NYCweboy

And So Are You In Something Backless

Two weeks ago, while house sitting for friends in Manhattan, I had the opportunity to catch the ever enticing morning lineup on Lifetime (Television for Women... and Gay Men. Still). This meant two back-to back episodes of The Golden Girls. I made it through about half of one (you know the one where the gals get into some misadventure... and hilarity ensues.... Oh wait), and then fell back to sleep halfway into the next.

It's odd to realize that for seven years, four older women were the hottest stars on television (well, five actually; Angela Lansbury was also top ten at the same time), commanding top salaries and holding a network to their demands.  It's also worth remembering the power of the Golden Girls - which did not leave TV as a ratings failure - and other shows when people say "nobody wants to see older people in the leads", or when suddenly no women are holding the leads on their own shows. Women actually do want to see other women, even older women, in the main roles.

I don't have much to say about Estelle Getty, who passed away yesterday, just shy of her 85th birthday (is it indiscreet to say she was the likely one of the four to pass first?). But it seems a shame not to say anything. I've never been in the cult of the Golden Girls (I'm not that gay... or that woman), never really loved the show, and thought it beat a fairly innocuous premise into the well worn ground. What saved it, always, was the insane amount of talent thrown at the material: four veteran comic actresses, all in top form. And though all the performances devolved into caricature, that didn't mean they didn't know how to zing. Especially Getty, who often had the most tart responses, whether insulting Blanche's life as a loose woman, or continually putting down her daughter Dorothy (the title of this post comes from a line J always loved, which I believe in full was "that's pretty scary" which she says to Dorothy, "and so are you in something backless.").

Like all The Golden Girls, she won an Emmy -  but just one - for Sophia... but was nominated every year. And while she's gone, she never really will be. One thing the show is, at least for my lifetime (television for women and gay men. always) - is timeless. Also, a little scary.

There'll Be Another Dream for Me. Someone Will Bring It.

The first time I saw Donna Summer perform live was twenty-eight years ago.  Disco records, in a remarkable confluence of racism and homophobia, had already been burned in American stadiums the autumn before, and Summer's career was supposed to have been over.  What I remember most about the show was its lackluster quality and how odd it was that Donna was doing that Patti Lupone song about Argentina (at fifteen years old, I wasn't quite up on the showtune stuff...yet).

The second time I saw Donna Summer perform live was last night.  Lackluster it was not (Side note to Bravo's Step it Up fans, someone who looks suspiciously like Nick is one of the dancers in this tour).

I won't even attempt to offer a "review," being too much of a fanboy, or at my age I suppose it has to be fanman... or fancrone.  I can only say if you get the chance, go see her; I defy any other of grandparent status to sing as well.  It's a good thing that self-admitted drug use of hers was shortlived (just around the time of that first performance I saw).  She still hits the high notes on I Feel Love and, yes, weboy, even on your favorite, Con Te Partiro.

The crowd was an interesting mix of other gays I recognized from "back in the day," women my age, who still really seemed to worship She Works Hard for the Money,  and daters of all ages.  I could have done without Hot Stuff and Bad Girls, though, having worshipped them a little too much myself too long ago, but a healthy dose of twirling did come to pass.  And to steal one from you, weboy, the title of this post refers to the line, from McCarthur Park, that Donna was singing...when she winked and smiled at me.  Thanks, Donna (and oh so very generous ticket benefactor - you know who you are) for bringing me another dream, much better than the one twenty-eight years ago.

Leaving you with Crayons, Donna's duet with Ziggy Marley, though obviously not the "official" video:

jinbaltimore

The Return Of The Brown Years

Back in the eighties - when, in an un-ironic manner, we thought we were having a blast reviving the sixties - the worst thing in the world (no, really) was expressing any kind of positive nostalgia for the... *shudder*... seventies. Spy Magazine was the first place I saw the decade referred to as "The Brown Years", and the moniker seemed so appropriate: that awful mix of wood paneling, "harvest gold" appliances, plaid upholstered furniture... oh, the horror.

Somewhere along the way - I blame grunge - all of that got reversed: the eighties were suddenly tragic, plastic, big shouldered, mulleted and overly bright... and the seventies were sublime, underrated, and a design feast. (And of course, somewhere along the way, Spy turned into a pale imitation of itself... and now we get former Spy-meister Graydon Carter draining the joy out of Vanity Fair.)

