Dodging on the Dance Floor

I went dancing the other night. It was mostly fun, and I will admit to some bemusement.

I arrived fashionably late, paid the cover, scampered over to the dance floor, and started dancing. There were Go-Go Guys on the stage with the DJ. With a faux cage to one side of the stage. Apparently, they are a package deal. After attending several dance events in this venue, I’m fairly certain the Go-Go Guys there are more on the “strippers who dance” end of the “strippers who dance” / “dancers who strip” spectrum.

Upon reflection, I think I would have found the Go-Go Guys sexier if I had come to the event to ogle raunchy Go-Go Guys instead of coming to the event to dance to sped-up pop music. I would suppose that I am still allowed to appreciate their dancing.

The music was mostly something you could dance to: there was a lot of Lady Gaga—although it might be more accurate to say that the music I recognized the most was from of her latest album. Very occasionally, the music would turn into “Your lizard brain called, they’d like their sequencer back” music. There was one song with mean/angry lyrics that drove me off of the floor for a water break.

Every now and then at these events I remember that music by Madonna, Juno Reactor, Utah Saints, Darude, and Aqua is pushing thirty years old. And then I put my hands over my ears and tell myself, “La la la! I can’t hear you!”

The crowd of dancers ebbed and flowed in front of the stage. There was the obligatory young man and woman who stood in the middle of everything reviewing photos on their mobile. There were also The Young Women Who Go “Whooooo!” — granted, this is a step up from the Young Women Who Shout, “Oh my God! I am sooooo drunk!” I am trying and failing to imagine Dykes of a Certain Age going “Whoooo!” — instead of, say, “An army of lovers / can never be defeated!” — and I think “Whooooo!” is a generational ululation.

Although it was a full moon night, it was difficult to dance down the moon. I stared up at the disco lights as I danced and imagined that I was dancing on beams of red and blue and green. I also watched beach balls tossed around by the crowd. These would occasionally strike the lights. I made sure not to dance under any hardware.

I’m not sure what discourses are in play when the Go-Go Guys are... er, dancing(?)... with a giant, inflatable phallus. Is it an expression of male eroticism? Is it confronting the audience with a spectacle that forces them to evaluate their own relationships with male sexuality? Is it camp? I’m pretty sure it’s not a critique of the commodification of sexuality.

At one point in the evening, I’d found a place on the dance floor to dance that was close to a wall so I wouldn’t back up into anyone. As I was dancing on a variation of a Bulgarian washer woman’s steps, something arced down toward me out of the corner of my vision. I side-stepped just in time to avoid being struck by the giant, inflatable phallus as it poked out of the Go-Go Guys’ faux cage and kept on dancing to the music.

It’s just occurred to me that possibly this was flirtation. It’s also just occurred to me that maybe I should have screamed “Whooooo!” and splashed my (hypothetical) drink around while “dancing,” wide legged, with the inflatable phallus.

The Go-Go Guy with the LED poi is limited by the lower ceiling allowance of the stage area. Should he dance in front of the stage, which would give him more room for large, overhead orbits? Or should he explore more moves that have the poi grazing his body? What exactly is the dance vocabulary of poi, anyway?

Likewise, is the well-endowed, naked male blow-up doll representative of a shadow self? When a Go-Go Guy grasps the blow-up doll by the penis and whirls the doll around, is this a statement about the power of dance to sublimate or move sexual energy that is inanimate and only in potential? Technically, the male doll on the stage is a proxy Go-Go Guy—I’m pretty sure this is a critique of the commodification of sexuality.

I mean, folks were placing tips in skimpy booty shorts and Speedos, so I guess it’s supposed to be sexy.

I danced and danced and danced. A woman grabbed my hand and we improvised a kind of swing-dance around her canned drink. I would have tried some Lindy moves, but we didn’t have enough shared dance vocabulary for any social dance moves. At the end, I was grateful that she hadn’t backed into my back, somehow interlocked our arms, and, while we were still back-to-back, bent forward at her hips and hoisted me off of my feet as if I were some sort of backpack. Which stranger women have done to me in other venues. Twice.

I did wish Mark had come with me, but he isn’t a fan of dancing. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I wish Mark enjoyed dancing as much as I do—it’s more fun to dance with someone, especially if you both understand the steps and each others’ bodies.

I danced and danced and then the music shifted and I knew it was time to go home and to bed. I got a lot of steps in, and my fitness tracker awarded me with several badges.

As I headed home, I had to reflect: Beach balls thrown and kicked into the crowd + folks with drinks on the dance floor = getting smacked by alcohol-drenched balls. Just sayin’.

July Fitness

July is almost half-way done and our yard is flowering. This year we have an abundance of artichokes blooming; their purple crowns are a favorite with the bees. The gladiolas Mark planted earlier are growing taller than the foxglove; the hummingbirds love them. And the iris has given way to purple phlox.

After about six months of Mark dropping hints that I could join him for yoga at the local YMCA (yoga isn’t my cup of tea, though), I’ve re-started my fitness regime. This involves wearing a fitness tracker that talks with my mobile, and spending time on a health app keeping a food diary of weighed out serving portions. And waking up early and going to the Y to either swim, or run on an elliptical, or clink weights. Or sit in the hot tub.

I want to say the increase in activity has been good for my mood, so yay. If I can continue to exercise consistently through September, I’m hoping habit will carry me through the Very Very Long Grey Months around the Winter Solstice. I also want to say that my body is thinking about beginning to look a little more toned, so also yay.

I’m surprised by my sleep patterns: based on motion and heart rate, I wake up a lot more during the night than I realized and I actually sleep a lot less than the seven or eight hours I thought I was getting. It would be interesting to correlate when the tracker thinks I’m in REM sleep with an actual EEG.

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The other weekend I went dancing. Mark opted out. The producers of the dance were the same folks who produced the Pride After-party.

I arrived at a local Queer/Pagan bar a little after 9 PM, when the event started. The music was pumping out, folks were around the bar and tables, and the dance floor was empty.

The theme of the dance was “Hanky Panky”; folks were supposed to wear a colored bandana in one of their back pockets to signify what kind of sexual activities they’re into. Since there is no hanky for “My husband stayed home, and I’m just here to dance,” my back pockets were bare and I wore a black T-shirt with a rampant rainbow unicorn on it. In retrospect, I should have worn a mirror-ball keychain… perhaps with a T-shirt reading “My ball-and-chain is a disco ball.”

I ordered a cola product and inspected the decor. This is somewhere between a theatre production of the Addams Family, an occult bookstore, a Hot Topic shop, and a leather bar—with a covered and fenced-in porch on the side.

I finished my drink, figured someone had to be the first person dancing, and headed to the stage end of the bar. The DJ, smiling, left his control panel, bounded past a Saint Andrew’s Cross and a bondage bench, underneath the big screen showing campy and risqué videos, through the strobing and whirling stage lights, past a dancer’s cage, and met me on the dance floor. “You’re early!” he said, and then introduced himself. Technically the dance’s start time was 9—but things wouldn’t get started until about 10 or 10:30.

