Saturday Night Sondheim

Honest to MaryMartin, sometimes, the only thing standing between me and suicide, is the fact that Stephen Sondheim songs sung by brilliant divas exist. I am feeling really really really not so great, and so, turn to Sondheim songs – maybe not the best choice, but, you see, at least I am sobbing FOR A REASON.

Continue reading

ZeitBriefs: Other People’s Work and Dick Pics

Sharing some links and things that made me think. And some thinks I thought without linking. Or sharing.


how to get awayI’ve been Twitter watching Scandal since Shonda Rhimes first gifted it to us. I used to do so, eager to hear Donna Brazile’s Tweets, but I’ve become annoyed with Ms. Brazile and her continued support of the demon-cabal of the NFL (you’d think her ruination of Al Gore’s presidential campaign would have been enough to disappoint me, but, no). So, I’ve blocked her. Like she cares. But, I digress – surprise, surprise – and now Ms. Rhimes has given me a new reason to waste another hour a week not reading or writing (about which I wrote yesterday- HERE) with How to Get Away With Murder from Shonda-land. Apparently I am not alone. Great ratings. Unfortunately, the jack-fuck NFL did better. What is wrong with people?



Speaking of what is wrong with people – me, in particular (too long a list there), here’s a funny, not funny: before I made a life-change to being an under-employed house/pet sitter – slash – crazy uncle-in-the-attic (basement) – slash – not-quite-published novelist – slash – lost his paying gig columnist so now a blogger, I was an under-employed – slash – over-worked indentured servant of an acting teacher -slash – journey-actor – slash -producer/director. Wow – that was a long, rough road to the non-point of my point, that being this: my syntax, sentence structure, punctuation and addiction to (some editors have substituted unreasonably stubborn insistence on for addiction to) neologism when my newly-coined word seems pithier and more apt than any existing construct is wedded to what I have come to believe is a genetic inability to distinguish between the uses of “that” and “which” – which (or that?) is linked to my inability to control what has politely been called my “Baroque” style of parenthetical, digressive, aside-ridden, awash in barely-connected run-on rants and ravings of compounded complexities of cacophonous babbling rendering the determination of whether or not a clause is restrictive or non nearly impossible. But the thing was (is) every time I have to use THAT or WHICH, I struggle and go to one or another grammar site – most often, Grammar Girl. I also have trouble with PEOPLE’S vs PEOPLES’. I also prefer British quotation rules – and – well, my writing is as quirky and difficult to follow, I suppose, as my soul. I would like to think BOTH are – for a few people at least – worth the trouble.  No one said I was easy. To read, anyway.


Naked Old Man 2

My latest dick-pic. Can’t understand why I’m not getting more hook-ups?

And speaking of “easy” and why that word and “slut” and all the others ought to be put to rest – Noah Michelson, Executive Editor at Huffington Post has written a really great column about naked pics and the distortion of the issue. I agree. I have long, long said that the lack of embrace and celebration of the joys of free expression of our sexual natures is a tool the patriarchal-fascist-power-structure-elite use to control us – ESPECIALLY to control women and those of other than a hetero-normative bent. IN FACT – I blame that repression and its disastrous results for the most decimating, destructive heartbreak-relationship-disasters of my life, the effects of which still haunt me, have, in many ways, ruined me and made me distrustful and hermit-like. So, TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR JUNK AND SEND IT EVERYWHERE. Yep, that’s what I’m saying.



ZankieIn a continuation of the above topic- wherein fear and lack-of-embrace of sexual feelings and love create problematic stories – especially in my life – well, my obsession with Zach on Big Brother 16 – or, more specifically, with the bromance-showmance-whatever-mance between straight Zach and gay Frankie – was ridiculous. Because, truth, it has happened to me repeatedly – twice with horrifyingly heartbreaking consequences wherein the “straight” guy told me he loved me more than he had ever loved anyone else but then, because of the onus of what our union meant, he could not handle it and turned from me – turned on me – turned into – well, enough. So, I know Frankie is a fame-junkie and I suspect Zach, too, is a bit of a fame-addict, but Zach’s monologues in the confessional room seemed so sincere, so heartfelt, I can’t believe he doesn’t have conflicted-love feelings for Frankie. But, then again, I’ve REPEATEDLY thought fellows had the same sort of feelings for me, only to find out I was being used or made a fool of or becoming a lie they would later tell. Fuck life.



tennessee williamsI am reading John Lahr’s biography of Tennessee Williams, titled, Mad Pilgrimage of the Flesh. It is stunning, simply stunning. I have long admired Mr. Lahr’s work. His biography of Joe Orton was incisive and illuminating, and now, he is the perfect choice for Mr. Williams. The way in which he manages to transition between Mr. Williams’ own words and authorial narrative, the fascinating investigation and explanation of how Mr. Williams’ personal life was mirrored in and informed his work, all of it coming together to make the reader feel present as the life occurred; quite brilliant. I love it.

