In Defense of Fashion

You ever see something that gets under your skin for no reason?  Something that really has no relation or bearing to your actual life, something that just has nothing to do with anything you have any control over and really isn’t in the scope of your everyday life, but for some reason, this irritating thing causes you to have a little mental meltdown? Ever had that?

It probably happens to me with more regularity than it should. Last night, a friend posted a link to a Buzzfeed story that displayed photos from various shows from Men’s Fashion Week in Milan. The article boils down to a series of carefully curated photos with snarky commentary from what was certainly the most out of the ordinary looks sent down the runways. The general premise being, “aren’t these ridiculous??!!...What are these fashion people thinking??!! No one would ever wear this!! Does Donatella think the next “Big Thing” is going to be gladiator costumes??!!”

And this, this is what set me off. Yeah, I’m not in the fashion world. I don’t design. I only own a couple of pieces of true Designer clothes. But, the lack of understanding about what a fashion show is, what purpose it serves, and the disrespect and ignorance (usually followed by disdain) that people often give Fashion got/gets/will continue to annoy me.

I’ve spent more time than I should have in my life defending not only my love for fashion, but also why it isn’t something to be discounted. Let’s start with a few quick premises:

1)      Fashion is Art. And no, I’m not necessarily talking about what you’re going to find at H&M, J. Crew or even the mass produced Calvin Klein you find in Macy’s in the mall. I’m talking from real design houses that actually spend time completing an honest to Gaga collection. Those collections have themes, intents, and actually work to say something that the specific designer wants to say. Sometimes it’s social commentary, sometimes it’s challenging the idea of masculinity and femininity, and sometimes it’s even commenting on Fashion itself. However, a true runway collection is no different than any other type of art exhibition. It’s an artist attempting to present an idea via the artistic medium he or she has chosen. Fashion just happens to be worn as opposed to an object d’art hanging on the wall or sitting in a gallery.

2)      Fashion shows are not for you. Or me. Or most of us really. They are either for the buyers at the major retailers who will pick what clothes will be sold in their stores, or for fashion magazine editors who will try to capture what the designer was saying and maybe comment on it in an editorial.

3)      That brings me to some of the looks that often make it onto things like the Buzzfeed article. Every season designers show pieces that are “weird” or “out there” or even “unwearable” in an everyday context. THESE ARE NOT INTENDED TO BE WORN WHILE YOU CLEAN THE HOUSE/GO TO WORK AT YOUR CUBICLE/OR EVEN OUT TO DINNER. These are often conceptual looks that fit into the collection by displaying a new technique or use the extreme to hammer home the larger message of the collection. Just because it goes down the runway on a model doesn’t at all mean the designer intended for that look to be worn by the masses as it was shown. If it shocked you, that was probably the designer’s intent.

4)      To that end, let’s talk about the exclusivity argument. Fashion is often seen as something for the pretentious elite, something that the shallow folks with gobs of money waste their trust funds on. And sure, most Fashion is above most of our budgets. Just as most of the art hanging in the Met or Guggenheim is out of our budgets. So, what’s the difference? Why is it ok for someone to spend thousands or even millions for a painting with precious little outrage, but it’s a crime for Prada to charge $5000 for a dress? Sure, you can buy a $100 suit at H&M. But, you also pay for what you get in terms of fabric quality, construction, attention to detail and the wages of those who made the garment. The garments may even appear similar. It’s sort of the same principle as buying the original Van Gogh or buying a print of it in the gift shop on your way out. Most of us don’t buy the original. Instead, we buy a mass produced, cheaply made version of it.

5)      While we’re on the topic of wages, take a moment to consider that awesome $5 t shirt you bought at a discount store. Sure, it was a great bargain for you, but at what cost on the back end? If you’re truly interested in the high cost of low priced, disposable clothes have a look and listen here and here. Maybe also watch an episode of Project Runway and see the art, talent and time it takes to construct one garment. Then, think about how it can be that anything sells for $5.

6)      And finally, let’s talk about the nature of what Fashion is for most of us. Even those who shun the world of Fashion have to engage it in some way to know what to rail against. And yes, just as it was succinctly described by Miranda Priestly in “The Devil Wears Prada”, what shows on the runways will eventually trickle down (with increasing speed due to that cheap manufacturing) to us masses. See all those printed shirts? They’ll likely show up in stores in toned down, more widely appealing patterns. See those color pairings and silhouettes? They might just show up too, in a way that hints back at the original’s general concept, but in a way that is relatable to most people.

And with all that being said, I’ll close with my final defense. Perhaps it’s the ultimate reason I’m bothering to post this. It’s the defense of myself. I’ve been accused of being shallow, pretentious, vain and any number of things due to my love of Fashion. It’s always been frustrating to attempt to explain why I don’t see Fashion as others seem ready to understand it. However, it is nothing more than an appreciation for what seems to me to be the art form we all most interact with, whether we like it or not.

