Bradford Shellhammer

on hooker outfits, sweet treats, and role models

July 10, 2011

When David Mason Chlopecki first suggested sometime last year Georgi and I join him for Pride in Madrid I think I eagerly said yes, quietly thinking to myself, absolutely not.

But then, as I often do, I began to reconsider my almost always initial internal reaction to everything, saying no. Georgi had lived two years, while at an American college, in Madrid and I know he was dying to go back. Suddenly David's Facebook photos of hooker-looking friends in Jeremy Scott for Adidas and overly-muscular bodies, an initial turn-off, became a turn-on. I love David's influence on me. He's made me appreciate all over again the style and glamour of nightclubs, hookers, go-go dancers, and nightlife culture. I thought it was dead in NYC. I thought drugs had killed it. But, no, it was there. I had just traded in a yuppy lifestyle of Michelin-starred meals and weekends upstate. David's allowed me to see, that in ever small doses, much fun exists in the world after dark.

So we acquiesced. And I agreed to go to Madrid for Pride, a place I thought was circuit boy heaven. Which it is. But it's so much more. This was my second trip to Spain, having first spent a week in Barcelona and a week in the Canary Islands with Ben in 2005. This trip was different. Then I was discovering Europe. It all seemed so new. Now, having traveled extensively the last 3 years, I know what I want to get out of a city. And out of Spain I wanted to dance. I wanted to drink outside while the sun set. I wanted plates of cheese and jamon iberico. All of which I had in spades.

Georgi is the perfect travel companion, besides the fact that he sleeps too much (I am always itching to get out the door). He could sleep all day! But other than that traveling together is easy for us. As we love the same thing: food. We ate a lot in Madrid, a place I thought I'd absolutely hate the food. But gazpacho and grilled pork and chorizo hit the spot. I discovered a new love for beer: so refreshing in Spain's heat hovering above 95 each day we were there.

David's friends, of which one could argue are on the circuit, were darling. The allure of being surrounded by gay men from all over the world is exciting. I made new friends from Lebanon and Germany and Australia and Brazil and Sweden and South Africa. We attended a cocktail party, where several of us took over a back room, aptly titling it the Interior Illusions Lounge. Georgi, and David, seemed outright shocked by my popularity in this circle of muscled international hunks. They assumed I'd annoy or combat. Just the opposite. I often say, as I have here repeatedly, that I collect friends as others collect stamps. Or MP3s. Or glass owl figurines. And in Spain I snapped them up. And when my discombobulated looks, my signature mixture of tattoos exposed, neon-hued shoes, primary colors, a few plastic accessories, and some type of street element (this trip, the fitted baseball cap) brought to mind Ke$Ha to many of my new (girl)friends, I took it as a compliment, and not a slap. Ke$Ha's the type of American export gay guys love. Tacky, romantic, fun, loud. When I talk to these people from far-off lands it's always easy. Everyone loves NYC still it seems (thanks for that, Lady Gaga). But when they probe deeper asking where I am really from, and I admit Baltimore, it elicits the same reaction everywhere in the world: the singing of "Good Morning Baltimore!" I only wish they'd reference the film, not the play. But I'll take it.

I shopped a bit too, buying, yes, Jeremy Scott for Adidas. We danced a lot. Saw friends from San Diego and New York and neighbors in our building (one of which removed me as a friend on Facebook, which really makes me proud for some strange reason). Sunned by the pool during the day, sipped more beers as the sun set, danced before it rose again.

I got a rush walking down this one block in Madrid. It was the walk from our adorable hotel, Hotel Urban, to Chueca, the gay ghetto. Along this block female prostitutes wearing neon-pink spandex, Cheetah-printed pumps, and over-processed hair stand, dozens, some aggressively courting male patrons. I was shocked! I knew that prostitution was legal here. But these hookers where mirror images of those I used to see on The Block, the infamous Baltimore strip. They could have been right out of a John Waters movie (I'll get to him a bit later).

And I thought that though the guys I was surrounded by were all doctors and designers and bankers, that they were not too dissimilar from the hookers. With their American B-ball caps, gym shorts, sports jerseys, and Jeremy Scotts, they too, like the hookers, were just wearing a uniform. And it's a cute look, borrowed from hip-hop and African-American sports stars. A nod, I think, to America. And even I, someone typically found in Paul Smith, enjoyed dressing the part.

As the weekend ended the Europeans fled the city to their hometowns to go back to work. Georgi and I too were supposed to go, having booked a trip to Oslo. But weather reports suggested 62 degree highs in Norway and rain, so we abandoned our flight and hotel, booked 3 more nights in Madrid, and stayed in Spain. We relaxed. Saw Guernica! Visited Georgi's old school (which was so cute to see him show me the place he came as a poor Bulgarian student). And ate more ham and cheese and paella and gazpacho. Sun-kissed and well rested we headed to Berlin.

As soon as we landed I knew I loved Berlin. I had been romanticizing the city since I visited in dreary winter several years back with the McLoughlin twins. But now it was summer and 80 degrees and lush and green. There's a perfect order in Berlin. Signs for streets, lanes for bikes, merchandised shop floors make everything tourists do easy. I was struck by the architecture: so modern, much glass, but not in a vulgar display of glass towers many other cities have adopted. In Berlin order exists, with an irreverent and downright dirtiness existing under a layer or two.

