Guest Post: Kinky Boots!

I am very honored to present you with a guest post this week from my hilarious real-life (and bloggy) friend, Duffy.

I think you will notice his post fits nicely into my LGBT Pride series. Plus, it's all about fashion, which I think might be a very slight interest to a couple of you. Haha.

Enjoy!

The pReview Re-viewing Re-Living True Story of Kinky Boots:

(warning: This may make you go buy shoes.)

by Jeff Finck

Steve Pateman may not be a name that most people know.  Nor will most people know his company W.J. Brooks Ltd.  Allow me to educate your face!  In 1979, a young man called Steve Pateman began helping his father make shoes at their shoe-making firm in Earls Barton, England, near Northamptonshire.. A city well-known for its shoe-making. (Apparently, as many as one third of all men in the city were shoe-makers by 1831!)  Little did Steve know at the time, his shoe-making roots were going to make history not 20 years later.. All thanks to drag queens.

Little known fact: 20 years of hanging out with drag queens WILL make you fabulous.

W.J. Brooks Ltd. (est: 1889) would continue selling and exporting quality men's footwear until the great market flood of 1990, when cheap, godawful, imported shoes started gaining momentum.  Couple that with the British Pound increasing in value, thus losing a lot of their export trade, Steve and his company struggled against the odds.  It got so bad by 1997, Steve had to give in and start cutting staff, many of them friends, in order to make ends meet.  Even after cutbacks and redundancies in staff, W.J. Brooks was getting beaten up pretty badly in the shoe game.

Not unlike a certain shoe-magnet/former President.

But in 1998, a fetish shop in Folkestone, England came a-calling and they needed a ton of women's shoes in men's sizes, STAT!  Steve saw an opportunity with this nearly untouched market, and thus began the Kinky Boots Factory!  Actually.. BBC wouldn't dub W.J. Brooks' new footwear The Kinky Boots Factory until 1999 when they featured their Divine Footwear on an episode of their Trouble at the Top documentary series.  BBC really prides themselves on coming up with clever names for things.

CBeebies may have blown my mind.

After MacGuyvering metal struts into stiletto heels, specially made to handle the sheer magnitude of a man's superior weight (it's science.. look it up in the Geneva Convention..), Steve attached those heels to various designs he had for wider, bigger leather boots.  In order to send out a catalog, though, he needed a man to model the boots.  When no one else would volunteer, Steve became that man.  With a catalog completed, a BBC documentary spot in the bag, and an appearance at a Düsseldorf footwear show, W.J. Brooks' Divine Footwear line would turn out to be a wild success.. For a time.  At its absolute height, the line accounted for nearly 50% of the company's profits!

Lesson learned: If money's tight, figure out how to shove metal into something feminine and sell it to men.

Steve Pateman's story has actually garnered much exposure over the last ten years, resulting in a movie AND a musical on Broadway!  The 2005 movie, Kinky Boots, starred Joel Edgerton ( The Great Gatsby, Warrior) and Chiwetel Ejiofor (Salt, Serenity, Children of Men), and was loosely based on the actual events.  Even though the movie was only a moderate success, it did earn Chiwetel Ejiofor several nominations for best actor, including the 2006 Golden Globes!  The 2013 musical, also titled Kinky Boots, is based on the same (slightly changed) premise as the movie and has met a bit more success than its predecessor, recently winning six Tony Awards, including Best Original Score and Best Musical.  The play was written by Harvey Fierstein and features music and lyrics by freaking Cyndi Lauper!

Ah, two people who could be picked out of a line-up by voice alone.

This story does have kind of a bittersweet ending, though.  In 2000, W.J. Brooks was saddled with such a massive debt by an (from what I can tell) unnamed American firm.. Plus, the fact that the crazy, cheap shoe-throwing industry had tracked his company down and followed them into the whole fetish line.. Steve was forced to halt production on his Divine Footwear for men.  Despite all of that, with the exposure of his struggles and successes, it would seem that a light has been re-shone on the city of Northamptonshire and many shoe-making factories have managed (as of 2011) to continue hugging the shoe-shaped balls out of the industry through the adversity.

Just like me!

Duffy likes to revel in the fact that he thinks he is a very funny person.
See how funny he thinks he is at his movie blog:  http://thepreviewreviewing.weebly.com/my-preview-re-viewing-blog.html

The Lady Lesbian

She was born into a world of scandal.

