Math

If math is considered the universal language, then I would have to say that I am illiterate. I spent 6 hours yesterday at an adult remedial mathematics class in preparation for taking the graduate entrance exam for entering an MBA program. I'm not used to not being good at things. Even just comprehending concepts at times seems like a victory when it comes to science (I am a designer afterall). This class though, while starting out decent, covering the fundamental refreshers of algebra and geometry, but naturally as the class progressed, it became far more complex. By the end of the class we were working on some sort of deductive mathematics that apparently I just couldn't compute. Sadly I didn't even need to, all I had to do was decide if there was enough information provided for it to be theoretically solved. I missed 13 out of 13.

I realize that this was the first time I've had to use that part of my brain in 20+ years, but I cant help but feel discouraged. What on earth have I gotten my self into!

Wings

I got my first passport when I was a baby. Must have been just barely over a year old. Actually now that makes me wonder, at that age, how long is a passport good for? Anyway, I would guess that I've flown someplace every year of my life and it's only increased in amount over the years due to my insatiable wanderlust. I'm sort of an addict if you will. I'm hooked on cultures and constantly jonesing for a fix.

When I was a child, I'd fly with my parents and brother, which if you've read any of my other posts you can imagine the luxurious travels of 2 grad students and their kids. Needless to say we sat in the back of low budget airlines, keeping watch over the goats and chickens. I still get a kick at how normal it was to allow smoking on a plane, and how by the end of an 8 hour flight you'd hardly be able to see the exits or the lavatories. Comforts aside, my favorite part of the flying experience was chatting up the cute stewardesses (that's what they were called back then) with my boyish charm and getting not only to vist the pilots in the cockpit, but would undoubtedly return to my seat with those fabulous wings pins.

I realize that many people consider travel a luxury and when I'd say 'yeah, I'll be in Greece all summer', that would earn the 'oooooohhhh, that sounds amazing!' response. In my eyes it was just normal. I was going back to Greece to spend the summer with my family. Ironically, I was jealous of the kids that got to go spend a week at some crappy summer camp, rowing around a muddy pond and fishing or whatever. I guess I took the trips for granted. What I also took for granted was the exposure to different cultures, art, languages, food and lifestyles, that remain foreign to many. Being raised by grad student parents, we always had people of all ethnicities coming through our student housing, so again, this all seemed normal to me.

Now that I am older and I hear people say things like 'passport, what do I need that for?' or 'oh, we're waiting to travel once the kids are grown up', I just cringe. The impressions that this type of immersive exposure can create or do to shape not only you but your child and their impression of you, is just priceless. I emplore everyone I know to get a passport, get on a plane and just go. The eye-opening that happens is unquantifiable and the transormation that occurs to your psyche is irreplacable.

I still have that collection of wings that I amassed as a kid and I was truly heartbroken when the airlines got so tight that they stopped handing them out anymore. I thought about starting a collection of barf bags at that point, but it just didn't have the same feel.

At 35, I've hit 4 of the 7 continents, so in my opinion, I've still not seen much. With that said, just getting out of your "world" and seeing just one place that makes you feel like you're the stranger, is like no high you'll ever have. At that point, leaving the place you are becomes irrelevant. You've given your soul wings.

Serendipity

I don't usually write about the happenings of my day, but I must admit, this afternoon was just what I needed.

I am a big fan of futbol - Liverpool in particular. I was turned onto Liverpool by one of my best mates, Mark, back in 1994 and have been hooked ever since. They have an extremely loyal fanbase and very cool kits. Anyway, in this part of the world, Futbol is not the most popular sport, so the opportunity to indulge in a match comes highly infrequently, save for the World Cup every 4 years. I also dont have many people that I can watch matches with, since again, no one here cares.

Today Liverpool was playing Chelsea in the UEFA and I desperately wanted to see it. This match started at 2:30 in the afternoon, which happens to be in the heart of my afternoon work schedule, however I was driven to find a way to get away from the office to watch. Running my department, I certainly don't need much of an excuse or permission, but an accomplice just makes it more fun. I have a friend who is also a client and a friend, and he too is a fan of the footie, so I thought perhaps he'd play hooky and accompany me. I emailed him and patiently awaited his reply.... "Brilliant idea", he said, "let's do it!" We chose a pub and a time and met up. By the time he arrived the first half was done, Chelsea was up 1 - nil and I was half way through my second pint. I could give a shit really. It was 3:30 pm on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon and I was out having pints of Guinness with a friend and watching a Liverpool match. Life is good! We spent most of the time just talking about traveling, past experiences, his new baby, etc. Liverpool actually ended up losing and I didn't really care. I try to delicately balance the client-friend relationship, so venues like this, make for a more low key occasion to socialize. I was actually pondering if in fact I had to choose whether I'd rather him as a friend or client, what would I prefer? Tough to say, but that should be another post.

