Island at the End of the World

From Hot to Cold.

2009-04-30T10:51:00.002-04:00

It was July. The city was hot. The Mormon was gone and I was deep into rehearsals. He had left a blazer at my apartment and his scent clung to it and I clung to that scent. I would come at night exhausted after 8 hours of work and four hours of rehearsal and grab the jacket, curl up on the floor and inhale his scent. I needed it. The scent faded quickly. Finally, I knew it was best to fold the jacket up and put it into the closet. I was still occasionally emailing the Mormon. We talked on the phone one or two times. I made a point of saying, "It's JV" every time I called him and thought he was overstepping the bounds of intimacy by saying, "It's me" when he phoned. He sent me a text one morning from an IHOP, remembering our IHOP experience in Miami. But most of the time, he was cold. Distant. Lost to me.

Instead of clinging to that jacket like Emma in 'Song & Dance' singing 'Tell Me On a Sunday', I knew it would be better out of sight.

Rehearsals for 'Icarus' were intense and extraordinary. The play explored lots of issues and themes that I found uncomfortable in my own life: self-worth, beauty, worthiness. I invited the Mormon to our final rehearsal in the city. He said, "maybe." I stood outside 520 8th Avenue smoking a cigarette and waiting until the last possible minute. He didn't show. I remembered how a month or so before he casually tossed of an "of course I am" when I said I hoped he would come to Texas to see the play. Now I couldn't even get him in the same room with me in the same city.

'Icarus' was a blessing for me. It remains the best show I've directed before or since. It was a combination of striking visuals and mostly strong performances. There was a rawness and a power to it that I haven't felt often. I enjoyed being in Texas. It was different. It was fresh. The days were hot and dry. We came to the theatre and into piles and piles of sand in front of a staircase that reached to the sky, an angel's wing in the process of being painted on to it. Magical Realism at it's best.

The days went quickly and the nights were painfully slow. I would have trouble falling asleep, but no trouble waking up in the morning. I would go for long hikes in the woods and return energized, sweaty and ready for rehearsal. The closer we came to opening, the more I felt all the elements of the show coming together. Tech is always my favorite part of any rehearsal process. It's usually the first time that everyone involved in the production is in the room together, working toward the same goal. I could sit for hours and play with light and sound, watching the actors get comfortable in the space, adjust their blocking, or just sit around talking. It's magic.

I had had a single date right before leaving. It was a set up; a friend of a friend. We met in Soho and went to some expensive, fancy seafood place. He was nice, nondescript, older than me, stuffy. We had little to say and the evening was prolonged by drinks after dinner. At least he paid. I was surprised to get a text from him in Texas wishing me a happy opening. But would I hear from the Mormon.

On opening night, I was in the theatre before the house opened. The actors were backstage, the crew was backstage and I was, surprisingly, all alone. I stood there in the sand looking up at the giant angel's wing and I thought about what I had done, what I had created, what I had dreamed into life here. And I thought about the Mormon and what he had destroyed, what he had killed, what he had given up. There was a tap on my shoulder and one of the interns handed me a note. "Someone wanted me to give this to you." My heart jumped. Was it the Mormon? Was he outside in the lobby? Was he here for me, finally? I opened it up and it was something scrawled in blue ink on a piece of notebook paper. Silly lines about someone having a secret crush on me. I crumpled it up and tossed it in a waste basket. He wasn't coming. He wasn't ever going to come back to me. I knew it and I didn't want to know it.

The audience began to file in and I put him out of mind. The set designer, the lighting designer and I sat next to each other grasping hands as the lights went down. We all knew we had created something beautiful, but would the audience know? Would they get it? To a point, they did. But asking people to face the ugliness and insecurities inside of themselves is never easy. They were polite, hushed. The critics were kind. Opening nights are lonely for me. The director puts the show behind him and leaves the family. They go on playing without you.

The rest of my time flew by quickly. I went rock climbing (see an earlier entry). I hit all my favorite spots: Papasito's, the Paris Coffee Shop, etc. And I got ready to go home. I knew when I did, the Mormon needed to be faced. I had to return his jacket and some other items. He had some of my stuff as well. My friends told me not to do it. "Don't see him in person." Why not? Shouldn't he have to see me? Shouldn't he have to face me and hand me things I had left with him?

On a rainy Sunday afternoon we met at a coffee shop on Bedford Ave in Williamsburg. I was first and I grabbed a table outside, under an awning. I sipped my coffee. I heard a rumble behind me and I watched his truck back into a parking spot. What was I thinking? What did I want? For him to say, I was wrong. I miss you. Take me back. And would I have? At that point? Yes. I would have. But he didn't. We chatted over coffee. I handed him a paper bag with his things. He handed me a plastic bag with mine. We said goodbye. Immediately upon returning home, the skies cleared and the sun came out. It was late August but cool for that time of year. I went online and wrote him an email. "I know this is difficult. I would like to keep you in my life. I don't want to burn the bridge...etc." He emailed back directly: We'll see. I usually find it necessary to burn the bridge, etc.

Very few emails were exchanged after that. I told him I was taking a writing class he had taken, with the teacher who had been a sort of mentor for him. Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe not. It started me writing again. But on Monday nights I would come home late, cross under the BQE and hope to see his truck parked in front of the house waiting for me because he knew where I was and when I'd be home. In class, I didn't write about him. The exercises took me back to another time. Another person. Other relationships. But on my own I began to craft a piece about our short time together. Almost six months but it felt longer. How can one touch you so quickly, so deeply and then disappear? It's a part of life.

I went to the gym. I went to work. I started internet dating (see earlier entry) and I got on with my life. We no longer emailed. The city began to be mine again in a way it hadn't been in a long time. Walking the streets by myself at any time of the day or night, I remembered that feeling I had when I first moved here. I had changed so much. And then I realized I didn't really want to be dating so 'goodbye Match.com.'

I've only seen the Mormon four times since that last coffee meeting. Once on 42nd Street as I cleared a barrier and there he was waiting for someone who was taking him to the opening night of 'Mary Poppins.' I told him I had left at intermission when I'd seen the show in London. I made sure that when I passed him again I was smoking a cigarette and he could see me and I "ignored" him.

Once on the subway platform at 42nd Street on my birthday. I was going through a particularly rough time at work. I was reaching the end of my rope (the first time) and the Loved One and I had just spent a weekend at his parents. As I heard the subway approach I turned and there he was, standing on the platform; hair uncharacteristically slicked back, a fancy coat and all dressed up. Pretending to be someone he wasn't. I don't know if he saw me. The Loved One and I got on a different car, I made sure of that.

One morning on the G train he appeared before me. I recognized his swagger as we made our way down the long hallway in which you transfer from the G to the E. I'm a fast walker and he was in no rush, his head held high, whistling. Like a maniac I made my way to the moving platform (I hate the people who use the moving platform, by the way. It doesn't get you there that much quicker and just fucking walk.) I weaved my way in and out of people to pass him and go on.

And, finally, only a few months ago. Once again going through an extremely rough time at work, I had a particularly intense therapy session. I had committed to meeting the Loved One and his friend for dinner in Chelsea afterwards. With my iPod on and tears in my eyes I made my way on the L to 8th Avenue. I exited on 17th Street and 8th to avoid as much of the cold as possible. When I hit 8th Avenue, the street was busy. When I crossed 18th Street, everyone had mysteriously disappeared. The street lights cast there amber glow on the street and I saw the world through a haze of tears in my eyes. I glanced up the street ahead of me and there he was, walking toward me with an American Apparel bag and a coat and hat I recognized from two years ago. It had been two years. He saw me and opening his mouth either in surprise or to say something and all I could do was laugh, shake my head from side to side and turn in to the restaurant, to the Loved One and leave the Mormon behind, alone, on 8th Avenue, in the cold.

Sad Sunday

2009-04-27T15:19:00.003-04:00

Every night I have dreams revolving around work. When you have almost nothing to do at the office during the day, then fall asleep at night dreaming of the importance of nothingness...it gets taxing.

It reminds me of when, during my freshman year at NYU, I had a work study with the Morse Academic Plan. This was a new program designed for incoming freshman at the College of Arts and Sciences. Every student had to pick classes from a core curriculum; NYU's version of Liberal Arts education. A small part of my job was ordering teacher copies of books through publishers and distributors. A large part of my job was photocopying class schedules, curriculums (curriculi? finiculi finicula finiculi finucula....). I would often stand at a copy machine for 3-4 hours a shift. At night, I would dream I was standing at a photocopy machine. Tedium begets tedium.

Taking a break from working in our own garden, the Loved One and I ventured out to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden on Sunday. The weather was perfect and the grounds were lovely. The experience was ruined though by the sight of EMT's furiously working on a young person that had passed out near the cafe. Security were keeping the perimeter clear around the kid and I could see an EMT worker administering CPR; another had an oxygen tank at the ready. The Loved One had to walk away. I scanned the crowd and there was no sight of parents around. Onlookers mostly tried NOT to look.

We went into the conservatory to look at the Bonsai trees but I could still see the scene taking place. I couldn't see the kid, only the soles of black sneakers. From this view, I could see the EMT worker massaging the kid's heart.

We moved on from Bonsais and into another room. I was distracted. I wanted to know what was going on. When we finally left the conservatory we had to walk around the scene where the action had just taken place. At some point they had managed to move the kid and the only sign of the event was a pile of medical paraphernalia or, rather, the packaging it comes in. We walked past two park officers and I heard one say, It doesn't look very good for her, man. Does it?

My heart sank.

I had a dream involving water this weekend. No, I didn't pee the bed. But whenever I do it often portends big changes in my life. Fingers crossed.

And I'm obsessed with the story of the Craig's List Killer.

Potential. Not Yet.

2009-04-24T13:47:00.002-04:00

At 13, I was probably around 5'5" tall and 135lbs or so. For every inch I grew taller, I grew two inches wider. My hair was blow-dryed and moussed until spiky. I had big framed, semi-tinted glasses. I had braces. What did I know? It was 1989.

The Prep was an imposing building. Jesuits are all about community service so the school is located in the heart of the Philadelphia ghetto of North Philly. The building itself, oddly enough, seems designed to let no one see out and no one see in. How's that for community? The classroom windows were at the very top of the wall right below the ceiling and barely a foot tall. So they let in some light. But it mostly was like going to school in a three-story bunker.

During our first week of school, a group of us were standing in a line on the corner of 16th and Girard waiting for the #2 SEPTA bus to take us home to South Philly, or Center City, or the train station, or wherever. A trolley went by and a group of young kids hung their heads out the window, yelling and screaming at us. Someone said, "they're from the school for bad kids. Don't mess with them." We stood there, waiting.

Suddenly, the group from the trolley turned the corner. They had gotten off at the next stop. They started going down the line taking money off of kids, stealing watches, tossing bags, instilling fear. One of them came up to me and lifted up the sleeve of my sports jacket, eyed my watch and then walked by. What? Didn't he want a Phantom of the Opera time piece? None of us said anything or moved a muscle at first. But then, as if on cue, we all ran down the block and back into the school. That half a block was as far as I had ever run and I was panting, but I was safe. Our parents were called to come pick us up.

I didn't care. This was better than grade school. I was surrounded by new people, which excited and terrified me, and there was theatre here! The entrance to the theatre was located right in the lobby of the building and if I was lucky enough to have Dad drop me off in the morning, I would walk in the main entrance and sneak into the theatre just to look at it. Intimate, red-bricked walls and a small stage, this is where my dreams of performing would come true. "Into the Woods", look out!

Imagine my surprise when I learned that the priest who was head of drama left the school. But..but...that's why I came here! I was going to star in musicals for him! I was going to be the person I always wanted to be by pretending to be different people! I had made friends with this priest, speaking with him after all three performances of 'Evita' we had come to see. Gone.

The Cape and Sword players had been taken over by a middle-aged English teacher by the name of Mr. Griffin. I didn't know him. When auditions were announced for 'Our Town', I wondered what kind of musical that was. Much to my dismay, it wasn't a musical at all. It was a play. An ooooold play. People standing around talking? So boring. Being on stage means singing! But I would audition anyway. There was talk of a musical in the Spring and I would have to be in that.

I was terrified when the audition day actually came around. I made my way into the theatre with my heart in my throat and my stomach churning. Other students were scattered throughout the theatre but no one I knew. Girls and boys giggled in groups together. I recognized some from the cast of 'Evita.' I recognized other boys from the hallways. But no one I knew. I made my way down the aisle and took a seat.

I must have signed up for an audition spot. I can't recall. I must have prepared something for the audition. I can't imagine what. Perhaps we had to read from the play; a speech of the Stage Manager's? That sounds right. I'm sure my body trembled as I stood downstage center proclaiming lines in my young voice over which I had no powers of modulation. I was always either extremely loud or quiet as a mouse. There was no in-between. And I was loudest when I was singing. It was like God had deposited a microphone in my voice box. Self-amplification.

So there I stood, center stage, script in one hand the other hand waving wildly butchering the words of Mr. Thornton Wilder. I wonder if my voice shook as hard as my leg most likely did. I probably adjusted my weight from side-to-side in an effort to stop from shaking or because I was nervous. This was my first time actually doing it. Outside of my bedroom. But there was no nuance. No drama. Just youth and fire.

I finished. Was that a smattering of applause I heard? In my head there was a roar; the relief of getting it over and done with.

I walked to the back of the theatre where Mr. Griffin was sitting. I stood by him as he talked to someone else. I snuck a look at his notepad. Under my name he had scribbled: Potential. Not yet.

My heart broke. I knew write then and there this was not to be My Town. I also knew there was a ton to learn. But tears in my eyes, I shook his hand and thanked him. I walked out the door and into the library. I had work study to complete.

Free Ride

2009-04-23T10:31:00.002-04:00

There was some drama surrounding which high school I would attend.

Most all of the boys from grade school assumed they would attend the local all-boys high school, St. John Neuman. Most of the girls attended the sister school, St. Maria Goretti.

My parents had bucked the trend seven years earlier by sending my brother to St. Joseph's Preparatory School, an all-boys Jesuit run high school in north Philadelphia. You went to the Prep with the expectation that you were going to college. The Prep was a better school than Neuman. The focus on academics was fierce. The classes were small. Not many from grade school would be attending. I was pretty much sold.

Then I was given a full scholarship to Neuman. What would we do? There was a big dinner/ceremony at a local hall. I attended with my parents and the principal of my school, Sister Something Something. Nuns always had two names. When we first started school, they had a man's name (Sister William Anthony, Sister Bob Jim). Then there must have been some kind of Papal decree allowing them to feminize themselves and suddenly they were women again (Sister Mary Rita, Sister Clair). I don't remember the name of my principal but she was very sweet and very proud and it was very awkward going to a dinner with my parents and her.

At the same time, I was making numerous trips to the Prep to test it out. These trips mostly consisted of dragging my parents to see their Spring production of "Evita", that's right I said "Evita" at an all-boys Jesuit school, three times and talking endlessly with the priest who was in charge of drama there, The Cape and Sword Players. I was thrilled to learn that he was planning on doing "Into the Woods" next year. There really was no decision, the Prep it was to be.

A few days later Mom received a phone call from Neuman. They wanted to confirm my attendance for the Fall. "Actually," Mom said "He'll be attending St. Joseph's Prep." I was sitting on the living floor in front of her, doing homework. All I heard from the other end of the line was yelling. Finally Mom said, "Yes, I know. Thank you very much and hung up." Then she burst out laughing. "That man just yelled at me! 'Are you crazy, lady? Do you know how much that school costs?! You'll be paying it off forever. He's got a free ride here!'"

Well, there are no "free rides" anywhere. And I would have had to pay dearly had I attended Neuman.

So alternating between playing Eva Peron and the Witch in my bedroom, I prepared for high school.

Bedtime Stories

2009-04-22T10:50:00.002-04:00

As obsessed as I currently am with reading 'Columbine' by Dave Cullen, I can't seem to allow myself to pick it up once I'm home at night.

I can read it in the morning.

I can read it on the subway to work.

I can even read it on the subway home after work.

But once I walk in my front door, I have to put it down. The Loved One is still out of town and I think the book causes anxiety in me. Maybe I fear someone will come in and gun me down in the middle of the night? Maybe I fear I'll be plagued with bad dreams in which I'm gunned down? I don't know. I just accept it. The book is a fascinating study of the events that surrounded the shootings. Previously I was unaware that the two shooters had planted three bombs around the school that, if successfully had detonated, could have killed more than 2,000 students and teachers. Thankfully, Eric Harris was not so adept at wiring. But still, to think that they planned it for a year and half and got away with as much as they did especially when there were so many signals blaring in their direction that help was needed.

Be more aware of signals.

So at night I climb into bed with my dad's old copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales illustrated by Maurice Sendak. I take comfort in each story as the main character triumphs over their many obstacles. Of course I haven't reached the truly violent or scary stories yet so maybe they too will plague my dreams. At the moment, I'm comforted by them and they remind me of when I would grab the fairy tale book my mother had as a child (in my possession now but too fragile to read) and crawl into my father's lap and make him read to me at night. One story was never enough. There was one I made Dad read to me over and over. The name escapes me but it's about a young boy who's perceived as dumb by his father and older brothers. There is a contest to win the hand of a princess in marriage. The silly young boy wins each and every contest through his creativity. There's something involving a dead bird and mud in a wooden shoe...I'll have to look at it again. Along with the traditional Rapunzel and Cinderella story. Although not Grimm, I recall these tales as being dark and violent as well.

Stymied by more rejections this week. I would start keeping track of them but that would be too overwhelming. Also overwhelming is the amount of people saying, "I know something will happen. I can feel it." No, you don't know that. So stop saying it. In this business, it could never happen. And that's the risk we take. Blah blah blah.

Had drink with the Muse last night. She's trying to push me to finish the play. So close. But then it needs a revision. And then it needs to be sent out. Meaning, more risks need to be taken.

I'd like my life to be like a fairy tale, though.

And he lived happily ever after...

Another Weekend in the Country: Part 2

2009-04-21T11:41:00.004-04:00

Sunday was quiet and lovely.

The Loved One and I went on a long drive.

A garden store/nursery amused us with their sign:

Spring

Is

Here

Pansies

How'd they know? We laughed over that for a while.

Sunday evening on the drive back to Albany, we passed a store that had a long, confusing sign. All I made out was "specializing in Church septic systems."

I yelled out "Holy Shit!"

Another Weekend in the Country

2009-04-20T13:48:00.003-04:00

The Loved One was sent to Vermont for eight days to open up a store.

I was going to let the time pass, lonely and depressed, but after suffering an unwarranted amount of self-imposed stress and anxiety at work, I decided it might be best to get out of town and join him. Unfortunately, this meant missing "Ruined" with the Muse on Sunday; a play I still have to make a point to see (and which, I'm expecting, will be announced as a Pulitzer Prize winner in just about an hour).

I left work early on Friday evening to catch a 5:43pm train to Albany, the closest station to Manchester, VT. I actually had some work to do last week, intermittently, and was trying to negotiate a deal pertaining to an industrial that my company is producing in the Bahamas in June. The details of the negotiation are pointless and boring but the factors around it were completely unmanageable and I was convinced, in my crazy head, that the deal would fall apart (it did, today) and that I would be held responsible (I wasn't). But in my head I was. And it kept repeating like a broken record. And I was negotiating in my head. And I was thinking of what I could have done differently. And the Producer was out of the country so we'd only been going over the details of the negotiation over email. Thus, my stress. I can't gauge her mood or state-of-mind through written word. So I heap these feelings and thoughts upon myself. Unhealthy, yes. But out of my control at the moment.

Perhaps, I thought, a weekend in Vermont would be good. It would be nice to be with the Loved One and not alone. And I secured a dog sitter at the very last moment. I was off.

Amtrak was slow. It seemed to take forever to get from Penn Station to Poughkeepsie. It was obvious we were running 15 to 20 minutes late. The Loved One would already be on his way to meet me though, so to call and warn at this point was pointless. I restlessly paged through Mary Roach's "bonk" and stared at the setting sun through the dirty train car window. I didn't feel like listening to music. So the noise of the machine on the tracks and the conversations of strangers around me where my soundtrack. When the final bit of sunlight disappeared I put on my iPod.

The Loved One was waiting for me when I stepped off the train. He had been working without much time for food all day so he was starving. I was dealing with never really being hungry as a result of the anti-depressant. It was late though and something needed to be done. The restaurants in the Vermont hotel, over an hour away, would be closed by the time we got there. We decided to eat in Albany.

God bless the citizens of this city. We drove around for almost as long as my train ride looking for a parking space -- Friday night in a college town. The streets themselves though were oddly quiet and empty. We went to a Mexican restaurant, whose name escapes me, that the Loved One had been to before. Another symptom of my depression is that details are fuzzy. I'm unfocused and not quite here most of the time. I can get through the days but I function on a different plane; one somewhere above the level my body inhabits. I'm assuming its a protective measure. If I'm too present, I'll feel too much. And if I feel too much, I won't be able to function. So, I float in a fuzzy hemisphere, in a fog.

Where was I? Mediocre Mexican food! Yes, and a margarita. So much for not drinking when on the anti. Then the long car ride to Vermont. I can't describe the scenic drive because it was pitch black outside the car window and so nothing to see. The Loved One and I made infrequent conversation and I tried to quell the voice in my head that kept repeating "Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece.

Miss Reece is the former athlete whose presence I was trying to negotiate for the industrial. A week ago, I had no idea who she was. I'm still not entirely sure. But she was on "repeat" mode in my brain.

The Loved One had described the Equinox Spa and Resort as "The Hotel Fauchere but on a bigger scale." As we drove up to it, he was right. The long white columns stretched up to the heavens. Green rocking chairs were lined up on the porch, matching green shutters graced both sides of every window. We drove around the front entrance, past the town houses the Equinox rents and to the back parking lot. As we wrapped around the property I was able to see just how big it really was. Three floors in some places, four in others, the Equinox's arms wrapped around the property like the piazza in front of the Vatican in Rome. It also reminded me of the Dreams Tulum hotel the Muse and I stayed at for a few days while in Mexico. The pool, gym and spa area were housed separately from the main building in a complex all their own. A huge bubble-like enclosure a few feet away housed tennis courts. The falconry school was to our left.

The Loved One was exhausted from working all day and had to be up early the next morning to be back at the store. We went to bed, my mind still racing (Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece) and the anti-depressant keeping my awake. A few hours later as I was drifting in and out of a dream-like state, I was awakened by a loud noise above me. It sounded like a stampede that was moving furniture on their way. I was shocked by the severity of the noise because the carpet was so thick. It took a lot of energy to be that loud. I looked for the clock but realized the Loved One had turned it over, face down, because it was so bright. I put a pillow over my head and tossed and turned til daybreak.

With the Loved One off to work, I took a walk. The streets of Manchester are, oddly, paved in marble. I was fascinated by this as I followed the trail away from the hotel, down past beautiful houses and into the woods. The marble ended abruptly and I found that the path I was on ended at a private home. My shoes covered in mud, I headed in the other direction. People in cars stared at me as they drove past, as if no one walks in the suburbs when you can drive. But I'm a walker. I said hello to the few people I passed. I stopped in a home store that sold some of the brightest, ugliest home furnishings and decorations I've ever laid eyes upon and went back the hotel. It not even 11am yet but I assumed the stores in Manchester Village would be opening soon. First a bite to eat.

I had walked around earlier looking for breakfast, which I was told was in the Marsh Room but wasn't. On my walk around the property I had seen the room where in fact breakfast was. I had pulled a random book off my shelf as I was running out the door that morning because I knew I was almost finished 'bonk'. So I had Martha Quest by Doris Lessing in my hand as I walked into the bright breakfast room. But much like the title character in the first few pages, I was restless and couldn't concentrate on anything. And I wanted attention. I ordered some waffles at the grill station and waited. It was late for breakfast and few people were in the room. A couple and their 20-something child who struck me as not a very nice young woman. I couldn't hear what she was saying but the know-it-all tone of her voice carried through the room. Waiters carried tray after tray out the door. I guess a lot of people order room service. A waiter finally came by and asked if I wanted orange juice. Then disappeared.

My waffles were ready. I piled them high with fresh fruit and then some warm Vermont maple syrup. They were slightly undercooked but I was hungry. A few strips of bacon and I was set. I passed on coffee when the waiter finally came around. My eyes ran over the words in the book in front of me but nothing really computed internally. Finally, I finished and I wanted to leave. The waiter and the grille chef were having some sort of argument, not even behind closed doors, so I packed up my bag and stood around awkwardly waiting to be noticed. Story of my life. Finally I was seen and the waiter came over with the check. "One breakfast buffet," he said. Well, not really. I just had waffles. I opened the bill. $25! For waffles and fruit! That's more money then I spend on two meals in the city! I grudgingly handed him my ATM card and made a note to avoid that mistake again. $25 for undercooked waffles, bacon and a glass of OJ? Ridiculous.

I asked the concierge for a ride into town. The staff here were no where near as friendly as at the Fauchere. I was greeted cordially, but not warmly. My request was weighed heavily as if I had asked for something out of the ordinary, not clearly defined in the amenity section of the hotel's information guide. Each concierge tried to push off the duty to another until, finally, a crazed looking man with an orange toupee on top of some white tendrils came bounding towards me. "I'll take you, sir!" Thanks, I said. And please don't call me sir. I looked at his name tag. Howard.

Howard opened the door for me and bounded around the SUV like an excited child off to playtime. "Where in town do you want to go? Do you have a coupon book?" Oh, anywhere really. No, I don't have a coupon book. "You can't go out without one!" And before I could stop him, crazy Howard was out of the SUV and bounding into the hotel. He was more like a baby golden retriever actually; all energy and eager to please, limbs akimbo. He came back down the stairs with things in his hand. I couldn't find the button to put the window down and he opened the door, instead of just going around to his side of the car, getting in and handing me the papers. "Coupon book and a map!" Great. Thanks.

He bounded around the SUV again and took a seat beside me. "Now. Where did you say?" Uhm, I think there's an old bookstore in town, kind of in the center. I think I'll start there.

"Well, it's not actually an old bookstore. It sells mostly new things. There's a nice cafe inside as well. I'll point out some things on the drive..." And he kept talking but I tuned him out, finding the safer shores of my invisible depressive plane a welcome respite from Howard's conversation. Every once in a while, I would tune back in. "There's the Maidenform outlet. But I guess you don't need anything there, huh? Ha ha ha ha ha." Away again.

When we pulled up to the bookstore Howard handed me a card. "Call us when you want a ride back. Just tell us what store you're at and give us about five minutes or so to get there." Ok. He made a move to open his door and come around to get me but I stopped him. You don't have to do that Howard. I'm perfectly capable.

I offended him. "We're a four star hotel. We like to provide four star service." I appreciate that. But I've got it.

And to offend him even more I said, Listen. I don't have any cash on me so can I leave you a tip at the front when I get back?

"That's not why I was doing it," he said, puppy dog eyes and wounded ego.

Thanks, Howard. And I got out of the car. I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. I wasn't assuming anything about him. Besides the fact that he was a little off-center. But, so am I. A bookstore would remedy that. The Northshire Bookstore is very large. It's badly laid out and difficult to find anything specifically. Luckily, I wasn't being specific so I lazily browsed the shelves and made mental notes about books I'd want to buy at a later date, when used copies go on-sale on B&N.com. But I did need something to read. I picked up a few things but still couldn't concentrate. My depression had locked me in limbo and not even books could break me out.

I walked down to the Loved Ones store and he took me on a quick tour. From there, I hit the J. Crew outlet. Suddenly, shopping became the sole cure. Stacking my arms full of clothes, I wandered the second floor like a man on a mission. These deals were too good to pass up. $29 for a shirt regularly priced at $69? I'll take two. Shorts for $30 a piece instead of $70? I need three pair. Oh! Blue-striped pants. I can't have enough of those. $25! Add them to the pile. I've always wanted a pair of Seersucker pants. I'll try those on too!

Luckily I was able to ween down the pile of clothes once in the dressing room. Mostly because some things did not fit me and I refused to go out in search of a larger size. This medication had better take some weight off of me.

At the register I remembered the coupon book Howard at given me and I paged through it to see if a J. Crew one was in there. Score! $10% off purchases over $150. Done. And I walked out with a bag overflowing with summer clothes. Now, I needed shoes. I crossed the street to the shoe store and picked up a pair of Clarks. Nothing in Ralph Lauren. Nothing in Michael Kors. Nothing in Maidenform...

I called the Loved One and asked if I could dump my purchases in the car before heading back to the bookstore, by way of the GAP outlet. I picked up a short-sleeved button down shirt at GAP and a pair of jeans for $12. Nice. Thrifty. And as I carried those things to the bookstore I suddenly had the thought, It's probably not the smartest idea in the world for someone thinking of quitting their job to be going on a shopping spree.

The realities of retail therapy far outweigh the high of buying. And never had it struck so quickly and decisively. I retreated to my plane, happier (?) in the hazy hemisphere.

I remembered reading something about a memoir that sounded interesting. I thought it was called "If You Find This Letter..." or "If You Find This Note..." or something like that. I had picked it up a few times at Barnes and Noble in Union Square and then read about in a magazine recently. It's about a woman going through a terrible divorce and in the midst of it she learns that her sister has been murdered by her boyfriend. The relatives find a letter that basically says, "if you find this that means that X has killed me..."

But I wasn't certain that was the title. I didn't know the author. And I couldn't find paperback non-fiction. I asked one of the clerks who said, "They sometimes get mixed in with Fiction, actually. Also you could try the Biography section." I had to bite my tongue from saying not every memoirist is James Frey. They don't belong in fiction. And you have about 100 shelves of fiction, I can't possibly go through each and every one. Instead I huffed over to Biography because it was a smaller section. Book by book I went though to no avail. The entire time I was listening to two men on the other side of the stacks talking about the local theatre scene. One of the men was in Blithe Spirit somewhere in town and the other was asking why he wasn't in some musical at the other theatre in town. "Well," the first man said, "They asked me to do it. But I'm just so happy working at the other theatre and the artistic director really gets me that I don't know if I wanna work at the other place anymore." And I thought, could I possibly make a life in the theatre for myself in a town like this? In Vermont? Is that even possible. The Loved One and I spend lots of time of moving to the country, opening up a store or a B&B or both. Would I be directing Community Theater at the local Rec Hall and would that be enough? It would be more than now.

I couldn't find the book. I walked over to new non-fiction and kept picking up a new book on the Columbine shootings but it was $26 and did I really want to immerse myself in that. I really wanted the 10th Anniversary edition of Nerve photos and essays but that was $40...and not after a $25 breakfast. Columbine weighed heavy in my hand. I looked at my watch. I had hours before the Loved One was free. My bag was in the car and I didn't feel like going back to get it to write. I picked up a copy of a book called The Kindly Ones that sounded fascinating. But it was huge and $29. So, Columbine it was.

I grabbed a coffee, pulled up a chair in the cafe and started reading about an American massacre.

Generic Meds

2009-04-17T10:37:00.002-04:00

Today is my second day on Wellbutrin. I'm still depressed, lonely, defeated, isolated and shut down. So it's obviously not working.

Upon closer inspection of the pill bottle, it seems that I am NOT taking Wellbutrin. Rather, I'm taking something called Bupropion, which must be a generic version of the medicine I had asked for, which must be why it's not working. Upon even closer inspection of the pill bottle, I find that I'm not supposed to drink while taking this medication (good luck with that), and that it may cause dizziness so I shouldn't operate any heavy machinery. In my mind that translates to: Do NOT go to the gym and try to pick up a weight. Right? Also, after three days of taking ONE pill a day, I switch to TWO pills a day; one in the morning, the other in the evening. I think they do that to give depressives something to look forward to.

My instinct at the moment, which is deeply ingrained in my personality, is to run and hide. It's totally reactive. It's to NOT write on the blog. The easy excuse is to say, I don't want to write about myself or revisit past memories or focus on me. The true reason is because I think if I stop writing all of you phantom readers out there will write me and say: Where are you? We need more blog! Come back to us JV!

The need to be wanted.

But don't do that! No, faithful phantom readers, this is a part of my self-imposed therapy. To write even in the face of defeat. I will do my best not to copy and paste old stories here out of laziness. I won't post sequential scenes from the play I'm writing as a way to avoid myself. I will not hide and beg for attention through silence. I will right about the goddamn depression whilst in the midst of it. Take that.

I said the instinct was to hide and seek attention through absence. It was an old trick I played in high school and probably even earlier than that. When I wanted to feel needed or wanted, I would lock myself in bed room and read or sing or play games and wait for the phone to ring. On free periods in high school I would walk the lonely halls by myself, humming Indigo Girl songs in my head and waiting, praying for a friend to come running up behind me and take my loneliness and isolation away from me. But they couldn't, could they? It's mine. And perhaps it's always going to be present in some way, in some sense. It's when it gets this deep that it gets...most difficult. It's overwhelming.

Last night I got home to an email from the job I was waiting to hear from saying thank you and that they felt it best to look inside the company for someone to take over the position. Again I was disappointed. Again I was faced with rejection. And although I've always told people in this business that you can't be stymied by rejection, how do you deal with it on an almost daily basis? And then I go to thinking about the position and how RIGHT I'd be for it and silly they are not to give me a chance to meet with them and talk more about it and I realized that, again, it comes down to change. They are afraid of change. By keeping it inside, they don't risk anything. It's safe and known. But they also stay static. They won't, perhaps, move backwards but will they move forward? Although they handled it better than the situation with TVI Studios, it's the same thing. By bringing a strong, smart, unknown presence into the mix the balance of power is upset. So be it. And I have to tell myself that if it didn't happen then it wasn't the place for me. But, neither is this. This...stuckness is overwhelming. And everyone keeps telling me something is going to happen soon, they can feel it. I don't believe it. I HOPE for it, but I don't believe it.

Even my dog is afraid of change. When I dropped him off at my dear neighbor's house this morning because she is going to watch him this weekend when I escape, he freaked out. He started crying and squirming in her arms. He tried to run out the door when I opened it. He only wants his home, with or without me. He's only comfortable there. It's where he feels safe; it's his den. And perhaps that's partly my fault because I've made it my den as well; running home directly after work to the safety of what's known and familiar instead of seeing friends, going to the movies or theatre, etc...Instead of going to the gym in the morning I sit on the couch and watch the Today Show and VH1 as the hours tick by, because I'm up at 6am so I'm only seeing the same news over and over again, until it's finally time to get in the shower and get ready. Get ready to come here and sit.

So, where is the place for generic meds in my life when the causes of my depression are so damn specific?

Darkness, Car Crashes, Therapy, Wellbutrin Are a Few of My Favorite Things

2009-04-15T10:06:00.004-04:00

The darkness that has been ebbing and flowing around the house of me decided to let itself in and settle down last night. Much like Ripley, it sat on my lap, curled itself up and fell asleep like dead weight.

A few weeks ago I received a rejection letter from the Williamstown Theatre Festival's Boris Sagal Fellowship. Last night I came home to a two-page (!) rejection letter from the NEA/TCG Director Fellowship. First of all, don't make any rejection letter two pages. It confuses the opener of the envelope. Secondly, I spent over two weeks working on the essays for that grant and thought I would have at least made it to the second round. It wasn't devastating but it was another blow that seems to follow a series of hits determined to keep me down.

I'm waiting to hear about a second interview for a job that is supposed to take place on Monday evening. But no word yet. This all comes after a ridiculously insane interview process with TVI Actor's Studio. It went on over the course of a month; an interview a week. And, in the end, I fear my chain was being yanked. I feel defeated and stuck.

This darkness is certainly not unfamiliar. It played with me in high school. I managed to keep it at bay most of the time in college. Out here though, in the "real world", it courts me more regularly. It first reared its ugly head during my initial stint in Casting. There was no way 'round it and the only way to shake it was to shake the job. The next time it visited was during grad school in the post-9/11, post-Present Ex break-up, post-Gram's death days.

I became stunningly reckless about myself. I would conduct myself just fine during the week, able to concentrate on school work and such. But once the weekend came, I was lost. My evenings would be spent at bars or parties. I would drink more than I should. I would drive home, stopping at the local 7-11 for a box of Entemann's chocolate covered donuts. Once home, I would pull out the sofa-bed in the living room (if my roommate wasn't home) because the darkness and emptiness of my bedroom was too much for me to bear. I would pull out the sofa bed, pour a large glass of red wine and eat the donuts watching reruns late into the night, falling into a fitfull sleep.

I was driving my dad's Honda Accord at the time. In the mental state I was in I was seriously unfit to drive. One night while trying to pull into a parking spot in downtown New Brunswick I swiped the car along the side of a truck ripping off the entire back bumper of Dad's car. Shocked and horrified my lack of persepctive (literally, I had no idea I was too close to the truck), I tried to think quickly and pulled out some rope in the trunk to tie the piece on until I could get it to a shop. Dad was very particular about his cars and I had just pretty much destroyed it.

A few weeks later, on a rainy Sunday morning in late October, I was up at the crack of dawn. I decided to go to a 7:30am yoga class at the studio a few towns away. On the curved exit ramp that led to Route 1 Dad's Honda Accord hit a wet pile of leaves, spun around in circles and slammed into the curb. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a hubcap fly over the car and when I tried to back the car up and drive onto the highway, the wheel started to shake so violently I couldn't hold on to it. Upon slamming in to the curb, I had knocked the axle straight out of alignment. I had really done it. I called and called the apartment until the roommate finally picked up. I apologized for waking her and told her she needed to come and get me at the garage I was now all too familiar with.

My life was a car crash. Not being a fool, I decided to take advantage of the school's counseling programs. I went into therapy for the second time in my life. The first was after Present Ex and I broke up, round one. The woman looked like Doctor Ruth and had an office in a swanky Upper East Side apartment building. She was very short and sat in one of those 1960s egg chairs with her legs up on an ottoman in front of her. I lay down on the leather sofa and talked for 45 minutes. The therapist never said anything. She scribbled in her pad from time to time, but mostly listened. The problem was, I didn't need someone to listen. I needed someone to help me ACT. I needed guidance.

Our last session came after I had had a particularly vivid dream. These were the days when I was waiting to hear about grad school acceptances and planning an Italian retreat, should grad school not be a reality. In my dream, I was walking down a dark, unfamiliar city street. There was a blue wash over everything filtered by a yellow glow from the streetlights. In my dream, I was Tom Ripley. I had just murdered someone but no one knew it yet except for me. As I was walking down the street, I passed a group of police officers heading in the direction of my murder. I didn't make eye contact, but I nodded and continued walking on.

I was shaken by this dream. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I had knowingly, willingly, killed someone with my bare hands. I couldn't let it go and it haunted me for days. Upon recounting the dream to Dr. Ruth she asked, What have you done wrong?