Pixie Dust Redemption

We all have our parental issues and I’ve probably overshared on here about my issues with my mom. In case you’ve missed it, the short version is her Jesus doesn’t so much like the fact that her womb produced homosexual offspring. Having recently been around nearly all of her family at the funeral of her mother, my amazing grandmother, I’ve even confirmed that the gay runs on her side. She also refuses to see the humor in that, believing that my “lifestyle” is somehow of my own choosing.


During our initial conversations after my coming out, she searched for answers as to how I could have arrived at the conclusion that I’m gay. She tried to blame teachers, my psychotic father, my liberal Baptist college, my semester abroad or some of my friends. After none of those quite panned out, I finally tried to convince her that it was actually Disney’s fault. Yep, that’s right; blame the mouse. Ok, not so much the mouse, but Tinkerbell. She’s the one that done it.

You see, Tinkerbell and I had an altercation once. I was on a band trip to DisneyWorld when I was 14. The trip was really fraught with disaster after calamity. Just prior to the trip I dislocated my knee cap, which left me trying to hobble around Disney and Universal on crutches. Once we landed, the first hurricane of the season blew in and once we got back home, our plane caught on fire. And while all of these things certainly helped to shape my fairly overall poor impression of Florida, I think it was my run-in with Tinkerbell that’s left the longest lasting mark.

Prior to arriving at the Magic Kingdom we were given instructions to meet beside the castle at the end of the day so we could be counted and herded back on the bus. A friend and I had spent the day together and being the good nerds we were (shout out to all the band AND academic team kids) we showed up early. However, after waiting a few minutes no one else from our group was in sight. After a few more minutes passed, the park was about to start the closing fireworks and still none of our group was anywhere to be found.

If you’ve been to DisneyWorld, you know that part of the daily closing ceremony is for a metallic, robotic Tinkerbell to fly out of the castle. She flits about the park sprinkling pixie dust and then flies back into the castle just in time for the fireworks to start. Prior to this occasion, I had never been to DisneyWorld and wasn’t familiar with my fairy friend or her usual route. So, in an attempt to find some of our group, I decided I would stand on a bench (bum knee and all) and see if I could see over the crowd to find people. It was about the time that I stood up completely and the crowd came into focus that I felt it. WHOMP!!! I felt a hard thud against the side of my head. I turned to see what had just attacked me and then felt it again. WHOMP!!! This time the impact was right in the center of my forehead. I had the good sense to duck before round three started, realizing that each impact was propelling my forward bound assailant backwards. I then looked up to see Tinkerbell flying off and realized I was covered in her sparkly pixie dust.

Yes, kids. I was attacked by a metal (cuz yes, Miss Tinkerbell packs a punch), robotic Tinkerbell as she flew on fishing wire in The Happiest Place on Earth. It’s at this moment that I like to imagine I was confirmed as a gay. Sort of a christening, if you will. As you might imagine, my mom isn’t convinced by this explanation either.

However, a couple of times in the past few months she seems to be making a new kind of peace with me. She wanted me to bring my boyfriend to the funeral and was upset with me when I didn’t. She even talked to me about wanting to spend more time with him and get to know him. Just last night, she talked to me about not wanting to upset what family we have now that the great glue that held us together has passed away.

It’s with all of this in mind that I decided to take my mom to DisneyWorld for her 60th birthday next month. She’s never flown, been to Florida or seen the ocean, so I’m packing lots of firsts into one weekend. But, I’m hoping to take a moment somewhere near the scene of the crime to grab my mom’s hand and press the reset button. Maybe we can get a little sprinkling of pixie dust, take a breath of Florida air and let the past fall away.

I don’t have any delusion that she’s going to join PFLAG, but I do hope that our weekend together will give us a chance to just be mom and son for once without all of the other baggage. Then, we can start from there. Since I didn’t sue the mouse over my head injury and emotional distress, I think he at least owes me that much.

Hopelessly Devoted

First memories are supposed to be filled with favorite stuffed animals or maybe a tricycle and a warm summer day. Mine involves home invasion and proof that foreshadowing is not just a literary term. 

My best guess is that my first memory comes from when I was about 2 years old. We’d been away to visit my grandmother and we came home to discover the house had been broken into. I don’t recall anything about tampered locks or broken windows. I don’t even have a clue about what was taken. All I can remember is that the burglars took one thing from my room. They took my Olivia Newton-John record. It was even a greatest hits album. 

