Paradise is very nice

Summer in Detroit is such a fantastic time, really the greatest time to be there.  So I'm really sorry I'm going to miss it this year.

Apparently spring in Detroit routinely bums me out.  I get really edgy, everything seems to be bad news, little things like the INSANE parking enforcement downtown or the ghetto-ization of Lafayette Towers became big things (more on those another time), another old building is suddenly a demolition imperative for no apparent reason (never the Packard Plant though), Kwame sticks his ugly mug out of the ground and we get six more weeks of emotional winter ... 

I can't pinpoint where it started for me this year, but do know at one point I started to attribute feeling crappy to low blood sugar and began a weird kind of stress eating that resulted in gaining like ten pounds in six weeks.  And by "like ten pounds" I mean fifteen.  The weather became nicer and my friend (and your dog's bestie) Liz Blondy suggested I undertake some city biking with her instead of turning my jeans into stretch pants, but biking through Detroit's intermittently desolate east side only served to bum me out further.  You can only see so many people trying to keep their house nice while a burned out shell sits next door before you start to think man, this is all really really fucked.

When the things that used to inspire you drive you to drink, you know it's time to reassess.

With the end of my apartment lease coinciding with the move-out from my business location at the end of May, I made the executive decision to get out of Dodge for a while and recharge my batteries.  All those friends who have moved away from SE Michigan over the years (and who have a guest room) are getting a visit.

So I tied up loose ends and, homeless and jobless, departed for locales west.  First stop, beautiful Palm Springs, California.  

Of course Detroit had to get in the last word.  As I was loading the last of my things from the store the night before I left, one of the dozens of "street prophets" comes into the store and chats me up, and by the time I can get rid of him he's stolen my new phone.  

So I've had a week in Palm Springs, where I don't have to watch everything I own every minute of the day to make sure it doesn't get snatched and where modern isn't a dirty word.  And it's been amazing. And tomorrow I head off to San Fran for a solid month for my continuing attitude adjustment.  And after that, Chicago.

For now, I'm getting in the private pool and getting as sunburned as I possibly can.  Detroit, see you later.  We'll always have Indian Summer.

I'd go for a skinny dip in the private pool but there'd be nothing

skinny about it.

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Lordy Lordy, look who's forty

On Monday the nation took a day to reflect and celebrate the contributions of one man, Supergay Detroit, as he turned 40.

They said it couldn't happen here. But it did! The halcyon days of youth are now behind me (heh) and the full mantle of adulthood must now be assumed. Am I bitter? Sure. I mean you can be a youthful-looking fellow "in your 30s" and people still think you are a youngster, but a young-looking 40 is still 40.

OK actually I'm joking, I don't really have an issue with turning 40. It's weird, for sure. To me 40 is my uncle's bawdy 40th birthday party and the bounty of boob-related gag gifts he received (I vividly remember a pillowcase with a photograph of a woman's breasticles screened on it, very traumatizing for a pre-teen faglet). It's "wow, 40." Not for other people, of course, just me.

I still look pretty good for 40, though.

But it does kind of feel like I have to take a few things more seriously. When I turned 35 I made some decisions - changing up the career, moving from Ann Arbor to Detroit - and I set 40 as the next milestone. And that's actually been part of the reason for my break in writing here, I've been spending some time reviewing the situation. Well, and working like a dawg on my paying gig. 40 may be an arbitrary review date, but you must agree the timing is good.

A group of my wonderful friends surprised me with a trip to NYC for the weekend - those are seriously good friends - and it was just what this haggard soul needed. A chic little hotel, lots of cocktails, restaurant and bar interiors that actually show some thoughtful design, and laughs and laughs and laughs with old friends.

I didn't return with an urge to flee to New York, but I did come back with a resolve to get the fun back into my life. Not just in the free time, but work used to be fun, and blogging used to be such a joy. I honestly have no idea what is involved with that but I am sure there is a solution that will fix absolutely everything. (To pre-empt questions: I have no immediate plans to leave Detroit and I am reasonably sure I will continue to write this blog. For better or for worse.)

OK enough reflection. Let me leave you today with a pearl of wisdom gleaned from my many years of experience on this earth. To thank you for being a Supergay Detroit reader, I won't even charge you for it.

