Age-inappropriate outfits

Henry family reunion

2012-01-18T09:25:00.001-08:00

Maxine and I (and Mary!) traveled down to Antigua to visit with some of the Henry family. I owed my niece Melany a visit, as she just had a baby (my grand-niece!) and I wanted to meet her.

I could have predicted this, but I did not enjoy sharing a hotel room with my sister. She likes to watch the Cooking Channel into the wee hours of the night, whereas I love going to sleep really early and then waking up in a panic at 8:00 a.m., smoking cigarettes and drinking cup after cup of coffee. A couple of times, I ended up down at the Coconut Grove by myself in the morning, waiting for my traveling companions to join me, smoking away at the bar and being stung by mosquitoes.

Maxine rented a car, and terrorized Mary and I by driving into ditches and generally menacing the (terrible) roads there. With Mary in the back seat videotaping us (unbeknownst to Maxine) I tricked Maxine into launching into her favorite argument with me, that I was "shown a lot of attention" by my maternal grandmother when I was a baby, and so therefore needed a lot of attention when I was adopted by my aunt and uncle in Queens. Attention, according to Maxine, that they were unwilling to give me - just on the principle of the matter, from the sound of it. In Antigua, Maxine unveiled a new angle on the argument - that my aunt Grace, when I was living with her and my late uncle Max in St. Croix before embarking for Queens, used to dress me up and have me come out and "perform" for her guests, singing and dancing and reciting Bible verses. It sounds almost lewd, doesn't it? That's the power of Maxine - to take the innocent foibles of a child and make them sound damning and perverse. But she's my sister, and I love her, though I am putting extra money aside to care for her when she finally goes insane.

We drove into town and I bought an Antigua keychain, a very stylish Antigua t-shirt, and a (zipped! very rare!) Antigua tote. I like looking at Antigua t-shirts online, but the ones I like are always expensive, so I was glad to find a nice cheap one. I also wanted to buy some Antigua rum, but unfortunately, whenever I get my hands on a bottle of liquor, it is my custom to sit down and drink the whole bottle, then take my clothes off.

Here we are at a party Ann threw for us, with some assorted (and very fashionable!) Henrys. Because I left Antigua when I was two, some of these people I had never even met, really, so it was fun to catch up with everyone. Louise reminded me a lot of my mom, with her stories of being outraged, and Pat sort of reminded me of me. (He told a story about taking a poop and finding a frog in the toilet). I had a good time with my relatives. Because I was raised by crazy people, I keep expecting my relatives to dislike me, because I'm sure they've all heard crazy stories about me from my crazy immediate family. But life has taught me that everyone is crazy, and our families are too busy dealing with their own craziness to care too much about ours.

Afterwards, Maxine nearly killed us again in that car. When she was returning the car the next evening, she found the Antigua t-shirt and my "precious bag," as she put it, in the trunk, and returned them to me with an evil, knowing chortle, as though my forgetting them in the trunk was indicative of my whole persona. Harrumph!!!!!!!

Miami

2011-12-23T07:17:00.000-08:00

I went to Miami to belatedly celebrate Peppar's birthday. When I arrived, we immediately went to an Indian reservation to buy cheap cigarettes, an outlet mall to buy my standard two blouses, and the movies. We saw "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo."

Peppar and I used to have a standing date each Friday night to see a movie together, when she lived in New York. I was sort of depressed back then, and I think she was, too, so it was a great comfort to have this to look forward to throughout the week. Then, she got married, and her husband Michael stole her away to Florida. Sigh. That's why we saw the movie ... to recapture who we were years ago. Some people have nightclubs; I have a darkened theater. Still, I felt like we had shot our wad on the first day of the trip, and I then had to think of ways to fill my remaining day, which Peppar would not be present for (some family thing of hers).

After she left the following day, I went to the gym and then went for dinner to Lario's, Gloria Estefan's restaurant on Ocean Drive. I sat at the bar and told the bartender, in a slightly threatening fashion, to let me know when Gloria Estefan arrived, so that I could "be ready." He laughed nervously and then spoke in Spanish on his walkie talkie. Gloria Estefan never arrived to supervise her restaurant that evening, but I did enjoy some minced beef with egg and fried plaintain. I can't tell you in words how excited I would have been to see Gloria Estefan in the flesh; the words get in the way, as it were.

The following day, my last little day in Miami, I went to the beach. I put on the swimming trunks I had brought along and marched there, trying to hold my head up high and maintain my dignity. Along the way, a hostess in a restaurant smiled at the sight of me (as had the front desk person at my hotel, the Lords). I asked her if the trunks made me look gay, and she paused and then nodded twice, curtly. But I am gay in quotes, I thought as I marched the rest of the way, a little chastened.

Can you believe that I've never worn these swimming trunks in public, ever? I bought them, like, twelve years ago (from the Armani store)! So I wanted at least one picture in them in my lifetime, and I asked a hot, shirtless blonde if he would take my picture. "Can you believe I'm 39?" I asked him. "Yes, I can," he replied, and I was chastened again, just as the sea itself chastened me that day. (It was much too choppy to really swim in it, but I did try over and over, the sea laughing at me). I am a water sign, but I have developed in my old age a slight aversion to water. This visit to the beach was meant in part to reestablish a connection to the water, while avoiding drowning. In this, I was successful.

I feel like this trip was successful in many different ways, but I am excited to return to New York, where winter is tightening its grip, and where you may have a pair of swimming trunks you are anxious to wear, but have to opportunity to wear them, and where years may go by.

Orange jumpsuits

2011-12-17T11:30:00.000-08:00

Ah, New York's famous tabloid newspapers. Not really known for Cindy Adams any more, but still faithfully pumping out their race-baiting reportage. Case in point, the coverage of the killing of officer Peter Figoski. Here the suspects are in their orange jumpsuits, though the white guy is in a white jump suit, and one black guy is in beige. How mysterious are jumpsuits, but I'm getting off the subject here. This killing was a true tragedy, indeed. But I don't need to see the alleged killers referred to as "thugs" and "lowlifes" in a newspaper article. Hey, I'm a smart person; I can come to those conclusions myself, if necessary!

When I was growing up in NYC, minority youths who were accused of rape in a park were a "wolf pack," and pretty easily convicted, though the convictions were later overturned. But white lacrosse players going to St. John's University, accused of the same crime, were acquitted, one juror saying that they "had their whole lives ahead of them." For an impressionable young person, and a minority, like myself, the opinion that I was outside of justice somehow could have been easily formed. But because I was middle class, and read a lot of Dickens, I came to believe that it was justice itself that had failed. That's why I was secretly delighted when O. J. was acquitted. Justice never worked for my people in the 90s. Why wouldn't I be thrilled to learn that at least one member of my race had a decent, if circus-ish, showing at trial? And he was properly acquitted, unless you forget that Mark Fuhrman plead the fifth when asked if he had planted evidence making it seem like O. J. murdered his ex-wife. That's how the legal system works.

Still, justice has been elusive ever since. Figoski's accused killers are "creeps" to the Post, but aren't they deserving of a fair trial, like everyone else? Not one of the banker masterminds of our economic collapse has ever been called a "thug" outside of, perhaps, Salon, though their crimes affected millions of lives, not just a relative few. And none of them will be convicted, either, or even indicted. Perhaps this is because the economic crisis is slightly more complex than random violence, and it is easier (and sells more papers) to prey on the fears of New Yorkers who believe we are all more at the mercy of colored people than corporate conspiracies.

I know I'm probably in the minority with my opinions, but whatever.

Self-loathing with a little wink

2011-12-17T10:44:00.000-08:00

I was poking about the internet the other day, and I came upon some old digests from the Juliana Hatfield mailing list. They were from August, and those were the most recent I had, since my Yahoo mailbox filled up shortly thereafter, and I guess I was automatically unsubscribed from the list. Apparently, Juliana had a new record out in August ... I can't believe I missed it. I'm such a superfan that I usually get records from my heroes on, like, the first day of release, so that I can in my own way join a club, the club of defeated fans of 90s lady rockers who still hold out hope that their favorite artists will crack the Billboard 100. Why wasn't I checking that mailbox? I assume it was because I was really busy.

I downloaded the record today (this is a limited release, and physical cds are sold out already) and was sort of blown away and really moved, much to my surprise. It's beautiful and it rocks, sort of like Rolling Stones-style grooves crossed with California pop, all sung by a little girl voice that blames you, that is in crisis, that purposefully diminishes the singer's accomplishments. It's self-loathing set to music. It's kind of chillingly perfect, actually. There hasn't been a Juliana record that surprised me since "God's Foot," which was never even released. I'd long since given up hope that she could teach me anything (even though my song "I get the craziest feeling" has the same number of syllables in places as her song "Feel it." That's my usual homage style ... I just rip off the rhythm of the song and change the melody and lyrics ... and then it's a whole new song! Sort of like the Donna "sew on some sequins and make it a whole new look!" Karan school of songwriting).

I love the cover. Juliana always gets naked for her record covers, I feel. But with no airbrushing. A nude photo of someone whose weight fluctuates as wildly as hers does can be somewhat shocking to behold. See? Self-loathing with a little wink. "Macabre" is probably a good word for Juliana's schtick.

I'm recording "I get the craziest feeling" soon, with my superband of Chris on drums and Matt on bass (if he's still speaking to me), along with three other songs. And then I'm either going to record some more or put out six songs as an e.p. I will call it "Joy," though it will contain no real succor. Since I'm recording again, I'm paying a little more attention to the music world these days. But no one moves me, sigh. I'm old, that's probably why! (That's a song!) My most enduring musical emotional attachments were formed before I was 20 years old, with notable exceptions. That's why I'm always waiting for a good Sinead O'Connor record again, or a good Liz Phair record. Both of them apparently have new music coming out soon. How will I feel if they both rock again? Maybe I will feel that I rock again, that I have been vindicated. (But ultimately for naught, as neither of them will ever sell a lot of records again, and no one will ever hear of my own self-release when I put it out). Perhaps I will be transported back in time to Jones Beach in '91, seeing Sinead O'Connor (my second concert ever ... the first was the "Blonde Ambition tour by Madonna) and secretly loving the tousled-haired waifish boys who clung to that kind of genre-defying music, though feeling like I was too fat to ever really be seen by them. I still feel too fat to do most anything, but I always will, so that's okay.

Needless to say, I will be fully clothed for my record cover. But maybe it will be a closeup of my big head crying, like that Sinead O'Connor record.

The Gin Mingle

2011-12-12T14:19:00.000-08:00

I decided to attend this year's "Gin Mingle" at Housing Works with my unconsummated life partner Johnathan. I don't like gin, and my mingling strategy has lately been aggressive and borderline toxic, but something darkly comic always happens at these events, so I went. Johnathan brought me a box of "Nips." Nips and older people like me don't mix ... it pulls out our fillings and then we have to go to dentists who prey on us, who insist that we get a total mouth plate, which costs thousand of dollars that Medicare won't cover. While I sensibly didn't eat many of the nips, I did spend most of the evening walking up to hot, waifish studs of the publishing industry, asking them if they were "into nips." Most of the publishing studs indicated that they were as a matter of fact not into nips, or at least not nips that were mine to offer, but that is not important to the story. Imagine that, though - if these stories of mine, these lines, had a happy ending one day? (Don't worry, I wouldn't let that happen).

At one point, Vanity Fair writer Henry Alford came up to introduce himself to me. I know Henry from Facebook (he sometimes comments on my blog, although he has been mum of late. I was first introduced to his work when I interviewed for a position at Twelve Books, and wrote up a publicity plan for a book he wrote about old people. A book about old people, you are thinking ... Why didn't they ask YOU to blurb it, Gee Henry? I then watched with interest as I did not get that job and the book became a bestseller). I told Henry that I would like to feature him on my outfit blog, and he immediately turned around and exposed his pert buttocks, to "show me his pants." Always playing hard to get, eh, Henry? ;) Still, his buttocks were indeed delightful, and I leaned over to congratulate his boyfriend, Greg, on having possession of the buttocks. His boyfriend sort of looked at me funny. (Greg & Henry were talking to Greg Henry, as it happened, at the Gin Mingle!)

Henry often puts fun status updates on his Facebook page, and I always want to comment on them. But Henry's friends are all very funny and very fast, and sometimes when I notice an update, it already has reams of comments already, from the likes of comic writer Merrill Markoe and such, and it's too intimidating. Sometimes, when I think that I must be the funniest person in the world, I read one of Henry's updates and the comments that come in so swiftly afterwards, and then I know that I am only one of many, many funny people. The thought is usually so horrific to me that I have to take a Neurontin. I left the Gin Mingle in sort of a bad mood, but I was thankful, at least, that I didn't get wasted, and that I was heading home to "work on my nips," a joke you'd only fully get if you have a Manhunt account.

Shopping in Philly

2011-11-19T19:51:00.000-08:00

Sensing a temporary lull in the crushing workload at the office, I booked myself a trip to Philadelphia. My favorite American city, Philadelphia is home to cheese steaks, much racial tension, and a Latino queen who smiled at me 13 years ago in a Philly nightclub, making me love the city and forever visit it, looking for him in vain, somewhat insanely. It is also home to BalletX, the dance troupe formed by Matthew Neenan, a choreographer I like, so I timed my trip to coincide with something they were doing.

Although I am not creatively stagnant currently (I have been reviewing books at a somewhat steady pace, and I've been doing a weekly songwriting workshop with my heroes Lori Carson and Beth Sorrentino - from my all-time favorite band, suddenly, Tammy! - and Lori's friend Matt Keating) my novel has gone neglected over these past few months. So I was hoping that a trip to Philly would rejuvenate me. Sometimes trips do that for me. Sometimes deaths in the family do, as well.

I realized as soon as I arrived in Philadelphia that my cat tee shirts would not be enough to shield me from the elements (it was really cold there), and I spent a few hours wandering about, looking for a long-sleeved shirt option. For some reason, I became very moved while shopping, which usually doesn't happen. As I passed a Macy's, in fact, I had to blink back tears. What made me so emotional? The solitude of traveling solo? The strange economic disparity that you aren't shielded from at all in Philadelphia, unlike how it is in NY? The upcoming holidays, and a sense of empathy for the down and out in America? God knows, I have been up and I have been down in my life. Right now, I'm okay, and I want to give this year. Give, give, give. I am going to buy, like, a thousand canned goods for the Harper can drive, I swear. And because I am the team captain for my floor, we will win because of it, and I will get the glory that I always seek, that I must have. I selected this shirt, a simple shell, really, from the Gap, along with another shirt from Urban Outfitters. God, remember when it was cool to shop at the Gap? I put one of the shirts on without washing it first, which is novel for me, and it kept me warm.

As I wandered around the stores and streets of Philadelphia, I was transported back in time to when I lived in San Francisco 15 years ago. I often spent whole days and nights wandering the streets (that's what my novel is about), in complete solitude, except when Nefretiti or Dagsy or Hilz or Joshie or Splendido were free for some fun. The near-total, awful, loneliness I felt during the year I lived there still makes me feel sorry for that young man who I was back then. But I became such a fan then, too. I discovered Barbara Manning, Paula Frazer, Jean Rhys, and many other huge influences on my craft while living in SF. I also discovered the simple joy of drinking bottles of whiskey when there's nothing else to do, which, too, became a huge influence.

In Philadelphia this week, I indeed was rejuvenated, and I wrote for a few hours in my novel. Now, instead of having 239 pages, I have 240 pages. Woo-hoo, I know. But really, it did give me the jumpstart I needed. I came back, rushed to Michelle's bday dinner, rushed to meet Suzanne for "Melancholia," and I've been rushing ever since, really. Philadelphia, I love you and your streets, your cheese steaks and your gayborhood, your "Fresh Air" and your peace. I will visit you again when I can, soonest.

Debbi and Vicki and Micki and Susanna

2011-11-12T11:36:00.000-08:00

I went this morning to meet Anne for breakfast, wearing my new Bangles tee. It doesn't say "Bangles" on it, though, it just lists the members of the Bangles from their classic line-up. A couple of people I encountered seemed confused by the tee, and I remembered yet again that no one really loved the Bangles like I loved them, no one read the liner notes, begged their parents to go see them in 1989 at the height of their popularity (I was ultimately not allowed to see them), or agonized over their breakup like I did. People thought they were a pop band, but I saw something ... witchier ... beneath the surface ... like Bon Iver songwriting for Fairport Convention or something.

Heidi and I went to see the Bangles' current lineup (no Michael Steele, sad face) at some ballroom or another recently. The Peterson sisters haven't aged a day. In fact, they seem healthier than ever. Sadly, it also seemed that the Petersons have been absorbing Susanna's life force, as she seemed thinner, more wan, than she did in the 80s and 90s. But they were in lovely form, and they rocked as only they can. But I missed Michael, of course. Where is she? No solid information is on l'internet ... only rumors and innuendos, as always.

About 13 years ago, I went to see a tribute to Sandy Denny at St. Ann's Cathedral in Brooklyn. I went to see Michael and Vicki perform (separately), but I was also a little blown away by Susan Cowsill. Hootie was there too, I think. There was a hush throughout the crowd when Michael came on to sing. She was wearing a green velvet cloak with a beautiful ivy pattern embroidered on it. I had been hearing rumors that, after the Bangles disbanded, she went to live in SF to paint and worship the mighty god Heroisch, that great, still god that demands that you sweetly throw up from time to time. She was bewitching that night. I fell in love with her all over again.

Just a couple of years later, I was going through one of my depressive periods, which I go through once every six years or so. I was actually praying that the world would end. We thought it would end with Y2K, but the year 2000 came and went, and I was sorely disappointed that everyone still lived and breathed, our computers fully functional. I began looking for a sign from God. Then, I heard that the Bangles had reunited, and were touring America. That was it! The sign I had been looking for! I imagined them like a modern-day four horsemen of the Apocalypse, bringing the end of the world on their tour, city by city, town by town. I went to see them with Kristin at Irving Plaza and they were a pop band, not the band I had been hoping for. I realized that the world would not end in "Eternal Flame," it would not end "In Your Room." They put out a record that I avoided like the plague, as did most of the world. And years passed. I heard Michael had left the band again.

So when I saw them with Heidi last month, I was not expecting to be wowed, but I was. There were some tee-shirts on sale at the concert, but they were not my kind of tee-shirts. But a few days later, I went onto their website, as I do from time to time, looking for clues, news, any peek behind the veil of these mysterious, badly dressed ladies. I saw this tee, and, though I tried to resist buying it for weeks, I eventually broke down and ordered it. The tee takes me back to the days when I would walk around San Francisco wearing my Juliana Hatfield tee-shirts and my Breeders tee-shirts, and the hipster boys would snicker at me. I wanted to explain to them that it takes a certain kind of coolness to wear a tee from a gurl band, knowing that misogynistic hipsters will mock you. I certainly don't mock their Misfits tees, their own uniforms that they don to make themselves part of a scene. It's hard to explain to the cool that you're cooler than they are, because they're at worst poseurs and at best just like all of their friends, and by choice.

To all my fellow grrl band-loving compatriots, rock on. To the Bangles, whatever it takes, get Michael back. Get her a heroine drip if that's her bag. Susannah, put out another solo record. I love you gurls.

Sad green Coach jacket

2011-10-07T12:36:00.000-07:00

For the past few months, every time I've gone to the gym, I've noticed this green Coach coat hanging on the coat rack. The first few times I just thought that some nice lady had inadvertently synced up with my own workouts. Then, I changed my schedule a little bit, and started going in the evenings, instead of the mornings. Every single time, I saw that the nice lady had already beaten me to the gym, and had hung up her coat there again. I thought, "well, that's nice! I have myself a little shadow." I began looking around the gym as I worked out, wondering who the lady was. Was she that angry lady who I once had a confrontation with over a weight machine? Or was she the elderly Pilates teacher, who sometimes gives me "the eye," and whose gaze I have learned not to meet?

