His Royal Shivness

The Parade of Freaks. Am I their leader?

2011-11-06T16:14:00.002-05:00

A revelation in 3 parts.

I had a date the other night with a friend of a friend of a friend. We met at my local.

‘Hi. I’ve done my homework on you. I looked you up online, I checked out your photos – I wouldn’t be here, otherwise – we have a mutual friend. Oh and I googled your company.’ He rattled with an urgency while giving me a furious handshake.
‘Um, ok. Well, nice to meet you,’ I said.

I had a red wine. He had a small water. He was unengaged and uncomfortable and I couldn’t be bothered to alleviate him of either feeling even though I certainly could have. But we’re all adults now: engagement is a reciprocal effort.

He left after ten minutes.

I texted one of my best friends who here shall be known as Tzarina and asked her half-jokingly,
‘Seriously, is it me?’

She replied: 'Maybe it IS you. Maybe it’s your inner core determining really quickly whether someone is a fit for you and if they’re not it’s warding them off so you don’t waste time.'
'God, I love you,' I texted back.

I actually have been trying to hone in on that. This is what Malcolm Gladwell calls ‘thin-slicing’ and others call intuition or instinct. So I chose to believe the perspective Tzarina gave me.

I always say that I don’t date a lot but as the end of the year approaches and I look back on what has occurred over the months, really, it hasn’t been a barren year for love, romance and dates.

Over beers the other night with Mama I relayed the latest tale for our amusement.

‘Maybe you need to amend your checklist,’ he suggested.
‘But the only things on my checklist are ability to communicate, appreciation, integrity, honesty, curiosity. Just the core basics.'
‘Exactly,’ Mama said as he ordered us more beer. ‘Your expectations are too high.’

I’m certain he was joking.

Part 1. I have a physical type.
This being New York, it’s not uncommon for people to have very specific checklists spanning physicality, emotional outlook as well as personality. Often, these people rarely compromise and why would they? The world we live in, and especially that of online dating, informs them they don’t have to.

I often wonder if these very selective people ever end up with anyone or if they do, do they really have relationships of substance? Do all their friends have to meet the checklist too? Surely we all know that while something might look good on paper, its reality, encompassing the indefinable and irrational component that is emotion, is often rather different.

I have never thought I had a checklist that contained anything other than what I consider to be basic and decent human traits. Consider my boyfriends who have varied in terms of height, hair and eye colour and body type. However, it’s true that I am sexually attracted to a certain physical specimen, although I’m not rigid about it. My friends know of my physical preferences – sometimes better than I do myself.

Some time ago, after meeting my Summer romance, I lunched with Twister to fill her in on my love life.

‘Uh huh. And he’s short, petite body, brunet, a little hairy.’ The fact that this was a statement and not a question shows how well she knows me.
‘Ha! No, smarty-pants, not exactly!’ I said defiantly.
‘Oh, right. I forgot the tattoos,’ she replied deadpan. I looked at her sheepishly and then grinned helplessly in the manner of a naughty schoolboy caught red-handed. I nodded.

What struck me after Twister’s description of my Summer romance was that when I recalled my Winter romance and all the others in between and since, they basically all look the same.

Fast track to Friday night where I was hanging with my boys: Mama, Tedwina, Bubble, J.HO and Sunshine. Then later with Catie Kouric and AnereS.

I met a guy.

‘Well, he’s very your type,’ they said. He was short dark haired and petite. He was a great kisser.

He was also a bit weird.

Back at my place, he looked at me and said,
‘Shall we invite some others over? I have Grndr on my phone.’ Not exactly the kind of sex talk I like while someone is naked and astride me.

I mean, I understand the gay man’s penchant for inviting other playthings into the bedroom but I thought this usually happened after a few years of being together not after two hours.

‘No, I’m not really into the idea right now,’ I said.
‘Ugh! Why not??’ he whined.
‘You know, I’m not really into this either.’

Part 2. I have a character type. And I have control issues.
Nearly all of my 2011 romantic encounters have shared character similarities. All were into avoidance, which naturally meant that at any critical moment none of them were anywhere to be found. Neither WInter nor Summer could embrace appreciation or the reality and work of true intimacy. Winter lived in a fantasy of fire and passion and Summer in a seemingly semi-permanent state of self-medication.

Both of them had control issues. One asserted them by constantly checking up on me and ensuring I knew everything going on his life and head, the other by slowly reducing communication or revelation and retreating into elongated periods of silence. I’m sure both, perhaps subconsciously, hoped I would hungrily feed off what they were giving or not giving me and beg for more.

But that’s the beautiful unpredictability of life and the benefit of knowing yourself. When it’s not right and you’ve tried to right it but failed, you’re more inclined to say, ‘Fuck this.’

And that is my control issue.

Someone else may think they are pulling the strings but if I look closely, I am always the driver of things, the negotiator, the elicitor, the pacifier. I'm generally always the one who initiates things and puts the finishing touches to their endings.

By the way, don’t get me wrong. It may not sound like it but I only have fond memories of Winter and Summer both of whom I genuinely liked. They were charming and alluring and there were fun times. I will even admit that despite the brevity of my time with Winter, I loved him.

Part 3. I want to be James Bond.
My disappointment in the endings of these encounters is not focused on them being lost great loves of my life (their brevity giving way to proof of what could have been) but, rather, that I witnessed flashes of potential pointing to the greater men both seemed to want to be but which ultimately and quickly faded away. After all, at the end of the day unless these traits are inherent in you, you cannot sustain their manifestation. (And why should you? Accept who you are and, instead, live in the enjoyment of that.)

They, as were the others in between and since, plagued by troubles and so, in my mind, needed saving.

So it turns out I do have a checklist of sorts. I am akin to an animal rescue operator who hurtles around town drawing to him emotionally damaged animals he thinks are in need of saving, and if the animals in question are short, toned and dark haired all the better.

What I have learned is:

You cannot save everyone.
Some people don’t need saving.
Some people don’t want to be saved.

I shall endeavor to accept number 1.
I will focus on attracting those who fall into number 2.
I will avoid those in category number 3 –they often lack insight. Plus, they are usually always assholes.

What I learned this Summer from Romance and Buffy.

2011-10-02T15:52:00.000-04:00

If Buffy the Vampire Slayer lived in New York, she would fare well, I feel. Compared to most normal people she was physically stronger, intuitively sharper, and able to recover and regenerate very speedily from trials and tribulations. These are handy attributes to have when living in a hard, fast city with a nasty streak, where, if you are not a competitive sort with a rhino hide, it's hard to last long.

I have come to realise over the course of the Summer that I have more in common with Buffy than I ever knew.

My Summer has been a rite of passage of sorts (lined partially with fire and brimstone), packed with introspection and self-knowledge, culminating in not only a clearer understanding of myself and the kind of authentic life I want to live but also how to live it.

Interestingly, as if by universal design, two similar experiences in the form of romantic adventures have bookended this period of my life and have allowed me to see how far I have come and whether these learnings have taken hold.

The first was an intense, dramatic, Hollywood tale built on a strong connection of challenge and banter where the passion was extreme in both the positive and the negative. In the end, my insecurities and his issues took hold, ultimately squashing the experience.

In hindsight, I can say that my behaviour was based on trying to hang on to something that, at times, felt good while going through what was undoubtedly the nadir of my life. Yet, trying to make something work when you are not fully equipped is like trying to breathe calmly when underwater without breathing apparatus.

This was the catalyst that set me on the path of clarifying, defining, understanding and articulating what this authentic life I wanted to lead would really look like. Consequently, I'm grateful for the experience.

Months after a process of change, the second connection came into being. A more slow burning but very romantic encounter (it's hard to top lying on the beach at 2am kissing each other under a blanket of fiercely bright stars), I decided I didn't want to taint its calm loveliness with my projections into the future, comparisons to the past, or allow assumption, fear and doubt to cloud my actions or reactions. Instead, I elected to not think too much and rather focus on enjoying the present of it.

There is a certain poetic beauty to letting something unfold naturally without trying to figure it out with analytical precision. It's more fun, it's less pressurised and, I believe, you both get more out of each other and the dynamic.

Neither romance was long lasting but, in the end, that isn't the point. In the first, I was re-taught, and with force, that basing my actions and reactions on fear, assumption and doubt meant I wasn't always being fully authentic. I wasn't honouring myself or my values while with him, principally because I didn't have confidence in them or even know them with full clarity.

In the second, armed with this knowledge, I was able to apply these honest desires to the experience much more quickly, and it solidified for me how I want to be in a relationship and what I want from a partner.

Both were visits from ghosts of relationships past where I spent too long in something where I didn't trust myself, our values were not aligned, I was not being respected and I was not being true to myself. I have spent a lot of time in that place in the past, anchored by fear and insecurity. I didn't like it.

Both were also oportunities for me to flex some new found muscles of intuition, presence and authenticity and, how when those things are not present for me, I cannot delay in speaking up. Plus, I must do so accepting that, despite what potential exists between us, the consequences can be the beginning of a richer, more fulfilling dynamic as a result of this openness, or the ending of it.

After all, some lovers are destined only to be lovers for a brief period of time. Others have the potential to turn from lovers to friends while others may turn from friends or lovers into life partners. Where two people make a connection with each other, they both must choose to make it work, determining its direction and duration as they go. Or not.

Yet, what is absolute is that when you are at the stage of your values and your true self being repressed and you are, therefore, mired in agitation, anxiety, insecurity and discomfort, it makes it impossible not to face the music. It also makes it much easier to be ok with whatever the outcome. When you adopt the perspective of experiences being learnings that lead you to where you want to go it's freeing and, I like to believe, makes for a much quicker recovery: disappointments evolve rapidly into pleasurable, if sad, memories, rather than painful regrets.

Of course, I am not the Dalai Lama. Neither do I live in a lobotomised state of pleasantry. I can be moody, I take loss badly, I hate to be told what to do, and I still have insecurities which I sometimes indulge. Yet, I make an effort to no longer allow these forces to drive me.

At the end of the day, I am and will most likely always be the sort of man who will put himself out on a limb - and often, out on as many limbs as I can - for something I passionately believe in, despite being scared shitless at times and knowing while the consequence can be great reward, it can also be awful rejection. Yet, continual engagement in this rather dangerous (?) but, ultimately, fulfilling and honest behaviour has allowed me to develop a rather strong skin and, like Buffy, recover quickly from misadventures.

At the end of the day, I live in trust, and in terms of love, I trust completely that I will be in a wonderful, fulfilling, thrilling romantic adventure with a man who will surprise me. Surprise me by embracing his vulnerability as a step towards a richer relationship rather than seeing this as a relinquishing of his power. Surprise me by being driven by passion rather than fear, doubt and assumption. Surprise me by evaporating all my prior experiences that sometimes appear and stale my vision, with his candor, directness and authenticity.

Until that time, all experiences are to be embraced - which is a hardcore daily practice since New York romantic encounters often involve engagement with narcissists, the disrespectful, the uncompromising, those with clinically diagnosable personality disorder, the fearful, the control freaks, the power trippers and substance abusers.

I must trust that my love and I will find each other in the midst of all of that, and in the meantime, perhaps all the other guys I meet in between would be open to the services of a life coach?

Funnily enough, I happen to know a good one - and my rates are reasonable until the end of the year.

No Cure Required

2011-07-25T15:51:00.000-04:00

Lovely Lady MEDley invited me to a preview screening of Crazy, Stupid, Love, the new romcom starring SteveCarrell, Julianne Moore, and a poker hot Ryan Gosling. It was wonderfully clever. Funny and excellently acted with a script that mixes truth, emotional variance and farce reminiscent of Feydeau with ease and believability.

It's a story about soul mates and fighting emotionally, spiritually and physically for a love you believe in. And this is where I caution people to take care when watching the film. I loved it. Yet, this film can leave you feeling a little despondent if you are ready to embrace a romantic adventure with another but haven't as yet found your fellow explorer.

I am, in essence, a trustful person. I believe people are inherently good and kind and I look for that in them completely expecting to find it, even if it's not forthcoming once, twice or three times. I believe that good things happen to good people, and people who do mean things get their comeuppance. Naive perhaps but it's how I operate.

I am also the kind of person who doesn't give up on trying for something I really, truly want, whichever area of my life the desire relates to.

And all this is also what makes me an incurable romantic.

But we all have our doubtful days, don't we? When talking to QKofK about my post film despondency, she said,

'But it's a movie. Out of ALL the people you know, who has made such romantic gestures? Who has fought for love because it's something they truly believed in?'

'Me,' I replied.

I once spent hours tracking down a black, cracked leather jacket in the UK and had it shipped to me because I loved it so much.

I once jumped on a plane from London to Thailand to be with a boyfriend because we were young and in love and couldn't bear to be apart for the duration of his travels.

I went beyond my own comfort zone to salvage my last relationship.

I once jumped in a cab to go round to a lover's house after we'd had an argument to fight for something I thought to be truly wonderful and valuable to me.

Romance, bravery and determination don't always mean your expectations are met. I got the jacket; I travelled with the boyfriend; I left the relationship.

The cab episode, which some might think a lovely romantic gesture worthy of any Hollywood movie, resulted in me being rejected by an emotionally cold and distant statue of a lover stiffly accommodating me in his doorway.

What does it matter? I know no other way.

I have grown up to understand that, at least for myself, the only way to get something I really want is to work hard and give it my all. There comes a point when you realize you are trying to breathe life into something that is long dead but I must try everything at my own disposal to ensure there was nothing I could have done to revive it.

While operating this way means you don't always get the outcome you want or think you want, it does always guarantee success. This just may not be understood at the time.

I still think I can win tennis matches when I have multiple match points against me.

I still trust I will find my perfect vintage Prada jacket at the price I want.

I still believe in fighting for love despite having been rejected in the past.

But what I've learned is I desire someone who would fight heart and soul for me.

Whether it be my doubles partner on the court, the sales clerk in the vintage store, or my boyfriend in the face of adversity.

The Anger of Angels

2011-04-07T20:27:00.004-04:00

Your skin used to be my skin.
Your body my body.
Your sin, our sin.
Or so I faintly recall.

Were you a dream?

Your hair used to pleasure my fingers as I unitiringly caressed you.
At least, as I recreate the feeling while alone, I suppose it used to?

Were you a dream?

I am blurred, spiraling from the shallow to the deep.
For as light to dark, as warm to chill so your love to ice.
An angry angel, spear drawn, speeding to focus another strike. Is it you?

Is it you?

That pink bow stretching to upturned corners reaching for glistening eyes
Is more exact than my imagination could ever hope to materialize.

Oh, were you a dream.

For my answer it seems
Is here.
Emerging from shadow where it waits patiently
Ready whenever I question,
To haunt me.

Hopefully

2011-02-24T09:55:00.002-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I have spent the last two weeks in a veritable love fest. As my birthday approached, friends and family came in from far and wide to celebrate it with me: QKofK came from the war zone, VaVaVoom, The Batten and Lu came with their respective partners and friends from the UK. My friends MonogAMouse, Cool Chick, Yours Truly, KRoss Court, Queenie, Twister, Queen Serene, Southern Belle, McDreamy and basically everyone who is in my Who's Who came to my birthday parties to see in my 41st year on the planet.

I have always felt like I have lived a blessed life. Despite the adversity my family has endured, I remember laughter, good food, conversation, passion and adventure rather than arguments, poverty, misery and gloom.

My family has fashioned my outlook on life: things are hard, yes, but at the end of the day if you think positively, you get positivity.

I can't even articulate how lucky and blessed I have felt these past few weeks with so much love surrounding me. What with various strains and stresses bearing down on me it was a veritable tonic having so many loved ones around. It was like diving into a trusted, supportive bed of arms and kisses.

My brother arrived the day before my party and took QKofK and I out for dinner to the Tipsy Parson. We chatted over red wine, ribs and steak.

I often forget how clever my brother is. I told him of my bad work situation and he articulated the problem and then the solution in 3 easy sentences.

Then he took us out for brunch. And then shopping.

The others arrived at my place on Saturday for drinks and chat before we headed to the Polar Lounge for the festivities. I must confess I was rather tipsy by the time we turned up but a good time was had by all and it ended with QKofK, VaVaVoom, Tory Boy and another friend who here might have to be known as Le Frenchie, eating bacon cheeseburgers at The Diner at about 1am.

My actual birthday was blissful, spent in my pyjamas chatting all day with QKofK drinking coffee before the out of towners descended at my place for dinner on me at Pierre Loti.

It really was a wonderful set of celebrations.

The rest of the week was spent hanging out, shopping, sitting on my sofa drinking tea, eating cheeseburgers and treating ourselves in all manners.

I found myself at times harping on about my recent romantic disappointment. Yet, with my friends in attendance I couldn't help but be reminded that it's important to focus on what's going on in front of your face.

The tonic that my friends and family provided me has helped reinvigorated me. I'm more understanding of myself and the reality of situations. And I'm hopeful.

Acceptance

2011-02-11T09:12:00.004-05:00

I have issues.

One of my aunts who has cancer has been given 3 months to live. Another is in a coma on life support.

I, my work, my opinions are attacked and undermined every single day, and have been for the past 8 months, by undoubtedly the most despicable, insidious client I have worked with. Ever.

My dysfunctional family is crumbling all around me.

While I am not someone who lacks confidence, my self esteem has taken a blow with work and historical experiences. A sexless marriage with my XXBF who told me he was just not a sexual person. I was convinced it had to be a problem with me or he was having an affair but he told me I was wonderful and so I justified it.

Then, driven by intuition, I found his online profile on a sex site with sexually explicit pictures of him. He told me he was on there to meet friends.

I was convinced this stemmed from a problem to do with me but he told me I was wonderful and so I justified it.

Then I stumbled across some emails he sent to his best friend which more or less said I was fat and unattractive.

So the reality was I was not wonderful as he claimed and it was a problem to do with me.

And then I am approaching 40.

I didn't think this was a big deal but as with all the other issues listed above which have caused me to live in a constant state of stress, I think I have been in denial.

Turning 40 is a strange thing. Although, I have never felt or looked physically better, when I stopped to think about it, the idea that I may not have as many years left on the planet as I have already lived, is frighteningly real and, well, frightening.

When I was younger and didn't have as much brass-necked confidence about me I would stress endlessly. And, much as I love and adore my family and friends, the only person who truly made me feel better about things, was my dad.

This was because he listened. And he was able to see in me what others, and more importantly I, could not.

My mother is fond of telling me that when I was born, the last of 5, and my father first laid eyes on me, he turned to my mother and said,
"He is so beautiful. We should have 5 more."

When I was a teen and at my greasiest, fattest, blindest, ugliest worst, he would look at me and say with a loving glint in his proud eyes and, often in front of his friends,
'This kid is going to be a real heartbreaker when he grows up."

Even when I was a young adult, working as a journo on a fashion trade magazine I had blagged my way into, I called him at lunchtime while everyone was out and in hushed, desperate, manic tones said,
"I can't do this! I don't know what I'm doing here!"
"Well," he said, "They hired you, didn't they? They've seen your work. So even if you don't believe you know what are you doing, they do."

My self esteem issues undoubtedly stem, in part, from my last relationship. And so, in my last post, where I wrote about meeting someone amazing who seemingly was really into me for me exactly the way that I am...well, sadly, I found that difficult to trust.

Our union was borne out of an argument and fiery passion. Yet, two weeks of bliss, and an argument on my birthday bash part 1 later, he seems unable, as yet, to forgive me for my part in it.

In upset tones to anyone who would listen, I berated myself. I said to QKofK,
"If only I had been different, acted differently."
"It's not about being different," she said. "This is you. This is part of who you are. You acted the way you did because of circumstance and insecurity. And maybe he did too? Forgive yourself. Let go of your past and try to live in the present. If you do, you won't act that way any more."

It sounded like my father's words. One of the most impactful things he ever said to me was,
"It's not important to understand why someone lives the way they do, it's just important to accept it."

My recent blissful experience - however, it pans out - has made me realise that I must give up my past in order to live in the present. I no longer want to be a slave to my experiences.

I can't do anything about illnesses except think positive thoughts.
I can't change my stressful client but I can look at the reality of the situation and know that the issue is not me.
I can't do anything about my past relationship history except accept it, happily, for where it has brought me, and let it go.
I can't retract the arguments I had with that incredible man but I can forgive myself and only hope he can let it go for himself.

With most of my closest friends and family drawing near to celebrate my birthday with me, I feel so incredibly blessed. I have written before how I have great-hearted friends and family and words can't really express the admiration, love and respect I have for them.

They accept me entirely for who I am, exactly as I am, and, what's funny is, in this case I don't doubt it. I believe it. I trust in it. And I feel the same for them.

So as my birthday approaches, I find myself ready to embark on a new adventure. One that involves me becoming the person I truly want to be.

I have issues.

Yet, if the most important people in my life accept me exactly the way that I am, perhaps there is a romantic partner out there for me who can do the same?

But more importantly than that, perhaps I can too.

Falling down

2011-01-30T16:42:00.006-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Years ago when in London, I wrote a book called Jack Miller's Negotiation which was about a group of friends living and working in the city who were all in various states of relationships and life changes. The central protagonist was Jack Miller who finds the object of his affection contained in the form of a beautiful male co-worker, and it charts the ins and outs of their non-relationship.

Basically, it was Bridget Jones for gays.

It was a witty, insightful tale with flashes of perception about the negotiating that seems unavoidable when engaging in relationships, whether you are gay, straight, male or female.

I got taken on by an agent who loved it.

Unfortunately, no publisher found it as witty, insightful or perceptive as I did and it never got published. I also came to wonder if my agent only liked it because he was a closeted homo and identified with some of the themes it presented.

Soon it became that he was always in a meeting when I called and could I leave a number which he could call me back on? Very sweetly, I used to believe he actually would.

But I digress a bit.

The brilliant tag line I came up with and which I used to imagine being on the advertising poster pasted on the underground wall as I waited for the Northern line train, was:

'Jack Miller wants to fall in love: he's about to find out it's a long way down.'

I liked the sentiment of the saying but recently it has made me wonder about the depictions we use when describing love.
We fall in love.
You fall head over heels for someone
You get knocked off your feet.
I've been hit by a lightning bolt.
You are giddy about a person.
I am crazy about someone.

I must surmise that it stems from the idea that when you meet someone for whom you feel this way it equates to a loss of self-control, making one unsteady and vulnerable, yet all the while enjoying the process and the imbalance of the experience.

I am not sure if I believe in love at first sight. I believe in lust at first site, of course. But love? For me that must include knowledge of someone, both the light and the dark, and shared experiences, both good and bad, which reveal the true nature of someone's character.

But there is a stage in between being in lust and falling (and continuing to fall as things progress) in love.

My term for this situation many of us have, do and will find ourselves in is to 'fall in bliss' with someone.

Last week was Dealer's birthday. This being Dealer, who is one of the loveliest people I know, there were about as many people in attendance as at a Madonna concert, and most could surely reenact any of Madge's creative tours better than the icon herself.

Many of my lovelies were in attendance: Coach, Catie Kouric, AnereS, Green Giant and Mama ^-^ to name but a few.

After a few hours, AnereS, Green Giant, Mama ^-^ and I went to a nearby gay sports bar to indulge in more alcoholic fun.
'Honestly, I love this bar but WHY do we come here all the time? This is NOT the place where you come to meet men, this is where you come with your friends,' I moaned.

A tall fellow approached us to chat, interested, I think, in either Green Giant or me (but truth be told things are a bit hazy). He seemed nice but neither of us were that way inclined towards him. I invited him to part 1 of my birthday celebrations (as a sort of apology or consolation).

His friend came up to check on him and I was immediately intrigued,
'Hi,' I said, in what I thought was a seductive and attractive way, but which in reality most likely came out as a slobbering word falling from my lips as my inebriated, glittering eyes tried to settle on this lovely creature's face.
'I fancy you much more than I fancy your friend,' I complimented.
'I don't think that's very nice,' he replied, which was not exactly the response I expected. 'My friend came over to talk to you and you're hitting on me.'
I rolled my eyes as widely as I could manage and said,
'Ugh, well, maybe you'd like my friend [Green Giant]. He thinks you're hot.'
'So, now you are trying to palm me off on to your friend? What is this?'
'Oh forget it, you're not even his type,' I hissed.

That was argument # 1.

Argument # 2, I think, was about my bluntness in asking him about his personal situation ("No boyfriend? Good. Freak, weirdo, asshole? No? Good. Date Sunday night, then?").

Argument # 3 may have been because after I established his single status and asked him out on 'a proper date', I then insisted he come home to spend the night with me right then.
'I'm not doing that. If you are truly interested in me and want a proper date this weekend, that's what we'll do. But I'm not sleeping with you tonight.'
I'm sure I hissed something awful in reply.

Argument # 4 was because he couldn't pronounce my name properly which I found inexcusable and told him so. Again and again and again.

'Are you always this argumentative?' he asked, exasperated.
'I am opinionated and vocal and I say what I think. If you can't handle it, tough,' I growled.

Then he kissed me. An amazingly intense and lasting kiss.

And I fell.

Of course this being me, this strikingly passionate and romantic encounter was followed by me leaving the bar and calling him up to argue some more while shoveling a quarter pounder with cheese and some chips into my gob at the same time.

But then if you can't be yourself at the beginning stages of something, when can you be?

Ex beds and ex cons

2011-01-24T15:41:00.002-05:00

I do worry about my friends. One of them, who here shall remain nameless, reached out to me the other week.

'I've been on craigslist and there is a sex ad by an ex con who has just been released from Rikers and he wants head.'
'Goodness. And I can't even find a nice lamp on there,' I replied.
'Anyway, I've always had a fantasy about having an ex con so I'm thinking about doing it.'
'Um, I think that would be unwise.'
'Why? Oh, because he might have contracted something in prison?'
'No no, not because of that....'

At the end of the day, I don't doubt that the ex con just wants to get off. It's like cottaging in dark wooded areas late at night. No one there wants your wallet, they just want love and affection and sex and maybe a hint of danger.

But in a city where I would not entertain the idea of buying a used bed on craigslist for fear of bed bugs or other such hideousness, it constantly surprises me that the dangers of casual sex encounters often seem rarely entertained.

The Batten once sent me a quiz designed to reveal how much of an outrageous tart you are. You know the type of thing:

"Question 2: Have you ever had anal sex in a field with a nearby cow looking on while you snort cocaine off the buttocks of someone whose name you don't know? If yes, give yourself 10 points!"

While it's true that I was quite a precocious child and, generally, am quite brass-necked about things, I have never thought myself to be that outrageous so I was rather shocked to see my test score had pushed the dial off the Outrageous-tart-o-meter.

When I compared my score to both Soo-Lin's and The Batten's paltry practically double digit offerings (although, let's face it, we never expected Soo-Lin to even reach double digits) it made me wonder if most people lie about these things or just forget.

Certainly, where The Batten was concerned I felt she either 1.) lied, or 2.) is much more of a prude than she has led me to believe all these years.

When it comes to matters of intimacy I may embellish intimate details of some sexual activity I've engaged in with someone to amuse friends when they are down, but generally, and when in relationships, I'm rather Catherine Zeta-Jones about things ("I don't talk about my private life, darling.")

Yet, I am certainly not a boring puritan. I have indulged in all many a manner of questionable activities, many of which I will take to the funeral pyre.

However, it's worth remembering that my teenage years were spent in the era of AIDS and government scare tactics, which warded off any outrageous teenage explorations. Well, mostly.

In a big city like New York, you can indulge in any manner of exploratory activity without judgement, and in secret. Which can make it difficult to trust people, especially where romance is involved.

Even so, I would draw the line at giving head to an ex con, even if he had tattoos and a scruffy look about him.

Or buying a used bed.

Staying grounded

2011-01-16T11:45:00.005-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

A friend told me the other day how he had met an amazing man he thought he could really fall for. I have never heard him talk about a man in such excited terms. Yet, days later, when their second date didn't materialise because of illness, my friend said he wasn't really that hung up about it.

The ability to dismiss one obsessive thought for an opposing one is not unusual when you live in a city famed for its extremes: bitingly cold Winters balance searingly hot Summers; people pop out for a pint of milk in $1500 Cavalli coats over $10 t-shirts; so called friends intensely desire your time and in the next instant defriend you from facebook and delete your number from their phone without explanation.

It did make me wonder, however, in a place where it can be difficult to keep on an even keel as the pendulum of emotions and desires swings from one extreme to the other, are we able to operate and act rationally? Or are we all acting in some degree of manic depression by being dismissive when we don't get what we want as soon as we want it?

I have something of a reputation for being dismissive. I have a friend, who here shall be affectionately known as Wanker, of whom I am very fond. However, when we met, for some reason I instantly tagged him as someone I didn't see a friendship with and this was based entirely on my superficial knowledge of him.

Our friendship only started when he wrote me an email after reading a blog post. Through the course of our exchanges I found him to be a very funny, intelligent and caring man but if he hadn't pressed through my aloofness, how would I ever have discovered this?

Mama ^-^, to whom I am becoming ever closer, is fond of telling me how much he didn't like me when he first met me.

