarchal societal trend, a viewpoint blurred as he suggests to “lower our shields of masculinity.”

On the flip side, in what is perhaps the most cohesive section of the book, Pezzote returns to his roots (or at least what appears to be his strongest suit), as an advice columnist by providing several lists designed to help us find true love, engage in safe sex, spot a player, and retain one’s love once he’s found him. In addition, he includes many real life responses to questions he’s been asked that pertain to the subject at hand.

When it all boils down, Angelo Pezzote may not read like Shakespeare, but he does have the credentials necessary to communicate with his target audience. What puts this selection in self-help limbo is the fact that it reads like one long disoriented column piece, and in doing so, loses us before we’re interested in getting to the meat of the matter.

Questions? Get in touch!

a sort of [peeved]

The following is in response to the June 30 Huffington Post article by Joan Z. Shore, “Gay Day or May Day.”

Dear Ms. Shore,

Yesterday you posted what amounts to probably the most impulsive, flaky, privileged-sounding article I’ve read in weeks. About how gay people are too loud during Paris Pride. I’m actually quite surprised the Huffington Post entertained what amounts to the equivalent of those really cheap bic pens they sell at the five and dime — you know, the ones that write about one sentence before they bleed all over the place. Anyway, I’m not opposed to reading what “the other side” has to say about our crazy, abominable gay “lifestyle.” In fact, I spend a good part of my week reading various excerpts from the anti-gay industry: stuff that will either make you swell up with tears and splash to the ground, or cause you to do real damage, like pick up the nearest blunt object and destroy some sheet roc, or a glass window or something insane like that.

Truth is, your little “memoir” of an article doesn’t even make me angry. Not annoyed either. Just a sort of peeved. Peeved that there are hacks of society like you who mire in the big lie that is their “intellectual” life, writing as much sh*t that will spill onto an 5 x 7 piece of paper, vomiting the rest out at some conservative circle jerk dinner party in a boring part of town — you know, where the air is so thick with useless ideology that any creative impulse that crops up in your brain is liable to jump out one ear and slap you upside your head for even thinking about it.

So while you are wondering miserably, as you pop another aspirin, why it never rains on the Paris Pride parade, I’m wondering why you don’t spend more time reading Valerie Solanas’ SCUM Manifesto and less time bitching to readers who just don’t give a damn about whether or not “the decibels could shatter your eardrums.” Frankly, I’m shattered that someone picked up (graciously, no doubt) by the Huffington Post, a woman who has more likely than not, experienced sexism in her lifetime, would really feel inconvenienced by a party that strolls through her neighborhood once a year, banging a drum, wearing ass-less chaps. Obviously you’ve never been to Mardi Gras. Or the Love Parade. Who f#cking cares about your comfort, Ms. Shore? Do you honestly think that 39 post-Stonewall years of discrimination and hatred and dehumanizing, from Brandon Teena to Matthew Shepard to countless others who have suffered and died at the hands of such ignorance and fear, really need your permission to celebrate?

You write, “Before you label me as homophobic, let me assure you that some of my Best Friends, and people I’ve worked with, are lesbian or gay.” Are you serious? You read like some second-rate SNL skit gone bad. Mad Libs. Fill-in-the-blanks, what have you. I’m sure you have black friends, too. Just so long as they don’t play the hip-hop too loud, eh? Is there any sentient life at all behind those cold glass eyes, Ms. Shore? Do I sound angry? Not even close. I’m not even annoyed. Just a sort of peeved.

Seventeen years of being gay and out of the closet will teach you how to pass off curt remarks. You’ll learn how to dodge spit, too. And looks of pure hatred coming from strangers. And remarks from family members and “friends” about how “sissy faggots don’t deserve to live,” and how “someone should round them all up on an island and shoot them because they f#ck each other in the ass.” No biggie. Deal with it.

