Tag Archives: fashion

8 reasons to risk living like a peasant to relocate to San Francisco

When you’re a suppressed child raised in small town, the most powerful and overbearing desire is to escape. “Surely, not everyone in the world believes sodomy is a sin,” I told myself as early as 5 years old. This mentality – that I belonged elsewhere – is the reason I went to Indiana University, a college known for LGBTQ advocacy, transgender teachers, and for being one of the only universities in the country who offers Gender Studies as a major. In fact, I first came out of the closet on Xanga my freshman year (read here: plenty of lulz).

Despite hiding who I was as a child, I found solace in manipulating one of Christianity’s many hypocrisies: nothing is worse than being gay. My parents were divorced. Everyone around me had sex out of wedlock. The couples who lived next door, across the street, and all over our apartment complex beat and killed each other. Huh…As long as I suppress and deny feelings of homosexuality, I could get away with murder. In this case, “murder” for a child/teenager is smoking cigarettes, cursing, and watching inappropriate movies — Pretty Woman, The Birdcage, Set it Off, and more — which confirmed to me that queer people and outcasts can be happy and successful in places other than Indiana.

As a gay mecca at the forefront of progressive attitudes towards healthcare and (homo)sexuality, San Francisco has become my haven, conjuring me and depleting my vacation days four times in the last two years. The friends I visit insist I relocate there, to which I always respond, “I don’t know how anyone affords to live here!” Lately, though, the temptation to say goodbye to the Windy City – undoubtedly spending thousands of dollars moving and doubling or tripling my living expenses – to move West is stronger than ever. Here’s why:

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Men in bars caress and make out with each other
WITHOUT A SINGLE FUCK GIVEN. And not just in gay bars. In Chicago, people are programmed to stare at their phone and worry about what the standoffish couple in front of them thinks. It’s as if they’ve forgotten their human right to show affection to whomever they want. Seeing two dudes holding hands and kissing at a Burger King that wasn’t located in the Castro (yes, this bitch went to Burger King) put me over the moon.


Calves and booties are voluptuous.
Climbing up all those hills does wonders for the legs and thighs. I tend to look at bulges and bumps no matter what, but in SF, the only remedy to looking is looking until someone tells me to stop.

True Burger – Oakland, CA

People aren’t hung up on my race or appearance.
Walking around any habitable part of Chicago outside Boystown (which, I don’t frequent unless there’s a special event) prompts side eye from Lululemon-wearing whites or thuggish POC (people-of-color) who undoubtedly think I stole or fucked a daddy for the $2,500 worth of outfit I’m wearing. SF folks smile. The baristas smile as they give you your latte. Passersby howl instead of scowl. And, “whites only” is nowhere to be found on Grindr.


Lyft-Line introduces you to new people.
During my vacation last week, I took my first Lyft Line — a service that allows you to hop in a Lyft with a passenger whose route aligns with yours. When we got in the car, the passenger and driver were deep in conversation. When asked if they knew each other, the two women explained they had never met, but realized their families grew up and worked together years ago. I love meeting strangers, and this service — only available in five cities (for now) — is a unique way to find out where someone is headed (and where they’ve been.)

Twin Peaks – San Francisco, CA

You don’t have to travel dozens of miles to see the elevation change
Chicago is flat as FUCK. The only rolling-hills combination here are half-baked queens doing poppers while watching King-of-the-Hill. In San Francisco, your destination is always up or down-hill. The city is like a sound wave, bobbing up and down to the beats and hums and moans of the city. Chicago is flatlined, allowing you to only go up if you can afford a reason to be in one of downtown’s skyscrapers.

Wildcat Canyon – Richmond, CA

The Weather is chill. But not too chill
January, San Francisco and Chicago’s coldest month of the year, varies greatly in terms of average temperature and sunlight. Chicago’s average low in Fahrenheit is 18 degrees, compared to SF’s 46 degrees. Additionally, SF sees about 340 more hours of sunlight annually than Chicago. Lack of the sunshine’s vitamin D is linked to prostate cancer, dementia, erectile disfunction, schizophrenia, and heart disease. Lord, keep my heart beating and dick ERECT. Amen.

