Citizen clothing

A million years ago, when I lived in San Francisco, I was walking down Castro Street and passed Citizen Clothing. A young salesman inside gave me "the eye" as I walked past, so, as anyone would do, I walked inside and applied for a job. Surprisingly, given my dearth of retail experience, I was hired. I had to lie on my resume, of course, and even had my best friend pretend to be a former boss when they called for a reference. And I stole, stole, stole at that job. I stole all my Christmas presents that year, and I stole a watch and many other items, none of which I still have (except for a white belt that makes me look like a trifling man).

During my recent trip to SF, I walked into Citizen and purchased this greenish shirt, without even trying it on. That's my penance for my months of theft at Citizen Clothing - now, whenever I go to SF, I will buy some ugly item without even trying it on. Just to give them some support.

That young salesman became my second boyfriend, Josh. To this day, Josh is the only guy I've ever had a sexual relationship with where I didn't have sex with him the first time we met. I remember once, after sex, I looked him in the eye and said, "I know that was good for you, Josh, but was it good for the Jews?" (He is Jewish). He didn't say anything in reply, but now he and his current boyfriend go to synagogue together, and have been together for years and years. I'll probably throw this shirt out by next summer.

Mary Jo

Ran into my neighbor Mary Jo. She wanted me to blog about her outfit, so here I am doing so. I like what she has on, especially the skirt, which is something I would wear, if I wore skirts. Mary Jo told me about her ants, which didn't sound so bad to me, and she showed me her diary, which has pages and pages of writing per day. I told her she was crazy for writing in such detail about her days, which she didn't deny. I was just jealous, though. I'm surprisingly reticent both in my own diary and on my blog. As for the ants, the prayer I said for her that day seems to have worked, as she now just has a roach. The Lord, much like skirts, works in mysterious ways.

Me and Chad kissin'

Me and Chad were kissin' on the street. Well, not really, but you know ... I was wearing my spiffy new blue pegged Hickey pants, and a yellow tee-shirt with a bluebird on it, bought at Camouflage from the irrepressible Tony. The pants were not just pegged, they were ankle-busting ... I had to remove the drawstring, even. The lengths to which I'll go to look good. : )

Weirdly zippered shirt

Wore my inexplicably zipped Helmut Lang shirt. Asked my most recent, but over, crush to take this photo, and he did. My crushes don't last as long as they used to these days. These days, if I like someone, I get their number and wait 5 days, then leave them a voicemail. But then nothing happens. It took a long time for me to learn that you're supposed to wait 5 days before calling someone if you like them. Maybe while I was learning to play that game, everyone moved on to a new game?

Ran into Menalik, too, on the day I wore this shirt. Earlier in the year, he told me he liked my jacket, and I was so happy - I felt as if he was accepting me on behalf of the younger, effortlessly fashionable, generation. The kids have finally tuned in to my look. In much the same way, during our last lunch, when movie star-handsome Matt from Out magazine gave me a hug, I felt as if the gays had finally accepted me as one of their own.  

Yankees game in a Mets hat

Peppar and her husband and son were in town. Went with them to see the Yankees. Lest anyone be confused about my baseball loyalties, I wore my Mets hat. I wanted to see if anyone would start a fight with me because of my choice of hats, but other than a few comments, things 
went smoothly. A-Rod hit a homer when it was completely unnecessary - the team already had a big lead. I could totally relate, though. In my life, the only times I'm able to hit it out of the park are the times when things are already okay. In a clutch, though, I choke.  I noted with interest that the Yankees still do the old ballpark tradition of announcing on the Jumbotron the birthdays of fans in attendance.  I thought that it might be funny for A-Rod if, just for fun, on August 15th, the Jumbotron wished Madonna a happy 50th.  

Sunday in NYC

I switched nights with my sister, so I ended up at home for a full Sunday, which doesn't usually happen.  I decided to go to Chelsea to see if my powers have completely faded away with age.  I put together a casual-looking outfit with considerable effort (I have a habit of dressing too theatrically on the weekends, and I was trying to look a little butch today) - I put on a pair of khaki shorts, a white t-shirt, striped socks, and a smart blue hat.  I went through a period where I wore a lot of hats in the summer, like Eleanor Roosevelt, but lately I had been hatless.  So, I left my apartment feeling like I had put a little of my old hat magic back to use for a little of an old pastime - cruising in Chelsea.  

Right away, I ran into my super, Jose, who looked and me, chuckled, and said, "nice hat."  I was aghast.  "What - does it make me look retarded?"  He paused for a second, then replied, "No, you look like you're chillin'."  I found that I could live with that, so I got in a cab.

