January 6, 2010

Ten years ago I started writing online. At the time I did not know what a blog was. Most did not. But I did it and stuck with it. It is the longest commitment I have ever had. And I need it.

Five years ago I transitioned my career to the world of design. I began working in furniture retail. I launched two retail concepts in Manhattan, one for DWR and one for Blu Dot. I achieved a second degree at Parsons. I began painting and decorating and creating. But I never left writing online.

Last year I started writing for Sundance Channel and Full Frontal Fashion. While I continued to excel at online communication, my day job lacked something. I was not creating. I was not designing. Though I did work for creative design houses.

Ten years ago I met Jason Goldberg in NYC. We moved to San Francisco within months of one another. He got an MBA. And I found a simple life. Jason went to Seattle and then New York and then Germany. I stayed in touch. And I watched Jason's successes. He founded Jobster. He founded, and sold, Socialmedian. And I admired his drive and entrepreneurial spirit. I was a bit envious at times.

Last week Jason and I met. We spent the day together and he offered me a position as Creative Director of his new online venture Fabulis. Fabulis will soon become a name you recognize. The site will be a place where gay men and their gay-friendly friends celebrate life. A place we share where we've been and where we're going. It will produce the ultimate gay guide to living. And the content will be entirely user generated.

Monday I gave notice at Blu Dot and accepted Jason's offer. Please visit Fabulis and sign up to receive info when the site launches. I'd love everyone reading this to become a part of this next chapter of my life.

This opportunity is a direct result of my dedication to online communication: blogging, writing, creating. Now, in my tenth year, it takes another turn. I am anxious as to what awaits me in the next decade. One thing I am certain: it will be Fabulis.

January 3, 2010

I recently sat for artist Robert Fontanelli who created these two portraits. One features the Blu Dot Real Good chair and the other featuring the Carlton cabinet designed in 1981 by Ettore Sottsass. Both, like myself, are colorful.

January 1, 2010

New shoes
New friends
New clues
New ends
New starts
New stops
New parts
New pops
New dreams
New days
New teams
New ways

I want new. New. New. New.

New things
New songs
New wings
New throngs
New lives
New kisses
New dives
New misses
New me
New you
New we
New too

I want new. New. New. New.

Happy New Year.

December 28, 2009

December 22, 2009

This is a daunting task. I am trying to map out an essay highlighting 2009. But I am having a hard time. So much happened. So much changed. So much started. So much gained.

January started and I began a new job. It has now been a year since I left DWR and the rumblings of trouble I sensed there have manifested in CEO firings and expose news stories. So I made the right move. And Blu Dot's been just lovely. Lovely coworkers. Lovely walks to work in Soho. Lovely new furniture in my lovely new apartment. I took a trip to Minneapolis in January. To see the corporate offices and sit in on product development meetings. It was cold. But inspiring. Minneapolis made an impact on me, its art museums and architecture and people all a real treat.

In January this blog started to change too and I am so happy it did. Gone were the daily remembrances of what celebrity I spotted at Equinox or where I ate breakfast to be replaced by the overly dramatic essays I am prone to write. I am glad I shifted back to writing and found my voice again.

In February Ben Dixon and I traveled to Rio with Charlie Currie and Jesse Cozart. While in Jesse's hotel room he told me that we were to meet a friend of a friend. His name was Georgi and Jesse thought surely I'd recognize him from the gym. And when he showed me Georgi's Facebook profile on his Blackberry I most certainly did. And I'd eyed Georgi for quite some time and my heart jumped. Literally. The early months of 2009 are clouded with sadness and secrecy and I want to be very clear. The time I met Georgi I only knew I needed to know him. I was engaged and the last thing on my mind was leaving Ben. I was committed. Ben and I shared a day in Sao Paulo and I quietly convinced myself I would make it work. I would be a better partner, even though, deeper down, we both knew it was over. I had an awakening in Brazil. The air and the sun and the sand and the coconut water and the men and music. They all inspired me. I felt young.

In February, on one of our final nights in Rio, Jesse, Ben, Charlie and I dined out. We had Italian of all things and in Ipanema something was brewing. Carnival was about to start and we were about to leave. And I stared out the window and saw two young high schoolers, a girl and a boy, make out on the hood of a car. The passion was obvious; the scene out of a movie. And I saw the love and the desire and passion. And I knew I had lost that. And that image haunted me on the plane flying home.

In March I decided to change my life. On a conscious level I threw myself into physical exercise. And on a subconscious level I began preparing an exit strategy for my failed relationship. Enter Georgi. With little more than a casual conversation in Rio, once in the US Georgi and I began working out together religiously. And I lost 15 pounds during these daily 6AM, two-hour long training sessions. At first I was motivated to get in shape. Soon after the motivation was to see his face. And everyone saw it happen. Scott Seviour coined it a "bromance." And I fell in love and by the time March rolled around, and as Ralph McGinnis' designed wedding invites were set to be printed, I began experiencing dizziness and sorrow. I was depressed. Shaken. And scared. And with the counseling of my mother and Eric Riley and Eric Lee and Sandra Hansel I called the wedding off. And it was liberating and freeing and the hardest thing I have ever done. Now, Ben and I are easing back into a friendship. Slowly. In March I saw Simply Red and Morrissey and started going to shows and buying music. I was alive.

In April everything was upside down. I was living with Ben and Georgi shied from me as any sane person would. I was not datable. Or was I? I systematically made changes. I rented an apartment in the Village. I drained my meager savings to do this and I was for the first time in 5 years worried about money. I watched Atonement, with Georgi, and while the tale of lost lovers moved along onscreen I convinced myself Georgi was the love of my life. Afterwards I fought hard. And won. And while I dined at Minetta Tavern with Paul Margolin we eyed Madonna dining at the table across from us. And then and there in that classic NYC moment I knew the chaos would quiet and things would work themselves out.

