The Tattoo Chronicles: The Role Model

I am obsessed with honesty.

Maybe it is because when I was younger I was a liar. As a child I lied about things to cover up my mistakes. As a teenager I told lies that made me seem more interesting than I was. As a young man I told lies to hide secrets about myself. As a man I got tired of lying and developed a respect for the truth. I found, inside me, a thirst for it. I cultivated a commitment to it.

I am obsessed with honesty.

I have said, for a long time, that you cannot do what I have done for as long as I have done it, without learning to see the truth. I picked up my first camera when I was 16. This year I will turn 45. That's three decades of looking through the lens. If that doesn't give you insight into humanity, I don't know what will. I see people. Many is the time that I have told Tom "I see you". I have said it to others among my loved ones. People need to know. People to be aware that their life has been witnessed, that their mortality does not come into question, because they are not invisible. I see people and I seek the truth.

Mike Babel has said to me "You don't see the truth. You wait for it. Then you capture it."

I am obsessed with honesty.

I am also an intellectual. It isn't every day of the week, mind you, because I have learned that I don't want to work that hard. It is with the right people and in the right circumstance that I open the drawer where is kept my intellectualism. It is most often with Brady or with Vince or with Jane or with Hunter that I open the drawer - one or two other people, natch; and, of course, Pat sees all the sides of me.

One of my most intellectual pursuits has been the study of the play CLOSER, which I broke down in an epic story on The Stephen Mosher Blog on July 13, 2006. No point in reblogging it, here, I can give the finer points of my attachment to this play. It is, for me, the single most honest and real representation of human relationships, sexuality, behaviour and lies versus truth, yet written for the stage. It was translated into one of the best movies I have ever seen. I am as obsessed with this piece of literature as I am with the honesty that evades the characters, the honesty for which I wait.

The people in CLOSER are wonderful, flawed, funny, candid, sexual, smart and, sometimes, honest (as well as many other things). Most of the time they are awful. They lie to each other and to themselves about almost everything. It is all a game of selfish deception. Like opera, it is exactly the size of life.

Except for Alice Ayers.

I took the script to the play CLOSER and I highlighted every flirtatiously vague statement that Alice makes. Then I highlighted every completely honest comment she remarks, in a different colour. Then I highlighted every lie she tells, in another colour. She tells only one, true, lie:"

My name is Alice Ayers."

Everything else that this character says is either true or conversational.

She is the only person in this tale who only tells the truth. She is the only person in the story who wants nothing more than to love and to be loved. She is the only person in the story who knows how to survive and does it, without leaving a trail of emotional carnage in her wake. She does not act in any way that is meant to hurt another human; she does nothing but live, look for love and survive.

Dialogue cut from the play when the movie was made:

Dan: What do you want?

Alice: To be loved

Dan: That simple?

Alice: It's a big want.

That exchange speaks volumes about this woman's character and about the basic, true needs of human beings.

When Dan asks her how she managed to quit smoking, she says, simply:

"deep inner strength.

"Deep inner strength is something I crave, something I dig for, in the deepest receses of my soul. It is probably among my five biggest personal quests, along with honesty and enlightenment.

As I studied the play script of CLOSER, as I returned to the dvd time and again, as I delved deeper into the character of Alice Ayers, I loved her more and more. The simplicity with which she lives, the quest for love, the commitment to honesty, the embodiement of strength -- these are all qualities I admire and wish to wear inside my soul on outside my body. I fell in love with Alice Ayers - except she isn't really Alice Ayers, is she?

"My name is plain Jane Jones"

I thought about it for over a year. I REALLY wanted to do this. I told Pat about it. I mentioned a couple more times within weeks. He said to me:

"I want you to think about this long and hard. Every one of your tattoos is personal and is attached to someone you love. Your angel, Tom, Anthony, New York, God, me; but now you are talking about a fictional character. You will be tatoo'ing a FICTIONAL character to yourself. I just want you to think about it for a long time before you do it."

I thought about it for a year.

When I made the decision to get the Plain Jane Jones tattoo, I knew I couldn't get it in my own handwriting. No one would be able to read it. I asked Marci to write the words for me, which she did. When she heard what it was for, she tore the paper up.

"I will not participate in your becoming a doodle page." (Marci has never been a big fan of my propensity for body art)

I went to Tom, whose handwriting I have always loved. I asked him to write these words for me. He filled two pages in my notebook with various renderings.

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

PLAIN JANE JONES

I studied them for days and days on end. I chose just the RIGHT one. Now. Location. Where?

I have never told this part of the story before; only to Pat. He is the only person who knows this, up to this point.

I saw a photo of Heath Ledger on the cover of Rolling Stone. On the outside of his forearm was a handwritten printing of the words OLD MAN RIVER. I thought "neat". I liked Heath Ledger - a lot - but it isn't like I was a huge die hard fan (at the time - BROKEBACK and DARK KNIGHT changed all that): I just thought that was so neat. So I chose the INSIDE of my forearm for my new tat. I am proud to have been inspired by Heath Ledger in this way, honoured to have emulated him in any way.

I took Tom's handwriting and my fictional role model and my famous actor's location and I marched into the tattoo establishment and came out with one of my favourite things ever: my Plain Jane Jones tattoo. The funny thing is that people seldom notice it and, when they do, most often they think I have written on myself - which I do - I write notes on my hand so I won't lose them. When people realize that it is, indeed, a tattoo, they either say it's cool or they ask what it's about and don't understand the explanation.

One night, on a dance floor, in the dark, my friend Dan took my wrist, studied it, then gave me a big smile and a thumbs up sign. He got it. He was the first person to ever get it, without previously knowing what it was.

Recently, my adopted son, Pat Jr, phoned and emailed me:

"Will you please email me a photo of the Plain Jane Jones tattoo?"

I did.

Two days later I got an email of a photo. He had gotten his first tattoo. It looked just like mine only it was different handwriting and up in the crook of his elbow. It said LOVE THIS MOMENT. To say that I was and am proud and honoured and flattered would be a gross understatement.

I am obsessed with honesty.

I seek Deep Inner Stength.

My real name is Plain Jane Jones

The Tattoo Chronicles: The Philosophies

I spent a lot of the last few years angry. It's not a secret; most of my friends have known about it and anyone who read any of my blogging during that time knows about it. It was an unfortunate time in my life. The source(s) of my anger are widespread and private; it is enough to know that I was angry. That isn't to say that I didn't have happy moments or that I didn't feel love or compassion or important positive feelings for my fellow man. There are actually a number of photos of me laughing and smiling with my loved ones during that time - just because you are angry doesn't mean you are angry every minute of the day. For me, the anger was something that was gracious enough to step aside and let me have the moments of happiness that came along; but it always stepped right back in, the moment it had the opportunity.

I have written about the fact that, as a child, I was ostracized and it led to my having a rich fantasy life; written about how the fictional characters I befriended in books and movies became my bedrock. I have written, often, about the manner in which I tend to idolize strong, tough, implaccable characters that embody that which I have never been able to accomplish. James Bond. Charlie Baltimore. Brian Kinney. Jason Bourne.