I ran into that cute kid Ryan, who was hanging out with Doug, luscious as ever, and a friend of theirs.  Ryan reminded me that the Breeders were playing McCarren Pool later that day, and I debated going.  They marched off to a brunch to which I was clearly not invited, and I went to Camouflage to say hello to Tony.  There was nothing there that I loved, but I did find a nice pair of shorts in the Middle Eastern store across the street.  I pranced home.  Eventually, I decided not to go to McCarren Pool, because, after all, people who live in Manhattan shouldn't have to go to Brooklyn.  Plus, I saw the Breeders last month at Webster Hall.

With my hat on, I look a lot like my late brother Michael.  Oh, well.  Death will come soon for me, too, soon enough - but hopefully not today.  

Kirstie Alley

Today, Van and I saw truly one of America's biggest stars - Kirstie Alley - on 17th and Park Avenue South. She was dressed in a shapeless frock, and had oily hair, but really, she didn't look all that bad. She was buying counterfeit purses from an African on the street. She haggled with him for a looooong time, and I became uncomfortable for her. I was hoping she would walk past me after she had selected a purse and made her purchase, so that I could ask her if things really had come to this? But she didn't - she made straight for her red SUV with Virginia plates, probably off to some Scientology Center for, presumably, a coffee enema.

Since my last post, I've heard from two of the four guys to whom I gave my number. I don't know if I'll ever see them, though. The ball, as it were, is in their court. I wonder what Kirstie Alley would do with these men who find it hard to commit? Probably eat them, I don't know. Still, her career path gives me some hope - thanks to Kirstie Alley, I know that there is so much further to sink. And yet I still love her! I really do.

In other news, my new "Band of Outsiders" coral button-up shirt from Barneys.com arrived via UPS today, which means I can't buy any new clothes this weekend. : (

Happy pride

I can't believe I got sick on Pride day.  Woke up coughing this morning, bleah.  Aren't my powers supposed to be stronger on this my people's special day?  Oh, well.  I probably wouldn't have done the parade anyway.  I was in Queens feeling miserable.  I wonder if it had to do with making out with Ben yesterday?  He was so adorable!   

I gave three four guys my phone number in the past two weeks.  Two of them I know somewhat, one I was cruising in Club Monaco, and one is a singer whose interviews always crack me up.  None of them called me.  When things like that happen, it makes me remember why I used to drink.  Luckily, I'm jaded by now, and pretty satisfied with being alone.  Still, yesterday I went over my clothing allowance by two t-shirts, so I can't have been feeling very emotionally stable.   

I have been a terrible blogger of late, and I have been an even worse creative writer.  I will post more soon, I swear.  : ) 

Philadelphia fun

I rented a car in Philadelphia, and decided to drive to the Philadelphia Outlet Malls, 35 miles outside of the “city.” It took two hours – crazy traffic. Where, I wondered, where all of these drivers trying to get to? King of Prussia? Ho-ho-kus? By the time I got to the outlet malls, I was crazy late, so I dashed into a Banana Republic and bought a dress shirt and a more casual shirt, and I dashed into a Puma store for some underwear. At the Puma store, the high school girl at the register showed me which underwear was men’s (they were all on the same rack) but whenever I saw a pair I liked, I looked at the tag and there was a woman on it. I didn’t want to inadvertently buy women’s underwear, though it wouldn’t be the first time that my tastes in clothing have led me to the women’s section by accident. So I bought a boring 3-pack of boxer briefs. Amazingly, I stayed under budget, for once. I then got back in the car and drove back to my hotel, then tried to drive to the dance performance at Temple University. The traffic was insane again, and I didn’t even get there in time. Jeremy was texting me, and eventually I gave up trying to reach Temple, and drove back to the hotel again, where Jeremy met me. One of the many things I learned that night was that Jeremy is a Republican. A gay Republican! I can hardly believe it. Of course, that made me want him more. Since part of romance is violence, I love being romantic with people whose views I don’t share, or who are distant, etc., so that I can get out my anger and frustrations on these stand-ins for whole groups of people, whole ways of life. We spoke a bit about economic theory, but neither of us was budging from our points of view. I did explain, though, that I’m a Democrat in name only – really, I’m a libertarian-slash-socialist, though that may seem like an oxymoron. I guess I want all individuals to be free to be like everyone else, though that doesn’t sound right. If I really wanted that, wouldn’t I shop at the Gap more? Anyway, the next day, I was caught in more traffic (and street closings) on my way to the Philadelphia Museum of Art to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit. I gave up again and drove to the train station. How ironic that I thought I would be able to symbolically snub Mrs. Clinton and Obama on this trip, when in reality, they hampered my ability to get around with their Secret Service-mandated street closings and such!!! A week later I tried on the casual shirt from Banana Republic, and I looked hideous in it. Ugh, it was so shiny and blue. But Jeremy contacted me that day and told me again how much fun he’d had, and I fell in love with Philadelphia and all its contents again. I’ll be there again on June 2nd, for Paul Taylor Dance (for reals this time, yo!) on Jeremy’s birthday weekend. I’m going to give him an unbelievably big present.

