The Stephen Mosher Blog

My Weekend with Raquel Welch

2012-02-13T09:19:00.019-05:00

The people in the row behind me talked. Loudly. It didn't matter because the movie wouldn't be starting for awhile; but I hoped they wouldn't talk during the film. It's an epidemic these days of ill mannered people who think that talking and texting during a movie is acceptable and, so help me, if any of them made noise during the film, I fully intended to turn around and belt 'em one. The lady in the row in front of me turned to them and asked "how was the q & a with Dick Cavett?" and the conversation grew extremely heated as one of the men behind me talked about how bad Cavett was and how he was past his prime. It was true - the interview was embarrassing. I piped in, saying just those words. The man behind me said "Raquel handled it very well. She was very gracious and she kept the interview moving, in spite of Cavett's agenda to flirt and just talk about his book."

"She's a lady," I said.

And that, she is.

We were all there to see the movie THE WILD PARTY. It was part of the Raquel Welch retrospective at the Lincoln Center Film Society. I had discovered the event the day before it started and simply sprinted to the box office to buy tickets to as many of the films as possible, especially the ones at which the great star was to appear. I call Raquel Welch a great star because she IS a STAR. She is also, though, an actress, a business woman, an author, a health and fitness expert, not to mention the things we are in life, like a friend, a mother.. a person.

And I wish more people recognized that.

I've been a fan of Raquel Welch since I was a teenage boy and went to see THE THREE MUSKETEERS at the picture show. I loved buckle and swash and I, especially, loved the Dumas novel; so I was destined to love the Richard Lester film - and I did. I loved it so much that, at least once a month, I say to myself --I think I'll watch The Three Musketeers. Sometimes I have the time to do that, others I do not; but it is a part of who I am, just like Raquel Welch is.

Since that first Raquel Welch film, I've been watching the lady work. As a teen I would go see her movies in the cinema, if they were age appropriate. That was the 70's. When I entered college in the 80s, my exposure to Raquel Welch was on television and vhs. The vcr had been invented and, through the miracle of modern technology, the late night movie and HBO, I was given the chance to see films that had been made before my movie-going days, as well as the television movies and special appearances that Raquel made in that era. It was there that I developed an appreciation for the actress - an appreciation that never waned and that made me so insistent on seeing the films at Lincoln Center this last weekend.

I met Joshua Strauss, who created the Raquel Welch retrospective and mentioned to him how much I admired his choice of films. Obviously, they couldn't show every one of the lady's movies; and he did a wise thing by picking (not only) movies that were important in the history of Raquel Welch's career but (also) movies that showcase her versatility as an actress. By watching, in one weekend, THE THREE MUSKETEERS, MYRA BRECKINRIDGE, THE WILD PARTY, HANNIE CAULDER, KANSAS CITY BOMBER, 100 RIFLES, THE LAST OF SHEILA and (the film that really put Raquel at the forefront of the public eye) ONE MILLION YEARS B.C., the audience has a chance to see her in a variety of time periods, playing a variety of types. It really was an effective way to remind people that Raquel Welch was not just a "sex symbol" (the label that was given her at the start of her career and that has followed her, even into her 70s) - she was (and is) so much more, particularly a very good actress.

Raquel Welch did a lot of tv movies in the 80s that showcase her acting, tv specials in the 70s that showcase her singing and dancing skills; she appeared in Las Vegas and she has played Broadway twice (I was lucky enough to see her in WOMAN OF THE YEAR and she was simply marvelous - my signed poster from the show hangs in my office; it has, in fact, never NOT hung on some wall in my home). Raquel was, though, so much more. She is, obviously, super smart. She blazed trails in many ways, during her life. She was a single mother (she mentioned this during her q & a) who acted to support her children. She changed the role of women in film. She became an entrepeneur in a time when men were the business practitioners of the world. She brought yoga to the public consciousness at a time when the world was doing Jack LaLane, Richard Simmons and Jane Fonda workouts. She created jewelry and skincare lines, as well as the extremely successful wig company HairUWear. She has authored 2 books and done an exercise video (yoga, that is).

During the q&a sessions at Lincoln Center this weekend, Raquel Welch spoke openly about the struggle of coming along in Hollywood at a time when the studio system was dying off and stars had to make their own way. She touched on how stars had personas -- the Bette Davis persona, the Marilyn Monroe persona, the Clint Eastwood or Mae West persona; but there was no Raquel Welch persona. She was an actress. She wondered, aloud, if (had there been a 'Raquel Welch persona') her career might have been different, maybe a little easier. I was interested to hear that she had this question about her career because I feel like it (the lack of a Raquel Welch persona) has allowed her to give us a legacy of work that reflects a true actor. She had to make her way, playing these different parts and being chameleon-like. Yesterday I watched her Queenie in THE WILD PARTY, immediately followed by K.C. Carr in KANSAS CITY BOMBER, immediately followed by the titular HANNIE CAULDER and, dudes, the variety was extremely visible. This is an actress. Had there been a Raquel Welch persona, that may not have been as apparent. I think the Raquel Welch persona came out in her personal appearances, in interviews, in those entertainments where she sang and danced, not as a character, but as Raquel Welch. In the films, though, it's not Raquel - it is the character.

I was saddened by the q&a interviews this last weekend. Not all of them. It was certainly thrilling to see Raquel Welch and to hear her talk about her career; but, really, I want to know, where are the great interviewers? The oh-so charming Simon Doonan had the pleasure of interviewing Miss Welch before the screening of MYRA BRECKINRIDGE and he had the sense to ask a question and then let the lady talk. He had a good set of questions about the movie and they had a good rapport; but most of the time it was a successful talk because he shut up and let the lady talk -- and we were all the happier. Miss Welch was frank and funny and even treated us to a spot on imitation of Miss Mae West. The Dick Cavett interview bordered on awful because he insisted on filling up the time with sexual innuendo and references to her breasts and her life as a sex symbol. The lady mentioned that she is in her 70s (please note that my photos, shot from the audience, are unretouched) -- why couldn't the famed interviewer treat her with more dignity and respect? She has earned the right to NOT be treated this way. It was embarrassing for the lady and humiliating for the man. She tried, valiantly, to get him to talk about the film THE THREE MUSKETEERS, which we were all there to see; but that was not to be. He spent more time mentioning his book and talking about his old interviews in the past than he did talking about the guest of honour's artwork. Following KANSAS CITY BOMBER, though, was a very respectful q&a with the creator of the retrospective, Josh Strauss. He was informed, he was respectful, he was to the point. That was a good interview which treated the audience to some real information, some trivia and some laughs. This cannot be said of Miss Welch's final interview of the weekend. A man I never heard of did a q & a in which he hemmed and hawed and told some pointless, lengthy, inane story about his days as a publicist doing a photo shoot with Denise Richards, much to Miss Welch's confusion and the audiences' discomfort. Then he argued with her about points in her own career, a topic about which (I am certain) Miss Welch has more knowledge than he. It became VERY uncomfortable but thank God, thank God, Thank God, Raquel Welch is a lady and a professional and she managed to bring the interview back to a place where the audience was laughing and comfortable and enjoying themselves. Raquel even got to talk about the fact that she would like to work more, that she would be open to doing an Indie (if the director were someone who, clearly, knew what they were doing); she talked about how actors NEED a director, someone to talk to and help them make the journey. She is a craftswoman, with talent and skill. I almost wanted to stand up on the spot and ask if she would do a voiceover for a documentary about marriage equality (I think it would be GREAT to have Raquel Welch be the narrator of our movie!) because an actor who wants to work should be allowed to work. They shouldn't have to NOT work just because of stupid things like perceptions based on age or celebrity. Give the actors jobs, people!

I always wished I could do a photo of Raquel Welch. I never did; but I am so thrilled that I got to do the ones I did this weekend. I know - they don't have my lighting (called, by some, the best in the business, to my great pride) but... they are enough. I will treasure these photos, always - and you won't catch me selling them on Ebay. These were done to nurture the photographer who still lives inside of me, dreaming of doing photos with the subjects he admires. See there? Even now, almost 40 years after I first saw her onscreen, Raquel Welch still brings gifts into my life.

I was happy to see how many people turned out for these movies. I hope it gives Raquel Welch a sense of how greatly her work is valued. People need to know.. artists need to know that they, that their work, is valued. I certainly value her contributions to the world of acting, to the world of health and fitness, to society at large as a trailblazer who redefined many aspects of our lives, just because she had to - because there was no precedent. She came along at a nebulous time and had to invent who she would be and what she would stand for. I was bummed that some of the people who were there were those creepy autograph and photo hounds who bother celebrities so that they can get an autograph to sell on Ebay. I hear celebrities can be on the defensive because of that kind of garbage -- and after the creeps I saw there this weekend, I can certainly understand that. I tried to not focus on them, though. I took note of the fans. I took note of the people who, like me, were there to hear the lady talk and to admire her artwork; the people who, like me, were there to learn something about the making of the movies and to watch the movies.

That's the artist's legacy: the people who WATCH the movies.

(For the record, they also showed FANTASTIC VOYAGE and MOTHER, JUGS AND SPEED but my schedule did not permit my seeing them). There are two days left of the Raquel Welch film festival. Today, Monday, February 13 they are showing THE THREE MUSKETEERS and MYRA BRECKINRIDGE. Tomorrow, Tuesday, February 14 they are showing THE LAST OF SHEILA and 100 RIFLES. http://filmlinc.com/

Kvetch Kvetch Kvetch

2012-02-11T08:04:00.005-05:00

Wow. Would you look at that .. the last time I wrote on my blog was a month ago. Tch. Right? Or how about: tsk. I feel like a loser for not writing every day like Marc Harshbarger at http://marcharshbarger.blogspot.com/?zx=4cea80a58473411e

or for not writing well thought out and researched stories of celebration like Richard Skipper at
http://richardskipper.blogspot.com/

I mean, everyone has a blog these days. There are blogs about show business, politics, marriage, knitting ... and I look at all of them (that I know about, that my friends write, that interest me) .. my friend Josh writes a special blog in tribute to Pitbulls

http://thattouchofpit.wordpress.com/

that is just lovely. So there they are, all of them, out there, waiting to be read. Blogs, blogs, blogs.

So who gives a shit if I don't keep up with my blog the way I think I should?

Besides, my blog doesn't really have any real focus. Some days it's about health and fitness, some - show business. Then there are the occasional extremely personal confessions about my alcoholism, manorexia, battles with depression and low self-esteem ... absolutely none of which are meant to solicit sympathy -- only to share experiences that might help light the way for other people dealing with similar issues. So. Why does it matter that I took a month off from writing?

Why did I take a month off from writing, anyway?

Well - I have a job. I have a family to support and I work. A lot. I also run our household (with a fair amount of help from my husband, I admit) and run an internet auction business in my spare time. And then there is the rather large family I have that, frequently, requires my attention and help. Finding time to write can be complicated. And all these reasons were factors in my non-blogging. But I am going to confess the real reasons I took a week off.

I read one of my stories.

God, it was SO boring!

Oh, yeah, that's it. I started a series of entries about my dangnab eating disorder and I was fucking blogging my workouts and daily eating!

How. Boring.

THAT had to GO.

A few years ago, a friend asked me "why don't you ever talk to me about your problems?" She went on to say that she noticed how often she came to me to talk about the woes of her life but that I NEVER told her about the woes in my life. I didn't have the heart to tell her: the reason I didn't talk about my problems was because I never wanted to be, to anyone, what she was to me. I believe we all know Moaning Myrtle. Or her cousin, Debbie Downer. For some of us, it's that Lillipution from the Gulliver cartoons of the 70's: "ooooh, noooo, we'll never make it... ooooh, how aaaaaawful...." Do you know that person? When you are with them, it's all doom and gloom. You ask how are you and they unload 10 minutes of medical, financial, personal, romantic, sexual, social and workplace woes on you ... and the next time you see them, you great them with a simple "You're looking well!" before scampering away.

No lie, I was that person. I was a teenage drama queen, sulking in the corner at parties; I was a college drama queen, coming to class drunk. I was a drama queen in my 20s - but a drama queen without focus, so instead of just being a gossip or a ho-bag or kvetch or a bitch, I did a sort of all-encompassing kind of drama queen-ship. Then, in my 30s, with the gorgeous situation of being a fat failure, I was the drama queen known as The Blob. Happily, though, by the time I turned 40, I had come to recognize and appreciate the beauty of stability, of peace and of quiet,and the strength of not boring people with your shit.

I know a woman who went through a divorce a few years ago. In the years since she left her husband, each and every (and I mean EACH and EVERY) time I have seen her the question 'how are you' has been met with a steady stream of oversharing that seemed to start with her bowel movements and conclude with the misery of her marriage. Conversely, each and every time I have seen her ex husband, the question 'how are you' has been answered with something along the lines of "fine!".

Discretion is the better part of valour is a phrase that comes to mind.

I read that boring entry about what I ate and the damage it did to my waistline and I went to the bathroom mirror and said to the man in the mirror " why, Stephen Sadsack, how awful to see you" and I flushed that motherfucker down the toilet.

Look, I thought I could help people by talking about my issues. Recently, though, I came to a kind of realization: people cannot be helped. They have to help themselves. Just like I had to help myself away from the buffet and back to the gym; just like I had to help myself away from the whiskey and to a glass of water; just like I had to help myself away from being a drama queen and make myself a productive member of society.

So I'ma try (TRY) to not use my blog to whine and piss and moan (the way those people on our Facebook friendlists use their status updates to heap their boring ass, overshared, miserable, malcontent grievances on an unsuspecting Facebook community) and I'ma try (TRY) to use my blog to entertain. Maybe I will write the stories of my family's associations with Mae West and Edith Head. Maybe I will write about how I almost went into the porn industry. Maybe I will write stories about the movies and theater I love. Maybe I will write about the relief I feel about dodging an addiction to crystal meth; or maybe I will write about the all male group grope I went to in the Empire State Building. Who knows?

But the one thing I do know is this:

I can't bring myself to write boring shit anymore. Nobody wants it and nobody needs it; and I can't be the guy responsible for bringing it.

Not anymore.

The I'M STILL HERE Story

2012-01-11T11:25:00.010-05:00

Earlier today I was reading the chatboard ALL THAT CHAT and one of the chatteratti asked what backphrasing was. Someone replied by posting a link and saying "this is a perfect example of backphrasing". The link was Dolores Gray singing the Stephen Sondheim classic I'M STILL HERE. I watched the performance. I've seen it many times and listened to her recording of it even more. I happen to be a Sondheim fan and a FOLLIES devotee; so I've heard I'm Still Here a lot and I always love it. I had never noticed, though, how MUCH Dolores Gray did, in fact, backphrase (unlike the original poster on All That Chat, I do know what backphrasing is) -- it didn't change my love of the performance because, as an actor, the person (usually a woman) singing I'm Still Here should be allowed to interpret the musical monologue in their own way. After watching the video ( there are a lot of links in this story .. follow them all - it's a treat!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPA0UhnKQkk

I fell into the Youtube pattern ... I clicked link after link, looking at numerous versions and performances of the song. What it left me with was a question for Facebook. I went to my status and updated it with the question "what is YOUR favourite version of I'm Still Here and why?" Many of my friends chimed in with their choices and their reasons -- with a promise from me that I would chime in, at the end of the day.

This is me, chiming in.

Brady and I have talked about this, often and we both always seem to come up with the same favourite (to be revealed later); but, while reading the comments on Facebook, I found myself nodding yes to a lot of them. My friend, Jamie, was the first person to weigh in and his choice was the great and glamourous Miss Gray (who, by the way, played Carlotta Campion in FOLLIES in London) - natch, he (like I) loves the glamourous divas of that era - such style and such gumption.. the ladies and Jamie and me. My friend, Gary, and my husband, Pat, both went with Carol Burnett, who sang the song in the FOLLIES concert, back in the 80s. This is actually one of my favourite performances of the song (and I tend to agree with Pat and my friends Dana and Richard when they say there is merit in every version of this song) because Carol Burnett sings the song and acts it - but she doesn't OVER sing it or OVER act it. It is a complete performance, right down to the laughs she gets on a handful of lines at the top of the performance. Some people say funny things and some people say things funny. Carol Burnett blends them so seamlessly, as to leave the audience wondering which is which?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jp0-OnqeUIs

My friend, Lindsey, is partial to Ann Miller's performance from the Papermill Playhouse production in the 90s. Pat and I saw this show and we LOOOOOVED it and Ann Miller (who was really too old for the role) because she was the very living end. My own memories of Ann Miller singing this song are the personal ones I have from photographing her as she recorded the song for the cast album. Pat remembers: "...Ann Miller - I saw her do it and the triumphant feel she brought to it and the standing ovation she got from teh audience that night and the tears in her eyes as I saw her say "thank you! I Love you!" is a memory I will keep with me forever." What I love about the performance is that Ann Miller earned the right to sing this song because she was one tough surviving dame. And she sings it with spot on rhythms without sacrificing the individuality of her performance ( a bit of trivia - when she recorded this song for the cd, she did it in ONE TAKE ... almost.. I'm not kidding. She sand the entire song one time and Mr Sondheim told her, after, that she has sung "God knows at least I was there" and that the lyric is really "God knows at least I've been there" - she did a pick up on that line and it was a cut.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYn_wDC3mKA

Vince loves Polly Bergen from the Roundabout revival in the 90s. I was one of the few people who loved that revival, in spite of inherent flaws that I needn't discuss here .. not one of them being the performances of the Follies ladies. I was incredibly moved by the work of Judith Ivey, Blythe Danner, Carol Wood, Jane White, Betty Garrett and Polly Bergen. Polly was a Tony nominee that year and here is her tough as nails, down to earth, elegant and sophisticated, determined performance in some bootleg footage shot during performance (not by me - I don't bootleg shows).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vZlGoHz4E0

Bob and Mitchell chose, in the Facebook thread, this performance (preserved, only, in audio format) by Nancy Walker. This was an event titled An Evening With Sondheim (I think that's what it was called) performed and recorded, live, at the Shubert Theater in the 70s. It's a popular and well loved version of the tune - if you haven't heard it, check it out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3CwCpwrV8M

And, again - in the Facebook thread that started all this, Ryan, Ricky, Lindsey all mention the deliciously over the top Shirley MacLaine version from the film Postcards from the Edge. Now... who couldn't love this? She effing means every G-D word - right? I worship this woman. And it was pointed out that Sondheim re wrote some wonderful new lyrics for this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkjQSpfW3iw

There are a lot of worthwhile performances of I'm Still Here, all these years. Some that I would love to share with you, in case you haven't seen them:

Julie Wilson is at her very best here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sd3UtltqLgA

My favourite chick singer, Miss Marilyn Maye:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4D_kA6mrZI

Eartha Kitt replaced Dolores Gray and made it all her own:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BbhEo-4_ETc&feature=related

This may be a tough watch because of the generational loss of this bootleg dvd - but to hear the one and only Karen Morrow sing this song is worth the effort. Amazing. She played Carlotta at the Pasadena Playhouse in 1990.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XoJP_bV5Lso

And, of course, here is the famed birthday concert performance by one of Sondheim's foremost interpreters, a lady who (truly) can sing this song and know what it means. Elaine Stritch. A LOT of people love this version. Pat and I are among them.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYGq2cboE7M

So.

After all you've seen, do you know what you haven't seen? Do you know what my favourite(s) are? Well, I'ma tell you.

This is a performance that many people reviled. I am NOT one of those people. I watch this and I GET it. Note the presence of the drink. Note the commitment to character and emotion without sacrifice of song. This performance by Christine Baranski, who played Carlotta Campion for the famous ENCORES! series production in New York City touches me in a very personal way (and, ps, doesn't Lisa-Gabrielle Greene own this same dress?). Watch it. Just hit play and watch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfZogO4ixYQ

It irritates me SO much that the sound sync is off on this. Here is the great Millicent Martin giving what is my PERSONAL favourite performance of this song. It is a complete performance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JovkJ7WKEEc

Well, it is (not quite) my favourite. It is tied for first place; it is tied for first place with the performance I have seen the genius Elaine Paige give three times. I saw her in FOLLIES four times - the first time, Carlotta hadn't arrived. The second time, she had. The third and fourth times, she had gotten even better. I wonder, if I find the time and money to see it a fifth time, what will I get?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQQ28YD3_6w

So where does that leave us? I love them all, for different reasons. I have a special attachment to the Carol Burnett version. I really GET the Christine Baranski version. My personal favourites are Millicent Martin and Elaine Paige.

But wait...

NO mention? NO MENTION? Not one word for Yvonne de Carlo?

No. Because she does not belong in this little competition.

I'm Still Here was written for Yvonne de Carlo. She lived that life. She lived the creation of that song. She performed it over and over, remembering the words, forgetting the words -- it doesn't matter. What matters is that she WAS and she IS Carlotta Campion. She is untouchable. The song is and always will be hers. She doesn't have to overact it or telegraph it or backphrase it or work hard to make it hers. All she has to do is sing it - because it WAS hers.

SHE is still here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-A3anRERgD4

The Actor's Husband

2012-01-11T07:17:00.004-05:00

I got a beautiful email from someone - a stranger, someone I have never met in person but who has been a loyal follower of my Youtube channel, ever since Pat started it ( confession: I can take no credit for the Youtube channel - Pat is the savvy genius who keeps it going.. I'm not educated in such areas of expertise and he is ). Still, over the time that I have been posting 30 second videos of healthier cooking tips and recipes, this lovely person has been a follower of both the Youtube channel and this blog. Now and then, will come a day where Pat says "there is an email in the Youtube in box from your fan" and it makes me feel happy and validated. One fan is all we need. One person to tell us that what we are doing matters to them. I really do believe that.

On a different (but similar) topic - a few months ago Brady asked me "what do you want to accomplish with your movie, MARRIED AND COUNTING?" and I replied "to change the world." Well, yes, he concurred; but (really) what do you want? (Really) what I want is to change things, even if it is just for one person. If that movie changes one young (or not so young) gay person's perspective on life, love, acceptance, relationships and self worth; if it changes one parent's feelings about their gay child, about gay marriage, about prejudice, I will feel that the entire film making process was worth while. It is, after all, how we change the world - one person at a time.

So every time someone says to me "I read your blog" or sends me an email in response to something I wrote or videotaped, I know that what I am doing is right and that I shouldn't stop.

So this latest email, the one from my Youtube fan, was one of the most beautiful emails I ever got. It was an email in support, due to the recent stories I've been writing about my struggles with diet and exercise, specifically, with an eating disorder and recovering from a busted back. It was a long email that, clearly, took a lot of time to write and a lot of feeling to send and it moved me - it got me thinking. It reminded me of a dear friend of mine who, were I living in an episode of Star Trek, I might call an empath. Each time things aren't absolutely perfect in my world, my friend sighs and says "I'm sorry." I love my friend's empathy. I love being the recipient of that sympathy. It would not be a lie, though, to say that I worry about misspent emotion directed my way. Why? Because it's ok. I'M ok. If I answer the question 'How are you?' with any of these truths "I have a little cold", "I blew my back out", "I'm worried about money", "I woke up cranky", "I'm SO irritated with my husband!" -- none of these comments, not one, is meant to solicit sympathy. No other honest comment or story that I tell is designed to obtain sympathy or attention. It is just me being honest. I love honesty. I try to always be honest when I write; sometimes it is difficult and I will either tell an outright lie to protect my dignity or I will commit a lie by omission. It doesn't happen often; but I am human and it happens. This is me being honest, again- to a fault. I have to.