During my angry years I watched the Bourne movies - if not once a day, at least I watched part of a Bourne movie once a day. My Ipod was kept, almost constantly, on a soundtrack from a Bourne movie. These films and this character kept me angry and kept me moving forward - it was part of the process of staying focused and staying alive, rather than getting into bed for another 18 months, the way I did when going through a depression a few years ago. That's when I decided to get a Bourne related tattoo.

I decided to get Bourne's serial number tattoo'd to myself. There is a number on the dog tags he turns in at the end of the trilogy. There is a number on the passport that you get when you buy the dvd box set. There is a number of a bank account that is inside his hip. The question was: which number was the right one to get a tattoo of? I thought about it for a year and decided to get the bank account number tattoo'd to my hip.

Only it didn't feel right.

I thought about it for another year. I ran it by one or two people. It never felt right talking about it and people didn't really seem to take to the idea. Nobody did - not even me. For a year, though, I carried that bank account number on me, ready to have the tattoo done, in a moment, when the moment was right.

I always know when I'm getting close to my next tattoo. It is an instinct that is deep within me, yet right under the surface. I know it is going to happen; and soon. I was gearing up for the new tattoo but I still wasn't sure about the content of the tattoo. It didn't feel right. Another fictional character? And an assassin? A Swiss Bank Account number? It didn't feel right.

It was January. I was in Los Angeles visiting Brady. I was missing Pat and Hunter and the rest of my New Yorkers. I spent a lot of time online or on the phone with Pat and a lot of time texting Hunter, who was going through some auditions. Each time he had one, I texted him "I believe in you", a sentence and a sentiment that I think is paramount. It must be expressed. People need to know. One day, though, I texted him "Be like water". This is a phrase I have used for awhile, now. I got it from Pat, who got it from Bruce Lee. We are both fans of the great martial artist and actor, long deceased. We don't just love his movies, we believe in his philosophies on life. We own a copy of his book Tao of Jeet Kune Do and it isn't just a book on martial arts - it is a book of philosophy and wonderful philosophy it is, too. Bruce Lee's life is wonderfully documented in one of our favourite films, DRAGON, and he is played by one of our favourite actors, Jason Scott Lee. In the movie, Lee actually says "be like water" to his students. He explains that water is the most adaptable substance on earth. It's soft but it fits into any container. It feels weak but it penetrates rock. Be like water. I had heard Pat say it, some years ago, to someone and I liked that he had adopted the philosophy into his life and made the choice to do the same. I decided, there and then, that I would be like water. I think it is when I began to grow up. It isn't a philosophy I throw around - I don't say it to everyone, in fact, I think Hunter may have been the first person I ever passed it on to. When I did, though, it pushed the words right up to the front of my mind.

BE LIKE WATER.

Training is a big part of my life. Everyone knows it. I train like a mammajamma. I could train harder. I want to train harder. I want to be stronger, better, smarter. I continually push myself as hard as I can at the gym - harder, still, if I can. I am especially good at it when Ray is there. He leads me to train harder.

Recently, my favourite movie has been WANTED. I love comic book movies. I love MacAvoy and Jolie. I love this movie and the story and the characters and I have, recently, been watching it almost every day. It gets me through the rough spots, keeps me focused, keeps me angry.

Except that I'm not angry anymore.

I've been working very hard with my therapist, Dr Bowler. I went to him to deal with my anger management and he has brought me leaps and bounds out of it; I haven't been angry in a really long time. In fact, I've been quite happy, very loving and extremely peaceful. I have turned into a hippie. It's all about peace, love, life and fun. I like it. I like myself and the way I am now.

So now, when I watch the Bourne movies or listen to my angry music, it is for pleasure, not for anger. I get a lot of pleasure out of watching WANTED; and one day I was paying particular attention and I heard MacAvoy say "I have to train harder" and I jumped! He used my saying! He used my philosophy in the movie! I told Pat about it. It was like when I heard Bobby Morrow in A HOME AT THE END OF THE WORLD say "it's just love". When I read or hear someone use a phrase or sentence that I use all the time, I feel connected to an outside world - I know that I am not the only one who thinks these things. I feel validated, particularly since it was another artist who thought the same thing!

TRAIN HARDER

These two philosophies, BE LIKE WATER and TRAIN HARDER.. they don't go together. One is about bein adaptable and one is about being forceful. One is about peace and the other is about war. They do not belong together. Yet they live together, within me. They are my yin and my yang. I am a mass of contradiction, a dichotomy, an enigma. I don't try to figure me out and, trust me, nobody else should either. I don't try to explain who I am or what I believe in - I simply present fact and let people take it or leave it. That much about me is not complicated, is not a contradiction - it is simple, honest, real fact.

I wrote out the tattoo the way I wanted it and began thinking about whose handwriting I would want on my body forever. My angel and my tri-initial tattoo were both my own renderings; Tom's and Anthony's signatures were, natch, their own; the compass was rendered by Matt Logan and the Plain Jane Jones tattoo was Tom's writing. So who should I have do this one? Marci was out because she doesn't approve. Pat was out because his handwriting really just won't do. Jen's writing is very scrolly and I wanted plain block lettering. I asked Hunter and he did it but was quick to point out that the sample I had written in my own hand was more interesting... He was right.

I wrote it out myself. I placed a dot in between the two sayings, to show they are separate thoughts.

I chose the hip to honour my original idea and my idol, Jason Bourne.

I chose the first philosophy to honour the hippie I am, Bruce Lee, Jason Scott Lee and the film DRAGON, which I love, so.

I chose the second philosophy to honour the fighter I am and the movie WANTED, which I love, so.

I had the tattoo done at Tigger, in Dallas, the same place I got my angel, my very first tattoo, when I went home to care for my mom after her car crash. I had been in therapy and was no longer angry - happy and looking to the future.

A new tattoo for a time of change.

Please note that this story was written in March 2009 for my Facebook blog (along with most of the Tattoo Chronicles) but never posted on Blogger until somebody asked me about my newest tattoo. All the stories of all my tattoos are being published now, for continuity in storytelling.

The Tattoo Chronicles: The Buoys

As a schoolboy, I was the kid other kids picked on. Not in High School - I should clarify that because I do have Facebook friends that were in High School with me. The fact that they didn't pick on me is a tribute to THEM, not to me; because I was a drama queen, a bit aloof and certainly eccentric. I didn't make friends easily but people were friends with me, anyway; and, eventually, I learned to be a friend. It would be years before I would learn to be a person, to be a NON drama queen.

Before those high school years, though, I was a mess - a total wreck. It really was no wonder that kids didn't like me, that I was beat up and shoved into lockers and stuff like that there. I actually remember one occasion, going to school in Fresno, when someone came running down the hallway behind me and kicked me in the back. I remember a time, going to school in Portugal, when one of the American boys in seventh grade stood up on the school bus, pointed at me and said:

"THAT'S a FAGGOT!"

I know I am not the only person who grew up with a minumum of friends and a maximum of solitude. I'm not making a sympathy plea and, frankly, I wouldn't go back and change it if I could. I need my past - it has made me who I am.