I called her service the next day and left a message saying I wouldn't be returning.

So going back into therapy in grad school was a big step. My therapist was a young, Indian woman who was most likely a student. Like the Theo Huxtable's teacher, Mrs. Westlake, on The Cosby Show played by Sonia Braga, this therapist wore her hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. One day I came in and her hair was falling in beautiful waves around her shoulders. When I sat down in the chair across from her in her little, cluttered office I commented on it. She immediately asked if I was ok with it and should she put it back up? I said, No. It was fine. There must be some practice taught in therapy school that says do not change your appearance or your patient might go mad. Unlike most people, I'm ok with change and, often, welcome it.

This therapist, whose name escapes me, immediately saw my need and was a great help. She also referred me to the psychiatrist who saw me immediately and sent me on my way, arms piled high with sampled of Wellbutrin. This was my first experience with an anti-depressant. But it was necessary. One of the unfortunate side effects of this drug, I soon learned, was insomnia. So I was also taking sleeping pills. I felt like Neely O'Hara or LIza Minelli. Especially on those nights when I would come home from parties and add sleeping pills on top of my diet of red wine and Entemann's chocolate covered donuts. After a few weeks, I was able to adjust to the Wellbutrin and ween myself off of the sleeping pills. After a few months, I was able to ween myself off of the Wellbutrin. I didn't want it to be a crutch; a necessity. I needed it when I needed it and then I had to let it go. I was able to cope, finally, with the loss of my grandmother and the loss of Present Ex as a lover. I kept them both in my heart in different ways.

The second round of Wellbutrin came a few years ago upon the loss of the Mormon followed immediately by the death of Present Ex's mother. I couldn't function for all the losing. And with aggressive therapy and the pills, I once again battled the darkness.

Since then, as always, the darkness comes and goes. I'm usually able to hold it at bay. But with it settling down, and the fear of me settling into it, it needs to be dealt with. This time, there's no loss to point to its strength. What is feeding it is an overwhelming sensation of inertia. Only it seems like the world around me is inert and I keep running into walls.

So, Wellbutrin, third time's a charm.

Fleet of Hope

2009-04-14T11:54:00.004-04:00

Was finally able to write another scene in the play today.
I guess that means something's been accomplished.

The walls are closing in on me here.
Keep listening to the new Indigo Girls cd:

"The fleet of hope is so pretty
As she's shining in the port
And the harbor clings to the jetty
For protection and support.
Out in the choppier water
The sharks swim and play.
You're all washed up as Poseidon has his day."

I see the fleet of hope and it scares me.

Speaking of the Indigo Girls, tomorrow night I'm going to see them at the Highline; me, Present Ex, and two friends.

When Present Ex and I broke up the first time, I had tickets to see IG at the Beacon. I also had tickets to Bette Midler at Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City. Both concerts were around my birthday. Present Ex and I were living together in the 95th Street Apartment. I asked if he wanted to attend either or both with me. Bette Midler would also include my parents, on my actual birthday. Present Ex said yes, even though he wasn't too familiar with IG.

That night, he was converted. While on cd the IG can appear to be low key and folksy, in person they can really rock.

Who would have thought that a few years later Present Ex would be coloring the hair of an IG and I'd be one degree of separation from them. When they come to town, they often supply Present Ex with comps. Once, in New Jersey, we even got to go backstage after a show and meet them. I was so nervous. Unfortunately, Emily -- who sings all the sorrow in my soul -- didn't come out. So while it was cool to meet Amy Ray, I didn't meet the particular woman whose songs had gotten me through so many hard times.

And I was ok with that. Sometimes it's best to keep your heroes at a distance.

I'm unfocused now. People keep telling me not to give up. That something is going to happen. But how do they know? How can they be so sure? And if so, when? I can't wait much longer.

From Up There

2009-04-13T13:05:00.005-04:00

As we drove into the city last night after a weekend in High Falls, Ripley asleep on my lap and the Loved One at the wheel, I looked out over the night sky and said, "I hate that I dread coming back to the city."

When did that happen? When did love turn to fear/anxiety/defeat? I would never say 'hate.' I couldn't hate this island at the end of the world. It's made me who I am today. And though often frustrated, scared, overemotional, anxious, defeated and still hopeful, I like who I am. But the city is bringing me down.

I try to remember the way I felt on the family bus trips, straining my eyes for the first glimpse of the skyline.

I even try to remember the first time I came in after 9/11. To be absent from the city for that event broke my heart. Although I was mere miles away in New Brunswick, I felt I should be here. Be home. And although I didn't know what it could possibly mean, I felt that I should be helping somehow. Of course, for the first few days after it was all but impossible to get in to the city. Present Ex finally managed to catch a train out and join me in New Jersey. We went through a day or so on the phone as his roommate was in one of the towers and went unheard from for hours. In my memory, it feels more like days. Finally, the roommate was able to call. He had survived. We breathed a collective sigh of relief.

I also remember that day getting my father on the phone. We had left Movement Class (that's another story) and went to a friend's house to watch the events unfolding. On my way to school that day I had heard on the radio that a plane had flown into to the Towers but theorizing it was only a single engine aircraft. Someone came in to class with the bad news and we rushed into our clothes and to the nearest house. People broke off into groups. People tried to make calls. People smoked. Crazy Director refused to watch, even though we were in his house, and opted to clean the place from top to bottom. I sat for a while huddled in my friends bedroom trying to make certain everyone was alright.

Finally getting my dad on the phone, he broke into tears. He works in a highly classified government building but the government would not clear them for evacuation. Dad just kept saying over and over, "We're sitting ducks. We're sitting ducks." At this point, we knew about the Pentagon. We knew it was a terrorist attack. We did not know what to expect next. So crying hysterically on the phone I tried to convince Dad to just leave. While on the phone with him, they were given clearance to do so.

A few days later, I took the train in to the city. I didn't want to drive for fear of my reaction upon seeing the empty space where the Towers had once stood.

I was a frequent visitor to the Towers when I first moved here. I would often go to the top just because I couldn't get enough of the view from up there. I would find any excuse to go, taking visiting friends along with me. If I happened to find myself at the TKTS booth in the south tower. Mostly I would go by myself. First looking down from the highest floor through the windows and then on to the Observation Deck. From up there, it was like I owned the city. And, at 17-years-old, I did. It was a city filled with possibility. And I was on top of it.

As the New Jersey transit train crept its way from Edison to NYC, it was mostly quiet especially for a Saturday morning. It was cloudier than it had been the past few days. The threat of rain hung in the air. The small towns eventually gave way to marsh and meadowlands, railroad tracks converging from all over the state to, finally, enter the long tunnel to Penn Station. And as the train left Newark I held my breath for the close up view. How do you describe emptiness? What was once there, was gone. The smoke had cleared and, from all these miles away, was a hole in the sky.

I gasped.

But I didn't cry.

I stared. I couldn't not. And the few other people on the train with me did the same. No one pretended to not be looking. It was devastating. And as I looked out at the empty space until our train disappeared in to the tunnel. I tried to brace myself for what the city would look like, what it would feel like when I stepped out into it.

The long hallway from the train to the street was filled with posters and flyers, pictures of people missing since the attack. I looked but I didn't take in. It was too much. To stare at each individual face would have been too overwhelming, too personal. The pictured stretched out like an endless collage. And all I could comprehend was the enormity of the situation. When I stepped out, into the grey light of the city, the first thing I saw was a man at a table hocking picture postcards of the Towers burning. My gut instinct, like Jesus in the marketplace, was to flip his table over and push him wailing rock opera at the top of my lungs. How could he be turning a profit off of this tragedy? America. I swallowed it and walked away.

I don't remember what else I did that day besides a lot of walking. I wanted to see the places and things that were still there, still mine. I wanted to sit in the now-defunt, beautifully asymmetrical and run-down Washington Square Park -- how could someone approve spending millions of dollars to ALIGN the fountain and the arch?! When has the Village ever been about symmetry?

I miss the way I felt about the city then. And when I started coming here. I don't own it any more. It owns me. And I think, perhaps, having a job I care about would make a difference. Having something to do every day that has an effect on the way people think, see things, react, treat one another MEANS something. I'm still foolish enough to believe that creating theatre is a way of doing that.

I remember what the view was like from up there and I wish I could recapture it.

Good Friday

2009-04-10T14:23:00.002-04:00

It always seems to rain on the day Jesus died.

In grade school, we would have off on this day. I wouldn't have to put on my stifling suit jacket and tie. The grey wool trousers could rest in the closet until Monday morning. And with the coming of warmer weather came me dreading the time when the suit jacket was no longer necessary. By the time I was eight, my natural tendency to avoid any kind of athletics had caught up with me. I wore glasses as a result of reading all the time. And my baby fat was multiplying exponentially -- to the point where it could no longer be considered just baby fat. It was, in fact, too much eating fat. My days and nights of pizza, stromboli, pierogies, fried dough and raw pasta (yes, you heard it here, raw pasta) had caught up with me. My black suit jacket provided a shield against the fat, or so I thought. In just my white shirt sleeves and tie I was vulnerable, easy to defeat.

With Mom at work, Good Fridays would be spent at Gram and Pop's cooking and reading. We strictly honored the no meat on Fridays during Lent edict. So that meant fish for Mom and Dad, Gram and Pop and Uncle Al. And pizza for me and my brother. It was my job to roll out the pizza dough and then when it had risen (much like the Saviour) and rested (like God on Sundays) I would top it. Not like that.

Of course after rolling the dough out, while Gram watched her soaps, I would go in and pick off tiny pieces of the raw mass and eat it. It was salty, chewy and delicious. I would then pour a big glass of coke and go back to whatever book I was reading. Sometimes I would help Gram bread the fish but I found that to be boring, especially if I was deeply engrossed in Christopher Pike. PS: Why have none of his young adult books translated to the big screen?

On Good Fridays Catholics aren't supposed to talk for an hour (usually between the hours of two and four -- pick one). Instead they're supposed to sit and reflect on the passing of Jesus (we were taught to bow our heads every time we said his name) and what his ultimate sacrifice meant to us. Well, to me, it meant I couldn't talk, read or watch TV for an hour. It meant sitting on the front porch with Gram one hand in mine the other with a cigarette, Isis the German Shepard/Husky mix curled at my feet, and the people on the street walking by.

It was quiet time.

Now there's too much quiet time. I forget, sometimes, how impossible it was to shut me up most of the time. As I got older I started to think that I didn't have anything worth saying.

Stalked

2009-04-09T12:20:00.004-04:00

One summer night the Blonde, the Bartender and I decided to go out in the East Village.

This is before the Loved One, before the Actor, before the Mormon. Post-Arkansas. Post Present Ex (for those keeping track).

This is when I lived on Scholes Street, on the south side of Williamsburg. The Scholes Street apartment was serviceable. You walked in to the kitchen. The appliances were new, nothing else was. The bathroom was to your right. If you looked up to the right there was a wall and a window in that wall. Why? To let light in from the bedroom, of course. That bedroom, mine, was a pretty nice size. It fit my queen-sized mattress and a chest of drawers and a book shelf. I had painted one wall a very deep, Ralph Lauren navy blue. The two windows to the outside overlooked the parking lot of the projects across the street. Two streets beyond that was the apartment of Arkansas, which I could not clearly see. But tried. Many times.

My roommates bedroom was right next door to mine and the same size. Her bedroom also had a window in the inside wall to let light in to the coffin-sized living room. In this room we had a faded, high-back, scalloped yellow chair that had sat in my grandmother's bedroom for years and a small love seat that was direct from the 70s and covered in yarn flowers. Over the couch hung my autographed poster of "How To Marry A Millionaire." That, indeed, should have been the goal. For we were living in the projects.

Our next door neighbors on our floor almost always kept the door open and sitting out front, guarding the place, was an extremely large female pitbull. She was well-behaved but menacing looking, constantly panting, with a spiked leather collar. Perhaps it was her calmness that scared me more than anything. Her ears would perk up as you entered the building and she would just stare at you as you climbed the stairs. She would make no move to get out of your way as you stepped over her to reach the front door of our apartment. Across the stairwell from her, also cast off from this apartment, were a stack of Domino's pizza boxes of various shapes and sizes. I marveled at how one family could consume so much Dominos. But if you saw them, you would believe it. On weekend mornings the door would be open, music would be playing and the enticing smells of some far away Latin country would come drifting out of the kitchen. The residents might nod a polite hello but in two years of living there, we never spoke.

Our superintendent was a short, dyed-redhead, pencil-thin moustachioed Latin spitfire by the name of Mario. We, of course, called him 'Super Mario." On weekends he would be spotted late at night (or early in the morning) decked to the nines, in a sleek suit avec pocket hanky and fedora. He was going or coming from dancing. Where? we wondered but never asked.

The neighborhood was dirty, smelly, loud and scary at night. I hated it. Especially when I stumbled home drunk from the Metropolitan at 3 in the morning. Nothing sobers you up faster than a walk past two projects with a bunch of teens smashing bottles at the time of the night. But did I stop? No.

So one night the Blonde, the Bartender and I decided to hang out in the East Village. The Blonde requested The Hole because there would be lesbians there. The Hole took the place of the Cock when the Cock closed. But they moved the neon Cock sign to the Hole so now it was the Cock in the Hole? Or something. Never having been to the Cock, I was keen to visit its relocation. It was...uhm...dirty. It smelled like piss and alcohol. The walls were covered with graffiti. There was one working bathroom. The drinks were served in plastic cups that littered the floor for the rest of the night. The music was loud.

We drank. A lot. At least, I did. And we danced. The floor was so crowded it was less like dancing and more like jumping up and down in place, shaking your head from side-to-side, and carefully lifting your cup of booze to your lips without someone knocking it over. The necessity of plastic cups became very clear. Safer for everyone. Somehow, across the crowded room and flashing lights, my eyes made contact with a tall, handsome, dark haired stranger. Now, I was fairly drunk and I can't imagine how my eyes were able to focus on anything. More than likely, my blurry vision probably focused on him as a spot while I tried to bring the alcohol to my lips. Whatever the case, before I knew it, the stranger had crossed the room, introduced himself (as if I could hear him) and we were locked in a passionate kiss my hands exploring places they wouldn't have had I been sober. Or sane. I was suffering from an acute lack of sanity at this point in my life (among others).

The Blonde and the Bartender must have been aware of my state because before I knew it there they were gently prodding me to go home. It was late and they were tired. I motioned them away and said I'd be with them shortly. In the meantime I was able to gather that my newfound friend was an artist, Israeli and HOT. I gave him my business card (which had my name, email and phone number but the address of the Texas theatre company) and -- against my drunken judgement -- I allowed myself to be taken home.

Well, when I got off the subway I already had two messages from the Painter saying he wanted to see me again. I smiled at his chutzpah and saved the messages. I went home and collapsed into a deep, drunken, restless sleep. The next morning I awoke to another message. Wow. Ok. I don't usually play by conventional dating rules. I think if you're interested you should make it known. Don't have to wait a day to call, etc. But this was something else. I was also a little disconcerted because in the messages he kept calling me "Stevie" instead of "JV" and the card obviously said "JV." But, he's foreign, I'll forgive it. I called the Painter back and, surprisingly, got his voicemail. Obviously he wasn't THAT keen to talk to me. He called back not two minutes later. I let it go to voicemail. I was hungover.

Later that night I met the Blonde at Metropolitan for a couple of drinks but wanted to make it an early night. As I made the long walk down Union Street to Schole, I stared longingly up Arkansas's block and the phone rang. It was the Painter. Hey, how are you.

"Stevie. I've been thinking about you all day. You're so hot. Where are you?"

Actually I'm on my home.

"In the Brooklyn?"

Yes. Early night.

"I am with friends in the East Village. I want to see you. Come out with us."

Aw. That's nice. I'd like to see you too. But I'm going to bed.

"No. It's too early. I want to see you. I will come there."

You're with your friends.

"I don't care. I will come in a cab. It will take 10 minutes. I just want to kiss you again."

Well, that's sweet.

And I thought about it. For a second.

But not tonight. Let's get together later this week.

"Pleeeease, Steeeevie. I neeeed to see you."

Uhm. Well...

Need? He needs to see me. Weird.

Let's talk tomorrow. You have fun with your friends.

"Ok. But we'll go out this week?"

Yes. Fine. This week. Great.

And I hung up the phone and thought , Well. I'll never call him again.

The next morning, Monday, I had three missed calls from the Painter in my sleep and two messages. Ok, this is a little crazy. I went to the gym (because in those days I could still work out hung over) and hopped on the subway to Times Square. When I got off the train that little voicemail light was blinking insistently. Who else would call me that early on a Monday? I listed to the message: "Steeeevie. It's me. Why do you not answer your phone or call me. I need to see you. Pleeeeease. Have lunch with me, coffee, anything. I just need to see you."

Fine. Lunch. Throw the dog a bone. I called him back while waiting in line at Starbucks for my iced coffee. Told him to meet me there at 12:30 for lunch.

"It will not come soon enough."

Yes, it will.

When I went down at lunch to meet him I was desperately trying to remember what he looked like. I certainly remembered other aspects of his physical person but my vision, as I mentioned earlier, was a little blurry when we were face-to-face. When I saw the tall, gangly body walking toward me I wasn't unhappy. When I saw the broken, craggy, crooked, smiling face leering down at me my heart plummeted. This was going to be work. He bent down and tried to pull me into him but I sidestepped and held out my hand. Hi.

"Steeeevie. I missed you."

Uh huh. Well. There's a pizza place around the corner. Let's go grab a slice. I'm going to keep my phone on me, sorry, because things are really busy at work and my boss might need me.

He tried to put his arm around my shoulder on the way over. I pulled away. He talked, I'm sure about something. I asked about his work, not uninterested in his life as a painter. When he asked me questions I skillfully turned them around. He didn't order food. And he stared at me the entire time, a look between in his eyes somewhere between lust and obsession. I'm familiar with that look. I see it all the time. Just usually not turned on me.

I put away two slices of pizza faster than a contestant on the Biggest Loser and pretended like me phone was vibrating. I then proceeded to have a hurried and stressful pretend conversation with my boss and told the Painter that I was needed back at the office ASAP. He was very understanding and asked if I wanted him to walk me back and I said, No. I have to run.

And run I did; four blocks across Times Square and into the safe arms of 1450 Broadway. Of course by the time I got back I had a message from the Painter. I didn't listen. Over the course of the next week or so, he continued to call. I would delete his messages without even listening to them. These persisted for over a week until I finally convinced my Texas friend, the Artistic Director, to call the Painter, posing as my wife. And threaten the painter to stop calling and harassing me as I was married. She did. But she forgot to block her called ID so the Psycho, I mean, the Painter started calling Texas. And more calls to me.

"Stevie," his tone was decidedly different. "Who is this woman who calls saying to be your wife? I do not understand. You must call me, Stevie. It is important. I need you."

Uhm. I'm not calling.

Then a few weeks later, I get a call from the Artistic Director. A painting has shown up for me. What is she to do? Throw it away. Burn it. I don't care. Just get rid of it. Although I kind of wanted to see it. But the Painter had stopped calling. And I would never visit the Hole again.

Writer's Block

2009-04-08T11:41:00.002-04:00

I'm experiencing a severe bout of writer's block.
Not here, on the blog. Apparently there's no end to stories about my life.
But I'm sick of writing about me all the time.

I started writing a play a few weeks ago. About a year ago or so, the Muse and I went to see the Caryl Churchill play "Drunk Enough to Say I Love You?" After the play we slowly wandered up to Nowhere Bar on 14th Street and 1st Avenue, talking about the play and what we were doing theatrically/artistically. The answer, as all too often is the case, was nothing. And so I took on the challenge to write a screenplay with the Muse in mind. Why a screenplay? Well, I was sick of theatre and I had some ideas and most of them seemed more cinematic than theatrical. Also, the idea of writing something fairly localized and contained that we could then shoot on our own time with a camera somewhere seemed more accessible than renting rehearsal space, renting a theatre, finding PR money, finding an audience, etc. Foolish boy. Over the course of a month or so I did write the screenplay, finishing it in Mexico when the Loved One and I were on vacation. I haven't touched it since. I had wanted to do a reading of it before tackling a second draft but I got scared...lazy...yeah, that about covers it. And I hadn't touched it. Until last week when the Muse filmed a scene from it for personal reasons and it re-lit the spark.

Anyway, the Muse and I have been talking about other ideas that's I've had. I gave her two books I'm fascinated with and want to turn into plays. One, a memoir, really touched my heart and I think can be turned into a stellar one-woman or small cast show. I can't seem to get the publisher or agents to return my faxes. Its times like this an agent of my own would be extremely helpful. And a trust fund. The other story, a non-fiction tale, is utterly compelling but very close thematically to Grey Gardens. In fact, one of the women is even named Edie. So that remains on my list of "To Be Done." In the meantime, I focused my attention on another story I found in the New York Times some five years ago or so.

Based on a true story, I did try for a short while to obtain the rights from the Times. Then I realized that being based on real life events, this probably wasn't entirely necessary. After a few months of emailing back and forth with the Times and with various agents it seemed to have gone away. In the state I was in, I let it. But the story kept coming back and knocking, annoyingly, in my head. It wanted to get out. It wanted to be told. It needed a voice. In fact, I had started writing it a few years ago as a novel not as a play. But in its heart, it wanted to be a play.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was going to veer dramatically from the real life events it was based on so I started writing. And I was writing every day. I would spend an hour or so in the morning on the blog and then an hour or so in the afternoon on the play. But now the play seems to have gone away. I didn't really plot it out beforehand; I would just sit down and write. The more I wrote, the more the voices of the character came through. Much like the more I wrote on this blog, the more my own voice came through.

But now the voices in my head seem to have gone away for a short time and I'm in limbo once again.

The play, written once again with the Muse in mind, has turned into something of a cross between 'All About Eve' and 'The Talented Mr. Ripley.' I know where work is needed in what I've written already but I don't want to do that work until I've finished a draft. But the characters have slipped away. It's symptomatic of my current mental state. I find it hard now to sit at this desk and write every day. There's no inspiration. I find it hard to communicate what I'm feeling, thinking and wanting; let alone what imaginary characters in my head feel/think/want. I'm frustrated. I don't know how to be a working artist/writer/director. I want to commit to something and see it through. I need to unblock myself. Perhaps some Activia will work. It restarted Jamie Lee Curtis's career.

A Tiny Piece of Texas

2009-04-07T11:18:00.003-04:00

After the break-up with the Mormon, I dove head on into rehearsals for "Icarus" by Edwin Sanchez, produced by Amphibian Production in Fort Worth, Texas.

Texas is a funny place. The first time I went out there to direct a play was the summer after grad school. I got a call from a former classmate saying they had lost their director and would I be interested. At that point, I was interested in directing anything, anywhere. We were told, at school, to never turn down a job. (I have come to learn that this is not the case. If you don't like a show, or experience a violent reaction upon reading it, turn it down. You will only do it more harm.) So I said, Yes! Email me the script.

The play was titled, The True History of the...wait, I have to google it; the real title is so goddamned long: The True History of the Tragic Life and Triumphant Death of Julia Pastrana, the Ugliest Woman in the World. Intriguing? Pretentious? Yes. And the catch, it's written to take place entirely in the dark. I love a challenge. And I've never been to Texas. The show was precast with some actors I didn't know and two I knew from grad school. With one part free I happily cast my cousin, the Actress. If I was going to Texas, she was coming with me.

During the time, I was going through a rough time (ie: broken heart) over Arkansas. I alluded to this relationship earlier and at some point I will try to write about it but I was in full blown, psycho-stalker mode. Emails, poetry, phone calls. It didn't help that he lived around the corner from my house so I had to walk by his apartment every day. We would also, indubitably, run into each other on the L, on the street or at Metropolitan. Awkward. And enervating. After four weeks of rehearsal in NYC, I stepped off the plane in Dallas/Ft Worth. The first thing I remember seeing was a big billboard; yellow with a the black silhouette of a house on it, on top of which is the white outline of a body. It was an ad for a company that will come and clean up your home after a murder, death or suicide. I thought it fitting for my welcome to Texas.

But I quickly fell in love with the state, the city and its people. Sure, most of them would string me up to the nearest tree or rear fender of their pick-up truck if they knew I was gay, but they were friendly and welcoming as long as they didn't know I was. And I loved the August heat. It cut right through me and energized me. I loved walking in it. I loved lounging in the tanning the at the TCU sports facility in an inch of water while the sun beat down on me and sweat dripped off any unsunken skin. The joy of rehearsing this particular play was that we needed complete darkness so we couldn't rehearse in the theatre during the day, too much ambient light.

But my heart was still broken and all I could think about/talk about was Arkansas. When we got back from the gym one day, I turned on CNN to see streams of NYers walking across bridges to the outer boroughs. Apparently, there had been a city-wide power outage. The first person I called? Arkansas. Really, JV? Really. He, of course, didn't answer. Why should he? I wouldn't have. And then I called everyone else I loved.

This time, three years or so later, I stepped off the plane again with a broken heart; this time it was for the Mormon. Once again, the hot August heat washed over me and, once again, I took comfort in its warm, healing arms.

I was staying, as I had in the past, with My Dear Ones in their comfortable, friendly home. My room there was like a cave. No matter how bright it was outside, the dark wood shutters kept everything out. And although usually a morning person, I found myself sleeping until 9 or 10am. Practically unheard of for me. I would wake up, make coffee, eat an english muffin with peanut butter and jelly then put on some work out clothes, leave a note for the Muse (also staying with My Dear Ones) and head for the hiking trails not too far from the house.

With my iPod on shuffle, I would walk the trails in the blazing sun until I was so sweaty it was as if I was melting. But I loved it. My legs and arms cut up from thistle, branches and thorns, the pain and blood made me feel real. Alive. I was not tentative as I ran up a rocky slope to reach the top and look out over the cars rushing by below me and the flat Texas horizon beyond. I would stand there and sing along to my iPod at the top of my lungs, unseen and unheard. And isn't that how I felt most of the time? Unseen and unheard. In the shadows, watching. Waiting. To what end?

One day, I took a different trail, one I had not noticed before. It took me down further and further than I had thought possible and I lost sight of the large television towers that served as my mark for whenever I got lost. But I figured if the trail went down, it must come up somewhere. The shad felt cool and nice against my sunburnt face and shoulders. The air was moist down here from an unseen body of water. I came across a little crick and easily jumped over it. Then going even deeper, I had to duck to make it through the overgrowth. My too long hair caught in branches and pulled not so gently. I cursed and wished I had worn a baseball cap. Suddenly the growth cleared and on the path before me, shimmering like newly spun satin were blankets of spider webs draped over ankle-high bushes. They spread in front of me for over twenty to thirty feet. It was as if an angel or something had come and lay down a cloak for later, so perfectly did they lie there. I stood in awe, it was a beautiful sight with the vivid green of the bushes lying beneath them.

I carefully tread the small path in between them, trying to leave them undisturbed and study them at the same time. Looking in at them, they were far more complicated than I had initially thought. Rows and rows of thin threads interlaced, one on top of another to create a tapestry. It was truly breathtaking. It made me remember that moment on Bear Mountain when the Mormon and I watched the tiny caterpillar make its way along the tree branch. Look at what one little creature could accomplish, I thought. I wanted him there, beside me again. I wanted to show him this achievement. Look at what can happen when you come together, I thought. But I was alone. And my heart throbbed, a ghost pain I suffered from the hole he left inside of me. I walked slowly through the shadowed path and further along until I could once again see light breaking in through the overhead trees. I needed to be in the light. I needed to feel the heat. I needed to sweat the pain and sickness out of me. I was too comfortable in the shadows.

But these trails were mine. Never had I run into any one else on them. Once in a while, the bark of a dog would echo through the valley. I would stumble across animal tracks and pray that I wasn't prey to a mountain lion or some such wild cat that would no doubt provoke an allergy attack as well as a brutal clawing. No, these trails were mine when I was on them. They were my piece of Texas.

It was time to wake the Muse and sip another cup of coffee and smoke cigarettes and commiserate about rehearsal.

On death and dying

2009-04-06T11:15:00.002-04:00

Ruminating on loss and loneliness too much these days.

Too much time spent to myself. Too much time in my own head. I write these blog posts, remembering times in my life with the clarity of 20/20 hindsight. The present, however, is much more blurry. The Therapist and I dug into this on Friday evening and I'm still reeling from the session. The point being, change is needed; big, massive, earth -shattering change. The question is: how do I affect this change? I don't have the answer, just questions. Always questions.

In my second year of grad school I was deep in rehearsals for Douglas Carter Beane's play 'As Bees In Honey Drown.' I saw the original production off-Broadway and had been fairly unimpressed with it. However, I was keen to direct a comedy; this play was highly castable in a grad school environment; and I was drawn to its themes of ambiguity, masks and fairy tale. Which of us doesn't want to recreate ourselves on a daily basis? I was also fascinated by its portrayal of the 80s art scene in NYC. A world that, through Tama Janowitz's 'Slaves of New York', I had hoped to be a part of upon my arrival. Needless to say, that world was gone by the 90s. But it still fascinated me.

And like Beane's main character, Alexa Vere de Vere, my personality and sense of humor had been shaped by leading women in the entertainment world: Roz Russell in 'Auntie Mame', Tallulah Bankhead in 'Lifeboat', Audrey Heburn in 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', anything starring Marilyn Monroe, and any old Bette Midler recording. How do these icons find us in our youth? What is it about them that calls the young gay boy? What is their allure? I would think it's something in their ability to be tough and vulnerable; to say what's on their mind in a funny, off-the-cuff kind of way; their ability to reinvent themselves while still retaining something that is essentially and viscerally them. I aspired to that. Perhaps, I still do.

So there I am. In New Jersey. Directing Beane. A week before tech and opening. My grandmother had fallen a few weeks before. She had been taken to the hospital with a fractured hip. A fractured hip turned to pneumonia. Pneumonia, after a lifetime of smoking and several bouts of struggling with lung cancer led to the inevitable. Gram was transferred to hospice and I had to go home to see her, immediately because it wouldn't be long now.

They say bad things come in threes. Gram's impending death was the third event to prove that theory true. 9/11 had rocked all our worlds that September. An indirect result of that event was the final break-up of my romantic relationship with Present Ex. Still on wobbly feet, I was forced to confront the end of the life of a woman who touched me and meant as much to me as my mother. Gram lived around the corner from us my entire life. She took care of me when Mom started working. She taught me to cook, to clean. She bandaged my cuts when I fell. She took me shopping. She took me, every summer, to the farm on which she grew up. She taught me compassion. She tried to teach me to be tough. She chased me around the house, wielding a wooden spoon to whip my behind when I misbehaved. And she made me laugh.

I don't know when it is that people become aware of their own mortality and the mortality of those close to them. I assume it's different for everyone and I would also assume that some never do. In undergrad, on visits home, my heart would ache at the sight of my grandparents framed in the white doorway of their front porch, waving to me as we drove away. I was convinced every time that I wouldn't see them again. And I was filled with joy every time I came home and there they were, waiting for me to return. Pop on the porch. Gram in the kitchen, putting food down on the table in front of me the minute I walked in.
And nothing bet Gram's cooking. Raised in a large Polish family on a farm in upstate Pennsylvania, she had moved to Philadelphia to become a nurse. She met my Italian grandfather, an Army Sergeant, and they fell in love. What was a Polish girl to do? Learn how to cook Italian! And she did. Kick ass.

She and my grandfather also loved and accepted their gay son. And loved and accepted me and Present Ex.

When Mom called me at Rutgers and told me to come home, my heart dropped. I had thrown myself into my work at school in an effort to not think about it. Sometimes I was successful. Sometimes I wasn't. But with Gram in hospice, there was no way to avoid it anymore. Mom, of course, wanted me to take the train in. She didn't want me to drive to Philly in an emotional state. While I understood this, the plan was to skip classes and drive in for the day so I would be back in time for rehearsal that night, knowing I would miss important time at school soon for the funeral. So I opted to drive, blasting the Indigo Girls all the way. In times of trouble, lesbian harmony is a lifesaver.

The hour-long ride went by too quickly and as I approached St. Agnes Hospital on Broad Street I had to pull over. I was hyperventilating, my hands were shaking and I could barely see for the water welling up deep in my eyes. I didn't want o do this. I didn't want to see her here. I wanted her to die quickly and without my having to "prepare" for it. But here I was and Gram was conscious and aware. I needed to see her. Being a former nurse, she knew that things were coming to an end.

I drove my car up and up the long, winding ramps of the hospital parking lot. There wasn't a space to be had, except on the roof. I thought, How many people are here? How many people are dying here? How many people are being born here? And wasn't it fitting that she had come back to the place where she worked for so many years for her own care. I parked the car and tried to force the tears out but they wouldn't come. Sometimes the amount of control I exert over myself is beyond even my own understanding. The tears were there, but they wouldn't come.

I took the cold, steel elevator to the hospice level. The smell of the hospital made my stomach turn. The sounds of ventilators and heart monitors echoed in my head and I walked blindly through the automatic doors. When they closed behind me, the sounds abruptly stopped. This place was quiet. The machines hummed silently but they weren't set to work as hard as possible to keep patients alive. These machines were set to maintain. I stood in front of the nurse's station and saw my mom and my grandfather silhouetted in front of the window and the cold grey sky beyond. A nurse asked me a question but all I could hear were the sounds of her voice, not the words. Mom looked up and saw me. She wiped tears from her eyes as she came out and she hugged me hard. "Try not to cry," she said. "She knows it's bad but seeing you is going to reinforce that. We don't know how much longer she'll last."

Is she awake? Is she aware?

"Yes. Talk to her. She knows where she is."

I don't want to go in. I can't go in.

"For her."

And, like a little boy again, Mom took my hand and led me into the room. There was another patient in the first bed, an African American woman who looked worse than I thought a person could. She was surrounded by family members and the hospice nurse who was cracking jokes and taking pictures. I wanted to punch her. She had short, spikey red hair. She floated around the room as if nothing was wrong. She put her arms around people as if she knew them. She whispered intimacies in their ears. She cajoled them into taking pictures with the stick-figure loved ones in their bed. And then there was Gram. She was in bed, hardly raised, her hair white and whispy and her figure as close to emaciated as I'd ever seen it. Gram had always been weirdly solid and wiry. Now she was weak and old. Her glasses were too big for her face. Her life was too small for her body. She smiled when she saw me and I bent down to kiss her on the cheek. The skin was rough and dry, malleable like an old rubber band. I made myself not pull away. I went around the bed to hug and kiss Pop who looked at me sadly but full of strength. "I'll go get you a coffee," he said.

"Talk to her," Mom said.

And I sat down beside her, and I took her hand and I babbled. I looked in her eyes and talked about school and rehearsal. And all the while, her thumb rubbed the back of my hand. It didn't matter what I said. She wasn't listening to me and either was I. it was just about being there.

After a while, my brother showed up and Mom took us to lunch at the local diner. We weren't yet at the point where we could laugh and smile and share funny Gram stories. We were each of us alone in our private grief. And I wondered how alone was Gram? What was she thinking? Was she replaying her own life events over and over in her head? Was she scared? Was she ready for it to be over? What did she see when she looked at me? The last time I had seen her, I kissed her goodbye as she sat on her chair in the living room, watching TV. She said. "I don't want to die until I see you settled." I laughed and said, Then you're never going to die. I work in the theatre. I'm never going to be settled.

But here we were. She was dying. I was farther from settled then I ever had been.

After lunch I hugged my brother goodbye and watched him, suited up for business, get into his car and drive to the bank. Then I walked Mom back to the hospital. I didn't want to ask the question and, blessedly, she answered it for me without my having to ask, "You don't have to come back up." I hugged her hard, whispered 'I love you' and told her I'd call her when I got back to Jersey.

On the ride home, I tried to make myself forget what had just happened but I kept sensing Gram's thumb stroking my hand. I wished as I had a thousand times before when she was struggling with cancer that I could somehow transfer my health into her sick body. I wish I could have given her the gift of my life, even if it meant forsaking some of my own. I would have.

I went to rehearsal that night. I smoked too many cigarettes even though my grandmother was dying as a result of lung cancer. I opted not to talk about what was going on. I couldn't call Present Ex and cry. We weren't at that point yet. I had nowhere to go but into my work. Fortunately my work involved direct contact with other people. My self-destructive, hermitted nature could appear later, at home. I thought about the play; the play, the play. The play was, indeed, the thing. It was healing to disappear into the crazy world of Alexa Vere de Vere and her schemes.

The next day, my grandfather procured a hospital bed for the house. Gram didn't want to be in hospice any longer. The day after that, she was discharged. The next day, she passed away quietly at home at six in the morning.

Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 4

2009-04-02T11:05:00.002-04:00

We all tumbled into the awaiting van, exhausted and exhilarated. If anything, thought, I felt even more alone. I was in awe of the power these artists had managed to hold over the crowd of 45,000. To hold that many people in the palm of your hand, to make them feel something so powerful, to somehow achieve transcending us out of our bodies while making us feel so very present and aware. That was power. That was art.

The ride back was quick. We pulled up to the hotel and rolled into the bar for the after party. Surprisingly, it was a small room and a small party but everyone was there. I shook hands with a Pet Shop Boy. I got cruised by a still sunglass-wearing George Michael. As I saddled up to the bar I came face-to-face with Rufus Wainwright, TV Actor by my side.

"Rufus!" She yelled. "You were fantastic." She introduced me and he introduced his sister, Martha.

NIce to meet you both.

We talked for a while, I can't imagine what about now. I remember he leaned in very closely, so close I was a little uncomfortable. His hair was greasy and unwashed. In fact, his entire aura was that of "unwashed." I also thought he was a little high on something. I was tired, hungry and getting drunk quickly. After a while I politely excused myself, shook his hand and went in search of TV Actor. I finally found her sandwiched between Chaka Khan and George Michael.

Hey, I'm running up to the room. I'll be back in a few.

She blew some smoke in my face, smiled and said 'OK.'

As I left the room I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders. I didn't have to smile anymore. I didn't have to be charming. I didn't have to talk to people who were more successful than me. I didn't have to worry about saying the right thing. I didn't have to tell anyone how fantastic they were. I could breath. And I could be alone. It was about 2am and the elevator was empty as it shot up to my floor. I let myself into the room and collapsed on the bed, falling asleep fully clothed. Alone again.

***

The next morning I woke up early. I had to eat something. I was starving, had a headache and needed coffee.

I crept in to the living room. TV Actor's door was closed but I knocked lightly. We had to rouse ourselves and gather to meet one more time downstairs for the Millenium March. Ellen and crew were leading the parade. We'd be directly behind them.
I knocked again. There was a groan and I cracked the door.

Wake up, sleepy head.

