The Full Monty promo photos and video are being shot in six days

So I’m not leaving this gym until I look like a teen model.

Little tush, meet catwalk

I just found some long-buried comp cards from my early ‘90s Quest To Be A Supermodel(R). 

According to the stats under my Flipped Up Jeans Jacket Collar Equals Total Membership In A Biker Gang(R) headshot, I had a 32” waist. 

According to my three editorial shots, I had still-hopefully-trendy Jake From Sixteen Candles(R) sideburns. 

And a tie with a PERFECT DIMPLE, thank you very much. 

And pegged jeans. And a bit of a saucy frayed spot in my crotch. And bulky Classic Boot Socks(R) that I know for a fact I ordered from International Male(R).

#BraveConfessions

Timber!

One year ago today, just hours into adding yet another new bipolar med to my ever-evolving cocktail, I stood up from a chair, walked three steps, blacked completely the hell out, fell Timber! onto the tile floor (which I cracked with my face because go big or go home), shredded myself eyebrow to chin on my shattered glasses, bit most of the way through my lip, loosened some teeth, got a concussion, and woke up in my sister's car holding a huge bloody rag to my face too confused to remember that Christmas had happened (or, for just a few glorious moments, that I was even bipolar) as she rushed me to the ER, where I looked so brutally horrifying that the nurses assumed I was the victim of a violent assault and three police officers visited my room well before the doctor showed up to give me stitches.

I came home covered in swelling and bruises and scabs and stitches and glue -- after telling the ER doctor in my foggy haze that my modeling days were over and I didn't care if he left scars all over my face but I vaguely remember him informing me that he still had a professional obligation to do his best -- and filled eyeballs-to-spine with a not-for-amateurs headache that brought crippling new levels to my understanding of pain ... and yet I still found a way to take time out of my busy schedule for a quick selfie to document the occasion for future biographers. (You're welcome, posterity!)

This Timber! event was directly linked to my new drug (called Fetzima, who sounds like a resident of the Anatevka demimonde in Fiddler on the Roof) that, as with all psychotropics, came with an alarming list of ramp-up side effects ... including abrupt blackouts. But I knew from a decade-plus of trial-and-error experience that I needed to tough out the first three or four weeks until the side effects subsided and the drug's level (or not level) of efficacy manifested (or didn't manifest) itself.

And despite its hyperdramatic entrance into the musical of my life, Fetzima more-or-less quickly proved itself to be perhaps the drug that effectively balances my serotonin and norepinephrine and keeps me (more or less) stable and engaged and functional and capable and able to go to work and do shows and take care of my parents and run races and buy shoes and buy more shoes and here I am a year later, scar-free (thanks, conscientiously ethical ER doctor!) (though it took a good six months for the scars to heal and the scar tissue where I bit through my lip to subside to the point that I could drink out of a straw again) and concussion-free (pro tip: you do NOT. EVER. want a concussion), and clearly in possession of an added year's mouth wrinkles and silver foxiness.

So if you're inclined, raise a glass and yell Timber! in my scab-free, concussion-free, fog-free, not-functional-free honor today. I'm gonna go out and keep living. Timber!

Sigh.

 

I miss the guileless insouciance of our younger days at Crochet Camp where we’d while away our afternoons sitting back-to-back against a sturdy sapling in our geo-patterned macramé leotards with nothing to do but contemplate our place in the natural beauty around us, our heads as cocked as our emerging youth and the lives awaiting us as hard as the tree keeping us upright. I look back fondly on those warm-but-not-too-warm-for-macramé summer days and wonder what our younger, less-constrained-by-the-simple-gifts-of-natural-fibers-and-neutral-colors selves would think of us now. But we can’t go back. We can never go back.

RIP, dear Scott

We were never officially hang-out friends, due mostly to the fact that we never lived in the same city at the same time. He'd found me probably 10 years ago through this blog, when it -- and the all-topic, open-diary blog trend -- was enjoying its peak. I was living in Chicago and he was in Indianapolis. I was a regular marathon runner with a high-end personal trainer and a (desperate?) level of vanity that compelled me to post lots of shirtless pictures on here and on my blog. He was a budding photographer who had a growing portfolio of decorator interiors, event venues, commercial work, and head shots and editorial photos of both models and the everyday people he always saw the everyday beauty in. He wanted to expand his portfolio to include male figures, and he contacted me through my blog to invite me to Indianapolis for a shoot.

