"Clinton Makes Up for Lost Time Battling AIDS" reads the NY Times today. In the article, he also says: "We really blew it in Rwanda."
Imagine that, a President who can admit he made mistakes.
I'm off to NY.
MCO 2006
August 2006 Archives
I had to the urge to create some art today, and in cleaning up my files came across a fingerpainting my nephew made for me in June, and the snippet of a letter from 1975 sent to me by my friend Claudia. I decided to combine the two.
I had graduated early from high school, and instead of going to college, spent my senior year in France. I met a man, Rene, 12 years my senior, and being already an accomplished liar, had told my parents I met a woman named Renee. They were understandably shocked. (Well my mother, I think my father already knew the truth.) My mother announced she was coming for a visit, and panicked, I immedately wrote "Renee" out of the picture--while reacting negatively to the very idea of a visit from my mother. This hurt her feelings of course, but nothing like finding out from my cousin Bernadette that I was in fact gay, and had been lying for quite some time. The week we finally spent together was dramatic, to say the least.
Throughout all of this I was writing to my friend Claudia, and this is a letter she wrote during this tumult.
She remains a good friend to this day--if fact she will be visiting Nashville when I am and we will have lunch for the first time in 10 years. She also remains a wonderful writer, as she already was back then.
I am restless and impatient. I'm ready to go.
MCO 2006
Today is the day before I leave for New York, and then for Tennessee, wihere I will be on Sunday. Will travel ever become routine for me? Even packing makes me so nervous. At the same time, it seems inconceivable that I would stay here even another week. I'm definitely ready for some time away from L.A., and I'm definitely ready to meet Tony in the flesh.
Gaza's "audition" went very well, I'll be dropping him back off there tonight. He will be able to hang out with 5 other dogs, all smaller than him, so he gets to be the alpha dog if he wants. I get to leave my baby feeling that he is going to have a vacation as well. And Kimber, who will be taking him in, is just plain cool. She's like a yellow rose of Texas.
Yesterday I approached my friend Mike's birthday very smartly. I couldn't afford one nice present, so I went to Out of the Closet and got 5 cheap ones--4 books and a tablecloth. Then I took him to a reasonably-priced but atmospheric sidewalk cafe in Santa Monica, and he had one gift to open after another (mostly obscure cookbooks--he loves to cook). He really enjoyed it.
This morning a deceptively dour-looking Armenian woman was walking my way and stopped for a moment, to say to me with an approving nod: "Thank you. I see you ever day, up and down, cleaning the street. Thank you. " I almost said "thank you" back to her, but realized the appropriate response was "You're welcome" -- and a big smile. I felt like a million bucks, really. I also told her I was going to be gone for two weeks. It'll be interesting to see what the neighborhood looks like when I get back. It better be filthy--I'm completely invested in my self-image now as the sole bulwark between civilization and chaos in my corner of the world.
MCO 2006
As the chicken said as I snapped this shot while walking the dog: "Only in L.A., right?" (Yes, they were making a movie, probably a student short.)
Anyway, I do love this town. If I don't like Nashville so much but love Tony, I might try to get him to move here.
Meanwhile, today at 1 I'll be auditioning Gaza at a house where I hope he'll stay for the two weeks I'm gone. Then it's a day of celebrating the birthday of my friend Michael. Tomorrow will be packing and preparing and a major case of NERVES.
MCO 2006
Cold or no, Gaza needing walking, and I decided it wouldn't kill me to clean up a stretch of street I haven't done yet, Russell between Serrano and Western. It was so filthy I only did the south part of the street, then I ran out of bags (4) But stll it was enough so that anyone coming out of their building is gonna go "Wha--What happened to my block?!!" I LOVE that. Guerrilla Trash Picker Strikes Again!
Anyway, on one of those utility closets you find on the occasional corner, the kind phone companies open when they're working in the area, I saw this list in chalk. Or is it a poem?
It has the kind of elegance you find with those single word refrigerator magnets, but it doesn't seem arbitrary. I don't know what to think, but I like it.
MCO 2006
I am at the worst part of the cold--day 3 when it starts to go from head to chest...on the verge of a cough but not quite.
I'm gonnna leave you with these most excellent quotes, and go to bed. I am thankful, at least, that I have a week with my Mom to get better before Tennessee. It's easy enough for us to lay around and read and take the occasional walk. But it would be terrible to feel like this just as you were finally with the person you've been dying to meet for 2 months.
How dreadful knowledge of the truth can be when there's no help in the truth.
-Sophocles, (495-405 BCE)
One of the great mistakes is to judge policies and programs by their intentions rather than their results. -Milton Friedman, economist, Novel laureate (1912- )
Criticism, like rain, should be gentle enough to nourish a man's growth without destroying his roots. -Frank A. Clark, writer (1911- )
Ignorance, allied with power, is the most ferocious enemy justice can have.
-James Baldwin, writer (1924-1987)
From my close observation of writers... they fall into two groups: those who bleed copiously and visibly at any bad review, and those who bleed copiously and secretly at any bad review.
-Isaac Asimov, scientist and writer (1920-1992)
If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. It it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day. -E.B. White, writer (1899-1985)
News is what people want to keep hidden; everything else is publicity.
-Bill Moyers, journalist (1934- )
A child, like your stomach, doesn't need all you can afford to give it.
-Frank A. Clark, writer (1911-
We find comfort among those who agree with us, growth among those who
don't. -Frank A. Clark, writer (1911- )MCO 2006
Well yesterday my friend Michael decided to accompany me to Griffith Park, with, as we have long discussed, a video camera. While grandiose me wanted to start filming "The Trash Pickeruperer," as we talked, we realized that the documentary would be much more compelling if it had a much wider scope than just me.
