Feasting

I met Kate at a diner in Williamsburg today. It looked like it had been staffed out of Central Casting. There were the willowy, nerdy-hip servers, male and female, and the sharp-tongued older woman, clearly the owner, who rules her domain with a no-nonsense attitude and a heart of gold. "You want coffee?" she asked me in a thick Brooklyn accent, once I had been seated for a bit.
"Thank you, yes please."
"Look at you lot, five you standing around doing nothing, give this guy some coffee! I guess you're supposed to send up a flair."
"I'm in no rush, that's what Saturdays are all about for me."
Once she ascertained I was waiting for someone, the owner realized she didn't need to kick their asses about getting me food. She then proceeded to tell me all the people whose asses she DID need to kick, starting with the son and brother who had, between them borrowed her car and wracked up $1800 in parking tickets, resulting in her car being towed that morning. "Do you know how many cups of coffee I'll have to sell to pay $1800?" I made the appropriate clucking noises. It's amazing how much of my time in NYC, on the train, in restaurants, on the street, is spent making appropriate clucking noises in sympathy. Gets me through a lot. Her brother 'has a union book' (haven't heard that expression in a long time) and her son is similarly flush with cash, so she had plans for banging on their doors until she got the money. I wished her luck, as she headed off to buy champagne for the restaurant's evening meal. This was only the beginning of a great day, and the third one I've had in a row.
Thursday night I had dinner out with a three good friends, including one I haven't seen in seven years, I saw a play last night with ole buddy Jeff, had brunch this morning with ole buddy Kate, then dinner tonight with ole buddy Melissa. I'm spending money like it's water, and I couldn't be happier about it. Whenever my family and I reminisce about our fond memories and adventures together, a striking number of them circle around great meals. This reassures me as I gad about seeing these friends, having conversations about things that matter, gossiping, laughing, scarfing down chicken pot pie, mac and cheese, bagels and lox, salmon, mushrooms and rice, rich red wine, wild berry crumble with custard, dark coffee, multigrain toast with raspberry jam, black tea, comfort foods all over the place. The weather in NYC is cool and rainy, so all these cafes, restaurants, tea-houses and diners are becoming the havens of coziness they'll be for at least the next six months. I seem to be padding up like a bear preparing for hibernation, but again, not so much with the regret so far (at least not until I have to get naked in public again on Tuesday).
I can't really afford to live like this, and perhaps I'm going to regret it in a few weeks when the work peters out for the holidays; right now though I'm feeling pretty lucky, like I've collected more of those memories I'll be glad I have when lying on my deathbed. Loved ones, good conversation, and good food. Gets me through a lot.

The Soul of Evolution

(This is going to be one of those "working it out while I write" postings. Just to warn you.)

Not too long ago I found myself waxing rhapsodic to a bemused friend on the subject of compost. My sister and brother-in-law have a composter in their yard, so I was able to examine it closely this August, and for the first time see the end result. This one has a particularly nice design, because you can see all the stages of the process, like looking at layers of geology; at the top you see all the refuse you threw on it that morning, the coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, moldy bread, fruit rinds etc, and at the bottom you see the rich black, undifferentiated soil. If you didn't know better you'd think it was just a whole lot of garbage sitting on a pile of dirt. I just the love the fact that organic refuse will, with the right mix of elements and time, turn into a rich topsoil that then grows more fruit rinds, vegetable peelings etc. Circle of life and all that. My friend listening was on board with me so far, but when I explained that somehow this was evidence of divinity for me, he tilted his head at me like a confused dog. It's the same look I get from people when I say that the theory of evolution feels like evidence of divinity for me as well. I'm a firm believer in evolution, I recognize that its ability to predict present and future realities just makes it too compelling (not clear to me how anyone can know anything about genetics and NOT at least entertain the theory of evolution; but that's another post). I know that random selection is a central issue to the theory, and that's perhaps the point where atheists and believers most often part ways. I get it. And even if I'm seeing the delicate balance of the earth's resources and residents as evidence of God, then I'm really talking about the divine watch-maker view of the divine, the being who sets up this elaborate interlocking, self-sustaining structure, then leaves it to take care of itself. There are times in fact when I do think of God in this way. I mean, I love the central role sow bugs play in composting, but I don't think any individual sow bug wakes up of a morning and say "hmm, what shall I do today? Shall I run a whole lot of waste through my digestive tract in order to break it down into its component nutrients, or shall I fill out that grad school application? Oh fuck it, let's see what's on the tube." In the same vein, anytime I find myself asking for help from a divine source, a little voice in my head (which I'm pretty sure is NOT the voice of god) says "yeah, sure god can help ya out with this piddly-ass problem ya got goin' on, too bad he/she seems to be dropping the ball on the whole AIDS thing in Africa." (This little voice in my head is frequently a sarcastic little shit. I hate this fuckin' voice.) I know more than one person who looked at this exact dilemma, and found him/herself deciding that atheism was the only sensible response. And I respect that. I don't really have any desire to refute it... yet I don't make the same move.

I don't have a clear explanation why not, but somehow at the heart of the issue for me are words like 'soul' and 'love'. I don't know that I'm ready to attribute a soul to the above mentioned sow bug (maybe I just haven't spent enough time with a single one, you know, having coffee grinds and shitting nutrients or something), but I have many times felt like I've experienced a force of beauty and love that was both powerful and conscious. Frequently I've felt like I was seeing a soul in another's eyes. Nor have those eyes only been human; more than one dog, cat, horse, and even bird has made me believe there is some sort of deep current of somethingness that flows in and through all creation. Strict evolutionists would say that the reason everything is so well balanced and interlocking is because the stuff that doesn't work gets eliminated. And I buy it, I really do. Yet somehow, the sheer elegance of the world, of the universe, the closed cycle, constant rebirth, the nothing-in-nothing-out beauty of it is impossible for me to examine without feeling a welling-up of love and thanksgiving.

Maybe evolution IS my image of god. Maybe I'm a true pagan in that I worship nature in all its ruthless efficiency. Maybe I'll find myself a firm atheist in another couple of years. I don't have any good explanations for why things are so fucked up in the world, that is, why god would allow it. I don't believe in hell frankly, not sure if I believe in heaven or an after life (kind of handy to have hell out of the picture but still keep heaven a possibility, don't you think?), but the acts of selflessness I have witnessed from human and non-human actors, the connections and creations I've seen or been a part of, those moments of beauty that have stopped me in my tracks... I'm just not ready yet to see them solely as the random firings of hormones intent on propogating the species. Funny, but I'd say empirical evidence, that is to say my experiences, is the reason I'm not quite ready to give up on faith.

