No Fear New Year's

I've already started the New Year with a haircut I find disgraceful so, effectively, it can't get any worse, right? A little addled from the (prescribed) Morphine I had taken less than an hour before, I flopped into my hair stylist's swivel chair and nodded in agreement to the ends of her statements - a desperate attempt on my part to appear like a functioning member of society. It was all a bit of a painless fog, but I caught "new boyfriend", "California", and "Look at how long your hair has gotten", the last of which woke me from a small coma.

The affection I feel towards my hair is similar to, and perhaps outmatches, the love a parent feels for their child. I dress it, pristinely, making sure it presents its best self to the world; I spoil it with its favorite food, L'Oreal Studio Line Curl Shaping Creme; and I commemorate its lengthy achievements (pun thoroughly intended) in the traditional parental methods of picture taking and relentless bragging. A growth chart engraved into my wall is forthcoming. My hair stylist mentioning my hair was long was like, well, my hair stylist mentioning my hair was long. I can't think of anything better.

She ran her fingers through my burgeoning tresses and gasped at the progress I had made in the 3 months since I was last subjected to her shears. I smiled, smugly. She gasped, disenchantingly. "We're going to have to do some more shaping. Some parts are much longer than others". I nervously swallowed in the exact cartoonish way an animated character swallows when they are faced with similarly earth-shattering news.

My hair follicle's had gained much ground in their ongoing war with my stubborn DNA and this "shaping", as she so ineffectually called it, would erase months of proud battle. It was all "for the greater good", I was told.

I hung my head in defeat as a signal for her to begin.

I hated the resulting haircut. Her so-called improvements left my hair feeling feeble in ways I had never imagined. It was limp and dry to the touch. If it is at all possible to suck the life force out of hair - an anatomical by-product that is, by nature, dead - than that's precisely what she did. Though it was supposed to be a routine trim, I still maintain something else happened while she was up there. But I'm not here to squabble about that. My point is, she said it was the best thing to do and I took her word for it. She is a hair stylist. Hair is only the summation of her profession so it was probably in my best interest to heed her advice. I don't mean to discredit her expertise, but at the time it just didn't feel right. I could have zealously waved my hands in refusal, gotten out of her chair, or simply said "no". But I didn't. I just took her word for it.

Back home, as I stroked my hair with the same inconsolable grief usually reserved for deceased loved ones, I realized that I, like many others, are all too guilty of taking the same unchallenging approach to life. There have been times, many times, when people have preached to me about the definite outcome or absolute necessity of a particular direction in life under the guise of "telling me what's right in this world". In my naïveté, I mistook their arrogance for wisdom, and suppressed any desire or inclination to ask why or find out for myself. I'm not taking any of that into 2013 with me. In the wide-eyed, tenacious, blindness to failure that is the spirit of New Year's Resolutions, I have declared that I will no longer take people's word and will, instead, experience things for myself because that's where the real life lessons are hidden - in the taking of wrong directions.

Now, this isn't to say I'm going to immediately run out and get myself a heroin-addiction. I'm just going to try to ultimately be less afraid to make mistakes. We all say mistakes don't scare us, and sure, we may not have night terrors that involve a giant blood-thirsty faux-pas chasing us, but does the absence of an anthropomorphized predator really mean that we're not afraid?

I sway to the edgier side of fashion when deciding what to wear. I don't necessarily try to take risks with my outfit choices, I just naturally gravitate towards the more questionable pieces and even then, I push the envelope further in order to stay on my toes. I presumed that since I take risks in this one aspect of my life, I can essentially be dubbed a risk-taker throughout all of my life. Not so. I'll don a pair of hot pants in inappropriate weather without hesitation, but when it comes to life choices I'm pretty conservative, not so much as to reduce my quality of life, obliterate my spontaneity, or vote Republican, but definitely enough to where I have noticed and found myself displeased.

My problem is, I want to do everything right. Nothing is more reflective of that than my academic career. School report cards became a quantitative way of measuring how in control I was. B+'s weren't celebrated in my household. A's didn't warrant so much as a pat on the back (if that), they were just expected. I've taken that insatiable thirst for straight A's with me into the real world. In math, there is only one right answer. You might get points for showing your work, but there is only one right answer. In my 24 years I have stumbled upon the notion that life is not a math test. In life there are many right answers and your "work" doesn't have to look the same as the guy sitting next to you.

We've all heard it, "The choices you make today can effect the person you become tomorrow". For some, it was a subtle reminder to avoid carelessness. For me, it became a cautionary tale of the impending lifelong misery sure to come from irrational actions. The words, sirens as they were, evolved into a requiem that lamented my possible persecution. Any action that wasn't plotted or planned immediately became a danger to the unwavering happiness I hoped to, one day, obtain. More than anything I'm afraid of my life not turning out how I imagined. There's a lot of stuff in my past - and unquestionably my present - that didn't go down as expected and the only consolation I have for this marathon of maladies is my quintessential future self. There is no margin of error. I very much need to become that person, so much so, I feel like I am biologically unable to "just see what happens". That right there is pre-2013 thinking. I've been so afraid of getting my outfit dirty (figuratively and literally) that I forgot that those little stains are what make life such an unparalleled experience, and thusly, fun.

Up until now, I've wanted a lot of things, in terms of experiences, to agree to the terms and conditions of my picture perfect fairy-tale life story - nice and neat, almost plastic wrapped. But, in a glorious stark contrast to years before, I want this year to be the messiest, disorganized, tangled, bruise of a year I've ever had. Metaphors aside, I'm going to be more bold. Instead of being safe and hiding behind what I was told, I'm going to take risks and relish in the happy accidents that come. I'll still get to where I'm going, but I will have so much more fun along the way.

In regards to this blog: Some have expressed concern that people may not want to take their style advice from the sick. If fashion is supposed to be aspirational, no one is clamoring for the latest in gastroenterology (see: Sheer Madness). Unfortunately for them, that's not what I'm doing. What you wear on a first date is of no concern to me. What I am doing is, recounting the sometimes horrendous but often illuminating circumstances of my time in recovery, wielding nothing more than a curated artillery of clothing, shoes, and accessories. Here, I examine my own style choices, all the while composing my love letter to fashion.

Carving out a piece of real estate in the blogosphere is about finding your niche - what you and and only you can provide to citizens of the World Wide Web. Blessing or curse, I have this unique experience. It's taken much from me but it has also changed the way I see fashion and, in turn, fashion has changed the way I see the world. That is also what this blog is about.

I want to write about fashion from a vantage point that's never been used. Most people don't know this because most people haven't gone through the physical and emotional degradation it takes to learn this, but fashion can heal better than most medicines - whether you want to be your best self or someone else entirely. It's amazing what the occasional yard of fabric and cleverly placed seam can do.

The recipe for the modern style and/or fashion blog is quite simple. Ingredients include: 1 obscure location for the background (e.g. a concrete area with lots of graffiti if you want to appear edgy and urban, a deserted field of some sort if you want to appear pensive) and 1 awkward pose (preferably with the subject looking in every direction except the camera's). Mix together (take photo) and repeat ad nauseam. The outfit doesn't even matter as long as you've got the pose and the location right. That's not the kind of blog I wanted this to be, lost in a pile of look-alikes. My goal is not to convince you I invented dressing.

