WAY TO GO OHIO, part 7; or, HASHTAG SIGNAGE, WE TWO RIVER CITY KINGS

i had called the number listed for the charley harper art studio, but the man who answered the phone wasn't at the reynard avenue address in finneytown with which that phone number had been given online. that was mr. harper's stuido, yes, the man said, but people who wanted to visit the studio were now visiting whatever it was that was at 1741 east kemper road, which is where we'd reached the man on the phone. but we could also visit one of the many locations of fabulous frames & art, one of which was definitely closer than kemper road if we were downtown. what was our goal, he asked; and i didn't know, so i had to pass the phone.

it had been raining since just before we'd gotten off the sidewalk on vine and gone into lavomatic, so when we'd left we'd decided to find somewhere else in the neighborhood to sit and wait out the end. so it was that i'd called the man on the phone from a sofa at the coffee emporium on east central parkway, and so it was that we'd had our goals questioned as the rain stopped and we went out to take a look at the rest of over the rhine. there seemed to have been ample monies made available for new business development in the new old neighborhood. but although the bombed out facades of the post-riot dmz still greatly outnumbered the trendy establishments of the revival entrepreneurs, the important question regarding the future of the community seemed to be whether such a small area could sustain so many closely clustered boutiques and stationers. easy come easy go? we said we'd have to think about the dress and left.

the american sign museum is in a new old warehouse adjacent to the neonworks of cincinnati on monmouth avenue east of interstate 75. it's closer to downtown than kemper, so we'd decided to go there before deciding on whether to pursue what we considered to be the most authentic charley harper (informed by the decision of the man on the phone to keep us in the dark). and anyway, the designer felt more his amateur sign historian self that day than he did in line with the professional demands of being an illustrator. that's what i joked, anyway, to the man at the reception desk when he asked how we'd heard about the museum. as for the designer himself, his goals were his own. i was just driving -- and the truth was that i knew the city better by bike.

it was two-thirty, but the man at the reception desk said we had time. tripadvisor had said that the museum closed at three, but that man, he told us we had until four. we could even join the tour being given by the founder, he said. but we had to be out by not too much after four, because that's when people from the wedding were coming to set up. after charging each of us the fifteen dollar entry fee (paid separately), he gave us each a tin, foldover "i <3 about="about" after="after" also="also" and="and" as="as" bad="bad" badge="badge" bathroom="bathroom" center="center" contents="contents" description="description" didn="didn" directions="directions" does="does" for="for" four.="four." gave="gave" giving="giving" he="he" his="his" i="i" inspecting="inspecting" justice="justice" me="me" mine="mine" museum="museum" nearly="nearly" no="no" now="now" of="of" old="old" p="p" pieces="pieces" realize="realize" said="said" scathing="scathing" schmaltzy="schmaltzy" seem="seem" showed="showed" signs="signs" something="something" t="t" the="the" them="them" then="then" to="to" until="until" us="us" wedding="wedding" when="when" which="which">
i started looking around, but i didn't really know what i was looking for. to be sure, the american sign museum wasn't just another haphazardly curated roadside collection of curiosities. way to go, ohio. and the amateur sign historian seemed impressed. "a really nice museum," he says, and that, "the space is perfect." (in one subsection of the warehouse conversion there are windows onto the neonworks.) neon. opal glass. vacuum molds. gold leaf. toolboxes and toolboxes of brushes. smalt. (schmaltz?) and half of it along an old -- half real, half simulated -- main street of painted storefronts and brick wall signs (and that of course filled with old metal and neon monstrosities from hojo and mcdonald's). a big old bear of a big bear sign is on top of the collection of signs still in their crates, which is in the same room as the satellite. and the whole lot documented in photographs and on placards. it's as much a nostalgia museum as anything else, both for designers and the rest of us (what are you now, the building formerly signed in tiki as kona lanes?); and in the last section of it we visit, a history of 3d letters, i sit down and wonder in writing where it is that we look for -- and where it is that we might find -- intrinsic value. why don't i ever let the designer see this notebook (all of it in the gold leaf beverly called "nice on the eyes")?

