I am endlessly fascinated by the most random of things. Like a baby hypnotized by a set of dangling car keys, I seem to be mesmerized by odd and often overlooked occurrences. Last summer, when visiting the Berlin Wall, I spent most of my time watching a brown shaggy dog sit at the foot of his owner on a park bench. I am known to do such things. I have eaten at five star restaurants and my only opinion walking away is not one of the food or the service, but of the lighting in the restroom. Once, while at a party packed full of beautiful gay men, me and a friend of mine with a similar take on life were spotted in the corner under the spell of a particularly interesting aluminum garbage can.
Maybe it's the writer in me that draws me to the details. Maybe, as a therapist once told me, it's the self-conscious feeling that I belong on the side lines, so I can't help but notice the smaller things off in the distance. Maybe (and this is the more probable reason) I am simply not as smart as I think I am and as a simpleton I gravitate towards the miniscule things that no one else sees, like empty cardboard boxes, matches, or a particularly overweight cat.
A very recent fascination of mine is one that exists all around us, but only those with an eye for things happening under the radar will notice it. It's that of the breakdown, the mental collapse of a perfectly sane individual right out in the open. It's happening all around us, but unless you've got the eye to spot one, the odds are stacked against you that you won't even notice it. Like a skilled hunter who can spot a quail a hundred yards away, I see them all around me. They happen in the cars next to us in traffic, in airport bathrooms, and in elevators. People momentarily lose their sh*t in public all the time.
Recently I was talking to a friend of mine over instant messaging. We were both at work, unproductively chatting the morning away as we often do, when he confessed to me that he had cried that morning on the train. Dealing with a lot in his personal life, I wasn't surprised that everything had finally come to fruition. But I was fascinated that it happened when it did, in front of God and everybody, during rush hour on the Red Line heading downtown. And last week, another friend of mine and I were also instant messaging during work hours, when she broke down. We had been analyzing a very distant crush of hers, your atypical aloof twenty something single straight guy, when she compared him to her habit of cigarette smoking. "I know he's bad for me," she typed, "but I don't know how to stop." After I drew further comparisons from the analogy, that the guy was something she does out of boredom and that he was something she knew she did now but would not be doing her entire life, she let me know that she was now sitting at work in tears. And again, I was drawn to that moment when otherwise normal adults allow their emotions to collapse on top of them, leaving them a crumpled pathetic heap in the fetal position on the floor.
I am the master of the breakdown. Once in college, I had to get up and leave a class because, as the teacher rambled on about Literary Theory, my thoughts roamed far off towards something apparently upsetting, and the next thing I knew tears were running down my face. What felt like the end of the world to me went unnoticed. I returned to class with no one the wiser that I had just openly wept in front of a room full of strangers. Breakdowns were part of my daily routine when I first moved to Chicago. I didn't know a soul, was dirt poor, and I perpetually entertained the idea that the boy who had broken my heart back home in Memphis, the one I had moved to Chicago to get away from, would show up outside my door begging me to come back. Needless to say, that didn't happen, and the breakdowns were sneaky and quick, like a cobra, and I'd find myself in line at the grocery store, or in a bar, when the overpowering need to cry would wash over me.
When one sweeps down on top of you, it may feel as if the entire world is watching you. But the public breakdown is not often noticed in the shadow of bigger things going on around it. As one sweeps down on top of you, it may feel as if the entire world is judging you, but odds are that something else is going on around you that is holding everyone's attention, like the Berlin Wall. But someone like me will notice, partly because I pay unnecessary attention to even the slightest points of interest, but probably mostly because I am certifiably crazy. When I see people in public fighting back their tears (and believe me, they are everywhere), I find myself pulled into what I think might be their situation. Is it that their heart is broken? Are they scared? Or did they wake up that morning to the cold reality that life for them would never be more than it was that day, or the day before?
