Msnbc.com today reported that there were some ruffled feathers in South Carolina resulting from an ad campaign paid for by the state touting, "South Carolina Is So Gay." The ads appeared in a highly visible campaign in London, coinciding with Gay Pride Week there.
“I think with today’s economy, we have to be really smart with our tourism dollars, and South Carolina’s market, very clearly, is the family-friendly market,” Oran Smith, president of the Palmetto Family Council in Columbia, SC, told the news site. “So if we want to spend our dollars in a way that’s wise, we need to go after our market, and our market is families.”
Smith is earnest but imprecise, but his poor command of language and facts is not as disappointing as the reporter's failing to ask how defining the market as "families" inherently exclude gays. When did the word "families" become the property of heterosexuals? And if it did, then shouldn't we quickly get a "Defense of Families" amendment to the Constitution going so that gays don't try to designate themselves as families when they're really just...civil unions of two adults and some ankle-biters?
(By the way, posters like the ones appearing in London were also displayed in Atlanta, Boston, Las Vegas, New Orleans, and Washington, D.C., msnbc.com reports. There was no outcry in those cities, though. Maybe they're more progressive. Maybe they want the gay dollar more than they want to try to prove moral superiority, which cannot be proved in this case anyway.)
Reportedly, South Carolina's offending ads were approved by a state worker who didn't get approval from on high. So not only is the state not "so gay"; it's also not organized and poorly managed. It also hasn't comprehended the value of good communication skills. Because when the campaign launched, South Carolina tourism officials were really rosy on the concept: “For our gay visitors, it is actually quite wonderful for them to discover just how much South Carolina has to offer — from stunning plantation homes to miles of wide sandy beaches,” they said in a statement.
Or maybe these pouty politicos are right. Maybe the state really isn't "so gay." In which case we'd like to offer them a correction. How about this? "South Carolina Is So Ignorant."
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
List for May 11 to 18
Number of visits to a city rec center to use the weight room: 1. Hamilton Fish, on Pitt between East Houston and Stanton. The black vinyl seats and handgrips on the machines emitted a salty, personal odor from repeated use and infrequent cleaning. It was almost too much to bear.
Visits to Washington Square Park: 1.5. One sit-down visit and one time walking through it. Both times glorious.
Visits to Casimir for a Parisienne salad, a glass of Grenache/Syrah, and some crunchy French bread with good salted butter: 2. Yum.
Visits to Veniero's for chocolate-dipped butter cookies: 1. Double yum.
Walks in the rain: 2
Emails sent to recent ex: 3
Vows to self to never email this person again: too many to count
Visits to Starlette: 1. It’s not what it once was. No plans to return.
Visits to Café Pick Me Up, which is around the corner: 1. Strong coffee was badly needed that morning. That’s not what they were selling, though.
Visits to St. Marks Books: 1. Bought magazines: Art Review, New York, Wallpaper, Juxtapoz.
Chloe Sevigny sightings: 1. In the afternoon. A weekday. On 3rd Avenue near the Continental. She was walking south. White T-shirt. Large black sunglasses.
Visits to the first annual Photo Festival in DUMBO: 1. Underwhelmed. But the people watching was good.
Visits to Three Lives Books: 1. Bought the second volume of the Paris Review interviews. Interviews conducted by people who actually knew the subjects’ work, who asked incisive questions, and who were happy to remain in the background rather than making themselves the focus. Reading the interview with James Baldwin now.
Visits to Angel’s Share: 1. Had a cocktail called the Love Squall, recommended by the guy sitting across from my friend and me. Was delicious.
Visits to Washington Square Park: 1.5. One sit-down visit and one time walking through it. Both times glorious.
Visits to Casimir for a Parisienne salad, a glass of Grenache/Syrah, and some crunchy French bread with good salted butter: 2. Yum.
Visits to Veniero's for chocolate-dipped butter cookies: 1. Double yum.
Walks in the rain: 2
Emails sent to recent ex: 3
Vows to self to never email this person again: too many to count
Visits to Starlette: 1. It’s not what it once was. No plans to return.
Visits to Café Pick Me Up, which is around the corner: 1. Strong coffee was badly needed that morning. That’s not what they were selling, though.
Visits to St. Marks Books: 1. Bought magazines: Art Review, New York, Wallpaper, Juxtapoz.
Chloe Sevigny sightings: 1. In the afternoon. A weekday. On 3rd Avenue near the Continental. She was walking south. White T-shirt. Large black sunglasses.