Apparently, most kids start singing along with Sesame Street or Mister Rogers after learning how to walk. I was singing along with “Physical” and “Xanadu”. My mom will tell you that I walked around singing “Let’s get phibical” all the time. 

What’s even more bizarre about this is that I have no idea how this record came into possession of a 2 year old. I grew up in a household that almost exclusively listened to country music. Looking back, this random bit of pop music seems like such a strange anomaly. Let alone that it was a prized possession of a toddler. 

So, what I remember is that we got home and there was an immediate bit of hysteria. There’s a blur and then I remember going into my room and finding everything was out of place. I noticed my neat pile of records had been knocked over and that she was gone. Olivia was missing. I bawled. My mom came to me and I somehow conveyed what had happened. From there, there were lots of tears until I could be taken to the TG&Y and a replacement could be purchased that very evening. 

It is both the jarring feeling of someone breaking into our home and my mom making everything right again that I remember really strongly about all of this. It says a lot about my mom that in the middle of what had to be a difficult time that she made it a priority to bring Olivia back into my life. I’d also imagine it probably made the whole thing easier to deal with by shutting me up and getting me back in my room with my beloved record player. 

It wasn’t until just yesterday while I was beginning to put the pieces of this post together that I specifically remembered my record player. In this particular memory, it’s completely secondary and not really anything I specifically recall. However, this record player was a huge part of my childhood. I was always a music lover and spent every penny I got as a kid on records and eventually tapes and CDs, but this portable record player was always my favorite toy. 

It was sort of a briefcase shaped thing with a sky blue base and a blue and white striped lid. It had a silver latch and a white plastic handle so you could pick it up and carry it around. I lugged it to the front porch, around my room and to anyone’s house that’d let me bring it along. What I just remembered yesterday was that when you opened the lid, the underside had a little cartoony landscape painted on it that prominently featured a rainbow. 

From there, I remembered that my Olivia’s record label was MCA Records. The center of each of their records had a little rainbow that would spin around with the record. I recall listening to “Hopelessly Devoted To You” and watching that rainbow spin and then seeing the matching rainbow on the record lid and always being perfectly content. 

It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized that between “Grease” and the “Physical” video, that Olivia Newton-John was a gay icon. It now strikes me as more than a little humorous that that’s how my life began. I was a little gay child in southeastern Kentucky taking solace in watching rainbows spin around on the record player and listening to a songs about talking things out “horizontally”. 

And so, I think back to that kid today as our city celebrates Pride and while we celebrate one more state recognizing that gays have rights too. Today, I’ve watched parents take their kids to Pride and even participated in helping 3 little boys tip a drag queen. I’ve come a long way since watching rainbows spin on a turntable, but I think I’m going to go to iTunes and download a few songs. Because even if I didn’t know it, 28 years ago in my Snoopy bedroom, I was celebrating Pride. 

Homophobia in the House

I’ve never liked the word ‘homophobic’. It’s just always seemed so accusatory and hostile. And though I guess it’s the point, it seems like it’s a word that has an implicit insult. I’ve never particularly felt that it was ok. 

I grew up around people who most would consider homophobic. They don’t support gay marriage and even though they’ve always had gay people around, they don’t understand it. They assume it’s a choice. They believe it’s a sin. They’re pretty sure all the gays are going to hell. Ultimately though, they’re good people who are just doing what they believe the Bible tells them. They love, but they don’t understand. It just doesn’t seem right to insult them when we only have a difference of opinion. 

That’s the lens that I’ve seen homophobia through until the past few weeks. I’ve had a parent be unhappy and disappointed in me because I’m gay. I’ve had coworkers who’d still use the “f” word around me, but then apologize and still be fantastic to me. I went to a baptist college and encountered plenty of people who would be openly hostile to gays.  However, I never felt wronged. I just felt like people didn’t understand. They were still nice to me. They weren’t bad people; we just didn’t agree. Kind of the same way that people who think we need to own guns and I don’t agree.  

However, I can now say without reservation that my landlord is a homophobic bastard.

I’ve blogged before that despite being a good tenant, when I told him that my boyfriend had moved in with me, he immediately asked me to move out. This was strictly because he doesn’t like two men living in the same apartment. He has two straight couples living in the building, but he keeps telling me that “he doesn’t allow more than one person to live in the apartments.” Our plan was for the boyfriend to get a job and then we were going to move out. 

The landlord hadn’t said a word since our initial conversation. He hadn’t forced the issue and due to the boyfriend’s unemployment, we weren’t really in a position to move out.

I then found myself in line at the car rental place in the airport about to leave for 3 weeks for work. It’ll be a bit of extra money and I’m hoping provide some cash to help us move. While standing there, I got a call from the landlord. He’s now forcing the issue. He wants us out. I explained that I was literally about to leave. He said he’d give us the month of May, however, he wants me to call him with our plan to get out when I return. 

