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!

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 is looming—the streets of West Hollywood are teeming with crews of men casting massive orange mesh tarps over the plants, while the porta-pottys flank the boulevard like tense soldiers preparing for battle with the beer-infused. Reminiscent of disillusioned cheerleaders—framed by a wall of sawhorses resembling an oversized strip of juicy stripe gum—traffic cops usher the bottleneck of commuters—forcing the annoyed drivers into a maze, their stymied detour evoking the opposite of gay. The storefronts have been embellished with bunches of rainbow balloons, while clusters of white tents mark the street—offsetting their flamboyance. The streetlamps that edge Santa Monica Boulevard are all adorned with a commemorative (and kinda boring if you ask me) banner highlighting the forty-year anniversary of Los Angeles Pride.

In a few hours all this will adorn the celebration of Gay Pride L.A. 2010. It’s still early, but my bike has already become my most efficient means of transportation—transporting me through all the festival preparations, for one last trip to the store.

Riding home loaded down with groceries, like the aforementioned festival fluffers, I began to prepare for pride and the position of the gays in the world. My position as a worldly gay. And I was quickly reminded that, even with all the progress—the marches and fights, the babies and the weddings, the don’t ask don’t tell and then, well…maybe you can tell—that even after all this time, all these years of pride, we gays are still viewed (by some) as second-class citizens.

We are still viewed as # 2.

Next month I’ll be fifty, and I’ve evolved through a world of gayness when: bars had to be cloistered in scary, out-of-they-way neighborhoods; when elected government officials could carry on closeted affairs with much-younger men and everyone turned a blind eye (it’s in the book); when the word gay brought with it an over-the-top fierceness and a determination to flaunt our differences; the anesthetizing of the libido—brought about by the AIDS crisis; the premature death of young friends and peers just embarking on the possibilities of adult life; the lost-boy generation of circuit partying; the gentrification of the gays; and finally, a stumble-about-in-the-dark generation of middle-aged gays that look amazing and are not ready to been seen as old, yet (generally) unsure of how to rewrite this new and improved, 50-is-the-new-40 chapter. (Which is why I began writing my column as well as this blog.)

The last part, the 50-is-the-new-40—the most relevant as I am living it—makes me consider my straight peers, their preplanned, mapped out, life of existence and expectations: when to get married, when to have children, how to behave in social situations…the list is endless. Yet, is it better?

Perhaps the # 2 position is a better, albeit inferior, (to some) place to be? Like those American Idol winners that have been riddled with contractual agreements, while the loser, the runner-up, the one who came in #2, effortlessly evolves into making hit records, movies or perhaps a turn on Broadway. All because they’re free of the rules that coincide with the winning title, the #1 spot.

Does #2 make you a piece of shit? Stuck, stalled in a stinky, constipated state, watching from behind while the #1ers get to piss all over the world with their brand of traditional values? I suppose it all depends on your views of position.

For Gay Pride 10’, I vote to get out your gayest writing tool—a glitter crayon, a permanent marker in a flamboyant color, perhaps even a #2 pencil—allowing you to erase and rewrite your gay little life as often as you desire. Then, instead of just sitting around, make it write, graffiti the gayest things you can…but, whatever you do, get the lead out….because that is how we write our history.

His image was a façade of tricks.

He felt naked without it.

Birthday parties were his specialty.

“You’re sooo talented!…

…But, you can’t stay overnight”

I feel like a piece of trash.

I changed my outfit to blend in

Yes, my head was shaved when we met!

My spirit is mush.

“You’ve got to climb to the top of Mount Everest”, she instructed.

Alone, the view was worthless, the words meaningless.

What to do with The End?….Drugs?

Cuts, sharp and deep, sliced into him.

He thought of Edward.

Art instead of destruction.

….The final shot rolled in his direction.

Life now assumed a black and white viewpoint.

He considered his angle, each hole, each option.

With measured perspective…

…the relationship cues’ had each played themselves out.

Points, both won and lost, had all been taken then tabled.

Ball to ball, with each decisive angle, every calculated shot now complete….

….was life a numbers game?

Shots to be played?

Won or lost?

Eight, he thought…

….game over or the victorious beginning of a new setup?