Stinkin' Rich

I'm in between shows on a Saturday, and just had yet another great sandwich from Sarcone's Deli, which is a couple of blocks from Moira's house. I stopped there on the way to work to get something to much in between shows, and boy, did I score big. I elected to get the "C.C.," which I'm presuming is some sort of sop to Center City Philadelphia. It was a roast beef, provolone, garlic and spinich sandwich, on this fabulous bread that I'm (once again) assuming must come from the Sarcone Bakery, which is right down the street from the Deli.

As is so often the case, I've found myself outside as I compose these thoughts... I'm sitting in the boneyard of Christ Church, the oldest congregation in Philadelphia, if I'm remembering correctly. It's an amazingly nice day - though it's threatening rain, which is a bit of a bummer, but hell, it's October 13 and the temperature is hovering somewhere around 75°. I can't imagine that there'll be many more opportunities like this one to sit around and enjoy the outdoors. The leaves on the trees here in Philly are still green, though some have fallen. But I half suspect that, up in the mountains, the fall colors are already in full splendor, and I'm trapped without a car and missing them.

So the caretaker dude came along and decided it was time to close up the boneyard for the afternoon. Who am I to nay-say the caretaker dude? Now I'm back to the theater, and I'm listening to an Eddie Izzard CD. Do you know him? He's an incredibly funny transvestite comedian. Totally straight, it's just that his gimmick is to dress in women's clothes. You may have seen him in Shadow of the Vampire last year... he's also an actor. Very weird movie, but he was great in it.

Anyway, there hasn't been much of anything going on in my life this week. I had been up for a job in Florida for the holiday season but I didn't get it, which sucks. But I did get a quickie doing the Stinkin' Rich workshop for the Arden. That'll be next week during the day. Not sure what, if anything will come of that. It seems like it'll be a lot of fun - it's an update of Moliere's The Miser, set in the 1920's. So it seems like next week should be fun.

Other than that, my life's pretty damn boring. Same ol' same ol'.

Return to Whining.

You'd think that after all my years in the dating pool, I'd learn how not to get myself involved with emotionally unavailable people. Not so, dear friends. Not so by a long shot. But I don't think it's entirely my fault... I think it's destiny or fate that keeps throwing these people at me to see if I'll let them stick - or more truthfully, so see if I'll waste my time trying to stick to them.

It's almost four months since Gavan and I broke up, and I've only been on one date... which I really don't think was thought of as a date by both parties. I think my companion thought of it only as a fun evening out. My bad.

I've been finding myself pretty lonely lately, which isn't such a surprise, really; I'm in a strange city with few friends, working with a small cast of people who are wonderful but have their own busy lives to lead - all of which leaves me with a lot of time to myself. And I've been feeling it. I miss my friends terribly, and that's of course coupled with the uncertainty of what the hell is gonna happen in my life when this gig is over. The life I've chosen is equal parts scary and exciting, and sometimes it's a little hard to take.

There's just so much uncertainty. But I guess we all live with that, don't we? I mean, the victims of the World Trade Center attack probably thought they had nice, stable lives that involved no risk. I should be grateful for my health, and this rather precious gift of life. I guess every day that I wake up (even if it is hours too late by the standards of the normal work-a-day world) is a gift. I just have to keep remembering that.

Jesus, we humans are a whiny bunch.

I Love These Folks

Somehow I find myself in the middle of another weekend of shows. This one's not so bad, since it's only a four-show weekend, as opposed to the five-show weekend I had last week.

On Thursday night, Moira came to see the show and she brought along her friend, Michael Jordan. No, he's not a tall, African-American basketball player. He's a normal-sized Caucasian bar manager. Nice guy. I enjoyed his company a lot. Moira's a lot of fun, too - though she's taken the terrorist attack very badly... not that there's much of any good way to take it, but she's having a difficult time with the whole thing. It's really affected her, and got her pretty depressed. The problem is that I'd only moved into her house two days before the attack, so it's not like a know her well enough to know whether or not I should be concerned for her. I mean, people have to deal with this the way they have to deal with it, right?

So that's pretty much where we stand right now.

The show's been pretty well received so far... audiences seem to be genuinely liking it, and the reviews have been pretty positive, with one exception. The one's I've seen so far have been in The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Philadelphia Weekly, and the Philadelphia City Paper. The link to the Weekly may not be active after this week.... but if I think about it, once it's moved to the paper's archive, I'll change it if I can. The reviewer for the City Paper was generally unimpressed, with both the play and me. I'm not particularly worried about it, since everyone I've spoken to has told me that she's generally not into anything that's in the least sentimental, and prefers shows that are edgier, more intellectual and showcase naked Hungarians screaming things into megaphones. My philosophy is pretty much "it's okay if she doesn't like my work, since I'm generally unimpressed by hers."