That said, so much of Mr. Williams’ life and words echo (or, presage) so much of my own broken hearted journey through life that I have had to – repeatedly – put the book down and process. My copy is pocked with margin notes and sticky-pad-arrows so that it looks less read than studied. Listen to these few:

There are only two times in this world when I am happy and selfless and pure. One is when I jack off on paper and the other when I empty all the fretfulness of desire on a young male body.

I’d like to live a simple life — with epic fornications.

…to know me is not to love me….I am a problem to anybody who cares anything about me –Most of all to myself who am, of course, my only ardent lover (though a spiteful and cruel one!)

We share a soul angst. Would that I could manage – had managed – to produce a truth of my own anywhere close to those Mr. Williams made of his journey. Alas, I did not. Nor did I achieve his “epic fornications” – oh well. Read the book friends. While you’re sitting alone – like me.


  • AHHH … THE WEEK-END … and, the week, it ends …

And speaking of alone – like me – last night – but first, later today I will be departing Aftermath. Back to my basement for a few weeks. Yesterday I didn’t leave the estate at all. I stayed in all day. Reading. Writing. Frolicking (and subsequently, napping) with Judah. Dangerous. I cannot remain in the house for more than one day without social interaction because it is far too easy for me to NEVER leave the house. I have to force myself out, daily, or all too quickly I hide in my crazy-uncle-world and do not emerge.

charlie sweeney

Me. Sweeney. Goal weight.

But I gave myself yesterday. Last night I was alerted that Sweeney Todd was being presented as part of Live from Lincoln Center on PBS. Now, here’s the thing. (Another of my things – not to be confused with THAT thing of dick-pic fame). When I was quite young I saw the original production on Broadway starring Angela Lansbury as Mrs. Lovett. I then saw it with Dorothy Loudon. I then saw it, years later, with Christine Baranski. I then saw it at Signature Theatre in Virginia with a brilliant, luminous, glorious Donna Migliaccio (why she is NOT a HUGE Broadway star I cannot understand, her Lovett and Mama Rose and EVERYTHING I have ever seen her do – GENIUS – most recently as the Mother in Sunday in the Park With George at Signature – she slayed me, absolutely destroyed me – so, so, SO ridiculously good), and then I saw the Patti LuPone with tuba version of Lovett on Broadway. AND, I played Sweeney in my heyday. It was my absolute favorite role ever. I knew the score was actually out of my comfort zone – I did not have as much low end as a brilliant Sweeney requires – but I LOVED doing it. I worked with my favorite and most demanding director, Josh, and the cast was top-effing-notch, including my Mrs Lovett, my dear, dear Kayte. Now, granted, I lost my mind playing the role. My feeling was that his years in the prison colony would have been marked by increasing insanity and anger and starvation; so he should be, in essence, a shadow, a ghost, a poisonous cloud of hate and fear and need for revenge. So, I dieted to get the look I wanted. I dieted to obsessive degrees. I lived on ExLax and one 6 ounce can of tuna every other day. And celery. I could have as much celery as I wanted. I lost twenty-five pounds and most of my mind. And I loved it.

All of which leads up to, I was not a huge fan of last night’s broadcast. I’d have rather they re-ran the one from a few years ago with Ms. LuPone. I didn’t see the point of last night’s. There was nothing revelatory about it. There was nothing, in fact, even very good about it. Everyone seemed miscast – either acting wise or vocally – except for Audra McDonald, who has already done the Beggar Woman with Patti, so, uhm, anyway.

I longed, after, to see my version again. I know there exists a recording – I had it once – but, alas, the last two times I have “moved” have been rather hasty departures, rather emotionally draining and terrifying departures, both of which prompted me to toss or lose things. I don’t know where my Sweeney went.

Anyway … where was I? Oh, right …

That was my Friday night. Watching a bad and disappointing Sweeney. Trust me, bad and disappointing men have often been my Friday night fate – which is why I tend to stay in, hermit-like, alone and reading about Tennessee Williams rather than going out and risking another Zankie-esque-debacle in my life.

So, there, this was meant to be a short little post of quick links of the work of others … turned into another therapy session about – well, forget about what – let’s settle on this: I just cannot shut-up. Maybe THAT’s why my Zach departed. LOL. Fuck it. Gotta run. Doing a final laundry and vacuuming here at Aftermath.






ZeitBite Saturday: My Stupid Mouth – ONE MORE THING!

Well, I said I’d be posting less – yesterday – and here I am this morning. Very brief. I promise. One more thing.

I am going to be writing less because I am doing ANOTHER draft of Libertytown. It has been suggested I cut it by a third, that its main character, Parker, talks too much. Yes, he does. As do I. I trust the person who told me this, as much as I trusted the LitProf from esteemed MFA program who told me it was the best thing she’d read in years and resist the “inevitable demands you will receive to cut it down.” Well, I’ll have both versions then, won’t I? I do think it could use some paring and after a period of working on other things, I feel as if it is calling me back. So, back I go.

First, I want to thank the authors and LitWits who have given me such joy this week. I read four books – very different – but all passionately made.

