An Exerpt from an Old Email

... which still rings true somehow...

Yes, sex is so very VERY good... unless it isn't, in which case it's really hard to remember why one spends so much time and does so much work to make it to happen because DAMN, when it's bad, it's BAD, and you don't know why you bother, and maybe you'd be better off devoting all that energy and frustration into something constructive like building houses for the poor, or raising cockatiels, or collecting doilies or SOMETHING which will result in something to show for one's efforts, except for the fact that sublimation/redirection DOESN'T WORK, I don't care what anyone says, FREUD CAN 'SMOKE MY CIGAR' because when you want sex, you want sex, it's not like urges are just fuel that one can put any old place (shall I gas up the stove, the jalopy, or my wife?), that approach doesn't WORK. DOESN'T DOESN'T DOESN'T DOESN'T. Does not.

Uh-uh.

I'm sorry... what were we talking about? Someone needs to go run around Manhattan. In a cold shower.

What is salt peter, anyway? And where does one find it?

Be a Man!

So I started physical therapy this week. Not wanting to overwhelm me, my lovely young therapist gave me only one exercise. It consists of keeping my head level, and pulling it backwards, holding for one/two seconds, repeat. One set consists of ten reps, and I'm to do five or six sets a day. Though I doubt this was the plan, it seems designed to draw attention to my extremely weak chin; when I'm doing the exercise correctly, my chin disappears all together into my neck. This being one of my particular neuroses, you can understand how seriously I take this, when I tell you I've even done the exercise on the train.

This is the first, tiny, glacial step in addressing pain I've had since 1992. I suspect I may have given myself whiplash by playing a Pentecostal snake-handler who speaks in tongues and has seizures. Sixteen shows, with me flinging my head backward violently. Yeah, that seems likely. But the pain has been a slow, creeping deterioration, making it hard to pin down, diagnose, and fix in the past. Initially, since my teeth seemed to be the source of the trouble, I thought I might need another root canal (having suffered one the previous year), but while I was relieved to learn that wasn't the problem, it still left me with no real solution. Next I had a doctor examine me; he was perplexed, but suggested I try antihistamines, speculating maybe my sinuses might be involved. Then he sent me on my way as well. Over the years I tried other doctors, dentists, and for a while, a chiropractor. The latter was the first medical person in a while who seemed to take my concerns seriously. Unfortunately he didn't help; in fact he may have made things worse.

During all this time I was staying reasonably active; my performing has generally been quite physical, I was taking lots of dance and movement classes, then I eventually started dabbling in tumbling and acro-balance. The pain by this point had become much more decisive in its characteristics, and it had moved down my body, eventually including, well, basically everything on the right side of my body. Eye, sinus, jaw, back of head, neck, shoulder, right arm (tingling down to my three smallest fingers), lower back, buttock, down my leg to my outer toes. The pain has been some kind of presence in my life for the last fifteen years, and has covered half my body for at least the last ten.

I got used to ignoring it. I worked at ignoring it. No one seemed able to help, or particularly concerned about it. I'm wary enough of medical people and their habitats, so if no one seems to want me to come visit him/her, I'm only too happy to comply. The dentists were typically a bit more sympathetic seeming, but generally I was also paying them more. Most of my medical care has been provided by low income clinics, and while it's probably just paranoia, I can never shake the sensation that the people who work there are always a bit irritated by my presence. "We've got indigent folks dying of AIDS here, white boy, we don't really have time to listen to your whining." Being accused of whining is worse even than being accused of condescension in my book, frankly. Even the idea that someone might be thinking that about me sends me running for the door.

So I soldiered on. Then about two years ago the pain got still worse, and I found myself starting to limit my activity. While we're cataloguing weird shit that Patrick is secretly neurotic about, I'll mention another one. Periodically I've asked myself, if I were to lose a sense or an ability, what would be hardest for me to handle? Sight, yeah, I'd miss it, but I'd deal, so much of what I love in the world would still be available to me. Hearing, that one would be harder, I think, but I think I'd still cope... no, when you got right down to it, the biggest fear I had was of becoming paralyzed. The idea of losing my ability to move has always been my special vision of hell. Why do I bring this up? Because recently I found myself thinking "wow, I do everything I can to avoid moving these days." I'm certainly not paralyzed, THANK you Jesus, but it was startling and frightening to think I was no longer really connecting with the world physically. This threatened a core sense of myself, how I relate to the world, other people, and it scared me a lot.