Just to be clear, I'm not claiming that atheists are all pure materialists with no interest in or explanation for soul or love. I have seen far too many atheists create glorious things, and perform acts of love (starting with my own mother) for me to think such a thing. I just don't feel able to explain MY reactions and experiences in other ways. Even if I were interested in convincing someone of the existence of god, I know this argument wouldn't do it. 'Argument' is probably too grand a word frankly. 'Vague meandering attempt to articulate my own questions', that's a much better description. Some days these questions cause me great despair, but most of the time, like now, they merely make me stop in awe at the mysteries I see around me.

I Wanna Be a Part of It

So I made a resolution recently that I would actually try living in New York for a change, at least for a year. Yes, I been here for coming up on eleven years already. Yes I been in this apartment for over eight. Yes I lived here longer than anyplace other than my parents' house. Yes, yes and yes. But have I really committed to NYC? I mean really? I'd have to say no to that. As most of you know, I'm not a big city fan generally. I need peace and serenity in my daily life; I can enjoy excitement, noise, mayhem even with the best of them, but for me it needs to be an occasional occurrence, not a way of life. And too much of my time here has been spent resenting many of the city's defining qualities, the noise, dirt, expense, crowds, the sheer grinding madness of the place. Consequently a lot of my time has been spent kvetching about it, wishing I was somewhere else, wanting to figure out how to be a performer and still live in a cottage on a lake, with no neighbors but my nearest and dearest, and maybe some picturesque wildlife. I haven't actually tried to create that life however, as you might have noticed. It still appeals. It still may be where I end up somehow. But in the eleven years I've been here, I'd have to say most of my time has been spent resisting it, rather giving in to it.
Nonetheless I have known for a while that I am not done with this place yet. I'm still here, with no plans to go anywhere else, and I think that's because there is something I need to do here. So, maybe it's time to buckle down and do it. No, I don't know what that means. Career stuff seems like the most obvious choice, and it's certainly where my focus is these days, but I'm open to the possibility that there are other things to be done, lessons to be learned, etc.

What can you, dear reader, do to help me in this process? Well, maybe nothing. Maybe you can gently point out to me when I've gone on an anti-NYC rant, though chances are that won't garner you much affection at the time. But maybe you can tell me what you love about living here. Where are the places you go, the things you do and see, that are rejuvenating and inspiring? How do you navigate the lack of money in a place this expensive, without feeling deprived? What do you do when the place has you worn down? Or does that never happen? I'm sure some people thrive on the frenetic energy of the place, whereas I'm usually looking for its antidote. I'd really love insights from you about how you make this place your home.

Damn I'm Good

So TR Knight is my new boyfriend. Who is he, do you ask? Well, I've never actually watched an episode of Grey's Anatomy. I've seen commercials of course, and caught the tail end of a show once. But I'm not what you would consider a big fan. No opinion on it really. I've had a fondness for Patrick Dempsey in the past, but not so much that I just had to catch his new vehicle.

When I've seen the commercials though, I frequently found myself focusing on T.R. Knight and thinking a) what a babe and b) I wonder if he's gay? I was pretty sure he was, but of course was assuming I'd never know one way or the other, Hollywood being what it is. But whaddya know; turns out he is, and because of a nasty little cat fight between two of his co-stars, he is now out. Out in a big way. Like an interview with People out. Apparently my gaydar works through TV. I'm so tickled.

Cute Little TR might be less than thrilled to know I pegged him as a fellow 'mo on the basis of a 30 second promo, however. I'm assuming, since I haven't heard any buzz about a gay character on Grey's Anatomy, that his character is straight. I'm sure he plays that very convincingly, with nary a flinch or flaw. And I'm all in favor; I don't mean to suggest that he is unconvincing as a straight man, I just want to point out that my gaydar is just that good.

I feel for him though; this can't have been the way he wanted to come out to the nation at large, assuming he had any interest in doing so. His comments to People lead me to believe he would have been just as happy to avoid the whole issue. I can't say this episode endears Isaiah Washington to me either. Apparently on one occasion he called Knight 'a little bitch' and the fight that occasioned TR's outing was one between Washington and Dempsey, where Washington said "I'm not one of your little faggots, like TR." Nice. I'm sure that if anyone protests this kind of behavior, Washington's publicist will make a big statement about how his client is not homophobic, has all sorts of gay friends, and doesn't mean anything by the word 'faggot' other than "people who are presently pissing me off." Yeah, you see how long it takes, especially now that his job is on the line (though that is more likely because he actually grabbed Dempsey by the throat, also behavior I don't find impressive) I hope no one buys that crap, but I ain't holding my breath.

Okay, so I'm not thrilled with Mr. Washington, but I am with TR. He said he hoped there were more interesting things about him, and I'm sure there are (like is he single? Over the age of 36?), but sad to say, this one little fact does make him more interesting, at least to me. I don't know what that is about. I'm forty years old. I've met lots of gay people. I've even dated some. I know I'm not the only one in the world. But for some reason, I'm always pleased when someone in the public eye comes out. Okay, I didn't really need MacGreevey or Foley, those two creep me out, and god I don't want to deal with Senator Craig. He looks like a cadaver. Scary. But TR honey, you're a total babe, and because of your gayness alone, I might actually start watching your show. No promises, but it could happen.

Call me.

Better Late Than Never

Just in case there are people out there reading this blog who didn't already get this flyer, I wanted to let you know I will be dancing this Saturday, October 14th, in Women in Motion, the dance evening of Estrogenius 2006, ManhattanTheatreSource's annual celebration of women's voices. They have a special category in the dance evening for "Honorary Chicks" and I was accorded that honor again this year. It looks like quite a line-up: the choreographers and performers include Karen Bernard, Jessica Bonenfant-Odanata Dance Project, Ezra Caldwell- The Leverage Group, Sharon Estacio, Sara Joel, Linsey Dietz Marchant, Morocco, Lynn Neuman- Artichoke Dance, Jennifer Nugent- Nugent+Matteson, Jule Jo Ramirez, and Melissa Riker-Kinesis Project Dance Theatre.

Oh, and me too. I'm performing in a mask that hasn't been onstage since 1985, so I'm wondering what that will stir up.

This is all happening at 8pm, Saturday October 14th, at:

Morocco's Academy of Middle Eastern Dance,

6 West 20th, on the Second Floor.

Tickets can be purchased at www.theatermania.com, or call 212 352-3101.

It's gonna be great. Bring your friends. You're gonna be able to say "I was there that night!"

Friendly Reminder

Okay, just thought you might appreciate a little helpful criticism, seeing as how you're very quick to hand it out to people, despite not being the person actually in charge of the event (being married to her doesn't really to count). See, the thing with improv is, you want everyone to connect, stay together, support each other ("yes, AND", as you kept reminding us), basically work together. I have to tell you though, that expecting people to follow you around like baby ducks, doing exactly what you tell them (or what you told them to do before the improv began), always let you take the lead, never do anything that isn't completely in your control... that's not really improv. I'm not sure what that is. Playwrighting on your feet? Directing from inside the show? Puppeteering with humans? I think the only term for it is really bad improv. Really really bad.

