Typing this on an iPad

...is pretty much the only positive thing I can say about this post.

This weekend was exhausting. Some time after your second year of "adult life,", the day-after sensations of an evening conquered kind of fade and are replaced with tiredness and a hovering emotion of regret that you can never tie back to any particular event. It's one of those, "I could have stayed in and had a glass of wine and red a book" regrets. Pointless.

Anyways, life in general is great. I ended my time at the University of Texas on a higher note than expected, and my future in regards to my career and overall life excitement (one of the few intangible measures of happiness that can be somewhat quantified) seems confirmed. On the other hand, I have no tangible relationship, at least romantically, and grappling with my expectations of people continues to be a battle fought externally more often than not. As in, I don't need to dwell on my disappointments. I change what disappoints me or vent to close friends about whatever iniquity I'm faced with.

That's where this blog comes in. I usually don't even publish what I write--by the time I'm finished authoring a post, I've untangled whatever mess of feelings I have come to write about in the first place and no longer give a shit about sharing it.

Today, though, is different, because I don't even know what's wrong. I have externalized all of the hang-ups I could source, but right now I feel betrayed, abandoned and disrespected. It involves someone specific but is not necessarily their fault my emotions are pulverized. Pummeled is an appropriate verb to describe the process it took for me to arrive at this cold and disconnected place, because it happened so slowly and I felt every blow. I knew where the game was headed before the hammer was even raised.

And now I am lost in my own post, once again. I've nothing to say, and likely no real counsel can be given aside from "Awwww feel better!" If I can just hold others to their own standards rather than my own, perhaps I can find a little peace with human kind.

I hope you enjoyed getting lost in a directionless post for 45 seconds.

F-word

A few days ago I was at a bar and ordered a Jack and coke. It was weak. I told the bartender I'd like a bit of whiskey in my whiskey, and he responded with a swift, "Go f*** yourself." He was then corrected by a fellow bartender with, "Help him out or he'll f******* Yelp about it."

I left the bar. The bartender told fellow patrons--a few of which came up to me after my leaving--"If he comes back in here I'll kick his f***** ass."

And that's, "faggot," to clarify. Not "fucking."

I don't have a problem with being called names. I have dealt with that kind of crap my entire life. I am also a man before I am a gay person; I grew up with a little brother and I am used to fighting back, for better or for worse. I've killed animals. I like beer. I love classic rock and have an amazing father who loves me more than anything. This isn't to say I don't freak out over Lady Gaga or that I didn't download Britney's new album three weeks ago or haven't been playing it on repeat for that entire span of time. I wear tight white pants and I love my girlfriends and I don't apologize for it.

What I have a problem with is the assumption that a gay person wouldn't fight back. That a self-conscious "bro" would call me a faggot and expect me sink into the earth like the wilting flower that I am. Gay people are, in large part, not taken very seriously. As you know, we all love to party and dress in drag and only drink vodka cranberry and wear feather boas and work as strippers once our day shifts at Abercrombie have ended.

These assumptions, while based in a reality I am more entertained than ashamed by, lead to people calling us faggots in bars and expecting no consequences.

This particular bar, The Yellow Jacket Social Club, did feel the consequences, however brief. Customer complaints, a much-lowered Yelp score, a few angry facebook comments on their page (including mine). But these complaints were met with even more callous ignorance. "Some gay person got mad and got all his friends to write on Yelp. Typical story," read one review following mine and others. "Embrace who you are. One angry customer doesn't change anything," said another.

If only they understood the underlying attitudes that fueled these bartenders' remarks; centuries of religious confusion and populist, utopian ideologies have ingrained upon them the mark of false superiority, borne of the illusion that there is only one path to greatness. And that path, dear readers, is paved in pearly white stones stained by cheap beer and littered with empty bottles of Levitra and tattered NRA pamphlets.