That may have been the deciding factor that got me to try getting help again. That, and a lucky encounter with a very nice therapist who was a friend of a friend, and gave me a free consultation (THANK you Sue). My first meeting with Kelly (lovely new PT), I realized I was just grateful to have her listening to me, taking my concerns seriously, acting like my problem was legitimate, treatable, and most importantly, WORTH treating. No idea how much of a difference this treatment is going to make, but just having it legitimized by someone else has been surprisingly gratifying.

I've also found myself examining my attitude towards pain. As a pretty young kid I began priding myself on my ability to withstand pain. I'm not sure exactly how this got started, but I have some ideas. This may come as a grave shock those who know me, but I was an extremely effeminate kid, and I was terrible, TERRIBLE at sports. Since in grade school and Jr. High, sports ability was the way you differentiated boys from girls, this presented me with some identity problems. With athletic ability off the table, that left me with few options to show my male bona fides. Chasing girls was a possibility, and I actually did that with some enthusiasm, until puberty had other ideas. So, sports and girlfriends were out, what did that leave me? I began cultivating a certain kind of stoicism, where physical pain of any kind was not to be acknowledged. This of course was a tricky way to prove oneself. One can't draw attention to any suffering, because that immediately defeats the purpose of being stoic about it (I understood this early on). Responding with Vulcan-like emotionlessness to accidents and obvious injuries was one way. But I also took great pride in suffering in private. My ninth grade year, when these things were reaching a fever pitch, I ran cross country with a twisted ankle. Every practice, every meet, I retwisted it. I managed to come in second in the city-wide race though, and felt more than ever that this was a way to establish some kind of nascent machismo. I even tried using cross country as my very own aversion therapy. Running long distance (which I actually hated, and probably wasn't well suited for, being a much better sprinter), I would fantasize about guys. Showering in warm water, I fantasized about girls. Then to end, I'd turn the water to cold, and think about guys again. This didn't cure me of homosexuality, but it sure as hell ruined me for long distance running.

My stoicism had all sorts of repercussions. I find it extremely difficult to ask anyone for help most of the time, though I've gotten better over the years. I sympathize with other people's emotional pain reasonably well, but a person's (particularly a man's) physical suffering has got to be obviously dire for me not to feel secretly smug. My first boyfriend was one of those guys who wanted 24 hour nursing when he had the sniffles, and I was a grave disappointment to him. I never told him to suck it up, but I felt the temptation frequently.

Add into all this the fact that most of my professional life has been spent pursuing disciplines that cause pain, albeit usually the healthy, 'things are getting stronger' kind, and it's not surprising that I stayed in my just-ignore-it mode. My PT asks me questions about the qualities, intensity, persistence etc. of the pain/tingling, and I often find myself growing a bit impatient with her. I don't KNOW anything about it, I've been IGNORING IT for a decade, don't you understand? I think I'm also somewhat suspicious still, like I think all her questions are really just designed to catch me out, like a police detective, and eventually she's going to accuse me of making it all up. Poor Kelly, she's doing great and I'm mostly being cooperative so far.

I suspect most American males would recognize this behavior. Maybe Americans in general would, since we as a culture have started to act like ill-health is a sign of moral weakness, sin, even. Writing this entry is triggering my 'stop whining' impulse even still. But I'm feeling cautiously optimistic. Both PT's I've spoken to have been careful not to promise too much. But with any luck, over time I might be able to move and sleep better than I have since my twenties.

Randomness

Things I'm thinking about, that don't deserve their own entries, and don't really have much point.

I haven't heard all of Fergie Ferg's new album, The Duchess, but I'm curious; does she (or someone else) spell out a word on every single track? It's like an episode of Sesame Street.

Also, when did she become Fergie Ferg?

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If you are starting a brand new massage parlor, or rather 'massage' parlor, I don't really think you should call the first event a "Grand Opening". I'm just sayin'.

