New Year's Day in New York City

AOG, New York

Last day in New York. In a couple of hours I leave for London. I have just dropped Juan off at Penn Station and I'm alone for a few hours. The first alone hours of 2007. Alone, I walked around the streets of New York pretending to live here for a while afterwards. I amazed myself at doing so.

I was asking myself what it was that I would do if I lived here. What my life would be like. Then, I unsurprised myself. I walked a couple of blocks before being drawn to Borders to buy a book I'll never read. Or won't read for months to come. Or years. When I fly to Madrid this new book will sit on a shelf for months before I get to it. As do most of the books I own. Exactly as I would have done in London or Madrid. This proves that wherever you go, your life goes with you. And you go with you too.

I am a slow reader of books, though I am an avid buyer of them. When people ask me if I have read all the books I own (and there are hundreds) I always reply "not yet". I never find the time. I brought a book by Bioy Casares from Madrid to read on the plane. As of yet unopened since I bought it in Buenos Aires last year. I hope to get to it on the way back.

When I left Borders I walked around trying to inhale my last few hours in New York. I wanted to take an impression with me back to Europe. I think I have succeeded.

The heights of the buildings, the low flying clouds today, the lights, the fact that everything is open eventhough it is the first of January. I am no longer in doubt as to why this city is known as the capital of the world. It truly is. I think I was very lucky to be able to be here today. And lucky to have a place to go back to.

Ill in NYC

AOG, Jersey City

The last time I was in New York, many moons ago, I had the flu. So as to keep up with tradition, I am once again in New York, and I feel physically ill. I have the flu.

Yesterday I woke up at 4:30 AM in London to catch a flight from City Airport to Paris and then connect to another flight to Newark. I first had a shower. And it was downhill from there. In between Westminster tube station and Journal Square New Jersey, via Air France flight 18, I managed to get sick like a dog. Runny nose, puffy eyes, headache, cough, sneeze. The works.

But boy is it worth it!!

I love this place.

The banality of evil

AOG, London

I found this on the internet. I am reminded of Hannah Arendt's 1963 book "Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the banality of evil".

I can no more condemm these soldiers than I can praise the government which sent them there. Is what they are doing evil?

I think it is careless. Disrespectful. Shameful. Most of all it is inmature.

I suppose that in a few years time, these soldiers will have children of their own, and they will remember their actions in Iraq.

Perhaps then they will feel ashamed for having done this. Or perhaps their memories will have changed their recollection of these days. They will be remembered as better. Different.

If this happens, no justice will have been done. And still the earth will continue spinning as if nothing happened. As is always the case. I know I am a bit of a nihilist, but, in this case, how can I not be?

This is such a poor show of humanity. I feel ashamed and sorry. Both for the children and for the soldiers.

C of E mass

Tonight, after dinner, my sister took us to Midnight Mass. I have not been to midnight mass in about....well, I can't even rememeber. I remember going once when we were living in Houston around 1985. I remember that night because the blue suit my mother wore was a gift to her from my sister and I. But after that, I cannot recall when I went again. So much so that when my sister announced we were going after dinner, I had to think about exacty what it was we were doing. I am hardly religious, or in fact not at all.

This may change with age. I have noticed that people get more religious the older they become. Perhaps that might happen to me as well...though I doubt it. I am extremly anti-clerical at the best of times, so becoming religious in the future is not looking like it might happen.

I do recall the first time I went into a Protestant Church in the UK. It was Church of England, but to me, a Protestant Church just the same if only because Christians are either Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant, or Coptic. I know that in the UK, CoE is sort of Catholic Light, but just the same, it is Protestant even if it is not Hardcore Protestant. Not that these denominations mean a lot to me.

But back to my point. I went to CoE mass whilst attending LSE back in 2001. We had been invited to stay at Cumberland Lodge where it is costumary to attend mass on Sunday at (I think) St Catherine's Church, inside of Windsor Great Park. In theory, the royal family were due to attend as they do most sundays during the fall, but I think that weekend the Queen Mother had one of those "chicken bone" incidents for which she was so well loved. Or something. So no Queens attended that day. At least not royal ones. The priest...well, that is another blog altogether!