This was fine by me, because I wouldn’t have to worry about stepping on somebody or thwacking them with an upthrust arm accidentally while I shook the rust off of my dance moves—which I’ll be the first to admit are a cross between cha-cha, the fox-trot, an aerobics routine, and a ritual summoning.

The music was a fun repeat of the mix during the previous week’s After Party, and, luckily, not quite as loud, as I had forgotten my ear plugs at home. The video on the big screen was a slightly more X-rated version of the previous week’s PG-13 video.

The dance floor filled up, and then go-go boys in day-glow fetish-wear jumped onto the stage. I’m not sure if they were dancers who strip, or strippers who dance, but at least they seemed to be having fun. Especially in the cage. My sense is that they had friends in the audience.

I danced and danced, and briefly re-connected with a queer pagan acquaintance I hadn’t seen in about two years; he went back to dancing with his partner, who was in a wheelchair.

Just a quickly as it had filled up, around 11:30, the dance floor cleared. I remember this used to happen thirty years ago at Perry’s On Pearl: you’d be dancing to the music, look up, and realize that about half of the dancers had left, presumably with each other. The energy of the room would shift from summer lovin’ to autumnal lean and prowling.

When I stepped out onto the smoking patio looking to chat up my acquaintance and his partner, I realized A) it was cooler out here; B) oh yeah, this was where people actually smoked, and; C) a bear in a leather jockstrap and harness wasn’t just waving hi, he was offering me a joint.

Actually, I’m pretty sure he was offering my hair a joint.

I smiled and said, “Thanks; I don’t smoke.”

“What?” he said in mock-horror. “A man dancing with long grey hippie hair doesn’t smoke weed?” (See, I was right; my hair had scored.)

“It’s true,” I said. “Thanks anyway.” —Not realizing until the next day when Mark told me that the leather bear was flirting with me that I missed the sub-text and was completely off script.

Note To Self: Next time, compliment a leather bear on his gear and ask him where he shops.

I went back inside. While the fantasy cater-waiter dance scene from the movie “Jeffry” played on the screen behind him, a lone go-go boy whirled some LED poi in front of a mostly empty dance floor. Which was too bad, because if I had to choose, the go-go boy with the whirling lights was the most interesting one on stage, and he deserved more of an audience.

The night had reached an inflection point. A long time ago, someone taught me the difference between staying at a party because you’re having fun and staying at a party because you’re waiting for something to happen. If one is waiting for something to happen, one either needs to make something happen or leave. Even with the disco nap I’d taken that afternoon, I was feeling a little tired after about two and a half hours of almost solid dancing. So it was time to leave.

The next day my fitness tracker reported that I’d taken 6,183 steps and that I’d burned through 586 calories during my 95 minute “Aerobic Workout.” I can tell from the graph of my heart rate when I was enjoying dancing the most, but, alas, I can’t tell from the valleys and peaks where the poi-whirling go-go boy or the leather bear are.

I can, however, find Mark.

Portland in April: Sunday

Palm Sunday, April 13

Sunday morning was sunnier, colder, and windier than the previous day. Walking the early morning streets Mark pointed out that the lighting on the embossed brass doors of the U.S. National Bank Building was diffuse and at a low angle. I’d mused about photographing them yesterday, but the lighting had been more harsh. I skipped across the street to photograph them. The doors are similar to the ones on the New York City Exchange building in that eight square panels show scenes of “progress”—except the New York doors show more Art Deco styling and the Portland doors are more “Empire” or “Romanesque” (I don’t know when they were made, but based on the naturalistic poses I would guess 1890 or something).

I didn’t register it at the time, but the panels are a history of Western Expansion, starting with half-naked Native Americans witnessing a clipper ship in the top right square, Lewis and Clark (and Sacagawea’s papoose-carriered back) on the top left square. Transportation and arrival seems to be the underlying theme, with the Native Americans watching locomotives in one panel replaced with settlers watching a steam paddle boat in another. The last panels along the bottom depict senes from the 1920’s or 30’s; the rolling landscapes have been replaced with power lines, model T cars, and metal draw bridges. While I appreciated the artistry, the doors are really Colonialism (and Capitalism) on Parade. (Pause to consider replacing the panels with ones that rotate with scenes restoring the narrative of Native Peoples; pause to consider how the concepts of capitalism are embedded within the architectural details of the vault-like doors, and what a post-capitalism bank might look like.)

After the photo session, we walked south. An ornamental cherry had shed its petals over the white marble steps of another financial institution, and I briefly entertained the vision of scooping them up and throwing them up into the air as if we were in a procession—but then I imagined the unsavory items and liquids that might be commingled with the petals and checked the impulse.

Mark and I breakfasted at “La Boulangerie” (or something), on things like quiche, croissants, and macaroons. Across the street, in a corner courtyard with the cherry tree, a vortex played with black sheet of plastic, possibly an extra-large garbage bag. Against the sunlit buildings and tree, the plastic looked like a Dementor from the Harry Potter series. Every time I though it would come to rest, it would jump up again and circle, over the cherry, around a building corner and back again, gyring up eight stories and slinking on the wind over the street in a way that looked less and less like a tumbling bag and more and more like cloaked and serpentine wraith. This was made all the more incongruous by a chocolate croissant and loud, vaguely French music coming from the kitchen’s sound system. Eventually, the apparition blew around a corner and out of view.

We returned to the hotel for a quick refresh and to meet a local friend, NH. She photographed us as we processed down the grand staircase from the mezzanine, in front of the great mirror, and into the lobby proper. I’d like to say that we looked regal as we went down the stairs, but we were dressed for an urban hike and looked like we were attending an Elderhostel Orientation (I blame my Tilley Hat’s inability to contain my hair).

The three of us headed to the Willamette River and the Steele Bridge. We chatted about our elderly parents and what our children are up to. Along the way we passed by a sheet of thick, black plastic crumpled on a corner. The temperature rose, but the wind was cool, especially if we were in the shade. Cyclists and joggers and families on outings passed us in both directions.

As we were making our way along the eastern river bank below OMSI, I looked out and saw a sea lion in the Willamette. The sea lion was so high out of the water and swimming so swiftly that it looked a little like the Loch Ness Monster. Another, smaller sea lion swam on its side and appeared to be sailing with one fin held up in the air; we weren’t sure if it was in distress or not. We seemed to be the most excited folks on our section of the path to see the sea lions—normally they are on the coast; Mark opined that they must be following the salmon as they spawned up the river.

Continuing forward, we crossed the Tilikum Crossing back to the west side of Portland. We ate at what we thought was a pizza place at first, but turned out to be an Asian Dumpling Restaurant. We continued our urban hike along the waterfront plaza, and wound up back at the hotel, where we bid NH adieu.

