This week, journalist, activist and Orlando icon Billy Manes will have been gone five years. And in that ensuing crawl of time, it's become ever more clear that we won't soon see his likes again.
"Can't believe it's only been five years. Seems longer than that. Guess that speaks to the size of the void Billy left," says Orlando Sentinel columnist Scott Maxwell. "I always loved the way Billy lived his life — out loud and without a filter, brakes or apologies."
Which Billy Manes did you know? It's a bit of an Orlando Rorschach test. The committed activist? The incisive, passionate Orlando Weekly political writer? The nightlife chronicler? The loving husband? The mayoral candidate? The pop-music obsessive (shouted out by his beloved Duran Duran after his passing)? The Barnes & Noble superstar bookseller? The Watermark editor-in-chief? The reluctant voice of Orlando's LGBTQ+ community in the aftermath of Pulse massacre? Or was it — if you were lucky enough — some combination thereof?
Billy Manes effortlessly embodied all these multitudes as a very singular whole — and he did it with style, a trademark shock of bleached, spiky hair and vintage finery fitting his angular frame, radiating out in the midst of the crowd. He was every bit as at ease at City Council meetings as he was at Will's Pub and Parliament House, existing in many different worlds. "Billy Manes was an Orlando original," says Mayor Buddy Dyer. And he's spot on.
"Billy's experience taught him that each one of us has a complex and truth-filled story. He believed that story should be listened to and honored. It really did not matter to Billy how your social standing, profession, economics, or even sometimes coherence was supposed to give weight to your opinion or insight," remembers Anthony Mauss, Manes' husband and longtime companion.
"Billy listened and gave credence to everyone; understood their value as people. This trait allowed him to navigate through any situation regardless of formality or chaos with a grace that always captivated and outsized his physical stature."
"Billy was often underestimated by people in positions of authority. Because of his irreverent personality and look, a lot of people dismissed him as a lightweight. Man, they learned the hard way just how wrong they were."
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"He just met people where they were at and recognized that no one was necessarily greater or better than anybody else," agrees Erin Sullivan, Manes' editor, collaborator and confidante at OW. "I think that made it possible for him to not just slip into roles, but to actually be himself and admire people for what they had to bring to the table and what they had to offer. I think people could sense that from him. So he was welcome basically anywhere that he wanted to go."
"One of Billy's strengths was how often he was underestimated by people in positions of authority. Because of his irreverent personality and look, a lot of people in City Hall dismissed him as a political lightweight. Man, they learned the hard way just how wrong they were," recalls local artist and musician Erin Nolan. "Billy knew this and reveled in it. He was the smartest person in the room more often than not and had a deep understanding of the issues. He could hold their feet to the fire in ways they weren't used to. It speaks volumes about Billy's character that so many of these same people wound up embracing him and becoming true friends with him. He taught some real life lessons to those in power."
"He cared so much about this community that he was often invited or recognized as our local celebrity," recalls local activist and organizer Stephanie Porta. "The celebrity status wasn't just because of his writing, either. He was also one of the very few reporters who was always rooting for the underdog. He wasn't just reporting on the underdogs before anyone else was, but he helped them behind the scenes as well. People knew he was fighting for them and they loved him for it."
Billy Manes had already been a glittering superstar before he joined Orlando Weekly as a nightlife columnist, but his early years at OW certainly gave him a new platform and a place to hone his craft. Manes hit the town nightly and then waxed poetic and salacious about what he saw and what he did — and it was glorious.
"There always seemed to be running involved," remembers GatorLand ambassador and longtime co-conspirator Savannah Boan of those days. "We were always running from event to event, promotion to promotion, gala to gala, keeping secrets, yelling gossip, breaking heels and mocking hosts, but Billy was on a mission and I was happy to be John Taylor to his Simon Le Bon. We were 'Girls on Film.'"
After a time, though, he wanted to do more. Manes shifted from his nightlife beat in "B-list" and "Blister" to covering local politics and eventually taking over Orlando Weekly's long-running "Happytown" column. He could even use his lethal command of words and inner sense of dramatic narrative arc in an account of Orlando's weekly City Council meetings, making you snicker while imparting actual knowledge of how the city runs.
"He would say, 'Nobody cares about what's happening there. They don't go to the meetings, they don't pay attention. So my goal is to turn it into a drama or a soap opera, so people cannot stand to miss an episode,'" remembers Sullivan.
"So he would use these phrases like 'clutching pearls' ... I think of Billy every time I hear that phrase, and I probably always will. Because he used it to enlighten all of Orlando into what the culture of our city government at that time was. A bunch of pearl-clutchers who were nervous and afraid and unsure if they could be as progressive as they have turned out to be today."
Manes wrote longform features on the bumpy birth of the Dr. Phillips Center for the Performing Arts, Medicaid expansion in Florida and gay marriage — drawing on his own life experience — that combined his signature verbal flair with exhaustive reporting, embodying the best of what makes alt-weeklies unique in mass media.
