L stayed overnight and we got up fairly early and ventured forth for breakfast. I broke my long-standing vow to not enter the trendy retro luncheonette on the corner. Faithful to my high-school ethic, I keep away from anything that's popular or trendy in and of itself and it's unessential. Nonconformity for its own sake. Eating is essential. Trendiness in restaurants is not. Normally I wouldn't spend $14 bucks on tea, OJ, and an omelette, but it was a holiday.
I had hoped to go to Shakespeare in Love with my folks, brother, and belle soeur, but circumstance and mania kept it from happening. Instead, we sat around waiting for dinner. Meal times were always stressful in our house when I was growing up. It was the one time we were all together for a significant period of time every day. That can be a real danger when it's the most time you spend with one another.
So the meal happened with the dynamics of meal of yore, but they were accelerated by adult understanding, and annoyance. I basically had to leave the table at the end. I retreated to the den and continued reading Christopher Bram's Hold Tight. This retreat reminded me of many others. New Year's Day was, traditionally, one of the three holidays spent with cousins in Franklin Square (the other two being Passover and Rosh Hashannah). The men and boys would watch those Bowl games. The women did something else. I had two places to hide. Studying an old French grammar in the basement, or watching soaps in the bedroom. Who can forget the machinations of Blaine and Cecile on Another World? Or Edge of Night's nefarious little minx, Raven, as played by Sharon Gabet? Yes, I was different all right. There I was, in the other room, watching plots twist and barechested men strut across the sets.
I was also learning. I was learning how to stand out in my closet while simultaneously reaching for invisibility. People go used to my absences, and not getting to know me.
So, I took the IND home and, undaunted, I bought a ticket to the movie. I went alone. It was odd, standing there alone amid the couples, me reading my gay potboiler, looking up distractedly to all those not-shaven faces around me. It's near impossible to not love the deliberate collective decision to resist a daily ablution? I also wondered how this crowd might react if I were to get into a debacle with some guy for staring too long.
As usually happens, I don't get the exhibits I want to see at museums until the closing weekend. A and I met at MoMA and were appalled to find huge crowds and a $9.50 entrance fee. It was about $8 or less 18 months ago. I really wanted to see the UFA movie poster exhibit. It was great to see the posters of films I have loved, like Metropolis and The Blue Angel. It was disappointing that there was no explanation of the movies depicted. Thank God for the gift shop. The book for the exhibit did the work the museum should have. I also bought part of Tony's birthday gift.
But as if on schedule, I found my breathing labored from all that vacuuming the other day. My bronchii were constricting, forcing me to take to a bench at MoMA while Andrea ambled throught the exhibits. I find that I tend to zip through 'em. But I was tired. So I sat and read the Gambone's short story "Gioia e Dolor" in the lobby. Later, I made my way up Fifth Avenue to go see La Vita E Bello. I got a ticket from someone on the street. The place was sold out.
By the time I eventually got home, I had bronchial spasms and wondered if my just-expired inhalant medication would work. The pharmicist at Duane Reade said not to use it. Meanwhile, my doctor very kindly called me back, that night, and advised to use it. He's a good doctor. He's also a gay doctor. It's good to have a gay doctor again. In America, you shuttle from one HMO or POS to another, never getting to know your doctor. But now I have a good doctor, at least, who is gay, and knows how to address issues plainly.
Bottom Line: If you're a gay man and cannot ask your doctor plainly, "Can I get HIV from giving someone a blowjob?" there's a problem. Not everyone can do this, but I do live in NYC. If I can't do it here, where can I do it?
Of course, I would never indulge in such wicked, sinful, sodomite behavior. It's completely unseamly!
I spent all of Sunday curled up in bed with journals and remotes, watching Sundance Channel, listening to samba music, and napping. I indulged myself in the days of childhood when you wallowed in your sickbed to get well, rather than run around working and not recovering. It was too cold and I was too sick to go out and "do something" for the sake of it, just because my wonderous week off was over.
I also discovered I have exactly two readers: Tony and my cousin Julia. I guess when you want people to read your diary, they don't. But I made sure to get caught up.
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