These have shaped me.
Donnie Darko
Magnolia
Auntie Mame
Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe
Paris Is Burning
Halloween
Valley of the Dolls
Dancer in the Dark
Priscilla Queen of the Desert
Rocky Horror Picture Show
The Wizard of Oz
Batman
Heathers
Truth or Dare
The Hours
Atonement
District 9*
*saw today and had a huge impact
After chowing down five pieces of bacon, a croissant smothered in Nutella, and a wilted greens quiche I traveled on an adventure throughout Fire Island. My companions, Adam Norbury, young, British, and pierced and Marty Chavez, equally as young, at heart, tattooed, and giggly, were up for the challenge. I wanted to do something different than lounge around a pool. I wanted an expedition.
And the day unfolded in fabulous ways. In the Meat Rack, a beach forest filled with sex cruising, we laughed and climbed trees. Plastic chairs sat next to piles of condom wrappers, mementos of previous encounters. We saw little sex. One man cat-called us from the brush atop a sandy beach hill. "Nasty girls!" he screamed. We giggled and wondered what drugs he was on. Out of the bushes appeared Joe, a friend of Adam and Marty, who had dined with us earlier in the day. He found us in the trees by following the giggling. We were having fun.
We walked into Cherry Grove. I have been a guest of Fire Island for ten years now. Here and there. But I'd never really left the Pines. The houses in the Grove are a bit more modest. The "town" a bit more charming. We followed Marty past the Belvedere and straight into the Ice Palace, a motel with a pool surrounded by neon blue decking. I adored it. And without knowing we proceeded to walk into a drag show. The queens were raunchy. Yet talented. They commanded our attention and our laughs and a few dollar bills too. They performed in and out of the pool. Yes, five inch pumps in the pool. And because water can wreck havoc on things like eyelashes and weaves, fortunately for us, and unfortunately for them, they too performed in and out of wigs. One wig lay submerged on the pool's floor, but that queen did not skip a beat. Running mascara and no hair on her head, she finished her number and we applauded. For nerve and her desire to finish the show.
It was a glittering oasis we stumbled upon as we explored the island. It was over much too soon.
Cherry Grove was full. Mostly of African American men and women. Not only did we stumble upon drag, but we also happened upon a gay black pride event. The place was packed. Adam spotted two gorgeous girls, well, we thought they were girls, and began snapping their pictures. I, always aware of a photo-op, called them Kelly and Michelle and snapped right into line. I posed with them leg bent, hand on chin, channeling Beyonce. From there we strolled to the beach, as packed as those in Rio, and then quickly back off and towards the sunken forest. After nearly six hours of exploration and what felt like six million bug bites my companions and I returned home. Smiling and still humming Dreamgirls.
My housemates, and other friends, made me laugh the remaining weekend. Maybe they knew I needed the cheering up as Georgi had just left for Bulgaria. I hugged Rahnee Foster. I picked steamed crabs with Michael Lucas and Richard Winger. I sang France Joli with Corey Reese. Snuggled with Monte. Painted my face for Dave Rak. Laughed and joked and ran around like a chicken with no head. It was a fun weekend. I ran 6 miles one morning along the nearly deserted beach. Sat in the sand and dived in the ocean. Did not shave. Ate pizza and danced the disco as Lina, coiffed with a bob, turned it out. I still hit those notes on Ms. Ross' The Boss.
And then three days of no iPhone and no work and no computer quickly gone. I drove home alone. Rested and relaxed. Went to Georgi's place, not mine. And he was gone. And I was sad.
Georgi posted on Facebook that he was "home but homesick." I'll sit here and hum Ms. Reese/Ms. Joli until he returns. I feel incomplete without my best friend and no longer have the beach, and its many characters and performers, to distract me from the fact that I'm alone.
Come to me.
I've written a lot about change and the sensation of feeling young again these past six months. And I know they must be getting tiresome to read because as I click about them here I too am reminded by just how much I've referenced this connection to my youth. But, still I sit compelled to illustrate.
I equate youth with energy. The burden of bills and love loss and knowledge can eat away at that energy. That is why I celebrate these moments where I am truly carefree. When my troubles subside. Those moments, damn, how I feel young.
They continue. Perhaps this is what nostalgia is all about. Tapping into the electrical currents that long stopped transmitting signals. That went dead. That forgot how to charge.
In sequined pants and matching sequined vest. Wearing heavy eyeliner. Caked on even. Martin L. Gore stood in a spotlight commanding silence in a room filled with over ten thousand. He delivered a strained, yet emotive reading of one of my absolute favorite Depeche Mode songs, Home. And he looked weathered and frail. Yet in control. Wise. Beautiful in his decay.