I've started, for some reason, taking more and more pictures in black & white... something I'm really not very good at. But I find that I'm enjoying the black & white images more, even though I'm never going to be mistaken for a professional photographer. That first shot on the left there is of Christopher Colucci, who's composed all of the original music for the show and plays it each night as a sort of live accompaniment... it's really beautiful stuff. To the right of Christopher is David Ingram's back - the man seems determined to not let me take a good picture of him... he's like Aaron Posner in that regard. Finally, at the right edge of the picture is me... I think I was looking into my dressing table mirror, but I have no idea why. Some narcissistic reason I'm sure.

Next is a shot of Kathi Koenig, our production stage manager. I snuck up on her while she had briefly closed her eyes after setting up for the show. She's likely to kill me if she ever sees this photo:

As you can see, the backstage walls at the Arcadia Stage aren't quite as plush as the backstage areas of the Haas Stage, on which we performed Picasso. Remember all those shots of us in the cushy green room? No such luck here. Alas. such are the tribulations of working in the smaller space. I don't know if I've said this, but I really enjoy working with Kathi. She's really good people, and so is her husband, Pete, who's the propsmaster at the Arden. Pete's life is being consumed right now by the preparations for the next show, Baby Case which is a world-premiere musical about the Lindbergh baby kidnapping. I've heard some of the music, and it seemed to me to be promising. Guess we'll see.

Here's another shot of Christopher, offering further proof that I'm a horrible photographer. Just don't seem to be able to catch people with their eyes open, do I? I imagine it has a lot to do with the fact that I rarely warn people that these shots are coming... I like catching them in a candid moment. It only works occasionally, clearly.

I know I've said this before, but I'm really enjoying working with this cast and crew. Christopher, David, and Grace have been such a joy to work with. Chris has come up with some wonderful incidental music, and Grace & David have developed such a wonderful rapport in their roles. And the fact that I get to share all of my hardest work with two such talented actors - the first act of the show is basically me bouncing back and forth between the two of them, playing a different character in each scene - is such a gift. I hope their work gets the recognition it deserves.

Here's one final shot, and it's one of my favorites. It's of the lovely Grace Gonglewski and me in the dressing room before the show. She's a wonderful soul, and an immeasureably talented actress. And aren't we cute together?!? Check it out:

Day Off. Thank You.

After the week we've had, and then the labor of a five-show weekend, I was sure glad to have yesterday off. Rather than sit at home and vege, I accompanied Aaron Posner in his search for a new car. Much of his attention ended up being focused on two cars, both at the same dealership... a 1996 Volkswagon Jetta, and a 1991 Saab Convertible. Both had much to recommend them... principally that he had enough in savings to buy them both outright and relieve himself of the burden of a car payment. It was fun to watch him wrangle with the car dealers, mostly 'cuz he's a person that has trouble deciding on his breakfast order, let alone choosing a car.

In the end he decided to sleep on the decision, and I found out today that he decided to go with neither. Turns out a friend of his is planning on getting rid of an old car, so he might go with that.

Today marked the seventh day since the attack on the World Trade Center, and I found that I just couldn't station myself in front of the television any more. I decided to get out and wander around the Rittenhouse Square area of the city, and eventually settled on treating myself to a nice lunch at Rouge, a rather expensive restaurant right on the square. I ended up eating rather late - around 4 p.m. - and allowed myself a glass of wine with my lunch/dinner (supper?), and after a quick stop back at Moira's (have I told you about Moira? she's the friend of Aaron's that I'm staying with since I got booted out of Actor Housing in favor of the Baby Case cast), I grabbed my stuff and headed out again - which is how I find myself in Washington Square park.

It feels good to be out in a communal setting again... I managed to arrive just in time for optimal dog-walking time, which is always a joy for me. Getting to see all those folks with their dogs brings back pleasant memories of Buster. I wonder how he's doing, and if he's happy in his new home.

I've reached that point in the run of Pavilion where I have to start thinking about getting back to New York City and finding a place to stay. Not entirely sure what I'm going to do about that. I haven't heard from Katherine in a while, but truth be told I haven't pushed that issue, since I don't have the money for an apartment yet anyway.

I don't know what it is, but there's something about sitting here in Washington Square that allows me to focus on the things that I need to focus on - the things I would otherwise let slip because they're too hard to think about. I'm very close to something, I think, though I'm not entirely sure what it is. Just trying to remain open and on my toes, metaphorically.

