Common Sense	Common Sense Archive

I own and operate an independent GLTB (shall I include "Questioning"?) bookstore in Boston. It is a labor of love, mostly. I have been doing this kind of work for a considerable time. Bookstores are seen by many in the community as the providers of many services, that is over and above the moving of store product. In my experience, a bookstore person is expected to know all about Gay Pride Parades around the globe, will be expected to have up-to-date poop on the local club scene, venues for sexual opportunity, medical and legal services, etc. Ask Jeeves.

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Just yesterday, I answered two phone calls before 9am, something I am loathe to do, except that it is often the case that two of my closest friends like to chat me up before I open the bookstore.

Caller Number One was the heavy breather type and wanted me to inform him of what were the latest book publications which featured the bare feet of famous Hollywood stars, male variety. I was unable to provide him with fulfillment. He hung up.

Call Number Two was a guy who told me he had just moved to Boston, was staying in a hotel, had seen the store's ad in the local rag, and wanted to get some information. I hate to profile people, but of course I do it all the time. It's very useful. This fellow was already off to a bad start. How did I know? Well, you just do, don't you? When I was younger, I was doubtful that you could predict the behaviors of large aggregates of people by just sampling the actions of a few. But of course you can. As Marshall McLuhan noted: two out of three buy pink toothbrush! The great bulk can be predicted; it's only the really odd-- think John Wieners-- who truly negate the Conventional Wisdom.

Anyway, back to Call Number Two-- and isn't it nice he actually got through to a human being (what's left of one, anyway) and didn't get one of those hideous taped loops ("Your call is very important to us and may be recorded for training purposes")-- and I had to ask him where he had moved from in order to experience his new city. He was from New Mexico. He asked where the store was located. I told him. He didn't know this part of town. I asked him if he had in his possession a street map of Boston. He said no. There are the bright ones and then there are-- and I want to be delicate here-- the less than bright ones out there. I recommended he buy a map. Then came, in quick succession, his inquiries: where were the clubs? Was he near the heart of the Gay Ghetto? Where were the bathhouses? The sex clubs? Which escort service did I recommend? The bathhouse one was easy; there are none. The club scene? I'm too old to know this stuff. Escort services? Beyond my ken. He had not found me particularly helpful and in a way I was glad.

Having a clue

When the European visitors drop into the bookstore, it's completely different. First off, they are real travelers. They find the store with no problem. They have maps. They love the serendipity of exploring a new city, this district, this quarter, the odd shop, and the joy of discovery. Caller Number Two indicated the worst things about the gay American. What got me the most was his expectation that, upon landing, in his new city, that all the gay stars would be in alignment, the Gay Ghetto he so expected would be up and running, in depth and diverse, the bathhouses churning around the clock and stocked with good meat, the escort services waiting for his call ("Bells Are Ringing" with Jude Holliday instead of Judy!), and a joint that's jumping. Why didn't he get out more? Why do so many have such unrealistic expectations about gay life? Fantasies get in the way-- perfectly useful in and of themselves but not as roadmaps for those types who don't even buy maps! Then there is the general culture of entitlement and the mentality of slick advertisements, that all is within reach, there is an El Dorado (is that a car or a cigar?), a Zion, an Oz and once you insert yourself into these fantastical places, the world is your oyster (and on the house).

A lot of queans are stuck in movie-land, the fly paper of gayola; bent, in an Einsteinian way, in time and psyche, by those bright, flickering images in the dark. The movies are fascinating, tricky, and dangerous-- except, of course, when they aren't. And they do their damage, especially among the vulnerable in the gay contingent, some of whom then take on those Joan Crawford shoulders-- I'm using Joan here as a metaphor; something she shouldered quite well in her own career.

I acknowledge that there is something endearing about gay men who live with expectations of a world that is over the rainbow; some of the oddest things can come of that. Sure beats the culture of football and TV sitcoms. There is always the challenge to create a new world, new ways, things not part of the majoritarian tyranny. How nice it would be to go to sleep at night knowing that the entire world had been constructed to satisfy your every whim, all fulfillment just a phone call or cab ride away. But it is often my situation to explain to folks that the world-- or at least Boston-- is not Oz, not San Francisco, not even Cleveland (my home town), as Cleveland is home to a Club Baths; Boston is Bathless. I like to tell people the truth; I just wish I could bill them for it, the times being what they are.

Author Profile:  Mitzel
	Mitzel was a founding member of the Fag Rag collective, and has been a Guide columnist since 1986. He manages Calamus Books near Boston's South Station.
	Email:	mitzel@calamusbooks.com
	Website:	calamusbooks.com