  1. A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall by Will Chancellor
  2. A Tree Born Crooked by Steph Post
  3. The Elusive Embrace: Desire and the Riddle of Identity by Daniel Mendelsohn
  4. The Mathemetician’s Shiva by Stuart Rojstaczer

Books have given me so much joy, always. Bookstores, too. And I now have a new community with my friends at The Curious Iguana and the LitWit world on Twitter. Of the four authors whose work I read this week, all but Mendelsohn followed me on Twitter when I followed them and Post, Chancellor, and Rojstaczer thanked me for talking about their books. The Lit crowd – authors, editors, agents, publicists, those who report about the field – are an amazingly giving and supportive group of people. In fact, Libertytown was most recently read by my Iowa Workshop (not to mislead – summer session only, I didn’t go to the elite MFA program) mentor who suggested I shut Parker up. I spent decades in theatre and theatre training fields and while there were some lovely people and times, never was there this sense of community and honest, to the soul, deeply felt wishes for the success of others. And offers of help. Lovely.

I needed lovely this week because I am horrified by the goings on in the NFL – from the continuing saga of the Washington franchise refusal to shed its racist name, to the beatings of spouses and children, to the lies and cover ups, and, too, the NCAA reinstating Penn State post season privilege and the football coach there being the highest paid state employee in Pennsylvania? What? And the amount of taxes that go to support athletics. That the NFL is not-for-profit. That male privilege continues to be a virus infecting everything in this nation (world) and that when I mention it – I am attacked and trolled and even scolded by friends and family for it.

Sorry, I may be able to shut Parker up in Libertytown, but when I see such despair and pain caused by cultural-dysfunction and inequity, I canNOT be shut up.

And EVEN AS I SAY THIS –  confess my own hypocrisy. I too have fetishisized white-male-privileged-superiority — this picture just yesterday caught me up, made me tingle –


– and while I can Tweet (and mean) things like:

I declare the phrases “man up” & “masculine only” & “no fems” & “not into gay scene” & “discreet” (or “discrete” for idiots) to be illegal

– and I’d have added an ageist remark to that had I had the characters to do so – and so, though I was kicked off Grindr for lecturing people about the language of their posts – I notice that most of my meaningless hook-ups and fantasies have had to do with those leaning toward the stereotypically, culturally privileged classes – like the guys above (although I am way more racially diverse than that – but, P.S. gay-sites – where are the people of color?). So, yeah, I’m a hypocrite and yeah, I, too, have allowed my brain to be washed by the white-hetero-male-wealthy-youth-cult-privilege culture – so, who am I to speak?

Whoever I am, I’m going to keep speaking. And try to keep growing and changing and calling myself on my privilege.

And reading. And writing. Because those bring me such joy. And, I suppose, I will continue to try to find enough characters (and character) to say what I need to say and maybe – in my own little way – make the world a better, kinder, easier place to be.

Bye, Loves. Must pack and leave this gig and return to my cave for six days until I hie to the country, the backwoods, the land of deer sharing coffee with me in the morning. So, like I said yesterday – posting less. LOL.



I OBJECT(ify) … #2ndSundayInJune … part two

UPDATE 6PM – CBS has pulled the Audra acceptance speech from YouTube so it’s blank. REALLY? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? Like people WANTING TO WATCH A CLIP FROM THE TONYS IS A BAD THING? Every day I am more and more convinced that PRACTICALLY everyone in the entire world is an ASSHOLE — and DEFINITELY every corporation — now that the Republican Supreme Court said they were “people” — definitely ASSHOLES.

Your intrepid cultural critic had been confused about how The Bridges of Madison County had NOT gotten a Best Musical Tony nod, nor a number on broadcast, and why Zachary Quinto was not nominated for The Glass Menagerie; and then, it was announced that Clint Eastwood — a Romney supporter and Republican — was going to present on the Tony Awards, and it all became horrifyingly clear, and terrifying — I was ablaze and achill (yes, dichotomy that) with terror — and, sadly, I was right to be afraid … very afraid. I’m sharing it and trying not to go TOO Theatre-Queen-Bitchy — but, uhm…DID YOU WATCH?

Well that was … confusing. And wonderful. And … CONFUSING. And, of course, FABULOUS. And … confusing.

I speak, of course, of the Tony Awards. At the risk of having my #TheatreGeekSuperbowl credentials withdrawn, I must confess that I have never been in the Hugh Jackman worshipper camp, and, worse, I have never gotten what it was that people so loved about Les Miserables. And Hugh in the film … well, okay, look, I don’t want to be too theatre-bitchy-queeny here. I will leave that to others, lord knows last night’s broadcast has supplied months’ worth of material — albeit a cheap sort of polyester blend that sucks up body odor and stains easily. What a dump.

