This holiday season, keep in mind the low-key coming out (and perfect abdominals) of British diver Tom Daley. Bonus? He likes older men.
This week, keep in mind the Germanic charms of Helmut Berger.
I have a confession to make (can one confess to something that is probably obvious?). I have a soft spot for sleazy ’70s guys with shirts unbuttoned to the navel, chest hair, and gold medallions. I don’t know why, but I just love ‘em. So naturally, I’m a big fan of the covers of Mac Davis albums. Indulge at your own risk!
My personal trainer is finally back from his extensive European vacation, and we’ve hit the figurative punching bag hard already this week. Monday we cycled through all the muscle groups just to wake everything up, and today we narrowed our focus. This made it seem like the perfect time to place my order for this round of sessions.
I pulled up the photo I had saved on my phone from an Instagram post of Brad Goreski, Rachel Zoe’s former assistant, weeks before. “I’d like to look like this, if you please,” I said. He snorted.
“This? Easy. You will look better. See those abs? OK, he’s thicker than you so you won’t have those, but you will be very toned. And remember, you’re taller. I can’t cut your head off to make you the same size.”
“If that’s what it takes,” I said darkly. “If that’s what it takes.”
I’m going to say something possibly controversial, but there’s no getting around the fact that Christopher Isherwood was kind of an asshole. To his credit, he rather blithely acknowledges it in his books; he could obfuscate more, but he’s perfectly content to remain serenely above politics and, I don’t know, humanity? That’s what it feels like, at least.
All of this is on display in the BBC’s adaptation of Isherwood’s 1976 memoir Christopher and His Kind, sort of the anti-Cabaret Cabaret (and streaming on Netflix). In the more permissive 1970s, Isherwood basically rewrote his Berlin Stories and put back in all of the gay sex and politics he’d left out the first time around. I find the book an immense bore (he writes in the third person), but the film is an absolute delight, bolstered by beautiful men, a heartbreaking performance from Imogen Poots as the real Sally Bowles, Jean Ross, and a wonderfully strange, gnarled turn from Dr. Who’s Matt Smith as Herr Issyvoo himself. Continue reading