Big Old Heap of Posting

I've been remiss.  This is true.  I had dreams of posting every day about the experience of being in the current production of Escaaba In Da Moonlight currently playing in Greene, New York.  And yet...

Part of it is that, it feels so strange to write about this show as I'm in it, and it's difficult to place it in context of the whole move to NYC, at least in this moment.  It has felt a bit like I dropped out of the sky into this town and plopped into a concrete compound to live with six strangers and make a family, and a piece of theatre.

The first couple of weeks was like a mad scramble to get into the mindset of these people, learn our individual tracks for the show, and breathe life into the lines.  My particular challenge has been that I'm portraying the character that Jeff Daniels, the playwright, created for himself.  He's the plays heart, and as a result it felt like I couldn't make him quite as broad as would normally be my tendency.  He had to be grounded in reality, and still be outsized and match the energy of the other family members onstage.  It's a fine line, and living in those in-between places can be difficult.

Once we reached opening night, everyone took a huge sigh of relief, as usually happens.  You spend those last hours before opening wondering "Can we do this?  Can I do this?"  And so you metaphorically sprint through those fink moments hoping you will make the finish line, and that you won't be thrown she the element of the audience is added.

It's strange, because as much as I'm ready for the days off when they come, once they are here, it can feel like I've been given a burdensome amount of time.  If I had dollars to drop I could rent a car and go on a road trip, or bus it back to New York City, and yet, right now I just can't rationalize that expenditure.  So life has turned into a routine of watching tv, going to the "store" (whether it be the drug store, the grocery store, the library, etc) and then returning to the compound.  It's a balancing act of time management, because part of me just wants to turtle it and hide out in my dark cavern of a room, but after just two hours of that, I begin to go stir crazy out of a need for external stimulation.  By the time the days off are coming to a close and we head back into the show, I am ready ta go.

  _______________________________________________________________________________

In other news, I've stopped eating red meat.  I just can't do it anymore.  The reason?  This video.  For those of you who are worried, no there's no blood or guts here, just a terrified little creature that deserves kindness.

  

Especially since there are so many delicious vegetarian meat alternatives, I've decided it is the thing to do.  I am still eating chicken and fish, and can't imagine myself ever giving up sea food, but this is a start at least.  

    __________________________________________________________________________

In other other news, I have been working on a permanent place to live in New York, and if all goes well, I'll be making an announcement about it in the next few days.

Escanaba In Da Moonlight Opens Friday!

We start Tech for Escanaba tonight, with three more rehearsals until opening.  It's been a fast rehearsal process, as we've had about two and a half weeks, and there is a lot to think about to make the show work, but I think we are nearly ready.  The set is beautiful, we'll see the lighting and fog effects for the first time tonight... a new layer is added each day.

I have been having a lot of the typical "actor's nightmare" type of dreams the past couple of weeks.  They've all been variations on a theme-  I'm opening a show in thirty minutes and completely forget to prepare, or memorize lines, or show up to a single rehearsal.  I know they're just dreams, and yet, they are a manifestation of my deepest worries, so in one aspect they should be taken seriously.  They are a warning to prepare.  To work on my lines, study my dialect, run through the blocking in my head, make a list of personal props and between act changes, etc.  That's the only way to eliminate the nerves, and even then...

The show itself was written by Jeff Daniels, around the time he was filming Dumb and Dumber, and takes place in a cabin in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the day before Deer Season starts.  Albert Soady, his son's Reuben and Remnar , and the "legendary" and kooky Jimmer Megamonee have gathered together to drink whiskey, play cards, and go hunting just as they have every year for the past thirty years.  The oldest son Reuben (that's me) is about to become the oldest Soady in family history to have never landed a buck, and the plot revolves around the lengths he and his family go through to keep him from ending up on the wrong end of the family record books.  It's very broad humor, definitely on the lower side, with a touch of the supernatural thrown in for good measure.  I hope it's well received as I've really enjoyed the rehearsal process so far, and am proud of the work that's gone into it.