Anyway, 3 pints and an hour post match later, we parted ways and I made my way home. En route, I decided to call my best mate Cricket to see if he'd like to meet for a coffee. I figured my wife wont be home until 7, so why go home now? I gave him a ring on his mobile, and coincidentally, he was already at our favorite coffee shop. I asked him to give me 5 minutes and I'd be there. I made it in 4.5 flat, ordered my massive latte, and made my way back to where he was waiting. We spent the better part of an hour and a half just talking about the usual guy stuff, wives, chicks, jobs, money, booze, etc and then decided to call it a day.

The afternoon cost me something like 15 quid, filled my body with a couple of gallons of liquid and pretty much spoiled my appetite, but I couldn't have asked for a more fulfilling way to spend a Wednesday afternoon. Serendipity at its finest!

Don

After incessant prodding, the time has come to reveal the tales of Don.

A number of years ago my brother was in need of getting some siding work done on his house. After consulting with a close friend who is a carpenter, he was pointed in the direction of a guy named Don. Don was, as our carpenter friend put it, "kind of weird, but he's like Michelangelo with vinyl siding...and he's cheap". We were sold at "cheap". My brother called Don several times before getting a return call, but finally set up a time to meet. Apparently Don doesn't pay his phone bills often and has his line shut down frequently.

A few days later, a large white van pulled up in front of my brother's house. At first glance the van looks like any other work van. White, with a few strategically earned dents and rust holes, a faded out logo on the side the only remnant of the company that owned the van prior and on the roof several ladders and pipes. Something wasn't quite right though about van and it finally dawned on us. Protruding from the side and precariuosly cantilevered was an air conditioner unit. The kind that one would have in a window of their house. This should be the start of an interesting experience if nothing else.

Don is by definition a "good ole boy". He's in his late 40s, about 5'10" or so and has that common build of the burly laborer, massive pecs and arms paired with a well cultivated belly. He wears only soiled white t-shirts, has a couple of bad tattoos and has a wife named Donna and a son named Donny Jr. He has a daughter too, but we're unsure of her name.

Don has not been the savviest of businessmen during his career. He's been bankrupt, evicted, fired and sued. He occasionally has hair-brained ideas that end up costing him more money he doesn't have (see: "cat-houses" - like dog houses, but for cats). He does however tend to have creative and relatively sound solutions to common house problems and he is truly an artist with siding and plaster.

Besides getting domestic chores done at reasonable prices, Don also gives you hours of priceless "wisdom" and shares all of his personal stories. I often need help around my house and being the sucker for trainwrecks that I am, needless to say, Don and I have too crossed paths. Many of his tales (see: actual life experiences) are permenantly burned into my soul. I will share a few.

First off, and this could be fuled by his drinking or pot smoking, but he has no discretion filter. Nothing to make him stop and say "yeah, nope, probably shouldn't say that!" He's an open book, that Don. Take for example when you ask him how is his daughter. He responds "well, she's fucking n----rs again". Uh, ok.....uhhhh.

Don's not the most computer literate guy, but still wants to be connected to the magical place they call the interweb. I recall a time that he was complaining that he had tried to set up an online profile on a singles sight and that he was having problems drawing visits. When I asked, "but Don, aren't you married?". He replied "well, yeah, but when I set it up as being married, all I got was faggots checking me out. Figure if I checked single maybe it wouldn't do that."

I could write Don stories all day, but will save more for another day. Before I do that though, I'll close with one of my favorites.

Don once came to help with my gutters. Tempting fate I asked "how's things?" "Well" he started, "Donna's got 2 broken legs so she cant do shit to help". Oh my god, I thought and asked what happened. "Well, we've been married for a long time and things aint great and stuff. We was out driving to a job a few weeks back and she just sort of freaked out. We was driving along and she just looked at me, yelled 'FUCK YOU' and jumped out of the van. I guess she was tryin' to kill herself or somethin', but it didn't work, so now she's layin' at home with 2 broken legs and she's meaner'na beat up dog!"

I couldn't really think of what to say to that. I think I went with "that sucks". I figured that would be a Don appropriate comment. Really though, all I could picture is the look on Donna's face wrinkled up with a carefully balanced Marlboro in her grimacing lips, yelling "Fuck You" to Don, naturally with both hands confirming the message, as she jettisoned herself from the van with the determination of a WW2 paratrooper. Good thing she didn't hit her head on the a/c unit too!

Rites of Spring

Today was our first perfect spring day of the year. I woke up late to a bright sun, opened the windows for some fresh air, did some exercises and set out to begin the first of many groomings of my yard.

