I'm An Old Cowhand...

I should write about my posse. It’s not my posse really, it’s just a group of guys I call my posse (the name has caught on) because we occasionally have brunch at a restaurant in the West Village called Cowgirl Hall of Fame. This started about five years ago and posse members ebb and flow as lives and circumstance change with relocations, new liaisons and employment interference. We are a very loose group of about 15 or 16 men, some partnered, some looking to be partnered, some on the verge of becoming partnered (or unpartnered) and some, well, snug in their singleness. Our brunches started to segue into a day at the beach here, a potluck dinner there and, in various formations, sometimes companionable theater and movie attendance. Some of them don’t do theater (can you imagine?) and some don’t read books or garden or bowl or hit the bars. Some are so career-whipped that the brunches are the highlight of their social life. We all have two things in common. Gender preference and political beliefs, one obviously informing the other.

A more motley crew you cannot imagine, being a huge range of ages and physical attributes and tastes. And, of course, we all have our individual prejudices and cynicisms, with different levels of seriousness and senses of humor. Actually the sense of humor is a prerequisite for being in the posse. Otherwise you might as well hand in your resignation early because your ass will be heaped with ridicule, sometimes not all that clever. But to guffaw at you is to love you. Some pretension is okay but only to a small degree. We might give a newbie a break but not for very long. We are, however, basically a loving and supportive group (honest!) but, as I said, we always carry a grain of salt and fools are not suffered gladly. Well, some are if they are exceptionally attractive but, as I said, not for long.

We don’t travel together or date each other and we all have a circle of friends outside the posse but, still, it has become important to us; or to me at least. The one time we tried to do something major as a group was an enthusiastic convergence for a long weekend in New Orleans. What happened? You guessed it; hurricane Katrina’s blow to the solar plexus of that city coincided with our planned week of debauchery. Obviously some higher being decided we should stick to brunches.

I love my posse. It’s a good thing. Like comfortable old shoes.