Thirty-Five Years and STILL Getting Older.

I'm 35 years old. It's true, people.

It's funny...I never think about aging as a painful process at all. Obviously, it happens to all of us. There is no shame in it, and frankly, there is nothing more annoying to me than people who will not divulge their age when queried. What's that about?

Despite that, just thinking about turning thirty-five this week feels pretty bizarre. I mean, how did THAT happen? It seems like yesterday I was this carefree guy skipping through art school lectures and late-night darkroom stints, drinking three dollar Guinness pints at Tuman's. Oh, wait! That was thirteen years ago! YIKES!

For me, it's not the fact that I am aging that disturbs, but more the boggling passage of time.

Every once in a while, I will catch myself telling a story as if it was current events, and then it hits me that it's more like ancient history! I would love to blame that on my mother, who is occasionally somewhat short on reference points in conversation, but I have to admit that I dig my own glorious holes where memories are concerned.

I have a stunning recollection of childhood, and can recollect memories from my youth that are so thick with minute details (smells, people, which Rolling Stones song was playing at any given moment). I am sure that if the CIA questioned me at length about those memories, some of my stories might not hold water, but I am pretty accurate at least.

It is adulthood where I get a little lost. Shall I blame all the recreational drugs in high school, or is my brain just simply filled with too much extraneous information to make accurate memories possible?

How did I get here? Wait...what are we talking about?

Oh, yeah...I'm getting older.

The other thing that's weird is that when I look in the mirror, I still see the same twelve-year-old boy I used to be (staring in the mirror). I often wonder if that is a survival mechanism we develop to deal with aging, or if it is just part of our introspective behavior. I know that I am looking at a thirty-five year old man in the mirror, but because I don't feel a day older than twelve, my brain cannot process the fact that I am evolving. It feels comforting to have that kind of disconnect, yet ridiculous all at once.

I am proud of the fact that I don't rely on anyone else's perception of me to define myself. I used to struggle with being self-conscious but have long since graduated from that phase. I don't try to look good or act a certain way for other people. It is way too taxing, and furthermore boring and counter-productive.

I am also grateful that, aside from my criminally thinning hair (which started at 20 years old), I don't really show too many signs of aging. YET. Every Spring though, I do realize that taking off the perennial 5-10 Winter pounds I gain becomes more and more of a chore! I also realize that staying-in (as opposed to going out) appeals to me more and more. Staying out until 3AM...are you nuts?!

However, I do FEEL my physical self getting older. My knees creak. I pop acid-reducers at regular intervals. I always feel like I have to pee. I am growing hair on the strangest parts of my body. I have a militant moisturizing regimen. The tell-tale signs of aging are mounting, and I just deal with them all one at a time. What else can one do?

What defines a person of thirty-five?

WHO KNOWS?

What I do know is that it is strange to think of myself as approaching middle-age. It doesn't disturb me enough to lie about my age (I would never do that), but letting the words "thirty-five" escape my mouth has surprised me a bit this year.

I'm sure I am not alone!

Costumed or Doomed?

I am suddenly hit with a perennial quandary: What am I to be for Halloween?

Halloween comes on the same day every year, so it always amazes me that I am at a loss for ideas two pallid days away from the big day. I fantasize a couple months out about how I am going to outdo myself this year, yet I always end up pulling something out of my ass at the last minute, with mixed success.

A couple years ago I went as a "Page," after the political page scandal took down Mark Foley (the magnificently leotarded Republican Congressman from Florida) who solicited sex from one of his under-age pages. The costume was crudely made with pieces of ordinary copy paper. SO CLEVER...Pages of paper! WOW, what a stunning achievement! Not so much...

Occasionally I can put a critical-hit costume out of my ass. About a dozen years ago, after being a last-minute invite to a friend of a friend's Halloween fete, I quickly ran to an office supply store and bought an armful of colored-dot price stickers...the kind one uses for flea markets and sad church bake sales. Then I threw on the only suit I owned and covered every inch of the suit and my face/body in a web of polka-dots. Every year, this party apparently awarded one reveler as having the Best Costume. The winner was always chosen by the hostess' mother, who would be woken late in the evening and paraded through the throngs of guests to find the finest specimen. That fine year, it was me (of course)!

For the past ten years, I have also made countless over-ambitious threats to pull out THE ULTIMATE HALLOWEEN COSTUME: Dawn Wiener from Welcome to the Dollhouse. Specifically, the outfit Dawn wears during the anniversary party at the end of the movie. You know, the fantastic blue & white ruffled belly shirt and green leggings, complete with a pom-pom headband and heart earrings. It would give me the chance to utter one of my favorite quotes from any movie, when she says "Just because he's a faggot doesn't mean he's an asshole!" I am confident that if I ever, for once, actually plan ahead and start hitting thrift stores in September, I will amass all the gems I will need to make Todd Solondz proud. Sadly (for the world), it has yet to come to fruition.

