My grandma died 20 years ago today. I hesitate to call her my favorite grandma, but she was definitely the grandparent I was closest to, both geographically and emotionally. Both my grandfathers had died when I was pretty young, and my other grandma (my dad's mom) lived way off in Colorado, and we saw her only once every three or four years. Two of her kids and their families lived near her, so they could take care of her as she got older.
One of the reasons I was so close to the grandma on my mom's side was because she lived only two hours away and was openly involved in our lives ... and she eventually lived right in our house the last few years of her life. My mom was an only child, so there was nobody else to care for this grandma—and there was simply no way we wouldn't take care of her as a family as long as we could before we'd put her in a home.
So before I even started high school, we partitioned off the family room with a huge curtain and moved in a bed for her. (I distinctly remember watching early MTV videos—like "Thriller"—sitting next to her on that bed.) There was a half bathroom on that floor for her to use for sponge baths, and as she got weaker and weaker, Dad and I would carry her up the stairs on a chair every other day so she could use a bathroom with a shower. Other than that, she had everything she needed on one floor ... and a busy social life delivered right to her curtained door.
Since the family room was right off the living room and our house was usually filled with visiting friends, Grandma was always a part of everything that went on in our lives. She'd sit in her housecoat with my friends and me when they came over to study or play games, she joined me every morning at 4:00 as I rubber-banded newspapers in our front hall, and she's smiling in every picture of every party or picnic or cozy night in front of the fire that we had in the early '80s.
As I recall, she got sick enough to move into a hospital only a short while before she died -- and while she was there she had a steady stream of visitors including her personal friends and all the friends of our family who'd gotten to know her.
As you can imagine, these events taught me VOLUMES about compassion and sacrifice and love and the importance of family—all invaluable lessons to imprint on the mind of a young teen-ager. That my parents would arrange their lives around the comfort and security of a sometimes cantankerous, sometimes terrified, sometimes exhausted old lady ... that my grandma would do her best not to be an imposition in our home and in our lives ... that our friends would welcome her with open arms and include her in their social plans ... these are the living examples I remember and try to follow to this day.
Obviously, Grandma's death devastated me. It was the first profound death-related loss in my young life. (So far, the only other deaths of that life-changing magnitude have been the stuff of Greek tragedy: four friends died in a plane crash Easter morning of 1988, another friend was murdered by the bomb that blew Pan Am flight 103 out of the sky over Lockerbie, Scotland, in December 1988, and a family friend's mother was brutally beaten in the basement of the apartment she managed in 1990—and I have never been as pro-death penalty as the day I helped clean up the murder scene.)
But you survive. You move on. You cherish the memories. You carry on the examples. You honor the lives. I was sad when my dad's mom died four years ago, but by then I had a greater understanding of death as a closing chapter in a long story, and I looked at Grandma's death as more of a celebration of her remarkable life.
But sometimes death touches you and leaves nothing.
In the last couple months I've been hit by a steady parade of deaths of people I knew only marginally, if at all. It started in June with the suicide of the young Chicago magazine editor who'd picked me to be profiled in the Top 20 Singles issue. I'd spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with her only a month earlier at my photo shoot, and she was so fun that I left hoping to develop a friendship with her—even going so far as to keep a clever email correspondence going between us.
Two more suicides followed in quick succession: the brother of one of my family's oldest friends (though I'm not sure I'd ever met the guy) and a distant cousin I was only vaguely aware I had (though his mother—a crusty old broad in the best sense of the word—and I always enjoyed an easy rapport whenever we saw each other).
Then, in the last couple weeks, two members of the Chicago Gay Men's Chorus died. The first was a guy I'm sure I'd seen a hundred times in rehearsal, but I didn't recognize his name and I didn't recognize him in our photo directory. Apparently everyone else knew him, though; the email and blog tributes posted in his honor were quite touching. The second was a guy I'd talked to a number of times but never really befriended. I'd always thought he was just quiet, but I'm learning now he was always sick.
And I'm caught in a weird limbo. I'm obviously saddened by the pain that these people suffered and by the pain their deaths brought to their families and friends. But, on reflection, that sadness is mostly academic. I'm sure part of it stems from the fact I had no real emotional connection to any of them. But I worry that I may be becoming jaded. Am I numbed by the bombardment of death in the news and on TV? Have I become self-absorbed to the point that I don't care about other people—even in death? Is it too easy to distance myself from someone I had no real emotional connection to in the first place?
Or—perhaps—my concern over feeling nothing in the face of a loss that isn't even mine to feel is proof that I actually do have the compassion I was taught by my family so long ago when Grandma and I watched videos together from her bed in our family room.
Showing posts with label Chicago Magazine Singles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago Magazine Singles. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Thursday, August 05, 2004
The loneliest little Single
The August issue of Chicago magazine is out, which officially signals the end of my July-long reign as one of Chicago’s Top 20 Singles. And while you’d probably think membership in this elite club would bring me a lifetime of untold love, happiness and shoes, you’d be wrong.
In fact, it has brought me nothing but disappointment, embarrassment and random little tufts of hair on my back that my workout partner takes great delight in pointing out (they may just be a result of my getting older, though). And here, for your reading pleasure, are my final ruminations on the exciting process and the dismal results of the whole adventure:
MY PROFILE
Could it BE any more obsessed with gay stereotypes? (We got the drag and the (yawn) French lessons squeezed in there, but where’s the mention of the marathon training and the sky diving and the career accomplishments?) Could it BE any more inaccurate and misleading? (Paris in the fall? Since when is March in the fall? Not interested in finding a “song and dance man”? What part of “I’d love to find someone who’s as into musical theater as I am” is so hard to understand?) Could it BE any less appealing to potential suitors? (Apparently not, as you’ll learn further down in this diatribe.) And to add insult to injury, the online version is truncated to focus on just the REALLY gay stuff. Go me.
MY PHOTO
I hate it. My family hates it. All my friends hate it. People have either said it looks nothing like me, or—if they were feeling charitable—they merely said it looks “OK.” I decided to let the anonymous masses vote impartially on its appeal, so I posted it on hotornot.com a month ago—along with a picture I took of myself as the control. Here’s a comparison of photo shoots and results:
Their photo shoot
• Professional studio
• Professional lighting
• Professional hair and makeup artist
• Professional stylist who picked my clothes, steamed them and even fussed over their drape every time I moved
• Professional lighting-level checker
• Professional photographer
• Assistant to professional photographer
• Lady who got me a refreshing beverage
• Multiple cameras
• Two rolls of film equaling about 50 pictures
• One hour on a beautiful May afternoon
• Final selection by a professional photo editor
The result: This monstrosity, which bears a greater likeness to Grandpa Munster than to me.
Hot Or Not rating as of this post: 6.8
My photo shoot
• Studio = my bedroom on a sunny June morning, soon after I woke up
• Wardrobe = my favorite T-shirt, still kind of wrinkly but relatively clean
• No makeup
• Total bedhead
• Cheap digital camera perched on a book on a chair on my bed
• About 10 shots using my automatic timer, many of which looked pretty good, IMHO
The result: This picture, which I had to crop because my bedhead was worse than I thought, and since I wasn’t able to look through the viewfinder I was barely in the picture anyway. But I think it looks a lot like the guy I see in the mirror every morning.
