Manhattan Offender

Season, Over

The Fire Island Listening Project: Beware the backpacker

Last summer saw me eavesdropping on and reporting back from Fire Island Pines.  Gawker isn't running "And the Brand Played On" again this summer, but with "the season" rapidly coming up, it's time to re-visit the concept.  The following originally appeared August 24, 2007.  All dialogue 100% verbatim.

EXT. FIRE ISLAND PINES PAVILION NIGHTCLUB

The Saturday night/Sunday morning 3 a.m. new moon sky is extra dark, lit only with an abundance of stars. The only light comes from what is also the primary source of noise in the still night: Pavilion. Outside a variety of gays presides. Some sit at wire mesh tables, smoking and chatting. Others stand in groups while others walk seemingly aimless through the night.

A group of gays wearing assorted low-rise jeans and no shirts sit at a table barely touched by the outside lighting. All are in their early thirties. MARLBOROGAY and PARLIAMENTGAY glow in the dim light, their muscular bodies pink-tan and glistened with sweat. SMOKELESSGAY sits with them, with comparatively thin and pale.

MARLBOROGAY (Lighting a Marlboro Light) Do you want a cigarette?

SMOKELESSGAY
You know I don't smoke.

PARLIAMENTGAY
(Smoking a Parliament Light.)  Sometimes you do.  Last weekend.  Posh.

SMOKELESSGAY
I smoke when I do coke because I get fidgety.  Is JAMES still inside?

MARLBOROGAY
Yeah, he's dancing with that older guy.  He totally loves those ... Look at that.

PARLIAMENTGAY looks toward the door of the nightclub where ADIDASGAY exits and jaunts past their table wearing tight silver Adidas sweatpants with red stripes. After passing the table he begins to walk quickly down the boardwalk.

ADIDASGAY  (Yelling into the night.)  José!  ... José!

PARLIAMENTGAY
Wish my name was José.  Damn!

MARLBOROGAY
You and your Latino obsession.  Oooo.  Oh!  Some sweat just rolled down my back and somehow got into my asscrack. Nice.

SMOKELESSGAY
(Begins to stand up.)  I'm going to go find JAMES.

PARLIAMENTGAY
Sit down and leave him alone.  If he hooks up with that guy then I've got a room to myself tonight.

MARLBOROGAY
And if he brings him home, you're sleeping on the Aerobed, sweetie.

PARLIAMENTGAY
First of all, older guys are supposed to bring you home. They should be to the point where they either own a house or can at least afford a share where they aren't sharing a room, or a bed. And don't forget - Ozone. No one wants to walk to our fucking house. It's just too far. Oh. Look at that one.

PARLIAMENTGAY looks toward BACKPACKGAY, standing near the exterior stairs.

SMOKELESSGAY Latino.  Probably 23 at most.  And look - a backpack.

MARLBOROGAY
He's homeless, Jacob. Missed the last ferry. Probably on purpose. And thinks he can just find someone to spend the night with because he's semi-hot.

PARLIAMENTGAY
Semi?  Look at that ...

MARLBOROGAY
No backpackers.  No, no, no, no, no.

PARLIAMENTGAY
Are you sure JAMES is still in there?  What if he already left with that guy?

MARLBOROGAY
You know he'll be in there until the very last song, making out on the dance-floor. He's probably in the middle of the floor groping that old daddy.

SMOKELESSGAY
He was at least 45.  His chest hair was, like, grey.  We should go in.

ADIDASGAY emerges from the darkness of the boardwalk and passes the table and jaunts back into the nightclub.

PARLIAMENTGAY Guess he didn't find José.  Let's go in.

The three leave their table and enter Pavilion. Outside, BACKPACK gay begins making out with another gay, shirtless with low-rise jeans.

 

The Fire Island Listening Project: Do she? She do.

Last summer saw me eavesdropping on and reporting back from Fire Island Pines.  Gawker isn't running "And the Brand Played On" again this summer, but with "the season" rapidly coming up, it's time to re-visit the concept.  The following originally appeared July 19, 2007.  All dialogue 100% verbatim.

