True Confessions

I've titled this post "True Confessions" because nothing is more freeing than letting go of secrets.  It's liberating.  And as one who vacillates between not caring what people think, and caring to the extreme, it's a good exercise in the art of putting truth out there.  A word of warning.  These are very random, being written as I write them, and I'm not out to shock, but some of these may be considered "TMI" and will very likely mean that some of you reading this will never sleep with me, or never sleep with me again.  And you may be thinking that you weren't likely to sleep with me anyway.  Fine.  But, possibly I didn't know this, so in writing the truth I am giving up on that sliver of hope I still held that we might enjoy connubial bliss.   

Confession 1.  When I used to live in a very small apartment in Los Angeles (a studio apartment) I had a little cat named Ira.  I still have this cat.  Unfortunately, living in such a small space with a cat caused some problems.  Mainly?  Kitty litter in the bed.  Yep, it's fucking disgusting, I agree.  And I did as much as I could to stop it-  no track litter, little rugs for him to scratch it off on, but nothing worked.  And sad as it is, I got used to it.  When a girl in a romantic clinch (yes, I used to date girls) thought the crumbs were crackers in the bed, I kept my mouth shut. 

On a side note, I am very particular about cleanliness in my apartment now.  And thanks to a much larger space, and a habit of making my bed every morning, my bed is as pristine as an angel's cloud in Heaven.  I know you were wondering.

Confession 2.  Sometimes while masturbating, my cat has been in the room.  Occasionally he's been asleep next to me on the pillow, or nestled at my feet, and while normally I would kick him off the bed, I will admit that there have been times when I didn't want to disturb him, so I just let him lay there. 

Confession 3.  I still go through the index of every show biz book I find, seeking out "Judy Garland" to see if she was considered relevant enough to mention, and to see if she's treated well within it's pages.  If she's not, the author will forever be on my "shit list" to one degree or another.  Furthermore, if I read a story in which some person treated her badly, they are also on said list.  As a result, people people I have at least a small disdain for include: film critic David Thomson, Cloris Leachman, Elizabeth Taylor, Angela Lansbury, Mel Torme, and Lucille Ball.  Conversely, if the author or a certain subject of his or her tome loves Judy and treats her well, they have won my complete and eternal respect.  So kudos to you Marilyn Monroe, Katherine Hepburn, Fred Astaire, Tony Bennett,  Tori Amos, Tennessee Williams and Julie Andrews. 

Whew.  I don't know bout you, but I'm beat.  A little truth goes a long way.  But fear not, I'm sure the mood to confess will hit me again at a later point. ..

A Trip to "Blahs" and a Thorough Scraping

So I've apparently been "scraped".  This, which I'd never even heard of before, is what happens when a site steals your content and then directs all keyword searches for your post to their site.  In this case it's something called "broken controllers".  Needless to say, I wouldn't recommend a visit.  They charge you to join and fill you up with spyware.  Not pleasant, I'm told.

I was able to get them to remove my post, but so far any keyword searches are still leading people to the non-existent post.  Ugh.  I'm not through, though.  I'm currently accepting submissions for possible new titles to the blog, and am sending notices to the big search engines that I was thieved from.  Unfortunately, I dealt with that rather than compose a new and post, but I'm back on the horse today.  They won't keep me down.

In other news, last night a friend of mine and I went to a preview of "Oz: The Great and Powerful".  I went in with low expectations, but still hoped for a good story.  I didn't get it. 

The film's creators didn't go deep enough into their characters, didn't fully flesh out the characters and elements they added, and because of restrictions in dealing with a film that's still under copyright, could not use the fully fleshed out characters that someone else created, as much as they would have liked.  As director Sam Raimi said in an interview with Entertainment Weekly, "...finally we came up with designs that were not too close, but not too far either".  So what you get is a cutesy, cloying, cut and paste job, with a lot of the same plot devices and visual references as the original film (there's a rainbow reflection in almost every splash of water) but none of the  depth, or heart.   

Like the wizard's tricks, this film directs your eyes toward the flash of special effects, hoping you won't realize there's very little behind their technical achievement.  Believe me, if you can tear eyes away from the green skinned wicked witches drag queen eye brows long enough, you will notice.   

A fun diversion on the way to "Blahs"

Joan Crawford, paella, and Pepsi

 

Found this odd and oddly affecting promotional video for Pepsi from 1969, thanks to Lypsinka, by way of Michael Musto's blog http://blogs.villagevoice.com/dailymusto/.  I know I'm supposed to laugh at it  for how bizarre it is by today's standards (and it is bizarre), but mostly I feel awash in the type of mid-century wonder and goodness that is like a balm to me.  It is a communion with the graceful power of Joan Crawford.  Like a mouthful of Wonder Bread and a sip of Pepsi, it makes me feel whole and, believe it or not, proudly American.  Thank you, Joan.  I'm glad that conventional housewife and mother let you borrow her daughter to take her on a tour of the grocery store and buy Spanish sausage.  I just wish it could have been me. 