You say you believe that “however you can be happy — without harming others — go for it,” but wonder if you need to flaunt it. I say, if you’re really going to live and let live, just shut your mouth and give the gays their one day to be happy amidst the madness that is the ever-controlled world of patriarchal-enshrouded legacy, their one day to feel safe amidst those who would invite them into their homes and shops and lives, rob them blind, then stick a knife in their backs and shove them out the door because they’ve served their purpose: to spend money (because, you see, we are also blamed for having more expendable income because the government hasn’t as yet woken up and allowed us our own families, so we can too be sucked into baby-debt with the rest of straight humanity. Homophobic, Ms. Shore? No, you’re not homophobic. Just misinformed.

You write that “the irony of the gay rights movement is that on the one hand, it demands that sexual differences be seen and accepted and legislated as normal, but on the other hand it portrays these variations in an exaggerated, ostentatious and ‘un-normal’ way. It’s self-contradictory.”

But can’t you see? That’s why the gays exaggerate. Because they want to piss you off. Because they want to subject you to one minuscule sliver of discomfort they’ve had to feel their entire lives, simply because people like you can’t understand the concept of difference. You have a bee in your bonnet, Ms. Shore. And perhaps your biggest pearl of wisdom (size queens, take note):

“It is also a form of propaganda, or proselytizing, which I find unreasonable. People in conventional male-female relationships are not parading their lifestyle. And yet, perhaps they should! They are a singularly silent majority who are losing some of the best words in the English language: gay, queer, pink, rainbow.”

Last time I checked, a good number of “people in conventional male-female relationships” were quite comfortable (and safe) using the word “gay”: to describe something that is stupid, or dumb, or unworthy of introspection, or undesirable. Quite comfortable using the word “queer”: right before they bash some fem’s face in, sending him to the hospital because he made the terrible mistake of showing his partner how much he loved him, with a kiss. Quite comfortable using the word “rainbow,” you know, “taste the rainbow?” Haven’t you ever heard of f#cking skittles?

Your May Day is everyday, JZS. Because you’re a woman living in a man’s world. And don’t forget it. Because even though you work just as hard as any man but make half as much as he does, and menstruate gallons each year for him, and raise his children, and remain subjected to his sexist remarks and suffocating ideals, you’re still just a woman living in a man’s world. Don’t waste your breath. You’re not raining on our parade today, Ms. Shore.

But seriously, don’t you think it was about time you left that comfortable flat of yours and marched your own Pride parade?

Yours ostentatiously,

Another Gay Who Just Can’t Keep His Mouth Shut

p.s. Readers: don’t hate the Huffington Post. It’s a wonderful publication. To prove it, Joan Garry (one of my Huff-Po heroes) wrote this inspiring article just one day before that other lady wrote the article I just slighted above. And when you’re done, celebrate with my NYC Pride pic collection.

NYC Pride ‘08 photos are up!

Another Pride march come. Another Pride march gone. It’s been 38 years already and of those, I’ve shown up for about 10 or so. That’s a decade of marches. Holy sh*t. Anyway, what a blast yesterday with Lambda Legal! Cheers from the crowd stirred things up. I met George Takei (Sulu from Star Trek). The rain came and went several times. Cooled things down. But things were still HOT. My Flickr photos are up. Check em out. Once you’ve filled up on Pride, read my very own blitzkrieg.

This year’s poster designs are here.

with [pride] nyc

Trestle on Tenth: Cozy Neighborhood Eatery

Most New Yorkers might consider searching for the perfect patio akin to torture; some enjoy instant success while others find themselves lost in a vortex of avenues and side streets, dangerously close to starvation before they finally stumble upon a sweet outdoor oasis.

Meanwhile, patios are like babies to the restaurants that have them; theirs is always the prettiest. Trestle on Tenth, the Swiss-influenced American nugget of rustic charm located at 24th and 10th Avenue, is no different. And the restaurant that takes its name from a close proximity to the High Line, isn’t one to lie. But New York’s extreme supply-and-demand dining environment makes it risky business to have “hearty” as a middle name, even if your patio is the most beautiful in town.