I attended Sunday mass with a fellow classmate who is from New York and, being of Italian grandparents, Catholic. I do recall we were both amused by the amount of standing that went on during the service. I rememeber that we were both very tired at the end of it- though this might very well be because we stayed up until about 3 in the morning chatting away the previous night with the other students. Nonetheless, it was a new experience. It was funny when the priest said something along the lines of "...and bless the Queen and the Royal family and...". I was very surprised. Just as I am when in Catholic churches they say "...and bless the Pope and...". I always tend to say to myself "if I feel like it which I don't really". I find it hard to pray for political figures. Bless the Queen? the Pope? Heck, lets pray for Fidel Castro while we are at it! And why not Robert Mugabe in all his homophobic glory? No no no. No praying for people in power from me. Call me rebellious.

Tonight we went to mass at St Mary's Bloxham. The church itself was very beautiful: early or mid Gothic with a lovely spire. Inside it was very warm. Because we arrived a bit late, we sat at the back, and my view of the lisping vicar ( Jethuth ith Lord) was obstructed by a beautiful four-pillared Gothic column. it was a superb space. And I love English spires. And St Mary's has one. See photo above!

In this church, as in all the other churches in my life, the hymn book and photocopied mass guidelines (the script?) were not in synch with the actual service. I wish they would just give you a step-by-step guideline of the evening's songs, sermons, hymns, prayers and responses.

All my life, whenever I find myself in a mass situation, I can never follow what is happening. And whenever you are supposed to answer to things like "The Lord be with you" or "We give you thanks", I am always mumbling something like "blah blah, mm, mmph....amen". I never know what is going on. I am never on the same page as the congregation. And yes, in Oh! so many ways....!!!

Perhaps if I'd gone to mass more often I would know these things, but, alas, I have not. And I'm not about to start going. God is one thing but organised religion is another. Oh, and I hate with a passion the part about shaking people's hands and saying "mumble mumble...be with you".

Last night in Spain 2006

Tonight is my last night in Madrid. In a few hours I flyback to London to spend Christmas with Madame Mère, Sister & Bro-in-law in their lovely home (with room for a flock of ponies!) in the shire of Oxford. And their dogs. I won't be in Spain again until january 2007. And by then, I will know if I have been granted an internship with the PRISA media group (owner of El País, CNN +, SER Radio, etc etc) or not. If so, I will be happy. If not. Well...we'll see. I don't wish to anticipate anything.

Of course, I have been flying to London once a month (sometimes twice a month) since January. So it is not as if I'm flying home after a long spell. Home is now Madrid. Sort of. Somehow. Not that I think of London as home. Although I lived for 15 years on that island (The UK), I never thought of London as home. It was where I lived. But it did not fit my definition of home (in this respect I envy my mother and sister. They LOVE the UK. I, as with all else, have to be Le Garçon Différent). But Home, is Spain now. And when I think of it, it feels ok to do so. Do I miss London? Yes. Sometimes I do. How could I not? But love it? Mmmm....

I only love the US. And Mexico. And Spain. And France. And Cuba. And Argentina. I like South Africa. I like Germany. I like Venezuela. I like Greece. I like Denmark. I like Portugal. And Hungary.

I sort-of-kinda-in-a-way-but-not-always-yet-somehow like London. But not to live there. I think it has become one of those places I visit and like. A destination with the added bonus of a resident family. One way or another, I will always be tied to the island for better or for worse. But I think that is ok too.

It is funny because I have never lived anywhere for 15 years non-stop but for London. Maybe that is why I don't love it. Though this is not true. There are a million reasons why I don't. And million (or close to a million) why I do. Maybe I should be positive. I like that people think it is a world city. Like New York. Unlike Madrid. Not a world city just yet.

My classmates have loved calling me English (Tony es inglés) all year long. Which is amazing because the british never have done that; because I very obviously am not. Especially when I open my mouth and speak; when I do, a type of California via Texas accent comes out which is very obviously not British. And yet when I go to the US everyone thinks I am British. "I just love your accent" "What accent?". I am doomed. I know. I will forever be intertwinned with multiple cultures in spite of myself. Doomed to be "the other" until I die.

