Jacket Days

You know, the day before yesterday, I had put away all my bulky winter coats because I thought, hey, finally! spring has arrived. I was so excited and I took out all my spring jackets and stuffed them into the hall closet. I love jackets because I love the whole layered look. Layered. Listen to me. I'm gaaaaay.

Some people are shoe-aholics, I am a jacket-aholic. I have so many jackets, that I can't wear them all more than once in short time in spring when it is between 38 to 50 degrees, when I can wear a jacket without sweating my smooth, hairless balls off.

Sometimes, I wear them inside the house even though I am not going anywhere.

Sometimes, I am jealous of homeless people because they get to wear a jacket everyday, sometimes two at a time. I could never pull off that look though. The homeless look, I mean. Too baggy.


So yesterday, I put on a new Converse One Star Poplin Hoodie Jacket that I had bought from Tar-zhay, along with my distressed jeans, white shirt and preppy tie and was feelin' really totally stylish and then bam! whadayaknow: fucking heavy, wet snow starts to fall and suddenly it was frickin 20 degrees. I froze my ass off. I had prematurely put away my winter jackets.

Don't you hate that? When you put something away, you don't expect to have it make a comeback. The last time this happened, my great-aunt Sophie woke up after we thought she had passed away. It was totally unexpected because we had just smothered her with a pillow. We needed her bedroom because we had just bought a pinball machine and needed somewhere to put it.

Anyway, I dug one of the winter coats out back out last night, just in case this freeze lingered on. But I am not putting it on unless it's like zero degrees or something. Time's running out before it's too warm to wear a jacket and then I have to start wearing something more appropriate to warm weather: a thong.

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Related posts:

Rule of One Hotter - I've always wanted to be hotter than I am. Don't you?

Rule of One Hotter

Have you ever heard about the "Rule of One Hotter?"

Patricia Marx, in a column for The New Yorker wrote that on one cold, brisk day, she was trying to persuade her nine year-old niece to put on a warmer coat and possibly a hat. Her niece refused, invoking the Rule of One Hotter:

Kids are one hotter than grownups, so if a grownup is hot, a kid is very hot, but if a grownup is very, very cold, a kid is only very cold.

Instinctively, I thought that while this had the ring of truth, there are probably a lot of exceptions to the rule. Kids are sort of self-absorbed that way, they can't possibly think of all the possibilities like neurotic adults can.

Menopausal women and Excessively Fashionable Gay Men, for instance, are prone to be warmer than normal. Menopausal women for obvious reasons, and the E.F.G.M. because they control the weather through sheer mind control, since a bulky overcoat will simply ruin any sexy, skin-tight outfit they just put on. Hookers too, may be exempt, although I would think that crack cocaine only has the heating power to protect to -10 degrees. Any colder would require a heat lamp, which I don't think is likely unless the Prostitutes' Union get together and picket City Hall.

I, on the other hand, am always cold in the winters. Like Patricia, I am probably four colder than most people. In my head, I have invented many a garment to insulate myself from the cold, most of it involving sewing on a Prada label to bulky, winter clothing. I don't know any haute couture designers that design for cold Chicago winters. When a designer has a winter collection, they mean winter in Florida, where their customers have a pied-à-terre. A typical winter item: a see-through cover up for a bikini.

I don't know why it is that winter clothes are always so bulky. I didn't starve myself to a 30 inch waist so that my down jacket would visually add forty pounds to my frame. Thinsulate, that mainstay of winter clothing should be called Fatsulate, for how unflattering it makes anything.

My solution is to wear long underwear so that I can wear more fashionable items without too much bulk. The only problem is, they also friggin bunch up in your pants. Why are they always made with like a 50 inch inseam? Every time I put one on, the elastic band comes up to my armpits. Haven't they heard of low-rise? They are also hellishly hot once you are indoors.

It makes me wish that I was young again, so that I can be one hotter--in more ways than one.

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Related posts from the archives:

What Does It Say About Me? - Matt offers No Milk some fashion advice. Exhale - True Love expands all waistlines.

Tales of Gay Shopping - Two men + shopping together = gay. Death of the Circuit Boy - A quaint, long-winded essay I wrote waaay back in 2001. Boooringg!

What Does It Say About Me?

"What do you think my beret says about me," I asked my good friend Matt.

He studied my beret and said, "I think it says that you are trying to look younger than you are."

"Really?" I asked, crestfallen. "You don't think it says that I'm creative, hip and will give you a blowjob if you follow me into the restroom at Borders?"

"No," he said firmly.

"What do you think about hockey jerseys?" I ventured. I had just bought one recently at one crazed shopping spree at the mall. What? They were 60% off!!!

"I think it says 'I have completely given up on life and I am just waiting for Heidi to tell me auf weidersehen,'" said Matt.

"I see," I managed to say. I still had the receipt for the hockey jersey but I have been seen around town in my beret. What was I thinking? Why couldn't I just be like every decent gay guy over thirty-five and post a picture on BigMuscle.com of my big, gaping asshole? But noooo, I had to be different, I had to wear a goddamn beret.

What is it that I am trying to say anyway? All I want is to be noticed, you know, so that I wouldn't be that guy who is left out, the guy in the corner jacking himself off in an orgy.

"Anyway, if you want to say something about yourself," Matt said, oblivious to my internal struggle, "I think you should get something more subtle, you know, like a t-shirt or better yet--get a tattoo."

"To hell with subtlety. I want a t-shirt that says 'I'm a bottom'."

"Well then, let's go find a t-shirt that has big block letters that spell A-B-E-R-C-R-O-M-B-I-E."

"Ok," I said excitedly. I could have a picture of myself wearing it on my new BigMuscle.com profile by tonight.

Right next to the picture of my asshole.





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