LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
I co-produced my first-ever comedy show last weekend. Not only did it sell out, but tears were shed, laughs were shared, glasses were broken, and a man on Grindr messaged me to say, “i just met a guy at a bar who caught your set. how cool?” Now a random sampling of the West Village knows far too much about my sex life.
Also, go read my latest for MTV News on how Taylor Swift brought the “personal” to pop music with Red. It even sparked conversation in the Taylor Swift subreddit.
This piece on the superficiality of queer activist influencers from Gawker was also very thought-provoking. I will leave it at that.
Finally, love or hate Euphoria, this interview with Sydney Sweeney shows she’s an Actor with a capital A, and the level of thought she puts into playing the “crazy girl” really makes me wish we were scene partners in Acting 101.
THE EXPOSITION - story time
I don’t like change. I like that Feist song from the Apple commercial where she sings, “You’re changing your heart / You know who you are,” but that’s where I draw the line. The crazy thing about New York is it’s always changing: restaurants close, buildings renovate, that bodega down the street that had cheap cigs sells out and gets a hot bar. But I’ve never minded the structural changes, in fact, I’ve found myself more focused on the things that don’t change.
I believe that memories can haunt locations just as much as spirits. There’s this nondescript street corner between the bars and my apartment — “The Goodbye Kiss Corner” I’ve dubbed it — where I distinctly recall bidding certain sweethearts goodbye — and yes, OK, making out in public. Life happens, and for whatever reason — compatibility, time, distance — these people are no longer around. But for a long time, that spot felt like hallowed ground: a reminder of that jittery optimism you feel at the end of a good first date, but also the baggage that comes after it. I wanted construction workers to take a sledgehammer to it or for a vat of paint to spill and render it unrecognizable, or at least for the city to change their typeset on the street signs. I wanted something to happen to change the associations I made with that space: serial singledom, unwavering pessimism, the idea that it doesn’t matter how good it starts — the other shoe is always going to drop.
Today, I was walking back from spin class drenched in sweat because we ended with this Taylor Swift/P!nk/“Fight Song” mashup that really spoke to me. For the first time this season, the chill of the night air felt good on the back of my neck. The weather is changing, I thought. Three blocks later, I realized I had passed that same street corner and hadn’t thought anything about it. It was just another intersection in the grid; a sidewalk safety in a sea of black tar, littered with trash and passerby and a busy bar and good smells and all the things that make the city feel alive when you’re walking home alone. So, I went back home and wrote this story all about it. <3
THE SOUNDTRACK - an eclectic mix of songs I’m grooving to
Naked in Manhattan - Chappell Roan: “I might be bisexual after this bop”
Hornylovesickmess - Girl in Red: “Booty calls have never sounded so despondent”
Chaise Lounge - Wet Leg: “A British indie-rock girl group that cooly quotes Mean Girls. They are going to be big”
What D’You Know About Me - Jungle: “There’s a disco club in my brain where this song is always playing”
Trouble - Troye Sivan ft. Jay Som: “Bby boi Troye is back”
THE VISUALS - an unhinged onscreen opinion
And Just Like That changed my view on queer relationships. Before, I was looking for love, now I’m just “craving me some Che.” Just kidding. I am not going to pretend the Sex and the City reboot treaded any new ground in POC or queer representation, but there was something Che said that stuck with me long past my initial hate-watch. Miranda shows up unannounced to surprise them with dessert one night and Che — hard at work on comedy concert content — gets annoyed, explaining to Miranda that as a queer couple, they don’t have to follow the same prescribed notions as heterosexual couples, i.e. constant checking-in, labels, and grand romantic gestures. (Editor’s note: To any potential suitors reading this, please note there is no circumstance in which I would turn away a surprise dessert.)
Despite the cringeworthy dialogue — this is when Miranda explains she was “craving me some Che” — it made me reconsider how I’ve approached relationships as not only a queer man, but a twenty-something in this day and age. I’ve tended to define dating from a fairly heteronormative lens: you go on a first date and if you like them, you go on a second date. You repeat this process until the nth date when you become exclusive, and you continue on until the n²th date, in which you become boyfriends and post the back of their head on your Instagram story. I haven’t gotten past there yet.
But maybe we’re setting ourselves up for failure expecting someone to know whether or not they want to commit after three nights of drinks and a walk around the park. Perhaps, in a world where everyone is constantly online and looking at people hotter and younger and happier than they are, it’s a slower burn. By rushing to some invisible benchmark for some conceptual label, have I sped past someone who could’ve grown to love me, had I given them the time? Perhaps. By pushing someone to define their feelings through these narrow scopes of “boyfriend” and “exclusive” and “dating,” are we discounting relationships for what they really should be — companionship and unconditional support? Maybe.
Don’t get me wrong, this is not a pass to be a fuckboy. The bravest thing we can do is communicate our feelings when we know in our heart of hearts how we feel. But maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to burn a bridge. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go wait for a text back.
THE KICKER - everyone loves a good button
New York Dating Tip #2: Don’t date a DJ.
I understand some lessons you have to learn yourself: I’ll never forget when I ordered fajitas and the waitress told me, “Don’t touch the plate, it’s hot,” and I still touched it because I was 15-years-old and an asshole. It blistered. But if there’s one thing I can impart on you, it’s to stay away from DJs.
I don’t care if they seem normal and/or responsible. They either take psychedelics on week nights or are constantly surrounded by hot, single people on psychedelics on week nights. Red flag. It’s 9 A.M. and they’re blasting Skrillex like they’re a freshman orientation leader. Red flag. Have you seen that Zac Efron movie where he drops out of college to make EDM tracks interpolating the sound of him drilling a roof? They somehow managed to make my gay awakening unfuckable. REDDD FLAG.
Maybe this is hypocritical. I never dated a DJ, per se, but I have dabbled in rave heads — I haven’t attended an EDM festival, but I own a lot of tie-dye and loving cracking glow sticks so I thought I could make it work — unfortunately, I quickly gleaned that most rave heads are also secretly aspiring DJs. While I could stomach listening to an entire 15-track Alesso album from start-to-finish, I draw the line at unlisted hourlong SoundCloud tracks “inspired by Miley Cyrus and my time at Electric Daisy.”
So stay away from DJs and maybe rave heads if you know what’s good for you… unless they’re hot, because sometimes we just have to touch the plate and get burned. Good luck.
XOXO