We visited the Bauhaus Archive, a small, but powerful museum, dedicated to the likes of Breuer and Schlemmer. I bought 15 posters in the gift shop. We saw the Reichstag and the Holocaust memorial and ate sauerkraut, sausages, and cheese dip with pretzels. We drank wheat beers and had dinner with Dr. Jon, an American living in Berlin, who we met at our hotel in Madrid. We were taken to a Berlin bar, a laboratory of sites and sounds, where I was shocked and delighted by the bizarre display of unadulterated and brazen acts of the dwellers.

The next morning when I rented bikes with Bille Ray Martin, the German singer I've known for a decade and a half, we laughed about the night before. She told me she has friends who have moved to Berlin just for the underground. Just then we rode past Tom's, the legendary leather bar, and we both wondered aloud what it would have been like to have been in Berlin during the days Freddie Mercury frequented the haunt. If alive today, methinks, Freddie'd have a fondness for boys with Jeremy Scotts on.

Over rose and more sausage Billie and I laughed out loud on a corner of a quiet and manicured neighborhood of Berlin. Our loudness was off-putting to some society ladies, who Billie said live in the adorable little neighborhood. Over heated discussions of Gaga and German culture (Maraschino cherries in a martini, what type of people do that!?), we settled on the one religion we both practice: the cult of Warhol. We ranked our favorite Superstars, both choosing Holly Woodlawn as our favorite, me choosing Candy Darling as my second fave, and Bil insisting on Jackie Curtis, the "brains" of the group according to her. We spoke of our love, and the depth of Warhol's diaries. We laughed at the idea of carpeting the streets. We both admire Warhol's belief that everyone in this world, from the drug addict to the pop singer to the transexual to the hustler to the business tycoon to the society doyenne, is special. Everyone is worth knowing (collecting as a friend), and that life is a better experience when mixed with high and low. Both in fashions, art, culture, and people. Andy's image followed us that day. His face hung on a shop sign steps from the cafe where we dined. And later, on our bikes, we passed a hotel filled with Warhol images. I hopped off mine and made Billie shoot a photo of me and Andy, my number one role model.

At lunch we spoke of John Waters, whose book Role Models I've read on this trip. She loved A Dirty Shame, Waters' last film, a bomb, which admittedly I think is his worst film. I adore Cecil B. Demented, which Billie cannot even sit through. But we love Waters. I wonder why I have never met John Waters. Though I am far an A-list Hollywood type, I have met my fair share of influential homosexuals and I do find it odd that we've never, not once, crossed paths. I really want to know him. I have a lot to say to him.

But I guess some role models go unmet. Like several of those in Waters' book.

Packing dark bars with museum archives and fancy restaurants, dance floors with rooftop pools and architecture, I saw high and low on our rainbow tour of Europe. And though Madrid and Berlin's designs influenced me in great ways (Nouvel's Reina Sofia, type/fonts used in Germany's street/store signs) it was the people I remember best. David's insistence on me acting younger, Billie's obsession with Andy, Georgi's companionship and sweet caresses, Fred and his fits of sweetness, Graham and his cute little dance. And those I met, Ryan, the acupuncturist, and Princess Jasmine and Wine and Omega, an African-American make-up artist living in Cologne. Dance floor companions. Drinking buddies. And the servers. And the bartenders. Go-go boys. Cops. Faces on the train and on this airplane

Faces, familiar and new, are what I hold on to. Like Andy's stare from above, they're hard to forget and are the sweet treat of the luxury of travel.

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on bjork and angie grant

April 21, 2011

Angie Grant was a friend of mine in 9th grade. She had a blunt-cut died black bob and wore black and white striped tights with black Creepers. She stained her lip cherry red and idolized The Cure's Robert Smith.

At 15 Angie had found a look. She'd created a strong visual that invited ridicule and attention. I admired her greatly. And when i found out a few years back she'd died a little piece of me too also left this world.

I was thinking of Angie Grant this past weekend as I travelled to Iceland for the first time. Angie gave me Bjork's album Debut when we were high school kids. And it changed my world. It was one of those crystal-clear moments when you easily look back and remember finding a new world.

Bjork's Debut was a sonic melting of Icelandic oddity with disco. In it she dissected the human race and sang love songs so vivid. Volcanoes and airplanes helped explain the enormity of her elfin heart. And her visual matched that voice! She knotted her hair and wore disco boots and mini-skirts. She was alien. She was like Angie Grant, unafraid to be a clown.

Sequential albums were also great events. On Post she orchestrated both techno-pop and old-school pop in neon colors. On Homogenic she donned a McQueen kimono and sang songs in honor of her children and trapped whales. In Dancer in the Dark, her acting debut, she won at Cannes and scored an Oscar nod. And she wore that swan dress.

Bjork's albums have sold a little less with each release. But she's still very much an influential musician and about to release a new album and embark on a tour. In San Francisco many year back I watched her show under the bay bridge. She donned spacewoman couture and belted love songs for aliens, Icelanders, and even Americans. She's always been otherworldly and a definite acquired taste.

