It was hot. Summer. I was so happy it was Saturday and so happy I was going to see Jeff. Jeff was one year older than I was, and blond-er than I was, and smarter than I was, and faster, and bigger, but I had the imagination and the funny. He always gave me the credit for having the funny.

“You make me laugh. You always make me laugh.” He’d say.

He had a bright smile and really good teeth. Every time he smiled, something close to him lit up a little.

I was darker, and brown-er and not liked in 5th grade. I was stuck in a boy’s world. I was thrown in like a piece of meat in a lion’s cage and every day was a struggle as to how not to get devoured. Bob-weave-duck, get out of sight, and make someone laugh. It was really the only recourse I had. I couldn’t throw a ball, I couldn’t run or catch much of anything, and the only thing I knew about camping was that Joan Crawford did it in “Sudden Fear”.

I didn’t understand that world. I wanted out.

Jeff and I were in the same class and he liked a story I wrote about Glinda’s further adventures on Oz.

Our teacher Mrs. Anderson, who had a voice like cream and always wore pants and high heels, asked us to write a story that combined a fantastic situation with a real-life Hero. So I wrote “Glinda, Queen of OZ.”

Jeff came over, got me on that Saturday, and we set out to our imaginary world. Although Jeff was renowned for his male prowess by the other boys at Hickory School, he also had a vivid and beautiful sense of pretend. And we pretended all kinds of things. We played House, we played Godzilla vs. King Kong, and we played Doug Simson and Marcia Brady. Jeff never questioned me. He never said a word about who I wanted to play in our time together. In fact, I don’t even remember having a conversation about it.

On that Saturday we were in pretend land out in the field behind our apartment complex. I brought along my white t shirt that always served as my hair in whatever scene we were working out, and as we started, as we began our day in the hot, hot sun, a group of young male voices came across the street. I was standing in the middle of a ditch waving my arms in a flurry of super powers (I think I was some sort of magical super hero) and Jeff was getting ready to throw one of his magical lightning bolts at me (every time we were super heroes, Jeff had magical lightning bolts), and then I heard the laughter. I heard the laughter that emanated from the same male voices that were coming from across the street. This time though, they echoed of the scattered apartments surrounded us in the field, and stood directly above me. The three boys pointed at me and cackled. Jeff rose in his tracks, and I stood there with my white t shirt plopped on my head. The sun was white, white hot and as beads of sweat poured down my neck, I felt a shock of pain as various rocks were thrown at me. One by one a rock on my leg, a rock on my stomach, and then one in my ear which caused it to bleed a little and mix with the sweat.

The boys left, still laughing, still throwing globs of dirt, rocks, anything they could grab and Jeff finally broke his silence.

“Assholes!” he said. “Shit!” he said louder.

It was the first time I had ever heard those words in my life and for some reason they made me laugh. I was in pain, but the sound of those curse words coming out of Jeff’s blonde, pasty-white face was a little too much for me. It was like watching a Cherub poop on a manger.

That Monday I tried everything to stay away from school. Nothing worked. By then I had every disease known to man except leprosy, and I wasn’t about to lose a foot.

The word had spread and at school I was then known as The Little Brown Girl.

Jeff defended me as best he could, but to fight every boy that surrounded me with their words was physically impossible. Even his fire balls failed. At recess I ran home. I unlocked our apartment, ran into my room and dove under the bed. I took my white t shirt and threw it over our two story balcony. It didn’t go far, but it was indeed out of my life. I was going to learn to play football. I was going to learn to catch and run and not swing my arms when I sat down. I was going to re-do my entire life. Start over. Be like everyone else. Fit in. Be normal. Pretend better.

Jeff’s apartment was directly across from ours, and after dinner that night, I told him what I had done. I told him I was changing and that everything would be fine and that I would be a brand new person.

He looked at me with his blue eyes and huge lashes, and said very sadly:

“But you’re gonna be different.”

A month went by.

I tried.

I was a lousy boy.

Jeff and I practiced as if I was training for the Olympics. Running, sweating, throwing things at each other, and no more pretending. I found myself pretending in my room alone. I was a closeted pretender. It was getting so my heart raced and my stomach ached so bad I had to lock my door and scream so no one called the police.

