I’m sitting by the pool in Palm Springs where it’s 108 degrees today and thinking about what I’m going to be wearing this summer besides these four year old swim trunks. I finally went for the shorter-but-not-too-short khaki shorts, have my eye on a couple pair of amazing cotton Brunello Cucinelli trousers and am still wondering what happened to that white nearly sheer cotton shirt that I wanted to wear to the Pride parties on Sunday. Of course, this being June, I’m rather far behind the rest of the fashion world if I’m only thinking of what to wear for the next few months.
I trust you’ve been in good hands as I took a week off to run around the hottest bits of California, first to visit my parents on the edge of the scorched plains of the vast Central Valley then off for some leisurely pool time in sunny Palm Springs, where opening the door of a parked car feels rather like setting off a nuclear blast. I’m willing to cut the locals a little slack due to the extreme conditions, but I have to say, as far as summertime fashion goes, the Californians ain’t bringin’ it. Particularly guilty are the Palm Springs Gays, who have a long history of dressing for the hotter climes and should know how to do it better. I took Scott and his colorfully turned-out mum Stacie to the popular Happy Hour at Azul on Palm Canyon and felt like we were surrounded by a bunch of thirsty lizards wearing cheap shirts and ugly shoes. It was slightly better at upscale Tropicale the next day, but I still expect more. Palm Springs Gays, consider this your warning.
The best-dressed gays in Palm Springs.
While I was out there, The Olympics happened. Or, at least, they started to happen. The Opening Ceremonies demonstrated how, in the slowest transition in theatre history, the Agrarian Age gave way to the Industrial Age, then a bunch of Mary Poppinses chased off a giant Voldemort puppet before a colossal creepy baby appeared, I think, in a crib. But that might have been the margaritas talking.
Hello from the gentle winds of Palm Springs. When I say “gentle winds,” I mean there should’ve been a fucking storm warning issued for the 92264 tonight but, otherwise, it’s been quite lovely here. Even though the winter polo season is finished and I’m not hitting a little ball from a running horse up and down a big grassy field, I can still sit by the pool and have dinner at the Riviera Hotel with Scott and his mum.
I was on the fence about whether to write about this week’s Celebrity Apprentice or the action film Thor, which I’ve just seen at the Mary Pickford Multiplex in nearby Cathedral City. Multiplexes and Mary Pickford seem to go together about as much as Cathedral City and me, which is to say we don’t. The first time I remember being in Cathedral City —it was in the Target parking lot before we knew Target was chasing the gay dollar and then using it against us — I remarked how it seemed somehow different from Palm Springs. Scott’s mum said, quite matter-of-factly, “Well, James, you know that Cathedral City is where the help lives.” That made so much sense.
How do your nuts feel now, dude? Can you feel them at all? Hemsworth before (left) and after the Testosterone, Nandrolone Decanoate, Stanozolol, and Anastrozole, a.k.a. The Thunder Cocktail.
In the end, NeNe kind of scares me so I’m going to go with Thor. Aren’t you glad?