I have long wanted to examine artistically what I call "The Lazarus Syndrome." I have dealt with it in articles and in essays, but I think it needs something broader and deeper. I'm talking about a huge swath of people, tens of thousands of long-term survivors of AIDS, who thought for years they had but a few years left to live, and found out they were wrong. All these (mostly) gay men who made all of these different choices than they would have otherwise made, who learned to live without a future, and then...ye gads...got it back.
The adjustment, for so many, has been huge. I don't think there's any historical precedent for it, and I think it's a fascinating subject to investigate. I want to be one of the men interviewed for the film and I want to find others to interview. I'm even pitching the idea to my documentary-making nephew.
Anyway, so we're walking along, and I'm picking up trash from the creek, and talking to the camera, and I'm looking away from where my feet are and suddenly, I slide right off the embankment and boom, boom, boom, I'm a good three feet down, plonk, in the creek. Right on my back. Hard. It was surreal, almost slow motion in my head. (frankly, I could have very very easily done some real damage, I was very lucky)
My life didn't flash before me, but visions of "You Tube" or "America's Funniest Home Videos" did, and I immediately yelled out "Don't turn the camera off!" After ascertaining that I was okay, (I don't even hurt today) we continued the walk, sans my drenched shirt of course. (The furry body fans in certain southern rectangular states would have enjoyed this part.) Then then camera battery ran out.
But we got some good footage, I think. Unfortunately, Michael says the perspective didn't quite convey how scary it looked live. But it should still be funny...I'll have to see for myself.
MCO 2006
Top left, a cup with a ducky and a face on it, (plus a little Photoshop modification) probably doodled by someone bored in a car. I think it's cool that the last thing they would imagine is the cup they threw out being seen by hundreds of people. Call it my somewhat odd creative justice for the litterer.
I also disposed of a Victoria's secret bag, and my eye caught the contrast between that label and the label of the Ralphs bag in which I threw it. It led me to think that strippers have to go shopping too.
Lastly there's a note I picked up in a park that reads: "As it would seem from up here as well, it is just as dead as the rest of the park which is say at this point that it is fucking dead as it can get on this kind of down fucking day. It's a matter of fact the entire day has been one hell of a day right from the beginning. I can't say I'm really all that surprised..."
You know, sometimes I see someone at a picnic bench writing, and I wonder if they are the new Hemingway or if they're just writing drivel but hoping whoever walks by will think they're the new Hemingway. It seems I have my answer.
Yesterday at six a good friend called and told me she had an extra ticket to "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels." Of course I jumped at the chance. It was SO GOOD. Inventive, funny, original, tuneful. Frankly I usually find most shows overblown and in need of cutting. This one was adorable from start to finish.
Congratulations to my buddy Glen who aced his psychology final. He called me first because I talked him through an agonzing paper by helping him realize the jargon what just a complex way of expressing stuff he already knew. It made my morning.
Unfortunately, I woke up with the awful cold my roommate has battled for a week. I guess it was inevitable. At least I should be through it before I get to Tennessee Tony's.
MCO 2006
My roommate, David, got this spray-on tanning booth installed in his salon, and is doing this "Blonde Bombshell Makeover" promotion. I created this flier, and am hoping I might somehow have a local brunette reader who's in the mood for a change. If not perhaps she'll find it via google. My roommate and I help each other out, and recently, it's been him helping me more, so I'd like to return the favor. I'm also proud of my little creation-all via cut and pasting found images on the Internet, add Photoshop, and voila!
One way he's helping me out is to help pay to board Gaza with a houseful of rescue dogs while I'm away. It's a big house with a yard, and I figure that it'll be a vacation for him too. I was very anxious about him being alone all day with no big hike like he gets now, and only a short walk in the morning and again at night.
I haven't heard back from Richard about the rewrite. Meanwhile my prisoner buddy, Mike, is being increasingly revealed as a Dungeon & Dragon freak! That's how he passes the time when he's not working or sleeping, and I don't know much about it though try to send him requested material like character sheets. Anyway, if any of you have a nephew or little brother or grandson or are yourself D&D players, I thought I'd throw it out there. I'm always trying to get Mike another penpal with similar interests.
MCO 2006
P.S. If yuou like my "storitinis", you'll love this website: http://www.foundmagazine.com/
I hereby christen the invention of a new artform, the "storitini." It's a mini-short story, the length of a paragraph or two at most, inspired by something I have found in the trash. An expanded caption, really. (If anyone can come come up with an even better word, I'm game. Let me hear it.)
I found this photo on Franklin Avenue at Hobart, on a particularly heavy trash day. The back of it reads:
De Ninon
Para: Jaime
I Love You Baby.
Nunca te olvides de mi. te estare esperando [Never forget about me. i'll be waiting for you]
I miss you.
My storitini: Jaime was the one who couldn't wait. After Nina (Ninon being an affectionate diminuitive, with a squiggle over the n) gets these big-titted pictures done all special to send poor Jaime in Iraq, he writes her that he fallen in love with someone else. It's either that other girl he was writing to, his "cousin" (except not his cousin, they weren't even related) or that lady Sargeant, that Puerto Rican from New York, he refuses to say.
And then he has the nerve to say he wants to stay "friends." Fine, well friends don't need to look at other friends large breastseses. Into the trash it goes.
MCO 2006
I found this list on the street. I call it "L.A. Weekend." It's not the type of Beverly Hills, Pool Party, Brunch at Spago weekend of popular imagination. This is the weekend of a guy named Hector who works in a Sprint Store or Radio Shack in Alhambra or Montebello or Tustin. He comes into town to do some singing at a Karoake Club (the Gypsy Lounge), where his Thai girlfriend works. Then he visits his Grandma, who has a little house in Palos Verde, and then then he and his cousins all drive up to Six Flags for the afternoon.