You're a very funny guy, there is no denying. You're charismatic, expressive, and your brain is going all the time. But the fact that you have a gazillion ideas doesn't mean that we are squelching you if we, in the moment, end up going some other direction. Following someone else's lead, say. Telling a DIFFERENT performer "yes, AND" perhaps. Hell maybe even, god forbid, trusting our own instincts and connection with the crowd.

While I'm handing out random unsolicited advice, I want to mention that sometimes you seem to forget how big you are, and how many tiny tiny children there were around us yesterday. Improv, particularly the kind we were doing, is often barely contained chaos. That's part of the fun and excitement for us and the audience. Nonetheless I felt your awareness oftentimes was a bit too much on on "how do I make sure people are looking at me" and not enough on "how do I make sure not to crush great crowds of little children." Maskwork complicates things even more by limiting our peripheral vision. All the more reason to calm the fuck down just a bit, dontcha think? It's not really limiting your impulses if you check around you once in a while.

I might also point out that telling the director (your wife) repeatedly how you think things ought to be done is not really improv either. It's being a control freak. Prefacing each iteration of your objection with "well, it's your company, you're in charge" doesn't really mean anything if you make it clear that you won't stop bugging the shit out of all of us until you get your way. I've seen you and she have the same argument all three times I've worked with you both. I'm curious if after yesterday, when you finally wore her down and she gave in, you will now relax a little, but somehow I doubt it. I suspect you're just going to get worse.

I'm not terribly concerned however. I won't ever find out because I'm never working with you again.

Kisses,

Patrick

Gearing Up for Filming

Dear Brad,
Haven't heard from you, but I know how exhausting it is to have a newborn at home, so no worries. I'm just wondering how things are going with the financing of our film, in particular the funds for my plastic surgery. Obviously we want to get that out of the way early, so I have time to recover fully. Wouldn't do to have Billy Sive running around with unexplained stitches now, would it. But all of that is just nuts and bolts stuff (boy, I sure hope they don't use nuts and bolts in plastic surgery anymore. We'll end up having to shoot Frankenstein instead, ha ha! Though I think the relationship between Frankenstein and his monster is just screaming with homoeroticism; plus I would be much more believable as the monster, we're remembering my whole 'twenty years too old for the role' thing with the Front Runner, right? Just checking). No, what I really wanted to talk to you about was how BRILLIANT it was for you to make that statement in Details magazine about how you and "Angie" would consider tying the knot only when everyone who wants to do so is free to in the country.

I don't have to tell you how the gay press, blogs, bars, gyms and tea-rooms just exploded with joy at that statement, do I? You didn't even have to say the word 'gay' for everyone to get it. Really incredible. This, combined with the constant feeding frenzy the tabloids are having about your love life is doing wonders to generate interest in our upcoming feature. Seriously, I don't think a week goes by that I don't see another headline about you going back to Jennifer, or moving to Sri Lanka with Angie and the kids, or how you're getting a new tattoo just like Angie etc. Seriously, this is some primo publicity action. Do you guys plant those tabloid rumors when things get slow, or is it all self-sustaining now? Neither would surprise me, but either way, you're a genius. Here you are being regularly linked in the press with two of the most gorgeous, sexy women in Hollywood, and you even make living in sin with one of them into a moral stance in support of my people! I doff my hat to you sir. I only hope I can be half as creative in my efforts at creating buzz. I know, maybe once we start filming, you and I can hit a few gay bars together, so I can tell the world that I'm 'showing you the scene' as research. Then maybe you, Angie, and I can hit the town, maybe a Lesbian bar or two, and get photographed dancing in suggestive combinations. Or maybe you, Angie, Jen and I can all double date! Is she still seeing Vince? I've lost track. Well, he can come too. Actually that's a great idea... maybe you, Vince and I could all be seen out doing stuff together, sort of like McConnaughy, Armstrong and Gyllenhal; you know, something that will have us always in bathing suits or biker shorts (this will have to be post surgery in my case, ha ha). I can't tell you how much attention the gay rags gave those guys just for going out on their bikes. This could be gold, pure gold.

Okay, I'm just brainstorming here, don't let me keep you. But I do need to know what is up with the plastic surgery, as soon as you can tell me. If it could happen before the holidays, that would be good, plus my sister is getting married in November, but hey, do what you can and we'll make it work.

Smooches to Angie (or whichever) and the kids.

Yr Pal,

Patrick

Advice is Welcome

So for several months now, I have been haunted by the thought of working in Scotland. Those of you who know me well know that I adore Ireland, have made several trips, and studied for a semester there in college. I also have a general fondness for Celtic culture across the board, inspired at least in part by genealogy. I have a vivid memory of an entire hotel dining room singing "Happy Birthday" to me and Mom in Edinburgh, and there are many fond memories of a trip we took there in the Spring of '77, but that was the last time I was there. So it feels like some sort of leading, rather than mere wishful thinking, that has me wondering how I could get to Scotland, ideally to perform, ideally on someone else's dime. Experience has me thinking I'd prefer to be in the Highlands for the majority of the time, but since there seems to be some element of outside influence involved (again, I don't think it's just wishful thinking), I'm not going to be too fussy about where I end up if I get there. So... why am I writing this? I don't know. Maybe writing it on my blog will mean I'm taking the idea seriously, whoo-whoo New Agey 'follow the universe' aspects and all. Maybe I'm writing it so I can start to unravel why I might be drawn to this idea. I mean I'd love to tour the world with a play, and if someone invited me to come perform in almost any country (Ireland, Wales, New Zealand, Greece, Italy, just to name a few) I would jump at the chance. But this feels different, more like there is some intention involved I haven't fully understood yet. Seriously, for the amount of time I've been thinking about it, this seems really a random choice. Scotland? Sure there's the Edinburgh Theatre Festival, and the famous Fringe Festival around that, neither of which I've ever attended or participated in, but other than that, does anyone really know much about Scottish theatre? I couldn't name you a single Scottish playwright, with the possible exception of J.M. Barrie. In Ireland, a handful of visionaries consciously created a native theatre scene as part of a larger cultural Renaissance and colonial resistance (previously Dublin had just been yet another provincial stop for touring English plays). I'm not aware of any such development happening in Scotland. And let's not forget, getting acting work in one's own country is hard enough, no other country is going to welcome foreigners intent on coming in to take the limited number of acting jobs available.
So, I don't know what this is about. But it's fun to think about, and I've got a most uncharacteristically hopeful sense about it. I think something is brewing. In the past when I've had this sense, something has usually turned up eventually, even if it didn't look at ALL like what I was picturing. So maybe I'll find myself teaching English in Sri Lanka in a few weeks time. But I really hope I'll be performing. In Scotland.
Any advice is welcome. Have people done the Edinburgh Fringe Festival? Was it worth all the headaches of going over, finding a venue, finding housing, getting an audience etc? Does anyone know a great website for arts jobs around the world? Does anyone have a Scottish cousin who runs a theatre, say in Inverness? Tell me everything.