In May I moved to that apartment on Christopher Street. I was photographed for and interviewed by The New York Times. I rented a Fire Island share. And I climbed back on my feet. I made new friends through the year, some who were experiencing similar lifestyle changes. I had all my clothes taken in and sold so many of my costumes: Etro suits and bright colored, and super expensive, items I'd collected. And in late May I travelled to Palm Springs and gathered with my best friends and toasted life. We had an incredible time and I returned to NYC golden and on an upswing.

In June I turned 33 and I felt, and looked, much younger. Georgi and I started enthusiastically gushing to one another. We wondered if this excitement would ever fade. We danced and had fun on Fire Island with friends, new and old. We celebrated Pride outside in the sun. And I saw Beyonce with Thomas Goldberg. I also started writing for Sundance Channel on the side. And I slowly put back the money I'd borrowed. And I started figuring out how to live differently and spend differently.

In July the Times piece published and I was inspired by the kind words of strangers and frightened by the viscousness of others. I continued heading to the beach. And life got simpler. G and I fell into a rhythm of exercise, cooking, eating, relaxing, and sleeping. A simple kind of life had become my own. We traveled to Baltimore to eat steamed crabs.

In August it seemed silly to keep two apartments so I looked to sublet Christopher Street. I did and met the wonderful Alex Zapak. I went to Fire Island for a week and Georgi went to Bulgaria for two and the distance between us nearly broke us both in two. When he returned I moved in. I saw Depeche Mode with Alireza Massoumnia.

In September we kissed summer goodbye. My housemates and I painted the island, and our faces, gold. My mom visited. I started writing, and shooting, for Full Frontal Fashion. We saw the Pet Shop Boys with Theron Long, Alireza, and Joe D'Espinosa

In October I discovered I had a gay uncle and some straight uncles too. And an aunt. Relatives of my father we never knew of. Georgi turned another year older and I felt less like I was robbing the cradle. Dwell shot our apartment and made a lovely little movie. We dressed as the Wizard of Oz and had a glorious Halloween. I heard news that an old friend died. I returned upstate for a fun weekend at the house.

In November I travelled again to Palm Springs and walked away inspired. I saw Pamela Johnston get married. I swam in Cher's pool with Alireza, Zach Augustine, and Diana Coney. I flew across the country with Amanda Lepore. I made Thanksgiving dinner with Georgi and John Nolan and Joe D'Espinosa. And then we all went to DC along with Patrick Menasco. I dropped Real Good chairs all over NYC and contributed to a really good movie Blu Dot created. We saw Royksopp with Adam Norbury and Marty Chavez.

In December we went to party after party after party. I sat for Robert Fontanelli. I founded KissZINE. And I sit typing secure. Madly in love. Financially stable. Grounded. And about to take Georgi home to meet my family. The year was one of upheaval in every possible way.

Like shaving your head. Like ripping up a sketch. Like leaving everything behind. I found peace in starting from scratch. My job was new. My lover. My home. My body. My soul.

I am on a creative roll. I am making things. I am writing things. I am alive and about and running around town.

My friends have been my rock. The old ones who have been here for me and the new ones who have magically appeared from the strangest of places.

2009 was a broken year. 2010 already looks to be a breakthrough year. I am ready. Crazy in love. Right side up. And very thankful for you.

December 10, 2009

Does my stomach stick out too much? I wonder if my eyes look stressed and bugged out like they do in some pictures? Are the wrinkles in my forehead relaxed or showing? My chin. Oh my chin. Double, triple? Or do I look slim. Has the fact that I have not shaved in 3 days made me look bloated? Older? Filthy? More masculine? What about my hair line? Noticeably retreating? Or holding its ground?

I have self confidence. At the end of the day I am happy with my life and my body and my waistline and my hairline and my skin. There are moments of insecurity. There are days when I feel better about myself than others. There are days I feel unworthy and days I feel oh so very worthy. Luckily the scales usually tip to that side.

I sat for hours in Robert Fontanelli's apartment on Irving Place last night. He lives on one of my absolute favorite blocks in Manhattan. Directly across the street, on the NE corner of Irving at 19th, sits my dream house. Brick. Manicured. Stunning. Gypsy Rose Lee once lived in Robert's building.

Robert's apartment is old. Concrete walls. Exposed radiators. Leaded glass windows. And his house is filled with curiosities of old. Herman Miller's first bedroom set. A Stottsas mirror. More Memphis. Aalto lounge chairs. Noguchi cyclone table. Easels and sketch books. Books and woods and an iMac. Pottery and oversized, glorious, colorful posters from the 1950s by Erik Nitsche for General Dynmaics. Tom of Finland on the walls. His house contains relics of the time before his childhood. An old red LCW showed its wear. It made me miss the pair Ben and I shared. I remarked this and Robert advised me not to purchase things so ubiquitous. Other than that chair his home is filled with obscure, though somewhat recognizable, pieces of the past.

After I took in all his belongings and asked my last question of fascination Robert began to draw. And we chatted. And listened to LCD Sound System, a band I kinda knew of, but never like-liked. Their blend of music styles is a bit infectious. And then Robert told me to stop talking. He needed to draw my lips and mouth. And in those moments of silence I sat or stood and my mind raced thinking about, naturally, what he was seeing. And documenting. And capturing. And exaggerating. And downplaying. And I felt a touch of insecurity. Which is good to go along with the self-obsession that allowed me to ask my mother to pay for a portrait of myself as my Christmas gift.