Even in Spain, where, in theory, I am meant to be from by virtue of birth and parentage. Though a life lived outside it does diferentiate me from most people here. And I think it shows sometimes. Yet, I speak their language, and they think I am some sort of weird hybrid. And whenever I say something odd, it is never because I might BE odd, but because I am foreign. To them. So not from here either.

But it has been amusing to be thought of, in a roundabout kind of way, as British. Especially because the Spanish, like the Americans and everyone else on earth, are sold on their idea of the British. They think only of elegance, teas at 5, the English look of things, Harrod's. Ideas which are as real as those about Spain- paella, sea, sex, sand and sangria. Spain, just isn't this. Nor is Britain that. Of course, these things do exist within both countries, but they do not even come close to defining them any more so that to say George W. Bush represent all about the US. How could he? how can these things?

So. In a few hours back to London. Shopping spree tomorrow before Christmas with the Hunter's. I guess I'll be quite tired by the end of it. And then off to the big apple for New Year's. Yes, it would appear like I travel a lot. But on a budget. There is no glamour involved.

By the way, I have not packed yet. And also, four of my friends in London are away on holiday. Not that I would have much time for them but...

I was told about this website when I first started working on TV back in '04 in London. One of the runners on Fit Farm (Channel 4) showed me this site. It makes me laugh. Wait until you get to the snake part.

Oh, yes, And have a very Happy Christmas 2006.

Tech Madness

Ok, I'm not the most "with it" person in the world technologically speaking (or most any other field) but there has got to be an "idiot's-way -to- making- your- website- look -pretty -with -pings and- pongs- and- feeds -and- merde- like- that". Yes, Merde.

I have been trying for the past hour to get a feed from the NYT as well as The Guardian. Could i do it? Could I hell! No. Why? Because, unfortunately for me, I am computer illiterate. Yes, I, a child of the 80s, never took an active interest in computers beyond the "nice game" "cool graphics" (and we are talking pre-playstation here) and "wow" stage of things. Programming makes me sick. I don't understand it, I don't care for it, heck with it!

But, of course, one is of the "litteraty & culturatty" brigade. One must be "Oh..so with it" these days. One must somehow produce an amazing website if one is expected to be taken seriously by one's peers (read harpies). We can't have the tecchies writing columns can we? No. But we do need them to make cyber crap look cool. Presentable. Ditty. Oui, J'ai dit ditty!

So? So help me God, Buddha, Allah (not his real name...did you know there are about 99 names for Allah and that Allah actually means "The only God") I will try my best to make this look presentable in spite of programmers reticence to make this whole process straightforward and easy and ergonomic.

"Please copy and paste and shove it up your website with our compliments hahaha"

I hate computers.

Hope the stupid video from You Tube works.

PS: Link of the day: Where bad films go to die. Enjoy!

First post from Madrid in English

Well, after living in Madrid for nearly a year, and now that my Master's in journalism (part one) has finished (part deux might continue in january if I'm lucky enough to get an internship at El País), and I no longer wish to move away from all things Anglo in order to improve my Spanish, I have decided to inaugurate this blog. I am not sure how much I'll write in it, since Subvero (the Spanish one) is going strong and after a year I think I might have around 1.5 readers in all, but I find it hard to write only in Spanish. Though I love the language, English is the language I've used for most of my life, and I can express myself better and without stuttering in it than in Spanish. Though this might, in time, change.

For the time being, here is post number 1.

On saturday I fly to London for X-mas. Not looking forward to it extremly ( I think I am suffering from post-Master-traumatic stress-disorder). I have spent all of yesterday at home, except for going to dinner to this hell hole, or rather ground hole since we had to sit on the floor (do I look japanese to you Luis?? no, didn't think so) near the Malasaña neighborhood. I got home around 4:30 am. Today, much the same. There are some friends coming round on thursday for dinner. I have to clean my miniscule-yet-oh-so-fashionable petite studio in Chueca (that's gayville in Madrid to you) before then. God I wish I could afford a maid. I hate housework!

I also still have to pack, go shopping for gifts, attend the good bye & Christmas drink at El País, get my head together, and overall avoind getting depressed over the holidays.

The link of the day...this american guy living in Wales (no, I don't know why he lives in Wales, or on that island for that matter).Read bits of his blog and his articles make me laugh. In part, it is his fault I am writing today at all. I have been avoiding an english-language blog all year long. His name is Chris Cope.

