Food For Thought - A Delish HEALTHY Dinner

People often ask me for ideas on meals that will be healthier but still be enjoyable. It is pretty well known that I have always enjoyed entertaining, from parties to dinners with friends. In my younger days I would throw parties where I served things like ham and cream cheese rolls, chips with salsa/cream cheese spread, brownies, cookies, sandwiches loaded down with processed luncheon meat and cheese, loaves of bread baked with kielbasa in the center, 7 layer dip... you get the idea. You can also probably tell how I ballooned up to 205 pounds - I ate the majority of the food at the party and ALL o f the leftovers.

So making the change to a healthier lifestyle made it a little complicated. You still want to entertain but you have to feed people food that they will like. It just takes some time, some thought, a little preparation. A lot of the time it's just a question of changing one little thing or another. When I entertain I almost always serve some kind of poultry or fish. Then I add a green and I find something festive to top it with.

In this video, you will see that I have served chicken breast that I trimmed all of the fat off of and grilled. There are so many healthy alternatives to cooking chicken these days that don't involve frying. I'm not a fan of baking, either, because the chicken just sits and cooks in its' own fat. So I use a Nuwave oven (I've mentioned it in previous blogs and you can find it on the internet) but you can use a George Foreman or an outdoor grill or, at the very least, a broiling pan. You can spice up your chicken any way you like. I tend to be rather traditional; I like onion and garlic and crushed red pepper. I buy dried spices from an international market near my home but you can get anything from the spice aisle at the store. Mrs Dash makes some good sodium free spices. Sodium really isn't necessary and it's not good for you. So I spice up my chicken and I grill it. Once on the plate, I drizzle a pretty pattern of hummus over it. Now, I admit it: I have not learned how to make hummus but Jennifer tells me it is really easy. So I buy an all natural hummus from the health food store - nothing with lots of additives and preservatives. Then I put it in a pastry bag and decorate the poultry.

Now that your meat course is done, you can focus on the vegetable. I steam almost everything; but Pat and I have found that tossing some vegetables in a little olive oil and spices, they can grill up really nicely. In this video I have some asparagus that is steamed so it is still crunchy and not baby food. On top of it I put a little mixture of red peppers, sliced up fresh garlic and cherry tomatoes that have been cooked down a little in some olive oil and dusted with some grinds of fresh pepper (start with the garlic slices, cook them til they start to look a little crisp and then add the peppers and a minute later, the tomatoes). Ta da. Meat. Veggies.

Now.

Dessert.

I took some light sour cream and an entire orange and put them through the blender with some scoops of ISOPURE peach mango protein powder. You have to play around with it and find a texture and taste that works for you. When the protein powder made it taste a little chalky, I add another orange or some fresh squeezed orange juice. Once you have found the texture and taste that appeals to you, put it in a flat tupperware or baking dish and put it in the freezer, checking back every ten or so minutes. Once it starts to harden, scrape it back from the top. It makes a nice kind of ice that you can scoop into a dish and serve with an orange wedge on top.

Healthy. Yummy.

What more do you need?

Guests.

Love, I Hear

In my blog yesterday, I said I didn't have any photos of Brian and Heather together...

Now I do!

Love Is In The Air

I would like to dedicate my blog today to my neighbours.

Pat and I have lived in our building for 17 years. For many of them, we have been friends with Heather, who lived in the building next door. We have had game nights and holidays at her place and she has come to ours for the same. We have shared stories, opinions, secrets, laughs and friends. We have gone to see every show of hers that we have been able to and we have cheered her success.

She is our family.

In the building on the other side of ours, these many years, was a man named Brian. Often, we would see him coming and going, pass him on the street, nod hello. After a few years someone introduced us and we became friendly neighbours. The same thing happened when Heather and Brian met; they became friendly neighbours. And as the time passed, neither of them told the other that they really, really liked each other.

One day, one of them spoke up.

And the neighbourhood was all giddy because Heather in that building was dating Brian from that building and weren't they a perfect couple?

And they truly were.

In an hour Pat and I are leaving for their wedding. We watched their romance blossom and we championed their couplehood and, in this happiest of days for all who know them, we get to see them united in holy matrimony.

I feel very blessed to know them and to have witnessed their love affair.

I don't even have a photo of them together... Can you believe that? Only the headshots that I did of them before retiring.

Well... Maybe I'll get one at the wedding.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: the adorable couple.

Moments of Clarity Part Three - The Final Chapter

I sat with Brady the other night, talking about matters lofty and banal, which we often do. One of the great gifts that we share is that we are both on a spiritual journey, one of enlightenment and self discovery. One of the other gifts that we share is that we see each other. At one point in our conversation he said to me “One of the things I admire about you so is your ability to feel.” He told me that, the way he sees it, I dive into every emotion and feel it to the fullest. I know that is true. Even when I am trying to be emotion-less, I dive into my indifference and swim in it until I can touch the bottom of the pool. There have been times when Pat has said the same thing to me about admiring my ability to feel things to their full extent; that’s all well and good – until you are the walking carnage left from all those feelings. Other people who feel things as deeply as I do are nodding their heads right now. Aren’t you? You know how exhausting it is.

However. When my eyes are open and I look at it clearly, I know what a gift it is. I know that it is better to feel than not to. I’ve done both and it is clear how much better it is to feel than to be barren. To be frozen.

I watch a tv show called Drop Dead Diva (good show; really good – I love it a lot). This last week was an episode about a man who had turned himself into something he wasn’t because he was grieving from his dead wife. In one scene, Brooke Elliot talked to him about being the man his wife had fallen in love with. Another character spoke, at one point, about being the man his late girlfriend had fallen in love with. I remembered a scene in one of my favourite movies, THAT’S LIFE!, in which Julie Andrews tells Jack Lemmon he is not the man she married – and not the man she wants.

I thought about these scenes for a day. I reflected on how Pat had, at some point in the last year, told me that this person I have been turning myself into, this angry person who had bottled up all their feelings, this person – it isn’t his Stephen. He was right. He had fallen in love with a person who cries at television commercials and cherry blossoms floating down from the springtime trees. He had fallen in love with a person who laughed all the time and hugged everyone. He had fallen in love with a person that I was, systematically, killing with all this anger. That’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to anyone who knows and, truly, loves me. After all, without my over the top emotions and bull out of the gate personality, who would my friends have to make fun of, with love?

Brady says we have to manifest that life which we want. He says if all we feel, all we produce is negativity, how can we possibly draw anything positive to us?

Pat says I should always try to come from a place of love.

I thought about both those philosophies.

If I walk around with a scowl on my face, acting like some fictionalized version of what I think a tougher, harder, impenetrable Stephen should, could, would be like, how will I ever draw to myself the people who will actually treat me nicely? All that person will get is people who are comfortable with mean-ness. And the circle will not be unbroken. The anger will grow until it consumes me, altogether, finally destroying that which is left of the sweet little boy who used to link arms with his mommy when they went grocery shopping or mall walking. I liked that boy. I still feel his hand in mine. I must honour him, properly.

Brady told me that when he walks around New York he smiles at people. He looks at them and sees their stories. He sees them, sees their humanity. He loves them for their humanity.

I used to do that.

For the past few years, though, I have been covering my eyes. I use a hoodie, pulled way down; or a baseball cap, pulled way down. I use a position of my head that keeps my eyes down or an expression on my face that averts their eyes from me. I have spent the last few years shutting out strangers and shutting out family; I have done this out of anger and fear of being hurt.

Two nights ago I went for a walk and I looked at the people who passed me. I smiled at some of them. They smiled back. I focused on feeling happiness, rather than anger. I made the active choice of humanity. I opened myself up; and the change was palpable, it was tangible. People were responding to me very differently. I felt different. I had been feeling like I had taken my body and encased it in an old fashioned, heavy iron safe – I had been walking around in this safe with my head and my arms and legs sticking out. It was so heavy. It was so exhausting. No wonder I was tired all the time. Now, though, I was starting to feel considerably lighter. I could feel my facial muscles soften and my expression, too. I felt a shift in my paradigm. So I wanted to tell Brady and I wanted to tell Pat. I left a message for my friend and then I sat down with my husband and told them about my walk around town and how it was changing me. I told them: the anger is going away; it hasn’t turned to happiness yet… it’s a little sad and wistful right now. But at least it’s not anger anymore.