Hot Or Not rating as of this post: 9.4
Point spread between low-reality, piss-poor-quality professional picture and my modest attempts at self-portraiture: 2.8
I rest my case.
THE RESULTS
The magazine set up a special email address for each one of us—and the editors specifically instructed us to check it every day because they said the mailboxes tend to fill up with marriage proposals and then the magazine has to field angry calls from potential suitors who can’t get through. They also told us that they get lots of letters for the singles, which they regularly forward to us in large envelopes. Furthermore, we were told anecdotally that potential suitors historically have found many featured singles in the phone book and inundated them with phone calls and flowers. One editor described the whole experience as “the heavens opening up and raining down men” on me.
Here’s how it really played out:
Emails:
• 1 from a drag queen who can’t spell
• 1 from a guy I hadn’t heard from since we did a theme-park show together in Buffalo in 1988—he saw the magazine in his doctor’s NY office
• 1 from a neighbor who also saw the magazine in his doctor’s office
• A handful from a bunch of friends back in Iowa who were told about it via an email from another friend
• A buttload of spam
Packages of letters in the mail:
• 1 free book about finding my soul mate with a cover letter from the author that began, “As one of Chicago magazine’s Top 20 Singles, I wanted you to have a copy of my book … .” (Note to those of you who for some unfathomable reason aren’t irritated to the point of justifiable homicide about misplaced modifiers: The author was NOT one of the Top 20 Singles, but the way he muddied up this sentence CLEARLY stated that he was. And he’s a fucking WRITER. Who should KNOW BETTER.)
Flowers:
Let’s just say the dust levels in my vase collection are higher than they were before the issue came out.
Phone calls:
Gay men are notoriously clumsy dialers. I’m sure the phone will start ringing any day now.
Marriage proposals:
Maybe the cousin-fuckers in Missouri who just voted gay-marriage discrimination into their constitution discouraged all the marriage-minded men from contacting me. Maybe.
Being recognized by strangers:
Actually, this has happened a couple of times. A friend of a friend met me at a crowded street fair one night and then recognized me the next day in the magazine. And this guy recognized me on Friendster. So that was kind of cool.
FINAL THOUGHTS
You know how Charlotte on Sex in the City dreamed for so long of having a beautiful engagement picture in the New York Times and was so disappointed when it was printed with a huge Hitler-mustache smudge across her face? That’s kind of how I feel about the whole thing. It's not like I'm deserving of any level of attention and admiration—or like the "honor" of being picked to be a Top 20 Single makes one whit of difference in the world. But I was sooooo excited about the prospect of being profiled in a glossy, high-end national publication (and who wouldn’t be?) and I even let myself fantasize that this—finally—would be the catalyst for sending me on celestial trajectories of social excitement (dare I say validation?), career satisfaction and—yes—even True Love.
And when I saw the goofy picture and read the profile that clearly cast me as the token faggot in the Rich Straight White People Magazine, I was almost sick with disappointment, embarrassment and the realization that once again my life wasn’t following the Boy of Destiny path I’d been hoping for.
The only positive thing I’ve gotten out of the whole thing is the occasional praise from gay people who note that I’m the first Top 20 Single (apparently in the history of the magazine) who’s totally, shamelessly out. (Not like I had any control over the content of the profile, but I did tell the writer that I’m totally out in life and that I’m not afraid of bigots, so there was no reason to reduce my sexuality to mere innuendo. And for once, she listened.) And—on a side note—that deafening silence in response to the profile includes a welcome silence from the goat-ball lickers in the Christian hate industry who have been so quick to send me anonymous save-the-gerbils postcards when I've had gay stuff published in Time and Newsweek and other national newsmagazines. So either they’re threatened by publications with three-syllable titles or they know better than to fuck with me. Because since I’m still totally dateless (sigh) I have plenty of time—and unfocused frustration—to fuck with them back. And Christians vs. Faggots is one arena where I'm used to winning.
In fact, it has brought me nothing but disappointment, embarrassment and random little tufts of hair on my back that my workout partner takes great delight in pointing out (they may just be a result of my getting older, though). And here, for your reading pleasure, are my final ruminations on the exciting process and the dismal results of the whole adventure:
MY PROFILE
Could it BE any more obsessed with gay stereotypes? (We got the drag and the (yawn) French lessons squeezed in there, but where’s the mention of the marathon training and the sky diving and the career accomplishments?) Could it BE any more inaccurate and misleading? (Paris in the fall? Since when is March in the fall? Not interested in finding a “song and dance man”? What part of “I’d love to find someone who’s as into musical theater as I am” is so hard to understand?) Could it BE any less appealing to potential suitors? (Apparently not, as you’ll learn further down in this diatribe.) And to add insult to injury, the online version is truncated to focus on just the REALLY gay stuff. Go me.
MY PHOTO
I hate it. My family hates it. All my friends hate it. People have either said it looks nothing like me, or—if they were feeling charitable—they merely said it looks “OK.” I decided to let the anonymous masses vote impartially on its appeal, so I posted it on hotornot.com a month ago—along with a picture I took of myself as the control. Here’s a comparison of photo shoots and results:
Their photo shoot
• Professional studio
• Professional lighting
• Professional hair and makeup artist
• Professional stylist who picked my clothes, steamed them and even fussed over their drape every time I moved
• Professional lighting-level checker
• Professional photographer
• Assistant to professional photographer
• Lady who got me a refreshing beverage
• Multiple cameras
• Two rolls of film equaling about 50 pictures
• One hour on a beautiful May afternoon
• Final selection by a professional photo editor
The result: This monstrosity, which bears a greater likeness to Grandpa Munster than to me.
Hot Or Not rating as of this post: 6.8
My photo shoot
• Studio = my bedroom on a sunny June morning, soon after I woke up
• Wardrobe = my favorite T-shirt, still kind of wrinkly but relatively clean
• No makeup
• Total bedhead
• Cheap digital camera perched on a book on a chair on my bed
• About 10 shots using my automatic timer, many of which looked pretty good, IMHO
The result: This picture, which I had to crop because my bedhead was worse than I thought, and since I wasn’t able to look through the viewfinder I was barely in the picture anyway. But I think it looks a lot like the guy I see in the mirror every morning.
Hot Or Not rating as of this post: 9.4
Point spread between low-reality, piss-poor-quality professional picture and my modest attempts at self-portraiture: 2.8
I rest my case.
THE RESULTS
The magazine set up a special email address for each one of us—and the editors specifically instructed us to check it every day because they said the mailboxes tend to fill up with marriage proposals and then the magazine has to field angry calls from potential suitors who can’t get through. They also told us that they get lots of letters for the singles, which they regularly forward to us in large envelopes. Furthermore, we were told anecdotally that potential suitors historically have found many featured singles in the phone book and inundated them with phone calls and flowers. One editor described the whole experience as “the heavens opening up and raining down men” on me.
Here’s how it really played out:
Emails:
• 1 from a drag queen who can’t spell
• 1 from a guy I hadn’t heard from since we did a theme-park show together in Buffalo in 1988—he saw the magazine in his doctor’s NY office
• 1 from a neighbor who also saw the magazine in his doctor’s office
• A handful from a bunch of friends back in Iowa who were told about it via an email from another friend
• A buttload of spam
Packages of letters in the mail:
• 1 free book about finding my soul mate with a cover letter from the author that began, “As one of Chicago magazine’s Top 20 Singles, I wanted you to have a copy of my book … .” (Note to those of you who for some unfathomable reason aren’t irritated to the point of justifiable homicide about misplaced modifiers: The author was NOT one of the Top 20 Singles, but the way he muddied up this sentence CLEARLY stated that he was. And he’s a fucking WRITER. Who should KNOW BETTER.)