Hopefully none of the commenters who responded to my review in the cruelest of all tones--condescension--were black, Asian, Native American, hispanic, Jewish, red-headed or female. (Or, as Gaga would say, "Black, white, beige, chola descent, lebanese, and Orient.") That would be an indirect affront to the problems that affect the non-majority members of the United States on a daily basis, a shoot-yourself-in-the-foot situation.

I am a leader in the number one advertising school in the nation, and I'm a decent artist with a helluva decent resume. I've got powerful friends and good taste. I can also outrun you both long and short-distance, and if I try, I can definitely snatch away your girlfriend.

To conclude, I am a white dude. I am as WASP-y as they come. I am, however, attracted to men.

So next time you call me faggot, take it seriously. Bitch.

A night in 2008

Sitting at a table, legs pulled up to my chest; my jacket is black and oversized, a bit of red-and-black plaid peeping through the thick unzipped planes of dark wool. I'm listening, but not really. Good people, a lot of laughter. Good haircuts all around. We're passing around Pearl and Pabst Blue Ribbon and Miller High Life--horrible beers, but this is before I was picky about what beer I drank. Cigarettes and a few discarded cans crowd a small terra cotta pot in the center of the wrought iron table; faint smoke rises, but we're all talking and smoking and the hot breath and the cold air and the cigarette smoke are all just a jumbled mess, but it's not messy--it's destined. Artful even. I'm sitting in a cold green leather wing chair, the best chair on the porch. The roof is gone, so we can see stars through spindly tree branches and when I look up everything disappears. I don't hear the bits of conversation I was already ignoring and I don't think of whether or not I'm being looked at and I don't really feel anything physical, just an overwhelming sadness--sadness that this moment doesn't last forever, that a night like this only exists in most peoples' memories, yet everyone has it. Everyone, including my parents and theirs, has experienced this night, and that makes it even more sad. There's solidarity between me and the versions of me that lived in the eighties, and the sixties, and even before, but still I hate that it doesn't belong to me only. But that also makes it special. I look back down and color returns. Faint light. Someone's putting on a record, which I assume I'll most likely detest, and I wonder why we cannot just continue to sit here in quiet and stare at each other and why we aren't all in awe of how perfect this night is. I stare at a boy who's just moved in from Mexico, and his mattress is propped up against the wall in the yard. Can't really see it. Too dark. But he has just enough light on him from the cigarette-beer can candle to show off his long straight nose and thick eyebrows. Cute. Into me, maybe. A new acquaintance, one of the girls who has a neat haircut, leans over and whispers, "You two would have the most beautiful babies." I want to snicker something back but my heart jolts, and while I say nothing I feel suddenly ashamed and ugly and young. I've never learned to take complements. And this girl doesn't even know me, so her statements are weightless, despite their basis is strictly physical appearance. I suddenly hear the leaves under my feet and shuffle back and forth, crunching and sliding on the sandy porch. Perhaps it wasn't sandy, but in winter it seems everything is covered in a thin, imperceptible layer of cold dirt, and I feel this cold dirt as I slide back and forth. I can see that my Moment is fading and I look up at the sky again in hopes that I will feel alone again but I don't.

This is one of my favorite memories of my life, and it happened in Austin in late 2008. I had met a new group of friends, and with those friends completely found identity. I was no longer Dustin Is-He-Gay or Dustin Is-He-Smart: I was smart, friendly, gay Dustin. And that was nice. I'm often nostalgic about this one night in particular. You just can't recreate some things.

Sometimes, it really sucks having a blog.

Sometimes, there are feelings inside of me that even verbal discussion cannot rectify. Written language is far more distilled, more real. I'm sure someone somewhere would tell me I'm wrong. But either way, I can't even write out these emotions; the risk of peo- no, specific people taking my words out of context is too great.