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Drugs are easy to acquire because everyone does them
Admitting you take drugs for fun is still SO taboo in this nation. Despite celebrities like Rihanna, Miley, and Azealia making drugs more mainstream by openly smoking weed (and perhaps doing cocaine), normal people risk missing opportunities and losing credibility by admitting they do drugs. Clearly, there’s something people love about being high, and California makes it easy for citizens to taste the sunshine, smoke the kush, or snort the yay. And, don’t forget – Steve Jobs loved LSD! His legacy (Apple) currently has the highest market capitalization of any company in the world. Take that, haters.



Architecture is incomparable
As a fan of contemporary design, I won’t deny loving every bit of the gray, sterile, phallic skyscrapers that make up downtown Chicago. However, each and every time I visit San Francisco, I park my car anywhere, drop a pin so I remember where I am, and walk around alone to admire and photograph the colorful, bulbous homes and businesses that line the winding and ass-toning roads. It’s truly stunning.

Editor’s Note: I have lived in Chicago for four years. I am consistently grateful for my time here. The people I’ve met…the food culture…the career I’ve established…my life wouldn’t have been possible without the pulse of this city that pushes me to create beautiful things and share stories that inspire others to excel above what is normal. This piece is not throwing shade on Chicago. This is my reality of a 26-year old, bi-racial queer living in the Midwest.

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If God Were Gay, He Was Scared Shitless to Come Out.

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How did you first come out of the closet? Were you always out — prancing around in heels, screaming “wooooooork” since you were a tyke? Were you caught in a non-heterosexual act? Perhaps you didn’t have to “come-out”…maybe your family and closest friends always knew, and were always accepting, preventing a “we need to talk” moment with them. For me, telling anyone in my family face-to-face would have been a nightmare. My entire family identified as “Christians” who believed homosexuality was the fastest way to hell. My mother, the more militant of the bunch, was a holy-spirit inducing, tongues-speaking, bible warrior. Despite us always being really close, she was the person I feared telling the most, as I knew it would hurt and confuse her.

So, I did what any technologically savvy, god-fearing teenager would do — I came out on my Xanga. For those of you too young to know or too old to remember, Xanga was an online journal; much like WordPress is now, but back then it was associated with whiny little tweens who needed an outlet to talk about their difficult fourteen-year-old lives. About a year ago, I tried logging-into my old account to retrieve my old entries, but the site had since been bought out and shut down. Retrieving the data was possible, but seemed time-consuming, so I decided to let the past go. Little did I know, my mother, who “has better things to do than lurk my online social life”, had saved a copy of my “coming-out” entry. She gave it to me about a week ago.

The following is an exact copy of what I wrote six-and-a-half years ago, on October 23, 2007 — two months after moving two-hundred miles away from home as a freshman at Indiana University. I was eighteen years old. (Grab a trash can — the grammatical errors are sickening.) Following most paragraphs, I will add my current opinion (italicized) on my past justification on certain topics.

 

Alright.

I’m tired of living my life like this. Some of you may “know”, some of you may have suspected, but here it is…

I’ve been attracted to, and have been doing stuff with guys since middle school. When things first started happening I thought it was just a phase, so I dated and hooked up with random girls to see if my attraction to guys would diminish over time. Most of the girls I did stuff with were worthless sluts that I could give two shits less about now. After a while I knew that my attraction to guys wasn’t going to go away. I still am, however, attracted to girls, and if the right one came along I would have no problem dating one. It’s just..like I said, a lot of the girls I did stuff with or who liked were more or less pathetic, overdramatic high school girls that were seriously worthless to life. My mind was set on the thought, “Well, if the only girls that go for me suck, maybe I should be with a guy.”
(It did not take long for me to realize how much I tried blaming my homosexuality on women. I wasn’t yet ready to say, “Hey, world, I’m 110% gay.” Instead, it was more like, “Hey, I’m only 30% gay, and I’m sure it will drop to 0% when a woman worthy of my love comes along. Currently, they’re all worthless, so, I guess I’ll be gay forever! Blame the women, Jesus!” To be honest, all of the women I dated or messed around with to suppress my real feelings were sweet, caring girls, who truly cared about me. And I cared about them.)

