Stillettos and Sneakers

The Thaw

2013-05-09T07:57:32Z

Just remember as you watch this, that these are children. They're at an age where approval is paramount to being seen. Their parents have filled them with an idea of right and wrong and alienated them from a society that only wants to be free. What they think they feel hasn't really registered as truth just yet. The text that's coming out of them isn't connected to anything, and the sayings their religious organizations have hijacked, have no history.

"Bully", "Silence", "Freedom".

These are words only. They have nothing behind them. They mean nothing. Even when they speak of freedom and the pursuit of happiness, that pursuit only includes the neighbors that live close by. Ronald Reagan, prayer in schools, history books, these are images in name only. They hold no special meaning for this generation of Christians as what they've learned has been through the bubble of their home and church only. There's no outside force allowed when you're in the middle of an indoctrination. You can't have interference. Not ever.

So try and remain calm and remind yourself they're still children. They're young and they're still trying to assimilate and be seen by Mom and Dad, so they repeat what they've been told. They simply repeat. The frightening thing is, if they don't come to their own conclusions soon, they'll turn into the people they're trying to impress.

And then...nobody wins.

The Third Reading

2013-04-21T21:50:19Z

Chrisanne and I have been married since 1996, and nothing; no law, no person and no amendment can change that. But there is a sense of belonging, of legality we both cherish and need. And as it happens around the world, and in our own country, we both hold on tight and keep our hearts open.

The above clip is monumental and historic. It rings of truth and justice and how we hope we will all finally be remembered: as living in a world filled with equality.

The song you here in their National Anthem and happened purely by accident. Watch what happens to everyone. The room changes and the people with it. Everything they thought made sense to them, doesn't anymore. The music fills the room and reverberates through the hallways. Freedom is close, and equality is closer.

My marriage will survive.

And we will be heard.

Let's Hear it For The Boys

2013-04-20T20:57:09Z

Just because I needed a laugh and some joy in between rehearsal for my final show at the University, and the two papers I'm writing on the weekend.

This is my weekend. Writing about David Mamet and watching fabulous videos.

Weekend done.

Traveling Through Liminal Space with Fabulous Shoes On

2013-04-06T01:17:10Z

One thing goes into another and that thing goes into the next and on and on it goes until we fly off into the really big question. It the middle of all that is a beauty and a magic and sparkly sequins and people who break out into song about love and being loved. I've always had problems identifying what's actually happening with what I believed was happening. My truth was rarely everyone else's, but I don't know that I care anymore. The world I created is much more fun and much more fabulous. Whether or not it's true for everyone else, seems to me, to be everyone else's problem. Not mine.

Life is an MGM musical and it just gets more and more grand the longer I'm on the planet.

I've been on Spring Break for the past week and because I've actually been able to take a breath, I've been able to spend more time on my blog.

Blog, blog, blog.

But as all things do, I now begin the transition into the new Event, and everything changes. I'm passing through Liminal Space and it's just as frightening as it always is. I go back into the fire. Back into the final six weeks of my last two years in Grad School. My thesis ("The Moment Before the moment before: Stanislavsky's Event Analysis and Process of Evaluation through Liminal Space") is defended and over with.

Fancy title, huh? You'd think I actually knew stuff from the look of things.

And now I free fall into what I can only describe as the Final Moments. It's been a fast and furious two years, and much has happened. I'm different and I can feel it. I'm also the same, and I can feel that as well. I don't feel smarter, as that's an old Parrot of mine anyway, the one that tells me how stupid I am, but I do feel bigger. I feel there's more stuff in me. There's more room for more questions and I can't seem to contain all of it. I'm ridiculously grateful. I'm grateful in a way that doesn't seem possible, and I'm constantly walking around the halls thanking people.

Before I came into the program, I noticed people leaving each other. I watched in horror as three people left (one moving to Fresno....talk about getting away), and two couples divorced. It scared me. I knew in my heart my wife and I could survive anything, and I knew in my soul that we would come out of this thing unscathed. I can't say it hasn't been tough, and there was one moment when we both thought one of us ought to think about renting a houseboat and living on it for a couple of minutes. But that passed quickly. And certainly if there's anyone on the planet to truly thank, it would be Chrisanne. There's no possible way I would have gotten through these last two years without her strength, her encouragement and her deep and undying care for me. She ran errands, she cooked, she ran lines with me, she copied manuscripts, she researched and studied and hunted and filed and even spent one night cutting out pictures from People magazine for a project I was doing. And in the midst of all that, she loved me unconditionally, and I spent most of my time weeping and breaking out in hives.

Unless you've gone through this, it's almost impossible to explain or describe accurately, without sounding like a bit of wimp. But in a nut shell: I was never in the house except to sleep, eat and poo: She Did Everything. And when you hate to clean, and you hate to scrub toilets and you hate to monitor every penny in the bank every second of the day, life becomes a series of tiny strokes.

But we survived. And that, among everything else, is the thing I'm looking up and saying Thank You for, the most.

So off I go, into the abyss that is school and soon to be graduating with my hot little degree in my hot little hand come May 24th. I carry with me my Steppenwolf Angels who gave me a voice I'll never quiet down again, and my CSU Angels, who allow me to learn from them and never treat me as though I know nothing. And so most of my journey is done. This part is finished. I pass though Liminal Space singing loudly and proclaiming my spot on the planet, grateful I've had so many teachers and guides. And now, once again, like everything else, I begin the transition into another Event.

And through it all, I make sure I have fabulous shoes for the journey.

In The Middle of Ourselves

2013-04-03T21:28:46Z

I know why I teach. I know what motivates me and I know what it is that keeps me coming back in the rooms with the students every day, every moment, every hour. I can’t stop going. It’s not like performing for me. It doesn't feel the same. It’s unique in its gifts. I learn constantly, and it took me a long time not to feel as though I was the only one who benefited. I still battle with that. I can’t help but feel I’m the only one in the room who’s getting something out of this. I see actors blossom and I see them fly and I see them hurl themselves off the Cliff and I’m always amazed at their power and their courage. But that’s not me. That really has nothing to do with me. I can cheer lead, and I can tell them to go, and I can say Yes to them, but it’s not me that does the leaping.

I’m the one in the room screeching. I yelp. I cry out. I scream to the Universe for us all to be heard. And I've noticed though the years that what I’m screaming the loudest is what I need to hear the most. The other actors in the room guide me towards something and I rage at the wind and curse to the ceiling. And then, I feel bigger. I know in my heart that I’m speaking to my own self, to my Parrot that lies and whispers and tries to veer me away from what’s true and right about my life. I know I’m saying in the loudest voice what I need to hear the most. And I’m grateful to every single Angel I meet and I can’t give them enough that even remotely resembles the life they've given me. It’s never going to be enough, so I‘ll just keep coming back.

I seem them. I want to make that clear: I do see them. They are unique and individual and they shine and they make their own path in their own time. But even though they are who they are and I stand beside them holding on tight and seeing what I see, we are the same. We are two and we are the same and that’s why I can see them. We marry. We are together.