Flowers:
Let’s just say the dust levels in my vase collection are higher than they were before the issue came out.
Phone calls:
Gay men are notoriously clumsy dialers. I’m sure the phone will start ringing any day now.
Marriage proposals:
Maybe the cousin-fuckers in Missouri who just voted gay-marriage discrimination into their constitution discouraged all the marriage-minded men from contacting me. Maybe.
Being recognized by strangers:
Actually, this has happened a couple of times. A friend of a friend met me at a crowded street fair one night and then recognized me the next day in the magazine. And this guy recognized me on Friendster. So that was kind of cool.
FINAL THOUGHTS
You know how Charlotte on Sex in the City dreamed for so long of having a beautiful engagement picture in the New York Times and was so disappointed when it was printed with a huge Hitler-mustache smudge across her face? That’s kind of how I feel about the whole thing. It's not like I'm deserving of any level of attention and admiration—or like the "honor" of being picked to be a Top 20 Single makes one whit of difference in the world. But I was sooooo excited about the prospect of being profiled in a glossy, high-end national publication (and who wouldn’t be?) and I even let myself fantasize that this—finally—would be the catalyst for sending me on celestial trajectories of social excitement (dare I say validation?), career satisfaction and—yes—even True Love.
And when I saw the goofy picture and read the profile that clearly cast me as the token faggot in the Rich Straight White People Magazine, I was almost sick with disappointment, embarrassment and the realization that once again my life wasn’t following the Boy of Destiny path I’d been hoping for.
The only positive thing I’ve gotten out of the whole thing is the occasional praise from gay people who note that I’m the first Top 20 Single (apparently in the history of the magazine) who’s totally, shamelessly out. (Not like I had any control over the content of the profile, but I did tell the writer that I’m totally out in life and that I’m not afraid of bigots, so there was no reason to reduce my sexuality to mere innuendo. And for once, she listened.) And—on a side note—that deafening silence in response to the profile includes a welcome silence from the goat-ball lickers in the Christian hate industry who have been so quick to send me anonymous save-the-gerbils postcards when I've had gay stuff published in Time and Newsweek and other national newsmagazines. So either they’re threatened by publications with three-syllable titles or they know better than to fuck with me. Because since I’m still totally dateless (sigh) I have plenty of time—and unfocused frustration—to fuck with them back. And Christians vs. Faggots is one arena where I'm used to winning.
Friday, June 25, 2004
My night as a celebrity
I just got back from the Chicago Magazine Top 20 Singles kickoff party.
We Singles, you see, were the "celebrity" draw tonight at a charity fund-raiser/kickoff event for the issue that features us. How on earth I can achieve any level of celebrity status simply by virtue of the fact that I can't get a date is beyond me, but I won't let rational thought get in the way of enjoying the opportunity for some fawning attention and free sodas on a beautiful summer night. And I actually had a great time.
The day didn't start off so well, though. I could NOT get my hair to look good.
And then I had a hella stressful day at work. But I eventually made it -- only 15 minutes after we Top 20 Singles were expected to show up. I took my officemate Liza as my date, and I wore my new $105 gay-clone shirt (you know: striped, collared, fitted, untucked, sleeves too long, etc. etc. etc.) that Bill convinced me to buy for the occasion. So we get there, and the place is pretty packed. It was held at the beautiful Chicago Historical Society, and it was almost more fun to admire the architecture and the grounds than the people there.
(Speaking of the people there, the only big-ticket fund-raisers I've ever been to are populated by gay people. Fussy, elitist, social-climbing gay people. So I was a little shocked to be at a party where 1) strangers were extremely friendly to each other, 2) the guys don't look like cartoon characters, 3) I recognized the music they were playing and 4) people clearly don't know how to dress themselves. I swear, I've never seen a bigger collection of women who really, really need gay best friends to help them build wardrobes of flattering clothes.)
Our obligations as the Top 20 Singles were pretty small: Congregate behind the stage so we could be introduced to the crowd, and then line up on a magnificent circular staircase in the museum for our Brady Bunch photo.
The being-on-stage part seemed pretty easy. When the hosts for the evening started introducing the singles, they asked questions about their jobs and their interesting lives. When they introduced me and read on their little cue cards that I'm a singer, they asked me to sing. AS IF. The conversation went something like this:
"Will you sing something for us?"
"I'd rather not." (I'm not warmed up and I'd sound like shit. Next question, please.)
"Why not? C'mon -- sing for us!"
"No thanks." (Really. I'm not interested in sounding like shit in front of 500 strangers who may or may not be potential love interests.)
"Are you sure? Why not sing a little something?"
"Um, no." (Why is this such a hard concept for you to grasp?)
"OK ... that was Jake, everybody! Our next single is ..."
So if my fag-centric profile in the magazine weren't embarrassing enough, I'm also now the boring old homo who won't sing like a trained monkey for the straight people. No wonder I can't get a date, they must be thinking.
I ended up standing on stage next to Jennifer Schefft as they introduced the rest of the singles. (We were introduced alphabetically, you see. Which for once in my life put me at a standing-next-to-a-quasi-celebrity advantage.) I'd never seen the dating show Jennifer was on, so I wouldn't have known her if someone hadn't told me who she was. She's really rather short, and not too talkative. At least not with me. She sure was animated around the other gay guy in the Top 20 Singles, though.
And speaking of him, the boy either underdosed on his ADD meds or overdosed on his ecstasy tonight. He was as wired and unfocused as a Madonna movie, and during the Brady Bunch photo, the photographer actually had to yell at him -- repeatedly -- to get him to stand still and smile for the camera. Sheesh!
And speaking of running into contestants from nationally televised dating shows at the party, I'm pretty sure I saw "Bachelorette" reject and fellow social-anxiety-disorder-sufferer Jamie Blyth there. He's a little shorter than I'd expected, but he's dreamy in a Shaun Cassidy kind of way. And -- being true to our disorders -- Jamie and I never even acknowledged each other the whole evening.
Other highlights from the evening:
• Host Larry Potash is cute, but noticeably not as cute in person as he is on TV. (I have the opposite problem; I'm cute-ish in real life and I look like Ichabod Crane on TV.)
• Straight guys actually talk to me like I'm one of them. (After a lifetime of evidence that people rarely can tell that I'm gay when I meet them, I'm still always surprised that I continue to "pass" as straight. My paranoia about this is clearly just in my head -- though it was not unfounded tonight; anyone who read my gay-ass profile in the magazine probably expected me to bourrée in en pointe and sprinkle fairy dust on everyone I met.)
• It's a small, small, small, small world. Liza and I hadn't been at the event for 10 minutes when a woman RUSHED up to me all excited ... and it turns out she and I had done The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas together eight years ago in Iowa. An hour later, we bumped into the son of some of my parents' best friends in Iowa. Good Lord ... why are all these Iowans stalking me?