I wasn't always this way. I went through a period of lie telling and attention grabbing. I was young and a drama queen. Also, it was the early 80s and I was a closeted gay man living in the Dallas Fort Worth golden triangle of Texas. I and the other like me, we wrote the book on lying so that we could stay in the closet, hidden away from the harsh realities, the derision, the bigotry and the physical violence that threatened gays of that era (I can only imagine how awful it was for the gay men and women who came before us, God bless them). So during my college days, this was me - liar, drama queen, attention seeker. I am blessed that the people I knew in those days have grown into adulthood, recognized what a mess I was, seen the man I have become, forgiven me and offered me their ongoing friendship. Their kindness has made it possible for me to do the same to others who have traversed my life and young people that I meet now, noticing the same tendencies within them and forgiving them, hoping to set an example by leading with dignity, integrity, honesty and a sense of whimsy and magic (it's a damned difficult combination to embody, let me tell you!).

I guess what I am trying to say is don't cry for me, argentina. Not the way Evita meant it. You can scream my name as much as you like; but don't feel sorry for me, dear readers. Don't feel the need to sigh and say "I'm sorry" and worry about me. Don't get me wrong - I love the empathy, I love the love, I love the validation; but I would never want anyone to use up valuable time or emotion worrying about me, simply because I told the truth in a story I wrote. I'm not hurt. I'm not in pain. I'm living. And I write these stories to share my experiences with people who might benefit from them. I don't keep a blog for attention. I don't keep a blog for a tiny degree of fame. I don't keep a blog to complain. I keep a blog because I love words, I love being a story teller (with words, a camera or a verbose story at a party). I keep a blog because I believe, I really do believe, that we can all help each other and learn from each other; and I have made some mistakes and learned some lessons and hope that, maybe, someone can learn or grow or feel from some experience that I've shared.

In the musical AVENUE Q, Princeton wonders what his purpose in life is. I imagine a lot of people do that (some lucky people never do that). During my lifetime, I have wondered what my purpose in life is. I do not wonder any more. I can say that I wish my purpose was to cure cancer or HIV (but I am not a scientist, so this is not going to happen). I can say that I wish my purpose was to shoot a photo that becomes as iconic as The Kiss (I happen to believe - in that place where you know things - that I am a talented photographer and that my time as an artist will never end, so that might still happen). I can say that I wish my purpose was to write something like The Great Gatsby (my favourite book, how cliche .. but I have lots of favourites that show how eclectic is my literary tastes - I feel a blog coming on!) that touches people and lasts forever (but that kind of luck doesn't happen every day and it doesn't happen to everyone). I can say that I wish my purpose was to help rid America, indeed the world, of bigotry and hatred toward gay people (I actually believe that is one of my purposes and you may tune in, from time to time, to see how THAT fight is going). Here, though, lies the truths in the question of my purpose on this planet.

A few years ago, when asked what my dream job was, I said "I wish I could be like Dudley in the film THE BISHOP'S WIFE and just go around helping people." Some time later, I was in the Westerly health food store and an elegant older lady asked me to help her find something (she sought pumpkin seeds), which I did. She asked "do you work here?" "No" said I. What did I do, she wanted to know. Unable to think of a proper answer, I said "I help people". This confused her. She said so. I told her "Every day, I encounter people who need help, of some sort; if they know they need help and have the wisdom to ask for it - if the person they ask for help happens to be me, I will give it to them. I figure if somebody has the strength to ask for help; I have the strength to give it to them." Her reply was concise and knowing: "Oh, I see. You're an angel."

In my life, I have shared stories about the suicide attempts of my youth - and people who heard those stories reached out to me for help when they were on their own ledge. I have shared stories of my troubles with addiction - and people have come to me for help during their own crises with their addictions. I have shared stories of my battle with depression - and people have come to me with their own sadness and unhappiness (I always tell my best friend: "the tighter you squeeze me, the more of my strength that pours into you; take all of it - take all my strength for yourself". I can and will do this for any of my loved ones because my strength comes from God and my mother, which makes it perpetually self-sustaining). I have shared stories of the unusual nature of my relationship with my husband - and people have come to me for relationship advice. The straight up is that, I have learned, through the sharing of my experiences, others can be helped.

Helping others. That is my purpose.

I don't want anyone to get a wrong impression of me or of what I think of myself. I'm not some puffed up egomaniac with a God complex. Quite the contrary. Much of the time, I don't want credit for what I do and I (shockingly) prefer to stay in the background, a little shy and self effacing. Just as much as I do not want people to worry about me, needlessly, over a story where I sound hurt (I'm not that hurt), I do not want people to consider me a Dr Phil type. I'm not. Please. Trust me. I'm not. I'm a guy. I'm incredibly flawed, I'm damaged and I'm fallible. But I'm trying to make me better; and as long as there is a chance of helping others with the stories of that journey, I'ma keep sharing the stories. I'ma keep writing and keep bloggin.

So.

Keep reading.

The Journey Back - Days Four through Eight

2012-01-10T13:20:00.006-05:00

Anyone who had followed my writings knows that there will come occasions when I disappear for a bit... maybe days, maybe years ... I wish I could be the kind of blogger who can sit down and write every day but sometimes the day gets away from me and, as I fall asleep, I think "oh I didn't write today." That is the last few days. Out of town guest. Starting back to work. Housework. All that jazz. But I kept notes on the process! So here's what has been up:

The fourth day was last Friday and I was completely cashed by the three days of training I had just done. Knowing that Hunter and/or Pat would want to train on the weekend, I chose to take Friday off from the gym. Knowing I wasn't going to the gym, I dieted hard - all proteins and vegetables. The thing is, these are not the most ideal proteins and vegetables for me -- turkey meatloaf (carbs from the oats, sodium from the spices, and a general heavy feeling) and root vegetables. These are the foods I had, though, and there is no such thing as wasted food at our house. So I ate those heavy proteins and vegetables over the next few days - and now they are gone. Yay!

The fifth day was Saturday and it was a work day - completely taken away from me and I didn't make it to the gym. The same thing happened to me on Day Six, Sunday. And then, on Day Seven, Monday, I found myself entertaining my out of towner again - and, bam, just like that, I had missed four days at the gym. This only goes to remind me of something that I had, already, known: don't take it for granted that you will get there. Instead, take it as a rule that if you DON'T (that is, if I don't) wake up and go to the gym, something will happen and I won't make it. That's why I have always tended toward at 6 am workout time - the rest of the world is asleep and less likely to stop me in my natural process of getting to the gym. If I wake up and go, it will be done and I will be happy. If I don't go, it will get taken away from me and I will be sad. It is a simple equation -- one I will focus on not forgetting again. It has, honestly, been a pattern with me over the years and you would think that, by now, I had learned my lesson - but I haven't. I actually love working out around 10 am or 2 pm or even 9pm; so I hope, against hope, that I might get to. The pure fact of the matter is, though, that the only way for me to make sure, MAKE sure, I get to the gym is to wake up, brush my teeth, dress and go.

The diet during those four days off wasn't that bad. It was mostly me polishing off turkey meatloaf, chicken meatballs, yams, rutabagas and other winter foods, to make room for the eggwhites, tilapia, broccoli and heirloom tomatoes I bought. Now, the winter food is gone!

Let the games begin.

Today is the eighth day. I went to the gym with both of my guys and we did chest, back and abs -- not super heavy weight for all three of us, due to shoulder issues; but lots of reps and hard focus on form. That took an hour; then I did 40 minutes of cardio on the cross trainer, stopping at 600 calories burned because that seems to be the place that I absolutely HAVE to get to. Once I am there, I feel like I have done some work. Were it 7am, I might have done 60 minutes; but, by now, it was close to 11am and there is a lot of work to do - so when it his 600 clories, I called it done. The music I used to get through it was the new cast recording of ANYTHING GOES (I'm a little taken by that cd right now).

I'm tired. I have to go to work in 2 hours. And I'm tired. But I can't complain or be sad or depressed because, whatever else happens to me today - I know I did it. I made it to the gym. I did something, just for me.

It is important to do at least one thing, every day, just for you.

That's what my workout is.

Diva Debbie Gravitte

2012-01-06T07:08:00.005-05:00

I am going to take a break from the ongoing diet and eating disorder stories to write about one of my favourite things .. well, two of my favourite things -- musical theater and divas. They do, after all, go hand in hand, don't they?

Yesterday I wrote a fan letter. I rarely write fan letters. Yesterday, I just had to write to Debbie Gravitte. I was listening to my cast album of ZORBA and it took me into one of those days where I just listened to every Debbie Gravitte song in my Ipod. There are a lot of Debbie Gravitte songs.

I've been a fan of Debbie Gravitte since 1982 when I saw the PBS special Broadway plays Washington and she came out and sang the song JUNKMAN from the musical PERFECTLY FRANK. I've never been able to post a Youtube video in any of my stories - my friend Marc Harshbarger writes the blog Deep Dish and he does it all the time; in spite of his telling me how, it has never worked for me. If you click here, though, you can see the performance of which I speak:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4k9QjRS_Sg

In those days, Debbie Gravitte was Debbie Shapiro. I saw that performance and fell in love and have been thrilling to her work, ever since. You can google Debbie or visit her website http://www.debbiegravitte.com/ to learn all about her work, her career, her Tony win for Jerome Robbins' Broadway. What I want to write about is how she has moved me...

I don't know what it is about Debbie (who I have never met) that, so, thrills me, except for her beauty, her sass, her commitment to be exactly who she is (which has been a theme in my life) and that blazing, blaring, blasting belt of hers. I think her voice is unique and beautiful and emotional and thrilling. I am always made happy by listening to her sing.

Now, there is this musical called ZORBA. It is, of course, based on the book by Nikos Kazantzakis (I never read it and have always intended to), which was turned into a movie (which I have seen and enjoyed, greatly) and then turned into a musical (which, natch, I have great passion for). Certain circumstances in each version are different but the themes remain the same; one of those themes is Zorba's zest for life and Nikos' lessons from Zorba on how to (better) embrace life.

The musical ZORBA was written by Kander and Ebb, a musical theater team for which I have a particular fondness and affinity; and one of the songs from ZORBA is LIFE IS, which was sung, originally, by Debbie Shapiro. In her blaring and beautiful voice, she tells the audience "Life is what you do from the moment you die. This is how the time goes by." This is a song that my husband and I have loved, listened to and sung together for 25 years. It is a theme for our life together and Debbie Gravitte (nee Shapiro) has been singing it on our stereo speakers, Ipod speakers, computer speakers and television speakers, all that time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iPsEmpeDT8

I've nearly died more than once in my life. I understand the importance of living. LIFE IS is an important song and philosophy to me and to my husband. Nobody embodies them the way Debbie Gravitte does. Yesterday I was working around the house and listening to ZORBA (once again) and I had to stop what I was doing, go to the computer, log on to Facebook and type in the name Debbie Gravitte. It turned out we had something like 54 friends in common - but I am never comfortable sending a friend request to a celebrity whom I have never known. I wasn't about to start now. So, I stepped out of my comfort zone and I clicked on 'send message' and I wrote:

Hi Debbie Gravitte:

I'm not sure if I have ever written to you before; it isn't something I usually do - but every now and then, I just have to write to someone, even though we have never met.

We actually DID speak on the phone a few times in the early 90s and you were always very nice to me. We had tried to schedule a photo shoot for my book The Sweater Book; but we were never able to make it happen, much to my sadness.

I just had to write today because I am listening to my ZORBA cast album. Yesterday I was watching a bootleg dvd I got for Christmas - one of the happiest things that I have ever gotten. I've been a huge admirer of the show since somewhere around 1984 or 85. My husband and I listen to it often and sing along with you - the song LIFE IS has become a kind of an anthem in our home. We have been listening to you sing this song for (just about) the entire 25 years we have been a couple. You have been a part of our lives for 25 years.

I've been such an admirer of your talent and artistry since 1982 when, in college, I saw the tv special Broadway Plays Washington and heard you sing Junkman. I did all I could to find all of your recordings and revel in your gifts. I am sure there are some that have slipped by me; but when I am in a bad mood and need cheering up, I can always count on you. Oh, Diogenes! Sing For Your Supper. Life Is. The Crow. Junkman. Miss What's Her Name. Miss Spectacular... I won't bore you by listing ALL the songs that you have recorded that reach inside my heart and hit the "on" switch. I just wanted you to know that, on 49th street in beautiful Hell's Kitchen, is a man who really appreciates you. You have moved me - you have made a difference in my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

On Christmas day, watching my ZORBA bootleg, my grown son came in and asked me "what are you watching?" and I told him. He asked what it was about .. and I tried to be high-concept and get it in as few sentences as possible.

"It's about an uptight American (English in the movie) who comes to Greece for his job and an older, more adventurous, Zorba teaches him to loosen up and live."

My son replied: "You are my Zorba"

It was one of my great moments.

And you are one of my great inspirations. You inspire me to be happy and to live a happy life.

And I just thought you should know.

Peace;

Stephen Mosher

Like I said, I don't write fan letters very often. I do, though, think that artists NEED to be told when they have touched someone's life. There has never been a moment that an honest and heartfelt compliment about my work hasn't left a mark on my heart and left me feeling validated. I really did think, did feel, that Debbie Gravitte deserved to know about the mark she has made on my heart. And if she is one of those celebrities who reads their own mail...

She does.

The Wikipedeia entry on Zorba the Greek:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zorba_the_Greek

The photos used in this story were pulled from the internet

The Journey Back - Day Three

2012-01-06T06:00:00.004-05:00

When I awoke, I tasted mint.

This is a part of the sleep eating disorder: waking and trying to figure out what you ate last night. Sometimes there is a grit between your teeth that lets you know it was something nut based; others, there is a cotton moth that tells you it has been sugar. At times, there is no distinct taste or texture in your mouth to tell you, immediately, what you ate while you were sleep walking and eating; and that is the case, yesterday morning, when I awoke.

I don't really like mint. I don't hate it or anything - but it is, rarely, my first choice. I was actually surprised last month to find out that www.thischickbakes.com was making a mint brownie that I liked. I was at a party and ate them, one after another, shocked at how into them I was. Otherwise, my usual mint intake is limited to toothpaste. So what, I wondered, was I tasting? It didn't take me long to figure it out. A little bit of recon uncovered the mystery.

Next weekend I am throwing a 30th birthday party for a friend, so I have been stocking up on supplies. I have the red wine for the sangria, I have the white wine for the white wine drinkers, I have the popcorn for Pat to pop, I have the pasta for the pasta salad, I have the supplies for the pies and the ingredients for the cookies...

And I have m&ms.

I was at the grocery store and saw them: Christmas m&ms on sale. I love sales. And everyone loves m&ms. So I bought two bags of peanut m&ms and two bags of mint m&ms. Now there are two bags of peanut m&ms and one bag of mint m&ms. I ate one of the mint bags.

When I brought the candy home, I left it in the Food Emporium bag, tied it in a knot and put it under my kitchen desk, where I store things. In my sleep, I managed to untie the knot and cut the bag open and eat half of it. To my credit, I only cut the corner of the top of the bag - a habit I have gotten into, during my waking hours. You see, if I just cut the corner off the bag, I can really only get two, maybe three m&ms out at a time. The same is true of tollhouse morsels, peanut butter chips (for baking), peanuts, dried fruits .. anything that comes in a pouch or packet, I have learned to open the pouch or packet as little as possible, to keep myself from shoving whole handfuls into my mouth.

This is a strange behaviour of mine - one of which I am aware, even as I am committing it, but do not seem to be able to stop. I will fill my hand to the point where food is falling out of my palm, onto the floor, and shove the food in my mouth, chomping down on it and swallowing it, without actually biting into every morsel. It is impossible to bite, even once, into every chocolate chip from a handful shoved in your mouth, before swallowing the contents of your mouth. The same can be said of every handful of popcorn or every handful of peanuts. You cannot bite every single one before swallowing the bunch. So why shove all that food into your mouth? Why not eat them one at a time so that you can enjoy the process.. the texture of the food, the taste of the food, the sensation of becoming full? I don't know. I only know that this is a pattern I have been unable to break.

So I use scissors to cut the ends off of pouches and packets, in an effort to limit my intake... even when asleep.

I promised myself I would be completely honest in my documentation of this battle, a documentation I have chosen to share, publically, in spite of the embarrassment and humiliation I feel about this disorder and my inability to control it. I share this story and these habits, in my quest for honesty.

By eating that bag of m&ms, I consumed:

Total fat 63g

Cholesterol 35mg

Sodium 210mg

Carbohydrate 210 g

Sugar 182 g

Protein 14

I was, naturally, disappointed; but I made the choice to not let it get my down. It is impossible to fight from a depressed state. So I met Hunter at the gym and we did a leg workout that included extensions, curls, squats, leg presses, mule kicks and duck squats. We conferred beforehand and decided to not jump back in (after 3 months off) with (either) extreme weights or circus - act exercises (no Bosu balls on the first day back). I think we did the right thing because, today, I am sore -- but I can still walk. Sometimes I do cardio on the same day as legs. Hunter and Pat think this is crazy. Yesterday, I followed THEIR lead and opted out of it.

Unhappy about my diet downfall but fulfilled by my physical workout, I spent the rest of my day working and focusing HARD on my diet. One bowl of winter squash soup that I made last week, one plate of winter root salad (yams, rutabagas, beets, feta) and 6 pieces of Jennie-O turkey bacon was my food consumption for the rest of the day. I didn't even eat popcorn when we went to see THE ARTIST last night - slightly because I wasn't hungry but mostly because I have to something to prove .. to everyone reading; but mostly to myself.

I did, though, give those bags of m&ms to my friend to hold for me until the party next weekend.

You have to win the battles you can win. In any way that you can win.

The Journey Back - Day Two

2012-01-04T18:35:00.003-05:00

The bad news: I did, indeed, climb up on top of my kitchen desk (which I keep covered with stuff, just to make this difficult) and pull down a tin filled with food so I could eat in the middle of the night.

The good news: I didn't go for the chocolate or the peanut butter. I ate some peanuts and some dried cranberries. True, they have carbs and sodium and all that stuff - but it ain't candy, so I was thrilled to wake up and discover that all I had done, damage wise, was about a half a cup of each.

I was so happy about it that I had a few more handfuls before the gym. Then again, after the gym. By then Pat was awake and he helped me polish them off, so they would be gone and a problem no more.

Here's the super bad news...

I consumed:

Trader Joe's Dried Cranberries

Calories 384

Total Fat 1.3 g

Cholestrol 0mg

Sodium 32mg

Carbohydrate 92g

Sugar 88g

Protein 0g

Trader Joe's Old Fashioned Blister Peanuts Salted

Calories 1080

Total Fat 96g

Cholesterol 0

Sodium 720mg

Carbohydrate 35g

Sugar 6g

Protein 48g

NOT ideal, I must say. And the more awful thing is that this is, essentially, what I have eaten today. That is how busy the day has been for me. But, now, I have the chance to have a healthy dinner and not worry about these food items being in the house anymore.

AND I made it to the gym twice today! I did a 6:30am back and shoulder workout with Hunter and went back at noon to do more back and shoulders with Pat ( it helps him to push himself when I am with him but it also helps me to hit some spots I missed in my earlier training session ). I also did 40 minutes of cardio on the eliptical machine. The music I used to push me through was Stephen Sondheim's FOLLIES -- I did a side-by-side comparison of performances from the original production (I have an audio bootleg of that production with the entire performances preserved, unlike on the cast album) and the performances from the current Broadway revival. I didn't do all the songs, only selected ones .. then I decided to move on to something with a more driving beat. So I went to Whitney Houston's I Didn't Know My Own Strength (Rafael Lelis Club Mix), Million Dollar Bill, For The Lovers, Fine (Rob Girellini Radio Edit), Kylie Minogue's Get Outta My Way, Deborah Cox's Beautiful U R (Bryan Reyes Private Big Room Radio Edit) and (my obsession) Naya Rivera and Amber Riley doing Rumour Has it/Someone Like You. I wrapped up my training with a 15 minute stretch; it makes all the difference.

I have to admit I'm a little sad that I wasn't able to stay strong and keep away from the salty carby food; but I am also really proud of myself for getting to the gym and getting that training done.

I feel better with every passing day.

And sore.

The Journey Back - Day One; Part 2

2012-01-03T17:22:00.002-05:00

It's twilight in New York City. Well, actually twilight happened about an hour or so ago ... but the point is that darkness has fallen on the city; and we are entering my diet danger zone.

Like the vampires, I eat at night.

I can go all day with a nibble of this or a swallow of that - usually it is an eggwhite based food item (when I am on my real-life food plan) or maybe a piece of chicken breast or a baked sweet potato. A protein shake. At night, though, I crave bread. And sugar. And dairy. If I had my way, I would eat muffins with milk and hit all the bases. That is exactly what got me into the trouble I am in these days. Christmas pastries and milk.

Of course, all those foods have been banished from two-a. Except for two bags of baking chocolate chips, a jar of JIF peanut butter and some white flour and white sugar that is on reserve for some cookies I have to bake for a birthday party on January 14th. In order to keep myself from consuming them, I have put them in one of our Christmas cookie tins and put it on top of the pantry, at the highest possible location (and hardest to reach location) in the house. To get to it, I would have to move shit around, maybe even get a ladder. And since I sleep eat, I want these things to be really hard to get to.

Yes, I said sleep eat.

Some people walk in their sleep. I walk in my sleep and eat while en route to wherever I am going.

On a famous occasion, Pat was entertaining a visiting Laura Wells in our apartment in Texas, during the holiday season. I had already gone to bed; but I burst into the living room, interrupting their conversation and began shoving chocolate chip cookies into my mouth, right out of the Christmas cookie tin. Miss Laura tried to talk to me but Pat pointed out that I was asleep. She was confused but, true enough, I was asleep. The next day Pat told me this story; it has been told and retold many times, often in front of Miss Laura, who backs the story up. I do not remember it at all.

This is why we stopped buying things like ice cream sandwiches and easily accessible food items - because we would awaken to find the wrappers on the floor in front of the fridge.

In recent years, all food in the house must be healthy and popable, so that if I sleep walk/eat, I won't do damage. If it is not healthy/popable, it is best that the food require preparation - that way I am safe.

Having chocolate chips and peanut butter in the house is a danger.

This morning, after posting my entry about my first workout back, I had an offer to go lift weight with Pat and Hunter. I took the invitation and, at 11:30, I was training the old way, for the first time in 3 months.

IT WAS AMAZING!!!!

I didn't think I could do it; but I did. The weights weren't as heavy as they used to be - but they weren't that light either! I made it through 3 exercise circuits/3 sets/25 reps (for example - a chest exercise, a bicep exercise, an ab exercise - 25 reps of each, 3 sets). Together, we did some hard work, encouraging each other and working hard. It was just like the old days. And when I looked in the mirror as I did straight bar bicep curls, I noticed that they were still there: the Mosher arms. Thank God.

I admit that during our last circuit, in the 55 minute zone, I started to lose strength and form - so I lowered the weight. Do anything to get to the end. Whatever you do, just keep moving.

I was glowing, as we walked home.