That year, my mother re married and my step father informed us he was being transferred to Chicago Illinois. I looked it up on a map, saw how far away California was from Illinois, and I knew it was the last time I’d see Jeff.

Goodbye, Doug Simson.

The day we were to leave, as our car was packed and my brother and I were piled in our green Impala, Jeff came up to me and handed me a large brown bag. My mother was in the passenger seat, and our furniture had been sent ahead. We were really leaving. Although it was a time for me to start all over again, to make a new Me, something in my heart was heavy and weighted. Leaving California and leaving the sun and leaving Jeff. It sat in me and curled up hard.

Jeff handed me the bag and looked me in the eye.

“I’ll see you soon. You’re my best girl.”

I thought for a minute I had made that up…maybe I had…but his voice rang in me somewhere. It wasn’t wishful thinking and it wasn’t something I made up. It happened and I stood there watching his lips part, form the words, and hearing my mother’s voice telling me to hurry it up we needed to get on the road.

His best Girl.

That’s right. That’s what he said.

I took the bag, and climbed in the car. We pulled away and Jeff stood on the street waving and smiling. I remember him that way, waving and smiling.

I opened the bag as we were half way out of Paseo Del Rey. Inside, at the bottom, unwrapped and with careful deliberation, was a folded white t shirt.

Goodbye, Doug Simson...you saved me. And thank you for the gift.

I don't subscribe to either philosophy, but that's not really what fascinates me about this clip.

First off, let's look at the fact that this is supposed to be a News Channel, and here's one of the anchor people making a very big deal about the fact that she's wearing her cross. In fact, she actually touches it, lifts it up, and makes an annoucnemnt about it to her guest.

The final straw for me though, the biggest deal, is the piece of text she uses.

"I mean...I don't care. It doesn't bother me."

Uh huh.

Watch her.

Listen to her Tempo. The way she speaks. The way she interrupts. Her manic Gestures and her Shape that shows she honestly can't sit still in her chair. She's not only viscerally angry but it's as if she wants to pop through her teleprompter and strangle the poor women from Wisconsin.

And then there's her demeaning tone. The way she says:

"Merry Solstice, or whatever it is you say."

And the fact because there's more Christians on the planet than there are Atheists, that in and of itself, proves how right she is. How safe she is. How much she's protected and loved and cared for.

But really...when was the last time you heard Walter Cronkite talk about Hell and it's fury?

This is a news station?

God help us.

Kind of.

"I'm not funny. What I am, is brave."





*

From one of my favorite sites on the net. Joe over at Joe.My.God has the best live experiences ever.




Walgreens, Upper East Side, 7PM


Female Voice On Intercom: "Mary Richards, your order is ready for pickup at the pharmacy. Mary Richards."

Clearly Gay Male Voice On Intercom: "Mr. Graaaaant, your order is ready at the pharmacy. Mr. Graaaaaant."

Eartha attempts to seduce the naked Gays while their girlfriends use a huge piece of Architecture to trap them until they're eventually all turned into pussies.

I'm not kidding.




NSFW-ish (Partial nudity)

Garland always said that she stole blindly from Piaf. And you can see it. Edith had a way through a song like no one else. There's a moment in "Padum" when the sound is almost too much for her. There's a Gesture she makes as if she's trying to brush away the pounding, as if she's trapped in a dream of her own making and yet wants out so badly she feebly attempts to dig her way out. It's a futile Gesture, and yet riveting and fascinating to watch.

And the end if brilliant. How man singers use the sign of the cross to close out a song? They just don't make 'em like this anymore.

There’s a historical lineage to the conservative movement. If you look back throughout most of history, our country’s progression has had road blocks. Those road blocks are most always set up by ultra conservative, like-minded religious followers who want nothing more than to “bring back the good old days.” The problem has always been that the good old days they tend to refer to never really existed. In each decade, in each block of time in America we’ve been broken a little, ripped a bit, or are in a transition of some kind. So, in reality, every day is a Good Old Day. You just have to open your eyes to the joy of what’s in front of you.

