The Beautiful Man List was created in response to People Magazine's World's Most Beautiful List. I have always been dismayed by society's slender, Aryan-esque standards of beauty. There has always been a great disconnect between whom I give my applause to and to whom gets thunderous standing ovations. Over the years, however, I have discovered that my own tastes have a tendency to run parallel to classically beautiful archetypes of fair skin, chiseled muscles and slender features. So much so that friends and onlookers alike have commented, "So what exactly is the difference between you and the White Folks' lists?" I have yet to come up with a comprehensive, logical answer but with this being the last official list of the Monthly Breeze... I think I've come close.
Having been born in 1971, I am a card carrying member of an elite group of people affectionately called “Generation-X”. I would like to believe that I’m too young to be considered “old” and too old to be considered “young”, but let’s cut the shit here… I’m fucking old. But I do feel us old Generation-X’ers do have a slight technological advantage over other generations in that, our grasp of life before the internet is just as strong as our obsession with it. In broad terms, my children can’t conceive of a corded rotary phone with no voicemail or call waiting any more so than my parents would want to talk to their girlfriends and drinking buddies using only 140 characters. I on the other hand have fond memories of having to dial 0 for the operator to get directions to a restaurant, digging for change in my pocket to use a payphone, using our UHF/VHF television as monitor for my old Radio Shack TRS-80 computer, being in complete awe when we first got AOL and hearing those distinctly technical guttural noises and thinking, “Oh my God! That’s the future squeaking at me!” I also remember when I wanted to talk to someone I had to do it the old fashion way… awkwardly, uncomfortably and unknowingly; I knew nothing about them but the basic information I could ascertain from my immediate five senses… they looked good, they smelled decent enough, the pitch of their could be lower, but fuck it… proceed and say hello or whatever best line happened to be. There was no profile to look at beforehand, no simple visual assessment of how many mutual friends you have or how many friends they have accumulated, there were no graphic shots of their genitalia on display, there was just you and the other person and you just pressed your luck.
This is going to be my entry into the "It Does Get Better Campaign", despite the fact it might be over with by the time this gets published. Nevertheless, I still wanted to say a little something about gay teen suicides and speak to those teenagers who are questioning their sexuality and are having such a hard time coping with their peers during this time.
I was talking about the "It Does Get Better Campaign" with a friend of mine. I was thinking about the idea of "it getting better". Honestly, I guess I question the idea of it getting "better" and is it a level of delusion that we want to promote. In one aspect I think we definitely should tell teenagers, "You know what, you're a teenager; the world is kind of microscopic at this point. But it is bigger, and it is better." I know when I was a teenager, when I was 15 or 16, my world was just High School and I didn't think anything existed outside of it. My thought was that the people who were fucking with me at 15 or 16 were always going to exist, they were always going to fuck with me and I was never going to get out of that situation. And truth of the matter is, I think this should be a campaign of, "Dude, once you graduate, seriously, you never have to see those fools… ever again in your entire life. " I can tell you, honestly, I am 39 years old, I have not seen those people since I graduated. You hear me? You never have to see them, ever again. I think that alone should give you some inspiration to keep going because once you graduate it's a done deal. So just get through the next couple of years.
Once upon a time I befriended a clairvoyant. And like all of my relationships, platonic or romantic, its formation was fierce, quick and alcohol laced (well on my part at least, he was a teetotaler). I haven’t spoken to my teetotaler clairvoyant friend in quite some time but he popped up in my head today; the end of what I imagine to have been an extended patch of bad times for the past week or so. My weight loss has plateaued, I got stood up on Valentine’s Day (fuck you Joey!), though there have been a ton of “better” I have unwittingly skidded into the “worse” in the dysfunctional marriage between me and my job, and to top it off I was witness to three, yes THREE (!), separate fights on the bus ride from work… one that I unfortunately was a part of when a zaftig and disheveled young woman loudly proclaimed that I was trying to steal her bag because I, dressed in a turtleneck, jeans, boots, leather jacket and laptop bag, looked homeless and was trying to steal her purse. I blame it on my lack of sleep lately as well as just the accumulation of bullshit going on but I very ashamedly have to admit that… well… I read her for filth. I read her from chimpan-A to chimpan-Z. I called her everything but a child of God. It also didn’t help that this woman, who quite frankly looked like a tousled understudy for the movie “Precious”, was actually gathering sympathy from people on the bus while she pined on in the most dramatic of tones that could have rivaled Loretta Divine in “Colored Girls” about how “Somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff!” All of a sudden I was the male antagonist in every Black female empowerment story, from Mr. in “The Color Purple” to Russell in “Waiting to Exhale” to Basil in “The Women of Brewster Place”. There I was just reading my book… and this chick had the bus believing that I raped my dates and thrown babies out of windows and was trying to steal alla of her stuff…
It's that time of year again. The time when every state in the union does it's best Los Angeles impression; the sun is shining, the sky sparkles magnificent hues of blues, the grass beams with an almost fluorescent of green, so bright that no one notices the dog poop…
Most major cities are spurred by such natural beauty to host LGBT pride celebrations in which Lesbians, Gay, Bisexuals, Transgenders and their heterosexual counterparts take to the streets in glorious abandon to celebrate the lives, achievements and rock hard abs of our brethren (… and sisteren).
Here at the Monthly Breeze we give our own accolades with our very own Beautiful Man List in which we give props to the beautiful men who rarely make it on the Beautiful People lists published by main stream publications (e.g. People, US Weekly). Maybe it has something to do with their lack of fame, or maybe it has something to do with their abundance of melanin and/or cellulite. In either case, we salute each one of you Beautiful Men… whether you are Gay, Straight or the "Tyler Perry" grey in between...
As a man of size, and a certain amount of body hair, after the initial shock of divulging my homosexual tendencies, the usual follow-up query is whether I'm a Top or a Bottom. I have skirted the answer for so long that many people just assume I'm a Bottom because no self respecting Top would ever shy away from the title. The truth lies somewhere in between.
As forward thinking as I try to be, I was brought up in the ghetto of 1980's Chicago. The most famous gay men in my generation were RuPaul and Jeffery Dahmer. If the 70's were about "free" love, the 80's were about it's "resale"; either by putting it on glittery display for profit, or feeding it to guilt ridden notions for psychotic satisfaction. In either case, fame was at the end of either fork of that road and I for one did not want to be anywhere near it at the time. In my teenage mind with my Housing Project home life and my Catholic school rearing I was under the strict belief that as far as sex is concerned that anyone who gets penetrated is the submissive one and anyone who penetrates is the dominate one. So in my mind as far as "gay" sex was concerned, I envisioned Jeffery Dahmer fucking RuPaul… and eating him afterwards.
"A female physical therapist is drafted by an all-star basketball player to help him recover from a career-threatening injury. The two soon fall in love in what is a modern-day Cinderella story."
- Yahoo.com film blurb.
I went with my bud "R" to see it even as I made fun of it after getting a waft of the stinking trailer. Corn-nee romantic comedy starring black people. Still I see enough bad (white) mainstream films (unintentionally) and apparently have shitloads of disposable income (in my mind) so I parked my yellowed ass at Harlem's Magic Johnson Theater, which has the amenities a self-satisfied critic like myself sometimes needs and desires: black movies and black people. Of the black movies, there are only maybe two per century, primarily written (hahaha!) and directed (bwahahah!) by Tyler fucking Perry. Of the black people, I want to be with my people as they talk their asses all the way through the film, laughing at the funny parts, booing and hissing, and saying things like "Oh no she didn't!" as if they were sitting at home alone in their draws.