My first thought, of course, was no -- I wasn't driving six hours to have a complete stranger take shirtless pictures of me, no matter how flattering and ego-boosting the subtext was. But I looked through his portfolio and saw the casual, unassuming beauty and unaffected composition in both his commercial interior photography and his human portraits. And I read through his blog and admired the frank, self-effacing, dry-humored way he incorporated himself into his world. And I had a friend in Indy I'd wanted to visit anyway, so I agreed to make the trip to meet him.

He seemed very shy when he answered his door. It took him awhile to make level eye contact, but he got clearly more comfortable as he gave me a tour of his house, introduced me to his delightfully affectionate cats, and eventually took me upstairs to the sizable, airy studio on his top floor. I'd brought a ton of clothing options, he'd already set up a range of backgrounds and set concepts, and we got to work. He was patient and clearly knowledgeable about his cameras and his lighting equipment, and he took lots of "test" shots to capture me when I was relaxed and natural along with lots of carefully composed shots when I was posing as a model wannabe or a figure that was part of the story of his creative use of props and settings. It was an enjoyable day, he repeatedly invited me to come back to do more, the photographs he took were beautiful and thoughtful and always flattering ... and I felt like I'd made a new friend.

I traveled back two more times to pose for him, and we made time to have dinner and hang out both times. And as he gradually decided he wanted to move to Chicago, we spent more time together on the visits he made to see if the city was a good fit for him. And when I became single five years ago, he was the first person to stay in the guest room of my new apartment.

He didn't end up moving to Chicago until after I'd moved home to Iowa, but he extended to me an open invitation to come back and pose for a conceptual series of gritty, vérité, deeply urban photographs he called Drifters. I never made it back to pose for that series, and our communication slowly reduced itself from emails to texts to likes on each other's Facebook posts. The last time I talked to him was in April when I asked if he could find a high-definition file of a headshot he'd taken for me that I could use in the program for a show I was in. He said he'd have to dig through a few archive hard drives and it might take a bit, but he found it and sent it to me the next day. I gratefully thanked him, he invited me to come back for a visit ... and we went back to communicating through the austerity of Facebook likes and hearts.

Scott Barnes died last night, very suddenly. Three days shy of his birthday. He was enjoying a night with friends -- and he very carefully cultivated his friends, so he was always surrounded by decent, loving people -- when he abruptly collapsed and died. The details I know are only speculation, so I choose to focus on the fact that by all accounts it was quick and he didn't suffer. But he's left a world of friends and people he photographed in shock and mourning.

I know pictures exist of the two of us together, but I can't for the life of me find them on Facebook or my hard drive. So I'm including here a photograph of him smiling happily as his new city stands majestically against a brightly setting sun behind him, the headshot he took of me that I LOVE because I think it makes me look serious and thoughtful and handsome without looking like I'm trying desperately to be handsome, and one of a series of running-related photos he took of me where I'm lacing my shoes. He and I both loved it for its composition with the bright palette and the precise angles providing visual balance to my draping shirt and human shape ... and for the cat who wandered in and sat directly under my butt right before he took the picture. He and I have since then always referred to this photo as proof of my magical ability to poop cats.

I didn't know him to say anything as racy as "pooping cats" ever. So it was kind of a gift that we had this odd little inside joke between us. Scott was a quiet, gentle soul. He was unfailingly loyal to his friends. He seemed to be genuinely full of wonder at the world and people and life around him. He captured so much of it so beautifully, and he was both proud of and humble about his work.

Scott Barnes was a dear, sweet man. I'm truly sorry our friendship had become so casual, but I'm grateful that we'd shared it. His life was too short. But I urge all of us to use it as an inspiration to treasure all the friendships we have while we have them ... and to take the time to tell our friends and loved ones how much we love them.

You were loved, Scott. By so many people. And we already miss you greatly.

Flashback Friday: Look I'm Doing A Pushup Edition

This oh-hello-you-caught-me-right-in-the-middle-of-doing-a-push-up photo was taken in 2008 (I think) on my first photo shoot with Scott Barnes, who'd found me through this here blog thingie. We did a range of I'm A Serious Model shots in the finest selections from my Gap wardrobe, but then we added a few show-some-skin shots where I could be all gratuitously flexy and maybe find a boyfriend. I remember neither of us really caring for this shot at the time, but now that I'm old and droopy I kind of love it. It's proof that I used to be a total dish.

Wow.