In their own way all these things were the impetus for this blog which has, overtime, strayed from that original pioneering intent. It is my humble belief that one should not start a blog if one does not have anything to say. I have a few choice words, but I haven't expressed them as deeply or as frequently as I would have liked. The only way this blog is going to work, in my eyes, is if I'm honest about my experiences and how I'm using fashion to either enhance or combat them. So for 2013, I don't want to rest on intentionally vague adjectives like "fine" or "well" because most days I don't feel either of those things. I want to get even more real. I believe fashion has heart and the only way to show that heart is to open up. It may not create the prettiest angle, but Wear in Tear isn't about how fashion makes you look, its about how fashion makes you feel.

Sheer Madness

Photo by Andrew Vowles for Hero Magazine

At the beginning of the year I became the proud owner of my very own feeding tube. 3 times a day, laboratory manufactured nutrients flow directly into my stomach via a plastic tube semi-permanently affixed to my stomach. No chewing or utensils required, leaving my hands free to shop online or compose thought provoking Instagram captions. Its purpose is to help me gain weight. A rousing "You've hit rock bottom" from my team of doctors pushed me to have the tube implanted. I had stubbornly tried to gain weight the natural way, but it never stuck so I finally seceded and agreed to do it their way. Much like a set of nutrition training wheels, the tube paired with a gradual increase of oral intake is supposed to help me reach a healthy weight and more importantly, maintain that weight. Once I meet my caloric requirements, it'll be removed. Only a whopping 62 pounds to go!

It sounds like a dream - getting your ideal body by sitting on your ass - and it would be if I weren't ravenously craving all things sheer. In the same way that people crave food, I crave trends and since the tube placement I've developed a real hankering for see-through clothing. So far I've bought a Christopher Shannon sheer number with varying degrees of transparency, an ASOS top that creates a similar effect with horizontal stripes, and my oh-my-god-what-was-my-life-before-you all time favorite new shirt: A Comme des Garçons Homme Plus broad striped shirt with mesh sleeves! Not to mention the various sheer creations I already own. Of course, the feeding tube has kept me from indulging in my sheer fetish, so all of my purchases have gone unworn, hanging somberly in my closet or remain in their original packaging (like the CDG whose wrapping was too pretty to just throw away). I suppose I could throw them on occasionally to get some mileage, but my tube kind of hangs in plain sight. While this season has many trends to look forward to, the Umbilical Cord look is not one of them

Half of me is chasing my latest fix. The other half is trying to accomplish something bigger. Since my original diagnosis, I've felt overlooked. I feel people looking over me, around me, and even through me, but never at me; It's almost as if I've become sheer myself, to draw a painfully shameless similarity to the topic at hand. With recovery on the horizon and the promise of a new body, I'm elated at the opportunity to show off that which I used to hide, because it used to be that ribs were all I had to offer. This see-through clothing binge is my (not so) subtle way of forcing people to recognize me as a human being and not a medical anomaly. It shows the world that I'm a person too and though I may face different challenges, I am still flesh and bone.

When I walk into a room I am usually met with curiosity or remorse. If a man were to express attraction, I wouldn't even know how to properly respond. Adolescence is when you usually work those sorts of things out - what it means to want someone and be wanted in return. My teenage years were spent watching Oprah with the day shift nurse so it's safe to assume I never really got a hang of flirting. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping the see-through clothes will help me accrue some points in the dating game. Bare flesh beneath transparent fabric, sheer clothing possesses a certain sensuality that is not lost on me. In fact, I'm counting on this sensuality to help me get what I want. My goal is to feel comfortable in my skin (while simultaneously showing it off), but if I land a man in the process, that's a particular gift horse I'd be happy not to look in the mouth. Bringing boys to the yard has been so low on my list for so long. I need to remember that it's an actual thing that people do and not just something I read online.

For my integrity's sake, it should be noted that this sheer lust isn't just a sad attempt to get laid. Underneath it all, I'm just anxious to look in the mirror and see a healthy, thriving person. This thing has taken so much from me, some of which I can never get back, but sheer clothing can help to put this retched disease behind me. I know it sounds absurd, but in some weird, fashion-obsessive way, wearing sheer clothing is my Declaration of independence. The exposed parts of my body will act as undeniable proof that I fought this battle and came out on top.

It's weird. My full recovery has been just out of arms reach for what seems like forever. I want it so bad and yet when I allow myself to imagine it, the idea seems unreal; it's like hearing a fairytale as an adult. In childhood, the mysticism and wonder practically poured out of you, but as an adult all you can seem to muster is a cynical "Yeah, right". Yet, despite these reservations, I do hope this happens for me because it's long overdue. I'm well aware of the fact that I'm making sheer seem much more important than it really is, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar", but that's what I love about fashion - it's power to transcend the limitations of language and communicate on a level unreached by any other medium. Like it or not, realize it or not, what you wear says a lot about who you are, and in my case, what I'm trying to overcome. It may be see-through fabric for some, but to me it's a badge of honor.

But It Was Just A Paper Bag

 "Fashion is nothing but a contest to see who can look the most like a retarded clown"

Advice given to me during high school chemistry when I was caught trying to hide a V magazine inside my textbook and as anyone who's ever bought a V before knows, that's quite the Herculean task. My teacher marched right over, looked down at the magazine, and bestowed his "sage" wisdom upon the entire class. Immediately, I felt compelled to put on my suit of armor and defend the honor of my friend, mistress, and lover. I argued that fashion was more than handbags and high heels. It was identity, emotion. It is art in its most compelling form and fashion designers are the ones holding the paint brushes. As Stanley Tucci once said to a poly blend clad Anne Hathaway, "...what they created was greater than art because you live your life in it." But my chemistry teacher couldn't see it. Refused, even. He was a man of science and not a true man of the cloth (get it?).

I've had many arguments like that, preaching to nonbelievers about the impact of la mode. I pretty much give designers carte blanche over their creations, absolving them from any form of practicality. If you want to wear a jacket made of hair à la Maison Martin Margiela, fine. Want to ward off potential suitors with Victor & Rolf's statement making "No" collection? Great. Even now I think it's perfectly acceptable to go from catwalk to sidewalk in Alexander McQueen's Armadillo Heel. In some cases the item is just bizarre enough to be undeniably chic, such was the case with Elsa Schiaparelli's shoe hat. It became a declaration of good taste. Stylish women everywhere were wearing her shoe-inspired creation on their head.

This season the fashion powers that be have given us the Jil Sander Vasari bag, which is resembles an average paper bag. In Schiaparell's case, the shoe hat was more than a shoe, but the Vasari is quite literally a brown paper bag. I may be the sworn defender of fashion, but even I can't justify this one. With a price tag of $290, the Vasari is one of the most coveted items of the season. I'm afraid its popularity gives people license to carry around whatever they can find in their kitchen drawers. People are already using garbage bags as luggage. Does this mean we're collectively headed towards the storage aisle for our accessory needs? What's next? Ziploc bag clutches? To their credit, there is a more luxe version made of leather. That one costs around $800, as if adding cowhide justifies the price.

You won't look like a "retarded clown" carrying this bag, but you will end up looking like an elementary school kid that got lost on their way to the cafeteria. In today's economically unstable times, it's important to consider the alternatives. One could, say, go into their local Walmart and pick up a whole pack of paper bags. 25 bags for a fraction of the price of 1. Then you could take them home and write JIL SANDER on the front with a black Sharpie. It's the least time consuming DIY project of the century. I can't help but wonder what this says about the designer (who I hope wasn't Raf Simons, but rather some intern in the accessories department) and the fashion industry as a whole. Are they/it lazy or ingenious? Inspiration does come from the strangest places, but how inspired do you have to be to slap a label on a paper bag? Grocery stores have been doing it for years. The genius part of it all is that the bag is practically sold out everywhere; meaning people are actually buying it. And not just buying it, but feigning after it. I refuse to believe my chemistry teacher was right in his staunch belief that fashion lacks depth, that it's just a bunch of label-hungry fools willing to buy anything their told. Maybe the bag is some social statement about the caste system and we're not getting it. Or maybe it really is just a paper bag and the joke's on us. This is one purchase I'll be steering clear of, mostly because I prefer bags that don't fall apart in the rain.