Dave Gahan, on the other hand, who had a recent cancer scare, looked amazing. I work out at the same gym that he does and he lost a lot of weight since the last time I snapped an iPhone pick of him without his knowledge. His body is amazing, trim and toned. He strutted like a peacock and spun around like a top let loose from a child's hand. While on the treadmill this morning, my friend Joe, who shaved DM's logo into his head, remarked about Gahan's lack of connection with the crowd. And he was right. It was as if Gahan was performing in front of a mirror. He had fun and hit his notes and was full of energy. But it felt as if only he was in on it.
Gore, on the other hand, was there. Visible. Bruises. Wrinkles. Cole on his eyes. Sequined. Not, even after all these years, giving up on being the troubled songwriter. The lover of the dark and the light in equal measure. The art fag who writes poetry to blips and bleeps. Reminders of a time when it was cool to be effeminate. They're not even gay. They've just never left those times behind.
Those times I grew up in. And I stood there and danced there with Alireza and for two hours I was transported back to my childhood where the excitement of my first concert was as great as any rush that's come since. Merriweather Post Pavilion. Depeche Mode with Nitzer Ebb. Violator tour. A turning point in my musical education and another step towards growing up. I was back there again after all these years and it felt good.
While Depeche Mode's musical catalog has remained in my life some other relics of my childhood are long gone. Forgotten. Then I spoke to my friend Matthew briefly at the gym about this weekend's GI Joe movie. I worshipped GI Joe as a kid. I had every action figure. The comics. The cartoon. Obsessed I tell you. And in 1987 I put those toys down and have not really thought of them since. Until now.
It seems odd to me that I am just starting to dive into the toys I collected as a child. I have a toy collection for christ's sake, yet for some reason, I have not collected those toys. I am more concerned with obscure stuff. The artist dolls and kid robot one-offs and the toys I get whenever I travel. But last night online I spent hours looking at all the GI Joe action figures that I ever had. And again I was taken back to this place, a place where I would go to the toy store with my father every week to get a new figure.
I have few memories of my father. I remember the day he died. I remember some very clear moments leading up to his death. I remember his loud voice that carried across rooms unintentionally. I remember the way I was embarrassed and horrified by his voice and behavior. I remember my mother's tears. I remember wanting to escape.
So last night as I sat on my sofa looking at all these toys I remembered the happiness they gave me. I remember the joy it brought my father. I remember that my dad was loving and generous, at least for a time. And it made me miss him and think about him and remember him, which is something I do not do a lot.
I bought a GI Joe on eBay last night. The first of what will assuredly become many in yet a new obsession. It was Zandar. He has bright red hair. A pink scarf. Gold and electric blue clothes. Basically, he looks like I did through much of my twenties. And this collection of GI Joe action figures I am about to start obsessing over is going to be a way for me to remember my father. He wanted me to have these toys in 1983. Something tells me he'd still want me to have them now.
And Georgi is going to Bulgaria tomorrow. 12 days without my best friend. We've forged a unique and powerful bond in the last few months. The most intense friendship I've had in all my 33 years. Explosive. Charged. Full of currents and subtleties. So we're both sad about the separation. Like two high school girls. Pathetic. But in that cute way. At least I think it's cute, Probably makes you want to puke.
Songs of faith and devotion. Trinkets and dolls of the past. Teenage girl infatuation and love.
All part of my own very special fountain of youth. Finally I've found that I belong here.
Pick your Artist:
Morrissey/The Smiths
Are you a male or female:
This Charming Man
Describe yourself:
The Last of the Famous International Playboys
How do you feel:
Still Ill
Describe where you currently live:
There's a Place in Hell for Me and My Friends
If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris
Your favorite form of transportation:
On The Streets I Ran
Your best friend is:
Shakespeare's Sister
You and your best friends are:
Ambitious Outsiders
What’s the weather like:
Disappointed
Favorite time of day:
Why Don't You Find Out For Yourself?
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
Death of A Disco Dancer
What is life to you:
Life Is A Pigsty
Your most recent relationship:
Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me
My tiny apartment, painted teal and lemon, sits three stories above Christopher Street at Bedford.
I use it more as a storage facility these days. I pop in, here and there, to grab clothing, a hat, a deodorant, a different set of shades. I might sit and write there too. I prefer to write more there than at Georgi's house, where I sleep. It must be the colors. And the noise from the street below. And the volumes upon volumes of books stacked throughout the studio. There is an energy in that little room.
Today I walked my typical walk from G's. Down 6th Avenue, across west 10th, left on Bleeker, and right on Christopher. I climbed the stairs and turned on the AC. Sat down for a second and then showered. Then back out. Total time: 10 minutes in the apt.
