It feels like early on in our lives, every one of us is convinced to cast aside a piece of ourselves. Whether that something is as big as a sexual preference or as seemingly insignificant as a favorite color. Here's my journey to taking those pieces back.
When I was a child, like most kids in America in the late seventies, I watched Mister Rogers' Neighborhood religiously. Not only was he a calm and gentle presence, unapologetically tender and sentimental, calming and supportive; he also chose to focus on things and people that mattered. He showed us how the things we used got made, taught us to pay attention to the world and the good people around us, and to appreciate the things about us that we might not always wrap our arms around. He, alongside the muppets and my daily dosage of mid-century sitcoms, was a major television influences. He helped shape how I came to see the world and gave me a foundation to cope when things turn to shit in this world.
It feels strange to put all of that on television's metaphorical shoulders, but it's true. We were kids of the tv generation. And it's not that I didn't go outside, or that I had absentee parent's. But teacher's, family members, daycare teachers felt safe putting us in front of the television, often at our pleading. And so, almost as much as the people around us, television makes us.
And so I'm grateful that Mister Rogers was such a big presence in my life as a young kid. His message that differences are wonderful, and that everyone is worthy of love and is special still hold true. Unfortunately, I don't think it's quite as popular a message as it used to be. Luckily, these shows were here for us then, and Sesame Street is still around continuing that message of acceptance and self worth.
This clip below illustrates how important and influential Mister Rogers was and continues to be, as long as there are those around who take his words to heart.
Today I signed up for my first audition in the city. I "bit the bullet" as they say. And let me tell you, everything they say about getting there an hour and a half before your call time and waiting around in a line of masses of squirmy people? It's all true. I mean I'd heard it, and I kind of believed it. But I couldn't quite get my head around the thought that so many people would turn up at eight in the morning to audition for one to two minutes before two agents. Stupid, right? Oh yes.
I arrived at the Equity offices for an 8:30 sign up at 8:10, and had quite a bit of difficulty finding the back of the line as it wound around every wall of the Equity lobby. Most of these people were quiet and in themselves, but there were enough of them carrying on loud conversations for (what seemed to be) the benefit of everyone else in the room, and one person in particular was performing a very loud performance piece about casting directors and how he never gets cast as Jewish because he doesn't have curly hair and a big nose and how racist that is.
I've always been really sensitive to my environment, so I buried my head in a book in order to keep other people's manic energies away. I have enough neuroses of my own, thank you very much, and I don't need anyone else's. Eventually the line started to move, and I worried I wasn't going to get a spot. There were only fifty audition slots available, and after those were gone there were alternate spots up for grabs, but there's no guarantee that an alternate will get to perform.
I cursed myself for not realizing that the auditions weren't until 7PM, so for the early morning sign up I didn't have to print up and staple my resumes, didn't have to iron my clothes, didn't even have to shower. I could have leapt out of bed humped it to the 2 Train and been pretty much guaranteed. But, it's all part of the learning curve, and everybody has to start somewhere. Right?
By the time I got to the front all the slots were gone. So I signed up as the fifth alternate. The monitor explained that it just meant I had to be there at the beginning of the audition and wait for someone to be late, or not show for their appointment, or slip in if the auditioners are running early. She confided that the first alternates almost always get in as she works very hard to make it so, and so I will be there tonight, with my history of the creation of Wonder Woman, and hopefully I will get this experience under my belt. On the 23rd I go in for my first musical audition, so I'll be able to check another box, and can be happy that I'm doing what I came out here to do. Trying my damnedest. I feel pretty good about my prospects, and though the odds of actually getting representation from this are low, it has caused me to find a new comedic monologue that I'm really pleased with, so the next time I have to go up with a monologue, I'll be that much more secure.
Celine Dion. She ain't exactly my fave. She takes herself way too seriously, doesn't seem to legitimately feel the emotions tied to the songs she sings, and she's gaudy in nearly every way possible. And yet,this?