I am BLOGGEDLY OPRESSED, PAINFULLY LOVESICK, and DESPERATELY TIRED OF MY PATH.

xoxo,

The "HAPPIEST" Activist

Oito Dias de Português

Portugal is hard to describe in words. Or, rather, it would be unfair to explain it in words exclusively. When I returned from Paris last year--feels like last week--I was so heartbroken I could literally cry on cue. Luckily, my feelings this time are of immense fulfillment and hope for future visits. I am, without a doubt, returning to Portugal before I go anywhere else in Europe. (I say that now, of course.) It is a perfect place. A place of both serenity and energy, of love and sadness and longing. The Portuguese have a name for this infectious emotional ebb: saudade. It is why they sing Fado, why they can sit and watch a sunset every night of their lives, and why they never leave.

The Alfama district, dating back to the fifteenth century.

At Cascais, outside Lisbon. There were dancers in the square, and of course we joined in at one point.
Sunset for the eurovacationers in Cascais.

Even the dogs feel saudade. (Alfama)

This picture is relevant for some reason. I promise.

In Portugal, this is called, "a wedgie." Except, their wedgies can occur in crystalline Atlantic waters in the rocky coast of the Algarve.

Maria's boyfriend and I having an intense staring match.Plaia Dona Ana at low tide.

My favorite girl, Carolina, at Costa de Caparica.

In Lagos. Local red wine, three courses and a thick tuna steak in a tomato broth. One of the best meals I've ever eaten.
Sunset in the Algarve.
The Pradas and Bo's leg at sunset at Cos(h)ta de Caparica.
All night long (all night)!

"Bo, hurry the hell up" face. (Lisbon)

In the female tween Myspace vernacular, this is "< 3"

The view at Sintra's nothing to write home about, really.
Posing at the Torré de Belém.
"Quick, let's sit on these tables!" Sin, sin. (That's Portuguese, not holy-speak.)

To conclude. Lisbon by night, the fire that burns inside of me and will never extinguish.

Teenage Dream

Last night I was at a summer party for the agency I worked for last year. I've stayed in touch with nearly every employee, and regularly do contract creative work for the company.

The creative director, whom I admire for more reasons than I can count, is one of the biggest influences in my life. My relationship with him and the other creatives at the office form an essential component of my ego, and is why I work hard to impress anyone I respect. Of course, I was also given one of his Prada bathing suits recently, and wearing it in his strobing hot tub with his partner and our friends at 2:00 a.m. is entirely surreal; one of those, "I live a good life" kind of moments.

But, aside from a hangover, I woke up today in a melancholy haze. Something about being 21, about entering the senior year of my University education, about moving on and out and up and over--I wouldn't say I'm scared, but I am feeling a bit jarred in regards to my future, out of harmony with what I so easily picture in my head. I feel focused, and being with people I imitate always serves to remind me of What I Ultimately Want, but in all seriousness, how the hell am I going to get it?

This morning will be marked as a turning point. I'm going to work harder than ever; I will only accept flawlessness in everything I do, and I can't afford to wait for opportunities (as if I've ever waited around for anything). I need to be what I want to be today, not next Monday. Not once finals are over. Not "once I've balanced out my schedule."

I guess I am kind of scared. I'm worried that I won't be able to live up to the life I've built for myself, the reputation I've secured and the expectations of the people I would die for. (I'm not even dramatizing here--I have problems with obsession.) I am cleaning up my squeaky-clean act, adding a second hitch to my star and riding this out in hopes of surprising even myself.

What is happening?!

Today I woke up at nine after a full nights' sleep. I watched Ellen and drank two cups of coffee.

After breakfast, I meandered over to the office where I worked six hours designing; I made $100.00. Got compliments from my boss.

During my lunch hour, I planned a trip to Portugal with my brother. Dad said, "Yes."

I then came home to see I had received a new book two days ahead of schedule. ("Portrait of an Addict as a Young Man," by Bill Clegg.)

I washed down a beer and drove to Central Market; saw an old friend of mine who has a crush on me. (Tonight, my friends were having a vegetarian barbeque by the pool, so I picked up my favorite salsa and a pack of Blue Moon beer.)

I drank more, ate decent tofu kebabs, and we talked about relationships and the rapping style of Nikki Minaj.

At ten, I left for home to watch my favorite Bravo show and finish reading Bridges of Madison County.