"What happened to you last night?"

I had a headache and I was exhausted. I came up, got into bed and fell asleep.

Truth to tell I've always been notorious for disappearing from parties and events. After a while, I get fed up and usually overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness and desolation at big events. I find it easier to just leave without saying anything than to find everyone and say goodbye and make excuses for my leaving, etc. Also, the feelings usually become so strong that I just need to jet. Even if I've had a part in whatever event we're celebrating, I leave the same way. I get disgusted by the phoniness of the situation.

"We missed you. Rufus sought me out later and asked about you."

Rufus was drunk and high.

"And dirty."

Yes, and dirty.

"I thought you liked that."

Not last night. Ok, I'm gonna go get us some coffee and snacks and you get showered and dressed. Meet me in the lobby.

I ran to Starbucks and get us the appropriate caffeine and sugar products to sustain us through the mornings events. It was a bright, beautiful Sunday; a perfect Spring day in DC. I got back to the hotel and the camera crew was milling around. Ellen, Anne and Ellen's mom, Betty DeGeneres, were talking to the cameras. I sat, sipped my coffee and watched. TV Actor made a grand entrance. Someone must have tipped her off to the cameras rolling. I heard someone say that Melissa and Julie were staying in and skipping the march, they were too tired. We piled into the van, cameras rolling the entire time. No one said hello or good morning to me.

The van driver wasn't told where exactly we were supposed to go. We drove around for quite some time and came across one closed street after another. The driver was getting angry and Ellen and Anne were getting on edge. The march was supposed to start at any minute and we were nowhere near where we needed to be. Finally, Anne yelled out 'Just let us out here.' We were somewhere along the National Mall.

The van driver stopped, the doors opened and we poured out; cameras rolling. We knew the general direction we were supposed to be going in, but nothing specific. The Mall was packed with marchers getting ready. We only got a few feet before we were spotted and immediately, terrifyingly, the crowd started to close in. Hundreds of men and women were calling out Ellen's name. She tried to be gracious. She tried to shake hands and smile at people. It soon became impossible. People wanted to touch her, to talk to her, to devour her. We formed a protective circle around the couple and made our way back to the van, people shouting, screaming and rushing us. People threw themselves into our hands and arms to try and break through. We pushed Ellen and Anne in and quickly followed, closing the door harshly on a crowd of people quickly angered by our denial.

The van took off. We came to another blocked street but this time a cop was stationed at the barricade. We pleaded our case and he let us through, still too far from our destination. The street, of course, dead ended. But we could hear the March and we knew we were that much closer. Unfortunately, we also had to climb a wall and scale a hill to get there. Ellen and Anne ran ahead leading the pack. At one point, Ellen looked back in concern for her mother. I waved and said, I've got her. Don't worry. I took Betty's hand and I led her up the hill and there, below us, was the March.

I can't even begin to describe how many people were there. Men and women of all shapes and sizes, all colors, all walks of life, led by a simple banner proclaiming equality for all. When they saw Ellen running towards them they let out a great roar. She and Anne kept running, their hands over their heads in exaltation, a cloud of dirt and rocks being kicked up in their wake. They each ran to one side of the sign and grabbed it. They were both glowing with pride.

Betty let go of my hand and I trailed behind her until we caught up with the crowd. Ellen smiled and nodded at her mother and we took our places behind the banner. And we marched. We marched for equality. We marched for the under-represented. We marched for each other. And we marched for ourselves. It was truly overwhelming.

After a while the crowd, once again, started to push and pull their way closer to Ellen. I found myself getting further and further behind the group. I let them march ahead of me. Slowly, I found my way outside of the marchers and made my way in the sun back to the hotel. I packed my bag, left the TV Actor a note and headed for the airport.

Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 3

2009-04-01T11:35:00.002-04:00

It was early afternoon on April 29, 2000. I was in the lobby of the hotel waiting for TV Actor to come down. The plan was to head to RFK Stadium for sound check and then just hang out there for the concert. As I waited in the large, cold marble lobby and interesting group of people began to assemble. First a three or four person camera crew, followed by a blonde woman who I knew to be Anne Heche. Shortly thereafter she was joined by Ellen Degeneres. I hung back and stood in awe. A few seconds later, Melissa Etheridge and Julie Cypher exited the elevators. Melissa in tight tight black leather pants and silky, flimsy rocker shirt. Julie in a summer dress, looking tan and pretty. A tall blonde woman was talking to them and when she turned toward me I realized it was Laura Dern.

I was getting more celebrity sightings in five seconds in the lobby of a DC hotel than I'd ever had in New York. Ok, that's not true. But these were real, big-time celebrities. Not just theatre people.

The elevators dinged and I looked up expectantly. The TV Actor came out and screamed. She hugged Ellen and Anne, Melissa and Julie and then Laura -- who was on her cell phone and proceeded to walk outside to continue the conversation. Then the TV Actor saw me and waved me over. One by one she introduced me and I could only say 'hi' and stand there, transfixed with my mouth agape. I'm not usually star struck but I was beyond at this point. Ellen's coming out had touched so many men and women of...well, I was going to say MY generation but really wasn't it every generation? It wasn't only gay people who crowded around their television screens to watch the coming out episode three years ago. My parents watched. My grandparents watched. My brother even watched. Ellen had made a huge impact on how America sees and accepts gays.

And Melissa Etheridge's music was playing on my car radio the afternoon I came out to mother.

All I could do was shake hands and smile. We piled into a white van, film crew and all. TV Actor explained to me that Julie Cypher was directing a documentary about Ellen, Anne and their life together. Do you know who the head cameraman was? Coley Laffoon, the man Anne would leave Ellen for only a short time later. Melissa Etheridge was to be the Emcee of the concert tonight: Equality Rocks sponsored by the Human Rights Campaign to promote the equality and safety of all people. The tag line was "Dream. Hope. Rock." The line-up of performers included Etheridge, George Michael, Garth Brooks and the Pet Shop Boys. The next morning all the same people would lead the Millenium March for Equality.

My head was spinning. Etheridge was asking the van for trivia question suggestions about her. People who answered correctly would be able to come back stage and meet her. A handsome, long-haired blonde man who must have been her assistant was making a list and throwing out ideas. He turned to me and I couldn't pay attention to him because I was fascinated by the sight of Etheridge's long blonde hair bouncing up and down in the seat in front of me. The TV Actor took my hand and I turned to her and mouthed "Oh My God." She threw back her head, laughed and looked out the window. The van pulled into RFK Stadium and I saw the flashing lights of the billboard announcing tonight's concert. I had in no way been prepared for the magnitude of this event unfolding before me.

The van pulled in. We were given our all-access passes which immediately went around our necks. Laura Dern immediately got on her cell phone and disappeared on to the stadium floor. The TV Actor and I wandered out aimlessly to watch the other performers finishing their sound check. A Canadian singer with a funny name who I'd never heard of was finishing his set. "That's Rufus Wainwright," the TV Actor said. His nasal tenor reverberated through the empty stadium and I couldn't tell if I loved or despised his voice. He walked off as Etheridge walked on with her band and she gave him a warm hug. I sat down to watch Etheridge in action but she didn't perform. She strummed a little, talked a little, and wandered around the stage checking out the venue. Laura Dern appeared again from seemingly nowhere and exited in a hurry to the backstage area. The TV Actor turned to me, "Billy Bob and Angelina are getting married. She's a mess." Well, that explained that.

"I have to find the bathroom," TV Actor said and disappeared backstage.

I got up to follow but didn't want to be a pain in her ass. I walked around the stadium floor. Soon, 45,000 people would fill this place all in support of one cause. I felt out of my element and completely alone. As cool as this was, these weren't my people. There was no one to truly share this moment with. It meant something, but what? I felt a darkness fall over me and I tried to fight it but I knew it would ebb and flow for the rest of the weekend on its own accord. I was in limbo with Present Ex, who would kill to be with my at this moment if he knew what was going on. I was now in limbo with casting and grad school. I was going to have to move to New Jersey for three years. Everything was unsettled and here I was surrounded by TV, movie and rock stars. It didn't make any sense. I didn't want to be there.

I began to head backstage when I ran in to Julie Cypher. She was alone and standing watching Etheridge on the stage. I introduced myself again and we stood and talked for a shirt time. She was distant, cold and wanted little to do with me. I tried to ask questions about the documentary but she seemed unsure of its actual purpose or where it was going to be shown. I recognized that my presence with her was not required so I moved on.

Backstage was relatively quiet. As Etheridge was the headliner, they had held her sound check til the end. So it was quiet in the green room. Couches of all shapes, sizes and colors were littered everywhere, most in various states of disrepair. A home basketball free throw machine was tucked in a corner. Caterers were coming in to lay out the food for the artists and crew. I heard my name and the TV Actor was behind me. "Let's take a walk around," she said.

As the sun set we made our way through the back parking lot. "My shirt ripped and I want to see if I can fix it. Ellen's trailer is this way. Let's see if there's a sewing kit in there." The lot was a maze of trailers glowing orange and pink in the fading light. I didn't know where we were going but followed closely behind, smoking a Nat Sherman. Someone ahead called the TV Actor's name and we both looked up. Sitting in the doorway of a trailer right in front of us was k.d. Lang. "Hey, k.d.!" TV Actor shouted. "What's going on?"

k.d. smiled and leered at TV Actor whose ample bosom was beginning to spill out of her shirt. "I ripped a strap and I'm trying to fix it."

"I can help hold those up for you," k.d. said.

"A needle and thread would be more helpful, thanks."

"Honey, I don't know how to use either. But take a look around and see if there's anything in there that helps." TV Actor kissed k.d. on the cheek and made her way into the trailer. I said Hi and stood outside watching the setting sun. The two women laughed and chatted outside and finally TV Actor reappeared. "Nothing. Let's find Ellen's."

We waved goodbye and k.d., standing in the doorway yelled out, "If you can't find anything my offer still holds."

We turned a corner and found Ellen's trailer. TV Actor walked right in. "They went back to the hotel. The place is ours." We walked in and it looked like a love shack. An orange and yellow couch straight out of the 70s took up most of the room. A shag rug lay like a dejected beast on the floor. There were plates of half-eaten food on every surface. I sat uncomfortably on the edge of the couch while TV Actor dug through whatever she could find. "I'd settle for a goddamned safety pin!" She screamed. I laughed.

I wish I could help, I said with a sigh.

She went into the bathroom and screamed, "Voila!" She stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, holding up her shirt in one hand and a safety pin in the other, a twinkle in her eye. "Got it. Ready?" She sat next to me on the sofa and i took the thin silk strap in my hand and tried to lightly bunch the fabric around her back in a tastefully simple way to attach the two pieces again. "Just don't pin me."

I'll try my best.

After a few attempts, I succeeded and she ran to the bathroom to view the results in the mirror. "I can get away with it if I wear my jacket over it," she said. "And at least the ladies won't be falling out all over the place." She lifted her boobs under the purple silk for effect.

I think they're safe.

"I'm going to fix my make-up and then we'll go."

As we opened the trailer door I was struck by a sound almost like the ocean. In the short time we had left the interior of the stadium, it had filled up. The excitement of the moment washed over both of us and we ran to the concert floor. Whereas earlier the stadium had been empty, the sunlight reflecting off the back of thousands of unoccupied chairs, the area was now dark and filled with people. The excitement of the crowd was palpable and contagious. It was almost overwhelming as I felt it rush over me from my head to my toes.

This is insane, I shouted. But TV Actor didn't hear me. She had already made her way out to the concert floor to watch the action on the stage. I flashed my badge to a security guard and ran to join her. Ellen was on-stage and the crowd would not stop cheering. It went on for what seemed like forever and it drew tears of joy from her eyes. "We shouldn't have to have a concert like this!" she yelled into the mic and the audience roared even louder.

And then followed a string of performers and speakers. As the night went on, I wandered back and forth between the stadium floor and the green room. I liked Rufus Wainwright and his sister enough. George Michael, in his purple satin suit and dark sunglasses, was amazing. The Pet Shop Boys played a long fun but redundant set. Chaka Khan was really fat.

I sat on one of the green room couches munching on a piece of fried chicken, watching an older man help a young child play basketball. A quiet, middle-aged woman with short straight redish hair sat next to me and smiled. The older man came and sat down next to the woman. He smiled and I said, Hi and put out my hand to introduce myself.

"I'm Dennis Shepard," he said. "This is my wife, Judy."

Oh. Wow.

I'm...I'm...so sorry for your loss. And I'm glad you're here. You two have been so important to this cause.

Dennis looked at the little boy still trying to play with the basketball machine and smiled wistfull. "It's very important to us. Matthew was very important to us. We just do everything we can to make the message clear. Like, see that little boy over there, I want him to grow up in a world without hate."

A runner came in and called Dennis to the stage. "It was nice meeting you."

Likewise.

I ran out to the stadium floor just as Melissa Etheridge was introducing Dennis. Judy stayed backstage. The crowd jumped to its feet again and cheered so loud the stadium shook. Once again, Dennis talked about the importance of this event and the necessity of equality in the world today, tomorrow and forever. When he was done speaking, Dennis waved to the crowd and walked off. Etheridge tore into her song about Matthew's death, "Scarecrow." You could hear a pin drop in the stadium while she performed. When she was done, there was a moment of silence. Many people, including myself, wiped tears from their eyes and then burst into a collective scream.

I was overwhelmed.

Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 2

2009-03-31T10:33:00.004-04:00

That evening massaged, showered and ready to go out, the TV Actor and I went out to hit a gay bar or two. We were staying in Dupont Circle area so this was, allegedly, convenient. So we set out; she in a pair of impossibly high heels, tight leather pants and a low cut silk shirt that displayed her ample cleavage. The first bar we went to was no longer there. The second bar we went to was loud, dark and crowded.

The TV Actor asked me to ask the bartender if they had a VIP lounge. I looked at her incredulously, Really?

"Yes. Please ask. At least it'll be a place for me to sit. These shoes hurt." I took a deep breath, swallowed my pride and went up to the bar. I was embarrassed. I don't like to draw attention to myself. I didn't want to announce who I was here with. And what if they didn't know who she was. That would be awkward. Plus, the place was packed and loud so to get the attention of the bartender to ask a silly question was going to take some doing.

Excuse me, I shouted. Excuse me. The bartender turned a weary eye toward me and leaned in not at all as I sandwiched myself between two unmoving older gays on stools. Hi. I...uhm...I was wondering if you have any kind of VIP area here. You see I'm here with...and I explained the situation as succinctly as I could. He looked at me, as I feared, as if he had no idea who I was talking about. He shook his head no and turned away. I turned back to the TV Actor and she was gone, swept away in a sea of gay. I followed the bar around and saw her in the midst of a crowd, drink in her hand, smiling and entertaining the group with fabulous stories. She waved and motioned me over but I wasn't interested in joining the crowd. I motioned that I needed a drink and that I'd be right back and I pulled my own disappearing act into the crowd.

I bought a beer from the unfriendly bartender who continued to look at me suspiciously and I found the stairs to the second floor, the dance floor. I didn't feel like dancing but I did feel like disappearing in the music. The thumping drew me up and up and the colored lights flashed like a beacon. The dance floor was packed. There was another, smaller bar in the back. It was darker up here than downstairs and that was perfect for disappearing. I looked at my watch. It was late. The bars here close early. I should get my drinking in. I chugged my beer, ordered another and then commandeered a comfortable section next to the wall. I watched the sweaty mass in front of my move as if in unison. Cigarettes, bottles of beer and mixed drinks were held high in the air. Naked torsos twirled, twisted, bent and shook. I inhaled the scent of the place. It was booze and testosterone. I wasn't really looking at specific men; I was more taking in the movement of the mass. Suddenly I felt hot breath on my neck that smelled like whiskey. "Hi."

I turned and there was an older guy in his 60s standing next to me. He had two drinks in his hand, a receding hairline and a tiny paunch. He was wearing a pastel polo and khakis rolled at the bottom. He was leering at me while rocking back and forth on his unsteady legs. I was waiting for him to capsize in the storm around us. "Hi," he said again.

Hi, I nodded and tried not to engage.

"You know why no one here is talking to you?" he leaned in even further and perched one of his drink-heavy hands on my shoulder.

No. No, I don't.

"Because they're scared of you. You look like you don't want to be approached. Your eyes are mean."

I turned my mean eyes on him.

"But I'm not scared of you," he slurred. "I think you're just lonely."

Of course I was lonely. I was in a bar with my back to the wall drink in one hand, cigarette in the other watching people go by instead of engaging. Instead of being a part of the crowd, I was observing it. But I was comfortable in my loneliness. I didn't want to engage at the moment. I needed some time to be with myself even if that meant being alone. I certainly didn't want to fill the void with a drunk, leering 60-year old who needed to hold on to two drinks at the same time.

"You're very handsome though. Your angry eyes are beautiful. I'm very attracted to you."

And out of nowhere another arm slipped around my waist and drew me in. A warm, wet mouth kissed my cheek. An unfamiliar voice said, "Hey baby." I turned and standing next to me was a tall, handsome, young blonde guy with bright blue eyes and a perfect smile. "Is this guy bothering you?"

I turned to the 60-year old and said, I was just waiting for my boyfriend. Then I planted a kiss on the mouth of the guy standing next to me. He tasted of beer and salt. I put my arm around him and his back was wet from dancing. I looked up at him and he dismissed the drunken old man with a nod of the head. The leery one stumbled drunkenly, sheepishly, away disappearing into the dark and swept up in the wave of bodies, left to drown in his own loneliness.

I turned to my savior. Thanks a lot. I thought I was going to be stuck with him for the rest of the night.

"I saw you from across the room and I know how that guy can be so I wanted to help you out."

I really appreciate it. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, you know?

"You're a nice guy."

Yeah. I looked down at the floor. All of a sudden the room was alive with light and the music stopped abruptly. The gay men scattered for the door like cockroaches in a kitchen.

What was that?

"Closing time."

Already?

"It's two."

Oh, shit. I have to find my friend. I left her downstairs a while ago. Listen, I have to go. Thanks again for helping me out. You were great.

And with that I followed the roaches downstairs and found the TV Star just saying goodbye to her newfound friends. She gave me a big drunken smile and threw her arms around me. "Where were you?!"

I got lost in the crowd upstairs.

"We had so much fun down here. These guys are great. I can't believe it's 2am. Let's get the fuck outta here."

Yeah. Let's get out of here. And we stumbled out into the dark, warm, Spring night.

Can you walk? I asked.

"Fuck, yeah." And we headed back to our hotel. I turned and caught a brief glimpse of my saviour standing outside the bar. I gave him a quick wave and a smile. He nodded back.

"Who was that?" the TV Actor asked seductively.

No one. Let's get back to the hotel.

Dream. Hope. Rock: Part 1

2009-03-30T12:01:00.004-04:00

In April of 2000 I unexpectedly found myself in Washington DC for a long weekend. In the early afternoon hours of April 29th I found myself in a van with the TV Star, Ellen Degeneres, Anne Heche, Melissa Etheridge, Laura Dern and a TV crew. We were on our way to RFK Stadium for a sound check.

A few days earlier I had gotten a call from the TV Actor saying that she was going down to DC for the Pride Rocks concert and a brief vacation and had an extra room in her hotel suite for a few days. Did I want to join? Did I?! Things were tough for me at the time. I was working in casting, enough said on that front. Graduate school rejection letters were pouring in. Ok, they weren't really pouring in because I had only applied to three schools: Columbia, Juilliard and Rutgers. I wanted to stay in New York, preferably. If not, the immediate area. After being rejected from both Columbia and Juilliard I was holding out hope for Rutgers. I didn't have much hope left.

Amy Saltz, the acting head of the Directing program at Rutgers University: Mason Gross School of the Arts, had put me through an intensive interview process. I had amazing credentials and stellar recommendations but Amy thought I was "too young" for the program. Reading over the MGSA materials on the program Hal Scott, who started the program, felt that a good director had to be over 30 in order to bring a certain amount of "life experience" to the table. I called bullshit. I had more life experience at the age of 25 than most people had in a life. Amy saw this but was still tentative. We had three interviews. We liked each other. I responded to her gruff, matter-of-fact manner. She was attracted to my passion and ideals. (I was full of both back then.) After our last interview she said she needed some more time to make a decision. Frustrated and thinking the answer would be negative I fell into a slump. My back-up plan of taking the money I had saved over the past few years and going to Italy until it ran out seemed to be the plan of action.

So I was working in casting. I was waiting to here from Rutgers. Present Ex and I were still living together, semi-broken up and semi-together. Relationship limbo. So when TV Actor called with the invite, I jumped. I needed a break from the island and my real life. I didn't really expect to be be in the middle of such an all-star event.

TV Actor and I had become fast friends when I put her in to the national tour of Cabaret. We got into lots of trouble together and enjoyed every moment of it. Whenever I went out to work on the tour, she invited me to stay with her. We laughed a lot. Drank red wine a lot. Smoked Nat Shermans a lot. Danced a lot. Partied a lot. And that was just rehearsal.

Her hotel suite was truly amazing. I hadn't realized the difference between having money and having TV money until I walked in there. Richly furnished and lushly upholstered, it was almost like being in a palace. My room of the suite was so far away from hers we might as well have been on different floors. I hugged her hard and thanked her for the invite. She said she was going to jump in the shower and then we were going to tour the Holocaust Museum. Fun times.

On the way in to DC I had received a phone call from Amy Saltz. I headed to my room in the suite, took a deep breath, swallowed hard and hit redial, bracing myself for the bad news. She answered the phone almost immediately. "Hi, JV. I'm glad you called back so quickly. I wanted to invite you into the Directing program at Rutgers..." And time stopped. The world seemed to move away. I wasn't expecting that. I was prepared for another rejection. I was getting ready to spend months in Italy learning how to speak the language and getting lost among the natives. And Amy talked on about how I would be one of three incoming directors. How we were all so different. How she was excited about each of us. And obviously I said I accepted. Stunned, I went back out to the living room and waited for the TV Star to make her entrance. What better way to celebrate then by experiencing a Holocaust? On the way out, the TV Actor asked the concierge to have a masseuse in our room that night at 10pm and be prepared to spend two hours, an hour for each of us. Nice.

The Holocaust Museum was a truly devastating experience for both of us. Of course, having worked on Cabaret, we talked about it and were familiar with it on an education standpoint, but seeing it in front of you makes the whole experience more visceral, more tangible. I kept myself together for as long as I could until we walked into a room that was, from floor to ceiling, covered in shoes of the victims. I broke down in tears. These relics made it real. These were possessions of people that had been thrown away, destroyed, and all that remained were these thin pieces of broken leather. Stacked behind wired fences the shoes seemed to go straight up to God. And I wanted to reach out and touch them. I wanted to connect with whatever had touched that child, that woman, that man. I wanted to know the person who had chosen that shoe for her daughter, who had crouched down and tied the laces a hundred times until they were stripped of them and kicked aside, now useless. The TV Actor who had been crying for some time now came over and put her arm around me, leading me to a bench outside where I pulled myself together.

"Let's get out of here," she said. "Let's go get a coffee."

I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of lives lost. And as I looked around and realized who I was and where I was and where I was staying at the particular moment in time, I realized just how lucky I was. It was the second (the acceptance into MGSA being the first) of many monumental events to occur that weekend.

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 5

2009-03-27T16:23:00.003-04:00

The Grand Finale.

Saturday evening in Milford was spent wrapped in the warm arms of the Hotel Fauchere. The Loved One and I put on some respectable clothes, took the elevator down to the Bar Louis and had a pre-dinner drink. We both stuck with our wine choices from the previous evening; he, the Pinot, and I, the Mercurey.

The waitress who served us the night before recognized us and seemed genuinely happy to see us. I looked around the bar and recognized some familiar faces from the night before: the Miserable Couple (of course), a pair of straight, beer-drinking guys from town, and a young couple who had been a step behind us on our tour of the town all day. I mentioned them to the Loved One and I half-listened to their conversation. It was obvious they were staying at the hotel together but they seemed at the very beginning of their relationship. The conversation was akin to that one would have on a first or second date and I found it odd they were vacationing together.

It reminded me of a couple the Loved One and I had eavesdropped on when we were in Tulum, Mexico last spring. We had toured the ruins and had taken a taxi into town. The driver recommended a place to eat and we grabbed a table outside, ordered Michaladas and looked out on the quiet, dirty, sad streets. It was April and definitely off-season. A young man and woman our age sat at the table next to us. They were obviously traveling together but I couldn't tell in what capacity. The young woman kept talking about some other girl. "Didn't you used to date her?" et cetera. She was fishing for info from this guy and she was way into him. Finally she said about the other girl, "Well. She has cankles." There was a pause. Then to cover, "I mean, she's nice and everything but she's not all that." The Loved One and I almost spat out our drinks and from that point on I stopped listening. If she was trying to get closer to this guy she had just ruined her chances.

The young couple at the Bar Louis were very preppy and very upper class. The girl was very shy and embarrassed by the fact that she didn't know how to pronounce "Kir Royale" from the drinks menu. She was trying to explain the drink to the waitress and finally she grabbed the menu and pointed. The guy asked for their "oldest scotch." I flashed forward to what their lives would be like in 40 years. As soon as the drinks were served they began stressing about the fact that they were going to be late for dinner and they took their drinks upstairs with them, asking the waitress to charge their room and not leaving a tip. I didn't like them.

When they left I noticed D/Nick at a table behind where they were sitting. He was sitting with two men and we made eye contact. I went over to say hello, the Loved One behind me, and thank him again for the tour. He introduced to the men across from him. They also had a llama farm -- only theirs was in upstate New York. How many llama farms are there in the US? Crazy. We went back to our drinks and then up to the Delmonico for dinner.

The maitre d asked if we could wait a few minutes and we said 'of course' and sat on the back porch and paged through magazines. We were sat about five minutes after that. The young woman who had served us breakfast was also working the dinner shift and she also recognized us and greeted us kindly. It feels good when you're staying somewhere and people recognize and engage you.

The owner of the bookstore in town had highly recommended the lamb so when I saw it at the top of the menu, I barely looked further. The Loved One ordered the Delmonico steak which, I have to say, was also very tempting. The Loved One started with the tuna tartar (no thanks) and I had the escargot (perfection). We had another glass of wine and sat in a comfortable silence. I enjoyed watching the other tables, I enjoyed just soaking in the atmosphere of the restaurant. We were in no rush to eat. We were in no rush to leave. The food came out in its own time and I was pleased that we weren't being rushed in and out. For once, we skipped dessert and I regret it now.

The next morning, I awoke already sad that we had to leave. I threw on my jacket and ran to the ATM to get cash for the day. The Loved One met me in the Delmonico for breakfast. Again, we were greeted and recognized by familiar faces and also some new ones. Our waitress at breakfast and dinner the other day was there again and I jokingly asked her is her if she ever took any time off. We had a huge pot of coffee and a seat by the front window so I was able to watch people walking by as well as the other guests of the restaurant. Sunday brunch seemed to be much more popular than Saturday and the restaurant was alive with activity; tables being turned over, food coming out, OJ and water being poured.

After breakfast, the Loved One went to get pastries to take back with us and I went back to the room. I realized that I had forgotten my jacket in the restaurant. The Loved One opened the door with it in his hand. Who gave it to you, I asked? "How did you know?" I realized when I got back to the room. It wasn't Kenda was it? The one who I bugged all yesterday about my ATM card. "Yes." Damn. She's gonna think I'm a moron.

I knew it was Kenda. I had seen her around the lobby area when we went down to breakfast and I knew I was going to have to see her when we checked out. And, seriously. What must she think? She was very kind and I said I was just so relaxed that I kept forgetting things and wasn't usually so stupid. I'm still not sure she believed me. But I wouldn't have believed me either.
And just like that, our stay at the Hotel Fauchere was finished.

We got into the car and I looked longingly up at our room on the third floor. I wasn't quite ready to live Milford. But there were waterfalls to see and perhaps some more fun adventures on the way home. And there were. The waterfalls were beautiful. I'm glad that we stopped and I want to go back in warmer weather to hike those trails. As we made our way down a young guy in sweats, hiking boots, windbreaker and heavy backpack stopped us on the trail and said if we climbed over the fence and worked our way down the view was really amazing. I was enthralled by the metal piercing that went straight through his septum. I thanked him kindly and as we walked away I turned to Loved One and said, I would assume if a fence it there we're probably not supposed to climb over it. He agreed.

On the drive home we encountered one or two lone antique stores. One appeared to be the raised basement of someone's home. A sadness hung over this store. We went through very quickly and then left. The next was called Old Church Antiques or something like that and it was huge. A basement full of crap and a first floor full of crap. By the time we came to the next town, whose name I forget, that seemed to be nothing but antique stores we were spent. We walked around for bit, had lunch and then called it quits. I had had enough of other people's musty old crap. If they didn't want it, I certainly didn't. We had lunch and hit the road. Again.

Of course we came across what appeared to be an outlet center. So we stopped. The bookstore was disappointing. The Bass Outlet was...a Bass outlet. The Izod Outlet was a mess. The coffee was watery. And the cheese shop stank to high heaven in the worst way. Depressed and ready to be home we, once again, hit the road. Both of us were sick of our music but I put on an old Jason Mraz cd for a little life. Sunday anxiety was starting to build in my chest like a shoestring knot. It would tighten and increase with every mile closer to the city.

Happily, we came across a mall. One of the many fascinations the Loved One and I share is with malls. If there is one around, we go. Sociologically, nothing tells you more about a town and its people better than a trip to the mall. I love to look at the people. The mall was called the 'Rockaways' not to be confused, I guess, with Far Rockaway. It was interesting. The Loved One found it depressing. I didn't. Just a little sad. Which most malls are, particularly in a recession.

We walked it in half an hour, stopped at Borders so the Loved One could get a latte and hit the road one, final time.

And so it came to pass, our weekend in Pennsylvania was over. We picked up Ripley at the funeral home and headed to our Greenpoint abode. The daffodils did not bloom in our absence but they had turned yellow and would open any day now.

That was a week ago. And tonight I would like to go to Bar Louis for a glass of Mercurey and some truffle fries.

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 4

2009-03-26T12:02:00.003-04:00

As we were wrapping up lunch I was whining to the Loved One again about the loss of my ATM card.

"Give me your wallet," he said.

It's not in there, I assured him as I opened it and showed him the empty space where it usually lay. Not there. Then to further prove my point, I pulled out the assorted receipts and credit cards from another slot in the wallet and low and behold there she was, my brand new Chase ATM card twinkling in the light. I stared at it for a second and the Loved One saw it right away. I shoved it back in the correct place and mumbled, I told you it was in there the entire time.

I don't normally lose things a lot. But when I do, I lose them well. I lost a pair of keys in my backpack for about a month. I was convinced our third roommate at the funeral home had gone in to my bag and taken them while I slept. I moaned about it for days and even paid to have a new set made. One day, at the Loved Ones apartment, they fell out of an inner pocket deep inside the bag. Again, they were not in their usual place. Whose fault is that? And after the Mormon and I broke up I left my ATM card in a bank machine three times in three weeks. Two of those times I had to wait for a replacement card to be mailed to me. It was frustrating but think of all the money I saved in that time. I made no pointless purchases.

Let me go in and tell Kenda that I found it, I said to Loved One.

Sheepishly I walked in and approached her. She greeted me with a warm smile. I just wanted to let you know, uhm...I found my ATM card. "Oh! Good! Where was it?" I looked down at the floor, It totally wasn't in my wallet. She smiled a knowing smile and I waved goodbye and ran right into Marta who was arriving for her shift. "How were the llamas?" We're on our way right now, I said. "Be careful," she cautioned. We laughed and waved goodbye and headed to the car.

The farm was just a few minutes away and we arrived, of course, early. We initially drove past the farm and immediately knew by looking out the driver's side window and seeing a veritable sea of llamas, some lying in the sun; some picking at the grass. We turned the car around and slowly approached Llama Lane. The white gate opened automatically as our powdered blue colored Kia made the slow ascent up the drive. I was a little unclear as to how this was going to work. Was there a group before us? Would someone greet us? The Loved One asked these questions out loud and all I could say was, I don't know. As we were turning the car into a parking space, a tall lanky man dressed like...well, like a modern day farmer gave us a smile and a nod and I said, I guess that's who we see.

We got out of the car and I went up and shook his hand and introduced myself. I thought he said his name was Nick so I proceeded to call him that for the rest of the day. It wasn't until we got back to Greenpoint and the Loved One did some research on the farm that we found that, actually, his name is Dick. Oops. Sorry, Dick. I introduced the Loved One and D/Nick led us into the barn. "Which one of you is from Philly?" he asked. I am, I answered. But originally. We live in Brooklyn now. I grew up in Philly and spent my summer's in upstate PA but, I guess, in a more western section.

"Whereabouts?"

St. Clair. Near Pottsville.

"That's not too far," and then he thought. "Not Pottstown?"

No, Pottsville.

"Well, welcome. This is the llama farm." And D/Nick launched into a very detailed and thorough history of the farm and how he, in 1985, retired as a corporate executive from NYC and bought the farm, which was built and used as a dairy farm in the 19th Century. He knew he needed to maintain it to keep it up and going but he didn't want traditional farm animals. After doing a lot of research he settled on llamas -- which can also be spelled lama. I hurled questions at him like a reporter. The only problem being I wasn't writing anything down so I was trying to retain as much as possible and I had a thousand more questions swimming around in my head.

First, D/Nick took us into the original barn. Posted along the back wall were rows and rows of blue and red ribbons. Next to these were large cardboard cartons, some of which were open and I could see llama hair pouring out. "This is the shearing room," D/Nick explained. He took us over to a large metal contraption that has two long, tufted poles that lock the llama in place so that it doesn't hurt itself while they shear it. There's also another device that lifts the back legs up so the llama doesn't try to sit during the process. I laughed and said, I wish I had one of those for my dog when I give him a bath. "What kind of dog do you have?" Oh, just a little thing but he hates it and squirms like crazy. It drives me insane. Truth to tell, I was a little embarrassed to explain my little gay Havanese pup to this farmer. Ripley is anything but a little gay lapdog but it's hard to describe him without making him seem otherwise. Plus, once you say Havanese you have to go into Bischon and Shih Tsu territory and it just gets gayer and gayer...

D/Nick took us over to the cardboard boxes and told us to feel the hair. I expected it to be coarse and rough but it was very smooth and fine. Then he showed us that his sweater was made from llama hair as well. Although it can be dyed, most llama hair is kept in its natural state and D/Nick explained the various features and colors, etc.

He then took us to the main barn. As he was talking and explaining things to us, suddenly a white head precariously balanced on a long white neck popped up, chewing hay in its mouth and giving us a questioning look. It had the most startling clear blue eyes you could imagine. "That's Bright Eyes," D/Nick said. "I can see why," the Loved One replied. Curiously, Bright eyes made its way over to us. D/Nick stuck out his hand and it sniffed with little interest and then went back to chewing. Suddenly, three or so more llamas came in to the barn. D/Nick knew each and everyone's name. Some came over to check us out, while others went right to the hay. D/Nick explained that the llamas got to know you by sniffing your hair. So if one came over, we bent our heads down and offered up our shiny locks to them to smell. It's a very scary position to be in, I have to say. The llamas look very powerful. And by putting your head down, you're obstructing any view of it whatsoever. What if it bites down on the top of your head? What if it grabs your ear and won't let go? What if it messes up your hair? None of this happened. We got the same half-hearted sniff of interest and then they walked away.

D/Nick showed us the original foundation of the barn and then how he had expanded it and made it bigger, particularly because he was so tall he could hardly stand up in it before. Then he took us upstairs to where the hay was stored and showed us how they could just drop it down to the feeding area below. He pointed out an original feature of the barn. The wood beams that supported the roof were hand cut. You could see each and every hack of the ax that was used to whittle the tree into this state. I had never thought of that. Why would I? When have I ever had to build a house? But I stood there looking at the ax marks imagining the kind of guy who had to build his house and his barn by chopping down the trees around him and then chopping them even further into the appropriate shapes before fitting them together. My mind doesn't work that way. I wish it did. And then I thought, what a great workout. Crunch could introduce Tree Choppin' to its city folk clients.

All this time a cat was following us from one location to another. "He gets all the little critters," D/Nick said. "Obviously, he's solely an outdoors cat." Unwillingly to leave the dark hunting zones of the upper barn yet, D/Nick made sure that the cat could get out from somewhere before we headed back down. We walked through the feeding trough and D/Nick pointed out a large black llama with a large infection around its eye. Oh no, what happened! I exclaimed. "She had an ingrown eyelash," D/Nick explained. "The normal vert wasn't there and the one that was removed the wrong eyelid. So she tears up constantly and it leaves that area all infected like that." As he was telling us this story a chicken wandered in and jumped into a feed trough. D/Nick checked to see if it was laying an egg. "We have a few of these, you'll see around. They only lay about 10-12 eggs a day though." 10-12?! I thought they would only lay one egg a day. So much I didn't know.

There are about 60-70 llamas on the farm. The males are separated from the females and only get it on when D/Nick says so. There's even a breeding booth, as it were. Apparently this is because female llamas ovulate AFTER they copulate. So, I guess, they're guaranteed to get knocked up after sex.

We walked out to where the female llamas were. Most immediately moved down the field, further away from us. A curious, smaller black and white llama named Chicklet was much more curious than her counterparts. She would approach and then back off. We would offer our closed fist or our head and she would approach and then back away. Rinse and repeat. I loved it. We then walked off to another section where the male llamas were kept. Quite different from the females, the males almost stampeded to the gate to greet us as we stood there. One particularly fiesty one, Mitchiko, got on famously with the Loved One; nuzzling him, smelling his hair, sniffing his hand, etc. I had asked D/Nick earlier if the llamas ever made noises. He said occasionally but rarely and only in certain circumstances. All of a sudden, one of the male llamas started making a noise as another male attempted to mount him from behind. We moved away.

We asked about spitting. Everyone has heard about or seen a scene of a movie in which someone gets llama spit in their face. D/Nick explained that it only happens rarely; usually when the llama feels physically or territorially threatened (and usually it spits at other llamas). I was amazed that D/Nick knew each and every llama by name. The creatures don't really respond to call by name but can be trained to. D/Nick pointed out Annie who was his oldest llame (they live to about 20 years). She was blind but still managed to get around fine and follow the rest.

As we moved around the grounds, the curious males followed us as far as they could.