Last week I was invited to an early Halloween party in the burbs (I know...CRAZY!), and I once again was forced to create a last-minute costume in a frenzy. Talking me down from a moment of unbelievable stress, my friend Kristen pointed out the obvious: I have more clothing in my closet (more like exploding out of my closet) than anyone else. Who am I kidding? I have a veritable vintage clothing store in my closet, covering at least 40 years of the 20th century. I settled on wearing a favorite charcoal pin-striped suit and going as "Ron from Accounting," complete with a gorgeous Pierre Cardin leather attache case from the 1960s. I thought it was pretty good, considering I had about 10 minutes to pull it together before I had to run out the door to catch the ride to the burbs for the party.

The other thing I always struggle with is going to a Halloween party in drag. I don't mean a drag queen, but a female "character." I've done that WAY too many times, but it's kind of too easy (Dawn Wiener being the ONLY exception, naturally). Of course a guy in a wig is funny! My thing is that I secretly deplore the idea of being "THE GAY GUY IN DRAG" at a party. It's too cliche! Straight guys can pull off drag costumes with aplomb because it's more ironic and ridiculous.

When something is really important, I never lie...I am always interested in generating awe, laughter and a little bit of jealousy with a costume. This year is no different. This Halloween is lining up to be rich with worthy parties, especially since it falls on a weekend this year. Tomorrow I am going on my yearly thrift store blitz, and I am hoping to find rich inspiration along the way.

Here's to hoping I stumble upon an endless rack of leggings and ruffled blouses!

Swine Flu and You (and more importantly, Me).

SARS failed at the gate, monkey pox was little more than a whimper.

People...you thought the pandemic craze had fizzled, when it really just receded from the limelight long enough for the media to focus on the last election cycle.

Folks...please welcome, direct from the tropical vestiges of Mexico...the SWINE FLU!

I'm beginning to wonder if the makers of those protective masks are responsible for all these virus outbreaks. Maybe they had a board meeting in the 4th quarter and decided that they had to please their shareholders by brainstorming a new superbug, so they could unload some more masks. Something trendy-sounding, that hasn't been done to death...SWINE!!  SWINE FLU!!!

Ooh...and maybe fashion designers can get in on the action.  I can see a silkscreened leather Marc Jacobs/Richard Prince mask in my future!

Seriously though, one thing I think about with regards to viruses that are out to kill me are the disheveled losers on the bus who NEVER ONCE either cover their mouths when they sneeze or in fact sneeze right into their hands (which they will inevitably drag across every surface in my way).

When you take public transportation as much as I do, it's almost like you're stewing in a virtual petrie dish of disease and well, swine!  These people floss their teeth across the aisle from me, eat an entire bucket of KFC and lick their greasy fingers while on the Red Line, sneeze violently into the air and generally lay around in their own filth (much like their pig counterparts).

Didn't the whole world get the memo by now on how the flu is spread?

Well...here is my promise to the swine among me:  if I get so much as a sniffle, or a tingle in my throat, I will pull a Carrie White on your asses! 

Or in the least I expect a designer mask on my doorstep, along with a 2-week supply of tom yum chicken noodle soup, and the entire Arrested Development DVD collection to help nurse me back to health.

And a nude Justin Theroux to rub medicinal oils on my ailing parts....mmm!

Wait...instead just give me Theroux and I'll happily succumb to the flu!

In other words, cover your mouths when you sneeze and keep your germs contained!

Looking Forward to Licking My Spoon at Pitchfork

I am generally not down with three day music festivals, what with the throngs of unshowered hipsters and potheads.

However, the line-up at Pitchfork in Chicago this year is definitely intriguing.  http://www.pitchforkmusicfestival.com/

Yo La Tengo, Built to Spill, Tortoise, The National, Yeasayer, The Flaming Lips, Grizzly Bear, M83, Vivian Girls, Women and the Black Lips to name just a few.  YIKES!

I can see myself in trouser shorts and an irony-laced tee shirt already...and an umbrella.

I will probably show up on Sunday only, because like many other things in my life, I cannot commit wholehog.  I am most jazzed about seeing Women and Grizzly Bear, because I really adore their music.  Women's self-titled debut is delicious, and in heavy rotation in my world.  I love their jangly pshycho-pop sound...the song "Black Rice" has a 60s Phil Spector quality that is intoxicating.  Grizzly Bear (as well as Department of Eagles) are also excellent, but I am curious to see them live, because their music relies heavily on vocal harmonies and subtle guitar work.  Hopefully it will translate well to such a venue.

