I am falling behind the place where I want to be in my writing, and so, though it is like stopping crack-cocaine cold-turkey, I need for a bit to pull away from social media and too much of my nattering, hit-score-keeping over-connectedness to this imaginary/virtual world of FB and Twitter and blogging, so as to create a quiet, contemplative space in which my characters have room to grow and speak to me, allow their situations to percolate and flow again; do my writing by hand, lose myself in some reading rather than web-trolling, and re-charge. I’ll be back.
I haven’t even watched this weekend’s “SMASH” episode because, despite all evidence to the contrary, I do have a life and I try to spend that life’s Saturday nights doing things like attending real theatre, you know, LIVE. So, I watch “SMASH” after the fact. But, I’m not watching this week’s episode until next week’s airs, because if a creative team faced with a whole slew of characters that viewers would love to see smashed (so to speak) beneath the wheels of a moving vehicle chose instead to crush Kyle, then that is a creative team for whom I can no longer make either time or excuses. If you’re going to kill off people, start with…
It’s the weekend. But when you are self-employed (barely – as in, some days barely a self and most days oh so barely employed) as a writer, when the inspiration flows, you have to capture it. Having had lots of days when the inspiration was being coy and thus having had to sweat-discipline myself to toil using what passes as “technique” – I totally welcome and bless these days when things just seem to be clicking – the ideas and the keyboard.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from checking all my news feeds and and Pinterest and Facebook (have you liked me, yet?) and Twitter and Tumblr-sites and fellow bloggers. And this morning brought me a few insights and chuckles and think-prompts. Morsels from the virtual-world zeitgeist, the first of which fits right in with this theme of “inspiration versus perspiration” and so, here you are: Zeit-bites Saturday.
Here’s Harry Houdini, chained, upside down in a water torture chamber in 1912. The thing is, sometimes when it appears that we are trapped, underwater, unable to breathe, it’s a good thing to remind ourselves that it’s just a trick. We’re all magicians and Continue reading
Memories. Going through these boxes might just kill me.
It all started yesterday when I opened a box of photos in search of a specific illustration for my blog entry. Once I’d started, it was as if I became trapped in a room where all the echoing questions of all of myselves through the ages began a bamboo-beneath-the-nails, water-boarding interrogation of me, that same inquisition it feels as if I’ve spent my life trying to Continue reading
It was twenty years ago (not quite today, but on April 25) when I marched on Washington, D.C. for Gay Rights wearing my “READ MY LIPS” t-shirt. Gay rights weren’t yet called LGBT. We had a long way to go. Me, and the more than one million others with whom I marched. But, this isn’t about those million, it’s about just one. All this week as my news feed has been filled with remembrances and discussions about how far we’ve come and how far we have to go, all I can think about is Steve.
I met him when I was twelve, aptly enough while doing my first show, “Dark of the Moon.” He was older, driving already. We got in trouble again and again at rehearsals because we could not stop laughing whenever we looked at one another on stage. Many years and many, many shows later, we appeared together again on stage in “The Rocky Horror Show” and again got in trouble because we could not look at one another without laughing.
He made me Continue reading
ZEITBITES: Pop-Culture in a size that won’t gag you . . . April 25
Busy day, and you people HATE long posts. So, I’ll be updating a few times today in lengths you can take without straining anything . . .
ZEITBITE: The sequestration is serious business people. Bad enough that programs like Meals on Wheels and Head Start are being cut, thus starving the infirm and the aged, and putting out onto the streets, less-educated, latch-key kids from economically challenged families; but NOW, the U.S. Military has canceled New York City FLEET WEEK! What? Look Congress, get it together! Depriving seniors and children is one thing, but depriving New Yorkers of their annual bacchanal of semen flooded streets is inexcusable. What? Oh, sorry, that should be SEAMEN.
ZEITBITE: And here Anderson Cooper had been preparing the boys of Fleet Week with a health/helpful hint segment about the epidemic of zipper injuries and lubricating one’s zip-area with a candle. Wait, this is getting all Yentl. Anyway, turns out Anderson wears button-fly jeans. You see, once upon a time, Coop was in the bathroom of a bookstore and had to quick hide little Coop real fast and got it stuck in the zipper and – I liked where this story was going too, until he ruined it by CLAIMING he was eight years old at the time. SURE YOU WERE ANDERSON. It’s just this kind of backing out of the real story that’s gotten your show canceled. Here, let him tell it . . . then let me write about what I think really happened . . . see it was Fleet Week when CNN newsman . . . never mind. I don’t have time this morning and all I want to get to is the part where I offer to do the sort of First Aid I learned in the BOY SCOUTS to Little (and Big) Coop!
Gotta run . . . the disinterested men at the gym aren’t going to ogle themselves. I must say, my reflexes are improving from my workouts . . . every time I see a reasonably good-looking fellow approach, I quickly reach out and up the weight on whatever machine I happen to be
posing working-out at the time from my usual 20-40 lbs to 120-140. It’s exhausting.
Here I am . . . going! Later loves!
It’s been one of those days . . . I know I’m in an asylum but whether I am inmate or staff . . . well, somewhat less clear. The only thing to do is turn to Ryan Murphy and his genius repertory company from AMERICAN HORROR STORY: ASYLUM, ruled by Ms. Jessica Lange, with glorious assists from Sarah Paulson and Evan Peters. I can’t afford Xanax, so this will have to do it. Enjoy.
I get a mention as a famous-non-collegiate who’s made it big. Or, who’s made it a lot. Or . . . well, I’m not what matters (yes, I am.)
I blog, therefore I am. And on the good news front, my hits are steadily climbing. That makes me happy. Which is a good thing, because it’s all about balance and, well, I’ve that genetic predisposition toward dwelling on the lugubrious day-to-day bullshit; that stuff where you feel like someone (or something or some circumstance) has left you exposed as the worthless asshole you REALLY are. Since I feel – almost always – as if I’m shuffling on a ledge, deciding whether to climb inside or jump – I have to make a real effort to focus on the shit I love; like, coincidentally, this new video by Jake Wilson featuring Alysha Umphress – my new diva goddess – called, yep, “SHIT I LOVE.” Watch.
Happiness making, right?
Which balances out that I still Continue reading
Last night (and this morning) have given me unpleasant occasion to consider the acts of erasing, deleting, and Facebook feed-blocking as life-strategies.
It started with one of those Facebook posts that sneak through the cracks of all the people whose streams I’ve blocked. Just when you think it’s safe to read your Facebook feed, someone you haven’t edited out of the mix re-posts something from someone you have. Get on that Zuckerberg – it’s a programming flaw. The sneaky little re-post sent me into a Continue reading