Ranting Details

Clown Faces and Kisses

I often wonder what happened to the girls who had to endure me at middle school dances.  It was, after all, the one night where I couldn’t create excuses in order to avoid contact with the female folk my friends were so eagerly pushing me toward during recess.  Normally I’d concoct a plan, scribbled on a yellow notepad, which I could defer to any time a girlfriend called the house.  My mom would yell up to my bedroom and I’d pause the copy of Seven Brides For Seven Brothers playing in my VCR, scramble to find the written monologue of choice for the night, then click onto the phone line and regale said female with stories about my commitment to creating a new spaghetti dish or catching a deer that evening. In actuality I’d be ripping Britney Spears photos out of Tiger Beat. 

However elaborate my notepad schemes became, I was never anti-social enough to bow out of a school dance.  Inevitably, they’d be pumping Spears’s latest hit through the loud speakers and there was always a chance I could execute a bit of her video choreography in the corner if the crowd was big enough and the lights dark enough.  It was during the other songs I’d be forced to interact with my peers.  They’d reside, scattered around the cafeteria in different packs, bucking on each other like the deer I’d used as a scapegoat.  I managed to abstain for the majority of middle school, but I almost didn’t make it out of our final 8th grade dance alive. 

Our lunchroom had been converted just for the occasion: each table, usually covered in a thin paste of fruit punch and crackers, had been shoved to the side, and the white linoleum floor had been polished as to become the perfect reflector for the rainbow lights the DJ had set up.  While the college student turned MC was never the same, I always had a moment when I’d try to place where I knew them from.  He looks just like that drug addict from the D.A.R.E. videos we watched in gym class, I’d think to myself.  Yes, I’m certain that’s the cokehead from the fourth scene.  I imagined his lighting rig must have been purchased in some drug-induced trip to Spencer Gifts at the mall and his only way to feed his habit and acquire a collection of lava lamps, was to play the latest Swedish pop songs for a gaggle of pre-teens.   Not that I was complaining.  My favorite songs to lip-synch to were usually cooked up by the Swedes. 

Unfortunately, none of my friends were impressed by the fact that I knew every syncopated beat to “Bye, Bye, Bye.”  But it was the syncopation that saved me.  Any number without a thudding base line was slow enough to draw boys to girls like my Montana friends were drawn to hunting rifles. As I was the “sensitive” type in boot-cut jeans and a turtleneck my mother and sister had convinced me was the “perfect look” during a Santa Monica vacation, girls tended to flock to me as soon as the lights dimmed.  This particular night was an endless barrage of requests, as everyone knew I was fleeing town to attend high school in another state.  All through the night I obliged, certain that three minutes couldn’t be that bad, while secretly hoping one of the teacher chaperones would patrol our area for the entirety of the song.  Please, Ms. Horton, ask her to take her hands off my ass, I’d think, testing my Jedi communication powers.  My friends, meanwhile, were receiving most of the attention from the teachers due to the fact that they were kneading their girlfriends’ asses double time and licking their necks with a ferocity I’d only experienced when faced with a Hostess treat. 

My dance partners would glance over at our friends and then rotate their gaze back to me.   Each girl had clearly raided her older sisters’ Caboodle makeup case for the occasion.  Where there were supposed to be cheeks there were instead streaks of red that looked like they’d scrapped their faces along the brick wall at the front of the building.  In place of eyes: mounds of colored shadow that made Ginger Spice look like the Virgin Mary. 

Despite my confusion about the female life forms in my arms, the druggie DJ apparently had my back.  The night progressed and just as things were beginning to get uncomfortable with each dance partner, he’d throw in a party staple to ease the tension.  ‘Cotteneye Joe’ is my favorite song, I’d explain with a shrug of my shoulders.  Please excuse me while I go gallop in a circle.  And off I’d go, certain this lie was my best, most convincing ever.

It was while taking a victory lap during this hoedown of a song that I spotted a group of all my female friends standing by the Coke machine, primping Lisa for her final attack.  The lassoing motion I was making with my arm began to wilt.  All through middle school Lisa had done her best to attract my attention; she’d practically molded my face out of clay during art class one day.   (Little did either of us know that the only thing she could have molded out of clay to attract my attention was a penis.)  She persisted, and through my assortment of girlfriends I never so much as awkwardly held her hand at a movie.

Yet there they were, all of the ladies who had felt the sweat on my palm, feeding advice to the only thing standing between high school freedom and me.   My victory lap quickly turned into a panicked search for an exit path.  There wasn’t one.  And just as the song stopped and the gentle strums of Savage Garden’s “Truly, Madly, Deeply” took over, I heard the DJ stutter an announcement that this song would be the last of the evening...the last of our middle school career.  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Lisa and her teenage clown face staring at me. 

Do you wanna dance? she asked.  Bette Midler’s song started running through my head and I wished I were in my bedroom, waltzing in my socks.  Sure, I lied, not quite sure why I was so adamantly against what all of my other friends seemed intent on groping. 

She grabbed my hand and led me to the side of the room, near the table where the special-ed kids sat at lunch.  We did our best to move our feet, but I was only concerned with keeping to the prescribed meter-stick distance rule our teachers had reminded us about the day before. 