Including this next tattoo, one that is really important to me. All my tats are important to me - they are like birthmarks or a roadmap, charting my life and the lessons I have learned.

Not only did I design this tattoo myself, I rendered it myself, moments before having it done. I did a couple of drafts, chose the one I wanted and told the artist GO. It is the tattoo I explain least often and in the vaguest terms because it is so incredibly personal and cuts so very close to my soul; also, I don't always think people will really understand. These little stories I write are usually only read by my family, so I will go out on a limb here and break it down...

Growing up friendless, I spent a lot of time dreaming. I went to the library and read books, voraciously. I watched movies on tv and I went to the picture show; afterward I would sit in my room dreaming about the films, the characters, finishing the stories from where the movies ended and place myself in the storylines, if there was a place for me. I would check records out at the library and sit for hours listening to the scores of the musicals that have come to be ingrained in my system. Remember THE DROWSY CHAPERONE? I watched that play thinking "this has been my life".

The fictional characters in my life have, long, been a source of strength for me. I have used them to propel me forward, to set the bar for who I want to be, to inspire me to better places, times and actions. I have never felt any kind of embarrassment over my attachment to fictional characters. We all get strength from different places. A few years ago I told my friend, Peter, that he needed to find his center of strength. My basic center of strength comes in three channels: my mother, my husband and God. I believe that Peter's center of strength is Barbra Streisand. I know a boy who told me he gets it from Whitney Houston. Others of my friends tap into musical theater, some into sports, some into literature. We all need a pillar within us; it's just a question of what that (or those) pillar(s) of strength will be. Although my source of strength is, now, the three sources mentioned above, I do still tap into fictional characters - usually, those characters who embody qualities that I feel I am lacking. That is why my idols tend to be tough, strong men like Jason Bourne (is there ANYBODY who is unaware of the position I have put this character in, in my life?) or James Bond (the film CASINO ROYALE made a real foundation for me because Daniel Craig's Bond is a real human - flawed and flawless all at the same time. He is in control of his emotions and he is fierce - both to the extreme. These are qualities that I find attractive and wish I could wear, myself).

I chose to place this little tattoo so close to the PLAIN JANE JONES tattoo because, as was stated in the story THE ROLE MODEL, Plain Jane Jones is a fictional character. Placing this tattoo in the same area sort of makes my left forearm/wrist area my fictional character region of my body. What is more, the tattoos are right in my eyesight so that, in moments of need, I can look down and be reminded.

The tattoo is made up of three sets of initials. The initials are of characters from three works of fiction: one book, one movie, one tv show. The characters are characters that inspired me over the years, that embodied qualities that I wish upon myself and that just plain entertained me. I felt and feel a connection to them, to this day.

CB stands for Charlie Baltimore. Charlie Baltimore is a character in a movie that some consider a bad one and that come consider a cult classic. The movie is THE LONG KISS GOODNIGHT and Charlie Baltimore is played by Geena Davis - in the story, she is a school teacher, a girlfriend, a mom and an amnesiac. When her memory comes back and she discovers she was an assassin, she has to balance out being bad with being good, being a citizen and being the fiercest badass in town. I loved Charlie Baltimore the first time I saw her and I watch this movie at least four times a year. I never wanted to be a woman; but being like Charlie Baltimore would be the coolest. The funny thing is that years later I would discover the Bourne stories and come to realize that Charlie Baltimore is a gender switched retelling of the Bourne stories. Synchronicity, anyone? To me Charlie Baltimore represents strength, confidence and skill.

BK is for Brian Kinney. Anybody not know about my devotion to the show QUEER AS FOLK? I loved that show and once a year I watch the entire series on dvd. The show represents the kind of family I have had and do have. The characters in that show are not unlike the characters in my life. The family of friends it represents mirrors my own. The storylines are so similar to some of the events in my life and my friends' lives that it becomes creepy strange at times. I loved Brian Kinney from the moment the character was introduced. It wasn't all the sex he had or his commitment to the gay lifestyle; it wasn't his selfishness or his (well hidden) selflessness. It was his commitment to being exactly who he is, without apology, without regret. He had absolute self confidence and, yet, had moments of serious self doubt and agonizing realization of truth - all of which he dealth with (almost entirely) on his own, asking for help only when he needed it. I have been working on building self confidence for years and, thang God, I am currently on my A game. I have been committed to being myself and not apologizing for it or regretting it and I think I'm doing a good, if progressive, job at it. And as far as doing it myself goes - I'll tell you a story. A friend has been after me for a long time to join the Landmark Forum. He believes that it can help me get what is wrong in my life under control. I told him: "I quit drinking on my own. I quit smoking on my own. I quit eating and started working out and lost 60 pounds on my own and replaced it with muscle on my own. I made and saw published my book of photography (almost entirely) on my own. I don't want help. I know when to ask for it; and it happens when I cannot get there on my own. But I prefer to do it on my own." To me Brian Kinney represents a commitment to being true to oneself.

BM is for Bobby Morrow. Bobby Morrow is a character in the book A HOME AT THE END OF THE WORLD. It was made into a beautiful movie with Collin Farrell, Sissy Spacek and Robin Wright Penn; but to get the full impact of the story and of the character, one should really read Michael Cunningham's book. There isn't a lot of psycho babble to be spouted here. I find Bobby Morrow to be an uncomplicated man who just wants to love and be loved and live in harmony with his loved ones. He seeks a happy home. The funny thing is, in recent months I have been saying (a LOT) "it's just love". I told doctor Bowler that this is my new, my big philosophy on life; I told him I think I am becoming a hippie - that's why I have been flashing the Peace sign to everyone. I started writing a book about my life and about Pat and I and about our loves and I have titled it IT'S JUST LOVE. Two weeks ago, on a whim, I got down the dvd of A HOME AT THE END OF THE WORLD and popped it into the machine while I was filing some papers and doing some checkbook balancing. There was a moment when Bobby Morrow said to his best friend and, clearly, the love of his life "it's just love, man." I began hollering for Pat. I had forgotten. I had forgotten that moment in this lovely film version of a book I read with pen in hand, underlining passages and making notes in the margin. I had forgotten Bobby Morrow. I won't ever, again, forget Bobby Morrow and what he means to me. To me Bobby Morrow represents Peace and Love; the most important things in life.

This was my sixth tattoo and my final one, for a long time, until my last trip to Texas. On that trip I had a new tattoo, new body art, new ink, applied to my body.

The Tattoo Chronicles: The Sculptor

The first trainer I ever had was a man named Adam. The gym placed me with him when I was 37 and weighed 205 pounds. I told the owner of the gym, Tommy Marinelli, that I wanted to lose at least 40 lbs before my 38th birthday, four months later. He placed me with Adam, who guided me to that goal. He was nice and he was helpful but we did not become friends. He was simply a man who came to work and did his job. After Adam left the gym, I had to continue my training on my own, which did not come easily. I slacked off and goofed off and missed days and, eventually, met my goal of weighing, on my 40th birthday, what I weighed when I was 18. To get to 145 pounds, I had to starve myself, because I wasn't working out properly. On my 40th birthday, Tim said to me, "You fall down a lot. Do you eat?"

I was busted.

I was manorexic.

