May 27, 2009

Almost Home

My fiancĂ© Preppy’s job requires him to rise in the pre-dawn hours a few mornings a week, in order to receive shipments at his store and get new merchandise on the sales floor. When I’m home, he always says goodbye and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I actually wake up enough to be cognizant of this interaction one out of every ten times, but it’s still a sweet gesture.
For the last few months on the road, I have dreamed of this exchange, only to wake up in a hotel hours later and discover that it didn’t happen. It’s kind of a downer way to start the day. My sister Shannon believes in the power of our subconscious (not in a wackadoo Sylvia Browne kinda way, just a casual sort of thing,) and it has been her belief that the mornings I dream that are when Preppy has stood in our empty bedroom and wished I was there. I’m inclined to agree, because that makes us sound like lovers torn apart by fate and circumstance in an epic novel.
I wouldn’t trade the experience of performing for audiences all over the country for anything, but I think it’s going to fall in the same mental category as skydiving: Fantastic, a little uncomfortable, incomparable, and not something I need to do on a regular basis.
An interesting thing I’ve learned in the varied locales is that cities post no signage informing you that you’ve entered the bad part of town. Neighborhoods that look perfectly lovely in sunshine can take a surprising turn after dinner (residents of East Atlanta back in the day will be happy to confirm this.) More than once we’ve dropped off our suitcases in the afternoon at a sleepy little hotel, only to discover a gaggle of vagrants upon our return.

Last week in Oregon, hunger propelled me out after midnight to a nearby 7-11 for taquitos. My return trip to the hotel on the deserted street was impeded by two guys in a pickup truck, who stopped and beat the shit out of me. I wish I were kidding. I got away pretty quickly, and ran to a grocery store where I’d seen cars in the parking lot. The police were very kind and apologetic. Apparently there’s a bit of a crystal meth problem in the area, leading to a lot of random acts of vandalism and violence.
There’s been a consistent question about whether I was jumped because I was gay. I don’t think so. I was wearing flannel and munching on convenience store taquitos, which doesn’t really fit any homo stereotypes I’m aware of. But it does bring up another missing element of my life. Where the hell are the gays in the Pacific Northwest? Okay, I’ve suspected a few, but nobody presented their membership card or openly enthused about Adam Lambert, so I couldn’t be sure.
So I’ve been on hotel lockdown ever since the assault, and my show prep now includes covering my bruises with an inch of foundation. I could be another race under all that base and nobody’d be the wiser.
My nose, however, is the size of a baked potato, and my nostrils point in the wrong direction. I’ve never liked my nose, but I now think my uninjured nose is adorable. Cute as a box of puppies. I will never complain about it again. Those are the things for which touring has given me newfound appreciation: Early mornings with my fella, and my nose. Also, gays.
This morning we entered California, our final state. As we drove in, we had to stop at an official-looking booth, where a woman signaled for our driver to roll down the window.
“Welcome to California, sir,” she said. “Are you carrying any fruit in your vehicle?”
“Just one,” I shouted. “But I won’t be any trouble.”
I’m tired of what I once called my life being a dream I have in random hotels. If I can make it home in one piece, I’m gonna nail my feet to the ground.

May 23, 2009

Necessary Luxuries: Idolizing Home

Back on home turf, and happy as can be. Thoughts on American Idol finale with Paula Puppet, and Queen Latifah's new single.

May 13, 2009

Back to the Future

We have the night off in Sandpoint, Idaho, the birthplace of Sarah Palin. I fully expected to see a statue or effigy of some kind in her honor, but so far no dice. Maybe ever since her grandbaby daddy popped up on Tyra and she guested on American Chopper, she’s become more like the mildly embarrassing relative they wish people didn’t notice.
My costar Jef and I spent our afternoon doing radio interviews. The last was with a podcast called The Quasi-Glamorous Life, which is the best description I’ve heard of my current circumstances. It was an afternoon of technical gaffes, odd delays, and dropped cell phone calls. I’m terrified I ended up sounding like Paula Abdul when she does those morning shows via satellite.
Now the night is my own. I would stick around the hotel and watch TV, but there’s really no point- When I talked to Preppy tonight about my post-tour job opportunities, he told me how American Idol wound up. Because of the time difference, it ended for him before it even starts for me. As if the distance between us wasn’t bad enough, now my fiancĂ© actually lives three hours in the future.
I grab my trusty notebook and head out into the night, settling on a coffee shop on the town’s main stretch. There’s a view of a rushing river and an extraordinary mountain range. If I in any way liked nature, it’d be breathtaking. My time in the Pacific Northwest has confirmed a long-held suspicion: I’m simply not a nature person. I like vast expanses of concrete and tall buildings.
The only other occupied table in the coffee shop is three college-age friends, two guys and a girl, sipping those frozen milkshake things coffee shops sell to people who don’t drink coffee. They keep shooting looks at me, which we get a lot when we stay in smaller towns. The locals sniff us out as strangers pretty quickly. Finally, curiosity gets the better of one of the guys, who approaches my table to ask if I go to school around here. I explain what brought me here, and as I do, the three of them join me at my table. Introductions are made.
“So you signed up to tour the country, and you wound up here?” says the girl, Susan.
“And a lot of places like it, yeah. But it’s cool, actually. After all, this is what Sarah Palin calls Real America.”
I am awarded points for my Palin shout-out. In short order, it’s decided that if I’m stuck in Sandpoint for the night, I should get the grand tour. So we head out to see the sights and soak up a little history. I learn the locals are much more proud of their other notable native: Viggo Mortensen, whom the guys, Robert and J.T., declare “badass,” and Susan calls “yummy.” I agree with Susan, which takes care of me coming out to them.
They find the fact that I’m gay “awesome.” I like these people.
We jump a locked gate into the town graveyard, and J.T. gives his reviews of local bars as we weave through the tombstones.
“There’s a few 18-and-up places. Are you over twenty-one?”
“Yeah,” I say. No need to elaborate on my upcoming 30th birthday.
“They let us in because we won’t drink, so nobody gets in trouble.”
They’re all under 21. I’m spending my evening breaking into graveyards with people a decade younger than me... and they don’t know. I want to call every casting director I know and tell them I can still play a college student. Provided it’s dark outside.
My newfound Idahoan pals walk me back to my hotel, bemoaning the fact that none of us have a camera to commemorate the night.
“Dude,” says Robert. “Can I have your hat? It’ll be like a souvenir.”
Before I can answer, he’s removed his Puka shell necklace, and is offering it for trade. How could I turn him down? I give him my baseball cap, put on the necklace, and hug them all goodbye.
Then I walk back into my hotel, where writing, interviews, and a job search await. After a lovely evening out pretending to be twenty again, I have to lay the groundwork for getting back to the future.
Until I remember: This hotel has a freakin’ waterslide.
Maybe the future can wait ‘til morning.