Two years ago, I would call this a very full and satisfying day. The perfect summer evening, spent with friends and flies and frothy sweet alcohol. Money in the pocket, a trip quickly approaching, and a pretty decent tan.

I'm still "happy." Yet, right now, I am frightfully discontented with my life.

21 Years

Tomorrow, at exactly 12:07 a.m., I will have been alive on this earth for 21 years.

Twenty-one years of love, and family, and laughter. Twenty-one years of phenomenal friends, the best mother in the world, a loving and accepting father--a best friend in my brother.

But it has also been 21 years of tears and heartbreak. Melodramatic and ultimately minor, in truth, but I have felt pain so suffocating I could not breathe, so painful I could not open my eyes. I have "seen the light," but it was so bright it left me blind. I have also felt fear, a lot of fear. An inordinate, unnecessary amount of fear.

But right now, on this night, I am alive. I am alive with the soft yellow light of my room, the fan blowing air like passing phantoms; I am alive with three glasses on the side of my bed--one for water, one for coffee, one this evening's wine; I am alive with my floor completely camouflaged in old art prints and khakis, a copy of Interview splayed open to a shot of M.I.A.

I love fiercely and only know love that is obsessive, grasping, under the skin. Detriment--likely--but a Universal Truth of Dustin O'Neal at Twenty. Maybe I'll learn casual love later.

As I teeter on this brink, the true, last moment of childhood, I feel nothing. I am happy, but I was happy yesterday.

And I'll be happy tomorrow, as long as everyone shows up to my party.

Slippery

Lately, my feelings have been extremely slippery.

In short bursts I feel clarity, but it's of the happy variety, the easy variety. Clarity is easy to come by when life seems perfect (and life only seems perfect when, by the function of an intensely pleasurable moment, you forget the peripheral imperfections). In no time at all, I resume my neutral state, sometimes slipping into "deep" thought, which is another way of saying "no thoughts, just an all-consuming emotional weight."

That guy did end up calling me back yesterday and we enjoyed a semi-wonderful brunch this afternoon. What does that say about the profound sadness I felt yesterday, and will most likely feel again once my ego-bucket has emptied?

(Do not mock the ego-bucket. We all have one, and they empty easily, like the cones at water parks that overflow and tip on willing passerby. The tipping is hardly noticeable, but once the buckets are drained of their life-giving nectar we are left with skinless emotions, like a peeled tomato after blanching. Everything is tender and sensitive to prodding.)

Whoa, too many similes.

If I like this guy, than I should want him. If I am going to spend a day moping, at least let it inspire me. If I'm going to feel joy, it should last more than an hour. So, essentially, I am done with the slippery. I need concrete from now on.

A Sad Day

LORDY. I swear I'm not as sad as this blog impresses you--but why write when you're happy? I don't even need a blog when I'm happy. Happy times are for reading, not writing.

I have learned that true sadness is only felt after a seemingly unjust tug-of-war with love. The guessing games, the fleeting attractions, the steps taken to either prevent seeming overeager or ensure your interest is properly interpreted. I am in a tug-of-war, and losing. Or perhaps I've lost.

It's not a game shared with anyone else, even lovers, but one you play only with yourself--God knows what the other person is feeling. It really doesn't matter. Even if he is head over heels and you occupy his every free thought you'd never know, and it isn't important to know. How you react to your suspicions of his feelings tells you the most about how the game will end. Are you anxious? Are you aloof?

If you're aloof, well, lucky you. I envy aloof. Even in relationships where I couldn't give a rat's ass about the other person I cannot manage aloof. I equate aloof with guilt. In fact, I attribute guilt to any emotion other than affection or respect. As in, I feel shitty when I'm not totally fair with the other person.

Flashback: The week before spring break, I end a thing with a guy I had been dating for about two months. Because I never allowed the thing to become more than a thing, I didn't have to drop a whole breakup bomb on him. I just left a trail of sulphur and let the burn reach him slowly. Not cruel, but possibly heartwrenching (I mean, I'm kind of a catch, you know, with my emotional stability and all) and definitely dishonest. Just left him one day on his porch without a kiss and never spoke again.