I wish a couple acts that are booked for Lollapalooza would play here instead, namely Santigold, TV on the Radio, Of Montreal, Deerhunter, Animal Collective and Crystal Castles.  Bummer.

BTW: I'm dying for some new music...any suggestions?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otn8CG5Lazc

A Word About Frat Boys, Bros and Their Pussy Beer

One of my favorite guilty pleasures in the world is seeing a pack of dim-witted "dudes" fretting over which 24 pack of cans to consume en masse...MGD or Bud?

Dudes...what the fuck is up with the bromance for pussy beer?

Here's what I think could be going on:

1.  They don't have a brain to share between them.

2.  Half of the fun of drinking a low-quality lager is crushing the can on your forehead (and perhaps also to save space in the recycling bin).

3.  They have to save their complex taste buds for eating "ma chick out."

4.  Nobody told them that MGD and Bud taste like watered down piss, only with less complex flavor notes.

I would like to share with these mentally challenged, and yes-somewhat hot boneheads, that picking a higher quality craft beer makes more sense on SO many levels.

The first being that your chick will be impressed that you can read, after she sees you buy a six-pack of Abbaye De Floreffe.  The second being that craft beers tend to have a higher alcohol content, which means you don't have to drink as much to get "SO fucked," which means that much more time on your hands to wonder which Olsen would look better in a thong...Mary-Kate, no WAIT...Ashley!  The third being that you will spend a lot less time pissing away all the low-quality ingredients that went into making your 13 cans of MGD, since the 4 Maudites you consumed still haven't sent you to the bathroom.   

Lastly, just grow the fuck up already.  You might just squeak through business school and get that lame consulting job you've been dreaming of since '05 (the one where you can wear just underwear during conference calls), so maybe you should learn to cultivate a taste in finer things.

Craft beer is an excellent place to start, young man!  It's made by passionate folks who are taking every care to produce a product that is an fine source of pleasure in our exceedingly stressful lives.  It's made by a pair of brothers in DuPage County, a retired nurse in Milwaukee, and yes-a few monks in Belgium (one of them small states over there by France).

I tastes great with duck confit, Mutter Paneer, and even Chicken Wings.

Craft beer also won't make you look like a retard if you're wearing a Hugo Boss suit and heading over to a neighborhood fete.

FInally, you might attract a higher class of Trixie to your jock, after she sees you pay $30 for a lovely bottle of Nora in line at Binny's (while your Bebe-infested big-curl addicted train-wreck-of-a-current-girlfriend is waiting in your Bronco to return with her MGD 64). 

Think about it, dudes.

Or not.  It'll still crack me up to see you shitheads carrying cases of pussy beer to consume.

God luv ya...

Carrie Bradshaw's "Sex" Wardrobe Disaster

I am sorry to critique the previously great work of Patricia Field, the wardrobe stylist for HBO's Sex & The City, but what she put together for Sarah Jessica Parker in last year's film version of the ubiquitous show was a complete tragedy.  A stench-ridden hot mess.

I saw the movie in the theatre when it came out early last Summer (it was OK, but somewhat disappointing), but I never noticed how terrible Carrie looked in the film until this week when I caught it twice on HBO.

First of all, I am amazed by the sheer amount of mascara that dons SJP's eyes in almost every scene in the movie.  I guess that is just one of her character's addictions, like her Manolos or Cosmopolitans (Tranny Juice, as my roommate Erin and I call them), although SJP also seems to wear that much mascara in her real life also, so maybe she had it written in her contract: MUST WEAR HEAPS OF MASCARA IN ALL SCENES.

I thought Carrie's wardrobe in the TV show was daring, but in a more clever way.  It was a mix of current and vintage designs, as well as wacky concoctions like the green mini skirt with rabbit fur in the back. 

The crap they threw on Carrie/SJP in the movie was unflattering for the most part, and lacked all the fun and irony of her TV looks.  The Vivienne Westwood wedding dress, while certainly conceptual and fun, was a little too Goth for her character.  The worst outfit of the film though was donned when she meets Charlotte and Harry at the hospital for the birth of their new daughter, Rose.  Carrie is wearing a boring beige dress and a horrific oversized white floral petal covered bomber jacket.  She looks horrible!

It seemed like a terrible mish-mosh of 80s tube dresses, over-the-top floral ensembles, oversized coats, poorly highlighted locks, bad ankle boots, bad color combinations, etc.

