Plastic Bubble World

Flash!

2012-01-21T08:41:00.000-08:00

The bank is my stage.

Well, it is outdoors anyway, right out in front.

What do some grownups do for fun? We randomly start dancing to recorded music right out in public, in front of God and everyone, in a seemingly spontaneous manner.

Yay!

I have always wanted to be part of a flash mob, and I will be performing in my first one tomorrow - Sunday, at 1:30 pm, in Hollywood, at Sunset and Vine.

I apologize for such short notice but apparently that's part of the whole deliberate process, the sorta'-kinda' almost-last-minute notice. It's to keep the element of surprise in it, at least to some degree . . . I'm guessing.

We will be tap dancing in sneakers, on the front steps of Chase bank, at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Vine Street. If you're in the neighborhood around 1:30 pm, keep an eye out for a large group of people dressed in the simple uniform of white shirts and black pants.

We will be tapping to Madonna's "Ray of Light." The rehearsals this week have been a joyful process for me. I love to dance, and I love working on a live performance with other dancers and performers.

My new friend, Fran, was the one who told me about Flash Theater L.A. (you can find them on facebook). Fran was one of the singers in last month's performance for "A Little Tokyo Christmas." She asked if I was available to tap dance in tomorrow's performance, the first of twenty flash mob performances scheduled for this year!

Woo hoo!

Husband Hunting

2012-01-17T07:43:00.001-08:00

There is much that I am able to take for granted, having the freedom to live as an openly gay man. I am not constantly viewed by women as potential marriage material, thanks to current times and my geographical location.

How awkward would that be, always?

I was lured once, in the mid 90's, during my first contract in Japan. I met Hiromi at a small gym in the suburban city of Miyazaki. She was one of the few women that came to exercise in the independently owned facility. She didn't speak any English, and my Japanese was limited. Still, we were able to make enough conversation for her to learn that I was 29-years-old and from America - and single.

I can't remember who invited me to dinner, whether it was Hiromi herself or her friend, Keiko. I went to the apartment home of Keiko and her husband, which seemed like neutral territory, a gift box of cookies in hand. I had lived in Japan before, so I knew not to show up as a guest empty-handed.

Dinner felt stiffly polite and mostly comfortable. Keiko and her husband had two daughters, and I am always more relaxed around children.

"Wasn't the casserole delicious?" Keiko asked me in Japanese. "Isn't Hiromi a good cook?"

I wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but I had the feeling of being baited. We finished dinner and dessert, and I made sure to thank both Keiko and Hiromi before saying good night.

I didn't tell Hiromi I was gay. I didn't want to step on any one's cultural toes, so I felt it would be polite to stay in the closet, at least around the Japanese who were not my coworkers. In the mid 90's even the Japanese male dancers were still talking about "my girlfriend in Tokyo" (which was the same thing as the "my girlfriend in Canada" claim made by the closeted puppet in "Avenue Q").

I saw Hiromi a few more times, but only at the gym. I finished my contract and went back home to America.

A few years later, I returned to Japan for a second contract. I renewed my membership at the same little gym. I didn't see Hiromi, not at first, and not at the gym. She had gotten married and had become a mother.

I was a little relieved.

Hiromi had married one of the regulars from the gym, a man slightly shorter than me, and more physically fit than I could ever hope to be. Her husband had won a local body building competition. A picture of him, holding his first place trophy and wearing only his competition briefs, was prominently displayed on the gym wall. I was glad that Hiromi had landed an honest-to-God straight husband.

I left my second contract feeling less guilty about Hiromi.

The Importance of Being Fake

2012-01-11T07:51:00.000-08:00

Me and my petty problems. This is how hard my life gets, or not hard, I should say: I let a Chinese woman upset me in the supermarket parking lot. At least, I think she was Chinese. She was definitely an immigrant, her English spoken with an FOB accent.

I was already annoyed with her. She had been behind me in the checkout line, and she had started loading her groceries on the conveyor belt before I had finished unloading my own cart.

Out in the parking lot, I should have just glanced politely at her flyer. I should have just smiled and thanked her for inviting me to her church. But no, passive-aggressive me - mostly passive - still wishes that I had more of a backbone, so I try to practice standing up for myself when I can.

"Oh, no thank you. I'm gay."

"You can be fixed," she countered. "Jesus can fix you."

"No, you're wrong. I disagree." These are two specific phrases that I have been trying to employ more in any conflict.

"You have to repent! My daughter was fixed, and you can be fixed, too!" (her daughter was gay? "was?") [is, probably, still] Her silent husband stood a few feet away, by their car.

"You're wrong!" I repeated as I got into my own car, slamming the door.

I wish I didn't let a situation like this make me so upset. I considered that she might have been feeling none too good about our conversation, either, maybe even worse than me. She was someone very much like my mother, with good intentions and just trying to do God's work, trying to do what she thought she was supposed to do.

It would have been better, easier, to just fake it and play the game, to just smile, nod politely, and pretend that I would actually consider visiting her church.

I am still learning when it's important to be fake and when it isn't.

I am still struggling with how honest to be with my mother. She gave me another Christian DVD for Christmas. She asked me if I had heard of the speaker (no). In his DVD, she told me, he speaks about how he was healed of "sexual brokenness." My mother thought that both Domestic Partner and I could benefit from the DVD.

We're sexually broken?

I'm used to receiving Christian self-help books and materials from my mother, so I try not to get too upset about it whenever I receive something new from her. During the post-Christmas clearing of clutter, I threw the DVD into the garbage.

"Did you watch the DVD yet?" she asked me this past weekend.

I lied. "No, I haven't gotten around to it. I added it to the pile of other DVD's I've been trying to get to, most of them still in shrink wrap."

Passive-aggressive, right? It makes me angry. I'd really like to tell her that her view of me as "broken" is damaging. I have been her son for almost 46 years. As long as she keeps thinking that there is still something about me that needs fixing, I will never feel accepted by her.

I always think about asking her if she would be willing to consider the other side(s) of the issue and read any books or materials from PFLAG.

How long do I nurse these decades-old hurt feelings? How do I let go of these grudges and still maintain a relationship with my mother?

My mother is almost 70. I may have to fake it with her for only another two decades or so, maybe less.

Dreams Come True a Little

2012-01-04T07:39:00.000-08:00

I didn't know if I would be asked back again, this year. If I wasn't invited back, I had made up my mind that I would not feel jealous and left out. I would be supportive, instead, and buy tickets to cheer on my friends. I would not be the old Petty Pete that I'm still trying to leave in the past.

The second annual "A Little Tokyo Christmas" was performed last month, at the East West Players theater in downtown Los Angeles. I was asked to return, to sing and dance, and I was very happy to be included. I didn't really invite anyone to come see me perform (I know . . . a bit hypocritical). BFF Kathy couldn't believe that I almost didn't invite her and her children.

The holiday show, while well above community theater level, is definitely a hodgepodge of a community show, much of it cheesy and even corny - which I love! The cast consists of Asian American actors, directors, and playwrights, some with notable stage and screen credits. Actors such as Tamlyn Tomita, John Cho, and the radiant Amy Hill volunteered their time to be part of a one-day-only event with two performances. So, for someone like me, it is a fun privilege to get to play on stage with so many talented folks.

Tamlyn was on 'glee' this season, so, of course I had to foist myself on, I mean, talk to her. I get starstruck too easily, so I have to make some effort to rein it in and not geek out too much with "recognizable names" such as her (or "gleek" out, in this case). Rodney K. was also back in the show this year, my unofficial mentor and role model for how to age fabulously as a Japanese American gay man.

This year's theme was "A Little Tokyo Christmas goes to Las Vegas." We opened with the tune made famous by Elvis, "Viva Las Vegas." Other acts included a Supremes medley and an elf toyshop sketch mimed by a superb acting troupe. There was also a beautiful trapeze act worthy of any Cirque du Soleil show, and a rousing performance of "Proud Mary" toward the end of the second act (I couldn't sit still in my seat during the dress rehearsal for that one!).

Not very Christmas-y? Well, we had a theme to adhere to, as much as possible, and everyone contributed with their strongest talents and fortes. Really, though, it felt more like a Motown Christmas during rehearsals, which I had suggested as the next theme.

One of the numbers I sang in was a Four Seasons song called "Let's Hang On." I wasn't familiar with the tune but I was thrilled to learn and perform a nostalgic doo-wop number. I absolutely relish singing any type of four-part harmonies, and adding dance moves puts me right into performance heaven. I don't know if I'll ever accomplish my goal of being in a production of "Forever Plaid" or even "Jersey Boys" but performing this one Frankie Valli/Four Seasons song allowed me to live out that fantasy for a bit.

I love the instant family atmosphere that I always feel with this particular theater group, with friends both old and new. I love the perspective it provides of being part of the Asian American communities in Los Angeles. It's always like a fun reunion whenever I am part of a project with East West Players. And it's a chance to meet the younger, up-and-coming actors, dancers, and singers, some of them already well established in the professional theater world.

If there is a third annual A Little Tokyo Christmas show, I'll give you a little advanced notice here in this blog.

I am the Pretty-pretty Mermaid

2012-01-01T19:15:00.000-08:00

I had a few days off from work this past week. I went to the Long Beach aquarium with BFF Kathy and her children. Kathy and I realized it had been six years since we had last visited the aquarium. Her youngest, now seven, had crawled around the outdoor play area in his diapers last time. "Squirt the baby!" young children had yelled while he splashed about in the small puddles. Kathy said his diaper had inflated to full size, being super absorbent (with no wings, however).

We arrived early, not finding any of the freeway traffic we had anticipated. While waiting for other friends to arrive, we ran across the street to Pike Place and looked at the holiday decorations. Naturally, there was an ocean theme infused among the green and blue Christmas trees. The clam shells were big enough for a 7-year-old to crawl in. Kathy's camera clicked away as her kids sat in one of the boats. Almost instinctively, I perched myself upon the bow of the tiny ship and struck what I hoped was the beautiful pose of a carved, wooden mermaid. I think it worked. You decide.

In my mind, I am a mermaid while I listen to Madonna's song, "Swim," if only symbolically. It is a song of meditation for me, of baptism, and of death and renewal:

I can't carry these sins on my back, don't want to carry any more
I'm going to carry this train off the track, I'm going to swim to the ocean floor
Crash to the other shore . . .

I envision pushing off my old self, shuffling off my mortal coil, at least from the waist down, liberating a deep lilac, shining lavender tail to swim toward a newer version of myself, toward more of the life that I want to live.

2011 was a good year, but I want to work on pushing past some of my old self, and morphing toward reaching my goals, swimming closer to accomplishment, including my writing goals.

I have a good life. I am safe. I am free. Sometimes I forget to focus on those facts, but I am always grateful when I remember them.

First World Problems

2011-12-07T07:50:00.000-08:00

(click on the image above to enlarge)

Pounding the pavement
Paying my dues
Past my prime

Pounding the pavement, starting over
Paying my dues, work my way from the bottom
Past my prime - what is age appropriate?

Pounding the pavement, auditions!
Paying my dues, willing to be in the ensemble, chorus
Past my prime - am I too old to be doing this?

Pounding the pavement, pounding my ego
Paying my dues, learning - again - to deal with rejection
Past my prime . . . when does this start to be too ridiculous?

Where do I draw the line?
(when do I come to my senses?)

And yet

I still have the passion to perform
Still I have the desire

Next audition

The Cheap Skateboard Betrayal

2011-10-16T20:05:00.000-07:00

We were runts. We were the squirts at the bottom of the campus totem pole. As eighth graders, we were the lowest grade at our five year high school, the junior high schools having been shut down in the late 70's, due to budget cuts in the city of La Mirada. At 13-years-old, it would be months, even years before some of us reached our growth spurts. The juniors and seniors at the high school seemed to tower over us.

Some days I rode my skateboard to school, if I wasn't carrying my trumpet case to 'zero period' jazz band. It was a cheap skateboard but it worked. It was salmon pink in color, just reddish enough not to look like a girl's skateboard, so the color never bothered me.

It may have been made of compressed fiber glass, I'm not sure. But it looked like it was made of thick plastic, which looked more like candle wax when it got scuffed. My Aunt Pat had given it to me for our first Christmas back in the U.S., after we had moved back from Japan. I was 10-years-old when I received it. I hadn't seen any skateboards as a kid in Japan, so I was happy to have such a very American toy.

But it wasn't a cool skateboard, not for a junior high school student, and especially not at a high school campus. The cool skateboards were much bigger and more expensive. They looked like mini surfboards, almost, made of flat, sturdy wood and lined with black strips of non-skid material. They were true status symbols.

I didn't care that my skateboard was smaller, something that should have been left behind with the other toys from elementary school days. As a runty eighth grader, I had already found acceptance among the other social misfits in the school's marching band. I didn't have to worry about anyone making fun of me for my cheap skateboard, not around the band room, at least. Hanging outside the band room with the other band geeks, during the mid morning snack break and at lunch, was always a safe haven.

Shawn was one of the other eighth graders in band. He played percussion, mostly bass drum which was funny because he was shorter and punier than me. He practically looked like a sixth grader with the giant coin of a bass drum strapped to him for halftime practices in the mornings.

During snack break one morning, Shawn asked to borrow my skateboard. He rode it up and down, short distances, past the band room and theater department, and back again to the gated entrance by the one of the side streets.

"I'm going to the snack bar to get something to eat," Shawn told me. "I'll be right back."

I panicked a little. "Leave the skateboard here. Don't take it with you!"

Shawn must have thought I was worried about not getting it back. "Don't worry! I'll bring it right back!" He rolled away, past the theater department and toward the main quad area in front of the gym.

I'm not sure why I ended up at the snack bar, too, a few minutes later. I almost never went, mostly because there was never enough extra money for a daily Hostess fruit pie or a bag of potato chips. I must have agreed to walk over with one of the other band geeks.

I saw Shawn waiting in line among a crowd of students, most of them taller than us. And most of them cooler than us, if only for the fact that they weren't in band. Some of them had the cooler, bigger wooden skateboards.

I'll never forget the look of embarrassment and slight fear in Shawn's eyes, behind his glasses. Without a word, he kicked the skateboard to me as I approached the snack bar lines. My face heated up with embarrassment as I picked up the salmon pink skateboard. This was exactly what I had wanted to avoid - having people see my stupid, baby toy among all of the more sophisticated skateboards.

Shawn never said a word about it to me later, back in the band room, or any time after that.

One of the reasons I remember this event is that I wrote about it in my journal. For some reason, I wrote that Shawn had run up to me later to apologize, and to thank me for taking on the embarrassment of the situation.

He never did that. But even in my own private journal I felt the need to tweak as much of a happy ending as possible for that entry. I guess I also felt the need to protect Shawn, even if I was upset with him.

This was more than thirty years ago. I am reconnected with Shawn on facebook, now. I have never brought this memory up to him. I'm sure he doesn't remember it.

Die a Little Each Day

2011-10-09T20:08:00.000-07:00

It took some effort for me to plod through all four of the 'Twilight' books, but I ended up being glad that I did. The last one was my favorite. I enjoyed Stephanie Meyer's descriptions of the vampires' diamond-hard bodies, and of the marble stone texture that their skin acquired once they had died to their former mortal selves.

I especially appreciated the special power that the main character, Bella, discovered in her new vampire identity - her unique ability to protect her loved ones within an invisible force field, a protective mantle. I thought the author was smart to give her cast of vampire characters different super hero powers, considering her target audience.

I have been trying to apply the same concepts to my own body, even if just figuratively, to have my own human weakness and vulnerability "die" as much as possible in exchange for a harder, stronger self.

I entertain this theory while jogging flat-footed in the Vibrams Five Finger gloves. I run gingerly on neighborhood sidewalks, trying to gently absorb the shock through my non-supportive shoes, focusing on the beating my calves are taking, and visualizing the transformation of rock hard strength that permeates to the rest of my body.

I try to overlap these fictional concepts with the more realistic idea of our bodies' cells completely regenerating every seven years. While jogging I focus on the idea of old cells dying and being carried away as newer, stronger cells replace and rebuild my organs, my bones, and my skin. Part of my motivation to exercise is to deliberately die to my weaker self.

I also try to apply these concepts to my emotional state. If I've been frustrated by a day at work, or if I am angry about old dysfunctional family issues (again), I use exercise as a time of healing, of "dying to my old self," and building a new self in its place, even if just at the cellular level.

That's such a Protestant Christian ideal, thanks to my upbringing. But as people are always saying, it's more on a spiritual level for me than a religious one.

It's the only way I know how to "let go" for now, to move beyond the past with baby steps at an amateur and elementary level. At this point in my life, I don't know if I will ever be able to let go of my grudges and anger before I die. I believe in forgiveness, but not in forgetting.

I'm better now than I was in decades past. I like myself better, now, and I am more at peace with myself. But I still want to put to death parts of my former self. I want to kill off the weakest and most pathetic parts of who I used to be. The challenge is in killing only the weak and bad aspects while still keeping the best of me alive, including childlike innocence and perhaps even naivete.

The good and bad are too intertwined though. The weakest facets of who I am are too intermingled with the few strong parts of me to be killed off separately, it seems. Fallible and vulnerable I remain, not invincible. Playing with these concepts only reinforces the truth of how very human I am.

For now, I will continue to attempt dying to my former self on a daily basis, even if it is a lifelong process. I will stay inside my plastic bubble and reinforce it from within, one layer at a time, perpetually strengthening my own protective mantle.

My bubble is not a coffin: it is a cocoon.

What I Did For Love

2011-10-07T23:24:00.000-07:00

I did not get the Christmas caroling job. I am more disappointed than I want to admit, even to myself. I had really wanted this.

For the last month, a small part of me was still hoping that someone would have to drop out, and that I would be called in as a replacement.

And I've been "hiding from myself" because of my disappointment - part of the reason why I haven't been writing new posts for Plastic Bubble World lately . . .

My life is good. I have no real reason to complain about anything. If this is the worst my life gets, then I should just feel thankful - and I am.

I keep reminding myself to focus on the fact that I had a very good audition, good enough to have been invited to callbacks. Also, it's been over a year since I have been to an actual singing audition. It's foolish of me to think I can just automatically book the first gig I audition for, but that's what I had been counting on.

Next year. I'll try again next year, and I'll be better, more prepared.

I got to sing a couple of weeks ago at the annual Autumn Fest, a fund raiser for the Japanese American Cultural & Community Center in Little Tokyo. There are two reasons I enjoy this one night performance so much: I get to work with a small group of fun and amazingly talented theater friends, and I get to write new lyrics for familiar Broadway songs, lyrics to fit the evening's theme of the live auction.

I added another friend from the past on facebook. Dave was our Director/Choreographer for a production of 'A Chorus Line' that we did about a decade and a half ago. He posted a couple of pictures from the show on facebook. Our small, regional production is one of my most cherished memories of performing, so it's been encouraging to see these photos from the show's program again.

So I didn't get the caroling gig. So what? It just means I have to attend more auditions until I am in right place at the right time, again. I am ready to be in a show again.

I think.

It'll be exhausting when the right show and the right part comes along. The opportunities are out there, even at just community theater level, which would be fulfilling enough thanks to the day job. I can now afford to perform for fun. But I already know that I would be constantly exhausted, being at my desk job all day and at rehearsals all night, with fewer hours of sleep in between.

It'll be worth it - I know this from experience. There are pictures on facebook to prove it. I am ready and anxious to create more great memories.

(The photo above is from the recent Autumn Fest event in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles, with a few good - and talented! - friends from East West Players)

Fantastick Dreams of a 45-year-old

2011-08-24T08:05:00.000-07:00

August, 2011:
I have been attempting a Perfection streak, lately. I know I'll never actually reach a status of perfection, whether actual or only imaginary, but the perfectionist tendencies that a therapist had pointed out in me, back in '88, are coming in handy.

Focused, I am trying to stay focused. Goal: to get hired as Christmas caroler this holiday season, a paid caroler. I miss performing, all of the time. Missing the endorphin high of being on stage got me back to voice lessons last year, and led me to an excellent musical theater workshop.

Thank God.

All of last year's investment has turned into useful, tangible tools for working toward this year's specific goal of caroling.

My scooter has been in the shop for over a month, now. Normally, that would upset me because it means having to sit in Los Angeles traffic in my car. Instead, I'm just grateful that I even have a second vehicle to get to work and back. I'm not upset because my weensy smartcar has become my personal plastic bubble for practicing my vocal exercises.

I do warm-up exercises for singing on the way to work. On the way home, I sing along with a favorite musical, either "Little Shop of Horrors," "The Fantasticks," or "Jesus Christ Superstar." I have been exercising when I get home (after a triple shot of espresso), either going to Pilates class or jogging in my Vibrams five finger running gloves.

I'm up to five miles, now! I can't believe it. It's been hard but I'm doing it! I'm doing it!

I'll eat dinner as late as 9:30 pm on some nights. Domestic Partner can't believe it, but I will practice my audition songs around 10:00 pm or after, if that's as early as I can get to it. I ask him, "When else can I fit it in along with everything else?"

I've been averaging about six hours of sleep a night on this current schedule. Normally, this would start to take its toll in less than a week. Maybe I've been okay because it's still summer. Maybe the longer days help.

Recently, a high school friend posted photos on facebook, pictures from my first musical ever, "The Fantasticks." I love that they are in black and white, emphasizing my own nostalgic era that seems to mirror past decades before the early 80's. I even love that my stage make up is both poorly and overly done, highlighting the naivete and inexperience of my 17-year-old self - perfect for playing the role of Matt. What a gift to see these images again, after twenty-eight years.

Damn. Am I that old? It makes me laugh a little and smile. I don't feel "that old."
The pictures are such a lovely and vivid reminder of my original goals, and of the days when I wanted to be like the dancers and singers on the television series "Fame."

Twenty-eight years . . . And here I am, again, wishing and wanting and working to be a performer. I never stopped. Even if I can't be a perfect performer, working toward that status will make me a better and stronger performer.

The problem with perfection is the inherent improbability of it all. I can't do everything. I keep thinking about how I am not able to fit any writing attempts into my schedule of vocalizing and exercising.

I am okay with that, for now. My practice of perfection also doubles as an effort to build up my stamina. If I can stay consistent and strong with singing practice and jogging and other areas of my life, I know I can have the stamina to make regular attempts with my writing as well, hopefully in the near future.

I am practicing Believing in Myself.

Stay tuned for Fall - and Winter! - 2011/2012.

(The photo above is from our high school musical, "The Fantasticks," in 1983. Sharon, my show choir classmate, played Luisa to my Matt.)

Why I Love 'The Point of No Return'

2011-08-07T18:54:00.000-07:00

"I'll take it," Maggie says of the rundown apartment, barely more than a hovel, right on Santa Monica beach. She confirms this as soon as she sees the view from the second story window, of sea and sand and seagulls afloat in the air. The gentle introductory vocals of "Feeling Good" is cued.

Maggie had been trapped, first in the hell of drug addiction, and then in a secret government training facility. Her assassin training completed, she is finally free. Maggie, as played by Bridget Fonda, is quietly contemplative in the window seat of her newly rented digs while Nina Simone sings of freedom, one of my favorite scenes from 'The Point of No Return,' one of many.

I never saw the original French film that it was based on: 'La Femme Nikita.' I'm almost glad that I didn't as I had heard from a few people that it was better. I didn't want to stop loving the American version. Why did I become so attached to this movie about a female assassin?

