The closest I’ve ever come to Beekman Place was a Sutton Place sex party I went to many years ago; I’ll save myself the indignity of glamorizing drug-fueled homosexual promiscuity in case there’s an impressionable young reader who thinks that’s just part of the queer experience. 😉😉😉😉😉😉😉😉. As a Gold Star Gay I’ve seen Auntie Mame with Rosalind Russell a few times. Enough as to recite entire passages of dialogue. “Stinko, blotto, free love, bathtub gin…” You get me. Yet I’ve never actually gone to see if Mame’s apartment at 3 Beekman Place actually exists until today. I found #1 and # 5 but alas no #3. Perhaps it’s an urban myth or something. In any case at least I can say I investigated. Beekman Place, while quaint and rather prim in its bourgeois turn-of-the-century architecture, is a bit… how do I put this? Shady Pines-ey. I could smell the mothballs and medication. Even the chauffeured cars waiting on the sidewalk were old Lincolns and not the new Escalades that litter the UES. I snapped a few photos for prosperity and headed over to 3rd Avenue to find the Countess de Gooch. Any self-respecting queer better not ask who she is. Even you little Millennial fucktards. BONE up on some faggy history why don’t you. I’ll cry a river over Patsy and Edina later, I’m too broken up right now to think with an unblemished POV. I’ll pop off with an anthem-worthy gem from Mame herself, the mantra for a queer existence: “Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!” Yeah, you betta werk.