Brother Jeff over at Odin's Aviary had an experience this weekend similar to one I had last week, where several cultural/artistic experiences in a short space of time helped reaffirm for him why such things, perhaps live performance in particular, was a good thing to do. My week was a different set of events, but a similar outcome. It started with a trip to the Met, where I saw three amazing shows, but was perhaps most struck by the Tiffany exhibit. I felt like I was bathing in color, and it was nothing if not therapeutic. Then I saw Pan's Labyrinth, a movie which was not at ALL what I was expecting, and about which I do have some reservations, but I'm still glad I saw it. The discussion with Jeff was another bright spot in the experience. Later that week I got to go up to New Paltz with, again, Jeff (hmm, I'm sensing a pattern here), to do the workshop (see entry 1/20/07), then the next day good friends took me to hear some chamber music being performed by undergraduates and masters students at Julliard.

The art and music in particular struck a deep chord with me; both used to be huge parts of my life, as practitioner and audience member, and in the last ten years they've largely disappeared from my life. That has been a mistake, I think, and especially while I'm living in New York, it seems too bad not to avail myself of the local resources a bit more. The Met cost me $5 (my choice of 'donation') and the concert was free.

I ended the week feeling like I had been doing things rejuvenating and beneficial. Funnily enough my friend Cathy, one of my two hosts at Julliard, said something similar. She and her husband are coming out of a horrendous experience that consumed them for most of the last three years. Cathy said that during that time, her dream-life became affected, shifting drastically in tone and imagery. In recent months however, she's noticed a distinct return to health in her dream-life, and attributes at least some of it to regular attendance at Julliard chamber and jazz concerts. I believe she's right.

It sounds silly, pretentious even, to suggest that artistic experiences are having a healthy effect on me, but that's really what it boils down to. If it's any consolation, I've felt the same rejuvenation after dancing to 80's pop music, or seeing a fun, light-hearted play. I don't think the experience has to be capital 'C' culture stuff... I just have to remember it needs to happen more often. And I think it needs to be live, and really really good.

Taking a Stand

I come from a tradition that encourages civil disobedience. While no one in my immediate family has yet been arrested for protesting an unjust law, I probably wouldn't have to go too far back the family tree to find someone who worked on the underground railroad, or was sent to prison for protesting a war. As a consequence, I have always more or less assumed someday I would at least be arrested, if not actually imprisoned.

So, you can imagine my chagrin when the first time I was arrested, it wasn't for protesting a war, not for protecting someone else's embattled civil rights, not to draw attention to some government sponsored atrocity... no I got arrested for lewd conduct. Or, if I preferred, public indecency. That was the charge.

I could live with this charge too, if there were at least a good story behind it, but it's really mostly embarrassing. It occurred in Seattle on a Sunday night in the Summer, what was in fact one of the hottest nights of the year (1990). I and four friends had all just auditioned for a play at the theatre where we all worked, and elected to go skinny dipping in Lake Washington, in a local park. I'm sure it comes as no surprise to most of my friends that my arrest somehow involved public nudity. Well, now you know how it all got started.

It was somewhere around 11pm when we arrived. We had the place to ourselves, no one on the beach, no one in the water. Unfortunately this was due to the fact that the park was closed, no one was supposed to be there, so somebody, presumably living in one of the nearby residences, alerted the cops.

They dutifully showed up, ordered us out of the water, and when some of our group dawdled a bit in response, the cops got mad and chose to charge us, rather than send us on our way. We were all annoyed, embarrassed, outraged, chagrined, but at this point there seemed to be nothing to do but accept the ticket, and go home. Weeks later when we went in for our arraignments, we assumed ahead of time that we would simply plead guilty (I mean, we were naked, let's not get cute), pay our fines, and be done with it. Oh, not so fast. Turns out that pleading guilty to a charge of public lewdness/indecency came with a minimum penalty of a hefty fine (I don't recall the number now, let's say $10,000) AND a minimum of 90 days in jail. The presiding judge, who seemed like a decent sort, encouraged us to plead not guilty, because if we didn't do so, he'd be forced to give us the minimum sentence.

The next step was the discovery that despite the fact that I was unemployed at the time, due to the fact that I had a savings account AT ALL, I was not eligible for a public defense attorney. None of us were, it turns out. So, we were on our own (one guy got a friend of his lawyer Mother to represent him, more on that later).