As far as off-stage life, we've settled into a bit of a routine here:  I've been to the local diner exactly three times for breakfast, and the waitress knows my order, and brings me a Diet Coke without my asking, which is kind of delightful.  It's a cozy feeling you get here after awhile, a feeling of familiarity.  And while I definitely miss the city, and it's easy accessibility to just about anything you could ever need or want, I understand the appeal of a slower pace of life that one can get out here, and the safe and welcoming feeling of being around people who recognize and know you.

My New Home

I arrived in Greene, New York just under a week ago, and you'll have to forgive the absence of new posts.  I'd planned on writing the minute I arrived, but it took a few days to adjust to the new environment and get settled in.  From there, it just became a matter of getting the first one out there, and the more I procrastinated, the harder it was to post (ain't that always the way?)

Regardless, I am happy to report that the bus trip here was uneventful, and I'm currently bunked down in the in-theatre accommodations of The Chenango River Theatre as we prep the production of Escanaba in Da Moonlight opening on August 14th.  Four of the six cast members are from out of town, and so we are living here dorm style along with the stage manager and the theatre intern.  We each have our own rooms, decorated with props from past shows and furniture that includes a bed, a desk, a dresser, and a fan.

My own little corner of my own little room, as decorated with past props

The bookshelf in my room.  I'm determined to read this before the show closes.

 I have to say there was a kind of giddy excitement as I unpacked everything, trying to make the place home, as I'd be here for the next six weeks.  It felt like, and still feels, like theatre camp.  We have a company car, rehearsal once a day for a little under five hours, with one day off a week.  So far there's been plenty of off-time to explore the surrounding area, run errands, make the occasional trip to the Barnes and Noble (a thirty minute drive) and otherwise keep busy.  I plan to do a lot of reading, and hopefully get some writing done, although Netflix and The Witches of East End have proved more tempting than I'd like to admit.  The cast and crew are really friendly, mostly men, with two women, and while I feel a bit isolated as the only gay person within what feels like a twenty mile radius, I've been enjoying the chance to get-away.

Greene is a small farming community, where the grocery store nearest grocery store is a fifteen minute drive, and the downtown consists of about fifteen shops.  They include a few restaurants, a bar, the hardware store and five and dime, which is just about all one would need.  For most other things you would need to drive thirty minutes to the Binghamton mall.  It is gorgeous country out here, and such a change from the crazed energy of the city.  It's strange because on July 1st I moved from Austin to a completely different lifestyle in the city, and one month after that I had taken another detour into a life different from either of those.  By the time Escanaba closes I will have lived here longer than I had in Brooklyn.  

The view from downtown Greene

Of course, it's taken a bit of getting used to, but most of it has been pretty easy.  The one thing I cannot adjust to?  The smell of sulfur in the shower water.  It's like showering in liquid farts.  There's no other way to put it.

Music of the Subway

Everyone in New York ends up on the subway at some point, and most of us end up there at least twice a day.  It is definitely its own land with a distinct set of rules, people, smells and sounds that inhabit it and give it its color.  At first, everything is exciting, somethings are off-putting, but eventually you become desensitized to it all.

There are always performers in the subways.  Musicians, dancers, silver painted statue people, mini-Michael Jacksons, lady Michael Jacksons (just about every variety of Michael Jackson you can imagine) and for the most part they become a piece of the background noise.  But last Sunday I was at the Atlantic/Barclay stop in Brooklyn heading to a last stop in Target before leaving town for a bit, and I heard the strains of "How Great Thou, Art" coming from a soothing, and unique instrument, which at first I thought might be a theremin, but it was instead it was Maestro Moses Josiah and his musical saw.  He had an almost ethereal expression and unlike all the other people performing in the subway, he had the aura of someone giving a gift that you were welcome to take if you like as you moved through your day.  He was so earnest, and the music rather haunting, so that I had to pause a moment and just take it in.

He accepts donations, and sells cds, so if you are ever in New York and pass Mr. Josiah, take a moment and appreciate him.  He and his music have stayed with me long after hearing it.