I spent most of Saturday emptying my garage just to gain access to my lawnmower which this morning, after months of hibernation, started on the first pull with the glee of a child on the first day of school. I pushed play on my ipod and spent the better part of the next 3 hours cutting grass, edging, raking, sweeping and fertilizing. I also managed to get my first bit of color from the daytime sun. A nice feeling after months of goosepimples and chattering teeth.

This evening, my wife and I and our dear friends, took a stroll up the street to have ice cream. In the warm months, this is an almost nightly ritual. The strolls tend to be similar. We'll talk about the happenings of the day, we'll likely run into one or more other neighbors on similar quests for dairy delights. We'll usually order the same flavors, from preferably our favorite "barrista" Molly, and sit for a while enjoying or treats, before the walk back. This year, with our friends moving to Paris, I imagine I will savor the walks even more than the ice cream.

Along with taking in the sights and the fresh spring air, we also get quite a bit of joy from people watching. Especially crazy people. Our neighborhood has its share of outcasts which are such a part of the area they may as well be trees or lampposts. One of these such characters is known as Dog-Man. He's a slightly disheveled man in his fifties I'm guessing, he always wears some sort of suit and tie and seems like he has somewhere to be, but I don't think he actually does. Sometimes you'll see him at the market or maybe at the library or he may just be looking at the kiosk outside of the ice cream shop. Usually though he's just walking around. He used to have a small dog as his angry little companion, but he doesn't seem to anymore. Maybe we should rename him Dogless-Man.

There was a new crazy guy on the walk home tonight. He was sitting on the sidewalk by the bus stop wearing a hat and a smile and a had a bag with his belongings next to him. He mumbled something, which I thought was something about needing a light. None of us smoke, so we couldn't help. The further from him we got, the louder he seemed to be getting. After a good 100 meters from him we looked back to find that he had actually started following us, but on the opposite of the street. He was still yelling, but incoherently. We wondered if maybe he was not in fact crazy, but was on a wireless headset and speaking on his mobile. When my wife then eloquently said "yeah, the cel phone in his head!". At that we agreed that yeah, he was probably just crazy. We finally arrived at our street and our home and the crazy man had continued on down the street yelling at whomever was within hearing distance. Godspeed!

Some might be frightened by such an occurrence, but I was sort of excited to have a new crazy guy in the neighborhood. I suppose I shouldn't get to carried away, but I figure if I see him let's say 2 more times, then I'll get to name him too.

Rooted

My family left( or uprooted ) from Greece in 1970 and moved thousands of miles away to begin a new chapter in their lives, the pursuit of higher education and a hopefully the brighter future that would come as a result. At the time, my family wasn't mine yet, having consisted of just my parents and my brother who is 7 years older. He was 5 then.

So, they began their masters degrees and started a new life in an odd new country that was foreign to their culture and continents away from their nearest relative.I was born a year and a half later putting the final bow on our atomic little family. The familial bond that occurs within an environment like this is deep and lasting and in fact often the basis for what we deem as quaint areas of our cities. Little Italies, Chinatowns, Greektowns, etc began primarily as clusters of ethnic outcasts that found some solidarity and comfort in being together in a strange place. Usually these streets didn't look as gold as they did in the brochure.

For those not familiar with the life of the globe-trotting grad student, one might think of a cross between the idyllic life of country-roaming hippies packed in a van juxtapozed with some sort of highly regimented military family, living in safe, microcosmic compounds within alien environments.

It's not really like those.

My parents came over with the 2 allowed suitcases (they somehow convinced TWA that my 5 year old brother also needed 2 suitcases of his own that weighed 8 times what he did), a couple boxes of books, a stuffed donkey (being Greek, I guess a stuffed bear must seem weird) and a drive and work ethic that is inherent in the immigrant experience.

6 months after I was born, we moved again to yet another strange part of this new world. 3 years after that we moved again. 6 months later we moved again. PhD in hand and family in tow, my father finally began his new career...at 34 years old. 9 years later we moved again. I got tired of moving 5 times in the first 12 years of my life, so I haven't strayed far in the 20 odd years since.

My parents eventually divorced. I suppose that if absence makes the heart grow fonder, then being joned at the hip and traversing the globe must make it calcify. My brother and I are grown now too, have our own wives, homes and lives, yet as different and independent as we are, we all remain near one another. Even though we have a large age difference (which is less apparent now in our 30s and 40s), we were always that one constant friend that you'd know you didn't have to say goodbye to.

As I fast forward to the present, my friends from the University all spread around the country and globe, while I remain close to my family, I dont have any regrets. I have always enjoyed travelling and there's obviously a romance to the nomadic lifestyle (the adjective of the action being that which ultimately decided my parents' fate). I travel extensively, both for work and for fun, but enjoy having a homebase to return to.