It’s a start.

For now, that will have to be enough.

Moments of Clarity Part Two

My work with Elizabeth Delabarre lead me to spend more time meditating, chanting, journaling. I reflected on humanity, my humanity, ego, self worth, selflessness. I examined the nature of happiness and the depth of misery. I considered judgment, perception, validation. I weighed success and failure. I asked myself, again and again, why am I so angry? Elizabeth had asked me that. I was finding answers to the question – and they were unbecoming. That is, I thought they were unbecoming. I felt that I was above such emotions. I thought I was too noble to feel angry because of the way people treated me. I had to admit, once and for all, that I was angry about my book. I was angry that it took ten years and seventy thousand dollars of our own money to make and that nobody bought it. I was angry that it didn’t change my life the way I thought it would and angry that its’ failure cost me any opportunities at publishing another. I was angry that my career as a photographer was over and that, at 46, I had no vocation or dreams. Aside from the usual career woes that are no more or less valid than the career woes that every artist has, though, I looked back on four decades of being mistreated. I was angry at the relatives I have had who were mean to me and at the school children who shaped my early years by calling me names like gook, jap, chink, slope, sissy, fag, queer, faggot… I was angry at the years I spent in the bottom of a bottle because I had been taught to hate myself by the treatment heaped upon me by a malicious aunt, an impatient grandmother, a violent grandfather, a homophobic father, many of my schoolmates and every gay man who openly hates other gay men because they are either not Caucasian, not buff, not tall, not butch, not ..well, not anything. I was angry because of every time somebody ignored me, interrupted me, failed to acknowledge me, hurt me, mistreated me or, in any way, made me feel invisible. I was angry that my husband’s parents were taken away from him; angry that he gave up his career as an actor to support me while I did my book and for what? Now we both had no career, not one, between us. I was angry about the people who have mistreated him, even though there is no nicer, no better, no kinder man in the world. I thought about all these things and hated it. I hated being human. Have for a long time. I have hated having emotions. I have tried to make myself over as some implacable being who feels nothing. I have managed to train myself not to cry unless I feel safe in doing so. In my home. With one of four, maybe five, people. I have spent nearly ten years making myself into someone who cannot be hurt.

That’s a lot of work, a lot of anger, a lot of negativity to carry around.

It’s exhausting.

I remembered Elizabeth telling me that maybe I should meditate with that five year old Stephen and find out what it is that he needs from the forty six year old Stephen, what kind of validation and recognition I can give him that will make him need it from outside sources, less. I told her the story about that day, seven years ago, when I was walking up Fifth Avenue and how I felt baby Stephen let go of my right hand, where I have (for years) felt his hand, and turn to walk away from me. I stopped and looked back at him; he turned around and returned to me, placing his hand in mine and, together, we continued our walk toward home. I told Elizabeth that I had told my mother, at the time, and she had replied “You called him back – you were almost free of each other but you called him back.”

Clearly baby Stephen and I still have some work to do.

Last January something strange happened to me. I got my feelings hurt by two people that I love as deeply as you can love another person. They love me. They love me but they hurt me. I had thought (or at least hoped) that the days of being hurt by a loved one were behind me – and I’m not talking about being hurt because somebody forgot your birthday or didn’t make it to your party or didn’t call you back for two weeks; I mean I got my feelings hurt as badly as you can get your feelings hurt. When it happened, I completely shut down. In fact, I disappeared. There was a person living in my house and going about my day and making it to the gym and working out with Hunter and making dinner for Pat… only that person wasn’t me. For four days, I was missing. Near the end of the fourth day, Pat sat down on the sofa with my body and began talking to it. The person living in my body answered but the answers weren’t coming from me. After an hour or two, Pat goaded the person into a fight and the fight culminated with Pat shoving my body and saying “YOU let him OUT”; to which the body replied “Let me pass or I will make sure you never see him again.” Pat pushed and pushed and fought until I started crying. Once the tears came, so did I.. Whoever the autopilot was that was running my body and my life, he went away and I was back.

Pat and I sat on the sofa for a long time, talking about this bizarre new development. Only it wasn’t new to Pat. It turns out that this had happened before- at least twice – in the last 24 years, the first time being some time in the mid to late 80s. Pat told me this person appears when I am no longer able to participate; but it takes great devastation for him to appear; and Pat knows how to spot him and how to make him go away and how to bring me back.

That week I flew straight to Doctor Bowler and told him.

I’m the fucking United States of fucking Tara.

No you’re not, says Doctor Bowler. You had a disassociative moment. It happens when people suffer a trauma. They can’t cope so they withdraw into the deepest place in their minds and go on autopilot. Almost everyone that this happens to comes out of it, once they have learned to cope with the situation. You don’t have MPD. You’re going to be fine.

Thank God. I have enough difficulty with my real personality. I don’t need any others. I put the experience and my worries over MPD behind me and got on with my life, joking with Pat, from time to time, about the alter ego I had begun to call Charles. It bothered him and he wished he hadn’t told me about having noticed Charles twenty years ago – but the truth is that we were both very relieved that he appeared to be gone for good.

Recently, though, I suffered a series of setbacks. Those things that happen in life that amount to little more than kicking a dog when he’s down. Little crimes and injustices that I perceived had been committed against Pat and against myself; and I was over them – so I began, once more, to close down and to build up walls, all on my own. No alternate personality was needed to assist me in the alienation of the people around me. This weary and broken heart must be protected from further damage.

The anger had returned, and in full force. That anger, mixed with recrimination, mistrust and hatred was driving me through life; an unfortunate ride for your basic, garden variety Pollyana to be taking.

Moments of Clarity Part One

I have spoken, often, of my difficulties with duality. I have, for almost all of my life, been Nellie Forebush… Pollyanna... whatever fictional character one might pick when referring to someone who is optimistic. I have also morphed into this anger ball from time to time – sometimes that time to time lasts years. It is a tug-o-war that consumes me. The balancing act that is the person at my core and the person I create can be exhausting. I have been focusing inward in an attempt to find out why I have had to create a person born out of anger and, in recent months (weeks, really) things have come to light. These revelations of so personal nature are difficult to share; but I have committed to telling my stories, hoping that they might help others – and I must stay true to that commitment. So. Fear of revealing too much, of being judged, of being vulnerable tossed aside, I share my story with anyone who wishes to hear it.

We begin.

There is this pain in my neck. No, it’s a real pain the neck. It’s not a person or a politician or the MTA or anything like that. I have this pain in my neck. It tends, generally, to sit in the left muscle, though there are times when it radiates over to the right. Sometimes it locks up. Sometimes I can’t turn my head. Sometimes I have to go to sleep just to get away from the pain. It has had some control over my life, these last few years. I have spent countless hours and dollars in the offices of chiropractors, acupuncturists, massage therapists, cranio sacral therapists, physicians – you name it, I’ve tried it. I had reached a point where I was resigned to living with it, the rest of my life. Mike Babel, one of my massage therapists, said “NO. You won’t live with this the rest of your life.” But I was resigned. I began working with Elizabeth Delabarre, who practices different forms of healing techniques, but I was seeing her, specifically, for cranio sacral work. After one session with her I had more mobility in my neck than I had had in years. After two sessions with her, I had developed hope for a pain free life. On my third visit, though, I had the breakthrough.

While lying on the table, feeling Elizabeth’s hands on my neck and back, chatting peacefully, I found myself answering her questions about my life and what it is I experience, with regards to pain; what kinds of discoveries I and my other body workers had made. I spoke of theories that the reason I had so much tension in my neck was the anger I feel, almost all the time. Everyone has a theory. Stress… gall bladder… writer’s posture… Who can say? Elizabeth did ask me, because I opened the door to the topic, about anger. What is it that makes me angry, that has been making me angry for so long? I answered her, honestly, and we continued to talk about anger and other emotions; about processing them, about owning them, about not trying to get rid of them or push them down or away. It was a good, a long, talk that opened my eyes… a little. Later, for a reason I do not remember, Elizabeth asked me about my birth. I explained to her that I had been premature by a month.

“Well, there it is, then.”