We rocked back and forth for a moment. 

I’m sad you’re leaving, she said.  It's weird that you won't be in high school with us. 

The best answer I could give was silence.  I would have been better served to continue speaking, because as soon as the words had left her lips, those lips were on mine. It was the first time I’d kissed someone since I pecked a girl on the jungle gym during recess in fourth grade and I wasn’t sure how to react.  We continued rocking back and forth as I felt beads of sweat forming on the upper lip I’d only recently begun shaving. 

The song ended and the fluorescent lights turned on, illuminating the girls’ make-up like felt posters underneath a black light.  I backed away slowly, and did my best to smile as Lisa ran back to the group of girls and giggled about the previous three minutes. 

After a quick set of goodbyes I made my way to the parking lot and the safety of my parents’ SUV, excited by the promise of a new world where middle school dances didn’t exist. 

Your Eyes Remind Me Of A Sexy Cat

Teenage romance is a mess.  High school is supposed to be when kids start pairing off with one another, forging relationships as heated as Harlequin romance novels.  Hormones are raging, heightening the animalistic urge for sexual encounters, and class periods become exercises in flirtation. Attention spans are limited to the length of notes passed back and forth, planning weekend debauchery or highlighting the latest failed relationships of people sitting two desks away.  So is the life of the typical American teenager.  By definition, I fell out of the “typical” category the moment I came out of the closet at the beginning of my sophomore year.  But there was a time—a tumultuous nine months when I walked the locker-lined hallways hand-in-hand with my girlfriend, Ashley—I was susceptible to scrutiny as unforgiving as the fluorescent lights above my head; I was typical.  Well, almost. 

Ashley was in my orientation group on the first day at arts boarding school.  She caught my eye immediately when we gathered on the lawn, trampled by the more masculine boys playing Frisbee as a collection of shirts and skins, in front of the two brick dormitories separating the sexes.  Her red hair and strong jawline seemed to emit their own angelic glow, perhaps brought on by years of pampering in Beverly Hills, the land from which she had journeyed.  I, on the other hand, was a strange pubescent creature: all neck, recently shaved mustache, and baggy t-shirts.  I blamed Montana. 

Any information regarding academic policy or snack bar hours floated above my head, because the only thing on my brain was the creature in front of me, each curve of her body accentuated by designer clothing or a strategically placed piece of Tiffany’s jewelry that made the rest of our group look like peons in comparison.  I was a living cliché: the gay man fascinated by the strong female drowning in attitude.  Only, I wasn’t willing to admit my burgeoning homosexuality to myself.

Instead, I forged a bond with the lost cast member of 90210, accompanying her daily to the cafeteria across campus from the dance studios where we spent our mornings.  We were inseparable. Our interest in each other made itself apparent through late night games of Truth or Dare in unused classrooms, as we would tentatively ask each other questions to bolster our confidence in the fact that the other was interested.  I signed in to visit her dorm room for viewing parties of romantic films like the neo-Nazi American History X, during which I was sure not to break any of the rules instituted by our Resident Assistants, like keeping one foot on the ground at all times and always having the overhead light on.  If our feet were off the ground with the lights off, then we surely were dating, and this early in the year we most certainly were not.  We were friends.  I knew this because every time one of the juniors, Sean, a flimsy, argyle-wearing gay teenager with hair as spiky as his words, came up to my locker in an effort to persuade me to “embrace the fact that I liked dick,” Ashley came to my defense.  Then I told her how amazing her hair looked and we headed to class.

(Follow the link!)

Lost at River

When I was seven years old, my father put me in a beat-up Ford Explorer and drove me out of town.  My family had moved to Missoula, Montana a year prior to this excursion, and it was there that I started to develop hobbies of my own.   Despite my affection for jump roping and roller skating on our driveway, I agreed to broaden my scope, to make use of the landscape that was unfamiliar just a year before in Los Angeles. 

We were to go fishing on Clearwater River, a narrow ribbon of water I’d only passed on the way to my aunt and uncle’s cabin.  The very thought made me wiggle like the trout we would attempt to catch. But even at a young age I could see the plea in my father’s eyes – he needed me to do this with him.  It was something he had done with his father over thirty years before, and a rare instance where tradition entered my family’s vocabulary. 

The morning of our trip, as my mother packed a cooler full of peanut butter sandwiches, soda, and snack cakes, I concerned myself with what outfit would go best with a river backdrop.  In the privacy of my room, the trip began to feel like an adventure of the size Disney characters took in my VHS’s.  But before getting caught up in the pending activity, there were certain factors to take into account while going through my closet: the beating sun on my Irish skin, water running around my ankles, and bugs.  I opted for an oversized yellow parka and blue jeans (figuring it would make me stand out among the camouflage waders of the elder fishermen), purple Converse sneakers, and a Yankees hat.

However wrong this outfit would end up being for fishing, I managed to make it to the car without any alterations from my father.  My mother, on the other hand, lathered me with sunscreen that made my pale skin even whiter, before I slipped from her grip and ran across my skating rink pavement to enter the shuttle to the unknown. 