• In keeping with my unflattering and wholly unfair theme of gay/straight dichotomies in this post, I noticed that gay guys just have better bodies and better wardrobes than straight guys. Straight guys are far more friendly and fun and easygoing to hang around with, but homos sure can jack up the eye candy factor when they populate a room. I'll go to a bar or a gay event and find myself thinking lustful thoughts about a good 50% of the people I meet there. Tonight, I think I saw three guys I wanted to see naked.
Anyway, the party's over. I didn't get any numbers from anyone and only two strangers came up and talked to me all night (not that I expected to make a lot of love connections at an event marketed to a straight demographic). And I'm climbing into bed to rest up for tomorrow's Proud to Run 10K, which starts at 8:00 am -- ACK! So early! -- and kicks off all the Pride festivities in Chicago.
Night!
We Singles, you see, were the "celebrity" draw tonight at a charity fund-raiser/kickoff event for the issue that features us. How on earth I can achieve any level of celebrity status simply by virtue of the fact that I can't get a date is beyond me, but I won't let rational thought get in the way of enjoying the opportunity for some fawning attention and free sodas on a beautiful summer night. And I actually had a great time.
The day didn't start off so well, though. I could NOT get my hair to look good.
And then I had a hella stressful day at work. But I eventually made it -- only 15 minutes after we Top 20 Singles were expected to show up. I took my officemate Liza as my date, and I wore my new $105 gay-clone shirt (you know: striped, collared, fitted, untucked, sleeves too long, etc. etc. etc.) that Bill convinced me to buy for the occasion. So we get there, and the place is pretty packed. It was held at the beautiful Chicago Historical Society, and it was almost more fun to admire the architecture and the grounds than the people there.
(Speaking of the people there, the only big-ticket fund-raisers I've ever been to are populated by gay people. Fussy, elitist, social-climbing gay people. So I was a little shocked to be at a party where 1) strangers were extremely friendly to each other, 2) the guys don't look like cartoon characters, 3) I recognized the music they were playing and 4) people clearly don't know how to dress themselves. I swear, I've never seen a bigger collection of women who really, really need gay best friends to help them build wardrobes of flattering clothes.)
Our obligations as the Top 20 Singles were pretty small: Congregate behind the stage so we could be introduced to the crowd, and then line up on a magnificent circular staircase in the museum for our Brady Bunch photo.
The being-on-stage part seemed pretty easy. When the hosts for the evening started introducing the singles, they asked questions about their jobs and their interesting lives. When they introduced me and read on their little cue cards that I'm a singer, they asked me to sing. AS IF. The conversation went something like this:
"Will you sing something for us?"
"I'd rather not." (I'm not warmed up and I'd sound like shit. Next question, please.)
"Why not? C'mon -- sing for us!"
"No thanks." (Really. I'm not interested in sounding like shit in front of 500 strangers who may or may not be potential love interests.)
"Are you sure? Why not sing a little something?"
"Um, no." (Why is this such a hard concept for you to grasp?)
"OK ... that was Jake, everybody! Our next single is ..."
So if my fag-centric profile in the magazine weren't embarrassing enough, I'm also now the boring old homo who won't sing like a trained monkey for the straight people. No wonder I can't get a date, they must be thinking.
I ended up standing on stage next to Jennifer Schefft as they introduced the rest of the singles. (We were introduced alphabetically, you see. Which for once in my life put me at a standing-next-to-a-quasi-celebrity advantage.) I'd never seen the dating show Jennifer was on, so I wouldn't have known her if someone hadn't told me who she was. She's really rather short, and not too talkative. At least not with me. She sure was animated around the other gay guy in the Top 20 Singles, though.
And speaking of him, the boy either underdosed on his ADD meds or overdosed on his ecstasy tonight. He was as wired and unfocused as a Madonna movie, and during the Brady Bunch photo, the photographer actually had to yell at him -- repeatedly -- to get him to stand still and smile for the camera. Sheesh!
And speaking of running into contestants from nationally televised dating shows at the party, I'm pretty sure I saw "Bachelorette" reject and fellow social-anxiety-disorder-sufferer Jamie Blyth there. He's a little shorter than I'd expected, but he's dreamy in a Shaun Cassidy kind of way. And -- being true to our disorders -- Jamie and I never even acknowledged each other the whole evening.
Other highlights from the evening:
• Host Larry Potash is cute, but noticeably not as cute in person as he is on TV. (I have the opposite problem; I'm cute-ish in real life and I look like Ichabod Crane on TV.)
• Straight guys actually talk to me like I'm one of them. (After a lifetime of evidence that people rarely can tell that I'm gay when I meet them, I'm still always surprised that I continue to "pass" as straight. My paranoia about this is clearly just in my head -- though it was not unfounded tonight; anyone who read my gay-ass profile in the magazine probably expected me to bourrée in en pointe and sprinkle fairy dust on everyone I met.)
• It's a small, small, small, small world. Liza and I hadn't been at the event for 10 minutes when a woman RUSHED up to me all excited ... and it turns out she and I had done The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas together eight years ago in Iowa. An hour later, we bumped into the son of some of my parents' best friends in Iowa. Good Lord ... why are all these Iowans stalking me?
• In keeping with my unflattering and wholly unfair theme of gay/straight dichotomies in this post, I noticed that gay guys just have better bodies and better wardrobes than straight guys. Straight guys are far more friendly and fun and easygoing to hang around with, but homos sure can jack up the eye candy factor when they populate a room. I'll go to a bar or a gay event and find myself thinking lustful thoughts about a good 50% of the people I meet there. Tonight, I think I saw three guys I wanted to see naked.
Anyway, the party's over. I didn't get any numbers from anyone and only two strangers came up and talked to me all night (not that I expected to make a lot of love connections at an event marketed to a straight demographic). And I'm climbing into bed to rest up for tomorrow's Proud to Run 10K, which starts at 8:00 am -- ACK! So early! -- and kicks off all the Pride festivities in Chicago.
Night!
Thursday, June 24, 2004
33 years ago today ...
I became a big brother.
And while my little sister and I fought like cats and dogs all the way through junior high, we've become best friends as adults. She's an excellent teacher who keeps her kids wrapped around her little finger; a spectacular mommy who's raising the two most delightful, articulate children; and a beacon of inspiration for anyone who's ever tried to be a thoughtful friend, get the best deal on a car, manage a household, organize a party, or live with a frustrating food allergy (in her case, gluten ... which is in EVERYTHING).
Happy birthday, little sister. I love you!
* * * * *
In other news, there was a guy on my elevator this morning reading my queer-ass Chicago magazine profile without realizing he was standing right next to me. Trippy.
And while my little sister and I fought like cats and dogs all the way through junior high, we've become best friends as adults. She's an excellent teacher who keeps her kids wrapped around her little finger; a spectacular mommy who's raising the two most delightful, articulate children; and a beacon of inspiration for anyone who's ever tried to be a thoughtful friend, get the best deal on a car, manage a household, organize a party, or live with a frustrating food allergy (in her case, gluten ... which is in EVERYTHING).
Happy birthday, little sister. I love you!
* * * * *
In other news, there was a guy on my elevator this morning reading my queer-ass Chicago magazine profile without realizing he was standing right next to me. Trippy.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Being recognized by strangers
It's started, and the Top 20 Singles issue hasn't even been out for a week -- hell, it's not even on newsstands yet.