And I know, as sure as I’m writing this and as sure as I’m sitting here, that the men in the above clip were in the same place I’m at now. They were preaching to themselves, trying to save themselves, attempting to speak to themselves, and like most of us: They weren't listening. We rarely pick a time when we sit down and listen to who we truly are when we trust that being in the middle of ourselves isn't lethal anymore. That it can be hurtful and frightening, but that is attached to what is gorgeous and filled with gifts. That center of us is chaotic at best, but there's greatness in that mess. That time we spend in the middle is few and far between and usually it takes another person to shake us and tell us we’re deaf. To lead us toward it. Our silence is deafening and our text is useless. We need to listen to what’s true. We need to hear what’s good. And we need to thank what’s beautiful.

So now when I walk into a room and I feel the eyes of 23 actors, I know I have to speak truthfully, or else I’m caught. I’ll be forever in my own lies and bullshit. I'll be on the outside of my truth waiting for something to happen. I spent most of my life in that place, and I almost died from it. I can only hope the people still trapped in their own silence and in their own self-hatred find their way out and find their way up. Hopefully, there are other people in their world ready and willing to give them a little push toward the truth, because without them, we’re completely and utterly alone.

We need each other.

We are each other.

And thank God for that.

Michelle Shocked and Me

2013-04-03T05:58:23Z

Recently, Michelle Shocked made an appearance on Piers Morgan's evening talk show to clear the air about exactly what happened to her on stage as she spoke to an all gay audience. Here's the entire text:

"It's not too late. You can jump into this Jesus gang anytime you want. But, um, I was in a prayer meeting yesterday and you gotta appreciate how scared, how scared, folks on that side of the equation are. I mean, from their vantage point, and I really shouldn't say ‘their,' ‘cause it's mine, too, we are nearly at the end of time and from our vantage point, we're gonna be, uh, I think maybe Chinese water torture is gonna be the means, the method, once Prop 8 gets instated and once preachers are held at gunpoint and forced to marry the homosexuals, I'm pretty sure that that will be the signal for Jesus to come on back. You said you wanted reality. If someone would be so gracious as to tweet out that Michelle Shocked just said from stage, ‘God hates faggots.' Would you do it now?

...They're confounded. Matt, you might need to come back up here. (Male voice: There's gonna be a lot of talking about that.) I ain't scared. I ain't scared. This is not a tribunal. This is one woman's opinion, and it's fun. It's a lot of fun. I am so committed to loving each and every soul in this room tonight that I could not come here and ignore you. I could not come here and pretend that I was above the conversation and I could not pretend that I was beneath it, either. I had to join it. Thank you for that one hand clap."

Years ago Shocked came out as bisexual and then shortly afterward became a born again Christian. It was years into this religious transition that Michelle made the above comments at a gig in, of all places, San Francisco.

Yesterday after seeing her on Piers' show I posted the above clip of her and Morgan on my Facebook page which I titled:

"Homophobic Michelle Shocked says she's not homophobic and then continues to make no sense whatsoever as Morgan tries to reel her back in to a place of sanity."

I received many comments, some from friends, some from people I didn't know, and some from defenders of Michelle's obvious break with reality. Thinking nothing more about it, when I got home last night I checked my e mail, and there was a message from my You Tube account signed by Shocked:

"I'm waving goodbye to censorship and blacklisting just by typing this message to you, Alexandra. I can go on all night about 'reminders' because I have a gig to reclaim on April 24 at Palms Playhouse in Winters CA. What part of 'other homophobic celebrities' did you not understand? I'm not homophobic, and I sure aint a celebrity. I'm roadkill in Big Data's war on content creators but I've got a song in my heart & I'm still singing. Keep your fascist views to yourself. I'm kicking out the jambs."

To which I've replied:

"I have nothing against your need to speak nor your compulsion to sing, Michelle. I don't know that there's any part of "other homophobic celebrities" that I don't understand, other than the entire text and how exactly it has anything to do with anything. What I do understand is that you stood up in front of a bunch of gay people in San Francisco and said very clearly: "God hates Fags". That I understand perfectly. People who work and sing from a place of kindness and courage don't use that kind of language. Not ever. Whatever your belief is about homosexuality I'm sure I don't know, but one thing is certain: I'd take a good look in the mirror before calling anyone a fascist.

I've heard from friends I'm supposed to treat you with great care because you may be suffering from a mental illness, and I've heard from others you may be in the middle of some kind of emotional break down. But you are an irresponsible woman with a dangerous list of priorities. And whether you are breaking down or not, you need to accept your text and the consequences that come with it, for after all, you live in this country alongside the millions of gay people you insulted and ridiculed when you had the spotlight. You certainly weren't treating our community with kindness when you had something to say, were you? And when the younger generation of gay people received you that day, and some of the despondent and spiritually destitute took to heart what you called them, perhaps they swallowed that last handful of pills, or finally took a lethal slice to their wrist, or suddenly leaped out of their fifth story window because they'd heard one too many times, that God actually hated them. And now that you've been caught speaking from your heart, we're all supposed to take into account that you're suffering. And as much compassion as I'm trying to have for you and the true pity I feel for your self-hating religious fundamentalism, I say with all honesty and clarity of spirit: Your suffering is no greater nor less than my gay brother's and sister's.

So have a wonderful gig at the Palms Playhouse. I hope someday you find whatever it is you're looking for. In the mean time, remember:

When you speak your truth, everyone can hear you."

The Safe Zone

2013-02-22T06:47:39Z

Tomorrow morning I go to an LGBT meeting so my office at the University can be used as a Safe Zone. This way, any student who's in the middle of a journey that's other than, that seems out of the circle of what we know, that's been defined at times as a mental illness, or dysphoric, can come to me and we can chat. And they'll know they're safe. They'll know they will always have somewhere to go, somewhere to breathe, and somewhere to speak.

In my office at my University, I'll have a place with a big sign on it that tells everyone that being gay, being a lesbian, being Transgender, or living near someone who's any of those things, is all right. It's okay. It's fine. We're not as apart as we've been told, and we have the right to be heard.

In my office, I'll have my own place to sit with my own community and commiserate and hold on and learn. I'll have my own safe zone that growing up, eluded me my entire life.

And thank God I'll have people to tell me I matter just as much as everyone else. And thank God we can tell each other we're safe. That way, we can leave that tiny office, go out into the universe, and stand tall and speak loud and live large. Because the safe zone never leaves. Not once it's been established.

And it's everywhere we are.

Everywhere.

Other People's Gift

2013-02-15T05:03:08Z

I was eight years old and staying over night at my Nana's. She was a round woman with bright blue eyes and the softest hands. I remember laying on her lap with my belly on her knees and my head in a pillow. She'd take her fingers and rub my back until I fell asleep. Sleeping for me was always a chore. Getting there was frightening. I never seemed to be able to relax, to breathe, to trust that those nasty voices wouldn't come back. The darkness terrified me, and everything in it. Still does, to be honest. But Nana knew innately how to calm me, soothe me, and let me know I was safe. There were never any bad people at Nana's.

My mom was just beginning to have problems with me. Teachers sending notes home telling her I was spending an "unusual amount of time with the girls on the playground.", and boys my own age following me home, taunting me, throwing things at me, and screaming fowl names as I tried my best to out-run them. My mother didn't know what to do, and since this was the 60's, the best she could think of was to try and turn my attention in, what she thought, was the opposite direction.