In other news, I've changed the background.  I can't make up my mind, so expect it to change again once or twice more before I settle on something.  I admit to being a complete novice at this medium...hell, I can't even figure out why my royalty free photos from prior blogs have gone awol.  If you have thoughts or opinions, feel free to share 'em.

Stumbling

Why is blogging so frightening?  For me?  It's essentially the newest and quickest form of self publishing, and while it's an exciting way to get one's thoughts, hopes and vision of his corner of the universe out to others, for me it has a lot in common with the stumbling, slightly slurred speech I gave last night at a bar to a group of about twenty friends and former co-workers on the occasion of my last day at work.  They both share the same steps as any other act of creation:
 
1.  You are called.  Friends are encouraging you, you are encouraging yourself, and thoughts of "Hells, yeah, I have something to say" peek up from the desert like little prairie dogs.

2.  It seems like a great idea.  You are primed for it.  All of your life experience has been leading to this moment!  Out will spill words of majesty and warmth, irreverence and mirth.  Just you wait, friends.

3.  You open your mouth to speak, and realize you are a whole lot less certain than you thought you were.  Shit.  You should never have trusted those feelings.  Traitors.  You are abandoned and now, forced to speak. 

4.  And out it pours.  Some of it true, a lot of it calculated to please your audience, who can see the blatancy, much of it aching with the need to be liked and accepted, and maybe eighteen percent of it  hoping to help, to serve, to provide encouragement, and thanks. 

5.  Once you've spoken, you immediately wish you had invisible fingers that could reach out from your mouth and snatch those words back.  They were imperfect, they were pretentious, they were beneath you, and worst of all, they didn't express all the magic you hoped they would.

6.  You spend moments of the next day wishing you'd never spoken at all.

7.  And yet, you believe it's a good thing you listened to the call.  Any damage done was probably reversible, and you would have regreted letting the moment pass so much more than you regret the imperfections of the answer you gave.  And your words and thoughts and ways of expressing them have merit.  Most people say so.  And you trust there's a reason the call came.  There was a purpose to it.  You trust that.  And speak again, at some later point, in spite of the pressure of that.

Project: Rant - RANT 098: Velcro Shoes

Did this shoot for "Project Rant" a couple of months ago and it made its debut yesterday.  I'm so glad I got the opportunity to be a part of this, and it was a really great experience.  Cliff and Luis were a lot of fun, made it a really laid back time, and as much as I hate seeing myself on camera, I'm pretty proud of the work.

For those not familiar with "Project Rant", they take real complaints from people on a variety of topics, and then bring them to life for your viewing pleasure.  Hope you enjoy!

Dreaming of Patti

So...that Patti LuPone review.  I wrote it at 3 AM because I was having trouble sleeping, and felt, after finishing, that it was kind of a bitchy review and I regretted that, but on the other hand I had to be true to what I thought, and...there it was.  Of course I fell into a fitful sleep and Patti LuPone crept in to haunt my dreams.

I dreamt that she'd been cast in an Equity show being put up in Austin and the producers had rented out a big, beautiful house for her.  Before she arrived to join the rest of the cast already in rehearsals, I read and reviewed her memoir.  Then she flew in, we had some rehearsals with her and she was delightful.  As far as I knew, we were all one big happy family. 

But then one Sunday I stop by her house to borrow a cup of sugar and when I get there, I discover a crowd of cars filling her driveway and spilling out into the street and down the block.  I knock on the door and Patti opens it, seeming just a touch surprised to see me, but not at all displeased.  "Oh, hi!" she says.  "I'm just having a little get together.  You need to borrow some sugar???  Sure!  Come on in."  I step inside and look around at all the familiar faces surrounding me. It seems as if everyone from the show has been invited to this party:  the cast, the crew, the producers, their families...there's not a soul missing, and they all get silent as I walk in.  One or two of them darts me a pitying look.  "I'm just here to borrow some sugar," I say to break the silence.  "I wasn't invited to this."  I say the last part in a kind of joking way, to dispel the tension, but like most attempts of this nature it just added another layer of "awkward".   As I leave the party I can't help but wonder if Patti read the review, or if she just hates me as a person.  Or both.  And which would be worse?

