Monday, October 16, 2000

My debut at The Rep

I pretty much gave up performing when I moved to St. Louis, lapsing only occasionally for two plays, a musical and a couple of stand-up gigs over the past 13 years. It's always a little thrilling to step out onto a stage before an audience, though, even if the role is the human equivalent of set dressing. Last Saturday, I played "Juror #11" in my theatre's production of Inherit the Wind.

This is not a demanding role, it should be said upfront, although the jurors are on stage for several scenes in the first act and practically all of the second. During the run, at least four of the juror roles will be filled by (non-paid) volunteers and members of the administrative staff. Our primary purpose is to flesh out the stage picture and, by fanning and wiping our brows on cue, to convey the sense that the action of the play is, in fact, taking place in a sweltering Tennessee courtroom.

The character I played on Saturday isn't assigned a name in the script. In fact, I only extrapolated "Juror #11" from my position on the stage. I decided to lend authenticity to my performance, however, by giving him a back-story. The costume pulled from stores for me was a tasteful three-piece suit, necktie and hat, the latter of which I elected to wear at a somewhat jaunty angle.

My character would be "Ben" (or perhaps "Behn"), the lifelong bachelor who operates the tiny town's bridal shop. Behn shares a spacious farmhouse outside of town with a man everyone assumes to be his significantly younger cousin, Matthew, who moved to Hillsboro from Georgia a year ago and works as a hand on Jesse Dunlap's farm down the road. As I sat on stage and listened to the pro- and anti-evolution forces hash out their respective arguments, I could see the prim ladies of the town sitting opposite me, occasionally glancing my way with the thought, "Behn is such a good looking man, well-dressed, mannerly and such a talent for putting together a trousseau. And so charitable to take in that reckless, tow-headed boy cousin. I wonder why Behn has never married himself. Hmm..."

Wednesday, October 11, 2000

Creative Ways to Meet New People

Because I have so many friends and acquaintances, I am often asked by wallflowers and other gregariousness-challenged folks how I go about meeting people and forming relationships. In the hurly-burly of this modern world, many of the structures we have for so long relied upon to bring us together seem, in fact, to keep us apart. Therefore, I am pleased to present this occasional series of pointers for those wishing to expand their circle of friends.

Creative Ways to Meet New People:
FIRST IN A SERIES

At the video rental shop or bookstore, there are often racks set aside from the primary display space featuring "Staff Selections". Here you will find a handful of new products or classic favorites, each attended by an index card listing the name of the employee who recommended the work and, perhaps, a sentence or two in their own words exalting its merits. For a sure conversation starter, select one or two of these items consistent with your own tastes and note the names of the employee(s) who made the selection. Then casually browse the store, matching your potential new friends name with the nametags of the staff. When you find a match and, if said employee appears to be someone with whom you'd like to strike up a friendship or other interaction, you should have an immediate opening chat gambit based upon your common interest in a particular book or video.

Nota bene, if you intend to employ this method as a means of meeting potential romantic partners: In my experience, the cute, jock-and-frat-type clerks in the video store are almost without exception the ones who have selected slasher films dripped with gore or action films of dubious merit which may or may not contain Pamela Anderson. The boys who have chosen tasteful Merchant Ivory costume dramas or outre independent films and seem, by their handwritten endorsements on the shelf, to be intelligent, thoughtful and sensitive young men are in fact 42-year-old Keith Richards clones.

Tuesday, October 10, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Brad: So how's that puppy of yours? Black Lab, right?

Ken: Yeah. She's great, but she's no puppy. She's almost three now.

Brad: Wow. What's her name again?

Ken: Ella.

Brad: After Ella Fitzgerald?

Ken: Yep, because she's black and she loves scat.

Monday, October 09, 2000

Nature vs. nurture

Although my father was a Boy Scout leader, I elected to participate in 4-H instead. Although I was in many ways attracted to scouting as a pursuit -- by what I would later come to recognize as a mild uniform fetish -- more of my friends participated in the local 4-H Club that had just formed and its rituals did not include a goofy salute.

For the unenlightened, 4-H is a community service organization, nationwide but the ranks are swollen by country kids prone to livestock breeding and personal enrichment. Rather than work toward merit badges, 4-Hers complete projects and activities which, in my area at least, reach their climax at the county and state fairs.