She threw away any toy that remotely resembled Female. She banned me from watching anything on TV that didn't either have a cowboy or a policeman in it. And worst of all, I was no longer allowed to listen to my "Mary Poppins" record.

"Boys don't listen to that stuff." she'd remind me.

She was doing her best, she thought. She was doing what she had been taught by the only teachers she had. She was repeating behavior she was given by the people who raised her. And in the interim, she was shutting me down. And the further I went, the harder it was to come back.

And then, one summer night, as I lay in Nana's lap with my head in a pillow and the TV flickering images of Samantha Stevens (who I'd missed terribly) she whispered:

"I bought you a Barbie doll this morning, and when you wake up, we can take the day and brush her hair.'

I drifted off not completely sure I'd dreamed what my Nana said to me.

That night was spent in a haze of joy and terror that when I woke the next day, I'd actually be in my own room at home with my brother and my mother standing in the doorway tapping her foot and frowning. But as the light crept onto the sheets of my bed in the morning, I felt the warmth on my face, and as my eyes fluttered open, I could see the room I slept in every other summer. It was Nana's guest room and it was mine for a week. I remember bolting out of bed and rushing to the gigantic toy chest she kept in the corner by the window. I flung open the lid, and there, propped neatly against the side, was a golden haired Barbie, dressed in a bright green mini-skirt and matching tank top.

My Nana and I spent the day brushing her hair, eating cookies, watching TV and playing "Sorry".

My grandma didn't believe in shame. My grandma tried to teach me that lesson; that shame and guilt were given to us, and we didn't come equipped with those things. We acquired them. We accepted them. We internalized them. But that never, ever made them true.

Nana said to me as I left that week:

"Now you keep her and you tell your Mom that's your Barbie. I gave it to you and it's yours. And remind her it's not nice to throw away someone' else's gift."

And she was right.

As we change and as we transform and become who we truly are, we recognize our own gift. We begin to wake up to what we can contribute. We start the morning gravitating toward what makes us happy and what makes us whole. And in doing this, we have to remember that everyone else is trying their best to do the same thing. And if we can do this in a way that doesn't inflict our own beliefs on someone else's, if we can do this kindly and with grace and wisdom, then we can finally begin to be each other in a way that's pure and begins to shift the world into a more inclusive place. A place where what brings you joy is part of the gift you give away. We have to receive each other to the best of our ability.

So I try my best to remind myself, not to ever throw away someone else's gift.

Les Miz Parody (South Korean Air Force)

2013-02-14T04:40:20Z

It's a bit long, but it's worth the watch. Every single performer you see here is actually in the South Korean air force.

And quite frankly, I found it much more entertaining than the actual film.

If I wasn't in thesis hell, I'd still be writing about it.

Video Friday (Nina Simone)

2013-01-18T08:49:04Z

It's difficult to write about Simone. It's difficult because for me, there's so much to say. There's so much going on. There's a book in every beat of every song that comes out of her. It's almost too much. Simone doesn't simply play or sing or act or paint or wiggle or be gentle or be kind or be filled with rage, Simone thrives in the best and the worst of all of that. She is an enigma that's incapable of conjecture and description.

There's a moment, in the second act of this piece, where Nina allows her fingers to run over the keys of the piano, and from those Gestures comes an anger and a resentment I've only read in Shakespeare. In fact, as she plays, almost concerto-like in it's musicality, I kept hearing the voice of Lady MacBeth, calling fruitlessly down a cavernous hallway in some decrepit old castle. Just weeping openly and calling and banging her fists against the walls, tearing her heart out wishing for a love as powerful as she was.

In the final act, Simone goes into a Pause. This isn't a freeze (as there is no such thing), this is practically the definition of what a true Pause is, and as she does this, the audience applauds. You can see her heart splitting wide open. Nothing has stopped or died or fallen away, if anything, she is more alive in that moment than almost the entire song. She is wide awake, and you can feel it. And then, as if from some other place, she makes a Gesture with her fists, and howls: "Oh!", long and gorgeous...a proclamation to the Universe as her heart aches and comes back together almost simultaneously.

I think though, if you look at the first act, where the song is attacking her from the inside, and she even tells us all how shocked she is that someone on the planet went through something this large and wrote about it, you can see the need to be heard and the need to hear. They are both very alive in her. At one point, her Shape on the piano changes as she turns up towards the emptiness of the backstage, and she Gestures kindly to us as we sing softly toward her:

"C'mon. Feed me. Feed me."

That is Nina Simone.

Completely.

Punchy Players (Judy, Liza and Ann)

2013-01-17T19:03:40Z

Punchy Players is basically two guys in a studio doing a bunch of different voices and having the time of their lives. All their videos are hilarious and completely insane. Their sense of fancy and their combined imaginations is really one for the books.

Here's Judy and Liza trying to help a bewildered Ann Miller deal with a habit she can't seem to break.

And if you want, pop on over to their You Tube site, You won't regret it.

The 2013 Golden Globe Awards

2013-01-14T06:10:02Z

-Hosted by Tina Fey and Amy Poehler (both looking insanely gorgeous, Fey in a full length turquoise bugle beaded number, and Poehler in a blood red Grecian, half sleeved creation by Vera Wang) gave one of the greatest opening duet monologues I’ve seen in I don’t know how long. Gervaise was served up like yesterday’s French toast, they skewered some of the TV actors railing against the film community, and eventually, while speaking about the brilliant Catherine Bigelow, said:

“I haven’t been following the recent controversy over Zero Dark Thirty but when it comes to torture, I trust the lady who married to James Cameron for three years.”

There was not only pandemonium at Bigelow’s table, but it took the entire room almost three and half minutes to swallow their brie without hurling.

-Kate Hudson and Bradley Cooper should walk side by side for the rest of their lives. Beautiful people travel in packs, I hear.

-Mel Gibson was sitting next to Jodie Foster. His only friend left on the planet.

-Someone should shoot Kerry Washington’s wig person. She looked like she was dipped head first into a vat of black lacquer.

-There’s something suave and beautiful about Don Cheadle. He always seems like he should be flirting poolside at a Hollywood cocktail party in the 1940’s. And then there’s that effortless gorgeous art that comes out of him on screen. He’s really got it all.

-If Nicole Kidman’s lips get filled with any more botox, someone’s going to have to tie a string around her ankles and use her as a balloon animal in the Macy’s Day Parade.

-Hey Producer Guy of “Game Change” who won the Globe for Best Miniseries: Don’t make a Sarah Palin joke unless you’ve rehearsed it.

-I understand that it’s another language, and of course I understand that pronunciations are different in different places on the map. I understand that. It makes perfect sense to me. And please believe me when I say, I mean no disrespect to the French, because their language is absolutely gorgeous. Romantic. Sensual. The language of love…..when it’s spoken by the FRENCH! To sit through every actor’s feeble attempt at “Les Miserable”, with some of them trilling the “r”, and some of them falling face first into the “blah” at the end of “Miserable”, it was enough to make me tear up my copy of Oui on the coffee table.