Two guys have recognized me from the Chicago magazine profile so far (even though I'm well hidden behind that grotesque photo):
1) This guy, who found me on Friendster, and
2) One of Red Shirt's friends, whom I met briefly on Sunday night at the Andersonville street fair. I hadn't told Red Shirt about the Top 20 Singles thing (mostly because it would have some creepy -- and pretty arrogant -- "I just met you but I'm already projecting a lifetime of happiness on a few dates and I want you to know that you may be faced with a world of competition for my affections in the coming months" subtext), but he seemed to see the whole thing as kinda fun last night when he told me about his friend discovering me in the magazine.
I've gotten some other feedback from family and friends as well. Here are a few (some paraphrased) quotes:
"Jake, this is HUGE!"
"That's a horrible picture of you."
"My friends told me the profile doesn't even sound like you."
"I wondered why you didn't tell me about this. Now that I've seen the picture, I know why."
"It's about time they featured gay guys who aren't afraid to be openly gay."
"I hate the profile they wrote of you. It doesn't capture you at all. It captures the stereotypical gay male as viewed in the eyes of ignorant straight people. I find it offensive."
"That can't be the best picture they took of you."
"Did YOU pick that picture? It's awful."
"Congratulations! I hope you win!" (This quote is from a friend of my parents who obviously doesn't get that it's not some sort of competition.)
And speaking of Red Shirt and last night ...
Date Three was just as fun as dates One and Two. We saw The Stepford Wives, which is neither good nor bad but simply a lot of fun. We held hands during the movie, which is a MAJOR cool thing for me. We discovered our shared obsession for bargain hunting and then regaled each other with stories of great deals we've gotten on everything from clothes to furniture. He revealed his "dirty little secret" to me: He's a Republican. (I already knew that, though, through my spy, Anders.) And while anyone who willfully associates with the Republican party is a little suspect in my book, I'm more horrified by toe-the-line partisan politics on either side of the aisle than by Red Shirt's measured, selective association with the so-called Grand Old Party. Best of all, we capped off the night in each other's arms on his couch. Mmmmmm.
On the down side, our schedules are NOT date-friendly over the next two months. In fact, we've found two dates where we can get together between now and the end of July. On the upside, we've locked in those dates for each other, which means there's still a mutual spark. Next date: June 28!
Two guys have recognized me from the Chicago magazine profile so far (even though I'm well hidden behind that grotesque photo):
1) This guy, who found me on Friendster, and
2) One of Red Shirt's friends, whom I met briefly on Sunday night at the Andersonville street fair. I hadn't told Red Shirt about the Top 20 Singles thing (mostly because it would have some creepy -- and pretty arrogant -- "I just met you but I'm already projecting a lifetime of happiness on a few dates and I want you to know that you may be faced with a world of competition for my affections in the coming months" subtext), but he seemed to see the whole thing as kinda fun last night when he told me about his friend discovering me in the magazine.
I've gotten some other feedback from family and friends as well. Here are a few (some paraphrased) quotes:
"Jake, this is HUGE!"
"That's a horrible picture of you."
"My friends told me the profile doesn't even sound like you."
"I wondered why you didn't tell me about this. Now that I've seen the picture, I know why."
"It's about time they featured gay guys who aren't afraid to be openly gay."
"I hate the profile they wrote of you. It doesn't capture you at all. It captures the stereotypical gay male as viewed in the eyes of ignorant straight people. I find it offensive."
"That can't be the best picture they took of you."
"Did YOU pick that picture? It's awful."
"Congratulations! I hope you win!" (This quote is from a friend of my parents who obviously doesn't get that it's not some sort of competition.)
And speaking of Red Shirt and last night ...
Date Three was just as fun as dates One and Two. We saw The Stepford Wives, which is neither good nor bad but simply a lot of fun. We held hands during the movie, which is a MAJOR cool thing for me. We discovered our shared obsession for bargain hunting and then regaled each other with stories of great deals we've gotten on everything from clothes to furniture. He revealed his "dirty little secret" to me: He's a Republican. (I already knew that, though, through my spy, Anders.) And while anyone who willfully associates with the Republican party is a little suspect in my book, I'm more horrified by toe-the-line partisan politics on either side of the aisle than by Red Shirt's measured, selective association with the so-called Grand Old Party. Best of all, we capped off the night in each other's arms on his couch. Mmmmmm.
On the down side, our schedules are NOT date-friendly over the next two months. In fact, we've found two dates where we can get together between now and the end of July. On the upside, we've locked in those dates for each other, which means there's still a mutual spark. Next date: June 28!
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
The celebrity curse: Day One
My first full day of being a celebrity is winding down ... and let me tell you, it's been EXHAUSTING. The press tours! The autograph hounds! The paparazzi!
Actually, the magazine hit Chicago-area mailboxes on Saturday -- so I've really been a celebrity for three full days. I just didn't know it. So I've decided to measure the demands of my celebrityhood from the moment someone thrust the magazine in my face at Monday morning's staff meeting to show me the grotesque photo and misleading profile that have my name on them.
Here's how it's shaken down so far:
WORK
People I encountered: I think we have about 200 employees
People who've made comments: About all of them -- but that's only because of the office gossip network
THE GYM
People I encountered: Not too many -- maybe 20
People checking out my famous ass in the shower: None
THE TRAIN HOME
People I encountered: I was able to get a seat, so maybe about 50
People who fought to sit by me and cop a feel: None
SUPERCUTS
People I encountered: 10
People demanding haircuts inspired by my famous mane: None
THE LAKEFRONT TRAIL
People I encountered: Tons, but I was too busy focusing on getting in four miles before the sun went down to count
People hiding in the bushes and snapping photos of me to sell to the Sun-Times: None
SIDETRACK
People I encountered: A whole bunch -- it was show tune night, you know
People staring hungrily at me as they sang "One (Singular Sensation)": None
MY BEDROOM
People I encountered: Just me
Supermodels showing up at my door in nothing but towels, demanding that I kiss them: None
THE 147 MORNING BUS
People I encountered: Standing room only
People craning their necks to see exactly what a glamorous celebrity listens to on his iPod: None
CALIFORNIA PIZZA KITCHEN
People I encountered: The place was about half full
People walking by our booth and stealing surreptitious glances as they basked in my celebrity glow: None
MY INBOX
People able to reach me via the email address the magazine set up for me: Infinite
People who've crafted seductive e-poems in celebration of my shining famousness: None
As you can see, I've developed a true empathy for my fellow celebrities today. Keeping up with the constant demands for my attention -- not to mention keeping myself photo-shoot pretty at all times -- can really take its toll. I don't know how Julia Roberts and Gilbert Gottfried do it.
I'll be back tomorrow with more tales from the front. In the mean time, duck if you see me. The crowds can be vicious.
Actually, the magazine hit Chicago-area mailboxes on Saturday -- so I've really been a celebrity for three full days. I just didn't know it. So I've decided to measure the demands of my celebrityhood from the moment someone thrust the magazine in my face at Monday morning's staff meeting to show me the grotesque photo and misleading profile that have my name on them.
