July 2, 2009

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.

June 30, 2009

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.

June 24, 2009

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.

June 20, 2009

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.

I'm not letting the cables sleep. I am not letting currents pulse below the surface. I am not made of wires and circuits. I am not a robot.

I've been thinking in song lyrics again. I always do when these things happen.300 pound punk rock chicks with a Cyndi Lauper snarl can express my emotions better than I ever will. That's why she's on stage and I am not. Though I should be.

I convinced Sandra to come to abs class with us at the gym today. She did and afterwards we "walked." I love the walking dates still. Orlando even asked me across the shirtless men changing in the locker-room today "how was your walk?" It was quite revealing.

Sandra's reading a book about sex. Sexual Fluidity. She says "Intimacy is having the feeling of wanting to be with a person all the time, finding yourself missing them when not together, making a connection that goes deeper than desire, it’s a longing to be with that person since they bring something out in you that no one else does. An attraction like no other – not gender based." Hmmpf.

I was supposed to see Up on Saturday night. With Matty and Andrew and Darlene. But we screwed up and did not get tickets and ended up eating Chinese and Billy's and watching Paris is Burning. Jesse stopped me on 24th Street and hugged me, as we walked to Matthew's house, telling me it was just so obvious how happy I was. It was a moment that really touched me. That what I felt inside was just so visible on the outside.

Paris is Burning is sad and happy. It is inspirational and troubling. And it is a gay lesson of life. Most younger gays don't get it. And that is OK. We even made Shay watch it. And Matty and I ran around and kikied. We quoted and reminiscenced. Jesse sat entranced. And Shay and Andrew. They were polite. But not obsessed.

If you shoot an arrow and it goes real high, then hooray for you. I've shot a few up there so far in my lifetime.

Georgi arrived after the show ended. Boo. But I took Matthew's dvd and vowed to show Georgi. To educate the youth. I had no intention of watching it the next day. But we did after walking the Highline and Georgi, like Jesse, was entranced. And that sealed the deal. He may be young, but he gets that. He gets it. He gets me. So much so that as I laid down on the floor this AM, arms and legs stretched, Georgi on one side and Sandra on the other, sandwiched between two of my four best friends (what I would do to have Mom and Eric in abs class too), and while cursing the abs instructor, I made Georgi laugh when I mimed a voguer. Sweaty in Nikes I channeled Willie Ninja for a hot second.

Not understanding Paris is Burning. Not, at the very least, appreciating it is a deal breaker. I am not exaggerating.

Eric Riley wrote me this morning. Saying it's quite lovely to watch.

It's even better to feel. Electric. Awake. In love.

June 12, 2009

I

big brown eyes break walls
this charming man melts away
into happiness

II

laughter comes easy
whenever you are around
pirate smiles abound

III

i am your captain
sailing on a ship of fools
walk the plank with me

It was not your typical Saturday on Fire Island. At least not for me. The times I've spent there over the past decade or so have usually been booze-fueled and loud and ridiculous. Not this time. After having spent a relaxing day poolside and after having concocted the most amazing meal (fresh pico and guacamole, pickled cabbage and onions, grilled chicken tacos, crudités, etc) I found myself at tea, sober. And it was loud and fun still. I sipped a beer and I danced a little to a set list that included Kelly Clarkson, Gloria Gaynor, and that Dive in the Pool song. Really. And I danced rather than turning my nose up. And I saw some friends and watched as they, obviously, had fun.

There was a voguer there. A good one. White guy, 50s, and he walked as this guy I see at the gym stood, shirtless, watching. We all watched. It was good fun.

And then we left. Georgi and I, leaving at the peek hour, the moment all these grown men either began to really feel the alcohol. Or the music. Or drugs. We left, escaped, that wildness.

Newly dark, the paths were silent, dark, and motionless. They were not, however. scary. The moon was huge overhead. The light was intense. Unlike most moons. It lit our faces. And we walked on our way to dinner with Georgi's friend and mentor.

The food was amazing. The conversation, ranging from banking to ex boyfriends to Broadway shows, was perfect. We drank water.

Georgi's friend, Marty, and I discussed our tattoos. The bird on his chest was beautiful. Why hadn't I thought about using yellow ink? And then he showed us another tattoo, written in another language, which escapes me now. It translated to "The Gods guide us to those we have been seeking."

Walking home, music blaring from that same dance floor we'd escaped from hours earlier, I felt great peace and with complete faith in the God's plans for me, too. They've not disappointed in their guidance yet.

