SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

Like it or not the Awards shows come every year. Akin to slowing down to gawk at a car accident, I watch…no matter how bad. A ton has already been written about this year’s Emmy Awards, the appalling choices were off the charts this year in the “dressing up” department, and Joan has already issued a plethora of Fashion Police citations. So, instead of dragging you back down that red carpet of shockingly bad fashion, I offer you this, the antithesis of the Emmy Awards. This collaboration is the personification of perfection and should be considered a curriculum requirement before becoming a “stylist”.  It is things like this that made me want to be a designer.

And…Christy Turlington only gets better with age….

Perfectly pictured….

Last night I attended the Project Angel Food Angel Awards—honoring Paramount Pictures—at their home space on Vine Street in Hollywood. For over twenty-five years I have walked, talked, designed, sewn, collected, sold and served—all for an end to HIV and Aids. Throughout all those years, every event and charity that has tirelessly worked toward the same goal, there has been but one, that (to me) has managed to keep it simple and to the point. And that is why, still, after all these years, I love Project Angel Food!

Last night’s event was no different.

Brought together at their home space—where they create meals, connect with those in need, disperse drivers and gather their volunteers together—last evening’s event, to debut their community gardens, was, yet again, another stellar example of how PAF keeps it simple and to the point.

To hone their already effective machine, they have begun a community garden partnership to grow organic vegetables for the meals cooked and delivered to the people they serve.

I snuck my friend in.

Dinner—which can generally be bad at such events—was prepared in their kitchen, incorporating fresh produce from their new gardens. Happily all was yummy and a wonderful reminder of how well they feed their recipients.  We drank, ate and honored—all, in the parking lot of their space. Akin to their DNA, it was perfect and uncomplicated.

Once again inspired, (since we are only in the talking stages of Divine Design) I threw some money at being a delivery sponsor. But don’t be surprised if you start reading about my culinary contribution in their kitchen. I’m seriously considering rolling up my sleeves and cooking.

Since everyone was being unpretentious, I decided to be respectful with the celebrity photo stalking…but here’s one…the blurry guy to my left is Harry Hamlin. And yes, Lisa was there too…along with Amy Adams, Kim Coles and Sarah Rue..to name a few. Leslie Bibb (from Iron Man—who, oddly modeled for me a million years ago) gave a very sweet speech about finding her place in Hollywood through PAF.

To conclude, little guy, little thoughts: I love them!

So…anyone reading this, who is feeling charitable, send them a check, or go spend some time cooking in the kitchen, or gardening in their new organic garden.

Project Angel Food—922 Vine Street, Hollywood.

And I leave you with this:

“Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.

Saint Francis of Assisi

Last night—for the first time this summer—I went to the Hollywood Bowl. Harry Connick Jr. was performing. Although the night was (by L.A. standards) cold, both Harry, and is brand of jazz, were exceptionally hot—effortlessly banging out snappy retro tunes on several pianos, accompanied by his equally retro, albeit feisty timbre.

My favorite part of the evening was several very gay duet(s) with his flaming, African American trombone player. They sang together, flirted with one another through instrumental duets, eventually morphing into a dance that had them sashaying about the stage like Rupaul—all eventually, um, ending with a ass-to-the-audience serving of shimmy.  In case you haven’t noticed, Harry has a cute butt.

All the antics just made me wilder about Harry. Clearly, he is a man comfortable with who he is; one minute having a sweet playful moment with his daughter, the next flaming about the stage or telling funny, self-deprecating tales about himself. Perfection.

Unfortunately, a sea of tech-obsessed people surrounded me. My friend here…

…the perfect example. When not noisily digging into his cooler for another beer, (parked on the bench to his left) he spent the remainder of the evening texting, e-mailing and checking his Facebook page.

Gross.