Mark wanted to pick up some books of his own, so I ditched my Tilley hat, Mark ditched some unneeded layers, and we went to Powell’s City of Books. Powell’s has rearranged the speculative fiction section and a few other sections; so there was a repeat of the moment where I would lead Mark to the former location of something. Which was a little irksome. Eventually, a bookstore clerk directed us to the sections where we might find LGBTQ+ romance (paranormal or otherwise) similar to what Alexis Hall writes.

Since I had already used up my book budget the previous day, I felt like I shouldn’t be buying any more books (and besides, I wasn’t sure I would have been able to fit them into my train luggage). I did ask two clerks if they had any suggestions or tools for repairing books that had been savaged by Evil Scrapbookers—one clerk was sympathetic and I felt like he was going to tell me some Powell’s Book Bindery Secrets, but the other clerk sort of shushed him and I ended up getting directed to a shelf of books on book binding, but, alas, not exactly book repair.

As I was leading Mark back through the stacks and to the cash registers, I had a a stairwell moment with another patron. I would quip that it was a “stare well” moment except it was more like my gaze fell on this other guy as I was descending, who sort of jumped and stop-motioned out of a freezing in his tracks as he continued ascending. It occurred to me that between my unbound hair flowing behind me, and my nail-and-bicycle-deraillieur-parts pendant against a dark shirt, I probably looked like the love child of Gandalf the Grey and Jareth the Goblin King.

“I think my hair just got a date,” I said to Mark when we reached the first floor.
“You mean the guy on the stairs?” Mark asked. “Yeah, he swiped right. I think that was the third one.”
“Oh,” I said. “So I wasn’t just seeing things in the corner of my eye. I’d wondered.”

Since it was just a block away from Powell’s, we traipsed over to Spartacus Leather for some apparel. Something fun, in a Magic Mike kind of way, but not with any chunky buckles or pokey bits. I think my favorite lines from the experience were:

Me: “Hello. I have two questions. (Holds up something like a lace-up tank top) Can I try this on?”
Clerk: “Of course.”
Me (Holds up a second, triangular scrap of cloth): “Uh, *how* do I try this one on?”
Clerk (mentally rotating the apparel in several axes): “I… think… one strap goes over your shoulder…?”


and


Mark (outside a dressing room, asking through the door): “How’s it fit?”
Me (in the dressing room—trying to squeeze into a vest made out of poly-something-or-other—in a stuffed-up, nasal, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer voice): “It’s not very comfortable.”
Mark (in a 1960’s Donner Reindeer father voice): “You’ll wear it and like it. There are more important things than comfort!”


Ultimately, there wasn’t anything there that met the trifecta of making me feel attractive, comfortable, and wouldn’t poke Mark if I hugged him while wearing it.

We wandered around a bit, and slipped into the old Sentinel Hotel, now the home of “Jake’s Grill,” to look at its architecture and interior design. The outside looks French: many masonry “tassels” hang from the corners and cornices, or are carved into the stone window casings. The tassel motif was repeated in balustrades and in stain glass mosaics set behind Beaux-Arts light fixtures. Anticipating Transformers by about eighty years, the stone tassels along the top frieze of the building became knight-like sentinels.

We chatted up the concierge / host, who seemed more than happy to let us explore and photograph architectural details. I stepped into an empty dining area and discovered a series of sepia toned murals depicting Lewis and Clark trading along the Columbia with The Native Americans. The art was well done; we saw a little more of Sacagawea’s face and not quite so much of her back this time. I’m not sure if, confronted with eight-foot tall figures of fishing Native Americans and bartering Corps of Discovery members, a diner is supposed to start humming the School-House Rock ditty, “Elbow Room,” or the Village People’s “YMCA.” However, I’m going to hazard a guess that artists in Oregon at the turn of the century substituted Pacific Northwest Native American men for Hercules, Apollo, and other Classical Excuses to Portray the Male Nude in Art.

That evening, we upgraded our athleisure wear to restaurant casual and had dinner at The Melting Pot (a fine fondue restaurant). Mark had pointed it out the evening prior; much to my excitement I discovered that The Melting Pot’s entrance was through a baroque arched belvedere that first caught my eye when I was a student at Reed. Back then, it was the entrance to a club or restaurant called, I think, “Bacchus.” Wrought iron grape vines and Bacchus heads adorned its four sides, and a horned goat head stared out from the arch’s keystones. A stairway led to the actual restaurant, which was underground. I always imagined a sinuous, writhing interior with torches and vines and snakes and couches and satyrs and nymphs and shepherds and shepherdesses and sheep and goats and urns and craters and pyxes pomegranates and grottos. Oh, yeah; and some sort of feast.

I never did make it inside when I was at school. It was a landmark we’d pass by riding the bus on the way to the Saturday Market; or, later, drive by on the way to Powell’s; or still later, catch a fleeting glimpse of on other Portland adventures. Somewhere along the way it had stopped being a restaurant—I seem to recall it was an unused space for a while—and I had no idea it had become a fondue restaurant.

When we got to the belvedere—I practically skipped up to it—I discovered that what I had thought were granite foundation stones and the intersection of two masonry barrel vaults was, in fact, a stoney facade affixed to a metal frame. Mark and I descended the stairs, which were concrete, with a plain metal railing along one side. I had already braced myself for an an interior which would be completely different from what I imagined, but I hadn’t been prepared for the belvedere’s forgery.

The inside was a sort of Arts-And-Crafts meets Scandinavian Design in dark earth tones. Blue, green, and yellow bottles stood in inset boxes—these were, I think, supposed to be illuminated, but the lights’ elements had failed and so the bottles flickered and flashed in an erratic and disconnected fashion. The center of every table had a rectangular, metal, induction hot-plate in it. We were led to booth seating, which flexed when the person in the adjoining booth moved, and which the seats of were a might too low for the table. But it was clean, didn’t smell odd, and everyone there seemed to be having a joyful time.

We went in not realizing how hungry we were, and ended up ordering four courses: cheese fondue, salads, a chicken broth fondue, and a chocolate dessert fondue. The wait staff brought skewers and fondue pots in a combination clamp holder that they would screw down to secure the pot’s lid and prevent boiling oil splashes. Our waiter reminded us not to cross-contaminate the uncooked salmon with other kabobs of food. The safety measure impressed Mark, and he wondered aloud at the nature of the staff’s safety training. He was also amused at how focused I became on my phone’s stopwatch as I timed the shrimp, potato, broccoli, and aforementioned salmon.

Everything tasted great.

We had a sort of floor show two-thirds of the way in as a teenager in a booth across the aisle lost her cell phone between the seat and the wall. This necessitated a floor manager to remove the seat from the booth’s plywood base, get down on her hands and knees, and finesse the phone out (with a ruler, I think). I’m fairly certain the cell phone’s teen owner wanted to die of mortification.