I think the best dressed character on the TV show was Miranda, and she looked the best in the film also. She always wore classic smart suits, classic sheath dresses in great patterns, and cool jewelry, without all the overdone trendiness that sometimes plagued Carrie's character.

Hopefully, Patty Field will recoup her abilities by the next Sex & The City film, due out next year.  

Carrie & Co deserve the best, as do my retinas!

My Left Foot!

My left foot and ankle has been holding me back.

I wonder if they are aging pre-maturely?  My right foot feels as happy and content as mere babe on Christmas morn, but my left foot feels as feeble as a Southern Baptist suffering from ED.

I have been plagued by plantar-fasciitis in my left foot for a couple years, but now my ankle feels like its falling apart.

My ankle cracks all the time, it sometimes feels like it's not set right, and feels generally inflexible (like it's made of ill-fitted stone).

I have talked to my doctor about it, who seemed totally unconcerned.

I have bad premonitions of my ankle giving out...while running to catch the bus or dancing at Smiths Night at Danny's.

I really want to start my Spring running routine, but I am frightened of making it worse!

Any ideas, my people?

Too Much Make-Up Does Not A Beauty Make!

re: MAKE-UP.

There are thousands of women (just in Chicago, apparently) that don't know when to "say when" when it comes to make-up.

PUT DOWN YOUR BRUSHES AND COMPACTS!  Or, at least, use them more rationally.

If I can't see your skin when I am two feet away, because it is covered in a 1930s Hollywood film worthy shellac, then chances are you are wearing WAY too much make-up.

I was sitting next to a 20-something girl on the Diversey bus the other day, who was way too attractive to even warrant this much coverage.  Her make-up was tragically piled on so thick I could actually smell it.  That is revolting.

What I find so ironic is that these women are wearing this much make-up to improve their appearance, when in fact it usually makes their skin look plastic and ages their appearance.

If I were a straight man dating such a woman (insert laughter here), I certainly wouldn't want to kiss such a face.

So what gives?

I always thought the "less is more" mantra was very applicable to a gal's make-up regimen, aside from special evenings out on the town, red-carpet events or drag queens.  We're all used to seeing our grandmothers smothered in cake foundation, unnatural shading, and penciled-in eyebrows, but lately a new crop of 20 and 30-somethings are falling victim to over-application.

I want you girls to stop it right here, and right now! 

Make-up is supposed to enhance your beauty, not make you look like Liberace.

You're beautiful enough as you are...let's not over-do it, mmmkay? 

 

Miss USA Breakdown, or Why Pageant Girls Should Be Mute

I think its really funny how conservatives rushed to defend little Miss California, Carrie Prejean, and commend her for her "brave honesty."

First of all, there should be nothing extraordinary about honesty.  

Secondly, why should I or anyone else feel guilt for making her opinions an example of public discrimination, given that she said them in a public forum, as well as on national television? If you say something stupid (as most pageant girls seem to do), you're running the risk of widespread mockery.  

Lastly, coming out in public against gay marriage rights is akin to public suicide, especially if you're in the beauty business. Hello...who do you think is the backbone of the beauty industry?  

What I always think about is this: How do you really want to be remembered? Do you want to be remembered as someone who discriminated against an entire community? Think about politicians from 50 years ago that were publicly pro-segregation. Do you think they probably regretted it? Do you think they were remembered fondly post-mortem?

Think about poor Anita Bryant...do you think anybody whispers her name anymore, unless to provide the punchline for a (hopefully) raunchy joke?

Equal rights for the gay community is a top civil rights priority worldwide, and especially so in America. In this respect, gay marriage is inevitable, so what's the point of standing in the way of inevitable social progress?

Furthermore, This idea that someone's upbringing or religious affiliation is a singular defense for this kind of discrimination is ridiculous. Whether you grow up in a hippie commune or a Baptist clan, it isn't hard to grasp that discrimination is morally wrong.

The irony in all of this? Half of marriages end in divorce. Newt Gingrich has been married 3 times himself. You'd have better odds surviving a jump off a 4-story building than lasting until your 10th wedding anniversary.

Considering the rate of divorce, what is the point of holding marriage to this ideal that doesn't exist? There is no longer such a thing as traditional marriage, or a traditional family, for that matter (thank goodness).

This is why I have zero compassion for Carrie Prejean. The fact that we live in the information age, where numerous facts and statistics are at our fingertips at any given time, she was an idiot to come out on the defense of "opposite marriage," especially when her team is losing so dramatically.

If the straights can't even get it right, why hold the gays back?

Yeah.