Flashforward: Meet the most amazing person. Flirt for a week, go on a date that redefined Good Dates, flirt for another week, and here I am writing. On a Friday night. I'll let you guess the intervening details.

Perfect guy, and I blew it by doing nothing. Fickle. So I pulled too hard on this tug-of-war and fell straight on my back. I'm not sure if I'm in the mud yet, but for now, Fitzgerald is my only numbing agent and, much to my dismay, Amory Blaine is having his heart broken, too.

There isn't lesson from this, and that may be the worst part. Perhaps I am just reeling from the effects of karma--getting what I deserve for leaving someone without giving them confirmation of my departure and, therefore, never freeing them to live their lives without expectation of a sudden return. (Again, I doubt the situation is this dramatic, but God am I sad right now.)

Conclusions have always been the weakest component of my writing, but I'm going to try with this one: After getting off the phone with my mom, ranting all about this boy and lapping up any consolation she had to give, I saw a cloud in what has literally been a cloudless sky. It was so beautiful I stood up out of my reading and wine-induced stupor to look at it. (I've posted it below in what appears to be the highest quality my Mac can afford) The cloud, I hope, is a metaphor. This moment in my life is so sad, in so many different ways aside from missing out on Mr. Perfect, but it is beautiful. And like a cloud, this time of deep introspection and growth will pass, and life will be a spotless blue. So I should appreciate them now, before they dissipate.

Love

Love is the weirdest thing. I've been in a few relationships, and have felt "in love," but I don't think I truly understood what It was until this past summer. The few weeks following my return from Europe all I could think about, write about, talk about, was love. Love is everything: love is motivation, love is pain, love is happiness, love is physical satiation.

Time has passed, though, and I've surrendered Love and am allowing It to do what It wants.

I've been dating someone for about six weeks now, and there isn't any spark. There's comfort, and we get along well. I see it as a shared journey in search of Love, which we will not find in each other but are sharpening our senses and preparing our minds for when It does come.

Today, Valleywag posted a series of accidentally-published Facebook messages obtained during a recent security goof on the website. No matter how "public" our culture seems to be--reality shows, webcams, blogs like the one you're reading--the truth is rarely told. These messages touched me, even through their grammatical errors, enough that I cried. I've included a few below.

Below: I feel like I've been through this exact scenario, but was never honest enough with myself to express it.


Below: They're the lyrics from Blink182's "Down," and end with a wrenching addendum in Spanish.
Below: Fairly certain this is from a young boy in England. Don't we all want to be told this?
Below: This one made me cry. Not a single period in the entire letter, which makes me wonder if the lack of grammar adds to the emotional effect. This is clearly a man in love.
How many of us experience this kind of love? Maybe I'm naive to even consider this Love, but I know I want to have this. And, likely, not everyone finds It in their lifetime.

Be-Have

Prince Pelayo

Sometimes inspiration can come on so strong I feel stifled. The sheer power of the inspiration breaks my bones and crushes the more gentle organs, and leaves me feeling empty and unimportant. I am so many things, but so many things I want to be I am not.

Now is the time for change, and I'm going to fight through the oppression of observed brilliance to make my own.

And if you're in the mood to be destroyed, just take a peak at Kate Loves Me.

Best Friend Needed

I am tired of guys. Guys from a distance, that's fine, (Yes, man walking his dog outside Neiman's, I'm referring to you.) but guys up close and personal? The kind you've gotta talk to? That's rough.

Exhibit A: Shopping today with a friend--got a fantastic "Magic Mouse" but also found out my iPod is just barely past it's warranty and has a fatal hard drive error--I walked past one of my Exes. (I tend to call them Awxes.) He said nothing, I said nothing, and I walked on by. At first, I was amused. This had been a guy who'd begged for a few more dates after I lost interest. Literally harassed me for an Italian dinner, and I of course said no. And no, and no and no. But something didn't feel right, walking by without saying hello. So I did what felt natural.