Moisturize. You can't start too early.
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Manther

Isn't it funny how just when you announce you are out of creative steam a new geyser erupts? And all it took was me getting off my duff and staying out on a Friday past 9pm.

As you know, I am a fan of our grassroots gay scene downtown. One gay night I love is the bi-weekly Fierce Hot Mess dance party at Oslo. Now as much as I love it, I've been actually pretty remiss in attending over this winter season. It seems every time I plan to attend I go home to disco nap and wake up at 3am. Or else I have other plans that don't entail downtown. Or I am clinically depressed and can't leave the house.

Last night I finally had enough momentum going at 11 o'clock to hit FHM. Unfortunately it seemed to be an off night, so while I saw a lot of people I knew, there wasn't the usual party scene going on. Sometimes I wonder if being bi-weekly causes events in general to suffer a bit, cuz when you are thinking of skipping you can always say, "well, I'll go in two weeks." But when it's monthly, you need to get up and get your dance on or you've got a long wait. I dunno, I'm clearly no expert on promoting.

Anyway, I had some fun people to hang out with and I met some new folks so it was good for me. We danced a little bit, hung out, and then decided to head over to D'Mongo's a block over in Capitol Park.

D'Mongo's turned out to be hopping, with a nice saucy gay presence (that wasn't entirely our group). That place is just really so cool, everytime I go is a good time. Anyway, I ended up chatting with this cute boy I'd met at Oslo and we were talking about this and that, and it turned out we went to the same high school. So of course he asked what year I graduated. I told him and there was a pause, and then he said, "That's the year I was born."

Wellll, yeah so that was funny. We did have a fun chat though and now we might be text buddies and that's always a good time. But I put a blurb about it as my facebook status and was accused of being a cougar. A spirited debate ensued about what you call a man-cougar.

A "mougar"? Kinda creepy sounding.

Then my friend Christy came up with "manther." Much better than mougar. And WAY better than Saturday Night Live's offering "cougay." Manther is solid gold.

And apparently I am one, or at least was that night. I can't help it, boys like the moostash (emphasis on the second syllable, natch).

It was great just to bust out of my rut, though. This winter has been rough, and I only wish I had busted out sooner.
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Winter Kills

I am feeling really ambivalent about a lot of things about life in Detroit right now, and I think that’s because I’m avoiding delving in and feeling not ambivalent about it.

This winter weather is really bringing me down, for starters. Sure, it’s pretty to watch out my windows, but it seems to have brought life downtown to a standstill. Which is fine for a weekend but for two months? I am probably more sensitive to it because my livelihood depends in part on people’s willingness to come downtown. But if the recession and collapse of the auto industry weren’t dampening things enough, this weather is only making it worse.

I’ve never minded winter that much until the past two years. Last year I didn’t hate it until my car was disabled during a theft attempt and I had to walk to work for a couple weeks on insanely bumpy icy sidewalks. That’s when I learned why people walk in the streets in Detroit, at least in the winter.

So what has brought me to hate it again this year? Well aside from the extended effect on downtown visitation, my car got broken into again on Friday night so I’m back to hoofin’ it to work.

Now I know you are thinking “what the fuck?” and you would be right. I don’t even know how many times my car has been broken into at this point. This was another theft attempt so the car is disabled and towed for repairs.

At this point I think a little “blame the victim” is probably in order. I should have started using The Club after time number three or four. But it’s just so ghetto, I was resistant. Plus after I get my car back from repairs I always forget to go buy one until it was too late at night or I was in the middle of some other activity. I have no idea what they cost so I just imagined that they were probably hundreds of dollars and I couldn’t work that into my budget.

Now, with my car in repairs again and me cutting across Lafayette Plaisance in knee-deep snow, I think we can safely say: lesson learned. I will bend to the ghetto.

Of course with an insurance deductible to pay and a Club to purchase and with me being about three cans of chunk light (yes that’s right, not even albacore) tuna away from a diet of cat food, it’s gonna be some pretty boring times around here. I’m just giving you a heads up.