Thus far I can say he is about a thousand times funnier than Bill Bryson. I know this is hard to believe. I am fully aware of being the only human being on earth who does no think Bryson is neither the bee's knees, nor the dog's bollocks (can you tell I lived in London for far too long??). I know it is my misfortune to have to share the entire planet with a man who has the wit of a leaf of lettuce. Alas, I must!

Anyway, read Chris' blog. His Christmas video is quite funny. It even has choreography. Quite remarkable considering he is living in Wales.

TTFN.

PS: The image is Banksy's. Partially his fault I started this blog in the first place. Although...chain of events goes like this- El País website-> Banksy's photo-> Google search-> Banksy's website-> What he reads-> Chris Cope's website->my neurosis-> Willoughby

Finding Prince Charming: 2003

AOG, London

As children of the modern era, gay men are always in tune with whatever fad, vogue, trend and tendency going. That gay men are quick to spot- when not in fact create!- fashions in all aspects of culture is a given. From music to fashion to interior design, gay men are really the muses of western culture.

With this in mind, it is worth investigating the latest addition to the gay universe: the Internet. Yes, many of us have heard the horror stories which are associated with chatting on-line to someone. The first thing to keep in mind is that men, whether gay or straight, lie. “Young 40, my friends say I am attractive” usually translates as: “Aging 50, my Mum thinks I am a peach.” Nothing wrong with him really.

But if this is who you are, then that is who you should say you are. It saves time. In any case, if you lower expectations, chances are that when they meet you they will be pleasantly surprised. But more on that later.

For years, gay men had only the scene and its ‘outdoor’ outlets to help them meet a guy. Whether for the night or for life, the scene was at once maligned and praised as the venue where gay men met. And so it would have continued had it not been for the internet. Aside from free porn (no longer free of course) it quickly became a good source where lonely hearts met. And no heart is as lonely as a gay heart…n’est ce pas?

Instantly, those of us with ‘techhie’ friends began hearing about how great it was to meet people on line. Suddenly the world gay men had spent most of the 80s and 90s visiting was at their bedroom - or cyber-café- door.

Juan from Sitges was talking to John from Sydney. And you lucky sod in London were in on the act. But as with the Bible, soon came tragic revelations. Whereas in a club, the weird-looking chap was the one you avoided, on the net, he was the one seeking you out. This very quickly developed into the ‘no pic, no chat’ protocol still with us. It makes sense.

But this was of course no safeguard. For gay men all have something of Dorian Gray in them, and pics that were… less than recent, were often scanned and pasted as proof of beauty.

Well yes, but faded beauty is no remedy for present tragedy. The net responded by creating interest-specific sites and chat rooms. Do you like older men? There’s a chat room for you. Are bears your thing? Follow this link. What, twinks? Type this URL. And so on and so forth. The bar/club scene suddenly became almost obsolete. Almost but not quite because enough men defied the net and chose instead to opt for human touch as a first point of contact.

Of course that meant that the weird guy you always avoided at the pub was still there. Still cruising, still single. But then again so were you and at least like this you could talk to him without that internet anxiety that accompanies a blind date. If he was strange, you walked away and moved on to the next guy, or the next pint.

So the scene still has its advantages over the net. If you don’t meet anyone, then at least you are out of the house, with some music playing and surrounded by people. Anything may happen under those circumstances. And if not, then you can always place an ad on the net. And boy do they work! Ads are the new thing. Yes it was nice talking to Shawn in Vancouver, but you want Paul in SW2.

The net cannot overcome the immediacy of your local scene, and long-distance love of men you have never met is neither healthy nor productive. That is where personal ads come in. you need a local chap that is X, Z or Y.

Yes, Fred in New Jersey is those things; he is also very far away and not coming to Heathrow anytime soon. Ads are great in that they can be a good tool to give someone a little bio of yourself, and vice versa.

Furthermore, nothing beats the feeling of opening your account in the morning, often at work but that’s another article, and facing a “You Have Mail” notice from a stranger saying those magic words “Hi, I saw your ad.” You can't help but to be excited. And you smile. One email later, you have a date.

