Ewwwwwww!!!!!!!

This will be a one-off, unusual post on SSUWAT, because we're not really editing this to be witty and refined. We're posting this because we're furious, darlings, and if you're a follower of this blog at all, we suspect that you'll be angry, too, once you read the link to the New York Times column which has gotten us so hot and bothered:

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/28/arts/television/a-case-of-retro-tv-overload.html?_r=0

That article made us ANGRY. We're actually personally offended by it, because it belittles our taste and questions the validity of same. Not only is this writer an arse, but we're astonished and disappointed that this childishly written article appeared in the New York Times at all -- it reads more like a blog post (we know of which we speak, obviously). Everyone's entitled to their opinion, of course, and what's funny to some won't be funny to others -- but we still laugh out loud at "I Love Lucy," and its situations (in our opinion) are funny because they're timeless. You don't need to be a nostalgist to find one of those episodes funny. What REALLY irks us about this article, though, and the legitimacy bestowed upon it by its inclusion in such a respected and venerable publication, is that it's such a slap in the face to people who still get so much pleasure out of these shows, irrespective of their ages (we certainly weren't around for "Lucy" or "The Honeymooners" or "Green Acres" in their first runs), AND another nail in the coffin for people who are TRYING to restore and revive the amazing treasures in the vintage television vaults which are not nearly as widely known as the heavy-hitters this writer so cavalierly dismisses. The real question is, WHY was this article was even published in the first place? There are people, including dear friends of this blog, who are fighting an UPHILL BATTLE to preserve and restore vintage television, in the face of opposition from corporations who couldn't care less. This idiotic column is just an example of why so many priceless things remain in the vault, because "they" assume that there's no audience for, or value to them. As we said, art and comedy are subjective -- but with 700 channels on cable to choose from, how is a rerun of "I Love Lucy" infringing on this nitwit's enjoyment of contemporary television? Keep your Kardashians and Real Housewives if that's what you're into, but don't tell us that Lucy Ricardo riding a subway with a loving cup stuck on her head isn't still as funny in 2014 as it was in 1955.

Read the article. And although we never beg for comments, PLEASE, darlings, tell us that we're not crazy and not alone in our outrage. 

Our reaction to that blasphemous New York Times column.

A Discovery

Deer and Hyundais don't make a good combination.

We are in the process of dealing with insurance companies, car dealers, and the prospect of having to use our seductive charms to get to work.

We are endeavoring to get back to fabulosity sooner than later, especially since we've had so many delays in the past few months! In the meantime, if anyone knows where we can find a 1929 Isotta-Fraschini, liveried chauffeur, and handsome gigolo strongly resembling Bill Holden, please let us know.

We Remember

It's hard to believe that nearly a decade has passed since the events of September 11, 2001. So much of the past eight years is a blurred mass, yet we can remember nearly every minute of that day in precise order.

Actually, we remember the day before, too; September 10, 2001 had been one of the rainiest days of the year. A pelting, drenching monsoon-like downpour which put a damper on our plans for the evening, a cocktail party being held at Barneys for Italian Vogue. Catching a cab was out of the question, as was walking; and, of course, we wouldn't deign to arrive at such an affair by subway. So we sulked, and pouted, and we were sure that nothing worse could possibly happen in our lives.

How times would change in less than 24 hours.

Stirred, Straight Up, with a Twist is all about celebrating the fun and frivolity of life, which we feel is important, neccessary, even, to maintaining one's sanity (if you had any to begin with). What it isn't about is being vapid or oblivious (or obvious), and we hope that our "work" here draws that distinction; even when we're potentially dispensing advice on accessories. So, as we've said before, go forth and be fabulous - and always remember what's truly important in your lives. We love you!

We'll Love Ya Tomorrow

Maybe.

We saw Andrea (Annie) McArdle at the Metropolitan Room on Sunday night. It was an extremely sparse crowd, and the evening's program and execution made us envy those with the better sense to stay away.

That was rather unkind.

Ms. McArdle wasn't awful, she just wasn't particularly good. She still has the strong, crystalline voice of her Broadway halcyon days, but has not, in the 30-plus years since she rocketed to child stardom, acquired one whit of depth or nuance, which is the life's blood of cabaret - particularly in a room as intimate as the Metropolitan. Her repertoire was fairly hackneyed (a little Sondheim here, a little Karen Carpenter there) and her accompanist, bless his clueless heart, was a 20-something blond gay boi (spelling intentional) who played fairly adequately, but not spectacularly, and was given far more of the spotlight than he deserved.