A Night At the Whitney

Last night was a truly wonderful New York kind of night.  It was my last chance to hang out with Kirk for a while, and though I had mentioned having a quiet evening of packing and cleaning, when he mentioned the possibility of going to the Whitney (which is where he currently works, and is open late on Saturday nights) I jumped at it.

The opportunity to be on the terrace at sunset, looking down on New York city seemed like just what I needed.  We met up at the Barnes and Noble downtown, had dinner at the Hollywood Diner and walked over to the Whitney.  I was less excited about the thought of touring the Whitney than I might have been before I toured the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Maybe I had "museum fatigue" if that's even a thing, but if so, the actual experience of The Whitney Museum of American Art has cured me.

It was founded in 1931 by Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, an exceedingly wealthy society lady and patron of the arts.  She had offered her collection of contemporary art to the Met, only to have it rejected, as they weren't interested in 20th century art.  So, she founded her own museum, which flourished under her guardianship, and continued to flourish after her death in 1942.  It was temporarily closed in 2014 until it reopened this year in its current home.  Like a lot of museums, the Whitney's building is as much a work of art as the pieces it displays, and the view from the terrace is literally breathtaking.

Stepping out onto the terrace, seven flights up, onto a jutting look out, was so unsteadying and exhilarating.  To look in one direction and see the harbor and the ships, to look at the Statue of Liberty, turn and look at The Empire State Building, The Chrysler Building...to be right in the center of these icons of New York... it was incredible.  You could turn left to right and see nothing but the city and its colored lights below, like jewels... the glamorous hotel next to us, with it's myriad of open hotel rooms that you could look right into as well as the ball room with its enormous chandelier...

It made me feel like a part of something miraculous and man made and distinctly American.  Sure I was a tiny little piece of it, but I was a piece, nonetheless.  I was hit with all of these cultural touchtones that make up the thoughts and feelings and dreams I have had about this city since I was a kid... snatches of music from Guys and Dolls, thoughts of ladies swathed in black furs heading into the theatre from the snow, Billie Holiday, taxicabs, Friends, the many disgusting little sweatbox convenience stores that sell sandwich meats and so therefore feel perfectly justified in calling themselves delis... all of it, the good and the bad mingled together to make this incredible picture of the city.  This city that I am now a part of.

After a while we stepped back inside, as the view became a little too disorienting, and it was time to return to the art.  

The collection is phenomenal, and while the museum is well known for its collection of Edward Hopper pieces, I have to say I found them to be some of the least exciting pieces in the collection, especially compared to the work of Thomas Hart Benton.  Benton is my favorite painter.  He'd been dismissed for awhile as sentimental Americana, but it's some of those very qualities that I love about his work.  He captures both the beauty and the weariness of people.  He captures the excitement and glamor of human diversions, but doesn't dismiss its seamier aspects.  

One of his greatest works was recently reconstructed at the Met, and it was by far my favorite exhibit there, when I visited last February.

At The Whitney, they have what is currently my favorite piece of art.  It's called Poker Night, and was inspired by Streetcar Named Desire.  It exemplifies what I love about Bennet's work.

There were some other wonderful works, most of them on the 2nd floor, which focused on the entertainments people use to make their lives seem a little lighter, and highlighted both the grimy and the gorgeous at once.  

The night continued with a walk on the High Line (part of a discontinued train line which is elevated above the city, and should not be missed on any trip to New York city) and finished with a piece of the Black Forest Cheesecake at Empire Diner , which is a beautiful art deco restaurant in Chelsea, founded by Chef Amanda Freitag.  

On the walk to the subway I snapped a couple pics that glimpse at some of the overlooked beauty that is everywhere in New York...

All in all, it was a great New York night, and it should more than hold me over while I'm upstate.