So which is better, the net or the scene? Well, being gay, I think we find it hard to choose one over the other and choose both instead. They each have their advantages and their drawbacks. The one for you is the one you feel fulfils your needs better. You can be lonely at home, typing away, and you can be lonely in a Pub, drinking away. Both will help you to be happier if you tailor them to your needs. As all else in life. Now that was deep wasn’t it? And remember, smile!

The end of the Future that never was

AOG, London

If like me, you were raised in the 1970s and 1980s, then you too grew up in a world where the future was promising, high tech, streamlined, inexpensive, and, most importantly, just around the corner.

As the 1980s drew to a close, my life got very busy with itself and the 1990s were no different. After having spent the last ten years growing up, trying to find happiness, getting an education, learning to love, and hate, and generally being busy, I eventually got in touch with my inner philosopher and began to ponder seriously about the world and its marvels.

In no time did I realise that my childhood and youth had been times of great wonder and amazement, followed by young adulthood spent dealing with issues and problems and mostly other people. Mostly stupid people. And at all levels.

But this is not about them, this is about the dream I was fed as a young person of a future where the moon would be colonised, cars would levitate, travel would be increasingly shorter.

In short, the Science Fiction future that the Cold War ensured once the West won and the Communists lost. But did this ever happen? Did this future materialise or rather, can it or will it ever do so? Like hell!

As far as outer space being colonised goes, forget it. After one major accident in 1987, and again this year, NASA is no longer the space dream factory it once was. Intent on relying on very old looking Space Shuttles, it no longer dares to dream of sharp, computer-designed, aerodynamic spaceships.

They promised us a space Ferrari but instead continue to service our dreams with a double-decker bus. And one which is no longer as reliable as it once was. As for levitating cars, well if this should ever occur outside a Star Wars set, I probably will not be alive to see it. If anything, it would appear like we are going backwards rather than forwards.

Who is to blame? I don't know. I do know this is not the future I was sold. It is not the high-tech world I expected. Unfortunately, my expectations, and those of my generation, have been lowered. We now marvel at rather pedestrian things like, forgive me for saying so, the Internet. Yes, it is great, but all the Internet is is a communicative network for people lucky enough to own computers.
Where are the 300 story-high buildings? The fast ships? The space colonies? The sea farms? The ecological (eolic power, solar power &c.) power sources? Why are we still stuck with Hydroelectric and nuclear power? Is this the best we can do?

Obviously yes. Yes, the future is now. It rather sucks.

Fashion in the sex shop

AOG, London

These post-birthday days have been spent by me looking for a job part of the day, and staying outside of the house the other part.

Needless to say, it is a curse of modern life that one cannot survive outside one’s house without having to spend money, and London is a Mecca for that sort of thing. In true little-American-capitalist fashion, I have decided that the best way to use my birthday money is to spend it.

I suppose that a greater man would have saved it and bought some property with it eventually, I regret to say that I am not that man. I am instead this man, and this man spends like there is no tomorrow.

I remember a 1980s movie starring Rob Lowe called “Oxford Blues.” Lowe plays a valet in Las Vegas. One day a rich lady client offers him money in exchange for sexual favours. What always stuck in my mind was the interesting conversation they had: “What would you do with $100?” “Blow it!” “And with $1000?” “Spend it!” “And $5000?” “Invest it!” He then goes and plays it all on the roulette, wins, and gets to go to Oxford.

The moral of the story is that sometimes a little bit of money is neither here nor there (please note the British-ism I have picked up). So my birthday money is to be mostly spent- not that I planned it that way, I don’t plan to spend it all I don’t think- but I am spending it on things I believe are necessary.

Since I don’t have a coke habit, nor do I drink or smoke, I spend most of my money on my other vices: music and books. Unfortunately, I still have the shopping habits of someone raised in an American home- id est, with room to spare.

My psyche has a hard time realising that the matchbox I call home is not apt for the spending habits. I have books draped unto walls, crammed unto corners, hidden under beds, in short, all over the place. As for my music collection, it follows a similar pattern of storage. If there is a square inch of space anywhere, chances are there will be either a book or a CD or both. And a jumper on top.

With that in mind, I decided this week that I would continue with my recent mania of storing my CDs on a portable CD case. This in itself was not an easy solution to arrive at since often the only way to store a CD is by destroying part of the case, or booklet, or something.