There's a lot I don't remember in between, but I'm sure I did a lot of ass kissing to Patti LuPone from that day until opening night and when it finally arrived and it came time for our big scene together, I was nervous as hell.  Patti played a glamorous sorceress in the time of the Salem witch trials.  She was clad in rags and peasant clothes, but somehow managed them to look regal.  During our big scene she stood on a rocky plateau, elevated from the rest of the stage and spoke a dramatic monologue as I wandered around below her.  She was supposed to call birds to her at one point, so they'd supplied her with big bags of seed to get them to come to her (we were performing at an outdoor theater).  And any time I was directed to move in the scene, or speak, or what have you, Patti would beam down on me and toss a SHITLOAD of bird scene down in the place I was supposed to walk, just before I arrived there, so I would be mauled by flocks of angry crows fighting their way to the food.  This happened at least three times, and each time I was powerless to alter my blocking in anyway, and resolved myself to getting attacked by the birds.

I learned one lesson from the dream.  Don't mess with Patti Lu Pone, even in the mildest way, or she'll find a way to get you.

Little She: A Review of Patti's New Memoir

Patrick Dennis' Little Me is a brilliant mockery of that beloved literary tradition, the celebrity memoir.  It's loaded with the faux humility, grandeur, maudlin sentimentality and self delusion that make some memoirs so intriguing, addictive, and unintentionally hilarious.  And it's heroine is the dubiously talented star of stage and screen, Belle Poitrine, who clawed, back stabbed, seduced, and married her way to fame and fortune.  Of course, Belle never writes any of this down in plain speak, but it's there to read between the lines.  And once you've read it, Little Me keeps ahold you.  Now, every time I open a memoir I ask myself, "is this a book written with self awareness, humility, and candor? Or am I about to read a Belle Poitrine special?" Because if I am, I put on my "bullshit detectors" and read away.  I'm very happy to say I had my B.S.Ds close at hand when I was ready to dig in to Patti LuPone: A Memoir.

But first, a disclaimer:  I adore Patti LuPone's work as an actress and singer.  The soundtrack to Evita is amazing, largely because of her incredible vocal performance.  Her appearance in Driving Miss Daisy was a highlight in an already overwhelmingly wonderful film, and her appearances in Anything Goes, Les Miserables, and most recently, Gypsy, are legendary, and she was THE reason to watch Life Goes On.  But her controversial behavior is also legendary, and while I sympathize with a lot of the struggles she's gone through, as a narrator of her life, she is anything but reliable.

I read the first seventy pages of her life story wishing I had a more trustworthy source to reference, because it seems just a little to rosy and sunwashed in tone to be completely accurate.  But according to Patti she was just one of many hard working actors destined for the stage, who succeeded because of the guidance of her mentors, sheer determination, and a belief in herself.  And she suffered...a lot.  It seems like every instructor at Julliard was gunning for young Patti, and I'd love to hear the story behind that story, or to learn what really went down in her relationship and subsequent break-up with Kevin Kline.  But it wasn't to be found here.  Intriguing.

The juice begins on Chapter 5 "The Baker's Wife, or Hitler's Road Show" and flows through to the end.  So if you make it through to page 73, take heart, because the rest of it is worth the wait.  The Baker's Wife is a notorious Broadway flop who's song "Meadowlark" (the only thing worth remembering in an otherwise unrememarkable show) was cut by the producer for a time, as it was considered too long and was believed to slow the show, and Patti will tell you all about it.  She'll also tell you how horrible it was to work with Topol, and later, Paul Sorvino.  She'll even discuss the vocal issues she struggled with after The Baker's Wife closed and she took on the role of Evita, and the less than enthusiastic reviews she initially received for her performance before going on to win the Tony.  She'll discuss the joys of working with David Mamet, and the horrors of working with Andrew Lloyd Webber.  (Side note-  I believe almost everything she says in these chapters and frankly think she was robbed of a great role and a great opportunity.  Glenn Close was a caricature in comparison to what Patti was attempting with the part).  Of course, some of her grievances are petty and small in relation to the majority of career struggles, but it's still riveting to read them.  Her description of her experience at the 1988 Tony's is priceless..." 'And the 1988 Tony Award goes to...Joanna Gleason for Into The Woods!' I sat there and watched Joanna pick up her award.  During her acceptance speech, I felt like I was having a flashback on an acid trip.  She looked like the tin man from The Wizard of Oz.  What happened?  I was supposed to win!  It was a bad night for me."  Missing from this memoir???  Any mention of the notorious night during Gypsy when she stopped the show to berate an audience member who was taking pictures.

