A FLATTERING DEMOGRAPHIC

For the first time, I took the C train to 125th Street and transferred to the M60, the bus to LaGuardia. Even at 6 a.m. on a Sunday, the trip took less than an hour, saving me at least $25 and giving me plenty of time at the Spirit Airlines terminal to observe the crowds, most of whom appeared to be Hassidim or families with lots of children en route to Ft. Lauderdale. I felt like a foreigner.

The Blue Light Special, who had flown down from Chicago earlier in the week, and I had arranged to meet at the Alamo car rental agency.

Over here he shouted from the head of the line, slightly tanned and eager to begin his all-expenses-paid trip. He wore his trademark red sunglasses and a new pair of Quiksilver camouflage shorts, purchased on sale in South Beach. It cost me an extra $100 to add him as a driver, but my first case of sticker shock faded when the agent offered us a VW Beetle convertible.

Shall we take the yellow or the silver one? I asked before overruling him and choosing the silver one on the grounds that it would be easier to find in a parking lot.

But the silver one looks more sophisticated he said.

Paying the tab has its privileges, I thought, ignoring his plea.

That’s German engineering he said proudly after showing me how to move the seat forward and open the trunk.

The Blue Light Special’s luggage wouldn’t fit in the trunk through no fault of the engineers in his homeland. Once everything was loaded, we barely had enough room for a 12 pack of diet Dr. Pepper and a box of Snyders pretzels, let alone a smokin' white trash hitchhiker. After inserting Madonna's Immaculate Collection into the CD changer, I took the wheel with the Blue Light Special telling me how to operate the vehicle, directing me to Wilton Manors and searching for Spanish music on the radio.

We stopped at a Dunkin' Donuts on the Federal Highway for coffee and a muffin. The Blue Light Special excitedly told me about his Saturday night out at Twist. Apparently, the fleet was in. Gay cruise ships, that is. He exchanged e-mail addresses with somebody. Maybe the bison farmer, the only detail of his TBM (trip before me) that stuck.

With at least an hour to kill before check-in, he insisted on showing me the Pelican Grand Resort where, upon arrival Thursday in Florida, he had stayed in a $1200 suite with Thug Lover, his roommate, who was in Ft. Lauderdale on business. He took me to the roof where we could look down at the meandering waterway near the large swimming pool, where he had floated away a cloudy afternoon and chatted up the lifeguard about his own experience making Lake Michigan a safe place for swimmers last summer. Then we had to drive by the Blue Dolphin, a gay guesthouse near the beach where he and his roommate had stayed on an earlier trip. It looked like a dump.

Let's pop the top I suggested, beginning to sweat a little in my jeans and long-sleeved shirt.

German engineering proved to be a little less intuitive here; it took both of us to figure out how. Then we headed to a mini-mall in Wilton Manors where the density of rainbow flags reminded me of 8th Avenue in Chelsea. Except that men of a certain age and vintage automobiles filled the parking lot. We had stumbled upon a meeting of the local car club.



A lime green '57 Thunderbird convertible brought back memories of an aunt and uncle picking me and my mother up at Idlewild Airport when we were returning from Munich after my father's first peacetime tour of duty in Germany. Somehow, the four of us AND our luggage managed to fit in the two-seater for the ride back to White Plains. I guess Mom must have traveled a lot lighter than the Blue Light Special or the drag queen who proudly displayed a red stiletto heel in the rear window of a Caddy with fins the size of swordfish.



The Blue Light Special obligingly posed for a photo beneath the Humpy Pizza sign to document our arrival in a much warmer gay ghetto than we were accustomed to at this time of year. I think I read somewhere that the gay male population is denser in Wilton Manors than anywhere else in the country. Even more comforting, the retiree demographics in the parking lot almost made me feel like chicken.

Our guesthouse, the Cabanas was minutes away, separated from a heavily trafficked street by a wooden gate that made "clothing optional" everywhere except the area facing the canal. Two guys were sunning themselves nude outside the jaccuzi, just a few steps from our nicely appointed room. Had they been as young and semi-attractive as Barely Sober, the tipsy manager, we might have lingered after he gave us the tour. Instead, we wasted no time in requesting use of the amenity that had appealed to us a lot more than the thread count of the sheets: kayaks to tour the waterway that surrounds Wilton Manors.

The Blue Light Special delayed our actual departure by borrowing some DVDs that were separated into porn and general interest categories, with the latter having far fewer selections. Ever the porniseur, he carefully examined the packaging of each before selecting three, the maximum number allowed, while I whined that we didn't have much time before the sun set. After the amused Barely Sober made me sign for the DVDs, he helped us launch two kayaks chained to the dock and suggested that we go against the wind to make it easier on our way back.



Most of the houses had been lovingly restored and beautifully landscaped with bermuda grass, colorful flowers and palm trees. We didn't see many people but more than a few crested lizards the size of small dogs lazily sunned themselves on the concrete bulkheads and in the mangroves that lined the canals. Signs posted on the occasional highway overpasses warned motorboat operators to watch out for manatees, a species new to the Blue Light Special. Only the cries of a couple of black kids when we pulled up one of their crab pot lines to investigate and our occasional comments broke the late afternoon stillness.



With only the sun as our guide, we eventually made the mistake of asking a woman who obviously had consumed too many cocktails where, exactly, we were. She gave us directions that might have sent us to the Everglades if not for a family in a small outboard whose father gruffly informed us that we were only at the half point in our tour and steered us straight.

By this time, the sun had begun its rapid descent in the cloudless sky. We both were a little chilled and exhausted. Sightseeing gave way to finding our way back before dark which we did, barely, with some help from an attractive kayaker who smiled when he overheard our bickering about which fork in the canal to take. He seemed impressed by how far we had come already. Fortunately, our back pain disappeared as soon as we stood up straight for the first time in three hours.

I'll bet not many of the guests at the Cabanas do what we just did I observed, stretching gratefully.

The Blue Light Special decided to take advantage of the amenities offered by every guesthouse we had seen in listed in the Spartacus guide that we had consulted.

First the steam room to get nice and warm, then we'll jump in the heated pool and finish our wine in the hot tub he commanded.

I think both of us hoped the presence of a hot guy might add some excitement to our first night at the Cabanas but no other guests were present for the happy hour that had been extended slightly until our return by Barely Sober.

We dined outside at Rosie's where the Blue Light Special already had eaten and fallen in love with the quesadillas. We shared a plate of these along with a Cobb salad, gossiping about who might be HIV positive or using steroids among the other patrons, a frequent topic between us. When the wind shifted, the waiters lowered the plastic curtains that protect the patrons from the semi-tropical weather. It was time to move on to Georgie's Alibi, your standard gay video bar with a Sunday evening crowd that was drinking beer for a buck.

This crowd doesn't look anything like the one you see at tea I observed. The guys aren't as attractive and seem a lot friendlier.

The Blue Light Special agreed, possibly for the first and only time of the trip.

We stayed less than hour. After a stop for ice cream at Maggie Moo's that cost five times as much as the two beers we had drunk, we sank into bed at the Cabanas where I fell asleep even before the Blue Light Special loaded the porn.