I just got home from my boss's fund-raiser gala called "Live Out Loud," a yearly event that recognizes young gay and lesbian achievers, and awards scholarships to these deserving students. It was held at the Chelsea Art Museum, and my other boss took care of everyone's tickets (whew!).
I used to go to events left and right back when I was beauty ed, and these days, the chance to mingle and attend these fun gatherings are truly a treat. And I have more fun than ever because they don't come as often and they're no longer taken for granted.
My train ride home was a happy, steady buzz, thanks to two glasses of Chardonnay, cute little hors'd ouvres, and tiny slivers of lemon cream cake. I was this close to hop-scotching my way home, enjoying the music on my Shuffle, unsuccessfully trying to stifle the urge to sing along to Bill Medley and Jennifer Warns's "Time of My Life" (from the movie, Dirty Dancing).
I thought to myself: Dating, crushes, and relationships aside—this, is me.
THIS is where I'm supposed to be.
And I am definitely enjoying and excited for this adventure that is Manhattan.
"Just remember... You're the one thing I can't get enough of So I'll tell you something This could be love Because I've had the time of my life No I never felt this way before..."
(from left to right: moi, Kim, Melissa, Louie, Sandy, and Dave)
Why is it that gay men seem to exude style and chic-ness effortlessly, whether it's cuisine, clothing, or something as mundane as a (designer) corkscrew?
My gay "parents" Dave and Louie recently invited me to a semi-housewarming at their lovely new apartment in Astoria. I'd been forewarned that the place "was not yet ready" and that they "have not fully unpacked."
I'd expected boxes and dusty furniture to greet me at the doorway but instead I was met with soft, plush carpeting, high-priced home accoutrements and sleek electronics. I oohed and ahhed in between mouthfuls of salmon and cream cheese canapes and a modest (but tasty) spread of exotic soft cheeses, assembled in the cute corner kitchen.
Bottles of red and white wine fueled this relaxing get-together of mostly *girls* and by midnight everybody had reached a giddy buzz. Louie then opened the zebra-print chest (that currently doubles as the living room's low table) and unearthed his grandmother's vintage fur(!) collection—and everyone got camera-ready as you can see!
Somewhere between fur fittings and a viewing of Cutting Edge ("We're doing the Pam-chengco!") the couple nicknamed me 'Fagnet'—a classier(?) take on the fag hag.
I really don't mind. These days I am seriously getting an incredibly thorough glimpse of Manhattan's *gay* scene, and I feel like a queen floating around in the requisite Cher bob/wig. Last Friday Dave took me to see Little Mermaid on Broadway and I got a taste of not one, but two Midtown and Chelsea hotspots in one night, also thanks to Joseph Aloysius, my friend's va-va-voom brother.
Despite the initial culture-shock (heterosexual couples doing PDA already make me uncomfortable, what more two guys in liplock?) I found a certain lightheartedness and fun hanging out with the inherently stylish gender. "Just don't date them," my boss warned.
Well, the premise that they are not exactly date-able creates a happy buffer that makes life easier, and much, much fun :)
But no, I'm not gonna start saying "Charing!" just yet. I'll leave that to the true-blue hags ;)
My NY "parents" Dave and Louie—aren't they gorgeous?
"One, two, three...fur. Tell me what you're looking fur."
Ahh... The joy of something you've waited for coming to fruition :)
"It's nice out" indeed!
April 14, 2008
I know I've posted 10,000 versions of this picture and blogged about it one time too many. I just can't seem to get enough of this view from the Mother Ship! Today, the sky is a soothing blue, casting the most serene backdrop for little clusters of white fluffy clouds, sparsely thrown into the mix for contrast. These buildings stand robust and tall, as if saluting—and welcoming—the beautiful spring season ahead. And at last, my storm has passed :)
As you know I'd spent Friday night watching the Goo Goo Dolls Live in Buffalo concert dvd (a recording of their July 4, 2004 homecoming gig). Many articles and reviews have been written marveling at the band's seamless performance and professionalism— considering the unexpected DOWNPOUR smack in the middle of the show. Johnny Rzeznik's perfectly tousled tresses instantly transformed into a soggy mop of rockstar locks—still cute in my opinion, in a way only someone famous could pull off.
Thoughts of electrocution came to mind, followed by envy for those who'd witnessed the musical spectacle (and yes, Rzeznik's sexy crooning, flirty gazes, biceps and all). Among several favorite scenes and songs, one worth noting is the part where Rzeznik peels off his drenched black tank, wrings it, and flings it to the crowd. Cut to the next scene, he is singing "Acoustic #3" while the rest of the set is now covered in plastic. Bassist Robby Takac joins him in "Broadway," and you get shivers down your spine as you watch stagehands frantically uncover the drum set, and drummer Mike Malinin enters in PERFECT CUE right after:
"...see the young man sleeping in the old man's bar/ Waiting for his turn to die..."
