The Suit Makes the Man

http://tinyurl.com/oz4a9vy

"Flava" comes in all shapes, sizes, shades, cuts, and styles. You can't pin it down like a fine fabric, but you know it when you got it, and when you got it, flaunt it. Hard. Some guys don't know how to feather their own nest, and that's okay, too. A great tailor and master suit-maker will make you feel like a million bucks, at a much better price. Don't believe me, kid? That's fine. 

Go find out for yourself, and see if you don't feel better with your waist tucked in and your shoulders lined up just right. Then, you'll say what they all say to me, one way or another, on some day soon, or way into the future: what does it feel like to always be right? 

To which I say this: it ain't right to be abused and havin' to fight your way to the top (yet again), but the view from here suits me just fine, because like you, I know exactly where I belong. Right up there with you, and nowadays the feelin' is fine, my friend. 

Enjoy the good life that's sweet, just like we do, ami. There ain't no betta gift than being the best you there is, the "you" you were always meant to be. Give the gift of your own self back to yourself. Go on. Shine!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Greenfield

The Perfect Studio

Ever since I was a child, I wanted to live as any artist would, either in some old Parisian attic atelier, or a big city loft, or a large one room studio. In my mind, it simplifies life down to the necessary essentials (with way less cleaning involved), plus there's plenty of Romantic tall windows pouring in natural light, which define my lifelong scholarship: the study of light and optics within the natural world as it relates to the human condition. 

But, time and money conspired greatly against me: I either had a family member to take care of, or I couldn't afford it on my salary, or some man and/or a college friend wanted to muscle in on my living situation, such is my ability to properly house myself on less.

And so, many, many years after I originally conceived of it, I finally realized my lifelong dream of "aloneness" and oneness in one simply beautiful, humble studio space that I can share with you all. I can finally say with a sigh of relief that I spent my mid-years according to my ideals of comfort, style, and simplicity, and that I willingly left my "Bachelorette" years behind me just as I foresaw and designed them to be; on my terms and on my home turf. I can have the luxury of saying to my loved ones, at the end of all my years here on earth, that I ended my bachelorhood as splendidly as I entered it: perfectly beautifully. See it here, for yourself.

 
 

The Perfect One-Room Studio (Pearl River, N.Y., 2015).

MakeupFree and MakeupLess

A "MakeupFree Me" in the morning!

I periodically go through phrases that are with and without makeup. Working at some plush "rich white man" gig in the city? Oh hecks yeah, I wear War-Paint to that meeting and lots of it, if that's what it takes to make the deal go down with you, idiot! 

Me: concealer set with powder and some blush, in the afternoon!

Humbly working from home on my own stuff, on an old (and supposedly) "outdated" system? Nope, just me and my old clothes here, y'all! 

Me: morning time, hairband and ponytail, then make breakfast.

But it's really not a series of hard-and-fast rules that I rush through compulsively. Sometimes I skip the face paint AND I work summer hours at a seasonally slow publishing house. Who cares? It's hot out, and maybe my skin needs a rest in the heat. 

Woke up, tied back the curtains, and looked out the window. Who's that?

Plus, I have a lot of work to do, and quietly so, too, while the rest of humanity leaves town to go on vacation. Go, and good riddance to you! Or, maybe I want to go to the store while I'm working from home AND I also dot cover-up on that stubborn blemish. Who knows? Who cares?!

Yeah, I've got a blemish. So what? Not in the mood. Got work to do.

The point is this: I'm not on some big anti-makeup "Crusade", because if I were on that particular quest, human, you'd sure as hell know it. I'd be sportin' a big red cross (hand-sewn by me) right across my chest in recognition of that fact, yo. Besides, we fought those old battles centuries ago, and moved on from it. Far from it.

Bathed, dressed, and brushed, but no makeup. I like my hair in this one.

No, I don't hate girls with face-paint, be it a little or a lot, because I don't hate myself with it on, nor without it either, and neither do my close family and friends. After all, they have seen me in all lights (as they see me still), and they've found me worthy of beauty, along with their beauty, too. That's real. See it here, for yourself.

Right before bath time. My love asked me to take this shot.