Quick Follow-Up

Dear Brad,
So I haven’t heard back from you regarding my thoughts about collaborating dated February 9th; I know you’ve been really busy, with the UN goodwill ambassadorship, the baby on the way and getting the Tibetan prayer tattoo on your back for little Maddox, but not to worry, my sources have been staying abreast of the developments. I hear you’re considering doing The Frontrunner, a decision I whole-heartedly support. I loved the book when I read it, though I’ll admit that was some time ago. I’m assuming you’re planning on playing the ex-Marine and -hustler turned College track coach Harlen Brown. Your hotness will be well utilized in that role, especially if you’ve kept the physique you developed for Troy. Seriously, you looked like you’d been built from a kit, I had straight guys telling me your Achilles was giving them some sleepless nights.
I assume this means you’re not planning on taking my advice of making a story about a love affair between an Adonis and a normal shmoe, since the only character I can see playing would be Billy Sive. Wow, you’re giving me quite a challenge with this one, aren’t you. A college track star described as "handsome despite his mop of Hippie hair and his granny glasses." Where to start? The hair is the least of my concerns, hell if I just refrain from cutting it while you get the financing in order, by the time we’re ready to start shooting, I won’t need hair extensions. Think of how much that will save us right there on make-up (or is that wardrobe?). The granny glasses, okay, that’s tougher, I think even someone as gorgeous as yourself would find them a bit of an obstacle to overcome, but I’m ready to give it a whirl. But college-age track star? Well now. I am on the scrawny side, so we’ve got that going for us, and in fact I ran cross country in school, so I’m familiar with the subtleties required to portray a person running like hell, but Billy Sive is what, twenty years old? Twenty-two at the most? People tell me I look young for my age, but here we’re talking half my age. Then there’s the whole ‘handsome’ thing. Okay, like I said, I’m not Quasimodo, but a handsome twenty year old? I think that may be beyond even my abilities, especially if we’re going to make the sex scenes between you and me as explicit as I think the story requires. So, I think there’s really only one answer.
Plastic surgery. And lots of it.
I’ll probably need a face-lift to start with, I could use some serious dermabrasion to help with the acne scars, and while we’re in the neighborhood, why don’t I get a chin too? I’ve always wanted one, so this could be a great opportunity, and I’m sure we could write it off as a business expense. It's for the good of the project.
In terms of my body, I suppose I could just start training hard now so as to be in tip-top shape for the first day of shooting. Thank god he wasn’t a football player, right? I do have this incipient spare tire however that we might as well get rid of while I’m under the knife for all the other stuff. I don’t think it really adds much to the bill, and losing it will certainly jump-start my journey to looking like a Olympic gold medal winning, barely out of his teens, long distance runner. I suppose we can use a body double for some of the shots, such as the ninety million times we have to see Billy running around a track at practice and whatnot, but we’ll have to use me in the love scenes if we want to maintain the integrity of the film. Even if the rumors about your questionable hygiene are true, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. That’s just how much this story means to me.
So those are my thoughts; can’t wait to get to work. I’ll check into surgeons and fees here in New York, but feel free to give me any names if you have someone you like (not that YOU needed any surgery, but maybe Jennifer did at some point). If he’s in LA then I’ll need accommodations of course, but it needn’t be fancy; I’ll be perfectly content to stay with you, Angelina and the kids. That way we won’t have to waste a moment getting right to work exploring our characters’ relationship. My process is really best served by using a lot of improvisation. With enough pain killers, we can start the minute I come out of anaesthesia.
So just let me know when you’ve secured the funding for my surgeries. And don’t be a stranger! Call me day or night.
Kisses,
Patrick

Links-A-Go-Go

This is one of those times when my lack of web editing skills really shows. I’ve been wanting to write an entry that involved a lot of links to other blogs, even linking back to previous entries in my own blog, but I don’t to know how to do it in that really cool way, you know, where you say "for more information click here or here," and both the heres are links with the different colored font and everything. It is so much more elegant than having to type in the address each time, and I’m sure my Neanderthal approach earns me the disdain of bloggers everywhere, but I really don’t have any alternative at present. So I hope you’ll bear with me, and if anyone feels she or he is able to explain to me how to do those cool linky things, I’d be much obliged.
One of my new favorite blogs is Joe. My. God. (http://joemygod.blogspot.com). There’s lots of great writing, with a wit and concision I hope to emulate when I grow up to be a big blogger. There are many entries I might point you to, such as "Withdrawn!" (April 12th) where he suggests a policy I and Melissa of A Choreographer’s Blog (http://kinesisproject.blogspot.com) would like to implement into our lives. The entry that occasions this writing however is inspired by Exodus International. (See my previous entry entitled "Stop Helping.") Joe reports on a lawsuit they filed against someone who posted a photo (while I’m learning blog editing, maybe I could learn photoshop too, ‘cause damn, that’s some cool shit) satirizing a billboard Exodus had planted outside a gay establishment that said "Gay? Unhappy?" then it listed the web address for the organization. The parody said simply "Straight? Unhappy?" with the address for a gay dating website. Thanks to the ACLU and laws recognizing satire as protected speech, Exodus decided not to proceed with the lawsuit. (Go to Wikipedia for more information on this whole situation, and organization. Find that link yourself, I’m getting tired.) This prompted Joe to suggest a contest where people send in their own ideas for how to satirize the billboard. For a picture of the billboard see Joe’s entry entitled "Parody-licious!" (April 18th).
I love this idea but seem to lose my sense of humor over these people. The best I can come up with is:
"Bigoted? Hate-filled? Self-righteous, sanctimonious, judgmental, pseudo-Christian homophobes masquerading-as-compassionate fuckwits? Change is possible, but fat chance morons like you who don’t have the brains god gave a barca-lounger would be able to see it."
Then I start barking and have to be sedated.
I think we can all agree my approach lacks a certain satirical elegance, no? So I invite you to come up with your own ideas for this parody contest. Joe is accepting submissions at his blog, and said he will post the funny ones. You can also post your ideas on your own blog, tell Joe about it, and maybe he’ll link to your blog. Unlike me, Joe knows how to do that cool linky thing.