Necessary Luxuries: Bruised But Not Broken

A random act of violence, covering bruises with makeup, and a re-creation of the title sequence of Mommie Dearest, just for fun.

May 06, 2009

Hey Mama

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!
I’m sorry I don’t call as much as I should. I know I don’t write, well, ever. But honestly, who writes cards and letters anymore? I don’t even keep stamps in the house. If you held a gun to my head, I still couldn’t tell you how much a postage stamp costs these days. Are they fifty cents yet?
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t include the image of someone threatening to shoot me in a Mother’s Day letter. You shouldn’t be distraught on your special day. You should be wearing a large corsage, and having breakfast in bed. I myself am not a huge fan of breakfast in bed. I find I get toast crumbs in the strangest places, and those lap trays always scoot around when you try to tear off a piece of your waffle, which knocks the orange juice over. It’s kinda like using whipped cream in romantic encounters- seems like a decadent idea, but it’s really just a lot of cleanup.
I also should not be talking about sexy whipped cream in your Mother’s Day letter. Crap.
Oh, crap, I said crap. This is going terribly. I’m just going to start over.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!
I’m sorry I can’t be with you on this special day, but know that you are in my thoughts and in my heart. Not just on this day, but every day. Particularly when I see a screaming child in a shopping cart terrorizing his mother, or overhear a kid asking an embarrassing question in a public place. That always brings back memories.

I want you to know that, in case you had doubts, you were a really great mother. You weren’t one of those perfect moms like Claire Huxtable, or the Fresh Prince’s Aunt Viv, or Harriette Winslow on "Family Matters" (it is widely accepted that all the best TV moms of the early ‘90s were African-American.) I admit there were plenty of times I wished you were just like those sitcom moms, mainly because they often arranged musical numbers in their houses involving the whole family. That was something we were really lacking in our house, but I have since made my peace with it. As a grown man, I often have musical numbers at my house starring just me, so I didn’t miss out completely.
But the lack of choreography notwithstanding, you loved me, and I knew it. And you were perceptive enough to recognize you had a kid who marched to a slightly different drum. You didn’t always know what to do with that information, and you may not have been fully prepared for how different that drum really was, but you never let me forget I was loved.
I see kids now who are coming out at fourteen, or fifteen, and that boggles my mind. What would things have been like if I’d done that? I wonder if either of us could have been that strong. I know the most unexpected benefit of me coming out to you has been the closeness we’ve shared since. It’s amazing what happens when you trust loved ones enough to be honest with them. I am very grateful for that. I know this journey has not been easy, but in my defense, think back to my childhood: Being my mother has never been easy. That’s not because I was a gay kid, it’s because I was a bizarre, difficult kid. The gay thing was a seperate challenge altogether.
Our journey together isn’t over. You taught me to believe that it isn’t enough to be content in your own life; you have to help others find peace in theirs. We’ve had a long road to get to the relationship we now enjoy. The next step is taking that relationship into the world. Don’t worry, I won’t make you march in a parade.
It’s as simple as this: If someone makes a gay joke, you call them out on it. If someone speaks against same-sex marriage, you tell them about the couples you know. When you’re talking with the ladies at church, bring up the 11 year-old boy who saw no way out of the pain caused by bullying, and ask what communities can do prevent such tragedies. This is activism on the most basic level: Defending and supporting the people you love.
I love you so much, and I’m proud to call you my Mama. Enjoy your day.

Your Son

May 01, 2009

Necessary Luxuries: Would You Quit for $200?

An oversight on my bank account leads to disaster and epiphany. Updates on a script that's almost out of my head, and one on its way to the stage.