From my co-pilot position of the passenger’s seat, I watched familiar benchmarks pass as we parted from civilization.  There was the McDonalds where I got breakfast whenever my parents saved me from the school bus.  There was the gas station that always resulted in a new Archie comic.  And then there were trees.  Too many trees.   Los Angeles road trips included bumper-to-bumper traffic, and being voyeur to people picking their noses in cars creeping alongside my family.  In Montana all I could be voyeur to was a family of deer.

As annoyance set in, my feet kicked at the glove compartment in an attempt to keep my calves from sticking to the leather seats.  Each time I turned my head to look up at my father, my gaze was interrupted by a thin black pole with string that looked like dental floss running the length of it.  I still wasn’t sure how I was going to toss it in and catch anything.  The only fishing I’d done prior to this was with a little plastic pole over a rotating collection of magnetized fish.  And even that was too outdoorsy.

 
All of the materials in our car felt more like props in my ongoing production of “The Life of Matt,” than tools to be used outdoors.  The two-person tent resting against my seat only had meaning to me as a backyard amphitheater that played host to an attack of action figures.  Normally after a few hours of tossing around inside, I became bored and ran back to the comfort of my own bed.  Sitting in the car, I wondered how I would be able to survive the night without my trusty picture of Bernadette Peters that was taped to my headboard (result of another hobby of mine: using a disposable camera to take photos of her on TV).  The thought of crickets and bears replacing her started to send my over-stimulated brain into frenzy.

Before I had time to fret over details that would be sorted out in the coming hours, we pulled off the main road and the terrain changed.  Smooth pavement was replaced by a collection of dirt and rock that had been leveled off to create a makeshift parking lot for aspiring fishermen.

My father jumped out of the car in his vest, adorned with custom-made flies, which he had taken to tying in our garage while smoking cigarettes. He looked picturesque, hauling equipment boxes out of the car, as other fathers and sons did the same from cars behind us.  I, on the other hand, jumped out and scanned the perimeter for somewhere to plug in our boombox, which I’d loaded with my roller skating anthems of the “Rocky Horror Picture Show” soundtrack.

What hadn’t been made clear to me during the hour-long ride was the desolate nature of the river at which we had just arrived.  I assumed there would be a campground of sorts (which in my mind included at least one McDonalds with the promise of a Happy Meal toy).  But what I saw was a collection of looming RVs with plush accommodations that put our tent to shame.  While most people would be enjoying the day, sitting around compact dining tables that converted into beds, my dad and I would be roughing it.

We slid down a small hill leading to the riverbank to get the excursion underway, carrying two rods and a plastic equipment box.  The plastic box looked like a Caboodle’s makeup case of my sister’s, only in subdued earth tones rather than eye-popping neon.  As my father opened it to attach a clear plastic bubble to my rod, I realized there were no press-on nails or lipstick like I was used to when going through my sister’s things.  Instead I got gnarly flies, spun out of colored string and hair.

After a quick demonstration where my dad did his best to look like a postcard for Montana tourism (he was an actor after all), I inched my way toward the bank while trying to keep my purple shoes in pristine condition.  I’d spent most of my young life doing imitations of my sister’s and mother’s dancing, so with a light toss of my wrist I did my best imitation of my father.  My fishing line made it a few feet out into the water, and all I could do now was wait. 

I turned to my right and watched my father standing in the middle of the river as water flowed around his calves.  The sun beat down on me, and just as I was beginning to lose interest in the solitary act of fishing, I felt a nibble at my line; there was movement.  For all I knew, I had caught a dolphin, as the weight tugging at the end of my pole was strong enough that my dad abandoned his post and ran over to help me reel it in.

What emerged was barely the size of my forearm and slimy enough that I thought the water was actually phlegm.  Even more puzzling was the fact that I had caught it.  My first attempt and I’d already progressed past my father.  (I’d never had such immediate success when trying new jump-roping tricks.)  For a moment I thought I was destined to be a fisherman.

Then a mosquito bit me on the neck.  I remembered that I was outdoors, and as quickly as I had reeled in the fish, I tossed it back.  All of my accomplishments were suddenly negated, as I was standing exactly as I had been five minutes before…annoyed and fishless.  Every time I turned my head I found a new creature creeping past.  There were bees in front of my face, water bugs around my feet, and mosquitos feeding on my skin like maggots on a carcass.

The excitement of my prodigious success wore off immediately.  All I wanted was to be in my bed at home under the watchful eye of Saint Bernadette.  But as the afternoon progressed, all I could do was relive my glory moment with no subsequent success.

By the time we packed up our gear and returned to the campground, my words (delivered in a piercing upper register) had turned into one giant sentence lamenting the state of my world.  The performance was a building monologue that reached an emotional turning point when it came time to erect the tent. 
A tangled mess of green nylon, the tent represented every fear I had about staying overnight in this foreign place where bears and deer had replaced my mother and sister.  As my dad unfolded it, I stood holding stakes that he would use to mount our portable house to the ground.  Fortunately, the makeshift parking lot that was to be our campground was on my side.

For each attempt my father made to drill the stakes into the ground he muttered an instinctual, “fuck.”  Each “fuck” made my whining shriller as I secretly hoped the combination would put us on a straight path back to civilization.  After thirty minutes of perseverance on his part, he threw the stakes to the rocky ground and gave me a look that granted all my wishes.

