I went to high school with Gordon B. ("a living legend in her own mind," as Kenny, formerly of Chosen Books, once quipped).
Eight years ago, Gordon saw my byline and called. We've been in touch weekly, sometimes two or three times a day. (Paraphrasing playwright George Bernard Shaw, "Too bad youth and iPhones are wasted on the young.")
In our Cass Tech senior year, I wasn't sure Gordon was gay. He certainly looked it. Tight pants. Starlet haircut. Magnificent eyebrow control. Telltale wrist positioning on an impeccably small 27-inch waist (gone improbably wide with age).
What puzzled me was that Gordon was drawing pinups. What self-respecting gay man draws girlie-girlies? (God knows the thought never crossed my one-track mind. And, for the record: I find Tom of Finland's Scandinavian whoppers ho-hum.)
As I got to know Gordon, my gaydar proved correct. Turns out he drew pinups because he admired the airbrushed artistry of Esquire illustrator George Petty (1894 – 1975). Petty Girl calendars are collectibles. Gordon owns four originals, and is a published expert on Petty's work.
I've told Gordon many times in our improv duologues that I'm certain he was birthed during a Betty Davis movie. If anyone's star struck, it's he. (At Detroit's infamous 1011 bar, Gordon would usually stand where the light flattered his looks to advantage. S&M. Stand and model. Wait seductively 'til picked up. Which was often.)
"Ready, Mr. DeMille, for my close up!" "You used to be big in silents, Miss Desmond." "I am big. It's the pictures that got small."
Gordon's mom was 15 when he was born. While 20-year-old dad regularly partied with buddies, mom took Gordon to neighborhood movies. Silver screen enchantment. Popcorn and let's pretend. Ninety minutes of intimate escape for two.
Gordon's life was changed forever – the first time – one Saturday matinee with mom when "Sunset Boulevard" was playing, starring Gloria Swanson and William Holden. A close-up of Joe Gillis (Holden, age 32) getting out of aging screen legend Norma Desmond's swimming pool was electrifying.
It was 60 seconds of 1950s cinematic beefcake revelation for Gordon, age 14. (Earlier persistent but unfocused feelings for actor Helmut Dantine suddenly found new scripting.)
During other weeks – on a generous weekly allowance of $1 – Gordon saw "Sunset Boulevard" over and over. When asked why, Gordon said it was Gloria Swanson. (To date, Gordon has seen "Sunset" hundreds of times. Says Gordon of heart throb Holden, who in 1981 died of acute alcoholism, "On film he's radiantly immortal. Sadly, just as radiantly unavailable.")
Gordon's life was changed forever – a second time – when his unsuspecting mom found letters addressed to Gordon with the salutation Dear Rita, a camp name taken in honor of film great, Rita Hayworth. Gordon was given an ultimatum ("hardly worthy of a star of my magnitude"): go to a shrink or get out.
Gordon, at 22, got out. Mom, losing her only child to the reality of glitter-and-be-gay, hard-knocks make-believe, had a nervous breakdown. For mother and darling son suddenly turned Rita, the years that followed provided a long intermission, with few if any memorable reruns.
Independent to a film-classic fault, Gordon has spent his self-producer/director life in adoration and pursuit of glamour. A devotee of Hollywood, a theater groupie, he's collected autographs, bought signed glossies, magazines, memorabilia – brazenly gone backstage to greet actors, musicians, dancers, Judys, Sarah Vaughns. His collection of Academy Awards programs goes back 50 years. Last Sunday was his night of nights.
To "miss"quote the real Rita Hayworth's voice of experience: "Men go to bed with Rita Hayworth. They wake up with Gordon."
