The Lone Liberals

Cheerleaders, high kicks, pom poms, spirited crowds and a 90′s pop soundtrack, which would naturally evoke a couple funky dance moves. These were my high school prep rallies. When the cheerleaders did their enthusiastic claps and asked the question ” Do you have spirit? We have spirit, how about you?” My schoolmates would proclaim, ” We got spirit, yes we do, how about you?”

Everyone would proclaim this sentiment, but me. Although, I appreciated all the Bring it on/ Cheerleading fluff of prep rallies, I didn’t fancy high school much. “This shit is stupid” were my exact sentiments.

In fact, prep rallies were the perfect opportunity to drift into a land of daydreams, where I was free of football jocks, lockers & liturgy days. I attended a Catholic school. During those days, I was the lone liberal. However, one day I met another liberal girl, Grace. She had two moms and we were political twins. Together, we drifted into a world far from the high school norm and both made a point of not getting involved in high school activities.

On one of our many hang out sessions by the art room, she made a stunning announcement. ” I wanna go to prom,” she said. “Wow, really?” I asked, appearing quite dumbfounded. ” Yeah, do you wanna be my prom date?” she asked. As, I shook off the shock; the notion of going to prom intrigued me. I made an art form of avoiding homecoming games and dances, but the novelty behind it could be fun. “Ok,” I replied. She hugged me.

The lone liberals were off to prom. Next step was finding a tuxedo. My mom took me to the tuxedo shop where I rented a Ralph Lauren tux. I got my haircut and was ready to show some school spirit by attending the prom. The next day, I woke up with an unexpected visitor on my face. “Oh no, I have a zit,” I yelled.  It was big, red & located in the middle of my left cheek. Mortified, I went to school, thinking that I would be regarded as the boy with the giant zit for the prom pictures.

Like any good mom my mom decided to keep me away from traumatic life experiences. So, she put a little cover up on my zit. That afternoon with my skin clear and tuxedo looking quite proper, I was ready for prom. Grace’s moms took pictures. After meeting up with friends, we went to prom in a big limo. It was particularly exciting, since I had only ridden a limo during funerals.

The prom was my first high school event. To my shock, I actually had a splendid time.  My cynical self departed that night. The lone liberals danced the night away to tunes of the time. Christina Aguilera, N’Sync and B*Witched provided some of the evening’s soundtrack, while I got a nice buzz from all the free soda pop. Wearing a tux so much that I took a picture with all of my gal pals, just to commemorate the fashionable occasion. It was a rare night free of teenage angst.

After prom, I went back to jaded and un-spirited. I also became the talk of the school, since I was in a majority of the prom photos. Mission accomplished.  Needless to say, it was my last school event. Till this day, I look back fondly at my prom experience.

Indie Boys

Before I grew into the gay male version of Carrie Bradshaw, I was a suburban teenager. I spent considerable time at the mall, ate at hot dog on a stick, shopped for sneakers at Nordstrom’s, walked from my high school to the record shop weekly & spent endless hours at Borders creating wanderlust for exotic places in the travel section. However, the suburban lifestyle wasn’t for me. Therefore, I dreamed of being a gay boy in New York.

For gay boys spending their teenage years in Riverside, there was a glimmer of hope. “Back 2 the grind” was an independent coffee house. It had bands, arty types and gay boys seeking refuge from their more conservative surroundings. It was a wonderful place to meet boys without stepping foot in a loud sweaty club.

One particular night, I picked up my friend Richie. He lived in an old craftsman style house in Riverside. His room was adorned with kitschy posters from virtually every John Waters from Pink Flamingos to Hairspray. We would listen to some funky tunes at his pad, which would get us pumped up for a night out at the coffee shop, listening to bands & looking at cool art.

After listening to some funky folk music, I would drive us down to the coffee shop in Downtown Riverside. I used to ride around in an old Chevy Prizm, which my friends always teased me about. “Oh dude, you’re not gonna get laid in that car,” Was the usual reaction I received from driving the babe mobile. We met up with Richie’s friend.