I helped gather all of the objects, in a rush of energy, that only moments before had been the bane of my existence.  Light spilled out from fellow campers’ RV windows, and as the sun went down we turned on our headlights and rode back to the smooth pavement.  We wove along the road that followed the path of the river, listening to Marc Cohn, and my eyes began to feel heavy.  The comfort of the leather seats enveloped me as we made our way back home. 

One of the Best "Sundays" Of My Life

JUST IN TIME FOR THE TONY AWARDS TONIGHT!  MY REVIEW OF THE LAST SHOW I SAW THIS SEASON. 

My parents must have given me over fifty VHS’s as presents during my childhood.  There were the animated classics (“Ferngully,” and “The Little Mermaid” come to mind) as well as live-action fantasies that fueled my creativity, like “The Goonies.”  But none compared to a VHS I unwrapped when I was five years old. 

My mother had just returned to our Los Angeles home from a trip to New York City, which I knew equaled a wealth of surprises the moment she unzipped her suitcase.  As she reached in, I impatiently bounced around on the floor of my parents’ bedroom.  Her arm unfurled to reveal a bag containing what I quickly deduced (according to the size and weight) was a video.  The bag crinkled as I reached my arm in and pulled out a bright orange VHS titled “Sunday in the Park With George.” 

What ensued not only cemented my devotion to the composer Stephen Sondheim, whom I discovered at the age of four with “Into the Woods,” but opened my eyes to the post-Impressionist painter George Seurat, whom the story is centered around. 

At that point it was the most poetic work of art about an artist that I’d ever seen.  (Of course, at five, the only other references I had were landscape painters on local PBS affiliates and instructional videos at pottery painting parties.)  The isolating devotion the central character of George displayed toward his art left a lasting imprint about the sacrifices of creation; that and the original production contained Bernadette Peters, who, at five years old, I was as fiercely devoted to as my own family members.  So it was with some trepidation that I went to Studio 54 a few weeks ago to catch the first Broadway revival of my dearly beloved show. 

Upon entering the converted disco I found a stage reduced to a portion of the normal size. Pristine white walls with a few large doors (marked only by small knobs) enclosed the space.  Other than an easel, and a few small tables, it was a bare stage waiting to be painted. 

From the moment the lights went down and Daniel Evans (George) delivered the famous first line, “White: a blank page, or canvas,” I felt a flood of memories rush through me.  But the question that remained to be answered was whether this production could transcend the nostalgia factor and win my praise by its own merit; the answer was a resounding yes. 

The first act of the musical focuses on the creation of Seurat’s breakthrough painting, “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte,” a masterpiece displaying his trademark pointillism technique (where small flecks of different colored paint are “dotted” on the canvas so closely together that the eye, not the paint palette, blends them).  James Lapine’s original 1984 staging used flats that emerged out of the wings, or the floor of the stage to create the “canvas”; the production at Studio 54 translates that idea to the 21st century with enchanting projections. 

My fear coming into the show, after hearing from friends that it resembled the “coolest Power Point presentation [they’d] ever seen,” was that the material would be upstaged by a gimmick; instead it creates a companion visual to the central theme of the show – the painter’s obsession with his work.  As the first act progresses, Daniel Evans sketches several of the characters populating his life.  With a slash of his hand through the air, a line appears along the white walls of the stage.  At times he grabs a small canvas and sits staring at it, only to see a projection of a dog come alive and interact with him, bouncing around the stage with movement that is impossible in a painting.  It is in these moments that the brilliance of the projections reveals itself: an artist’s work has a way of coming alive in their own mind (and ruling that mind) unlike anywhere else. 

Playing the role of Dot, a woman both in love with the flawed artist and trying to ground him, Jenna Russell was able to do the unthinkable – make me forget (at least momentarily) Bernadette Peters’ interpretation of the role.  Her character seems to ask the question of George: can you be a successful artist without the tunnel vision that takes you away from living your life? 

It is when negotiating the answer to this question that Sondheim’s score hits me in a way that has only deepened with age.  George is the type of artist whose only way to live his life is to bring order to it by creating.  From the time I discovered the show as a child, this has been a feeling I sympathized with. 

The brilliance of the show’s construction is how much it mirrors a Seurat painting.  Sondheim presents the audience with “flecks” of information regarding George’s relationship to the outside world and his art, leaving the audience to piece them together.  Much like the post-Impressionist’s work, it is clear enough to gather meaning, without being so rigid as to tell you exactly what you are seeing. 

What is currently playing at Studio 54 (until June 29th) has much more to recommend than just the brilliant show itself, and lead actors.  The sparse orchestral arrangements are too minimal at times, but it only adds to the power of some of the choral work by the ensemble at the end of the first act.  Each actor who makes up the ensemble has moments of striking clarity with the material (particularly Mary Beth Peil as George’s mother, whose rendition of “Beautiful,” (not Christina Aguilera’s) brought me to tears), which is often lost in Sondheim revivals .  Even through the second act, a notoriously flawed counterpoint to the perfection of the act before it, there are newly discovered moments. 