As Meryl Streep says in "The Devil Wears Prada" - "That's all."
MCO 2006
So yesterday, I drop the found $20 into the collection plate at church. Then I stroll back to the car, relistening to some saved messages from Tony on my voicemail (yes, I've got it that bad, and he gives message that good) get into my car and I don't even realize until I get to Trader Joes that there's a ticket on it. For an expired meter. On a Sunday. The only frigging strip of meters in LA that charge on a Sunday because they're in front of a construction site.
The signs are also clearly marked and unequivocal--if nonsensical, as there is no activity that I could see on a Sunday. I had no one to blame but myself, which only made it worse. And I could see absolutely no value in this experience, just $35 that was so painful to part with, especially after the water pump expense.
Well, you can find meaning in anything, and finally, when I calmed down, it was, very simply, "Read the Signs." When it comes to parking in L.A., never assume. And I do use the services of the City of West Hollywood alot--there are worse places for the money to go. But boy, did it ruin the middle of my day. I wanted someone to hold me down and force a Bloody Mary down my throat, frankly. And picking up trash didn't help at all. I just got pissed at all the people who produce it. A call from Tony did help. It always does.
I finished the rewrite of "Caste..." and sent it to Richard. My fingers are way crossed. Now I must really recommit to putting that kind of energy into the memoir. It ain't gonna write itself.
MCO 2006
P.S. A man at the park did ask me where to get a trashpicker. Dare I hope to be sparking a trend?
I found $20 picking up trash! It thrilled me no end. Particularly as I wanted to go to church today but I hate going with nothing but a paltry $5 to put in the collection plate. This seems like an appropriate way to use found money.
It's really kind of cool the way the universe takes care of me. Yesterday I had a $455 repair bill for a new water pump on the car. I had half of that, and had to turn to the roommate for the other half. Then that very afternoon he had to use the car to get stuff from Home Depot to build a wall behind which will be the spray-tanning booth he's invested in. Translation? The loan will be a least partially a gift.
I've been working like a banshee on the rework of "Caste..." Whatever Richard's reaction will be, I think it reads great. The process has been a wonderful one for me. I LOVE editing, script doctoring etc.
I did a little research, and discovered an organization called QUIT - The Quaker Initiative to End Torture. I sent them my "Can you tell your kids what you did at work today" concept. You never know. This Internet thing is something else, isn't it? You really get to test the power of an idea.
I also has a long conversation with an inspector from the Department of Health who happened to be canvassing the building to make sure tenants had no violations to report. We talked trash for a good 10 minutes, and she was very supportive of my neighborhood initiative and gave me her info. I'm gonna stay in email contact with her. I don't exactly know where this is going, but it's going somewhere. I actually added another two blocks to my route, so the cleanliness now goes in a square. It's much more symmetrical--essential for a Libra.
MCO 2006
I snapped this shot of the most adorable of little girls celebrating her birthday in Griffith Park (the working class latino party-planner's favorite venue). Frankly all I thought at first was "what a fabulous dress" but suddenly this slogan came to me. Don't you think Baghdad should be plastered with the poster? I'd like to see thousands of billboards all over the world.
It would seem from my statistics that I have a reader in Morrocco. I don't supposed you could mock up an arabic version, could you?
My other idea (I swear the CIA should hire me for their Human Rights section--what's that? there is no Human Rights section in the CIA? I'm shocked!) are commercials that say: "It's 10 pm. Can you tell your children what you did at work today?" This would be to target men who torture. Some of them might be beyond reaching, but I believe that all men have consciences, no matter how effectively they manage to blot out their consciousness of them.
I've been told by a regular reader that he didn't realize I have made arrangements to visit Tennessee Tony. So in case I missed that, or you missed it, yes, I am going back east for Labor Day to visit my Mom, and then I will return via Nashville, staying there for a week. I don't dare invest too much in the outcome, it will be what it will be. I am going in with an openness to the future, including going out there for a while to explore further.
I am a little bit worried about my capacity to spend a lot of time with anybody, even someone I'm crazy about. I'm very unused to it. I just want to be as relaxed in person as I am on line, where I get to rehearse and rewrite and think through every word before I press send. Phone calls have been fine, wonderful even, but the conversations do not have to be sustained for an afternoon or an evening. We have yet to witness up close traits in each other that may prove irritating.
On the other hand, we'll get to touch each other. If that chemistry holds up--oh please Dear God, please--then I'm in for a helluva week.
MCO 2006
I picked up this note, written on a paper towel too large to fit my scanner, on a block I don't usually clean. It's a gorgeous stretch of one family homes that have gardeners and conscientious owners who generally keep it clean themselves. But it's a beautiful walk, so once in a while I just take the detour.
Anyway, the full note reads; "Thank you for letting me stay here but I couldn't sleep so I left. Claten."
Now am I the only one who immediately supplies a story to this note? To my mind,
Claten is the ex-husband who came over to shoot the shit with his ex-wife, Lauren. She's long since remarried, but her new husband--a corporate type--travels a lot. When Lauren and Claten met, he was a UCLA grad student in film who got a few awards for his short and thought he was on his way. He directed a few Lifetime TV movies and had something optioned at Warner Brothers but his career kind of stalled in the mid-90s and Lauren wanted to have kids with a grown-up, so divorced him for Paul.