During my eight year involvement in 4-H, beginning when I was 7 years old, my major projects included woodworking, electrical engineering, and food and nutrition. My best showing at a county fair was a third place ribbon for my handmade toolbox, a second place ribbon for the safety lamp I built and wired, and three blue ribbons: one each for my strawberry preserves, chocolate chip cookies and my creative table-setting arrangement with associated floral design.

Would anyone still care to debate nature vs. nurture?

Friday, October 06, 2000

An excerpt from the discarded first-draft of The Novel

I've stopped going to therapy.

I joke sometimes that the only reason I started seeing a shrink in the first place was so that I would finally have something in common with most of the people I meet at parties. But that's not true.

I started going to therapy because I honestly believed that I needed help sorting out my life. I honestly believe I still do, but I've stopped going to therapy.

Finding a suitable therapist was a chore in the first place. I've dated so many social workers and psychologists, and been friend to so many more, that managing to ferret out the last remaining mental health professional in the tri-state area who wasn't already intimately familiar with at least some aspect of my life was a major coup.

As a testament to their usefulness, I will cheerfully disclose that I found my prize in the Yellow Pages, "therapy" conveniently situated just a few pages south of "tanning." I had consulted the latter category first, having reached the conclusions that my pallid face needed color and that my addled mind needed professional psychiatric help almost simultaneously. The teeny-tiny part of me that is anal-retentive insisted on satisfying these needs alphabetically.

Besides, tanning is cheaper and requires somewhat less introspection.

I selected Dr. Linda Voller to be my guide back to Well-Adjusted Land on the basis of a time-tested criterion: she had the most tasteful and attractive advertisement in the directory. It was on this single qualification that I had chosen my last mechanic, barber and florist and I had been pleased with the results in all three instances. I was therefore not adequately prepared for Linda.

She greeted me at the door of her office wearing a pant suit that was impossibly pink, a shade of the color just this side of radioactive that left such an impression on my retinas that when I recovered sufficiently to examine my new doctor more completely, everything from her hair to her high heels (both of which were, I noticed, bright white) was bathed in a sort of rosy glow, an effect that was, at once, both comforting and disquieting.

Anyway, I've stopped going to therapy. The cessation of treatment has nothing (well, little) to do with Dr. Linda's dress sense. I've stopped going to therapy because Dr. Linda Voller has succeeded, if not in leading me to the Promised Land of Mental Well-Being then at least putting my feet on the correct path toward it and giving me a swift kick in the seat to send me on my way.

It took only two sessions.

Dr. Linda listened attentively to two fifty-minute monologues as I recited my litany of woes, took (as near as I could tell) only a page and half of notes, and then, at the end of our second meeting told me something so patently obvious that in retrospect, it was easy for me to miss.

All of my problems, on some level, have to do with either clothing or music.

Well, duh. I'm gay.

Thursday, October 05, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Brad: Where have you guys been? I was beginning to get worried.

The Giant Queen: We were in an accident. Jeff nearly totalled his car, and damn near killed us.

Brad: Are you guys OK?

Jeff: It's not totalled and we're fine. Just a little shaken.

GQ: Plowed the front end of his kicky little Kia right into a light pole, four blocks from here.

Jeff: (casually) A few dents and broken pieces of plastic. The airbags didn't even deploy.

GQ: I am never riding with you again. Never.

Brad: What?! What on earth happened?

Jeff: I just lost control of the car for a moment.

GQ: You lost control of the car because you were driving with your knees and waving your hands in the air singing along with Madonna, and checking your hair in the rear-view mirror.

Brad: Jeff...

GQ: Then he turns to me and says "I can't believe you're wearing that tonight. Filene's Basement?" In the middle of this little disco dance and fashion moment, bang! Hello? Triple-A?

Jeff: It could have happened to anyone.

GQ: Oh yes, of course, anyone. Madonna-induced traffic accidents among gay men. It's happening more and more everyday. Dateline: NBC did 20 minutes on it last night. I think they're calling it "road flame."

Wednesday, October 04, 2000

Roger that

Every once in a great while, the fates conspire to bring the disparate lines of your life into confluence and freak you the hell out.

