#39: Gangland Fashion, the Shark, to-do-list, Background Monsters, Timberlina's Next Chapter
Throw these into the conversation.
1. Crime Never Looked So Good
In 1957 Life magazine commissioned Gordon Parks, the magazine’s first African American staff photographer, to shoot a recurring series on crime in the United States. To complete the task, Parks embarked on a six-week journey that took him to the mean streets of New York, Chicago, San Francisco and LA.
Notably, Parks, who was known for working in black and white, shot his photo-essay, “The Atmosphere of Crime” in color. Instead of gritty snapshots of a hardened underworld, Parks delivered something altogether more cinematic — a unique, richly-hued, hidden world of violence, police work and incarceration, portrayed with empathy and candor. They remind me of stills from a premium streaming series.
To me, what comes across so strongly is Park’s grounding and experience in fashion photography. His theatrical composition and use of colour elevate the strictly documentary to something almost ‘fabulous’. The same approach adds texture and pathos to Park’s work documenting Black life in the 40s and 50s. A true giant of American photography.
2. “Don’t Fuck with Me, Fellas”
I recognized her immediately - the sharply tailored suit, the penetrating stare, the purposeful gait. Legendary LA attorney, Gloria Allred, looks formidable even at 5’4. Famed for her iconic feminist legal victories and her bloodlust for the scalps of her opponents, just the mention of her name can strike fear in the heart of even the most powerful CEO. She’s the queen of the courthouse steps press conference, where she’s known to release a fusillade of withering attacks, reducing industry titans to quivering jelly. And she was sitting just across the aisle from me at Carnegie Hall.
It’s not important how I got there. Without going into too much detail, legendary hitmaker, Desmond Child, who wrote countless global rock bangers had extra tickets to a Diane Warren tribute show at Carnegie Hall. Diane Warren, of course, is America’s other pre-eminent hit songwriter and wrote Un-break My Heart, Rhythm of the Night, Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now, and many, many more. Desmond invited a friend who invited me, and I invited my 23 year old nephew, Henry. The evening included performances from LeAnn Rimes, Taylor Dayne, Arianna DeBose and others while Dianne Warren and Clive Davis waved from the balcony.
It was one of those moments where the relentless rushing tide of New York somehow sweeps you unexpectedly into a swirling eddy of stars. Henry and I just sat there wide-eyed and star stuck. For me, however, Gloria Allred was the biggest star there - and the nearest. So I stood up and humbly approached her. Henry covered his eyes.
“Excuse me, Ms Allred. My name is David Mills and I just want to say how much I admire you and all your hard work on behalf of women over the past decades.” I stammered. WITHOUT MISSING A BEAT, 83 year old Gloria Allred reached into her bag, pulled out her card and thrust it into my hand. “If you ever have any legal trouble at all, be sure to call me.” she purred.
I could feel her eyes burning deep into me, scanning my soul. "Who hurt you and what could we get for it?" I could feel her asking. It was both terrifying and electrifying. In that moment I knew — Gloria Allred is still hungry. She’s still out there prowling the waters, hunting. She’s got one more big case left in her. One more giant to slay. One more multi-million dollar settlement to sign before laying down her sword. She just needs to find the right case, the right cause.
So now, Gloria Allred is my official attorney and I'm looking for someone to sue. Not just anyone, of course. Gloria Allred doesn’t get out of bed for a settlement less than a million+. I’m not wasting her time with that small fry pizzeria that gave me food poisoning or the deli I sprained my ankle out in front of. Gloria Allred is not taking down Crumbl or even Allbirds. This is the big league - New York City or Exxon or Coldplay’s Chris Martin. Of course, my only possible argument and Gloria’s specialty is emotional damage. Surely, I’m owed a few million for the trauma Coldplay has inflicted on me over the past twenty years.
I’m still shopping around, but here I am, mid-fifties, single, renting a room, shuttling between part-time jobs and still waiting for my big break. There’s got to be someone I can blame for the state I’m in. Whoever it is, Gloria Allred is going to make them pay.
Watch out!
3. To Do List
As our world goes up in flames remember there’s still lots of great stuff to see and do. Here’s a list of a few friends’ projects worth checking out.
The Other Side: Perspectives on Being Different (until June 23)
If you happen to find your self in Greenport, go see this exhibition curated by Quality Time favourite, Jeff Lee along with Kara Hoblin, His colourful paintings of faggoty boys are just some of the highlights of this fun group show from the kooks and queerdos living out on the remote far reaches of Long Island.
Teenage Wasteland by Dean David Bottrell (multiple dates)
Still a few dates left to catch the very funny and moving tales of teenage ne’er-do-well turned Hollywood TV stalwart, Dean David Bottrell. He’s one part David Sedaris, one part Spaulding Gray, and one part James at 15. I saw him hold an audience rapt for over an hour at an intimate New York venue. It was great. Highly recommended! While these may be the final dates of this current tour, I have no doubt he’ll be back on the road soon. If you miss him now, make sure to follow him on social media and catch him the next time he swings through town.
David Mills RIOT ACT! (July 5 and Aug 9)
Welcome to life in 2025. An inescapable matrix falling somewhere between Squid Game, the Star Wars freak show cantina, and a pornified cartoon Disney theme park. Join me for more harrowing and hilarious stand -up comedy rants punctuated with Tom Waits songs, Billy Paul bangers, and a few re-worked classic cabaret tunes. The show recently received a rave review from Cabaret Scenes ‘unapologetic, in-your-face, sexually vulgar and wickedly funny.’ Chock full of fresh gags and new numbers, RIOT ACT! is an up-to-the-minute commentary on our contemporary dystopia. You’re invited, so bring your friends and frenemies! Tickets here.
