no boy will take me because I was born without a nose-although I am a good dancer and have a nice shape-- Miss Lonelyhearts, page 2
Grumbling. I need to get myself on the journo list to make myself available to the paparazzi junket, deploying the term loosely. Patrick Stoner says you put your name on it, this list. I'll turn blue before any salaried member of the fourth estate informs me how this is done. Reluctant admission that one likes Jonathan Rhys-Meyers a little better this evening, though fucking the enemy started on True Blood. One can take pride in a strength which has not yet led to the typical tactics of Caucasian self-destruction, or is it merely functional inability? I glanced at the headlines for our newest network fresh face, and Jonathan babe, you don't know how lucky you are; my adventures amount to not falling off my bath chair. I do not let myself drink as I did when an undergraduate, though you could tell me a few things about wardrobes, the pressures of continuity on a derivative period drama.
I found an interviewing celebrities module, which earns a belly hiccup of amusement. Despite what some of you may believe, I am not out to break down the insulating level of security people like Jodie Foster need. I don't care who has bipolar disorder, who has a sexual fixation with Obama, who is cheating in the Zeta-Jones saga, nor even who has a cross dressing fetish in green stockings. I'm after a different kind of veracity about performing and film, something similar to the highbrow analysis Kidman did for The Others (2001). That feature profile stays with me because it was damn decent writing examining craft front and center and I can't remember who did it, a WaPo syndicate, more than likely.
Why am I talking to any of you out loud?
As tolerant European culture is toward Jaye Davidson's Dil, transvestites always seem to have criminality associated with them, no matter how feminine, something not necessarily the fault of the public at large, though she-males transition into popularity with much less success. Willa Cather did males in drag, but her celebrity wasn't derived from that. Jaye stands front and center, however, in a film that seems to convey our seductions matter more than ideological conviction. The actual center of the love story is between Rhea and Whitaker. Dil is merely triumphant in The Crying Game because Rhea's Fergus is guilty. The black soldier he holds hostage breaks past the barrier of conviction, something of a stigma the former terrorist will carry beyond the terms of his sentence. Is Davidson reticent because he is too successful as a gender chameleon?
I don't know how to meet a good man anymore, one who would be interested in me, for myself. Frank said he loved me but I never felt that, and it is irrelevant anyway, due to his poor social skills and my contempt. Before him I have simply an interesting string of rebuffs, a wearied cumulative effect.
How do you find a companion to walk with you in your last fifteen or twenty years? Is it too much of an effort, habituated as I am?
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