Claten doesn't do coke anymore, (what stalled his career) but he can sure kill a bottle or two of wine at a sitting. This is what happened last night, so Lauren let him pass out on the couch. He woke up a few hours later to pee and it's true, he couldn't fall back to sleep. He couldn't stop thinking that Lauren, who he never really got over despite a succession of girlfriends, was sleeping alone just upstairs. He couldn't stop wondering whether she would invite him into her bed if he went upstairs, but the thought that she might react indignantly instead forestalled him. The idea of it alone was enough to make him thoroughly alert, so he figured he was good to drive. But he couldn't find a piece of paper for the life of him, so finally grabbed a paper towel to scribble his note.
There's Ambien waiting for him at his one-bedroom on Sycamore. Or maybe he'll stay up and write awhile. He wonders if Lauren meant it when she told him to drop off his latest Visa bill. Or was it just the wine talking?
I'm progressing quite nicely on the edit of "Caste..." Tony does a good job of reminding me that he is the icing, not the cake (mmph..I gave him that metaphor!) I gotta keep my priorities, er, straight.
Love, write, Love, write, love, write. Walk the dog. Eat. Sleep. Call my Mother. The End.
MCO 2006
P.S. The trash pictured yesterday was all picked up this morning! Not by me!
You can imagine my frustration, trying so hard to keep the neighborhood decent, and then confronting messes like this on my walk. Why the fuck is it so hard to throw your garbage in the bin? (What I do is just pick up a bit of it, a half-a bag's worth each walk, and then in a week it'll be gone.) But it's all worth it when later on, an older women with two sweet dogs who I see every morning says to me: "You know, I've been meaning to tell you for a while, it's wonderful what you're doing for the neighborhood. You should get a medal." Or course a big smile comes across my face. "Thank you so much. So you do you notice the difference?" This is the part I get off on. "Oh yes, it's HUGE. Everybody notices." I thank her again, BUZZING like you have no idea. Of course I enjoy getting the compliment, but far far more I so dig the idea that people who don't happen to be out and about during my dogwalking hours might have been saying to themselves: "Is it just me or it the neighborhood a helluva lot cleaner?" I imagine them thinking: "But that bag of McDonalds trash WAS right in front of my wheel last night when I parked, I am sure of it. And there was that empty pack of cigarettes too, and that restaurant flier." (The gardeners--thank God for illegal aliens-- do a great job cleaning up, but they only come once a month.) I love thinking of these people trying to puzzle it out, till finally they mention it to a fellow neighbor who says: "You haven't seen that guy with the dog and the trash picker?" Whaa---????
So I'm basking in the glow, and it's wonderfully familiar. It's the same release of endorphins I get every time I speak to Tennessee Tony. And when I go to a particularly good meeting. And when I have a great conversation with one of my sisters or my nephew. Or when I write a blog entry that I'm particularly proud of, or some solid new paragraph to the memoir, or a new scene to Caste of the Wounded Tongues. When I pet my dog, when I read a wonderful book. (All this is in descending order, and nothing trumps a talk with Tony, to be honest. That's #1 glow-creator at present.)
What I'm saying is that right now, I'm a happy man. I experience abundance more than scarcity, hope more than despair, love more than hate. And while acknowledging this may not last, I notice a pattern since getting sober. I still go up and down like everybody else, but both the lows and highs are higher. The graph remains jagged, but is trends gradually upward. That 12-step cliche I always hated is starting to become true for me. My worst day sober is indeed, better than my best day high. Who woulda thunk it?
MCO 2006
P.S. And yes, it's a God thing, ultimately, but that word/concept is so weighted, and talking about it so tinged with the baggage of moralizing that I despise, that I will just leave it as subtext.
I received the most unexpected and pleasant email yesterday. A local couple, Richard and Tiffany, had discovered one of my C.A.N.N. flyers and googled the "organization," discovering the blog. They sent me the NICEST, most supportive note imaginable. Like me they are appalled by the blight on an otherwise cool neighborhood, and anxious to do something about it. I wrote back what I have tried, what I suggest, and what we might consider doing together. Mostly I just appreciated the hell out of it. It so nice to feel I'm not alone in my quest, lunging at windmills with my sword.
I also marvelled at how this Internet thing has profoundly changed our lives. In fact one of my biggest regrets is that my brother Luke died just a few years before the Internet burst forth. He loved computers, and would have been passionate about it. He would have taught himself web design and thought up one of the early dot.com enterprises. Oh well, if he was reborn in another body at the time of his death, in 1991, he is now 15 1/2 and probably a computer whiz. That's actually a very comforting thought.
I found this list yesterday, written on notebook paper, in pencil.
TAHIRY - Eating Luncheon Outside
JASMIN - Eating in Nave's Room
JACKIE - Lying
LIZABETH - Hollering
ISHTA - Eye Ring
CHRISTINA - Face Ring
ARROYO - Missing
What could this list have possibly been for? Somebody in rehab taking an inventory of the flaws of the other residents perhaps?
Guesses invited.
MCO 2006
P.S. Tony going strong. We have the best phone conversations--lots of laughter.
P.P.S. - Overheard "I didn't consider myself a street person. I considered myself an 'outdoorsman.'"
I can't afford to contribute to any thing right now, so I'll contribute to change by posting something that just might sway a mind or two.
MCO 2006
I get this daily book excerpt from delanceyplace.com, and some of them are just too good not to share.
In today's encore excerpt, we read from The True Believer, Eric Hoffer's classic 1951 book on the nature of mass movements, first brought to national attention when cited by President Dwight Eisenhower:
"Passionate hatred can give meaning and purpose to an empty life. Thus people haunted by the purposelessness of their lives try to find new content not only by dedicating themselves to a holy cause but also by nursing a fanatical grievance. A mass movement offers them unlimited opportunities for both...