When Robert showed me what he'd started I was amazed. He said the sitting was the opposite of what he'd imagined. He was expecting color and movement and body. And what he drew were a few faces. Detailed. In muted colors.

And that face was perfect. I saw my mother's father. My own dad. And my brother. In addition to myself I saw the faces of 3 other men who share/shared my own blood. And that was exciting.

I cannot wait to see what Robert creates. What chair or furniture or mirror he juxtaposes with my image. I cannot wait for him to draw Georgi either.

And perhaps a new tradition has started. A yearly portrait. By a different artist. Every Christmas. Capturing someone. Something. My bloodline. In pen and paper. Or paint. Or snapshot. To be displayed. Looked upon. And discussed.

Because all faces tell a thousand stories.

November 30, 2009

Eight months ago, a mere month after my break-up with Ben, I prepared for a second round. Georgi, who had turned my life upside down, was acting smart. He knew my emotional state all too well. He'd witnessed the previous two months which lead my sorrow to physical ill to life-altering decisions. I stood there, in April, resolute in my love for him and its importance and nothing could make me not fight for it. He was resisting. Part of it was the newness of love. And the other part was the ridiculousness of the situation. I was heartbroken, racing up and down an emotional roller-coaster, and still sleeping in bed with my ex. Why wouldn't he run?

And I braced myself for what came next. I knew it could go either way. He could have walked away, promising to return to our affair once dust settled. And he could have stayed, what I lobbied for desperately. But he had a choice. And in his choice the path of my life was wound around. And I would be fine either way. But I knew my heart could end broken, twice, in as many months.

I rely upon tricks and rituals from my youth. And so I made Georgi a cd. On it I layered tracks spelling out my emotions. I let songwriters and vocalists translate my thoughts. He listened to it and sent me an email. "I hope the next cd you make me is happier," or something like that, he said.

On that cd was a song by Royksopp called "You Don't Have a Clue." It features the vocals of Anneli Drecker and she sings "But you don't have a clue, this party hasn't ended yet. Not for me and you, now you're just pretending." As keyboard blips and piano keys pulse around her ethereal vocals she sings a song brazen and forthright. She told her lover that she knew, better than he, what he was thinking. And I knew better than Georgi. What we had was the stuff songs are written about.

So it seemed appropriate that Drecker put on a fantastic show last Monday at Webster Hall with Royksopp. We were guests of Adam Norbury and Marty Chavez. The band was incredible. They took electronic music and made it rock and roll. They jumped and drummed and banged and recreated their songs. They did not simply press play. And Drecker, who stood in for Robyn and The Knife's Karin Dreijer Andersson on the band's biggest hits, which is no small feat, was magical. She captured those bigger pop star's inflections perfectly and gave a dramatic, nuanced performance. Georgi and I kissed. Smiled. Danced. Jumped. This party hadn't ended.

And we walked home with Adam (Marty had to rise too early) and we ate Mexican on the street and I felt young and alive. Ears ringing and lips stretched.

At the Royksopp show I told Marty we were going to DC the day after Thanksgiving. This prompted him to mention his friend Patrick Menasco, who has a house there. Patrick runs in similar circles yet we'd never met. And the night before Thanksgiving that changed. I met him as we dined at Joe and John's house. We had lasagna and delicious wine and the world got a little closer and smaller. And on Thanksgiving Georgi and I cycled and cooked and along with Tanner and Alireza we ventured back to Joe and John's. Patrick was there again with his friend Wes. The food and company were delicious. Turkey. Pancetta and Brussels spouts. Mashed potatoes with blue cheese and garlic. Yams. Beets. Fennel. Fresh cranberry. Cauliflower. Olives. Cheeses. Cornichons. Cured meats. Hummus. Crusty bread. Delicious wines. Pumpkin and Apple pie. More food than the ten of us could have even dented. Not even if we'd starved ourselves for days. And we played parlor games and crashed before midnight.

The next day Joe, John, Georgi and I went to DC. Patrick joined us and at dinner we ate with my mother at Dito's restaurant. My mom looked pretty, her hair curly and and she was wearing lipstick. I made Georgi sing the song he's made in her honor, sung to the theme of the Wizard of Oz. He was "Off to see the mother, the greatest mother in law." We kissed her goodbye and joined Rahnee and the twins, Jon and Lucas. We danced. Laughed. Reminisced.

And again Georgi and I crashed. We woke and shared carrot soup and crusty baguettes and tapenade and ham and then walked the Holocaust museum. It was powerful and emotional and I often times trailed ahead of Georgi unable to continue reading about the horrors. It was a crisp, crystal clear day in the capitol. And then we were off. Joe, John, Patrick, Georgi and I. And a truck that hit an overpass closed the NJ Turnpike. And a drive which normally takes 4 hours ended up taking nearly 8. And though I had seen these guys for 4 straight days, and though tempers flared a bit in the car due to the situation, we made it back to Manhattan alive, better friends, and truly thankful.

And now a week from that Royksopp concert I sit in bed alone with my laptop after 10PM. I key these words. And I listen to another Royksopp song, this one sung by Robyn. It is a song of longing. About a lover gone, to work, and the sorrow that consumes her when he's not there. She goes mental every time he goes to work. She calls him up and wants to know when he's coming home. She's so alone. And when Georgi's not here, I am too.

The song is an answer to Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence." It shimmers in a moody disco light. It is epic. And whether sung by Robyn or Ms. Drecker it's still the same. "Can't stand it when you go to work. You never seem to know when to stop. I never know when you'll return. I'm in love with a robot."

Just like the mix-tapes I made when I was thirteen, songs still sing my life. They provide the soundtrack. The yarn that holds my thoughts and emotions together, loosely knit, they're my family. My friends.

