#FallowFridays

Elmore Leonard is dead. 

That is the kind of spare opener he would have enjoyed. Obviously, I have a very different writing style. But when famous writers die these days, the internet briefly fills with anecdotes and life lessons in a really lovely sort of communal wake. And so it has been the case with Elmore Leonard this week and through that I have picked up a few writing tips that I both never follow and will savagely paraphrase here. My apologies to him on both counts.

Elmore Leonard said never open with the weather, but I don't think he ever had a Friday night like the one we experienced tonight in Manhattan. The air was crisp and clear, with only the barest hint of diaper.  As the immortal bard Taylor Swift once opined, "It feels like a perfect night." And it does.  Normally, in blazing winter and bitter summer, I am a reluctant adventurer. But when the temperature and humidity are just right, like dry bath water, I am not just encouraged to go out but I become the encourager. 

Yes, much like last time, a visit from Brian Gianelli was the impetus for going out. But the night left me so giddy, I even sent a text to Johnny Lazy, his face recently emerged from stitches acquired from a tumbling dismount into concrete. No word yet on what the Russian judges will score him, but no word yet from him either as my suggestion to reenter the world of the living was greeted without a response. No matter, Brian was already hanging out with Ryan Hahn and Ryan's boyfriend Harris Levinson at Therapy Bar, and waiting for me.  

(By the way, I should mention that Elmore Leonard also said that if it sounds like writing you should rewrite it. But I write like I talk. And if I were any more arch when I spoke, a keystone would fall out of my mouth. So I guess I won't be following that rule either.)

Brian happily informed me that he again ran into that "straight" bartender from the party we attended the night of Broadway Bares back in June. 

Derrick the "straight" bartender at our previous encounter.

Turns out Derrick (spelled wrong by his mother) is also a "straight" bartender at Therapy, but the encounter tonight only served to remind Brian of his issues with the Broadway Bares show.

"Did you give them my feedback?" he asked me later, as if I have some Svengali-like power over the organizers of one of the most successful annual fundraisers in New York. "Too much fish taco. Not enough hot gay guys. And too much talking!"

I tried to explain that the event grows more and more successful every year and despite Brian's strong stance for feminism, it would be hard to convince them to meet his demands, but he was adamant. "Just tell them. They are losing me as a customer." Type type type. Click. Message sent.

I had a feeling when I walked into Therapy that Ryan Hahn and Harris weren't long for the place when I saw that neither of them had a drink in their hand. True enough, within seconds, we were walking out and they were saying good night on the curb. As we were parting ways, I spotted three familiar faces huddled in the smoker's prison outside the bar, each more handsome than the last.

Ryan White and his friends Jeffrey and (especially) Toby have been sadly retired from my active rotation of late. Where at first I thought the shift in hours of my radio show wouldn't impact my nightlife, I was quickly shown to be mistaken. Almost simultaneously, Matt Kugelman got a job in morning television and Ryan, Jeffrey and Toby all got boyfriends. The first sweep of winter wind across the Hudson River last year sealed our fate and outside of the occasional Like on Facebook, they have all but disappeared from view. Until now.

Like a vision, the smoke of another era swirling around them, there they were. And I couldn't have been more thrilled. Brian and I were headed to Industry and they promised to join us as soon as they wrapped things up at Therapy. But mere moments at Industry were enough for Brian and as we were walking out, there they were again on their way in. I thought it would be the last I would see of them, but after Brian and I cobbled together a hasty montage of nearly every gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen (Flaming Saddles, Boxers, Posh, The Ritz) we ended up back at Industry.

Toby was the first to spot me. He was in the dance floor area, up on the stage. He signaled across the crowded room and beckoned me to join them. I felt like a star. The bar was filled with all the hits of the last fifteen years and that was just the guys on the dance floor. I met up with Ryan, Jeffrey and Toby in the midst of the fray and I let the fun of the evening take over. We had a great time, dancing and singing along, joined by Toby’s boyfriend and Phillip, a friend of Ryan’s, who was not shy about showing off his huge biceps jokingly and with some frequency.

"Did we meet in Provincetown?" he asked. "You look so familiar." I shook my head but tried to be helpful.

"I'm sure we've met somewhere around here," I offered. Phillip looks like the kind of guy that when I go home later and look him up on Facebook we will have 25 disparate friends in common. My vague response in the midst of Britney's hit "Drive Me Crazy" drove him crazy so he kept up the questioning. "Did you date Ryan?"

I blurted out "No!" a little too bluntly. Even I was taken aback. I guess I was just surprised by the question. Elmore Leonard insists you never use a verb other than the word "said" to accompany a quote, but in this case, my sharp retort can't be conveyed with so simple a description, at least not by me. Ryan White is a strapping lad of extreme handsomeness and anyone would be lucky to date someone with so many fine qualities. So I didn't mean it as a dig. But from the moment we met sharing a cab, such a thought never occurred to me. (Or more importantly, I'm sure, to him.)

Brian had a restless spirit and Industry didn't seem to satisfy his yen either. He decided to decamp after a lap through the bar proved fruitless. All for the best as I only had about ten minutes left myself before I had to head home. I left Ryan White and Toby almost nearly where I found them: a smoker's prison. In this case, it was the one outside Industry, across the street from our earlier location, but in all other manner the same.

I am certain that I will never be as great a writer as Elmore Leonard. At the very least, I can never be accused of aping his style. But we all have to do things in our own way and in our own time. Elmore Leonard won’t get to experience another perfect summer night in Manhattan, as I did tonight. Or ever know the joy of seeing a random group of gay guys in loose tank tops squealing on Ninth Avenue at the sight of a cockroach strolling by their flip flops. On second thought, maybe with that last one, he is better off.  

Truly, some parts of the New York experience are best left understated.