Her mother was the gorgeous mistress to King Edward VII and her father was a shadowy figure who was barely around.

By the time Violet Trefusis realized what was going on around her, she had already decided her life was going to be MUCH different than that of her promiscuous mother.

Unfortunately, the pretty little child had absolutely no idea that her future would not only eclipse her mother's famous affair, but shock the entire country.

When Violet was a teenager, she fell in love with a girl a couple years older, named Vita. Their flirtations came to a close when the king died and Violet's mother decided to take her family abroad for a couple years as a courtesy to her royal lover's grieving family.

When Violet came back to London, she was outraged to learn that Vita was engaged. To a man! To make Vita jealous, Violet flirted mercilessly with men at society parties and even got engaged a couple times to get her crush's attention.

But, it didn't work.

Vita

Vita remained happily married, giving birth to two sons. But then one day Vita's husband had a confession. He was cheating on her...with men. Stunned by her husband's homosexual liaisons, Vita made an agreement with him: he could have sex with as many men as he wanted, but she got to do the same...with women.

Thrilled by the turn of events, Violet once again declared her love for Vita and much to her astonishment, her wish came true! The two women spent every waking moment together, holding hands in the lush green countryside to frolicking on the beaches of South France.

Gossip of their affair traveled back to London, much to the dismay of Violet's mom. Even though the middle-aged woman had once been the mistress to the very married King of England, at least she had done it with a little dignity and discretion! Not prancing around Europe without a care in the world! With a woman, nonetheless!What was her daughter thinking?!

She threatened to cut off her daughter's finances until she married. Violet was torn. It was 1919. She had no skills to get a job. There was no way she could support herself alone. She begged Vita to leave her husband, so the two of them could run off together and live as a couple freely, without the hypocrisy of fake marriages disguising their true love. They would worry about money later, but at least they would have each other, honestly.

But Vita refused. Violet was asking something of her that wouldn't be socially acceptable until nearly 100 years later.

Frustrated and bitter, Violet agreed to marry the man of her mother's choice, only as long he agreed to never consummate the marriage. Here she was entering the hypocritical life of her mother, something she promised herself she would never do, but it seemed she wasn't being offered a better choice.

Her handsome new 20-something husband agreed to the platonic marriage, simply thinking that Violet was merely a pure and innocent girl who was terrified of sex. After the marriage was finalized, Violet finally confessed to her husband his worst nightmare: she was a lesbian.

When she tried to leave her husband to go back to Vita, however, she had her entire family as a roadblock.

Her younger sister, Sonia, was engaged to a very wealthy and respectable aristocrat (together, they would eventually become the grandparents to Camilla Parker Bowles). Violet's parents were adamant that their openly gay daughter not destroy the union by flaunting her homosexuality in public. Violet fought so hard to be able to see Vita, that it destroyed her family. Both her father and sister stopped speaking to her.

By the time her sister was married, it was too late for Violet and Vita to rekindle their romance. Someone had spread a rumor to Vita that Violet and her husband were sleeping together. Even though Violet insisted to Vita that it simply wasn't true, Vita was already too hurt. She ended their relationship, leaving Violet in anguished, broken-hearted despair.

In the late 1920s, Vita would go on to have one of the most famous lesbian affairs in world-wide history with writer Virginia Woolf.

Vita & Virginia

Violet, however, turned into a ghost of herself after the break-up.

In the 1920s, she began a long-term affair with the sewing machine heiress, Winnaretta Singer, who was married to a prince. But instead of wild passion and dreams of running away, the romance was much more discreet and controlled.

Violet's mother actually approved of this affair, because not only was it being conducted in good taste, but Winnaretta was one of the wealthiest and socially acceptable women in Europe. If her daughter was going to insist on being a lesbian, at least she was now sleeping with the right woman!

Winnaretta Singer

But Violet was miserable. She was living the lesbian version of her mother's life. She was nothing more than a mistress to married royalty.

Whatever happened to living free? Defying hypocrisy? Being PROUD of who you were?

Sadly, those were feelings way before her time. The world wasn't ready for it yet.

(source)

After World War II, Violet and Vita reconnected and rekindled their romance. They remained close friends for life.

Vita eventually passed away in 1962 and Violet passed away ten years later.

