I wish I could take credit for the statement, "I fierce," but I can't. Like so many of the best lines people use on each other at parties, I also overheard this one at a party. Not entirely sure what it means, I adopted it immediately as a welcome new energy in my life, which is why it's also the name of this blog.
Following is an account of said party, written to friends last summer after it happened. The difference in mood between this post, and the "city lights" one I wrote yesterday is kind of jarring--I really need to get over myself. Anyway:
**********
Yet another lost weekend. Where do they all go? This past one
happened to be a milestone birthday (one of those ending in 0) of a
dear friend in San Francisco. Combine that with our pal JJ's recent
purchase of brand new wheels and it seemed to us anyway that a road
trip was definitely in order. (My usual aversion to the use of ground
transportation for distances over 100 miles could be ignored, just this
once.) The birthday boy in question's real name is actually Jeff,
though I've only ever known him as Bette, (yes, as in Davis). This
nickname was bestowed long before I was adopted into the
Bette/Andrew/JJ family tree, and I am not sure of the exact details,
though I know it does involve him attempting a grand entrance into a
room, only to observe, "what a dump." The nickname has stuck so
firmly, I find myself introducing him as "Bette" to new people and
wondering why they have that look on their face. I am not certain what
it is, exactly, that Bette does, other than check into hotels in
glamorous locales around the world and call his friends with reports on
the acceptability (or lack of) of the lodgings.
After what seemed like a remarkably brief trip in the car (it turns out
these drives seem much shorter when you're not the one behind the
wheel) and a few minutes to refabulize in Andrew's hotel room, we
headed over to the Clift hotel, site of the party. My first
observation was that sometime in the last five years (and ACK!-had it
really been five years since I was in San Francisco last? How could I
let that happen?), somebody has taken Union Square and made it
*pretty!* The difference between this time and five years ago was
striking enough to make me think that all this talk of wanting to
refurbish L.A.'s downtown might actually be more than just talk...
Entering the hotel, JJ and I gave a *very* brief tour of the lobby
areas and the Redwood Room to a couple of folks with us who had never
been, (philistines.) Passing the front desk, we heard the woman warn
some possible rowdies that the hotel has a "strict NO PARTIES policy."
Her remark fell on our 10 deaf ears and we got in the elevator headed
to the birthday suite, room 1128, at which point JJ practically
shrieked in horror as he pushed the button, "There are floors ABOVE 11! Who made this reservation anyway?"
The "no parties" policy was obviously being ignored all up and down
floor 11, as when we got off we were greeted with the not altogether
unwelcome fragrance of Code 420. "How very Frisco," I say, to no one in particular, and only
because the locals hate it so much when you call their city that. As I
expected, the suites at the Clift are a lot like the ones at the
Mondrian, but with more color.
White-on-white-on-lavender-on-day-glow-orange; though I did end up
giving the room a final thumbs-up, in spite of that dumpy stuffed chair
that would have been WAY more at home in front of some cheap wood
paneling and a velvet Elvis. Who am I to question Phillippe Starck?
I noted the daring maneuver on the part of those planning this
particular fete, to stock the bar with mostly red wine and cosmos, in a
room overwhelmingly decorated in white.
Andrew and I ended up holding court in one of the back rooms, and spent
much of our time attempting to overhear what others were talking about.
At one point, someone asked the man standing next to us, "so what is
it you do?" His answer, "I fierce." Andrew and I nodded to each other
an immediate approval of this answer even though we both admitted later
we had no clue what he meant by that, and it probably wasn't even what
he said anyway. Until a third eavesdropper, (a kindred soul!) came
over and asked us, "what did that guy say he does?" Andrew deadpans,
"He fierces," and I nod in assent as I sip my cocktail, as if that were
not at all an unusual answer. "That's what I thought he said..." The
three of us look at each other, all wanting to know what exactly that
is, without giving away that none of us knew. "That's interesting,"
said the woman, as she disappeared into the crowd.
That was all it took. Within seconds, Andrew and I were on a roll--and it didn't matter one
bit that maybe that wasn't what the man said--it was now. We decided
immediately that one would probably have a fiercing salon or a fiercing
studio (or perhaps a fiercing practice) more than a fiercing shop.
(And never, EVER, a fiercing franchise.) And the comedic possibilities
came in a flood, "Oh I can't make it on Tuesday, hon, I have that
fiercing at 2," and after a bit of practice (still, without even
hinting at what it might mean,) including eliminating the more
obviously fake ones ("I'm director of accounts fierceable,") we began
to drop it into all subsequent conversations we had with everyone else.
At no point did ANYBODY ask us what that was.
I was actually over the word "fierce," quite possibly THE most annoyingly overused word in the gay lexicon (next to "fabulous...") but it is DEFINITELY back now--as a verb. What does it mean? I don't know exactly. Probably whatever you think it sounds like it does.
