Tarhearted.

MORE STUPIDER.

I've had a really terrible cold for two weeks now, but decided to go upstate and play in the snow anyway. Why? Because I'm a genius. At least I'm getting a lot of writing done. I finished the first act of my new play in a little less than a week and a half.

Has everybody seen the Levi's commercial that uses a recording of Walt Whitman reading his poem Pioneers! O Pioneers! over images of shirtless hipsters running through fields? No? Here it is:

Huh.

This commercial makes me feel weird.

I love Walt Whitman, and this is one of my favorite poems of his too. A friend remarked to me that there isn't a single emotion man is capable of that Whitman didn't cover, and I think that friend was correct. I mean, Leaves of Grass pretty much covers the gamut of human experience all by itself. I'm pretty grossed out to see such a powerful and meaningful poem used to sell a product.

That said, I buy that product. And lot's of it. In fact, I wear Levi's almost exclusively since I found the 511 line, which fits my body like a glove. I have a pair in every color. Also, my penis likes hipster boys who don't wear shirts, otherwise I might not live in such close proximity to McCarren Park.

Also, it happens to be a beautifully produced commercial, and the recording of Whitman is very stirring. I find myself getting moved by it, only to get angry two seconds later that it's a jeans commercial.

I worry that I'm getting stupider. Or more stupid. Or more stupider?

I'm the worst.

BOOKS I RECOMMEND: LORD DISMISS US.

I finishing a wonderful novel entitled Lord Dismiss Us by Michael Campbell. It's the story of two boys in love at Weatherhill, a fictitious English boys' school, during the 1960's. Actually, the school is rampant with homos and the antagonist of the book is a pernicious new headmaster and his wife who have come to Weatherhill to stamp out vice and immorality.

The language is super flowery and over-the-top and the plot points are very soap opera-ish. I ADORE IT. I especially love the head master's tarhearted daughter, Lucretia, who is obsessed with raising rabbits and spies on the boys and then sells the information to her mother. She's constantly scowling and skulking behind trees, just like a character from Gossip Girl. And I don't think I need to point out what a beautiful name Lucretia is.

The love story between the two boys is highly entertaining, like something a twelve-year-old girl fantasizes about. Still, I can't help but feel pulled in by it. Probably because I'm simple minded. I love this exchange. Picture two boys in cricket whites with English accents, hiding in a cathedral during a rain storm:

"Oh, I do love you. I love you, my darling. Don't be shy, look at me. Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"Do you swear?"
"Yes."

The Boyfriend and I rarely, if ever, speak to each other this way. 

If only I had the edition with this cover:

I've decided to wear more black this next year, and this illustrated boy is my inspiration. I'm so sad that I'm almost finished. I need more over-the-top romanticism! what should I read? Peyton Place? VC Andrews?

FOUR THINGS.

Thanksgiving was beautiful and I'm back to work and feeling renewed. The Boyfriend and I had ten people over and managed to throw together a lovely Thanksgiving meal. Now, here are four things I'd like to bring your attention to:

1. I watched the beautiful french musical, Love Songs, or Les chansons d'amour if you're so inclined. It made miss miss Paris so hard. It's still my fantasy to live there somehow. Too bad it's near impossible. Anyhow, it's a beautiful film with hot boy-on-boy action and it stars this hot piece:

The music is stunning and at a lot of moments it really reminded me of one of my favorite films of all time, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.

Here is the trailer:

2. I'm so in love with this San Francisco band, Girls, and their single "Lust for Life."

"The Girls" was always one of my band names on reserve, in case I ever had one. I won't, so I'm glad to gift it to them, sans "the."

The video is also adorable. The dude with the short hair who mouths the lyric "maybe if I really try with all of my heart..." is super cute.

I love New York a lot, but I'm a West Coast boy at heart. I would love to live in San Francisco, but I'm afraid that I wouldn't be able to find a job there.

3. I wrote an episode of Hooray! Confidence. This is a web series that my friend Nikole and I want to make about two alcoholic, hateful, loser shut-ins who embark on a journey of self-improvement. It'll be kind of a ghetto Absolutely Fabulous. Or something? Anyway, fun stuff! details to come.

4. Episode One of my soap opera, Sinking Hearts, is finished. I don't want to say much about it yet, but inspirations include Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman and The Metamorphasis by Kafka.

WHY DON'T YOU?

Typepad, the service through which I publish my incisive, wise, and elegant blog, always posts a "question of the day" meant to inspire a blog entry. They're totally lame, but you know what? It totally worked today, because I've been meaning to write about this for a long time, but haven't gotten the chance.

Question of the Day:

If you were only allowed to own one book, what book would you choose?

I know what you're thinking. A book, Josh? But books are boring! But one book is not boring. One book is awesome. What book, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

Obviously, the answer is Why Don't You..., suggestions by by Diana Vreeland, former editor of Harper's Bazaar and later of Vogue (until she was fired in 1971 by some cuntessa). Ms Vreeland died way back in 1989 because she was too beautiful for the 90's, but her wisdom lives on.

For 26 years she penned the column Why Don't You... which have now been compiled in this book alongside some truly gorgeous photography. Her column was simply a series of suggestions of things to do. Simple activities to help one overcome the boredom that is the human condition.