My friends and I always have these intermittent periods of feeling like we need to get out of here, but we always come back to loving it. I’ve always found when I feel frustrated about Detroit I need to spend time with the people I’ve met here who make it so exciting and that usually leaves me feeling reinvigorated. Lately, however, whenever I get together with my friends we end up talking about how the bad economy is affecting us, how bleak it feels here, and how much worse will it get. For once everyone seems to be having their rough patch at the same time.

I don’t need to have everything perfect, but I want to live someplace where I can actually make a living and have some fun. And where I am not assaulted with ugly and cigarette smoke every time I leave the house. After the New Year I was texting with a friend of mine and I said, “I really need something to go my way this year.” He wrote back, “It will. Unless karma is real … then u r fuct.”

The latest car thing got me thinking that maybe I’m fuct. If 2009 dishes up more of 2008, I'm not sure how much I've got left in me for Detroit.
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Coffee Bar-Hopping

Cafe 1923 in Hamtramck is like my new BFF. It is a great place to work. And even though I am possibly the most rabid anti-smoker I know, if you stay in the front part it isn't really noticeable that they allow smoking in the back room. Of course if you want a comfy chair you have to deal with smoking, but fortunately I don't.

The front is also better for the random run-in. Just yesterday I was enjoying tea and viewing the internet when who should walk in but fellow Detroit blogger D-Tales. While I was reading her blog. That was funny.

After a fantastic old-school liquid lunch with a colleague at the Caucus Club I ventured over to the Mercury Coffee Bar in Corktown.

That place has been buzzing every time I've driven by lately. Sunday night around 5pm it was nuts in there. It was relatively busy yesterday too, lots of folks working on laptops and a few meeting type activities in the lower level, but I think the greatest thing was working and being able to look out at the Michigan Central Depot on an overcast Monday afternoon.

Another thing I've noted before and has been verified by several friends is the very attractive and well-dressed crowd that patronizes this business. Incredulous, one of my friends asked, "where did these people come from?"

Actually the only thing that has been bugging me about Mercury is the fact that their identity program involves using the initials "MCB." First of all, why in God's name would you not fully utilize a great name like Mercury?? Of all the horribly named places in this area (Detroit Breakfast House and Grill comes to mind) you get handed this really glorious name by virtue of your location and you decide to change it to the wholly-uninspiring initials "MCB"?

And secondly, MCB is kind of already taken in Detroit - it's how everyone seems to refer to Motor City Brewing Works.

I feel like I will just call it Mercury all the time and maybe "MCB" won't catch on. Otherwise, I love it.
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This must be some kind of record

I got my car back from the latest theft attempt on Thursday. I stayed in all weekend, but ventured out tonight to the Park Bar to meet up with friends for a bit. Someone broke into my car again just to rifle around and see if there was anything in it. At least they didn't rip apart the ignition this time.

Five days - that's definitely a record. The previous record was two weeks. You're improving, Detroit.

God, whatever I did to piss you off for this shitty year, mea culpa. Please forgive me.
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Not so SMART

Happily, I received the call that my car was finally fixed after the most recent theft attempt. Unhappily, I had no one who could give me a lift out to Grosse Pointe to pick it up. So I thought, what a perfect time to give the bus a try!

I've been toying with the idea of taking the bus somewhere in the two weeks I've been car free. I was going to take it to a doctor's appointment but I was worried I wouldn't arrive on time. As a joke I was going to take it to some fancy event I had to attend at Somerset but I was worried about the bus schedule later at night. And I didn't want to sit on the bus for two hours each way.

Since a trip to the dealership during the day seemed like the right time. I went to the SMART website (the bus that takes you to the suburbs), found my route (which very conveniently started blocks from my home and ended blocks from my destination), walked to the stop and waited. And waited a little more. A few DDOT busses stopped or slowed down until I waved them on, but my SMART bus was running a little late. No biggie.

Then it appeared. I stood at the Bus Stop sign, so excited to undertake my latest urban adventure, and then watched at the bus sped right past me. With the lady driving starting right at me. As I waved to try and flag her down, looking like a giant loser.

I think I'll stick to walking, mooching rides off friends or cabbing for my future car-free needs.

Love me

Someone tried to steal my car again the first full day I was back in Detroit from SF, so that was really, um, bracing.

