On May 15, 2014, the plan is to get as many donations as possible in a 24-hour period. Last year, the Pride Center was the #1 fundraiser of smaller non-profit groups. In so many ways, this is the little organization that could. It bears repeating that the Pride Center of the Capital Region is the longest continually-operating LGBTQ center in the country. That says a lot for us, and it’s the people who have made it such a lasting operation.
If you’d like to give, be sure to do so at any time on May 15, 2014. (You can also contribute now so you don’t forget, with this neat feature set up to tabulate contributions on May 15 – a boon to those of us who find our days over-run with busy-ness.) Since this is mainly an online event, there’s no need to get dolled up and dressy about it, but there are opportunities for that as well. Two Happy Hours at two of my favorite places (Mingle and Oh Bar) will take place from 4 to 6 PM on that day as well. However, the best part of this is that your support and help can all be done online without leaving the comfort of your home or the palm of your hand. For further information, visit the Pride Center’s website here.
My time in Minneapolis had come to a close. In the short set of days I’d been there, it had quickly become a comfortable place – the weekday bustle of the downtown, the maze of the Skywalk, the leisurely strolls along Nicollet Mall, the arts and the food and the friendliness of the people – and I suddenly found it sad to be leaving this bridge of a vacation between jobs. It helped to be away, and such thankfulness for a place and time always pings the heart, in much the same way any end of a vacation does.
Every time we say goodbye,
I die a little,
Every time we say goodbye,
I wonder why a little,
Why the Gods above me,
who must be in the know.
Think so little of me,
they allow you to go.
Who else but Ms. Fitzgerald could so perfectly capture the bittersweet poignancy of such a Sunday morning? The tea cup from breakfast sits forlornly on the desk. A rolled-up tie awaits snug placement in the suitcase. The rumpled sheets of a bed only briefly mine spill onto the floor. All the things that held such an exciting allure for the past few days are suddenly deflated with the morning of goodbye.
When you’re near, there’s such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,
There’s no love song finer, but how strange the change from major to minor,
Every time we say goodbye.
Preparing to depart, I take one last look around the room. Aside from the messy bed, and the pile of towels in the bathroom, it looks much like it did on the day of my arrival, now that the suitcase is packed. The difference is in my countenance. Resigned to return to upstate New York, my head is already partly there. It will make it easier for when I do touch down. Unlike most of my last-days-of-vacation, I am due to spend most of the day in Minneapolis. My flight isn’t scheduled to depart until the evening, so I walk to the Walker, but I’ve already told you about that.
An airport is either the happiest place on earth (at the start of a vacation) or the saddest (at the end) and rarely is there an in-between. By the time I walk through the Minneapolis/St. Paul hub (which smells much better than any other airport I’ve been in, thanks to the aroma emanating from Aveda), I am content and at peace with this goodbye. Minneapolis has been good to me, and the people have been kind. Sometimes that’s more than you can find in the comfort of your own home.
When you’re near, there’s such an air of spring about it,
I can hear a lark somewhere, begin to sing about it,
There’s no love song finer, but how strange the change from major to minor,
Every time we say goodbye.
It was my last morning in Minneapolis – and the weather had reverted to the dismal trappings of the winter. Cold, brisk air rushed along on cutting winds, and the sky – so recently blue and filled with the sun – had turned gray, revealing not one clue as to the whereabouts of the central orb of our solar system. Faced with the prospect of an entire day to fill before my flight boarded, I stored my luggage and made the journey to the Walker Arts Center. There were happy memories there.
The walk back was decidedly less colorful than the one through the sculpture garden a few short days prior. While the land had been just as brown and barren then, there had at least been a very blue sky, and a shimmering sun, both of which eluded me now. The day felt like winter – a rather disappointing dirge at this stage of April – and an aspect of sadness on this day of departure could not be shaken.
But there was color, even – and perhaps especially – in the gift shop. For some reason, photos culled from museum shops always turn out better than the actual photos of what’s in the museum itself. Part of it is due to accessibility and the nearness of the objects at hand. No one cares, or minds, if you touch and grope what’s in the gift shop. Such is not the case with those velvet-rope scenes.