The songs of Nina Simone definitely played a key factor. It was my first exposure to her music. I liked that Maggie describes it as "so savage, and so wild." I quickly learned to love the raw, almost masculine/gender-neutral quality of Miss Simone's singing voice, especially in the bittersweet melodies of "Wild is the Wind," and "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair."

I also loved that the character of Maggie is a survivor. Even in seemingly hopeless situations, she continues to fight and search for an escape. Early in the movie, handcuffed and sentenced to death in court (a faux sentence) she struggles and attempts to find a way out. Later, while working as an assassin, her instinct for survival helps her to find a way out of more than one lethal situation.

Charm school was also part of Maggie's training, as provided by Anne Bancroft's character. Initially an unkempt and unruly drug addict, Fonda's character is given a makeover, not only in appearance but also in ladylike behavior.

"Always smile when you enter a room, dear." Anne Bancroft advises. "It relaxes others - and, it lifts the features of the face."

With a better hairdo and tasteful, tailored clothes, Bridget Fonda gets to kick ass and fight the bad guys with some pretty convincing martial arts moves. A petite and rather scrawny actress, I'm inspired by the physical strength Fonda's character demonstrates, as well as her mental and emotional strengths.

Maggie walks away from it all at the end of the movie, which is probably the biggest reason why I love it so much - she simply walks away from everything. Fonda's character, for all of her government paid work, does not truly have the heart of a killer, and she wants to leave. She's told that she can't, at first, because it's the price she has to pay for her freedom. She walks away anyway, after waiting for and finding her chance - yet again - to escape.

Maggie survives being assassinated herself. Battered and bruised, she disappears into the morning fog of Santa Monica beach. She is seen, but then she is allowed to continue walking away. I love the symbolism of it.

I miss being able to escape, being able to run away on contract as a dancer, either on a cruise ship or to Japan. Going away on contract meant I didn't have to live in or deal with reality. Or the illusion of it, at least, taking a break from the real world, was convincing enough.

I have very little to run away from nowadays. I can live with myself. But some days I yearn to walk away, even if only on an emotional level, and just disappear into the fog.

Vibrams Running Shoes, a First Impression

2011-07-29T22:08:00.001-07:00

They felt like dance shoes, at first, especially when I wore them inside the gym for a work out with weights (you know, to break them in). Like ballet slippers or Capezio jazz flats, the Vibrams Five Fingers gloves seemed to wrap themselves around my feet, almost as if they had been shrink wrapped or laminated, even more so than the way socks feel.

Like aqua socks is more accurate - they weren't as buttery soft as ballet slippers. But they were certainly flat. I might as well have been barefoot, which I think is the point. And like dance shoes, the new Vibrams allowed me to reach a little further in dance-stretches than my usual cross trainers do.

Julie was the sales person who helped me at REI store. She looked like an expert on camping, with her short hair and sporty work outfit of a polo shirt and capri length cargo pants. She asked me if I had already run barefoot before. I had to admit that I had not. She warned me to start with a short distance, only a mile, even, and to build up from there. Only a mile? Pshaw. I've been doing six miles in an hour this summer. I was sure I could do half of my usual jog in my new Vibrams, first time out.

Two young Asian sisters in the store made fun of my new shoes while I was trying them on. "They look like alien feet, don't they?" I asked them. Or frog feet, sort of. What did they know? They were too young, still, to understand the need for shaking things up a bit when hitting a plateau in your normal exercise routine.

Okay, so maybe they were just young enough to not buy into this current fad of weird looking shoes, shoes that appeal to those of us that are desperate to be distinctive.

Julie was right. Today, I aimed for the intersection a mile-and-a-half away from our house, but I cut it short and turned around when I reached the traffic signal that was a half mile closer. It didn't hurt to jog in the flat-footed, no-support-at-all gloves, but it sure felt different, sort of like running barefoot on the beach but without as much of the shock absorbing give that sand has.

The new shoes also slowed down my pace. Songs on my iPod were ending quicker than I was used to before I was able to reach the usual half mile increments. Also, I didn't breathe as heavily as I normally do, even in only the first mile or two, so I don't know if I'm getting a less efficient cardio workout or not.

I'll try again tomorrow. I think I'll be able to reach the mile-and-a-half mark, this time, and complete three miles in my second attempt.

If I'm able to get out of bed, that is.

Tempering the Tears

2011-07-13T20:29:00.000-07:00

I have been part of staged readings this year, playing small parts in early drafts of new plays and musicals. The chance to be part of these projects came about thanks to the musical theater workshop classes I had been taking at ANMT, and the inherent networking that came with it.

As a former dancer-singer, I have never considered myself much of an actor, just more of a performer for musical theater and revues. But I love to get lost in a good story. I have been an avid reader for most of my life, and I love the escapism that a story can provide. With these recent readings I don't feel as if I'm acting so much - I'm getting to be part of telling tales, bringing pages to life.

This weekend I will be part of a revamped and revised performance of a new musical called "The Angel of Painted Post," a highly emotional project which we had performed once already, last month. As part of the ensemble, I play one of two fathers who have lost their sons in World War II. Even without ever having been a father, it was natural to get lost in the story of a grieving parent. Maybe having lost beloved pets was enough of a resource to provide method acting for my minor part.

It's a good thing that real tears are appropriate for these fictional characters. It is not difficult to "act" my grief in several parts of the show, including when the other father, a lead character, finds out how his son's life ended, and he expresses with great relief, "He didn't suffer! He didn't suffer!"

It has been too easy to cry, in fact, both during rehearsals and in performance. I avoid looking at the other characters directly, during some of the scenes, in order to temper my level of tears.

The character of the other father, played by Stephen, has a second, surviving son. The surviving son's character was played last month by Stephen's real life son, Daniel. This was one of the most interesting aspects of the rehearsal process for me, not only to observe the two playing fictional father and son characters, but to observe what little I could of their real life relationship.

Stephen, who is a little older than me, has more than two decades worth of theater and music credits. Daniel is 17 and already has impressive acting credits on his resume. Watching Daniel, I kept thinking back to when I was 17-years-old, wondering what it would be like to have a father not only involved in theater arts, but also supportive of his son's performing aspirations.

Daniel has just graduated from high school. Having been accepted to a university was only one of his options. He is going to put college on hold, though, with his parents' blessing, to pursue his other options in film & television, and in other stage productions.

I feel lucky: in the past, a situation like this would have filled me with ugly jealousy. Now, I am only envious, in a wistful and even peaceful way. I have mourned my innner teen enough, but watching Stephen's character grieve is still too emotional for me. The tears flowed too easily, especially when Daniel, his real life son, was right there on the same stage.

I know part of me is grieving for the could've-beens. Watching Daniel, I know that part of me is crying for my own younger self lost in an emotional war. Yet, the tears are cathartic, peaceful . . . an inevitable part of the acceptance process.

I can accept the need to put my former youthful self to rest and move on with both my present and my future. Or I can continue attempting to, at least. The fact that there are any tears at all attest to the fact that this may be my own lifelong work-in-progress.

21st Century Mod

2011-07-11T22:23:00.000-07:00

Saturday was a good day. It was an arty-farty day, light and enjoyable. It was even a trip back in time, in a wonderfully retrospective afternoon.

I went to see the Tim Burton exhibit at LACMA, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. I ended up going by myself since my arranged play date had to cancel. I didn't mind. I looked forward to savoring the exhibit by myself, taking as much time as I wanted to, to soak in the details, especially anything that had to do with Edward Scissorhands.

The museum was crowded, and I wasn't the only one meandering alone. I enjoyed seeing a few art student types, with their avant-garde hairstyles, geek-chic glasses, and espadrille shoes. As a forty-something adult, I relish the 80's-inspired fashions that young people are wearing.

As expected, a lot of the art on display was dark in tone, often infused with humor. A lot of it was gory, and violent, even, such as the drawing of spaceships landing (but not from "Mars Attacks!" - that was later on in the exhibit) and aliens spearing human beings on the run. In the same picture, bloody corpses were trapped under giant alien eggs as bloodthirsty creatures were hatching out of them, dinosaur-esque and tentacled creatures.

The costume for Edward Scissorhands was on display, a patchwork of various leather pieces and many buckles. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I started to tear up when I first saw it. It was practically - and unexpectedly - my own personal Shroud of Turin, melodramatic as that may sound. Seeing the costume so close up and in person brought back the direct connection I had felt to the abandoned, childlike character two decades ago.

I needed to take a moment to step away and then come back to it. I walked into the next part of the exhibit featuring characters and scenes from "A Nightmare Before Christmas," before returning.

Next to Edward's leather bondage suit was a single set of scissor hands. It was under a cube of Plexiglass. I loved being able to examine the detail so closely, seeing that the "thumb" was a closed pair of pliers. Even upon such close inspection the metallic plastic covering the long blades, like Mylar wrapping paper, was still pretty convincing.

LACMA is within walking distance of Molly Malone's, an Irish pub. It was my lucky day: I got to see a small but conspicuous scooter rally gathering outside of the pub, a new generation of stylish mods among their tricked out Vespas parked on Fairfax Avenue. It did my former wannabe-mod heart good to see this specific subculture adapted and re-translated from the 60's to the 80's, and all the way into 2011. The newer mod generation seems tougher, grittier, with their piercings and many tattoos. They still appealed to my Inner Teen, and the young-extrovert-I-used-to-be, so eager to express my rugged individualism via a thrift store wardrobe and a Vespa scooter, circa 1986.

The cherry-on-top of my arty-farty Saturday was seeing a bright purple smartcar parked in the neighborhood. It was a candy-colored shade of purple, like the special edition M&M's you can buy in Las Vegas at M&M world. Like the uniquely accessorized scooters, it must have been a custom job. I would have been more jealous if my twenty year Purple Period hadn't ended a decade ago.

My inner Donny-Osmond-meets-Duckie-Dale reveled in the visual stimulation of it all.
It was a good Saturday.

Mid-life Crisis Clubbing

2011-07-05T22:36:00.000-07:00

BFF Kathy has two children, ages almost-9 and 6. I love them as if they were my own flesh and blood, but even I cannot fully comprehend the depth of their mother's love for them. And they have been driving Kathy crazy lately, with her usual stay-at-home mom insanity being compounded by school being out for the summer. She needed to get away, even if only for a few hours. I was more than willing to kidnap her.

After their father drove us all to the kids' introductory dinner at Chipotle (they both had pinto beans and shredded cheese on top of rice), we returned to their house to share a raspberry tart from Trader Joe's - a la mode!

The Shark Club in Costa Mesa was only about a half hour's drive away on the freeway. It was Britney versus Gaga night - all Britney and all Lady Gaga music, all night! I was looking forward to some good dancing. And there was no cover charge before 11:00 pm.

Kathy wasn't sure we were in the right place after we had parked. She saw a couple of petite young women dressed in flirtatious and feminine skirts. I pointed to the very tall glamazon standing by the front door, checking people in, and Kathy was reassured.

We got in right away, and right away we felt old. It wasn't the younger crowd - there were a few other people close to or about our age - it was the volume of the music. It was too loud! ("If it's too loud, then you're too old!"). One of the first songs we heard was a mash up of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" and the Human League's "Don't You Want Me." It was a brilliant mix.

There were half a dozen go go boys rotating around the various platforms of the club. Kathy, who used to teach high school chemistry, leaned in close to me on the dance floor to shout, "They seem so young!" I thought so, too. I forgot to ask her if she ever wondered or worried about seeing her former students in "a place like this."

We had a great time, even though Kathy wasn't familiar with any of the songs. Being the perpetual adultolescent that I am, I was in my overgrown glory, dancing with Kathy to la Spears and la Gaga tunes. It felt good to dance and sweat and just let loose, not having to feel inhibited around all of the other extroverts that were there for the same reasons. Like me, the other men on the dance floor seemed to know all the lyrics as well, lip syncing right along.

During one song I didn't recognize, I asked Kathy if she wanted a break. "Are you crazy?" she asked, yelling over the music. We stayed until closing.

We took breaks when the drag queens performed on stage. We thought of Fabulous Friend Eddie, even though they weren't the best or fiercest drags queens we had ever seen ( I told Eddie later - clarified - that their not being the best or fiercest was not what made us think of him). They were still entertaining, though, the Divas-in-training.

We had perspired the night away, and we had only had one drink each when we first walked in (margarita on the rocks/salt for Kathy and a cranberry juice for me). I wanted to refuel after, so we grabbed a quick bite at a 24 hour cafe on Pacific Coast Highway, crowded for 2:30 am. I ordered too much food, and we didn't finish. The night was not long enough. We were both tired but we could have continued talking until dawn.

We practically did. Thank goodness for the holiday, and for the three day weekend! I walked back into my own home after 4:30 am. Before I left, I told Kathy that I would probably feel hung over the next day, even though I don't drink.

We're not 37 anymore.

Twister and Crisco Oil

2011-06-20T22:07:00.000-07:00

I have the most amazing and wonderful friends - if only for the fodder that their inane behavior and insanity provides . . . Remember Edith, my Famous Fag Hag Friend, from both my Disney past and my church past? She's baaack!

Edith was coming back to town for the Father's Day weekend. So was Anna, our mutual friend from our show choir days at a local junior college (the older, legal age version of 'glee'). They asked me to cajole Fabulous Friend Eddie into a small reunion, to reunite our original warped and dysfunctional foursome.

Eddie was not available. Honestly, I don't think he was that heartbroken about it. The three of us still talked about him, though, over appetizers and drinks.

"Remember the time Eddie took me to the 24 hour supermarket late at night?" Edith asked. "I've told you this story a hundred times!"

Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. "Refresh my memory," I prompted.

"It was just the two of us," Edith continued, a giggly grin stretched across her face, "and he bought three items: a game of Twister, some Crisco Oil, and a box of condoms - just to see the look on the checkout girl's face."

I fell over on my side of the restaurant booth in exaggerated laughter. "No, you never told me that before! I would remember something like that. Can I post that as my facebook status tonight?"

I did post it, but I was careful to use only Eddie's initials, rather than tagging him in the statement with an '@' symbol before his name. I called him today.

"Edith is crazy," I informed him, as if this were new information to him. "She's fucking crazy!"

Eddie set the record straight. "I never did that. I only talked about doing it, how funny it would be to go into a store and buy those things."

That sounded accurate. I told him so. "Yeah, it sounded a little fishy," I said. This was in the 80's, and we were all working at Disneyland? I know what we made.

"I didn't think you would have wasted money on a stunt like that, even just for the shock value."

I was glad I called Eddie. I thanked him for confirming my suspicion about Edith: that she twists the memories of our shared past into much different versions than what we remember.

"Maybe we should give her a break," I suggested. "She told us how she had been on Percocet after throwing her lower back out. It made her crazy and she told us about how she had to wean herself off of it.

"Maybe the medication affected her memory of things. Who knows? She still swears that I went around telling everyone at church that she was my ex-girlfriend - in order to make my desired image as a heterosexual more plausible."

I'm a little crazy, I don't mind admitting, but I have never been that fucking crazy, even back then!

If I ever get off my lazy butt enough to become a published novelist some day, one of my book titles is going to be Christian Fag Hag.

And the (Bubble) World Still Goes 'Round

2011-05-31T22:25:00.000-07:00

So, that Family Radio guy, Harold Camping, was wrong. Well, okay, not exactly wrong, just off by five months, as he has been saying. The world did not collapse in chaos and destruction on May 21st, as some had fearfully believed it might. All of the good Christian people of this earth did not get raptured up to heaven, as some of the Faithful Followers had sincerely expected.

I had forgotten to watch for it. I had imagined it, days before, playing it out in my mind like a scene from the movie "2012." I already knew that I was going to be visiting my Aunt Pat in Palm Desert that day. I had wondered if I would still be driving on the 10 freeway at the moment Judgment Day began, the road crumbling beneath me near the desert windmills before swallowing up my little smartcar with me inside.

I had wondered if we would be caught off guard while at the movies, good and religious people disappearing in mid air - poof! - leaving behind their empty, flat clothing in the middle of a "Bridesmaids" showing ("That's not a very Christian movie to see!"). Would we even notice it in a dark theater, right before the Edward's buildings toppled over those of us Left Behind?

As much as I can let my imagination get the better of me, and as much as I gave the alleged end-of-the-world some thought, I wasn't close to what you could call truly scared or worried. If I were actually concerned, I would fret more about my pets (Did you know that there was a group out there promising to take care of pets post-May 21st if their owners did indeed get raptured? And that they accepted payments before that not-so-fateful Saturday? . . . I wonder if it was non-refundable?)

Oh. But back to my precious old lady pugs, and our darling baby feline. If the very foundations of our paved paradise were going to crack open and swallow us into fiery depths of hot magma, then I would want some sort of euthanasia pill or injection to administer to our furry babies. I wouldn't want them to have to suffer any fear or physical pain simply because their human companions had been blighted for deliberate sin. I can't even stand the thought of our surrogate children suffering a slow demise from hunger and thirst if their two dads weren't able to make it back home from the Judgment Day festivities.

When I returned from visiting my aunt that Saturday night, our house was still standing, and there was music booming from a party in the next block. A live band was playing, with vocalists singing in Spanish. I didn't understand all of the repetitive lyrics, but I heard a lot of 'Hallelujahs.' I suspected that the party had gathered in anticipation of the Rapture. If so, I wondered how disappointed those people were at the end of the night. And the next day.

It was anti-climatic, really. Not that I wanted the world to end. Lady Gaga's new album hadn't even come out yet, before that weekend, and that would have been sacrilege, darling, not getting to experience those new tracks. Have you heard her song "Government Hooker?" So 80's-esque!

Some Parents are Cool!

2011-05-10T22:20:00.000-07:00

In the early 80's, Band Geek Friend, Bubba, suggested we go looking for part time jobs. The winter break was coming and we needed extra money so we could do some holiday shopping. We went directly to our local shopping conglomerate that included a Mervyn's, a Miller's Outpost, and a Baskin Robbins. Armed and energized with fresh ambition, and perhaps a bit of naïveté, we aimed to fill out applications in every store until we received the first job offer.

There was also a Clothestime, a trendy clothing store for young women. Since we were there we figured, "What the heck?"

"What . . . ha ha . . . positions are you applying for?" the lady behind the counter asked us.

"Oh, being a rude person like you," Bubba calmly replied before I followed him back out the door.

That was before either of us had come out. Today, almost thirty years later, I received a message from High School Friend, Brenda, who shared an interesting update. Her husband had used a birthday shopping excursion with their daughter as another chance to try to make more sense of the social world in which we live (as she so beautifully described). He mentioned the young, gay men on staff in the women's clothing stores. Their daughter, who had just turned 12, was genuinely surprised. "Really? I thought that they were just really good dressers."

Also, today, my niece's mother asked me if I had seen the new shopping bags for Hollister. I hadn't, so she sent pictures to my phone, pictures of two male models lying next to each other on the beach. I think it's interesting that you can't actually see the whole picture at once, just sections of it on four different sides of the bag so that the models' faces are on opposite sides, although their torsos crisscross in between . . .

"Mom, you know only teen girls and gays shop there, right?" my 16-year-old niece had asked her.

I'm such the proud uncle, proud that she gets it! (Hollister certainly knows their target market) Her 13-year-old step sister's response, however, was "Eww, gross!" My niece's mother used it as an opportunity to teach her that choosing one's sexuality is as realistic as choosing one's eye color.

Too bad Bubba and I aren't young enough to apply for the same part time jobs now in these clothing stores. We were a little ahead of our time, maybe. And Clothestime? I can't even remember the last time it was still open.

Tolerance in 2011 - on sale now!

Welcome to Peter's Retro Discoland!

2011-05-04T23:40:00.000-07:00

Part of the problem with getting older is that it becomes more difficult to find a good dance club that plays satisfying music, satisfying to my aging ear, at least. I know: my life is a constant trial! But as BFF Kathy had once said, "I need a place where I know and recognize the songs so that I can enjoy myself."

There are plenty of gay bars/dance clubs to choose from, in and near Los Angeles. So, I am forced to admit that my age is a major part of the problem. There are simply not enough retro nights at bars on the weekend.

There is Oil Can Harry's, close to Universal Studios. On most nights they play country & western music for line dancing. But Saturday nights are for disco night! And age is not an issue there. Yes, most of the patrons have been my age or older on the nights I've attended, but quite a few were much younger. It's about a 35 mile drive from home, though. I can't always get friends or even Domestic Partner to go with me.

I saw a Totally 80's night, for a local club, advertised on facebook. That's specifically what I was looking for! But it's held on a Tuesday night. I could still go, but the Sensible and Responsible Adult that I've finally become is reluctant to risk a lethargic day at work on Wednesday morning.

Lately, I've been thinking that I will just have to bring the dance club to me. I'll just have my own discotheque at home. Years ago (okay, decades ago, literally, even if it's only been a couple . . .) I went dancing with friends at the Coconut Teaszer in Hollywood, when it was at its old location. I loved that they had a huge window in the front of the club, like some one's living room window that you could look into. The exhibitionist in me loved that I could dance behind that window and be seen by people driving by or walking by on Sunset Boulevard.

Since then, I have always wanted to live in a house like that.

Our current home is in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. It's not the most ideal location for building dance hall dreams. But maybe some day, about the time I have my fourth novel published, and the film rights optioned, and a stage musical adaptation for one of them, then I'll be able to build a dance club in the front part of our dream home! I'll be able to sync up the iPod to play an infinite play list of my favorite dance tunes from the last five decades, and have a dance club the way I want it.

And you will too, the way you want it - you'll be invited! And I will take requests. There will be food and drink, and plenty of guest rooms for you to crash in and spend the night. It may take me another couple of decades, but keep your boogie shoes ready . . .

How to Make Your Partner Mad (or, Midlife Crisis #8)

2011-05-02T20:43:00.000-07:00

I almost left. I was going to quit my job. There is nothing wrong with my job, not really, except for me. The pay is good. I genuinely like my coworkers, and I know that's not always easy to find in a work place. And the stress, consistent as it may be, is at a pretty minimal level.

But my numbers have not been as high as my boss would like them to be, for more than a few months now. I am weary of being so ineffective, and I was ready to leave. I came very close to announcing my two weeks' notice.

I wanted to give notice right after I was offered a sales position with a solar panel company. I also had an appointment for a job interview with a famous weight loss company (Kirstie, Valerie, Sara, and even Jason have been their celebrity spokespersons), just in case.

I hadn't said anything to Domestic Partner about it, not until the first job was offered and the appointment had been made with the second company. I opened up the conversation with, "I need your advice about something."

He was not pleased. His first response to me was, "I don't think you would do well, trying to sell solar panels." He became even more upset when I told him that the pay was commission only. I told him that was why I had an appointment with the famous weight loss company. He was not appeased by my back up plan.

I told him that if I was single, I would have jumped at the chance to take either job. I would take the risk without giving it much thought. But since I'm not single, and since I had to consider how the consequences would affect us a couple, I wanted to know what he thought.

Be careful what you ask for.

Domestic Partner told me, not unkindly, that he feels he has been carrying me for the last dozen years or so. That was not the first time I had heard him express that feeling. He just hasn't said it in a few years.