D/Nick pointed out where he was using some of the grounds for selective lumbering. We came across some of his farm hands sifting llama manure to use as fertilizer in the gardens. We walked further out to a large pond. Daffodils were beginning to bloom in patches everywhere. The Loved One told him how ours were almost ready to bloom and we were afraid it was going to happen this very weekend while we were away. D/Nick explained how because he was higher up in the mountains, some 1100 feet above sea-level, the spring thaw took a little longer. As we walked around the pond he said that the koi probably wouldn't be out yet but we saw them in abundance; white koi, orange koi, some almost a foot long swimming lazily through the reeds. Our shoes squished in the mud as we circled the pond and I thought how I would love to sit out here and read or paint or throw parties.

We walked back toward the house and D/Nick showed us the greenhouse and the gardens. He supplies the Delmonico at the Hotel Fauchere with its summer herbs and vegetables. Four or five young guys were working here, getting the ground ready for planting. D/Nick told us that the man usually in charge of all of this had passed away not to long ago. D/Nick had come home to find him passed out from an aneurysm on the floor. In the midst of all this life, there is also death. Sad. I wanted to ask D/Nick more about his personal life but it didn't seem right. Where was his family? Was he lonely out here? Aside from someone named Joe who acted as a kind of manager and some assorted other staff, did he have close friends and people to relate to. But getting so personal, so quickly didn't seem appropriate. I was so fascinated by what this man had done though. Left his life in the city behind and created this successful existence out in the country. How could I do that?

As we stood outside the greenhouse, I stood on a large log that acted as a border to the entrance. The Loved One and I were looking at a beautiful, towering oak tree that hung over the property. I, of course, in my clumsiness managed to dislocate the log from where it had been fixed and couldn't manage to get it back in its proper place. The Loved One stood, amused, in the doorway just watching me trying to fix it.

We slowly walked back to the car. I didn't want to leave but we had taken up almost two hours of D/Nick's time. The chickens and roosters were pecking away in the driveway as we said our goodbyes. Four beautiful guinea hens also made an appearance. From up on top of a hill, I could see Mitchiko the llama looking down at us -- almost wistfully, I thought.

I couldn't thank D/Nick enough for this thorough, extremely educational and fun tour. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to offer him money, and I felt he would almost be offended if I had but he had so graciously offered up so much of his time and energy to us. We shook hands and he said he'd be dining at the hotel later that night and maybe we'd see him there.

The Loved One got in the car and asked me to be on chicken watch in the driveway while he pulled out. A man and a little girl had appeared thought, friends of D/Nick's, and the young girl had chased all the chickens away. The coast was clear.

I plopped down into the passenger seat and turned to the Loved One. Were you bored by that? I asked hesitantly.

"Are you kidding?! I loved it!"

Good. Me too.

Dinner wasn't until 8:30. That meant it was time for a sweet treat, some coffee and a nap before pre-dinner drinks at the Bar Louis.

I want a llama farm, I said as we drove away.

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 3

2009-03-25T13:44:00.003-04:00

I awoke Saturday morning well-rested and, as usual, before the Loved One. I put on my Hotel Fauchere white bathrobe and curled into the arm chair by the window with A Confederacy of Dunces. I read it once, in high school, and I can't even begin to fathom how much of it was lost on me at the time. However, now, being a devotee of New Orleans and (like Ignatius Reilly) a misanthrope, I understand it on every level. I'm not, actually, a misanthrope. I just think most people aren't as smart as they could or should be, and fewer live up to their potential.

When the Loved One woke up, we immediately celebrated the impending day by scarfing down the complimentary chocolate from the Patisserie Fauchere. It was perfect and stirred my already building hunger. I like to eat pretty much the second I wake up in the morning. Or from a nap. Or anytime at all.

We had a light, lovely breakfast in the Delmonico's porch. I was had one of the croissants I had read so much about in reviews online. It was light, buttery and crispy. It was also about half the size of a regular croissant and I wanted more. But Loved One and I split some eggs and fruit instead. As we ate, the Long Island or New Jersey couple came in looking as miserable in the morning as they did at night. They shot us both a withering look and then took a table in the corner by the back. I watched people run in and out of the patisserie next door and said that we should stop by later for coffee and a treat. The Loved One agreed. A party of older women came in and sat back by the miserable couple. They were too far away for me to hear their entire conversation but I heard talk of scripts and screenplays and a film festival as well as the name Rockefeller dropped, and I wished I could hear more. I'm a notorious eavesdropper. I will listen to any and all of a close-by conversation and then try to whisper what I'm hearing to the Loved One. His hearing is so hot so he usually can't hear what I'm saying and we have to talk about other things instead.

After breakfast, I made the Loved One pose for some pictures around the hotel. He begrudgingly obliged. I've become a big fan of capturing the moment on film and often regret not taking enough photos after an event. And from there we went to explore the town. Our first stop was, happily, Books & Prints at Pear Alley. The moment we opened the door and a huge white poodle came galloping out from around the front desk, I knew we were in the right place.

"That's Molly," the owner said. "I hope she isn't bothering you."

Are you kidding? I love it.

"Well, have a look around and let me know if you need any help."

The Loved One drew my attention to the glass case in front of me. On the second shelf, for $200, was a small piece of paper with a pencil sketch of Archie Andrews on it, signed by Dan DeCarlo who illustrated the comic book character throughout my formative years. In the early 80s I became an Archies Reporter and fan club member by writing in to the comic about my experience playing clarinet in the school band. I won first prize ($6)! My dad made a copy of the check before I cashed it, probably spending it on more Archie comics. It was my first, and only, byline. So far. A few years ago I found the issue I was published in and cut out the article, framed it and put it in the bathroom. The number two article was from a guy who worked part-time in a fast food joint and I couldn't help but wonder how old he was and how we felt getting beat out for first place by a 10-year old....

So I made a pass around the Archie and went, as I normally do, right to the fiction section. I am always in search of 1) a first edition of Patricia Highsmith's 'The Talented Mr. Ripley and 2) any Daphne DuMaurier novel I don't yet own. I rarely find either. After that, I head over to the drama section and look for out-of-print plays. Here, I was blessed with a collection of Random House plays from the 50s, 60s and 70s. I began pulling them off the shelf and making a stack. Before long I was over the $100 mark and I realized that I couldn't/shouldn't buy all of them. So I started going through to see which ones I did not need. I had to buy 'No Time For Sergeants' because it was the third time in three weeks that I had come across it. I had to buy the book of 'Happy Hunting', an Ethel Merman musical I had never heard of. The Loved One ran over with a copy of an original Playbill for "Little Me" in his hands. I was the AD of the Broadway revival. But I barely keep paraphernalia from shows I do work on, so I don't want any from shows I didn't work on.

The Loved One took a look at the stack of books by my side. I told him I couldn't afford them all and was weeding through to see which ones I really wanted. He said he would buy them for me, especially if they were out of print. I said, no. Not necessary and picked up my pile and proceeded to the front. Molly came out and sniffed the stack of books, happy with my purchases. I plopped them down on the counter and, straightforward, asked the owner if she would give me a discount for purchasing in bulk. She didn't even bat an eye. She calculated the price of the complete purchase and then knocked $15 off of it. And that's why you have to ask for what you want!

Then I pulled out my wallet to pay and realized that my ATM card was missing. I frantically looked through my wallet, to no avail. I had paid for dinner with it the night before at Bar Louis so I knew it was in Milford. Beyond that, I didn't know where. The Loved One pulled out his ATM card and saved the day. So he did end up buying the books for me after all.

"Let's drop these off in the car and then ask in the hotel for your card." Also, between the book buying and the stress of no ATM card, it was time to stop at the Patisserie Fauchere to refuel. As we approached the hotel, the female half of Miserable Couple was sitting on the front porch talking loudly on her cell phone. She didn't even glance up as we walked by. The male half was in the reception area where a new woman, a pretty redhead by the name of Kenda, was trying to arrange something for him. He was not happy with having only one time choice as his option and stalked out of the room.

I sheepishly walked up and introduced myself. "Oh, I have your directions to the llama farm!" she exclaimed.

How does everyone here know that I made arrangements to go there?!

I explained about losing my ATM card and she checked in the safe but it wasn't there. Bar Louis wasn't open yet. So it was off to Patisserie Fauchere! I shrugged my shoulders in defeat when I saw the Loved One and we headed next door. The smell of freshly baked...everything greeted us the minute we opened the door. Breads lined the shelves. Pastries shimmered behind the glass and wooden cases. My stomach rumbled. The Loved Ones eyes lit up at the sight of hot cross buns. I wanted everything but decided to get a pain au chocalat, as my croissant desire wasn't particularly satiated that morning. Again, the pastry was delicious but could have benefited from a bit more chocolat in the pain.

We enjoyed just sitting there and watching the locals come in and make conversation with the staff. IN my secret heart of hearts I sometime wish that I could spend the day in a kitchen baking away and making conversation with my fellow bakers and the community. So I was envious of these people who both lived and worked here. It seems a simpler way of life to me. Perhaps that's naive. Whose life is simple?

Coffee and pastries complete, we took off -- once again -- to explore the town. From small antique shops, to trendy stores, to the Velveteen Habit (which we couldn't stop making fun of) we walked the small town. Our favorite place was Old Lumberyard Antiques. They use the word "antiques", I would use the word "junk." But I love looking at it. I was overwhelmed by the amount of racist antiquities I was finding; a postcard with a young black child on it, running and written in "black slang" from the 20s; two cards obviously used as placecards at an event because the names Dr. and Mrs Simcox were handwritten at the bottom, again depicting poor black children referred to as "coons" in the sentence below. I was (and still am) so shocked by them I can't even remember the rest of the sentence. But does it matter? Really? And only $25 for the pair? Tempting. Never too soon to plan the next dinner party. I called the Loved One over and his jaw literally dropped when he saw them.

All of this racism and antiquing obviously made us hungry so it was time for lunch. I ran into the Bar Louis but still no ATM card appearance. And we decided on the Milford Diner for lunch. Our waitress was wonderful. She had dyed brown hair with white roots piled on top of her head and a face filled with deep wrinkles from smoking. She eyes us cautiously at first but took our order. I was wondering if I wasn't sensing some homophobia until she came over with her drinks while I studied a large map of the Pennsylvania area with antiquing locations mapped out.

"What are you looking for, honey"" she asked in a husky smokers voice.

Oh, nothing in particular. We were thinking of possibly going to New Hope and I was trying to figure out how far it was.

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, I just love New Hope. It's so beautiful. And artsy. I was just there a few weeks ago to visit a friend of mine..." and on and on she went. Asking where we were from and why we were here. She was very kind. By the time she was done questioning us the Loved Ones lunchmeat salad (a chef's salad but c'mon, really, it was slices of lunchmeat and cheese rolled up and plopped on top of iceberg lettuce) and my Greek salad (feta cheese, olives and a side of pita does not a Greek make) were ready. Our waitress left the check on our table and went out to smoke.

We had to finish our lunch quickly because we had a date with some llamas!

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 2

2009-03-24T11:07:00.005-04:00

I ran out the office door at 6pm like a child running out of class when the final school bell rings at the end of the year. I couldn't get out fast enough. I knew the Loved One would be late but I didn't care. I'd rather wait for him in front of the Port Authority than sit a second longer at my West Elm-purchased, dark brown, faux wood desk.

It was chilly out but the temperature was supposed to go up to the 50s on Saturday and even higher on Sunday.

I stood outside the Port Authority, my hatred for New York City growing with each passing second. I was inhaling more cigarette smoke in twenty minutes than I had in ten years of on-again/off-again smoking. I enjoyed watching the characters come and go. I remembered, as a kid, my dad would park the car here for our day trips. I was terrified. The minute you pulled out of the Lincoln Tunnel you were assaulted by dirty men trying to wash the windows of your car with water dirtier than them. My mother would immediately check to make sure the doors were locked. I would crouch lower in the back seat and raise whatever I was reading to cover my face, my heart pounding. What if they broke into the car? What if they stole me out of the back seat and took me away? What if they made me dirty like them and I had to stand at the base of the Lincoln Tunnel and wash windshields for the rest of my life? Would my parents be able to find me? Save me?

My dad would drive up the long ramp to the dark, shadowed parking lot. He would always park in the space furthest from the elevator and I would clutch my mother's hand as we hastily walked away from the car. The morning rush hour was over by the time we got there so the parking lot was eerily deserted and quiet. Invariably, there was a homeless person slumped in a corner of the waiting area. The smell of piss, shit and dirt hung in the air and I would put my sleeve to my face, my hand rolled into a fist inside hidden away like a turtle and breathe in the scent of the fabric. I hopped up and down, waiting for the elevator to come and hoping that someone would be on it besides us, who wasn't homeless and smelly.

One day we had to take the stairs down and I was on the verge of tears the entire time, certain that someone would jump out and stab my mom and dad, leaving me alone and deserted without a trust fund to live on like Bruce Wayne. I would have to be the one to call my grandparents and tell them what had happened. I'd be an orphan, with a big Italian family. When we got to the bottom of the stairs I made my parents swear that we would never do that again. I was panting from both the exertion and the anxiety of the walk down. I was also anticipating the dreaded walk down 42nd Street with all its porn theatres and sex shops. Scary, ethnic-looking men standing outside calling to us, trying to get us to come in. In many ways, this was the scariest part of the trip that walk down 42nd Street. Because I wanted to know what went on in those stores. I wanted to go into those movie theatre and see what was taking place on the screens. I knew it was dirty and forbidden. And I wanted to be a witness.

This particular Friday in 2009, a New Yorker for some 16 years, I had parked the rental car on the roof of the Port Authority all by myself; waited for the elevator next to a nameless, faceless homeless person, grew tired of waiting for the elevator and took the stairs down. I was a big boy.

The Loved One called at 6:20 to say that he was in a cab and running late. The shady guy next to me left his rolling luggage by my side and went in search of a light for his Newport. He kept walking back and forth in front of me while I was on the phone and I knew he was waiting to ask me if I had one. He looked ghetto thug gay. I kept talking on the phone to no one after the Loved One hung up and waited for him to walk away.

The Loved One arrived and we went to the car. As we were celebrating his birthday, I let him be in charge of music and we happily listened to the new Decemberists cd for the first hour or so of the trip. The Loved One thinks the Decemberists should be the next group of musicians to write a Broadway musical. I'm not as familiar with their stuff as I should be. I tried to listen in the car but I sat in the passenger seat, tightly clutching the Google directions in my hands. I was filled with anxiety. What if we got lost? What if I misread the directions? What if we took a wrong turn? Well...what if, JV? You'd turn around, right? What if the whole weekend was a bust?

Once we were on the road for a little bit and, seemingly, in the right direction, I began to relax. I had been looking forward to this weekend for a long time. I had earned it. I didn't want to think about work or anything related to the city. My only thought about home was, I hope the daffodils in the garden don't bloom while we're away.

The Loved One got a text message when we were about half an hour from the city. It was from his boss. It said something like, 'Have fun. Don't think about work this weekend.' Well, the sentiment is nice but if you don't want him to think about work, boss, don't text him!

We drove and chatted. The Loved One always has so much to say about his job and what's going on with his company and funny little stories about the people he works with. I feel badly because I don't have the same kind of anecdotes to share about my day. I sit at my desk, in relative silence for eight hours. I write here. I work on the play I'm writing. Once in a while, the phone rings. Not for me. Once in a while the Producer and I will share a word or two about some gossip we've heard or a show we've seen. I'll desperately hit the refresh button on Google mail or check Facebook for a message; some sign that someone out there wants to communicate with me. I spend the work day in relative, painful isolation -- counting the hours until 6pm.

We drove into the sunset, the Loved One and I, thrilled that it was after 7 and still light out. We were blessed with open roads and as the scenery began to get more rural, I relaxed into my seat, one foot on the dashboard. Exactly an hour and a half later, we drove into Milford, PA. I breathed a deep sigh out. It was a beautiful town. We passed a lot of Victorian houses, many real estate offices, a great stone building filled with stores and there on our left the beautiful Hotel Fauchere. Grand and white with black shutters, it stood out in its renovated glory; a white beacon in the dark night. We parked our car and hurried in with our bags, hungry and eager to eat something and have a drink at the basement bar, Bar Louis. I could hear the bustle of people in there as we walked by and was relieved that it was busy. The parking lot was full and it seemed like the Delmonico restaurant was also crowded. I had been anxious (again) that we would be the only guests and, while I didn't want to particularly socialize with other guests, I wanted their presence.

We were greeted by a charming Italian woman named Marta. Blonde and robust she asked in that straightforward Italian way, "Which one of you is Mercanti?" That's me, I replied. "Italian?" she asked with the hint of an accent, her blue eyes peering at me questioningly over horn-rimmed glasses. I loved her already. "Yes. Well, Sicilian and Italian." There's a difference, all you non-Italian readers out there. "Hmm. I'm from Venezia. Venice." Ah. I'm Sicial and Abruzzese. "Do you speak Italian?" No. Sorry. This was rewarded with a disapproving glance. I wish I did.

Then with a flourish and a smile she asked, "Did you come from the city?" Yes, New York not Philadelphia. "I would LOVE to live in the city. The past month here was very hard. February. Dark and dreary." It was the same way in the city, I said. "I bet it wasn't," she replied. But it was. Dark and dreary and long. February is always the hardest month of the year.

While we wear having our conversation, the sounds of music and tinkling silverware drifted in from the dining room. The Loved One kept pointing to pieces of furniture in the lobby and mouthing "I want it" to me. I felt my shoulders drop about two inches from my ears. We had made the perfect choice. The Hotel Fauchere was perfect.

"Let me take you to your room," Marta said. We walked past the beautifully restored wooden staircase that led up to the second and third floors. I peered into the Delmonico, tea lights glistening on every table and a fresh cut tulip in a small vase on every table. We stopped at a small elevator that was obviously added when the hotel was renovated. We were whisked quickly up to the third floor. Marta led us to the room. The striped wallpaper, a soft brown and gold, was understated and classy. A beautifully painted landscape hung on the wall over a black lacquered table with a large glass embossed bowl on the bottom shelf. Marta opened the door to our room for the next two nights and wished us well. "Oh, I forgot. You are confirmed for your tour of the llama farm at 2:30 tomorrow. Is that alright?" That's wonderful, I said, my eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Come to the front desk and we will give you directions."

We said goodbye and took it in our surroundings.

The room was small but beautifully appointed. A queen-sized bed with two down comforters folded like sleeping bags lay across the top of the bed. Beautiful, new sconces hung on the wall. A small, antique desk stood in the corner. A large picture window looked down on to the garden. To the left was another window that looked on to the building next door. To the left was a small foyer with a closet, a mirrored wall and the entrance to the bathroom. The bathroom itself is a work of art. Cool, grey-veined marble covers the counter and the walls. The floor is heated from below to keep your feet warm in the cold winter months. The shower is enclosed by a glass door and there are two shower heads pointing down to wash your sins away. The bath towels are hung on heated pipes. This is luxury.

I'm STARVING, I said. Let's go down to Bar Louis.

We locked the door, hopped on the elevator and headed down to the bar. I had read the menu online and was craving the truffle fries I had read so much about. And the minute the elevator doors opened, I could smell them. My stomach grumbled. I needed truffle fries and red wine, as soon as possible.

The Loved One ordered a glass of his favorite, pinot noir. I had a glass of of a red I had never tried before called Mercurey. It was dry and fruity and delicious. For dinner, Loved One had fish and chips and I had a burger, medium rare, and on a whole wheat English muffin. The small piece of bread could barely contain the patty and its juices so I ate most of it with a fork and knife. While we ate, we watched those around us. Some, like us, we obvious guests of the hotel. A couple stood out particularly from being either from Long Island or New Jersey. Her high hair, gold jewelry and their shared apathetic expressions were a dead give away. They sat in front of the brick foundation wall which separated the front bar area from more tables in the back. Two local older guys came in and sat at a high top table, ordering beers. The photograph of Andy Warhol kissing John Lennon loomed over all of us.

Satiated and content, we headed back up to the room. We sank into bed after wrestling with the down comforters and trying to figure out why there were two of them and how to share them. We were both too full to eat the complimentary chocolate from next door's Patisserie Fauchere but it was just one more thing to look forward to in the morning.

I sank into a deep sleep, filled with vivid dreams.

A Trip (down memory lane): Part 1

2009-03-23T12:07:00.002-04:00

The need to escape all things New York, indeed the very island itself, grows stronger and stronger as time passes. There was a time I would laugh in the face of anyone who told me there were other places in the world to live. My one concession was the beautiful, crumbling, haunted city of New Orleans -- one of the few cities in this country I've walked through and felt the power of history in its very bones. But, leave NYC? NEVER!

Until recently. Perhaps, it's a matter of growing older. Perhaps it's a matter of job dissatisfaction. Perhaps it's a matter of wanting something slower, something more my own. Perhaps it's a matter of all of the above. I'm perfectly content now to spend weekends in Greenpoint, making our garden beautiful and cooking dinners and seeing friends, never once setting foot on the crowded, noisy, stinking island off my shore.

The Loved Ones birthday was last week and we usually celebrate occasions like birthdays and anniversaries with trips away, somewhere local. In the past, we've rented a car and headed up to Mt. Tremper, New York the home of Kate's Lazy Meadow. Kate's is a motel run by the infamous Kate Pierson of the B52's. As you can imagine, the motel is just as kooky and eclectic as its owner. Most of the decoration consists of furniture from the 50s and garden gnomes. Yes, garden gnomes. I've taken pictures of many of them. From Kate's, the Loved One and I have taken day trips into Woodstock and Hudson. We've cooked meals in our room. But, it's close to Loved One's home and I felt the need to venture away from familiar territory and someplace, dare I say, a tiny bit classier than Kate's.

After some struggles with the Loved One over the event itself -- he had just helped me configure a budget for myself and thought a taking him away was too much of a financial strain -- I convinced him that this weekend away was as much about me as it was about him. I told him he could rent the car and that seemed to calm the waters.

I thought about places close by to visit. Friends of mine very often drive to New Hope and I thought that might be a very nice, gay friendly place to spend a weekend. As a kid, my parents and I would very often take day trips to New Hope as it was only an hour and a half or so outside of Philly. New Hope was something of an artist's colony but even as a child my keen artistic eye could sense that the American "crafts" and turquoise jewelry displayed in window after window were not, in fact, art. Not compared to the basement of my home. My father, a sculptor for the US Mint, had clay pieces in various stages of completion all over his studio. He had a bust of me he had started when I was nine-years-old and, to this day, remains incomplete. He had various work and personal projects on many an easel.

I remember one day, I came home from school and had nothing much to do so I wandered down into the basement. My father was working on a coin of someone for work, perhaps it was the Statue of Liberty commemorative coin or perhaps it was an Olympic coin. Whatever the case, I decided I was going to help him out and display some of my own creativity. I took a lump of the pasty grey modeling clay and lay it on top of my father's work-in-progress, next to the picture of the original figure.

My father is very precise in his work. He goes through various research books finding images of the subject until he puts together just the right combination of images for the coin. His true artistry lies in the fact that he can see what will look good on the final product, not just in the 12" model he works on initially. My father's work is a marvel of clarity, personality and symmetry. I can always tell what work is his and what is someone else's when I look at a coin. So once he's picked his image or images, he will sketch out various ideas on paper. When he's happy with that, he will transfer the image to tracing paper and then, finally, to another kind of heavier -- almost plastic paper -- this, he lays on top of the clay so he can look at it as he's creating to make his model cohesive.

I, being nine or ten years old (and still today, a little), knew nothing about the complexities of this project. Instead, I threw a lump of clay on dad's image, took one of his tools and started sculpting away. I thought maybe if I got a lot done, dad could play games with me. Well, my intentions were good. The outcome was not. And, boy, did I catch it. It was, as I recall, a leather belt on the behind moment. Of course, I proceeded it with a string of denials, desperately trying to convince my father that I wasn't the one who perpetrated the crime.

I was a notorious liar as a child. I was curious and smart and inventive and precocious. But I was a liar. I don't know where I picked up this particular bad habit. Perhaps I so wanted to get lost in the fictional words I read about and created that the strains of reality were too much for me to handle. But lying always made it worse. And it took me a long time to learn that lesson.

So as I cried, standing in front of the portrait of whomever, steadfast in my denial, I knew that the leather belt would soon be connecting with my bare backside. As my father's hand, strong and rough, clasped around my tiny wrist and pulled me up the stairs to my bedroom, I cried a string of "no's." My mother hovered over a pot in the kitchen, unable to look. She had tried to get me to confess, to no avail and she knew the consequences of my actions. My brother, seven years older than me, looked up briefly from the television and his schoolbooks, shook his head and then went back to work.

Up another flight of stairs and into the bedroom. Pants down and "thwack." Two or three were usually more than my father could handle and I'm sure this is a case of it hurt him more than it hurt me. And I didn't stop lying.

So...hello, non sequitur, back to New Hope.

My dear friends GandA have talked with Joe and I about a day in New Hope. I have fond memories of the town: good food, a nice used book store, a fantastic ice cream parlor that mixes flavors for you, art galleries and lots of movie memorabilia. A trip to New Hope always meant something new item to fuel my Marilyn Monroe obsession (more on that some other time, perhaps). New Hope also has one of my favorite stores in the world, the NYC outpost of which has just closed, Love Saves the Day; the only place where one could buy a vintage wedding dress, an old photoplay magazine and a Han Solo frozen in carbonite figure in one stop.

After extensive online research (meaning I typed "New Hope + PA + gay-friendly bed and breakfasts" into the search engine), I came across a B&B called the Hotel Fauchere in Milford, PA. I had never heard of either the hotel or the town but after reading about both, and seeing the pictures, it seemed right somehow. I sent an email to them asking if they were available and if they were gay-friendly. I hate that it's necessary to ask, but I find it's better to do so then not to. You don't want to show up to some podunk town in the middle of nowhere to find that the only gay people were the happy ones in the 20s and 30s.

The emailed me back almost immediately saying "yes" to both questions. I added it to the list of possibilities and continued my search for other options. Google provided me with lots of research.

About an hour or so later I received another email from the Fauchere, this time from Sean Strub, the president of the hotel and its various outposts around town. He provided me with links to a LOGO review of the facilities as well as an Out Traveler review. He gave me a gay-overview of Milford and its surroundings.

Now, the Loved One and I aren't the kind of gays who want to hit the local bar, pick up a third and come back to the hotel afterwards for a wild night. But, I want to feel comfortable holding his hand at dinner or at the bar, or with his arm on my back as we walk through a store. Mr. Strub's email assured me we would feel more than welcome. So, great. I added another check next to it on my list and emailed Sean to ask if there were other things to do in the New Hope area.

He emailed back, almost immediately, to say that the town of Milford was in fact not that close to New Hope (some two miles away) but that the town was filled with antique stores, a bookstore, famous waterfalls, cafes and such. The Loved One and I love to spend the bulk of our expendable incomes on people's old shit. Not really. But we sure like to look at it. Sean's email was filled with so much excitement and love of the town and his establishment (and I had been such a pain in the ass with questions) that I booked immediately.

I was also intrigued by his offer to set us up on a tour of his business partner's llama farm. What the fuck is a llama farm?

I was going to keep the location a secret from the Loved One but I was so excited about it, I told him the very night I booked it. New adventures awaited!

Lesbionic Tendencies

2009-03-20T11:08:00.003-04:00

Music has always gotten me through...well, all time. But especially bad. And I regress to high school and a love for the Indigo Girls. As many as my friends point out, my taste in music veers toward "lesbian" and I'm ok with that. I prefer the sound of a female singing voice to a man's. Just the way it is. And as I lie in my bed, night after night, with the door shut and my ipod buds in my ear I listed to two songs over and over again to...I don't know...dull the pain? Alleviate the pain? Encourage the pain?

The first was 'Hope Alone' written by Emily Saliers of the Indigo Girls. It goes something like this:

Let's not drag this out
Everything's in motion
Although I've only ever loved you kind
And with devotion
Remember when I met you
You were leaving from the start
I thought one day you'd probably just come home
And break my heart

It's funny what you know
And still go on pretending
With no good evidence
You'll ever see that happy ending

You were looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
We were just an empty dream too big
For hope alone to fill

I know I'm a dreamer
So I'll give you that
Still I hope I'm more than just a place you laid your hat
You're a land of secrets
Its only citizen
And though I paid my dues
I was never allowed in
And so I am a stranger
Especially today
Cause I get sad and lonely
And you get your way

You were looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will

I had to learn the hard way
That we were just an empty dream too big
For hope alone to fill

Holding on for change I know
We never stood a chance
So I could only wait
And watch you slip right through my hands

You were always looking for your distance
And sensing my resistance
You had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
We were just an empty dream too big]

I found this most fitting. No?

The other song was, of course, an Alanis Morissette song. I didn't really discover Alanis in the 90s. Her anger on the Jagged Little Pill album scared me then. It wasn't until Present Ex and I broke up the first time that I learned to appreciate her though the release of the Alanis: Unplugged cd. And then I became a full-force Alanis junkie. It was also at this time that Alanis was performing off-Broadway in The Vagina Monologues. It was a fairly emotional time for me (as opposed to all those unemotional times I experience in life?) and I decided to go. I also decided to call the director, Joe Mantello, and ask him to get me back afterwards to meet her. Which he did. And I did. And I was a blathering idiot. Not really, probably, but in my head I was. I still don't know how to say to an artist whose work you appreciate, Your music has gotten me through a lot. It sounds so cliched. But I told her I was a fan. And she was very sweet and had a wonderful aura about her and just seemed to be having fun. I appreciated it and her.

The Alanis song"Simple Together" was on a little heard cd called Feast on Scraps that consisted of tracks she didn't put on the Under Rug Swept album. I like this cd better than it's predecessor. But I'm always a bigger fan of the underdog.

Youve been my golden best friend
Now with post-demise at hand
Cant go to you for consolation
Cause were off limits during this transition

This grief overwhelms me
It burns in my stomach
And I cant stop bumping into things

I thought we'd be simple together
I thought we'd be happy together
Thought we'd be limitless together
I thought we'd be precious together
But I was sadly mistaken

You've been my soulmate and mentor
I remembered you the moment I met you
With you I knew gods face was handsome
With you I suffered an expansion

This loss is numbing me
It pierces my chest
And I cant stop dropping everything

I thought we'd be sexy together
Thought we'd be evolving together
I thought we'd have children together
I thought we'd be family together
But I was sadly mistaken

If I had a bill for all the philosophies I shared
If I had a penny for all the possibilities I presented
If I had a dime for every hand thrown up in the air
My wealth would render this no less severe

I thought we'd be genius together
I thought we'd be healing together
I thought we'd be growing together
Thought we'd be adventurous together
But I was sadly mistaken

Thought we'd be exploring together
Thought we'd be inspired together
I thought we'd be flying together
Thought we'd be on fire together
But I was sadly mistaken

So I was lying in bed, feeling bad for myself a lot. But with the help of Wellbutrin, therapy, friends and lesbian music I was certain that one day my heart and mind would mend. Eventually.

On one of these warm June nights, a thunderstorm rolled in and as I lay there, watching the lightning bolts and feeling the thunder shake the building I was transported back in my mind to my first summer spent in NYC.

It was the summer between my junior and senior years at NYU. I was taking a class entitled Creating Theatre With Young People through the Department of Educational Theatre. In this three or four week intensive, we had high school kids from all five boroughs under our care and the aim was to devise a completely original piece of theatre written and performed by them. It was a crazy time. The oldest of these kids was 18 and I was barely 20. How was I supposed to be a "leader"? Uncertain as I was on my feet at that time, I had a great time and bonding with those "kids" was a very special experience for me.

Anyway, I was living with my friend Maura and her mother at their apartment on Bleecker Street. Maura's mom worked at NYU and this large apartment is the building that they all grew up in. Maura and I had met doing Spring Awakening and had become fast friends and I was thrilled at being offered a free place to stay for a few weeks.

Now, when I say they grew up in this apartment, I also mean that they never threw anything away. The walls were filled with bookshelves stacked two to three deep. Papers covered the dining room table and pretty much any available space in the living room and dining room. A poor old dog named Cinnamon -- half-blind, partially deaf and matted beyond repair -- staggered aimlessly through the hallways. Two cats, Huckleberry and...I can't recall pounced on every surface. And another cat that Maura's sister had "rescued" and then left in the apartment had taken refuge in the radiator in a bedroom for fear of the other animals.

The apartment was on the 13th floor of the NYU building that has the giant stone Picasso statue in front of it, right off of Bleecker and LaGuardia. There's a big grassy plaza in front of the building and a cobblestone driveway and lots of seating in front of the building, and a playground and smaller plaza in the back. Maura ran down the hall from apartment 13A to greet me with a high pitched "JOHN-VINCENT" and threw her arms around me. She was wearing overalls and had violet paint on them and her nose. "I've been painting."

I can see that, I replied. She introduced me to her mother and I was a bit taken aback. She wasn't what I was expecting knowing Maura as well as I did. Mom, as I fondly came to call her, was perched in her armchair, her feet up, cane by her side and had a very regal aura about her despite the ordinary nature of her appearance. Something clouded her eyes on that first meeting, a steely glance that scared me a little bit. In retrospect, I realize that it was the cool gaze of a nurse sizing up a patient, trying to decide how close she could allow herself to get to this creature who would be in her space for some time. By the end of my stay, we would sit in the living room and watch Jeopardy almost every night, the sun setting behind New Jersey outside the huge picture window.

My first night there I awoke at about 4 in the morning to the cat, Huckleberry, asleep and completely spread out across my face. I am severely allergic to cats. It took a few hours for the swelling of my eyes to go down and for me to get all of the crust out. After three weeks, my allergies no longer bothered me all that much. I didn't have a choice.

One night, about 1am or so, the door burst open and through it came Maura. "John-Vincent," she whispered. "Are you awake?" I was in that foggy plane somewhere between sleep and awake, listening to the thunderstorm outside. It sounded so beautiful and it was lulling me to sleep.

No, I'm awake. Where were you?

"Jones Beach. My friends and I went to a Sarah McLachlan concert."

Cool.

"Get up. I want you to come downstairs."

What? Why?

"It's beautiful. Let's dance in the rain."

Ok. And I pushed myself out of bed, threw on some shorts and a dirty t-shirt and barefoot, plodded down the hallway after Maura. She was talking about the concert and some song called "Chocolate" which was, apparently, the only "happy" song Sarah McLachlan had ever written and how the crowd went wild when they heard it.

The elevator quickly went down the 13 floor, uninterrupted. The doorman gave us a curious look as we made our way through the lobby and out the doors. The warm air hit me immediately and it felt nice. Maura plunged into across the cobblestones and into the grass and I, hesitated a second. Then I leaned out and felt the touch of a cool raindrop on my face. It was cool and refreshing and beautiful. I dashed out to meet her and we danced to the music the rain made around a statue by Picasso.

The building shook and I was awoken from my memory. I wasn't dancing in the rain. I was in Williamsburg, in my bed, and I was a grown up and I had a broken heart.

Limbo

2009-03-18T11:31:00.003-04:00

I spent the next day in the Producer's office furiously flipping through the Oxford Healthcare book and calling therapists. Some had no times available. Some only had times available in the middle of the day, which was useless to me. One had no times available but referred me to someone else who called me back and could make it work. As I was leaving for Philly in a day for the funeral, she also agreed to see me immediately for a "briefing" before I left.

I needed to figure things out. I needed to understand why I felt responsible for the break-up. Why he left me. Why I wasn't good enough. Or smart enough. Or attractive enough. Or open or honest enough. And maybe, ultimately, why I blamed myself for everything.

But I wasn't there yet.

I wasn't sleeping much, about four to five hours a night. I'd get up and make coffee. Then head in to the gym. I'd write long passages in my journal trying to track the journey our demise. Hindsight is, as always, 20/20 but I was still in the midst of it. I would run for an hour on the treadmill and get lost in the feeling of my feet hitting the moving rubber. I started smoking again. I drank more coffee. And I walked. I walked all over Brooklyn and the island. I crossed the bridge sometimes twice in one day. I would stop in the middle and stare down at the water, at the boats passing by. I would feel the air of the bike riders speed by me.

It seems I felt everything all of a sudden instead of the dull numbness I was accustomed to in situations such as these. And I found comfort in the ground, in the stability of the earth beneath my feet, in the rhythm of the walking, in seeing other people out and about, living their lives. I took comfort in these strangers and I dreaded a trip to Philly to deal with death. But I had to. Present Ex needed me. And his mother was very dear to me.

I took the train in and readied myself for a few days of running from one place to another, saying "I'm sorry" and hand-holding. I had forewarned Mom and Dad about the break-up and that I wasn't handling it well. My first appointment with the Therapist had gone well and I said that I needed to go back on Wellbutrin. She said we'd talk about it next session.

Present Ex was in better shape than I had expected. I didn't mention the break-up as I knew he had other, bigger things to deal with. I just said, Tell me where you need me. Most arrangements had been finished by the time I got there. He went back to his sister's house and I went back to my parents house.

I was sitting on the stairs, taking off my shoes, when I just stopped. I had been moving for so long, in so many different ways, that it all caught up with me and I got overwhelmed. I didn't cry. I just sat there -- one shoe on, the other off -- staring in front of me. My mom walked in to hang up her coat in the hallway closet, saw me and said, "Oh, get over it." Hung up her coat and walked away.

This was uncharacteristically harsh of my mother, usually a pillar of care, warmth and comfort who would take any excuse to put her arms around me. This was a side of her I had never seen. It was her mother reincarnate. It was like a slap in the face. She wasn't wrong. I did need to get over it. I just wasn't sure how to do it yet.

I wasn't anywhere yet. This was limbo.

Out of Amber

2009-03-17T14:14:00.003-04:00

If you asked me now, I would tell you that the next few days...no, the next few weeks felt like they were covered in amber.
The amber street light outside my bedroom window. The amber street lights around my block where I walked Ripley. The amber lights of the Williamsburg Bridge where I often found myself walking late at night. I was a fly trapped in amber.

The night after the Mormon ended it, I was lying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling. I wasn't moving. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't doing anything. I was staring.

The phone rang and I pushed myself over to look at the caller ID. I was still hoping it would be the Mormon. It was Present Ex. I hadn't told him. I hadn't told him much about the Mormon except that it was serious. I wasn't in the mood to talk about it and at the same time I wanted nothing more than to talk about it. But we were still on tenuous ground when it came to talking about dating and such, Present Ex and I.

I answered, Hello?

There was a lot of street noise and a sound I couldn't make out. I said his name.

"J? J?"

I'm here.

"She's dead." And I realized the sound I heard was the sound of Present Ex crying. He exploded in another round of violent sobs.

What? What? Who's dead?

"My mother. My mother's fucking dead."

And the world started to move again. I had to make my way out of the amber and in to the light. But it wasn't going to be easy.

Locked Out

2009-03-16T11:51:00.003-04:00

I had to go back to the old apartment on Grand Street. The roommate and I had left some miscellaneous items there and I also wanted to sweep the place out and leave it in some kind of order.