I sort of understand why. I suppose I can come across as a bit up my own arse but often this and dismissive behaviour are self preservation mechanisms, sometimes due to shyness, but in my case more from impatience and making judgements without being in possession of all the facts.

It's a testament to both these fellows that we are friends. After all, if either of them had not made an effort to spark it I'm not sure we would be.

In a city noted for its aggression and competitive nature, it is not uncommon to come across as cynical and negative especially if you don't have good people around you to ground you.

Luckily for me, I have many wonderful people on both sides of the pond who provide these anchors for me.

For example, after my last blog post, BriGht Eyes bbm'd me to pep me up. He is wonderful at doing such things, being one of the most caring people I know, but his comments suddenly made me realize I had probably painted myself as this boring, dry man who moans on about not meeting a man blah blah blah.

I don't think of myself as a bitter, cynical person, and, therefore, I have decided to quit emitting negativity about such stuff cold turkey. I'd much rather get back to being the sort of man who moans about the unfairness of such things as not being able to find that faux fur collared Theory coat in my size.

You can't change the nature of a city but you can manage how its nature affects you, how you see yourself and how you see the world - your world.

If you stray from the path, I can only hope that you are incredibly blessed like me and have beautiful people in your life to put you back on an even keel either through soft sentiments or hard words, both which stem from love.

I always carry the words of my friends and family with me, lest they are, in some cases, no longer with me, or simply not near me.

Like those of my beloved Mama ^-^
'I love you now but, God, when I first met you I thought you were a total bitch.'

Boys, boys, boys, we love them. Or do we?

2011-01-10T18:04:00.008-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I really wanted to start off the New Year with a blog post about something interesting, exciting, different to the usual topics that I rabble on about but blogging is a bit like making New Year's resolutions and going to the fortune teller all rolled into one.

You go to the fortune teller when you want to know about love, money, career. New Year's resolutions are centered around love, money, career (and weight).

When it comes to blogging - my blog to be more precise - what else do I write about?

At some point I will recap on all the milestones from 2010 that have not yet made it into these pages: running the marathon (which may be a one time thing since I tried to run 8 miles the other week and almost had a heart attack), Ma's visit (which involved a bit too much talk about sperm and porn for my liking), QKofD's or, or rather, QKofK's adventure as she sets up life in Kabul, to name but a few.

Yet, it seems clear that the topic of today is boys and relationships. Why, just the other week I was talking to QKofK about her settling into life in Afghanistan and her job as Advocacy & Communications Specialist at Agency Coordinating Body for Afgan Relief (ACBAR), and she was telling me how she had lunched with a top female executive at another organization.

'That's great,' I said. 'You're making good contacts then.'
'Yes,' QKofK replied. 'Except, she very quickly started telling me she had recently met a man who was now no longer returning her calls and did I have any advice?'

Nice to know that in the war zone, it's not the actual war activities that cause people to panic and freak out.

In New York - where the war zone of dating and love is undoubtedly more dangerous than calm old Kabul - I hear the same story endlessly. I met a boy. I thought he liked me. I don't understand why he's not more engaged. What's wrong with me? Why is it so difficult to find love?

And that's just me talking to myself every morning.

Kidding aside, most of my wonderful friends who desire romantic love are still single and it's a constant wonder as to why.

Neither MonogAMouse - beautiful, talented and loving MonogAMouse - nor I have been in a long term relationship in all the time we've known each other. We pondered it while discussing narcissists over brunch and whether we, as the common denominators, are to blame.

She said: 'I know I'm a good, kind, loving, pathetic person-'
'Wait, what?' I jumped in violently. 'You are NOT pathetic. Don't ever say that about yourself!'
'Erm, I said 'empathetic',' she corrected.
'Ohhh. Right. Yeah that makes more sense.'

While it's true we may be the common denominators in the failure of connections, relationships, encounters whatever you fancy to call these things I refuse to believe, knowing us as I do, that the buck stops with us. And the same is true of all my other fabulous single friends.

I did say to her that what I felt we could do to help ourselves is to stop investing in the wrong men, and building up them up into personas of which they aren't deserving. Speaking for myself, I have had a tendency to do so with men who are not, for example, age or experience appropriate, or on the same wavelength in terms of life, interest, intellect, and I pursue them all the while knowing how it's going to end.

What is confusing is when you meet someone and your instincts give you the green light, yet still it's a battle to make anything work. There are so many factors that go into turning a connection into, well, anything.

I have recently met some boys who I have liked in ways more round than my previous fleeting distractions.

With some I know they like me through conversation and mild, measured flirtation. With others it's obvious they like me and want to jump my bones because, well, after our date he sent me texts saying 'I wanted you to jump my bones'.

Yet with both, movement beyond the initial connection or dates to something more is, in the words of the bard akin to the school-boy 'creeping like snail, unwillingly to school.'

At the end of the day what can you do other than put yourself out there, do your part to move things along, laugh and be relaxed about the whole process and experience. If you don't, you get to a stage of bitterness where you feel the need to destroy boys in terms of reputation, honour or physicality.

But I figure before I go there and do that, I should buy the t-shirt.

Forgive me Father, it's been 39 years since my last confession

2010-11-18T10:54:00.006-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

It's impossible to be 100% honest with yourself about who you are, what you want and whether you're acting with integrity and intent 100% of the time. Which is why Confession and Therapy, were invented.

For those people who don't go to Church, I am here.

Since I can remember, I've been the confidant to my friends. Counselor, analyst, cold-hearted bastard dispenser of honest advice, call it whatever you want....Friends and strangers feel comfortable, and sometimes, compelled to reveal their innermost secrets to me and ask me my opinion.

It's very flattering of course and I like to think I am a fairly evolved person - now.

When I was much younger, dealing with peoples' problems was rather harder to handle, principally, because I didn't have the knowledge or experience to advise them or help them problem solve.

Yet, years of living in different countries and cultures, meeting friends, losing loved ones and friends, loving boyfriends, hating boyfriends, working a hundred different jobs blah blah blah, has given me a better, more rounded perspective on people, actions and life, all of which makes for a good sage/mentor I suppose.

However, recent intense physical training for the marathon and shit hitting the fan at work and at home left me too mentally and physically exhausted to cope with my my own issues let alone those of my friends', and seemed to lead to excessive self-analysis and irrational self-mutilation of my self-esteem.

I'm typically not a person who lacks confidence. Yet, for at least the last month or so I have been powerfully affected by the opinions of people who really shouldn't matter.

For example, I took a shine to a boy but we had been unsuccessful in scheduling a time to get together. As our exchanges progressed, I found, to my dismay, that he did not engage or, what's worse, make me laugh. Yet, I wanted to see if there was anything there by spending some time with him. Alas, this time never materialised.

He told me when I bumped into him recently, that he had lost interest in hanging out with me because he didn't feel excited.

I spend a lot of time counseling friends about their love lives. You can't expect someone to act the way you do. If he's not interested in a relationship at the moment, maybe he really isn't interested in a relationship at the moment etc and so if one of them had told me this tale, my answer would have been obvious:
'His opinion means nothing. He doesn't even know you. And anyway you weren't interested.' (This is, in fact, almost verbatim what Coach did say to me).

However, when it comes to taking my own advice, I am a bi-polar patient, teetering on the window ledge who, one minute, can rationalise what's happening to him and the next ask, 'BUT WHY WHY WHY?'

After all, I am not able to be 100% honest with myself either. In fact, BriGht Eyes sent me a quote today which I loved,
'All his longings came out as a kind of disdain for what he longed for.'
It sparks of denial, emotion and humanity.

'That sums me up, I feel,' I messaged.
'I'll get you the book it came from,' he wrote. 'It's sad and sexy.'
'Sad and sexy. That sums me up too,' I replied.

But I digress.

So after that night of revelation, I ended up questioning my actions, my maturity, my intelligence, my looks, my honesty and my personality.

I thought back to said night and wondered why neither the actions of the first attractive man who asked for my number, nor the passion of the second attractive man I kissed, nor the beautiful words of the third attractive man who seduced me and ended up in my bed seemed to matter when compared to the rejection of someone whose opinion of me was based solely on one thin dimension?

I said to SooLin that I had hoped I was more evolved than this by now. Do I even believe the advice I give my friends? Do I even know what I'm talking about?

And I concluded yes.

At the end of the day, I believe in excitement. People can justify not accommodating someone into their life because they have a multitude of activities going on. Experience has shown me that if you do feel a sense of excitement about something or someone you make an effort for it. If you don't, you don't.

However, maturity has taught me that lightning bolts do not accompany every connection or interaction immediately. Sometimes this happens over time.

I can recall experiences I adamantly didn't want to undertake that became some of my greatest, most wonderful adventures.

I can think of several people in my life to whom I am now very close but who upon meeting, and for several meetings afterward, I actually didn't even like (or let's say I thought I didn't).

What's more, even if you feel excitement the first time you make a connection with someone, there's no guarantee it will happen every time you are with them. And both experience and maturity have helped me understand that this is ok.

I don't have all the answers - who does? My faith is not undying, making me feel that things really will work out the way I want them to every single waking moment - whose is?

However, now I am back to looking at myself through an honest lens, I am aware that the only opinions of me that matter are those of the ones I love.
I understand and appreciate my qualities even if others don't.
I know that things always change, whether you want them to or not, so one must live in hope.

True evolution is not when are you are able to advise on the truest and best (for you) course of actions but whether you live them.

And every time you don't quite manage to do so, there's always the confessional.

Or me.

Men, boys, wavelengths

2010-10-02T13:22:00.003-04:00

There have been several birthdays of late: my brother's and Glitterati's, for which she was in New York. For her birthday we went for drinks at The Maritime, dinner at Blossom, drinks at Hudson Bar and Books and then more drinks at a drag fashion after party with Your Truly and Tobell Von Cartier in the East Village.

This was one day before my 18 mile marathon training run. I somehow managed to finish it in 3 hours and 24 minutes or something like that which is not particularly fast but faster than Chicktoria could have managed (which is how I consoled myself).

More recently, it was Queenie's birthday. She had organised a fried chicken dinner at Momofuku's on the east side on Friday, her actual birthday. I decided at the last minute to enter a half marathon race in Central Park on Saturday morning.

So I attended the dinner and elected not to drink.

I don't think I've ever done that before. It was quite an experience.

I sat opposite one of Queenie's friends with whom I fell in love after about 10 minutes. She made up stories about the other diners complete with back history which is quite an improvisational talent.

But my favourite part of us, was the bonding we did over our shared love of swearing, revealing our favourite swear words to each other, and over mishearing one another.

I told her I had recently become open to dating. For the last 4 years I have really had no interest in it, yet, once I decided I was there were opportunities left right and center. Which is not to say they were suddenly there but, rather, similar opportunities had probably always been around me, I had just never been interested enough to be aware of their existence.

Recently, I told her, I had had another epiphany after being heavily inspired by someone I met. I spend a lot of time indulging my penchant for short, dark-haired, sporty, stubbly, cute young guys in their twenties, but this man's ambition and character, his charisma has made me realise what I really want is a grown man.

Someone sorted, who understands the rules of engagement, who has experience and who doesn't go around the houses in terms of what he wants. Because, in essence that's the sort of man I strive to be, and it would be nice to meet someone who is on the same wavelength as me.

'And by being open,' she began to ask, 'do you mean 'I'm going to let this person buy me dinner', or 'I'm going to let someone fuck me'?'

I paused momentarily from taking a bite of fried chicken,
'Um, well, both. Sorry, you did just ask if dating meant I was open to letting someone fuck me, didn't you?' I replied.

To which she blushed a deep shade of purple and laughed in embarrassment.
'No! God no! I asked if it meant you wanted to be with someone, you know, permanently?'
'Ohhh. Yeah, I guess that would make more sense,' I nodded. 'Although I don't mind. I mean the answer is yes to both. Although, truth be told,' I said, softly, 'I usually always sleep with them pretty much straight away.'

To which she gave me a knowing look.

Oh I do love meeting people on the same wavelength as me.

How to give up alcohol

2010-10-02T13:02:00.002-04:00

I have often fantasised about giving up alcohol - usually, the morning after a night out with The Batten - but I do like a drink now and again (the 'again' being immediately after the one I am drinking 'now' has finished) so I'm not sure I could do this altogether.

My brother - who by comparison is a hard core drinker - gives up for one month every year and extols the virtues of doing so but I have never been able to make the commitment.

I decided if I was going to do it I'd need a good reason.

So I decided to run the New York marathon in November.

After all, I'm not really one to do things by halves. If I am really into an idea (or a person) I go full force. Which is not to say I am demonic or scary stalker but, rather, I'm not half-hearted in regards to my actions.

So if I'm going to give up drinking, the marathon seems like a good reason. And if I'm going to be an endurance runner, then I might as well start with a marathon.

The tee totalling was due to begin in September.

I failed.

My half marathon pre prep so far has been along the lines of beer, wine, whiskey, port, cigars, fried chicken and 6 hours sleep. But I can do it in 2.06 at my best.

I can always give up one month before the marathon. Which means I have until October 7th to drink to my heart's desire.

Queen K of Kabul

2010-09-26T17:00:00.004-04:00

My brothers and sisters are very clever. Truth be told, I am probably the dumbest of the litter but being blessed with a Jack-of-all-trades roundedness, perceptive nature, and ability to make friends and influence people has led me to live a life I find to be rather wonderful.

So it was not much of a surprise when QKofD secured her job as a delegate for the European Union with diplomatic status in Delhi about 8 years ago

I wasn't necessarily mature enough to be completely happy for her. Instead, I was saddened that she wouldn't be around, we would no longer be living together, Friday nights drinking beer and going to Popstarz and never having enough money yet always able to eat well and have fun.

QKofD is, truthfully, my best friend in the world. She knows (pretty much) all my secrets (we all need to have some we will always keep to ourselves, no?); she is always encouraging of me; she says it like it is which is what I sometimes need to hear.

It was the end of an era. And even when you know this must come, and should, sometimes it takes a while to accept it.

I like to think I am more evolved now. And so when presented with the news that she has secured a posting with an Advocacy organization in Afghanistan, despite the fact it isn't really where I would like her to be posted - The Hurt Locker, anyone? - I tried to get behind her excitement.

The saving grace for us as a family is the knowledge that she has friends there who have been working in the field for some time and so, there is certainly a strong element of safety.

I informed her I'd come and visit her where she will now undoubtedly have to be known as QKofK.

I was put off by the $3,500 flight price tag, admittedly, but that seemed to be the least of the problems.

I was out at dinner with Glitterati, who was visiting from London with a friend, and Cool Chick, who said,
'You're not going to be able to go in and out of Afghanistan from here. Are you crazy? Especially now you have that beard.' Cool Chick motioned to the stubbly growth I have been cultivating on my face.
'Hmmm. good point,' I murmured.

I am still trying to see if I can make this visitation work. After all, it would make for a markedly different vacation experience - Green Zone, anyone?

At the moment she is undergoing Hostile Environment Training somewhere in darkest England. This involves being dragged from moving vehicles by pretend terrorists and threatened, staying at Army barracks, performing manoeuvres and driving 4 by 4s.

The last part scares me. My last memory of driving with QKofK was when my brother and I were practicing with her before her driving test involved us hurtling towards a brick wall at speed, while over my brother's and my girlish screams, QKofK asked,
'Which one is the break??'

As a teenager, I was required to be part of the Army Cadet Force at school performing all of the above activities, including achieving Marksman status. It was great fun and a good exercise in discipline.

QKofK seems to be enjoying it so far too from what I can deduce via her sporadic and hastily delivered messages. So I guess when I visit her in Kabul, if I've forgotten my Cadet Force training, I'll have her to protect me. Salt, anyone?

Fun in P-Town with Lu et al

2010-09-23T11:02:00.008-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

It doesn't take much to cheer me up at the end of the day - the mere mention of Hamburger Helper, for example, sends me into an inexplicable, uncontrollable fit of giggles.

I rarely feel down about the inconsequential things these days, and if I do it's never for long, but nevertheless one of my favourite things to do for fun is force Chicktoria Beckham to re-enact the Michael Jackson/Blanket episode in my living room.

I've written before about her being a rescue cat having undoubtedly suffered some abuse, and how this and being found near to death has left her distrustful of people, jumpy, aggressive and with a hatred of having her feet and belly touched or being held.

Of course, she allows me to do all these things in moderation since she knows and trusts me now. Yet, even I am surprised that she allows me to indulge in this ridiculous role play for my own schoolboy amusement.

Basically I pick her up under her belly and hold her a foot off the floor whereupon she kicks and struggles to get free a la Blanket trying to wriggle away from MJ. Oh, it never fails to give me a laugh.

And before anyone chastises me, the amount of affection and love I give this cat is quite ridiculous. Especially since part of the deal of having a pet is that it keeps your home creature free. I have been noticing a few more creepy crawlies in my place which, strangely has coincided with CB taking more frequent naps on my bed.

Lazy bitch.

But the most surefire way to bring a smile to my face and happiness into my heart is to spend time with family and friends. QKofD, Lu and my Ma are 3 people who can reduce me to tears of laughter through our exchanges.

So it was with great excitement that I awaited Lu's visitation to these fair shores. Spending time with Lu encourages certain parts of my personality that I love to come out in full force.

It's been a while since we spent any quality time together and he has been having a hard time of late what with his ex partner, and our dear friend Carl's passing, that I was looking forward to laughter, chats and tennis in Provincetown.

Since he is also a tennis player, I thought it would be fun to pop his tournament cherry by registering him for the Provincetown tournament.

I've never been to the Cape but had always heard it was fun.

'And you'll definitely score up there. I mean, if you can't get laid In P-town you really should give up,' my physio told me as he kinesio-taped up my knees in preparation for the tournament.

As soon as Lu arrived, the fun began. Drinks with the boys in Gym bar including J.Ho, and others for whom I can't think of monikers right now.

Sunday bbq at Catie Kouric's, drinks at The Eagle, and then an early morning bus ride to Boston en route to P-town.

I feel that if I tried to describe our conversations it would lose a lot in translation but suffice to say we cried most of the way to Boston and P-town, and there wasn't a tinge of sadness about our lachrymosity.

The fun of P-town besides it being by the water, everyone on vacation and so feeling imbued with a sense of abandon, inhibition and approachability, was the fact that many of the New York crew was in attendance. Mama, iflookscouldkill, Panther, Sunshine (whose unfailing smiling disposition lights up the dark in an instant) and Coach were all there.

I was somewhat incensed that I wasn't seeded at the tournament considering my recent results. KROSS Court investigated for me.
'It's because you registered with a duplicate account that has no results associated with it so as far as the system can read, you've never won anything. And the bad news is, you have more points than the number 1 seed so you would have been seeded 1.'

I huffed and puffed.
'Well, the draw may say one thing, but we all know who the real number 1 is, honey,' I said, lifting a quote from Serena's camp when she was winning everything in sight but remained number 2 in the world.

Our routine was much the same every day: breakfast at the B&B, chats with the lesbian owner (who materialised from the basement in a way that convinced me she spent time down there taxidermiing guests who had crossed her), tennis play and then evening's entertainment which was drinks at the pier tea dance, flirting, meeting new people, dinner, drinks, bed (mostly alone - well, for me, anyway).

I made my first final. Coach spent time advising me on the best approach to winning for about 30 minutes which went along the lines of:
Coach: 'You cannot wear those new pink shorts you bought in the final.'
Me: 'You don't understand. I planned it. It's an outfit.'
Coach: 'You'll be uncomfortable. Don't you want to win?'
Me: 'Seriously? This is the advice you are giving me the night before a final?'

I ended up winning the tournament but, more importantly, got to spend time with my friends, and indulging in my new found attitude which is something that resonated with a change Lu is going through too. We talked a lot about that.

There is no sense in occupying your energy with assumptions, doubts or fears. Simply, identify your goal with clarity and then look to what you can control to make it a reality.

Expect more, deserve more, make it more. At the end of the day your the one directing your own show.

All you need to decide is how you want it to play out.

Tales of Bonnie and Clyde or bedtime stories with my parents

2010-08-14T08:29:00.012-04:00

Although bedtime stories constitute part of pretty much everyone's childhood, I'm not entirely convinced that anyone actually remembers this happening.

I cannot recall anything about the process, the readers or the stories but I can say with absolute certainty that I would have been read to as a child.

Around 12 years ago I had the privilege and fun of traveling around India with my parents. My plan was to accompany them on their travels and at some point go to Bombay to make my Bollywood dreams come true.

However, I was always the sort of child who never wanted to leave home and so from Delhi to Varansi to Bhubaneswar to Orissa to Pondicherry to Madras to Kaynakumari I went with my Ma and Pa, rebooking my ticket to Bombay at every turn.

Eventually they took me to the train station and put me on an overnight train to Bombay.

'But I could always go a bit later!' I cried to my dear old Dad as the train pulled out of the station.
He waved me off laughing, the way parents affectionately laugh about their children because they know them absolutely and understand what's going through their mind.
'No,' he replied. 'This was your plan. Go do it!'

What can I say? I loved/love my parents so much I always find it incredibly difficult to leave them.

Part of the reason was that as well as loving my parents, I actually really like them. It's safe to say they are probably the two most interesting people I will ever meet in my life.

And it's their stories that are my bedtime stories.

They talked of having been to far off lands I've never heard of. They recited tales of adventure that match what I have listened to or read in fictional stories. And during our travels, I would remain transfixed on the edge of my seat while the train hurtled through the vast Indian expanse to our next destination.

Progressive families, passion, living through the wars, fighting in the resistance, meeting and marrying each other within 4 weeks, and staying together as partners in crime for the next 40 something years.

Post marriage the rollercoaster continued. In 1959, they stayed in Rome for 3 weeks instead of 1 because my Dad liked it there.

Thereafter, they were due to go to Benghazi in Libya where my geologist Dad was working.
'I've never seen the dessert,' my Mother said.
'Then you'll see it,' my Father replied.

They drove 1200km from Benghazi to Tripoli and slept in a tent under the stars along the way.

I often wonder what it must have been like to live in that era, and am lucky to be able to tap my Mother for information about it.
'What was travelling like back then?' I inquired, after having got off my cramped transatlantic flight to London.
'It was very different then. Everyone dressed up. It was very classy.'

I know first hand that their life was not all roses - whose is? - but I am in love with the romanticism of that time and their life, which was almost, to me, Bonnie and Clyde like at times.

My mother, a young slip of a thing, reminds me, in pictures, of someone like Audrey Hepburn only more beautiful. My oilman Father was cool and sophisticated.

During their first year of marriage my Father expressed his worry to my Mother about not always being able to support her.
'What if I can't always earn enough to feed you?' he worried.
'Then I'll eat less,' came the reply.

They travelled the world - Australia, Libya, Beirut, Panang - and often without a plan. My Mother tells a story of how my Father came home having been made redundant from his then job.
'He got really drunk,' she told me, 'And said to me, 'Why aren't you crying about this? I just lost my job.' To which I replied, 'We have 5 kids to feed, clothe and educate: how is me crying going to help?''

Their story has not only given me a zest for international adventure (while at the same time disbelieving I can match it), but also an understanding of the importance of embracing life. My parents have been financially rich and poor and rich and poor, yet, in all that time my family has been the richest in terms of fiery passion, love, laughter and risk-taking than any other I have ever met or known.

And I feel privileged to be a part of it.

So I still live for those bedtime stories whenever I go home. Most children may sit with their parents and eagerly beg,
'Daddy, Daddy, tell me when you met and fell in love with Mummy!'

I usually ask my Ma over lunch, over Baileys (over ice, natch),
'Mummy, Mummy, please tell me when you and Daddy were living in Tripoli for 1o months and then had to leave Libya because Gaddafi wanted to eject all the US organizations from the country after he took power in the coup?'

And after we are sitting comfortably, she begins,
'Ok. Well, we left Australia in 1970 and went to Libya via India and Beirut. On the plane we heard about the coup in Libya and that Gaddafi had taken power so it was a bit tense when we got there. After 10 months we had to leave. Everything. We had to part ways in Rome. Your dad went to England - without a job by the way - and I went to India.'

To me, this is the stuff my beloved heavy action Jerry Bruckheimer movies are made of, only these stories are so much more exciting because they really happened.

As I listen, in my mind, the camera pans, the lights come up, Bonnie and Clyde come into picture and the action begins and I sit transfixed hoping, as I always do, that my life will be as interesting as one iota of theirs.

Cologne Part 2

2010-08-12T16:39:00.008-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

A Gay Games volunteer told me a story about Cologne that truly embodies the spirit of the city and its people.

When walking down the street a gay man had been in fear for his life as several large Texans, who were in Cologne to support the Pope in his anti-gay addresses, approached him with a less than welcoming demeanour. As they neared the man they were intercepted by 9 elderly ladies who created a barrier between the two parties.

'We are your hosts while you are here in our city,' the women told the Texans. 'You are our guests. But this is one of our boys,' they said, pointing at the gay man. ' And we don't want any trouble. So be nice.'

From the moment I entered the city, I could feel a welcoming and positive vibe. Additionally, this was revealed in the opponents I played. Even the talented Italian I lost to in the quarters was a lovely fellow.

At first I was put off by his passionate, gesticulating supporters. (I had fabulous supporters too, natch, but they are real New Yorkers. Often I looked to them when I won a point only to see them with their faces in their smartphones.)

The Italians turned out to be very sweet and even swept the court for us.
'Sorry, if we were loud,' one told me, 'But we had to cheer. So many points with 30 or 40 strokes. Was really amazing.'

I thanked him politely, calming my inner petulant child who just wanted him to go away.

One of my earlier round wins was over a local guy who went out of his way to entertain me and the rest of my crew with tours of the Cathedral, the city, dinners with his friends, and even racket stringing. He took us out for typical German food and beer. Essentially, this is bratwurst, mashed potatoes and pork knuckle, which is basically a roasted pork joint that could feed a family of 6.

KROSS Court and I routinely shared one between us.

(Incidentally, I am determined to make 'to pork knuckle' part of the sexual lexicon as soon as I can figure out what the act would entail.)

Beer is truly delicious but every night can be a bit much. I am on a light beer kick right now but when I asked for it one waitress asked me in response, 'Low calorie beer? Does such a thing exist? Why?'
(This was almost as good as me asking a barman in a London pub for the same thing, 'We're a pub, mate. We're not Weightwatchers.')

She gave me a non-alcoholic beer, the repulsiveness of which I cannot describe so I ordered the real thing. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow, don't you? After all, as I said to KROSS Court as we sat down to late night pork knuckle for the second night in a row,
'Well, we don't do this every day, do we? I mean, apart from this week.'

It was a wonderful time and environment to meet new friends, and become closer to existing ones.

In New York, KROSS Court, Your Truly and MonogAMouse are my closet friends. (Of course, there is only one person who knows all my secrets and that is QKofD, and I long for the day she gets a job in new York and an apartment in my building.)

KROSS Court and I message each other every day, and while in Cologne the conversations continued on a daily basis in person - after all, one of the main purposes of this trip was for us to hang out together.

One day as I lay sprawled over his sofa, he regaled me of tales of his latest male interests and said,
'Oh...Is that too much information?'
I looked at him incredulously,
'You've offered me the use of your anal douche and I asked you to shave my back. I think we crossed the TMI line some time ago.' (I do feel it's important to note that I declined his kind offer).

[In fact, I didn't think KROSS Court and I could share that many more dark secrets that would bring us closer together. I was wrong (but not everything can make it into the blog).]

After my loss, I headed down to breakfast to meet with KROSS Court and Coach. I informed them that a soccer player from Minnesota wanted me to visit him at his hotel.
'Then why are you still here?' they asked.
'I don't know if I can be bothered to go,' I replied.
'What? Go!' Coach insisted.
'He's got a broken his leg,' I said.
'So...' Coach replied, seemingly at a loss for words.
'Go,' KROSS Court urged.
'I don't have any money for a taxi,' I countered, whereupon KROSS Court threw a 50 euro note in my face and put his room key on the table.
'Take whatever you need from my room and go and enjoy yourself.'

I took the money (but not the room key).

I'm not a Madonna and I'm not a whore. I just need a bit of gentle persuading at times. But as I said, sometimes you have to just go with the flow, don't you?

It turns out that I did my own bit for strengthening ties between nations.

I always said I wanted to be a diplomat.

Cologne Part 1

2010-07-29T09:45:00.004-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Two years ago KROSS Court and I talked about attending the Gay Games in Cologne. Last week we lived that reality.

As tennis players we spend a lot of time planning out our playing schedule for the year. The idea of competing at such a grand level in the Gay Olympics was exciting and alluring. What could be better than playing on red clay, meeting people (hopefully some hot athletes), competing, and spending time with one of my best friends?

Being at the Games, it was obvious that I had underestimated the magnitude of such an event in terms of numbers or participants, quality of competition, passion of the athletes and meaning to me, the gay community and beyond.

It's difficult to articulate the specialness I felt being there at the opening ceremony as we waited to march with our respective cities and countries into the stadium. 12,000 athletes, 35 different sports and numerous countries blew my mind.

