The Problem of Polyester ...

Thanksgiving has never been my favorite holiday. The tendency to eat too much, the propensity toward football, and the provenance of sweet potatoes do not strike me as ideal ways in which to spend an afternoon. I suppose it is a lush's prerogative to prefer the drinking holidays - i.e. St. Patrick's Day, Christmas, New Year's Eve, both of my birthdays (long story), and two to three days per week of my choosing.

Nonetheless, I have much for which to be grateful this year, and I flung myself freely and wholeheartedly into this day - with all the aplomb, grace, and culinary skill I could muster.

I am grateful for my friends -

Ova the Top and Daddy are preparing for a big move; their lease is up, the house is built, and most of what can be packed - not the Coyote, the Caddy, the big-dicked, baby-faced queen (tenant) nor the two cats - is packed. I have been part of the process all along, and it is only by the grace of my severe allergy to their current house that I am not lifting, toting, or otherwise helping out.

the Czarina, whom I have not seen much of of late, is one moment closer to being an empress of a certain age. His birthday was last week, and I hear tell that he celebrated at La Scala - dripping diamonds and decked in fur. And because one should never dine alone - or have to pick up a check on one's own birthday, the Czarina dined with the Duchess, a diva who also wore furs and a few tastefully overdone gems. It doesn't count as a ring if at least two waiters aren't blinded by it when it catches the light from the crystal chandelier.

the Frenemy is still fumbling toward ... uh, romance. I think it's something in the air these days that everyone starts coupling, or trying to, when the holidays strike. the Frenemy's latest infatuation - someone who actually thinks that he's "a treat" is a part-time drag queen who copy-edits porn. That he lives with his ex-boyfriend, with whom he still has sex - and with whom the Frenemy intends to have sex - seems to pose little trouble for anyone involved.

Of course, my photo shoot frenemy, Joan, is still around. Though we've been (casually) acquainted for years now, and have some friends in common, talk mostly turns to the photo shoot - the people we met there, and the men about whom Joan still has moist dreams.

Maybe it's just the 4 months of captivity talking - or that I have had very little sex this year, but some of those men hold a special place in my crotch as well.
I just speak of it less often.

I am grateful for my family -

I made my first turkey today - a slow-roasted thing, fall-off-the-bone tender, and rather spicy - as I tend to prefer things to be. As I was pulling peanut butter cookies out of the oven, and sliding in sugar cookies, my cousin called. This is the same cousin - now 70 - who wrote me while at the photo shoot, the same cousin who used to say - often - 'love the sinner, hate the sin ...' and who told me, seemingly a thousand years ago, to go away and never come back ... that I had shamed the family being gay.

She told me she was proud of me today - that my cooking, hosting a gathering, taking care of a friend, was proof that I had come a long way from my selfish hedonism, and that the (family) traditions of gathering together and eating too much would not die with her. I know - my father in his middle 80s, and my cousin just turned 70 - that in less time than I expect or desire, things are going to change 'round here. And suddenly, I am part of - or leader of - that next generation of people who take care of other people, who love and provide.

A year ago, that didn't matter to me at all; this year, post-photo shoot and hell, introspection and bull-shit, it means a lot.

The turkey came out fabulously, as did the rest of the meal proper. The cookies came out great, too ... although there was an incident.

In the midst of bending over for brown sugar - which I am sure is a porn title somewhere ... in the midst of bending over for brown sugar, I suffered a blow-out. My abundant thighs overpowered my tight, vintage polyester pants.

I knew they were tight, of course, too tight, really ... but, given that I got them on and was able to both breathe and walk, I did not anticipate that my pants - from crotch to knee - would simply give in (and up). That the suit - a 3-piece suit, with reversible vest, pants, and jacket - with blue and beige plaid print on all three was a bit much (I was one feather-topped hat away from being 'Huggy Bear' - the pimp) means that the blow-out perhaps saved me from myself.

Sometimes, the mirror is your friend; sometimes, it's your enemy ... and sometimes, the mirror says, "C'mon ... I double dog dare you ..."

And speaking of clothes, I am going back to Macy's tomorrow. It's just another day at the races, and it starts at 5AM. I am grateful for my job - short-lived though it may be, and as tomorrow fast approaches, I am counting the rest of my blessings under the sheets.

Mark

So Sayeth the Diva ... So Sayeth the Flock; Get the Flock Outta Here ...

Admitting that I was in rehab is not hard to do; however, it lacks imagination. I received from that experience gifts, insights and growth the likes of which I had not previously known ... and, accordingly, I am apt to do it better justice than referring simply to being "in treatment." At this point, the phrase my best friend, Ellen, employs - "away in Europe ..." touches the very edge of the glamor and grace with which I endeavor to live my life.

