Love Each Day

A light Makiki mist was falling from the sun-washed sky as I hopped into my taxi this past weekend, bound for Ala Moana Center. After a morning spent paying some bills and grocery shopping, I was ready for some real shopping.

I made several unhealthy purchases, all in some way related to (or motivated by) Bartholomew. (My therapist is going to love me this week! Promise!)

I bought a bottle of Hanae Mori HM for Men for the first time since I began hanging out with Bartholomew on a regular basis nearly a year ago. (He was not a fan of any very strong scents; of course, I altered my own behavior, habits, and personal grooming regimen accordingly.) I then stopped at GameStop and blithely picked up a copy of God of War for the Sony PlayStation 2, seemingly blissfully oblivious of the fact that this was the last PlayStation game that I had learned and played with Bartholomew (me playing, he reading me cheats for the game from a website).

(I even pre-ordered God of War II, for some incomprehensible reason completely unknown to me.)

Certainly, these purchases were unhealthy enough, but I decided (subconsciously, of course!) to make still another final unhealthy purchase, so I picked up the DVD (uncut UK version, duh!) of “The Descent.” (OMG though do NOT click that link unless you want to be seriously freaked out! Just click here for the IMDb synopsis!)

I have watched this film no less than two times each day after I purchased it.

(I purchased it on Saturday; I am nearly certain that My Fabulous Roommate suspects that I am insane.)

Also, did I mention that this was the last film that I saw with Bartholomew?

Yeah.

Oddly, throughout the past two extremely psychologically difficult weeks, this film, which I have defined to friends and colleagues as “The Best, Most Horrifying Horror Film I Have Seen In Fucking YEARS,” has for some odd reason become my emotional touchstone. And it has not been the new running habit, the new cooking habit, the new therapy sessions, the new decisions I have been making, that have made me feel as positive as I can feel during this difficult, depressing period of my life. Instead, what has made me feel that positive is a single line from this relatively obscure horror film, and what it has come to mean to me, right now, in my current mode.

“Love each day.”

It is what I have come to try to remind myself of every morning.

Love. Each. Day.

Filed under: Fashion, Film , emotional landscapes, gaming, ghost town, linkage, memories

To Do: Never Mind About The Little Things, Have Eyes That See And A Heart That Feels, Etc.

Shortly after returning from a fabulous A-List luncheon late this afternoon, I was enjoying a cigarette (Marlboro Red; it was One Of “Those” Days) with Sachi under the cloudy late afternoon sky of Downtown Honolulu, when my mobile began screaming at me. I glanced at the caller I.D. and saw, “Dr. H” splayed across the screen. I answered.

“Atherton Bartelby.”

“Atherton!” Dr. H purred, in his very soft, soothing voice. “Suddenly I have an opening tomorrow, at 2:00. What do you think?”

Truthfully? I had not thought about it. Enough happened in my life yesterday to warrant three sessions this week, but I honestly had not thought about it.

I paused.

“That sounds fabulous,” I said. “I have a salon appointment at ten, so if it runs over-long I shall ring you, but I should be able to make it.”

“Wonderful,” Dr. H replied. “Are you all right, Atherton?”

“Yes,” I smiled into my piece. “And thank you. I am just fine, Dr. H. See you at two tomorrow.”

I was smiling as I flipped my phone closed.

Because I was just fine; for the first time in quite awhile, and despite all that happened yesterday, and despite the emotional roller coaster I knew I would be riding throughout my protracted four-day weekend away, by myself, I was, in fact, just fine.

Shortly before Bartholomew stopped talking to me, I remember having a conversation with him regarding the film “Point of No Return” versus “Nikita.” Of course, I vociferously agreed with him that the latter was far superior to its American reprisal (even though I harbor a deep respect for Bridget Fonda’s orthodontist), save for (and this is rather surprising, for me, choosing an American over une Française) the roles played by, respectively, Anne Bancroft and Jeanne Moreau, of which I preferred Bancroft’s portrayal.

He continued to argue with me. In my defense, I produced the single line spoken by Bancroft that resonates with me to this very day.

“I never did mind about the little things.”

(Much like, “You were always The Tough One,” this phrase, too, has become one of my mantras, of late.)

And suddenly? Just this week? I really do not mind about the little things.

Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps it was me finally moving on from Bartholomew. Perhaps it was me letting go of every single thing, person, and relationship that I can no longer control, nor any longer have the energy or desire to control. (Perhaps it was those three Raspberry Iced Teas over an A-List lunch, and the laughter and conversation and companionship that went with them.) But whatever it was, I was, suddenly, just fine.

All on my own.

Which is not to say that my second session with Dr. H will not be absolutely epic in detail, but still. As I’ve a view of the sun setting behind the water of Honolulu Harbor right now, I really do not care about that at this moment.

After all, as Mother says, “Ojos que no ven, corazon que no siente”, which means: “Eyes that do not see are a heart that does not feel.”

Filed under: Film, Relationships, Writing , a-list, alucina, emotional landscapes, family, from the couch, linkage, needful reminders, office love, what would jackie do

Exude Grace In Everything You Do

Perfection isn’t the goal, of course. To transcend the ordinariness that Jackie [O] so feared in youth means feasting on a diet of discipline and restraint — whether you’re into dungarees or Dior. As Jackie knew, fabulousness is a state of mind, something you harness day in and day out to neutralize the “dreary” things and people that threaten to drag you down.

— From Chapter One of, What Would Jackie Do?: An Inspired Guide to Distinctive Living, by Shelly Branch and Sue Callaway, Gotham Books, 2006.

“Don’t forget to wear red tomorrow!” my colleague Sachi sang, faux-cheerfully, as she walked by my office late yesterday afternoon.

I looked up from my sketchbook derisively, mock-glared at her, and removed a soft lead pencil from between my teeth before hissing, eyes narrowing, “I am wearing black tomorrow. All black.”

“Come on, now,” she said supportively, stopping to give me a look that matched her tone. “You cannot let this keep you down forever, Atherton.”

“I know that,” I snapped petulantly. “Why do you think I have started running again, have been sober for over a week, am beginning to cook for myself again, and am planning on joining the gym again?”

She smiled, paused, gave in to puzzlement. “Come to think of it,” she said, “why are you suddenly doing all of that right now?”

“Because I do not have anyone, anymore! Because I am the only one I have to impress, anymore! And because if I cannot look at myself in the mirror every morning and be impressed by what I see then I have nothing!”

I paused; inhaled deeply; laughed along with Sachi as she burst into hysterical laughter.

“Wanna smoke?” I queried, attempting to catch my breath and wiping a tear of laughter from my right cheek.

“Um. Yeah!” she laughed again. “Let me go get coffee.”

“However!” I exclaimed at her back, receding down the hallway, retrieving my Marlboro Lights and lighter from my credenza and dashing after her, “I am still wearing all black tomorrow!”

We laughed together as we passed through the gigantic plate glass entrance doors and into our reception foyer.

The emotional landscape in which I have been living for, until only very recently, the majority of 2007, affords me every right to compose any number of tirades against this day, against this holiday, and against every past lover (or “friend”) who has damaged me irreparably (including and especially the most recent one).

But I am not going to do that; because that is weak, and because that is predictable, and because that is boring, and because that is self-defeating.

Today I am choosing instead to focus on the small, yet beautiful, gestures that I have begun undertaking to do to myself…and for myself. For, after all, as Jackie once said, “A beautiful gesture is really a very rare thing…”

For example:

The meticulousness with which I explored all of my various low calorie, low fat, low cholesterol cook books over this past weekend, planned daily menus for the coming week (e.g., “Breakfast: oatmeal and soy latte; Lunch: Lemon-Curried Black-Eyed Pea Salad and cranberry juice; Dinner: Gorgonzola Rigatoni with Vegetables and black cherry juice”), and very nearly militarily organized grocery shopping lists, items grouped according to product aisles and areas.

The purpose with which I have rolled out of bed promptly at the sound of my cell phone’s alarm at four a.m. for the past eight days to do sit-ups (fifty repetitions), nude, on my bedroom floor, before donning shoes, shorts, wife-beater, and iPod nano, to run.

The focus with which I have run, for the past eight early mornings, through my neighborhood, up to and around the University, and back, breathing in time to my footfalls, and to the strains of My Chemical Romance’s “Famous Last Words” in my ears, seemingly on repeat ad infinitum.