Junior, the Kid, that is, soloed (vocally) on a painfully earnest, amateurish rendition of "The Rainbow Connection" from The Muppet Movie, and engaged in some truly annoying repartee with the "star." Listen, Princess Fire and Music, we're not a huge Sondheim fans, either, but at this point in your life and career, you have absolutely no legs to stand on when you decide to publicly make snarky comments about Sondheim and his lyrics. Okay? When you're as old and jaded as we are, we'll talk.

Speaking of bad decisions: McArdle's baffling choice to evoke the memory of her critically-reviled turn as Judy Garland in the disastrous TV biopic, Rainbow (1978). She then turned in a karaoke rendition of "Over the Rainbow," and a mirthless "Trolley Song." It almost made us long for Rufus Wainwright.

The whole evening (all 65 minutes of it, though it seemed to last at least 90) reminded us of an evening at a gay piano bar, watching an enthusiastic but irriating show tune queen and his Fag Hag Best Friend, the Most Talented Girl Musical Theater Class, hog the microphone. If you've been to Marie's Crisis or The Townhouse, you've heard pretty much the same thing (right down to the Sondheim, Karen Carpenter, Judy Garland, and so help us, "Beauty and the Beast") - only you probably had more fun, and certainly were able to get drunk for less.

The only genuine moment came at the very end, when McArdle (naturally) wound up her act with "Tomorrow." It's not a great song; it's become a total Star Search cliche; but it's the one lyric that actually seems to mean something to McArdle, and the one number she has some kind of emotional connect with. In those brief 2 1/2 minutes, you respected her as a legitimate Broadway vet.

It's the 62 1/2 other minutes of the act that got her and her Hostess snack friend into trouble.

A Gentle Reminder...

...to our dear readers, particularly our beloved Mistress MJ and darling Jason, that SSUWAT will never, ever feature Ms. Leon Talley on its tasteful yet irreverent pages (and certainly not as an Icon!); chiefly, because we humbly concede that we have neither the sufficient snark of The Notorious J*O*E*, nor the delicate cheekiness that is Planet Fabulon - both or either of which are necessary when discussing (or dissing) ALT. 

No, when The Talley comes up in cocktail conversation, our eyebrows involuntarily arch, our tone takes on the timbre of dry ice, and we feel compelled to grasp at imaginary, dowager-style pearls. And, frankly, all of that is quite difficult to convey in words on a blog post - so, henceforth, Miss Thing will be She Who Shall Not Be Named.

Hattie McDaniel, however, will continue to be featured, perhaps even deified. 

Updates tomorrow, darlings. We're exhausted from a three day weekend involving a whirwind of ballet, beaus, bow ties, and Negronis. 

(MC, your PMS compels us to forgive and forget. Jason, you're just too darn cute for us to remain miffed for very long.)

Out of Fashion

The Model as Muse exhibit at the Met.

A dud.

For one thing, the concept was perplexing (models influencing fashion? the cart before the horse?); and the execution did nothing to convince one of its validity.


It started off promisingly enough, with a mannequin wearing the black-and-white Dior gown worn by Dovima in Avedon's famous "elephants" shot; the spectacular draped Mme. Gres gown worn by Sunny Hartnett in another iconic Avedon portrait; and some really beautiful Balenciaga creations. But, aside from the famous Dovima and Hartnett poses, there was no clear correlation between the clothing and the supposed muses, aside from a few vintage Vogue and Bazaar magazines behind glass (which, bafflingly, usually had nothing to do with the clothing on display alongside it... DV, no stickler for authenticity she, would have done wonders with this concept!).


However, the couture garments from the 1940's and 1950's are so stunningly constructed, they were worth looking at, no matter the context. Unfortunately, they comprised the smallest part of the exhibition, the larger part of which was made up of 1960's-2000's fashions, which simply failed to register the same impact. The Generation Gap: a wall of "supermodel" covers from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues, versus the images of Dovima, Jean Patchett, Dorian Leigh, Lisa Fonssagrives, et al., on the covers of Vogue and Bazaar.

There was also a "supermodel" portrait of Patrick Demarchelier which clearly was an "homage" to the classic Cecil Beaton shot of the House of Dior's models posed in the atelier, 1957. And that's one of the problems with this show -- everything past the 1960's (or even the 1970's, if you want to be generous) references the past, or has a post-modern irony, or is in "tribute" to something else. No originality. The fact that these more recent decades make up the bulk of the exhibit left us wanting to hop a plane to London, for the Victoria and Albert Museum's exhibition honoring the true masters of couture. 

And there was certainly no originality or style emanating from the crowd of poorly-dressed onlookers posing alongside Dovima's Dior gown and cut-out elephants, chewing gum and fanny packs firmly in place as they took their MySpace and Facebook cel phone photos. For them, this was surely the height of fashion. As for us -- well, we were un-a-muse-d.