Celine Dion sprawled out on a lit floor crooning Memory in full cat regalia? I can't not love it. She spins, she leaps, she sinks dramatically to the floor, she belts the shit out of this song, and she commits FULL OUT people. It feels so risky and weird, and there is absolutely no trace of irony in her performance. None. Nil. Not an iota.
Watch it and see if you don't love it as much as I do.
One of the things that makes New York such an amazing city is the fact that at any moment you can get your eyes on the most amazing artifacts of our cultural history. It's mind blowing to think of some of the things that are just a subway trip away. One of those artifacts was on display at The Morgan Library in their exhibit on Alice and her crazy trip through Wonderland.
Kirk and I were able to catch the closing day of the exhibit, Alice: 150 Years Of Wonderland. It feels like EVERYONE is doing an exhibition. Back in Austin there was one at the Harry Ransom Center, and there's one that just opened up at the Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center. This one, however, was likely the best, as the pieces on display were incredible.
The crowds were large when we arrived, and by the time we left the line was out the door. It was a surprisingly small room, and essentially, to see the exhibit everyone had to line up and tour the perimeter, for everything was placed up against the walls. Of course you had to deal with some museum assholes who don't care to follow the system and make themselves as large as humanly possible while looking at the exhibit, or stand as close to it as they can so no one else can get in. This behavior really chaps my hide, but...I was able to contain my annoyance, largely due to the pieces, and the fascinating info about them.
There was a copy of the first edition (of which there are only about twenty in existence because the illustrator objected to the print quality of his illustrations) as well as many original color illustrations, one of Lewis Carroll's diaries, photos he had take of Alice Liddell (more on that later, as it feels impossible to talk about Dodgson/Carroll without discussing his child portraits or other possible improprieties.
As for the illustrations, it was amazing how small they were. They were 4 inches by 4, at the most, and so incredibly detailed. It's pretty astounding, even when you consider that penmanship and drawing was a huge obsession with the Victorian English. There was a sample of a letter written by Alice at age seven, and it is a work of art. So precise, so careful, and studied.
Now, before I get to this amazing artifact I mentioned earlier, it's important to put it in the context of the creation of Wonderland and how it all came about.
Charles Dodgson was a don at Christ Church, Oxford, and became friends with the new dean, Henry Liddell, his wife, and his three daughters, one of whom was named Alice. It became a routine that he and his colleague at the college would take the girls out for little excursions on the river in a rowboat, and Charles would tell them stories. One day, Charles told a story about Alice tumbling down a rabbit hole to a strange underground land, and Alice, who was around ten at the time, enjoyed the story so much that at the end of the day she asked Mr. Dodgson to write it down for her.
He went home, made a rough outline, expanded upon the story, illustrated it, and eventually presented it to her. It was titled Alice's Adventures Underground and would be the prototype for the first edition of the story we know as Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. What he created, complete with his illustrations that would become the model for many of Tenniel's, was on display at the Morgan Library, and I had to read the description several times before I was able to trust that I was in front of Alice's personal copy, the very first version of the story ever, which prior to this exhibit had not left the British Museum in thirty years.
Now, about the little girl portraits... Charles was a photographer, and he used little girls as subjects quite a bit, and would occasionally shoot them in scant dress. But it was all done with complete knowledge of the little girls parents. He would write to them and request they arrive in as little clothing possible. And no one was concerned. It wasn't considered remotely possible that they would be viewed as sexual objects (in spite of the implications of the Little Red Riding Hood story). And if this is the case, is it possible that Dodgson/Carroll was just shooting the beauty of children? I guess. Is the other possible as well? Yes. Will we ever know what was going on in his head? It's unlikely. Can we condemn him on the evidence provided? Again, I'm not sure.
But I do fall into the camp that, as we do not know for sure, we can appreciate and enjoy the art as a separate entity from the artist. And I can take a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that I'm more of an Oz fan anyway.
