1/4 mark
When I think about my understanding of what it meant to be gay when I was 16, a handful of images come to mind. Walking down Stockton Avenue and trying to sneak a quick look into the old Renegades Bar when the door would swing open. I could never really see in, but stories unfolded in my head around the mystery of that worn-down pub with painted over windows and rough-edged leather bears occasionally outside inhaling a smoke. Quirky wall