THANKS

Stormy Weather

While we realize that there are vastly more important issues in the world today, we would like to take a moment to bemoan a curious phenomenon which occurs in New York City on rainy days: people completely lose their minds, as well as their taste. Particularly businessmen.

On our morning subway ride, we counted only two legitimately chic raincoats adorning the male species of the 6 train; otherwise, it was a sad sack sea of off-season parkas; those awful London Fog-esque trench coats with hems which stop just short of the ankle; and, worst of all, short windbreakers and sports team bombers worn over suits. Worse yet were the shoes accompanying the suits: dirty moccasins and beat up old lace-ups and smelly sneakers, presumably chosen because they'd be no worse for the wear after exposure to the rain.

Gentlemen, let us implore you to invest in 3 essential items which will see you through the elements in a much more suave fashion:

1) A practical, spartanly stylish raincoat, neither freakishly fashion-forward nor boringly un-chic. Navy or beige would be the best colors, and it should be long enough to cover your suit jacket or sport coat.


2) A proper umbrella -- and by this we mean a full-size, good quality umbrella. You can spend hundreds (or more!) on bespoke-quality English brolleys, but a sturdy $75 Brooks Brothers model suits us fine. When you think of all the cheap umbrellas you've either had to throw out after they splinter and spindle, or which you've left behind in taxis and stores, the sum probably far exceeds that amount, so consider it a sound investment.


3) Galoshes. We realize that practically no one wears them anymore (except us), but we must tell you, they've more than paid back their modest $25 cost. Instead of gingerly stepping around puddles and trying to run between the raindrops, or donning ugly, who-cares-if-they-get-wet shoes, simply slip your rubbers on and wear even your best footwear with confidence. They're not purdy, but they're practical; and when you arrive at your destination, you can slip them off and show off your fancy footwear.

(As endorsed by LEFFOT)

Follow this advice, and you can rest assured that you'll never be the recipient of our disapproving side glances and tongue clucking one rainy morning on the subway. You're welcome.

When Does it Stop?

We rarely get political on this blog. Frankly, we're often unfashionably un-PC in our opinions. We get tired of people (individuals and groups) playing the victim role, with seemingly everyone unable to either take accountability for their own actions, or to be determined enough to overcome their own obstacles.

But children have no voice, and they rely upon adults and the systems supposedly in place to protect them. So when we read the incredibly tragic story of Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, an 11 year old who committed suicide after continual bullying for being perceived as "gay," we were not only saddened, but angered. Despite anti-bullying programs in place at the school, his torment continued without intervention. Yes, children get bullied all the time -- for looking different, for acting different, for not being part of the "cool crowd." It happens. Most get over it, and life goes on. 

But the particular virulence and hatred reserved for tormenting those perceived to be gay is unique and ferocious. In high school, we were teased for being perennially un-cool and also for being perceived as gay -- and at an age when we didn't really fully understand what "gay" meant, and sure as hell hadn't yet acted upon it. And we can tell you firsthand that, while being teased for being dorky wasn't fun, it wasn't scary or intimidating or something that made life seem unbearable.

Being the victim of homophobic taunts was. 

Going way beyond the superficial name-calling and teasing that most, if not all, kids endure, a homophobic school atmosphere is something we can only liken to a surreal, nightmarish hell. If we close our eyes, we can still feel the ice-cold terror of being circled by so many predators, and the word "faggot" being hurled at us with the kind of venom and bile we've, thankfully, never heard again. 

Say the words "dork" or "nerd" out loud. Then say "faggot" (or, "nigger," or any other truly hateful label). The difference is clear. The intent isn't just to make fun; it's to cause actual harm.

Somehow, we made it through: made it through the ostracism, the acts of violence and intimidation, the death threats taped to the lockers, the feeling of not wanting to get up in the morning and face another day. For whatever reason, Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover couldn't make it through. Can we honestly place full blame for his death on his bullies and tormentors? Perhaps not. But we can, and must, take steps to eradicate the root cause of this bullying: the perception -- available and acceptable to kids who aren't even out of puberty yet! -- that being gay is the worst thing you can possibly be, and to be labeled as such is a fate worse than death.

Whether he was gay or not (and it doesn't matter), we wish we could have told Carl that's not the case. And someone needs to give Carl's tormentors, and every other would-be homophobe of any age, the same exact message. 

IN MEMORIUM

CARL JOSEPH WALKER-HOOVER

April 17, 1997 - April 6, 2009

Thanks to VINTAGE A GO-GO for bringing this to our attention.

A Flawed Equation

plus

plus

...should equal fizz, froth, and hilarity. And, in small doses, the current revival of Blithe Spirit offers just that -- all too fitfully. Noel Coward's Design for Living-meets-Topper 1941 comedy shows its age around the edges, and while the cast is up to the challenge of making it fresh and funny, Michael Blakemore's direction is curiously stodgy and plodding, the staging claustrophobic and uninspired.