But on this flight from Reykjavik to NYC it all makes sense. Bjork took isolation and coupled it with Iceland's amazing landscape, small-town vibe, and connection to animals. In it she made music, looks, and worlds from a blender of inspirations. She created another world and welcomed others not as odd to her party.

Bjork too, like Angie Grant, created a strong visual that invited ridicule and attention. I continue to admire them from afar.

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skeletor saves video

April 17, 2011

A video made by Bubi Canal of the art show I co-curated with David Mason and Brian Moylan.

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on caramel creams

The new issue of the zine Put A Egg On It, the one with Justin Bond on the cover, is out now. I was asked to contribute an essay about an independent food brand from my hometown. I chose Goetze's Caramel Creams, a true Maryland classic. Enjoy the essay and grab up a copy of the zine. It's an eclectic mix of people:

My first job was in the summer of 1990. I was 14 and I had then, as I

continue to today, a very, very severe sweet tooth. I worked as a

cashier at High's Dairy Store, a poor man's 7-11. High's dotted

Baltimore the way Starbucks do now in every city. Everywhere you went

you'd see a High's store.

High's sold remarkably good hand-dipped ice cream. This separated it

apart for the other Maryland convenience stores -the 7-11s, Wawas, and

Royal Farm Stores. High's, like any convenience store, also sold

candy. Lots of it. Tastycakes and Twizzlers and Big League Chew.

Hershey's bars and Snickers and Peeps. Heaven. Pure heaven for a sugar

addict like myself. I was a 14-year-old kid in a candy store.

At 10PM or so, before we mopped the floors, but before we closed the

doors, people would stop coming into the store at a steady pace. It

was then that we, the workers, who made something like $5 an hour,

would raid the candy isles!

My favorites were wrapped in clear cellophane with red and white

print. Goetze's Caramel Creams. The packaging was old school and in

complete opposition to the over-sweetened and over-marketed

confections of the day. Their simple caramel rings, with powdered

sugar dusting, sat lined in rows under the clear plastic cover. Within

those caramel rings sat a chalky white filling. They were as simple

as candy could get: all wheat flour, cream, sugar, and milk.

I often times jones for candy. And the bodegas of Manhattan have

plenty of candies, from Good-N-Plenty to Jujubes, to choose from. But

only in Baltimore can I still find those caramel rings.

The cellophane's changed colors and the labels appear more current, but

when unwrapped those caramel discs look, and taste, exactly the same.

I still cannot have just one. They're too good. Too simple. They're

made in Baltimore for Baltimoreans. And they taste like home.

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on rio, nyc, and mumbai

During the span of one week, from late February to early March, I found myself in Rio and then New York and then Mumbai. These cities, all very far from one another, do in fact have many commonalities.

They're all the sexiest of their country's cities. They're also the fastest paced. I could not make a decision as to which of the three cities moves at a more rapid pace. They all have their own rhythm and their own soul. They're kindred spirits.

When I go places that are sleepy I often times get relaxed. I love Palm Springs for this very reason and last summer it is why I adored my time on Bulgaria's Black Sea coast. However, I am a city boy. I was born in a city and I require horn honking and crowded streets and packed restaurants. I require the visual stimulation of the architecture, the cars and buses, and, most importantly, the people.

Many New Yorkers take their city for granted. New York is a marvel. It's architecture is all over the place. Brownstones and glass skyscrapers. Parks and monuments and water surrounding. The inhabitants have style. The girls on the train from Brooklyn and the girls from the village spending daddy's trust fund have at least one thing in common: attention to dress and a strong sense of personal style. I love snapping photos of New Yorkers.

I also love telling people I am from New York. While in Rio for Carnival a few weeks back I took many photos. I snapped buildings and beaches. What Rio may lack in distinct architecture it most certainly makes up for in natural beauty. Rio is a beach town; and it is a glorious beach. During Carnival Brazilians dress in costumes and funny hats and bikinis. They smile and dance and love their lives. I don't think people in Rio feel sorry for themselves. How could they? Their city is that gorgeous.

When not wearing Carnival costumes Brazilians dress in a colorful, casual way. Designers like Osklen have elevated beach wear to high-fashion. I am a sucker for Osklen's signature low crotch cotton pants. They seem to fall apart a bit more and soften a bit more after each washing. Their t-shirts are standard surf wear, but with a twist. The prints are less in-your-face than the California brands. And their cottons are more faded, distressed. There's a handmade element to each of their shirts and pants. While very expensive, it's worth the trip to Osklen. Think Free CIty without the LA graphics/color treatment.

One does not have to spend lots of money to buy into the Rio look though. Gorgeous, colorful beach wraps are sold for very little on the beach. Haivainas and sandals are a fraction of US prices. And striped tank tops and board shorts in cool colors and graphics are found in every price point.

The beauty of Rio is that you do not have to think about what to wear. The weather is too hot and skin is shown so often that there is a freedom of wearing as little as possible. There are, at many times, more men not wearing shirts on the street than those wearing them. It's sexy. And when streets fill with people you feel the electricity of all combined elements: sex, color, music, joy. Dancing at a nightclub (if in Rio check out The Week, it's easily the world's best club) reveals a vibe New York's lost since the 90s. And scout the beaches of Leblon or Ipanema. People watching is better nowhere else on this earth.