And the afternoon consumption of food consisted of a slice of turkey meatloaf at noon, another at 2pm and a rutabaga sweet potato beet salad at 4:30. I don't know what the nutritional values are but I can say that the meatloaf was made with oats instead of breadcrumbs and eggwhites instead of eggs... and the butter for baking the root vegetables was all replaced of EV Olive Oil. And, of course, gallons of ice water, all day long.

I really do feel like something that used to be me.

Now. I JUST have to make it through the night without climbing.

( I found a story online about SRED - Sleep Related Eating Disorder):

http://www.webmd.com/sleep-disorders/guide/sleep-related-eating-disorders

The Journey Back - Day One

2012-01-03T08:19:00.006-05:00

I read in a Face Book status message that all of the gyms are packed with people. The reason? It is because everybody has begun their New Year's Resolutions. I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions, so I don't make them. I did, though, decide to head back to the gym - not because it was a new year, but because my back is doing well enough for me to return to the land of the living. I would have been there on January 1st or even the 2nd but I caught a cold and, like most men, I turn into a big baby when I am sick. So I've been in bed, pouting and letting Pat take care of me. It made me sad, being sick; but not going to the gym made the sadness worse. So today I was determined to get there - and I was going to do it at my preferred time: 6am.

I set my alarm for 5am. I woke up at 4:30. I did some housework, some desk work and I soaked in epsom salt for awhile - not for soreness but to get warm (I don't handle the cold well) and to get these muscles, who haven't worked out in three months (except for one day, about a week ago, when I went to the gym to test my ability to train), ready to get back to training.

At 6am, I walked in the door of the New York Sports Club.

I used to keep a workout journal on Facebook. I programmed it so that the only people who could see it were me, Pat, Hunter, Lisa-Gabrielle and Kelly. These were facts and thoughts that I really didn't feel the general populace should be privvy to. Since I recently went public with a story about my eating disorder, I figure, why not stay public? After all, your story cannot help anyone if the only person who reads it is you.

So, what I admitted in my haphazard, stream of conscious, story about my battle with compulsive eating, manorexia, dysmorphia and obsessive training is that I kept a strict diet and exercise program for 7ish years and that for about 2 years I have eaten whatever I wanted and that for 3 months I have lifted not one weight. I am, essentially, starting from square one. I refuse to weigh myself, out of humiliation. I refuse to do a 'before' picture, out of vanity. The rest, though, is open season.

December 3rd:
45 minutes cardio; cross-trainer.
650 calories burned.

I sweated a lot and got extremely puffed; but the good news is that my back and all my joints got through without incident! The music that helped me push through: selections from the new GODSPELL cast album, Laura Benanti's recording of CHICAGO, Naya Rivera and Amber Riley's recording of RUMOR HAS IT/SOMEONE LIKE YOU, selections from Mary J. Blige's EACH TEAR, Mike Reim's remix of Katy Perry's THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY, The Wanted's ALL TIME LOW, the Rafael Lelis Club Mix of Whitney Houston's I DIDN'T KNOW MY OWN STRENGTH and Dave Aude's Radio Edit of Beyonce's HALO (which I could listen to on a loop all day).

Confession: I don't always stretch.
New Rule: I will stretch for at least 10 minutes after every workout. At least 10 minutes. I will also hang upside down for as long as I can, to help my spine re-align itself, daily.

Now. About food. In the past couple of days, I've begun to eat the way I used to. I am determined to get back to being Bulldozer. It's going to take baby steps, though. I can't eat like a regular person for 2 years and then go eggwhite, cold turkey.

Having read that a person should eat before working out, I usually have a bit of something to give me strength. Today I went for some yogurt; preferred brand: THE GREEK GODS TRADITIONAL GREEEK YOGURT. Preferred flavour: Honey. This food item is a real bugaboo for me. I can knock off a 24 oz. container in less than five minutes, flat, and follow it up with another 24 oz. container. I can also not start one of these containers without finishing it. It's a bizarre head fuck thing. I told Pat about it and he told me I was, truly, bizarre. I have to have a brand new, pristine, container - when the lid is taken off, the top of the yogurt has to be completely flat and smooth, like ice on a winter pond in Vermont. I have to break the skin on top - I cannot eat one of these yogurts if it is not smooth and flat or if someone else has broken the skin or if it has been stirred up. Once broken, the top must be eaten along the perimeter until there is no yogurt touching the plastic of the container. I continue to eat around the perimeter, in a circle until there is an expanse of emptiness from the plastic, inward, and there is a tower of yogurt in the middle of the tub. Then, I eat downward, where I have been eating already, until the tower threatens to fall; so I eat the tower. By then, there is nothing left but a shallow pool of yogurt from 3/4's of the way into the container, to the bottom - and this bit of yogurt always seems to be really, really cold; so it has to go. Not content to waste one drop, I get a butter knife and scrape the edges and get the bottom of the container with the spoon.

Did I mention that I have an eating disorder? And, ps, this is not the only food that has to be eaten a certain way. You should hear how I used to eat a box of Entenman's donuts.

Pat had some tummy trouble yesterday, so he went to the store for some yogurt. I could have told him to just buy for himself; but I didn't. I had him get me one, too.

That yogurt that I ate before the gym had:
960 calories
60 grams fat
150 mg cholesterol
390 mg sodium
90 grams carbohydrate
90 grams sugar
24 grams protein.

Now. Let's all put on our common sense cap, shall we? When I compulsively sucked back that yogurt, in all its' delicious glory and creamy goodness, was I doing myself a favour or a disservice?

I think it is time to put the kibosh on the yogurt. It's going to hurt and it's going to be hard. But there is a slogan that was used on the movie poster for COCO BEFORE CHANEL that is a philosophy in which I believe, firmly. I have to focus on those words, to get where I want to be.

It is 8:18 am. I wonder what the rest of the day will hold. I shall check back in tonight.

Thanks for stopping by.

The Mouths of Babes

2012-01-02T09:53:00.007-05:00

I've been cleaning house. It's been an on-off project for the last year. Streamlining, doncha know. I have a lot, a Lot, a LOT of stuff and I, sometimes, think to myself "Ste, you really don't need all this stuff. Why don't you sell it on Ebay?" And I DID. I sold a lot of stuff on Ebay during the last decade. Old theater programs, old books, old vhs tapes, etc. And it just made room for more stuff. To tell you the truth, I miss some of the stuff I sold. (Lesson: if you are going to sell your stuff, give your stuff away or throw it out, make sure you really don't want it anymore, ok? Cause I had to replace some things - which is a bore - and recognize that some things couldn't ever be replaced - which is painful.)

In my house cleaning project, I came across something I can never throw away. I don't know why. I suppose I could; but I bet you fifty bucks nobody would throw this away.

The yearbooks.

I didn't have (in my memory) what I would call a particularly good school career. There were happy moments. I liked my second grade teacher, Miss Kokle and my third grade teacher, Mrs. Bartle. I made a good friend in fifth grade, Teresa Mitchell, moved away for sixth and seventh grades, tried to kill myself in eighth grade, moved back to the same town and school for the second half of eighth grade and was still friends with Teresa Mitchell (thanks to the social network, we are still in touch and still dear friends). I was the school drama queen in grades 9 and 10 and pulled myself together enough to lower my status to drama lady-in-waiting for grades 11 and 12 and I actually made a few friends (again, thanks to the social network, I'm in touch with some of them and happy to see how lovely their lives turned out). It was those earlier school days that were the worst, though. Once I got it together and began to learn who I was and how to be that person, I could (reasonably) expect (or, at least hope) people would like and accept me for myself. They seemed to - in fact, my memories of High School seem to differ, greatly, from the way my social network alumni seem to remember me (I have learned through online chats and replies to my blog stories and status messages, etc.)

It was the middle school days and Jr High School that were most troubling.

I have managed to forget those days. Or block them out. Or something. I know they were rough on me and I know I was a pill to my classmates. So why do I keep the yearbooks? I should throw them out. Truly.

Discovering them, buried in the closet, behind the clothing was proof of that.

Please note the two scans of autographs that I found while reading the yearbook. Aren't they appalling? Please hear me when I say this: I feel nothing when I read them. These two comments have no power over me when I consider them. This was a long, a superlong time ago. I have no pain or personal thought about them, when I read these two autographs from my 8th grade yearbook.

What I do feel, or think, is something that I mentioned in my last story: it is amazing the things that people will say to you without considering your feelings. Isn't it? Now, it's one thing to be a grown up, an adult, and have somebody say something hurtful or disrespectful to you - you have the strength and eloquence to make an appropriate retort. Consider, though, being a 13 year old and asking a classmate to sign your yearbook and getting it back and reading:

--"I am glad that you like Grant school even though a lot of people don't especially like you."

--"I feel real sorry for you the way people talk about you." (I have corrected the spelling error in the original autograph).

There are messages of friendliness within these two samples, though, and I recognize that and appreciate them. At the age of 13, though, I would imagine the only thing I could see in these missives would have to be the two sentences above. It's difficult to be a child, a teenager, and want to express yourself and not be (mentally, emotionally, socially) mature enough to say to yourself "Helen/Shelly, don't write this - don't say this - it will hurt this person's feelings". The problem is that people grow up and NEVER learn to think this way; I know this because it was during this same era that my horrible Aunt would demean and humiliate me (verbally) in ways that an adult should never inflict upon a child. And let us never forget my college professor, Ed DeLatte, whose modus operandi was to condescend to and insult, publically, as many students as possible (I, being one of his favourite victims).

I don't remember myself at 13. I have seen photos. I know (inherently) that I was troubled and that I was a handful; but I do not remember my thought processes. I am, though, accutely aware of them now - and I am proud to say that, at least once a day, I stop myself from saying or doing something because I know "that will hurt this person's feelings." And I am proud of my evolution as a person. I am also, again - accutely, aware of each and every time that a person says or does something that tells me that they do not, perhaps cannot, think beyond the narrow limitations of their self-awareness.

In the film ORDINARY PEOPLE (one of my favourites, as far back as I CAN remember the person inside the shell) Donald Sutherland yells at Mary Tyler Moore "Can't you see things except in terms of how it affects you?!" and she yells right back "NO! And neither can you! And neither can anybody else! Only maybe I'm a little more honest about it!"

I was 13 when those girls scribbled their greetings to me in a yearbook that I cannot seem to throw away (but maybe, after today, I will be able to). In a few years it will be 40 years since the ink dried. I know that I see things in terms of how they affect other people BEFORE the terms of how they affect myself. And I am, personally, acquainted with some people who are (not only) the same way but who take it a step further. No names. That isn't necessary. What is necessary is pointing out that there are, indeed, people who think before they speak, who think before they act. I know it isn't ALWAYS me (YES, I can be self centered and, indeed, outright selfish) -- but sometimes it is.

Thank God I evolved. Thank God I left behind the childish mentality that opened itself up to me that day, recently, when I opened up that 8th grade annual and read those comments and said 'WHAT THE FUCK??!!! What kind of thing is THAT to write to a 13 year old??!" I would like to think that I didn't write anything like this in anyone's yearbook (was I asked to sign any yearbooks?) I would like to think that this mentality was one that I never had.

I just don't remember. I've blocked it out.

Disorderly Eating Habits

2011-12-31T09:21:00.014-05:00

I have been asked to write about my struggles with an eating disorder, repeatedly, and by more than one or two people. I've been wanting to comply; but it is (natch) a hard subject about which to open oneself up. So I have been putting it off. And putting it off. And while I have been putting it off, I have been eating. A lot. Well, after all, it's Christmastime. All there is to do is eat. Eat and celebrate the holidays with cake, cookies, pie, candy - and when it isn't sweets, it's food like turkey with bread dressing and flour/salt based gravy ... root vegetables cooked in butter and sugar and loaded with nuts and fruits and little tiny marshmallows. One plate after another.

Today is December 31st. Tonight, the holiday season will end. And tomorrow, to quote the great Mo'Nique, is a new muthafuckin' day, baby.

My husband and I both did our commiserating over "feeling fat"; when the truth is that we aren't fat. Oh, we aren't in the best shape of our lives, that's fair to say; but it will only take a few weeks to get back to where we once belonged. It is just going to take some focus and some hard work. I don't believe in New Year's resolutions - not at all. I do believe in change, though, and it seems appropriate to make this change and to live a healthier, happier life. Since, though, I do not believe in New Year's resolutions, I will not start this change on the first day of 2012; I'm going to start it on the last day of 2011.

So it seems like a good time to talk, openly, about my life as an addict, as a man, as a gay man, with an eating disorder.

I don't know when or how my unhealthy relationship with food began. I think just about everyone in America does have an unhealthy relationship with food - whether it is based on overeating, anorexia or something somewhere in between. I don't know about other countries - I only know about America, land of the obese. I think it starts when we are children, when we are babies. A baby cries and we stick a bottle in the baby's mouth. A child disturbs us and we quiet the child with a popsickle (and a tv set - but that is another story for another day). A tween gets a good grade and we reward the tween with an ice cream sundae. A teenager goes out with friends and takes all the lessons we have taught them about eating and consumes an entire pizza and liter of soda, then, later, beer. Then, before you know it, the child is a grown up - a fat one.

This is a sweeping generalization.

I don't think my parents raised me the way I just described. Though I can say that my grandmother's house was always filled with Hostess fruit pies and that the holidays saw many containers of my mother's homemade holiday cookies, crying to be eaten. Nobody forced me to eat these things. I ate them of my own free will. At five, I ate an entire refrigerator crisper full of fruit and ended up in hospital. At thirteen, I would come home from school and eat slice after slice of mama's banana bread, slathered with butter. At seventeen, I would buy and consume, in one sitting, those enormous Toblerone candy bars - not the normal size ones, the really big ones. By the age of 25, I was on my way to being the funny, fat gay guy. By 30 I was an alcoholic, a smoker, an over eater and depressed. I could go to the grocery store and pick up a bag of Oreo Double Stufs and a gallon of milk, take them home, put in a vhs tape and consume all of it. Or maybe it was an Entenman's Ultimate Crumb Cake AND Donut Variety Pack AND the gallon of milk. And it would all be gone before the movie was over. I would order an entire large pizza, eat it and get rid of the box. I would call Fresco Tortilla and get a chicken/cheese quesadilla, a soft taco, a regular taco, a burrito, sour cream and guacamole and knock it off in 5 minutes, flat. These were my regular binge items. By the time I was 37, I weighed in at 205 pounds.

I hated everyone. I hated the people who were pretty, while I was not. I hated the gay men who were superficial and placed so much emphasis on good looks because they wouldn't look at fat, ugly me. I hated myself. I stopped trying to groom myself. I stopped trying to make new friends. I stopped having sex. I stopped going out in public, unless I really had to. I was in a lot of pain, emotionally, mentally and physically -- carrying the extra weight was taking a toll on my body, especially my back and knees.

So I joined a gym. I hired a trainer. I lost 60 pounds and became a sort of an expert on health and fitness. I developed a public (ish) persona based on my transformation and my new found knowledge about health and fitness.

And I didn't eat for seven years.

When I say I didn't eat, I don't mean that I didn't eat; I mean I didn't eat off my diet. My diet was eggwhites, chicken breast, broccoli, asparagus, tuna, tilapia... healthy, non fattening food. I didn't have a slice of pizza or a bowl of pasta in all those years. I admit that, from time to time, I would have a cookie - my girlfriend has a cookie company and that's a perfectly good excuse to eat a cookie -- I was supporting her business. Otherwise, I was a complete and total food nazi, which my trainer loved.

Then one day, I ate a piece of cheesecake on a cruise ship. And I haven't stopped eating since.

A year ago, I asked a girlfriend of mine if I could go with her to her overeater's group and she said no. She told me that if I went to her group, looking the way I do, the other members would resent me, that some might laugh at me. That bothered me. It seems to me that the concern should be the compulsion; and that, when someone seeks help, someone else should extend their hand.

I tried hypnotherapy. A friend told me that they had had some luck with hypnotherapy, trying to get their anxiety in order. I spent hundreds of dollars with the hypnotherapist - and one week after our last session, I ate that piece of cheesecake.

I spent two years eating anything I wanted and justifying it any way I could. I made every excuse in the book, the most oft used one being "I've been dieting for 7 years, I deserve a break."

Before I started eating, I looked like this:

Today, I don't. I don't look bad; but I don't look like this. And people, when hearing me talk, frankly and openly, about my problems with compulsive eating, tend to sneer at me or even laugh at me. They judge me, at their will, and quite vocally; everyone from strangers to family (and please don't ask how I end up discussing this topic with strangers - just know that the topic DOES come up). People do feel quite comfortable being perfectly vocal with their judgments, their derision, their unsolicited advice. And what people don't seem to remember is that they are not inside my head. They don't feel the things I feel, like the abject disappointment I feel in myself for not being able to control myself as I eat my third quart size container of greek yogurt in a row. They don't hear the things I hear in my head, when I can't fasten my jeans; things like "you fool - you had a perfect body and now you've lost it all." They don't know the physical pain of trying to digest refined flour and sugar after 7 years of clean digestion.

It always amazes me, the things people will say to your face, without considering (for even a moment) if they have the right; or if it the words will sting.

My (extremely generous and loving) friend asked to take me to his Overeaters Anonymous group. I went. Once. I never went back.

I know I need help. I also know that I don't believe in the 12 step program. I quit drinking cold turkey. I quit smoking cold turkey. I quit eating (unhealthily) cold turkey and stayed that way for 7 years. I can do it again. In my own way, in my own time. What I have to remember is that I am an addict. I have been addicted to booze, cigarettes, depression, food, even television. I have beat all these addictions, even food; but it is so difficult to stay on the right track with food because it is so accessible. I mean, we don't need alcohol or cigarettes to live - we need food. And it's everywhere. And if you are financially strapped and have to eat what is available to you, a two dollar jar of processed, lard-ridden peanut butter is certainly going to be more attractive, fiscally, than an organic chicken. There are no fewer that 2 dozen excuses I can make for not eating the way I used to; and I've made them all. The thing is: I can no longer afford to make excuses. I'm not a 20 year old - my metabolism isn't what it once was. My body can't exercise the way it used to. I have issues with my back, with tendonitis, with certain joints... if I am going to stay healthy, I have to use a combination of diet and exercise. These are just more excuses, though. My friend Joe, broke his back and he bounced back, through yoga. Today, he is a yoga instructor. I have heard tell that one of my favourite broadway dancers had a bad injury doing a Kander & Ebb musical; but just a week ago I saw him tap dancing in a Cole Porter musical.

There is nothing that we cannot do, if we just have the focus and the fortitude.

I hurt my back three months ago. I say it was broken, even though it wasn't a spinal break. It was something that the doctors haven't been able to really pinpoint, though I have seen several different types of doctors and specialists. So during these last three months, while I have been unable to train and overly able to overeat, I've had a lot of time to reflect on the eating disorder, some of the things that have caused it and some of the ways it has manifested itself. Here are some realizations that have developed, in my mind and on paper:

--As a child, I always thought my mother the most beautiful woman who lived (still do). Often, people would say I looked just like my mother. So I began to believe that I was just as beautiful. As I grew into my teens, I became cocky, saying things like "I'm going to be young and beautiful forever" (my love of the novel The Picture of Dorian Gray did not help curb my overdeveloped ego). This attitude was, truly, a mistake in my life; for it is a surefire reason for the universe to take your youth and beauty away, to spite your cockiness. (see the pic of my mom below..)

--When Delta Burke was a success on Designing Women, the world watched her go from fit to fat. In an interview, she said she was challenging life, Hollywood and her husband to "love her for who she was". At the time, I did not understand. Now I do. For, when you develop a public (on any level) persona for being beautiful, it becomes exhausting to live up to it. You want to be known for more than your looks. So you may self sabotage, if only to prove that there is more to you than this:

--I have heard it said that people numb themselves with food. In my life, I have been lead by my emotions - even if it is the emotion of indifference (which I have mastered). When I eat too much of anything, I fall asleep. You don't get more numb than that.

--Is it better to be beautiful? Or better to have MORE to offer than just your looks? What is it like for those people whose only talent is being pretty?

--I have been in situations where I am eating and eating and eating and even though I think to myself, 'you're getting sick', I continue to eat. I wouldn't do that with cigarettes, when I was smoking; if I got sick when I was drinking, I would vomit and go to bed. With food, it is harder to stop; yet I am aware (before I start) what effect it will have on me, (while I am eating) that it is making me sick and (after I am finished) that it has had a lasting effect on my body. If I could find some way to acknowledge that and remember it, full time, I could help myself to abstain.

--It isn't about being pretty - the pain of digesting toxic food and the strain the extra weight puts on my back and joints are all unbearable. What better reason than this, to stay on target? If your body is a temple, why pollute it?

--It is about being pretty. When I was young, I was shy. When I got older, I was fat. When I got in shape, men paid attention to me - and gay men are all about the physical. Being admired because you are attractive is a feeling, a desire, everyone can relate to. In the gay community, it is an essential. I'm sure gay men, everywhere, feel the pressure to be beautiful. I know I am not the only gay man with an eating disorder. My struggles with diet and exercise have certain patterns. I will diet and exercise myself into a frenzy, just for a specific goal (Pride, a party, a birthday, a photo shoot), even going to the point of starvation for the last 2 to 3 days, just to reach the goal. Once the goal is over, the eating is unparalleled and lasts for days, even weeks, until the next goal. This kind of yo-yo dieting is bad for the body AND the mind.

--I don’t actually have to worry about looking hot. After all, I have a husband who loves me the way I am. Perfect is not a necessity. However, we are not monogamous, so maybe I DO have to worry about looking hot. But at my age, haven’t I had enough sex? Or is it that: at my age, haven’t I eaten enough? This is the yo-yo in my head that goes with the yo-yo of dieting. Wouldn’t it be better for the body, the mind, the emotions, to just commit to being healthy all the time? After all, at the end of the day it is all about how you feel … and when I am overeating, none of me feels good. At all.

--Everyone is tired of people complaining. Just do it and stop talking about it.

That last one is the one that rings through my mind, over and over. While I was at that one O.A. meeting, I couldn’t help thinking horrible judgmental things – the same things I thought the few times I went to AA. Things about people and weakness… I know, it makes me an awful person. Wait. No it doesn’t. It makes me human. We all judge each other. I found myself judging people I didn’t know because they seemed too weak to get up off the sofa, put down the Cheetos and get on with their lives, change what was bothering them and stop whining about it. When I found myself doing that, though, I went inside my head and said “Stephen Mosher, don’t you DARE judge these people! They have the same problem you do! Don’t you DARE!” So I found myself able to change a habitual thought pattern and turn those feelings into feelings of compassion. Just like I say that all gay men are beautiful, I have to believe that all people with an eating disorder are to be offered empathy. So that is what I do – offer empathy.

Starting with myself.

I don’t know why I have this addiction. I don’t know if I will ever beat it, absolutely. I do know that I do not worship in a group; so I will not heal in a group. I am a solitary man – I insist on strength and the ability to do it (whatever it is) on my own. And even though I am a blogger, I am a private man. I may share the story of my problem with anyone who wishes to read about it; but I will not share the healing process. Everyone has their own process, their own battle, their own way of fighting and of healing – mine is to do it on my own. It’s gonna hurt like a whore but Ima do it. I did it with booze and tobacco and so many other things – even food. I can do it again, with food. Like Zorba said “Let’s do it quick, here and now; like men quit… smoking, drinking or a love affair.”

