Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Mickey, Judy and Guy

So when the amalgam of a Mickey Rooney/Andy Hardy tries 
to start a life he goes where anybody would – Manhattan – to which
the amalgam Judy Garland/Betsy Booth (who boldly and alarmingly
insists in 1941 on getting older) also goes, as always slated to be
the Mick’s gold-plated Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer conscience, even though
the girl was popping uppers to get through the ballyhoo of switching
yet again into another humble siren of a moralistic fable. Rooney
was no Gable, but as Andy Hardy he could fake a nascent little man –

and Judy Garland, well, was Judy Garland ever aching for a musical:
the most accomplished art the grandest movie studio imparted
to the country’s early 1940s heart belonged to her – but everybody,
Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland, Andy Hardy, Betsy Booth were cutting
their and our collective tooth on the amalgam loves of youth, writ
large on silver screens – purported pork-and-beans of mental health: 
the wealth I took to New York City when I came to start a life myself: 
handsomer than I could dare to understand – simply due to being

just another average twenty-four year-old gay man – I drew to my
intrepid chest the first of many self-defining tests – the best for last,
which is the vast enchantment and investment of my full if dimly
recollected past, which waltzes with me like the meteorologically misty
cast of every Judy-Mickey movie: proving, it would seem, that what
it takes to love a human being can’t be learned from anyone at all.
Yet here we are withal – Mickey, Judy and Guy (oh my!):
amalgam love of loves, always and forever in each other’s thrall.


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