As a tribute to the topic at hand, I give you one of my favorite Fiona Apple songs, "Paper Bag". Cool points if you can find the post title in the lyrics:

Sad Saks

Is it me or do the Milan shows seem especially somber this year? I clicked through show after show only to find small remnants of the talent that was once there. Maybe the economy is finally effecting fashion. For years, everyone's been battling diminishing economies. Perhaps this is the trickle down effect. Critics bemoaned designers, claiming shoppers were putting their money into more responsible things like mortgages and braces for their teenage daughters, but I didn't see it. The shops looked pretty full to me. But this spring's Milan shows have me wishing for an eternal winter.

Although I applaud them for some unconventional casting choices, their proportion play that brought new heights to big sleeves, and you know I love a short (way) above the knee, I miss the decadence and glamor of Dolce & Gabbana. What happened to the gilded gold accents? What happened to the army of muscled men in tank tops clinging to their taut chests stomping down the runway to whisk me away to a better life? The collection looked like a glimpse into someone's life as a field hand back in the old country and that's exactly what I was getting from the collection - old. Not nostalgic, not reminiscent. Just plain old. I did like some of the busier prints - a sign they haven't completely abandoned their aesthetic, but plain striped polos are not Dolce & Gabbana. I can get that at my local Save-a-Lot. Overall, the collection was a little beige. No, brown. If the Dolce & Gabbana collection were a color it would be brown, and honestly I don't know if that's better or worse. The collection has left me with a sense of ambivalence that I'm just not used to feeling towards the brand. Thankfully, they did partake in the ceremonial man parade. Sadly, this time it was more like a funeral procession.

Jil Sander was alright. It was Jil Sander's Jil Sander and not the edgy Raf Simons' Jil Sander that I'm used to. Reminiscent, of her simple capsule collections with Uniqlo, I think it's going to take some time for Sander to really find her footing; which, I suppose is understandable considering her absence. I don't remember when she left, nor do I recall any details of her departure, but I do know it was just that - a departure. She had to sever ties with the brand she created for a reason. Whether it needed new life, I don't know, but it certainly got it with Raf Simons, who if anything put the label on my radar. I did like her sleeveless blazer suits and the "Ladies Who Lunch" Mondrian-esque cardigans. The cobalt blue looks were cute and a nice color trend that I'm starting to see this season. I like the wide cut jackets except they seem a little Raf Simons 101 as well as the printed tees with what looked liked numbers. You could see Simons' handwriting in nearly every look. As for the other jackets, I don't know how useful they'll be in the warmer months. I get the sense that she showed those jackets just to throw something down the runway, as if to say "Look Ma, a full collection!". The collection was safe, which I'm sure is a brand driver the company doesn't want to be associated with. If only we could freeze the fashion clock at Fall 2012, Simons' final menswear collection for the brand, and just kind of alter it as the seasons saw fit- a sleeve here, a pant leg there. Then we wouldn't have to have this conversation. I feel bad, In her designer photo she's positively beaming unshakably proud of her clothes. And I want to tell her "Why are you smiling? You did a mediocre job at best". The clothes weren't ugly, they just weren't cool. Jil Sander used to be for the cool kids, not their grandpa's.

Maybe Miuccia is on vacation. Maybe she left the country, or even the planet, and couldn't be reached because I refuse to believe that the woman that brought us jewel studded golf shoes is responsible for this "famine of beauty". I believe Prada can certainly do better than mildly color blocked polos and bottoms, and tank tops with contrasting trim. I'm assuming the geriatric models were a statement. Mr. Rodgers was apparently her muse. Nursing home socials, her intended setting. There were some jackets that wouldn't make my skin crawl entirely and I suppose I could find somewhere to wear a few of the trousers, but nothing to write home about. There weren't even accessories to drool over. The collection felt restrained, and undesirably so. Like, a masked gunman made her do it. At least, that's what I'm choosing to believe.

Giving me flashbacks of the dark days when Ed Hardy was king, Alexis Mabille, a brand and designer I have come to admire, was a disappointment. The collection was frat boy casual. Usually his clothing has a designed casualness to it (see Jesus of Nazareth chic Spring 2011 collection). I understand this was the designer's first showing at Pitti Uomo, but there wasn't much that couldn't be found on the sale rack at Sears. This is a world stage for menswear, let's step it up. I had hoped this was a joke collection, with the real collection to debut in Paris where real fashion had sought refuge. It seems like Mabille was reaching out to a new customer - you know, the guys that worship Christian Louboutin sneakers and yet don't even know how to pronounce his name. I remember a time when Alexis Mabille was thought provoking, controversial, something I actually wanted to wear. And now, he's become the costume director for Jersey Shore. Ladies and gentlemen, let the fist pumping begin.

The images shown are all I could resurrect from the wreckage full collections. I feel it necessary to clarify that I really was rooting for these guys, and not just waiting to dance on the graves of their creativity. Past seasons have revealed stellar, awe-inspiring collections - the Prada espadrille oxford mash-up and the stunning yet simplistic Jil Sander Spring 2011 show are just two examples of this group's flawless report card - and that's what I was expecting, what I assumed I would be getting. But as spiritual law dictates, "When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me". My only hope is that next year will yield collections so mind-blowingly exquisite that it will be impossible to look at them directly without eye protection.

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Pitti Uomo wasn't a complete travesty. At the end of the day, the Milanese are known for fashion and at least a few designers stayed true to that legacy. Two of such saving graces are featured below:

It seems I'm the only one who hasn't mistaken Burberry's dyed aluminum foil fiasco for the second coming of Jesus. In certain pieces - short sleeve shirts, cardigans, and trench coats - it looked like wrapping paper or someone's backyard reenactment of the Matrix trilogy. But in others, where it was more subtle, it was also more successful. The metallic bomber jackets are a perfect example of this. I'm also dangerously intrigued by the metallic pants, although, I'm not entirely sure I won't look like a tube of lipstick in them. Finally, it seems only natural that in a collection of bright and sparkly, I've become partial to the darker, earth-toned pieces. I'm convinced military green is the new black and have fallen hard for the unconventional silhouette of Burberry's take on military machoism. Overall, Burberry showed some smart outerwear - from high collared and olive drab, to reflective and possibly heat conductive, to perfectly printed - each one, in its own way, was beautiful. But in the fashion world, saying a Burberry coat was beautiful is like saying the sky is blue.

Thom Browne's clothes don't generally fit most men's definition of "wearable", but for me they do. I can always expect a bit of fairytale drama in his designs for Moncler Gamme Bleu - sweeping capes, enshrouding hoods, playful shorts á la Hansel and Gretel - there's always thought behind the look, which, I suppose, is the genesis of his intelligent collections. I've written about Thom Browne before, so in efforts to not sound like a sad groupie with his name tattoed across my chest, all I will say is that I love where he's taking menswear. I love where he's taking fashion. Fashion is fun again. White has been a staple for the brand and it's amazing to see what Thom Browne can do with what many don't even consider a color. It makes me want to trade my wardrobe in for his carte blanche, snow white creations, which I would gladly do, if my food ended up in my stomach instead of on it.