"There is a deep reassurance for the frustrated in witnessing the downfall of the fortunate and the disgrace of the righteous. They see in general downfall an approach to the brotherhood of all. Chaos, like the grave, is a haven of equality. Their burning conviction that there must be a new life and a new order is fueled by the realization that the old will have to be razed to the ground before the new can be built...
"A sublime religion inevitably generates a strong feeling of guilt. There is an unavoidable contrast between loftiness of profession and imperfection of practice. And, as one would expect, the feeling of guilt promotes hate and brazenness. Thus it seems that the more sublime the faith the more virulent the hatred it breeds."
Eric Hoffer, The True Believer, Perennial, 1951, pp. 96-8
MCO 2006
I found myself a bit haunted by my own words yesterday, when I shared that I seem willing to devote more time to working on the work of others than on my own. Richard is but one example, I could list many more. Motivation is a terrific problem for most writers, it helps immeasurably when the payoffs are immediate and concrete, rather than faraway and theoretical. This blog is the perfect example. I skip maybe 2 days a year. Whatever gratification you regular readers get--those little 5-minutes slices of interest proferred to my writing and my life by you guys--times however many readers I get a day (between two and three hundred, usually) constitutes an enormous virtual paycheck that gets me here without fail. Isn't it interesting how something without any physical reality can be so powerful? I create that gratification in my head, based on what I believe to be true. If I had no readers, I would not keep a blog. I would write a diary only if in my head I imagined it would be read one day. Let's face it, I am not a private person.
Strangely, I lead a solitary lifestyle. I spend enormous stretches alone. Which is good training for a successful relationship, I think, because I will appreciate the time spent together and naturally gravitate back to me and the keyboard, book or dog. It's a bit of a conundrum, I choose a solitary profession but am equally committed to the interaction my work brings.
I suppose, actually, that that's a completely pedestrian observation. Me and 99% of all writers feel this way, I guess. The question is, if I was on a desert island with pen and paper, would I write? Oh certainly, just to escape, to entertain myself--as I did in prison. But a significant part of the satisfaction I would get would be the perpetual fantasy I would have that what I wrote would be read.
Just as embarking on this rewrite of Richard's show, I completely get off on imagining the reaction of both Richard and the audience at this new version. What I'm trying to say, and perhaps it's exceedingly banal and obvious, is the pleasure of writing--which is considerable--is still not near enough to motivate me to write. And at my ripe old age, I might as well accept that and work with it than resist it.
MCO 2006
Of course it was completely unrealistic for Richard to incorporate any but a few of the changes we discussed yesterday into the second performance itself. He had memorized it a certain way, and he reverted to that. The show was perfectly respectable, with many excellent elements and moments, but burdened by just too many words and a 2-hour running time.
Still, Richard was and is justifiably proud of not having let his fears around it not being perfect stop him for putting himself out there and DOING it. It was an invaluable experience that served to sculpt a big block of marble 3/4 of the way down to the final product. The beauty of the finished stature is evident, what needs to be done is more chipping away at what remains around it.
I learned a few things, or relearned them really. That indeed collaboration is a powerful motivator--the time I have found to participate in a group artistic endeavor in the past two weeks was far more than I would have spent writing if I was alone. It certainly took its toll, I am exhausted today because I pushed myself in a way I don't with no deadline or expectations. It may be that I need to concentrate on projects in which I work with others.
I also learned how to keep my role right-sized. I was of service to Richard, I responded to all requests as best as I could, I gave some suggestions, but nowhere as many as were on my mind. Now I have the opportunity to present them all, and while I wish they could have been incorporated into the show, I had to let the creative process work--even if it meant some vicarious discomfort when Richard did not always get the hoped for reaction during part of the play.
I really need a nap.
MCO 2006
I am taping this to all the couches on the sidewalk in the neighborhood.
MCO 2006
Isn't this wild? Actually, I should said "Only in Thai Town" -- but the jeep makes it so L.A.
Extremely gratifying session with Richard this morning. We ended up doing almost exactly what I'd hoped he'd turn to me to do at the beginning of the week, which is CUT CUT CUT. And he gave me complete carte blanche to do another draft of the script minus about 15 pages after this is over. It was a dicey process though, because he is the playwright and defacto director, and the play is intensely autobiographical. But I stuck to my guns and won him over, convincing him that my only interest was in the work working the best it can work. Since it is the day of the second show, there is so much we can change without throwing off light cues etc., but it's going to be a much better show tonight, I am certain of it.
Boy this thing with Tony just gets better and more interesting every day. I've never felt so comfortable to show all of myself, the good and the annoying, the dominant and submissive, the confident and the needy--and vice-versa. And I let him know it's completely safe for him to show all the facets of his personality, and not to worry, I will call him (and do) on anything that needs calling on. If for some insane reason that cannot be predicted, the chemistry in person fizzles, I will have to keep him as my Internet lover, I think.
MCO 2006
Gotta run to rehearsal.
But I haveto recommend a movie: Quincineara.
Quattro Estrellas.
(And 10 Estrellas for Antonio).
MCO 2006
How often in life do you feel inspired to write something like this?
The poem is mine, the artwork by my friend Robert Rootenberg. Do check out his website. His artwork is amazing.
MCO 2006
From the New York Times:
"In one squat concrete home, an American sergeant and about six Iraqis moved from room to room while the owner, an older woman in a full black abaya, sat on a bed by the stove and watched. When a revolver was found, she was told that it would be confiscated because Iraqi law permitted only one AK-47 per family. "
Only one? And they call that democracy?
MCO 2006
Well, Google presented me with a joyful blast from the past this morning. My drama coach from high school, Ellen Dennis, found the blog. (Hi Ellen). She's arranging a reunion of favorite ex-students in New York at the end of September to coincide with a milestone birthday of hers. This is the only high school reunion that interests me, and I just have to find a way to go. (Nashville IS closer to NY, isn't it?)
