As Zelda pointed out, “Everyone you like is dead.” Truth. I have an obsession with dead guys. I’ve found my niche in the dating world, and I’m not sorry about it. They’re always available, they don’t lie, and they give me exactly the right amount of space (six feet under, to be precise).
Vintage Variety Pack: Bogart to Kristofferson
Currently, I’m deep into my second round of James Dean (the first was high school)—that eternal flame of sexy brooding who left us in a spectacular car crash. Like all the other devoted weirdos who pilgrim to the crash site annually to lay underwear and Ray-Bans (which I swear I haven’t done) along a barbed wire fence, I’m morbidly fascinated. He never aged beyond 24, forever young and smoldering, while I continue to age like Joan Crawford in her wire hanger years—dramatic, unhinged, and ready to fight with furniture.
Speaking of smoldering, On the Waterfront just played on TCM (that’s Turner Classic Movies for you Young People). You could watch this film on mute and just glob over young (let’s be clear) Marlon Brando’s perfect face. The piercing stare, the abs, the magnetic presence of a man who elevated mumbling to an art form.
Humphrey Bogart? Absolutely. Casablanca became my emotional support film during one particularly dark winter, and remains my long-haul flight companion. Cardboard Bogey is still lurking in the corner of my house—impossible to part with. Had I been the only 11 year-old past 1955 with a crush on this guy? …. Something about that trinity of trench coat, scar, and lisp just works for me.
Jimmy Stewart represents my wholesome side (if I have one)—I just want to curl up on a couch with him and that accent, watching old Lassie reruns while he dispenses folksy wisdom about life’s shortcuts.
Moondoggie! Aka Jimmy Darren of Gidget fame. Not to be confused with Bobby Darin, who Gidget married in real life and who I love as a singer (Mac the Knife). But Darren wasn’t just a heartthrob—he was the guy who made me believe I, too, could look cool carrying a surfboard without actually getting in the water. Lame. He had that effortless sun-kissed vibe that made you want to ditch everything and live on the beach. Which I did.
Dean Martin had his moment. It wasn’t just the velvet voice—it was his whole essence, perpetually one drink ahead of everyone else while remaining impossibly smooth. I devoured Nick Tosches biography as it contained the secrets to life, love, and bourbon. He visited me in a dream once, crooning Italian love songs in a smoky lounge while I seductively traced the rim of my Sidecar—though in reality, I was sprawled in sweatpants, drinking boxed wine from a coffee mug. A girl can dream. (Frank Sinatra? He’s more of a side crush. An afterlife fling).
Elvis made his appearance too—but we’re talking pre-Vegas Elvis, before the sequins and batwings. Blue Hawaii , beautiful yet masculine, devoted to his mama. I’m delighted that Young People are discovering the Elvis universe; as one 17-year-old Redditor eloquently put it: “DAMN YOU SWEATY MAN BEAST 👀👀👀😅”. That’s alright, mama indeed.
John Cassavetes—Greek god(father) of indie film and hot Hellenic husband to Gena Rowlands (walking goddess). The kind of moody maverick who could either sweep you off your feet or send you crying into a closet. His sulking non-conformist vibe practically screams “I drink espresso at 3 AM and wear corduroy year-round.” For more on the whole “Cassavetes thing” go here. Fair warning: next thing you know, you’re chain-smoking and seeking your truth through intense introspection and pints of vodka.
Then there’s 1977-era Burt Reynolds. The man didn’t just make Trans Ams sexy—he made reckless driving look like foreplay. Charming, mustachioed, and possibly the only man who should ever wear facial hair (okay, Tom Selleck gets a pass; he looks wrong without his lip bush).
Kris Kristofferson—this recently departedrugged Rhodes Scholar has helped me make it through many nights with that husky voice and soulful songwriting. I actually met him once, got a lei (not a lay, boo) and a kiss, scored a beer, and landed the holy grail: a photo sandwiched between him and Willie Nelson. Peak life achievement territory. Also, here is a Kris Kristofferson clock.
Over the years, my obsession with dead guys has rotated through Hollywood’s hallowed halls of the dearly departed and falling for the deceased feels less unhinged than other fixations. Some people drink, gamble, or extreme coupon their way through life. I figure it’s harmless, and no dead man has ever ghosted me (pun absolutely intended). And they don’t have this annoying habit of having opinions.
Reality Check
But here’s the truth I’ve been tap-dancing around: this posthumous passion is a perfectly curated escape hatch–a comfortable fantasy where rejection isn’t possible and disappointment stays safely confined to learning about their real-life flaws through unauthorized biographies.
While I’m busy swooning over James Dean’s eternal youth or Bogart’s world-weary charm, I’m missing out on the messy chaos of real connection required for the living. Ugh.
Maybe it’s time to put on my big girl pants ( the high-waisted, Katherine Hepburn ones I’ve been favoring) and step out of my private screening room and into the open casting call of modern dating, where men actually talk back and have opinions that might not align with mine. Where romance isn’t filtered through the sepia-toned lens of nostalgia, but comes with morning breath and questionable shoe choices.
After all, life—in all its unscripted, poorly-lit glory—is for the living.
