To my subscribers: Thank you!

Plus: what's on the fall menu and a 'lil ghost story

Dear subscribers and other readers,

I thought I’d take a minute to say Thank You-Gracias Mucho! for signing on to read my new blog, amid so many distractions that flood our email and blogosphere and day. I really appreciate it. I started the blog as a place and creative space to share the art and culture and things coming into my brain as I returned to NY after being away for so many years. I’m very aware of the passage of time since I lived here last and feel curious about friends and colleagues that I haven’t seen in a long minute, including many in Act Up and the Lesbian Avengers. It’s always a kind of homecoming and personal grounding when we meet. I’ll say more about that in a minute.

I launched this blog on August 14th. As of this morning, I have as many subscribers as years I’ve lived. Ha. Every one of you is welcome. Look, below, and you can see where you joined the party. It’s quite fun to watch it develop and I look forward to writing all the more knowing you’re reading and enjoying it. A delight, frankly. Please, continue to read and share with anyone you think would enjoy it. Also, I invite you to tell us all about things or people or happenings in our shared metaverse.

Also, I can promise you what I just promised a friend: I won’t mention you by name or give-away identifier without giving you a heads-up first and your permission, unless it’s just that I saw you out in a public place. So don’t fret. If we happen to meet at the same great art party, and you’re wearing a bomb ass outfit and I love it and ask you to take a snap, well, I’ll ask first if I can post it here. No negative surprises, then.

When I started this newsletter, I planned to just write about whatever was in my head, with a twice-weekly entry that emphasized fun, cultural adventure, personal confessional, and dish. I thought of naming it House Calls, because I want to visit old friends in their homes and talk about their personal and creative journeys over these years. I wanted a space to creatively stretch my writing and thinking muscles, to shape the writing into a finished piece, more than a Facebook post. I find myself doing more reporting on art or cultural events or conversations that capture my attention, so the letters have gotten longer. For that reason, going forward, I’m going to commit to posting one entry a week vs. biweekly, and if the mood strikes, I’ll slip in a shorter piece in between.

I want to invite you to comment or say more about any of the letters or subjects because I’m quite interested in what you have to say and your experiences of the subject. So far, my Swipe Left dating letter has gotten more reads than any other, which made me smile. Clearly, many of you agree. And I know you have your own dating war stories to share, so, please, don’t be shy. Share away.

Several people wrote me privately off thread to say how much they laughed at the dating letter. A 27-year-old bisexual, the daughter of an old college friend, told me that she feels the same way about her Tinder forays. Another lesbian in her 40s wondered if I’d consider applying my observations to become an online yenta. You should be matchmaker for us, she suggested. I need a hot date.  And I want to avoid my exes’ exes. She was sure I’d find some cute dates with better manners than OK Cupid and less chance of ghosting. I had to smile.

I told her that dinner parties were possibly a better route, imho. Why not round up a few besties and plan a guest list with a plus one or two? Make them bring at least one interesting and/or hottie person you don’t know. It’s guaranteed fun, less pressure. Plus, you can count on your friends to overshare any red flags you might miss on a Tinder thread. I think, friends have friends. Get offline, go see people. It’s old school, but it’s satisfying. And it will make you feel less isolated, if you do.

Here's a little proof of concept for you: Last spring, I decided to throw a mad dinner party for 75 OG lesbian friends – artists and activists—because everyone was feeling so socially isolated with Covid. I had Truman Capote’s famous Black and White Ball in mind—minus the Mardi Gras masked NY celebrities. I was wanting some glam. I knew everyone would enjoy the reunion, too. Well, we all did, a lot. We did have our masks and our vax cards and planned around Covid. Not everyone felt comfortable to come, even so. We also got lucky: Omicron showed up days later. Everyone safely squeaked by. There, we also showed pictures of our 80s and 90s lesbian friends, and the art and all we had shared together. It was a blast.

The afterparty bonus include rekindled friendships and new creative collaborations and some new romances that followed. I won’t name names; you know who you are. Bottom line? Dinner parties are the ticket for fun of all kinds. And you get to dress up, which is also the best.

For years I’ve been thinking about a Butch Ball, mainly because people keep telling me butches are a disappearing species. My definition of butch is also rather expansive and inclusive, of course, and welcome of gender-as-you-define-it, as long as it has some swagger. I’d love to see who and how people showed up. Personally, I love any excuse to rock a tailored suit and tie. And to dance. We need to keep dancing.