Long Before the Metrosexual

February 1997.
I attend a meeting of Lavender and Green, an Irish and Irish-American GLBT group. The members are almost exclusively gay men, mostly second generation New Yorkers with a scattering of immigrants. (There is one former nun who is fabulous.) I think quite a few of them, had they not been born gay, would have been conservative Republicans. A few of them are anyway. My earrings are noteworthy to some, though they make sure to tell me they like them.

In greeting and parting, we all shake hands, firm and manly.

After the meeting I head over to a party of friends who are fellow actors. There are quite a few women there, but funnily enough the group is again mostly men. I am the only gay guy present.

In greeting and parting, we all hug and kiss on the lips.

Like Wallace Shawn, Only Naked

Not to drag you to my pity party, but I've been feeling like quite the loser of late. I've always thought that to call yourself an actor you need to be doing, oh let's say at least two of the following; actually rehearsing/performing a show, going to auditions, sending out pictures and resumes, networking, taking a class, exercising, warming up vocally, going to plays, reading plays, hell, reading a monologue, just to name a few. I've been doing exactly none of these. For weeks now. Okay I have seen two plays in the last two weeks, but yeah, I'm as unimpressed by that as you. There's no solution other than, well, getting off my ass and doing something, and I know that. I'm not doing it, but I know it. So then an incident occurred on Tuesday. In some ways it made me feel like even more of a loser, but in others it felt strangely encouraging.
Most of you know I model for art classes, studios, and artists as my bread labor. On Tuesday I was going to a new place for the first time. An artist named Tara had gotten my name from the Columbia listings, and asked me to model for her single student. She mentioned he was a theatre director, but hey, who isn't, this is New York, so I didn't think anything of it. Of course Tara knows nothing about me other than the fact that I model.
So I arrive, meet Tara, then her student. Both of them are quite pleasant, we work for a while, the student mentions a role he played in a very prominent film by a prominant New York director. Immediately my insecurities rise to the surface; I have a pretty good guess who he is now, but unlike most of the English speaking world, I haven't seen this movie, I'm really pretty much film-illiterate, and I get embarrassed about that. Later he asks me what kind of theatre I do, and after I answer I ask him if he mainly does film or theatre. "Both, really," he replies, which doesn't help my investigation at all. Later he hears that I lived in Seattle and mentions he helped found the Seattle Rep. Okay, now I'm 99% sure he's who I think he is, but dammit I don't know enough about the Seattle Rep to be sure even still. Why don't I know the history of the Seattle Rep? Why haven't I seen his movie? Why haven't I seen more movies? And while we on the topic, why haven't I read more plays? I still have reams of classics to catch up on, I've barely read any O'Neill, Williams, Miller, or Stoppard, I don't even know all the Irish plays I should, and oh yeah, why don't I have at least one good Irish dialect, I look as Irish as Paddy's Pig, people are always calling me in to read for Irish plays and I routinely suck, I really need to take a dialect class, and maybe a stage combat class for those Shakespeare auditions, oh yeah, I still haven't read all of SHAKESPEARE, what the hell is THAT about, sure, it's not like every one of his plays is brilliant, but I should at least have read them, oh, and people keep asking if I do voice-overs, I really ought to look into that, get a tape together, what's the matter with me...
So this is all brewing in my brain as I model for him (and we all remember I'm naked, right?) for the three hour session. It's all very pleasant, he's charming and appreciative, she's charming and appreciative, I'm doing good work, having a fine time. It isn't until I leave the studio that I get Tara alone so I can finally say "That was Andre Gregory, wasn't it."
"Yes, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I didn't mean to obfuscate the information."
Fuckity fuck fuck fuckerson.
"He must think I'm a moron," I reply, thinking to myself, "theatre or film?" Jesus Christ on a bicycle!
"Don't worry, I'll tell him I didn't tell you."
Okay, maybe I don't need to feel too ridiculous. Maybe he appreciated me not fawning on him, or getting stiff and weird. We really did have a lot of fun stuff to talk about, shamanism, drawing, trying new things, it was a nice afternoon. He had originally tried to bail out of the class that day because he was feeling insecure about drawing a person, he told Tara he had a sore throat and she had wisely called him on it, so he was more nervous about this encounter than I was, at least at first. He said it had been a real pleasure to meet me, it's all good. So why do I still feel moronic? My Dinner with Andre had a profound effect on me when I saw it, though since that was about twenty years ago, I couldn't tell you many of the specific reasons. I was in college, had just decided to make theatre a central part of my life, then I saw this movie where theatre was treated like a serious and spiritual pursuit, just like I needed. He also directed the beautiful Uncle Vanya on 42nd St, which among its many pleasures is also where I first fell in love with Julianne Moore. Other than that however, I don't have a clue what else he's done, which of course now goes on the list of reasons why I suck at my career. Oh, if you're wondering, the movie he did was The Last Temptation of Christ, with Scorsese. He played John the Baptist. But you knew that, didn't you. Of course you did.
I'm scheduled to go back to model for them again in a week, so I've got a little time to do some homework, not to make things weird, mind you, but just so I'm not talking to one of the giants of independent film and experimental theatre like he's some shmoe.
I've been somewhat reassured by the fact that of the handful of people I've told about this incident, only one of them had heard of him before. I think it was an age thing, since the only other guy who didn't need me to explain who he is, was also over thirty. Once I said My Dinner with Andre though, everyone got it.
So yes, I've been feeling pretty lame, but the animist in me is also thinking "it's an omen! I'm on the right track! The universe, in the person of Andre Gregory, is telling me to stay true to my calling! Huzzah!" No, I don't really know what that means either, but hey, encouragement is encouragement. I'll take what I can get. I suppose it's always nice when someone who previously was just a symbol in one's personal mythology suddenly becomes a breathing, living, friendly, normal person.
Now I'm off to google him.

Later: if you want to know more about Andre Gregory read the interview at this link. http://www.tcg.org/am_theatre/at_articles/AT_volume_22/March05/at_web0305_gregory.html I just read this and not only did it remind me of a few of the reasons I've valued this man, it reminded me of things I've needing to remember for at least three (if not ten) years. This may not be the kind of theatre you want to create (and lord knows there's no money in it) but I'm feeling incredibly inspired and rejuvenated right now. I will refrain from kissing Andre Gregory when I see him next. Especially when I'm naked. That might be awkward.

I Feel a Blog Coming On...

