I had another more serious post planned but after pulling an all niter drafting a marketing analysis for a company I hope to land a job with I am pretty much all out of words and any semblance of coherence.
When I was in banking I used to spit out industry and marketing analysis documents like a vending machine. This particular assignment was especially challenging as it was for a market that didn't yet exist and required much original research. Big thanks to Cass over at Cassidy's Quest for the early morning edit!
A little side note I am not getting paid for this work (I do write professionally also) and that chafes a little but in today's buyers market employers have the upper hand. I guess I am saying I am happy for the opportunity but resent the amount of time I had to put into this project.
I am not working at my other job today so I may drag myself to the garage and spend some quality time on my Stutz Blackhawk restoration project.
I do love early sixties French pop, here is France Gall's first big hit, I read she was rather embarrassed by the success of this 'silly" song but you cant help but smile when listening:
And here she is again from 1968
Speaking of the late sixties did you catch the most recent episode of Mad Men ("Waterloo" season 7/episode 7), no spoiler alerts just amazing writing and acting against the backdrop of the first moon landing.
Here is a picture of Don behind the wheel of a 64 Imperial to push all the right buttons (double entendre as Chrysler products had push transmissions)
Sorry I have been quiet since my Archer post. Work, children, cars, driving back and forth between Burlington and Hamilton nearly everyday.
To tell the truth I have been feeling very exhausted (even beyond the supernatural powers of the blessed coffee bean), some friends even pointed it out, so made an appointment with my doctor. Better safe than sorry.
I am not too concerned more likely the effects of insomnia and a busy life.
Not working today, so looking and feeling like a extra from a George Romero movie I have stumbled to my Victorian era coal fired PC to write you all a short missive.
For a number of years now I have been a fan of the Gallic genius Rev. Tom Frost. Coming to you from, in his words, the South of Hell France, he has thanks to the interwebs been spreading the gospel of weird western, horror movie themed rockabilly, through imaginative sound effect laden pod casts and his own brand of singing and playing.
Don't be afraid to click the links, come join us....there is always room for one more....
Having an obsession with obscure pop from the fifties through the late seventies means I find the modern day sorely lacking in the design and entertainment realm not to mention politics and the high price of fossil fuels.
I know I am a little late to the party but I wanted to sing the praises of adult spy cartoon Archer. The series now in its fifth season concerns the eponymous named secret agent who works for a a quasi government agency called ISIS.
His mothers is the head of the agency, Lana Kane (get it) fellow agent and ex girl friend, Dr Krieger head of the applied research department and possible clone of Hitler (go read Boys from Brazil). Cheryl, the crazy secretary and sometimes country singing star, OMG I could go on and on.
Just go watch it and try not to pee yourself laughing. I should warn you it is rather rude but well that is part of its charm.
I really dig the retro vibe of the show which is set in some sort of alternate reality where vintage and modern 20th century technology exist. The computers are early eighties, the cars are from the fifties through the seventies, the cold war and Soviet Union are still a going concern but we also have cell phones, GPS and many contemporary references.
A universe I would certainly feel right at home in, wonder if ISIS is hiring?
As I have said before my personality is not a happy go lucky one and I have had to deal with bouts of depression throughout my life.
I have much to be thankful for and some things to be upset and angry about, the other night I was letting the later bring me down.
Driving home after a long day at work (yes I am grateful to be employed and passing...but still I am woefully underemployed with the pay packet to match) and away from my children who I spent the evening with, making dinner, ensuring homework done etc.
As I cruised over the Skyway bridge that separates Burlington Bay from Lake Ontario, my mind returned to the though of what it would be like to drive the car off the bridge. No I am not suicidal but I recognize the thought as the onset of a depressive period I thought I had beaten into submission.
It was a beautiful night, no stars but clear beneath the clouds, the lights of the city and the flames of the steel mills in sharp relief. At that moment I was passed by a white 1978 Cadillac Coupe deVille (425 V8) moving at a highly illegal rate of speed closely pursued by a Jaguar XJ sedan.
The incongruous sight left me momentarily speechless, then I think I cheered. Was there a story there? Two vintage cars racing, underworld feud, caffeine withdrawal hallucination. Whatever it was, it was so damn cool it reignited my guttering spirit.
and what was playing on my stereo...the Repo Man soundtrack
It seems as if all my friends, whether "normal" or transsexual are having a tough time of it lately. I blame the economy, geopolitical tensions or perhaps it is just the weather, a miserable arctic winter that refuses to release its death grip on Canada and much of the northern States.
Hope springs eternal and the weather forecast promises double digit temperatures by the weekend albeit accompanied by rain. As long as I don't have to shovel it, bring it on!
Being transsexual is no easy road, despite the advances our tribe have made over the last few years. It was much harder before.
Any regular reader of this blog will know of my interest in transsexual history, I hold the pioneers such as Coccinelle, Bambi and April Ashley in high regard (not to mention all those who were brave enough to make the same journey and to live successful lives out of the spotlight).
I recently had the opportunity to re-watch the 2010 documentary Beautiful Darling, the story of Candy Darling. A student of the outre I always had a basic knowledge of Andy Warhol's Factory and his female stars, Holly Woodlawn, Jackie Curtis and Candy.
The story is told by her friend and biggest fan Jeremiah Newton. There is nothing drag queen about Candy, clearly she was a transsexual. Excerpts from her diaries speak of her desire to start hormones and electrolysis. The photos from her youth in Forest Hills are even more telling, few could fail to see the girl staring back at them. Her school book sketches of fashions offer more proof.
By the mid-sixties she was already venturing into NYC, first as Holley Slattery (her family name) and then as her movie star self, Candy Darling. Risking arrest I might add violating the masquerade law.
I will leave it to you dear constant readers to explore the rest of her story from the Warhol films to Tennessee Williams and her untimely death from lymphoma at age 29.
Candy was truly a beautiful woman but her desire for fame meant she was little more than an oddity to most people, as a result both love and financial success eluded her.
Two things stuck with me from the documentary, first her incredible force of will to reinvent herself as a woman and as a movie star in a time when dreams of even simple transition were nearly impossible.
The second was a quote by Candy's contemporary and fellow Warhol alumnus, writer Fran Lebowitz. In her words “a 25 year old man who becomes a 25 year old woman is not a woman at all
because a woman first has to be a little girl… Candy was never a girl,
Candy was a fantasy she created for herself.”
Yes she created herself but it is obvious from her photos, movies, writings and sketches that Candy was female. If I can be bitchy for a moment, it is Ms Lebowitz who should take a long hard look in the mirror.
“I will not cease to be myself for foolish people. For foolish people
make harsh judgements on me. You must always be yourself, no matter what
the price. It is the highest form of morality.”
