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White Dopes on Punk (a retrospect by me) (Parts 11 and 12) Part 1 Starts HERE In Kensington, life marched on, but not smoothly. As expected, my marriage dissolved. I wish I could say it ended honestly and courageously. It didn't. Instead of coming out of the closet, the entire house collapsed around me. I separated from the wife and moved to nearby Baltimore. I could finally be true to myself and live my life as a single, out gay man. I was a quick study. One evening, while leafing through The Advocate in my Baltimore bachelor pad, I spied an article about the upcoming Gay Games. This is a cultural and sporting event specifically for the LGBT crowd. The Gay Olympics, essentially. That year, it was to be held in Amsterdam. Emboldened by my new freedom and feeling kinda adventurous, I decided to attend, traveling solo. I booked a flight, reserved my hotel, and bought an Amsterdam travel guide. On arrival, I was amazed at how beautiful, laid back, and friendly the city was. The streets were teeming with affable gay athletes and gracious gay tourists.
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In the spring of 1998 I received a letter from a headhunting agency based in New York. The ASPCA was looking for someone to fill the lofty position of Vice President of Animal Health, and incredibly, they were interested in me! Though I was carving out a life for myself in Baltimore, I knew I would never be a Baltimorean at heart (my obsession with John Waters notwithstanding). I'm a New Yorker. My quest to become a veterinarian had led me all over the country, from Binghamton to Florida to Connecticut to Philadelphia to Baltimore to Colorado to Kensington to Baltimore again. I'd been away from New York City for almost 20 years! I tried planting roots in some of these places, but they never took hold. It was time to come back home. I interviewed at The ASPCA, and they hired me. The boyfriend and I agreed to try the long-distance romance thing. I prepared for my triumphant return to New York City. The rental agent from Citi Habitats showed me many apartments. I chose a funky, spacious studio apartment in the Village, at Bleecker and Broadway.
The Palladium became a NYU dormitory. CBGB is a Jon Varvatos Store. The Café Figaro, gone. Sigh. Even encountering the places that managed to stave off extinction failed to revive any memories. I walked past the McDonalds where Richard Hell asked Neil and me for a light, and it now seems unfathomable that it really happened there. The Washington Square Park where we smoked weed and watched hippies frolic in the fountain seems must have been in a parallel universe. I found myself walking past Neil's old building, the Brevoort East. I stopped in front and stared, and honestly, I could barely recognize the building. It's not easy to reminisce here. In New York City, the present is always so strong that the past gets obliterated. It's a great city for making memories, but a difficult one for resurrecting them. I'm fine with that. Cities are like people. They grow. They change. They evolve. To carve out a life for myself in NYC, I'd have to grow and evolve along with it. Otherwise, I'd end up feeling like a tourist in my own city, and who the hell wants that?
I returned to Baltimore, rented a U-Haul and packed up again. Destination: NYC. Home. A few months after Neil died, it was discovered that a new class of AIDS drugs called protease-inhibitors, in combination with other antiviral drugs – the so-called AIDS cocktails – were a powerfully effective treatment for AIDS. People on the brink of death were brought back to life, like the Phoenix from the ashes. I became consumed with the thought that if only he could have held on for a few more months, things might have been very different. The sorrow and regret were too much to bear. For months, I coped by not thinking about him at all. Now, with my return to the city, I feared that I'd be bombarded by constant reminders of those youthful days. Unexpectedly, it never happened. Resurrecting past memories by returning to the scene of the crime doesn't work in New York, because the crime scenes will likely be gone. Our favorite haunts – the 8th Street Playhouse, The Bleecker Street Cinema, The Bottom Line – all vanished.
Tourists are irritating. Fortunately, upon my return, I had no problem adapting to the post-Neil version of New York City. I went through a second teen age, partying and clubbing with a new crowd of friends. Twenty years earlier, it was The Ritz, Danceteria, CBGB, and Irving Plaza. Now it was The Roxy, Twilo, Limelight, and Sound Factory. My focus was different in the '90's. I was trying to be the best veterinarian I could be, while evolving as a gay man in the world's most gay-accommodating city. The tribal house music in the gay clubs was very different. I hated it. I still was a punk at heart, and luckily, New York was still the epicenter. My live music fix remained easily attainable. At every Patti Smith concert (and there were many), as her band was crankin' that last verse of Gloria, I'd imagine Neil standing next to me, equally digging the sonic assault. Then the song would end, and he would be gone. These days, I look in the mirror and see a guy in his 50's staring back. I'm not sure how the fuck that happened, but it did.
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