So this is the kind of random venting I had planned not to indulge in here too much, fearing that once I started I might not be able to stop, but for reasons that will become clear later, I decided to take the risk this time.
Pratt has been on Spring Break all this week, and since it has become my main source of income of late, the result was I too was on "break" like it or not. Oh let’s be honest, I liked it just fine. I can entertain myself for months at a time, boredom is rarely a problem, lack of income is the problem. The odd thing about my life in NYC at this point though is how easy it is for me to go days without having real contact with another person. My roommate has been gone a lot, and when he’s here, he’s usually with his girlfriend or on the phone with her, so my one expected bit of human interaction isn’t very interactive.
I had made sure to go out each day this week to do something in the larger world, just so I didn’t spend the entire week in my jammies, but even so, I’d say I was pretty isolated. Sitting next to a stranger on the subway, or at an adjoining table in a café isn’t really contact.
So I decided tonight that I would go out to eat at a nice restaurant, one of my favorites, Café Loup, in Chelsea. I never mind eating alone, and thought it would get me at least around other people in a slightly more relaxed, social environment. I went early enough in the evening (it being a Saturday) that a one count table wouldn’t be hard to squeeze in, or annoy anyone. The staff was as kind as always, though I have to admit my waiter was more than a little flaky, but he got the job done. My complaint doesn’t lie there. Soon after I sat down, the hostess seated two men at the table directly to my right. This is New York, so all the tables are just a bit closer together than my small town sensibilities would prefer, but I’ve come to accept this without too much trouble in my twenty odd years of living in cities. This did mean however that I was more privy to this couple's behavior than I would have liked. One of them immediately asked the hostess if they could have a different table, and she said that she needed the three count for three people. I thought she answered briskly, but politely, but the man questioning her (after she left) let it be known to his companion that he didn’t care for... the situation, her attitude, not getting his way, I’m not sure. I was trying not to listen, because I could tell I had already taken a dislike to him, but something had his knickers in a twist, he had suffered quite the outrage apparently. Then when the waiter came, they asked if they could have the table on my left, which was in the corner (less exposed, I guess), the waiter checked and found it out was already reserved, so no. He then took the initiative to see if he could put them in a different corner table, but when he went to check, the man doing all the asking (whinging, sniveling, getting on my wick) let his companion know this was not acceptable either, and they might as well just stay where the hell they were. Goody for me. The waiter came back, told them he could seat them there if they liked, and they declined, reasonably politely to be fair, thanking him for taking the trouble, but it was clear that at least one of them felt the evening was now shot. After that they didn’t really do much else to piss me off, though snitty guy did ask for a glass of Chardonnay with ‘rocks on the side’, which wouldn’t have bothered me if he hadn’t already pissed me off, but seriously, what the hell is that? Get the damn wine with ice or not, you pretentious twit. I should admit that these guys came across as very effete, stuffy, snotty individuals, the kind I used to think gave homosexuals (me) a bad name until I realized what a stupid thing that was to say or think about a person. Assholes cut across all demographics.
But yes, some internalized homophobia of mine was momentarily triggered by them, then I just accepted that they were condescending complainers who I could be annoyed by without it being an affront to homos everywhere. I’ve been particularly impatient of late with this kind of patronizing arrogance, people behaving like their every want or (stupid, affected, supercilious) need was not being sufficiently catered to, but I was pretty sure I now had it under control.
Then the couple arrived who had reserved the table to my left (the corner one coveted by snitty guy and friend). They were an older couple, a man and a woman, I’m pretty sure from out of town, and I think this was their first French restaurant. The woman went to the ladies first, and when the waiter came to see if the gentleman wanted a drink, he went into something of a panic, thinking he should order for his lady friend, but not sure what she wanted, he was pretty sure she would want a soda, but he wasn’t sure which kind... but yes, he’d like a glass of wine, oh, this one looks good, how about that? When his friend returned, he anxiously called the waiter back over, but at least was polite and kind when he arrived. She ordered ‘a diet soda’ which after quite a bit of discussion turned out to mean diet Coke.
Once it became time for them to order food, however, there was again a certain amount of anxiety and uncertainty. The lady didn’t know what Mesclun salad was, and the waiter’s explanation left her even more mystified, another salad on the menu had cold beets which she loathed (she said this several times after the waiter left with their order), so she and her companion each ordered a simple house salad, and fairly risk-free entrees. When the salads arrived, the waiter left the pepper grinder for them, a habit which Café Loup seems to have introduced recently, and which I heartily applaud; I’ve always found the whole ritual of someone applying pepper for me just a little weird; "would Monsieur care for some sugar in his coffee? Shall I butter Monsieur’s bread?" This momentarily stymied and disgruntled Ms. Out-of-Towner however, and she was even more stymied by using the damn thing. Christ on a crutch lady, it’s a wooden pepper grinder, how exotic is that? Then she buttered her bread to discover to her displeasure that the butter was unsalted. THEN SALT THE DAMN BUTTER FOR GOD’S SAKE.
This was when I started to face facts. Affected, complaining Chardonnay guzzlers on one side of me, awkward yet harmless rubes on the other side of me... they weren’t really the problem here, were they. My first thought was, Daddy needs to get out of TOWN, but the real answer is probably, Daddy needs to work. If we don’t count the art modeling (and believe me, I don’t) and some odd readings (and I do mean odd) it’s been eight months since I’ve really done any acting. This is part of the boom and bust cycle of the business, I’m not expecting sympathy (I swear), but wow, I hadn’t fully acknowledged what a misanthropic jerk it seemed to be making me. The thing that kept me from behaving completely inappropriately, telling Chardonnay snorter to put his ‘rocks’ where the monkey hid the nuts, say, or offering to find a CHIMP who could show Madam how to use the DAMN PEPPER GRINDER, the one thought that kept me from misbehaving was "I can write about this on my blog, I can write about this on my blog..."

