I’m wide awake at 6:00 for no useful reason

I might as well get up and get dressed so I can make things happen.

Throwback Thursday: Proto-Gay Edition

Things I had discovered in 1984: The stinky-feet defiance of going sockless in cheap canvas shoes from Target. The gender-bending subversiveness of wearing a hand-braided ankle bracelet. The surfer-wannabe failure of black board shorts decorated with gracefully swirling fish in trendy shades of neon. The glee-club weirdness of fake Ray-Bans with little black music notes all over them. Hair mousse.

Things I had not yet discovered in 1984: Going to a gym. Having the good sense not to wear tank tops in public. Having the good sense not to wear white fake Ray-Bans with little black music notes all over them. Having the good sense to make sure I didn't look like I was in a low-rent Flock of Seagulls cover band before I left the house.

Flashback Friday: Bow Ties And Billowy Pleats Edition

This—THIS!—is what I thought was acceptable attire for setting foot in Washington DC's Kennedy Center to see Tyne Daly in the 1989 revival of Gypsy. (Early non-linear side note: You never forget your first Gypsy. And while I don't l-o-o-o-o-o-v-e the show like other card-carrying-Platinum gays, I still love Tyne Daly as Rose more than any other women I've seen in the role since then. And that includes Patti. Because she's never met a vowel she couldn't chew into a meaty, puddingy, distractingy triphthong.)

Anywho ... THAT OUTFIT ...

Nothing says "I sit down to pee" quite as efficiently as a bow tie. I taught myself to tie a bow tie when I was in high school, while all the other kids were doing more useful things like—oh, I don't know—hanging out with each other and forming meaningful friendships. I thought my little Madras plaid bow tie made me look so throwback-non-conformist hip 'n' cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one my gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like the much-ballyhooed-about-to-be-launched Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. And as we all know, efficiency is the DNA of questionable fashion. You can't see it clearly here, but I also had a coordinating Madras plaid watch band. As in a bow-tie-matching watch band made of sweat-absorbing-and-quickly-gross fabric. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! I somehow decided it was totally-probably-sexy-cool to wear it with the watch face ON THE INSIDE OF MY WRIST. Because WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? And let's not overlook those voluminous pleated khakis—not that we could ever tear our eyes away from the uncharted galaxies of animal-balloon space they occupied around my wispy little goblin hips. They were from The Gap, see, and I'd had a bit of an inferiority complex as a younger person that—and I am not making this up—made me feel not cool enough to shop at The Gap. I'd literally walk by it at the then-fancy Westdale Mall and feel awkward and panicked and a little bit resentful. Do not fear: My therapist has been alerted. Anyway, one fateful day I scrounged up the courage to wince timidly into that Gap and find the men's section (which in the gender-bendy '80s wasn't clearly delineated to me as I entered the store) and immediately found these dream pants with all their essential dream details: classic khaki coloring, heavy cotton poplin (a natural fiber! in the '80s! I KNOW!) (also: like every socially awkward fashionista, I knew what poplin was as a young gaylet ... and why it was more laid-back-casual-and-therefore-better than twill) (also: twill is for librarians who aren't allowed to sit with the other librarians at lunch), voluminous pleats, super-dramatic taper, securely tacked ankle-strangling cuffs. TOTAL MEGA COOL-KIDS FASHION. And I'm pretty sure I was wearing my white suede bucks with red fake-rubber soles with them. Because PLEASE BEAT ME UP I'M SUPER '80s GAY.

So let's review:

Face-swallowing glasses + perfectly puckered plaid bow tie + inside-out sweaty watch + pleats with their own ZIP codes + legs tapered in the shape of super-pointy ice-cream-cones = man who goes to the theater to see angsty-gay-anthem-filled musicals with his mom. Every time.

I made a meme!

Wait, what?

This--THIS!--is what inspired me to go into fashion writing. The fearless metaphors! The nimble wordplay! The bold yet never vulgar turns of phrase! It's all here, preserved for the ages. Just like the creased, flared, no-natural-fibers-denim fashion tsunami it generated that splashes through our wardrobes to this day. Well, at least those of us who LIVE FOR FASHION.

Though I'm pretty sure embroidered, possibly ruffled shirts with lightly ballooned sleeves undermine all claims of being either a dude or a stud, but that's just a quibble.

Please note: Shoes are sold separately on page 442

Check it out!

Disney: check.
Norway: check.
Fashion: check.
Historical research: check.
Serious, meaningful discussions of underpants: check.
Fashiony stuff I might need to know for work if we ever sell 1840s Disney Norwegian royalty underpants: I’ll keep this video bookmarked just in case.

When you wake up at 6:00 for no useful reason on a Saturday

and you see that it’s relatively nice out and your hair doesn’t look too ridiculous for a potential commemorative selfie so you decide to go for a run so you’ll slim down enough to fit into your high school parachute pants again in time for today’s Pride Fest.