I am thankful for my family. My friends, new and old. My lover. And for Scandinavians with drum machines and other ones with unique, odd voices. They're all my loved ones.

November 20, 2009

Bold Color, Small Space: Bradford Shellhammer for Dwell by Gary Nadeau from gary nadeau on Vimeo.

It is a unique setting. Sitting in your tiny apartment, microphone running under your shirt, and four grown men with cameras and lights and recording devices hovering around. And yet here I was once again whoring myself out for a pr opportunity. This one was different: I was worried about the outcome. Video? Me? An editor of Dwell, my favorite shelter book, had called only the month prior. She'd read the Times this summer and wanted to do a video shoot for Dwell's site. The theme: Bold color, small space. Makes sense.

I agreed to the shoot. Obviously, it's an ego boost. But, you know, it made sense for me to agree. I do work in design and furnishings and it would only benefit my career. And I do write on the side for various publications and websites, so again, it is good to get out there. But I was concerned (really) about appearing like a media whore. I mean I don't have an album to sell or a book to sell or a clothing line to sell. But I guess I do have myself to sell. And I guess sales is what makes the world go around.

I too also did not want to shake up my relationship. Who wants to date a guy who is hungry for fame and attention? And not everyone wants their home on display for thousands online and this is Georgi's home too after all. But, the positives outweighed the negatives, and Dwell, like the Times, is a pretty classy joint. I was a bit honored that they'd asked me. Finally, others besides myself were catching on to my talents! Bout time.

Immediately I was at peace when Gary Nadeau and his team arrived at our place. Gary had done his homework. He too had read the Times' piece and he also had read my website and was cool and complementary when talking about my blog. And then it hit me. I do have a body of work to sell. I do have something to talk about. I am a writer. I am a designer. One must believe these things to make them a reality. And too often I've brushed away my writing online as mere journal keeping, of no real value to anyone, but myself. But this is not true. Ten years (almost) after blogging for the first time I am at a place where I've amassed many a word published online. Youngbradford. Bradford Shellhammer. Queerty. Design Notes. SUNfiltered. Full Frontal Fashion. I've made a little go a very long way. And made some money along the way doing it.

So I relaxed. I chatted with Gary. Showed them our home. I showed off my toys and talked about inspiration. And they left after 8 hours.

The video Dwell published yesterday is really quite lovely. It made me smile. It showed off the humor and fun I attempt when decorating. It was very colorful and I think it so accurately portrayed me. I am really quite thankful to have this little treasure to take with me into the future.

It will be a reminder of this time. A time when I am the happiest I have ever been and a time where I felt I could take on the world. I did get a little sad noticing where my body was changing. My eyes' skin is no longer as taut as it had been. I looked older than I do in still images. And my nails! Jesus I needed a manicure.

But even Gary's macro shots of my cuticles, wrinkles and dry skin could not distract the viewer, and myself, from the brief film's point: inspiration, color, laughs, and love are everywhere. It's your job to find them. Talk about them. Write about them. Sing about them.

That's your job here on earth.

November 11, 2009

Writing is not hard. Not writing is hard.

November 10, 2009

He crept in. He had the past few nights. His smiling face and big brown eyes only seen in brief snuggles and smiles leading up to my trip. He works a lot. I woke at 4:45AM and showered, grabbed my bag, full of paper cranes, bowties, and shorts. Sleepily, I stumbled into the cold NYC morning, coatless, and climbed into a town car parked with Alireza in the back. We were off to the desert.

I wrote feverishly on the plane, emails and blog posts and facebook statuses. And we landed in LAX early, rented a Jeep Wrangler, and drove to Palm Springs. Stops at In and Out Burger and the outlet malls (navy blue Tod's lace-up boots, my #1 score) slowed down our eventual arrival at the Ace Hotel. I cannot overstate my affection of this place. A bohemian modern beach shack vibe in the middle of the desert. A mixed bag of sexes and orientations and body types. Flowing cocktails and tacos and tranimals.

Alireza and I had flown in for Pamela and Josh's wedding. The wedding party stayed at the Viceroy, but a few of us stayed at the Ace. Alireza and I invited Dirty Diana and Zach down to join us for the remaining weekend. They arrived Thursday night while I sipped margaritas with Matt Wilkerson in the hotel bar. Matt was in Palm Springs for work and we caught up and laughed with some other DWR folks. Then DD and Zach arrived. We ordered cocktails, went to the hot tub, and I ate a desert called the gay banana. Chocolate covered and sprinkled with nuts. Foul. I ate every bit.

We arrived at the pool before 8AM on Friday morning. Hazy Shade of Winter played from the speakers. We demanded service from pool boys, set up chairs, where we'd remain for three straight days. The pool was empty then. Staff scurried around doing odds and ends. And Diana blurted out "this is what it must be like to be at Cher's pool!" Alone, with staff working all around you.

We drank snowcones and ate ceviche. Recited Auntie Mame and Paris is Burning to the delight and horror of those around us. Impromptu photoshoots in bathrooms, balconies, and pools, always in heels. Laughter. Sunshine. Good friends, food, drinks, weather. The sun warming us. The champagne warming us.

We posed with the young couple the day before their wedding. Watched Dina Martina's twisted show. Danced. Ate. Ignored our phones. Flirted with waiters. Taught them the hanky code. Don't ask.

Friends, old and new, floated in and out. Tom Coggia, one of my first loves was in town with Mike Enenbach. I walked through the desert with Tom and arrived at a chic Palm Springs home where some NYC pals (Kevin, Giulio, Joey) were in attendance. James St. James interviewed me in and out of the pool for World of Wonder. He called me a blogging legend. "It's a fame," said Dorian Corey once. "A small fame, but you absorb it, you take it. It's like a physical high, a high that won't hurt you." Ha.

