Hold Your Tongue.

I have fairly vivid dreams. Being very detail oriented in my waking life carries over into my dream world, often with comic and sometimes nauseating results. Case in point:

Last night I dreamt that I was in New York with my roommates, Ian and Christopher. We were walking up 8th Avenue, somewhere in Chelsea, looking in shop windows, slowly making our way north. Christopher was complaining that he was hungry.

"We just passed a whole line of restaurants," Ian pointed out. "Why didn't you just go in and get something?"

"I didn't want anything from those places," Christopher replied, stomping his foot in mock petulance.

I rolled my eyes. This is a fairly common mealtime exchange. It was at this point that the dream took a slightly more surreal turn. I realised that I had been carrying a small, stainless steel surgical tray the entire time. On that tray, for all the world to see, lay two tongues. Human tongues. Suddenly aware of the excess of space in my mouth, I deduced that one of them must be mine. Ew. No one else seemed to think much of this particularly grisly fact. Neither Ian nor Christopher made any mention of it. None of the strangers we had passed on the street had granted me even one horrified look of acknowledgment. Strange...


In a flash (the incongruent kind, so popular in dreamscapes), we were on 7th Avenue, closer to midtown, still heading north. We passed a small deli.

"I want something from here!" Christopher piped up.

"Fine," Ian said. He looked to me, I shrug-nodded in compliance.

We entered, and I was immediately struck by how small and dark it was - not typical of a New York deli. Where was the white linoleum? The brightly lit deli case? The chrome accented tables and vinyl booths and chairs? This place was gross (thought the woman carrying the tongues). Everything was dingy and brown. The swarthy man behind the counter would have looked more at home in a butcher's shop, with his bloody apron and slaughterhouse scowl. Christopher stepped forward, ordered his food and took it to one of the unappetising tables.

"Dude, we're not eating here," Ian told him. "We have to be someplace."

Christopher turned away slightly in his chair, and continued eating. Ian gave me a pleading "do something" look, which I answered with my best "he's your husband not mine" look. He sighed, turned back to the proprietor, and ordered his lunch. "Umm, Italian hoagie, please, with mayo...To GO!" he added pointedly, over his shoulder.

"What are you havin', lady?" the deli man asked me.

I shook my head, declining.

"Well, I have to weigh those to charge you for them," he indicated to the tray in my hands.

I withdrew the tray protectively, grunting my objection.

"Oh, n-n-no," Ian interjected. "She came in with those."

Deli man looked at us both skeptically. "Show him," Ian prodded.

Sighing in resignation, I let my mouth drop open, revealing the gaping hole where my tongue should have been. The man covered his mouth in revulsion. Finally!, someone who acknowledged the ick factor of the situation!

"You're gonna have to leave," he waved me toward the door.

I stared at him in disbelief, my jaw still dropped open. My gaze drifted from his slightly green face to the dimly lit deli case. Cow's tongue. Pig's feet. Brains?!? But of course, I was the gross one. Butthead. He shuffled me out the door. Ian exited shortly after, sandwich in hand. I motioned toward the door, questioning.

"Chris is staying here," he said flatly. "Let's go."

He walked to the curb. An old, beat up sedan was parked and waiting for us. He made his way around to the driver's side. I balanced the tray in my left hand, reaching down to open the passenger door. Just like waiting tables, I thought, well, without the whole "tongues and car door" thing, but hey-a tray's a tray. I gingerly snaked my way into the seat, finally resting the tray on my knees. The car was musty inside. Somehow, I recognised it as Ian's car. It bore no physical resemblance to his ACTUAL car, but hanging from the rear view mirror was the tell tale "Bumblebee" Transformers key chain. He unwrapped his sandwich and handed me the paper.

"D'ya mind?" he glanced at the tray in my lap.

I covered the tongues with the deli paper so he could eat in non-grossed-out peace. He drove up 7th Avenue, eating his sandwich. It struck me that 7th Avenue was one way, headed downtown, and in another dream flash, we were driving up 6th instead. Poor Christopher, he'll never find us now. I felt hungry. I thought longingly to myself that Koreatown's great veggie restaurants were just a few blocks to the south. Apparently, it's possible to daydream in your sleep. I snapped out of it in time to notice that we were about to miss our turn. I clapped, panicking, indicating with my hands that we had to turn right - NOW! One-handed, tires squealing, Ian executed what my mother used to refer to as a "bat turn", and we came to a stop in front of a tall granite building. Entering the building, we marched purposefully through the lobby and onto the elevator. I pushed "4" with my elbow, and we fell into elevator stance - eyes up, facing the doors, watching the numbers climb. We didn't speak. I obviously couldn't, but it struck me that people rarely do speak in elevators. I wonder why that is? Ding! The doors opened onto a nondescript hallway. Drab bluish carpet. Drab whitish walls. Drab brownish doors. There was a window in the wall, a short way down the hall, and to the left. We walked up to it. A round-faced nurse greeted us cheerily.

"Can I help you?" she chirped.