She asked me for the whole story. I told her. My mother went into labour, her water broke and I was coming. There were complications. The doctors took me. My lungs were not finished forming, so they put me in an incubator. They woke my mother (in those days women were given drugs for the birth) with these words: “Mrs Mosher, what religion do you want your baby baptized?” Mama sat up in bed and said, “What’s wrong with my baby?” They told her that I was with incomplete lungs and that they did not expect me to live through the night.

Elizabeth nodded and said “No wonder you’re so angry.” I asked for further detail. “You were in a warm and loving place where you were in constant physical contact with a human, your mother. Suddenly, you were ripped from that place by a pair of hands that grabbed you by your head and neck and pulled you out. Now wonder your neck hurts all the time. Then, you were taken and placed in a cold (albeit warmly climated) place where NOBODY touched you at all but, instead, stood around, waiting for you to die. No wonder you’re so angry.”

Within moments of Elizabeth saying this, my head began to twist… first to the left, then to the right… it wound its’ way around in circles and in figure eights, at times landing in a position that was a complete 90 degree angle to my shoulder. As my neck untwisted like a telephone cord, hot tears poured from my eyes and rolled down my temples, welling up in my ears.

When I left Elizabeth’s office, I touched my neck. The muscles there felt like soft butter. There were no lumps. There were no knots. There was only relaxed tissue.

I knew this was not the only answer to the problems in my life and my body. I knew that there was more discovery to make, more work to be done. I knew this was a watershed moment that, in the end, would be only that: a moment.

It was a start, though.

Food For Thought - Egg Pie

I do this thing that we call Egg Pie. It starts with a carton of eggwhites. Just buy the brand that you like - there are several; and they are all the same EXCEPT for the ones like Egg Beaters that have additives. DO NOT BUY THE ONES WITH ADDITIVES! Read the label and look for an ingredient list that reads like this: 100% liquid egg whites. You DON'T NEED additives! No salt, no onion salt, no NOTHING. All you need are egg whites.

Take a good non stick skillet. Heat it on a medium flame and spray some olive oil cooking spray on it. Pour eggwhites into it and spice it up any way you like. I use ground powdered onion and garlic (I rarely have time to chop these things up, fresh, so I use them in spice form - but if you prefer fresh onion and garlic, go to! This is YOUR creation!). I also use crushed red pepper. So. You have eggwhites and spices in your pan. Now you can put in anything you like. Whatever vegetables or meat you like, add it - but be reasonable. Pork sausages are a bad idea. Ground beef is a bad idea. The idea is to eat healthily.

For one of my Egg Pies I just spread in freshly cooked spinach.

For one of my Egg Pies I put in chopped up grilled turkey breast, cherry tomatoes and chopped up fresh basil.

Once it starts to cook, put on the lid and let it cook all the way through. Check on it from time to time. When it has a 'custard' look to it, off the heat and let it sit so that it becomes completely solid. Once it has cooled, loosen it with a plastic spatula and slide it out of the skillet onto a cutting board. Let it cool. Cut it into squares. You can serve it like this or you can store it in tupperware. It's good cold or reheated.

Pat makes fresh salsa and puts it on his. I use the salsa on the spinach one but not on the turkey one.

I want to taste the turkey, tomato and basil!!

Great Moments in New York Theater -- Burn This

In 1988 Pat and I came to New York for a week. It was his first trip to NYC and I was thrilled to get to show him this, my favourite city in the world. We were here, expressly, to see my friend from my high school days, Steve Barton, in his Broadway debut in Phantom of The Opera. It was one of the happiest, most memorable weeks of my life, and of my marriage. We had so very much fun seeing the city and seeing the shows. I think we saw ten shows in seven days…most of them remain among our favourites (and will probably turn up in one of my blogs): Cats (he insisted), Into the Woods, Romance Romance, Phantom, Speed the Plow, Macbeth, Anything Goes, M Butterfly, Montgomery Plant and Stritch at the Oak Room and

Burn

This.

Lanford Wilson had, long, been a favourite writer of Pat’s. I only knew his work because, as a young boy, I had caught an episode or two of a TV sitcom called HOT L BALTIMORE. I never forgot it and in college I found and read the original play. Then I was exposed to more of his plays when I met Pat, who cast me in a college production of the Lanford Wilson one act Home Free that he was directing. It was while we were doing this play that we fell in love. So Lanford Wilson, as you can imagine, has a very special place in our hearts.

We had read that Mr Wilson had a new show on Broadway and were anxious to see it, even though the original stars had left the show. We would not be seeing Joan Allen or John Malcovich. At the time, it meant nothing to me, as I had not yet been exposed to the genius that is Joan Allen; and her replacement Lisa Emery was really wonderful (she has, since, become one of our favourite New York actors, whose work we venture to see whenever we can). In the male lead we were both excited to see a man whose work we have loved a long time: Mr Eric Roberts.

I wish I could describe for you what that night in the Plymouth Theater was like. It was so long ago, I don’t think I can remember, in detail. The curtain went up and there was this SET, this amazing set..it was a New York City loft apartment and it was HUGE (living here, now, I don’t know anyone who lives in places like this – just by the way). There was this MUSIC by Peter Kater that was simply electrifying. There was this language, this language, this language – it was as though Lanford Wilson had got inside of my head and written down things that were floating there, waiting to be plucked from some cocoon like place, then handed them over to the most glorious orators he could find. I loved these actors. They were raw and edgy and sophisticated and common and honest. They were real. They were the people I wanted to be around, to be. I loved the story and the way it all unfolded, I loved; well… I guess I just loved it. When it was over, I wanted to move but I couldn’t breathe. It was like I had been electrocuted.

That’s how Burn This became my favourite play.

I went round to Triton Gallery the next day and got the poster for the play and a silver pen and went back so I could get Eric Roberts’ autograph. He was simply extraordinary in that play. He breathed life into a character that I felt that I understood, so much; in the years to come, I would understand him much more. His particular quirks and ticks worked so perfectly for the role, I felt it had been written for him. I have never been able to picture Mr Malkovitch in the part. Sorry, John. So I waited at the stage door after the Wednesday matinee and met Mr Roberts, only briefly, while he signed my poster. I did not meet Miss Emery but I did meet the wonderful Lou Liberatore, whose performance as Larry, the gay roommate, reached inside of me and hit an “On” switch. It was a performance so very nuanced and layered that, years later, when I played the part, I found myself struggling to create so exemplary a portrayal. I did not succeed. Nevertheless, I adored him in the role and I got him to sign my poster. It is hanging behind me in my office, as I type.

Burn This has been my favourite play ever since. Others have come along and joined my list of favourites; but Burn This is in the top spot, right next to The Lion in Winter and The Philadelphia Story. I have never forgotten that night in the theater. I even bought the Peter Kater cd so I could have the music from the show.

I mentioned that I had the chance to do Burn This. When it came time for the first Dallas production to be mounted, I caught wind of it and called the director (whom I had never met) and told him:

“I understand you’re doing my favourite play and I called to audition so I can be in it.”

“We aren’t having auditions. We’re just seeing actors that we know.”

“Well I will take you for coffee so you know me; then you can let me audition so I can be in it.”

He didn’t want me to audition but I pushed and pushed, the way I always have when I wanted something. Eventually, the director yielded, if only to get me to leave him alone.

During my days as an actor, the only time I ever got a part that I really wanted was when I wanted it so badly that I went to the audition completely performance ready. That is how I got the role of Larry in Burn This. I read my ass off. I read rings around everyone who walked in the door, be they competition or actors coming in for one of the other three parts. I gave a fully realized performance each time I spoke lines, from memory, without script.

They didn’t hire me.

The director called to tell me that they were hiring someone else, a friend of mine, because they wanted to cast a black actor in this role. I said ok. I said ok because I knew that my friend had just taken a job in another show. I said ok because I knew that, the next day, they would call and offer me the part. They did. I said yes. And though I didn’t give the inimitable performance that Lou Liberatore gave, I had the time of my life and I walked away from the production with one of the best friends I have and will ever have.

My journey with Burn This does not stop there, though.

When I was working on The Sweater Book, Lanford Wilson and Marshall Mason (director of the original Broadway production) came for their photo shoots together. They saw the poster from the original production, signed and all, hanging in the living room. Lanford pointed and said “Oh LOOK! They put that there because we were coming!” Pat told them, no; it’s always been there.