There are many questions to ask and answer. That will come in time. For this time, though, there are only statements, ringing affirmative and clear:

My name is Bulldozer Mosher; and my love affair with food is over.

My Favourite Things (of 2011)

2011-12-27T22:51:00.028-05:00

Everyone is writing their best/worst of lists for 2011. Some, I found interesting. Some, I didn't make it past two entries... Nevertheless, it got me to thinking about my favourite things that happened in my world during the last year. I don't remember the things I didn't like, so I cannot make a 'worst of' list. However, when it comes to the things I DID like....

12. What Matters Most. The new cd by Barbra Streisand is sublimely perfect. I don't spend a lot of money on new cds. I usually go to itunes and buy by the song. Usually it is songs recorded and performed on GLEE. Sometimes it is movie soundtracks, sometimes it is vocals - but it is almost always just by the song, unless it is a movie soundtrack -- because that is a journey and you need the soundtrack to THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM from start to finish.

This year, though, I spent money on a few actual cds and, aside from What Matters Most, my favourites were Michael Buble Christmas, Kristine W Straight Up With a Twist, Mary J. Blige With Each Tear, the cast albums to Sister Act, Follies and Anything Goes and ALL my Glee music. Now, some of these cds may have been released in 2010 - but they didn't make their way into my Ipod until 2011, and that's when it starts for me

11. The new season of Glee. I don't care who wants to tease me and judge me - I am a Gleek and proud of it. This year I saw the writers make Rachel and Finn likeable again (and Will, too). I saw Mike Chang learn to sing and deal with his parents; and I saw Santana and Quinn (my two favourites on the show) get some good storylines (especially Santana) and some FIERCE numbers (especially Santana).

I got a cute Irishman and I lost and got back Sam. Coach Biest sang for the first time (and it was Jolene!) and Britney stayed the grooviest chick on tv. I'm not sure where Sue stands with the show but that may happen in the new year. In the meantime, I have the Rumor has it/Someone Like You track playing on a loop in my house.

10. Some seriously good new tv. I can't begin to talk, at length, about them all; but I can say that I am addicted to SUITS (it's like crack),

I love PAN AM so much that Pat and our friends got me a Pan Am bag for Christmas, I never miss REVENGE, ONCE UPON A TIME or SUBURGATORY (one of the few sitcoms I watch while, impatiently, waiting for COUGAR TOWN to return) ..

and, even though it only lasted 3 episodes, I loved THE PLAYBOY CLUB. I copied those three episodes onto disc and I go back and watch the great Laura Benanti's musical numbers (which are also in my Ipod) over and over. Shame on you, NBC. Now. WHEN IS SUITS COMING BACK ON???!!!!

9. MY WEEK WITH MARILYN. I have been an ardent fan of MM since I was 10. I've loved Michelle Williams since the pilot episode of Dawson's Creek. The Prince and The Showgirl is my favourite Marilyn Monroe movie. So MY WEEK WITH MARILYN was destined to be a big deal for me. And it was. And it is.

8. FOLLIES. I don't think there is anyone who loves musical theater who doesn't appreciate Stephen Sondheim. Not everyone loves him; but they cannot deny they must respect him. I adore him. I adore this show.

I adore Bernadette Peters and Jan Maxwell and.. don't make me name them all (Elaine Paige, Danny Burstein, Mary Beth Piel, Terri White .. I said DON'T). I went to see the show in D.C. and then I saw it three more times in New York. There are haters. I am a lover. I will remember it. Always.

7. SISTER ACT. ANYTHING GOES. THE PEOPLE IN THE PICTURE. ONCE. I saw a lot of good theater this year. Not all of it; but some of it. Good, great, not so good. There was a lot of talk about Sister Act being harmless and The People in the Picture being substandard and about Anything Goes being wrong and about Once being boring.

I don't give a rat's ass what anyone else says. Sister Act made me happy. Donna Murphy in The People in the Picture demonstrated the standard for which all actors should set their goals as artists

Anything Goes brought me out of a depressed state so bad it threatened to ruin Christmas for my family. And Once made me feel that thing you feel when you are in a theater watching something that you know will take theater to the next level.

So to all the dissenters I have just one thing to say: shut your pie hole.

6. SLEEP NO MORE. I had heard about it and I wasn't interested. My dearest friends gave me tickets for my birthday and Pat and I went and it was the most theatrical experience of my life, except my life.

5. Being in the NOH8 campaign, along with some of our dearest friends. Pat and I LOOOOVE this campaign created by Adam Bouska and Jeff Parshley.

When they did a shoot in New York, we just had to go, just as our friends have done, here in New York, California, Dallas, all over the country. We are proud and honoured to be a part of this photographic series.

4. My Cooking Party. A year ago I got a job. It was the first job I've had in fifteen years. In the last fifteen years I have run a photography studio and picked up odd jobs here and there, including (but not limited to) internet auctioneering, housekeeping, personal assisting, personal training, estate organization and distribution... The time had come, though, for me to get a job with a paycheck and some regular hours. My best friend helped me get this job and I was shocked to find myself in a new line of work for which I was ideally suited with two employers that weren't only great bosses, they were great friends. I found myself a part of something, once more, with co-workers and camaraderie. We go to work and we enjoy each others' company and making the work day perfect for our clients, our bosses and ourselves. My friend Joanna once told me that everyone gets three careers in their life. I've had a lot of jobs but only two careers. I was a photographer and, now, I am an event coordinator. I don't know if anything else I've done counts as a career and I don't know if I have another one coming; but, for now, I am deliriously happy.

http://www.mycookingparty.com/

3. The happiness of my family. I've watched some good things happen to the people I love this last year. Not super monumental things, perhaps, but some good things. Little wins, you might say. Things like: employment. Or weight loss. Or new babies. Or new relationships. An actor booking a gig. A privately owned company breaking even one month. An acting class every Sunday... ok, that one's really special to me because that's my husband. Every Sunday he gets to go be an actor and learn; and he comes home glowing. And during this year he has done some acting; and he comes home glowing. That's the best thing of all for me. Watching the people I love be happy.

(You can see Pat in costume as Henry Higgins for a scene in class from Pygmalion).

2. The weddings. Not mine. The others. AJ and Marc. Vince and Miller. Christopher and Kevin. Bobby and Matt. Richard and Daniel. Jason and Ken. I didn't go to all of them; but I knew of them. I saw photos on Facebook. I sent a wedding cake to one and took a wedding cake to one.

I bought the wedding cake for AJ and Marc and I was AJ's best man. And then I finished the year by putting together the wedding for Jennifer Houston and Allan Piper

After all they have done for us during the last year, being able to make their 11th hour wedding happen in a more romantic and exciting way than their planned trip to city hall was a highlight, not of my year but of my life.

Being around to witness so much love; it was a perfect way to spend the year.

1. MARRIED AND COUNTING. The wedding tour that took Pat Dwyer and I to Vermont, New Hampshire, Iowa, California, D.C. and Coney Island and left us with a beautiful film documenting our love and our quest to help bring marriage equality to the forefront of peoples' lives was the trip of a lifetime. Witnessing the passing of gay marriage in New York and seeing the people (those in power and those humbles trying to influence those in power) with a passion for change was beautiful and inspiring.

Every wedding we had, every face we looked into, every hand we held, every vow we made is all a part of the mosaic that is me. The journey brought me closer to friends, to family (especially my beloved - and soon to be widely beloved - mother) and to Pat

It was an unforgettable experience that I owe all to Allan and Jennifer, to Pat and to the people I call family. I am, indeed, a lucky man. See the trailer for Married and Counting on our Youtube page:

http://www.youtube.com/user/patnstephen2?feature=mhee

And, of course, it goes without saying that my favourite thing of 2011 was one more year with my loved ones.

The Days between Christmas and New Year's

2011-12-27T22:46:00.003-05:00

I got SOO busy during the holiday season (work, doncha know) that I had to stop blogging ! I have some things started that I will post in January .. some reviews of some spas in NYC and a bootcamp I went to... and (as I had promised some people on Facebook), I do intend to write about my struggles with my eating disorder, dysmorphia and all the other stuff I struggle with in my quest for perfection (gay man, remember?) But, for now, I'm just writing to say: sorry to go MIA, yet again, and I have just finished my story on my favourite things that happened in 2011. If I can get it posted tonight, I will - but, if not, it will be up tomorrow.

Hope everyone had a happy holiday and is filled with happiness and

Peace.

(The photo showing is me with my husband and our surrogate son, Pat jr. - one of these days I will post a photo of us with our other surrogate son, Deno)

Bad Spa Ja! Go Stand in the Corner!

2011-11-18T07:38:00.002-05:00

Both Pat and I recently took trips to Spa Ja ( http://spaja.com/index.htm )on the corner of 8th avenue and 56th street, courtesy of Groupon. There, I had the worst massage of my life. I didn't write about it until Pat had his massage, so I could include both of our experiences there. He came home from his massage and, when I asked about it, he simply replied with a word he learned from our son: "meh".

At first blush, I thought the spa nice. The decor, the little free snacks on the table in the lounge, the massage room overstuffed with lots of health and beauty equipment... But I had a bad feeling about the massage, inherently, from before I was even on the table.

MY massage, you see, had to be rescheduled one week. That was the first red flag. The spa called me to say that my scheduled massage therapist had been called for jury duty and there was nobody to take her place with me. Tch. No way to run a business, if you ask me. I wanted to be accommodating, so I said ok and allowed them to put me off a week. When I arrived, my massage therapist did not come out to get me until 2 minutes after my scheduled arrival time. It took 2 minutes to traverse the stairs and hallway into the room and another 3 minutes for me to undress and get on the table. Then there was the 1 minute I spent trying to communicate with my massage therapist - or perhaps I should call her masseuse, since I got no therapy. I told her that I needed work done on my head, neck, entire back, especially the lower back and shoulders. I asked her not to touch my legs or chest, though the glutes and feet were fine. She did not appear to understand, nor did she appear to care.

Once on the table (ten minutes into my SIXTY minutes massage), I awaited her return, whereupon she began the massage and CHASTISED me for not relaxing. Repeatedly, she demanded that I try to relax, stating that she didn't want to hurt her hands by massaging an unrelaxed body.

I felt nothing. Nothing, that is, except her FINGERNAILS. It was the worst massage I have ever had in my life - and I have had some really bad massages. I paid $89.00 for a Groupon that granted me two 60 minute massages; and a choice of massage styles - and I asked for DEEP TISSUE. This woman didn't do deep tissue on me, she didn't listen to me when I told her what I wanted (made clear by the fact that she massaged my legs and my chest), and she stopped promptly, PROMPTLY, after 50 minutes. What is more, when I got to the reception desk and turned in my Groupon, they charged me 11 dollars in taxes that would have been charged on the original price of the massage, $130.00; all this after I tipped the woman on a $130 massage (I have worked in the service industry - I always tip, even on bad service). When I used my Groupon at the Jeunesse Spa and Enliven Body Works, I was not charged tax.

I am ashamed of the Spa Ja for the shitty service (yes, I chose to say shitty instead of a less vulgar word) I received at their hands. And even though I should not have sent my husband there, having gotten such God-awful service, I did; I did because I wanted to hear what it was like for him. He didn't have the horrible service I got - but he didn't get good service.

If you are in New York City and looking for a good spa, note the address:

Spa Ja
300 W 56th St
212-245-7566

I don't care how long they have been in business; they don't deserve yours.

A Trip to the Jeunesse Spa

2011-11-11T08:31:00.004-05:00

Since my last entry on this blog, I am relieved to say that I have had some relief in my back. I am also sad to say that the relief has been somewhat minimal. Maybe 20%, at best.

What a drag.

The thing is (and I would love to think that my close friends will back me up on this - I think my husband may be the best person to vouch for me) I'm pretty laid back and optimistic about these things. This is a body, after all, and they can be mercurial. I mean, who knows why people have allergies? Who knows who people get arthritis? Who knows why some people age so, while others just stay youthful? It's genetics, frame of mind, spirituality, what you eat, how you use your body - it's a lot of things. I remember when I was really fat and my back hurt ALL THE DAMN TIME. I was trying to lose the weight; and, for as long as I can remember, I have been a runner. When I was a little boy there was always running and playing outside; when I got into my teens, I ran or biked in the hilly neighbourhoods of my homes (first) in Portugal and (later) in Switzerland. I always loved running. It has gotten harder, as I have aged, because of my knees and some other joints - so I do it less, now; but it is actually essential to my soul to, now and then, strap on my running shoes and do a sunrise run in Central Park. It is one of my most personal treats to myself. Anyway - back when I was in my mid-thirties and had gotten so fat and my back was hurting all the time, Pat and I went to Cape May for a vacation with AJ and Rob. Every day, I would run down to the beach and run to the lighthouse and back. Every day, my family noticed that I was in pain; the only thing that made the pain go away was whiskey - the problem is that it made everything else go away, too, which is why I stopped drinking, altogether. One day, AJ asked my why I insisted on getting up and running every day, when I was in so much pain and my reply was " if I don't, the pain wins. "

I have to be optimistic. I have to say "I have four working limbs - other people do not" and keep going, working with what I've got. It is who I am and what I do. I won't lie. Sometimes, I have to just stay in bed, or prop up on the sofa. Sometimes, I go someplace private and cry a little. Sometimes (ok, a lot of the time), I soak in hot baths with epsom salt. Then I make another appointment to see another doctor or specialist or healer or ... somebody, anybody, who can help me get better.

These last two weeks of not being able to work out because I can't even bend over and touch my toes... it's like being lost.

So what?

I'll get back there.

I've seen Dr. Lee several times and he is growing more aggressive with his acupuncture, determined to make me better. I have an appointment to see Dr Piken next week - I trust that this will be the appointment that does the trick. In the meantime, thanks to Groupon, I have had the opportunity to visit some spas and try out some new massage therapists. The first of these spas was

JEUNESSE SPA
http://www.jeunessespa.com/events.htm

The ambiance of the spa is really quite lovely. It's pretty and elegant, simple, relaxing. If you look at the website, you can see all the services they offer. The Groupon I bought was for either a 60 minute massage or a 60 minute facial. Groupon is very good about featuring a reminder that you should tip on the fee you WOULD have paid for the service, were you paying full price. So I asked what the full price for my 60 minute massage would have been. $95.00 Not bad. I have paid $45 at RUB A DUB (plus tip) and gotten great 60 minute massages. (You guys know Rub a Dub, right? The little walk in massage parlours run by Asian (usually) ladies? (Sometimes there are male massage therapists, too). I have paid $120 for 60 minute massages. The price always varies and, often, the difference in the massage isn't that great.

When I try out a new massage therapist, I like to talk to them; find out what they do, what their style is, what their philosophy/outlook is. I also like to let them know that I do this a lot, that I have particular needs and that I like to have those needs met. I don't like easy massage. I don't like (is Swedish? or Shiatsu?) massage where it's "relaxing" and "soothing". I have used my body really hard and I need (more to the point, though, is that I WANT) the kinks worked out. I don't think it is asking to much to get what you want when you pay someone for a service.

My massage with Sylvia was perfect fine. More than adequate, less than perfect. She was friendly and accommodating. She listend, to a point, to what I had to say; but English is not her first language and she either didn't listen or didn't understand. I asked her not to touch my legs; she touched my legs. I asked her to do no front torso work; she did front torso work. They make you fill out forms when you arrive and, on that form, they ask you to name specifics. I made it clear: hard, deep tissue - head, neck, shoulder, back, lower back, hands, feet. No legs (I hate having my legs touched - Dr Piken, Mike Babel, Jason Zimmerman will all back me up - I am extremely skittish about it). I rarely need any kind of massage done on my chest or arms. But my feet and hands hold a lot of tension, as do my head, back and ESPECIALLY my neck, shoulders and lower back. I don't think it is wrong of me to want what I ask for. Sylvia's massage was good. A solid B. She actually used some techniques on my neck that I hadn't felt before and they were effective. Once she got into the back area, I fell asleep. Now, here's my thing about falling asleep on a massage table -- it's very nice. It is soothing and relaxing and peaceful and restful. However, if I can fall asleep during a massage, then it isn't deep tissue - and what I ASKED for was deep tissue. Instead, I got some nice technique no my neck and a nap.

After I awoke, Sylvia gave me a wine glass filled with water and told me there was a sauna in the men's locker room and a lounge where I could relax. I opted for the sauna... which I couldn't make work. It certainly wasn't hot enough as it was; and when I tried to make it hotter, the controls were harder to figure out than a control panel on the Starship Enterprise. After a few minutes of struggling with the sauna, I decided to give up and take a shower. There was a big shower with an enormous shower head that was suspended right over your body. I don't get to shower like that often - most of the showers I have used have the shower head coming out of the wall. When I was in this shower, I felt like Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford as Mommie Dearest. I was very excited. I turned the tap. It was broken. No water. No water.

My relaxation level was replaced by disappointment. I was bummed out. A sauna would have been nice. A shower would have been nice. Instead, I put my clothes back onto a body that was covered in lotion and toxins and went out into the world.

My experience at the Jeunesse Spa was not terrible; but it was not optimum. I give them a C+ for pretty ambiance and new neck techniques.

My next entry will be about the spa Enliven Body Works, which I left (happily) black and blue.

The Pin Prick

2011-11-06T19:30:00.001-05:00

I just lost a week of my life.

Well. Not REALLY a week of my life. I did, though, had strict limitations to what I could do, physically, for the last week and, hence, couldn't work out. So, to ME, I lost a week of my life. It was particularly irritating because I've been doing so well at making it to the gym and to my bootcamp classes and on my diet and all the rest of the stuff that I do to remain youthful, in bodily operation and in appearance.

It wasn't my fault, though.

I lost this week of my life because I have a back injury. This is neither the first nor will it be the last time that my bad back injury will come up in one of my stories. It is a fact of my life, like having brown eyes or being right handed. It is like being part Asian and it is like being gay. It is a part of who I am; but it does not define me.

I don't know when, exactly, my back broke. When I was young, I used my body hard and I felt the pain of being an athlete... sore muscles, that kind of thing. When I was in my 30s and really overweight, my spine began to hurt so much that it sort of crippled me. Eventually, a doctor told me I had arthritis in my spine. Boo hoo. Poor me. I just thought I was in pain from the pressure of carrying around 60 extra pounds of weight. So I lost the weight. My current doctor, whom I trust and always believe, tells me that I have no arthritis in my spine. Groovy. In the meantime, I have a relationship with Dr Piken at Innate Chiropractic and when my bones need adjusting he takes care of me. So one would think my back issues would not be that frequent.

Not so, friends.

The back is a tricky thing. It is where I hold all my tension - particularly in my neck and shoulder -- particularly on the right side. I also have Tendonitis in my shoulders. I also have TMJ and am a teeth gritter. I also spend a lot of time hunched over a computer. So my poor little back (affectionately nicknamed Hillary Swank) suffers a lot throughout the year. I try to not make a big deal of it because, as I said, it's just an incidental part of who I am; but I also don't hide it because I think people need to know things about you. If people know that I am an alcoholic who hasn't had a drink in over a decade, they won't offer me a drink. If people know I am a struggling artist with limited finances, they won't ask me to go do expensive things with them. If people know I have a bad back, they will not be surprised or offended if I say to them "I have to cancel on you; I have thrown my back out."

Two weeks ago, my back went out. It wasn't one of those things where you turn this way and CLICK, you're back is out. It started to ache one day; then there was a twinge of restriction one day - then there was a moment where I was paralyzed one day. I knew what was coming. So I went to Doctor Piken. Danger, Will Robinson! quoth I! He manipulated my bones and the put an elbow in my butt. (Now, don't get dirty - this isn't a fisting story). He told me "sometimes, you just need an elbow in your butt" and he took his elbow and massaged, with every fiber of his being and all his strength, my right upper glute. He did this for awhile; and I left his office with aligned bones and a loosened up right buttcheek. I was alright. But not really. My back has a mind of its' own and it needs more care than that. As my lower back continued to grow tighter and tighter, my ability to function became tougher and tougher. I had to stop working out, missing several bootcamps. I had trouble at work -- being unable to bend at the waist, I had to pick things up like a Playboy bunny: back erect, using my knees to squat and pick up. Sometimes, I would spend the day in bed with a pillow under my back. Each day, twice, I would soak in a hot bath. I did all I could to deal with it because it is the only choice we have in this life.

I booked a massage through a Groupon that I bought, with a spa called Spa Ja. I was very excited to go; but it was cancelled. They called me the day before to tell me that my massage therapist had been booked for jury duty and would be out until the next week. That was last Wednesday and the appointment was on Thursday and I had been incapacitated for what was going on 10 days. During those 10 days, I had called Dr Lee's office several times but he and Mrs. Lee were on vacation. That Wednesday, after Spa Ja called, I tried Dr Lee one more time. Thank heaven. He was back.

My first massage therapist, ever, was a man named Bill Reese. He was recommended by my friend, Mark Irish, and that was one of the nicest things anyone ever did for me. Over the years, I have had many massage therapists. Some have been very high falutin people who did absolutely no good for me at all; some have been one-shot visits that amounted to no more than a waste of my money; some have been those Asian ladies at the Rub-a-dub salons around the city; some have been adequate, albeit forgettable, massages. Some have done more harm than good. For the better part of the last decade, my massage therapists have been Mike Babel and Jason Zimmerman. Mike came first and I was a devoted client for many years, until he moved away; and when he moved away, he recommended Jason. Jason became a great massage therapist for me, until he broke his wrist in a driving accident and had to take time off from his work. That's when I began picking up massages where I could. His wrist healed; and Mike a regular visitor to New York, I am blessed to have many opportunities to have both of them work on me. I love them as people - they are my friends and my family - and I love them as massage therapists.

Bill Reese, though, has been the greatest healer of my life.

When I went to Bill, I was a chubby guy in his 30s with bad back issues. Bill always treated me with respect and dignity and I didn't feel uncomfortable or ashamed being naked in front of him. He did great work on me and I always left feeling better. After working with Bill for awhile, I developed tendonitis in my shoulder. It was terrible. I could not pick up a gallon of milk. I could not raise my arm over my head. I was lost. Bill told me that I should try some acupuncture. As it turned out, he did acupuncture. In my childhood, I had been afraid of needles. Even as an adult, I didn't like injections. Therefore, I wasn't hot to hop up on a table and get pincushioned. I simply had no choice.

Bill's acupuncture technique was spot on and perfect. He found the points where the needles were needed and he attacked the disease inside of my body. I could actually feel the illness pulsing out of my tendon. I was extremely happy and grateful. I won't say that it didn't weird me out a little, lying on a table, thinking about all the little needles in my body. You just have to grow up and get on with it and keep going. It's called life, darling.

Bill Reese moved away. He left New York and moved to another state. And Pat and I have missed him ever since. In the years that have followed my time with Bill Reese, Jason and Mike have become my massage guys of choice and they know how to keep me moving and how to keep me happy. I wouldn't trade my work with them for anything in this world.

But I had to find a new acupuncturist. That was tougher battle to win. I tried five or six acupuncturists - and when the sixth one hurt me so badly that I couldn't walk home, I gave up. Then one day a couple of years ago, our beloved trainer, Ray Scalvino, gave me a business card with the instructions "go". I trust Ray the way Luke trusted Ben. So I went.

