Covering my coupe a moment too late, it was a brand new year and my champagne was swimming with paper confetti. I still drank it anyway. After our midnight’s kiss under still-falling streamers, Austin said to me, “It’s your favorite song.” Just as soon as the packed restaurant’s countdown from ten ushered us all into 2024, the live band downstairs started playing “Auld Lang Syne.” It is kind of my favorite song. Mournful, and fuzzy, and slow. Like wearing my father’s clothes. What do you know, a man named Robert Burns penned the poem, kind of. Quoted as saying, “It’s an old song, of the olden times, which has never been in print until I took it down from an old man”—but still. A sad-eyed Burns boy knows a sad-eyed Burns boy when he hears one. Washing it all down with said champagne and two dirty vodka martinis, I ate raw oysters and colossal shrimp, french fries and crudité, pigs in a blanket and caviar on fingerling potatoes—for free. The perks of dating someone who used to work here, at Ralph Lauren’s restaurant. People paid something like $425 a head to be there that night, if they could get the reservation at all. Nina Garcia walked by us at one point and Austin said something to her and she replied, “What beautiful people at this table!” Sitting next to me, Austin’s friend, and one-time coworker, leaned in and whispered, “What a ham.”
I cleaned the apartment and went on a six-mile walk, hungover, before watching All That Jazz that night. The favorite film of so many of my favorite filmmakers, it was our first time seeing it. I’m of the mindset that however you spend January 1st sets the tone for every day that follows. We’ll see.
The next day, we had Caroline over for drinks at our place. Austin’s old boss, for over a decade and at different establishments, Caroline is prim (she’s English) but cheeky (she’s English), a total broad (she’s lived in New York for 35 years) with a girlish laugh that rings clear as a bell (we worship her). When Austin accepted his new job last year, I felt something like grief after realizing I’d no longer get to ask, “What did Caroline say today?” Her daughter was in town and, traveling separately, she got to our apartment first. She’s tickled we love her mother so much, even if she also hinted at seeing through the “they don’t make ‘em like they used to!” mystique that leaves me and Austin, more often than not, breathless. It’s hard to be our parent’s child. We had champagne and Caroline brought red wine and I loved the responsibility of keeping an eye on everyone’s glass. After seeing Funny Girl in theaters as a child, Caroline told us about being on holiday with her family that summer, on the island of Jersey. Somehow making her way into this big, empty ballroom at the hotel, she queued up “Second Hand Rose” on the jukebox and danced to Barbra’s song, all by herself.
I dreamed that I was in Al Gore’s backyard, explaining Vatican II to Blythe Danner. And also, that same night, that I was walking dogs in Boston again, that I was back to working for Nancy. I have that dream so often, and I’m always running late in it, either that or I’m lost. It’ll be six years, this year, since I left Boston. That’s just as long as all the time I lived there. Anytime we talk about it on the phone, Shannon and I always agree, that as much as we might miss it—no way.
I’ve been wheezing a lot, more than I have in a very long time, since I was a kid. Telling myself it was walking pneumonia, or bronchiolitis, or RSV, I started taking some amoxicillin my mom bought for me from a Mexican pharmacy last time they were on vacation. Texting her to mark the occasion, my mom responded, “Eat yogurt.” I still had to call out sick. It was a Saturday and I love Saturdays at the museum so much. The visitors are excited to be there, the specific crew of Educators are my very favorite, and while not every tour is great, it’s only ever been a Saturday when I’ve led my very best. I worked my usual couple days that week, sharing friendly enough “Happy New Year”s with my Monday and Thursday colleagues, but it wasn’t until that following Saturday that I found myself being greeted with “Brian!” after “Brian!”
