SHAVINGS FROM MY HEAD

During the summer of 1951, shortly after Doris moved to the sleepy beach town of Mar Vista…she met Agnes. Their speak began with a spike in a spoke. A bent bicycle spoke to be exact.

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

“Agnes, get out and get some fresh air” her grandmother nagged, grabbing the book from between Agnes’s fingers before shoving it into the pocket of her housedress.

“It’s a beautiful day out! And here, you, are!…buried in that book, again! It’s like Sleepy Hallow in here!”

Agnes stared at her vacant hand where the confiscated book once sat, then back at Nanna. The prospect of outdoor recreation versus vanishing further into the pages of The Secret Garden, brought nothing but disdainful thoughts. The bothered expression on her face reflected back at Agnes from the toe of her patent leather shoe—dangling listlessly from the edge of the daybed. She fanned the glossy mary jane, causing her features to expand then diminish—each distortion framed by the hedge of white lace that sprouted from her ankle sock.

Defeated, she exited the family room and then the bungalow—with a kick at the screen door—before mounting her bike to escape.

“Doris Hollingsworth! Don’t you go riding off before those boxes are unpacked!” her mother barked, the shrill proclamation fading into the depths of the house as Doris coasted away on her bike.

The daughter of a longshoreman, Doris, along with her mother and 2 older brothers, was required, without protest, to relocate from the eastern shore of Maryland to southern California, to Mar Vista.

Until that sun-drenched afternoon she met Agnes; everything about the move, about her life, had left Doris feeling broken.

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

Frustrated, Agnes tugged at the bent bicycle spoke, while the harsh California sun burned at the back of her legs and neck. Then, as if someone had thrown her in closet, the glaring rays abruptly vanished. The shadowy respite was followed by a gravelly voice that sounded like the sailors who lived in the neighborhood—the men who smoked cigarettes and repaired cars all day in their driveways’.

“Looks like you need some help with that?” declared the voice.

When Agnes turned, the shadow moved, causing the sun to knock a glare into her eyes. All she could make out was a head of curls haloed by the sun, and a bellybutton that pushed outward and into her face.

Dusty and annoyed, Agnes gave in to the stranger with the gravelly voice.

“Sure. Um..that would be great” she replied to the bellybutton. “Thanks.”

“I’m Doris,” said the gravelly voice, before knocking the kickstand into place and stepping off her bike.

“Hi I’m Agnes,” she replied, standing and turning to meet Doris face-to-face.

Doris bent down and took several tugs at the bike wheel.

“Gimme your shoe” Doris said.

Agnes removed her mary jane and handed it to Doris.

Doris took a few whacks at the bike before locking the spoke back into place then securing it with the piece of chewing gum she extracted from her mouth.

Her job done, Doris returned the shoe, then stood up then gave Agnes the once-over, tip-to-toe like a prison yard searchlight, before mounting her bike again.

“How can you ride your bike in those shoes?” Doris asked, coasting around Agnes in circles like a wagon train.

“I’m only wearing them so I can ruin them” Agnes replied, matter-of-factly while refastening the ankle strap. “My mother makes me wear them, and I hate them! Every time I wear a skirt, they reflect my underwear and, and…then all the boys bother me for the entire day!”

“Really? They try to see your underwear? That’s retarded.”

“Well..what do you expect from boys?” Agnes answered, admiring her reflection from the toe of her right shoe.

“True” said Doris, shrugging her shoulders in agreement.

“But this is how I make it stop. This is how I make them go away. Watch!” Agnes announced, before taking off down Marblehead Road on her newly-restored bicycle. Once her bike had gained speed, Agnes raised her shoes off the pedals, and then lowered the tips of her mary janes’ to the concrete pavement—causing them to drag along behind her as her bike sped down Marblehead Road. Even though Nanna would be mad, it always made Agnes laugh out loud; she knew she would be free of boys.

Doris trailed behind, thrilled by Agnes’ outlandish act. When the two girls reached the intersection of Delanty and Marblehead, they both stopped to survey the results. The once shiny mary janes’ were now dull and marked—their reflections creating a mangled Picasso-like result.

“Wanna ride to the park?” asked Agnes, still giggling at the sight of her shoes.

“Sure” said Doris, excited to have a new friend.

“Thanks for fixing my bike.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve never seen you before. Do you live here?” asked Agnes, while simultaneously peddling and readjusting the elastic on her tube-top.

“My family just moved here a few days ago from the east coast…from Maryland. We had to move for my Dad’s job.”

“Oh.”

The girls rode for a while in silence, the brush of the palm trees rustling above them like dancing angels in taffeta petticoats, the Santa Ana winds mangling their curls into untidy nests.

“Do you like boys?” Doris asked, breaking the silence, as they rode by the Laundromat on Woodhurst Avenue.