But their forbidden and tortured love remains the source of legend.

Books, movies, and history have preserved a bond forever.

A bond that couldn't even last for the people who created it nearly 100 years ago.

"Modern Art on Legs"

June is LGBT Pride month. To kick off the celebration, here is a profile on the glam-fucking-tastic gaylien force, Leigh Bowery. I hope you enjoy the series on LGBT icons I have in store for you these next 30 days.

Leigh Bowery grew up in a blue-collar neighborhood in Australia.

Miserable in his working class town, he shied away from boys his own age who were more interested in playing sports or sneaking a delightful peek at pornographic photos. Instead, Leigh hid under his covers at night pouring over the latest fashion magazines and kept his weekends filled with classic films, especially those starring his idol, Elizabeth Taylor.

When he graduated high school, the chubby teenager attended fashion school in Melbourne, but got bored after a year and moved to London in 1981, with nothing but a suitcase and sewing machine. He was ready to take on the world.

He moved in with two guys who were hip to the homosexual party scene and he started his career as a fashion designer. His outfits were so outrageously loud, colorful, and bizarre, he got noticed by the industry immediately.

Everywhere he went, whether it was out to the grocery store on a lazy afternoon or partying at the hottest dance club, people stared. They had never seen someone like him before!
 His wigs! His face paint! His shoes! Who was this Leigh Bowery?!

He showcased his collection at London Fashion Week and all over the world. His clothes were sold at Barney's. He even designed stage costumes for a hot new pop star named Boy George.

While he was on top of the world, Leigh started a disco night club called Taboo. It became the hottest place to be in London, with orgies practically manifesting themselves on the dance floor. The drunk DJ spinning without a record. Celebrities getting high...or down. And as the queen of the ball, Leigh lit up the room every night with his jaw-dropping attire.

He wore everything from white lacy nightgowns to an actual disco ball on top of his head. His most popular outfit involved a glittery Chanel-inspired jacket with a plastic toy policeman's helmet.

In 1986, however, the club closed down when the tabloids revealed the "shocking" exploits carrying on every night.

But it didn't matter because Leigh was bored with it all already. He was in the midst of moving on into another career: performance art.

Without much trouble, the party monster booked gigs all over London.

He did everything from pretend to give birth on stage to channeling Jewish persecution in World War II.

In 1993, he added another job on his resume when he started a pop band with a few friends. Their single, "Useless Man," became a hit in Europe.

But while he was busy shocking the world with his bold artistic expression, Leigh's life was literally falling apart.

In the mid-1980s, he had been diagnosed as HIV positive. He only told a couple friends at the time, begging them to keep his secret. He didn't want the deadly disease to overshadow his work.

He even married a close friend, Nicola, as performance art, and never even told her what was going on with him.

But by late 1994, seven months after their marriage, the tired artist could no longer keep his illness in the dark. He grew increasingly sick, having to cancel gigs and spend weeks in the hospital.

It was time to tell everyone.

In January of 1995, Leigh passed away, right after pleading with his friends to simply tell people he had moved to Bolivia to become a pig farmer. He still didn't want the disease to be his legacy. It just didn't seem fair.

Fortunately, his wish came true.

Since his death, Leigh has been remembered in three books (two biographies and one photo collection), a documentary, countless art shows, and in Boy George's Broadway musical, "Taboo."

His eclectic style has influenced artists like Alexander McQueen, Vivienne Westwood, John Galliano, and Lady Gaga.

People remember his spirit. Not his death.

Not bad for a "Bolivian pig farmer," eh?

The Tale of Two Lovers

With his mischievous grin and saucy wit, Joe Orton could get away with just about anything.

So when the working class 20-something Brit moved to London to try his luck at acting, nobody questioned it.

Although he was a fair actor, with impressive physique and genuine charisma, it soon became clear the stage wasn't meant for Joe. He was an incredibly talented writer and his dark, dry humor shocked and delighted everyone who read his essays or short stories.

In 1951, Joe met and fell in love with an older, middle-class guy, Kenneth Halliwell, who seemed lonely and lost. Life hadn't been very fair to Kenneth. When he was 11, he had watched in horror as his mother was stung by a wasp and choked to death in front of him. When he was 23, he woke up one morning to find his father dead from a suicide in the kitchen, his head still in the gas oven. Both incidents had left the shy kid devastated.