Over all, it's a satisfying memoir with plenty of backstage dirt that answers a lot of long pondered questions and those who love Patti will be very, very, happy.  It's also delusional enough, and vengeful enough, and high toned enough to get it an 8 out of 10 on the Belle Poitrine Scale of Greatness.

Top Divas, #6... and why gays REALLY love our divas

6.  Miss Piggy

She's fierce, determined, extremely confident, a fighter, she is all the grande dames of the theatre bundled up in to one compact little package.  And like any great star, she started out as a minor character and rose to the ranks of cult icon.  She pays tribute to all the great female archetypes at the same time lampooning them.  She proclaims herself to be the greatest star all the while, she grimly acknowledges her physical inadequacies.  She leaps into every great female role ever created, be it Scarlett in "Gone With the Wind", Cleopatra, or Joan of Arc.  She begs, demands, struts, coyly flirts and climbs to the top, over countless bodies, if she must.  But she's not all toughness.  She has a very tender and a surprisingly vulnerable side.  She is the cliche of the soul who's great bravado masks her deep insecurities, which one can only expect from the underdog that she is.  I mean, who would expect a pig from her humble beginnings to win the love of her life, great fame, and personal contentment?  She wills it so, with brutality, humor, and panache.

I was one of many young boys who saw her and instantly fell in awe.  People wonder why we love those great women like Judy, Bette, Barbra, Liza.  I think it's because we appreciate their immense talent and admire the way they reached those heights without the benefits of great physical beauty.  What they had went deeper, but just was just as worthy, more worthy, than the obvious beauty.  Not that these women weren't physically beautiful, but it sometimes took a closer look to see.  And once seen, complemented by those inner gifts, everyone who sees it realizes this is the real thing, more deserving of appreciation than the cookie cutter mold.

As a soft, more artistic, "sensitive" boys growing up in the world we, most of us, realize we will never be the kind of man our fathers want us to be.  We don't fit the accepted mold. We have talents, but not the kind that is considered fit for men.  We have flair, creativity, sensitivity, open emotions.  But what can we do with those gifts that are often seen as liabilities by those who's approval we want to win?  And then we see these women in similar circumstances.  Women who didn't fit the mold that men expected them to.  They had obstacles to overcome, but overcame them because they had something more than that beauty.  A gift that a lot of  men would love to deny because they couldn't mash it down or denigrate it as a commodity for their personal use like they could with physical beauty.  They were feminists all, the great divas.  They make it well known that they are as good as any man, by proclaiming, not that their gifts are the same as the patriarch, but uniquely theirs and equal to any man's.  And as a kid growing up who related to their gifts more than those of the straight man, I took faith in their fight to be heard.  They seemed to be saying to me that their successes and rewards could be mine if I only had faith in my own unique strengths.  Strengths that I might be the only one to see for the time being. 

We don't relate to Garland because her life was rough and our lives are rough.  That story is just another way to keep us down.  The idea that we related to her weaknesses and love to exalt in them, to wallow in them.  No.  We relate to her because she is overcame great odds to rise to great heights.  There was something deep inside her that she didn't always believe in, but that was apparent to everyone who met her.  It dragged you toward her.  And I'm not talking about her voice, but her strength of spirit, her absolute willingness to expose her open veins and emote authentically about her full experience of life.  She sang about things people don't always want to hear about.  It's that power of self expression as well as the immense instrument that allowed it that make us love her.  Her fall from grace only reminds us that such self expression and naked sincerity can come with great cost and if you truly want to follow the diva's path you may have to pay a heavy price.  However, that price may very well be one you are willing to pay for the reward of artistic and personal fulfillment.

And isn't it ironic that such an icon as Miss Piggy stemmed from the minds of men.  Starting out as kind of a joke on women, she evolved into a fully realized, three dimensional character in spite of what they saw her as initially, she had her own ideas.  The art that was the character proclaimed to her makers that she was something more, as much as the character itself proclaimed this to her fellow muppets.   And soon the artists were under the control of their art as much as she was under theirs.   Now that's a diva.

Top Ten Divas, # 7

7.  Lily Tomlin



She's created the iconic characters Edith Ann, Trudy the bag lady, Judith Beasely and Ernestine Tomlin and  performs them in a completely committed style that is uniquely her own.  Her work is always poignant, and challenging, usually cutting through the bullshit and getting right to the truth. She's equally at home with the broadly painted characters as she is with the protagonists she's played that need a lighter touch.  Her partnership with Jane Wagner is one of the most successful marriages of two artists to date, and even now it's hard to know which work was Lily's and which was Jane's.

