FLASHBACK: The Muller Cottage (1989 - 1995)

Nostalgia colors my affection for the Muller Cottage.  From the exterior, it didn't look like much but inside, you felt as if time had stopped in the early 60s when George and Isabelle Muller, the original owners, purchased a home construction kit from a catalog.  Very DIY.

I organized it with David & Jeff, no mean feat coming off the complete dissolution of the TV House.  

When they wore matching bathing suits, I knew it must be love.  It was.  They left after a single season to start saving money for a country house where they could grow things. Their corn plantings did not thrive on the Great South Bay.

We had to start our group from scratch, which included advertising in both New York magazine and the Village Voice.  Chris, an attorney who worked for the Department of Justice, answered both ads.  We bonded over Edie and have been talking about books ever since.

Anthony and Gustavo, both fashionistas, added some badly needed Italian and Cuban spice to our Wonder Bread crew.

Their relationship lasted only a little longer than the summer,  but they both took shares the next season anyway, a development that resulted in flung forks one lubricated evening. I lived for Anthony's meals.  He once made gnocchi without consulting a cookbook. I'd never even heard of gnocchi!

Gustavo introduced us to voguing.  Music provided by Malcolm McLaren on the CD player and hundreds of CDs I hauled out every season before the world went digital.

Bill claimed he owned a seat on the New York Stock Exchange.  David didn't care.  He read Bill the riot act when the house bro served sandwiches for dinner one Friday night.  He did have some cool toys though, and he rode them with panache.

Me, not so much.  

I snapped this photo after Chris took his turn.  The wet t-shirt look definitely suited him.

I bought a boogie board.

Ask the poor photographer how long it took me to catch a wave.  My desire for instant gratification also led me to less savory pursuits.

We still had shares available early in the season.  Would you believe I posted this custom-made flier on telephone poles throughout the Pines?  Nobody called.

Independence Day, 1989, sparkled. I have no idea where we got a flag that big.

Smokey loved the upper deck as much as the rest of us.

David always had a batch of vodka stingers waiting for weekend arrivals, a carryover from the TV House.  As soon as he & Jeff bid us adieu, we switched to margaritas (equal parts Minute Maid limeade, triple sec & tequila blended with ice = consistent perfection). The spectacular sunsets immeasurably enhanced any cocktail.

This shot was taken at the end of the first season, just after Labor Day.  We had a pretty high survival rate except for Alan, who joined midseason (wrong house for a guy keen on keeping up appearances!), and David.  I gradually lost touch with Jeff after David died.

But Chris and Anthony are still very much a part of my life. These photos span almost 40 years. Time waits for no one. Anthony hadn't been to the Pines in years when the second one was taken, but neither Chris nor I had missed a season until covid 19, when he was unable to return from Prague.

Of course there's another interpretation of this picture.  To use a bread making analogy, these guys were the starter dough for a conceptualized "house" that has lasted a very long time, longer than many of the participants and their relationships. 

Thom, Gustavo's boss, took a share the second season after guesting the first.  I always gave good guests a hard sell.  Thom never looked back.

Thom recruited Jerry, his closest friend.  They go all the way back to Catholic grammar school in Queens.

Thom worked with Mario, a snooty pattern maker, who joined the house on the hunt for a boyfriend.  Romance bloomed with Anthony's friend Ted, and while the couple rented the master bedroom the following season, they quickly fled the Muller Cottage and bought their own home in more fashionable Bellport.  The move the surprised no one.  After attending a party at Calvin Klein's house with hundreds of other hangers on, Mario bragged that "faces you've never seen before" had been at the exclusive A-list soiree.  

When Thom took over responsibility for the lease toward the end of our tenure in the Muller Cottage, he scraped the bottom of the barrel for new housemates, narrowing his criteria to anyone who could write a check.  Stanley, a garmento, claimed to be dieting and started every day with an enormous smoothie.  That didn't stop him from chowing down on everyone else's meals.

Tim, his roommate, didn't contribute much more although he claimed med to be writing a biography of Sylvester.

Chris, through his DC connections, delivered Brad, a Holly Golightly type, who would be gone by the end of the summer. I'm not proud to admit I was a little annoyed when we scheduled the same vacation week at the house in August, but he proved that joie de vivre can get you through almost anything, even HIV-related blindness.

Through Brad, Chris got to know Jamie.  They stayed in touch after we lost Brad.

AIDS cast such a long shadow in the Pines but the community rose to the moment in style.  We could see the Pink Umbrellas benefit next door from our deck in 1995.  I later discovered that the poster commemorating the DIFFA event, which listed deceased residents, included Paul Wilson, the Irish hunk who introduced David and I to the Pines in 1983.

Keith, a trusts and estates attorney, came aboard via more classified advertising.  He and Chris quickly became besties.  Jerry said Keith gave "ready to wear" a whole new meaning. He literally never removed his Bowdoin sweatshirt, even when he slept.

I knew another Ted from work. He won the contest to design the Pines flag.

We used to run as far as Davis Park on the beach and play kidema.  He belonged to a sister house where Chris knew people, too.

