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The magazine article is out. The hard copy dropped Friday in the city and the digital version dropped a few days prior. I was out-of-town on business when my phone blew up with a few congratulatory-type text messages from coworkers who have anxiously been refreshing the magazine’s website for days to see the feature on fabulous moi.

And it does feel fabulous. I mean, again–I did not donate a billion dollars to the pediatric wing of a local hospital. I simply know how to dress for the occasion if I did so. Though if you saw my bedroom post-travel the past two weeks it looks like a bomb went off with dirty laundry basket overflowing and dry cleaning hanging off every available door knob. Not too stylish in that area. Ahem.

BW_WANKERSo, yes. Posted the article on all my social media and the positive feedback and love feels really awesome. Because while everything reads all shiny and bright on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, I could barely get out of bed Saturday.

I did manage to get to the gym as any type of exercise clears out depression cobwebs. So that worked for a bit. But I quickly fell into ‘what’s the point’ mode upon returning home. I pitched the gym threads, wanked it like a bitch in heat, and fell into a deep afternoon nap till 4pm. The whole effn’ day shot and I didn’t care one iota.

Sunday’s warmer temps and bright sunshine elevated my mood enough to get dressed, post-gym, and stroll downtown. I was scraping hangers across the cheap(er) suits section at MACY’s when that familiar text bing interrupted my ear bud music flow.

And there, in the cheap(er) suit section, I read the text, smiled and moved on with my day. I only read it once. I didn’t need to read it again. Nor did I respond. OPRAH said that if one can’t take people talking shit one isn’t ready for success. I’m paraphrasing but that seed of truth bubbled into my reality Sunday afternoon. A former acquaintance felt moved enough by the magazine feature to text me his feelings about the demise of our close friendship. And while I know– and own, my role in that breakdown I chose not to reflect too deeply or read too much into the tiny words that had popped up on my phone. I didn’t care. Much. Folks who try to bring you down are usually beneath you. I’m Rick James, bitch. Suck it this month.



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Hello. Maybe I’ll just post my cray cray shit here every holiday break. Today is Easter. My last post was Christmastime. I figure if Christ can get up and move a rock blocking his tomb I can perhaps bang something out on this keyboard. 

I’ll just jump into it. My work– my job, that is, seems secure for the moment. And by that I mean the company acquisition has occurred; heads have already rolled and I’m still standing. I have no idea why other than my high visibility on the social scene and strong media connections are assets. Well. Wait. I don’t have THAT large of a profile in ‘the scene’ but I’m still very much what one would call an “up and comer.” Or fame whore. And my credentials on that standing are about to receive a major boost. A local society mag chose me as one of their “dudes who look good in clothes” recipients. The annual sartorial shout out is obviously titled something else but I’m still flying under the radar in this space and won’t mention specifics for fear of the almighty Google. Ahem ~

HAII learned this news in January; my mouth dropped and I believe my first response was “oh my GAWD…this is like winning a fashion OSCAR in this town..” I’ve since tempered and distilled my response to those in the know to a polite “it’s an honor to be included among the ranks of this town’s well-dressed men…”  

And only a few folks DO know this pending photo feature; the issue drops next Friday. My photo shoot was weeks ago and they interviewed me regarding my style and related type fashion questions. I was frank and open: I shop high-end AND scour TJMaxx. Style is an attitude, not a fat wallet. I’m praying the fucking picture is good since I take 30 selfies to post a good one.

It’s a big deal for me. And yet when I get to feeling too smug about how very special the public recognition is I regroup my thoughts and realize I did not cure cancer or donate money to build the children’s wing of any major hospital. I simply know how to fashionably dress and own a room when I enter it. Friends tell me to hush such self-defeating thoughts and enjoy this big moment. True, yes — but I still have that waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop negative thought process in place. I can’t ever be happy for too long. I don’t know how to do happy.

daddiTomorrow I head back to the airport around 4:30am. They have me working from the out-of-state home office the past couple of weeks. That is starting to wear on my nerves as I’m not all that great of a flyer but it is what it is. I have to adjust, adapt, and embrace all this change now. The alternative is what? Quit my job? I’m in no shape financially to even think about early retirement. And what would I do with myself? How much daddy porn can a person watch? 



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So I’m off for fucking Christmas vacay this week. It’s a stay-cay as I can’t fucking afford to go anywhere. Like, I don’t know how I got myself into this debt cycle of late but then, yes, I do know. When I was out of work I tapped my retirement account for mega monies and –wouldn’t you know it, Uncle Sam wants his cut. Monthly the government takes a chunk for taxes on that early withdrawal. Plus I like nice clothes so there are those pesky SAKS and Neiman Marcus credit card bills that just never ever hit zero balance because oh-hey-gurl-hey-cute-shoes purchases abound.

graphics-camera-816047I lunched with one of this town’s most influential, recognizable media mavens today. It was so fucking awesome to have a mini Kim K moment walking through the dining room while heads turned. And while I maintained a Cary Grant purposeful stride and fixed smile on my face I was really jumping up and down inside enjoying my private rainbow pony, glitter-apalooza moment in her warm spotlight. “Yasss, betches….look who I’m lunching with!!!” But there is no hash tag for that. So, yeah.