I was happy.

Burn This has always made me happy, from the first moment til that moment.

Only it doesn't stop there.

EPILOGUE

Years later, I was in Hollywood working on The Sweater Book. I worked with Conchata Ferrell, one of the loveliest people you would ever be lucky enough to meet. It turned out Conchata is an accomplished, a well loved and well respected acting teacher; turned out one of my dearest friends was studying with her. I went to class with Sean to watch him act and Conchata welcomed me with open arms, having remembered me from our photo shoot several months earlier. I sat at the back of the class and observed and, at the end of class, I asked if I could come again next week and be a student. She said yes, of course, please bring me a monologue.

During my years as an actor, I did two monologues from Burn This. One was a Larry monologue. I had played Larry, the gay, wise cracking roommate. The other was a Pale monologue. I had never played Pale, even though that is one of the characters written for the theater that is so like me that it might as have been written for me… that is to say: that is me when I am drinking, which I don’t anymore. Had I remained in the business, though, the chances that I would ever be cast as Pale were slim to none. I’m far too gay. I simply would never be able to pull it off. I can’t dial back my gayness enough to make it work. Too bad.

The following week I went in with the Pale monologue

I waited until the entire class was done and Conchata asked if I would like to do my thang. So I did…

Did I mention that Lanford Wilson and Conchata Ferrell are, like, best friends? Have been since the 70s? He wrote the part of April in HOT L BALTIMORE for her?

So here I was, doing a Lanford Wilson monologue, written for a character I would never have been cast in, for Lanford Wilson’s best friend.

I started the monologue. “LOOK. Don’t leave messages for me.” I was comfortable on the stage, comfortable in my skin and in the scene. I was only marginally aware of my audience – only to the point that I kept them in mind for the sake of technique. I never wavered, I gave the piece my all. When I was finished, I was seated. I waited. I turned to look at Conchata, who was leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands in prayer position and up to her mouth. I waited. I waited.

“Why on EARTH did you stop acting?”

She turned to her class.

“THAT was a perfect Lanford Wilson performance.”

She turned back to me.

“I have no critique for you. I just want to know why you stopped acting.”

“I found something better.”

In that moment, I won my Tony.

One Step

Hello, my name is Stephen Mosher and I am an addict.

Haven’t we all heard that sentence using various different names over the years? In movies and tv shows we have seen characters go to Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, Gamblers Anonymous… you name it. There are 12 Step groups for everything. Booze, dope, sex, food, shopping, gambling; I think there is even a 12 Step group for True Blood. And every time we see a film or tv show in which somebody goes to a meeting, at some point someone says

“Hello, my name is (insert name here) and I am an (insert addiction here)”

“HI insert name here!” comes the reply.

In my twenties I went to AA. I didn’t go for very long. I didn’t believe in the program; so I thought it was disrespectful of me take up their time and their generosity in having me there – I thought it was disrespectful to the believers to have a non believer at their meetings. So I stopped going. I also stopped being sober. Nine times. That’s right. I quit drinking for a few months, got a hold of myself and started drinking again. When things got out of control, I would stop drinking again. Nine times. It was a hell of a roller coaster ride for me, for my friends and, especially, for my husband.

The last time I quit drinking was eight years ago, March 7th. The night before, I went out with a friend to a bar called Tenth Avenue Lounge. There, we took full advantage of the happy hour and drank so many superstrong Cosmopolitans that I lost track of how many there were. I came home fully loaded and verbally abused everyone in my path. Not being a black out drunk, I got to really enjoy every single minute of my downward spiral into a world of no control; I got to revel in the headache, the vomiting, the paranoia, the self loathing and the sore throat from screaming at my husband. Finally, after a long two hours, I would fall asleep. This was the pattern.

The next day I went to my best friend, visiting from California and sleeping in The Happy Room and I said “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Brady looked up from the computer and said “Don’t worry about it honey. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf is my favourite movie. I love Martha.”

I never had another drink.

I have never hidden my addictions. I use the plural because I am also a former shopper, an overeater, a former smoker, and a Designing Women junkie. I have an addictive personality, I confess. I learned this about myself and I focus on not being caught up in any new addictions. I have made my addictive personality my friend; it is a part of who I am and I have taught myself to control it. I am never out of control (if I stay focused) because I believe that there is no power without control – and I like power. I know I have control and I know I have power because when I stopped smoking, drinking and eating (unhealthy eating, you understand), I did it on my own. No 12 step programs. I control my destiny.

The reason I have shared this private and personal background is so that it is clear that I know about addiction and how to deal with it; at least, how I deal with it. You see…

My friend came to me and told me he was starting AA. He has a problem with booze and drugs – one drug in particular. He hit rock bottom. Everyone’s rock bottom is different. Mine wasn’t as bad as bad as some of the addicts I’ve known and some of the people I know had rock bottoms that weren’t as bad as mine. Nevertheless, he hit his rock bottom and he wanted to stop the cycle. He had decided to get off the ride. We spoke for hours about it. We talked about the path he had traveled to bring him to this moment and about the bottom of the rock. We discussed the research he had done and his perceptions of what being in recovery would mean to his life. We covered lots of angles, from how his marriage would change, how his social life would be affected, what to say (or not say) to friends, how to work the anonymity. How to begin.

I have been called an extremist. It’s a label I neither like nor dislike; it is what it is. Sometimes I understand why people say it; others I am left a little befuddled about it. Well, if I am an extremist, I don’t know what to say about my friend in need because, listening to him talk about this, I would say he wasn’t jumping in feet first – he was doing a cannonball dive with his spouse and house chained to him with snow chains fit for an 18 wheeler. Absolutely EVERYTHING in his life had to change! He kept saying NEVER. He was NEVER EVER going to drink again. He would NEVER EVER do drugs again. He would NEVER EVER … fill in the blank. It was so dire, so extreme, so dramatic.. almost melodramatic. I can’t speak absolutely; I only know that starting recovery needn’t be so fraught with drama. There is so much baggage that we are carrying when we start recovery – it is essential to divest ourselves of it, if only temporarily, so that we can focus on our recovery. Therefore, it is essential to put down as many of the bags as possible and just walk in the door of the meeting and be one simple thing: an addict; with one simple goal: recovery. Leave the baggage behind and bring it to meetings, one at a time, and deal with it. Same as expectations. Leave them behind. I don’t really remember what the meetings are like but I do remember that one of the philosophies by which they live is One Day At A Time. So I listened to him talk and told him that it would be ok; all he had to do was get to a meeting and make a start. One step leads you through the door. There, they will teach you the other steps, hold your hand and guide you through them.

A couple of days later, he was singing a different tune.

My friend and his husband live in West Hollywood. They are A Gays. They have a lifestyle. They have friends that fit their lifestyle. They have friends and a lifestyle and a standard to upkeep. With the advent of sobriety in their house, it was considered that they would both have to become sober, they would have to become unfettered of the lifestyle and the friends who lived that lifestyle; they would have to change their lives. Suddenly, the blank unholy shock of making so drastic a change had cast a full light on their house and my friend had decided that he was going to try sobriety for sixty days. If it went well and he was feeling better, he would reintroduce wine into his diet. A glass of wine with dinner wouldn’t hurt, would it? That way he could get through his rock bottom stage, show his husband that he was better and they could go back to something that sort of resembled their previous life.

Um. No.

I told him “babe – it doesn’t work that way”.

When you accept the fact that you are an addict, when you admit this fact, when you seek help for your addiction, there is no gray area. You are an addict. You must change your pattern of behaviour. You either quit using or you keep using. You don’t change your label. You’re an addict. The behavioural pattern is still there – that doesn’t change. You can control it but you can’t alter the instinct. Maybe you’ll stop being addicted to booze and become an overeater. Maybe you’ll stop using drugs and start having sex with everyone. The details may change but the fact that you are an addict won’t. You don’t get to stop and start, stop and start, stop and start. It doesn’t work that way. I know. I’ve tried. AND it is disrespectful to the people in your 12 step program who take their sobriety seriously and who work the steps.