I wanted to go dancing, but we were full of fondue and Mark was feeling tired, so we took a disco-nap until 10pm and then took a short walk to The Badlands. The drag queen who took our cover charge complemented my hair; I thanked her and then we were through the doors to ¡Kaliente! Night.

We were (surprise!) the oldest people in the club (probably). I’d say the genders were equally represented. The crowd was very diverse, which I wasn’t expecting for Portland, Oregon. I was pleasantly surprised that the music wasn’t random, arrhythmic beeps set to water being poured into a pitcher; it was mostly high energy, in a cha-cha or maybe salsa beat. We found a table in the corner and I bought us drinks.

I was surprised by the accompanying music videos—there must have been at least fifty video screens lining the walls—which seemed to require a chorus of women with Very Large Butts and Very Short Daisy Dukes to twerk and gyre and other variations of the pelvic thrust in unrelenting time with the music. Occasionally, the (usually) male vocalist would step in front of the female chorus, rap in Spanish, and either pump one fist in the air, or else open and close his vest in a game of peek-a-boo with his chest. Usually the set consisted of a swimming pool, a drag race garage, or a living room. I really enjoyed the music, but I have no Spanish, so I caught maybe one out of every thirty words, and I had no way to read the imagery in the videos beyond, “I like butts and I cannot lie.” There was a more arty video that featured a bemused looking man in country apparel, who kissed another man, and then rode a coin-operated mechanical child’s horse backward—I am pretty sure that one was a commentary on the intersection of masculinity, same-sex-desire, and country values. Then the female chorus returned to shake their thangs.

I dragged Mark onto the dance floor and we started to dance. Mark dances like a Muppet, which is adorable. My dance style is Dr. Strange Does a Box Step, which will transform into “White Guys Are So Cute When They Try To Mix Aerobics With Tribal Dance” if I really get into it. The difficulty combining our dance styles became apparent when I tried to ballroom dance with Mark and remembered that the last time we went dancing together was probably at his nephew’s wedding over a decade ago. After several songs, I just put my hands on his hips, closed my eyes, and listened to the music with my ears and listened to Mark through my body.

“Oh, you guys are so cute!” I heard a young woman say to Mark.

I opened my eyes and saw Mark ask the woman, who had very long hair, how far back she could lean, and she demonstrated how she could hold a pose that was almost a backflip. Mark applauded, they chatted some more, and then a moment later said he needed some water.

Back at our table, a young black man locked eyes with us and proclaimed that we were hot. Which was surprising. Gratifying, but surprising.

I dragged Mark out for some more dancing. I could dance for hours, although I felt like maybe I (and Mark) needed to dance more at home just to knock some rust off of my ballroom dance repertoire.

It did not occur to me what sort of impression I was making until several songs later Mark leaned in and started singing: “I’m singing to the song / though I don’t understand the words / but I’m dancing with my husband. / He wears a black turtleneck on the dance floor / and a necklace that looks like a charm / he has long silver hair / everyone thinks he looks like a brujo.”

Mark lasted about another forty-five minutes, accused me of keeping him up until midnight, and confessed that after about a half-hour, he finds dancing boring. We exited the bar. A vendor was grilling what looked like Mexican fare on a wheeled food cart and doing a brisk business.

We walked back to the hotel, said goodnight to Mariah, and returned to our room.

Portland In April: Saturday

Saturday, April 12

Mark arose, like he usually does, before I did, and after a particularly lazy sleep-in, I joined him at the Benson Cafe and Bar for breakfast. In the morning light, the place had an open and light quality that had seemed heavier the previous evening. The sun peeped out from behind clouds and shone through beveled and frosted panes of glass. Massively intricate plaster ceilings reflected the sunlight in a diffuse glow. A huge gilded and silvered mirror at the stair landing stood like a gateway to a reflected lobby—or would that be ybbol ? The darkly stained bannister held panels of carved wreaths between the sturdy rail posts. Breakfast was good, but we decided that better fair was to be had from one of the patisseries a few blocks away.

We skipped a brief reunion tour with Mariah and opted instead to explore the stairwell. This had been set up as a kind of museum, with different landings focusing on things like the history of The Benson, which of the recent U.S. Presidents had stayed at The Benson (many, except the 45th) , the Portland Rose Parade, and famous performers who had stayed at The Benson.

“Whoa,” said Mark. “Mariah requested seven limousines? And a specially lit mirror? And $50 candles? Telling folks that seems like a breach of confidentiality. They’re being so mean to Mariah; they don’t single out Elvis or Shaquille O'Neal like that! And then they make her show her boobies in the elevators!”

Mark then went on to play some Mariah Carey songs, and I recalled why I only liked “Fame!” and “Out Here On My Own.”

Then it was time for our first outing. Saturday was partially cloudy with sprinkles of rain. We entered the Chinese Garden right as it opened at 10 AM. I have never been, although I have walked outside its enclosure and caught glimpses of bushes and interior stuccoed walls through some of the ornate windows. The garden takes up an entire city block, but the layout of the tea shop and trees and galleries and shrubbery and moon gates breaks up site lines and makes the space seem much larger.

Our tour guide was a very enthusiastic Chinese woman who would lock eyes with everyone as she would explain the history and design of the garden and structures around us. Sometimes the sun would peek out from behind clouds; other times a cool wind would herald spattering rain. This was a Chinese scholar’s garden, brought together to enable a scholar easy access to both nature and culture. I would say the central design theme was bringing together contrasts: yin and yang, sharp and smooth, dark and light, moist and dry. I enjoyed the various dark and light pebble floor tiles and took pictures to see if there might be a pattern to bring back to our back yard; I’d say “cherry blossoms on ice” was the most interesting design because the other designs (which I also liked) were regular tessellations. Of all the flowers opening for Spring, I think the blooming bonsai wisteria was my favorite plant.

There were many koi in the irregular pond stretching from the center of the lot, ranging in color from red, to orange, to porcelain blue, to black, to bone, and multiple patterns between. I thought the most striking one was a large black and white koi with silver triangles running down its spine. Mark liked a large grey and white koi with pale blue, almond-shaped plate scale armor.

Later, I was able to capture a photo of the grey and white koi centered in ripples from its spine; in the water outside of the circle of advancing ripples, a cloud-veiled sun was reflected, distorted into a cat’s white slitted pupil in a small blue circle rimmed with yellow and red clouds.

“Whoa,” said Mark when I showed him the photo on my mobile. “That’s a powerful picture. It almost looks like The Moon tarot card.”

We took a meal in the tea house; I declined the chrysanthemum tea—which prompted a mini performance of Stephen Sondheim’s “Pacific Overtures” and a quick explanation to the somewhat amused tea house docent/clerk—and had a red hibiscus tea that was much more subtle than the old Celestial Seasonings Red Zinger tea I sometimes used to have a long time ago. Mark got white pine needles. The second floor of the tea house, where we ate, was open and airy, with Chinese lanterns hanging from the thick crossbeams. We had an interesting and hot soup. The moon cakes were fine, but not to my taste.

