BEAUTIFUL MAN LIST

(c) Breeze Vincinz

For those of you not in the know, every year around this time in celebration of all the black gay prides going on around the country, I post my top ten most beautiful man list. It was made to counteract the mostly Aryan flavor of equivalent lists posted by People or US magazine. Don’t get me wrong, cute is cute and there some white boys out there who most definitely turn my head… but let’s give a little love to brothers right about now...

10. Marcus Patrick
I first caught a glimpse of this dude on his MySpace page and I originally thought he was a computer generated avatar. Low and behold, those abs, that chest, that face… it’s actually real! And all of that more was on sale for $5.95 in the November 2007 issue of Playgirl!

9. David Blaine
Ok… he’s a little weird, a little obnoxious and could definitely use a good night’s sleep. But as far as melancholy goes, it couldn’t come in a more handsome package. Besides… I like a challenge…

8. Alex Castro
Before he was Militia on American Gladiators he was Alex Castro, the Florida based model and exotic dancer who fit perfectly into Cirque Due Soleil’s Zumanity… and to answers of why I kept running out of lotion after I saw him in Las Vegas. 

7. Lamonty Council
You might better know him as Pootie from season one of VH1’s I Love New York. There is no denying that this dude is crazy as a bed bug and more ghetto than a straw in a bottle of beer… but come on… that’s one cute motherfucker. And I’m pretty he’s remotely stable now that he’s on lithium.

6. David J. Malebranche, M.D., M.P.H.
This dude intimidates me. He’s smart, he’s a doctor, he’s got the face of a God and he’s a little on the short side which I always appreciate. I think he is the perfect catch and what everybody’s mom hopes you bring home to dinner. He’s a little too perfect. If I found out that he can tell a decent dirty joke… I’m going to hunt this dude down and marry him.

5. Timbaland
I think it is really funny how this guy has bulked up and gotten in shape only to unintentionally become one of the most sought after gay icons since Jeff Stryker. You would be pretty hard pressed to find a woman who would choose Timbaland over the litany of other overly buff and toned rappers out there but you can best believe that a nation of Black gay men would be quite satisfied to have him naked and oily under their Christmas tree… present company included.

4. ?uestlove
Last year’s number one and my doppelganger when I blow out my hair into an afro and stop shaving. Still have much love for this dude… but we got to give the other folks a chance like...

3. Kamal Gray
…?uestlove’s badmate in the Roots. He’s the quiet light skinned brother that plays the keyboards. I know absolutely nothing about this dude outside of the fact that he only wants women to be his friend on one of his MySpace pages… which I think is kind of funny! It’s always the cute on dude… it’s always the cute ones...

2. Tim Liggins
Another Black Gay Icon, though not so unintentionally. This dude has an ass that would put both Jennifer Lopez and Beyonce to shame, and he seems well aware of that fact as lounges around in painted on jeans and skimpy jock straps on YouTube.

1. Terrell Tilford
One of the main actors in the DL Chronicles. I saw this dude at the premier and he’s even more attractive close up. He is so cool and so fine and so masculine… he’s what every Black man should aspire to be, gay or straight.

FRIENDSHIPS

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Awhile back I wrote about a New Years’ resolution that I had devised for myself where I would restructure my inner circle of friends. Truth be told, it’s actually been one of the very few New Years’ resolutions in my life that I have ever fully completed. I tend to think that I am happier and better off for it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I don’t have residual bitterness and resentment over the restructuring. And while talking to my sister recently I began to honestly fear for my own future as I tried to truthfully imagine my life proceeding down the road that it’s going on in regards to friendships.

Not to say that I don’t love my friends because I honestly do. But there is a certain amount of censorship that is involved when talking to just about everybody in my inner circle. It’s a censorship that has literally taken years to perfect and allocate. There was a time in my life where I was an open book for whoever had an ear, and I believed that the people in my inner circle would respond, react and reply in accordance to that of a trusted ally. I think I got this idea via pop culture. Laverne & Shirley, Bert & Ernie, Mary & Rhoda, Bart & Milhouse, these were bonds that were unshakable in my mind. I laid my inconsistencies, incongruities and indiscretions out to my friends thinking, Larry would never consistently humiliate Balki if he told him he frequented bathhouses, Richie wouldn’t abandon Potsie if he started dating his ex-boyfriend again, Rachel would make an effort to go to a Tori Amos concert if Monica really wanted her to go with her. But in real life, it doesn’t work out like that.