LCM: Topman SS13

Thanks to London's gift to mankind - London Collections: Men - Christmas came a bit earlier this year. The spring collections are generally my only hope for Topman, seeing as how their entire design team must call in sick when it becomes time to work on the fall collections. In the weeks prior to the spring showing, I scoured the Internet in search of something, anything, any morsel that would reveal what would be sauntering down the runway on June 15. The fruits of my quest were a picture inspired by the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat and a few other snapshots of California boys skateboarding. Great, I thought, tent-like tees and baggy ass jeans. What a waste.

California skateboarding and the like were definitely referenced, not in the dirty skatepark way I imagined, but rather in an intelligent way that was both an interpretation of the West Coast and youth culture in general. There were fluorescents, bold prints, mesh, athletic influences, and a close cousin of the Dexter Wong Boiler Suit from Spring 2010 that I've been coveting since January 2009. Topman not only offered me choice garments, but redemption as well. I mean, in what world are perforated biker jackets, blazers, and shorts not a must? On second thought, don't tell me because I'd hate to know such a heinous world exists. There were also cute shoes that can only be described as Pilgrim-Gladiator, and although I highly doubt the pilgrims and gladiators ever shared a meal, I am grateful for their sartorial offspring. My fingers are permanently crossed in hopes that those shoes get made in at least one color. Shown in black, white, and orange, the ladder would be a more than welcome addition to my growing tribe of footwear.

I pray to the fashion gods that be that my favorite pieces make it to production. A lot of people don't realize that most of what is shown on the runway never gets made (at least not exactly as shown). A lot of things get redesigned or even thrown out in the months between the show and the clothing racks, thanks to buyers and a need for sellable products. Buyers will say "I can't sell this in a neon orange, but I could if you made it black" and so begins many a collection's slow death. One of the great things about a designer or brand opening their own store is that they can display their clothing as they see fit. All those crazy cooky garments have a place to call home. It's one of, if not the main reason I prefer flagships to department stores.

But even Topshop/Topman, with their international fleet of stores, can't make whatever they please. In order to be profitable, people have to buy their product and in order for people to buy their product they have to like what they see. Unfortunately the majority of the world isn't too daring when it comes to dressing. So a lot pieces don't get made because it would mean a financial loss to the company, not to mention an even bigger loss to my wardrobe. Topman is also near and dear because I can actually buy the pieces I see on the runway. A lot of the time I watch shows and I think "I love that but where am I gonna buy that? Sometimes they pop up on an obscure website other times I have to make-do with an "inspired by" look. At least with Topman I know that (some version of) what's hanging off the models will be hanging in my closet next season.

How To Survive A Zombie Apocalypse In Style

My news outlets are bursting with stories about recent zombie-like attacks. And when I say "news outlets" I mean text messages and my Facebook news feed; hardly CNN or The New York Times, but nevertheless trusted sources. When someone dies, I log onto Facebook. I get my news from the people. The offenders' behavior is said to be a result of drug use. "Bath salts" in one and PCP in another. Personally, I've never known drugs to cause someone to eat a face off. They've maybe caused a few to believe they lost their face, but never eat one off. This is some zombie stuff the government is trying to cover up. Somewhere some drug trial participant went rogue. All signs point to Florida. In any case, preparation is key. But what do we honestly have to look forward to? 28 Days Later, Resident Evil, and The Walking Dead all predict tattered clothing and soleless shoes. No, I'm not going out like that. If the zombie apocalypse comes, I have to do it in style.

Shoes

I've always been an opponent of athletic footwear. I never run, so I don't see the point in wearing running shoes. I've always chosen look over feel. In a perfect apocalypse, I could walk for miles in the new pair of bejeweled oxfords I bought, but these things rarely work out the way you want them to. Thankfully, fashion sneakers have become a recent trend. Isabel Marant, Marc Jacobs, Raf Simons, Prada - lots of designers have looked to the sneaker for inspiration. If I absolutely must wear sneakers, all I ask is that you remove them should I get bitten. Regardless of how sneakers have infiltrated the realm of high fashion, I cannot die in them. I at least want my reanimated corpse to look polished. I do recommend you carry a pair of stylish shoes, just in case you run into some high-profile survivors. If you just can't picture life without pumps, even with a zombie gnawing at your ankle, you could always use the heel to impale your attacker. Spiked heels are great for this occasion, the perfect way to show those zombies you're not to be messed with. And when you want to maintain your Alice (Resident Evil) impression and rest your feet, there's always spiked flats. (Steve Madden Silver Studded Flat, Jeffrey Campbell Lita Spike 2, Jeffrey Campbell, Tawny, Blink Aeroo Metal Sneaker, Raf Simons Hi-Top Sneakers, Adidas Originals by Jeremy Scott Wings and Stars Hi-Top Sneakers)

Jackets

The good news is many utility jackets are already stylish. I myself have been looking for the perfect military jacket for ages, spending many afternoons digging through bins at The Army Navy surplus. During the apocalypse, it's imperative that one find a jacket made of durable fabric, something protective and posh. A denim, leather, or whatever those military jackets are made of. Some are more expensive than others, but think of it as an investment. This is your life we're talking about. (Zara Combined Sections Parka, H&M Leather Jacket, Adidas Slvr Fencing Jacket, Topman x Oliver Spencer Denim Biker, Maison Martin Margiela Military Jacket)

Bags

Rule# 1: huge handbags are back in. Those cute little clutches that are so hot right now aren't going to carry a damn thing. You can't fight a zombie with a credit card and lip gloss. Maybe a clutch would work for evening slayings, but for the everyday you're gonna need something that says "I mean business" or "Don't eat me. Eat the girl wearing a fanny pack" at the very least.  And depending on its size and weight it could also be used to bludgeon a few "walkers". (Baggu Endlessly Useful Emerald Shopper Bag, Topshop Box Chain Leather Bag, Chanel Overnight Bag, Alexander Wang Golf Bag, Pieces Olya Bag)

Pants
I love micro shorts. In fact, that's probably an understatement. I worship at the altar of micro shorts. I've been known to rile up a few construction workers in a pair (they thought I was a girl). So it pains me to say this, but they just won't do in this kind of world. You need pants. Even as I write this, the voices of every adult I've ever known repeating the same thing echoes in my head. You don't want to get bit by something and then die because you couldn't get your hands on some antibiotics. Not after all the heads you've severed. The best bet would be a pair of skinny jeans. Cut close to the body to maximize speed. No more talk about the Wide Leg Trouser coming back. The WLT can sit its ass down. That's a pant for safer times. (Julius Patch Skinny Jean, Mango Rolling Jean, Moto Jaguar Metallic Leigh Jeans, Ksubi Van Winkle Skinny Jean)

Shirts

You won't have time to button your favorite blouse when your neighbor is trying chew off your arm. The Zombie Apocalypse is going to be all about zippers, Velcro, and throwing things on. Buttons will become a luxury you can't afford. The basic tee is a practical choice. What does every rugged hero wear in every action movie? A basic tee. But not just any basic tee, opt for a slimmer, fitted cut. 1. Zombies can easily grab onto loose fabric and 2. No one ever said you had to be a sloppy looking zombie slayer.  (Carven Crossover T-Shirt, Hanes Basic Tee, Comme des Garçons Shirt Fine Rib Tee, 3.1 Phillip Lim Draped T-Shirt, Givenchy Cutout Tank, T by Alexander Wang Sheer Short Sleeve Jersey Tee)

Accessories 

Wear all the spikiest rings, bracelets, and necklaces you can find. Simple. (Topshop Pearl Spike Ring, ASOS Spike Clamp Bangle, Pamela Love Spiked Resin Cuff, ASOS Rocco Articulated Statement Necklace)

Gloves

One useful piece that is often overlooked. You don't want to get brain under those nails. (Ann Demeulemeester Lace-Up Glove, Hayatochiri Yellow Spiked Glove, ASOS Lace Gloves, Forzieri Women's Red Perforated Italian Leather Gloves, Romwe Half Hand Black Gloves)

Weaponry

Eventually you will need real weapons, other than the ones you wear. The Walking Dead has taught us to go for more silent killers - crossbows, knives - generally found in dark or muted colors, but in today's DIY world you could always buy some rhinestones and bedazzle those suckers before the shit really hits the fan. 

