“I’m SO not winning an Oscar.”

Hey Ging’,

How’s Heaven?

I’ll bet it’s really pretty and filled with stuff. Remember when we talked about it? Remember when you and I sat in your room the night before you died and talked about it?

You said:

“Oh…I think it’s going to be filled with stuff.”

That’s all you really said.

That’s all you said because the lesions were starting to cover your mouth and your cheeks and it hurt to speak. Even though you spoke with a pronounced lisp, you kept up the speaking. You were always great with words.

Hey Ging’, not that I’m trying to get in your business or anything, but I’m curious about something: Have you seen God?

I only ask because I’d like to know why he took you.

Remember the time we went to the 7-11 at 1am and a guy with the longest beard on record asked you out for a date. You batted your big, blue eyes and said in a whispery (slash creepy) voice:

“I don’t date Mormons.”

It was literally the dumbest thing I’d ever heard in my life. And you and me and the 7-11 guy stood there laughing like loons. And then we got 2 free Twix bars. You always got free stuff from men.

Is God there with you?

I’m not angry about anything and I don’t mean to drudge up old stuff that can’t be corrected, but I was thinking the other day about the diarrhea and the big, brown stains on your sheets, and the night sweats that left you feeling like you’d just jumped into a pool, and the first time I saw you after the AIDS began it’s journey into you and you looked emaciated. You were drawn and haggard and thin and tiny and you squeaked when you walked. I hated looking at you and I hated myself for hating that.

And then you lost all you hair.

That made us both angry.

So…I guess I‘m just wondering if He is there, and He is real, and you do see Him occasionally, would you ask him for me? Ask Him why He took you. I’d like an answer whenever you can. No rush.

Thanks, Girl.

And I just thought about Vivian Leigh the other day. And you’re right. You two could be twins.



-Alex

There’s so much to say here, I honestly don’t know if there’s enough room.

Dietrich has no fear, I think that’s most important thing. She’s completely up front with what’s happening to her and makes absolutely no apologies for it.

And then there’s just the FACT of the song and that brilliant Pause she stands in, and that magnificent and very familiar Shape. And just when you thought it couldn’t get more entertaining, she bursts out into a monologue. She looks up at a stranger, and has a mini conversation. I’ve never seen anything like this before.

Talk about living in the question. Marlene’s living in the middle of it and couldn’t care less where it takes her.

…and then there’s the dress…



(Huge thanks to David)

In case you haven’t heard, there’s actually a way you can see what’s happening in the civil rights trial of this century. Where there’s a bunch of people deciding whether or not my wife (whom I’ve known since 1976 and with whom I’ve been married since 1994) can stay legal or not.

That simply means, there’s people deciding if Chrisanne and I will be breaking the law by staying married.

It means nothing less than just that.

Nothing less.

For all you Super Bowl fans, here’s the commercial you positively won’t see.


And..um…uh..er…like….you know I…uh….watch Tim Tebow’s response to the um…like….uh………Ad:




Watch it all the way through (if you can). My favorite piece of text from this Einstein is:

“…uh…I’ve always been very convicted of it...”

Brain Surgeon.

Go Tebow. Go.

An audition is always nerve wracking. It’s always bigger than it needs to be, It’s always a life or death situation, one to which I take great care and go to great lengths not too lose too much of my mind. But really..that never seems to work. I tend to be fine for a while, an then eventually, some time toward the last 10 minutes of getting closer to the office, or building, or lot I’m supposed to go into, I lose what’s left of my mind. It’s as if something inside me takes over and I lose all control of my faculties.

Add to that fact that I suffer from something I’ve now dubbed FPT syndrome, and you have a real recipe for disaster.

(For those of you new to my essays here, FPT stands for Famous People’s Turrets). This is a real disease that actually exists…in my mind.

It usually rears its head at the most inopportune times. Like the time I was in a supermarket and I met Chita Rivera and meant to simply say “Hi” and ended up saying “Ho.” Or how about the time I met Stockard Channing back stage at a fancy event and repeated her name over and over so many times she finally just left me standing there talking to a fern. And of course, the time I was introduced to Sandy Duncan, and in the center table of a New York restaurant, asked her very loudly, and very clearly:

“So which eye is it??”

This is a real disease.

It’s real.

And I hate it.

So my nerves and my FPT are always something I try and keep close to me every time I audition in Hollywood. I don’t try and solve it, or fix it, I just know it’s there.

All. The. Time.

It’s a strange town here. I’ve been auditioning for a lot of years now, but walking on the Warner Brothers lot, or passing by the MGM studios never gets old for me. And if it ever does, if I ever seem unaffected by any of this, I want someone to punch me directly in the face. I’ve seen people who take this gift for granted and I don’t want to end up like them. For me, I’m still Alice at the tea party.

An almost 50 year old Alice, but Alice nonetheless.

As I sat in the waiting room I was greeted by a gorgeous (and I do mean gorgeous) six foot tall, green eyed casting director. Everyone in this town is extraordinary looking, even the people who try and get you jobs. It’s a little disconcerting at times, but I’ve learned to just add a bit more concealer and wear my wiglet proudly and with a smile.