As time went by, I began to grow increasingly concerned for the lady. I mean, I go to the gym every day, and have been known to go more than once a day on weekends. Why was this lady subjecting herself to the same punishing routine that I do? I've known for many years that whatever I do won't be good enough, either at work or at the gym, but the fun for me is the trying. I've tried so hard, in fact, that I became an exercise bulimic, and now must walk uphill on the treadmill rather than run, as my knee is in pretty bad shape. Was this what was going on with the nice lady? Was she stomping through endless workouts, miserly balancing her post-workout meals in a 33-33-34 fat-carbs-protein ratio, doing countless kicks backward, into infinity? I felt such empathy for her that I wanted to find her in some corner of the gym, probably in total muscle failure, sobbing, and tell her all the lessons I've learned in my life, so as to save her some time and heartache. I would tell her, "It's okay, you'll never be as thin as you want. And no one will ever love you. Guys may say they like us, but they will always like the next person even more. Take the energy you're expending on the elliptical, and turn it inwards, and fully experience your own heart, your own soul. The blood, the meat, the guts of it. If you survive, I will be with you, and together, we can visit the ice cream bar and eat a kind of joy that will turn us cold inside. There is no other kind of joy."

In the spirit of wanting to share this dark, comforting wisdom, I approached a manager at the gym and asked him if he knew whose jacket this was. He looked at me, like, you dolt. "This coat, sir," he said, "has been here for many months. Someone left it there." Embarrassed, I walked off and lifted a dumbbell over my head.

Where are your Jil Sander pieces?

2011-10-06T15:04:00.000-07:00

What a weekend I had. In my recent obsession with "decluttering" my apartment, I went through my closets and threw away or donated at least ten years' worth of old clothing. It was really a moving experience, and some pieces were very hard to part with ... some had, over the years, become signature pieces of mine. Notably, the jacket I am wearing in this picture, my houndstooth coat by Jil Sander. I remember working at Harcourt in 2005, wearing this coat, or maybe some other Jil Sander piece. My crazy boss at the time came out and said, "What are YOU wearing?!" I replied, rather coldly, "It's Jil Sander. Where are YOUR Jil Sander pieces, Ms. Gilmore?" (I believe she was wearing something from the Gap).

Over the years, though, the coat got worn, and was pilled in places. Plus, the sleeves were too short for my long, muscular arms. And I seemed to have to have the lining replaced, like, once a season! I had to say goodbye to it, with regret.

I don't know why I was making this face in this picture, which I found in a little box of pictures of myself as a younger person. Perhaps I was making my "model face," which in retrospect, doesn't really make me look like a model. Perhaps this is my imitation of "Ape-X," a simian character from Marvel Comics' Squadron Supreme (which, I must be honest, was just a rip-off of the Justice League). Ape-X seemed to be around primarily to make this face, which she did quite often, heart-breakingly, usually after one of her teammates was slain. She had sort of a great effect on me ... I used to puzzle, reading comics, "Why do people wish that animals could talk?" Poor Ape-X, I don't think her "psychotic break" was ever resolved, a cruelty by her illustrators that mirrors humans' cruelty towards animals of all kinds. She just exists in a kind of limbo now, forever going insane. Ah, well. We've all been there, Ape-X ...

I guess what I was doing by cleaning out my closets was "culling." Once, when I was working at a toxic literary agency (but aren't all literary agencies toxic?), the singer Suzanne Vega wrote me a letter saying that she was "culling" her journals for material for a book. I looked off into the distance and wondered at that word. I knew what it meant, but I had never heard it used before. I remember that I imagined Suzanne with a giant scythe instead of an arm. Cull ...

As I was culling my closet, I was able to acknowledge various stages in my fashion history ... my Burberry phase ... my cardigan phase ... my vest phase ... certainly my Jil Sander phase ... and move on, with hope. My fashion history continues to spool out; I am currently in a kitty cat t-shirt phase. And a plaid sport shirt phase. The phases will continue, as life continues, like a wave of molten lava. And at the end, everything will solidify, and I will breathe my last.

I suspect that after you have read this post, you will cull it.

Alternative Earth in Los Angeles

2011-10-02T17:42:00.000-07:00

I recently took the first week-long vacation of my career, to my beloved Los Angeles, to hang out with Alia. Alia and I have known each other since high school, so by now I realize that if we spend more than a few days together, we'll have a nasty fight. This picture was taken a day or two before we had another nasty fight.

In this picture, we are at a Paula Frazer show ... in one of the few serendipitous moments of my life, I realized Paula was playing in LA after I got there and was looking through an LA Weekly. Although I would probably fly anywhere in the world to see a Paula Frazer gig, this was the first time I've ever arrived somewhere and then realized she was playing. I was so happy, and she was so wonderful - in fine voice, wearing a beautiful green dress, singing all new songs. The last time I saw her was at the Knitting Factory, where I requested a then-new song of hers, "We met by the love-lies-bleeding," and she called out into the audience to ask who I was. "Oh, I'm Gregory," I called back. "I used to live in San Francisco." Afterwards, we chatted, and I told her that I was starting to write some songs of my own. She told me I should go upstairs to see her guitarist play a show with his new band. "Oh," I replied, too quickly, too bluntly, "the guy with the big head?" Her face darkened. "Yes," she replied. "The guy with the big head."

In Los Angeles, I realized that the t-shirts I had packed would not do for the surprisingly chilly evenings LA was experiencing. So I dragged Alia to an Urban Outfitters, where I purchased a pink sweatshirt from Alternative Earth. Alia's sister Amy became obsessed with the fact that I had purchased an Alternative Earth garment, and kept bringing it up and talking about the fact that Alternative Earth donates a garment for every garment it sells. I kept trying to change the subject, as this policy of Alternative Earth's does not interest me in the slightest. (Amy also recently told me that all of my friends on my blog resemble Amy Goodman from "Democracy Now.") Amy, are you reading this now? I'm sorry I called you old. I myself am older than all of my friends put together; at least, it sometimes feels that way.

Los Angeles, smog of my lungs, fire of my heart, city of surprising overreactions to rainstorms, how I love you. I probably won't visit you again until Paula Frazer plays there again, or Lisa Germano, or somesuch, but we will always have this week, this moment, together.

Twins

2011-10-02T13:21:00.000-07:00

I went to dinner with a set of twins, one of whom I have a little bit of a crush on, just because he is awash in sorrow sometimes, and I like to imagine swooping in and nursing him back to happiness. I walked with the twins through the fancy part of the West Village (the twins, too, are fancy ... one does something or the other with some famous fancy brand; the other is a creative director for some fancy clothing shop). Thinking, the whole time, "let me save you! Let me save you!" I asked the twins, slyly, if they ever fooled around a little bit when they were growing up. I mean, I couldn't waste the opportunity to hit on two gay twins! "All the time, Gregory," one of them said. "But you have to pay to sign up for our website to see it." Then I realized that probably every gay asks them that. "Well," I snapped, "just because it has already been said, doesn't mean it's not still funny."

We ended up at a diner, where I discussed my latest "icebreaker" of emailing guys a jpeg of my penis. They seemed very puzzled by this, and inquired whether or not that has ever worked for me. I never know how to answer that question. I mean, it hasn't worked in one sense: no one has ever responded positively, nor let me show them my penis later on, in the flesh. But it has worked in the sense that I am always highly amused by myself when I do it. Of course I then asked the twin I have a little bit of a crush on if he would like to see my jpeg. He replied that he would, and I sent it to him. Then I waited weeks and weeks to see if he would respond positively, but he has not. Nor has he requested anymore succor for his sorrow. Clearly, the jury is still out on the effectiveness of my jpeg. But meanwhile, my amusement level is at an all-time high.

My Breeders tee and Zon

2011-09-13T11:57:00.000-07:00

I was rounding my corner, wearing my Breeders tee, about to launch into some adventure for the evening when I noticed a woman on a bicycle, riding in what seemed to be a hurry to reach some all-important, life-altering destination. I looked to see what she was riding towards, realized it was the Popeye's, and then looked closer at the woman. It was Zon! My old friend! I said hello, and she was immediately mortified that I had noticed her in her panicky rush for delicious fried chicken. So I let her know (almost immediately) that I, too, am an almost-nightly visitor to Popeye's.

My reasoning is this: although I go to the gym and all that, there's nothing wrong with eating one leg and one thigh of Popeye's spicy recipe as my last meal of the day. (Obviously, I discard the biscuit). After all, there can't be that many carbs in fried chicken, right? I have made the mistake in the past of purchasing a bucket of fried chicken because it is cheaper to buy a bucket, but then usually I sit down in my apartment and eat the whole bucket, weeping.

Back to Zon. One of the most charming things about Zon is that, when she learns that you are a fan of the same thing she is, she immediately gets excited and begins speaking about hidden aspects, subtle undertones of the item, pulling you headlong into a serious discussion of something you might not have ordinarily formed serious opinions of. When we bonded over a mutual love of the television series "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," for example, she somehow talked me into flying to Toronto with her to attend a convention at which Amber Benson would be in attendance. When "Buffy" went off the air, she pushed me to read various comic books and "fan fictions" about the show's characters, who apparently have fates so varied and fans so rabid that they have all had solo adventures without Buffy. "But I don't want to get that into Buffy," I demurred.

It was funny that I was wearing the Breeders tee, because I bought that tee at a Breeders show that I went to with her - along with Leviathen. During the show, Leviathen turned to me and asked, "Isn't there supposed to be one blond one and one brunette?" Then, he answered his own question: "No, that's Heart." I was immediately very impressed with his comedic stylings on that one, and have for years been looking for an occasion to use that joke myself. None has arisen.

On my corner, Zon began to launch into a discussion of some of the more obscure items on Popeye's's menu, some items that perhaps even Popeye's employees might be mystified to learn were options, and my eyes began to glaze over. "I will see you soon!" I cried. "At the Wild Flags show!!!" I love you, Zon.

My mother and 9/11

2011-09-09T13:41:00.000-07:00

My mother had terrible timing in fashion - this picture, taken in the 90s, shows her wearing an ensemble from the 70s, a decade whose fabrics and bold textures seemed to appeal to her, for some reason. Perhaps it was the era's crop of strong, famous women, and progress in social justice? I don't know. She had terrible timing in other matters, too, which was punctuated by her untimely death on September 10, 2001. The ten-year anniversary of her death, a moment I'd been waiting for for most of my adult life, for many reasons both good and bad, is tomorrow. I'll forgive you for observing other anniversaries.

When our loved ones die, I think most of us have the reasonable expectation that it is, to some degree, our moment. We get to grieve, have privacy, arrange a funeral or memorial service, have relatives and friends fly in to comfort us, and eventually get over it. When my mother died the day before September 11th, we had less than a day to proceed as though it were our moment and try, in our grief, to make our plans. Then the next day arrived, which of course, became everyone's moment, and made privacy, funeral arrangements, and certainly loved ones flying in to comfort us, impossible.

My mother was a very strong woman, though an unusual parent. She adopted me and my brother Jonathan after our real parents (my real father was her brother; it's a long story) were both killed by our gardener (an even longer story) in Antigua in the mid-70s. She and her husband made sure that every need of ours was filled, and they raised us as their own. Strangely, they regaled us with stories about how, before we arrived, they'd dined out most nights, but now were forced to eat meaner fare at home, stuck there with two small, traumatized boys. And they were already so tired, from raising their own two children.

My brother and I were very good at finding ways to "act out" that must have perplexed these older, tired people from a different era. Over the next ten years or so, I learned to overeat, shoplift, talk back, get in trouble at school, and lie. When I was still just a tween - though we didn't have that word back then - I began showing an interest in "dirty" magazines. Bad timing on my part - I was a little too young for that to possibly sit well with anyone. My brother, over that same ten-year period, became sickly, slow in school, was frequently hospitalized, and later on, counter-intuitively, began hanging out with a rough crowd.

Willful though we may have been, we were no match for my mother, who was frequently a terrifying presence in the house. After my father's first heart attack, she threatened to send me and my brother to an orphanage if he died. I don't know about my brother, but I believed her, and was frightened to sleeplessness at the thought. She and her husband weren't stingy with the beatings, either. Once she sent me to school with a note for my guidance counselor. I read it over the counselor's shoulder: "Thank you for letting me know that our son misbehaved in school yesterday. He was soundly whipped last night." Soundly whipped! What an old-fashioned phrase, but, again, they were from a different era. When my mother found a Playgirl in my room once, she told me that if she ever found out I was gay, it would be worse to her than when her brother (my real father) was killed.

Many times during my childhood and teen years I prayed for my adoptive parents' death, which is common enough behavior as to have entered the territory of the unfortunate cliche. But eventually, I developed a very macabre sense of humor, and then found them quite hilarious. But I started fighting them, too.

Years later, when I was in my very early 20s and living in Manhattan, I got into my head that I wanted to move to California. My mother was stunned. Her two real children, after all, both lawyers, had lived under her roof until their mid-30s. They both still visited her almost daily, although she had been, by all accounts, even meaner to them than to me and my brother. None of her children had ever been as difficult as I had been as a child. And now, in the ultimate form of rebellion, I was moving away to the other end of the country, beyond her reach. She told me I would fail there, of course. On the day I went out to Queens to say goodbye to her, she shook her head at me and announced with great grimness, "I don't know who you are anymore." "Mom," I said, expasperated, "that's what mothers say in movies, not in real life." Then she gave me $500 and a hug.

I didn't have such a great time of it in San Francisco, as it turned out. I was pretty broke all the time, underemployed, and San Francisco's delis are allowed to sell liquor, which helped me to, ahem, develop quite the taste for the sauce. Feeling like I was flaming out in SF, I began looking for a reason to retreat back to NYC, without it seeming like my mother had been right. Her timing was great for once: she got sick and was hospitalized for an extended period of time. Seizing the opportunity, I announced to my family that I would return to be closer to her in her time of need.

Years passed. By now, I was in my late 20s, and I had learned to balance my terrible memories of my childhood with my gratitude for her willingness to take me and my brother in. She started getting weirdly sweet around the time she turned 80. She would call me up and tell me not to go down to the West Village, "because they're killing gay men down there." I had never come out to her, only to my siblings, because of what she had said to me that time with the Playgirl, so that was a somewhat awkward phone call. My sister, who still visited her every day, told me that she was "slipping," forgetting things. Entering the first stages of some sort of dementia. Which explained her being nice, too. That's how it works sometimes. (But at first I didn't believe my sister. My mother had always developed "illnesses" that to my mind were direct comments on the lives of her children. My sister and brother were overweight, so she developed arthritis. They smoked, so she became short of breath and claimed to have emphysema. When we heard her emphysema self-diagnosis, we were horrified, and asked if she had seen a doctor. "Why do I need a doctor to tell me what I know I have?" she replied. She even started carrying around an inhaler. That was my mom!)

During the last conversation I ever had with my mother, I was telling her about my best friend's baby, who had said or done something particularly adorable that week. My mother laughed and said, "Well, you could settle down with a nice young lady, you know, and have a baby of your own!" This was her fondest wish, for a grandchild. My sister had lost a baby once, and could no longer conceive. The same thing had happened to my eldest brother's wife. My real brother, Jonathan, was long dead by then (that rough crowd). I laughed at my mother and replied as emphatically as I could, "Mom...I don't think you have to worry about a baby with me." She laughed, knowing exactly what I was saying - that I was finally coming out to her, in a way - and we said goodbye. Although I obviously couldn't know this was happening, my sister told me later that my mother put down the phone and immediately started telling everyone that she was ready to die. Three days later, on September 10th, she was dead. And then it was the next day.

Sometimes when we are hit with a tragedy, it makes us more aware of, or perhaps more sensitive to, how others deal with the tragedies of their own lives. Over the next few years, I watched with morbid amusement and some jealousy how the relatives and loved ones of the 9/11 deceased dealt with the tragedy, with the rest of the world expected to mourn with them. This isn't a blog post about them, however; many blog posts have already been written about these people, and deservedly so.

Every fall I almost forget that the anniversary of my mother's death is coming, but then with the news coverage, I am reminded again. Because this year is the all-important 10th anniversary, maybe each subsequent anniversary will be heralded less and less, as everyone moves on with their lives? When I accidently tune in to a 9/11 anniversary "special" on television, it can still take me back to those terrifying days ten years ago, when my mother stopped breathing and died, and we had to wait for the ban on airline flights to be lifted so her son Michael could return home from vacation and attend her funeral.

A few years ago, my father let me know what my mother's last word was: my name. Not her real children's names, but mine. I was deeply touched by that. Today, in my late 30s - too late to let her know, but still early enough to make a difference - I've finally grown to love even the bad memories of her. They're useful, after all: there's usually a crazy mother character in the fiction I write, for example. And the macabre sense of humor my childhood gave me now enables me to laugh at the emotionally unavailable men who make up the dating pool in New York. And laugh, too, at the indignities that are heaped upon me (and everyone else who works in an office) throughout the average working day. Do I think my mother experienced a similar evolution in her feelings for me? I theorize that my mother eventually learned to love and respect me because she realized I was a worthy opponent. And that's exactly how I like to remember her.

Advocate party

2011-08-17T08:01:00.001-07:00

I went to a party last night hosted by Matthew Breen from the Advocate. I secretly went because I have a little bit of a crush on Matthew, who is dreamy. Once, years ago, I had lunch with him, and when he was saying goodbye, he suddenly leaned in and dramatically kissed me on the cheek, lingering ever so slightly so that I had time to inhale his musk and fall in love. Maybe it was more than love, though. Maybe, because I am an outcast, and because he was editing OUT at the time, I felt like Matthew, with that kiss, was accepting me at long last into the gay community itself.

Still, I'm a little awkward around most gays. At the party, I went immediately into the smoking section outside, where I saw "a little awkward around everything" Michael Musto come in and lurk about uncomfortably, probably fabricating some internal dialogue about how fabulous everything was, and how everyone was talking to him and saying provocative things, which no one was. I have met Michael many times, but he never remembers, so a long time ago I just stopped trying. Some nice gay boys came prancing in, and I remembered the lessons my one gay friend recently taught me, and I cried, "Work!" But then they started telling me about some Beyonce show they had just come from. A secret show, entrance to which seemed to involve some desultory coercion of some sort. I weakly told them that I loved her "Single Ladies." They stared at me open-mouthed and said, "That's it?!" Sorry, gays. I don't know from Beyonce. I stopped buying her music when she left Destiny's Child.

Inside, I milled around, waiting for Matthew to arrive at his own party, and saw a collection of Indian and black gays sitting around making fun of people theatrically. Deciding to try to make friends with this crew, I walked over and announced, "Is this the colored section?" Surprisingly, rather than freezing me solid with their gaze, they invited me in and seemed to take a (mild) interest in me having fun at the party. I danced a little bit, but my side-to-side "Belinda Carlisle" dance, which has aged suspiciously well, much like Ms. Carlisle herself.

Then Matthew came in! I walked over and screamed his name and hugged him, then asked him if he remembered me. He did! OMG, I totally crushed out. I told him I would messenger him a package to his hotel that week, but now I'm wondering if I should do what I was planning and just messenger him a galley I think he might like, or if I should try to uphold my own reputation and send him something dirty-ish but non-threatening, as well. I'll have to think about that.