In our breakroom, sitting on the couch, I was talking to Sophie. I’d asked her earlier that morning if she had any resolutions for the new year and she said tap dancing. “As an already too-disciplined person,” I told her, “I should probably try being less resolved.” I don’t remember how but we got to talking about singing, at which point I told her I’ve thought about taking voice lessons for years now. “Just for myself.” Sophie grew up in the church. Her mom’s a pastor. I talked to her about all the times I’ve gone to church with Austin’s family, to see his dad preach, and how fascinating it is to be surrounded by all that New Testament Joy. And how so much of that joy seems to stem from singing, without shame. Explaining that my inability to sing feels like some kind of emotional block. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic. Sophie asked me, “Have you ever heard of Sacred Harp singing?” I hadn’t. It's this tradition that came out of New England but somehow made its way down south, where a chorus of people assemble in a square wooden church and—facing each other—sing very, very loudly. Participation is key, that’s what Sophie said. That Sacred Harp is participation. You’re not singing for an audience, but for each other, and for yourself.
After wandering around The Met for an hour, trying and failing to find The Costume Institute, I asked for directions. I wanted to see the Women Dressing Women exhibit. Naturally. Not a day goes by at the museum without my saying the words “garment industry” or “ILGWU” or “schmatta.” Visitors love to lie and tell us that their great-grandmother survived The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. It’s constant. Who knows, maybe it’ll be the same thing a hundred years from now, when a million different people all have the same exact story about an ancestor who worked in The Twin Towers but called out sick on September 11th. History is just the stories we tell. I was a little underwhelmed by the exhibit but maybe that’s just me, more interested in sweatshops than ateliers. In the contemporary wing, I very briefly crossed paths with this gay guy and a couple of girls. They could’ve been 15, or 19, or 26 years old, I really don’t know. It’s only getting harder for me to tell. I heard the gay boy say, “She’s the reason that I know art” and my immediate thought, inexplicably, was that “she” was “Lady Gaga.” I shared this with Austin and he said, “How do you know he wasn’t talking about, like, his art teacher?” Of course, I don’t. Anyway, it made all his girlfriends laugh and I felt so proud of him. Like I was his godfather, or his guardian angel. And there was something almost mystical about it, I swear, the warmth I felt in hearing his sibilant little voice and knowing there will always be more of us, that there will always be new gay guys.
“I watched Saltburn last night,” my mom said to me, over the phone.
“Uh oh,” I said.
“I guess I don’t know the names of a lot of these new actors. Obviously. Because the whole time, I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for that scene, you know—the full frontal! Yeah, well, I thought it was Felix who’d be doing it! Not that other one! Ugh!”
Looking in the bathroom mirror that night, I saw an eyelash on my cheek. I made a wish and, the very next day, my wish came true. It was delivered in the form of an email. I guess most dreams come true these days via email.
There was a Marlene Dietrich exhibit at the International Center of Photography. I told the girl at the front desk where I work and she let me in for free, which always makes me feel bad—we don’t offer so much as a discount to anybody. Most of the 250 photographs of Dietrich spoke for themselves, but one of the very few accompanying placards read, “Her choice to look away from the camera here is an expert one, compelling the viewer to gaze closely at the shape of her legs. ‘The legs aren’t so beautiful,’ she once claimed. ‘I just know what to do with them.’” What a woman. Back in Boston, when I was dog walking, this rich, middle-aged, lesbian couple stopped me on the street one day and asked if I could take care of their pug for an afternoon. It took all I had not to squeal, “Of course!” I showed up to their apartment just as Sylvia was leaving and she said to me, “Okay, honey, fridge is all yours, help yourself. Cash is on the kitchen counter for you and—do you smoke? I left out a joint, too. If you want! Whatever! Alright—mwah!” Returning from my walk with Henry the geriatric pug, I spent the next hour splayed on their white leather couch, stoned out of my gourd, listening to a live Marlene Dietrich album from 1959. “Mein Mann ist verhindert, er kann sie unmöglich sehen,” I growled along, in perfect tonal unison, feeling more than usual like the paragon of 20th century homosexuality. I looked at every single photo in the exhibit twice. Marlene was so stunning, so clever and handsome. Reminding me, unsurprisingly, of Madonna, but also Bette Davis, and also Caroline. I do have a type.