Ghost of Chelsea

Went with Van to meet MB at Cafeteria, and afterwards we walked back to work. We were passing all these guys I knew, and Van and MB of course assumed I'd slept with them all. I'm proud to say I haven't slept with those particular guys, but imagine the odds of that? We passed some queen with tighter pants than I'll ever squeeze into, and I wanted to say acidly to him, "Oh, honey - I understand," but I inhaled my bile, instead of uttering it, which is still novel enough to give me a secret thrill whenever it happens. As I was thinking that thought, I noticed that the woman in front of me was wheeling herself in a wheelchair while wearing a fur coat. Fabulous! I had to stifle a guffaw - that is so me-two-months-from-now! Of course if I was in a wheelchair, I would have to offset that fact with fur. I had to snap her picture, and I pray that she doesn't find this blog post (again, imagine the odds). I immediately knew I would blog about her, and that doing so would expand the worldview of this blog tremendously - instead of just blogging about my outfits, now I can say that I also blog about other people's outfits. As we passed that poor wheelchair-woman, Van noticed that she had a leopard-print kerchief wrapped around her face, and underneath that was a surgical mask. Buzzkill! Now I can't fool myself into thinking that was fabulous - she actually probably has serious medical issues. People always ruin the fun of me mocking them. : ( Anyway, we looked back after a couple of seconds, to get another look at the poor soul, but she had vanished, which gave me a good title for this post, at least.

Panda happiness

I went to see Della Dare at a burlesque showcase at the Bowery Poetry Club. She was beautiful, as usual. : ) The World Famous *BOB* was emceeing, and she said something that got to me - she doesn't want to live in a world where she can't shave her eyebrows and wear glitter! Or something like that. It made me think about how boring I have become these days, with my ties and such, walking three blocks to work in an office. What a rebel I am - unbuttoning the top button of my button-up shirt! The next day, I dug out the kids' panda hat I bought years ago at Space Kiddets, and that I've been too self-conscious to wear more than once or twice (and usually only when I was blotto). I wore it to work. A woman I passed on the way laughed her head off! But she wasn't laughing at me, I felt - believe it or not. I think she was laughing because my hat made her happy. It made me happy, too, and I wore it all day. But then I ran into Martin at around 6 p.m. and he looked at me in a way that made me feel crazy, and I took it off. Imagine - Martin made me feel ashamed of my hat! He of the medallions and low-cut blouses. Still, I feel like the hat served its purpose that day. And Martin should have seen me back in the day - I wore panda hats, rode on hobby horses, and had 911 on speed-dial. When I think about the latter, I feel like the true rebellion for me is still being alive.

Armani jeans

I asked Chris what kind of jeans he was wearing, and he replied, almost ashamed, that they were Armani Jeans. They were amazing, very snug, and of course, Chris has a perfect ass, and they wouldn’t look that good on me, with my nonexistent ass. But I immediately wanted to run to the Armani store and buy a pair. Sadly, I had already bought my one article of clothing for the week (a pair of Cole Haan shoes, online from Bluefly). Still, though, Chris’ jeans took me back to a simpler time, when I used to hang out with that crowd just because a couple of them had wonderful asses.

I went out to brunch with George, Chris, Major, Al, and some new guy, and told them about how last week, I was wearing my own pair of Armani jeans (again, I had asked some guy with an amazing ass where he'd gotten his jeans, and hadn’t been able to stop myself that time, when he’d replied, ‘Armani,’ from running to the Armani store to buy a pair. But that was, like, seven years ago). I’d had brunch last week, too, in my fancy jeans, and then pranced about town, tending to my errands, and then arrived home and realized that there was an enormous tear on the backseat of the jeans, and my underwear and awful ass had probably been hanging out the whole day. I almost cried as I threw those jeans away, they were so evocative of my earlier, carefree NYC days. If I was handier, I would save fabric from all those disintegrating, formerly glorious outfits, and make them into a horrible quilt – a quilt which certainly wouldn’t keep me warm, but which would look good.

Speaking of earlier days, I am finally going to visit Philadelphia next week, to see Robert Taylor dance and some gauche regional Philadelphia dance, as well. It will be during the Pennsylvania primary, but don’t expect me to have any useful thoughts about politics. My political imagination can’t be adequately engaged by the American process – there is no viable Communist candidate, for instance. Still, if Hilary wins, I will feel that secret, giddy thrill I always do when idealists are disappointed. I am always disappointed – why shouldn’t everyone be?