Part of it is also due to the nature of the art on display. It really is meant to be seen in person. That’s the only way to accurately gauge the scale and color of a painting, or the shadows and light of a sculpture. When captured in a photograph, a little, and often a lot, is lost – as if the real artwork would never deign to be displayed any other way than its creator intended. For that reason, I don’t tend to post all the photos I take of the works that move me.
The whimsical inhabitants of a gift shop are another story. Their displays cry out to be photographed, sassy little show-peeps begging to be noticed. For that reason alone, I usually indulge them. Often the objects will relate to the featured exhibits or artists, but sometimes they stand alone.
Waving goodbye to the Walker Arts Center, I pause in its doorway as they leave a happy last-look.
The Minneapolis Institute of Arts provided a second day of gallery stimulation, or in this case relaxation, as any encounter with Buddhist art immediately sets my mind at ease. Rather than bore you with my recollections, here’s an eclectic selection of photos that tell their own tale.
My love for a hotel has been no secret here. If I had to live in one for the majority of the year I’d be a happy clam. Every once in a while I’ll splurge for a small suite, one that comes with a couch and sitting area, and the correlating expansive space that is a luxury in certain cities. Minneapolis is not one of those, being as expansive as the room seen here, and I quickly grew accustomed to splaying myself across the place.
In the mid-afternoon pocket of time that just precedes dinner preparation, there is often a lull in the action of the day. Some countries break for a siesta, a tradition about which I have mixed feelings.
On this particular afternoon, however, I embrace it.
The Walker Art Center was staging an Edward Hopper exhibit during my time in Minneapolis, and as art galleries have customarily been places of peace, I made the sojourn into its modern angular walls, examining all the treats along the way. Like the portal seen below, which reminded me of a scene in ‘Beetlejuice’ (my life can be broken down into scenes from ‘Beetlejuice’, ‘The Goonies’ and ‘Auntie Mame’, with doses of ‘Sunset Boulevard‘ and ‘All About Eve’ for good measure).
An art gallery is more than just art – at least for me. The space in-between the art is just as important, if not more-so, than the art itself. Without those blank stretches, the neutral canvass against which the work can be seen and shown off to best advantage, there is the possibility of all being lost in a mess.
In this modern space, there was room to breathe. High ceilings, lots of natural light, and a few banks of white leather couches provided a buffer between galleries. I sat down and took a few deep breaths. In such austerity, and in the simple act of sitting down after all the walking and standing, I felt a calm creep into the day.
The afternoon had broken. Not in the way a mirror breaks – not all shards and sharpness and slivers of glass – but in the gentle turn following the morning, the subtle slant of the sun in the sky, that start to the onslaught of evening.
As for Mr. Hopper, I enjoyed his depictions of office workers best, caught at the end of their day, the sun mimicking what it was doing outside – slanting low in the sky. It reminded me that back home there was a new job on the horizon, but somehow I felt comfort in that too. It was a reminder that I wasn’t alone.
That may be what I look for most in a work of art – the ability to remind us that we are not alone. Not always. On that day at the Walker Art Center, I didn’t feel alone either.
At the end of the sculpture garden, a conservatory. Coming as it did near the end of a blustery walk, perhaps it carried more relief than it otherwise would – though this sort of environment has always held special allure for those of us enamored of plants and flowers.
Rose-tainted bracts of Spathiphyllum, surrounding their phallic flowers, brought a sense of primal urgency to the proceedings, reminding of the sexual sub-layer that runs through all of life. A plaque offered up words of wisdom, ruminations, and an explanation for the enclosures at hand.
I admire when words and beauty collide. If there’s a single goal for this blog – for this entire website in fact – it’s that wondrous collision. The crux that obliterates all else ~ that moment of intersection between mind and heart. Whenever they meet, there is magic. Sometimes, being in a special place aids in the alchemy.
The gods have always lived in clearings, sacred groves, or green theaters enclosed by special walls. ~ Barbara Stauffacher Solomon
On this day, when the wind was whipping around and the earth was still gray and brown, this little enclosure of glass and green was like a hand upon the heart – a reassuring embrace that all would be well, that spring would again return, that there was still love and hope and beauty in the world.
Vital shades of green – from chartreuse to lime to silvery frost – clicked something in the head. The connection of memory to sun, of color to light, cleared the dusty shelves of spring.