A Little Bit of Joy

Theres' a lot about New York that can seem somewhat squalid and "gritty".  There are the the rats, of course, the piles of garbage at night along the street, the blank stares of people wrecked by their mind numbing days, the smell of urine and gin that permeates the air at times... but if you are looking for it, even in some of the hotter, more tepid and grim places, like the subway at 2AM, there are these little pieces of art that give a little bit of hope and joy to the city.

It's this attention to detail, this history, this sense of timelessness that is just one of the reasons I love New York.

Roommate Wanted

Tomorrow morning I head out to Greene, New York for six weeks.  It doesn't feel like long at all, but when I realize that I've only been in New York for a month... It's been an exciting time to say the least.  Things come up, surprises arise, and as a person on the journey I'm learning to go along with the flow.  I mean, for the most part these circumstances have little to do with me, and so I do what I can when I can.

It is a strange feeling to be without a permanent home, and once I've resolved that situation I imagine it will go a long way to making me feel more secure, and less like a visitor here.

I have been checking out the various member sites, Facebook groups and Craigslistings to seek a solution to it, and a little while ago I had my first visitation for a possible place to live.  It was sited as...

1. Short term or long term
2. One Bedroom
3. $850
4. Pre-War building

Sign me up!!!

I would be sharing with a retired ballerina who is currently working in the wellness industry. I put aside my stereotypical and completely unfair preconceptions about ballerinas being high maintenance and somewhat, bat shit crazy, and called her up.  She was very kind.  Really open and forth right, with a deep voice and a strong voice to match her equally strong convictions that Brooklyn and Williamsburgh are terrible, the true working class have long since left the area and it takes hours to get anywhere from there.  She was an artist from the Warhol days, and she knew how it was.  There was something in her vocal presence and energy that sang of "Native New Yorker".  

We made an appointment for the next week to see the room, which would be all I would be renting as she was "doing the New York thing" of renting out her bedroom and using her living room as a bedroom. Hmmm.  

I got to the Bronx an hour before our appointment, and had plenty of time to look around.  It was situated right next to Yankee Stadium, which could be tricky during game time, and didn't seem as easy to get to as she had claimed.  Plus, the city was...grittier than I'd expected.  The building itself was gorgeous.  A relic of times gone by, gigantic, gated, and the lobby was cavernous and completely empty, which seemed strange to me.  

I gave the woman a call and let her know I was down stairs.  She was headed down to the basement to recycle some things, so she would see me in a bit. About five minutes later a tiny little woman in red and green square cut spectacles greeted me carrying two six foot tall empty boxes, which I immediately took from her.  She had salt and pepper hair in a pixie cut, and that's what she seemed like to me.  A no-nonsense, get 'er done, New York pixie in her early sixties.  She proceeded to lead me down to the basement and regale me with the history of the building, its amenities, and conveniences.  

She seemed to take in everything around her with a critical eye.  The garbage cans needed to be moved, etc.  "What are you doing??" she called to the guy at the end of the hall who was quite blatantly propping the door.  "Are you loading something in?  Cause I can't have that door propped.  I just had a strange person come up to my apartment door and knock saying he was with electricity!"  

Of course, like a clumsy Saint Bernard I bumped the overhead fluorescent light as I stacked the boxes in recycling.  There was a slight sizzle and a flash.  "I'm gonna have to call Phil about that.  Can you hear it??  Can you hear it sizzling?  Lemme call Phil."  

She apparently had the Superintendent on speed dial.  I was mortified, but neither did I want to burn down this stunning pre-war building on my first visit.  Phil came down and replaced the bulb, I took a quick peek at the laundry facilities, met one of the neighbors, a short squat opera singer, and we headed up to see the apartment.  I also picked up in the conversation between them that my pixie friend was the Vice Chair of the Board for the building, which is a co-op.

The apartment was sizable, the kitchen was clean, and it looked like something could be done to make it quite homey.  However, nothing had been done at the moment.  There was not a painting hung on any of the walls, no pictures, the furniture was sparse, though antique, and I was surprised to discover she had lived there more than two years.  There was a guy working construction in her apartment though, so maybe that was it?  He had assembled and installed a couple of IKEA bookshelves, and was currently working on the lighting in the kitchen.   We walked through her bedroom to the room that would be mine, and it gave me pause.  