Every savvy diner knows that the words “hearty” and “summer” just don’t go together. Ralf Kuettel would disagree. As an alum of Union Square Café, he’s quite comfortable using ingredients that will make your mouth beg for more. But if you’re watching your figure - I mean, staring at it with a magnifying glass - you’re likely to run from this menu like a vampire before garlic. Born and trained in Switzerland, his menu carries strong French and German influence. His courtship with ingredients like butter, sour cream, bacon and cheese suggest some sort of familiar bond; they find their way into his recipes often. And he likes it that way. Don’t expect him to change, either; Kuettel is also the owner.

The small menu, Kuettel says, allows him to focus on small things (notwithstanding big flavor). Assuming you’ve come to bust a grub, the menu is sure to please. If you’ve dived headlong into the train wreck that is your current summer diet, you might find Trestle cuisine a pleasant distraction. Unfortunately, the tight quarters might make the food a bit difficult to swallow - even for one with a summer figure.

Still, the block of assorted Swiss cheeses and meats ($14), including soppressata, with the crepinette of pork shoulder with sautéed spinach ($12) - one of the most celebrated dishes in the restaurant - and the roasted pork loin with butter pecans and black trumpet mushrooms ($22) might give you reason to frequent Trestle, even on a hot summer night.

Arrive ready to drink. With a decent beer selection and strong supporting wine list the experience is bound to be a memorable one. Kuettel’s “free trade mentality” about wine might raise questions as to whether he can take credit for the list all on his own; Kuettel’s wife, Juliette Pope, is the wine director at Gramercy Tavern and most likely his cheat sheet.

Don’t let that fleeting diet deprive you of what might be a really cool neighborhood summer spot. While Trestle on Tenth may not be a destination, it’s a spot worth going to if you’re in the neighborhood.

Oh, and the patio is absolutely delicious.

Read my review on Edge

Overruled! Online Premiere

Click the image to watch the movie.

i work on the [web]!

This is fun. I just came across this neat little site today called “I work on the web.” Basically, a club slash networking community slash whatever you want to call it for people who work online. They’ve integrated Flickr so those interested in joining can upload their profile and add themselves to the site in minutes.

Pretty cool. I print-screened the image on the left. Click and you’ll go to my profile, although I might not be at the top of the list; each new arrival bumps the last…

Here’s the link to my “I work on the web” profile on Flickr. I can’t see why this site wouldn’t become a phenomenon in a few months.

I spilled about how I’m falling back on my masters thesis, though. ugh. gotta get my ass in gear.

strand annex [closing]

Horror of horrors. I just found out today that one of my favorite book shops is closing soon. The Strand bookstore’s Annex is closing up shop come end of summer. Too much construction downtown has pinched profits, apparently. I’ll miss it. I love being able to walk over a few blocks from Wall Street during my lunch break to get lost in the stacks for a while. They say there are about 15,000 square feet of books there. A pleasant distraction. And I’m about to cry.

A few books recently bought from Strand Annex: Andrew Holleran’s Chronicle of a Plague, Revisited: AIDS and its Aftermath; and Young Stalin by Simon Sebag Montefiore.

Yet, while one pasttime might be shriveling away in “everything must go” sales and weepy eyes behind the counter, I’ve discovered something new on the NET. Months ago, my friend Tej invited me to join Shelfari, a social networking community for bookworms. I finally joined this week. It’s pretty cool, actually. You can search for and add books to your shelf, add personal reviews, start virtual book groups, connect with others who read the same books and comment on their profiles. It’s more interesting than MySpace, anyway.

So it’s farewell Strand Annex and welcome Shelfari. On a good note, starting June 30 all books at the Annex will be 20% off. Now there’s a good incentive to trek downtown.

photo: That’s me balling my eyes out in front of Strand Annex.

Overruled! NYC Premiere

From the Lambda Legal Website:

In 1998, on a September night in Houston, police stormed into John Lawrence’s home and arrested him and Tyron Garner for violating Texas’ “homosexual conduct” law. “Overruled!” highlights their story and the courtroom drama behind Lawrence v. Texas – the case that led the U.S. Supreme Court to strike down all remaining state sodomy laws and launched a new era in the LGBT rights movement.

The celebration kicks off tonight with the New York City premiere and after party at W Hotel Union Square (more information below).