In the destruction of my life as I knew it. In the sadness that could consume even the strongest soul. I stood up and found my friends. I lost my partner. My best friend. My lover. But I found a lot too.

Embracing newness and change. It is exciting. But after, that excitement wanes. After the initial rush of altering your life's course. There, in the burnout, the afterglow fades, and it gets dark again. And alone.

Thank God for my loves.

And I am blessed. I am blessed by the grace that consumes my life. I am blessed to have a new best friend. I am blessed to have my old friends: from MD, DC, SF, LA, NYC.

My 33rd year alive was a rollercoaster.

I left a job I loved, a family there, and took on a new role with inspiring, yet unknown, people. Embracing change.

I saw the first black man elected president and I cried with joy that things can get better in this world. Embracing change.

I ended a relationship with a beautiful partner who I had truly grown up alongside. We're figuring out our next chapter. Embracing change.

I moved to my own apartment. And struggled (am struggling) with making ends meet and paying rent and mortgages simultaneously. Embracing change.

I dedicated hours upon hours to fitness. Ran many miles. Cycled like a madman. Ate fruits and vegetables and lean meats. Lost pounds and inches. Embracing change.

I fell in love again. Felt seventeen. Flirted with possibilities. Embracing change.

And on a trip that was supposed to be a bachelor party, and altered, to become, a sorta pre-birthday party, I arrived in the desert of Palm Springs. where I was showered with gifts, jewels, shows, friends, new and old, family, love. brotherhood, friendship. Love burning hot in 100 degrees. I am golden faced and golden hearted.

And today. I wake and smile. Giggle and sweat. Run and walk. Hear my mother's voice and swans from across the country and I sit smiling reading all these facebook messages and texts, blowing up my iPhone.

Hello world. Hello loves. Hello life. You're a pigsty. You're a definite mess.

But even in the filth. Even in the chaos, one thing remains: the unmistakable strength of love. It makes the world go round and it will save us from ourselves.

May 13, 2009

Janos, my cleaning guy, broke my heart yesterday. Seriously, he broke my Peruvian ceramic heart while he deep-cleaned my new apt. The apt. was filthy. I bought the heart at the New Museum, with Sandra, the day we viewed the Younger Than Jesus exhibit while Susan Sarandon did the same. Sandra got one and then I bought the 2nd one. It had a slight chip. I bought it because I, at the time, and even, a little, still now, had a broken heart. The fact that it's now cracked makes me like it even more. I am going to glue it together and place it on my Saarinen coffee table. A memento, a reminder, of my the time my heart was most cracked.

The new apartment is tiny and crammed and I go between loving a hating it. The Gemini in me, you know. But I am not going to be there much this summer. So small is good. It will keep me from accumulating more shoes. And clothes. And chairs. And books. And art.

I have enough. Really, I do.

Besides, I am working a lot and intend to spend all my free time at the beach this summer. Sunbathing. Relaxing. Catching up. Reading. And writing a book. Yes, you heard me, I am going to start writing a book.

I do find myself happy to be alone in my place. Even more now that the grime of the disgusting previous resident has been wiped away. Now I just need to paint and edit and I will be set. The loudness of Christopher street below, the sloping crooked floors, the 3 flight walk-up, the thin walls and tiny stove and lost dishwasher. All these things are the trade off for freedom. Alone time. Space(mental). It is worth it.

I walked outside today. Crisp and 70 degrees. Gingham and polka dots and yellow suede Bally loafers. I walked the West Village. I passed bakeries. And Rebel Rebel. And tree-lined streets. And I smiled at where I live now. Happy and sad. Cramped and free. Awake and in flux.

And happy.

I'm not alone. I feel loved. And I have a second heart. Solid and blue. Carved from stone. Unbreakable. It too is on display on that Saarinen table. It's mate is out there in the world. Reminders of both Bradfords: broken and strong.

Only love can leave such a mark. Magnificent, you too.

April 15, 2009

I cursed myself as I stepped from the cab last night. I put on my favorite Cole Haan loafers (yes, I am a Cole Haan fanatic, people are surprised by my love of them) and they got speckled with rain. I did not realize it was raining and I was too lazy to head back up to the apt. to change.

I walked into Minetta Tavern, ahead of my friend Paul. He had suggested the new restaurant, which is actually not new, but newly reinvigorated by the folks who bring you Pastis and Schiller's. The room was abuzz. Pretty people. Rich people. Gays peppered throughout.

Paul arrived and we had a drink and sat down in the 2nd best seat in the house, pivoted in a corner of a triangular restaurant. We had a view.