When the time came for the actual trials, four of the five of us got a judge who couldn't believe the ridiculousness of the charge. He did lecture each of us on how living in society means one doesn't get to do whatever he or she feels like, and it did make me feel about ten years old, but his true ire was for the arresting officers. I was one of the last to be dealt with, so I didn't see any of the real annoyance, but apparently he sternly lectured them for wasting everyone's time. Those of us who saw this judge had the charges dropped, no marks on our record whatsoever. The one guy who retained a lawyer saw a different judge, and ended up paying a fine of $125. As I left the courtroom the one officer who had come for our case approached me (I imagine by this point she and her partner were just wishing it would all go away). "If you guys had just put your clothes on right away, we would have just sent you home." I was simply relieved to have it all behind me, so I didn't grill her as I now wish I had. The officer then told me and my co-defendant Christina that the real big mouth/trouble-maker was the one who had been forced to pay the fine.

I had several problems with this statement, that surfaced for me only later. First off, what exactly was she saying? That they had somehow seen to it that he had been sent to more of a hanging judge, in order to assure he suffered at least some punishment for his mouthing off? The other four of us all saw this judge, was he known for being a lighter touch with these sorts of cases, since the officers felt the rest of us had 'learned our lesson'? Did they somehow stack the deck that way? Do they have that much control? And should she really be telling us about it, if they do? Second problem: if they did in fact make a concerted effort to punish the guy who had been the most belligerent (and if you ask me, juvenile) that night, they got the wrong guy. Both guys were named David, but the twit ("What, do you guys have to fill a quota or something?") got off scot-free like me, the one who got nailed was no more disrespectful than I had been. He had, however, been the only one who managed to retain a lawyer. So if the cops were basically seeing to it that 'we learned to respect their authority' or whatever the game was here, what they mostly taught us was, cops will happily use the system to gratify their egos, they know the system MUCH better than we do, so don't take on this fight lightly.

When I called to tell my family it was happening, I was able to draw on family tradition a bit, albeit not in the way I had always hoped. As a young woman my grandmother Lacey had also once been arrested for indecent exposure. She had made the grave error of going to the beach in a bathing suit that exposed her knees. I don't happen to know what price she had to pay for this egregious assault on society, but I don't think it included jail-time. God, I hope they had more sense back then even.

What's my reason for telling this story? I've been thinking recently that it looks like a time is approaching (or has been here for a while) when civil disobedience has become a necessity again, if principles of democracy, justice, and civil liberties are to be protected. This federal goverment is shameless in its contempt for the rule of law, it seems to me, and I wonder if it's going to get worse before we get the bastards out. My glancing blow with the judicial system helped me understand just how powerless and angry one can feel when in the midst of the machinery, and unlike dealing with customer service representatives, one doesn't have the option of giving up and going home in a huff. You get to go when THEY say you're done. So... I just hope the next time I'm arrested, it's because of something that matters, a stand I feel strongly about, and proud of. I can't have it be for something silly again.

A Perfect Day

So Wednesday I had what might be close to a perfect day. Beloved Jeff and I drove up to New Paltz, NY to lead a workshop in acro-balance and commedia techniques (the title of said workshop was "Commedia de Acro". Catchy, no?) which was part of the Kennedy Center American College Theatre Festival (KCACTF). I don't know when the "KC" got added to the name, or if that just refers to this particular region's ACTF, but this is the same festival all you theatre geeks went to when you/we were in college. And it was just as fun to visit. But first, the drive there. It was one of those beautifully clear sunny days, when the lack of humidity in the air means everything looks like it was cut with diamonds. Practically the minute one gets out of NYC one is in beautiful scenery, first the Palisades Parkway running alongside the Hudson, then into the foothills of what I guess must be the Catskills (but don't quote me on that). Driving with old buddy Jeff, listening to great tunes, drinking my third cup of coffee for the day, muching on a blueberry muffin, watching the scenery go by, even if this had been the sole activity of the day, I would have been delighted. MAN I love road trips! Why don't I make them happen more often? Note to self: more roadtrips. Daytrips are fine. Taking the Metro North for a couple of hours on the Harlem or Hudson lines would do it even. So that's on the to-do list.

Then we got to the festival. The campus looked deserted because school isn't in session yet, but once we found the central office, we started to see signs of life. When I decided to become a theatre major in my sophomore year (back in '86) I soon thereafter went to my first ACTF... and began to wonder if I could do this afterall. There I was surrounded by people in black, smoking cigarettes, striking a series of poses. Everywhere I looked, people were posing, or laughing a bit too self-consciously. "I cannot spend my life with these people", I thought. Fortunately I soon realized that students of theatre are not quite the same as professionals, and if I've found reason to regret my choice from time to time, it's rarely been due to the company I keep. All of this is preamble to the fact that I saw very little of this behavior this time. Sure, maybe if I were an insecure 19 year old I would have seen things to give me pause again, but mostly what I saw were a lot of nice kids, getting excited about things, flirting up a storm of course, but basically seeming fairly normal, and, well, like teenagers. I even had the pleasure of running into a young woman I know from the Killington Renaissance Faire who is now a junior in college, majoring in theatre design. I've known her since she was 17. One step closer to getting that walker...