Now, some of these pieces are ridiculously expensive. Others are not. I tried to create a mix of high and low. When making purchasing decisions, consider this: If the banks fall, which they probably will, money will be worthless. There will be no such thing as credit card debt, student loans, or America's massive debt to China. I'm certainly not suggesting you go out and blow all your money on cute clothes. Save your cash for underneath your mattress. The items I've chosen are meant to inspire. Except for the Chanel bag, I'm going after that hardcore. Trust me, once the electricity fails, rendering security alarms obsolete, Chanel will be my first stop. Take the Julius jeans, for instance: If you're willing to pay $885 for a pair of shredded jeans, you deserve to get eaten by a zombie. But Topman produced a similar pair for their Topman Design Fall 2010 collection. Track those down. Consider it practice for when you're hunting squirrels for dinner.

Green

Jil Sander Python Print Tee,
Proenza Schouler Tropical Green PS1 Large,
Burberry Raffia Coat,
Jil Sander Trousers

My iron is low. I say that casually because my iron is always low. No matter what I do, I can never seem to get it up and it's just become this thing, a character trait, like blue eyes. Your eyes are blue and my iron is low. It's not life threatening, so don't go planning any bake sales in my honor. One really good way to increase iron intake, my doctors say, is to eat plenty of "green leafy vegetables" - turnip greens, spinach, cabbage. Apparently it's like really important to get those in and stuff. And I have made the sincerest efforts, but to no effect. I've done everything short of swallowing a metal rod.

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome, I no longer wish to carry out this charade. I figure it's high time I put this top dollar college education to use and develop a solution for my woes.

My body plays by its own rules, with a set of instructions not even I can decipher. If my body isn't absorbing the necessary nutrients through the food I eat then maybe, just maybe, it will through the colors I wear. I propose I wear green; sort of like a solar panel absorption effect. Think about it, I could wear green clothing and my body could get all the nutrients it needs that way. I wouldn't even have to learn to cook kale.

Truthfully, I've been craving green things like crazy (pictured above). Probably like I should be craving those green leafy vegetables. Green has just become my color for the season I guess. Most would go for a turquoise or orange, something that really screams "Get ready to melt", but I figure a nice green speaks to the season well - blooming flowers, returning leaves, freshly cut grass. It's a surprisingly versatile color. Depending on the shade it could either be a great neutral or an amusing pop color. I haven't been discriminating. Of course, I'm not trying to look like the Jolly Green Giant (which, take note, can easily be accomplished if one goes overboard), although I'm so tempted to put the pictured Jil Sander pieces together. I'm just attempting to take my wardrobe in a new direction; looking good and getting the iron I need.

H&M x Marni

Since the announcement last November, the fashion sect has been drooling over the H&M collaboration with Marni for spring 2012. Hard-hitting news journals and blogs alike post the same pre-packaged quotes praising the brand for its print mixing, construction, and color blocking skills. Consuelo Castiglioni and her team produce quality work and they do possess such skills. However, I wouldn't call Marni an "Italian powerhouse" nor would I liken the brand to "one of the hottest tickets at Milan fashion week". That title would go to Missoni or Prada, certainly not Marni. Somebody at H&M must owe someone at Marni a favor - a saved child or rescued pet at the very least - because the matching doesn't make sense.

I'm not impressed. H&M could have (and should have) found a better act to follow Versace, a collection I found irresistible. I swooned over the palm tree print sweater, leggings, and button downs and even paid the inflammatory eBay prices for two pieces. The Versace collection was successful because for the first time in H&M history, they chose a partner who put a great deal of creativity into their womenswear as well as their menswear. 

In a perfect world, H&M would be able choose any partner. But unfortunately, the world we live in isn't perfect. Brands have to protect their identities, designers have egos, and a certain level of exclusivity has to be maintained. So, while I'm not holding my breath for that H&M x Dior collection, I still think there's a great deal of design talent out there that could bring a lot to the mass market audience of H&M.

H&M x Christopher Kane:
No stranger to retail mash-ups, Christopher Kane has worked with Topshop in the past and recently designed a capsule collection for J Brand. The collaboration with the denim brand doesn't showcase his true talent, though. Anyone can make neon denim, but not everyone can do what Christopher Kane does.

I love his printed short sets. The digital prints are mesmerizing and look amazing when paired together. I think H&M's male consumers would really respond to them. The gel clutch from Fall 201 was perhaps one of the most beautiful things I've ever laid eyes on. It could have easily been elementary school gone wrong; like ridiculously expensive Lisa Frank. Needless to say, it went very right. His womenswear is smart and truly fashion-forward. I know a lot designers claim to be at forefront of design, but he really is. I promise.

I bought a Christoper Kane dress at a Barneys warehouse sale a few years back. I never wear it because I don't exactly attend galas or other highbrow events and that's pretty much the only acceptable venue for such a special piece. I saw it and had to have it, like I could not continue life without it.

H&M x Raf Simons:
Raf Simons is the unsung hero of the fashion world - the Peter Parker, the Clark Kent - as evidenced by his superhuman designs. He did great work for Jil Sander and continues to take his namesake label to new heights. He's one of few designers that create thought provoking menswear and womenswear. 

For men, his innovation lies more so in details rather than the overall design. Color choice is another one of his strengths. I'm still lusting after his Spring 2011 collection with all the color blocking, scouring eBay for any leftovers. For women, Simons is responsible for the resurgence of peplum into mainstream fashion. Once he sent them down the runway, they became unavoidable. Everyone was doing it and still continue to do it. Most designer collections are either completely masculine hardcore or freaking harlequin romance novels. Simons carefully rations out the drama and balances aspects of both worlds, which makes for collections that always tell an interesting story.

H&M x Givenchy:
Were this collaboration ever to come to fruition it would be a game changer, plain and simple. Givenchy's edgy dark horse sensibility is something H&M tries to do but somehow always falls short, probably for lack of funds or resources. Mass market retailers aren't exactly known for their well-funded couturiers.

Riccardo Tisci's couture is the stuff of dreams. Often drawing inspiration from unlikely sources like samurai and human anatomy, his couture work is always breathtaking, provocative, and insightful. Something similar at a lower price point would be a welcome change to the basic leggings and mini skirts currently filling the racks of H&M. Tisci would be able to really bring couture elements to the designer collaboration world, something that's never been done before. Ever. He would be able to create something special and beautiful without the consumer having to sell their first born child.

The dinosaur tooth necklaces from Spring 2012 were incredible. It was like, "Let's take this cheesy thing from childhood, make it high fashion, and watch everyone fight over it". Just an example of the adaptation of primitive elements that sets Givenchy apart. A prehistoric object that somehow manages to be futuristic.