It was a hot June evening. Hot for New York in June. I had broken a sweat just walking from the new apartment to the old. I wanted to complete this task as quickly as possible. The Mormon and I were meeting later that night and it had been too long since we had last seen each other at the X-Men. I thought maybe things were about to take a change for the better.

As I climbed the stairs to the old apartment, I remembered a dream I had right after we were robbed. I walked into the bathroom at night because I had heard a sound. I slowly opened the bathroom door and the medicine cabinet was open. I looked in and the cabinet itself had been removed and it opened up to another apartment from which the robbers had come in and out of our apartment, stealing our things. I peered in and saw someone move off in the corner and I jumped back and slammed the door, terrified. I stumbled back in to my bedroom and watched the medicine cabinet door open and strange masked men with long, lanky legs and arms climb out one by one. I woke up.

Yes, I was free of this place finally. A quick sweep and gather the remaining stuff and then I was gone. I went down the hallway to our apartment, the hallway that shrouded whomever it was that had come in and out in the middle of the day, and put my key into the lock. It wouldn't go in. Strange. I tried the bottom lock. The same problem. Had the locks been changed already? We still had the lease for another few days as there was an overlap. We didn't tell the landlords we had moved out two weeks early. I looked at the door. There were scratches and dents around the lock. Interesting. Then I peered into the key holes. Ah, yes. There in our reinforced MUL-T-LOCK lock was a broken key.

After the last break-in, we had paid to put in those $500 locks that no one can get through. And this is why. The super who had so easily come in and out of our apartment so many times before had now broken off both his keys inside both locks. I felt a strange feeling of calm wash over me. I was also thrilled that the landlords, who wanted nothing to do with the break-in and failed to take any responsibility, would now have to pay a locksmith or someone a shit load of money to take the door off the hinges to get in to the apartment and even more money for new locks.

And I didn't have to sweep.

So I sent the Mormon a text that I would be available earlier. Just wanted to run home and shower. He said he would pick me up. Weird. When did he fix the problem with his license? Where were we going?

When the doorbell rang, I ran down the stairs. I hadn't planned on it but I was dressed entirely in white. White t-shirt, white shorts, white socks and white sneakers. I threw the door open and threw my arms around him. He slowly unwrapped himself from me and looked me over.

"You look so...pure."

Thanks. I guess. I laughed and asked where we were going.

"Fortunato's for some gelato?"

Perfect.

As we sat in the car I rambled on about the door and the locks and the wasted time. I talked about the new apartment and how our landlord had started taking Ripley during the day into their office to play with Ruby and would leave hysterical cartoons on post-it notes on our door illustrating what mischief they had gotten into during the day.

The Mormon was silent, listening. We found a parking spot easily and went in and ordered our gelato. I always got the same: a scoop of cafe and a scoop of ciacalatto. Delicious and just right for this hot night. The sun was still out and it was a perfect evening.

"Should we walk a little?" the Mormon asked.

Yeah sure, I answered through a mouthful of ice cream.

There was silence and then a deep breath in and then he said, "I think we should see other people."

What?

"It's been a while and..."

Almost six months. The day after tomorrow. Six months.

That was a big deal for me. It was certainly the longest I had been able to maintain a relationship since Present Ex. It was also , I felt, only the first six months. The first six months of a lifetime. I didn't feel as if I had been hit in the stomach. It wasn't that abrupt. I felt like I had been sideswiped. I couldn't see straight. I had lost my balance. I was experiencing vertigo. I didn't know where to focus and couldn't have even if I wanted to.

"Yes," he said. "Almost six months. And I just don't feel like we're going anywhere. It's not changing or evolving. When I look at myself in the future, I don't see you as part of it."

But you said you loved me.

"Yes. I did. JV, you make me feel...light."

What? What the fuck does that mean? Light? As opposed to what? Heavy, I guess. But what does 'you make me feel light' mean? I didn't say that. I couldn't. What could I possibly say?

I had stopped walking, of course, and just stood looking directly at him. I was trying to read something in his behavior that would give me a clue as to what was going on. But he wouldn't make eye contact with me.

"Can we keep walking?"

Sure.

Silence.

"I've enjoyed the time we've spent together. I've had a lot of fun. But I don't feel like this is...forever."

I do. I did. I thought...I don't know what I thought.

We were on Devoe Street, passing the hipsters and the Italian kids playing ball in the street while their parents or grandparents sat on the stoop watching over them. I realized I was standing in front of the building where my friend Carlee used to live before she moved back to Boca Raton. I could feel the cars rushing down the street creating a hot breeze that felt nice on my skin because I had gone cold inside. As we passed a trash can I threw the rest of my uneaten gelato in. I couldn't even look at it anymore. We crossed the street and we were standing in front of his truck. I had to put my hand on the hood to hold myself up and I could hardly see for holding back the tears. Like a scratched record "You make me feel light" kept repeating over and over in my head.

I wasn't going to fight. It wasn't worth it. I didn't want to fight to hold on to a love. That's not the way it should be. And all of a sudden I felt like I was going to vomit. And I couldn't look at him anymore.

I'm going to go, I said.

"Do you want me to drive you?"

No.

"I didn't mean to break your heart." He said that. He dared say that.

I looked at him and said, It's not broken. Only cracked. And it'll heal. And you didn't break it. It was my responsibility. My heart is only mine to give away and I let you have it.

And I turned and walked away. I needed to walk. I needed to walk in a direction where he couldn't or wouldn't pass by in his car. I found myself in a small, noisy triangle of a park right by the BQE. I fell down on a bench and let the sorrow wash over me. Despite all the signs, despite my own reservations, I had held on to the hope that the Mormon and I would live happily ever after. That somehow, we would find common ground and a common language. That we could create something beautiful together out of the mess of our past. But I was wrong. And tears streamed down my face and fluid poured out of my nose and I looked horrible. I felt almost too weak to stand but I knew I couldn't sit there for the rest of the night.

The sun was setting and as I let myself in to the new apartment building I felt the cool that always seemed to be trapped in the first floor foyer and it was nice. I walked heavily up the stairs and heard Ripley bark. He was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment. I couldn't take care of anything else but me right now. I opened the door and my roommate was cooking dinner on the stove. Pink and orange light from the sunset cast a glow over the apartment.

"That was fast," she said.

He broke up with me, I mumbled and continued to walk toward my bedroom.

"What? Why? What?"

He broke up with me. I don't know. I'm going to bed.

I walked in to my bedroom and shut the door. I wanted to shut out the world. I looked at the phone hoping I had missed a call or a text from him. Hoping he had changed his mind. Nothing. I curled up in bed and looked out at the evening sky. I wanted to throw myself up into it and float away but I sank like a weight, deeper into the bed. I was so heavy. I made him feel "light" and I was sinking like a stone.

I tried to cry more hoping it would relieve the heaviness but there were no more tears to be had. I lie in bed in silence. I waited for the sounds in the living room to fade away. I waited for the roommate to shut off the tv and go to bed. I waited and waited as the pink and orange slowly gave way to a deep blue and the amber street light outside my window came on and illuminated my room. I shut the shade. I didn't want any light. It hurt my eyes. I heard a whimper outside my door and I pushed myself up and without even getting out of bed, opening it enough to let the dog in. I was still wearing my sneakers. I kicked them off and got under the covers. The dog climbed up on to my chest and licked my face. My tears must have left it salty. When he realized I was being unresponsive, he let out a huff and jumped on to the window sill and lay down, making himself comfortable and watching the people come and go on the street.

I knew sleep wouldn't come that night. But I prayed for it. I needed something to take me away.

X-Men

2009-03-13T11:47:00.002-04:00

My parents were sending my brother, sister-in-law, niece and I to see Jersey Boys. Finally.
We had gotten them House Seats for Christmas, and they were returning the favor.
I spent the week trying to secure an extra ticket for the Mormon but it was not possible. JB was at the height of its success and all I could find was a premium, $450 seat.

"Your father can afford it," came the unusually candid reply.

Well, yes. Yes, he probably can. But you can't. And nor can I.

We were on very shaky ground.

As always happens when you're standing on shaky ground, something happens to rock it even more. The morning of the day my parents were arriving I received a text from Arkansas. Arkansas and I had...well, we never really dated but if you were to describe our relationship history on Facebook you would have to put it in the "It's complicated" section. We talked infrequently and saw each other less than that.

So Arkansas sends me a text asking if I'm around and want to get breakfast. Yes. I am. And I do. We meet up very early at downtrodden Kellogg's Diner on Metropolitan and eat dried omelets and burnt toast and catch up. I notice during the meal how nonchalantly I speak of the Mormon. It's as if, in my head, the relationship is over already. Am I doing this because I hope Arkansas will provide me with another opportunity? Or am I speaking from my head for once, not my heart? Because, in my heart, I want things with the Mormon to work out. But in my head the signs are becoming too obviously clear.

Arkansas is single and not really interested in anything serious. Our time together is relaxed and easy considering the dramatic history we shared. I provided the drama. It was breathtaking at times. The fact that he's still even civil to me is spectacular. But I enjoy his company and he makes me laugh. I take things less seriously with him than I tend to with others, especially the Mormon. We part ways and I feel just a little bit lighter from the experience. Talking honestly about my relationship has felt good.

The show is wonderful. The Mormon chooses not to join us for a bbq dinner at Virgil's post-performance. He also informs me that he's "staying in" that night and prefers to be alone. I tell him that I'm in auditions all day Sunday (Gay Pride) and won't be able to see him until later in the day, if at all.

"Auditions for what?"

I sigh. I've told him about the play I'm directing in Texas about fifteen times. There's one role we haven't been able to cast: the leading man. So I tell him again.

"Why aren't I auditioning?" he asks.

My gut reaction is to say, Because you're not an actor. Wanting isn't enough. You haven't trained. You haven't studied. You haven't ever even really acted. And when you sing or perform, you take on this other voice. A voice totally disconnected from who you are as a person; your "performance" voice. It's off-putting. You wouldn't have the skills to take on a role so physically and emotionally demanding.

But I say, Because I won't direct someone I'm dating.

Which is also true.

"Why not?"

Because it's a bad idea. It confuses things. And it's a rule I'm sticking too. So what about later tomorrow?

"I'm having some friends over for a little Pride dinner at my place. Maybe I can see you after that."

Oh. Ok. Bye.

Weird that he never mentioned that before. Weird that I wasn't invited. Weird everything.

We're quickly approaching our six-month mark and he's asked me numerous time about acting opportunities. Every time I point him in a direction, he seems unwilling to take it. He, like many other people in this city, doesn't really want to work for it. He wants it to find him. Actually, I think he EXPECTS it to find him. Like Lana Turner in Schwabs Drugstore, the Mormon is waiting to be discovered sipping a latte in Starbucks. I guess it happens every so often but not nearly as much as people want it too. I wonder where this expectation, this sense of entitlement comes from. He has certainly had to work at most things his entire life. He's in his mid-30s now. He's an....ex-Mormon? I don't know. He talks about it all the time. Maybe it's a Mormon thing, this sense of entitlement. He walks with a strut like the king cock in a room full of hens. It's somehow ingrained in him. I find it infuriating because I don't expect anything. And I've had to work for most all things I've achieved. And I've told him a thousand times I wouldn't cast him in my show. And...and...and...I'm getting angrier and angrier.

I don't particularly care about celebrating Gay Pride so I'm happy to be in auditions all day. It's also nice to finally hear the play (Icarus by Edwin Sanchez) out loud. I've been working on it for months but all the rest of the actors have been cast through offers and the role of Beau, the most difficult in the show, has been a rough road. As I sit through one auditioner after the other thoughts of the Mormon cross my mind. He could never do this. First of all, he's about 30lbs overweight. I find him attractive but he can't play the leading man (named BEAU, for God's sake) looking like that. And he doesn't have the discipline or awareness to lose that weight in two months time.

Harsh. But true.

We meet up a few nights later to see the X-Men sequel. I enjoy the film enough. On the subway ride home we get into a debate about whether or not he would take a pill to make him not gay if it were offered. (Many had speculated that this was the message behind the sequel and I brought this up on the ride home.) Without pause, he said "Yes."

I was stunned. Literally.

But I was not stunned to silence. I was on fire. I kept firing questions at him and he would answer and I would fire back more. To the point where he had to say, "Lower your voice." I couldn't and wouldn't. This was the most interesting and provocative conversation we had ever had. I wasn't going to let it go and I certainly wasn't going to back off because it was making him uncomfortable. I was finding my voice in our relationship, finally, on the L train between Union Square and Lorimer Street thanks to the sequel to the X-Men.

The Mormon asked me, "Wouldn't you take it." And I, unhesitatingly, said "No. Of course not." Why? Why would I need to be straight? I loved being gay. And, when it got down to it, I loved my life and who I was. Gay doesn't define me but it influences me and my art and my relationships and how I deal with the world. And yes, it hasn't always been easy but if it had been I wouldn't be where I was now.

The Mormon looked shocked. I realized, he wanted things the easy way. He wanted a "normal" life. Being gay was an unwanted burden on him. It was his cross. It was one more thing that separated him from his unsupportive Mormon family in Utah. It made him stand out in a way that he didn't want. And then I realized that he wasn't as strong as I had always thought he was. I, in fact, was a stronger man than he was.

I never would have thought X-Men to be so cathartic.

As we walked with the crowd down the platform to where he would catch the G train and I would walk home, I realized that I didn't want to spend the night with him. I needed some space. I needed to be in my own bed, with my dog and my thoughts and a book and some quiet. We stopped in front of the turnstiles the crowd pouring around us and the florescent lights beating down over our heads. I looked up at him and he down at me. He grabbed the collar of my jacket and pulled me into him and said "I love you."

That was the first time he'd ever said it unprovoked. I had said it. He had responded, oftentimes in a whisper or a mutter depending on his mood. Often with a mixture of fear and love and expectation in his eyes.

No, this time it was unflinching, direct and loud. It took me by surprise. I answered back simply, I love you too.

And I kissed him and I walked through the turnstiles, up the dirty stairs and into the cool night air.

I did love him. But how do you love someone who doesn't love himself? A cliched question if ever there was one to be on the table. And what could I do about it?

As I crossed under the BQE I thought about Sally Bowles in the movie version of Cabaret standing under the train tracks and waiting for the trains to go by overhead so that she could scream and let everything out without anyone hearing her. As a truck rumbled by noisily overhead I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I was too afraid. Too afraid of looking stupid. Too afraid of my own voice.

I continued walking not wanting to go home any longer but knowing any other choice. As I unlocked the front door of the former funeral parlor I heard the howl of Ripley upstairs, awoken from a dream and happy to have me home to him. And expecting a walk. Everything, it appeared, had expectations.

What were mine?

What Separates Lovers From Friends.

2009-03-12T11:15:00.005-04:00

Everything was changing.

The roommate and I had picked up a third friend and started apartment hunting with a vengeance. If there was a three bedroom apartment available in Williamsburg, Carroll Gardens or Park Slope, we had seen it. Finally, we found the apartment of our dreams in the heart of hipster Williamsburg, on Havemeyer Street. The building had begun its life as a funeral parlor. It had evolved into a bar/club and then become privately owned. The traces of its past still remained in the cold marble floors that led up to the third floor. The bronze iron railing was intricately carved. A skylight at the top of the three-story building allowed light to pour in from above.

It was raining when we first went to see the place. The landlady opened the door for the Realtor, the roommate and I. I tried to be charming and affable. I already loved the building from the outside but was unsure of what to expect inside. The first floor was used as office/studio space for the landlords. An Australian terrier ran around our feet as we entered. The second floor was their apartment. Bookshelves lined the wall in front of the entrance to their place and I knew these were people I would like.

The third floor would belong to us if we got it. We entered into the living room. It was larger than I had expected. The floors had just been redone. The apartment had been freshly painted and all the original molding covered the walls. Two very nice windows looked out onto the street below. We turned to our left and into the narrow kitchen that contained all new stainless steel appliances and, wonder or wonders, a dish washer. I'd never used one in my life but I'd like to get acquainted with it. Then the bathroom, very nice. And two bedrooms. One bedroom very large with two nice windows overlooking the landlord's deck below and the rest of Williamsburg and the city beyond that. The bedroom next to that was smaller but still a nice size, with a closet and three windows. Although it was raining I could only imagine how much light the apartment would get on sunny days. The neighborhood lacked the ugly grey high rises that seemed to be popping up like pimples on an adolescent throughout the rest of the burg.

I wandered back through the kitchen and living room and peered into the room beyond. Two large, beautiful, original wooden doors separated the two rooms but, I thought, this isn't a real bedroom. It was a large room with four windows (!) but right on top of the living room. I turned to the real estate agent in a huff and said, "It's not a real three bedroom. You can't use that room as a bedroom. There's no privacy."

I was on the edge and losing faith in the New York City state of rental apartments. We had seen a place in Windsor Terrace that purported to be a third bedroom. It was a boxed room with no windows and someone had to walk through this room to get to their bedroom. Illegal and not an option. I was 29 years old. No one was walking through my bedroom in the middle of the night.

The real estate agent calmly looked at me and said, "Did you walk into the room?" I stammered and said, No very begrudgingly and walked in. Et voila! Beyond this room was yet another room. A real bedroom. With two windows and two closets. And it would fit a queen-sized bed and then some. This was a real three bedroom apartment. This was a place adults lived. This was the kind of place that people living in NYC dreamed of. This place felt safe. This place felt like home. We needed to live here. It was totally out of our price range but the real estate agent said he could negotiate it down for us. i trusted him.

We ran off because we had another appointment in Carroll Gardens but this place haunted me. I called the real estate agent to ask if we could come back with the third roommate to see the place again that night. He said, Yes. Of course. And so we put in an application for the place in Carroll Gardens, which was fine and then grabbed a cab back to Williamsburg.

On closer inspection, I wanted the apartment even more. I could imagine Ripley running from room to room. I could imagine the place alive with light and plants. Our third roommate loved it as much as we did and said that she could shoulder a larger share of the rent in exchange for the larger bedroom. We agreed. We told the real estate agent and a long process of negotiating and waiting began.

The landlords had never rented the space out before. Previously, one of the members of They Might Be Giants had lived there for years. Upon his vacating the place, extensive renovations had occurred. They were wary of anyone changing or damaging the property. Understandably. The last group of people who saw the apartment had been architecture students who had spoken of making changes, putting up walls, modernizing the place. The landlords had bristled and rejected them. Understandably.

They gave us their final price. And we, making various and many sacrifices, agreed. We had gotten it. It was with pleasure that I packed up my few belongings at 765 Grand Street and moved it over to Havemeyer Street. Ripley ran around like a mad dog from room to room, not knowing what to do with so much space. He made an immediate friend in Ruby, the Australian terrier, and her owners. Unpacking began.

The weekend we moved the Mormon was performing his solo show in Garrison, NY. The theatre is attached to the train station. It's a small, intimate space but one that I liked a lot. We had been there a few weeks ago to see his friend in a production of "Man of La Mancha." His friends were very...interesting. Married for years, a man and woman, the male half of the couple was gay. Identified himself as gay. But lived his life as a non-practicing homo and a straight man. The couple even had a son together. Whether the boy was conceived naturally, I chose not to ask. Let's call them Bob and Terry.

Bob and Terry were very close to the Mormon. They lived in a huge Victorian house in Cold Spring. The Mormon had met Bob in a Sexual Compulsives group. They were friendly, outgoing, fun and charming. Bob was definitely gay and I could feel his eyes lingering on me a little too long at almost every turn. It didn't make me uncomfortable. What made me uncomfortable was this relationship they had built together in which he, Bob, denied who he really was. And Terry seemed to have no problem with it. Yes, on the surface they seemed happy. But what lingered beneath all of this. It couldn't be easy. Nor could it have been fun.

They said they had heard a lot about me and wondered aloud why the Mormon hadn't introduced me to them sooner. They had met all of his past men. The Mormon replied, "Every time I bring someone around to meet you we break up shortly thereafter. I was waiting awhile." We had been dating a little over five months at this point.

On the car ride home I questioned this statement. Have they met a lot of guys? Have you brought a lot of other men up to Cold Spring?

"Yes."

In my head, I was the first. The only.

"But I like you best."

And I was sold again.

I dug a little deeper into the relationship between Bob and Terry. He was so matter-of-fact about it. "I think it's ideal. They have exactly what they want. They're a family. They have a child. They work together. They're happy."

But doesn't the fact that he's denying who he is bother you? Don't you think that means they don't really know each other?

"No. Sex is unimportant."

To who?

"It's not the only thing."

I didn't say it was but it's an important part of any relationship. Any marriage. It's what separates lovers from friends. They're not married. They're friends.

"I think it's perfect."

I found it hard to misread this warning sign but I chose not to continue the conversation at that time.

So, I was moving into my apartment. The Mormon was performing in Garrison and it would have to be a weekend without seeing each other. I felt badly that I couldn't be there to support him. Although I had seen his piece numerous times by now, it was always in workshop form in the safety of supportive friends and friends of friends from class. This would be his first time performing it alone, as it were. I wanted to be there. I couldn't be.

But I was happy to be home at last. This was the first time I had felt at home in an apartment in a long time. I was going to make myself comfortable.

Only in Miami: Part 2

2009-03-11T10:17:00.003-04:00

Our flight out wasn't until late in the evening. And we were awake at the crack of dawn.

So we decided to rent a car and drive for a while.

The Mormon's license had been revoked so it was, therefore, up to me to control the vehicle. We were given a bright red convertible. So, with the top down, we headed out on the highway to Key Largo.

I wasn't quite sure what Key Largo was other than an old black and white movie; but it was a beautiful Sunday with the sun shining brightly and the wind in my face so I was content to drive as far as we could with the radio blasting. We didn't have a guide book or a plan. The guys at the rental place told us there was a big national park there and a good place to get seafood. That's all we needed to know.

The Mormon and I didn't say much as we made the ride. I had finally let the stress of the previous day go and, like a little kid, had forgotten about it once it was gone.

Key Largo is about as long as Washington Square Park. We approached and I was expecting hotels, houses, bars, nightclubs; a main street to rival Miami. But no. It's a stretch of road with some bait & tackle stores, the one seafood restaurant and the entrance to the park. So when I initially said, "Let's drive through the town before circling back." I didn't realize it would take all of five minutes.

Lunch was first on our agenda. And the seafood was perfect. So was the key lime pie, which I had never add before but felt an instant affinity for it's tarty sweetness. The restaurant was right out of the John Candy movie "Summer Rental." Old, dusty fishing paraphernalia hung on the walls. Plastic lobsters and crabs clung precariously to nets above our heads. Oil paintings of boats caught in squalls had a layer of frying grease coating them. But the pot of steamers and plate of clam strips were as fresh and as tasty as anything so I'd forgive the undecorous decor.

We made small talk about the wedding and the performers who had come down with us. We watched the couples and families come and go. I flirted with the waitress, which is always a bad habit of mine. And I thought, this is ok. This is how things are supposed to be. Normal. Easy. Fun. We washed down the key lime pie with a steaming hot cup of tar-tasting coffee and left, a generous tip for our waitress on the table.

We drove over to the National Park and the Mormon ran in to ask about boat rentals. He came back in about 15 minutes with a smile on his face, the keys to a boat in one hand and map of the area in another. "Let's go sailing!"

So we crouched in the back seat of the car, changed into our bathing suits and went in. The man who was running the boat rental place was definitely a character out of a movie. He had long shaggy blonde hair about five days of scruff and the lean body of a surfer. He was probably in his 40s and said he had moved to Key Largo from NYC about 5 years ago with his wife and kids and had never been happier. I couldn't imagine how he supported a family on the salary of a boat rental place that he didn't even own but was too polite to ask. He asked how long we'd be out and we said probably only about two hours. We had to get back to Ft. Lauderdale for our flight back to NYC.

I tentatively stepped into the boat. I was trying to put a brave face on. I wanted to do this but I am terrified of water. Rather, I am terrified of drowning. I can't swim. Despite lessons as a child at the Center City YMCA, I had never taken to the water. I needed goggles in order to even try to open my eyes under the surface and my favorite part of lessons was when the instructor would take us down to the deep end, hand under hand we would lower ourselves on the ladder and then push ourselves to the very bottom of the 12 feet. There, he would give a thumbs up and we would spring like rockets on our feet and thrust ourselves to the surface. That was the coolest thing in the world to me. But that wasn't swimming.

I looked around for a life preserver and found two under the seats in the back. I'd be fine. I can keep myself afloat but I know that in a panic, I'll die.

The Mormon goes over how the boat operates with the Surfer Man and then we head out, gently at first, going through a long canal that cuts through a number of gorgeous houses invisible from Key Largo's main road. Each house has a boat and a private entrance to the water. Many of these homes have pools. It's early afternoon and people are coming to life; swimming, preparing the bbq, drinking and talking to their neighbors.

The canal finally opens up into...what? The keys? A large body of water. There are boat traffic signs and the Mormon instinctively follows them. I have to ask the meaning of each and every one. We consult the map a few times and sail around at a leisurely pace, feeling the sun and salt air on our faces. After a while, the Mormon asks me if I want to take over. I consult the map and see a large cove that looks out of the way and quiet. Also, it's called Blackwater Cove which sounds very Daphne DuMaurier goth to me. So I aim for it.

At first I sail tentatively. But then I push the throttle down and the boat picks up speed and it's like flying. The wind is whipping in my face, the water is splashing all around us and we'll hit a cap and go propelling into the air for a few seconds. I do this the entire way into the cove and then, all of a sudden, the engine sputters. Then it groans. Then it dies. And there we are, trapped in Blackwater Cove.

There are no other boats around us. I have picked the most deserted place on the map to take us. A few miles away is a bit of highway but other than that, there's just water and unoccupied land. I turn to the Mormon. Do you have your cell phone? We should call Surfer Man.

So, the Mormon does and looking at the map we explain to him exactly where we are. We even give him the coordinates. Sailing is easy if the engine doesn't blow out. He says he can probably come get us in about 45 minutes. That's fine. We have time.

The Mormon looks at me and asks, "Do you want to go for a swim?"

I stammer. I look around. There's no edge of the pool for me to hold on to. There's no telling how deep the water is. I couldn't safely put my feet on the floor and swirl my arms around me as if I was swimming.

No. No. I'm ok. I'd rather stay up here.

"Are you sure?"

Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure.

He takes his shirt off and dives in. He resurfaces a second later, glistening and glowing. "Come on. It's beautiful." And I think for a second, Maybe I should. Maybe I could just dive in and come up in his arms and I'd be safe there. And he would hold on to me and we would be that couple like in a movie. (That movie not starring Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson on their boat.) But I don't do it. I don't feel safe. I don't believe he'll hold on to me if I can't touch the bottom. So I walk around to the front of the boat, the bow -- of you will, take off my shirt and lay in the sun. And the rays burn me. And my body soaks up the heat. And I feel alive in the feeling of this.

The Mormon eventually gets back on the boat and we don't speak. He's disappointed in me. I'm disappointed in myself. An hour passes. I finally stand and put my shirt back on. I look out at the horizon and there, in the distance, the perfect blue sky has begun to turn green. The green fades to grey which in turn fades to a deep charcoal. I see lightening flashing in the sky and the low rumble of thunder makes itself heard.

Maybe you should call Surfer Dude again, I say in a hushed voice, trying to remain calm. I will not die on this boat. I will not die on this boat. I will not die on this boat.

The Mormon is talking to the Surfer. The Surfer says he's where we say we are but we're not there. I calmly look at the map again, keeping on eye on the storm that seems to be getting closer and closer with each passing second. I give the coordinates once again to the Mormon who repeats them to the Surfer who, it appears, is in the exact opposite direction from us and another 45 minutes away. Meanwhile I'm shouting in the background "Blackwater Cove! It says BLACKWATER COVE on the map." And I try to breathe. And I try not to look at the storm but I'm transfixed. For a second I think, Maybe I can jump in the water and start swimming. But where? I know how far out we are. I put us there.

The Mormon hangs up and says, He's going to be another 45 minutes or so.

I look at my watch. Well. We're going to miss our plane. Which is fine. But I hope we miss the storm.

Silence except for the occasional rumbling of thunder and an increasing darkening of the sky.

Finally, the Surfer pulls up in a boat much like our but that's running. "I thought you were on the other side." Through gritted teeth I ask him if he had a map in front of him as I explained exactly where we were.

"No. No, I don't use that map. I just thought you'd be on the other side."

Really? And then I calmly explain what happened and how now we've missed our flight back to NYC. The Surfer goes to the engine and sticks his head into the box that houses it. "Yep. She's burned out. Surprised she made it this long." He comes back out and looks at us, "Sorry, fellas. Well, we'll tow her back and you can be on your way." So we cross from our broken boat into Surfer's running one. He throws a rope and secures it to our boat and we start pulling it behind us. We have to drive veeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyy sssssssslllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooolllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyy to accomplish this. After about five minutes, Surfer gets frustrated, cuts the rope and says, "I'll come get her later." He opens his boat up and we speed back to the rental facility.

Because we're going so fast, the boat is jumping up and down and my ass keeps slamming on the seat. I know that I'm going to break out in mad hives later because of this. The Mormon stands next to the Surfer and they talk that brand of mindless "men's talk" that I don't understand and am not programmed for. We finally reach that shore and I get out of the boat, shaky legged and bruised from the ride. I nod a goodbye and wander towards the parking lot. My skin is red from the sun. The storm clouds have drifted in another direction. I am safe again.

The Mormon comes out counting a wad of cash and smiling, "Full refund. Let's go get some seafood."

I call JetBlue and change our reservation for first thing the next morning. I call my parents and let them know I'll be home a day later than I thought I would because, even though I don't live with them anymore, I always tell them where I'm at or where I'm going. Force of habit.

The Mormon seems exhilarated by our experience. I feel broken and bruised. We eat in silence and drive back to Hollywood in silence. My upper thighs and my feet have begun to swell up and get itchy. Hives. They're almost unbearable but I have to be the one to drive because the Mormon can't. I just want to plunge into a cold tub to numb the pain but we still need to figure out where we're staying.

We drive into downtown Ft. Lauderdale but the streets are confusing and crowded and I'm tired and can't make a decision. Finally, I suggest that we just go back to the hotel in Hollywood we stayed in the night before. He agrees. When we reach our destination, he offers to take the car back through the parking lot to the rental place so I can soak my feet. It's probably the nicest thing he's ever done for me.

Limping, I make my way to the front desk and ask if they have a room available. They do. And we have one more night in Hollywood.

Only in Miami: Part One

2009-03-10T15:48:00.001-04:00

We received an odd call in the Producer's office one day.

A couple in Miami was planning their daughter's wedding. They wanted the Broadway company of Fiddler on the Roof to come down and perform at the reception. They did not care that the production had been closed for a few months. Money, apparently, was no object. The kicker: it was going to be a surprise. The daughter had no idea this was going to happen.

The couple would pay for airfare, hotel for one night, transportation to and from the airport, costume shipping and salary for performers, stage manager and company manager. Sure, why not? I would act as stage manager. The Mormon would be my company manager. We would spend Memorial Day weekend in Miami. Yes, things were strained between us but I was hoping a weekend away might provide a little spark or bring us back together. Back? Together?

There wasn't really all that much for us to do. The Mormon and I drove up to Goodspeed to pick up costumes for the nine or so cast members who would come down with us. We scheduled one New York rehearsal with the associate conductor and the dance captain. We had a four or five hour rehearsal in which we reviewed the numbers to be performed: Matchmaker, Sunrise/Sunset and and the Wedding Dance.

I thought it rather odd, at rehearsal, that a wealthy family (albeit Jewish) wanted a group of New Yorkers to come to Miami dressed as peasants from the shtetl to perform at a wedding but, whatever. They were paying pretty good money.

We flew jetBlue to Ft. Lauderdale and the weather was absolutely perfect. We arrived early in the morning and our rehearsal with the five piece Jewish band wasn't until later in the afternoon. We had a quick continental breakfast in the hotel and the Mormon and I headed off to the beach.

My first mistake was thinking we were close enough to walk. We were not. It was hot and we were sweating our asses off by the time we got about a mile from the hotel with no beach in sight. I broke down and called for a car service that quickly came, rescued us and took us to the ocean. The sunny skies immediately clouded over but the day remained hot and the water was the temperature of bath water. We were on the beach in Hollywood, FL and it was wonderful. We grabbed some lunch at a rundown, almost deserted seafood shack on the bay and then grabbed a cab back to the hotel.

We pulled the costumes together and met the cast in the lobby to cross the street to the big hotel where the wedding was taking place. As we were a surprise, our presence had to remain an absolute secret. TWO wedding planners greeted us at the back door of the reception area. They were frazzled and carried headsets, cell phones and walkie talkies. This was a BIG wedding, over 500 people. We stored the costumes in what was to be our green room/dressing room and made our way into the reception hall to meet the band.

I was nervous about the band. They were the first band of the night and, as I said, the Jewish contingent. They assured me that they were familiar with the score of Fiddler and I had to take them at their word but if they weren't...we'd be in deep trouble. How would we dance? Sing? I had sent them a cd of the music from the show so that they could practice alongside that. Our trusty dance captain put his head together with the leader of the band and they worked their way through the numbers once, twice, three times.

As I stood there watching this -- three young girls with wired mics singing Matchmaker, nine young men and women singing Sunrise/Sunset, and five men performing the Bottle Dance -- I thought, this is fucking ridiculous. The bride is going to be pissed off. I would be. And we weren't even in costume yet. We were given our call time and we all went our separate ways.

Meeting back at the hotel later that evening meant walking into even more madness. By this time, the wedding festivities were in full swing. The bride was having her picture taken all over the hotel so we were sequestered to our room. The women vocalized. The men stretched and joked with each other. I paced nervously back and forth and yearned for a cigarette or a drink. The Wedding Planners (two men) would check in on us intermittently to give us an approximate time check. We were their favorite entertainers because we were half naked and made them laugh.

When they finally came to get us, we were dressed in our finest rags. To avoid the wedding ceremony we had to travel the back routes of the hotel like steerage on the Titanic. We must have looked quite the sight parading through the hotel's kitchen on our way to bring real, Broadway, peasant Jewish life to that Hollywood, Florida ballroom.

The cast took their place behind a curtain and I watched as the father of the bride -- a hulking, balding, giant of a man -- took the stage. He spoke in broken English and glowed at his daughter as he built up the surprise he had in store. I could see her face, a mixture of surprise, uncertainty and then hope (did she think he was going to tell her he had bought them a house? a mansion? a yacht? a brand new car) slowly turned to fear as the words "Broadway", "cast", "Fiddler on the Roof" escaped his lips. There was no turning back now. A slight smattering of applause and then my Jewish peasants took their places.

The girls launched into a rousing rendition of Matchmaker. The bride and groom sat, at the center of the dance floor, stunned. But my girls sold it. The men came out and joined the girls in a moving, too long version of Sunrise/Sunset. The older Jews in the crowd were moved to tears, the younger were bored. The bride glared at her parents. Our Jewish peasants grabbed their bottles and put them on their head and did a rousing version of the Bottle Dance. This, actually, geared the entire crowd up. It would have been much better if we had cut Matchmaker and Sunrise and just done this but...you had to give them their money's worth. And they were paying in cash so...

The Bottle Dancers grabbed men and women out of the audience and led the beginning of the Hora. Pretty soon the dance floor was filled and I told the Mormon to take the cast back to the hotel and I would settle with the father. Finding the man, in the middle of the throbbing crowd, was not easy. But I finally did. I introduced myself and explained that we needed the money now as many of the cast were leaving first thing in the morning. He was surrounded by a large group of equally hulking men who I though at first were body guards but later learned were his sons. He was very drunk already and unhappy with my request. He said he'd have to go back to his room to get the cash. I said that would be fine and I would wait. Then one of the sons whispered in his ear and his eyes lit up. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope with $25,000 in cash. Handed it to me and dismissed me.

You're welcome.

I walked the perimeter of the dance floor and watched as the newly married couple were lifted up on chairs and given a white handkerchief to hold between them. The groom was drunk and delirious with joy. The bride. The bride had a look on her face that said I'd rather be anywhere but here. And I wondered what her story was. Why marry this man? Was he the safe choice? Was he a doctor who would provide her with a nice house, twice yearly vacations, an abundance of jewelry and a houseful of kids? Did she have another love? Was he here tonight? Was she wishing he was on the other end of the handkerchief being tossed in the air, on a chair, beside her?

I pondered this as i clutched the envelope full of cash tightly in my pocket and rushed through the dark night back to our hotel. If anyone knew what I was carrying I was the easiest target.

I got back to my hotel room about 45 minutes after the actors fled the waiting. I had numerous texts from the Mormon saying they were restless and wanted their money and to leave. Well, it's not like I was sitting down with a bowl of Matzo Ball Soup at the wedding and yucking it up with the father of the bride.

I shut myself in the bedroom with the Mormon and we counted out the cash, in hundreds, for each performer. They went from restless to thrilled as I handed them each a wad of cash. They went on their merry ways and I, exhausted from the release, passed out in bed immediately without even taking off my clothes.

Unsettled

2009-03-09T12:40:00.004-04:00

I am feeling overwhelmed by everything today.

And by "everything", I mean nothing.

There is nothing on my plate.

The Producer is on a business trip to the Bahamas. It was my job to book the flights/hotel/car for her and the rest of the team. When this happened last time, there was a travel mishap and I took the fall for it. This time, any move I make to deal with the trip I fear will cause another unsettling. Not that things ever really settled after last time.

I was plagued by bad dreams last night. In one, The Muse and I were rehearsing a scene for acting class. It was a fairly contemporary scene but I was extremely nervous about acting again. In one section of the dream, we were back in variation of Walters Hall in Rutgers setting the room up to present the scene. I was being terribly persnickety about the placement of the bed, the hanging of curtains, the arrangement of tables and chairs. I wanted to meticulously create the environment of the studio apartment in which this scene took place. I thought that by doing show the teachers would be impressed with my attention to detail and I would become more immersed in the world of the play. The world of the dream, however, was cast over in a dull green haze. I wasn't seeing the world through rose-colored glasses but pea soup-colored glasses. Why? What did this mean? I was very anxious and could not get the placement of furniture right and the teacher was about to walk through the door. I was also certain that I would forget my lines (a common occurrence with me as an actor doing scene work).

Just as the anxiety of that scene was about to overtake me, the dream switched gears. I was now in my apartment -- but the apartment I lived in in the dream, not in real life. And everything was dark and shadowed. In a way, one of the rooms was very similar to my childhood bedroom. The bookcase and the window to the alleyway were almost certainly, exactly the same. Only this was New York not Philadelphia. And, in the dream, I knew that this apartment I was living in had once been the apartment of the playwright who wrote the play from which I was performing a scene for acting class. In my dream I also somehow knew that the playwright had been murdered by his lover in this very apartment.

