Alternative earth - day 1!

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 ...

Purple socks

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.

French cuffs

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."