-Stop auditioning, Catherine-Zeta Jones. You already have an Oscar and a Tony, haven’t we suffered enough?

-The producer of “Homeland”, that won Best Series, gave a strange acceptance speech about how brilliant his last season was, and how winning this award this year proves it’s still brilliant. Made me not want to watch his show even more than I already don’t.

-Jennifer Lopez was super shiny and wore a fantastic white flowered, half naked long sleeved dress. She looked amazing as she presented the award to “Life of Pi” for Best Score.

-Watching Adele accept her Golden Globe for “Skyfall” was one of the highlights for me:

“Thank you so much for letting me be part of your world. My girlfriend and I have been over there pissing o ourselves all night.”

- Kevin Costner, who won last night for his performance in “Hatfields and McCoys”, gave a long drawn out speech about walking, hallways and Gregory Peck. And then President Clinton came out. Thank God.

-Glenn Close became a tag at the end of one of Fey’s drunk bits, and it killed. She was sitting in her seat making Insane Shapes and crossing her eyes while holding her hands up in the air like she was hanging from her last rope. Which if her hairstyle was any indication, was most likely the truth.

-Will Ferrel and Kristin Wiig did one of the funniest and most insane bits I’ve seen on any awards show. Pretending to have not watched any of the actresses in any of their movies, they went one by one down a hysterical road of trying to explain each movie by improvising each movie’s plot and repeating each other’s text. It brought the house down and had my wife and me in tears. And then…out of nowhere,…some now unemployed cameraman got a surprise shot of Tommy Lee Jones, who looked like someone had just let the air out of his face.

-Someone please shave Jack Black.

-As Anne Hathaway, (whom I like very much at times), walked up on stage to accept her award, a small clip of her singing “I Dreamed a Dream” came over the speakers, and it reminded me once more how much I don’t want to see Les Miz.

-Quentin Tarantino, who won the Globe for “Django Unchanined”, is the epitome of cool.

-The great thing about the Globes that’s different than any other award show is that for the first hour or so, there some people who are still trying to finish their meal. So every once in a while, there’s small shots of people chewing. For a roomful of actors, eating is always a challenge, and certainly to do it in a town where beauty and poise are paramount and they’re surrounded by The World, must be torture. Where does the napkin go? How much wine is too much? Do I have dressing on my Versace? And then you have to add the numerous surgeries most everyone in town (including me) are rushing to have nowadays. This makes it difficult to move one’s mouth in a way that doesn't resemble a gorilla with bad dentures. It always looks to me like everyone’s repeating: “Try and chew. Try and chew. Try and chew.”

-Jeremy Irons walked out wearing a tuxedo dress. That’s all, really.

-Why is it most animated films are done by men? This hit me for the first time this year.

-I have to say, I’m not the biggest Ben Affleck fan in the world, but he’s the first nominee I can remember, who was truly, truly shocked when he won for “Argo”. I need to see this movie now. Only because I can’t get Affleck’s look of surprise was so genuine and so adorable.

-There’s absolutely no one like Halle Berry. She’s so insanely gorgeous it’s almost disturbing.

-Every time I see Christina Bale I think he’s going to hit me.

-There’s something beautiful and charming about Hugh Jackman. His Tony acceptance speech was just a romantic and just as honest as the one last night (he won for “Les Miz). This is a man who’s been married for a while now, and when he speaks about his wife, something noticeable changes in him. It’s as if his heart widens right before our eyes. And it’s not just him speaking lovely, flowery text, this is a guy who, after all these years, is still very much in love. You can see it. You can feel it. And he loves every minute of being that available to us. It’s the only reason I might break down and sit through a film that nearly every single one of my friends has warned me about.

-Shocker: Daniel Day Lewis wins for his transformational performance as Abraham Lincoln. Who then said probably one of the truest, if not most eloquent things said all night about anyone:
“Tony Kushner….every day I have to live without the immeasurable wealth of your language, which reminds me every day, of the impoverishment of my own.”

-“Argo” won Best Picture last night. I really need to see this thing.

-Jodie Foster was awarded the Cecile B. DeMille award and although a rocky start to her acceptance speech gave me a bit of chill, the last act was absolutely glorious. Having never really officially come out until a few years ago, she finally acknowledged what she was and how her heart felt about it, in the most public way possible. She thanked her ex-partner Cydney Bernard, and you could see, if only for a moment, her eyes detour for just a split second.

In the thing she is as an artist, so is the thing she is a human being: Careful.

I love Foster’s work. On film, she is enigmatic, smart, and fierce, but I have never found her fearless. I’ve found her careful. This, for me, was never a reason to not be guided toward what she had to say in her work, but more of a precursor to what I was in for. I knew this going in. I knew what was ahead of me, and I loved it. I still love it. But it was always careful work. And so, as the speech went on, she informed us she wanted and needed her privacy, which I accept. I can’t for a moment imagine what it’s like to be that famous for that long and with that much stuff in your life so visible and held up for public ridicule or praise. I don’t think any of us can imagine that, so there’s very little for me to relate to in this situation.

But I do know a little about the truth.

Foster’s claim that she’s been honest with her friends and her family and the people around her about her being a gay woman, I buy. What I don’t buy is that the reason she claims, she never allowed the rest of the world in: that it was simply because it was none of our business. I just don’t buy that.
Foster’s carefulness is calculated. It isn’t an accident, her career. This is something she’s worked damn hard for and something she’s fought hard to keep. You don’t get to be as successful in Hollywood without a great gift, and an arsenal of priorities. She has both. So for me, knowing she was gay since “Taxi Driver”, and not hearing her say those words, and not seeing her with her partner and having it be her partner, and not feeling she was always telling me the truth, I kept my distance. I wanted to be let in. I wanted to be with her. I wanted her to speak her truth so maybe, in some faraway place in some faraway town that has only one meeting place for gay people, someone else might have heard her and it might have changed them.

I never wanted details about Jodie’s life. I don’t quite care that much and I have too much to do myself, but I did want confirmation. Confirmation that you can happy, thrilling, open, available, beautiful, smart and free… and still be gay. I wanted to be let in.

Let me also add that because of the generation she grew up in, I completely understand her need to hide. Coming Out in the 1970’s would ruined her career. No question. And certainly, even now, there are tabloids and thrill seekers and nut jobs all over the planet who want nothing more than filth and scum splattered across Page Six in order to fulfill some archaic sexual stereotype that haunts our community to this day. I’m with her there. I get that and I accept that as the truth. I’m simply saying, acknowledge that as fact. Speak that as part of your journey and stop pretending your silence was nothing more that you needing privacy. It’s much more complicated than that. I know a little something about silence and lies myself.

But through all of this, she shone last night. She beamed and she cracked jokes, and she gestured to her family and friends and she tried, to the best of her ability, to release what’s been in her for decades and I have to be on her side for it.

And in her speech last night, she glorified her life and thanked her profession, and it was magnificent. She was eloquent and shockingly candid. I have an enormous amount of respect for her. And now, after this night, I’m hoping her heart is wider for the experience, and less careful for the ride.

Here’s to Jodie Foster and the woman she’s allowed herself to finally become-

…from the unseen experiences of our community.