“Alex. Hi!” he said cheerfully with his mouthful of perfect teeth.

“Hi!” I said back, thrilled he was so friendly.

“Just sign in and we’ll be with you in a second. Do you want some water or something?”

Everyone always asks if you want water.

“No. Thank you. I think I’ll just sit here and shake violently on the floor. But thanks anyway..”

He laughed and his perfect teeth gleamed in the sunlight. This guy was a living detergent ad.

I sat down and went over my lines. I then got up (because sitting doesn’t really serve me much) and walked around around. I jumped, I walked faster, slower…I did my work. There was no one else in the large white room so there was no one to stare at me. Usually I’m the only one in the room acting as if someone filled my stockings with fire ants.

As I was hopping and speaking, another gorgeous man appeared at the door. Since the door was locked, I walked over to help him out.

It was Jerry O’Connell.

I stared at him for a second, and then remember my FPT…and luckily, said nothing. I simply smiled and let him in. He smiled back his blue eyes sparkling at me, and said a small:

“Thanks.”

He sat down at the far end of a long black couch, and I went back to my psychosis.

The gorgeous casting director came out, greeted Jerry, and both of their sets of teeth met with fervor. He mentioned the water thing, to which Jerry said yes, and he disappeared again behind the closed door.

I then sat down next to Jerry who was busy on some small computer I-Pod, Text-Message Thing I couldn’t quite make out. I then actually began to repeat to myself:

“Say nothing. Act casual. Say nothing. Act casual.”

He then looked up at me, and smiled. He had the most gorgeous blue eyes I think I’d ever seen. He’s a handsome guy, but his eyes…he looked like one of the children from “Village of the Damned” without the whole soul sucking thing.

And then it happened.

My mouth opened. On its own volition. Without my consent or knowledge:

“Wow. You have the most beautiful thighs.”

And for some unknown reason, he got up, took his electronic device and moved to the other side of the room. I was very confused.

Just then the gorgeous casting director burst in, called Jerry’s name, and they both disappeared behind a door.

I sat for a moment wondering why a simply compliment would push him across the room like that. Maybe I was too forward. Maybe he was concentrating and I threw him off. Maybe he got some strange news on his mini Star Trek computer. And at the same time, I was extra proud of myself for controlling my FPT. I actually patted myself on the back, which if you’ve never really done, you need to. It feels good.

And then it hit me in the face like a wet fish.

And in the loudest possible voice I screeched:

“EYES! EYES! EYES, Jerry! I meant EYES not THIGHS!!”

At which point, the casting director came out again, and said very sweetly:

“Um…would you like to come in now, Alex?”

Shaken and wobbly, I gathered my dignity and walked into the hallway where I found Jerry playfully playing with a stray pup the other gorgeous casting director had recently rescued. This time, I said nothing, acted casually, and walked into the audition.

Don’t ask me how it went, I have no idea. I thought about having my manager see if he could contact his manager and maybe have a small conversation where I could redeem myself, but knowing my FPT, instead of telling him he had a: “voice like glass”, I’d end up complimenting his “nice, round ass.”

Ah well. Next?

This is a heck of a good time.

I love the homage to one of my favorite dance numbers in recent musical history. Remember when they filmed musicals and the camera work didn't make you want to throw up? Maybe I'm nuts, but when I go to see someone dance, I actually want to see them dance, not flash around the back of their head like I'm in the middle of a Vicodin haze. I can go to my dentist for that.

I adored Flashdance. Although the whole welder by day/stripper by night theme was a tad hard to swallow, it changed the way I wore my t shirts for the rest of my life, As a matter of record, I still own my slashed shirt, and I don't care what you think about it. Not one bit.

Of course, at my age, I now wear them on top of 6 other shirts. No one wants to see bazoombas that point their way toward the earth.

Halliwell's the only Spice Girl I ever really cared for, and this is a rockin' version of an old dance hit. I dare you to watch this and not leap out of your seat and get down with your bad self.

I dare you.

"Hollywood and political celebrities are such lemmings. AIDS ribbons. Foreign baby adoptions. Livestrong bracelets. Now, every fame-seeker and left-wing panderer wants his/her mouth duct-taped to show solidarity with the gay marriage movement. The latest slave to fashion? Cindy McCain, following in the oh-so-edgy-for-Tinseltown footsteps of her daughter, MEghan. Who’s silencing these Prop. 8 opponents? They’re more overexposed than Mariah Carey’s bosom.

They can talk and talk and talk without fear of retribution, intimidation, or physical violence. Meanwhile, Prop. 8 supporters and donors have been hounded, threatened, blacklisted, beaten, and forced to resign from their jobs for exercising their political free speech. Cindy and MEghan McCain’s silence on the continued thuggery of their anti-Prop. 8 duct-tape wielders speaks volumes."

Holy roller skating Christ.

You won't believe this. You seriously will NOT believe this.