Today, for example. I'm walking down the D concourse at the airport, having just said goodbye to a man with whom I would like very much to have sex.

As I pass a bar packed with baseball fans reveling in the Cardinals' victory, I am called to and waved over by the last man with whom I had sex. He invites me to join him for a drink and, to take a seat with him, I must ask the man at the adjoining table to move his valise so I can reach the chair.

When that man turns around to oblige, we stare at each other with that "you-got-your-chocolate-in-my-peanut-butter no-you-got-your-peanut-butter-on-my-chocolate" look for a long, long moment.

And that's how I ran into Roger--the very first man with whom I had sex--for the first time in 15 years. The last time we were together, I had a 26 inch waist and still believed in a time called forever. I'll get a chance to see him again in two weeks: dinner, conversation and an awkward opportunity to be 16 years old again.

Tuesday, October 03, 2000

The Sexiest Bachelor in America

Of course I watched the televised search for the Sexiest Bachelor in America. I was duty-bound -- and genetically predisposed -- as a warm-blooded American gayboy to tune in, with the same rapt fascination with which I used to greet the annual "Sex in the Cinema" issue of Playboy during my pre-adolescent "discovery phase". I watched, however, not with lust but with a sociological detachment, intending to switch the channel after I'd ascertained just how many of the contestants were destined to remain "bachelors" unless they were willing to relocate to Vermont.

(Twenty-six, by my count, including three of the finalists.)

By the time the two-hour special was over, my gaydar was being activated so often, it was causing RF interference with the neighbor kids' PlayStation. I'd managed to spot two queer college classmates who'd moved west, the ex- of an ex-, and at least two contestants whose carriage and demeanor screamed "Mary!" so loudly you'd have thought they were Valerie Harper. This is, of course, not even counting Caroline Rhea, the hostess of the Twinkies. She's practically an honorary gay man herself.

I am now waiting for the Fox network to really gild the lily -- or, perhaps more aptly, beard the boy -- by combining one flop and one middling pageant to create "Who Wants to Marry the Sexiest Bachelor in America?" I'd check it out...for the sociologically interesting aspects, of course.

Monday, October 02, 2000

Night life, in summary

The scene: A nightclub so crowded it had become less a bar and more an exercise in the law of displacement.

Me: A little buzzed, a little down, a little high, a little horny, a little low on the personal esteem meter.

Him: Blue tank top, bulgy in all the right places, Strawberry blond, azure eyes, body by Fisher, brains by Mattel, also appeared to have experienced more ecstacy in one night than Hugh Hefner had in a lifetime.

The pitch: Not particularly graceful, containing more euphemism than probably wise, alluding to my prodigious sexual prowess and the availability of a variety of depressants at my home.

The payoff: Gold medal in the 400-meter freestyle sodomy event and sleeping until 2 p.m. curled around a 26-year-old Backstreet Boy-alike.

If there is such a thing as karma, I am so coming back as a cricket in the next lifetime.

Friday, September 29, 2000

No motivation

I have no motivation today. None. Zip. Nada. Zilch. It is as if some motivation-sucking monster attacked me from behind, covered my mouth to muffle my screams of protest and then subdued me with some sort of motivation-sucking curse the likes of which mortals cannot fathom. Either that, or it could be that I was up until four in the morning having phone sex.

Thursday, September 28, 2000

My career in rap

I have decided, based on the success of Eminem, to become a gay white rapper called ReesesPeace. My first single will be a screed filled with hateful invective about poorly tattooed suburban boys trying to be "street" and instead just coming off looking like dumbasses. I think I'll call it "Eww! Put a Shirt On!"

Wednesday, September 27, 2000

Random observations from my most recent visit to San Francisco

The only thing rarer than actually being able to hail a taxi in the Tenderloin is the driver actually knowing how to get where you want to go.

The Campus Theatre advertises itself as the world's first...er, gentleman's club to offer "clothing-optional web surfing." While I cannot affirm or dispute that claim, I can tell you that updating your website in such an environment is a bit distracting. I hope this explains any typos on or about September 24.

I love a good walking city, and San Francisco with its many scenic sidestreets and lush parklands never disappoints. With the Muni system as a back-up (and the occasional lift from friends), I reached nearly everywhere I needed to be by foot. Still, I have decided that the two most beautiful words in the English language are "down hill".

