Dark and gorgeous, she's a little British, a little devilish, and a whole lotta cat.
When I use the paddle shifters and that engine purrs, she is every bit her namesake: Her name is Eartha.
Which leads me to a recent passing that cannot go unmentioned. My dear Eartha Kitt. Every time that engine growls for all the years I own that car, I will think of you, and purr, and laugh. Of all the women who catch the eyes and imaginations of the gays, Eartha was MY diva. I secretly harbored fantasies of meeting her, or even of driving her around in my very own Eartha.
Like Macbeth said: She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word.
Sagittarius is the seeking sign. Bow drawn in the heavens, we are a divided lot--half animal, half man--elevated above the beasts but not quite fully human. This time of year, our time, is particularly hard for Sagittarians. Our sign rules us as the days grow shorter, headed into the Winter Solstice, when Capricorn will take over. We become introspective, a little moody, inclined toward reflection, and generally a little less zingy.
Each year my birthday and Christmas result in a lot of people asking me what I might want as a gift. In the last decade, the answer has become increasingly difficult. Mostly, I tell people now to give a gift to the Trevor Project.
The reality of being of a certain age and in a certain place socio-economically is that there isn't much I want. In fact, I would argue that I want for nothing, except perhaps a loving boyfriend,
or maybe a dog.
Even these things aren't really necessary, so I have a hard time putting them in the category of want. They are also notoriously difficult to find.
Which brings me to my new section: In Search Of...
In a capitalist society, we have so much that buying can become an act not of acquisition but of selection. I want a dress, says the Fashionista. But it's not just a dress that the Fashionista wants. It's a Philip Lim, or a Leger. It's color, shape, wearability. Perhaps it's for an occassion, perhaps not. Regardless, the process that begins is what I call "The Luxury of Choice".
In other places (and I don't mean other countries, just other places), choice itself is a luxury. We get to choose. We choose what sites we read, what clothes we wear, with whom we socialize. All of these things are the soul of luxury. To me, luxury is not the quality of the item necessarily, but the ability to have chosen it in the first place from among a constellation of options.
This season, a hole in my wardrobe has made itself known. It's always been there, but the climate of Southern California has allowed me to ignore the lack of a certain fundamental piece of a man's wardrobe: the Leather Jacket.
Now it's time for the Big Fish story. There was once a leather jacket so beautiful that it entranced Sable Crow, who had flown to an event innocently unaware of the creature laying in wait. This jacket was of the finest leather, with a treatment that was unique (it was like a fine-wale courduroy made from leather!) and stylish (motorcycle jacket in shape, but not padded or poofed). It was delicious, and Sable Crow found himself powerless against the power of the ring, er, AmEx. He bought the jacket.
But the power of the ring, er, AmEx, would not be disuaded. The jacket hung on Sable Crow's bedroom door, a reminder of his transgression. The coat had cost as much as--say--an auto bailout, an infrastructure project, or AIG. Sable Crow, in a fit of remorse, returned the jacket and cast it into the fires of Emporio.
You can see the jacket here, styled beneath the furry overcoat:
So what does Sable Crow do, then, as fall approaches? He starts looking for leather jackets elsewhere. But, like Goldilocks, none are "quite right".
So now, I ask for my Reader's help with my new leather fetish: What's the best men's leather jacket?
Is it a bomber? A car coat? A motorcycle jacket? A harness? Is it casual? Formal?
The choices are mind-boggling. Meanwhile, Sable Crow drifts from Emporio to Barneys to John Varvatos, idly pawing dozens of leather coats that just don't seem right. Should a leather coat be this much of an issue?
I honestly can't think of another purchase that has given me this much pause, with the possible exception of my car.
About the only thing I can settle on is that it must be black. Quelle surprise.
It seems reasonable that if you're going to spend the wardrobe-equivalent of a car, that it should be on something that is flattering, classic, versatile, and in all ways perfect. It is, in short, a Sagittarian finger-trap! The harder I hunt and struggle, the more impossible it becomes to escape. I would love Jean Bean to weigh in on this one. The season may have passed, but a leather jacket has become my perennial sartorial quest. (At Neiman Marcus today, I asked the Duke of Style if leather jackets would come in for spring. "Naturally!" he exclaimed, his Tom Ford suit softly echoing his excitement with its subtle hand stitching. "That's the BEST time to buy a leather coat for LA since the leathers will be thinner and more year-round.")