On that note, I want to talk about another kind of reunion. Walking around NY again, I often encounter my ghosts, as I think of people that I loved who’ve passed away. The AIDS years make the memory feel acute at times but I’m always grateful to re-see them in my mind’s eye. This week, I felt several of my ghosts jump onto my shoulders as I headed over to The Center in the West Village, to celebrate the launch of Ron Goldberg’s memoir, The Boy with the Bullhorn. For years, Act Up met there, as did the Lesbian Avengers and other groups. I passed the Art Bar, where the Avengers would post-meet hang out. It was still rocking.

Whenever I’m in the West Village, I feel the presence of Sarah Pettit, who was my close friend and boss at OUT, and John Cook and Kiki Mason, who all lived there and were in Act Up. When I walked past the little triangle park near The Center, I saw all the protesters who’d stood here at different times, including for an anti-violence march in the fall of 1992, where the Avengers joined in. I thought of Brian Mock and Hattie Mae Cohens, a gay man and an African-American lesbian, murdered in the fall of 1992 by neo-Nazis in Oregon who firebombed their house. I always think about people like them, whose deaths spur others to action. I think about their families and friends, who still grieve for them.

We Avengers camped out on the streets of the West Village then to bring attention to antigay killings. We made an altar to honor Hattie and Brian and other victims of hate crimes. It was freezing out that fall. We practiced our fire-eating skills, chanting, The fire will not consume us—we take it and make it our own. It became a signature chant.

Lesbian Avengers shrine to Hattie Mae Cohen and Brian Mock. Fall 1992.

photo credit: Sasha Scheffer.

Walking along 13th street, I didn’t feel the heaviness that meeting my ghosts can bring. My dead friends were as they’d often been: fun, catty-chatty, gossiping in my ear. Ron’s event was an OG reunion. I saw a lot of the boys, as I think of them. I was so happy to run into Monica Pearl, who was on the Act Up women’s committee and helped produce its critical reader, Women, AIDS & Activism. She’s a Manchester, UK, prof, partnered, with a grown daughter. She teaches students how to think critically about 90s AIDS activism.

Photo credit: Act Up

There were a lot of other friends to greet. I sat next to Garance Franke-Ruta who became a journalist years ago and returned to Brooklyn before me. She was wearing a bright, colorful dress. No more NY black, not for that evening. I was happy to hug Ron and congratulate him. He and I had chatted back in 2017 when my 90s activism memoir, The Pox Lover, came out. He confessed then to being worried about how long it was taking to finish his book, started in the early 1990s and then put away. He wasn’t sure there was an audience for another AIDS memoir. Our pal Sarah Schulman’s big Act Up opus, Let The Record Show was coming. Emily Bass was wrapping up her personal coming-of-age global AIDS tale, To End A Plague. I knew of others mulling memoirs.

I reminded Ron that his story and views are unique. We all love another love song; we don’t tire of them. I want to read your story, I told him then. I can’t wait. Our hug was that much sweeter because he’d overcome the inner critics of time and doubt.

photo credit: Anne-christine d’Adesky, 2022.

Ron joined Act Up as a young guy, and it totally changed his life. He’s also appreciated as the Chant Queen of Act Up, a smiling action cheerleader who brought a Jewish musical theater queen’s energy and focus to our street protests. He shared his favorite chants with us, prompted by his interlocutor, Tim Murphy, also a writer and longtime HIV journalist. Watching these two belt out songs did make me think about Act Up: The Musical, which I’m sure someone will write and bring to the stage one day.

Photo credit: Jason Rosenberg, 1992.

There was so much love in the room where it all happened, as the event was framed. The room where I spent years has had a makeover, and it’s smaller. The columns looked less imposing, too. Maybe that’s part of the look-back lens, because the seminal events in our lives get magnified with memory. I told a few friends there that my ghosts were with me, and they brought some of theirs into our conversation, too. It felt so good to be able to bring them forward so easily.

In Ron’s book, he brings forward various Act Up friends and leaders he honors at the end of every chapter, followed by the Jewish memorial refrain, let their memory be for a blessing.

Hear that? I said to my own ghosts, walking home from the event. You’re not forgotten. You’re ever-present in our hearts, a joy and a blessing.