Another hunky hottie who got his start in the 1970’s gets a little older today. Richard Gere turns 66, today August 31. But you know what? He’s still hot.
Happy Birthday to An Officer and a Gentleman most of us women would still be happy to spend our Nights in Rodanthe with. Just to hear him call me Pretty Woman would leave me quite Breathless, I assure you. I wouldn’t go Looking for Mr. Goodbar if he was around, I’d never be Unfaithful and I sure as hell wouldn’t be a Runaway Bride. Are you kidding me?
No, I’d travel Miles from Home to spend Autumn in New York with him. Hell, I’d even go in summer, when it’s hot as Hades! Imagine sprawling on a blanket in Central Park with Richard Gere and listening to a Rhapsody in August! Gershwin, Rachmaninoff. It wouldn't matter who. It would be paradise, unreal, unearthly, something like Time Out of Mind.
Later we could go to The Cotton Club and if he asked Shall We Dance I’d say yes, yes, yes ... even though I’ve got a Primal Fear of humiliating myself on the dance floor.
Of course that disappears after a drink or two—not enough to go Beyond the Limit and get pulled over at an Intersection for a DUI by Brooklyn’s Finest, just enough to relax, maybe even get into a little fantasy play. He could call me Amelia and I’d call him Mr. Jones, my American Gigolo.
We could even pull some elaborate prank just for the thrill of it, maybe a Hoax on the guys working down in Arbitrage, with him pretending to be my Benefactor, some guy named Henry and Me, I’d pretend to be the owner of a rare manuscript called The Mothman Prophecies including the mythic Hachi: A Dog’s Tale in which a wise dog foretells the best investment opportunities.
Like The Flock of fools they are, they’d fall for it, at least for awhile anyway. When they wised up and realized Hachi wasn’t actually any ordinary dog, he was The Jackal, they’d send out The Hunting Party on The Double looking for us but guess what? I’m Not There! I wouldn’t want to stay in town during The Bee Season anyway—way too many smarty pant kids in town, spelling impossible words like Bloodbrothers. I mean is that really just one word or is it two?
And Richard? He’s already back in Hollywood meeting with Dr. T and the Women who run his fan club, canceling his appointment for Botox and assuring all the women who adore him that he’ll never change, never dye his silver locks, even if they want him to make a sequel to Sommersby. Which let’s face it, they don’t.
We have an arrangement to meet this coming winter at a certain Red Corner and then we’ll fly off to Chicago. The cold won’t bother me none either, cuz he has the Power to heat up the night. I’d even stay in a seedy Second Best Marigold Hotel with him, if he only asked cuz baby when it comes to, shall we say Internal Affairs, he shows No Mercy. And the time we spent together, from The First Knight on, would surely be Days of Heaven.
In the Final Analysis, they haven’t all been the greatest movies in the world, there’ve been some clunkers mixed in with the classics—I’m hoping your upcoming Oppenheimer Strategies is one of the latter—but you dear Richard, have certainly been one of our most watchable stars. Thanks for all the magic moments.