Looking for Love...of Labels

This is one homo that never got the fashion gene. Or jeans, for that matter. Growing up in Georiga, it wasn't just accepted, it was expected to wear the exact same polo/kaki combo as everyone else. The only part we got to play around with was whether or not to tuck your shirt tail all the way in or leave it partially hanging out, frat boy-style. Later on in California, I could easily get away with wearing t-shirts, holey jeans and flip-flops all year. In fact, you were seen as kinda pretentious if you didn't wear the carefree costume of those blessed by the beach.

But as soon as I arrived in New York, I immediately felt uncomfortable. I mean, people look GOOD here. They put thought and purpose into their sense of style. Their ambition bleeds from their tapered wrists, waistlines and cuffs. And the shoes! God forbid I click-clack around in my flip flops or clunk down the street in my tattered boots. Shoes are to New Yorkers what cars are to Californians. Nothing so readily reveals your style.

I could get away without being fashionable for a little while under the "he just moved here" guise. But I've now been here for over a year and that just doesn't cut it anymore. So when my friend Richie invited me to his black & white-themed birthday party, it's no surprise that I panicked. I love my friend Richie, but there was no way I was prepared to stand in front of the firing squad of his fashionista friends. The flames shooting out of their disapprovingly pointed fingers would sear away what little material was left of my jeans.

You see, I always pretended I never cared about fashion. That I simply wasn't built to be that materialistic. I'd rather put my money into dinners with friends (or kitschy kitchen appliances) than clothes. I'm the type who goes shopping once a year with my grandmama's Christmas money. I buy everything all at once, usually in three of every color. It seemed so silly to me to spend $200 on a pair of jeans, when that money could just as easily be spent on a candy apple red Kitchen-Aid mixer.

But I'd also happened to have recently watched the Vogue magazine documentary, The September Issue. At the start of the movie, Anna Wintour (aka The Ice Queen) says, "On the whole, people that say demeaning things about our world, I think that's usually because they feel in some ways excluded or not part of the cool group. So as a result, they just mock it. There is something about fashion that can make people very nervous." Something about that hit home to me. Why was I so afraid to be nervous? Wasn't the whole purpose for moving to New York to push myself outside of my comfort zone? So when Richie offered to take me to his friend's high fashion store, Behaviour, I pulled on my track pants and bravely, if grumpily, relented.

I have to hand it to the store personnel. They hid their smirks well and were really helpful. I was thinking I would get some black pants and a simple white shirt. After all, I already had this black skinny tie I'd bought from Armani Exchange that I was immensely proud of and dying to put to good use. I would look just like Justin Timberlake! But the sales guy just rolled his eyes at me and said, "No. It's a black & white theme party. Everyone will be doing that. You need to go with something more unexpected." I didn't have the heart to tell him that just tucking my shirt in would, for me, be unexpected.

Next thing I knew I was being shoved into the changing room with a tight, black button-down and a pair of black skinny jeans. Wait, let me repeat that 'cause I don't think you heard me: skinny jeans! I mean, seriously? How would the cuffs ever fit over my boots? And did this guy really expect me to wear all black? I mean, how New York can you get, right?

Sighing heavily, I painted the jeans onto my considerable calves and did my best to hide my backfat in what little there was of the shirt folds. As I stepped out of my fashion closet and into the light of the showroom, I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the reaction. The cute, young sales guy turned around and said simply, "you look very handsome." Well, as you can imagine I all but beamed back at him and immediately handed him my credit card. I left just as excited about that compliment as I was about getting back into the expandable waistline of my track pants.

But my outfit was not yet complete. Richie explained that the shirt had these little built-in slots that a pair of suspenders were meant to be pulled through. So next I found myself at American Apparel buying a pair of black ones. Having had quite enough for one day, I refused to try the entire outfit on in the store. I instead satisfied myself with seeing how everything looked together later that night in the comfort and privacy of my own home - where I could later feign a flu that would render me unable to attend the party.