Here's how it's shaken down so far:
WORK
People I encountered: I think we have about 200 employees
People who've made comments: About all of them -- but that's only because of the office gossip network
THE GYM
People I encountered: Not too many -- maybe 20
People checking out my famous ass in the shower: None
THE TRAIN HOME
People I encountered: I was able to get a seat, so maybe about 50
People who fought to sit by me and cop a feel: None
SUPERCUTS
People I encountered: 10
People demanding haircuts inspired by my famous mane: None
THE LAKEFRONT TRAIL
People I encountered: Tons, but I was too busy focusing on getting in four miles before the sun went down to count
People hiding in the bushes and snapping photos of me to sell to the Sun-Times: None
SIDETRACK
People I encountered: A whole bunch -- it was show tune night, you know
People staring hungrily at me as they sang "One (Singular Sensation)": None
MY BEDROOM
People I encountered: Just me
Supermodels showing up at my door in nothing but towels, demanding that I kiss them: None
THE 147 MORNING BUS
People I encountered: Standing room only
People craning their necks to see exactly what a glamorous celebrity listens to on his iPod: None
CALIFORNIA PIZZA KITCHEN
People I encountered: The place was about half full
People walking by our booth and stealing surreptitious glances as they basked in my celebrity glow: None
MY INBOX
People able to reach me via the email address the magazine set up for me: Infinite
People who've crafted seductive e-poems in celebration of my shining famousness: None
As you can see, I've developed a true empathy for my fellow celebrities today. Keeping up with the constant demands for my attention -- not to mention keeping myself photo-shoot pretty at all times -- can really take its toll. I don't know how Julia Roberts and Gilbert Gottfried do it.
I'll be back tomorrow with more tales from the front. In the mean time, duck if you see me. The crowds can be vicious.
Monday, June 14, 2004
I'm a celebrity!
The Chicago magazine Top 20 Singles issue is out -- quite a few weeks earlier than I'd expected.
And there I am. Rubbing elbows right there in print with Jennifer "The Bachelor" Schefft and Hunter "The Bears" Hillenmeyer. Near as I can tell, there are just two homos in the Top 20 mix -- and neither of us is shy about being totally out in a nationwide high-end glossy magazine. The other gay guy -- whose last name starts with a W but who has an Emmy -- has a bigger picture on a more prominent page while I'm tucked away on the last spread with people whose last names start with Y and V. Even though my S cognomen puts me waaaaaaay higher in the alphabet hierarchy. Harumph.
And I don't want to complain too much -- especially since the Top 20 Singles editor promised that with this exposure "the heavens will rain down marriage proposals on me" -- but I have to say I'm not completely thrilled with my photo. It makes me look kind of smirky, like I just farted and I think I'm going to get away with it. And nobody wants to date a farter.
(Friends who've seen it say it doesn't even look like me. Which is good to hear, especially because the low-res version makes me look like Grandpa Munster. For the record, I actually look like this.)
And my profile -- duly flattering but factually shaky in many places -- spends an inordinate amount of time focusing on my brief foray into the world of drag. (Jeez -- you wear a dress just once (OK, four times) and suddenly you're a big ol' drag queen.)
But enough kvetching. I'm sincerely flattered that Chicago magazine found me interesting and attractive enough to take up space in its magazine. Even though the photo they printed makes me look like a bar mitzvah clown. And I'm thoroughly intrigued by where the whole thing might take me socially and romantically. And you, dear readers, will get to hear all about it. Assuming the cartoon photo and drag-centric profile don't undermine my ability to get any dates and generate any stories worth posting.
In the mean time, I'm not losing focus on whatever could develop with Red Shirt (next date: Wednesday!), and I'm already busy worrying what I'm going to wear to the Top 20 Singles kickoff party on June 25 at the Chicago Historical Society. The event is also a fund-raiser for the Bone Marrow Transplant Program at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Tickets are $55 in advance and $65 at the door. Get your tickets here if you want to join us.
And check your newsstands for the July issue. (Promise not to laugh.) I'm on page 86. The same year I graduated from high school. Cosmic.
And there I am. Rubbing elbows right there in print with Jennifer "The Bachelor" Schefft and Hunter "The Bears" Hillenmeyer. Near as I can tell, there are just two homos in the Top 20 mix -- and neither of us is shy about being totally out in a nationwide high-end glossy magazine. The other gay guy -- whose last name starts with a W but who has an Emmy -- has a bigger picture on a more prominent page while I'm tucked away on the last spread with people whose last names start with Y and V. Even though my S cognomen puts me waaaaaaay higher in the alphabet hierarchy. Harumph.
And I don't want to complain too much -- especially since the Top 20 Singles editor promised that with this exposure "the heavens will rain down marriage proposals on me" -- but I have to say I'm not completely thrilled with my photo. It makes me look kind of smirky, like I just farted and I think I'm going to get away with it. And nobody wants to date a farter.
(Friends who've seen it say it doesn't even look like me. Which is good to hear, especially because the low-res version makes me look like Grandpa Munster. For the record, I actually look like this.)
And my profile -- duly flattering but factually shaky in many places -- spends an inordinate amount of time focusing on my brief foray into the world of drag. (Jeez -- you wear a dress just once (OK, four times) and suddenly you're a big ol' drag queen.)
But enough kvetching. I'm sincerely flattered that Chicago magazine found me interesting and attractive enough to take up space in its magazine. Even though the photo they printed makes me look like a bar mitzvah clown. And I'm thoroughly intrigued by where the whole thing might take me socially and romantically. And you, dear readers, will get to hear all about it. Assuming the cartoon photo and drag-centric profile don't undermine my ability to get any dates and generate any stories worth posting.
In the mean time, I'm not losing focus on whatever could develop with Red Shirt (next date: Wednesday!), and I'm already busy worrying what I'm going to wear to the Top 20 Singles kickoff party on June 25 at the Chicago Historical Society. The event is also a fund-raiser for the Bone Marrow Transplant Program at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Tickets are $55 in advance and $65 at the door. Get your tickets here if you want to join us.
And check your newsstands for the July issue. (Promise not to laugh.) I'm on page 86. The same year I graduated from high school. Cosmic.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
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!
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!
Monday, May 03, 2004
Three things that aren't working so well:
The Drano
After an hour of chemical triage last night, my kitchen sink drain is still as slow as a Bush brain cell. But at least it now has the fresh scent of bleach.
My attempts at self-manicuring
In an unexplainable fit of homosexuality, I bought a six-in-one nail buffer ("two surfaces for shaping and four surfaces for buffing!") yesterday. I guess I wanted to have manicure-fresh hands for tomorrow's photo shoot without all the bleeding that a real manicure produces. So this morning I started hacking away at my fingernails, and now that I'm sitting at work checking out my handiwork, I'm finding weird ridges and little cross-hatch scars all over my nails. And now my buffing mishaps will be preserved for all eternity in the pages of Chicago Magazine. The horror!
The Home Depot's marketing department
One of the beautiful things about all that personal data that's out there for marketing departments to exploit and citizens to irrationally fear is that it prevents you from getting things you absolutely won't buy. It's why I don't get coupons for feminine hygiene products in the mail and Antonin Scalia doesn't get invitations to circuit parties. But someone has to let Home Depot in on the secret. My nine-digit zip code alone tells every marker in the world that I live in a highrise in a very population-dense neighborhood of Chicago -- and by extension that there is a very poor likelihood that I have a garden and that there is near absolute certainty that I don't own or use a garden hose. So what did Home Depot send me this weekend? A coupon for a hose extender for watering my garden.