It's been a day of polarities. It was my first run through of my new program for classes, portraying a historical character for the Transit Museum, and in spite of all my fears and worries (or perhaps because of them, at least in small part... I'm still not over the idea of fear being useful as a motivator, no matter how persuasive Elizabeth Gilbert may be) I did not blank out in the middle of the twenty-five minute presentation. Everyone seemed to really enjoy it, and the educators and leaders were effusive in their praise of the story telling session. Was it perfect? No. But it was successful, and the first performance down of many.
After it was finished, I was surprised that the need was so strong in me for celebration. I needed some kind of commemoration of the day, and so I joined some of the other employees at The Shake Shack for burgers. Mine was a mushroom burger, as I'm still going strong in my plan of not eating pork or beef, even though I'm not quite ready to give up chicken, and it was delicious.
But then... I picked up my reproductions of my head shots, and in spite of being pleased by that step in the right direction (I haven't had an audition since my first), the evening settled into a strange kind of melancholy.
Maybe it's the realization that I can't, and never will be able to make New Yorkers do exactly as I want.
There will always be the ocassional nimrod who stops suddenly in the midst of a group of people crossing the street.
There will always be the lady who spreads out on the subway when she could easily scoot over and let someone (namely me) take a seat next to her.
And there will always be people who snake in front of me in line at the Duane Reade.
Likewise there will always be someone who doesn't follow the rules as I see them. And if I were smart I would realize that I can follow the rules closely as is my need and yet I don't have to be attached to others doing the same. I don't need to judge them or let them taint my day because they don't realize that they are heading up the stairs on the wrong side, blindly pushing into on-coming traffic. Why does that seem so difficult to do? Why does it feel like the option is follow the rules and secretly seethe over those who don't or... buy into the mayhem of a world where everyone does their own thing, which would entail my dancing in the streets against the pedestrian traffic lights, shoving my way onto the subway before letting passengers step off. Why must it always be one or the other?
Maybe it's that things aren't moving as quickly as I like, and I still need another job in order to make ends meet and that I haven't been as diligent in the search for work (either day job or auditions) as I should. And it may also be the fact that for the past couple of days I've shrugged off writing, promising to do it "later".
Maybe it's that my social life has not developed to it's fullest yet, and you can't fill up your dance card on the back of a few friends.
Maybe it's all of those. And of course, a solution is apparent, at least on some levels. Baby steps.
Call a friend
Write on my current project for fifteen minutes
Gather the info on those temp agencies I was referred to and plug them into the computer for easy usage later
Apply to one job tonight.
Go through the audition calls for ten minutes.
So, that's what I have promised to do. I wandered the streets of downtown Brooklyn for awhile, looking in at the shops for something to cure my ills, but when it comes down to it, the solution is as easy and as difficult as that. Do something. The thing that my mind is wheedling you to do. Even if I only do it for a small amount of time.
When October rolls around I find myself, like everyone else, wanting to celebrate and soak in all things spooky, mysterious and frightening. However, while I love being scared-- Silence of The Lambs, Vertigo, Paranormal Activity, Don't Be Afraid of The Dark, and An American Werewolf in London are just a few of my favorites-- "torture porn" like the Saw films, just ain't my thing, so I'm always hunting for the tamer specials and films of the season. Since Jessica Fletcher is always wandering into a murder in her travails (over, and over, and over...) It makes sense that a few of them would be more on the spooky side. The following list of Murder She Wrote episodes is a perfect prescription for a crisp fall evening. (Quick Sidebar) I watched the show with my mom from the very first episode (the two hour pilot The Murder of Sherlock Holmes) and I loved playing along with each episode trying out wit the writers to discover who the murderer was. As a kid, I was almost always stumped, but as an adult, many of them are relatively easy to solve. That's fine with me though, as I watch just as much for the celebrity cameos, Jessica's colorful scarves and alternating glam collars, and to see what she will pull from her vast grab bag of quizzical expressions.