Anyway, the invite for the party said "dress posh," so that's why I dug up this ratty old Sleater-Kinney tee. Hee, hee! And by the way, I know that Matthew probably kisses every publicist dramatically. But hey, what gay doesn't want to feel special? I know I do.

Gay Pride

2011-08-01T07:15:00.000-07:00

I decided to meet Annie and her friend at the Gay Pride Parade (okay, obviously I'm a little late in posting this one). I decided to wear my "Have you seen my weiner?" t-shirt, which I have worn correctly only once before. I've worn it inside-out many times, but I'm afraid of offending the ladies and gentlemen in my neighborhood with it. But, I figured, who am I going to offend at the Gay Pride Parade? Everyone will ignore me, gawking instead at the shirtless ladies and men in pink spandex.

When I arrived at the parade, however, I noticed that everyone seemed to have toned it down a notch since the parades I used to attend in the 1990s. A lot of people seemed to have kids, too. I felt a little ashamed, actually, at my t-shirt, but that was okay. I enjoy feeling shame. (The shirt itself is my way to shame myself about my promiscuous period - again in the 90s - where I would "take it out" in a variety of settings). My friend Tim and I used to joke about our "Gay Shame Parade," which consisted of just the two of us, plus whichever loners and outcasts were currently in our circle. Then Tim moved away to Berlin. Sigh. Now it's just me, a parade of one.

Everyone is so ra-ra about everything these days. People cheered for the Bank of America float, for God's sake. They even cheered for the NYPD's brass band. I dutifully booed and hissed any float that featured a bank's logo, and I definitely booed the NYPD, but I was the only one booing. I don't get Lady Gaga, either.

Alice Walker wrote once that "resistance is the secret of joy." And Sheryl Crow lamented that "it's hard to make a stand." Parade volunteers pranced by, handing out stickers for the crowd to wear, but I politely declined all of them, except for the one I'm wearing in this pic. The sticker for SAGE, the elderly gays. I could rock this town, friends, but first I have to take a Boniva.

The Grey Lady

2011-07-05T06:40:00.000-07:00

Me and Chadi went to see the New York Times documentary "Page One." Chadi is another one of my unlimited supply of cousins - although, technically, I suppose, he is my second cousin. His mother Pauline is my cousin. Perhaps he is my nephew? I don't know. :(

I adore the New York Times, and, in homage to that paper, I wore an all-grey outfit - a grey tee, grey Levi's, and blue-grey loafers - so that I could say that I was "The Grey Lady." Ha ha, am I the only one old enough to get that joke? Perhaps...

The documentary was great, but I'm already on the New York Times' side, so maybe I'm not impartial here. I have the "Weekender" subscription. (Don't you hate those "Weekender" commercials? Whenever that guy says, "I go straight for the sports section," I can't help but think, "I go straight for his cock." But that's me. Dirty and bitter and perverted, I am truly the target audience for the NYT, though the stories reflecting my private thoughts and personal journeys are usually banished to "Styles.")

Most weekends, I read the NYT while walking on the treadmill at the gym, where I walk on an 8% incline and go 3 m.p.h. I'm old! Once, when I was buying an NYT at Starbucks, the cashier asked me, "Don't you have an iPhone?" When I replied that yes I did have one, although what business is that of yours? he said, "But you know all this is online, right?" But I get sweaty, Starbucks friend!

As part of my job, I find myself emailing people from the NYT almost on a daily basis. Sometimes this has mixed results. I'll never forget my anger when JM, a reporter from the NYT, stole my author's book's premise for an article with neither attribution nor interview. And I recently got a bizarre phone call from another reporter, JH, who apparently wished to spend a half-hour on the phone with me making fun of my knowledge of fairies (!!), insulting a couple of our authors, and making a bizarre allegation about my manliness. But for some reason I can't quit you, NYT. I wouldn't even know there was a country called Burkina Faso without having read its name in the dateline of one of your articles. Gail Collins, one of your columnists, routinely makes me laugh out loud on the treadmill at the gym. And sweet, saintly Charles M. Blow makes me remember sometimes what it means to be a liberal, to have compassion, to feel.

After the movie, Chadi and I met up with Mary (who took this picture) for some tapas.

The wrong bulge

2011-06-16T07:06:00.000-07:00

Why is it that whenever a politician is busted for sending R-rated photos of himself, it always seems to be the wrong politician? Case in point, Anthony Weiner. I can honestly say that I never looked at him and imagined wanting to see his bulge, nor did I ever wish to see the somewhat scorched-looking torso of Rep. Chris Lee.

Why did these politicians think that sending lewd images of themselves would get some woman hot? Anthony Weiner's political career did impress me - he has a great point of view and great panache, although like many politicians, his debut in politics seemed a little shady. But he clearly has bad judgment if he thought his bulge was going to entice, rather than repel, any female onlooker.

You would think it would be the so-called hot ones who have pictures of themselves scantily clad at the ready. I am not attracted either to Men's Health coverboy Rep. Aaron Schock nor Sen. Scott Brown, two oft-mentioned "hunks" o' government. But if anyone was going to flash a bulge, you would think it would be these two.

Currently, the only politician I am attracted to (now that Tony Blair and Idi Amin are out of office) is Rep. Paul Ryan, or, as I like to call him, "the Dark Lord." Truly, so cute! But so evil, as well. Can't you just imagine his blue eyes boring into you as you (bound and gagged, of course) struggle to moan for help? Just to look at his beautiful, manicured hands is to imagine those hands cutting off your oxygen, just as he is trying to do with America's budget. Where is his bulge? Where is his blue dress? Nowhere, that's where. Phooey.

If anyone has a picture of Paul Ryan naked, and doesn't mind me building a blog post around it (and forwarding it to a small group of like-minded political enthusiasts), please send me a jpeg?

Tracy Morgan

2011-06-12T10:59:00.000-07:00

What kind of a world do we live in where even the gays have lost their sense of irony? Okay, that's a loaded question, but in reality I'm really surprised that people don't get that Tracy Morgan's whole persona is an act, a character. To me, he's a performance artist, a genius on the level of an Andy Kaufman or a Stephen Colbert. But even some of the gays whose opinions I respect (William, Johnathan, the staff of OUT) seem to be upset by his homophobic standup act. Does anyone really think that mopey, gay Midwestern teens would feel a real threat from a man who so often dresses in drag? Give gay teens some credit! And give the bullies who harass them some credit, too - I'm sure that if bullies start stabbing teens now, they probably weren't too far away from doing so to begin with. You may not believe in me, bullies, but I believe in you. I'm sure Tracy will check himself into rehab now, or set up an awkward visit with some teens who've been bullied. Oh, well. Joan Rivers and "Family Guy" might as well take a few months off, until the dust settles. And Alec Baldwin better pray that Youtube crashes. And you, Tina Fey, re-watch "30 Rock"'s loathsome and very funny "feminism episode," please. And if anyone feels the urge to stab me to retaliate for this post, by all means, stab away. I'm a big fan of irony!

Uniqlo tee

2011-06-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

I went out to Queens last night, and walked in to find my father and sister looking through my father's ADT papers. His ADT alarm was malfunctioning, so every few minutes, it was emitting a tooth-grinding shriek. But the only person who knew the security code to turn off the alarm was Miss Webster, his former home health aide, who recently moved back to St. Kitts! They forced me to get on the phone with ADT, and ADT walked me through the steps of disabling the alarm - I felt like Macgyver with a screwdriver in my hand, disabling an alarm - it felt like I was disabling a bomb. Why doesn't my father - an accomplished man with a strange fear that bands of roving maladroits are rampant in Queens, lurking about and waiting for the opportunity to kidnap 90-year-old men with incontinence issues - know the code to his house's security system?

Afterwards, my nerves still on edge from the shrieking of the alarm, my father sat me down and told me that my real father's estate may have finally been settled, and that there may be "some money there waiting for me." Ha! That estate has been in a mysterious limbo for 30-plus years, and I don't believe it will ever truly be settled. But that's between you and me. My father told me to call my cousin Ann in Antigua, who is the lawyer for the estate. What an awkward conversation that will be - especially since Ann's daughter Joy herself was kidnapped a couple of weeks ago (it turned out okay) and I haven't called Ann yet to see how she's doing. My slowness in showing my concern for my relatives has cost me dearly in the past, and that trend continues, it seems.

After that weird talk with my father, I went into the kitchen and saw a roach! Gaaaa! Maxine wanted to spray it, but I refused to use the spray, instead choosing to kill it with my bare hands. People are far too squeamish about using their hands to kill roaches, I feel - it's the most environmentally friendly method, and you get to kill a living being with your bare hands! (If you sometimes feel powerless, killing is one way to take your power back. Over the years - especially my childhood years - I have clapped mosquitoes between my palms, squeezed beetles, de-winged moths - and now, in my adulthood, I feel a strange sense of power, which sometimes manifests itself as a paralyzing anxiety). After I killed the roach, my sister smiled weakly and said "eEeEeEeE." I cracked up. Then I went downstairs into my childhood bathroom and took this picture. I'm wearing a recent purchase, a dark grey tee from Uniqlo. There were many options of colors in this particular tee shirt model, but I chose this color and a purple one, too - because those reminded me of tee shirts of mine from the past. To someone who is powerful, though, ahem, "between inheritances," with a seemingly never-ending gig providing technical support to a surprisingly helpless father and sister, wearing a familiar tee is perhaps the only self-comfort available at times. That, and Paxil.

Clip a loaf

2011-05-26T11:23:00.000-07:00

A bird shat on me today. Are you one of those people who think that's good luck? I'm not.

I can remember with great clarity the occasions in my life where I bird has hit me with an ass apple. The first time, I was working as a temporary Census worker. God, it must have been 1990. I was crestfallen when it happened; I thought life was a bit of a charnal pit already - I was a fat kid with a part-time job, living at home again with my sadistic parents, on summer break from college. And then to top it all off, I had to make my rounds to the homes of strangers in Queens, covered in excreta.

The second time it happened, I was wandering in Midtown during a patch of, ahem, under-employment. I think I had just seen David Dinkins walking in the street, and, while that did thrill me, it probably offered me no succor, as he was unemployed himself at the time. What could a sighting of David Dinkins do for me?! I remember feeling overwhelmed and forming this thought: What has God wrought? Literally. I was thinking in complete sentences back then, as if I was writing my thoughts down in a little book. And then a bird hit me with its sphincter spear.

Today, I was walking from CVS with a bag full of pills when I felt what I at first thought was a blast from a bb gun. I put my hand to my head and drew it back filled with stool. But what did it mean? I know that birds are God's emissaries on Earth, so what was God trying to tell me? I'm actually in a good place in my life right now. My meds are working. I get a great deal of personal satisfaction from my job. I just purchased a li'l Netbook, and now will be tap-tap-tapping away at my unpublishable novel. I'm not seeing anyone, and so have a little extra money in my pocket.

This is a picture of me in the bathroom at work after I had washed my head off. I'm wearing some Barney's shirt, which I recently shortened the sleeves of. A little speck of the bird's toilet orphan is on my shoulder, but you'd never see it unless you looked for it.

I remember a scene from Orwell's Animal Farm in which a flock of birds "mutes" on some farmers. My English teacher at the time told us that "mute" in this context meant to "clip a loaf," as it were. I can say in all sincerity that I have had a very Orwellian day today.

Pizza party!

2011-05-26T10:52:00.001-07:00

It was Annie's bday, so I took her to that Max Brenner restaurant in Union Square, where we had a delicious supper. Annie never warns people when her birthday is approaching ... she only tells you months later, so you can feel terrible about forgetting it, and she can be a martyr of a sort. But now I will have the last laugh! I've saved Annie's bday in an internet program, so I get a reminder about it every year. Now, every year I tell her she's an old hag like me, and then I take her out to dinner so we can have some food for our Boniva to dissolve in.

I laughed out loud when I saw the t-shirt she was wearing! It's an inside joke that not too many people know - Annie and our friend Kristin have a fake band named Pizza Party, that exists only for them to take funny "album cover" photos and post them on their Facebook pages. I remember looking at these posts once and feeling both impressed by their wit and a little jealous that I wasn't in the band. I wish I had the link. I just googled "kristin anne pizza party" to try to find the link again, and instead I found a link to a segment on New Jersey's News 13 where Kristin embarks on a unicycle ride across the state, in the hope of inspiring "locals to live their dreams." I quickly closed my browser window ... sometimes we find that we don't know our friends as well as we thought. And perhaps that's for the best.

Here's the unicycle segment link:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaD3ZXZVK50

White people

2011-05-26T10:32:00.001-07:00

I hesitate to post about this, because it might offend some people, but for all my life, I have tried to avoid buying articles of clothing with pictures of white people on them. I have nothing against you, white people! But there are so many of you - in my neighborhood, my career, my social life - I don't need to see you depicted on my clothing. Plus, as a minority, I feel that I should be going above and beyond to find positive portrayals of black people to wear. Trust me when I tell you, it's hard to find positive portrayals of black people on clothing. Sigh.

As I've mentioned on my blog before, an old boss once tried to give me a pair of cufflinks with white babies depicted on them! "Oh, no!" I practically screamed at him. "I'm not going to walk around this place with a pair of white babies on my wrist!" It helps the story if you imagine that the place of work was Sotheby's, where I was the only black man employed, aside from the art handlers.

Imagine this, then ... after a weeks-long search for the perfect pair of khaki pants, after I had ventured bravely into what is consistently my fashion Waterloo, Urban Outfitters, found a pair of khakis that I loved (slim fit, a slightly olive tint), laundered this pair of pants (thus rendering them unreturnable), and then hung them up ... Imagine my shock at looking closer at the pocket after something had caught my eye ... closer, still closer ... and then realizing, with a sinking feeling, that a bunch of white children - practically microscopic but still there! - were cavorting around inside the button.

I have many racial hangups, it's true. This story illustrates just one of them.

Kiss & Fly

2011-05-06T13:53:00.000-07:00

Susan somehow convinced me to drag my ass out to Kiss & Fly to see a bizarre live taping of the "Judith Regan Show." I went not only to prove that I can still lurk around at hip clubs at my age, but also because I wanted to meet the legendary Judith Regan, who used to work for the publishing company I work for. One of my colleagues has saved a voicemail from Judith in which she starts off all nicey-nice, but then begins screaming at him so loudly that, years later, the sheer terror she must have inspired is still palpable. Because I had a crazy mother, I find crazy ladies really fascinating, and I go out of my way to befriend and mollify them. But I was unable to get close to Judith at Kiss & Fly, however - that dirty old Dennis Hof from HBO's "Cathouse" was in my way. :(

Susan and I were watching Vicki when Susan muttered to me, "Look at Vicki. What is she going for here - winter, spring, summer, or fall?" I cracked up, because I love catty fashion commentary! Then Susan told me that my evil college journalism nemesis Tom McGinty is up for two Pulitzers this year! I swear, if Tom McGinty wins a Pulitzer, I will plotz. Back at Utica College, he won every single award ever created, and tried to discredit me as a less-than-serious journalist! I will never forgive him for referring to me as the "part-time Arts & Entertainment Editor of the Tangerine." As my life has taught me, people hate the arts ...

Right after this picture was taken, some creeping fellow asked if I would come say hello to his friend, who was giving me the eye, and who apparently owns some gas stations. Even though I was not attracted to his friend, a gas station owner is a step up from my usual love interests, who are generally unemployed and sort of psychotic and detached. I went and said hello, but I guess I didn't make the cut, because I was dismissed after that. "We like to meet a lot of people," the creeper said. Apparently, the creeping friend and the gas station owner flew home that night in the gas station owner's personal helicopter. Ah, well. I guess I should count myself lucky. With my luck, I probably would have been thrown from the helicopter mid-flight.

Susan became drunkenly obsessed with getting a picture taken with Dennis Hof, and I took the opportunity to slip out and head home to bed with the Colonel. A typical night for the Gregster. No Pulitzer in hand, no digits from the gas station millionaire - but all the overweight cat I can snuggle.

Cleaning day

2011-04-20T08:22:00.000-07:00

I took Friday off to clean my apartment, which is something I do from time to time, though I do find my efforts futile in a way. I spent the whole day taking recycling downstairs, doing laundry, putting away clean clothes, and throwing things out. I also did two hours of cardio - an hour on my stationary bike, and one hour on the treadmill at the gym. While exercising, I sped-read my way through four months-worth of old New York Times's that I had stacked on my computer, and which had become an oppressive mountain of late. When newspapers stack up like that, I am consumed with terrible guilt - as a book publicist, I know that there might be some tidbit in one of the papers that I could parlay into a booking for one of my authors. So I can't bring myself to throw them out! That's why, when I finally got to the bottom of the pile, I was reading a New York Times from October 30, 2010. Once, a long time ago, I threw away an even bigger stack of papers and magazines that I had been saving in a plastic tub - at Vicki's suggestion - and I cried myself to sleep that night, and have been haunted ever since by what I might have found, what I might have been made to believe.

After a hard day like that, what better way to unwind than with a terrifying movie in which a hard-working book publicist is stabbed to death and then dumped off a building? That's why I went to see "Scream 4" with Chris and Kirk. Here I am, wearing a Helmut Lang t-shirt I'd found that day on the bottom of a drawer, along with my "punk-rock" pants from John Varvatos. If I ever get stabbed to death and dumped off a building, I hope I'm wearing Helmut Lang. What a fabulous way to die.

Richard

2011-04-18T12:54:00.001-07:00

Richard was in town with his boyfriend Patrick, and we went to Westville for brunch. I commented on Richard's militaristic coat, and then I photographed him, as the military look is hot, hot, hot right now. I know Richard from Lehman Brothers, and, during my time there, the other assistants and I were always curious as to how Richard remained employed. Richard said during brunch that it was his perfectionism that made the higher-ups hate him, but I seem to recall that it was his penchant for taking off every single religious holiday on the calendar (and there are many). But who am I to grouse about someone's work ethic at Lehman Brothers? When I was there, I was cultivating a serious drug habit, and took a great many days off myself (once without any notification at all, which was shocking - SHOCKING - to Human Resources). I was also cultivating a serious inclination toward bluntly sexual office banter - once I told Ali Behbahani that my PIBs (public information books) were as "sweet as honey," while winking lewdly at him. That was really gross. And when Ted Kalem touched a fax machine near me once and said "That's hot!" I replied, sweetly, "Thank you." He gave me a dirty look. At our group head Gary's clam bake at his Westchester pool house, sitting across from Ali, wearing swim trunks, I literally exposed myself to him, and he turned pale. But what could they do? My boss was their supervisor, and he was a scary person. Once, I called him to give my two weeks' notice, and he intimidated me into staying! He literally refused to let me quit. These days, of course, I am old and tired, and being a sassy secretary doesn't hold the same thrill for me. I'm not even an assistant any more - although I was one for years after I left Lehman Brothers. Looking back, I really am sorry that I refused to do your expense report that time, Nik Puri! I'm sorry that I was so loud in the office, Marilyn and Armita. I hope you are still in touch with "Mr. Frank." Wherever he is, I am sure he is closing in on the bottom line as surely as if he contained a homing device within him. And I'm really sorry to you, Ali, for "taking it out." Richard, I'm glad we stay in touch, even though there isn't even a Lehman Brothers anymore. Most of all, for reasons that may be obvious to everyone, I'm sorry I never met Dick Fuld.

Show's over, Synergy

2011-04-11T10:08:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I've been obsessed with 80s cartoon "Jem" lately. I know, I know, I'm old. And gay. I spent a weekend recently googling Jem, and discovered many unexpected things. Did you know that the woman who provided Jem's singing voice is now the bassist for the band Luna? Or that Christy Marx, the show's creator, may be thinking of reviving the show and doll line? I didn't, but I do now.