Visits to the first annual Photo Festival in DUMBO: 1. Underwhelmed. But the people watching was good.
Visits to Three Lives Books: 1. Bought the second volume of the Paris Review interviews. Interviews conducted by people who actually knew the subjects’ work, who asked incisive questions, and who were happy to remain in the background rather than making themselves the focus. Reading the interview with James Baldwin now.
Visits to Angel’s Share: 1. Had a cocktail called the Love Squall, recommended by the guy sitting across from my friend and me. Was delicious.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Manhattan vacation: Light sabers and jazz
I've been on vacation since last weekend. In Manhattan. Specifically, the East Village.
A friend has a spacious art-filled apartment near Tompkins Square Park that she normally rents out but is empty for a week or so. She very kindly offered to let me use it for the week, and I very eagerly agreed. It's been an interesting experience. Packed a couple of pairs of jeans and a few other items of clothing. A pair of Converse for the gym and a pair of shoes for the office. My laptop, my camera, my iPod. Everything I'd need in a basic Jansport backpack. Just three weeks ago, I'd packed virtually the same things in the same bag and taken a flight to Orlando to see my family. Now I was pulling on this backpack and getting on the R train at Prospect Avenue and riding in to the city.
I've been on the subway just once since arriving here last Sunday -- yesterday I went back to Brooklyn to collect my mail. Now that I'm back in the city, I've been walking a lot. Like I used to when I lived in the Village, ironically just three blocks from my friend's place. Meandering walks. Alone. Sometimes listening to my iPod but mostly not. Just walking and looking at things and listening to...this place.
Last night, a gorgeous spring night neither too cool nor too hot and no rain despite the occasional threatening cloudiness earlier that day, I wandered through Washington Square Park after walking a friend to her train at West 4th Street. (It is the train that I'd normally take home, and it was a little odd to not be descending the filthy stairs along with her. Odd and lovely.) I heard jazz. I walked toward it. There was a quartet playing -- stand-up bass and all -- near where the fountain was. Young guys, maybe just out of college. Really good. People were sitting on benches and watching as if we were at a club. About 50 yards to the left, something else was going on. A meeting of what seemed to be a light-saber club. A man and a woman were gently fencing with glowing swords, one in neon purple and one in lime green. It wasn't aggressive. Their aim, it seemed, was to get a taste of what it feels like to be Luke Skywalker.
So I found a spot on a bench and joined the observers. Listened to the jazz, watched the saber rattling. Marveled at the gawky college kids ambling by -- so young and...young -- and the dissipated men with gnarled expressions who were wandering the park. One of them had thick white tube socks pulled up to his bony knees and a handmade cane in his left that he did not use for walking.
Sat there for a while. My camera's batteries were failing, but I did manage to get this:
A friend has a spacious art-filled apartment near Tompkins Square Park that she normally rents out but is empty for a week or so. She very kindly offered to let me use it for the week, and I very eagerly agreed. It's been an interesting experience. Packed a couple of pairs of jeans and a few other items of clothing. A pair of Converse for the gym and a pair of shoes for the office. My laptop, my camera, my iPod. Everything I'd need in a basic Jansport backpack. Just three weeks ago, I'd packed virtually the same things in the same bag and taken a flight to Orlando to see my family. Now I was pulling on this backpack and getting on the R train at Prospect Avenue and riding in to the city.
I've been on the subway just once since arriving here last Sunday -- yesterday I went back to Brooklyn to collect my mail. Now that I'm back in the city, I've been walking a lot. Like I used to when I lived in the Village, ironically just three blocks from my friend's place. Meandering walks. Alone. Sometimes listening to my iPod but mostly not. Just walking and looking at things and listening to...this place.
Last night, a gorgeous spring night neither too cool nor too hot and no rain despite the occasional threatening cloudiness earlier that day, I wandered through Washington Square Park after walking a friend to her train at West 4th Street. (It is the train that I'd normally take home, and it was a little odd to not be descending the filthy stairs along with her. Odd and lovely.) I heard jazz. I walked toward it. There was a quartet playing -- stand-up bass and all -- near where the fountain was. Young guys, maybe just out of college. Really good. People were sitting on benches and watching as if we were at a club. About 50 yards to the left, something else was going on. A meeting of what seemed to be a light-saber club. A man and a woman were gently fencing with glowing swords, one in neon purple and one in lime green. It wasn't aggressive. Their aim, it seemed, was to get a taste of what it feels like to be Luke Skywalker.