I am only going to Philadelphia because ten years ago, some queen smiled at me there in a nightclub, and it sent me into that mindspace of, “See? The gays are friendlier in dumb little towns.” But they won’t be friendly on this trip, because I will arrive in my current, bitter glory, and they will see me coming from a mile away. I asked my online pal if he wanted to see Robert Taylor dance with me, but he hedged – I probably won’t even meet him on this trip, but I haven’t taken a vacation in a while, and certainly not a solo vacation, which I used to love, so I’m so looking forward to seeing you, Philadelphia! My old friend. Please alert your outlet mall, if you indeed have one, that Gee Henry will be breezing in, armed with a credit card, and he won’t be leaving without that one perfect piece.

Tinted glasses

I picked up my new Tom Ford glasses from Moscot on Thursday. I had them put a “fashion tint” put on them, and I was originally planning a whole 70’s theme – I’d grow a moustache, wear more brown, the whole thing. But some things are coming up work-wise that I wanted to look professional for. I don’t want to be laid off with a moustache! It would be hard to hold my head up on the walk home after that …

The glasses got a mixed reaction at work. Andrea implied they were safety goggles, and of course, mean Mike told me they didn’t work. Even sweet Tom Bouman looked disappointed in me, on a primal level. But the gays in my life seem to like them (but of course, you can’t trust the gays).

I find myself wearing them more often than I thought I would. I even did squats at the gym yesterday wearing them, which would have been unthinkable to me a year ago. And I wore them out to Queens, too. I found myself snarling at the rude, pushy people on the train – if the wearer of these fabulous glasses can’t stick up for himself, who can? Maybe that will be the lesson I learn from these fabulous Tom Ford frames – if we wear accessories that make us appear bitter, it might free ourselves to let our internal, blinding bitterness more apparent to the observer.

Case in point, today I canceled on Lorenzo for dinner. I never have dinner on Sundays, and he canceled our last two dates – I didn’t feel I owed him an explanation, and I didn’t want to kill myself trying to meet up with him when he (and most) appears so cavalier about breaking our dates. Instead, I’ll go to see my writing- and love-nemesis Jesse’s new movie “A Four Letter Word.” I thought Scooter was going to go with me, but he called me and canceled, of course. I let my glasses speak through me as I responded. On a roll, I texted Mike that since I hadn’t heard back from him, I assumed we were over, and all best. He replied that he had found a new “bf,” and I wished him well. Of course, the sadness came after that, and I tried to make a whiskey appear in my hand by thinking about it. Of course, none appeared. I was in Queens after all, where magic is absent. Tonight, I will go to the movies by myself for the first time since I was in my early 20s, but I won’t consider myself alone. Because of my glasses. I shall miss them on my long journey. Apologies to “The Piano.”

White coat

Fionna was in town, and I took her to the Barney’s
warehouse sale, even though I had already bought my
one clothing item that week, two days earlier. I
ended up buying a white-ish coat at the sale,
promising myself I wouldn’t buy anything that coming
weekend, to make up for the unplanned purchase. I had
a ridiculous blind date coming up, and I wanted to
wear the white coat on the date. I say the date was
ridiculous because we already knew we were sexually
incompatible. I think we just wanted to go on the
date. Before our movie, we went and had pizza. We
were both wearing pink shirts and brown ties, which
was odd. At one point, I looked down and saw that oil
from the pizza had dripped onto my tie. The guy was
adorable, though I was repulsed a bit by his
mannerisms, but I decided I would see him again. I
emailed him and told him I had fun, which was enormous
progress for me. Whenever I go out on a date, I never
want to see the guy again, ever. But this time, I was
willing to overlook his child-like mannerisms (I want
to be the only child in the relationship) and see what
happened the next time we met, when he was less
nervous. But it seemed that he had had less fun than
me. I never saw him again. But still, I swear – it
was progress for me!

I am never able to muster up disappointment anymore
when a date or a sexual encounter doesn’t lead to
anything else. My emotions are there, but muted –
like beige tones. Similarly, in any of the great
tragedies of my life, I can never remember what I was
feeling, but I can definitely tell you what I was
wearing. Although this date wasn’t a tragedy, per se,
I remember I was wearing a pink shirt and a brown tie
with white dots, and blue cotton pants, and that white
coat.

The year of the rat

I was born in the year of the rat. The last time it was the year of the rat, something good happened to me. In some ways, I’ve been waiting ever since for something good to happen again. I decided to document my “year of the rat resolutions” this year – start a blog, do yoga, keep a daily journal, buy one item of clothing each week (when I can afford to), write four songs, write four stories.