Countries where it's undoubtedly more difficult to live as an openly gay person were in attendance including India, Tanzania. It put into perspective how ridiculous segregation and prejudice is. At the end of the day, we're all people. We're all getting through life. We all end up the same way.

Since I had a good seeding in my division, it meant I wasn't due to play my match until Monday, which meant that I planned to have a good old time on Saturday, the day of the opening ceremony. I think KROSS Court had the same idea.

Although, I'm not sure it turned out to be the ideal evening he had in mind.

In short, I got roaring drunk in the cavernous arena where the opening party was being held, and ended up bbm'ing KROSS Court to come get me and take me home. It was a bit of a comedy or errors. He walked up a level to find me at the same time as I was stumbling down a different stairwell to find him. This continued until we crossed paths, he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, and shoved me into a taxi.

'Why are you forcing me to leave?' I cried in slurs. 'I was in the middle of a beer and was getting hot with a hot Aussie!'
'BUT DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND, I WASN'T!' he shouted.

I've never seen him like that before. It blew over in the cab where I snored and, most probably, dribbled all over myself. He got back to showing me friendly affection but every time he did so I awoke from my inebriation to blurt inanely,
'WHY AREN'T YOU HAPPY? IS IT ME? WHAT'S WRONG?' before narcoleptically passing out again.

There were many other friends from New York in attendance including Coach. The plan was to hang out, enjoy the sites of Cologne, the people and the parties. I fared pretty well, getting to the quarter finals which in essence meant I couldn't go out and party all night. I had to live that vicariously through the others.

Coach is very self sufficient and certainly did his part for diplomatic relations between the USA and, well, several other countries but still managed to drag himself and watch all my matches with KROSS Court.

In my third round match I choked when serving for the match at 5 - 2 in the second set. I must have double faulted about 8 times causing me to lose that game but win the set and the match 6 - 3. I could see Coach and KROSS Court throwing their hands up in astonishment at my terrible showing.

I stormed off court and shouted at them. Of course, 5 minutes later I apologized and did some match analysis which helped me for my next match but, alas, not for my quarter final against an Italian who hit two handed off both wings, Monica Seles style.

I was sore about losing but in all was pleased that I discovered how to iron out the kinks in my game and, more importantly, that my knees held up for me to play without pain.

I found myself wondering how different my life would have been if something like the Games had been around when I was a thirteen year old gay boy living in suburban Surrey.

I wondered this without resentment. I know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be in my life right now.

Lately, I've been looking at my life differently, operating with more clarity than ever before. I see where I am going and, more importantly, I'm directing the show and I like it. The Gay Games has added to this enhanced sense of direction, clarity and empowerment.

All this plus having the experience of the games with good friends made for a priceless experience.

Roll on the next Games, new experiences and the now.

Confide In Me

2010-07-27T12:49:00.000-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Many people think that Sam Cooke's Wonderful World was written about me - Don't know much about history, don't know much biology, don't know much about the French I took, and so on and so forth.

While it's true that there is much I don't know, the one thing that I do know is people. I have an inquisitive nature, am (if I say so myself) fairly perceptive and, at this stage of life, have a certain amount of experience so it's not hard to work out peoples' motivations and the underlying reasons for them doing certain things. Plus, I find it intriguing.

The dynamics of relationships, our quest to understand them and our feelings, the analysis and control of all that, has spawned industries, created literary and musical geniuses, earned billions and started wars i.e. it's more or less the backbone of our entire existence.

The fact is that we live - and have since the time of the caveman who simply chose his mate by clubbing her over the head (a practice I may personally start bringing back) - trying to answer the eternal question of love: what is it, how to get it and hold on to it, and how torturous it is when we lose it.

Therefore, even if you haven't necessarily experienced what someone else has, I believe - especially where matters of the heart are concerned - it's not difficult to empathize.

In my friendships I have always adopted a confessorial status where people - and sometimes people I don't know well - feel able to speak openly to me. Most likely this is because this is because I am a fairly open person and trust in the goodness of others - even though I often wish my listening friend has the appearance of, say, Jake Gyllenhaal.

When I split from the XBF I talked about it to everyone. Some people weren't receptive, such as the returns checker at the Moma store, while others were kinder than I could ever have expected them to be, like the saleswoman at Sleepy's (who ended up giving me 25% off my new bed because she was going through something similar herself).

Sometimes this does get wearing. People ask for your opinion but they don't always want it and sometimes they ask you questions when they are not really prepared for the answers. As you can imagine, for someone who is rather vocal and opinionated, this is a difficult tightrope to walk.

While I try not to force my opinions down my friends' throats - 'Oh mate, it doesn't matter what I think. What do you want?' - my patience for this only lasts so long before I lapse into, 'Jesus, can you listen to what you just said? This is ridiculous. This is what I would do.'

Witness the fellow tennis player I see rarely and know barely (and who, truth be told I thought to be rather irritating after giving him the benefit of the doubt many times only to be confused and disappointed) who, on a recent trip to a tourney, asked me why oh why is it so hard for him to meet someone?

'You seem like you have great friends. Why don't you set me up with one of them?' he asked.
'I have amazing friends. Which is why I would hesitate from introducing you to them,' I replied - and I honestly wasn't trying to be bitchy.
'Look, can I give you some feedback?' I asked, without waiting for his agreement. 'Stop being so sarcastic. It's really inappropriate when you do that to people you don't know. You think it's funny but it's actually really annoying and puts people off. Also, I think you are quite delusional.'

He thanked me, apparently finding my comments quite insightful. It turns out he is rather sweet and is simply shy (which is what I had suspected but I have a short attention span for this type of discovery). Nevertheless, I now have a certain fondness for his strangeness and have decided to call him Iflookscouldkill, in response to his cynical nature and evil stare he likes to adopt from time to time.

In my defence, I always aim to be as diplomatic as I can. For example, when my trainer talked about the lack of attraction of a great girl he was seeing, I advised appropriately (compared to his mother's response of, 'Just watch porn, for God's sake!' - I'm not sure if I was more shocked at her response or what he must have said to elicit it).

Similarly, I called a great friend of mine for a natter the other day only to be told after a few minutes that her insanely busy day was calling.

She called me back 30 minutes later in a frantic state.
'Do IT track messages?' she babbled. 'I have been trading dirty messages with this guy on my blackberry. Will work know??'
'Who's the guy?'
'Oh I told you about him. He's so naughty! Honestly, I almost came in my pants without touching myself when we were messaging.'
'Hold on, is this why you were too busy to talk to me?'
'I was busy. Anyway, this was later during a staff meeting.'
'You are the epitome of professionalism.'

Naturally, I advised her appropriately and allayed her fears.

In a different context I was able to provide perspective to Croc, who has been offered a job and called me for advice on whether she would be stupid not to ask for more money. After an hour's discussion I said,
'Well, it looks like your priority concerns are around location and advancement, not salary so where is this idea of you being stupid not asking for more coming from?'
'A friend,' she replied. 'You're right, actually. Thanks babe!'

But my speciality, if I can claim to have one, has to be in the dynamics of relationships and motivations of individuals. Two failed long term relationships behind me has resulted in a lot of soul searching and analysis. And a background as a business analyst helps.

When The Batten split from The Kenny and described what was going on in their relationship towards the end there were so many commonalities with my relationship with the XBF that I could empathize easily, even if my advice wasn't always sweetly delivered.
'Why are you crying again? You didn't want to be with him anyway. Just eat your burger for Christ's sake.'

I continue to be grateful that my friends feel able to confide in me (and that they accept my often bluntly delivered advice with an understanding of its endearment).

And along the way it has made me realize that this process of working with others to come to their own conclusions by offering my thoughts, has led me, finally after all these years, to take my own advice.

Weekend Delights

2010-07-26T20:56:00.002-04:00

When you are feeling a bit low about something - in my case my busted knees - there's nothing like friends and family to give you a lift.

There is always one group and one place to go in New York that is guaranteed to pick you right up. It's the Ritz bar with the Gaysians.

The Gaysians have become part of my staple New York life. They can be found every Friday at Ritz and so off I went to get cheered up. There are too many of these lovely creatures to mention all at once but in attendance was my sister Catie Kouric and Mama ^_^.

We had an evening of consolation and beer. Mama ^_^ was insistent I should not run the marathon or compete in the Gay Games in Cologne the first week of August.
'But I already paid for the trip,' I moaned.
'Cancel,' Mama ^_^ said.
'But there will be thousands of gay guys there. Most likely hot ones,' I moaned.
'It's your knees,' Mama ^_^ said. 'Don't risk it,' which could have applied to me being embroiled in the athletics or the athletes, I suppose.

As usual Catie Kouric and I were the last ones standing.

Lovely Lady MEDLey took me out for brunch on Saturday to further console me. MonogAMouse met us at Barbuto in the village where we feasted on sumptuous Italian breakfast style pizzas and red wine. I've limited myself on the red wine front but Lovely Lady MEDLey and I haven't been out in a while and when the waitress suggested a chilled variety we elected to give it a try. It was so good we had two bottles.

After that, we took walk along the highline, waved MonogAMouse off to the green market and it was off to my new favourite hangout on West 15th, Pierre Loti, where I introduced LLM to the delights of Stella Artois.

After much conversation about lives, loves, bad sex in our love lives etc I took her with me to meet AILS and her hubby for drinks on their terrace. More beer awaited and was consumed while AILS filled me in on her recent sojourn to Turkey.

We left there barely able to see our way to the taxi waiting to take us to Blue Smoke where I insisted we feast on all manner of indulgent treats. Along the way, LLM became taken with a crone plying her fortune trade. We went in for a pretty unimpressive reading.

She told LLM that her dead love was watching over her while repeating to me that I was 'A really nice person'.
'Can't you see anything else?' I asked.
'Well, you are nice. I can tell this. A very nice person.'

'Not only is she obviously not psychic, she is deranged,' I told LLM afterwards.

The following Sunday was spent working but after that MonogAMouse came over and we did a bit of visioning about our futures, some part of which always revolves around how to improve our financial health.
'We have to save money,' we cried, and then after some time I said,
'Shall we go and have a beer?'

Off to Pierre Loti we trotted where we saw the weekend to a close with a dinner of 4 units of alcohol each.

'Actually, that wasn't too bad in terms of expense,' MonogAMouse said in her usual positive way which I love her for. 'I mean if we'd gone somewhere else it would have been much more expensive.'

Gaysians, Lovely Lady MEDLey, MonogAMouse over the course of two weekends. What else can one ask for?

My plan to avoid the wheelchair

2010-07-18T14:49:00.006-04:00

After feeling sorry for myself about my torn cartilage, collapsed ligament and general decrepitude, I powered up to make a plan of reconstructive attack. After all, you can't take these things lying down, can you? It's my body and my mind says it will bloody well do what I tell it to do until it literally, well, can't I suppose.

My plan was to incorporate different forms of exercise into my routine. Some combination of Yoga or swimming in the mornings, pilates at lunch time and my usual gym routine in the evening to strengthen my legs and the muscles around my knees. I figured that even if it didn't fix my knees perhaps I'd at least get those abs I've always wanted.

I am generally not a late sleeper but I absolutely hate getting up early. I used to get to work at 8.30am until I realised no one else did. Now I don't wake up until 8am.

The last time I got up early to exercise I was at university and I can tell you getting up at 6.30am is never pleasurable in grim, grey Scottish weather.

However, my gym is round the corner from my pad and once I had told myself, 'It's either fix your broken bits or get a wheelchair', the early morning yoga classes didn't seem too hard to get out of bed for.

I've tried yoga before and have mixed feelings about it. The only time I've ever enjoyed it was when doing it on a thick plush lawn overlooking the sea in Goa with QKofD and Lu. But truth be told, the enjoyment came from being able to successfully hold poses and ignore that ant crawling on my toe rather than actually deepen myself in the stillness of mind that I believe a pure practitioner experiences. Plus, with QKofD and Lu we had a good giggle at our ineptitude.

I've never had a teacher that really explained anything about Yoga in terms of the spiritual meaning or the actual poses and I think that made me never quite get into it.

I decided to try all 3 classes at my gym in one week as I am not really one to do things by halves.

The first class was fine - the teacher was late and a bit stressed, consequently rushing through the class while at the same time berating everyone for moving through the poses too quickly. ('Breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout..No no, more slowly. Breathinbreatheout. Hurry we're in a bit of a crunch cos I was late. Sorry.')

She was an absolute delight compared to the teacher of the second class I attended later that week. She stomped in to the class albeit on time, unloaded her enormous Eurorail size backpack and began with a sigh of what sounded like disappointment.

It was a sign of things to come.

'Now we are going to do prayanashivanaasana...IS ANYONE in this class listening to WHAT I AM SAYING? And to all you people who are leaving my class midway, YOU SHOULD DO THE OPPOSING POSES TO WHAT YOU'VE BEEN DOING BEFORE LEAVING. GOD.'

The third class was perfect. The instructor, in her fifties, introduced herself and explained the basics of Yoga while also paying attention to and adjusting our poses.

After that I decided to find a pool I could swim in. Lo and behold NYSC has a small 18 meter pool at 49th and Broadway. I could do that before work I figured. In preparation, I bought myself some nice Parke and Ronen
swimming shorts because, you know, I'm not one to do anything by halves.

I turned up at the 4 lane pool to find I had to share one with an older Japanese man. Truth be told I was quite a good swimmer at school but it's been a while so I had to consciously avoid touching him as we passed each other mid lane lest he felt I was inclined to share more with him than the lane.

After a few lengths the lifeguard came up to me:
'Sir, do you have a swimming cap?' she asked me.
'Good God no,' I replied, with a smile. She didn't see the funny side.
'Everyone must wear one here. I have one you can borrow but you have to get one of your own.'

I reluctantly stretched the cap over my head until I realised I wasn't really there to get laid so it didn't really matter what I was wearing. I swam for what seemed like hours but was, in fact, 30 minutes. At work I calculated the humongous distance I had swum to be a paltry 0.5 miles. But it's a start.

Second week started with Yoga class, again with the previously tardy teacher. She was there early this time. I approached her.
'I'm sort of new to Yoga and I have torn cartilage in both knees so can you help me with adjustments to any poses where that might impact that, please?'
She sort of backed away and frowned.
'I'm not planning to do anything with knees. Just be careful when doing Child's pose - if you even know what that is,' she replied, helpfully.

At that time in the morning there is a spin class in the studio next door. Admittedly, the music from that class was rather loud but it rattled the Yoga teacher somewhat. She went to tell the instructor to turn the music down and as she was coming back into our studio she suddenly stopped, hearing something from the spin studio.
'Oh, did that spin guy just call me stupid? Oh no he din't!'
She went to complain again whereupon the music volume lessened slightly.

Back in our studio, the packed class goaded the teacher, and each attendee, to complain to the club managers.

Fifteen minutes later the teacher announced,
'Keep in the pose. I'll be back in a minute.' She went back to complain to the spin teacher.

I was not feeling very zen, and, honestly, had no idea if I was doing the Triangle pose correctly.

She reappeared for ten minutes and asked the class if we were serious about her complaining. The class announced they were (I abstained).

I don't think anyone meant she should complain right then but off she trotted.

If you've ever heard two people have an argument behind a thick wall, it sounds something like the muffled, rounded indecipherable utterings of Charlie Brown's teacher. I don't have a voice clip for you but imagine something undulating like,
'Wah wah wah WAH WAH WAH wah wah WAH WAH. WAH. Wa, WAHHHHHHH!'

The teacher reappeared and responded to questions from the class about what happened with,
'I don't engage in that,' while spending the next ten minutes saying, 'Did you hear how he shouted at me?'

I wasn't feeling very centered so I decided to leave.

I don't really know much about Yoga but I have always imagined the true practice to be meditative and so devoid of extraneous stimuli, while requiring a certain analysis of yourself, your feelings and your reactions so that you are better equipped to handle stresses and strains, which obviously cannot be avoided in life.

Having sessions like this or others where the teacher enters late sipping Starbucks while garbling, 'Sorry, I was late. Sometimes the subway just really pisses me off,' doesn't really fit with my idea of the practice.

Of course I may be completely ignorant here. But until I become more knowledgeable (or transfer to a Yoga studio) I may stick to swimming.

Despite having to wear the cap.

Breaking up and tearing apart

2010-07-13T13:56:00.005-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Venus Williams once remarked after being asked about her strapped leg during a Grand Slam tournament,
'We all play in pain all the time. That's the life of a professional athlete.'

While I and my tennis friends are not professionals we are athletes of a sort and, consequently, live, play in and deal with pain most of the time. Tendinitis, broken bones, torn muscles and ligaments are dealt with by surgery, physical therapy, strappings and tapings.

After being hospitalised at age 9 with swollen, painful-to-the-touch ankles which was feared to be possible rheumatoid arthiritis, my pediatrician recommended I exercise as much as possible. I have since been dogged in the pursuit of that elusive six pack, those toned arms, those developed legs so it's not unusual to experience related aches and pains.

I suppose I simply didn't expect my body to break down until much later in life.

About one month ago, the pain in my foot, no doubt from the endurance runs and sprints I had started doing, was boring to the point of being unbearable, I went to the physiotherapist.
'The ligament in your foot has collapsed,' he said.
'Well, that doesn't sound good. What do I do for it?' I asked.
'Just come in for treatment and stretch it,' he replied, jovially, so I took this to mean it was not that serious, despite it sounding like my foot was about to fall off.

I did as he instructed as well as researching tips to fix the problem and the pain minimised. Great.

One week later I played a tennis tournament and after getting knocked out in the quarter finals I found I could barely walk. The next day I couldn't bend my legs and each step was accompanied by a sharp pain shooting through my knees.

Well, that doesn't seem good, I thought. So off to physio I went.
'You may have some meniscual tears in the knee cartilage. Your gettin' old man, haha,' he said, jovially.
I pursed my lips and said, 'So what do I do for it?'
'We'll massage it, do some treatments, get an MRI.'

I don't enjoy going to hospitals. I think I have written about how my last clear memory of a hospital was going to see my Dad who was in for routine heart check ups being told by a laughing physician that there was nothing to overreact about. My Dad passed away less than a month later from heart failure.

So the idea of going for an MRI made me feel more emotional than was rational. I gave an update to Yours Truly.
'I will meet you there,' he said. 'Just tell me what time they are inducing labor. No doubt I'll find you swanning around in the robe they give you,' he said.

The day I got my results, a beautiful, elegant friend, who here shall be known as Sophisticayted, had invited me and a few others to a Miro exhibition. Unfortunately, I had had a godawful day at work where I was made to feel that years of hard work had resulted in me, well, not really going anywhere considering the mundane, administrative tasks I was being told now constituted my role. I tried to get out of the event but Sophisticayted convinced me to come.

While at the event my physio called me.
'You have cartilage tears in each knee,' he said, not jovially.
'You sound really depressed, Dr,' I replied. 'How worried should I be?'
'Look, you've got them. I have them and I still play hockey. I'll get you in to see an orthopaedic surgeon who's not quick with the knife. Let's see what he says.'

I'm not prone to meltdowns but I felt so overwhelmed with pain and anger that on the walk home with MonogAMouse I broke down. She helped in her usual, wonderful way. I got home, had a large Johnnie Walker black on the rocks, and gave myself the end of the night to feel sorry for myself.

When you split from a partner and you go through emotional pain, it's torturous because you not only miss that person and question what went wrong but what is wrong with you, where you were to blame in it all and whether you can forgive yourself, at the end of the day. This catharsis helps provide clarity and healing.

Dealing with physical pain requires a different kind of acceptance. The only other entity there is to be angry with is your own body for not doing what you want it to do. It's the pain of getting older, being less in control of yourself and your body.

I'm not sure which is easier to deal with but after my short-lived, self-pity period, I thought of those who have fought through terrible physical adversity including members of my own family, and felt an increased admiration for them. And I thought of those who lost the battle to those adversities and it put everything in perspective.

My problem is miniscule by comparison. Or maybe that should be meniscul (sorry, couldn't resist).

My Boys

2010-07-05T18:12:00.004-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

When I lived in London, my only male friends were from work. Since two of us shared an office, lunched routinely and drank every Friday in the Summer, we had a grand old time.

One of my fondest memories of the London IT boys was my leaving lunch before I stepped across the pond to live in New York. We ate at Kensington Roof Garden, indulged in whiskeys and cigars and talked about boy things. In terms of gay friends, I really only had two: Lu and SooLin.

Despite both of these sets of male friends it's safe to say I never really had 'Boys'. My work friends at the end of the day were good friends forged and maintained by circumstance and environment. Much as I enjoyed them, without the presence of those things the bond, while still existing, becomes historical rather than continuous.

And with Lu and SooLin, well really they are my family which is not exactly the same thing as having Boys. That would be like saying QKofD is one of my girlfriends. She is, but the term doesn't seem to do justice to our closeness.

In every man's life, it's important to have male friends. There are several things in life that make you feel like a man. Getting your haircut, for example. Working out. And having Boys.

For me in New York, My Boys are from my extra curricular activities. Alpha Male from our pathetic attempt at playing rugby, and the others from tennis.

Since I am tennis obsessed it's not odd that most of my good friends are from this arena. It's not unusual for us to calendarise our lives according to the tennis schedule. French Open is on? It must be May. Wimbledon has just ended? Good God that means we are into July.

Similarly, we have our own tennis schedule. Club Championships and national tournaments during the year and on holiday weekends figure heavily in our lives. In a sense we are touring together, travelling, talking and sharing accommodation with each other all of which makes for good bonding.

And since it's a gay tennis club and I play in gay tennis tournaments, that doubles the value. After all, your straight non tennis playing friends don't want to talk about what's the best match preparation, gatorade, cliff bars, whether pickle juice staves off cramping, chafing or sore nipples.

And, neither can they truly help you when you're choking on your serve, or can't find your groundstrokes or the mental toughness to close out a match you are winning, or are defeated in a match you really feel you should have won.

Recently, I went to Boston with KROSS Court and several others from New York including a friend who here shall be called BriGht Eyes. It was another great bonding experience where I became fonder of an irritant due to a seven hour car journey where we talked about his love life (more of that another time), and got to know BriGht Eyes much better.

In my quarter final, they were supportive during (BriGht Eyes brought me pickle juice when I was cramping), and after I lost ('But you double bageled a guy in the previous round. Look at you tearing up the draw.')

At the recent Liberty Open it was a similar situation. Yours Truly, of course, always endeavours to come and watch my matches and give me encouragement when I feel deflated as do my hitting partner and doubles partner.

BriGht Eyes, Seanie and KROSS Court supported me in my semi final where I lost in two close sets in 95 degree heat to a rude, personality deficient opponent with a creepy black hair dye job. They coached me and consoled me afterwards.
'Honestly, I don't know how you played. I felt like I was being baked alive while watching you,' KROSS Court said.
'I'm sure you guys were happy I didn't take it to 3 sets,' I said.
'We'd have stayed and watched you if you had,' BriGht Eyes replied.

I have now lost in the quarter finals of my last 3 tournaments. I was bummed about it the next day but as KROSS Court told me,
'Remember what Roger Federer said after losing in the quarters of Wimbledon. 'People would die to get to the quarters.'' We laughed as we both find Fed to be annoying and ungracious as time goes on. But it did make me feel better.

It's good to have Boys.

2010-06-24T09:43:00.007-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

My friend Ronnie called me up.
'I'm doing an event in Rio and am trying to come and see you in New York afterwards but it's really expensive. Weirdly, it's cheaper for me to fly back to the UK from Miami.'
I thought for a moment.
'Well, I've never been to Miami...'

Miami has never truly appealed to me for some reason. Is it CSI or Miami Vice? Is it The Golden Girls or The Birdcage?

Nevertheless I was kind of excited about going. Principally, this was since I've not seen Ronnie for a few years. We've known each other for over ten years when in a different life time I worked in event organising.

My travel ineptitude continued with me throwing all manner of shorts into my holdall ('It's Miami! No one wears anything but shorts there!')

I turned up in Miami to cloudy skies and spots of rain and was greeted kerbside by Ronnie at our little boutique hotel.
'I haven't been to the beach yet,' she said. 'I was waiting for you.'

Off we trotted to have a wander by the beach barefoot in the sand and sea. I was starting to understand the allure of the place already.
'Oooh look, lightning over there,' I said pointing into the distance.
'That's so cool,' she replied, as we watched flashes of silver brilliance pierce the sky. Any intelligent people would have realised what this signalled. Instead, we watched in awe like children oblivious to the mad mass exodus of people from the beach to their hotels.

Moments later we feebly attempted to shelter from the torrential rain.
'I guess we should have worked out rain was coming,' Ronnie said.

Back in the room we stressed about the potential downfall and the hampering it would have on our relaxing beach weekend.
'What shall we do tonight??' Ronnie said, quiveringly, no doubt struggling with the thought of having to spend all weekend with me in our small suite.
'Look, we'll go downstairs. If the hotel has an umbrella we'll go out. If not we'll stay in the bar.'

Moments later we were standing at the hotel entrance.
'I don't think we're going out even if they have an umbrella,' Ronnie said.

We chatted up the barkeeps and drank until we felt invincible against the flood and decided to go out anyway. The restaurant that had been recommended to us was closed due to flooding but as luck would have it we rounded the corner to find the Burger and Beer restaurant that my trainer had told me about.

They offer a 10lb burger which when covered with cheese, lettuce, etc etc weighs in at 17lbs and I fell in love. Looks like I have found my 40th birthday cake. I mean how can you not love any food that has to be held down by one man while another cuts it with a hacksaw?

The next day was spent sunbathing on the beach in glorious sunshine, peaking at the Versace mansion and catching up on each others' lives over ice cream.

I've decided I'm a big fan of Miami and will have to go back. At the very least to take on that burger.

My Life with Chicktoria Beckham

2010-06-08T13:02:00.004-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

On the plane to India I watched a film called Hachiko about a Shiba Inu puppy that mysteriously and serendipitously comes into the life of music professor, Richard Gere. I wondered how a film could stretch out this relationship but since I love Shiba Inus and plan to get one one day (Chicktoria Beckham remains ignorant of this plan so far) I thought I’d give it a go.

The result was a warm, touching and teary film, excellently directed by Lasse Halstrom. Every day, the dog would accompany his master to his morning commuter train and then every evening at 5pm sharp he would be waiting patiently at the station for his master’s return so they could walk home together.

One day the professor fails to return having suffered a fatal heart attack but every day for 9 years the dog continues to arrive at 5pm at the train station and wait. The dog is looked after by the local vendors and train masters until his eventual passing where he is, presumably, reunited with his beloved master in the afterlife. Based on a true story of a Japanese professor and his dog there is a statue dedicated to the real Hachiko at the specific train station in Japan.

It’s ultimately a story about the joy and richness a man finds in an almost spiritual connection with his pet.

Chicktoria Beckham and I have a similar sort of relationship.

Except ours is a bit more like that of Inspector Clouseau and his manservant, Cato’s, where they engage in a constant battle of one-upmanship which manifests in physical competition as depicted in the Pink Panther movies.

Every evening when I arrive home from work, Chictoria Beckham is waiting for me behind the front door. Only, unlike Hachi, Chicktoria is screeching out meows to the heavens from her tiny 8 pound body in a manner that would make any professional soprano green with envy while I desperately jangle my keys to get the door open before my militant animal activist neighbour comes out to report me to some animal protection body for animal abuse.

I have visions of seeing myself on one of those reality tv shows like Animal Cops where I am arrested for pet neglect. I am demonized, while on some plush cushion somewhere Chicktoria is being pampered while sniggering inwardly to herself that she has won the latest battle in our game.

As soon as I am in the door the meowing abates. I am convinced she waits until she hears me coming down the hallway before starting her plan of character defamation. I have often caught her by surprise by turning up earlier than usual. I burst into the flat to silence while, after realizing I am home she, having missed her queue, hurriedly tries to wake herself from her nap and let out some howls of victimization. Except, since she is a little creaky when arising from sleep – like me – she is only able to pout forth some pathetic, tinny offerings - often in mid yawn.

Things could be worse. She could terrorize me like the 16 pound cat that held its owner and her 20 something year old son hostage for several hours as a result of not having taken its schizophrenia medicine – although, I am somewhat suspect of a grown man who flees to the bathroom for safety because of a feline hostile takeover.

At the end of the day Chicktoria and I have a lovely rapport. We meet in the kitchen each morning, both of us slowly and creakily rousing ourselves for the day. She sits on the side of the bathtub while I get ready for work and in the evening we lie on the sofa.

I'm well aware that I must come off as some crazed man who loves only his pet. But who cares? Watch Hachiko and then pass judgement.

Pets are great. Everyone should get one. Unless it’s a 16 pound schizophrenic cat with a violent disposition.

Dalhousie

2010-06-01T21:50:00.009-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Dalhousie is a hill station that sits 6,000-9,000 feet high and is built on and around five hills. Located on the western edge of the Dhauladhar mountain range of the Himalayas, it was acquired by the British in 1854 from teh Raja of Chamba and named after Lord Dalhousie who was the then Viceroy.