The devil's in the details. And the reasons why we are who we are lie in the fine print. Nothing is what it seems to be. There's always more underneath the surface. So don't feel ashamed or weak if the weight of your problems finally knocks you down and you just so happen to be in public. Trust me. You won't be the first person to do it, and you certainly won't be the last. And the odds are that no one will even notice. Except maybe me...
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Stipe, Soup, and Manolos
Michael Stipe, the ambiguously gay lead singer of REM, spent almost twenty years refusing to identify his sexuality to curious fans and reporters. In 1994, Stipe said in an interview that he didn't believe in labeling humans, that "labels are for soup cans." He eventually came out of the closet, and much like the news reports when Clay Aiken and Lance Bass came out, the revelation was about as shocking as learning that Christmas is in December.
It's ironic to me to consider that such an observation concerning human sexuality came from a gay guy. Gay guys love and adore labels and very rarely do we refuse to acknowledge them. Aside from our obvious affection towards designer fashion labels, gay men can label one another within millions of classifications and sub-categories. We can be twinks, bears, daddies, jocks, art house gays, retail queens, bar trash, bottoms, tops, self-hating, on the down low, activist gays, queeny, or butch. We can be a Garland Gay (aged 60+), a Streisand Gay (aged 40 - 59), a Madonna / Cher Gay (aged 25 - 39), or a Britney Gay (aged 25 and under). We can be the type of gay guy that likes to go camping (the lesbian gay) or we can be the type of gay guy that likes to vacation in urban cities with large gay populations (the normal gay). So, in my opinion, when Michael Stipe made his famous soup can label comment, he must've been in the throws of a full-on debilitating case of denial towards his own homosexuality. No gay man in his right mind would ever suggest that we as a group NOT label one another. Like being self-centered and witty, labeling things just comes naturally to us.
A particular labeling fondness of the gay guy is to relate themselves and their friends to the characters of very gay friendly shows like "The Golden Girls," "Will and Grace," or "Sex and the City." Both shows were mainstream successes, enjoyed by straight women everywhere and even a few ashamed heterosexual men. But given that all three shows were written primarily by gay men, the themes throughout each and the basic qualities of their main characters are things that gay guys often directly identify with. Not once since "The Golden Girls" began airing in 1985 has a group of gay guy friends NOT sat around and debated on which one among them was the Blanche (the self-centered slut), or the Dorothy (the cynical intellectual), or the Rose (the naive but kind idiot), or the Sophia (the caregiver). You can take quizzes online to determine if you're the Will or the Grace or the Jack or the Karen. And every group of gay friends on EARTH has had a conversation over Cosmopolitans as to who among them is the Samantha, the Charlotte, the Miranda, or the Carrie.
Two weeks ago I set out on the drive from Chicago to Memphis, heading home for the holidays. Thanks to a craptastic winter storm, what was supposed to be an eight hour drive turned into a two day journey, meaning that I had A LOT of time to think about my life and further dissect the typical thoughts and observations that we all experience around Christmas and the New Year. I have found myself recently in a romantic situation that is foreign to me. As anyone who spares the ten minutes to read this blog every few weeks clearly knows, I have been through just about every relationship quandary you can think of. I have dated people out of boredom. I have been pity f*cked. I've been dumped via a Facebook Relationship Status Change. I have dated more than one guy at a time. I've been mad, sad, elated, selfish, hopeful. You name it and I've been there, on either side of the coin. But lately I've been treading new territory. I am spending a great deal of time with someone who makes me feel like wearing a ballerina outfit as a bus drives by with my picture on it and splashes water all over me. I am starting to hear myself speak in a voiceover, saying things like, "Meanwhile, across town," and, "It suddenly occurred to me." Well, it suddenly occurred to me, sitting in my car somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis (after having crept slowly down an icy interstate for almost six hours), that I was Carrie Bradshaw, enamored and confused by my own Mr. Big. Da da da da. Da da. Da da da da da! Let's do brunch with the girls!