Flashback Saturday: College Graduation Edition

I guess I had a cute little habit of saying YAY! about situations that met my approval when I was in college. Unfortunately, Mom (who correctly thought YAY! would be fitting sentiment to express over a college graduation) and the cake decorator (who probably didn’t have an advanced degree in spelling) ended up producing a graduation cake that said YEAH in my honor. Which only underscores what the rest of this picture is saying about me. For instance: The glasses. Bigger than my face. Lower than my eyebrows. I’m just a home perm and a cameo brooch away from being Sophia Petrillo. And don’t get me started on the shirt. I’d thought it was one of the coolest shirts EVER when I first found it wadded up on the tumble table at the County Seat. It was red and white, see, but it had blue stuff sewn in to the collar and sleeves (and, inexplicably, that saggy pocket) to make it look like it was LAYERED. It was also probably a small, yet it hung on me like a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. And in any case, the whole look was in direct violation of the contract I signed when they gave me my English degree: no bright colors, no perky smiles, no Sally Jesse Raphaël glasses. And no misspelled pastries.

When the blood lady realized she forgot to fill one of her vials after she’d pulled the big scary needle out of one arm

so she had to poke a new needle in the other arm and thankfully the stretchy wrapping tape color she picked now doubly matches my questionable shirt.

Tentative diagnosis: occipital neuralgia. Which in all my discussions with my doctor and in my subsequent googling seems very plausible given the locations of my headache pain. Final diagnosis still pending ...

Back at the doctor for another attempt to figure out what the hell is wrong with my stupid head

While I’m waiting and the pain is throbbing and my eyes are crossing and my ears are screaming, help me figure out this shirt. Age appropriate? On trend? Flattering colorways? Chick magnet? I’m totally lost in this quest.

It’s really hard to stop mocking these people

They look like they're going to an antebellum cotillion. Or a slave auction.

Graphic designers + the Internet give me hope for the future of humanity

Fashion PS to Melanie: Love the illusion neckline, hate the oven mitts.

First-in-the-morning doctor appointment >

mole scraping > car appointment > three doughnuts while I waited to hear that the car guy couldn’t help me > referral to a different car specialist > estimate and new car appointment set for tomorrow > failed attempt at tying a bow tie in my car > fancy luncheon with lovely people > but first I had to stop in the bathroom and tie my bow tie like a civilized person > nagging headache > more desserts > work > teleconference presentation > untied bow tie because my fat neck was choking in it > still with the nagging headache > return stuff at Target > drop stuff off at Goodwill > drop of bag of expired medications at the police station > yes, that’s a thing > still have a fucking headache > cued lines for an off-book rehearsal > finally home > rakish untied-bow-tie selfie > GODDAMN FUCKING HEADACHE > bed.

Remember when President Obama was VILIFIED for:

• Arugula
• Flag pin
• Tan suit
• Mustard
• Chewing gum
• Private schools
• Healthy eating initiatives
• Michelle's bare arms
• Being black
• Oops! Did I just say being black?
• Overcoming a proudly obstructionist Congress to provide affordable healthcare for millions of Americans
• Being black

Tiers of delicate bitsy-dot chiffon tulle flutter like wispy cotton-candy nothingness next to Ivanka in an ugly fucking dress

I made a meme!

30 YEARS AGO TODAY ...

I’m not sure what’s most disturbing about this picture: the bar mitzvah clown smile, the Disney villain eyes, the dinner-plate glasses, the scarecrow neck, the weird-ass way I wore my watch on the inside of my wrist or the pink-on-white shirt that hung on me with all the sex appeal of a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. The girls on my floor (Loser alert! I was living in the Foreign Language House, a co-ed dorm filled with language dorks who stayed in on Friday nights studying verb declensions!) had decorated my door with pink 21s. Probably to match the shirt. Or the homosexuality. I’m not sure where I got the wine, but I am sure I had only a sip of it to celebrate reaching such a milestone age. Because actually drinking a whole glass of alcohol on my 21st birthday would have been something the cool kids would do.

9 to 5 has gone the way of the steno pool and the perma-press shirt

We had an intense rehearsal process and we more than met the challenges of this intensely challenging show. I’m sorry we had just three performances—especially given the rockstar performances of our leads—but I think we’re all proud of what we did and thrilled to have gotten to do it. Now all that’s left is to boil my sopping wet show shirts and scrape the last stubborn chunks of dried spirit gum out of my skin and hair. And—duh—to post all of my photos.

My selfie arm wasn’t long enough to capture this, but we’re all posing on the bed that makes multiple appearances under multiple people in the show. Our cast was ... um ... very close.

Here’s a list of every set piece I moved and every prop I needed and every location I needed to be in every scene and for every song in the show. I made it as a cheat sheet during rehearsals, but the show had an insane amount of stuff to remember and the list became an oft-consulted security blanket and even though it got sweaty and smudged to the point of unreadableness it never left my person for the run of the show.

RANDOM PIX ONSTAGE AND OFF:

The good thing about doing a show set in an office is you have tons of prop pencils you can use to erase all your markings in your libretto when you’re done. The official count: I wrote 2.5 erasers of notes.

It's not a 1979 musical without a '70s-themed closing-night party. That I totally forgot to dress for.

Apparently it’s International Back Day But Don’t Tell Jake Let Him Figure It Out For Himself When He Gets To The Gym

because all the back equipment is being used by guys who are way bigger than I am so I could never take them in a Back Equipment Smackdown! so I’m pecking-order relegated to the lesser back equipment and since nobody’s breaking down the back (HA!) door to use my lesser back equipment I have all the time in the world to sit on it and blog about my forlornity as my lats droop into my socks.

Also: I’m wearing a hat today. Which accidentally matches my shirt. Which is exactly why I never wear hats except in extreme hair emergencies; I’m too innately coordinated when I accessorize.