I walk to work along Bedford Street. Past Little Owl, Moustache, Casa. Milk and Cookies. Darting over 7th Avenue I heard a man say to his female companion "I need to find a place to store my personality." Made me chuckle. Past Blue Ribbon.
I smell trash and chicken within a block's passing. I see tour groups and old ladies and shopkeepers. And I hear a rhythm. A pulse. A beat.
And all New Yorkers feel this beat. Whether they've lived here their entire life. Whether, like myself, they're approaching five consecutive years (not counting my previous two flings). And it is moments like the one I had this morning, that bliss that only New Yorkers know, that keep me energized.
Sometimes when the weather and the lovers and the hook-ups and the parties and the dinners and the rent and subway and the taxis and honking and the talking and the hip-hop and the concrete and the neon and the rats and the dry cleaners and the runners and the bikers and homeless and the children and distractions of sight, sound, taste and touch fade away you're left there alone with the city.
Surrounded by eight million, but alone. All alone though within grabbing distance of strangers.. Feels like it's your city. Like everything, everything, was made, just for you. Just for you. New York has that way. It grabs, holds, and pushes you forward. Its pulse and its rhythm and its blood are yours too.
A New York moment. We've all had them. Some are lucky to have them on repeat.
In the aftermath of the NY Times story I remain very much in favor of my decision to participate. I think it healed me and my friends a lot. I think it helped Ben too. And I think it made our house look great.
It was not 100% accurate, but whatever. Everything written is colored by the author. I know this. I am a writer.
I received many emails, texts, and blog comments and still am. Of the emails and comments, by strangers, the positives outweighed the negatives by about 9 to 1. I obviously enjoyed this. Reading other's notes-about how they experienced something similar, that it is good to have these depictions of gay men in the mainstream press, that the house was charming-made me happy we agreed to the piece.
Obviously one, like myself, with a blog and putting it all out there, is self-obsessed and narcissistic to a point. But why shouldn't we be?
The comments on other websites were far more brutal than the ones I received. And far more negative. It is clear to me: those attackers can hide behind anonymity. They're safe from being called out on their hate. And if you pop over to Apartment Therapy or Data Lounge you will most certainly see hate. Actually, don't bother with Data Lounge. That site is so full of hate it makes my stomach turn. I read the first day's comments about us, 80 or so. They are awful and even I, thick skin and all, felt awkward, not angry after. I last heard that the comments had grown to 500. Wow.
And those people on those sites have their reasoning. Anyone who puts themselves out there will get an earful. Hell, I am even to blame for this at times. Just last week, via Facebook, I lambasted Whitney Houston. Someone I see daily, who works with her, read what I wrote. And he confronted me. And it sunk in even more. Why waste the thoughts on the negativity? They do no good. No help. We should not judge. Who are we to judge?
I sound like a Christian.
So anyway, I have been on the receiving end of web-based vitriol for ten years. I am used to it. Ben, on the other hand, has not. I hope he sees what I know: that more people related to our story than were turned off by it. It is rather hopeful, even if that last line was insensitive and not entirely true. And we were not asking for sympathy. We were not feeding our egos. We were just living our life and sharing our life. What any reader chooses to do with that is their business. And I am fine with that.
In 2003 a friend sent me a quote. It resonated with me. And it remains one of my favorite affirmations. It is below:
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve this world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us; It is not just in some of us - it's in everyone! And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others!"
Nelson Mandela spoke those words in 1994. I live them in 2009. If you've got a problem with it find a message board to post to because I will never play small. Who are we not to live big?
"She doesn't want to live off-camera, much less talk. There's nothing to say off-camera. Why would you say something if it's off-camera? What point is there existing?" -Warren Beatty to Madonna, 1991.
For the record I did not pitch the New York Times a story on my break-up. Ryan Brown did not believe me today as I sat in Mark Silver's office. I would admit it. Seriously. I know that many people, better friends included, made that assumption. Not that I see anything wrong in media coverage of one's failed relationship. I just did not in this instance. I am a master of self promotion. But this was not me.
Julie Scelfo, the Times' writer, had first emailed with me earlier this year. Hilary Unger, an interior designer I've worked with, recommended that I design a room for a Times' piece on $300 room makeovers. I did not end up participating in the Times' piece, but Julie was intrigued by my website and its colors and its prose. She filed it away.
Then she emailed me months later out of the blue and was interested in doing a story on our lakehouse. But things had changed and the story had changed and Julie saw something compelling and positive in the emotional rollercoaster Ben and I were racing up and down on. She wanted to write a story.
Of course I jumped at the opportunity. She wanted pictures of my studio on Christopher street and of the lakehouse. I obliged. And then, while I rode a convertible with Brian Babst to Palm Springs, she and I had a discussion of what the story looked like. I was very into it. Obviously.
