Idi Amin for TopShop

Everyone at work loved my blouse today! It was a short-sleeve button-up shirt from Marc by Marc Jacobs, which I daringly paired with some light-blue corduroys from Club Monaco. High on the compliments I was receiving for the shirt, I went over to Alyse's, where I came down to earth by helping her clean her apartment. This entailed unpacking a vast trunk of past outfits from her recent summer abroad in Europe, where she took lots of pictures and lots of lovers, most of whom gave her some scrap of fabric to remember them by. We breathed in the musk of these emotionally unavailable men, and it made our heads spin. I took the pieces out of the trunk, one by one, and their beauty transported me to other worlds, other times. "What a beautiful bikini!" I exclaimed while holding one piece, but it turned out to be a handkerchief. (Whew!) "Look at this exquisite Israeli cloth!" I cried while fingering an item that turned out to be a Louis Vuitton scarf. Everything seemed so exotic to me - and much of it seemed vaguely African. What I thought was a Moroccan scarf turned out to be a blouse. What I deemed a Bangladeshi shepherd's cloak was actually a pair of pants. We became consumed with the fun of mis-interpreting fashion, and invented new lines, new designers, for her outfits. I called one blouse "Nora for Target." (Nora is a friend of hers who is a successful actress, if fond of simple styles). Emboldened, I called the next item out of the trunk - which was ill-advised and overly ambitious - "Isaac Mizrahi for Sears." Alyse countered that the belt I'm wearing as a sash in this picture was "Idi Amin for TopShop." ! Where could we go from that one? Where - I ask you!? My cousin beat me at my own game!

Hugo Boss socks

I used to say that whenever I date, I at least get a pair of socks out of it. This became true again recently, with a young fellow named Mark. We had an innocent date, and then another innocent date, which was a new thing I was trying - no sex for a while. But he slept over, and, being frisky gays in NYC at the beginning of a new decade, we played "Space Invaders" with each other's joysticks. (That's a clever euphemism I just made up). In the morning, he woke up before me, and I heard him looking about my apartment and making clucking noises. I just stayed in bed, silently wondering what sort of judgments he was forming about me, based on my messy apartment. Manhattan gays are all such li'l Martha Stewarts. To me, being gay means dirtiness and rock music and protesting on bridges and drunken evenings that may end up in jail. To my peers in the gay milieu, though, it means cleanliness and emulating straights and sconces. What the fuck is a sconce?! When we'd been getting ready for bed, the Colonel jumped into the bed with us. "Ahhh!" Mark screamed. "The cat's in the bed! The cat's in the bed!" I laughed at him then, a complicated laugh filled with love for my cat and derision for cat-fearers and of the peace and wistfulness of knowing that it won't work out, ever, between me and the fellows. I never saw Mark again. But he left behind his Hugo Boss socks, which I've worn at least once since then. They are really nice socks!

New Year's Eve

I went with Chris to see Hedda Lettuce on New Year's Eve, at Chelsea Clearview Cinemas. Hedda did a "multimedia" presentation of "Mommy Dearest," which was totally hilarious. I laughed until I practically cried! But I'm always thisclose to tears, you know, so that doesn't mean anything. Then we watched Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper in Times Square on the movie screen. I don't know about you, but there's something about New Year's Eve that gets me choked up in the end, every time. I start the evening bitter, but get practically sentimental as midnight draws nigh. As the ball dropped, I was thinking about how every day is like New Year's Eve for me, because I love changing personas, lifestyles, thought patterns, like I love changing outfits. (Here I'm wearing John Smedley and BDG). Just as I was overcome with emotion and was about to stand in solidarity with the other people in the theater, the woman in front of me, who apparently was holding a fistful of glitter, threw it carelessly upwards, and it fell in one big clump in my lap. Chris took this picture. This is me, then, ready to stand and face 2011, if not for the lapful of glitter.

Me and Cherita and Yolanda at Westville

Cherita came back into town, and we went with Yolanda for my birthday lunch! Okay, this lunch was several months late, but I'm so happy we're keeping this tradition going even though Cherita lives in LA part of the year now. Since our last birthday meal (Yolanda's, in September) Cherita has moved, Yolanda has moved on, and someone has moved in with me, just temporarily. We went to Westville, my new favorite restaurant. Sam, the elfin busboy I have taken a growing but doomed interest in, was not working that day. Oh, well. He probably got a new book of spells, or was at the podiatrist getting his cloven hoof sanded. Elves are so cute! In this picture, Cherita is wearing a hat she made herself, Yolanda is wearing curve-hugging couture, of course, and I'm still working last year's Diesel coat, bought on sale at Overstock.com, but still mildly fierce. Rock it!

Doll in a blue dress

After Maxine's and my Christmas dinner, we stopped at her house to pick up her dog Dutchess, and I got a chance to see how Maxine's doll collection has evolved. It no longer fits into just one room - the dolls pictured here are part of the 'spillover' into her living room. But a picture can't do justice to - can't even come close to realistically depicting - the scope of this strange collection. My mother, when she was alive, would mock my sister for buying so many dolls, but I always encouraged her obsessions and exact, mirthless passions. In fact, there's a doll wearing a blue dress that I bought for her in the picture, if you really squint.

Sigh. My sister is insane, but I can't have her committed because she is a judge.

I will never forget this Christmas, as I spent a nerve-wracking two hours in Bloomingdale's searching for gifts that my family wouldn't despise too much, and finally selected gifts for my sister, her boyfriend, my father, and Greta and her family. You know what they got me? Nothing! Oh, well. I was working on publicity recently for a book called THE ATHEIST'S GUIDE TO CHRISTMAS, as well as the atheist book by the lead singer for Bad Religion. So I guess God smote me. If only God knew that I secretly do have a hard-on for Jesus - I just never talk about it. Wait, I guess God does know that. He knows everything.

I know it may sound callous, but one day I will be standing over Maxine's coffin, like I've stood over the coffins of so many people in my life. If I can do it without anyone seeing, I will slip a doll inside. That will take care of Maxine.