So I found a spot on a bench and joined the observers. Listened to the jazz, watched the saber rattling. Marveled at the gawky college kids ambling by -- so young and...young -- and the dissipated men with gnarled expressions who were wandering the park. One of them had thick white tube socks pulled up to his bony knees and a handmade cane in his left that he did not use for walking.
Sat there for a while. My camera's batteries were failing, but I did manage to get this:
Saturday, May 10, 2008
The incredibly shrinking apartment
Today I went to see an apartment for rent with ceilings that were only 6 and a half feet high. The landlord, who is also the owner, warned me about its modest height when we spoke on the phone about the place, and he was quite detailed in his explanation. He said he is 6 ft 1 and that the apartment's ceiling is not much higher than the top of his head. He told me that the current tenant's boyfriend is 6 ft 4 and has already broken the overhead light in the place. And yet, and yet. I still went to see it. It's in Williamsburg -- the real Williamsburg, not East or West Williamsburg, and not Bushwick. It's around the corner from the Lorimer stop on the L. What a location. And there would be no fee. And he sounded like such a nice guy on the phone. And there was a spacious patio, he said. And the rent was $1,300, which is cheap these days in that neighborhood and in fact virtually anywhere in Brooklyn. And my current apartment is just 8 feet wide, so perhaps 6 and a half feet high could be okay...
There is a couple living in the apartment now. The guy told me the place is 450 square feet and practically apologized that that was small. I've lived in NYC for 15 years; 450 square feet for a studio or even a one-bedroom is not small. And the ad that the realtors he hired listed it at 510 square feet, a number odd enough to make one think that maybe they had actually used a tape measure. I had reason, I thought, to be hopeful that the place might be strange but good. Workable. In fact, the apartment is two rooms: one room for bed/couch/desk, and one for a kitchen table. The floors are linoleum and lumpy. The kitchen cabinets date back to the 60s, it looks like, and the landlord, who was just as nice in person as on the phone, explained that they when he and his wife bought this 1901 home three years ago, they decided to leave the "original" cabinets and just replace the handles. The cabinets are MDF with almond-colored veneer, peeling and chipped and dingy. The new handles are fake aged brass.
Yes, it was a depressing place, and more so because I knew someone was going to pay a realtor a fee equal to 15 percent of the annual rent and then pay $1,300 a month for what should really have been a storage room. It's astonishing to me, even after so many years here and many moves and much apartment hunting, what passes for a place to live, and that people must compete for these grim, overpriced lodgings.
It reminds me how lucky I am to have found the place that I have. The neighborhood is a bore and ugly. But of all the compromises you have to make when settling on an apartment to rent -- at least if you're renting it on your own and don't have a double-barreled income to draw on -- boring and ugly, and even the occasional noxious noise from thumping car stereos, are not very convincing arguments against a place. A place such as this:
It's not a bad place. I know that. But there is something else. This apartment reminds me of someone who is now in the past. It makes being here less appealing. Unappealing, actually.
There is a couple living in the apartment now. The guy told me the place is 450 square feet and practically apologized that that was small. I've lived in NYC for 15 years; 450 square feet for a studio or even a one-bedroom is not small. And the ad that the realtors he hired listed it at 510 square feet, a number odd enough to make one think that maybe they had actually used a tape measure. I had reason, I thought, to be hopeful that the place might be strange but good. Workable. In fact, the apartment is two rooms: one room for bed/couch/desk, and one for a kitchen table. The floors are linoleum and lumpy. The kitchen cabinets date back to the 60s, it looks like, and the landlord, who was just as nice in person as on the phone, explained that they when he and his wife bought this 1901 home three years ago, they decided to leave the "original" cabinets and just replace the handles. The cabinets are MDF with almond-colored veneer, peeling and chipped and dingy. The new handles are fake aged brass.
Yes, it was a depressing place, and more so because I knew someone was going to pay a realtor a fee equal to 15 percent of the annual rent and then pay $1,300 a month for what should really have been a storage room. It's astonishing to me, even after so many years here and many moves and much apartment hunting, what passes for a place to live, and that people must compete for these grim, overpriced lodgings.