So I write a long, heartfelt post on gay assimilation and almost all the feedback I get is about … my mugshot. Which I guess is better than no feedback at all, but still.

For the record, the face I was making in that mugshot reflected nothing more untoward than the act of tying my shoes while wearing running shorts that are so short they look like underwear. But somehow when I cropped the shoe-tying and the shorty-short short shorts out of the picture you-all saw something base and vulgar. Shame on you. Shame!

But I was starting to get worried; I was running out of mugshot-worthy pics that were both recent and able to fit pleasingly within the technical specs of blogger’s mugshot window—and every new pic I did post generated tons of scathing mockery helpful feedback from you, my loyal reader(s). Fortunately, my friend Drew is a fledgling photographer who has a lot of equipment, a lot of free time, and the burning desire to practice with light and composition and all those other artsy things that photographers think about.

In addition to a photography series he’s working on for an exhibit, he has a few connections for some actual print work, and he asked me to model for him on Sunday in exchange for a bunch of free pics of myself that aren’t taken with my ghetto camera that was made during the Civil War.

The print job he specifically asked me to model for is the football-themed (don’t laugh!) cover of Boi magazine (stop laughing!), one of Chicago's trendy gay rags. It seems they needed someone who looked like a football player (seriously—I’m going to have to ask you to stop laughing now) to wear football gear (this is your fourth warning) and look all sexy and appealing and relevant to the young gay party crowd. (That’s it! You and your laughing have gone too far. You are no longer my friend. And you don't get to borrow my football.)

And this is one of the many bazillion shots he took of me. Notice the black smudgy stuff under my eyes. Can you smell the street cred? We weren’t sure what real football players use for black smudgy stuff, so we used mascara (on sale at Walgreens for only $4!). Also notice how limp and lifeless and mousy-blah my hair is. That's from wearing the helmet. Honestly, I don't know what they pay football players nowadays, but for the havoc those helmets wreak on their hair, it can't be enough:


We also took some interesting shots in other funny hats. I like this one because I didn’t have to hold my stomach in:


For headshot options, we took the basic Serious Face And Black Shirt shots, though this one seemed too serious for my blog:


And we did some Serious Face And Black Shirt shots with interesting poses, but if we cropped this one for a mugshot, it might look like I have a fleshy bow in my hair:


This one also seemed too serious for the blog, but I liked the way it made my eyes look Mel Gibson matinee-idol-who-is-NOT-batshit-crazy blue:


And this is the mugshot pic I settled on. I like the half-serious-half-smirk thing Drew captured that will float effortlessly between posts about poop, Ann Coulter, pooping on Ann Coulter and killing hookers in the basement. And marathon training. The shirt around my neck seemed like a fun idea at the time, but now it looks like maybe I dislocated my shoulder or I need to go back for remedial donning-a-wifebeater training:


In other weekend news, we ran a whopping 23 miles on Saturday—in blessedly cool, overcast, breezy weather. I felt fabulous when we got done, but I got home and crashed HARD for four hours. Then I talked to Romantic Date Guy (who is still on his long-ass business trip) for a couple hours. Then I had some dinner. Then I went back to bed. Which is exactly why I qualify to represent the young gay party crowd on the football-themed cover of Boi magazine:


(And stop laughing already!)

Famous boyfriends, TiVo and Cartman's naked little wee-wee

My sister has been beside herself with excitement contemplating the potential implications of the Chicago magazine photographer's offhand remarks last week that she wants to set me up with Nate Berkus. (The photographer has not done anything to follow up on her remarks, by the way. And I think that my sister is far more interested in the benefits of having a talented and disarmingly handsome designer-in-law than in securing her brother's romantic happiness.)

Anyway, I had never heard of Nate Berkus (who is apparently Oprah's favorite designer), and when my sister breathlessly informed me that he was going to be on Oprah yesterday, I TiVo'd the program and watched it last night. And aside from being affable and talented and filled with a charming aw-shucks self-confidence, Nate is also an undeniable hottie. (He has this Jude Law thing goin' on, and I've been a Jude Law fan since I saw him naked on Broadway in Indiscretions in 1995 -- way before he was famous.) I also really like what Nate did with the apartment makeover on yesterday's show. (I also like the fact that the apartment belonged to a woman named Jenny (my sister's name) and she had a son named Jake (my name). Coincidence? Fate? You decide.)