In my opinion, part of being rooted in one place is by choice, then eventually it becomes fueled by obligation. Why else do so many childern who move away from home, return when their parents have gotten old? My brother and I often speak of moving again as we've sort of grown bored with our locale and have seemingly reached the "Peripherique" of our career opportunities. Now that our parents are older, we'll be driving the moving van to the next stop. We figure we'll all just move together. I suppose our roots are mobile.

Secret Identity

Some time ago, a friend of mine and I began having what we have dubbed, "man-bag club" meetings. We're both 30/40 something males. We're neat, stylish, educated, well traveled and have well paying jobs. We also like carrying a man-bag, you know for your ipod, books, moleskin journal, sunglasses, etc. We also happen to be married (no, not to eachother) but rather than play golf or go fishing to get out of the house and talk (read-compare notes), we go to a coffee shop near by, have a latte, share an oatmeal cookie and hang for an hour or so.

These conversations usually seem to revolve around 3 main topics: 1. what are we doing with our lives, 2. guy stuff (use your imagination) 3. our wives. By the time an hour has gone by, as if by clockwork, one of the wives calls and asks us to bring them home a latte on our way back home. We read that as 'hurry up and quit bitching about us and come home!'.

Another topic that seems to be an underlying theme is the idea of a "plan B". Maybe we've watched the Bourne Identity movies too many times, but the idea of having some back-up plan, some extra cash, a different passport and keys to a flat in Paris all stashed in some Swiss account (the #s of which are mysteriously tattooed on your wrist), when the proverbial "shit goes down", sounds like something that would just be good to have. You know, just in case.

Naturally, we dont plan on leaving our wives and starting over again (although that sounds appealing too from time to time when the shit goes down at home). What we've done though is sort of get at the heart of what "plan B" really means. That we've determined, is personal empowerment and control of your destiny. We've turned "plan B" into a lifestyle or at least a solid mindset.

Now, the reasoning is this. By convincing yourself that at any given moment, if "the shit goes down", whether during a crap period at work, during a fight at home or whenever something gets you down, you could comfortably say "fuck this!", split and start over. Just having that ace in your back pocket can really change how you think about things. You can be more of a risk taker, you can say or ask that one thing you may have been afraid to. You have empowered yourself to be right or wrong, or just be. Be yourself and let yourself out. It's kind of like in that movie Office Space when the main character stopped caring about consequences at work and just did his thing, he was immediately crowned the guy that was "a real straight shooter with upper-management written all over him!". It works.

Actually, what makes you think that this in fact isn't my secret identity?

Bill

I dont know how or why I was compelled to share this amusing little story today, but I figured I'd just go with it.

I had a friend and former co-worker named Mike, who used to live in what's called a "transitional" neighborhood. This means that poor angry people live there and now are being displaced by rich people who are replacing crack houses with coffeeshops.

Mike was a free spirit who did things at times that most people would only ever have a passing thought about, if that. Take for example Mike putting woodgrained contact paper on the lower half of his brand new Audi TT (because he thought the woody look would be hilarious), hanging out with a charming young girl that happened to have a cleft palette (because he thought it was amusing to hear her speak) or emptying the entirety of the refrigerator at his rented flat and puncturing a hole into its side to pass a hose through in order to dispense beer from the keg that took up the entire volume of the interior. He also seemed to happen upon funny, random occurences that he'd share.

One in particular that still makes me laugh went like this...

Mike was leaving his flat to walk to work one autumn morning, closed the gate behind him and began his short jaunt to our office. He wasn't but say 300 meters from home, when he noticed two kids across the street walking their dog (a largish pitbull that was more walking the kids then the contrary). The dog was getting the better of the brother and sister and was obviously hungry too which didn't help matters. The dog pulled and pulled and finally slipped from the grasp of the kids, got away and ran around the corner into a schoolyard, at which point the kids began chasing him. The young boy caught up to the hungry dog moments later and almost in horror yells to his sister "eeeeewwwww, Bill be eatin' leafiz!!!"

I'm laughing even now 6 years later just writing this! Where do I begin as to why?

One, I love the Snoop Doggism of pluralizing "leaves" to "leafiz". I also love that they're dismayed at the fact that the dog is eating the leafiz, as opposed to a dead cat or a stray chicken bone. But I think my favorite thing is that they named their dog Bill. Not Rover, or Buster or Buddy. But, Bill. Probably the most common man's name...for a dog.