Sondheim’s work, on this show as much as any of his other work, has a way of polarizing its audience in the same way as George is isolated from the world.  Through the years that I have grown and revisited the show, I find it to be as textured as any piece of fine art; it will always reveal something new to the viewer, even after 17 years of living with it.  Sitting on my own in the theater, I looked around and wondered who was discovering the piece for the first time.  Here’s hoping they have as rewarding of an experience with it as I have.  Not everyone is lucky enough to have parents like mine.   

M&M Take Manhattan

Michael Lowney and I tried to start a jump-roping club on the first grade playground at Paxson Elementary.  We were going to charge people some exorbitant fee (was it $25?) to basically stand by us and whip a rope around their heads during recess.  Needless to say...it didn't take off.  But a few of our far fetched dreams from first grade are becoming a reality.  Sixteen years after we first met, Michael is moving to the playground known as New York City. 

It's literally impossible for me to remember how we became best friends; we just were.  I was a bowl-cut sporting transplant from Los Angeles, and he was a Missoulian from down the block who rocked a lisp as confidently as I walked around in bright purple Converse. The universe decided that was a brilliant combination and before I knew it we were locker buddies.  Soon after, our collaborations began. 

It started as an afternoon playing “Aladdin” with our friend Libby Zinke.  She would soon get the boot, but for the time being she was the Jasmine to my Aladdin; Michael played Raja… the tiger.  (I swear I wasn't the bossy one.)  Yet regardless of what role we were playing, something just felt right. 

Paxson Elementary was good to us, but after a year it was time for my family to move out of the school district and Michael and I were torn apart.  Somehow, the change of schools did nothing but bring our friendship closer together. 

Weekends were no longer Saturday and Sunday, but MattMichael Theater days.  The doorbell would ring, and we would fly down the basement stairs.  Blankets became wings that we duct-taped to the ceiling and the boom box was our portable orchestra pit.  The space may have been small, but to Michael and me we were already on Broadway.  From that point on, New York seemed inevitable. 

The years passed, and furniture that once supported our bodies began to creak.  Walls closed in around us like a taut Chinese finger trap and our voices couldn’t sing the parts quite like they used to.  The MattMichael Theater shut its doors on the eve of our thirteenth birthdays.  Until then life had been a constant creative exploration and as the self-consciousness that comes with puberty suddenly cradled us in its arm, we looked at each other and questioned what was next. 

Fortunately, there was a video camera nearby.  Our microscopic theater suddenly opened up and we could run around the neighborhood creating soap operas or murder mysteries that kept our creative energy going.  We got less greedy about the parts, and even let in a few other friends to help balance the raging testosterone “films.” 

Before I knew it, North Carolina School of the Arts beckoned and the change of schools was a bit wider than a school district.  As Southern humidity replaced dry Montana, it became apparent that nothing would ever replace Michael.  Not being able to experience high school with him was painful, but any moment I returned home it was as if I’d just waved goodbye the night before.  Before long, high school was over and Michael moved on to Michigan as I made a home for myself in New York. 

Ann Arbor became a welcome respite from the draining pace of the city.  From my very first visit three years ago, I felt like an adopted member of the class.  So as I sat in the audience at yesterday’s University of Michigan Senior Musical Theater Showcase (with all of New York’s agents in attendance) I was a bit emotional.

(Michael (sitting on the floor) with members of the UMich class of '08.)

All of my friends have evolved so much in the past three years.  Timid was never a word I associated with them, but they took the stage yesterday with such confidence and grace that it made their past selves look timid in comparison.  Standing in the center was Michael, my first grade buddy.  The jeans were tighter, the muscles bigger, and the lisp was no more, but to me he was the same person he was sixteen years ago: a person that inspires me.   

A few minutes into the program, Michael took the stage with two other friends of mine, Derek Krantz, and Garen McRoberts for the fantastic number “Leading Men Don’t Dance.”  Sitting beside my sister, I could feel both of us reminiscing about the gangly, clumsy Michael from the basement.  Effortless notes escaped from his mouth, and I watched as all of the agents around me scanned his headshot and resume.  The number progressed and he delivered the line: “What do you think we are, the corps de ballet?”  His eyes caught mine for a moment and I thought to myself, “My god, we’re here.”  I can’t help but wonder- is it time to start the jump rope club again?

(Trying to look glam with the beauties Lauren, Jess and Michael, after the show yesterday.)

My Soul (WHAT?!)

(Random picture of a poster in my friend's house.)

I mentioned in my previous post that I was drawn to a bulletin board containing poetry at the Elementary school a few days ago.  It was interesting to see the similarities in all the poems.  For instance, you could tell they had been guided to include all of the senses, and there were frequent uses of horse, water, fire, and flower imagery.  Yet the way that each child interpreted this was vastly different.  These poems transfixed me, and I think they are absolutely wonderful.  The first was written by a fourth grader, and the second by a third grader!  If only I could get my mind to work like that again! 

My Soul

My soul is a rabbit bouncing up and down
like a scary rollercoaster.
My soul is a cut that won't stop bleeding.
My soul is clock tick, tock, tick, tock.
My soul is a tick on the back of your neck,
Sucking the blood- oh, I love your blood
it's very tasty.  My soul is lava bubbling
and boiling.  My soul is you with a smile
on your face.