Murder She Wrote, like The Love Boat and Fantasy Island before it, kept those aging actors working when few others would. So if you want to see Van Johnson, Audrey Meadows, Vivian Blaine, or Anne Blythe, get yourself over to Netflix and binge away.
But back to those special episodes I promised: Reflections of the Mind (season 2): features the previously mentioned Anne Blythe doing some terrifically watchable scenery chewing as a rich widow slowly being driven mad by the ghost of her dead husband. Night of The Headless Horseman (season 3): involves a small town school teacher who has convinced his town that Jessica is his visiting mother. There's a basic bastardized version of the Washington Irving story, and some delightfully bad acting by Barry Williams, aka Greg Brady, and Judy Landers (playing the chippy at the local tavern).
Fire Burn, Cauldron Bubble (season 5): is a riff on the themes covered in Arthur Miller's The Crucible. No, it's not about the societal repression and scape goating during the McCarthy hearings, it's just got witches doing crazy things in the woods. And, of course, Roddy McDowell who was certainly around when all that whizz was going down. The Witch's Curse (season 8): This one I have yet to see yet, but doubtless it will be delightful. Legacy of the Borby House (season 10): Ditto on this one in regards to viewing it, but it does have a great title. BORBY!!!!! Nan's Ghost Part 1 & 2 (season 12): This one I remember as one of my absolute favorites from when I was a wee dumpling of a thing. And in it Jessica is off to Ireland to battle ghosts and banshies and things that go bump in the night. If, however, that's not enough, there are three episodes I want to point you to. They feature the ladies of "Loretta's Beauty Parlor" and are three of the best. Kathryn Grayson as Ideal Molloy is worth it alone, but all the girls at the parlor are great comedic actresses. Enjoy! And feel free to let me know what you think of the episodes if you do end up checking them out. Also, if you can think of any great Halloween specials and/or films to check out, I'd love to hear about them.
October has always been one of my favorite months. The leaves as big as your face, the wind blowing in making everything colder than the "actual" temperature, the crispness, the apple cider and yes... the pumpkin spice. PS: When did loving all things pumpkin become the pinnacle of basic bitchiness? Fuck off whoever said it first, and a miniature fuck off to all the sheep that are listening. Pumpkins are awesome!! So...I will drink my pumpkin spice latte from the totes adorbs Starbucks whilst I recline on my divan, munching on apple cider doughnuts (for all you Texans, this is a real big thing on the East Coast) and as I wait for Crimson Peak to hit theaters, I will enjoy this little tidbit of Halloween nostalgia. It's performed by a man named Thurl Ravenscroft, no less. (For all of you who gays who love your retro trivia, Thurly (my pet name for him) is not only the performer of this song, but the uncredited vocalist on You're A Mean One Mister Grinch, from How The Grinch Stole Christmas. So for all of you who thought that you were so smart because you knew it was Boris Karloff, I hope it doesn't hurt too much to realize you were wrong. I mean, if he could have really sung like this, don't you think he would have done it a teensy bit more often? Skip to 1:08 if you aren't a fan of the DTV intro...
Speaking of DTV. Why, oh why didn't I appreciate the Disney Channel when it was at it's most amazing? Back when it aired programming based on the classic Disney content and not this bubblegum teeny bopper crap they churn out now? (Kids!!! Get off my lawn you nincompoops! Why back in my day...) Seriously though, seeing that intro brought back so many memories of me sitting in the tv room of my house in my undies while watching that show in the wee hours. Ahh, Childhood.
Woke up this morning at 9:05AM to the soothing sounds of NPR. Waking up relatively early to meet your friend in mid-town always sounds like a better idea the night before than it does the morning of. And yet, this will be a full day, so it's best to tackle the Broadway Flea Market early.
A few words on the Broadway Flea Market... this is an amazing annual event organized by "Broadway Cares" to raise money to fight Aids. It takes place in Times Square and all of Broadway unites to raise funds by selling books, programs, historical costume and set renderings, etc. Most of the major shows will have booths which sell items representing their show, and there's an auction for some of the bigger ticket items.