Art...the aftermath

I recently had an art opening for an exhibit of my paintings. I arranged the show last September, and at the time, a late March opening seemed so far into the future. That was good though, it left enough time for me to amass the 16 or so pieces I'd need to fill the space, but was a reasonable amount of time that wouldn't have me slaving away at something that is supposed to be fun. And it was.

Starting in September of '06, I began sketching and writing, which is typically how I start my artwork. By December, my studio ready to go, several rough ideas for paintings, I had at it, holing myself away for a couple of hours here and there, blissfully painting away. Some days were more productive than others, which is to be expected. Some paintings were better than others too, but again, to be expected.

I kept painting and somewhere around early March I realized that I had to stop , sort through my work to select the pieces I wanted to show, and begin framing. So I did that, and framed and framed and cut myself, then framed some more. Typical really. Then as the opening neared, I took half a day off to set up, sent out postcards and emails to invite guests and helped prep for my "final friday". Then it was here, opening night, the usual wine and cheese and music and lots of friends, some family and some strangers. The place was quite full, I sold a few pieces and then just like that, it was over.

I've been reflecting on things since the opening a week and a half ago and I think I see a pattern. My normal job has several similarities to the artistic creative process, except for 2 things. 1, we're paid far more and 2, we have far less say in the desired outcome(the key reason for my love of painting is that no one tells me what to do nor how to do it). We speak to clients about projects, write proposals, strategize the path, design, review, test, design some more, and after weeks or months we deliver. Project complete.

What happens then is that you're sort of left there in a daze, wondering what's next? I've just spent the last several weeks of my lfe fully immersed into a project, everyday knowing what needed to be done next, then just like that it's finished. What do I do now?

I seem to experience that at work and at home and it makes me think how accurate a certain saying is, the one that goes...'it's not the destination, it's the journey'. Whoever wrote that was one insightful individual. The journey is always the best part. Even if it sucks, it's the best because it's usually the most memorable.

Take going on holiday as an example. You and your mates pile into a van for some crazy road trip with absolutely no plans of where you're going or staying. Not a worry to be had. Ultimately you'll end up somewhere that's ok, you'll drink, eat, sleep, maybe meet some girls, and then you'll pack the van back up and be on your way home. Years later you'll reminisce about how during that trip Jason had the worst gas and stank up the whole van, or when Tony got really slap-happy and was screaming the lyrics to Mr. Roboto, while also doing the robot. Even flat tires or accidentally running off the road and crashing the car can be nostalgic. It's because the journey is really the best part.

In contrast, Tuesday I was driving through northern Indiana to and from Chicago. If anyone has ever been to this god-forsaken region of the world, you know that it is quite possibly the worst 2.5 hours of your life you'll ever pass. It's long, flat and has no interesting scenery. To top it off you not only have redneck Indianans in their massive pick-up trucks and SUVs barelling up your boot, and the random stench of shit from the occasional pig farm, but there is also a stretch of something like 30 miles, where the trees in the median between the north and south highway lanes get really odd and creepy looking. Like something horrible happened here and the trees were the only witnesses, but cant have catharsis because they cant speak. They're kind of like what I imagine the trees in Chernobyl might look like. Just sort of off, you know?

In hindsight, the whole "enjoy the journey" bit doesn't really seem to apply to northern Indiana, but it does to most everything else you'd ever do. Especially any creative effort. The emotional experience of creating is unmatched and as I went down to my studio the other night to grab a bottle of wine I looked around at my own "aftermath" and it just looks so sad. I think I need to start a new journey.

Sick Day

I have been a bit sick with a head cold for a few days, which sucks. I am not a good sick person, as I dont have the patience to be incapacited by anything, save for loads of money, women or kittens. Anyway, I was laid up sick all weekend, my wife too, which is odd because we never seem to be sick at the same time. Convenient I guess. We basically laid on the couch and watched 16 episodes of Lost, season 1. It's good.

Feeling a bit better now, but I couldn't write for a few days. Even if I could have, I kept hearing my mate Cricket whispering..."friends dont let friends blog drunk". I wasn't drunk, but my deliria was similar.

In the News...

Every morming when I get to work I spend the first half hour or so eating my breakfast and reading through a few of my regular blogs, sites, etc. There have been some pretty odd and seemingly harmless things lately that have made the local news here, like cows running loose in parks, or off-duty firemen found drunk in parks wearing blonde wigs and bikinis. Weird yes, but newsworthy? I guess?!?

Anyway, this morning, after getting the latest on our bikini-clad fireman, who is apparently ashamed and is a actually a very normal family guy (you dont say?), I stumbled upon (or maybe "ran aground" is a better way to put it) a story on Greece. I'm Greek, so naturally we like to read about our people when they make the news. We haven't had much good press since the days of stone tablets. The headline read something like "Greek Cruise Ship Sinks". Hard to make anything positive out of that.