Angela Lansbury, of course, is one of the Great Ladies of the Theatah, and her reviews have been nothing short of glorious. It's true that her role as the dotty Madame Arcati is written as a scene-stealing, showy star turn, but Lansbury more than earns the adulation. She imbues the addled (yet 100% sincere) occultist with a charming, tattered dignity and warmth; and, at 83, she's still able to contort her remarkably lithe and lean body into comic dancer's poses which recall burlesque Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Of course, one expects nothing less than perfection from Miss Lansbury; the real surprise was Rupert Everett's well-nuanced performance, delivered with his trademark panache, but with much more subtlety than his recent film appearances would suggest. It was also a performance filled with a remarkable amount of give-and-take with his fellow players, and no sign of the undisciplined mugging or winking irony Mr. Everett has sometimes been guilty of.

As his ghostly wife, Christine Ebersole is, sadly, the weakest link among the cast members (the delightfully dry Jayne Atkinson is marvelous as the solidly upper-class second wife). We want to love Ms. Ebersole, we really do; she's a glamorous, madcap blonde with an oversized diva personality, a lovely singing voice, and a camp sensibility aimed directly at the hearts and wallets of Confirmed Bachelors With Interests in Musical Theater. But she is one beloved performer who consistently leaves us cold; and while she's certainly not awful in Blithe Spirit, she never really convinces us that she's a sprightly spirit. Ms. Ebersole is decidedly earthbound, for lack of a better phrase, and her accent too often wobbles from the British drawing room to a Bronx barroom. Despite her brittle, 1930's-esque demeanor, Ebersole never quite captures the gleefully pixie-ish/devil-ish charm of Elvira the way Kay Hammond did in the film, or the way we imagine Tammy Grimes did in the 1964 musical version, High Spirits. Our biggest problem with Christine Ebersole is that she seems to think that she's Constance Bennett, but she really is more Joan Blondell.

A trio of Elvira's: Kay Hammond (top), Tammy Grimes (center), Christine Ebersole (bottom)

All in all, it was entertaining enough, but ultimately unsatisfying. Still, it was worth it all just to see Angela Lansbury doing her stuff, live, on stage. It's one of our great regrets that we didn't have the chance to see her perform in any of her great musical roles: Mame, Sweeney Todd, Gypsy. When she's on stage in Blithe Spirit, it suddenly feels lighter, brighter, gayer. If only she could be in every scene.

Does Anyone Still Wear a Hat?

Frankly, we didn't; and we were freezing. Years of trying on various berets and skullcaps and such left us bereft of hope: no hat was ever going to flatter us, and we were doomed to either be warm and unstylish, or teeth-chatteringly cold yet chic. Then we discovered Magar Hatworks, and friends, our life (and body temperature) will never be the same. How did we go so long without trying this ultra-flattering shape? How did we exist in the winter months with so much heat escaping from our shaven head? And, most important, how the hell did we pass up the chance to accessorize with such fabulous creations?

Like anything of quality, good hats don't come cheap; and, all things considered, a luxury hat is something of a frivolity (compared against, say, a new blazer or a new winter coat). But, like Mrs. Miniver, we discovered the pleasurable thrill of buying a snappy new hat and having it improve our mood (and our chic!) immensely. Our new purchase is rabbit fur felt in a gorgeous camel shade, with a grossgrain ribbon of brown, bronze, gold, and green, and we absolutely adore it.

However, as much as we are delighting in the wearing of our new treasure, we also subscribe to the old-fashioned rules of hat etiquette for gentlemen: aspiring young dandies, please remove your hat when indoors, especially when dining and at the theater; and of course, when speaking with a lady. While we were gladdened to see so many dashing men about town this weekend accessorizing with similarly snazzy headgear, we were distressed by how many chose to leave their hats on at the dinner table, or once they settled into their seats at the theater. At the end of the day, a man's hat is primarily a functional outerwear accessory -- albeit one with which the wearer can demonstrate his superlative taste and style. Don't ruin the effect by demonstrating an oblivious lack of manners.

How Did The Date Go, You May Query?

Turkey

We're slightly horrified by this undoubtedly well-intentioned tableaux, for several reasons.

- The cadaver-like skin tone of the gents in the foreground, their gaping maws, and their sightless eyes, seem to indicate that they're less interested in eating the turkey than in eating your very souls.

- It's one thing to wear clothing that's too tight; it can be chalked up to an accident, or unexpected weight gain, or, given the tough economic situation, a lack of funds to replenish your FCUK/A&F/H&M/AX coffers. It's something else altogether to intentionally paint your subjects' clothing too tight (and to make them appear to be fashioned of rubber). We won't even discuss the disturbingly out-of-place chest hair that the Hostess with the Mostess is sporting.