Jem's signature line, "Showtime, Synergy!", of course, was the signal for her computer, Synergy, to project a hologram of the Jem character, usually with pink hair and a sassy pink outfit (often with a sash) over Jerrica Benton's body. And then she would sing and dance with her band, and engage in a surprisingly lethal feud with a rival band, the Misfits. Sometimes I wonder if that's what drew me to Jem - the fact that she was just an illusion. Or was it because it was the first time I saw anyone wear a sash? Who knows?

Whatever the appeal, Jem really did it for me. I was thirteen when the show debuted, and I would rush home from high school and set up my little tape recorder next to the t.v. so I could tape Jem's songs. I still remember some of them by heart. The theme song. "Music is Magic." "Let the Music Play." Now that I think about it, I was perhaps a little too old even then to get that into a cartoon. And certainly, I had to keep my obsession a secret from my parents, who enjoyed punishing me by withholding access to my favorite things. (Plus, my mother had already chastised me for wanting to see "Dreamgirls," saying, "I don't know what kind of young man wants to see three woman on stage, singing." My mother was truly outrageous!)

Recently, in a meeting in our department at work, the topic of Jem came up. I grasped my imaginary star earring and said: "Showtime, Synergy!" I expected everyone's eyes to light up, remembering that immortal battle cry. Instead, I was greeted with embarrassed silence from the other members of the publicity department. Clearly, no one remembered Jem's lines, and, in fact, everyone wondered why I did. I was going to say Jem's other immortal line, "Show's over, Synergy!" but I figured the message behind that line could be inferred already, from the silence.

Me and Sue and Heather

2011-03-15T07:42:00.001-07:00

Heather was in town, and I went to meet her and Susan for lunch at Burger Heaven. I'm wearing a coat from Tumi Sport, a hat from Mandarina and Duck and my new Levi's 505s. Heather and Susan had attended a performance by Lucinda Williams the night before, and were on their way to the MoMA. I feel like they're always going to see Lucinda Williams. I myself saw her twice, and then I felt like that was enough. She's not going to sing "Passionate Kisses" anymore. She's not going to sing "Car Wheels on a Gravel Road."

Once a year I like to purchase a coat and a scarf, which I incorporate into my rotating wardrobe. The coat I am wearing in this picture is this year's purchase. Perhaps my ultimate goal is to do a music video in which I am wearing lots of different coats and scarves. I have never seen a Lucinda Williams video, but if there is one, I'm sure she is only wearing one coat.

I used to make a lot of macabre jokes about my dead friends and family, and now Susan is doing it, too - about hers. When I told Susan and Heather about the panicky feeling I've been having for a couple of weeks now, and that I was now on Seroquel during the day, not just the night, Susan drily told me that someone she knew used to take Seroquel, and now he's dead. I replied, perhaps unnecessarily, that that wasn't the best commercial for Seroquel.

Do you, like me, ever feel like you've taught your friends well? Perhaps too well?

Replacement wallet

2011-03-10T12:56:00.000-08:00

*Sigh*. I loved my little green canvas wallet with the birds on it. I got it two years ago at an Urban Outfitters, and I knew it wouldn't last. Now here it is with a huge hole in it.

A salesman had warned me when I bought it: "these wallets are kind of childish." I was mortified, knowing that in the parlance of the young and hip, that means "you are too old." But I was used to it by then. There aren't too many 38-year-old men who idly browse through Urban Outfitters, waiting for some shiny item to thrill them, to call to them. I am one such man.

Luckily, I have a replacement wallet, and it has a funny backstory. A long time ago, my friend Jimmy was in Japan, and he went to someone's house. At the house, he complimented a lantern, and he was given the lantern, just like that, simply because it was the custom to do so in Japan! But Jimmy knew beforehand that that was the custom, so he had complimented the lantern in order to get it. He really wanted that lantern!

Years and years later, not knowing this story, I complimented Jimmy on his wallet. Not too long after that, he gave me an identical wallet as a gift. I thought, what a nice guy! But then I overheard him telling the Japan story to someone, and I realized what he had done. He is trying to live a good life, and because he can't track down his Japan hosts, he had paid it forward, to me. I want to live a life like that, and just my wanting it actually makes it happen sometimes, on certain days.

Now, though it pains me to retire the bird wallet, I have a new wallet to use, for no other reason than that a friend was trying to be a good person. Random acts of kindness ...

You wear THOSE, shoes, I decide

2011-02-28T12:34:00.000-08:00

Seniors like me rarely get "tuned in" to the sounds of the young, since we go to bed too early and fear the radiation that seeps from computers. But from time to time over the past decade or so, some new bands have come to my attention. I adore the Noisettes, for example, and the Silversun Pickups, and Jean on Jean, and Joan as Police Woman, although I do think her second album sounded a little rushed. (Ah, well. Again, we've all been there, album). Perhaps the most unlikely band to incur my approval, though, is the local rock combo Interpol, whom I went to see last week at Radio City Music Hall.

Interpol first showed up on my radar when I was watching the video show "NewNowNext" on LOGO. The video for "The Heinrich Manuever" came on, and I was watching it in a theatrically neutral kind of way. I thought the visuals were sort of frightfully dull - a waiter is running, a lady gets hit by a bus (but the bus seems to only be going five miles an hour, so where's the harm in that?). But then the singer, a pinched-sounding young man who sings in a kind of over-earnest way, said to the lady he was singing the song to: "you wear those shoes, I decide."

I must say, I fell a little bit in love with Interpol with that line. Imagine - a straight man who tells his lady what shoes she must wear! How silly and vaguely threatening, simultaneously. Guiltily, I began collecting their music, although because I suspected that they actually were not really "cool," I got most of their records from the library. I sort of feel weird about supporting acts that are openly derivative of other bands (like Interpol and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs) even when I enjoy their music. That's the hypocrite in me, I suppose. Anyway, I laughed my head off at Interpol's cds - the cocaine imagery, the veiled threats of violence, their little suits and stuff. But I rocked out a little bit to them, too. And I decided that I would go, in all my ruined glory, to see them live.

Sadly, I quickly learned that when an old person hears of a band, it's likely that the young people have heard of that band years ago, and when Interpol played that year, it was at Madison Square Garden. I refuse to go to such a large arena! I remember some fellow I used to chum around with when I worked at MultiPlan named Justin Cherno telling me that he liked Tracy Chapman, but that he wouldn't go see her live until her popularity inevitably waned, and she was reduced to playing at the Academy. (Of course, Tracy Chapman threw a monkey-wrench into that plan with that unstoppable blues jam she dropped a few years ago. And there isn't even an Academy anymore, alack).

Long story short, years passed, and Interpol finally toured again, and I snapped up one ticket to see them. This is a picture of them, but I took it with my crappy Blackberry, so it's inscrutable. I was afraid that I would be wading through hipsters at Radio City Music Hall, but it appears that the hipsters have moved on from Interpol. When a band is kewl, but their fans are no longer kewl, it seems to indicate that a break up is coming, so I am glad that I attended the Interpol show, as it may very well turn out to be their last. And whom have the hipsters moved on to? I'll let you know in approx. five years.

Sunday brunch

2011-02-24T09:39:00.001-08:00

A bunch of us cousins went up to Paula and Luther's for brunch on Sunday. We discussed Precious, Nadia's ice cream cone idea, Esperanza Spalding, and book promotion, amongst other topics. I brought flowers and a wheat loaf. For a long time, I have refused to eat white bread - it's kind of like a mental prison I've been locked into from reading too many issues of Men's Health. (If Men's Health were looking for a new name for itself, I would definitely nominate "Worries.") One of these days, I'm going to bring my own crust to a pizza store. Or bring my own host to church. I'm wearing Fred Perry in this picture, and some ratty old cap. I'm not sure what everyone else is wearing.

Paula knows that when I meet up with people, I prefer to go to the movies, so that I don't have to talk to anyone, and can drift off into my own thoughts and the thoughts of the filmmaker, and eat tubs of popcorn, "worries" or no. But every now and then, I do like to gather in a group with people. After the brunch, Alyse, Nadia, Xavi and I walked down Edgecombe Avenue and I broke into the song "Harlem Blues," from Spike Lee's Mo' Better Blues. "Twenty years later and I still know that song by heart.

I'm not sure where this post is going, so I'll stop.

Farrah hood

2011-02-15T13:47:00.001-08:00

I wanted to mourn the putting away of my winter clothes, so I went with Mary to dinner at Acme, wearing my hooded coat from Diesel. I asked Mary to take my picture, and when I looked at the result, I noticed that the hood made me look like I had Farrah Fawcett hair.

What are your thoughts on Farrah Fawcett? When she died last year, I read an article on Salon that called her the "pretty girl reaching for depth." I was moved by that epitaph, as I've always sort of seen myself as a "deep girl reaching for prettiness." Salon wasn't the only one who offered a remembrance of Farrah, of course. In fact, the publishing company where I work put out a book about her last year, and it ... ahem ... underperformed. (Ah, well. We've all been there, book.) I think that people resist the effort to embrace a re-contextualization of a life that was basically blameless, a life lived in a seeming pursuit of joy and happiness. Perhaps that's to our credit as humans. Personally, when I am on line at the supermarket and glance at a tabloid headline that reads "Such-and-such-actor's sad final days" before the actor is even dead, it gives me a chill. Whose final days aren't sad, I wonder? Sometimes even my not-so-final days have a tinge of sorrow.

Mary and I went out to dinner on Valentine's Day. Like most years, I was happy to say goodbye to Valentine's Day even before it arrived. Goodbye, Valentine's! Goodbye, winter! Until next year, hooded coat! And goodbye, Farrah Fawcett.

Soft-soled shoes

2011-02-14T11:24:00.001-08:00

Today was my annual trip to the podiatrist to have my hoof sanded down. I have sustained many lingering injuries over the course of my life - a mysterious fractured foot, repetitive-stress wear and tear to my knees from obsessive running - and, during the year, these injuries lead to the buildup of callouses on my feet. At the injuries' worst, I feel like Black Beauty or Seabiscuit, two horses whose own foot problems led to high-stepping drama on the racing circuit. Unlike Black Beauty, however, I don't have to be destroyed; instead, once or twice a year, I go to a podiatrist to have the callouses shaved off. I like my current podiatrist, but on occasion I have felt that other podiatrists were getting more satisfaction from handling my feet than could possibly have been intended. I suppose that, were I a "foot man," I would become a podiatrist, as well. No one speaks of "foot men" anymore these days - have you noticed that? Perhaps they have gone and retained themselves a good publicist.

Today, my podiatrist idly inquired whether I had watched the Grammy's, and, rather than replying, I went on a strange tear about internet rumors about Justin Bieber. That he is really a 50-year-old man with a degenerative disease. That Usher is his lover. Etc., etc. Actually, I have not actually seen the rumors personally, but they are related to me by the young people in my department at work. Sometimes I think they make things up to tell me to get a reaction out of me, because they think I am insane. But I am merely a harmless eccentric ...

I left the podiatrists' office with a spring in my step, and a bottle of fungicide in my pocket. (I have a mysterious discoloration on my right big toe, and it has persisted, surprisingly, for years. This spring, I vow to wear sandals without socks for the first time in recent memory, whether it makes me even more of a pariah amongst the gays than I currently am). I looked down at my soft-soled shoes - the cross to bear of anyone with recurrent callouses - and mused to myself that this is often how I picture myself, when I think of myself: as a pair of shoes, walking down the street. Of course, this is because I can't literally look at myself, unless I am looking in a mirror. I can only look down at my legs and feet, and venture a hopeless guess as to the rest.

Bookcourt

2011-02-08T09:42:00.000-08:00

Wearing black Levi's and some old short-sleeve Paul Smith shirt with what appears to be sea anemones on it, I went to Bookcourt in Brooklyn. Two of my authors, including the lovely Simon Van Booy, were on a three-person panel on romance and philosophy. My author Andrew Shaffer (GREAT PHILOSOPHERS WHO FAILED AT LOVE) brought a prize wheel with him (!) from Iowa and they did a little philosophical game show. My ticket was called, and I sat in the hot seat and answered some question about philosophy. I don't remember what the question was, but I won a chocolate. I know that John Reed from the Brooklyn Rail, whose voice I sometimes hear in my head like a moral compass, would say that it was corrupt of me to win at a game that I had helped set up. But what is the book business if not corrupt? (I love the word "corrupt" - my father called me that once when I was a child, and I still hear it as though pronounced with his voice's rich, majestic timbre.)

The room was full of hot straight guys, which always puts me in a bad mood. The other panelist, Todd Colby, was the only guy there whom I thought could be "funny," but a quick Google search the next morning revealed that he has a wife. And also that he has terrible luck and has barely survived fires and such, so probably not the best match for me, anyways. I like to be the unlucky one in any relationship, and I usually am.

Remember when a guy's ambiguous sexuality could become fodder for a years-long, ultimately unrequited crush? (I still think of you now, Steve from Zido's.) Now, thanks to Google, my hopes are dashed within hours, not years. I'm sure that's for the best. Now, after meeting him, I am sure that my email address will be added to Todd's mailing list, and I will get emails soon inviting me to a reading he's doing in Brooklyn somewhere. Thanks to Google, I will file these emails away in a folder called "To be wistfully ignored," a folder that, strangely, is full to overflowing. (Anyway, don't people realize that people who live in Manhattan, like me, pay extra every month so that we don't have to go to Brooklyn?)

Several of my most existential questions that evening received an answer, or, rather, a temporary salve, in the form of the reading, the ersatz game show, and a nice dinner afterwards with Mary, who accompanied me. But my most pressing question, in the end, was not answered to my satisfaction. Why does Andrew Shaffer have a prize wheel?

Idi Amin for TopShop

2011-01-12T08:50:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-10T09:45:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-06T14:06:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-04T07:11:00.001-08:00

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

2011-01-03T11:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Suzie and Joshua

2010-12-29T13:46:00.000-08:00

My half-sister Suzie was in town from Barbados with her son, my little nephew Joshua. I picked them up and took them to Sylvia's for lunch. Then we decided to go to the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, and there, basically, went all of my money. I was robbed - again - by NYC. Why are these kid-friendly events so expensive? We had to sit up in the balcony, even. All our money was not enough, apparently, to purchase a seat in the orchestra. When Santa said, "And a special 'hello' to my friends in the balcony!" I heard the implied rebuke in his voice, and I was reminded yet again that we must purchase love even from Santa. I shivered an exquisite shiver with the thought of that, up in the balcony.

Suzie and Joshua are wearing winter clothes in this picture. Suzie is wearing my hat. Of course, no one wears winter clothes in Barbados, where it is pretty much 83 degrees all the time. I haven't been to Barbados in about seven years, since my half-brother Craig got married. At the time, I had the sneaking suspicion that Joshua was crazy, as he kept making repetitive motions with his hands and playing video games and ruining the wedding. Luckily, he has turned out to be quite smart and mentally sound. He even has a little bit of my sense of humor. He made a joke about "balls," and not the kind you bounce.

Rip in the crotch

2010-12-22T06:24:00.000-08:00

I made it all the way to work yesterday before I realized there was a rip in the crotch of my pants! Right before my meeting with Mauro. He already thinks I'm crazy. Now he will think I'm secretly homeless, to boot. (I should call my memoir "Homeless to Harper Perennial.") I loved these pants - a sort of bone-colored twill from Theory - too small when I bought them, but now loosely fitting, due to my fluctuating weight, which has fluctuated downward, happily, in recent years - and I was heartbroken. Do I get them repaired, or do I just try to find another pair just like them? (There is no pair just like them).

Of course, the rip took me back to my days at college, sophomore year, when I was taking a class with an eccentric sociology professor named ... I can't remember her name! Whoever she was, I complained to her about a similar rip then, and she told me she would repair my pants, for free. I was incredulous. A professor mending my pants? But I gave them to her. She returned them a couple of days later with a huge, bright-blue, iron-on patch attached to the outside of the pants. I stared at her. "I can't believe you just put a crazy patch on it!" I said. "You want me to look like Raggedy Andy!" She was highly amused, as was the entire Utica College faculty when I got finished with disseminating that story. But in reality, I was really grateful - my own mother probably would have just ripped the pants up to use as rags, as I wept. I felt mothered by that professor, and safe for a second, which is all I need. I wish I could remember her name ... there are very few eccentrics in the world - fewer still, eccentrics who make us feel safe - and I'd like to collect them all, at least within my memory, and keep them safe there.

I have earlier, murkier, memories of rips in crotches. My mother would take me, in these memories, to the store (Sears, or Alexanders, or somesuch), and announce that the pants had to be "STURDY IN THE CROTCH." (And "HUSKY," of course.) Luckily, these memories float in and out of my consciousness like a schooner into fog, and can't hurt me anymore.

Bill's Bar & Burger

2010-12-16T07:04:00.000-08:00

I am clearly obsessed with Bill's Bar & Burger in Rockefeller Center. I went there again yesterday with my old college classmates Vicki and Tom (Susan was supposed to join, but she believes that she is busier, even, than us. Ha!). I was wearing a flimsy blue blouse from H&M, a maroon v-neck sweater from the Gap, and Levi's jeans - surprisingly down-market today, but I don't remember whether that was on purpose or not. Maybe I was trying not to scare Tom? Who knows.

The wait was supposed to be 30-35 minutes, but the host and I have a mild flirtation going, and he got us seated in 15 minutes. That's what my ruined beauty buys me - 25 fewer minutes of wait time. (Then he gave me his card and wrote down his work mobile number so I could call ahead the next time I was coming, so he could make sure I didn't have to wait. I immediately felt the simultaneous shame and pride that arises in me when I become a regular somewhere, and the ambiguity that arises when I'm not sure if I should take the flirtation to its natural, certain-to-be-humiliating next level).

Tom was my journalism nemesis at Utica College. One year, we went to the journalism department's awards dinner, and Tom won, like, every award. Afterwards, on the drive back to the dorm, Heather asked me to sing her a song, and I sang "Maybe This Time," Sally Bowles' showstopping anthem of scorned love from "Cabaret," with its lyric, "Everybody loves a winner. So nobody love me!" Yesterday, Tom asked me why I wasn't in attendance at the most recent NYC Utica College reunion, but then blithely answered himself: "maybe it was just for award winners?" Har, har, har.

Really, I have an inferiority complex when it comes to all of my old classmates. Tom, of course, is a journalism stud who has a Pulitzer Prize-winning wife and writes for the Wall Street Journal, which he landed at after his gig at the New York fucking Times. Vicki seemingly has to fend off men just crossing the street, and has what once would have been my dream job: a corporate recruiter. (I would hire only crazy people and studs). And Susan, awash in cash, texted me recently that she was looking to buy not just an apartment, but a brownstone this year. And me? What have I become? I ask myself the same question sometimes, but then I try to eat a burger and flirt with a host.

Zoe at Burberry

2010-12-15T06:59:00.000-08:00

I accompanied one of my authors, Zoe Heller, to her reading at Burberry on 57th Street. I sometimes don't go to my authors' events, but this one was so goofily arranged that I elected to go to make sure Zoe wasn't harangued into getting a plaid tattoo or something like that. We sat together in Burberry's "green room," and a parade of beautiful, waifish, bubbly young women and men came in and out (one by one) asking us if we needed water, champagne, magazines, to go to the bathroom, a special pen, etc. I confided in Zoe that, last year, I had handed my business card to an ugly fellow who works at Burberry, with the internal logic that an ugly fellow was my lot in life now that I'm old. That this ugly fellow, my last resort, would now, in some final, horrible irony, be my true love - teaching me a difficult but necessary lesson about the nature of love itself. Needless to say, the ugly fellow didn't call me, and, as I walked into Burberry for the event and saw him standing there, I burned with the shame of it. Burned!