I could trump a room full of a million gay guys who would label themselves as a Carrie with my current situation. All of the key elements are present. I am hanging out with an older successful gentleman (after almost three months, we are not yet allowed to call it dating). I'm artistic, care-free, in my early thirties. He's established, handsome, driven, in his early forties, the target of many boys younger and cuter than me. He's comfortable moving at a snail's pace, in no hurry to jump into another relationship that will more likely than not end with someone getting very hurt. Although slightly jaded, I am still a relationship idealist. I believe that there's still a chance for me with someone. He doesn't care if I date anyone else. Our time together is generally spent with us alone, so my friends know very little about him. And what slight information I give them consists mostly of my confused ramblings about what he wants, what I want, and our inconsistency with how we treat one another leaves my friends with a less than favorable opinion of a man they barely know. When I try to explain to my friends what I'm doing with him (which is basically impossible because I don't know), they stare at me with concerned looks on their faces. All that is missing from this "Sex and the City" playbook is shopping for shoes, the New York skyline, and cute (although ridiculous) puns.
Like Carrie towards her Mr. Big, I find myself uber-emotional around my Mr. Big. I think I want him to want me, but when something happens that gets us closer to that point I start drifting away. Would it be easier with someone else? Is there a furniture designer or a writer out there that I should be dating instead? Will he dump me and marry someone prettier and younger than me? Will I meet an older Russian artist and move to Paris? Or, like what happens to Carrie in the movie, will he leave me at the alter? Will he come back? Could I ever be happy with him? Will asking myself all these f*cking questions eventually drive me crazy?
Before I moved to Chicago, I studied "Sex and the City" with intensity. Sure, those ladies never seemed to get it right until the very end of the series, but didn't they look great? And didn't it seem like they were having fun despite all of their relationship shortcomings? My friend John who lives in New York is working on a book about how the popularity of shows like "Sex and the City" were inspiring people, particularly gay guys and single women, to haul ass to large cities like New York and Chicago. I guess I was like that. I wanted so badly to walk amongst the crowds in a busy city street, to have party invitations coming out of my ass, to date constantly, to f*ck everything that walked, to meet up with my stylish, fun, smart friends once a week and wax philosophically on our sophisticated lives in the big city. And I guess that happened, that I got what I wanted in regards to that, but that life, that lack of something solid beyond your friendships to lean on, got old for Carrie and the girls after six seasons. 2009 marks my sixth year in Chicago.
I love Michael Stipe. He was, in all honesty, the first male celebrity I was ever attracted to. He was by no means nothing to look at, but when I was sixteen years old I was so impressed and moved by his brilliance with words and the way he flaunted being misunderstood by society as opposed to being ashamed of it. That really turned me on at a point in my life when I felt like everyone in the world could see right through me. I remember looking at the picture of him shirtless, in water, in the lyrics insert of REM's "Automatic for the People" CD. He moved me to the point that I had re-occurring dreams of him throughout college, dreams that generally consisted of he and I being married. I used to touch myself inappropriately if I was alone when the video for "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" came on MTV. My point is that I took his soup can observation to heart. I took all of his observations and actions to heart. Stipe made me proud to be a liberal Democrat in Mississippi. Stipe made me proud of my own opinions and proud to express them. It wasn't until my late twenties, well after REM had fallen out of fashion, that I realized that labels are not, as he'd proposed, meant solely for soup cans. Labels CAN be applied to people. And sometimes they should. Because once you're able to solidly identify someone as something, it helps you in maneuvering your behavior around them.
So what if I am a Carrie Bradshaw? I think that's a label I'm comfortable with. Carrie never once strayed from the idea of what she wanted out of a relationship. She wanted safety and comfort and humor and honesty and friendship and sexual compatability. Although it took Mr. Big six years to figure out that he wanted the same things, Carrie never stopped moving. She kept her eye on the prize, so to speak. And the prize was not a man. The prize was her being happy.