- And, finally -- is that a cranberry "sauce" mold we see on the table? A cloved ham with pineapple rings? Sweet potatoes with mini marshmallows??? It looks as if the cast of Queer as Folk stepped into a dining room set styled for a Very Special Thanksgiving episode of That 70's Show. Do you really think that any of these queens would dare touch broccoli covered with ten pats of butter, unless it were organic soy lactose-free almond butter? We didn't think so.

But the sentiment this illustration expresses is a nice one: Thanksgiving is a day to give thanks. Thanks for your loved ones; thanks for your families (blood and chosen); and thanks for the fact that we live in a free society where bitter gay bloggers can make snarky comments about bad gay commercial art Norman Rockwell rip-offs. (Say that three times fast.)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Old Folks

This post will undoubtedly brand me as the Anti-Christ Blogger who kicks stray dogs and tells children that Santa Claus isn't real, but I don't care.

Picture it: this afternoon, Starbucks. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice an elderly woman, not on line, slowly inching her way in front of me. Doing her sly side-shuffle, she eventually maneuvers directly ahead of me in line. It's clear that, A) she's trying to cut the line, and B) she's 100% aware of what she's doing.

"Excuse me," I say with polite firmness. "Am I in your way?"

"Oh," the Old Line-Cutting Battleaxe murmurs, "I'm just getting my refill."

I take a deep breath, and decide to let it go; a refill isn't such a big deal, and isn't it the holiday season? Thanks and giving and fa-la-fucking-la-la-la? So, I bite my tongue, force a smile, nod, and let her ask for a refill. Then, the OL-CB whips out her credit card, and starts reeling off a completely new order.

"Excuse me," I say again, this time with (I imagine) chilling authority. "This is a line. I am on it. And unless I'm missing something, I don't believe that you have a right to cut in front of me."

A brief stare-down ensues.

"Oh, yes," the OC-LB murmurs again, "you can go ahead."

"Oh? May I?" I ask sarcastically.

OK, that last sally probably was bitchier than necessary, but I was steamed. I respect my elders, but there's a trend I've noticed lately, where some of them think that they can cut whichever line they please, as if old age gives them some sort of line-jumping privilege. It's happened to me at the theatre, at the grocery, and now, at Starbucks.

And if there's one thing I can tell you, regardless of your age, it's this: do not come between this queen and his caffeine unless you wanna get cut.

Have a Cow, Man

Over lunch yesterday...

FRIEND (admiring mink scarf): "I love your dead animal."

BLOGGER: "Thanks. I can't stand self-righteous anti-fur people who don't commit to it 100 percent. I mean, did the chicken that they had for dinner die of natural causes? And unless they're wearing plastic shoes, I don't wanna hear them complain about fur."

FRIEND: "What do you mean?"

BLOGGER: "You know, leather. Did the cow die of old age? Please."

FRIEND: "Gee, I never thought of leather being from a cow."

BLOGGER (incredulously): "Are you serious?"

FRIEND: "Yeah. I mean, I guess I always thought that leather was, I dunno, some kinda synthetic material or something."

BLOGGER (toying with a half-eaten hamburger): "Ummm...no."

FRIEND: "So, leather comes from cows?"

BLOGGER: "Yes."

(FRIEND digests this information silently for a moment.)

FRIEND: "What about patent leather?"

BLOGGER (Stares at FRIEND for two beats, then a la Bea Arthur): "From a patented cow, Rose!"

Mink, Schmink

PETA was protesting on Fifth Avenue yesterday; they chose the Escada boutique to picket in front of, which I found odd -- I'm sure Escada uses fur, but it's not on prominent display; just two blocks away, Fendi was featuring a huge chinchilla coat and multiple minks in their front window. I would have politely pointed this out to them, but you know those PETA people; they're so... intense, that they really can't hear anything anybody else has to say. (Particularly an opposing point of view. Ahem.)

I respect anyone's right to protest whatever they choose, but I do have to question the effectiveness of PETA's tactics. I seriously doubt that any of the high-falutin' women entering the Escada enclave with the intent to purchase a fur coat suddenly had a change of heart because a PETA protester was screaming at her on the sidewalk. ("Don't speak so loudly, I can't hear you" might be the rejoinder those excitable PETA imps need to listen to.) Frankly, I find that kind of approach so annoying and so counter-productive, I would have bought something in fur just to piss them off.

I know people who, while not nearly as militant as PETA, refuse to wear fur, and I respect their decision; but I often wonder if they honestly believe that the leather for their handbags and shoes came from a cow who martyred herself for the cause, or if the fish or chicken they ate for dinner died of peaceful old age.