Zoe is an amazing writer - I think of her in the same category as a Lynn Freed or a Mary Gaitskill. Her writing is clean and harsh at the same time, and laugh-out-loud funny. In the green room, she peeped inside the closet and found boxes of "Burberry Brit" cologne, which she cagily suggested that I abscond with. (I didn't). After the reading, she was trying to get Burberry to give me a clothing discount, as well. I was as charmed by Zoe as can be - she even shared her limo home with me. We talked about the gays, about Christmas, and about her boyfriend, who sounds cool. The night made me think of countless other wintertime nights of author readings, sudden bonding, and fresh evidence of old rejections - and, as Zoe's limo pulled off, I ran across the street to meet up with Chris, and I felt so much fondness for Chrismastime that I practically burst with the wonder of being alive. Merry Christmas to everyone! Except for the ugly fellow from Burberry. May you, sir, have as preposterous a Christmas as has ever occurred.

Dad's party

2010-12-13T12:33:00.000-08:00

Here is my father - wearing a nice blue suit - along with my sister and her longterm boyfriend Kevin, at the party we had yesterday for my father's 90th birthday! 90 years - God bless him! He has survived multiple heart attacks, innumerable strokes, a broken hip, prostate cancer, and pneumonia. Truly, he is the One. He is immortal. At the party, when we handed him the microphone, he immediately indicated that he was "living day to day" at this point. I thought everyone would gasp in horror at his macabre assessment of his current situation, but instead, he got some "amen"'s from the crowd, and some good-natured chuckling. I was mortified, and I wanted to cut the power to his mike, but instead I stood there, sitting in my own feelings, which is something that I have learned in my own old age. My father is beloved, and his friends overlook his sometimes inappropriate sense of humor. (Truly, the apple didn't fall far from the tree in this case.)

My favorite memory of my father is from Christmas 1988, when, as a very young man, I told him that I had recently purchased a calendar for myself. (Even at that young age, I was held to strict accounting of the money I had spent - a lesson learned, but obviously forgotten as soon as I had any actual money). My father looked at me and replied, "A Chippendale's calendar?" (Even as a child, I was clearly as gay as a goose.) I looked at my father, aghast at the awkwardness of that comment. Awkward moments from an awkward father for an awkward son in an awkward world at an awkward time of year. It has taken me years and years and years to see how alike me and my father are, and still more to appreciate it.

Dear ones, may the coming year be awkward for you all ... it is through awkwardness that we learn to grow. And if you need 2011 to be a little more awkward, you can always borrow my dad.

Sombrero

2010-11-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

Yolanda and Chris went with me to Chevy's in Times Square. I've been dying lately to go to Chevy's for some reason, but no one would go with me! So I practically had to coerce the two of them to accompany me - I just didn't want to be alone eating a smothered burrito in Times Square that night. We had a meal that was okay (why don't I ever remember that the food at Chevy's is just okay?), and then Yolanda tried to get me a free dessert by telling the waitress that it was my birthday. The waitress said she couldn't get me a free dessert, but she brought me a sombrero. It was a nice sombrero, and we were convinced that it was a "house sombrero" that couldn't leave Chevy's. But then our waitress said it was mine to keep! Hurray! "Yes," she said. "Most people just take some pictures with it and then leave it behind in the restaurant. But it's for them to keep!" Instantly, in my mind's eye, the sombrero had been worn and discarded by countless Chevy's customers who were confused about whether or not the sombrero was a gift or a temporary loan, and it was by now infested with bed bugs and scabies. But then I reminded myself that scabies and bed bugs, really, would have to "get in line" to ruin my life, as it were. I wore the sombrero home, expecting at any moment to be jumped. But the good thing about having a birthday the same week as Halloween is that no one will jump you for wearing a sombrero on October 28. I walked into my apartment and threw it on the floor, and there it sits still.

Kat Von D

2010-10-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

A lot of my colleagues know that I hate going to author events - even my own authors' events. But when I got a message in my inbox at work asking whether or not I would like to go to a Kat Von D book signing, I had to reply (to myself), "Why, yes, yes I would."

You may know Kat Von D from her tattoo show, where she basically tortures people on camera, with a cheerfulness that I have to say sort of turns me on. Or, you may know her as the on-again, off-again (currently, on-again) girlfriend of Motley Crue's Nikki Sixx (though she was until last week dating Jesse James, while "off-again" with Sixx. You may know her from the video ads for celebrity designated drivers from taxicabs in New York City. (Hers, naturally, is Nikki Sixx, ha ha. And now, I have mentioned the name "Nikki Sixx" four times in a blog posting, which I never would have predicted when I first came up with the idea for this blog).

My colleague Teresa is Kat's publicist, and I am very jealous of Teresa for this fact. Teresa, perhaps sensing that there might be trouble between us at the Kat Von D event, directed me to the wrong Barnes & Noble. Like a fool, I blithely made my way down to the Barnes & Noble on 5th Avenue and 18th Street. (On the way, I ran into someone I had blogged about a few months ago, and he told me he liked my blog posting about him - but I remember that it wasn't a very nice blog post, and now I know that our mutual friend Ada engaged in some email tomfoolery there. How else would he have found my blog? But that's fame - walking in the street and having someone compliment you on your blog. I'm going to live forever). But the author event wasn't at that Barnes & Noble! It was at the Barnes & Noble on 5th Avenue and 46th Street. By the time I made it over there, I was sweaty from rushing. Teresa, apparently wanting to keep me off-balance, practically pushed me into Kat to have her sign a book for me! Ack! I was all sweaty, cutting a line to meet a celebrity I have a little platonic crush on! I had an attack of shyness, and I couldn't even talk to her - especially since I remembered that I had forgotten to pack a change of underwear when I went to the gym before work, and was going "commando," as it were. I was literally naked and shy in front of the coolest lady on the block. It was over so fast. I wanted to show her my cat tattoo, and have her hug me, and tell me that I was cool, and that everything was going to be okay. I'll get you, Teresa.

Alternative earth - day 2!

2010-10-20T09:03:00.000-07:00

Day two with my magical outfit!

After work I went out for a bit, and an English fellow sat next to me and started talking about his travels to New York. I asked him what he was doing here, and he said he was dancing in "Swan Lake!" I said, "hey! I saw you dance yesterday at City Center!" It turns out he was one of the wood nymphs! And also he was a male swan! We had a very lovely conversation after that, and we took lots of pictures (here's one). I told him that I was 37, and he replied, "oh!" sounded a little bit shocked to meet someone from my generation. I assured him that I was still clinging to life somehow, albeit barely. Then I had to rush off to meet Chris. I showed Chris the picture, and he said that my dancer is wearing awedding ring. Mwah, mwah! It's not a wedding ring. The dancer (Simon) was sort of flirty, and told me he wasn't seeing anyone, and he described his hotel for me, touting the lovely view. I knew that, if I wasn't feeling so lazy, I could have enjoyed the view myself, but I'm pretty old! I can't wrestle around with a ballet dancer! I might break my hip.

I decided when I got home not to wear the magical outfit for a third day, because of odor issues. And also because, if you tempt fate too many times, God may just smite you, in your fancy outfit.

Alternative earth - day 1!

2010-10-20T08:48:00.000-07:00

I had a particularly good day today. I was wearing Alternative Earth, Jil Sander, Levi's, and New Balance. Nadia took me to see Matthew Bourne's "Swan Lake" at the City Center, and then I took her to B.R. Guest's new burger establishment, Bill's Burgers, in Rockefeller Center. Once, when I was a temp at MTV, I lunched daily at B.R. Guest's Ruby Foo's, reading my paper at the bar. One day, after, like, my 15th day in a row eating lunch there, the manager of Ruby Foo's and his assistant manager came over to me and presented me with a gift copy of Zagat's. Like, "get out. There are other restaurants in Manhattan, you dolt." I wonder how long it will take before I get a gift Zagat from Bill's Burgers? I've already eaten there about five times in less than two months.

After Nadia went home, I went to the gym and then went to G, where I ran into the gym god that I like. Deciding to go immediately on the offensive, I punched the gym god on his massive arm, and then chatted him up a bit. When he was leaving, I went to give him my card, but he indicated that he was seeing someone, but that I was definitely "tempting." Tempting! I love it! Thank you, outfit.

Afterwards, on the corner of 22nd and 8th, a black fellow chatted me up. A black fellow! I never get chatted up by my bruthas, for some reason. And they are very, very hard, I find, to get into bed. But this one was a bit horny, and when I told him my name was Gregory, he said, "Gregory, I want to have sex with you." I declined his offer to go with him to the Gym Bar, but gave him my card. Then I rushed home and took off my magical outfit, laying it aside neatly. I decided to try an experiment and wear the exact same thing the next day, to see if more crazy encounters would ensue. Thus ...

A "date" with John - at Fall for Dance!

2010-10-18T13:29:00.000-07:00

Do you ever invite people you like to go out with you, in the evening? Even though you aren't sure if such an outing is technically a date or not? I do! It's fun! Knowing whether or not you're on a date is overrated, in my book.

Case in point: I took my new friend John to see "Fall for Dance" at the City Center, the annual, instantly-sold-out event that's been charming dance-loving New Yorkers for seven years now. I told my therapist earlier that day that, although I did not know whether it was a date or not, I would definitely know by the end of the night. That turned out to be true, and I knew sooner than I had anticipated. When I greeted John outside the City Center, he took me by the shoulders and immediately gave me a kiss - pointedly - on the cheek. "This is not a date," I immediately realized. Oh. The formality of his peck was not the only clue I had received, of course, over the last few weeks of our acquaintance, but being clueless about nonverbal communication is one of my many charms. We settled into our seats.

All throughout the performance, I got to work through - silently - my issues with space. As many people know, I have a strangely large "personal bubble," and don't really like casual touching as a rule. But the seats in the City Center were very close together, and John, as though trying to at least give me something for the tickets, engaged in some prolonged leaning-in and heavy rubbing of his shoulder against mine - practically frottage. Each time we touched, I held my breath and giggled on the inside. Hee hee!

One of the dancers from the Dresden Ballet had on a lime-green tutu with what looked like a small circular table attached, keeping her partner at arms length. "How I yearn to wear an outfit like that," I whispered dramatically to John. But not right at that second, of course. I wouldn't have wanted that outfit right then. For a middle-aged man at a dance performance in Manhattan's midtown, with the first tinge of fall in the air, sometimes a little rubbing is as good as it's going to get, and you sort of don't want anything to get in the way. Or, at least, so I've heard it said.

Juliana and Evan

2010-10-18T13:03:00.000-07:00

I went to see Juliana Hatfield play a gig with Evan Dando a couple of weeks ago at the Mercury Lounge. I went out of respect for the completist in me, not because I thought they were going to change my life or anything. (Okay, William?!) Juliana has already changed my life, anyway, and now when I go to see her play, it's mostly because I'm a glutton for punishment, or maybe I'm just feeling nostalgic.

Juliana came out wearing a sheer grey blouse and some dirty old jeans, and Evan came out wearing, I swear, the exact same shirt he used to wear for publicity shots in the 90s. Juliana loves awkwardness, like I do, and several of the love songs she sang were meant, I believe, to leave the audience wondering if she was singing about Evan. I thought it was the height of awkwardness that she sang "Waiting for Heaven," with its plaintive chorus: "Heeeeaaaaaven ... where are youuuuuu?" Of course, just drop the "h" in "heaven," and there you go. But she topped herself in awkwardness later in the show, by playing a song literally called "Evan."

I remember the first time I saw Juliana play, in 1993, at Irving Plaza. She wore a pair of pastel chinos, and a pastel polo, and I thought it was funny that she was trying to embody the term "college rock" with her outfit. More than ten years later, she released a record titled "Juliana's Pony," and I went to see her play a gig where she wore a black silk blouse and a silver necklace with a pony on it. At that point in my life, I was about to play some shows myself, and I went out and bought myself a silver necklace with a bird on it, because I was writing a song called "Jesus loves me like a bird." I remember telling some craggy old Weezer-jack (a lumberjack who liked Weezer) this story, and he looked at me like, "you tool. You had to buy the accessory before you played the gig."

I love Juliana Hatfield, no matter how cold she has been to me when I've met her in person, no matter what people say, no matter the quality of her output. When you fall in love with a singer, it doesn't matter to you if it's cool or not, and there's nothing you can do about your love. It's matter-of-fact, like a birth defect that can't be operated upon. I left the Mercury Lounge that night with her new cd in my pocket, although I knew it would unlock no doors for me. It burns a hole, still, on my table at home.

Burns!

Moore and Sons

2010-10-03T10:46:00.001-07:00

I went with Alyse to Googie's Lounge to see a gig by Moore & Sons. Chris from Moore & Sons agreed early in the summer to be my drummer (that's Chris in the white tank top). I went out to Brooklyn then to jam with him, and he turned every song of mine into a rock song, and I felt like I was in Big Star or something. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. We rocked. But right after that, I had one of my breakdowns, and have been recovering ever since. But I still go see Chris when he plays - he's awesome. I have a feeling that, pretty soon, I will no longer be "between inheritances," and then I will ask Chris to make a record with me. I hope he says yes. I will call our record "Sexual Tourism," and Chris and I (and a bassist, if I can find one) will go on tour opening up for a girl band. (Girls get me).

I love that Chris is always wearing a tank top. I wish I had the nerve to wear one, but I have a few weird hairs that grow out of my shoulders, and scars from a battle I don't remember fighting. One day, also when I am not "between inheritances," I will pay a doctor to sizzle my whole body with a laser, from head to toe, so that my scars and hairs disappear. Perhaps the doctor can also shine the laser into my brain, to alter my fucked-up personality, as well. I'll let you know if that happens.

I got a copy of Moore & Sons' new record, and have been listening to it ever since. I love "Junk to begin with" - I feel like it describes not only my life, but my times. Some of the songs are a little Grateful Dead-ish, which I usually don't like, but love in this case.

After the gig, Alyse and I went to American Apparel, where she bought a new outfit and changed into it at the store. She gave me a bag filled with the outfit she had been wearing, and I've been trying to catch up to her to return it ever since. Slow down, Alyse! Little red corvette, I want to return your old outfit.

Rage inside the mansion

2010-09-28T06:45:00.000-07:00

I'm going tonight to hear a punk rocker expound upon his views on atheism. Usually, I love it when people self-identify as punk rockers. It actually seems to fly in the face of punk to self-identify as a punk, at least after 1973 or so. But punk itself flies in the face of everything, does it not? So I give punk rockers the benefit of the doubt when they identify themselves as such. And whenever I see a mohawk or a tartan flannel, I view it totally without irony, as surely the wearer intended.

Sometimes, when I listen to "punk" music, it sounds more like New Jersey hardcore to me, but maybe it's just my untrained ear. I was always into sad music than angry music, and thus I rock out to people like Paula Frazer. When I met Paula Frazer once, we were having such a nice conversation, downstairs at the Knitting Factory, but then she mentioned that her guitarist was playing a gig upstairs from us. "Oh," I said, "the guy with the big head?" She frowned. "Yes, the guy with the big head." To frown at a mean statement is not punk rock in my book! But I still love you, Paula Frazer. Or Tarnation. Or whatever you are calling yourself today.

I decided to make a punk rock statement with my outfit to hear this lecture tonight. So I am wearing my "punk rock pants," a green, utilitarian number that wouldn't really be out of place on St. Mark's Place. But I paired it with pastels! To me, fruiting an outfit up makes it even more punk - as what is more punk rock than those rock 'n' roll gays, and their alley-dwelling, crotch-diving, lady-evading ways? But, again, I have an untrained ear. And perhaps I did take this outfit too far, with the purple shoes.

Punk rockers apply their principles, I find, unevenly in their own lives. For example, the rocker I am going to hear tonight certainly has a punk personality, but he insists on staying at the Taj. What do you call that? "Rage inside the mansion?" Whatever, I will be dressed for the occasion, in my own way, and, believe it or not, on the inside, I will be rocking out, just a little.

Vince

2010-09-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night in which someone was explaining to me that my basic problem in life is my issues with "control." I smiled evilly and with great rage and condescension at the speaker in the dream, but I simultaneously thought to myself, "Why, yes, actually. That is my problem. I should really be able to accept that spot-on critique." That's why when I am invited to a party like the one Alyse had for her birthday on Friday - a party in Brooklyn - Brooklyn! - a borough which everyone knows I find insufferable - on a roof - a roof! - so of course I spent the whole night afraid that I would fall off the roof and splatter on the concrete below - when I felt bloated - bloated! - and then was introduced to a young lady I was sure I'd met before, but only when she insisted that she didn't know me did I realize that she was an actress in my favorite television show - now, sadly, cancelled - famous people! - and when, every time the doorbell rang, a still-hotter fellow entered the party - hot fellows while I'm bloated! - it can seem like my antithesis.

But in reality, Alyse's party was the most fun I've had in a while. Everyone was so nice to me, and I was so nice to everyone! I didn't stalk the celebrity. I noticed a guest wandering near the corner of the roof by himself, checking his messages, and I went over and engaged him in friendly conversation. I partook of the communal pasta. I helped carry things back downstairs to Alyse's friend Josh's apartment. I didn't make any new enemies, which is huge for me. Why was I so relaxed, even with all the afore-mentioned goings-on?

Then Alyse posted this picture on my Facebook wall, and I remembered: it was a black party, but I chose to wear plaid. I think this shirt is by Vince. And at one point during the party, the very hot Cassandra (seated next to me) offered me her bedazzled armband. It was so sparkly, it appeared to have been made out of Liza Minnelli. I demurred, as that was her accessory. I had to be in control the whole time, at least of my appearance.

I have a friend named Hermann who would say to this post, "Girl, you just need to get f*cked." Oh, Hermann. He says that about everything I say, actually. And then sometimes, (much to my surprise), I find him putting his advice into action. Was that him in the dream? Does anyone wear Vince anymore? Why am I so often in Brooklyn? One night in the near future, I will dream the answers to these questions, and more.

Purple cape

2010-09-19T10:17:00.001-07:00

I went to Emmett's party at his lovely boutique on Elizabeth Street. In the back of my mind, I remembered SVB's comment that Emmett had designed a purple cape that was really beautiful. A purple cape - can't you just imagine it? To own a cape is to own an escape route from one's own life. I wanted to find the cape in the store and drape myself with it, and then fly off into the horizon. So I excused myself from the party in the back garden and went into the main boutique, where I found a lady who worked in the store. I asked her where the cape was, and she replied, "Which one?"

"There's more than one?" I asked, incredulous. And she showed me to the cape section. But they weren't the capes I was expecting. Apparently, a "cape" can also refer to a women's jacket that's shorter in the front than in the back. I experienced a sinking sensation.

"Oh!" I said. "No, I'm looking for a cape."

"Oh, you mean like a Superman cape?!" she said, in one breath.

"Yes."

"We don't have those," she said, and then she excused herself. Humiliation, my old friend, descended then, and draped me in its familiar way. I have to say, I am really ready for a new look.