Palm Springs has this power over me. It makes me smile. I bask in the sun and laugh and joke and forget the world. It is nice, and needed, and I intend to continue to return throughout the year. Another theme of my diaries emerge here though, my complete loss of self and sanity without Georgi. I missed him terribly this weekend. Thank god for the distractions.

Like Zach Augustine. My house mother. Gift giver. Ego booster. Faith believer. He is infectious and courageous. Powerful and fun. He inspires me to create to let loose. It was his thigh high boots I wore in the pool.

Like Diana Coney. Red head and big lips and big tits and big fun. Feeding from each other's energy. Singing the Depeche Mode catalog word-for-word at the drop of a hat and always ready to make others laugh.

Like Alireza Massoumnia. Soft spoken and under the radar. Talented and inspired by art and color and collections and costumes. Ordering champagne when we weren't looking.

The four of us posed for family photos. All weekend. Every second. Various states of dress. And decorum. And lucidity.

And let's not forget Pamela Johnston. Her wedding was a series of visuals so strong and so arresting, like a Hockney painting come to life. Yellow chairs and blue pools and blue skies. Adorable, sexy, darlings running around in red minis and flowered Muumuus and bleach blonde finger waves and turquoise silk dresses. Her girls darling, sexy, colorful. Her groom in a simple tan suit and Pucci necktie and smile saying he was the luckiest man on the earth. Her gays, the McLoughlins, and Ben, dressed to the nines, but, shockingly not as colorful as the girls. Mexican cookies. Raspberry cocktails with jalapeños. Yellow cones of pom-poms. Checkered vans on the ring bearers. Mariachi band playing Walk the Line. The images still stay with me.

And the sun set. And her lip was smeared pink and her Pucci pumps pointed out from below the gorgeous, stunning gown designed by Alireza and she glowed. Her white net veil sat perched up on her head, framing her face. She glowed. And their story, having met when 14, and marrying, many years later, made me tear up. Believe in true love. Understanding how life takes you on a journey, all over, but always back to the one you love. The one your need. Your other half.

My other half worked religiously this weekend while I lounged, sipped, giggled, and reminisced. He checked in, as did I, and I dreamt of a time when we too would be gathered in the sunny land, surrounded by happy people and blue skies and all our friends. A day when we too would get married. And the recent set back in Maine has not made me bitter or angry. Just more dedicated to the belief in the pulse and rhythm and color of love and how nothing can stop that motion.

Early Sunday. Post wedding. Post parties. Post poolside drag shows and burgers and old friends and singing in the streets and right before we could have ordered a bottle of champagne (for Lulu, of course), we actually pulled our shit together. Walked away from the party and the Michael Jackson records and the porn stars sunbathing. And the four of us packed the room and the car. Zach's missing wallet returned to us, sun having drained us, we got in the car, sang Yaz, and made it to Los Angeles.

A final dinner together and then Diana was off. Then Zach dropped us at LAX and Alireza and I slowly pulled our suitcases along. Sitting in the middle of the Virgin concourse was Amanda Lepore, returning from Australia and on my flight. The three of us discussed the weekend and talked of her trip and looked at her wigs. Alireza left for San Francisco and Amanda and I sat for a few hours, with my laptop, looking at pictures. She said she adored Diana and Zach. She applied lipstick. Was dressed to the nines and we agreed to cab together to the city upon landing at JFK.

I spoke of how anxious I was to get home and crawl into bed with Georgi. She thought he was adorable and thought Pam looked spectacular. Ms. Lepore too was anxious, to find a white fur for a party this coming Thursday. We both were obsessed a bit about the tasks at hand upon arrival.

Time passed as two unlikely travel companions chatted and giggled, waiting to go home to the most perfect place in the world. New York. And how perfect it was that my trip wound down with Amanda, a symbol of freakish beauty, glamour, color, glitz, and charm. A spirit embodied by all I came in contact with during this desert journey.

My eyes, dry, from heat and sun. My soul, too. Needing to be replenished by his arms and embrace.Share
Yesterday at 5:40pm | Edit Note | Delete
He crept in. He had the past few nights. His smiling face and big brown eyes only seen in brief snuggles and smiles leading up to my trip. He works a lot. I woke at 4:45AM and showered, grabbed my bag, full of paper cranes, bowties, and shorts. Sleepily, I stumbled into the cold NYC morning, coatless, and climbed into a town car parked with Alireza in the back. We were off to the desert.

I wrote feverishly on the plane, emails and blog posts and facebook statuses. And we landed in LAX early, rented a Jeep Wrangler, and drove to Palm Springs. Stops at In and Out Burger and the outlet malls (navy blue Tod's lace-up boots, my #1 score) slowed down our eventual arrival at the Ace Hotel. I cannot overstate my affection of this place. A bohemian modern beach shack vibe in the middle of the desert. A mixed bag of sexes and orientations and body types. Flowing cocktails and tacos and tranimals.

Alireza and I had flown in for Pamela and Josh's wedding. The wedding party stayed at the Viceroy, but a few of us stayed at the Ace. Alireza and I invited Dirty Diana and Zach down to join us for the remaining weekend. They arrived Thursday night while I sipped margaritas with Matt Wilkerson in the hotel bar. Matt was in Palm Springs for work and we caught up and laughed with some other DWR folks. Then DD and Zach arrived. We ordered cocktails, went to the hot tub, and I ate a desert called the gay banana. Chocolate covered and sprinkled with nuts. Foul. I ate every bit.