I warn you...take a pill, grab a hankie, get out the anvil, you'll want something awful to happen to you after this is over. And I thought Gifford couldn't get any worse, I thought she couldn't annoy me any more, I thought the worst was over. And then this happened.

I actually don't know what I'm watching here. I'm not exactly sure what's going on. Is this a parody? Is this a commentary? Please. Send help. Do something. Take cover. It's almost 2012 anyway and the Mayans aren't screwing around. This is only the beginning.

The end times are upon us.



(Thanks to Eric M, via Kate Shindle)

“I have noticed even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road.”

A brilliant use of Repetition. Most of this scene was improvised. You can see the truth pouring out of these actors. The internal Tempo that’s happening to them. Their hearts and guts opening up, and spilling out everything in one breath.

I love film. I love film because as an actor you get to do things over and over and over. You get a chance to make things bigger or wider or smaller or larger. Every take is a new moment, and in that moment is a new possibility.

The Gesture in that odd circle Topography (the map on the floor they draw with their feet) is amazing. Haunting and unrealized and yet charge with fervor and rage, and I have to say, tons of joy. I almost feel like I’m watching them come up with it on the spot. As though I were intruding. The rise of Benigni's Tempo is brilliant. His Gestures get larger and seem to propell him toward the prison cell. It's a joyous and almost frightening moment as we realize exactly where these three men really are.

Great performances, and one of Robert's better known films.



(Thanks to Clay)

There was a little girl who’s name I still can’t remember that lived four houses down to the right of us in Marble Estates California. I was eight years old when she was run over on our block by someone who was going too fast and didn’t see her crossing the street. She was killed in front of her own house. I remember very vividly being shocked and yet completely transfixed by the sight of her father standing in the middle of the street with the entire neighborhood out on their lawns, and curbs, and him…standing there…totally silent. There was almost a dead air space surrounding him. No screaming, no crying, no howling, just dead, dead quiet. I never forgot it.

Years later, I remember hearing my mother talking about this little girl and telling a friend of hers how tragic it was and how young she was and how terrible it all was. And as I sat at the kitchen table watching my mother’s friend’s eyes, I saw a look that would stay with me throughout the passing of my own friends.

It’s what I call The Sad Baker.

When you’re a baker, you really, really love to bake. You love the smell of cakes and dough and mixing bowls, and the sounds of pounding yeast into submission and the crackles of nuts and the kneading of breads. There’s a great Art to cooking that I don’t possess, a great talent to it. I do however, consider myself a champion eater. I have the utmost respect for people that cook. It always amazes me how someone can walk into a kitchen filled with odd shaped Architecture and walk out with a roasted lamb.

And I’m a good eater as well.

By that I mean, I feel if I’m eating something that someone actually took the time to cook, I should be forever grateful. I should be grateful because as my Dad would always remind us:

“There are starving children in Africa”

And also, I have zero talent for any kind of cooking. I still read the directions for instant oatmeal.

So if you cook me something, I’m going to make yummy sounds.

And a Baker? Well, a baker is from Heaven. A baker is God’s way of saying: “Heaven exists on earth. All you have to do is turn around and taste it.”

If anyone’s ever baked you homemade bread, you know I’m not exaggerating.

But then, consider what happens when the ultimate tragedy occurs: The bread doesn’t rise, the cake falls, the cream puffs poop out. There’s a look a baker gets. It’s sort of a sadness/confusion/pity/anger/bewilderment look.

I’m always of the mind that if you haven’t been through something, and I mean been through the exact situation, you really don’t understand the impact of the other side. I know what it’s like to have AIDS, I have no idea what it’s like to have cancer. They’re not the same. The only thing we share is The Sad Baker Look. When someone with an illness talks about their illness to someone who doesn’t have one, they get The Sad Baker Look.

Now, I understand it. For those of you who may feel alienated by my words, please know I’m not trying to hurt your feelings None of us sickies are. We love you guys. We need you guys. We’d be dead without you. So, please don’t go away mad or stomping your feet or pouting. That’s not my point here. This is more about the people who pretend to know what you’re talking about and then (probably through no fault of their own) say something inane like:

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Or-

“I know. I know. I understand.”

Or the one that makes me want to immediately punch someone in the face-

“Time heals everything.”

Let me just say this about Time and it being able to heal Everything:

It doesn’t.

It may slow things down, it may push stuff aside, you may forget for a while, but to tell me that time heals Everything is not only a lie, it’s incredibly annoying. And really, did I even ask about time? Was that in the syllabus?

So when The Sad Baker Look happens as I’m venting about having AIDS and how I’m tired of being sick, and I’m speaking to a close friend who already knows better than to tell me about Time and it’s healing properties, don’t walk across the room over hearing my conversation and tell me that God has a plan for every Angel.

I’ll kick your teeth in.

But see, that woman (who I know deep in her heart had the best of intentions) had The Sad Baker Look. I saw it coming toward me. Just like my mother’s friend that day at the kitchen table. When my mom relayed the story of how she felt standing in the darkness looking up to God and asking why, my mom’s friend replied:

“Not everything has an answer. Time answers everything.”