As anyone can imagine (but probably not), coming out and saying this is literally the hardest, scariest thing I’ve ever done. I’m still unsure whether or not there is a God, but if he does exist then, based on the religion that has been presented to me my entire life, I’m going to burn in hell for all eternity. If you’re my good friend you know how afraid I am of dying, and the fact that I like guys is why.
(From ages 4-14, I cried any time I thought about death. It scared the shit out of me. “Joshua, you’re so young, you have so many years ahead of you!” my mom would say. Little did she know, the fear of going to hell for my feelings was always in my conscious mind. It’s not surprising that so many religious men are virgins, or are thought to be “in the closet”, as they’ve had to suppress most of their sexual feelings. I don’t know whether sexuality is a result of nature, nurture, or a mix of both, but telling someone they have to be straight their entire lives will definitely lead to experimentation. We all end up doing what our parents don’t want us to do, right? =D )

For those of you who heard the supposed “rumor”, Alex and I did date for a few months in my junior year of high school. I’d like to apologize on behalf of Christie and Alex for trying to cover it up for me every time someone asked them about it.
(Christie was, and still is my best friend since sixth grade. Alex, my first boyfriend and I, were once caught making out at a party. I tried covering it up as best I could.)

If you’re my friend and you have a problem with this, I totally understand. But, to make you feel guilty, I’ll say this: you were friends with me before you knew I liked guys and just because everyone now knows doesn’t change who I am. I’m well aware that people look at “gay” people differently, and I hope that, if you care about me, you won’t give a shit what my sexuality is (sort of similar to you not caring what my ethnicity is).
(Hahahahahah, “sort of similar”….HATRED IS HATRED, Y’ALL. I WAS SO SCARED AND CONFUSED.)

When I come back to South Bend, if you even think of making any jokes, or think that calling me a fag, queer, or the apparent new popular phrase “faggy boy”, I don’t want to be associated with you whatsoever. The same thing goes for anyone who is going to be cool to my face just because you know me, but then talk shit when I’m not there. Being biracial, I’ve had to deal with enough racism and bigotry growing up, so I’d appreciate you keeping your negative, closed minded comments to yourself.
(All of my guy friends in high school were straight. And not “fake” straight (well, for the most part.) They started calling each other “faggy boy” as a joke. I went along with it, as any opposition would “out” me for sure. Once I came out, however, I figured there was no need for me to hide my frustration with and opposition to the word “fag”. Look at me now, parading around and promoting the word “fag”. I’m taking it back. Fagtastic.)

I appreciate everyone who has been supportive of me through this. Justin, Michael Jordan, and obviously Alex have known for awhile, and I just told Christie about it a few weeks after we came to IU. I can’t stress enough how scared i am to be posting it just because I know people will look at me differently…but these aforementioned people have treated me exactly the same, and I love them so much for it. In addition, this is my formal apology to anyone who feels lied to. People have asked me if I was gay and I’e always said no (even though I don’t label myself as gay, but that’s another explanation all in itself). For people I simply haven’t told, I’m sure you can understand why.
(I have always been over-apologetic, but after reading this now, I cannot believe I apologized for being gay. Granted, I’m not exactly apologizing for my feelings — rather, for not telling the people I care about who I truly am. I’m gay, and I probably made out with your boyfriend, ladies. NOT sorry.)

Whoever is able to make comments, I’d appreciate your support if you have it. If not, a phone call or text would be nice. Imagine yourself in my shoes. We all know how society looks at “gay” people which is part of why I’ve been so afraid to tell anyone. But here it is. I’ve felt flustered and sick the entire time I’ve written this, haha. Thanks to everyone in advance who will still treat me like the same Josh. If you want to ask me more about it don’t hesitate (in private, obviously). I have no problems talking to you about it just as long as you actually care, and if you know I trust you. Those of you who look at me differently can, frankly, take their simple-minded bigotry attitude and shove it up their ass.
(I received a lot of phone calls, texts, and emails immediately. I literally sat in my dorm room for an hour and a half before going outside and facing the world. My mother, who has better things to do than lurk, was the first person to call me. She was crying, ensuring me people had been healed of homosexuality in the past, asking why I didn’t tell her, letting me know people are praying for me, etc. etc. It took a few years for us to be okay, and we are still quite close. Every one of my friends, despite currently being separated by distance, was and still is happy to be associated with Ms. Joshua Jenkins.)