While I was gone I was telling friends about the things I missed about Detroit and how I was having a great time but was looking forward to getting back, but just before I left I remembered that every time I come back from a great trip something happens within the first 24 hours to remind me that I am Detroit's bitch. Getting called faggot by a Tiger fan fifteen minutes after returning from the Chicago Gay Games opening ceremonies was the first time, but since then there's been the smack in the face of Greektown ugliness while walking to work in January because my car is still in the shop from the most recent auto trauma, some work bullshit that is totally tied to the particular quirks of our very evolved regional population that I can't really go into ... or this. You know, for example. It's always something.

I think a lot of people who move away fall into this trap - you remember the great neighborhoods and architecture and people and the really special places like Belle Isle or the Detroit Institute of Arts and the great events like Dally in the Alley or the Electronic Music Festival, but you forget that sometimes livng here can be a big mouthful of feces.

I felt good for about a minute when Kwame resigned, but now I'm more worried about Monica Conyers and her ghetto ass being President of the City Council. I mean, she really is pure trash, about the worst we have to dish up as far as image and behavior go. I don't know why John Conyers keeps her around, he is a high-ranking Congressman, he could have anyone. She must be one freaky lay. So anyway, this led to looking at pictures of Kwame on the Detroit News website today and reminiscing about the good times. My civic self-esteem is in the gutter.

Well, enough Monday Moanin'. This is really just a roundabout way of saying I am not above playing the sympathy card to get you to vote for me in the Metro Times Best of Detroit reader's poll.

This overly-fabulous Kylie video below is serving as my official campaign song. It sends a positive but nearly subliminal message - plus it helps cheer you up when it all just seems too much.

So come on, love me! Vote the Supergay Slate today!

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Ode to the Smith Terminal

Walking through the Smith Terminal at Detroit Metro Airport (lots of pics at link), it feels like a bit of a shame that it’s become such the neglected stepchild mess of all airline terminals. It wasn’t always this way. When I was growing up it was sharper, more open, so modern and nicely scaled for the needs of the day. If you look closely you can still see vestiges of when the terminal was a sophisticated gateway to the glamorous world of air travel.

As it did when the terminal opened in 1957, the ceiling still soars overhead and check-in counters for the smaller airlines still ring the main entry area. Modern glassed-in airline offices, reminiscent of management overlooking the factory floor, still sit on the mezzanine level

Terrazzo floors and travertine marble details exist throughout most of the circulation space, but they are about the only high-end design elements that remain. Signs in great cream/white on brown/black (colors acquired as the patina of age) with that slightly funky san serif font are a little beat up but absolutely scream 1970. The glass block walls down the corridor seem surprisingly contemporary. The square analog clocks that dot the ceiling along the corridor have that dated-but-kind-of-now feeling too.

There are only scars remaining from many of the amenities that once seemed like necessities. The post office is permanently gated with only the glue from the signage letters indicating what it once was. Phone booths with their little stainless steel mushroom stools are all capped over (with a few exceptions) or converted to internet terminals. The courtesy phone station is now a laptop recharging station.


The most glaring indication of what an anachronism the Smith Terminal has become is the way that the security checkpoint is still just plunked down in what was once a high-traffic corridor. A Jack Daniels (sorry, Jose Cuervo) Tequilaria and airport newstand have been crammed in right there as well.The original design for the flow of passengers and guests was hijacked on 9/11, and that is what really pushes Smith into obsolescence. Well, that and the abysmal baggage claim situation.

Unlike the TWA terminal at JFK Airport, Smith was once nice but has no compelling architectural merit. It’s just a dated relic of a different time in air travel. But I have lots of fond childhood memories of being hustled through there by my parents, and I’m glad I got to travel through it one last time before it is closed for good next month.

Time to go.
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I'm goin' to Zion

I've gotta recharge. All the crap has been getting the best of me, so I'm taking a break to go back into the San Fran gay immersion program.

While there I will be visiting with all my friends who have made their way west over the years. I will enjoy seeing gays walking down the street and I hope to eventually get over the shock and excitement of seeing more than one gay person on the street a day.

What else will I do? Well, hit a few movies at the Castro Theatre, starting with Valley of the Dolls on Wednesday and The Little Mermaid sing-a-long this weekend. I'm going to the Trannyshack Kiss-Off grand finale. I might go to Sisters Bingo put on by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. And for sure I'll scrounge for good new music and video stuff for Doggy Style.