Empire Hotel

2010-09-14T07:31:00.001-07:00

Alyse called me up and asked if I would go to her friend Daniella Kallmeyer's "look book" show at the Empire Hotel last night. Of course I would. I've been missing "Gossip Girl" so much this summer, and I wanted to see if Chuck Bass really hangs out at the Empire in real life. But what the fuck is a "look book?" While there were no "Gossip Girl" cast sightings, I did really enjoy the show. Daniella's models were standing on platforms, evenly spaced throughout the Crystal Room of the hotel, wearing her spring/summer looks. It was a little disconcerting that they were just standing there, and one of them kept staring openly at me. Perhaps she was supposed to represent the "look book?" But they were all dressed in really interesting, fun clothes. Alyse wants to wear the leather jacket pictured here for her birthday. She brought along her new love interest and his sister, who were both ebullient and young and made me feel crazy. After the show, they were really excited to see a rapper named Nicki Minaj come out of the hotel. I wish I listened to the radio so I could know who people are and be excited, too! I'm still rocking out to the first Neneh Cherry record. I finally made it home, exhausted, and noticed that my Tivo was recording the first new episode of "Gossip Girl" in months! My friends are back! I won't have to be alone anymore. I love you, Chuck and Serena and Blair and Little J and Dan and Nate! Perhaps my biggest question about your show - why don't you just trace those email blasts? - will be answered this season? Perhaps, perhaps not.

Fashion's night out

2010-09-11T10:30:00.000-07:00

It all happened so quickly. Mary got out of work and called me up, saying we should go to Fashion's Night Out. Although neither of us is that into fashion people any more, we went. I put on a simple Paul Smith henley from two seasons ago and some jeans and my Adidas, and took the train to Bleecker Street, where she was waiting for me on the corner, wearing pre-Betsey Johnson Betsey Johnson. We took the train up to 57th Street, and stopped to take pictures in front of a bubble machine. A nice fellow asked if he could take a picture of himself with me in front of the bubbles, so I put my arm around him and Mary took the picture. Awkward! That picture will probably end up with some terrible, unintended caption on some German porn site, shaming me forever. We were photographed again in Van Cleef and Arpels by an acquaintance, Jonathan, who looked so bored to be there, but who had a magic camera that flashed three times in quick succession (we felt the flashes as puffs of air on our faces) and made us feel glamorous.

Then, Mary produced a magical press badge that someone had given her. The badge allowed us to cut the line and get into Bergdorf Goodman, where - again, magic! - Victoria Beckham was scheduled to present her fall line. Victoria fucking Beckham. We practically knocked mannequins over rushing to the staging area for this event, and we squeezed ourselves into the crowd. Many people know that I love Victoria Beckham - I was one of the few people in America to actually see "Spice World," and the scene where she wakes up from a nightmare in which she sees a "giant head - but with no makeup" - made me squirt Diet Coke from my nostril. As we waited for Victoria to arrive and make her presentation, I had time to ponder several important questions. Why do fashion people still thrill me on some secret level? Are you still considered fashionable if you are wearing Paul Smith from two seasons ago? (No.) Is it jarring to the fantasy of the night to admit that, after this, I will be headed out to Queens to tend to my elderly father, who would roll his wheelchair over Victoria Beckham if she got in his way to the handicapped bathroom? After the Bergdorf excitement, we motored down Fifth Avenue, stopping in Bendel's to see if the makeup cuties were working (only one was). And then I got on the train to Queens, exhausted. It is hard work, as a non-fashion person, to make myself presentable for one night, removing my ever-present cloak of irony and replacing it with a woolen blouse. Whew!

Purple socks

2010-09-02T10:39:00.000-07:00

I have perfected my gym attire over the years. Grungy blue shorts, New Balance grey sneakers for old people, and a white v-neck tee shirt, preferably stained with food, blood, and/or coffee. What do I think this get-up says about me at the gym? Hopefully: "I am crazy. Don't come over and talk to me. After all, look at me!! I'm covered in blood." Or: "I have very little invested in being fit. I go to the gym every day merely because I have OCD." Or: "I am not cruising you, sir."

Much to my surprise, then, a handsome fellow approached me yesterday, while I was smoking outside of the gym, preparing to go in. For some reason, I was even sloppier than usual. It seems that I had practically emptied a cup of coffee over myself. And I hadn't shaved my head in days, so I was looking my age.

We exchanged pleasantries, and then the fellow remarked that he was enjoying standing there, flirting with me. At this I giggled with surprise. Such bravery on his part, to admit that he was flirting! NEVER does anyone make a fool of themself for me; it's me who makes a fool of myself for other people, all the time. Immediately, I was drawn into what the (obviously insane) fellow was saying. And I told him that I was surprised he was flirting with me, since I was suspiciously covered with coffee. He replied that he wasn't looking at the coffee. ;)

Given that I only had a few moments before my cigarette went out, I quickly sussed out his general situation: not a junkie, employed, handy - a step up from my usual prospects! As we parted, I said something a little crazy, as is my custom, (it helps to weed out the humorless or the fussy). "You have beautiful eyes," I said. "I'd love to get lost in them some time."

And then I went to the gym, where I worked out extra hard. After all, I have to get fit if I can hope to take off my clothes in front of the new guy without crying. But I wondered after I left the gym, how did he know I was gay? After all, when I first saw him, I was hanging out outside the gym with my cousin Alyse. Didn't he think I was with her? I like to think that I am passing for straight at all times, (at least until I open my mouth and a handbag falls out, as they say). I wracked my brain during my workout and after, but I couldn't figure it out what gave me away. Was it my posture? The way I smoked a cigarette as if putting hot things in my mouth was a pretty common occurrence? Was it, as one of my songs goes, "the silver inside of my sweet, detached eyes?" Then, back at home, I looked down and realized what it was. Silly me, I had been wearing purple socks.

V-neck tee

2010-08-16T11:04:00.000-07:00

I love the singer Jeff Buckley, and, as an homage to him, I started wearing simple white v-neck tee-shirts years ago. Perhaps this is the same tee I began wearing years ago, as it is long past "white," to be frank, veering into yellowish-grey territory.

Once I saw Jeff Buckley during one of my blistering daily runs around NYC. He was standing outside of the Bottom Line, actually, and he watched me approach, giving me "the eye." I didn't think too much of this - I knew he was straight, but that he was an awful flirt. I ran past him without a backward glance, though inside I was all a-flutter. That will show you! I thought.

The next time I saw Jeff Buckley, he was on what I later learned was his first date with real-life disaster Courtney Love. They walked out of some theater, and the paparazzi yelled, "Courtney!" I yelled, "Jeff!" and he flinched, startled. I think he thought I was a photographer trying to get him to look into my camera. My friend Justin told me later that he was so freaked out by his date with Courtney Love, he immediately got on a plane to Europe. (Ah, to be able to get on a plane to Europe when freaked out ... )

The next time I saw Jeff Buckley, I was at a Dark Carnival show at Coney Island High. The singer, Niagara, had just pushed a girl (her opening act, in fact!) off the stage, saying "go, b**ch! You tell 'em b**ch! You've got the prettiest hair in town, but you got f**ked!" (The opening act had just hijacked Niagara's microphone, and revealed to the audience that she hadn't gotten paid for playing the opening set). I started laughing soooo uncontrollably. But the pushed girl later got even with me - she threw me and my friend Alia out of the Beauty Bar because my friend didn't have her ID. Was she making the sign of Satan while she did it? She should have been. And then she married one of the guys from H2O and moved out to New Jersey.

Anyway, Jeff Buckley was in the audience at the Dark Carnival show, and as I watched him watching what was among the most guitar-heavy shows I have ever witnessed, I could see the rock come down over him, and I predicted that his next record would be rockin'. Sure enough, it rocked. But he was gone by then.

When I read that Jeff Buckley had died while swimming in Memphis, I called up Alia in Los Angeles. She said that he was now singing in the "big riverboat in the sky." Do you see what she did there? She alluded to Memphis' rich musical riverboat history in her evil response. Even in her meanness, there was a sparkling sense of play and joy.

I still listen to "Vancouver" and "Morning Theft" at least once a week, and even now, the rock still comes down over me. Rock may break your heart, but it will never die.

American Tourister

2010-08-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

Often enough, my friends mock me for carrying around my own popcorn seasoning in my bag at all times. I carry it around in case I find myself at the movies, which is always a possibility at my advanced state of age and boringness. But my friends laugh at me because of it. So you can imagine that when, last week, I discovered that my popcorn seasoning had leaked inside of my bag, I couldn't tell anyone. "Well, now he's got his come-uppance with that blasted popcorn seasoning," they would say. Instead, I quietly laundered the bag and hung it up to dry.

While I was waiting for the bag to dry, I decided to debut my late mother's American Tourister bag. My mother used to use this bag on family vacations we took. This bag has sunned in Nassau and observed strange family dynamics in Aruba. I have had it for years now, but I was always too afraid to wear it, for fear that my friends would mock me for carrying around a lady's bag. You know these gays. But I decided to finally use the bag so that, when I was mocked, I could say "It's my dead mother's bag!" and run away crying - embarrassing both them and myself with my sense of humor, which is forever macabre. But sadly, no one mocked me. I even tried to bait a couple of friends - Daniel, Chris H. - by asking them their opinion of the bag; but they both merely said they liked it.

I did notice that, while I was using the bag, I got into a fight with a friend, which could very well mean that it is possessed by the spirit of my famously mean mother. Or it could mean that this Friday the 13th was too big to be contained by just one day, and spilled out over into Saturday. Oh, well. My regular bag should be dry by this afternoon, so my latest foray into mother-obsession, demon-baiting, and casual transvestitism will now come to an end.

Happier days

2010-08-09T12:37:00.001-07:00

This is a picture of my two friends named Chris. The Chrises! How I love them. I decided to blog about them now, because whenever the gays love each other, they sleep with each other and ruin everything. Or they enter into a blood feud with each other over some ill-timed catty remark. So, this is a time capsule of sorts - I'll call it "Happier days" so that when I look back in the future, I can remember us how we were back then, and weep. But not from my eyes. (Aren't they yummy!?) I didn't bother to show their outfits, as they pretty much wear the same thing every day, poor dears - just like my friend Alia H. - just like Chrises all over the world, I'm sure. Dear Lord, please let their feelings toward me be as same-samey as their wardrobes, and I will be the happiest gay alive.

Strange evening

2010-08-09T12:15:00.001-07:00

What a strange evening I had on Friday! I went to see "Dinner for Schmucks" with Teresa. On the way to get cupcakes beforehand, we ran into Matthew, the fashionista from a few posts back. I called him "Andrew" by mistake - whoopsie! :)

After we saw the movie, I took the train towards my home, but decided to take it a few extra stops so that I could take a long walk home. On my way to my apartment, I ran into Aaron, who was looking scrumptious as ever. I was wearing the same shirt that he had told me once that he also possessed - we both got it at Uniqlo. I didn't mention this, although I weirdly felt awkward running into him wearing that shirt! I affectionately punched him in the shoulder - but I punched him really hard by accident. Ouch. Oh, well - he already thinks I'm crazy. Now he can add violent Gregory to his list of Gregorys.

I headed for the East Side, and I ran into a fellow who looked very familiar. He reminded me that I had spent the night with him seven years ago. Ah! I remember that night very well, actually! Here's why: I literally spent the last money I had then to take him out to lunch at a Tex Mex place on Park Avenue the next day. After that, I had no job, no money, and no prospects, and I survived only because my friends Fionna, Mary, and Vicki rose to the occasion to help me, which I'll never forget. (And plus, I got sober and stayed that way for years. You could say this fellow was my "rock bottom."). We exchanged cards, but I didn't hear from him seven years ago, and I certainly don't expect to hear from him now. Plus, as I was chatting with him, I noticed him discreetly passing a small baggie to a friend of his.

Continuing up Second Ave, I heard someone calling out "Gregory ... " I turned around, but I didn't recognize the couple who was calling out to me. They told me that they had just visited my ex Joshie in SF, and he had been showing them pictures of me in a photo album, and talking about me. How flattering! I told the couple to tell Joshie that I looked fabulous.

Nearing 13th Street, I took this picture of myself, so I could remember not to wear this obviously powerful outfit again in the future, unless I was prepared for wildness, for coincidence, for magic ... then I went home.

Sophia's last week

2010-08-09T11:57:00.000-07:00

You know what I love to do? I love to sneak inside Sophia's cubicle at work and quietly sit down next to her and stare at her until she notices me and screams and screams. She hates that, and she has begged me not to do it, but she doesn't realize that as long as she screams, I'll do it again the next time. I have no behavioral filters.

I won't be able to scare her much longer - this is her last week here. I will miss her ways. Today, she gave me soothing advice about my inappropriate texts to Jason A., my bout over the weekend with erectile dysfunction, and my tardiness to work today. Who will sooth me when she is gone? I will all id when that happens.

In this picture, taken right before I scared her out of her wits, Sophia is wearing a dress from Urban Outfitters. I love Urban Outfitters! I used to sort of like this guy who worked there, many, many years ago, when I was 22 or so. He was flaky, but he kept my interest by repeatedly telling me to "come again" in a suggestive voice. That pattern - me being consistently intrigued by fellows who don't show up, as long as they every now and then show me a little interest - repeats in my life like a favorite outfit.

*Sigh* I truly am ashamed of myself today. Fortunately, whenever I am stuck in my own head and lost in my own self-centered shame, something truly horrible happens in the real world, and I realize yet again that I didn't know how good I had it.

French cuffs

2010-08-02T08:34:00.001-07:00

I went downstairs for a cup o' joe with Sophia W., the heiress intern, and I asked her to take a picture of me. I'm wearing a delightfully textured shirt from the Co-op, along with some khaki pants from Theory and New Balance sneakers. I had no idea when I bought the shirt, at the Warehouse Sale, that it had French cuffs. I mock people for wearing shirts with French cuffs, but I didn't mean to buy one, so it can't be my fault! I didn't realize.

Years ago, when I was still working at Sotheby's, my boss Benjamin Doller tried to give me a pair of cufflinks as a gift. When I glanced at them, I saw that they were the kind that you could slip your own tiny picture into, to customize them. There was already a sample picture in it, of a self-satisfied little baby. "Oh, no!" I exclaimed. "I'm not walking around here with a picture of some little white baby on my wrist!" Benjamin seemed amused by my outburst, but I was fired shortly after that. Ah, Sotheby's - where everything is for sale, even your soul.

Because I didn't accept those cufflinks, I now can only wear this shirt with the sleeves rolled up. What do rolled-up sleeves mean to you? To me, they mean "This outfit is not beyond salvaging. There is still hope."

Pat Field

2010-07-27T07:16:00.000-07:00

Daniel and I went to see "Winnebago Man," then walked up Third Avenue to get some coffee. On the way, he pointed out the (semi) new retail location of Patricia Field. In my youth, it was on 8th Street. Then it moved to - I believe - Mulberry? Now it's on the Bowery. Tomorrow, who knows where ... Wherever the smug need asymmetric tunics, I suppose.

Once, I pretended that I'd worked at Patricia Field, to get a job at Citizen Clothing on the Castro in San Francisco. I'd moved to SF with no aim, no goal, and I ambled past the store one day and happened to look inside. A hot young fellow working inside gave me "the eye," and I got all excited and went in a day later and applied for a job. Talk about aimless! I gave them the number of my "manager at Patricia Field" - actually, my best friend Alia, in Los Angeles - and they called her for a reference, and she lied her ass off, and I got the job. It turned out to be sort of a lame job - they only gave me 20 hours a week, so I was pretty much destitute for those beginning days in California. I had to handle a lot of shiny blouses, which the gays were hot for at the time. But, a couple of months later I was dating the hot young fellow. A couple of days after that, I went home for Christmas. I returned to find that I'd been fired in a most passive-aggressive manner - I'd merely been removed from the schedule, and not been put back on. I guess I didn't bring as much to the position as you'd need to. I found a job as an administrative assistant at Lehman Brothers instead. There, I learned far more than I ever needed to know about real estate investment trusts.

Daniel recently purchased a pair of shorts from Patricia Field. I hope to help him out of them one evening.

So much going on

2010-06-28T13:09:00.000-07:00

There is so much going on in this picture that I don't know where to begin.

Chris and Michael and I were at the Stonewall Inn, to commemorate the beginning of Gay Pride weekend, and also to show up for Chris' roommate, who is an adult cheerleader. Adult cheerleaders are sort of the opposite of me - they are optimistic and unironic and unselfconscious, and they can often be found in gatherings of people with strong senses of group identity.

We decided that we were going to stay for one cheer by Chris' roommate's cheerleading squad, and then leave to prowl to the Pier. But before we could leave, we saw another cheer, outside. And there was some sort of tourist there, who insisted that we photograph him with the cheerleaders. When I looked at the picture afterwards, I saw why. What a joker - he is looking up that lady cheerleader's dress. Oh, well, I'm sure that the lady cheerleader had prepared herself for that eventuality. When one is a lady cheerleader, I imagine, one must be prepared at all times for lawless tourists to peer up one's dress in a photo, on the day before Gay Pride, in the West Village of Manhattan.

Really, I had merely wanted a photo of the bear, so I could expound upon - what? Bears? "Fuzzies?" There are many euphemisms in use currently in the world of sexually active adults, and in this paragraph, I have used two of them.

Alyse in Madrid

2010-06-28T11:27:00.000-07:00

As some of you know, my cousin Alyse is traveling through Europe currently. This picture is from a batch she posted on her Facebook page. In it, she is wearing a striped tee from American Apparel, jeans from Uniqlo (with the super low crotch cut / boy cut), some high top Vietnamese Converse knock offs from a vintage shop in Brooklyn, and a multicolored backpack from a vintage shop in LA. She is all over the map in this pic, as it were.

I like the forlorn-ness of this pic. What is she looking at? Who is she photographing? Perhaps Alyse herself doesn't know.

Often in my life, I have formed lasting bonds with people only to have them move away. In high school, it was Fatima P. After college, it was Alia S. Recently, my friend Tim moved to Berlin, where he blogs in a blog in which he has never mentioned me. I am very self-absorbed, as you must know by now, as you are reading a blog in which I reveal my life story through my outfits.

The most recent example of these friendships-with-separations was the intense bond I formed with Alyse last year. For a while, we were inseparable. We traded awkward stories starring my type-A sister, Maxine. Alyse cat-sitted for the Colonel. I mocked her other friendships (especially her friendship with her friend Midori, who can barely speak English!). Then she left, breaking my heart.

Where is Alyse now, on her European tour? She could be in Lisbon, I guess. She could be just about anywhere. She says she may return to NYC in the fall. I know, I know, I will probably be dead by then. But I will try to hang on, even if just to see what she's wearing then.

Nice legs!

2010-06-28T09:42:00.000-07:00

Daniel and I went to the Highline, because that is the thing to do. Daniel has complained about his legs to me in the past, saying that they are so pale he hates to wear shorts. But he is wearing shorts in this picture, some white ones with blue stripes. Daniel actually has the best legs I've seen this summer, and I hope he continues to wear shorts. (Update: while he was observing the Pride Parade yesterday, someone handed Daniel a sticker that read "nice legs!" Really, gays? A sticker, even?)

How is it that some fellows have amazing musculature without even working out? I, on the other hand, pump iron mercilessly almost every day, and still am considered a "hard gainer" by the trainers at NYSC. I wish I had Daniel's figure, but I must make due with my African and Dutch genes, forever storing fat for an apocalypse that surely has already come.

After we disembarked from the Highline, we went to meet up with Johnathan and Christina for the "Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work" documentary in Chelsea, at which I laughed my head off. On the way there, we passed a blind albino, walking slowly with a cane. A blind albino! Isn't that just God saying "f*ck you?"