Take Away my Celt Card

This was probably the weirdest St. Patrick's Day ever for me. To be honest I'm always a bit disappointed by them; each year I want something spectacular to happen, but since I don't really know what that means specifically, I'm not very effective at making it happen. This year I met up with my friends Megan and Geoff; we were going to see our mutual friend Jeff in a play, but wanted to get dinner first. So we wandered rather aimlessly in the West Village looking for someplace to eat, finally deciding on Mexican food. Making that decision didn't end the wandering however. Our first stop looked promising as it was almost completely empty, but the reason for this became clear when we reached for the front door, where a modest sign announced they were not yet cleared to serve alcohol. Moving on. We ended up at, I kid you not, Senor Swanky's. Which was decorated with shamrocks and such, and had loud frat boys in green jerseys, but it was still fast food Mexican. We were actually pleased with our food, but I was less than thrilled with a frozen mango margarita that cost as much as my burrito. Then we went to see Jeff play Hitler (and Charlie Chaplin too, sort of) in a British play about the Third Reich. It's actually a pretty interesting play, CP Taylor's Good, now playing at Manhattan Theatre Source. Go see it. But it was a weird choice for St. Paddy's Day. Then the four of us (Geoff, Jeff, Meggie and me) headed off into the West Village to find a bar. On St. Paddy's Day. At 11:30pm. In the West Village. Hoping to sit down and, get this, talk. We ended the evening at Dojo, where everyone else had beer, and I, admitting defeat decided to have coffee and the worst chocolate cake I've ever eaten. And if I didn't like it, you know it had to be bad. I'm not one of those chocolate snobs, I'll even enjoy Hersey's Kisses. But this cake blew.
So let's recap, shall we? On St. Patrick's Day, 2006, I started the evening with Mexican food and a margarita, watched an English play about WWII Germany, then ended the evening with coffee and disappointing cake at a vaguely pan-Asian restaurant. I have no one to blame but myself. That said, it wasn't a bad evening.
I think part of the reason I always have high hopes for the day is because when I was a kid growing up in Indiana, there was a local retired college professor spinster lady named Undine Dunn who would always leave a little present for me on our front p0rch on the day. She left presents for lots of kids in our college community on their birthdays. I'm not entirely sure how wide-spread her net was, but I believe pretty much any child under the age of twelve with any connection to the college was remembered on his or her day. But as far as I know I was the only one who also got a gift on his Saint's Day. Did I mention that Undine and my family were/are also Quaker? Not really big on the Saints, you see. But St. Patrick's Day has always had a special place in the hearts of Irish folks regardless of religion (do you hear me you Ancient Order of Hibernian FUCKS? It's not just for Catholics), and Undine and I definitely shared a bond on this issue.
Undine was a very quiet, gentle soul, quite shy with adults, a life-long spinster, back in the day when that was what we called them, but very comfortable with children and animals. She put cat food out every day for all the 'strays' in the neighborhood, which of course meant there were some mighty fat housecats living nearby, as well as some pretty happy possums and at least one skunk. She always had mints and dog biscuits in her bag, and would hand out the former to any child she met, and the latter to any dog. She was one of the few adults outside the family circle with whom I and my siblings used the plain language (the second person singular pronouns thee, thy, and thine), in accordance with older Quaker tradition. (My family still uses it amongst ourselves.) As I and my siblings got older, she became more shy with us, shown by her changing to the formal second person singular, but we three refused the switch, and firmly addressed her as 'thee' until the day she died.
I think about Undine every St. Patrick's Day. I can't remember a single one of the gifts she left me, they were undoubtedly quite modest (I'm sure books played a significant part) but I was always pleased and excited to go out first thing in the morning (she must have left them no later than 6am) to see what she had given me. Looking back, I marvel that she did something that might have been construed as favoritism, given her great sensitivity to the feelings of children, but I don't remember either my older sister or (more significantly) my younger brother resenting the fact that I got an extra present each year. Perhaps the situation was aided by the fact that my father (also quite proud of his Irishness) would give everyone a present on the day, as he does still on Valentine's Day, Easter, and any other holiday he might think of. Now that I think of it, did Undine also leave easter baskets for each of us every year? I think she might have. Maybe something on Valentine's Day too? I'll have to check with my family. Nonetheless, St. Patrick's Day was my special occasion. She may have set a standard that adult celebrations have failed to match, but she gave me some very fond memories.

Clarification Part I

I've seen one thread of the preceding entry a bit more clearly, and want to share that now. If a film is made that effectively tells a story about women or people of color, that process simultaneously gives work to members of those respective groups. Over time, the pool of successful actresses and performers of color grows in direct relation to the number of films dealing with their experiences. That process does not happen for queers (do I have to keep writing glbt or are you with me?). There may be a growing number of films dealing with queer experiences, but almost always they are portrayed by straight actors. I would argue there is even a strong preference for casting straight actors, either because of homophobia among the powers that be, or because of the perceived homophobia of the target audience. So while the number of images may be increasing, the number of actors benefitting from the increased visibility isn't growing at all, at least not through that method. "Will & Grace" did not lead to a single actor coming out during it's entire run (unless Sean B. Hayes finally broke his policy of refusing to answer the question, and somehow I missed it). I am glad for the rise in the number of queer characters in film and TV, but if we want an increase of openly queer actors, the push for that is going to come in some other way.

Gay in Hollywood

I’ve been struggling for days now to write about Hollywood’s preference for casting straight actors to play gay roles. For the record, I do NOT believe that all gay roles must be played by gay actors. The craft of acting is built on the understanding that we can empathize with the people other than ourselves. It’s why we do it, it’s why we watch it. Finding the universal in the particular, personal, even the eccentric may be the root of all good art. Certainly the experience of being an outsider is one that most individuals can find a way to relate to. I am firmly in the ‘let ‘em play gay’ camp.
There is something about this that still sticks in my craw, however. Not only are sexual minorities the only marginalized group who are routinely portrayed on film by non-members, in fact a strong attitude still prevails that it is preferable for non-members play us. The reasons why tend to be pretty vague; it’s more of an acting challenge according to some, gay films are risky ventures to begin with, so it’s necessary to involve big name performers to pull in audiences, are just two of the arguments I’ve heard. And in return for this, we are expected not to squawk, but be grateful that our stories are being told at all.
Let’s think about this; if a white man was cast as Ray Charles, if men were cast as Thelma or Louise, because "they were the right actors for the roles" many people would be up in arms, me included. I accept that the glbt experience is not necessarily analogous to that of race or gender, but I’m still not sure why not. Do we HAVE to be portrayed by straight people? Then if we throw in the argument frequently voiced by producers that openly queer performers won’t be accepted as straight characters (at least in romantic roles) it becomes evident that if a gay performer wants to be work in Hollywood, he or she better stay closeted.
Perhaps this is the single biggest difference we have from women and people of color, the closet. Most of us have had to go through a period of self-discovery and identification, then we have to decide if we want to ‘pass’ in the dominant culture. Since we have the option not to rock the boat, or disturb the status quo, there ends up being great pressures both external and internal (yes, our own discomfort can’t be ignored) to stay under the radar.
Yes, I know it’s tricky to talk about Hollywood as if it’s a monolithic entity, with some secret cabal setting casting policy, but we do have some gauges for noting trends. When looking at the situation for actresses and performers of color, we count the roles available for them to begin with, then we examine how well their stories are told. We also look at awards; it is seen (quite rightly, I believe) as noteworthy that we’ve only just had a black actress win a best actress Oscar. These measurements, when applied to the glbt situation reveal similar findings. "The Year of the Queer" notwithstanding, glbt characters are still pretty rare in film, and still primarily presented as jokes and stereotypes. To date there has been exactly one openly gay actor nominated for an Academy Award, and he didn’t win.
I only see one solution at this point, and it’s the one modeled by women and people of color before us; we need to forget about Hollywood, and make our own movies, tell our own stories. Yes, we’ve been doing that, and it’s started to pay off for some people, mostly directors at this point (John Waters, Rose Troche, Gus Van Zant to name a few). The handful of openly gay actors in Hollywood mostly work in (cable) TV, as character actors (often on hiatus from Broadway), or they’re British. God bless ‘em, they’re still making a difference, but I don’t think they’re going to be able to do much more than they have. No, we’re going to have to work on our own, outside the Hollywood system. History has shown us that if good work finds its audience, Hollywood will be gladly step in to take a piece of the action. It may be tapped into the ongoing debates of our culture, but the fact remains it is a business first and foremost, with huge amounts of money at stake. It isn’t interested in taking any risks, or doing us any favors. We’ve got to stop expecting it to. Individuals may have noble agendas, I for one don’t question Ang Lee’s sincerity or support one bit for example, but we’re not doing ourselves any favors if we wait around for acceptance. I'd love to hear other people's thoughts on these matters.