Ben, not so much. He and I are going to therapy. Some of my friends roll their eyes at the thought of these therapy sessions. My boyfriend does not particularly see the benefit to these meetings either, but he is supportive none the less. We go to therapy to sort out what went wrong and to work on transitioning our partnership from one of lovers to one of business partners. And friends. You see, as the Times' piece shows, we own two homes together. Neither of which we can afford on our own and neither of which we can sell. So we're forced to make this work. We have no choice.
Ben's friends tend to be a bit more conservative than mine. He works in finance too. And he got some feedback from them that participating in the Times' story would do nothing for him. What would he get out of it they asked? And he was apprehensive.
I knew that the home we'd created was special. Very special. Anyone who has ever stayed the night knows this. And I thought the Times' piece would be a perfect send-off. It would document our love. It would preserve this special place. It would, in some way, provide needed closure.
So Ben agreed. And I respect him for it. I thought he had no issue being Googled and having his life exposed. How could he? He was with me for five years. I knew he would not want to work for someone who would judge him based on his personal life. He's not as exposed to the world as I am. But he does not hide. But I guess, after reading the article, he's not so comfortable being out there as I am. I did not realize he had issues with this blog. I sit here asking myself why I have the need to write here. It's complex and needed and evolving. I will not or cannot abandon the possibilities and connections this space brings to my life. I'm a writer. I'm home here.
Back to the Times. We met with Julie together, then separately, and then again at Ben's birthday party held the day that was to be our wedding. In talking about our life together-the ride across country, the renovating of the house, the eventual demise-I was struck with great pride and appreciation for what Ben had done to me. He truly helped transform me. He inspired me more than I could ever type here. He helped me become a man. Finally.
Walking through the house, both physically and via photographs, I am reminded of a happy time in my life. I am inspired by the joy of creating. And I am proud of what we created. Something beautiful. An escape for ourselves and our friends. A place where we watched The Birds and dined wearing wigs and ate like pigs and fought during charades and toasted to life and collected: plates, memories, art, furniture and friendships.
And while some will see this story as sad, and yes, it can be very sad, still, it is indeed the opposite. It is a story about a shared love, of each other and of design. It is a story of how things change and how friendship remains. And it is a story of how life is rarely perfect. Not perfect, but beautiful and evolving,
Two hours north of New York City, right off the Taconic at mile marker 67, sits a little piece of my heart. It lives in a colorfully kitsch playhouse and it will always be where I've felt the most home. My mother always said I had an explorer's heart and I pick up and live wherever the wind, and my desire, take me. I've never really had a home. Not growing up. Not in my twenties. But there among those trees and on that lake remains my home. Hopefully, sometime sooner than later, Ben and his friends and me an my friends and his boyfriend and my boyfriend can all come together for a weekend there. Laugh all you want. I know we'll get there.
We'll farmstand hop and make elaborate meals and drink good wine and play Wii Fit and watch Hitchcock and Auntie Mame. I have hope of getting there. And so does he. In good time.
While the article was more about us and less about the houses, which is not how I originally thought it would be, I'm still happy to read it. I know other people going through similar situations and emotions right now and I'm glad the story was told. Even in adversity happiness can break though.
The New York Times story is here and the slideshow, narrated by us, is here. Enjoy. And if you came via the Times I just want to say hello!
Parts of my personality had gone missing. Much like that shirt left at a trick's house. That camera forgotten in the seat pocket of a plane. Those gloves left on the Haight street bus. Gone. Forgotten. And never again. But, unlike those material objects I'd lost, miraculously, that missing part of me has reemerged. Thriving. Around.
Robert Polacek, celebrating his one-year wedding anniversary, was in New York a couple week's ago. He had traveled up from Scranton, where he is from, and where he had been for July 4th. He stayed two days in New York with his husband Bryan. We had dinner at the Standard Grill, where among the scenesters, Brendan Monaghan and those fashion bears, also dined. Theron joined us and Georgi did later and we laughed and I left. Smiling. Roby texted me the next morning. "It is good to have you back."
Ryan McKeel and his sister Amanda were in New York the next weekend. Their tickets had originally been booked for my wedding, but you know how that turned out. I spent the day with them drinking wine at the Mercer Kitchen, getting ice cream and cookies, and having cocktails in the sun next to the Highline. We had a lovely time. After, Ryan emailed me that he's always adored me but that he was really happy about the man I'd become.
Their two statements, combined with a note Eric Riley had sent me the week before, made me realize that people were noticing something different.
Then I got my mother's card. I spent July 4th with her in Baltimore. Georgi and I drove down. We met Liam and my mom at Donna's. We hit the aquarium. Jon and Lucas and Keena and Charles met us for crabs. Standard visit. But my mom's card said that she's never seen me happier. That I've never looked better. That a bitterness I'd been carrying had been lifted. That I looked comfortable.