Why don't you...

tie black tulle bows on your wrists?

have a yellow satin bed entirely quilted in butterflies?

remember how delicious champagne cocktails are after tennis or golf? Indifferent champagne can be used for these.

upholster your car seat in fine camel's hair? Hermes of Paris will do this for you.

wash your blond baby's hair in dead champagne to keep its curl?

Why don't you, indeed? This is the activity book that parents ought to be giving their children on rainy days. Diana Vreeland had the life I want. No fair. Why, oh, why was I born Kentucky trailer trash instead of New York Society?

UPDATE: I just discovered that Vreeland invented the word "pizazz" and also "faction", which is a combination of "fact" and "fiction". SWOON.

 

(The gorgeous Diana Vreeland, 1903-1989.)

So what book would you own?

I HEART SMUT.

I just bought 16 sleazy paperbacks from the 50's and 60's to begin working on my next project: to weave some of the stories together for a late night theater sex comedy soap opera. It may be a pipe dream, but these books will be fun to read nonetheless.

I Wanna Destroy You is having a staged reading next week.

MilkMilkLemonade is getting its first full-production in the Fall.

Up With (Some) People in the Samuel French Festival.

Save Yourself for You in the EstroGenius Festival.

Everything is coming up Conkel at the moment! Let's see how long that lasts.

I'm trying to get some gay pulp titles but they're SO expensive on Ebay. I lost every bid I went in on. I can't justify spending over fifty bucks on vintage porn lit right now. Apparently the gays are way more into their sexy literary history than the straights.

I managed two get two readily available gay titles: Song of the Loon and Lord Dismiss Us, respectively. I'd love to know about any smut resources I may have missed.

TRIVIA.

I've always felt a deep connection to the characters in F. Scott Fitzgerald's work, though I'm not sure why. I'm neither privileged, nor a young college man post World War, nor a flapper, but that's quibbling. I just find his stories to be terribly glamorous and heartfelt and true.

Well, apparently F. Scott Fitzgerald died on my birthday! He passed away on December 21st, 1940. Forty years before I was born to the day! Coincidence? I prefer to think I'm F. Scott Fitzgerald reincarnated. Okay, maybe not.

Among the people in attendance at his funeral was Dorothy Parker, who cried, and was rumored to have muttered, "the poor son of a bitch", a line from Jay Gatsby's funeral in The Great Gatsby.

I can only hope my funeral will be half as fashionable.

C U LTR.

I've had two dreams in as many weeks that Earnest Hemingway is drunk texting me.

That is all.

ON BEING YOUNG.

Fuck The Brothers Karamazov, this is my next read:

Thanks paperback swap!

Basically, I only want to read novels about teenagers having traumatic experiences right now. Don't bother me with no stinking Bukowski. I want the Wakefield teens, like, now.

For some reason I can't get enough over-the-top teenage drama. I'm obsessively listening to The Shangri-La's right now. Give Him a Great Big Kiss is the jam, if for no other reason than for containing the lyric that The New York Dolls would later borrow, "when I say I'm in love, you best believe I'm in love. L-U-V!"

Todays teenagers are so boring. Their music and clothes and movies are all so dullsville. Get it together, kids. Model yourselves after Cookie Mueller in John Waters' Female Trouble. She has a beehive, which thank god are cool again thanks to one Miss Winehouse, and has awesome lines like, "I got a knife in my pocketbook and I'm gonna cut you up after class!"

Ah, to be young again! I've got a face like an old tire.

THE TRIPODS.

As a boy I was obsessed with The Tripods Trilogy by British author John Christopher, a three-part post-apocalyptic adventure story for boys. One hundred years into the future or so mankind has been enslaved by enormous three-legged machines by use of "caps", devices which are fused into a person's skull thereby annihilating any creativity or individuality. Life for man has returned to the dark ages, with men living in tiny primitive villages instead of our modern cities.

Our hero, Will, is weeks away from his fourteenth birthday when a Tripod will come to collect him and return him with a cap of his own. Will hears from a traveler pretending to be a derelict with a faulty cap (sometimes the caps have a negative side effect and make people crazy) that there is still a place with no Tripods. In the faraway White Mountains, which we assume must be The Alps, there is a rebel society living in caves and Will heads there. I remembered it being very frightening in the way that young boys find fun and I also remembered reading all three books with nary a break.

Anyway, I purchased the trilogy online and read them again. They are awesome indeed. As it turns out, they're being made into feature length films and, apparently, Steven Spielberg is interested. The rumour is that the story will now take place in the United States, which sucks. Where are these "white mountains"? The Northwest? Don't fuck it up, Spielberg.

Also, there was a BBC miniseries in the 80's which apparently had quite a following there. It looks amazing:

TAB.

I've had a crush an 50's hunk Tab Hunter since I first saw Grease 2, the greatest movie musical of all time. Tab had a cameo as a substitute teacher and sang the song "Reproduction", a funny little number about teenage sexual naivity. Later, as a teen, I would see Tab play the leading man to Divine's inginue, which would endear him even closer to me. In fact, he might be the very reason I've always been attracted to blond, beachy dudes.

Upon reading his autobiography however, "Tab Hunter Confidential: The Making of a Movie Star", I am out of control crazy in love with him. He nailed all these gorgeous leading men, from Anthony Perkins (with whom Tab had a two year relationship) to Rock Hudson. A sex symbol whose actually a homo? Amazing. Who needs Jake Gyllenhaal? I've got masturbation material for the rest of my life!

Ladies and gentlemen, "Reproduction":