My thought is to go more luxe, so I'm watching the following designers: Gucci, Bottega Veneta, and Giorgio Armani (not Emporio! I'm breaking ranks!)
Is this the wrong track in a depression? Sable Crow would love reader feedback. In this case, as in so many, a woman's opinion could be very helpful. What do men desire?
A Leather Jacket is my new In Search Of...
...post script...
Some additional notes. Look at this comparison:
Creepy, no? Maybe Botega Venetta's Thomas Maier is a Trekker?
Speaking of creepy, and trekkers, get a load of this. F+! A sartorial Trek blog! I can't stand it. High brow meets low brow! Runway meets starbase! Sable Crow is undone!
Some of you who read my blog regularly might not be too surprised by the title of today's entry. But I've tricked you! It's not what you think!
It's another Dear Sable Crow!!
I was asked a question by an esteemed Reader, and I love questions.
Dear Sable Crow, What is the difference between a recession and a depression? Depressed But Well-Dressed
Dear Depressed,
To quote a quip I heard some months ago: A recession is when someone else loses their job. A depression is when it happens to you.
Depression is defined by the “Dictionary of Finance and Investment Terms” as: "economic condition characterized by falling prices, reduced purchasing power, an excess of supply over demand, rising unemployment, accumulating inventories, deflation, plant contraction, public fear and caution, and a general decrease in business activity."
The classic definition of recession is much more narrow and is “defined by many economists as at least two consecutive quarters of decline in a country’s GDP.”
This period we’re in, of course, is much more depression-like. But economists, politicians, and financial folks don’t like to use the word because it’s ALWAYS associated with the Great Depression. Unemployemnt at that time peaked in the low 20%s. Ours is probably around 7.5%, higher in CA. We also don't have deflation, mostly becuase our good government has pumped (by some estimates) about $3,000,000,000,000 into the economy in the last few months. A hugely inflationary attempt to hold up the value of goods, services, and those green and black slips of paper you carry around to buy things.
Yes, we get to pay that back. That's about $10,000 for every man, woman, and child in the United States. F. It also exceeds the amount of tax revenue we collect in a given year, which is approximately $2,500,000,000,000. Double F. Looks a lot worse when you put all those zeroes, doesn't it? That's trillions, folks. Double F Minus.
If you weren't depressed before, you probably are now. With good reason.
Hello. I've missed you. I haven't been well lately. Very distracted, a little angry, perhaps a little dimmed by storm. But don't worry! I am undaunted. I've hoisted up my sails and, safe within my quarters, I'm determined to ride out the storm.
I have a little treat for you. I'm not going to lecture you this time, not on hunger, nor hypocrisy, nor politics. No. For tonight, as rain falls on Los Angeles, I have a special subject for you. Tonight, I speak of gratitude.
But first! Dear Reader, you don't think I'd leave you hanging with no interactive media to entertain you, do you?! No! Perish the thought. I'll give you this little bit from my bard d'jour, to light the narrow way.
Now to the story.
When I was a kid, I used to read all kinds of things. Fantasy was my favorite:
The Lord of the Rings
A Wizard of Earthsea
Narnia Chronicles
It was an escape, yes. I didn't have to look at the real world when I was lost on the back of a dragon, high above imagined hills. The wind was cool in those places, so far away. The nights were clear and the dawns were bright. The storms meant something. In these places, there were always identifiable adversaries. There was good, and there was evil. You always knew which was which.
You could tell by their castles.
As adults, we learn in layers that life is more complicated than it was in the books of our childhood. Evil is seductive; sometimes it looks like good. Sometimes people do evil in the name of good. Sometimes people do good in name of evil. Things get so grey. Sometimes something is both good AND evil. Most times it is neither, or it is one or other depending on how you look at it, like a hologram or an optical illusion. Morals in the real world are less immutable than in those fantasy worlds of my youth.
No, the real world was not so easy to understand, relate to, or categorize.