However; there were highlights. Audra McDonald winning her record breaking sixth, and being the first to win in in all four acting categories, and her beautiful reaction, not to mention the beautiful reactions of her husband, daughter, and mother. Gorgeous. Touching. Lovely. Watch it:

And here is what she won for …

Harris NPH Tony 2014Kind of fabulous. Speaking of fabulous, very sweet, touching, fated and fair that Mr. Neil Patrick Harris won for his turn as Hedwig. I loved the pre-show pics his camp Tweeted of he and David Burtka getting ready for the broadcast. Besides being wonderfully talented and courageous and funny, Mr. Harris seems to genuinely, passionately love his family, his work, and the life he has made. Good for him. Good for us. Now, your kids will not be the ONLY one happy when you leave behind the eight-shows-a-week grind and return as host of the Tony Awards. You were SORELY missed.

But I promised I wouldn’t, so, I won’t. Another FABULOUS moment I enjoyed, Mr. Quinto and Mr. Bomer appearing together on stage. It was like the ideal gay couple, two uber-beauties of great talent. If they are the product of Carnegie-Mellon, I — for the first time in my life — am considBomer Quinto screenshotering a visit to Pittsburgh. WOW. And, here’s the thing, a dear friend of mine met Mr. Quinto in NYC when she went to see The Glass Menagerie (he was robbed, by the way, not being nominated) and had a bowl of soup with him, pre-matinee. Now, follow me, Mr. Quinto used to date Jonathan Groff, with whom, we can presume, he spent time naked. Mr. Groff, later, filmed the HBO series, Looking, in which he spent time naked with my future husband, Russell Tovey. THUS, my dear A having soup with Mr. Q, puts me at 3 degrees of separation from my future husband, Russell Tovey! HOW FREAKING EXCITING IS THAT?

Tovey, Russell Mar 2014 asstovey, russell tweet

And, speaking of amazing: Mr. Jason Robert Brown wins the Tony Awards for Best Score and Best Orchestrations for his musical, The Bridges of Madison County. A musical by one of the greatest living writers of musical theatre, a musical with the best score and orchestrations is SOMEHOW not nominated for best musical, both awards are presented during commercial breaks, and instead of a song from that show we get one from Sting’s yet to be presented musical and one from yet-to-be-produced Finding Neverland, and some WHAT-THE-FUCK rap version of The Music Man? ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?  Some team of producers, somewhere, is smoking crack, or, in the interest of equal opportunity, they hired straight men to write the broadcast?

AND WHILE ALL THAT WAS AWFUL ENOUGH … (warning- BITCHY THEATRE QUEEN ALERT) … how in the hell did the transcendent goddess, Kelli O’Hara, once again get denied the Tony Award she so richly deserves? I am gob-smacked. Flabbergasted. Appalled. Horrified. Disgusted. Furious. All I can think, again, is that old, heterosexual white men who vote Republican were mistakenly given the vote (which explains Clint Eastwood being on the Tony Awards — CLINT FUCKING EASTWOOD? REALLY?) and so knew who Carole King was because they spent their youths trying to get laid by playing Tapestry  for co-eds.


WHATEVER. By that point, my promise not to drink more than one glass of wine was — understandably — broken. I mean, alcohol was the only logical relief for such an egregious oversight and dis of all that is Broadway. SO, yes, hooray for Audra and NPH and the awards given to Mr. Jason Robert Brown, but big-loud-picketing boos for the lack of respect given to Bridges and BIG FISH – I mean, NOT ONE NOMINATION?

So, well, joy and sadness, great excitement and great disappointment — kind of like dating, and life, right? All I know is, if last night didn’t get me to start smoking again, nothing will. I OBJECT!

Speaking of which, this is supposed to be an I OBJECT(IFY) post and so must include an almost naked man … luckily Harry Styles was Tweeted almost nude by a cousin … I don’t know about you, but I never hung out without pants around my cousins … maybe I needed better cousins? LOL.

Styles, Harry

I know, I should stick to objectifying Russell, after all, we are engaged to be married — when I’m finally committed … to an asylum somewhere.

Tovey, Russell Mar 2014 2

Tovey, Russell Jan 2014

Tovey, Groff Looking 5

Tovey, Groff Looking 4

Tovey, Groff Looking 3

Tovey, Groff Looking 2

Tovey, Groff Looking 1

Looking 5

My lover, Russell Tovey, after one more satisfying and exhausting session of passionate sex

My lover, Russell Tovey, after one more satisfying and exhausting session of passionate sex

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

My BOYFRIEND, Russell Tovey

My HUSBAND, Russell Tovey

My HUSBAND, Russell Tovey




The Arts, capital A, are dead.

