“Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars.” The raspy voice echoes from the downtown speakeasy, slipping past the impenetrable metal door as the bouncer slides open the partition to request a secret password. I could not see the singer, but the honeyed voice of Rami Malek is unmistakable. When the lesser vocals of La La Land‘s cast were lauded at the 74th Golden Globe Awards, I snapped out of my fantasy, but oh, how I still long for that waking daydream of Malek in a black Dior Homme suit on the red carpet looking like Ol’ Blue Eyes himself.

Not since Sinatra’s infamous mugshot from his 1938 arrest for “sex crimes” (see also: adultery), have I felt so shook by the sideways glance of a man in a midnight-colored suit. I am his Mia Farrow; he is throwing down with Marlon Brando to win my heart. After all, he embodied the spirit of the original woke bae: Sinatra took a stand for civil rights and desegregation back in 1945, long before social justice earned you Instagram double taps.

Unlike his win at last year’s Emmys, however, Malek didn’t take home the globe for his role in Mr. Robot. Still, I like to imagine he stormed backstage, absconded with Billy Bob Thornton’s Golden Globe, then sped off in a turquoise 1957 Chevy Bel Air. “Meet me at Cliff’s,” he’d shout to me as I ran after him breathlessly, gravel sputtering off his tires. It was our favorite spot, it’s where I first met him years ago, singing his jazz tunes, asking me to fly away with him to a-Jupiter.

Malek himself has a regular spot in the West Village that he visits. He’s a creature of habit. The bartender knows his name, just as if he were some playboy regular who came in every day with a different dame on his arm, swilling tequila gimlets and grabbing the mic to warble his favorite jazz standards. That’s the aesthetic that drew Dior Homme to Malek in their symbiotic relationship. They love him, just as much as I do. But when you love a gadabout like Malek, you learn to soak up his presence while you can. After all, tomorrow it could be his mugshot plastered across the front page of the morning rag, wearing some other designer’s suit.


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