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I went to a cold reading workshop with a very nice casting director on Tuesday. Lots of useful information, and reaffirmation of old useful information. She made no bones about the fact that 'typing' is a central part of the process, ie. the people you're auditioning for have made decisions about you based on your look and energy from the minute you walk in the door. She recommended that you not waste a lot of time trying to figure out what your type is, but she also said that having a general sense of how you're perceived is a good idea. The gauge she recommends highest is looking at how you've been cast in the past. This seems reasonable, but still manages to frustrate me a bit. I look at my resume; let's see, I've been a dog, a wolf, a ten year old boy, the ghost of a seven year old boy, a several different dinosaurs, assorted insects, three different demons, the Archangel Michael, two rent boys and a femme fatale. Just to name a few. So, what does that tell me?

Then she handed out scenes to each of us in the workshop, implicitly letting us know how she was typing us. I got the role of Marc from "Ugly Betty", the flaming queen assistant to Wilhemina.

Oh, right. That.

Okay there wasn't really anything in the scene that immediately told us he was gay, I only knew he was being portrayed that way because I'd seen the show, so I wondered if I should avoid making that choice, since it seemed like I would just be playing the choices of the actor who got the role. I went later in the session (just luck of the draw) so I watched her tell person after person to avoid 'theatrical' choices, drive the scene, really connect with the scene partner, etc. So, my time comes, I say my lines, I connect with my reader, I keep things understated, there is no flaming of any kind.

Uh uh. That was not what she was looking for here. "Have more fun with the language, this isn't a realistic character, he hates Wilhemina, but wants to be her. Play him gayer."

All Righty.

I flitted, I flounced, I minced my ass off. My voice swept from highs to lows on virtually every line.

She liked it.

No one else was given this scene. Only one other gay role was handed out at all. Maybe I should take note of the fact that she gave that part (also written to be rather bitchy) to a large, muscular, dignified, older black man.

I'm still mulling over what I think of all this. What I think of this role in particular. And how I feel about being typed as a flaming queen before I've even opened my mouth. Whether that's the message I should be taking away from this, and if so, is that a problem? I guess if it gets me work, and doesn't play too strongly on stereotypes, then I can handle it. I think. It did make me uncomfortable. Still does. It still feels a bit like I was boxed in, given a 'type' that most people (me included, apparently) consider quite limiting. I can't decide if that's her problem, my problem, or not a problem at all.

Time to find those gay roles that don't feel like compromises.

Word Cloud

So this is what happens when a computer analyzes my blog to see what words have appeared there most often. The larger the font, the more often I use the word. It's called a word cloud, and it seems like it was custom-designed to appeal to me; there are words, but they're being used as a visual medium.

I wish I had realized the program would include all the graphics on each page; that's the only explanation I have for why every single word from every blog title I'm linked to is included, and all pretty much the same size. So if you want to know what I've been rabbiting on about, look at all the titles I've linked to, take those words out of the mix, and you'll get a sense. I guess it shouldn't surprise me that the epic entry posted immediately below (2/11/07) ended up making a big splash; the names Niko and Dion both made it into the graphic, and I imagine that's why 'god' 'good' and several other words show up as well (though I'm sure they have appeared in other entries too). The other word clouds I've seen seemed to have a greater variety of sizes; looking at mine it seems as if there are only two or three different sized fonts being used. Not sure what that says about my usage pattern.

Love the sequence 'gay god good'. 'Little Loose Love' is also rather nice.

Frankly I was hoping to make some discoveries from this, but so far there is only a single, rather distressing one.

Do I really use 'like' that much?

Oh, Brother Jeff asked for a link to this site; how rude of me. If you want to make your own word cloud, go here. And if you figure out how to make the image bigger, could you let me know? This is the largest size I could come up with on blogger.

Favorite Books: Honoring the God: The Pursuit of Ethical Art in The Mask of Apollo

POTENTIAL SPOILER ALERT. The following is a look at one of my favorite books. If you think you might want to read it, and hate to know anything about a book’s plot in advance, you’ll want to skip this entry. 

Those who know me well know that I avoid ever being pinned down to a single favorite anything, and certainly when it comes to books, choosing one would be like choosing a favorite song, or food. That said, if someone were to insist that I had to answer the question "what book has most influenced you" with only one title, I would, without much hesitation, answer Mary Renault’s The Mask of Apollo.