We arrived at the pool before 8AM on Friday morning. Hazy Shade of Winter played from the speakers. We demanded service from pool boys, set up chairs, where we'd remain for three straight days. The pool was empty then. Staff scurried around doing odds and ends. And Diana blurted out "this is what it must be like to be at Cher's pool!" Alone, with staff working all around you.

We drank snowcones and ate ceviche. Recited Auntie Mame and Paris is Burning to the delight and horror of those around us. Impromptu photoshoots in bathrooms, balconies, and pools, always in heels. Laughter. Sunshine. Good friends, food, drinks, weather. The sun warming us. The champagne warming us.

We posed with the young couple the day before their wedding. Watched Dina Martina's twisted show. Danced. Ate. Ignored our phones. Flirted with waiters. Taught them the hanky code. Don't ask.

Friends, old and new, floated in and out. Tom Coggia, one of my first loves was in town with Mike Enenbach. I walked through the desert with Tom and arrived at a chic Palm Springs home where some NYC pals (Kevin, Giulio, Joey) were in attendance. James St. James interviewed me in and out of the pool for World of Wonder. He called me a blogging legend. "It's a fame," said Dorian Corey once. "A small fame, but you absorb it, you take it. It's like a physical high, a high that won't hurt you." Ha.

Palm Springs has this power over me. It makes me smile. I bask in the sun and laugh and joke and forget the world. It is nice, and needed, and I intend to continue to return throughout the year. Another theme of my diaries emerge here though, my complete loss of self and sanity without Georgi. I missed him terribly this weekend. Thank god for the distractions.

Like Zach Augustine. My house mother. Gift giver. Ego booster. Faith believer. He is infectious and courageous. Powerful and fun. He inspires me to create to let loose. It was his thigh high boots I wore in the pool.

Like Diana Coney. Red head and big lips and big tits and big fun. Feeding from each other's energy. Singing the Depeche Mode catalog word-for-word at the drop of a hat and always ready to make others laugh.

Like Alireza Massoumnia. Soft spoken and under the radar. Talented and inspired by art and color and collections and costumes. Ordering champagne when we weren't looking.

The four of us posed for family photos. All weekend. Every second. Various states of dress. And decorum. And lucidity.

And let's not forget Pamela Johnston. Her wedding was a series of visuals so strong and so arresting, like a Hockney painting come to life. Yellow chairs and blue pools and blue skies. Adorable, sexy, darlings running around in red minis and flowered Muumuus and bleach blonde finger waves and turquoise silk dresses. Her girls darling, sexy, colorful. Her groom in a simple tan suit and Pucci necktie and smile saying he was the luckiest man on the earth. Her gays, the McLoughlins, and Ben, dressed to the nines, but, shockingly not as colorful as the girls. Mexican cookies. Raspberry cocktails with jalapeños. Yellow cones of pom-poms. Checkered vans on the ring bearers. Mariachi band playing Walk the Line. The images still stay with me.

And the sun set. And her lip was smeared pink and her Pucci pumps pointed out from below the gorgeous, stunning gown designed by Alireza and she glowed. Her white net veil sat perched up on her head, framing her face. She glowed. And their story, having met when 14, and marrying, many years later, made me tear up. Believe in true love. Understanding how life takes you on a journey, all over, but always back to the one you love. The one your need. Your other half.

My other half worked religiously this weekend while I lounged, sipped, giggled, and reminisced. He checked in, as did I, and I dreamt of a time when we too would be gathered in the sunny land, surrounded by happy people and blue skies and all our friends. A day when we too would get married. And the recent set back in Maine has not made me bitter or angry. Just more dedicated to the belief in the pulse and rhythm and color of love and how nothing can stop that motion.

Early Sunday. Post wedding. Post parties. Post poolside drag shows and burgers and old friends and singing in the streets and right before we could have ordered a bottle of champagne (for Lulu, of course), we actually pulled our shit together. Walked away from the party and the Michael Jackson records and the porn stars sunbathing. And the four of us packed the room and the car. Zach's missing wallet returned to us, sun having drained us, we got in the car, sang Yaz, and made it to Los Angeles.

A final dinner together and then Diana was off. Then Zach dropped us at LAX and Alireza and I slowly pulled our suitcases along. Sitting in the middle of the Virgin concourse was Amanda Lepore, returning from Australia and on my flight. The three of us discussed the weekend and talked of her trip and looked at her wigs. Alireza left for San Francisco and Amanda and I sat for a few hours, with my laptop, looking at pictures. She said she adored Diana and Zach. She applied lipstick. Was dressed to the nines and we agreed to cab together to the city upon landing at JFK.

I spoke of how anxious I was to get home and crawl into bed with Georgi. She thought he was adorable and thought Pam looked spectacular. Ms. Lepore too was anxious, to find a white fur for a party this coming Thursday. We both were obsessed a bit about the tasks at hand upon arrival.

Time passed as two unlikely travel companions chatted and giggled, waiting to go home to the most perfect place in the world. New York. And how perfect it was that my trip wound down with Amanda, a symbol of freakish beauty, glamour, color, glitz, and charm. A spirit embodied by all I came in contact with during this desert journey.

My eyes, dry, from heat and sun. My soul, too. Needing to be replenished by his arms and embrace.

November 2, 2009

I was exhausted before any of the scheduled events from the weekend took place. Anticipation leaves me tired. My brain races up and down with all the things needing to be accomplished. Not only did we celebrate Halloween this weekend, but also Georgi's birthday. Many faces and many costumes and many vodkas.

