Domani Dave

During our lives together, I have shamelessly ridden the tail of Stephen’s comet.  Now, not for a minute do I consider myself inferior goods, but as the pussycat in our owl and the pussycat partnership, Stephen kicks my kick (such as it is) up a notch.

Our house is full of exotic ‘items’, as I like to call them.  Stephen bought this poster from a local gentleman, a designer who along with his partner upped and decided a number of decades ago to sell to the walls and relocate to Hong Kong.  (Legend has it that they flourished there.)  The Siren of the Tropics was Josephine Baker’s 1927 film debut, and this poster may be the only surviving copy.

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This morning I was snapping pictures of Stephen’s Rothschild lilies that are blooming now, and realized of how much they resemble the poster.  Want to know more about Gloriosa superba ‘Rothschildiana’?  Visit ‘The Gay Gardener’ online.

Now, there are dozens and dozens of other botanical authorities online, but tell me, where else would you want to gather info on something that looks like this except ‘The Gay Gardener’?

http://www.gaygardener.com/gardenspot/bulbs024.phtml

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You’ve seen Martin Short’s impression of Katharine Hepburn, or Kevin Spacey’s impersonations of other actors, maybe?  It’s one thing to observe and isolate mannerisms and delivery, quite another to have the talent to translate it into a performance.  Ever had anyone do an impression of you?  Perhaps you don’t think of yourself as ‘impressionable’, I know I didn’t until a student in my former workplace ‘did’ me — right in the front office! — one day.  Brief as the bit was, it was so spontaneous and spot-on, the effect on me was like that bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of the West — a curious mixture of embarrassed and flattered, all I could do was laugh and wither.  The kid who did the impression was a curious mixture himself, someone who could function as a garden-variety partying college dude, but was a closeted (I don’t mean that kind of closeted) bright and sensitive soul.  No idea at all what became of him, but I’d like to imagine he’s still practicing his craft, even if it’s between insurance policies, or offering you a test-drive in a new Buick.

I myself used to do an impression of the program director of our Public Broadcasting affiliate at the university here, though I never made it part of my résumé.  It was really first-rate, and — really — all you have to do is ask.

My reworking of the expression ‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery’ for my blog tagline (see above) was originally intended as a wink at Stephen’s having christened me ‘Domani Dave’.  I am a serious procrastinator.  Of course, there’s that ‘mortality’ thing we’re always hearing about, but I’m still going to go for the idea that there’s still plenty of time to run that silly errand I was supposed to have run yesterday.  I cannot fathom why Stephen is forever rolling his eyes.

ANYway, that same Stephen — the inveterate shopper — was out fondling garments yesterday, and among them found a bit of irony in the form of a standard-issue grey jersey athletic t-shirt for me.  The thing is, from a practical standpoint, I’m not sure I can wear this ‘T’ out in public.  “Powered by Optimism”?  Doesn’t really say ‘Dave’, does it.

I don’t know, maybe I’ll wait to see if I feel differently about it tomorrow.

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This is a promotional image for the new Ridley Scott sci-fi movie Prometheus being released in June.

I’m curious about why the writers chose to name the robot series “David”.  Maybe as a nod to the ‘David’ robot in the movie A.I. Artificial Intelligence from about ten years ago, the one where the grieving mother of a lost child gets a sweet surrogate robot, then eventually drives him out into the country and abandons him like a castoff hamster.  The prince of the rip-your-heart-out child actors Haley Joel Osment running after the departing car crying “Mommy! Mommy!”?  I remember finding that scene wrenching, but then some people thought Faye Dunaway whacking poor little Cristina Crawford’s hair off in a rage in Mommie Dearest was funny, so who knows.

David's mommie dearest about to drop him off in the deep, dark forest. (Click)

In the recent movie Shame, Michael Fassbender (the actor who plays the robot in Prometheus) does a full-frontal.  Providing the production model of the ”David 8″ robot is anatomically correct, I’m going to put in my order today.

The remarks here on Domani Dave are just getting tackier all the time.

Happy Easter, a week late!  Stephen found this artifact somewhere on the worldwide web, passed it along to me, and I find that I cannot resist passing it along to you, crass as that may be.  It’s wrong, I know it’s wrong, there it is.

With plenty of time on my hands, my daily power walk still seems to be the single thing I can be counted on to do and never miss.  Maybe you’ll read my rumination on sneaking-a-peek while walking called Sharp-eyed, Bare-breasted Boys, posted here on the blog a year ago, if you have a little time on your own hands.