So yeah, I now believe in homophobia. I guess it’s like believing in ghosts. You believe it when you see it. 

That's What She Said

Me: I’ve been trying to call you back and can’t get you on either number.

Her: I am having serious issues right now. They had to call a dr in and a very bad diagnosis. Maybe you won’t have me around to bother much longer.

Me: What did I do to warrant that?

Her: Have (insert the boyfriend’s name) so far in your ass that you don’t care (if) I die as long as he don’t. It is too important that he has dinner. How disgusting.

Me: And I’m done. I’ve tried. I love you, Mom.

Her: Yea for (insert the boyfriend’s name). Sorry after 30 years I don’t matter any. Guess I can’t suck your dick and give you AIDS.

I didn’t respond to that one. How do you? What words work there? I’m very rarely speechless. I was. Honestly, speechless.

The backstory: The boyfriend went to the hospital by ambulance last Saturday. There could be a WHOLE other post on that and it’s related stress. For the sake of brevity, I’ll say he is feeling better now, but still needed a good bit of attention last weekend.

My mother came to the hospital on Sunday for what we now know is a bone infection. She was right. I couldn’t leave the boyfriend and go to the ER with her on Sunday evening. I’d asked my sister to go and for whatever reasons she couldn’t do it either. So, she went alone. She was admitted. I went the next day and the day after that.

On this day, I’d been asked to go to a local baseball game with some friends. I agreed to go. I needed a minute to be around non-sick people and also wanted a chance to get the boyfriend out of the house for a fairly non-exerting activity. My plan was to stay for a few innings and then trek back to the hospital to see my mom. She’d already called with requests for fast food (she’d been on the cardiac diet) and slippers (she’d lost hers somewhere between the ER and her hospital room).

It was during the 4th (or so) inning when the above text messages were exchanged. She’d gotten the bone infection diagnosis and had been told how it would be treated. A bone biopsy on the foot and then daily IV antibiotics that would require home health to visit for the next several weeks.

I never found out the diagnosis or treatment from my Mom. Those are the last words we exchanged. My sister had to tell me.

I’ve luckily spent the past couple of days with my chosen family. Great friends who are standing beside me, hugging me, and being more indignant that I can bring myself to be. I sort of expected this would happen. I’d been hoping it wouldn’t, but knew how she felt. It was really only a matter of time.

I write about it here only because I’ve been chronicling the fights with my Mom. I felt like this was the most succinct way to let friends know who haven’t seen me in a few days.

And maybe a request. To quote Rufus Wainwright, “please be kind, if I’m a mess.”

Strike a Pose

It’s been a bit on the heavy and depressing side here lately, hasn’t it? So, I thought I’d lighten up the mood a bit with a little story from my weekend.

We had a little gathering for the boyfriend’s graduation. We started out at a local hotel bar. It’s truly one of my favorite places in town. They do good drinks and it makes for excellent people watching. We hadn’t planned on it, but we ended up moving to another “gay-friendly” bar for a bit of an after party.

That’s when it happened.

I certainly wasn’t drunk. I’d only had one at our initial party and I’d only half of another one at our second bar. Only half, because a waiter decided to take it away before I was finished. Granted, I’d abandoned it to go dance, but we had plenty of people who were lingering around the area we’d claimed. And oh, but only if a stolen half-gone drink was my only problem.

I’d been ready to go for a bit. I’m old. I was tired. I can’t quite do a party into the late night. However, the boyfriend and Bluebelle had requested “Vogue” and wanted to stay there to at least dance to that song. So, the opening...snap..snap and whispers of “vogue...vogue...vogue” started to play. I decided that I’d just get through the song and then we’d go. I even decided that I’d be a good sport and stand in the middle of the dance floor and vogue. Because, I’m a superstar, yes that’s what I am, you know it.

We hadn’t quite gotten to the second chorus when I got jolted. Someone bumped into me. I don’t know who. All I know is my body went one way and my knee went the other. When that happened, my right knee cap dislocated. I grabbed onto Bluebelle (I don’t think she noticed) to quickly steady myself. I didn’t wanna fall right there in front of God, the gays and everybody.

I found a stool to sit down on, collected myself and limped back to where we were camped out. We went home where my knee has continued to swell and hurt. I can’t really walk down stairs and I have a pretty visible limp. My knee is still swollen after much ibuprofen and ice.

I know I’m fine. I’ve dislocated about 20 knee caps in my life. I’m just resting as much as possible and I’m alternating between heat and ice. I’m staying off of it as much as I can. But come on, I’ve reached a whole new level of gay. I’ve suffered injury while voguing.