I’m Breaking up with My Queer Punk House
Saying goodbye to your queer house is harder than you would expect.
I believe the Craigslist ad said something like, “Be careful, if you feed us after midnight we might turn gremlin!” It had all the ingredients that any poor queer, confused about their gender, moving to New York from Florida on a whim would be looking for. Things like “glitter punks,” “freebox,” and “haunted cat.” My friend Loren and I jumped on it, responded to the ad with something stupid that our naïve Floridian minds probably thought was clever, and more or less stopped looking for other places. Our only other option for housing at the time was with a few acquaintance-friends from college. When they eventually told us that they thought we were too unstable to live with, or that they didn’t think we’d be able to pay our rent on time, all our eggs were left in the Hoegarden basket.
The Hoegarden was in Bushwick and turned out to be cleaner than I expected. It was also kind of the best place ever. It was a revolving door of punks, tranimals, trinas, witches, and general queerdos. We were all manic, or anxious, or depressed, or drunk, or chain smoking, or hungover, or sleeping. We ate mushrooms and watched the country music awards, shared clothes and makeup, stayed up all night processing and reprocessing and drinking crazy stallions. It immediately felt like home and not only because the people ruled. There was an eccentricity to the space, it was saturated with a queer apostasy of the straight world.