This year, as with every year during awards season, my wife made a sumptuous meal and we plopped down in front of the set as she passed out during Fey and Pohler’s opening monologue. It was a great night, and now we’re off to the Super Bowl of Awards. Get ready Oscars, my jammies are already in the dryer.

The 2013 Oscar Nominations

2013-01-10T19:03:37Z

Here they are.

The Best Actress category is fascinating to me. I haven't seen a couple of these films so I can't really comment, but I have the DVD's from my union stacked up somewhere in my closet. I guess it's time to haul them out.

No real surprises anywhere else though.

I haven't seen (nor will I ever see) "Les Miz'. I just can't bring myself to do it. I suffered through "Evita", I squirmed during "Nine" and I lost my lunch all the way through "Sweeny". I just can't endure one more whispering, floundering, episodic, mundanely directed musical regurgitation of one more classic piece of theater. I see both Jackman (the only one in the movie hat actually makes sense) and the consistently average Anne Hathaway have both been thrown a bone, but the real knife in the back is the best picture nod. In this, our industry gets it's lead sheet, and thus for the next decade or two, we'll be forced to sit through Reese Witherspoon in Jerry Bruckheimer's "Next To Normal", or Speilberg recruiting the over exposed semi-gifted Dakota Fanning in "Wicked". And of course someone can always allow the adorable and deliciously dull Ryan Gossling to talk/sing his way through "The Book of Mormon."

With everyone in everything whispering and not blinking. Cuz that's Acting.

Ah well.

The award show themselves will save my sanity. And that's all that matters, really.

Noah St. John

2013-01-09T05:17:33Z

There is a new voice on the horizon. There is new hope, and there are new ideas in front of us. There is a brand new way of looking at the world and receiving all it's gifts with all it's foibles and travesties and judgments and glory.

There is a new path, and it's calling us to it.

I'm a teacher and I know what I'm telling you. I realize you may have different experiences with the younger generation and you may have a vision of the old teenagers still stuck in your head, but I'm telling you, something brand new is headed our way.

This is Noah St John, and although he's much younger than the artists I currently teach, his heart and his courage come from the same place as my University angels. This is a group of people who've grown up knowing we exist and knowing we matter. There are some who don't care and who look the other way and who fall head first into judgment, but more often than not, these are young people who see us. These are young people who want us near them and are curious about the world we've lived in. They don't want our history thrown away or forgotten. We live in them, and they feel that.

In every newness there is a feeling of terror and anticipation. We're frightened of change and we're frightened of the outcome of change. We like things to keep on going, but usually at a tempo that's familiar to us. So when the loudest voice in the room is the most unrecognizable, we immediately duck and cover. But thank God there are braver souls than we, louder and more powerful than we ever dreamed possible, and thank God they're coming straight at us. We can rest assured that hope is headed our way.

And it sounds just like Noah.

David Barton Quote

2013-01-03T09:47:23Z

"We've got to get to the point where tolerance is seen as a sin because we're tolerating a lot stuff that destroys our families, that destroys our own character and we can't tolerate that stuff. We have to get back to the point where hate is a virtue, at least certain kinds of hate. The fear of the Lord is to hate evil and we need to have a hatred of things and get off this fence of having no passion about anything. You know, 'I tolerate anything, I'm not going to have a passion good or bad, I'm not going to hate anything.' We just can't do that and we've got to get back to that same type of intolerance, that we're going to be intolerant of liberalism."

(If you'd like to hear the entire quote, you can go here. If you can stand it)

Bye Bye 2012

2012-12-31T20:08:30Z

The guys at Jib Jab have done it again.

The wife and I plan a very quiet very private evening at home with food and movies. Usually, Chrisanne falls asleep around 7 or 8, and I end up waking her up just in time for the ball to drop in NYC and have a quick toast with a glass of our phony, non-alcoholic champagne. Then I kiss her, she rolls over, and I turn to Hulu for more Lucy.

And that's been our New Year's Eve for the last 16 years and I'm so excited about it, I honestly don't know what to do.

Have a wonderful and safe new year and if you're doing something illegal this evening....stop it.

Me and Frank

2012-12-29T08:46:28Z

I was in my car and on my way to the In and Out Burger that was 15 minutes from my apartment and searching frantically for something to listen to. I hadn't seen my wife in almost a month and I was already on the edge of insanity. Some people do well when separate vacations appear in their marriage, but I‘m not one of those people. I don’t do well when Chrisanne isn’t around. The kitchen is a foreign land to me, and paying bills can get me so confused and frustrated I usually end up watching “I Love Lucy” and weeping on the cat.

I’m miserable.

And this was a very unique situation for both of us. Having spent almost every single day of our lives together since we met in 1976, being apart for an entire year, was practically an endurance test. Even though we spoke every day on the phone, and even though we texted every couple of hours, and even though we agreed that it would only be for a year, without her to come home to, to hold, and to listen to, the waiting was unbearable. She was in Chicago and I was in Los Angeles. I’d got my first part in a movie, and my agent told me in no uncertain terms that if he was going to represent me, I‘d have to relocate. Since my wife and I didn't know if this whole TV/movie thing was actually going to pan out, we agreed we’d give it a trial run: If I was steadily employed within the year, we’d make the move permanently. And so here I was, unable to cook for myself or pay my bills without turning into Jessica Lange, and I was on my way to the In and Out to have my 55th burger in the first month I was alone in a one bedroom apartment in North Hollywood.

I was miserable.

And as my misery attacked everything from my calves to my ear lobes, and as I searched for a station on the radio that might hurl me into a sane emotional place, I suddenly stumbled upon a loud, raucous, insistent and almost angry male voice.

“Dude…you CAN’T do it!” the man over my speakers screamed at me. “You CAN’T pretend you’re helping when you’re standing there doing NOTHING! That’s not helping! That’s standing there doing NOTHING, man!”

He was mad, mad, mad. And he was mad about someone standing there doing nothing and pretending they were helping. I liked him immediately. And as the show went on and I pulled up to the window and ordered my Monster Burger without onions and pickles, he brought up Jesus. And as he spoke, he talked about Jesus in a way that wasn't filled with contempt for anyone who wasn't talking about Jesus. This wasn't a sermon or a lecture or a condemnation. This was a man whose passion and whose life path had been significantly altered.

He spoke about what God did and how He worked. He spoke about his wife Gina and his two kids. He spoke about his motorcycle, and his baseball career that ended tragically when a curve ball shattered his pitching elbow and threw him into the back seat of sports history. From that day on, I found myself looking for him. I marked the station and if I was ever in the car from 4pm until 7pm, any Monday through Friday, I listened to Frank.

I have problems with people who tell me what to do, how to do it, or who to do it with. I don’t do well when people point a finger instead of looking into a mirror. I find these new Christians abhorrent and fearful, terrified and lazy, ignorant and self-aggrandizing, judgmental and pious. But Frank wasn't one of these Michele Bachmann/Rick Warren people. Although there were many, many times Frank and I battled. Frank had a temper, and so do I. He thought Obama to be a socialist and although he wanted gay people to have human rights, and be treated equally, he believed marriage to be between one man and one woman. We fought like two cats in a bag, but we respected each other. Frank tried many times to attempt to tell me what to do, how to do it, and with whom to do it, but after a tirade or two, he would breathe a long breath into the microphone, and say:

“But it’s not about me and what I think. It’s not about what I want to happen. And it’s not really about what YOU think or about what YOU want to happen.”