As it happened, I had just made a fur purchase a few moments before happening upon the PETA protest: a mink scarf, glossy and long-haired, the color of tawny, turning leaves; thin and discreet enough to tuck inside a sport coat or jacket without appearing ridiculous -- as fur often can on someone of the masculine persuasion. It's beautiful, it's elegant, and I make no apologies.

Eternal Longing

One of the reasons for being Grandmaster Funk lately is the sinking realization that, for the first time in over a decade, I probably won't be returning to my favorite place in the entire universe this fall. (No, not Fabulon!) For the past 13 years, it's been a twice-yearly tradition to visit Rome: the Eternal City.



Like so many gaylings, I fell in love with Rome via the movies: watching Audrey Hepburn zip around on a Vespa with Gregory Peck hanging on for deal life was a huge early influence. It's funny; even back then, Paris held much less appeal for me, even in its glamorous, Hollywood-ized idealization. Of course, I eventually did get to Paris, and I loved it; but Italy, and Rome in particular, has always had a strange hold on my imagination and senses.



I think it has to do with the ease and warmth of the Roman lifestyle. In their own distinct ways, the Parisians and the Romans are equally stylish; but the crucial differences are that, in Rome, the men are more impeccably turned-out than the women, and the seemingly effortless style they exude is in contrast with the sometimes-brittle elegance of the French.

My first trip to Rome was when I was 19; it was, of course, a tremendously exciting experience. I had been overseas once before, the previous year, to London. But this would be my first time experiencing a truly different environment. I was set to be in Rome for 7 days; on my first night, I began feeling ache-y and worn down. I assumed that it was the jet lag. The following morning, I went to the Vatican Museum, and midway through the tour, I nearly fainted. (Drama queen to the max!) I was rushed back to my hotel, and for the next 4 days, I was bedridden, alternating between absolute exhaustion and delirium -- at one point, I started hallucinating that I was floating above my body. My temperature soared to 104 degrees, and I finally, weakly, called the concierge and asked for an English-speaking doctor to be sent to my room.

He was tall, handsome, charming and -- of course -- impeccably turned out in a suit and tie. To this day, I still remember his gorgeous camel's hair overcoat and alligator doctor's bag. He cheerfully examined me, making small talk all the while, and, when it was all through (it turned out I had a double whammy of sinusitis and tonsilitis), pulled up a chair beside my bed and chatted for about 20 minutes while the hotel sent for my prescription. Try getting that from an American doctor! To this day, I remember his kindness in reassuring me and making me feel as comfortable as possible -- if you've ever been ill in a foreign country, you know how terrifying that can feel.

Thankfully, the pills started kicking in within 24 hours (Mama's awake!), and on my last day in Rome, I was determined to see and do everything. And I did. I saw the Colosseum. I saw the Pantheon. I saw the Fountain of Trevi. I saw the Mouth of Truth. I bought gelato from a street vendor near the Spanish Steps. I bought a pair of brown Dolce & Gabbana cigarette pants that I would kill to find again! Basically, I did Roman Holiday, and was absolutely exhilirated by it all. I wanted to greedily soak all of Rome up in a day, just in case I never saw it again. But in the back of my mind, I knew I would. I was in love.


FIRST ROMAN HOLIDAY, 1995

Since then, there hasn't been a year when I haven't returned. It's like going home. I stay at the same hotel, browse through the same shops, eat at the same restaurants. And, unlike here in New York, the service, retail and hospitality industries in Rome are not mere holding stations for actors/models/artists biding their time until their agent calls. They're time-honored professions, and I'm genuinely thrilled to see the same people every time I go back; and, for what it's worth, they seem to be genuinely happy to see me.

My favorites?

The barmen at my hotel, who are the funniest, most charming men on the planet, and who unfailingly spot me arriving for the first day of my visit clear across the lobby at 10 a.m., bound over for hugs and handshakes, and winkingly, half-jokingly ask, "Ready for your first Beefeater martini?"

The proprietress/hostess/waitress of a small, family-run ristorante who cries with affectionate greeting when I come back; who remembers that I love the tiny polpette (and keeps them coming for the entire meal); who remembers that pasta with fresh zucchini flowers is my best friend/favored traveling companion's favorite dish; who received a call that her mother had passed away during the course of one of my visits to the restaurant, and then came to apologize for not staying for the duration of my meal.

The adorable salesmen at one of the boutiques on the glamorous Via Condoti, who love to chat and gossip and ask about "Chelsea town" in New York; and who know, sometimes better than I, what I like to wear, and have racks of their choices ready and waiting.

