I have come to the realization that having every Friday off is only worth something if I spend every Friday doing something worthwhile.

I start by sleeping in. Then, once I roll out of bed, I decide on a fun little outing for myself, preferably one that won’t cost me anything. In the past this has come in the form of trips to Central Park and The Met.

This week in particular, I decided to check out one of the many Indie bookstores that I’d been dying to try. Named after an enlightenment, intellectual women’s group from 18th century England, Bluestockings Cooperative is New York City’s first, and only, queer, trans, and sex worker-run bookstore. It’s located near the Williamsburg Bridge on the Lower East Side, right beside a gym entitled “Pilates Coven,” which, according to the sign on the door, allows you to do magic and pilates at the same time. You probably can just dabble in the magic, but they seem strict about the pilates, stating that you’re not allowed to show up late. 

Bluestockings Cooperative has an extensive collection of all of the most politically-savvy and topically-relevant works in the world right now. Any and all books on queer theory are at your fingertips. 

The first time I visited, I didn’t purchase a book; I just perused the stacks and enjoyed a London Fog from their cafe. I finished enjoying this London Fog on the Williamsburg Bridge, after I decided to take a nice leisurely stroll across it. I found that once you get high enough on the Williamsburg Bridge, there’s a nice breeze to cool you down, while you watch the ships moving through the harbor.

The view looked nice, the subway looked nice as it went by, the sweaty people biking and running looked nice. Even the graffiti looked nice. I was really selling this girl-in-a-rom-com vibe as I walked across the bridge, drinking my tea, having just gone to a bookstore. 

A few weeks later, I returned to my now beloved Bluestockings Cooperative, which still mandates masks, offers free water to anyone who comes in, and is in the business of enlightening everyone to be more socially-conscious than our politicians.

I witnessed the two workers there treat a homeless man very kindly, giving him an empty store bag when he walked into their store shirtless and asked for one. I met a fellow Raquel, wearing a t-shirt calling for “more trans bodies in art.” Bluestockings Cooperative makes a trip to a bookstore, which is already a fun time, even more of an event. 

This time, I bought Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde and Women, Race & Class by Angela Davis, two books that have been on my TBR for far too long. I took another walk along the Williamsburg Bridge, listening to only the mellowest music, before making my way back home. 

I now have even more books to read as I await my next excuse to spend money at Bluestockings Cooperative.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

“To live is to risk it all. Otherwise, you’re just an inert chunk of randomly assembled molecules drifting wherever the universe blows you.”

–Rick Sanchez, Rick and Morty, S3, Ep. 2 Rickmancing the Stone

I woke up one Saturday and within an hour was already bored. I had no plans for the day, no reason to get out of my pajamas, which used to excite me when I was younger, but was now giving way to feelings of numbness…and grossness as far as my pajamas were concerned. I’d had my breakfast, sipped some tea, and listened to some music, in what has become a very routine routine. 

I decided that I had to get out of the house. The next day I’d be able to read the Sunday New York Times in my pajamas all morning long but as far as Saturday morning was concerned, I decided that I’m not allowed to live in New York City and feel bored. 

So, I had lunch at Le Pain Quotidien at the Central Park Boat Club. One mint lemonade and chicken mozzarella panini later, I was ready to move further into the park and join the swaths of people splayed out on the lawn, reading their books and playing frisbee. It was a brisk 90 degrees outside and I was wearing a chic all-black ensemble that included the knee-high rain boots since the chance of rain was the only part of the forecast that I’d taken to heart. 

En route to the field, I walked past all of the people who were lined up for the Central Park Boat rowing and signing waivers on clipboards. The line would have looked miserable had it not been for the view of boats setting sail as far as the eye could see. It looked enticing, but not like the type of thing they’d let you do without a partner to keep you from capsizing. 

Instead I walked around the reservoir, watching everyone fan themselves with desperation

and listening to a man sing a rendition of a Coldplay song that should have stayed in the shower. You can do all this while watching the people row their boats, like I did while standing at a statue of a woman with her arms delicately outstretched in front of her. 