Getting ready that night I sucked down three glasses of wine in rapid succession, put on some country music to calm my nerves, and tried everything on. Now, if you've never tried on suspenders by yourself let me tell you, you need to be nothing short of a contortionist to get those things on. As soon as I clamped down one side of this black bra without boobs, the other side would snap off. I was like a dizzy dog turning in circles, chasing my skinny jean tail. But I finally got everything together and looked into the mirror: black shirt, black jeans, black suspenders, black shoes. I felt like a freakin' mime.

That night at the party, I actually got a lot of attention. My hipster friend Marvin couldn't stop complimenting me and I even ended up making out with this hot trendy gay I met. It wasn't until later that I found out I'd unfortunately committed a deeply offensive faux-paus. Oh, my outfit was mostly well received. But for those who happened to look all the way down, they found square-toed shoes anchoring me to the ground. Apparently, square toes went out about ten years ago. You know...about the time I'd actually bought the shoes.

But New York is about nothing if not dusting yourself off and trying again. So here I am, all ready to look for labels. And hopefully some new shoes to point me in the right direction.

Rest In Peace, Michael

I was having a wonderful dinner at Sushi Samba in midtown. The food was exquisite. The drinks were flowing. And the company was endearing. All was a picture-perfect New York moment when suddenly my phone began blowing up with text message after text message. I couldn't believe what I was reading: Michael Jackson passed away!

And it wasn't just my phone. It seemed everyone's phones were going crazy with random jingles and buzzes. The effect was immediate. Cries of outrage and sadness. The whole rhythm of the restaurant was heightened with confusion and denial.

I left shortly after, walking home in shock. All of these memories came flooding back to me. Humming "Man in the Mirror" with my dad while fixing something in the garage. Roller skating hand-in-hand with my elementary school girlfriend to "Bad." My entire 4th-grade class singing "We are the World" for our parents in the gym. Memories of raw reflection, unadulterated fun and hope-spirited togetherness. Michael had the kind of music that you knew was really good, but that would later sneak up on you in the most poignant ways. You'd realized, "he knew what I was feeling then before I did."

Years later, I had the honored privilege of actually going to the Neverland Ranch. It was truly a paradise for anyone with the spirit of a child. Cotton candy, ice cream, any sweet treat you could imagine was there for the taking. The carnival rides lasted five times longer than you thought they would. There was even a yellow-brick road there, which a client and I skipped down, arm-in-arm singing at the top of our longs, "Come on and...ease on down, ease on down the rooooaaaad." And then at the end of the day, there was Michael himself less than ten feet away from me. We sang happy birthday to him and he, in a fit of passion, shoved both hands into his cake and threw fistfuls of icing right onto us. No walls, no pretensions, just silly, crazy fun.

So it's no wonder than when my friend Yogen texted me telling me to get my ass down to Union Square, an impromptu MJ celebration was happening, that I immediately hopped the closest train there. What I came upon was a group of kids, really. Oh we were across all ages, but we all had the spirit of children within us that night. People were playing whatever Michael songs they had on their phones and we would all sing as loud as we could and dance, dance, dance. And when we ran out of cell phone songs, we sang from memory. Inspiration coming from the back of the ever-growing crowd in the form of, "Where did you come from baby?" Then someone else from a separate corner would shout back, "And ooooh won't you take me there" and off we'd go, the song being passed round and round until the entire square was singing "Pretty Young Thing" in unison. And when we lost the thread of that song's lyrics, we'd simply move on to the next one as someone shouted, "Share that beat of loooove..."