Succulents are an easy group of plants to keep, provided you have the requisite sun. The trick to their cultivation is a steady and strict touch when it comes to watering. It’s best to err on the side of less-is-more. These are resilient plants, accustomed to the unreliable moisture of the desert. Most unsuccessful attempts at keeping them are due to poor lighting and over-watering. When in doubt, leave it out.
When happy, their leaves are plump with water, thick and bulbous and more than apt for their ‘succulent’ moniker. They are the embodiment of life. A defiance of the death so prevalent in the desert. An oasis in the barren and windy Minneapolis landscape.
While they are not known for their flashy flowers, their foliage occasionally comes in rosettes, the leaves forming their own sort of bloom.
Somewhere a drag queen named ‘April Showers’ is basking in her time of the year. For the rest of us, we’re just scrambling to clean up the yard after a late start to spring. At last count, I’d filled 47 lawn bags with winter debris – about par for the clean-up course. There is still some more to go – a long-neglected bit of side-yard that never gets the care it so badly needs, for example. But I won’t bore you with that – drudgery is never very sexy. On with the last week…
I’m so alone tonight
My bed feels larger than when I was small
Lost in memories
Lost in all the sheets and old pillows
So alone tonight
Miss you more than I will let you know
Miss the outline of your back
Miss you breathing down my neck
They’re all out to get you
Once again they’re all out to get you
Once again…
As 1993 turned into 1994, and winter turned into spring, and my first year at Brandeis turned into something that was coming to a close, I sat up in my small twin bed, sheets twisted around my legs, the gray light from an outside lamp spilling in like some lame approximation of moonlight, and wondered at the predicament of being alone.
My roommate was gone. I felt relieved, but alone – always alone. Yet not lonely – not yet.
The red numerals of an alarm clock took rigid stock of the passing minutes. Spring rustled at the window. A restless longing was being tapped out by my heart. What did this life have in store? What message might I be missing? Do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?
Insecure, whatcha gonna do?
Feel so small they could step on you
Called you up, answering machine
When the human touch
Is what I need
What I need, what I need, what I need, what I need…
Is you
I need you.
A bottle of urine stood beside the bed (the college guy’s method of avoiding fluorescent hallway walks past midnight.) My backpack slumped on the chair, filled with the books I’d need for the next morning’s classes. Looking back, I’m glad I never realized how alone I was. It would have broken me.
That night, I did not know. Or, rather, it was all I knew, and it was how I survived. Shadows and muffled laughter of passing students floated in from the hallway. I watched the shifting shaft of light beneath the door and bristled at the fading voices. There was no laughter inside my room.
Looked in the mirror, I don’t know who I am anymore
The face is familiar
But the eyes, the eyes give it all away
They’re all out to get you
Once again they’re all out to get you
Here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again, here they come again…
A bit of paranoia creeps into the song. It builds slowly, like an incoming tide, gently but insistently growing louder, and soon, too soon, it is a roar. Static in the head. A feverish state. I kick off the sheets and blankets, as a cold sweat soaks through my t-shirt. On the verge of crying, I wonder why they never loved me. Somehow, I don’t cry. It isn’t sadness that I feel, or even loss. Merely a sense of wonder, at the world, at the human condition, at what it was all supposed to mean. I made a tender reconciliation with the night then.
Insecure whatcha gonna do?
Feel so small they could step on you
Called you up, answering machine
When the human touch
Is what I need
What I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need, what I need…
Is you, is you, is you, is you, is you, is you, is you…
If you let me breathe…
I call friends and lovers at strange hours. I need to talk, and listen, and hear from people I know. They buffer the fear. I ask them to listen to this song, to the whole album. They promise to try, but I know they don’t. I make mix tapes for them instead, counting on the effort to get them to hear it. They don’t respond or say they like it. I have no way of knowing if they hear it too, if they hear the loneliness.
I have never heard voices in the night. Not in the crazy way that would make it easier to make sense of who I am, the way they want so badly to make sense of me. Instead, I hear James. If they heard it – if they only listened – they would know too.
They’re all out to get you
Once again
To get you
Once again.
Sometimes it seems we need a Visio Organizational Chart to keep track of the gay-listers and their dating histories. Politically-incorrect title of this post aside, and stereotypical characterizations of gay men as sex-obsessed bed-hoppers suspended, it’s interesting to note how we navigate the tumultuous waters of dating – particularly when the spotlight of this online-age sees almost all.