On the crowded sands you'll come in contact with locals having fun, an International crowd of travelers, local merchants selling wears and drinks and food, and more colors, of clothing and skin, than anywhere else on earth. If you can't have fun in Rio then I would suggest you see a doctor. It's just humanly impossible to not give into the local joy and pride.

Mumbai is a lot like Rio and a lot like New York. To a casual observer this may not seem possible. Mumbai, like Rio, and like New York, has an energy. It's greater than all the parts of the city.

In India all things you know are turned upside down. And that's a good thing.

It is a most daunting task documenting 10 days spent in India. India, and Mumbai in particular, is chaotic. It is a mixture of sights, sounds, smells, textures, and tastes. There is much newness here, like new high-end designer hotels and boutique fashion shops catering to Bollywood's elite. But by and large, India, and especially Mumbai, feel as though they're from another time. When I say another time I don't imagine centuries ago. Rather, I always feel as though I am transported back to the sixties, a time when Elizabeth Taylor was the world's biggest movie star and when style was not something taught on the Internet.

The cabs in Mumbai are from the sixties. Their round shape and tacky (yet gorgeous!) patterned upholstery give the city a rather retro vibe. They putter and make noise and honk often.

People fill streets on bikes and motorcycles and cars and taxis. Throw in more pedestrians than ever imagined, some cows and goats too, and you have packed streets and roads. Red lights are ignored. Fender benders are the norm. Driving is serious business.

Skin is not shown in Mumbai. But the way friends walk together, arms around one another, reminded me of groups of kids in Brazil. In the US the sense of personal space even crosses over to our closest friends. In India physical contact is the norm. Friends hold hands with each other.

In Mumbai salesmanship is a serious business too. In the markets everything can be sold: Stainless steal dinnerware, goats and chickens, colorful, plentiful vegetables, silks and scarves and clothing. I bought 3 pairs of paper-thin cotton pyjama pants. I wore them my entire trip. The fabrics in india are basic colors, beiges, khakis, and whites, for men. For the women there is no limit. The women's dress in India is striking. The colors are bold. The silhouettes play with proportions. The textures are vast and different.

Indian women also adorn themselves with beautiful jewelry. The jewelry designer Laura Lobdell encouraged me to find glass bangles as she said the sounds they make chime, rather than din like metal bangles. And she was right. I bought them in every color for many female friends.

The salespeople of home goods and fashions are aggressive. But while in the city of Pune I remarked about Indians' "aggressive niceness." This concept was initially hard for me. Whether unloading my bags at the hotel or shopping the Colaba market, in India many people want to help you and they don't take no for an answer. To an American used to keeping cool and keeping to himself this can be a rather big challenge. Ultimately, one must see it for what it is: India is a nation that celebrates hospitality. Indians are so nice, so friendly, and so sincere it's sometimes overwhelming. In the US we're not used to seeing such great cheer so often.

My last day in India occurred on the celebration of Holi. My colleagues and I put on our pyjamas and ventured to see some sites. We encountered on every street corner people, young and old, painting themselves in neon powders. The inhabitants of Mumbai became walking Andy Warhol portraits; lips were pink and faces were green and hair was yellow. And we joined in, eschewing the American prudishness, and giving into pure, simple, colorful fun.

I hugged over 100 strangers on Holi. I shook hands with 5 year old kids and old men. I witnessed dancing in the streets and singing and joy. And it all seemed so pure.

India is full of colors. Everything, trucks, clothing, signs, doors, faces, are painted in the color of rainbows.

Those colors match the richness of Indian's souls.

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on horsemeat, vampire djs, and an icelandic swan

April 13, 2011

It was on a whim that David Mason Chlopecki and I planned a trip to Iceland. He'd flown Iceland Air this past winter and remarked about how he thought I'd like the flight attendant uniforms. That led to a conversation of how I am obsessed with all things Scandinavian. No one ever wants to go to Scandinavia from NYC. My friends long for beaches and more exotic locales.

But in David I've found a sister soul, interested in the bizarre like myself.

I owe much of my fascination with Iceland to Bjork. I own all her albums. And her lyrics, a mix of elfin/alien gibberish, heartbreak, and descriptions of wild animals and far-off places, seemed other-worldly to me when I was in Baltimore wanting to escape. Much Icelandic music I love. Bjork's Sugarcubes made strangeness chic. GusGus' electro pulse and Sigur Ros' trippiness painted even more ethereal visuals of the island nation. And Emiliana Torrini's ode to Golum is a gem. Odd. Weird. Breathtaking.

Which is exactly how I'd describe Iceland. It really is breathtaking. The water is crystal clear and blueish green. The mountains are covered in snow. The volcanic rock is covered in green moss. And the people are covered in eclectic sweaters and funky boots. It's extreme. I felt many times I was on the North Pole. On Mars. On the moon.

There's no polish in Iceland. Things are crafty and look handmade. It's small, quaint, and charming. In the phonebook so many people have the same name that jobs are also listed to avoid confusion. There are only 120 prisoners and women leave their baby strollers, and their babies, outside while they lunch in cafes. Yes, they leave their baby-filled cribs on the sidewalk, outside!