INT. THE "GLO LOUNGE" IN FIRE ISLAND PINES
The lounge is a new construction with fresh wood encasing a modern-look bar with ample seating and tables, with large open windows that overlook the bay. The event known as "High Tea" is just beginning and the crowd is starting to grow. Near one window, sitting on a sofa are RAYBANTWINK and PRADATWINK, wearing of-the-season sunglasses as befit their names. As the crowd enters from the stairwell to their right they look around the room.

RAYBANTWINK That's that bartender that does porn.

PRADATWINK
Do she?

RAYBANTWINK
She do. Darren is all ga-ga for him.

PRADATWINK
I don't like redheads.

RAYBANTWINK
Me neither, but he's got a big dick.

PRADATWINK
Oh, do she?

RAYBANTWINK
She do. You ready for another vodka soda?

PRADATWINK nods and winks as he finishes his drink. RAYBANTWINK gets up to leave for the bar. One sofa over at another window, IRONICTEEBEAR is caressing the sofa with SLEEVELESSBEAR.

IRONICTEEBEAR I'm not sure. I think it's real. They make really good imitations now. But it feels real.

SLEEVELESSBEAR
But leather sofas on the water just don't make sense. Saltwater is bad for leather so it's not even going to last a season.

IRONICTEEBEAR
We're on the bay side, so maybe it's okay. It still seems like a waste. I think it's fake. (Again caressing the sofa.) But it has a really nice hand. I sort of wonder where they got these. They're too nice to be IKEA.

SLEEVELESSBEAR
Probably the designer had them built for the space. They all look the same, just different shades of brown. (Pauses.) Why brown?

IRONICTEEBEAR
The tables look IKEA. (Pause. Looks around room.) Is it me or can you not smoke in here?

SLEEVELESSBEAR
Nobody else is. There's no cigarette butts on the floor. I saw people smoking on the way in though. In the other room.

EMACIGAYTED is speaking loudly into a black RAZR phone and approaches the sofa holding the BEARS and walks past to lean out the window.

EMACIGAYTED Yeah, I'm on Fire Island, the Pines... (Remaining on the phone, reaches for pocket, pulling out cigarettes, and lights one.)

SLEEVELESSBEAR
(Pointing at EMACIATWINK.) She's smoking.

IRONICTEEBEAR
Good enough. (Pulls out a pack of Marlboro Mediums.)

EMACIGAYTED
(Crossing back across the sofa.) Girl, I know, but the best time to be unemployed in New York City is during the summer when your share is paid for...

EMACIGAYTED walks away from the BEARS, cigarette in the hand that is covering his ear. He leaves for the main High Tea bar to the left, passing RAYBANTWINK, carrying two drinks.

RAYBANTWINK Why do they call this the Glo Lounge? There ain't a damn thing glowing in here.

PRADATWINK
(Points into the growing crowd.) There's Vinnie. He knows that dealer that sells those little baby jars of coke.

RAYBANTWINK
I can't believe how much we've gone through. No more sharing. People need to pony up.

PRADATWINK
Tell me. But we should talk to Vinnie. He has the guy's number.

RAYBANTWINK
Do she?

PRADATWINK
She do.

Preview the new Pavilion

Last year resident High Tea DJ, Lina explained a ton of changes that would be coming for the Pavilion in 2007, but that explanation did not counter my surprise upon seeing the new space.

An obvious modification is the changed stair positioning which should improve traffic flow (not to mention allow for more imperious exits).  Also obvious is the closing of the structure with windows along the bay side.  The upstairs space is supposedly twice the size of previous, but the closing of the space seems counterintuitive.  Being out in Fire Island is about feeling the warm salty air circling around you, which has always been a strength of Low and High Teas and a failing of Sip-n-Twirl and most venues in the Grove.

Unfortunately, I was unable to sneak in to view the entire place, but pleasant surprises are always welcome.  Peering through the downstairs windows definitely revealed another surprise.  Down below seems to be a new Pantry with all new fixtures inside.