I’ve known addicts for years who couldn’t make sobriety work for them. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. They are no different than I was when I was doing the on again off again thing with my recovery. One was a foodie who wouldn’t stop eating, wouldn’t start training; she would eat an entire large pizza and then complain about being overweight. One was an honest to goodness old fashioned junkie who ended up sleeping in bus stations and taking any pill he could get his hands on – even if it was just a Vitamin C tablet. I’ve known at least a half dozen crystal meth addicts who combined this addiction with (natch) a lovely sex addiction. They would hit rock bottom, get clean (either out of desire to be clean or an inability to buy drugs because they had so badly ruined their lives that they had no money with which to buy – though there is always some other meth addict willing to share) and then get busy once more, when they found the resources. Each of them said to me at one point, those sentences that become a part of their lexicon.

“I slipped.”

“I had a relapse.”

“I fell off the wagon.”

“I’ve only used once since getting out of rehab.”

That last one is my favourite. The story is all there, right in those nine words.

I got to a point where I had to go toughlove on them and tell them the truth: You didn’t slip, you didn’t relapse, you didn’t fall off the wagon. You got off the wagon. You used.

There IS no gray area.

You are an addict.

You. Are. An. Addict.

You quit. You quit for good. You live the rest of your life as an addict. They say addiction is a disease. I didn’t make that up; someone in charge did. And if addiction is a disease, treat it like one. When you have a heart attack, you change your diet and you exercise. When you are a diabetic, you aren’t allowed to eat certain things. When you get lung cancer, you quit smoking. When someone is diagnosed with a disease, they fight it in the ways that are necessary to beat it. If addiction is a disease, you take the precautions needed to protect yourself, your loved ones, your life. You don’t get to say “I’m an alcoholic” and then quit for two months with the plan to go back. Why even bother to quit? Why even bother to waste those sixty days getting clean and sober, just to go back and fuck up your life again? Why not just keep drinking and keep using and keep making wretched your days of wine and roses.

The Days of Wine and Roses.

Rent it. Watch it. Learn from it.

You can quit by going to meetings. You can quit the way I did and simply walk away. You can quit with your hand in the hand of a friend, a family member, a sponsor, a stranger or God. You can quit any way you like. But you have to quit. You are an addict now. You joined the group, you’re in the club. Twelve steps or not, you admitted to being an addict and wanting help. Be a man, take the first step and just quit. Forever. That’s all there is to do. You take that one step: quit.

Forever.

Great Moments in New York Theater -- Two Gentlemen of Verona

I hate Shakespeare.

I love to say that to people – especially people in show business. Their faces just turn ashen and their jaws drop. It always gets ‘em right where I want to.

But it isn’t true.

It’s just something I say for fun… for shock value, you know? The truth is I quite like Shakespeare. I’m no expert. My husband is. My friend Jane is. I know a few people who just know their Shakespeare – it’s like air or water to them. Me, I need to work a little at it. Once I know a show, I am all set. Gimme Midsummer Night’s Dream or Romeo and Juliet… Twelfth Night or Henry V.. I can sit back and relax and enjoy those shows. Merchant of Venice. MacBeth. One or two others. If, though, it is a play I have never read or seen, I run the risk of being bored, of falling asleep, of getting lost, of being unhappy in my theater seat.

In my 17 years of living in New York I can remember almost every Shakespeare play that I have seen (almost). There was a Macbeth that we saw before moving here that starred Christopher Plummer and Glenda Jackson – they were thrilling, the production, not so much. Years later we saw a Macbeth with Alec Baldwin and Angela Bassett – they were thrilling, the production, not so much. We saw Liev Schreiber play Hamlet and what I remember about that play was that he had very clean, very white feet. We saw Jude Law play Hamlet and what I remember is that he was stunning and so was the snow. There was Patrick Stewart in The Tempest – he was wonderful; there was Katy Selverstone in Much Ado About Nothing – she was WONDERFUL. I saw a lovely Merry Wives of Windsor with Andrea Martin and we saw a stunning Titus Andronicus with Michael Cumpsty. We saw Act one of Henry V in a garage theater waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay down on the lower East side and we saw all of the off Broadway productions of Othello (I blogged about it) and R&J (as it was called).. We saw the RSC’s Midsummer Night’s Dream and Shakespeare in the Park’s Twelfth Night – there will be blogging to come.

The Judith Shakespeare Company showed us a Richard II and Julius Cesar, both of which were very good.

And now they have given us Two Gentlemen of Verona.

I never saw Two Gentlemen of Verona. I never read Two Gentlemen of Verona. I did import the cast album from the musical Two Gentlemen of Verona into my Ipod. On the 12th song, I went to my computer and deleted all of it, asking myself “THAT won the best musical Tony instead of Follies?”. I might never have seen or known the play Two Gentlemen of Verona, were it not for the fact that my best friend is appearing in the Judith Shakespeare Company’s production that is currently playing. They opened the show two weeks ago but I only got around to seeing the play last night. Usually I like to not attend my friends’ opening nights – they tend to discourage it and I tend to like to give them (and the production) time to settle in. Now that they are in their third week, I took my Shakespeare loving husband to see my Shakespeare acting bestie… but I was, secretly, quite worried. Would I be able to follow it? Would I understand it? Would I stay awake? (This is an ongoing problem for me – I am exhausted and slightly narcoleptic and I do, I am sad to say, fall asleep at the theater, if the theater does not keep me alert and awake.) I was worried. This is my best friend. I wanted to be able to understand the play in which he is showing his artistry; I wanted to share in his work.

WELL.

Let. Me. Tell. You.

I STAYED AWAKE!!!! Not only that, I got the play! I was alert and awake and alive, laughing my ass off at this wonderful little comedy of errors! What a sweet and funny story but with also some really touching moments (one scene between Sylvia and Julia actually made me cry – but you didn’t read that hear) and truly poetic monologues. I was so impressed with the play and the ability of the artists, from director Joanne Zipay to all the actors, to make me understand what was happening, to make the play accessible. It’s like when you are at the opera or at a foreign film and you don’t understand the language but you can still follow the action. Except that the difference here is that these lovely actors made the Shakespearean language easier for me, they made the pentameter seem like prose. Of course, there are some actors who are better at it than others but that’s always going to be the case, isn’t it? There is, though, no actor in this show that does a bad job – they are all delightful and good.

Naturally, I was proudest of Hunter. It’s no easy thing he is doing. Maybe I didn’t tell you, maybe you didn’t know – The Judith Shakespeare Company switches the gender of the actors playing the parts. All the men are played by women and all the women are played by men. Confusing? Not at all. They drove and I went. This troupe of actors had me leaning forward in my seat (always a good sign) and laughing deep, loud belly laughs. It was a most enjoyable night in the theater, a great storyline (though one of the characters is truly icky, reprehensible, but I guess we need that in a character to make the story..), actors with a grasp of the language, a sexy-ass award winning guitarist underscoring the evening with some great music, a sweet concept (the prologue is a sheer delight) and a scene stealing would be Tony award winning dog.

And my best friend. I’m not biased. Truly. I go see my friends in plays and I know when it’s a good play, I know when they’re doing good work. I’ve seen Hunter act a few times now and I’m so proud to call him friend. I love artists. I love seeing the artist at work. I try to always support my family members who are artists, try to go see them in their shows, buy their books, go to their exhibits, buy their cookies, read their blogs, Itune their cds… These are my family and I wouldn’t feel good about myself if I didn’t support their work (I don’t understand friends of actors that don’t go see their acting friends in their shows – I know we can’t go EVERY time; but we should at least try). Hunter is actually one of my favourite actors. He has an honesty about him when he works (and I am all about the honesty) but it is delicately tempered with the craftsmanship that tells an actor where the laughs are, where the perfect moment comes to pause for a facial expression that will act as a confection for a rapt audience. When he works, he gets so far inside the character that the journey back is the performance we are all watching; when he enters the stage he is not himself and, like the seven veils, the layers loosen up as he fills the stage, finally letting them drop as he steps forward for his bow. He’s just magical; and I am not in the least biased – I know this because I have read his reviews for the shows he has done since I met him. I use them to back me up when I say these seemingly biased, actually unbiased comments.

Of course, Hunter is my favourite part of the play; but in truth my real favourite part of the play is that I GOT IT. I am so proud of myself and so proud of these artists. Together, we created a night that I would recommend to my friends, a night that I would (and do) call great.

Great.