I recently saw one piece of pop culture that has shoved the concept of Teflon strength relationships down the throats of American viewers like a teenage boy with Viagra and a blow-up doll… Sex and the City: The Movie. No matter what those gals go through, their commitment to each other remained unshakable. When one of the main characters breaks up with her fiancé, they all hate the fiancé. When she gets back with him, they all love him again. It fascinating really. I saw the film with one of my closest friends and after it was over I was in the most romantic of moods. I felt so emotional and full of hope and love, both passionate and platonic. Still tasting that sweet aftertaste in my mouth after the movie was over I decided to tell my friend that I had begun to talk to my ex-boyfriend again. Just talk, nothing more, nothing romantic. I told him that he has moved on and found another boyfriend and through our talks I have successfully put to rest the immense amount of pure hatred and rage I had towards that man. I said that we are good friends who shared some intimate moments in the past and we are finally working on a platonic relationship and that as of date, it’s working beautifully and we’re both happy. I wanted him to be happy for me, understand that this is a good thing and that we both know what we’re doing and that we’re just friends. I wanted him to welcome him back into my life as a friend as much as the gals welcomed Mr. Big back in Sex and the City. But in real life, it doesn’t work like that.

He thought we were both being delusional. He thought I was especially being delusional. He faulted my ex for even talking to me when he has a boyfriend. He basically made up a scandalous little adulterous scenario and stood in judgment of it that was the complete opposite of the cordial, platonic, daytime friendship that I had clearly described. I was disappointed and a little hurt, and that sweet aftertaste soured horribly. I spat it out and vowed to never let that taste venture back into my mouth again.

I was talking with my sister about the whole scenario and the more I talked, the more I was realizing that I am, in all actuality, turning into a bitter old man. I’m going to be that lonely old dude in a studio apartment with fifteen cats who the kids fuck with on Halloween. I told her that over the years that I have learned to play certain cards very close to my chest, there are certain aspects of my life that I rarely talk about with anyone and certain aspects I just don’t discuss at all, in print or in person, and that over the past year or so, the list has grown exponentially… because no one that I know has proven to be able to handle it with a certain level of respect or decorum.

I tell one friend that I went to the bathhouse and I’m hearing about it for the next year or five about how much of a desperate whore I am.

I tell one friend that I am talking with my ex and I am automatically this weak delusional adulterous little boy who can’t say no.

I tell one friend that I started to manage my weight and now every time I put Equal into my tea it’s a thirty minute discussion about how I’m too good for real sugar.

I tell one friend that I’m thinking of relocating to the West Coast and now every time we meet it’s a thirty minute discussion about how I’m not strong enough for Los Angeles.

I told my sister that I have no one in my life with whom I can present myself to and they not respond with a sense of intimidation, judgment and/or jealousy and how I’ve given up on expecting any level of understanding, compassion or (God forbid) support of any kind from any of my friends… or the world in general really. And that’s when I got that crystal clear picture of myself at seventy-five years old, in a cardigan sweater that I knitted for myself, anorexic and sitting alone with a cup of tea sweetened with Equal, my twenty cats swirling around my studio apartment as eggs are pelted on my front door by the local school children. And I actually began to rationalize that… I would so much rather have that scenario than to talk about my sex life to my friends and have them throw it in my face and call me a spineless whore when it’s convenient for them to do so.

Sex and the City boldly proclaims that it wants to shatter the myth of fairytale romances but I think that what it does in turn is enable the myth of fairytale adult friendships. I think you would be hard pressed to find a group of four non related people over 30 who are that consistently dedicated to each other (outside of maybe members of fraternities and sororities which is a whole other story because those motherfuckers are nuts). In real life, relationships come and go, but so do friendships really. The only things that are real are your family, your God and yourself. And if you have a couple of really good friends around to share those things with, I think you’re ahead of the curve. With that said, right now, I do think I have some absolutely excellent friends, flaws and all. They’re not perfect friendships but I dropped that little slice of delusional hell back in my twenties. What I do have are a couple of highly earnest people who are, in all actuality, there for me when I truly need them to be. The trick, for lack of a better term, is to determine when do you really need them, and can you be there for them when they really need you. In that, I got a couple of genuine people who would most definitely check to see if the cats have eaten my face off, will wipe my front door of splattered egg… tell tales about how I deserved my lot in life because I was a filthy whore who went to the bathhouse and started talking to his ex-boyfriend back in his thirties…

…and a sister with whom I can tell all this to and more and cry with when I miss my grandma something awful.