Often teachers think they were supposed to be doing something else but teach. I know Ellen, who was also a writer and wrote many of the children's plays we performed at local elementary schools as part our "Magicmakers" troupe, may have had other professional aspirations. But in classic "It's a Wonderful Life" - Tom-Hanks-Accepting-His-Oscar-For-Philadelphia fashion, this woman had an impact on me and on scores of students that cannot possibly be understated. In the course of about 12 high school productions, I acted, wrote, directed and basically learned the craft of theater on a level that was far closer to professional than high school. In fact I was thinking a lot about it this very week, as it was this experience specifically that gave me the confidence, 30 years later, to feel that I could direct "Caste of the Wounded Tongues" if asked. The kicker is that I have been googling her periodically for years, to no avail.
Another Googlequence continues to unfold, i.e. the reunion of Jimmy and Amber. As Jimmy approaches his release date, it's clear that the years of prison have taken their toll. It's not a place that encourages growth and maturity. Guys usually keep going back because they have a problem with authority in the first place. Jimmy seems to have unrealistic expectations from freedom and from his relationship and from the future. Poor Amber is a bit of a wreck trying to figure out how to love him and yet maintain healthy boundaries so he learns to be independent and get back on his feet. The months afer his release are going to be quite a challenge, to put it mildly.
And now, the Tony sentence that is a requirement of every entry in case he's reading. But here, I'll whisper it, so that it stays between us. Lean forward. Okay. [INSERT SWEET NOTHING]. There you go.
MCO 2006
Sometimes I wonder if me now could talk to me when I was out there, if I could get through to me. If I could find the right words to convince me to get sober, before I had to go to prison. If I would have believed that however hard life can be without artificial "enhancements", it is far far easier than it is being an addict.
I tried to get through to someone still "out there" and I don't know if I did. It's not that he doesn't recognize that he has a problem, just that he finds all these tortured arguments against why the 12-steps aren't the way to go about solving it, at least not for him. I felt exactly the same way, and it could have killed me. It almost did. I pray he lets my experience save him even more grief than he's already going through, but that's entirely out of my hands. You say what you can and then you have to entrust them to their own journey.
Tonight a midweek treat, an old movie at the classic "Egyptian Theater" where American Cinematheque resides. "The Hard Way" with Ida Lupino. It one of those claw-your-way to the top melodramas that I unaccountably had not heard of.
It occurred to me that Tony has yet to see my imitation of some of my favorite screen icons doing some of their best lines. Like Anne Baxter in All About Eve, in her most hard-boiled moment, uttering "I'd do a lot more for a part that good."
Something tells me he's not going to go screaming from the room (perhaps the fact that he's reading "The Golden Girls of MGM.") Besides, I think he'll forgive just about anything if it makes him laugh. That we have in common.
MCO 2006
I have some personal beliefs about the theater that are rock solid, arrived at over the years after many a night in the audience and a few on stage as well. One of them is that no matter how good the material, very few shows merit a running time past two hours. Usually an hour and 1/2 is plenty, a little more for a particularly juicy drama or big musical. But for a one-man show, I think 75 minutes is plenty and 90 minutes is absolutely tops. (I shared this opinion with Richard before I started working with him, concerned that I could discern no clear grasp of a running time for his show.)
Unfortunately, the show came in at just over 2 hours, and this was a problem. There was no one monologue or song that was out and out weak--though some stuff worked better than other stuff--but it was impossible to make the entire play fluid enough to crackle. (Think hair that is lush and beautiful but too long for a Fantastic Sam's commercial) I tried to gently urge some cuts on Richard when we ran lines, and he said that he was absolutely willing to examine everything after these shows, but with a week to go, he had to freeze everything. If we were in previews, this cutting and reshaping would be part of the process, no one would expect a finished product. Unfortunately there is but one remaining show and it could be be reviewed, and it can be very hard to get all your friends to pay $20 a ticket to come and support you more than once every few years. A lot is riding on just one night.
So I sit here in frustration. I am absolutely confident that, if asked, I could make the necessary cuts and enough suggestions to turn the yacht in the bay into the sleek cutter it needs to be. But I am not the director, and if I offer any suggestions without being asked to do so, I risk my friendship with Richard. It is just not my place, even if it means watching a less than an optimal production result, one that I think I could have made better. Richard knows my skills, he knows I am here for him, if he wants to turn to me, he can. He's a sharp cookie-he knew what wasn't working, and he has good instincts and loads of theatrical experience. I have to trust in the artistic process working though and in him, and his capacity to make his own decisions and turn to the people he trusts for advice. And let go of it if he doesn't choose to turn to me.
It's tough. My first instinct is to try to control and fix everything. I think Richard is so talented, and want the show to be perfect and for him to bask in the glory and do the show again elsewhere. I also, quite frankly, would love to be partially responsible for an improved show, not only because I have a healthy ego but because I would enjoy the process--which is basically editing--enormously. This whole experience has been my passport back into the theater. I love it--even though I can't imagine sustaining the 12+ days, end on end, that it would require to do it on a shoestring. (Yesterday practically killed me. Two tech rehearsals and then the show--even though my own assistant prop mastering went without a hitch).
I'm 99% sure Richard never reads the blog. Isn't it weird I can share this publically while I don't feel comfortable telling him personally? (unless asked). And if he does read this, well, I have received several "break a leg" emails, and I just can't not honestly share about what the show was like after talking it up for days. At this stage of the game, I think you readers could smell inauthenticity from me from the first sentence. And its hardly bashing the show or his talent to note that it is too long.