In Gil Lee practices acupuncture in a hole in wall shop on 30th street. When you go in, the smell of all the herbs permeates your nostrils. His wife is a charming little Asian lady with an enormous smile who always makes me happy, just by being there to greet me. Dr Lee doesn't speak very much. He says hello and he asks what's up and he listens. Then he works on you for an hour. He has been working on me for a few years now. Sometimes he can get it in one visit; sometimes it takes three or five or ten or twelve.. it doesn't matter. Eventually, I leave there in full working order. I trust him. He has done great service to both Pat and myself.

Last week, thank heaven, Dr Lee was home from vacation. I was on his table before the day was out.

My back is getting better. It isn't better yet; but it is getting better. I will be on Dr Lee's table on Monday at 9 am and on Wednesday, once more. Together, we are gonna work on those mothaf*cking kinks in my back and loosen up my lumbar and my glutes and get me back in my bootcamp class and back on the road to fierce physical fitness.

Please don't be afraid to try acupuncture. If you think you need it, research it; ask around, get names from friends, hear stories, and seek out the right acupuncturist for yourself.

If you are in New York city and seek acupuncture, you can find Dr Lee at 124 W 30th street between 6th and 7th Avenues. 212-244-0030

In future stories, I will write more about massage and Jason Zimmerman and Mike Babel. Stay tuned.

Staying Healthy with, Both, Eastern and Western Healing

2011-10-27T09:49:00.005-04:00

As I throw myself back into a more hardcore health and fitness regimen (with regards to workouts), I have found it essential to also maintain my health with the help of my healers. I am, often, amazed at the things people will spend money on and the things that they won't. I am happy to spend money to stay healthy. Your health is the most important thing - without you, you have nothing else. You can't work or play or pay attention to your family or your life, if you are unhealthy. So I will do whatever it takes to stay that way.

I have a doctor. He has been my doctor for a long time and when I need actual medical attention, I see him. I also see him once a year for a physical. This is a good place to start -- a physical once a year and a doctor's office where you feel cared for, respected, comfortable and where you feel you can place your trust. My GP's office is Midtown Medical Associates and my personal doctor is Howard Scheiner. His fellow doctor is Kenneth Schaefer. I usually see Howard but there have been occasions when he has been out of the office and I have received equally caring treatment by Dr Schaeffer. They are more than just my doctors; they are my friends and I have many opportunities during the year to socialize with them, to my great good fortune. And if you are in need of a GP, I would not hesitate to recommend them. They also have a wonderful office staff who are friendly, caring and funny as heck.

The doctor I see more often, professionally, is Dr Jason Piken. The reason I see him more than the good gentlemen at Midtown Medical Associates is because he is my chiropractor. His office is INNATE CHIROPRACTIC ( http://www.innatechiro.com/ -- or simply click on the title of this piece ) and I have been seeing Dr. Piken for so many years that I don't remember, really, how many years it has been. It's never been a secret that I have back pain - I've mentioned it in other stories I've written and it comes up, often, in my life. I don't let the pain define me and I know it is for a variety of reasons like: the amount of time I spend sitting at a computer, the degree to which I push myself when training, the amount of stress I hold in my neck and shoulders, etc. I also have joint troubles, tendonitis, intestinal issues (due to the changing extremity of my diet) and all the other medical matters that come up when you actually live your life. Dr. Piken is always there to see to the needs of my body that are less Western-medically based. Over the years I have sent any number of my friends to Dr. Piken and I am proud to say that most of them are still devoted patients of his, today (some have moved to other states, making an ongoing doctor - patient relationship difficult). Dr. Piken works with more than just chiropractic adjustments - his knowledge and talents go far beyond the scope of some of his fellow chiropractors (I have known a few); but the driving force behind his success is that he is a TRUE healer - he genuinely wants to help people, he sincerely wants to make the world a better place.) And his support team goes above and beyond the call, when it comes to running the office and making the patients feel like they are more than just a chart. The entire mood and feel of the office is one filled with warmth, caring, loving and healing energy. If you are in New York and seek health maintenance that will prevent your needing Western medicine that often, I cannot urge you, enough, to check out Innate Chiropractic. 'Like' their Facebook page for info and updates: http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Innate-Chiropractic-of-Manhattan/177346785643785

Both these healing centers take insurance, naturally; but they are also affordable to the uninsured. I had, for years, some good insurance. When my husband left the advertising world, though, it was just a matter of time before the cobra on our insurance ran out - and when it did, I was sad, but not worried. I knew that my general health would never be threatened because I knew I would be able to afford both Innate Chiropractic and Midtown Medical Associates. I just prayed (A LOT) that I would have no medical matters that would require a visit to the hospital!

So far, I have been lucky.

In upcoming stories, I will be talking about dental health and massage therapy. Please check out those stories for recommendations on the good, the bad and the very ugly of those two areas of health and fitness.

Info on Midtown Medical Associates can be found at http://maps.google.com/maps/place?hl=en&gs_upl=0l0l1l3610l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0ll0l0&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.,cf.osb&biw=1119&bih=776&wrapid=tlif131972192114210&um=1&ie=UTF-8&q=midtown+medical+nyc&fb=1&gl=us&hq=midtown+medical&hnear=0x89c24fa5d33f083b:0xc80b8f06e177fe62,New+York,+NY&cid=8685958276948832085

Bootcamp at Circuit of Change

2011-10-26T08:18:00.006-04:00

This story was started on Friday, October 21st and (due to time constraints in my week) completed on Wednesday, October 26th.

The sun is shining today. It has been the kind of week, or weeks, where the weather has been trying to figure itself out. It is, after all, autumn; the change of seasons. One day warm, one day wet, one day torrential, one day hot, one day cold... Those who live in states where there are four seasons know whereof I speak. No matter what the weather has BEEN doing, today, the sun is shining.

On my journey back to Bulldozer, I have been making great use of Groupon and Living Social. Wait. Backstory needed for those not in the know: Bulldozer is a nickname that was given to me by Ray Scalvino, my trainer (when I have enough income to afford me one). I got it when a pulldown bar fell on my head at the gym and I refused to let it end my workout. Ray said "you are a bulldozer" and, from that point on, Bulldozer Mosher was the tough part of me. Bulldozer has lain, dormant, for the better part of the last year. Now, on my journey back to Bulldozer, I have been buying exercise classes on the two sites I mentioned above. Bootcamp. Yoga. Pilates. Boxing. Massage (I need them, badly, to keep this body moving, if I am going to use it as much as I want to). I've even bought a dental cleaning and some other things; but, mostly, I have used Groupon and Living Social for exercise/workout needs.

I have, long, wanted to do a bootcamp but never have. There is a bootcamp class at the branch of NYSC that I go to - but I won't join it. The man who runs it just screams at the members and it really gets under my skin. I'm all for the bootcamp mentality; but let's not get carried away. These are people, not marines - there is no need to scream, no need at all. I decided I would find a bootcamp class elsewhere. So when Groupon offered 12 classes for $19.00, I snatched it up! It was for a company called MANHATTAN STRENGTH CAMP and they met in Central Park (my favourite place) a few times a week. I was excited!

But I got sick. One week with what was either a bad cold or a light flu, followed by a week of dealing with severe pain stemming from a dental issue, kept me from the bootcamp class. Then there was a week of rain - and this is an outdoor class. Bummer. I would have to wait until the universe wanted me to go to the Manhattan Strength Camp. In the meantime, Marci had bought, as a gift, a Living Social voucher for five classes at the health studio Circuit of Change (http://www.circuitofchange.com/) and she insisted that I take class with Brian Delmonico and that I take, both, his indoor class and outdoor class. Well, since I was finally feeling well enough to work out, and since Manhattan Strength Camp was an outdoor class suffering from the rain week, I decided to take advantage of Marci's generosity and go down to Circuit of Change, where I could get a 6:30 am class (my preferred time to work out).

Today, I had my fifth (and final) Living Social class with Circuit of Change. I feel sad for all the other Groupon and Living Social vouchers that I bought because I know I will be joining Circuit of Change, permanently. My heart is pledged. Oh, I will use the other vouchers and take the classes - it will just help me get in shape that much faster; but my heart is pledged.

Here's the thing about Circuit of Change that, for me, really makes it a class worth taking: it's not just a physical workout. It's spiritual. You can feel the loving energy roll off of Brian Delmonico, the creator of the studio, the program and the workout. He has spent time in the east and his attitude shows it. There is a big focus on yoga stretching, both before and after the class. There is a focus on meditation, on taking out a few moments to be yourself, to breathe, to relax, to focus on you, before heading out into the crazy world that is New York city. There is, undeniably, a decidedly eastern feel to the classes I have attended. This is a good thing for me because working out is my church. I don't attend mass, though I love being in houses of worship. I pray in my own way; but when I am working out, I am in church. That is my religion; and it is extremely spiritually based. I went to five classes with Brian Delmonico and at the end of each class, as I was stretching (usually in pigeon pose), I found myself weeping. I was crying because I was grateful for the opportunity to exercise my body, for the chance to expand my health and fitness horizons, for the honour of studying with a good teacher, for the sadness of not getting to work out as much as I want to and, yes, I was even crying because of the pain. Hey, when you are stretching out older muscles that haven't been used in awhile, it effing HURTS! When you are operating with a body that has back, knee, neck and shoulder issues, you are going to feel limited - and it is not just the pain that makes me cry, but the fact that I am limited. Damn. I hate that. Being limited. Hate it. The crying, though, is good. It helps me keep the workouts spiritual and personal.

And speaking of the workouts....

Heavens to Betsy. My heart was racing! I was sweating so hard and breathing so hard. Well, let's be honest. It challenged me. Fortunately, I love a good challenge (in my workouts - in life, they can be superboring). The workouts were a combination of yoga, boxing, kickboxing, plyometrics, and (I am sure) other exercise techniques. I found it difficult to keep up; but Brian stresses the importance of going at your own pace. I'm not stupid. I knew I was the oldest person there. I knew that I moved slower than the rest of the group. This is something I am having to admit to, own up and learn to live with: I cannot move as fast as I used to. So I did - I went at my own pace and I focused on form. Brian was encouraging in a gentle way but one that pushes you forward. He is in control of the class and when he corrects your form, you don't feel like an idiot. He is a superlative teacher.

I did three classes indoors and one outdoors (my Living Social was for 5 classes but, to my shame, I slept through the alarm one day and missed class - unhappy face). The difference between the classes was distinct but the merit to both was immeasurable. Honestly, the outdoor class is so uplifting. There is nothing like starting your workout in the dark and witnessing the sunrise over Manhattan as you start your day with the perfect mind and body centering. I can't wait to go back! I just have to get together the money to join. And it's not a lot of money. The studio is extremely.. maybe I should underline it - extremely - affordable. All their prices on their website. I encourage all who live in NYC and who seek a challenging workout that is spiritually in tune and really not invasive to the body to check them out.

You will thank me, Brian and, ulitmately, yourself.

To go to the website for Circuit of Change, click on the title of this story.

The Good Fight Begins

2011-10-19T06:57:00.004-04:00

I am going to tell you a secret.

I let myself go.

The way it all played out was one part accident, one part conscious choice and one part rebellion. Maybe there were even other factors that contributed to the entire journey; but, right now, it feels like accident - choice - rebellion. We will have to peel back the onion to see what else lies beneath.

Most people know about the weight yo-yo that I have ridden in my life. Skinny little boy, fat teenager, fit teenager, athlete, fat man, fit man, body builder ... whatever. It has been a yo-yo. I have not, successfully, managed to find absolute balance in my life, where my body and mind meet. I do, in fact, come from a family of over eaters. I cannot write about their experiences, cannot tell their stories. What I can do is tell what I have seen.

My mother's mother was never, in my life, at a weight that (looking back) I consider healthy. My mother has, since the birth of her fourth and final child, battled eating and weight issues. My sister (who, in her youth, had a bangin' body) has a similar story but less extreme. Both my brothers have carried extra weight over the years, as has my father. Only my maternal grandfather seems to have lived his life at a healthy height-weight proportion. My father is lucky in that he has the focus and drive to take off weight, once gained; I mean, let's face it - unless you are Jack LaLanne or Ray Scalvino (my trainer), most people will put on a few pounds in their lives - whenever my dad has done that, he has shaken it off and lost it again (and, by the way, I do not include my father's family tree in my little history because Daddy was adopted and I do think genetics plays a role in these things). And there are some members of my family in the generation that is following my own, who are having weight issues. Clearly, it is a familial trait.

Now. Here is the good news: my mother recently lost 30 pounds. My brother is on a push to live a healthier lifestyle and is exercising and eating properly. My father is currently at a healthy height/weight proportion. (I haven't seen my sister in awhile, so I am unsure about her status.) Everyone is doing what they can to beat the demon fat cell.

To that end, I have had to put myself on a diet and seek out new forms of exercise.

In December I got married. It was the first of several weddings that took place for me and Pat, as we worked our way through the filming of our movie, Married and Counting ( www.marriedandcounting.com ). There was a lot wedding cake... a lot of road trip food... a lot of celebrating. I have no one to blame but myself. I am the one who raised the fork to my mouth. I am, also, the one who dialed back my workout regimen to accommodate a life filled with activity, travel, work and play. There were major changes in my life during the last year and, regrettably, my workout was the sacrifice. I lost muscle mass and I gained fat; I lost definition and I gained girth.

I let myself go.

I'm not really big on the blame game. I am, though, really into accountability. So I say to myself, get back on the horse, kid. I'm not really big on complaining about situational factors. I am, though, really into seeing clearly. So I acknowledge my age (47) and my limitations (bad back, bad joints) and I work with them. Don't get me wrong - I have moments (sometimes days even) when I ride the self pity wave regarding blame and pain; but you have to shake that shit off and keep moving. Be Bourne; that's my peronsonal motto.

So I went on Groupon and Living Social and began spending little bits of money so that I can get back to where I once belonged. I bought a couple of bootcamp classes, some pilates classes, some yoga classes, some fight training classes and a lot of massages. I never spend more than 40 dollars and I take it all very seriously.

I also went to my first Overeaters Anonymous meeting. The time had come to confront the eating disorder with which I have struggled for a long time; I have admitted, for years, that I have an eating disorder. I had never, actively, dealt with it. But now I would.

Over the next few days and weeks, I will be sharing some of my experiences in my blog. To do so, I have to admit that I am not Superman; that I am deeply flawed, that I have emotions. None of these are things I admit, readily or happily; but I must, in order to change and grow into the man I have, long, wished I could be. I am, fiercely, angry and nervous about it - all of it; the journey and the sharing of the journey. I have to do it, though. Otherwise, what good is this life? I mean, really; what good is it? Without the challenge of living and the sharing of the lessons I learn while on this tiny planet, what is the point of being here? That is the task I have set myself. So.

Let's make a start; shall we?

Better Is As Better Does

2011-06-28T10:10:00.005-04:00

I love dancing. I dance around the house, I go out dancing with my husband and our friends, hell... sometimes I even dance while walking down the street, listening to my Ipod. They say you should dance like nobody's watching; and that's what I do.

Sunday night, Gay Pride in New York City, Pat and I went to a party called Alegria. We often go to this circuit party (it happens a few times a year) and spent 6 or 8 hours dancing and hanging out with our friends. When we go, I dance like nobody is watching. When we go home, I am spent; and happy.

At about 9am Monday morning (we arrived at 2:30 am) one of our friends turned to me on the dance floor and told me that he and his friend had been making fun of the way I dance. I laughed and asked him to repeat himself; the music is very loud and I wear earplugs to protect my hearing - I was unsure of what he had said. He repeated himself. They had been making fun of the way I dance. Did I want to see? And he began to mimic me. He paraded and pranced around me, mincing and prissing and making grotesque faces. He stopped and turned to me and said "this is how you do your face when you dance" and he started up again. It was grotesque.

I had stopped dancing by this point.

When I was younger, I was prone to tantrums and fits, prone to making a mess in front of other people. This was something I did into my adulthood. My husband and closest of friends have seen it - and for some reason, they are still with me. I don't do that anymore; I stopped doing it about 9 years ago, around the time I stopped drinking. On the dancefloor, after watching my friend imitate me for what was probably a minute but what felt like more, I gathered myself and began to dance, once more; and I danced away. I left my friends, my husband, and I went for a walk around the club. It is a big club, so there was a lot of places for me to go. I found a seat up in the audience portion of the Best Buy Theater in Times Square and I sat and watched the lights and the people and I thought. I thought long and hard. And I decided that I didn't want to dance anymore. I certainly did not want to go out dancing with that friend anymore. The last time we had gone out together, he made fun of the outfit I wore. Tonight it was my dancing that he mocked. Who knew what he would tease me about the next time?

I am not thin skinned. I am not the boy I was. I got thicker skin. I get my validation from inside myself. I get my approval from my husband and the people in my family. I do not allow my self esteem to be damaged by petty remarks and bad manners. However; I am a human being and I do have feelings and they do get hurt, thick skin or no. So I found myself wondering what makes a person think that they can say things to your face, like you don't have any feelings at all? What makes a person unable to recognize that the things they say are hurtful? What makes it impossible for a person to govern their tongue? And what makes it feel right, teasing your friend, teasing someone for whom you, supposedly, have affection?

I've been thinking about the It Gets Better campaign created by Dan Savage and his husband, Terry. It was created in response to a rash of teen suicides, based on bullying for being gay. In the It Gets Better campaign, people have recorded videos and uploaded them to Youtube. In these videos, people both famous and humble encourage gay teenagers (indeed all teenagers) to protect themselves from self inflicted harm by recognizing that teen bullying is temporary and that life gets better - but only if you stick around. It is an extremely moving and popular campaign that has moved many and changed lives. I am sure that it has saved many teenagers who suffer from bullying. And what it says is, certainly, true. It does get better.

But it doesn't end. Bullying. It changes. And it is called teasing.

My girlfriend's mother used to tease her, as a child. She picked on her and tormented her, leaving her a grown woman with trust issues, with emotional problems people call 'baggage'. My other girlfriend has a father who called her fat when she was a little girl. To this day she has self esteem and self image problems. My husband was teased by school kids but he was also emotionally pummeled by family members.. because he was a fat kid. I was teased for being a sissy.. and for being a chink... a jap... a gook... a slope... pick an epithet.

As children we are teased and bullied. It sets us up for the scars we will carry through life. When we grow up, we should be able to shake off these memories, these hurts, these fears that we have gathered in our hearts and minds and become the people that we wish we were; but it isn't that easy. In fact, it isn't easy at all. I have sat and listened to friends talk about the emotional scars they have carried through decades of therapy, self help books, searching and striving to change; and most of them have entered into their fourth decade (ok, some are in their third, others in their fifth), still trying to step out of the shadow of pain inflicted upon them in their youth.

Is it any wonder that they, that WE, are unable to overcome the pains of our youths, when pain is piled on top of those pains.. new pain on top of old pain, most often inflicted by our loved ones?

I recently said to a loved one "I think I may have an unrealistic idea of what my body should look like" and they made a joke at me. I have something called dismorphia that prevents me from seeing myself as I am, when I look in a mirror. I am not able to see my body; what I see is a funhouse mirror of myself. I wanted to have a serious talk about it with a loved one and they made fun of me. Also, recently, my husband found evidence of my closet eating. (I have an eating disorder - I squirrel food away and eat it, then hide the evidence). When Pat found the evidence, he made a joke out of it. I thought it would have been a better course of action, had he come to me and said "I'm concerned that you are binge eating and I'd like to help you with whatever is bothering you, causing you to make this self destructive choice." His teasing hurt me. So I thought about it for a few days, organized those thoughts and, when I was ready to talk about it, we did. That's the way we roll. No tantrums, no fights; we talk it out.

These little comments, snide asides, lighthearted teasing... they aren't lighthearted. If these kinds of remarks can make a mark, hit close to home with someone like me who has a thick skin, imagine what they do to someone truly tenderhearted. I've spent my adult life learning to safeguard my heart. My own best friend remarked to me a few years ago that he noticed how I had taught myself not to cry, not to feel and that he thought it wasn't healthy for me. There is some truth in his comment - I have. It isn't absolute but it is there. It's how I developed my thick skin. Still, it isn't thick enough to protect me from the odd wisecrack from my loved ones. Maybe it is because the wisecracks originate from loved ones that they hurt. Maybe if it was the teasing of strangers, I would feel nothing. They say we only hurt the ones we love. Well. I don't want to be that person.

I picked up the phone and began calling loved ones that I knew I had teased, had hurt. One who is sensitive to being diminutive and who I had remarked had a teenage daughter who was taller than him.... one who has had a lot of boyfriends and who I had teased about it... one who I had teased by telling an embarrassing story about her, until she asked me to stop. I had to apologize to my loved ones for ever having made them feel the way my loved ones had made me feel. I don't want to be that person. I don't want to be the person who makes someone feel humiliated and diminished. I don't want to be better than other people - but I don't want to be as bad as they are, either; and if I can stop behavioural patterns that put me on the same footing as people who tease their friends and family, I will. I will protect my loved ones by not being a grown up bully masquerading behind the phrase "I'm just teasing".

I remember how, as a child, my mother's sister would tease me for singing around the house, telling me to stop, that she couldn't stand it anymore. I remember how, as an adult, my college professor, Ed DeLatte, teased me in class for my singing; and I remember how, after, I did not raise my voice in song, anywhere, any time, for over five years. It doesn't matter whether we are children being bullied or adults being teased - humiliation is a timeless punishment that is inflicted on us, over and over again. The feeling never ends and never changes. We all live, hoping that we will not be, once again, teased, embarrassed, humilated; and when it happens to us, no matter our age, we are a child on the schoolground, dying inside, hoping the pain will heal and we will forget.

I know I will not forget. So I will do what I can to make the most of the humiliation. I will remember. I will remember and I will use that memory to remind myself to, never again, inflict that kind of pain on another human.

And in that, I can make the most of an unhappy moment in time; and attain a little grace.

The Healthy Choice (is you)

2011-06-19T06:42:00.002-04:00

I stopped blogging back in December for a couple of reasons: First of all, we were just beginning The Wedding Tour and it was difficult to find the extra time to write (getting married once a month is exhausting and time consuming!). Secondly, I got the overwhelming impression that nobody was reading. So, why bother? But I have had some emails and some requests in person that I start writing again - not to mention a very heartwarming fan letter from someone moved by the story of my Plain Jane Jones tattoo. So I decided to start blogging again; but I was looking for the RIGHT story with which to start up again.

Last week I found it, in the numerous requests I have had from people wanting to get in shape and live healthier, happier lives.

A new story:

So you want to lose weight and get in better shape. This is an admirable thing. It says you are choosing yourself over anything else. You are choosing to love and respect yourself, your body; you are choosing to make your life better. It's a beautiful thing that you have made this decision.

Now for the reality.

In my experience, most of the people who have come to me and asked me for advice on how to get in better shape and live a healthier lifestyle -- they are not ready to commit to that decision. They want to get in shape but they don't want to stop drinking alcohol every day; they don't want to stop eating Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast; they don't want to stop eating movie popcorn; they don't want to stop eating at McDonald's. If that's you, just stop reading right now. Just. Stop.

If you want to lose weight, if you want to live a healthier life, if you want to feel better physically, if you want to feel better ABOUT your physicality, keep reading...