Mark had said that the Garden staff used to encourage patrons to use soft, quiet voices in order to preserve the serenity of the place. Apparently, this custom has been relaxed, and I had to compose a haiku about two particularly brash young women and their incessant chatter:

Screeching mergansers
Churning the koi pond waters

Miss the rain’s ripples.

After a final stroll along the peonies, maples and limestone formations, guardian dog and dragon sculptures, and sloped rooflines, moon gates, and ornamental picture windows, we said goodbye to the koi and ducks and exited the Chinese Garden—purchasing some chocolate from the gift shop before hand.

There was an occult bookstore that sold rare books—things like first edition copies of “The Equinox”—across the Willamette on Burnside that I wanted to visit, and Mark was amiable. As we set out, the rain was very intermittent, and the gusts had become more constant, prompting me to tie back my hair so that it wouldn’t blow across my face.

The bookstore was a few blocks east of the river. When I walked in, a wave of something like frankincense and myrrh and cedar hit me. The heavy scent had a deep note, and almost no flowery bouquet or fruity top note; it wasn’t unpleasant, but I knew Mark wouldn’t appreciate spending too long in the store (and in fact, he delayed coming in for a bit). The store was smaller than I expected; the decor was more occult than Neopagan, more Goetia than Wiccan. Folk-pagan music played over the sound system. The store had a collection of tarot decks by the front door, which looked interesting, but I already have several decks and I really only use one. Mark and I both liked a stain glass piece that used beveled cabochons to show the moon’s phases. Short stairs, decorated with occult paintings, led to a small landing with a closed door—I would suppose that a ritual space was located behind the door. The books were arranged by subject and author; the rare books were behind glass doors. While it might be fun to have a rare, first edition book—thinking of my lightly read but visually dynamic (and ponderous) copy of Jung’s “Red Book,” and my facsimile copy of William Morris’s stunning (and long-winded) “The Story of the Glittering Plain”—I felt that the florid style of early nineteenth century mystics, mediums, and ceremonial magicians probably wouldn’t warrant the expense.

I’d say the layout was not conducive to casual browsing, and my initial sense was that folks were not encouraged to loiter before the shelves. I wonder if I was giving off “I’ve come to see the freaks” tourist vibes or something when I first walked in, because I got a strong sense of wandering into someone’s enclosure. The proprietor warmed up after a bit, especially once I started asking serious questions like, “do you have this in soft bound copy?” I snagged “Queering Your Craft: Witchcraft from the Margins,” by Cassandra Snow; “Gay Witchcraft: Empowering the Tribe,” by Christopher P; and (on impulse) “The Awakening Ground: A Guide to Contemplative Mysticism,” by David Chaim Smith. Skimming them a little later prompted the Question of the Day: Can one both be critical of hyper-capitalism and still espouse the use of “money magic”?

Back on the west side of Portland, we took a quick nap, and then grabbed some food from an outdoor Food Cart World local to the Benson. I had sushi, Mark ate Columbian. We sat at a very long picnic table and listened while a busker tap danced on a stage. Then it was off to the New Mark Theatre for a world premiere Oregon Ballet Theatre performance of “Marilyn.” (We almost were seated at the stage where “Tootsie” was playing.)

Mark wore a nice, dark blue shirt; I wore a purple shirt with a detailed flower-of-life geometric pattern and a darker paisley-patterned purple scarf. I always like to see what other folks wear to the theatre. We saw a woman dressed like Carmine with a red flower in her hair; there was another woman in a dress that looked a notch above gold lame; there were two guys who were obviously together, but their outfits were not coordinated, as one wore a cowboy hat and the other was higher-end urban. There was less Hippy Chic than we usually see in Eugene.

“Marilyn” was a modern dance ballet following Marilyn Monroe’s life from childhood to her death. The mostly piano music was recorded, with occasional historical voice-overs. The set made use of a scrim, a mostly featureless art-deco wall with a split gate, and a circular stepped dais in castered sections. Effective lighting sectioned off the stage. The main antagonist was a chorus of faceless men in trench coats. At times the chorus was the paparazzi, other times it was men/the patriarchy, sometime it was just a bad situation. The most effective lighting trebled the cast by shining red lights on the trench coated dancers so that their hellish shadows danced on the walls. The most striking music was when Marilyn “sang” happy birthday to JFK without actually singing happy birthday. The dance explored Marilyn’s odd relationship with her father, her husbands, and how this translated to her relationship with men and men’s society, and how Norma Jeane Mortenson constructed the persona of Marilyn.

Afterward, Mark was emotionally exhausted. We made a new best friend (who had a fabulous green and black velvet dress) and the three of us had a mini-salon in the seats and discussed how Marilyn navigated the patriarchy while we waited for the auditorium to empty. I think the dancer we felt for the most was the very young dancer who performed as a child Norma Jeane at the beginning and who represented a regressed Marilyn near the end as she dance with Monroe’s psychiatrist (how would you direct a child to dance in such a convoluted adult head- and emotional-space? we asked ourselves).

We walked the streets of downtown Portland. Mark was open to the idea of cocktails, and I was hoping to find a place to dance (with the understanding that Mark was probably not in the mood for a dance). As we were circling in on where I thought the Silverado was, I pulled out my mobile to look at a map. Almost instantly, a young waif—I thought it was a boy, Mark said it was a girl—appeared and asked if they could borrow my phone to call their uncle. I was simultaneously processing 1) our location in relationship to the bar, 2) the mechanics of dialing a stranger’s phone number, 3) the likelihood of this being an attempt at “Apple Picking”, and 4) a Corvallis Nice Response, when Mark nailed them with a New York City buzz-off stare and a very firm, “No.”

The complex of gay bars that used to be around the corner from Powell’s Books had dispersed to other Portland sites. It was was now a Disneyfied pedestrian street mall.

We wound up back at the Benson Hotel bar for cocktails. Our waiter was putting off enough signals that even my feeble gaydar was pinging. After he suggested that my second drink might help us get lucky, we told him we’d been looking for the Silverado and Mark asked him where people went to dance. It depended on what we wanted to do. He suggested The Badlands bar, which was only a few blocks away, and mentioned Sunday night BBQ at the Portland Eagle (which was far away in North Portland).

Mark and I closed down the bar at 11 pm, more by accident than anything else, and went back to our room. Reader, I enjoyed that second drink very much.

NYC Pride Notes

June 22 2023 1:25pm  Thursday.

Last fall, Mark said that I kept saying how Eugene Pride was unfulfilling and that I should just go to Pride in New York City—so here I am!  In the air and flying to NYC Pride!  I took a disco nap last night from about 8pm to 1am, but kept waking up so I'm not sure how much rest I got.  I kissed Mark goodbye, left Eugene at 2 am, and drove to PDX.  I'm traveling by myself.  