I'm sure everyone's seen it by now, this Greek (actually Cypriot) cruise ship ran into some volcanic reef and over the course of the next 15 hours, sank into the bay off the coast of Santorini. I'm surprised the Americans haven't tried to blame Al-Qaeda for that yet. Fortunately no one was killed, although a French father and daughter are still missing. I'm hoping they're just shopping or something.

Most of the time when there is news about Greece it's either something like, 'oh they broke ground on a new McDonald's and had to stop all construction due to the inadvertent discovery of an ancient reliquary or something'. FYI, good luck digging anyplace in Greece and not finding something a thousand years old! Other times it'll just be something vaguely Greek, like Pete Sampras winning Wimbledon, or George Michael jerking off in a bathroom, or something worse, like a review of a new Yanni album.

The Olympics made for good news, 3 years ago granted, but since Greece has sort of been resting on their laurels for the last couple Millenia, it was nice to get the eyes of the world focused there (for something positive) other than fabulous beaches, amazing olive oil and lecherous men. For 2 whole weeks! That was totally worth the billions of Euros.

Anyway, I was saddened to see that a ship sank in Greece. I mean, this was no Titanic. The ship looked old and like it could have gone down with the next smash of a champagne bottle to the bow! The media'll spin it as some shoddy workmanship, or some lazy Greek crewman was drinking ouzo and cajoling with his mates breaking plates, when...'gamoto! xtipisame petra! grigora, fige!' (fuck! we hit a rock! Let's get out of here!). But I think I know what really happened.

Not that I'm some sort of conspiracy theorist or nutjob skeptic, but I do love my TV shows about UFOs, supernatural phenomena and lost civilizations. See where I'm going with this? Atlantis anyone? Come on, it could totally be that they hit some unknown entrance to Atlantis! Little known fact, but some scientists believe that Atlantis was not actually a continent in the Atlantic ocean, but an island between Santorini and Delos that sank during an earthquake and volcanic eruption.

So, in conclusion, I would guess that the ship ran aground on some poor bastard's submarine palace and that the Greeks will soon be hearing from some pissed off Atalantisan lawyers, suing for vandalism, littering and invasion of privacy. There goes the 2 weeks worth of profits from the Olympics! Take that Minister of Tourism!

Adam

Several months ago, after incessant prodding from my subordinates, I joined the virtual friendship database of Myspace. I'd like to think that my team wants to know the inner me like the private and tortured Tom Hanks' character in Saving Private Ryan, and the deep curiousity of his troops as to what made him tick. Maybe not.

Anyway, I joined and at first it seemed sort of cool to have my own poor man's website, where I'd post all my movie reviews, rants about all the many things in the world I find so wrong and maybe I'd even be contacted by some long lost friend. It went kind of like that I suppose, but it was a bit more like a fishing trip. You know, you have all these grandiose ideas of what it will be like, what you'll catch how great the weather will be. You get your gear together, you make some sandwiches, pack the car you get some bait on the way and head to the lake.

Once there you find the perfect spot, settle in, bait your line or lines and wait. And wait some more. All the while your beers getting warm and flat in the afternoon sun and your sandwich looking more appetizing to the flies circling overhead than to you. You get uncomfortable and begin to get sunburned. Then you get a call on your mobile from your wife nagging you about how you've been gone all day and when are you coming home. Not too unwelcome actually, and you turn to your mate and say "hey, yeah, the bird, she, um ,needs me to get back and uh, well you know....what a nag!'

But I digress. Anyway, after going searching for everyone in my outlook contacts, friends, family, old girlfriends naturally, I made my way through any old classmates going as far back as my memory would allow, which was basically through University. One old friend found me, but he is now a drugged out junkie and doesn't look so good. Sucks for him.

I did finally find someone, an old classmate from design school named Adam. He and I began University together and the way it worked was that for the first year the entire class is megred as one. Then during the second year, it's split in half and then you alternate work and school until the last year. Adam and I met that first year and became friends, mainly through our common interest of cycling. We got on well that first year and kept in touch during our off quarters. The last year of design school, the groups are combined as one, though much smaller now having weeded out half the class over the course of time. We graduated, got jobs in seperate parts of the country and kept in touch via email from time to time, then eventually lost track of one another. Until I found him on Myspace.

At first I didn't think anything of it. I dont actually read people's pages, I could give a shit what sign people are or what they and Jenny did last weekend or whatever. It was obviously Adam from his picture. He was standing by a pool shirtless and smiling. Odd choice, but maybe he was single. Anyway. I hit request friend and contacted him. I noticed he logged on that day, so I figured him a regular visitor.