You have to acknowledge and understand that you cannot do this through dieting. You cannot do this through exercise. You MUST make a combination of the two for it to, truly, work. You must get up out of the chair, out from behind the computer, off of the sofa, out from in front of the television and you have to sweat. It is work. If it weren't work, everyone would do it and America would not be a nation filled with obese people. It's an hour out of your day. That's all. An hour. And don't be fooled by the tv commercials that tell you that you can get in shape in just ten minutes a day. It is true that getting out of the chair for ten minutes is good for you - because being sedentary is so effing BAD for you. But it is a lie to tell you that by doing ten minutes of a sort of exercise on a machine you bought on the tv will make you look like someone in the cast of True Blood. You have to know that you will exercise for (at the very least) 30 minutes; if you are ambitious, you can go for an hour, two hours - whatever you want and whatever your body can take.

They always say consult a physician before starting an exercise program. DO. IT. Then, join a gym or a class. Find an exercise you like that will be fun. Do it with a teacher or a friend or a group of friends - having someone with whom you meet and train gives you an accountability. You are not just doing this for yourself, you are doing it for your friend. You will be less likely to say "oh I won't go today" if you know that someone you like and care for is counting on you to be there. You will also perform harder and better if you have a friend watching you. Once you have these pieces of the puzzle in place, start simply with six days of exercise - alternating days of cardio and weight lifting. Mon, Wed, Fri do 30 to 60 minutes of cardio exercise that will raise your heartrate and make you sweat. Do some online research about what cardio exercise is and what it is for. Tues, Thur, Sat do some weight lifting. I don't care if you are lifting 5 pounds or 45 pounds - the body needs muscle as we age; and if you are trying to lose weight, lifting weight aids in that process. Take Sunday off to rest and relax and refuel - if Sunday is not a good day for you to rest, pick a different day but do rest. Make up the schedule that works best for you and stick to it. If you try this for one week, you will find you can do a second week; if you make it through two weeks, you will be curious about a third week; if you make it past three weeks, you will look forward to your fourth week. It takes 28 days to break an addiction -- you just trained for 30 days and the addiction of being sedentary has been broken.

And let's talk about wasted time and energy. Have you ever been in a gym and seen a person on the stationary bike, reading a magazine and going so slowly that they may as well not be moving? Don't be that person. You don't want to give up time out of your day to waste it; you don't want to exercise to lose weight and not lose weight. That's just wasted time and wasted movement. There is no wasted time or movement here - only work and hard work. Get on that effing machine and sweat. SWEAT. Watch tv, listen to music, but don't allow it to dictate your speed and your (non) sweating. Work for this, dudes.

Now let's talk about food.

Marci (one of my best trainees and students) always says "Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a duke and dinner like a pauper". That's a nice way of thinking about it -- except you want to eat more than three times a day. You want to eat every 2 to 3 hours. Small meals. Small portions. If you are looking at a plate with three foods on it, no food should have a portion larger than the size of your hand. You should never eat until you are FULL (uncomfortable). You should always feel satisfied; never hungry, never full, just satisfied. Your body is a machine and must be fueled. That is what food is. It is fuel. If you don't put fuel in it every 2 to 3 hours, you crash. That's when you find yourself in the fridge at work stealing someone else's Entenmann's coffee cake. Fuel yourself. Don't even think about it. Set a clock on your desk at work. When it goes off, put something in the car. My body is a Rolls Royce. I do not put diesel fuel in my Rolls Royce. It has been over a decade since I ate a Hostess cake or Twizzlers or Cheetos. I'm not going to lie. I eat cookies. Now and then I treat myself to a cookie from www.thischickbakes.com -- I also eat my mother's cooking when I go home to Texas. It is usually breaded and fried; but it is my mother's cooking and she is my favourite cook and she won't be with me forever. So when the potatoes are mashed, I eat a small portion with a spoon of gravy. When the chicken is fried, I have a small piece. I observe portion control with a vengeance. I also have days during the year when I am unhappy and binge eat. This is my baggage and I fight with it every day; but I am a fighter and a champion and I will win. Every time. YOU can be that, too. We are all in control. Without control there is no power. And, ps, when i do go off my strict diet, I regret it later. When I put wheat or refined sugar into my body, I crash, my intestines hurt, and I feel depressed. And it hurts processing that garbage. It hurts from half an hour after I put it in my body until it reaches the point of exit. HURTS, man. So for 340 days a year, no diesel fuel in this Rolls Royce.

What kind of car are you?

There are lots of fad diets. Fooey. Stay away. Your goal is to RE-PROGRAM your thinking and your patterns. Re-program the way your body craves food. Re-program the way you eat. Prepare your own meals. Spend a month eating nothing but food you have made for yourself. Take the time out to do this for yourself -- take the time out to tell yourself that you love yourself by making yourself good things to eat. Do some online research on the foods you eat; find out what is in them, find out what is good and what isn't. Learn to use olive oil instead of butter. Learn to eat hamburger patties wrapped in lettuce or tuna salad wrapped in lettuce, rather than served on bread. Find a pizza alternative. Find a pasta alternative. Find an alternative for your sweet tooth.

Ask for help.

Go on FACEBOOK and look up

http://www.facebook.com/#!/LearnToLiveFit

http://www.facebook.com/#!/CoachJimmy

or any other health and fitness professionals and get their advice and benefit from their knowledge. They and others online are health and fitness PROFESSIONALS. I'm just a guy who lost 60 pounds and acts like he knows what he is talking about. They have the real low-down. Talk to them.

Now. I'll tell you how I eat and you can modify it for yourself. I wouldn't ask anyone to live the way I live. We are all different people. We have different standards and different needs. Find what works for you.

Like Marci said -- breakfast: king/lunch: duke/dinner: pauper. Do six or so small meals a day. Start with something that will fuel you. During winter months Pat and I eat oatmeal -- not the instant kind -- we get whole rolled oats or irish steel cut oats and we boil them down in water and eat them (he puts warmed up soy milk on his, I use protein powder). In the warm months we have eggwhites with diced up chicken breast and peppers and with homemade salsa on top. We eat until we are satisfied and we get on with our day. My friend Dan scrambles eggwhites with turkey breast, tomato and basil. I do that sometimes; it's delish. A couple hours later, have a snack. Maybe a turkey burger (no bread) or some chicken meatballs; Pat likes hardboiled eggs (he throws away the yolks) with homemade salsa. At lunch, a chicken breast or a piece of tilapia is good with some steamed broccoli or roasted asparagus. Spinach is good. Lettuces are good. Tomatoes are good. Around teatime, how about a handful of raw almonds? Or a granny smith apple? At dinner, how about a big salad? How about using orange slices instead of pouring a fatty processed salad dressing on it? How about a tablespoon of olive oil instead of a quarter cup?

Eating healthily isn't brain surgery. It doesn't really even require a lot of thought or research: just common sense. We ALL know what is or isn't good for us. We just don't want to think about it. Go online and see if there are any episodes of JAMIE OLIVER'S FOOD REVOLUTION you can watch. Watch them and find out what is in the food we eat. You will be appalled. Common sense. Here are some of my rules:

--I don't eat wheat. It makes me sick.
--I don't eat refined sugar. It makes me sick and it makes me fat. (the workout guru Jackie Warner always says "sugar is the devil" and I agree.)
--I don't eat processed food. The things they do to make food last in a wrapper longer than a week; the things they do to make foods fat free or sugar free; the things they do to make foods processed -- you may as well ingest plastic.
--I don't eat dairy. Now and then I have cheese but it has to be real cheese and nice cheese - no kraft, not Cracker Barrel.
--I don't eat white, starchy foods. Use your brain. Wheat turns to insulin, turns to sugar, turns to fat. No white bread, no wheat bread (and even though people say eat whole wheat it is better for you - you are TRYING to lose weight; why do you want to eat wheat at all?). No pasta. Too bad. I love pasta. NO. PASTA. No white potatoes. NO. NO. NO. Do some online research about the difference between simple carbohydrates and complex carbohydrates. Educate yourself about what you are doing to your body. Learn how MUCH sugar and simple carbs are in corn and carrots and how much healthier green vegetables and sweet potatoes are -- try a new vegetable now and then. Expand your experiences.
--I fry NOTHING. NOTHING.
--I don't eat food that requires chemistry. I tell myself: if it exists in life, I'll eat it. If it requires any kind of chemistry, I don't want it. So there is no room in my world for Cheetos, Ruffles, Cheez Whiz, Twizzlers, etc. There is barely even room for food that requires baking or leavening. That's chemistry. There is so much GOOD, HEALTHY food that is also TASTY -- you don't need that stuff.

One of my students asked me about some processed cheese and I said "why not just go buy a nice piece of cheese? Why do you need something that has been processed to the point of where it isn't even cheese?" The student said they preferred that cheese. The thing is: it isn't cheese. It hasn't even been held in a human hand and walked past a cow. If you want cheese, go to the deli or the gourmet store and get a piece of cheese. Live your life. But do it with some sense and some dignity.

I love popcorn. I eat it sometimes. Pat buys organic popcorn and peanut oil and organic salt and pops us yummy delish popcorn. What is that shit that comes in a package that you microwave? What is that chemical shit that makes it taste like butter?

I like potato chips. Real potato chips. I can't eat them. Eat one and I may as well eat them all. But now and then, at a party, as I am headed for the door, I will eat one and get the hell out of dodge.

I love those This Chick Bakes cookies. A few times a year I will get one (ONE) and eat it. But I know where they come from. I know they are made with all natural ingredients. I also know how to eat one (ONE) and keep moving. And I NEVER do it while I am trying to lose weight. When I go on a 'rip back' so I can have all my muscles popping, I don't cheat. At. All.

Find the ways to get around your food addictions. Use your brain. Retrain your brain. Retrain your body. THINK.

Fool your psyche into thinking you just ate a huge, fattening meal. Make your jaws do the work. Make a snack into a meal. Put several leaves of romaine lettuce (which, by the way, I eat by the leaf - it's delicious) on a plate, grind some fresh pepper on it, put some slices of crunchy sweet red, yellow and orange peppers on the leaves and some slices of crunchy granny smith apples. It's a HUGE plate of food! It's crunchy! You will feel, in your mind, like you've had a big, filling, meal. It's all natural. It's all healthy.

You want an ice cream? Fool your brain. Get some bananas when they are still a little green. Slice the top off the stalk and invert the bunch of bananas into a small bowl and set it in the kitchen window, in the sunlight.. When the first brown spots begin to appear, peel the bananas and put them into freezer bags. Freeze them. The water in the window process makes them ripen sweeter. Once frozen, you can grab one and eat it when you want an ice cream. It's like a popsickle.

You want tuna salad? Throw away your Hellman's mayonaisse and the jar of sweet pickles. Get SOLID WHITE tuna IN WATER and make it with some yellow mustard and diced up granny smith apples. Take wraps with lettuce. It's delicious and less fattening than a tuna salad sandwich.

Fact: Alcohol will make you fat. Sugar, sugar, sugar. Fat, fat, fat. I don't expect people to not drink. It's yummy and it's fun. Just recognize what you are doing when you do drink. It's common sense.

There are a lot of questions. There are a lot of answers. Take some time out to do some research. Ask the questions. Write down the answers. Keep a food and exercise journal so you can go back and refer to it and see what you have done, what you are doing, what works for you, what doesn't; chart your progress. Just remember these simple rules:

--You are worth this effort. You are worth the work. You are CHOOSING YOURSELF. You are respecting and loving yourself and that is where respect and love begins.
--You cannot lose weight and be healthy with just diet or just exercise. The two MUST be used TOGETHER to live a healthier life.
--THINK. Most of what you are doing is nothing more than common sense.
--When you don't know: ASK. There is always someone at the gym who will be more than happy to help; and they aren't judging you -- they respect your decision to be healthy. They respect your choice of YOUR SELF.
-- PROCESSED. FOOD. IS. NOT. FOOD.
--Just because something is sold in a health food store doesn't mean it is, necessarily, all that healthy.

Ok, this story is getting way too long. There are some video blogs on my blog, my Facebook page and our Youtube page with some of the recipes I use to stay healthy; they are called Food For Thought. Check them out if you like, or find others online that you will like. But do wake up every day and opt to choose yourself. Ok?

You.

Are.

Worth.

It.

Here is a video blog on this topic:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0lPfSIBQ70

A Christmas Memory: Day Eighteen - Brian Bedford's The Importance of Being Earnest

2010-12-18T07:39:00.019-05:00

Well, my dears! Just last night I made a grand, brand new Christmas memory! And it is one I will ALWAYS remember

I have seen a lot of plays in my life. Be they plain old fashioned plays or be they musicals, I go to the theater a LOT. The musicals I have seen more productions of than any other are GYPSY, CABARET and FORUM. The plays I have seen more productions of than any other are THE MOUSETRAP, BEYOND THERAPY and NOISES OFF.

And THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST.

I think it is the greatest play ever written. It is a perfect piece of theater. I have other favourites. THE LION IN WINTER. BURN THIS. THE PHILADELPHIA STORY. But Earnest is like food. I can always eat. I can always see THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST.

I can't even remember all the times I have seen this show. They sort of all meld into one glorious experience for me. I remember parts of them. I remember that I found something to like in all of them, even the worst production. You see, even when it is a bad production, you can close your eyes and hear that glorious language. I remember seeing Jeanne Cairns as Lady Bracknell once and as Miss Prism another time. I remember the joy of seeing Lynn Redgrave as Lady Bracknell and Miriam Margolyes as her Miss Prism. I remember Terry McCracken as Lady Bracknell and I remember Stephanie Dunnam as Gendolyn Fairfax (to this day, hers is the best delivery of "detestable girl but I require tea!" I have ever seen). I have seen both film versions with Dames Evans and Dench. I have seen the play on stages large and small. ( I hear that Dames Maggie and Diana have played Bracknell but, alas, I did not see them. ) I have seen Lady Bracknell played by a man before (the wonderful Edward Hibbert whose "a handbag?" was delicious, unique and totally his own) and I tell you this, honestly:

I was not behind Brian Bedford playing this part.

The moment I read about this, it angered me. I thought about the women who complain about there being no decent parts for women and how it was wrong for a man to take this, one of the great parts for women. I thought it would be campy and ridiculous. I thought "well that's ok for regional theater; but not on Broadway." I had my nose so high up in the air about it that I could smell airplane exhaust. I was NOT behind it.

I was WRONG.

I. WAS. WRONG. So, so, so very wrong.

This is the greatest production of this play I have ever seen. It was, in many ways, like I was seeing it for the very first time. Every single actor is perfectly cast and perfectly directed. Each of them managed to surprise me with (at least) part of their performance. They showed me things in these characters that I had never seen before. They introduced me to the characters; in fact, I don't think I have EVER seen Algernon Moncrief before! This man, this Santino Fontana (who I have really enjoyed in other Broadway shows) is the BEST ... maybe the ONLY Algernon I have ever truly seen. And, truthfully, it was probably the best Jack I have ever seen, either. I mean, he was actually the right age! And he was GOOD! And the ladies were sublime (the fight scene! ohmygosh!) It was as though these actors had tapped into something undiscovered in these roles. It was as though Oscar Wilde had come back to life and was telling them all of his intent when creating them. Even the minor characters brought something new to the table! And I just want to say: Brian Bedford and Dana Ivey on the same stage. Dane Ivey and Paxton Whitehead on the same stage. Oh my Lord in heaven.

As a matter of fact, ther were moments when I felt like I was watching the very first production of the play. I felt, at times, that if I turned around and looked behind me, I would see Mr Wilde watching the show from the back of the house.

We were sitting in the very last row of the theater, in what people call The Nosebleeds. We were perfectly happy. From there I could see all the picture - the beautiful American Airlines Theater, the proscenium arch, the entire (gorgeous!) set AND the actor's faces! And (and this is a big and) I heard every word. I am hard of hearing. I missed a lot of RACE and found myself wondering if they teach actors to project anymore (we were in the sixth row). I did not miss one dangblame word of this play last night. It was directed to perfection, as a proscenium arch play should be. It was directed to perfection, as an Oscar Wilde play should be. The costumes took my breath away. The set was like a painting at times, like a music box at times and like a Boris Aronson set at others.

And Brian Bedford. Sigh of sighs, Brian Bedford. He was perfection. One of our friends who went with us, when told that was a man playing Lady Bracknell, got a confused look on her face and asked for clarification. She had no idea. It isn't played campy at all. He plays it completely straight and it works - every minute of it. In fact, I forgot it was Brian Bedford. I thought it was some old grand dame of the theater. Then I remembered. It is a grand dude of the theater!

Oh my heavens. I could ramble on and on about this but I won't. I think I already have.

I will pay this show my highest compliment.

I would pay to see it again.

And again.

A Christmas Memory: Day Seventeen - Baking

2010-12-18T07:39:00.015-05:00

I think it should be obvious, given some of the comments made in earlier stories about Christmas, that the baking is a big deal. The rest of the year I don't do it. The rest of the year I am a health fanatic. At Christmastime, though, I have to bake. It has been instilled in me since my youth, by my mama. I can't go through the holiday season without a few of my mama's oatmeal chocolate chip peanut butter cookies; or those little powdered sugar cookies; or the oatmeal lacies; or the holiday fruit drops. I CAN'T. So I get a little fat during the holidays and I work my ass off to get the weight off. So what. The point is that it's Christmas and it's fun. I love the baking, the smell in my house, the taste of the cookies. I have to. Why, I remember last year, Guy and Rob came over on Christmas at about 8 pm so we could give them a little prezzie and the four of us polished off a plate of oatmeal lacies. It was decadent and fun! And we were all in a sugar coma after.

It just isn't Christmas if, almost every day in December, the kitchen doesn't yield something wonderful to eat. I usually do the baking on my own. I don't mind it. It's my thing. I bake the goodies and I fill every single tin in the house with delicious delicacies and every person who enters the house walks out, either having eaten some or taking a take out box with some. And if there is a party or if friends come over on Christmas Eve or Day, it all gets laid out so people can dig in at their leisure. I also fill take out boxes and give these things away to friends, the ladies at the bank, the post office employees and the ladies I see every day at Food Emporium and Rite Aid.

Every now and then I get a treat. A cohort. Two days ago our Mike Babel came up for a visit and found me baking and asked "can I make batter with you?!" So, on the spot, we made a batch of peanut butter cookies!

A few years ago, Laurelle and I were on the phone and she wanted to make Gingerbread. So a couple of days later, she came over and I made pies and she made gingerbread.

That was a fun Christmas memory.
It is true that I spend the year advocating eating healthily. I wear the mantle of health and fitness.

At Christmastime, though, all the bets are off.

And ANYONE who wants a recipe or a baking tip is welcome to ask. I will give it up.

A Christmas Memory: Day Sixteen - Other Peoples' Parties

2010-12-18T07:39:00.009-05:00

It was actually last year that Pat and I decided to not have a Christmas party. Time and money were issues and, besides, I was tired and didn't want to do all that cooking.

But then an interesting thing happened.

Hunter was turning 30 and his plans got cancelled by a trick of fate.

Jane was having a birthday (the number, I forget) and wanted, for the first time, to have friends see her home.

Allan wanted to give Jennifer a surprise birthday party.

And I am the go-to guy, as well as the party giver.

So I spent the holiday throwing my friends' parties.

I went up to Jane's house and helped her clean and move furniture around, to make it party-able. I helped her draw up a menu of good party foods to serve and I did some shopping and food prep for her. I didn't do it all because it is important that the party-giver feel a sense of accomplishment when they stand in their living room and look at what they did. I did just enough to make it easy on Jane; enough to make it so that she didn't feel stressed, tired or overworked during her birthday bash. And, dudes, it made me so happy to see how happy she was, how loved she was, how glad her friends were that she was born. Success!!

I worked on some delish cakes and food for Hunter's clambake and, the day off, he tidied up his (already!) tidy home and made it party ready. Just before, I showed up with the food and I kept the plates and trays full and stood back, in the kitchen, watching the SHOWER of love on my best friend. It made me way happy (and, a year later, for Christmas, I was given a job by two lovely people I met at that party!) Success!!

Allan did most of the work for Jennifer's party. He did the invites and he stashed food and drink around their home and he got me a set of keys. All I had to do was show up, set up and let everyone in. IN A SNOWSTORM. That's right. It was one of those New York snowstorms. And it made the entire evening divine. Jen was wildly surprised, the guests were happy and Allan was beaming. Success!!

I loved that Christmas. I loved those parties. I felt like it was one of the best holidays ever.

A Christmas Memory: Day Fifteen - Parties

2010-12-18T07:38:00.002-05:00

One of our holiday traditions, when Pat and I were a young couple, was to have these enormous and elaborate Christmas parties. I recall them all. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes all rolled up into one big Christmas Party ball. I think we threw these parties because I had seen the Christmas party scene in the movie STEEL MAGNOLIAS and believed that it should be that way every year. Some of the memories I have of these parties really stand out. For example:

--One year, in Texas, we had a party that featured a guest list of nearly 200 people - all of our friends from the theater scene. There was a present for each and every one of them under the tree. Many of them were photos I had shot of my friends in shows like HAIR, THE ROCKY HORROR SHOW, ONDINE (and many others), that I had stayed up to the wee small hours of the morning, printing - and then mounting onto cardboard. We handed out gifts to everyone and said "on the count of three - one, two, three, RIP!" and they did. The oos and aahs were delicious. There are few things as satisfying as giving just the right present.

--One year, in New York, we crammed as many people as we could into our tiny little apartment and did a similar gift exchange but we made it a round robin thing where everyone went one after another and we all watched each other. What I remember most about that year is that our friends Chuck and Maryann came and they brought their small son, Paul; and I had the forsight to arrange a gift for him under the tree, too. Boy, was he surprised! Happiness is making a child happy.

--One year, in New York, we kept a huge pot of split pea soup on the stove and quiches baking in the over for an all day affair that included the likes of Austin Pendleton, Maureen Moore and Carole Shelley. Having lived in New York for a relatively small amount of time, having celebrities like this at our Christmas open house was a really nifty thing. I remember seeing Austin and Maureen gathered by the food at the stove, eating and talking intently and thinking "damn - can I cook or can I?"

--One year, in Texas, in a different apartment (one I loved, soooo much because it was perfect for parties) I was so excited because the house looked PERFECT and the food looked PERFECT and the guests were arriving and I had PERFECT gifts for everyone and the kitchen door opened (I love an apartment that has two doors, don't you?) and I was bent over the stove, taking something out of the oven and my darling friend (my best friend at the time) Paul Etheredge-Ouzts walked in with a witty comment. I was especially happy to see him because I had gotten him a wonderful gift of some expensive cologne. Later that day, when we did the gift giving, he looked at me and confessed, sheepishly, that he didn't wear cologne. Gasp. I didn't even know that my best friend didn't like cologne. Shame on me. I was happy he told me. It's important that we let our friends know us. For Christmas that year, I learned a lesson about double checking before buying the gift!

--One year, in New York, we were smack dab in the middle of the party and some of us were outside smoking (a habit I have, since, broken) and walking down the street we see Annalisa and Matthew, who were scheduled to NOT be at this party because of travel plans! They had driven all night and were exhausted but wanted to come in for as long as it took to hug everyone. THAT was a great Christmas surprise!