The shuttle buss was crowded. I got through security quickly and made it to my gate around 5am or earlier.  The plane was full.  Somewhere over Minnesota, I got a migraine aura, but it lasted only about an hour.  I'm guessed whacky sleep and a change in caffeine intake was to blame.  I figured I could see well enough to be able to navigate NYC MTA.

LGL will be hosting me, and there are several events planned.  We were going to attend a "Gay Mass" outside of the Stonewall Inn, which is a National Monument, but the National Park Service closed the park citing security concerns, so the mass has moved to LGL's church, St. Paul (Out At Saint Paul is an LGBTQAI+ ministry).

At some point we may go for drinks at the Eagle.  Mark said he thought that it was funny that we're going to a leather bar, and I'm wondered how much it might bother him. (He siad it didn't, but he kepts bringing it up).  We'll also visit the Stonewall and probably Flaming Saddles in addition to some shows and Sunday Pride Events. 

I'm wanting to go to the Brooklyn Museum's Egyptian Wing one day, and if we run out of Gay Things To Do, I brought my NYC Gargoyle book.  We'll also visit Mary Dwyer in Suffern (probably on Saturday, and it's possible we'll run into The Child there).

Thursday evening's Gay Mass was the first Catholic Mass I've been to.  I was able to fall into the ritual from my Episcopal upbringing, but every now and then there were changes in the wording (things like, "and with thy spirit" vs. "and also with you," and "with all the angels and archangels" vs. "with all the angels and saints"). The closest religious events to the mass that I've attended would be Radical Faerie ritual circles back in the nineties, and they're really not that close. 

As I was sitting out in the pews during communion, my eye kept returning to the Matthew 6:7 verse about not being like babbling Pagans in the service flyer, which could have been more ecumenical, but I was able to reinterpret it to "don't be ostentatious in your religious practice." 

I was surprised when the sermon turned into an interactive discussion about pride and how some folks equated it with value, or strength, or self-worth.  I'm amazed at how LGL and the others at the mass operate at the intersection of their Catholic faith and their LGBTQAI+ orientation.  

After the mass's social mingling, LGL and I went to one of his favorite bars for dinner and drinks (LGL is a networker and is on a first-name basis with practically everyone) and had a brief discussion of the effects of a transcendent God compared to immanent deity on the manifestation of the praxis of Pride vis-a-vis community vs family household.  What I had seen in the church was a community coming together for shared worship; my sense with gay Pagans is that they move in together.

We also talked about bunting in our respective cities.

June 23 - Friday - 2023

"That moment when your morning tarot card pull for NYC Pride adventures is the two of wands, reversed. I think this might be about jet lag…."

LGL had to work, and I was left to my own devices.  I had breakfast at Old John's (cue music, "No one DINES like Old John, or RECLINES like Old John, no one interlocks forks by their TINES like Old John...").  The breakfast was hearty -- although I did have to fish out a red pepper!-- and the waitress thought my pride flag shirt was cute (and called me "sweetie," which, according to LGL, is her standard modus operandi).

Wandering west of Central Park, I tried to find Eden Dragon House, but missed it (three blocks too north).  I meandered through Central Park.  It was raining, and with no sun I got turned around and ended up using Google Maps to navigate the curving paths to Fifth Avenue.

Somehow, I wound up in the Egyptian Wing of the MET. (Sticker shock on the ticket prices, which have gone up substantially since I was here last.)  Once I got into the Egyptian Wing, I tried photographing new things, but found myself re-imaging old favorites.  I did manage an image of a hippo on an ostracon for Mark.  Between photographs I had fun being an informal docent with hieroglyphs, especially with the offering prayer.  Alas, the Middle Eastern Wing was closed for renovations, and the Rooftop Garden was closed by the rain; so no art or photographs from there (except for a long-distance shot of the rooftop from outside as I was leaving).  

I got turned around in Central Park again as I returned to LGL's, but I managed to photograph Bethesda Park and gargoyles, grotesques, and decorative buildings.

Aside from wearing a Pride Progress Flag t-shirt, the day wasn't particularly gay.  I suppose one could argue Queen Hatshepsut was in drag when she wore a Pharaoh's beard, but it would be a real stretch.  

Back at LGL's, I took a disco nap, snacked, and had tea.  LGL returned later than he wanted to, but also took a disco nap for tonight's Stonewall Celebration at Hudson Yards and visit to The Eagle. 

The Stonewall Celebration was one part gala celebration, one part Word From Our Corporate Sponsors, and one part concert.  LGL (who knows everyone) managed to get us into a VIP section about forty feet the main stage.  We connected up with other folks from LGL's office. The pacing was a little odd in that a performer would get the crowd pumped to dance, and then the Vice-President of So-and-so Company would come out and make a short speech about Acceptance and Love.

Many people referenced recent legislation to ban or erase drag and trans folks, and urged the crowd "Don't fight back, fight forward!" The most moving performance was a trans activist who created a sound-scape around the sung phrase, "I'm ev'ry woman" and then read the names of trans victims murdered within the last year.  

The most professional performance was by Netta Barzilai, an Eurovision performer from Israel. The sound system had issues the entire event; these were not helped when Netta choreographed her sound box off of her outfit and couldn't re-connect to the stage's speakers.  She kept on dancing and singing as loudly as she could and during the dance bridge danced off stage and pulled a sound engineer back with her to get re-hooked up—smiling and dancing all the time.  

The most fun performance was BETTY.  LGL was familiar with them.  They struck me as an edgier, Rock-n-Rollier, New York City version of Seattle's 90's folk trio, We Three.  They started out with a Pride Anthem, then transitioned into a saucy song, "Did You Tell Her?"  

By this time my hair had become a minor personality on the event's jumbotron, and apparently was visible from the stage.  When we met BETTY after the event, one of them said they'd noticed my energy from the stage, and another one wondered if we'd met before (LGL quipped that they'd mistaken me for one of the sound engineers, who also had long grey locks (although his were tied back)).

Christina Aguilera came out last and performed three songs.  The weirdest part of the show happened:  about every other person held up their mobile phone up to video the performance, so it was like a forest of techno-trees sprouted up in front of us.  They cranked up the sound system for her, and I was glad that I'd brought along some concert earplugs.  She has a nice voice, but everything was so loud and distorted that I really couldn't follow the lyrics. 

By the time the event was finished and we'd gotten a selfie with BETTY, I was starving, so we found a place to eat nearby (where my hair got asked out for a date).  

On reflection, I realized that a lot of local talent had participated in the show, and that this was one difference between NYC Pride and Eugene Pride:  NYC can support a community of professional and semi-professional singers, dancers, poets, DJ's, photographers, and videographers; most of presenters and performers at Eugene are earnest and having fun—which is fine but does contribute to a "bake sale and craft fair (and group therapy)" feel of local events.  Then we were off to The Eagle.