MY HOLLYWOOD

(c) Breeze Vincinz

 

The other day I caught a glimpse of the movie Pretty Woman on UPN and I just couldn’t help but laugh my ass off! The stupid “hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold” scenario not withstanding, it was a delight to see Hollywood’s version of Hollywood. Now as I hear, Hollywood has gone through quite a few transformations over the years and I am but a novice when it comes to the actual history of Hollywood and its origins, but I can tell you that modern Hollywood is something of an enigma that has never really been accurately captured in any film, television show or book. Much like Woody Allen’s consistently sanitized versions of New York with its offensively blatant removal of ethnic minorities; Hollywood is usually depicted as some PG-13 Technicolor version of urban decay... complete with whores that look like Julia Roberts who oddly enough aren’t on crack.

More than not, I am usually disappointed with the way movies depict their geographical locations, especially if I have lived there for a particular amount of time. I can only think of a handful of movies that actually did Chicago justice for example, The Blues Brothers and Adventures in Babysitting being the most true to the spirit of my hometown. I have yet to see that with Los Angeles or more specifically Hollywood. I will admit that “My” Hollywood is quite biased considering my demographic… I am African American, I am male, I am in my late thirties, I am homosexual, I am most definitely lowerclass as far as income, I am morbidly obese. I can see how my Hollywood would differ from that of… oh let’s say… Charlize Theron. But there are still aspects of our Hollywood that I think overlap and I think it is these attributes that should be acknowledged as the true flavor of Hollywood.

For me, Hollywood would not be Hollywood without those tireless workers on Hollywood and Highland dressed as your favorite movie character hustling their asses off to get a picture with you and/or your kid for a couple of bucks. To me they are the epitome of what Hollywood is… tragically funny, or is it comedically tragic? Whatever the case… those guys are a hoot. It could be 110 degrees outside but you will still see a gaggle of people in Shrek suits, Marilyn Monroe dresses and Michael Jackson pants smiling, prodding and dancing for your attention and for your buck. I knew that I had become an official “Hollywooder” when I went to the McDonalds on Hollywood and Highland and stood behind Captain Jack Sparrow who was slipping something from his flask into his supersize Coke and in front of Princess Ariel who was royally upset that the line was taking so long because she had to go take a dump. At any even given moment around here you’re bound to either bump into some celebrity or celebrity look-a-like. It happens so much that it doesn’t really matter if it is a real celebrity… I mean, after you catch a glimpse of Diana Ross adjusting his testicles in the Television DVD aisle of Virgin Megastore, having Anthony Kiedis come up and ask you if you know where the nearest Mrs. Fields is, is no big whoop.

The nightlife here is also something to be desired. I’m pretty sure that you could do some deep research as to why things close so early in this town but all inquires would lead to… everything closes early in this town. Usually around 2:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m. on Saturday but still… last call is at 2:00 a.m. This was a huge culture shock for me considering the fact that I usually didn’t leave the house until 1:00 a.m. back in Chicago. There is also no “Circuit Party” scene here in Los Angeles. Circuit Parties are when you go to club to club to club, drinking and partying all along the way. A good friend of mine explained the reason why. Clubs in Los Angeles are spread out pretty far… and as Missing Persons so eloquently chimed in the eighties…”No one walks in L.A.”, you drive everywhere, and you will have more of a chance in finding a gay guy not into oral sex than you would finding a parking space here. So you drive to a club and you drive around from anywhere from forty five minutes to an hour and a half before you find a spot or you just give up and pay $20 for valet parking. Once the car is taken care of, you wait for another hour behind the infamous velvet rope. After that wait is over, and it is determined that you won’t disrupt the guy/girl ratio within the club and that you are in the very least remotely fashionable and attractive enough to get in, you finally cross the threshold to realize that… there are only about twenty people in this joint. And you only got about thirty minutes before they call last call for alcohol. So… no… there is no Circuit Party scene, no human would intentionally inflect that kind of pain on themselves more than once a night.

Now West Hollywood is a little different. You actually could go club to club but unfortunately what you will find out is that they are all exactly the same and they all play exactly same the music and all of the men shop at exactly the same shops and workout at exactly the same gym and exercise the exact same muscles. Just think of the opening “Weeds” with really gay white men, “Little gay men on the hillside, Little gay men made of ticky-tacky, Little gay men on the hillside, Little gay men all the same. There's a white one and a white one and a white one and a white one, and they're all made out of ticky-tacky, and they all look just the same...”