Jeff and I had no idea what to expect from this workshop, and found that we weren't going to be able to access our room until just before it was to begin. This made us a bit tense, but you do what you have to. The workshop was aimed in part at drumming up interest in a study program Jeff is part of, that takes students to Italy, where they study Italian and Commedia for a month. If they don't get the enrollment they need, the program doesn't happen, so Jeff was feeling a bit of pressure for this to get a good crowd, and impress said crowd.

Well, we need not have worried. Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty students showed up. This was actually daunting in its own way, since we weren't sure we could do what we needed to with more than twenty, but we jumped in and did it anyway. The students were remarkably enthusiastic and committed; there was very little standing back and watching, ego-protecting, cool-maintaining, all the sorts of behavior I would expect from this age group, particularly from guys. Maybe I would have seen more of that from high schoolers, or anyone who wasn't already interested in theatre, but in any case, it was refreshingly absent. Sure there was a certain amount of attention-grabbing, people (all guys, now that I think of it) working perhaps just a bit TOO hard to be amusing, rather than involved, but it really was a great group.

The real revelation for me though was seeing Jeff in full on teacher mode. I've always loved seeing Jeff onstage, and have loved even more getting to work with him onstage, but circumstances have dictated that a lot of his acting work in the past five years has happened out of town. So I haven't seen as much of it as I would like. I've been aware of his craft and talent growing and deepening, mostly from the occasional snapshots I've gotten from the plays he's done in the city. But this was my first time seeing him teaching. As most of you know, I believe teaching may be the noblest profession there is. Sure brain surgeon is pretty amazing, I'm glad they're out there doing their thing, but for sheer day-to-day commitment of mind, spirit, imagination and compassion, I'm not sure anything surpasses teaching (nursing undoubtedly is just as good, but doesn't surpass it). Good teachers are life-changers. My father and sister are both life-changers in just this way. I have been lucky to be surrounded by some amazing teachers in my time, so I know where-of I speak.

So here was Jeff. He had brought me along as his assistant, wanting help in demonstrating the two person moves etc. and certainly I had his back with all aspects of the program. But he didn't need me. His explanations were clear and concise, he showed the moves while explaining how they could be used to enliven a production and deepen one's technique, he was funny and charming, hitting just the right note of playfulness and authority for that room, he saw to it that a group energy was generated that created space for people to experiment, play, and push themselves. There were varying degrees of success with each of the moves, but I saw very little in the way of discouragement, frustration or anxiety. The workshop ended with some unsolicited testimonials about the Italy program from previous participants, and an overall feeling of enthusiasm for more of this kind of work, in whatever way it could be achieved.

Jeff, in his usual generosity, credits me with some of this success, and I appreciate it. The fact is, my real talent is for seeing what ain't broke, and then not fixing it. Like I said, I had his back, and maybe knowing that gave Jeff an additional boost so he could sail like he did. But whatever the formula, it was so rewarding to be in that environment, doing real work, connecting with people, seeing them catch the spark of something I've loved for a long time now. It helped me remember that love, since as with all things, it can be easy to grow tired, jaded, or just plain forgetful of why one got interested in all this nonsense to begin with.

The day ended with a nice meal in the cute little town of New Paltz, then a drive back, now getting to enjoy an amazingly clear and star-studded night-time sky. I don't always know how to make it happen, but this day reminded me at least that when a good day comes along, I know it when I see it.

Mental Housecleaning

I react to Feng Shui much the same way I react to astrology; I think it's a total crock, but I love reading it, I find it fascinating. Actually Feng Shui sometimes is rather sensible, at its most basic, practical, interior design elements. But I have to acknowledge something; recently I've been feeling confused and cluttered inside my head, then I took a look around the apartment and realized every flat surface had stuff all over it. Little nests of papers, books, notebooks, glasses, junk mail, homeless plants, pens, photos, they are everywhere. I can't claim it's because of Christmas either. This year I got all sorts of things to help me organize and store other stuff, without them things would be much worse.

So. I'm spending tomorrow morning getting rid of some of the clutter. We'll see if my mind ends up clearing too. I have to admit I hope Feng Shui is right this time.