And whether or not my mother knew that, believed it, subscribed to it, or thought it was bunk, that’s not what she was after. She just wanted to be heard.

That’s all I mean, Well People. We just want to be heard.

So stand there. Nod. Touch my hand. Whistle. Do the meringue. I'm sorry's work. But for the love of everything that’s Holy, take The Sad Baker Look and save it for your mirror. I just need your Heart. That’s all. Just give me your Heart.

Thanks for listening.

This pretty much explains it all. And brilliantly.

I’m ready.

Are you?

I’m all for free speech. I think this country has a powerful voice and everyone in America deserves to be heard. I believe that in my heart.

But this…

This is something entirely different.

Here’s a man with thousands, probably millions of Christian followers who trust him, think of him as Holy, as having a direct line to God, and last week Pat Robertson eked out what is probably the most unholy, devastating, and sickening piece of text I’ve heard in I don’t know how long.

Even though he sprinkles the end with attempting to help the victims of the earthquake in Haiti, even though he admits to the destruction of this small, helpless country, and even though he makes a small bid for human kindness, he wants us all to pray for these people because of the pact they made with the Devil, and if they’d just turn their lives around, the country will be saved. To even bring this up while mothers and fathers and teachers and children and doctors and lawyers, and whole communities are trapped under tons of collapsed buildings, some alive and some not, is beyond comprehension.

I think some people should not have a voice.

And it’s time to yank this dangerous, feeble minded preacher off the air. His pious, religious rants have been insane in the past, but this is clearly something else. This is a hideous display of what he thinks is Fact being twisted into what he believes should happen because of it. There really are no words.

This is enough.

This is enough of this person. If he wants to stand on his pulpit in his private church and tell the world that God is punishing Haiti by murdering over 50,000 people because the devil made Him do it, that’s fine. But on TV? No.

No.

I’m sorry.

He doesn’t get to do that.

And after all this, after all his uneducated ramblings, I don’t think to this day, he quite understands the true meaning of the passage: “an abomination against God.”

Look it up, Pat. And go away.

Quietly.

The Golden Globe Awards were last night. I stayed up after a long night of writing and watched fervently. I can’t stay away from these things.

Here are my thoughts:





-Ricky Gervais is just as good as Ellen Degeneres in the MC category. The two of them need to MC everything. Literally everything. I’d like them both to MC me going to the bathroom.



-When Jeremy Piven’s name was called for his category, he said under his breath and with a smirk:

“All right!”

That guy gives Slimy a bad name.



-Dear Stars: When you're on the red carpet being interviewed by Seacrest take the freakin' gum out of your freakin' mouth. You're at an awards show, not on the pitcher's mound.



-The first award of the night was well deserved. Monique’s astonishing portrayal of the mother from hell was mind boggling, But for me, it wasn’t all about the theatrics at the top of the film, it was the last 10 minutes of her sitting in a chair and pleading for the life she lost and the life she couldn’t control. It’s probably the finest supporting actress performance I think I’ve ever seen. And then…her speech. Well…needless to say, she took us to church. And back again. Congratulations to this beautiful, fearless woman.



-I need Neil Patrick Harris to date me.



-Dear Toni Collette, I’m thrilled you won for your brilliant show. And I love you. I think you’re multi talented. You can do it all. Seriously. All of it. Now…enough with the self tanner. You look like a sexed-up orangutan.



-It was so nice to see Paul MacCartney wearing all his Cub Scout medals.



-I don’t care how you feel about her. I don’t care how long she may or may not be out of fashion. And I don’t care what anyone thinks of her acting, watching Cher present the music award was sheer, unadulterated Heaven.She was decked out in a long black Morticia Adams gown with about 17 wigs on her head. Beautifully…she received the biggest ovation for her entrance of anyone on the stage.



-Samuel Jackson has now turned into Shaft.



-When Meryl Streep won for her hilarious performance in “Julie and Julia”, the first thing she said as she approached the microphone was:

“I’m thinking of changing my name to T-Bone. What do you think? T-Bone Streep. I really like it.”

She then proceeded to talk about her mother and her ability to be grateful when the world around you is falling apart. Without ever saying Haiti, we all knew what she was referring to. Only Streep can go from one end of the spectrum to the other without any sense of self aggrandizement.



-Mickey Rourke can wear anything he wants. And does.



-I was happy for Kevin Bacon. I didn’t see the TV miniseries he did, but I love this actor. And he looked gorgeous. Clean, adorable, and wearing a fabulous suit. Short and sweet.



-I adore Drew Barrymore. But Drew’s performance over Jessica Lange’s in “Grey Gardens”? Wrong Golden Globes. Wrong.



-Is it me, or does James Cameron now resemble one of the Founding Fathers?



-Hellen Mirren is not only one of the great actors we have, but had probably the best dress of the night. A black skin tight trumpet dress smothered in back sequins. And of course…her fabulous, fabulous rack.



-Little Ashton Kutcher is all grown up now. Aww.