Frank was born an atheist and an evolutionist (a term he used often) and in his twenties he was a respected and decorated baseball player. Apparently, from the guests he had on his show and from what I found out about him while stalking him on the internet, he was a really good baseball player with a huge career. His wife converted before they got married, and Frank’s spiritual revelation came when his buddies invited him to a Bible study after a barbecue sometime in the early 70’s. And in view of that history that lived in him, a history that included proof and science, I could sense there was a microbe of logic sprinkled in his religious rhetoric. That even though we disagreed politically many, many times, and even though he subscribed to a belief system that as of late has been turned into a political land mine, we both eventually landed in the same place. We both came back down to earth and left the finality of our existence up to something much more powerful than the two of us. That was our sameness. That was our life line.

And Frank saved me many times over.

When I honestly didn't think I could take much more, when the auditions, and the loneliness and the constant rejection and the reminders of my age, my gender history, and my life choices came to haunt me, I’d turn on Frank and he’d remind me once again that I was in charge of some of it, but that I wasn't in charge of most of it. And he was funny. He had a laugh that filled up the car and shook the windows. When he’d laugh, I‘d laugh, and most of the time I had no idea what we were laughing at. He had a wicked sense of humor. Even though his idea of a dirty joke usually ended with an: “Oh golly”, or a: “what the fridge??” I got it. I understood it. I heard his internal and spiritual combination constantly at play and constantly in flux. I never doubted his sincerity or his devotion to his Christianity, but I always felt that because of where he started and because of what he brought to the table, Frank always had a little devil whispering in his ear, and that only served to make him that much more human.

This last Monday, Frank passed away. He was on his motorcycle and he was killed by a woman who smashed into him on the 210 freeway on his way home from work.

As I tuned in this afternoon on my way home from the doctor, a man with a booming voice spoke about how Frank was “called to the Lord”. I pulled off the freeway and caught my breath. The last seven years passed through me and shot up like a lightning bolt. I wept as I held on to the steering wheel, and as I looked into the mountains across the street I’d parked on, I realized I was in mourning for a man I barely knew. And through all the times I agreed with him and argued with him and applauded him and cursed him, I never once picked up the phone and spoke to him. In the years of this strange relationship, he never heard the sound of my voice, and yet, I could recognize his out of thousands.

One night in particular, I was especially lonely and sad. I walked out of my apartment and climbed into the front seat of my car around 6:30 and turned on the radio, I found Frank in the middle of one of his rants. He was screaming at someone about something, and my car was facing the darkening trees that lined our parking lot. As the stars were beginning to creep out of the early night sky, Frank said softly:

“You gotta remember dude, this is one life the Lord has given you, and you gotta make it count.”

Frank Pastore’s life changed millions of people worldwide, and strangely, and with complete randomness, I was one of those people. He gave me strength and courage, and when I needed to be reminded that there was something out there bigger, more powerful and larger than myself, he was my guide. The day before his accident, Frank spoke about being on his motorcycle and the possible dangers of riding it in LA :

“And so I've come to the place where no matter what happens in my life, I know God is there and involved, even if it's the loss of my children, my grandchildren might get messed up in a motorcycle accident or whatever, God can still bring good out of this," he told the network.

Maybe his entrance into my existence was pure chance. Maybe by luck and happenstance I flipped my radio to a particular voice and that voice happened to be Frank’s. Maybe that’s true. That’s absolutely possible. And although I’m not one for time healing everything, and reasons being the foundation of our path on this planet, I do believe in goodness and rewards. And because of Frank Pastore and the fact that I moved out to LA without my beloved wife and the nightmare of my life at that time and the need and the want I lived in for an entire year, I am changed because of him. I am different for knowing him. I am filled with a life that otherwise might have gone unnoticed. In the entire world, in the entire Universe, one voice with one purpose found another. And it continued on and on until there were souls from opposite corners that met without reason or equivocation and we all met randomly during the week because of one guy. And I have to believe, that somewhere, through some strange turn of events, something bigger and more powerful than any of us had a hand in this. And I am eternally grateful. For knowing him. For finding him. And for hearing him.

And now you know him. And he would've loved that.

Video Friday (Judy Garland)

2012-12-28T11:22:25Z

If you only know Judy Garland from her music or her movies, you don’t know Judy Garland. She was one of the great story tellers of her generation (a lost art).

Although fabricated beyond recognition, this is what fueled most of her work: her ability to take something and turn it into history. Her conversations were legendary and her joy unmistakable. Though living her life was never easy, it certainly looked like there were long moments of pure enjoyment and raucous laughter. This is an artist who took whatever was happening to her, and constantly found the inner layer of light that always lies inches from the surface.

This was Garland for me: An unprecedented look at her own spirit and her own experiences.

Video Friday (LA Gay Men's Chorus and The Creative Planet School of the Arts)

2012-12-22T04:42:13Z

Days after the multiple murders in Newtown Connecticut, where children and adults alike were swept away by a rapid fire gun at the hands of a twenty year old boy, the Gay Men's Chorus, and the students from CPSA came together and sang. Here is the result of their voices and their time and their energy. The performance is dedicated to the fallen.

As you watch, take note of the children's faces; the light and the hope and the future. Take note of what you receive from them and how they seem to be completely free in their unbridled ability to simply go forward. While we blame and point fingers, somewhere, there is music. And that music lives inside these children.

And when we look closely, and when we breathe deeply, it lives inside all of us.

Happy Last Holidays

2012-12-20T20:43:33Z

In the morning, as the world comes to an end, my wife and I will be on a plane headed for sunny, fabulous Florida to visit the In Laws. The only consolation she and I have is that we're going down together. And just so our last meal won't be month-old peanuts, and that mystery box of processed cheese and mashed up jelly products they try and sell you, I intend to stop off at Starbucks in the terminal.

To be perfectly honest, I'm much more upset that our plane departs at 8am than I am about going down in flames and burning in the eternal pit of Hell.

And as I pause and take time to breathe one last breath and really look closely at my journey and my life's work, I think to myself:

"Hey! We're going to be up in a plane! We get to see the whole thing!"

Happy Last Holidays everyone.

The Key's to the Kingdom

2012-12-18T07:37:23Z

The country is in pieces. We are all trying to understand and in doing that we grapple for reasons. For an answer. We try and move toward something that will tell us why someone, anyone, would walk into a room full of children and murder them. But this isn't the first time we've been concerned. This isn't the first time we’re going through the grief and the anger and pain and the despair and the eventual discussion that inevitably leads nowhere. We keep going through the same thing; we are stuck in repetition, and we can't seem to get out. This isn’t a hallway, this is a dungeon. And we're all stuck in it.

