“Two tears in a bucket… motherfuck it.” Isn’t it the way that Lady Chablis, the true star of one of the few un-loathsome Eastwood films–one I watched again and again just for her–died on a day when many of my colleagues and I tore the director a new arsehole. You just know she would’ve appreciated the irony. Heck, she probably engineered it. She was 59, which is not bad for a transwoman who lived through AIDS, but still far too young. (Here’s to the day when transgendered people of color regularly live to a ripe old age.) Rest in power and pretty peace, you doll, you grand empress, you hip-shaking, sooth-saying, stone-cold fox.
“Two tears in a bucket… motherfuck it.” Isn’t it the way that Lady Chablis, the true star of one of the few un-loathsome Eastwood films–one I watched again and again just for her–died on a day when many of my colleagues and I tore the director a new arsehole. You just know she would’ve appreciated the irony. Heck, she probably engineered it. She was 59, which is not bad for a transwoman who lived through AIDS, but still far too young. (Here’s to the day when transgendered people of color regularly live to a ripe old age.) Rest in power and pretty peace, you doll, you grand empress, you hip-shaking, sooth-saying, stone-cold fox.