In the world of Givenchy menswear, there's no room for delicate sensibilities. It's masculine. It's muscle. It exudes a sort of intellectual aggression, perfect for men who want to test the waters of fashion without drowning. The clothing isn't all bruises and bar fights, though. Tisci often uses elements of womenswear in his mens and makes a look so natural you don't even notice. The Givenchy man will kick your ass and he'll do it in a skirt, making no apologies.

Next time, maybe H&M will approach a brand whose menswear and womenswear come together to form a cohesive aesthetic. The menswear should reflect and contain elements of the womenswear and vice versa. That's what makes a good collaborative effort, something for everybody. Nobody should be bored. Now is the time for mass market to be exciting. Our purchasing options have become way too safe. Yes, safe makes money. Safe keeps the business afloat and people employed. Safe is also what keeps Americans in Mom Jeans. Retailers like H&M should start working to get middle America to be more comfortable with making unconventional choices when it comes to their wardrobe. Everything they own may be from Costco, but their money is green too. Show them what they could have not just what you think they already want. In order to avoid becoming Aeropostale, H&M needs to decide whether it's utilitarian or aspirational. Are they in the business of selling clothing or selling dreams?

Ladyboy Realness

Ladies and Ladyboys, I give you Andrej Pejic. The fashion world is all aflutter with news of this androgyne. He's walked for menswear and couture and has campaigns lined up out the ass.   Everyone is so amazed that he's a boy that looks like a girl as if it's some anomaly that occurs once every 75,000 years. While the fashion crowd my fawn, I say get in line. The Tranny Train has long since left the station. As someone who is often mistaken for a female, I don't understand what the big deal is. Of course, he looks like a girl and ends up becoming an international fashion model. I look like a girl and become bait for drunken homeless men.

Weeks before a surgery, I had to have a consultation with my doctor. Because I have yet to remaster the art of walking long distances, my father had to push me to the waiting area in a wheelchair. As he was maneuvering me into a parked position, a woman elbow deep in a bag of potato chips turned her attention away from her lunch to me.

I pretended not to notice her. Instead, I fumbled with the Safari app on my iPhone, trying to find a website that would make me look like I was doing something important (they should make an app for that). It used to be that when you buried your head in your cell phone people left you alone - a Do Not Disturb sign for the technological age. Now, people just don't care. So much for social graces.

And so the waiting room banter began. "I just love Dr. P. I've been seeing her since July". In between open-mouthed chews she asked what I was there for. Before I could answer, she interjected with "Oh, are you here for -", while gesturing towards her chest and mouthing the words "your breasts?" I guess she figured discretion was necessary being that my father was the only male in the area and women, even when seated in the waiting room of a plastic surgeon's office, need to maintain an air of mystery.

Taken aback and embarrassed in my father's presence I emphatically replied "No, no, no! I'm here for my leg!" and began pointing at it as if her x-ray vision could see what was wrong. She skeptically gave me a sideways glance and returned to her chips. I should have said "I'm here for my leg and I have a penis", but even then she would probably assume I'm a hermaphrodite instead of just going with the easier "Maybe he's a boy".

Another time, while at the bank, I gave the teller my ID with my given name on it - a name that is quite obviously masculine - and she took one look at me and said "Wow. Joseph. I never met a girl with that name before. That's unique". I just took my deposit slip and smiled. Although, in her defense, I was carrying a gold Chanel bag so that was probably just her Midwestern mind trying to make sense of the situation.

Among the many gender reclassification stories I could tell, my favorite has to be the time I was asked if I still menstruate. Apparently, I not only look like a woman. I look like a cast member of Golden Girls.

As awkward as the situation is, it's even more awkward to have to openly declare your gender; so I just continue the charade until I can politely excuse myself. I love that even on my worst days someone will address me as she, miss, or ma'am. It almost gives me a sense of pride. For me, fashion is largely about creating characters or an exaggerated version of self; a way of bringing a little fantasy into my reality. And the fact that I can pass as female means I can create more characters, which means I can justify buying that much more clothes.

D.V.

I've been stuck in this medical purgatory for the past month. My days are filled with rest interrupted by antsy doctors, NSA's with a need to check blood pressure every 20 minutes, tube feeds, and therapists trying to evaluate me through my purchases e.g. "Why the green bag?"). My nights are pretty much the same thing, with even less sleep and my early mornings are met with blood work. That, and they're constantly telling me I can't eat for reasons I swear they make up minutes before. For months we've been trying to get me just look at food. Now, I want to do more than look. I want to ravish it. I want to gorge on it and they tell me I can't eat, dangling food in front of me on a string. Cut to me hoarding chicken wings, cheeseburgers, and fries in my room. And mild sauce! Mild sauce makes everything worlds better.

They keep offering me ice chips to compensate. Like flecks of frozen water could ever take the place of an extra large corned beef sandwich with peppers. Needless to say, I don't want any freaking ice chips!!! Too bad this isn't a blog about uncontrollable gluttony. It does however have a point, which I promise I'm getting to.

The point is: This ordeal has become somewhat bearable because of D.V. by Diana Vreeland, the memoir of former editrix in chief of American VOGUE.

It's a memoir, so it's validity is questionable but for conversation's sake (and my fanatical dreams) let's just say every word on every page is true. And in assuming this, one would find that Diana Vreeland led one of the most charmed lives. Born in Paris with addresses in London and New York, vacations in places like Tunisia, Morocco, Spain, Budapest, Russia, Wyoming even. I sincerely doubt there is a patch of earth that hasn't been touched by the soles of her shoes. Friends with Coco Chanel. An advisor to Jack Nicholson. Dinners with the most extraordinary people of her time - Cole Porter, Josephine Baker.

My life right now isn't nearly as glamorous as hers. But who's to say that, with a lot of work and passport stamps, it will be. I see myself succeeding her one day. I want it all. The Times Square office. The positively "medical" looking chair. 

You really should read it. It's written as if she's sitting across from you so a lot of things are described like "as tall as you are" and "out to here", which I find truly endearing because It reads as if the two of us are sipping tea or sharing a meal (although, fun fact, she despised business lunches).

I will say this: women like DV aren't be taught, they just are. You could live your life to every detail and it wouldn't be a quarter graceful, smart, or charming. Because of that allure, she provides a sense of escapism for me. As I read, I imagine myself sauntering through speakeasies, being held at the mercy of a flock of peacocks - embodying the true tenacious spirit of Ms. D.V.

Hospital Gowns, Hospital Frowns

Due to circumstances way beyond my control, I'm back in the hospital. Every prison sentencing hospital visit has a common thread: I never wear any hospital attire unless it is explicitly unavoidable. Nor will I ever, that is, unless Mademoiselle Coco Chanel rises from the grave to design an exclusive line of medical issue hospital gowns.

The doctors and nurses just don't get it. Sure, it convenient for them, but those gowns are ugly. I'm already depressed that I have to be here, inhaling the fumes of cleaning agents and pre-packaged medical supplies. I shouldn't be made to feel worse by having to spend my days in a cotton smock.

The dresses pictured above would make perfectly reasonable replacements. Stylish, but not constricting. Comfortable without looking like a slob. The oversized mohair sweater dress does have a burlap sack look to it, but I'm willing to overlook that if only for the fact that it's childlike cut is endearing. It doesn't just hang off the body, it envelops the body; like a grown-up security blanket. And in a place as uncertain as a hospital, it's nice to have that protection.