There he was curly haired, glasses, slight scruff & reading Ezra Pound. Hello Mr. English major! After a night of vulgar jokes and riveting intellectual debate, I made the moves on Mr. English major. While Richie went home early with another friend, I took Mr. English major to the backseat of my car for a make out session.

Whoops, I felt a scratch on my face and then another. His beard was rough and after our little snog session, my skin was red. I looked in the mirror and it appeared that I had just experienced a facial.

“No big deal,” I thought to myself. Then I realized my mom was an insomniac & would probably be up watching the Trinity Broadcasting Network. “Shit!” I said goodnight to Mr. English major and started driving around with the windows open, naively thinking the cold wind would cure my reddish skin.

I have naturally rosy skin, but the irritation was a different shade then my usual pink. Taking the long way home, I knew I would get grilled. As I opened the door to our modest home while mom shook her leg in a frenetic pace. She did this all the time, the nervous leg twitch that is. Every time, I came home she had arms folded. Her body language was saying, “You were up to no good.” I really was up to no good though.

She stared me down as I entered. “Where were you?” she asked. ” The coffee shop talking about the bible,” I replied. ” I just really bull-shited her” was my first thought.

Mom fell for it and went back to watching a praise-a-thon on TBN. She ignored my odd skin tone. When I walked into the bathroom, I noticed something. “Wow, my driving around with the windows down worked.” I didn’t see any redness. My mission was accomplished.

Years later, I grew into a proper New York City boy. My options for places to meet men grew by infinity and beyond. I didn’t have to worry about being a little red in the face after kissing a scruffy boy.

In fact, being red in the face would be a badge of achievement. Before any date my roommate Morgan would yell, “don’t get pregnant” as I walked from our stoop to the subway. While strolling to the subway I though to myself, “If I knew I was gonna be the gay male version of Carrie Bradshaw, I would’ve learned to walk in high heels.”

Winter Awakening

“It’s the business everyone is dying to get into,” says my eccentric uncle in reference to his casket selling business. Growing up, funerals were an unfortunate staple. However, my family had a more laid-back approach to death.

Outings to the cemetery were a less than dreary event. My relatives would lounge in lawn chairs and spend time with our dearly departed relatives. There were never tears, but plenty of good fashioned arguments and laughter always ensued.

The actual funerals were filled with all the pomp & pageantry a Catholic could dream of. My mom and I would always walk into the funeral home. When we spotted the sea of natural redheads by bottle, mom would proclaim, “I see our family is here.” After hours of sitting and looking at our dead but beloved relatives, we had to brace ourselves for the actual funeral, which followed the next morning.

In our family, the staple funeral food was fried chicken and Stouffer’s lasagna. At the day of the funeral/burial everyone looked exhausted. I would look around at all the eyes, which were anguished with boredom. At that moment, I knew what they were thinking ” I hope they have fried chicken after the burial.” Personally, I was hoping for our favorite funeral food too.

After the burial ceremony, nobody wanted to stick around to see the casket go underground. My family was starved, raced out of the cemetery and headed to a relative’s house. We chowed down on that bucket of fried chicken like wild lions in the jungle.

As years passed our funeral staple faded. Catered Mexican and sandwiches were served for wakes. For a long time,  I kept associating fried chicken with our funerals.

It all faded one day. I spent considerable amount of time in Harlem. For me the charming neighborhood is the bright lights of the Apollo theatre, perfectly appointed brownstones, tall NYCHA (the projects) with majestic views of the city and summertime Italian ices.

Sylvia’s soul food is Harlem’s signature restaurant. Judy & I took a foodie field trip there. I ordered the fried chicken and waffles. Soon fried chicken went from funeral food to comfort food delight. Sylvia’s became my favorite place for deep fried poultry. It was also a nice refuge from the icy cold Manhattan sidewalks.

Nowadays, our family serves fried chicken at Christmas parties. Therefore, it’s a celebratory food for both our soul and senses. I haven’t made it up to Sylvia’s in a while, but still crave their fried chicken and waffles with a side of grits.

 

 

Twink Meet Bear

I used to be a twink (skinny hairless gay guy), but the inner bear in me wanted to come out and play. Like any gay boy living in New York City, I walked everywhere while eating pizza, hot dogs and cheesecake.

