“Taylor”
The first thing to notice about Taylor, when I met him, was the guns (blazing), the general buff exterior and bronze shine. Then, of course, you’re hit with the cheek-bones. He was very much about appearance and had clearly put in a lot of work to make a certain impression. But it is upon much closer inspection that the truly important discovery is made: this Taylor guy is fucking amazing. Now, that’s not to say that you shouldn’t tell a book by its cover. This book wants you to tell him by his cover (it would be disrespectful not to appreciate all that work) and he would likely do the same to you. Though what we learn from Taylor is that care about the exterior does not necessarily mean a lack of concern for what’s on the inside. In fact, when the two halves come together, they can create a most involving whole.
It was Serendipity that first brought us together. No wait! Her name was Daniel and she was a gay guy I used to smoke with. Taylor was Daniel’s manager at Danga (let’s not use the full name) and Daniel was in love with Taylor. He would later confess in melodramatic fashion at a family gathering-inappro. I always thought that Taylor was a couple of years older than me, not because he looked older but because he seemed so in control. Taylor would like me to make that distinction clear. We became fast friends. A few months later we would move in to the Villa, a Spanish-styled, mini-Melrose Place that used to be a brothel. Soon, Daniel would spiral into the distance in a series of horrible comedown/alchohol induced “episodes” and we were forced to kick him out. This is how it would go with Taylor and I in the Villa. People would come and go but we always stayed closest to each other. Even later, after we had lived apart for some time, we would snap back together, spending an amazing few months in his undersize studio in Potts Point after I had become single and lonely. It was in this period that I first started to go to the gym, which was just one of the many gifts Taylor would give me.
So what is Taylor’s appeal? Well, he is what I would call a real man’s fag, as opposed to a man’s man (Daniel Craig), a woman’s man (Sean Connery) or a fag’s fag (Roger Moore). He’s not at all camp, not even very effeminate, something I don’t need any more of in my life. He’s my favourite homosexual. Many wouldn’t pick him as gay but he most definitely is. And where other straightish gay friends I have are not overtly sexual, Taylor is all over it. Many a night we have rued the fact that I’m not quite there myself. It would solve a lot of our problems with the world. He is the perfect foil to my gayish straight.
Another thing that makes us a great fit is our different but complimentary outlooks on life. I am the optimistic humanist, he is the pessimistic humanist. He has amazing insight into humanity but has the greatest understanding for the heavier side of life. At one stage, the overwhelming consistency of bad luck events lead him to get quite depressed but, thankfully, he has found a way to act contructively, whilst always aware that things can go wrong at any time. I can only hope this awareness keeps him at the happy end. I think it will.
But it can’t all be yin and yang that keeps us so close. We are similar in a lot of ways too. I have always prided myself on “getting” stuff and Taylor gets everything. We don’t have to explain things twice with each other, no matter how complex the idea or emotion. This has meant that fast moving and highly rewarding converstations became a given. This was tested when Taylor first moved down to Melbourne, but after a few jaunty conversations we were rolling again. Interestingly, when we talk about me, his pessimism turns very quickly to support and even the occasional sunny comment. He has been a massive help to me in recent times.
Clearly, we wouldn’t get on so well if Taylor wasn’t funny and, my word, he may be the king. To be honest, I don’t play second fiddle to many people but I gladly take that role (most of the time) with Tay. He’s lightning fast. Always with the comebacks. His knowledge of what makes people tick is almost too much but totally not. The one criticism I would have is that he can become preoccupied with the comeback, more than once he’s missed a bullet from my pistol, waiting to load his own. But Taylor wouldn’t mind a little feedback. It’s all fair game with Tay. I find it impossible to explain, and you might find it a contradiction, but Taylor is the most critical and least judgemental person I know. I guess he understands the flaws better than most and would turn the same critical eye that just destroyed your outfit to the imperfect man in the mirror. I wish I could season this piece with heaps of great Taylor lines but unfortunately my memory fails me here a little. I guess the dizzying whirlwind of laughs has left me lost for examples.
One story that I was reminded of was from when Taylor was in London. While sitting in a rather nasty part of London, rolling a cigarette after a long night at work, Taylor was approached by some young “toughs”. Oblivious to there intentions and drunk as a mother, Taylor was accommodating to there questions, chatty even. They asked him for a cigarette, an innocent opener, and he assured them they would get one, as soon as he had rolled his own! They kept on with the friendly questions.
“Where do you live?”
“Hackney. Where do you live?” See Taylor’s politeness in the young black face of adversity.
“Here.” Clearly, a thug of few words. “What do you do for work?”
“I work at a bar. What do you do for work?”
“I’m a gangsta.”
Without a second of hesitation, Taylor replies, “Oh yeah! How does that pay?”
FABULOUS!
Speaking of fabulous, you wanna talk dress sense? Let’s talk dress sense! How does alternating days of tight jeans then track pants with socks pulled over sound? Not nearly as good as it looks on Taylor. What about antique Christina Dior shirt with sleeves CUT OFF, for maximum gun-exposure? Stretched-neck singlets, appropriated flannelette shirts; schizo-wardrobe extraordinaire. One day, a photographer from Vice mag approached him to take his photo, clearly for the “do’s” section but, fearing inclusion in the “don’t’s”, Taylor declined. I still view this as one of the great tragedies in the history of Sydney fashion.
Did I mention Taylor’s dog, Andrew? Taylor’s very female dog, Andrew. Yes, by the time he got her from the pound, after a brief but intense courtship, he’d already decided on a name and girl dog or no girl dog it was Andrew. For the dog’s sake, I try calling her Drew or Andy, Taylor calmly corrects me. Only he could pull of a ute and a bitch named Andrew.
Finally, I need to tell you the reason behind the muscles. At first, I had figured it was all part of the look he was cultivating. Then, after I discovered he had been in a terrible car accident, I developed a theory about him continuing the work he had done in rehabilitation to the point of being massive. Again, I would learn that the truth was far more human and far more awesome. In truth, Taylor had decided to get big almost out of jealousy for the physique of his then partner, Michael. Michael was cut, Taylor wanted to be cut-er. He is.
You wanted to know why I love Taylor so much and I hope I have succeeded in expressing the complex/simple, shallow/deep man that Tay is. I am closer to anyone else in the world and not just because he’s sitting across from me, desperately waiting to read this.
“Taylor”