The longer you withhold the truth, the more your entire existence feels like a lie. Be who you are. Walk with pride. Ignore people who try to bring you pain. You’re #flawless, and I love you xoxoxoxoxoxo. Whatever your “coming-out” experience is, please share it in the comments.

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Purses, Pussies, and Progress.

Do you remember the last time someone around you said something so degrading — so dehumanizing, that the only reasonable reaction was to spit in their face? Okay, I realize the utter hypocrisy of that reaction…but, anyone born into a family that promotes hate and bigotry and continuing to actively pursue these practices typically doesn’t listen to reason, respond to debate, or seek to understand someone else’s struggle. As a gay, half-black, Jewish man who walks the streets carrying a purse and wearing “women’s” clothes and jewelry, it is impossible for me to avoid stares, shouts, and denial of rights from my human counterparts. In fact, these oppressors take pleasure in the rising volume of the oppressed victim’s voice as he or she attempts to defend their human rights. He grins, evilly, as he calls you a “fatass”. A “nigger”. A “faggot”. He has no reason to align with or understand your feelings because he doesn’t have to. His 150-pound frame is never judged. His ability to walk into a department store and purchase every outfit he tries on is certainly not condemned or judged. Kissing his girlfriend in public, while perhaps making hopeless-romantics jealous, does not inspire disgust or riots by bible thumpers.

A few nights ago, my friends and I celebrated a colleague and friend’s twenty-third birthday, as well as her new job at prominent publication in Chicago. We started our night at Blue Frog’s Local 22 (www.local22chicago.com), indulging in spicy wings and a few of their numerous local brews. I tried Ale Syndicate’s Municipal India Pale Ale — a floral, hoppy, yet light-tasting IPA which, after one, had me feeling quite hoppy myself. After paying our tabs separately (thank Buddha/Allah/Jesus, a fucking restaurant that doesn’t bitch and moan about splitting the tab), we decided to stop by “El Hefe Chicago”, a nearby nightclub, to dance and enjoy some margaritas. Unfortunately, my six friends and I never made it past the front door.

As we approached, still airy and lighthearted from the drinks prior, we noticed a line forming outside the door— the bouncer wasn’t letting anyone inside. Some guy, wearing sunglasses at 9pm (I will refer to him from hereon out as “douchebag”), was in an argument with the bouncer. The bouncer, clearly fuming, looks at douchebag and says, “I don’t care where you come from or how much fucking money you have. I could get the manager and see if an exception can be made, but frankly, I don’t think I’m going to do that because of how you came at me.” Douchebag, looking at his posse and laughing, unfazed by the denial of entry, demanded the manager anyway, holding up the line as we all wait patiently to continue our fabulous evening. After a few moments, a big burly man appears from inside. He looks at douchebag’s friend, whose sweatpants were in violation of their dress code. “Is this your entire party? Just you guys?” His “party” consists of two men and two women who, clearly embarrassed by the progression of events, were standing arm-in-arm far enough behind the douchebag to avoid association if a passerby were to look-in on the situation. They had clearly only been friends with douchebag for a few hours. I imagined what they were thinking…“What the hell, why not? He’s rich!” After a few back and forth comments, the burly decision-maker approves their attire and lets them inside.