The white multi-layered shirt dress is pure fantasy. A fairytale piece. Soft, delicate. Everything you want to feel while waiting for test results. And look, there's snaps, which automatically make it utilitarian too!

**Street style photos courtesy of JAK AND JIL and STREETFSN

Winter Brights

As the leaves begin to fall, so begins the search for the perfect cold weather coat. And in Chicago, where the winter is eternal, a coat is mandatory. Hell, for Chicago winter a fully insulated, thermal body suit is mandatory, but I'll settle for a coat. Gray, black, and navy usually dominate this time of year. But with electric blues, lime greens, and bright oranges, this winter is all about color. It's as if the CFDA took a bribe from the Crayola corporation. Many designers took the Brighter is Better approach. At Burberry, a veritable rainbow of coats were sent down the runway, but Raf Simons designed the best of them all - a classic knee-length purple coat - for his own label.

 I never imagined I would want a purple coat, especially one that could potentially get me mistaken for Barney the Friendly Dinosaur, but the heart wants what the heart wants. The cut is so regal, so debonair; the definition of class. And the saturated, unconventional color choice makes it a refreshing take on a winter classic.

If The Shirt Fits

A plague has fallen upon the male gender. No, not male pattern baldness, but the arguably more serious inability to identify, purchase, and wear clothes that actually fit. Generations of males are subjected to ill-fitting clothes, completely unaware of their sartorial salvation. I honestly don't understand the fear. Do men believe a pair of pants that actually covers their ass will render them unattractive (or unattracted) to the opposite sex? Fitted clothes don't make you gay fellas. (That intimate kiss you shared with your "buddy" probably does, but "No homo", right?) If that were the case, then conversely, wearing baggy clothing would make you straight. And that just ain't true.

When I was younger, my mother bought my clothes. I remember she would always get size 34 pants, Large t-shirts, size 40 suit jackets. I eventually came to think these were my real measurements - a 12 year-old with the body proportions of Quasimodo.

I never questioned the clothing. Everyone seemed to dress the same way so I just assumed this was how boys dressed on their way to becoming men, but looking back on old photos, I didn't look more like a man. I looked more like a mess. My pants never fit me right. They would bunch awkwardly at the front, sliding further and further to the side as I moved. By the end of the day, my belt buckle was headed towards my hips. Thankfully, no one saw it, due to the tents I wore as t-shirts. My collars slouched sloppily to one side, making it impossible to layer properly, and the bottoms of button ups poofed out creating an extreme muffin top.

When I began to buy my own clothes, I found fashion and discovered that fitted pants didn't bring on the apocalypse. It seems ridiculous that even now tight clothes are considered feminine. Fitted clothes are considered too tight. I firmly believe men (and women) shouldn't wear clothes that are too tight. Thread and fabric can only stretch so far.

There's nothing like a man in clothes that fit. When worn properly, they can accentuate the curvature of his body in the most flattering way - perfectly wrapping around his arms, proudly accentuating his chest. In baggy clothes, you just look lost.

Tragically, there are tons of men out there who are still afflicted, cluelessly wondering the Men's Warehouses and Big & Tall stores of the world, wearing jackets that could shelter a small family. I can no longer allow this disease to ravage them. I encourage, no beg, the men of this world to wear clothes that actually fit. Know your actual measurements, not the ones your Mama gave you. Clothing is designed to flatter the body, not consume it.

Prescription Picc #002

Somewhere deep in the remote jungles of Africa lives is a tribe of Glamazons called Proenza Schouler. Instead of fighting with hand-crafted spears, they use high heels. They live in huts that bear a striking resemblance to Manhattan studio apartments. Tribe Proenza live on a diet of coffee beans (non fat) and their tribal makeup is washed off and reapplied every morning, not to mention retouched throughout the day.

Finding pendants that ward off evil spirits or increase fertility to be useless, the Proenza have created these necklaces to ensure a fruitful fashion week and to actually increase infertility. There's no way they would be able to squeeze into those one-of-a-kind grass skirts with baby weight.

From watching National Geographic, I've learned that spirituality is important to isolated tribes like this. While most are polytheistic, the Proenza pray to only one deity - the one they call Anna Wintour. They do not mingle with other tribes, but instead travel in cliques wearing the jewelry pictured above.

Luckily, you don't have to book a flight and rent a jeep to get a taste of their wares. Thanks to the information age, you can go on over to the Proenza Schouler online shop and place an order for either necklace. At a starting price of $450 each, I wish I could prescribe some kind of discount.

Fear not, H&M offers their slightly more nautical, greatly more affordable version (pictured below) for the Summer 2011 season:

  
I renamed this series Prescription Piccs after the PICC line I had painfully implanted (Seriously, I've never heard a doctor say "Oops, messed up. Just give me one more chance" before); which soon started to malfunction and was later removed. A PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) line is basically an implanted tube that runs under the skin, up the arm, and empties into the main vein of the heart. It's called a PICC. These pieces are picked. See the wordplay at work here?

Since [I've] Been Gone

I could make this post a fairytale, one complete with unicorns and fairy princesses and personified animals singing about honesty and sharing, but to do that would be a lie because that's not disease and that certainly is not any disease of mine.

A couple days after my last post, I went to see my doctor for a regular follow-up. In the examination room, he asked to look at my legs. Just before sitting on the table, I looked at my right foot where I could see a small pool of orange fluid had collected. My doctor didn't know what it was. Neither did I. My instinct was to blame the doctor for being a slob. I find his fresh-from-med-school-know-it-all attitude to be extremely off-putting, so I relish in the moments I can prove him wrong or unprofessional. That was before I felt my leg was wet and saw that the fluid was coming from a pinhole in my right knee.

He poked it. Of course, it hurt. He pressed around it, kneading my flesh like pizza dough, that hurt too. Words like "infection" and "hospital" were thrown around. Two of my least favorite words. Yet, they seem to follow me everywhere. The ultimate decision was a trip back to the plastic surgeon, whom I had left not thirty minutes before. She took one look at my leg, offered an authoritative nod and said "Oh, it's not infected. I just have to cut away some of the skin". Fair enough, I assumed. Open it up a little, slap a band-aid on that bitch, and send me on my merry way, but that would have been too easy. She cut through my skin, peeled layer after layer away and deposited them in a piece of bloodied gauze as if they served no purpose.

"What are you doing?"
 "Oh, this is just weak skin. You don't need this."

Weak or not, the skin is mine and because I am primarily composed of skin and bones, that tissue is essential to my makeup. When she finished, there was a gaping hole - one that, she explained, would have to be packed with gauze two times a day with different creams for morning and night. Like I said, I had been to see her earlier that day and she practically sung the praises of the progress my first wound (the wound on my thigh) was making. There was still a way to go, but the wound vac had done it's job and replaced my canyon with new tissue that was eager to heal. I felt like God finally threw me the bone I had been praying for. As with so many of these occasions, I was wrong. I was left with the hole in my thigh and the hole in my right knee. That makes two.

A week later I found another fluid bubble underneath the skin on my left leg. I had to undergo the same process again. Cut. Peel. Dump. I now have the hole in my thigh, the hole in my right knee, and the hole in my left knee. Three. Add to that, one on my right elbow, another near my wrist, and a fresh new one that could be mistaken for a lunar crater on my left arm. Six.

There should be a Sesame Street count-a-long for the amount of wounds I have on my body.

It's been seven years. The worst should be behind me, not around the corner. The most painful part is watching everyone else live my dreams; that hurts more than any physical pain could. They shamelessly whine about how their lives have been made unbearable by the boy that doesn't like them, or the date that went wrong, or because they had to change their Facebook password (true story).