-Watching people watch Sophia Loren was thrilling. Especially the young stars: Decaprio, Duaz, Bullock. Seeing a true legend their usual bravado and Movie Star looks dropped as they stood up. Applauded, and stretched to get a look. That was a great moment. And one that wasn’t lost on Loren at all. She was incredibly gracious and every inch the movie star.



-The un named man who helped Chloe Sevigny up to the stage to collect her award tripped over her grey, ruffled linen dress and ripped the train a bit. It didn’t help.



-William Hurt is hairier than Grizzly Adams.



-While I get that we have to remember that acting is saving the world, I was really unprepared for the Haiti infomercials. I think there’s a time and a place for everything. Luckily, it went well. No one really went over the top. I only want to remind people who haven’t had a lot of theatre training to get some. Standing up and reading cue cards is terrifying if you’ve never stood up before human beings and actually spoken. One helpful hint: Stop rocking back and forth. It doesn’t make you inconspicuous. We can still actually see you.



-Why was Julia Roberts sitting at a table with Paul Macartney?



-Leornardo Dicaprio is one the best looking humans on the planet.



-Watching a retrospective of Martin Scorsesee’s work as he received The Cecil B Demille Award, I was reminded of what a true genius this man is. From “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore”, to “Taxi Driver”, to “The King Of Comedy”. Without him, film would truly be missing something.



-I can’t look at Mel Gibson anymore without thinking of the parody on “South Park”. I only see him drunk, insane, twisting his nipples and pooping.



-“Glee” won the Golden Globe over “30 Rock”. I think I need to break down and start watching this thing.



-I need a picture of Meryl Streep’s face when “The Hangover” (with champion thespian Mike Tyson) won The Golden Award over “Julie and Julia”.



-I adore Sandra Bullock. I think she’s a great actress with a lot of stuff and huge gifts. I think we’ve only scratched the surface of this woman. She also looked gorgeous. And gave a hell of a speech.



-Robert Downey Jr. (who won for Sherlock Holmes) gave the speech of the night. He marched up, threw his arms out to the Universe and lambasted every actor in the room for being egregious and self serving. He then proceeded to NOT thank everyone in his movie. It was pure Him.





A fabulous night was had by all. As every year, I miss Julie Andrews. I know she hasn’t done anything in a while, but for that’s no reason not invite the woman. She always brings a sense of class to these awards. But I loved it. I TiVo-ed the hell out of it, and fortunately the 3 hours went by in about an hour and a half.

Nonetheless, I had a great time with the wife sleeping peacefully in the other room after cooking one of the best French lamb stews I think I’ve ever had in the my life…not that I’ve had many French lamb stews, and not that I’d know a French lamb stew from an Australian lamb stew, but it was amazing anyway. Great night. Loved the crap covered in sequins. I love all of it and I love the fact that I’m about 20 minutes away from the actual red carpet. I love this town. Until next year…

What I teach is never really explainable. I’ve tried explaining it and when I do I either end up sounding like I need medication, or like I’m one of those Tree-Hugging-Guru-Loving-Far-Left-Be-The-Wind acting teachers. I remember years ago having a teacher who, after the first hour of class, had us on all fours howling at the moon and trying to find our inner Wolf. Needles to say, I bayed, and hit the road.

I’m not like that.

I’m not one of those teachers, because I’m not one of those actors.

I don’t pretend that I have The Key. I don’t think anyone has The Key. And even if I knew someone that had The Key, I wouldn’t want The Key because that, for me, is the thrill of acting, Finding The Key. It’s all about the journey. I actually like not knowing, even though it drives me nuts and I obsess to the point of scarfing down several boxes of Ding Dongs. And that’s part of the The Viewpoints. There’s a lot of unanswered questions and a lot of ambiguity.

It’s hard to explain.

See?

When I walked into class yesterday, we were about to start a big, big day. Every day is usually a big, big day, but this was Day 2, and that’s usually when all hell breaks loose. You really tend to discover what’s underneath all the bullshit you’ve spent years building up. It’s really insane, really joyous, and can get really scary. And since every class is different, it’s always a unique experience. It’s always filled with different and bizarre things that are special to that group of actors in one room, sweating, cursing, running, jumping, crawling, and peeing.

It’s a lot like sex: Everyone does it, but everyone does it with different results. I’ve never said that to my students before, but I assume if any of them read this blog, my secret’s out.

So the day went on, the exercise played out, and that tiny room all 13 of us were crammed into, suddenly came alive. Sounds, breath, sweat, angst, the floor boards reverberated occasionally with pounding and stomping that seemed to go on forever. And then every once in a while there was complete silence. There’s something to be said for glorious complete silence. For a bunch of people standing still for large amounts of time and yet, still seemingly moving forward, still waiting for something to happen, it’s mind boggling to watch. To witness. It’s an honest to goodness chip in time, where everything you thought you knew just sits in a gigantic Pause. And to be in the middle of it, is almost…well…spiritual in a sense.