TODAY! Tuesday, June 24

Overruled! Screening and After Party

Screening at 6:15pm - Cantor Film Center (8th Street between Broadway and 5th)
After Party at 7:30pm - W Hotel Union Square
To RSVP, follow this link: http://www.lambdalegal.org/rsvp

Thursday, June 26th

Lawrence anniversary party @ Stonewall Inn (Christopher Street and 7th Avenue)
Open Skky Vodka Bar 9-11pm

Overruled! Online Premiere - LambdaLegal.org

Join us on June 26th for the online world premiere of “Overruled!” And find out how you can join many others as they host screenings across the country. Beat the rush. Order your advance copy of “Overruled!” today.

I killed [chivalry] on the subway today

Whoever dubbed this town the most aggressive city on Earth must have taken the subway to work. That’s why – with the exception of the elderly or single mothers who just can’t cope with a mish-mash of bags, strollers and the odd child – I’ve killed subway chivalry for good.

Since I put on an extra half hour to my commute, I’ve found that what was once a luxury (my commute on the express from Harlem to midtown was about 25 minutes) has literally become a fight for survival. I’m in Astoria now. Despite signs and brand new glass bus shelters up and down 30th Avenue, I am of the assumption that the Q18 is an urban legend. It never comes. So down the hill I go.

Ten short blocks and 7 minutes later I’m at the station. (I walk briskly.)

Positioning myself at the end of the platform has always been my standard strategy for beating the crowds and grabbing a seat, because people naturally swarm near the train’s midsection; that’s usually where the station entrance is. But this isn’t really news to anyone, so I’ve had to throw it all out the door because now even stupid people know the ends of the train are always less crowded.

Then the train comes. And suddenly what should be a routine commute to work has now become The Wild Kingdom. Claustrophobia sets in, but my eye is on the prize.

As I wait with my fellow passengers-to-be this side of the train doors, we seem to be impatient, but in fact we are in a silent battle with each other. It’s our own mass-transit Jihad: who will enter first? Who will claim the empty seats inside? And who will finish last, with their bag between their legs, armpits exposed, holding their book in their hand? The Loser. The outcast… Wait a minute! Don’t shove this aggression on me! I haven’t even finished my coffee! And I’m not alone. This madness is precisely why I pray for fat people to get off at my stop. Obesity has reaffirmed my belief in God. Because one fat person equals two skinny people (three wet). Laughing? Don’t. When it comes to the New York MTA, this correlation should not be taken lightly.

Everyone knows that space is at a premium. Finding your place in the morning commute can sometimes be like finding your place in the world. You’ve gotta fight. As the cliché says, when the going gets tough the tough get going. The only problem is if there’s no room, the tough won’t be going anywhere unless they get aggressive.

What I find interesting is that while men seem to be more aggressive in subway stations, women seem to take their aggression into the subway cars. Ask yourself how many times you compete for room on a crowded stairway, against the flow, like some poor salmon with a handicap struggling upstream. It’s mostly men who shove and grope on stairs and in hallways underground. Yesterday I was shoved as I walked down the stairs by a man who didn’t take kindly to the fact that my leather bag politely asked his face to move from the small lane afforded me, the narrow column through which I was meant to squeeze on my race to catch the downtown 2 express train. Yes, stairs can be deadly between the hours of 8 and 10 am.

The train is no less hazardous. But on the train, women will clobber you to death for the seat you want, while men don’t care much about standing or sitting. I can’t recall how many times someone of the opposite gender has attempted to cover my face with their ass as they begin to sit even before I’ve had the chance to get up. No apologies. No acknowledgments. Just a bunch of screeching iPOD and counterfeit coach all up in your grill.

The only thing civilized about getting on the train in the morning is getting off. Everything in between is survival of the fittest. I’ll still pick up someone’s glasses if they drop them. I’ll still open the door for someone five paces behind. Hell, I’ll even give someone a swipe at the subway turnstile.

But if you come between me and my morning express train, look out. My leather bag has a mean left hook.

*Photo above from Gothamist. The 1,2,3 platform shown is one of the hurdles I take to work every day.