These observations by people I love coincide with my rediscovery of the written word. I have picked writing back up and I am enjoying it. Keeping a blog. A journal. A diary. Has been at times the easiest thing in the world. It has been essential to my happiness. And for other periods it has been work. Torture.
But I have found that part of me, the kid who dreamed big and wrote love letters and bad poetry to his boyfriends. To his mother. To the world. That part of me is back. Breathing. Alive. Happy.
The expression the written word provides, the therapy, the shelter, the relief it provides is powerful. And at this point necessary. Strangers are emailing me saying they're enjoying my observations. Other bloggers are sending me notes saying they're enjoying this return to form. And I am even getting hate mail again! This means I've arrived. Again.
Blogging. It's been a part of me for nearly ten years. And it's never been more enjoyable or valued. My life is a love song. You can hear it on the internet.
I am having anxiety about attending Ben's birthday party tomorrow.
Today was supposed to have been the day before the wedding. My Mom was supposed to have been here. We were supposed to have gotten our hair cut on Wednesday at Bumble and we were supposed to have had our rehearsal dinner at the Beekman Arms last night. Roby was supposed to have been here. Jon. Lucas. Erin. Suzy. James. Eric. Jack. Marc. Adrian. For that dinner. None were here.
We were supposed to be bowling tonight at the big party. We were supposed to have bowling shirts with the wedding party's names embroidered. We were supposed to drink beer and eat pizza and bowl and laugh. And be roasted and toasted.
And then tomorrow we were supposed to don our Bottega Veneta gingham jackets. Bowties. We were supposed to have been primped by Pam and styled by Alireza. Will and Melissa were supposed to makes us laugh. Sandra and Matthew were supposed to marry us. Bryan was supposed to spin. Billie was supposed to sing. I was too. Stand By Your Man and So In Love. I wanted to sing Cole Porter at my wedding.
We were supposed to eat fried chicken out of gingham lined baskets. We were supposed to have white hydrangeas and champagne and a good humor truck. We were supposed to wear red origami flowers on our lapels. The fellas too. The ladies, hats with netting. Denise was supposed to laugh. A lot. My Mom was supposed to look like Deneuve in an Anne Fontaine top and black pencil skirt and patent pumps. Lanterns were supposed to float in the water on the lake and the sun was supposed to set perfectly reflecting on 200 people we love. We were supposed to dance to The Smiths' There Is A Light.
We're not. Which we both know is the right thing. But right things don't always feel right. Sometimes they're sad.
But I am traveling to the lake house tomorrow. I will celebrate with many friends who were, months ago, planning to make the trek, not for a birthday, but for a wedding.
And I will be a guest at a party in my house. Not my party. Not my weekend on the rotation. And that feels weird too. I have not made it to the house since we split. I am intentionally making my travel companions (Sandra, Ms. Currie, Theron, Alireza) arrive 2 hours early. Partly because I want some quality time with Ben. Partly because I want to help with last minute preparations. And partly because I feel I may have a minor breakdown. I get emotional when I think of the house.
But things change and change is constant. I've embraced it. Lived it. It's engulfed me. And, Ben, sweet Ben, has too, I have a new life already and so does he and we're slowly merging back together. Dancing a ballet on broken glass. Cautious. A little bloody. Yet committed to finishing and bowing our heads.
Tomorrow is the first public performance. Wish me to break a leg?
And when all his loved ones (and many, many of mine too) raise a glass to celebrate his birth and his smile and his brilliance I will too.
Toasting to a life together. He and I. Just not in the way we'd originally planned. As they say, the show must go on.
I've rediscovered Bjork. Well, I should say that I've rediscovered her Debut album.
Pandora, the internet radio station, is an awesome invention. You tell it the name of a song or artist or genre and it will play songs, for free, related to your criteria. We use it in the showroom.
So when you listen to "Deee-Lite Radio" you get a mixed bag of early nineties treats: Robin S, Olive, Madonna, Kylie, Black Box, The KLF, and Bjork.
I own each of Bjork's albums. I buy each, hoping, that next will capture the power and amazement of her first 3 major label debuts. Debut is indeed not a debut, but it is the album that put her in the spotlight as a solo force after the demise of Sugarcubes.
Bjork's voice is rarely described as pretty. To most, in fact, it is just the opposite. However, on Debut, the brilliant album I have on repeat, her voice is most certainly pretty. Angelic. Impish. Exploding with traces of joy and innocence.