The weekend started badly late last night when I got on Twitter and saw the news that Jason Robert Brown’s The Bridges of Madison County was closing on Broadway May 18. I find this incredibly disturbing for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that after the success of its live broadcast of The Sound of Music, NBC has announced another “live musical broadcast”, this time, another Mary Martin vehicle, Peter Pan. Not to be outdone, and not to risk being anywhere near as tasteful, FOX has announced plans for a live production of Grease. Now, far be it from me to cavil and complain about this trend — at least musicals are being done and anything that brought singing Audra McDonald and Laura Benanti to television, good thing — but why can’t one of the twelve kabillio-jillion networks produce versions of NEW MUSICALS? Maybe, just maybe, if the networks were made to take seriously their charge to use the airwaves for some service, some good, rather than everything in the entire fucking world being about how one can monetize and maximize profits, we’d live in a world where things that can’t be reduced to a slogan on a T-shirt that can catch the eye on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter, would thrive. Or, at least, exist. That the two most considered, constructed, beautifully scored, sung and performed musicals of the year, Andrew Lippa’s Big Fish and Jason Robert Brown’s The Bridges of Madison County , closed after such short runs is a tragic and sorry commentary — NOT on the state of musical theatre, but, rather, on the lack of educated audience enough existing to support such non-blockbuster, insightful, moving works of Art. Yes, ART. LISTEN:

Stories told with such glorious music, must MUST exist. I can’t imagine a world in which all we have to pass on to the next generation are songs like those from Grease and Disney musicals — NOT that those don’t have a place, they DO, but they CANNOT be the only place. CALLING MR WILLIAMS!

streetcar 1

streetcar 2

streetcar 3

streetcar 4

streetcar 5

And as if that weren’t enough to ruin my weekend, an article by Will Self in The Guardian called The Novel is Dead (this time it’s for real) [CLICK HERE TO READ] is all over the place, being Tweeted and copied and posted and generally showing up everywhere to beat me about the head and heart with its pronouncement of the death of literary fiction and Art — YES DAMMIT, CAPITAL A — in general. Oh lord. Listen to Mr. Self:

The literary novel as an art work and a narrative art form central to our culture is indeed dying before our eyes. Let me refine my terms: I do not mean narrative prose fiction tout court is dying – the kidult boywizardsroman and the soft sadomasochistic porn fantasy are clearly in rude good health. And nor do I mean that serious novels will either cease to be written or read. But what is already no longer the case is the situation that obtained when I was a young man. In the early 1980s, and I would argue throughout the second half of the last century, the literary novel was perceived to be the prince of art forms, the cultural capstone and the apogee of creative endeavour. The capability words have when arranged sequentially to both mimic the free flow of human thought and investigate the physical expressions and interactions of thinking subjects; the way they may be shaped into a believable simulacrum of either the commonsensical world, or any number of invented ones; and the capability of the extended prose form itself, which, unlike any other art form, is able to enact self-analysis, to describe other aesthetic modes and even mimic them. All this led to a general acknowledgment: the novel was the true Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk.

Now, first of all, you don’t get writing like that every day — AND THAT’S MY FUCKING POINT! I sent it to a few people — his link — and one replied that his sentences were too complex to really read right now. OH HOLY MOTHER OF GUTENBERG. That reply told me all I needed to know about the death of intellect. I mean, honestly?

I, myself, pander to the lowest common denominator by peppering my posts with “fucks” and including naked men. I NEVER get more hits than when I am tagged “big dick” — and not in the way it has been used throughout my life to refer to me, which, I assure you, has NOTHING to do with the size of my genitalia, but, rather, the length of my curmudgeonly attitude. I know those hits mean NOTHING, that those who hit on me because of my “big dick” are not reading me, don’t get me, know nothing about me, but STILL — I, too, have fallen for the zeitgeistian measure of what makes me matter.

I MUST BE A BIG BLOGGER. I was assured it was my SOLE path to being published. But, I write literary fiction. So, even if I managed to get published – WHO THE FUCK WOULD READ MY BIG DICKED PROSE? (Search that, baby.)

But, when it reigns — and by “IT” I mean cultural illiteracy, it pours. New York Magazine posted an item about the rumored (and, it seems, still to happen) Amtrak residencies for writers [CLICK HERE TO READ] with this sentence near its opening:

The Amtrak Writers’ Residency was a comic marketing proposition from the start — one ancillary, antiquated business (rail service) teaming up with another (books) full of people so needful of acknowledgment and peace of mind that they’d consider a week in a four-by-seven sleeper room a “residency.”

A sentence managing to announce the desperate state of literature as Art form while also heralding the death of train travel. Oh please. Please. KILL ME. Or, don’t, because apparently now after killing someone, you sue their family for relief from the pain and suffering killing them caused YOU! Yes, a woman is suing the family of a boy she fatally struck with her SUV while speeding. No shit. Read it here at VICE.COM

Talk about your big dick. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

I canNOT. Just CAN NOT. And this whole “the owner of the Clippers is a racist” — uhm, yeah. Well, how is this a surprise? And the fact that a sports team is worth a billion dollars, and that college sports tournaments sell more tickets at higher prices than a Broadway musical, that JUST IN THE PAST FEW MONTHS a high school athlete can call someone a “faggot” and harass and abuse and NOT get called on it so he WON’T LOSE HIS SCHOLARSHIP — I mean, the world is a mess. THE WORLD IS A MESS AND I CAN JUST BARELY LEAVE MY ROOM.

may 2 2014 celeb

In fact, I am going away. I am house/pet sitting beginning tomorrow (after seeing Megan Hilty tonight, yes, that’s right — CAPITAL A, ART!) and I will not be back until Tuesday and I am taking with me only my books. I may not even shower. Definitely not shaving. Just holing up, cuddling with dogs, turning off the BIG DICK-ed whole entire FUCKING world. (Hit that) And here are the pics for those of you who only came here for … you know …

May 2 2014 crop

may 2 gif 1

may 2 gif 4

may 2 gif 3

may 2 gif 2






It’s Patti LuPone’s birthday. If this country had ANY culture at all, this would be a national fucking holiday. Make it SO!