At the time, I had a speedy metabolism. Therefore, I could have that second helping of Italian food. However, there was someone inside of me begging to come out, my inner bear (hairy, slightly meaty guy with facial hair).

I moved to California and my inner bear finally made his grand appearance. I gained some lbs, but still delighted in all the foods I enjoyed in New York along with a vast selection of taco trucks. After a while, I let my beard grow and became an authentic bear.

It was a nice rebellion to the mainstream ideas of male beauty. I was scruffy, yet reveled in my body type. While walking along the sidewalks of New York with some love handles to call my own, it dawned on me. The same guys, who liked me skinny, also love me with some meat.

There is too much emphasis on body image. As the old cliché goes, looks fade, smart is forever. I came to realize that. In my world, I still rock the cardigans and ties. I also still love food and good whisky. Sorry, leaves are for rabbits, give me steak and potatoes any day.

Family Portrait

Gay marriage is illegal in most states. Yet, for those not aware, my people (the gays) throw one lavish shindig. Decadent cakes, fashionable bridesmaid dresses and of course, a DJ spinning every possible Madonna song.

I’ll admit to having a more cynical view on getting married. However, the fantasy of marrying a guy has not been a foreign concept. I imagine our wedding on a spectacular rooftop in the Village. He has curly hair, glasses and puts an artsy twist to his suit. While, most couples opt for more traditional attire. Everyone in my wedding would wear cardigans.

Afterwards, the hubby and I would settle into a beautiful Park Slope, Brooklyn brownstone. We would throw lavish dinner parties and grab gelato while walking along the neighborhood’s main drag Fifth Avenue.

We would then adopt culturally diverse set of children. They would all wear Lacoste sweaters and enjoy the same cultural activities that my hubby and I adore. Then it hit me. Oh, I remember when I was a kid.

Then the trauma emerges boogers, poop, and unspecified germs from the sandbox, private school tuition, crying, running around, stuffed animals thrown everywhere and countless hours of cheesy cartoon theme songs. Maybe, I will stay single for a long time?

Luckily, if I wanted both the ideal and not so ideal family life, gay marriage is legal in New York. I didn’t grow up in a gay home. In fact, I had a very traditional American upbringing. I do have a bevy of gay relatives making the case for genetics.

I didn’t have exposure to gay nuclear families, till I was in high school. My friend Grace had two moms and attended a Catholic school. We bonded right away. One day, she invited me over to help with organizing her room. She goes “we can play with my easy bake oven afterwards.” I tried holding back my excitement and agreed.

Up to that point, religion said gay families were bad. However, I had already come out of the closet and wanted to experience what gay families were really like. At that time, we lived in Riverside, CA. The suburb has a lovely neighborhood called the “Wood Streets.” It’s a historic district, where styles from Spanish to Craftsman merge in a beautiful architectural marriage.

My mom dropped me off. I didn’t tell her about Grace’s two moms, but certain she had an idea. They lived in an old house. I entered to one of her moms greeting me warmly at the door then showing me Grace’s room.

As expected, Grace’s room made mine (already messy room) look like an organized/OCD person’s wet dream. We shifted through toys, books and clothes. Afterwards, we both looked incredibly fatigued. We then spent time with her mom’s.

Unlike most religious fanatics who claim a gay family’s household is evil and has fire-breathing dragons living in the basement, Grace’s household was the complete opposite. Her moms were warm and friendly. We watched TV together, talked and found that we both had a common fascination with all things British.

They also had a huge book collection. I loved it. They had travel, literary classics and art books. It was a simply peaceful environment. I heard a car horn and it was mom. After saying my goodbyes, I headed toward the car. My mom who was very conservative looked at me and said “I get a really good vibe from Grace’s house.”  ”You’re right,” I said with a smile.

My mom came to accept my gayness more as I grew older. She even attended my aunts’ mostly lesbian dominated Christmas party and had a great time. Growing up gay is never easy, but knowing that I have the right to live my life freely is absolutely priceless.

Astor Place

“I’m frizzed out,” says my hair in the summer. New York summers always meant one thing, hair drama. Therefore, when I needed to snip my luscious curls I headed to Astor Place.