Yes, for two weeks I am going to act like the country cousin that I am and get my gay groove back in San Francisco. I'll let you know how it goes.

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OK that was weird ...

Someone I know was just mentioned in the The Andy Warhol Diaries.

It really is a small gay world.
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Why can't every day be Thursday?

I love getting the Thursday New York Times.

Aside from giving the best coverage of gay issues/interest in the mainstream media, once a week the Times gives us practically the perfect gay paper. Sure you get your world news and business section and notable obituaries and all the stuff you need to check daily, but then you get the gay news trifecta of The Arts, Thursday Style, and my fave, the Home section.

No matter how crappy my attitude is in general, there is one hour every Thursday morning when things are kind of perfect. Well, as long as my apartment is clean.

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Taking a breather

Hey kids, I'm gonna take a little time off this week. I'm angry about a whole slew of things right now and nothing good is gonna come of it if I'm putzing around on here.

I'll throw something up here or there I'm sure, and Doggy Style next week is Mommie Dearest so you know that's gonna be good fun.

An iTunes Editorial

You know how on iTunes there is that option to share your playlists over a network? You probably never gave it much thought. I know I didn’t. Well, until yesterday.

On my home computer I turned on sharing at one point to see how it worked and never bothered to turn it off. Every once in a while a neighbor’s playlist will show up in that left-hand pane, although typically the network connection is not strong enough for me to view the songs on the other computer. This is does not appear to be a problem for my neighbors, however.

Yesterday I was playing some music and saw the name of a shared playlist turn up in my list. Apparently one of my neighbors felt a need to weigh in on how gay he/she thought my music preferences are, because there in that little left-hand pane was a new playlist that seemed quite clearly to be a message to me.

It was named YOU LIKE PENIS.

Well I never.

Hey, is that ... ?

Went to Ann Arbor tonight to see a friend back in town for a bit from NYC. A trip to A2 is always a treat for me, having lived there so long and loved it so much. They get a lot of things right.

One of those great things is the foodie culture that flourishes there, and I was a beneficiary of that tonight having dinner as the guest of two old friends, one of whom works for Zingerman's and one who is a wine consultant. Yeah baby.

Aside from the amazing food there was speed-round witty banter at the dinner table. Seriously, six people all talking over each other and everything making sense like it had been scripted. Loved it.

And just to bring it all home, as we were departing one of the friends pulled out his man-satchel (not a metaphor) and as he put a few things in it I stared as if vaguely recognizing a friend from grade school.

"Hey, is that ... ?"

Yes, yes it is. The J. Peterman Counterfeit Mailbag. Ten years old, looking like I wanted mine to look when I got it.

Guess I should have been patient.

Mistletoe Madness

In a world bound by tradition …

Where beauty is measured in the size of one’s trust fund and plaid rules men’s fashion …

Where outsiders are silently judged and fine dining options are defined by the choice between the grill room and the dining room …

It is a world few can infiltrate, and even fewer escape. It is up to one man to enter and return to tell the tale.

This is the story of that man.

OK, hi, melodrama, but I did recently have an exciting and adventurous foray into the heart of old Grosse Pointe.

"Mistletoe Magic" is a formal holiday party held at the old money Country Club of Detroit in Grosse Pointe Farms. It’s a highly anticipated annual event that draws primarily Grosse Pointe twenty-somethings for an evening of preppy holiday cheer, and by that I mean booze (Grosse Pointers love their hooch). I was invited by a new friend, whom we’ll call Trip. He’s been a really good sport about being dragged to events all over downtown lately, so I could hardly decline his gracious invitation (despite my concerns about being an outlier on the demographic bell curve of the evening).

Full disclosure: I was raised in Grosse Pointe, and while not necessarily to the manor born, I concede I bought into the preppy thing back in the eighties (hey, who didn’t?). I even took The Preppy Handbook seriously for a few years in my youth, parody being a little beyond me at age 13. By the time I graduated from high school, however, I was ready to head to the east coast seeking places with urban character and an environment where I could come out of the closet and be part of a gay community. (I suppose in fairness I should note that I was fleeing Michigan in general as much as GP, but GP was home). Grosse Pointe had come to represent an inward-looking, insular place to me, and I was looking for a more cosmopolitan and diverse world.