Golly, Thanks for the Swell Party

Hi, I was the guy you met Saturday; you know, the "really polite" Midwestern boy with corn growing out of his ears? When you learned I was from Indiana, you reacted the way a lot of East Coasters did; you basically expressed condolences. You assumed I had fled the arid wastelands and small-mindedness of my home as soon as I was of age, barely escaping with my life, emotional well-being and creativity intact. Finding out that I first went to Seattle, you assumed this was some sort of half-way house process; I needed to spend time in a sleepy place that was at least a liberal haven with SOME nascent culture while I nursed my emotional wounds and prepared for the big time, here at the center of the universe. New York City, the place that you were lucky enough to be born into, and have never left, except for an occasional excursion to LA ("SO plastic, SO fake!") or a brief jaunt to Europe ("god, I couldn't find decent pizza ANYWHERE.") The idea of visiting the 'flyover zone' of my hometown strikes real fear in your hearts. "All those rednecks, Klansmen, Republicans, and inbred Deliverance rejects! Not a decent theatre, restaurant, newspaper or bagel for miles! However did you survive? And you do theatre? You read books? You know a little bit about classical music and art? You actually played in an orchestra? In High School? You must have felt like you were lost in the wilderness! You poor poor thing."

By now the intended sympathy has become a condescension I find almost delicious, it amuses me so much, but I'm sure you haven't a clue. I could explain that I was the son of academics and writers involved in a well-regarded small college that has been showing up on 'Best Kept Secrets' lists since the early 80s. I could explain it is populated by world class intellectuals who teach there because they valued the ethos and rigor of the place, including the fact that it values teaching more than 'publish or perish'. I could point out that many members of the faculty do publish anyway, and could eat your pseudo-intellectualism without breaking a sweat. I could explain that said college, while suffering from the dogmatism that affects anyplace populated largely by teenagers (and this place skews far left, by the way), nonetheless works with some success to increase discourse, critical thinking, and a sense of political responsibility in the world. I could explain that working there allowed my father sabbaticals every seven years, during which time we usually lived in London, enjoying theatre, opera, art galleries, museums, fine restaurants and excursions to some of the most beautiful place in the world. I could tell you about all the world class poets, novelists, political activists, musicians and artists I got to hear speak, often while serving them tea in my parents' living room. I could, in fact, condescend to you until (forgive me) the cows come home.

But I don't. Somehow that isn't the point I want to make. I don't want to play your game. I don't feel like convincing you that other parts of the world have things to offer, are in fact quite fine places to live. I don't feel like reminding you of the gay-bashings (including one murder) we've had here in the last year. I don't feel like telling you about the Guthrie, Goodman or Steppenwolf theatres, Midwestern all of them. I don't even feel like pointing out that your penchant for saying every single thought that comes into your head, the ruder the better, isn't being "refreshingly honest." It's called Tourette's and they have medication for it.

No, I don't feel the need to beat you at your own game. Frankly I doubt you'd really get it if I tried. Your world view is cast in iron. I just want to point out this; your belief that you live in the center of the world, and it's your privilege, duty even to ignore or sneer at the rest of the planet? There's a word for that too. It's called provincialism, and I've met more people who suffer from it (or do I mean revel in it?) here than any other place I've lived. Nowhere, not small town Indiana, Ireland, Vermont, nor big town Seattle or Dublin has come close. Well, okay, many Londoners came close, but still, they didn't surpass you. Yet another way New Yorkers excel. Ounce for ounce you are the most unapologetically provincial people I have ever met. You should be very proud.

New York Anniversary

So eleven years ago today, I moved to New York. Less than a month previously I was fully ensconced in my life in Seattle, and other than auditioning for some out of town and out of state theaters, I had no plans for leaving. When the opportunity to go showed up (aided by the promise of a little money), I was tickled with the adventure of it, so I did it. I arrived in Newark Airport mere hours ahead of the big blizzard of '96. My friend and former college roommate Peter was waiting for me, having said he'd pick me up in any airport, by which I think he meant either LaGuardia or Kennedy, since he was taking me back to his apartment in Astoria, but he was gracious and friendly about the whole thing. I had ten days to find an apartment, since that was when I was starting school at the National Shakespeare Conservatory on the 16th. Then the snow hit, and the next morning, everything was buried under snow. The cars were indistinguishable white mounds. Few if any of the brokers offices were open that day, or indeed for most of the week, which was a welcome excuse for me to assume the fetal position in Peter's and Marilyn's apartment and wonder what the hell I was doing. School would provide a structure, sure, but why the hell was I looking for a place to live? I had a really great place in Seattle; true my roommate at the time had been slowly, inexplicably turning into a raving asshole, but the rent was cheap, I had my own room, there were trees right outside both sides of the apartment, oh yeah, there was a front AND a back door, I had friends all around me, and theatres that knew me, even if I didn't think they respected me all that much... I had things to do there. I may not have been crazy about it, but I had a life there.

I did manage to get into Manhattan during that week; previously I had spent less than 24 hours there during my senior year in college during the concert choir/chamber musicians tour of '87. That had been just long enough for me to learn that the frantic energy of the place caused me to rush around even when I didn't have be anywhere. I was sight-seeing with my friend Auburn, my soon-to-be boyfriend David, and his poor unwitting admirer Chantal. Auburn loved the fact that she could stop on any street corner, scream at the top of her lungs (and she was a trained-singer) and no one would notice, let alone stop.