My "Nigella Lawson in the kitchen" look, with some makeup on.

I just woke up and my eyes are still red!

Parents in town taking you to a fancy steak house dinner? "Glamour Girl"!

On a technical aside: Please note that all of the pics you see here were snapped by me and posted by me, on my (again) "old" iPhone3. I don't have a design system set up (because, once again, it's old and outdated, thus rendering it unusable, as it broke down from "Planned Obsolescence"*), so all my magic comes from me, a good camera built into a nifty smartphone, and whatever filters that I sometimes choose to use on a Mac iPhone and/or an Instagram app. You're welcome!

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planned_obsolescence

The Vintage Tee

Still looks fresh!

Back when I was a kid, "vintage" did not apply to fashion trends like denim jeans and old prom dresses. "Retro" was not yet the Bettie Page hipster living in Williamsburg off daddy's dime, working a cheap, low-level design job. Antiques were things our parents bought from old barns upstate, found in dusty attics, or buried in basements with years of wear and tear on them that had to be lovingly and patiently removed. Same thing applied to my clothes. They were mostly hand-me-downs from my older brothers, because my parents bought me clothes a few times a year: right before the new school year started in fall, at Christmas time, and for a December child like me, it was also for my birthday. If I grew a shoe size during the interim, we may have made a special trip to Sears or Buster Brown's, a chain that made Mary Jane's and Oxfords for kids; not exactly "hip" by any means, but such were the times. I did not wear pricey Gloria Vanderbilt jeans in the 80s that became a huge trend almost overnight, because my parents argued that it was a complete waste of time and money to buy something we would outgrow so quickly, and they were right. 

Can't touch this!

So now, when I go through lean times (like the phase I'm currently in), I know what exactly to do, and that does not include tightening the belt on a pair of $500 jeans. Thrift becomes a habit, just like it was for my Depression-Era grandparents with their survival skills, as does the art of searching for what you need among the things you already have. I read an absurd tag line for an article some weeks back that said mending and tailoring old clothes is now back in style in England. Ha! When I was forced through economy to spend some time last year with a family member, I did so with my typical aplomb, along with my inherent sense of style. 

Lo and behold, there among my mom's old stuff in a musty, dark, drippy basement (which I cleaned for her, under her supervision, for a few days straight, wearing plastic gloves as I sorted through the mildewed cardboard and rotting wood), was a box of our old clothes from childhood, and then, like a flash of sunny daylight in the dank depths, there it was: the first ever MTV birthday t-shirt from 1982, celebrating their first year on air (and yes, I did see the first very first MTV video, The Buggles "Video Killed the Radio Star" with my brother after school one afternoon, in total awe) that our dad, who worked in the city for Time Warner Cable, brought home, along with promotional mugs, trade show tote bags, and the latest movie posters. And guess what? You can't buy it anywhere, you fucking hipster.

This is 44

A Japanese horror movie.

Every year on my birthday, I keep to a tradition that honors my ongoing commitment, and the promise I made to my family, that I would make taking care of myself a priority in my life. It's not easy, because even a casual reader here knows that much of my life is devoted to helping others. It is my pleasure to serve, but every good mom out there knows where I'm coming from about giving until it hurts.

Before getting it chopped.

I've learned the heard way that if I do not take some time for myself, I will eventually crash and burn, which sends those around me who are dependent on me into a tailspin while I rebuild, and at this age, I don't have the time for that kind of a long process anymore.

One last look at my grow out.

At the salon on a snow day.

So every year, I do something that's just for me: get a massage, or my nails done, or a haircut. This year, I did all three in the middle of a snow day. I got my hair cut first, then a manicure and pedicure, followed by a ten minute chair massage.

Steeling myself: this ain't nothing for a Warrior Princess.

Later in the day I ordered pizza, drank a glass of beer with a couple of pepperoni slices, and watched The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey with my mom. It was brilliant, by the way; we were riveted. 

All in all, it was a pretty good day :)

Thanks to Katy for the great bob and the chat (sorry gals, no hair color was added, it's just my iPhone settings), and my new friends at the nail salon who gave me some prettily packaged lotion as a free gift.