So Pat went to Tommy Marinelli and hired a trainer to train the two of us and to get me healthy.

That was Anthony Riente.

Anthony was this big, 25 year old, Italian Dude with a lot of body art. He had the beginnings of a sleeve and, during the time we worked with him, it became a full sleeve. At first I was a little nervous around Anthony. I didn't know if he would take to working with a couple of gay guys. I thought maybe he would consider us fairies and would condescend to us.

I was wrong.

During the time that we were together, Anthony became like a brother to us. He was such a straight dude and such a guy and such a youth; we were the slight, older homos -- and yet the three of us became so close that he told us personal things about his life that he didn't share with the other people at the gym (like when he ran away to Vegas and got married and kept it a secret from everyone, even months afterward - we knew he was doing it before he got on the plane.) Anthony always made it fun to work out and he taught us how to do it properly, how to eat better, how to focus on the training. He made it fun.

For example: he loved to tease us. He had rules. If I wore something too revealing, he would make me do 20 pushups (the inner thigh must never show at the gym - and a shirt that reveals the belly is grounds for being sent home). If Pat cruised a guy at the gym, it was 20 pushups. If I danced (which is always a possibililty), it was 20 pushups. Pat once made a gay joke that was directed AT Anthony (and it was a sexual one) and it was drop and gimme fifty. We worked with him three days a week and we were always excited to see him. We loved him.

He loved us, too.

The day he quit his job he said that "I love you guys like brothers".

THAT is a GREAT compliment.

Anthony had to quit his job because he needed to make more money to support his Mrs. He got a job in investing, went through intensive training and was going to be out of the gym in two weeks time.

I had an idea.

"Ant, will you sign this piece of paper for me?"

Without question, he obliged.

I ran the idea by Pat, who loved it, and together we went to a tattoo artist in the East Village. Pat was nervous - it was his first tattoo. I was not. It was my fourth. He was doing the underbelly of his left bicep, I - the right. We were in our chairs and the buzzing of the needles was loud. His artist started before mine did and I heard the sharp intake of breath.

"How you doin' back there, hon?"

"I'm fine. Please don't speak."

It didn't take long. I am actually able to lie there, eyes closed, following the activity of the artist with my mind. I knew when he was nearing completion.

We had matching tattoos.

When we went to the gym on our last day with Anthony, we said "Hey, Ant, wanna see something?"

We flexed our biceps.

He lost it. He couldn't believe it! He grabbed people to show them. He got a camera to photograph it. He was so excited! He was so thrilled and honoured. He just couldn't believe it. And when he or anyone else asked (or asks, to this day) why we did it, we simply explain:

"All artists should sign their work."

The Tattoo Chronicles: The Ex

There is absolutely no point in being coy about this. I will say it quickly and respectfully.

I met this boy.

I fell in love.

We spent a few months doing some kind of dance that could, ultimately, be called neither "dating" nor "an affair". It was a complicated situation that was based on love and the fact that we believed ourselves to be soul mates. It was not going to work out because he wanted one man, not two; and I wanted two men, not one. Pat wanted whatever was going to make everyone happy; you see, we all loved each other, deeply and profoundly.

As a tribute to that boy and to the love I felt for him; as a tribute to the gifts he brought to my life and to the experiences we brought to each other, I chose to have his signature tattoe'd to me. I chose my right leg because he kissed that leg one night while we were making love. I chose the ankle because Pat does not want my legs marked (to quote my clever husband: "you wouldn't graffitti the David, would you?" and, yes, that is a direct quote) but also because it kept it private. The boy and the tattoo were like a secret that I kept from the world in a quiet place that was all our own.

I guess the secret is out.

I had the tattoo done while he was away on holiday. The day he came back, I showed him the tattoo and he flipped out a little; but he recovered. Once he recovered, on that same night, he said to me

"I met someone."

"Are you in love?"

"Not yet."

"You deserve to be in love. You aren't in love with me --- so you better go to him."

We kissed each other goodbye.

The next day we spoke on the phone.

We still speak, every day; that's me and my best friend - my OTHER best friend, that is. That is me and my soul mate.

Great Moments in New York Theater - Phantom of the Opera

We were strolling North Park Mall, a pair of happy homos visiting our favourite shops – The Gap, The Disney Store, Macy’s, and that cute little snack shop that sold lemonade and vanilla ice cream bars dipped in freshly melted chocolate and rolled in peanuts. There was also the obligatory visit to the Sound Warehouse and Sam Goody. Pat and I had only been together a few months; in fact, we were still in college together in Denton and we would make these infrequent drives into Dallas for a weekend class at Dallas Repertory Theater or a shopping trip to see what the new releases were in the record stores. A theater major and a major show queen, I was always on the prowl for the newest cast recordings from the Broadway stage – and the local record store around the NTSU campus didn’t exactly get the newest releases. I loved these weekend trips into the big city to gather new treats into my growing collection of cast albums and soundtracks. As I wandered through the store, a most eyecatching album cover caught me eye. I happen to be one of those people who DOES judge a book by its’ cover… and album cover art has always been extremely important to me (one of the joys of record albums that has always been missing from cds is that huge square artwork).

I had not heard that there was to be a musical version of the famed work of literature. Neat! I picked up the record and turned it over. Dang. No photos. It was a double album. Neat. Well, I could at least see who was involved. Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neat. I was a devotee of both Jesus Christ Superstar and Evita. Michael Crawford. I remembered him from the Hello, Dolly movie. Sarah Brightman. No idea. Steve Barton. Wait. What?! Steve Barton? Oh my gosh. That’s my friend. I knew Steve when I was a teenager living in Switzerland. He and his wife were members of the repertory company at the Stadttheater Berne and I would go see them in the plays there. I saw Steve play Gaby in On The Town, El Gallo in The Fantasticks, Jesus in Godspell, a muleteer in Man of LaMancha, Lancelot in Camelot and (most importantly) Riff in (my very first, my introduction to) West Side Story. Steve and his wife and friends were a MAJOR part of my musical theater education! And I had been lucky enough to become his friend. I sort of idolized him; but it is difficult to keep that idolatry going when you get to know somebody and find them to be a nice, sweet, normal kind of guy. I loved him, so; and it had only been a few short years since I had left Switzerland to come to America for college – my memories of our friendship was very fresh.

Suffice it to say, I bought the record.

I played it over and over (I could listen to Steve sing forever – what a smooth, mellifluous voice he had); I became obsessed with the show (at the time, playing in London). I became a Phantom-phile! I bought everything that even touched upon the show. I had quite a little collection going there, for awhile. It was one of the things for which I was known. So when the show opened on Broadway, it became my ambition to make it to New York to see it. I sent Steve a telegram on opening night and we were in touch over the months until, finally, in the spring of 1988, Pat and I made the trip to see my friend in his Broadway debut – mere days before the Tony awards; probably about ten. We had booked our tickets to see several shows through one of those expensive ticket brokers – but Phantom tickets were hard to come by. The seats we got were at the very rear mezzanine and Steve had told me, over the phone, that he could not help because the Tony voters got all the house seats. It was ok. I didn’t mind. I had tickets and that was all that mattered.