Paul excused himself to use the little boy's room. As he did a woman, head down and in hat, whisked by. I thought to myself that she must be famous.

And she was. She took her hat off and then I saw her. Madonna. Sitting directly in front of us, a few tables away, occupying another of the room's corners. Occupying the best seat in the house. She let down her pigtail-knots and her long blonde hair glowed. She gossiped with two guys, one of which Paul spotted as the photographer Steven Klein. She seemed happy and pulled and everyone stared, whispered, not in an obvious way, but God, she has something special.

I have met a million celebrities. Worked with some in the shops. I dined by Sissy Spacek and helped Linda Evangelista decorate her nanny's room. They're at the gym. On the street. At the restaurants I dine in. I was side-by-side with Susan Sarandon just this Friday at the New Museum.

But nothing was like watching Madonna for 3 hours eat, laugh, talk.

She too is recently out of a relationship. And she's fine. Glowing.

After a week in which I was saddened by financial burdens, uncertainty, and the thought of being alone, I am now comforted. In the kindness of new friends (one of which gave me a pair of Etro slacks, just because). In the fact that it looks like I will be moving into a great apartment soon. And by Madonna's symbolic appearance in my life.

A symbol of freedom, fun, and life beyond heartbreak. She's not an angel. She's a real person. But God, it was that classic NYC experience. The reasons why I live here and eat here and laugh here. Where we're all the same. Just sacks of blood and bone, made up of stars, getting through life. The clouds fill the sky. But my day is oh so bright.

April 12, 2009

I first saw the motion picture Atonement on an airplane, two vodkas in, flying above the country. It gripped me. I cried on the flight, alone.

I watched it again last night and in the space I currently reside, a place of hopeful happiness and sadness over a closed chapter, the film was even more influential.

It is a beautiful film too. Costumes and sets are colorful, clear, detailed. There is a scene on a French beach in which there are no cuts and the scene moves along, weaving in and out, with color and actors and noises and horses and it is like poetry. It flows and moves and changes and returns and it is beautiful.

The use of sound is also amazing. Water splashes in a fountain in one scene and connects to the next when water splashes in a bath tub. Clicking typewriter keys turn into footsteps. It has a rhythm.

It is a song lover's film. It is a poet's film. It is a visual artist's film. For it embodies those arts.

And it is gut wrenching. Never before have I seen two actors on film appear to be so in love. You see the fight in their eyes. You see it when they realize it and when they say it the first time. I love you. It is also devastating. It rips at your stomach at the end.

Life and love can be sad and difficult and sometimes, hopefully only sometimes, unbearable. But there is a light. It never goes out. It burns bright and flickers low. But it is always there. When you're alone or in the arms of someone. It is there.

And truth is powerful. And I realize this more than ever. The power and importance and wonder and freedom of honesty. I will, going forward, never, ever abandon that. For myself. For my friends. For my lovers.

"Write it all down. Just the truth. No rhymes, no embellishments, no adjectives."

Yes, sir.

When rain pours
thoughts soar
away
where happy little bluebirds fly

My heart sits in a box
while my eyes remain
gazing
at the horizon

The phone rings
and sometimes
I pick up the receiver
others I don't
I can't
I won't

Gray
depressingly neutral hued
cloudbusting pops of gray
throughout the day
push smiles away
the color of sadness

This week my Mom told me that she thought my eyes might be gray
not blue
as driver's licenses
and past online dating profiles
have suggested.

I know that heart needs to come back out
maybe by week's end
maybe when the fear of it breaking
breaks away

It must be
Lego-made?
Soapstone?
Crumpled balloon?
Paper thin?
Bloody and bruised?

There's all types in that box
smashed and pressed and entangled between
deep
very deep thoughts
of you

Donny Miller's book Beautiful People With Beautiful Feelings is the world's greatest book. I've said this since the day I received it as a gift from Zach Augustine. It captures human emotion, its ridiculousness, and tragedy, in campy, colorful, cartoons. I want to live within the pages.

When I was young I loved to dress up. And wear make-up. And achieved severe looks. High-concept outfits. Getting a rise. Asking for trouble. Looking for other creatures like myself.

Like a colorful bird attracting mates. Neon-hued plumage ruffled and puffed, I played dress-up to find those others who got a kick, and a boner, from acting a fool. I still do.