I understand it's "the New York thing" but it seemed like it would be strange if she was asleep by ten PM and I was creeping through her bedroom late at night to get to my own, or if I had a friend over...just, very close for comfort.  The room itself was quite lovely, with a beautiful view of the park below, and lace curtains blowing in the wind.  It was a little feminine for my tastes, but could be worked with.  So possibly?  I knew I wasn't ready to make a commitment at that point, and she had to rush me out anyway, because she had a last minute Skype conference scheduled in her kitchen, so before I knew it I was out the door and shuffling into the rickety elevator back down to the ground floor.  

There were definitely possible issues.  But it was very cheap rent, and was available September 1st.  If I ended up booking the Greene gig (something that was still up in the air at that time) maybe??

But I had had some crazy roommate situations in the past in Los Angeles, and I wasn't eager to sign up for another.  As nice as this lady seemed, she was very assertive, and in everyone's business.  I couldn't imagine living a life in her apartment that would be in any way private.  

After I booked the gig in Greene (it feels so weird to say that word- "gig".  Any time I say it I feel like one of the Archies) I gave her a call.  The timing would certainly work, and it would be nice to have something secure when coming back.  I left her a message saying I was interested, would be back on the 6th of September, and was interested.  Maybe we could start it out for a couple of months, make sure it worked out.  

However, it is not to be.  She left me a message with a lot of her former friendliness drained away, saying, no, she needed the apartment rented as of the 1st.  The 6th would not work out, and she needed at least a year commitment (so much for "short term ok").  Since she was just getting a million calls on the rental, so it didn't look like it was going to work out, even though I seemed like a lovely person.  Click.  If course, as I'd mentioned in my message I was open and amenable to whatever would work for her, but apparently, she didn't want to converse about it.

Damn.  It's strange how much rejection can sting, even when it's an opportunity you aren't even sure you really want.  Maybe if I'd seemed a little more sold on it?  Maybe if I hadn't been 6 ft 3 to her 5'5 self, a seeming physical threat?  I guess we will never know.

In the meantime, I will have a [place to stay for the next six weeks and will do what I can to look for a new apartment, even if it is from three and a half hours away.

Stacey Kent At Birdland

There are some singers who excel at communicating story through song.  The inner life of the singer is awake in their eyes, each tiny gesture, they are empowered with the ability to move an audience through communicating this intangible feeling.  Their voices are also beautiful, but when it comes to technique, they tend to sacrifice perfect musicality for the emotion.  Then there are your Audra's, your Barbra Streisands-  those who sound beautiful, flawless tone, and yet... there's a studied quality, something a little removed.

I've always preferred the former to the latter.  Give me an actress with a gorgeous voice who rely puts her heart on the line.  It's that bravery, that emoting and sharing that really gets me.  Bernadette Peters, Patti Lupone, Sara Vaughn...

Stacey Kent is a rare singer who does both.  Her technique is flawless, and the interpretation as dictated by the notes and instructions in the sheet music, coupled with what the accompaniment is doing, really informs and feeds her performance.  She's always there in the moment of the music, and alive in the story that the song is telling.  Garland was much the same way, although she preserved her instrument less well, sacrificing her voice in order to give all she had.  Save nothing, at times seemed to be her motto.

Kent is not a belter.  She has a kittenish, caressing quality to her sound that resonates with another era, and this quality is perfectly illustrated in songs like Violets for My Furs, You're Looking At Me, and I've Got A Crush On You from her cd Dreamsville.  She is playful, open, and lyrical.  She is like a little Jazz Pixie, whole and healing through song.  I've felt this even through her recordings, and until last night had never had the chance to see her live.  Thank God for New York, because if your eyes and ears are open, your musical inspirations will be passing through at some point and you will get to take part in their brilliance.  And I do think Stacey Kent is brilliant.  

