Hitler, Tate, and the Gods of Little Boys

Big men, big ideas, broken children

There’s a wonderful moment in Invitation To A Bonfire. I won’t ruin it for you, but it goes something like this; a young girl, infatuated with a famous novelist and all of his iridescent supremacy, suddenly sees the man. A weak man, an aging man fraught with flaws, insecurities, falsehoods and sadness. The God is dead. Long live the adult.

The cult of personality and boyhood

We’ve all had this moment growing up, little boy or little girl. The superhero, basked in all the hopeless worship only afforded from the innocence of youth, falls harder than Icarus. The stage lighting has shut off with a stark jolt and you see the clownish white paint, the long stale drag of a cigarette, and the creeping numbness of a Valium. Your rock Adonis becomes five foot seven, drunkenly slurring over sore knees and a receding hairline. Your problematic older boyfriend rots into white sheets when he finally weeps for his dead marriage. Your fabled leader becomes rancid with the decay of his glory in the wake of a strip joint, a line of coke, and a sex worker called Shimmer Lake.