The day we arrived in New York from Dallas was a Monday. Few shows played on Monday and we wanted to see a show a night, so Pat got us tickets to see CATS at the Winter Garden Theater. The day before, CARRIE had closed, much to our dismay. We set about securing the rest of our theater tickets, let Steve know we were in town and waited the long week til Friday, the night we would see Phantom of the Opera. It was a glorious week for us – springtime in New York and trips to see Burn This, M Butterfly, Into the Woods, Speed the Plow (and, during the weekend, following Phantom, we would see Macbeth and Romance, Romance). On Thursday there was a call at our hotel from Steve. The voting had ended. The house seats were released. That day Andrew Lloyd Webber had returned to London. My friend, Steve Barton, had secured for us Andrew Lloyd Webber’s house seats. I was OVER. THE. MOON. We sold our tickets in the nosebleeds. I dressed all in white (a most ridiculous outfit, right out of the eighties, complete with huge shoulder pads, push up sleeves and a stand-up collar on my jacket) and we went to the theater, where Steve had us come back before the show for a quick visit… then to our seats: fifth row, on the aisle. My heart was simply racing, I was so excited.

You see, at the time, Phantom was THE THE THE show of the century. I suppose, in a way, it still is. Phantom completely changed musical theater forever. The way Show Boat changed it, more than half a century earlier. There are these few musicals that come along that set new standards – these important works of art that JUST push the artform a little further into the future. A year or so before Phantom came along, there was this freight train called Les Mis that started the change in musical theater, that began the trend of epic, gothic, literary work based musicals that made audiences rabid. Phantom finished the job. I’m not a theatrical historian, so I cannot deconstruct it – I only know that my perception is that Phantom of the Opera changed things, not just on the stage but in the audience, too. It seemed to be the first time that musical theater became like a rock concert, with audiences so desperate to see it that they would pay any price for a ticket, that fans would react to a character and a piece of theater the way they would to a rock star. It was an interesting phenomenon in which the show was the star and that audiences were there to see the production, that they weren’t being drawn to their seats by a name. I suppose that it is why it is still running, twenty three years later. Les Mis was not able to sustain its’ momentum. Cats and Miss Saigon closed. Even A Chorus Line closed. Phantom is still running.

Our experience that night at Phantom of the Opera remains one of the exciting nights I have spent in a theater, even though time has turned Phantom into a bit of a joke. I don’t joke about Phantom. It is true that I hardly ever listen to the cast album anymore. It is true that it has become a staple of the New York theater going community and, for that, suffers the slings and arrows of derisive members of the arts community. You won’t that kind of talk from me. We revisited Phantom in 2001 when, after the attacks on the World Trade Center, the theater community was hit hard by a complete lack of ticket sales; so producers sold very discounted tickets to members of Actor’s Equity. We bought those cheap seats and went with our friends Stephen and Will, to see, to support, to revel in the artistry. On that occasion, I remarked to Pat that I had forgotten what REALLY good theater Phantom is.

Yesterday, I went, once more, to see Broadway’s longest running musical. My friend, Brady, said to me he wanted to see Phantom again, that it had been a long time between visits and he wanted to refresh his memory. I was certainly game. I can always go to the theater…especially when there are 25 dollar seats available. I don’t care if I am sitting in the last row or standing at the back of the theater, any chance to witness theater must be taken! So last night Brady and I sat at the top of The Majestic (possibly the most beautiful theater in this city) and marveled at what GOOD theater Phantom is, what good storytelling it is, what extraordinary artistry has gone into the sets, the costumes, the lighting, Hal Prince’s GENIUS directing, the performances of the actors. No matter what you say about Andrew Lloyd Webber’s work (and, yes, I have been unkind about it when discussing some of his other works, though NOT Superstar or Evita), it cannot be denied that THIS is GREAT musical theater. We were so moved that Brady jumped in his seat once and we both gasped two or three times, sighed two or three times, and wept (both of us, for the first time) because of Hugh Panaro’s performance (Hugh, for the record has been my favourite Phantom of the three I have seen: Mr Crawford and Mr McGillin being the other two). We were amazed at how well maintained the production is, how fresh and new it feels, how sharp and alive it remains. It has been almost a quarter of a century and the show looks and feels like it opened this season.

During parts of the play last night, I found myself remembered that first time… How we sat in our seats, the enormous and elegant souvenir programs in our laps… How, moments before the curtain went up, Elizabeth Taylor was whisked in and seated (in a row behind us, thank you very much).. How thrilling the show was, from start to finish… How shiny that black floor was… How opulent the set was... How those four jets of flame singed my eyebrows! How really and truly good Sarah Brightman was.. And the thrill of seeing Steve Barton on Broadway in this dashing and romantic role. Even today, when someone is singing All I Ask of You, live or on recording, it is Steve’s voice that I hear. The electricity in the air at that theater, 23 years ago, was unforgettable; and even last night, in a day and time when audience etiquette is at an all time low, the audience was so incredibly well behaved! It was almost reverential! During most of Act One, most of Act Two and ESPECIALLY the last 15 minutes of the play, last night, the audience was frozen, help rapt in their seats, practically holding their breath – Brady and I both noticed it and remarked on it. And as The Phantom was weeping into the bridal veil and saying ‘I love you” Brady and I both sniffled and wiped away a tear.

We were not the only ones.

There is a reason that Phantom of the Opera is the longest running show on Broadway. It deserves to be. It is well crafted and well executed and (as outlined for us after the show, in a private backstage tour by my friend Josh) it is EXTREMELY well maintained. I think it matters, greatly, to the powers that be that Phantom is the longest running show; so they stay on top of it, making sure that it is always fresh, always new, always great. And it is. That is how they will keep the title and the record.

I hope it runs forever.

The Tattoo Chronicles: The Compass

I'm a pretty spiritual person. I think that is a pretty well documented fact. I've been on a quest for enlightenment for awhile now. In my youth I went to every kind of church there was to go to. My parents raised us without religion. We were taught that there was a God and we were taught the Golden Rule. There was a bible in our house and there was a book of children's bible stories. However, we were not asked to go to church, we were not asked to believe a certain brand of organized religion. My parents left us to our own devices. When we were old enough, we made our own decisions. I won't discuss my siblings' religious choices; I can only tell my story.

I've been to churches run by Baptists, Methodists, Mennonites, Catholics - several others I don't remember. I've been to Synagogue and I've studied cultish followings. I finally developed a religion of my own

Stephenism.

My religion is my devotion to my loves: my family, my family of friends, art, health and fitness, living, the planet, being good and to God. Since I don't subscribe to a particular religion, I cannot say what God is called. I am not a Christian, though I do wear a cross - it is a symbol of spirituality to me. Also, it tells my Christian friends that I respect their faith. I do believe in Jesus Christ. I believe he was a good man and an honourable one. I believe he was a great teacher and a great example. I do not believe that he was a prophet or the son of God - that is to say, the ONLY son of God. We are all the children of God. I don't know if Buddah was a diety; but I have a Buddah on my altar, where I chant nam myoho renge kyo. My preferred form of prayer is Buddhist chant, though, when I go to sleep at night, I simply blow a kiss to the heavens and say "thank you for today." I don't know enough about other religions to know if Allah is God or if any other diety to whom people pray is God. I only know that there IS a God. I don't know what God's name is.