A welcome retreat from the heat for residents of Lucknow and then the troops and bureaucrats of the British Empire, it's got to either by road or by overnight train to Patankot and then car up the steep mountain roads.

My mother attended Convent school there and every Summer my maternal grandparents would pack up their ten children and rent a home there.

Ma has not been back for 59 years and part of my recent sojourn to India was to return there. Having heard so many stories over the years about the place, the friends, the upbringing I was beside myself with excitement to go there with Ma.

We journeyed from Amritsar and several hours after negotiating mountain roads later we had arrived. My aunt met us at the central place where her house was - a microscosmic centre with tiny high streets - and a short drive later we had arrived at the path to her house. A short fifteen minute slow walk up a gradient later and we had arrived in time for late afternoon tea.

My aunt has not changed a single thing from this house she inherited from her parents. It's 150 years old with original wood columns and even art work in the rooms. Plus, it has a tennis court (since used as another lawn).

And the view.

I wrote in my last blog about spirituality and how for me I felt it, saw it in the beauty of nature. This is what I was talking about. Sitting in the garden in the early morning or late afternoon, and looking out over the view from 2000 meters up, just sitting makes me feel more spiritual than the beauty of any church/temple/mosque.

The nearest I have seen to this rugged mountain range is the coarse, dinosaur of a coastline in Amalfi where I worked after university.

Several other relatives where there and our routine was simple: we chatted, QKofD and I heard the stories of the elders growing up, we ate, we drank tea, we walked. It was bliss.

We took a trip to find my Ma's old convent school and one of the houses that she and her family used to use for the Summer - at which even I felt somewhat emotional.

I love spending time with my parents, my aunts and uncles, with elders. Hearing their tales is living history and simply fascinating.

Now the major industry in Dalhousie is hospitality and despite the height you can hear cars and activity galore. I asked my Ma what it must have been like when she was there.
'Well, it was all pedestrianised so it was very quite. We used to walk to school every day. Even in the rain. [Your grandmother] always said rain was no excuse to miss school. And sometimes your older aunt had to carry your other aunt on her back up the hill to the house because she didn't want to walk.'

'So do you think you could live in the country?' Ma asked QKofD and I one night.
'Oh yes,' we replied.

Later that night I woke up to use the bathroom and came back to find a millipede on the wall. When I say millipede, I don't mean your garden variety. Imagine something about nine inches long when straight with legs everywhere.

I was paralysed with fear as I motioned to QKofD where it was, while she without her glasses on came over to see the beast as best she could. As she neared it suddenly started towards us.

We screamed. And embarrassingly I must report I highjumped backwards onto the bed while screaming,
'WHERE IS IT??'

Ma came bounding into the room to find out what was going on and when informed bounded over to where the creature had rushed. It appeared to have gone.

'All this for that creature?' Ma bellowed. 'Are you sure you both could live in the country?'

We consoled ourselves that if we did live in the country we could always rely on the chowkidar [nightwatchmen] - even if he is there to keep the leopards off the roof not chase creatures like that away.

Golden Temple

2010-05-15T10:08:00.009-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

My maternal grandmother subscribed to the view that you don't need to show your devotion to your spiritual or religious affiliations by visiting a church or temple. Rather, you live your beliefs.

When I was travelling in India with my parents years ago, we would visit various temples, some for sightseeing purposes and others to perform actions to cleanse the body and soul of sins etc. This might involve queuing for hours to touch a particular item like a solid silver fish. Ma and I joke that we must be the purist people alive what will all the cleansing rituals we've done from our travelling days.

My father soon tired of this exercise when we travelled because much of the process involves getting hassled by a priest, a guide or guardian who either want your money or your proof that you should be allowed to enter.

My father was more serene in the eye of spirituality. He preferred to sit quietly and contemplate while faced with the beauty of a manmade, intricately carved temple or, simply, of nature.

The last straw for me was trying to enter a Hindu temple with my mother whereupon she was interrogated by the guardian about who I was, to prove we were related and that I was Indian.
'Speak in Hindi then if you are Indian,' he said to me, and when I couldn't he turned to Ma and said, 'What kind of mother are you when your son can't speak Hindi?'

That was a mistake on his part. My Ma is tiny but she packs a punch.

After that I joined my father on the sidelines.

Ma and QKofD were keen to see the Golden Temple again in Amritsar on our way to Dalhousie. I wasn't desperate but since I was so small the last time we were there and I didn't even remember having gone, I was game. Plus Amritsar was where my father was born so that was another incentive to go.

We stayed with some cousins in their unfeasibly huge house and after a sumptuous breakfast headed to the Golden Temple.

It is truly a sight to behold. A shimmering wonder surrounded by water.

But did I feel spiritual? Did I feel a higher connection with God, the universe, creation?

No.

I subscribe to my maternal grandmother's point of view, and to that of my father's. To this day I remember performing prayers at dawn with my parents at the banks of the Ganga in Varanasi and the feeling of connection I felt at that moment to my parents, the universe, the earth.

To me, calmly relishing in the beauty of nature or the memories of loved ones is a spiritual practice. Knowing that I share that point of view with my father makes me feel closer to him and to wherever he is right now.

Delhi part 1

2010-05-15T09:50:00.003-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I arrived in Delhi on a humid Monday evening with QKofD waiting for me at the airport.

I haven’t been to India for 2 years but on arrival, even though the airport is now a modernized and efficient thing of envy, my love of the country, its culture, history and people came back to me in a flash.

My Ma has been there for a few months and has been suggesting I come over for a quick trip so we can journey to the mountain hill station where she attended Convent school. I agonized for a while since it’s not something I had budgeted for but then, what price experience?

Serendipitously, my bubbly friend Bolly, who recently packed in her job with our Firm, and has been traveling on a spiritual and relaxing quest ever since, was able to meet me in Delhi for a couple of days.

We chatted, relaxed and indulged in ayurvedic massage (rather different from the last time we went to a spa together which was in New York for a slimming, belly burning exercise treatment you perform while mummied up in a seaweed wrap) and discussed contentment and life.

I’ve known Bolly for around twelve years and we’ve come a long way since our days as temps in a terribly boring organization in London.

‘I’m still not sure what our department even did,’ I said.

‘That’s because you were busy writing a novel all day,’ she replied.

Our lives have run along fairly parallel tracks – both meeting boyfriends around the same time, engaging in relationships for similar lengths of time with men who were both driven and extremely successful while both bearing similar traits of emotional reticence.

We’ve both faced various adversities in the last twelve years but I have never seen her so calm and content. She has recently been in an Ashram dedicated to learning Yoga.

‘I think it would be fun to do something like that,’ I said.

‘It was an experience. Up at five-thirty every morning, two yoga sessions before breakfast, lectures, meditation, more Yoga, dinner then bed. No chairs to sit on at dinner which really make you learn to sit straight and, of course, because it’s cleansing the food is very simple and not seasoned.’

‘Sounds great,’ I replied, stuffing my face with eggs and toast while asking my sister’s housekeeper for more coffee.

After Bolly left, I set about indulging in the company of family and friends and of course food.

When you go away, you either hanker to be back home or you set about wondering what life would be like elsewhere. As most people are aware, I live on a line of feeling rooted in New York and feeling fed up of it, while remaining fully aware that moving to a new city or country is not going to solve anything. After all, wherever you end up there you are.

But for the time being there I was in Delhi feeling, in a sense, very much at home.

Where I consider travelling as an unaccompanied minor from now on.

2010-04-24T16:30:00.008-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

A few weeks ago The Batten came to stay. We had the usual fabulous quality time interspersed with some mad nights out. Saturday night was followed by my inability to speak or get our of bed before 4.30pm on Sunday. Ah, good times.

On the day of her return to the UK, she was stressing about not knowing her flight time.
'Don't you have a print out of your itinerary with you?' I asked.
'No.'
'And you didn't send your itinerary to anyone? Like your mum?'
'No.'
'And you can't access it via your email on your blackberry or online?'
'No.'
'So no one has any idea when you are returning home and you have no way to access this information yourself?'
'No. But wouldn't that be great if I had to stay here for a few more days, babe?' she said, excitedly.
I thought of my liver, my wallet, my sanity and my reputation.
'No,' I replied.

Instead she called BA and had a stressful conversation with the service rep who couldn't find her on any flight manifest leaving JFK the day of her supposed return to the UK.
'Maybe I'm going back tomorrow not today? Or did I only book a one way flight?' she wondered.

It turned out she had her boarding pass with her which indicated she was flying out of Newark that night so all ended well Nevertheless, I took to doing a new impression of her:
'My name is [The Batten]. I HAVE NEVER FLOWN ON A PLANE BEFORE. I have NO IDEA how travel works. Please help me. I am inept!'

With my upcoming trip to India, however, it seems I was a little too quick to judge her.

When I was travelling the work for work I became accustomed to the tricks and tips. I had a fully stocked washbag ready to go. I printed my itinerary and made sure family members had my schedule. I travelled light so I could speed through security. I checked in online to save time.....Several years of BA Gold card status and 100,000 airmiles later, work travel has evaporated from my life as has, it seems, any knowledge I ever had about how travelling works.

QKofD was busy sorting a flight out for me so I could take a little jaunt to India to visit her and Ma.
'While I'm doing that make sure you've got a visa,' she instructed.
'I don't need a visa for India. Have they changed the laws for British citizens? Ugh, I hate politics!'
'No,' she replied. 'You've always needed a visa for India.'

I contacted the visa issuing agency only to find out it takes up to two weeks to get a visa.
'But I'm trying to get out there in a few days,' I whined.
'Not gonna happen.'

It actually turned out they got the visa back to me in a day. But then there was the volcanic ash problem affecting flights. Then there was the threat of terrorist attacks in Delhi. I was starting to feel like I wasn't meant to go.

My childhood friend, Croc, who really is like another sister to me, has been here this week. The night before my flight we went to the GLAAD party at Vig27 where we indulged in the free vodka bar for hours until I felt sick.

The next day, the day of my flight, Croc, Yours Truly and another friend - for whom I have yet to think of a blog name - attended the investiture brunch of the Imperial Court of New York at Libation.

I forced Croc to finish her brunch quickly so I could speed back to the flat, collect my things and head to the airport.
As the taxi driver wound his way across town, I texted QKofD.
'Are you all packed?' she messaged.
'Yes,' I tapped. 'Am getting my things then heading to the airport. You know what time I am arriving right?'
There was a slight delay in her response.
'No. You're flying tomorrow not today. Check your itinerary.'

And sure enough, I had the dates wrong. What's more, this mistake didn't altogether surprise me (read about my nearly aborted trips to AILS wedding, or the romantic one to Venice).

I called QKofD whereupon Croc grabbed the phone from me.
'I can't believe this! Your brother is an idiot!'

I've always said I wanted a PA to handle these types of things for me but maybe the answer is to travel as an unaccompanied minor or someone who is severely organisationally challenged when it comes to travel?

While I am deciding which, in the mean time I have older siblings who have their heads screwed on.

Child's play

2010-03-27T09:54:00.009-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

In Ibsen's A Doll House the protagonist, Nora, goes from her father's house to her husband's fulfilling the role required of her, and never growing up. When I had a second job as an usher at The Playhouse Theatre in London I had the enviable chance of seeing a stunning production with Janet McTeer and Owen Teale every night, where I learned a lot about the craft of acting through observation.

In fact, I went to an event here in NY last year where Janet McTeer was in attendance and, naturally, felt compelled to tell her of my profound, exquisite learnings from those few years ago.
'Blimey, that was more than a few years ago, love,' was her response.

Of course, in the play things implode. Nora leaves her husband to start her life as a grown up.

I sometimes think I have one foot in my doll house and one in the grown up big house. And I wonder whether most of us do.

Witness this past week at work where I felt undervalued, overlooked, and paranoid about my ability to perform. Unfortunately, my professional development manager had the misfortune of coming to my office for a meeting whereupon I all but screamed like a banshee about how I was not seen as part of the next generation of leadership.

Of course, instead of thinking rationally about how this couldn't be the case if based on the types of projects I am staffed to (typically high profile, high risk and dealing with senior business sponsors), I elected to say things like (while gesticulating like a mad baboon):

'Frankly, I am struggling to understand where I'm going in this organisation!'

and

'Oh COME ON, it's obvious who has been earmarked for leadership positions! If YOU had your ear to the ground YOU would know too!'

while he looked at me wide-eyed, flattened into the back of his chair by my 100 mile an our windbagging and said,
'I'd like to understand this more. Maybe we can talk when you're better able to articulate what you mean?'

My intent was to show that I was at a stage in my career where I needed to move up and people in the know should see me that way. I'm not sure that message came across exactly. It turns out I just needed a bit of validation.

And just when I thought I was all grown up.

I've written before about how we're grown up in some areas of life and not in others. This is evident when I look at my life outside of work. I've also written before how I would like some romance in my life but I am not prepared to waste time if I feel no connection with someone and I just don't fancy them. To me this is a grown up attitude borne of experience. To others it's childishly simplistic and ignores the intricacies that emerge over time. (But frankly, if you don't get on with someone and don't want to jump on their bones, what's the point?)

I am pretty sure I am not wrong here. But witness the recent dating stories of my good friend, who here shall remain nameless.

'I met this guy,' he told me, 'but when I went back to his place he had all these faux master paintings on the walls.'
'You mean like the Mona Lisa but where it's a dog instead of a woman?'
'No no, just awful portraits of English ladies. But then we went into his bedroom and there were all these dolls all over the place.'
'Freak! Like porcelain dolls in dresses?''
'No, gay GI Joes etc but it was quite the collection.'
'What did you do?'
'I told him I was double parked and couldn't stay.'

A few days later I received more messages.
'I was on a date with this younger guy and while we were making out in the car he called me 'Daddy'. I've been freaked out about it ever since.'
'But you're only 30,' I replied. 'Can someone 6 years younger than you call you Daddy?''

As time went on, my friend revealed that not only were he and this boy not sexually compatible but my friend ended up paying for every meal every time they went out. In my opinion, after 6 weeks of going out, that's basically taking the piss.
'So he never offered to split the bill?' I asked.
'No. Even when I was struggling to find the cash to pay the other night he just sat there.'

I told him for the sake of his feelings I wouldn't offer my uncensored opinion. Instead I endeavoured to remain impartial and act as a coach who helps someone come to their own conclusion. But you can take the boy out of the doll house but you can't take the bluntness out of the boy.

'You are wasting your time,' I stated. 'If the money thing isn't a dealbreaker for you that's one thing but I've been with someone where we weren't sexually compatible and I am telling you if you stay with this guy it won't end well.'
'But what if I am passing up on something good?'
'The only thing you are passing up on is being broke and sexually frustrated.'
'But what if-'
'WHAT IF WHAT IF WHAT IF!!' I ranted. 'I have been where you are, I KNOW what I am talking about! And I know you. But of course you must make your own decision.'

A few days later, my friend messaged me that he had given this boy the boot.
'You think I did the right thing, don't you?'
'Absolutely,' I said.

It's good when a friend can benefit from your wisdom and experience - even if you childishly ram it down his. throat.

Why infomercials should be enjoyed from a safe distance

2010-02-20T09:31:00.000-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Glitterati is one of my oldest friends. And when it comes to apparel (and our addiction to), and our attitudes to enjoyment of life, boyfriends and whether we can accommodate that umpteenth piece of clobber in our wardrobes (note whether we can actually afford it is by the by), we are scarily similar. In fact, much like Michael and Janet, we are rarely seen in the same place at the same time. Just saying.

Of course we have other interests and addictions. She likes telly and knitting. I like sudoku and infomercials.

I think everyone knows one of my guilty pleasures is watching (and, ok ok, ordering) from infomercials. There is something strangely comforting about watching all manner of ridiculous contraptions and inventions change people's lives. And trying to work out why they always want to give you two of them.

Of course, I watch these silly productions from my high horse, ridiculing them at every turn. For example, a sort of sandwich maker in which you can make 'anything from tacos to stuffed soup and which will change the way you cook and live!' isn't going to be very helpful when I want to make a lasagna or a curry.

A Slapchop which can help people cut all manner of veggies in an instant isn't great when you can only fit something the size of a quarter of a boiled egg in it at one time. Not the best piece of equipment if you're catering a dinner party. And you still have to cut stuff to get it into the Slapchop anyway, so really, how much more time does it take to carry on with the dicing yourself on your chopping board?

30 minutes of random people trying Youthology eye cream only to find 'IT WORKS!' when they have seen this to be the case because they've just watched 12 other people before them apply it, gets a bit boring and just makes me wonder about the mental ability of the participants (and the producer).

Or, my personal favourite - the 'instant facelift' which requires no surgical procedure. How does it work, then? Well, simply affix invisible pieces of tape to the desired area such as your cheek and the other to somewhere near the hairline thereby stretching your face and giving it a 'youthful appearance without pain or hassle'.

There's just something about such ridiculousness that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And yet, I must accept the fact that I am, in fact, one of these ridiculous people. After all, I am the man who just ordered a cat emery board from the telly.

And before anyone conjures up an image of me giving Chicktoria Beckham a manicure ('Oh, 'oney, I mek your nail look ni'. Mek it sparkle like diamon' in sky. You get boyfrien' with ni' nail, 'oney'), it's not an actual emery board but a scratching board that files your cat's nails while they use it.

I have ordered diet products, ab shapers, face creams galore. I order the money back guarantee free trial but since I pay no attention to detail - unless the detail is something that really interests me - I invariably miss the cancellation deadline before the full price kicks in and so my 'cheap, no risk!' item ends up costing me a ton of money and sits unused in my apartment.

What intrigues me immensely about these fads is the focus on fixing your appearance if only temporarily e.g. the Youthology eye cream that lasts 8 hours. Or witness, the body shaper that can help you lose inches instantly. Hugely obese people squeeze themselves into a piece of tubing that shrinks their stomach and thighs. Yet, I'm constantly wondering what they do when they meet someone or are with loved ones and remove the product only to have all those extra inches spill out?

And then again, I realised that I have indulged in such products myself.

The other week I went to a friend's birthday party and the next day received a message on facebook from a fellow guest to say he thought I was really handsome. 'Thanks, I replied, 'you're not so bad yourself'. His reply the next day stated that not only did he find me handsome but that I also had 'a great butt'.

Since my butt is, quite clearly, not my best feature, my first thought was that he had mistaken someone else's butt for mine. But then I understood what had happened here.

That night I had been wearing my Andrew Christian anti-muffin top underpants complete with butt lifting technology. (Seriously, you can't not buy something that has a stamp on it saying it has 'butt lifting technology', can you?)

These magic pants must have given my behind the promised perky Rafa Nadal-like perfect ice cream scoops of an ass rather than it's true appearance of a melted dairy product. My first thought was that I must buy more of these pants.

'Thanks' I replied, to which he revealed - well, let's just say that he was in the mood to eat out that evening and he wasn't talking about restaurant dining.

I'm not a prude but I am a bit Catherine Zeta-Jones when it comes to the intimate moments of life. I don't like to reveal them (unless someone is down and I'm trying to make them laugh, or I'm drunk in which case I can be terribly indiscreet), and so I didn't reply to the message.

In any case, what would I have said? And if by any miracle I had allowed that to happen (it's not really my favourite thing on the menu), how disappointed he would have been to find that I don't have a perky melon behind?

It occurred to me that each of these products should also come with a manual that help you explain what to do once you have wowed someone with it's promised effect and it's revealed to be temporary.
- What to do should your invisible facelift tapes fall off during some passionate petting.
- Appropriate answers if someone says, 'Er, your arse looks different out of pants.'
- How to prevent people screaming when the Youtholgy cream wears off.

You know, that kind of thing.

Next time I order something from the telly, perhaps I'll suggest it.

Where I fall off the wagon

2010-02-18T11:45:00.003-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

My last blog entry but one was about saving money and being good about it. Since then, much has happened. Even M made an appearance from Hong Kong. She stayed with me for a few days whereupon it was just like old times. We felt sorry for ourselves owing to illness, we caught up on each other's lives while sitting on the sofa watching bad reality telly, and we engaged in mild brother-sister bickering. Now she's gone, I miss her already.

Additionally, another birthday has come and gone, another party has been had, enthusiasm has waned a little, and I have fallen off the money-spending wagon. In fact, I more or less jumped from the wagon and rolled around in the dirt like a happy little piggy while the wagon wheels chucked up dust as it disappeared into the horizon.

My childhood friend, Croc, is visiting regularly since she is staffed on a project here. We wandered around the shops where I came across a vintage tuxedo shirt that would be perfect for my birthday celebration. I had a fancy to wear something frilly at my birthday so when I spied this slightly see through number with tuxedo frills running in parallel tracks down the shirt front I was sold. After all there are only so many times you can wear frills if you are a gay man living in Chelsea, right?

'It looks very nice,' the salesman commented as I paraded around in it.
'Why don't you buy it for me?' I asked Croc.
'I'll go halves with you,' she replied.
'I've known her for 35 years,' I told the salesman. 'You would have thought that meant she might have splashed out on the whole thing for me.'

After that, I bought an expensive watch for my birthday.

And then another.

I spied another (which Yours Truly eventually bought me as a birthday present.)

And there are at least two others I simply must have (it's a sickness, it really is).

Then there is the jacket I've seen, the tennis holiday I paid a deposit for, the tennis tourney I want to go to, the gay games in Cologne, the cat emery board I ordered from an infomercial.....

But what is life without a little fun? And so what if Chicktoria Beckham's annual medical check up has to be postponed due to lack of funds? She's a healthy sort, anyway. (Before the animal activists mobilise against me, I'm kidding, ok?)

I was rather pleased to see that I have done quite well in meeting my commitments. Some I haven't started. And there are new ones to put on the list. But when the enthusiasm wanes for these sorts of things, it's good to look back on the list I created and think 'Oh, well I already did that.'

Good thing I have that list to look over while I wait for the next passing wagon to pick me up.

Where I am still standing by my commitments (but I'm never stepping again)

2010-01-30T12:19:00.004-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

The year has kicked off with rather a lot of social activity. Six course dinners at Guncle's. Tennis awards dinners hosted by Yours Truly. And birthdays have abounded, including KROSS Court's 30th which was a grand affair at his Jersey home, complete with live band, hot bartender and enough food for the entire city of Manhattan.

Despite all this, I've been doing a fairly good job of standing by my resolutions/commitments. The one thing I haven't sorted is knuckling down and writing. But as I said to MonogAMouse last night over drinks, I need to find some way of motivating myself. I have good ideas (even if I don't possess the talent I think I do) so it's criminal to let this fall by the way side.

Other than that, I've been pretty good.

I got a webcam and engage in regular video chats with the family back home. I only wish I had done this years ago. I love being able to see loved ones while chatting to them. That period of disconnection I experienced last year has been minimised if not diminished by this simple piece of equipment and modern technology.

I've even - gasp - been better at not buying clothes. OK, apart from the two sweaters I bought from BR the other week. But they were cashmere. And on sale. And a total of $26 so I would have been incredibly stupid not to buy them really.

However, I can proudly say that I am able to enter and exit any number of shops empty handed. Even those whose ridiculous sales mean they are practically giving stuff away, and, most impressively a few of my favourite shops that have several beautiful coats on sale. I tried one on the other day and actually caught myself thinking 'I don't really need another black coat though, do I?'

Of course, I can feel the justification devil on my shoulder (even as I write) saying 'But it's so cheap. THIS WILL BE THE BIGGEST MISTAKE OF YOUR LIFE IF YOU DON'T GO BACK AND BUY IT.'

I am resisting so far. The other annoying by-product of living this way is the self-righteousness that surrounds me with each money saving endeavour.
'I don't understand you,' Yours Truly said the other day. 'You spend $100 on a belt and then feel all virtuous because you didn't spend $12 on two glasses of wine.'
'Where are you going that wine costs $6 a glass?' I responded, intrigued.

The other commitment I have been living up to is fitness. I have started with my trainer and I already feel it's one of the best things I've ever spent my money on. I have instructed him that at the end of 3 months I better be able to walk around Chelsea with my shirt off (and not have people retch or cross the street, obv).

In between my workouts with him, I try to bump up my cardio with exercise classes.

I went to an advanced step class the other day. It was one of the most horrific experiences of my life.

These people stepped as if they were J.Lo's tour dancers. I had no idea what was going on and no one seemed to want to explain it to me. So I was left bumbling up and down my step like a clinically blind person with a club foot. And what's worse I felt obliged to laugh and smile through the whole sequence which I am sure only gave me the added aura of someone afflicted with severe mental retardation.

I have not been so embarrassed since I forced myself to attend open acting auditions in London years ago. This class was reminiscent of me auditioning for the rhythmic troupe Stomp.

A fellow acting friend was going to an open audition for it.
'Come with me,' she suggested. 'Look, the way I see it, whatever happens we'll get a great workout. Plus it's an open audition so you might make a fool of yourself but there'll be hundreds of other people there.'

It seemed like a good idea. Even when we were separated into groups of 20.

That is until they informed us we would have to perform a rhythmic solo in front of the whole group.

I started to sweat as each person went into the middle of the group and backflipped and drummed beats to rival U2 on their rock hard thighs.

It's safe to say I have blocked out this mortifying turn of events from my mind but if memory serves there was plenty of flapping about like a wounded seal in agony. God help me but I even think I tried to create an exciting beat by slapping my cheeks while my mouth was open. This was categorically the WORST experience I have ever forced myself to undergo. Ever.

Until the step class.

At the end of it, the woman in front of me came up to me wide-eyed and in an overly caring way said,
'It's a hard class. Do you think you'll come back?'
I thought for a moment.
'I don't think so,' I replied.

So for now I will stick to the treadmill and my trainer.

After all, it's not like my goal is to take my shirt of and step through Chelsea.

Cents and Sensibility (sorry, I couldn't resist)

2010-01-14T13:33:00.007-05:00

Every January I am faced with the same stress. No disposable income and about $4.00 left in my savings account leaves me pondering the usual annual dilemmas: What can I make with a tin of tuna and Activia yogurt until my next pay check comes in and I can go to the supermarket? Where can I find the discipline to not buy more apparel and save money? How difficult is it to be a Breatharian, really?

And always, WHY, when frankly I earn a sizeable salary, am I in this position in the first place??

Years ago, I used to root around the sofa cushions looking for loose change. These days, nothing seems to have changed (except I have a much nicer sofa).

I've never been one who believes in giving up sex and sugar in the New Year in an effort to become virtuous but I do try and make commitments each year and write accompanying tasks and activities that will allow me to meet them, which I suppose is the same thing as making resolutions.

They form the usual types of things. I want to get fit and so will engage a trainer this year. I want to be more connected to my friends and family so I will get a webcam so we have richer interactions. I want to improve my tennis game so will focus on practice rather than competition.

Though I say it every year, THIS YEAR, I am determined to be financially responsible which means less needless spending and more sensible saving.

Before Xmas I met a friend, who here shall be known as Sassy, whom I haven't seen for about 13 years. We worked together as temps in London. She went on to take over the marketing world and now lives in a multi-million dollar home in LA with her equally successful partner.

'Here he is. That's us at the Grammys,' she said, showing me his picture on her phone while we sat at Markt in Chelsea, both wrapped in fur (except hers was acres of real sable while mine was a faux fur scarf from H&M).

'Look, there's no reason you can't have the same things I have,' she told me. 'I mean you and I started off the same.''
'True,' I replied.
'Except I own four houses now.'
'Yes.'
'And I'm a few years younger than you.'
'YES, I get it!'
'I'm going to help you. Start by writing down what you spend your money on so we know what your disposable income is.'

When I did this, it is clear that I should have tons of money at the end of every month to spare. Frankly, I have no desire to be a Business Analyst for the rest of my life and I'd like to enjoy financial comfort in my old age (preferably while wearing Armani) and since - at least as of now - it looks unlikely that I will be able to rely on offspring, I must concoct a plan to get me there.

Eating cheaply is pretty easy, actually. My problem - as everyone pretty much knows - is clothes. And shoes. And accessories. And art. And nice things for my apartment.

I can easily skip dinner if it means buying that jacket but, alas, today, buying the sort of things I really like and have become accustomed to having, means skipping out on paying a month's rent, which, of course I would never do (despite all the research I have done about tenant's rights).

Over Christmas, which was a lovely, relaxed and indulgent affair, I bought a belt, a pair of boots and two pairs of shoes.

This is quite ridiculous when my cupboard has enough belts to accessorize the 5000, and my shoe rack enough pairs to provide each Disciple with something for every day of the week, and for every occasion (and to match whatever colour belt they choose to wear, natch).

As most addicts must, I have taken to telling myself how uninterested I am in patronising any shops simply to see what's on offer.

Private shopping event at Banana Republic with champagne and discounts? NOT INTERESTED!!
Visit Zara to see if the grey herringbone Winter coat is on sale? WHO CARES?!
Check out Hugo Boss private sale in Meatpacking? I, er, I'm not interested?...
Bloomingdale's for that Iceberg jacket at 70% off which means it only costs half a month's rent? No, please, I, really..No.'

For this to be effective I must repeat my disinterest continuously as a mantra (while mopping my excited brow). I also realised I spend a humongous amount of money on going out, and on booze. I've cut down on that so far too.

