Where the Hood At?

Gayborhoods are going the way of Ashanti's career (yes, music AND acting), and the New York Times is leading the funeral dirge with an article that is, as of 10:55pm, the most e-mailed piece of the day.

Citing the cancellation of the Halloween parade in San Francisco's Castro district as another nail in the coffin of gay enclaves (aka the first sign of the Apocalypse: sodomites will no longer don costumes for the entertainment of straight people), the Times also points to the rise of gay communities in less urban areas, like Fort Worth and Louisville as the evolution of the gay real estate pioneer.

So is the gay enclave dead? Did Starbucks and Pottery Barn deal the final blow to West Hollywood, the Castro and Chelsea? Or did the gays decide for themselves that it's time to leave the block and get all Green Acres on America?

Whatever the case may be, I still mourn the loss of The Big Cup here in Chelsea. Think Central Perk with long picnic tables and plush (though gross) sofas pressed up against a window looking out on the Champs de Slee-Zay (Eighth Avenue). I think it's the first gay boite I ever went to (with my mom, no less). But now it's a flower shop. Next to a hat store. Next to a T-shirt store. Next to a Pinkberry. Next to another T-shirt store. Next to Starbucks. Across the street from a condo development where studios start at $2 million. And my view of the Empire State Building is now gone.

For me, though, the gayborhood is still alive. I see it at 6:30am when I think I'm the only guy walking to the gym, and then I see five gorgeous men jogging to their AM workouts. I see it when I hop a cab down from my office in Times Square and wind up at Barracuda, where no one cares what my name is but the drinks are good and the boys are packed wall-to-wall. I know Chelsea, the Chelsea I first encountered as a teen in the late 90s, is still here because James and I (picture above, to the left, to the left, walking down Ninth Avenue) can hold hands while shopping for lattes, towel racks and t-shirts up and down Eighth Avenue.

Except when there are hot joggers passing through.