We opened the place up; apparently on Friday nights they don't open until 10 PM.  There used to be a stricter dress code (or is that undress code?), but they've relaxed it, so wearing jeans and T-shirts (and a leather cuff) were sufficient to get in.  There was some sticker shock at the evening's cover, but we paid it and made our way up to the rooftop part of the bar.  I ordered a margarita, and LGL and I sat back and enjoyed the skyline and the scenery.  Most of the guys were dressed like we were, with about a third (?or a fifth?)—mostly the staff—dressed in more scanty scraps of leather or shirtless (honestly, I saw more leather harnesses, jock-straps, and booty-shorts in the Sunday Pride Parade than I did in the bar).  

What I enjoyed about The Eagle was that it was mostly men, and the crowd seemed to be in their 30's or older.  You didn't need to be a gym stud with eight-pack abs to dance or socialize.  The music was something one could dance to, and I did.  (My hair got some more date offers.)  This was a nice change from trying to dance to arrhythmic soundscapes of high-pitched beeps and water being poured into a pitcher with 20-something, half-stoned Eugene kids in a mixed-use space (or not-dancing because a cos-playing person is lip-synching and wiggling for tips on the dance floor).  According to LGL, the place, especially one particular corner on the second floor, would become raunchier as the night progressed, and he pulled me off of the dance floor around 12:30.

We grabbed some matches from the bar as a souvenir for Mark and left.

Saturday, June 24, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the four of pentacles reversed. This is what happens when one is discussing the previous evening’s bar tab when pulling a card…"

LGL had some business in Suffern, and so I visited my mother-in-law, Mary Dwyer, and other available residents of Dwyer Manse.  There was some cognitive dissonance running into The Child, who had flown to the east coast with his mom, and who was on the East Coast Relative Circuit.  Mary looked good, and I filled her in on Gay Adventures so far.

Back in The City, we visited the Brooklyn Art Museum Egyptian Wing.  LGL was tolerant of my propensity to lecture on hieroglyphs and the Egyptian Netherworld Books as we rode the MTA to the museum.

When we entered, we ran into a sound check for a wedding taking place there in the evening.  The last time I visited, for about twenty minutes over a decade ago, I remember a long, dark room, and a silver ibis.  The galleries were different from my memories: more broken up and much lighter.  I was expecting larger statuary than the MET's, which wasn't really the case.  The galleries did not seem to be organized chronologically, and I was not able to discern any themes to how they were ordered.

There was a lot of new artifacts to see.  I was particularly drawn to the Cartonnage of Nespanetjerenpare (3rd Intermediate Period, D 22). What strikes me about this image of Re is that it is ram-headed instead of falcon headed, indicating that this is Re at sunset; and also the green, orange, and black coloring—which I'm guessing may have associations with the rejuvenating properties of the netherworld.

LGL was drawn to a mummy portrait of an Egypto-Roman man.  I'd say the Brooklyn's Egyptian collection is smaller than the MET's, with finer quality Ptolomeic pieces.  

After the museum, we went bar hopping, first to Flaming Saddles (cowboys dancing on the bar!) and The Dickens (loosely based on Charles Dickens).  Both bars were crowded, and the crowds were both younger and more mixed.  And loud.  The music was slower, and the young folks who were at The Dickens at times felt like they were there more to sing along with the songs and enact them as a mini-performance for their posse of friends (and splash their drinks onto the dance floor) than to dance to the music en mass.  

Looking back on the night, I have to say that I appreciate spaces that are enclaves for men—the local Eugene LGBTQAI+ bar hosts a lot of all-family, drag, and trans events—but does not host a "men's night" other than a monthly "bear mixer," and I'm not even sure it's a dance event, unlike their "Lesbian Dance Party."

"That 4:38 a.m. Pride Moment when you realize (too late) that your response to “I thought Jesus was in the (gay) bar!” should be either “Come, and I shall make you fishers of men!” Or “Pick up the receiver / I’ll make you a believer.”"

Sunday, June 25, 2023

"Today’s Pride March tarot card is the four of wands reversed. Celebration in the City! Which is fun, but it’s not my home. (Pause to miss my husband… okay, put on the sunscreen and the dance tunes!)"

After a hearty breakfast at LGL's, we made our way to the NYC Pride.  LGL had once again secured access to a VIP area, and we found ourselves at the shaded review stand near 25th Street and Fifth Avenue, with access to snacks and drinks, watching politicians queue up to begin the parade.  

I took a lot of photographs of grand marshals, and floats, and marchers, and rainbow everything.  Everyone, from Girl Scouts, to people of all races, to politicians and TV stars, to folks in their eighties, to cheerleaders, and all sorts of corporate sponsors, queued up to start their march.

When LGL's workplace's group came by, we left the review stand and joined in.  Initially, I felt like I stood out because A) I was wearing a grey T-shirt with a progress pride flag graphic on it and everyone else was wearing their corporate white T-shirts, B) everyone but me had some kind of flag to wave, and C) My Hair.  But I chanted, "Elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist-wrist" to myself and marched along Fifth Avenue with everyone.

After a few moments, LGL (and a work friend, C), said, "C'mon! We're going to get on the float!"  The next thing I knew I was dancing to some really good music and waving at, encouraging to dance, and making eye contact with what seemed like half of New York City as they stood along the sidewalk, or leaned out of windows, or watched from fire escapes. Most people smiled and waved back, and some even started dancing to the music.

At one point it seemed like we were floating down a river of dancing rainbow flags, faces, and sparkles.  I said to someone, "Man, I wish my husband was here."  And then I stopped and thought about it for a moment and added, "Nah; he'd hate this.  And I'd want to smooch him, but he'd want space or to go on a hike."  And it was true, Mark would have been bored after about a half-hour.

I did not have a good sense of where we were; the parade proceeded south on 5th Avenue before heading west on 8th Street. I had to look this up later:  After crossing over 6th Avenue, the parade continued on Christopher Street and passed the Stonewall National Monument (which didn't register with me as the Stonewall when we passed it). It turned north on 7th Avenue, passing the New York City AIDS Memorial (which must have been on the other side of the float), and ended up at 16th Street and 7th Avenue.

We hopped off of the float and started walking and searching for a place to have a late lunch.  Someone from LGL's work was wearing huge white angel wings and waving a pride flag, and they graciously agreed to a selfie.  

While we were waiting for food (and drinks) with LGL's co-workers, I realized that underneath the smiling and waving and dancing, I'd unconsciously been looking for Mark in the crowds, and how wonderful it would have been if at some point the crowds could have parted and Mark could walk out onto Fifth Avenue and joined me on the float.

Monday Morning, June 26, 2023

"Today’s Pride tarot card is the Seven of Wands, reversed. Taking the long view, this could signify being beaten down by institutional homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, and the various -isms. Or, short view, it could be about travel anxiety."