And it's made me realise two things:

This is a work in progress. It's a continual monitoring of what I should and should not be spending my money on with the bigger picture in mind.
It's really boring being sensible.

This is existing, not living.

It would be nice to have four houses but what must the upkeep on that be like? I can barely maintain the fifteen watches I own.

I haven't worked this long and hard to start shopping at the Salvation Army. Part of the whole point of coming this far is to be able to buy Cavalli if I want to and enjoy that nice expensive steak.

As with everything in life, it's all about balance. If I've eaten a cheeseburger and fries one day I balance it out with something healthy the next. Since, I'm not going to stop eating cheeseburgers and fries, this system works for me.

I figure I must employ the same moderation with my spending, which hitherto has been the equivalent of eating a cheeseburger and fries and then steak and then cake and then wine and then and then and then....

Except it's not my stomach that's bursting it's my credit card bill (and my closets).

In fact, as I write, I think I have just discovered my incentive for saving: So I can one day have bigger closets. Or perhaps even a walk in wardrobe.

Now, that's a financial goal I can make sense of.

Christmas Spirit

2009-12-20T10:09:00.004-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Waking up to 10 inches of snow on the ground, I can finally say 'tis the season.

I'm a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to weather. Winter should be cold and full of snow and mulled wine (but like in those old Doris Day movies it shouldn't hamper you from your daily routine), Summer should be full of sun and cold beer (but not 3 showers a day and sweat patches), Autumn should be rich with earthy, warming colours on the trees, hot chocolate and cake (although I don't really like hot chocolate), and Spring full of whatever those flowers are whose smell reminds me of Easter (daffodils, I think) and tea with lemon.

I love Christmas. I love the commerciality of it (sorry). But the slushy movies, the Christmas music, the lights, the food, the atmosphere...it sparks of fun and mischief and excitement. Naturally I mean it speaks of all of those things before you head home to family for the holidays.

This last week I have spent in New York before flying back to Blighty has seemed uncharacteristically un-Christmassy, however.

By rights it should have been the perfect send off week what with events every night.

The Batten was in town with her new bf and it was lovely seeing her and meeting him but somehow our antics tired me out more than usual.

There was Prince CHARming and The Contessa's Xmas party in their fabulous abode. Despite the fact I am mildly annoyed with him for not even remembering I had bought them a wedding present (which presumably explains why I never got a thank you card but not why I never got an invite to the wedding in the first place), it which was great fun and of course the newlyweds looked radiant in both mood and style.

Lots of my favourite people were in attendance including Lord In Law, M. Butterflee and even Miss Jones but in the back of my mind was always the thought that I had to leave to meet Catie Kouric to go to a Toys for Tots party thrown by my de la mer Dealer.

We went to Dealer's party to find all the booze had run out. I forced KROSS Kourt to make it there only to leave before he arrived.

I think by this number of events, drinking to excess followed by a late night snack (invariably a big cheeseburger) had started to take it's toll. Illness prevailed and prevented me from enjoying nights out, or even from wanting to go.

Nevertheless I soldiered on. There was the tennis club holiday party I dragged myself to, hot and sweating with the onset of fever - nice.

There was carol singing at church with Queenie. I had told her I wanted to get in the Christmas spirit with yuletide tunes so she found a place for us to carol sing in a church. I had actually meant I wanted to hear Jingle Bells etc sung by some folks perhaps dressed in holiday attire rather than be one of the singers in church.

Yet, unbeknownst to her, Queenie had managed to get me more in the spirit than she knew. It instantly transported me back to being a very small boy involved in my school's Christmas function at church. Being one of the passage readers and realising, as I started reciting, that everyone there was hanging on my every word and that my delivery even at that tender age was good, was what started me feeling I wanted a job where I could do that all the time (I still live in hope).

I could remember the lights. the candles, the music from all those years ago. Although, in the church on Madison Avenue we started singing O Little Town of Bethlehem and Away in A Manger, I had no idea what was going on. I had no idea the music for those hymns is different in the States than in the UK.

There was Catie Kouric's birthday celebration, which in his inimitable style had three parts to it. I went for part 1 and a bit of 2 but was not quite my normal self to indulge in it full force.

Then there was my annual fancy outing with Lovely Lady MEDley where she picks up the tickets and I the bar tab. One Christmas we went to see Eartha. This year was Michael Feinstein and David Hyde Pierce performing some cabaret at Fensitein's theater. This is old school stuff: a grand piano set in a drawing room with small tables set around to make the setting intimate. We sat at a high table near the wall and enjoyed our Johnnie Walker and Prosecco as the duo sang Mercer, Gershwin and others. Fabulous.

And then I spent the rest of the weekend in bed. I messaged KROSS Kourt:
'It's my last Saturday night of the year in New York and I'm ill at home watching The Golden Girls!' (Luckily, I never get tired of The Golden Girls).

It must be said that even as I lay sputtering in bed my thoughts did not run to whether I had swine flu or should I go to the doctor but how was going to get to Zara to:
'Buy... those nice winter boots....must....find....my size (cough cough)..before it's... too...late.'

But with only Chicktoria Beckham to hear such things it's unlikely that if they were to be final wishes of a sort that they would be fulfilled.

And today? As I write, refreshed from marathon sleep sessions, the snow falls in flurries by my window and it not only feels like Christmas spirit is in the air but when I look back on the whirlwind week packed with festivities I realise it has been there the whole time.

Tonight I go to the New York Gay Men's Chorus with Guncle Norman and his entourage and think I should dig out my fur collared Armani for the occasion. Tomorrow, it's another Toys for Tots party and Tuesday I make my journey back to Blighty where no doubt, in the folds of family, the spirit will continue to pour forth.

And it'll be Johnnie Walker Black label.

Ah, he always was my favourite Christmas spirit.

Where I get mercy f*cked (sort of)

2009-12-12T14:46:00.006-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I am back to my old ways.

I'm attending as many gym classes as I can in an effort to keep the weight off. Unfortunately, this also means I am back to all my other old ways too.

Dinner = five glasses of wine at three different bars followed by a cheeseburger or Disco fries (my latest discovery! chips covered in two types of cheese and served with cheese sauce and gravy. How have I lived so far without this divine creation).

And, of course, things wouldn't be complete without me being asked to leave a bar would it? I had a rocking night with Southern Belle the other week where after a bar in Tribeca, drinks in her flat, Marquis (avoid) and The Standard bar, she insisted we go to Soho House.

'But I put my membership on hold,' I said.
'I'll get us in,' she assured me.

I discovered that 'getting us in' meant her standing at the reception desk at 3.30am telling me to give the security guard my name and membership number.

He told us to go on up to the bar.
'But I'm not an active member,' I hissed in the lift.
'Well, we're here aren't we?'

Of course the bar was closed because, you know, on a Thursday night no one in New York wants to go out after midnight, do they?

We cursed the House and the bar to the maitre d's disgust and in the lobby were given a finger wagging lecture by the security guard about lying.

I wanted to complete the school scene by saying, 'It wasn't my fault. She made me do it.' But I digress.

As a result of all this, I'm not the gym classes are working. Chicktoria Beckham has joined me in the new regime, although her methods are more in line with her namesake's. I came in exhausted after a spin class whereupon Chicktoria Beckham (purely out of spite, I'm sure) stared at me and then threw up on the living room floor.

Since I have not indulged in such behaviour for many years I can only surmise that she, while sitting in the window sill, learned this from watching the other cats out in the back yard who must suffer from the same mad body image issues as everyone else living in Chelsea.

If I needed further proof that weight loss must include sensible eating I got it the other night. I was heading out to meet my childhood friend, Croc, who was in town for work, when I spied my chocolate suede Cavalli coat in the cupboard.

'Hello, lover,' I said, silkily. 'I haven't had you in a while. Let's do it.'

You know how sometimes you take a lover to bed after you've just split up? Or you sleep with someone who doesn't meet your standards just because? Well, that's called a mercy f*ck, right?

My seductively issued tones to my coat were promptly followed by,
'Harumph. What's this? Can't...do...buttons...up. Huh? What? How?...'

After some persuading I finally managed to get my coat on me. But it clearly wasn't enjoying the experience.

I had just been mercy f*cked by my own piece of outerwear.

I thought only boyfriends made you feel that crap?

Hence, I have decided to get a trainer after Christmas. In the meantime I must spin for my life. And if fitting snugly back into my clothes doesn't provide enough motivation, I'll look to the spin instructor.

I've no idea if he'll provide added inspiration, I just like looking at him; he's gorgeous.

M. Butterflee and the long sofa

2009-12-09T22:21:00.001-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

As luck would have it, I commandeered a lovely sofa from the girl I bought the bookcase from. We have a lot in common and she is hilarious so she must have a blog name since she will be around for a while.

Here shall be known as M. Butterflee. A rising opera star she fled that stifling world for a life in finance akin to Ivana skiing her way out of Czechoslovakia and into the arms of Donald. Well, perhaps it wasn't quite that dramatic but when opera and finance are in the mix I must be allowed some license.

I organised the whole sofa move. Got the mover (not the mad one who talks to himself), sold my sofa to Catie Kouric, organised the pick up time etc etc and got all excited about the prospect of being able to lie full out on my new sofa with Chicktoria Beckham rather than having to fit onto my small one by arranging my limbs in the style of a dead body that has fallen from a roof onto the pavement.

The night before the move I had a sudden thought. What if I couldn't actually get the sofa through my door and down my hallway? I hurriedly emailed M. Butterflee to ask for the measurements and did a bit of measuring in my apartment only to become unconvinced I could make it work.

I messaged KROSS Court, to ask what he thought and to berate myself for not thinking about this earlier.
'Come on. Who thinks of these things?' he wrote reassuringly.
'My ex would have,' I replied.
'But you had a bad sex life,' came the response.
'True.'
'Well, there you go then.'

The next day on Monday I cancelled the move and made arrangements to see the sofa again that evening to take pictures and measurements.

On that Monday afternoon, I had a debrief meeting with a team I am leading for a new work initiative. One colleague was joining by phone. When the others arrived at my office (one of whom is my lovely friend Queenie), I said,
'Ah good, you're here. Now, I want to buy a sofa that is 90" long, 35" deep and 33" high. My hallway is 88" high and 33" wide. Do you think I will be able to get the new sofa into my apartment?'

Queenie set about scribbling maths workflow on a piece of paper while our colleague pondered the dilemma.

Meanwhile, our remote colleague messaged me to ask if we were still meeting, she was ready for us to call her. 'Yes, yes,' I typed back. 'Just give us 5 minutes or so.'

'It will work,' Queenie said, showing me her triangular diagrams. 'Look, if this is the hypotenuse, then the square root of this angle is 50". Although, it has been a while since Ive done Pythagorean calculations.'

I nodded slowly with my brow furrowed (which I do when I want it to appear I understand what someone is saying).

We dialled our waiting colleague.
'Sorry we're late,' I said, without offering any explanation. 'We have five minutes left to the end of the meeting. Shall we discuss?'

M. Butterflee loved the fact I had outsourced our dilemma to cope with our obvious ineptitude in this area. Although, truth be told, this was tame by comparison to other acts.

I once had a direct report based in Spain ship me a coat from Zara which I couldn't find anywhere in the UK.
'But how will I get it to you?' she asked.
'Send it via internal mail, of course.'

When the coat arrived and I found it to be the wrong one, I was distraught (I lacked maturity about clothing then). If memory serves me correctly I ended up finding the right one on a holiday weekend in Budapest. But I digress.

It's just as well I sought help from others. M. Butterflee had estimated the angle of the top of the back of the sofa to the edge of the arm as 90" - which is the length of it.
'That can't be right, can it?' she asked.

Her BF had told her the measurements weren't altogether important because I'd be pivoting the sofa into my apartment.
'Do you know what he means by that?' M. Butterflee asked me, but all I could think of was that episode of Friends where Chandler and Rachel are helping Ross move a sofa up the stairs and Ross keeps screaming at them to 'Pivot, pivot, PIVOT!!!'
'Not really,' I replied. 'Oh dear, we're a bit Laurel and Hardy, aren't we?'

That evening I went over to take some pics and measurements. We chattered away, engaging in exposition.
'So how did you get into your current job?' she asked.
'Well,' I began, as I sat on the floor unscrewing the feet from the sofa, 'When I was five years old I wanted to be either a tennis player or an actor.'

Ten minutes later I had just got to my first year at university when I had to stop.
'Sorry, what was your original question again?''

She claimed to be interested but she may well have been texting people for help from her spot behind the kitchen counter for all I know.

All ended well, of course. Queenie's Pythagorean calculations proved correct (as if there was any doubt), and, naturally as soon as the sofa was arranged in my abode I wondered if I really like it after all.

Turns out I do, and so does CB.

M. Butterflee and I had decided our new found friendship should be cemented with the firmest, most reliable building blocks: red wine and banter.

Morrell's wine bar, copious amounts of heavy red wine, a cocktail and much interesting and banterous dialogue later, I think we have a good grounding for friendship.

Unless my sofa collapses.

Holiday Spirit

2009-12-01T13:20:00.002-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Thanksgiving was a low key affair this year which was exactly as I wanted it. Of course there were invites to other dos. Catie Kouric was having his usual potluck affair which was excellent fun last year and my great good friend Mr McDreamy is always telling me I should accompany him and the beautiful Mrs McDreamy to the McDreamy family home for the holidays as he is convinced his father would really like me.

However, I have been spending time making my place somewhere I really enjoy spending time so I wanted to enjoy holidays as they are meant to be enjoyed. Lazing around surrounded by mountains of food and watching bad telly.

Yours Truly and I had decided to spend it together. We cooked up a veritable feast of roast chicken (his grandma's secret recipe which as far as I could gather included basting the thing in a tub of butter and canola oil), mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, stuffing and vegetables. By the time the main stuff was ready I simply couldn't be arsed to make any vegetables, however.

There was celery. (Which I had fried and mixed into the stuffing.)

After a day's eating and napping, I spent the rest of the holidays trying to convince myself to be productive while lying on the sofa watching bad movies. There was Ice Spiders about genetically modified, large Arctic spiders who terrorise a team of Olympic skiers. This type of bad film is like eating not very good chips. They may be bad but they are still chips and they have to be REALLY BAD for me to stop eating them. Ice Spiders was the equivalent of REALLY BAD chips and REALLY BAD mayonnaise.

Then there was a slew of Christmas movies on Lifetime or as it's known during the Yuletide season Falalala Lifetime. (I do wonder if the announcers get embarrassed having to constantly say 'Next on Falalala Lifetime!').

These types of Christmas movies are almost always about a person or town that is suffering or has suffered some tragedy which has caused him/her/it to lose his/her/its faith in Christmas. Throw in:

Either someone equally bereft of Christmas spirit (usually a female workaholic who is unmarried and, therefore, pitied by her family and friends. If this is a man he is usually a widower workaholic with two young kids who only wish he would realise that even tho mummy is gone they are still there) and who when faced with the sad person or town realises Life and Christmas are wonderful and makes the person or town realise it too (if person, she will marry him, if town she will marry the only single man in it who happens to be gorgeous, rich and very Christmassy, if widower he will marry the work colleague who has always loved him from the shadows).
OR someone who has an overabundance of Christmas spirit (usually a young child who is either dying but ok about it, or is deprived of love and affection) and who through their trial engage in selfless acts that make the town rally together to bring Christmas Spirit home and either find a cure for the sick child, or rekindle the parental relationship of the love deprived child.

All of them are guaranteed to bring a tear to your eye at some point, even though it may the most awful thing you have ever seen (this assumes you have not seen Ice Spiders).

I had coffee with Guncles Norman and Guy in the village - both of whom are looking trimmer and more fresh-faced every time I see them - where we caught up over lattes and cappuccinos while sitting next to Glenn Close whose versatility and talent make her one of my favourite actresses. She looks incredible for sixty something. (Guncle Guy is convinced she has had work done.)

When I told them I had chores in store for the rest of the day, Guncle Norman said to me,
'This may be too personal a question but do you like doing household chores? I mean, you can afford a cleaner.'
'Oh god, I hate cleaning,' I replied. 'I do have a cleaner. By chores I meant walk round the shops, buy a tree that kind of thing.'

I berated myself for not being more productive (while lying on my sofa watching more Lifetime) but when I thought about it, I cooked up a Thanksgiving feast, I caught up with friends I've not seen for a while, I bought a tree, I found and booked a (relatively) cheap flight back to London for Xmas, I secured a few new pieces for my flat and I resisted spending money in the sales (well, one pair of heavily reduced shoes doesn't really count).

So all in all it was actually a rather productive holiday.

Next year, though, I may join Mr and Mrs McDreamy and their cute McDreamy junior and experience a proper family Thanksgiving in another town. And who knows, perhaps I will meet the one (devastatingly handsome and rich) townsman who through some tragedy has stopped believing in the Holiday Spirit and is simply, unknowingly waiting for me to rekindle the love and hope in his heart.

Poor bastard.

The ties that bind

2009-11-19T13:49:00.008-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

My trip to Texas and California was fun and, truth be told, some time in LA had re-energised me somewhat but I'd be lying if I said by the end of it I wasn't aching to get back to New York.

Prior to leaving I had left my flat in a state of disarray. Clothes strewn all over the dining room, bills tossed across the kitchen counter, dirty laundry and half read books on my bedroom floor...a lack of space and storage was starting to get on my nerves.

While in LA, with time to think, I developed a determination about getting things in order in the hope that doing so will help me feel more centered and productive (and perhaps even ensnare an a unsuspecting man).

I noticed this determination abounded with an accompanied feeling of calm ease, of simply 'knowing' that when I decided what was to be done, so it shall be. I think the California attitude and sunshine does that to you. Perhaps it burns out all of your cynicism and lethargy or something.

My list included: join a gym and start a new routine, find a nice dresser for my clothes, find a bookcase, find a date with someone who looks like Matt Bomer from White Collar etc.

On the plane back to JFK I got chatting to a film producer who was flying in to direct a video for a heavy metal band. I pitched him my screenplay (another energised to do on my list) which he didn't exactly fall over himself to buy or even read but he did ask me if I'd be interested in doing some rewrites for a smaller budget film he's working on starring Judge Reinhold. All without knowing whether I have any credentials.

Of course I said I would, and if this had been ten years ago and I'd been in LA I might even have gotten overexcited about this 'possibility', but I was back in New York now and this is a city of empiricists. We're ShowMeTheMoney kind of people.

We decided to share a cab into the city and while I was at the ATM he was commandeered by a black cab guy. I never use those guys but he offered us a cheap deal for two stops and everyone loves a bargain, right?

Ah New York drivers.

They have one hand on the wheel and one on their cell phone, oblivious to the dangerous swerving of the vehicle that occurs as a result. They're operating under their own agenda: blasting air conditioning because that's what they want, taking the cheapest route because that's what they want, changing the route because that's what they want:

'I'm not sitting in this traffic all night,' the driver said when he got off his phone. 'I gotta get to my salsa party. We gotta take the toll. You gotta pay. That ok? You don't mind if I go fast, right? How do I get to West 15th?'

We weren't basking in California sunshine anymore where my friendly taxi driver dutifully waited for me at each gay bar 'just in case I wanted to go somewhere else'.

'Don't go fast. I don't want to get killed on the way home. I already told you the toll is fine. And, west 15th runs west so go up 7th until you can take a left on 15th and go all the way down til I tell you to stop,' I sighed irritably with a 'Why don't you know that?' under my breath.
'And how do I turn the airconditioning off? It's freezing back here.'

The weekend started by catching up over sushi with MonogaMouse who's also been away, and then on to the list.

I found a dresser on craigslist that was essentially free, I just had to pay the guy to deliver it for me. The idea of going to Bushwick to check it out didn't exactly appeal, especially since I wasn't even sure where that was. Then the guy called and offered to pick me up and drive me to Bushwick to check it out and then bring it straight back if I was interested. Easy peasy.

He was kind of odd in that he talked incessantly in a low voice which I could hardly hear. You know in that sort of New-York- has- turned-me-slightly-crazy way. In five minutes I knew he had moved here from Berlin seven years ago, he had two brothers who also lived here, he had a son whose mother was a 'junkie waste of space', he had hurt is back moving a sofabed for another client 'which was all that guy's fault' and that he had come to the conclusion that 'jerking off is better than marriage.'

'Hmmm,' I replied to that last part. 'Sorry, what did you say the dimensions of the dresser were again?'

The next day a bookcase was located in Midtown West. I had exchanged some emails with the girl selling it. You can tell whether you're going to get on with someone by their emails, can't you? When I got there we started chatting, finding common ground.
'Oh you have Middlesex did you like it? You have the most adorable dog.'
'A friend of mine worked for your company.'

And, of course, the most effective binding material of all: reality telly.

'Reality tv really is sooo irresponsible to me,' I harped pretentiously, while New Jersey housewives played in the background. 'I mean, people watch it and think that's an appropriate way to act.'
'Yes,' she agreed, carefully. 'It's awful to think that people aspire to be like the ones on these shows.'
'Oh great!!' I cried, suddenly transfixed. 'This is the part where that woman throws the table over at her own dinner party and calls everyone a whore. It's my favourite bit.'

Over the course of the next few days we've exchanged extremely amusing emails.
'I have a sort of board meeting tonight over dinner,' I wrote. 'Shall I do a New Jersey housewife and throw the table whilst calling everyone a whore?'
'I believe it's pronounced "prostitution whore"?' came the reply. 'Regardless, I think that will go over swimmingly. I usually yell out something similar or throw a glass of water in someone's face during any awkward silence or lull in conversation. Fixes it right up.'

I'm going to have to think of a blog name for this girl.

Gym joined, dresser and bookcase in my apartment, clothes reorganised, papers put away, bedroom tidied meant I only had the date with the Matt Bomer lookalike and my screenplay left on my energised agenda list.

As if by magic, Lovely Lady MEDley messaged me the next morning insisting I meet with her very attractive and single neighbour and asking when would I be free. I've no idea if he looks like Matt Bomer but I trust her judgement and it's a start isn't it?

While the screenplay is still in progress, in the two days of being back in NYC I incorporated the gym back into my life, organised my space so that it's somewhere I love to be, got annoyed by the taxi drivers, unwittingly discovered intimate information about a stranger, and made a potential new friend as a by product of buying a piece of her furniture.

God I love this city.

La bound - part 3: Endings

2009-11-18T13:53:00.007-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

It's with a sad heart that I report that on the last day of my visit in LA, QKofD called me to inform me that our friend Carl, Emperor Lu's XBF but to whom we remained close, lost his battle with cancer and passed away.

Towards the end he could neither speak nor walk but before it got to that stage he made sure to go to Harley Street and get botoxed so he'd look great going out. God love him.

At forty years of age, this man who had such a love of life, is gone.

When you lose someone you love it simply becomes something you learn to live with. You don't forget that person but you forget the breadth of interactions you had with them. Instead, you remember the way they said certain words, or you pinpoint their expressions during specific situations which brought out their happiest joys or their worst fears, and you picture the love they had in their eyes for you or others they held in their heart. And these things start to form the vision of that person.

At least that is how it is for me when I remember my dad. As I write that word I'm smilingly thinking how funny it is that I miss saying it. Now I no longer have the chance to vocalise those three little letters I realise how much pleasure it used to give me to say the word, although I didn't realise it at the time.

On my last day, my uncle had several medical appointments for treatment of his own cancer which is stable and operable. We planned to have dinner on the grill and enjoy the evening weather.

He returned in the afternoon and we set about cooking together, which is something we always do when I am there.
'Now come and sit down for a minute,' he said. His words and his tone instantly returned me to being a boy in front of my father who wanted to talk to me about my report card, or calmly explain to me why my behaviour had been inappropriate and how I should have acted differently.

'Are you afraid of me?' he asked.
'No! What makes you think that?' I replied laughing.
'[Your aunt] seems to think I'm too hard on you. And I feel like our interactions have been too combative.'

And I felt sad. Because it made me realise that while I viewed our relationship as humourous, banterous, and open, I must come across as argumentative and ungrateful.

I told him that.

'Look, you have to understand, I always look forward to seeing you when you come here,' he said. 'And I don't feel like we really spent much time together.'
'I agree but that's not all my fault.'
'It's not about whose fault it is. I'm telling you how I feel, that's all. You know you can talk to me about anything. I don't want you to not be open with me because I'm hard on you.'
'I argue with you because I feel close to you and feel able to talk to you openly.'

We continued talking while I mashed the potatoes, while he marinated the steak, while we smoked cigars in the back yard and drank whiskey and grilled meat and shrimp.

'You know, your father was my best friend. In college we were all kids but he was different. He'd worked, he had money. He bought a car when he didn't have a licence. He drank whiskey and smoked. I'd never met anyone like him. '

I nodded.

'I know I'm not your father but I feel like that.'

It's difficult for me to have these kinds of conversations. I don't find it easy to remember the full details of my father and our relationship because it painfully reminds me of how much I miss him still.

But sometimes you have to go into the midst of it, don't you?

'You're not my father,' I replied. 'I haven't had a father figure in my life for a long time....but you are that to me.'

He smiled. 'I'm going to check on the food in the oven,' he said.

I smoked my cigar and raised my glass of whiskey to a star in the sky and said a little toast and a prayer for Carl, for my dad, and my uncle.

And then we ate.

LA bound - part 2: HelloKitty

2009-11-17T14:06:00.011-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

When I was in LA strategising my path to stardom (by watching I Love Lucy reruns all morning and then lying by the pool), my partner on this journey was HelloKitty from my acting class. We bonded quickly and became lifelong friends despite only having known each other a few weeks.

Today, we've taken a break from scaling the heights to Hollywood fame. She is a rather brilliant graphic designer, whilst I look after my small cat, Chicktoria Beckham, which takes up practically all of my energy. It's simply exhausting.

Before heading to LA, she messaged me to ask me what I wanted to do.
'I want to go to Jack-in-the-Box, and In N Out Burger, maybe Supermex, see the Hollywood sign in a rented Mustang convertible like the old days,' I replied.
'We'll sing Alanis Morrissette with the top down so loudly we can't talk,' she responded, referring to how we used to kick it back then.
'And Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something. Have you noticed that as soon as we got really into them they sank into obscurity?' I asked.
'Sounds like two other megastars I know.'

Of course the other agenda item was seeing Marty and Elayne, a Hollywood musical institution, perform at The Dresden Room. They've been performing hilarious and brilliant covers of such classics as Copacabana and, my favourite, Stayin' Alive, 6 days a week for 27 years. When we were there last I actually performed a rendition of Anything Goes to their excellent accompaniment.

HelloKitty sent me a text the day after I arrived: 'We're going to have pancakes in Hollywood and then to see the sign. What else do you want to do?'
'Perhaps get an alibi in case my aunt and uncle meet with a freak accident,' I texted back.

Moments later she was pulling up in the HelloKitty mobile (which in the old days used to be a zippy red sports car with an in car phone that had an actual svelte phone receiver, but today is a kid friendly van thing with a mobile phone holder).

Whenever we see each other, which is not that often, it seems like hardly a day has passed. Except she has two kids now and looks fantastic, and I have my small cat and have filled out a little.

We chatted all the way to Hollywood, catching up over the last 3 years. We ate humongous pancakes - well, she had a few mouthfuls, I ate most of mine (with side orders of sausage and bacon) until she insisted I move away from them because each mouthful was accompanied by me saying, 'I really think I might throw up now.'

We didn't make it to the Hollywood sign and the vintage stores didn't prove to be too successful (honestly, do people really find perfectly preserved Armani jackets at these places for a pittance?) and after a rest, a quick change, and a whiskey with my aunt and uncle, HelloKitty and I were back in Hollywood at The Dresden Room.

It was as I remembered it. I saw the bar where they lovingly made our cocktails by hand. I saw the table we had sat at after acting class, where once with a hot, buff, young guy from our acting class in tow, HelloKitty and I did a shallow take on Elizabeth and Rock betting on who could seduce Jimmy Dean. (Neither of us did or would have of course but we must have made some sort of impression because I don't ever remember him returning to class).

If you've seen the movie Swingers, you'll catch a glimpse of the bar and the ever-present duo Marty and Elayne. It's difficult to describe this lounge act and so I have included a clip here of their famous scene in Swingers performing a snippet of Stayin' Alive. It's in the first 40 seconds so I urge you to watch it.

We sat at a booth drinking the bar's signature Blood and Sand cocktail and Seven and Sevens reminiscing in the old and taking in the new.

The next day my aunt and I went to see This Is It and over lunch the waiter told me about the popular gay bars to go to. At cocktail hour with my aunt and uncle I told them which bars I was going to.
'Why don't you ask our gay neighbour where to go?' my uncle asked.
'I already know where to go.'
'He's right next door. I don't understand why you don't want to ask the gay neighbour. He'll tell you where you can go.'
'I already have a plan,' I laughed. 'And isn't it a bit random to go to your gay neighbour's place and say 'Hi, I'm gay and would like to know where to go to have fun?' And anyway what is his actual name?'
'Do you want me to call him?'
'No. Let's just have another drink.'
'Do you think you'll be back late?' my aunt asked.
'No. Unless I get laid, in which case I'll see you in the morning.'
'Oooh, ok. Well just be careful.'