I didn't care for the place. Too many people, too frenzied, no trees, greenery of any kind. I swore I'd never live here, despite knowing I would be pursuing acting. I also swore I'd never wait tables. So far I've kept that promise, for the good of diners everywhere.

Anyway. Here I was, having decided more or less on the spur of the moment to move to the area and go to school in Manhattan. So I was looking at things with a very different eye this time, not to mention that I was nearly ten years older, and had gotten quite comfortable in the relative urban setting of Seattle. My first impressions of Manhattan was snow muffled silence. There were hardly any people out. There were almost no cars at all. It was easier to walk in the street because most of them had been at least partially plowed, and no one else was using them. It seemed very peaceful, serene even. Times Square, the East Village, Soho, all of it quiet.

It took me a month to find a place to live, and that was after narrowly missing a chance to live with two of the most annoying members of my new class. We would have been a great trio, until I had to chop them both up and feed them to cats. Our first choice apartment turned us down, and our fast talking broker couldn't shake him out of it. Peter and Marilyn had guest room, so at least they didn't have me underfoot all the time, but their generosity made such a difference in my morale.

I ended up living for four months in Windsor Terrace with a lovely woman. No broker was involved, my friend Lisa found this woman's listing on the Brooklyn Co-op board where they both shopped. Brenda owned the apartment, but was in Connecticutt five days a week for her job. I was to learn this was not an unusual way for New Yorkers to live. During the next three years I was to move a total of twelve times, usually staying no more than three months in one place. That was usually just long enough to unpack, get settled, then pack up again. I lived in Brooklyn, Astoria (twice), the East Village, the Upper West Side (twice), and Jersey during that time; I bet I know the subway system and the Kennedy Boulevard buses better than most natives at this point. I've now lived in my Harlem apartment longer than the entire time I lived in Seattle. I've lived here longer than any other place except my childhood home. I'm not sure why, but that kind of freaks my shit out. I just signed on for another two year lease in this place. I don't feel locked in really; this apartment would be a breeze to sublet, but I do feel a bit odd. This place doesn't feel like home, but it's not as if anyplace else does either. I'm still ambivalent about New York, even as my ability to navigate its rapids improves. Maybe I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed by the fact of eleven years. More than a decade. My seven years in Seattle seemed jam-packed compared to my time here. Maybe that's just due to the fact that I spent my twenties there, and my thirties here. Life just is more dramatic when you're in your twenties, I think.

Anyway... happy anniversary, New York.

Puppies, Friends, and Sushi

Cell phones have brought a new wrinkle to my life. Often now when my friends leave a message, they are out and about, going about their day in the world. Many of my friends (and I think I do this too) have a tendency to leave stream of consciousness messages, randomly reporting the thoughts going through their heads. Well, now, I get a little glimpse of what they're experiencing as well. It feels sometimes like I'm finding out what it's like to BE them. Melissa almost always runs into a dear friend unexpectedly on the street, often someone she hasn't seen in months or even years. Kate sees a puppy every time she calls. Or a baby. "OOOh, cutest baby( or puppy) in the world!" she'll say, right in the middle of another thought. Every call. Julia is often eating sushi. I feel sometimes like my friends inhabit a New York of magic, with butterflies and kisses waiting for them on every street corner.

This is not how I experience life in New York. It's a good reminder that one's experience is defined by one's perspective.

Bottom line, I love my friends.