It started out with the classics, the dance songs. But as the energy of the crowd surged there was a decided shift in tone. "Heal the World," "You Are Not Alone," and finally, one that we all shouted over the others. One that made us look at each other, notices the differences in our skin tones and facial features, accept them and embrace them all as one, "If you're thinkin of being my brother, it don't matter if your BLACK OR WHITE!" That's when arms were wrapped around strangers and we swayed as one, hands high in the air, keeping the beat by nothing but the clapping of our hands. Because everything we needed we had already with us: our memories, our voices, our hands and our love. Towards the end I started to get hoarse from all the singing. I turned to the girl next to me and said, "I'm losing my voice!." And she looked at me, smiled and said simply, "It don't matter...Michael can still hear you. Keep singing!"

New York is a city filled with preoccupied people, typically living in isolation among the multitudes. But what you realize is when the important moments happen, they let all that go and reach for one another. And boy how we make up for it then. It's a kind of brotherhood I have very rarely experienced in my life. But one that is powered by an incredible force of humanity that only such a condensed city as this can express.

On that night, Michael gave us that experience again. He went beyond age, beyond race, beyond gender. He was often terribly misunderstood, but I think he understood something we didn't. Something he was trying to tell us all those years with all of those wonderful songs. Something that continues to be impossible to articulate even as this blogger ends this post with a sigh of peace. So I'll just end it with a message from Michael, sung by the people who loved him: We are not alone.

Stairway to Heaven

It's no secret to anyone that's been to my apartment that my guilty, if not bittersweet, pleasure is my six-floor walk-up. Yes, it's a total pain in the ass on days when I'm loaded down like a pack mule. And it's not exactly booty-slimming. But the payoff is when I have visitors.

As soon as I buzz them up, I immediately crack open my door and turn down any music that's playing in the background. I grab my beer, settle back against the wall and just listen, a grin slowly blooming on my face. Oh, most of my friends are younger and they're steadily stomping until floor three. But something interesting happens at floor four. Those stomps become plods. The timing between each consecutive footfall gets longer and longer. By floor five, I can hear their hand slapping the rail and deep gasps for breath. By the time they finally make it up the final flight to my door, they usually have a look of pure hatred on their face. Oh, they're not that mad at the stairs. They're mad at me. Because by that time my grin has become a series of guffaws.

But I also love the strangers you encounter on the way up and down the stairs as well. I cannot remember any of their names and I barely know them. Some float by like ghosts with secrets they lock behind their doors. But the ones I do know are interesting characters indeed.

In the basement is Carlos, our building super. I took to him immediately after I'd been here two weeks and caught him outside decorating for Halloween. Now, Halloween is my absolute favorite holiday and any friend of cotton webbing is a friend of mine. Noticing how I was doing an excited little pee dance, he asked me if I wanted to help. Next thing I knew I was on his step-ladder hanging a gigantic rubber bat from a light fixture. This year we want to find a gigantic spider so the bat has company.
On the first floor are a group of Mexicans who smoke weed constantly. It cracks me up that good old Mary Jane is the first smell to hit you when you walk in my building, in part because I think it's so bold. I commented on this one day and they just laughed and offered me a hit. I didn't accept, but every now and then when I pass by I shout, "Immigration!" and pound on the door. Oh how they laugh! At least when they aren't in a state of wild-eyed paranoia.

On the fourth floor lives a very old, but colorful gay man. He wears khaki safari suits with ascots and a sailor's cap. I'm quite certain he has no boat to speak of, but the simple fact that he looks and acts like a cross between the Skipper and Gilligan is enough to make me love him. When he passes by he always tips his hat, and no matter how antiquated or silly the gesture seems, it always makes me feel like a passenger about to board a luxury cruise ship instead of the Minnow.

Finally, on my floor lives the cutest straight guy. He's literally tall, dark and handsome in that classic Hollywood way. But what's even better is that he always goes out of his way to engage me in conversation when he sees me. He moves beyond the simple "hello" and always asks where I'm headed. This usually sparks a conversation that lasts all the way down the stairs until we get to the front door. Here, he always shouts, "Let me get that!," takes two quick steps to get ahead of me, rushes to open the door in time and holds it while I walk through (taking my time, I might add). While I try to keep myself from swooning straight to the pavement, he just shrugs, smiles and wishes me a great day. I always do seem to have a great day after that, too. But judging by the looks she gives me when she's with us, his girlfriend never does.