My Soul

My soul is like a horse jumping over things
and when it stops its soul leaps really fast every second
when anybody tries to touch the wild horse in my soul
he will try to bite you. 

My soul moves like a dancing girl all night
And she never stops until her feet hurt
But they never hurt because she is really good at it
And she never sleeps at night and she is very poor too
But she lives, she has a little bite of food.

My soul dreams about if I am going to have kids
Or if I am going to have a husband for my kids
Or if I will have a big family.

My soul smells and feels like fresh water
running through my body and my soul feels
like I am spreading my wings out of my back.

My soul has been seen by little creatures
And they crawl inside me when I sleep.
I feel really weird
and when I wake up they crawl out of me. 

"To Being An Us For Once, Instead of a Them..."

As I stumbled around in my robe yesterday morning and proceeded to make a protein sand shake (a requirement leading up to the fast), my mom started talking to me as she usually does.  In between the morning formalities, to which I grunted responses as my eyes adjusted to the light, she said a few simple words, “Rent is closing.” 

Anyone who has followed theater over the past few years knows that Jonathan Larson’s 1996 Pulitzer Prize winning musical has long since passed its heyday.  It started a phenomenon when it opened, gracing the cover of Newsweek and performing to sell out crowds full of celebrities.  It was very much a musical of its time, with its themes of AIDS, and gentrification in the early 90’s East Village, but is arguably a musical for all time.  The urgency created by the music and the overwhelming sense of love that runs throughout, spawned legions of fans who all claimed “Rent” as THEIR musical. 

When I first saw the show, in the summer of 1997, I was only eleven years old; it will forever be one of the most memorable theater experiences of my life.  It’s difficult for me to imagine a Broadway that doesn’t have “Rent” on the boards.  It was the first show that my generation grabbed onto, and to this day I can’t hear the music without a swarm of emotions and memories going through me. 

Even though I’m wary of going back, as I haven’t seen the show in about four years, I will have to make a final trip before June 1st, when an era ends.  Below is a list of my top five “Rent” moments (other than the six times I saw the show). 

My Favorite “Rent” Moments:  Prepare for embarrassing moments...

1.    THE WAY “RENT” INFLUENCED MY VOCABULARY- “La Vie Boheme” had enough vocabulary packed within its 10 minutes to keep my ten-year old self scanning a dictionary for hours.   When I first heard the CD I remember being thrilled at the fact that they shouted "to Sondheim" at one point, because it was one of the only references I had knowledge of.  I vividly remember dancing around in the basement one day to the Act One closer, which contains the line “mucho masturbation.”  I turned to my mom, who was watching in horror amazement at my ability to be all fifteen characters, and said, “What’s masturbation?”  Her response (remember I was about 10 at the time) was something along the lines of “you’ll find out.”  No comment.   More than influencing my conversational vocabulary, it was a show that taught me as much about emotions and connections between people as any other piece of art I've experienced in my life. 

2.    THE WAY IT FILLED MY BORING MIDDLE SCHOOL DAYS- Sometimes I wonder why on earth I choose to disclose certain information on this blog…the following is one of those moments.  One of my most vivid memories of attending middle school was how excited I was at the prospect of having a binder with a clear cover for which I could make rotating collages.  Please hold your laughter.  I would spend hours on the “Rent” website printing out production photos and glue sticking them to an 8.5 x11, yet it was what was inside the binder that is truly guffaw worthy:  drawings of every character in every costume he or she wore.  I blame “Rent” for my abysmal US History education. 

3.    THE FIRST TIME AT THE STAGE DOOR- After devouring the entire show (a rarity during those days, as I was prone to fall asleep at anything…even “Blue Man Group”) my sister, friends Libby, Meriel and I stood at the stage door with a hundred other “Rentheads.”  For some reason I’d decided that a “Titanic: The Musical” beanie was appropriate theater wear to cover my ravishing bowl cut.  When Jesse L. Martin (who has since gone on to “Law and Order” fame) walked out, he headed to me, and proceeded to be the nicest human on the face of the earth.  He even commented on my hat.  I felt like the coolest 11-year old in New York. 

4.    WATCHING THE TONY’S- The year that “Rent” fever hit, I had just turned ten.  I was living in Montana at the time, and completely unaware of my sexuality.  Looking back, it makes sense to me that I found something so comforting in the outcasts who populated the cast recording, yet at the time I just knew I was infatuated with this explosive show.  The very first time I remember seeing anything associated with “Rent” was on the Tony Awards the year that it performed “La Vie Boheme.”  Following the performance, I promptly went to Future Shop, bought the CD, and learned every word.  When family friends brought home a red “Will You Light My Candle?” shirt (which quickly became discontinued) I was elated.  I still wear the shirt to this day during rehearsals at ABT. 

5.    THE MOVIE- Now, before anyone freaks out at the inclusion of the movie on this list, let me explain.  Was the movie great?  Not at all.  Moments of the show that worked perfectly on stage were gag worthy when presented literally on screen (“What You Own,” anyone?) but there was still something special about the movie coming out.  Seeing all of the actors who had held such a special place in my adolescence on giant billboards was surreal.  Sure, they looked way too old to be playing their parts, but they also looked like old friends.  The night the movie came out, I went to a midnight showing with Carson and Libby (we all saw the show together the first time).  Even though it was quickly apparent that the movie wasn’t a masterpiece, it was still exciting being in a theater packed with Rentheads of all ages, who were all watching the movie of THEIR show.