I stuck with my plan. The first bar, aptly called the Brit, had about 3 patrons. The second, about 5.
'I know it's a Wednesday night but where is everyone?' I asked the bartender.
'At The Silver Fox. But you better hurry, it kind of wraps up at 11.30pm.'
'But it's 10.30pm now,' I sighed.

I hightailed it to The Silver Fox, sang some karaoke, chatted to some nice Californians and had enough Seven and Sevens to make the taxi driver take me to Jack-in-the-Box on the way home.

The next day HelloKitty picked me up after her breakfast meeting.
'I'm feeling a bit Rachel Zoe today,' I said, as I clambered into the HelloKitty mobile. 'As in I'm like literally dying.'

We drove to Belmont Shore, wandered around and drank coffee, neither of us in a fit state to offer sparkling repartee. But with good friends, as with family, you feel comfortable whatever state you're in.

LA Bound - part 1

2009-11-12T20:18:00.009-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Ah LA! Thirteen years ago I ventured there to become a huge star of stage and screen. This hasn't actually manifested yet but I like to think I planted the seeds back then and the universe is simply marinating my stardom until the world is ready for me. Or something.

Prior to my Houston trip, with my characteristic ignorance of geography and distance, I figured LA was merely a hop, skip and a jump from Texas so I might as well go there to visit with my uncle and aunt and Hello Kitty. I thought a restful 6 day visit would be fun.

And then I suddenly remembered something: 'Oh, LA...'

I decided to cut my visit short by a day or two.

It's not that I hate LA - truly, the people are much more welcoming from the outset than East Coasters, and the weather is always delightful - but as a pedestrian city person I find it too restricting to be in a place without a centre to anything, where you have to drive everywhere and which hardly has a public transport system.

When I think back to the 1990s and my two hour trek to my acting class - bus to the tram, the tram into Hollywood and a bus to the theatre - I don't know how I had the patience to do it.

I think I still have patience in me somewhere but like my hair, it's thinner than it used to be.

Plus, I'm a different person than I was thirteen years ago: I make a living and I live on my own.

My uncle and aunt (who are not really my uncle and aunt but old family friends) are very active, lovely people but when you answer to no one and are used to a certain way of life, it's a difficult adjustment to live under someone else's roof.

My aunt likes to talk. All the time.

This is great. It means we have interesting and varied conversations. But when it's 8am and I've only managed to open one eye and am trying to kick start my body by ingesting coffee, I'm just not in a position to converse about gay unions in the state of California and the criminilisation of the declawing of cats.

My uncle, while in actual fact is a big softie, likes to be a bit contentious. About the simplest things.

Since we are both strong, opinionated and vocal people, this means that me choosing penne in response to his simple question of what type of pasta I want for dinner can turn into a loud, verbal tennis match culminating in the importance of being decisive in life.

I'm being a bit unfair. My uncle simply wanted my undivided attention when I was with him, admittedly, I was a bit unfocused during my stay what with blackberry, emails, texts, phone calls. Naturally, I understand this - I hate it myself when with a person who deems those to be more important than my company - but sometimes when you're with relatives you need a bit of an escape, don't you?

I decided to meet a friend for drinks one night:
'Uncle, how far is this address from here?'
'Why?'
'I want to go there to meet a friend for a drink.'
'Why doesn't he come pick you up?'
'Because I'm thirty-eight and am self-sufficient.'
'Well, I'm just saying if you were MY friend I would come and get YOU, take you for a DRINK and then DROP you home. Call him back and tell him to do that.'
'I just want to know where this address is. That's all I'm asking.'

The drink didn't work out.

The next day I decided to use their gym to kick start a new regime and become hard-bodied like everyone surely is in LA. I've never had the sort of ass you could bounce quarters off or abs that could grate cheese. (Rather, my ass looks like a 20lb bag of quarters and as for my abs, let's say the cheese was grated and ingested - on several large beef patties encased in sesame seed buns, and often on some chips).

My uncle gave me a week's pass. The gym wouldn't honour it after day 1 as I wasn't a California state resident. Fine by me, I'd just pay the $15 day fee.
'WHY should you pay? It doesn't say on the pass that you HAVE to be a state resident,' my uncle boomed.
'Look my goal is to work out. I can handle paying $15.'
'But you shouldn't HAVE to pay. This isn't just about you. What if I have another guest who wants to work out there? I'm going to shout at them about it.'
'IF YOU'RE GOING TO SHOUT AT THEM I DON'T WANT TO GO ANYMORE!' I shouted.
'Don't get short with me. And don't tell me what I can and can't do. And where were you when I came to pick you up. [Your aunt] had the gym page you twice.'
'YOU HAD THEM PAGE ME?? I was in the supermarket! Why didn't you call my cell phone?? Oh God, how can I show my face there again?'
'Relax, they won't remember you. They'll only remember me.'
'That doesn't help.'

We both silently fumed all the way home.

Houston, we have a problem - and it's you.

2009-11-10T12:18:00.005-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

My father was an oilman who before starting his own geophysical consultancy in the UK, pondered taking a lucrative position with a company in the oil mecca of Houston. I used to wonder how different my life would have been if he had taken that road rather than the gold-paved ones leading to London (well, Surrey).

I could have been a great tennis player with a cool accent. How could my father have thwarted my dreams by choosing tea over Texas?

Kross Court and I travelled to Houston to play in one last tennis tournament before the end of 2009, and after arriving there all I can say is thank God my mother talked my father out of moving there.

Apologies to any Houston lovers but when you have lived in pedestrian cities with a variety of cultures, foods, interests and peoples, it's disarming to be in a large flat expanse where all you can see are fast food restaurants.

'Don't you feel uncomfortable being here?' Kross Court asked, as we drove from the airport to the hotel.
'God, yes,' I replied as we passed a huge crucifix lit up on the side of a building. 'It's such an unattractive place.'
'I meant politically, because we're not in a blue state. And the gun control issue.'
'Oh, er well yes, of course, I'm uncomfortable about those things too,' I mumbled. We pulled up to a cute guy in a sports car and oohed. As he passed us we noticed the vote Sarah Palin bumper sticker. We ahhed. But not in the good way.

I lost in the third round of singles but Kross Court and I made it to the doubles semis which was not a bad result. All in all it was a fun tournament and people were friendly - which is not always the case at these things.

My brother happened to be in Houston for work and decided to stay on after his meetings to hang out with me and watch me play. I told him I'd pay for the extra nights but he insisted on treating.

'I'll buy us a steak dinner then,' I told him. We've been trying to eat a steak dinner in New York during his last three years' worth of visits. I'm not sure why it hasn't panned out but since, of course, that's all anyone eats in Texas I figured it was a good opportunity for us to finally chow down.

The restaurant was as a proper steakhouse should be - all starched linen tablecloths and napkins, people dressed in suits and waiters calling you 'Sir' every five minutes.

We ambled to our table in our jeans passed the window display of raw slabs of steak and lobster tails that were bigger than Chicktoria Beckham.

The maitre d' sat us at our table.
'Would Sirs care for a white napkin tonight?' he asked, holding some dark navy blue napkins. My brother and I looked at each other. Then at the white napkins on our table setting. Then at each other again.
'Sorry?' My brother asked him.
'Would Sirs care for a white napkin tonight?'
My brother and I exchanged looks again.
'Um, sure, why not,' I replied.
'Very good, Sir,' the maitre d' said before removing our white napkins and settling a navy blue one in each of our laps.

'What the hell was that about?' I said.
'God knows,' my brother replied. 'Maybe it's some sort of Masonic thing.'

My father used to tell a story of ordering a steak in a Texas restaurant which was so enormous that for a week after the meal he dreamt of cows.

I persuaded my brother to order a 16 ounce steak and asked the waiter for a simple green salad.
'We don't actually do that, Sir. But we have our version of a green salad right here, Sir,' he said pointing to the requisite spot on the menu.
'Er, do you mean your house salad?' I asked.
'Yes, Sir.'
'The one that has white and yellow cheddar cheese and salami in it?'
'Correct, Sir.'
'Um, I think I'll pass on the salad, thanks.'

I had to send my steak back to be cooked a little more and while I waited my brother cut me pieces of his which I enjoyed with the good red wine he'd ordered.

I'm somewhat sad to say that the vast steaks defeated both my brother and me. When the bill arrived he paid it and I weakly contested it. But then older brothers are supposed to do those sorts of things, aren't they?

Man / Child

2009-11-03T10:17:00.006-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I couldn't sleep the other night and so rather than do something productive like read, write or tidy my apartment I lay on the sofa and watched a late night episode of SATC. It was the episode where Samantha hooks up with some hotshot executive who likes to indulge in baby talk while engaging in sex.
'Me want to feel Samanfa's titty witties,' he says - or something to that effect.

It made me think of how someone can several have differing levels of maturity at the same point in time. For instance, if anyone spends time reading my blog they will get the sense that despite my thirty-eight years of age, being the youngest child in a brood of five has never (and most likely never will) leave me.

A person can be a suit-wearing ball breaker in the board room before going home to change into an adult diaper and be bottle-fed by their lover.

People can be emotionally mature and feel a parental sense of responsibility for others, providing rational advice and comfort when needed, but childishly spend vast amounts of money on clothes without a second thought of the crippling financial consequences simply because they 'wanted them'.

And someone might be incredibly well spoken and articulate to his work colleagues but go home and indulge in ridiculous baby-voiced coddling of his cat - you know, for example.

I understand that in the privacy of their own homes and minds, often, people need to practice the opposite of what and who they are in life. What then, is the equation for working out who you are in life? Is it the way you are at work plus the way you are at home plus the way you are in bed? And since everything most likely doesn't always remain equal, does the answer change each time you calculate it?

I could react differently to the same question if asked by two different people. Towards one I may feel resentment while towards the other I may feel refreshing honesty - naturally because I may feel closer to one than the other. Hopefully this is just part of being human and doesn't make me bipolar.

But how does it happen that a person grows up in one area of their life but remains stunted in another?

Glitterati is one of my oldest friends and she and I have very relatable lives. Both single, hardly dating, somehow always breaking even despite having moved up the work ladder rather impressively, both spending too much money on attire....

I was laughing out loud while reading Glitterati's blog the other day where she writes about being an unprepared host who doesn't have two of anything - not two matching just two of anything.

She writes:

'[The] last time someone stayed with me, I had to go shopping for coffee, tea, milk, sugar, bread, butter and salt, because none of those things are to be found in my cupboard. Then I had to go out and buy a cafetiere for making the coffee in....[I feel like I missed] the memo that said 'time to grow up.''

I often feel I missed that memo too.

Since I've been writing about finance lately it seems fitting to stick with this example. I have fits of trying to be more financially responsible but it all seems to be done with a rather childish air.

I was talking to Yours Truly today to arrange what time we should dine.

'Is 9ish too late for you?' he asked.
'No. That's fine. I need to do laundry anyway.'
'Ok, so - wait, what? You do laundry now?'
'Yes, I've started doing my own,' I replied, defensively. 'In an effort to save money.'
'Uh huh. Well, I don't know about you chil' but it seems to me that by you going to Chicago, Rochester, Houston and LA, doin' your own laundry ain't gon' help you save that much money.'
'Well,' I sighed, 'It's only really until I get myself sorted and then I'll get my laundry guy to come round again.'

I was looking at flights back to the UK and was stressed to see that they seem to cost more this year than any other. In a frenzy about the unfairness of having to shell out this money before even getting to the festive part of things, I emailed my brothers and sisters to tell them I wasn't going to buy Christmas presents this year because 'it costs me an arm and a leg to get home in the first place.'

My brothers and sisters all replied saying that my decision was fine - it was my presence that was important not the presents. And then I immediately felt mean and petulant for my words.

I guess the beauty of all this is that when you're immature in one or more areas of your life, there's always someone more grown up around to help set you right.

Where I wish I paid more attention to detail

2009-11-02T14:56:00.002-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

It's true that I have an odd memory when it comes to attention to detail. I can recall the plot twists of rarely viewed films and names of 1940s actors with ease. I can tell if a painting is not hanging straight even if off by only a few millimeters. I can tell if the smallest ornament in my apartment has been moved.

But when it comes to remembering if I fed my cat, packed enough underwear for the trip, delivered that critical piece of information to my project team without which everything will come crashing down and everyone will basically die, I'm often left wondering, 'I think I did. Did I?...'

This doesn't help at the best of times but never less so than when it comes to finances. My attempts at saving money are not going well.

I recently purchased some very fetching grey and black leather gloves which remind me of the morning gloves I have always wanted. (How I wish top hats were once again a staple part of everyday wear.)

I tried them on once - in the store before I bought them - and they are now nowhere to be found in my small abode. And because I really liked them I will probably buy them again. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened when it comes to apparel.

The last in my trio of weddings in six weeks culminated in me attending my Adorably Intense Little Sister, AILS's, wedding this weekend.

It was a lovely intimate affair. For AILS, being the center of attention in a large group is probably her worst nightmare but she looked radiant in her strapless beaded gown as things got under way at the country club in Rochester.

I confess I teared up as she and her beau said their vows because when I looked at her it was my little sister getting married up there and starting on this new adventure and, happily for me, to a really great guy that I know does and will continue to make her happy.

I didn't know anyone well enough to eat their dinner as well as my own this time. But I thought I'd comment on that since my writing about eating Miss Jones's dinner at Prince CHARming's wedding reception resulted several people asking me if I had actually done that. I'd like to clarify that I didn't eat the whole thing. Just 1 or 2 (3 or 4) forkfuls of butterfish and risotto or whatever it was placed on. And Miss Jones didn't mind. And she adores me.

Honestly, anyone would think I am the only person in the world who steals the food off other peoples' plates at formal affairs when they are not looking.

The night before AILS's wedding I took Queenie out for a few belated birthday drinks at the St Regis, which in hindsight I realise is not the place to go if you're on an economy drive.
'I've got to get going after this because I have a 9.30am flight tomorrow,' I said.
'Sure,' she replied.

Two and a half Manhattans later and I was responding affirmatively to a text from Prince CHARming, fresh back from his mini moon to Puerto Rico, asking if I wanted to meet up for drinks and cigars at his place.

I could have taken the subway but since I didn't want to be out late, time was of the essence I justified and so jumped in a cab. We feasted on a bucket of KFC and glasses of Jacob's Creek while waiting for Lord In Law to arrive.

'I can't get too drunk,' I slurred, 'because I have a 9.30am flight tomorrow.'
'Yeah, of course,' PC replied. 'Oh did I show you what I bought at duty free?' He pulled out a beautifully packaged bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue which usually goes for around $250.
'Why don't we have a glass a bit later?' he suggested, seductively swaying it slowly in front of my face so that it was almost in reach.
'Um, no. I...no,' I said, weakly. 'You do have cigars to go with it, don't you?'

Lord In Law arrived and the whiskey was had. Then beer at Prince CHARming's local pub.
'Go now. I must,' I Yoda'ed drunkenly. '9.30am. Flight. I have.''
'Look, my wife-' - who here I have decided to call The Barefoot Contessa - 'is back at the apartment now. Come and say hi to her, we'll have a glass of Port and then you can go.'

More whiskey and a cigar later, I jumped a cab and rolled in at 2am where I hurriedly packed for AILS's wedding, blindly throwing random things into my bag. I thought I'd triple check my itinerary so I could calculate the absolute latest time I had to get out of bed.

You know how in movies or on telly when someone is in a panic and just goes 'Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,' and you just think 'Well that's not very realistic', well, I can assure you it is.

I sank onto my sofa as my inebriated eyes focused on my flight departure time which read 9.30pm and arrival time which read 10.40pm. Not a very good arrival time for a wedding that starts at 4pm.

It's 2.30am, I'm drunk, I feel really sick from the KFC and the only recipient of my blind panic is Chicktoria Beckham.

I phoned expedia.
'Yes you can change your flight but there'll be a change fee of a few hundred dollars,' I was told.
'But that's more than the actual flight cost me,' I gawked.
'Sorry Sir. Why not call Continental and see what they can do?'

I phoned Continental.
'Yes, I can help you change that. There'll be a change fee of course.' While the fee was not as astronomical as I had at first been informed, I berated myself anyway.
'You must think I'm really dumb?' I said to the attendant as I gave her my credit card details. She didn't contest my statement.

Funnily enough, at AILS's wedding I was talking to a fellow guest who said,
'I had the worst experience getting here from New York. Clever me thought I had booked the flight for 9.30am but oh no...'
'I think I know how this story goes,' I said.

Damn, stuff is expensive - especially when you have to pay for it twice.

Where I wish my weight worked the same way as my money

2009-10-29T12:36:00.007-04:00

The other day I was talking with some friends about cash flow - or lack thereof - and they commented that it was a universally acknowledged truth that the more money you make the more you spend.

I did have a salary increase at the end of last year but not enough to justify the gargantuan amount of debt currently sitting on my Amex card. After paying off loans and things several years ago I decided against having any credit cards apart from my corporate card. Not sure it was that clever to trade in several ceilinged cards for one that has no credit limit.

At this time of year debt abounds, and for most of us, I'm sure - travelling back to the UK for the holidays never runs much less than a grand, for one thing - and so I have taken to economising.

Yes, you read correctly that I have been economising. Sort of.

What this means is this year I have hardly bought any clothes; I put my Soho House membership on hold; I cut back on my cleaner's visits; and while I drew the line at washing and ironing my shirts and trousers about 9 years ago and have no intention of erasing it, I have started doing my own laundry (although, I was somewhat embarrassed the first time I went to the laundromat and had to ask someone why the machine wasn't working after I put the money in the tray only to be told, 'Well, you have to actually push the money in to turn it on').

My rent is cheaper this year (albeit, marginally), and I cook at home a lot more rather than eating lunch and dinner out. Yet, none of this seems to have made me any better off and I'm hard pressed to understand why.

It's true I've had a few weddings this year but I have friends who earn less than me and go to twice as many - every year. I spend a lot of money on tennis but not more than I did last year. I have had a lot of guests (which is costly) but not more than I usually have. This year there have been more visits to the dentist, the doctor, the dermatologist, the chiropractor, the acupuncturist but all of that is covered by my insurance so the cost to me is minimal.

When I lived with QKofD in South London it wasn't unusual for my card to be declined by my own bank for insufficient funds the day after my salary had been paid into my account. I'm not sure how we survived but there were house parties all Summer, drinking and clubbing every Friday, and always tons of food on the table.

Now I earn 4 times as much, I don't seem to have become any better at managing my finances. In fact when a friend at work asked me about my PSRP and 401k and pensions and and and, I had to stop her to ask,
'Can we take a step back? Are you talking about that A4 sized pamphlet thingy that we get every so often in the mail?'

After a few moments, I had to poke her to shake her out of her shock.

The only new thing in my life this year compared to last is Chicktoria Beckham and I find it difficult to believe that she is eating her way through my salary. Although, she does go through huge bags of cat food at an alarming pace without putting on weight - bitch.

I've been thinking about getting a job on the side after reading that barmen can make $100k a year. But the last time I worked at a bar it didn't go well. It was a gay bar in South London where the uniform t-shirts were so teeny that despite my trim frame I had to wear XXL which they had to dig out from the back of the storage cupboard, and even that looked like it had been spray painted onto me. Plus, my actual bar skills were so hopeless that I lasted one night.

Even Graham Norton who came in for a drink that night, and who you would have thought would have seen the funny side, seemed pissed off I took so long to get him what he wanted. I don't think they bothered to formally tell me not to come back, presumably because my inadequacy was so obvious.

My attempts at monetizing my blog have resulted in the grand old sum of $0.59. And I've no idea how to collect the payment.

I must work out how to get a part on Gossip Girl or in a nifty advert on telly.

The other day as CB and I lay napping on my bed I bemoaned the state of things. 'Daddy wants to go back to getting his hair cut every two weeks,' I said, 'and having regular manicures, and buying expensive shaving cream from Bloomingdales and overpriced moisturiser, eating sushi every day, taking taxis, Cavalli coats and Boss shirts...'

She let out a meow, which most likely translated as, 'Shut up you fucking idiot.' And she'd have been right.

With recent layoffs at work, and friends and family still struggling to find employment I remain thankful. I was left wondering what I would do if I had been let go. I'm experienced, I'm resourceful, I'm clever enough - I feel confident that I wouldn't have to head back to my mum's sofabed with my cat in tow. However, in five, ten, fifteen years if I haven't sorted myself out financially and find myself without a job, what then?

I guess I better hang on to that unlimited Amex.

Prince CHARming weds

2009-10-21T13:59:00.012-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I write a lot about enjoying the single life despite not having a loving, adoring partner to share it with (of the two legged rather than four legged, hairy variety, I mean - although truth be told I do like some hair on my two legged variety too). I mean every word of it but don't get me wrong. Of course, I think it would be nice to have someone to share my life with.

And often this is never more apparent than when one is at a wedding.

Sometimes it's because you don't want to sit at the singles table. At others it's perhaps because none of your other good friends are in attendance and so you must engage in small talk with guests.

At others still, it may be because having a partner can prevent you from getting roaring drunk at the proceedings, arguing with everyone and bursting into tears onto the shoulder of the bride, and thereafter being sympathetically referred to by all as 'oh, that guy...'.
I mean, you know, if you were stupid enough to do something like that.

Last weekend I attended the wedding of Prince CHARming and his lovely bride in Chicago.

Prince CHARming had challenged me over a year ago while we were having drinks on the Soho House rooftop bar to find a real date to bring to his wedding: I had failed terribly but almost entirely due to lack of trying. It occurred to me how helpful it would have been to have had someone to go with because he would've:

got me to the airport in time
stopped me from snarling at the receptionist when arriving at The Standard Club in Chicago when told my room would not be ready for an hour
prevented me from going to McDonalds for a 'snack' to kill time (double quarter pounder with cheese and a side of chicken nuggets)
listened to me moan about how sick I felt after ingesting McDonalds
encouraged me NOT to wait until the last 15 minutes before getting ready to meet the others for the rehearsal
had a razor I could've used when I discovered I'd forgotten mine and so instead had to use the really cheap hotel ones which made my face bleed
had hair gel I could've used instead of the old one that had been festering in my washbag and which after applying made me look like a challenging case study for Head & Shoulders anti dandruff scientists
calmed me down as I rewashed my hair and tried to stop my face bleeding while stressing about being late
slow danced with me
let me eat his reception dinner as well as my own
etc etc etc

Despite it being useful to have someone to organise me better, for the most part, however, it's the positives which warm me to the idea of having someone there with whom to share.

It's the excitement of getting there; sexing things up with the staying in a hotel; taking pictures of you all gussied up; it's fast and slow dances; and in the midst of the frenzied craziness, it's seeing two people in love express that to each other.

I was honoured to be asked to be one of the groomsmen and was excited to find the others to be really great guys. Suffice it to say there was a lot of banter, enjoying contraband pizza and booze with the snugly attired bridesmaids, karaoke, laughing, and a whole lot of Scotch.

The festivities were amazing. There was a fantastic and very touching rehearsal dinner hosted by Prince CHARming's parents on the first night. The next day a series of events - a groomsmens' lunch, wedding pictures, Scotch, the signing of the Ketubah - led up to the wedding ceremony.

A string quartet with piano performed a beautiful slow rendition of Sweet Child of Mine as we walked into the room lit like warm Fall colours. The stunning bride walked in to Uptown Girl, injecting some humour into the proceedings.

The rabbi related things the couple loved about each other and as he recited that one of the things the groom loved about the bride was 'the faith you have in me when I have none in myself', I teared up. This was a simple but wonderfully articulated requirement for true love.

After that it was all about the appetisers: mini mac and cheese bites, lobster rolls, tuna tartare cones, meat cigars, and of course the open bar.

Dinner was interspersed with dancing from an awesome band. There were plenty of girls for me to twirl before settling down to fine wine and rare cooked beef. I sat next to a hilarious and fun girl, who here I shall call Miss Jones, who had the bad sense to disappear just before the main course was served. I assumed she wasn't coming back and so tucked into her meal while tucking into mine at the same time.

Needless to say I was a rather embarrassed when she returned to the table to find half her butterfish falling from my slobbering mouth.

Prince CHARming has become, in a relatively short space of time, one of my dearest and closest friends in NYC and to know he is truly happy is very important to me. Well, I can rest assured that he is.

It would be lovely to have a romantic partner in my life who has faith in me when I have none in myself and vice versa.

Although not having this yet doesn't seem to impede me from being able to eat someone else's dinner.

Living it up - alone (almost)

2009-10-11T11:53:00.009-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

My great good friend Thriftygal recently wrote on her blog how her flatmate is moving out and she is , therefore, taking over the flat in its entirety. Despite having lived on her own before she is, nevertheless, going through the fears we all go through when embarking or re-embarking on this adventure.

Will I get lonely? Will I die and not be found for several days? Before I'm found will I get eaten by Alsatians a la Bridget Jones (or, if you're like me, a small 6lb cat with a healthy appetite)?

Naturally, in Manhattan, this period in your life comes with a whole set of additional fears. Will I have to move off the island? Will I only be able to afford somewhere in Brooklyn or, God forbid, the Bronx?

I think it's safe to say that before I moved into my Perry Street pied a terre, which seems so many years ago, I was somewhat terrified despite QKofD assuring me I was going to love the experience. Although I am someone who does enjoy his own company, coming from a large family and being an extrovert who derives his energy from people (by extracting it from them in its entirety until they are withered like a deflated beach ball much like a blood sucking vampire), I remained unsure if I would enjoy self imposed solitary confinement.

Turns out I was wrong. I loved it more than I ever thought I would. What was intriguing about this was it came at a time when I had to reevaluate many of my own attitudes. I think I have always been someone who truly enjoys living my own life and marching to my own drum but never really put faith in the fact that if I did that I would a) enjoy it, b) be any good at it.

Similarly, while lunching with Guncle Norman the other day we talked of relationships and how people needed to work out what their deal breakers are where potential beaus are concerned. A friend of his was dating someone who absolutely abhorred opera.
'Well that's a deal breaker,' his friend said.

For me, I have reassessed what my deal breakers are. I no longer think that you need to love all the same things or be clones of one another enjoying the same activities, for example. In fact, being with exes where we didn't have endless commonalities - and believing this was needed to make a relationship successful - actually resulted in constant stress of me wondering how compatible we truly were and whether we should even be together. We're led to believe that if the person you're with is not the other half of you (whatever that means) then you're relationship is not perfect and is, therefore, doomed. Whereas, of course, being conditioned to expect perfection in the first place is where the end begins.

The truth is, you are individuals who are making a commitment to go through life in harmony not in unison.

I told Guncle Norman that I had to wonder after my last split whether I really wanted the kind of relationship my parents had (and which I always thought I wanted) - partners in crimes seeing each other through the roughest and prettiest times. And I can't honestly say that that is what I want anymore..

I don't see the need to live with someone again, for example. Since I get stressed out about the amount of affection Chicktoria Beckham demands of me, I can't fathom how I would cope if faced with an actual person who has emotions and reasonable requests that must culminate in compromise.

Of course all of this may change in time. But for now, I love living alone and have already made certain compromises to accommodate my cat.

I do, often, wonder if living on my own will result in me, a) becoming too set in my ways to change, and b) going a bit mad with only my cat for constant company.

This morning I actually asked her whether I should wear my grey Henley cardigan or my Hugo Boss schoolboy sweater? Or didn't she care? Which of course she didn't because she is a cat and she, a) can't understand what I am saying, and b) has no real sense of style.

Then it hit me that the real diet I have been on all year has been a restricted intake of clothes. In fact, it's more like a fast. I suddenly realised I have hardly bought any noteworthy garments all year (tennis apparel doesn't count). What's more, I don't seem to be any better off financially for this unconscious change in behaviour.

I immediately remedied the situation by going out and buying a few pairs of slim fit trousers and some grey and black leather gloves. But because these will get used mostly for work they don't really count either. So I bought a rather fetching grey herringbone and black leather overnight bag which I insisted the man sell me at a discounted price.

That's the other good thing about living and being single: if you want to spend your money on clothes rather than food there's no one to stop you. Plus, if you are going to die and not be found for a few days you might as well be nicely dressed for discovery: in a soft black three-quarter length Armani peacoat and some Ben Sherman black patent leather dress shoes, for example.

When I came back from my spree I did tell Chicktoria Beckham that she also may have to forgo food for a while until my recent wares are paid off but luckily because she's a cat she, a) can't understand me, and, b) can't do anything about it even if she had understood me. At the end of the day she just wants to be petted.

Much easier to deal with than a flatmate or a partner.

Ditch the diet

2009-10-08T10:03:00.005-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I think I have worked out why I was so morbid and moody the last few weeks. Multiple guests, several fun trips, lots of tennis tournaments with my friends culminated in a huge sense of anticlimax when it was all over. That alone, of course, is not grounds enough for my irritability. And then I realised what it was that made the difference.