"Yeah, my friend has a little, um, problem," Ian answered. He stepped aside and presented me.

I had removed the paper before we left the car, and there they were. Two human tongues. It looked to me like rigor or atrophy was setting in. The tips had begun to turn under, giving them each a distinct "lobster tail" appearance. I opened my mouth. Say "aaah". I was so over this.

"Oh, dear," the nurse replied. "Come in and sit down. The doctor will see you shortly."

The door next to the window loudly buzzed its permission for us to enter. I started at the noise and the tongues lolled to one side. I tried to right them, but their increasing curvature sent them taste bud side down on the tray. Great, now they look like a pair of elf shoes. We entered what should have been the waiting room. Instead, it was a single, small room that served as the nurse's station, reception desk, and patient waiting area all at once. Oh, joy, I even multi-task in my sleep. I sat in one of the chairs along the back wall. Ian sat next to me.


It was the first time I was able to really examine the contents of the tray. One tongue was slightly larger than the other. They had lost a significant amount of their colour. They were more bluish-grey than pinkish-red. Lovely. I picked up the smaller of the two. I heard Ian make a disgusted noise next to me. I grunted, teasing him and laughing a throaty, tongueless laugh. He turned away. The tongue was firmer than I thought it would be. It must be dehydrated, I thought. I turned it over. I recognised the striping on the bottom,despite its change of colour. It was definitely my tongue. I turned the severed end toward me. The ends of blood vessels peeked out like small, empty straws. The exposed muscle was a pale, almost white yellow. I pinched the base of the tongue between my thumbs and forefingers. I felt two hard lumps beneath the dry flesh. Tumors? They were symmetrical in size and placement. Glands, maybe? I squeezed harder. Two streams of saliva shot from the underside of the tongue and hit the tray in my lap. Their tinny report garnered the attention of my bladder. Not now, I chided.

I had an idea. I took a deep breath through my nose, and braced myself for the gruesome task. Before I lost my nerve, I hurriedly fed the base of the tongue into my empty mouth. Do not throw up. Do. Not. Throw. Up. You're just putting it back where it belongs. I winced as the cold, dry thing slid past my lips. It lay dead in my mouth for a short time (although it seemed like an hour, at least), and then I felt something warm in the back of my throat. It was blood. I could feel the tissue knitting itself back together. I continued breathing through my nose, wondering if my internal gross-out meter would ever drop out of the red zone. My tongue felt swollen and foreign, but warmer. It twitched. I smiled, relieved.

"Ah tink ah fissed ih," I muttered.

Ian jerked his head toward me, glancing at the tray and then at my slightly embarrassed face. "Please tell me you didn't."

"Mmhm," I admitted, biting my lips and nodding.

"That has GOT to be the grossest thing I've ever..." He shuddered, unable to finish the thought.

"Wuh-ebuh. Ih wus mah tungk." The swollen feeling was subsiding. My tongue was still too dry. It kept sticking to the inside of my mouth. I could now taste remnants of mayonnaise and...Pastrami? I haven't eaten real meat in so long, I can't ever be sure of those flavours. Damned deli paper. What little blood I hadn't swallowed, I tried to swish in my mouth. It wasn't helping. "Wahduh."

The nurses and Ian all looked at me, confused. "Wahduhr!" I repeated a little more clearly, making a drinking motion with my hand.

"Oh, water!" one of the nurses translated.

Ian reached into his backpack (where the hell did that come from?) and grabbed a small bottle of water, tossing it to me.

"Fanks," I offered, a little blood trickling out of my mouth. He turned away again. "Shicken." I drew half of the contents of the bottle into my mouth. My tongue felt like one of those "just add water" sponges. I felt it slowly coming back to life. I swallowed the blood-tinged water, cringing at the slightly metallic taste. I moved my tongue up and down, back and forth. "Wah cuhluh?" I inquired, pushing the still numb tip out through my lips. One of the nurses came over to examine it.

"Ooo, it's still a little purple, but it looks nice and alive now," she encouraged.

I swigged the rest of the water, but didn't swallow it. I sat there for a bit, cheeks ballooned out, waiting. I began testing the normal acrobatics of my tongue, rolling it and flip-flopping it inside my tightly closed, full mouth. It seemed to have reattached completely. I swallowed. "I think it's okay now," I announced, my speech clearer, but still slightly thick. I slapped Ian on the shoulder to get his attention. He hesitated. I threatened him. "If you don't look, I'll bite into a Popsicle the first chance I get." Having extremely sensitive teeth, even the thought of that sends shivers down his spine. He finally looked at me, judging it to be the lesser of two evils.

"Clam tongue?" I asked, opening my mouth and executing one of my more impressive lingual tricks, mimicking the rippled edge of a clam shell.

"Yes, but that's still gross," he conceded, shaking his head. "I think I liked you better with your tongue on the tray."

"Bitch."