But on the whole, the conservative movement doesn’t like change.

It frightens them. They feel as though the ground beneath them is cracking…exploding…getting ready to swallow them up.

They want to live like their parents did. And again, I’m not just talking about what’s happening now in 2010. This was the feeling the 80’s, the 60’s, and as far back as the turn of the century. When women began to demand the right to vote, the Right went nuts. They wanted their Females to act like they used to, like their parents did, like The Good Old Days.

I was watching an old black and white movie on TV last night, and the head of the household was having trouble with his teenage daughter. She wanted to date a boy from the wrong side of town, to which Dad said:

“The trouble with the youth of today is, you don’t remember when times were simpler.”

When exactly were The Good Old Days? Is there a definite date? When did this all start? Exactly how far back does everyone want to go?

In this clip there’s dozens of references to Hitler, Facism, Socialism, and I can’t help but remember the “Red Scare” of the 1950’s, headed by the Conservatives in an effort to rid the United States of those dirty, dirty commies.

I have a lot of family members who are far right wing in their political beliefs, and these aren’t stupid people. They aren’t making snap judgments. I have friends who are fiscally conservative, and again, they’re not stupid people. So, when I try and figure out why the rants continue, why the mis-information is spread, and why most of all, people are not only believing it, but acting on it, I have to go back to history.

It’s always been that way.

I know it’s not a reason, but it seems to be the only one I can come up with. They follow their hearts and ignore their heads. There’s very little fact checking, very little personal investigation, and practically no time at all spent in self evaluation. It’s Look, React, Go. It’s that fast.

I don’t believe Liberals are smarter than Conservatives, I think that’s an idiot’s argument. So I keep trying to figure out why, throughout the passage of time, when things begin to expand, when we try as a Nation to grow and become larger and wiser, is there a sect of our country who consistently tries to roll boulders in our path.

It’s now starting to frighten me a bit. I’m always amused by the lack of actual fact digging, but this Fox clip-fest has reminded me that we’re no longer dealing with leaflets handed out on some street corner by 5 guys in matching suits and buzz cuts. With information at the tips of our fingers, lies can swirl across the U.S. in a matter of seconds. And as we all know, if it’s on the internet, it must be true.

And I wonder if this massive group of people believes the same thing about the television. And Fox.

Dear God, I hope not.

I sincerely hope not.

Here's the short film we did last year. Directed by Marlo Bernier and starring the brilliant Jennifer Fontaine and the uber exquisite Elizabeth Martin, it was probably one of the best experiences I've had in Hollywood. We had a ball on the set and everyone involved was so lovely and so supportive I never wanted to leave.

This is the entire film as it stands now, so watch when you have about 15 minutes to spare.

And try and pay special attention to the glorious score It was written and performed by Namoli Brennet a Transgender artist with a wonderful voice and an amazing gift for writing and getting to the heart of song.

I've done a lot of Transgender roles since I've been out in Hollywood and I have to say that this was probably my favorite. Although the character is in peril, there's a strength and a wit about her that's very unique. We're still waiting for some rich, fabulous person with tons of time to plop down the moola for a full length feature, but until that day, I'm honored and feel extremely blessed that I was asked to even be a part of this. And truly, the best part was that I got make new friends. These are people I not only respect but have grown to love and cherish. Things like this a rare in this business so when they actually happen and they mean something, it makes work less about work and more about Art.

I'm one lucky gal.

I've posted this before, but this is one of my favorite Christmas videos.

These people have gobs of time on their hands. And thank God they do. It's so huge and so insane and so massive I literally can't stop watching it.

Yay Holidays!

This isn't your mother's Mitchell. This is a later, subdued, older and seasoned Joni doing one of her best known tunes.

I love watching her stand, just stand and allow the words to surround her. The arrangement is stunning, but truly it's Mitchell's use of Duration that's brilliant. This is gorgeous and fascinating.

I’m not sure how she “fooled” him. I’m not really sure what that’s supposed to mean. I assume because she said she was Female and not Transgender Female he in some way, felt she was trying to pull one over on him.