Those who know me know that I am mildly obsessed with my weight and the amount of fat I have around my belly. Unfortunately, I'm not obsessed to the point of doing too much about it. I do some weights, I play tennis, I do some cardio but at the end of the day I like red wine and chips so what am I going to do?

Witness lunch with Guncle Norman yesterday where I ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries and mayonnaise on the side.
'Would you like onions?' the waiter asked me.
'Ooh are they fried?' I questioned gleefully.
'If you like, Sir.'
I nodded effusively.
'And to make up for his dietary excesses,' Guncle Norman - who is looking fabulously svelte and is becoming ever more so every time I see him - said, 'I will have the chicken Caesar salad.' After the waiter left he turned to me smilingly and said,
'You pig!'
'Well, I am going to run three miles tonight,' I said, defensively. (Although, this actually translated into lying on the sofa with Chicktoria Beckham and watching telly for five hours before going to bed.)

Gay men are somewhat under the same stresses as most women and Hollywood actors when it comes to looks. The superficial dictates that it always helps to be younger, thinner, buffer. On the morning show today there was a segment about the secret to being Hollywood slim and I had to wonder if that tired topic, which has been recycled since the dawn of time, would ever not be a segment on a tv show or magazine.

I've certainly bowed to the pressure in the past and feel I have paid my dues where dietary madness is concerned.

No fat, no carb, no salt, no sugar diet at university culminated in me having no personality. (I once had a date with someone at uni who cooked me lunch none of which I could eat. 'What a spartan lifestyle,' he commented. No wonder he didn't want to have sex with me.)
Laxatives - not to be recommended UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!
Starvation - really, the high you get from not eating plus how in control you are of your body is rather special. (Not recommended for control freaks).
Bulimia - honestly, for this much effort you might as well go to the gym.
Nutrisystem - absolutely disgusting (and very worrying that the 'food' which looks like it's been packaged for astronauts has an expiry date about 10 years into the future).
Cornflake diet where you replace two meals with a bowl of cereal. (It should be noted that it really doesn't make sense to eat a bowl of cornflakes and then enjoy a full dinner that your sister-cum-flatmate has made.)
Body slimming seaweed wraps. (These actually do work but it should be noted that the success of the hour long treatment can be negated if followed by a large Chinese meal.)
Lipo - I haven't actually had this but I did have a consultation when I was bored one afternoon. The doctor kept telling me I would need at least two procedures while I lifted my shirt and twirled in front of the full length mirror and kept thinking how I looked so trim. If I was ever even remotely going to consider having this freakish procedure done, the consultation helped me decide against it. Besides if you have it done the fat just returns to somewhere else on your body - what if that ends up somewhere you really don't want it?

I'm sure there are many more crazy things I have tried but which brain cell degradation doesn't allow me to remember.

The latest were some natural diet pills which I thought I'd try. I'm not even sure why. I don't really believe these things work. And I don't really believe I need them. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe old habits die hard. Maybe I have actually just gone completely bonkers.

Anyhow, after taking them the first day I noticed the effect immediately. Except I'm not sure it was what the manufacturers intended.
I quickly became a jittering inarticulate fool when explaining my project to my superiors. I'm quite sure I had the appearance of a rabid dog complete with drool.
I sat in meetings marvelling at the UTTER STUPIDITY of colleagues and the world.
I would curse friends that sent me caring texts.
I would be unnaturally infuriated that my dedicated cleaner hadn't changed my bedsheets.

This 'fat cure' plus anticlimax plus living in New York,, which some argue is the most aggressive city in the world, does not equal a good result.

We all know that the only sure fire way of being healthy and maintaining your optimum weight (whatever that is for you) is through healthy eating and exercise. If you want a burger and fries have it. Just balance it out with something healthier at your next meal - which is what I usually do. (I should note that treating yourself to a burger and fries because all you've had all evening is two bottles of red wine doesn't really count as balancing here).

Naturally, I stopped taking the pills the next day and was back to my normal diet of a good solid red wine or beer on occasion and deep fried potatoes every Friday (at least).

And the thing is my waist size hasn't sizeably increased since I've been eating normally but my mood is definitely lighter. Now there's a diet everyone should be on.

This mortal coil

2009-09-29T19:43:00.003-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Queen Serene and his long time beau tied the knot in Europe over the Summer. Last Saturday they had an exchange of vows in Brooklyn for all their friends on this side of the pond. Despite a bout of flu, which at the time of writing I am still fighting off, and being certain of the fact that I have never looked uglier, I, of course, donned my Indian wedding garb and headed over for the nuptials.

It was a beautifully done small, intimate affair at pretty endroit called Ici in Brooklyn. Dinner tables were rectangular so there was no 'sad singles table' waiting for me. Instead I sat opposite a charming and engaging man who asked me if I was married or seeing anyone.

'No, actually I'm very happily single,' I replied.

While this is true, I don't deny it would be nice to have a romantic, passionate meeting of minds with someone - although the operations of that relationship couldn't necessarily work as they have done in the past: I don't feel a need to live with someone again, for example - and one of the times this hits home the most is often when you feel ill.

I'm not very clever when I'm ill. I don't really know what to do or eat other than the norm and it always fascinates me how my Ma, and how all mothers, simply know things, secret things about how to make yourself feel better, or what foods you must avoid when sick, or how to stop the ugliness of your physical ailment from spreading to your mind.

Suddenly I worry about the mortality of my friends and family and the frailty of our bodies and minds with increasing frequency.

I spluttered and sweated in bed with newly adorably affectionate Chicktoria Beckham keeping me company but, really, she is only able to do so much when I am poorly and crying because I still miss my dad.

To take my mind off things I thumbed through my latest tennis magazine which was all about how to continue playing tennis into your fifties. If I was supposed to feel good at the prospect of being able to play tennis into my sixth decade I, instead, felt grim that that time didn't seem particularly far off.

A few days later, I accompanied MonogAMouse to hospital for a routine procedure - when she told me a few weeks ago this was on the cards, I naturally told her I would take the day off and go with her since it's never nice to face these things alone - and while I was waiting for her I watched all manner of slow moving, fractured people waiting to be fixed.

After I saw MonogAMouse safely home, I went back to mine to wait for the arrival of my latest guest. My beloved friend J's favourite niece wrote me months ago of her sojourn to the Big Apple so, of course I told her not to stay in a hostel but chez moi and to come and go as she pleases while using fashionable Chelsea as her base. I often think and wish I could have done more for him while he was alive so doing something for those he loved dearly makes me feel I am doing something for him in some small way, I suppose.

She very sweetly brought some pictures of him and letters he'd written her. I was mentioned in some, not in others but in all it was quintessential J, one of the brightest men I have known, talking about politics, how he longed to escape the small Northern town he grew up in, about films and on and on.

Funnily enough I was thinking about university the other day and was unable to recall actually completing assignments, handing them in, getting the grades. The details of memories are hard to come by when you don't have a companion to remember them with you.

So it was fun and amusing to read through his words of life at university and our life of sharing 3 flats together over 2 years. I'd forgotten about some of his girlfriends, hazy dope filled hilarious days, about new black boots and black Levis he'd bought (and which I had to borrow when I worked behind a club bar), and his enduring, undeniable wit:
'Sorry I haven't written for so long but I had some important exams to fail.'
'We met an unemployed actress at a party who seems very likely to remain unemployed.'

Remembering these experiences was a small tonic that somewhat rejuvenated me. I had said to Lu the other day that living out the rest of your days with your friends near by to spend time with is not an altogether bad idea. He agreed. But as my flu exits my body, I know we have many many years before we get to that stage.

5 days, 2 bitches, 1 lovely time

2009-09-03T10:34:00.013-04:00

5 days in the lives of 2 bitches:

5 bottles of Bitch
1 bottle of champagne
1 bottle of Prosecco
2 large bacon cheeseburgers
1 large hamburger
2 plates of mac and cheese
15 cocktails
8 beers
3 packets of cigarettes
1 cigar
4 brunches
2 plates of pancakes
2 arguments
3 new restaurants
1 bacon bourbon
1 lost mobile phone
1 lost set of apt keys
1 recovered mobile phone
1 recovered set of apt keys

1 trip to Long Beach, Long Island
1 recovered mobile phone
1 recovered set of apt keys
150 photos

1 constant hangover

The financial, emotional and physical cost of playing this out for 5 days: God only knows
Spending a week together: Priceless

Manicure, Peticure

2009-08-21T17:23:00.005-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

The other night I was lying in bed enjoying a foursome with Leo and Vronsky and Anna when I was startled by the sound of someone walking past my window in excessively loud clickety-clack heels.

Turns out it was merely Chicktoria Beckham wandering across the wooden floor into my room.

I had intended to change her name. However, she now parades around in what amounts to high heels, and what's more, I came home twice to find she had eaten her entire bowl of food and thrown it up in the living room. Plus while I absolutely adore her, sometimes she can be a complete cow so, really, she is more like the heel-loving, eating-disordered, moody bitch Lady Beckham than ever.

Growing up with cats we never trimmed their claws but then we lived in a house with large outdoor spaces with trees for them to scratch at and other animals for them to hunt. Without natural ways for claws to get trimmed, it apparently falls to the owner to do the honours.

Grooming is both an indulgence and a necessity. There are some aspects of it that makes a man feel like more of a man. Getting your hair cut or working out are prime examples. Getting your nails done or various parts of your body de-furred are not.

In all honesty, I have taken to manicures with gusto. There are reasons, of course. A terrible nail biter from childhood I suddenly stopped a few years ago and in an effort to prevent myself restarting began getting regular manicures. When your nails look nice and tidy you don't want to bite them. (Of course, stress and boredom still incite me to indulge in the occasional bout of cannibalism but generally speaking my fingers and nails are very presentable).

I inherited some cat nail cutters from Chicktoria Beckham's previous owner. However, she has some affection issues which could be rivalled only by Sybil and her 16 personalities ('Yes, yes, pet me please. What are you doing, you bastard, get away from me!).

When Chicktoria Beckham was found, she was near death and I'm sure some abuse she suffered from previous owners has contributed to her sensitivities, one of which is a hatred of having her paws touched. As you can imagine, this makes the prospect of me trimming her nails rather daunting.

I did some research online about this behaviour and discovered that this is petting aggression and while this is not entirely understood 'it has to do with the fact that the cat has mixed emotions about the whole petting phenomenon.'

I suppose it would have been too much for my pet to simply like giving and receiving affection, wouldn't it?

She also wags her tail violently which apparently signals indecision and internal conflict. Ah, reading that took me back to my days of being a young gay man.

I was unsure, therefore, how I was going to trim her New Jersey housewife's talons without resulting in my arms being julienned. Then I figured since New York is a place where rather than grooming yourself you are groomed by others, why should it be different for New York flat cats?

I stopped in at the local Vet to inquire about their services.
'It's $29.95,' the Vet receptionist informed me.
'Oh, right, yes. Very reasonable,' I lied, wondering if the Asian place where I get my manicure for $11 would cut me a deal if I took my cat there.

Of course I relented and took Chicktoria Beckham to the Vet for her manicure which took all of 9 minutes. I left wondering how the young whippersnapper vet had managed to perform this act on my cat and emerge unscathed.

Since my little cat was now nail presentable, I decided to get mine done too. And my hair cut. And my teeth cleaned. All of which I had not bothered to do for quite a while.

I know now where my money is currently going - it's no longer on clothes - it's on grooming and maintenance for me and my cat. I don't mind though since she makes me so happy.

'But she don't do nothing except lie on the end of your bed all day,' Yours Truly said the other day. He's right.

I guess she takes after me in more ways than one.

Liar Liar

2009-08-03T18:56:00.003-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Some years ago in London, SooLin and I were out on a crawl of gay bars in Soho when I happened upon a young man who, when I asked him what he did, responded loudly and obnoxiously,
'I'm a consultant for McKinsey's.'
'Really?' I replied. 'Because that's where I work and I don't recognise you at all.'

I knew it to be a lie immediately since no one who works for the Firm refers to it by name in the initial instance for some reason, nor would they ever mistakenly apostrophize it. If I'd been a bit quicker I'd have milked it rather longer until I manoeuvred the poor sap into a ravine for my own amusement.

To his credit, rather than drown in the mortification of his own lie he simply burst out laughing and told me it was a line he used to try and impress people.

Later that same night at another bar, I was talking to a boy who told me he was from Sydney.
'Oh you must meet my friend, SooLin. He's also from Sydney,' I said.
'Er, well I'm not actually from Sydney, I'm from London,' replied the boy, sheepishly. 'I just lived in Sydney for three months.'

It's doubtful someone will catch you out if you tell them you lived in Outer Mongolia for several months, but why people seem to think they can get away with such obvious, bold-faced lies is truly beyond me. Yet, I have noticed with increasing frequency that people try to.

I mean we may all add an inch to our height, shrink our waist sizes or ages, or enlarge our, ahem, other attributes on occasion - something I, for the record, have never done - yet, what intrigues me is whether these fibbers are just trying to match their competition or are completely deluded.

Take my forays into online dating a couple of years ago where a self proclaimed 6 foot 4, athletic type with a 32 waist and 42 inch chest turns out to more closely resemble Orca, the killer whale''s shorter brother.

I've seen this so many times in different contexts and I have started to wonder if these people are suffering from Michael Jackson syndrome where they truly believe they've only ever had one nose job and that the skin lightening, Rob Lowe chin, dimples, straight hair and enhanced cheekbones are the result of 'adolescent changes'.

Many years ago when I was a great star of stage and screen I made a film in India called Split Wide Open with an actress called Laila Rouass. She went on to be a moderately successful TV actress in the UK appearing in a season of Footballers' Wives, a TV version of a tabloid magazine, which ended up imploding under the weight of its own ridiculousness, and most recently, one of the biggest things on UK TV right now, Primeval.

I was watching it the other night and decided to check out the programme's official BBC site (to find out who the cute army commander was) and almost fell off my sofa when I read Laila's profile - which in itself was quite a feat since I was lying down on my sofa at the time.

If you have any experience of working in The Business of entertainment you're used to people lying all the time about their talents ('Of course I can ride a horse/joust/tap dance while riding a horse and jousting'), and, most often, about their age.

But imagine my surprise when I read that Laila was only 28 years old. This would mean that when we made that film together 11 years ago she would have been the ripe old age of 18. Since, at that time she was working as a successful VJ and had been for a couple of years this meant she would have started that job at sixteen. Rather contrary then to both her looks and her history which when related to me involved her being only a few years younger than me.

I immediately emailed my beautiful Indian princess partner in crime, Teeny Bopper, whose friendship was borne during my search for fame in Bombay which included filming SWO.
'Wow,' she replied. 'That means I must have been a young teenager back then.'

The point is not even that I know for a fact that Laila Rouass is lying about her age, it's that she hasn't even picked a believable age she could pass for.

So my advice here is to lie wisely.

If you tell someone you weigh 160lbs make sure when they meet you there isn't room for them to ask you if that's how much weight you said you had to lose.
If you pretend you're a doctor you better know how to perform CPR because you can be sure the person next to you will go into cardiac arrest.
If you lie about your age, commit your new birth year to memory.

But honestly, where the last one is concerned, it's hardly necessary. In my experience, people have very little concept of what one should look like at a certain age. I used to be flattered when told without exception that I don't look thirty-eight, until I realised that to those saying it thirty-eight was ancient and they were, therefore, confused that I didn't resemble Joan Collins.

So be age proud. After all, isn't it better to look young for your real age rather than old for your fake one?

Bourgeois Boy

2009-07-21T10:05:00.005-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I think I am suffering from bourgeois ennui.

I often want something exciting to happen in my life - preferably without me having to do too much about it.

In my younger days this desire would take the form of being discovered practicing my serves at the local courts by a pro who would steer me to greatness at Wimbledon. (Hopefully that pro is not in a parallel universe and didn't watch me lose my USTA league match last night to an overweight, overtired, respiratorally-challenged man who has undergone knee surgery and who, after winning, congratulated me on my athleticism and shot-making while lighting up a cigarette).

Otherwise, dreams of being cast in some movie/TV show or getting published abounded and still do as do those based in adventurous travel, writing a screenplay and seeing it developed, trying new sports, meeting new people (possibly royalty)....You get the idea.

Those things I could possibly achieve if I put my mind to it if it weren't for my procrastination. Most procrastinators divert their energies into other meaningless pursuits. Yet, since mine doesn't result in me cleaning my apartment, doing my own laundry or ironing (or often even going out to collect my grocery shopping) I'm not actually sure where the time goes.

Instead, time passes until I accept the fact that no one is going to fall into my lap and do everything for me and so crank up the engine and start producing.

Exciting things do happen in my life, of course. My eldest brother stopped off in NYC on his way back to Blighty from US based meetings. Whenever he is visiting he measures his time in food.
'I'm arriving on Friday afternoon and leave Saturday night,' he emailed, 'which means we should have enough time for about 4 meals and 2 snacks I think.'

We ate and drank up a storm and I introduced him to AILS, my Adorably Intense Little Sister, at a party at her apartment. She is engaged (see? more excitement) and will be married this October at a ceremony where I will be required to give a speech (the content of which I think about often but will in reality most likely produce the night before the occasion).

In addition, visitors come and go from my abode; there are tennis tournaments to go to...but these external things don't produce a direct sense of excitement from within me.

The most sort-of-exciting-but-actually-confusing, thing to happen recently was me being friended on facebook by Carla Bruni-Sarkozy. I'm pretty sure I have never met her - and other random strangers who try the same thing with me on fb meet with my rejection - but since I don't have any celebrity friends I thought I would deign to accept. She does seem like the type you could sit and have a natter with over a cup of tea, doesn't she?

'Are you sure it's her and not a fan page thing?' QKofD asked me.
'It is definitely her. It's her personal page with her personal stuff and everything. I could message her or poke her. She even recommended I befriend one of her friends.'

I couldn't think of anything to say to Carla Bruni-Sarkozy though and some days later when I logged back on I found her personal page had disappeared from fb. I had visions of Nicolas coming into the boudoir after a tough political day, unwindsoring his tie, seeing his wife on the bed, her laptop resting on her thighs.
'Bonsoir, cherie. Qu'est_ce que c'est tu fais la?'
'Salut, mon cher. Je fais un petit peu de facebooking.'
'Sacre bleu, Carla! Every night le facebooking. Zis must stop, cherie. C'est le facebook or moi!'

My ennui has led me to think about meeting someone most likely exacerbated by snogging a lovely boy after a large night out on Saturday with friends. But if I had someone to think about, at least that would take my mind off how much I haven't achieved in life so far.

'I don't need a relationship but it would be nice to have someone to hang out with, see movies with or watch tv, have passionate sex with,' I told KRoss Kourt.
'You mean like a boyfriend?'
'Oh no, no' I replied. 'Well, actually, I don't know. Is that what boyfriends are these days?'

I said much the same to my Guncle Norman over lunch the other day.
'I mean I'm pretty settled in other areas of my life. Job, salary, home but I'm starved of creativity. Perhaps it would be nice to have someone to enhance things.'
'Of course,' he replied. 'But you're looking very good. Are you sure you haven't met someone?'

It made me laugh, because whenever I have been in relationships I usually become fat and and dull. So maybe the key to me looking good is my singledom?

Perhaps me desiring to meet someone is the biggest procrastination of all? Instead I should just write that bloody screenplay or audition for some TV shows.

Or even just do my own laundry?

Well, it's something to think about, isn't it?

What's your reality?

2009-07-10T09:15:00.003-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

In Quantum physics, M theory states that tiny building blocks or 'strings' which have length but neither height nor width are responsible for the construction of all forms of energy in the universe. We are familiar with the fourth dimension of time but the vibration of the strings as well as determining whether something is seen as matter or energy also supports the inclusion of another 6 dimensions we cannot detect directly.

String theory states that these multiple dimensions co-exist with our dimension and in fact are all around us. This means that while I am lying in bed writing this, something or someone may be doing something similar in another dimension right next to me but I just can't observe it or them. Of course there may be no gravity in that dimension so they could well be on my ceiling.

If you're not getting this read His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman which are all about adventures in alternative realities and getting there by cutting through the fabric of the universe.

When I was much younger, I was very into the idea of psychics and alternative realities believing that they operate on a sort of 'frequency' like radio stations. Psychics were able to receive messages from the 'beyond' because they were able to dial into frequencies that many of us could not. Finding books like 'Living Magically' which articulated what I felt in black and white, supporting such theories and suggesting ways of living better, more harmoniously and well, magically, helped me feel that I was not insane because I was not alone in these thoughts.

Hindus believe that before there was anything in the universe there was sound and the universal sound is 'Om' which is why all those yogis sit around chanting it all the time. It's how you get in tune with the universe. It makes sense to me.

While understanding M and string theories are somewhat beyond the processing power of my tiny brain, I find it endlessly fascinating that it could be true. It means that out there somewhere perhaps there are alternative Mes who fulfilled those dreams of being a tennis player or an actor or perhaps something else entirely. Hopefully, those Mes win more matches and get more acting gigs than I do and did in this dimension.

I'm not sure how, why or when my thoughts and ideas of all the magical wonders the universe could conceivably hold and how tapping into them would result in magnificence gave way to the desire for the material (Tag Heuer watches, Restoration Hardware trestle tables) and the worry of the inconsequential (work, weight, relationships) but somewhere along the line it did.

I miss that old me.

But I like to think that perhaps he's right next to me right now.

Happy Pride

2009-06-28T11:12:00.002-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Forty years ago this weekend the Stonewall riots happened. While it's not entirely clear what the precise cause of the riots was, what is clear that the gay community reached the end of its tether and refused to be harassed by the police, and the rest of society, for their sexuality.

There is a rumour that Judy Garland died at this time and that gays and drag queens in full regalia went to fifth avenue to pay respect to this huge gay icon. However, they were not allowed anywhere near the procession or her coffin and that was the spark for the ensuing riots.

I don't know whether that's true but forty years later two more icons have passed: Michael and Farrah. I would expect them to be celebrated and mourned in today's Pride events. I was never an obsessive MJ fan but whenever I listen to his music I am struck by his genius.

Who can know what it must have been like to be an abused child groomed for mega stardom from the age of five. We have had a glimpse from the outside. It occurred to me as I watched parts of the Martin Bashir documentary (how that man classifies himself as a journalist, with his inane questions and operating without insight or intelligence is beyond me) that MJ was simply living in a deluded universe, and was in fact the most famous person we will ever have the privilege of seeing who suffers from mental illness.

He absolutely insisted he had only had two nose jobs and the rest of his face had changed as a result of adolescence. What was sad about it was not that he was lying but that he absolutely believed what he was saying. Perhaps he was the most well known case of someone who lives on the fence of genius and madness?

Pride started on Friday with drinks after a an all day work meeting followed by karaoke, dancing, getting thrown out of a bar/club (well, it has been a while) sushi, receiving nasty text messages from a deranged admirer and fighting with Chicktoria Beckham.

Saturday, I went to the North Star Fund brunch with KrossKourt where there were excellent speeches from various organisations including Fierce. What's interesting about these types of meetings is that it reminds you of how New York is a city of communities that truly own and drive their own direction.

The evening was spent having dinner with Alpha Male. He and I met two years ago this weekend at a Pride party and became friends. At dinner we got into an argument about trust and I suggested that perhaps it was fitting our friendship would end two years to the date of when it started. Of course, I was overreacting.

We had drinks at Gym bar and them bumped into some friends who suggested we go line dancing. It didn't sound like something that would appeal but how could I refuse.

Actually it was a lot of fun and I bumped into an NYGMC member there who taught me how to two step. I cant' say I understood the outfits (ass less chaps, leather g strings, trannies in polka dotted bras and pants and all of them in cowboy boots, natch) but it was the essence of Pride in a way. Everyone enjoying themselves, whatever their style, looks, story without judgement.

And now I am off to another Pride brunch and then to fulfil my volunteering duties at the Pride Pier Dance with Yours Truly.

There is definitely a richer atmosphere in my neck of the woods - more people out and about, more fun, more humour, more acceptance. If only it could be Pride every day....

Broadway Bares, Tolstoy and Beckham

2009-06-22T19:48:00.008-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

In my younger days, at university for example, I went to every event/house party/ball/function/bar crawl going, beset by a fear that if I didn't I would be missing out on something. While I still don't like the thought of missing out on a good time by not being somewhere it's now based on wishing to be where my friends and or family are enjoying themselves. I don't feel a sense of omission if I'm not attending something at which no one I like or love is present.

With experience you learn that by not going to that party/event/random pub crawl, you, in fact, didn't miss out on meeting the love of your life/publisher who loves your book/agent who wants to make you famous/celebrity who will be bowled over by your charm and want to be your new best friend should you deign to oblige.

So when a fellow tennis club member asked me if I'd like to go with him to Broadway Bares , the AIDS fundraiser, my initial reaction was to decline.

Broadway Bares is a show featuring a plethora of hunky and beautiful stars of Broadway. Held in a large venue in Hell's Kitchen it involves, I so thought, the stars basically stripping off with most of gay New York in attendance, who wait eagerly for the after show chance of thrusting dollar bills into the g-strings of their favourite gyrating Broadway fancies, all in the name of charity, natch.

It didn't particularly appeal when compared to, say, staying in bed with my new translation of Anna Karenina and exchanging, in turn, affectionate and evil glances with Chicktoria Beckham while she sat curled up beside me. Well, what can I say? Tolstoy has a rather delicious and astute way of describing human behaviour in the simplest way.

When fellow tennis friend called the next day, however, and said at this stage it was either me or nobody, I leaned towards it. I mean it was an opportunity. When would I ever go to it again? It might be fun. Tolstoy would wait one more day I supposed.

I also felt a bit bad that if I didn't go with him and he went alone, his self-confessed social awkwardness would ensure he enjoyed a less than pleasurable time. (Truth be told whenever I am drunk I keep telling him he is socially retarded which isn't really a nice thing to say to anyone, even if they nod in excitable agreement.)

I didn't know what to expect of Broadway Bares really but it was a spectacular and slickly produced show. A series of skits with a running theme of internet surfing for dates/sex/hook ups incorporated Broadway numbers, burlesque, Cirque de Soleil and, of course, a lot of humour.

It was simply stunning and as thanks to my host I helped him with his shyness by choosing and introducing him to a young man with whom he flirted for the rest of the evening. I also had a hand in getting him an audience with his favourite Broadway idol so he could place his charitable donations into the idol's g-string.

Even though it was facilitation rather than any kind of manipulation, it was theatre in a fashion, or at the very least something of which Tolstoy would have been proud.

Adieu QKofD

2009-06-10T10:53:00.003-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

After two months with me QKofD finally flew the nest on Sunday and returned to the UK. It was really nice having her here and I hope that she manages to garner a job stateside.

Having very close friends or family to stay for long periods of time can be heaven or hell but in most cases is a bit of both. We reminisced about living together, in Balham, South London where despite our penniless existence we still had enough money for videos, pasta bolognese and beer on a Friday night.

We cooked up pasta bolognese like the old days, argued about cleanliness in the bathroom -
'Why can't you clean the bath when you're finished??'
'Why are you always in a bad mood??'

- and the flat in general:
'The flat is disgusting. Why don't you call your cleaner [HRS]. I will pay for it!'
'Well we could actually clean it ourselves. There's no law saying we can't!' - at which we both burst out laughing, because frankly when I don't even clean my own apartment how can I expect her to?

I nearly even stole some toilet rolls from work just for old time sake.

At the end of the day we had a fun old time during our 2 month NY experience. The Empire State building, the top of the Roc, the Met museum, Central Park....actually, none of those factored into our time together.

Instead, our memories include sampling a new roast and fried chicken joint, burgers at Corner Bistro, cakes from Magnolia, witnessing the closing of my neighbourhood Balducci's, the adoption of my cat. (I am getting on so-so with my cat at the moment. When she isn't attacking me with her New Jersey housewife long talons, she likes to cuddle up with me on my bed while I read.

We started calling her Chicky and it has sort of stuck, and I have now started referring to her as Chicktoria Beckham on account of the fact that she seems to have shed about 10lbs since I took her in. I also saw her throw up once immediately after I gave her some treats. In cat terms she is surely a size zero.

I decided to throw a small shindig at mine for all those who had met QKofD. I cooked up a batch pf pasta bolognese ('I've committed cardinal sins,' I told her. 'The gays don't eat carbs or red meat. But then there'll be more for us.')

Yours Truly, KrossKourt, MonogAMouse, Cool Chick, AILS and others were in attendance and I must say it piqued my desire to start having parties again. It was a good fun night not marred by the fact that she had to be up at 4.30am to get to the airport in time for her flight.

A week after her departure, life has returned to normal but I do miss having someone here to chat to if I've had a crap day or vent to if family issues are getting me down.

As I get older I do wonder what the future holds. Where will I live? Will I live alone? I've often thought that in lieu of having an immediate family of my own I will live near my closest friends and family.

At least I know I can always live with QKofD and Lu - as long we have separate bathrooms and a cleaner that comes regularly.

