not in our stars, but in ourselves
I am really going through something here. Between this something old and that something new, I have developed intense feelings for and about Perfectkins. INTENSE feelings. Like, if I were the kind of person to indulge in fanfic (and I’m not, so don’t worry too much about me), it would be all incredibly nutty stuff about a stand-in for me teaching a nervous young Tony how to love.
Because he was so tall and gangly, he just always seemed to be a boy. A sweet boy, a funny boy, a boy who wanted and needed huge amounts of love. I am not generally interested in the young or young-at-heart, but it’s a crucial part of his appeal for me.
And, I mean, look at him.
I love his funny face, his sunny funny face.
Of course, this is all horribly bittersweet, because he died twenty years ago of AIDS – and so there’s an aura of sadness about him and his memory. There’s a sense of wasted opportunity, too, because he was so talented and so good at everything, but for millions of people he’s just Norman Bates. Nothing wrong with an iconic role, but it stunted his career in so many ways. Sort of like Marilyn Monroe as the archetypal dumb blonde: it’s what made her famous, and then she couldn’t get anyone to see her as anything else – no matter how great and versatile she was. Poor Marilyn, poor Tony.
Oh, well. We’ll always have Brahms.