While Harry elegantly crooned his collection of retro tunes, all around me the bowl of “bowlers” was half-empty; all lost in the up-to-the-minute business of technology.  When the stage was not bathed in colorful light…

….beautiful right?—every time I looked up into the stadium, I could see a sea of faces bathed in the lights from their cell phones! A far cry from my early concert-going days, when excited audience members would elevate their Bic lighters high into the crowd….different light, different times. Perhaps engaged spectators have become dimmed by the bright future-infusion of tech?

But..on the way out, I was comforted when I saw the elderly African American man and his singing plush puppy-puppet crooning away as if it were my first trip to the Bowl.

Happily, technology has not taken away the singing puppy—who sang from the bowels of the Bowl, as my friends and I faded into the dark night of Hollywood, happily full from a bowl’s worth of Harry……

A Penny for your....

As fifty approached, he grew filled with despair…

…For He hadn’t an idea, of what He might wear!

As closets were not, a place for he…

He looked to the world, for how to be.

He sought out his look, and a fit to define…

…He checked in the stores, and He searched on line.

And though freedom came, with his birthday suit…

…. plus a hat, cuz’ his hair, would no longer take root!

Still….

…. He worried he might, no longer appear cute!

All around him each day, his friends would say…

“You look great for your age, come have fun, let’s play!”

Then it smacked him at fifty, He had unsurpassed flair…

….He’d been clad, in the finest of styles out there!

While busy counting pennies, till it got him quite tense…

…He’d forgotten one add, to make fifty sense.

“It’s not the clothes”, He grasped, “or the money one spends!”

”I’ve been dressed all along, in my fabulous friends!”

So this is the part….

….where this story transcends!

Now fifty, He counts alliance, like valuable coins…

….to be held in his hands, with the friends that he joins.

So, this small little token, fifty cents, a half dollar….

….is because of your friendship, that I’ll never feel squalor.

Thank you for making sense of my fifty….

….I feel like a million dollars!

I’ve become a beached male.

While out for a walk along the beach today, I had an epiphany of sorts, another form of beached mail.

The ocean, its ebb and flow, its churn and crash, swiftly reminded me that nature is alive and well.

Living in a city, I forget these basic rules of the natural world.

As I stood at its shore, the waves pushing water through my toes and then pulling it back out, it seemed as if the ocean were (nature’s way of) breathing life back into me. Then, as I meandered along the shoreline, past the beachfront properties of the Pines, their display evoked several thoughts: the first, as if they—the opulent wood structures—were preparing to do battle with the ocean. Man versus Nature.

But as I continued to walk, to relax back into my favorite beach, I began to see the humanity in each of the houses—no matter how opulent. The varied display of umbrellas, the quirky framework—little elements of homosexuality peeking up through the dune grass.And then, this: All of the houses and their variations, reminded me of a Chorus Line; a strip of assorted dancers, each prepped for a performance, awaiting instructions from Mother Nature as to how they might dance for a part in Neptune’s upcoming play: A Winter’s Ware. Gay Man versus, Mother Nature.

All at once, I felt BIG and small—a renewed appreciation for life, while acknowledging that it might be gone next year.

Man and his castle, no matter how grand, can still be swept away at any moment. Like grains of sand pulled back into the depths of the sea, only to be spit back out, some place else, onto someone else’s toes, differently.

I haven’t written for several weeks! Caught in the up and down and in and out of life—eventually crossing the country from L.A. to New York and back to my favorite place: Fire Island.

Here for another visit, all I have to say is that I love and miss Fire Island as I figured I probably would. It is still that one place in which, although I cannot (and do not) return the same each visit, still this place, its dock and shoreline engulf my emotions as eloquently as ever.

And then, I went to tea.

Admittedly, for all the years I’ve delightfully recalled the odd, varied and fantastical concoction of gay life that assembles at tea, quite simply, it has changed. To put it bluntly—while openly acknowledging my age—instead of being a middleman, I am now one of a small group that make up the elderly demographic of tea-goers. Sadly, FI has lost that ever-inclusive teatime crowd of 20 to 70—fussy decorator to muscle-twink, artist to banker. The elderly (it appears) have had enough and the twinks—perfectly chiseled and outfitted in the same Aberzombie cargo shorts, now form a line that dominates the dick-dock as if a row of dominoes has been flicked by a drunken index finger and knocked into a haphazard, yet nearly identical configuration. This probably discourages the elderly queens, as it (now) does me, while instantly propelling me to the head of the elderly class. And, although it does not influence my daily life—especially because I have been living in across the country forever—it taints this thing that happens to me when I’m here.