When I started walking four years ago, it was strictly for the exercise, but bonuses bloomed along the way.  One of them, the jockey, dudely, somewhat covert little waves the jockey, dudely joggers will typically flash one’s way as they sweep past.  A quick, dudely little nod?  Same-same.  A couple of years ago, a six-foot-three dudely jogger — with that long, elegant musculature that separates the Gods from the rank-and-file beef — became what I started referring to as ‘my new boyfriend’ to my Stephen when I’d get home from the walk.  This being a transient college town, he moved on (the jogger, not Stephen) and the sun went away.  Okay, that’s probably overstating it just a bit.

Recently, I’ve had bestowed upon me a new jogger boyfriend, much like the former one.  Baseball cap, no shirt, waves every time.  Of the previous jogger boyfriend, at some point I told Stephen that if out of left field he (jogger) screeched to a halt one day, grabbed me by the shoulders and said he could not live without me, that I wouldn’t be home and just to sell all my stuff.  I’ve grown more sensitive and caring since then, and have decided that if this new jogger boyfriend should stop me, I’m just going to invite him to come live with the both of us.

That’s a better, really altogether nicer idea, isn’t it?

Do you know those pieces that surface from time to time bemoaning the current wretched state of affairs — ‘Young people are disrespectful’, ‘Politicians are lying thieves’ — followed by the ‘punchline’ that somebody like Pliny the Elder wrote it in 75AD?  ‘See?-Things-have-always-been-awful!-Relax!’  Wish I could go for that.

The planet’s woes all traceable to overpopulation, it’s tough for me to summon a lilting ‘Congratulations!’ even for show when a couple tells me they’re pregnant.  I feel my face is broadcasting ‘Are you crazy?’.  My niece and her husband have twin daughters, with the recent addition of another girl; I don’t sense that they’re going to stop.  They’re very nurturing and responsible, but to me, ‘the right kind of people’ having children is still saying, ‘Oh, I certainly support protecting that fragile coastal ecosystem, just after I build my beach house’.

Though I can’t say I’ve ever paid any mind to the disdain some in the gay community have for same-sex couples’ “aping” heterosexual marriage complete with children, neither have I ever had much of a personal ‘biological imperative’.  The notion of immortality-through-progeny has never struck me as an especially sound basis for bringing a child into the world.

Children break my heart.  Topping the list of half a dozen organizations receiving monthly contributions from us is Stop Child Abuse.  Also on the list is Planned Parenthood, which ass hat Mitt Romney (father of five) says he will “get rid of” should he become President.  I would say that idea renders me speechless, but obviously not.

Tomorrow, April Fools’ Day, is Stephen’s and my anniversary.

Please, revisit last year’s post, if you’re of a mind to.

http://domanidave.com/2011/04/03/such-unlikely-lovers/

Is it unseemly to point out that we’ve been together for 35 years?  Well, I mean 35 years tomorrow.  That is, unless we decide to call it quits later this afternoon.

Big voice, big shoes. Click to enlarge.

I’ve always had a bit of a thing for Mandy Patinkin.  Following my daily [almost] visit to Post Apocalyptic Bohemian, where we were treated to Coffee in a Cardboard Cup, I surfed to an interview with Patinkin circa 2008 when he was performing in The Tempest in the role of Prospero, and lifted this image of him looking not unlike my best friend Smitty during the Seventies.  Risking sounding like Annie Hall (“You’re what Grammy Hall would call a real Jew!”), I find no one relates his Jewish biography more organically than Mandy Patinkin.  What does it say about me that if he were relating his Baptist biography, I’d tune him out?  He has an outsized, sometimes overwhelming talent.  The MP3 player cannot contain him.

Consider actor Benedict Cumberbatch, most recently of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.

So very long ago, that name would never have passed muster in Hollywood.  (“What a fluffy old name.  When I became an actor, Mum wasn’t keen on me keeping it.”)  In the tradition of Rock Hudson and Rip Torn, I like ‘Benedict Canyon’.

Mr. Cumberbatch is currently acting in next year’s Star Trek sequel with Zachary Quinto.  Those eyes, lips — prosthetic ears, a green tint, I think he’s good to go.

I think 'exotic' is the word I'm looking for. (Click to enlarge.)