I have twice seen Miss LuPone in concert, both times with my sister, Debbie. Most recently as a gift from my dear friend, Andrea. I was first row, center. Miss LuPone smiled at me. Debbie and Andrea, great gifts in my life.

Here is that famous moment from Will and Grace:

Here is Ladies Who Lunch from Stephen Sondheim’s Company:

I went to Bethesda to see the Company filmed concert with my dear Cody, during one of the worst summers of my life, he stuck by me and never made me feel like my sorrow was a burden to him. We wept through this. And I was a burden. And he still has never complained about it. Love him. Great gift in my life.

I saw her in Sweeney Todd on Broadway. Third row. Aisle. A-fucking-mazing.

I first saw Sweeney Todd, decades earlier, on Broadway, starring Angela Lansbury. My dear aunt, Sissie, took me. And years later I starred in a summer stock production as Sweeney, across from my dear, dear Kayte as Mrs. Lovett, and directed by my dear friend and the best director I ever had, who always made me good, my love, Josh. Sissie, Kayte, Josh, great gifts in my life.

I also saw Miss LuPone in her final concert performance of Gypsy – a show I had also, coincidentally, seen decades earlier with Sissie and starring Angela Lansbury. The final concert performance also happened to be on the same day as the final performance of Grey Gardens on Broadway. Both, in one day, great gifts in my life.

But it was The Baker’s Wife that first brought Miss LuPone to my attention. That album . . . it changed my life. Here she is doing Meadowlark from that show in a cabaret act after having just played the killer vocal role of Evita. Yep. Same night. Holy shit. WHAT A GIFT MISS LUPONE HAS BEEN TO MY LIFE.

I needed Patti LuPone’s birthday today, because this has not been a particularly wonderful past few days, weeks even, and I have been having one of those bursting into stupid tears sort of days, so, thank you Patti LuPone. Here’s more of that Will and Grace clip, extended. GENIUS.

I love our brassy, magnificent trap.

And here is one of my favorites of yours:

And then, oh holy shit . . . this . . . double diva divine heaven . . .







#StephenSondheim HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Stephen_Sondheim_-_smokingI love and adore Stephen Sondheim. His work, his example, his presence on this earth has so enriched my life in ways and to degrees incalculable. What to list? How to list? Do I go on about what it meant to me to see Angela Lansbury in Gypsy and Sweeney Todd? Or, how incredibly rewarding and life altering it was to play Sweeney in Sweeney Todd? Or, to play Marta in Company and sing Another Hundred People, decades before real-Broadway had nerve to go gay with the show? Or, how about all of the times and casts of Follies I have seen? Or, oh my, yes, all the versions of Merrily We Roll Along, including the one I directed? And that time I was asked to sing Not A Day Goes By for my dearest . . .

No, you see, there it is and there you have it, not a day goes by that I do not, somehow, somewhere, have Sondheim’s words, music, work, his genius, as part of my life, my history, my heart.

Thank you, Mr. Sondheim. I love you.

Sondheim stephen_sondheim-300x300

And your music . . . your words . . . your music . . . your words . . . your heart . . . your soul . . . your music . . .  your words . . .



Oscar Weekend w/ Sebastian and Charlie: A Hate Story (Part 2)

Your intrepid – or, insipid and insane – blogger has stopped drinking again. Well, in any event, he hasn’t had a drink since Friday night’s debauch with DB which he described in the previous entry. Sadly, it is not the only withdraw he has had to withstand this weekend, and, apparently, these multiple shocks to his system have resulted in the manifestation of multiple psychopathies including writing about himself in the third person and the re-emergence of his multiple, the English and erudite and snarkily cruel, Sebastian (CLICK HERE to read about Sebastian’s first appearance). (He’s a Brit, so he puts the periods outside the parentheses).

Well, I watched the Oscars last night.I’m house-sitting at a place with HBO, so, it was a struggle to decide because there was my boyfriend, Russell Tovey, on HBO in Looking. And, his play just closed in England and he’d Tweeted out another shot of himself in his underwear and  . . . well, LOOK:

Tovey, Russell Pass Instagram

I mean, you can see why I was torn? But, I watched the Oscars.

I had to; there was going to be a 75th Anniversary Tribute to Judy Garland’s The Wizard of Oz at which Joey Luft was going to join his sisters, Lorna Luft and Liza Minnelli, and, I mean, who in the world wouldn’t want to see that? See it, I did. I thought Pink singing Over The Rainbow was – well, the thing is, I thought it was incredibly sincere and deeply felt, but, you just don’t breathe between syllables of words and in the middle of phrases that are all one thought. You just don’t. That said, I was weeping – not just a little – but, rather, out of control heaving. And then came a text from DB. One word: “Crying?”