Saturday, October 11, 2003
Friday, October 10, 2003
City Lights
They say that Los Angeles doesn't really have a skyline. And that's true, I suppose, if you compare us to New York or Chicago with those fortress-like walls of skyscrapers domnating both the day and the night sky. L.A.'s downtown rises much more subtly up out of the middle of the city's expansive sprawl, looking a little like Emerald City on approach from the yellow brick road. And it's not always easy to see. Sometimes obscured by hills, smog, or simply distance, catching a glimpse of the colorfully lit towers, especially at dusk, can be an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. But I had a view of it from my first apartment, when I moved here, six years ago this week. Not from my living room, but from the pool and hot tub on the roof of my building. It was a favorite ritual of mine to go up there after work and just stare out over Hollywood, downtown, and the endless concrete slab it all sits on. Following 45 aggravating minutes in traffic, watching the sky, and that skyline, as the sun set behind me, was strangely therapeutic. It was all so very glamorous, you know--those hills, the pool on the roof, the gentle breeze of the night air as you looked out over downtown, the Hollywood searchlights, and 10 million people winding down their day.
I've hardly ever had any reason to actually GO downtown--much like almost everyone I know. Unless you work there, the twinkling downtown lights seem to be best admired at a distance, from the terraced neighborhoods in and around West Hollywood. There are occasional loft parties and art gallery openings, club nights or operas at the Dot Chandler, and as you arrive at these places, with the skyscrapers looming brightly overhead, it always seems a bit strange that the buildings actually EXIST. The symbolism was not lost on me, when I first noticed it, and this image that L.A. has--all form and no function. Lots of style in a complete absence of substance. A set of beautifully white, capped teeth smiling warmly as the person behind them admits right up front they aren't really going to remember your name, not even 30 seconds from now. Los Angeles, entertainment capital of the world, land of sound stages and fake sets, only comfortable with makeup on and the camera rolling--otherwise, a vapid, cultural wasteland populated by a bunch of phonies and freaks.
I am happy to report that I have found these accusations to be patently untrue. While I continued to be fascinated by those glittering downtown skyscrapers viewed from my fabulous hilltop perch, I found a very unique brand of real behind the city they represent, and the people who live in it. It was the very sort of thing I had hoped I'd find here. I have found in L.A. a city full of people chasing a dream, or running from a nightmare, or settling down, again, to start over. Nobody questions this. You are absolutely free to be whoever you want. Do your thing. As long as it doesn't impinge on anybody else's thing, you are absolutely welcome to go for it. I know many people who came here because, after coming to terms with being gay, they no longer felt welcome in the small communities where they grew up and they're here because they're less conspicuous. I know people who, in spite of the odds, are here to make it big in the biz. There are people who were tired of their job and are looking around at something, anything, at entry level, at 35 years of age, just as long as it's different and interesting. These three rationales represent, in some way, my own reasons for coming here. Almost nobody is just here by accident. The fact that pretty much everybody I meet has a plan, an agenda, a dream or even some outrageous delusion about their own life which they live out with gusto all the same, is a remarkably refreshing change from other places I've been where people seem to have simply remained because that's where life dropped them.
I have found people who will take at face value, whatever it is you tell them you are. There is a dynamic, vibrant energy being constructed by people who are here re-inventing themselves, building their dreams, free of any expectations. Maybe it's because I grew up in a town and an environment where your life path was pretty much laid out for you the moment you were born; and if you committed, say, the unpardonable sin of still being unmarried past the age of 25, people would wonder what was wrong with you. The L.A. thing can be a dangerously subtle energy, though, one that gets misunderstood by amateurs, in the same way that exquisite acquired tastes are very often dismissed by those who try them only once and refuse to see what all the fuss is about. The energy of everyone running around constructing their own realities and painting their own facades based on who they believe themselves to be, may sound to an outsider like a blatantly shallow way to live. Viewed differently, it seems to me, a much more genuine way to be--people wearing their souls on their sleeve and asking only that you take them at their word and deed.
The source of all this musing is a walk I went on the other night, with my friend Steve's dog Cooper. Heading down a particularly hilly Silver Lake avenue, we passed an empty lot, which exposed those downtown skyscrapers in all their glittering mystery. My six years in L.A. have been very different from what I imagined they would be. There have been periods of abject poverty punctuated by bursts of world-class fabulousness. I have rubbed shoulders at parties with international A-listers, and ridden the bus with people who looked liked they hadn't had a bath or a real meal in weeks. And as this last year has proved to be a trying one for me, I find myself relying at the moment on a wonderful family of friends, who have been nothing but generous with their time, resources, couches to crash on, with nary a word of disapproval, nobody asking, "how in the hell did you get yourself into this mess, anyway?"
I noticed that the view Cooper and I were enjoying was courtesy of an empty lot, a steep hill, between two houses built on either retaining walls or stilts. I looked down to the bottom of the lot and sure enough, wreckage of a house, knocked off its foundation during the last big earthquake. I was again grateful for the real and wonderful bonds between people, flourishing audaciously even here, a place where even the ground you stand on has the nerve to just completely dislodge, once in a while.