I would have comped his ticket but Al paid for it himself, supporting the museum with his own $30 just like every other visitor on that 3:45 tour. And the people were good, thank God. Try as I might, it’s always the group that makes the tour. Al and I didn’t let on that we knew each other, which is a fun way of going about it. Naughty, even. After he took a picture of a Catholic icon in the Italian family’s tenement, I told him, “Now, do the sign of the cross!” Another visitor overheard that and laughed. Afterwards, chatting in front of the visitor center, Al said all the things I wanted to hear. That it was so impressive, seeing me in my element like that. That I was so myself, but also not myself, or more than myself. Telling me, “It was like watching a singer who you know, like a friend, like watching your friend perform on stage.”
Austin and I went to a bar called Sharlene’s on a Friday night for Eric’s 30th birthday. Per his “Partiful,” 59 people had RSVP’d yes. We were both amazed by that. Logically, the place was packed. Hugging Eric hello, I asked if there’d been any tears today and he told me, “I haven’t cried in five years.” With all the privilege of the unmedicated, I said, “Release is overrated.” He couldn’t disagree more. Austin and I didn’t know anyone else there, not at first, and I immediately regretted coming. Feeling so self-conscious to be standing off in a corner, with only my boyfriend, not speaking to each other. It sucks to be tall sometimes. Always in someone’s way, always taking up too much space, always visible. Objectively, unavoidably visible. Spotting Nolan over at the bar, Austin led the charge in his direction, and everything got better. Not five minutes later, I felt a familiar hand on my back and turned around to see Cole, the indie darling himself. He couldn’t have been sweeter, or more excited to see me. Talking about an upcoming role of his, I asked if he’s eager to play such a villainous character and he said, “Well, you know, I can’t really see him that way…” I love actors. Later, he asked where in Boston I’m from. Last month, at a Christmas party, another friend alluded with certainty to my Massachusetts roots. Be still my heart. Of course, I’m not from there, not really. But maybe I am.
There was enough accumulation to end the depressing record of 701 days in New York City without measurable snowfall. I was thrilled. Thinking it was done for the day, I went for my usual afternoon walk only for the storm to pick back up again. Everyday, I see people walking up and down Washington Avenue, back and forth from the train on Fulton to the shelter up near Flushing Avenue. Asylum seekers, mostly from Mauritania, or so I’ve read. So many of these men wear the same hats, or t-shirts, or carry the same bags, each bearing the same graphic of a masked Lady Liberty, flexing her arm with a recently administered band-aid. It reads, “I’m an NYC Vax Champ!” I guess there was a greater supply than demand. It was so special, seeing these grown men spinning around in circles on the sidewalk, filming videos on their phones, capturing something they might never have seen before. I wonder what they said, when they sent these videos to their loved ones, to all the people who must feel just a million miles away. One of the men I saw recording the snow—he was wearing sandals on his feet. Further down the block, I saw a woman pushing her baby in a chintzy little stroller. I can’t know for sure, but I got the sense she was also very new here. That same day, that morning, a recent order from Mayor Adams officially took effect—migrant families must leave city housing after 60 days. I wondered if they had a place to sleep tonight. Her baby, a little girl, was in a coat and a hat, but her face was totally exposed to the weather, to the wind and snow. It felt like 20 degrees that afternoon. I looked up at the mother and she was looking right at me, looking me straight in the eyes. They say that’s God. I believe that to be true. And yet I just kept on walking.
There was this late addition to my tour about the Irish family, an adult daughter and her mother who joined the rest of us after I’d already begun the program. The daughter gave me nothing to work with, but the mother was engaged—and chic. Red leather gloves and a designer bag, with expensive looking blond hair and an unplaceable European accent. Nodding at all the right moments and sustaining eye contact, she was really with me. Giving every indication she was in total lockstep with my interpretation of why and how Irish immigrants experienced such rapid mobility versus the still ongoing oppression of Black Americans. At the tour’s end, I’m leading the group down the stairs and out of the building and the mother is right beside me, speaking quietly enough so only I can hear. “So, why is it? Is it just prejudice?” she says, talking about that Black experience. “Or is it because the family unit is so broken for them?” It’s the strangest thing, and it happens all the time. Finally removed from the prying eyes of strangers, the visitor who bit their tongue all hour long now has the chance to tell me what they really believe. Presuming, somehow, that I’ll agree. “Our maid, she’s been with us for 32 years,” the mother said. “Jamaican. And she’s always said, ‘These American Blacks. They’ve got a chip on their shoulder!’” It took my breath away, hearing her say that. And before I could even think of a response, she’d put on her gloves and turned on her heels and she was gone. I had the chance to do the right thing and I didn’t, I could say that. I could also say that, after an hour of expressing this history as clearly as I know how, she’d only ever see what her eyes wanted to see. Maybe there’s only so much I can do.