It reminds me how lucky I am to have found the place that I have. The neighborhood is a bore and ugly. But of all the compromises you have to make when settling on an apartment to rent -- at least if you're renting it on your own and don't have a double-barreled income to draw on -- boring and ugly, and even the occasional noxious noise from thumping car stereos, are not very convincing arguments against a place. A place such as this:
It's not a bad place. I know that. But there is something else. This apartment reminds me of someone who is now in the past. It makes being here less appealing. Unappealing, actually.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Playlist for Friday, May 2, 2008
Song: "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?"
Artist: She & Him
Relevant lyric: "Why don't you sit right down and stay a while?/We like the same things, and I like your style/It's not a secret/Why do you keep it?/I'm just sitting on the shelf."
Song: "Nails in the Road"
Artist: the Pretenders
Relevant lyric: "Every time I try to get close to you/You throw nails in the road."
Song: "Amateur"
Artist: Aimee Mann
Relevant lyric: "I was hoping that you'd know better than that/I was hoping, but you're an amateur/I was hoping that you'd know better/But I've been wrong before.
See also: "Despite conclusions I drew/There was a chance you'd surprise me/And you'd be better than you/'Cause I'd have left otherwise."
Song: "Love Stinks"
Artist: J. Geils Band
Relevant lyric: "You love her/But she loves him/And he loves somebody else/
You just can't win."
See also: "I've had the blues/The reds and the pinks/One thing for sure/(Love stinks)"
Song: "Express Yourself"
Artist: Madonna
Relevant lyric: "Don't go for second best, baby/Put your love to the test/You know, you know, you've got to/Make him express how he feels/And maybe then you'll know your love is real."
See also: "You deserve the best in life/So if the time isn't right, then move on/Second best is never enough/You'll do much better, baby, on your own."
Artist: She & Him
Relevant lyric: "Why don't you sit right down and stay a while?/We like the same things, and I like your style/It's not a secret/Why do you keep it?/I'm just sitting on the shelf."
Song: "Nails in the Road"
Artist: the Pretenders
Relevant lyric: "Every time I try to get close to you/You throw nails in the road."
Song: "Amateur"
Artist: Aimee Mann
Relevant lyric: "I was hoping that you'd know better than that/I was hoping, but you're an amateur/I was hoping that you'd know better/But I've been wrong before.
See also: "Despite conclusions I drew/There was a chance you'd surprise me/And you'd be better than you/'Cause I'd have left otherwise."
Song: "Love Stinks"
Artist: J. Geils Band
Relevant lyric: "You love her/But she loves him/And he loves somebody else/
You just can't win."
See also: "I've had the blues/The reds and the pinks/One thing for sure/(Love stinks)"
Song: "Express Yourself"
Artist: Madonna
Relevant lyric: "Don't go for second best, baby/Put your love to the test/You know, you know, you've got to/Make him express how he feels/And maybe then you'll know your love is real."
See also: "You deserve the best in life/So if the time isn't right, then move on/Second best is never enough/You'll do much better, baby, on your own."
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Platitudes
I've just marked the end of month two in Brooklyn. I came here optimistic. Hopeful that I was entering into a place that was somehow more authentic than my increasingly commercial East Village neighborhood, where crowds of NYU students clogged the sidewalks at night, posing like junior adults, smoking their cigarettes and buzzed on drinks from some McPub or McBar. And I came here to save money. My rent was a burden in the EV, and I wanted something more from my life than working full-time five days a week and running errands on weekends and maybe squeezing in dinner with friends on Saturday. I wanted time to try new things, go new places. Live. No dulling routine.
And Brooklyn, or this place I found in Brooklyn, has given me that. Lower rent, whcih has yielded more time to myself. Less work. And yet, and yet, it's a bore here. Let me not generalize too much. It's not all of Brooklyn that's a drag. It's where I am. The South Slope. The beginning of Sunset Park. There is a hipster bar -- a self-important hipster bar -- around the corner. There are a few almost-interesting restaurants an avenue away. But this is overall an uninspiring place. Ugly little three-family homes with siding. Poorly built. Thinly made. Many of them renovated with imitation materials bought at the nearby Home Depot. Fake crown molding. Pergo flooring. Hollow-core doors. This is the kind of apartment I have, in fact. It's immaculate and newish. And many people would be thrilled to have it. But to me, the efficiency of it -- the pragmatism of choosing cheap faux materials to redo it rather than spending a little more and keeping its integrity -- is eroding to one's well-being. Although I suppose the practicality of the space suits that of the move here -- I came here not for any aesthetic reasons but to live on the cheap. And that I have achieved. So why aren't I happy?