You can see how Bjork would elevate oddity to an art form. Along with David's friend, the lovable Londoner Graham Miller, we dined on horse, whale sashimi, smoked puffin, and decomposed shark. The food in Iceland is fresh and Scandinavian fare, but again with the oddity that only an island close to the Arctic could produce. We felt adventurous with our appetites.

We also felt adventurous with our actions. In 4 days we climbed underground in pitch black volcanic caves. Saw waterfalls and Icelandic horses and geysers. We danced until 5AM in the country's only gay bar, which was filled mostly with straight women. And we popped in and out of shops selling knitted scarves, vintage Scandinavian housewares, and goofy, avant-garde fashions.

Everyone we met in Iceland was kind and a little weird. They smiled really big and proudly talked about their land, but not in an overbearing way that Europeans and Americans typically boast about their homeland. The people here are one with nature and sheltered to some extent from the rest of the world. That's bread a unique spirit, asthetic, and culture.

Within a period of one hour it was not uncommon for the sun to shine, hail to pelt our faces, rain to soak our coats, and wind to blow us nearly to the ground only for the sun to emerge again. The weather's unique, unpredictable, never annoying though. Just diverse. Off. Odd. Like Bjork's voice and lyrics. Like puffin and shark meat. Like Icelandic fashion designers. Like vampire djs spinning J-Lo to singing drunk straight girls decked in pumps, spandex, and fur at 5AM.

In Reykjavik, finally, a childhood dream had come true. I returned to Manhattan with (imaginary) spiders in my pockets, violently happy from my travels around the world.

It's become a habit. A way to start the day.

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on tracey thorn

March 18, 2011

You don't really dust off MP3s. But every once in a while iTunes does throw a curveball at you.

It did that to me the other day when a track from Tracey Thorn's last album blasted on my Harmon Kardons. The song, "Why Does the Wind?," pulsed in my office, with Thorn calmly pondering, "Why does the wind blow through my heart each time I look into your eyes?"

I discovered Thorn in 1988, a year I discovered much music. Her band, Everything but the Girl, a duo consisting of Thorn and her lover, Ben Watt, made acoustic pop rock. "Driving" was a hit on VH1. She was frumpy. Chubby. That art-school girl all us gay guys loved in middle school.

Then, suddenly, as my music tastes turned very gay, so did EBTG's. After Todd Terry remixed the shit out of their pensive ballad "Missing," the greatest sad love song ever recorded, EBTG turned disco enthusiasts. Thorn's look turned more severe. She lost weight. Became more androgynous. And she sheared her locks even more. The next two albums were club records embracing house and drum and bass, and EBTG enjoyed massive success in Europe and achieved gay fame in the States.

Thorn's voice is not standard dance-music fare. She does not wail. She does not belt. Her voice is more a woodwind instrument, floating along solemnly in its own prettiness. Like her looks, it's an atypical voice. That voice sounds sad yet sweet. Her puppy-dog eyes also look sad. She has released a pair of solo albums in recent years and is still whispering poetry over electric beats. And she's still shorn, with puppy-dog eyes and stuffy English fashion. She's an unlikely house-music diva. But she's oh-so-effective. She's just as unlikely and effective as a fashion force, too.

on dinner with joey, cancan dancing, and school

We met at Indochine and were quickly seated at a round booth in the middle of the room.

Everyone in the room could see us and watch us. We were in view of the bar and the dining room, and all the servers and busboys had to walk by us.

Not only did Indochine's staff stop to greet us that night, but many restaurant regulars did too. They came to pay their respects to one of downtown Manhattan's greats, Joey Arias.

How David Mason and I ended up sitting with Arias is quite a funny tale that goes to show you just how easily the Internet can bring like people together. A few weeks back, I wrote an Iconography essay on Klaus Nomi. In it, I accused David Bowie of ripping off Nomi. I was wrong. It was Nomi who borrowed the look from Bowie, and Joey Arias, Nomi's best friend and the executor of his estate, quickly set the record straight on my Facebook wall. This, naturally, led to my wanting to know the real story about Nomi. So Arias suggested dinner.

Indochine is one of those restaurants that have stood the test of time. It was chic, then not, and now, like, say, the Odeon, it's chic again. It's not one of New York's hot spots. But there is a history. It was a perfect setting.

Arias wore all black and arrived promptly, with his hair pulled back tight. David and I were giddy like schoolkids ready for a lesson on a New York we'd only read about.

Arias did not disappoint. He told stories of his travels. Of being gifted with kittens by Divine and of the infamous Saturday Night Live performance, which came about after Nomi and Arias met Bowie at a nightclub downtown. Names of the famous and the iconic were thrown around as reference points, not as braggadocio: George Michael, Mugler, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Penny Arcade. Pierre y Gilles. Arias was thrilled to tell his stories. We lapped them up like starving puppies before a bowl of chow.

David and I both came to New York City to be amongst the Joey Ariases of the world. And in both our careers we've met many an influencer and artist. And we've both made our mark on Manhattan in some little way. So sitting there with Joey Arias was the culmination of many, many years of hard work for both of us. We were treated to an intimate look at New York's past, one that exists today only in coffee-table books, like the one documenting the scene at Indochine, where we sat and held court while most watched the Super Bowl.