In a book I had recently read, I learned that most New York City statues (sans the Statue of Liberty) were of the same woman, who was not in fact a woman, but actually a teenage girl, who struggled with what to do with her life after being a muse to so many artists. Now she’s immortalized in bronze all over the city over a century later, appearing in the starring role of innumerable tourists’ selfies. 

It was around this statue that I ran into a woman who asked me about the boating service and I told her where it was. When she asked me if I was interested in doing it, I told her that I doubted I could do it alone, and then she invited me to do it with her and her friends. 

We waited for about an hour, sweating like hookers in mass, but only needing to pay about six dollars each for our $25 per hour boat ride. We hit the water in our four-person boat, making our way across the water. I’d pictured our boat gracefully skimming the water as we passed beneath a bridge, but as it turns out, rowing is much harder than that. 

Most of the other girls did the rowing, until I offered to do it for a second. There was nothing gentle about how I rowed my boat down the stream. I hit two other boats immediately and let someone else row within minutes of my stint as rower. I’m not a great boat rower, but I would be great at bumper cars.

All around us were people nauseatingly in love. A man took a break from rowing his girlfriend across the reservoir so that he could hold hands with her as they drifted past the willow tree, while another man only occasionally took a break from rowing so that he could get as much red lipstick down his face and neck from his girlfriend.

We were told that if it started to rain, we would have to immediately start coming back, since the boats were made of aluminum and we could be struck by lightning. They did not tell us, however, how hard it is to make a hairpin turn in a boat and haul ass back to the harbor. 

We were attempting to make record time on our way back while storm clouds rolled in and the wind started rustling the tops of all of the trees. The clouds looked like we were gearing up for an “Auntie Em let me into the storm cellar” type of storm. I briefly put my mind at ease, reminding myself that I was in rubber boots and that I couldn’t possibly be struck by lightning, until I realized that being in a metal boat in the middle of a body of water might cancel out the power of my shoes. 

Needless to say, we made it out of the boat, unscathed.

I’d gone from waking up to a day full of potential, being dismayed by the lack of things to do, forcing myself out, making new friends, and cheating death, or at least that’s how I see it. I lived so hard that I almost died.

And thank you to Saniya, Kashvi, and Naina for letting me crash your party. 

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

Despite my love for watching stand up comedy on Netflix, I’d never been to a comedy club. About a month ago Valentina and I went to the Broadway Comedy Club to rectify that. I now know what to expect from a comedy club: a two drink minimum and a guy warming up the crowd while we got to work on our two drink minimum.

There were jokes about being too tall, jokes about pedophilia, and jokes about being the least attractive sister. It seemed to fit the bill for amateur, but still funny, stand up comedy. There weren’t always sharp observations being made with Fran Lebowitz-style wit, but there were always a few good laughs.

I got called on by a comedian. That’s what happens when you sit front and center. It all started because he commented that I didn’t shout anything out, but clapped along to something that he said, unusual audience behavior apparently. I was two drinks minimum into the night to not freak out when I was called on in front of everyone. He asked me what sport I played in high school, the topic at hand, and I said that I ran cross country. This led to a joke about whether or not running even counts as a sport.

Watching stand-up has always made me think: I could do that, but why would I want to? I’m sure that I could whip up a few good jokes and anecdotes, being bright and silly, but the act of actually getting up on stage and trying to get a few laughs from strangers seems excruciating, especially for a girl who probably won’t even do karaoke. It isn’t even a case of stage fright. It’s a case of not wanting to learn if you’re funny or insightful or not. Sometimes, it’s better to just be convinced that you are funny in your day-to-day life with your peers than it is to seek out any other validation and know for sure.

I do respect the people who do get up on stage and try to make people laugh. Comedians are our modern-day court jesters, delivering lines about how messed up our world is, thanks to the people who run it, but sugar-coat it so that it’s a nice pill to swallow. They tell the truth, but in a way that’s palatable. 

At least they do if they’re good at it.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

Mikaela and I met up for a night at the theater. She’d gotten me tickets to see Thanksgiving Play by Larissa FastHorse, a show that was so popular, they kept it on Broadway for longer than its original run. Beforehand, we grabbed dinner at Jollibee (I do know how to cook, I swear) and then headed on over to the show at The Golden Theater.