The re-appraisal of the seventies, at first seemed fair: sure, much of the fashion was tragic, the polyester blends unfortunate... but reinterpreted and re-styled, it was clear that indeed some adventurous notions of interior design had been abandoned too soon. Dark wood floors, modernist furniture... even, as Jennifer notes to me frequently, the return of "wear what you like" fashion  had a liberating quality that had been missing for a while.

Well, all good things must pass... and the past couple of years have been a tipping point of figuring out what comes next in design and fashion, without a lot of clear indications. In th meantime, the celebration of seventies-chic appears to have run its course... and we are back to: The Brown Years.

That Act Is Getting Old

Summer's here and the time is right... for news that's not really news.  Thus, we New Yorkers have been treated to a breathless daily feed from the ins and outs of Christie Brinkley's divorce from Peter Cook, a/k/a Husband #4. Cook, as readers of the Post and Daily Snooze well know, got caught having a teenage mistress, which led to the unraveling of a whole life of clandestine affairs and assignations.  That has been bolstered, in the past few days, by revelations of Spitzer-like levels of paying for adult entertainment (some $3,000 a month for various internet sites, including ones where he appeared to others on webcam).

The real news, of course, is that Brinkley has looked smashing throughout, younger than her years, dressed to the nines... all set to work again. Or marry again. Brinkley always struck me as one of those odd examples of marital repetition - you turn around, and suddenly she's on husband number four and it's like... how did that happen? Wasn't she married to Billy Joel (number two - not counting the Moet et Chandon heir she was dating who died before they married)? And really, once you get to number four... how many illusions can you have left?

Meanwhile, vying for space on the tabloid pages has been a week of yet more rumor and innuendo, this time that Madonna - she's a singer, for you kids who may not know - has been"canoodling" (I always always wanted to use the famous Page Six word) with... A-Rod (he plays baseball... in case you don't follow sports). That news seemed to underline months of rumors that Madge's marriage to Guy Ritchie was all but over (she's been in New York rehearsing her latest tour for that largely forgettable album she just released... he's been anywhere else, mostly); but  apparently, it came as news to A-Rod's wife, who promptly jetted off to Paris (weekend photos in the Post and Snooze), started an affair with Lenny Kravitz (oh never mind) and today filed for divorce.

Sure, it's fun to write like Rona Barrett... but really, does any of this matter?

A World Without Jesse Helms

It was easy, really, to let Jesse Helms stand in for everything one despised about Republicans. In the Reagan ears, the first Bush Years, the Clinton years... Helms was the archetypal embodiment of the Southern Strategy in all its conservatism, bigotry and hatreds. Jerry Falwell may have been more direct, but he was in no position to actually do harm the way Helms was.

As a rad fag who came of age in the era of ACT UP, we needed Jesse Helms as much as he needed us: what's a world without enemies, when fighting the enemy is all you know?

So now he's dead, and one searches to find something polite to say... without much luck. Helms made the world a little meaner, a little more divided, a little less accepting. I'm not one to let those stand as good things. The charitable view of, say, his awful campaigns against Harvey Gantt is that he exploited our nation's racial divisions for personal gain. Calling that "standing up for what you believe in"... not so much.

Still, there's no escaping that "Jesse Helms" was a necessary part of those angry, rad years. If he hadn't existed, we'd have had to invent him - something to oppose, to be angry at, to hate as you were hated. I'm older now, and I don't hate Jesse Helms. I won't miss him, but in the end, he was kind of sad, and a little pathetic. And the righteous outrage I had then is why I can't muster so much of it now: compared to Jesse Helms, folks like George W. Buch and Dick Cheney and Karl Rove are simply incompetent amateurs.

And maybe that's the nice thing to say of Jesse Helms: at least he was good at it. 

Of NYCs, Bettys, And Pride... Of All Sorts

Dear J,

I am, at the moment, a most real NYC Weboy; I am house-sitting for friends in Chelsea, and it is Gay Pride Day... I am one with all.

Of course, I wish you were here.

And you're not, and as with so many years when we are apart and one of is in New York when the other isn't... God is not smiling on the homosexuals: yes, today's forecast calls for rain... and I just looked sat Weather.com, and the clouds are hovering just off to the West.

It never rains on a Sunday in June... unless all is not right with the world.