In “My” movie of Hollywood I would definitely have to mention the residential areas. Most people think of Hollywood as that long strip of land on Hollywood Boulevard with the Star Walk of Fame. It is by far one of the worlds most famous landmarks and even though I have walked that thing a million times and have seen a countless number of both human and animal excrement slopped all over those golden stars, there is still a bit of awe walking past a star and realizing that once upon time Lucille Ball stood right there. It’s a little off putting to see some homeless dude scratching his nads over it but still… I do love Lucy, I really do. And the thing about the Hollywood Walk of Fame is that, while it is essentially the yellow brick road that leads you through Hollywood, it is also eclipsed by several residential units whose occupants predictably enough tire from the constant amusement park outside. Waking up on Monday morning and dragging yourself to work is bad enough. Waking up on Monday morning and having to walk behind a gaggle of I heart Los Angeles t-shirt clad tourists slowly dredging down the street to catch a glimpse of the Jon Edwards star that was adorned with the plumpest pile of dog shit you’ve ever seen in your life a day prior doesn’t do anything to help your commute.

My neighborhood in itself has always been very family oriented and somewhat quiet. As with the majority of Los Angeles it is heavily populated with Mexican Americans (I’m about the only Black person on my block) and everyone gets along quite well, although every once in awhile we do get infected by gangs… and infected is the right word… they’re like fucking roaches. Every one is getting along, kids are playing outside, the elderly are walking their dogs, it’s quite an idyllic scene, then the next morning you wake up and every flat surface in the neighborhood has been tagged with graffiti. The apartment owners paint over it only for the graffiti to return a couple of days later. This will go on for about a week or two until one morning you’ll wake up and go outside you’ll see a candle vigil at the place where someone was shot and killed the night before. The graffiti goes away, the kids come back out to play, the elderly walk their dogs again, there are barbeques and relay races in the streets… and then the fucking roaches come back and we’re hit with another bout of graffiti everywhere.

When I first moved here this happened about two or three times a year, usually during the summer months. That was until we experienced the wonderful world of gentrification. In no time flat, several homes that housed several Mexican families were razed in order to built these beautiful high rise condominiums for whi-, no, I can’t say that they built them specifically for white people (but it’s nothing but white folks up in there). Once they went up I can only remember one time I saw graffiti, some on my building and some on the ground in front of the condos. They were both covered up the next day never to be seen again, neither has the requisite post candle vigil returned.

I think that’s what’s missing from a lot of movies, television shows and books revolving around major cities, the gentrification, the replacement of homes for minority families with condos for the single upper class, the paving of paradise to put up a parking lot if you will. It always changes the face of a city. As I hear, Harlem as been going over quite the change in hue over the couple of years and the entire housing project that I was born and raised in back in Chicago has recently been completely razed from its roots leaving several acres of flat land in it’s wake with signs that portray happy Caucasian families that read, “Pershing Estates Coming Soon!” But this is nothing new, gentrification is a part of urban planning and as long a city needs income… they’re going to build for the young and the restles then pacify the old and the earnest and we all just sit back and hope that in the very least that the strongest aspects that old culture remain.

I wonder when they eventually tear down my building to accommodate the “new excellence of living” as detailed in Town & Country magazine, what of our stories would remain in those neatly manicured lawns. Would they remember the one legged guy who tirelessly cleans those stars on the walk of fame everyday, the skunks, raccoons and oversized cats that run rampart through the streets late at night, those corny inspirational sayings on the marquee of the Henry Ford Theater that are so syrupy sweet that sometimes I cry at the thought of something existing in this pin prick of a world that still has such pure amiable intentions, the since abandoned Vine movie theatre where you could catch two movies for $5 in a warm, funky, dimly lit catacomb of a theater. I wonder if anyone will look at those guys on Hollywood and Highland dressed as movie characters as guys looking to pay their rent and not some idle entertainment solely their to humiliate themselves for a couple bucks. Or that the prostitutes that have absconded to Sunset Boulevard aren’t walking the streets looking for the meaning of life or their one true love, they’re looking to pay their rent also.

I hope that when the next obviously oblivious movie director, producer, writer who wants to use Hollywood as a hip happening seedy backdrop for their “serious” PG-13 drug, murder, prostitute, crime, mystery love story that they at least get some of the flavor right. With gentrification going on here I know a lot of the taste is leaving but, maybe some of the aroma will remain and they can get some of it right. And I totally wouldn’t mind if they cast Charlize Theron to play me.