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:
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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.