I’ve always been a bit confused as to how this is supposed to come up in a conversation, or for that matter, why it’s so important. I always just assume people know. I’ve always assumed that. I’ve never found a need to reiterate something that’s a simple Fact of my life.

However, I have to say it sure would be easier for everyone if we could start admitting that our community actually exists. If we could have boxes for us to check. If people weren’t so terrified that we were going to eat their children, or recruit their loved ones, or attack someone in the bathroom. Listen, Larry Craig wasn’t Transgender, and that guy’s been trolling little boys for the last 40 years of his life. Exactly who should we be more afraid of?

Luckily, the manager has been fired and Zikerria is considering legal action.

The more we speak, the more we’re heard. And the more we’re heard, the more we exist in the world. I refuse to be silenced. I spent too many years with my mouth closed.

Money has been on my mind lately. It’s usually on my mind, but more so lately than ever. Mainly because I’m in danger of losing my health insurance and for me, that’s a national emergency. It’s not that I don’t work, but in order to keep my union happy, I have to work a certain amount of hours in a quarter. That hasn’t happened recently, and so if something doesn’t change in the next year by September of 2011, I’ll have no health insurance.

I also have AIDS.

Every night since 1985 I’ve taken a barrage of pills. Green ones, red ones, bright yellow ones, and one of my all time favorites: Electric Blue ones. I always feel like Linda Ronstadt when I take those.

Some of my meds make me ill, some make me sleepy, some perk me up like Liza on roller skates. I always have to eat a little something, because if I don’t, and I take a handful of these whoppers, my tummy feels like there’s about 17 people with sharp knives digging themselves out of my small intestines. This is all well and good unless I’ve eaten all the bread, pudding or 3 Musketeers in the house. When that happens, I have to resort to cat food.

So last week I decided to call SAG and tell them what was about to happen to me. I also belong to Equity (which is the National Union for stage actors). When this happened years ago in Chicago, Equity set me up with an organization called The Actor’s Fund. They not only helped me with my medications, they helped me with the rent, some bills, and a couple of Happy Meals. They saved my life.

I assumed I would encounter the same (if not better) treatment. After all, Meryl Streep belongs to SAG.

I got a woman on the phone who couldn’t have been more kind and more compassionate. When I asked her what she thought I should do she answered:

“Well…we have what we call a Catastrophe Fund. Why don’t you try them?”

“Oh. You don’t have anything for people who are HIV+?”

She was silent.

“No. We don’t.” she admitted.

“Okay. I’ll call.” I said.

I then spoke to Lurch from “The Addams Family”.

“Hel-l-lo?” he said as the ground beneath my feet rumbled.

“Um….hi. Listen, I’m in danger of losing my health insurance, and I’m wondering what kind of programs you guys have for people living with AIDS.”

Lurch took a big breath on the other end of the phone and said back very quickly:

“Nothing. We don’t really have anything.”

I paused for a second.

“You don’t have anything? You have nothing for people living with AIDS? Isn’t this the Catastrophe Fund?”

“Yes.” He answered.

“Well?”

“Well?” he echoed. “This isn’t really a catastrophe.”

I took a breath.

“I see. And what exactly constitutes a catastrophe? Do I need to be holding hands with Sally Struthers and standing in a puddle of Ox pee?”

“Well…Ma’am.This really isn’t my problem.”

And then I stopped.

I actually couldn’t believe he said that to me. This is a union I’ve been paying into now for years. A Union that’s so supposed to protect me, to help me, to keep me safe. I guess it was fine while the money was rolling in, while the work was happening, while I was filming with famous people and doing guests spots on hit TV shows. Now that there’s danger around the corner, and I’m back doing more theatre, I’ve been pushed out onto the side walk. I thought of all the nights I take that electric blue pill and have to scarf down my 43rd piece of bread in order to not faint from the pain in my stomach. And then, tiny price tags began floating in my head.

I spoke up.

“Well. Yes. That’s true. You’re right. This really isn’t your problem. I guess if my health insurance runs out I’ll find a way to pay the $900 to get my blood work done, and the $2,000.00 a month I’ll need in order to afford my meds. I mean, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Heck, I can always go back to hooking. It worked for me in the 70’s.”