then we went, but we only got as far as the reception desk. this space, the man told the amateur historian, had just been inaugurated this year. the museum used to be downtown. since 1999? i'd stopped writing. the founder, the former editor of a trade publication for sign makers, had gotten a million dollars to let himself be gently pushed out of the family business. i asked about the electric bill. it must have been why the museum needed to host events. but the incandescent bulbs sucked more than the neon, the man said. huh. and i said that you don't see much outdoor neon in ohio, although it seems to be everywhere in the pacific northwest. then the man complimented vancouver and said that we should check out terry's. we'd passed it that morning on riverside, i said. then he said something or other about the museum's mission to restore (revive or revivify?) the old signage of all of the different neighborhoods of the city. i don't remember exactly. what i do know is that he mentioned northside, which, when we finally left the museum at just about four, is where we went.

it was relatively close. and the thing was, we'd been there the night before looking for food after just arriving in the city. but as the blonde, incredibly handsome faced but wart nosed man coming out of the northside tavern told us, there wasn't any place closer than clifton with anything good to eat at close to ten. now we were back, and the tavern was closed. unfortunately so was the serpent, and the beautifully midwestern line about trouser snakes in its online description had been a big part of our decision to head in that direction. way to go. we might have given it a try the night before when we'd been walking up and down hamilton -- food or no -- but we hadn't seen it. there's hardly any signage.

we had, however, been thinking about that dress, and after a couple of drinks at who cares wherever we wound our way back downtown. she'd said she wanted something sequined for the party. this wasn't exactly that, but we bought the poof sleeved, one shouldered, shimmery gold leopard mini dress anyway. for forty-five dollars, the question of intrinsic value wasn't even raised.

at noon the next day, at breakfast, all signs pointed to a good party. and better, there was enough left over to send us home with some. i accepted. and i loaded it all into the car before we left to reconvene at terry's before the two of us drove back to columbus. terry's turf club, verily the second american sign museum in cincinnati. and i would say that the place could make some serious money selling its impressive collection of old beer neon to new bars in the pacific northwest if it didn't seem to be doing such great business. the bigger signs on the adjacent knoll to the east aren't to miss either, and i took them in as her husband was leading us to his car so that we could take more extra beer from the cooler that he had in the back. (had he been santa clausing the entire afternoon?)

where is it that we look for intrinsic value? i looked up, and what i saw through the fog at the very top edge of the windshield was one of the new signs. but what happens in the parking lot of the tanger outlets stays in the parking lot of the tanger outlets, that is until we got back on the highway and drove away. back. again.

(she'd said she wanted something sequined for the party, 

...CONTINUED

my train was late in arriving at king street station, and i wanted a coffee. i'd been late arriving at union station in portland myself and hadn't had time to get back to courier like i'd planned. the beginnings of a sore throat had helped me excuse sleeping in. because, anyway, i had already repacked. when, however, my train arrived late at king street station, i did want that coffee. the zeitgeist! and a (new?) roaster by that name just down the street. and then didn't force me to wait for a pour over. still, with the train delay and the detour i took to walk my coffee around the vicinity of pioneer square, i didn't board my bus until five. i should have gone directly to the transit mall from the platform, but i made my excuses to myself again and imposed. the good lady was waiting for me across the lake.

it wasn't until almost half past six that i dropped my bag in her hall. i'd imposed again after getting off the bus and asked to be excused to the restroom at the public library near the parking garage. hail mara, ever so full of grace. and after my bag was down she let me take the time to change, too, even though our canceled then remade reservation was for almost just then. but it would have taken even more time to cook. plus, we'd already re-excused ourselves the indulgence of the restaurant in the car, and as soon as she was home she was on the phone getting us back our table. time was short, but we wanted to enjoy each other within the limits of it that we had, so we didn't rush. i hadn't yet seen the house and took another extra moment after changing to take in the living room while she attended some work that had been kept waiting while i'd made her wait. above the birthday couch in the living room there's a photograph of me. i'm kissing her husband.

at dinner, i didn't join her in a prosecco apertif. the beginnings of a sore throat, i told her. but maybe i could get her sick, and then she could keep up with the escape by calling in the next week. and say (she said) that i think i caught something while i was having dinner with the man who wasn't my husband? so when our server came back before serving us our dessert to ask if we were celebrating any special occasion (she'd recognized my date but hadn't been able to locate her customer history), i made sure make my meaning clear in my response: she was married to another man. a smile from the greener grass on the other side of the table. so maybe we could have a candle or something to celebrate her husband. her husband who was doing a stint abroad.

