"In November 2009, she finally came out."

OK, so these days, it's very popular to take artists and Lena Dunhams to task for having gotten where they are through connections, and to discredit works whose creators had any advantages, anything from famous parents to indoor plumbing. And while I understand the sentiment, I tend to think we don't want to take this line of thought too far, because some really great works emerge from people who began their careers on third base, as the saying goes. Do we really want to not adore Rufus Wainwright because his parents were also musicians? Can't we just be glad that he wasn't born into a family that expected him to become an orthodontist?

But what I, even I, might question is when profiles of the children of famous artists insist that it's this great act of courage for such an individual to also go into the arts, to "come out" as an artist. As if whichever neuroses one might understandably feel about not wanting to go into the family business in any way, shape, or form compare to, let alone exceed, the obstacle that is not having famous parents.

Science proves Rufus good-looking

So there's a new book out explaining that women experience sexual desire, much of it being lust for men. As someone who's been saying this to skeptical audiences since forever (that would be 2004, folks, the year WWPD was born), I suppose I ought to be unequivocally thrilled that Science now backs this up. Elaine Blair writes in her NYT review:

[Daniel Bergner] sets this tour of contemporary sex research against one particular shibboleth: the notion that women are naturally less libidinous than men, “hard-wired” to want babies and emotional connection but not necessarily sex itself.

Gah! Finally, someone points this out! Finally, there no longer need to be individual women popping up here and there to say that they feel like gay men trapped in women's bodies - but not in a transgender sense, just in a gosh-men-are-pretty one. Some men. Keanu Reeves comes to mind. And to take this to an ever-more-unattainable level: Rufus. Finally, women's desire for men (and yes, obviously, some women only desire women, and some are asexual, and that's fine too) need not be treated as perversion or immaturity. (Teen girls can think guys are hot. Women somehow can't think the same of men.)

And yet. I mean, I'll read it, I'll pitch responses to it once I've read it and can therefore respond. It does sound pretty great.

But there's something about the mere fact of the existence of such a book that reminds me of when NYT food writer David Tanis told readers that it's OK to eat out-of-season asparagus, something ordinary shoppers had already been doing, given the asparagus in stores. An imperfect analogy, fine. But I guess what I mean is, there's something kind of strange - mansplaining even if not intended as such - about learning that a man is out there with a book explaining that which women's wiring has been telling us since we were 16, 12, or 8 years old. (What it means to like boys/men - or girls/women - will of course vary according to how old you are, but lots of us know long before middle school. I can remember who some of my celebrity crushes were from that era, but I'm not saying.)

I'm having trouble articulating this. Because it's really not that I think the book itself sounds mansplainish. Not at all. It's just that perhaps on some level, I'd have preferred it if a woman had written this book, and if it were sufficient authority to hear this message from a woman.

14, 29

Tonight, Rufus Wainwright himself graced us, the rural 'burbs next to the famous university, with his presence. There was a very elderly crowd, which was not quite what I expected for a Rufus concert, but exactly what I expected for the venue. The evening began with a previously unannounced Wainwright sister who wasn't Martha, who Wikipedia tells me* attended the same high school and college as Lena Dunham. She first played a song, then introduced herself, and yeah, perhaps the word "nepotism" came to mind (as did the possibility that there are an infinite supply of musical Wainwrights), but she was actually quite good. She made it abundantly clear that she was well aware no one had come to see her, that everyone wanted Rufus or at the very least the sister they had heard of, whose talent had already been verified. And this kind of dragged on, with songs broken up by questions getting solicited from the audience. And the audience for the most part didn't have any, although this one guy wanted to know what her favorite Rufus song was, and then her second-favorite. She promised Rufus was imminent.

And then, Rufus! In a velvet-looking blazer, with a huge, vaguely holographic brooch, a massive scarf that was more winter-wear than accent piece, and what I believe were hiking boots. Appropriate for the terrain, I should know. His hair was short, but, like, Rufus-short, so still scruffy.

Oh, and there was music as well. He sang a bunch of songs at the piano and guitar, complained about a cold sore, forgot much of his own oeuvre mid-performance, seemed at various points on the cusp of a nervous breakdown, complained in possibly offensive terms that "Gangnam Style" was the reason his latest album never hit it big (which, fan as I am of "Out of the Game," no), and then made like he was done when he wasn't really done, as is done.

He then returned, in much stronger form, and "The Art Teacher," sigh. A song about male beauty, sung from the perspective of a woman, but by a gay man. I will spare you the 10,000 words I could toss off on that and just say that it's a lovely song. (Also "April Fools" - hearing it will always make me feel 14-ish, which is all the stranger a feeling the older one gets.) "Going to a Town" felt oddly out-of-date, very much a song of the Bush II presidency, certainly not of second-term Obama, but he sure performed it well. And "Hallelujah," a little treat for the not-as-Rufus-enamored in the audience.