ENOUGH. This is Sebastian. DB is hardly psychic. It was the sob heard round the world as every aging bender, poofter and queen dissolved predictably when the original over-the-rainbow role-model of psychotic vulnerability and drug addiction was feted by the homo-mafia run film industry by trotting out her trio of troubled progeny, clearly so manic and maladjusted they weren’t even allowed ON THE STAGE, but, instead, safely displayed – out of microphone range – in all their derangement in the audience. When they were asked to stand up, the camera quickly cut away before the worldwide audience bore witness to the blue-haired (and not in the dignified way) one – dressed in a sheath dyed to match the streak in her hair, an outfit seemingly designed by the raised-from-the-dead Halston, meant to double as a body-bag when she dropped dead from cocaine overdose at the after-party.

Stop it. This is why I don’t like to let him out. English people can be so cruel. I promised myself as I watched and after that I would NOT be mean and snarky and vitriolic. And then, John Travolta came on and introduced Idina Menzel. Or, as he called her, Adele Dazim. WTF?

It was too much for me, even when I was sober. Or, especially when I was sober? I IMMEDIATELY Tweeted: “Maybe #JohnTravolta isn’t gay if he can’t even say #IdinaMenzel”

I thought it was pretty funny. It was RT-ed by a few people. Until it was stolen by a New York actor type without attribution and suddenly RT-ed by all sorts of out-of-my-league-ish people. Which pissed me off and made me sad. But, it didn’t make me drink. And, I also didn’t feel too badly about having said it as Twitter exploded with New York-y type musical theatre diva-folk going wild about the Travoltalk pronunciation. Betty Buckley, Laura Benanti, Audra McDonald, etc. So. There. I forgive myself.

OH FUCK FORGIVENESS. Sebastian here again. Stop with the git-fairy, aspirational toff shite. He’s a total mess since Saturday. He knew that the going was coming. Enlistments only last so long. Then people move on. It came. The ending. It wasn’t as if there was any commitment other than temporary comfort. So, now he’s left with a picture, finally, and a name he has promised never to say out loud – at least they finally shared the truth – and one more sad story only he and one other person knows, along with a collection of texts and emails, the syntax and spelling and grammar of which alone should make him weep. And this all comes of having spent too much of his youth wanting to be like Judy and too much of his adulthood following the likes of Adele Dazim. No more ballads, Charles. Get a grip. Or, start drinking again. Or, for fuck’s sake, throw out the Starbucks cup he drank from Saturday that you’re saving and go out and FIND someone like Russell Tovey – you know, WHO IS NOT ASKING TO BE SAVED AND IS ACTUALLY ABLE TO LOVE OUT LOUD?

… i happen to like new york … so quit DESTROYING it … oh, and naked priests and fratboys

Last evening I had one of those epiphanies of the not-very-lovely variety. I will spare you the details except to say that it started while standing in five degree weather at a gas pump and reading a rude unto purposely corrosive and belittling message on my phone and continued as if orchestrated by some evil force in the Universe with messages that didn’t come and Tweets that did and realizations that I was not and would never be something I very much thought I wanted to be and, worse, I was addicted to wanting that “state of being” in that particular circumstance in ways that were quite damaging and not only not affirming, but, destructive. And …

Today, I woke up with a cat on my head.

Well, not technically ON my head, but right by my pillow, purr-snoring away. A couple of things about this;

  • 1)Last night was my first on this house/pet sitting gig and usually night one is marked by an inability to sleep soundly. Nope. Tucked in at midnight, intending to breeze through some samples of books I’ve let back up on my Kindle, made it through one and was off to dreamland (which is no reflection on the book – which – SURPRISE – I bought.)
  • 2)I am not REALLY a cat person. Felines are all too like recalcitrant, presumptive, stubborn, sneaky teens and just when you relax into thinking one can be trusted, the claws draw blood. In addition, I have stayed with this cat before and it has had little interest in spending any time anywhere near me – which is okay with me – so I was SOME confused when I woke at 5:30 to its purring by my head. (I went right back to sleep and didn’t get up until 7:30 – which is ALSO odd, since my two doggie friends here – in the past – have asked that I rise no later than 6a.m.)
My buds, all three sharing the couch, and through the doorway you can see the kitchen table - i.e. MY OFFICE - piled high with my books and bags of writing supplies. LOVE THIS HOUSE!

My buds, all three sharing the couch, and through the doorway you can see the kitchen table – i.e. MY OFFICE – piled high with my books and bags of writing supplies. LOVE THIS HOUSE!

So, weird – though not unpleasant – energy is coursing through me and this house. My friends also have “gotten” that I read and write from the time I get up until late morning, early afternoon and have relaxed themselves, allowing me my work time. That’s all three of them on the couch we share later in the day and in the evening to watch T.V. – speaking of which

Evan Peters - my future husband - and Jessica Lange - my future BFF -in AMERICAN HORROR STORY: COVEN

Evan Peters – my future husband – and Jessica Lange – my future BFF -in AMERICAN HORROR STORY: COVEN

AMERICAN HORROR STORY: COVEN returns tonight. I’m ridiculously anticipatory about this.