Lurch sat on the other end of the phone. He breathed, cleared his throat and sat in silence.

“I’m sorry you have this.” he said half heartedly.

“No. You’re not.” I said back.

Luckily I have a plan B. Luckily. A student of mine overheard me complaining about this very thing in class and pointed me toward the AIDS Foundation here in LA. Luckily, if this terrible thing does happen to me, I have somewhere to go. I have an alternative. There is hope.

But that’s me.

What about my brothers and sisters in the Union that don’t have an Angel sitting on their shoulder? That are too sick to work? Too tired to look anything up? Too depressed, or filled with lesions, or riddled with cancer, or dealing with their neuropathy to pick up the phone? What happens to them when they call and Lurch answers and he tells them it’s not really his problem? Where are they going? Where do they have to go? What’s left for them to do?

And more importantly….what’s happened to the ones that have gone before me?

Where are they now?

What happened to them?

Where were their Angels?

Tonight we open our Christmas play "Dr. Frankinsence and the Christmas Monster." The skit was written by Sean Abley who I've known now for almost 20 years. It's very funny, very silly and I play Mrs. Noel, who's very important. I'm a bit over extended which is why my blogging has been fairly light lately. It's one of those months where I said yes to absolutely everything.

"Wanna do a play?"

"Yes."

"Wanna create a new work?"

"Yes."

"Can you take over my class for me?"

"Yeppers."

"Would you like to dress up like Biggie Smalls and do the polka at a Bar mitzvah?"

"Sure."

Along with all these "yes's" came The Cold From Hell and 55 trips to the dentist. Apparently, my teeth have something against me. They seem to be leaping out of head at an alarming rate. I'm not sure what's going on. Perhaps it has something to do with the Coca Pebbles, the PB and J's, and the bags of sugar I pour down my throat. I'm blaming in on my mother actually.

In the next week I'm also opening for Leslie Jordan's new one man show. This is hapening at the same time the Christmas play is happeneing, which means...I'll open for Leslie, jump in the car, race to the other side of town, leap into my costume and hop on stage for the play. Leslie's show starts at 8, and curtain is at 9.

Everyone cross your fingers.

Everyone.

And if you need anything from me this month, don't ask. The answer is no.

...I think.

Although towards the end of her life Garland wasn’t at her best vocally, there’s still something miraculous in her survival that fascinates me. The song is quiet and haunting and you can see by the tiny gestures, the small internal Tempo she’s taking, that it sits true for her.

It’s hard watching her at this stage, but I can’t help but feel there was a sense of hope left in her, no matter how small.

“I am a lesbian and it was a later-in-life recognition,” she told Matt Lauer on TODAY. “Some people would say, well, you’re living a lie and, you know, the truth is — not at all. This has only been for the past seven years.” Baxter, 62, though anxious, decided to come out on national television after her sexuality became tabloid fodder. “I’ve always lived a very private life,” said the actress, who’s never even had a publicist. “To come out and disclose stuff is very antithetical to who I am.” The National Enquirer reported that Baxter was spotted last month aboard a Caribbean cruise sponsored by lesbian travel company Sweet, writing that she was seen “traveling with a female friend, and she seemed very relaxed and comfortable.” Baxter admitted that she did indeed take the vacation with her girlfriend, despite the threat that the couple would be outed. “I don’t want to be worried all the time,” she said. “I knew I was pushing it.”



(I have to say this one shocked me. I really had no idea. And what's even funnier is that this generation thinks of her as the mom on "Family Ties", while I actually think of her as the daughter on "Family".)

My great pal Sheila O’Malley has written a true account of a man she knew and who he was and what happened to her when she found out what he was running from. This is gorgeous writing and a magnificent confession of sorts. I’ve read it now almost 3 times and it still haunts me.

Here…. read the entire thing. You won’t forget it.

It takes real men to dance like this.



(Thanks to Bruch)

The White House is hanging a red ribbon until Dec 3rd in honor of World AIDS Day.