The album owes as much to Bjork's vocals and lyrics as it does to the production of Nellee Hooper, who in a blistering review in Rolling Stone at the time of the album's release, was accused of sabotaging "a ferociously iconoclastic talent with a phalanx of cheap electronic gimmickry. Björk's singular skills cry out for genuine band chemistry, and instead she gets Hooper's Euro art-school schlock – and we do, too." How wrong could the review be? Typical of the male-obsessed/rock-obsessed RS.
Between 1989 and 1993 Hooper produced Debut as well as Massive Attack's Blue Lines and Soul II Soul's Club Classics Vol. One. These three albums are considered electronic classics. I think Debut is really a concept album concerned with finding and falling in love.
Debut begins with Human Behavior, the first single, and it seems the odd man out on the disk. But it works in opening the album up. It is odd, a song about humans told from the eyes of an animal. It is a song about how ridiculous humans can be and how very addictive these same beasts are.
Her voice shines on Crying. A disco thump with Bjork's plea to find a love. The theme of water emerges in this song as does travel. She will sail the seas and cover the globe looking for her love.
She meets someone. Venus As A Boy is charming, playful. The lyrics are about the sensation of finding a potential mate. All the thoughts of what could be. What would the sex be like? The kisses? The initial burst of excitement cause by the prospect of love. The anticipation that makes one high. On There's More to Life Than This she urges her new friend to leave a party, escape, go on a trip with her. To "go down to the harbor and jump between the boats." Her voice shakes with laughter. It's a happy, happy song.
She follows it up with a torch song, Like Someone in Love, sung with an off pitch Harp. Her voice soars and the songs simplicity compliments the complex vocal histrionics. She's fallen in love. And on Big Time Sensuality, a banging house jam, she serenades her lover that "it takes courage to enjoy it, the hardcore and the gentle." Sex. Love. Life.
One Day is a glorious, pulsing, slow moving electro-ballad. The next 3 songs on the album slow down. Imagery of airplanes and fireworks. One Day's lyrics tell of a day when all things will make sense. That love has this power. Aeroplane is about the emptiness she feels when her lover leaves and how she will follow the world in search. Then, Come To Me, which urges her lover to come back, to "jump off, your building's on fire." Bjork, the Icelandic pixie will make it all better.
The intro to Violently Happy, another disco gem, states "since I met you this small town hasn't got room for my big feelings." She feels everything in big ways. She's violently happy. She's got big-time sensuality. She's bursting. Her heart as well as her vocal chords.
Singing against wonky horns she ends the album with The Anchor Song. Again she's back by the shore. She dives in and remains there. The ocean, an obvious metaphor for love.
Now she's gotten too serious. Too harsh. Too dramatic. And her music lacks humor. Where is the woman in a swan dress? The one in those 90s videos? Gone to the world of high-art I suppose.
Debut sparkles and pulses, not unlike a heart. A weird, romantic, robotic, Icelandic, heart. It's poetry married to blips and bleeps. It tips it's hat to Jazz and Hip-Hop and House and Disco. And what was left was an avant-garde, computerized, ethereal concept pop album celebrating the search for love and the currents of hormones obvious to anyone who has been in love.
It's a classic.
The talented Max Hidalgo colored these images of G and I. They're amazing.
We sat there, at Almond, Hunter, Sandra, Barbara and I. We had had drinks across the street already at Barbara and Richard's house. I chose a vodka rocks with tomolives. Hunter, a martini with a twist. Sandra, her usual white wine. It was my first time at Babs and Richard's house without Ben. And it was weird. Barbara and Richard and Ben and I had an odd, yet very lovely, couple's friendship. That's different now.
Sandra recently has been doing dinner dates with Babs. Neither of them gravitate towards other woman so it is nice to see them spending time together. After all they share a love of shopping, design, and me.
Hunter is an amazing soul. So giving and generous. And after a few drinks he laid into me about not being as quick to respond to emails. That I've been somewhat distant. That I have not been as social. And that I have taken some of my friendships for granted. And I have.
I am in a unique place. I am still reeling from the split. Things have calmed down. I have a home. I moved. But some things have not. Financially I am over committed. Emotionally, I am experiencing the crush of new love.
And it is OK to disappear with a new love.
I lamented the loss of Denise at this year's Gay Pride. Alireza said it while we watched trannies and leathermen, ridiculous costumes alike, parade down 5th Avenue. "Pride without Denise is like Christmas without presents." Or he said something like that. Don't sue me if I butchered the sentiment.
And initially I was sad. And then that sadness was erased by the thought of Denise in Baltimore at a wedding, the trophy girlfriend of someone she's madly in love with. And that's all we really want: someone to love. That Denise and I are kin.