Worst. Fortune Cookie. Ever.

Wow, I haven't written for a while. It hasn't been for lack of things to say, god knows, but time at home has been limited. I wish I could say that was due to fabulous acting work, but mostly I've been modeling a lot, helped a friend move, did a staged reading, and watched the Oscars. Will refrain from speaking to the latter topic for now, maybe forever. I've got something in the works that isn't quite done yet, so in the meantime, here are some random thoughts.
I had lunch yesterday at my new favorite cheap Chelsea eatery, Sammy's Noodle Shop. While the food was great, I have to say that city-wide (maybe nation-wide), fortune cookies are pretty uniformly disappointing, however. Too often they're not even fortunes, they're advice or just observation cookies. Yesterday mine said "Handsome is as handsome does." I don't have the slightest idea what I'm supposed to do with that information. I've only had the most general of understandings of that phrase to begin with. I've interpreted it to mean "don't be taken in by a pretty face." Sound enough advice I suppose, but how is it a fortune? And how am I supposed to utilize it in my life at present? Is my interpretation of this phrase accurate in the first place? Handsome is as handsome does, what the hell does that really SAY anyway? I think the people in charge of fortunes aren't really trying anymore.

My second bit of randomness is a follow-up on "Do I know you from Somewhere?" The fact is, people constantly tell me I bear an uncanny resemblance to someone from their previous lives. A disturbing number of these people tend to have died young. I haven't found out the causes of death in most cases (one guy died of AIDS) so I haven't been able to ascertain if there is a pattern I might want to watch for. The first time this happened was probably also the most striking. I was living in Seattle at the time, and early on a Sunday morning was walking downtown to a rehearsal. I was passing through a fairly industrial part that circles the downtown area, hardly anyone else on the street, when I noticed a guy walking towards me on the opposite side. He called across to me, "Hey, do you have the time?" I looked at my watch, and gave him his answer. "You look exactly like my younger brother, " he said. "Really?" I replied. "Yeah, but the thing is, he died three years ago." I made general sounds of condolence, and we both kept going in our respective ways. Later it occurred to me to wonder if he had actually cared what time it was; I wonder if he asked me a question just so he could talk to me, hear my voice, know for certain that I was NOT his dead brother, walking towards him on a deserted street on a quiet Sunday morning.

Stop Helping

So I see Alan Chambers is in the news again. What, you don't know him? Yeah, I'd never heard of him either, but he's the head of an organization called Exodus International. This is one of those places that 'helps cure' gay people by bringing them to Jesus. I have never availed myself of their services, Jesus and I are just fine thank you, but I first became aware of them about sixteen years ago. I was living in Seattle at the time, and one day in late Fall/early Winter of 1989 (?) I got a letter. There was no return address, the postmark was from somewhere out west, don't quite recall. The message it contained was short and simple:
"Dear Patrick,
There is freedom from homosexuality.
Call (206) Seattle Number
Signed,
A Friend"
The number was for the offices of Exodus in Seattle. Initially I was furious. Apparently this 'friend' had anticipated such a reaction, because he or she was too cowardly to sign a name. Then I thought, hmm, maybe this would be a great way to meet guys. I wonder what sorts of things they do to 'cure' you? Maybe whipped cream and paddles would be involved. My college doesn't have fraternities, so I had missed out on the whole sadomasochistic/homoerotic hazing rituals that seem to characterize college for some. Maybe this was my chance.
Then I got over it, tried to believe the person meant well, and I threw the letter away. A few months later over Christmas in Indiana, I happened to see my sort-of-former boyfriend from college. For some reason I started telling him this story when he stopped me, saying he got the same note, with an Indianopolis phone number. The only link he and I had was college, so it seemed pretty likely that was where the anonymous friend had met both of us. That sent my brain to racing, considering some possible candidates. Everyone and her pet monkey at school knew I was gay, but my ex- was more or less closeted, whatever that means at a school of 1100. So the letter writer knew both of us, knew my ex- was bi, and had managed to get our present mailing addresses. Did he or she get them from the alumni office? I wonder how many more schoolmates got this note, or if my ex-and I were singled out for some reason as more promising. That possibility really makes me snort. I never pursued it, never heard if others were similarly ministered to.
So, seeing Alan Chambers (oh, he's an ex-gay, by the way, and very well groomed) and Exodus in the news has reminded me of this incident. It long since ceased bothering me, now it just intrigues me. I do wonder where that person is now, and if he or she still a member of Exodus. I suppose it's possible this 'benefactor' was just a straight person with high octane homophobia, but I've always assumed he or she was queer, and had found 'freedom' at Exodus. The success rate of those places is typically around 30%, 'success' is often only achieved by living in chastity, so the rate of people returning to their sinful ways is quite high. Chances are good this person has backslid or recanted, but whatever the case, I hope he or she is happy, and living a fulfilling and honorable life.
I know I am. Though I really need to date more.
I sure put a lot of words in quotes in this.

Do I Know You From Somewhere?

I get asked this a lot. I think I have a pretty good memory for names and faces, so I can usually provide an answer, but if I'm uncertain, I always have one answer, and it's usually right.

"Yes, you've seen me before. You probably spent about three hours studying me closely. You're not remembering because I was naked at the time."

My favorite occurrence of this happened in a Seattle restaurant years ago. An absolutely gorgeous man came up to ask me this, then before I could answer him, his eyes lit up and he said "OH! I didn't recognize you with your clothes on!" There just happened to be one of those weird silences in the restaurant, so this statement echoed nicely. His girlfriend looked perplexed, and I left the restaurant feeling like I had just earned a much more interesting reputation that I deserved.

I was trying to get this photo up in the upper right corner, where my profile goes. I still haven't figured out how to get blogger to do that; I see where the info is supposed to go, I know it's supposed to be a URL, I just haven't figured out what that means exactly. So for now, here's a picture of me canoeing off Mount Desert Island in the Summer of 2003. That place is gorgeous. I wish I could figure out a way to live someplace like that and still be an actor. A boy can dream.