Sacred? Nah, Profane

Last night, for the fourth week in a row, I planned to go to Friday night Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Simchat Torah, a gay and lesbian synagogue in Manhattan. And for the fourth week in a row, I was too tired and lazy to drag myself there. I first went there about a month ago, and it was an amazing feeling to walk in and see these three flags attached to flagpoles on either side of the bimah (the podium):

When I saw these flags, I felt like all aspects of my identity had come together. The American flag represented my nationality, the nation I was born into; the Israeli flag represented my religion, my upbringing, my heritage, my parents; and the rainbow flag represented my eventual decision to choose my own way — to be true to myself, even if that truth was in conflict with my parents and their hopes and dreams.

But I didn’t go tonight.

Instead, I took a nap in the evening, and when I was well rested I got up and got dressed and went to a bar called the Boiler Room in the East Village. I went by myself, open to whatever might happen; I wound up running into three guys from 20something. Two of them were on a date, so the third one and I talked for a while. The two who were on a date were sitting on a couch, if sitting is defined as one guy on the other’s lap and facing him while they dry hump and suck each other’s faces. They were really getting raunchy and several people were staring at them, including me and the other guy. It was really crossing the line into behavior that requires a private room.

Other than that, nothing too exciting happened at the bar.

Tonight I’m going to see “Traffic” with CanadaGirl, and then we might go to Wonderbar, also in the East Village. Maybe I’ll have something more exciting to report tomorrow.