Joe and Kenneth felt a deep understanding to one another. Joe, being so outgoing and joyful, brought Kenneth back to life. Kenneth, reserved and observant, brought out a more serious side in Joe. It was a perfect match.

The two started writing stories together, such as Lord Cucumber and the Boy Hairdresser. Their honest and humorous accounts of homosexuality raised eyebrows but didn't get them published at the time.

Bored by their lack of success, the two young men became pranksters.

In their spare time, they stole more than 70 books from the public library and defaced the covers before returning them. For example, on one cover they drew a naked middle-aged man with tattoos. Unfortunately, the library system didn't think the vandalized covers were very funny and both men were prosecuted. They spent six months in jail.

While Joe was in jail, something about being alone in a cell changed him. He had hours upon hours to think creatively and ponder about the world. His writing started to change. It became more mature and fresh and exciting. By the time he was released from jail, Joe was a changed man.

He started publishing unique and hilarious plays, such as Loot, which were gaining national attention. Critics either loved or hated him. Celebrities wanted to hang out with him. It was swinging sixties London and he was one of the hottest figures in town.

Unfortunately, his boyfriend couldn't bring himself to bask in the success.

Kenneth grew more and more jealous of Joe's growing fame and talent. He was bitter that Joe seemed to have moved on professionally, away from him. Whatever happened to writing stories together? He felt left behind, even though he was always at Joe's side, invited to the hottest parties and traveling the world on exotic vacations.

Kenneth started taking anti-depressants to ease the pain. His sulky, resentful attitude turned off most of Joe's new famous friends, who would invite the hot 30-something playwright to parties on the condition that Kenneth had to stay home. The two men began to grow distant.

On a warm August night in 1967, Joe decided he was going to break up with Kenneth the next day. After all, their lives were going in opposite directions. Joe had already fallen in love with another guy and wanted to see where that relationship went. It wouldn't be fair to string Kenneth along anymore. Plus, Joe was on top of the world. Tomorrow, he would be meeting with The Beatles to discuss a screenplay he had written for them.

But tomorrow never came.

While Joe slept, Kenneth took a hammer and bashed his boyfriend's skull nine times. Blood splattered all over the bed, the walls, and the floor. Then, Kenneth took an overdose of pills, killing himself instantly.

Heartbreakingly, Joe remained alive in his bed for several agonizing hours, before finally succumbing to death himself. The bodies of both men were found by their chauffeur the next morning.

Today, it still remains one of the most gory and disturbing crime scenes in London's history.

And just like he feared all along, Kenneth has been forgotten. He is merely a footnote in literary history.

The muse and murderer to a brilliant mind that was simply crushed too soon.

Where's Rachel?

When I was a little girl, my parents quickly learned that sending me to my room as a punishment was, in fact, not a punishment. I loved my room. All my Barbie dolls were there.

So, when I got in trouble, they started sending me to the home office.

At first it was boring. But after rummaging around on the desk, I discovered a massive carton filled with pens and pencils.

 

Putting my twisted imagination to work, I began to play with the writing utensils like they were dolls. Each pen and pencil had a name, a personality, and a family. For example, the blue pencil, David, was in love with the State Farm pen, Denise. But he was already married to Megan, the chewed up red pencil. The faded pink eraser was their daughter, Lindsay.

The pens and pencils in that carton were an entire village. It was like a soap opera, filled with family drama, romantic scandals, and even a random bank robbery when an erasable pen stole a bunch of paperclips at gunpoint.

I was so caught up in the little world I had created that I started to prefer playing with the pens and pencils over my own Barbies. I would rush home from school, running straight past my bedroom, into the office and dump out the carton of pens.

The anticipation was killing me. Would Rachel, the Yellow Pages pen finally realize that her husband, the Dr. Epperdink MD pen, was cheating on her with a pink highlighter named Gwen?! Was Rick, the black Sharpie, going to get cold feet at his wedding with Sarah, the red Bic pen?

I couldn't wait to start the show!

One evening, I dumped out the carton, ready to play, when I let out a gasp.

Where was Rachel?!?

RACHEL WAS MISSING.

I scoured all over the office. How did she disappear?

I ran into the living room, where my dad was watching the news.

"Where's Rachel?" I demanded.