So yes, those emails are sitting in my inbox longer. And, no, I cannot go out to dinner as often. Partly because I need to live a less extravagant lifestyle due to my finances. Partly because I am tired and too old to be overcommitted. And partly because I am in love with the most precious soul and I, selfishly, want to be with him at every second. Doing nothing. Not distracted. Dreaming of a future. Falling into slumber entangled. Cutting peaches and grapes and popping them in each other's mouths. Doing simple things. Just the two of us.
Barbara, when I brought this up last night, said it was necessary to a couple's survival. And she should know. Her husband adores her. She thinks he's the bee's knees. And when you are around them you never question where their allegiance falls. They always got each other's backs. It is almost as if there is an inside joke or another dialogue going on and only they get it. And I think that energy is beautiful.
Ben and I had many, many distractions in our lives. We abandoned a lifestyle of being alone. Just the two of us. Our vacations. Our weekends. Our weeknights were booked with everyone, but each other. Had we fostered that bond. Had we really focused on us, maybe things would have turned out differently. So that is a lesson I am taking from the ashes: the importance of nurturing love. Two people. No distractions. No acting. Just face to face. Head to head. Heart to heart. Often times in silence.
I'm lucky to have been given it. Again. This time I am a bit wiser.
I will come around to being quicker with responding and getting back to my loved ones. I do think of my friends constantly. There's a lot going on and enough love to spread. Just going through an adjustment period. Some friends understand that and embrace it and others don't quite get it. In time all these things work out. Like a straight up martini, our friendship's strong. And I have plenty of drinking to do in this lifetime still.
Maybe we can draw new lines
Doing things that you don't understand
I was born to be with you in this space and time
I hang my hopes out on the line
So I'll sing you a new song
Now the story of forbidden love
Whatever you say it's alright
Whatever you want
The choice is yours
So choose
It heals me just to hear you say I love you
I feel so extraordinary
I wanna kiss you underneath the stars
Comes love
Nothing can be done
* a mixtape: india.arie, kleerup, neneh cherry, paula west, tammy wynette, u2, the gossip, the killers, john legend, la roux, thompson twins, new order.
I received some really lovely gifts, messages, and calls for my birthday. And then I got one more, a few days after I turned 33, from Thomas Goldberg. Tommy, as I call him, and I have known each other for a good decade. He too is from Maryland. He too wore make-up and feathers and was a club kid. He too escaped to NYC. He too went to Parsons. And he's about to start working for DWR. He has a great role model methinks.
In 2000, or was it 1999, he met another friend of mine, Jason Goldberg, I think at Twilo. I had known each separately, but did not make the introduction. This is a common occurrence in my life. They moved to Seattle and they were married. It was the first gay marriage I attended! I went with Chris Miers, my boyfriend of the time. Wait, Miers, did we officially go there with that title? I don't remember much.
Anyway. Jason and Tommy. Love them to death. They broke up this year too and though their relationship was significantly longer than Ben and mine, they too are experiencing similar issues. So it was quite lovely that Tommy asked me to accompany him to see Beyonce in concert at Madison Square Garden.
For the record let me say this about Beyonce. I have a love/hate thing with her. I loved Destiny's Child and I hate the way she dismissed others in the group (I adore LeToya Luckett, btw). I loved her first album but rolled my eyes at her lip synching in live shows. I adored her acting. She was funny in Austin Powers and was the best performance in Dreamgirls. In here role as Diana Ross, yes that is Diana Ross, she nailed it. Hudson may have had the more emotional role. The more gut-wrenching role. But it was Beyonce's coy, convincing, callous turn in that film that won me over. She was understated. She was dazzling in her simplicity.
And her music got better. Ring the Alarm is pulsating and angry. Irreplaceable is infectious. And Halo was written for me this year. I tell myself that. I have not connected lyrically to a pure pop song in some time. Timeliness, I suppose. Her voice cracks and is under produced. This is a good thing. The song is about not only finding love at the wrong time but also of embracing that love. It's the risk that I'm taking.
So Tommy and I sat there and talked about our relationships, new and old, and the destruction of a life built together. Safety in numbers. My pain is not just mine. Many share this same hurt. And the lights went low and the crowd went nuts and we were in a sea of black girls and flamboyant queens and we danced and sang and let go. It was a lovely gesture and a fitting goodbye. Tommy moves to LA in a few weeks.
Beyonce is warmer on stage than you'd think. Much more than Madonna. But she still does not let go all the way. This was evidenced by her lack of sweat. She is robotic, which I found fascinating. She moves like a robot. Juts and struts.
The Thierry Mugler costumes were part George Michael's Too Funky and part Vegas showgirl. The hair was all Ms. Ross. Beyonce dances like a motherfucker. She sang a good amount, not all though, but it did not distract. She had fun. She adlibbed. She shared the stage with Jay Z. Covered Ave Maria, Sarah McLoughlin. Alanis Morrissette. She edited the Destiny's Child catalog into a sampling then into a full rendition and then back into a sampled dance number. It was an homage that was just enough. We never forgot it was the Beyonce show. The costumes were sexy, revealing, and high-fashion. The band was all women. This, I thought, was such a genuine statement. Girl power. The band played Michael Jackson and the White Stripes. Her musical and fashion statements and references were far more diverse than I'd expected. She'd done her homework.