After an hour of chemical triage last night, my kitchen sink drain is still as slow as a Bush brain cell. But at least it now has the fresh scent of bleach.
My attempts at self-manicuring
In an unexplainable fit of homosexuality, I bought a six-in-one nail buffer ("two surfaces for shaping and four surfaces for buffing!") yesterday. I guess I wanted to have manicure-fresh hands for tomorrow's photo shoot without all the bleeding that a real manicure produces. So this morning I started hacking away at my fingernails, and now that I'm sitting at work checking out my handiwork, I'm finding weird ridges and little cross-hatch scars all over my nails. And now my buffing mishaps will be preserved for all eternity in the pages of Chicago Magazine. The horror!
The Home Depot's marketing department
One of the beautiful things about all that personal data that's out there for marketing departments to exploit and citizens to irrationally fear is that it prevents you from getting things you absolutely won't buy. It's why I don't get coupons for feminine hygiene products in the mail and Antonin Scalia doesn't get invitations to circuit parties. But someone has to let Home Depot in on the secret. My nine-digit zip code alone tells every marker in the world that I live in a highrise in a very population-dense neighborhood of Chicago -- and by extension that there is a very poor likelihood that I have a garden and that there is near absolute certainty that I don't own or use a garden hose. So what did Home Depot send me this weekend? A coupon for a hose extender for watering my garden.
Friday, April 30, 2004
ACK! The pressure!
My Chicago Magazine Top 20 Singles photo shoot is set for Tuesday afternoon -- and I've been busy gym-pumping, teeth-whitening and fake-tanning ever since it got scheduled. I also just got the information telling what to bring: clothing that I'd wear on "the biggest date of my life ... think sexy" and "something that is special to me."
As for the clothing: I think I can scrape together one or two (or 10 or 20) ensembles that make me feel sexy. (Hell, even the most shopping-addicted homo wouldn't dare waste money on pants that flattened his butt or shoes that made his feet look small.) I'm a little concerned about the "vibrant red background" we'll be shot on -- red is so NOT my color -- but I think I'll manage. Especially if the fake tan hides my naturally ghostly pallor.
As for the something special: ACK! I've been combing through my condo looking for something special that wouldn't have potential layers of creepy, unattractive subtext. Here's what goes through my head every time I think of something: my first Tempo Award (too showy, looks like my job is my life), the homemade lefse stick that's been in my family for generations (kinda tacky, though it shows a certain level of pride in my Norwegian heritage), the adorable picture of my niece and nephew kissing each other (look at the gay uncle of the little kids who make out!), a piece of Grandma's Blue Willow China (too faggy), a poster of me from Forever Plaid (looks like someone can't let go of his five-year-old glory days), my nose-hair trimmer (waaaaay too much information) ... you get the picture.
Anyway, Mom and Dad are here for the weekend, so maybe they can think of something. Fortunately, they'll be very cool about helping their son find a nice boyfriend and settle down.
As for the clothing: I think I can scrape together one or two (or 10 or 20) ensembles that make me feel sexy. (Hell, even the most shopping-addicted homo wouldn't dare waste money on pants that flattened his butt or shoes that made his feet look small.) I'm a little concerned about the "vibrant red background" we'll be shot on -- red is so NOT my color -- but I think I'll manage. Especially if the fake tan hides my naturally ghostly pallor.
As for the something special: ACK! I've been combing through my condo looking for something special that wouldn't have potential layers of creepy, unattractive subtext. Here's what goes through my head every time I think of something: my first Tempo Award (too showy, looks like my job is my life), the homemade lefse stick that's been in my family for generations (kinda tacky, though it shows a certain level of pride in my Norwegian heritage), the adorable picture of my niece and nephew kissing each other (look at the gay uncle of the little kids who make out!), a piece of Grandma's Blue Willow China (too faggy), a poster of me from Forever Plaid (looks like someone can't let go of his five-year-old glory days), my nose-hair trimmer (waaaaay too much information) ... you get the picture.
Anyway, Mom and Dad are here for the weekend, so maybe they can think of something. Fortunately, they'll be very cool about helping their son find a nice boyfriend and settle down.
Monday, April 26, 2004
So there was a friendly email from Steve waiting in my inbox when I got to work this morning
And it was coherent and well-spelled, so he passes the literacy test. But it was conspicuously non-committal, and he hasn't entered into a spirited email conversation with me since I responded, so he doesn't pass the show-some-unmistakable-excitement-in-the-first-24-hours test.
And when my phone rang this morning with a strange number on the Caller ID, he wasn't on the other end. But the mysterious voice WAS the photographer from Chicago magazine calling to set up my photo shoot for my Top 20 Singles profile. So my day hasn't been completely devoid of dating-news excitement.
And when my phone rang this morning with a strange number on the Caller ID, he wasn't on the other end. But the mysterious voice WAS the photographer from Chicago magazine calling to set up my photo shoot for my Top 20 Singles profile. So my day hasn't been completely devoid of dating-news excitement.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Dude, this guy was almost PERFECT
We dancer boys were watching from the balcony when the house opened last night for Who's That Girl? The crowd that comes to the show is pretty hot and trendy -- in fact, we were laughing at how pervasive the new gay clone uniform has become: dirty-washed jeans, funky shoes and those striped dress shirts that grip (untucked, of course) at the waist and hug under the pecs just so. The audience was quickly becoming a teeming mass of A-gay cliché, when suddenly in HE walked.
I could tell the guy was amazing, even from the balcony: He had dark hair, dark tan, well-muscled shoulders and arms, the confident stride of a successful, self-assured man who's well beyond the age of bullshit, and a tight blue T-shirt that hugged everything on him just right. We watched every head turn as he walked through the crowd and joined his friends, most of whom (thankfully) were also not dressed to assert their individuality by being just like everybody else.
I went downstairs and walked through the crowd myself -- you know, to make sure things were going well with everyone -- but every time I walked by him, he was deep in conversation and never looked up. I did notice, though, that I kind of know one of his friends through the Internet.
So we do the show and it's fabulous and everyone cheers and screams after our number and I'm standing by the front door afterward talking to friends as everyone is filing out ... and suddenly there he is. And our eyes lock. And we grin like drunken fools. I notice he has a KILLER smile. Then we look away shyly. Then we rinse and repeat ... for what seemed like half an hour.
So I go in for the kill. But it takes a few moments to get to him because the crowd is pretty thick. And by the time I get near enough, his friends are all there with him. They're obviously talking about me 'cause they keep looking my way and smiling. But I'm trapped in that eternal conundrum: Do you walk up and hit on a guy in front of his friends or do you wait for them to leave so you can do your bidness in private? They never leave (and he never leaves them to make himself more available, for that matter). But they all continue looking my way and smiling, and I actually see him blush.
And suddenly, they're heading out the door, looking back at me and smiling all the way. And like the big feathered chicken I am, I don't follow. (But in hindsight, I'm glad I didn't; it would have looked awfully desperate.)
Now I can't stop thinking about him. And after obsessing about What Might Have Been during my 6-mile run this morning, I even broke down and sent an awkward email to his friend whom I kind of know asking him to forward my name and number. I'm not getting my hopes up, though.