It’s symbolized by a big black cube, which separates the East Village from Greenwich Village. It welcomes everyone as they step off the 6 train. There’s the normal mix of corporate businesses, NYU and independent establishments.

For me, it was the site of many wonderful haircuts. The Astor Place barbershop is the underground route for a snip and shampoo. It feels like the old East Village, grungy, alternative and filled with character. For about 20 bucks, a very experienced barber (who’s of course, seen it all) gives you a proper haircut.

It was my favorite hair salon in the city. Moving to California meant, no more cool Downtown barbershops. Instead, I did the unthinkable going to a discounted hair salon. One sunny afternoon, I had the wonderful luck of having a hairdresser who just came back from happy hour.

At first, I thought the haircut looked swell. A day later, I was prepping for work, when I noticed all my sides were uneven. “Oh no, I look silly.” Worst of all, I was off to Santa Barbara’s French Festival for the weekend with Nicole. I tried not to let a bad haircut damper my spirits. However, I kept obsessing over it on the drive up to the coast.

” You look fine, stop obsessing,” said Nicole. Self-consciousness took over. We arrived at the French Festival. For the Franco-phile (someone in love with all things France), it was macaroon wishes and cafe au lait dreams. Traditional French music played, champagne flowed freely, poodles paraded and baguettes were objects of desire.

I couldn’t stop thinking about my hair. We then passed a beret stand. Nicole insisted I get a beret. It then hit me; the beret would cover up my silly haircut. I let me inner Frenchman run free and wore a beret throughout our weekend trip to Santa Barbara. Surprisingly, it fit me well.

When I returned home, I went to the fancy people hair salon. I removed the beret, my hairdresser looked at the awful haircut and gasped. ” I’ll fix it, but it’s gonna take a while to look normal again.” She did a swell job making me look somewhat fabulous.

Eventually my hair went back to normal. From then on, I always reminded my hairdressers to make sure the sides are even. I also find out if they just came back from happy hour. I’m moving back to New York soon, which means more fun times at the Astor Place barbershop.

The Gay Boy’s Birthday

What do you get a gay boy for his birthday? For those in the know, it’s easy. Something glittery (we like sparkly things), anything Madonna oriented (please hold the swept away DVD) and a gift certificate for Bloomingdales.

I’ve had many memorable birthday parties. During elementary school, my mom would show up to the class with pizza and cupcakes. Everyone sang me Happy Birthday as my cheeks turned bright red. My parents would then take me to the local mall to buy action figures.

As a teenager, birthdays were equally memorable. While I was living in Riverside, CA, my friend Elizabeth picked me up from school. It was a grey autumn afternoon, but her brightly colored present lit up the horizon with pink and electric blue. The new Madonna CD, I couldn’t have been more delighted. My mom banned Madonna’s music from the house.

However, when she was out n’ about, I would listen to her music. Not only, did Elizabeth buy me a CD by my favorite singer, she also invited me to Simple Simon’s. It’s a sandwich shop in Downtown Riverside, which is one of the finest in the country (in my humble opinion).

My most memorable birthday as twenty-something happened one rainy Manhattan day. I decided to have a field trip in my favorite New York neighborhoods. It started with an early morning stroll in Nolita, followed by a cappuccino, independent bookstore madness and more java via the Village coffee house culture.

During that time, I worked in politics. So on one of our breaks from campaigning, my co-worker invited me to coffee and a vegan chocolate cake in the East Village. I still remember how delicious it tasted, even though the vegan title scares me just a bit.

Feeling stuffed on cake and an endless supply of coffee, I returned to our office on 40th and Sixth Avenue. “Surprise!” everyone yelled. They brought out a gorgeous chocolate cake (not vegan this time) from a bakery on the Upper West Side.

There we were enjoying cake and having excellent conversations, when one of my co-workers suggested a daring idea. “Anthony, you need to stuff your face into the cake and take a picture.” I really loved my outfit that day, so I politely declined. Then everyone chimed in ” c’mon!” I caved in and lightly covered my face in chocolate cake.

” That doesn’t count,” they yelled. I looked nervously at the cake. It never dawned on me that chocolate cake could give me a bit of anxiety. Motivation promptly arrived. Somebody yelled “Anthony just pretend it’s a man.”