4. In the Background
My greatest fear is being captured on film mindlessly doing something stupid in the background of some influencer’s TikTok that then goes viral. There’s me thinking I can go unnoticed dislodging something stuck in my teeth with one hand while rearranging my junk with the other as some pre-teen influencer captures the whole thing on Tik Tok in the background of their inane dance. After decades building a career as a performer I finally and unwittingly achieve notoriety as a meme. People on the street point and shout ‘You’re that guy in the meme! Do that thing!” Total nightmare.
That’s why I’m obsessed with the ‘People in the Background’ account on X. It’s basically a cache of close ups of all the unaware, unselfconscious people being weird and human in the background of staged pictures, primarily cheesy politician pics. A glimpse into how people behave when they think no one is looking.
In our contemporary world of extreme surveillance, no one is safe. Every time we step out of the house we risk having our true and ugly selves captured on film and later exposed to the world. What to do? Escape to a remote, empty island or accept that regardless of our best efforts to present a polished facade, every one of us deep down is an imperfect, flawed and gross monster. Of course, it’s the latter but I’m still on the look out for that island so I can be a gross monster anonymously.
5. Greetings from St Leonards, the South Coast of Blighty
It’s been too long since we’ve heard from QUALITY TIME’s Countryside Correspondent, Ms Timberlina. She’s moved to sunny St Leonards, near Hastings on England’s South Coast. Her trenchant reporting follows.
“Fifteen years ago I ran away from expensive London to the bucolic hamlet of Rye and quickly became embedded in its small, quirky, rural community rich in intrigue and character. Formerly cosmopolitan London refugees mixed with alternative country folk on the right side of open-minded. Rye was a jolly, mostly successful mish-mash of friendly alcoholics clinging to a rock sticking out of the Romney Marsh.
After the cold and anonymous hubbub of London, in Rye I finally found a place where I could invest my heart and soul. I embraced countryside subsistence, took on an allotment and drove the community bus shuttling seniors to and from their appointments. For a while it worked. I’d travel back to London for a few shows every week to cover my low rent and took up local ecological activities like foraging, fishing, and digging for razor clams. Recognising seasonal smells and bartering gave me endless joy. For a good while I was in my element, living off the land on a meagre income, furnishing my home entirely with repurposed, cast-off gems and keeping everything local. I felt enormous pride in my success bucking the capitalist tyranny.
Sure it drove my boyfriend crazy as I refused to upset even an ant that crawled from a fermenting apple I had salvaged to make moonshine scrumpy. ‘No!' I’d cry whenever my hard working City Mouse partner suggested far flung foreign escapades so he might have a moment away from his tedious, yet much better paid, corporate job. I just couldn’t bear the idea of releasing that much carbon into our precious atmosphere. (Dramatic? Sure, but I had my principles!)
As my income stood still, I giggled in delight at my simple life. Meanwhile, quietly, local house prices in Rye skyrocketed and the shops that once furnished local amenities closed, replaced by an endless supply of boutiques selling silly scented candles and rare breed woollen blankets.
When Covid hit, it felt like the moment I’d been waiting for my whole life, so I leaned into sustainable activities as things finally went tits up. Rye was like living in the 1920s. Our fresh food was delivered, the streets were silent and we would walk daily to our favourite spot and reminisce about the before times and debate whether they might ever come back. Of course they did, with gusto.
When the old world slowly re-appeared, so did the many wealthy newcomers, like cicadas emerging from the ground making a terrible racket. It seems they’d bought up the homes of all the elderly who hadn’t survived the pandemic. Quaint little houses became turbo-charged second homes and ugly key safes appeared everywhere. Soon Rye’s weary cobbled streets would be awash with tourists, phones out and taking selfies on the ‘most photographed high street in England’.
Suddenly I was surrounded by squawking day trippers and shrieking, wealthy Karens. (Are there any other kind?) How much longer could I tolerate the new Rye? How much longer could I afford it? You see, while I’d invested my heart, soul, creativity and love into building a community and a life in Rye, it never occurred to me to invest money. I never had any real money to begin with but why would I invest in property even if I did? I could afford my rent and still have enough left over to live well enough if I kept things simple, grew my own vegetables and mended my clothes. How naive.
I was getting desperate. Even if I downsized I could no longer afford Rye. I had no assets to sell, but also no debt to service. Not great if you want to borrow money for a mortgage. Thirty years of paying rent on time apparently means nothing when applying for credit. How’s that for logic? Then my landlord turfed me out to charge some city folk double the rent. The only surprise was that it took him so long.
So, I scanned the papers for somewhere new. I checked out countless house-shares with middle-aged teenagers and slightly more attractive hovels further from the sea. No luck. Finally, just when I thought I might have to move back to London and sleep on a friend’s couch, I went to see a tiny home in a purpose built studio with an amazing view, hidden away just a minute from the sea. In St Leonards. There’s even a large, wooded communal garden too, where badgers and squirrels reside and Mr Fox occasionally sunbathes in the middle of the lawn. It’s brilliant, so I jumped on it.
I’ve been here less than a year and now I’m actually trying to buy my flat. I don’t want to get turfed out again. True, I’ve had to succumb to the capitalist tyranny to afford it but at least I’m working for a nonprofit that’s ostensibly helping people rather than seducing them further into debt. The best part, I can spend hours just staring out my window at the sea, mere minutes from the shore, breathing in the sea air.
The move to St Leonards, though disruptive, has been good for me. Best of all, I’m finally letting go of Rye, that twee allegedly coastal rock that’s actually miles from the sea. Sure it’s rich in scented candles but dwindling in personality and as far as I know, now completely devoid of any local drag composting bingo callers. Their loss.”
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Final word from Human Rights Watch (Emmy Award Nominee for Outstanding Short Documentary )
parting shot