between the prosecco and dessert there was food. i liked it. it was very likely very very good. the gay date in the corner looked to be of the sort that only went to restaurants with food like that. but what i liked better was that it lasted. the courses, which i could still enumerate but will say that i can't, whichever they all were, the fact of the food just helped us take our time, which was short, but which we were able to savor by drawing out dinner. with dessert we had coffee, like we'd used to. but this time we had decaf, because even though time was short we needed some of it to sleep. and at that point i lapsed for a moment and remembered that night at nopa. after dinner i'd had coffee, but he had opted for tea. my sore throat hadn't been beginning yet, so we'd both had a drink. it would have been nicer to have been less distracted over that meal, but i didn't let that thought distract me for long. she wouldn't have minded me sharing my thoughts, but i'd been in the middle of trying to share a different story. it's a good story, but sometimes it's nice not to have to live it alone. so we savored our decaf over some dumb shit that was just our wanting to savor our decaf. maybe we were quiet, but i think that we talked. talked quietly, maybe. (that's some dumb shit.) but we did whatever we did and drew it out until it was time -- not yet out of time -- for her to take me with her home. the night i spent, i'll tell the story, with the most beautiful woman in seattle. and in the morning, i woke up early, packed, picked up, and just missed the bus i should have taken if i wanted to get coffee before getting back to the station.
  

GOLDEN

it was new. just new -- but also old, although not in the sense that anything bore an apparent age relative to the things anywhere else. and the change of scenery hadn't done anything for the pressure in my temples -- although it could have been that the similar climate meant similar airborne allergens. suffice it to say that, thankfully, i didn't feel at the center of anything that morning, the world nor much less. but the walk from williamsburg to downtown brooklyn was pleasant. alone (and, in my solitude, far from the center of the world), i was able to walk my cup from oslo across north portland and not at all regret gambling my hope for a couple more hours of dryness against running the steps at fort greene park. (at the time, i was still hopeful of visiting prospect park and archipelago.) unfortunately, after i'd happily given a cold shoulder to brooklyn heights and turned to walk myself down under the manhattan bridge overpass -- and even after ditching my empty oslo cup and taking the time to put another three dollars toward the progress of my headache -- the melville house bookstore wasn't going to be open until noon. and unfortunately too it wasn't going to take very long to take pictures of the building used for the exterior shots of the humphrey loft. (at the time i was still hopeful that some of the lies of television might still turn out to be true.) it was nice that the powerHouse store wasn't far (and that the man who came down from the offices to find something on the tables was showing so much of his chest -- of his chest hair), but even two times around everything wasn't good for much more than fifteen minutes, and so i ultimately had to give in and let the japanese tour group follow me and my tenugui (my imperturbability, my sweat soaked calm amidst the melee) to brooklyn roasting company for killing the last hour. and there, the faggots sitting like straight people, the alien baby about to make its way out of the middle of my forehead, the faggots talking straight about mitt romney's failure to commit to his heart of hearts and all of the other fucking people we married were, for better or for worse, a fitting prelude to my finding melville house still closed at fifteen past twelve. back in spain maybe, but not here. unacceptable. today, i was the center of the world, and the center was on its way back to manhattan. and it was a shame, because before i left i would have bought that new edition of "jacob's room" from the art of the novella series.

but up onto the manhattan bridge overpass and onto the bridge, which i took slowly because my sweat rag wasn't going to absorb much more, and my slowness gave me more time to contemplate why the cyclists in the bike lane got to be completely shaded and the pedestrians had to take the full force of the sun. we did, however, have the better view of the growing freedom tower and that time to wonder about the post-traumatic stress that would soon enough be recollected at ground zero from the rest of the slowly approaching island. or that's what we should have been contemplating, she told us later when we met at her office. the bridge sent me to chinatown, so of course i looked for vietnamese, and it was just as i was being unable to eat my second sandwich that she sent me the message asking if i had made it to the museum. i hadn't, of course, even made it into the bookstore, and i told her so, so she told me just to find her at work, since i apparently wasn't far. and that's what i did, through what she later told me was the demur of that diffuse but still lingering trauma, to the beautiful office where they stood at their workstations barefooted to end modern slavery and where i waited over coffee and my criticism of monocle next to my purse full of bánh mì. she noted the smell when she tried its weight later, but the shop boys in soho didn't seem to have a problem when asked after where it was from. and what's more, if i hadn't had the leftover sandwich halves on me, i wouldn't have had anything to offer to share with my new boyfriend on the train back under the water. too bad he lived in the east village and got off before i could make my proposition and do it for him. spurr. that was the name of the brand of his jeans, i told her. and she said she was okay with them as long as they weren't from uniqlo or zara, but i was happy for the distraction because i hadn't been as productive as i would have liked. hopefully, whoever found my charged up metrocard had made it to the whitney in my place.