My apologies to Mr. Stipe. I still love him (although he's aged so horribly). But I'm fine with being tagged yet another label at 33 years old. I'm a Carrie. And that's quite the badge of honor. Carrie never waited on a Mr. Big to make her happy, and I won't either. It wasn't until Carrie fully believed in her own ability to fulfill herself that Mr. Big finally came around. When you come to terms with yourself, your own skin, your own shortcomings and your own talents, good things and good peole have a way of gravitating towards you.
Meanwhile, across town...
It's ironic to me to consider that such an observation concerning human sexuality came from a gay guy. Gay guys love and adore labels and very rarely do we refuse to acknowledge them. Aside from our obvious affection towards designer fashion labels, gay men can label one another within millions of classifications and sub-categories. We can be twinks, bears, daddies, jocks, art house gays, retail queens, bar trash, bottoms, tops, self-hating, on the down low, activist gays, queeny, or butch. We can be a Garland Gay (aged 60+), a Streisand Gay (aged 40 - 59), a Madonna / Cher Gay (aged 25 - 39), or a Britney Gay (aged 25 and under). We can be the type of gay guy that likes to go camping (the lesbian gay) or we can be the type of gay guy that likes to vacation in urban cities with large gay populations (the normal gay). So, in my opinion, when Michael Stipe made his famous soup can label comment, he must've been in the throws of a full-on debilitating case of denial towards his own homosexuality. No gay man in his right mind would ever suggest that we as a group NOT label one another. Like being self-centered and witty, labeling things just comes naturally to us.
A particular labeling fondness of the gay guy is to relate themselves and their friends to the characters of very gay friendly shows like "The Golden Girls," "Will and Grace," or "Sex and the City." Both shows were mainstream successes, enjoyed by straight women everywhere and even a few ashamed heterosexual men. But given that all three shows were written primarily by gay men, the themes throughout each and the basic qualities of their main characters are things that gay guys often directly identify with. Not once since "The Golden Girls" began airing in 1985 has a group of gay guy friends NOT sat around and debated on which one among them was the Blanche (the self-centered slut), or the Dorothy (the cynical intellectual), or the Rose (the naive but kind idiot), or the Sophia (the caregiver). You can take quizzes online to determine if you're the Will or the Grace or the Jack or the Karen. And every group of gay friends on EARTH has had a conversation over Cosmopolitans as to who among them is the Samantha, the Charlotte, the Miranda, or the Carrie.
Two weeks ago I set out on the drive from Chicago to Memphis, heading home for the holidays. Thanks to a craptastic winter storm, what was supposed to be an eight hour drive turned into a two day journey, meaning that I had A LOT of time to think about my life and further dissect the typical thoughts and observations that we all experience around Christmas and the New Year. I have found myself recently in a romantic situation that is foreign to me. As anyone who spares the ten minutes to read this blog every few weeks clearly knows, I have been through just about every relationship quandary you can think of. I have dated people out of boredom. I have been pity f*cked. I've been dumped via a Facebook Relationship Status Change. I have dated more than one guy at a time. I've been mad, sad, elated, selfish, hopeful. You name it and I've been there, on either side of the coin. But lately I've been treading new territory. I am spending a great deal of time with someone who makes me feel like wearing a ballerina outfit as a bus drives by with my picture on it and splashes water all over me. I am starting to hear myself speak in a voiceover, saying things like, "Meanwhile, across town," and, "It suddenly occurred to me." Well, it suddenly occurred to me, sitting in my car somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis (after having crept slowly down an icy interstate for almost six hours), that I was Carrie Bradshaw, enamored and confused by my own Mr. Big. Da da da da. Da da. Da da da da da! Let's do brunch with the girls!