Our turn. I approach the bouncer and hand him my driver’s license. I considered making a joke about douchebag, to lift his spirits, but the words were stripped by my conscious by the bouncer’s abrupt statement: “You can’t bring that bag in here.” He was referring to my humble 14×3 inch Michael Kors purse. Astonished, I point to the two women he just let inside, both carrying purses much larger and more obtrusive than my own. “But, the two women you just let inside have  purses,” I plead, blood pressure rising. The bouncer didn’t look me in the eyes as he spoke. “Yeah, they’re women,” he says. I paused, ears steaming.  “Here we go,’ I thought. I’ve experienced a similar act of ignorance in Bloomington, IN at a bar called “Sports”. (Surprising, right?) Luckily, in that instance, there was an advocate working alongside that person, who eventually let me in. In this instance, at El Hefe, I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky. I kept my glare upon this inhospitable man and said, “Yes, they’re women, and I’m a man. What’s the difference? It’s just a bag.” At this statement, he locked eyes with me and said coldly, authoritatively, “What’s the difference between a man and a woman?? A fucking dick and a vagina, that’s the difference.” Before I had a chance to respond, my friends grabbed me and pulled me away before I could debate any further. It was probably for the best.

His justification didn’t offer any sensible insight as to why someone with a “dick” cannot bring a purse into their club. His statement suggests that only widely-accepted social norms (from the fucking South, in the nineteen-forties) and people who agree with these ideals are allowed inside this club. His blatant disregard for my feelings hurt in the moment — especially after I witnessed the events that just occurred with douchebag. That smug asshole, throwing his wealth around as justification for breaking the club’s rules, was still able to pass right through. My friends and I, all honest, generous, and humble people, were denied entry because of my sex, and a purse.

Luckily, my friends presence and support turned my discouragement into happiness; my deep-sighs into laughter. The next day, I received a text message from the birthday girl stating she called the establishment to let them know their bigotry lost them six customers. This support, this advocacy, is absolutely heartwarming. The rarity of such a proactive response against hatred on behalf of another human was nipped in the ass today, and for this, Ms. Ashley Jackson (instagram: ashleeholla), I thank you.

In Spanish, “el jefe” translates to “the boss”. Changing the spelling of “Jefe” to “Hefe” so that ignorant clients pronounce the name correctly, it’s clear that “el jefe” of this establishment, Jon Wright, does not respect cultures or ideas outside his own. As the “hottest Mexican restaurant in Chicago Illinois” (www.elhefechicago.com), it is unfortunate that Mexican roots and heritage are lost so yuppie, Asshole-Americans can tell their friends about their slutty evening at the hottest nightclub in town without pronouncing “jefe” incorrectly and therefore being corrected, negatively impacting their view of the club. Disgusting. It is unfortunate for nearby authentic restaurants and museums owned and explored by accepting, educated individuals to have share a block (or a nation) with this hub of hate. El Hefe Chicago actually lives up to the German definition of “hefe”: “yeast: a microscopic fungus” (Source: New Oxford American Dictionary), which is ironic, as the only way for men and women to get into this place is to show their pussy.

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I come from a place of despair, poverty, and uncertainty. My mother was all alone, confused, hurt…and my sister, two years my senior, was shipped away to a juvenile facility. I had the privilege of raising a 41 year old woman; I was her rock. At the age of 13, I had more common sense in one brainwave than most adults have by age 40. Despite my rough upbringing (and the first cigarette that graced my respiratory system at the age of 4 and stuck with me through the hard times), I was able to graduate from college, move to a beautiful (and expensive) city, and live a life I’ve always wanted: the ability to do what I want, where I want, with a tremendous amount of people and opportunity everywhere I turn. I’m not rich, obviously, working in retail…I mean, I wouldn’t be using a free web-hosting site to share my life with the world if I were. However, I live comfortably, with effort to succeed driven by a fear of growing up poor and helpless. The 7-year-old me would be extremely jealous of the $450 Michael Kors bag I just bought. Well, perhaps not. I wasn’t gay back then…but that’s another story…

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This blog contains insight on music, fashion, and how I view the world through these cynic balls that are apparently called “eyes”. No book reviews here, though. I haven’t finished a book in ages. While I would never sneer at a “bookworm” (even though they carry on and on like finishing a book is more satisfying than an orgasm…I beg to differ), they live in a world of fiction, whereas I’m constantly living in reality. So go ‘head on with that attitude and your nose, higher than Oprah’s private jet… because I can read you like a book. Enjoy.

Michael Kors Large Hamilton Pyramid-Stud Tote – $448
Manicure – $22

First Post.

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