Remember.

Don't be silent.

"...and you know tomorrow is World AIDS Day." I said to an actor at rehearsal.

"Oh. That's great. What's that? Is that like a special day?"

I grimaced.

When I got home last night I ran into my bedroom and searched through my jewelry box.

There. There it was. This is perfect.

When my Mother passed away, there was a box under her TV in her livingroom. My Mother was a neurotically clean and an obsessive compulsive woman. I remember before her cleaning woman would come over, she'd vacuum the entire house.

"What are you doing, Mother?" I asked, watching her frantically sweep through the diningroom.

"Cleaning." she said running out of breath.

"But....isn't the cleaning woman coming today?"

"Well yes. But you don't want her to think I live like a pig, do you?"

So here was this box. It was old, and a little tattered, and had a plain brown covering. Very, very unusual for my Mother. The Super Hoover. I mean, no whoop-dee-doo, no flowers, no Liberace ornateness to it.

As I searched through it (out of my mind that day, as I remember) I found a literal Alex Treasure trove. There, placed neatly in small piles, were old reviews of shows I had done, programs, ticket stubs, interviews, pictures, and assorted Alex Stuff. I sobbed. All tucked away in a special place. It wasn't in a big book, or on the wall, but in a tiny box that she kept for herself. Like a keepsake. There weren't two. Not one for me and one for my brother Bob. Only one. Just for me. Then....under the letters I had written her, and some Mother's Day cards I sent, was a shiny red pin. A pin? My Mother would never wear pins. They rip things. And they don't vacuum. I picked it up. It was an AIDS ribbon encased in gold and made into a stick pin. It was beautiful.

We rarely spoke about the AIDS. Mimi supported and voted for Reagan, and was a staunch Republican until the day she died. I tried, during the beginning of the Plague to tell her what was happening to everyone around me, but she simply chose to ignore it. As did the Leader of the Free World. When I divulged my own HIV status, I remember her in the kitchen, holding her stomach, and facing away from me toward the window looking out on our garden in Schaumburg, and saying:

"God. Oh dear God, Alex."

It broke my heart. And hers. But we rarely spoke about it.

"How are you?" she would say on our weekly Sunday afternoon call.

"Fine, Mimi."

"Good. Have you quit smoking?"

"Not yet. I'm working on it." at which point, I furiously lit up.

"And your health?"

"Everything's fine, Mimi. Really."

And that was it. Never any more. Never any less.

Luckily, before my brother could get his hands on anything of my Mother's (he was counting the jewelry to see what was worth something and what wasn't. I was given strict instructions I could NOT take anything home that night), before he could see what I was doing, I put the pin in my pocket, and took it back to Chicago with me.

And here it was. In my jewelry box safe and sound in my own house in LA. I held it in my hand. I hadn't worn it since her death almost 10 years ago. Perfect. Yes. That's what I'll do today. I'll wear this. For all my friends, and for my Mother, who voted for Reagan, and dusted in between the piano keys and for all the people still walking around that believe this day has gone. That this day is about remembering and caring and living and forgiveness and so many things we've forgotten ever since AIDS became an inconvenience.

I've been wearing the pin all day, and I have to say, I feel a little better. A couple of people have already asked me about it, and I was able to tell them (in a great proud voice) that it was my Mother's and I wear it today to remember everyone who's not here. Who doesn't have a voice anymore.

Oh yeah.....and it wasn't inconvenient at all to just pin it to my sweat shirt. Not at all.

Jeannine Deckers (also known as The Singing Nun) recorded this disco version of her #1 hit "Dominique". Her story was told in a bio pic in the 1960's and she was played by Debbie Reynolds. I loved that movie. I loved that song. I actually had a poster of the Sister hanging in my bedroom.

Then years later, she left the sisterhood, came out as a lesbian, and fell into terrible financial troubles. This disco version was made as a last ditch effort to regain some popularity (which she had in the gay culture), and to pay off some debt. It didn't work. Then, two years later, she and her lover killed themselves by swallowing an over dose of sleeping pills.

Sad story.

Even sadder still....I also had the 12 inch version of this song.