I have chosen to call God Obi Wan Kenobi.

I am a New Yorker. I chose to move to New York, tricking my husband into it. After September 11th, we chose to stay in New York and rebuild. During hard times, struggles with careers, harsh winters, we have chosen to stay here. When an episode of Sex and the City featured Carrie referring to New York as her boyfriend, Pat and I beamed. We knew whereof she spoke. We are in love with this city. When our friends are "getting out of town for the weekend", we are staying here. New York is where I live. It is where I am. It is the place I CHOOSE to call my home.

My other, my real, my personal home is Pat Dwyer. Robert Patrick Dwyer, to be exact. He is the most wonderful, the most special, the most extraordinary person I know and the love of my life. My union with him is that which makes me proudest. It is where I love and where I live.I

It's been a long time since I started trying to like myself, since I started trying to love myself. It's a hard journey and one that I am aware a lot of other people must take, in their own lives. For myself, it has been a journey filled with extreme highs and devastating lows, with as much happiness and as much pain as I have (thus far) been able to handle. No worse than many have had and a lot better than many have had, this life has been a journey into loving myself; and I've reached a place where, if I met myself, I'd think 'that man is ok.' Together, with Pat, though, I am better than ok. I am right as rain, as the saying goes.

I developed the compass to point in the major directions of my life. Not a skilled enough artist, I had my friend (the renowned artist) Matt Logan render it for me. I wanted it to go over my heart but Pat will allow no tattoos on my chest. So, on the backside of my heart, you will find my compass. The needle to the north is directed to OB1. On the south end are the numbers 212. To the right are the initials RPD and to the left are SAM.

OB1 = God

212 = New York

RPD = Robert Patrick Dwyer

SAM = Stephen Aaron Mosher

I get a LOT of compliments on this tattoo.

The Tattoo Chronicles: An Angel on My Shoulder

I have a new Facebook friend. I like making new friends, on and off Facebook. If someone friend lists me and we have mutuals, I will usually approve the request. Sometimes I read a profile that makes someone sound interesting and I friend request them. It's all in good fun (until someone starts sending untoward emails, at which point I either respond in kind - if they are hot - deface them).

Anyway.

I have a new Facebook friend. His name is Greg. We were getting to know one another and he asked me about my tattoo that he could see in my photo. I wrote back a LOL because I have so many tattoos and so many photos; depending on which photo he was looking at, the tattoo could have been any piece of body art that I have.

"The one on your shoulder."

I never really cared for tattoos. One day, a few years ago, I was watching the tv show FAMILY LAW ( I think that is what it was called - Kathleen Quinlan and Julie Warner, Christian de la Fuente and, eventually, Dixie Carter and Tony Danza ). Mr Danza, who I have always liked, was playing basketball in nought but a pair of shorts (sneakers, natch). The man was well into his fifties and looked FANTASTICO. I thought I wanna look like that. Then I saw: he had a sexy ass tattoo - was it on his shoulderblade? I think so. On his back, on his shoulder: I think that was it.

I always wanted to be sexy.

I decided I wanted a tattoo.

Every person who heard this had advice for me. Every SINGLE person who had a tattoo had advice for me .. lots of it. Raven Snook said 'you will become addicted and want more than one' (her prophecy came true). David Campbell said 'dude, make sure it is personal. don't just get something everyone else is gonna get, too'. Susan Egan said 'think about it for a year and if you still want one, then do it.'

I followed all this advice.After thinking about it for two years, I got my first tattoo.After coming up with a concept during that time, after asking three different artists to render it, I drew my tattoo myself.

The tattoo on my right shoulder is an angel sitting on the head of a pin.

St Thomas Aquinas pondered the question "How many angels can you fit on the head of a pin?" The pundits spent much time debating the question. It became one of the great philosophical debates of history. I love that. I love that these scholars wasted so much of their valuable time arguing a question that cannot possibly be answered; they did it anyway, in the name of philosophy and in the name of knowledge. I love their living outside of the box and not being defined by black and white. I love the imagination and whimsy required to study the query. I love that learned men were willing to give up time to an ethereal pursuit. It has been one of my favourite intellectual debates.

I once acted in my favourite play (and what a gift that was) THE LION IN WINTER. I played Phillip Capet, the king of France. In one of my favourite scenes (with the wonderful actor, Scott Latham), I said the line "What if is a game for scholars. What if angels sat on pinheads?"I always wanted to have an angel on my shoulder.So I decided I wanted my first tattoo (not knowing it would not be my last) to be this angel sitting on the head of a pin. The three artists I asked to render it didn't get it right but one came close - only her drawing was for a girl, not for a boy. I liked her concept and I used it as inspiration for the angel that now adorns my left arm. I was thrilled with the drawing I had until I showed it to Lisa-Gabrielle, who cried out

"i LOVE it!!! I LOVE that you're going to put a girl angel on your shoulder."

"It's a boy."

"No. That's the body of a girl angel."

I went right home and re drew the angel. Gave him a v shaped back and a bubble butt (my angel is naked). There we go. Ta da.

The day I got my angel, I took my bestie, Mary Margaret with me. She watched as I got marked, for the first time. She was going to get a tat as well but we ran out of time. Next time I am in Dallas, I may see if I can get her to get inked!

Once I had my angel, I was so proud, so excited, that I wanted to show everyone. So I began ripping the sleeves off my shirts. I remember an occasion when AJ slept over so that we could all get up at the crack of dawn and go on an expedition of the city (something we loved doing together). We were all asleep in one bed (I love having my loved ones sleep beside me - it gives a real intimacy to the relationship; just last week I was taking a nap and Faye Lane was lying beside me and it felt RIGHT) but, as usual, I woke in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep. So I made myself a project. I spent the night cutting the sleeves off of shirts so that people could see my angel. When Pat and AJ awoke, they walked out into the kitchen to a floor covered with... what? What is this stuff? Are these socks? Are they leg warmers? What is all over the floor? They each picked one up, looked at me in The Happy Room, a shirt in one hand and scissors in the other. They began laughing.

On one of my birthdays, Pat threw me a party and he advised the guests that my favourite musical NINE was playing down the street and the perfect birthday present would be a t shirt from NINE. I got seven of them. Upon opening the first one, I immediately got a pair of scissors and began cutting. Everyone laughed and he admonished me to not defile the birthday gifts in front of the gift givers.

I still cut the sleeves off of every shirt I get (in fact, below you will see a brand new photo .. I came home from my recent trip to California with a T shirt from IN N OUT BURGER - it was nice weather this weekend and I wanted to wear it, so I was lying, naked, on the bed cutting the sleeves off and Pat grabbed a camera and popped a pic; this is a spontaneous photo and not a set up, I swear it! It makes me laugh).

In a store one day, a man walked up to me and asked if he could photograph my angel. He loved angels, he said, and he wanted one for his new tattoo. No. I'm sorry. That's my angel and my tattoo. I think you would be better off getting your own. It was a nice compliment but, really, why? I remembered the words of David Campbell: make it personal. Don't steal my body art for your body. Get your own.