What we do as actors is always a mystery to me. And to be honest, I’m actually not sure what it is we really do. By that I mean, I don’t know how it works. I know when I see great paintings, or hear fabulous music, or watch a brilliant dancer, something happens to me. But I don’t know the logistics of it. All I know is that something inside me changes and I have to go back and see it again, or bring people, or tell someone about it, or write it down, or sob outside, or run into my room and jump up and down on the sofa. I HAVE to do something. That’s really all I know. The rest is best left to the poets, I guess.

So when I’m teaching and I’m standing on the edge of a space where a group of strangers have just collectively decided to Pause with no one shouting anything at them to Be The Wind, or Change Into A Howler Monkey, I feel a sense of pure grace. And I’m always humbled by it.

The great tragedy for me, is that when it’s over, when they’re all sitting and we’re chatting about what happened (the upside and not-so) I get tongue tied again in my explanations. And today, after the magic, I said as loud as I could:

“I see all this stuff. I get to stand by and side coach and watch, and then you guys do something THAT great, and I’m ALONE! No one sees it but me! I’m ALONE!”

I was angry.

And I’ve been angry about it for as long as I’ve taught which is now approaching almost 15 years.

I sat back down, found my book of notes that I furiously tossed across the room (I throw things as well…I like my anger by the way, I’ve never had a problem showing it), and crossed my legs breathing hard.

A young student with the largest brown eyes on the planet, looked up at me and said plainly:

“You’re not alone, Alex. God’s watching too.”

I stopped.

I stopped breathing for a minute and looked at her.

I stopped and I almost couldn’t start again.

No one’s ever said anything like that to me before in my life.

I’ve had thousands of students over the years, and I have books and books of their quotes that I still look over, but never has anyone given me that kind of gift before. And I have to say, it had very little to do with any kind of religious overtone for me. It wasn’t about her saying: “Listen, if you accept Jesus Christ…” it had nothing to do with that. She was saying simply and calmly, and without reservation, that I simply wasn’t alone. That no matter what I thought was happening, and even if I was standing in the middle of a field, that I was not alone. Just like that. There was something else. Something else was attached to me, holding me, rocking me, taking care of me, cheering me on. That something else I couldn’t explain, or see, or have to explain, or have to see, was there.

Tears fell out of my eyes, which is also very rare for me in class. I turned to her and said thank you.

And as I drove home, as the night rolled over me and I sat in my car twisting through Hollywood with the lights scattered over the mountains of hundreds of homes filled with people, I was content and calm. I felt easy and free. I got a wonderful gift today from a 21 year old girl who didn’t think long and hard about what the correct answer to my dilemma was, instead I got a simple gift wrapped in a simple bow. And I feel different now. I don’t feel alone in the middle of the magic anymore. And thanks to her, I never will.

Minnelli and Aznavour have a relationship that's clearly bigger than just this song. And the treat here is that they take it on stage with them. There's no backing down from anything. They don't leave their Stuff at the door. They never check out in any way. They're clearly knee deep in the mud and joy of what's happening to them. There's no hesitation. Ever.

Their use of their own Spatial Relationship is stunning. Turning their backs on us, coming so close together that at one time, Liza gives Charles a passionate and yet very romantic kiss as he sings. This is not ony a story told through song, it's an emotional truth played out before our eyes. It's at once intimate and quiet, and the next, fiery and demanding.

I love how they create Shapes not only with their individual selves, (Minnelli's upward stance toward the sky and Aznavour's hunched pleading to the earth) but the way they leave each other, and then come back together. Liza's a champion of text. Lyrics mean a great deal to her, and Charles musicality and lingering notes seem to relax his internal Tempo. Almost to the point that toward the end, when the Gestures come, when the Tempo rises he's powering forward in such a huge way, it's a bit frightening.

This is one of the best duets I think I've seen in a while, because it's not just two people singing a bunch of songs tied together by a common theme. It's a relationship we're invited to. And their Hearts and their Guts are out on display for us to witness.

Watch when they begin to talk about the moon, closing up their Spatial Relationship, and looking out toward the future. They change right in the moment. The songs goes on, but something has put them in a Pause. They can't be away from each other. They're almost held together. Tightly.

This is a 3 Act Play. Astonishing stuff.

Ted Olson recently wrote an article in Newsweek about what Prop 8 and the Equality Marriage Act is really all about. Although we all know some conservatives are locked into the sex of it all, the real issue the truth of what's going on rests in the hearts of every true American who knows what it's like to be discriminated against.

If you're not familiar with Mr. Olson, the only thing you really need to know is that this guy is an ultra conservative. This is the break we've all been waiting for. A sane word from the Right who is speaking up and hasn't brought up God or The Bible once.

Over at Joe.My.God, there's some great text from Mr. Olson. Part of my favorite passage:



"California recognizes marriage between men and women, including persons on death row, child abusers, and wife beaters. At the same time, California prohibits marriage by loving, caring, stable partners of the same sex, but tries to make up for it by giving them the alternative of "domestic partnerships" with virtually all of the rights of married persons except the official, state-approved status of marriage. Finally, California recognizes 18,000 same-sex marriages that took place in the months between the state Supreme Court's ruling that upheld gay-marriage rights and the decision of California's citizens to withdraw those rights by enacting Proposition 8.