Side note: Tennessee Tony gives GREAT text message. He made my personal intermissions from the show blush-ridden. Damn. That Man.
MCO 2006
The premiere of Richard's play is tonight. I just love that word. Premiere. Even though it's a French word, we use it a lot more in English.
Yesterday we rehearsed again, and I was particularly proud of my impromptu contribution. Due to a scheduling snafu, we didn't have the theater--it was reserved for a dance workshop. So the crew did a "paper tech" (a rehearsal on paper) and the stressed Richard told me to find a place to rehearse. The ever resourceful assistant stage manager (it's official now) I googled, "cemetery" and "Santa Monica," and found one three blocks away. So I got a fullblown private runthrough under a big tree, amongst the ghosts (so appropriate for the show), although the Director took over near the end as I had to go to take care of Gaza. I still haven't seen/heard the very last scene, and will have to do so from the wings, as I am co-prop Master for the show itself. What fun.
Thank God I'm not allergic to bee stings, cuz walking Gaza yesterday I got stung by a Wasp--twice. (This is what happens when you're stuffing bags of stuff like sticky popsicle wrappers into trash cans, I guess). I had no idea there was a Wasp on me, and the sting was quite a shock. One was on my back and the next above my ear, and both sort of radiated down, and I wondered for a second if I wasn't having a heart attack. (As a former screenwriter, I tend to see everything as a potential dramatic scene: "MARC staggers, and collapses, clutching at GAZA's leash.
MARC
(to dog)
Get...help"
But then I spied the wasp, in its death throes, on the ground. So I just hoped I hadn't developed an allergy in the last 40 years. I haven't, but it still hurts, 18 hours later.
The offending Jetta FINALLY left the parking space, leaving my note on his car unceremoniously on the pavement. I hate people with a sense of entitlement. Unless, of course, I am dating them, and then I think it's hot. (And I refer specifically to them feeling entitled to all the attention from me they desire, whenever and however they desire it.)
Do wish the show well in your prayers around 7:30, PST. And remember, the expression is "Break a Leg" not "Get Stung." (That's what you say when dropping off someone at the concert of an aging blond rock-star).
MCO 2006
So for two nights in a row I've been awakened at 1 in the morning because someone is parking in the wrong space. (I'm the assistant manager of the building, and evidently the manager sleeps through her door knocks). The first night I thought the offender was a one-time overnight guest, now I think it's a confused tenant who really thinks that's his or her space. (As the assistant, they don't tell me anything because they barely pay me anything--$50/mo off rent.)
Both times I gave my own space to the wronged tenant, and last night left an angry note on the offending car. The first night I parked behind someone else, knowing I would wake up early enough to move it before they went to work.(I should have prefaced this by saying that in this neighborhood--where it might as well be Manhattan--taking someone else's space is considered grounds for justifiable homicide.) Last night I decided to take a spin around the neighborhood and hope for a miracle.
I don't know if this qualifies quite as a bona-fide miracle, but I have NEVER, on the first try, managed to get into a space where LITERALLY, there is ONE inch leeway on either side. That made it easy not to be too angry and get back to sleep after some ice cream, but also I can't seem to get angry with anybody or anything these days. Being in love [there I said it] is a powerful thing. I have to remember that for when this initial, overpowering sensation subsides--let's say, in 10 years
However, if it happens a third time, the bee-atch gets towed, for I will take the repeated offense as direction personally from the Parking God that getting towed is the lesson that needs to be learned by this misquided soul. I hope to get a memo out to the building, but this is not a good day for it, as I'll be in rehearsal for Richard most of the day. Which reminds me:
I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork. -Peter DeVries, editor, novelist (1910-1993)
MCO 2006
Last night I saw the sweetest thing. An Armenian family around the corner was decorating the entrance of their building for a wedding. I guess this is how a lot of people with limited resources celebrate. Either that or it's part of some kind of ritual procession, because the mother of the bride or groom (or so I assumed) was taking flowers out of a Jaguar. Of course, in California lots of people are up to their noses in debt because they think having a hot car is essential. I am so of the mind that not having a hot car is an opportunity to remember that things are just things. I no doubt will sing a slightly different tune when I can afford a hot car, but I will definitely never indebt myself for a status symbol.
Yesterday was an 8-hour tech rehearsal. It was both tedious and produced a great feeling of being helpful and depended on. I did all kinds of things, none remotely glamorous. Halfway though, on a sandwich run, I got the best call from Tony. We PLAY so well together. I have never been aroused and laughing at the very same time before. I'll let you imagine what our conversations are like.
I am as happy as I was in 4th grade when I was the first rotating class president The next month it was my best friend Kent Ruffo, and the next month was my "girlfriend" Kathy Cho. When I finished my work early, I got to play librarian of my Junior National Geographics that my Grandmother had gotten me a subscription to. I used to read them over and over again, like other kids read comic books. I had my favorite issues, and photos--of jungles and exotic places and cities. I loved the little pile I would loan out to classmates, checking their name out on a list.
Fourth grade was heaven, though I didn't know it at the time. I thought all of life would be that good, and only recently can I say I've recaptured that feeling of buoyantly living in the present, with a dash of excited anticpation for an optimistic future.
MCO 2006
This is one of those days that your Mama didn't tell you about, because she was afraid you'd never have one like it and she didn't want you to feel bad if you didn't. She figured you'd feel good enough if you did, and hoped you'd realize it and appreciate it then.
Nothing remarkable has happened. I just see life as itself remarkable, the interplay between cause and consequence as utterly magical. I feel like I get to make an impact, all day long, on all sorts of people and situations, in a good way. I feel like I make a difference.