And the lover, somehow not in prison, was crazy and thought that I was the boyfriend and was coming to kill me. I don't know where the Loved One was in this scenario. I don't know whether the Muse was there or not for rehearsal. I knew that I was in the apartment and the crazy stalker/killer was just outside and it was dark and scary.

I awoke, unsettled.

I fell back asleep into the arms of another dream. In this one, school was still a major factor only it was my job to look after children. The details of this dream are more fuzzy. We were in a large house for a trip. And I left the group of teenagers in the hands of someone else to go find some information. I found myself in a secret room inside of which was another secret door that had a very complex opening mechanism that I managed to figure out. Although there was no clear and present danger, the feeling of something about to wrong was heavy in the air. It was ominous.

I awoke from this dream and got out of bed, knowing that sleep was no longer a place of comfort this night.

What were these about? Is it purely job related? Am I waiting for the shoe to drop here? Am I waiting to get in trouble for not doing what little I have to accomplish correctly? Am I scared of going after what it is that I really want? I don't know what more I can do in that department to "fix" things. I feel stuck.

This weekend, itself, was a bit unsettling for me. The Loved One and I traveled to Philly for my niece's christening. On Saturday we were able to meet up with my former best friend from high school and his family for a brief visit at the Franklin Institute. The Loved One and I walked through the chambers of the giant heart first and I remembered how, as a child, this museum piece was my favorite playground. The loud thumping of the blood pumping through the arteries was soothing. The darkness of the heart was somewhat mysterious but safe.

Now, the heart was old, tired and falling apart. The rushing of blood seemed to me more desperate than thriving. The chambers seemed to sag with age and fatigue. It made me sad and scared.

The Best Friend looked the same. I would recognize him anywhere. The difference? Two children and another on the way. When we last saw each other, it was almost six years ago and his wife was just pregnant with their first. We've talked intermittently since then.

We spent but a few hours together but it felt impossible to have the conversation we really wanted to have which should have been just us over a bottle or two of wine in a crowded smokey bar. Now a professor of philosophy at a college, our conversations always worked better on a deeper plane than on a small talk level and I left him and his family wishing we had had a chance to connect on that deeper level. Perhaps next time. But, perhaps never. And that thought makes me sad.

After that, the Loved One and I succeeded in our mission to find Shamrock Shakes at McDonald's.

Going back to my parents that evening, a car suddenly pulled behind us on the road to the house. It appeared from seemingly no where and rode too close for comfort. As the Loved One pulled in front of my parents house, the car waited behind us for a bit. It did not pass. It seemed to be stalking us. Then it pulled away in front of us. As the Loved One and I gathered our belongings, the car rounded a cul de sac and then pulled up to the corner a block away and watched us. No one got out. They left the lights on. They just idled and sat there. Unsettling.

The next day was the christening and, that too, filled me with sadness. My world view is so dim and depressed these days that the idea of bringing a child into it, terrifies me. In theory, you want a child to live a pain-free existence. In reality, you know that sometimes pain is the best way to learn. When I saw the little children running around the church and later the restaurant I couldn't help but think, at what age does reality set in and begin to take over? When do we stop feeling so free? Is it when we realize that we're mortal?

When my cousin, The Actress, said that she being around all of these babies was difficult for her, being unwillingly single and feeling the pressures of time, I said Do you really want a baby? Unhesitatingly, she answered "Yes." I said, I can barely take care of myself. What would I do with a baby?

And it's true. What on earth would I do with a child? Perhaps it is a female-specific longing, the feel of that pull for a child. While I can see myself as a father, and a good one, I'd want to be a stay-at-home dad in the early years. I'd want to watch the child grow. I'd want to teach him/her all about the things that people don't tell you as you're growing up. I'd want to make sure that they were better than me. If I couldn't, I wouldn't do it. And here I am in no position to give a child that kind of love and attention.

My grandfather, now 94, arrived late to the christening. He has, for all intents and purposes, stopped living his life. The death of grandmother from cancer over 8 years ago was a hard hit to him. He did not know how to live without her. Then the removal of his voice box (cancer) about a year after that was an even harder hit. People started turning away from him on the street, they stopped calling, the avoided him. Left with no means to really communicate, my grandfather feels frustrated, scared and lonely. His house, the house he and my grandmother lived together in, is now dark. The unused bedrooms upstairs are closed off and the shades are drawn. The blinds on the front porch are drawn, allowing little light in. And my grandfather, who always sat on that porch waving and talking to friends, neighbors and strangers, sits on the living room, his back to them, behind more drawn curtains. He wants my mother or my uncle by his side at all times but he does not want to leave the safety of that dark space.

And I understand that. I find it hard to leave the safety and comfort of our apartment. The world outside is too overwhelming, too unsettled, too scary. I feel as if I have no place in it at the moment. I go to an office and sit behind a desk for eight hours a day, forty hours a week and once in a while I do something. But the actions I perform here barely cause a ripple when I'm looking to make waves. And I'm 33, not 94. I can't turn my back on the world and hide away.

My grandfather left the christening, unseen by me. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to him. This left me unsettled.

Also, it's Spring. Our garden is beginning to show signs of life. The crocuses, the irises, the tulips are all beginning to show themselves. They're springing to life out of the dark earth. The days are getting longer. Things are changing. And, I fear, that I remain the same.

Violated

2009-03-06T13:09:00.003-05:00

Our home life at 765 Grand Street in Williamsburg was not always so grand.

Somewhere in our first year of living there I came home to a rather disturbing realization. It had been a bad day. It started with a prolonged doctor's office visit in which vials and vials of blood were taken to test for everything under the sun. This was followed by an excruciating day in the casting office working on something I cared little about. Followed by an unbearable three hour evening with the flying car at Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on Broadway. Whoever thought that was a good idea?

So I get home after 11pm. My roommate is on the couch watching tv. The puppy is furiously running around my legs hoping, in vain, for a late night walk. I just want to go in my bedroom and shut the door and forget about the world. I mumble a 'hello.' The roommate asks how the show was. I answer with my standard "Awful" and head to the bedroom. My door is shut. That's weird. I never shut my door. The dog likes to lie on my bed and stare out the window during the day.

Were you in my room? I call out.

"No." She answers.

I turn the knob and push the door open and let it follow the hinges to its full extension. I stand on the lip of the entryway, not taking the step down, into the bedroom. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. I scan the room slowly from left to right. Finally, my eyes come to rest on the night stand.

We were robbed, I call out. My computer's gone.

I hear an abrupt movement on the couch and a "WHAT?" She runs into her room and I hear her opening her closet door.

"SHIT! My computer is gone too!"

I slowly move into the room. I'm afraid to touch anything but I want to see what else is missing. My favorite Diesel watch. Gone. I open up the closet doors. The computer bag. Gone. Some books on my shelf were in disarray. I pulled out a plastic container from my closet. Checkbook. Gone. Other than that, nothing else to take. I call out to the roommate. She's missing some jewelry. We call the cops. We call our parents. I don't remember if we called our landlord at that point. And we sit and we wait.

A terrible stillness settled over the apartment as we waited for the police to come. Neither of us wanted to be there. Neither of us had anywhere else to go. And neither of us would leave the other anyway. But I kept thinking of me, sitting in Washington Square Park that morning thinking I should call out of work because I was so overwhelmed. Would I have stopped it? Would I have been there when the thieves stole in? Or would they just have come some other time.

I think they've been our apartment before, I say. I've noticed little things from time-to-time. Like your door being left open. Or a toy on my shelf being in the wrong place. I never said anything because I thought I was just imagining it.

"Yeah. I felt the same way."

We checked the front door. There was no sign of forced entry. Windows near the fire escape were locked. How did they get in, if not with a key? And no one, except for my parents in Jersey, had an extra set of keys. Except the super.

The buzzer went off and we both jumped. I went down to let the police in. They were quick. And there were many of them. They worked there way through the apartment from the front door to the kitchen window. I showed them no signs of forced entry. I showed them all window gates locked. I showed them all windows closed except for one in my bedroom but there was soot on the window sill. They dusted for finger prints. Black powder all over my white night stand and the new sheets. The finger printed us. The front door. The window sills. They might as well have paw printed Ripley. They asked us questions. They gave us their card and they left.

We, unsettled, resumed our positions and stared at nothing. Not wanting to be awake anymore. Not wanting to go to sleep.

Should we get a hotel room?

"What about the dog?"

Right.

I won't be able to sleep tonight. Go ahead. Go to bed. I'll stay on the couch.

She shuffled off to her room shutting the door and I took up watch on the sofa. I wanted a bat. And a drink. I had neither. I slept fitfully on the couch that evening.

As the days passed, our things were never located. The shock and overwhelming feeling of violation slowly began to wear away. Ripley was not harmed. That was most important. And theories were formed. Most likely, the super had come in and taken our things. Over the course of the next few weeks we noticed how friendly Ripley was toward the man when he entered our apartment. A man he had never met before. He would run up to the Super and lick him and beg for his attention. This man came into our apartment while we were at work. We had the locks changed. The landlords did nothing.

My thesis paper and my writing had been on that computer. In the computer bag were all the back-up disks. I would have to start over. A few days later, after changing everything at the bank, I found my check book. We canvased local pawn shops at the recommendation of the police but didn't find our laptops.

Loneliness and fear were overwhelming. I began taking Wellbutrin again. Something I had started after the break up with Present Ex and the death of my grandmother and, slowly, weaned myself off of.

Almost exactly a year later, we come home to the same discovery. Laptops stolen. That's all they could take. We had nothing else. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Police. Fingerprints. Landlords. Etc...

This time, the police theorize that the intruder made their way into the apartment through one of the front windows. Creeping along the ledge, bending down to lift the window, then the screen.

Unless he's Spiderman, I said to the police, I think that's unlikely. And don't you think people on Grand Street -- a busy fucking street -- would notice someone creeping along a ledge at 2 o'clock in the afternoon? Someone used a key to get in.

"We really think they came in through the window."

I heaved a heavy sigh, knowing there was no use in trying to convince them otherwise.

At least there was someone I could call this time, someone I could lean on: The Mormon. I called him briefly when I was waiting for the police to come but didn't have time to talk long. I was on the verge of tears and trying very hard to keep myself together. I wanted comfort. I wanted him to come over and hold me. I wanted to feel safe.

Hi, I said. The police just left.

Silence on his side.

Uhm...and then I went through everything they had done and told us and what I believed happened.

"Well, I'm sure they know what they're talking about," the Mormon said.

Yeah. Uhm.

"So I'll talk to you later?"

Yeah. Sure.

"Ok. Bye."

I hung up the phone. Nothing. Not an 'I'm sorry.' Not an invitation to come over. Not an offer to come to me. Not a question about my feelings. He had turned off. My being vulnerable had caused him to completely shut down. He was acting cold, stoic, aloof, uninvolved. I didn't know what to do.

I felt doubly violated.

Chasing Rainbows

2009-03-05T09:56:00.003-05:00

The Mormon had disappeared. I hadn't heard from him in days. Calls went unanswered. Texts ignored. Finally, a 3am email seemed to stir something in him and I received a reply.

He warned me that this might happen. That a symptom of his Sexual Compulsion was to cut off. From everyone. That when "intimacy" got to be too much, he turned off. I, however, was reeling. I was caught in a free fall and I didn't know how to stop. I was a step short of going to his apartment and letting myself in and finding out what the fuck was going on. But I didn't. Why? I knew he was out there. I knew he was hearing me. He just wasn't responding. And wasn't there a part of me that was getting off on the drama of it all? Wasn't there that part of me that wanted him even more BECAUSE of the fact that he was pulling away? Didn't I need to win his love and attention? Surely, it couldn't be freely given and accepted at all times; otherwise, I wouldn't appreciate it.

But I wasn't sleeping. I wasn't eating. I was going to the gym a lot. I went to Crunch on 13th between University and Broadway. I had specifically chosen a gym in the city so that I would have an excuse to go into the city and not waste away in Brooklyn, disconnected.

Crunch had two punching bags in the front window. I would get there at 7am and I would wrap my hands, not putting on gloves, and I would hit the bags. I would pound them until my fingers cut. The cuts would widen and deepen. The blood would begin to seep through the wrap. But I kept on hitting. I hit for half an hour. And then I ran. I ran until I couldn't feel my legs anymore and I had no sense of time or place.

This went on for three days. Finally an email came.

And then a strained meeting in which a half-hearted apology was given.

And a distance had settled into his clear, icy blue eyes. He wasn't seeing me. He was somewhere I couldn't reach. And I walked away from that meeting convinced I wouldn't see him again.

But then the calls began again. And the texts. And the workday emails. And the storm had passed. Then another invitation to join him, once again, in Cold Spring for the weekend. And I, like a trained pup, jumped without blinking.

And as the train slowly made it's way along the Hudson I knew that everything was going to be alright. I knew that I needed to give the Mormon room from time-to-time. I knew that I had pushed too hard, asked for too much, been too intense, too needy. I had been too much myself. I needed to make room for him. More room.

And as I walked from the train station, up the hill, my thighs hurting from working out so much, around the corner, my boots crunching on the gravel driveway, into the garage, my heart pounding at the sight of his back to me, my eyes watering as he turned around and smiled a smile that forgave everything. He came over and picked me up in his bearlike arms, swung me around, whispered "I missed you" in my ear. And I accepted it all.

"Let's go for a ride," he said.

We dove into the truck, glad to be free of the world. There was no need to talk or think on the road. Just his arm around my shoulder as we drove higher and higher, up to Bear Mountain.

From seemingly out of nowhere, a storm cloud appeared and rolled over the mountain turning the world grey. Large drops pounded the windshield and the narrow road up became slick and black. The Mormon slowed down and drove carefully. I wasn't scared. I knew it would all be fine. And as the road twisted and turned it's way up, the sky began to clear. The new spring leaves on the trees, glistened and winked at us as he parked the truck. We waited a few moments for the rain the slowly subsiding rain to stop. And then we got out.

"I want to get my camera," he said and ran back to the truck.

I, mesmerized, walked to the edge of the mountain because there, in the sky, was a double rainbow. The top one -- bold and bright and strong -- loomed large over the Hudson valley. People around me gasped at its size and its splendor. The little one -- like a baby pony finding its legs -- directly below its mother not as strong but vivid and shimmering in the early evening light.

The Mormon appeared next to me and started taking pictures. I didn't need a picture. It was forever in my mind. There were rocks in front of us, stretching further out, closer to the rainbows. They were slick with water but I needed to walk out there. I needed to be closer to those beacons in the sky. I wanted to touch them. I carefully walked out onto the rocks. But the rainbows seemed to move further and further away. Finally I was out some two hundred feet from where I started and no closer to them. So I stood there and looked up at their beauty, letting them wash over me. They were began to fade as the evening sky began to wash away to dusk.

I turned and caught the Mormon snapping a picture and then turning away. Reluctantly, I made me way back up the rocks and to terra firma. The Mormon had wandered onto a path at the entrance to the woods. I was still lost in the beauty of the rainbows and wanted to be on my own for a while so I wandered over to a different path a few feet away.

I was about to enter the woods when a movement on a branch caught my attention. I walked closer to the bare tree and watched a caterpillar inch it's way across the wood, slow and steady. I was transfixed by its movement. So much so that I didn't notice the Mormon coming up behind me. He blew on my ear and I jumped.

"What are you doing?"

I pointed at the caterpillar and we both stared. It made its way so determined, as if nothing could stop it.

I wonder what it's thinking, I said.

"I wonder what it's doing," the Mormon replied.

And therein lay the difference between us.

Flip/Flop

2009-03-03T11:38:00.004-05:00

I was so curious about Mormonism and the power it held over the Mormon. He talked little about it but would answer questions when I asked. He told me that as a kid he used to wander the property his family lived on and beyond hoping that he'd be the one to find the Golden Plates of Joseph Smith. These engraved tablets were given to Smith by the Angel Moroni (no comment) and from these Smith translated the Book of Mormon. He then returned the tablets to the Angel.

The Mormon thought that if he retrieved the plates, if he found them again, if an angel came down and gave them to him, he would be chosen. He would be seen. He would be wanted. And I realized that he so wanted that still; to be seen, wanted, chosen. And I wondered if my seeing, choosing, wanting him was enough. I didn't dare ask the question though. Why? Why didn't I ask the question? Because I knew the answer was 'no' and I didn't want to hear it.

So I started reading the Book of Mormon; looking for clues or insights into the Mormon's personality, into his behavior. I didn't get very far. The first book is all who "begat" who for pages and pages followed by the same people "smiting" other people. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't fathom how any religion could hold power over a human spirit. I understood the need to belong to something. But why belong to something that doesn't want or accept you for who you are?

I was confused. And the Mormon seemed to flip-flop back and forth between wanting nothing to do with Mormonism and craving its acceptance.

I went over to his apartment one week day evening to have dinner. I let myself in and took the stairs up to his apartment. I opened the door and I could hear voices talking quietly in the living room. The Mormon was deep in conversation with another man who was approximately the same age as him. Tall, handsome and youthful, this other man's eyes were filled with pain and sorrow. I shook his hand and introduced myself since the Mormon didn't. The Other Man said, 'I should be heading home. She'll be worried about me.' He gathered up his things and left saying a furtive goodbye to me.

I looked at the Mormon for an explanation.

"He's an old friend from Utah. He's married. Lives in Park Slope with his wife. He used to be gay. When the feelings get too strong and he wants to act on them, he calls me and comes over to talk himself away from them. She knows. She knows that he wants to be better and that God wants to help him. And that I can help him. I should call her and let her know he's been here and he's on his way home."

Did you have a relationship with him?

"No. No, we were never like that. Just friends."

Do you think that's ok? What he's doing?

"I think it's what he wants and needs to do."

But he's lying to himself and to his wife. You think that's ok?

"He tells her."

But he's denying who he is. You think that's ok?

"I think he's trying to be the best person he can be. And he wants to be straight."

An uncomfortable feeling started to grow in my stomach and spread to all my limbs.

Intimacy

2009-03-02T16:52:00.003-05:00

From the Hamptons we headed off to Cold Spring.

The house in Cold Spring, the town itself, was starting to feel like a second home.

The owners, who lived in Seattle couldn't decide whether to sell the place or keep it for themselves but, until the time a decision was made, they kept finding work for the Mormon to do. The house was an anomaly in that town. The lines on the outside were harsh and modern. From the front, there were barely any windows; just narrow slits on the side. The rest of the town was filled with more traditions, Victorian homes. The inside of this house was modern as well. A steel spiral staircase was the first thing you saw when you walked into the house. The walls were cold and white. The furnishings were sparse and only what was necessary. But in the living room, one wall was entirely windowed and the view of the town and the mountain stretched endlessly before you. Being February, the view was of naked trees and bare mountains. It always seemed to be brilliantly blue in the mornings turning to an oppressive grey by afternoon. But it was always beautiful.

One day the Mormon asked me if I wanted to go to the museum in Beacon. The Dia. I said sure. I had never heard of it, let alone been.

The Dia is in a big, cold warehouse. It's all modern/contemporary art, which isn't really my thing. Bare and broken light bulbs spread across the floor and entitled "Ideas" is not art that speaks to me. Ironic art most often isn't.

There are many rooms in the old warehouse but you walk into a wall of Andy Warhol self-portraits. His own face silk-screened in different colors across a twenty-five foot expanse. Red Andy, Green Andy, Blue Andy. Yellow Andy. All with the same bored expression. All with the same disheveled wig. Different colors, same face. Is that the point? Is that all we are? The same face with different expressions. We appear to change but underneath it all, we don't really?

The Mormon told me once he used to drive out to this gay cruising spot in Salt Lake City, Utah. He wouldn't pick any one up because he was too afraid. He would just watch it happen. I thought of this staring at the face of Andy Warhol; a man who made excess and exhibitionism standard. Standard for New York and other big cities. That excess didn't reach into the land of the Mormons. I turned around and the Mormon was taking pictures of me in front of the Warhols. And I thought, I'm so much more like Warhol than the Mormon. The Mormon can hardly talk to his family any more because they don't support his "lifestyle." They think he'll suffer for eternity in Mormon hell, whatever that is. He goes to these sexual compulsive anonymous meetings every week to deal with...what, exactly? Intimacy is the word that keeps coming up over and over again. The computer. Images on the computer are a way of escaping intimacy. Sex is and isn't intimacy. It depends on how you approach it.

We strolled the other rooms and then headed back to the house in Cold Spring. There we fells asleep on the couch in the living room looking out at the mountains without a worry in the world.

I woke, up on top of him, to him kissing me. I stood, my back to the open window, the grey sky, leafless branches and naked mountains behind me and slowly began to undress. He looked at me with passion, with hunger, with...fear. I knew in that moment that I was somehow a braver person than he'd ever met. I don't know how or why I knew that. But the knowledge washed over me like a clean rain and I felt the power of it. For the first time in this relationship there was an exchange of power. And I lay myself on top him and let it melt away.

Wading Mary

2009-02-27T10:39:00.004-05:00

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The falling in place didn't happen right away. No. It crept up in subtle ways and, when I finally realized it, I pushed it aside. I thought the fractures would heal, unattended, before a break occurred.

There was a lovely limbo in between leaving the Big Man and starting again with the Producer. I found myself with three weeks off and, luckily, I had some money stashed away to live on (those were the days). So, the Mormon and I took advantage of it.

He, first, took me to his friend's house in the Hamptons for a weekend. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have an aversion to automobiles; especially when it comes to driving them. The Mormon had a truck and he often used it even for local errands. I felt pretty safe when he was driving. Except for the night we left for the Hamptons. It was a torrential downpour. He pulled up to my apartment on Grand Street and by the time I got from my front door and into the truck I was soaked through. Lightning flashed across the sky and thunder made the earth shake.

Are you sure you want to go tonight? I asked, timidly.

"Yeah. This is great. It'll be a fun drive."

Yeah. Fun. I swallowed hard, buckled my seatbelt and didn't breathe for approximately two and a half hours. I have inherited anxiety from my mother. So I spent most of the trip with my eyes closed afraid I'd be too annoying employing the imaginary breaks in front of me the entire ride. If I was driving in that weather I'd have the speedometer at about 2.5 miles an hour. No more. Maybe less. And I refused to talk to the Mormon for fear of distracting him from the road. It was raining so hard you couldn't see more than a foot in front of the car. At least, I couldn't. We eventually arrived at the house. I, white-knuckled and light-headed, finally allowed my breath to return to its normal flow. It had not stopped raining. It had just continued to get worse.

We sat in the rain looking at the small, white house about 30 feet in front of us. There was a small lake in between us. The Mormon said the keys were hidden under a brick to the right of the doorway.

How do you know the guy who owns this house? I asked.

"We used to date."

Oh. For a long time?

"Not too long. We had only been dating about a week or two when one day he ran across the room, jumped in my lap and asked me to marry him. He moved a little too fast so I ended it."

Understandable.

"But he lets me use this place from time-to-time. Or we come up with his new boyfriend for weekends."

Cool.

"Are you threatened?"

No. And I wasn't. But there went my plans for a marriage proposal that weekend.

"So, let me leave the car running and the lights on and I'll go find the keys and open the door."

I watched him intently as he jumped out, held a hand over his eyes to shield them from the rain and plunged through the puddle. He was so unlike anyone I had ever dated. Anyone I had ever met. He was a man from Utah. He grew up on a farm, a real, honest-to-god farm. He was tall and broad like someone who spent their life working on the land. We didn't have land to work in South Philly. We had a back yard that was about 10' x 20'. We had concrete sidewalks in the front. The Mormon had spent a summer working in a slaughter house. His job slicing the throats of cattle. I would look at his hands sometimes and imagine them drawing the cool, steel blade with a firm sure hand across the hairy necks of the helpless animals. I spent my summer's working at the gift shop in the U.S. Mint. I would have liked to have sliced the throats of some not-so-helpless tourists.

Suddenly, he was knocking on the door of the car. I was startled and looked at him, eyes dancing in the light reflected from the house and laughing. I opened the door.

"Where were you?"

Thinking. Sorry.

"Come on."

I unbuckled my seatbelt and before I knew it, he swept me up in his arms and carried me over the puddle and deposited me on the front step. I laughed, breathless, and called his name. He was already on his way back to the car to get the bags.

I turned into the house and looked around. It was small, cottage-like. But tasteful and well-appointed. It was going to be a nice few days.

The next morning, we awoke early to sunlight streaming in the windows. The room was entirely white. The comforter on the bed was white. The sheets were white. The curtains were white. The light was white. The room was aglow like heaven. I pushed the covers aside and threw my head over the edge of the bed and let the light hit my face. It was warm and comforting and I was glad the rains of last evening had stopped.

"Let's go to the beach," he said.

It's February, I responded. But ok!

As we opened the front door of the house there was water about a foot high everywhere.

I can walk this time, I said and winked at him.

He cautiously backed out of the driveway and we made our way through the water. We passed a house I had not noticed last night in the rain and the darkness. In the front yard, surrounded by water, was a statue of Mary; her arms spread wide at her sides, her robes gently brushing the cold water by her feet, her head tilted down and to the side as if contemplating her reflection in the black water. We stopped and the Mormon took some pictures. I wanted to ask her what she saw in herself, the wading Mary. Did she feel trapped or comforted by the surrounding water? Did she want to dive in and swim away or just stand there and accept it all, whatever 'it all' was?

I watched he slowly fade from sight as we drove away and turned a corner and headed off to the beach.

Spinning

2009-02-26T13:15:00.002-05:00

In high school, I spent a lot of time at my friend's house in New Jersey. His parents were divorced but lived in fairly close proximity to each other. His mother's house was a sprawling Victorian with lots of room and a piano in the living room. I couldn't play but I could sing. And we would spend hours at the piano with him playing, and me singing. Or both of us singing. Or just making things up as we went along. I felt I belonged there, at that piano with him. We would do this late into the night then crash on the sofas in the living room to fall asleep. As we would lay there we would play a game. One of us would think of a color and the other would try to guess which color the other was thinking of. We were so in sync that we often guessed on the first try.

One morning -- after an exceptionally long evening of belting out songs from Chess, Les Miz, Song & Dance (Tell Me On a Sunday was my signature number) and probably some of Billy Joel's Captain Jack -- I found myself alone in the living room with my friend's mom.

"Was that you singing last night?"

Oh. Yes. I'm sorry. Was I too loud? I hope we didn't keep you up.

"Oh no. Not at all. I just wanted to let you know that you have a beautiful voice."

Oh. Thanks.

And I left the room. I wasn't used to being complimenting. My friend was the star, the talented one. He got all the girls. He got the lead in all the plays and musicals. He was the "It" Boy in my world and I was a sidekick: Pancho to his Don Quixote, Robin to his Batman. You get the point. No one had ever acknowledged my talent and I didn't know how to accept it.

But I loved singing. It took me away.

Another thing that took me away was our late nights in the local playground. I became friendly with his New Jersey crew and we spent many late evenings playing on the swing sets, sliding down the slide or talking in low, hushed voices about life and philosophy.

"What are you most afraid of?" was always a big question to pose to the group. And me, feeling like an outsider in their group -- a welcome outside but an outsider nonetheless -- held my tongue at first. Here I was, 15 or 16. Close to 200lbs. And struggling with the fact that I knew I was gay but not knowing what to do about it. So as answer went around the group --

"I'm afraid of dying in a fire."

"Drowning."

"Being the victim of a serial killer."

"Death."

And finally, me. I'm afraid of being alone.

Because I had felt alone my whole life. I never belonged anywhere. And here, with them, I felt the most inside of anything I had in my entire life. And I was terrified that something was going to take it away.

To get me out of my funk, the Girl would take my hand and lead me down to a wide open space. We would look at each other, nod, and begin to spin. Looking down at my feet at first, I would watch as they clumsily shuffled around in a tight circle. In the dark, my white sneakers quickly began to turn into flashes of light as I began to turn faster and faster. When this was achieved, I would raise my arms to shoulder level and feel the air on my arms and the breeze of the momentum we were creating. The world began to flash around me. Streetlights became meteors. The lights of houses in the distance were distant planets. And nothing else matters. We would spin and spin as fast as we could and then on call, stop on a dime. You stopped and there was a moment of pure weightlessness, then a rocking side to side as the your body tried to return to the earth followed by a collapsing to the firm ground where you looked up and the world still spun around you. You couldn't stop spinning if you tried. It was the most amazing feeling in the world. And I would laugh and laugh and laugh. And forget about feeling out of place. Because, in spinning, I was a part of everything.

The Mormon and I were lying in his bed one night. He lived in a converted loft and had turned it into a two bedroom. His bed was lofted high up in the air to make room for closet space and bookshelves underneath. The ladder to get up was steep and I never managed to mount it gracefully.

We were in bed reading and an overwhelming feeling of loneliness overtook me. I felt so alone. Or I felt the potential of being alone, perhaps. I didn't want to be alone. I felt I belonged with the Mormon and I didn't want him taken away from me. I wanted to feel him. I needed to know we were connected. I felt so inexplicably lonely and empty inside. Maybe I could feel him pulling away. There were waves of ambivalence over the past few weeks. Sometimes, he would disappear for days and not answer phone calls or emails or text messages.

Will you lie on top of me?

"What?"

Will you put your book down and lie on top of me?"

"Not tonight. Go to bed."

I felt like a little kid put in his place. I wasn't asking for sex. This was deeper than sex. I needed to feel the weight of his body on me to make me feel like I was there. Like I was present. But I didn't know how to verbalize it in the moment. I just wanted him to hold me. And I turned away from him, defeated, and stared up at the ceiling and the room started spinning. But it was spinning out of my control. And I was a part of nothing. I had asked for something I wanted, something I needed, and had been denied.

Who's gonna break my fall
When the spinning starts?
The colors bleed together and fade
Was it ever there at all?
Or have I lost my way?
The path of least resistance
Is catching up with me again today.
-- Brandi Carlile

Dear John

2009-02-25T10:14:00.002-05:00

I spent many long days in the casting office, finding replacement Jews for the shtetl of Fiddler on the Roof and drunks, punks and queens for a revival of Threepenny Opera. Variety is the spice of life. I was miserable in the office. I'm miserable, as a rule, in most any office. The Big Man paid no attention to Fiddler, which was fine, except when he was needed to make a decision or show up at an important final callback. One day I was so overwhelmed I had to ask him to go to a director's callback in my place and he actually bristled. Mind you, this was a show he was receiving a substantial maintenance check on every week.

I did, one day, manage to arrange to have Sandra Bernhard audition for the Golde replacement. It took me weeks to track her down through her manager. Apparently, she moves around constantly. But, with Harvey Fierstein on as Tevye why not have a lesbian Golde. Plus, I just wanted to meet her and be in a room with her. Sandra was actually very excited about the audition and when she showed up at the rehearsal studio to meet with the director, producer and musical director I could see how nervous she was. As is the case when you're auditioning a star of a certain caliber you have to assure them that this is a closed audition and only the necessary parties will be there. I had provided Sandra with two scenes and the music to Do You Love Me?. She came prepared.

Sandra's dry humor and off-beat tone added many new laughs to the book but somehow felt a little too contemporary for the world of the play. The director worked with her though and she got better and stronger with each take. And then she sang and although some people may not be fans, I love her voice. It's raw.

She did not get the part. It went to another lesbian comedienne, Rosie O'Donnell. I had nothing to do with that decision. But found Rosie quite moving in the role. She and Harvey brought a warmth to the production that had been lacking with the original cast. And a lot more humor. And upped the gay quotient.

Meanwhile in Threepenny Opera land I had managed to convince Cyndi Lauper to meet with the director for the role of Jenny. I can't talk enough about my love for her. Ever since she sang 'Goonies 'R Good Enough' I was in love. And although Madonna had skyrocketed past her, Cyndi is the better singer, musician and songwriter. Her album "A Hat Full of Stars" got me through high school, especially the song 'Dear John' which, in my mind, had been written just for me. What? You don't know it?

Dear John
What's wrong ?
Why can't you just be anything you want ? Why not ? Why not ?
I tried to tell you then. You didn't understand. T
hey try and pigeonhole you.
Buddy, they don't even know you.
But hang on my dear, dear, John.
Maybe you're not just like everyone, so what, so what.

And there's more to live for, than some abbreviated encore,
much more, much more.
You can't define yourself in terms of someone else.
You can't say what you're thinking ? But I don't know what you've been drinking.
But don't cry. 'Cause life goes on.
Dear John, you could be anything you want. Why not ? Why not ?
Why you could even be an astronaut, dear John, dear John.

This album and Rites of Passage (Indigo Girls) still bring up a well of feelings in me when I hear them.

So, after weeks of calls, Cyndi was coming to meet the director. This was not my first time meeting her. I had had a drink with her when we were briefly casting the John Doyle, play-your-own-instrument-and-stare-blankly-out-at-the-audience-as-you-recite-your-lines-in-a-detached-manner revival of Sweeney Todd. But we (Roundabout) were none-too-subtly let go from that project and it was given a commercial production. Anyhow, I had a drink with her, the Big Man and Doyle one night at the Regency. When asked what instrument she played Lauper said, "The dulcimer." Yeah, of course. Why not? The role went to Patti LuPone and the rest of the cast was almost all people that we had found. We got no credit. Upsetting. Show business.

So. There I am at the stage door of The New Group waiting for Cyndi Lauper to bring her to the director. She's 5, 10, 15 minutes late. Finally, half an hour later a car pulls up. Her LA Ken-looking manager gets out and flashes me a too-white smile and puts his hand out to help Cyndi out of the car. My phone rings. It's the Big Man. He's been calling every two minutes to see what's going on and why she isn't there yet, even though he's still in his pajamas in his apartment on the UWS and it's noon. I put the call into voicemail. I introduce myself to Cyndi, hoping for a flash of recognition but nothing. "You danced on my table at Joe's Pub" I want to scream out, but I hold back. I lead her down a very confusing series of backstage hallways until we find the elevator that will bring us up to the director's office. In the elevator I keep wanting to say, "Tell her about high school. Tell her about Dear John. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her." But I look over at her and, like Sandra Bernhard, she's a performer looking for a job and her thoughts are elsewhere. I swallow my voice, the elevator doors open and I introduce her to the director and disappear.

This part of the job I loved and hated. I grew out of being star struck early on in my career. I enjoyed seeing the humanity and vulnerability of famous people. It puts you all on the same level. But to them, I was just a lackey. No matter that I had spent weeks trying to make all of this happen. I was a nobody. Theirs eyes were on the prize. So be it.

But I was restless. I felt trapped. I was tired of doing all the work and someone else getting all the credit. Honestly, it wasn't even the credit I wanted it was the money. I was tired of doing so much work and living hand-to-mouth. No amount of gifted dvds or books that Big Man presented us with on a regular basis as gifts could pay the rent, the credit cards or the utilities. I also still didn't like casting. I resented letting go of a project just as all the pieces came together. And I resented even more directors fucking up all the work I had done by turning in a mediocre, uninspired production.

Why couldn't I be anything I wanted?

Fiddler closed and Threepenny was close to being cast. The Big Man was having a nervous breakdown about finances. He didn't have as much work lined up for the coming season to support his expanding staff. I quickly sent a text to the Producer to ask if she could take me back. I needed to get out of casting, once and for all, for my own sanity. She immediately responded yes. I told Big Man that I could leave and he immediately assented. As much as he cared about me, he cared about his finances even more. There wasn't much going on with the Producer but at least I could finally maybe get my thesis paper written and get my MFA, especially since I was already repaying student loans.

So I said 'goodbye' to Sandra. Goodbye to Cyndi. And, I thought, goodbye to casting.

I left the office that night and headed down to Union Square to meet the Mormon and it was as if I was flying. I was so happy. A giant weight had been lifted and I was off to bigger and better things. The Mormon was standing in our usual meeting spot when I got there, the statue of George Washington on the south side. I told him the news and he picked me up in a giant bear hug and spun me around. I laughed and laughed. Everything was coming together.

Signs: Heeded and Ignored.

2009-02-23T11:24:00.008-05:00

The Mormon wanted me to meet his mentor.

He had discovered a class about writing a solo performance piece. In this class, he was developing and writing a play about the event he described to me on our walk around Union Square. I was thrown a bit by this information. Not so much as by his sharing his story (who am I to judge that?) but the underlying desire to perform that seemed to be lurking not so far beneath the surface. After my past experience with the Actor, I was hesitant to get involved with another. But the Mormon seemed so different. He asked questions. He looked at me. He wanted my opinion about things.

I also discovered how my friend, the Perpetually Recovering Addict, and the Mormon knew each other. They met at New York's GLBQT Center. In a Sexual Compulsives Anonymous Group.

I wasn't really aware of that the fact that there was such a group. And in my head, sexual compulsion means you're going around having sex with as many people as possible as much as possible. Not so. It also compromises people who are addicted to internt porn and it gets in their way of achieving intimacy with others. Hmmm. That sounds familiar. The Mormon didn't seem afraid of intimacy. Not that I had noticed yet. But it was still new.

So, he wants to be an actor and he's addicted to internet porn. Check. Check. We're made for each other.

Signs: ignored.

Our date to meet the mentor is at the Lincoln Center Cinemas. We're all going to see Brokeback Mountain together. I'm hoping this time will work out a little better than the last.

The Mormon has a truck so he's picked me up in Brooklyn with my overnight bag because we're going to spend the weekend in a house he's renovating in Cold Springs, NY. As we're walking down the street, the cold air cutting a chill right through me he asks, "Are you nervous?"

About meeting the mentor?

"No. About spending a weekend away together."

No. Should I be? You're not a serial killer are you?

"No. It's just...do you think it's too soon?"

No. I think we'll find out.

He smiles at me. I have given the right answer.

And I wasn't scared. I think things progress naturally. If I didn't want to go up with him, I wouldn't have. But it felt right. I liked spending time with him. I liked getting to know him and the more I found out, the more I liked.

The Mentor shows up and she's a tiny, wiry, wisp of a woman. She had achieved great success in the 70s with a one woman show that started at the Public and then moved off-Broadway for an extended run. She is warm, smart, thoughtful and funny. She's well-spoken. And she seems to truly connect with the Mormon. She believes in his writing. I take this as a good sign.

Brokeback was sold out so we decided to go see Match Point. Woody Allen cast two very attractive people who aren't very good actors and certainly not good enough to improv. After a while, the movie became them having the same fight over and over again so that I was finally happy when the shotgun came out.

After the movie, we shared a quick bite and the Mormon and I headed off to Cold Spring.

