I angle my face a bit, struggling to find a balance between blubbering mess and adorable fawn in distress. Not too messy, not too cute. Photos are snapped as I move my head from side to side, looking down for a few of them and then gazing right at the camera for others.
I pull my phone back in and scroll through the images, happy with these results until I feel another surge of tears rolling down my cheek. I can do better. There’s more gold to mine, and if I’m going to feel this shitty, I might as well get something out of it.
When I flip back to the front-facing camera I discover that my eyeliner has started to run in a way that looks fuckingincredible.
I begin the process over again. Crawling to my feet and hurrying out of the closet.
My bedroom is large and immaculately clean, kept in order for any impromptu content creation that might pop into my head. The furniture is well curated in a combination of the mid-century modern that Palm Springs is known for and a few well-placed pops of neon that lean even further into the camp of it all. There are shelves of books I’ve never opened, constantly swapped out with the latest must-reads, and a few colorful knickknacks and art prints to drive home the youthful irreverence.
The piece that’s on my mind, however, is easy to spot. A whole wall of my bedroom is taken up by an enormous black-and-white photograph print of Eddie Michaels on stage. He’s standing atop his piano, his back to the camera and his arms wide open as a crowd stretches out before him. The photo has been blown up so large that you can actually make out the faces of many people in the front row, expressions of joy and wonder and awe. As the audience continues farther back, however, they start blending together, an endless mass of bodies gradually transforming into a blur of late seventies film grain.
Imagine being on the receiving end of that kind of raw, unwavering love.
Imagine having that kind of influence.
I stand in front of the gigantic photograph, then hold out my camera and snap a few more pictures as makeup streams down my face in watery black lines.
When I’ve finally captured something I’m happy with, Idraft a new post featuring this teary-eyed photo and use the hashtag #RestInPeaceEddie. I add a somber tune over the top, opting for one of Eddie’s most powerful ballads, then stop myself. Instafeed allows their users to see the highest trending songs at any given moment, and while I love the track that I’ve chosen, it’s way too deep of a cut.
I shift gears, going instead for “Nights Like This,” the song featuring Dua Lipa that Eddie released just last year. It’s already back to number one in the trending category.
“Nights Like This” is a decent song, actually, but it certainly doesn’t move me like the classic stuff. Eddie’s old-school ballads will always have my heart, but that doesn’t matter right now. Today isn’t about myfeelings, it’s about seizing the moment.
I hit Upload.
“Mom!” comes a distant trembling cry, overwrought with frustration.
I wipe my eyes and tuck my phone away, then hurry out into the hall. “Coming, sweetie!”
Our house is big, and its size is made even more apparent thanks to the sprawling, single-story architecture. The ceilings are high and the tile floors shine with luxurious brilliance. Like my bedroom, every square inch of this place is decorated with equal parts mid-century charm and kitschy flair. In the living room, a giant pink statue of David sits on my white marble coffee table, and behind it hangs a colorful print in the style of Andy Warhol, a large portrait of Stevie Nicks’s face in four different sets of bold color. It’s fun—high-and lowbrow blended togetherand infused with my own personal style.
No, it’s more than just fun. It’saspirational.
There are several ways to cultivate a social media following, just like there are several ways to upcharge someone for the dead bodies they’re trying to illegally purchase.
I’m good at both.
In this particular case, I’ve opted for a lifestyle brand that’s fairly universal—a beautiful queer woman basking in the glow of youth and success. Sure, there’re a lot of people already riding this train, but the difference between me and them is simple: I work harder.
I’m also better-looking.
Continuing past the living room, gym, and one of three guest rooms, I stroll into the dining area and then out onto the patio of an inner courtyard. This open-air section rests at the center of our home, a breezy, succulent-lined oasis featuring a hot tub on the left and a fire pit on the right. A shimmering turquoise pool fills up the rest.
My daughter, Marlo, has recently exited the pool. She sits wrapped in a towel on one of the nearby wooden loungers, not lying back but leaning forward in a rigid hunch. Her body language is distinct and performative, trying to deliver a message by showing me just how stiff she can get. She doesn’t even look over when I round the corner, just stares off into space.
“Hey, sweetie,” I start, walking over. “You wanted to show me something?”
I move around to the front of Marlo, then take a seat inone of the other chairs. She’s notavoidingeye contact with me, per se, just not making any effort to align our gazes.
“Idid,” Marlo huffs. “You wouldn’t come and watch.”
“I was working.”
My daughter rolls her eyes. “You were making your videos.”
“How do you think all this stuff gets paid for?” I snap, a little more aggressive than intended. “Do you have any idea what I do for you? How hard I work?”
Marlo doesn’t answer, unimpressed. Her little brain is turning something over.