Cherita and Yolanda

2010-06-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

It was Cherita's birthday last week, and Yolanda and I took her out to dinner last night to celebrate. For the last ten years or so, whenever it's Cherita's, Yolanda's, or my birthday, we go out and have dinner, just the three of us. I wish one of us was a documentary filmmaker, as that would be an interesting movie - a yearly look at the lives, loves, and outfits of three college friends who are a little too into clothing.

Yolanda, of course, is the most stylish of us - she dresses people for a living, and just finished up years of work as a stylist on the t.v. series "Ugly Betty." She's starting work on a movie in July. In my recent marathon session of apartment cleaning, I dug up the debut issue of Black Hairstyles and Trends, the magazine she worked at for a minute in the mid-90s. I'm so sentimental - I couldn't bring myself to throw it away, even now. I'm sure even she doesn't own that issue now. Maybe I have a hoarding problem. Last night, Yolanda told us about the fellow she's been dating, and I was struck, as usual, about how quiet she can be. We probably would never have heard about this major change in her life if we hadn't asked! I wish I wasn't so loud-mouthed - I feel like I drown out my friends sometimes.

Cherita's outfits are the most idiosyncratic of the three of us - to me, she often seems like she's planning ahead for grandmotherhood - or senility. She had just come from an extended trip to Los Angeles, where she liked one guy and dated another. I can totally relate to that kind of trip, Cherita.

Yolanda called me "skinny minny," but in reality I've gained back most of the weight I lost this year. I'm going to stop eating chocolate during the day, that's what I'm going to do.

I took this picture as we were walking away from Hill Country. Thanks, ribs!

MARY reading

2010-06-09T08:11:00.000-07:00

I did a reading for MARY Literary at KGB Bar this past Sunday. I read my story "Here's what happens at the movies," and I wore a t-shirt with a bunch of birds on it. I bought the shirt years ago from Urban Outfitters, but it's hard to wear, so I don't wear it often. Look how horrible I look in this photo! Whenever I see pictures of myself, I usually think, "m-m-m-monster!" Really, is this how I look? Well, at least my biceps are poppin'. Some of William's entourage was there - including Aaron and William's mysterious boyfriend. (I recently used a mental image of William's boyfriend when I needed help "finishing up," but then I was overcome with feelings of shame). I came to the reading with one fellow who I have romantic feelings for, but which it probably won't work out with. Teresa says you can't sleep with a friend and have it still be romantic. Then it's just lust. Bah! I'll settle for lust, Teresa!

At the reading, Teresa and Vanessa sat together. Johnathan sat with Sloane. Matt's hot girlfriend Josie was there, too, and the amazing writer Pete Pavia. I don't know who took this photo - it was either Oscar or Paolo. I noted with interest that, although I read a story about pedophilia, the audience was still with me 100% when I finished. I seem to have really found my niche.

Endomorphic

2010-06-02T10:56:00.001-07:00

Nicky was in town, and we decided to go to Filene's Basement. Humph! Nicky spotted this mannequin and pronounced it "endomorphic." That's a new word I've learned today. I like this mannequin's t-shirt, and I don't think the mannequin is endomorphic at all. Poor li'l mannequin! You're really quite a catch, when I think about it. A nice body and a missing head - definitely a cheap date, if nothing else!

Throughout the evening, I was giving Nicky a crash course in using Grindr, the iPhone's G.P.S. app for loose gays. Nicky isn't gay, but he wishes he was, so that sex would be ubiquitous for him, as it seems to be for the gays. Oh, Nicky. Sex may be ubiquitous, but people become less fun when they've had too much fun, as it were. These days, I mainly use Grindr to send messages to my friend Daniel, who has complained to me before about friends of his becoming "endomorphic" and him losing interest in them. This was not a good time to quit smoking, I'm sure, as I've been eating like an endomorph for over a week now. Oh, well. If I hadn't quit smoking now, I might have burned down my apartment while Daniel was asleep inside, which I'm sure would also have irritated him.

Really, there is much to discover about oneself during a visit from a friend, in the early days of summer.

The pilgarlic

2010-06-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

In 1998, I had a word-a-day calendar in my cubicle at Lehman Brothers in San Francisco. I don't remember a single word from that calendar except for the word "pilgarlic." Pilgarlic! Who has ever used that word in conversation? Apparently, it means a "bald man," and also a "sneaking fellow." How my friend Hilary, who worked at the next cubicle over, and I would laugh about that word!

I certainly wasn't laughing three years later, when I met a real-life pilgarlic. I met him somewhere on the LES - I forget where. He mentioned that he couldn't get home that night, and, because he seemed like a really nice person, I offered to let him crash at my place. How crazy of me! We spent the night talking, lying in my bed, and he told me several times how he "got" me. He suggested that the world was insane, not me. (I already knew that). By the morning we were making plans with each other in them. He went to buy some pot, or somesuch. Then, I got a call from my bank. He was attempting to make a cash withdrawal across the street! Of course, this can't happen - he didn't know my PIN, although he apparently had made several inaccurate guesses. What were his guesses? "Guitar?" "Vodka?"

Over the course of the day, my pilgarlic made a few purchases with a couple of credit cards he had also taken. A coat at the Burlington Coat Factory. A Metrocard. I canceled the cards, and the charges were reversed, but he did get to keep the merchandise. I got to keep this pair of his socks, which he carelessly left behind and which I've clung to all these years, wanting to at least get something out of that night. He got so much - I got his socks. I went to the local police precinct and filled out a police report, thinking that that was the end of the story.

A few months later, I was boozing it up at the Boiler Room when I saw him again. I ran into the street to call the police. He ran after me, followed by Xavier, my favorite bartender. The pilgarlic shouted at Xavier: "This man (me) is an alchoholic!" Xavier and I both burst into laughter, and I said, "Oh, we all are!" How silly of him - he was at the Boiler Room, after all, not Le Cirque.

Anyway, he jumped into a cab and sped off. I grabbed the door handle of the cab, but it kept driving, dragging me down the street. I let go and tumbled, it seemed, back into the Boiler Room. Xavier wanted to buy me a drink. I wasn't so sure that was the right idea, but it was nice to be led somewhere, so I let myself be led. The manager of the Boiler Room, whom I hated, approached me and demanded to know what had happened. I declined to tell him. He insisted, saying that he could "86" me. I told him to go ahead, and flicked my lit cigarette at him, catching his shirt on fire for just a second. It suddenly got very serious in the Boiler Room, of course, and EVERY bartender in the joint told me to get out. I was, apparently, banned for life. I calmly told the manager I would gladly get out, but that first I was finishing my drink, which I did. Then I walked out, highly amused and ashamed, both - a simultaneous duo of emotions that even today I seek out. I STILL don't go back to the Boiler Room, which speaks both to the power of the "86" and the sneaking power of the pilgarlic.

I have clung to the pilgarlic's socks for years now, but by now, in the year 2010, they are full of holes. I threw them away this morning. Come, quietly, to your own conclusions.

SOMETHING RED / Babatunde's shirt

2010-04-01T10:12:00.000-07:00

I went last night to the launch party for Jennifer Gilmore's new novel SOMETHING RED. Isn't that the best title ever?! I had some dumb thought that I would wear the shirt that Babatunde custom-made for me and outshine Jennifer at her own party! But, as you can see, she easily defeats me in that fashion battle. (But Babatunde, all day long, I was getting compliments at HarperCollins on the shirt. It was a hit! I had a bit of a date later in the evening, so I brought a change of shirts in case the shirt was too "gay" for a first date. I needn't have worried! When I arrived on the date, he was wearing denim jeans and a denim jacket - a fashion faux pas that secretly thrilled me). Also of note about the party: Albert Mobilio from Bookforum called me a slut!

I used to be Jennifer's assistant at Harcourt, and now we go to each other's events all the time. At my last gig, at the Living Room, she called out "sing an Indigo Girls song!" and I responded by playing the first verse of "Freebird." I don't know from the Indigo Girls!

I'm reading SOMETHING RED right now, and will be writing a review of it, too. It's buzzing with paranoia and resentment, and, though set mostly in the 80s, seems to have lessons within it that are right up-to-the-minute. And, lurking within, there's something else, too. A call to arms? A jeremiad? I'm halfway through, so I won't say too much else about the book, except that I am looooving it. I love Jennifer, too. Buy her book! :)

Alia's missed connections

2010-04-01T07:33:00.001-07:00

Alia H. was in the building for a meeting, so I met up with her for a drink afterwards. We went to the French restaurant where yet another of my emotionally unavailable boytoys works. (But we didn't go to his section, we stayed downstairs. I'm too old to stalk anymore, and plus, I've already enjoyed his company many times. And I am always afraid that he will accost me in the restroom of the restaurant, as he's warned me he will! Restrooms are for peeing!)

Alia is famous for having had five "missed connections" entries written for her, which is crazy to think about! But today, Alia was mourning a real missed connection - she just broke up with her boyfriend! Arg, I liked him for her. Such a sad situation. We commiserated about that sort of stuff, then, as a joke, I showed her the "GrindR" app that's all the rage with the kids. Right away, she coerced me into emailing some nearby guy, and now me and the guy are just as chatty as teenagers. She's such a good cyber-wing-woman! I forced her to accept a couple of hugs from me as partial payment.

I loved her outfit, but then when she took off her scarf and coat, she was wearing the same thing she always does! I love her consistency, and her ways in general. We will movie it up soon, Alia H. Stay strong. Doomed relationships lead to better ones. Things happen for a reason. Hugs are therapeutic.

Another sneaker shot

2010-03-29T07:40:00.000-07:00

I went to meet up with Robert at my new favorite bar, XES. As I walked, I noticed that the hem of my pants was badly stained yellow-ish brown, and I practically fainted with embarrassment. What happened there? I haven't worn these pants in so long (they are among my "punishment pants" that I've kept to remind myself how fat I got a year ago). I kid you not, it looked like I had stepped in poop. But I reasoned that this gave me much-needed "street cred," and I kept walking, head held high.

I wanted to blog about walking around in poopy pants, but then Robert put his feet into the pic, too - so it turned into a different pic, and a different post.

The last guy I photographed with our feet together for my outfit blog - I'll call him "N" - performed a wonderful dance last week at Dixon Place. I texted him with gushing praise afterwards, but, as usual, he kept his own counsel. Whenever I contact someone that I know with gushing praise and don't get much in the way of response, it feels like I am teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to topple over! I will keep my praise to myself in the future - I'm learning that it doesn't pay to be as friendly as I've become. Must ... grow ... colder ... to keep up with the gays. I am grateful that I went to that performance, though - I stopped off afterwards at a nearby, nearly empty gay establishment, and made a weird new friend. Perhaps there will be a picture of his shoes and mine in a future post, but perhaps not. Either way, I didn't use exclamation points in my texts with him. See? Growing colder already! :)

Ada's party

2010-03-29T07:23:00.000-07:00

I went to a party for Ada Calhoun's new book, Instinctive Parenting. I was worried that there would be a lot of mommies at the party, but I worried for naught. Instead, the party was filled with East Village arts-types, Ada's famous (and very cute) parents, and Tim Gunn from "Project Runway." Since I didn't know anyone there, I ended up talking to Tim briefly - I wanted to find out if he was as nice as people say. We talked about our mutual friend Emmett, and Tim suggested that we hang out together with Emmett soon. What a nice thing to say! I will suggest that to Emmett soon, once my downward spiral is less downward.

Also there was Kenny Mellman, who sometimes performs as "Herb" in Kiki & Herb. I vaguely know him, so we chatted for a second about JD from Le Tigre's new band, MEN. I miss Kiki & Herb! And I miss Le Tigre! When will they play again?

I also chatted, most awkwardly, with the manager of The Phoenix who banned me for life from that bar for making fun of his band. Have you ever chatted lightly with someone with active hatred in their eyes for you, for a minor incident that occurred ten years ago? It's both disturbing and refreshing to see people hold on to their emotions for so long.

Ada wore a beautiful black gown, with a bunch at the waist - I couldn't tell what it was - maybe a sash, or a hidden brooch? She's in the center of this pic, partially obscured by a redhead. I loved her outfit, and I truly respect Ada - anyone who could draw such a kooky, jazzed crowd at her party is probably someone I would get along with famously.

My friend Matthew

2010-03-18T13:58:00.000-07:00

I have a friend Matthew who decries all things "gay," but who works designing accessories for ladies. This must present such an internal struggle within himself! Every time I say something with a twang, he mocks me and calls me gay. "So saith the fashionista," I said drily last time he said that. The ironic thing is, the gays have never really liked me, so I am as non-gay as a gay can be.

I really loved a bag Matthew made, with ostrich feathers, and I am going to commission one from him for my friend Alia's graduation this May. She likes ostrich feathers, and now that she is going to be a lawyer-on-the-go! she will need a bag.

This is a picture of him in my apartment, holding a copy of Justin Taylor's Everything Here is the Best Thing Ever. I love that book! Matthew told me not to blog about him, because he knows lots of lawyers, but I am blogging about him anyway. You can't really tell who he is from this picture anyway. Bring it on, lawyers! :)

Matthew is so mean to me! He calls me names, but then he sends me sweet, assuaging texts calling me "babe." *sigh* It probably isn't going to work out with him. He is 20 years old ... urk. I know, I know. I am always lobbing arrows of desire out towards the gays of the world, but somehow they fall outside of my age range. Why is that? Is that because my personality is so ... off somehow ... that only the insane and the young can relate to it? OMG, Matthew had a mid-term yesterday. I sent him a text telling him we should celebrate when he could, and he replied, "Ha ha dork." Pretty soon, he will probably send me another one calling me babe, which will assuage me yet again. I'm pretty easy to assuage. :)

Paula

2010-03-17T12:39:00.000-07:00

I went last week to my cousin Paula's exhibit at the "Wearing Spirit: Aesthetically Personifying the Feminine in African Sacred Traditions" show, at the Caribbean Cultural Center African Diaspora Insitute. Whew - I'm glad I finally had a reason to go to the CCCADI - they send me emails all the time, but I never want to go see their shows, and have felt terribly guilty about it (I'm Caribbean, after all!). So I'm glad Paula gave me an excuse to go.

In this picture, she's standing in front of her piece, a quilt/collage that's so intricate I had to stare closely at it for a few minutes to even begin to absorb it. I love collage - most of my best work (and my best outfits) have involved lumping together random, disparate pieces and then standing back and hoping a general "tone" has emerged. Sort of the Anne Sexton way of dressing.

I absolutely adore Paula and her husband Luther. It's been one of my best accomplishments in my adulthood that I've grown close with them. And when I end up in an institution (or vice versa) I'm sure we'll be there to visit each other and make collages out of each other's psychotropic medications.

St. Patrick's Day

2010-03-17T08:48:00.000-07:00

As always, I forgot to wear green today on St. Patrick's Day. In fact, I'm wearing brown and purple and blue - I am spitting in the face of green, actually. (But not intentionally - green is my favorite color).

I work a block away from the parade route, so I went to watch it, briefly. Maybe this evening I'll go to Barrage and see what people are wearing. In the olden days, I would stay away from the bars on St. Patrick's Day because it is "amateur night," as it were. But now I enjoy watching people get drunk. It's comforting for some reason.

I took this picture of the St. Patrick's Day parade crowd in front of a weird clothing store. I have a bit of a crush on someone who works inside, whose home is even more squalid than my own, but you have to play it cool with these things, you know? ;)

Jeans and a t-shirt

2010-02-24T12:25:00.000-08:00

I went to the MARY launch party this past weekend. My story "Here's what happens at the movies" is going to be in an upcoming issue of MARY - yay! I was going to wear my new shirt created by my friend Babatunde to the party, but then I got a pimple, and didn't want to rock two new looks at one affair. So I went in jeans and a t-shirt instead, and William's sweet boyfriend took a picture of me. He said I looked evil, but I think I look sort of innocent! :) (And Babatunde, don't worry! I will wear your wonderful shirt soon!)

I once saw Cher being interviewed on "The David Letterman Show," and she told David that, when she wasn't doing a movie, she liked to hang out in "jeans and a t-shirt." I was a child then, but even then I was struck by the wonder of that statement. I wondered what kind of jeans, what kind of t-shirt Cher would wear. Perhaps jeans of baby's tears and a t-shirt made of flame. (Looking back, I probably related a little to the narcissism of her saying that. That's probably why I'll never forget that statement).

Once I read an interview with Debra Messing, who joked that when Cher appeared on "Will and Grace," she dropped out of the sky from a rope ladder, said her lines, then climbed back onto the rope ladder. Ever since, sometimes I try to convince people that I've just seen Cher hanging from a rope ladder, being transported throughout NYC by a helicopter that she never actually entered, just hung from.

Mark Morris Dance

2010-02-24T07:35:00.001-08:00

Last night I ventured out into godforsaken Brooklyn to see Mark Morris at BAM with the lovely Suzanne D. It was our first date!

The dances were a little cerebral, and the audience seemed distracted. A couple of cellphones went off, and at one point, a couple walked out and started having a fight, which was audible to the whole theater. Suzanne and I were sitting immediately in front of a group of teenagers who made it clear that they were not amused by modern dance. It reminded me yet again why I hate seeing dance in Brooklyn. I loved the first dance, though. And the last one, which was a story cycle about Socrates, featured a hilariously homoerotic interlude between Socrates and Phaedrus. At one point in the dance, Socrates told someone that he owed him a cock. That's my new pick up line! :)

I wore a new purple blouse from Benjamin Bixby, and I told Suzanne about a recent major life decision I've made, which sort of dominated our conversation thereafter. According to About.com, purple "can boost a child's imagination or an artist's creativity. Too much purple, like blue, could result in moodiness." I expect I'll be wearing more and more purple as the months wend on - but I won't grow cold, just brief.

Crazy heart

2010-02-22T12:42:00.000-08:00

I saw "Crazy Heart" a few weeks ago with Mary, and have been obsessed with Jeff Bridges' tinted glasses ever since. I ordered myself a pair of (prescription) sunglasses with around the same tint from Moscot (I told the saleslady that I wanted to look like an old Southwestern man with burnt skin who looks for coins at the quarry with a metal detector, and she quickly found the tint I needed). I am rockin' them today at work, and no one has asked me to remove them, which surprises me a little ... perhaps by now my co-workers' policy with me is to let me sink or swim as I may.

I loved "Crazy Heart." I didn't think I would. I don't like movies about guys, generally, and I don't particularly like that funny lady from "Secretary," either. But the music won me over, especially "Funny How Fallin Feels Like Flyin (For a Little While)." I want to say that to someone who has fallen down the stairs. Ha! Also, I have a "crazy heart," too. But perhaps you knew that already.

NYC badly needs an injection of the Southwest, I think. I took this picture of myself in my favorite Southwestern establishment, Chipotle. All I need is an iguana on my shoulder.

Butt Magazine party

2010-02-18T14:32:00.001-08:00

I braved the cold to go to the Butt Magazine party, wearing my new, very long shoes. I was the fanciest-dressed one at the party, which was my intention when I was selecting an outfit. If you're going to be in a room full of sullen, ghostly hipsters, there's something provocative about wearing Ferragamo and Burberry and dancing up a storm. It's like saying: "F*ck you" with fashion! I felt free. This is me accosting Felix from Butt Magazine and Pin-Up Magazine outside the party. He is so hot! I ran into Seth at the party, and two of his friends, and I ended up going with them to Brooklyn for some shirtless dancing and random making out. I was not in the mood to dance shirtless, however, so I put my shirt back on after one dance and cabbed it back to Manhattan. My shoes survived this night, but I'm not sure my self-respect did.

