Ranting Details: OMG! The GMG!

I have always had this idea in my head that I get along better with girls than with guys. Perhaps it’s part of the gay gene. I spent my whole adolescence identifying with more “feminine” hobbies like ballet and acrylic nail painting, therefore eliminating most of my common ground with fellow sixth graders. The time I feigned interest in throwing a football across a field has long passed, and just as the Packers ball we played with used to hit me in the face, so did my realization recently that my friends are for the first time overwhelmingly male. With the beginning of the GMG it’s safe to say they are overwhelmingly gay, too.

I guess this non-discovery hit me last weekend. Typically when I’m on 34th street I am doing anything in my power to keep my head down, shoulders broad—as to pave a clear path for myself through the throngs of people meandering in front of Foot Locker—and iPod firmly in place as I dart to B&H Photo, which has become my only reason for entering the neighborhood ranked far above Times Square on my list of most despised New York locations. Only, last weekend I stopped dead in the center of the street. It was there I began my trip to Philly as I threw my arms around Benton, a southern belle with curly hair as unruly as his love for sweet tea. We made our way to the Bolt Bus, which makes the Chinatown bus look like a Port-a-potty in comparison, and quickly united with five more guys (Michael, Max, Darren, Chris and Nick) and one fantastic lady, Jessica, the mastermind behind the trip.

Much to the dismay of the other passengers, we roped off a square of eight seats in the back of the bus and began planning our surprise attack on Amos, the friend whom this entire trip had been planned around. After living without him for several months due to the fact that he actually procured a steady job in these unsteady times, we decided to go catch him in A Chorus Line before he flew away to another part of the country to which the Bolt Bus doesn’t drive. Little did we know that getting to Philly was going to be just as difficult.

Within five minutes of departing from the mock station in front of Hammerstein Ballroom the bus driver, a portly woman with a winter coat zipped all the way up to the lips she was using to do her stand up comedy routine over the loud speaker, tried to take her first difficult turn onto the highway. Only instead of turning, she drove straight into a stationary object: a fire hydrant. And, in the process, almost drove us straight into another: the window of a Subway sandwich shop. While I am as guilty as anyone of wanting a Five Dollar Footlong, I also possess a little self-control. Seemingly un-phased by her blunder, she got out to make sure the damage wasn’t causing gasoline to leak out of the bus, thus making sure we weren’t in the middle of a Speed-like conundrum, then returned to the driver’s seat and completed the turn onto the highway.

As five other gay boys, one token straight boy, a lovely lady and I began analyzing the ups and downs of Beyonce’s career, we also began to bask in the glow of a weekend away from the city. Then we hit a bus. Only ten minutes into the trip, and five after our last accident, the driver managed to do the unthinkable: hit a stationary bus in the middle of the entrance to a tunnel. And this time she cracked a window.

After a whir of activity that brought the police to the highway, and caused our driver to plea with passengers at the front of the bus to fill out a form saying she wasn’t responsible for the accident (“It was the weed, I swear!”) we were informed all it would take was a quick change of a bus at Exit 15 and we would be on our way to Philly. Only by this time we were forty-five minutes behind schedule, craving cheesesteaks, and dangerously close to missing Amos hold up his headshot before doing a few quick pelvic thrusts while decked out in ‘70s jazz pants.

It was time to conserve excitement/rage. But seeing as we had enough energy to power a circuit party, this was hard to do. Still, we managed to all close our eyes for a moment beneath the breeze of circulated bus air and dream of a time when we thought it was still possible to make it to our destination on time.

Whether through the collective power of positive thought or divine intervention, our bus driver was able to drive the entire two hour trip without getting into a third accident. Had I been my sixth grade self I would have decoupaged a memory box as an award for her accomplishment, but seeing as I can’t really afford the materials for such luxuries these days, a dirty look while we were exiting the bus had to suffice.

All glares and negative energy shifted the moment we were greeted by Jessica’s lovely parents, Betsy and Ted, who had offered to turn their house into a gay bar for the night, and also offered up their immense knowledge of Philadelphia history as we hauled ass to the theater. Past the liberty bell; down the streets modeled off of the Champs Elysees; and just beyond the steps Rocky ran up.