Besides, I'm still contractually obligated to remain single until I'm featured in Chicago magazine as one of the city's top 20 singles in July. So it just wouldn't have worked.
But maybe this is my kick in the pants to stop being so damn wishy-washy around guys I like. So the next muscular, handsome, confident, independently dressed gay man with a killer smile who flashes his pearly whites at me had better watch out -- from now on I'm gonna take even longer to chicken out.
I could tell the guy was amazing, even from the balcony: He had dark hair, dark tan, well-muscled shoulders and arms, the confident stride of a successful, self-assured man who's well beyond the age of bullshit, and a tight blue T-shirt that hugged everything on him just right. We watched every head turn as he walked through the crowd and joined his friends, most of whom (thankfully) were also not dressed to assert their individuality by being just like everybody else.
I went downstairs and walked through the crowd myself -- you know, to make sure things were going well with everyone -- but every time I walked by him, he was deep in conversation and never looked up. I did notice, though, that I kind of know one of his friends through the Internet.
So we do the show and it's fabulous and everyone cheers and screams after our number and I'm standing by the front door afterward talking to friends as everyone is filing out ... and suddenly there he is. And our eyes lock. And we grin like drunken fools. I notice he has a KILLER smile. Then we look away shyly. Then we rinse and repeat ... for what seemed like half an hour.
So I go in for the kill. But it takes a few moments to get to him because the crowd is pretty thick. And by the time I get near enough, his friends are all there with him. They're obviously talking about me 'cause they keep looking my way and smiling. But I'm trapped in that eternal conundrum: Do you walk up and hit on a guy in front of his friends or do you wait for them to leave so you can do your bidness in private? They never leave (and he never leaves them to make himself more available, for that matter). But they all continue looking my way and smiling, and I actually see him blush.
And suddenly, they're heading out the door, looking back at me and smiling all the way. And like the big feathered chicken I am, I don't follow. (But in hindsight, I'm glad I didn't; it would have looked awfully desperate.)
Now I can't stop thinking about him. And after obsessing about What Might Have Been during my 6-mile run this morning, I even broke down and sent an awkward email to his friend whom I kind of know asking him to forward my name and number. I'm not getting my hopes up, though.
Besides, I'm still contractually obligated to remain single until I'm featured in Chicago magazine as one of the city's top 20 singles in July. So it just wouldn't have worked.
But maybe this is my kick in the pants to stop being so damn wishy-washy around guys I like. So the next muscular, handsome, confident, independently dressed gay man with a killer smile who flashes his pearly whites at me had better watch out -- from now on I'm gonna take even longer to chicken out.
Monday, March 22, 2004
I'm in! I'm in!
I just got home from my interview -- and I've gone from being a mere finalist to being one of the anointed few who will be profiled in Chicago magazine's annual Top 20 Singles issue this July!
So now the whole city will know that I'm completely incapable of maintaining a relationship. Wait -- that came out wrong. I meant to say that I'll be profiled as a catchworthy prize in a huge, glossy monthly aimed at an extremely literate and well-to-do demographic.
And did I mention that I'll get to have a photo shoot with a high-fashion photographer? And that I'll be an attraction at a huge fund-raiser event staged to kick off the singles issue? (I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that people will pay money to attend a party because I'll be there -- even though they won't even know me. Yet. I'll be given pseudo-celebrity status simply because I can't get a date. Not since the days of Madonna and George W. Bush have people achieved such prominence without providing any real substance.)
The interview tonight was a lot of fun. (Of course, when is getting the opportunity to blather on and on about yourself to a stranger whose job it is to listen and take notes not fun?) The woman who interviewed me was actually quite interesting and a delight to talk to. We had a lot in common, and I really enjoyed our conversation. If I weren't such a big homo -- and if I weren't contractually obligated to remain single until at least July -- I'd probably ask her out. She seemed genuinely thrilled to talk to me, which bodes well for the content and the tone of the profile she'll write about me. And she was extremely polite and courteous in the way she never once mentioned the disgusting little rash running up and down my forearms from Saturday's wax job. (Of course, she never complimented me on my spiffy new shoes either -- so I'll choose to believe she was really focused on her note-taking.)
She also said that people who've been profiled in past singles issues have been inundated with phone calls and letters and flowers and other forms of courtship from amorous Chicagoans. (Of course, I was once the Big Gay Cocktail Club's featured bachelor of the month -- and even with a Web profile and an email address to help people find me, I didn't get so much as a "good luck finding a boyfriend with that nose" from anyone. Sniff.
In any case, I'd better enjoy my anonymity while I can. So I'm off to join Matthew at Sidetrack for some show tunes.
So now the whole city will know that I'm completely incapable of maintaining a relationship. Wait -- that came out wrong. I meant to say that I'll be profiled as a catchworthy prize in a huge, glossy monthly aimed at an extremely literate and well-to-do demographic.
And did I mention that I'll get to have a photo shoot with a high-fashion photographer? And that I'll be an attraction at a huge fund-raiser event staged to kick off the singles issue? (I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that people will pay money to attend a party because I'll be there -- even though they won't even know me. Yet. I'll be given pseudo-celebrity status simply because I can't get a date. Not since the days of Madonna and George W. Bush have people achieved such prominence without providing any real substance.)
The interview tonight was a lot of fun. (Of course, when is getting the opportunity to blather on and on about yourself to a stranger whose job it is to listen and take notes not fun?) The woman who interviewed me was actually quite interesting and a delight to talk to. We had a lot in common, and I really enjoyed our conversation. If I weren't such a big homo -- and if I weren't contractually obligated to remain single until at least July -- I'd probably ask her out. She seemed genuinely thrilled to talk to me, which bodes well for the content and the tone of the profile she'll write about me. And she was extremely polite and courteous in the way she never once mentioned the disgusting little rash running up and down my forearms from Saturday's wax job. (Of course, she never complimented me on my spiffy new shoes either -- so I'll choose to believe she was really focused on her note-taking.)
She also said that people who've been profiled in past singles issues have been inundated with phone calls and letters and flowers and other forms of courtship from amorous Chicagoans. (Of course, I was once the Big Gay Cocktail Club's featured bachelor of the month -- and even with a Web profile and an email address to help people find me, I didn't get so much as a "good luck finding a boyfriend with that nose" from anyone. Sniff.
In any case, I'd better enjoy my anonymity while I can. So I'm off to join Matthew at Sidetrack for some show tunes.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
I'm interested! I'm interested!
Hi Jake,
My name is R. and I'm the editor in charge of compiling Chicago's top 20 singles for Chicago magazine's July issue. I received your bio from K. and think you'd be a spectacular nominee. Would you be interested?
The process is quite simple. If you're selected, you'll be interviewed for a brief article, photographed by a top fashion photographer (italics added for emphasis) and expected to attend a party in June. It's remarkably easy and, according to past singles, great fun.
Let me know if you're interested.
Thanks!
R.
My name is R. and I'm the editor in charge of compiling Chicago's top 20 singles for Chicago magazine's July issue. I received your bio from K. and think you'd be a spectacular nominee. Would you be interested?
The process is quite simple. If you're selected, you'll be interviewed for a brief article, photographed by a top fashion photographer (italics added for emphasis) and expected to attend a party in June. It's remarkably easy and, according to past singles, great fun.
Let me know if you're interested.
Thanks!
R.
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