Presence of Mind

Just before 1pm, I was walking to the train station by my house. As I slid my card through the turnstile, a crowd of people rushed to the station agent screaming. "There are people on the track, a train is coming, ya gotta stop it!" I looked up to see the 1 train had indeed stopped, about a quarter of the way in the station. Unfortunately it had already run over the men. We rushed over to see what had happened; standing nearby was a young woman and a girl both in tears. Another woman asked what had happened. Apparently one man had been having a seizure, when he fell onto the tracks. The second man dove down to get him, when the train ran over them both. The Good Samaritan was the father of the young girl (and, I learned later, father to the young woman as well). Hearing this, the older woman went over to the train. "Are you okay?" she called down. One of the men responded. "Hear that?" she asked the girl, "He's okay." She had him speak a few more times, each time looking at the crying girl. "Hear that? He's okay."
By this point there were a million cops on the scene, followed soon thereafter by fireman. The Good Samaritan reassured everyone that he and the other guy were fine. A crowd began leaving the train, rubber-necking as they passed the sight, or stopping to watch and who could blame them? Those of us on the platform had at least SOME idea of what had happened. I wanted to see that both men were okay, but realized that I was not helping the situation by standing around gawking.
I spent my bus ride downtown, and most of the afternoon close to tears, not a common experience for me, despite my emotional Celtic nature. It wasn't really the thought of death; I believed both men were going to be all right. It was more the sense that I had glimpsed people rising to an occasion, seeing people in trouble and responding lovingly without a seconds thought. It wasn't just the heroism of the man who saved the young guy's life, though that was obviously an incredibly brave act. It wasn't just the crowd of people who tried to stop the train when they saw the men fall. I found myself thinking again and again of the woman who kept telling the little girl, "Hear that? He's okay." I think all of us there wanted to help, and were frustrated by the fact that there really wasn't anything we could do; the experts were already on the scene, we were mostly just in the way. But that woman found something. She had the presence of mind and insight to see a need and fill it. Maybe what she did doesn't seem like much, but if you were eight years old and thought you had just seen your father killed, wouldn't you want some reassurance? I'm 40 years old, didn't know this guy from Adam's off-ox and I wanted to know he was okay. The rescue workers were all doing their jobs getting the two men to safety, they didn't have time to notice one little girl was confused, frightened and suffering. That woman couldn't get the men to safety either. But she did what she could.
If you want to know more, go here. I was so relieved to be able to learn the whole story. Bottom line, the young guy having the seizure is in stable condition at the hospital. The Good Samaritan walked away without a scratch. I wish I knew that woman's name.

Next day: So this story has made the national news wires. Closest I've ever brushed up against an event of this nature. Since this is all about me after all.

Wesley Autry, the Good Samaritan, seems to be a stand-up guy in general. He doesn't see what all the fuss is about.

Two Days Later: Still mulling over some things... first one: you know all that hallmark card, movie of the week stuff about "people pulling together in a crisis to help each other" I tried to avoid but still ended up talking about above? When one is in the experience, that compassion and fellow feeling is palpable. It's an energy that seems almost physical. Two: the fact that this happened in the subway is particularly significant for me. That is not a place I associate with compassion and fellow feeling. Particularly during rush hour, most of us put on our "too many people in my space" armor. Our faces go dead and mannequin-like, we avoid eye contact, we ignore the panhandlers, suspecting (probably with reason) that more than a few of them are scam artists. I tend to love looking at faces, and find beauty in a wide variety of them, but usually on the train I feel I might as well be looking at dinner plates, or pet rocks or something. There just isn't anyone at home in those faces; it's probably true of my face as well. Those moments when something charming or sweet happens on the train and we drop our masks, it's lovely, and it does happen sometimes. But this, this was something else. Like I said, I think most of us wished we could be more help. Mostly we were freaked out, upset, and frustrated. But the desire alone meant some kind of group energy was created. And maybe we already knew that we had just witnessed something brave and miraculous.

Firefly Convention

It's been a while, and I do have a lot to say, but I had to give my fellow Joss Whedon fans a heads up. If you haven't already read it, go to my friend Kate's blog to read about an amazing thing that happened regarding a big convention that was supposed to happen for the TV show Firefly. It confirms so much of what I wanted to believe about the show, the cast, and of course Whedon. Seems like a really special thing got created, and many folks recognized it.

Please, No Gifts

So I'm coming up on the anniversary of my coming out. I wish I'd been thinking about it last year at this time, because that would have been exactly twenty years. Coming out is of course a long, often protracted experience, but the first time I actually allowed the words "I am gay" to pass my lips with another person in the room occured a week or two before Thanksgiving (can't recall the actual date, unfortunately), in the dorm room of David K. who ended up becoming a good friend, though I barely knew him at the time. He was a flirty guy, and had been definitely sending me signals that confused the hell out of me, but were probably as much wishful thinking as anything else; he was hot, but at the time was just coming to the end of his 'questioning' period and his answer was different from mine. Still, he ended up being a good person to come out to, very emotionally supportive. The next night I sat four of my closest friends down to tell them, then about a month later, on the day after Christmas I came out to my family. Well, Mom had actually asked me herself on Christmas Day, undoubtedly tapping into her special Mom magic for picking up on such things, but I told the rest of my family the next day, and felt like all the hardest hurdles were now behind me.

There were a few more friends I felt warranted being told face to face, but after that I just expected the rumor mill at my tiny (1100 students) college to take care of the rest. That didn't happen so much, and I don't know why. I was almost offended at the time that no one seemed interested enough in my life to speculate, but maybe I just had good friends, who didn't see any need to turn it into juicy scuttlebut.