H&M pants

2010-02-17T13:50:00.000-08:00

Last year some time, I purchased a size 32 pair of dressy pants from H&M. I wanted to support H&M's movement into dressy territory. But it was something like 80 bucks! And, when I got the pants home, they didn't fit! I decided to punish myself with the pants, and I started dieting. Today was my first time wearing them, and they fit okay now. I work across the street from an H&M, and I briefly debated going in to the store, asking for the manager, and then telling him the whole saga. But I figured it would be too time-consuming. And the manager might ban me from the store for life, like the manager of the Phoenix bar did.

I used to sleep around with Nick Snider, the current "face of H&M," but it never went too far. He had limited interest in talking to me, and talking is what I like best about the fellows. I mean, I can sex it up with the best of them, but if there's nothing to say afterwards, my mind goes blank. But I follow his tweets now, and he seems to have an interesting interior emotional life. I worry, actually, that he's losing his mind.

And I used to date this fellow Joshua who worked at H&M Corporate. But he lost interest in me after I had a conversation about diseases with him. Someone told me later that they saw him featured in a Time Out New York dating feature. I laughed about it - ha! You couldn't pay me to advertise myself as a "single" looking for love in Time Out New York. But he was a good kisser, and a good kid, and I hope he's happy.

That's pretty much all I have to say about H&M.

Punishment shirt

2010-02-15T13:37:00.000-08:00

Are you like me? Do you buy shirts one size too small to punish yourself for being fat, and then unsuccessfully try to diet your way into them? Well, I finally lost enough weight to fit into my "punishment" shirt, a red, striped affair from Rogue's Gallery. Next, I want to try to fit into that blue dress pant from H&M that I bought last year. It's a size 32, so I didn't know I'd be punishing myself with that one. But apparently, H&M pants run very small? Who would have thought?

Anyway, I wore my newly fitting shirt to the movies with Alia H. We saw "Terribly Happy." I thought I was going to love it when the cat said "goodbye," but ultimately I thought it was misogynistic. I asked Alia to take a picture of me, but the pictures kept making me look fat. She told me to spread my arms out, to look thinner, so this picture is of me looking thin and gay. Look at me! I'm about ready to fly out of the movie theater! But I like what the camera did to my eyes.

Love: the debate

2010-02-12T13:06:00.000-08:00

I went to a panel discussion on love last night at the Algonquin. Two of my authors were on the panel, Ben Greenman, from the New Yorker, and Simon Van Booy, from outer space. Also on the panel were the unbelievably adorable Rachel Shukert, and queen of darkness Ariel Leve, whom I want to be my new best friend. (I don't think she'd have me, though). I was impressed with Ben's outfit - as he proved at the panel, he is a mildly sarcastic, intelligent, dark comedian - but he didn't feel the need to dress that way. Does that make sense? I mean, he could have come in in leggings or a tunic or in drag or something - he sounded like he was in drag. But because of his confidence in his message, he didn't feel the need to dress oddly - he kept it simple, with a navy blue shirt and black pants. I have a similar fashion policy. There's no need for me to have tattoos and piercings - I feel the piercings are part of my personality, and should be inferred. That's why I dress in muted beige tones, mostly.

I was saddened somewhat during the panel discussion, because it made me realize that, by Ariel's standards (and my own), that the only person I've ever really dated was Joshie Zerkel, twelve years ago in San Francisco. One romantic interest per lifetime - is that the usual formula for happiness? I remember taking him to the restaurant Stars in San Francisco for Valentine's Day. I had scouted it out the week before, assuring myself that the prices weren't too outrageous. Then, we got there on Valentine's Day, and they had, like, a whole new menu. (!) But that's history...

I was happy reading Ben's forthcoming book, though. It's called WHAT HE'S POISED TO DO, and like Ben's fashions, it toys with your perceptions a little. With that title and the cover photo, I was expecting it to be kind of raunchy. But I am finding each story to be a heartbreaking masterpiece - sort of a "Missed Connections" for the Charlie Rose set. In almost all the stories, letters are sent (sometimes postcards) or letters are not sent. I can only read one story at a time - to read them quicker would be to have the book end quicker. It's soooo sad - and it makes me want to write letters and not send them.

Hard decline

2010-02-12T11:33:00.000-08:00

I walked briskly to Saks Fifth Avenue while on a smoke break at work. Saks had sent me a little $25 gift certificate for making all those unwise and ill-timed purchases last year, so I wanted to see if there were any bargains to be had. I snapped up this kicky little blouse by Nat Nast for just $38 (after the $25 was deducted!) What a steal! Unwisely, after that, I got a little excited, and decided to go and buy a bottle of Chanel Pour Monsieur to keep in the office. Unfortunately, my Saks card was declined for that purchase. The salesman even said "it's a hard decline. There's nothing I can do." I didn't know what to do with that information. My face began to flush with embarrassment, and I leaned in closer to the salesman and whispered, "Okay. I'm going to say to you what I say to all the salesmen when this happens. 'Give me back my card. I'm going to make a break for it.'" And then I ran away from the shame of it all, looking sharp.

Measuring tape

2010-02-11T08:39:00.000-08:00

My crazy friend Babatunde came over last night to measure me for a blouse. (Of course, he measured me for everything, despite my pleas to just measure me for a top, but I think he just wanted to put his hand in my crotch. "Inseam measurement" - ha!) Babatunde told me that my waist was a "couture 36," but I produced several pants that disproved him. I'm a 32 waist, damn it! How could I possibly be a 36 waist? I'm 6 feet tall and weigh 165 pounds! (And I've lost 15 pounds since the New Year). I told him that his tape measure was defective.

Everytime Babatunde comes over, I have to practically call the police to get him to leave. Last night, he:

indicated that he would be delivering me some "sausage" when he delivers my shirt in a week. I wisely declined;

tried to haggle me upwards on his shirt-making fee, when I told him going in that my limit was $100. $100 for a blouse seems high enough, Babatunde! He must think my name is Money Mike;

told me about some book of "tops and bottoms" he'd like to put together - this idea actually interested me, but I am completely ignorant about how to put together a fashion book;

hugged me four times. :)

I can't wait to see how my first commissioned blouse turns out. And today is the first day of the Barney's Warehouse Sale, too! My fashion luck is changing - I can feel it.

Partners and Spade party

2010-02-09T14:31:00.001-08:00

I went last week to a party at Partners & Spade. I forget what I was wearing, but I was in rare form. At one point, I went to chat up two cuties, but as I got closer, I realized that they were 12. I had fun chatting them up in a mentorly way, though. As it turns out, they were "recent" college grads (last May, I assume?) who were unemployed. They wanted to smoke pot with me, and didn't know who Jack Spade was. Two strikes! Well, one, at least.

At one point, my fashion nemesis, Joseph P., walked by and saw me chatting with the two teens - right as I was giving them my business card. (For a mentorly purpose, I swear! Plus, they were more into Kateri). Joseph gave me a knowing smirk and kept walking. I was so mortified! I had to chase after him and try to alter his perception of my conversation with the teens. I tried to make a circular pattern with my hand as I was talking to him, so that he would be hypnotized, and believe what I was saying.

I asked the teens how I could incorporate them into my fashion blog, and the cuter one said that his mother had just purchased him his blouse. So there you have it! That's all it takes!

Dressy party

2010-02-09T06:46:00.001-08:00

I was at a party last night where practically everyone was better-dressed than me! It doesn't happen often. It was at the Pink Pony - I was surprised that this place was still open. And one of the guests at the party helps run the website where I bought the shirt I was wearing, even. It was a birthday party for the fashion designer friend of a friend, named Anthony. He was fabulous in a black sheath with some sort of polka dotted, ruffled pull-on - I want to get to know him better, and blog about his outfits. Plus, maybe he will teach me the correct fashion word for "pull-on."

I waited until everyone seemed to have arrived at the party, and then I dramatically left. I was walking towards the Bowery when a very handsome bum accosted me and called me "sexy." I was immediately drawn in to what he was saying, since it's been at least 9 years since anyone's called me sexy. (Although, in my youth, I was considered quite the great beauty - like Sophia Loren if she was a little uglier). Anyway, I noticed that the bum was carrying a huge bottle of liquor, and I realized that I should take his "sexy" comment with a grain of salt. He seemed to want a cigarette, and to touch me. I asked him to settle for just a cigarette. That's when he described an evening that he had in mind for the two of us to share together - complete with cocaine, a "bowl," and some E. Foolish, unbelievably handsome bum! It's the me of two weeks from now who has the cocaine. The me of last night just had Boniva.

Ladder No. 63

2010-02-05T07:11:00.000-08:00

Have you ever passed by Ladder Co. 63 on Great Jones Street? Those firefighters are really hot, and their uniforms turn me on. I know every firefighter is sort of hot, but these guys go beyond the call of duty. Black raincoats, suspenders, blue Dickies - delicious. Once, the last time Tim Blue was in town, me and Mary were walking with him past Ladder Co. 63, and we saw some mouth-watering firefighters out front. I asked them if they could "put out the fire in my loins," and at first, they mocked me. But then, I guess, my phrase's magic worked itself on them, and they started to melt into hysterical laughter. One of them collapsed.

My own life has been touched many times by fire. My sister says that our mother thought I was going to burn down her home when I was a child. And eventually, I did burn down my own home, in 1996, by leaving a burner on for warmth. Firefighters saved me then, but I was alarmed to see that they fight indoor fires primarily with axes, not water. I was wearing a white robe when that happened. I waited downstairs while hot firefighters faced down their sworn enemy - flame. And then I lived for weeks in a blackened apartment with wood slats for windows. The fire happened two days before the blizzard of 1996, with the coldest temperatures ever recorded in NYC. The cold penetrated me, but not without its own tenderness, and in some ways, I've been cold ever since.

It cost so much money to repair my apartment. I didn't have it, so I moved to California, and my father fixed my apartment so he could rent it out. We do what we must to get what we want. Fires have taught me that. And what have I taught them? I guess, that I, like almost everything else, am flammable.

Hot nephew

2010-01-28T06:29:00.000-08:00

Last night I went out to dinner with Johnathan and his former porn star boyfriend, and the boyfriend's nephew, and some additional gay who seemed to be in a K hole the whole time. The nephew was hot! And he was wearing beads on one wrist, barbed wire on the other. I immediately took an unhealthy interest in him. Apparently, he is a milliner. Once again, I expressed my heartfelt desire for a mohair onesy, which is something that I reveal whenever I meet a clothier, in the hopes that they will like the sound of the project and be willing to take it on. The hot nephew immediately (and wisely) declined, though. One day, though, I predict that I will meet a clothier who will be lured in by my mohair onesy need. Probably, I will meet him right before I'm killed in a tragic accident, perhaps an accident involving me being buried in an avalance of onesies, and thus I will never get to enjoy my onesy.

Johnathan's boyfriend seems like a nice guy. He hugged me warmly as I walked in, but then the hug he gave me as I was leaving was colder. I wondered if I had made a bad impression, but I was leaving with my new friend Dan, so I quickly became more interested in Dan's thoughts on me. Dan played it cool, mostly.

Have you seen my weiner?

2010-01-28T05:47:00.000-08:00

A lot of people think I have no shame, no internal censor. But I must: this was among the first times I'd ever worn this shirt right-side-out. I remember purchasing it while I worked at Sotheby's, and I thought it was really funny, because around that time, I was running into guys around the city who would smile lasciviously when they saw me, and greet me by name. What a slut I must have been in my youth to obviously have engaged in sexual activities with people who, years later, I wouldn't even recognize. I should have said to these people who looked at me with recognition and lust: "Have you seen my weiner?" That might have cleared things right up.

My family had a weiner dog when I was a kid, but I don't remember what happened to her. Her name was Copper. If I'm remembering correctly, my mother intuited that I loved Copper, and thus she "got rid of" the dog to punish me for something or the other. That was my mother's style: she got rid of the things I loved in order to correct my behavior. I have to say, that was an interesting tactic, but I think what it really did was teach me that nothing is forever, and give me a mortal fear of abandonment.

Book party weirdness

2010-01-25T06:49:00.000-08:00

What a weird book party I went to on Friday! It was at Susan Shapiro's house. I went with the glamorous John Reed, books editor at the Brooklyn Rail, who never fails to crack me up. Sometimes, I'm the only one laughing at his jokes, but that makes it even more delicious ... I am fully fluent in weird humor! Speaking of weird, I was wearing a button-up shirt and a boa (more on that in a future post).

This is a blurry photo, but the fellow in the red, Dean, said that when he was going up to the party in the elevator, a woman asked him, scornfully: "Who are you?" Later on, he asked her: "Who are you?" She replied "I'm Ultraviolet," and walked away. Those Warhol superstars! Still making friends twenty years later. I saw her at the party - she was wearing a blue, red, and green polyester top.

I ran into an ex of an ex of mine, and I was really happy to compare notes. :) More on this later, too.

I also ran into a friend of a friend named Josh. This is him talking to me in the picture. He had a crooked smile, and I told him he looked like Christopher Plummer from "The Sound of Music," but he hadn't seen that movie! What is up with straight guys not having seen "The Sound of Music?" C'mon, straight guys! Add it to your queue.

Simon and Pedro (and Jennifer)

2010-01-22T08:31:00.001-08:00

One of my most fancy-dressin' authors, Simon Van Booy, convinced me to venture into Brooklyn last night for the Tin House reading. I texted him that I was waiting outside, as I'm shy, but after 45 minutes, I gave up and went into the reading alone. Of course, he was sitting inside already, enjoying the reading. Simon!

I ran into New York Times notable author Jennifer Gilmore there, and her husband Pedro, who Simon seemed fascinated by. They chatted for a while, while I gossiped with Jennifer. Then Simon sweetly gave me a ride back into Manhattan in his Audi. Much like my mother did whenever I drove her anywhere, I gripped the handrest until my knuckles went white, and kept pressing with my foot on an invisible brake. We discussed love, and I was taken again by Simon's innocence on the topic. Sometimes, I give him tips on dating etiquette, but I am un-datable myself, so I secretly hope he doesn't take my advice.

I was going to get dressed up for the reading, to make some doomed effort to attract a gloomy, literary fellow, but you can't out-dress Simon, so I had a bizarre outfit on - grey, acid-wash jeans, a dark grey shirt, and a purple sweater from the Gap. The Gap! And there were no literary fellows there anyway - just one cute guy who seemed to work there, and was thus off-limits, and every other guy in their 50s and up.

In this photo Simon and Pedro both are working their well-honed, individual looks. Work it, Simon and Pedro!

Kona Kai

2010-01-18T13:35:00.000-08:00

I went to a birthday party for Aaron, who runs the amazing magazine Spunk, at the Ace Hotel. At first, I was only going to put on a simple shell, but then I remembered that my lesbian friend William would probably be dressed to the nines, so I made a little effort and put on a vintage Kona Kai Hawaiian blouse. Look at William's outfit! He is a true fashion original, in a way I could never be. He was rocking "Brooklyn schoolboy realness," and I wish I had taken a picture of him with his full outfit on, including a fancy peacoat and a grey, felt hat.

But back to my shirt. I bought it years ago on an antiquing trip to Cold Spring, with Blue. There were so many hotties at the Ace Hotel party (especially Aaron and Christopher, who told me I was sexy and that he had a lover of 17 years. It isn't above me to plot an affair with Christopher, as I'd like to know how being the spoiler feels, for a change. Oh, wait ... I already know how that feels, with that sexy guy who moved away. It feels weird). Weirdly, ten years later, I still wonder where Blue is now, if you can imagine that. And I still think of him as the one who (thankfully) got away.

H.R.G.

2010-01-15T22:26:00.000-08:00

Alyse, Luther, Paula, and Miss P. and I went to Epistrophy on Mott Street for some Italian food. Alyse is moving to California on Monday! I will miss her tthhhhiiiiisssss much. I asked her to take a picture of me, and this is one of them, wearing my brand-new horned-rim glasses. Remember when everyone was wearing hrg's about three years ago, perhaps in homage to H.R.G. from "Heroes?" Well, I loved them then, but I couldn't buy them until a few years had passed. I want to be hopelessly out-of-date, not current. When there's a craze, I usually wait until it dies down. I am already craze-y, and I never seem to have the right timing in other areas of my life anyway. In my youth, people would tell me, "I used to really like you five years ago." I wonder who will say that five years from now? Probably my coroner. And what will I be wearing five years from now? Perhaps a Moncler puffy coat. Unlikely, but you never know.

A snuggie for the hand

2009-12-29T19:01:00.001-08:00

Who would move to Alabama in his adulthood? Well, you're looking at him! My wonderful friend Nikhil flew back to NYC for the holidays - probably with a banjo on his knee - and it gave me another opportunity to see just how inexorably the swampland can become a part of your entire persona. For what is Nikhil wearing on his hands? He suggested that they were merely "fingerless gloves," perfect for smoking - but I beg to differ. If you take a good luck, you'll probably agree with me that Nikhil is wearing a snuggie for the hand.

William and Emmett

2009-12-29T18:49:00.000-08:00

My lesbian friend William and my fabulous friend Emmett had tea and cupcakes in Emmett's apartment. Whenever I take a picture of Emmett, it goes right on my fashion blog, as he is a famous clothier. He is always obsessing about some lurid mass-market fashion transaction he is about to make, or casually mentioning that he must buy a gift for "Heidi" (he was on season 2 of "Project Runway," which I mention for the gays.) We got to talking about the relative value of the body parts of the gays, and William posited that "body" trumps "face" any day. Emmett countered that "d..." trumps "everything." I was mildly disturbed by this, and murmured some vague protestation. Little did I know how prophetic my own words would be, just days afterward. Yes, as I have since been advised-by-life yet again, "d..." does NOT trump "everything," because if it did, I would have the pick of the litter in this stinking city. :^D

Tim and Tunde

2009-12-29T18:39:00.000-08:00

My dear, wizened friend Tim (he turns 47 tomorrow - *shudder*) and I went to see the movie "Precious" at Union Square. Tim is precious to me, but much like "Precious," he is downtrodden at the moment. Get in line, Tim Blue! On the way home, we ran into my friend Babatunde, whom I am always happy to see, because it means that there is someone out there who is crazier than me, and I look sane, by comparison! Yay, Tunde!! Tunde is also way more fashionable than I, which makes me secretly hope that one day his insanity will truly be recognized by the authorities, and he will be placed into an institution. Let's see how fashionable he can be in a straightjacket.

I decided to photograph my two dear friends, although we positioned the picture to also capture the lust of the two kissing youths in the pizza restaurant. (That isn't sauce running down his leg.) Ah, youth. I remember you well, though not fondly.

Jamie

2009-12-29T18:23:00.000-08:00

Wow, I thought I was bundled up to brave the cold of NYC! But then I walked the streets with the ever-fabulous Jamie B., who was so bundled up, it can't even be said that he was facing the cold. The cold couldn't reach him through that get-up! Rock on, Jamie B. I love you. Fur hat and all.

The silver fox

2009-12-13T10:07:00.000-08:00

Peppar's uncle Dempsey is a silver fox! He showed up to her dinner with a bowtie on, even! And the glasses are cool, too. I asked if I could take his picture for my blog. When I am in my sixties - just a couple of years away - I want to wear little bowties and smart suits to dinner, too. Maybe it's the dormant slut inside of me, but seeing a hot old man like Dempsey makes me want to unbutton his suit and slowly slip my hand inside. What would I find there? I've only ever gotten naked with one old man - years ago - and the only thing I remember (other that he worked for a church) was that he was sad, and his skin was both dry and soft, like money. Dempsey is Peppar's son's middle-name namesake, but I provided the first name, so I do not feel threatened.