Lately, I've been thinking that even the tiniest place in the city -- anyplace from Midtown on down -- would be better than here. I'd sell off nearly all my possessions and put the rest in storage to live in a 190-square-foot apartment with character. I saw such a place a month ago. A friend of a coworker was renting a miniscule studio in Tudor City. I was intrigued by the building from the start. Liked the old people I saw slowly walking down the sidewalk to the entrance. Loved the stained glass on the doors, the sort-of doorman in his blue Dickies workpants and sturdy blue work shirt who let me in. The elevator with its carved oak walls. The apartment was the size of a bedroom, a glorified hotel room. But I saw the potential there. (There was an elderly Brazilian woman living there, in that tiny space, a space just big enough to fill your lungs and nothing more, for two decades. I wondered about her, as I gazed at the miscellaneous items she left behind before moving back to Brazil for health reasons.) And I thought how lovely it would be to thin out one's stuff to the point where you'd have just what you need on a daily basis -- no more. A bed, a desk, a couch type of seat. It could be done. The guy who owns the place wanted more than I would pay -- more than I pay now for my 50 feet long by 8 feet wide apartment in Brooklyn. But not so much more as to be out of the question. Hmmm. I am thinking of it yet. Offered the owner a grand a month last night. He still wants more, but you never know. Ever. It could be still be mine.
Tonight, I had dinner in the West Village. A tiny restaurant that serves well-made food. I sat at the bar, in a sliver of a space between two couples, and ate while reading an excellent memoir about boxing written by a coworker of mine. And then I came home and stopped at a newish wine bar that aims to be elegant and also cool. There were a few patrons there, talking too loud, as if at a corner bar. The music was querulous folk played on an anemic sound system. A woman strumming her guitar and singing good-natured cliches. The book I was reading was also by a woman. A woman who hated the stereotype of the shrinking, demure female. A woman who wanted only to be judged on her merits. Not humored. Not pandered to. Not catered to. A person, really. That's what she wanted to be seen as. As I read, the music sounded silly compared with her vibrant words. But I know that even if I had not had that book in my hands, the music would have tested my patience. Platitudes are not a comfort -- for me, at least.
And maybe that's what Brooklyn, or this place in Brooklyn, is for me. Something eminently manageable, doable, graspable. Nothing challenging about it. A platitude. Maybe I have to get myself back to the city. THE CITY.
And Brooklyn, or this place I found in Brooklyn, has given me that. Lower rent, whcih has yielded more time to myself. Less work. And yet, and yet, it's a bore here. Let me not generalize too much. It's not all of Brooklyn that's a drag. It's where I am. The South Slope. The beginning of Sunset Park. There is a hipster bar -- a self-important hipster bar -- around the corner. There are a few almost-interesting restaurants an avenue away. But this is overall an uninspiring place. Ugly little three-family homes with siding. Poorly built. Thinly made. Many of them renovated with imitation materials bought at the nearby Home Depot. Fake crown molding. Pergo flooring. Hollow-core doors. This is the kind of apartment I have, in fact. It's immaculate and newish. And many people would be thrilled to have it. But to me, the efficiency of it -- the pragmatism of choosing cheap faux materials to redo it rather than spending a little more and keeping its integrity -- is eroding to one's well-being. Although I suppose the practicality of the space suits that of the move here -- I came here not for any aesthetic reasons but to live on the cheap. And that I have achieved. So why aren't I happy?
Lately, I've been thinking that even the tiniest place in the city -- anyplace from Midtown on down -- would be better than here. I'd sell off nearly all my possessions and put the rest in storage to live in a 190-square-foot apartment with character. I saw such a place a month ago. A friend of a coworker was renting a miniscule studio in Tudor City. I was intrigued by the building from the start. Liked the old people I saw slowly walking down the sidewalk to the entrance. Loved the stained glass on the doors, the sort-of doorman in his blue Dickies workpants and sturdy blue work shirt who let me in. The elevator with its carved oak walls. The apartment was the size of a bedroom, a glorified hotel room. But I saw the potential there. (There was an elderly Brazilian woman living there, in that tiny space, a space just big enough to fill your lungs and nothing more, for two decades. I wondered about her, as I gazed at the miscellaneous items she left behind before moving back to Brazil for health reasons.) And I thought how lovely it would be to thin out one's stuff to the point where you'd have just what you need on a daily basis -- no more. A bed, a desk, a couch type of seat. It could be done. The guy who owns the place wanted more than I would pay -- more than I pay now for my 50 feet long by 8 feet wide apartment in Brooklyn. But not so much more as to be out of the question. Hmmm. I am thinking of it yet. Offered the owner a grand a month last night. He still wants more, but you never know. Ever. It could be still be mine.