I texted him, "LOL!"

And, being just as smart a communicator as I, he quickly responded, "eww lol." I, for one, find it even more directionless than my lonely acronym, which at least had a sense of humor. The addition of "eww" has completely mangled whatever meaning the LOL would have otherwise had. But that is beside the point.

Exhibit B: Old guy. Back in the picture. Still kind of charming, but I accidentally dissed some of his creative work (it was bad. Real bad) and thought I'd be spared his further interest, thereby letting me off the romantic hook without having an actual discussion. But no. He tells me "Good seeing you" via (SURPRISE!) text, and I respond in kind. And he finishes it with, "Let's hangout soon". No period. And no, period.

And people ask me why I don't have gay friends. Here's (/are) the only requirement (/s) for Dustin C. O'Neal:

When we sit down for dinner and talk, do you turn me on? If you had a bag over your head, would I still want to sleep with you? When I text you LOL, do you smile and respond in a way I understand? Can we, ya know...and then play eight nonstop hours of Super Smash Brothers? And, on a separate but entirely relevant note, are you less than double my age? If so, call me. Call Me 4 Dat Good.

Fraud

Today I was the victim of Up In The Air, the Oscar-ambling flick about a rugged, lonely man (aptly played by a rugged, lonely actor) and his empty relationships. I didn't cry--I didn't know I was supposed to--but I left completely silent. Nothing to say. Nothing to think. My thoughts had been read by some screenwriter, probably living in Williamsburg or Seattle, a few years ago, plucked by some ambitious producer in Hollywood, adapted and cast with my friends and thrown on screen for all to see. The emptiness of daily life is something we mentally push aside, like bills on the dining room table, eventually buried with Crate & Barrel catalogs, grocery lists, our extra salt shaker and possibly even a placemat, just to make sure the Offending Article is hidden. That Which We Do Not Speak Of. But eventually my hollandaise needs a pinch of salt and my grinder is missing, or I need to set the table. And there it is. IMPORTANT, written in red. (It's likely Helvetica, and if the Offending Article didn't involve me having less of something it might even be kind of pretty, in it's perfect proportion and red-on-white design.)

Up In The Air is a bill left on the table. Life is tough, love is rare--exceptionally rare. I learned that from both a summer in Paris and the film Before Sunset. And today, walking out of the theater, I was on autopilot. Movements were slow, deliberate. And deliberation does not necessarily mean there is caution involved. Changing lanes becomes an arduous, "I hope there isn't anyone in the left lane going 80" kind of action, but made without thinking.

If love is life, lovelessness is numbness. I wish I had a better word than "numbness"--it's one of those that seems to be a mistaken combination of syllables--but it's the most appropriate.

Today I was also the victim of bank fraud. I checked my account this morning, one day before leaving for Miami, mind you, to find that my entire checking has been drained. The bank says there's a 90% chance I'll have the money back by morning, but it seems like such a slap in the face on December 30th, 2010. I am love(r)less, penniless, and a bit hopeless. Hopefully the superficiality of Miami will remind me why we Americans live--to eat, drink, and ogle on the beach.

The Semester

This Fall has been sobering. And not in the healthy way. Not in the, "I woke up today feeling fresh and sprinted six miles!" kind of way; no, in the "God, reality sucks." kind of way. And by "reality," I am referring to what our parents always referred to as The Real World. And this Real World doesn't contain Anderson Cooper's adorable ex-boyfriend.

Lesson 1: Dicks exist. There are people who make unjust decisions based on prejudice and, most frighteningly, for Fuck's Sake, and these people cannot be trusted and deserve no respect. I am actually referring to a very specific series of Fuck Dustin events that hit me in succession in late November and early December. Actually, revisiting them is a bit too harsh at the moment. Though, from now on I'll guard my asshole a bit better.