With the subsequent DVD release came the incredible documentary on the second disc, which chronicles the making of the stage show.  I sobbed my way through it.

 

Runner Up:  Since Montana is such a vast state, we often drove from city to city for dance workshops.  On on particular road trip, Carson and I were blasting the cast recording as usual.  The sun was setting in Montana, which meant the show was already on for the night in NY.  We spent the car ride trying to guess where exactly they were in the show as we sang along to the Original Cast Recording.   

There is part of me that wishes this show could run forever, but I imagine that the quality has already suffered enough.  Perhaps most heartbreaking about the closing is the fact that it says goodbye to composer Jonathan Larson (who died of an aneurism the night of the final off-Broadway dress rehearsal).  Even though his music won’t be seen on Broadway anymore, it’s quite the legacy that he left us.  Thank you Mr. Larson for writing a piece of theater that meant so much to so many. 

"In A Galaxy Far, Far, Away..."

My pile of writing projects outside of the blog has been a bit overwhelming for the past few days.  Even though I didn't have to attend class last night, several papers for school have been keeping me mighty busy.  This week we were given essays on two subjects that I love: the first was about the incredible author Jonathan Franzen and the second was about....me. 

Each week we have little writing exercises and this week's assignment was to discuss something you used as a form of escape in your childhood.  After reading Jonathan Franzen's essay about his love of the "Peanuts" comics, I immediately settled on my topic.  The only thing that separates this entry from any of my other blog posts all about myself is that I had to incorporate some minor research.  So here is my paper, in all its rough glory! 

The first Target store in Montana opened its doors on my eighth birthday.  This event goes almost unparalleled in my canon of birthday memories from my childhood.  Forgoing the typical party and cake extravaganza, my mom promised me that we would tromp through the store and I’d be able to fill the basket with several choice items lining the toy aisle.  Nothing excited me more and I mark that day as the moment the comfort of the red and white aisles of Target took a hold of me. 

From that day forward I would eagerly await the weekly trip to Tarjaay (a pronunciation I believed to be a secret language of my mothers and I; you can imagine how crushed I was to find out the commonness of this mock French accent.)  Entering the red automatic doors at the front of the store was like a gun going off to start a race.  I’d walk as quickly as possible (running didn’t seem polite) to the action figure aisle and rest my eyes on the shelves stocked with “Star Wars” memorabilia.  In under a minute I could search through each pile and discover which characters would be new and welcome additions to my collection.  I don’t think my mother realized what a simple birthday shopping spree would do to her son; I had discovered how to escape into a galaxy far, far, away. 

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.  When George Lucas created the movies in 1977 he was smart enough to secure the rights to all of the merchandising tie-ins.  “Before Luke, Leia, Han and the short furry zen-meister took to the big screen, toys tied to movies were few and far between.”  A world without movie-tie-in products was a completely unfathomable idea to me when I was eight.  All of the toys I owned were in the likenesses of the characters I saw on screen.  It’s no surprise, seeing that Lucas’ idea has earned him over “8 billion in global sales in 100 different countries” that others quickly followed suit. 

What my mother, and Lucas, could never have predicted was how much this new escape brought out the OCD side of me.  After I’d frantically plowed through the toy aisle, I would realize that other boys my age had done exactly the same, leaving the aisle looking like a tornado had stormed through it.  Rather than take my prizes and run like everyone else, I spent time organizing and cleaning up the aisles while my mother browsed duvet covers and blenders.   

This strange, methodical ritual had its advantages; the women working in the toy department quickly took notice of the little gay boy that could.  Within a few weeks I had gained access the stock room to slice open boxes of the newest shipments of 4-inch figurines.  “Star Wars” mania was at the peak of its resurgence in the toy world and rather than claw my way to a Princess Leia with the other, dirtier, boys, I enjoyed my preferential treatment. 

It’s no surprise that a science fiction movie captured my attention so undividedly; the very appeal of these movies is how far removed they are from the world we live in.  “Star Wars” is “arguably the reason that science fiction moved out of the sub-culture and into the mainstream.”  Whether people are a fan of it, or despise it, it has a special place in everyone’s life.  To this day I can still sit down with other adults and see a fire lit inside of them the moment “Star Wars” toys come up.

Somehow I’m always convinced I can beat others in terms of merchandise acquired.  The aisles of Target and the flood of “Star Wars” merchandising that began to clutter my room bled into other aspects of my life as well.  I found the stories so exciting that they began to inspire much of my young artistic life.  While most kids in Montana were outside riding bears and dancing with deer, I was in my basement choreographing a one man “Star Wars” ballet.  It’s a wonder that I’ve even become remotely socially capable as a young adult.  When I was a child I never remember feeling like an outsider, but it’s clear now to me that “Star Wars” was a comfort because it protected me from the real world.  In a land full of aliens, space fights, and slave women in gold bras attached to giant slugs, I was utterly normal. 