It was the last word I spoke before I woke up this morning. I sat up in bed, my fingers automatically in my mouth. Still there. I reached over to grab the water bottle from my night stand, draining it. I sat with my mouth full of water, just like in the dream. I wondered a number of things: What the hell did I eat before bed last night? How did I lose my tongue in the first place? Why were there TWO tongues? What ever happened to Chris? Why was Ian driving a junker? As the fog of sleep lifted from my mind, it all took on the appropriate veneer of nonsense.


Hopefully, my brain will decode these images in time. The symbolism of losing one's tongue might have to do with keeping secrets. Aside from having quite a few secrets of my own, I have enough dirt on other people to start my own cemetery. People tell me things. Secrets happen. It could also be my subconscious mind reacting to the new "open book" policy I've instituted, particularly here, on this blog. If that is the case, it's too bad. I'm on a roll, now. I have no desire to stop, nor do I intend to.


Frankly, I'd rather cut out my tongue.

Come On, Vogue!

I love movies. It's an element of my identity that people learn very soon after meeting me. One of my earliest memories is of going with my mother to the Vogue Theatre in Louisville. The single screen theatre opened in 1939, one of the greatest years in the "Golden Age" of Hollywood. It was the year of "Gone With the Wind", "Goodbye, Mr. Chips", "Stagecoach", "The Women", "The Wizard of Oz", and "Ninotchka", just to name a few. Opening amid this glut of soon-to-be-classic films was something of a harbinger for the theatre. When it's life as a first-run theatre came to an end, it became a revival house, and many of those same films found their way back onto its screen, where they would enthrall new generations. I was happily among one of those generations. On that first visit to the Vogue, I saw Franco Zeffirelli's "Romeo and Juliet". It was one of my mother's favourite films. The experience stands out in my mind for a number of reasons. Aside from being my introduction to cinema, it laid the groundwork for my love of live theatre as well. It was Shakespeare, after all. It is also one of the few memories I have of my short-lived tenure as an only child. I was four. Despite my tender age, I was rapt. I even cried at the end when *SPOILER ALERT* the young lovers perished. Did I mention that I was four? I think my mother knew at that point that spelling "grown-up words" in front of me was an exercise in futility.

At that point, movies became a passion of mine. They provided a much needed respite from a difficult childhood. I visited the Vogue many times in my early life. I remember vividly the excitement of getting the Scene section of the Courier Journal on that one magical Saturday every month when they would publish the calendar of movies and show times for the theatre. I would examine the listings, running my fingers over them until the tips were stained with whatever colour ink they had chosen for that month. Finding a particularly good entry was better than Christmas to me. I can't tell you how many times I saw "Gone With the Wind" there. I saw "My Fair Lady" and "Singin' in the Rain" on that screen. Later in my life, after I left Louisville, I would visit the cousins of that beautiful old theater - the County Theatre, in Doylestown, PA, the Ritz Theatres in Philadelphia, the old Silent Movie Theater in L.A., the Film Forum in New York. There is something so thrilling to me about sitting in a theatre as the lights dim, knowing I'm about to watch a piece of cinematic and cultural history unfold before me. Some of the glittering gems I've seen include Chaplin's "City Lights", Harold Lloyd's "Speedy" (his last, and some say greatest silent film), Greta Garbo in "The Kiss", ALL of the Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers collaborations, "Casablanca", John Frankenheimer's "The Manchurian Candidate", "The Philadelphia Story", "It Happened One Night". I could go on. Revival houses are harder to come by in this day and age. Thankfully, Turner Classic Movies fills the void, but I'm always on the lookout for the real (or "reel") thing.

Sadly, the Vogue closed in 1998. It's a strip mall now. Ah, progress. Not unlike many things that pass from this world, it lives on in fond memories. I can close my eyes and see its marquee, tall and bright against the night sky. I can hear the hum of it's neon still. I see the smudged, flyer-filled glass of the little freestanding ticket booth, tucked just under that marquee. I can even see the piece of toilet paper that hung for years like a lone stalactite from the high ceiling of the auditorium - a remnant of one of the more exuberant midnight screenings of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" hosted by the theatre for a quarter of a century. These are memories swathed in the aroma of stale popcorn, with a soundtrack of tennis shoes trapsing through the tacky remnants of spilled sodas. It makes me smile just thinking of it.

My time in those dim theatres contributed so much to who and how I am as a person. My aesthetic sensibilities were born out of the great imagery of those classic films. My ideals of both male and female beauty, my sense of humour and history, they can all be traced back to those flickering images. I've often been told that I seem to come from another era. I credit that to the lessons I absorbed from the great ladies of the Silver Screen: Garbo, Dietrich, Bette Davis, Carole Lombard, Vivien Leigh, Ingred Bergman, Katherine Hepburn, Claudette Colbert, Myrna Loy, Loretta Young, Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Crawford, Gloria Swanson, and my cherished Rosalind Russell and Audrey Hepburn. My taste in men hearkens to the great leading men of a bygone era - Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Errol Flynn, William Holden, and my absolute favourite, Gregory Peck. I can also say that the smoky, smouldering image of Gary Cooper laying eyes on Marlene Dietrich for the first time in "Morocco" (NOTE: it happens at 1:42) still makes me tingly and breathless.