Let’s take, for instance, the tangled web of the men featured in this post. We begin with Reichen Lehmkuhl, who started off, if I remember correctly, as a model gracing the cover of Instinct. From there, his star rose in ‘The Amazing Race’ and then the gay-themed soap ‘Dante’s Cove’. He capped off the last decade with a stint on the gay reality series ‘The A-List.’ (And let’s not forget his Hunk of the Day honor.) He first dated Chip Arndt, then moved on to Lance Bass. And Rodiney Santiago (seen above.) And Ryan Barry (seen below.)
As for Lance Bass, he moved on to Pedro Andrade. And Ben Thigpen. And Michal Turchin, to whom he is now engaged. Let’s end on that happy note, because pretty soon the exes may start dating each other, and that’s going to make heads explode.
(Actually, maybe it’s just two guys who dated a lot of other guys…)
For my first dose of Minneapolis culture, I took a walk through the sculpture garden leading to the Walker Arts Center. It appeared that Minnesota had as late a start to spring as we’ve had in upstate New York. The walk that led to the sculpture garden, normally a garden itself, was brown and dried, waiting for the warmth and the wet that was nowhere in evidence. Beauty was about, even in the dead stand of cat-tails by the water, or in the solitary ginger-bread-like styled cottage along the way.
A bridge was decorated by a poem that ran its entire length. It’s a thrill seeing words and poetry utilized in such a manner. I’d like to see a poem on every walking bridge. Here, one could read and walk and contemplate the bridge at hand, and the bridges that came before and after.
But that work was weeks away. For now, in the few days between an old job and a new one, the only signs of something stirring were in the brave and courageous Scilla that were just starting to poke through the ground.
Even the bright metallic jumble of red steel and a crimson cherry paled in comparison to the coming spring.
The single redeeming feature of the Mall of America may have been its aquarium. Not the rainforest portion populated by plastic trees (!!!) but the aquarium itself, with a neat shark tank and some artistically-lit jellyfish that provided ample photo ops that the Mall simply didn’t have. Like a museum or art gallery, aquariums have always provided a sense of peace, in their tranquil dim waters where light didn’t always reach, or the rocky lair where the intelligence of the octopus laid in patient wait for the smallest crack of escape. I could spend hours watching the undulating wings of the sting rays gliding elegantly by, or the sleek torpedo form of a shark slicing seamlessly through the water.
Beneath the dismal never-ending Mall, the lionfish roared and the seahorses galloped. A pair of green moray eels greeted visitors with unrelenting stares and open mouths, while a colorful coral reef display found Nemo and Dory in close confined proximity.
Yet even here, the hokiness of the Mall pervaded, from the aforementioned plastic trees of the rainforest to the false ruin of some fictional Atlantis-like civilization. Fortunately, underwater scenes can look quite magical in a photo, as hopefully evidenced by these shots.
Even the surroundings could not take away from the majesty of these sea creatures, and my fascination with ocean life always stirs in the company of salt-water inhabitants.
We were all very far from our homes, and there was something rather sad about that.
The saving grace was that I could return to mine, at least for now, but they never could. Kept in an artificial environment, they would not be able to successfully return to their origins, never experience the freedom of the open ocean. They had lost the ability to survive on their own, the instinct to hunt.
I still had that hunger. No one was putting on a wet suit and jumping in to feed me.
Perhaps more than anywhere else, a mall will always be my comfort zone. Not so much for enjoyment or pleasure these days but more as a way of life I’ve known since I was a toddler teetering around Buster Brown. In the 90’s, I was all about the mall. I worked in one (during summers) and played in many. There was a sense of safety and comfort in so much retail packed into one stretch of space. Some malls came and went rather sadly (the Amsterdam Mall in my hometown, for example – a poorly-planned and sorely-executed disaster that served only to divide the city and now stands mostly filled with random medical offices) while some thrived and expanded at a terrifying pace (Crossgates, which more than doubled in size from where it began). Others expired completely (Latham Circle) while some almost-expired before rebounding miraculously (Colonie Center). The point is, I know my way around the mall.