I have since learned, though, that I have another tenuous connection to Nate through my friend Anders. And Anders thinks that Nate is a lot shorter than I am. And everyone knows that you choose the filthy homosexual lifestyle so you can meet someone your own size and double your wardrobe. So the Nate-and-Jake thing probably would never work out.

While I was getting caught up on my television culture last night, I also saw the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy featuring the breathtaking figure skater with the thighs and abs of death and the brilliant South Park featuring the Ninja weapons, a not-so-invisible Cartman tiptoeing naked across a stage, and a message lambasting our culture's fascination with violence and misguided offensensitivity to nudity.

I guess you could call this a very good day

The photo shoot.
Six words: I should do this every day. I spent an hour an a half being LOVED by these people. Someone brought me water, someone picked out my wardrobe and STEAMED it for me, someone fussed over my hair and makeup and lighting, someone fussed over my clothes every time I shifted my body in front of the camera, the photographers kept telling me how hot I looked and cracked jokes and acted like they were having the best time of their lives taking my pictures ... and now I officially want to be a full-time model. It really IS the high-glamour lifestyle we'd all suspected it was! I also now have two names to drop:

1. Hunter Hillenmeyer, a Chicago Bears linebacker, had his pictures taken after mine. The man has amazing eyes and a pretty decent body. But he's all of 23 years old, and I'm guessing he could buy and sell me. And I learned that while most of us anonymous Top 20 Singles were nominated and picked based on our personalities/profiles/looks, people like Hunter were ringers specifically recruited by Chicago magazine to add star power and increase sales. So I can't decide if I should be insulted that I'm not a big enough name to sell magazines (as if) or extremely flattered that I was picked to appear among some certifiably famous locals.

2. Nate Berkus, who is apparently Oprah's favorite designer and quite an accomplished young business man to boot, is now a potential blind date for me. One of the photographers today is friends with him, and she insisted that he and I would make a great couple. I told her to fix us up and she seemed genuinely excited at the prospect, but I'll believe it when I see it.

Because I'm gay, I also feel obligated to mention that I got in a pretty killer chest workout yesterday and a major killer arm workout today so my guns would look their buffest in all the tight short-sleeved shirts I packed for the photo shoot. Of course, of all the 20 shirts I brought along, the stylist picked one of the two long-sleeved ones for the pic. I just thought I should mention that.

One more piece of news: After all my fretting about having to bring "something special to me" to the shoot, they decided not to use any of the crap we lugged to the studio for our photos. Whew.

The run.
I got home from the shoot at 5:30 -- which gave me plenty of time to get in a nice long run before my dream date with Steve. And what a gorgeous day for it! The weather was perfect, the trees were in bloom, the lilacs were flowering and deliciously fragrant, the sky was a gorgeous blue rivaled only by the shimmering blues of the lake, and I just kept drinking in the sheer fabulousness of it all and pounding away until I'd gotten in a good six miles. And now my thighs are screaming.

The date.
Ah, the date. Steve picked me up promptly at 7:30 in his sexy black SUV, and he took me to Hopleaf, a nearby tavern/restaurant that serves delicious Belgian food and offers an endless menu of Belgian beers. He looked amazing -- even more amazing than I'd remembered. Better still, he had interesting things to talk about, he's traveled all over the world, he was unfailingly polite, he was absolutely fascinated by me and our conversation was effortless -- until we got to the topic of the gay cruise I took two years ago. Which got us to circuit parties in general and then drugs in specific. And it turns out he's an unapologetic (and rather proud, actually) drug user. AAAAARRRRRGGGHHHHH! (I was profoundly disappointed by this revelation, but it sure took the pressure off as far as me trying to make a longstanding romantic impression -- and I spent the rest of the night just enjoying our date.) Anyway, it didn't spell the end of our evening, which also took us to an obscure little bar where he wanted to hear a friend of his give (of all things) an accordion concert -- but he had the wrong night and the place was deserted when we got there -- and eventually Pause, a cute little coffee shop just around the corner from my place.

Then we got to the sitting-in-his-car-in-front-of-my-place conversation, where our undeniable physical spark was dampened by his out-of-left-field declaration that he didn't see us ever dating, specifically citing our divergent attitudes toward recreational drug use (well, DUH), but he'd love to be friends. Which is fine by me. Our goodbye lasted a good half hour, too, which was also fine by me.

And now I have the memories of a pretty spectacular first date (all things considered) with none of the concerns about compromising my singlehood before the big Top 20 Singles launch party on June 25. Mark your calendars!