I am the proud and willing reservoir to a sense of humour that can trace its roots back to Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton, W.C. Fields, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, Bud Abbott and Lou Costello, the Marx Brothers, Eve Arden, Lucille Ball, Fanny Brice, Sophie Tucker, and the incomparable Mae West. Good stuff. I'm sure if I sat here for a bit longer, I could double the length of each of those rosters. Easily. The only element of this pastime that gives me pause is that each and every person I just mentioned is gone from this world. All the friends and heroes of my childhood have left me. It's not so bad. I do have some pretty amazing home movies. They revisit me, in the wee small hours of the morning from the glow of my television, to comfort me in my haze of insomnia. They remind me about beauty, and honour, and history, and love. They remind me that I'm not alone in the world. When Norma Desmond speaks to those wonderful people out there in the dark, I know that she's talking to me. And I'm as ready for her close-up as she is, Mr. DeMille.

A Thousand Words...

I was surfing the net earlier today, checking out a few other blogs, and was struck by the fact that they were - well, prettier than mine. I never knew there was such a thing as "blog envy". One element that contributed to their visual appeal was the use of images. "Wait, you can use pictures to convey ideas? Madness, I say!" It took some doing, but I've managed to add a few images to existing posts. As comfortable as I am painting pictures with words, I'm desperately out of practice telling (or augmenting) stories with pictures. Don't even get me started on my lack of technical finesse. I have to keep it simple at this point. Eventually, I'm sure I'll get the hang of it, and I'll be adding videos and links, but for now, I'm sure the average 3-year-old could put a serious smack down on my computer skills. Damned kids.Anyway, stay tuned. I'm sure some of my image choices will be "inspired". Yeah, I went there.

Revisionist History

I started this blog to get back into the habit of writing. One aspect of writing is editing. Correcting and revising are an ongoing process. I reread these posts constantly. I'm not admiring my handiwork. I'm looking for mistakes. I find them and correct them. It's a theme in my life.

This is an open invitation to anyone reading: if you find a mistake - a typo, a sentence that is confusing or poorly worded, grammatical or punctuation errors, etc. - feel free to point them out. If you want to drive me crazy, just comment with the type of mistake (e.g. TYPO!) and leave me on my own to find it. Fun! I won't be mad, I promise, so long as it is a legitimate error. If it is merely a stylistic preference, you're on your own. Unless you can invoke Strunk and White, keep it to yourself. Please. I appreciate the help and interest, but I'm trying to find my voice, not yours.

If you are enough of a glutton for punishment to return to this blog and revisit one of the entries, you might stumble across a passage that wasn't there before, or find something missing or changed. I assure you, I'm not trying to "Gaslight" you. I'm the crazy, obsessive one, not you. Bear with me.

Oh, and by the way, if I ever do become a successful writer, the party will be at my place. You're all invited. You have it in writing. And no, that's not a typo.

Killing Me Softly

In late October 2006, I was in New York (I think for a doctor's appointment), and once I finished all of my errands, I decided to catch a movie. I grabbed a copy of the Village Voice to check the listings. Going down the list of theatres and movies - no...not interested...I'll wait for the DVD...no...no - I came to the entry for the Quad Cinema on 13th street. I love this theatre. It's small, with only four screens, but it's very "art house". They show a lot of foreign and independent films. Given it's location in the city, it also has a fairly strong LGBT showing. Jackpot!, John Cameron Mitchell's new film "Shortbus" was playing, and I had just enough time to make it across lower Manhattan for the next showing.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Mr. Mitchell, he co-wrote and starred in a little off-Broadway rock operetta called "Hedwig and the Angry Inch". I was fortunate enough, through a friend, to see the show from the front row. The show, the music (oh, the music), and Mr. Mitchell's performance are to this day among the highlights of my theater going life. I met him briefly after the performance. Given the tour-de-force I had just witnessed - or perhaps because of it - he was surprisingly subdued, but exceptionally gracious. I am a fan of his as much for that graciousness as I am for his considerable talent. He went on to write, direct and star in the film version of "Hedwig", and the translation captured and expanded the experience of the show without compromising its impact and appeal. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.

"Shortbus" had been touted, in the few reviews I had read, to be a frank, no-holds-barred examination of the obstacles to intimacy that existed in New York City post 9/11. He captured perfectly the duality of that moment in the city's history, when people banded together in an unprecedented way, while conversely giving in to the personal isolation of a world where such a horrible act was even possible. Mr. Mitchell had assembled the cast through a series of ads in the trade papers on both coasts. Drawing from the pool of relative unknowns who had responded, he subjected them to a series of auditions designed to bring together a final cast that would be capable and comfortable when it came to the vision he had for the film. Given that the storyline and "script" were constructed from a series of workshops and improvisations, he also need a troupe of performers, musicians, and artists who connected with one another on a very basic and creative level. To say that he hit the jackpot is a gross understatement. Most of the cast are still close, personal friends with one another. The finished product is frank to the point of being shocking (initially), but ultimately it is a work of collaborative genius and a beautiful piece of art in the canon of film.