One thing I am still learning when it comes to getting ANYWHERE in New York- give yourself twenty minutes more time than you think you might need. I'd made plans to meet my friend Leslie at Juniors in New York, and unwittingly set my app to guide me toward a closed location at Grand Central Station, which of course, made me a good twenty minutes late. Luckily, she was a little late to, so it all kind of evened out.
Leslie brought her constant companion Lolly Lardpop, the five year old candy addict. If you are not familiar with Lolly, or her podcast...
Our first stop was to meet Laura Ware, who was helping her friend, the extremely talented artist Justin "Squigs" Robertson to man his booth.
Justin's portrait of Holland Taylor as Ann Richards
(Justin, Fill Milano, Laura, Lolly, Me)
Next we roamed the flea market, pawed through books and photos and costume renderings, and had a couple star sightings including Bryan Batt of "Mad Men", the hottest police officer known to man (literally scorching) and Seth Rudetsky.
I will say, as exciting as it was, it got overwhelming very quickly as it was completely packed with eager fans, and therefor, it was often difficult to get to the things at the booths. Luckily time passed quickly, and before we knew it, it was time to meet Chita Rivera. That's right, Chita. Leslie is friends with her, and we were able to meet up with her for a moment after she finished signing autographs. While we waited we talked with her daughter Rosie ( a gem of a real gem of a lady) and got to meet Jim Caruso who was hosting this portion of the Flea Market. Due to high demand, Chita signed well beyond the time she was booked to be there, and when she came down the stairs she was unbelievably charming, soulful, authentic and warm. There are some people that simply radiate kindness wherever they go, and she is certainly one of them. It was a true pleasure to meet her.
After meeting Chita, fatigue started to set in, and I had another event to go to, so I parted ways with Leslie and Lolly and headed off to Brooklyn and the "Atlantic Antic". The Antic is a giant street festival in its 41st year, celebrating Brooklyn. My new place of employment "The New York Transit Museum" had several antique buses featured. I didn't have to work the festival, but I definitely wanted to view the buses and support my new work mates.
It was well worth it, as Atlantic Avenue was packed tight with revelers, food and music. In truth, I wanted to eat everything. There was fried chicken with waffles, Mexican Corn, doughnuts, kettle corn, jerk chicken... I felt like that rat from "Charlotte's Web" who stalks the fair at night just gorging himself. I DID limit myself and settled upon something tempting that I'd never had before. It was called an Arepa (melted mozzarella sandwiched between two sweet corn cakes) and it was the perfect combo of savory and sweet. I could have eaten seven. I didn't. Instead I distracted myself by listening to the Cuban Jazz and the Carribean music. Eventually I did have something else, a banana cupcake with chocolate hazelnut frosting from Mahalo New York Bakery, and oh my Jesus, it was so moist and delicious.
On the way home from the festivities I passed a couple of ladies photographing the moon and was drawn in by it for a bit. It's funny, because I hadn't realized tonight was the night of the SUPER MOON. The moon would be closer than ever for one night only, and it would be eclipsed, and around eleven o'clock easter it would appear blood red in the sky. It was quite a talking point on the way home, and for someone new to the neighborhood it was a welcome excuse to meet and chat with folks on the street, and tok, not about weather or crime or directions, but about this natural but somewhat astounding natural event.
And now, much later, it's time for me to flop down on my air mattress and recharge. Til' tomorrow!
I learned a very valuable lesson on Thursday after an interview for a position with the The New York Transit Museum. My lesson? When it comes to a choice of two types of shoe:
1. comfortable and a little on the casual side.
2. dressy and new, but pinchy and uncomfortable.
Choose option 1. For Lord's sake choose 1.
I went for style, and ended up walking five miles in those miniature torture chambers. By the end of the day I was happily, and gingerly walking behind some of the slower New Yorkers just so I'd have an excuse to give my feet a needed break.