So there are now three classes of Californians: heterosexual couples who can get married, divorced, and remarried, if they wish; same-sex couples who cannot get married but can live together in domestic partnerships; and same-sex couples who are now married but who, if they divorce, cannot remarry. This is an irrational system, it is discriminatory, and it cannot stand."



Exactly. The funny thing is that Chrisanne and I are legally married in this state, but our other gay friends are not. And by law, CAN NOT be married. When the split decision happened, I knew in my heart we were eventually going to win this thing, which is why every time there's a minor set back, I'm never really, ultimately worried. I know Right will prevail, it always has. That's why I love this country.

And God Bless the conservatives.

I was desperate for a good meal. I was desperate for any meal. You can really only eat Popeye’s so many times before something foreign begins to formulate in your intestines. And so when my best friend Ginger told me she had a man that was interested in taking me out to dinner to a restaurant where I didn’t have to order my food into a clown’s mouth, I jumped.

“What’s he like?” I asked.

“He’s really smart and really funny.”

“Is he cute?”

She paused.

“He’s really smart and really funny.”

“What the hell’s wrong with him, Ginger?” I asked pointedly.

“He’s just…he’s taking you out isn’t he?”

“If this guy looks like Soupy Sales, I’m kicking you in the face. Really hard.”

I got dressed, slapped on my best face and waited for 7:30. His name was Rich and he was taking me to the Playboy Club in Chicago. I was in my mid twenties at the time so getting ready back then was about some lip gloss and a swig of Listerine. Now I need a tool box and a small midget.

He was on time, which gave him huge points already. I answered the door already wearing my coat. It was Chicago after all, and it was winter, and even opening the door in December can freeze a boob off. This I certainly couldn’t afford to fix.

“Hi.” I said with a smile.

He actually wasn’t bad looking at all. He was very tall, had red hair, a few little freckles, and really beautiful green eyes. He was dressed nicely (which always counts with me), and his shoes were new. I notice people’s shoes. I don’t know why, it’s actually something I still do.

“Hi.” He said in a deep, very male, very cold voice. “I’m Rich. And you’re Al-Al-Al-Alex.”

I assumed he was shivering from the cold.

“I am. Chilly, huh?”

“Yup. Su-su-su-sure is. Shall we g-g-go?”

“Sure.”

I was starving. The only thing we had in the fridge back then were some cans of macaroni and cheese and something green and pink that my roommate was growing in the lettuce crisper.

We got into his car, and sped off into the frigid night.

“So..how do you know Ginger?” I asked warming up finally.

“Oh. Sh-sh-she and I used to work at s-s-s-s-ame restaurant.”

The cold thing was still surrounding him apparently.

“Oh that’s right, she told me that. What do you do now?”

“I’m an ac-ac-ac-ac-countant. I love m-m-m-money.”

“Who doesn’t?” I smirked.

He laughed.

And when I tell you he laughed I don’t meant to say he politely grinned and chuckled under his breath…this guy threw his head back, and cackled like a horny hen. It was certainly the strangest thing I’d ever heard come out of a human being in a very long time. And it kept going on. It went on and on and on and on. It went on until I finally screamed out another question:

“Do you like Chicago?” I yelled over the strange gurgling cackles coming from his red freckled face.

“Oh yeah…I L-l-love Chicago. I really like being an ac-c-c-c-ountant though. I don’t re-e-e-ally have to d-d-d-d-eal with a lot of p-p-p-people. You prolly haven’t noticed, but I have a sl-sl-sl-slight stutter.”

“A stutter? You do? No, I hadn’t noticed.”

Honestly. What was I going to say?

“M-m-most people don’t know. I k-k-keep it pretty well h-h-h-h-hid.”

“Smooth as glass.” I said back.

We arrived at the club, parked the car and headed to the upstairs dining room. It wasn’t really the stutter that bothered me. Once I got used to it, I just learned to listen longer.
We sat down, and one of the Bunnies hopped over to us, and threw her chest in my face.

“Hi!” she said loudly and in a squeaky Minnie Mouse voice. “I’m Candi. Ya know….WITH AN I!”

I wasn’t sure why she emphasized the spelling of her name, but she did, and Rich burst out into cackling hysterics.

I must’ve missed the punch line.

“Um…can we have some menus please?” I asked..over the cackling.

Candi with an I plopped two menus down in front of us and began to tell us the evening’s specials. This was obviously very important to Candi with an I, because every time she began a new sentence, she heaved her breasts up to a higher altitude. All of them had weird, sexually charged words attached to them, like: Veal Tramp-o-lini. Or: Up The Skirt Steak, or some such nonsense. I thought it was repulsive and refused to pay an attention to her, or her chest, which was by now, bobbing up and down over the front of my menu.

“I’ll be right back with your DRINKS!” she yelled.