When we first met, I wasn't even employed. I had just been fired from my server job at the Olive Garden. I was performing as a Kit Kat girl in drag, in the musical "Cabaret," and I was making $7.00 per show. This was in the mid 90's.

Why did he want to continue dating me? Why did we stay together? I secured better, more consistent employment after "Cabaret," including another restaurant job and a Disney gig for their sports entertainment (cheerleader!). But I also went away on contract as a dancer, more than once.

Why does someone, knowing what you are and what you are not, want to stay in a relationship with you only to try and change you?

Now I'm just ranting . . . the changes that Domestic Partner wanted/wants for me have benefitted me. He is good for me. If we weren't together I would not have even gone back to school. My pending retirement would be even more pathetic than it already is.

As I have said before in this blog, he is my stability.

I asked him why he was so upset, why he was taking my proposal to change jobs so personally. Domestic Partner is only 51. He may have the opportunity to take early retirement in five years, so he is still waiting for me to catch up to him financially (and in other ways) so that he can afford to take early retirement.

So that he can afford to stay in a relationship with me.

Our conversation ended well. He said that when he retired in a few years, maybe we could consider moving to Hawai'i, as we have been talking about for a while now, and just rent a small place. If I want to change jobs, I should just wait until we move to the islands.

That made me feel very happy. It was a wonderful consolation prize.

Instead of giving notice I went to work the next day and told my boss, without going into detail, about the previous night's conversation. I told him that I had renewed commitment for my job responsibilities.

I turned 45 this past weekend. Maybe it's having another birthday that has been making me want to do something impulsive. So, instead of quitting my job, I got a haircut (I also bought my first smart phone, my birthday present to myself, after using the same flip phone for the last seven years).

I still think I would have rocked as a sales person at the famous weight loss company.

Always With Me

2011-04-27T18:59:00.000-07:00

It doesn't seem to matter how old I get - I feel as if I'll always remember so many individuals from the past, especially those who have influenced my identity. Jay was someone I hero-worshipped in high school. I wanted to be like him.

I had met Jay in church when I was 16 and our family had moved to a new town. He was a year older than me and a straight-A student. Immediately, I looked up to him. He went to UCLA after graduating as the class valedictorian. He had also been the school mascot, dancing and jumping around at football games in a cougar costume, like a giant, cuddly stuffed animal. I thought that was the coolest thing.

But best of all, Jay was a dancer, or at least, more of a dancer than me. He had taken some classes, and he knew the different ballet positions and French terms. He knew to turn out his foot while pointing it, and he could do split-leaps in jeté.

During the summer break, when I was still the new kid, Jay told me about "New Generation," the show choir he was in at school. It was the local version of 'glee' and I was desperate to become part of the group. After months of pining to be like the kids on the TV series "Fame" I finally had the chance to become a singer-dancer!

I also wanted to develop more of my rugged individuality, taking advantage of a fresh start at a new school. No one knew the old Peter from before, the band geek who was still afraid of taking a chance to stand out from the crowd. At my new school, people would take for granted any unique expression I used as part of my outward appearance, including the bandanna headbands I wore on a regular basis.

I loved being in "New Generation." I loved singing in four part harmony and wearing the same show choir outfit as the rest of the guys. Once, on a Sunday, Jay and I agreed to wear our matching pin-stripe shirts and knit ties to church, looking like twins. I had longed for such camaraderie as a teen, and I reveled in the solidarity.

I applied to UCLA (and didn't get accepted, initially, before appealing my rejection) because Jay was at UCLA. I pledged the Christian fraternity on campus because Jay was already a member.

Our friendship didn't last much longer after my freshman year. I dropped out after being put on academic probation (I had been cutting my math class to attend dance class instead). I also did not get accepted into the conservative fraternity, even after toning down my rugged individual ways. Part of not keeping in touch with Jay was that I felt ashamed, probably, for being a college dropout and a fraternity reject.

I wasn't able to keep up with him, on more than one level. I wasn't able to be like him after all.

Jay had always wanted to get away from California. In the yearbook, under senior goals, he had listed "To live and work in New York!" Even as a junior I had already felt abandoned by Jay, saddened by his future departure.

A couple of decades after high school, a mutual friend ran into Jay in New York. It was pure dumb luck running into him on a busy public sidewalk, years after having no contact. Jay didn't seem thrilled by the impromptu reunion, my friend told me. He made no effort to provide a phone number or email address, no mention of wanting to stay in touch or even meet up later to catch up.

Jay is not on facebook, as far as I can tell.

I kind of get it. In a strange way, I respect Jay's desire for wanting to get the hell away from everyone. Jay came out of the closet before I did, in the mid-80's, even while he was still a member of the Christian fraternity. Since I had always looked up to him as a big brother figure, I really thought that it would make us closer, and that he could continue to be my role model. But it only seemed to diminish our friendship, maybe because we had always been such good, Christian boys while growing up.

I think the increased distance between Jay and I, from coming out, was part of his overall defense system.

I would like to be in touch with Jay today, to tell him how much he influenced me in a positive way, and to tell him that I eventually became a dancer. I want to share with him that I got cast in a production of "A Chorus Line" once, the way we had always dreamed about in high school.

But I understand his need for maintaining distance from his old life, and the need to escape from all of the disapproval we came to expect from our parents and church and society while growing up. Even though I wasn't as accomplished as Jay was, I understand wanting to get away from all of the expectations of being the perfect student, and of being the well-behaved son . . . being the perfect, blameless Christian man.

Hopefully, Jay feels he is finally free of all of that, now, living and working in New York. Hopefully, he has been reveling in the fact that he accomplished his high school goals.

The photo above was taken during a rehearsal for New Generation in the choir room. Yes, that is me on the far right, the dork in the headband. "Let's get physical!"

So Pretty!

2011-04-13T22:34:00.000-07:00

Carlos was a natural brunette, like me. But when we worked together in Japan, what was left of his shaved-head haircut was bleached blond. He was my idol because he had performed with Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo, the all-male drag ballet corps

We would have dance classes between shows at Ocean Dome theme park, thanks to some of the other dancers who would volunteer their instruction. Madeleine was a skilled ballet dancer and teacher, as well as a fun dance partner in our cheesy little stage shows. During one of her classes, she demonstrated an intricate warm up exercise at the barre, a pattern that included rapid frappés with the feet in en croix formations.

"Are there any questions?" she asked.

Carlos was busy primping his hair in the mirror's reflection, his gaze and his fingertips on the 1/8 inch long platinum locks.

"Yeah, do you think I'm pretty?"

"Yes, Carlos, you're beautiful," Madeleine deadpanned before turning to the rest of us. "Are there any questions about the exercise?"

That was over a decade ago. I am always tempted to quote Carlos's answer every time I hear someone ask if there are any questions.

Pity: Party of One (or, I Am Fat Goldie Hawn)

2011-04-11T23:13:00.000-07:00

I allowed myself to indulge in some mild depression this past weekend. It was too easy to just stay in bed all day, Saturday, and watch movies on Starz and Encore, uselessly channel-flipping the day away. I have nothing to be seriously depressed about, but I wonder sometimes if it's just an inevitable part of my family's emotional legacy?

Usually, I consciously choose to fight my alleged legacy of clinical depression in any way that I can, even if it's just dancing to Britney Spears in my kitchen. I would rather drain that particular aspect of the gene pool before drowning in it.

I am lucky. I haven't had one of those get-nothing-done-because-I'm-depressed days in many years, not since I've met Domestic Partner. Even so, I remind myself on a regular basis that if I ever get to feeling sorry for myself I need to remember that there are those around me who are going through much worse.

Who am I to feel sorry for myself?

I remember a bout of self pity I had in 1994, at a time when a friend was losing her father to cancer. Another friend, a woman in my dance class, had just lost her grandmother. Her pain was made worse by her family's fighting over material property. Even our dance teacher was hiding her sadness over a miscarriage, bravely keeping her perpetual smile and motivation for her students in the studio.

Who the hell was I to feel sorry for myself?

Cheryl over at bread and bread is dealing with a fairly recent emotional roller coaster, a seemingly cruel ride of joy, at first, expecting twins - and then losing them early in the first trimester.

And a Disney friend recently posted a heartfelt note on facebook about how surprised she was to hear that her life was perceived as 'charmed.' In a flash, before verbalizing a response, she thought about how both her parents had died after years of living with the pain of cancer and other illnesses. Her young song was born with a rare genetic disorder, which she has often dealt with on her own while her husband was away on more than one tour of duty. She titled her facebook post 'Perspective' because that is what became clear to her when she looked at her loving and supportive family and their history through the objective eyes of her friend.

But I still hurt for her, and I hurt for Cheryl. I appreciate their willingness to share their pain so honestly, their willingness to be vulnerable so publicly. I appreciate the perspective they are providing.

Man. I have wasted a lot of my life feeling sorry for myself, and unnecessarily so. Did I mention that I'm lucky? (I know I've done so in previous posts - not just this one). I feel lucky because even on my worst days I can usually get to the point of laughing at myself, at how ridiculous I am being over petty problems. When I think about giving up, I immediately go to the extreme, and I picture myself turning into Goldie Hawn, the Fat Goldie Hawn in "Death Becomes Her." If I succumbed to self pity and depression, I know that would be me: 300 pounds and living alone in a small, run-down apartment, save for the twenty-three cats living with me, and eating cans of frosting as meal substitutes.

My worst year in life ever was 1995, when I was wasting time feeling sorry for myself, all but destroyed by Mr. Heartbreaker. I think of that time in my life every time the Fat Goldie Hawn scene opens with her bent over, a close up of her giant rear-end right in front of the camera. It always knocks me right into providing my own perspective, the one I need.

Even luckier still, I know I can never afford to spend too much time in self pity. I'm 45 this year, which means I have even less time than I used to, to work toward becoming Radiant and Ravishing Goldie Hawn in the scene of the book signing party, the one in which she's wearing that gorgeous, figure-hugging dress.

Yes, I'm a guy. I'm still inspired by Goldie Hawn, inspired by both images of her in that one movie. In a few years I'll be Fifty - and More Fabulous!

Eating Myself

2011-04-05T21:52:00.000-07:00

The photo above has always been one of my favorites - just a random, posed shot taken in Japan when friends and I happened upon a small and random theme park in Kagoshima.

High-school-theater friend, Margaret, said that the head looks like the Caucasian version of me, to which I replied, "I'm eating myself!" She thought that was deep. I'm sure she was being tongue-in-cheek facetious, but I liked the symbolism of that: "white-me" consuming "Japanese-me."

From my perspective, I've always thought that the statue of this giant boy's head bursting from out of the ground looked very Japanese, including the color of the eyes and the shape of the eyebrows. But the skin tone may be too alabaster-white. Nobody is that pale, even the two albino people I used to know.

Growing up in Southern California, I never felt "white enough" or "American enough." I never felt good enough, even if that was only my own perception of myself. I knew I could never hide or disguise how Japanese I looked, no matter how American I felt or acted - or no matter how much I assimilated back into American culture after our family moved back from Japan when I was a fifth-grader.

Returning to Japan as an adult helped me to more easily embrace my Japanese identity, which helped to increase self-acceptance of myself (even if it also emphasized how Japanese I am not). The symbolism in this photo would actually be reversed in that my Japanese self helped to eat up the white self I was trying to perpetuate, the self that I was trying to make the larger part of my identity as a young man in the U.S.

Yes, you could say I'm all mixed up, but in a good way. Good Friend Ben used to love quoting an audience member he overheard after she saw my head shot before a show: "He's a mixture, isn't he?"

Farewell, Sweet Feral Friend

2011-03-30T22:03:00.000-07:00

Domestic Partner and I are a little sad this week. We lost one of the feral cats that had been born in our backyard, the one we simply named Brownie. She hadn't been living in our yard lately, but we would see her now and then while walking the dogs. She would meow at us, as if in recognition of the humans and canines associated with the backyard buffet of daily kibble.

We found her rain-soaked body in a far corner of the yard, next to the brick wall that separates us from our neighbors and under our pomegranate tree. A bit shocking to see was her rear end split open, just underneath her tail, as if she had exploded from within. It was a wide but clean opening, revealing a lot of pink inner flesh but with hardly any gore. The rest of her body was intact, including her hind legs, so it didn't seem that she had been attacked by a dog or possum, or even hit by a car.

We wondered if maybe she had been poisoned.

It made us sad to find Brownie like this. We also wondered if there was anything we could have done to prevent her unnecessary and early death. She was just eighteen months old. I knew it was Brownie by her tipped ear, the point of her right ear having been nicked off by the FixNation clinic when she was spayed for free, so that if she was ever caught by animal control they would recognize the symbol for an already fixed cat.

Brownie was almost ours, which is why Domestic Partner and I were upset to find her dead. She had been a friendly feral kitten, even allowing us to pick her up when she was about a month old. Her fur was such a pretty golden brown, with distinctive stripes along her torso and legs. Smaller stripes formed the classic letter M design on her forehead. But we had already taken in her weaker, runty sister, which their mother had abandoned. Brownie was healthy and already socially outgoing, so we figured she would have a better chance surviving as a feral cat.

Now, we regret not having taken the chance to prolong her life.

Brownie was never really ours. She was skittish as an adult, and she would dart away if we got too close to her. We know that we can't save every needy animal out there, even in just our neighborhood, but we are still sad about losing Brownie, we're not quite sure why. It's just that she could have been ours. We almost took her in to be vaccinated and domesticated. That friendly little kitten could have been safe and happy inside our house as an adult, honoring us by placing her trust in us.

And I guess we betrayed that potential trust, that bond that could've been that Brownie wasn't even aware of. I think that's what hurts a little, useless as it is anthropomorphizing any animals, even friendly felines.

We buried Brownie in the backyard dirt, under the branches of the pomegranate tree, branches that are already turning green from spring's rebirth.

Japanese Me

2011-03-28T22:24:00.000-07:00

My American-born cousin is much more authentically Japanese than I'll ever be - not just because she's full-blooded, her parents both being Japanese nationals - but also because she's much more fluent in what is her first language, despite her California upbringing, and fluent enough to have worked in Tokyo without any American coworkers or translators.

She has been back home in America for several years now. Last week, she described how inspired she has been by the can-do attitude of people in Japan, after the recent earthquake and tsunami disasters. She told me it sparked something inside her, almost a reminder of what it means to be Japanese. As American as I must admit to being (if not always typically so), I understood, at least to a small degree, the pride she was feeling, of the graciousness people demonstrate to each other in Japan, even in times of crises.

Or maybe, especially during crises.

I am almost finished reading Honor Thy Children, the tragic true story of a Japanese American family that had lost all three of their adult sons. Two of them, the oldest and the youngest, had died from complications from AIDS. The story chronicles the graciousness and love that the parents gained for their sons and for each other, although via some of the harshest, hard life lessons and heartache.

I had been hoping to find the film documentary of this family's story, a DVD copy, but the family did not approve its release after it had been shown at film festivals. Domestic Partner told me that entire audiences who viewed the film had been in tears. But I found the book online, instead, written by Molly Fumia. Two of the brothers had hidden their homosexuality, at first. Their heterosexual brother, the "normal" one - the one that their parents had placed all their hopes on for marriage and grandchildren - had been killed by gunshot.

The Youngest Son, the last one to be lost, was handsome, outgoing, and charismatic. I had expected to read the book and realize a new role model in him, specifically, a gay Japanese American role model, even if he is no longer alive.

Being a true account, the book describes honest, human portrayals of the family members. So far, I haven't been liking a lot of who he was, the Youngest Son, who he used to be. The opening of the book includes a detailed tour of his wardrobe, and how perfectly organized all of the brand name clothes are, especially Ralph Lauren's Polo brand. In the book, the Youngest Son seems shallow and materialistic, a clothes horse who lives for the next wild party.

But I can't deny the significant amount of AIDS awareness he was able to accomplish in a small space of time, as documented in the book. During his last few years, in the late 80's and early 90's, his public speaking and seminars for high school students helped young people to realize that everyone, gay and straight, needs to be aware of the risk of HIV, whether they choose abstinence or safe sex. His work helped to open up dialogues about sex between parents and their teens.

And I cannot completely dislike this young-man-who-has-passed-away. He briefly discusses his attempts to be "less Japanese" by perming his hair and wearing blue eye contacts in the 80's. I never wore blue eye contacts myself, but I remember wanting to. I remember, while growing up, also wishing that I looked less Japanese, and "more American" so I could fit in better.

The book also covers some of the family's time in Hawai'i, and the Youngest Son's realization of feeling pride in being Japanese, or being Japanese-from-Hawai'i, as he puts it. I'm lucky I was able to return to Japan as an adult and work there for as long as I did. I'm feel fortunate that being in Japan meant I was finally able to view other Japanese men as attractive. Through that attraction I was able to achieve more self-acceptance and stop viewing myself as so inferior because I look more Asian than Caucasian, despite my interracial background.

I am like the Youngest Son in that respect, shallow like him in that I get too caught up in outside appearances. But I was in Japan long enough to learn a little bit about the graciousness of the people there, and of their spirit. I hope I can keep that spark lit and fan the flames of that Japanese spirit in my American self, especially as I get older and my looks fade.

I almost feel as if I owe it to a young, gay Japanese American man who didn't even get to live long enough to become middle-aged.

(The photo above is of me with my third grade P.E. class in Japan. Yes, I am the one pinching himself, I mean the one with his mouth hanging open.)

Britney Pants

2011-03-07T22:50:00.000-08:00

Nothing makes me feel more "politely Japanese" than when I'm trying to make someone feel less embarrassed than they already are.

I had a phone call from a potential student over at that film school I work at in L.A. He asked me about financial aid, a standard question.

"What is your email address, please?" I asked. "I can send you the link for the online application."

The caller, a guy in his late 20's, seemed reluctant to tell me. He stammered a bit before telling me that it was 'Britney pants at xmail dot com.'

"Oh, that's nothing," I said, attempting to reassure him. "Believe me, we've gotten a lot worse" (such as 'nunsgivehead at xmail dot com' - true story).

I was tempted to ask him, "Is that 'Britney pants' as in she breathes heavily? Or as in 'I'm wearing my special Britney pants today!'?"

Leaving Never Land

2011-02-25T22:15:00.000-08:00

Part of why I have felt so lucky for most of my life is that I have been rich in friendships since I was in elementary school. As an adult, during my involvement with ex-gay ministry, I didn't know if I would ever get married to a woman some day. It didn't bother me because, strangely, I was comforted by the fact that I knew who I would ask to be my groomsmen if I ever were to get married.

Ben, Eddie, and Tedd are friends that I have known for over a quarter of a century. I met Tedd when I first went away to college. After dropping out of college, Ben and Eddie quickly became two of my closest friends when I started working at Disneyland.

I realized early on that I usually bonded over shared memories of 70's children's shows and cartoons with those who became my close friends. Tedd, for all of his advanced academic status (he was a college freshman at age 16) and overachieving ways, still loved many of the same cartoons that I did, such as "Super Friends."

"Wonder Twin powers - activate! Form of ... an icicle! Shape of ... an orangutan!"

Backstage at Disneyland, Eddie and I used to ride the tram together from wardrobe to the step off point for the Electrical Parade. I'm sure we annoyed our fellow Cast Members with our hyperactive renditions of songs from the New Mickey Mouse Club, circa 1976.

"Surprise Day! Surprise Day! It's Mouseketeer Surprise Day, anything can happen and it usually does!"

Ben and I were roommates in three separate abodes. We were thrilled when the Sid & Marty Krofft shows came out on VHS tape, singing along to the opening theme songs for "Lidsville" or "Sigmund & the Sea Monsters," and of course, Witchiepoo's big stage number on "H.R. Puf'n'Stuf" - 'Oranges P'oranges!'

As I got older, I became suspicious that the Peter Pan syndrome was the consistent, common denominator among my friends, myself included. My own tribe of Lost Boys had organically formed itself in the early years of my young adulthood.

My time with ex-gay ministry gave me interesting and different perspectives. Part of the therapy we learned pointed out how emotionally stunted I was. My friends and I relished being overgrown boys, even if somewhere in the back of our minds we knew that we might be somehow stagnating. Who needed girlfriends or wives or marriage? We were young, and too busy having fun!

At 44 I don't feel old. But I become more aware of how much we've aged when I get together with these good friends (and not as often as I would like) and, as usual, we can look back and discuss over two decades of memories.

Eddie is not the wonderfully spastic boy he used to be, which is good and appropriate, now, but part of me mourns the young man who always seemed to be bouncing off the walls from a sugar rush (which, at times, I'm sure he was on, high from an overdose of Pixie Stix and Kudos bars).

Tedd is married and has three children. We can no longer be the big kids at heart as much as we used to be now that there are actual children in his house. Our extended adolescence was over-extended. We had a good run, and we can now look forward to being little old, energetic Asian men together.

My friendship with Ben has been the one that's most bittersweet to me when it comes to accommodating our middle age, adjusting to it. It was a few years ago when, after a day off of enjoying lunch and a movie, we couldn't fall into the same social patterns that we used to as roommates. Normally, as younger men, a day off would extend into more than one movie and maybe more than one meal out, or at least renting videos and ordering takeout pizza. Instead, I had to get home to feed and walk the dogs, and get dinner started for Domestic Partner and myself.

I felt a bit like I was abandoning Ben that day, even though it had been years since we were used to seeing each other on a daily basis as roommates.

I hadn't counted on the fact that getting into a long term relationship would mean leaving behind the support network that I had always enjoyed and maybe even took for granted. I have married friends, of course. We all do. Friendships do not end because of marriage, not all of them. I know it's normal and natural for a committed relationship to take precedence, but still . . .

Tedd gave me the honor of asking me to be his best man when he got married. Ben and Eddie are still single. I will grow old with Domestic Partner but we will probably never marry each other (why fix what ain't broke?), which is good. I wouldn't be able to decide which of my super friends I should ask to be my best man (or maid/matron-of-honor, as it were).

Not even if I could combine them all into one Super Friend: Beteddie! Form of ... Lifelong Friendship!

The Fosse Feline

2011-02-23T22:43:00.001-08:00

Remember my Dangerously Sexy Diva friend, Terra? She's the one who has portrayed Velma Kelly in "Chicago," not only on the Great White Way and in national tours, but also in Paris (in French!). She's back in town, again, singing and slinking her way on stage as 'Bombalurina' in "Cats" with Musical Theatre West.

I had never seen "Cats" performed live on stage, so I was looking forward to experiencing it for the first time. I loved it! The dance productions and the familiar music had me smiling throughout much of the performance. As tempting as it may be to consider the signature song trite and tired, the soloist who sang "Memory" gave the audience a new, powerful interpretation of the song. She brought more beauty and depth to the notes than I had ever heard before and I teared up a little.

The entire cast was marvelous and it was very fulfilling to see this show . . . almost thirty years later.

In the early 80's, my aunt had planned to take me to see "Cats" as a gift for my seventeenth birthday. It was playing at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. It had opened only two years before in London.

I am told that my father objected to the idea. "No, don't take him to see this musical," he protested. "He'll come home wanting to take dance lessons, and I want him to go to college."

He was correct. I would have wanted to go to dance class. I had already wanted that a couple of years before when I became fifteen. I still wanted it after turning eighteen - and I went after it as soon as I had moved out of my parents' house, as soon as possible.

But I had always wondered: How much more directly inspired might I have been if I had been able to see "Cats" when I was seventeen? How much more aggressive would I have been in my pursuits to become a real dancer? How much more courageous would I have been about my goals?