In recent years I’ve mellowed on my aversion to Grosse Pointe. I like how GP’ers tend to have a connection to downtown Detroit and aren’t afraid to drive in for social, professional and cultural events. And now that I’m older and I’ve got friends with children, it’s turned out to be the landing spot for some awesome people who grew up there, moved on to live the world, and have returned to roost. But it is still a very unique and, sure, strange place at times. As was evidenced by this party.

Next to the ivy under that tree to the left is a good spot to make out.

The Country Club of Detroit has a beautiful rambling English estate-style clubhouse, and the party took over the entire place. Most guests were GP kids in their twenties, with a smattering of parental types operating as, I am assuming, chaperones (the parent aspect being a very effective tool in a town where everyone grew up together).

It was actually just like every movie you’ve seen about privileged youth, but not in a creepy “Less Than Zero” way and more in a benign “Pretty in Pink” way. You could not have made up the fashions, which were of course tuxedos for boys and eveningwear for girls.


The young women of GP have their own style, less influenced by contemporary fashion than you might expect, certainly somewhat conservative, but really fun in its quirky way. While most were able to pull it together, there was a somewhat chronic problem of shoes not working with the dresses. But what GP really needs is someone to come in and educate on hair and makeup – it doesn’t need to be Birmingham glam, but the concept of layering could revolutionize the overall aesthetic of Grosse Pointe. This is a problem that transcends generational boundaries, by the way.

Speaking of, it was the gentlemen of the older generations who really stepped out with the preppy formalwear. Holiday plaids and cardinal red were in fine form on the males who weren’t necessarily looking to score that night.

No cell phones allowed so I had to sneak these pics.

Once I got over the bizarre feeling of being in a movie - the live band, early 20th century clubhouse and kids in formalwear combo really driving that one home - the party was awesome. Trip’s friends are really fun, plus you know, give me a few cocktails and I can have a good time at the bus station.

I have no idea how many other gay people might have been there (ok, I know of one because he grabbed Trip's ass). Truth be told, GP guys can be a little effete. It’s just the way they’re raised. Tennis, yachting and golf are all acceptable sports for teenage boys, so there is less of that macho bullshit that gets bandied about by traditional sporties. And if you decide to avoid sports altogether, there’s really no stigma. Bust out with theater or chorale, you can still go to the cool parties. It’s really quite nice, although probably a big reason the Grosse Pointe Gay phenomenon goes relatively unquestioned.

So obviously Trip and I had a hassle-free evening, and even managed to sneak off for a little making out. Although come to think of it, even if someone had a problem with the gays they wouldn’t make a big deal of it to our face – it’s just not the Grosse Pointe way.

GP is probably not an acceptable landing spot for a fully-actualized gay man in the new millennium - it’s just a little too much about living a very specific lifestyle (and thanks, but I’m busy with the one I’ve already got). It sure is nice for a visit, though. It’s pretty. Everyone is fun and likes to booze. And sometimes you can score with your friend’s dad.

Supergay Meets Girl-in-the-D

Well kids, it was bound to happen someday, but I suppose you are never really ready.

Regular readers of this blog know I've had a little fun turning the Girl-in-the-D blog into my fake arch-nemesis, primarily around the issue of winning the Metro Times "Best Pop Culture Blog" this fall (I do have to admit, that is still one of my all-time favorite Supergay graphics). It's really a tale as old as time: girl writes blog, girl wins award, aspirational faggot moves in and snatches her weave.

Well, it's the season for holiday parties. Every fucking night. If you don't have this happening to you, it's like 70% great and 30% annoying. But it does involve a lot of free food and booze, and generally you get to see some of the same friends you see out and about (and inevitably one random guy with whom you attended high school) so you know I'm there.

This was a lovely party high up in one of Detroit's gorgeous art deco skyscrapers, thrown by some great folks involved with development in Detroit who, more importantly, are acquainted with the art of gracious entertaining. It was a veritable who’s-who of the Detroit development world, as well as a who’s-who of my Detroit social life (not that the two necessarily overlap), and I mixed and mingled with a jinglin’ beat over vodka tonics and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus.