When we finally got there and saw the A Chorus Line marquee, Max felt so excited by our unlikely arrival he proceeded to do Michael Bennett’s opening combination while navigating through other patrons on the way into the theater. (Why walk when you can 5,6,7,8?) As if his excitement wasn’t contagious enough, we entered into the lobby and saw a placard with Amos Wolff’s name on it, notifying us of his appearance in the show (he was swinging in for this performance) and bringing our hysteria to new heights.

From the moment the lights came up on a stage full of dancers we all located Amos and stayed glued to him throughout. Fortunately he was unaware of our presence so there was no pushing to his performance in order to please us; instead we got a fantastic, natural show (including the best Cassie I’ve ever seen) with the equally fantastic promise of a surprise at the stage door.

We all waited, stuffed between the brick walls in a narrow alleyway beside the theater, to pounce on our friend as he emerged from the theater. He didn’t emerge. He bounced down the alleyway like the concrete was a trampoline. After all of our stress on the bus ride, the end result proved to be well worth the hassle as we smothered him. But the night was only beginning.

Once completing a brief stop at a local pub filled with burly frat brothers downing beers at the bar as, creating an entertaining juxtaposition, the entire Britney Spears catalog boomed from the speakers, we traveled to the suburbs with the gay to straight ratio now at 7 to 2.

I think it was around the time when we started comparing leg hair while a Disney megamix blasted from the speakers that it hit me how nice it is to be old enough to not have to filter around my friends—gay or straight—anymore. Throughout childhood I often filtered myself at school. I talked about football when I had no knowledge of the sport; or I sat quietly while the other boys talked about messing around with girls in their parents’ hot tub. In this kitchen I was free to be myself around people I am passing into adulthood with. At times, this comfort comes from something as seemingly superficial as talking about love interests. But I think there’s an innate understanding with people who were either literally or figuratively hit in the face time and time again with a football as a kid; kindred spirits of sorts. Not so much brought on by sexuality but by the struggle, however large or small it was, it took to get us to the point where we are all together.

We stayed up all night. When I reflect on it I realize we didn’t really do anything other than rock back and forth on the tile floor while devouring pita chips. We made it to the hot tub once. We even handed the token straight boy, Chris, a medal (invisible) for enduring a weekend that far surpassed any of our fellow experiences in a group of gay men. (Expect for Benton…I think he’s been to Fire Island.)

On the bus ride back we decided to keep the positive energy going by creating the GMG: Gay Mail Group or Gay Men’s Group depending on who you ask. While not the most creative title, it’s already proved to be a nice outlet for us all. We email each other interesting things we read or experience. It’s like Oprah’s book club only with the occasional added bonus of shirtless hot celebrities. And to think it all started when that bus driver almost crashed through a building. Maybe I should decoupage her a present after all.

Comments

Come back soon, okay?
Love, love, love the 30th Street Station/Cira Center photo - magical!

Posted by: Momma B | January 14, 2009 at 03:37 PM

FINALLY! I get the story behind all the facebook status messages. I've been dying for deets. I've often felt I'm really a gay man dressed in a girl's body. Can I come play with your club next I'm in town? I miss your face SO MUCH! xoxoxoxoxo

Posted by: Beckylooo | January 14, 2009 at 07:21 PM

What a terrific story of friendship. You really should get this published somewhere. (Besides on your blog!)

Posted by: Esther | January 15, 2009 at 01:25 PM

That's a really cool project, and you've got the right balance of logic and emotion that's persuasive. I'm looking forward to seeing what kind of bus you end up with and how it will work for you.

Posted by: Impotence causes | October 06, 2010 at 01:18 PM

Hello! I hope all readers receive a greeting from me, my name is Ally, I am a college student, I just want to thank you for helping me with my research, this information was all I needed to finish my work, I congratulate these contributions as well and I hope to continue sharing with us these blogs. GOODBYE!

Posted by: Cheap viagra | October 11, 2010 at 03:03 PM