A Day and a Night in West Hollywood

The space we inhabit represents an amalgam of necessity, choice and design. In certain instances, we override that triad and live in a place because it makes us feel safe; we live there to be with our own affinity group. For gay men, West Hollywood has long been a geographic magnet, pulling toward it all of those metal shavings of young men's lives. The question is whether it is a good or a bad thing, to be pulled toward a geographic habitation. Does it help? Does it make one feel...
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The space we inhabit represents an amalgam of necessity, choice and design. In certain instances, we override that triad and live in a place because it makes us feel safe; we live there to be with our own affinity group. For gay men, West Hollywood has long been a geographic magnet, pulling toward it all of those metal shavings of young men's lives. The question is whether it is a good or a bad thing, to be pulled toward a geographic habitation. Does it help? Does it make one feel safer and more complete? It ends up being an existential struggle with identity, as one deciphers whether it's normal to miss the trees of Tennessee or the plains of West Texas. "A Day and a Night in West Hollywood" is a tranche de vie, a slice of life, briefly opening up this Pandora's box. In a day and a night one finds, in the Virginia Woolf sense, that, "Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end."