The New Old Gays

doree:

My Observer article this week:

These days, the young gays of Williamsburg and the East Village—the ones who wear pointy shoes and tight cutoff shorts, who studied queer theory and dabbled in heroin at Sarah Lawrence or Bard or Wesleyan, hang out at bars like Metropolitan and Sugarland in Williamsburg or the Phoenix and Eastern Bloc in the East Village, and listen to Chromeo and Girl Talk and Le Tigre—get all the attention. Corner one of these young men, and he will profess ignorance of that other scene of youthful gays, the gays of the Friends of Dorothy variety. As one of the New Gays confidently told me, it is a scene made up exclusively of the old and, quite possibly, fat, adding that the only young men who fraternize with this group are those who cannot, in all likelihood and despite their best efforts, get laid.

It’s Doree, so it’s well written! And good!

But I absolutely fucking cannot abide musical theater or really anything that goes along with being a New Old Gay.

I will happily be assimilating as a New Gay with my pointy shoes, Girl Talk, a pair of tight cutoff shorts in my closet (which, truthfully, were not created of my own volition and resulted from confusion relating to my wearing the same type of jeans my sister does, but in a smaller size), and blissful ignorance of the historically fey.