The premise of The Thanksgiving Play goes as follows:

Four white people try to put together a play about thanksgiving and in their efforts to create an inoffensive play, they run the risk of telling a wildly offensive play. It is riotously funny, but still poignant (those are the best kinds), taking aim at the egregiously bad handling of the topic of thanksgiving and Native American history in American classrooms.

I think that this play perfectly captures where we are culturally, dramatizing the discourse and the jargon that we are all now so immune to hearing. So many sharp observations have been made, especially when it comes to the way that well-meaning white liberals can impede legitimate progress through their efforts to diversify. The message comes across that sometimes the best way to be an ally is to just be quiet.

The play is satire and the type of story that I anticipate will be around in the form of local productions across the country for years to come. Mikaela and I had a fantastic time, even though we sat on completely opposite ends of the theater. I am now dying to go back to Jollibee, the Filipino fast food restaurant we had dinner at, when I’m next in Times Square. 

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

“It’s a good thing I was born a girl. Otherwise I’d be a drag queen.”

–Dolly Parton

I have some very expensive habits– I think my record is pretty clear on that. I’m not referring to my love of avocado on my toast or the way that I need to buy a certain amount of beauty products in order to maintain my American Psycho skin routine. I’m referring to the way in which I recently parted with a bunch of my singles at a drag show in a bookstore a few weeks ago. 

It happened after dinner, but before drinks. Here’s what happened:

The Strand was putting on a drag show to celebrate Pride month and Mikaela and I were eager to get up close and personal with some drag queens as they performed for us, especially this past pride month in which drag shows were, and still are, under siege.

Mikaela and I had been hard at work at our respective jobs, so, at the risk of having all work and no play, we decided to go to a drag show at a bookstore, otherwise known as DeSantis’s worst nightmare. 

They were serving free drinks. Naturally, we partook. 

The drag queen that was MC-ing the show, Kendall Knight, did a bang-up job, making it more like a drag show, book shopping, and stand-up all rolled into one. She wanted to know if any of us were from the south, as she explained that we must do “hips and lips,” to stay quiet during the performances and Mikaela and I made it clear that we knew what she was talking about.

The drag queens were: Katie Silvernail, Lana Del Trey, and Bertha Venayshan. I do believe in life after love when a drag queen is singing Cher to me but then again I also do believe in love when Madonna asks me if I do. Both of those songs were played. Then came a drag show classic: Man! I feel like a Woman!, by Shania Twain.

Emboldened by my fruity drinks that may have been some kind of vodka-cran knock-off, I sang and danced along, with Mikaela by my side doing the same.

After a few performances, we started on some trivia. I was devastated when I was not called on to answer the question, “what color is the sweater?” because I knew that the sweater is “not just blue. It’s not turquoise, it’s not lapis. It’s actually cerulean.” I did however get the next answer right when I correctly stated that Britney Spears guest starred in Sabrina the Teenage Witch, followed by a meek “it’s Britney bitch,” under my breath. 

Another trivia question that I knew the answer to but couldn’t answer was “finish this sentence: these gays are trying to (blank) me,” but the girl who did answer it did a spot on impression. 

If you know, then you know.

Despite doubling my raffle tickets, I did not win the raffle prize which ended up being some of The Strand’s pride merch.

Once trivia was out of the way, the drag show started up again.

Bertha Venayshan went on next. She danced to the Pirates of the Caribbean theme song and since I’d rewatched the Pirates of the Caribbean the day before, this performance felt like it was just for me. A drag queen twerking on beat to the Pirates of the Caribbean wasn’t something that I knew I needed to see but I absolutely did.

Kendall Knight’s final performance opened with the audio from a scene from The Eyes of Tammy Faye, in which Tammy Faye herself announces that she didn’t hate homosexuals as a christian, because “God doesn’t make junk.”

Books, free drinks, and drag queens– why would anyone want to ban this?

On a more serious note: I think it is important to frequent our local bookstores in order to support them during this scourge of book bans and to see drag shows whenever we can. In other words, during this time of nonsense, seeing a drag show at an independent bookstore is the right thing to do. It was full of joy, and as all of the drag queens pointed out, it’s all about self-expression. People will always want to shut that down. 

