Hawaiian Holidaze….
Hawaiian would just like to say that he is seriously, deeply, and possibly permanently… tired on this most unmemorable of Memorial Day weekends.
So basically, the past few weeks have not been the best of times (and nor, thankfully, have they been the worst of times) and I therefore have not been up to the challenge of sharing that which goes on in my head with the few of you who might choose to read it. To recap: my spring nonfling flew to the other side of the country for three months, my favorite linen pants developed an unfortunate and irreparable hole, the guy who stood me up at the airport last fall resurfaced in a relatively unwanted way, an actual wanted date didn’t surface at all, and Taylor Hicks won American Idol. Yes, all of this, and yet we’re still not even nearing what I might consider “the worst of times.”
I think I’ve been living with some sort of long-term hangover lately. It’s hard to describe, really, but if I were to attempt to capture the sensation for the rest of you, it’s almost like my eyes have been taped open, and I’ve been forced to stare at a picture of
for far too long. Despit my love of hard women, I find no comfort in staring at Missi. She just hurts. And this, to me, is what separates her from my all time favorite hurts-so-good scarlet starlet, Miss Nicolette Sheridan. I’m still having trouble believing that Nicolette has recorded a duet with Michael Bolton for his next album, but given what happened with the American Idol results this year and considering that I’ve actually started listening to an Ashlee Simson song, I think I’ve accepted that in the world of popular music, truly anything is possible.
And as for the whole Idol thing, there seems to be a lot of confusion about how Taylor Hicks actually managed to win this year. Despite my crush’s insistence that it is simply proof that democracy can never be anything but vulgar, let me just say that Taylor Hicks won because there are a lot of 40 year-old women out there with no comfort but cats and processed food who thought of him as the working woman’s George Clooney and all imagined that they could be his First. And seriously, before anyone protests, let me just say that any man who dances like that and is under the age of 55 absolutely has to be a virgin. The dancing was the tell that these women used to identify his special circumstance. And therefore the dancing — not the singing — is the real reason that Taylor won. I know this because I grew up around women who voted for him. In fact, one of them even went with me to my prom.
Yes, that’s right. She went with me to my prom. And for those of you who don’t remember the story or for those of you who are new to the Hawaiian terrain, let me provide you with a quick retelling of the tale.
So it probably comes as no surprise that I was not popular in high school. I mean, it’s hard to be popular when you’re the chubby, short, bespectacled gay kid who’s good at everything but throwing a football and making friends. And it doesn’t really help if you’ve already read everything assigned in your sophomore English class, and therefore entertain yourself by reading the complete Danielle Steel while everyone else struggles through Beowulf. (Old English is apparently very hard if you still haven’t mastered the new stuff.) In fact, it’s probably fair to say that this strategy is guaranteed to alienate absolutely everyone in the classroom… except, of course, for the 24-year-old substitute teacher who is envious of your reading material and sees in you the spark of great and total gayness.
This woman would, over time, lead me down a path of homosexual cultural high points littered with Streisand albums and Steel Magnolias, illuminated by tales of her three different ex-fiances named Matt, Troy, and Troy who taught her through their chastity and lizard-stamped loafers how to spot a gay in nascent stages. She would take me to color guard competitions, to chick flicks, and to touring performances of broadway plays all despite my mother’s deep but silent disapproval. She insisted that she looked like Jodie Foster, but despite her experimentation with prescription diet drugs and regular colonics, the extra fifty pounds of shame she carried around since college always made her look a lot more like
Wynonna Judd.
By my senior year of high school, she was my best friend in the world, and because of her perpetual high pony tail and her small upper lip, I called her The Samurai.
I had never planned to go to my Junior prom despite having actually planned it, but The Samurai insisted that I do so. It was something not to be missed, she said over and over again. A prom was a memory that would last forever. And indeed it was. Because I took The Samurai’s younger sister as my date, and both my family and hers were horrified when The Samurai herself jumped into the limo with us at the last possible moment. It seemed she’d planned to catch up on a few taped episodes of Days of Our Lives while the two of us in formal clothing went to dinner and the dance. Alas, the limo driver refused to drive the car while I wasn’t in it, opting instead stand outside of the car itself and smoke, so when my date and I returned to the car, all we found was a driver who reeked of unfiltered Camels, and a very miffed and angry Samurai.
So what does this have to do with American Idol, you might be asking yourself, and how could I possibly know that The Samurai voted for Taylor despite having not talked to her in roughly a decade? Well, when the Samurai was at her most lonely, she’d always reach for something low and raspy. Some Bruce Springsteen. Some Joe Cocker. Some Van Morrison. The Michael Bolton cover of “Drift Away.” Something that she could tell herself was, for better or worse, the sound of a straight man wooing his prey. And even if Taylor sounded more disabled than straight while shouting “soulpatrol!” and spazzing out next to Ryan Seacrest, his dance moves were nothing if not completely heterosexual.
If I know anything about Samurai, it’s that she’s still single, still looking, and still watching things like American Idol. This is a woman, after all, who saw every single episode of Star Search. And Solid Gold. (And Felicity, though I think that filled some very different emotional needs for her.) And I also know, from personal experience, that she’s capable of speed dialing at an amazing rate. Faster than her phone can do it, in fact. And I know she’s not alone. I have an aunt who was probably dialing right along with her. Another Springsteen fan. Another spinster. Another woman who feels abandoned by her increasingly gay TV who’s holding out for a hero, even if the white knight in this case already has a full head of gray hair and couldn’t ride a horse to save his life and looks constipated while singing. These women were the heart of the Soul Patrol. These women are the reason that the new American Idol looks like Jay Leno and dances like a blind man.
So I can’t say that I’m happy about Taylor, but Danielle won America’s Next Top Model and Harold is the new Top Chef, so something is still right with the world. Oh… and I just had one of those long late night conversations with someone unexpectedly sweet and totally uncomplicated. He said it was fantastic and like being in high school all over again. I’ll agree with him that it was fantastic, but if that conversation reminded him of high school, I can pretty much gaurantee that his teenage years were absolutely nothing at all like mine.