And even the guilty pleasure with which I have enjoyed, upon first arriving at work, Aloha Tower still proudly lighting ships’ ways into the pre-dawn blackness of the Harbor, my grandé no-foam soy latté from Starbucks, and single Marlboro Light of each morning.

No. On this Valentine’s Day 2007, I do not have anyone. I now doubt that I ever will. And I have come to accept that, as weak as it may read and as much as I would like to write otherwise, I am really not o.k. with that. But I am tired, oh so tired, of trying, of putting myself “out there,” of giving too much of myself, and thinking, maybe, just maybe, this time…only to be broken, and damaged, once more and even worse, all over again.

And so, on this day, it is the me, it is the small things, it is those beautiful but rare gestures, that make this day, right now, worthwhile, and even…happy. Like the gesture I discovered in my mailbox upon returning home last evening after a twelve-hour day spent in my office. The artful, witty, and poignant book from which I extracted this column’s epigraph, and a card: “Jackie O once said, ‘I want to live my life, not record it.’ Times have changed, though. Now we can live and record it the next day from the comfort of our offices. May this book give us both a shot of dignity. Happy Valentine’s Day!” All the way from my “little sister”…in Lima.

To dignity, indeed. To exuding grace in everything we do. To harnessing our inner fabulousness day in and day out. And to always, always, celebrating those very rare, very beautiful gestures (whether or not they may include the presence of a romantic other on Valentine’s Day).

And…here is to wearing red, after all, on Valentine’s Day…even though you swore you would wear only all black.

+ + +

Also, as a somewhat related postscript, a Very Needful Reminder on this Very Special Quirkyalone Day…

Filed under: Books, Food, Music, Relationships, Writing , a-list, alucina, defining moments, emotional landscapes, fitness, linkage, needful reminders, office love, repartee, what would jackie do

The Return Of The Jet Set

I used to be a member of The International Jet Set.

Well, not really, but flights on the Concorde to and from Paris, followed by shuttles to Geneva for sessions at prep school in Switzerland can rather lull an impressionable and imaginative pubescent into a false sense of being a member of The International Jet Set. Later in life, it was the same, constantly heating up the frequent flyer cards with flights between Chicago, New York, Boston, London, all in the interest of academia. (Well, and fashion, and parties, and vacationing where my good friends vacationed, etc., but one gets the idea.)

Of course, this all stopped once I began My Life In The Real World; sure, I may live on an island Paradise, but my last international travel was to Paris…for The Millennium. Exactly how depressing, I ask you, is that?

When I first began working for my Firm, I was With Partner; we boasted a fabulous condo in a fabulous building in Waikiki, and, perhaps more importantly, dual incomes. We were a part of the lesbian and gay demographic that advertisers simply adore: young, creative, well-bred taste, no children, and disposable income. Except we were never really extravagant. We would take a few vacation days to enjoy an extended weekend with his family in Las Vegas, or Denver, or Aspen, splurge for tickets to see Madonna on tour in D.C., or spend cheap yet spontaneous weekends on the Big Island. I was usually the extravagant one, the one who liked to travel by himself. So when I first began working for my Firm, I also used vacation days to stretch holiday weekends into quick trips to visit friends in San Francisco, or Los Angeles, or even one time all the way to New York, party all weekend, and be back in my office, jet-lagged yet smiling, at 07:30 AM HST the next business morning.

I became known as, “Atherton The Jet Set.”

Of course, it is not so easy maintaining such an image, or habit, when one is Without Partner, and living on only one income, in the current economical climate of Honolulu, Hawaii. Granted, my income has increased considerably since those days, but not enough to support: 1) the day-to-day lifestyle to which I have become accustomed and have absolutely no intention of sacrificing; 2) a Hot Place to call “Home” (this is what Fabulous Roommates are for: to make having a Hot Place to call “Home” entirely compatible with item number one); and, 3) the life of The International Jet Set.

Therefore, I whine a lot.

“Darling,” I whined to my friend Ms. Flox last week over coffees and cigarettes (we shall ignore that in reality I was, in fact, jonesing for a cigarette break while in my office, and Ms. Flox was lounging on her bed actually smoking several thousand miles away and that this conversation was happening not in a chic cafe but in an AIM chat window, but let’s engage in a little suspension of disbelief, people, shall we? It makes the story far more interesting!). “I neeeeed a vacation!”