As I sat in the theatre, marvelling at what I was experiencing on the screen, a young character entered the frame, clutching a PDA and fussing about his hair. His name was Ceth (yes, with a "C"), and he was brought to the screen by a young actor named Jay Brannan. In the moment he appeared onscreen, I experienced what could on be described in retrospect as Tribal Recognition. I knew this kid. We had never met. I'd never seen or heard of him, but the recognition strummed through me. It resonated. I kept watching, increasingly affected by the movie, and each time Jay reappeared, there was that feeling again. Don't misunderstand, it wasn't a carnal thing (although he is a beautiful boy). For lack of a better word, I was drawn to him on a more "spiritual" level. It was as though we were made of the same stuff - from the same "tribe". The movie ended. I left the theatre, walking the streets, letting the cool air work its magic, clearing my head. I know that feeling of recognition. I've felt it many times over the course of my life. It's been responsible for most of the significant relationships I've had. I'd just never experienced it without the object of its inspiration actually being in the room. Curiouser and curiouser...

I took the train back to Pennsylvania, went back to my daily routine, and put it out of my head. I had promised my friend Ian that I would take him to New York the day after Christmas. He wanted to see "Shortbus", but had missed its run in Philadelphia. It was still at the Quad, so we decided to make a day of it. I had spent Christmas day in D.C. with my best girlfriend, where we saw "The Children of Men" and "The Good German". I made the drive back to Philly that afternoon, where I was meeting friends for an 8:00 showing of "Dreamgirls", then got up the next morning for the trip into Manhattan, where Ian and I saw "Volver" and then "Shortbus". Yes, kids, that's five movies, in three states, in two days. A personal best. No applause, please. Just throw money. Despite my fatigue, I spent the first ten minutes of "Shortbus" excitedly watching Ian's face as his jaw made its gradual trek toward the floor. That alone, would have been worth the trip. Then Ceth/Jay entered the frame, and there it was again. That feeling. That recognition. I wasn't so quick to dismiss it the second time.

Mercifully, I didn't have to work the next day. I sat at the computer, checking e-mail, researching. The usual. It struck me that I should google Jay, to see if maybe I had seen him somewhere before. The search turned up a few listings on YouTube, his IMDb page, and a Myspace listing. I checked IMDb first. There was a single credit - "Shortbus". On to YouTube. There were three videos. I clicked on the one called "Body's a Temple", sat back and watched. His hair was buzzed off. He was shirtless, because of the heat in his small apartment. He cradled a guitar. I knew he was a musician, because he had played a song ("Soda Shop") in the movie. After a short intro, he played his song. I sat mesmerised. I'm not usually comfortable watching other people sing. I don't know why, it's just a quirk of mine. He was so effortless and honest, I couldn't NOT watch. I went on to the next song, "26-Hour Day". I listened to the lyrics and by the end of the song, I had tears in my eyes. He had it. That thing that makes artists great. The "It" factor. The lyrics alone were enough to garner my devotion. I grew up on Joni Mitchell, Jim Croce, James Taylor, Dylan, Joan Baez. My mother was a musician. Folk music speaks to me in a way that is surpassed only by my beloved Big Band music. Folk was the soundtrack of my childhood. Here was this beautiful, sweet boy, with his brilliant lyrics, and his shy, unassuming performance. Killing me softly. I went onto Myspace, found his profile, sent him a friend request (couldn't hurt), and an e-mail telling him how much I appreciated his performance in "Shortbus", and how beautiful I thought his music was. To my surprise, and his credit, I received a response thanking me. It was the start of an unintended correspondence. That April, he played a show at The Living Room in New York. I went to the show, but didn't tell him I was coming. I stood in the back, with no intention of introducing myself. I was there for the music, nothing more. He even brushed against me on his way to the stage, and still I said nothing. I held my breath and waited for him to start playing. He thanked everyone for coming. He thanked the staff at the Living Room for the opportunity to play there. Gracious. Charming. Then he started his set. Each and every song was worth the two hour trip. It was the start of quite a run for me, watching him perform live. I e-mailed him the next day to let him know how much I enjoyed the show. He chastised me for not letting him know that I was there. I apologised and promised that I would make it a point to do so at his next show. He booked a pair of shows at Mo' Pitkin's in New York the following month. I went to both shows. I was hooked. He spotted me before the first show started, recognising me from my Myspace profile picture, and made his way over to introduce himself and thank me (THANK me!?!) for my kind words. Was this really the same boy to whom I'd had such a profound reaction at the Quad Cinema such a short time ago? It was. Our association has unfolded slowly over the last two years. I've discovered other tribe members through him - Brent, Dee, and my darling Amy - whose talents and presence astound me at every turn. I pledged to him in those early days that I would do anything and everything I could to support him. All he has to do is ask. I think his music and his voice are important and necessary.