“Naw’ “said Agnes. Boys are stupid. All they want to do is fight. Or steal the dessert off my lunch tray. Or..or, kiss me…or try and look up my dress.”

“Yeah…I know what you mean”, said Doris. “Life would be so much easier if there were no boys!”

Agnes nodded, pushing the hair off her face as she looked over at her new friend Doris.

Eventually the girls stopped near an empty corner of the park.

“I wonder what the big deal is?” Doris asked.

“Beats me”

“Wanna try? Wanna see what a kiss is like?”

Agnes looked around. There was no one else around the vacant lot; the only sign of life, of movement, was the sway of the oleander bushes being pushed about by the breeze. It was just the two of them and their bikes.

“Sure”

And the last thing Anges remembered before closing her eyes, before feeling the cushiony pads of Doris mouth brush into hers, was the birthmark on Doris’s forehead.

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

Amid the rough-n-tumble mob of lesbian bikers—all clad in combat boots and leather jackets—the pair of patent leather boots stood out like a puddle of oil that had been spilled onto velvet. Doris followed their shiny tips, scaling up the denim legs and past the sweatshirt before landing at the helmeted face.

They could only belong to one person, she thought. They could only belong to Agnes.

“Agnes?….Agnes Griggs? Is that you?” Doris asked, abandoning her Harley and walking toward the patent leather boots.

“Do I know?” asked the helmet.

“It’s me!” said the gravely voice, from underneath the approaching helmet.

That voice could only belong to one person, she thought. It could only belong to Doris.

“It’s Doris! Doris Hollingsworth from Mar Vista!” said the voice, while removing her helmet.

And then she saw the birthmark.

“Oh. My. God! I don’t believe it!” And before Agnes could say another word, Doris reached in and pressed her mouth against the supple lips of the young girl she’d fallen in love with decades earlier.

The sway of the trees came alive and the gaggle of lesbians around them hollered a series of banshee-like sounds, as if they were being surrounded by tribe of rowdy indians.

“Your breath smells like peanut butter,” said Doris, after puling her mouth away while trying to regain her composure; not believing she’d finally found Agnes. “What have you been eating?”

Pulling a fist from the pocket of her sweatshirt, Agnes opened her hand it to expose a palm of wrapped candies.

“Mary Janes” she said, smiling. “They keep the boys away.”

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

Strap On…..

….dating from the early 1900s, the original Mary Jane shoe—worn primarily by young girls—was a low-heeled, round-toed slipper with a strap across the instep of the foot and typically made of shiny black patent leather. Today, Mary Janes are still popular as formal shoes for young girls, though have also been adapted as informal footwear for adult women.

The most widely accepted theory is that Mary Jane was a character in the Buster Brown comic series, created in 1902. Depending on the story, Mary Jane starred as Buster Brown’s sister or love interest.

Eventually the style of shoe worn by both Buster (boy) and Mary (girl) became known in popular culture as Mary Janes.

Though Mary Janes have proved popular since their introduction, their origins may be largely forgotten, yet the shoe’s influence remains strong.

..just off the wire from the Diva of Drag, Lypsinka…a little show number to kick off the first (horrible cold and rainy) Monday of work in 2011…..as elegantly madcap as ever! The perfect shade of lip-stick….

Lypsinka Gets Auntie Maimed from John Epperson on Vimeo.

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!

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….

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.

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.

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……

“Just follow my lead,”…she said to me.

“Fifty is not, what it used to be!”

She passed me a hat and some steps to follow…

“You won’t make the cut, if you sit there and wallow!”

“Now on my count, kick your leg in the air…

….like you’re sculpted in plastic…

…..and you haven’t a care!”

So I bent my bod, round the bentwood chair…

….I figured I’d dance, to avoid the despair!

With B teaching the steps, and a hat top my head…

I discovered new posture, could be easily led.

With each number that comes, best to try it with two…

…it will help with the steps, in your “character” shoe.

Hence, here’s my decree!

Best to change up the steps, for how to be….

…half a century is just, a number you see!

Part 2…..

 …..With microphone in hand, primed to report (part deux) on all of the elegant aspects of this years Academy Awards, now on the other side of the event, performance accolades—deserved or not—aside, my only question is this: Seriously?

From Jay Manuel—literally and figuratively—drawing on everyone with his “glamastrator” and emoting statements like “everyone’s a winner on Oscar night!” to the sponsored commercials ranging from a Miss Dior-looking ad for cervical cancer to J C Penny’s. Seriously?

There is no reporting to be had. My job is done.

Gone are the days of understated elegance, of Grace Kelly and life-long designer/actress-muse relationships, of long sleeves and chocolate brown clothes.

The following statement (although I will give her a break as she is young) says it all: 

“If my dress was porn..this would be the money shot!”

So….I shall return to my original statement: I’d like to blank the Academy! And, oddly….I’m missing Robert Verdi….