Two Gentlemen of Verona runs through August 22

http://www.judithshakespeare.org/

Please note that I swiped the photo in this story off the internet. I did not take the photo and I wish I knew who did so I could credit them

Great Moments in New York Theater -- Faye Lane’s Beauty Shop Stories

I have never met anyone who didn’t love the film or play Steel Magnolias. I have also never met anyone who didn’t love the film or play Driving Miss Daisy. Fried Green Tomatoes. Crimes of the Heart. Miss Firecracker. Let’s talk about the tv show Designing Women. Let’s face it: people love Southern women. Even The Golden Girls took place in Florida, even if only one of those women was actually from The South. There is simply something special about the Southern sweethearts who populate the world; and we all love their portrayals in literature, on stage and on screens big or small.

Faye Lane is just such a Southern Lady and her story is onstage in New York City at this very moment.

It would be unfair to not disclose that I have known Faye Lane long enough that I have been lucky in that I have witnessed the gestation of her theatrical autobiography, Beauty Shop Stories. It doesn’t make me biased – it only makes me blessed; for each time that I have seen Faye Lane perform the various versions of this piece, I have been made happy. Each time that the show develops and changes, I miss the parts that have been cut and I love the parts that have been added. I am very much aware that if there were to be a version of the play that told all the stories, it would be too long for public consumption. So I am content to be happy with whatever adventure unfolds when I sit down in my chair, content with the memories of adventures past.

The premise of the show is a simple one: a chubby little girl spends her Texas childhood in her mama’s beauty shop, dreaming of going places and doing things. That is not a unique theme to any of us. Whether we were Chubbsy Ubssy, Tiny Tim, Too Tall MaCall (or any of the other names children call each other) with very rare occasion did anyone who spent time as a child escape the torture from the other children (aptly dubbed by Faye as ‘bastards’ – naturally, with a smile on her face and a crooked halo over her head). So Faye has an ace in the hole before she even walks onstage – an audience with whom she shares common ground.

The other aces in the hole with Faye Lane is her complete and utter charm, her vast sincerity, her soaring singing voice, her breathtaking beauty and the surprises that await us, as we hear what eventually happened to the chubby little girl sitting on the porch of the Parlor wearing a Burger King crown that she had doctored up with glitter and glue. Them’s a lot of Aces in the Hole, brothers and sisters; and she fans them out in front of us as she takes the biggest gamble an artist can take: laying out their life, recreated in their artform, for all to see and judge.

Each time I have ever seen Faye Lane do her autobiographical show, the judges rule in her favour. This last Sunday was no exception. She had the entire near sold out house in the palm of her gentle, dresden, sweet smelling hand. There were gales of laughter, some gasps, some singing along and even spontaneous verbal emissions from audience members unable to contain themselves. I think that’s the sign of a good show; hell, a great show. When your audience feels comfortable enough with you to talk to you during your show, you’ve got them right where you want them: in the palm of your gentle, dresden, sweet smelling hand. Faye is, clearly, loved by the audiences; and I think it goes back to her charm and sincerity. I read a review for this show in which the writer says, point blank, that there are those who would find this trip to the theater saccharine – they WOULD find it saccharine, were it not for Faye’s genuine sincerity. It’s palpable. When she talks to you, you know she is as sweet in real life as she is while telling you these stories about the real life Steel Magnolias who shaped her during her formative years (you also know that there is a bit of bawdy broad hiding behind the devilish grin and twinkling eye that says “who me?”). This is no act, my friends, we have found a Southern Belle who spouts poetic language reminiscent of Truman Capote, sings with a powerful voice as heartfelt as that of Twiggy, captures us with wiles reminiscent of Delta Burke and graces us with beauty reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. Only one thing stops her from being more than just reminiscent of these famous talents: her own absolute inimitability. It is as plain as the Texas on my Face that Faye Lane is unique - she is that rare and wonderful thing: an original

I cannot divulge the secrets of the show. I won’t repeat one single beauty shop story online or tell you what happens to the chubby girl once she grows up and goes glamour queen. That would be unfair to Faye Lane – but, mostly, it would be unfair to anyone who sees the show. The surprises of her true-life story should unfold organically for the audience; everyone deserves a chance to gasp and say “NO WAY!” and “Oh my God” and “I can’t BELIEVE that!” I also won’t critique the songs written except to say that they, clearly, were written especially for Faye Lane (and to have someone write a song for you is not nothing). Even the one song that was not written especially for this show, Carol Hall’s great Bus From Amarillo, seems to have been written especially for Faye Lane.

Faye Lane, though, seems to have been especially written for us. Her presence on this planet (other than making her husband the happiest straight man on earth) seems to be the spreading of joy and delight through her writing and her performing; and at that, she succeeds. Darlin’, she succeeds at it like a Country Fair succeeds at stockin’ the pantry with homemade comfort food. That’s Faye Lane all over the place: home made Southern comfort. She is like light, filling the air and space around us, without our even being aware of it – or how much we need it.

I was amazed at how, with the one simple gesture of flipping back the curtains and stepping through them, she could take a heart as black as mine and make it bright. And that’s only the beginning of the show. What follows is the three course meal.

Simply walking through the curtain was dessert.





You can catch Faye Lane’s Beauty Shop Stories (directed by the masterful Jay Rogers) at La Mama until August 23rd

http://www.beautyshopstories.com/

Great Moments in New York Theater -- Moon Over Buffalo

I’m so glad we had this time together…

Who among us does not know that melody? Who did not spend part of their life growing up with it? I don’t care if you were a kid or an adult when The Carol Burnett Show made its’ debut on television, if you were alive while it was running, that song, that show, that lady was a part of your life. For some lucky people who were born after the show went off the air, it is a part of their life too. Thank God for re runs, syndication, videos, dvds and Youtube.

I grew up watching Carol Burnett. She has never not been on my radar. The tv show, her movies, her record albums (Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall was a major part of my teenage years)… everything about the legendary and genius artist has always enthralled me. My adoration of the lady, though, is nothing when compared to that of my beloved husband. She is one of his idols. The others, to be clear about his good taste, are Danny Kaye and Albert Finney.

As a boy, Pat would lie to his parents every Monday night; he would tell them he had taken a nap after school so that he could stay up past his bedtime to watch The Carol Burnett Show. He worships the woman.

When we read that Miss Burnett would be appearing on Broadway in a new comedy, alongside the absolutely irreplaceable Philip Bosco, we were so excited. I think we bought our tickets the moment that they went on sale. It was bound to be a huge hit. After all, it was being written by Ken Ludwig, who had penned Lend Me a Tenor (another of our favourites). Alongside Burnett and Bosco were Jane Connell and Randy Graff, women and talents that we both loved. And the storyline involved a Lunt-Fontanne type couple doing Cyrano de Bergerac and Private Lives in rep (both of these are particularly dear to my Pat). Oh yeah, this was going to be a great night of theater.

I am not sure how many people who read this blog are aware of a little movie called Moon Over Broadway. It is a documentary that tells the story of the creation of this production. It is uncompromising in its’ quest to show us the real truth behind the production of a Broadway play; not everyone comes off looking so good. So – the backstage problems with this show are publically documented. There is nothing for me to say about that. Or about the reviews for the show which, if memory serves, were somewhat tepid.

None of that mattered, though. The play was a hit because everyone in New York (and some out of towners who came in just for this play) wanted to see the legendary Carol Burnett on the Broadway stage. So it was the ticket to get.

What I remember most about the play isn’t how extraordinary Carol Burnett was; or Philip Bosco, or Jane Connell or Randy Graff (and, for the record, they WERE extraordinary – how they didn’t all waste away from the physical action of the play alone is a mystery). What I remember most about the play isn’t the beautiful set or the breathtaking Bob Mackie costumes. What I remember most about the play isn’t the belly laughs, not only from us but, from the entire theater full of people. Oh, I do remember all of this. It was one special night in the theater. But no.

What I remember most about the play was Christmas.

It was like watching a child on Christmas morning, sitting beside my Pat, watching him react to seeing his childhood, his lifelong idol performing live. It was. It truly was like Christmas. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were sparkling with tears of joy. His face hurt from smiling and his sides, from laughing. He was happier, sitting in that seat, in that theater, than he has been many other days in his life. Only one thing would have made him even happier than watching Carol Burnett…

Meeting Carol Burnett.