The toys I collected on my various trips to Target allowed me to act out all of my wildest dreams and develop my storytelling skills.  Of course, there was the occasional moment where the OCD would overtake me at home.  A Luke Skywalker figurine that began his life in a pleasant off-white robe would slowly start to change color as my hours of playtime dirtied him.  Panic overtook me and I’d rush downstairs to have my parents calm my psychotic fears. 

Toy industry insiders claim that “Star Wars” established that you could make buckets of money off of kids.  If my parents could, they would probably go back to 1977 and plead with George Lucas to leave his movies as movies and forgo his marketing empire.  I, however, wouldn’t change it for the world.  To this day I can’t enter a Target without a flood of memories and there is rarely a visit where I still don’t head to the toy section first.  Even though my “Star Wars” ballet will forever stay in my basement, the memories created by my escape into Lucas’ world will remain out in the open. 

"To Sontag, to Sondheim, to anything taboo..."

The past few days have been a bit rough health wise and I seem to be doing nothing but sleeping.  That is, nothing but sleeping and killing time on YouTube watching a very exciting find: the 10th Anniversary performance of “Rent.”  The entire original cast reunited about a year ago and did the entire show, which is all on YouTube.  It got me thinking about the time when I first saw “Rent,” almost ten years ago…

I first started coming back to New York for a week every summer when I was ten.  From the moment I touched down and started exploring the Upper West Side, I knew that this was where I needed to end up.  My days were spent sitting around the various dance studios of the city playing with my newest action figures while my sister and mother took classes from the top teachers of the day.  All afternoon I would sit in the muggy studios, nurturing a love for dance that I didn’t even quite realize I had yet, and waiting for the moment when day would become night and we would set foot in the theater.

(Are you kidding?  That can't be me.  That shirt is four times the size of anything I own now, and I'm half the size that I am now.  And I have a bowl cut.  In case you didn't notice.  And Harry Potter glasses.  And a different face.  Just a few differences.  Although I'm already rocking the man purse.)

During our summer vacations, the theater was a sacred place to me.  It was where I would soak up all my inspiration for the year and carry back stories of the incredible performances I’d seen to my friends in Montana.  From the first show I saw, “Crazy For You,” I was hooked on the song and dance in a way that was impossible from watching endless shows on tape back in Montana.  I’d purchase all the merchandise I could find, CD’s, shirts, pins, posters, hats, and act as a walking billboard for the various shows I’d seen on any given trip.  I was so taken by Times Square that I have endless rolls of disposable cameras consisting of nothing but every Broadway billboard I could find. 

One of the only rolls that contained any pictures worthy of actually keeping was of the first night that I saw “Rent,” back in the summer of 1997.  By the time I saw it in the theater, I’d already purchased the CD from Future Shop (before Best Buy) and borrowed the copy of Newsweek that the cast graced the cover of from my school library endless times.

(Obviously a future member of ABT.  Look at that line, and those socks...with sandals.)

As a kid from Montana, “Rent” signified so much more than any other show.  Suddenly it was exposing me to a New York that wasn’t the strollers and grocery stores of the Upper West Side.  There was a grittiness, passion and blasting sexuality to the music that I didn’t even realize at the time.  Being twelve years old, it would have been perfectly understandable for my parents to exclude me from going to see “Rent,” but I am so extremely thankful that I was included for it’s one of the most vivid memories I have at the theater. 

Even though we saw the show almost a year after it opened, the entire original cast (minus a recently departed Daphne Rubin-Vega) was still performing with a ferocity that I don’t think I’ve seen rivaled in my ten years since.  From the moment I took my seat in the front portion of the mezzanine, until the last euphoric “No Day But Today” (I wonder how many people have used this for a senior quote…) the entire evening is a bit of a whirlwind in my mind.

(Just dressed for a night out at the theater...in pajamas?)

Without even realizing it, these characters were connecting with the confused and slightly lost gay boy inside of me.  I felt like it was my show, and that’s what I find so remarkable about “Rent," everyone thinks it’s their show.  As we stood at the stage door, my bowl cut capped with a “Titanic” hat (yes, you read that right), each cast member made their way out to the crowd and took the time to sign our posters.  It took a while for the scene to die down, and then we made our way west on 41st street to be swept back up the Upper West Side, but it wasn’t the same Upper West Side I knew before.  The only thought that seems concrete in my memory was the feeling that the two leading actors (Adam Pascal and Anthony Rapp) had squatted a lot during the show.  Perhaps, it was the critic in me that found something to be annoyed with even as a twelve year old. 

In the years since, I’ve read debates over whether “Rent” really deserves all of the praise it gets.  Certainly there is no debating that the untimely death of composer Jonathan Larson garnered the show an amount of attention that it probably never would have received had he lived.  Then there is the fact that he never got to clean up the show as he would have had he lived.  There are parts of the score that, if you must, you can deem as less than spectacular, but when the score succeeds, I think it does so in a way that nothing (i.e. “Spring Awakening”) since can even touch.

("Out Tonight" from the original production.)

("Out Tonight/Another Day" 10 years later.)

("I'll Cover You (Reprise)" at 10 year anniversary.  INCREDIBLE.)