I know it's pointless to consider what could have been, but I can't help doing so, every now and then.

It was fulfilling to finally see a complete and professional production of "Cats." I'm too old, now, to be as nimble and fluid as the gymnasts and ballet-trained performers I watched on stage. Surprisingly, I felt neither jealous nor bitter. As a spectator, I reveled in their youth and their agility, and in their pure joy of dance and performance.

Terra, as always, was flawless in her performance. As 'Bombalurina' she was a very sultry feline, both as a featured vocalist and in her kitty choreography.
It was wondrous to watch her Fosse trained body roll a shoulder, pose with the trademark broken wrist, and undulate in waves through her torso and limbs. She was the Fosse Feline. Even just the way Terra casts her gaze downward always reminds me of Ann Reinking.

I think part of why I enjoyed the show so much is precisely because I am older. I knew about the character of 'Grizabella,' the tragic, older, dying cat, but I hadn't expected to relate to her, even just a little. Gone are "my days in the sun" as a young performer, brief and modest as they might have been. In an attempt to embrace a more age appropriate lifestyle, I am ready to be lifted up to "the heavy side layer" - not in actual death, just to the next level of my life.

No, I am not dying, neither literally or even symbolically. But I do cherish the 'Memory.'

My First Cabaret

2011-02-20T15:45:00.000-08:00

I got to perform live once again, in front of an audience this past Wednesday night. We had reached the culmination of our second session in the Performers' Workshop: our cabaret acts. It was a session I truly enjoyed since I'm always making up new lyrics for well known songs, just for the fun of it (too much free time inside my head, perhaps). For our class assignments we were asked to journal about our current lives, to recognize and choose the recurring themes, and then write original lyrics to songs from musicals.

And to sing about it in public!

My classmates are talented and seasoned performers. It was interesting to hear more than one of them talk about how nervous they felt, having to exploit and expose their own lives and personalities. The recurring theme among the different singers was that it was much harder to perform as yourself than it is to hide in or behind a character, whether as part of the chorus or in a leading role.

I relished it. Call it the narcissist in me, but I rather enjoyed the process of choosing what to talk, write, and sing about. Plus, I'm always jonesin' for attention (why do you think I blog?). Not that I wasn't nervous, but I was also on a high all day Wednesday, before the performance, and even the day before. I relished the anticipation of performing live again, getting the chance to sing and even tap dance a little for an audience.

I talked and sang about getting fired from the Character department at Disneyland, my dependency on caffeine, and the desire to still have and do it all, both the day job and more performing gigs, despite my waning youth and energy.

I was the last to go on stage in an evening featuring ten singers. The singer before me was a woman I came to adore as a classmate and friend very quickly. She had honed her own cabaret style and act for several years in Chicago before coming out to Los Angeles. As a performer, she understands the importance of balancing the brassy and bawdy with heart wrenching ballads, the light with the dark.

So, it was easy to see why her act was saved for almost the end. I should have felt intimidated, having to follow someone such as her. Instead, I was flattered that I was chosen to go last.

It was a long evening. The audience was friendly and enthusiastic, at first. By the time we got to the second-to-last act, the energy in the room felt subdued as I watched my friend sing flawlessly on stage.

It was a one night only performance, and we were sold out. So what if the energy had died in the room? This was my one shot for this particular and personal show, and it's been a while since I last performed, so I was determined to make the most of it.

I didn't wow and delight the audience with every facet of my ten minute act, as I had hoped. But I got a couple of genuine laughs, including when I ad libbed the line, "I'm not into that" when I talked about being tickled while working in costume at Disneyland.

I am grateful for the experience, grateful for the learning gleaned from the creative process. Would I be willing to perform in future cabarets? I hope I get the opportunity. Would I be willing to write new material? Certainly.

But for now I'm glad it's over. I need a break. As I had joked to the audience in the act, "Grandpa's tired!" As grateful as I am to enjoy the luxury of being myself, it can be exhausting!

The Luxury of Being Yourself, Part 2

2011-02-19T21:50:00.000-08:00

Even before I went away to college, I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to dance.
I wanted to sing, and act, and perform. I wanted to be like the students at the high school of the arts, on the television show "Fame." I wanted to be like the dancers and singers I had seen on stage at Disneyland. I wanted to be like my friend, John, who was one of the performers in Donald Duck's 50th Birthday parade.

And eventually, I did. I became a singer in a dinner theater revue. I later got my first job as a dancer on a cruise ship. Before going away to sea, I also got involved with ex-gay ministry, attending a weekly support group for Christian men who no longer wanted to identify as homosexual. It was another version of the religious leash I still felt I needed in order to be tethered.

One of the jobs I had as a dancer was for a Vegas style show on the island of Guam, which is a tiny rock of an island, south of Japan. The contract, at the Sandcastle Show Lounge, was to be for nine months.

I'm not sure why, but the other dancers in the Guam show assumed I was straight, and I just let them. After two or three years of being in the ex-gay support group, I suppose it seemed like the right thing to do. I didn't try to fake a straight identity, but neither did I confirm a gay identity in my behavior and personality.

It's strange to think that, in the atmosphere of dance rehearsals, and being backstage and in the boys' dressing room, other dancers would perceive me as straight. Entertainment people aren't as easy to fool when it comes to sexuality.

I missed Kathy and talked about her a lot. It was difficult for both of us, being apart. That was the truth. But I didn't refer to her as my Best Friend Forever. Omission of the Complete Truth may have been deceitful on my part.

I learned something during my temporary not-perceived-as-gay status: the young women in the show were friendly to me, but there was a barrier, an invisible wall they were putting up that I wasn't used to. It was as if they felt the need to be on their guard with me, even if only a little bit, as long as they thought I was straight.

I didn't like that. I wasn't used to it. Growing up, my closest friends were usually girls. I missed the physical and emotional comfort that female friends felt with me, those who knew that I was gay.

I was unhappy on Guam. Part of it was being away from Kathy, a big part of it. After only two months, I told my bosses that I wanted to go back home. Fortunately, there were a couple of male dancers that had been in the show before who wanted to come back. I was allowed to return to California without fulfilling my nine months contract.

It wasn't until after I had left Guam that I realized another major reason for my unhappiness: I hadn't been honest about who I really am. I had contributed to the walls and barriers that I felt amongst the other dancers by not being my authentic self.

I did not immediately start being more myself, right after that. It took a few years of practice, and it took letting go of my insecurities, little by little. It was not easy to let go of my religious ideals and face the fact that I was just plain lonely. I wanted to do what was right, but I did not want to deliberately choose to be alone, either.

I allowed myself to start dating men again, in my late twenties. I made some foolish choices and mistakes worthy of a seventh-grader. My attempts to date and pursue relationships with men were emotional disasters that were more fitting to a 19-year-old.

Oh, well, only about a decade behind.

I included the recent photo above because it disturbed one of my relatives (ironically, it was a relative who accepts me wholly for who I am). This had been my profile photo on facebook last month until my relative asked me to please change it.
I was surprised by the request. But it was a nice marker for how far I'd come in the last couple of decades, as far as what I can take for granted now, including the freedom to be as fabulously flamboyant as I want to, when the mood strikes.

It took a few years of emotional struggle as well as some trial and error, but I don't worry as much as I used to about receiving the approval of others. I don't feel I have to justify who I am, like I used to in the past. I have the comfort and luxury of being able to be myself without having to worry what others think.

If people don't like me, then that's too bad. It's my loss but I can live with it.

I know who I am, and it is sufficient.

A Week's Notice

2011-02-09T16:01:00.000-08:00

Howdy, Plastic Bubble Peeps!

I'll be performing a ten-minute cabaret act next Wednesday night, Feb. 16th, at the M Bar in Hollywood.

I'm still jonesin' to get to the Part 2 post of 'The Luxury of Being Yourself,' but I wanted to give you a heads up about the performance next week since I had sorta' promised Cheryl over at Bread and Bread that I would.

I'm the last performer to go on, which is quite the compliment, but it means I won't be on stage until after 10 pm - on a school night!

I'll be singing/talking a bit about when I got fired from Disneyland. (and I'll be wearing those bunny feet above, as part of the act)

YAY!

The Luxury of Being Yourself, Part 1

2011-02-03T20:03:00.001-08:00

Erin #1 was my first girlfriend in junior high. We were both 13-years-old and in the eighth grade when we "went around" for a record of sixteen weeks! It was BFF Kathy who nicknamed her Erin #1 when I later sorta' dated another girl with the same first name. The second Erin and I were cast in a local community theater production of "Grease." Even though I only saw the second Erin once after our brief showmance in high school, my First Girlfriend Erin is still referred to as Erin #1 by Kathy and me, almost thirty years later.

Erin #1 - and her mom - gave me and taught me something valuable: the freedom of being able to be yourself. One of the reasons I liked Erin so much in the eighth grade was that I was able to be myself around her and her mother. I didn't have to feel shy or self conscious with them. That privilege was appreciated all the more when I compared it to the usual insecurity I felt in my teen years.

I took baby steps in high school toward expressing my rugged individualism, including wearing bandanna headbands and berets (but not at the same time - please). After breaking up in the eighth grade, Erin #1 and I became closer as friends during high school. She was a major influence in individualism to me, being one of the first brave young women to bring back the retro mod look from the underground, in her fishnet stockings, mini-skirts, and yes - berets. Erin was the one to introduce me to the mod/ska bands of the early 80's, including the English Beat.

As part of my continuing quest to be myself, I started my twenty year period of wearing something purple everyday. I was the first boy at my school to get the "step" or bowl haircut. I wasn't cool or popular; I was in band. And drama. And I got teased, picked on. But I continued being myself, as much as possible.

Until I went away to college.

I had a friend from high school attending UCLA, John. He was in the Christian fraternity on campus. John was a year older than me, and he was my idol. He was the valedictorian of his graduating class as well as a dancer and singer. He had been in the show choir at school. I wanted to be just like him. So, I followed him to UCLA a year later, and pledged the Christian fraternity on campus, just like he did. They were nicknamed "the ice cream frat" since there was never any beer at their parties.

John warned me: "They're a very conservative group." He suggested that I might want to tone down my personal style if I wanted to be accepted into the frat house.
Before my freshman year started I bought preppy shirts with button-down collars and regular Levi's 501's. My mother was surprised, and then relieved when I explained the reason for my new wardrobe. She thought I was taking my first steps toward growing up.

Yeah, right.

After a term of pledging and then being hazed (nothing too drastic, not at a Christian fraternity) I was not one of the pledges who had been accepted into the fraternity. I was the "bad pledge" because I spent too much time at Lisa's and Karen's apartment and not enough time at the frat house. Lisa and Karen were two of the fraternity's Little Sisters, and they were like big sisters to me, taking care of me and letting be myself around them.

I was the only pledge who got in trouble for going to a campus showing of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" on Halloween night, even though a couple of my pledge brothers went with me - and even though I made sure to attend the Wednesday night bible study before the midnight showing.

I was already suspect because I danced. I loved club dancing whenever possible and I took dance classes, jazz and ballet, at the John Wooden athletic center on campus. In addition to the no alcohol rule, the fraternity also had a no dancing policy. We weren't expressly forbidden to dance elsewhere, but the unspoken understanding was that Christians don't dance, not real Christians.

Not being accepted into the fraternity was tough. Besides wanting to be just like John, part of my reason for wanting to join was to put a religious leash on myself. I was already well aware of my physical attraction to guys. I had known since the age of twelve. When I first left my parents' house to go away to school I didn't trust myself to not take advantage of my first taste of freedom.

I thought that being in the Christian fraternity would keep me from straying.

Being rejected by the fraternity also hurt because it was a major part of my general failure at UCLA. I had lasted barely a full academic year before formally withdrawing, knowing that I wouldn't be back the following fall for my sophomore year. I had been put on academic probation (I had been cutting my math class to go to dance class) and I didn't really want to be there in the first place. I went to UCLA to make my parents happy, except that they weren't.

And neither was I.

"You just wasted an entire year!" my mother exclaimed.

"No," I countered. "I think I learned a lot more about myself - about what I want to do and what I don't want to do."

(to be continued)

The photo above is of me and Tedd in 1984 - I'm the one on the right! Tedd was one of my pledge brothers, and he is still one of my closest friends-for-life today)

Peter-Peter, Bo-Beter

2011-01-31T21:07:00.000-08:00

There was a guy named Peter Petersen. I didn't know him, but allegedly he was/is a real person.

I did work with a Tony Mahoney, though. I don't know why he didn't insist on being called Anthony. Maybe because it was fun to say: "Tony Mahoney!"

I met Tony while working on cruise ships. He was a fellow crew member. Duff was also a coworker at sea, although that wasn't his real name. His real name was Donald McDonald.

True story.

I heard about a girl named Krysty Lear. Her classmates were discussing middle names one day, and she told them that hers was Shandel. "That's pretty," a friend commented. "Wait a minute," another girl interrupted. "Is 'Krysty' short for Krystal?"

Krysty rolled her eyes and sighed. "Yes, my parents named me Krystal Shandel Lear."

I don't know if that one is true or not. But I did go to elementary school with a Virginia Mann. Her father wanted her middle name to be 'Bread' so that she could be called 'Ginger Bread Mann.' Fortunately, Virginia's mother interfered.

In 8th grade, my P.E. teacher had the first name 'Arvel.' I had thought about giving my son the same first name when I got older. Like Tony's first and last names, it would be fun to say together: "Arvel Varvel."

Maybe there's a reason I turned out the way I did, childless.

What are some of the more memorable names that you've heard?

P.S. Internet searches will show actual people with all of the same names, above. But not for 'Arvel Varvel.'

Wanting to Do It All - or Not at All?

2011-01-17T21:43:00.000-08:00

I don't make New Year's resolutions anymore. I focus on my goals and redefine them, and each January I will recommit to them as needed. I was all set to refigure my realistic and balanced moderation of working out, performing in musical theater, and jumping into a Masters of Fine Arts program, all while keeping my full time job (and blogging!). And my relationship. That was three weeks ago.

Nuthin' like an unexpected bout of food poisoning to knock you off your butt and out of your current plans. It's as if I had dry-heaved my resolve along with whatever else my body was trying to rid itself of.

What if I didn't exercise? What if I didn't work on my writing goals? What if I put my performing desires on hold once again . . . indefinitely?

My fear, during these past two weeks, has been that I'll become complacent and content with merely going to work and then going home to eat a meal and watch some TV before going to sleep.

Day in and day out.

There is nothing wrong with that (and I excel in the Art of Doing Nothing), but I wouldn't want my life to be defined simply by my job, currently or in the future. There is a self-imposed pressure to do something with my life, to make my mark, and I am happy to succumb to that pressure.

I think.

What would be the alternative? What would be wrong with simply working for a paycheck only, for the rest of my life? What if my Singular Focus was to work merely for the sake of paying off debt and then saving for retirement - and nothing else?

I know myself well enough to realize that I would not be content with that. It would feel too much like giving up, in general. But for now, I need to pick and choose.

I am supposed to be working on a musical theater workshop assignment right now, instead of blogging. In preparation for our next live cabaret performance (and I will alert you about the upcoming show - this time!) we are rewriting lyrics for songs from actual musicals. Our lyric adaptations are to reflect our current lives. Like many recording artists, the rewritten song words are to tell the stories of what we are experiencing and going through.

My life is not hard, not right now, so there is nothing too dramatic to tell in musical verse. It was an obvious song choice for me, though, to rewrite the lyrics for "I Want it All" from the musical "Baby" (no, not the one from "High School Musical," . . . Prince). Here is the current draft, so far:

I WANT IT ALL! I WANT IT ALL!
I WANT TO FIND A WAY TO STAY IN SHAPE AND DANCE – STAY ON THE BALL!

I’M PAST MY PRIME BUT I AM STILL IN DENIAL
BECOMING OLDER ISN’T ALWAYS SO VILE

I WANT TO KNOW THAT I CAN FIND INSIDE ME SOMEONE WHO STILL CAN
I WANNA BE LIKE JOHNNY DEPP AND LIKE JET LI AND JACKIE CHAN
I AM NOT YOUR AVERAGE ORDINARY AGE-DEFYING MAN

I WANT IT ALL! I WANT TO DO IT ALL!
I WANT TO KEEP MY FULL TIME DAY JOB AND DANCE AT NIGHT – I WANT IT ALL!

DON’T TRY TO TELL ME THAT I’M TOO OLD TO DANCE NOW
IT WILL BE YEARS BEFORE I’M TAKING MY LAST BOW

I WANNA KNOW THAT THERE IS TIME FOR ME TO STILL REACH ALL MY GOALS
I WANNA BE AN ACTOR-SINGER-DANCER CAST IN LEADING ROLES

AND I’LL WORK MY ASS OFF IN THE GYM SO I LOOK GOOD ON STAGE
I DON’T CARE ABOUT APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR FOR MY AGE - I’LL DO IT ALL!

I WANT IT ALL!

Like I said, my life is not difficult. It's pretty worry-free and even drama-free, for the most part. I'm just glad that Domestic Partner and I are not overwhelmed with the desire to adopt kids and raise a family. I can only imagine what that would be like, sheesh!

Bowler Hat Blues

2011-01-02T21:37:00.000-08:00

I had been meaning to buy a new bowler hat for months, now, even before the movie "Burlesque" was released. I-swear-to-Buddha. I didn't need a bowler hat for any specific reason, not even for a show, but I've been wanting one around for personal inspiration.

And also, just in case the right dress-up opportunity comes along.

I love everything that a bowler hat symbolizes: Bob Fosse and his distinctive choreography, intertwined with the roots of twentieth century jazz music and jazz dance, and with his own youth spent dancing in burlesque shows. I love how a bowler hat is a visual reference for performing on stage, for the mere love of performing itself, even if it is in seedy nightclubs for little or no pay.

A bowler hat is a symbol for the underground, the underbelly of society. It represents a place for those who don't fit in with what is normal, particularly during the daytime, a place for rules to be broken, bended, and relaxed.

I've worn a bowler hat as part of my costume on stage more than once, in a couple of revues. Thanks to the seductive Fosse-esque choreography we performed, the music and even the dance steps are among favorite stand-out memories. But I rather regret that I was so young, emotionally, and sexually repressed, at the time. It seems important to be sexually expressive, sexually liberated, or at least sexually experienced in order to truly understand and fully perform any type of burlesque.

I understand that better, now, especially since I'm older (and more experienced).

Lately, the bowler hat has been a marker of motivation: to keep working on having a "burlesque body" - strong, lean, and flexible("sexible"), even at my age. One of my first impressions of the musical "Chicago" was that it seemed to have been created as, or at least serve as, a vehicle for aging dancers. Gwen Verdon and Chita Rivera were probably considered past their prime in the 70's and they repeated their career success by making Broadway history again.

I love the strength that the bowler hat inspires, even in just my mind's fantasy. With the classic black chapeau tilted ever so slightly over one eye I can easily access the alter ego of performing on stage. Renee Zellweger's "Roxie" was wistful about being "aloof" as her onstage persona in the film version of "Chicago." As trite and overdone as that showbiz goal may be, it summarizes perfectly the power that burlesque and a bowler hat can provide.

Aloof. Apathetic. Not giving a damn about what others think. Even in a seedy night club, where the stage dancers are viewed as barely a notch or two above street walkers, all that matters is the performance, and synergizing a physically fit and flexible body with the fluid sound of jazz, and rhythm and blues.

That's what I miss, even the old clean-cut, Disney-fied versions that I was part of. That's what I want now, still. That's why I enjoyed the movie "Burlesque," as much as I did, and why I went to a local costume shop the next day to finally purchase the hat I've been pining for.

And that's why, no matter how old and tired I feel (or look!) in my forties, I still exercise and pay money for voice lessons and dance class. Middle-age be damned, I want to be the exception for as long as I can, whether or not it is realistic to be so.

A bowler hat, a body-conscious waistcoat, and some sensual choreography, and I'm ready to go.
Hit it!

All Look Same! All Look Same!

2010-12-30T22:13:00.000-08:00

I used to get called 'Ken' by my coworkers at California Pizza Kitchen. Ken was the other Japanese American server at the time I worked there. I usually don't mind being mistaken for other Asian American guys, especially when they're as good-looking as Ken.

Plus, I'm used to it.

When people attempt to apologize for calling me by someone else's name I try to minimize their obvious embarrassment, because I am that Japanese, with the explanation that I am used to being called by my brothers' names (which isn't exactly true, probably because I'm the oldest).

At work, it's a compliment to be mistaken for our Assistant Director of Admissions, a handsome Filipino guy with a wholesome preppy wardrobe. Sometimes I'll even dress like him on purpose, with a button-down collar and a sweater vest. It makes a few of my coworkers nervous when I walk by their desks, as if I had caught them during a not-working-as-hard-as-they-could've-been moment.

I love being mistaken for the Director of the Computer Animation program which, unfortunately, doesn't happen very often. He is also Filipino, with well-toned biceps, and he is thinner than I am (he smokes, that cheater). His natty dress shirts, ties, and waistcoats influence my work-wear as well, as does his hair which is always freshly cut and gelled to contemporary perfection.

The biggest benefit of looking like my coworkers is that I can ignore other staff members when I feel like it. People that I see on a daily basis don't always say hi to me when I'm walking through the hallways. I think it's because they're not quite sure whether it's actually me or "the other Asian guy."

(The title of the post is stolen directly from Prince, which was his reaction to the photo above)

Have Yourself a Disco Little Christmas

2010-12-20T21:33:00.001-08:00

This past weekend I got to participate in another memorable performing experience with East West Players, "A Little Tokyo Christmas."

The show was made up of several traditional and not-so-traditional holiday numbers ("We Need a Little Christmas," "Disco Christmas" . . . "Santa Lost a Ho"), thanks to the many amazing performers who donated their talent and time.
The cast and crew of eighty Asian Americans were professional directors, actors, singers, and dancers. For some of us, it was a heartwarming homecoming of sorts, a reunion with the Family and Community that is East West Players.

And like any family holiday get-together, it was a wonderful opportunity to see how the individual families had grown. Most of the children of the performers were also on stage, singing in their own numbers and dancing in the finale with the entire cast ("I see that this show ignited that familiar gleam in their eyes - a love for performing on stage" one cast member commented).

I was happy and grateful to be dancing again, even in sweet, simple numbers. Sometimes, all I want out of life is to be one of the dapper chorus boys worshipping a single diva on stage, such as in the "Roxie Hart" number from "Chicago," or Marilyn/Madonna in "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend"/the "Material Girl" video.

Saturday fulfilled that wish for me once more, as I got to be one of the chorus boys in "Santa Baby," which was sung by actress Amy Hill. Amy, who has guest starred in many sitcoms, is my hero because she played the lavender-haired babysitter in "The Cat in the Hat" film, and she is also one of the voices for the "Jackie Chan Adventures" cartoon series.

In addition to performing with old friends from years ago, I got to meet many of the newer and younger actors from EWP shows of recent years, including a cast member from Prince Gomolvilas's stage adaptation of "Mysterious Skin."

Prince had gently chided me after seeing the evening show (sold out!). "Why didn't you tell anybody?"

Ha! And I didn't find out until later that was in the audience (that devious sneak!). I didn't tell many people, mostly because I'm still trying to get past the stage of always demanding attention, which is just part of the slowing down process for this aging chorus boy.