During the run of Moon Over Buffalo, I sent a letter round to the legend, telling her about The Sweater Book and telling her that Bob Mackie had already posed for it; wouldn’t she? Please?

The story behind the photo shoot that followed because of the lady’s gracious acceptance of my invitation to be in the book has been told in the past. I no longer tell it. I’m saving it for my memoir. I will, though, show you this – the best thing (in my life) to come out of Moon Over Buffalo being produced on Broadway:

The Picture Down the Hall -- Model Behaviour

During the years that I worked as a photographer, many a model wannabe came to me to help them create a portfolio. Most of the people who came to me did so for more than just liking me or my work; much of the time they came to me because they didn't have any money and they knew that I would shoot pictures of them all day for a nominal fee and expenses. Of course, when operating with that kind of artistic budget, one has to cut the suit to fit the cloth. That meant making the most out of the studio I made in our home and nearby locations. Once we were done, people went out into the world with, at least, a book of eight or so pictures to get started. Then they could find other high rent photographers to shoot glitzier pics that would, eventually, replace the ones I had done.

I never minded being the Filene's Basement of photographers becaue I loved helping these people with a dream, I loved the challenge of making art on a shoestring and I loved some of the artwork we created.

I don't know if these people succeeded in their modeling careers because, like children, they only call when they need something. Some of them, I do know, went on to rich and rewarding lives in other professions. I know this because they came to me as clients and stayed on as family.

The photo of AJ holding onto the backdrop stand in front of the living room window at Two-A is one of my favourite photos. I love the colours, I love his youthful quality, I love the trust in his eyes.
This photo of Alberti was a bit of an accident. I was babysitting Molly (see the Pomeranian in his lap?) and while I was setting up and we were talking and picking outfits, she crawled up into his lap. I told him to pick up his phone and start talking and I backed way up to show all of what was happening in the photo shoot. I like the story it tells.

Alejandro came to me by way of a manager of some kind. He had an amazing face, perfect for some European clothing line. We did a lot of pictures of him around the house but what I really wanted was a relationship shot. So I called one of my favourite faces and great actresses and had her do this shot with him in Rockefeller Center. I hate to say it, Alejandro, but Kaitlin kind of stole your thunder in the shot; but, together, it makes a really steamy story.

Alison is a ravishing beauty who needs very little to look amazing on film. A good light and a good idea in her head to give her a good facial expression. Oh, and a slash of red lipstick.

Mike (below) is always a great model because his face is an open book. And his body a work of art. That's him, all over: a work of art.

I have a file, three inches thick, of negatives of Peter. One of the most stunning beauties you will ever see, he didn't always trust me, but he did (eventually) do what I told him to do; and most of the time the results were magic.

Chance was an out of town gig. The assistant of a close friend was dating a guy who wanted to model. He was certainly handsome but I wasn't sure if he could cut it as a model. So we made the photos as interesting as possible, trying to make them look like real tear sheets, real ad campaigns. This was one of my favourites.

Below you see a photo from what was an unhappy photo shoot for me. The lady and her husband treated me very badly and then stiffed me for payment on the shoot.

My only reward was this photo, which I always thought looked like a Maybeline ad.

Danielle was actually not in the modeling game... her ambition was to be a spokeswoman in television. I mean, really: look at this girl. She should already have been doing it when she met me!

Gabe is an actor and a dancer; he is an athlete and a philosopher. Gabe is everything - including one of my favourite photographic subjects and people.

I did a lot of photos of Patrick. This one of him with Spencer was always a favourite of mine. It's so honest, so real, so fun.

I loved working with Jamie. He is a gentleman and an artist. He knows what he wants and he asks for it; but he isn't afraid to go with someone else's ideas either. The dog in this photo is Peyton, Spencers' sister.

John was a bartender in Brooklyn. His friends all told him to model. He came to me. I put him in my turtleneck and styled his hair and he took this photo and got himself an agent.

This ravishing beauty is Kristen. I loved working with her. She made things fun and made great art with me. This is one of my favourites because it combines her love of fashion with my grandmother's clothing designs, as well as incorporating her younger adopted sister, Rachel... that's the little pink lady on the sofa behind Kristen, for those out of the loop.

I don't remember much about the little girl below. This was a shoot in Dallas in the 80s, an actual paying gig. The girl wanted to model, her mom brought her to me and that was that....


In the 80s I had two backdrops. A black one and a blue one.

I just didn't think a black backdrop on a little girl would work. The blue added whimsy to all her pics.

She looks like a grown up, doesn't she? I mean, look at that expression on her face.

There are times when people come for shoots and you know they are never going to make it as a model. But you do the shoot anyway. When I met Mark, I thought his face looked like a painting by one of the great masters. And while I thought he looked amazing, I wouldn't have expected him to go into modeling.

The photos we did together didn't yield anything that I would consider appropriate for a modeling portfolio.

But I did like the artistic nature of all of them.

This one, especially.

Paul moved to New York from somewhere out west, to model. One look at that face and I knew he could do it.

I wish you could see his body.

Have mercy.

This luscious creature actually did go into modeling. There are photos of him EVERYWHERE on the internet. He is one dreamboat of a guy and everyone wants to take his photo.

Those of us who know Paul in real life know he is much more than a pretty face.

But in the modeling world, nobody cares about that.




Sandra actually isn't a model. She's a dancer. Salsa. But when we did her photos, it felt like a portfolio session. In front of the camera, she is a diva.

Sean made it as a model. He truly did.

This should be no surprise to anyone.

Those lips, those eyes, those cheekbones.

They say it all.











This man is a Canadian model and stripper. At least, that is what he was doing when I met him and we did these photos.

The most telling part of the story of this shoot is that, right about at this point in our session, I said to him "Do me a favour and turn your head to your left."

"NO" he said.

"What's the matter?" I asked "Don't you like your profile?"

"No, I just like my straight on profile."





Here we see an improved photo from a shoot that happened around the holidays....
I was doing these photos of Leesa in the living room/studio; I had been baking holiday cookies in the kitchen and it was a WRECK. At one point, I bumped the kitchen table and a dozen eggs hit the floor.

In her heels and cocktail frock, Leesa threw on an apron and served up this look and we had a portfolio picture with a story.

Here's one for you... You may or may not believe this - and it is completely out of character for me - but I have no story to go with this photo. Not even a name. I don't remember the circumstance behind this shoot; I only know I have always loved this shot.











When I met Tom, I became obsessed with taking photos of him. It's one of the things an artist does, I guess. He was my muse for awhile (can a boy be a muse?), bringing me out of an artistic funk that had lasted way too long.

One of our many photo shoots was this marathon day in a ritzy hotel on the east side (it was arranged by a good friend who worked there). For fun, we took AJ and Jennifer so that we could really do pictures that looked like something.

Whenever I look at this photo it reminds me of those Benson and Hedges ads from the 90s...



I don't remember where we got the car that we used for this photo of Will. I only know it was gorgeous. He and the car were worthy of each other.

Yaniv was a nice man; I always had fun working with him. This picture pleased me because I always think that a model should have a photo that looks like Sunday morning. It makes the person looking at the photo feel like they know you. It makes them like you.

Admit it.

You like Yaniv, too.

Don't you?

The Doctor Is In

I spent the day yesterday being marriage counselor. This need surprise nobody; after all I have been in a relationship for (what will be) 25 years (in April 2011) – I think I have learned a thing or two about how to make a marriage work. I may have failed at many things in this life but marriage is not among them. In this, our 24th year, Pat and I are more devoted to each other than ever before. Well, give the boys a medal, ok?

The experience, though, of being therapist to my friend all day yesterday got me to thinking about how disposable people have made each other, how easily relationships are discarded – the propensity people have of choosing to cut and run. Perhaps it is a product of the time in which we live. These days, when anything breaks, people throw it out and get a new one. It costs more to repair the air conditioner in the window than to buy a new one. Same thing goes with the television, the Nano, the cellphone, the camera… almost everything we have in our house. People would rather just chuck it and get a new one than spend the days waiting while it gets repaired; and that includes our personal relationships. Now, I’ve walked away from toxic friendships. I have also stayed pat and fought to make them better. Those, though, are friendships, not marriage. You don’t just walk away from your marriage. Well.. maybe you walk out the door, walk around the block, cool off and come back to work it out. That’s ok.

