We Don’t Tango Anymore!

There are places where it’s illegal for teenagers to have sex because the authorities are worried it might lead kids to the tango. The tango is Adults Only, any way you slice it. It takes sophistication and patience to understand the sensual rhythm of two people moving with each other when they’re barely touching. Exotic? Erotic? All of the above? Unfortunately, in our time, we don’t tango all that much. We let the professionals do it and watch, as if it were pornography. Why? I blame the “relationship.” This nasty euphemism has not only ruined the tango for ordinary people; it’s responsible for most of what’s wrong with love in the 21st century. Here’s the deal:

1 – What the hell does “relationship” even mean? Unlike love, there’s nothing special about a relationship. We all have relationships with any number of people, from our colleagues to the kid who delivers the pizza. Push comes to shove, I have a relationship with my houseplants: they’re beautiful, and I water them. If I don’t, they’ll crisp up and croak; then we both lose. Personally, I think using the same word to describe what’s going on with the love of your life and your $19.00 bougainvillea is just a bit dismissive.

2 – People are always talking about taking their “relationship” to another level. Look, (nudge/nudge, wink/wink) we all know this means sex. Folks, love is not a video game with orgasms. You don’t collect points for getting the dinner reservations right or remembering an anniversary, then cash them in some rainy night when you’re feeling lonely. That’s not how it works. Trying to figure out sex is difficult enough. Turning it into a Reward Challenge is just sick!

3 – “Relationship” words all suck. I want to “be with him.” I have “feelings for her.” Who are these people talking about — their grandmas? You can’t sterilize passion. Once you do, it isn’t passion anymore.

4 – People are always working at their “relationships” as if they were some kind of emotional salt mine. Honestly, if it’s that difficult, why bother? After all, love is supposed to be fun.

5 – And finally, being “in a relationship” sounds like you’re bunking in for the weekend (or maybe slightly longer.) The extraordinary connotation of the “relationship” is it’s temporary. It has a definite beginning, a middle and an end. I’ll grant you, few of us mate for life anymore, but I, for one, think love is valuable enough to at least give it a try.

People fall in love. We can’t help it. It’s marvelous and messy, but we shouldn’t try to institutionalize the romance out of it. When we do, we lose beautiful things like the tango. We don’t tango anymore because we’re too busy working on our “relationships.” We haven’t got time to see the person right in front of us and realize they’re hearing the music, too.

The British Are Comi … They’re Here!

In North America, just like fishnet stockings and a push-up bra, a tuxedo and a British accent is so close to being soft core porn it should have a warning label. This is why we’re up to our entertainment elbows in expat Brits. They’re all over the place, from John Oliver’s weekly dose of escalating indignation to this new guy, James Corden, whose nightly impression of Ricky Gervais isn’t actually all that bad. But that’s the secret. The British accent is so sexy on this side of the Atlantic, Brits don’t have to do much except show up. You could give Bobo the dancing bear a bowtie and a few long vowels and even PETA would tune in. There’s nothing wrong with this, BTW, I just find it fascinating.

Check it out. Need a Lincoln? Look in London. Batman? Same again, please. Superman? One more time. Even Spiderman is a Brit, if not by birth. How about a villain who will literally steal the show? If Alan Rickman’s busy, try calling Tom Hiddleston. David Tennant could read the Ipswich telephone book and get an Emmy, and Benedict Cumberbatch has so many Cumberbitches is tow he wouldn’t even have to read it. Mark Strong, Kit Harington, Henry Cavill — the list goes on, and I haven’t even cracked open the Who’s Who of the Harry Potter franchise yet. There are so many Brits kicking around the American media these day that Jude Law, Hugh Laurie and Damien Lewis don’t even count anymore. It’s a wonder Clooney and the boys aren’t reduced to marrying rich lawyers or doing Chanel™ commercials just to make ends meet.

So what’s the deal?

Some people say our Anglophilia comes from watching too much PBS as children. After all, Masterpiece Theatre has been American highbrow for over forty years, from Upstairs, Downstairs (the first time) to Downton Abbey, with any number of Emmas thrown in the middle. Plus, for decades, Public TV has been so successfully murdering Brits every week that they’ve worn out one Sherlock Holmes and possibly three Miss Marples! That’s a lot of cultural tea and crumpets for impressionable young minds to digest.

Personally, though, I disagree. I believe our insatiable love affair with the Brits started here (see video) and is now irrevocably twisted into our DNA. (And kids, if you don’t know who this is, ask your grandmother — she’ll remember.)

Fashion: What The Hell Happened?

Paris Fashion Week is two weeks over and the supermodels have scattered to the various All-You-Can-Eat breadstick bistros to fuel up for the next round — so it’s safe to ask a few rhetorical questions.

When did fashion models get so angry?
Back in the day, models were pouty, sulky, sullen and even vague (who wouldn’t be, on a diet of coffee and cigarettes?) and we liked them that way. Oddly enough, disinterested crack addict used to be considered sexy. These days, they all look like they’re grinding their teeth and just praying for an opportunity to jump down off the runway and kick the bejesus out of somebody. They’re like a really skinny motorcycle gang. The last time the world saw this much pent-up hostility, Hitler invaded Poland.

Who wears those clothes?
I’m not talking about size nothing VS real women of the world — unrealistic body image expectations have been done to death. I’m talking about a woman’s inalienable right to sit down. Harnessed into some of that industrial-strength crap, it’s a wonder they can even blink their eyes.

Is there something schizophrenically wrong with a society which is totally obsessed with breasts but demands its professional clotheshorses don’t have any?
No doubt, and there’s probably years of therapy involved in there somewhere.

Why is Haute Couture synonymous with hideous?
I’m from an age when Oscar, Yves and Coco actually liked women. They made clothes for them that looked nice, that fit, and, for the most part, were wearable to weddings, funerals, birthdays and other social occasions. I have no idea where or when women actually wear the rag bags they’re sewing up these days. Exorcisms? Barbie has a better wardrobe, for God’s sake!

Why are fashion commentators so damn bitchy? [Oops!]
It was Richard Blackwell and his Worst Dressed List that started this trend sometime in the last century, and Joan Rivers turned it into an art form. They both made mountains of money and now everybody’s doing it. But it’s been more than 50 years, folks. Could we move on?

And finally, why does a heterosexual, grey haired old guy like me even care?
Gimme a break! Fashion Week is fun.

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