The memories from these wonderful Christmas parties of the past keep me smiling throughout the year. We don't get to have that party every year anymore - in fact, for several years we stopped. It's exhausting. There is a week of cleaning beforehand and a week, after. There is all that cooking and (perhaps the most exhausting party of it) eating. It wears me out. So, now and then, I take a Christmas off.

Still. It sure is fun to do them - especially when they go off well!

A Christmas Memory: Day Fourteen - Anthony Newley

2010-12-18T07:25:00.002-05:00

Growing up, my favourite movies were the great children's movies of the 60s and 70s. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Sound of Music, Bedknobs and Broomsticks. You know the ones. Doctor Dolittle. That was a big one. Even though Chitty was my very favourite, Dolittle was a close seconds. I loved that movie (still do - I watch it a couple times, every year), loved everything about it.

I have to admit, though, that I really loved Anthony Newley. I was a boy who was gay before I knew what that was. I was looking for a male figure to look up to, whether it be as a crush or just as a mentor. Anthony Newley was in show business, like I wanted to be. He was handsome, like I wanted to be. He could act, sing and dance, like I wanted to. And when I read the liner notes on my Doctor Dolittle soundtrack, I found he also wrote what he sang. I loved him.

Years and years later, Pat and I were in London during the holidays. We were there to do some work on THE SWEATER BOOK and to see some beloved friends. And we were there to see some theater. When we were looking over the list of shows playing in the West End, we saw that SCROOGE was playing and that Anthony Newley was the star. How fitting. Pat's childhood idol (and idol to this day, in fact) had played the part in the film and, now, my childhood idol was playing the part onstage. We would have to see it.

When I look back over my theatrical memories, I am so happy that I saw this show. To see a musical that I love so dearly interpreted by an artist I have loved all my life, to see this artist, this talent, LIVE - wow, what a thrill. You know, we really do take it for granted, this gift that we are given, the opportunity to see people create art LIVE... it's such a treasure. Had I known, when I was younger, what a gift it is, I would have made sure that I hadn't missed the great performers that I have... and I have missed some.

But not this one.

I get out my SCROOGE cd and listen to it, throughout the year and remember who wonderful Mr Newley was in this part. I remember that Pat and I marveled at the different way he played the role from Mr Finney and how we love both of the interpretations. I remember what an old and paunchy and grey haired man the gorgeous matinee idol of my youth had become and, yet, how he still took my breath away.

I loved Anthony Newley. When he died, I felt a part of my childhood die. But I'm lucky because the Christmas that I saw him perform, live, as Ebeneezer Scrooge.

It was one of my favourite Christmas presents I ever gave myself.

A Christmas Memory: Day Thirteen - Nancy LaMott

2010-12-13T16:34:00.004-05:00

I had intended to post this Christmas memory ON December 13th - the day that it would have been relavent -- but, golly Moses!, the Christmas Holiday certainly can take it in your grip and guide you down an unwilling tobogan ride, can't it! It's all good, though... better late than never.

On December 14th, I awoke to the news that my beloved girlfriend, Nancy LaMott, had died the night before. Cancer. She was 44 years old.

Nancy and I were good friends, though she had better. Nancy and I had only known each other a few years. We didn't get to see each other often because she was on the CUSP of huge stardom and was always busy traveling, performing, and spending time with people bigger and more important than I. We did, though, spend time together and it was usually just the two of us when we did and it was always quality. I have many stories about Nancy and me - or just a few; I don't seem to be able to separate those visits anymore. All the good times seem, to me, rolled into one happy visit.

I remember the last two times I saw Nancy. The first was the release party for the cd LISTEN TO MY HEART. She was tired. She was sick. She was not able to socialize the way she wanted. She sat at a table at the party and people came to visit with her. After awhile, I decided it was my turn; so I went to her table and sat beside her. We talked a little. But mostly, we sat, holding hands and watching the people who loved her celebrate the release of her greatest cd (it is one of those true works of art that you hit play and let run to the end). There we sat, in silence, feeling the love between us and the sickness that was making her so unhappy, as long as everyone else who knew it was killing her but who didn't know what to say about it. Then I got up, gave her a kiss and told her I loved her. Then I went back into the crowd.

The other time I saw Nancy before she was gone was the day before Thanksgiving, just a couple of weeks before her death. I went to her house, at her command by telephone; and upon entering, I saw her shove her hand into a big box and pull out LISTEN TO MY HEART. "Hot off the press - you get the first copy." I said, "NO. That's not the first copy. David and Scott and the rest of Team LaMott have theirs," quoth I. Her reply "Yes, David and Scott do. And you. The first copies." So we were hanging out and talking about the cd and her holiday plans (not, though, about her health) and I told her that if there was anything she needed, ever, that she should call me. She said that there WAS something she needed a little help with. Anything. Anything at all, I said. It turned out she was hosting Thanksgiving tomorrow for a lot of people. And she was just so tired. And .... well.... would I mind helping her clean her refridgerator? OF COURSE I would. I am an expert and devoted house cleaner. I'm good at it, too.

So I crawled into the kitchen as Nancy sat on a little chair in the doorway and I held up item after item and asked "keep or kill?". Whatever was killed went into the trash, what was kept got wiped down and set on the counter. Then the fridge got wiped down and it all got put back. When I was finished, that fridge could have been photographed for an ad campaign! And you know what?

There were six different types of ice cream in the freezer.

"Nobody should be without choices when they want ice cream." Nancy said.

The morning of the 13th, I turned on the tv to hear Kathie Lee Gifford say what I already knew. Nancy had died the night before around 11pm. On her deathbed she had married Peter Zapp.

I didn't cry. Well. I didn't cry much. I cried, some; but for me it was not a lot. It was 9:05. I needed to get ready to do my Christmas shopping. I left the house by 10. It was snowing.

Every record store I went into that day was playing Nancy LaMott music.

please note: I chose to publish two photos of Nancy with this story: one is the most famous photo I did of Nancy and, I feel, Nancy at her most glamourous. The other is a photo of Nancy having her head shaved when she got her wigs - I am in the mirror behind her, my face obscured by my camera. It is the only picture of me with Nancy LaMott.

A Christmas Memory: Day Twelve -- Nancy LaMott, JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

2010-12-13T16:33:00.018-05:00

I moved to New York in 1993. Within a year and a bit I met a girl named Nancy LaMott. I took her photo. We became friends. I bought her cds. She became my favourite singer. I saw her perform. She became my favourite performer. I loved her.

Nancy gave me my first job, that is - my first photography job, in New York. Nancy asked me to shoot the cd cover for her Christmas cd. I had never done a cd cover before and I was elated, excited... I was just really happy. The photo shoot took place in the home of Alix Korey (another great singer and performer) and it involved lights, a white backdrop, prop presents and a dog named Midder. We did the photo shoot in late summer/early fall and the cds were delivered just before Christmas.

There was a big party to release the cds. Just before Christmas. The cd was actually called JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS. I'll never forget the day we went to the office where the record moguls were, to get the first cds. Nancy and I were there with some other people and we were both so excited! She handed me the cd and I looked it over, looking for my photo credit.

"They spelled my name wrong."

"WHAT!" exclaimed Nancy.

"Not really. Joke."

She punched me on the shoulder and we laughed. We were happy.

That cd is my favourite Christmas cd. It isn't Christmas until I have listened to it.

I am listening to it, now, as I type.

A Christmas Memory: Day Eleven - Growing Up

2010-12-13T16:33:00.015-05:00

I remember being a teenager living in Switzerland and wanting to be more of an active participant in Christmas. I wanted to give, the way my parents did. Two years in a row, I wanted to really go all out at Christmastime. The first year I decided I wanted to really make people in the family believe that there was a Santa Claus. So I saved all my allowance money during the year and spent it on extra gifts for the family; not the ones that were wrapped and said To Mommy From Stephen on the outside... I had secret gifts from Santa.

Christmas day, at about 4 am, I got out of bed and I crept downstairs to the living room. The tree lights were on and lit up the room with a nice cozy air. I could see the Santa plate - like always, the cookies were gone and one was only half eaten. Clearly, Santa had got full. His milk glass was empty, though. Under the tree were lots of gifts for everyone. I hated to spoil my Santa surprise but there was no way round it. I looked to see which stockings were match with which presents; and I laid out all my gifts for my family with the ones left for them by Santa (mom and dad, right?). I remember that I gave my father some paperbacks by some of his favourite authors. I remember giving my brothers a Fozzy Bear puppet and an Asterix comic book (I liked TinTin but Tony liked Asterix). I honestly don't remember what I set out for my sister and mother - and I remember putting out a gift for myself to make the Santa illusion complete. I was so excited! I was so proud of myself! I was so surprised when everyone was completely nonplussed by the gifts. Well, except for Jimmy, who loved his Fozzie Bear puppet. Never mind, I told myself. It's the thought that counts.

It was a lesson I would be glad I had learned, later in life.

The year that I was a seniour in High School, I got my first job. I and several of my classmates got jobs at the first McDonald's that opened in Berne, Switzerland. I hadn't been there long but I had been there long enough to make some money for some good gifts. So I bought nice presents for everyone in my family. I was especially proud of a winter jacket that I bought my mom, the apple of my eye. It was quilted, waist length, coral coloured and warm. I was beside myself for having made so grown up and thoughtful a purchase! I knew I had done well when mama opened it and scolded me for spending too much money on her. It was a loving scolding and I knew it; because she wore that jacket all the damn time.

I was a grown up gift giver!

A Christmas Memory: Day Nine - Snowmen

2010-12-13T16:33:00.013-05:00

What's more fun during the holidays (once you get past the whole Santa and present thing) than playing in the snow? Maybe not as an adult (though, as an adult, I will admit I HAVE had some pretty good snow time) but as a child it is DEFINATELY on the list of holiday favourites! When I was a kid we were lucky enough that we lived in some places with some really great snowfall. In mom and dad's photo albums at home there are pictures of us with some AMAZING snowmen that we built in New Jersey, in Ohio (sometimes we would get 10 inches of snow) and in Switzerland.

The most fun, though, was building snowmen with my baby brother. He was the most adorable child and so full of happiness and excitement. The four Mosher kids loved to go outside and play in the snow, making angels, having snowfights, making forts and, of course, making snowmen. These were no ordinary snowmen, though. Please note the photos above... Interesting hats, scarves, sunglasses, suspenders... one is even holding a basket in one hand and a sled in the other.

Now when is the last time YOU had a snowman that was that detailed?

Boy it was fun.

A Christmas Memory: Day Ten - A Change of Seasons

2010-12-13T16:33:00.012-05:00

One of my favourite Christmases was the one right after we moved from Portugal to Switzerland. We had spent four years in a country where there was no snow in the winter months. Don't get me wrong: I loved Portugal. When you're a kid, though, and you've known winter months with snow - you sort of miss them when they're gone. Man, were we ready for that snow!

So that first Christmas in Switzerland, we came down on Christmas morning (I remembered the tree as being so bizarrely shaped; and when I found the photo to scan for this story, I saw that I was right!) everyone had snow related items. There were snow suits, sleds, ice skates and (though I don't see them in the photo, I believe there were) skis. Christmases up to this point had been a lot of toys - but THESE Christmas presents! They meant more adult things like sports, like outdoor activity, fun stuff we hadn't had before. I loved it.

Looking back on that Christmas (looking at the photos) I see things I had forgotten... like how that ugly tree was quite amazing in its' height and shape and how it held all those great ornaments and those wonderful old fashioned huge lightbulbs. Or how neat it was to see the Portuguese artwork and tablecloth in a new Germanic country. Or the plushness and warmth of the velvet furniture and shag rug (or that my mother used to wear a fur coat -- see it on the sofa?). Most of all, though, when I look at photos from Christmases past I see my beautiful baby brothers and remember how happy childhood was, how much fun life could be, before things got complicated.

That's probably why people spend so much time looking back over the past.

It was pretty.

A Christmas Memory: Day Eight - The Kitchen

2010-12-13T16:32:00.003-05:00

When I was a boy one of the greatest things about the holidays was my mother's baking. Once Thanksgiving was past (and THAT is where it all began! All those pies!), we could count on coming home, every day, to the most amazing smells in the kitchen. It didn't matter where we were living, the kitchen of that house was the birthplace of happiness in the form of comfort food.

Mama would make her Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Oatmeal cookies, her Holiday Fruit Drops, her Holiday Nuggets, her Banana Bread, her Oatmeal Lacies and her Rum Balls. Then she would fill Christmas tins with them and spread them around the house. Each day, the Mosher kids would come home from school to smell the treat of the day and run to the kitchen to see every surface covered -- with sacks of flour, bags of sugar, big bowls full of batter, cookie sheets waiting to be unloaded and re-stocked for baking. A dust layer of flour was on the table, the counters and even the floor. The scent was maddening! And nothing would do til we had sampled either a cookie, hot from the oven, or a few cookies, off the top of the pile inside the tin!

The vision I have the strongest is the one in the photo above. We were living in Switzerland and I came home from High School to find my youngest brother, home from elementary school AND playing in the snow. He was still in his snow suit and sitting amidst the kichen chaos, eating candied cherries right out of the jar. Happily, I was at a point in my life when I had a camera with me at all times and I was able to snap that photo of Jimmy.

And as far as smell and taste recall goes ... only yesterday I was eating a slice of banana bread with a spread of soft butter on it. The moment it hit my mouth, I was a 16 year old again.

People who know me well, who have been in my home during the holidays, have seen the way I do my home.... with tins of cookies everywhere; and in the tins are all the cookies I named above because, I am nothing if not my mother's son. All my friends and family have tasted them.. the lacies, the fruit drops, the nuggets, the peanut butter chocolate chip.. all of them...

Except for the rum balls

A Christmas Memory: Day Seven - Married

2010-12-07T08:22:00.016-05:00

As I said in an earlier posting - I was away for the weekend and unable to post stories. I was away, on a road trip, making a new Christmas memory.... I was getting married.

For many years Pat and I declared that we had no wish to marry. People asked, repeatedly, what our ceremony was like or when we were having our wedding. We always scoffed at them and at the thought. You see, we believed that, since it was not legally binding for gays to marry, there was no point in going through the motions of a dress up and make believe ritual. However, as we have aged, as our relationship has gotten stronger and more important to us, we felt like we SHOULD be able to have that walk down the aisle. Then, a few years ago, some of these United States began to legalize gay marriage. Well. That was enough for us.

These last few years, gays have become the soapbox upon which many a political campaign is built, not to mention the crucifix upon which many a religious campaign is hung. I have little to say about this except for: I am appalled. I cannot believe that it is almost 2011 and people in this country that was created by people fleeing oppression still have such widespread bigotry and judgement to pass on their fellow men and women. Women fought for equal rights, blacks fought for equal rights... the gays have been fighting for decades and we still are. How pathetic of this country to deny others inalienable rights granted to the masses. It's heartsickening and disgusting.

What is neither heartsickening or disgusting is two people in love.

That's me and Pat.

So, to celebrate our love, we decided to get married. In every state where gay marriage is permitted.

So on Saturday we piled into a 12 seater van with some of our dearest family of friends and drove to Vermont and had a wedding in the home of our friend Maureen. We asked our friend Laurelle to go through an on-line ordination process so she could perform the ceremony. We asked Brady to be our Man of Honour and Michael to be the Best man. Our Jennifer made the wedding cakes (her baking is TO DIE FOR: www.thischickbakes.com ) AND she wrote and performed a song for the occasion. Maureen was our ring bearer and her gorgeous daughter Lillie was the cheerleader (had you heard her screams of delight when the ceremony ended and the grooms kissed, you would understand) -- the next day Lillie said to her mommy "we were at the wedding!". Our hero and artistic example, Allan, filmed the entire event for us.

The ceremony was simply lovely, filled with spirituality, blessings, crystals and insence. Brady recited some Truman Capote, Michael spoke with many delish quotes about love and marriage and, on the spur of the moment, Marci (who was there when we became a couple!) met the challenge of saying a few words about watching us go from two people to one couple. And when all was said and done and the kissing and screaming was over, we sat to a wedding dinner that Maureen had created (dinner? Feast!) and then came cake, champagne and blissful sleep.

The next morning, all arose inside Maureen's farm and sat down to a winter morning breakfast.

The trip was not over, though...

The wedding party from Vermont and the witnesses at the farm all had their breakfast and showers and got all dressed up so that we could pile into the van, once more, and head down into another state...

New Hampshire.

There is a town called Lebanon that is 30 minutes away from Maureen's farm. There, we found one of the many lovely covered bridges of New Hampshire and there, in the cold, cold, light of the winter day, we married once more.

The New Hampshire wedding was a completely different feel, though equally as beautiful and moving!

That is what happens when family comes together for an adventure.

The minister for the New Hampshire wedding was our friend, Vince, who had gone through a similar ordination process on-line, just so that he could marry us. We knew his ceremony would be eloquent and literary and socio-politcal; and we weren't disappointed. He did, indeed, use literary references; and he did, indeed, speak of the struggles for equality in this country and the beauty of love. When his service stands next to Laurelle's service, it is a perfect complement. They are like that yin - yan symbol: together, Laurelle and Vince gave the most complete wedding service ever. Everything that needed to be said was, indeed, said.

Vince quoted some literarture in his service; then, our Maid of Honour, Jane recited a Shakespeare sonnet, followed by the Best Man, David, reading from Corinthians. There was a moment in the ceremony when Vince asked Pat and I to say some lines by Craig Lucas (from Prelude to a Kiss) and for our vows, Pat recited Shakespeare (Richard III "see how this ring...") and I recited ee cummings ("I carry your heart with me...").

When the time came, our ring bearer, Liz (ALSO present when we met!) held out her freezing, shaking hands (dudes, it was SO cold on that covered bridge) and presented us with the rings; all the while, Allan and his own fiancee, Jennifer (of baking and singing fame), were filming (I loved this - Jen was perched high on the beams of the bridge, filming, just as she has seen me do in photo shoots over the years - because she is my stylist too, doncha know).

It is so important and wonderful to have friends/family (they are the same thing, you know) that loves you and supports you. It is so perfect to travel through this life with people who have known you so long that they know who you are.

I have kinfolk who do not approve of this marriage. They don't mind if Pat and I are together and they love us - they just don't believe that gays should marry. I can deal with that. I don't like it; but I can deal with it.

I can deal with it because I have a family that is much bigger, that goes deeper than actual blood itself.

This is that family.

This is my wedding day to the man of my dreams... my soul mate.

I'm lucky. I have a lot of best friends and a lot of soul mates. Pat is one, my mother is one, all the people in these photos are. Best friends, family, soul mates... whatever the label, this is my clan.

I am so excited about the weddings that will follow these two. They will take place in these next few months and will involve the rest of my best friends, soul mates... family. It's going to be a great ride, a fun adventure, a stunning wedding tour.

I'll always remember, though, The Winter Weddings that happened

This Christmas

A Christmas Memory: Day Six - A Little Night Music

2010-12-07T08:13:00.003-05:00

It was just last year. For months the Broadway community had been all abuzz about the revival of the Sondheim classic A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC. The musical had never been revived on Broadway, since its' first production in the 70s. Now it was being revived with Broadway's greatest star, Angela Lansbury, and a bona fide movie star, Catherine Zeta-Jones. My husband knew that this musical was one of my favourites and we both are (whate we prefer to call) Zeta Boys. So he knew he should get us tickets. Then there is the matter of Miss Angela Lansbury, who may be the most important actress to both of for almost all of our lives. SO. The moment the tickets went on sale, he bought.

The night was saw the show... we were so excited. We could barely contain ourselves. That curtain went up and it was two plus hours of absolute theatrical heaven. So much heaven that, a few days later, when my best friend Brady came to town to see the show, he got tickets for he and I to go!

Brady and I sat in the house seats acquired by my star of a lawyer (and dear friend) Mark Sendroff and WEPT over the show. We were completely beside ourselves.

I blogged about the show. Whenever we were out around town we would walk down that block and look at the photos from the show. In fact, there are pictures taken at about 3 in the morning one night, when we were coming home from a party for Jennifer's birthday, in a snowstorm, outside A Little Night Music. It was a magical Christmas with my beautiful family in New York, in the snow.

Just like the Liza show... I cannot think of Christmas without thinking of A Little Night Music.

A Christmas Memory: Day Five - Liza Minnelli

2010-12-07T08:03:00.003-05:00

A couple years ago the lady who has been my diva since I was a boy opened a show on Broadway. I had seen Liza in concert several times but not in awhile. I was excited to see her again. Times have been tough for Americans for awhile now and spending a lot of money on a Broadway show can be difficult to reconcile. However, not seeing this show would have been a mistake of epic proportion; so Pat bought us tickets to see Liza's At The Palace.

There is no need to write a review of that memory - I wrote a rather epic review of it at the time. What I can and should say here is that something about New York City was different. It was Christmastime and there was a two or four story tall billboard in Times Square of Liza Minnelli. The show opened to smash reviews and was extended. Everyone was going to the show and coming out smiling. Liza Minnelli was cool. She was the hot item of the holiday season.

Every chance I got, I walked through Times Square so I could see that billboard. I had Christmas music in myIpod and Liza in my eyesight.

We saw the show several times. The first time, together. Then Pat took Hunter to his first ever Liza show. Then I took Jennifer to see her idol from her youth. Then we saw it again, together, from different seats. Then Jim Caruso walked us in to the final performance. Each time I was like a school kid; so excited I could barely contain myself. I was bouncing up and down in my seat, laughing, crying, screaming, cheering. It was the best Christmas present ever.. over and over and over again.

Now I can't get through a holiday season without listening to my cd of that show and walking through Times Square, once more, where I (still) can see that billboard.

A Christmas Memory: Day Four - Norma Desmond

2010-12-07T07:45:00.003-05:00

I was away this weekend on a road trip and missed posting stories for three whole days! I'll fix that, though; I'm going to post stories today for Saturday, Sunday, Monday AND today! And the first three are all show business related....

Several years ago, after we had been living in New York for a brief time, there was a much anticipated, eagerly awaited opening on Broadway. The hit musical SUNSET BOULEVARD had finally arrived in town after trying out in London and Los Angeles with different leading ladies. The LA star was chosen for the New York production and the buzz was phenomenal. The great Amerian actress, Glenn Close, was arriving on Broadway as the legendary character, Norma Desmond and everyone was excited.

We had been living in Manhattan for a few years and my business was doing alright. Pat was temping. We had money to spend on holiday treats. So I took a little of my money and snuck off the the theater one day and got us a couple of seats for Sunset Boulevard. I hid them in the house for weeks, very excited to surprise Pat for Christmas with a trip to the hottest show in town. When the evening arrived that we were to see the play, I turned to him at 7:15 and said "Let's go for a walk." We threw on our coats and strolled Hell's Kitchen into the theater district. I strolled, blythely, toward the Minskoff Theater and walked through the doors. Pat asked what I was doing and I said "Let's go check things out!". He followed. When I handed the tickets to the ticket taker he said "WHAT have you DONE?" No, it did not turn out that he had also bought tickets to the play -- he simply expressed an interest in NOT going to the theater in house clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt are NOT proper theater attire. I hadn't really thought of that; and he was right. We had 8th row center seats at Christmastime and everyone around us was dressy. We were there, looking like a couple of stow aways. So we simply stayed in our seats the entire time, choosing to not wander around being seen looking so declassee. It didn't help for, right in our row, in a pink sequined cocktail dress, was our dear friend Nancy LaMott, having come from a fancy party with famous people, to see more fancy famous people at the theater - and one very fancy famous person on the stage of the theater. We shared a hug and a kiss and a Christmas wish and Nancy went off to be with the movers and the shakers and we stayed in our seats, glorified by Glenn.