What's to Say?

I've kinda taken a long time to sit down and write this entry; I've been trying to get my head wrapped around the many, many things that I'm feeling.

The events of this week have left me stunned and disoriented and incredibly sad. The sheer ferocity of the attacks on New York and Washington, and the horrible toll taken in lives of innocent people are just overwhelming to me. And, of course, I feel helpless. I'm so far removed from New York City right now, and even if I were there, I'm not sure what sort of help I could offer. The whole thing just leaves me impossibly sad. And angry. I want desperately to strike back at the people responsible, but what can I do? At whom do I strike? Especially when we still don't know for sure who did it, or why? And the worst part of all, or maybe the best, is that I understand why these people feel the need to strike back at the U.S. Our policy of unquestioningly supporting Israel in the Middle East has made many, many people angry - people who've grown up in or been forced to live in the horrible conditions of the refugee camps of Palestine and hate us for having taken the side of the people they see as their oppressors. But nothing excuses the actions of the terrorists who perpetrated the attacks.

I've been so heartened by the stories of people helping each other that are coming out of New York City - the way the city has rallied and opened its heart to itself - something that many people are suprised at, but that I think I could have predicted had the question ever arisen. I've mentioned before what a competitive rat hole New York can be, but I've also seen its people being very kind to each other and to strangers in its midst.

I was thinking all day Tuesday of the shot of lower Manhattan that I had managed to get a while back - Way back, in fact, in June, I think; when I'd been flying back from Pittsburgh. I'd been so proud of myself for having managed to snag such a great shot of Manhattan from the sky, given the fact that I was using a middle of the road digital camera and my total lack of skill. And of course, at the center of the photograph stands the twin towers of the World Trade Center. I love that shot... and I'm not sure how long it will take before I can wrap my head around the idea that the WTC is no longer there, and that so many people were inside when it collapsed.

And it leaves me wondering exactly how well the terrorists' plans went? Did they stupidly expect that the planes would knock the towers over just from the impact, or were they sophisticated enough to know that all the jet fuel would create a fire so hot it would literally melt the steel supports of the buildings? The fact that those buildings were so well designed and didn't collapse until those infernos had a chance to melt the steel is probably what saved so many lives. Instead of 50,000 deaths, we're looking at around 5,000... which is still an horrific number in the truest sense of the word.

Who would ever have thought that we could count ourselves lucky with "just" 5,000 deaths? Well, the fact of the matter is that I don't think we're all that lucky. Our lives have been changed forever in one day. We all have a new way of reckoning time: Before and After.

Have our lives really changed, though? I mean, really? We're an odd people, we Americans. Our sense of entitlement is so strong, I wonder if there is anything that can knock it out of us, and make us recognize that we're part of a greater whole. I mean, on the day after this horrible tragedy in New York, I was walking home from the theater and saw two guys about to get into a fight over some miniscule stupid shit that should only be important to a drunk guy with anger management issues, but that rears its ugly head in our society all the time.

And seeing those two guys - supposedly members of a civilized society - ready to go after each other because they'd threatened each others' manhood or something... it suddenly made me realize that all the people I know who are good and decent and liberal and angry at our government for having policies like the unquestioning support of Israel, who like me may be sickened by these attacks but understand their motivation, those people are all full of shit. We have the government we have, and it has the policies it has, because we allow it. All of us. All of us wrapped up in our personal existences, dismissive of others because they don't believe what we believe, always needing to be right. Later on in the trip, I also saw three drunken young guys trashing a shopping cart, beers in hand. The level of anger and coarseness these kids displayed actually frightened me... I had the feeling that it wouldn't take very much for them to turn their rage on me, and it just made me even more sad.

I have such a hard time putting words to what I'm feeling... it's such a problem for me. Getting this stuff down is torturous for me on a good day.

What a week. I remember walking home from the theater that night and hearing a cricket in a tree and thinking that even the sound of a cricket in a tree is never going to sound the same to me again... not after hearing those little beepers that the firefighters in New York were wearing in the aftermath of the collaspe. Those things that make that strange little chirping noise so they could find each other in the smoke and debris during an emergency? I heard a cricket in a tree on Spruce Street as I walked home and all I could hear was that little chirping emergency beacon. How long, I wonder, will it take for that association to go away?

'Cuz it will, you know. We are who we are, and we're built the way we're built, and even the most horrific stuff eventually goes away in the long run... maybe not its power, but its.... immediacy? There'll come a time when I hear crickets and don't think of this disaster, but I just wonder how long it will be.