Mission accomplished, I smashed that chocolate cake in my face. My co-worker was kind enough to take a picture and send it to my dad. He text messaged me and said, ” tell your friends thank you for the birthday cake.” The outfit survived.

Later that night, we all hit a gay karaoke bar. I sang Jay-Z. It was funny; I can’t free-style to save my life. Luckily, my martini got me through the performance. The gays gave me praise and even bought me a birthday drink.

Booze, cupcakes and wonderful friends have made my birthdays memorable. I haven’t had a lavish birthday with elephants and jet set trips to exotic destinations. However, being around my loved ones is the best present of all.

My Jogging Shoes

When I would come to visit my dad in California he would take me shopping. He knew I was on a tight budget in New York and bought me shoes to walk around the Village comfortably.

Like any proper New Yorker, my dressy outfit came equipped with a pair of jogging shoes. I walked an average of eighty blocks a day and sometimes went crosstown twice a day.

Therefore, wearing dress shoes was unheard of. Regardless of convention I paraded up the concrete canyons of Midtown in my worn out Nikes. When I arrived at the office, the more dressy Kenneth Cole loafers were placed on my tootsies and the Nikes hibernated in my messenger bag.

Recently, I was on the Upper West Side on Yon Kippur. It was lovely seeing all the Jewish families walking along Columbus Avenue going to synagogue. They were beautifully dressed and wearing sneakers. It reminded me of why I love New York. In a city that is dressy, you can still travel in comfort.

My favorite sneakers of all time were my shiny black Creative Recreation sneakers. I wore them around in London. They joined the Sloane Rangers (blond rich girls who hang out in Chelsea) on Kings Road, took strolls along the canals of Camden and had a cardio vascular workout on the tube’s maze of escalators.

Some shoes are too cute not to wear everywhere. Therefore, even though they didn’t have the comfort of old jogging shoes, they were shinny and pretty. Us, gay folk love shiny things.

I love the looks I get when I wear my sneakers with a proper outfit. While, some my point their noses far up the air, I’m rebelling against the system.

Either way, I don’t ever use jogging sneakers for running. The only time that would happen is as follows: if someone placed a hot pastrami sandwich on a stick and had me chasing after it.

The Perks Of Being A Film Snob

One fine winter’s day, I received my fifth grade report card. It was a spectacular one. I didn’t particularly love math and science (still don’t, yawn), but survived with a C. My parents were so proud that they decided to reward. They took me to the record store, where I bought Green Day’s “Dookie” album. Then they offered to take me to the movies.

I kept seeing previews and reading about Pulp Fiction. It looked beyond interesting. Of course, my parents were oblivious to movies, especially those with blood, guts and the words fuck + shit being uttered after every declarative sentence. Therefore, I told my folks, let’s go see Pulp Fiction.  ” John Travolta is in it,” I told my mom. She replied ” Oh I loved him in Saturday Night Fever.”

We arrived at the movies; I was sitting in between both parents. From the get go, Pulp Fiction started off with “fuck, shit, fuck.” It was followed by violence and then the opening theme song ” Miserlou” by Dick Dale. Both mom and dad starred me down. They feared I was enjoying the profanity and violence a bit too much. I just smiled nervously.

Then came the famous dance sequence with John Travolta and Uma Thurman. They calmed down a bit, until the drug overdose scene came on. That was followed by another stare down. More gun violence, cars running people over and strong sexual scenes made up the remainder of the Quentin Tarantino classic.

My parents walked out in shock. I tried to hold back my gleeful interior. Wow, that was some movie I told them. Thank you for my good report card present. They just nodded. We drove home. That very night, I decided I wanted to grow up and become a film major. Pulp Fiction also set a standard of high film achievement in my book. I never saw films the same.

Pre-film school years, I found myself quite attracted to independent, low budget and foreign films. Trainspotting, Kids, Last Days of Disco, Velvet Goldmine, Virgin Suicides and Metropolitan helped shape my love of excellent story lines and character based films. It was a stark contrast to the big budgeted blockbusters, which I saw more as appealing to the masses.