I leapt out of my seat.

Apparently, screaming out the last word of her sentences was a habit for ole Candi with an I. And then she hopped away.

“Sh-sh-she s-s-s-seemed nice.”

“Yeah. Like a garlic sandwich.”

“GWA GWA GWA GWAAAA SKA AH HAHAHAAAA!” he cackled.

“Uh…Rich. Rich. Listen…” I said trying to calm him down. By now, every time he began to make that sound, people were turning their heads in alarm. As if someone left the barn door open. “…I was just wondering if we couldn’t eat downstairs or something, There’s a real draft in here. Do you feel it?”

It really was a bit cold for me, and I hate eating in the cold. Everything jiggles. And not in a good way. But truly, I was embarrassed and it was the only kind way I could think of to get us both out of the public’s attention. And ditching Candi with an I would have simply been a bonus.

“It is c-c-c-cold, isn’t it? I should be c-c-c-c-c-areful., I just got over a b-b-b-ad flu.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Well maybe we…”

Before I could finish, Rich went into the pocket of pants, and pulled out 3 or 4 bottles and sprayers. He was furiously popping pills like Janis Joplin and shoving things up his nose.

“I have to be r-r-r-really careful. I’m su-su-su-su-susceptible.”

“Hi guys. I’m BACK!” Candi with an I screamed.

She set our drinks in front of us as Rich blew his nose into his napkin. Loudly. And for a very, very long time.

“I’ll have the filet. Medium rare.” I said over the continuation of Snot Falls.

“Oh really, really good choice. The filet is always PERFECT!”

I wanted to sock one of her implants out.

“And you SIR?!” she belted out.

Rich, with the napkin to his face and an inhaler half sticking out of his nose said:

“I’ll have the c-c-c-c-c-cod.”

“Okay folks. Thanks so much, Be back in a minute with YOUR ORDER!!!”

And she hopped away, again.

“I hate her.”

When the food finally arrived I ate like a truck driver. Candi with an I was right, the food really was PERFECT!

As we were half way through, actually enjoying each other’s company (aside from the occasional cackle and nose blow) I happened to see Candi out of the corner of my eye carrying a tray filled with food that was obviously far too big and too full for her. She was struggling to stay in her bunny suit and wobbling on those massive stilts they forced her to wear.

“Oh God, Rich. I smell a disaster. Look.”

“Ooh. Candi. OOOhh.” Rich squealed.

And then, as if in some kind of slo-motion, Rich got up, and attempted to cross the room. Unfortunately, as he did, Candi attempted to put her tray down on the table behind us. The nose spray he had carefully curled up in his right hand dropped, and as it did, he tripped, fell into her, she bolted forward, and the couple sitting at the table were instantly covered in white alfredo sauce and some kind of runny, gooey meat cheese thing. The woman screamed, the guy cursed, Candi wept, and Rich…well…Rich for some unexplainable and brilliant reason threw his head back sitting in the middle of the Playboy Club with splatters’ of white and red on his suit, cackled like I’d never heard him cackle all night. It was the most glorious thing I’d ever seen.

I stood up (as if that was going to make some kind of difference), and laughed along with him. Unfortunately, he and I were the only ones laughing.

We were escorted out (quietly), and as we left the restaurant, Candi with an I approached us.

Angrily.

“Hey! Hey!” she shouted as we were half way out into the street.

“I have something to say to you, you stuttering asshole! You have no idea what you just did TO ME! You humiliated me in front of an entire room of people! Do you know that! You’re a stupid, read headed, JERK! And now I just got FIRED!”

For some reason I suddenly had a huge protective feeling come over me. Rich, for the first time that evening, stood there. He couldn’t move. He was paralyzed by Candi’s words. I could see the shame over take him. It was like a dark cloud covering his face. The first half of the night was me judging him. Me picking him apart and cursing Ginger about how odd, and how different, and how weird he was. And now…I knew after seeing the joy he got from his Jerry Lewis Outing, that I was in the company of one of the bravest men I’d ever met. Anyone who’s able to find that kind of joy in the middle of that kind of tragedy is my kind of guy. And I suddenly felt like a big jerk for wanting to go downstairs.

I took a breath, and walked up to her.

“Candi. It’s not our fault that you got thrown out of the Playboy Club. It was an accident.”

“Oh screw you. I’ve been thrown out of better places than THIS!”

She turned to walk away, and this is the only time I’ve ever gotten to use this particular line and have it be absolutely appropriate.

I stopped her, turned her around and said:

“You’ve never BEEN in better places than this!”

…and she glared, curled up her fist, tried to swing at me, and slipped on the ice.

“And you have a shitty right hook.” Rich said perfectly clear.

We got in his car, and the two of us went to MacDonald’s, laughing, sneezing and cackling all the way. It was one of the best dates I can remember.

There's always been something arresting in their voices for me. Soothing and yet defiant and personal. I love Mary's head Gesture's. She's constantly making a point and always in the middle of saying something.

The song itself seems terribly and sadly relevant.

What a great team, and what a terrific loss.