Getting to be part of the show was wonderful, and also a little bittersweet. I am never quite ready to give up my dancin' shoes (or hang up my tutu, as one male friend had put it), so I was ecstatic to be part of three dance numbers. And yet, it was eye opening to be around younger dancers again, and it helped me to move that much closer to accepting the fact I just can't be shakin' it as intensely as I used to . . .

But hey, if Kylie Minogue can still do it in her forties, why can't I? I started shaking my groove thang at junior high school dances in the late seventies. And I'm aiming to keep shaking it - as much as I can - well into my own seventies.

The photo above is a group shot with the dancers from the disco number.

Singing, Writing, and Other Good News

2010-12-06T22:00:00.001-08:00

This is not an actual post. This is just me checking in and giving a brief update.

I started taking a singing/performance workshop this fall, more of an audition training class at the Academy for New Musical Theatre, in North Hollywood. It's been a wonderful and safe environment for my first attempts to find more age appropriate music (and roles) to sing. We had a combination potluck and recital last month to showcase our work thus far, at the Chew'n'View Revue.

I enjoyed the first session so much that I signed up for the second ten week session where we are learning to put together our own mini cabaret act.

Both the workshop this fall and going back to voice lessons this year have been encouraging. I'm always itching to be in a show, to be performing live again. There is a third session for the workshop, in the spring, so I may wait a few months before actually auditioning and committing to rehearsals for a full musical.

And I still want to write. I still want to blog regularly, documenting the slices of life that make up the current days of my middle age, and I still want to work on completing the first rough draft of my fledgling young adult novel.

But I may have to put any performing goals and completing-first-novel goals on hold for at least a year: my job, at That Film School in Los Angeles, just announced that staff members can now become enrolled in the online degree programs - at cost! Well, we would have to cover the expense of the required laptop and software, but there will be no charge for tuition. After finally completing my Bachelor degree at age 40 a few years ago, I didn't think I would be rushing to jump right into graduate school. But I also never thought I would actually return to an undergraduate program either, so never say never.

I am mostly interested because one of the online options is a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (via our sister school on the east coast). And 'free' is the right price.

I'm going to do it, commit a year of my life to completing it. So what if I have to sacrifice exercise and even some sleep to get through the program? So what if I have to put other activities and goals - and people - on hold for a while? Indeed, in order to go back to being a student I may have to put my social life on standby for a bit, once again, and perhaps even this blog. As I had asked on facebook last week, who's ready to feel neglected?

I'll see you all online again sometime in 2012!

Just kidding. But I am serious about doing the online degree program.

And I am excited about it!

(the photo above is of me getting into character for the song 'I Am Adolpho' from the musical, "The Drowsy Chaperone")

What a Way to Go

2010-11-30T22:08:00.001-08:00

One of the cruise ship stories I'm always telling is about a passenger who had a stroke and didn't survive. It was in the evening, and we were at sea, hours away from our next port-of-arrival for the following morning.

It happened on Big Band night. In our hybrid jobs as dancers and assistant cruise directors, part of our obligatory duties was to dance with the women passengers, just the boys ("drag a bag" was the nickname for that particular duty). The girls had to be there, too, but they weren't required to dance with male passengers unless they wanted to. There were always more women without dance partners than men on board.

Big Band night was usually fun. I enjoyed the 40's boogie-woogie tunes, and I faked my way through swing dancing pretty well. In between songs played by a small combo of musicians, the Cruise Director would ask trivia questions about famous names from that era, usually bandleaders such as Tommy Dorsey and Benny Goodman.

The older-but-still-youthful passenger who was unknowingly spending the last night of his life answered one of the trivia questions correctly. Dressed in a natty suit and tie, he was perspiring from his own agile dancing, and he was more than happy to accept the chilled bottle of champagne as his prize. We watched as he walked off of the show lounge stage, the spotlight following him to his seat.

He collapsed upon reaching his chair. The ship's doctor was there almost immediately, and the gentleman was carried out of the show lounge on a stretcher, his wife following behind with one of the ship's officers as her escort.

We learned later that same evening that he didn't make it.

We were a little spooked: we knew that ship's morgue was on the deck right above us, above our crew cabins. The body would not be taken off of the ship until we reached port the next morning. Before going to sleep we started talking about ghosts and haunted ships with the Fitness Director and Social Hostess.

Judy, the Children's Hostess, had the best perspective of the situation. "If I were to go, I would want to go like that," she had informed us.
"Sure! He was on a cruise ship vacation, enjoying a night of dancing, and he had just won a bottle of champagne for knowing the right answer. What a great way to spend the last few hours of your life. That's better than just plain dying at home."

It was a little shocking to me, at the time, but I have often thought of Judy's take on that passenger's death.

And she's right. If I am to unexpectedly meet my demise at any moment, then I want to make damn sure that I have taken advantage of every golden opportunity available, on any given day.

I want to make sure that I have danced to favorite music at home, or even in my office. I want to have laughed heartily with friends. I want to have cherished the pets in our home. And I want to have looked at Domestic Partner when he gets out of bed in the morning before I do, and realize how lucky I am to be with him.

I hope I live for a few more decades, but if my life were to end tonight I would be grateful for the many good times and for the memories made.

I Hear You!

2010-11-27T19:34:00.001-08:00

"I hear you! I'm so proud of you!"

These were the words of encouragement used for positive reinforcement when the niece of one of my roommates was going through her potty training.

And the words stuck.

One evening, when the family had gone out to dinner, the toddler girl was in the ladies room with her mother. She had her ear to the closed door of one of the stalls.

"I hear you!" she proclaimed to the anonymous occupant. "I'm so proud of you."

Anonymous giggles came from within the closed stall.

(this real life memory is courtesy of my former roommate, Chuckie B.)

Let's See That Again!

2010-11-14T19:34:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, vomit is funny.

It was another peaceful Sunday evening in Suburban Paradise, tonight. Groceries had been bought, gym workouts were out of the way, and the pets had been fed. Domestic Partner and I were relaxing on the couch with the pugs by our sides and "All That Jazz" on TV.

We were distracted by a hacking sound. We turned to look at Kitty perched up in her carpeted cat tree. We were just in time to see her open her mouth wide, as if to sing a high B natural, and see a plume of puke cascade five feet to the floor (linoleum, thank goodness). It was so poetic, rather like a rust-colored waterfall, that it was almost beautiful.

I laughed until I was practically hacking myself. After we cleaned up the mess Kitty just remained in her top perch, calmly looking at us as if nothing had happened. That made me laugh harder.

One of the best vomit stories is from my first contract on a cruise ship. During our first week, we observed the group of dancers we were replacing as they carried out their various daytime duties, including teaching dance class to the passengers.

Francesca was teaching the fox trot in the Seaward Lounge. It was a rocky day at sea and, being new to ships, most of our little group was feeling queasy, especially Susanna. Sunlight did its best to filter through a grey, overcast sky above the ocean, and through the lounge windows.

As a newbie, I found it interesting that paper bags were placed around the ship's hallways and public areas of the ship - small, white bags, just like the kind you find in the plane seat's elastic pocket in front of you when you're flying.

The passengers were doing a splendid job of keeping their balance on the swaying ship, as they fox-trotted across the lounge floor. The small tables we sat at were each dotted at the center with a crystal clear glass ashtray.

Without any hacking or any sort of notice, one of the dancing passengers turned around and threw up right into the tiny glass ashtray in front of us. She was an elderly lady with grey curly hair, and I was impressed that she got every last drop into the small ashtray. Unfortunately, Susanna was sitting next to me and got the best view out of all of us.

I felt bad for Susanna, and tried to stifle my laughter along with the other dancers.
But I still laugh about it today, years later.

Sometimes, vomit is funny (when it happens to someone else).

My Chocolate Diet

2010-11-03T21:58:00.000-07:00

"Gimme some chocolate or I. Will. Cut. You." So said Becky-the-Cheerio in last week's Halloween episode of 'glee.'

Hello, my name is Peter Varvel, and I am a chocoholic.

("Hi, Peter.")

I love chocolate. I would marry it if it were legal to do so ("No on Prop Chocol8!"). Chocolate is sometimes more emotionally satisfying than most of my human relationships, maybe even more fulfilling than my emotional bonds with my pugs.

Maybe . . .

I miss working in Japan. I miss my late night ritual of going to any of the local convenience stores for a fix or two of chocolate. Sure, I can buy chocolate in the U.S. every day, even the Japanese brands. But I'm not sweating it off by dancing in a theme park five days a week like I was in the nation of Hello Kitty.

Ahh, those past Glory Days of Indulgence without Consequence!

Domestic Partner shakes his head in both disgust and disbelief when I am not able to hide my ability to consume an entire package of Nabisco's Chocolate Chunk cookies in the course of half a day. He tsk-tsk's when I am not being discrete about finishing almost an entire bag of fun-size Snickers on my own (I am convinced that heroin must be what makes them so 'fun' . . . how else to explain why they're so addicting?).

"It's like a direct hit to the 'pleasure button' in my brain," I attempt to explain to him. "I'm like a captive chimp in a testing lab. I have to keep pushing that button over and over by repeatedly eating chocolate."

Domestic Partner doesn't buy it. He is a salt-a-holic, so I do not expect him to understand.

Chocolate candy bars and cookies with chocolate - those are my weaknesses. Portion control with the chocolate-and-cookie combinations requires god-like powers and I know it is neither possible nor realistic in my fallible human existence.

But I've found a couple of good compromises.

Kellogg's Frosted Mini-Wheats come in a chocolate flavor. I take a Tupperware container of those to work now (portion control), instead of giving in to the overpriced Kit Kats and Twix Cookie Bars from the vending machine (which also counts as portion control but alas, not budget control). And at least I'm getting some whole wheat with this at-my-desk snack. You can even taste/feel the crunch of the infinitesimal chocolate chips that are in the cereal squares.

Sometimes.

I need chocolate after dinner. I need sweet. Dark chocolate has been a surprising happy medium and balance, especially the Belgian dark chocolate bar from Fresh & Easy. A moderate portion satisfies my usual craving, but it doesn't activate the addictive urge to continue eating more until none is left.

And right now is that crucial time, once again - that Annual Crucial Period - when balance and moderation are most dire during this solid half-year of perpetual holidays, that Danger Zone of six months, all the way from October's trick-or-treat candy (marked on clearance!!) to April's Easter chocolate (also marked on clearance, and way past Mother's Day!).

God get me through it one more time, please.

The Magic Mermaid Man

2010-10-21T20:53:00.000-07:00

Neil was a rebound guy for me. Maybe I'll never forget him because I'll always feel guilty about him.

I was nursing a recent heartache when I met Neil. I had been beating myself up, emotionally, feeling rejected by Mister Extremely Good Looking and Perfect - a handsome, muscular, and very straight-appearing blue collar guy. He was so butch he even had an entire collection of John Wayne VHS movies.

Neil was also handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes. But blue collar he was not. He owned a floral shop and he was one of the designers for a fundraiser known as the Headdress Ball in Anaheim (picture society women in glittery evening gowns and displaying huge fountains of flowers from their heads, like Vegas showgirls for the Rose Parade).

My dance teacher, as choreographer for the fundraiser, had recruited me to dance around one of the headdress wearing participants. I was a shirtless faun, complete with pan flute and horns. The flute and horns were Neil's, as were the fur pants and tail, an old Halloween costume of his. He also offered to let me wear the three inch black stiletto heels that had been part of his costume but they were the wrong size for me (luckily . . . I wasn't that good of a dancer).

Neil was pretty obvious in his pursuit of me. I wasn't interested but I enjoyed the attention. He took me to dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I don't remember much about our date but I must have been my usual self, dominating conversation. Part of why I feel guilty, now, is that I must have talked on and on about myself, including the recent rejection I had been feeling from Mister Extremely Good Looking and Perfect.

And Neil listened.

I can't remember if I remembered to ask Neil questions about himself, even if only as a return of courtesy. Neil must have had the gift of knowing the right questions to ask, knowing how to get someone to open up.

I told him about one of my favorite library books in elementary school, The City Under the Back Steps, a story about two children who shrink and live in an ant colony.

I told Neil about a beautiful and expensive handmade mermaid doll I had seen in a Laguna Beach boutique, in the mid-80's, and how I had always wanted to have one like it.

A few days later Neil gave me a used hardback copy of The City Under the Back Steps. This was in 1994, before the Internet became available in most people's homes, and I was impressed that he was able to find a copy available for sale. The book came in wrapping paper that had a red and white checkered table cloth print, like the ones used in storybook picnics. The picnic blanket wrapping paper even had a few black ants marching across it.

And a few days after that, a large pink gift bag was waiting for me when I went to dance class at my teacher's studio. Inside was a lovely handmade mermaid, with a shimmering, green tail, and pale curly hair the color of corn silk. The mermaid's tail had a few glass beads attached, like glistening dew drops. In her soft cloth hands, the mermaid was holding a pearl.

I still feel guilty about Neil today because he had made such heartfelt effort. I've thought several times about how he truly listened to me. It showed in his gifts.

I couldn't keep the mermaid doll. It didn't feel right. But I couldn't just throw it away, either. It was a labor of love on Neil's part, and I couldn't be cavalier about disposing the beautiful doll.

I gave it to BFF Kathy to hold onto. This made sense because she is the mermaid in my life. After seeing the movie "Splash" in the theater, I felt that I just had to meet a mermaid (it took me a few years to realize that I already had met one, and that it had been Kathy all along - as real as a mermaid can be on dry land).

Neil was not the man I had wanted to meet, but I will never forget him. He included a short, sweet note along with the mermaid doll. He wrote:

Dear Peter, I'm sorry you had to miss the John Wayne film festival.

That still makes me smile today.

Fantastic First Musical

2010-10-12T18:59:00.000-07:00

The first musical I had ever been in was during my junior year in high school. I was not quite 17 when I was cast as Matt in The Fantasticks. Matt was the young boy in the classic story formula of boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-wishes-he-could-kiss-other-boys.

Okay, maybe not exactly classic-classic, but I was already well aware of my secret feelings, even before high school. By the spring of eleventh grade I was more than ready to take the first of many steps into such musical theater traditions as being openly gay with other drama department students. Norco High was in a small town outside of Riverside, though, and it was still the early 80's. It would be a couple of years before I actually came out to anyone.

At almost-17, I was eager to hide in the make believe world of singing-and-dancing-shows such as The Fantasticks, the off-Broadway hit that ran for more than four decades before finally closing, just a few short years ago. One of the reasons I loved musicals when I was a teenager was that it seemed like you could simply dance and sing your way through any problems. If you didn't solve your problems, exactly, at least you were actively coping with them via fun choreography and rhyming lyrics.

Such a seemingly simple little show and story, this musical. The Fantasticks is traditionally performed on a bare bones stage, usually in a small theater space featuring a cast of eight. When the girl meets the boy, the two think, gleefully, that they are doing so against their parents' wishes. Their respective fathers have built a wall between their homes in a vain attempt to keep the young lovebirds apart. The girl and boy, Luisa and Matt, are not aware that they are falling for the ploys of reverse psychology, that their fathers are deliberately planning and plotting to have the two fall in love.

There is also the narrator character, El Gallo, who, the audience soon realizes, is kind of a puppet master of the little Shakespearean-esque drama.

The music and lyrics are lovely and quaint, at times exciting, and often touching. And timeless, too. It is a good introductory musical, both for audience members and for performers. It is a good way to begin learning the meaning of the word allegory.

I had always hoped to be able to play Matt again some day, in another production of The Fantasticks after leaving high school. Matt and Luisa are good roles for young actors who can play youthful people trying to play at being grownup.

More than a quarter century has passed, though, since I was almost-17. Maybe I'll be able to audition for the role of the narrator over the next decade. I could even audition to be one of the fathers, or for the part of the Mute, the cast member who holds the stick between the two households, the stick that symbolizes the wall.

The Fantasticks is also one of those shows that you understand more as you become older and live through your own life experiences. "The wall" is open to interpretation, and it can symbolize any obstacle that causes you to work and fight for what you truly want. Without "the wall" would we truly make any effort at accomplishing what we want to in life? To me, the wall symbolizes any obstacle that is useful for reminding you not to take what you have for granted.

"The wall" could be, for me and BFF Kathy, the fact that I'm gay. If I wasn't, I'm certain I would have asked her to marry me. Maybe the marriage would have been difficult. Maybe we would have had kids too soon, before finishing college. Maybe our marriage wouldn't have lasted.

With this conveniently built-in wall, we have enjoyed a fun and romantic friendship, ever since that same school year in high school when I did my first stage musical. As friends, we have both helped and held each other whenever one of us had our heart broken. Often, we have held each other even when we were breaking each other's hearts.

In perhaps the most well known song from the show, "Try to Remember," El Gallo sings:

Deep in December in nice to remember
Without a hurt a heart is hollow

One of the main themes that can be interpreted from The Fantasticks is how there can be no growth, no true growth, without a little damage, first, without pain.

At my age, I still have trouble wrapping my mind around concept, even though I have lived through my own version of it, more than once. I think about some of the emotional pain I have survived, and how I eventually grew from it, once I got to the other side of the situation. And yet, if I had been given the option, I don't know that I would have deliberately chosen to have gone through it.

And it's good thing, I think, that it is not an option. Maybe there's a reason we're not given a choice for certain situations. Maybe that right choices are made for us, unhappy as they make us.

And maybe, perhaps, my understanding - and my acceptance - of my own difficult times in the past, will continue to increase as I get older.

Do About It

2010-10-05T22:30:00.000-07:00

"Enough is enough."

That was one of my friend's comments on facebook this past week, in response to the recent bout of teen suicides being reported in the media. These specific suicides were the result of teens being bullied because of gay, queer, or transgendered identity, whether actual or perceived.

It always breaks my heart to surmise that each reported incident we hear about represents dozens, maybe even hundreds of unknown and unacknowledged similar incidents across the nation and in the world, for any issue of concern.

"This is terrible."

"We must do something about it!"

These are the heartfelt if typical responses people will usually give before doing . . . nothing about it. But what can we do about it? There must be more specific action that can be taken beyond posting a link to the Trevor Project on your blog or facebook status update.

More specifically, what can I do about it?

Fortunately, I am constantly surrounded by Role Model friends. I need only to look beyond my fingertips on the keyboard to learn from the examples around me.

Noel Alumit wrote a loving, eloquent letter to his 17-year-old self for Gay.com. He assures his Past Self from a quarter-of-a-century ago that he will not forever remain the lonely and sad young man he feels he is, but grow into actually celebrating his sexuality with dance - and laughing and loving and singing - and surrounded by friends.

My friend, Michael, is a teacher at a middle school. He has had a facebook photo of himself and his partner passed around electronically by his students. In the photo, Michael and his partner are kissing. The principal told him that they are trying to confiscate all cell phones.

Michael's response is to ask the principal if he can do an anti-bullying presentation for the students, and to use his own situation as an example of what is happening in every state, every city.

He says these kids are lucky that he's the one they chose to pick on.

Michael does not live in California anymore. I still do, in the greater Los Angeles area. There is so much that I take for granted, being able to be out at work, having so many fabulous, openly-gay friends, and also having significant acceptance from Christian friends who are willing to agree to disagree and still remain friends.

I live a happy life practically free of discrimination, well, at least free of the outwardly blatant kind. I always feel that the battles have already been fought for me, that I live a comfortable and safe life because of those who came before me and fought for Gay Rights in the 80's and before.

I don't always have to be too flamboyant or too outrageously gay - only when it's fun for me to be so. I am able to blend in when it is convenient to go unnoticed. I don't have to put myself at risk when I don't want to.

But obviously there is still work to be done if young people are still killing themselves in 2010 because they are being picked on and bullied for being gay - for being queer or sissy or effeminate, or butch! - and/or for just being different.

The fact that gay youth are still at risk in this day and age feels too much like blood on my hands. My friend is right. Enough is enough, and it's time for me to stop hiding in the safety of my risk-free zone.

I know what it feels like, to be picked on or to be made fun of for being perceived as gay (no matter how involved I was in church and in youth group - and no matter how correct my accusers were about my homosexuality). As a young man I had struggled to find a compromise for my sexuality and my Christian beliefs. At the time it felt like there were no answers to be found, and that the only answer, the only way to deal with this tormenting conflict was to end my life.

I had never even come close being seriously suicidal, but simply entertaining thoughts of taking one's life is disturbing enough.

So. What can I do about it? In an attempt to take small, realistic steps, I will stop censoring my behaviour and speech as much as I used to. I will be more verbal and open about my "actively gay lifestyle" among conservative and Christian friends and stop worrying so much about not wanting to ruffle their feathers.

I don't feel the need to be more flamboyant or outrageous in my speech and behaviour. But what I can do is to flick my "church button" on less frequently. I can be a true-to-life example of a Real Gay Person, even at church, so that anyone who is suffering silently over sexual identity issues, no matter what age, does not have to feel so alone if they cross paths with someone like me or Michael or Noel.

And, yes, I will also click on the link to the Trevor Project and find out how to progress to taking bigger steps, and see what opportunities there are to get involved with locally, to learn what else I can do about it.

The photo above is of my friend, Michael, the middle school teacher, and his partner, Garry.

Leaving the Little Purple Bear

2010-10-03T22:26:00.000-07:00

I have had a love/hate relationship with Disney in the past, working for The Mouse off and on. Wanting to become a performer at Disneyland again always felt like wanting to get back together with an ex boyfriend - against my better judgment.

The last time I had tried was almost a decade ago. I had already been through rehearsals for the stage show, "Animazement," which had been performed on stage at the Fantasyland Theatre (formerly known as Videopolis in the 80's). In addition to being cast as a dancing utensil for the "Be Our Guest" number, and as a gazelle in the Lion King section, I was also a dancing starfish in "Under the Sea." I was thrilled to be back at the park as a union dancer.

I had been through my clearance shows but whatever politics that were in place at the time kept me from being scheduled for actual shifts.

A few months later I was told that I would have to audition again.

I wasn't very optimistic. I had a feeling that I was being made to audition just as a formality, so that I could be officially dismissed from the show, once and for all.

I was almost 35, at the time, and trying to accept the fact that I was getting too old to dance at Disneyland anymore. I had enjoyed an Extended Adolescence way beyond my due date. I needed to figure out a way to leave my happy childhood and fantasy life, even if just a little bit.

Paul Zindel wrote about performing a "symbolic act" in his novel, Pardon Me, You're Stepping on My Eyeball. A main character had trouble accepting the death of his father. I felt I had to do the same, figure out a symbolic act to perform in order to help me accept the death of that part of my childhood.

I had a little purple bear, not much bigger than my thumb. It had been given to me along with a birthday card from Domestic Partner, after I had first met him. I had worn purple clothing for twenty years, so this little purple bear was the perfect symbol for my Inner Child.

I had to leave him behind. That decided it. If I didn't get back in the show I would leave the little purple bear at the dance studio after auditioning. I would symbolically leave that part of my youth behind me. And yet, I still really hoped that I would get back into the show.

I did not get back in. Disney did not recast me in the show.

And I couldn't do it. I tried. I actually placed the little purple bear behind one of the stereo speakers before walking out of the dance studio. But it felt too much like abandoning him. It almost felt like just dumping my pug, Caesar, on the side of the road, and I couldn't do it.