What a world, man. What a world.

Clusterfuck

Ever been in a place where life had you so destroyed that the only thing you could do was sit with a glass of wine (or your alcohol or drug of choice) and listen to music that both devastates and uplifts you? I'm having one of those moments even as we speak. Or write.

I had an epiphany about why The Pavilion has been so hard for me this evening, but the fact that now that I know what the problem is can in no way help me to deal with it is kicking my ass, and I'm feeling a little left out in the cold, as it were.

I just had the most terrible run-through of the play, and it's the last one I get before we have an audience. I've totally psyched myself out about this fucking play, and become hyper-sensitive about every little word that I misplace. And as if that isn't bad enough, I have to live with the playwright. He's in a bedroom on the floor about me as I'm writing this at nearly 1 a.m. in the early morning of Wednesday. And I'm so fucking messed in the head over this last clusterfuck of a run through that all I can do is sit here on my bed and write a bit in my journal, trying to capture how I feel right now; that, and drinking a glass of wine, and listening to some Beethoven piano sonatas. I'm not entirely sure why, but when ever I'm in a mental place where I can use a good cry and at the same time need to be reassured that life is profoundly beautiful and so much more than my limited experience of it, I turn to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It's like aspirin for my soul. The first movement of that thing just fucking breaks my heart in half, spills the contents onto the floor, and then picks the remains up and cradles them. It's like someone telling me in the same breath that the world is an unmitigated piece of shit and that dying is inevitable, but, fuck me, would you just look at the beauty that's possible before the inevitable end?

Everything about life just blows my mind, man.

Missed Chances

Pretty good day, all in all. I passed up the opportunity to go out carousing with the boys (Aaron Posner, Craig Wright, Ian Peaks, and Scott Greer) to stay home and do laundry, but it turns out to have been a fruitful decision on a couple of fronts. First, I got all (and I do mean all) my laundry done - I've barely done a full load since I came to Philadelphia on August 14. Second, I met the most intriguing young man in the gay.com chat room. He's a model with a remarkably interesting story and quite a good head on his shoulders - and a kind heart to boot. We talked for quite a long time. I'm looking forward to talking to him again. In all honesty, it's one of those "too good to be true" things. There's a little tiny part of me that won't believe he's real until I actually see him in the flesh - which won't be for a long time, since he's doing traveling for business a lot through Christmas. But the chatting's fun, so what the hell.

And because it never rains but it pours, I'm suddenly getting responses to my personal ads again. I'm guessing that my biorhythms must be on an upswing, or something. I'll let you know if anything comes of it all.

Dreams

Allowed myself to sleep in this morning, and just woke up from a weird dream. I was back at Gavan's house (only, in the dream, it wasn't the house on Frontenac Street, it was my childhood home on West Prospect), and while much of the detail isn't very clear, I remember that Gavan did something that made me really angry and hurt me a lot - I think it was that he got a new puppy after insisting that I get rid of Buster (only - and this is weird, too - it wasn't Buster; or at least Buster wasn't a beagle mix anymore... he was a German Shepherd from out of my childhood). And it was really weird in that, in the dream, he brought back "Buster" one evening, talking about how the dog was visiting, and when I woke up the next morning he showed me the new puppy, and I got really angry and called him some pretty unkind things. Then the dream turned even more weird - Gavan got very lawyerly and told me we were going to have to split up our things and Iwas going to have to get out. Which, lemme tell you, is something really odd to hear in the kitchen of your childhood home. And weirdest among the many weird things is that I remembered details about this childhood home - one that we moved from in 1978 - that I haven't remembered for years.

Gee, I wonder what I have on my mind, huh? It's funny, in the dressing room yesterday, David Ingram asked me exactly how long it had been since Gavan and I had split up, and when I told him it had happened on June 11th, he was really shocked, given the "ease," I guess, with which I had talked about it. I guess I've been putting on a happy face about the whole thing - but clearly it's something that I'm, I don't know... mourning? I'm anxious to have my stuff out of his house. To have settled the division of crap and gotten a little distance between us, so it doesn't all feel quite so raw. I've just spent so long in this weird sort of man-without-a-country feeling, dating back even to when I was still in Pittsburgh and wondering what was going on with Gavan and I. The fact that I've been paying ½ the mortgage on a house that isn't mine for four years has been pointed out to me ad nauseum by my friends - and to be truthful, even though I was quick to point out that I never wanted to be a home-owner, and was happy to think of that money as rent, sometimes now I wonder what the hell I was thinking. Who can know?