I feel loved and cherished and appreciated. I feel smart and sexy. I'm seeing God in everything. And yes yes yes I'm sure the intensity of my joy is in direct proportion to the fact that that man from Tennessee is so goddamn sexy and likable that I just wanna swim the English Channel for him. Which is a slightly quirky way to say it, but I don't know how to say what I want to say without saying what I can't possibly say about someone I haven't physically actually met yet. (What I want to know is who told him how to turn me on so well...Mmhhh...Let me think....Oh, that would be ME! Well, he's a very good listener.)
But, honestly, beyond 6 ft 2" studs who seem hellbent on turning me into a mushy idiot, Richard has asked me to come in on the rehearsals of Caste of the Wounded Tongues from here until opening night. After walking the dog, I'm headed to rehearsal. And all because I said "Yes, whatever you need" --and meant it--when he asked me if I might be able to help him out 2 weeks ago. That feels awesome.
Between you and me, I attribute all of it to picking up trash 3 hours a day. You know why? Because a lack of humility has always been my most glaring character defect, and there is nothing so humbling as picking up garbage.
If I get any happier I might just have to tie weights to my ankles so I don't float away.
MCO 2006
Fear of fear is a pretty pervasive human sentiment and a definite marker for alcoholics. It is the emotion we seem to experience the most and we are most likely to medicate over. But I realized yesterday how it can also be my friend.
Simply put, I got in touch with the truth that you can't have real opportunity for joy and intimacy without feeling proportionately vulnerable to hurt and loss. We'd all like to have love with guarantees of no pain--it ain't gonna happen. Even in the very best case scenario, when you live happily ever after, one party is going to die before the other. You can't have love without risk, ca n'existe pas.
I'm happy to say that I can't think of any past relationship in which the object of my affection has given me less cause for any fear, yesterday included. But I realized that such moments were unavoidable, and--here's the breakthrough--not to be avoided. That's when I know that I am truly willing for all the good to happen, because I am also willing for it not to happen. At worst, it would be very uncomfortable, at this point I think I would even grieve--and that includes if it was my feelings that changed, or didn't end up being what they sure seem to be at present. But the pain wouldn't kill me (like I actually thought the last relationship's might), and I don't think it wouldn't threaten my sobriety.
But the snese of vulnerablity does tell me that I am open to going places I've never gone before. That I'm presenting the real me-warts and all, but also the best of me. It looks pretty much like I have every reason to feel confident--he sure as hell does. But, finally, what happens is in neither of our hands. That's scary, but also incredibly liberating. All I need to do is try to be the best and most authentic Marc I can be--moments of fear included--and let go of the results.
MCO 2006
P.S. I googled Berdayev (see yesterday's entry.) Fascinating philosopher. A little over my head, but also, some of it--particularly about the primacy of creativity as a spiritual force--I felt very much in sync with.
MCO 2006
There is a tragic clash between Truth and the world. Pure undistorted truth burns up the world. -Nikolai Berdyaev, philosopher (1874-1948)
Well isn't that a provocative quote?
It begs the question, is there such a thing as pure, undistorted truth? Fundamentalists and extremists of every stripe would say there is; their truth, whether exemplified in the Bible, the Koran, or the sayings of Chairman Mao. (Doesn't it bother them that others are just as certain as they are? In essence, by being so certain about their truth, they are calling others equally certain about an alternate or conflicting truth deluded or liars. Quelle surprise that there are conflicts between them. In fact, I think I just described the reason Bush's foreign policy is doomed.)
In my opinion, the only truth is that there is no truth. What burns up the world is certainty. Although, I suspect Berdyaev wasn't meant to be taken so literally, that perhaps what he meant was a burning up that occurs less literally, that certain "truths" shine so brightly on a plane that we cannot perceive that they overcome certain falsehoods. That if you are in a gulag or a concentration camp, and you maintain your humanity and capacity for kindness, that it is more powerful, karmically, than the cruelty and oppression that confines you. (Of course, this could be my projection. I'll have to google Berdyaev and find out what he was about.)
Speaking of "truth," this Mel Gibson thing is a kick in the pants. In my experience, "in vino veritas"-in wine there is truth. When the inhibitions come down, who you really are is amplified. For example I am a generally upbeat, funny, flirtatious and very opinionated guy. When I got drunk, I became very upbeat, very funny, very opinionated, and very flirtatiious. In a gay bar this often led to a lot of fun conversations and encounters, particularly as those I was interacting with were also invariably tipsy and the atmosphere was such that lowered inhibitions and heightened sexual response was not only appropriate, but the reason we were there. Other times, my behavior could veer dangerously into obnoxiousness. I am hardly unique, rather the contrary. Such is the nature of drunkeness.
Mel Gibson was raised an anti-semite--his father is a holocaust denier. Anti-semitism, as the great swath of Eastern Europe can attest, is passed on from generation to generation. It's practically an inherited disease. It may have been the tequila that took the lid off, but what was underneath was real, Mad Max. (Don't these fervent Catholics realize Jesus was Jewish?)
Luckily, I have yet to see any character defect that the 12 steps cannot address. Rehab is the right place for Mr. Gibson, but I think he should save his amends until they're genuine and sincere. Some people are in need of a fearless moral inventory rather more profound than what comes from an I'll-never-work-in-this-town-again hangover panic.
MCO 2006
P.S. I'm just waiting for the cover of Time or Newsweek to read "The New Cold War" - as it starts to dawn on everybody that after World Skirmish III calms, we will be in for a long haul stand-off with the Islamic Fundamentalists. I predict if the West ends up prevailing, it will not because we "win" anything, any more than we "beat" the Soviet Union. It will be because the Shiites, Sunnis, Baathists, Wasabis, Iraqis, Iranians, Al Qaedists etc etc. implode under the weight of their own differences.