I always loved her on Sesame Street when she would appear as Edith Ann in that over sized chair and even then, knew Edith Ann was someone on the edge, thumbing her nose at society at a time when I was simply trying to follow the rules. As I got older I listened to her comedy albums and they activated my imagination, much in the way the old radio dramas I loved did. Of course I loved her in "9 to 5", and "Big Business", and "A Prairie Home Companion".

But it was her show "The Search For Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe" that won my complete devotion. I splurged on tickets in the sixth row and wasn't quite sure what to expect.  I mean she was in her sixties and had been performing the show since the eighties.  Could it, and she,  still be fresh and relevant?  As the first act was coming to a close and she was embodying  the character of a lost thirteen year old girl performing in a coffee house,  it felt as if she'd looked right inside me and was using my personal soul content to voice all my fear and uncertainty and powerlessness.I not only had the "goose bump experience" that the show mentions, but I had tears freely flowing down my face.  It was so cathartic and healing, and the show wasn't even near it's resolution yet.  I vowed never to see it again, nor would I watch the filmed version, because I knew that what I'd just seen was as good as I would get.

The Day Off

I took the day off today, which was much needed.  It started around 9 AM with breakfast tacos at Torchy's on William Cannon, outside under an umbrella.  I opened Moss Hart's "Act One" and devoured one of the chapters as I ate.  The people at the table next to me were from New York, early arrivals for ACL which begins this weekend.  I'd kind of forgotten that ACL's arrival meant sharing the town for a week with everyone who also think Austin is a delightful place to be this time of year.  It's the latest ACL has been in awhile, so I'm hoping the weather will be nice for them, as much as I hope the lawn at Zilker Park won't get mangled and muddied.  Somehow, though, no matter what city officials say, the lawn still gets destroyed.  I've never been to ACL, as I'm not into most of the music there, but I have a feeling if I actually jumped in and went I'd have an amazing time.  Maybe...

After breakfast I drove to that area just off the corner of 360 and the entrance to South Mopac.  I always pass it by and wonder what's there.  I know it's an entrance to the green belt, another place I've never been, and have always thought "someday", but today was the day.  And it was so peaceful. 

It's lovely to get away to a place that feels like it's miles away from everything even though it's nestled right in town.  I wandered down to the creek, sat for awhile, walked some more, and now I'm sitting in a Starbucks.  I'm devoting today to writing, to reading, to meditation (or meditative activities) and cleaning.  These are days that I think I'll love when I allow myself them, but when I actually have them it's tempting to misspend them and mope around, wondering why I'm doing this alone. 

But today!  Today is for me!  I'm going to do what I want.  I'm going to treat myself.  I'm going to make a list and complete it and I'm going to finish it off with friends watching Project Runway.  Out of the house, out with people, all good things in one blessed day.  It's gonna happen.  So here's my day as planned. 

1.  Twelve to twelve thirty, work on my current play.
2.  South Congress for lunch at the mighty cone and then a wander through Uncommon Objects.
3.  Pick up a kitty litter scoop at Petco (aren't you glad to know that?)
4.  Do laundry and clean for one hour.
5.  Vacuum.
6.  Shred old papers and mail.
7.  Work out at the gym.
8.  Head to Susan's for PR.
9.  Choose and iron clothes for work tomorrow.

I resolve to complete this list of things and proclaim this day-off a complete success!

Top Ten Divas, #8

8. Liza Minnelli

Like many people, I discovered Liza through the movie "Cabaret".  I think I was thirteen, and my exposure to homosexuality was slight.  I knew it was bohemian and slightly sinful, but it was a foreign land to me still, one I didn't want to visit.  And then I saw Liza in this movie, watched the scenes with Sally and Brian and Maximilian rambling the streets and laughing, and even I knew something was going on between them that wasn't being said outright.  And when they get to that scene in the car when Brian, tired of the complexities of this triumvirate says "Screw Maximilian", Sally responds "I do" and he finishes the conversation with "so do I"...an alarm went off.  Just a faint ping, but it was there.

But mostly, I remember Liza.  Her recklessness, her languid sexuality,  her cockeyed optimism...  It's that abandon, that need to give full out and make all of it (even the sad parts) sparkle with the light of a thousand sequins in your eyes, that encapsulates Liza Minnelli for me.  There's no shame in her.  She'll shimmy, kick, flail, open that mouth wide and let it all out in the name of giving a good show.  It doesn't have to be pretty, it just has to be full out committed, and it always is  The clip above captures perfectly her gift for building a scene through song and her for taking the audience on a journey so we'll believe everything she does even when it strays into the territory of "over the top".  She's the poster child for dreaming big, and I always listen to her when I want to perk up my spirits or hear that voice in my ear saying "Yes, you can."