My life, at the moment, feels completely dislodged. I believe now that it is possible for earthquakes to happen inside individual people. "Change looks like failure, in the middle," a friend told me once. I thought about this as I looked at my skyline skyscrapers, which looked different now. No longer did it feel like I was looking out over my own kingdom, lord of all I surveyed. At the moment I've been knocked down a few rungs, if not completely off of the ladder. But tonight, the twinkling city lights reminded me again why I came here, and that I have dreams, and that there's really no reason not to chase after them, seeing as how everybody else around me is. I decided to be excited, instead of daunted, by this change, this earthquake that seems to have rocked me off my foundation and given me the opportunity to start over. I'll be even more excited just as soon as I figure out what it is I want to change inTO...
I've hardly ever had any reason to actually GO downtown--much like almost everyone I know. Unless you work there, the twinkling downtown lights seem to be best admired at a distance, from the terraced neighborhoods in and around West Hollywood. There are occasional loft parties and art gallery openings, club nights or operas at the Dot Chandler, and as you arrive at these places, with the skyscrapers looming brightly overhead, it always seems a bit strange that the buildings actually EXIST. The symbolism was not lost on me, when I first noticed it, and this image that L.A. has--all form and no function. Lots of style in a complete absence of substance. A set of beautifully white, capped teeth smiling warmly as the person behind them admits right up front they aren't really going to remember your name, not even 30 seconds from now. Los Angeles, entertainment capital of the world, land of sound stages and fake sets, only comfortable with makeup on and the camera rolling--otherwise, a vapid, cultural wasteland populated by a bunch of phonies and freaks.
I am happy to report that I have found these accusations to be patently untrue. While I continued to be fascinated by those glittering downtown skyscrapers viewed from my fabulous hilltop perch, I found a very unique brand of real behind the city they represent, and the people who live in it. It was the very sort of thing I had hoped I'd find here. I have found in L.A. a city full of people chasing a dream, or running from a nightmare, or settling down, again, to start over. Nobody questions this. You are absolutely free to be whoever you want. Do your thing. As long as it doesn't impinge on anybody else's thing, you are absolutely welcome to go for it. I know many people who came here because, after coming to terms with being gay, they no longer felt welcome in the small communities where they grew up and they're here because they're less conspicuous. I know people who, in spite of the odds, are here to make it big in the biz. There are people who were tired of their job and are looking around at something, anything, at entry level, at 35 years of age, just as long as it's different and interesting. These three rationales represent, in some way, my own reasons for coming here. Almost nobody is just here by accident. The fact that pretty much everybody I meet has a plan, an agenda, a dream or even some outrageous delusion about their own life which they live out with gusto all the same, is a remarkably refreshing change from other places I've been where people seem to have simply remained because that's where life dropped them.
I have found people who will take at face value, whatever it is you tell them you are. There is a dynamic, vibrant energy being constructed by people who are here re-inventing themselves, building their dreams, free of any expectations. Maybe it's because I grew up in a town and an environment where your life path was pretty much laid out for you the moment you were born; and if you committed, say, the unpardonable sin of still being unmarried past the age of 25, people would wonder what was wrong with you. The L.A. thing can be a dangerously subtle energy, though, one that gets misunderstood by amateurs, in the same way that exquisite acquired tastes are very often dismissed by those who try them only once and refuse to see what all the fuss is about. The energy of everyone running around constructing their own realities and painting their own facades based on who they believe themselves to be, may sound to an outsider like a blatantly shallow way to live. Viewed differently, it seems to me, a much more genuine way to be--people wearing their souls on their sleeve and asking only that you take them at their word and deed.
The source of all this musing is a walk I went on the other night, with my friend Steve's dog Cooper. Heading down a particularly hilly Silver Lake avenue, we passed an empty lot, which exposed those downtown skyscrapers in all their glittering mystery. My six years in L.A. have been very different from what I imagined they would be. There have been periods of abject poverty punctuated by bursts of world-class fabulousness. I have rubbed shoulders at parties with international A-listers, and ridden the bus with people who looked liked they hadn't had a bath or a real meal in weeks. And as this last year has proved to be a trying one for me, I find myself relying at the moment on a wonderful family of friends, who have been nothing but generous with their time, resources, couches to crash on, with nary a word of disapproval, nobody asking, "how in the hell did you get yourself into this mess, anyway?"
I noticed that the view Cooper and I were enjoying was courtesy of an empty lot, a steep hill, between two houses built on either retaining walls or stilts. I looked down to the bottom of the lot and sure enough, wreckage of a house, knocked off its foundation during the last big earthquake. I was again grateful for the real and wonderful bonds between people, flourishing audaciously even here, a place where even the ground you stand on has the nerve to just completely dislodge, once in a while.
My life, at the moment, feels completely dislodged. I believe now that it is possible for earthquakes to happen inside individual people. "Change looks like failure, in the middle," a friend told me once. I thought about this as I looked at my skyline skyscrapers, which looked different now. No longer did it feel like I was looking out over my own kingdom, lord of all I surveyed. At the moment I've been knocked down a few rungs, if not completely off of the ladder. But tonight, the twinkling city lights reminded me again why I came here, and that I have dreams, and that there's really no reason not to chase after them, seeing as how everybody else around me is. I decided to be excited, instead of daunted, by this change, this earthquake that seems to have rocked me off my foundation and given me the opportunity to start over. I'll be even more excited just as soon as I figure out what it is I want to change inTO...
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