After four hours and two bottles of wine, we joined a group of middle-aged women who were also dining that night. One of them, Arias told me, was a noted fashion photographer. Another, with bleached-blonde hair, looked as if she'd given Debbie Harry a run for her money back in the day. A limo pulled up and the women hopped in, as they were celebrating a birthday and heading out after dinner. Arias, David, and I locked arms and did a brief cancan on the street near Astor Place. We laughed and the lesson was over. We vowed to do it again, making this a monthly occurrence.

Class then was dismissed.

on loving arms, mr. clarke, and the divine ways of the world

March 11, 2011

I remember it vividly. I went to the Towson Town Center, a shopping mall adjacent to Goucher College. I was a freshman. It was 1994.

Towson is an affluent town north of Baltimore. Goucher's address is technically Baltimore, but it is, more or less, in the heart of Towson. Towson is home to Towson State University and John Waters' Serial Mom. Once when I was in college I took acid with my friends Greg and Jenn and we stumbled into a graveyard in Towson. There, tripping, I found Divine's grave in sheer coincidence. I believe things like that are signs. They're indicators of the future. I have been blessed to have had many odd, unique, experiences like that.

Some fucked up God has always been hovering around me.

In high school I discovered music. I loved electronic music and obsessed over the usuals of the electro-pop, dance, and alternative worlds. If iPods existed mine would easily shuffle Erasure, Pet Shop Boys, Depeche Mode, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, George Michael, Dead of Alive, Donna Summer, OMD, Human League, Yaz, Kraftwerk, The Cure, Nine Inch Nails, Front 242, Jesus Jones, Siouxsie and the Banshees, 10,000 Maniacs, Midnight Oil, a-ha!, ABBA, Neneh Cherry, Eurythmics, Army of Lovers, Sugarcubes, Basia, Thompson Twins, Nitzer Ebb, B-52's, Jimmy Somerville, Diana Ross.

I would insist my mom drive me to Washington, DC, where I'd snatch up 12" dance records at 12" Dance Records. New Order and disco tracks like Chaka Khan's "Ain't Nobody."

There was no Internet. I bought music based on what I read in Spin, Rolling Stone, The Face, and Creem. I bought records based on the cover artwork. Sometimes you got crap, and other times you hit gold.

In Towson, cd singles of dance records began replacing records. I would agonize over what cds to buy. I remember the day I found one such cd. I bought Billie Ray Martin's "Your Loving Arms" because of its artwork. She was draped on a bed, heartbroken and distraught. Red roses were thrown throughout the room. It was high drama and stood out among the cliched dance record covers of the time.

I went to my dorm room and listened to that song, all the mixes, Junior's Soundfactory and Todd Terry's too. I must have listened to that song literally thousands of times. It never gets old. It's always sad. It's always tugging at my heartstrings.

My friend Kate Jennings about a year later moved to Manhattan from Baltimore. I would drive up. We went to Tunnel and heard Junior Vasquez spin. And we went to the village where I spent $24 to buy Billie's stunning and complex album Deadline For My Memories. It was not released yet in the US. I bought a German issue of the album and I fell in love with Ms. Martin's voice and lyrics. Both comfort me. She's a poet. She's a Joni Mitchell or a Patti Smith for Kraftwerk, not Dylan, lovers.

The Internet soon changed our lives (and the world's) when I wrote to Billie in 1998 via her website. This lead to a friendship that has lasted more than a decade. We've always been pen-pals. She sends me her music. She borrowed a line I wrote in an email for her song "Oprah's Book of the Month Club." We've seen Varla Jean Merman and Justin Bond live onstage together. She's slept in my home and she's gifted me with German tranny flicks. I, in turn, have sent her Liza Minelli posters and secured her Dynasty dolls. We both love Holly Woodlwan. And though we can count on our hands how many actual days we've been in each other's presence, I consider her a dear friend and a great inspiration.

When Billie was putting on the finishing touches of her new record "Sweet Suburban Disco" she reached out to me about people she could possibly get to remix the album. And I immediately thought of Vince Clarke.

I idolize Clarke. If I had to list my three favorite bands I'd easily rattle off Erasure, Yaz, and Depeche Mode. I saw Yaz twice. I've seen Erasure about 30. And I own everything the man has ever released musically. Erasure helped me accept my sexuality. Their music gave me hope of another world. Music has that power. When it touches you it changes your life.

Vince Clarke is a rockstar. And I've interviewed his Erasure mate Andy Bell several times in the past, but never Clarke. I blogged about Vince last year which lead to his wife Tracy reaching out to me. This lead to me interviewing Vince and striking up a bit of an internet friendship with Tracy.

I still find it odd how easily I can "befriend" someone via the Internet. It's odd, yet fucking cool.

So, me being that loud obnoxious Baltimorean I am, the one who while doing stupid drugs in college stumbled upon Divine's grave, shot Tracy an email telling her I thought Vince should work with Billie. I thought I'd not get a response. But I did and the world got smaller. Billie idolized Vince; Vince loved Billie's voice. And creative people collaborated. And Vince remixed Billie, which is a musical wet dream for me.