And the references to Paris is Burning were obvious. I am not exaggerating. She threw a ball. Runway. Gowns. Wigs. The whole shebang.
Upstate, two summers ago, I berated Theron Long for his love of Beyonce. Her lack of self-deprecation bugged me. She seemed too serious. But this last album, and the SNL skit, and her public face have changed my mind. She's a big talent with a unique, shaky, and sometimes pitchy voice. But it's getting better. But, like Madonna, who I think she emulates more than Diana Ross, it's not about her voice in purely technical terms. It is about her ability to convey emotions: anger, independence, and like on Halo, simple, pure love.
As I walked back from lunch on the Highline today, where I giggled with Robbie Hammond, who was adorable taking his shoes off during lunch, I was reminded that it is Pride here in NYC by all the rainbow flags suddenly tackily tacked on restaurant windows.
So Beyonce kicked off my Pride week. I have a friend's birthday dinner, Fuerza Bruta, a weekend in the Pines, and then back to NYC, next Sunday, where among the crowds of gays I intend to dance and sing out loud. I just may have picked up a few moves from Ms. Knowles one week before.
I don't think I'd realized how much weight I'd lost until Alireza's visit. I should correct myself, as it was not a lot of weight, ten, fifteen pounds top. But I guess fifteen pounds lost from a 5'8'' frame, if I am being honest about my height, is substantial. It was enough weight and ultimately inches to leave me with a closet full of tens of thousands of dollars worth of ill-fitting designer garments.
For a while I was devastated.
The symbolism is quite real and obvious. This year I have changed jobs, homes, and boyfriends. And what I have traded, if traded is the proper word, is not better. Just different. I spent the last five years accumulating and acquiring. Friends, homes, chairs, tables, shoes, bags, iPods, MP3s, objects, trinkets, bowties, hats, toys, kitchen appliances, and so on and so on and so on. If acquiring were a religion then Ben and I were devoted followers. We prayed at that church.
This is not a judgment call on that lifestyle. I work in a sector that is dedicated to consumption. And I will never lose my faith in the material object. I think all things created by people, shirts, chairs, homes, art, are worthy of celebrating and appreciating. Creating things is the essence of living. We make our worlds with our hands and we have every right, responsibility even, to surround ourselves with beautiful things. This goes for people too.
But I had gone a little crazy methinks.
So in thinning down I now see the need to thin down everything. Which includes my wardrobe.
Any friend of mine will talk about my dress. My earliest memories are of clothes. I have always used the visual of dressing and costume as my number one source of expression. I dressed for reactions long before I scribed for them.
And now I am letting many go. I have no choice. My Etro suits, simply, do not fit. And they're not capable or worth altering.
I saved about twenty of my sixty (button-down) shirts to be tailored. Alireza did ten of them for my birthday gift. And the rest went into a pile. Etro suits and ties. Paul Smith shirts and pants. Bergdorf coats and cashmere sweaters. Kid Robot hoodies and shirts. A Bathing Ape hats. Patterns and colors and prints and textures. My life, my costumes, my uniforms, of the past five years ready to be categorized and put up for auction on eBay.
And it is OK. I wear more simple things now. My style is more relaxed because my comfort with my body has changed. I have a natural ease. I want my eyes and my smile and face and my tattoo to be what people react to. At least, first, that is. I don't feel the need to cover everything up or make such a statement. I've invested in some more classic looks. I am less buttoned-up. Less clownish.
Now I will never give up this game of acquiring, especially clothes, shoes, and bags, but I have slowed down. And while I sit here in day glow green Adidas sneakers some might giggle and laugh at this proclamation. But they don't know the emotional attachment I have had to my clothing and they don't know the freedom I feel from letting it go. Letting it go without replacements. That's the kicker. What I have will do me. For now, at least.
Yesterday I had on a pair of green loafers, Tods, the ones I bought, on sale, for my birthday gift to myself. A woman, on 7th Avenue, stopped me to remark about them. She said they were the color of life. The color of trees. Her favorite color.
Last year I would have paired these green shoes with pink pants, yellow belt, blue shirt. And I would have pulled it off. This year I wore them with a tattered grey cotton Club Monaco sweater and cut-off cords from Uniqlo. More casual. Less expensive. Comfortable.
The new me. Less money in my pocket. Less clothing in my closet. Less color on display. But deep, very deep, colors inside.