Jay doesn't always understand the devotion he inspires in people. It's not in his nature to tout his own abilities. Personally, I will be forever grateful to John Cameron Mitchell for the many opportunities afforded to Jay by his participation in "Shortbus". He has been invited to present the movie at festivals around the world. He now has 73 videos on YouTube. That number doesn't include the countless videos taken at his live shows and posted by fans. He has self-produced and released "Goddamned" - a CD of original music. He has played shows all over the world, with an ever increasing international fan base clamouring for more. I myself have attended 15 of those shows in the last 18 months, from coast to coast. I flew to L.A. for a much needed mini-vacation when he played at the Hotel Cafe. It was worth it to see the look on his face. He saw me and said, "Hey! Thanks for coming." Then it struck him that we were 3000 miles from our respective homes. "Holy shit, what are you doing here?!?" Good times. I took the train to Boston to catch the first show of his official tour. I've seen him in Philadelphia and D.C. I like to think I've contributed in my own way to his being able to eat his beloved Ramen on more than a few occasions. He questions my sanity fairly frequently, but I don't care. I promised him at the beginning that I was in for the long haul. He has contributed so much happiness to my life, it's a small price to pay in return.

I encourage people all the time to check him out online. Start with YouTube. Start with 26-Hour Day. It's a scathing, beautifully written commentary on the policies of the previous "administration". It is mercifully on its way to being outdated, but spectacular nonetheless. Buy his CD. Buy a t-shirt. Call me, I'll take you to one of his shows. What do I get out of it, besides the chance to see one of my favourite people in the world? I get the knowledge that an important voice is being heard. The quiet thrill of seeing a friend expand his success. I get to feel something that comforts and invigorates me. It's a little thing called Tribal Pride.

No Comment.

A few friends have sent me messages stating that they tried to leave comments on the blog, but weren't able to. After checking all of the settings (and putting my fluency in Vulgarian to good use), I can say that the comments section IS, in fact, completely functional.

After you type your comment, you must select a profile. It's the little drop-down menu just below the comment composition field (if you're not sure what profile to select, just choose "Anonymous", and sign the comment - don't be a chickens**t). After selecting a profile, hit "Post Comment". A separate window will pop up for the word verification. If the "word" doesn't display, hit enter, and the field will refresh with a new word. From there, it shouldn't be a problem and the comment should post. I'm sorry for the difficulties. Thank you all for reading and trying to share your thoughts. I hope everything is copacetic now, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Trust me, it's so easy, a monkey could do it. Peace.

Saved by the belle...

My introduction to beauty was an unconventional one. I'm not talking about aesthetic beauty - the kind that is touted on billboards and in magazines, or is exemplified by the most popular models and actors of the day. I mean real beauty. The kind that stands out in the mind and changes something about the way you view yourself and the world around you.

I was attending the University of the Arts in Philadelphia in the Fall of 1988. Very often, between classes, any number of students could be seen running the streets from one building to another. One afternoon, on one of those particular excursions, I happened upon a sight that has stayed with me for more than two decades. It was late in the day, and many people were making their way home from work. Running for taxis. Waiting for buses. The streets were crowded, and it started to rain, sending hives of people scurrying into nearby alcoves and entryways. It was in one such alcove-a high arched, stone recess-that I saw a woman whose face would someday play a role in saving my life.

She had been badly burned at some point in her life. Her skin was mottled and too pink. She wore a pale bandanna and a long coat buttoned all the way up to her neck. No eyebrows. The cartilage from the end of her nose had burned away. The point of the bone, in concert with her delicate chin, gave her face an almost reptilian look. In the moment that I saw her, she stood at the right outside edge of the alcove, the rain making faint crosshatches at the hem of her coat. Her chin was up, her narrow shoulders held perfectly square. Her posture was ramrod straight and her tight gaze never faltered. She was not alone. To the far left of her, as far as they could be without surrendering their shelter, were a mass of business men and women. Cowering. Huddled together. A sculpture of collapsed umbrellas, tweed coats, damp newspapers, and shoulder pads, trying to stay as far away from the "monster" as possible. Yet there she stood, her seared lips a resolute line across her face. She was the embodiment of dignity, and the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen. I have tears in my eyes just thinking of her now.

On August 5, 2002, my life was not going well. I wanted out. I think of that dark moment often, when everything gets still and quiet. The moment that I sat on the floor of my room, desperate and despairing, with an X-acto knife pressed to the skin of my right wrist. They say that just before you die, your whole life "flashes before your eyes". I can't say that my whole life played out like some Midnight Movie, but there were snapshots. The greatest hits of me: The day I met my brother, fresh from the hospital, and introduced myself, greeting him by his full name and rubbing his head...stepping off the bus the day I started first grade...my parents explaining that they were divorcing, and that we were moving...the endless procession of new schools, and teachers, and friends...learning to fit in wherever I landed...my first time on stage...the first boy I loved...all the smells that had written themselves on my memory...all the music I loved...the face of the last boy I loved. This stream of images hit me in a split second as the point of the blade broke the skin. It was like a sentence spoken too fast, one that I didn't completely understand. The final image stopped me. It lingered like an ellipses...that beautiful, heartbreaking face reached across time to remind me that true dignity can survive anything. I paused long enough for the drop of blood to grow and succumb to gravity, making its way into the palm of my hand and pooling there. I was calm, then, in a way that I had never been before that moment. I put the knife down, got up and went to the bathroom. I washed and bandaged my wrist. I remember looking at myself in the mirror. I can't describe what was different, exactly, but I can tell you that I have never been the same. I've never looked at my life the same. Beauty changed the way I looked at myself and my world. I sit here today because of a stranger whose name I do not know.

