This is the saddest death since Whitney. My favorite Gore Vidal book is “The Judgment of Paris” and it’s a terrible book, but I bought this one old paperback - since lost - because it had a slender, nude couple on the cover, just a couple of blondes walking on the beach in a very pretty, Penguin Books circa 1960s-esque cover. Stunning. And that’s about as much as you can say about Vidal, author. Stylish, but hollow. No one’s ever said, I LOVE “The City and the Pillar” except maybe freshmen posers at their first queer lit class. It’s all so incredibly arch and mannered. But, in spite of that, Vidal was this totemic figure, not least because he broadcast his sexuality, for attention, sometimes, perhaps, from every soapbox, to the delightful annoyance of every gasbag proto- literary dude, the Norman Mailers and William F. Buckleys. Like how many stories have you read about Gore Vidal parading at the baths? It’s one service that that terribly-written “Eminent Outlaws” book provides - a reminder of this incredibly rich life all these early 20th century gay figures lived despite their surroundings. There was another story like that last week in BUTT. So for being such a proud whore I salute you Gore Vidal, because who do we have to look up to now? Anderson Cooper, e-mail pioneer? Jesse Tyler Ferguson? Neil Patrick Harris? Mrs. Give me a fucking break? Who’s left? I can’t even bear to think what will happen when Ed White dies. The final indignity is that someone will probably write a Sunday Styles piece with shades of that Erik Rhodes appreciation.
