The dust has settled. The swarms of stiletto-clad individuals have vacated Paris as quickly as they came. It’s back to ballet flats and quotidian black-and-white reserve on the Parisian metro. And yet, the Carrousel du Louvre seemed just a tad too empty last week without the recent mass of fashionistas in perpetual mid-Tweet. Their frenzy and undeniable ferocity seemed so out of context in Parisian two-hour café society. Needless to say, I was inspired: why not imagine a completely different way to relive the collections, sans Style.com (as comprehensive as it is)? The ticket, if I may, comes courtesy of the RATP (Régie Autonome des Transports Parisiens): an 8.80 euro metro day pass. Consider the spring-summer 2010 shows as your unexpected, impeccably packaged program for rediscovering Paris in all its glory; with rust-colored leaves sprinkled on the streets and a festive nip in the air (plus a panoply of not-to-be-missed exhibitions), there’s no better time to fall in love with the City of L’Amour. Continue reading...

Muscles ripple like tidal waves beneath skintight tanks. Sweat trickles down bulging biceps and hairless torsos. The breath becomes heavier by the minute. Moans of exertion are heard ever now and then. No, this is not the opening scene of “Cockpit II”, but an everyday scene in our very own Lyon Center. There are many reasons why we would want to regularly attend the gym. As a gay couple with probably the most boring bodies in the world (think patches of hair between the nipples, abs-less stomachs and love handles), it would be a great opportunity to grow some muscles. Furthermore, as individuals with a stress-level that might make the most studious student pass for a pothead, we could seriously use the endorphins. Finally, we defy anyone to contradict us on the fact that this is probably as homoerotic as a place can get. Continue reading...

“Let’s party it up tonight,” Gary suggested, trying his best to sound smolderingly dangerous. After all, we had spent the previous evenings watching movies at home (a flimsy excuse to stuff our eager faces with pie) and sharing knitting tips with Jeremy’s grandma. We needed to be dangerous in order to maintain a sense of college normalcy. On the agenda: going to a cool underground bar, befriending Seattle’s it-people, and dancing the night away. It didn’t really matter if it was only a Wednesday night, if Gary was under 21, if our dance moves could be mistaken for muscular spasms, or if we didn’t drink... right? Wrong. Continue reading...

Williams Sonoma. Nordstrom. Crate & Barrel. Abercrombie and Fitch. This was San Francisco’s Union Square, a spot we had been told was a must see. Thank goodness we came here. We had never seen a Williams Sonoma or an Abercrombie and Fitch before. As a liberal gay couple, San Francisco seemed like a logical and obligatory place to sojourn en route to Seattle for spring break. And so there we were, sipping cappuccinos in the middle of the city’s prized landmark. As enthusiastic as we tried to act, we couldn’t help but feel that we had traveled hundreds of miles only to end right back up at Rodeo Drive or New York’s Fifth Avenue. Continue reading...