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.

Advice for Women

Ladies. There are some VERY easy ways to take risks this Fall, and we all know being risky shouldn't be easy...

1. Floppy hat. Not just BIG. Floppy, masculine. NOT cheap-looking or vintage.



2. Men's loafer. Make sure it is masculine or it just looks like a modified ballet slipper.


3. When you aren't wearing the loafers, wear chunky heels in flesh tones and blacks.

For me, I just need a new, good pair of dark jeans. (Mine were stolen in Barcelona.)

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.

Lessons in construction

These pics, from this Flickr photostream, are pretty damn amazing. Late 50s menswear--or, really, boyswear--is exactly the kind of clothing I want to wear. But it's in the (sigh) style of wearing these pieces, the choice of color combinations and practical fabrics that set them apart from anything currently being produced. I hear Levi's bringing back their old denim construction (a la their European collections) and there are vendors like Billykirk and Gant that maintain a high standard of wearability over time, but will the era of rugged (but, really, flawless) clothing ever be replicated? Nah.

(As a side note, it's interesting to note that during the 50s and early 60s, women's fashion seems to have taken a backseat while menswear flourished: it was the during the evolution of bonafide American style, which is in fact male-centric. Anything "American" in fashion is usually a denim jacket, a paisley scarf, a leather boot...never a pencil skirt or silk blouse. Paris has always been the center for women. Italy is menswear, through and through [even their womenswear is masculine and hard-edged], and the U.S. is no different--albeit without the dark, sexual elements of Italian design.)

Anyone wondering where Ralph Lauren drew his initial fashion inspirations should look no further than pictures 1, 2, and 3.