Last night as I watched her (from the front table at Birdland) I was just awash in her voice, in the skill of the musicians around her, and in their calm and confident presence.  I could have sat and listened for hours.  And it's strange, but after seeing her live... I'm not ready to go back to the recordings, as great as they are.  I just want to keep hold of that moment a little longer when artist and audience were in the same room, fed off of each other, making a unique moment.  Forgive the waxing rhapsodic, but it's wonderful when someone you know in a limited capacity exceeds your expectations when you experience the complete artist.

If you aren't familiar with Stacey, I have two CDs I recommend.  First, there is Dreamsville, which I mentioned prior, second is the Grammy nominated Breakfast On The Morning Tram which strays from the standards a bit to focus on collaborations with Kent's producer and saxophonist and composer Jim Tomlinson, and novelist and lyricist Kazu Ishiguro.  Each album is wonderful in its own right, and either or both are a perfect gateway to Kent's art.

Kent is playing at Birdland 8:30 and 11PM tonight (the 22nd) as well as Thursday and Friday, and there are still a few tickets available.  

Miranda

Since I was twelve I have been somewhat obsessed with mermaids.  Up until my freshman year in High School I held on to a stubborn belief that they could exist out in the world.  My logic was that no one could prove they don't exist, so...they just might.  This logic allowed me to hold on to my desperate hope that there was still magic in the world that rendered my sudden weight gain, self confidence and low grades in Algebra as truly insignificant.

I still believe there's magic in the world.  I just don't know if it takes the form of beautiful feminine creatures in the depths of the ocean.  But I'm still fascinated by them.  I love how much they own their sensuality and their desires.  How primal they are.  Sometimes they are innocent- like Madison in Splash, and sometimes they are simply unschooled in our societal "niceness" and manners like in Mr. Peabody and the Mermaid.  But always, they are mysterious, enchanting, and powerful, whether they know it or not.  That's certainly true of the mermaid at the center of this oddball little English gem Miranda.

Glynis Johns as Miranda

It stars Glynis Johns as Miranda, a mermaid who catches herself a Doctor on a fishing holiday and convinces him to take her home with him for a vacation.  Merriment ensues.  Glynis (best known for her work in Mary Poppins) is eccentric, guileless and winning.  She's always had an offbeat quality to her, and is at her best when the powers that be allow her to live in this land.  She's that somewhat rare breed, the beautiful character actress.  The director uses her skills to fullest in this story that sets Miranda loose in a world of extremely civilized men and women all doing the proper thing.  

Of course, being the late forties and on a limited budget, the special effects are somewhat simple compared to what is available today, but to me, it only adds to the charm of it.  Remember when special effects were meant to support the story, and not thought of as an element that could drive box office on its own?  One thing the film doesn't lack is sexual innuendo.  I'm assuming the English didn't have the strong censors that Hollywood had at the time, because there a lot of tongue in cheek sexual references sprinkled throughout the movie, which surprised me, knowing their reputation for being somewhat...repressed.

There are also a great number of character actors and actresses filling out the cast, including David Tomlinson, who would eventually play her husband in Mary Poppins, and Margaret Rutherford.  Margaret is best known for playing Miss Marple (whom Agatha Christie detested in the role) and she's wonderfully bulldoggish in the role of Miranda's "nurse".  

Margaret Rutherford

Also worth noting is Googie Withers as the Doctors wife.  Her reactions to Miranda are surprisingly nuanced for a comedy of this type, and very English.

Miranda is available on Netflix streaming, well worth a view, and was very successful in 1948.  It even spawned a sequel, Mad About Men (which is completely skippable).  There was also a statue commissioned near  Dartmouth Castle inspired by Miranda, and it has become a tourist attraction in its own right.

Miranda, Mermaid of Dartmouth, as sculpted by Elisabeth Hadley

3 Drinks and a Chanteuse

Thursday I headed over to 54 Below and caught Charles Busch's cabaret show That Boy/That Girl.  And, since the last time I'd gone out to the theatre with my dear friend Leslie I was nearly thirty minutes late to meet her, this time I gave myself plenty of time to get there.  We had a 6PM dinner reservation, and I arrived in plenty of time to saunter casually in, take a seat, order a vodka soda, and take in the setting.