At the sweltering chef's table at Barbuto we toasted my best friend. We ate plates of pasta and meat and vegetables. Drank red wine and champagne. And Georgi, who too often misses celebrations because of his work schedule, let loose. He giggled and laughed. Once Midnight struck guests started to go their various ways. Following Richard we headed to the West Village, several of us still inclined to go out. Jesse, Charlie, Richard and I wiggled our ways into Allison Sarofim's Halloween party. The theme was 80s, I think, and we 4 were not dressed up! Neither was Lance Armstrong, who for a few minutes stood next to me in a graffiti room filled with way too many smokers. He's pretty short. That made me feel better. And after an hour or so of inhaling smoke and trying to speak over the music we gave up.

The next morning I felt great and Georgi nursed a hangover. We worked out and ate pinkberry and started on our outfits. A quick brunch in the Village with Will Wikle and then back to the house armed with glitter and Kettel One. Our group opted on a loose interpretation of the Wizard of Oz. I, of course, attached tin funnel to head and doused myself in silver paint. Georgi, and his coworker Richard, dressed as very gay Lion and Scarecrow. Alireza, a fashion designer, sewed his own Winged Monkey outfit. Jesse was the Wizard and Charlie went as Glinda. Charlie, never one to paint his face, was found in the bathroom applying more gold. Caught red handed, like a drug fiend scoring a fix, he turned red. We just could not see due to his face paint. Black Corey, who works for a cosmetics giant, arrived with hundreds of dollars in make-up and quickly became our Wicked Witch. Hamish, who I'd just met, was the anti-Dorothy, with mustache, but also, grape sequined shoes. Who needs rubies when you have Patrick Cox one-of-a-kinds? And he brought Toto too.

From our 6th Avenue balcony we eyed the parade. Michael Jackson Thriller was performed by a group of hundreds. One damsel, four Michaels, two hundred monsters. It was thrilling indeed. We downed our beverage, glittered our lips, and ventured into the street. A cop let us into the parade. We marched and screamed, posed with another Dorothy, and descended upon a party that featured True Blood characters, polo players (where, oh where, was Matty K?), and trannies. After that, we jumped on the subway where a convincing Lady GaGa had as much trouble with her rings as the real deal did on SNL. Hamish posed with Ms. Wintour. The rain did not tighten my joints.

We arrived at a ridiculous SoHo apt, the kind from a movie set, you know, and we talked the night away. Until 3AM when the Tin Man got tired and the Lion needed to sleep. Uptown we headed, chewed on some pizza, and passed out. The next day we woke at Noon and left our bed at 6pm. A perfect day of doing nothing, snuggling, remembering the night before, and ignoring emails and phone calls. We finally pulled ourselves out of bed to join Joe and John to see This Is It, the Michael Jackson film. Exhausted, and not necessarily in the mood to see a movie, I was overcome by many emotions. One of sorrow due to the tragic death of Michael Jackson and the obvious clues in the film's footage of bigger issues in his life. But I was also energized when watching a man, a sick man and an aging man, still with great talent and love. About to collapse, we bid our friends farewell, grabbed a burrito, and watched Larry David. Laughing and smiling we climbed back into that bed where we spent the day. Glitter sparkled still in the corner of my eye and on his scalp, catching the light and reminding me of the night before.

Costumes and characters and dancing zombies fade from my memory. Left, side by side, cushioned by foam, a lion and a metal man, nearing sleep. Thrilled to have found each other. Thrilled to have such great friends. And thrilled to have created a home.

There's no place like home.

October 26, 2009

Teresa Smiles ordered fries and a pizza. I opted for the 3 course lunch as I always do. We sat in the hotel lobby side of the Mercer Kitchen, out of view from the windows on Prince. Teresa told me stories of former colleagues of mine, one of which died this year, and another who has recently been diagnosed with lung cancer.

We went on to discuss her mother's health, my father's death, and the the past year and all its turbulence. Teresa absolutely glowed when discussing her two sons. We talked of how things make sense with age. How growing older came with rewards. Things starting to make sense. A personal history begins to show patterns and proof of divinity. Proverbs holding true. Good friends are hard to find, harder to leave, and impossible to forget. Those types of sayings.

Upstate, Marty and Adam, Doug Blue, and Antonious and Christopher joined us. We carved pumpkins and played board games and watched movies and cooked. And over good food we forgot about the new chill in the air. During car rides we sang at the top of our lungs.

A few days later I nibbled on a muffin at Alireza's apartment and watched Pam try on her wedding dress. She, like Teresa talking of her sons, glowed like only a woman can. Alireza's talent was on display and Pam's simple beauty was complimented. She's going to make a stunning bride. I told them that Ben asked me if it was OK if he wore that gingham jacket, originally bought for our nuptials, to her wedding. A few months ago I would have thought it bad taste. But now I hoped he would wear it.

I finally was able to nail down some face time with Hunter and Sandra. We sat at Le Singe Vert and talked of changes and changing. We drank and laughed. And it felt like old times. They're lives are a bit more chaotic these days, but they persevere. Talent does that. And wine poured and dishes arrived and disappeared and we spoke of old times and new adventures and our love lives. No husbands. No filters.

And I ran off in the rain. And arrived at Scott Seviour's apartment. Charlie Herschel was there and Georgi arrived and wine flowed too. We ventured to Cookshop. Wine, rabbit, stories served hot and cold. We discussed break-ups. And I told the story, once again, of meeting Georgi and how it all seemed like destiny. And life's funny little coincidences, like finding out Scott's renting from Matthew Betmaleck, the three of us going through similar situations at the same time, appeared obvious.

Friends arrive in a myriad of ways. Loves sometime appear when least expected. Leaves and temperatures fall around me. My band of outsiders and merrymakers hum an October symphony. Sweet music, wine, and laughter, the instruments.

October 20, 2009

In high school I lived two lives. This is a theme of my life. A natural way to live for a gemini. Standard stuff.

