SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

Some mornings I wake up and feel as if I could maneuver through anything; other days, not so much.

Recently, while on a trip to New York City, I was reminded of the randomness of said feelings.

On the first morning of my visit, while languidly sipping my (room service) latte’, I went to the window of my hotel room and swept the curtains opened as if resurrecting Eva Gabor’s opening from the 1960’s television series Green Acres.

(My version being, of course, Queen Acres.)

It felt as if I were standing on top of the world—the cabs of Manhattan buzzing about my feet like a frenetic swarm of bumblebees.

Neeeew YorrrrK is where I’d raaatha staY! I gaily announced to the jagged skyline—as the taxicabs scurried over my mangled toes.

The yellow cabs of New York City have, for me, always brought with them a sense of home, of belonging—like my formative years—a comfort level with their disorderly efficiency. Like ants at a picnic, the meal, the bite, the visit, would not taste the same without them.

Akin to the variations on my day-to-day outlook, the taxis also have the ability to travel in several directions—taking one east or west, fast or crawling through traffic, uptown…

…..or down. Every ride, every day, is a dodgy prospect.

A few hours later, I (actually) stepped onto the streets of Manhattan and that wonderful, familiar feeling of power and control returned as threw my arm in the air—causing three or four cabs to come hurling in my direction; making me immediately question my move west.

How could I have left this? jumbled about in my head, as I slipped into the back seat and dictated directions to my on-the-spot chauffeur.

It was a perfect New York (movie) moment.

But….

….like some other mornings, other moments, other movies, things can go the other direction.

The wrong way.

Downtown.

I think about this as on-the-spot chauffeur effortlessly zigzags us through the traffic.

The wrong way, inevitably occurs two or three days into my visit, when I’m laden with shopping bags, or it begins to rain…or I’m laden with shopping bags and it begins to rain.

Why the fuck do people live here? (Generally) rumbles through my thoughts, as the shopping bags and the rain become heavier—while several women in impossibly high heels or some mother with a baby materialize from nowhere to compete for the same cab from opposing corners. Predictably, these women win out through either my deformed sense of chivalry or my long-gone Manhattan mojo.

Two days after I took this photo, (the last day of my visit), it happened.

Both delighted with our pile of cashmere sweaters, my friend Peter and I emerged from (the new) Uniqlo store—only to be pelted in the face by bullets of rain.

We are Los Angeleno-mos’ and, like cats, have come to regard the rain with disdain.

Fortunately, the overly caffeinated, uncharacteristically helpful sales people at Uniqlo had fashioned big, plastic condoms over our shopping bags—in preparation for the storm.

Channeling Eva Gabor, I threw my arm into the air. The swarm of cabs zoomed by—all proudly boasting a blurred Off Duty sign atop their yellow roofs’.

“Let’s just walk” my friend Peter chirped. “It’ll be fun.”

Several blocks down Fifth Avenue, the wind pelting the downpour from every direction, while umbrellas stabbed at my bald little head, my shopping bag shed its condom near the steps of St. Patrick’s’ Cathedral (a gay omen).

Just as my new Duckie Brown lace-less wingtips were nearing ruination, we succumbed to the elements and retreated into Saks. Momentarily distracted by a wool melton tote from Coach and some Paul Smith boots, I began to forget. The day was moving in a better direction—all the while driving my credit card into the red zone.

Then.

“Come on” Peter hissed, “We gotta get back to the hotel and get our stuff! It’s gonna take for-evvvv-er to get to the airport!”

Back into the rain we went.

Again, not a cab to be had…it was an off (duty) day for all.

I was a prune—literally and figuratively.

But…eventually, like good queens from L.A., we called the car service that had brought us into the city….

….to take us out. And left!

Whether a good mood or a bad trip, whether fair or not fair weather, at the end of the day, there is always significance—something to take away from the excursion. Some days it’s worth blissful acknowledgement, a tip, others…not so much, leaving you to walk it off—the rain soaking you with irritating reminders.

But when in Mahanttan….

….I am always reminded that life is absolutely caaaab-ulous!

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

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!

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….

Last week while out shopping—in the midst of deciding whether to buy this cute (but totally unnecessary) straw hat—I spotted a cardboard display board boldly emblazoned with this:

Think you have what it takes to represent Original Penguin worldwide?

We’re looking for real people to feature in our upcoming ad campaign. So impress us with your style. Overcome us with your wit.

Put on your sharpest outfit and send us a few snapshots.

You could win a 4-day/3night trip to New York City and be in the center of it all.

Followed by:

Be in our next photo shoot—with a large acid-green arrow pointing downward toward all the particulars of the contest…..

I deemed the hat unflattering, but thought…hummm about the contest, and decided to enter.

This is what I wrote:

Diana Vreeland was once quoted as saying: “There is nothing more vulgar than the imitation of youth!” As I approach fifty, I consider the statement more often than not when choosing what to wear. Can I still wear it now…even if I wore it when I was twenty? And with the aforementioned consideration, I’ve accessorized it with this: modern is different than youthful.

Thus, here I am, responding to your call for real people/models.

Why?

Because, although I suspect that I am not what you had in mind, I will say this: People are always telling me that they can’t believe I am in fact my age, and that I seem so much younger. Chalk some up to genetics and the remainder to my choice of clothes, my style: modern, yet timeless—which is why I buy and wear Penguin. Which is why, in my twenties living in NYC, I rummaged through the thrift stores in search of your label.

I’ve worn it for years.