There were these other visitors on that very same tour who stuck around afterwards to chat with me—Helen from Galway, and Matthew and Christine from New York. They told me how moved they were by the tour, and asked where they could read my writing. Christine found me online and I thanked her for their curiosity. She responded, “You were the talk of the town for our dinner thereafter. Matthew—a composer—said, ‘His beat. The silence after his sentences, and the timing of his silence, gave us the space to reflect on the weight of the family’s experiences.” Telling me, “You are wise beyond your years.” Later, meeting up with Austin at the movies, he was just as touched as I was by her message. And just as tickled that it’s even possible for me to still be wise beyond my years. I said to him, “That could be the last time anyone ever says it to me.”
We saw The Zone of Interest that night. It was horrifying and it was phenomenal. And it made me think of this family I saw on the train sometime last year. It was a mother and a father and their son, who was maybe 8 years old and wearing a soccer uniform. I’d guess they were on their way to a game. With his son sitting in his lap, the father was being so sweet, so affectionate and physical, kissing the side of his boy’s face every now and then. It made me smile. And of course, I didn’t notice this, not at first. But eventually, looking down at this father holding his child so dearly, right there on his hand, where thumb met pointer finger, I saw his tattoo of a swastika.
We went to see Madonna. It was Austin’s very first time seeing her, and I was so happy to share that with him. This would be my seventh show of hers—but never before at Madison Square Garden. As a kid, I dreamed of seeing her there, understanding it always as some holy pilgrimage. Like seeing Mary in Lourdes. Our seats were second row from the runway, dead center. Before the show began, and before the very front row filled up with exclusively famous VIPs, Austin and I dreamt up our ideal celebrities. Rosie O’Donnell, Parker Posey, Martha Plimpton, to name a few. It wound up being Sam Smith, Evan Mock, Russell Tovey, Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka, The Palm restaurateur Bruce Bozzi and ex-husband to Carrie Fisher/hot-shot agent Bryan Lourd. But the worthiest front row attendee of them all: Jose Xtravaganza. I could’ve wept seeing him there. The show began at 9:45. A matinee, by Madonna’s standards. It was perfect. The setlist, the arrangements, the spectacle. Her. She looked so beautiful, and so alive. I am so thankful that she is alive. It’s crazy to think so much of this show was already planned and rehearsed when she had her health scare last summer, when she almost died. Because so much of this show is eulogy. For Christopher Flynn, Keith Haring, Herb Ritts, and every other bright light lost to AIDs, for Prince and Basquiat and Sinéad, for Michael Jackson, for her mother. All gone. But amidst this loss, or despite all this loss, maybe even because of such loss: Celebration. And how astounding that when she takes the stage each night, in the opening line of her opening number for this career retrospective tour, some forty tireless years in the making, Madonna sings, “When I was very young…”
She sang “Express Yourself” toward the end of the show, all alone on stage, just her and her guitar. When I saw her last month in Brooklyn, at this same point in the concert, she was still performing “I Will Survive.” Another eulogy, almost. It really is a miracle she’s here with us. I was never far from that thought. But also—you never know. I might never see her live again, I have to remember that. And oh, did she give me something to remember. Because it was during “Express Yourself” that Madonna came right to the very end of the runway. Squatting down, she stuck out her microphone toward that front row posse of A-list homosexuals, urging NPH and company to sing along before she stood back up and stepped a couple feet to the side. She was directly in front of us now, as close as we’d get to each other all night long. Spitting distance. And suddenly, I hear Madonna say, “Brian.” My heart stopped. Austin’s heart stopped. My friend Tom was also there that night and, knowing where we were seated, knowing we were seated precisely where she’d just uttered my name, he messaged me, “BRIAN. Did she just address you???” There, in the hallowed hall of Madison Square Garden, I heard her call my name. “Brian.” Of course, it only took us another second to realize Madonna wasn’t urging me to express myself but “Bryan.” That hot-shot agent standing right there in front of me. And yet, from the depths of my heart, I understand this was fate. Brian is a great name because it’s classic but it’s not common, that’s something I point out to people all the time. You meet a million Johns and Michaels in a lifetime but not a fraction as many Brians. And of all the people in this city, of all the people in the world to take that seat right directly in front of mine, of all the people recognizable enough to Madonna to warrant such an address—it was a man with my name.