I'll tell you something else. I was fat and I lost 60 pounds. That was good enough for me. Until I got that angel tattoo. One day I looked at that tattoo and said "my angel deserves a better canvas. I best make a bigger muscle for it. So, to that end, it was the angel on my shoulder that got me involved in weight training. I hope, I feel like, I have paid the angel back.

And that, dear readers and friends, is the story of my first tattoo, the story of the angel on my shoulder. I promise to write the stories of the other six tattoos on my body and include photos. For now, though, I'd love to know...What's the story behind YOUR tattoo?

(This is an old story, published on my FACEBOOK page, that I got out for a friend who is interested in my ink. Sorry to recycle! But sometimes it has to be done...)

The Tattoo Chronicles: The Heroes

First off: sorry I've been MIA for so many days. It was a really busy time for me with lots of projects around the house. Photogaphy work, auction work, training, a road trip and a big party. Have mercy! But I am back on a more normal schedule and hope to be posting a blog every day (though sometimes I do take Sundays off...). Here, starts my first blog back and it is a return to a series I did awhile ago (on Facebook) about my tattoos; in it, I tell the story behind each of my tats. I am going to start with my most recent tattoos because my friend Marianne asked me what one of them was of, after seeing it in a photo on my FB page. I will go back and add the other stories later - I am pretty sure I never posted them here, on blogger. For today, though, here is the story of my last two tattoos, which I got on the same day. I call it Hero Appreciation Day...

I have spoken often of the fictional characters who were my heroes in the books I read as a child, ostracized by most of my schoolmates, growing up. When you spend almost your entire childhood making characters in books and films your friends and idols, it can be a difficult habit to break as an adult. To this day, I still form attachments to some of the characters who embody the personality traits and strengths that I wish I, myself, had. It is, though, important to have real people in your life, in your heart and in your scope of admiration. To that end, I have a few friends who are my personal heroes in my life. Family. One of them trumps all of them, though: my husband.

For a long time I have wanted to have a tattoo tribute to my fictional hero, Jason Bourne. I don't try to explain what it is about him that makes him my hero; only that he is what I wish I were. No, not an assassin. He is strong, he is knowledgable, he is (actually) a good man - I wish I could be more like him. Pat, my husband, is always cautious when advising me about a tattoo that involves a fictional character. "Remember, it's a FICTIONAL character and tattoos are FOREVER." So the Jason Bourne tattoo has been an on again - off again thing for a few years. Each time I got close, I opted out of getting one.

However, during a period of blackness, of anger and pain, I decided to go ahead and get the Bourne tattoo. I wanted it in the ditch of my arm, just under the line of the bicep, so that whenever I was working out, if I felt like I could quite move the weight, one glance at the tattoo might give me a little extra push, a reminder of who and what I want to be: strong.

If you buy the box set of dvds for the Bourne Trilogy, it comes with a novely item: a passport for Jason Bouren. I simply took that passport and had my tattoo artist replicate the signature therein in the ditch of my arm, right where I wanted it (he was surprised at my location of choice and asked, twice, "are you SURE you want it there?" I insisted; I found out why he asked me twice.... it was the most painful tattoo I have ever gotten.

At the same session, I wanted to get another tattoo -- one that juxtaposed my fictional hero with my real life hero. On the flip side of the bicep, on the outside, where people can see it, is my tribute to my husband. In a way, you could say I am wearing my heart on my sleeve...

When I met Pat, 25 years ago, there was this doodle he did. It looks like a domino. Once the doodle is drawn, it becomes a puzzle; the challenge is to put your pen down on the page and draw through every single line in the domino - but only once - and you may not take your pen off the paper at all during the challenge. He did this all the time, during our first few years together. A few months ago, I opened a notebook of his and I saw the doodle.

"Do you STILL do this drawing?"

"Every single day."

I hadn't seen it in years. I didn't even know.

I ripped out the drawing and recreated it. Then I wrote his name in the squares. It's a P A T domino.

And that is how, in the middle of a snowstorm, in February 2010, I got my 8th and 9th tattoos so that I could, forever, carry my heroes with me.

Great Moments in New York Theater -- Three Days of Rain

Richard Greenburg, I believe I have mentioned, is one of Pat’s favourite playwright’s. Almost everything that Greenburg writes sits in various places of Pat’s body –his heart, his head, his soul and his tongue. If Pat were to be granted his actor’s wish, I think that it would be to spend a year doing nothing but the works of Lanford Wilson and of Richard Greenburg (though he does love his Arthur Miller and his Jon Robin Baitz). With a love like this of a particular playwright, we (natch) attempt to see all of his plays when they play New York. We’ve missed one or two, due to financial restrictions (well… one of them I refused to see because of universally bad press from members of the press, members of the theater community, members of the theater-going community and people who had brushed up against members of the theater and theater going communities on the subway, in Times Square and the aisles of grocery stores in any borough).

Three Days of Rain was a new play when we went to see it at Manhattan Theatre Club. It was that festive and fabulous thing that happens – when you go to see a play about which you know absolutely nothing; and it’s an evening filled with surprises, wonder and (if you are lucky) great storytelling.

That is exactly what we got when we saw Three Days of Rain.

I can still see the set, still see the images of the three stars of the play, still feel the crisp and cold air of the theater as the mist from the onstage rain rose into the air and freshened our faces and nostrils. Dudes, that is heady shit – when you go to the theater and (usually) only use two of your senses – sight and sound; but that special occasion when you get to use the sense of touch because something from the play is actually that palpable. I remember someone telling me of their experience seeing the musical Sophisticated Ladies and how, when the curtain first opened, the smell of all the delicious perfumes the actresses were wearing wafted out into the audience and he got to use his sense of smell at the theater. Getting to use more than the usual two senses really enhances that theatrical experience. Three Days of Rain gave us that additional level of enjoyment. It was visceral. It was as though we were eavesdropping, peeking into a room into which we were not supposed to look.

And what a sight we saw there.

I have to admit that I had never heard of Patricia Clarkson or Bradley Whitford at this point. I had seen John Slattery in various tv shows over the years but only him. I didn’t know the works of Miss Clarkson or Mr Whitford. Thank GOD they both (well all three of these remarkable actors) became wildly successful in subsequent years and their respective gifts can, now, be enjoyed by the world. Watching the play this day, listening to them recite the poetry given them by Mr Greenburg, witnessing what I can only describe as raw, uncompromising and real emotion, was thrilling. Often when we attend the theater we get to see a good performance; and we go home and say “oh wasn’t that nice”. Now and then, though, we get to see talent that goes beyond the norm, talent that one might call genius (were that word not so overused that it has been reduced in its’ meaning) – and Three Days of Rain was cast in three part genius harmony. THESE are REAL actors. I can’t think of a more eloquent way of saying it. There wasn’t a false moment in the show. They held my rapt attention – my mind did not wander and my eyes did not doze. I was mesmerized and riveted, not to mention emotionally overwrought by the beauty and the tragedy of the story and the people in it. I became instantaneous fans of all three stars, making sure to see all of their work over the years, be it onstage, on a big screen on a tv screen… I love them.