In college I smeared lipstick all over my friend Britt Hart and snapped pictures. Denise Garcia and I planned our club outfits for a week, shopping, painting, hot-gluing. Blue eye-shadow is always appropriate. The Jacobys and I went to a bar in Annapolis and never once took off scary wrestling masks. This Halloween, Matthew, Hanno and I painted blue stripes across our eyes. I gave an equally compelling performance of the Joker too, worthy also of an Academy nod. Just last week we dressed as fighter pilots. All these looks (and oh so many more) are available for viewing on Facebook. Thank you very much.

Praying at the Church of Warhol. Divine. Liza. McQueen. Waters. Bowery. La Beija.

I love a costume and a photograph. Sue me. Donny's book states "Self-Importance is all I have." I know the feeling, doll.

I bet John Waters used to sit around the house, start drinking at 9AM, and by day's end have over 1500 photographs taken in as many themes and outfits.

If Warhol can call it art, so can I.

Our Upstate house has become a place where people, New Yorkers, bankers and designers, alike, expect to play dress-up. Ask Jon. Pam. Georgi. David & Matthew. Darlene. It is the norm here in a house home to paper dolls and underwear hanging on the wall, fur rugs covering the floors, stripes battling polka dots battling Tiffany blue and blood orange. Halston and Liza nod, knowingly, needle pointed. Jesus looks in from the hallway. So does Lina Cavalieri.

I have a way convincing those unwilling to don a costume. Jesse Cozart said it is my costumes that bring people into my world. I countered it was my heart. Spirit. Eyes. Soul. Tattoos. Smile. But he is right, it is the costume,

Many would frown upon 6 grown men drinking all day long and taking pictures of themselves. Repeatedly. In masks. Dresses. Sunglass. Shirtless. Green. Blue. Striped. Hats. Gloves.

Costumes.

And they're a little right. But there is nothing more fun than playing dress-up (remember Mom's closet?). Nothing more hilarious than stepping out of your comfort zone. Nothing more fun than throwing caution to the wind. Crossing your legs like a woman (it is freeing to break from gender roles). Posing for the camera. Ask my houseguests from this weekend: Matty K, Tan-Tan, Ty-Ty, Orlaaando, and Mr. Fudge.

The secret is you just got to laugh. At your friends. At your outfits. At spilling your drink. At running around in your underwear. At the power a costume can have on your soul. You don't need Halloween.

Donny hilariously writes "That picture you took of me ruined my self-esteem. Forever"

That may happen to some. But to me and my friends that picture made us feel like the prettiest girls at the party. Like Miss America. Like the Supermodel of the World. Like a million bucks.

And who doesn't want to feel pretty?

March 19, 2009

I've been ruminating on age often lately. There have been a series of events that have caused these thoughts. Music, however, is the major impetus.

I traveled to Radio City Music Hall last week twice. The first time was to see Bill Maher debate the devil, I mean, Anne Coulter. Georgi had invited me as his guest and it was a fascinating spectacle. But I am not talking about all that right now. Back to the thoughts on age.

Prior to the debate, Radio City flashed screens announcing upcoming shows. And whattya know, right there in front of me, an announcement for a show for Simply Red. My heart skipped a beat. Something got me started.

I started to speak to Georgi about Simply Red and surprisingly he actually knew them. Not bad for a 26 year old who loves Beyonce. But he knew only two songs. Sigh.

When home, excitedly, I told Ben. And though he is only 2 years younger, he too, knew only a handful of songs. And I suddenly felt old.

I came of age (which means realized I was gay while sitting with headphones on escaping into music) in the years 1988-1992. These were magical music years: Caught bands like The Smiths and Depeche Mode at their prime. Discovered dance music and its sometimes ridiculousness (Army of Lovers and Deee-Lite on MTV? Would not happen today). RuPaul? Erasure? Madonna at her gayest peak (Vogue). Robert Smith in lipstick and Neil Tennant Going West. The college radio scene, music for the art fags, was actually popular then. I peaked with this gay pop. And those who also did can reminisce with me for hours. Days. Weeks. Joe D'Espinosa. Alireza. Dow. Eric Riley. It is in our blood.

Ben just missed it. Georgi had by a 1/2 decade. So I felt two things: distance from them but also sadness that they did not witness this moment in time. It was magical.

Back to Simply Red. Joe and John joined us. Ben agreed to go. Mick Hucknall looked old. As old as someone, who at around 50, had spent decades prior boozing and sexing and singing. He looked a little like The Wizard of Oz's Scarecrow. But his voice. Angelic. Gripping. A nuanced performance. An overload of soul. Music that had passion, spark, intelligence, beauty, even. It comes too few and far in between these days.