Yesterday, though, I was amazed at how many hours were spent taking call after call from my friend because he and his husband had had a dust up and the husband had stormed out. For hours (and I mean hours) the husband stayed away from their home, preferring to communicate in (what I considered to be) vague and cryptic text messages, rather than sitting down with (the person he calls) his best friend and working it out. For hours yesterday I acted as interpreter, taking call after call from one man, asking me to listen to him read text messages from his husband (and best friend), and then take a stab at guessing what the husband meant by it. I did it. I listened, I dispensed advice and I did my best to read between the lines of the text messages. Then, late in the day, I turned to my own dear husband and said “remember that scene in When Harry Met Sally when Carrie Fisher and Bruno Kirby are on the phones with Harry and Sally, counseling them both and, upon hanging up, they turn to each other and say Promise me I’ll never be out there again?” Pat said yes. “I am living that moment”.

What happened to make my friends fight, what has put their relationship in jeopardy is private. It is not my story to tell. I wish, desperately, that I could tell it because it would serve to illustrate how the minutia of our lives affects us – that is, how we LET the minutia of our lives affect us. I’m not saying what happened between them isn’t bad – it’s bad. It just isn’t worth the threat of ending their marriage. It isn’t even worth the fight they are having. When the whole thing happened, honestly, it should have amounted to a serious talk over a pot of tea, some crying, some hand holding and a notepad filled with a list of what they are going to do to effect a change in their lives. Instead they did what so many people do: they chose the apocalypse. The whole thing is positively holocaustic. I, naturally, told Pat what was going on because these are our friends and, at some point, one of them was bound to call Pat for his take and for his broad, waterproofed shoulder to cry on. Once I had done this, once I had told Pat what I knew about the situation, we talked, for a long time, about the path that we took to bring us to where we are today. There were floods of memories of the bad things that touched our relationship. There were lies. There were secrets. I had a problem with addiction and he had a problem with sexual indiscretion. We’ve had money troubles, trust issues, communication problems. We even touched, briefly, on physical violence. Yet, each time we had a problem, however big or small, we stayed together. We fought for each other, for our marriage. There was even a period of a few years (YEARS) when we didn’t like each other; couldn’t STAND each other, couldn’t talk to one another, didn’t want to look at each other. Every day of those few years, we stayed together and every day we said “I love you” to each other, repeatedly.

My friend James Beaman recently wrote a story about his feelings concerning the reversal of Proposition Eight and all the gays who are rushing to the altar. In his story he speaks, adamantly about gays who just want to get married without observing the SANCTITY of marriage. It’s an important word – sanctity. In the dictionary and thesaurus it is described equal to sacred. I think people confuse these words with religion, which I do not (I cannot speak for Pat, though I know my husband well enough to know that he does not equate these words with anything religious). When Jamie speaks of the sanctity of marriage, I am sure he is not being religious either. So I went to the American Heritage Dictionary and looked up Sanctity – the second definition says sacredness. I went to sacred and the fifth definition says “worthy of respect”. That’s the one I wanted.

Pat and I have no religious affiliation. Only respect. Respect for life, for God, for Earth, for people, for dignity, for goodness, for humility, for intelligence.. for so many things; including our marriage. Jamie’s point in writing his story was that people (gay and straight) don’t observe the sanctity of the union. At the first sign of trouble they cut and run. Tch. That’s how I feel about that. Tch. You have to stand and fight.

A couple nights ago Pat took me to the picture show. We saw The Kids Are Alright. (Spoiler alert – if you do not want to spoil the movie for yourself, skip this paragraph). In the film, Julianne Moore’s character has a physical affair and when her wife, Annette Bening, finds out about it, they fight. They sleep apart. They fight. They stay in the same house. They fight. They talk to their kids about it. In the final moments of the movie, their troubles still unresolved, they sit in the front seats of their car, driving, and one puts her hand on the other’s knee; the other takes her wife’s hand and they squeeze. This is a real life couple. They have invested years in building this city in which they dwell; they have a family, they are good friends – best friends – and they aren’t going to walk away from that.

While listening to my friend tell me his perceptions of what was happening in his home, I noticed something. He talked about his feelings, his fears, his worries, his guilt. He told me of his husband’s reactions to the situation: the anger, the betrayal, the demands, the expectations, the disappearance, the reluctance to sit down and talk. Each story had something in common: each of them was talking and each sentence was about “me”. I am angry. I am hurt. I am betrayed. I am guilty. I am scared. I am worried. I am, I want, I feel, I need. Me. Me. Me. Me.

After a couple hours and several conversations I said to my dear friend:

At some point in all of this, you both need to stop focusing inward and focusing outward. You both will need to focus on your spouse’s pain. That is how a marriage works. You focus on their needs and they focus on yours. That way, everyone’s needs are met.

The best thing about having needs is having someone with you who wants your needs met more than theirs.

The biggest fights Pat and I have had in 24 years have been over which of us would get the bigger piece of cake; which of us would get their needs met – because we always want the other to get what they want more. We, each of us, make a choice based on the other’s needs, daily. I represent the family at the social function he does not want to attend. He saves the last orange for me. I stay at home to deal with the a/c repair man so he can go do something he wants to do. He goes to the post office for me because he knows I hate to. These are the small examples. To cite the big examples would be to delve too deeply into our personal life; and that might make readers uncomfortable. The point, though, is that the moment our friends had their dust up, everyone should have screamed and cried and had tantrums and slammed doors. Then, when the dust had settled, they should have come together again and sat, facing each other, holding hands. Then, the things they should have said were things like:

“How can I help you through this difficult time?”

“Let’s get you some help.”

Instead, they are focusing inward on their own personal healing.

I told my friend that they needed to, each of them, sit on their own for a moment and ask themselves how they would feel if their husband were hit by a car today and died. How would they feel, each of them, if their husband were diagnosed with cancer today. How would they feel, each of them, if their husband were in a building that was bombed today.

Everywhere, every day, somebody loses a loved one – to illness, to accident, to malicious actions of others. There are people who no longer have the luxury of going to bed at night and holding the hand of their husband or wife as they fall asleep. There are people who no longer have the comfort of looking into their spouse’s eyes and seeing that way they look at them, that way that says you are my world. I’m not talking about the loss of a parent or a child or a friend – those are bad things that we all go through and tragic. There is, though, something particular about losing your love. If you are going to lose your love, let it be to something you cannot control; something like illness or accident or crime. We aren’t to be allowed to lose our love because we behaved like petulant, mistrusting, juveniles who don’t know how to forgive. Love comes along, not every day; for some, love comes along never.

We’re human beings. We’re fallible. We make mistakes. We also, as human beings, have the ability to reason things out and to forgive.

My friends spent yesterday fighting via text message. They couldn’t even be bothered to sit down with each other and hold hands and look into each others’ eyes and see the love there, to hear the love in their voices, to feel the physical and spiritual foundation upon which their marriage is (should be) built. They kept texting each other things about how they are best friends and they should be there for each other; and they hadn’t been. Well. I don’t walk out on my best friend. When there’s a problem, I stay with my best friend and we work it out. Where were they? They were apart from each other, both of them alone, dealing with the matter alone. I don’t let my best friend be alone when they are in crisis mode. I couldn’t understand, and still don’t today, how they could call each other best friends and then walk away, particularly over the situation, as I had been told it.

In our house we have a saying “Is anybody dead? Is anybody dying? Is anybody bleeding?” If the answer to these three questions is no, then you are starting at a good, a reasonable, a manageable place.

Last night, regarding this situation, Pat said “If that’s the worst thing that happened to you today, go talk to a 13 year old who’s been raped. Go talk to a mother whose baby died. Go talk to the victim of a violent crime or a fire.”

I’m not unsympathetic to the plight of these men. I’m actually not unsympathetic to a lot people in their personal crises. I just think we all need to keep a little perspective, look at what we have right in front of us, live in a little grace and a little gratitude, and act like adults. We all need to stay together and fight for what we have. We need to work for what we have, for what we want; we need to work to keep our happiness. It’s not a gift, you know. We write our own stories and make them a reality.

Five cents please.