“Darling,” she exhaled, and sipped her coffee. “That is not financially wise for you right now! I mean you would need airfare, a hotel or resort, a car service…hello! Shopping money! No. It is impossible. No. And anyway, you have a Prada suit, a California wedding, and a potential move to save up for in 2008! And isn’t your Firm’s weekend retreat at Turtle Bay coming up soon, anyway?”

“Yes,” I conceded. And then continued whining, “But I neeeeed to get off of this island! I mean the Turtle Bay thing is nice, yes, and it’s free, which of course I appreciate, but darling: A) it’s basically a sixth day of the week hanging out with colleagues, albeit with a banquet and open bar; and B) it’s still on this island! I mean, darling, do you know how many off-island trips Bartholomew and I planned during 2006? I mean I have come to expect an off-island trip in 2007 and God damn it I will have one!”

She looked at me knowingly, immobile, and dragged on her cigarette with a wry smile.

I tried a different tactic and began spamming her with links…er…options. “What about this?” I typed. “Or this, to increase my chances of getting laid? Or perhaps The Lodge at Koele? I have, after all, always wanted to visit Lanai!”

Ms. Flox became The Female Hitler of the Atherton Bartelby Quest For The Return Of The Jet Set Resistance Movement.

“No.”

Just then, another chat window popped open…er…a handsome younger man sauntered up to the table, and I recognized him as my dear friend Isaac, all the way from The PDX. “Darling!” we air-kissed on both cheeks before he said, “I couldn’t help but overhear your little trauma! I don’t know why you don’t just come up to Portland for a long weekend and visit me! I mean, you’ve never even been north of San Francisco, and besides, I’m there, and both of our birthdays are in July! Why don’t we celebrate them in style?”

In my peripheral vision I saw Ms. Flox eye me suspiciously over the top rim of her oversized Chanels.

“Come on, darling!” my dear friend persisted. “You could crash on my couch, and we could throw fabulous dinner parties, and go out dancing, and celebrate both of our July birthdays, and it would be just…well…fabulous!”

I hopped up and down in my Herman Miller Aeron…er…chic cafe chair, and virtually squealed, “Eeeeek! Ok let’s do it!”

Ms. Flox threw up her arms in surrender. “All right,” she conceded. “I suppose you need at least some form of off-island happiness and diversion after your 2006,” she concluded, and lit a cigarette.

I lit one, as well (finally, in my office building’s courtyard downstairs, a few moments later), and smiled.

And that, fair readers, is how “Operation: Fabulous Faggitude” was born. (Well. Kind of.)

Coming the weekend of 21 July 2007.

Portland? Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.

[Live photoblogging expected to occur across two blogs throughout entirety of said weekend.]

Filed under: Fashion, Food, Travel, Writing , a-list, alucina, being a gay, hawaii, linkage, memories, office love, omgwtfbbq, repartee

To Do: Mourn The Death Of Anna Nicole Smith, Purchase Actual Groceries For Actual Refrigerator, Etc.

I have decided that, particularly upon the conclusion of painfully soul-destroying weeks such as the one that just concluded, when I have absolutely zero creativity left for graphic design, creative or editorial writing, or anything beyond my sparkling observations and witticisms (thank you, Mr. Requisite Friday Evening Jack Daniels! *kiss kiss*), (and also because, well, really, who reads blogs on a Friday evening, anyway? Pfft! … Oh. … Wait. !!!), to make last week’s “To Do:…” column a weekly feature here in my Curious Affairs. This feature will conclude each week in three parts (each one served with a fresh whiskey sour): 1) at least one new thing that I discovered on the internet during that week, and a link-up to such; 2) “The Friday Fifteen,” or, the top fifteen search engine phrases (or variations thereof) used to access my Curious Affairs, and the articles to which they linked; and 3) at least two items I intend (key word, here, of course) to accomplish over The Imminent Fabulous Weekend In Paradise.

Atherton Bartelby hopes that his readership (all twelve of you *waves*) approves of this new feature, and will return to benefit from it (or not) on a weekly basis. (At the very least, it should give you something entertaining to read while you’re drinking your Sunday morning coffee and avoiding cracking open The New York Times and making that uninspiring yet healthy dry wheat toast spread with “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter OMGZ!”)