and then there was tim; and it didn't matter about the book store or the museum or the metrocard (or the new one that i would lose later that i made after the shower so that i could make another meeting in manhattan). let's call him tim, anyway, the man of the night and of that one hour in the lobby of the ace hotel. portland was burning, and everyone had gathered to toast having escaped the flames. except for tim, who went to boarding school in massachusetts with a girl from beaverton and who had taken his new book on oregon wine country to his analyst that afternoon. tim was headed west. and on his way from his analyst to his mom's place on 76th and 5th he had stopped at the ace to pick up the torch we were passing. the other celebrants could have done without (although this wasn't obvious to tim), and he probably should have offered to pay for all of our eight dollar cans of beer, but i was won over by his infuriatingly brazen naivety. an arts district, tim, just means that gay people used to live there, i told him, and he took it in stride -- or in ignorance -- and asked me, then so how was gresham? it's true that dj huggy nonsense was doing his best to make sure that no one could hear, but i'm sure that tim said gresham, and i was all the more ingratiated by his persistence through the noise. it could only have been better had it been lady dottie. better for me. it was bad, apparently, for the others, who told me that the musk of the midwest had been wafting even stronger over the hotel lobby than it had been from the sandwich purse. but then the party stopped for the full moon, which was rising over what looked to be a corner of madrid somewhere on broadway. and the center shifted. but it was still me. and since tim took the torch without paying for drinks, someone was going to be responsible for buying me all the birthday rum in the world at the venezuelan place back in brooklyn.
 

COFFEE TALK, YOU'RE SUCH A FAG (WARS)

it's in. "flag wars" is an eighty-six minute lesson in the contradictions of columbus, ohio. the 2003 documentary on the gentrification of olde towne east won a peabody award -- as well as the esteem of all of the queers who rented at video verite on mississippi avenue in portland after the surrounding neighborhood had been gentrified -- but nearly a decade later it doesn't even seem to have made it onto the radar map of the city where it was shot. it is -- and anywhere -- as the (increasingly drunker) real estate agent who is depicted as the flag bearer of the charge to move the homos into the neighborhood says: it's about money. and the african american homeowners who were left in the neighborhood after the white flight of the mid-twentieth century don't have it. in other words, they do own their big, old houses, but they can't pay to fix them up and make the neighborhood expensive again like the homos.

[a pause to appreciate the ironic timeliness of the release of "premium rush" as the trailer speeds past the cops on tv.]

a longer pause. because i'm thinking again about having heard that the drag shows at the gay bar on parsons (the one that was featured in "flag wars") are getting more and more popular with the fixed gear kids that hang out around impero and one line. columbus is progressive, they say, and i think that i probably would have agreed until a year ago. the capital is definitely the most progressive city in the state. but the city that once joined new york and san francisco in protest of the police invasion of the stonewall inn in 1969 appears still to be only the follower, but now not even occasionally in line with any radical minority. columbus, says a recent gay transplant from raleigh, is remarkably segregated. and of course it's no longer a question of gay. or, rather, it's the gays that have been the first wave anywhere (and the richer the better). and as "flag wars" does well to point out, it isn't as if neighborly concord is furthered by the anti-gay religious values often shared among the "indigenous" population of olde towne east. but maybe it's all been moot since "flag wars" got popular out of town(e)...and maybe it's just a matter of time (and gentrification) until the movie gets in with the cool crowd in its hometown. then again, for a city that is home to one of the top interdisciplinary art centers in the world, there persists a resistance to art at the fringe (and all that leaves is a bunch of mediocre middle west stuff).

but then there's also that one line i overhear at one line (and i'll admit that i would probably be at the new bakery on oak in olde towne east if they had decaf). yoga pants and louis vuitton asks the urban outfitted barista (complete with republic bicycle locked outside) which coffee bar in new york this reminds her of. "you know, that one in new york," she says before she wanders to the back of the place to wonder what the roaster is for. "i couldn't say," comes the response. "there are, like, hundreds of coffee bars in new york. it's a really progressive city." so excuse me. because apparently i'd confused my terms. good thing i'll have a chance coming up to visit and get back behind the curve. start spreading the news. it's in. that's why progress invented 4g. just don't ask who lived here before that.

it's time for a new cool, faggots. but it absolutely won't help if we tell each other where to look.