I escorted LGL to the local MTA station on 77th Street and then went for another breakfast at Old John's.  I spent the morning wandering around the 78th Street and Amsterdam area photographing gargoyles, grotesques, and dragons.  I got caught in a thunderstorm, and was glad for an umbrella.  I found what I call "The Dragons of Library Eden House," which was half under renovation scaffolding, so I was only able to take limited photographs of the dragons there.

  

5:49pm Monday, June 26, 2023

I waited for the flight out of JFK to PDX and wrote in my Book of Art.  I probably could have left LGL's apartment an hour later, but that wouldn't have left any time for train mishaps.  Luckily, taking the 1 MTA train to Penn Station, and then the Babylon Train to Jamaica Station and then the Air Train to Terminal 4 went smoothly.

LGL was worried that the thunderstorms today might make air (and train) travel extra tricky, but at 6 PM everything appeared to be on time.

Ha! LGL was right!  First my flight was delayed 90 minutes while we waited for flight attendants from other delayed flights to board the plane (which was sitting at the gate, empty).  Then, after we boarded, we taxied around on the runways while the pilots negotiated a flightpath with air control, then we parked on the tarmac, then we returned to the gate because the whole airport was shut down, and finally the flight was cancelled around 11:20.

"That NYC Pride Moment when Delta cancels your flight home, and your Wonderful Gay Husband manages to remotely find a space for you at The Box House Motel."

I took a crazy midnight taxi ride through the rain to the motel; the driver didn't know where the motel was, and navigated there with his cell phone.  The mobile's map app sent us the long way, and I  ended up paying the fare in cash to knock off $15 of what was still a steep price.

Tuesday, June 27, 2023

"And today’s post-air-flight-cancellation tarot card is the three of wands. For some reason what sprang to my mind was gratitude… although I am wondering if the merchant in the card is wishing they were on one of the ships in the distance."

Hunkered down in a (expensive!) boutique hotel, The Box House Motel, in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  It was the only place with a room (the JFK Hilton had all of their rooms booked by other stranded travelers).  Between having fun in NYC with LGL and the room deposit for The Box House, my credit card was maxed out (this is my reward for setting my credit limit to a low amount as a preemptive method to manage credit card debt), and so I spent over an hour on the phone with the credit union to try to extend my credit and secure lodging through Thursday.

The Box House Motel had an artsy lobby with a sixties art-deco and colored glass pane feel.  Magnolia or cedar scented the air--it was not unpleasant, but strong.  Pop/swing ballads dominated the sound system--this made the open design of the space more private, but also made conversations difficult. 

I'm grabbed a (expensive!) burger at The Eagle Trading Company, a kind of indoor/outdoor cafe with glass garage doors. The clientele looked like local neighborhood folks; lots of dog walkers, mixed ages, and mostly dudes.  I asked the wait staff about place to walk (and not walk) and they said the neighborhood was a safe one.

After waiting four hours for a call back which never came, I finally managed to connect with a bank person and get my credit card straightened out.  It's was a huge relief; it's crazy how food and travel are dependent on credit-card connected apps on my iPhone.  I'd would have been in a really bad place if my iPhone (or credit card) stopped working.  

Tuesday evening:  There was only one working laundry machine in the laundry room.  I gave up on laundry for the moment and walked to the Greenleaf Cafe, where I found a bench supported by two stone griffins!  Then the music switched from sort of tribal-fusion to 70's Rock (oh well).  The Cafes and hotels here all seemed to be converted garages:  high roofs and glass garage doors, so I am imagined that rooms and houses and buildings that I write should have a history--the farmhouse with added rooms, or old carriage houses turned into living quarters, or old engine sheds turned into garages and then turned into cafes. 

Wednesday, June 28, 2023

"Today’s Post-Pride-Still-Waiting-For-Tomorrow’s-Flight Tarot Card is the Knight of Swords reversed. This is my usual significator card, so I’m interpreting it as a warning to stay focused and be aware that I’m tired of not being home yet."

I had recovered from bank negotiations and goofy non-travel sleep that I had enough energy to go on a photo safari of Mid-Manhattan.  The nearest MTA stop to the Box House Motel was about a 10 minute walk over a bridge spanning a small river (the Pulaski, which fed into the Harlem River).

Once I was on the MTA 7 train, it was a one-stop trip to Grand Central Terminal, where I photographed the building details, especially the twined dragons.  While traipsing about trying to find them, I wandered into a jewelry store, and the next thing I knew, I was helping my New Best Friend, Mars, pick out a tiger-eye bracelet.  She (or maybe they) gave me their email so I could share a link to Google photos of GCT.

Outside the station, I met a Venezuelan couple who were a little lost; I tried to help them, but we had no common language... I couldn't get a translation app on my phone, and felt inept.  In the end I could only wish them good luck.

From there it was more photos of the terminal and then Rockefeller Center.  Prometheus' courtyard was surrounded on all sides by rainbow flags. And somehow I wandered into a La Madison du Chocolat.

After more wandering and photography and a cloudburst and I finally exhausted my camera's battery.  This was probably a good thing, as I managed to get back to the motel before five o'clock rush-hour trains.

Thursday, June 29, 2023

"That Post-Pride moment when you’re about to embark to JFK. No tarot card pull today, although I am envisioning the eight of wands for a completed travel and arrows of love."

Thursday morning; I had to leave the motel at 5 a.m. so I could be at JFK at 6 a.m. so I could be ready for my 8 a.m. flight.  At the airport, I bumped into an information desk where the attendant was giving away little rainbow ribbons; I ended up pinning it to my camera's pack.  My departure gate was in a sixties-industrial concourse that could only be reached by bus, so I lingered a while in the nicer main concourse.  

The floating time during the three days waiting for my Thursday flight was a contrast between the scheduled time with LGL.  Instead of having a guide and host, I was on my own; instead of having scheduled Pride events to be at, I had unscheduled tourist events.  

NYC Pride was fun and great and I managed to experience it from a place of privilege.  Marching was fun, and dancing and waving to folks from a float was fabulous.  

The only thing I'd change—aside from not having my return flight cancelled—would be the bars and venues to something where conversations could be had (all the bars and places we went to had really loud music, which made understanding folks next to impossible).

In contrasting and comparing NYC Pride with EUG Pride, I'm reminded that NYC has massive corporate sponsorship, and EUG has maybe city sponsorship.  Also NYC has a larger and more diverse community, and can have groups like the Sirens (Dykes on Bikes), and The Eagle, and Gay Water Polo Players, and Education Centers, and Latina/Latino and transgender and gay parent groups.  Eugene pride is smaller, with folks like the Unitarian Church, and Spectrum Bar—but the three community pools:  Eugene, Springfield, and the University of Oregon, don't always speak to each other.

I suppose that I need to go to PDX for Gay Dancing with Gay Men over 35.

And volunteer more.