I grabbed my little purple bear and put him into my pocket. I walked quickly out of the studio without looking back.

I could never leave my little purple bear, my baby pug, Caesar - my Inner Child - behind. I love that guy, and I cherish him too much to abandon him completely.

The Wacky Witch of West Covina

2010-09-23T21:17:00.000-07:00

She is the Wacky Witch. At least, that's what I was calling her: the Wacky Witch of West Covina. She's not really a witch, but it was hard not to pretend that she was, even just a little bit, especially before I found out how friendly she is.

She is a sweet, fragile-looking old lady who lives, seemingly alone with her scraggly dog, in a corner house on the next block. Her home is just run-down and neglected enough to look a little spooky. Usually, the front yard is an overgrown jungle of weeds and dried grass. This past spring, a large bare branch came crashing down during a storm. It stayed in her front yard jungle for weeks, reaching for the sky like some giant skeletal claw in rigor mortis.

Now and then her yard gets cleared up, making it easier to spot the half dozen feral cats that are always around, staring at you from behind the safety of the metal fence. Vertical blinds hang from the front window, permanently closed year round except for the two or three pulled away diagonally (to let in a little light, I suppose), giving the house a gap-toothed jack-o-lantern grin.

The Wacky Witch herself can usually be seen outside early in the morning, when I am walking the dogs. No matter what the weather, she is usually wearing little more than an old coat and a pair of galoshes. It seems slightly obscene to have her pale, bare legs in such plain sight. Her legs are almost unnoticeable, though, compared to the bed-head high rise that would give Don King a run for his trademark image.

I have seen her around the neighborhood, walking home from the local market with a blind person's walking stick in hand. On Sunday mornings she goes across the street to sit at the bus stop in front of Hong Kong Plaza, her walking stick resting by her side like a petite bristle-less broomstick. She holds a numbered flip chart in her lap, displaying the three digits of the specific bus she is waiting for.

I have spoken to her. She is lovely, genteel woman. She has a slight accent, something European and Old World sounding. I haven't had the chance to ask, yet, where she is originally from. She is chatty and friendly. She likes to ask about my black pug, Prudence, and she asks if I have any kitties at home like she does. When speaking to her, face to face, I get the impression that she has some vision left, but just enough to be considered legally blind.

She also wears a fluorescent yellow safety vest when walking around our neighborhood, a day glow garment made brighter with vertical reflective stripes.
I wear a fluorescent yellow safety vest with vertical reflective stripes, when riding my scooter on the freeway.

I feel a sort of shared sisterhood with the Wacky Witch of West Covina, a kind of unspoken bond in our concern for self-preservation when we are out, flying about. In my own warped way I, too, am a wacky witch in West Covina.

Schizophony

2010-09-21T21:04:00.000-07:00

I was a working dancer-singer-performer, sometimes, and most of the time I remembered to be grateful for it. It was usually easy to remember because I was also the struggling actor type, at other times, and I worked in restaurants between gigs.

Frequently.

The good thing about waiting tables is that you meet a lot of weird people.

The bad thing about waiting tables is that you meet a lot of weird people.

So, I continue to be grateful now that I have a full time, regular job for the first time in my life, no longer dependent on gigs as a server.

I work in the admissions department for a career college, assisting students with the application and enrollment process.

Today I got a phone call from Chicago, from Megan's mom. I had spoken to Megan on the phone before, more than once. She is a 'high maintenance type,' taking up a lot of time, asking question after question about our school program, and without getting any closer to actually applying to the school.

Her mother had the usual questions about length of the program, student housing, and financial aid. Every time I tried to answer one of her questions though, she would interrupt me.

"She's schizophrenic! She's schizophrenic!" she would whisper into the phone, sotto voce.

At first I wasn't sure if it was the mother whispering frantically to me, or if it was Megan on another line, trying to warn me.

The frenetic whispering continued. "She's schizophrenic! She's schizophrenic!"

Paranoia paralyzed my mind for about two seconds as the prospect of demon possession entered my thoughts.

Rational deduction, however, led me to believe that Megan's mother was just going through the motions of asking me the usual questions in an effort to appease her daughter, to make Megan think that she was taking her desire to attend a school in Los Angeles seriously.

"She schizophrenic! She's schizophrenic!" she continued.

I was so very tempted to ask, "Are you telling me that your daughter, Megan, is schizophrenic? Or is it one of your other personalities telling me that you're schizophrenic?"

And here I thought I had left all of the freaks and weirdos behind when I finally stopped waiting tables for good.

3 Things I Learned About My Mother

2010-09-19T21:47:00.001-07:00

Cousin A's mother and my mother are sisters. Cousin A and I were able to catch up on some family gossip when Domestic Partner and I took her to brunch for her birthday today. My mother, who is originally from Japan, is now in her mid-sixties.

Here a few things I learned about her.

1.) My mother had attended a prestigious university in the Tokyo area before meeting my father. She did not graduate. Instead, she married my father and moved to America with him. My Ojii-chan, my mother's father, supported her decision to quit college and get married. Cousin A has worked in Tokyo. She told me that the same university still has a well-known and respected reputation.

2.) If it had been up to my mother, she might have chosen to have less than four children. It was my father who had wanted a large family, after having read "Cheaper by the Dozen." I remember feeling, at age 13, slightly offended when I had learned that my mother had had her tubes tied after my youngest brother was born.

3.) In the early 1960's, there was the possibility that my mother might never meet anyone and get married, according to Cousin A's mother, who had expressed that opinion out loud. I don't know whether she truly thought that or if she was just saying that to her older sister in jest.

But it makes me wonder: did my mother accept my father's marriage proposal because she had feared that was the one and only offer she would ever receive?

Was it both the post-war era and Japanese culture that reinforced my grandfather's support of my mother dropping out of school to get married?

My parents were married for thirty years before my father asked my mother for a divorce.

How much did my mother sacrifice to marry my father? What else did she give up? What if she had contributed less to her roles as a wife and as a mother in order to realize more of her own potential? What if she had been allowed to shape more of her individual identity personally, academically, and career-wise?

Did my mother end up feeling she was held back by marrying my father?

I wonder if I had missed the chance to view my mother even more as a positive role model while I was growing up?

A Show Biz Life

2010-09-16T23:05:00.001-07:00

Hello, my name is Peter. I am 44-years-old, and I still want to sing and dance.

I am attending a performance/audition workshop this fall, at the ANMT, the Academy for New Musical Theater in North Hollywood. Last night was our first meeting.

It was pretty humbling. The other people in our small group of eight are talented singers and seasoned performers. I felt like such a nobody among them, such a poser, as we used to say in high school.

The bulk of my performing background has involved a lot of very cheesy work in theme parks and on cruise ships. And I wouldn't trade the part of my life for anything. But the list of actual theater credits on my resume is minimal. Who the hell am I to think that I could fit in with authentic thespian types?

I had to make some effort to remind myself that feeling this way is the exact reason for taking a workshop like this in the first place. We had to audition to get into the workshop, so I am also focusing on how fortunate I am to be part of this group.

We took turns singing on stage. Part of the exercise was to brainstorm and suggest other songs and specific roles that would be appropriate for each performer. After I had finished singing Sondheim's "What Can You Lose" (from Madonna's Dick Tracy album, "I'm Breathless"), one of the first roles suggested for me was the Engineer from "Miss Saigon."

I was pleased and flattered. I may never have the chance to even audition for that specific dream role but it felt good to have it suggested and confirmed. I am at an "awkward age" in that I need to work on more age-appropriate songs to audition with, and pinpoint more age-appropriate roles to audition for.

I was also advised to research B.D. Wong's career, and look to musical stage roles he had performed. I never mind playing the Asian card if it will get me a show or a gig. And yay, Linus from "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown!"

Years ago, as I reached my 30's, I started worrying that each show I was in was going to be my last. Maybe it was just paranoia, at first, but the feeling became so frequent that I stopped noticing it, eventually.

Nowadays, I have faith that I will get to perform again, someday, when the right opportunity presents itself. I just have to be patient.

Stay tuned!

Jerk Reaction

2010-09-12T20:30:00.000-07:00

BFF Kathy tells good stories. This one time, she and her Then Boyfriend/Now Husband took a weekend desert trip during college. They were with their chemistry professor and a small group of classmates. Everyone slept in the same cabin, in individual sleeping bags.

"Wakey-wakey," the professor instructed when the alarm clock rang. "Hands off snakey-snakey."

Kathy heard her boyfriend and another student swiftly slide their arms up inside of their sleeping bags. In stereo.

She said that their faces got really red.

I don't know. If I had been on that weekend trip, I'd like to think that I would have had the sense not to move a muscle in my own sleeping bag.

The Man in the Backseat

2010-09-08T21:54:00.001-07:00

BFF Kathy told me about the Man in the Backseat when were in high school. She has been terrified of him for about thirty years, now. I think she first learned about him in a horror/suspense movie, one of those cheesy but fun-to-watch B-movies, probably.

I never saw the film, but from what Kathy said I think the plot had something to do with an unsuspecting woman pulling into a gas station. She was afraid to get out of her car, thanks to the strange man trying frantically to get her attention. She thought that the strange man might be the escaped lunatic she had heard about on her car radio.

It turned out the strange man was trying to get her away from the escaped lunatic that had been in her car's backseat the whole time.

Fictional or not, Kathy always checked for the Man in the Backseat before she unlocked the door to her Ford Pinto, and while getting into the front seat, and then again before taking off.

She wasn't going to take any chances.

Kathy also taught me something else: where she had hidden the spare key to her car. This was in the olden days before we all had car alarms and remotes attached to our key chains.

One night, when I knew she was about to finish a dinner shift at Jack in the Box, I let myself into her Ford Pinto and hid - you guessed it - in the backseat. I made sure to wear all black. Even so, I was sure that I would be discovered right away since she always checked. Always.

Kathy must have had a busy and distracting shift that night.

I kept my head down as I heard her regular key open the door on the driver's side. I made the gargantuan effort not to giggle, thinking she would realize at any second that her worst fears had come true.

I continued to stifle my laughter as I listened to the car's ignition come alive and when I heard the slight crunch of parking lot gravel under the Ford Pinto's tires. Kathy lived less than a mile away and I felt the car take the familiar route to her house, first on a short stretch of River Road, and then a right turn into her neighborhood.

I sat up and looked around at the quiet and empty street, ghost-lit by the street lamps in that peaceful and eerie way. I kept my voice very low.

"Do you ever - ?"

I never got to finish my sentence. The Ford Pinto came to a screeching halt immediately. It felt like Kathy had swerved the car 180 degrees, practically, almost hitting one of the wooden fence posts on the dirt horse trail that served as a sidewalk. Kathy was pounding my chest with her fists and screaming at the same time. Actually, it sounded like she was crying and laughing at the same time, and at a very high volume.

"I'm going to kill you! Do you want me to kill you? Do you want to die? We could've died! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!"

When we had both calmed down, I realized that her car was stopped at a slight angle, not even halfway over the dirt horse trail. Her emergency stop did not look as extreme as it had felt. Still, we were lucky that there had been no other cars around that night, or pedestrians - or horses!

Kathy loves/hates to be scared. She looks back on that night fondly, sort of. "Yeah, remember?" she'll ask me, as if I hadn't been there. "That was a great night!"

The #1 Rule

2010-09-03T21:46:00.000-07:00

I learned The Most Important Rule early in life, thanks to BFF Kathy.
Here it is:

If there are two people, and one of you is the man, it's your fault.

It doesn't matter what the situation was, what it currently is, or what it's going to be - if you're the guy then it's still your fault, and it always will be.

It's a good thing Kathy taught this rule to me before I had moved out of my parents' house and had young women for roommates. At certain times of the month, some of these young women would be on the ground, balled up in fetal position, and clutching themselves in sheer agony from horrendous cramps.

I would panic. "What? What can I do? Do you need aspirin? Should I get you some water?"

"No!" they would scream, spewing venom. "Go away! It's your fault - you're a boy!"

I can only begin to imagine how this rule applies when you are a father-to-be in the delivery room, your wife/baby-mama all demon possessed, however temporarily.

Whether you are married or not, just abbreviate this rule down to the following two syllables, "Yes, dear," and you will save yourself literally hours of useless irrationality over a life time.

An example:
When BFF Kathy and I would go to a party together she would decline the offer of a drink from the hostess. "I'll just have a sip of yours," she would tell me, as if this was supposed to reassure me, somehow. I knew better. "Just bring us two of the same, please," I would ask. But Kathy would insist that one was all that was needed for the two of us - and then proceed to down more than half of the Trader Joe's organic blueberry cocktail juice. And she would feel just as dissatisfied (if not moreso) as I did with my glass-is-less-than-half-full portion.

But that was my fault. Just like when we were in high school and she drove all of us band geeks to the early morning jazz festival competition, cramming six or more of us into her mustard yellow Ford Pinto, and we ended up being late. That was my fault too.

Good thing we won first place that year or Kathy and I would still believe in bad omens to this day, which would also be my fault.

Good thing, also, that I'm gay. Whew!

When Negative is Positive

2010-09-01T21:56:00.000-07:00

I had first gotten tested for HIV about fifteen years ago, back in the old days before oral swabs, when it was still necessary to extract blood. I had started being sexually active ten years before that first test, so I was way overdue. It was 1995 - what had taken me so long?

Fear. Denial. False hope. That's what kept me from getting tested, at first. Or are those last two the same thing? Fear that the test results would confirm a positive HIV status, yes, but also fear of needles. I was 29 by the time I first got tested, but I had still been rationalizing that my fear of needles was reason enough to keep putting it off.

And denial/false hope. I felt healthy and I looked alright, so I must be okay, I further rationalized. Still, I might also be a walking time bomb, I thought.

I am lucky because I had supportive friends, friends who had already been tested. Jilly, my dear friend and dance partner, lived in daily fear after a one night stand until she finally got tested and was confirmed HIV negative. After that she kept encouraging me to get tested, too, "Just to put your mind at ease."

"But what if I test positive?" I had asked her. "Knowing that I am HIV positive will not put my mind at ease." So I continued to put it off, for another three years.

Best Bud Bubba left a note under my windshield wiper when we were both visiting our parents for Easter in '89, a note saying, "I have something to tell you."
BBB had tested positive for HIV. He bought a wok. He started eating tofu and fresh vegetables for the first time in his adult life. He encouraged me to take the first step toward a healthier lifestyle by getting tested, too.

BBB and I had both been in the BDB, the Blue Diamond Brigade, our high school marching band, along with BFF Kathy. Kathy is heterosexual. Best Bud Bubba and I are not. After high school, and after college graduation (for her) Kathy had also been tested for HIV, at the local Planned Parenthood. It was free to get tested there, and donations of any amount were welcome. Kathy added her own gentle encouragement, nudging me to get tested for the first time.

I gave a $40.00 donation, more out of guilt than for reasons of being able to afford it. I think I felt guilty for taking advantage of free services. I went alone to Planned Parenthood when I first got tested.

The results were not to be given over the phone or by mail. A second appointment was scheduled for me to learn about the results in person. I am lucky - did I mention that? - because Kathy and Best Bud Bubba went with me when it was time to learn the results.

They sat in the waiting room while I went into the doctor's office, prepared to receive my death sentence "It's not a death sentence! BBB is just fine and has been living a healthy life for several years, now" Kathy had said. I think she was the one who said that. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was one of the voices screaming inside my head.

I had not always been responsible during that first decade of sporadic sexual activity, a decade interspersed with short Christian-inspired bouts of attempted celibacy. Surely being identified as HIV positive was my due and deserved punishment.

"Okay," the young woman in the medical assistant smock started as she opened my thin and unremarkable looking file. She paused briefly. "Your test came back negative."
I looked at her and waited for her to go on. "Do you have any questions?" she asked.

"No," I replied. "I'm kind of surprised by the results, and I had lots of questions for if I had tested positive."

That was it. Short and sweet. I had been pardoned, at least for now, I had thought.

I walked back to the waiting room where Kathy and Best Bud Bubba received me with hugs and open smiles.

What I remember from walking out of Planned Parenthood that day are the smiles from the front desk staff, smiles for the obvious friendship and support I had in these two people walking out of the waiting room with me.

I already mentioned that I am lucky, right? It bears repeating, especially to myself.

Thanks, BFF Kathy and Best Bud Bubba. Blue Diamond Brigade band geeks 4-EVA!

Remembering Auntie M

2010-08-26T22:43:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I am attending a memorial service/celebration for my late Auntie M.
Cousin A, her daughter, told me it has been therapeutic for her to arrange this, finally, since she had been putting it off for a few years - this third and final part of her mother's funeral after the original service and cremation nine years ago.

Auntie M is originally from Japan, as is her sister - my mother. I thought it was a loving and lovely idea, Cousin A wanting to scatter a portion of her late mother's ashes from the shores of Japan, as well as from the California coast. It seems such fitting symbolism to lay her mother to rest at either end of the vastness that bridges our dual heritage.

It must have been overwhelming for Cousin A to go through the funeral service twice, in two different countries. I can't blame her for wanting to take a break, even for more than a few years. She is an only child. She lived with Auntie M after her parents had divorced. To Cousin A, her mother alone was her family.

I feel lucky because I have so many good memories of Auntie M from before Cousin A was born, and also from after.

I was three when I had first lived in Japan with my family, in my mother's and Auntie M's childhood home. We stayed in my Ojii-san's (grandfather's) house near Tokyo, with Auntie M and her two cats, Pipi and Gohn-chan. I remember the two tiny goldfish that had been won at a summer street festival. I remember thinking they were exclusively mine. Auntie M had put them in a shallow but wide dish for them to swim around in. The fish were easy pickings for Pipi and Gohn-chan.

The second time our family lived in Japan, I was 8-years-old. Auntie M took me and my siblings to the circus in Tokyo. I remember that day because my aunt and I discovered then that we had a love of garlic-flavored potato chips in common.

There are photos of Auntie M and Cousin A's father from the day they took us kids to the Tokyo Zoo. And I was a huge Snoopy fan as a kid, so I will never forget the time that Auntie M took us all to see "Snoopy Come Home" at the movie theater. As an American kid who was sometimes homesick, it was a special treat to watch a movie in English.

Auntie M had a very memorable laugh. Truth be told, hers sounded a lot like the laughter of Arnold Horseshack from "Welcome Back Kotter," a kind of repeated honking sound that was half grunt and half gasp. This was way before the first season of that television show. Maybe the actor, Ron Palillo, stole it from Auntie M.

"Why don't you have any babies, yet?" I once asked her (this was before Cousin A was born).
"Becaus-zu," she answered in her heavily accented English, "I hav-oo you and-o you and-o you and-o you."
She said this while pointing to each of us in turn, me and my three siblings.

My favorite memory of Auntie M is how she would lengthen my name by three extra syllables whenever she was exasperated with me. It wasn't deliberate. She would just accidentally begin saying my siblings' names first, starting with the youngest:
"Teh -Ah -Dah - PEE-TAH!"

My middle name is Tadashi, after my Ojii-san, so it is fitting that Auntie M would inadvertently lengthen my name to a form of "Tad Peter."

Thanks, Auntie M, for the great memories, and for spoiling us kids, before and after Cousin A was born.

You Would So

2010-08-23T21:29:00.000-07:00

Before I got my cute lil' smartcar two years ago, I was mostly getting around the freeways of Los Angeles on my Suzuki Burgman scooter. Oh, I had a car back then, too. It was a used '94 Saturn sports coupe. I hastened its demise, though, in less than a decade by tripling the mileage that it had already accumulated.

My cousin, Kousin K, said the funniest thing to me. "It's a good thing you're with Domestic Partner," she had told me. "If you were dating right now you would so need a new car."

"Hey," I protested. "The scooter is the new car."

Totally Teetotaler

2010-08-19T21:41:00.000-07:00

I don't drink. I have been of legal drinking age for more than twenty-three years now, and I have never been drunk. I don't feel as if I've missed out on anything.

Maybe it had something to do with being a band geek in high school. Or maybe I was just that much of a goody-goody while growing up. I never had to deal with that kind of peer pressure (or in this case, beer pressure). But I have never liked the taste of any alcoholic beverage, not even wine coolers or champagne.

"You've never been drunk?!" Steve was incredulous. He was the DJ on the first cruise ship I had worked on. "We've got to find something you enjoy drinking, and get you drunk for the first time."

It's almost a shame that I didn't drink. As crew members, we were given an alcohol account to get drinks for free on the ship. The purpose of the account was to get us to socialize more with the passengers, to offer them a drink on the house, in any of the ship's bars and dining areas.

The account had a set limit, though, and was renewed every month. My coworkers came running to me regularly. "Can I put my drinks on your account? I've maxed out mine." They knew that I was barely using up my minimum, even when getting drinks for passengers, with the juice or soft drink beverages I was ordering for myself.

Back home, on land, my roommates loved me. "Let's go out!" they would suggest, knowing I would be more than willing to drive. Even though I didn't drink, I loved to go out dancing, any night of the week. "Okay!" I agreed. "You guys drink and I'll make sure to get us all safely back home!"

"You don't drink?" the Japanese would ask me when I worked in Kyushu. "And you don't smoke? You're not Japanese." No, I am not. Well, I am only half, on my mother's side, but I knew what they meant. I am American through and through when it comes to the cultural norms of social drinking in Japan.

In a small attempt to assimilate, I would have one glass of shou chu (or chu hai ) whenever I went out to dinner with friends in Japan. It is a very mild, clear alcohol, usually mixed with a fruit-flavored (artificially flavored) concentrate. My favorite flavor with shou chu was "Calpico," a high fructose soft drink that is kind of milky and lightly citrusy at the same time, kind of yogurty, really. I learned to love it when I spent part of my childhood in Japan.

I could make a Calpico shou chu last throughout an entire meal. On some nights, during special occasions, I would get really wild and order a second drink - a Kahlúa and milk, which tastes like flan pudding to me. Yum!

Drinking wine is supposed to be healthy for you, even having a glass a day. But I still don't drink. I have never been drunk, not even once. So, tell me: what's the fuss all about? What am I missing?

Spectrum

2010-08-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

I was Purple Peter for twenty years. From 1981 to 2001 I wore something purple every day. On most days the display of my favorite hue was blatant and obvious, such as when wearing my bright purple Levi's 501's, thanks to Rit dye. But on some days it would just be purple socks or a purple watch. Or purple underwear.

"Where's your purple?" people would ask me on days that my trademark was more subtle.

"Why not just get a tattoo in purple and be done with it?" someone else had asked. That would have ruined the fun, I thought. That would have made the game of perpetually being the guy-who-wore-purple rather moot.

After twenty years I was done.

That was the same year I had my hair bleached platinum blond and started wearing a lot of reds. And yellows, and greens, and shades of royal blue.

My hair is back to its natural color (my sister, to my amusement, was suspicious that I am now using dark hair dye). Now, I implement many bright (and not-so-bright) colors in my daily life:

I wear red to work when I am stressed out, frustrated, and angry.

I ride an orange scooter to work and back.

I drive a yellow smart car on the weekends.

I look for bright green shirts to go with my half green/half blue Adidas high tops.

I get compliments when I wear my royal blue dress shirt to work.

I wear purple when I get together with old friends and/or attend reunions, just for old time's sake.