Including Randy, then known as the "Mayor of the Pines," because he gave "good dock" and knew EVERYBODY.  We eventually poached him for our house.  He did more than anyone to fill future vacancies.

A changing cast of boyfriends also helped keep the house full.  Thom and Mark, for example.

And then Thom and Joe who HATED the Pines but who loved Thom enough to allow him to spend all his summers there without him.

John burned like a Roman candle with Anthony but he didn't last much longer.  I will never forget what a homeless man said when I met them outside the Felt Forum for a Cher concert: "He sucks on that cigarette just like a woman!"

Bill introduced us to Ron, who was studying to be a radiologist and thought they were serious boyfriends.  I may have told Ron that Bill cheated on him all the time.

Chris and Paul were together for a couple of years, but Paul, a very sweet nurse, shared with another group in the Pines.

Some couples couldn't weather the Pines.  Rob, a graphic designer at MTV and Ron, an actor, didn't last even a season, much to my chagrin.   Jealousy (and an unforgettable, unprintable remark) sent them back to New Jersey early one July 4th weekend.

Ron, Rob & Harley

But Harley, their adorable dog, was the first of many pooches who satisfied my desire for a canine presence without the 24/7 responsibility of ownership.

Not counting David, there were no boyfriends on my dance card.  Cue "Never Will I Marry," as I often did in those days.

Never, never will I marry

Never, never will I wed

Born to wander solitary

Wide my world, narrow my bed

Never never never will I marry

Born to wander 'til I'm dead

No burden to bear

No conscience, no care

No memories to mourn

No turning, for I was

Born to wander solitary

Wide my world, narrow my bed

Never never never will I marry

Born to wander 'til I'm dead

Let me tell you, I can pull out the stops just like Barbra, while vacuuming!  Would you believe I STILL use these linens?  Summer camp for sexagenarians!

That's not to say, I didn't share my narrow bed on occasion.  

Which explains the presence of Andreas, the lithe man with the blond dreadlocks, on top of the pyramid. Thom, who whipped up themed bathing suits for the Morning Party, called him "Bo."  As in Derek. He definitely hit the day tripper jackpot one August weekend in 1995.

And for once, I got to be in the pictures.  Jerry, Anthony's cousin from Houston, did a superb job art directing the "Vargas Girls Of 613 A Shore"!

Randy wore his orange trunks FOREVER.  Mine remain in the extensive collection of the Jeffrey Hon Clothes Museum.

Through the years, whenever someone has complained to me about the Pines after spending a miserable season or weekend there, I always say "You just weren't in the right house."  Bo found the right house, if only briefly, and he proved my other maxim: "Everyone, even awful people, leaves you with something good if you spend enough time with them."  Thanks to Bo, mint continues to give my fruit salad a little extra kick and texture.

Speaking of girls, my camera also documented the margarita-fueled weekend when several of us daintily dipped our toes into drag for the first time.  Thom brought out several samples from Cachet, where he designed off-the-rack evening wear.  He got only as far as an upper deck crawl in rhumba sleeves.

Anthony barely fit into this dress, which made his tan look even darker.  Brad wore it as well as Twiggy in his final days.

Michael, whose glamorous job at Lancome included hobnobbing with Isabella Rossellini (before he had to let her go!), always knew how to strike a pose.  He never quite gelled with us.

We asked nearly everyone who came to the Muller Cottage for cocktails the same question to break the ice.  "Who was your female role model growing up?"  Meet Doris Day.

Barnet got some mileage out of the rhumba sleeves, too.  Although he couldn't afford a share, I routinely invited him to keep me entertained during my vacation weeks in a TV-free zone.  We even weathered Hurricane Bob together.

We spent a lot of time exploring the Judy Garland Memorial Park, more commonly known as the Meat Rack.  He sat, I stalked.

Barnet, who frequented the Gaiety Male Burlesque Theater in Times Square (immortalized in Madonna's Sex!), was also indirectly responsible for the best entrance we ever made at tea.  Mark, one of the dancers (and supporting player in "Montreal Men," a Kristen Bjorn film) agreed to an overnight visit at the Muller Cottage as long as he could bring his best friend.  No exaggeration, all necks swiveled like Linda Blair's when we arrived with these two in tow.  People who had never said "hello" to us before fell over themselves angling for introductions.

 

There were other guests, too.  Inviting straight friends and colleagues to the Pines reduced the awkwardness of coming out.  Christine stopped by on her way to the 1992 Democratic Convention.  We worked together at the National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence, where she lobbied Congress.

Paula, a former heroin addict who directed NCADD's prevention and education efforts with an iron fist, chilled in our kidney-shaped pool. 

Michael, a handsome Republican, may have been the first straight guy to cross the threshold since Mr. Muller.  He brought his wife Carrie.

I even convened a "real girls" reunion with three of my closest friends from El Paso:  Susan, JoAnn and Pattie weren't surprised at all to discover the Pines was a gay resort.  "We all knew in high school," they admitted. 

Actually, Bo left me with two good things.  This photo is the second.  Where was Instagram when I needed it?