SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

….and He may be a Boy!

Once upon a time, in the Capitol of our Nation, lived a little boy who dreamed of sparkly gowns, and furry furs, and high, high, heels. And then, He turned six and was forced into the school of bad habits.
It was a big brick castle filled with sisters. All the sisters wore black dresses with paper plates stuck to their heads.
Everyone dressed alike.
It was… A! Night! Mare!
“Where are all the sparkly dresses?…And the furs?…And the high, high heels?”, asked the little boy to, the gaggle of sisters in the black dresses with the paper plates stuck to their heads.
WHACK! Went the wooden yardstick—as it met the back of his legs! And the evil sisters in the black dresses with the paper plates stuck to their heads, sent Him to a dark, dark place called: The (coat) closet.
Uniformed years passed, and he learned to hide His love for sparkly dresses and furs and high, high, heels.
The (coat) closet became home.
Until one day, He escaped to a BIG, new (yorkish) place filled with LOTS of sparkle.
I could get used to this, He thought. And He stayed.
With each passing year, the dresses got sparklier. The furs got furrier. And the high, high, heels—like the buildings around him—got even higher.
Why?..
…..because He became a fashion designer and made it happen!
But…that’s an old fairy tale…with a (pretty) happy ending.

Watch this video…it’s (possibly) the (fairy) tale of tomorrow..I can’t wait to see how it ends…happy? Fingers dressed and crossed.

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.

P.S. stands for postscript. It means something added after a letter or other written communication. Like to add a detail.

So..to write about how much I enjoyed my relaxation time in Palm Springs would have taken too long, too much time away from writing other things and relaxing. So I’ll share my visit to ps with a ps of photos, little snippets of my BIG life…ps..here goes….

ps MiniMe

PS more MiniMe

PS Pool Time

( note the cool reflections while I was reflecting)

Went to The Ace for a change of pace…ps, it was w-a-y too crowded

So…PS, I still love Palm Springs.

Whenever Valentine’s Day approaches, the television seems to kick it into overdrive, airing nonstop movies devoted to love. I just finished watching Sleepless in Seattle—the modern day twist on the Deborah Kerr, Cary Grant movie An Affair to Remember (a classic—in case you’ve been living under a rock).

Over the last week the E channel has played it about a million times.

Like slowing down to survey the aftermath of a horrific car accident, it always seems to pull me in.

Once it’s over, while the soundtrack plays, accompanied by the scroll of credits, I’m always inspired—even when single and Valentine’s Day looming—to stay in the game, hold to my empire state of mind and believe in an elevated version of love. Then, while I’m wondering what wonderful version of love will happen next, I’m slapped back to reality with a whore-a-scope view of relationships: Keeping Up with the Kardashians. (or as I refer to “it” Creeping up with the Kardashians) 

And then I’m left with this: When it comes to relationships, especially around Valentine’s Day, is better to rely on a replica when demonstrating the realities of romance? Which fake is better? An affair with old Hollywood or today’s fake boobs on the tube?

 “Hey, guess what?” my friend Kristie asked. “I just checked another thing off of my 100 things list.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I took a trip to Brazil” she giggled and took another sip of her beer. “Ever since that Sex and the City episode, I’ve always wanted to get a Brazilian bikini wax.”

Ouch, I thought.

“So…how was it?”

“It was interesting…but I’m definitely not going back!”

The 100 things list, pulled from the pages of Real Simple magazine—based on a story about a woman and the 100 things she wanted to do in her lifetime—was something my friend and I stumbled upon while trying to make sense of middle age. Having a “Brazilian”—at least not the crotch-waxing kind—is something I’m happy to evade, but it got me thinking about this:  

What are the 100 things every Gay Man should experience in his lifetime?

So I began to collect…and this is what I have so far:

1 – Learn to tie a bow tie

2 – Read something by Truman Capote

3 – Acquire both older and younger gay friends

4- Learn how to make a cosmopolitan

5 – Try on a harness

6 – Do some form of drag

8- Volunteer for the community

9 – Write a love letter

10 – Have sex with a stranger—a fantasy man—sans conversation

11 – Have a pedicure

12 – Tell your parents—“at some point” and “when the time is right”

13 -Take a cooking class

14 – Hold a baby

15 – Have a three-way

16 – Shave your head once

17 – Buy a r-e-a-l-l-y expensive pair of shoes

18 – If you’re cut, try uncut and likewise

19 – Learn your gay history—“engage a gay elder”

20 — Dance with your shirt off

21 – Feel a woman’s breasts

22 – Shave your legs (you should see who suggested that one)

23 – Go to a live sports event

 …..please add to the list…I’m collecting for a column….

adds since blog request:

24- “See at least once, a ballet, opera and broadway musical”

25- “Fuck outside”

26- Go on an RSVP cruise

27- Watch Steel Magnolias

28- Avoid the closet

29- advocate for equality rights

30- If (HIV) positive, don’t give up too early

31- “travel if possible and see the world—even live in another country (if interested)”

32- Busta move on a Metrosekshul!