I grew up with keys to the kingdom. I grew up knowing I had to lead. To conquer. And I grew up learning this because the outside of me was never viewed quite as closely as the inside of me. Because the world saw me as a boy, as the Keeper of the Keys, I grew up with all the rules and regulations that came with my gender. It never made any sense to me and never resonated in any way, and yet it was mine. It was my birth right. My destiny. I was expected to treat women in a certain way. I was told under no circumstances was I ever to hit a female, and that I was always to pay for her meal, open her door, and put on her coat. No one ever told me why, but I was constantly told.

And when I was 19 years old and I left my house and I went forward into what was to be my true destiny, the world around me seemed to change once again. I transitioned from the gender I was born with, into the gender I was always meant to be. And suddenly I was at the Mad Hatter's tea party. Suddenly the keys to the kingdom were taken away from me. I was no longer in control. I was no longer expected to do what I had been expected to do since I could remember. I was now on the receiving end of what was, to me, a relinquishing of my own ability. I now had people opening doors for me, putting on my coat, and paying for my meals. As I settled into my own femininity, I realized that the men of the world were brought up with expectations. And for me, because I never lived life as a little girl, or a teenage girl, the world around me began to slowly close its doors. There was less for me to do. And strangely, less expected of me.

We’re having a conversation again, and we're having it because once again, in America, we’re in the middle of a murder. Statistically, the people who picked up guns and shot massive amounts of people have usually been male. In a world where we give little boys the keys to the kingdom and then blame them when they don't rule properly, there is a constant battle between what men should do and what they actually do. Certainly they shouldn't weep loudly, dance broadly, or dream freely. We elect men in our political arenas as they are the thinkers. They are decisive. They are adventurous and they know how to go to war. These are the people we entrust with our lives as countrymen.

And then eventually they disappoint us.

They disappoint us by hurting us. They disappoint us by leaving us. They disappoint us by falling short of the expectations we set up for them. And so we have conversations when they act out. We talk about the guns and violence and the media and then we talk about the mental illness and the insurance and their jobs. But we certainly don't want to hear from them. We don't want to talk about their sadness or their freedom or their journeys. We want to remain silent. And we want them to remain silent. We want them to keep the kingdom going and we want them to do this silently.

And then one day, a boy on the threshold of manhood picks up a gun and hears loudly, the sound of his own voice. And maybe he thinks to himself: “If I do something… something terrible, something huge…maybe someone will actually listen to me. Maybe I'll be heard. Maybe whatever it is that I'm feeling won't be laughed at or ridiculed. Maybe this thing I hold in my hand can be my voice.”

And we pay for that. Grown ups and children alike, pay for that.

And so the insides of somebody don't always match the outsides of somebody, and because that's true, and because we all transition in one way or another, our internal battle turns into an external war. And murder is committed.

I can't say I'm not as guilty and I can't say I don't blame myself as much as I blame everyone else. I adhere to the gender rules as much as I try to break them. I fall into the stereotypes as much as I rage against the people who put me in them. And so all of us sit and wait and have conversations about things and places and money and all of that is important and all of that makes sense and all of that is certainly part of the equation, but that's just the beginning. As we talk to each other and as we try and piece this whole mess together and pick up the scattered jigsaw puzzle that’s strewn about on the floor, let’s breathe and take a long look in the mirror. Let's ask what we've done to be a part of this and to create this. Let's ask what we can do to not only stop this thing, but prevent this thing.

The next time we give the keys to the kingdom to somebody, let’s make sure they know they aren't solely responsible. Let's listen. Let's receive. Let's care for them.

We are all made of the same stuff. The differences in our behavior don't change the sameness of our spirits. We are complicated and beautiful and we are magnanimous and egregious and we are bright and glorious. We are all these things and sometimes all at once. We are here either by accident or on purpose, but plainly and simply, we are all here. And we need each other. And we need to hear each other. We are dreamers by nature. We are journeyman. We are in the middle of something grand and something that might or might not have a finale. And in the spectacular bigness of the Universe there is a resonance that calls each and every one of us. No matter how we were born, where we were born, or why were born, we are all the natural and gifted keepers of the keys. And we must all pay attention to each other.

All of us.

Golden Globe Nominees 2012

2012-12-16T10:47:04Z

And my favorite time of year finally arrives...

I'm thrilled for the list of nominees. Happy to see stalwarts: Lange, Streep, Buscemi, Hamm and Field. And thrilled for Lincoln, Zero and Life of Pi. All great.

Now someone please inform Ed Helms that he's not the star of the Reading of the List of Names category. Whatever it is he's bucking for, he needs to give it a rest. No one cares. This isn't about you. This isn't about your tried, worn out, dusty vaudeville shtick you've rehearsed in the mirror all morning before getting to the podium. Stop pretending you're improvising. The Les Miz baloney wasn't funny the first time and the second reading didn't need the tag and it makes you look desperate and old. Now shine up your suit and go back to bed.

On the upside, the hosts this year (Fey and Polar) should be a hoot and a half.

Funny women who know how to be funny and more importantly, when to be funny. Take note Mr. Helms. Comedy is about.....

....timing.

Marrying Her

2012-12-10T00:20:18Z

On December 4, 1996, Chrisanne said yes, and then took me out to a beautiful dinner that night. She then asked me, and then I said yes. The snow was falling and Christmas was nearing and the Chicago streets were filled with slush and the skyline was littered with green and red and gold as far as you could see.

It was at a time when two people getting married who happened to be the same gender was not only considered ridiculous, but illegal as well. We were living in Chicago when we had our ceremony, and were surrounded by almost 150 family and friends. I had six brides maids and Chrisanne had 6 best men. We had both a man and woman marry us, and we borrowed from the American Indians, the Buddhists, and added a touch of Christianity here and there for our text. We wrote our own vows, and my wife took part of Shakespeare's monologue from "Twelfth Night" (the play we met in during High School), while I wrote an original fairy tale. We had musical interludes every 3 or 4 seconds, sung by our best friends, and music that ranged from Hammerstein, to Seal.

I was in charge of the music, she was in charge of the text. And this is the foundation of who we are.

We both walked down the aisle to Enya and we left to "Hooked on a Feeling" by BJ Thomas.

We had an "I Love Lucy" cake (complete with the original heart and our names in red, smack dab in the center, and tons of yummy hors d'oeuvres. At the time, we were living on food stamps and prayers, so most everything we got (including the Bailaiwick theater and the gobs of yummy snacks) was either given to us by our beautiful friends, or cost next to nothing, because people are basically kind and big-hearted.

Or maybe it was because we looked so hungry at the time, they literally wanted us to eat something.

Our dear friend Mary Gearen loaded up our partially painted, four door, flat bed pick up truck with the wild flowers that were strewn across the stage during the ceremony, and Chrisanne's brother rented us a limo for the evening...which was a complete surprise to both of us. Chrisanne and I spent the night driving around the Chicago winter in a roomy limo playing with all the buttona and drinking faux champagne.

Before the evening ended, we had our first dance and the throwing of both bouquets at a now famous Chicago bar called "Sidetracks". The owners were good friends of ours at the time, and they generously gave us the back room for the wedding party. Sidetracks is a video bar that has viewing screens bigger than your house, plastered all over every wall. Monday nights were always reserved for Broadway Songs and luckily, our wedding fell on that first Monday.