I could trump a room full of a million gay guys who would label themselves as a Carrie with my current situation. All of the key elements are present. I am hanging out with an older successful gentleman (after almost three months, we are not yet allowed to call it dating). I'm artistic, care-free, in my early thirties. He's established, handsome, driven, in his early forties, the target of many boys younger and cuter than me. He's comfortable moving at a snail's pace, in no hurry to jump into another relationship that will more likely than not end with someone getting very hurt. Although slightly jaded, I am still a relationship idealist. I believe that there's still a chance for me with someone. He doesn't care if I date anyone else. Our time together is generally spent with us alone, so my friends know very little about him. And what slight information I give them consists mostly of my confused ramblings about what he wants, what I want, and our inconsistency with how we treat one another leaves my friends with a less than favorable opinion of a man they barely know. When I try to explain to my friends what I'm doing with him (which is basically impossible because I don't know), they stare at me with concerned looks on their faces. All that is missing from this "Sex and the City" playbook is shopping for shoes, the New York skyline, and cute (although ridiculous) puns.
Like Carrie towards her Mr. Big, I find myself uber-emotional around my Mr. Big. I think I want him to want me, but when something happens that gets us closer to that point I start drifting away. Would it be easier with someone else? Is there a furniture designer or a writer out there that I should be dating instead? Will he dump me and marry someone prettier and younger than me? Will I meet an older Russian artist and move to Paris? Or, like what happens to Carrie in the movie, will he leave me at the alter? Will he come back? Could I ever be happy with him? Will asking myself all these f*cking questions eventually drive me crazy?
Before I moved to Chicago, I studied "Sex and the City" with intensity. Sure, those ladies never seemed to get it right until the very end of the series, but didn't they look great? And didn't it seem like they were having fun despite all of their relationship shortcomings? My friend John who lives in New York is working on a book about how the popularity of shows like "Sex and the City" were inspiring people, particularly gay guys and single women, to haul ass to large cities like New York and Chicago. I guess I was like that. I wanted so badly to walk amongst the crowds in a busy city street, to have party invitations coming out of my ass, to date constantly, to f*ck everything that walked, to meet up with my stylish, fun, smart friends once a week and wax philosophically on our sophisticated lives in the big city. And I guess that happened, that I got what I wanted in regards to that, but that life, that lack of something solid beyond your friendships to lean on, got old for Carrie and the girls after six seasons. 2009 marks my sixth year in Chicago.
I love Michael Stipe. He was, in all honesty, the first male celebrity I was ever attracted to. He was by no means nothing to look at, but when I was sixteen years old I was so impressed and moved by his brilliance with words and the way he flaunted being misunderstood by society as opposed to being ashamed of it. That really turned me on at a point in my life when I felt like everyone in the world could see right through me. I remember looking at the picture of him shirtless, in water, in the lyrics insert of REM's "Automatic for the People" CD. He moved me to the point that I had re-occurring dreams of him throughout college, dreams that generally consisted of he and I being married. I used to touch myself inappropriately if I was alone when the video for "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" came on MTV. My point is that I took his soup can observation to heart. I took all of his observations and actions to heart. Stipe made me proud to be a liberal Democrat in Mississippi. Stipe made me proud of my own opinions and proud to express them. It wasn't until my late twenties, well after REM had fallen out of fashion, that I realized that labels are not, as he'd proposed, meant solely for soup cans. Labels CAN be applied to people. And sometimes they should. Because once you're able to solidly identify someone as something, it helps you in maneuvering your behavior around them.
So what if I am a Carrie Bradshaw? I think that's a label I'm comfortable with. Carrie never once strayed from the idea of what she wanted out of a relationship. She wanted safety and comfort and humor and honesty and friendship and sexual compatability. Although it took Mr. Big six years to figure out that he wanted the same things, Carrie never stopped moving. She kept her eye on the prize, so to speak. And the prize was not a man. The prize was her being happy.
My apologies to Mr. Stipe. I still love him (although he's aged so horribly). But I'm fine with being tagged yet another label at 33 years old. I'm a Carrie. And that's quite the badge of honor. Carrie never waited on a Mr. Big to make her happy, and I won't either. It wasn't until Carrie fully believed in her own ability to fulfill herself that Mr. Big finally came around. When you come to terms with yourself, your own skin, your own shortcomings and your own talents, good things and good peole have a way of gravitating towards you.
Meanwhile, across town...
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