Work is status quo. While I’ve had about a week to digest the news of my company being sold, the initial nuclear bomb OMG-we’re-all-gonna’-die feeling of crisis mode has diminished solely on the fact that the hatchet squad left town several days ago. I met with them; the vague term bandied about was “in flux.” Corporate speak for “we’ll axe your job on our own time-table.” I left my ‘go fuck yourself’ attitude at the curb that morning and listened to two, snarky thirty-somethings in cheap suits work their running commentary like it was a vaudeville act. All they needed, really — to complete their show was a tired-ass donkey and a drum set made from the stretched skins of all those axed before me. Clearly they are adept at sawing people in half and magically disappearing.

So I don’t know. I’ve told another media friend of mine in publishing. She’s a polished gem of a friend. Within an hour I received a text: “I got your back.”  I don’t know what that means exactly but it does allow me to enjoy a bit of my stay-cation minus thoughts of leaping from my 20th floor window with a sprig of mistletoe clenched in my asshole.

I have zero expectations for Christmas day. The exBF already declared this year a non-exchange year. And while exchanging Christmas presents with an ex is fraught with trips down holiday lanes past, I must confess I’m going to miss not opening a bottle of come-fuck-me cologne on my wish list Christmas morn. Earlier today, I passed a faux homeless person with his Sharpie inked cardboard sign: “Lost everything. Need food.”  Yes, and I need a bottle of TOM FORD’s Sahara Noir so, with all due respect — we’re both fucked this Christmas, bitch.

felizI figure minus any expectations of surprise and delight I’ll get through the day and mother’s seasonal lament of ‘everybody I know is dead’ long enough to find some glimmer of hope for the new year.

I asked my lunch pal today what — if money was no object, she would want for Christmas. She chimed in with “a villa in the South of France” while I aimlessly stirred my cappuccino and examined my monogrammed cufflink for scuffs. My Christmas wish was far more obtainable, though not shared table side: a finger bang from young, tall, dark and handsome Eduardo, our waiter would — indeed, be a fucking Christmas miracle.




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Yesterday was ‘march or die’ day with regard to Christmas shopping. My out of state family gifts abso-fuckin’-lutely must ship today or I’ll pay premium rates next week. And I’ve been there. Why, hells bells –I’ve been known to spend $70 bucks to ship a $40 dollar gift. Yeah, so I’m an idiot. 

My plan was to start early; I wanted to hit the stores at 9am when they opened but that didn’t happen because I’m a 15-yr old when it comes to internet porn. Where was I? Oh. So it occurred to me that I’d not written one Christmas card. Too, the cards I’d received were still casually tossed on the breakfast bar, unopened. It’s that depression thing. Like, I can’t spare the energy to slit an envelope and read greetings of the season. But I finally did open them after a pot of imported Brazilian coffee I received as a secret Santa gift in the workplace. (more on THAT topic to follow)

I wrote about 15 Christmas cards yesterday. As I mature my handwriting has gotten progressively wobblier and wigglier. I pride myself on beautiful cursive handwriting and nowadays my efforts look like assisted living/crystal meth addiction penmanship. Meh. No one cares. So when I wrote ‘I count you twice in counting Christmas blessings’ it actually appeared like:

“I cunt you twice in cunting Christmas blessings.”

I thought about drawing an arrow to the words and writing something like:

“Ha! Ha! It looks like I wrote CUNT!”  

bw_MM…but then that would only draw more attention to my sloppy scribe and, too, maybe I’m THINKING I see the word “cunt” and hey, what the Hell is wrong with me why do I read ‘cunt’ instead of ‘count’?!?! Sigh.  

But I digress. I finally tossed the completed cards on the foyer console. (sure, I could have said “hall table” but this is a classy blog, bitch.) After showering I grabbed dark denim, better shoes, and vintage OLIVER PEOPLES sunglasses. It was an effortless, daddy-got-money look that read ‘don’t mess with me’ for astute retail clerks to understand in a jiffy minute. It also garnered a free sample of Jo Malone sugar scrub from the twink at their counter, too.

I powered through at least seven stores yesterday and got 90% of my shopping done. Today I’ll wrap the shit and haul ass to the UPS Store. The pain in my shoulder blades always vanishes once those boxes slide to the other side of their counter. It’s a notable stress level shift and a signal that I can enjoy my Christmas break.




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Hello. Thanks for popping back in to read this crazy shit. Yes — I know: it’s been awhile. Let’s just jump in. Pull up a chair; pour yourself a drink. Light that cigarette.

Oprah_SpeechlessMy fucking job is in jeopardy. Ha! I know, right?!?! Two weeks before Christmas they’ve shared with upper management that our company has been sold to a new group of muckity-mucks. Ha! What. The. Fuck. NOT COOL. Actually not ever cool whatever time of the year. I’ve had about 72-hours to process this news and I’m not handling it all that well. My feelings — and there are many, range from random murderous, killing spree to slacker-age ‘whatever’ to “why me” as well as the ever popular “not this shit again.”