I think you would appreciate the surreality of the day - all the pretty, pretty boys and their current uniform, a military style tank top and a long-ish short, usually Madras or camouflage; all the bustling around town as people get ready for their afternoon at the parade; and this year's hottest accessory: your life partner.

I think we may have mutually conjured this year's rain: I feel less connected to the day than usual... but not to the concept. I've been thinking a lot about what Pride means to me this year, and how I don't wear my sexuality as a badge in quite the way I did at 22 or 23; who I am is more than cute boys, and the defiance of being "outrageous" ... or even fabulous. I don't feel so fabulous, these days... but that's okay. Pride, I think, is what I learned from you, and from our friendship; our lives are transgressive, confrontational of the status quo. But at the same time, we are part of, and connected.

So here I sit, trading stories of how it used to be (not the fun parts - the parts about the tranny hookers and the prospect of getting mugged and the wild fringes of the sex club scene, here and in Paris), looking at the ads for dance parties I will not go to with music I no longer care to know, and dealing with the fact that New York is no longer the things we knew and were... and it's okay. I miss you. Wish you were here.

Happy Pride, Joan.
xoxo Betty

Mens Fashion: The Pajama Game

Among the topics I've been avoiding lately is fashion, where,as with a lot lately, nothing seems to inspire. My interest in women's fashion has kind of abated, altely, a combination of not seeing a lot to love, and feeling that the economic downturn signals a great disaster especially for fashion generally.

This week, though, is Men's Fashion Week in Milan. Men's weeks are even more oddly scheduled than women's - mostly because the lead time for complex menswear, like suiting, is longer. Thus, while Women's Fashion Week in March was about this Fall, the June Men's shows are for Spring, a year from now.

Over the past few men's seasons, one look has dominated: the narrow, nearly waifish look pioneered by Hedi Slimane, first at Yves Saint Laurent Men, and then, more comprehensively, at Dior Homme. Slimane is decidedly genius, but the absoluteness of his vision was, as these things are, eventually limiting. Last year, he left Dior Homme to strike out on his own, and that change helped signal a shake-up in the dominant trend.

This year's Spring/Summer collections reflect the tensions in searching for a new look - a number of designers still seem to be caught in Slimane-like tight, narrow clothes, while others attempt to defy the convention altogether, notably, in Milan, Giorgio Armani and Dolce and Gabbana.

And then there's the other message of the season: the reign of the boytoy is over. Let's go to bed.

Lower 9th Ward Photo Essay

I'd been wanting to write about LA's Gov. Bobby Jindal, who's been popping up around the intertubes lately as a possible VP candidate for McCain, a former biology major who's performed exorcisms, and the leader of the state that just passed by a landslide the teaching of intelligent design in local schools.  But honestly, you should just read this post at Firedoglake.  It's got all details of the horrendous, humorless, dangerous irony of Jindal's Reaganesque conservative rise against the backdrop of Katrina.

My contribution? A dear friend's work-in-progress photo essay of the "recovery" of the Lower 9th Ward, captured from January 2006 through August 2007 (and the second anniversary of the storm).  It will be updated next month.

I guess LA school children will be learning how God leveled New Orleans with Hurricane Katrina to punish those homosexuals after all. 

From McCain/Jindal '08, may G-d save us all. 

- Redstar
x-posted at The Redstar Perspective

Baltimore Gay Pride - Pictures from a Block Party

Everytime I Breathe, Everytime I Try To Leave

So here I sit in Towson, Maryland, typing away at another Starbucks.  I had hoped to mention traveling - or at least to have done a joint post with the J in town... but that didn't happen. Sorry for the silence.  As Red notes, all the important news happened in the sports world, anyway.

Except, maybe, for the loss of Cyd Charisse.

In any case, as Red noted overnight, it's a moment of feeling a bit beaten down. J and I had a long conversation - all evening, really - about coming to grips with Obama. I try to come up with ways to get comfortable myself... and nothing seems to work. If it's not the tired rhetoric of his Father's Day speech, it's the dull, conventional nature of his advisement choices (I don't necessarily have the issues others do about his economics team... but his foreign policy team is dull dull dull).

Perhaps more instructive was the man who struck up a conversation with me waiting for the Light Rail to bring me to J. He's a painter by profession, 32 years, and work's been hard to find. First day he'd worked in 3 weeks, he told me. When I said "Vacation?" he laughed bitterly and said, "if only."