And the band—plus the crowd that stayed put and braved the storm—roars back to life! *SIGH*
Speaking of percussionists with awesome musical timing, I read an interview of Dave Grohl from the Foo Fighters a while back. Apparently, he had been a drummer prior to becoming band leader, and he still thinks of himself as a drummer at heart. To paraphrase, he said something about how cool it is being the drummer because all the psycho girls go for the lead vocalist, and the decent ones go for the other band members. Cute. Click here for a tongue-in-cheek, funny interview of Malinin—who runs ultra marathons when he's not touring with the band—and see clearly how the people at the back really don't mind being un-cool, and therefore become the real cool ones by default.
As I watched the rain pour in the video, and see clearly how the band was totally performing in their element, literally and figuratively immersed in the moment, I got reminded of a particular 'rainy run' from back in college, at the height of my sportclimbing days. I was on strict curfew and only had a few hours after school to swing by the climbing gym, and squeeze in a workout with friends (in the guise of a late afternoon "class").
We usually drove to U.P., parked the car where the mountaineers hung out, and did the whole route along the campus outskirts. On one particular day—this I remember distinctly because I wrote about it in my journal, back when blogging was still unheard of, if not non-existent—in the middle of the run, it started raining: nothing like a dainty drizzle, but fat, globs of water loudly splattering on the pavement. And instead of halting, we all savored the cooling drops on our tired muscles and sweaty backs [hydro-massage anyone?]. Perhaps it was the adrenalin rush, we all ended up running back to the climbing gym, as we were way too soaked to hop back in the car. I still remember the feeling: the excitement, the light-heartedness, the euphoric spring in our step, which I relished as I rushed to make it home on time.
Going back to the Goo Goo Dolls, "Iris" was on heavy rotation that year. It was 1998, I was 18, oblivious to rest of the world, naive. Back then it was all about simple pleasures, good coffee, good music, enlightening conversations, conquering cliffs, surf trips, classes. There was no career to worry about, no beauty desks, no New York plans, and definitely no London dreams.
One day I'll put on my running shoes again, and try to recapture that wonderful familiar feeling.
I honestly believe that many a friendship are forged over huge glasses of wine, hunks of good cheese, and fat slices of chocolate cake. I met up with a friend last Wednesday at this quaint, wine and cheese place tucked in a street midtown, just a few blocks from work. NH left an incredibly thriving modelling career in Manila to study fashion design at Parsons.
When it comes to Manhattan hotspots, I gravitate towards the quiet, quaint, and fabulous; or the incredibly obscure and anti-social—like the small tavern where a friend bartends on the Lower East Side: a true-blue dive with the requisite dim incandescent bulb over the beat-up pool table, vintage jukebox, and a cash register that paints a picture of 19th century Manhattan in your head.
On the flipside, when a place gets too packed (and trendy) that it requires one to adjust to a few decibels louder when conversing and to battle beefy—and very snooty— bouncers: Count. Me. Out.
Fortunately Casellula rose up to the challenge of being 'quaint and fabulous' without being pretentious, serving up honest-to-goodness topnotch wine, authentic French cheese, and freshly-baked dessert in an ambient neighborhood setting. NH and I conversed like long-lost friends, sharing tidbits and tirades from a life left behind, over gourmet grilled cheese, olives, and sweet pairings. And before we knew it it was already past 1am, and the temperature had dropped to the 30s (on a day I'd chosen to wear an airy spring dress).
I'm not sure if this slight brush with hypothermia is what's causing me to feel under-the-weather at the moment, like the early stages of flu where one's throat is scratchy and knees feel wobbly. I'll try to sleep it off but will close this entry pondering whether in life, if it truly is possible to have your cake (drizzled with fresh cream) and eat it too?
No, I didn't catch another movie alone in Times Square, that was getting to be too depressing. The watching-alone part was okay, but the no-one-to-talk-to-after-the-movie bit was insufferable—the silence was deafening and only made coping with this long-distance relationship, worse.
My weekend salve, this time, came in the form of a last-minute trip to Border's and an equally impulsive purchase of The Goo Goo Dolls Live in Buffalo concert dvd (a.k.a. that famous rainy gig) and the Marie Antoinette soundtrack (loved Sofia Coppola's Lost In Translation OST so this should be good. But I haven't seen "Let them eat cake" yet.) To justify this sort of shopping 'spree', I had to skip Friday night cocktails with friends. (Does that officially make me a loser?)
Oh, but I didn't exactly forego some form of libation: As I am nursing this almost-flu, I intend to drink as much orange juice until it comes out of my ears. At the office I downed Tropicana from cute little cartons—this weekend's version is a bigger box spiked with Absolut Apeach.
With Cara and her friend, Chris.