Every week, before rehearsal for the Empire State Youth Orchestra, my Mom and I would spend a couple of hours at Crossgates, shopping and eating in the food court. I’d usually begin in the bookstore (back when every mall actually had a bookstore), devouring Entertainment Weekly and People and Us and getting my weekly dose of pop culture. Then I’d meander through the department stores, studying the mannequins, looking over the newest displays, possibly sniffing a cologne or two. We exhausted the expanse of the space after a few weeks, and there was just so much of ‘Things Remembered’ that a person can take without wanting to forget, but when the Mall of America made its splashy announcement that it would house hundreds of stores, an amusement park, and an aquarium, I was as impressed as a cynical teenager could be.
I remember the story playing on the news, and one day I felt certain I would walk its hallowed halls and At one point, I actually had a tentative plan to drive all the way to Minneapolis and spend a couple of days taking my time exploring every mile of it. (That sort of solo adventure was not unprecedented – I’d driven to Florida and back by myself on one of my tours – what was a few thousand more miles West?) While that never planned out, when a deal for Minneapolis showed up on Expedia, I decided to check the Mall of America off my bucket list.
The first thing I felt upon walking into the space was… disappointment. It looked like, well, a mall. I’d forgotten how depressing malls had become in recent years, and how I rarely frequented them for anything more than a conduit to the movie theater. I’d also failed to realize that my taste in fragrance had progressed beyond Abercrombie & Fitch and Victoria’s Secret – both of which seemed to populate vast expanses with their overpowering aromas of fetid sweetness.
I sought out the anchor department stores first, the best of which was Nordstrom, but they did not have any Tom Ford Private Blends (even Las Vegas had an extensive selection!) so the cologne pushers lined up the garishly-packaged Bond series – overloaded with their obnoxious NYC logo. Despite such resistance, I enjoyed what I was sniffing, but not enough to make a purchase. (If I thought random Minneapolis strangers on the street were overly friendly, a fragrance seller is just psychotic.)
There was a small stretch – marked by hanging decorations of crystals to signify its fanciness I suppose – of higher-end stores, like Burberry, which is where I found the only Moods of Norway retail shop outside of New York and Los Angeles – but it was only fit for browsing. I’m guessing they don’t do much business with the locals. Other than that, and a few interesting stores on the first floor, there was little all that different or exciting about it, even with the screams emanating from the central amusement park.
After all these years, I went to the Mall of America and ended up buying absolutely nothing. Not a single thing. No souvenir, no keepsake, no cologne, not even a cookie. And it made sense. The dreams I had of the Mall were from a different time, and the dreams of a child shouldn’t always come true.
Midway through her 1990 hit ‘Escapade’, Janet Jackson inexplicably shouts out, “Minneapolis!†I believe it’s a reference to the city in which she worked with producers Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis on most of her albums, but to casual non-fans it must have sounded like a random Jackson quirk. My only desire to see said city was when the Mall of America was built. Back then, I was a fan of malls, and I made a promise to myself that before I died I would make a pilgrimage to that over-the-top riot of retail madness. It took over two decades, but I finally made it to one of the Twin Cities, the place of Prince, and a rather nifty oasis of civilization in the mid-West.
Apparently this was also where Mary Tyler Moore’s fictional television life took place. Having never seen any of her shows (bad gay!) it didn’t mean much to me, but the opening, where she throws her hat in the air, is so iconic that even I recognized the pose in the sculpture seen here. Currently it stands before a rather lackluster Macy’s, in the downtown area that bustled a bit on the first weekdays I was there, then immediately fizzled out come Saturday and Sunday.
As for Minneapolis, there were glimmers of greatness – in the museums, the galleries, and the music (Hello Dakota) – and there was beauty too if you knew where to look, but for the most part, one visit in a lifetime proved enough. As with most things, it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey – and the journey of Minneapolis was largely a good one, one that will be told mostly through a few photos rather than a lengthy narrative.
Whether or not it was genuine, I didn’t stay long enough to find out, but by the end of my stay I’d come around – as much as I was going to come around – and if I learned anything on this trip it was that a little friendliness can go a long way.
Just in case you haven’t seen enough of me in my underwear, a brief post culled from shots rediscovered while on the hunt for something else. A happy accident, as I was lacking for a post tonight. These also feature my supposed “favorite” Madonna t-shirt.