It took a couple of years for things to start looking up, but I never again slipped into that dark, downward spiral. Not even when things got worse. Eventually, I stopped feeling that all of my time was borrowed, and got to the business of living and dreaming and working. I can say with absolute certainty that the only regret I have from my life thus far is that I'm not able to reach back through the years to that rainy, cold day in downtown Philadelphia. To hug that woman. To thank her for my life, for every laugh, every tear, every face, and sound, and scent that I would've missed if she hadn't taught me that there IS beauty in this world, and that it isn't merely worth living for, it's worth fighting for.

My wrist healed. There is a faint scar, practically invisible thanks to vitamin E oil and a camouflage of creases. I rub it every once in a while, when I have a particularly difficult decision to make. It gives me comfort in a strange way, much the way I imagine rosary beads comfort a devout Catholic. I've spent a fair amount of time over the last decade being stared at, or pointed at, and even being whispered about. I'm different, too. I revel in the sisterhood of it. My posture gets a little straighter. My shoulders square. My chin lifts ever so slightly, an eyebrow arches, and a faint smile plays across my lips. Let other people cower. I'm too busy being beautiful.

You never know who might be watching.

Blame Facebook.

I check my Facebook page obsessively. There, I said it. What do you want from me? I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I drink so infrequently that when my friends see me with an alcoholic beverage in my hand, they start searching behind the bar for alien pods. What I'm trying to say is - I need at least one effing vice, here!



I digress.



In the last several weeks, I've noticed a number of my "facebook" friends being "tagged" in a note of some kind or another. One that caught my eye was "25 Random Things About Me". Hmmm. I normally shrug those things off. They're usually mindless surveys, and while I'm reading them (oops!, caught me), I can hear Deborah Kerr-cough Marni Nixon!- singing "Getting to Know You" in the back of my head. This one was different, though. No twenty questions. No single-word answers. Twenty-five random pieces of personal information. No rules. No parameters. Hmmm, I say. I did just make a promise to myself that I was going to be more open...

I caved. This is what came out after the canary died:

1. I am competely ambidextrous. I can write, draw, throw, eat and slap people around with both hands.

2. I'm the oldest of 7 children, but I don't speak to anyone from my family, so I have no idea where or how any of them are. This seems to go against the "be more open" thing, but it's all about the baby steps. Also, I was the first born in my generation on both sides of my family. No pressure there, I assure you.

3. I was born on April Fool's Day. People who know me even a little, know that this is the PERFECT birthday for me. My life is rarely as it seems AND I love to make people laugh. At least the universe got SOMETHING about me right.

4. There isn't a single person in my life who knew me before the age of 20. It's very liberating.

5. I want to be a writer when I grow up. Actually, anything artistic or creative will do. I was a performer when I was younger (acting, singing, dancing), and an artist/painter as well, but writing has the strongest pull, and it gets more intense as I get older. Oh, the stories I have to tell...

6. I don't subscribe to any particular religion. They all seem like bastardisations of the same basic mythology to me. I don't get the whole "us" over 'them" mentality. Spirituality and balance are inherent human impulses. I'll never understand why people can't just go with what works for them and leave others to their own paths.

7. On that same basic note, I think "Holy War" is by far the stupidest pairing of words ever created. "President Bush" is a very close second.

8. I've lived in 7 different states: Kentucky, Indiana, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Nevada, California, and Florida. Gypsy much?

9. I hATEd school. I could read and write before I started 1st grade, so I spent 12 years being BORED OUT OF MY FREAKIN' MIND. College wasn't any better. I left after a year, but I've always read voraciously, have an amazing memory, and I will kick your ass at Jeopardy!, so bring it, bitches!

10. Speaking of reading, I absolutely love the Twilight series. Harry Potter is up there, too. I know they're "kid's books", but I read so much serious material, it's like a jacuzzi for my brain to disappear into a world that is so imaginative and engaging. Plus, I heart Edward Cullen.

11. Farts make me laugh like a 4-year-old being tickled. What do you want from me? I grew up with 5 brothers. Don't judge me! LOL

12. I love flowers. My absolute favourites are white Calla lillies and purple irises, especially together, but any will do. They just make me happy.

13. I don't eat animals. I don't have pets, either. Animals belong in the wild, not in our houses or bellies. Leave them be.

14. I've loved five men in my life. #1 died a long time ago. I haven't seen #2 in about 17 years. #'s 3 and 4 are like brothers to me now, and they both have exceptionally beautiful, cool wives. I love them all. The jury is still out on #5. I'm hoping to get to that "brother" place with him. Wish me luck.