It is like homo coming home.

I have always cherished Fire Island, finding a place in myself that is deeper than usual—more emotional. And said feelings have forever fostered imaginings of more peaceful, clandestine encounters with other man of like mind and spiritual connectedness. Thus, tea was a bit of a shock, and all I was able to do—while nursing my cranberry and tonic—was single out men from the crowd; familiar, albeit weathered faces from my past life…..now oldies, searching for goodies.

Independence Day is celebrated on July 4 because that is the day when the Continental Congress adopted the final draft of the Declaration of Independence. And in 1941 Congress affirmed the 4th of July a federal holiday.

Subsequently every summer brings with it the picnics and the cookouts, the gatherings at the beach and the parades, the patriotic music, and at dusk, the fireworks. All over America, friends and family gather and businesses close down—this has become the obvious tradition of Independence Day.

Independence is something we crave as youth—to be free from the rules of our parents: their guidance, their hopes and plans for our future, their brand of life/style. Thus, throughout the years, whenever the 4^th of July rolls around, it always reminds me (as a homo) to celebrate my own brand of Love American Style.

To me, Independence Day has become a day to self-govern. That might mean a quiet day of reading, or an uninterrupted nap in the middle of the day. It might mean holding hands with your boyfriend at the family picnic, or sharing dreams of the termination of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Or…it might mean an impromptu fashion show.

While I pondered about what to include as a visual, a way to properly display the Independence Day Gay, these fabulous photo came across my computer screen. Hot off the New York runway. The incognito model—known in fashionable Manhattan circles as, quite simply, “Lady”—is the most amazing display/example of The American Fag!

So..I dedicate this blog post to Lady…

….thank you for the best and most stylish display of Liberty I’ve seen in a very l-o-n-g time! You are my American Idol!

After just seeing the Sex and the City 2 movie, I had to ask myself: Was it really necessary to Carrie on with Carrie Bradshaw? And was the latest dose of the girls’ just excess baggage?

Those of you who’ve followed my musings, my column and blog-banter know I have always loved this property and the ways in which it managed the struggles of the heart. Michael Patrick King is my idol.

So why do I feel so weighed down as opposed to my standard and enjoyable helping of Bradshaw? I wondered, as I drove home from the theatre.

When I sat down to write today, I felt weird and sort of sad, altered. So I decided to unpack first, to see what was weighing me down. And I found this: a journal entry from a trip back to New York—during the final season of SATC.

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I’m on my way back to L.A. and doing the usual people watching at gate 23A. As I wait for my flight, memories of my old life, my New York life, flood my head: the city, the jobs, the ex-husbands, the lost friends, the sacrificed-for style, the chunks of culture—all now, just moldy memories. While pondering and tapping into this laptop, my eyes land on my (much smaller) orange and khaki Gap carry-on and (oddly) I think of Carrie Bradshaw. Like me, she and her girlfriends have lived, loved and lost in that crazy, amazing, annoying, over-crowded city. Thus, through their trials and tribulations, allowing me to revive my love for Manhattan, while considering my current life. Like my current trip, back to take a bite—after years…both are over.

Airports have always struck me as the one place where life comes and goes at supersonic speed. Vacations begin and end, sad farewells and joyful reunions, delays and customs, layovers and connections and unfortunately baggage claim! In the formative years of my career, travel was a way of life and best practices a requirement. So how I traveled became an art form and baggage claim the anti-Christ. This was a hundred years ago; before they had that little cave (your suitcase had to fit through) on the security conveyer belt. Thus I took full advantage—not to mention covert pride—in cramming my Le Sportsac (yes they were in style) shoulder bag with as many outfit changes as possible, then testing my skills at boarding call by maneuvering my 200 pound duffle in such a way that it appeared as if I were transporting feathers. When presenting my driver’s license and boarding pass, I toyed with the watchful eye of the perky flight attendants.