A friend of mine recently pointed out that my apartment is only 350 square feet. But to me, it's not the size of the apartment that matters. It's the uniqueness, the character and the environment it sits within that makes me fall in love with it. And with all these fun stairs to climb on the way to my Empire State Building-views, it's no wonder I named my apartment, "La Vela del Cielo"...or "The Candle of the Sky."

Sam and Charlie

I thought I would miss my jeep. The California sun shining down, tanning my arms. The Santa Ana winds blowing through my increasingly scarce hair. Belting out songs from Chicago on the 405. But all of that seems like a distant dream now. And here I've discovered a new kind of beauty.

Whether going to and from work, carrying hefty groceries and awkward palm trees up to my apartment, or out simply taking a stroll, walking has become a curious new adventure of it's own. On the sidewalks there are no lanes to cross. No traffic jams - at least not unbearably long ones. Just me and Sam and Charlie.

At first it was the experience of walking around with your ipod. In your own little universe of music where anything can happen in your head. You don't really have to focus, so your mind is left to wander. And now instead of singing showtunes, I'm able to perform entire dance numbers in my head. Your steps fall to the rhythm of the music as you imagine the passersby suddenly joining in a dance routine a la Rent or Fame. And all the while, it's your own little secret. No one else knows what you're listening to, what world you're in at that moment.

When the summer came, I would look up to feel misty droplets falling to my face under a clear blue sky. It took me a moment to understand that it was simply the air conditioning units sweating from their windows. Then there's the fashion. With no car payments to make and no shining automobiles to brand you, people turn to their shoes to make statements. Loafers, stilettos, boots, sandals. All on parade. Nevermind the endlessly widening holes in your socks. No one can see those.

This evershifting city can change your mood in an instant. One day I was crossing 8th avenue, rushing on some errand, too much in a hurry. An old lady with a cane tapped me on the shoulder. In typical New York fashion, I threw her a wary look and prepared to bolt into the crowd. But then she asked me if I would mind walking her across the street. My Southern gallantry kicked in and I of course obliged her. On our painstakingly slow way across, her seemingly frail hand gripped like iron around my arm. But her voice was soft and sweet and she kept me company all along the way and thanked me with a broad smile. I took my time for the rest of that day.

And then there are moments when the city can throw something unexpectedly serendipitous your way. I was in the foulest of moods, pushing my way through crowds in Wall Street. Lost, perspiring, anxiety growing deeper every second. But then I turned a corner to find a smiling face in the most unlikely of places. And everything suddenly seemed okay. No. Everything suddenly felt right. Like I was where I was supposed to be. Because no matter how much the city can drag you down, a little walk is sometimes all you need to regain perspective.

Speaking Spring

We made it!!! Give or take a few more chillier days, SPRING HAS COME. I was beginning to think we were too far up North in Yankeetown for it to ever get its lazy ass here.

I celebrated the first warm day by simply walking through the city. What I noticed was:

- mother nature waving her arboreal wand, turning on blooms in random trees and bushes like light bulbs
- freshly planted tulips in the little boxed-in tree gardens along the avenues
- gusts of wind so sudden and warm i found myself grinning so widely it forced the ipod buds out of my ears
- the more adventurous restaurants opening up their patios to the even more adventurous patrons who stopped by for a cappuccino or salad on the street
- a few simple souls chucking their scarves and jackets, bravely exposing their fish belly-pale skin and comfort food-fed stomachs
- passersby actually returning my smile with an appreciative one of their own
- patches of sunlight beaming down on me like a good ol' jazz song

I told myself before I moved here that I wanted to witness the changing of the seasons again. After 9 years in California, I became spoiled and felt it was time to jump into the real world. Apparently, I was in for more of a shock than I expected. The winter came with her hardened witch's fingers creeping down each vertebrae of my spine.