I'm not ashamed to say that I would kill to have their problems.

What's worse is the state of arrested development I've been in since this all began. When it started I was 15 years-old and while all my friends were being fifteen and doing fifteen-like things, I was in the hospital, hooked up to an IV, watching the most basic form of cable available. The missed years kept piling on, as did missed opportunities and in some ways I feel like I'm still in my early teens, because I've yet to experience a youth.

I wish I could say that I always have a positive outlook on my situation, but that would defeat the purpose of this blog. I don't always have a smile on my face. My head isn't always held high. Sometimes, I have trouble standing tall. These last few months have been about learning to see past that, to continue in spite of the setbacks, which in all honesty, is a daily battle; a battle I intend to win one day.

I was thinking of getting something to commemorate my future triumph; something I could look to for encouragement. And so, I thought of the Giles & Brother Railroad Spike Cuff.

They do custom engraving and I want a word stamped on the cuff that ignites that fighting spirit. I thought of words like "persevere" and "survivor", but they all seemed too clinical, too heartless. Then I came up with "Invictus". Not Invictus as in the movie where Morgan Freeman plays Nelson Mandela, but Invictus as in the English poem that speaks to the state of mind I'm working towards; one of unshakable faith and courage. A more cost-effective method would be to write "invictus" on a Post-it or recite it to myself as I'm brushing my teeth, but there's something different about wearing it. In wearing it, the word becomes a shield or a tattoo. It becomes a part of me. When you're so far down, it's all too easy to forget to look up and this brass beauty could help prepare me for the victory ahead.

The Awkward Issue

 

The Details March 2011 issue has become The Awkward Issue in my house ever since it surfaced in the mailbox. My father nearly choked when he saw it and my mother is avoiding it like it's the Antichrist. It's become the pink elephant in the room. The pink elephant that I feed peanuts and bathe and take on walks so that it gets bigger and stronger. 

I love it. I love the tension it's creating. To me, it's just a magazine (a magazine with fine specimens of man meat that I would love to just tear into. I mean, I look at the cover and I think THIS is why I'm gay, but I digress). To them, it's homosexuality incarnate. 

I love that it's bringing the gay issue to the forefront. My dad is fine with my being gay, a little too fine sometimes. I think the magazine just confuses him. He doesn't know whether to acknowledge it or just pretend like it's nothing out of the ordinary, like it's a part of our home decor. I'd rather he just ignore it because acknowledgment would inevitably lead to questions like "So, which one's your favorite?" followed by "So he's the type you like?" and those aren't questions I'm prepared to answer for my father. Regardless of his comfort level, I could never bring myself to answer "The one standing on the left. Sean O'pry. I love his lips, his eyes, his arms, the vein in his arms, pretty much everything he has to offer". 

My mother, on the other hand, still clings to her delusions of grandeur. In conversation, she describes hypothetical situations where she meets my wife-to-be (my wife-to-be named Sean O'pry). She tends to dip in and out of reality and as a result her acceptance comes and goes. Just when I think she's ready to join PFLAG with statements like "You know, I'm really trying to except the gay thing" and "I want you to know I love you and that I just want you to be happy and for you to find a partner that makes you happy, she'll inevitably follow it up weeks later with "You need to learn how to treat a woman" or describing to me what women like in a man, which coincidentally is usually what I like in a man.

We could spend days dissecting my relationship with my parents, but frankly that's not what this post is about. Back to Details...

This issue marks the introduction of a new section entitled The Body, a thirteen page section on health and fitness, which I'm definitely against. I'm not against heath and fitness (entirely),  I just think such knowledge is better suited for a macho publication like Men's Health not Details, which is supposed to be a fashion magazine. And thirteen straight pages, that's a little excessive. I don't think they even devote thirteen straight pages to fashion. Unless by the word "body" they mean fold out posters of the cover model's bodies, I'm so not interested.

I haven't really read this issue yet. I have a stack of magazines to read through before I get to Details. Until then, please enjoy a behind the scenes video of the cover shoot (I know I did):

Sometimes, You Have to Cancel

I canceled my appointment yesterday. I just couldn't make it. Rheumatoid arthritis is extremely subject to the weather. I can tell whenever it's about to rain or snow because my joints get really stiff and achey. The slightest bit of precipitation can send me into a world of pain. Think Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. 

Yesterday in Chicago, the weather gods decided to gift us with rain. It may be good for the environment but horrible for my ability to get out of bed. I was scheduled to go to the University of Chicago medical center for an appointment with an infectious disease specialist, but when I woke up I felt the pain and canceled. 

I feel like a failure. This week was my medical marathon - a non-stop merry-go-round of doctor appointments everyday this week. I told myself that if I could do this I could do anything; that progress was being made and that I was one step closer to getting back to my chosen home, New York City. And I couldn't. I couldn't make it. I couldn't bear the pain of getting out of bed; of riding into the city; the dance routine of getting me into a wheelchair; trying to sit up in the waiting room; biding my time until I can get back to my bed; which of course does not come without my inching out the backseat, walking to the stairs supported by two people, and a climb up a flight of stairs that I imagine to be not unlike scaling Mount Everest. 

It probably would have been a good idea to see her because of the fevers I've been having. Every once in a while I'll have a fever of 99-100 and above, the highest ever being 102.3. I know that's not normal but I've been brushing them off because:

• they don't happen very often
• when they do, I don't feel sick. I don't even feel warm
• they always go away in a few hours
• I'm not too keen on waiting in the hospital for a team of doctors to do countless tests only to later tell me they have no idea what's going on

Fevers are usually a sign of infection, but I've got 16 viles of blood taken for tests that prove nothing is infected. An infection would also call for a constant fever, and mine are sparse. Knowing my luck, she would have had the solution to all my problems; finally, a doctor with the answers I've been waiting for or just answers period. But I missed that chance because I let the illness win, or at least that's how it looked yesterday. I may be acting a tad melodramatic considering I scheduled another appointment for March 23rd, but that wasn't my appointment. My appointment was for March 9th, but I couldn't make it. And now I have to wait in the unknown - a medical purgatory - until I can see her two weeks from now.

It frustrates me because deep down, medical history aside, I don't feel like a sick person and truth be told, on those good days, I forget that I am. For a nanosecond, I am normal. Then I reach for something or turn to the side and it all comes racing back to me, making up for lost time. It hurts more than any arthritis pain could, when your actions can't match your thoughts.

In my mind, I feel like I can go or at least that I should be able to. When I wasn't able to, I didn't take it as "You need to rest, now. You won't need to rest, forever", which I should have. I took it as "Go back to bed, Joï. You're not like everyone else. You can't do what everyone else can".

Maybe that's why yesterday was such a hard blow, because after a good week I had to admit to myself that there is still a great deal or work to be done. I'm not out of the woods yet.

I put too much weight on these appointments, on tiny insignificant events that have no bearing on my capacity to persevere. They are check-ins - mile markers on my way to recovery - and should be regarded as nothing more. What's done is done. I canceled the appointment, I didn't go, and now I have to move on. But what must be said so that I can grow to accept it, is that I canceled it for a legitimate reason, because my body needed to rest and I should not be ashamed of that. I did what was necessary to give me strength for today. The only thing I can do now is live my life until the 23rd (and after, of course) and hear what she has to say then. My Medical Marathon Week is over, for the most part. I wish I could have completed it as planned, but unfailingly, shit will happen. There's always some week in the not-so-distant future. Or the week after.