Cuz I’ve been here. Or there, as it was. Without a job, I mean. Like, I have a job but I don’t know for how long. Maybe just for the transition period as data, practices and procedures, and general rebranding occur. I don’t even know what my new job title is. And I can tell you…I really loved my current “Director of blippity boo” title at this age.

Ha! Age. That’s a real kick in the shorts. I don’t know a lot of shit but I do know cut throat corporate bullshit. I figure they’ll keep me on for transition, suck all the media contacts and regional connections outta’ me and then create impossible work hours and an insurmountable workload to get me to quit. See? We didn’t fire him…he quit.

fireMy rage is somewhat tempered by the fact that I just don’t have ANY facts with regard to the takeover and new management roles. When my boss told me of the buyout I was, naturally stunned stupid. It was very much a ‘deer in headlights’ moment. But he rambled along and told me “…I’ve told them you’re the best in the business…so I think you’ll have a place.” Oh sure. Yes. “A place.”  Fucking dick wad asshole!

I am to meet 10 executives from the new company tomorrow, Monday afternoon. Sometime between my walking into a boardroom and this very moment, I need to erase the “kiss my ass” expression off my mug. The last thing they need to witness is an overly-manicured, temperamental old queen who can’t get along. They no doubt need my buy-in to their branding and overhaul of systems. For awhile at least. Yep.

I can’t help myself, though. There’s the pride aspect. Let’s get real: everything I’ve worked for and achieved to make my company the best in the marketplace is done. Finished. In a few years the company name will fade into the logo graveyard. So I can’t help but feel like Susan Hayward, post wig snatch by crazed Patty Duke in VALLEY OF THE DOLLS. I don’t need to hide. Or bend. Or adjust to new rules and a cubicle, probably. I feel like sliding my resignation letter across that typical highly polished mahogany table tomorrow. “…I’ll go out the way I came in.”  A star, baby.




My hot, 30-something gay neighbor sleeps fifty feet away in the adjoining apartment. Youth at rest; untroubled by concerns and worries so permanent nowadays they should split my rent. It’s the witching hour. Or the bitching hour more likely.  Generally I make coffee and stream NPR around 3am to begin another day. I used to just get home at this hour back in the halcyon days of disco. Actually, no; 3am was last call. We would leave the clubs at 4am and land in a Greek diner. The night manager had a huge crush on my 23-year-old ass and would comp scrambled eggs and vanilla sundaes. Not simultaneously but separate depending on the season and just how shit faced I was.

“We” is defined here as ‘deceased.’ All of my disco era posse is gone. They were on the front lines of the onset of AIDS. At my 50th birthday bash there were at least eight men who should have been there celebrating with me but they were long gone by that big zero birthday. I don’t think I have ‘survivor’s guilt’ but sometimes — not often, I think they left the party early; at its zenith — before the crushing demise of everything that was lyrical, beautiful, and young. I’m the one who now ages. Turns gray. Gets a dad body. And waits. While yet another big zero birthday looms on the horizon of the new year, I’m thinking how little time is left to find some semblance of happiness before whatever ailment lurking inside me in silence and oozing in destiny’s gene pool is born to define the inevitable downside of aging.

Author Andrew Holleran wrote — I think, in his novel ‘The Beauty of Men’ about how one should never grow old in a town they were once young in. I’m paraphrasing his sentiment but it is solidly true. Sometimes when I’m full of myself — or maybe just full of a half Xanax, I’ll be sauntering the city streets with purposeful stride thinking that I’m still quite fetch. Then I’ll glance into the night blue glass reflection of a SAKS window and see a stranger gazing back. Who is THIS man? I’m invisible nowadays.

Because there is no template for this. Anyone who could have been a trusted mentor on how to grow old gracefully is gone. It is up to me to define what lies ahead and how to steer towards some degree of happiness. I don’t want to live alone anymore. I miss the companionship and the Sunday afternoon sex.

I wonder if my hot, gay neighbor sleeps in the nude.



Two former high school classmates have ‘found’ me online and tracked me to my place of employment. One has phoned one of our boutique locations; the store manager passed her message on to me via email: “…this woman said they’ve been looking for you for 40-years. Here’s her cell and email…”

I did not reach out. A few weeks later they discovered my company’s website ‘customer question’ portal and sent an inquiry regarding “…he was a classmate and we’re trying to  contact him, please pass along this phone…” And I’ve not done anything with that communication either. I knew I might confront this situation some day once I launched my public Twitter account with my real name. I did so not to share the details of my private life but as a public mouthpiece for my company’s brand. I shared the link with a past coworker and she said “…but I don’t read YOU in any of it; be careful or will sound too corporate and you’ll lose followers. Put your personality into it…”  Meh. Oh hai gurl; that is not going to happen. Ahem.

While these two 60-year-old women may have warm fun memories of our camaraderie that we can briefly revel in the fog of nostalgic recall most of my high school memories are hellish and hurtful. I was the new kid in town when I entered 7th grade. Those circle of friends cliques had already formed. Besides, I was the new skinny queer in town. It was the early 70s and my fashion sense and fey manners were about to get trampled.

More to follow on this topic.


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