This did not usher in a wonderful new world of dating, however. There were hardly any out gay men at my school, and most of them were annoying as hell. The one gay adonis on campus (also a nice guy) never took any interest in me, unfortunately. It was another full year before I had any gay male friends, and it was well after college before I had much of a social group in that sense. (New York has seen a reverting back to college for some reason.) But that time of my life involved a blossoming in all sorts of ways. I first learned how to make and perform in masks that fall (and it is NO coincidence that I came out later that same term), I declared myself a theatre major that Spring, and went off to Ireland (my first overseas trip alone) that Fall, to have a whole lot more life-changing experiences. So I've been thinking about my nineteeth and twentieth year a lot of late. Seems like I should have some sort of celebration, doesn't it? Come to think of it, 95-96 was a pretty eventful time as well. Hmmm.

Anyway. Any thoughts on how this auspicious occasion should be observed? I'm pretty sure there ought to be cake. There should always be cake. Other than that though, I'm at a loss. As always, I welcome suggestions from my gentle readers.

Brand New Day?

I want to be excited about the elections. I am certainly more heartened by these results than I would have been by the opposite outcome. I was flabbergasted (and cheered spontaneously) when I learned about Rumsfeld's 'resignation'. I am glad the Democrats gained a majority in both houses.

But I'm wary, I have to admit. Things have been deteriorating BADLY for a while now, and it's as if the Democrats only just woke up in the last few months. Sure they've been starting to speak up about some of the problems in recent months, but it's felt very small, and very late. Maybe this sea change will give them heart again. Maybe they will actually hold some people accountable for their actions. Maybe Bush won't be able to ignore dissent with that shit-eating smirk of his any longer. But I don't think that will happen by itself. We're going to have to hold people's feet to the fire, and I'm just not sure I know how to do that. Keep squawking, I guess that's really my only tool at present. I'm not a multimillionaire who can make my pleasure and displeasure known with gargantuan contributions. Part of the problem for me and the Democrats of course is that we all can agree things are bad right now, but alternate solutions haven't really been proffered. I know that my radical Quaker policy of no war at any time isn't one that will garner much support from this or any Congress (at least not any time soon). I find myself toying with a 'you break it you buy it' feeling about Iraq, yet also taking note of how many Iraqis don't want us there. Not sure what kind of percentage we're talking about (does anyone know?), but when they don't want us, and we don't have a good plan for being there, it's pretty hard watching the death count rise.
Is this just a whole lot of cynical whinging? Maybe. I know that change never comes as quickly or dramatically as we want it to. I also know the slow, imperceptible changes that do make a difference come from diligent efforts of people who often never see any progress. It too over 300 years for slavery to end in this country, and there were brave, principled people working to end it from the very beginning. Their work made a difference, even if they never knew it. So, I'm taking some pleasure in these election results, including (I freely admit) some gloating over the uncharacteristically furrowed brow on Bush. Santorum is out. Rumsfeld is out. Those two facts alone are cause for celebration. But I'd like to be a lot more enthusiastic about the whole affair. What am I missing here? Anyone have thoughts they want to share, ideas I should examine more closely? I'd love to hear them. Who is rejoicing out there right now? And what are you rejoicing about?

Back Off, Honey

I've noticed that part of my evolution in dealing with New York has a lot to do with my relationship with space. That is to say, getting used to having a lot less of it. I'm not just talking about living in shoe-boxes (though I readily admit I'm better off than a lot in NYC), but just dealing with the way people take up space out and about. On the train. Walking on the street. Standing in elevators. Standing in line. I realized recently that I had begun slouching in a way I never had before (causing myself all kinds of spinal trouble, or at least exaserbating previous problems), largely in response to sitting on the subway, trying to make myself as small and unassuming as possible. I've begun responding to that, figuring out how to sit up properly, while still not taking up two/three seats as so many people in this city are fond of doing.

But I'm just coming to accept that there are different expectations when it comes to personal space. I think it's culturally based to some extent as well. It took me several months of riding on the subway before I realized that other people (even guys) wouldn't get violent if my leg happened to brush against theirs. Growing up in the Midwest, there was never any need to touch a stranger, so if you did, it was noteworthy, and risky.

Even by New York standards though, I think my neighborhood may be exceptionally cozy. It's mostly Dominican, but generally Hispanic, and I've just come to accept that when people stand close to me, they're not being disrespectful or pushy. I noticed it first with children, how they would walk past me intruding on what I considered my personal sphere far too much, but I've come to see it happening with people of all ages, and both genders. Today I was standing in line at my local grocery and I kept getting whiffs of cilantro (mmm) because the woman behind me in line kept brushing a bunch of it against my ass. I don't think anything hostile was involved. That's just where she was standing.