It was later in the evening as I glided through the crowd that I ran into the handsome husband of Girl-in-the-D, whom I’ve met several times before around town. We exchanged salutations, chatted briefly, and then he uttered those fateful words, “Have you met my wife?”

Well, actually, no.

I feel like I get around town a lot, so it was weird to me that I’d never met her before, especially considering the facts that she writes about goings-on and development in Detroit on her blog AND that half the people I know have met her. So it was with great curiosity that I was ushered over for my introduction.

She is, as you might expect, lovely, and the most concise way I can describe her to you is to say essentially I met Charlotte York from Sex and the City. You can totally not tell that she is from Sterling Heights. Mr. In-The-D introduced me using my civilian identity.

I said, “Nice to meet you!”

She said, “You stole my title.”

Cut to: two cars collide in an intersection
Cut to: a woman screams
Cut to: the World Trade Center collapses
Cut to: Oprah drops her china
Cut to: Supergay slowly shrugs.

Well so much for a fucking secret identity.

So I stood there in my Burberry, and she stood there in her, well, probably Burberry, and a blogger’s chat ensued. I confessed that I forced everyone I know to vote for me. She confided that she had no idea about the award until three days after she won (bam!). We talked about whether or not Metro Times issues award certificates. She told me she won the Ambassador magazine award for best blog this year and she actually got a trophy (pow!). We talked about her freelance work. I talked about my work. She said she hoped to patronize my place of employment someday, possibly when someone she actually likes draws her there (zing!). I am paraphrasing.

There was no overt hostility, and given the fact that I’ve been somewhat vocal with my thoughts on the strengths and weaknesses of her blog, I wasn’t really bothered that by the time our five minute conversation was ending she was looking around the room for someone else to talk to. I’ll let you be the judge of whether or not that blog works for you, but the fact of the matter is that I was very probably out-classed that night. There’s no blogger out there vying for my title that I know of, but if there is, I would hope I could be as Charlotte-like as Girl-in-the-D was.

Unless he were hot, then I would hope to be as Samantha-like as possible.

The Week That Was

Another great gay high holy day has come and gone. It was full of excitement, but shockingly free of drag queens. I was a little disappointed.

There was a twist to the Guerrilla Queer Bar last Friday night. It was held at Illuminate, one of those loft events we get periodically around town (which, despite my original expectations, usually turn out to be pretty fun). This event was held at Willy's Overland Lofts, which is the loft project next to Avalon International Breads in Midtown. The building is cool and the penthouses are AMAZING (well, the unfinished space is). The model, well, you know, it was model-y. I think my only hearty endorsement was for the shower and for the hot guy leading our tour. It's a little upsetting to me to see these cool projects underway and to see the absolute lack of interesting interior design or space planning. I mean, these aren't cheap places. My advice is buy early so you can control your space completely and avoid the heartbreak of hollow-core doors.

You really get two kinds of Guerrilla Gay Bars - there is the fancy bunch and the regulars. The fancy bunch only shows up at places they are familiar with, but those bar nights tend to be really amazing and cool, with a great vibe and interesting mix of folks. The recent Town Pump event was like that.

When an event is held someplace a little off-beat, or at a dive bar, or features karaoke, attendance tends to be a little lower with a lot of familiar faces. It's kind of like an off-night at a regular bar. But those are fun because you get a chance to check out someplace different, talk to people you don't see all the time, the people tend to be a little more adventurous, and you can let your hair down a little because you aren't trying to impress some cute guy you just met. A "regulars" night might have about 50 folks show up, where a "fancy" night will get upwards of 100. Both are great.

The Illuminate night was a "regulars" night. Oddly, everyone seemed to show up at the exact same moment, like it was a gay flash mob or the rainbow bus just pulled up. The gays mingled, drank, toured, judged the model unit, and were a major presence at the party. They loved the fashion show, and it was declared by boys decidedly fitter than I that the pink "Bad Kitty" sleeveless hoodie is the gay fashion must-have for winter. I'll be sitting that trend out.