So, I woke up thinking about New York … I know I still haven’t finished sharing my thoughts about my pre-New Year’s trip, which is why I woke up today thinking “NEW YORK” and I meant to tell the tale but first, I had this COMPULSION to hear Cole Porter’s “I Happen To Like New York” and who better than Audra McDonald (CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW HER ON TWITTER) to sing it? Here you go. You’re welcome.

Who doesn’t love New York? (That’s rhetorical. If you don’t – or you know someone who doesn’t – please, don’t tell me. Although, if I can remain friends with Republicans and Evangelical Christians, I guess I can remain friends with people who don’t like New York City – but, really? Maybe not. There have to be LINES DRAWN.) But it’s disappearing. Nina Garcia (CLICK HERE FOR HER TWITTER) sent a Tweet this very morning linking to an article on Gothamnist about the closing of a Barnes & Noble. READ IT HERE – TRAGEDY!

Tragedy like THE ALGONQUIN HOTEL which has been DESTROYED by the Marriott Corporation. I cannot – CANNOT – tell the entire story yet because it is still KILLING me – but suffice it to say that from the moment I walked in and saw the bullshit furniture with which Marriott had seen fit to pollute the lobby and then had to wait nearly thirty minutes for a drink – which I REALLLLLLLLLLLLLY needed after seeing the so-called updating that had been done by some tasteless, corporate pretend-designer – I was (and remain) flabbergasted and – well – look at this:

The godawful rug and table and lamp - those tables and lamps are THROUGHOUT the lobby - WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GORGEOUS INDIVIDUAL LAMPS AND TABLES FROM BEFORE?

The godawful rug and table and lamp – those tables and lamps are THROUGHOUT the lobby – WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GORGEOUS INDIVIDUAL LAMPS AND TABLES FROM BEFORE?

The so-called chandeliers - I MEAN WHAT THE HELL - which my companion said put him in mind of anal beads. Yes. That.

The so-called chandeliers – I MEAN WHAT THE HELL – which my companion said put him in mind of anal beads. Yes. That.

And as if these HORRID and UNCOMFORTABLE chairs weren't bad enough - all over the lobby - ugh - WHERE ARE THE OLD ONES? -these "new" ones are already torn, tattered, and exposing their cheapness - ARGHHH!

And as if these HORRID and UNCOMFORTABLE chairs weren’t bad enough – all over the lobby – ugh – WHERE ARE THE OLD ONES? -these “new” ones are already torn, tattered, and exposing their cheapness – ARGHHH!

I can’t go on. I will describe the whole HORRIFYING Algonquin Hotel experience later. Some day when I can do so without wanting to slit my wrists.

In the meantime, I needed a laugh this morning after all this disappearing New York City of my youth breakdown. I mean, I used to FIT in New York City and the Algonquin. Those were my places. Those were my people. Now, where do I go?

orthodox calendarWell, I have NEVER had any use for sororities or fraternities. To me, they were (and are) discriminatory organizations meant to affirm those habits of exclusivity based on gender, race, class, and some level of assumed superiority and qualifying difference of class or “our kind of people”-ism which just further inculcates the biases and bigotries of a fascist patriarchal hetero-normative society and its traditions of classism, sexism, racism, homophobia, etc, etc, etc . . . Feel the same way about almost all religions. In fact, feel the same way about almost any group. So, imagine my delight to come across (so to speak) the following two videos. The first is from BuzzFeed about an Orthodox Church Calendar (CLICK HERE) – and the second is from The Daily Grind about a frathouse I might actually enjoy being a part of (CLICK HERE)

Yes, so, I’m thinking . . . I have this great reputation for being responsible, reliable, supplies his own liquor and loves them like his own house and pet sitter – so, maybe, just maybe, there’s a frathouse somewhere that needs a sitter? I’ll bring my own liquor (and I am a giving person – so I’d probably share) and with any luck at all … instead of waking up with a cat by my head, I’ll wake up with a fratboy in close proximity – now that I could pet.

… such beauty … the music …

I have lived an incredibly gorgeous life in many, many ways … and especially magical has been the presence of the magic of musical theatre and what it has done for me and meant to me … and tonight I have been listening to such gorgeousness … here is some of it … first of all, Miss Julia Murney singing Kander & Ebb’s “Colored Lights:

And Audra McDonald and Norm Lewis singing Gershwin … Please. Could a year begin any better?

And 33 years ago and STILL it hasn’t been equalled … oh man, Broadway musicals are so ridiculously MAGICAL …

And, oh lord … this?

Or, oh my god, this?

Or this version of it … what a hilarious genius …

Which takes me here …

And, naturally, back to Audra – oh such love …

And that makes me want to laugh a bit and so …

And I couldn’t start a “new year” without this genius and gift to music …

Now, I have to go to sleep . . . goodnight and good year my dears … I am off to dream of being assimilated …