15. Music is immeasurably important to me. The 30's and 40's are my favourite decades (music, movies, fashion - except the underwear- furniture, cars). Big band music cures what ails me every single time. That being said, I was a teenager in the 80's, so I get a little charge when something from back in the day comes on the radio. Go-Go's anyone?

16. I love watching sports. I know it's not very "girly", but really, it's 2009, for crap's sake. Get over it. P.S. Baseball and Australian rules football are my top 2. Hockey is right behind them, trying to start a fight and move up the list.

17. So many of my friends leave me speechless with wonder and awe. My life is crazy and complicated, and they just roll with it. It really is an embarrassment of riches. They're funny, talented, brilliant, compassionate, and loyal, and if I don't say it enough, "I love you all." P.S. - they're a damn good-looking crowd, too.

18. I have no idea if I'm a good kisser. It's not that no one has ever told me, it's that I've been single/celibate for about 25 years (and no, that isn't a typo, I refer you back to #17...crazy, complicated life), and no one has ever had the chance to find out. This isn't a "poor me" thing. I've been alone for a very long time, but I don't ever remember feeling lonely. Don't try to figure it out. It'll only give you a headache.

19. I love the smells of mint, basil, baby powder, green tea, the ocean, horses, baking madeleines, and pavement just after it starts to rain. Each of these scents has a very strong, happy association from my past, and they always cause a strong emotional shift when I smell them. If you ever want to calm me down, throw me out of a cab when a storm hits.

20. The song "Sand and Water" is on the short list of non-movie things that make me cry.

21. The only thing I've ever been afraid of is losing my memory. The loss of the coping mechanisms alone would finish me. It's taken me a long time to put those mechanisms in place, and without them, it would be like someone else trying to live my life, and I don't know anyone who could do that but me.

22. I long for the day when this body doesn't feel borrowed anymore. I'm working as hard as I can to get there. Just stay out of my way, and nobody gets hurt. ;-P

23. I'm unusually susceptible to other peoples' moods. An unfortunate result of this is that moods are often attributed to me that aren't actually mine. It's also the reason I don't do crowds - WAAAY too much stimulus, and not in a good way. Theatres are the only real exception to the "no crowds" thing. Movies, Broadway, concerts... people tend to be really happy in those places. I always get kind of a contact buzz at Broadway shows. Good times.

24. My Mother's family is Mediterranean (Lebanese, Egyptian), and my Father's family is of British descent (English, Irish AND Scottish). Some of my fondest childhood memories are food-related, admittedly more so from the Mediterranean faction, but I have a soft spot for English pub food (I miss my Nan's banoffee pie). It's harder to veganise, though.

25. Facebook has changed my life. I've reconnected with so many people from my past and found them happy and well. That alone makes it worth every obsessive moment I've spent hunting for people and having to explain who I am. It's also the reason I regularly fall asleep with my Blackberry clutched in my hand. Sad, but true.

Where to Begin?

I don't usually put my life on display. It's messy. I suppose in this day and age, most lives are. I'm not here to commiserate, though. Nor am I here to "clean up this mess". I've exiled a large number of people from my life over the last four decades. I've had my reasons in each and every case: betrayal, fear, crossed boundaries, protecting them, protecting ME. Some have made the trip back into my good (ahem) graces, and I into theirs, but many have not. I suppose my primary motivation for starting this blog, aside from getting back in the habit of writing on a regular basis, is to catalogue my life - to create a user's guide for those who find their way back. A "Jumping off the Cliffs" Notes, I guess you could call it?

My entire family is among the exiled. If I never find a way to rebuild that bridge in my lifetime, I want to leave SOMETHING behind to let them know that I was okay in the end. That things worked out. That even though I pushed them all away, I never stopped loving them. All of the uncomfortable, hurtful pieces fell away, and I was left with a strong and peaceful affection for my early life. It gave me all of the tools I have needed to navigate the twisted, broken path my life has taken since then. My family is largely responsible for those tools. "If they were so wonderful, why push them away?", you might be asking yourselves. I remind you, for purposes of illustration, that the most effective tools are forged in fire, hammered into shape, and tempered into hardness. When the tools are made, you have to leave the elements of their making behind, take them out into the world, and see what you can build with them. I have been forced to use those tools in very unconventional ways. I don't wish to offend their makers, nor do I wish to be told that "that's not what those are for". This particular exile is in the best interest of all parties concerned. Trust me.

Perhaps someday, when my "project" is complete, I'll make the trip back to the factory, as it were. Until then, the only olive branch I can offer in good conscience is a promissory one - the promise to document my life as well and as openly as I can, in the hope that that documentation will find its way to the right people at the right time. Also, I might be able to enlighten and entertain a few others along the way.

Feel free to comment or criticise if anything moves or offends you. I realise that everyone has an opinion on these things. If you hurt my feelings, I might bite back, but I'll get over it. I suggest you do the same. It's just a blog, you know.

Peace.