Lesson 2: You don't always get what you deserve. Ideas can be thrown away, work unacknowledged, and as someone who has happily received everything he ever wanted in life (plus more), this is like taking a sip of water and finding the sour bite of Vodka waiting for you beyond the rim. (It ain't Titos, either.)

Lesson 3: Love is entirely unpredictable. I worked with someone this Fall who was a genuine Flavor-Of-The-Week connoisseur, rummaging the dating world for whatever melted popsicle-of-a-man he could find. Oh, its Monday? That means ThirtyyearoldguyIworkwith must have a new boy. Oh, he thought he tasted like medicine? Back to the garbage can.

[I'm selling him a bit short. He did date one guy with an actual job, and two of them were mildly cute. But grape-flavored popsicles look good, too, until you look in the mirror and your mouth is dyed like you ate one of Lady Gaga's lavender wigs.]

Lesson 3 (continued): There was one man I wanted this semester. (And "wanted" is past tense because there was never any "getting.") He was much older (like, Daddy range--don't judge), but gorgeous, fluent in four languages, and the owner of a Chateau in the rural Loire Valley of France. I have always been into the...erm, ADULT type of man-- I wrongly fancy myself an old (er) soul--but never have I lusted after anyone this strongly. The fact that he never even REALIZED all of my awkward Hellos and How Are Yous (naturally, in my way-too-tight jeans) were an attempt at flirtation is the most upsetting part of the whole story. I just don't have the personal radar. One second I meet a straight man, three seconds later he tells me I'm "charming" and slips me a note with his number and "lets hook up soon." But give me six months, a toned ass and close proximity and I STILL can't get a man's attention.

But why is love unpredictable? (I use the word "love" loosely here) Because, all my time spent on this French-speaking, tanned and rugged Da Vinci of a man left me with nothing; but the entire time, a slightly younger man, yet with all the power and possibly a bit more in his pockets, wanted to, and I quote, "pin me up against a wall." And he did, in due time. But, like lesson number 2, don't I deserve the man I want? The man who is, by all accounts, LESS good-looking and OLDER than the man who actually wants me?!

And that leaves me here. Back at home, playing videogames and reading a biography of Alexander the Great. (My second-favorite gay of all time.) I feel pretty empty. Pretty unsuccessful. And I hope the next year brings something better. To end a year where I excelled at school, had three life-changing internships, spent six weeks in Paris, and lived out a few romantic fantasies in such cloudiness is the real tragedy of this situation. Like winning a marathon but finding the finish line to be two PVC pipes and fishing wire.

Tunnel vision

The bus stop. Dear god, the bus stop. I was waiting for the 101 from Sherry Matthews, and I see this guy. Just from the back, like a three-quarters angle. "Bulletproof," by La Roux, was playing in my headphones, and something about this man's stance, the way he nodded to nothing in self-awareness, in combination with the dance music, reminded me of a thousand moments at once. Very much like a collage from Babel. A smile before speaking, where the mouth forms the shape of an opening conch shell--with good lips, this is very sexy. A flash of the eyes when walking alongside each other. Even this man's smell. My knees literally went weak and I felt overwhelmingly empty. My day seemed purposeless and my goals more like pathetic attempts at distraction. Which, maybe they were--are we all just trudging ahead in life to forget what we want most? (Not money--THIS is the real distraction. A career. And therefore, education. And therefore, tests, homework, and professors' salaries.) Deep down, isn't love the only thing we're after?

Needless to say, this man changed the course of my day entirely in a nanosecond.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss was clearly the one doing all the ignoring, because being forgotten--being ignored--is just about the most painful experience in life.

