#MiracleOnBangStreet

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santa-winning

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.

 

#PowerShopper

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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.

 

#NeedALittleChristmas

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fXMAS

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.

HAYWARD

#theBeautyofMen

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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.

#Found

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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.

#JustifiableHOMOcide

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Hello. I won’t even begin my apologizing for the agonizingly brutal lack of posts here. The muse, she has left the building. Plus I’m too busy being a society bitch gansta’. So there’s that.

Today I woke and vividly recalled how mother slapped me so hard across the face when I was around age four that she packed us off to grandma’s for the weekend. I wonder how she explained that to my hot-headed Italian father. She hated her mother; she kept grandma at a distance. Safely tucked away some 50-miles from my childhood home. Anyway. So, yeah. She slapped me so hard it left a handprint on my cheek. And so many years later I still recall standing on the HI-C juice can ottoman (padded with cotton batting and slip covered with a groovy crocheted cover) and peering at that angry handprint redness in the bathroom mirror. Which was a very grownup and brave thing to do at that age. We lived in the country and the bathroom sink was notorious for those creepy crawly centipedes that old houses get in the summer. The seed of my anger issues was spawned that day. 

And today I’m angry. Well maybe not angry so much. Maybe more like confused and miffed. Last week I learned a bit of info regarding my failed early spring romance I’d hoped would be full-out monkey butt-slammin’ sexcapades right about now. Early August? Hmmm…I would have had Thanksgiving dinner china already picked out. But let’s not tarry on phantom holiday dinners surrounded by extended family. Ahem.

So a coworker casually tossed “yeah, so-and-so couldn’t come because he’s back with his ex again; they both hate crowds…so anyway…”  but I did not hear the rest of his running weekend recap as I was stunned brain dead. Wasn’t THAT ex the very same bat shit cray who called the cops on my young lover boi? That’s what he shared with me; he told me all the bad, gay nastiness that his ex put him through that eventually created a riff wide enough for my young love interest to move out. 

That’s all I’ve really got now. Just a memory of his sparsely filled apartment and how I would have redecorated, piece by piece, as we shopped WEST ELM on the weekends between gourmet wine and cheese shopping as the gays do. Those fading memories and the raging boners we shared the night he kissed me so deep my toes curled and the hair on my head tingled.

I want to slap him so hard.

#TheAgeOfNotSoInnocent

diamdsHello darlings. Yes, again– my honest apologies for the lag in posts. I’ve been far too busy social-climbing my way onto the A-LIST GAYS party roster. So far so good; Next week I’m invited to one of this town’s parties of the year at the classiest of classy hotels. Any socialite in this city worth their five inch Louboutins and Rent The Runway size zero cocktail dress will be there. Which leads me to that Groucho Marx quote: I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member…” I feel lucky to be invited. Actually I feel like the smudge nosed, peddler girl in My Fair Lady when she sells her handful of violets. Lucky. I feel fucking lucky.

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Earlier this week I attended a charity gala; my name was even printed in the gala program as I was part of the planning committee seated among the ladies-who-lunch, media interns, and junior league beauties; I was one of three gay guys. It was not a black tie type shindig; it was a bit more casual. Some of the old guard probably recycled something from the dark recesses of their en suite adjacent walk-in closets. C H A N E L really doesn’t have a bridge line that suggests we get fashionably busy to find the cure for mesothelioma; get on that Karl. Nonetheless all the posh ones were present and accounted for last week in their tight, shiny face jobs, firm boob jobs, and luxe hair extensions. Though I question the need for big firm hooters on a 70-year old. Maybe I’ll understand once I reach that age. Which is nearing closer than my lifelong mandate not to lie about my age. Maybe next year’s big zero birthday is the time to start lying. 

Oh. I celebrated a recent birthday on the coast. I’ll let you dream about which coast for the sake of my anonymity and to protect the innocent. When I returned from my trip I spiraled into a shit show via social media where my lazy decision to not contact an acquaintance in aforementioned coast town was equated to the ‘ho bitch slap heard ’round the world. I don’t understand people; we haven’t communicated in years. I didn’t see the need to reconnect as I’m still nursing wounds from a perceived slight. Gay drama. It’s maddening. I mean, I will own my part in the rift but at this age, can’t we all just get along? “Bitch, what you did was shitty. I forgive you; now– do you want vodka or gin for that martini?” Life is too short. I keep saying this nowadays. No one is hearing my warning shot.

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