“How are you today?” I’d ask, smiling politely, and pushing the bag toward my back while the webbed straps dug into my shoulder. A trick that has now, years later, left one shoulder 3/4 of an inch higher than the other……

…So, naturally, while I sit here waiting to return “home”, a million years older, I had to ask myself: In a world where age is pushed as far back in the closet as Ms. Bradshaw’s Manolos’ from last season…..will gay men ever understand and embrace the importance packing properly for trips from decade to decade? And will our/my community ever age gracefully? Being back in New York, my old life, this only accentuates my age and makes me wonder: What will happen to Samantha (or me) when the hunky men stop looking? When nobody wants to have sex with her (or me)? Or how much longer will Carrie’s feet be able to negotiate five-inch heels before her feet hurt too much to bother with the hot shoes…and life becomes flat(s)? Watching Carrie Bradshaw sit at her laptop— rattling out thoughts about life and the pursuit of happiness with the opposite sex—has only left me feeling anxious about growing old. Their show will (probably) end (on a high-heel note) and they’ll gracefully dissolve into the Manhattan skyline —all the while, hair by hair, the grey in my beard creeps into prominence……

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So there you have it. Y-e-a-r-s later and two movies behind them/us, with an almost all-grey beard, I suppose that after reading that old journal entry, the issue is this: parts of the film made getting old ridiculous. And, the flashier the fashion, the more Samantha ate yams and digested fistfuls of pills, the more miserable it made me. Fortunately there were some small moments when the difficulties of motherhood were shared over a cosmo. But I’m left with this:

Maybe, as a society—gay or straight, but especially gay—we still haven’t found a way to empower sixty tastefully? (Whatever that is…but it’s not Samantha dressed as Lady Gaga) Maybe, some desires should be given away to charity, passed along to the next posse of nubies—along with last season’s stiletto? Maybe, at fifty-five, no matter how rockin’ your bod, a black turtleneck becomes sexier than a plunging neckline? And maybe fucking in public just becomes tacky after a certain age?

But Hollywood calls, the checks get bigger, and somewhere between kicking off one pair of shoes and stepping into another, you get scared of aging, afraid they won’t call again. So you cash out instead of Carrie on….

…..But maybe…from time to time, everyone should to go through a security check…just to check for bombs…of insecurity.

Tape Off

For Fifty years, he’d measured the events of his life with marked precision—as if standing on a scale, staring down between his feet, aware that one wrong move, and the black stick would flutter, then lunge in the wrong direction: a fat chance this would only add more weight to his distress over purpose.

With a lifetime of calculated focus, he’d been the ruler of his destiny—inching toward success, while only possessing a dim understanding of what that might be.

The mid-century mark, forced him to reconsider his existence, to assess its length. Had the scored achievements of his life led him to the appropriate stage?

A Measured Man has much at stake.

His life’s been marked, with cuts to make.

The tape employed, has determined marks….

….from serious scoring, of life’s remarks.

A Measured Man is good you see.

He stops and gages how to be.

But to what degree….

….should he or shouldn’t he?

Concern himself with life’s decree?

Gay Pride L.A….come and gone—a flashy day infused with the usual mix of jewel-tone feathers, melting make up, near-nudity and drunken displays of…ummmm…pride.

…I suppose there are all sorts of ways to display pride, and I suppose that’s the purpose of the day. There are those who mark the event high atop a float, strutting their pride with a feathery in-your-face style:

…and then, there are those who understand the importance of quiet elegance: a less-is-sometimes-better helping of homo—not to mention a true understanding of scale. (which always appeals to me)

These two—cloistered across the country while communing with nature—quietly, albeit elegantly, display their gayness, their friendship and, like any good gay boy(s) their understanding of how to be size queens….