Straight people are fascinated by the Folsom Street Fair but most of them don't "get" it. Neither do many gay people, for that matter.

Wow, the Metreon is a big ol' waste of space, isn't it?

If you pay a cute young Dutchman's bus fare because all he has is a $20 bill, you have made a friend for life -- or for the next few hours, at least.

The virgin megastore everyone was talking about does not sell what I thought it did.

Tuesday, September 26, 2000

It’s possible

I know, it's difficult to believe...

Monday, September 25, 2000

3 a.m. in the Tenderloin

A message for the impatient Impala driver detained in traffic beneath my hotel window at 3 a.m.: I am no expert in physics, but it seems to me that sounding your horn at great length at intervals of exactly 30 seconds will not, as you apparently suppose, alter basic thermodynamic constants and liquiefy the vehicles in front of you, enabling you to proceed unfettered along Larkin Avenue. Please refrain from this activity in the future. Thank you.

Friday, September 22, 2000

Footsteps from Union Square

The brochure advertising my hotel in San Francisco describes its location as "just footsteps from Union Square," which is true, in the same way that Daly City is just footsteps from Russian Hill. In other words, it is not. It is, however, deep in the heart of the Tenderloin, which makes up for the fact it doesn't offer cable television. For in-room entertainment, I can just look out the window and see Sex in the City or, with a valid credit card, I can order in.

Thursday, September 21, 2000

A most unusual day

I am pleased to report that I have managed to make it through the preceding day without being implicated in a campaign-fundraising scandal, appearing on The Jerry Springer Show, getting voted off the island, releasing a CD of New Age music, dying in a hail of gunfire while dining at a fast-food restaurant, receiving a cease-and-desist letter from the RIAA, MPAA or AARP, co-hosting Live With Regis, or having responsibility for my creation claimed by Al Gore, which, when you consider the odds, is pretty friggin' amazing, eh?

Wednesday, September 20, 2000

Charlotte Rae in the forward cabin

I have never dreamed about surviving a plane crash before, ergo I have never dreamed about surviving a plane crash a mere 24 hours before I am scheduled to actually board an airplane. Perhaps you can understand, then, why I was a bit shaken when I awoke this morning, having overslept by one hour and with the vague memory of charred wreckage and sliding down a rubber raft-like escape thingy still ricocheting around my brain.

As I recalled more details of the dream, however, my anxiety subsided, replaced by puzzled bemusement, to wit: Apparently, although a passenger on this flight, I was nonetheless pressed into service as a first-class flight attendant. I managed to fumble my way through the routine, ably assisted by the rest of the cheerful crew, comprising Charlotte Rae and Sandy Duncan. One of the passengers, a curt young African American woman, ordered from me a half-pound of angel hair pasta and a Coca-Cola and, when I returned to the galley to get it, I discovered not pre-packaged entrees but a sumptuous buffet, stocked with everything except pasta and Coke. Fortunately, before I had to return and break the unpleasant news to the unpleasant passenger, the plane apparently crashed, injuring no one but somehow managing to rip away the entire side of the cabin. Only when I was preparing to inelegantly deplane did I realize that I was naked, although how long I had been so, I couldn't say. I gathered up my clothes and, as I jumped onto the slide, heard Charlotte Rae cheerily call, "Buh-bye!"

So now I'm not sure which should concern me more, getting on a plane tomorrow or the fact that Lance Arthur and I seem to have dreamed of Charlotte Rae on the same night.

Tuesday, September 19, 2000

A brief excerpt from an unwritten play

He: I don't understand why you're so upset.

She: Why shouldn't I be upset?! I relied on you! I trusted you! You were my role model, my mentor, my hero!!

He: I never wanted to be anyone's hero.

She: Then why are you wearing a pink leotard, go-go boots, a mask and a cape?

He: (pause) I'd rather not discuss it.

Monday, September 18, 2000

A night out with Clingy

It was an inevitability that, having been goaded by The Twins into purchasing a shiny, stretchy, clingy shirt, I would eventually have to actually wear the garment. Its debut on the St. Louis club scene was not a particularly auspicious one.