And, Rufus will always be Rufus. Even if he's forgotten his own songs. Rufus is early high school, and as Jennifer Senior told us, that time stays with us forever.

*Also from the Wikipedia sink-hole: Loudon, and thus Rufus as well, are descended from Peter Stuyvesant. My mind is blown. Suddenly, everything makes sense.

Rufus comes to the woods

Rufus Wainwright, OMGOMGOMG, is coming to Princeton, NJ. Not just Princeton, but a stage within walking distance of my apartment. I wonder if Jörn will be there? Will there be Lederhosen? Will he sing in French? Whatever happens, it is going to be amazing.

A serious post about the world today

-OK, so poodles like to prance around on their hind legs. It's not (as some commenters appeared to believe) some Chinese conspiracy making them do so, nor is this dogs not being dogs. If you want to blame Man, blame whoever came up with the idea of poodles. (Do not ask how a poodle would survive in nature. The very concept, poodle-in-nature, is illogical, gets the timeline wrong.) The tutu may be a bit much, but the biped thing, that happens even without leash-pulling. It's just their thing.

-Rufus Wainwright is taken, guys. (Gals gave up a while ago.) Along the same lines, the New Yorker of all places has a kind of spot-on take on being an 11-year-old girl with a crush on a gay male celebrity. But if you're going to get your humor from that source, you really want to start with this.

-Personal consumption updates: I'm going to have to give a shout-out to the tailor at Aphrodite French Cleaners in the Village, who resuscitated the sweater for a mere $40. I can wear it and stuff! And another to the Lower East Side boutique Honey in the Rough, which a week or so ago had this bucket-full of Uslu Airlines nail polish for $9 a bottle, maybe still does. Yes, the best nail polish of them all - doesn't chip, yet comes off easily with remover. The one I paid 19 euros for in Heidelberg, and thought was unavailable in the States, unavailable except at a handful of concept stores in Europe, where I most definitely am not. Until a moment of Googling revealed a website that solves exactly that sort of problem. Useful, of course, not only if you live in a major city, but also if you want to order something from at least the same country, in the right currency. Technically one can by this nail polish from the company and have it shipped to the States, but it comes to just over $66. In any case, at $9 a bottle, i.e. more like OPI or Essie prices, I confess I ended up buying two - an exquisite clear (why do those generally peel right off?) and another bottle of the same sheer bubblegum pink as I'd bought in Heidelberg. I somehow managed to resist the red, turquoise, and sparkly blue - the thrill of a good deal confronted the reality of which colors go on my nails these days.

Rufus of the Day

In response to Rufus Wainwright calling a church on 23rd Street "crappy" in comparison to Notre friggin' Dame in Paris,

One nearby resident said Wainwright “needs to apologize . . . and buy the church some candles. Parishioners are up in arms that their church, which has long served the poor, has been insulted by a neighbor.”

Wainwright told us, “It is a beautiful church, and I hope that it gets the restoration it deserves. But considering the Catholic Church’s views on gay rights, they won’t get much help decorating.”

Burying the lede

There's a new Rufus Wainwright music video, for "Out of the Game." In it, three Rufuses make out at a library, with one another. Now, I've spent a lot of time in libraries in my day, and never did I see so much as one Rufus just passing by, let alone three Rufuses getting it on. Anyway, the Daily Mail Online thinks the story here is that the video also includes a moment of Helena Bonham Carter in a bustier.

The Gay Messiah

Photo credit: Nick or me, who knows.

Confirmed, Rufus is God. There should be no separation between Rufus and state. Praying to Rufus should be mandatory in public schools. I can't confirm that there is no other God than Rufus, but it's some stiff competition. There should be shrines to Rufus in the temples of all major and minor Eastern religions that have shrines. And there should be shrines to him, period. He is divine, and I mean this literally. "Fabulous," as he is often described, is too much of a nondescript term used about (and allegedly by) gay men to explain someone of such universal appeal and importance.

Aside from pointing out that his singing sounds at least as good in concert as on the albums, all the way through a very long set, I can't convey much about the music itself. Amazing music, but I can't describe it, you'd be better off just listening. But the costumes! First there was the striped suit (or, in Rufus-lyric terms, "pants-suit-sort-of-thing;" see above) with shiny brooches on the leg. No shirt beneath. Then there were the lederhosen, which are as spectacular as one would expect from custom-fitted lederhosen. He paired these with a rhinestone (?) necklace and bracelet. Then he reappeared in a white fluffy terry-cloth robe (no photo, probably the rainstorm was picking up during those songs). A few songs later, he added to the robe a pair of high heels (worn, it was clear, over seamed stockings), red lipstick, and very shiny (rhinestone?) earrings. He then whipped off the robe to reveal... a just-long-enough tuxedo jacket.

Mon dieu!

In a matter of hours Nick and I will be seeing God himself, yes, that's Rufus Wainwright, performing in Central Park. As you can see, I have high hopes for this concert.