Imogen Heap's "Half Life"

Imogen Heap released her new album, Ellipse, last week and it's great. It lacks the spunk and musical hooks of Speak for Yourself (with the exception of "Bad Body Double" and "2-1"), but one track, "Half Life," hit a chord with me. A few listens through, I sold the song short, assuming it was just another pretty, piano-driven track--a type of song Heap is prone to crafting. But it's one of the most beautiful tracks she's ever written or produced, instantly melancholy but never schmaltzy. There is an opening lyric that hit me like a brick wall a few hours ago and altered the course of my emotions today entirely:

The stickler is you've played not one beat wrong
You never promised me anything
Even sat me down, warned me just how they fall
And I knew the odds were I'd never win

Just as my sad self begins to reorient to the US, albeit bitterly, this lyric came in and crushed all superficial progress. I've experience these events more often recently, a perfect day shattered by a lyric, or a thought, a text (or lack of one), an image. And of course all the people I care about suddenly want to know what's wrong; I tell them, "I'm in a bad mood."

But I'm actually just a little heartbroken. I'm heartbroken because, like an animal making their march from barn to slaughter house, I've seen the greener grass--and it's the difference between life and death. That is, a happy life and an expected life.

The Easiest Way to Ruin Your Day: Guaranteed!

Here at Sherry Matthews I've been working on a presentation for a client involving doctors. Here's the gist: I search "doctor," "asian doctor," "hispanic doctor," etc. and pick out the most politically-correct images. This gets boring. A few minutes ago I started searching for more personally-relevant (versus project-relevant) images, and I came upon something profound.

Getty, being a stock photo resource for advertisers and companies looking for the most socially-recognizable types of images, only displays photos it believes advertisers (and ultimately, society) will find "normal." That is, images with the most easily understood message.

Searching for "gay men," images of gay cowboys and threesomes are the top results. Lesbians are even worse; apparently, a "lesbian" is either an old, overweight hag or an oiled up vixen in a makeout session.

Of course, "perfect family" takes the cake. The families are literally all-white, and pictured only in the most WASP-y of settings. The most prevalent motifs seem to be white picket fences, oak trees in fall and the coast of New England. Seriously, America? I'm not a politically-correct person. In fact, I find political correctness to be a poison, a reverse version of racism that's just as sinister as basic sociocultural prejudice. (Like "Ebony" and "Black Businessman Magazine.") But a day after a poll was published showing nearly 28% of the United States is "unsure" whether or not our president was born in the U.S., even the most basic cultural judgments seem like persecution.

This country isn't a horrible place. But even with the best schools of higher learning in the world, even as the center of technological and design innovation on the planet, we are still the least intelligent, most narrow-minded, frightened people to ever hold so much power among nations.

Holy shit, "style!"

Quick little realization.

The term "style" is outdated and needs to be thrown out. It's connotations are too broad; if there can be good and bad "style," how can anything be "stylish?" Which is the worst phrase of all, because at one point in time Lisa Frank binders were stylish.

And "fashion," which is misused far too often within both the daddy's girls-with-money clique and the gay community, is so much deeper than style. And it is important. Fashion and clothing is important because it brings to the surface everything latent about a person. (That is, if they even care enough to get dressed, period.)

Are you religious? Slap on a Kabbalah bracelet, a cross necklace, the Star of David. Are you gay? It's incredibly easy to show your sexuality through clothing choice--or, as my incredibly dikey (yet entirely straight) friend Lauren puts it, "Let your rainbow flag fly." Are you smart? Are you a stoner? Are you a geek/into movies/into music?

Thoughts, aspirations, admirations, sexual longings--these are all shown through how we dress, like organs on the outside of your body. Your heart, your brain, even your stomach (those Dr. Pepper tees need to die) is on display when you throw on your unwashed button-up and mussy slacks.

So why would I buy $100 Marc Jacobs track pants? Because what he as a designer values--simplicity, volume, French culture, multiculturalism, innovation, New Americanism--part of me values, and therefore I'm giving away just a bit more of myself when I wear them. Maybe it's subtle, even unknown to the average person (the tags aren't on the outside. Obvious logos make the process of analyzing an outfit way too easy), but for people who care about dressing, who have tapped into that third-realm of perceptive communication--your only target audience--they get it. For the rest of 'em, it's like writing a sign in Japanese and expecting the Chinese to read it.

Viewed in this light, clothing becomes part of the machine, one of the cogs that drive us to our ultimate self.