So as Ray croons in your computer to "Be Here Now" you might be wondering what this has to do with gratitude. Or maybe, clever Reader, you've already jumped ahead--in mind or on the page--to anticipate where I'm going.
"Don't let your soul get lonely, Child it's only Time; It will go by.
Don't look for love In faces, places It's in you, that's where you'll find... Kindness.
Be here now... Here now"
I'm getting older this Saturday. I guess I get older every day, but this one seems to have caught me off guard. I'm struggling a bit, and though I might be able to point at economic or political forces that are dragging me down, some of it is just plain old ME.
And in these times, because the world is not what I learned in my childhood books, I am prone to be sad, and lonely, and a little angry. As Ray sings: "I never learned to count my blessings; I choose instead to dwell in my disasters."
So on this night, on this eve of Thanks, on this precipice, I say to you Reader: Thank you.
I'm grateful for Your Readership, that I am not alone. I'm grateful for a light to those in darkness, that they are not alone. I'm grateful for my health and prosperity--both fragile gifts. I'm grateful that I haven't gotten everything I wanted right away; it makes the getting sweeter. I'm grateful that fighting for something challenges us to understand why we value it. I'm grateful for the rain. I'm grateful for a dizzying and scary parabolic future. I'm grateful for the opportunities I have, and that they are so numerous they are daunting. I'm grateful that I don't have to have it all figured out right now. I'm grateful that I have friends who tell me (repeatedly, and over long horizons of time) that I'm okay, that they love me, and that the world is not as bad as I fear. I'm grateful that my loving parents told me today that--in their minds--my future partner and I will be married, regardless of what the law or anyone else thinks. I'm grateful for my family: those to whom I was born, and those whom I have chosen. I'm grateful that I can feel so deeply. I'm grateful you're still reading this list. I'm grateful that I can hear a couple--a man and a woman by the sound of it--having sex somewhere in the vicinity of my apartment. F. I'm grateful she seems to be enjoying it.
It's so hard sometimes to be grateful. My natural state is not gratitude: it's struggle. I struggle with my gifts, I struggle with my limitations. I'm so blessedly busy struggling I haven't considered (recently, at least) what might happen if I DIDN'T struggle.
What if I did as Ray suggests? Be Here Now, he sings. Here now. It's almost a mantra, a siren call to a sane shore.
I think there is a great link between being present and being grateful. It seems to me that you can't be one without a measure of the other. Don't you think, Reader?
I'm present when I'm reading. I love reading. There's a part of me, let's say it looks like a child, that yearns for those worlds. Not all my friends like it. Some say it contributes to the problem. I don't think so. It's a lense, like glasses, that helps me to see. This is the part of me that doesn't judge--it dreams. I'm also present when I'm writing, for many of the same reasons. Freedom. The capacity to dream.
These are heavy times. If we have savings and investments, we've lost a lot of our wealth. If we don't, we're likely in even more dire straits and are holding on by a thread, or a paycheck. Times will get better. If I were a betting man, I'd say the market bottomed on Friday, and that the economy will recover--modestly--in the second half of 2009. That doesn't mean it will be easy, or linear. Just that the scary part is probably over, and the hard work has just begun. Brace yourselves, and buckle down.
I spend a lot of time deciding on the allocation of resources: financial, human, political, and social.
Consider this: The Wall Street Journal today reports that 691,000 children "went hungry in America in 2007."
And activist churches spend $40,000,000 to see that I can't marry?
Disgraceful. Who's protecting children now? And what does that REALLY say about the family?
The WSJ goes on to point out that 36,200,000 Americans overall went hungry in 2007.
I know this. I spend my time and money trying the heal the damage done by a myopic and hateful group of zealots, and to make my community a stronger and more self-sustaining place--a place where love is free and hate is confined to its rightful place alongside bigorty and ignorance.
Truly despicable.
By their fruits ye shall know them: Stick it to the fags and let the children starve.
"Good people, a handful of barley bestow,
On the child of Apollo, the sleek sable crow;
Or a trifle of wheat, O kind friends, give;--
Or a wee loaf of bread that the crow may live."
Neither monster nor sinner, I'm just a tax-paying homosexual working hard for his American dream, and speaking out until I have the same rights as my brother.
