Shopping in Philly

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.