So, know that when I speak of the old black man, or go into detail about being censured for the way I walk, or that if I had had sex with a peer it would have been punishable by 2 years in prison ... think not that I was confined to rehab, but that I was at a photo shoot ... with Lindsay Lohan.

While at the shoot, I was reminded of something two decades of reading Vogue emblazoned upon my character - drug addicts are hot ... and lighting can make or break anyone. Though the range of my peers spanned 50+ years - from the 17 year old who followed me around like a talkative puppy to the septuagenarian narcoleptic we thought of as 'the Godfather' - these men had about them each a presence that was determined, defiant, a bit angry and yet kind, gentle in its enforced pacificism and rough around the edges.

The men who spent time in prison posed the most interesting challenge; they were clearly bored with talking about their feelings, tired of being threatened into respecting each other, the guards, the rules ... so, to pass time, they made hypothetical drug deals, waxed poetic about their street cred, and - in the spirit of compassion and open-mindedness, occasionally offered to rape us.

By 'us' I mean the gays. There is an old line of thinking, based on some outdated study or census, that one in every ten men is gay (the 10% rule). Out of 100 men at the photo shoot, only 3 were openly gay. But oh, boy were we open.

My own flame burns bright, and I received a measure of crap as a result. So, I was told to dial it down a few notches with my walk ... and then told again. I was threatened with 'consequences' if I did not respond. I was made to walk before half the facility with my new toned down shuffle, and I was celebrated for getting off the runway. I was reminded by counselors, guards, and even the occasional admin. assistant that I must respect my peers - e.g. no peeking in the shower or random humping of my neighbors. I do not recall any similar admonitions being given to my peers, but perhaps along with hip-swaying comes sexual predation. Note: the 2 actual sexual predators at the shoot, did not sway their hips.

I digress; I received a measure of crap and my counselor - the old black man - labored under the misconception that my problems with drugs and alcohol stemmed from shame over being gay. This is also part of the problem posed by my 'intellectual denial' - of my ongoing choice to see myself as "apart from, rather a part of ..."

And yet, I was a part of ... I was one of three out and proud men, and while we did not shout from the rooftops "We're here, we're queer ... get used to it," neither did we shrink from being bold, fierce, and scandalous.

Beyonce - not her real name - is a tranny. Somewhere between doing it for fun, doing it for always ... and shakin' yo' shimmy on a street corner, the 6'5" drag queen prostitute was just this side of a diva, and - to hear her tell it - not a crack-head, but "crack-ish." From the day he arrived on the set, the scene changed. Beyonce was in the South Dorm, a place known for its rascals - many of them young, Heroin-addicted, and street wise. Rather than violent and reactive, these boys proved curious and easily amused. Some of Beyonce's stories tended toward the risque, but they had one thing in common - they all and in each glorified the diva.

Joan attempted glory. Or self-importance. At times, Joan reminded me of Joan Crawford - languishing and grand, funny and severe; at other times, he reminded me of Joan Collins - dramatic and playful, selfish but generous (so long as it served a not-so-hidden agenda). We bonded over mutual friends - from the bars and high school friends.

Joan was my jail-house ... erh, photo shoot ... frenemy, though not nearly so self-serving as the Frenemy tends to be. I recall seeing Joan right after I had a particularly moving group therapy session. I was still sniffling from the racking sobs I'd let out moments earlier, with my eyes red, swollen, my voice shaky. He saw the signs of my anguish and asked if I was okay, but right after I choked out an "I'm fine ...hard group," Joan continued on about the object of his affection.

"He didn't even look at me. I saw him talking to the other guy last night, and they were all flirty and cute, and he is not even going to talk to me. I am so over it. We're broken up ..." To which I replied, "I thought you were already broken up? When did you start speaking again?"

Joan came into the photo shoot with an agenda - stay busy, keep distracted, and get through the program without fuss, muss, or - most importantly - change. Despite being on a second, or was it third? DWI, Joan was neither open to change nor interested in what the program had to say about that. So, he did what several of us did - he acted as if, and in his down-time, he maintained a crush on one or two carefully selected pieces of eye candy. During treatment (i.e. working) hours, Joan took advantage of a tool that Joan Crawford, and many gay men I know, mastered - the ability to cry ... on-cue. What the old black man and the other dedicated counselors and support staff perceived as break-through (break-down) moments were - for me, Joan, and Beyonce the time to shine.

I do not mean to suggest that I do not still feel something when I talk about the worst, darkest moments of my life ... I feel anguish, sorrow, pathos, and the occasional tear rolls down my cheek; nonetheless, I will never let personal pain and sorrow stand in the way of good cocktail conversation. So, with heavy lids and moist eyes, I look out on those who are willing to listen ... and I sing out, Louise, for all to hear.

Mark