There are still adjustments to be made on my part; I realize I'm often breathing rather shallowing (thus raising my stress levels) when I'm in close proximity to strangers. I still don't LIKE it very much, truth be told. I haven't been rehearsing or taking dance classes which used to be good ways for me to be in open spaces on a regular basis. But I've also crossed over to the NYC mode enough to get really annoyed, I mean REALLY, when I'm in the Times Square region, dealing with groups of tourists standing around in large bovine clumps, NOT GETTING OUT OF MY WAY. It's really quite striking, they just don't seem to realize they're blocking traffic as effectively as if they had parked an SUV in the middle of the sidewalk. There they are gawking at the sights, or their map, or whatever, and I just can't get around them. When they make me miss a light, whoo boy, do I get grumpy. I usually snap out of it (it was a WALK sign for god's sake, I can wait for 60 seconds for it to change again), but sometimes it can get close. I don't really see this as progress necessarily. I'd rather not turn into a cranky local bitching about all them furriners and the bridge and tunnel crowd gumming up the place. But it seems like something is shifting in my world.

Slippery (Yet Shiny and Manageable) Slope

I spent twelve dollars yesterday. On shampoo. This is not typical behavior for me. I think this is an example of the insidious "expenses expanding with income" phenomenon, where one is living from paycheck to paycheck regardless of their amounts. But you see, this stuff is specifically for brunettes! Generally blondes and redheads get all the fun hair products: brunettes, particularly those of us with lighter shades (I'm not sure if I'm 'amber' or 'maple') generally don't get much in the way of shine enhancement, or what have you. Until now. And see, this stuff was on sale! With my Duane Reade card it was just under six dollars each for shampoo and conditioner, as opposed to nearly seven. Fourteen dollars for shampoo, now that would be outrageous. Who does that?

Okay, so I was still feeling fairly silly about it all. Even calling myself a 'brunette' feels silly. Can boys be brunettes? Why does that word seem more sissified than blonde or redhead? The word brunette makes me think of Jacklyn Smith for some reason (who?), I don't find myself picturing George Clooney. So even buying the stuff was a bit awkward. I know the cashier couldn't care less about my purchases, I'd buy condoms with nary a shudder from the same person, but hair products? FUSSY hair products? Fussy EXPENSIVE hair products? "Yes dear, I'm not even a metrosexual, I'm a big ole flaming homo."

I've been openly gay for twenty years, was never what you'd call 'macho' and this sort of thing still slows me down. I have an easier time buying eye-liner, frankly. Though I pick my neighborhood carefully for that too, I suppose.

Once the gauntlet of the cashier was passed, I was still feeling silly about the price. I've tried various shampoos over the years and I have to say I've rarely noticed much difference. Okay, the volumizing stuff (which I always have bought by mistake, needing more volume like I need another hole in my head) does seem to frizz my hair out like nobody's business. But for the most part I want my hair to feel clean and the 99 cent Suave seems to do that just fine. What could be so much better about this stuff. Then I read the label; "low-ph formula with tea leaf infusion and crushed pearls."

Goodness. Suddenly twelve dollars seemed cheap. Crushed pearls? Seriously? Like the real deal? Not the plastic ones you can buy for a dollar? Farmed no doubt, but still, real? Wow. Okay, tea leaf infusion, that starts to bug me again; I mean, I know what the word 'infusion' means, so they brewed some tea and threw some pearl powder into it. I could do that myself, if I knew where to get pearl powder. I wonder if mica flakes would work just as well?

But wait a minute, I can see how pearl powder MIGHT make my hair shiny and glossy looking, if it got left in my hair. But I rinse this stuff out after just a few minutes. Even the conditioner. Does pearl powder magically bond with one's hair so it doesn't rinse away in the shower? Is that what the 'tea infusion' is for? It claims not to add color, which is what I would expect the tea to do. It stains teeth, why wouldn't it color hair? Oh, and the label on this stuff says it's safe for 'color treated' hair. People DYE their hair brown? Really? Who does that? Blondes who are tired of being called 'dumb'? Redheads who just want to fade into the woodwork? I don't get it.

Oh yeah, grey. I forgot about that. Gotta say one thing for us 'amber to maple' types, grey doesn't show up intil there is a LOT of it. I've got more grey in my eyebrows and chest hairs than on my head.

Too much information? Where am I going with this? Oh yeah, throwing money at my hair. Okay, so nowadays I'm spending about 40 dollars on haircuts, as opposed to the 15 dollar (plus tip) I used t spend, I'm using products, most days TWO of them (one for shine, one for 'manageability, since I'm sporting a longer style and my hair is curly), which also opens up a whole new category of expense. Is the fifteen dollar 'pomade' really going to be that much better than the four dollar stuff? How can one tell? Is it all in the level of alcohol involved? Am I throwing good money after bad by using expensive 'moisturizing' shampoo and glossy stuff that fries my hair like a potato chip?

My head hurts. But for now, I'm using tea and pearls on my hair. I'll let you know how it's going. I'm sure this is all rivetting.

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