"Billy could take some of the most complicated and boring things and write 500 words that not only explained everything perfectly but also made you laugh. I mean, have you ever been to a city council meeting?" says Porta. "You could also hear his voice and his experience and in some ways, the experience of this whole town as he told us about his run-ins with elected officials. Because no one else was really reporting on the day-to-day actions of our politicians nor had any idea how they were as just regular humans. He humanized them but also called them out rightfully and righteously."
"I loved when Billy came out of music-writer retirement to do a cover story on the Kaleigh Baker Band for the Weekly long after he had pivoted to politics," says Nolan. "He did it because he loved the band and the people involved. He couldn't leave it to anyone he viewed as a 'lesser writer.' (And let's face it — Billy viewed everyone as a lesser writer, ha!)"
In 2005, Manes stepped out from behind his typewriter to run for mayor in a special election. It was a move every bit as audacious as Jello Biafra's run for San Francisco mayor in 1979, motivated by a sincere desire to help the city he loved deeply rather than just as a punk prank.
"It was the first time I got to see the real Billy Manes. Not the coke-in-the-Parliament House-bathroom character he played — which was also him — but the brilliant and empathetic and self-effacing and inspiring man I came to know and love dearly," remembers current OW columnist and former staff writer Jeffrey Billman.
"He learned the bureaucratic bullshit no one wants to learn. He studied zoning and land use and code enforcement and property taxes. He sat for an interview with the Orlando Sentinel's editorial board — a bunch of Very Serious Journalists who were ready to sneer at him for mocking their precious exercise," says Billman.
"The city's betters had appointed the temporary mayor, and having our flamboyantly gay, often-drunk-in-public nightlife columnist run for this sham election was our way of saying 'fuck that.' But for four or five weeks or however long it was, he ran like he was running for mayor, like he was going to be mayor. And I swear that by the end of it, I would have voted for him."
As the Sentinel's Maxwell remembers, "I'm quite sure Billy is the only candidate for Orlando mayor who ever wore a black velvet blazer to a debate. Why? Billy said at the time: 'I'm running against the suits. I can't wear one.'"
Though the election was later canceled — don't ask, it's Florida — "Billy Manes for Mayor" bumper stickers are to this very day occasionally seen on the cars of discerning drivers.
Manes left the Weekly in 2015 to take the editor-in-chief role at Watermark. And within months of assuming that role, he very reluctantly assumed another new role as one of the main voices of Orlando's LGBTQ+ community in the wake of the Pulse nightclub shooting. Manes looked and sounded weary but was full of passion and empathy as he spoke about the loss Orlando was reeling from on NPR and cable news.
"I think Billy was always a spokesman for the gay community in Orlando, his efforts following the Pulse tragedy just elevated him into being an even brighter light of hope than before," says Boan. "He absorbed all the pain and transformed it into action. He said all the things we couldn't and ripped down the curtains of tears so that we could see clearer through the sun shining in through the stained-glass windows."
After Pulse, Billy parted ways with Watermark. He and OW editor in chief Jessica Bryce Young were scheming his return to the Weekly in some capacity. "I couldn't believe we might be so lucky as to work together again," says Young. "But he went into the hospital before we had a chance to finalize plans, and he never came out. I'm so very grateful I spoke to him in the days before he stopped being able to talk. His voice still echoes in my head."
Manes passed away in 2017 at the age of 45, and even with an ever-consuming present continually beating us over the head, has left an outsized legacy and a wealth of love to the City Beautiful.
"He wore his heart on his sleeve and would pour it into his writing," says Maxwell. "He was a crusader for the causes he believed in, especially equality and justice. And I think Orlando is a better place because of that."
"We're all better because Billy lived here. We're all better because Billy saw us as the best version of ourselves," concurs Boan. "We're all better because we knew him, we saw him, we had unlimited access to him and his almost every thought. We're all better because he gifted us with himself."
"His legacy is teaching people that their voices matter and that they can use them to make a difference and to get people to listen," reflects Sullivan.
"Billy lived his life out loud and wasn't afraid to share his own life with the public," says Porta. "Whether running for Orlando mayor to point out how absurd the system was, documenting his union with Alan and then Alan's suicide, traveling to Tallahassee to fight for and report on gay marriage, marrying Tony on Valentine's Day with half of Orlando in attendance, or joining a sit-in at Senator Rubio's office and honoring the 49 with action, he wasn't afraid to tell the world who he was, how he felt and that he would absolutely fight for all of us."
"Billy's legacy rests firmly in the individuals that he validated, inspired and loved. Which was every bit as clichéd as all that may sound. Billy reminded people that their stories, their desires, their lives are important in the world," concludes Mauss. "Billy carved out a place of love and possibility in the hearts and minds of all people, from the loftiest leaders to the homeless and forgotten. His legacy is the spirit of Orlando; the idea that because you exist in this world, anything is possible. His commitment to authenticity, transparency and a willingness to listen is a litmus test to all of those who make up and define the 'beautiful' part of what we call the City Beautiful."