Tonight, I had dinner in the West Village. A tiny restaurant that serves well-made food. I sat at the bar, in a sliver of a space between two couples, and ate while reading an excellent memoir about boxing written by a coworker of mine. And then I came home and stopped at a newish wine bar that aims to be elegant and also cool. There were a few patrons there, talking too loud, as if at a corner bar. The music was querulous folk played on an anemic sound system. A woman strumming her guitar and singing good-natured cliches. The book I was reading was also by a woman. A woman who hated the stereotype of the shrinking, demure female. A woman who wanted only to be judged on her merits. Not humored. Not pandered to. Not catered to. A person, really. That's what she wanted to be seen as. As I read, the music sounded silly compared with her vibrant words. But I know that even if I had not had that book in my hands, the music would have tested my patience. Platitudes are not a comfort -- for me, at least.
And maybe that's what Brooklyn, or this place in Brooklyn, is for me. Something eminently manageable, doable, graspable. Nothing challenging about it. A platitude. Maybe I have to get myself back to the city. THE CITY.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Are those space shoes you're wearing?
Walking home from work tonight, I was somewhere in Chelsea, maybe 21st Street between 9th and 8th, and a young guy walking in the opposite direction stopped and said, "Excuse me, are those space shoes you're wearing?" Only I didn't completely hear him at first. I caught that he was my height. Short blonde hair. Dressed in a pea coat. A newspaper was folded under his arm. I thought from his purposeful way of speaking that maybe he needed directions. "I'm sorry?" I asked. "Are those space shoes," he asked again, pointing at my feet. Now we were facing each other, stopped on the sidewalk. Something in his face as he prepared to repeat himself told me that this was a lark. I was turning to continue on my way as I responded, "Uh, no." And as I walked on down the sidewalk, clip-clopping in my cowboy boots (that's what they were -- tan cowboy boots that I got on sale a year ago for 40 bucks at David Z) I heard him call after me: "'Cause you are out of this world."
In Bar Veloce tonight, there was a couple -- a woman and a man -- seated at the bar. In their 40s, I'm guessing. Talking about text-message abbreviations. "What's LOL?" the guy asked. "Oh, that's 'lots of love,'" said the woman confidently. A half-hearted debate ensued. "I think it might be 'laugh out loud,'" the guy said at last. "Oh, yeah!" said the woman enthusiastically. "'Laugh out loud' -- you're so much hipper than I am!" "The king of text," the guy replied. The man has a daughter, he explained to the woman, and she plays sports. "But she's not a hard-edged girl," he assured. Later, the talk turned to coworkers. The woman shared that she works with a guy who is gay. "Overtly gay?" asked the man. "Oh, yeahhhhh," she answered, and told her wine mate an anecdote about a saucy comment the gay colleague had made. "That's how I knew we could be friends," she confided to the man, perhaps thinking she'd found the Will to her Grace. Note: The man and the woman were both overtly straight.
On the TV tonight: "Some Like It Hot." A movie that ends with two men speedboating off into the sunset together, it was before its time back then. Tonight makes me wonder if its time has yet to come.
In Bar Veloce tonight, there was a couple -- a woman and a man -- seated at the bar. In their 40s, I'm guessing. Talking about text-message abbreviations. "What's LOL?" the guy asked. "Oh, that's 'lots of love,'" said the woman confidently. A half-hearted debate ensued. "I think it might be 'laugh out loud,'" the guy said at last. "Oh, yeah!" said the woman enthusiastically. "'Laugh out loud' -- you're so much hipper than I am!" "The king of text," the guy replied. The man has a daughter, he explained to the woman, and she plays sports. "But she's not a hard-edged girl," he assured. Later, the talk turned to coworkers. The woman shared that she works with a guy who is gay. "Overtly gay?" asked the man. "Oh, yeahhhhh," she answered, and told her wine mate an anecdote about a saucy comment the gay colleague had made. "That's how I knew we could be friends," she confided to the man, perhaps thinking she'd found the Will to her Grace. Note: The man and the woman were both overtly straight.
On the TV tonight: "Some Like It Hot." A movie that ends with two men speedboating off into the sunset together, it was before its time back then. Tonight makes me wonder if its time has yet to come.
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