They did all the work, and the song and the mix are classic Billie and Vince respectively.

And while this story may not seem like a big deal. And though it is not a crowning achievement in what I have accomplished in my full, fun life. It is just one of those things that makes me smile big.

The world is small. Your idols are people too. Good things attract good things, and good people attract good people.

In 1994 I was a chubby college freshman experimenting with drugs, hair colors, and music.

In 2011 I am a man experimenting with art, shoe colors, and music.

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on a history in modern (music)

March 10, 2011

Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, the iconic electronic band that sadly most in the US only know from "If You Leave," played their first US shows this week in over 20 years. At NYC's Terminal 5 the energy was palpable and nostalgia flooded the room.

OMD's latest album, History of Modern, is a welcome return to form. Unlike many other past-their-prime pop stars' recent efforts, this album is quite good. It's so good in fact it trumps much of OMD's back catalog, which has always been a bit uneven.

But when OMD are good, man, are they good. And they electrified the crowd with "Enola Gay," "Dreaming," and the aforementioned hit from that Molly Ringwald movie. Their new songs solicited huge reactions. This is because the floor was packed with diehards, but also because they were really tight songs that the band obviously wanted to play. The music was crystal clear and so were Andy McCluskey and Paul Humphreys' voices. Sadly my favorite, the early 90s disco-stomper "Pandora's Box," never made the cut.

But the show went on and the band captured the energy of its youth. Along with Kraftwerk and Human League, OMD really did create the sound we know as electronic music today. They're widely under-appreciated and worthy of rediscovery.

on charles nolan and subtle ways

February 10, 2011

Several summers back on a Saturday afternoon I sat around the pool of my Fire Island share house. It was a typical lazy Saturday on the island, nothing to do and no one to see.

One of my housemates, then a rather new friend, Monte Albers, invited me to his friend Andy's house later in the afternoon. An afternoon house visit like the one we were about to embark upon are part of the tradition of Fire Island. Other Fire Island traditions, while not for all, include the afternoon/early evening Tea dances at the harbor in town and cruising the Meat Rack. There are rituals to that island. And being a guest in a stranger's homes on sunny afternoons is just a part of the welcoming culture.

Monte told me we'd be visiting the home of Andrew Tobias, the treasurer of the Democratic National Committee and his partner Charles Nolan. While most assumed it was Andy I'd know, the opposite was in fact true. I did not know who Tobias was, but Charles Nolan I did. I was a fashion lover more than a political junkie.

The visit was brief. We drank a few beers. Mostly talked of politics and blogging and assuredly some other beachfront small talk I cannot remember. I don't remember what I was wearing. I don't recall Tobias' summer outfit nor Monte's. But I do recall Charles. He had on a faded, well washed T-shirt and black Ray Ban Wayfarers. I remember being so impressed with Nolan's look. It was relaxed. Not put on. Classic. Timeless.

I was newly single that summer. I was growing up, having just turned 32. And I was looking to tone down my audacious style in favor of a more age appropriate personal style.

I never saw Charles Nolan again after that summer afternoon. But I did take a little piece of him with me that day. I rushed out and replaced all my glasses, both eyeglasses and sunglasses, with that American classic, the Wayfarer. It's since become a part of my personal style. And I borrowed that. Copied it, yes, from Mr. Nolan.

When news of Charles Nolan's death broke a few weeks back, the inspiration I pulled from his quiet charm and classic style became apparent. That's how the truly stylish people inspire and affect us. They don't force us to buy or buy into their look. They inspire in subtle ways. In quiet, powerful, subtle ways.

on keeping faith

February 6, 2011

I really have my sister Angie to blame for my homosexuality. Maybe not entirely. But I am sure she had a hand in it. Because the year was 1987 and she was a George Michael die-hard. She made me, and our entire house, dance to Michael's album Faith. Looking back through time it's obvious that Michael and I were nelly, nelly queens in 1987. But that was a different time. And a different place. And the world's most famous homosexual was actually a straight sex symbol.

Faith was re-released last week in a remastered format. And I must say, it is worth snatching up. I've always been a big George Michael fan, even now when he's more or less druggie hermit. But Faith is his album I've always listened to the least. I adore Listen Without Prejudice Vol. I. and his later work. Faith's never been my go-to Michael album.

But listening to Faith crystal clear in all it's glory is a road trip back in time. It's joyous and fun. You will shake your ass to the title track. You will appreciate his gorgeous voice on "Father Figure." And you'll laugh off some of the more ridiculous songs like "Monkey." Faith was an album that defined an era. The end of the 1980s and the beginning of the 1990s. It was a soundtrack for girls of the 80s and the gay brothers who followed in their footsteps.

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on rossy de palma

It was sometime in the 1990s. I was most likely in high school. And I used to escape into fashion magazines. It was the era of the supermodel. And Versace. And Herb Ritts. Naomi, Linda, Claudia, and Christy were on covers. In editorial spreads. Miming George Michael.

As a teenager in Baltimore in the early 1990s, I had very little access to, or interest in, foreign cinema. But I had fallen in love with models. And I remember one spread in particular. Sadly, I cannot find the images online today, but my memory is not failing me. There was a fashion spread most likely in Vogue featuring the supermodels of the day and one other woman, who simply stood out. She did not fit in. Her name was Rossy de Palma.