I always ran with girls. No big surprise there. And while I was relatively popular in high school I longed to live among the misfits. I was too normal. Too accepted. Too likable to ever be too odd.

My mother tells me I have always had the ability to relate to anyone. In college I partied with the queers. Cut up with the black girls. Got stoned with the swim team. I was a chameleon.

And this ability still holds true today. I run alongside women and men in equal measure. Stepford queers/circuit boys and those who are sickened by them. Trannies and those my mother's age. I like all people. I want to be like them all. I want them all to like me.

So in high school I was one person by day and one person by night. By day I was smart. Played sports. Hung out with cool people. And by night I sought refuge in Kelli Prive's house. She had cats and a loving mother and a butch little sister. Kelli had a crush on me once, but of course, that went nowhere. Kelli also had a friend, Angie Grant.

Angie had a sense of style years before I'd develop my own. She owned her look. Mary Janes or Creepers. Black and white striped tights. A pleated short skirt. A big, black sweater or shirt. Dyed black bob. Pale face paint. Blood red lips. She was Kelli's foil. Kelli was innocent and insecure, romantic and nerdy. Adorable and caring. Angie was bitter and angry. Aggressive and judgmental. But also accepting and generous. There was a summer, maybe two, when the three of us were inseparable. Kelli had an entire network of freaks: Heather, Dan, Ellie, Jason. They were a bit odd. Not mainstream. Alternative. Goth. Gay. Etc.

Angie idolized Robert Smith. She gave me my copy of Bjork's Debut. She taught me what an art fag was. She taught me what unity skinheads were.

I am sad today because I found out Angie died last week after a bout with influenza. I had not thought of her in probably 10 years. And, sadly, I have too few memories of this time in my life. I don't recall much. Which is a blessing and curse.

I do know this. There was a time she was one of my dearest friends. Someone, whether she knew it or not, who helped me figure out who I was. She left a mark on this man.

And though I don't remember much. Missing conversations and events and friendships. Hidden somewhere very deep in my mind. One thing is easy to remember.

I am a visual leaner. I appreciate the visual. They stay with me longer than any word whispered. Any song sang. Any line written. The image still remains strong. Striped tights, plaid skirt, stained lip. A vision in complete opposition to the style of the time. Someone unafraid and individualistic.

Good night Angie Grant. My heart bleeds the color of your lips.

October 11, 2009

The Tin Man has always been my favorite fictional character. I never made sense of that love for he of funnel hat and silver paint until tonight. I just loved him. Always did as a child. That's all I knew. I had no reason.

Tonight I gathered with some of my favorite people in New York. I made guacamole and cut vegetables and poured wine. And we watched the Wizard of Oz on Blue Ray. 70th anniversary edition of the film. It was beautifully restored. A gorgeous treat. A colorful stroll down memory lane.

Georgi shushed me repeatedly. I just could not be quiet though. Too excited. Enamored by Garland's perfect face full of lips, eyes, and that nose. And about the one liners. "Only bad witches are ugly." Exactly. The flying monkeys had mohawks. The munchkins' costumes were brilliant colors. The scarecrow and lion were funny.

And the Tin Man. He was so gay I could not believe it. We all cackled when he appeared. He lisped a bit. Effeminate voice. Perfect make-up.

Even as a small child I must have related. His eyes were silver blue. They look like my own. How did I not know the Tin Man was so gay? Watching this film, some two decades later, I realized my fascination with this tin woodsman. I saw myself in him. Blue eyed. Gay as can be. Longing for a beating heart.

October 8, 2009

My relationship with Georgi has been built on a series of rituals. He is the ritualistic sort. He has morning routines and night routines and routines for pretty much all parts of the day. He is systematic and rarely throws caution to the wind. Last night he left his work pants draped over the sofa's arm. Seeing this in the AM, halfway through his morning ritual of eating fruit, and before his gym ritual, he stood flabbergasted that he did not properly put away the pants the night before. Maybe I am rubbing off on him.

We view ourselves as a team. A special, private club that only allows us to be become members. We get this joke and none of you even know there is a joke. It's like that. And we have built a relationship, which was first a friendship, about rituals. Spin class every Monday and Friday at 6AM. Breakfasts at Cafe Cluny. Sunday night TV dates. Saturday morning outside jogs. Operas/Concerts/Plays. And of course food preparation.

We both love food and we have adopted this diet where we eat the same things every day. Whether breakfast or dinner the same basic idea, though the items we consume change a bit from morning to night. Lots of raw fruits and veggies. He prefers apples and bananas. I like peaches and berries. He made me appreciate cherries. So much. Lean meats, hams and turkeys. He opts for hummus while I adore tapenade. I will eat a pile of raw nuts and he'll have pita or bread. Raw beets, shredded cabbage, persian cucumbers, celery, jicama, carrots. I like the vegetables more than he does. He eats more meat. But I have gotten him to embrace the avocado. And of course there is the Bulgarian feta, something that I have become obsessed with. Like milk in my house growing up, it is always in the fridge. I will buy a block of it myself when low.

So we cut and clean and prepare these plates of raw veggies and fruits, lean meats, nuts and basic breads, and cheese. Sometimes fifteen different things on a plate. And we crack pepper and drizzle olive oil and balsamic and we eat, sometimes with our hands, until we're full. When not shit and synthetic foods, you can consume a lot. And we're pigs.

Some nights, like tonight, he's not there when I pick out the food. He's also not there to question whether I seriously want to eat 20 radishes. But, regardless of the peace in the vegetable aisle, it is not the same. I pile the plate with food. Raw beets and olives and feta and turkey and avocado. Texture, color, taste perfect. And I eat. And think only of him and how even this, a most basic task, is soaked in malaise. Not even my first love, food, can calm my appetite.