I used to avoid brown. Now I embrace rich, chocolaty shades in my wardrobe.

I wear a black dress shirt to work when I am feeling apathetic.

I love to wear charcoal grey when I am feeling fashionable and confident.

I am not afraid to wear pale pink or even bright pink shirts.

I love to wear white, even though it's so hard to keep clean.

And when I was in high school, my entire bedroom was decorated in rainbows.

Hey, Do You Get Yours?

2010-08-01T17:35:00.001-07:00

One of the more memorable passengers from my cruise ship days was a young woman named Trish. She was in her mid-to-late twenties and she had slight mental retardation. She was like an outgoing grammar school girl, and she was one of the more ardent fans of the stage revues. She soon became a familiar face, sitting near the front row of the show lounge, right on the carpet, no matter what the scheduled dress code was for the evening.

On most nights, before we had reached the end of our live performance, Trish was usually stretched out on the show lounge carpet, snoring away,

Trish seemed excited to recognize us during the day time, walking throughout the ship's corridors or up on the outer decks. "Hey! Hey, you guys!" she would eagerly call. "Hey, you guys! What are you doing?"

During Trish's cruise, I got dressed in my tuxedo to greet the passengers at the Captain's Cocktail hour, as we did every week on the first formal night. I got on one of the ship's elevators with a couple of the other dancers, Graham in his tux, too, and Jo in one of her cocktail dresses. An elegant and elderly couple were already in the elevator, dressed to the nines.

The three of us greeted them politely, asking the usual questions: Where are you from? Are you enjoying the cruise so far?

The elevator stopped at the next level and Trish stepped in, unaccompanied, wearing a very ruffly, blue party dress.

"Hey! Hey, you guys. What are you doing?" Trish looked pointedly at Jo. "I just got my mennis-stray-shun. Do you get mennis-stray-shun?"

I don't know how we managed to keep from bursting with laughter. I had to look away from Graham and Jo. We didn't want to behave rudely in front of our senior citizen guests, or even in front of Trish.

We waited until after we got out of the elevator and then hooted like loons with the other dancers when we told them what Trish had said in front of a couple of passengers.

Pack-rat No More

2010-07-18T14:17:00.001-07:00

Domestic Partner loves to watch the television shows about hoarders, people who live in houses crowded with possessions towering to the ceiling. It's humorous to me how fascinated he is by this topic since he is the exact opposite of a hoarder. He doesn't even like leftovers to stay in the refrigerator for more than a day or two.

I am kind of a hoarder. I believe leftovers are still okay to eat a week later, as long as nothing smells bad when you lift the Tupperware lid. I watch the hoarding shows, sometimes, but not as intently as DP does.

Hello, my name is Peter and I am a former pack-rat.

I used to save everything while I was growing up. I have several Memory Boxes that I started while still in high school. I saved everything because I wanted to remember everything. For example, I saved the empty plastic bottle that contained the blue dental rinse from my orthodontist. At 13-years-old, I wanted to remember the time and process of getting braces and wearing head gear.

For whatever reason.

So, living with Domestic Partner has been good for me. I have learned to, every so often, get rid of clothing that I never wear (or no longer fits). My dresser drawers no longer contain old socks and underwear as "emergency back-ups." I got rid of my bike shorts from the 80's and 90's, despite the off chance that I might some day need them for dance class.

I am pretty good about cleaning up the family room table that serves as my desk and work space, periodically getting rid of receipts and old bank statements.

Although my pack-rat-itis has diminished, I still have to make an effort to keep it in check. Last month, I finally donated a pair of powder-blue Ugg boots to Goodwill, a pair that I had bought five years ago because they were on clearance. I never wore them, not even once. Every winter, the old classic-tan pair of knock-offs (Emu brand) still feels more comfortable.

Erin was my First Girlfriend in junior high, about the same time we both had braces. We remained close friends after high school. Erin is the kind of Good Friend who will keep you company while you take seven hours to clean up your bedroom. I'll never forget the lesson she taught me years ago, in the difficult decision process of To Hoard or Not to Hoard.

"Just go through your stuff and consider one item at a time," she advised me. "If the item makes you happy, keep it!"

I no longer have the empty plastic bottle of dental rinse.

Butch Queens and Motorcycle Dykes

2010-07-12T21:49:00.000-07:00

She looks like a petite K.D. Lang disciple, from the subtle pompadour of her D.A. hairstyle to her sturdy biker boots. Her classic black leather motorcycle jacket tops her practical and faded jeans, in the recognizable, retro look. Two platinum blond streaks arc over her boyish cut, like racing stripes.

She could be a short, cute boy with a skinny build. So, how do I know she's a woman? It's the helmet she clutches, as she wanders among the tall shelves of Borders bookstore: her motorcycle helmet is bright pink, metallic, and glittery.

Still, this is Hollywood, and even a young man would proudly protect his skull with such flamboyant headgear in this town. On the rare occasions when I venture away from my office, I get a front row seat to the way people in Los Angeles create and express their gender.

I'll never forget my Bestest Gurlfren' Eddie commenting (in the 80's) about all the "butch queens who ride bikes," such as the tall, blond dancer at the Orange Coast Repertory Ballet Company. He rode his classic and expensive-looking motorcycle with the same masculine grace and balance that he displayed while rehearsing his leading man roles in the studio.

And there was Evan, one of the parade dancers at Disneyland who always got good parts because he was so tall and talented. He also rode a motorcycle, which seemed to both clash with and complement the effeminate personality we came to know and love backstage.

And then there was me, with my small, used Vespa scooter. Eddie was forever rescuing me when my scooter broke down, coming to save the day with his construction worker father's huge pickup truck ("I feel so butch!" Eddie exclaimed when he got behind the wheel, sitting five feet above the pavement).

As a kid who never felt butch or like a "typical boy" while growing up - and who also felt inferior about it - I thought that riding a Vespa scooter would help me create a more masculine image, or at least be a good start. Maybe that's why Evan and the Orange Coast ballet dancer also rode motorcycles, to overcompensate, even, for their graceful dancing skills.

And more than twenty years later, it seems to be a deliberate and wonderful construction of masculinity for the motorcycle rider with the pink, glittery helmet that I get to see in Hollywood.

Like Disneyland, Hollywood often has its own street parade of costume get-ups and costumed characters. I work on Sunset Boulevard, a few minutes' walk away from the Mann's Chinese movie theater. Sometimes the superheroes and cartoon characters busking in front of the theater take a coffee break in the Borders book store next to my office building.

Did you know that Spiderman is really African American?

Identity on the Catwalk, Part 2

2010-07-05T20:32:00.000-07:00

One of my problems with being a performer/actor-type in Los Angeles is that I am easily starstruck. It's difficult for me, sometimes, to let well known actors just be regular people if I get the chance to meet them.

Mr. T was one of the male models in the fashion show fund raiser for Nisei Week. He is a prominent actor and director, and a standout celebrity in the Asian American acting community. A highlight of his impressive career was winning the Academy Award for Best Live Action Short, Visas and Virtues, in which he starred, directed, and co-wrote.

He is an obvious role model for Asian American men, as much for his good looks and physique as for his accomplished career.

I had met Mr. T before, at other fund raisers and theater events, but only briefly. It had been years since I had last seen him, and I doubted that he would remember me. I was happy that we would have the chance to work more directly together, even if for only one afternoon.

Theater friends had told me that Mr. T is "a nice guy" but not very sociable. Even having been forewarned, I was still disappointed when he wasn't very responsive to my attempts at small talk with him. During a lunch break with the other models, Mr. T seemed content to stay out of conversation and let his gaze wander elsewhere.

I was sorry that the chance to be buddy-buddy with Mr. T did not organically occur.

Mr. T reminded me of an alter ego I had invented as a kind of defense mechanism exercise: "Tad Tokunaga." Where in real life I am sometimes too emotional for my own good, the fictional Tad is stoic and aloof. In my mind, Tad is full-blooded Japanese (I am only half) and very Asian looking. He is the silent type, non-responsive in general, and rocker-thin. And he smokes.

Tad Tokunaga is everything I'm not, and it helps, even if only a little bit, to focus on who he is when my feelings get hurt and I want to not care about it.

It was strange to recognize that Mr. T was a good true-to-life example of who I imagine Tad Tokunaga to be. I don't know Mr. T's stage and film roles well, but after last month's fashion show, I'd guess that he saves most of his emotional expression for his acting career, and maybe for those he is closest to.

Maybe he is just a very private person.

Even though I was disappointed not to have the chance to be chummy with him, I still admire him. I still hold Mr. T up as a role model, especially as we both progress through middle age (he is still a sexy and attractive man at the end of five decades). If I am too emotional, I can use the inspiration he provides to balance my own real life persona.

Identity on the Catwalk, Part 1

2010-06-29T21:06:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I got to participate in a fashion show that served as one of the fundraisers for the annual Nisei Week in Little Tokyo. I was happy to be one of the volunteer models, anticipating the automatic sense of community I feel whenever I attend a Japanese American event.

I knew I would be one of the older volunteer models, wearing the casual and sporty Georg Roth shirts, and serving as a live mannequin for the Asiatic Citron designs. But I was still relieved when I arrived at the Biltmore Hotel and saw that I was not the oldest model.

I am not the tallest or handsomest guy, even as a volunteer in a community event. But I am a bit of an Attention Whore, still, and I know how to ham it up. I know how to fake confidence, if needed.

When the male models lined up backstage to go on for the actual show, any slight nervousness or insecurity faded away as soon as I heard the plucky opening notes to Duffy's "Mercy." It was the perfect struttin' music.

"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" Duffy's vocals came clear and confident through the speakers as I focused on taking strong, measured steps. This wasn't a paid gig, so what did I have to lose? I put one foot right in front of the other, a la Bob Fosse, all the while adding just the right amount of sassiness to my walk - not too much.

And the women were screaming. They started screaming from the audience as soon as the first male model appeared on the catwalk. Without looking directly into the spotlight, or at anyone in particular I remembered to play to both sides of the house, as well as to the center, just as I had been taught in my early years of dinner theater.

I paused at the end of the runway to pull the corners of my collar up while shrugging my shoulders in a forward roll (hammy). I stole a few more seconds of stage time and lowered my sunglasses just enough to peer above the lenses at the audience before making my sassy way back upstage (hammier).

And it wasn't about me. I was relaxed because it was about the men's shirts as well as the women's fashions. It was more about the contestants for the Miss Nisei Week pageant, who performed their own dance number to Michael Jackson music.

And of course, it was about the Nisei, which literally means "second generation" and refers to the Asian Americans that were born to immigrant parents.

I'm proud to be my own small version of nisei, having been born in California after my father brought his Japanese bride from overseas. It is a privilege to be one of the many faces in this specific and many-faceted community. I feel lucky to be able to actively participate in life this way, even if just for a brief afternoon of fantasy role playing.

New Songs

2010-06-15T20:27:00.000-07:00

Last week I went to my first singing audition in over a year. I almost chickened out, too. I had actually cancelled my audition appointment, but then I was cajoled to show up anyway, just for kicks and giggles.

I had nothing to lose, so I went and sang. We even danced a little at the audition, which was for a revue at a dinner theater. The audition went well and I realized that I had panicked for nothing.

I did not get the show. I was a little disappointed but more relieved. The time commitment was pretty grueling, with night time rehearsals going until 11:00 pm. Not bad when you're a struggling actor waiting tables and can sleep in, in the mornings. Not a good choice, though, when you need to stay awake forty hours a week at a day job.

I will wait for the next audition, for the right opportunity.

Last week I had my first private voice lesson in forever. That went well, also. I asked a friend to recommend a teacher and the instructor turned out to be exactly what I was looking for - someone with an extensive background in musical theater and one who is able to guide me to songs that are age-appropriate for me.

My new voice teacher recommended "I Am Adolpho" as a good comedy piece for me. The song is from "A Drowsy Chaperone" (look it up on youtube - it's a hoot!). I found a reasonably priced collection of vocal selections from that musical on ebay.

The new instructor also pointed me toward musicnotes.com, a web site where you can pay to download music and print it out, for an average of about $5.00 a song - and all legally, too! I am amazed at the Age of Instant Gratification that we live in (and I am, perhaps, a little too easily impressed).

I made my first music purchases online tonight: George Michael's "Kissing a Fool" (to replace the copy I had bought more than twenty years ago and have since misplaced), and Nick Gilder's "Hot Child in the City" (youtube that one, too, if you don't know it!).

Lately, I have been doing vocal warm ups during my scooter ride into work, working on increasing my range, both with the lower bass notes and the higher falsetto notes. I have noticed an improvement in my breathing capacity, something I have practiced and benefited from in recent jogging and swimming.

I look pretty youthful for my age, but I will never again be cast in a young leading or supporting role. I can never be one of the teenagers in "Grease" or "Hairspray" or "Bye Bye Birdie." I will never be able to play Jack in "Into the Woods," one of my dream roles.

But I may still have time to get cast in a production of "The Full Monty" some day, or maybe land a featured part in "Little Shop of Horrors." I may be too old to ever play Matt in "The Fantasticks" again (my first musical in high school), but I could get cast as one of the fathers or maybe even El Gallo. Even just thinking about the possibilities is enough to perk me up.

I need to get new head shots!

Congratulations - It's a Gay!

2010-06-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

"Mom? Dad? There's something I have to tell you. I'm gay."

For the second time this year, a friend told me that their young adult child had just come out to them. I was asked for advice, even. As much as I am willing to share (over share?), I first emphasize that I am not a parent, so I don't know if I can offer proper advice.

That never stops me, though.

If your daughter or son tells you that she/he is gay, here are a few pointers based on when I had come out to my own parents:

1.) Don't try to place any blame, especially on yourself. It is not your fault, nor is it your child's fault. It is a waste of time, mulling over the last eighteen years or more, trying to figure out what you could have done differently. To me, that would be equivalent to trying to determine why your child ended up in a heterosexual marriage and produced biological children.

2.) Don't ask, "How could this happen to me, in my family?" This is not about you - this is about your child. Ironic as it may seem, this is not something to take personally. How could this happen to you? Because it is not a terrible, horrible thing - the earth will continue to rotate. It is a normal situation, more common that you may originally think. Plus, it's damaging to displace any perceived negativity onto your child's self esteem.

3.) Do be willing to listen. Gay or straight, most adult children are squeamish about talking to their parents about sex in general, let alone their sexuality. As I had said to my friend this weekend, try to see your child's coming out as a means of opening the lines of communication. If you can tell your parents you're gay, you should be able to talk about almost anything!

4.) Avoid the despairing and initial gut reaction of, "But you'll never have any children of your own." There are also straight people who are not able to have children of their own. And just as despairing is the fact that there are too many children in this world who will never have any parents of their own. This can be an opportunity, not a limitation.

5.) Do continue to accept your child. If demonstrating acceptance is not part of your normal family routine, then what better time to start practicing?

I also advised my friend to focus on the resources that are available today, both for young adults who are newly out of the closet and for their parents, such as looking online for the nearest PFLAG chapter. I wish I had had such information available - and so privately - in the pre-Internet days when I was struggling internally with my sexuality.

I also asked my friend if it would be appropriate to offer my congratulations. As Ellen DeGeneres memorably asked in her sitcom, "Why can't we say, 'Good for you!' when someone comes out? Why shouldn't our reaction be, 'Good for you - you're gay!'"

World's Oldest Chorus Boy?

2010-05-20T21:22:00.001-07:00

It's hitting me again, that old and familiar urge to perform, the drive to find some musical theater show or project in which I can sing and dance. And no small surprise, either, with the weekly indulgence of "Glee" episodes, and the daily playing of the "Glee" CD's.

But it's not just the young people on TV (I'm old enough to be their father, some of them). I'm also wonderfully influenced by seeing so much live entertainment lately - shows featuring friends my age. I'm both happy for my friends, enjoying their performances, and jealous of them, too, wanting to be up on stage with them in "Miss Saigon" and in "Chicago."

It's hard for me to relegate musical theater to just being a spectator sport.

Last weekend, I went to see a show choir called "Live it Up!" perform in Palm Springs. It was my third time being in their audience. It was also the third chance I had passed up to be part of the performance. The director/choreographer is a friend and former coworker. Since starting this group, he had been asking me to join rehearsals and performances. He is usually short a male performer or two and is often on stage himself.

My director friend had tried to give up performing completely, as well, becoming a bona fide adult and successful realtor. But he could only abstain for so long (he is insanely talented and I was a little disappointed when I heard he had stopped). He is forty, now, and he looked great under the lights (sans makeup, even)!

So, what's stopping me?

It is difficult for Domestic Partner to become the Performer's Widower when I get busy at night with rehearsals and performances. Now and then, I can find the right show that is short term and close to home. It doesn't happen often.

But enough is enough. I told Domestic Partner that I will be looking for a show to get into, especially if it's a paid gig. I argued that the extra money will help me to reach my short term financial goals more efficiently, which would get me closer to reaching our long term financial goals for retirement.

He wasn't happy about it, but he said he wouldn't stop me. It's not as if I'm going out of town again, to sing on a cruise ship or dance in Japan (I keep trying to justify - if only to myself).

I'd like to say that the urge to continue performing means that I am called to sing and dance. But, honestly, I don't think it's that profound. It's just something that I truly enjoy doing, and I miss it. Performing live on stage is definitely among the times when I am happiest.

Maybe this latest desire to dance and sing again is not so much a calling as it is just another midlife crisis, my eighth one, I think, at the rate I've been going.

Did'ja see "Glee" this week? Did'ja catch that old balding guy dancing to "Safety Dance" among all the young performers inside the mall? What little hair he had was gray, and he was fat.

And he could move. That could be me!

Anyone Smell That?

2010-05-13T20:43:00.001-07:00

We are dog sitting Otis the pug again. He is young, especially compared to our two granny pugs. His fur is soft and always freshly washed whenever he comes to visit. He is both energetic and well behaved.

We love him.

I took him for the first walk of his week long visit this morning. I packed an extra paper towel in my jacket pocket, just in case he needed picking up after more than once. I use brown paper lunch bags for temporary storage until we get back to our own garbage can (I stopped using plastic grocery bags for doggy cleanup when I learned that dolphins sometimes eat them since they look like jellyfish underwater).

When I got home from work today, I realized that the brown paper bag filled with Otis's offerings was still in my jacket - the same jacket that had been in my office all day.

Why didn't my coworkers say anything?!

I should think about renaming this blog "Peter's Poo World"

Crusty

2010-05-12T21:52:00.000-07:00

BFF Kathy told me this one.

She said that her husband went in for a physical exam. The doctor asked him for a urine sample, a stool sample, and a semen sample.

So he just handed the doctor his underwear.

Who You Want to Be

2010-05-03T20:22:00.000-07:00

To celebrate Mother's Day early, I took my mom to a matinee of Miss Saigon, which was performed at the San Gabriel Valley Music Theatre. I am familiar with the show's music, having bought the Original Cast recording in the early 90's (on not one but two cassette tapes!).

I can't believe it's taken me almost two decades to actually see it performed live on stage.

Although I am not Vietnamese, the story line is close enough to feel personal, focusing on the brief love affair between a young Vietnamese girl and an American soldier - and their young mixed-race boy. There is even a song titled Bui-Doi, pleading to Americans not to forget the plight of illegitimate half-breeds who were fathered by soldiers and left orphaned overseas.

Why didn't I remember to bring extra tissue? I cried almost from the beginning of the first act to the end of the show. The theme of abandoned war babies is heart tugging enough, privileged American-born though I may be. The fact that my upbringing in the U.S. is light years away from what happened in Vietnam only seems to emphasize the fact that everything is a matter of chance and determined by the luck of geography.

But the young mother's songs to and about her son are the ones that had me bawling the most, the lyrics of love and devotion, and of her willingness to literally sacrifice her life in order to ensure a better future for him.

I lost it when the small boy first ran out on stage, into his mother's waiting arms. Had I not been in the midst of an audience, sitting next to strangers, I would have been sobbing in uncontrollable falsetto tones.

I know what my crying is like. It's not pretty, both visually and audibly (I am ugly when I cry). But I am not ashamed of it.

My mom cried silent tears as well, sitting next to me. I almost forgot how appropriate it was to bring my mom to this particular show, my mother who had met a young American when he was in the navy and stationed in Japan. My mother who, after knowing this young sailor for only a few months, married him and moved to California where I was born.

I am not famous, and I am not rich. But I am the American dream. Many of the lyrics from Miss Saigon help me to realize this, including what Kim, the young mother sings to her son:

I'll give you a million things I'll never own
I'll give you a world to conquer when you're grown
You will be who you want to be
You can choose whatever Heaven grants

I still believe that about myself, that it is still not too late (even at my age) to be - and become! - who I want to be.

And for that I thank my mother, for leaving the only life she knew to go to a strange country, where I was able to have a typical American childhood.

Happy Mother's Day to you, especially if you are one, and also to the the one that raised and loved you.

Peace and Protection

2010-04-28T20:24:00.000-07:00

I am feeling wonderfully peaceful, as well as protected. Even if it is only temporary - even if it's all just an illusion - I am fully embracing the feeling and being as wholly grateful as I can be.

I am turning 44 this weekend, and I'm feeling pretty darn good about it.

I am taking Friday off from work, so tomorrow will be kind of like Christmas Eve in a way, in the joyful anticipation of it all. It will be a busy and fun weekend.

What do I want to do? I want to see the new, re-imagined version of Nightmare on Elm Street. Seriously! We'll see if there's time.

Going to see all of the Freddy Krueger movies is a tradition for BFF Kathy and me. But this was before her children, ages 7 and 5, were born. I'll be spending Friday with the three of them, so I probably shouldn't count on seeing this latest Freddy movie with Kathy, at least, not during the day. I'm sure we'll all have fun, as usual, no matter what we end up doing.

On Saturday, I get to see two shows! As an early Mother's Day present Domestic Partner and I will be taking my mom to see a live concert matinee of Miss Saigon. In the evening, Kathy will join me to see a dear friend perform the lead in a national touring production of Chicago. This will be my third time seeing her perform the role of Velma Kelly - and I'm looking forward to it!

Tonight, I took the dogs out to the front yard and driveway, as part of our normal evening routine before bedtime. Post-rain winds were blowing tufts of clouds across a clear sky glowing with the last of the twilight. I saw the exceptionally bright star again, the one that seems to hover above our front yard's tall hibiscus bush and near the bare branches of the trees in the DMV parking lot next door (maybe it's a planet?).

The star makes me think of Caesar the pug, as if he is an angel watching me, as if he is the reason my life is so peaceful and protected because my love for him continues, even though he's been gone more than four years now.

I know that the good times don't always last, just as the bad times never do. But I am happy to relish all the good things while they are here: a great partner, cozy and cuddly pets, a good job, a stable home, reliable transportation, good friends, family, and good health.

For my birthday, I want YOU to enjoy the feelings of peace and protection in your own life, too, as much as can be expected.

Thank you for reading.

Plans and Expectations

2010-04-22T22:18:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I remember some of the things that I do. Domestic Partner and other people seem a little amazed that I can recall things that happened in my little life, even before the age of three.

Nothing too astounding though, such as repeating "Milk" over and over in the darkness of my bedroom until my mother brought me a small serving in a Tupperware cup. I can still picture our first family dog, Nagako, calmly watching me from the hallway before my mother heeded my late night plea (late to me, then), her friendly and reassuring canine presence visible in the light coming from the living room.