On the ride up, he turned to me and asked how I felt about religion. I was taken aback. No one had ever asked me this question outside of a religion class, and that was in high school. I was raised Catholic. We went to Church every Sunday. Well, Dad and I did. Mom said she had to stay home to get dinner ready for the week. After high school, I only went to church for weddings, christenings and funerals. After I came out, my dad stopped going saying he wouldn't support an institution that didn't recognize his son. Sweet. But I think he just didn't want to go anymore either and I gave him a good excuse.

I don't know, I said. I think I'm spiritual. I don't find God in church. I find him in myself when I'm doing yoga or kickboxing and my whole body is working and doing things I didn't imagine possible. I find that I stop thinking and go some place else inside of myself. I think I find God in other people too...

And I trailed off. Because I wasn't entirely sure.

"Religion is very important to me. Spirituality. It's important that I date someone who feels the same way."

Sign: ignored.

"What's important to you?"

Again, a question I've never had to field in a relationship.

Someone who's active, takes care of themselves. Someone who is confident and knows who they are and knows what they want. Someone who pays attention. Someone who knows how to laugh.

The rest of the trip is spent pretty much in reflective silence. The night passes quickly by the passenger seat window. There are few overhead lights on this narrow road we're on and I watch the broken white lines pass underneath us through the glow of the headlights. I play a game in my mind that I used to as a kid in my dad's car. I pretend I'm running and I have to keep up with the car, at the same speed, and jump on every other white line. If the line is solid, I can just run. It feels like flying if you let yourself go.

It's funny that way...

2009-02-21T11:25:00.002-05:00

Present Day.

Not too long ago The Playwright somehow, magically, came across this blog and started reading it. And reached out to me across the sea of worldwide channels and an unexpected friendship was formed. Life is funny that way.

The Playwright and I have been corresponding daily, sharing stories and getting to know each other. The other day I went to Drama Book Shop and I picked up all of his published works so that I could conduct my own little "Playwright's Voice" class, a la grad school. In the Playwright's Voice we were to read a bunch of selected works by one author (I think we had Williams, Pinter and Mamet) and identify the themes that carried throughout. The we were given three scenes to choose two of which to direct. I, of course, chose Williams (Talk to Me Like The Rain and Let Me Listen) and Pinter (Victoria Station).

I've read three of the Playwright's works now and have started to uncover and define the various themes that reoccur throughout. But last night I was struck deeply by one particular passage because a character stood out to me in a way that none of the other's had up to this point. And it got me to thinking. Her name is Helen. She's at first glance a weak soul, lost and wounded and brighter than she thinks and, underneath it all, manipulative. She confronts her husband who has walked out on her:

"Did you ever love and respect me? Did you learn anything from me? Did I give you succor and warmth? What were you thinking when you hid in my chest at night, scared? Were we partners together? Did you ever stop in the middle of the goddamn day and wonder what I was doing or feeling?...I've had the last ten years of my life revealed to me as an absolute disaster..."

And what she, eventually, gets to is that her husband used her to get his greencard and she just figured it out.

And last night, sparked by an intense therapy session, this made me think about this play and beyond because Helen goes on to blackmail her husband.

The Playwright's works are full of people who use and manipulate each other for power or for personal gain, most of the time with skill and cunning. In his worlds, we are all looking out for ourselves. And getting to know him, I don't believe that is his view on the world but what he perceives other people as doing. Maybe I'm wrong. But I don't think so.

All my life, I've had issues with trust. I've had difficulties trusting anyone who wanted to be my friend. Why would they? What do they want from me? As a casting director it was even harder. Actors only want to be my friend because they want a job, I thought. As a director, it was the same thing. I found myself doubting even those who I was closest to from time-to-time. It's why I have a "don't date other people in theatre" rule.

But what I realized last night was, we all want something from someone. Companionship, love, friendship, competition...something. But we have to be willing to give something in return.

I have asked big favors of the Playwright this week. Favors that, in my past, I wouldn't have dared ask for fear of rocking the boat of our blossoming friendship. But he had provided me with a lifeline. I feel seen and heard in a way that I haven't before and it means more to me than he, or anyone can possibly know.

This is my way of saying thanks and trusting that there is no manipulation or ill-intent at hand. Unlike the character's in his plays, I have the ability to look after myself and others simultaneously. And although I'm going through a profound feeling of being stuck in certain circumstances on an almost daily basis, he has give me some greater hope on this island at the end of the world.

Isn't it funny?

13th and Broadway

2009-02-20T11:27:00.003-05:00

The Mormon and I were on our third date.

I hurried from the Casting Office down to 13th Street for a 6:30 showing of Pride & Prejudice at the Quad. I don't really like seeing movies there. It's like paying $12 to watch a movie in your own basement. But we both wanted to catch it in the theatre. So there we were. I had been on edge all day. It was only the third date but my feelings for the Mormon were certainly growing and I had yet to divulge a certain health matter. It was looming over my head like a pendulum, swinging back and forth at such a great speed I could hardly concentrate on anything else. I knew tonight was the night. And I knew telling him meant risking the loss of him. But it couldn't be put off.

We sat through the movie. Keira Knightley was more charming than I would have thought. The sound was so bad it was hard to catch some of the dialogue but I'm smart enough to get the gist. And the whole time I'm sitting there thinking, "I have to tell him. I have to tell him. I have to tell him." The iPod of my mind was stuck on repeat.

The movie ended too quickly and I was a little teary-eyed at its presentation of love lost and regained. Although the last image of Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen kissing in front of the candles was eerily similar to Molly Rigwald and Michael Schoeffling kissing over the birthday cake at the end of Sixteen Candles, I wistfully ate it up.

Then there was the talk of what to do next. It seemed like we both wanted to call it an early night, not for lack of interest but for reasons I can't define. We began a slow walk through the cold to Union Square. The January air tore through me. It stung my eyes and I pulled my hat down further over my ears. The Mormon had somehow managed to get a good few feet ahead of me and I hurried to catch up. Suddenly we were on the corner of 13th and Broadway and too close to the subway station that would whisk me back to Williamsburg.

I swallowed hard and said, "I need to talk to you about something."

He looked at me...and, at this point in my life, I had so gotten used to being looked through that being looked at was truly startling...he looked at me with concern and interest. The wind picked up and shot through me yet again. I nodded the entrance of an antique store to my right. It was in a recess and would save us from the cold air. "Let's go over there," I muttered.

We moved into the relative safety of the doorway and stared into the shop. Rows and rows of items I could not afford, some tacky and some beautiful, framed in the red panes of the store front. Inside, all along the tops of the wall were small busts of Poseidon, his hair billowing out like clouds behind him and his lips pursed, about to blow a huge gust of wind toward...something.

I couldn't look at the Mormon but my gloved hand clutched his bare one as I looked at the ground and told of my unfortunate condition. I cried. No matter what anyone tells you, it doesn't get any easier with time. It's still an admission and it still made me feel tainted somehow; unclean. But I told him, "Before this goes any further and if you want to stop now that I understand and respect that but I needed to let you know because, well, I needed to."

These words hung in the air for a second, held up by Poseidon's breath and then disappeared into the night. He took my face in his hands and looked at me, looked into me. "That must have been very hard," he said. I laughed. "Yes. Yes it was."

"Thank you for telling me."

Of course.

And then he took my hand and told me a story about him. A story that is not mine; it is his alone to tell. And he has told it very eloquently in his own way. We walked hand in hand up Broadway and around Union Square Park. The wind had died down The night was suddenly cool and comforting. His hand in mine was warm. We walked and talked. His story unfolded and I listened without judgement. Then we were back on the corner of 13th and Broadway. Cars and trucks rumbled by. People shuffled around us, their Whole Foods bags slapping into our legs. I looked up at him and took his face in my hands and he bent toward me. As I slowly closed my eyes to receive his kiss the last thing I could see were the scrolling red lights of the movie theatre across the street and the image of them became so blurry that they almost looked like comets in the night sky as my eyes closed all the way and his lips met mine.

The End of the End

2009-02-19T14:01:00.003-05:00

As things progressed with the Mormon, the situation with the Actor would drift in and out of my thoughts. I left it hanging and we hadn't spoken. My one last effort to reach out had been to invite him home with me for Christmas because he wasn't going home and said he didn't know what he was doing. I invited him out of pity. I didn't really want him to come and I was relieved when he said 'no'.

Months later, I received an email from him. He told me he had run into friends of mine. They had talked about me. His grandmother had died and he had to go home and be the "rock", the "patriarch" for the family. I'm sure he played it like a martyr.
The email was supposed to illicit some kind of sympathy from me. It ended with this:

"I thought sometimes about calling you and then thought
better of it. I wonder what you're up to and if we'll
be friends. I wonder if you're closer to your ranch
style home in Texas with two dogs. I've thought about
Ripley. I care about you and I believe this much time
has passed between contact with one another out of
love for one thing and fear of another. I respect that
we have not spoken since Christmas. I trust you are
well. It would be nice to hear from you."

Sympathy was not what he got. He got the full brunt of me instead:

"Actor--

I'm sorry about your grandmother. I know how it is.

I know that I disappeared and although I tried not to it was all I
could do at the time.
I too have thought about getting in touch with you but I didn't really
know what...how to talk about what happened and my perception of the
situation without coming across as mean.
I don't think that we can be friends. In retrospect, I don't think
that we were friends. When I had sufficient distance from our
relationship -- if that's what it was -- I was so angry at myself for
what I went through and put myself through. I felt manipulted by you
both physically and emotionally. It seems to me that you want to
control the way people perceive you to such a point that ultimately
they don't know anything about you. You want to be needed and loved
but when I required that from you at times and admitted I was needy
all you could say was, "I'm glad you can see it."

Your physical distance was also another way of keeping intimacy at
bay. In three months the only time we kissed was our first night
together. And you kept thanking me for my "patience" as if finally,
one day you would bestow this amazing gift of yourself upon me. I got
tired of waiting. I feel like I tried consistently to open up to you
and let myself be vulnerable but, alas, against a brick wall. And I
would get angry and frustrated and then breathe and try again. Only
to be met with the same response. So I ran out of patience. I also
met someone who was emotionally and physically available. Who was not
trying to manipulate my perception of him or his own perception of
himself. And as scary as intimacy is, I would rather risk getting
hurt and reaping the rewards of a loving relationship than fear I'm
going to be alone for the rest of my life. If I get hurt, I will
recover.

Again, this is my perception of things and you probably see things
differently. But I discovered how disrespected I felt by the
situation and how stupid I was for feeling that I somehow deserved it.
Or that it would get better. And when I realized that you keep your
friends at the same distance, I realized it wouldn't get any better
for me. Especially since you can't seem to accept your sexuality and
let it be a part of you wherever you are. I don't understand how you
can study improv and not be out there. I'm not saying your sexuality
rules or defines your personality but it certainly influences/affects
it.

Your addiction to internet porn is, I learned, another sign of your
fear of intimacy. You can imagine whatever you want in those
scenarios. Everything is safe because it's not real. But I want
real. I want sloppy, ugly, honest, ecstatic, disappointing and
beautiful reality.

All of this has been on my mind for the 5 months I haven't seen or
spoken to you. And it weighed me down because, mostly, I felt I owed
it to myself as much as you.

So I don't think we should try to be friends. I don't think we should
stay in touch. I do wish you the best because I think underneath the
facade you try to present there is a vulnerable, talented person with
something to offer both to himself and the world. But I don't have it
in me to see it through."

I am needy. Terribly so. But I think most people are and should be. We have needs and we want them met.

I had forgotten about his addiction to internet porn. A problem that plagues us nowadays with our easy access to naked images online which we respond to, mistakenly, as intimacy. Unfortunately, intimacy and internet porn were problems that would plague me, once again, with the Mormon. But more on that when I get there.

Mambo Italiano

2009-02-18T14:24:00.002-05:00

So the day after Thanksgiving I got on a plane and flew to Italy.

The entire trip is an endless blur. I don't remember much. Only fragments.

I remember the long walk through the Papal Museum in the Vatican until we finally reached the Sistine Chapel.

I remember looking up at the ceiling and being so overwhelmed that I started weeping and had to sit down on a hard pew. I kept crying but I couldn't stop looking. How was I going to make a mark like that? What would my contribution to the world be? Who would remember me when I died and what would they remember me for?

I remember some of the freshest produce I've ever had in my life and most of the best meals. We found one place around the corner from our hotel on the Piazza del Popolo in Rome and I ate the same meal three times because it was so good: cold seafood salad and spaghetti carbonara.

I remember going to bed those first few nights and praying that I would wake up and it would be a dream. I would wake up and I wouldn't be in Italy and I wouldn't have Hepatitis B anymore.

I remember sitting in a bar every day from 4 - 5:30 to drink (against my doctor's orders) and write in my journal and just watch and listen to the people.

I remember feeling strangely at home in Rome.

I remember not liking Florence and trying to go into a gay bar late one night but feeling scared, inadequate and foreign on every level. The music was loud, pulsing and Italian. The gays were dressed in better, more expensive clothes than mine. I didn't even get a drink. I did a lap and left, frustrated and lonely.

I remember staring at a plate with the head of Medusa painted on it at the Uffizi. I couldn't stop staring into her eyes. I wanted to turn to stone, yes. I also couldn't help but notice the fear and sadness in her last look before her head came off. I spent days thinking I'd write a story about Medusa and life from her point of view but then I thought it was too close to Wicked. So I never did.

I remember a long train ride with my face buried in the uncollected stories of Patricia Highsmith.

I remember Venice. The sound of the water lapping against stones older than the United States. I remember the joy of walking streets with no cars.

I remember my shock at realizing the Big Man was reliving the exact same trip he had taken with his one and only boyfriend in the years when they were young and in love and exchanged rings in Venice. I followed him up and down the twisting Venetian streets that all look the same, until we came to stop in front of a non-descript hotel. "This is it," he said. "This is where we stayed." And it all came together for me. This is why we were here. Big Man was chasing ghosts. And I wanted to go home.

I remember trying to call my parents on a Sunday afternoon and thinking it was odd that I couldn't get in touch with them.

I remember thinking my liver was slowly expanding, taking over my body. I remember hearing my blood pump disease through me morning, noon and night.

I remember one final day in Rome going right from the train station to the Vatican because I wanted to sit in the Sistine Chapel one more time. It was closed.

I remember the endless flight home and just wanting to be alone.

I remember once again trying to get in touch with my parents and when I finally did them telling me that Chloe, the beautiful dog Present Ex and I got together had to be put down while I was away. She had a one-in-a-million reaction to a distemper shot and developed anemia. My parents woke one morning and found her with her head in the water bowl, too weak to even pick herself up. They cried when they told me. They didn't want me to think it was their fault or that they acted hastily. I couldn't cry. I couldn't react. My whole world was turned upside down. I deserted Chloe. I didn't take care of her. Her death was my fault.

I was not in a good place.

Giving Thanks

2009-02-13T12:01:00.004-05:00

It's a cold, dreary Wednesday in November of 2002.

I'm in New Jersey at my parents house and it's the day before Thanksgiving. Tomorrow will be a big family dinner and then on Friday I leave for a 10 day trip to Italy with my former boss, The Big Man.

I've always wanted to go to Italy. It's been a dream of mine for...well, forever. My division of NYU had a study abroad for a semester session in Tuscany and I thought about it but I was so in love with New York at the time that I thought I'd miss something if I was gone for that long. I thought I wouldn't be able to function without the power of the city fueling me. Foolish. But so it was at the time.

I've always wanted to go to Italy but I thought I'd do it with my family, or with someone I was totally in love with or by myself. So I was on the fence about this trip. The Big Man called me out of the blue months ago and asked if I wanted to go. I told him I had to think about it. I called Mom right away. She said, "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. You'll be going in high style. You'll eat and stay at all the best places and the two of you travel well together." She wasn't wrong. The Big Man and I had been to London multiple times, DC and so on. I just couldn't get it out of my head that this wasn't how I had planned my first trip to Italy. But I was also unemployed and still living off of student loans, so I called him back and said "Yes." He planned the entire itinerary (Rome, Florence, Venice, Rome). All I had to do was follow along.

We have a complicated relationship, the Big Man and I. I started out as his intern when I was only 20 years old. He had a powerful job and a powerful personality. I was naive, young, smart and funny. He saw something in me and...well, nurtured would be the wrong word but he certainly pushed me to achieve things I hadn't thought possible. He also, after working for him for a year and coming very close to a severe nervous breakdown, understood when I quit but rode my ass to get out of a job in a non-theatre related position. He knew this was all I could do. And after some time away from him I realized how to say 'no' and set up my boundaries and stand up for myself. And I've gone back to work for him numerous times over the past 10 years. The problem is, as with many people in this business, he still sees me as a casting director, not a director. And I was good at casting. It could have been a great career for me. If I liked it. But it lacked artistry for me. I was always serving someone else's vision. And just when you put all the pieces of the casting puzzle together, you're done with the process. You miss all the production meetings, the set and costume design meetings, the rehearsals. As a casting director, you're forgotten. People think it's an easy job but, like stage management, it's underrated in its complexities and execution. But when a cast is "bad", you're the first person blamed.

I digress. Work talk will come later.

So, I'm in New Jersey. It's the day before Thanksgiving and two days before I leave for Italy. I had been to the doctor's a few days before for a check up. Something was wrong with me but I wasn't sure what. I was sitting in my parents cozy, warm living room reading a book and wishing I could smoke a cigarette when the phone rang. It was my doctor. Mom was upstairs washing her hair and Dad was in the studio working but I still wanted to take the call in private. I answered the phone in a hush and quietly opened the front door and slipped out.

"Hello?"

"I've got the results of your blood work and I'm afraid I have some bad news."

A sharp intake of breath. And then I held it. Bile churning in my stomach.

"Are you there?"

I manage to squeak out a 'Yes.'

"You've tested positive for chronic Hepatitis B."

I don't know what that means.

"There are two kinds of Hepatitis. A and B. We'll vaccinate you for the A but there's nothing we can do now about the B, of which there are also two kinds; chronic and acute. Acute can come and linger in the system for a few days or a few weeks but it goes away eventually on its own. Chronic means you have it for life. Hepatitis is a disease that attacks and breaks down the liver and the liver enzymes. It affects the blood as well. Your levels are sky high which leads me to assume you've had it for a while and it's had time to strengthen and grow. I need to do some more blood work and there are medications we can try out that do their best to stop the multiplication of the virus or even make it undetectable but...you're going to have it for life. I'm also going to need to send you for a sonogram on your liver and spleen and also, possibly, a biopsy. It's also highly contagious. You need to be careful and warn all your sexual partners. When are you available to come back in?"

I...uhm...I...

I need a cigarette asap. But more than that, I need to run away. I'm hearing his words but none of it registers. My instinct is to run, but where to? Physically, I just want to run. I hop back and forth on my feet instead.

I...uhm...I, well I'm home for Thanksgiving and then I'm going away on Friday. To Italy for 10 days. I guess I can't come in until after that.

"Well, that's fine. There's no rush at the moment since it appears you've been living with this for quite some time. But let's make an appointment now because I want to see you and get moving on this as soon as you get back. Alright?"

Yes. I just don't understand how...

"Look. Don't dwell on it. Genetically, you're predisposed to get it. So even if you had been vaccinated, chances are you still could have acquired it. You have it and we're going to treat it. Don't beat yourself up for it. It's an unlucky roll of the die but there it is. We'll deal with it."

Silence.

"Are you there? What are you thinking?"

I was thinking what to say tomorrow when we go around the table and give thanks for something. Hepatitis?

"You're going to be OK."

OK.

"I'll see you when you get back.

OK.

Have a safe and fun trip.

OK.

The front door opens and Mom pokes her head out, "What are you doing out here? Who are you talking to?"

No one. I'm coming right in. I'm toxic, Mom. Diseased. A carrier. Tainted. Unhealthy.

"No one, Mom. I'm coming right in."

A raindrop falls and hits me on the face. Then another and another.

"It's raining," I say to no one in particular.

I don't want to go inside. I don't want to go to Thanksgiving. I don't want to go to Italy. I don't want to be me.

The Middle of the End

2009-02-12T10:46:00.004-05:00

The very next day I get an email from Handsome Man. Short and to the point, what could he possibly say to one who has asked to get in touch with him besides 'Hi and my name is ____'?

I emailed back, immediately, cause that's they way I am. I apologize for my shyness the night before and then explained I didn't stick around to talk because I had had too much to drink and didn't want to embarrass myself even more than I do when I'm sober. And, would he like to go out some time for dinner or a drink?

The holidays were quickly approaching (it was December 22nd) and I was looking to make something happen sooner rather than later, cause that's they way I am. Alas, he was around for the holidays but I was going to my parents for a few days. We made a lunch plan for the week between Christmas and New Year's, which was perfect because I had to work anyway. So it was.

I saw the Actor once more. We made plans to see Brokeback Mountain together. I had seen it once but was up for a second viewing so we picked a Saturday night in the East Village. I love the movie theatre on 3rd Ave and 11th Street. In college, Daria and I lived in the dorm across the street and would spend afternoons hopping from one flick to another. I think one day we managed three for the price of one. We sat through one of the Addams Family movies with a lesbian couple furiously making out in front of us. They would bend each other backwards over the arms of the seats, come up and run theirs hands over each other's faces and through each other's hair and then go over in the other direction. I still enjoyed the movie.

Brokeback had only recently opened and it was going to be crowded. The Actor and I made plans to meet half an hour before the film started. We had, at this point, had numerous discussions about his lateness. One in which he finally said "Arent' I worth waiting for?" to which I replied, "I'm worth showing up on time for." He called, of course, to say he was running late because he had been hanging out with his straight friend he had a crush on, no doubt singing Barbershop Quartet on a street corner somewhere. I was pissed. I went in and found seats and waited for him to call. The catch was, the movie was showing in the basement theatre and I didn't get service. So I had to leave our seats every few minutes to check for messages. I had to tell about 20 people that the seat next to me was taken. 15 minutes after the movie started, he arrived. I left my seat. I asked the too kind people sitting next to me to please hold the seats. I went up two escalators, icily handed him his ticket, turned and went downstairs. He followed. He tried to take my hand during the movie but I was having none of it.

After the movie I told him I had plans to meet another friend, I said goodnight and walked away.

The Actor, realizing I was setting up (no, established) my distance, was in non-stop contact. Calling and leaving messages. Emailing. IMing. I was playing it cool. I didn't want to make a scene. I didn't want to talk about it. I kind of just didn't want to have any contact with him ever again. I knew I had to do something because it was just too mean not to but I wasn't ready. Christmas came and went and the Actor went...somewhere, but I didn't feel the need to call and wish him a happy holiday. He called me. I put the call through to voicemail. After Christmas he called again listing numerous New Year's Eve plans we could partake in. His voice sounded beyond desperate in his last message to the extent he even said something like, 'Please, please call me back. I'd like to talk to you." Like any actor, he was in fear of rejection. Like any man, he wanted the person who no longer wanted him.

I heaved a deep sigh and picked up my phone. I put the dog on my lap to provide some comfort and I hit redial. He had just called about 3 minutes ago so I was certain I was going to get him. The phone rang. And it rang again and again. And again. Typical. Voicemail. Thank god. I winced at the sound of his voice and at the beep left my message. "Hey, Actor. JUst got your message, thought I'd get you. Listen, I think I'm just going to spend a quiet New Year's Even by myself. I don't really feel like being around bunches of people I don't know...or anyone at all, for that matter. So thanks for the offers and have a good time and I'll talk to you later." Five minutes later he called back. I put it through to voicemail.

After six months or more with him I didn't feel like I owed him anything because he had never given anything to me. This is how it would end. Even if things didn't work out with Handsome Man, there was something else out there for me, somewhere. You get back what you give and the Actor gave nothing but took everything.

The first date with Handsome Man was here. It was a Wednesday afternoon. The air was cool and crisp and to avoid the matinee crowds we met at Viceroy in Chelsea. I took a long time deciding what to wear. I was nervous. What if I forgot what he looked like? What if he wasn't as good looking as I thought he was? What if...? I needn't have worried. Everything was perfect. He was dressed in a plaid shirt, carpenter jeans and work boots. His smile disarmed me. His light blue eyes lit up when he smiled and his broken nose was the most charming feature of his face. He lived in Brooklyn. He had left his job at a corporate company to pursue his own renovation and construction company. He was from Utah. He had been raised a Mormon but left that behind long ago. An hour and half flew by. We finally started walking down the street to the subway. He was going to see Memoirs of a Geisha. I told him how, years ago, I had worked with the director of that movie in two shows. He said he needed to stop at American Apparel to get a sweater. I said I'd hop the E on 23rd and go back to work. We shared a brief hug and kiss on the corner and we both glanced back after we said goodbye.

He had asked me what my New Year's Eve plans were. I told him the same thing I had told the Actor. I was going to stay home by myself. I had directed a play once called Other People in which the main character said you should spend your New Year's Eve the way you wanted the rest of your year to go. So if you wanted to get organized, you went through your files. If you wanted to clean the slate, you stayed home and cleaned. I wanted to find some space within myself. I wanted to write. I wanted to breathe. I had spent way too many New Year's Eves forcing myself to have fun, drinking too much and being miserable. No more.

The Handsome Man, heretofore to be known as 'The Mormon' was scheduled to go on a retreat with the Gay Radical Fairies or something like that. But he asked me if I wanted to go out again when he came back. I said, Yes.

The Beginning of the End

2009-02-10T11:12:00.003-05:00

So, things with the Actor were not going so well.

I don't remember the specific details but one day we were having a rather heated discussion about something. He kept asking me questions that were pointed, loaded and leading. I wouldn't play his game and I kept answering his questions with questions of my own. Finally he said, "JV. It's a rule of improv that you don't answer a question with a question." I had to pause to collect myself and wipe the look of disbelief off of my face. "This isn't improv," I finally answered. But for him, it was. He was always "performing", always looking to be the protagonist and antagonist, always looking to be the center of attention.

In retrospect, I realize that this was an abusive relationship. Obviously, not physically but emotionally. And I let it happen. I fought it from time-to-time but it carried on for many months. And, what kept me there wasn't the fact that I thought I needed to be with someone but rather that belief, the hope, that Actor would one day change. But what instigates change? Obviously, I couldn't do it. But I wasn't at a place where I could define what was happening between us. I did know that I wasn't happy and I was beginning to think that maybe I did deserve better...

So I did what any good gay man does, I drank. I dragged myself out to the local gay bar, Metropolitan.

I hadn't been out in a while. I had distanced myself from my friends, as one does when they know they're doing something not exactly right for them but don't want to her about it from the people who matter. So I called a new-ish friend, The Perpetually Recovering Addict. The PRA was an older guy, approaching 50s, who I had met at the bar and become friendly with. He made me laugh and he was smart and interesting. We discussed theatre, books and movies. We cruised guys. We got along well. HE lived around the corner from Metropolitan. When I first met him, the PRA was a DRINKER. He would be at the bar when I got there around 6:30pm or so and still hanging on, drinking, when I stumbled out at 2am or so. And he'd be there the next night too.

Metropolitan is a gay bar that needs to be experience to really understand it. As soon as you open the creaking door, you're hit with the smell of booze, bleach and dirty boys. In the days of smoking in bars, you couldn't really smell the bleach or the boys. The bar is extends along the left hand side and red lights glow, Hell-like, from above. To the right is a game machine, a pool table, two seating areas and two fire places. Then there's the stink bathrooms, a room no one ever uses and then the back yard which is crowded to the point of overflowing during the summer Sunday BBQs. It's gross and dirty and I love it. I've made a lot of friends there, surprisingly.

So the PRA and I meet there and I order a jack and coke while Perpetually Recovering orders an orange juice, cranberry and seltzer. We spend some time catching up and I'm happy to have a conversation with a man that does not involve assaults, or veiled threats or withholding or forced improvisations. I order another jack and coke.

The place starts to fill up and I'm glad we've secured ourselves a comfortable spot at the bars. The bartenders who know me by name are being generous with their pours and joining our conversation from time-to-time. I'd forgotten what it was like not to be constantly on my guard. I'd forgotten what it was like to just have fun. I was happy to not talk about the Actor and our non-relationship. When my phone vibrated and his name appeared on the screen I hit the button that put him directly into voicemail. Suddenly I turned around and was face-to-face with a really handsome man who was talking to the PRA.

We smiled at each other and kept making eyes but PRA did not introduce us. I ordered another jack and coke.

PRA and I talked a little more. I didn't press for an introduction. Handsome man was sitting with his back to the fireplace so I could through glances and smiles his way every now and again. Why didn't he come back over and talk to both of us? The ball was in his court here since he knew PRA. But, no. Nothing. PRA decided it was time to leave.

I decided to give Handsome Man a bit more time so I kissed PRA goodbye and ordered another jack and coke. It was right about here that I realized how drunk I was. People around me were moving in a blur. The drink didn't taste like anything really. I couldn't feel my legs. And I wasn't thinking too clearly. Perhaps this wasn't the best time to talk to Handsome Man. I quickly finished the drink. Because I paid for it. And stole a few more furtive glances at Handsome Man. Smiles exchanged. Still handsome.

I slowly stood up from my perch and began putting on the necessary layers of clothing for the long December night walk home. I turned around and Handsome Man was gone. Fuck. Hiccup. Shit. For the best. I was drunkity drunk drunk. I walked toward the front door, zipping my jacket and looked up and there he was, sitting on a stool, by himself, by the pool table. His face had red light from the bar shining on one side of his face and white light from the pool table on the other. I caught my breath and he said "Hey," in a deep, rich baritone.

"Hi. How are you?" I mumbled but I didn't stop walking. I was so drunk that all I could think about was moving and I had to move quickly or I would fall. I pushed myself out the door and a blast of cold air smacked me in the face and, briefly, brought me back to reality.

What the fuck was I doing? He talked to me. Go back and talk to him. I can't go back now. I already left. It would look stupid. It would not look stupid. You've been making eyes at him for an hour just do it. I've had way too much to drink, I wouldn't be able to say anything coherent or interesting. He was really cute. Go home. You can get his email or phone number from PRA tomorrow. Good idea! Now, cookies.

Notice that not once in this exchange with myself did I take into account the Actor or his feelings. As far as I was concerned, it was already over with him. I had moved on. It only took five jack and cokes and eyes from a stranger to clarify.

I stumbled home with a quick stop at the deli to buy cookies and immediately emailed PRA asking PRA for his friend's contact.

PRA being an addict was, of course, awake. He immediately emailed me back to say that he wasn't comfortable giving Handsome Man's information to me but he would email Handsome Man my info.

Fine. That was better than nothing.

My phone started vibrating. It was 2:30am. It was the Actor. Straight to voicemail.

Top of the Rock

2009-02-09T15:28:00.004-05:00

The Actor. I was depressed all weekend after revisiting the memory of the Actor last week.

What a bad time for me. Let's remember some more, shall we?

Aside from feeling continuously assaulted by me and my invisible army, the Actor had a slew of other issues. The biggest one being, he wasn't really out to that many people. In normal times, this is something I would not have taken any part in. I've been out since I was 19. My sexuality does not define me but it's an undeniable part of who I am and to deny it would mean to deny lie to myself. I was, however, still deep in the depths of the Hep-B-No-One-Should-Ever-Love-Me Phase of my life.

The Actor portended to be a master at improvisations. He studied at a place called The P.I.T in Manhattan. It's aptly named. The PITS is an offshoot of Upright Citizen's Brigade and there's apparently a rivalry between the two about which is better/more authentic/more a waste of time and money...something like that. Anyone who knows me, knows I hate stand up comedy (for the most part) and improv. I think the only people who enjoy improv are the ones performing it. It's really hard to be funny.

So finally the Actor asks me to come to one of his improv performances. I'm really hesitant. If I see him and he's bad, I will have to break up with him. At this point, I have yet to see that he's bad for me in so many other ways. We have dinner at some half-priced sushi joint next to the PITS. I don't like sushi and I don't trust any place that charges "half price for it." Is it "half fresh?" And this woman is sitting at a table behind me and the Actor is going on and on about how she's the best improver in the field. NY Magazine did a piece about her. She's been at the PIT forever. She's a second away from being famous. I'd never heard of her. I have still never heard of her. When she walked by the table on her way out, Actor greeted her and she looked at him like he had 3-heads. Maybe she was improvising?

Actor then proceeds to pull out a copy of GQ magazine and desperately search for his photo because he did a "shoot" months ago with someone where he was a groom and this woman was a bride and they were in bed together and it may end up in GQ. He has done this search now every month for three or four months. I don't know how to tell him it's never going to be in there. Never. Ever. Really. It's not. I just now. For real.

So he leaves me to go "prepare" and I say I'll see him after. He tells me to get there early because the place "really fills up." Yes, if ten to fifteen people constitute "filled up" then it certainly was. The audience was made up of mostly other students in the PITS and friends and, I guess, people like me dating closeted, improvising actors. The sets begin. The Actor says nothing in his first skit. Well, at least he wasn't bad. In his second he talks more but nothing is really funny. Everything feels forced and he is supremely disconnected from his partners. But they all seem to be disconnected so I'm assuming that's the "style" of PITS improv. After an endless number of sketches/skits/shit the evening finally comes to a close. I go outside and wait patiently for him. I do not have flowers or anything. His friends friends mill about in a corner and I don't really like them so I choose not to associate. Finally he comes out and I go up to him to give him a hug and he puts his hands on my shoulders, pushes me away and at the same time leans in and says, "I'm not out here." I do an award winning double take and stutter out, "WHAT?" He repeats, "I'm not out here." Wow. And in my head I think, 'How can you study improv and not be you? I mean, don't you have to be in touch with all your facilities in order to be any good at it.'

But I don't say that. I say, Ok. And I pat his back. I. Pat. His. Back.

We go downstairs and his and his friends start rolling their own cigarettes (pretentious) and smoking. The Actor has now put on his red knit cap that he wears to cover up the fact that he's balding and his best friend (I'm positive they both have crushes on each other) says, "You know, you're one of the few people who could pull off wearing a woman's hat and looking good." The Actor bristles and I snort.

The group then goes into a discussion about how they never sing barbershop quartet any more. Did I know how cool this was? Did I realize how much fun this was? Did I sing harmony? Did I want to? No. No. No. And no. And, for good measure, No. But some fat friend comes waddling along and he gets excited about it and there in the middle of some dirty street in the West 30s they start singing barbershop quartet. Badly. This really is the PITS. I've had enough and I wave goodbye since I can't hug him in front of his friends and I know that I'm certainly not going to get a kiss anyway and wish him a good night.

I am mad at myself. But I am undeterred.

The next morning I'm watching the Today Show and they're going on and on about how the very evening is the grand opening of Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center. It looks fun and beautiful and what a cool New York thing to do. And how romantic. So I get to work and go online and immediately get us two tickets for that night. I'm thinking if this doesn't get me laid nothing will. Or maybe even a make out session. It's been months and we have yet to revisit the passionate making out of our first, post-Philharmonic, pre-Hep B revealing date. I tell Actor to meet me Rockefeller Center at 8pm. And that he can NOT be late.

For a change, he shows up on time. As he's always running late in the mornings I'm certain he has no idea what Top of the Rock is as he wouldn't have caught the Today Show. So I take him. And it is fun. The lobby has the amazing Swarvoski Cystal chandelier. There's a fun interactive video where you can walk across a beam and look down at the dizzying city underneath you, as the men who built Rockefeller Center would have experienced it. And then there's the elevator ride up. You go up and up and up, exiting into another lobby and then, finally, on to the beautiful Art Deco sculpted roof. It really was breathtaking to be up there. It was cold and the bracing wind hit you the minute you opened the doors but there was the city, lit up and beautiful before you. There weren't all that many other people up there, perhaps 20 - 30. I thought the place would be packed but I guess word hadn't gotten out yet. I walked to the edge and looked over my city. She was something. The Actor wandered off on his own. I walked the perimeter of the building, looking for and finding all my favorite landmarks. I kept waiting for the Actor to come and put his arms around me and tell me how beautiful it was. He didn't. So finally I went up and stood behind him and said so. "Yes," he replied. "It's stunning." It sounded rehearsed but I'll take it. Then he turned to me and looked in my eyes and said, "Thank you, JV. Thank you for this." Then he turned back to the view.

"Uhm...I'm kind of cold so I'm gonna go back in," I said not quite sure of what to make of this performance.

After a few moments of this, he came back inside and asked me if I wanted to spend the night. I said, Yes. Of course. Called my roommate and told her to walk the dog and walked with him to Hell's Kitchen. We watched some TV. Got into bed. He fell asleep.

Nice.

Years later, the Loved One told me that he had been there the same night, probably the same time as me. And we didn't even notice each other. Isn't the island funny that way?

Uninvited

2009-02-06T11:14:00.004-05:00

I worked in casting on and off for ten plus years. Plenty of stories there yet to come.

A few years ago I was sitting at my desk when a random IM popped up on my screen from an actor I met through a friend a few years earlier. I was semi-interested in dating at the time we met, but he wasn't and, for once in my life, I didn't push it. Now, two years later here he was.

I should have know immediately that trouble was on the horizon by his AIM screenname: all4actorsnamehere.

The actor and I IM'd for a few days before he finally invited me to the NY Philharmonic with him. I said, sure. He seemed smart, funny, charming and caustic on the internet and I assumed he would be in person as well. And on the first night, he was. He met for sushi. We were both dressed up for the event. It was fun. It was a fancy Upper West Sider thing for the Williamsburg boy to do. After the concert, we walked back to his place in Hell's Kitchen, talked a bit and had a furious make out session. We then embarked on a 6 month relationship and that was the last time we had any kind of physical contact.

Part of this came, I'm sure, from a confession I had made the following day. I had chronic Hepatitis B, and it was under control but a fairly contagious virus. I never knew how I acquired this lovely little burden but there it was. It took me a long time to deal with it. That's another story. But Actor was the first person I had dated in almost two years since the diagnosis and I needed to be up front with him. He seemed ok about it. Except for the whole not touching or kissing me thing.

Our relationship was rocky from the get-go. For example, my parents were in town for Thanksgiving and I invited him to dinner with us before the theatre. He showed up almost 45 minutes late. His perpetual lateness was something I couldn't abide. I thought it was rude and selfish and he thought it was just part of his "character." And, let me tell you, he was very much always presenting a "character" instead of himself. But I forgave him so many things because I felt I deserved someone like this because of my Hep B. I somehow deserved less. I lived in this state for a good three years.

So there was the lateness. The next sign of trouble came when I asked him to come to the first preview of a show I had worked really hard on; a new Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. I was really proud of my work. So he came, he was late of course. And when he found out that the rest of the casting office was there he clammed up and didn't say a word for the rest of the evening. Finally, after a walk in silence back toward his apartment, I asked what was wrong.