Though I try to keep as much as possible intact, it is hard to do so, and I am mourning many of the clever and unique casings some of the CDs came in. Silly perhaps, but my collection stood as I liked it: neat, intact and stored. Unfortunately, it not only takes up physical space, it takes up psychological space too. I have wanted to tackle the collection for a few years now, but it is one of those things that one never gets around to doing for one reason or another.

A while back, I decided that for sanity’s sake the CDs had to be stored somehow, and the cases are the only solution I had at hand. Needless to say, as with all else in life, these cases I need are rather pricey, so I have been able to buy one a week, or sometimes every two weeks.

At first the cases held loose CDs without booklets, mostly copies of friend’s CDs. Only after a couple of months did it appear that the operation was bearing fruit and I could see some room in my shelves.

Naturally, CD cases containing 168 CDs are big and cumbersome, and they too need to be placed somewhere out of the way, but the space taken up by them is fractionally less than that taken by 168 CDs. With this is mind, last Monday I thought I would go to Soho where I have discovered a stand in a street market which sells the fangled cases for £9.99 and not the nearly £30.00 I had been paying until now at various outlets which shall remain nameless. Argos.

Monday was one of those days which seem to be covered in molasses when everything takes longer than expected. I left my flat thinking I would make it to the market and buy the case, but I was too late. The stand was gone.

There I was, walking the vegetable strewn street where once there was a market, thinking about what to do next in the day. I turned on my heel so as to head home again when suddenly, out of the blue, I spotted a familiar book cover. Amidst a dangling multi-coloured plastic curtain I could make out a book with the shape of Lisa Fonssagrives on the cover.

Nothing all that strange there, except that the curtain led one into a sex shop. I was slightly hesitant at first, not because sex shops daunt me in any way, but because here was a particularly sleazy looking specimen and I was not too sure if the shop sold magazines, toys, or indeed sex.

If there is one thing which offends my gay spirit it is girls throwing themselves at me for money. I cannot explain why but I always says to myself “Can't you see that I am gay madam? How dare you even try!” It is one thing to avoid street and portal hookers, it is quite another to go into the dragon’s layer to ‘look’ at a book. With this in mind, I mustered up some courage- the price of fashion- and went inside, tripping on the step and twisting my ankle along the way. But of course.

Once inside, “mind the step” comment aside from the chap at the till, I saw before me a veritable fashion ‘cabinet de curious.’

Not only was there a book about la Fonssagrives, there was also one on Rudi Geinrich, Yves St. Laurent, Kenzo and other fashion related titles. To my right. To my left were a collection of porn videos, adult magazines, and other assorted paraphernalia.

What a strange combination of pleasures this shop served side by side. None of the fashion books were in new condition, though they were prized as though they were. I leafed through a couple, found one that interested me and asked its price.

Five Pounds did not seem excessive and the new chap at the till said that they had been there for so long that he was just glad to be rid of them. I thought ‘great!’ but being a Libra, I could not decide on more than two titles to buy. So I just got two and left.

Because my life is at it is, within 24 hours my brain had decided upon buying another couple of books from the sex-shop-a-la-mode. At five Pounds each how could I not? I planned my day around the next shopping jaunt and headed off to Soho savouring the pleasure of buying again from this fountain of fashion books.

When I arrived, the chap that had waited on me the day before was gone. In his place was another guy, no less friendly but much paler, and a costumer sampling some of the visual wares on video. So I chose carefully over the next 20 minutes. Kenzo, Yves St. Laurent, Fortuny and Lanvin where the next titles in the series. I went to pay and to my surprise, I was asked to pay THIRTEEN Pounds each this time! I explained what had happened the day before and the chap looked unimpressed. He tried to strike a deal by lowering the price to ten Pounds.

My left eyebrow could not have been raised higher in disapproval. How dare he? So back to the shelf they went.

I suppose that I could go back one day and try and find the original salesperson and strike once again the five Pound deal, but that entails going back to that place and, more importantly, having the money to spare.

Needless to say, between now and then, who knows how many other articles may have crossed by visual field and desire button? How many more trinkets, books, CDs and nonsense will insinuate themselves unto my unconscious? I do not know. The shop had its window and lost the opportunity. I have bigger fish to buy!