The one certain thing is that these changes and construction do signify that Fire Island is flourishing.  If the construction is completed by this weekend, I'll take a peek next week.

So begins the season: a look inside the Belvedere Guest House (for men)

Almost invariably, people will tell you that the Belvedere is a dump.  The faux painting, the peeling paint, and pervy cohabitants are all mentioned.  There remains though an allure to the place.  Sitting palatially on the east end of Cherry Grove, the Belvedere is iconic in status.  As it is in it's 75th year now, I was determined to stay there, if but for a night.

This weekend presented a perfect opportunity, as a house and housemates needed to be checked out, a deposit made, and a few other errands needed to be done.  With less than perfect weather in the forecast, the call was made for reservations.  My only requirement?  That I take a "luxury" room, and that I get a discount.

My room, right on the water was quite nice, with an iPod alarm clock, flat-screen (13") television, full bath and kitchenette.  The staff was invariably friendly and helpful (and cute). 

That being said, there are parts in disrepair and less than perfect.  Further, as I was not in the more commonly taken economy or standard rooms, there were no issues that come along with a shared bath.

The video above, which admittedly isn't great, gives you a general idea of the place.  Sound was removed as it was pretty windy the whole time.

I'll have video later in the week of the Mr. Fire Island Leather contest, the NEW Pavilion, a walk through The Meatrack and a few other tidbits.

Saturday: day to night

Clicking makes thing bigger.

Anatomy of a weekend

Craigslist ad.  Email exchange.  Phone call.
Google search of name.  Paypal payment.
Phone call on day of.  His arrival before mine.
Front desk for my key.

Check in.

Scant traces of a roommate are noted:
silver sweatpants with red stripe.
Best-selling Jewish Porn Films.
sunscreen.
My own traces are left behind:
black tank tops.
One-act Comedies of Moliere.
post-sun moisturizer.

Nap.
Wake up.  Dance.  Sunrise.
Return.

His traces undisturbed.
My bed is welcoming.

Wake up.  Brunch.  Beach.
Return.

His traces shuffled.
My clothes are transitioned.

Low Tea.  High Tea.
Return.

His traces rearranged.
My clothes are changed.

Pavilion:
Bottled waters. 
Shirtless men. 
Sweat-soaked jeans.
Silver sweatpants with a red stripe.

"Paul?"
"Rod."
Two-minute chat.
Return to  business at hand.

Dance.  Visit.  Sunrise.
Return.

His traces are disorderly.
My clothes are removed.

Wake up.  Brunch.  Beach.
Return.

His traces unchanged.
My clothes smell.

Shower.  Nap.  Pack.
Door opens.

"Paul?"
"Rod."
Paths are compared.
Stories are related.

His traces are packed.
My traces are packed.

Check out.  Fire Island Cherry Grove

Popper Monster escapes, wreaks havoc

There he is in a red camp-style shirt and vivid yellow knee-length shorts.  Looking like a cross between a high school gym coach and a high school cheerleader, he arrives at The Blue Whale for Low Tea.  He socializes, smiles, and chats with several people.  My camera is out of my pocket and is set to take a picture of him, the infamous Popper Monster.

Then it strikes me that Popper Monster is doing no wrong here (other than the outfit).  Maybe there has been a reformative episode in his life.  There is no apparent offensiveness happening; his demeanor is quite sober.  This is no pedophile whose picture should be posted as permanent punishment.  The camera is pocketed.

Several hours and one outfit later it is a different scene.  As DJ Escape spins an unmemorable set the floor at Pavilion is packed with a shirtless dancing crowd.  Suddenly, over the aroma of testosterone and sweat, another scent is in the air, familiar and terrifying.  The Popper Monster is in full swing searching out a shirtless back on which to lean.  My hand reaches for my back pocket, where the camera had been in my shorts for most of that day.  But the shorts are gone, and the back pocket of these jeans holds no room for a camera, just ass. 

The Popper Monster escapes my lens yet again.  Fire Island