I wore it when I was an emerging, albeit poor, fashion designer.

And I wear it as a successful art director.

So, after twenty-five years of featuring variations on Penguin, while standing at the register (of the L.A./Melrose store) making a few new spring/summer purchases, I gazed over at the cardboard-request for real people. After reading the request, I considered myself and then laughed. But then I glanced around the store and saw several other men, around my age—all in various stages of shopping, and thought hummm.

After I left, the proposition sat with me. It sat through meetings at work. It sat with me in traffic. And it especially sat with me through jury duty last week—a boring, mind-drifting succession of days.

Why?

Because I love seeing the grey-haired guy in the Banana Republic ads, or the women of all ages in the Dove campaign—which is also why I love Lauren Hutton and her balls-out attitude about age.

And, because, akin to the lack of advertising for modern-middle-agers—with lots of money to spend—there’s also a lack of dialogue about said demographic. So, throughout the past few years via my musings—column and blog—I’ve attempted to be the face of middle age. Suffice it to say, I’ve talked the talk.

But a picture, as they say, is worth a thousand words. So here I am: A real-person-middle-ager. And I wear Penguin.

I know it’s an unconventional proposition to consider someone 49, but take a look around…for the first time in our history, multiple generations are wearing the same thing…go figure?

And so, along with the above, I sent a few snaps and my stats.

Did they love the looks and hate the fifty-year-old player? Did they agree to thrust me proudly in front of the camera with fearless abandon, causing Diana Vreeland to smile from above? Can “Real People” reeeeallly Model?

Several days later, I got this:

We wanted to thank everyone who decided to participate in our contest! We were truly blown away by your debonair looks and style. It was a tough decision, but someone had to win.

Naturally I went to the website to see the winner, my competition. And the “real person” they chose—although adorable and hovering around 25—was also a real model complete with photos of himself on the runway.

So… there you have it: the march of the Real Middle-Aged Papa Penguin, who like his demographic, shall remain invisible. But at least I tried to walk the (cat) walk……

With the passing of yet, another birthday, self-reflection followed—past birthdays, relationships old and new, life lessons learned along the way, times before middle age.

While contemplating my new age, my new number, 48, I tried to recall my life by decade: life at eight, then eighteen, twenty-eight and thirty-eight. And in doing so, I was reminded of a piece of advice I received near my eighteenth birthday. Something I have thought of often when I hear things like, “you seem so young for your age” or “you have such a youthful essence”. And I remembered Shelly Rowe.

Around the time I turned eighteen—a period when I was becoming an adult, a man, I dated a girl named Jackie Rowe. Her approach to life was unabashed. She said and did whatever she felt. This was wonderful to experience while fumbling around, searching for my identity. I’d never encountered anyone like her and couldn’t understand where she’d acquired such a fierce sense of freedom. Then I met her mother Shelly.

Prior to embarking on a life in New York, and commingling with the infamous New Yorkers’ approach to life, in the waspy suburb I’d grown up, the other mothers were nothing like Shelly Rowe. She came equipped with big, teased hair, long, painted fingernails and an extremely thick New York accent—one I was later able to decipher as the Long Island variety. All of these attributes were accompanied by a freedom of opinions she liberally applied to most situations.

One night, while waiting for Jackie to go disco dancing, she cornered me in the kitchen.

“You have a very youthful, childlike quality about you”, she declared between drags from her skinny, brown More cigarette. “Whatever you do….never loose that!”

Over the years, especially recently, I’ve heard folks tout a similar observation. In trying to understand what it is exactly that (appears to be) so youthful, I began to give it a lot of thought. Each time I deliberated over the purchase of a pair of Vans in a crazy print, or considered something (I can still fit into) from the boys department I wondered. When I looked around my office at the collection of toys or the fact that I design them, I wondered. Whenever I opted for my bike versus the car, I wondered.

I wondered if, inadvertently, I was clinging to my youth, fearful of facing mid-life. 

It was a compliment…right?

Then I wondered, why—more than ever—it bothered me so much.

What I came to realize was that although I was complimented (a lot) about both my physical condition and youthful disposition, internally the “compliment” gave me a heightened fear of the day the praise would stop.

Which made me wonder: Is it a compliment that I can still pass, or is it a problem that perceptions about age are so clearly defined—that one should look and act a certain way in association with a particular age? The next time you look in the mirror, scrutinize a wrinkle or pluck a grey hair, have another birthday, think about it.  

As for Shelly, she saw something in me that I suppose has endured, stood the test of time. But the way I see it, thirty years later, as I creep closer to fifty—although life can be tough at times, it’s still a game—something you can be playful with. And…as I continue to define my game plan for middle age, I’ve come to realize one important rule: growing is very different than growing old.

And maybe that’s a childish outlook. Maybe I’ll feel differently when the “compliments” stop. Or maybe….I’m eternally just a kid at heart?

“Wow! You look really great for your age” offers the cut-abed little sprite as he chomps on a Rice Krispy treat I’d made earlier for the pool party.

Snap, crackle, POP, I thought. There goes another brittle bone Dad. Ouch!

In preparation for said pool party, a Memorial Day celebration, I’d done sit ups to the point of losing count, scrutinized on reflected swimwear options and made a batch of gooey treats—none of which I consumed. (Not even licking the bowl.)

My reward = “You look really great….for your age!”

In memory of compliments laced with surprised expressions and ending in “you look great for your age”, I shall now equate such statements to that of a Rice Krispy treat: gooey, sweet and inviting at first, yet once consumed, bad for your form.