After fretting before the mirror for at least twice the time it ordinarily takes me to prepare for a night on the town (read: ten minutes), I met up with the boys at The Complex for an evening of light beer and heavy dancing. Upon seeing my ensemble, Twin B breathlessly exclaimed those three little words: "You look fat."

"Thank you," I said. "I see you've finally settled on a pattern for your male-pattern baldness."

"Actually," Twin A interjected quickly, "I think it looks pretty good on you. Just hold your breath."

"I am holding my breath," I said. "In fact, I have not exhaled since 1991. I am a miracle of alternative respiration."

I should explain. I am not a big man, and I am not fat by any stretch of the imagination. However, more than a decade of sedentary living and a diet of beer and fried foods has not left me with the much sought-after "six-pack" abs. As beverage analogies go, my belly is more of a two-liter non-returnable.

The Twins chose to see my paunch as a challenge. "Breathe in and hold it," Twin B advised, "and throw your pelvis forward a little bit. Emphasize the package."

Twin A chimed in. "Keep your arms close to your body. Weight on your left foot, right foot slightly forward."

"I came here to cruise," I said, "not to do Pilates!" My protests, however, fell on deaf ears and Ecstacy-addled minds. The Density Duo spent another 10 minutes bending my limbs and posing me by the bar rail. When finally they were satisfied with my stance, they bounded off for the patio, leaving me to hold the pose for all of another 15 seconds, collapsing at last with the celerity of warm Jell-O.

I finished my beer, tipped the bartender a fin and slipped out the door before the boys returned, content to spend the rest of the evening watching Ab-Slider infomercials and munching Fiddle Faddle, the shiny, stretchy, clingy shirt neatly stored in wadded ball at my bedside, my dignity more or less intact and my resolve to redouble my gym ministrations renewed.

Friday, September 15, 2000

Are you playing a game?

So I'm standing outside the theatre reviewing my appointments on my PDA. Melissa walks by, sees me fiddling with the buttons and stylus and smirks. "Are you playing a game or organizing your life?" she asks.

I wasn't aware there was a difference.

Thursday, September 14, 2000

Night life

It was my pleasure, then, to spend last Tuesday night entertaining a voluable Quebecois flight attendant, for whom the language barrier did not deter his ability to keep me in a full and upright position for most of the night. He was certainly a charmer: a winning smile, a lithe frame corded with muscle, bright eyes that sparkled with laughter -- and there was much laughter as we tumbled and fumbled our way through hours of passion. He had, in short, that certain je nais sais qois (roughly translated, "nice ass") that I find so alluring and, for a French man, a remarkable command of Greek.

Wednesday, September 13, 2000

When all you’ve got…

There are very few problems in the modern workplace so vexing that they cannot be either solved or mitigated by the suitable application of a claw hammer, the consumption of great quantities of beer, an hour-long nap, or some combination thereof.

Tuesday, September 12, 2000

A Conversation From the Bar Scene

Neil: That guy over in the corner has been staring at me for quite a while. I think he's "undressing me with his eyes."

Brad: I hope, for your sake, when he's done he puts you in a different outfit.

Monday, September 11, 2000

Sarah wins

While my dreams -- when I can remember them at all -- seem generally to be meandering free verse packed with Freudian (and, in some cases, schadenfreudian) imagery, my friend Sarah dreams in commercially-viable sitcom pitches.

"Last night," she said, "I dreamed a comedy about the misadventures of a crew of nutty Ku Klux Klan members on the high seas. It was called Percale's Navy."

Friday, September 08, 2000

Thrills in the basement

If ever you need a thrill, there's an emotional roller coaster in my laundry room.

Happiness is finding 50 dollars tucked into the pocket of a pair of blue jeans just before you pop them into the washing machine.

Disappointment is realizing that the blue jeans in question do not belong to you and, by inference, neither does the 50 dollars.

Confusion is further realizing that you have no idea to whom the aforementioned blue jeans belong or, for that matter, how they found their way to the floor of your closet, waiting to be laundered.

Contentment pretty much arrives when you have made your peace with the foregoing facts and added to them the supposition that, at some unknown point in the past, a person with a 28 inch waist joined you for activities undefined and departed, apparently so satisfied with the outcome of said activities that they were unconcerned to have left your home without both their trousers and 50 dollars.