"I felt ambushed."

Huh?

"I didn't realize that the casting office was going to be there and this isn't how I wanted to meet them, or be introduced to them."

"I told you it was the first preview and we were all going."

"I felt ambushed."

"Uhm. Ok. Sorry."

I got quiet. Instead of speaking up and defending myself and questioning his odd behavior, I swallowed my voice as I had done so many times in the past. I deserve this. I'm lucky someone will take me as I am.

Another night, I took him to see Alanis Morissette at Roseland. I was very excited for this concert. Alanis has gotten me through some pretty tough times. I ran up to the Actor's apartment after work. We were going to grab a quick bite and then go to the show. I buzzed his bell and got no answer. Weird. Is he late again? I thought. Not even home yet? I sighed and leaned on the front door of the building and it opened. Oh. Cool. I won't have to wait out here in the cold. So I treck up the flights of narrow stairs to his apartment.

The Actor shares a 3 bedroom apartment with two girls. It's a railroad and his apartment is at the front of the building and has his own entrance. I forgo the front door and knock on his bedroom door. No answer. I go back to the front door and knock, no answer. I try the knob and it's open. So I walk in. I hear that he's in the shower and I think, Oh. He's running late so he left the door open for me.

I sit on their ratty, dirty couch and turn on the Simpsons. And I wait. Finally, he pokes his head out the bathroom door, "Hello?"

"Hey. It's me. The door was open so I just came in."

Silence.

"So I'm just watching the Simpsons."

Silence. He comes out of the bathroom, in his towel. Storms across the tiny kitchen directly into the tiny living room, grabs the remote control, turns off the tv, storms through his roommates bedroom and into his room.

Ok.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

"I feel like you ambushed me. How could you just let yourself into my apartment? How could you just make yourself at home and think that was all ok? Can't I get a little bit of privacy. I wanted to come home, chill out, take a shower and get ready to see you. I didn't expect you to be sitting in my living room when I got out of the shower. You totally ambushed me, JV. I feel ambushed."

I feebly mumble something about the doors being open and thinking that he did that for me so I could wait and I look at the floor the entire time.

"Well you ambushed me."

"I'm sorry."

I go back to the living room and put the tv on. He dresses and meets me out there. We walk in silence to a diner on 52nd and 8th. We eat in silence. We go to Roseland in silence. MY biggest beef about Roseland is that you have to stand. But I'll do anything for Alanis. The concert starts and we've still said very little. And I'm so mad at myself. Mad at myself for making one mistake after another. Mad at myself for being a bad person. Mad at myself for not knowing my boundaries. Mad at myself for these limits that other people have placed on me.

My anger lifts as the concert goes on. Ironically, the Actor touches me, puts his arms around me during Uninvited:

Must be strangely exciting
To watch the stoic squirm
Must be somewhat heartening
To watch shepard meet shepard
But you're not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight

Like any uncharted territory
I must seem greatly intriguing
You speak of my love like
You have experienced like mine before
But this is not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight

I don't think you unworthy
I need a moment to deliberate

At the end of the song, I pulled away from him. I think, my first active sign of defiance in the months we had been "dating."

I was high after the concert but certainly not on the Actor. We walked back to his apartment in silence. My silence being incredibly active and aggressive this time. I was angry.

"Are you coming up?" he asks as we stand outside in the cold.

"No" I say, simply.

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

Silence.

"So we'll talk tomorrow?" He asks, hopefully.

"Yeah. Sure." I say and I walk away from him and up to 57th Street.

There was so much inside of me at the time that was coming alive. So many things that had ben germinating for years had finally taken root and were beginning to grow, sprout and expand. But there was also so much I couldn't see. I couldn't see where I was. While things were taking root in my, I still was not firmly planted anywhere.

I was uninvited in my own life.

Spring Awakening

2009-02-05T11:04:00.004-05:00

Before it was a critically acclaimed Broadway musical, Spring Awakening was just a rarely performed play by Franz Wedekind that somehow managed to get produced at NYU's School of Ed in my second year.

At the time I auditioned for the play, I was not anywhere near being out of the closet.

The initial audition was just a monologue. The piece I always did was from a very bad, never produced play called The Girl's Guide to Chaos, or something like that. In performing the monologue I had to act put upon and make puppy dog eyes, actions I was very very good at. Good enough to get a call back. The callback was scene work! Great. I excelled at this.

The scene could not have been more appropriate: act two, Hans and Ernst. I was to read Ernst, the naive young man who kisses another boy for the very first time. So, again, puppy dog eyes were called for. As we waited in the classroom for our audition, someone came in and wrote the names of the pairs who would be reading together on the chalkboard. Everyone in the room seemed to know each other which, strangely, didn't bother me. Most of them seemed to be students of Tisch School of the Arts. This didn't bother me so much as fuel an intense jealousy. They were real actors. I was only pretending. Suddenly, I heard someone calling out my name. Was it my turn already? I looked up and raised my hand. A tall, lanky blonde boy with a prominent nose sauntered over to me.

"You're John-Vincent?" (I had yet to edit myself to initials).

"Yes."

"I'm the one auditioning with you."

"Hi."

"It says in the script that they kiss. I'm gonna kiss you."

And he walked away.

I swallowed hard and called out vaguely, "Ok."

And he did. Halfway through the scene, there we were, sitting on the floor of the black box theatre and he reached over and touched my face and pulled me in and kissed me long and deep on the mouth. Spring Awakening! This was the first time a boy had kissed me.

The only other person I had seriously kissed up to this point was a young girl named Mary. I took her to a dance at school, probably Homecoming or something. Her parents had picked us up in their big, white, dirty, messy mini van. I remember her parents being professors at U of Penn and their house and car were filled with books. Mary's mom picked us up and drove me to our modest row home in South Philly. I said good night and jumped out of the sliding door and was about to close it when I realized that Mary was right behind me. I don't know how she got out so quickly. Before I knew it I was pinned to against the side of the truck and Mary's mouth was on top of mine, her tongue making huge wet circles. As she did this I stared blankly at the empty dark school yard across the street. Mary pressed herself in to me and I could feel saliva dripping down my face. I placed my hands on her hips and gently shoved her away and said, "I had a great time. Thanks. I'll call you later." And walked up the stairs into my house. I felt nothing.

As this stranger dropped his hands from my face and pulled away, I felt a kind of nothingness and a kind of everything at the same time. I wasn't attracted to him but I certainly was attracted to the idea of a man kissing me. And I wanted to do it again. But we had to go on acting and I'm sure that whatever followed in the scene came across as very authentic. Because it was.

I was cast in the play. In a small part that didn't even make it into the musical. That's ok. It was something. Rehearsals were a blast and it was great to be doing a show again. More than anything, there were three gay boys in the show and I wanted to come out. So badly. But I didn't know how. And they all thought I was straight. I mostly stayed quiet and observed, which is my general MO anyway.

The show was set to go up in the spring. Auditions must have been toward the end of February with rehearsals through March and opening in April. One beautiful Saturday afternoon a few of us were hanging out in the park and the Wendla and Melchior decided to rehearse the switch scene.

Do you know what this is?

Wendla runs into Melchior and tells him that one of her friends gets beat by her father. Wendla says she's never been hit in her entire life and would Melchior do it, with this stick? And Melchior does do it. And Melchior gets into it, to the point of calling Wendla a "little bitch."

So after running the lines a few times, our Wendla and Melchior decide to do it all out in Washington Square Park. Other cast members have drifted away by this point but I'm there, front and center, watching. And the switch comes out. And Melchior starts to hit Wendla. And it escalates. And a man comes running over and pulls the switch out of Melchior's hand screaming, "What do you think you're doing? Are you crazy? I'm calling the cops!"

We do our best to talk him down and explain that we're rehearsing and it's a play and he seems to get it but he suggests, through gritted teeth, that we best practice scenes like that indoors and what kind of play is it anyway.

Melchior and Wendla wander away. I'm done for the day and I wander over to the fountain and right into Moritz who I have the biggest crush on, and he's gay.

We chat for a little and lean our heads against the back of the fountain. I look at him and he has his eyes closed and a faint smile on his mouth as the sun shines brightly on his face. We sit in silence for what seems like forever and then suddenly rain drops start to fall. We jump up and he pulls out an umbrella and we begin walking up University Place to our respective dorms. He offers me space under the umbrella but I politely decline, "I love the rain."

It starts to pour down harder and harder. The walk seems endless and it's almost time to say goodbye and there's something I still have to do.

I'm completely soaked through at this point and I've walked four blocks out of my way when Moritz says, "Well. Ok. This is where I turn off." He starts to walk away when I choke his name out of my throat.

He turns. "Yes?"

"Would you, uhm,..." I can't look at him. I look at my sneakers standing in a rising puddle and feel the sticky wetness of my shirt clinging to me. "Would you, uhm, like to go out some time?" And in my head I'm saying, please don't make me say more than that. You know what I mean. Please say Yes. Please say Yes.

He looks startled and then uncomfortable. And I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes and I thank God for the rain.

"Aw. That's sweet. Thanks, but I don't think that's a good idea."

"Yeah. Ok. Cool. I'll see you at rehearsal."

And I walk through the rain, back to my dorm.

Wallpaper

2009-02-04T14:34:00.000-05:00

Monica. Before I was born my parents were so convinced that I was going to be a girl that they picked out a name for me. Monica. They did not stop at the name, no. They went so far as to decorate my bedroom for their little girl. Oh, yeah.

There were two different wallpapers in the room separated by a chair rail. The bottom wallpaper was striped, thin lines of no more than a quarter of an inch, colored red, yellow, green and white. Ok. Fine The chair rail was a bright, sunny yellow. And the wallpaper on top, oh, the wallpaper on top was very special. The background was that grassy green color so typical of the seventies, but the main attraction of the wallpaper were these large, multicolored flowers of red, white and yellow petals that dominated the entire canvas, as it were.

The flowers were about as big as my hand is now and equally spaced in diagonal lines running from the ceiling to the chair rail. Connecting each and every one of these large flowers-it was a small room but there were hundreds of these fuckers-was a line of smaller flowers, similarly colored. So gay.

As I got older ad sleep started to escape me, I would lie in bed at night and count the small flowers until sleep finally claimed me. Sometimes I would get to sixty or seventy, sometimes into the hundreds. I could see the flowers because I always slept with the light on, terrified that someone would break into our house and kill us all in our sleep. Of course, sleeping with the light on doesn’t really make all that much sense, in retrospect, cause if you can see them they can see you…

I also slept with one of those hospital guards on the side of my bed because I was then, and still am, a fitful sleeper and I would often wake up at some point in the night on the floor next to my bed.

Finally, when I was about thirteen, my parents finally agreed to change the wallpaper. I wanted this football themed paper that had the helmets of every the professional teams all over it. I had never watched a football game in my life. I just wanted something masculine, you know. We settled on grey. Grey on top, white chair rail and a different grey on bottom. Boring but better.

I stopped sleeping with the light on but I was still scared. I started sleeping on my stomach with the covers pulled over my head as tightly as possible, leaving a little space for my mouth and my nose so that I can breathe. To this day, I still sleep with the covers over my head. The problem now is that I’m trapping myself with the monsters in my head. And they’re so much more destructive than the ones in the real world.

Stones From a Garden

2009-02-03T11:27:00.003-05:00

When I was accepted into grad school, things moved pretty quickly.

The Present Ex and I had been living together for almost two years. We had broken up during this time and spent many painful months living together in our tiny one bedroom on the 5th Floor of 336 E. 95th Street and had only recently reconciled and gotten back together.

Now, with the prospect of moving to New Jersey for three years or so, everything was in disarray and there was no time to think about it.

My parents bought me a 1990 Silver Honda Civic. I spent weekends traveling to the Edison/Metuchen/New Brunswick area looking for apartments with a friend. We finally found a huge two bedroom, one and a half bathroom, full dining room, recently renovated for about $1000 a month. Insane. New Jersey.

Present Ex couldn't find a place. He spent some time commuting and some time crashing on friends' couches.

Chloe went to live with my parents as I wouldn't have the time to take care of her and pets weren't allowed. Present Ex worked crazy hair dresser hours and would never be around. She would be safe in South Jersey.

Movers were called. Clothes and sentiment were packed up.

Some of these clothes had recently been unpacked when Present Ex and I were separated and he found out that I went out on a date. Dancing at 1984 at the Pyramid Club in the East Village. I came home tired and sweaty to five huge garbage bags in the hallway filled with my clothes and Present Ex sitting on the couch smoking. "Get out", his first words to me. A huge screaming match followed. Chloe hid under the bed. Present Ex threw a glass of water at me (the water not the glass) when I turned my back on him.

I loved this tiny apartment. I was sad to leave it and afraid of the unknown in New Jersey. But I needed to do this for me. And off I went, leading the movers in my Honda Civic, down the NJ Turnpike and to Edison, NJ. Present Ex went off to work and I'd pick him up at the train station later.

It all happened so quickly and I was in a state of denial that I never said goodbye to a neighborhood that had been my home.

And then, Chloe died. A victim of a one in a million reaction to a yearly shot, she quickly succumbed to anemia. I was in Italy when it happened.

And I needed to say goodbye for real.

My boss asked me to go around the Upper East Side and ask stores to put the poster for the revival of Fiddler on the Roof in their windows. I guess Upper East Side automatically suggests Jews who go to the theater?

First stop, our first apartment on 72nd Street. I stood across the street for a while and just looked at the building. The hallway walls were still painted that awful, dull institutional green. I crossed the street and peered in the front door. I could see the mailboxes, the steps up to the higher floors, and there -- in the back -- the door to our apartment. I remember Chloe running down that hallway after we had been on a vacation to Florida for a week. I remember carrying bags and bags of groceries -- so many that my hands were hurt, twisted and red -- because we were trying to save money and cook more. I remember my excitement as I rollerbladed down the hallway on my way to the new apartment on 95th street.

And so off to 95th I went, up York. This neighborhood that so many people deride was beautiful to me. We didn't live in the high rises but we could still see the sky. And walk to the river.

As I entered the East 90s the streets became a little tougher, a little dirtier and much more like home. The projects on 1st Ave loomed over me and it seemed like the same people were hanging out on the benches in front. I stopped in the deli where I often ran out to buy OJ on Sunday mornings; it was as filthy and disgusting as ever.

My dad would always park on 94th street and take the stones from a garden and put them in his car for the huge rock wall he had constructed around his house in New Jersey. "Dad, you can't take those." I tried to explain. "They're part of the building."
He would look at me, laugh and say, "They're just lying there." I gave up.

95th Street was strangely industrial. There was a garage or two close to the corner. Hogs and Heifers sandwiched between 95th and 96th, although I'd never been in friends had ventured in during parties at our place.

And finally I was there in front of 336 E. 95th clutching a pile of Fiddler on the Roof posters with tears in my eyes. Unsure of what I had done, punishing myself for the things I hadn't done and completely uncertain of what was to come.

I imagined Present Ex bounding through the doors being pulled by Chloe. I imagined walking up the short staircase, pulling out my keys and going into the elevator and up to the 5th floor and smelling gravy cooking on the stove, Chloe scratching on the door because she knew I was there.

I remember how much we hated the countertop in the closet-sized kitchen so went to the hardware store and bought green-marble contact paper to cover it up. I remember telling Mom that story and her asking seriously, "Are there hardware stores in New York? I've never seen any."

I cursed my imagination. And I said goodbye. But it's never really goodbye if it's living inside of you. And as I walked up the hill to the 6 train stop on 96th street I was forced to remember walking Chloe up this same path every night to meet Present Ex on his way home from work. Memories everywhere.

Haunted Rooms

2009-02-02T15:05:00.002-05:00

I think I mentioned how my dorm room on 10th & Broadway had a door to the roof of the building in it. We were in the Penthouse. When you exited the elevator you almost walked directly into the study lounge for the dorm. In that room, to the left, were two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, framing a fireplace. These bookshelves once served as the entrance and exits to a speakeasy. You could see the hinges that had been painted over thousands of times. Now, three dorm rooms lay behind there but reached by a separate, not-as-sexy corridor.

On the day I moved into this room on the 16th floor, my roommate did not happen to be there with the roof key. So Mom, Dad and I climbed up onto the toilet, on to the sink and shimmied out the window and on to the roof. We, all three, were skinny enough that we didn't suffer a Marilyn Monroe-stuck-in-the-porthole-window moment. But it was a small window and it was 16 floors up and it was narrow.

I loved it out on that roof. We had to be very careful though because other residents could see us out there if they looked out the window at the right time.

I tell you all of this to establish the history of the dorm. It was a hotel at one point. Speak easy, etc...

So one night, I'm alone and sleeping peacefully when I'm awoken by....well, by a sense that I'm not so alone any more. The Texan liked to mess with me and I was convinced he was up to something. Always the first to declaim himself straight, he was also always trying to climb into bed with me. And too many nights among friends were spent playing truth or dare with the Texan and I locked in a closet together.

Anyhow, I'm lying in bed facing the wall and convinced that I am not alone. I call out the Texan's name. No response.

I turned over in bed very quickly and was glad that I had left the bathroom light on. I saw a shadow race across the wall of my room and into the bathroom hallway and then disappear. I waited for the door to slam shut. Or something. I call the Texan's name again. No answer. Once more. No answer. So I turn the light on next to my bed and get out and go into the hallway. There's no one there. There's no one in the Texan's bed. There's no one in the hallway. There's no one in the closet. (Well...) There's no one in the bathroom. I start shaking, uncontrollably.

I race back to my bed and pick up the phone and call the Texan at his "girlfriend's" room a few floors down. She answers.

"Is the Texan there?"

"Yes."

"Has he been there all night?"

"Yes."

"Are you guys fucking with me? "

"No. What are you talking about?"

"Put him on the phone right now."

So the Texan picks up and he's there and there's no way he could have gotten from our room down to hers so quickly. So I tell him to get his ass up here pronto and he's sleeping with me that night because I ain't staying in that room alone.

That wasn't the last time I slept in a bedroom with ghosts I couldn't define haunting me.

Climbing

2009-02-02T11:16:00.002-05:00

I’m at least 30 feet above the ground and I’m holding on for dear life. My fingers hurt from clutching the small hooks. My toes are straining through the thin shoes, precariously perched on a ledge.

Getting up was easy. I didn’t think twice about it. I surprised myself at the ease and speed with which I was able to scale the wall. Hand here, leg there. Push up. Pull. Repeat. Now I’m up here and I realize I have to get down.

My friends down below call out to me words of support and encouragement. I only hear sounds. And, unfortunately, this causes me to look down. I swoon. I clutch the hooks even harder and I hear something snap in my finger.
I’m in Texas and rock climbing for the first time in my life. Every day you should do something that scares you. Sometimes that’s just getting out of bed,

The trainer is below me. She’s a tiny girl, no more than 25 years old. She can’t weight more than 125lbs. How the fuck is she holding me? Anchoring me? I fear that if I let go, I’ll go plummeting down to the ground and my force and weight will cause her to counteract my downward spiral and she’ll rocket up. Ok, you know what, I’m just afraid that I’m going to plummet. I don’t care about her.

She starts to talk me through it, in her heavy Texan accent.

“Sit back in the harness like you’re sitting in a chair.”

“Uh huh,” I say as I do it. Ok. That wasn’t so bad.

“Good. Now let go of the rock and grab on to the rope in front of you.”

(Pause.)

“What?”

“Let go of the rock and grab on to the rope in front of you.”

“Uhm…”

I’m not good at letting go. Never have been. I’m in therapy to learn how to let go.

Let go, JV. And being up here I remember him. How he used to tell me I had the perfect body for rock climbing. How I never thought I had a perfect body for anything. I wish he could see me now. I’m doing this for him. I can’t let go of him. The Mormon.

Ok. One hand off of the wall and onto the rope. Not so bad. Now I need to breathe.

Now the next hand. Breathe. Let go, JV.

Ok. My finger is sore and beginning to swell.

That wasn’t so bad.

“Good,” she says. Her voice is not soothing. “Now I’m going to lower you down.”

I can feel the rope slacken. I can feel myself beginning to move down. The only problem is, my toes refuse to let go of the ridge they’re gripping. I start to spiral on the rope.

“JV, you have to let go.”

JV, you have to let go. You can’t stay up here forever.

So I do. And in the most awkward, ungraceful way imaginable I go spinning down to the ground. Holding my breath and my eyes clenched tight. I know there must be an easier way to do this. My feet instinctively reach for the wall and find another ridge to grip. The do so and this fucks up the entire descent. I spin harder.

“No, just let go. I’ve got you.”

How do I trust that, you know? How do you trust that someone can hold on to you as you fall? It’s never happened before.

And then I’m on the ground.

The entire experience couldn’t have last more than three minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.

I want to do it again.

My friends congratulate me and make fun of me at the same time. But I did it. And I’m ready to do it again.

I watch them go up. None of them go up with the same speed and ease as I do. They’re thinking too much, strategizing. “If I put my hand here, where will I put it the next time?”

Their descents, however, are smooth and graceful. Some walk down the wall, calm and easy. Some push off with their legs, drop, land against the wall further down, push off again, and so on until they reach the ground. I watch and try to learn.

Finally, it’s my turn to go up again. A different course this time, not quite as easy. The ascent is a little more difficult but, instinctively, I know where to grab and where to put my feet, how much strength I need to push and pull myself up. I look up, not down. I could climb forever.

There’s a terrifying moment when I realize that the only way to reach the next handle to pull myself up is to let go of both hooks I’m holding on to and push up. I breathe and I let go, pushing myself up, propelling straight up into the air, suspended for a moment in mid air. And I grab on to the hook. And I only hold on to it for a split second before continuing my ascent.

Suddenly I’m at the top but I want to keep going. I’m free on this wall. I can’t think about anything but where to put my hand next, where to put my foot. I’m lost in the motion. I don’t think about work. I don’t think about my heart. I don’t think about how lonely I am. None of that matters here. I can only climb.

But the wall has ended and now I need to go down.

The young girl begins to talk me through it again. I concentrate on putting action to word. I push the fear aside. I sit back in the harness. I grab on to the rope in front of me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I push off the wall with my legs. No walking down for me.

And, as always, I’m not aware of my own strength. I push so hard and there’s so much slack that I thrust myself more than a few feet away from the wall. It’s like I’m flying. It’s thrilling, terrifying. I look down for a second and see the woman below me, and my friends behind her and I look over my shoulder and see the sky. I’m dizzy and weightless. I hit the wall about halfway down and I push off again, trying to use less force. Again, I’m flying. And then I land on the soft ground.

I look up and I realize just how high I was. My entire body starts to shake and I feel tears well up behind my eyes. I try to take the harness off but my hands won’t stop shaking. I can’t catch my breath. I’m choking back the tears. I want to get away, from all of them. I don’t want them to see me like this. The woman comes over and undoes the harness, pushing it down to the floor so that I can step out of it.

I push forward and collapse on a bench, shaking uncontrollably. Is it fear? Exhilaration? Adrenaline? Loneliness? Yes.

I light up a cigarette. I think about how he my body was perfect for something.

Art Museum

2009-01-30T13:24:00.003-05:00

Once a month or so my father would take me to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

We would wander the galleries and dad, a scupltor/engraver for the US Mint, would explain things to me, answer questions or just let me wander.

I had two favorite galleries. I loved the suits of armor, swords, helmets and other assorted sundry of the Medieval and Renaissance periods. I thought chainmaille was the coolest thing in the world, unless displayed in Cher's Sanctuary catalogue or International Male. I was obsessed with jousting. I wanted to live in a castle and be king. Or princess. And I firmly believed in dragons. To that end, I watched the movie Dragonslayer religiously. Only recently did I realize that the lead in that movie was Peter MacNicol who moved on to something else I would watch religiously, Ally McBeal.

Anyway, I wasn't really interested in the facts behind all these things. I was more intent on making up wonderful stories of the men who wore/used them and the many accomplishments they achieved. I would start to create these stories and then go home and live them out with my Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark figured in my bedroom for hours.

My favorite painting at the museum was an enormous canvas painted by Peter Paul Rubens and Frans Snyders. Measuring 95 1/2 x 82 1/2 inches, the painting hung on a wall entirely on its own. The title of the painting: Prometheus Bound. In it, a huge eagle whose wings span almost the entire length of the painting is on top of a nearly naked Prometheus, tearing his liver out. Prometheus is nearly naked, laying on top of blue and white silk. His muscular body is writhing in pain as the bird feasts on his bloody organ. The eagle has one claw holding down the hero's head and another pressing on his tightly muscled stomach. The two are making intense eye contact.

Now how could I lie and say that there was not something sexual about this picture? It certainly stimulated something in my mind and I'm sure triggered thoughts that have followed me to my work today. In my directing, I'm often driven to work that explores the close relationship between sex and violence; how they go hand-in-hand sometimes, and spiraling out of control at other times.

I would stare at this painting for hours. Wondering what it felt like to be dominated by that bird. Wondering what it was like to be as strong as Prometheus. Wondering what it was like to have your liver ripped out.

Ironically enough, there would be echoes of this painting resonating in my life at a later date that even I didn't see until after the events played out.

Upper East Sider

2009-01-30T11:43:00.002-05:00

When the Present Ex moved here from Philly, we went from never living in the same city together to living together. Yikes.

The first few months were a rotation of good and bumpy. Mostly good, but really bumpy.

Our one bedroom apartment was on 72nd between 1st and York. No Man's Land. It was on the first floor in the back of a five or six story building. It was cute. You walked into the living room/kitchen area. The bathroom was to your left. The bedroom was big and we painted it a grey blue.

I wanted a dog. I had always wanted a dog but Present Ex was dead set against it. Until one day he called me and said he had walked by a pet store on Lexington and saw the cutest Shih tsu in the world. I was working as an AD on a Broadway show at the time and I told him I would try to get by to look at her as soon as I good. Present Ex, at the time, was working at a mortgage company in Mineola, Long Island. He would wake up at the crack of dawn and reverse commute every morning. Pain in the ass.

So the next day, before rehearsal, I stopped at American Kennels on Lex to take a look at the puppy. She was the cutest dog in the world. Unlike most Shih tsu's her face didn't look like she had just run into a wall. She had an extended snout and was full of love. So I put a down payment on her, told them I'd pick her up after work and called Present Ex to say that someone else had bought her. He was devastated.

When Present Ex came home that evening, he opened the door and I was sitting at our tiny, 2 person kitchen table that we bought at the local framing store on the corner, with the little pup on my lap. Present Ex started to cry. Happy anniversary, I said.

We named her Chloe. I can't remember how we got to that particular name but it took about a week of trial and error.

With Present Ex leaving so early in the morning and coming home so late at night, Chloe and I took to taking looooong walks around the Upper East Side or, Yorkville as the cab maps called it. It's a neighborhood I grew to adore. It was Manhattan, but not. There was almost always sky. I could walk to the river. It was quiet. It was home.

One evening, Chloe and I had made it all the way up to 86th Street and pretty far west when all of a sudden she started tugging hard at the leash and pulling me. She was retracing our steps and she wanted to go home asap. For once, she didn't stop to sniff anything or stop and look up at people for attention. She just moved as if on a mission. We rounded 72nd street and up ahead, not far from our apartment, a group of people had gathered and something was making an inhuman moaning noise. Chloe slowed down but kept moving forward. I tried to make out what was happening. I passed a woman and her dog a few feet from my apartment and she said , "Awful. Just awful." I passed her and the apartment and peered around the assembled group of people. There on the ground was a tiny Asian woman holding a big white dog and moaning, screaming and crying. The dog had just dropped dead. She was inconsolable and no one knew what to do. I instinctively picked Ripley up and hurried inside to Present Ex and our safe home. But that woman's wailing has stayed with me ever since.

Flashback

2009-01-27T11:07:00.002-05:00

Before it became a semi-Broadway hit, there was a movie musical that touched my heart more than any other.

Heaven is a place on Earth.

Like most people, my ideas of love and romance were formed at an early age. Unlike most of the kids I grew up with I was severely overweight with an extreme aversion to any physical activity whatsoever. While most of my “friends” were playing street hockey, touch football and wall ball I was escaping into the world of books and movies (while eating grandmom’s homemade meatball sandwiches). That’s where I lived and where I could do anything I ever wanted.

Summer of 1981. The Jersey Shore, Wildwood Crest. I was seven. This was the age that I first began to realize that I was different. My family always summered at the Crest and it was always a source of great anxiety for me. I could not swim so going to the beach or the hotel pool never presented much of a treat. That unsightly bulges and rolls that began to appear around my midsection right about this time also meant that taking my shirt off in these environments was a monumental effort. Whereas the other boys my age at the beach were sinewy and lithe, I was round, soft and chubby. You could usually spot me on the beach as the exceptionally pale boy in the white t-shirt. I could not run into the crashing surf without feeling like I had a bowl of jello strapped around my waist. I would much rather sit in a beach chair under an umbrella reading while eating a hot dog and an order of cheese fries washed down with a nice cold coke. A fudgecicle from the ice-cream man who warily patrolled the beach with lethargic determination was the only way to top it all off.

One night my parents decided we could go to the movies. That was vacation pleasure. Even today when I’m sitting in the theater and the lights begin to dim I feel the amazing rush of adrenaline that signals my entrance into another world. For this activity I could somehow find the energy to run. To see me run at this time must have been as amusing to strangers on the boardwalk as it is to me watching a baby zebra take its first steps. Awkward and unbalanced, heaven knows what my parents thought as I huffed and puffed my way through the crowds. However the thought of two hours of cinematic escape was enough to make my fat little legs scamper around the tram cars and cotton candy salesmen straight towards nirvana.
The movie theater in Wildwood is still burned into memory. It might as well have been the Ziegfeld in Manhattan. Daddy Warbucks could have been taking his little orphan to Radio City Music Hall for the first time. I shudder to think what it would look like to me now. Some things remain better as memories. Movie posters behind non-reflective glass and framed in running lights covered the entire wall. A huge marquis with yet more lights beckoned me from blocks away. I had never heard the title of this particular film before but it was foreign and exotic and promised to be nothing less than a gift from the gods because it was a musical. I waited with near-hyper frustration for my father to purchase the tickets. My mother patted my flushed face with concern while assuring me that we were certain to get in and get good seats. The line to my seven-year old eyes was never ending. My brother, with a look on his face somewhere between fear and boredom, chose to stare longingly into the window of the neighboring sporting goods store. Patience kept him going because he knew that before the evening was over he would have a new ball or catchers’ mitt or some other such toy as recompense for having to sit through this. He hated the movies. And although seven years older than me, he was still not of the age where he could be left on his own. We often caught ourselves looking at each other like one looks at a familiar stranger on the street, certain that we’ve seen each other somewhere before but not quite sure where. In any other situation we would just keep walking and forget about the incident. That’s the great thing about families. God decides to mix up the pot a little.

Finally my father had the tickets in his hand. As the doors magically swung open I was immediately assaulted by the smell of stale popcorn and artificial butter. Heaven. The carpet was a lush powdered blue and woven into this luscious fabric were huge golden stars that emanated rays of brilliant orange and red. The walls and ceiling were painted a color not entirely dissimilar to that of the stars and then painstakingly sponge painted with the same red and orange of the rays. Obviously this theater was designed by a master craftsman for this was the epitome of glamour. One entire wall of the lobby was painted with black and white caricatures of famous movie stars: Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando, Bette Davis, James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall. I had no idea who these people were but I knew they were stars if they warranted such a tribute in this most sacred of places. I had no idea how much their work would actually affect my life. At the time, however, I couldn’t stop and stare as I made a b-line for the snack counter.

The order with my family was always the same: a large popcorn with butter and salt to be shared by my mother, my brother and myself; a small popcorn, plain, for my health-conscience father; a soda for everyone. My heart about to burst with pleasure and anticipation, we finally make our way into the auditorium. Again, the order of family member is the same: my mother, then myself, my father, and then my brother. In order to properly appreciate a movie I insisted on being sandwiched between the two people I loved most in the world. We still view movies like this today. At the time, however, this provided certain obstacles because it meant my brother had to break my concentration from the movie in order to grab a handful of popcorn. There was no way anybody was taking my hands off of that bucket. It was my night.

As the lights began to dim a stranger might have thought I was about to suffer severe cardiac arrest. I began to sweat as my heart beat unnaturally fast. What if something went wrong with the film? What if I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the movie? Why will those people up front not STOP TALKING? Why such a big deal? This was not just any movie. This movie starred the most talented actor of the generation; a performer who made acting an art form. The person I aspired to be. Someone who could act, sing and dance. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life (sorry, Mom): Olivia Newton-John. Why her picture was not painted on that wall outside was a crying shame.

The movie was Xanadu.

Xanadu is the perfect movie. It has Olivia Newton-John, roller skates, dancing, singing, punk rockers, and Gene Kelly as a retired, lonely, romantic clarinet player. It tells the story of a young album cover painter (Sonny) who is tired of “selling out”. He finds himself unexpectedly falling in love with a cover model who happens to be one of the nine Muse daughters of the gods Zeus and Hera. Entertainment, culture and education put onto roller skates and zapped into the local cineplex. Sonny, played by the brilliant but now seldom-seen Michael Beck, fights for the love of Kira, as embodied by Olivia Newton-John, and does not give up until he sees his dreams come true. It’s a story of romance, love and hope.

There is one scene in particular that makes Xanadu the truly great film that it is. It is an animated sequence, kind of like a music video, in which Sonny chases Kira through the wilderness, including a flower patch, a pond and even the sky. You see because they begin as cartoon versions of themselves they can also magically transform into fish and birds as well. This must be one of the many powers that Kira possesses. Kira, however, insists on playing very coy and makes Sonny work his ass off to win her love. Love, obviously, was something that needed to be desperately pursued and fought for. While the lovers run, swim and fly the Electric Light Orchestra performs a soaring pop ballad of longing and sorrow told from Sonny’s point of view. It’s called ‘Don’t Walk Away’. The glory of the sequence is that you know (from the soaring pop ballad that Olivia sings when we first see her skating alone in an abandoned warehouse) that these two are destined to be together.

And if all your hearts survive
Destiny will arrive.
I’ll bring all your dream alive for you.

The filmmakers attention to detail is most apparent in this scene because no matter what form Kira takes (human, fish or bird) she is wearing little, pink leg warmers. Brilliant.

But fate steps in the way of the young lovers. In the very next scene Kira must reveal her true nature to Sonny and tell him that although she has very strong feeling for him there are rules to be followed. She must obey her God parents and remain loyal to her Muse sisters. She and Sonny cannot be together. Destiny has dealt poor Sonny a bad hand. She is a demigod and he is a mere mortal. Sonny, of course, does not believe her story. In order to prove herself (as if her superior roller skating abilities weren’t enough) Kira provides a number of examples. First she makes the television turn on without even touching it. The late night movie is some film noir, Humphrey Bogartish fare only there, on the screen is Kira. She and the other actors in the scene turn to the camera and address Sonny directly, just breaking all conventions of realism. Sonny, bewildered, turns the television set off and rubs his eyes in disbelief. For her next trick, Kira has Sonny look up the defintion of “muse” in the dictionary. It ends with a personal address to Sonny that goes something like ‘Do you believe me now?’ As if all this wasn’t enough to convince him she finally just disappears from his apartment.

Sonny is heartbroken and distraught. He has finally found what he has been looking for and it is being unfairly taken away from him without him having any say at all. So he straps on his roller skates and goes to confront Zeus and Hera. The meeting does not go so well. Ultimately, the gods have a change of heart and let Kira and her Muse sisters come down to Earth for one more night. This night happens to coincide with the opening of Sonny’s roller disco Xanadu. Sonny is overjoyed and the girls put on a spectacular, unrehearsed floor show that combines many costumes and styles of music: country, pop, hard rock, etc. Their finale is the title song of the film. Rules are rules, however, and so at the end of the number Olivia’s outfit is transformed into the more appropriate and god-like toga dress with matching baby pink leg warmers, sans skates. She is then beamed up to wherever it is that gods live. It must be an amazing place because all they need to do to get from one location to another is either beam themselves or roller skate. Although saddened by her departure Sonny has found peace in himself and his roller disco. His heart is somewhat mended.

The filmmakers haven’t played their last card though. It seems as if all is over and the end credits will start rolling when the keenly disguised voice of a waitress is heard asking Sonny if he would like another drink. Sonny looks up and sees that the waitress is (gasp) the exact double of Kira. The gods must be crazy. Sonny has found his Heaven on Earth in his man-made roller disco called Xanadu.

As the lights came up I was crying tears of joy. My parents exchanged a knowing look. My father woke up my brother who took one look at me and said, Stop crying. Boys don’t cry. He then headed off immediately in the direction of the sporting goods store to claim his prize. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together, grabbed my mother’s warm hand and wondered when we could go see the movie again. Then we were back on the boardwalk. The world looked different to me. Everything was magical. My boring old sneakers became roller skates in my imagination. Shuffling on top of the wooden slats I tried to mimic the complex choreography of the film. As I made my way past the sporting goods store I saw a pair of roller skates spot lit in the window. My brother and I both made out that night. I was not allowed to put the skates on though because I had never been on a pair and my parents were afraid I would fall and hurt myself. Didn’t they know that I would intuitively know how to use them? I was convinced by this point that I was a Muse and that my god parents had somehow misplaced me. They would soon realize I was gone and beam me up to roller skating heaven to be with them and my eight sisters. There, I would be magically transformed into my truly beautiful self and find true love. At the age of six, in a movie theater in New Jersey, I discovered what hope was. I also discovered what love meant. Love meant fighting for what you wanted. It meant going after it even though fate says you’ll never get it. It meant sad songs and tortured, long nights of roller skating alone down deserted city streets. It meant inner anguish and turmoil. It meant anything was possible – because if you couldn’t have the one person in the world you truly wanted, another carbon copy of that person would appear. It meant magic.

This definition of love was only reinforced the older I got by the scores of novels I would read, songs I would listen to and sing, and movies and television shows I would watch. Love was never easy but it was worth having because it completed you. And you almost always got it. It made you a better person. In some cases, it made you a completely different person. From my adolescence to my early twenties I wanted nothing more than to be a different person. But Zeus and Hera never came back to claim their forgotten child. My roller skates were eventually replaced by roller blades, this time for actual physical exertion. Olivia Newton-John hasn’t made a movie in years. Cigarettes and coffee have replaced popcorn and soda (except on rare occasions when I’m feeling down and it’s all of them).

Hope, however, is like a malignant cancer inside of my soul. It grows stronger and more powerful every day and it is beyond treatment. It makes me want to fight for love. It makes me believe in magic. I have the creators of Xanadu to thank for that. The little boy who tried to roller skate in his sneakers on the boardwalk in New Jersey that summer night during the summer of 1981 is still alive.