33-….finances permitting, spend time at the nude beach (gay section) on Mykynos.

34– Act straight if you can and flirt with a woman

 35–Go on a vacation with all straight people, where you have to wear swimwear, you

always look better than them!

while collecting thoughts, this came to me and I can’t believe it hasn’t come up yet…interesting:

36–Attend a Gay Pride Parade/festival 

37– Go to Paris

38– Watch an entire Haute-Couture fashion show

39– Have a sexual encounter with a straight guy

40– Travel First Class

41–Host a costumed / themed party

42– Get a facial

43– Introduce a boyfriend to your parents

44–Be introduced to your boyfriend’s parents

Bottles popping, corks in flight,

     clad only in hopeful resolutions.

Hats off to the budding possibilities of tomorrow.

Does she really have a talk show in the works? A movie deal? Another TV show…?

…or….is this what’s really in store for Paula?

Call me crazy…but when I saw this today…it conjured up unstable, narcissistic, judgmental thoughts of and Idol gone wrong….

     Just days ago, while plodding through the massive pile of mail that had mysteriously accumulated on my kitchen counter, I arrived at a familiar plastic sheathed package: the latest issue of Out magazine. As I tore away the grey wrapper, exposing the polished nubile actor and the familiar bold font that graced its cover, I thought to myself…

God..here we are, it’s 2009, I’ve been out of the closet longer than in, and still us Homos are getting our mail on the down-low.

Like perhaps, a kinky secret that might be acknowledged but cannot be discussed in polite company, we Homos’ are still concealed inside plastic wrappers. (condoms aside)

In that moment, as I gazed down at the handsome lad on the glossy cover, I felt like the don’t ask, don’t tell darling of the postal service. 

Annoyed, I tore the wrapper off and threw the mangled fistful of plastic in the garbage.

Back to the bills….another dose of reality.

Several minutes later, after enduring a paper cut and several bloated credit card statements, I discovered an identical wrapped periodical—addressed to me.

Huh? What the fuck!?

After returning to the trash and retrieving the discarded wrapper, I discovered the one I’d opened belonged to my next-door neighbor (we’ll call him) Kickin’ It—a nickname my friends gave him due to his dudeish attributes. For nearly three years, Kickin’It has been my neighbor—daily sharing hellos and the intimacy that permeates through the shared wall between our townhouses.

Kickin’ It…a homo? Really?

All this time, I’d assumed he was straight. Dudish.

                                                                                     ******************************

 Sunday November 15^th

Flip…scan…look at the cute boy…flip back…scan…decide what I want to read first.

Eventually I landed on page 18…mostly due to the hunky shot of soap opera star-turned-artist Thom Bierdz. And what do you think I found beneath him?

Help Out Magazine come out-of-the-plastic wrapper.

Below it read:

Out is now offering subscribers the option of receiving the magazine without the grey plastic wrapper. It went on to explain how…and ended with:

Dropping the plastic wrap helps protect the environment, and shows that you are a proud subscriber to Out.

                                                                               *********************************

  Since coming out, I’ve had the luxury of being an “Urban Gay”— honing my homosexuality in legendary gay Mecca’s like New York’s West Village and (currently) L.A’s West Hollywood—so, I get it.

If you live in Bumblefuck USA, where the gays are loathed, you need to receive your homo infusions on the sly.

What brings you rapture (via mail) needs to be wrapped.

But..as I consider Kickin’ It, the connecting wall between us, the grey wrapper, the ins and the outs of being out (the man and the magazine), I am once again reminded of that basic life lesson:

Don’t judge a Bloke by its cover..especially if it’s wrapped in grey plastic.

Sidebar: Today, with a post-it attached to Anthony’s (his real name) opened magazine that read: sorry I thought it was mine, I left it on his doormat—with-OUT the plastic wrapper! As for the environment?….I shall do what I can to shed any plastic façade the next time we collide at the mailboxes. Oh..yeah.. and next month I’m getting my magazine sans plastic. Hopefully it will help with matters of gay, grey matter.

….lots going on at the (WeHo) Gay Pride festival last Sunday. But, this man/boy in his own small way, seemed to happily illustrate his pride without uttering a word….