On the upside, the interview went pretty well, and after it was complete I had the opportunity to
wander around a bit. I definitely recommend doing so if you feel the need of a good escape, as the beautifully preserved subway cars (complete with vintage ads) give the wonderful feeling of tripping through time.
My walk back to Brooklyn included a really lovely, small pleasure when I was greeted by the haunting sound of a trumpet. It was such a lovely ambient, distinctly New York sound, kind of lonely and wistful. When I got close enough to where the sound was coming from I looked up the wall of an apartment building and could make out the glint of a brass trumpet bell being aimed out the second floor window. So the music was not some random practicing, but a deliberate gift to New York from an unknown musician. It was a great moment.
As you most likely know, I returned from Greene, New York exactly a week ago, and have since settled in at a beautiful apartment in Brooklyn. I'll be living with my dear friends Kirk German and Heather Huggins in a lovely, brand new building in a neighborhood that is half Hasidic Jews, and half Caribbean. It's got a lovely and diverse feel to it, and I'm less than a quarter of a mile away from an amazing kosher market which is chock full of all the Kosher foods I've been developing such a strong affinity for lately. Bagels, lox, knishes, chocolate babka... it's all there and I could not be happier.
The apartment itself has many perks- a bright orange entry door, big windows letting in lots of light, big bedrooms and spacious common areas, central air conditioning, washer and dryer units in the building, and 2 bathrooms! There have been some minor adjustments due to the newness of the complex, including current lack of wi-fi which has me frequenting coffee shops and library even more than usual, but all in all it's been smooth and lovely. I'm awfully grateful to Kirk and Heather doing reconnesaince while I was upstate, and the apartment is going to be a great home base for creative ventures.
My bedroom, so far, is pretty empty. I've got a couple of suitcases full of clothes and a few books, but it all feels rather impermanent, and the nester in me is really looking forward to the next week when some of my belongings will be coming. In the meantime however, I'm very grateful for the air mattress I rest my little head upon.
I've recently returned to New York City from my brief drop-in to Greene, New York to play Reuben Soady (Jeff Daniel's alter-ego) in his play Escanaba In Da Moonlight. It was really wonderful to see so many people show up (the town itself is so small that you often wonder where the people are coming from), and to get such apparent joy at the tale of the Soady families freaky and flatulent night on the eve before deer hunting season. As much as I enjoyed the experience, and I'm very proud of the show, I am grateful to be back. Six weeks in a theatre in a small town, with one car shared amongst four of us, and lots and lots of free time can leave even the cheeriest person a little on the surly side, and I found myself going more than a little bonkers. Luckily there were some wonderful friends to pass the time with, but you can't spend every waking second with them, and how many times can one drive to Barnes and Noble? (Answer: A lot). All of this led to me, netflix and more oreos than I care to count, and thank God it was toward the end of the run that I realized it was possible to replace some of the constant snacking with sketching. I had attempted some writing, and found myself in a dry spell when it came to words, but I was able to churn out a few "drawrings", as Simon says.
Whatever you do, don't look at her hands. :)
Girly man, my favorite kind
For those of you who were not able to attend, here are a few photos taken but the director Bill Lelbach, and feature our terrific cast (Including Dan Romero, Dan Mian, Emily Goodell, Scott Isert Huffman and Chris Knickerson, as well as his rustic set.
The absolutely charming Barby Kahl designed our costumes. She won me on the first day when she called me "dear" and "darling". I loved every endearment. To be fair, I am not the only one she called this, but I liked to pretend it was just me. What you don't see in the photos is how well loved and cared for and herded we were by Liz Howell ( my cohort on so many adventures), or how much hard work Joey Velas put into making the set look as great as it did. NOR can you see the lovely and feisty Faith White, who did every task under the sun, aided by Sandra Houde also who hosted a couple great gatherings at her and Bill's home. Thanks to everyone involved, for shining your light ,and allowing me to call you "puddin'" and "bitch" on alternating days.