It feels very posh and expensive, all red and gold, drapey and dim.   It's what a friend of mine used to call "chi-chi poo poo", which I've since made my own (and that's "ch" as in chic, not chick).

It won't surprise you to know there were a lot of queens in this place.    They started filing in and making jokes to the waiters, responding when asked "Can I get you anything tonight?"  "Yes, you can get me that hunk of a driver in delivery truck outside!" There was a lot of name dropping and dishing, and I of course loved it.  What I wouldn't have given for super human hearing.

Pretty soon Leslie arrived, we ordered, the lights dimmed, and out stepped Charles Busch.   I have to admit, I was a little apprehensive.  I had discovered Charles Busch when I was in my early twenties and I stumbled across a copy of his play The Lady In Question, a parody of 1940's classic war propaganda films.  It focused on a beautiful, but self centered violinist, who was not interested in politics and was traveling through Europe on a musical tour.  Charles had written the part for himself, and the photos in the book showed, not the clownish drag I had come to expect, but a glamorous leading lady.  That play opened up a whole new world of possibilities to me, because it said you could do drag, and in your own way, with your personal observations as a man who loves them, raise up the female stars and archetypes of that era for reexamination and praise.  

I'd played a couple of women myself at that point, and was always upset by or dismissive of the one's who played women in order to mock them, or to wear a kind of mask that allowed these performers to let loose their anger and rage with the safety of a female mask.  I wanted to step into these women's shoes for awhile and show the person within, not to mock, but to pay tribute, and to highlight the ridiculousness in ALL of us, as people.

Here was someone who seemed to be doing that, and doing it very well.

After that, I read and saw as much of his work as I could get my hands on, and watched a fascinating documentary entitled The Lady In Question Is Charles Busch, which follows his career, his art, and captures his essence as well as anything else I've seen.  Suffice it to say, he's kind of an artistic hero of mine, and heroes have been known to topple from their pedastles.  

I needn't have worried.  He is a charming raconteur, a delicate interpreter of music and lyrics, and he has a wonderful way of playing the drama behind a song, playing the opposite of the meaning that might have originally been intended to bring new depth.  He's not mawkish, or artificial, but true and authentic.  He's steeped in the femininity of this character, and his/her sensitivity.  I say "character: because, while Charles is himself on-stage, he is still performing himself. It's that fine line of practiced revealing, and very carefully structured intimacy that cabaret is.  As an artist he is a bit of a "magpie", taking the shiny bits of art and glamour and making new works of them, and living in them so fully that they actually become him, and he them.  And he has such a sharp, crisp humor delivered with dead pan technique. It doesn't feel l like an act, but it does feel like this soul found these old films at an early time of life, films that expressed the things already felt, but also further revealed himself to his own eyes, in a way that maybe nothing else had before or since.

 It's a very intimate show, a show in which you are let into the heart and soul of a person, bravely and adeptly.  Leslie, who was not as familiar as I was with his work, said that within moments of his arriving on stage she knew she was in good hands.  I couldn't have said it better.

There's one last chance to see That Boy/That Girl on July 23rd.  

D.A.R.E. to Sell Bongs

I remember D.A.R.E.  I don't know if you are of this age to remember this program, and the details are fuzzy to me, even now.  But it amounted to bringing police officers in to the schools to catch us before we were caught by the druggies and the dope peddlers.  And it worked on me, for sure.  I was a little Victorian.  No smoking!  No drinking!  That little feather that some girls were wearing in their hair???  Don't even think about it.  I was a very savvy fifth grader and I knew that the metal "clip" was really meant to hold drugs!!!!

So when I was in SOHO a couple of days and spotted these on the street...

Now this seems daring to me.  We know what these are for Mr. Vendor, man!!!!   These are not plant holders or decorative vases!!!