Hoist That Petard

I don't know if many of you are following the most recent tactic in the battle to legalize same-sex marriage taking place in Washington State. The Supreme Court there just handed down a decision saying it had the right to limit marriage only to those who could procreate. This has long been batted around by various right wing fuckheads, sorry, pundits as a legitimate idea, but to the best of my knowledge, this is the first time it's been the official, and sole reason given by a legal body.

In response, a group called WA State Defense of Marriage Association (WA-DOMA) has filed a petition with the state government stating that if after three years a marriage has failed to produce any children, then the marriage is annulled. The government has accepted the initiative, now the organization just has to get the necessary number of signatures to put it on the ballot. The organization plans to get two more initiatives before the voters as well; one would make it illegal to get a divorce or annulment of there are children resulting from the marriage, and the third would state that having a child would mean the parents were now married.

I can see all sorts of pitfalls to this sort of action. It's possible it will alienate potential allies, offending any fence-sitters who might feel personally attacked by it. It might upset gay activists who will want to know why a gay organization is spending time and money on an initiative it doesn't actually support, and won't want to see passed. I suppose it's possible it might even fall into the hands of the right wing Christian Taliban whack-jobs who would actually love to see this kind of legislature passed.

DON'T CARE! I LOVE this initiative. I think it's brilliant. I've always wondered why, when someone trotted out the 'procreation' bullshit no one asked, well, what about couples who are infertile? What about people who are paralyzed from the waist down? What about the couples who don't want children, never did? What about the women who are past child-bearing age? My Great Aunt Ardith got married at the age of 72. If these morons seriously believe their claims, then they should have no problem signing the petitions, hell, actively campaigning alongside their g/l/b/t brothers, sisters, and others to see this stuff passed. This ties in completely with their Old Testament nonsense about being fruitful and multiplying, because one thing we don't have enough of in this world is people. I hope WA-DOMA contacts the WA state chapters of Focus on the Family and its ilk first off.

Maybe this is rank justice. Maybe this is me succumbing to baser instincts, embracing a petty, punishing approach to a complex and difficult issue. I repeat, DON'T CARE DON'T CARE DON'T CARE! Too many nice, polite, well-meaning people are trying to sit this one out, wishing it would go away, because basically in their heart of hearts, they do believe that same-sex marriage is not as valuable or important as heterosexual marriage. Plus it's kind of icky. I am not a rabid activist on this issue, I'll be the first to admit, I'm not asking anyone to go out into the trenches, but it really rankles me the number of folks who just don't seem to GET it on this issue, and don't bother to try. This initiative will never ever pass, seeing as how none of the DOMA people working for it will vote for it if it even makes it to the ballot, but if it brings new attention to the hypocrisy of the homophobic right, and greater insight to the fence-sitters and 'polite people', then I'm all for it.

This is Not a Metaphor

I have too much stuff. Normally this realization is cause for celebration, because I actually love getting rid of stuff. Purging possessions is one of my oddest pleasures, and after eight years in the same place (new two year lease starting today!) it's still not unusual for me to look at something that I've had forever and say, "time for that to go."

The problem I'm facing right now is, I have too many plants. Too many big plants. Ones that have fairly specific needs lightwise. And getting rid of plants is sort of like getting rid of pets for me; not so much in the emotional attachment department (though there is a twinge of that, have to admit) but in the "I can't just throw this out, I need to find it a new home, a GOOD home, with someone who will love it, care for it, and give it all the things I'm no longer able to provide fully."

That sort of getting rid.

The clearest example of this is the angel-wing begonia, a cutting from my mother's, which all started as cuttings from her mother's, so like many of my plants, this one also has a feeling of being a living family heirloom. Sitting on a milkcrate, in order to lift it up closer to the available windows, it's as tall as me. This would be hard enough to deal with, but it's much much wider than I am. This summer I moved it into the living room, near an east window (on a courtyard, but still). It had space around it for the first time in years, I was able to rotate it easily, so as to encourage it not to grow lopsided. For years it had been forced to lean against a wall, never moving, because it had grown so far in one direction and always tipped over without the support. So it did reasonably well for the Summer months in the living room, but as the seasons changed, and the amount of light actually hitting the living room lessened, it got more and more sad and spindly looking. I finally had to move it back into my bedroom, which has southern windows.

The thing is, there I have to squeeze it between my dresser and my art desk, in a room that is already too crammed with furniture. And even there, the plant didn't look like it was doing as well as it could. So now I'm trying to move it as close to the window as it can go, which means my desk has to move into a more cramped, awkward position. I am battling for window space with my houseplant.

And this plant used to be bigger. It was allowed to grow without check for a few years when Brian and I were in sole residence of this apartment, meaning I had access to every single window, including the southern facing ones with deep window-wells in the room that was our bedroom, and is now my roommate's. When the begonia had to come out of there, (where it had grown well over six feet), I was forced to cut it back; I did so with a fairly clear conscience, though, because I dutifully took all the cuttings and set them to rooting, confident I'd be able to find homes for all the new baby plants, because people were always oohing and ahhing over my plants, and saying they'd like cuttings. Except they didn't. Not so much. They'd usually get scared, or think they didn't have the right light, or space, or were always away for long stretches of time, or somehow it just never happened that they would actually pick up the plants, or meet me anywhere to pick them up. It took years to get rid of the cuttings, and by that point, the begonia really needed to be trimmed again, but I didn't have the heart to do it this time.

(Frequently, when the plant has been moved, or when it's lived for a while in an area that isn't quite right for it, some parts have withered or broken off; it's not happened in a particularly shapely way, but at least I can discard those parts off without feeling too guilty.)

So, now I've got a plant that really doesn't quite fit anywhere in my apartment. There are two windows I have access to that give it the light it needs but since one of them is right by the radiator, and houses the air conditioner in the Summer, really there is only one window where it can go. So I put it there today. And am taking a break trying to figure out where to put my art desk, and the plants (three of them) which got displaced by the begonia. All of whom (naturally) really need direct sunlight on a regular basis. I'm resisting finding some sort of metaphor in all this; a natural thing desperately trying to survive in a space that is barely hospitable to its existence, and really only can live in one fairly cramped portion of the whole apartment. Its history is also revealed in some funny ways; over all it's a fairly handsome plant, but if one looks closely, one notices that there are strong stalks, bamboo-like, perhaps an inch in diameter rising up to hold maybe three leaves aloft. Those stalks formed to support much more extensive foliage, but a lot of it is gone now, leaving these superstructures that feel like reproaches to me somehow. The over all dense and lush look of the plant comes from having LOTS of those stalks, wrapped around one another to just the right degree, with just enough leaves, to create the illusion.

Even placing it in the only location in the apartment that is likely to give it enough life doesn't make it happy really. It's stuffed in a corner, meaning there are two walls for it to bang against as it tries to spread its fronds. I think at its widest point it may be four feet in diameter. This is a plant that wants its own room. Or it should be in an office somewhere. A big office, with lots of light, maybe a skylight.

Obviously I love this plant. I love all my plants. But remember, I mentioned this is just the one giving me the BIGGEST problems at present. My roommate has been here for going on three years now, and just recently brought home a couple of plants of his own. He has cared for all of mine when I've been out of town, and like his predecessor, K, before him, he began to fall in love with the plants too. Which led to him getting some of his own. He took his life into his hands though, by bringing in not one but TWO kinds of plants we already had in the apartment, a golden pothos and a spider plant, rather than taking some of the ones ALREADY IN THE APARTMENT under his care. There was no malice to this, I know. I'm sure he felt I wanted MY plants to be where I could get at them, not understanding that I would happily have MY plants become HIS plants, if that meant they were living somewhere good for them, and were no longer making me feel guilty. (K actually did much the same thing; note to self, act less possessive of the plants.)

Where am I going with this? I really don't know (though of course, dear readers, if any of you would like some houseplants...?). Somehow though, an arrangement needs to be found where I can live with my little green pets, where we all have the space and nutrients we need without crowding one another out. Being able to sweep and dust everywhere would be nice too. I mean for me, I'm not expecting them to start cleaning up after themselves. If they could chip in a little for rent, I wouldn't say no, but for now I'm content to let their air purifying, and blood-pressure lowering abilities be payment in kind.

But I still have too much stuff.

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.