A day went by, then 2 then a week and no response from Adam. No acceptance. What's with that i thought? I went back to his page and to my disappointment, he had still been logging on regularly, so why had he not okayed my request? I thought we were mates! I sent another request.

I began checking daily to see if he'd logged in, which he did...regularly! As I was finiding myself visiting his page often, I decided to finally read some. The first thing I noticed was all the friends that left comments were men. That's cool I figured, he's still playing the field with his mates. The comments were like, "hey Adam, I had a great time last weekend. let's do it again!" or "wow, you're an amazing dancer" or "I love how you look in that swimsuit". Now, I've been known to throw less than manly compliments to my mates, but these, well, didn't sit right. There was something off about this.

His profile read about him being single and looking for that right person. Normal stuff. Until I got to the end of the "about me" section. It said something like..."I want to be a part of YOUR team." What team is that?

Again, another week went by and I had been again denied. I just couldn't understand. Accept me, dammit! I only have my wife, my mate Chris and Tom as friends for fuck's sake. Pick me! I went back and sent another request.

I read more and more. I looked at all the pictures. I read all the comments. I clicked to the pages of his mates. And like that scene at the end of The Sixth Sense, I suddenly saw the truth. Adam was gay! I was Bruce Willis, my head spinning, searching for fleeting moments in my head and in my past that could connect the dots back to this new revelation. Adam was gay and we never knew it. What were the clues? He never had a girlfriend. He was neat. He was friendly. The signs were there I suppose, he just didn't seem gay really.

I deduced that that was the reason then why he hadn't approved me as a friend. I had blown his cover, and could potentially out him to all of his former classmates, or at least to the handful I've actually kept in touch with in the last 15 years. I decided that I would go back to his page and tell him something like..."Hey Adam, it's me Simon. How are you? You look great! Hey, by the way, I see you're gay now, and hey mate, that's totally cool. I love gays! You're 'the only gay in the village ' right? Like Daffyd?!? Right?...cool". That's sort of what I would have said.

I gathered the courage and went back to his page. It was no longer! I searched again. Maybe I spelled it wrong. Where is he? I fear I may have spooked him away.

Haley Joel Osment, where are you!

Fashion

My parents emmigrated from Greece in 1970 to pursue higher education and the chance to broaden their professional horizons. What this meant though was leaving their families and careers, moving several thousands of miles away and basically starting from scratch. That was just prior to the start of University that autumn, where my father was to attend and earn a Masters Degree in Urban Planning. With nothing to their name but a few suitcases and a 5 year old (my brother), they set upon their way and never looked back.

I recall a story my mum had told me of those early days were they had been invited to a Christmas party. The hostess, trying to be welcoming, told my parents that they should feel comfortable to come to the party dressed in their native clothes, as they would back home. My parents looked at eachother sort of puzzled, but accepted the invite and planned on attending. Weeks later on the eve of the party, my parents got ready, got a baby sitter for my brother, and left the house. To this day my mom recalls the disappointment in the hostess's eyes as she opened the door to greet my parents. There they stood, my dad in a pair of slacks and a dress shirt and my mother in a skirt cut at the knee and a light sweater. Apparently the hostess must have been expecting them to show up in some elaborate robes and/or headdresses. We're Greek, not Incas for christ sake! The fathers of democracy, not some backwoods savages! Perhaps if my dad had worn the skirt and sweater instead, that may have done satisfied the poor woman.

Anyway, about a year and a half later I came along. For the first few years of my life my parents were still working towards advanced degrees and we lived the somewhat impoverished life of the grad student. That meant that for several years I wore either hand me down clothes from my brother or worse yet my mom would make us clothes, which for me at 3 years old, not so bad, but for my 10 year old brother, he may as well have worn that skirt.

Eventually my parents finished with their degrees and got teaching postitions at a good University and began their careers again after a 5 year hiatus. This didn't however mean that we began dressing any better. Now there were mortgage mayments and student loans, trips back to Greece for the summers and 2 growing boys. No money for such extravagances. I was destined to wear my brother's clothes until I was 40, or maybe I figured until I could buy my own things.

For some reason, going back as far as I can remember, I have been particularly fond of clothes. From about 4 or 5 when I HAD to wear my brown leisure suit for my passport photo, through the early eighties when I saved my own money to buy Lacoste shirts and Sperry topsiders. The mid and late eighties saw my transition to a punk, mod and skinhead style. I went from black leather jackets, Doc Martens and torn jeans to tight slacks and trench coats and ultimately to Fred Perrys, bomber jackets and braces. Always somehow adding my own twist, whether in the details of changing out buttons and laces or my color, pattern and fabric combos. Gay sounding, I know.