But now I can feel her relenting, knot by knot. With each one released I am reminded of what it means to feel the cycle of seasons whole and raw again. And I am comforted. Soon I will break out my flip flops, my coconut tanning oil and the mojitos and margaritas. Ah, New York, you are finally beginning to speak a language I can understand...and in doing so, becoming my New York.

Sank you, Pantyboy

One thing I've come to love about city life is dropping my laundry off at the nearest Wash 'n Fold. Every couple of weeks, I simply sling my bag of dirty clothes in the front door and by the end of the day it's waiting for me, perfectly fresh and folded and sealed in plastic. Sure they don't speak Engrish beyond "sank you," and you practically have to guide their fingers on the number pad to type in your phone number, but they always do it with a smile. And I never have to set foot in a laundromat.Now, the truly beautiful thing about this is that I never see the dirty work happen. I simply hand them my golden ticket and, POOF!, my clothes are clean. But during my last pickup visit, I got an unwelcome surprise when I came in just a little too early. There was the tiny Asian man at the front counter, cheerily handling my intimates! I mean, it's not that I expect him to wear gloves or anything. Hell, I probably wouldn't even care if he brought them up to his face and breathed in. But I don't want to SEE it happen. What's more, he was folding them right there in the front where anyone who walked in or by the store would see MY undies.

Unfortunately, all the rest of my clothes had already been folded. It would have been stupid to leave and come back when he would be done in five minutes. So there I stood, distractedly fingering my BlackBerry and trying not to meet his gaze while he primly placed each pair of my briefs on top of the next. What made matters worse is that, as a gay man, I don't have baggy boxers or even simple white Calvin Kleins. No, I have to have pink undies with animals on them. And I just KNOW he was suppressing a smile and thinking in whatever language is native to him that this white ladyboy has some seriously girly panties. I am convinced I am going to be forever known as "pantyboy" to him and his family of workers. After a few minutes of turning beat red and gritting my teeth, I mumble something like, "You know, you don't have to finish folding. Just throw everything in the bag." He just nods agreeably, smiles and continues folding as I shift to my right leg uncomfortably.Finally, after five minutes going on five hours, he's done. He wraps everything up and stuffs it in my laundry bag. He smiles again, hands me my change and says, "Sank you, pwease come again" just as he always does. And I realize something as I heft my load onto my shoulder and head home. Maybe he gossips to his wife later about me and maybe he doesn't. Either way, my undies are just a handful of hundreds that pass through his hands every day. He'll probably forget all about it by the time he's hitting his wok if he hasn't already. After all, in a city this size, it's easy to get lost in the fold.

Meet Me At Playground Ave & Recess St

In a city where there are nearly no backyards, people find ways of making do. The first time I saw two guys tossing a football in the middle of 8th avenue I clenched my teeth in sympathy fear of the oncoming traffic. The second time was in the subway where I gazed in wonderment, pondering if they would go in after the ball should it fall into the tracks. The third time it wasn't even a football but a pink, stuffed shark. Unfortunately, the shark fell to great casualty when the plucky little girl tossing him tossed a bit too high and a tree nabbed him.But this phenomenon doesn't seem to end with contact sports. There are TONS of gigantic polar bears, horses and lions in this city - otherwise known as dogs. You see, if you're walking a giant dog around, it means you must have the space to keep it in. Which in turn means you can afford a very large, expensive apartment, which in turn means you are a successful New Yorker. But just because you have an apartment large enough for the dog to fit in, doesn't mean there is enough room for it to run around in. Those things need exercise and when they don't get enough of it, they take matters into their own hands.

EXHIBIT A
EXHIBIT B
EXHIBIT C
Okay, that last one was a real horse. But it's what the cops in my neighborhood "drive" and I just had to throw it in there. But my favorite so far is when upon walking home from a delicious Thai restaurant I came upon a snowman hailing a cab. New Yorkers are nothing if not resourceful.