Weekend Odds and Ends

Friday night my husband and I decided to expand our horizons.  Instead of going to a New York gay bar, we went to a different New York gay bar.

First we ate at the Moonstruck Diner (the one on Second Avenue) before heading to the OW Bar.  I hear a lot of great things about a lot of New York gay bars, but the hype – if you can call it that – never seems to live up to advance billing.  The crowd was sparse and the music on the famed jukebox was bad until the husband cranked up some terrific old-school Wham!.  (How does one correctly punctuate the end of that sentence?)

We stuck it out longer than I thought we might before making our exit, turning the corner on 58th Street, where the legendary Townhouse was directly in our sights.  I would suffice it to say that we were not adequately prepared for what lay behind those doors, but that would, well, simply not suffice.

When I went to the Townhouse website's "pictures" page, the first thing I noticed was that it is a bar that is desperate to conceal its clientele's average septuagenarian age.  Not that the husband and I are old in any sense, but we are old enough that it is quite a feat for us to be, as were were in all likelihood, the youngest people in a very crowded gay bar.

I noticed a vague odor all around us, lurking just beneath the Aqua Velva and Hai Karate, and then it hit me: It reminded me of eau de nursing home.

This place was a just little cruisy in the same way that Bruce Vilanch is just a little gay.  Feels were being copped left and right.  Geriatrics, almost all of them dressed in jackets, were hitting on my husband and me with all the time-pressed desperation of men who never buy green bananas.  Put it this way: If Randolph and Mortimer Duke had been gay, they would have hung out here.

In the back bar, a talented pianist was hammering out showtunes to the delighted queens, one of whom was excited enough to spill his drink all over the piano.  (No, Shep Smith was not in attendance.)  Downstairs, men sat with rapt attention, staring at a giant video image of Bernadette Peters singing her siren's song to them.

And, of course, a relatively obvious coterie of hustlers was working the premises, reeling in the daddies and their sugar.  This all prompted a rather intense discussion between the husband and me about "what it would take" to put us in any of the hustlers' shoes.

I can honestly say that I still have not conceived a figure high enough.

Saturday it rained.  And rained and rained.  So the husband and I set off on another adventure of sorts.

Two weeks ago, while passing through JFK, we had seen a messenger bag that would have been perfect for me: Hugo Boss, nylon with leather pockets and shoulder strap.  It was attractive, and best of all, the price was right.  My current work bag had been on its last legs, but I couldn't justify buying a new bag and hauling it around with me on a trip when I probably already had too much luggage to avoid checking something in the first place.

Then a few days later, my work bag's last leg was kicked out from under it as the shoulder strap finally gave way.  I spent the weekend of the 15th trying unsuccessfully to reach someone at "The Shops At Terminal 4" to see if they still had the bag, and wandering around Manhattan looking for a suitable replacement, all to no avail.

So on Saturday, with nothing better to do, we rented a Zipcar and headed for JFK.  We made a bet as to whether it would still be there, and I was happy to have lost.  Not only that, but it was marked down another 20 percent.

Of course, to justify the trip from Manhattan to Jamaica, Queens, I laid down another $600 on clothes.  I had no other choice; it's genetic.

Saturday night, in lieu of probably getting soaked and deathly ill in order to catch a fleeting glimpse of Madonna, we went to see the movie "Flightplan" instead.

Capsule review: It was better than I had been led to believe by the critics.  The twists, although improbable as they usually are in Hollywood, were satisfying enough.  And Jodie Foster plays single-mom-in-distress like nobody else.  But how many times is she essentially going to remake "Panic Room"?

Answer: As many times as she wants, as long as she doesn't also remake "Nell."

UPDATE: I knew I was forgetting something.

As I was getting out of the cab in front of the movie theater, and struggling with money, umbrella, etc., I dropped my wallet in the cab – a fact I didn't realize until the cabbie had driven about a half-block away.  I missed the previews as I called the City of New York to file a report and cancel my credit cards.

So if you find a wallet in a cab with medallion number 5Y93, the reward will be even better (in relative terms, that is) than what multimillionaire senators in similar circumstances will do.

Comments

[Roy]

yay for branching out!

[boifromtroy]

Funny because I took a friend to NUMBERS for his first visit last Friday as well...he had the same reaction.

[The Hubbie]

We were not only the youngest - we were by far the HOTTEST people there... I had fun being mistaken for a 20-something hustler (great low lighting)!
BTW - for anyone that is interested - and know how to "work-it" - some of these older gentlemen are willing to buy you more than a drink - they'll be glad to buy you a car.
(your hubbie)