And lest you think that I'm some hotshot V.I.P., let me reassure you that I travel economy, don't have a personal assistant calling ahead of time, and am -- rumors to the contrary -- an extremely low maintenance traveler. It took me years to figure out that it wasn't out of line to ask the concierge to, say, make dinner reservations; I just thought, if it's something so simple that you can do yourself, why on earth would you have someone else do it for you? So that's why I appreciate the gestures and friendliness even more; I really do think it's genuine, not for show, or done out of obligation.



2006

Of course, I love so much more about Rome: the beauty of the city itself; its wholly unique juxtaposition of the ancient with the modern; the absolutely wonderful food; and, of course, the men.



In the best possible sense, Rome never really changes. So I know it will be just as it was when I eventually go back next year (I grabbed those Orbitz fares for March the minute I saw them). And, God knows, there are a billion and one worse dilemmas than not making it to Rome for the umpteenth time. But I miss it so much, I ache. For the few days that I'm there, it almost feels as if I'm living someone else's life -- or, more accurately, a really heightened version of my own. And that's what a truly magical vacation destination should do, whether your idea of paradise is a tropical isle, a wooded cabin or la dolce vita. On my last visit, this past March, I didn't take any photographs at all. I was afraid that it might be my last visit for a long time, and in an odd way, I didn't want to document it for posterity. I wanted to hold and visualize the memories almost internally. I can still taste the food I ate on that trip. Does that sound strange?

Life can be a drudge. We all need total escape sometimes. In a very small way, that's what I try to recreate on here from time to time -- the same feeling of escapism that I have when I'm on holiday. Thanks for letting your self-indulgent blogger vent a little. I'm going to go watch Roman Holiday now.

Who Got Da Funk?

In our sophisticated little corner of the world, food plays a huge role in our happiness and well-being. We'll never have the patience to put together a perfectly stunning meal with nary a hair out of place, or a spot on our shantung silk shift; but we appreciate good (not necessarily "fine") food in all its forms and levels. We study. We research. We read cookbooks and the Zagat guides cover to cover, like novels.

However, what constitutes "good eating" depending on our bi-polar dis..., er, mood differs substantially. For instance, during a Happy Time, our idea of a terrific meal might include a perfectly cooked order of steak frites: charred-on-the-outside-red-on-the-inside steak, well-seasoned, with crispy-on-the-outside-melty-on-the-inside frites; washed down by a perfectly mixed Martini, lots of spring water, and good company to converse with (and get dressed up for). We'll eat about half our portion, feel perfectly virtuous, and still have room to possibly split a plate of various sorbets or, if we're feeling decadent, to steal a beignet from someone else's plate.

During a Funky Time, the basic components of a perfect meal remain the same, but viewed through a Funhouse mirror:






Another important distinction from a Happy Time: Funky Time meals are eaten in solitude, with no one watching (among other reasons, so no one can see the molten pasteurized cheese sauce dripping down our chin); and there is none of that dainty leave-half-on-your-plate business. For one thing, there are no plates or cutlery involved. All of it is devoured caveman style, with not one morsel left behind on the grease-stained wrapper or in the grease-saturated cone.

As you can see, we here at Stirred, Straight Up with a Twist are not macrobiotic vegans even during the best of times; but we are a sight more glamorous than in our Funky Times. This is a Funky-esque Time right now; we haven't made the final jump into Baconator territory just yet, but we've wiggled our toes in the dangerous waters of the Spicy Chicken Sandwich.



Don't worry. Our obsession with maintaining our waistline usually precludes Funky Time from lasting any longer than 3 days.

Stirred, Straight Up...Here's a Twist

SCENE OF THE CRIME: THE KING COLE BAR AT THE ST. REGIS

So, a few weeks ago, I went out on a date. Yes, an honest-to-goodness, let's-meet-for-drinks date -- not the Craiglist variety. (And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.)

The date in question is handsome, charming, personable, sophisticated, successful and well-traveled. He also identifies as "straight."

All of a sudden, I'm living out a Sean Cody fantasy. (Don't pretend you don't know what that is, either.)

OK, I know what the deal is. Obviously, he's got issues. Obviously, he's not straight (not 100%, anyway). Obviously, I have some issues, too -- the whole Straight Bait fantasy that, judging by the porn sites out there, more than a few queers share. But the strange thing is, I probably had a better time and more stimulating conversation with this guy than any of the dates I've had with the out, loud and proud homos (few and far between though they've been lately).

Anyway, we met at the clubby, uber-WASPy King Cole Bar at The St. Regis Hotel. It's one of my all-time favorite watering holes, with terrific people-watching, stiff drinks, and, during weekday happy hour, the handsomest bartender in Manhattan, Gavin. But I digress.