When the fashion show ended the band started up. They were kind of cool in a retro Carrie Nation/Beyond the Valley of the Dolls way. And they were loud. And that's when we lost the gays.

Unfinished drinks were set down. Conversations were abruptly curtailed. Your friends waved good-bye across the room. And they were gone. It was as if someone had dropped a giant vagina in the room, they couldn't get out fast enough.

So it was fun while it lasted, and of course we're all eagerly awaiting the next occurrence of our only decent downtown gay bar.

Moving on with the weekend ... a very fun gay-hosted Halloween costume party was on the docket for Saturday where I stayed MUCH later than I'd planned. I ventured out from there to meet a friend for last call at the Town Pump. While parking I watched a group of very macho types lining up to get in the TP and reconsidered my decision to enter the bar alone, in costume. A gal doesn't really like to get harrassed. Then I thought fuck it, I'm Supergay!

Predictably, hilarity ensued and I made it home intact, if not a little inebriated.

Sunday featured an amazing jaunt to Ann Arbor for dinner, drinks and a show, and it couldn't have been better. The details are really not relevant, but I'll just say it is an amazing thing to have a city like Ann Arbor so nearby. If downtown Detroit could just catch a hint of that foodie, intellectual vibe, it'd be a better place. The complacent smugness can stay in A2 though (I love that city, but let's just be honest).

Monday's highlight was lunch at the Caucus Club, as covered previously, and Tuesday's feature was a reception followed by a lecture by Julie Mehretu, hosted by the DIA's Friends of Modern and Contemporary Art. Mehretu's work is one of the exhibitions when the museum reopens - kind of nice to have something contemporary, no? Of course we ended up skipping out on the lecture because, hi, don't serve drinks and then make me sit in an auditorium for an hour. We cut out to meet friends cooler than we are at Cliff Bell's.

And in what has become a tradition, I went to Grosse Pointe Park to dress up like Betty Butterfield and pass out candy at my friend's house. They get tons of kids from both GP and Detroit come through their neighborhood, and originally I came to help "manage" the older non-costumed teens. It's amazing the power a man in a wig and a face smeared with lipstick can have over the youth of America.

What was great this year is that it was way more little kids out with their families. When teens showed up in street clothes, Betty forced them to sing a song, which was great because mostly they just turned and walked away. A lot of the kids get excited, trying to figure out if it's actually a woman passing out the candy. One tenacious little girl of about 8 in a Spider Woman costume came back three times, asking, "What you is? What you is?" She was excited beyond words to figure out I was actually a man in that pink Wal-Mart robe. She ran away yelling "It's a man!" and I had to fake heart palpitations to distract the other children at the door from the truth.

The night ended with a viewing of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," a nice cabernet and child's candy sorting, and it all seemed, in a very strange way, like a perfect gay Halloween. Well, perfect in the absence of anything gay besides me. Sometimes that's plenty.

It's a small gay world after all

Last night I attended a lovely dinner party at the home of some new gay friends. They live in an amazingly beautiful historic Arts & Crafts home they've been restoring here in the CoD. It is one of those places that exist noplace else in the area, grand scale in the rooms, amazing architectural details ... I almost needed a private moment when they showed me the fabulous ceramic landscape in their Rookwood tile fireplace.

The dinner was an occasion to entertain a friend of theirs visiting from Cincinnati. It was a lovely group - frankly, much classier than I am. I had to make every effort to keep my lip zipped and not embarrass myself, which is harder than you could possibly imagine. Cocktails were delicious and scintillating conversation ensued as I became acquainted with the group.

Rather than drag this all out with irrelevant details, it turns out their visiting friend looked familiar. Like, very familiar. He stepped out of the room to help in the kitchen so I asked my host where he was from ... born in Dominican Republic ... raised in Puerto Rico ... college in Boston ... ding ding ding! We have a winner!

Soooooo, it turns out ... he's the first guy I ever hooked up with, sophomore year in college.

Now I know it's a small world. And this isn't even the first completely unbelievable small world thing that's happened to me. But I guess I thought maybe I'd be immune from that sort of stuff here in Detroit: Gay population 10.

Funny, and not unwelcome, but it just puts stuff in perspective a little bit. The older I get, the smaller my gay world gets. It's comforting and disturbing, all at once.