Viva Las Vegas

2009-06-03T22:32:00.000-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I have never been a big fan of Las Vegas (although I loved Showgirls - and I know damn well others did too. Don't be afraid, whoever you are. Step into the light). Yet, when an old childhood friend of mine and QKofD's, who here shall be known as Croc, said she was going to be there for a conference at the end of May we decided to meet her there.

We stayed at The Palazzo, the beautiful addendum to the ridiculously over the top Venetian on the Strip. Frighteningly, a recreation of the Piazza San Marco and Venice's Grand Canal complete with warbling gondoliers which you find on the second floor of the hotel is not the most ridiculously over the top reproduction in Las Vegas. I'm not sure whether that fact is a marvel or a monstrosity.

Las Vegas is a bizarre place. Silicone enhanced blondes walk the casino hallways past ageing showgirls; waitresses the age of your grandmother work constant shifts in the twenty-four hour restaurants; obese and decrepit pensioners in their electric buggies edge their way to slot machines and take a break from chain-smoking to hurl abuse at whoever crosses their path; handsome men spill mountains of chips on the tables and walk away from their losses without the bat of an eyelid; intoxicated frat boys and hot girls exclaim how much they 'LOVE VEGAS, DUDE!!' in the elevators to uncaring passengers.....

Of course, QKof D and I had other more sophisticated plans. We would converse and dine with Croc whenever possible, view the splendor of the Grand Canyon, and sunbathe at the pool while catching up on our Tolstoy and Eugenides.

Our plan was somewhat derailed (which one could have supposed from a conversation QKofD and I had a few days prior to leaving for LV).
'So which day shall we go to the Grand Canyon?' OKofD asked.
'Hmmm...the trips are quite expensive, aren't they? And it is very far away.'
'But [HRS] we have to go. It's one of the wonders of the world.'
Pause.
'Is it, though?'

Tolstoy and Eugenides gave way to National Enquirer, US Weekly and In Touch. Instead of dipping into the pool we immersed ourselves into the depths of the intoxicating casino tables. Fine dining was delicious food in the same hotel restaurant every day.
'What about the Grand Canyon?' QKofD asked while we indulged in our daily breakfast ritual of bacon, sausages, eggs and pancakes.
'Well, we're in the Grand Lux Cafe,' I replied. 'That's sort of similar.'
'We can just see it on dvd. To be honest, I'm not bothered. I just want to gamble and I think you should have a rest,' she said.
'We could tell everyone the Canyon was closed?' I suggested.

Truth be told, a few days of eating, sleeping, chatting and gambling was just what I needed since a few frustrating days at work had put me in a foul mood.

While I can't claim to understand those who frequent places like Las Vegas for vacation I must confess I thoroughly enjoyed myself and I totally understand why people frequent them. It's dangerous for the easily addicted, whatever your poison.

Within a day, QKofD and I began to exhibit signs of needing Gamblers Anonymous. After seeing some rather fetching and expensive sunglasses in the Grand Canal Shops I went directly to the roulette table with the intention of winning the necessary hundreds for the purchase. Within an hour the glasses were on my face.

The next day I decided I wanted to win enough to pay off my Amex bill (ok, ok buy that Tag Heuer watch) and so to the roulette wheel I went.

In 30 minutes I had broken through the four digit financial barrier but did I buy the watch? Did I pay off the Amex bill? No. Instead I gambled a few hundred away, drunk on the euphoria that attaining 'free' money gives you. I left with most of my winnings and sense intact but with a feeling of excitable sadness.

I found QKofD at the Texas Hold'Em table.
'I'm down! I was up and now I'm down,' she said with a distressed air.
'Let's have a break. Come on I'll buy us dinner with my winnings.'

We wandered in a daze to Grand Lux Cafe.
'Are you thinking about your losses? You still did well,' QKofD said.
'I want to win more!' I cried.
'I feel really distressed,' QKofD said. 'I don't understand why I'm not winning.'

She got her mojo back at the Spanish 21 table while I admired my Tag from afar.

We both lost and won, lost and won. It's the nature of the game after all. But we had great fun which was the point.

And when I got back to NY I found my Tag for sale at a cheaper price. What a good thing I didn't buy it in Vegas.

Now that's what I call a lucky gamble.

Bipolar pet

2009-05-15T13:22:00.005-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

'I think we need to have a talk,' I said. ' I want you in my life but I just don't know if you can love me or show me affection in the way I need you to. Your mood swings are really hard to deal with. So what are we going to do about this?'

My cat stared blankly through my words, got up, turned her back on me and went back to sleep.

QKofD and I spend countless hours laughing and crying about the state of our dysfunctional family and how to stem the disintegration of its ties.
'Maybe it's your destiny, to have a psychologically disturbed cat?' QKofD asked as we watched her sprawled on the bed. 'Imagine if you'd got that old, epileptic one.'
'At least he would have given the illusion of liking me because his drugs would have made him lethargic,' I replied. 'I mean, why do I have to get a bipolar pet?'

At which point, the cat hissed at us and stalked off.

They say that owners and their pets share similar characteristics after a while of being together. They also say that you attract things into your life which act as a mirror to you.

This worried me.

My cat so far seems to be moody, does what she likes and, often, refuses to compromise. This is often how I feel when in company. Except I mask it much better than she does.

I must say that a few days on my cat now seems quite at home. She understands ritual: gets settled on my bed around 11pm because she knows that's bedtime; wakes around 7.30am when my alarm goes off; falls back to sleep for another hour because I can't be bothered to get up; follows me to the bathroom in the morning when it's time to get ready; expects to be petted when I get home from work....

I suppose having an idiosyncratic cat is not such a bad thing since I am much the same but I try to keep that at bay when in the company of those I'm not extremely close to. Emotions are by definition irrational but most people temper them in public out of a sense of decency. But this isn't something you have to do with good friends of family.

Which makes me wonder if my cat feeling able to be her true moody and affectionate self isn't already fully integrated into my household. And whether my family is only dysfunctional when they are hiding their true selves from each other.

And whether there is anyone out there with whom I will be able to be my truest self, whatever and whoever that is. Hopefully they do exist. And it's not just my cat.

The cat's got my tongue

2009-05-11T09:18:00.009-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I feel like I am always playing catch up on this blog. My diligence has been derailed but when asked by people what I have been doing of late, I can think of nothing to say other than 'Just work'.

Last year my answers would have ranged from singing in the New York Gay Men's chorus to playing volleyball, rugby and tennis. These days all I seem to do in my down time is watch Bridezillas. This descent into hell must be stopped.

It has occurred to me that without my extra curricular activities to enrich my spirit, mind, soul and body, I am suffering from a certain emptiness. In a city like New York where everything you do is a goal that is to be completed, when you don't have goals, what do you do?

The fact that the lives of all my friends are changing has undoubtedly caused me to ponder the stagnation of my own more deeply. Lou Ferigno aka McDreamy and his lovely wife have just welcomed their son into the world. Twister is expecting. Queen Serene is marrying his long time beau this Summer. Glitterati is moving onwards and upwards in her career having started a fabulous new job. Lu has started dating back in the UK.

Even QKofD went on a date last night despite having been in NY for under a month. I sat in and made pasta with bolognese sauce just like I used to 12 years ago in London. (Well, it is my comfort food).

Yours Truly came over with some McCafe iced coffees and we ate pasta while talking about the Out of Bounds event he hosted the previous night. I was commandeered as a contestant at the last minute but luckily hardly had to do anything. That said, even with the numerous awards given out at these ceremonies (Best Stander on Stage award goes to....) I still managed to go away empty handed.

Even he has decided that it is time for him to get serious about someone and to prove it went on a date last week. An actual date with dinner and drinks and conversation. This is a man who doesn't even believe in dating. What universe am I living in now?

I decided it was time for action in my own life and finally got the pet I've been wanting. Despite wanting a boy cat I got a pretty grey and white, 7 year old female tabby whose owners' newborn is allergic. She came over for a week long trial visit.

'What do you think of her?' QKofD asked.
'I can't tell. She's been under my bed the whole time.'
'She just lost her home and she's only been here one day.'
'And she scratched me. Little bitch.'
Fergie, who was here for a few days, said,
'That's because you pulled her tail. You're not supposed to do that.'
'That's as may be...' I started, while we readied ourselves for Dick Swizzle's Kentucky Derby party with Cool Chick. I finished with something like 'Harumph' under my breath.

At the derby party at The Bell House in Brooklyn, QKofD won big and I decided I wanted to sing karaoke with the live band. I put in for Janice Joplin's Piece of my Heart. My friends gladly waited for my moment. Three hours later with their starving bellies they were still glad to wait for my moment. And that made me grateful. I'm thankful for what I have in my life - including my kitty who has now taken to sleeping on my bed or on my lap - but I'm missing something. I still need to think about what that is.

But first I need to think of a name for my cat.

Tribeca Film Festival

2009-04-28T21:03:00.003-04:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Glitterati has been encouraging me to start blogging again and while I really have no excuse not to, I'm feeling a bit Britney these days, a bit groundhog day - i.e. no excitement, no passion. Of course, my mood is not to be confused with me not doing anything. Work is busy and high profile, the house has been full with visitors but my soul and spirit have been suffering from a lack of something and writing about that doesn't always make for titillating reading.

Last night QKofD (who is staying with me while she looks for work here) and I went to an amFAR event for the Tribeca Film Festival. I've been living here for four years and have never attended anything TFF so when Southern Belle emailed me about a viewing of An Englishman in New York preceded by a champagne reception, how could I refuse?

We started with Prosecco on Southern Belle's Tribeca rooftop before heading to The Bubble Lounge on West Broadway. Champagne glasses were refilled as if by magic and mini hors d'oeuvres in the vein of ham and cheese toasties and mini burgers topped with Brie and asparagus were passed around.

I often don't recognise the famous (witness my ignorance when passing Richie Rich from Heatherette while Southern Belle's excitement poured forth. I didn't have the heart to tell her that for the rest of the evening I thought Heatherette was the Swedish pop band Roxette), but I did pretty well that night.

Admittedly there was some confusion when John Hurt showed up.
'There's John Hurt!' QKof D exclaimed.
Me: 'I thought he was dead. Isn't that Peter O'Toole?'
Girlfriend: 'Was John Hurt Dumbledore?'
Me: 'No, that was Peter O'Toole.'
Girlfriend: 'Ah, no it was Richard Burton.'
Me: 'Now I know he's dead.'
QKofD: 'You're thinking of Richard Harris. And John Hurt was in The Elephant Man.'

I was half admiring/half admonishing Swoosie Kurtz, who must be in her sixties, clad in a sleeveless, leather mini dress. She must be a size zero and never eat anything ever. I decided she looked good until Cynthia Nixon arrived looking absolutely bloody fantastic in a one-shouldered purple dress, her tiny frame making me believe that SJP must be positively midget-like. I changed my mind instantly: shame on you Swoosie.

Two hours of free champagne is not a good way to prep for a movie. As we prepared to leave, an Amazonian woman brushed past me.
'Excuse me,' I said, putting my hand on her arm, 'Are you Janet McTeer?'
'Yes I am.'
'I just had to say hello,' I replied. 'Many years ago in London I was an usher in The Playhouse theatre where you played Nora in A Doll's House.'
'Bloody hell, that was many years ago!'

That was when I had two jobs and agenda of being a great star of stage and screen. I didn't quite make it.

I didn't make it to the screening last night either. Well, there's always next festival.

Here we go

2009-01-17T00:12:00.004-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?
New year's resolutions in no particular order:

SPEND LESS MONEY ON CLOTHES - Failed. Spent $500 in the first 4 days of Jan '09 including $226 on ANOTHER coat - this is no longer insanity but whatever is beyond that. Then again I had store credit to use and as Glitterati says it's good to strike while the iron is hot (but she just did exactly the same thing and doesn't seem entirely comforted by her own advice). On the plus side am now chummy and on first name terms with owners/managers at Banana, Operations and Mardana.
TRY A NEW SPORT - In progress. Fencing on W38th street. $100 for a month's worth of lessons.
SAVE MONEY - In progress:

Moving apartment since management company want to raise rent to $3280 a month - f*ck that. Contacted agents for apartment viewings.
Curse agents who translate my requirements of quiet, spacious, bright apartment in Hell's kitchen anywhere from 44th-54th on 9th or 10th into dark, pokey places on 30 something and 11th which are under construction (but whose exposed wires, unpainted walls, non existent toilets will 'be fixed and ready for me to move into in 2 days!'
Worked out daily budget.
First week of Jan stayed ahead of budget by staying in. Hurray.
Second week of Jan got bored staying in to adhere to budget. Went over daily budget multiple times during second week of Jan. Hmmmm....

DATE - In progress. One date with a very nice short guy - why is everyone in NY short? Plus have been messing about with a guy 10 years my junior who, despite my insistent resistance, I rather like. Also he is rather good at dealing with my commitment shyness (or maybe he just gets fed up of said self-protective flakiness).
GET PROMOTED - In progress.
FINISH SECOND DRAFT OF BOOK - In progress.
COMPETE IN JULY GAY GAMES - In progress.

Too hungover to remember the others. (DRINK LESS - Failed)

Crossing the motorway

2008-12-13T10:11:00.006-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I've been spending a lot of time recently thinking about confidence and why it is that you can have wildly varying degrees of it across different areas of your life. It was sparked by a friend feeling somewhat unhappy a while ago in her job. I'm happy to report that that has now changed but at the time I emailed her to say if your relationship was making you go home and cry yourself to sleep every night the way your job is, what would you do?

In much the opposite way, I was always very confident in the social or relationship aspects of my life but suffered from a constant disharmony in my jobs, always operating with a fear that eventually someone would realise I really had no idea what I was doing.

I realised the other day that the tables have turned.

I had decided to leave the New York Gay Men's Chorus because I was feeling insecure, isolated and as if I didn't really belong. However, when asked by their committee to redesign their website with full creative control my first thought was that this would be a way in for me, a chance to gain visibility and comfort in the group by doing something I've been doing at work for years and that, frankly, I could do with my eyes closed and still make an impact. At what point did my ability to do that kind of job overtake my social skills in building relationships?

I now have an unbridled self-assuredness about work while seeming unable to navigate the murky waters of my love (and sometimes social) life or, indeed, understand how to operate the vessel's controls.

Why is it that when one area of your life is saturated with confidence the others invariably seem to suffer from aridity?

My beloved Batten is in town for a visit and it's with a sad heart I report that she and The Kenny have called time on their twelve year relationship. She has been resting and recuperating with me which has largely involved feeding our bodies with roast pork (Porcetta), burgers (Corner Bistro) and brunch (Egg), and feeding our souls with culture (The Met; Milk - GO SEE THIS MOVIE, IT'S AMAZING).

Since I have been through what The Batten is going through I feel able to provide the support that she needs. Her career is at an all time high but the rest of her at an all time low.

In addition, SooLin has recently become single too. Although, I confess how they managed to make it work from Sydney to San Fran for so many years is beyond me. And so for the first time in our 8 year triangular friendship we are all single at the same time.

You would think with the experience we have behind us, it would be fairly easy to understand how to fix the lovelorn area of our lives or at least manage it better. Instead, we are like new born foals unable to steady ourselves or perhaps, more accurately, we are as hedgehogs dangerously attempting to cross the motorway.

The Batten by her own confession has no idea how things in the world of dating and creation of relationships work anymore since the last time she was at the starting line was more than a decade ago. And it will be a good while before she's even ready to face that.

SooLin, who is the baby in our tri-friendship, called us in a state the other day.
'I met a guy online. He's coming over and now I'm not sure I want him to.'
'Why,' we asked on speaker-phone, 'Is he ugly?'
'Don't know.'
'What do you mean you don't know? You don't know what he looks like? Oh my god, you don't know what he looks like. Get off the phone, call him and tell him your flatmate is back earlier than expected,' I advised while The Batten shrieked about axe murderers in the background.

SooLin called me later that night.
'By the time I called him it was too late, he was already at the door.'
'And?'
'Oh HRS.....he was wearing women's underwear. Why do I meet such freaks?'

I laughed so hard I had a coughing fit.

But I am not much better. When faced with a man whose looks and demeanour melt me I become a startlingly inarticulate fool and I related the tale.
'Did you speak to him?' SooLin asked.
'Yes. I said, 'Nice shoes'.'
'And?'
'Well they weren't as nice as mine, but they were very fetching.'
'No. I meant and what did he say?'
'Oh. 'He said 'What?' It wasn't the best conversation.'

At the end of the day we've seen each other at our most vulnerable: me finding a salacious online profile of an X; SooLin suffering from trust issues which turns him into a private investigator in his relationships; and The Batten having to cope with a boyfriend predisposed to depression.

It occurred to me that I have more confidence in the endurance of my friendships than any intimate relationship. And so at least I know we are all going through this together and, therefore, have each other to lean on.
'Isn't that right, babe?' I said to The Batten over a glass of our new favourite Australian wine called Bitch (which causes us hours of childish amusement).
'Yeah,' she replied. 'Well, unless I win the lottery in which case you won't see me for dust.'
'Bitch,' I replied.
'No thanks, my darling, I'm not quite ready for a refill.'

Oh, it's good to have friends.

New York Gay Men's Chorus

2008-12-10T14:58:00.003-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

At the start of the year, one of my goals was to feed my creative side by singing more. I decided to join the New York Gay Men's Chorus with a view to performing at Carmegie Hall.

Last night in the company of 200 gay men, I realised that goal. It was quite something to stand on that stage crooning Christmas numbers, belting out African tribal songs and delicately vocalising soft prayer like ballads.

Many members have been in the chorus for many years and have seen ample changes both good and bad. At the height of the AIDS epidemic in New York it was a beacon of hope, a rock of support for those who needed a home or comfort and support in dealing with death and illness without hope.

Since the easing of those tragic days, the NYCGMC has struggled to find its relevance in a city full of many choruses and similar organisations.

My goals for joining were clear and simple: sing more, perform at Carnegie Hall. Many of my other friends are glad that the concert is now over since they feel that the commitment it has required has prevented me from socialising, playing tennis, vacationing with them.

However, it may be some time before I leave the chorus. I can't say that I ever get excited about rehearsals unlike the excitement I always feel when I step onto a tennis court whether it's to practice crosscourt forehands or play a match but performing in front of an audience makes all those hours of song recital worthwhile.

Flaunt it, own it, work it....buy it

2008-11-29T16:14:00.005-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

The state of the economy has led to the pound being 1.46 or so to the dollar. Since I will be going back to the UK for Xmas this means I will finally be able to spend some time there without cringing every time I spend money.

While lying in bed the other night I also did a quick conversion of my dollar salary into sterling and felt somewhat pleased with myself. I've come a long way from earning £17k (about $26k) a year in London.

But then I had to wonder why with a fairly healthy salary I have only been able to save a grand total of $1400 this year. A quick calculation of my take home and my expenses didn't yield any further explanation except that a large portion of it goes on rent.

Where does the rest go then?

Well, there's my dry cleaning and laundry. Cable bill. Food which is sort of sporadic (I'm a terrible food shopper, only able to buy what I want to eat when I know what that is). Going out. Eating out. Work travel. But how does all that amount to me only being able to save 100 and something dollars a month for 12 months?

Of course, there are dues for all my extra curricular activities: gay tennis, gay chorus, gay skiing; five national tennis tournaments; tennis clothes, shoes and rackets; grooming....All of these add up.

And of course the screamingly obvious answers to why my savings are in such a paltry state? They're in my closets, my chest of draws, hanging up in my wardrobes.

When I was younger and didn't have two pennies to rub together I used to think if I could only earn 2, 3, 4 times my 17,000 pounds how much more sorted my life would be. Well, here I am five years later and not doing too badly and what has changed? Instead of pennies to rub, I only have several gorgeously crafted pieces to match together.

While I am thankful that I am in a position where I don't have to deny myself something if I want it (and to be honest, I work hard to be in this position), I was absolutely horrified at my inability to see the money I spend on a Cavalli coat that I may physically grow out of in a few years as something that could help grow my retirement fund.

Someone who understands my madness completely is Glitterati, principally because she suffers from the same affliction. Glitterati is one of my oldest friends and we email and text regularly. We've both worked hard to get to where we are and as a result feel it's only right that we treat ourselves. Yet, somewhere inside both of us is that youngster striving for more who feels a bit naughty about indulging which frankly I think is a good thing. We haven't disappeared up our own arses and become pretentious or blase about our situations.

The other week she informed me that while waiting for her friend to go to the theatre she somehow bought two new dresses.

Today she texted me to say that despite having been stiffed on her annual bonus and having over 70 dresses in her closet she bought more clothes.

My response? Well, as it happens, yesterday I ended up buying some new sweaters for Winter, a shirt, and ANOTHER black coat.

So who am I to judge?

And, after all, as Glitterati says, when we're old and decrepit at least she and I will be the best dressed people in the poorhouse.

Old dog, no tricks

2008-11-25T17:48:00.006-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

About a month ago I went to a beautiful gay commitment ceremony in Chelsea between two friends who shall be known here as my Guncles Norman and Guy.

I donned my Paul Smith and Cavalli (after all as Glitterati says you can't really go wrong in Paul Smith) and in a bright space overlooking the river, the autumnal theme ruled: rich, warm reds and browns dominated the decor, autumn leaves were strewn across the floor.

The New York Gay Men's Chorus sang some sophisticated material to punctuate the thoughtful ceremony, after which we were ushered to the roof to partake in canapes and champagne served by out of work underwear models. Honestly, what could be better then bubbles and buns? Except really delicious canapes like short ribs and mini burgers of which there were plenty?

If they'd had chips with mayonnaise on offer, I seriously would have had an orgasm right there while conveying my congratulations to the grooms.

At around that time I had also decided I wanted to date and had reached the stage of thinking I had some malfunctioning sexual chip because I just didn't fancy anyone.

And lo and behold, there was a handsome dark-haired man at the neighbouring dinner table. I'm not even sure how it started but soon enough we were stealing kisses while in line to get our main course of delicious treats.

It was the first kiss I've had in a long time that really did something for me. As for him, well I was pretty wasted but did remember he was 27.
'You're only 27,' I said, through glittering inebriated eyes.
'Can you please stop saying that? Does it matter?' he replied. Of course it didn't.

Or so I thought.

A few days later we had a date: a show at his friend's gallery and then sushi in the West Village. It was enjoyable and tactile. He's obviously a very very bright guy ('I said to my colleague, look it's not that difficult to understand. I mean is it ecumenical or not?' - to which I smiled blankly and made a mental note to ask someone what 'ecumenical' meant.)

He said he had a good time and wanted to meet up again. I said the same. We had a kiss goodbye. I must be honest and say that I'm not sure the chemistry was quite there but you can't always tell from the first date, can you? So the next day I emailed him to reinforce the fact that it would be nice to hang out again.

I never heard from him again.

I simply assumed he wasn't interested and chalked it up to experience.

Some time later I discovered from a reliable source that he didn't respond to my email because he knew it would result in another date and he was embarrassed about the fact that he earns very little money and, therefore, can't afford to go out.

I understand that. When I was in my twenties and living in London without a penny to my name I did much the same thing.

But there was the rub.

I could care less about the fact that he doesn't earn much money but I'm not in my twenties any more.
Second guessing and game playing are so 1980s. I'm an experienced dog who doesn't engage in old tricks.

Letting me think that he wasn't in the least bit interested in me in any way shape or form instead of just telling me the state of play betrayed his age and revealed the true level of his maturity.

And let's face it, since neither of us were banging down the door, how interested could either of us have really been?

I have decided that if I get into another relationship it will have to be with the true love of my life and he will be confident, secure, non-judgemental, loving, loyal, vulnerable and fun.

And then it hit me.

I don't want a boyfriend, I want a dog.

Thanksgiving

2008-11-25T17:27:00.004-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I feel like I am being extremely lax in diarising my life. Another American holiday is already upon me and I feel like I haven't even written about the last one. Halloween was eventful.

Why, I was simply minding my own business and was on my way to The Ritz to meet Yours Truly and the tennis crowd for drinks, when I tripped and fell into Armani and was practically forced at gunpoint by a salesman to buy a fur-collared winter coat. It was traumatic.

Slovak and I then got a taxi to my place so I could throw on a Zorro mask for the Soho House costume party. I had a row with the bastard taxi driver all the way home, took it out on Slovak for two minutes, made it up to him at SH after which we went to his friend's house party where I got completely trashed, texted some random people via my bberry and woke up the next day with a mighty sore throat. (Although I don't know if the cause was the spliff that was stuck in my mouth as I chatted on the terrace or the tongue thrust down my throat when I went to get more wine from the kitchen - now that's hospitality for you.)

I do love Thanksgiving. It's the opportunity to indulge in a huge drink and food fest with people you love. Plus you get a four day weekend in which to do it.

Last year I went to Cool Chick's place and then to Patricia Fields' place for a party.

This year Yours Truly arrived at mine at 2pm whereupon we indulged in a few vodka cocktails before heading to Williamsburg and CK's new abode. The feast was substantial: seafood pancakes, beef strew, mac and cheese, mashed potato, devilled eggs plus a variety of desserts.

Five hours of eating and drinking later and I was back home watching telly drinking a cup of tea, sated, satisfied and thankful.

Royal Outing

2008-11-16T11:44:00.004-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

I am losing my voice.

Many years ago as a child, I suffered from Laryngitis and was freaked out about the inability to speak.

As an adult, I am instead rather taken with the raspiness of this new timbre, quite assured (probably mistakenly) that it adds a sexiness to my voice that my normal pipes don't have.

This is all until I realised that I can neither sing nor truly express myself with this affliction. It's the laryngeal equivalent of Botox.

It better clear up in the next few days since I have been asked to be on the agenda at the next meeting of the New York chapter of International Institute of Business Analysts. I am to give a presentation about enhancing presentation skills. This is partly due to me running an initiative at work which helps people maximise the impact of their presentation material by working on both the content and the delivery.

I'm by no means The Authority on excellence in presentation so it's a wonder anyone listens to me but I have a passion for this kind of thing, which helps.

Having said that, I have put little thought into actually documenting a presentation and had to pull something out of my ass when asked by an IIBA committee member how my deck was coming along.
'Absolutely love the ideas!' she exclaimed as I rattled off some thoughts hurriedly structuring them as they came out of my mouth and hung in the air.

How could I tell her that I have spent all this time purely thinking about what to wear at the event rather than what to say? And I am nowhere near to knowing what to wear.

Of course, I have also been fantasising about thunderous applause for my presentation which people will tearfully claim has changed their lives, in the style of devotees of an evangelist preacher from the telly, and which will secure me work as an independent consultant in this field, perhaps for a Firm that conducts off sites in the Caribbean.

That is a few days away. Before then I decided to do the sensible thing in order to rest my voice.

I went out for 6 pints of beer and a cigar with Prince CHARming.

I was due to be a groomsman at Prince CHARming's '09 nuptials but as we sat in my flat sucking back a beer before heading out to see Things to Ruin, Princess Producer's latest project going on at The Zipper Room, it was obvious he had bad news that he really didn't want to deliver.

It turns out that I can no longer be a groomsman because of a disparity in numbers between groomsmen and bridesmaids. Instead I have been asked to sign the Ketubah, which is an honour bestowed on two close family friends who are not blood relatives.

'Whatever, you want me to do,' I said. 'It's your wedding.'

Things to Ruin was charming enough and well delivered (excellently directed) and, of course, wonderfully produced, if a little confusing as to the goal of the stringing together of these songs.

A few more beers later and we were eating a late night turkey burger at a diner. Prince CHARming began nagging me about something I am considering doing with which he didn't agree.
'If you don't stop it I'm not going to be a groomsman at your wedding,' I said. 'Oh wait, I'm not.'
'You're such an asshole.'
'And what's with me signing the Kabbalah book thing? You're not even Jewish.'

Of course, I'm completely ok with not being a groomsman and am touched to be asked to sign the Ketubah, the honour of which is given to a close family friend.

But it doesn't mean I can't take the piss out of him about it all.

Neon

2008-11-11T23:08:00.003-05:00

Need to know Who's Who?

Neon has died.

I came home this evening to find his lifeless turquoise body lying sideways at the bottom of his bowl.

I think right before death happens, there is some sense that it's coming.

He seemed to be getting more depressed over the last few days and medicine, food, research on the internet didn't seem to provide any answers for me or comfort for him.

I moved him to my room and finally managed to track down a vet on the East side that treats fish. Dr Look told me to bring him in, that Neon could very well be suffering from a tumour but she would look at him for $100.

Money wasn't the issue. Since I'd just spent 5 times that on another double-breasted Winter coat fo rmyself (even if this one does have a fur collar, but, well, that's Armani for you I suppose) it was nothing where his health was concerned.

I took the first appointment available for Sunday 16th but even as I put the phone down I think I knew that he wouldn't be around to make it.

I told him that night that we'd be seeing the vet but even as he came to the surface and took a few gulps of air I felt that his end was imminent.

As I performed the last rites which amounted to me singing his favourite song (Carwash) before he disappeared down the toilet bowl, I like to think he is now at peace.

Many people must think me strange. After all, he was just a fish.

But I loved him.