In film school, they wanted us to write those mainstream blockbusters. I opted for indie style films. In the tradition of Pedro Almodovar meets Wes Anderson, my characters were dark and quirky. They wrestled with mental disorders, coming out of the closet and getting their brains zapped. It didn’t fly in film school, but I enjoyed writing them.

After graduating with a BA in film, I did the quintessential office jobs in New York. However, I still found solace in the dark and chilly movie theatre. One of my favorite holiday memories in Manhattan revolved around the Sunshine Cinema in the Lower East Side.

I went there one Thanksgiving with Natalia. We watched a Pedro Almodovar flick with a gaggle of East Village/LES hip people dressed in all black. It was not only fun people watching, but it reminded me why I studied film. It brings people together and is another very effective tool of storytelling.

After walking onto Houston Street after watching the great film, I felt energized. It reminded me of the good old days in film school after we watched classics like Network and the Graduate.

I opted to pursue a career in copywriting as opposed to screenwriting. However, I learned a great deal about character development in film school, which in turn helped with the storytelling process through ad campaigns.

Not to say, all mainstream films are bad. The Addams Family, Bring it on and Legally Blonde are a couple films, which I love to watch. I do enjoy and appreciate the lack of special effects in indie films. The genre also tends to be more centered on a character driven premise. Thanks to my parents who surprisingly sat through all of Pulp Fiction and didn’t make me walk out.

Gay Christmas

My mom wanted to turn life from the Nightmare Before Christmas to Pollyanna. Growing up, she embraced Halloween. I wore the same silly pirate costume every year. Episodes of the Munsters and Adams Family would play on the TV, while M&M’s, Snickers and Salt water taffy were consumed.

When my mom went through her conservative religious phase in life, the first holiday to be banned was Halloween. Naturally, I led a revolt. It’s gay Christmas and the one holiday where the manliest man can dress like Barbara Streisand and still be the football team’s quarterback.

I declined attending her church’s Hallelujah night. It was the church’s religious alternative. Give me drag queens, space aliens, goblins and witches over family friendly fun any day.

Halloween was always avoided in our house. Each Halloween my mom would turn off the lights, duck and cover, when she saw tricker treaters coming to our doorbell. Halloween fell close to my birthday. Therefore, more attention was placed on birthday dinners rather than turning my apartment into the set of a Tim Burton film. One year, I grew curious about having an authentic Halloween celebration.

While, I rode the subway that Halloween night, I noticed everybody dressed up. There were big fluffy bunnies, superheroes and even a few hoochie mamas. Oh everyone looked like they were having a blast. I was not dressed up, but thought it would be great fun to partake in the Village’s Halloween celebrations.

When I stepped off the subway at Union Square, the place was hopping with all kinds of extraterrestrial characters. I walked up 14th street and the people traffic was intense. However, I pressed on and found myself stuck in the worse people traffic ever experienced in New York.

In the background, I could hear my mom scolding me ” I told you Halloween was the devil’s holiday.” I had to ignore her whining voice. New York is my town and I know how to maneuver through any sort of difficult people traffic.

Unfortunately not that time, I kept getting stuck in random dark corners. Worst of all, I looked silly not being dressed up. It took me hours to survive the intense crowds. When I reached the Flat Iron building, it was the equivalent of Hansel and Gretel escaping their stepmom’s burning oven. I ran toward the N train’s 23rd street station and didn’t look back.

The next year, I avoided the West Village and hung out in the East Village. I bought some coffee and read the paper on Halloween night. My mom would probably be thrilled.

However, after moving back to California, I finally dressed up for Halloween again. It was the first time in years. I don’t leave the house unless my outfit is quite proper and dressy. That day, I showed up to work wearing sweats and a t-shirt. I dressed as a type B personality. Nobody got it. Regardless, it was the perfect excuse to come to work comfy.

Gay Christmas, also known as Halloween isn’t about the devil. It’s about creativity, outlandishness and expressing our inner artists through costumes. Us gays love it since we can be as campy and theatrical as we want (ok, that’s an everyday occurrence). Whether, we want to look like something out of a Tim Burton film or a ballerina, Halloween says go ahead, be weird. Being Weird is fucking great.

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