That fashion spread forever altered my notion of beauty. It's one of my earliest remembrances of atypical beauty being celebrated. For Rossy de Palma's nose was large and bent. Her eyes drooped and were two different shapes. She was, as countless others have pointed out, a living and breathing Picasso painting. She had no other choice than to become a celebrated fashion icon. It was her Spanish destiny.

Thank God for Pedro Almodóvar. The Spanish director cast the newcomer in several of his films, most effectively in WOMEN ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN, which I recently watched again, thus fueling this newfound love for her. De Palma crossed over from the world of film into fashion, where she was a muse to both Mugler and Gaultier. She, like the aforementioned supermodels, also landed a cameo in a George Michael video, holding her own with Evangelista and a very young Tyra Banks.

De Palma now lives in France and is the mother of two. She's pretty much gone from the spotlight, but her image is forever cemented in my brain. One need only watch her in Almodóvar's films to fall in love with her all over again.

on women on the verge of a fashion breakthrough

January 17, 2011

My friends canceled dinner at the last minute this past Saturday night. And though I had offers to attend parties and had time to ring up other friends for dinner, I stayed home. I popped open a bottle of Spanish wine. And I decided to spend the night with some lovely ladies. I watched Pedro Almodóvar's WOMEN ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN.

And how lucky I was to have stumbled back upon this gem. It's an incredible tour de force of fashion.

The women's dress perfectly captures the colors of Spain. Carmen Maura as Pepa Marcos is the story's heroine. She's also the most fashionable. In a white polka-dot blouse, she lifts a red phone to dial her departing lover. She pairs another dotted blouse, this time the color of a ladybug, with a short red skirt suit, black nylons, and red pumps. Rossy de Palma, the living embodiment of a Picasso, is stuck up, yet sexy, in fire-engine Lycra. Julieta Serrano's Lucia totes a pair of guns in a pink Chanel suit. And in blue-and-white-striped spandex shirt and tank, María Barranco as Candela is camp and comedic.

Almodóvar's black comedy is an homage to women. And though they're all suicidal, vindictive, angry, and, yes, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, they're also very lovable. They're endearing. And they're so fashionable. The film's love letter extends beyond crazy women. It's also a love letter to the decade in which it was produced, the 1980s. In miniskirts, bold prints, four-inch pumps, and lots of red, the women are gorgeous, fashionable figments of Almodóvar's imagination.

The whole time they're going around threatening to kill themselves and dosing themselves with barbiturates and crying in fits of emotional overload, they look like a million dollars. And when Pepa says her "only crime was falling in love and being afraid," we realize she's human. A high-strung, Spanish vamp. But, yes, a human.

After watching the film, I thought of Emmanuelle Alt's new role at Vogue Paris and how upon Googling her I felt let down by her flat hair and what appears to be all-black wardrobe. More boring fashion people. Great. If only more fashion folk had Almodóvar's sense of humor. And sense of fashion. The world would be a better place. And it would have many more red pumps, red minis, and polka-dotted blouses.

on daryl hannah

January 12, 2011

Having already written a love letter to Sean Young, the ingenue of BLADE RUNNER, I now turn my attention toward another BLADE RUNNER replicant, Daryl Hannah. As a young boy I was so intrigued by Hannah. She seemed so tall and just a touch "off." Even back then I knew she'd never be a sex symbol, never be America's sweetheart.

Which is odd to say because when you look at Hannah, particularly a young Hannah, you see movie-star looks. Her face is symmetrical. Her hair is long, blond, and flat. She possesses wicked, raw beauty. But her delivery of lines. Her oddity. Her voice. They cancel her looks out. She's interesting but not too commercial. She's weird.

Her early role of Pris in BLADE RUNNER, captures this Hannah. With smeared black eyes and blunt white bob, she fights Harrison Ford while looking like a model plucked from the editorial pages of Vogue. Lady Gaga borrows heavily from Pris.

In SPLASH, she's still a unique beauty, but here she shows off that body and the blond mane and almost becomes the next big thing. But again, something's just not right about Hannah. She's not cheesy enough to be a Julia Roberts. In STEEL MAGNOLIAS, she holds her own with Roberts, Shirley MacLaine, and Dolly Parton, and in CLAN OF THE CAVE BEAR she barely speaks for two hours in what became a huge flop. Other roles -- for instance, in WALL STREET -- solidified her status as an '80s actress. She was cast but never won America's heart.

And then the '80s left and so did Hannah. I often thought of her, as many gay men my age did, and was so ecstatic when Quentin Tarantino cast her in the epic KILL BILL movies. For once, someone cashed in on Hannah's uniqueness. It worked to great effect. She's one of the most easily remembered and visually stunning villains in movie history.

With KILL BILL, she came full circle from her role as Pris, returning to the aggressive, highly stylized genre she started in. Those like me who'd always dreamed of a Hannah comeback sighed in relief.

Now, like many other actresses her age, Hannah is less in the public eye. But watching her awkward, though stunning, turns in SPLASH, BLADE RUNNER, and KILL BILL will yield one obvious observation: Fashion people have been borrowing from her looks for years.