Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
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!
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.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Tattoo Chronicles: The Buoys
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Tattoo Chronicles: The Sculptor
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Tattoo Chronicles: The Ex
Friday, September 10, 2010
Great Moments in New York Theater - Phantom of the Opera
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
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
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.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
The Tattoo Chronicles: An Angel on My Shoulder
(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...)
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 03, 2010
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.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Great Moments in New York Theater -- Death of a Salesman
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.