Our Celine Dion, was in tears as she viewed a model in see-through gown at a Paris Fashion Show the other day..
OMG!
I can't begin to tell you how many times the exact same thing has happened to me in the WalMart men's wear section. I see a beautiful tee shirt priced at only $5.99- or less, bringing me to tears.
You can image the sessions I have had in Hudson's Bay. Boxes of Kleenex. Weeping. Sobbing.
It's tough to shop for clothes without crying- isn't it? I am such a clothes horse too- and a shoe horse. Imelda would be proud of me. I buy a pair of shoes just to take home and keep in my closet. I might never have any intention of wearing them but I feel good just knowing they are there tucked away,
safe from the clutches of those who may be less inclined to appreciate a nice pair of shoes.
Shirts?
I don't need another shirt- dress or tee shirt, yet I still buy now and then when an item brings me to tears. You know what I mean.
~thunking my chest twice and raising my fist to the universe~
Of all the events we could cry at- weddings, funerals, births, graduation, birthday's, sad movies, crying at a fashion show is pure Celine. If I had of been there at the Fashion House in good old Paris, I would have cried too when that model, that famous model- I regret her name escapes me, comes bounding down the runway with just a sheet of see-through black cloth-like material covering her nippies and boobies.
What the fuck kind of fashion is that?
Who needs to look at those things at a nigh-end fashion show? Tape might have been appropriate.
Now, I have been to my fair share of runway extravaganzas. I have also been known to watch the men high diving during the summer Olympics- the only sport I can bear to watch for long. But I digress...
Once, I remember getting quite excited at a summer fashion show that was held in one of our local Zellers stores. Several of the male models actually strode the Zeller's runway clad in little else than a bathing suit and tanned skin.
One of the trim, hirsute lads sported a red speedo- if memory serves me correctly. He left little to the imagination- not unlike like Celine's model covered in that swath of semi-transparent, black, toile.
That little bit of latex/polyester fabric stretched and pulled on his buttocks as his athletic, bare feet slapped their way down the partially carpeted runway. Doing a polite twirl- once he reached the runway's end, I would have gladly plucked an apple from his tree. This Italian lad wore a cheeky grin on his face, a mass of black hair on his broad chest and little else- except of course for that low-rise pair of speedo trunks in flaming, Mexican red. My love of men in speedos may have started at that moment. At the very least my love for Italian men named Francesco- shirtless of course!
You know, I may have watched too many movies where romantic liaisons took place in sweltering gravel pits in mid-summer.
Sorry about that image.
That's James Dean bad!
A third male model trotted along the runway under the hot stage lights, sporting blonde, beachy, flyaway hair, a compact, lime-green bathing suit and matching flip flops. He ambled along the route smiling broadly from behind a pair of Foster Grants, all the while swinging an ample beach bag in one hand and a ten transistor radio in a leather carrying case in the other. This blonde Adonis had a smile the size of the Pacific ocean and a bulge as large as...well, it was notable, let's just say that!
His father stood in the audience alongside the Zeller's Runway beaming from ear to ear, sucking in his flabby beer-gut while pointing out it was his son up there. Gosh, how proud he must have been!
He continued to point out the obvious to all the ladies standing next to him saying-
"That's my seed up there! That's my Roger! A fruit doesn't fall far from the tree does it?"
Truer words.
I used to see Roger all the time in the Gay Bars in the early 1980's Gay Bar scene in Toronto. Being Orillia boys we always had a connection of sorts. He always had a new boyfriend every few weeks back in those days and the last I heard he had settled down with a lawyer in Cabbage Town.
I am sure after the Paris fashion show the organizers served Celine some fine French food- like fires and croissants. No such luck at a Zeller's show just the satisfaction of knowing one was on the cusp of worldly fashion.
What more was needed?
One day when I meet Celine face-to-face, I might just nudge the discussion in the general direction of crying at high end fashion shows. I'll share my Zeller's Runway experience with her and we'll see where that take us.
My Heart Will Go On until then.