The play was very exciting and, certainly, Glenn Close was thrilling. There is very little to say about Sunset Boulevard that hasn't been said. Suffice it to say, we had a marvelous time and made a Christmas memory that lasts, as well as a lesson that we hold to our hearts to this day:

Always dress for the theater.

A Christmas Memory: Day Three - Judy Garland

2010-12-03T05:37:00.002-05:00

When I was ten years old, my father's job made us move to Portugal. I was gay and I knew it since I was five. I was interested in the arts and, especially, in old Hollywood movies. In Portugal I found myself lucky in that the tv stations there loved to play old movies -- the kind I liked to sit and watch by the hour. That is where I got to see films like Love Me Or Leave Me and Swingtime for the very first time. In fact I think that is where I saw most of the Fred Astaire and Ginger films for the first time. When we left Portugal, after four years, I had quite the little movie education. When we left Portugal, we left for Switzerland.

Switzerland was beautiful and it was fun but it did not do much to further my movie education... that is, unless I watched the movies on tv in German. Unlike Portuguese television, the Swiss tv stations translated all the movies into German. My German wasn't bad, so I COULD watch the films... but I didn't want to. I wanted to see them in the original form. So I read instead.

Until Christmas day one year, when my mother called me into the living room to see MEET ME IN ST LOUIS. It had not been dubbed. It was in English and it was sensational. I remember laying across the white and green shag area rug, mesmerized by this, one of the most beloved films of all time; and, especially, by Esther Smith.

I have heard Liza Minnelli say that she thinks this film captures her mother at her most beautiful and I have to agree. Every frame of the movie, every shot of Judy, is pure magic. That Christmas segment, though, is most magical of all. Her comic timing, that red dress... and that song. And the monologue about moving to New York, after Tootie smashes the snow people. She had me in the palm of her hand.

She still has me in the palm of her hand.

To this day, after Thanksgiving is past and the Christmas season is slipping into place, the first day that I start to feel Christmas-y, I get out my dvd and watch Meet Me In St Louis and bake something.

Not til then, can I be in a Christmas mood.

A Christmas Memory: Day Two -- The Ondines

2010-12-02T06:13:00.002-05:00

When I was a young, young, young man I met my husband. We spent a year together in college and then we moved to Dallas. Almost immediately, we found an acting class with a wonderful man (one of the best teachers I had ever had) named Kyle MacClaran (I think that is how his name was spelled - my memory is getting soft); and almost immediately, Kyle asked me to play a part in his production of ONDINE (I was a replacement, actually).

Doing that play changed my life.

For, doing that play, I met this group of women who would, forever, be among my dearest friends. We are a family, really.

When the play ONDINE closed, we determined that we would always be together. We became a group that was called, in fact, The Ondines. The Ondines went to all of each others' plays, we went to parties together, ran around town together, spent countless hours on the phone together, knew each others' lives inside out -- it was not unlike the group relationships you see in tv shows like Sex and the City or Queer As Folk or Friends. We simply knew everything about each other. On birthdays we would arrange these elaborate kidnappings and parties.

And on holidays there would always be some kind of party.

Sometimes we would do sleepovers in each others' homes. Sometimes we would simply attend huge parties filled with the many friends we had in the local show business community. Sometimes we would get all dolled up (The Ondine women were famous for their fashion sense!) and go to the mall and see Santa. Our spouses would be involved at times but most of the time they preferred to leave the crazy Ondines to their own devices. It was a Utopian arrangement. We were filled with love and laughter.

Over the years, The Ondines have been separated by time and geography. There have been marriages, births and deaths. We gather together for reunions and we send each other emails and we write on each others' Facebook walls. If one of The Ondines is in a play when I go back to Dallas, I make every attempt to see that play (at times, traveling home JUST to see the play). We all have our own families (one of The Ondines has two grown sons, one has two daughters under 18, one has two sons under 18, one chose to have no children and one chose to make his friends his children) that are our main focus in life. But we are still a family.

The Christmases we spent together as young people created memories that live in my heart, indeed, my blood all the days of the year.

Family is whatever you make it... wherever people who share love come together and commune.

A Christmas Memory: Day One

2010-12-01T03:56:00.004-05:00

Hey friends! Golly Moses, I seem to be mercurial about this blogging thing. It's been years since I started - and I don't seem to be able to log in a story once a day like my friends STEVE ON BROADWAY and DEEP DISH. These blogs are among my daily reads and I marvel at how they do it. Ah well. I just can't seem to write a story for every day and since my last entry I have been traveling and work my ass off, not to mention having a little block on a story I started about women who have anorexia and bullemia, not to mention gays with manorexia and boilemia.... I started it and just haven't been able to finish it. Maybe it's cutting a LITTLE close to home, eh?

But today... TO DAY is December 1st. The holiday season is upon us, kids. And NOTHING inspires me like Christmas. The blogging possibilites are endless. Why, I remember one year when I blogged about great Christmas cds... and one year when I wrote about Christmas movies... and you get the idea.

But yesterday I was talking to Brady and as we reminisced about some of OUR great Christmases together, I got to thinking: I would love to hear about some of everyone's favourite Christmas memories in their lives. So I am going to do a quid pro quo kind of thing here and, every day, I intend to write a little memory of mine out and post it. I hope, I encourage everyone to post something here or on my Facebook page - a line, two sentences, a paragraph, anything about a holiday memory from their life that they look back on, fondly.

And in the meantime, maybe I will finish that body image story and write some others. So sorry to have gone MIA again, kids! I hope youse'll keep coming back and reading!

NOW...

Christmas Memory Number One:

Brady asked me what Christmas was like, for me, as a child. I remembered one year, particularly, when my brothers were about 1 and 5 years old and my sister was around 13 (making me 9 years old) - and I may be hazy on the ages but it was in that age range of years... We were living in Ohio in a big, long house (not a tall one but a long one) surrounded by a big yard full of trees - it felt like we lived in a forest, way off the main road. The walls were all wood and the carpets were all dark green shaggy, plushy stuff. Upstairs, their rooms were off to one side of the house and my room and my parents' room was off to the other; in between was the big, creaky, staircase downstairs. We always awoke on Christmas morning around five am and hung out in my sisters' room, waiting for mom and dad to get up and telling each other "go wake them.." "no, YOU go wake them!" and hovering over the top step on our bellies, looking down into the living room to see what Santa had left. Finally, after making so much noise on the creaky floors and chatting (a little too loudly, so that they would hear us and wake up), we managed to get mom and dad up. HOWEVER. first they had to go down and turn on the lights and make a pot of coffee and get the super 8 movie camera out (super 8, right? not 16 mm? I can't remember...) so they could film us coming down. And we were all required to dress. So I put on my striped Sears Toughskins jeans and a sweatshirt and my sister dressed in her best Marcia Brady and my brother slipped into some dungarees and a t shirt and, finally, finally, finally, down we descended into FREAKIN' TOYLAND!

We had gone to bed with a pretty tree in the corner of the living room - nicely decorated with some presents underneath it. NOW there was a field of Fisher Price toys that spread so far out into the living room that a person could barely get through the room. There was a play kitchen and a choo choo train and the Fisher Price castle and a purple banana seat bicycle and a rocking horse and blah de blah de blah... just a perfect spread of varieties of toys. It was a glittery, exciting, eye widening, mouth dropping sight. And there, in front of all of it, on the floor, was the plate and glass for Santa. The glass was empty and the cookies were gone.. all except one that had had a bite taken from it. Clearly, we had left too much out for Santa. Over on the fireplace hearth, dad sat, filming us with that little hand held camera.

This, for the rest of my life, is the way I imagined Christmas should be for all children.

Not til I was an adult did I look back on this memory (and others from my childhood) and consider the time and effort it must have taken mom and dad. How long into the night on Christmas Eve had they spent, setting this up (and hoping none of us would awaken and catch them!) and how my dad (I always assumed) would eat those cookies and drink that milk. No wonder they didn't want to get up at 5 am! They had only just gone to sleep!

I really must send them a thank you note.

Note: The photo in this story is from a different Christmas - one where I was just a baby and my younger brothers had not been born. See how my dad and my sister and I are all wearing matching candy cane striped jammies? Sweet!

They Had Faces Now

2010-10-15T06:13:00.021-04:00

No. You aren't looking at Lauren Bacall. Though she should be Lauren Bacall. Or Ann Sheridan. Or Ava Gardner. Eleanor Parker? Oh, just pick one. Just pick one of those great divas from the bygone era of the silver screen and Lindsey would fit in.

Lindsey is a friend of mine who is an actress with a beauty that matches her interests: the past. Her favourite roles to play seem to be those created for women from a different time. Ruth Sherwood. Phyllis Rogers Stone. Tracy Lord. These are the types of women Lindsey understands and portrays well onstage (so well that she won a region acting award for playing Fraulein Kost in Cabaret).

Don't get me wrong. Lindsey is a perfectly lovely contemporary beauty. There is, though, something about her look that simply harkens back to the 40s and the 50s a little more than lending itself to the 2000s.

So we decided to get together and have some fun!

And what's more fun than a period photo shoot where Jennifer Houston makes a girl look like she stepped out of a Kaufman and Hart play and Stephen Mosher (that's me) makes her look like she has been lit by George Hurrell?

I'm no George Hurrell.

I'm not even Len Prince.

I'm just me and I have limited resources. A couple of lights. A couple of backdrops. A couple of cameras (one real and one digital). And a head filled with ideas.

So in this, one of my favourite photo shoots ever, we gathered in my home (where I work) and played dress up for a few hours. When we were done there, we borrowed my husband, our friend's dog, Rhoda, and our other friend's uber glamours apartment and went on location.

The resulting photos are photos of which I am extremely proud. I'm proud that after a self-imposed retirement of 8 years, I seem to still be able to do what I spent my entire adult life learning.

I'm proud that Jennifer is such an artist with a makeup and a hair brush.

I'm proud that Lindsey is such an easy model with whom to work.

I'm proud that I have friends who will join me in the important adventure of making art.

I'm proud that my grandmother taught me about Hollywood glamour by showing me the drawings she did when she worked for Edith Head at Paramount Studios and by showing me the photos of Garbo and Dietrich that taught me how Hurrell lit people

I'm proud that my mother gave me a camera at the age of 16 and that I taught myself everything I know about making pictures.

I'm proud that I've learned a little about digital photography and computer editing of digital photos.

I'm proud that I am still able to grown

I'm proud that people still want to work with me.

I'm proud to have friends who bring their artistic eye to the table when we work together, yet who are not afraid to take direction and who are willing to play.

I'm proud to have an adventurous husband who is a go-to guy who will be there when he is needed.

I'm proud of a lot of things in this life; and I know they say that pride is a sin - but I think that is when the pride is misplaced. I don't think it is a sin to do something and have the self-confidence to say "I made this" -- particularly when it is something you made with love and with people you love.

There was a moment during this shoot when everything was perfect...

We were in Brady's living room. Lindsey was on the sofa, Rhoda was beside her. Rhoda's owner, Jason, was off left, out of frame, keeping her from jumping off the lounge and running away.

Jennifer was behind me to my right, watching Lindsey to make sure her hair and makeup were right. Pat was behind me, to my left, watching ( as he has done a million times before). Brady was somewhere behind me, for once behind my camera and not in front of it, moving around to as to take in every moment.

Rhoda, though in place, was actually looking off to the left, at Jason. We needed her to look at the camera but simply saying "Rhoda" doesn't do the trick. Pat said "Stephen, squeal."

I know how to squeeze my voicebox so that it emits a high pitched squeak.

So I did.

Rhoda turned her head and cocked it to one side, looking right in the camera.

Click.

Perfect.

I knew it would be one of my favourite photos ever.

There I was...making art with my family.

It was a moment I could live in forever.

PatnStephen - IT GETS BETTER

2010-10-11T04:30:00.002-04:00

We -- I and Pat had a really fun experience yesterday, along with a number of our family members, here in New York. We gathered together to make a video to send to the IT GETS BETTER campaign created by Dan Savage. A brilliant writer and public gay figure ( and the youth of America needs positive gay role models, apparently, more than ever at this time ), Mr Savage created the campaign as a response to the horrifying rash of teen suicides recently. Children in their teens and adults in their late teens and early twenties have been taking their own lives because the people of America are telling them that they are unworthy of living. The bullies in their schools are doing this to their faces, while the bullies in Washington (and in churches around the country) are doing it more publically. Everywhere, every day, young gays are being told that there is no place for them in society. They read about the battle for marriage equality, about difficulties with adoption, about all kinds of prejudice against the gays of this country. City council meetings include horrifying speakers who say that gays worthless while the religious zealots claim that gays are the cause of everything bad in our country. Fellow classmates abuse and bully them, causing in these young and beautiful people a sense of isolation and dispair. With no clear hope for their futures, with no happiness in sight, these children ranging in age from 13 to 19 (specific examples described in a cover story in PEOPLE Magazine) have been hanging themselves and throwing themselves off bridges.

Is this 2010 or what?

No, really. I mean, WHAT is going on here??!! Are the politicians and religious fanatics so scared of us that they have to focus their attentions on leading their followers to a hatred that causes young people to kill themselves?

Two of the perpetrators of recent fatal bullying are being charged with crimes like invasion of privacy - crimes that could get them fined and sentenced to jail for up to five years. I'm no politician and I am, certainly, not smart in the way that some politicians are -- DEFINATELY not smart in the way that Dan Savage is. And, usually, I think that people who aren't smart shouldn't make statements regarding socio-political opinions. But I'm going to take my not-smart ass out on a limb here and say that I think these cyber bullies should be charged with as many different charges as possible. I don't know.. reckless endangerment, maybe? I'm not up on the law. I just think that they are as much to blame for the boy who took his own life as the men who beat up the fellow in the bathroom at the Stonewall. Their actions were not absent malice; none of them - not the cyber bullies or the bathroom bullies. They should be held accountable for their actions. They should be made an example of so that the next time somebody wants to commit an act of hatred, they might think twice.

Furthermore, I wish there were a way to hold the political and religious leaders responsible for these beatings, deaths and suicides. They are inciting the bigots to riot and must be held accountable.

Like I said - I'm no politician and certainly no brain; so I think I should switch gears and not run the risk of exposing my limited intelligence any further. I also think I should talk about something more positive: help.

Mr Savage created the IT GETS BETTER video campaign so that young people with internet access could go online and see the videos of people in the real world (both famous and humble), telling the stories that might serve as a beacon of light, of hope, to lead them out of the darkness, hopefully to stay until there are easier, happier times. Many people have made their videos and posted them online and I thought Pat and I should do it too. After all, we were them three decades ago.

Raised in the South in a family of religious extremity, Pat was taught by the church that he would go to hell for being gay. Raised moving around the country, indeed, the world, I was taught by society (and aggressively mean spirited schoolmates, throughout my school career) that I was a pariah for being gay. I can actually still see the faces of the boys and girls who called me sissy, queer, homo, fag and faggot; I can still remember some of their names. My husband and I couldn't have had more different upbringings; but we were still alone and filled with self-loathing. I made three attempts on my life: one at 13, one at 18 and one at 19. My father helped me through the first one, both of my parents helped me through the last one. They have never known, to this day, about the second one. I kept it extremely private. I don't really discuss these suicide attempts in detail because they aren't what's important. What is important is that I survived them. My parents helped me get through the dark times and, about a year later, I met the man who would spend the rest of my life making me so happy that I wouldn't try it again. That's not to say there weren't other dark times - but when you have the support of a spouse with whom you share great love, you can get through it.

So we decided to tell our story on film for the gay youths, not knowing who would see it -- but at least it is out there.

In the week before we filmed this video, my friend Brady (a great director of the stage) told me "don't be depressing... the campaign is called It Gets Better; talk about the better". So we decided to be ourselves: upbeat, happy and optimistic. We decided to speak frankly about how tough it was growing up but not do a lot of detail because, let's face it, the experience of growing up gay is pretty universal, pretty communal: you get called names and you get bullied, possibly beaten up, possibly some other forms of abuse. It's the same but different for kids who are of another race, of another income bracket, of another physical build, of another intellectual interest ... bullies don't hone in on just one thing: bullies bully and they only need a chance and a half an excuse. There was little to say about being bullied that the youth of the world don't already know. So we focused on letting them know that we had been through it, we got out of it and we have a happy life.

Part of the happiness of our life together is our family. Pat and I have family in many states - kinfolk, blood relations. None of them are here in New York, so we did what people do: we made our own family out of the friends we have here. They are a major part of our happiness. So we asked some of them to join in. Many said yes, some couldn't make it.. some who could make it BARELY fit into the camera (I wish we had squeezed in tighter so Aaron and Michael's whole faces showed!) but we all gathered together for 15 minutes yesterday to shoot this little four minute video. It reminded me, once more, of how much I and Pat have in this life. You won't catch me complaining about anything soon.

I hope it finds its' way onto the computer screens of young men and women who are being bullied FOR ANY REASON and helps them see what a remarkable world it is.

But not if you're not in it.

By being on this planet, we make the world more remarkable, every day.

100 Saints You Should Know

2010-10-06T04:59:00.020-04:00

I had a really fun experience recently - it wasn't all fun, though; it was extraordinarly rewarding for me on so many different levels. As an artist and as a person, I could not have asked for a happier experience. My husband went back to work as an actor, after a 17 year absence from the business. He was always my favourite actor and when he retired (for reasons best known to him), it was like he took something away from me. Oh, it was absent malice; but it was taken away from me. Like when Jane Fonda retired. I took that personally. When you have a gift that God has given you, you can't take it from the world. You have to share it. Fortunately, my man decided to share his, once again.

So my husband got himself into a production of a beautiful play called 100 SAINTS YOU SHOULD KNOW. It was a one week showcase production in a small theater in New York (these kind of showcase productions happen every day - it is a way for actors to get seen, to get agents, managers, casting directors, directors .. and friends and family to see their work. This was a perfect way for Pat to get his feet wet again, to see how it felt to go back , after 17 years. It was a short commitment and the people were nice and the play is really good.

Natch, I wanted to help in any way I could, so I volunteered to do their photos.

The first step was publicity pictures. A shoot was arranged. I asked Pat what happens in the play and he told me. We had four of the cast members come to our home and I improvised photos that would look interesting but also look congruous to the storyline of the play. Some of the photos would require a backdrop while others could be done as location shots. So we started with the location photos, settig them up in our living room, our kitchen and the hallway of our building (happily, sterile enough to resemble the hallway of a very old religous hospital in New York City - the kind you see in NURSE JACKIE). It was challenging but I love a good challenge. True are requires limitation.

Once the location shots were done, we sent two of the cast members home and did the photos for the main advertising. The director had required a spacial shot in which the priest was in the foreground and the cleaining lady behind him; and that was an easy shot to envision - also to create. Just takes the right lighting. The second primary shot I wanted to do was one of the priest that was having a crisis of faith. In the play, Father Mulcahy is found with photos of naked men by famed photographer George Platt Lynes. Nobody involved with the show had a book by George Platt Lynes (they are pricey), so I used one by Bruce Weber, a famed photographer of homo erotic art.

In the end, the Bruce Weber book was considered incongruous, so the cover was photoshopped out. I was a little disappointed that it had not been able to shoot the photo with a George Platt Lynes book because THAT would have told the entire story... but like I said, true art requires limitations.

So excited by the publicity photos, I volunteered to shoot the production shots as well, which turned out to be another exciting venture. Before my on again - off again retirement 7 years ago, shooting shows in performance was one of my specialties and favourite gigs. It was so much fun to be at it again!

Clearly, the universe felt the joy I had over these photo shoots because calls have been rolling in and, apparently, I am back at work as a photographer.

But this time, it's on my own terms. On my own turf. I can decide exactly what I want my work life to be.

I control my destiny.

More than my excitement over going back to work, though, is my excitement over Pat's going back to work. It gives me such genuine pleasure, so much happines, such great joy, seeing him act again, seeing him this happy once more... it isn't really explainable. All I can say is: when you love someone, really, truly, deeply, and you see them blossom under the bloom of happiness, it is like being born, yourself.

I attended every performance of 100 SAINTS YOU SHOULD KNOW, greeting dear, sweet friends who turned out to support my husband in his new work; loved ones who wanted to show their happiness, interest and excitement at his return to the stage. I know it meant a lot to him to see so many of our friends and family at his show. I admit that I was surprised at the loved ones who showed no support at all - but that's focusing on a negativity that shouldn't be expressed publically. Best if I keep those details looked up in my heart, not forgotten but also not the focus. What's important is the people who came. Like our nieces who drove in, respectively, from states so far away that their road trips took 10 and 6 hours, each. Or a friend who rode the train two hours from South Jersey. Or all the friends who sent well wishes in the form of emails, letters and flowers. That's the kind of stuff you want to focus on. The love. That's what is important.

And the new friends Pat made while working on this show. What a wonderful group of people. Each time I saw them, all the cast and crew were sweet and friendly and hard working. And I don't know how they do it. I respect actors. I was exhausted and I wasn't even IN the play! I took two weeks off of my real life to focus on Pat and the play and all the excitement around it. (That's why there have been no blog entries from me - too tired to write!) I've magnitudes of admiration for actors and the energy they put out to entertain us all. Bravo, actors everywhere, bravo.

So. Now 100 SAINTS YOU SHOULD KNOW is over. There is no review from me. I'm not partial. I'm so proud of my husband (who received much praise from our friends and family - and it was genuine praise; everyone thought he was simply marvelous in the play) and so happy he has gone back to work in this, his chosen field.

I can't wait for the next play!

The Tattoo Chronicles: The Role Model

2010-09-17T07:42:00.004-04:00

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

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

2010-09-16T05:17:00.005-04:00

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

2010-09-14T04:56:00.003-04:00

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

2010-09-13T07:37:00.003-04:00

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

2010-09-12T06:06:00.003-04:00

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

2010-09-10T09:21:00.015-04:00

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

2010-09-09T14:16:00.007-04:00

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

2010-09-08T22:33:00.005-04:00

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

2010-09-07T21:19:00.003-04:00

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

2010-09-03T09:11:00.003-04:00

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

2010-09-02T18:21:00.002-04:00

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

2010-09-01T15:39:00.002-04:00

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/

Food For Thought - A Delish HEALTHY Dinner

2010-08-31T10:47:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

Now.

Dessert.

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

Healthy. Yummy.

What more do you need?

Guests.

Love, I Hear

2010-08-29T08:24:00.005-04:00

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

Now I do!

Love Is In The Air

2010-08-28T16:42:00.002-04:00

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

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

She is our family.

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

One day, one of them spoke up.

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

And they truly were.

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

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

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

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

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

Moments of Clarity Part Three - The Final Chapter

2010-08-27T08:13:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought about both those philosophies.

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

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

I used to do that.

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

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

It’s a start.

For now, that will have to be enough.

Moments of Clarity Part Two

2010-08-26T09:22:00.001-04:00

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

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

It’s exhausting.

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

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

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

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

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

I’m the fucking United States of fucking Tara.

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

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

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

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