He looked up, perplexed.

"Rachel who?" he asked.

"Rachel, the, the, pen," I sputtered, in panic. "The Yellow Pages pen! Where is she?"

My dad stared at me.

"The Yellow Pages pen?" he repeated, blankly. "That pen wasn't working this morning. The ink is out. So I threw it away."

I shrank away in horror.

"You what?" I whispered. "You threw her away?"

With tears streaming down my face, I ran back into the office.

"Where are you Rachel?" I wailed, digging through the trash can. "I'll find you! Oh my god!"

She was nowhere to be found. I ran into the kitchen, rummaging through that trash can, throwing garbage all over the floor, desperately seeking out the Yellow Pages pen.

My parents ran into the kitchen.

"You're making a mess!" My dad roared. "You better clean that up!"

Finally clutching the discovered Yellow Pages pen, now covered in ketchup, I glared up at him.

"You killed Rachel," was all I could manage to croak.

My parents stared back at me, speechless.

Then they had a long talk in the living room.

They came back into the kitchen and told me I was no longer allowed to play with the pens and pencils.

I was devastated.

To make their point, they hid the carton from me in a locked desk drawer.

That moment marked a changing point in my life. Staring at the locked drawer, I realized that playtime was over. It was time to grow up.

I moved on.

But I never forgot.

And now sometimes when I look at a pen, for a split second, I think I see her personality stare back at me and she winks. And it jolts me back to life.

But then it fades away as quickly as it appeared.

Hipster Racism

Most of you, well probably all of you, might not know, but I am dating a member of the Sioux tribe.

Rian is a quarter Sioux and received the official recognition from the tribe a few years ago.

Anyway, Rian and I once joked that if we have children, they're going to be the ultimate hippies.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize it's true.

Both of our Indian ethnicities are considered "new age" and "sexy" in the western world. Our ancestral backgrounds have become a novelty.

Think of how many young people do yoga, consult gurus, and brag about spending a summer in an ashram, only in a desperate attempt to be cool. Or do peyote or go to rainbow gatherings, without respecting the rituals or understanding the meaning.

And then there's the fashion.

For example, just sift through photos of Coachella outfits.

While Rian's sweet little Indian grandmother spends hours carefully crafting bead work for legitimate pow wows on Sioux reservations, these 20-something girls are flaunting the native style like they own it.

And both Gwen Stefani and Lana Del Rey were called out for using Native American style to sex up their appeal in music videos.

When the videos came out, people in the Native American community were outraged. The head dress is not a fashion accessory, they cried out. It's a symbol for an entire culture. They saw the videos as a mockery of their heritage.

Meanwhile, on the other Indian side, we've had everyone from Julia Roberts to Selena Gomez wear a jeweled bindi on their forehead. And everyone from Pamela Anderson to the Pussycat Dolls waltz the red carpet in sarees.

When Selena recently wore a bindi during a seductive VMA performance, the incident received worldwide negative press and tweets from Indians who were offended. In fact, officials at the Universal Society of Hinduism insisted Selena should apologize for making a mockery of the religious symbol.

Now, I'm not saying that fashion trends or style influenced by these cultures is completely tasteless.

But I do think there's a fine line between borrowing customs for style and creating costumes as style.

I own a pair of Minnetonka moccasins. They're adorable. And I love wearing feathers in my hair.

But you wouldn't catch me going to a music festival in full headdress. I think that's disrespectful.

The same goes with the other Indian culture. I love wearing mehndi in the summer. I own a stash of decorative bindis.

But then again, I kind of cringe when I think of pop tarts using a religious symbol, such as a bindi, as a form of sexualization. Maybe I'm too critical, but that does seem culturally insensitive to me. There's a difference between making a fashion statement with respect and making a mockery of it with sex.

The same goes for any other culture.

But the line is really up to us. And unfortunately, it's located in different places for different people. What I don't find offensive might enrage a devout Hindu.

After all, nothing is black and white.

There are millions of people all over the world who genuinely adore the Native American culture and find it an inspiring influence. Just like there are millions of people all over the world who do yoga for the health benefits and pursue Hinduism because it genuinely speaks to them.

But when it comes to fashion, the line is there.

What are your thoughts on hipster racism? Is your style inspired by other cultures? Have you ever been unsure where to draw the line?