It was heaven. Like a little prayer.
Still wheezing, I went to see my doctor, someone I specifically chose as my GP because I thought he was hot. Conveniently, he also accepts Medicaid. Seemingly their last appointment of the day, no sooner did I walk into the office than one of the front desk girls asked, “Burns?” Checking me in, the other girl looked at the computer and said, “Alright, your copay’s gonna be $100—just kidding!” It was cute. Under my breath, I said to the girls, “He’s cute…but he’s not that cute.” They screamed laughing.
We went to see Cole Escola’s new play, Oh, Mary! for its first night in previews. It’s at the Lucille Lortel Theatre in the Village. We saw Jacqueline Novak’s Get On Your Knees there too and what do you know, just as we were entering the theater that night, blasting from the stereo of a car driving by—“Like a Prayer.” There are no coincidences. It feels exciting, seeing a show there. So 1960s. So beatnik. Like I should be wearing a little black beret. Two times in one week, we were second row and dead center for a gay extravaganza. And I laughed and laughed and laughed. Cole Escola plays a fumbling, frustrated, nitwitted Mary Todd Lincoln, all cooped up in her gay husband’s White House and yearning for the days when she was a niche cabaret star. It was ridiculous, absurd, over the top—and human. Sweet, even. Never ironic, never mean. Sobbing into the pillows of her drunken-fainting couch, Mary whips around at one point and screams, “Have you ever had a GREAT day?!” I laughed but, just as sincerely, I could’ve cried. At work the next morning, Isaiah said, “Brian! Tell me, how was Oh, Mary!?” Seated on a rolling chair, I scooted closer in his direction, a one man Mrs. Marmelstein. “I don’t want to set you up with too high of expectations,” I said to him. “But it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
Austin’s parents were in town for the weekend and they wanted to come to the museum. Austin, his mom, his dad, they’ve all seen me lead a tour by now. This wasn’t anybody’s first time. And yet. Playing the part of the bright good boy for his parents, I’ll always feel that urge, even if I understand that the pressure is all mine. But really, I was just as anxious about Austin getting another opportunity, an even better opportunity to see what I can do. Hoping he’d be witness to just the right question spoken in just the right tone from the warmest-eyed person in the room, and that he’d marvel at how I soar. Watching me really say something, with heart and with knowledge, and all of it coming from a place as deep and profound as song. God laughs. My timing was all wrong and none of the visuals were in the right place and I was nervous. It wasn’t my best. It was bad. But the visitors were great. Granted, they all knew that he was my boyfriend and that they were his parents. I’d told them so. Imploring all these other visitors, after the introduction, “So, you all need to make me look really good, okay? And brilliant. Charming. Adorable, even.” But still. Not just any group of visitors would’ve been so generous.
At the proverbial finish line, holding the door open for everybody on their way out, an old man reached out to shake my hand—and give me a tip. He said, “Here, take this and get your buddy a bagel and some schmear.” My buddy! He might as well have kissed me right on the cheek, I swear. Earlier on in the tour, after I talked about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, this same old man, for all the group to hear, said, “My father—he was there. As a boy. He heard about the fire and went uptown and saw all those bodies. Lying there in the streets. Horrible, horrible.” It’s a story I’ve heard before, of course—you know that. But I promise I listened to him like it was my very first time. If this man’s father was alive in 1911, he’s probably been dead for a long time now. And when would this man have last had the chance to tell a story about him? To a group of perfect strangers? Has he ever had that chance? I’ll take him at his word. Because if he was able to bring back to life the memory of a man, of his father, of this person none of us would otherwise ever know, and if I’m still thinking about him—even now—then God, how couldn’t that be the truth.