Over the course of the next several years during my time at Design school I found my opportunityto experiment a bit. For many this means messing with drugs or sleeping with members of the same sex. To me it meant trying out various style experiments (and several fashion design girlfriends). The magic of vintage clothing stores and thrift shops landed me some impressive bowling shirts and sharkskin suits, while also puttng me in overalls and fedoras. What can I say, I was just experimenting!

Being a designer I think it is really important to look your best as your appearance communicates that you know what good style is. Clients notice. I notice too that the last few years as I've worked my way into my thirties and into a salary level that affords me some indulgences, I have begun to narrow down my tastes to certain materials, brands and overall looks that work for me.

My wardrobe has gotten pretty focused on some key brands the last couple of years, as I think a few houses do certain things better than anyone. I'll start with Diesel jeans. The last few years have shown us a proliferation of the 100 quid+ jeans with True Religion, 7 For All Mankind, Citizens of Humanity, et al. Most of these are flash in the pan companies that have jumped on the jean bandwagon to make a quick buck, but will likely not be around for many years. There is no well defined equity to their brands, nor is there any real brand loyalty or heritage. They're just brands of the moment, not brands with momentum. Diesel has been around since 1978 and in my opinion are the best jeans made in fit, style, quality and value. If I'm going to spend that kind of money on jeans, they better be good, they better look great and they better be Diesels.

I'm also a big fan of Hugo Boss, for both their more formal clothes (Boss Black) and also their sportswear (Boss Orange). They not only make excellent fitting dress clothes (their dress shirts are second to none), but also have extended their brand into the Orange line, which really capitalizes on a little served market, 30-40 year old guys that have some money, but want to look cool and expect quality. Great stuff.

Miuccia Prada gets some odd looks from time to time with her daring runway shows and bizarre juxtapositions of materials, but you've got to hand it to the famed Italian fashion house, they make some amazing classic pieces that should be part of every wardrobe. Both the Prada and MiuMiu labels have brought high fashion to the pret-a-porter world with fantastic pieces that while expensive, can stay timeless. I particularly like the Linea Rossa details and the fabric choices, both in materials and patterns.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention a few other favorites and UK stalwarts, Ted Baker, Ben Sherman and Burberry. Ted Baker is well known for his exquisite pairing of bold linings and traditional fabrics in his suits. Nice detail. He also has amazing ties and some gorgeous sweaters. My favorite sweater I have is a Ted Baker zip-up wool hoody which is great on it's own or layered.

Ben Sherman is a classic brand that seems to be able to strattle the line of high fashion and affordability and they also seem to have a fun twist. They make great fitting dress shirts that are perfect examples of the Carnaby style. Nice shoes too, but I would guess that like Diesel, they probably license out the name and dont make them themselves.

Burberry has a history as long as fashion itself, dating back to 1856! Known best for their distinctive "Burberry Check" tartan pattern, they have a few areas where they're unbeatable. Having invented the gabardine something like 120 years ago, it is safe to say they make the best raincoat. What I actually like even better than my vintage trench are my Burberry undershirts! They not only fit exceptionally well, but they use a tight cotton knit that doesn't pill and they add some really nice details (a subtle tartan swatch) both inside the neck and on the left side of the lower hem and seam. The last few years the creative directors at Burberry have done a great job reinvigorating the brand and the extension of the Prorsum line has added a freshness to the brand that will continue to carry them well into the 21st century.

I almost forgot John Varvatos, who I think has also done a nice job targeting the Boss Orange market, again looking to attract the 30-40 year old male that wants to look great and doesn't mind spending money to do it. Cashing in on the nostalgia with their collection of shoes for Converse was a smart move too and has been done far more successfully than other similar attempts by other fashion houses.

These aren't the end all be all of design, as there are several other designers/brands, mass brands and select pieces that you cant go wrong. Versace ties are great(their clothes are horrible) or Dior's newer work (Hedi Slimanne is really solid). I like Alexander McQueen's stuff and Philip Lim's 3.1. Stores like Banana Republic, Mexx, Urban Behaviour, Zara and H&M give us affordable everyday stuff that you can mix in with your expensive stuff. You pair a cheap t-shirt from a street vendor in Camden with some Diesels, a MiuMiu jacket or some nice shoes and you'll look like the whole package sent you to the poorhouse.

Overall my fashion philosophy would be this. Be smart and keep it simple. Classic looks should be staples in every wardrobe as should a few key fun things to mix things up. Having some new items from season to season that are a bit trendier help keep the classic stuff fresh. Details are still very important too and can be the difference between an ok outfit and a great outfit. In my opinion, if you can swing it, it's worth spending a bit more to buy items of higher quality as they will last longer and you'll get more satisfaction from them with each wear. And you'll look great too.