Oh wait. That’s Atherton’s Sunday morning. HA HA HA HA HA!

Anyway, to begin…

Why, oh why, oh Ye Goddesses and Gods of Teh Interwebs, did no one alert me to !! omg blog !! earlier?! Are you insane?! Or what? Does this site not scream “ATHERTON BARTELBY!” to you?! Frank’s is a gem of a witty site. I mean one really should just click on it if only for THE NAKED PHOTOS OF JOSEPH SAYERS OMG!!1!one! (Which, of course, necessitated impromptu masturbation in the office men’s room. Um. Duh.) Anyway, it’s a fabulous little site. Bravo, Frank!

And now for “The Friday Fifteen,” a.k.a., the fifteen top search engine phrases (and articles) of the week:

• “Barthes Gapes Pleasure,” for The Pleasure Of The Text.
• “The Post-It Always Sticks Twice,” for The Post-It Always Sticks Twice. (Two things here: 1) yes, it certainly fucking does!; and 2) my whole “I Am Going To Be The Homo Carrie Bradshaw! I AM!” Phase went on entirely too long.)
• “Palomino Closing Honolulu,” for R.I.P. The Horse Place.
• “Why Does My Leg Still Hurt,” … wait, WTF?! I don’t know why your leg still hurts, but don’t look now because your fucking arm is falling off!
• “Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder,” for Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder.
• “Loving The Wrong Person,” for Let Our Scars Fall In Love. (Appropriate, since Valentine’s DayQuirky Alone Day is just around the proverbial corner…)
• “And Who’ll Hear The Echoes Of Stories Never Told,” for The Final Fantasy.
• “A.V. Flox,” for … OMFG! Seven times?! Stalker, much?! Ms. Flox is taken and anyway way out of your league!
• “Somewhere Between You And Me,” for Somewhere Between Kaimuki And Salt Lake. (*vomits in mouth a little*)
• “He Penetrated Me From Behind,” for … AHAHAHAHAHA!
• “I Never Meant To Break Your Heart,” for Misplaced Childhood.
• “Pippa Passes,” for Pippa Passes (Island Style).
• “Cute Quotes Involving Pop Tarts,” for A Culinary Public Service Announcement. (*vomits again in mouth a little*)
• And, finally, THIRTEEN HITS of “La Douleur Exquise,” for La Douleur Exquise.

Once again, I feel sorry for all of these random people who stumbled into my Curious Affairs; this week’s Friday Fifteen is basically An Atherton Bartelby Ex-Boyfriend Flash Flood!

This weekend, aside from attempting to actually go to the actual grocery store to actually purchase actual groceries for the actually empty refrigerator and pantry, I will be officially and properly mourning the death of popular culture icon Anna Nicole Smith with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne and a Valium that I “borrowed” from a kind colleague whose internist is not as ethical as is mine. You may think I write that in jest, and I may certainly not seem that I would be the type of person to mourn the death of Anna Nicole Smith, but I actually admired her ability to just take everything that her life gave her, every trial, every adversity, and still keep on living in spite of it all. Whether or not she did so while entirely on booze and pills and other questionable substances is not the point; that woman had some serious strength. (And I am quite frankly rather already sick of all of the parodies and mockings of her death that I have read this week; she was a human being, people, and she fucking died! Show some fucking respect.) And besides, I actually watched “The Anna Nicole Show” with a passion. Oh, yes. Yes, I did. So, tomorrow evening, it’s all about celebrating you, Anna Nicole, and wishing you…peace. *raises champagne flute*

Finally, it turns out that The Horse Place referenced in my previous entry actually closed last night, unexpectedly not reopening today.

*pause*

Is it bitchy that I kind of hope that Bartholomew was planning his own final visit to The Horse Place this evening, and therefore did not get to say farewell, while I was able to bid it adieu at lunch yesterday, its final day of operation?

*pauses again*

Yeah. I thought so.

Filed under: Blogging, Fashion, Food, Media, Writing , a-list, alucina, being a gay, celebrities, death, erotica, ghost town, hawaii, honolulu, humor, linkage, lists, memories, office love, omgwtfbbq, pimpage, rumormongering, television