It doesn’t hurt that, during the run of the show, I got the three of them to be in The Sweater Book. They posed, together, as a family of thespians, on the set of Three Days of Rain.

THAT was the frosting.

That made me feel like I was living the life I was meant to live.

Great Moments in New York Theater -- Death of a Salesman

In previous stories, I’ve touched on the theme of how certain artists create a music that certain people hear. Sometimes a person taps in, specifically, to the talents of a particular songwriter or novelist, of a specific actor or singer… I think we all do it. I have also mentioned that I tend to hear the music of playwrights Clifford Odets and Tennessee Williams, while my husband has attachments to Richard Greenburg and J.M. Barrie. We have different tastes; that is one of the reasons why we are such a good couple – we show each other new things.

Pat showed me Death of a Salesman.

I respect Arthur Miller. I have been to see productions of his plays and sort of enjoyed them. I understand his importance in the history of theater. I just never hear rhapsodies when I am at one of his plays. I also have this trouble with Eugene O’Neill – I find his plays really long and verbose; but that is another story for another day. The point is that, whenever there is a Miller revival (or O’Neill, I always make sure Pat sees it but I usually send him alone, not wishing to spend hard earned money on something I run a risk of not enjoying). When Death of a Salesman was revived, Pat put his foot down and insisted that I see it. I didn’t argue much because it was starring Brian Dennehy, Elizabeth Franz and Kevin Anderson, all actors to whom I am devoted. So, for the sake of my husband and so that I could see three of my favs in one play, I was willing to sit forever, listening to the plodding verbosity of American’s greatest playwright.

Well. I owe Arthur Miller an apology.

I loved the play.

I also loved the production and the acting and the entire experience. Not once did my mind wander or did I doze off (there is always a risk with me, a lifelong insomniac). I was riveted the entire time. The story, the dialogue, those astounding performances.. it simply grabbed me and held me captive, the entire time. When the play was over, I found myself breathless- literally, unable to breathe. This has happened only a handful of other times in my life. M Butterfly, Cabaret, Angels in America come to mind. I’ll have to sit and ponder what the others are, if there are any… This time, though, it was Death of a Salesman. I guess it left everyone else breathless, too, because Tonys were awarded to Mr Dennehy and Miss Franz – and had I been a voter, I would have voted for them, too. I cheered, watching that telecast, for these two talents, so supremely endowed by God with an overabundance of gifts that they have been using to entertain all of us for more years than I imagine they would like me to count. I will say, though, that it was a shame Kevin Anderson could not take home a Tony, too. There are things about his performance that I still think about – some periods of my life, as often as once a day. And once a day I DO think about Elizabeth Franz giving her attention must be paid speech. That affected me so much that it has become a part of the mosaic that is me. I have adopted this philosophy into my life and, now, always make the attempt to pay these attentions to the people around me. It shows respect to those people, to Elizabeth Franz, to Linda Loman and to Mr Miller.

I’m so happy to have seen this production that I don’t think I will ever see another. That would just be a let down.

Wouldn’t it?

Great Moments in New York Theater - Sutton Foster, Seth Rudetsky and THEY'RE PLAYING OUR SONG

In May of this year I started a series on this blog about my favourite moments on the New York stage. Now and then, when I have time to sit and reminisce about three decades of theater going in this city, I like to write the memories down and share them with anyone willing to read them. The second story I wrote was about my first Broadway show, They're playing our song ( http://stephenaaronmosher.blogspot.com/2010/05/great-moments-in-new-york-theater-my.html ). When I wrote that story, I had no idea that, come September, I would be reliving those happy memories, in person.

I didn't know that the Actor's Fund was doing one of their special concert performances of my beloved first show. I didn't know that the lady playing the female lead would be Sutton Foster, my favourite Broadway young leading lady. I wouldn't have known any of it, had my husband not bought me a ticket to the show. You see, he knows me. I knows this was my first show, he knows what strong sentiment I have for it, he knows how much I love Sutton (his adoration of the lady actually surpasses my own), and he knows it would have broken my heart to hear about this concert after the fact. So, even though our finances are rather precarious during these harsh economic times, even though we never go to the theater without one another, he got me a single ticket. After admonishing him (and crying a little) for spending the money, I thanked him profusely.

I was excited.

I admitted to being concerned by the choice for the male lead. It was a part played by the great Robert Klein and, for this concert, they had chosen a wonderfully talented man named Seth Rudetsky. Everyone in New York theater knows Seth. He is a brilliant musician and conductor, a riveting radio show host, an exciting interviewer of a live Broadway chat-with-the-stars cabaret show.... he is NOT known as an actor. He is also unapologetically, flamboyantly, outspokenly, publically, visibly gay. The chemistry that had existed between the legendary Lucie Arnaz and the extraordinary Robert Klein might take some hits when pairing Sutton Foster and Seth Rudetsky....

I sat in my seat, excited, as the overture started. I didn't care what happened for the next two hours, I was going to enjoy it.

And I did. I really did.

First off, let me just say that I was wrong about Seth Rudetsky. He charmed the pants off of me. Almost literally. I developed such a crush on him during the show! I had no idea he had such a sweet, pleasant singing voice and so natural and enjoyable an acting talent. He was able to sufficiently dial back his flamboyance (something I was never able to do during my own acting days) until all I saw was a neurotic New York jew in love with an even more neurotic New York East Village artist. I completely and totally bought into every single moment of his performance; as the saying goes, he had me in the palm of his hand.

Sutton Foster did NOT have me in the palm of her hand.

She had me at her feet, trailing behind her like an adoring puppy dog. She had me hanging on her every word, her every move, her every sigh. She proved, once more, why she is a star of the Broadway stage. She completely and totally embodied every aspect of this wonderfully crazy, yet inexplicably logical, woman. Every time she moved, I sighed. I simply can never get over how much I respect and revere this lady's talent.

You know, I still have vivid memories of the original show, 30 years later. I can remember so many things about (not only the beautiful performances but) the production itself and the way I felt while watching it. That show and Ms Arnaz and Mr Klein left an indelible mark on my heart, my soul, my very life itself. I ran a risk of not approving of this concert version, that's how closely I hold that first time to my heart. It wasn't a big risk because of the overall happiness I have for the show ( in spite of some people saying it is dated, which I don't think or care about ), for the score of songs and for the stars playing the concert. I am glad... so happy that Pat spent the money to make sure that I saw the concert. It revived, for me, so many wonderful memories; and it created some wonderful new ones.

One of those new memories came as I entered the theater. Robert Klein and Lucie Arnaz were right in front of me at the ticket taker's line. As we went to our seats, I touched Miss Arnaz on the shoulder and said "I was 16 and it was my first Broadway show and it set the tone for the rest of my life." She smiled and said something sweet to me. It's enough. The fact that she knows is enough.

I simply love living in this city and being a part (however small) of this community. Where else could I have such great adventure?

Please note that the photo in this story, I got off the internet: it is by Krissie Fullerton at The Actor's Fund

http://www.actorsfund.org/