The next day I saw Morrissey in a small venue with Aaron and Alireza. He too looked old. And bloated. And tired even, at times. But he sounded clear. Crisp. Sexy. In control. Ben opted to skip Morrissey, as he often does. And I want so desperately to convert him, but then I think, it is just not possible. It is in my blood. Not his. And that's ok. It makes it special.

So I got Depeche Mode tickets this week. As I spoke to AMEX at the gym's cafe, instructing them on what rows I wanted them to procure, Dave Gahan walked in, bought a bottle of water, and stood by me. No lie. He works out there. It was weird. He looks old too.

Ben is going to Depeche Mode. He is not as obsessed as me. But he goes along for the ride. That is sweet of him. I am now the age that Morrissey, Mick, and Dave were in the late 80s. Their peak. Mine too, I guess.

I just miss being a kid sometimes. That's all I am saying.

March 15, 2009

Brazil really had an impact on me. Or it was a catalyst that jumpstarted a new fascination. I sit typing, reinvented. Fitter. Happier. More Productive. Comfortable. Not drinking too much.

I've been waking up and exercising extensively. Hitting weights 5 times a week. And doing cardio (at least) another five. I have been at the gym every day (except weekends) since our return by 6:30AM. Crazy, huh? This past Friday I woke at 5:30AM. Without an alarm clock. Without a hangover. Happy.

There is this high attached to exercise that cannot be bottled or synthesized. I know this. There is nothing like running 6 miles. It is the perfect hour to tune out. Focus in. Sweat. Smile. Pant. Better than cocaine. Really.

My new friend Georgi has been whooping my ass in the gym. It has been nice to have another person to feel a responsibility towards. It makes getting up and heading to the gym easier. Friendships. On Georgi's off days I have my beloved Sandra. We walk the treadmill for an hour and then relax at breakfast afterwards. Every Tuesday and Thursday like clockwork. It is our special time. It makes me smile. Happier. More productive.

I've often escaped to the gym and for that reason it is a place I have "me" time. So I never really work out with Ben there. But he and I went to yoga yesterday and I think I may want to go back. Shhh. Don't tell. I've often ridiculed yoga enthusiasts. Too hokey. Too spiritual. But it kicked my ass. Hard. It was harder than running and biking and lifting. I almost fell asleep (passed out) as the class ended. Watching Ben do yoga was sexy. He looked strong and in control. I want to go back.

So this new obsession with fitness is good. And I am not drinking hardly at all. And my skin is glowing. And there is a lightness to my step. And I think I am going to run another marathon. And I am at my desired weight.

And more importantly, I feel great.

February 24, 2009

I wanted Buenos AIres. Or Tokyo. Or Seoul. A big city. Fast walking. Boutiques and fancy restaurants. The things in life I like. You know?

But in the cold upstate kitchen, with Miss Cozart and Miss Currie sitting around the dining table, we discussed Brazil. Brazil? Unsafe? Dangerous? Food, eh? Not sure if it was for me. But we booked it.

And thank God we did.

Rio was remarkable in every way. Its cityscape is lush and green. Crystal blue beaches stretch to Christ Almighty, high atop the city. Sprawling. Hot. The light is intense and white and skin glows. There is photographic proof. Brazilians are friendly folk. Laughing. Drinking. Dancing. One, a near perfect Brazilian specimen, walked to me in broad daylight and said I was "pretty." Thank you, sir.

I sat from afar watching young couples make out. In front of restaurants. On the beach. In the middle of the day. Young love. Sex was in the air. Hard bodies everywhere. I cannot with the English language describe how many perfect people wearing next to nothing walked the streets. Ran the beaches. Cruised the bars. After a while my eyes went numb. Jesse, not so much.

We discovered a glorious little Italian cafe, Alessandro & Frederico, and ate there every day. Had all three meals there. Felt like a regular.

We descended upon Foxton, a surf-wear shop, and I bought adorable clothes. No polo horse embroidered here. A guitar in the horsey's place on my breast. Vintage Chinese globes. Skateboards on legs turned into dressing room stools.

Ben and I dined at Fasano for our Valentine's meal. Suckling pig. Suckling perfection.

Carrot juice. Beet juice. Watermelon juice. Caparina. Passion Fruit. Cocos. More Cocos. Agua sin gas. I drank so much. Never got drunk. Was always just right.

I slept. And laughed. Ate. Smiled. Sunned. Relaxed. I relaxed! A wonderland of nature. A major world city. The best of all elements. It was perfect. Like that pig.

I left my computer and cell phone in New York that week. And my heart, shaded still, steadily beating, sits in Rio, miles away.