Our first dance was to Ethel Merman singing "Everything's Coming Up Roses".

The disco version.

That night after we got home, we laid in bed where Chrisanne had already made a beautiful after-wedding dinner, and opened presents and toasted our new life. And although I'd been diagnosed with AIDS almost a year and half before then, and although I was riddled with a scathing case of shingles up both legs and around my hips, we laughed and played with our toys and watched Lucy. In all fairy tales there are dragons, and you either go into battle, or you retreat. We'd waited too long to back up, she and I. So we did the only thing we could think of:

We loved each other. The best way we knew how.

Years later, after we moved to California, and as before Prop 8 was being dangled in front of us, we desperately wanted to have a legal piece of paper in our hands and be a part of history. The clip I've posted is the second part of that very strange, and yet oddly hilarious day. Interspersed in the clip is Chrisanne looking at the camera while we were in the car, and telling us all:

"Nothing is going to happen."

Well.

My wife isn't always right.

What you have to remember as you're watching, is that this was the very last day, and the very last couple of hours. If we didn't get married that day, it wasn't going to happen. The Prop 8 proponents had declared victory and any same sex couple had that day, and that day only, to marry.

The clock was ticking.

The gift in the middle of all this madness was the actual ceremony. We began this journey to make a point. Take a stand. Take part in something that was, for us, important to feel, to live, and to proclaim. It began as one thing and then turned into something else entirely. The two of us standing in a church, before one of our best friends, and before God, began to seep inside us. I remember the bigness of it and the scope of the day and the feeling of what was actually happening to us.

I looked in my wife's eyes and I could see the years of who we were and who we became, burn bright and big. I saw myself. I saw our past and I saw our present. And as the ceremony in this tiny church on the north side of Hollywood went on, I saw our future. And when I breathed in completely the person in front of me, I knew the day had happened not because we needed it to, but because we wanted it to.

And from the first time I walked down the aisle to the second time I walked down aisle, I've had the most amazing, astonishing and magical union. And if the laws changed, or if the world turned around, or if time released itself out from under us, as it's done before to us both, I have to say that food stamps or ticking clocks, I'd do it all over again.

Today is our wedding anniversary, and I'd marry her a million times over. Not because I have something to say to the world, but because I have something to say to her.

I am in love. And I am lucky.

The Old Brown Box

2012-12-01T21:33:00Z

So here was this box.

It was old, and a little tattered, and had a plain brown covering. Very, very unusual for my Mother. When my Mother passed away in California in 2004, my life went from one thing to the complete opposite. I was in my forties at the time, and I was suddenly an orphan. And so I become something else.

I was wide awake. And felt half asleep.

And so there was this old, brown box tucked neatly under her TV in her cozy living room, her favorite room in her house. And along with taking care of the papers and clothes and the condo and phone calls and my own grief, I had to go through her stuff. All of her stuff. Fortunately, my mother was one of the most neurotically clean and obsessively compulsive people on the planet. She alphabetized the herbs, she labeled her colored paper, and her refrigerator was organized by food groups as well as by height and width. She tried for a while to get some help cleaning the house as it became difficult for her to lift and move things, and one afternoon as I was visiting her, I caught her vacuuming like there was an approaching dust storm.

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

"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?"

And so I searched through the box, holding it in my hand thinking it belonged somewhere else. It was out of place, this old, beat up thing in a world of shiny, polished crystal and just-dusted antiques. But there it was. Living in plain sight and hidden so it had to be found again. And as I opened it, there, placed neatly in small piles, were old reviews of shows I had done, programs, ticket stubs, interviews, pictures, and assorted things from my life saved by my mother. This wasn't a shrine of some kind, it wasn't a big deal, it wasn't a collage on the wall or a painting in the hallway of me, it was a small token put in the place she spent the most time in, and seemed to be her own well kept secret.

And there it was in my hands, most likely never meant for me to see.

Then....under some letters I had written her when I was a teenager trying to explain why I was no longer her son, but now her daughter, and some assorted Mother's Day cards I sent, was an AIDS ribbon encased in gold and made into a small stick pin.

When I was diagnosed, we didn't speak for a while. Through everything my mother and I had been to each other, with every role we played, when the disease hit in the early eighties, and I was one of the first few to catch it, my mother retreated. She needed to figure this out. To be with it for a while. The only conversation we'd ever had that even remotely touched on the subject, was when I asked her if I could come and stay with her if the disease ever touched me.

"No, Alex. You couldn't. I wouldn't know what to do for you."

I was nineteen at the time.

Mother supported Ronald Reagan, and was a staunch Republican her entire life. I tried, during the beginning of the Plague to tell her what was happening to everyone around me, but it never really lived in her. It wasn't real. It wasn't true for her. If it wasn't happening in in the large suburban life she was in the middle of, then it simply wasn't happening. And it didn't help that her idol, and the Leader of the Free World was just as silent and just as invisible.

The day I came home and finally told her face to face why I'd had so many colds and so many fevers and so many coughs,I remember her in the kitchen, holding her stomach, and facing away from me toward the window looking out on our garden. The sun was beating down hard on her face, and she covered her eyes. She stood there in silence for almost two minutes and said only one word:

"God."

It wasn't a prayer, it was a plea. I can still feel that moment in my bones.

But we rarely spoke about it.

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

"Fine, Mother."

"Good. Have you quit smoking?"

"Not yet. I'm working on it."

"And your health?"

"Everything's fine, Mother. Really."

And then we'd chat about what we were going to do that day.

And so here it was. In my hand. I pictured my mother in her fur wandering around some fancy shops on Santa Monica pier passing by a vendor selling assorted jewelry, and at the bottom of a collection of gold bracelets no one wanted and multi-colored necklaces, was this gold AIDS ribbon. I saw her handling it, checking it to make sure it wouldn't tear her blouses or ruin a good sweater. I could feel her mulling around in her brain the conversation at her bridge club, and the questions from her dry cleaner. And I saw her wearing it. Only on special occasions. Only when it was necessary. Only in times of great need. And whether any of that was true and whether any of that actually happened, it was there in my hand, and I knew she remembered me. At least one day out every year.

And now it lies on my own chest next to my heart, safe and secure so the conversations I have today if anyone asks me about it, can be about the people who've passed, the people who are still fighting and the people who cared. The people who stood up and were recognized as supporters of the sick and the disenfranchised. And one of those people was my mother. After this day is over, and I do my show tonight as I approach the end of a long journey here in graduate school, I'll put the pin back to sleep where it belongs, in the tattered brown box that now lives under the bed in the room my wife and I spend the most time in.

Nothing ever dies, and nothing ever really goes away. Not if we remember it. Not if we speak about it.

Coolio from Daddio

2012-11-24T05:26:34Z

My father in law's a pretty cool cat.

He sent me this video of Hollywood blvd. and it's surrounding areas back in the day, when he was cool, hip and jumpin' with the jive. Fascinating to see not only what people drove, but what they wore as well. Women wouldn't dare be seen in public without the purse and the shoes dyed to match, and a perfectly place hat.

Great way to spend a couple of minutes between your Thanksgiving left overs and the latest Interweb cat video.