Kendall did make it clear to us that while it doesn’t feel like it, we are winning.

Afterwards, Mikaela and I went down the street to Oscar Wilde, the wild bar that caters to lovers of the works of Oscar Wilde by mostly just serving alcohol. We drank some more, talking to a few Australian men we met, who we could be sure weren’t hitting on us since two of them were married to each other.

We called it a night in the middle of the night and I went to bed thinking about drag queens and Oscar Wilde. It was an amazing way to celebrate the first day of Pride Month. 

And though it is a few months late: happy pride, all year round.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

My brother’s girlfriend– and good personal friend of mine– Mikaela came up to the city for a few weeks. We kicked it off by going to The Strand to watch author Sidney Karger in conversation with his own good personal friend, Anderson Cooper, about his latest novel Best Men, a queer romcom about two men who meet as part of a wedding party. They fall in love, hijinks ensue, and they live happily ever after from what I can tell, in proper romcom fashion. I’ll tell you one thing: Anderson Cooper is much funnier when he’s not reporting the news to me.

Cooper and Karger had a really charming conversation, striking the balance between chatting as friends and discussing his debut novel. There was much talk of Nora Ephron, John Hughes, and other comedy influences, much to my enjoyment. They commented on the ways in which queer literature has come a long way, that there is now romp and enjoyment in queer stories, and that they don’t all end with one of the characters getting AIDs. This novel is an example of that.

Krager was kind enough to answer Mikaela’s brilliant question about the lightning speed with which he churned out this book, having written it within a year.

Cooper commented on how he always believed that writing a book was the greatest thing a person could ever achieve and I realized that he’d articulated what I’d always believed myself. Writing a book *is* one of the greatest things a person can achieve since it is absurdly difficult to do, as I had the misfortune to learn.

Krager is coming out with another romcom novel soon enough, but, in the meantime, we have his novel, Best Men, to enjoy. 

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

Greek choruses, triple threats, renaissance men, and moonchildren.

My friend Alyssa and her boyfriend Charlie were chorus members in an opera that Charlie’s older brother, Christopher, single-handedly wrote and starred in, called Moonchildren. So I popped over to the Quaker church that it was being performed in and took my place in the first pew, claiming the best seat in the house. 

The opera itself dealt with what it means to be a free-spirit and a love of theater and art. I was sold. Charlie and Christopher weren’t the only members of their family in the show, as their sister Sienna also sang and played music. Her character was a drifter who represented the free-spirit side of the debate, urging those around her to live their lives to the fullest.

Before the show started I was asked if I wanted a hat. I sure did. 

I sat in the front row wearing my bowler hat as I waited for the show to begin and suddenly worried, but also hoped, that I might get picked out of the crowd as the wearer of the hat. 

I didn’t get picked out of the crowd, but my friends and the other cast members got up and close and personal as they shuffled around the stage, acting as the Greek chorus in the show.

It was clear that everyone involved in the project was immensely talented. One minute I’m watching a girl, playing the moon, belt it, and then in the next, I’m watching her bust out her cello and play along. When that’s not happening, Christopher is wailing on the piano, playing the music that he composed. 

Christopher, as well as writing it, starring in it, singing, and playing the piano throughout, painted the artwork that made up the set, placing him truly in renaissance man status. 

Between the art, the music, and costumes, the whole show had a frenetic energy to it. It made you leave the opera feeling like you could accomplish any artistic pursuit in the world. We all tossed our hats on stage at the end of the show, a fabulous touch that really sold the point of being wild and free.

Once the show was done, a group of us went to get pierogies at Veselka. Being Polish, I grew up making and eating pierogies with my grandmother, a former Miss Polonia pageant winner. I got an assortment of beef, cheese, and braised pork pierogies and can only recommend that everyone else in the world do the same.

It had been a nice, joyous way to spend the evening. The music was sweet, the talent was real, and the opera made you feel like perhaps you do want to be a hedonistic, free-spirited artist type because it hardly seems like anything else can be more important.

I have always felt like a moonchild in particular, being a cancer, ruled by the moon. I know the feeling. 

A moonchild forever.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel