Chicken or Egg

I was on the subway with Martha Plimpton recently. I adore Martha Plimpton, which is funny because when I told people about having seen her, I could only remember two things I'd seen her in. Most recent was an episode of Law & Order, a series I think generally gets things right, but her episode, specifically her work in it, raised the bar significantly. I think she's amazing, and probably would think so from that episode alone.

I had to behave of course, I didn't want to make her nervous, but I wanted to stare at her. I guess conventional standards might not identify her as pretty, but I could watch her face for days. I couldn't even tell you what it is about it. Is there just some sort of liveliness or charisma that shines through? Is she so in tune with her instrument, channel, muse, talent, or just her humanity that it has a physical effect on her? Does she know she's doing it, whatever it is? And if she does, was it something she was born knowing, or did she have to learn it? Is she a successful actor because of this undefined ability, or did success create it somehow?

Random Moments

Note to self: make sure you get to a park at sundown so you can see fireflies, and hear crickets. Sure, they go on all Summer long, but the fireflies at least tend to peak right around now, so if you want the best show, make it happen. You've gotten in the habit of making sure not to miss violet season (though it took a few years), now you need to do the same with fireflies. Parts of Central Park are safe after dark, and Fort Tryon is even better. For now, don't expect to go to sleep listening to crickets though. That's one pleasure that will have to wait for a while.

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Dear Working guy on Hudson Street,

What was that thing you were carrying yesterday? It was longer than the width of the sidewalk, seemed to have upholstery on one of the sides then metal on the other. At first I thought it was some part of a very long bench, but now I wonder if it was meant to fit around the corner of a wall somehow. It obviously was very light, since you carried it easily with one arm. But here's a thought; maybe while you're carrying something that long, you might want to think twice about ogling some strange woman's ass as she walks away from you. I know a good ass should always be acknowledged or you lose your man parts or something, but still. It was almost a Laurel and Hardy routine when you swung around and blocked the entire sidewalk, almost knee-capping me in the process. So you might want to watch that, 'kay?

Kisses,

Patrick.

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While walking through the heather garden at Fort Tryon (one of NYC's little gems), I found myself so happy to see bees. I couldn't be sure they were honeybees, in fact they probably weren't, but I was still glad to see them. I've learned since this whole "disappearance of wild honeybees" debacle came up that in fact they aren't native to North America, and were seriously damaged years ago by a parasite anyway, so losing them isn't as dire as it was originally made out to be... but I still felt really happy to see them. I've always liked them, but now they seemed that much more precious. The cliche of them being industrious really does fit, but in watching them, they also just seemed cheerful as they worked. So brisk, buzzing around, dancing on the heads of each flower, they just seemed happy in what they were doing. I know, I know, major anthropomorphizing: my point is, watching them made me happy. They also seemed to be focusing that day on the lavender, which was a choice I could hardily endorse.

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It's been nearly three weeks, but I wanted to talk about my experience at the GLBT Pride parade. One highlight for me was meeting Big Daddy blogger Joe.My.God, who I've been reading more or less on a daily basis for a few years now. He had mentioned he would be at the corner of Gay and Christopher, so people should stop by to say hi. Of course once I got there, I had the same problem I do with any celebrity I meet. After I gush a bit ("I love your work!") I don't have anything else to say. The problem was compounded in this case by the fact that Joe was surrounded by hordes of guys, all whom, it became very clear, were also bloggers, but bloggers I had NOT been reading, so I'd really have nothing to say, unless I wanted to lie ("as long as there absolutely NO follow-up questions, I love your work!"). At the time this felt like it had the making of a major social blunder, so I decided not to linger.

But that isn't really the story I wanted to tell. One of the fun things about the Pride experience is that it starts as soon as I get on the train. I look around at my fellow passengers, sussing out who is going the same place I am. Especially getting on in my Harlem neighborhood, it's fun trying to guess who of my immediate neighbors wants to make this a part of his/her day. I assume one can tell I'm gay from space, so I'm always a little surprised when people don't guess it (it does TOO happen), but I'm thinking today it would be hard to miss unless one were seriously naive or in denial. You know, lots of earrings, necklaces, bracelets, even an anklet (gift from Friend Kate), sleeveless shirt to show off my tattoo (not the non-existent biceps), I don't know, it just seemed pretty clear. The same was true for lots of my fellow passengers, and of course the crowd got bigger as we moved south.

Somewhere south of 42nd St, a guy got on and sat across from me. Heavy-set, dressed in long pants, blue blazer, open collar shirt, he doesn't look dressed for work but he also doesn't look dressed for the parade. Unless it's a costume and his float has a Gilligan Island theme or something, but barring that, I'm figuring, not on his way to the parade. But he keeps checking me out. Especially if anyone stands between us, he periodically looks around to see if I'm still there. In fact this is some of the clumsiest cruising I have ever witnessed. He's not even pretending; sure he's reading a book, but when he looks up for me, he moves his whole head, even his body if he needs to see past someone else, then when he sees me, reassured, he goes back to his book.

When we get to 14th St the hordes disembark, so I'm on the stairs to the street before I realize he's directly behind me. "I hope you have a fantastic day," he says. "Thanks, you too," I reply. Now on the street, he says, "I'm J____."
"Nice to meet you J___. I'm Patrick."
He tells me about the party he's going to which is a graduation party for a friend who just got her second Masters, this one in Social Work ("Good for her," I say. "Yeah, she's a really good person."). Then, with no transition whatsoever he tells me he can't wait for his wife to get back tonight, and he'll be really happy when his daughter gets back at the end of the summer. I never learned where she was or what she was doing, but since she was all of 13 years old (I did learn this), I assumed it was some sort of extended Summer camp. J_____ proceeded to wax rhapsodic about how much he loved her, and how wonderful she was, and how he knows parents always say that about their kids, but he thinks that's as it should be, and she really is the joy of his life. Okay, so if this is a pick-up it's the worst one ever. I'm assuming it's not, even if he tells me two more times that he hopes I have a fantastic day, it's clear he knows where I am going, and he hopes it will be fun. I really don't know what he is up to.

I can't say I ever got a good answer to this. At some point our paths parted, I went one way, he went another, wishing me once again a fantastic day... and that was it. Maybe he's a major closet case wanting to make some connection, ANY connection with another gay guy, just had to protest his straight bona fides first, and was hoping I'd make a move on him. Sorry J____, that ain't gonna happen. Maybe he's just one of the world's most socially awkward straight guys, who just wanted to let me know he was down with ma peeps. That's nice, it really is, but still, why, out of all the obvious queers getting off at that stop, did he pick me? I tend to get approached by awkward strangers quite a bit, actually. I think it's because I look harmless. So maybe that was it. I don't know. It was an odd, but rather touching start to my Pride Parade experience. I hope he had a nice time at the party, got to see his wife that night, and they called their daughter. I hope that really was what he was looking for.

Returning to Sources

Look at that little boy. Can you believe it? What a baby. It’s the Fall of 1983; I’m seventeen years old. That’s right, if I had known most of you back then, it would have only been because I was baby-sitting you. This is a detail I took (with my nascent photo editor skills) from a press photo from the first REAL play I ever did, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’m playing Lysander. I cut Helena and Hermia out of the photo here not because I didn’t want to show them, but because I’m cautious of posting photos of other people without their permission, and even if I knew how to get in touch with Kristy and Laurie, it seemed a little silly. Plus I wanted to see what I could do with photo editor.

There are a couple of reasons I’ve been looking at this photo of late. One is to marvel at the fact that I once had a chin. Seriously, what the hell happened there? Well, twenty-four years and twenty pounds I guess. Apparently all twenty of it ended up on my face. Well, that’s not true, there’s a lot of it on my belly now too, though you can’t tell as easily in this photo. I was 120 pounds then. I had a twenty inch waist. Seriously. At the costume fitting for this show, the costumer told me she wished she had my measurements. Just what every (closeted) teenage boy wants to hear.

But my real reason for looking at that young, callow kid’s face is more than morose nostalgia masquerading as vanity. With just a little bit of romanticizing, I can make this photo epitomize the time when theatre, and Shakespeare first saved my life. It sounds melodramatic, I know, but seriously, look at that kid. Doesn’t it look like he’s discovering something life changing? Life affirming? Hear me out.

It’s very easy to forget, as a gay man, out for 22 years, and having met a gazillion other queers, that at one point, I really, truly thought I was the only one. Yes, I had met one or two gay people as a kid. I was vaguely aware that my folks were friends with a few lesbian couples, though since they weren’t local, I didn’t know them well. One of my sister’s friends at school was a gay man. He had gone on the England program my folks led when I was fourteen. He was all right. I knew there were whole cities FULL of gay people, marching, dancing, cruising, wearing dresses, throwing pies at Anita Bryant, and, by this point, getting AIDS. They scared me, I wanted nothing to do with them, but I knew they existed. I knew god had no problem with them, and I felt free to question anyone who claimed otherwise. I believed gay people deserved equal rights. I knew my parents, sister, and any adults I respected, all agreed. It didn’t matter. I still believed, deep in my heart, that I was the only gay guy in the world. I felt wrong, ugly, dirty. It might be all right for others to be gay, but for me it was still shameful. And I knew I would never tell another soul my horrible secret.

I had known I was ‘off’ by the time I was five. I had a name for it by age twelve. At age fourteen I had resolved firmly that I was never going to be with anyone, and I’d probably be better off not having any friends. I loved my family, and there were other people I regarded favorably, but actually connecting, building real relationships of any kind, that was not going to happen. I might look like a normal person, but my goal was to be free of emotion.

I suspect few people who knew me then would recognize this self-portrait, but at the time I would have identified that fact as a measure of my success. I had figured out early on that if I truly wanted to be left alone, then anti-social behavior was NOT the way to go. I did well in school. I pursued extra-curricular activities. I was nice to other people. I worked to look like nothing seemed wrong, so everyone would leave me alone. The family ailment of depression had probably sunk its claws deep into me by this point, I see now, but at the time social gracefulness worked well to mask the isolation I was cultivating.

But see, when I was fifteen, I saw this play. The college theatre company produced Equus (yes, Harry Potter’s show). After seeing it, I was in a daze, unable to think about anything else for days. It’s hard to say what resonated so deeply with me. Certainly the themes of seeking ecstatic experience, of living a deep, passionate life would have struck a nerve, however unconscious, given my plan to avoid both. The ritualized staging, the horse masks that did and didn’t reveal the actors’ faces, the choral hum that built tension at key moments, all of that must have captivated me; they’re elements of theatre that still do. Most of all, however, I was blown away by the actor playing Alan Strang.

No, it didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eye, and spent one scene in his underwear (college production, small conservative town, so no nudity), but even at the time I knew it was more than this. Years later when I talked with the show’s director (now my mentor and friend), he said the actor had burned in that role. There had just been an incredible alchemy, he was the right actor, at the right point in his life, for that role in that production. I’m sure if I were able to go back in time to see that same production today, I’d see flaws and amateurishness all over the place. In reading the play now, I’m not convinced it’s even that good a script, really. But it doesn’t matter. I was fundamentally changed by that production.

But how does this get me on-stage in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, my first ‘real play’ you ask? Hang in there, I’m getting to that. I was fascinated by Alan Strang for some time afterwards, though I think it was more hero-worship than adolescent crush. Truth be told, I saw him in two more productions after that, and eh, he was okay. His Leontes in A Winter’s Tale didn’t impress me. The habits and mannerisms that had been so convincing for a disturbed adolescent seemed petulant and childish in a Shakespearean King. In Lady from the Sea his patriarch was better, but still didn’t have the fire that had burned in Equus. In other words, he was an undergraduate acting student learning his craft. I didn't need to put him on a pedestal, and frankly, that was a relief.

Thus two years after I had been overwhelmed by his Alan Strang, I no longer felt intimidated by this guy. I still, however, wanted to be his friend. So when the auditions for Midsummer came out, I decided to go. As a faculty brat I was actually allowed to audition for any college production, but had never been willing to brave it before. The idea of working on a Shakespeare play was both daunting and thrilling, as was the thought of working with this particular director (whose work had consistently impressed me). I swallowed my reticence, and went to the auditions.

I’m sure it’s no surprise to know I was excited to be cast, but I’m not sure you can fathom how BIG a deal it was to me at the time. My family had spent, cumulatively, almost two years living in London, where I had seen a number of plays. The vast majority of my theatre-going experience, however, had been at the college, put on by this department. So my excitement wasn’t just about the fact that I was cast in a Shakespeare play, in a substantial role with an interesting storyline, lots of lines, and some fun physical stuff to do, it wasn’t just the fact that I was getting to be with college students while still in high school, it was also the fact that I was getting to do it at what was, really, the premier theatre in my firmament. First shot out of the gate I was playing Lincoln Center, and not just as Peaseblossom or some other one-liner, but as Lysander, one of the lovers, a real role.

(Oh, in case you were wondering, my Alan Strang was not in the production. He had transferred out of the college that Fall and was attending an acting studio in London. Over the years I would see him in TV commercials, but the best part was stumbling across him unexpectedly in the original production of Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde. I even got to see him in his underwear, albeit Victorian underwear. Even better, the character in his underwear was a rent boy whom we saw embracing and caressing another hot rent boy in his underwear. Oh how my teenaged head would have exploded, if it had seen this. I sent a note backstage telling him how Equus had led to me becoming an actor, and he later left me a gracious voicemail, especially kind given that I had probably gushed in the note like a teenager, not a man in his thirties.)

There was a long journey to take between getting cast and performing though. You see, I was really, really bad. Wooden was the nicest thing you could say at the time. I don’t for the life of me know what Sears, the director, saw at the audition, because it didn’t seem to be there at rehearsal. Remember, I had spent the last few years cultivating a persona meant to be overlooked. In addition, like most midwestern boys, I worked hard not to let any emotion, or indeed much inflection come into my voice. It wouldn’t be exaggerating to say Ennis Del Mar was our role model for masculinity, at least when it came to talking. When my character got angry (that was okay), maybe a little bit of change might bleed through my voice, but that was it. And my body? Wooden doesn't begin to describe it; I was a redwood, except they must sway some in the breeze, no I wasn't a tree, I was rebar, or a steel girder. I would move as little as possible, except for my fingers which would ripple unconsciously and constantly, as if I were playing scales on a piano. I haven’t the slightest idea where that tic came from. Actually, I guess I moved like Ennis Del Mar as well, not counting the piano-playing fingers. No emotion, no vocal inflection, no movement. Suffice it to say I was NOT serving the play or the character at all well.

This problem was exacerbated by the fact that the guy playing Oberon epitomized the worst, most embarrassing excesses of over-acting I could picture. God forbid I indulge myself the way he did, as he swept grandly about the stage, making his voice BOOM most Shakespearean, biting off huge chunks of the scenery with every line, then chewing moistly while anyone else spoke. He didn’t help his case by also refusing to take direction. Any attempt by Sears to shape his performance was met with excuses, arguments, and petulance. As rehearsals progressed it became a pattern for most of us to leave the room anytime his scenes came up. I knew I wasn’t getting the job done, but I simply could NOT to turn into this guy, and the terror of that kept me from trying anything. You can't be wrong if you don't make a choice, right? Such is the logic of a teenager.

I have to give this guy some credit though, because he unintentionally did me a favor. Sears had been hammering away at me, saying ‘get the editor out of’ my head, but he also recognized that my father, as a literature professor, had probably spent some time and effort helping me develop this editor, so when next he ran into Dad, Sears mentioned this. This gave Dad the opportunity to report what I was saying at home about Oberon, and this gave Sears the insight he needed. The next time I rehearsed, he found a moment to speak to me privately about my fears of ‘going too far’. I wish I could remember what he said, because whatever it was turned the light on for me as well. I didn’t suddenly fix things that night, but I made enough of a transformation for fellow actors to compliment me on the improvement (somehow I avoided freaking out when I realized they had all been wondering what was wrong with me.) By the time we went into performance, I had gotten where Sears needed me to be, and we all knew it.

My baby steps as an actor is only part of the story though. The play also provided me with a room full of people I was desperate to befriend. What’s more, many of them were (gasp!) GUYS, guys who were open, kind, not given to ridiculing others (which was almost the only way I had witnessed male friendship before), and what’s more, because this was a touchy-feely College, they regularly HUGGED me. Just ‘cause. The men weren’t the only ones I wanted to feel close to, by the way, but I was already more comfortable with women at the time anyway; befriending guys was definitely the uncharted territory. And remember, I was in high school, and these were COLLEGE STUDENTS. It’s funny to look back and remember what a big deal that was. Many of my dad’s students, and sister’s friends had been nice to me over the years, but they still saw me as a younger brother when they saw me at all. Here were people I had met on my own, NOT through Dad or Mary, they were MY friends, and they treated me as an equal, even while I secretly thought they were all so much more sophisticated and witty and smart and beautiful.

This impulse to connect flew directly in the face of my master plan of course, and I wouldn’t say I immediately came out of my shell by any means, but seeds were definitely planted during that time that have flowered into friendships I still cherish (hi Scott! Hi Mark!).

Shakespeare’s influence can’t be ignored in all this either. This experience opened up a whole new world for me. Suddenly language took on a visceral, vibrant beauty it never had before. Poetry became a driving bodily force, not the ornamental words floating in the ether it had been. And you can’t just be good with his language, he demands big physical choices (even without fight scenes), and psychologically detailed character analysis. This play in particular, grappling as it does with frightening, violent, even bestial elements of humanity as well as the comedy, love, and beauty, also had a profound influence, accepting as it did that humanity isn't always noble or beautiful, but it's alway worth committing to. The production was probably also the first (or most fully realized) occasion I had experienced to date of a group of people coming together to tackle a significant, shared goal. I didn’t hurt that the cast included one of my high school English teachers and the father of one of my classmates. I got to watch them struggle, make mistakes, take direction, and work just like me to get to the core of their characters (Flute and Bottom respectively.) This was nothing like the half-assed larking about that had characterized most of my previous dramatic experiences. Shakespeare really is a complete workout, body, voice, imagination, but once you meet his challenge, he starts to pay back with interest. His humanity infuses this play as it does all his best work, and working on it demanded that I commit to my own humanity.

Heady stuff. I can’t claim that I completely gave up my misanthropic, shutdown ways from this point on. I was still two years away from coming out, from kissing a boy, from letting myself express a need for other people, from risking a broken heart. But a corner had been turned.
After Midsummer closed, I was devastated and lonely for months. I missed all the other actors (and was convinced they didn’t give me a second’s thought), but I also just missed the play itself. My mom said I was having ‘to come down from Shakespeare’ like he was a drug, and I think she was right. As luck would have it, I was cast in the same play, in the same role, eighteen years later, and found that I still remembered all the lines. All of them. Eighteen years, three cities, two schools, god only knows how many other plays, I still had them. That’s how much they meant to me, how deeply they had been instilled.

So, I’ve been needing to be reminded of this recently, perhaps for the last two years. Shakespeare is the original source, the font, for me, as he is for so many others. I need to be reminded, in the fullest, most visceral way possible, of why I first fell in love with theatre. I need that complete workout. Often in the last few years my work has delved into one arena, but neglected others. A play might demand detailed, sophisticated character work, but leave my body out of it. Or the piece asks for extreme physicality, gymnastics even, but little in the way of character work, and nothing of the voice. I don’t mean to suggest none of them have been rewarding, but I’ve been doing a lot of quick sketches and it’s time to work on a big painting again. It may not be Shakespeare, but it needs to challenge me on that scale. Don't worry, I know that the volcanic emotions I experienced as a teenager just stepping into the current of life cannot be replicated. I'd be worried if I needed to experience that again, frankly. But this play was merely the first, not only, time I was transformed by theatre. I think I'm due for another big challenge.

Wish me luck.

Talking Points

In the most recent edition of the Advocate, there was an article written by financial planners Joe Kapp and Nick Burkholder, looking at some of the specific federal privileges married couples enjoy – over 1100 of them– that at present are unavailable to same-sex couples. They chose to focus on the five biggest inequalities, and offer ways to minimize the damage. I realize that my readers – both of you– are probably already firmly in the choir on this particular issue, but I found the article illuminating; much of it was news to me. The specific examples bring a concrete reality to the issues involved. Hearing the number 1138 may sound bad, but it doesn't have quite the same zing as these detailed descriptions. I also thought it might help to show what some of the privileges of marriage are for straight couples, since I think all too often the people who enjoy them do so in ignorance, albeit quite innocently. So I share the info with you, for the next time you’re faced with someone asking "so, why do gay people even WANT to get married?" (I’ve heard this question more than once, bet some of you have too.). It’s long, but I think it’s worth it. Stealing the format as well as the information from the article, I’ll explain the problem, show the solutions Kapp and Burkholder recommend, then I may add a translation or two if I see fit. I’ll try not to be too snotty.

Shut up, okay?

Taxation of Domestic-Partner benefits. I already knew same-sex couples weren’t allowed to file joint federal taxes (nor state taxes, except for a few places), but this was a new wrinkle I didn’t know about. More and more companies are choosing on their own to offer domestic partner benefits, i.e, they’re providing their gay employees with the same benefits their straight ones already enjoy. This is way cool, don’t misunderstand me, BUT... the IRS sees this as taxable income, when a same-sex couple is involved. Health insurance, long term care, all benefits the partner receives gets treated as income, subject to taxes. For straight married couples, it doesn’t. It's that simple.

Their solution. Kapp and Burkholder suggest that before you add your partner to your company’s benefit plan, you discuss the process with the HR department about the problem and ways to minimize it. They also encourage you to lobby for the Tax Equity for Health Plans Beneficiaries Act of 2007, which is pending in Congress.

Translation. There is only so much you can do, and you’re highly dependent on your HR’s knowledge, goodwill, and support in the matter. Or you had better learn all the ins and outs of the tax code yourself, before taking any steps. Lobbying is good though, and it’s nice to know something is in the works to address this problem. In the short term however, minimizing the damage is the best you can hope for.

No Federal Pension or Social Security Survivorship Benefits. You may have heard about this one in relation to the death of Gerry Studds, Congressman from Massachusetts. He was married under state law to his partner Dean Hara, but Hara will not see one penny of the $62,000-a-year he would have received if he were just female. Or if Studds had been female. Well, you know what I mean. So okay, some wealthy guys don’t get to partake of the Congressional gravy-train like their straight colleagues do, it may be hard to muster much sympathy for that. But social security benefits? Think of all those little old people who have nothing but that to live on into their golden years. Sure, it may only allow them to eat cat-food, but it’s a trickle of money coming in each month to some of the most vulnerable members of our society. Now take that away, and you have a whole lot more old folks out on the streets. Keep in mind too that gays and lesbians are statistically far less likely to have family to care for them in their old age, compared to straight folks.

Their solution. They recommend buying a live insurance policy to replace whatever you might have received from the government, if you were in a straight marriage.

Translation. there is no solution. Find other means of saving for retirement, this one won’t be there. (Obviously you will be able to receive your OWN social security benefits and government pensions, at least as long as SS is still in existence.)

No Unlimited Gift Giving Between Partners. Financial transfers between married straight couples is untaxed, no limit on amounts, nothing. It’s presumed that if you’re married, you share a household, you share expenses, you pool your income and other resources. Same-sex couples? Everybody now... it’s taxed. You can transfer funds up to $12,000 a year from one partner to the other, but after that, it’s taxed. What this means in practical terms is that if one partner spends more on something that is shared between the two of them, the IRS considers that a gift and taxes it accordingly.

Their solution. Equalize payments for household and living expenses. "Be cautious about jointly held accounts," because if one partner deposits a lot of money, and the other one uses it, it’s gonna get taxed.

Translation. Okay I may be wrong about some of these specifics... but one thing I see right off the bat is that same-sex couples can forget about the idea of one partner staying home to care for the kids, unless the couple makes sure that the stay-at-home parent never gets more than $12,000 a year. Frankly I think becoming involved with someone significantly outside your income range is going to be risky. "Be cautious about jointly-held accounts"? Seems to me you’d be better of not even trying to hold one, though I’d love to believe I’m overreacting with that. Still, their solution doesn’t seem to solve much, especially not for those couples with widely disparate incomes.

No Unlimited Marital Deduction for Gay Couple’s Estates. I knew this one oddly enough, but that didn’t lessen the outrage. With straight couples, the deceased spouse’s assets will pass to the surviving spouse without being taxed by the feds. For same sex couples, any amount over $2 million can be taxed up to 45%. When I read this, I thought, poor babies, two million isn’t enough, but the authors say it’s a surprisingly easy amount to exceed because all assets, including "life insurance, retirement funds, investments, and business assets" just to name a few, get included in the count.

Their solution. Here again, the best they can offer is to minimize the damage, don’t expect to avoid it. They advise you to get expert advice and "properly structure all assets to pass from one partner to the other on death."

Translation. Pay someone else a lot of money to see to it that you lose just part of what you would have lost without the help. Ignore the seething rage you feel about the fact that straight couples won’t think about this shit at all, it won’t even occur to them, and they’ll still get to keep more than you.

Inheritance Taxes on the State Level. Obviously this varies from state to state, but in many cases, what the feds don’t get, the state governments will. In many places, if you’re not legally family, an inheritance tax will accrue. The authors provide the examples of Maryland (10%) and Pennsylvania (15%). And as the authors say, "this is yet another area where heterosexual married couples have less or nothing to worry about."

Their solution. When you retire, move someplace that doesn’t impose these sorts of taxes. Okay, cool, you could actually avoid it all together. Two places they mention are Florida or South Dakota. Probably not an exhaustive list. At least I hope to god it’s not.

Translation: I have no major snarky response to add to this. Sure, having to move just to avoid taxes is a pain, and not everyone wants to move upon retirement, preferring to stay near their community, and familiar surroundings, but plenty of people do move (undoubtedly this is partly why Florida is someplace that doesn’t impose this tax.)

It will come as no surprise to you that the subject of same-sex marriage is a hot button issue even within the queer communities. Some folks say being queer is freedom from the straight hegemony, so why would we want to saddle ourselves with an institution that is obviously falling apart even for its intended population (more than 50% of all marriages end in divorce in this country). I find this objection a little silly. No one is going to MAKE you get married if you don’t want to. If being a sexual outlaw is so important to you, trust me, wear your assless chaps in public and you’ll get just the reaction you were looking for. Besides, plenty of straight people go into some wild terrain when it comes to sex; few, if any fetishes are exclusive to any one group. The option to marry hasn’t prevented Jack Nicholson from running around pantsless when the urge strikes. I don’t think this concern is legitimate.

Other queer communities say this is a concern that has eaten up way too much time and resources of all the major organizations, and is merely an attempt of rich white (male) queers to get the one final little privilege they are lacking. I understand this accusation, and certainly looking at the problems listed above, it could easily be interpreted as a whole lot of privileged folks (they HAVE health benefits? More than $2 mil in assets? Are able to share over $12,000 a year?) complaining that they’re not getting everything coming to their straight friends and colleagues. I understand this feeling, but I think it’s short-sighted. Okay, so maybe if Biff is unable to leave his beloved Denny the estate without Denny having to give up the Summer home in the Hamptons, it’s hard to feel sorry for him. But these laws were designed to protect couples, and above all, families, and and I think they're often quite effective. Let’s imagine a Latina couple who have been together for twenty years, own a small house, are raising children together, and struggle each month to stretch their two incomes to meet their bills. One of them dies unexpectedly. The survivor, in the midst of her grief, now is also faced with wondering how she is going to replace the income her partner provided. Without that income, she could lose the house, just for starters. Had she married a man, she'd be getting his pension, and would have inherited the house and estate tax-free. The lack of these privileges could easily mean she and her kids end up on the streets.

I know this is a really long post, and hell, I didn’t even do most of the writing, I just stole it from someone else, but I think this information deserves to be disseminated as widely as possible. Marriage is not just weddings, it’s not just some moony-eyed declaration of undying love (with or without divine aid). It’s a legal arrangement with very real privileges that have consequences for people. And yes, the word is privileges, not rights. Sure the g/l/b/t communities are still struggling for lots of rights as well. But protecting relationships and families would go a long way to helping in that fight.

source:
The Advocate Report
Your Money: Top five Financial Inequalities for Gay CouplesThe Advocate, June 19th, 2007, p. 20

Some Ideas for The Mayor

Dear Bloomie,

I'm delighted to read about your growing interest in ecological issues, so I thought you would be a good person to tell my idea to. Because my union halls and credit union are all smack in the middle of Times Square, I've been spending a lot of time down there during daylight hours, and it occurred to me that it might be really cool if once, for a twenty four hour period, all the neon, all the electrically enhanced advertizing, all the giant Katie Couric heads looming over the area might be turned off. All of them. During daylight this might not look like much (though we might be pleasantly surprised) but I bet the dramatic impact at night would be spectacular. I have to look more closely next time I'm in the area to make sure there are still street lights, I'm not advocating a crime spree in the area (just curious, how did it work during the blackout of 2003, I wasn't in town), but as long as there are still street lights, we'd end up just going from neon, surface-of-the-sun brightness to normal city night. Maybe to get the maximum effect from the moment, the signs should all be turned off after dark, kept off through the next day, then allowed to come back on the following evening.

I don't know how much money this would actually save. I don't know who would benefit directly either, since I assume each business pays the electric bill for its own signs. I'm sure also that some advertizing firms would get their corporate knickers in a twist over this, saying they paid for x number of days of wretched excess, and by god, they better get x number of days, but couldn't they just get an extra day? Couldn't the non-lit day not count?

I realize too that a lot of those ginormous signs are probably fluorescent lights to begin with, which of course cost less to run than incandescent, but even if the money and carbon dioxide saved wasn't enormous (and come on, it's not going to be slight, is it), I think the emotional and visual impact would be. Just having the whole area suddenly go dark, it could be a huge promotional stunt. I bet if you asked, Al would be delighted to get involved as well.

In fact, I suggest combining this with another idea I've had for some time. I don't know if you've spent any time in Copenhagen, Boulder, CO, or Ithaca, NY, but all three cities have walking streets and they're really cool. I mean really. So why not shut down a stretch of one of the avenues, and turn it into a walking street for that twenty-four hour period? Again, I think the area that would have the best impact would be Broadway between, say, 50th St. and 30th St. I realize this may cause all kinds of hassles, probably extra police attention, etc, but come on, you do that sort of thing over much greater stretches of road several times a year. Would it really be worse than the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade? The Puerto Rican Day Parade? Gay Pride? I don't know if 5th Ave is better for this sort of thing for some reason, I don't mean to tell you your job, but a twenty block radius, even just ten, from 50th to 40th, would be really amazing and at Broadway it would include the greatest number of theatres. I was down in the area for a play on the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, and let's be honest, many of those side streets all but become walking streets as it is, since the crowds are so huge. Frankly I think this would probably be easier to control than most parades, because there you have to control the crowds and allow for floats to move down the center. This would simply be closing the road to cars and taxis; maybe some special arrangement could be made for public buses, but again, what sorts of arrangements does the average parade require? Combining these two events really would make a huge impact in terms of cutting back on emissions, and it would create a festival atmosphere, without adding tents or stands. I suppose you could do that too, if you wanted to, but just having those area restaurants, theatres and other businesses open, I bet they would do huge business. Maybe you could allow the restaurants to seat people outside, thus increasing their business, and the festive, out-door feeling of the event as a whole.

I realize there must be lots about this sort of thing that I don't know, but as I keep pointing out, street festivals and parades happen in different parts of the city all the time. This would be taking some of the most congested areas of the city in terms of pedestrians and vehicles, and letting the pedestrians have full run of the place, just for a day. To be honest, I think one of the avenues should be turned into a permanent walking street (I figure 9th Avenue would be the least disruptive), but I know that reveals what a whacked-out tree hugger I am. Yes, I have to admit, I'm not a big fan of Times Square as it is. Seriously, if you added just a few signs in Japanese and some flying cars, you'd have the city of Blade Runner, and I don't mean that as a compliment . I mean, great movie, but I wouldn't want to live there, would you? I would love it too if incentives were provided for signmakers to return to older, less technologically demanding forms of catching the eye. At Broadway and 50th, the Snapple sign makes use of a technique I fell in love with when I first saw it in Dublin. Words are posted permanently, then the rest of the sign is covered with little metallic tags on hooks. When the wind blows, which of course it does constantly, the tags ripple and the light and color of the sign changes. Just on the basis of this alone, I'm more inclined to buy Snapple (except that it's overpriced sugar water with no legitimate claims for nutrition). Conversely, at Broadway and 46th, the Bank of America sign is so huge and covered with bulbs, anytime I'm waiting for a light to change on that corner, I wonder if I'm going to get a migraine. Seriously. And I haven't had one in over twenty years (see, my Mom and I each learned this great biofeedback technique that is supposed to get rid of migraines when they come, and we both found it seemed to cure us permanently of them, which is really cool, I can teach it to you if you want sometime, assuming you get migraines, though I should admit the same technique didn't seem to work for my sister, so maybe it's not fool proof...), but that sign, yowtch. Makes me adamant never to do any business with Bank of America. Okay, but I'm getting ahead of myself, am I not? These are long term goals, and I really want to focus just on this one day. One thing at a time, right?

So please, give this some thought. I bet it would garner you and the city all kinds of positive attention, would bring even more people to the area, and probably generate a huge profit without too many out-of -pocket expenses in advance for anyone. Just think about it, and let me know how I can help.

Regards,

Patrick

Subway Thoughts

Dear ipod Users,

I'd like to make an observation. I don't have hard data to back up my claim, but I'm gonna come right out and say it anyway. I'm sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that if you're wearing earphones, your hearing is just a bit compromised. That's not the outrageous part though; I firmly believe that it also compromises your eyesight.

Stick with me here. I think specifically it affects your peripheral vision, not the full range per se. I don't know how to explain it; maybe those cords running beside your head apply mini-blinders to your vision? Maybe our peripheral eyesight is 50% auditory, and no one has done any research on it? Well, maybe someone has researched it, and posted their findings for public viewing, but I really can't be bothered. I know what I believe. So, my assertion: headphones compromise your hearing and your peripheral vision.

See, the thing is, you need both those senses when you're on the subway. Especially during rush hour. Add in all the people who deem it necessary to keep their sunglasses on whilst underground (you can't ALL be hiding from the paparazzi) then you have to realize a) your vision is definitely compromised and b) we don't know where the hell you're looking, or indeed, if you're even awake. Or maybe some of you startle real easy.

I know the unspoken rule among New Yorkers is never to touch a stranger unless you're ready for a beat-down, but if you're standing there in the middle of the car, with a gazillion people all around you, tapped into your mini-sensory deprivation tank, you can't get grumpy if someone taps you politely on the shoulder when he or she would like to get off. Honestly, lately I feel like I've been shoved into tight quarters with 8 million sweaty, surly Helen Kellers. Either chill the fuck out, or take off the damn earplugs and shades. Your choice.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Kisses.

I Hate Relearning S&1t

I've had a couple of occasions recently to be reminded of things I had forgotten. Man I hate that shit. I mean I'm glad anytime a solution for a problem is found, but whenever it's a reminder rather than a discovery I always get a bit annoyed at myself. Cycles, learning is relearning, yeah yeah, I know. Sometimes it just bugs me. Like now.

First example: My sister reminded me of a very useful technique last night, called the Twenty Minute Rule. The idea is simple; when faced with a task that one is at all resistant to, one simply decides to tackle it for only twenty minutes. After the time is up, one is free to go onto something else, guilt assuaged, one's inner Puritan mollified. Can one really get anything done in twenty minutes? Surprisingly yes, more than one usually expects but, in any case, one gets more done in twenty minutes than in zero, which is often what I've been giving my chores. For my sister (who really should have a blog of her own, but refrains for some very sound reasons) the task she's recently found daunting is her garden. She and her husband Tony have a beautiful place (see photo), that I covet with a most unbrotherly passion, but she reminded me how easily its care can turn into obligations which, depending on time ignored or one's general state of mind, can become reproaches. It can, in fact, quickly become ample evidence in the growing case one is building (somehow I ALWAYS have time for this) for why one is an utter waste as a human being. In the case of the garden, deadheading, weeding, pruning, planting new plants, checking for voracious bugs, are just a few of the tasks that go into making something look that good and 'natural'. So she recently reinstituted the twenty minute rule, the garden is happy, she's happy, it's all good. Of course the secret weapon of this technique is the way it fools our inner Couch Potato; often after an hour she will find herself still happily puttering away in the garden, actually enjoying herself. It's best to ignore this side of the technique though, so as not to betray the Couch Potato's trust. If you say it will be twenty-minutes, and anyone (your Inner Child, Inner Couch Potato, Inner Naysayer, Inner Crank, whatever) is not having fun at the end of twenty minutes, you stop. Follow the rule, or it won't work in the future.

Heartened by this reminder, I've used it repeatedly all morning. Being unemployed, it's an especially good way to structure my time. Here it is, 1:30pm, and I am sufficiently ahead in my chores to feel that a few minutes writing on my blog (in the MIDDLE OF THE DAY?) is permitted.

Man, I hate this shit.

Second example: I had reason to be leafing back through some fairly old emails, from 2002-04, and while I was seeking specific information, easily fell into the trap of rereading old notes just for the hell of it. Naturally I discovered that three to five years ago I was frustrated by many of the same things, complaining about the same things, struggling with the same self-doubts and confusions, same problems all around. Subsequent emails showed me how I began to fight my way out of that quagmire and surprise, many of the discoveries I made and things I tried are the very ones I've come back to recently, including, of course, the twenty minute rule.

I really really REALLY hate this shit.

Okay, so I'm on an upswing of sorts at the moment, it feels like the sludge is getting broken up JUST a bit (don't want to jinx it), syphoned off, that's all just absolutely NIFTY, I'm not really helped by bitching about how long it took me to learn STUFF I ALREADY KNOW. I really want to, though.

So

I'll give it twenty minutes.

Now, perhaps as tonic for my own grouching...

When I'm modeling for college drawing classes at the beginning of the school year, quite often first year students will become so disgusted with their efforts, so horrified at the ugliness that is their art (and by extension of course, their very being) that they will choose to crumple the offending, hideous, EXCREMENTAL page into a tiny, diamond-hard ball, and throw it away, getting the offending sheet as far from them as possible. (As a side note, is there anything more melodramatic than a teenager, regardless of age, race, gender or sexual orientation? Drama Queens, the lot of 'em). Usually the teacher takes that opportunity to remind them that they are being graded on their PROGRESS throughout the semester, so they should save everything, to have an accurate record of the semester. Most of them accept it gracelessly, since, hey, apparently it's a RULE... but you can tell they resent it. A lot. It's usually not until much later in the semester, or year, that they experience the pedagogical beauty of this rule. As we progress in anything, so does our gauge of excellence. We forget the lessons we already learned, and focus only on the impossible task before us. So sometimes, a student will be faced with a new frustration, a new thing she's just not getting, and the teacher will make her look at one of her earliest sketches. Suddenly, she'll realize how things that used to seem impossible now are second nature. Usually she also makes the leap that if she did it before, she can probably do it again.

As an actor, it is perhaps a bit harder to find these records of past efforts, a collection of my past 'sketches.' I'm smart enough to know NOT to look to videotapes of live shows for this experience, and while previous films MIGHT work, I don't have any film work to look at yet. Rehearsals, like performances disappear the minute they are over. This is the beauty and the heartache of theatre. Nonetheless, I think I benefit greatly from looking behind me, and realizing I've actually progressed, however minimally. I just have to remember to do it, and how.

I will forget all this again, apparently. Forty plus years of experience shows me that, at the very least. So maybe I'm leaving this entry as a note to my future self, for the next time when I feeling trapped, blocked, or useless.

Rise Above

I imagine everyone has heard that Jerry Falwell died yesterday. All the queer-lovin', pinko commie lefty blogs I read made mention of it. Surprise, no one was too broken-up about it. In the blog entries themselves and their accompanying comments, people acknowledged they were not sorry to see him go. There was lots of speculation about what part of hell he was now inhabiting, and who his cellmates are. A certain number looked forward to dancing or spitting on his grave. There was in fact, a distinctly celebratory air. Then, as is usually the case in these situations, some voices called this tone unseemly. "A man has died," more than one person said, "his family is no doubt grief-stricken. It is cruel, ugly, and gives us homos a bad name to be crowing like this over someone else's suffering."

Okay, I see no benefit to rubbing salt in the wounds his loved ones are no doubt presently suffering. I would, however, like to point out that crowing over the suffering of others was one of Falwell's favorite pasttimes. Here, stolen from Joe.My.God. are a few choice quotations from this good Christian Leader.

- "If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being."-

"AIDS is the wrath of a just God against homosexuals. To oppose it would be like an Israelite jumping in the Red Sea to save one of Pharaoh's charioteers."-

"(9/11 is the result of) throwing God out of the public square, out of the schools, the abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked and when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad...I really believe that the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way, all of them who try to secularize America...I point the thing in their face and say you helped this happen."

(Falwell did end up apologizing for this last comment, but I don't think he actually changed his mind about it, he just recognized he'd alienated more people than he wanted to. I'm not letting him off the hook for it.)

Because I found the man's actions loathsome, hateful and irresponsible, I'm not interested in playing his game. I don't need to dance on his grave. I choose not to because I think it's beneath me, though, not because of any reverence for him.

I don't know that his death really changes much. Maybe without his leadership, his fellow hatemongers will lose some momentum or political clout, but the view he spoke for isn't going anywhere just because he's dead. I still believe that firm demands for our civil rights combined with a conciliatory effort to alleviate others' ignorant prejudices is the best way forward. Crowing over someone's death doesn't really help our cause, and has us emulating some of his ugliest actions. Without scolding anyone who does feel like having a party, I am choosing not to indulge, for now.

Nonetheless, I too have to say I will not shed a tear over the death of this vicious, judgemental, hidebound hypocrite, a man who celebrated the suffering of millions, called for several more millions to die (including yours truly), and danced on as many graves as he could.

A Confession

Actually I wasn't really planning on changing the name of the blog. That entry was largely inspired by the fear that my previous rant about hitting people with bricks made me sound a bit too unhinged, so I wanted to reassure you all with some self-deprecating 'wit'. Since then though, I've gotten such a strong reaction (both in person and in the comments) of support and fellow feeling re: the whole hitting people with bricks, that I no longer am worried about freaking you all out. Now I'm worried about all of you freaking out. Is it the weather? Something in the air? Is this roiling miasma of rage always there just below the surface in city living? Or do I just hang around with some whack-jobs? Pot talking to the kettle, takes one to know one, yeah yeah, I get it. Just sayin'.

Anyway (isn't that a great transition? With one single all-purpose word, I manage to change the subject. That's some fine writing right there)... Anyway, my present title still feels like the best one, summing up my usual state when writing, and best defining the over-all 'theme' of this here journal. Loose Ends... says it all, for now.

However (man, look at THAT transition; pure genius, I tell ya), if I ever do change it, it probably will be NUDE! NUDE! NUDE! The Theatrical Confessions of an Irish Quaker Homo. I just think that would cut the widest and weirdest swath on Google searches.

Thanks to all for your fine ideas. This blog, it's all about the fans for me. Really, give yourselves a hand.

Time for a Change?

I've been thinking I need to change the name of this 'blog. Some possible candidates are:

This Is Not a Metaphor

Where's My Medication?

Get Off the Damn Computer Already!

In Lieu of a Life

NUDE! NUDE! NUDE!

Any suggestions?

Other thoughts on another day:

I wish I Had a Brick

Fetch Me My Dart Gun, Boy.

These last two are probably better suited for Mr. Cranky-Pants' blog, but for now I'll just let him guest-blog from here. It probably wouldn't do to let him have too much free rein, assuming I don't actually WANT to go to jail.

I bet that last sentence sent web surveillance into a tizzy.

The last title is actually a quotation from a Doonesbury cartoon, so there might be copyright issues involved. It sums up my reaction to SO many situations here though. If I could shoot tranquilizer darts, then I might not need the tazer or the brick. I rarely need to injure the assholes in question, silencing them would often be enough for me. Also getting them out of my way.

Some Pet Peeves

So I've come to realize in the past few years that May is my favorite month of the year, followed closely be December. I love each season (as long as Summer doesn't get above 75 degrees), but if I had to choose one month it would be May. Violets, and lilacs, my first and second most favorite flowers, are in season, and I think this has a lot to do with it. I find it strangely comforting that they aren't available year-round, as so many other flowers are these days. I guess greenhouses haven't figured out a way (or bothered to try) to get them to bloom year-round, and given how fragile they both are, trying to ship them from Australia in the dead of Winter- assuming they even grow there- just wouldn't be worth it. Nope, to enjoy these blooms, one has to wait for them to bloom. I like that. I buy lilacs far more often than my budget allows, and in lieu of the woods near my parents' house, I've found some locations in Central Park where I go visit the violets when they show up. I've been to visit three times already. I've really been enjoying the season; it's nice enough to be outside during the day, then it cools down at night, so even though I have the window open (as I do year 'round), I still sleep like a log, and need a blanket. It's been great.

Then we have two days of 80 degree weather, and I'm back to being Mr. Cranky-Pants.

I've been actively working to see to that I'm not in the hell-hole that is NYC this Summer, but so far there are no concrete plans. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, auditioning when I can, sending headshots to all and sundry, trying to figure out how I can afford to go to my friend Mark's wedding in Seattle in August, while I try not to flay the hordes of stupid STUPID people who seem determined to walk in my way, ride the subway with me, and play their loud, stupid music.

So, while I look around for some serious therapy or maybe just some decent medication to help me with my misanthropy, I thought maybe I'd just let Mr. Cranky-Pants have free rein for a bit. So here are some of my pet peeves, in no particular order.

Cynics. By this I mean the smug, self-proclaimed cynics, the ones who act like it's some sort of goddam higher calling. I always want to hit them with a brick. It's such a cowardly, lazy attitude to adopt, and yet they get off on thinking they're smarter than everyone else. Hey, it's easy. You don't have to do any work to improve things in the world, hell, you don't even have to have any real opinions, you just sit back and tell other people who are actually DOING something with their lives that they're wasting their time, they're foolish, they're hopelessly naive, they're so cute and sweet, but they're never going to accomplish anything, because, hey, they're just up against too much. That's true, they are, and one of the worst things they're up against are self-satisfied, arrogant, lazy shits who have fooled themselves into thinking cynic equals genius. If all you can do is sit back and laugh at other people doing things, I really think you need to shut the hell up. Shut. The. Hell. Up.

Devil's Advocates. Here again I'm talking about the morons who adopt this as a stance, thinking it somehow accords them extra IQ points by default. If you disagree with me, let me know. If you think I'm full of shit, that's great, let me have it, punch holes in my logic, as long as you can back up your arguments with some actual substantiated facts. But if you just like playing around saying zig every time I say zag, red when I say green, then you need to be hit with a brick. You're clearly a close relative of the Cynic, because here again, you're not actually offering thoughts or opinions of your own. It's the easiest thing in the world to so no to someone else's yes, but it doesn't amount to ANYthing if you're not actually engaging in the discussion, letting your own emotions, opinions, and experiences be a part of thing and (yikes) possibly even get challenged and shot down. If you're a teacher mediating a discussion in class, then by all means, play the Devil's Advocate. If you're just some shmoe at a party thinking you're helping to liven things up a bit, then being a devil's advocate is obnoxious at best, at worst it's condescending bullshit. Worst of all, you people have convinced yourselves you're behaving in this ass-wipe way FOR OUR BENEFITS. Yes sir, you're challenging our perceptions, strengthening our arguments or showing us our folly, and it's all to HELP us. Or you think you're making the party more interesting. Funnily enough, the guys who like to do this (and for some reason it's almost always guys) are often prime examples of the 'can dish it out but can't take it' variety. You love being provocative; you hate being challenged. Bite me. Right before you take the next trolley car straight to hell, 'kay?

Wanna-Be Therapists. In my limited experience, this prick can often be found working as a director or acting teacher. If I'm not giving you what you want from the character, by all means, let me know. If you have an exercise you think might help get us where we need to be in rehearsal, please, let's give it a try. But do not, do NOT think you are qualified or remotely welcome to psycho-analyze me, or speculate about what deep-seated issues are preventing me from giving you what you're looking for. No actual therapist would DREAM of making a snap judgement about my past, my family or my emotional struggle based on one acting choice or a sludgy rehearsal. That's because actual training as a therapist tells you that doing so would be stupid. STUPID. I can safely say too that everytime a director or acting teacher has speculated about what was going on with me internally, he or she was always wrong. Always. Even if he or she had been correct however, that kind of approach has no business in a rehearsal setting. We're working to create art here, people. Yes of course when we're dealing with character-driven work, my psychological make-up becomes involved in the character's, and we're working to uncover his motives and drives. Often this takes us into very raw, vulnerable terrain for the character, and that can, in may cases, mean that I as an actor am also exploring raw, vulnerable terrain... but what I'm bringing back is choices for the art, not opportunities for you to feel like Mommy. For the record, I have two of the finest parents in the world. I do not need anymore mommies or daddies. If I need a hug, I'll let you know. If I want a therapist, I'm going to find one who is qualified, and you ain't it. So back the fuck off, and let me do my work. Which, let's be clear, is not making you feel better about your empty empty lives. Oops, have I said too much? Have I misread your responses? Have I brought up inaccurate and irrelevant speculations about your motives? Have I tried to be Freud with you? AM I MAKING MY POINT?

Don't make me get my brick.

That is all.

Mr. Cranky-Pants.

Some Clarification Needed.

Dear Brad,
So, haven't heard from you in a while, I was just wondering if we were going to start shooting this Summer. I have a dance show going up in late July, and a friend's wedding in Seattle on August 5th, so the sooner I know what our plans are, the better. But no pressure. Well, maybe just a teensy bit of pressure since every day we put off filming, is another day further I get from being able to play twenty-two. Just to remind you.

Okay, I'll admit it, my real reason for writing is to ask you about some news I read on other blogs today. Word is that you're working on a new film, and have decided you want a stunt butt for this one. Sorry, butt double, I mean body double, (specifically in the buttal region) I'm still learning the lingo. I just have to ask, what the hell is up with that? We didn't get to see it in all its glory in Troy, but what we saw, well, it was magnificent, everyone said so. Pretty much the best damn thing about the movie, frankly. There are probably other films that gave us a glimpse, Thelma & Louise for example, I can't really recall now. My point is, you've got a fine ass, or at least you used to, so I'm wondering what is going on here. Are you feeling like you want to be more judicious with its unveiling, saving it for the really special projects? Are you feeling a tad insecure about your age? Boy can I relate; which reminds me, any word on my plastic surgery? Just checking. Have you decided that it's undignified for an artist of your stature to be dropping trou?

Some in the blogosphere has speculated that this indicates a new possessiveness on Angie's part. Is that true? Have you been making her question the veracity of some of those "Brad wants Jenn Back" tabloid articles we've been seeing? If so, boy howdy Brad, be careful, man. I don't want to picture the possible repercussions of an angry Angie. My blood run cold at the thought. You do not want her gunning for you.

Maybe it's just that Angie said she doesn't care for you disrobing on film anymore, and you knew better than to challenge that. I respect that. But do you think she might give you a special dispensation for our project? Assuming we're still doing The Front Runner and not some period piece involving head-to-toe black Edwardian garb and lots of ruffles, then I really think we're gonna need to see that fine ass. For the good of the project. She's an artist, a damn fine one in fact, maybe if you explain it to her like that she'd understand. I really don't know the full story with this film you're presently working on, but please try to explain to her that hiring a stunt butt for our project will seriously compromise the integrity. Seriously. That scene on the beach in the novel, we're gonna shoot that, aren't we? We really have to if we want to do justice to the book. I'm sure the author will think so. And that's gonna put your butt front and center, as it were.

So keep me posted on these delicate negotiations. And please keep my name out of it. If I end up tied naked and spread-eagled to a bed with Angie in black leather standing over me holding a whip, I want it to be under VERY different circumstances. Or have I said too much? Anyway, I'd rather she not know my position in this matter. Thanks.

Kisses,

Patrick

PS. Per Friend Jeff's request, (see comments) I tried to find a photo of your ass to include in this post. Much to my surprise, I couldn't find any! I was sure there was at least one from Troy, or Fight Club, but so far, zilch. Maybe you've always managed to avoid having your ass photographed in the past, and this upcoming film is the first time you could no longer avoid it. Is there something we need to know, Brad? Some severe scarring, or an embarrassing tattoo? They can erase those with make-up or on film (Angie can tell you all about it), so I doubt that's the problem. So this search for a stunt butt, does it indicate a deeper story? Can't wait to hear it.

I did, of course, find the paparazzi shot of your johnson, but I don't know how to post photos on here with that "click over to see more, NSFW" option, and I know a lot of my loyal readers check this blog at work. Besides, if Angie doesn't want you showing off your ass, what would she do to me if I posted a picture of your unit? So, Brad, I'll await word from you about how I should proceed in this manner. In the meantime, here's an amazing shot of your abs, from Fight Club, in honor of Jeff's fondness for that movie. Good GOD, man. With abs like this, how bad can your ass be? Seriously.

xoxoPAL

If you'd like to read my previous correspondance with Brad go here:

http://palacey.blogspot.com/2006/02/just-thought.html

http://palacey.blogspot.com/2006/04/quick-follow-up.html

http://palacey.blogspot.com/2006/09/gearing-up-for-filming.html

Worlds Collide

Friend Jeff's most recent entry (go read it now, it's fun) reminded me of an experience I had last weekend. No, I didn't kick anyone in the head (though, OH the times I've considered it recently), but I had a moment where I realized my impulses have been shaped just a tad by doing circus-like stuff.

I was working at an all night art event (no really), where from 7pm Friday to 7am Saturday people came to draw from live models. Ten dollars gets you admission, all the pizza you can eat, and access to various rooms where two or three models pose for varying lengths of time, anywhere from one minute to six hours. The final hour of the event, everyone gathers in one room, all the models get on one stand, and we just... move. The idea is to give the artists the challenge of drawing movement, or catching things quickly, or whatever they want to make of it. For the models, it's a little surreal, I have to say. It's not unheard of for us to be asked to move continually for a class, but it's pretty rare, and what's REALLY rare is to be doing it with twenty other people. Most of us have at least met one another before, but it's pretty unusual to work together, generally a class only wants one model at a time. I know the faculty, even some of the students at this school better than I know the models, and most of the time I'm okay with that because art models are often crazy. More on that in another post, but now you know why I'm not naming this event, or the school where it happened, since both are fairly well-known. Google has gotten me in trouble once already. (Hi Uncle Steven! I'm sorry I called you a groovy California guy fond of twenty minute hugs! In my own defense, that entry made me look worse than you, right? And what's wrong with twenty minute hugs, right? Right?)

Okay, so are you with me on the visuals so far? Twenty-plus naked people of various ages, races, genders and body types all writhing around on a platform that is meant to hold maybe three people comfortably, all of this at 6 in the blessed a.m. when we've been up all night and are just a little bit punchy, possibly in a trance-state due to the African drumming that has been playing since midnight... got it? So, in the middle of this, a guy asks if I want to sit on his shoulders.

This is where the circus impulses come in. I spend a fair amount of time in a world where this question comes up quite a bit, along with others like it. "Will you balance me on your feet? Can I balance you on mine? Would you hold my legs while I do a handstand? If I do a back-flip off this spring-board, would you catch me in mid-air?" Then you answer according to your abilities. Actually I'm making these occasions sound a lot more Noel Coward than they are; most of the time we don't ask, we just say, "I'm gonna do this, ya ready?" So this tall stranger says "wanna climb onto my shoulders" and I say "sure", because that's usually my response to this question, frankly sitting on a person's shoulders is small potatoes, hell, I'm used to STANDING on people's shoulders these days and even that is beginning to feel like small potatoes, even for someone like me who is a rank beginner in the circus world, anyway, sure, let's go, upsy-daisy.

It's not until I'm actually sitting on his shoulders (rising from the center of the writhing mass to a satisfying gasp from the room) that I think, "hmm. Hadn't really thought this through." It's not that I'm generally wearing a huge amount of clothing when I do tumbling or acro-balance, but somehow that small bit of cloth between his neck and my crotch is feeling noteworthy in its absence right now. No, nothing awkward or humiliating happened for anyone involved, it was just weird. At first I thought, "I've never sat naked on another person's shoulders before" then I remembered that time in the swimming pool on Fire Island when we were playing chicken (J. and I TOTALLY RULED), so I amended it to "I've never sat naked on a stranger's shoulders in front of clothed observers before." And funny thing, you'd think that once you've crossed that line, arranging yourself so you're not crushing your testicles wouldn't seem any more outrageous, but somehow at the time it just did. So I didn't. If you follow.

I stayed up there for a while, appreciated the view that I bet no one else has ever had of this room, or this event, then when we'd both had enough, I got down without mishap. No harm, no foul. The rest of the hour we all continued to writhe and periodically touch each other in safe, socially acceptable albeit occasionally suggestive ways. It's amazing what becomes suggestive when you're naked.

There's no real point to this story, other than to echo Jeff's recognition that I too have an impulse to climb or jump on people, and I might want to watch it a bit more carefully. Especially when nudity is involved.

Why Am I Thinking About This Today?

When a couple breaks up, the one who moves out has it much harder. There's the hassle of finding a place, packing, purging and moving your possessions, which is no fun at the best of times, and is worse when one is also heartsick, and having to separate out things from the ex's possessions. Who gets that? Did we buy this together? Is this mine or his? Did he give it to me for my birthday, or did I give it to him for Christmas? Then when you have moved, you have to get used to a new neighborhood, find a grocery and laundromat. You have to remember not to take the old train to the old place at the end of the day when you're exhausted and on autopilot. You have to face the new place, maybe new roommates, the empty bed.
But being the one who stays behind has some unexpected problems as well. You don't anticipate the change in your own routine as readily, and even after you discover it, you don't seem able to hold onto it. For months you'll find yourself wondering at six pm "Where is he? He's usually home by now. Should I start dinner, or is he going to be really late? He usually calls if he's running late. Is he all right?" You'll be all the way to the end of these thoughts, ALL of them, with your full, conscious mind, before you notice them, before you remember oh yeah, he doesn't live here anymore. He probably IS home. Probably eating dinner right now. You don't need to wait. Go make dinner.
Coming home to an empty house is hard, but it's harder to get a new roommate because now when you hear a key in the door, your heart leaps as it always used to when he came home, right up until the day he left, then you realize it's not him, but this new, perfectly nice roommate coming in like he thinks he lives here or something, and your heart sinks, hard and fast. After a few months you're no longer expecting him to come home anymore, you know who it is when you hear the key, it's the roommate, this new guy you really like; nonetheless you feel your heart plummet, just for a second, everytime.
You're too reasonable to hold it against the roommate. Or so you think. Somehow you always need just a few minutes to yourself when he comes home, even if you've been home alone all day. Maybe especially then. When he starts to tell you excitedly about his wonderful day (and god, new roommates are always always having wonderful days, and they're so damn CHIPPER about it), you breathe deeply and recognize you're being an asshole (but my GOD, does he have to be so cheerful?), so you force yourself to listen, smile and ask questions like a normal, sane human being with some shred of empathy. It may only take a few seconds before you're genuinely enjoying him, not merely playing at it, but somehow you still need that prep time.
Maybe without realizing it, you've allowed this to become a new routine, and you realize it will take some strong step to break it. You do so, and for months, even years, it works, but then every once in a while, for no reason you can ascertain, you relapse; you hear the key, your heart leaps, then plummets again, and you try not to be disappointed that it's just your roommate.
Time does tell, though. As the years pass, you find yourself grateful for this experience when it happens, for the jab of pain and the flood of memories. You're grateful for the years you had with him, for the friendship you managed to salvage after the break-up, even if it still feels tentative. You're grateful that you still miss him, and have lived a life that includes love, pain, loss and learning. You're grateful that the sadness is just a small ember now, glowing quietly but still there. You know it was all worth it, and you wonder if you're strong enough to fall in love again, someday. You can't wait to try.

Reading the Signs

I think I'm something of an animist. If I am, I'm a fairly agnostic one. While I mostly believe in some sort of guiding spirit to existence, my rational mind dismisses the idea that it takes an interest in my daily world, and sends me little communiques from time to time about it. I totally understand the impulse though. When I see a wild animal unexpectedly, I feel the urge to believe it means something, and the more exotic, rare, shy or majestic the animal, the stronger the impulse.

I did not grow up near a national park or anything; Richmond is a small city or large town, and the surrounding area is almost completely cultivated. Nonetheless I would occasionally see creatures that would inspire a sense of omen. Deer, hawks, egrets, herons, even raccoons occasionally would appear in my life, and I'd wonder if they were harbingers of something, secretly hoping so, because whatever it was, it would have to be good to warrant such an amazing messenger.

I remember the awe I felt as my family and I ate in the dining room of a B&B in Scotland. The experience started out pretty special even at the beginning; the dining room had a huge picture window that overlooked the Atlantic, and we were enjoying the light of the moon shining a road across the water. Suddenly the light began to pick out glinting bodies leaping through the waves. It was a pod of dolpins swimming by. All the Laceys gasped in wonder. The next table over was less impressed; they were a group of men there for some sport fishing. "Eh, they eat all the fish," one of them grumped.

As recently as this Summer I had a couple of these experiences. On a beach in New Jersey, at dusk, I and a man I was seeing at the time witnessed a flock of birds flying over head; they were either egrets, but probably herons. Just seeing one of them, on the ground, is usually enough to color my whole day with a sense of portent. Seeing one flying, looking so improbable with its neck pulled in and long legs trailing behind, is even more captivating. Seeing nine of them, flying in a V, well this was almost impossible NOT to see as a grand sign. It is moment of beauty in a relationship that was confused and difficult, a fond memory despite whatever else happened between us, at least for me. I hope he's able to remember it similarly.

Then on a visit to my childhood stomping grounds, one hot late afternoon I watched several Eastern swallowtail butterflies dance from bush to bush, while overhead a flock of goldfinches in full Summer plumage played, then still farther up (and mercifully disinterested in the goldfinches) soared a red-tailed hawk. I was overwhelmed that day with the sense of witnessing wonders.

Not all the omens have seemed benevolent however. Once in Seattle I was wakened in the early morning by a seagull sounding distinctly distressed. I looked out my window to see it flying as hard as it could, being chased by several smaller birds. That seemed like a good a day not to get out of bed.

What have these signs meant? To date, absolutely nothing. Not one of them has ushered in any amazing new wonders into my life, for good or ill, or if they have, I haven't noticed. This doesn't seem to change anything however. Whenever they occur, I still feel the pagan in me spring up, trying to interprete the sign.

Life in New York involves quite a bit fewer of these sorts of things, as one can imagine, though my years as a dogwalker in Central Park did include at least a few of them. I would see egrets and herons there, and in the Spring I would see a red-tailed hawk almost weekly. I wondered in fact if he (she?) was taking a special interest in two of my charges, a pair of miniature beagles. They were roughly the size of squirrels. Maybe a bit smaller. I wonder if the only thing preventing them from being hawk-food was my presence.

If nature is less likely to provide me with omens here, what seems to have replaced them is celebrity sightings. Here again, the degree of excitement varies in relation to my feelings for the person as well as my intuitive sense of how rarely he or she is in New York. Late last Summer my friend Melissa and I, in the space of an hour, saw Julianne Moore (whom I refrained from kissing), Jake Gyllenhaal (ditto) and Matthew Broderick (meh). Mr Broderick intrigued us both because he had one arm in a sling. Having this happen on a warm Friday evening in the West Village really isn't that surprising, but I could feel the impulse deep in me to pray, sacrifice a goat or SOMETHING to let the powers-that-be know I had seen the signs and was prepared to accept the bounty they predicted with humility and gratitude.

Recently however, I had a more depressing set of omens. Artists of all stripes acknowledge that a loss of faith and confidence in oneself is just part of the career cycle. We don't ever dispell it, we just get better at weathering it. I've been deep in one for some time now, and it seemed to be reaching some sort of crisis point this week. I was definitely wondering if it was time to give up these crazy wacky dreams, and move on. So imagine my delight when I get on a subway train and see the words "BE AN ACCOUNTANT!" emblazoned everwhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE. Accountancy in fact is the job I always jokingly mention as my alternate career, because it's the job I am probably least suited for intellectually and emotionally. Spending all day meticulously computing and checking numbers, yeah, not a job that would be playing to my strengths.

So, I hated that subway car. Hated, hated, HATED it. OH so much hate.

Then, I bought a copy of Backstage only to discover their feature article was on actors who grew tired of the profession and changed careers. If that weren't enough, I decided it would be a good idea to read this article at three in the morning (awakened by insomnia) which of course is a dandy time to ponder one's failures and general worthlessness. After reading the article, the only thing keeping me from turning on the gas was the fact it was in the next room, would have involved actually getting out of bed, and I just couldn't be bothered.

So as you can imagine, while I was much better later that morning, I did not greet the next day with a skip in my step and a smile on my lips. Spring is often a hard time for me in New York anyway. I am aware that trees and flowers OUT THERE IN THE REAL WORLD are starting to bloom, while here in the city, warm weather just means there are more people making unnecessary noise outside my open bedroom windows and standing in my way in enormous bovine clumps. So I was less then cheery as I stomped around the city, thinking it was very good I didn't own a flame thrower because if I did I'd be using it right now to clear a path for myself until the constabulary deemed it necessary to detain me... when suddenly, there, standing outside the Chelsea Cinema on 23rd and 8th, looking anxiously at his watch, was Ralph Fiennes.

Ahhhhh. My. This was unexpected. I stared at him just a shade longer than I usually do, because, this, this was indeed a celebrity sighting of mystic proportions. I love Ralph Fiennes. I think he's beautiful, incredibly talented, and even though I know he just did Faith Healer on Broadway, his presence in New York seemed noteworthy if not actually shocking. I looked at his large, gorgeous features and blue blue eyes, took note of the fact that yup, he's shorter in person than I thought, then I recalled my New York cool self, and pretended I had no idea who he was. I think he did notice me staring at him, but fortunately my big city instincts were still intact enough that I didn't break my stride, and kept moving past him.

This means nothing. I know it means nothing. There is no significance to this event whatsoever. But suddenly I felt much better. I headed out to Jersey City to have dinner with Melissa, and stood on the crowded PATH train, smiling kindly at the surly hordes around me.

Accountancy school can wait.

Patrick Lacey

So I googled my name recently, just for the hell of it. Oh like you've never done it. There were lots of listings, but distressingly few of them were me. The first one that WAS me was for a performance at CBGB's four years ago, a one night event that I was actually unable to do. Rules about public nudity and alcohol, you know how it is. Farther down the list there was a review for a show I did at PS 122 back in 2003, then on the second page there was a listing for this blog. Then I realized it wasn't actually for the blog, but for one entry on it, the one about my debut as a Dutch journalist, and the only reason it was there was because I had written my full name. Patrick Lacey. Right. Just that entry showed up. So, I wondered if I could artificially up my status on google, maybe even make it into the first ten, if I wrote my name, that being Patrick Lacey, lots. Google probably doesn't go for quantity, but I thought I'd give it a go anyway.

To be clear, I am not the Patrick Lacey who plays basketball. I'm not the Patrick Lacey who is a published author (no, we really can't count the Dutch article). I'm not the Patrick Lacey who is an animal trainer and already has a listing on imdb.com because he trained the pig for those Babe movies. I'm not even one of the 493 billion Patrick Laceys presently living in Limerick, Eire which is doubly impressive, since the entire population of Eire is about 5 millon. As far as I can tell, I'm not even related to any of those Patrick Laceys. Nope, I'm the Indiana-raised, Earlham College-educated, New York by way of Seattle residing actor and occasional dancer, writer, mask-maker, and art model. Or dilettante, if you prefer. Also go to hell. That photo above? That's me. If you've ever taken a figure drawing or painting class at the Pratt Institute, Columbia University, Seattle Community College, The Academy of Realist art, Cornish School of the Arts, and any number of small private studios, then you've probably seen me naked. Quite a few of you probably have several nudes of me kicking around in your portfolios. Hell, if you saw productions of The Incubus (NY), Innocence, or The Swan (both Seattle) then you saw me naked as well, and were probably much less prepared for it. Sorry about that, it was in the script. Really. Oh yeah, if you ever attended a Searchlight; An Evening of New Works (fundraiser for the company Ghostlight) you might have seen me naked there as well. The only time I've been arrested, the charge was for public lewdness, but all I did was go skinny dipping in Lake Washington in the middle of the night. You might assume all this public nudity is due to either great vanity or maybe really high self-esteem, but nothing could be further from the truth. I guess once you've been naked in front of strangers a few times, it just ceases being a big deal.

This experiment in shameless self-promotion would be more interesting if I had something I wanted to promote other than my name (or nudity, apparently), but at the moment that's all I got. But maybe YOU have something you'd like me to do? Just for the record I was born to play Puck, am desperate to work with Joss Whedon (Joss, are you reading this? Did you google your name? Call me!), John Barrowman (sorry- I mean glad to hear about your wedding, Handsome), Sir Ian MacKellan, Helen Mirren, Julianne Moore, Neil Gaiman, Tom Stoppard, Douglas Hughes, Daniel Sullivan, Brian Friel, Stephen Rea, Liam Neeson, Neil Jordan, Patrick Stewart, Merchant/Ivory (well, the living one) and more names as they come to me. I've been offering Brad Pitt a lot of advice on his search for a 'gay' project, but that seems to have stalled. I also would love to travel more, perhaps living for a time in places like Scotland, Eire (again), lots of little islands, New Zealand (oh, would love to work with Peter Jackson too, and wouldn't say no that motion capture thingy), Bali, Spain, New Mexico, Maine, and the San Juan Islands. Again, more places as inspiration hits. At this point, just getting out of New York City before the Summer is my main goal.

I think that pretty much covers things. If you came here looking for me as opposed to one of the other Patrick Laceys, drop me a line. I'd love to get back in touch with old friends. Again, that's Patrick Lacey.

Kisses,

Patrick Lacey.

More Random Thoughts

I heard a joke once that the definition of insanity is performing the same actions over and over again but expecting a different result each time. I've decided that my personal definition of neurosis is performing the same actions over and over again, knowing one will get the same result each time, but doing it anyway.

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My friend Mark was visiting from Amsterdam this week and he brought copies of the newspaper he edits there, called TED. It's aimed at a youth market, with a focus on world culture and politics, less on entertainment and gossip. After reading my entry on this blog about Brokeback Mountain, Mark asked if I would be willing to work up a five hundred word version of it for his newspaper. Last March it was published in TED, and I finally got to see a copy of it this week. I'm a published writer. In Dutch. This cracks me up. I guess I have to admit I didn't entirely believe it had really gone to press. Why Mark would want to pay me for an article he never intended to use, I have no idea, but that's just the way my brain works sometimes.

It's funny looking at the page. There's my old black and white headshot on one side then the article, then a picture from the movie of Jack and Ennis leaning up against the old truck. Next to my name, in bold, it says "Patrick Lacey, een gay acteur uit New York, legt uit waarom Brokeback Mountain hem persoonlijk diep raakte. De film is de eerst mainstream Hollywood film die het leven van homo's in beeld brengt."

How true.

Looking at the article is lots of fun. Of course I don't speak a word of Dutch, so looking at it is more like looking at images than words. You know the experience: Indecipherable, indecipherable, lots of words with double aa's, double ee's, indecipherable, Jack en Ennis, indecipherable, gay cowboys, indecipherable, an impressive number of z's, for some reason my eye catches the words begreep and herkende, just because they seem like they'd be fun to say, indecipherable, alcohol, indecipherable, oh wait, can I guess what kinderen means? How about claustrofobie? Zit? No, probably not that one... dood is fun... 300 Hectares, gotta good guess there, indecipherable, indecipherable "normaal", sure, (quotation marks included), lots of words ending in lfde and jk, just can't get over the number of z's, or j's and k's for that matter, indecipherable, oh Jack en Ennis again, of course gays and Brokeback Mountain one more time each, Ik herkende shows up a lot, which makes me think it means "I recognized" since I used that phrase a lot, indecipherable, indecipherable... and that pretty much sums up my experience of the article. Only my complete faith in Mark keeps me from wondering if the article makes me sound like an utter moron, or is actually a recipe for kugel. My first experience as a paid writer. I don't think I'm gonna quite the day job or the (presently theoretical) career to become a Dutch columnist, but it's a lot of fun to think about this going all around Holland last year.