My date and I had a swell time (and three rounds), and by the end of evening, we were making out like giddy teenagers in the back of a cab. The next morning, a clearer head prevailed, and I wrote him an e-mail, saying that he was absolutely perfect -- except for the whole closeted thing; and that I didn't want to risk getting led down the garden path by continuing to see him.

You see, I'm closeted, too -- a closet romantic, the byproduct of watching too many old movies as a kid. And I knew that I'd fall -- hard -- for this guy if I let myself. He wrote back saying that he understood, and was going through some self-searching, etc., etc., etc. And that was that.

Or so I thought.

He wrote again recently, asking to have dinner after he returns from a vacation in the South of France. (Could you just die?) I'm torn. It reminds me of the Johnny Burke/Jimmy Van Heusen song, "Imagination":

Imagination is crazy

Your whole perspective gets hazy

Has you asking a daisy,

"What to do, what to do?"

We Interrupt Our Usual Programming For Some Self-Indulgence

Just a thought for today: Intentional cruelty really is unforgivable. We're not talking pseudo-witticisms and bitchiness here; but words and actions designed and intended to hurt and cause pain.

I seriously doubt that the person to whom I wish to direct this reminder will ever read this blog, or indeed even is aware of its existence, but I just needed to vent. And if you are reading this: well, I hope that you gained some satisfaction from what you said. Glad you got it off your chest. Happy now?

OK, the self-pity party is over. I'll post something fabulous soon, promise.

Tea Room of the August Moon

Over at the always-interesting Planet Fabulon, a recent thread caused me to flashback to a distant memory of very nearly getting a golden shower from O.J. Simpson.

(You'll just have to read the posts to get the story, bitches.)

Anyway, the aforementioned incident took place in the men's room of Fujiyama Mama, a now-defunct late 80's/early 90's hot spot on the Upper West Side. Which caused me to recall another, only slightly more recent celebrity bathroom encounter, this time at the chi-chi Mercer Kitchen, circa 1999.

Picture it: Sunday brunch in SoHo. It was a gorgeous spring day, with streams of light flooding through the huge windows of the street level cafe/bar of the Kitchen. The restaurant proper is actually subterranean, but on beautiful days as this was, it's nicer to sit upstairs. Of course, everyone else has the same idea, and there are only about 10 tables in the cafe, so it's catch as catch can. On this particular day, my friends and I were thwarted in our attempt to snag a sunlit table by a large, 20-strong party headed by:



And this is pretty much how he looked: creepy plastic surgery, scary nipples, white tee shirt and all. Shrugging off our disappointment, we traipsed downstairs to the restaurant and proceeded to get giddy on Greyhounds, Bloodys, and Wasabi Tuna Pizza (it's less precious than it sounds, and actually really good). After the third round of cocktails, I was in desperate need of relieving myself, so I made a beeline for the men's room.

Now, for those of you who have never been to the Mercer Kitchen, let me explain the layout of the men's room to you. It is somewhat necessary to the story, so bear with me. As with everything in the restaurant and adjoining hotel, the facilities are elegantly hyper-designed within an inch of its modernist life -- but sometimes with little thought to practicality. Case in point: the two huge, floor-to-ceiling urinals are much more attractive than your run-of-the-mill porcelain pots, but the one closest to the entry door is so positioned that it exposes you and your business to whomever happens to walk in. The one further from the entry door is so close to the stall commode, that if someone is inside, the opening of the stall door will whack it right into you.

It is with this in mind that I never use the urinals at the Mercer, and only the stall (consider yourselves enlightened). Anyway, on this occasion, the stall was in use, so I waited patiently. And waited. And waited. And waited.

What struck me as the most odd -- at the risk of sounding crude -- was that there were no normal "bathroom" sounds eminating from that stall. No grunts. No splashes. No tell-tale whir of the toilet paper roll. No flush, for God's sake. So, after at least a full 5 minutes or so, guess who emerges?



Only looking a lot happier and perkier than when I'd seen him upstairs.

He trotted out, and I entered the stall. This is cruder still, but the damn place certainly didn't smell like it had been in use. (And I don't care what you queens say: yours does stink just as much as anyone else's. Mine doesn't.) The whole scenario seemed bizarre, until I noticed that the previous occupant had left a souvenir.

There, on the brushed stainless steel surface of the Philippe Starck-designed toilet paper dispenser, was a fine dusting of white powder.

And it wasn't Bon Ami.

Frankly, I'm surprised he left as much as he did. Not that it was much, but you know how those gals can get over their drugs.

Of course, I completely forgot my original intent in visiting the men's room, and excitedly rushed back to my table like a gay Paul Revere to Tell All. Of course, being the jaded, sophisticated urbanites that we were and are, by the fourth round, we'd forgotten all about Miss K., and were concentrating more on who was going to get the waiter's name and number?

Probably Miss K., come to think of it.