It was a very small house, that first home my parents lived in when I was born. I slept in the only bedroom and then shared it with my brother when he was born. My parents would unfold the futon mattresses every night and sleep in the living room. Their bedding had been a wedding gift from my Hii-obaachan, my great-grandmother in Japan.

After they had gotten married, and my father had first brought my mother from Japan, they lived in the Japanese-American community of Gardena, in the suburbs of Los Angeles. When I started kindergarten there were not only white children in my class, but also Japanese children, and Mexican kids and African American kids. I didn't realize until later how much I took this for granted, having friends and classmates of different races and cultures.

Our family attended a church in Gardena that was walking distance from our house. I wanted to invite Mark from school to go to Sunday School with me. Of course, I didn't plan it ahead of time. It probably occurred to my 5-year-old mind at the last minute, on a random Sunday morning.

Mark was also Japanese, like me, but full-blooded, with both a Japanese mother and a Japanese father. But I didn't think of that back then. He was just my friend, Mark, from kindergarten. He lived right by the school, too. I walked all the way to his house, on a day when there was no school, happy about bringing him to church and introducing him to my Sunday School teacher.

Mark's big brother answered the door. "Oh, Mark is still sleeping. He can't go to church with you. I'm sorry."

My eyes must have started welling up with tears right away.

"Don't cry, okay?"

I knew I couldn't help it. I was already crying, even before I turned right around and headed back home.

Like so many of my memories, I'm not sure why that has remained in my mind (and for almost forty years, now). But I have thought of that Sunday morning many times, probably because it's a natural part of growing up: making plans and the joyful anticipation of fulfilling youthful ideas, and then having to learn to get over disappointment when your plans fall through.

I know my parents had their own plans for me, expecting that I would finish college by the age of 22 and perhaps go to graduate school so that I could go into a professional career before the age of 30. Then I would be able to successfully and securely get married, buy a house, and raise children without any financial or emotional stress. I would be able to avoid the hardships that defined their marriage and their lives.

But I had to go and ruin their plans by wanting to dance and sing and perform. Thanks to me, they had much disappointment to get over when I dropped out of college at age 19 and started working at Disneyland.

I had many disappointments to get over, repeatedly. Audition after audition gave me plenty of practice to survive the heartache of unfulfilled plans.

It's funny how distant that all seems, now. I still make plans, but I'm not as easily disappointed anymore if things go wrong or fall through. I don't set myself up, I guess.

Maybe I'm not taking enough risk nowadays? Maybe reaching my forties is too old to take risks?

I make financial plans. Pay off the scooter, then tackle the car loan, then the student loans. After that, there's the mortgage to pay off.

And then retirement.

Domestic Partner and I are talking about retiring in Hawaii. That's about twenty years away for us, but I know that the next two decades will go by much more quickly than the last two.

And if it doesn't happen? If we don't ever move to Hawaii? I'll be okay. I won't cry - not too much.

Labels So Useless

2010-04-12T21:04:00.000-07:00

At first I thought Chris was gay, even before I met him. It was his husband, Marc, after all, who had told me that he and Chris had been married for four years. Marc is one of the students attending the school at which I work. After telling me that he had a "friend" that also wanted to enroll as a student, he closed my office door and quietly confided that he and Chris have a legally recognized marriage, Prop 8 be damned.

Then I met Chris, with his purple punk-esque hair and baggy cut-off shorts. I liked him immediately. Where Marc is tall and gangly, Chris is short and rotund. Both wear corrective lenses. Marc had some more information to confess. Chris, despite appearances, is still physically and legally a female. Marc uses male pronouns when speaking about and referring to Chris.

I was happy to do the same. I've had two years of Gender Studies as a major, at a major university - I'm well-informed and hip for a middle-aged guy. I'm open-minded and flexible (I like to think).

Still, it was a bit of an adjustment. Chris's financial aid officer explained that for legal purposes, we need to refer to Chris by his birth name, and even change the name in our electronic files to his original female name. I found myself struggling with pronouns, bouncing between the words 'she' and 'he,' 'her' and 'his,' during our weekly meeting with the Director of Financial Aid, sometimes in a single sentence even.

My level of discomfort is minimal, and it's not even with Chris or with his marriage to Marc. It's more with his financial aid officer who is not from here, originally, not from Southern California. When discussing Chris with this coworker, I found myself tripping over pronouns more than when casually chatting with Chris, himself, or even just with Marc.

It's a learning experience for me, to meet Chris and adjust to how he would like the world to perceive the way he presents himself - the way he "constructs his gender," as we had learned about in school. I have comfortably called biological males 'her' for years, now, and have referred to male friends as "she" in a light teasing way, even in the spirit of gay camaraderie ("Get a load of her. Who the hell does she think she is?").

If men have the freedom (to a degree) to act and behave as women in our society, then why can't the reverse be allowed? Sure, even someone as "hip and open-minded" as me - someone as gay as me - needs to confess to feeling some discomfort when interacting with individuals such as Chris.

Perhaps it's because I take little risk when constructing my own gender in the "socially acceptable" way that I do.

I know several men who act as masculine as they want or as feminine as they want, depending on the individual. Masculine and feminine traits are even interchangeable among some of my friends, given the situation.

Chris should be allowed to be as boyish as he wants and as feminine as he doesn't want to be, no matter what's underneath those baggy cut-off shorts . . . 'should' being the key word here. I'd also like to think that Chris may be typical of a more open-minded younger generation, at least here in the Los Angeles area. I'd like to think that this punkish, purple-haired individual is a sign of progress.

Tightening the Belt

2010-04-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

Domestic Partner had to go on furlough for his job a few months ago. It meant a ten percent cut in pay, but it also means three day weekends for him, every other week. The trade off seems to be worth it, so far. Even I appreciate it, two Mondays out of the month, when I go into work knowing that the pugs and the kitty will have extra hours of human company on those days. It sort of makes me think how nice it would be to have a traditional 50's housewife at home every day (that is, if I earned enough to be a traditional breadwinner).

When I came home from work today, Domestic Partner told me that further budget cuts at his workplace may force up to a forty percent cut in pay. It isn't confirmed yet, but he asked me to start thinking about where spending could be cut.

My first thought was that we could get rid of HBO and all of the extra channels we get on our Verizon satellite T.V. box. I waste too much time watching T.V. as it is. Sometimes I miss the days when we lived in Domestic Partner's condo and we didn't even have cable. I still watched too much T.V. back then, but having limited choices to only local channels made a difference in the amount that I watched.

We could also get rid of the land line for our phone service. We never use it anymore, only our mobile phones. We keep reasoning that we need to keep the land line in case of an emergency. Everything is bundled together though, with our Internet service, and I wonder how much of a difference it would make to remove those two items from our service package.

I donate a small, modest amount to charity every month. I would prefer not to cut that as one of my monthly expenses, but it seems to be an obvious choice to sacrifice.

What else? I told Domestic Partner that we could eat out less. He pointed out that we already go to the cheap places as it is, such as Pick Up Stix and Chipotle, and also to Sizzler for the Ultimate Value menu of an entree and Endless Salad Bar for only $9.99 (such a deal!). I told him that we could still afford to stay in and eat more frugally - and not just to decrease our spending output but to decrease our calorie input as well.

As I was jogging tonight I thought about what I could do to make extra income, take a part time job, perhaps. I could teach dance. Maybe I could audition and get cast in a paid gig, locally. I have been losing weight (again) recently. Maybe I could go-go dance in gay bars again . . . at the age of almost-44.

Maybe not.

But there ain't no one who knows how to survive on a tight budget better than a former starving artist/struggling dancer-singer-actor-performer type! In that department Domestic Partner got himself an expert.

I can easily access endorphins while exercising. It's a wonderful addiction because it helps me to organically manufacture 'the possible' in my life. Instead of feeling worried or discouraged about adjusting any monthly expenses, I felt up to the challenge, even when I thought to myself, What if lose my own job?

That takes me into precarious territory because my mind immediately goes into old thought patterns about finding a way to go away on contract to perform. I have a friend who works in casting at the Universal Studios theme park in Japan. What if he was able to help me get hired for one of their shows?

I had told Domestic Partner that I would not go away on contract anymore, as long as we are still together. Not after the last two times . . .

Besides, I think BFF Kathy would kill me if I went away again.

So, what else can I do to cut costs? I'm still clipping coupons from the Sunday paper.

What have you done to adjust your finances? How have you been able to survive hard times?

A Platinum Beehive and a Pair of Wings

2010-03-30T20:56:00.000-07:00

Mr. and Mrs. L were the retired couple that lived next door to us. They probably bought their home and had moved in shortly after it was originally built in the fifties. Both of them were in their eighties by the time we had become their neighbors six years ago.

No matter the decade, past or current, Mrs. L was always conspicuous by her tall, platinum blond beehive hairdo. When a Cadillac drove through our quiet streets around 4:00 pm in the afternoon, you knew that Mr. & Mrs. L were going out to dinner. The telltale beehive gave them away. Even in warm weather, when she was out in the yard wearing bright pink shorts and a sleeveless floral top, the eye was drawn first to the flaxen bouffant that had the same appealing shine as old fashioned ribbon candy.

Mostly, we spotted that albino cotton candy on the hottest days of the year, when Mrs. L would be sitting in the above-ground pool next door. She would sit there, quietly cooling off, with a pair of butterfly frame sunglasses beneath that enormous beehive so that we were never sure if she was looking at us or dozing off.

But there was no blond beehive outdoors last summer. The pool was first drained and then suddenly gone, one day. Safety bars were added on the wall above the two steps to the front door entrance. Mr. L fell and broke a hip but he refused to remain an invalid for long. He was stubborn about his independence, and once a week he continued to drag the garbage cans out to the curb before slowly making his way up the driveway and back into the house, through the garage.

There were other changes. The camping trailer that had been in their driveway also disappeared. After the holidays there was a garage sale. The garbage cans made it to the curb only now and then, not every week.

Finally, the outside of the house was painted before a realtor's sign was put up on the front lawn. Another neighbor told me that both Mr. & Mrs. L had been put into a nursing home as they were no longer able to care for themselves or for each other. Mrs. L had gotten Alzheimer's, it was said.

In the nursing home, Mr. and Mrs. L had already been placed in separate rooms before she passed away. Her body was brought to Mr. L's room so that he could say his goodbyes to her.

And it broke my heart a little bit to hear about it.

Mrs. L was such a delightful, sweet lady. She would light up with a friendly smile when I would say hi to her at the market and remind her who I was. She would tell Domestic Partner, much to his irritation, what a nice son he has, even though I am only seven years younger than him.

Mrs. L told me that she had raised her family in the house next to us, that their backyard had been the place of many birthday parties and family barbecues. There had been pool parties with groups of Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts before everyone grew up and went away, leaving Mrs. L. to sit alone in the water with her beehive on hot summer days.

Mrs. L told me the best thing when I had first met her: as a child she had been in the "Our Gang" series starring the Little Rascals.

"Oh! Were you a featured character?" I asked her. "Were you 'Shirley' or 'Mary?'"

"Oh, no," she told me. "I was only an extra. But I had fun playing with the other children on set. I have such good memories of those times."

In her own quiet and even fashionable way, Mrs. L has left me with good memories from a few short years of being neighbors. I picture a halo on top of her beehive and wings bigger than her hair do.

Maybe she'll say hi to Caesar pug and Oscar pug for me, since they were also her neighbors for a while.

Babies that Almost Were

2010-03-26T08:16:00.001-07:00

I continue to capture kitties, our feral friends, to be spayed or neutered before releasing them back to their natural habitat (our backyard).

This week, with three sardine-baited traps, I managed to capture only one. It was the one I call "Charlie," who is a timid mostly-white cat with black splotches. She or he is more easily frightened than her/his litter mates. I'm never sure of the sex of each kitty, but Charlie and her/his siblings are over a year old, now.

Capturing this solitary cat was a jackpot of sorts. When I picked Charlie up at the FixNation clinic, post-surgery, I was informed that there had been kittens inside her, which had all been humanely aborted (it's both interesting and comforting to me that they deliberately add the word "humanely").

The clinic had already told me that it is common for many of the females they fix to be at various stages of pregnancy. Unborn kittens are aborted only if it is safe for both mother and the litter, if it is not too close to birthing time.

I was surprised, though, to be struck by a bit of sadness. I felt as if we had taken Charlie's babies away from her, even if she wasn't aware of her pending motherhood. I felt as if we had taken the chance for living a quiet, healthy life away from these unborn babies.

I am the first to admit that I am much too Bleeding Heart for my own good. As unscientific as I am, I realize that it is standard for many new generations not to make it in the animal kingdom, whether or not they are born.

I focused, almost immediately after my slight sadness, on the fact that this is exactly why the effort is being made, both by the FixNation staff and by individuals like myself - to prevent future generations of homeless animals from being born, and to halt this specific natural cycle as much as possible.

While driving home with Charlie resting quietly in her covered cage, I thought again of human babies that never get to be born. It is easy for me to claim that I am Pro Choice, but honestly, I've never had to give it serious consideration since an unplanned pregnancy is something I will neither have nor be likely to cause.

But even Charlie's microcosmic world of Backyard Kitties can bring up a lot of What If?'s, in the "It's a Wonderful Life" perspective. What if I had never been born? What if any babies who had been aborted had lived, instead? How would that affect any of our lives, individually and in our communities?

How does the fall of a sparrow affect our universe? Even if one person or one animal is but a grain of sand in the Big Picture, how far-reaching are the ripples of that grain when dropped into water? And what happens when a grain or pebble never gets the chance to be dropped and cause ripples? I know that for most of these questions, we may never receive any answers.

See? I told you I was unscientific!

Get it Right

2010-03-22T21:01:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has visited another country has probably had the pleasure to hear or read "engrish," or delightfully mangled English. I loved getting to experience it while working in Japan, where I never quite blended into the background completely.

I lived on a peaceful street in a suburban-like neighborhood of Miyazaki. Once, on a day off, two young sisters were riding their bikes past me and they stopped.

"Are you gaijin (foreigner)?" the older girl asked me Japanese.

"Yes, I am from America," I answered.

The sisters looked at each other, their expressions lighting up in recognition of the place I came from.

"Oh, hello!" Big Sister said to me. She seemed proud to be able to speak English to me, even a single word. She rolled her L's, the way R's are rolled in Spanish. It sounded more like "ha-doh" the way she pronounced it.

I am used to the Japanese accented version of English, but I deliberately replied with my own Southern California accent. "Hello."

Little Sister piped up, and boy did she have an attitude. "No, it's not 'hello'" she informed me in Japanese. "It's 'ha-doh!'"

I bobbed my head in a small, meek bow of apology. "Sumimasen (Excuse me)."

I could just hear the unspoken words probably going through their minds: "Stupid American!"

Do You Know Me?

2010-03-19T07:52:00.000-07:00

One of my former dance partners, Jo, has made quite an impressive career for herself as a television hostess, most notably for travel programs. I think she may be the British equivalent of the hosts for those home renovation shows we have here in the US.

It was fun being with her in public while visiting England last year, and seeing people vaguely recognize her without being able to place her. She would get that look that seems to ask, "Why do you look so familiar? Did we used to work together, or go to school together?"

I was tempted to paraphrase Phoebe from "Friends" when she discovered that her twin sister became an adult film actress and was using her name.

"You're trying to place her, aren't you?" I wanted to ask passers-by in London. "You're trying to figure out where you know her from. Well, it's from porn, you big pervert! Your recognize her from porn."

Paper or Plastic Brush?

2010-03-12T21:47:00.000-08:00

I love making my friends laugh. JB and I have shared some good laughs together while working in Japan at a theme park, especially in the boys' dressing room.

Once, while getting ready before a show, JB walked out of the adjoining restroom. Hand on hip and disgust in his tone, he said, "We really need to get a toilet brush for that bathroom."

"Why?" I asked. "Are we out of toilet paper?"

I Will Remember You

2010-03-11T22:32:00.000-08:00

In our quiet neighborhood, there is a cross in the middle of the road, right on the black asphalt surface. Some days it is drawn in bright pink, but usually it is done in white chalk. Sometimes it looks more like a plus sign. But it is renewed on a daily basis, as are the letters and numbers written on the curb in blue chalk:

Yoda R.I.P. 4-20-08 to 8-2-09

I had to assume that Yoda was a beloved pet, some one's furry baby that didn't even make it to sixteen-months-old.

One morning, while walking my dogs, I saw her bend down in the middle of the street, small chalk piece in hand. It was the younger silver haired lady from what I call the Elderly House (there are three people living there, all with silver hair).
She told me that Yoda was one of her cats, found dead against the curb one August day. She thinks Yoda may have been hit by a car.

I said I was sorry for her loss. I told her we had lost our kitty, too, coincidentally when he was almost sixteen months old.

Neither of us sounded too grief stricken, but we both agreed that the loss of any pet was something to be mourned, for literally years.

I still think of Cleo kitty, gone for a little over a year, now. I think of Caesar pug and Oscar the one-eyed pug on almost a daily basis. I picture them as angels who are watching me, knowing when I think about them, missing them. I pretend that they influence who they can in heaven, putting in a good word for me to ensure continued blessings for my earthly life.

And I check the middle of the road for Yoda's cross whenever I drive by the Elderly House. It comforts me somehow, knowing that a vigil continues to be kept for the deceased kitty, gone but not forgotten.

3 Down, 9 to Go

2010-03-10T21:45:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I made my first attempt at trapping feral cats. So far, I've caught three. It was surprisingly easy, canned tuna being the bait I used. I'm waiting to snare one more, the fourth trap standing alone in the backyard, its cage door propped open and poised for snapping shut.

The cats are suspicious, I guess, especially the older ones.

The three I've trapped so far are from the same litter as our new six-month-old kitten, Sabina. Perhaps they are more naive and easier to catch when they're still very young. Resting quietly under towel cage covers right now are Lucie, Brownie, and Callie. There's one last sibling to trap from their litter: Fluffy.

Even if I don't catch a fourth tonight, it's still a good start. The trapped kittens, per instructions, are not to have any food and water after midnight before I bring them in for free neutering tomorrow. In the morning I will drive the caged kitties to the FixNation clinic, where volunteer veterinarians will spay or neuter them for free. I'll pick them up after work and hold them overnight before releasing them back into our backyard.

The older cats were hovering earlier, attracted almost immediately by the scent of oily canned tuna. They circled the cage traps and sniffed and sniffed. But they weren't about to give in to temptation as easily as the younger felines.

After tomorrow's trip, I am due to go back on Sunday with another batch of ferals to fix. I'm already worried that the other cats are going to be too clever and hard to catch. During my training session at FixNation, I was told that Kentucky Fried Chicken usually does the trick for the more hard-to-trap ferals.

It's a good thing Colonel Sanders is only a half mile away!

A Big One

2010-03-09T21:46:00.000-08:00

Tommy J. was one of the more fabulous Disney boys in the parade department.

In the 80's . . .

He was tall, Black, and effeminate. He usually got the better dance parts, such as Court Dancer for the float of Sleeping Beauty's castle in the Christmas parade.
He was also handsome. After serving time in the Mouse House he went to Europe to work as a fashion model. I remember spotting him in a magazine ad for Oak Tree, a men's clothing store.

I was in the backstage cafeteria for a lunch break one day, as were some of the parade dancers. One of the girls got in line and asked for a baked potato.

"Do you want a big one or a little one?" the woman behind the counter asked her.

The pretty parade performer answered just as Tommy stepped into the cafeteria. "I want a big one!"

"Honey," Tommy said, missing not a beat, "We all want a big one."

Fixing the Nation, One Cat at a Time

2010-02-01T21:36:00.000-08:00

We have a problem, a cat problem. We have become the Crazy Cat Ladies on the block, thanks to the dozen or so feral felines that have made our backyard and front yard their outdoor home. Thank goodness we're tucked away on a cul de sac, at least.

Yes, I feed them. And I provide fresh water. Every day.

"Don't start," I had told Domestic Partner a couple of years ago. He was putting some of Cleo's dry kibble into a Styrofoam party bowl outside.

"It's just a little," he protested. "I feel sorry for the kitty - she's so cute."

Just a little. "That's how it starts," I replied.

Flash forward to 2010. Cleo disappeared a year ago, never came back. We knew it was a risk, allowing him to be an outdoor cat. Our new kitten, Sabina, is almost full grown. The runt of the litter (and abandoned by Backyard Mama cat), she and her four siblings are about five months old, now. Her sisters and brothers - Brownie, Callie, Fluffy, and Lucy - stay close to the house, in the backyard. They are old enough to no longer need Backyard Mama Cat's care or milk, but we still see her, too.

Siamese cat and Gimpy cat play with the babies and snuggle with them at night. I see them in the morning sometimes, clumped together under the bush by the garbage cans, surviving another chilly night in one big, multi-colored fur heap.

I know: Don't start naming them. That just exacerbates the problem by allowing me to get emotionally attached, even if only a little.

We like having the cats around but they are messy. Domestic Partner replaced the front lawn's grass with pebbles and palm trees. The backyard has been transformed into a large square beach of gravel. On either side of the beach are beds of mulch that used to be one of the trees in our backyard.

It's one giant kitty litter box.

And our dogs eat the cat poop. Sometimes Moxie pug has worms in her own poop, which makes her ravenously hungry. It's easy to fix with two or three doses of de-worming powder added to her food. But there's nothing to stop the dogs from eating more cat poop during the day while we're at work.

So, it's a problem.

Domestic Partner has run out of patience. The gardening of both the back and front yards is his hobby, his relaxation on the weekends. And he is over the cat poop. He has been after me to do something about the cat population for a while.

I could stop feeding them, but I feel guilty about cutting off the food and water supplies after making all current cats dependent since birth. I called our local animal shelter to see if they could refer me to a trap-and-release program that would spay and neuter feral cats. They referred me to Fix Nation, a Los Angeles based non-profit group that provides free services in their Trap-Neuter-Release program.

They seem like an excellent group. They care about the welfare of strays and feral cats. They are very particular about using humane traps. They are specific about using humane carriers and making sure the carrier is covered by a towel when a frightened cat is being transported. And they ask that you have a quiet laundry room or bathroom that you can hold the cat in, post-operation, before releasing it back into the neighborhood.

It will take some work. First there is an application to fill out and submit. Once approved, the organization is willing to lend out traps if you don't have any (I don't). But I have to do the trapping myself, and drive the imprisoned kitties to Fix Nation's location. And not in the back of a truck or an open air vehicle, as also specified in their application. And if I trap more than one cat at a time, I must be willing to borrow/use a carrier for each individual captive.

It seems a bit daunting, but I must halt the cycle of two new litters a year, even if I have to trap and transport one cat at a time. Already, I saw Front Yard Mama Cat this weekend, surrounded by Siamese cat (her offspring) and three other males. Gimpy cat was on her back, the scruff of Mama's neck between his teeth.

And Tuxedo cat, the Biggest Male that only returns to our yard when someone is in heat, has been yowling around outside, again. We are very familiar with his yowl. It's a tentative and meek cry, a mismatch to his huge tom cat size. It's his gentle way of announcing, "I need me some kitty lovin'!"

I hope I can trap him, as well as Gimpy cat and the two Mama cats. Wish me luck!

Pee Wee Herman, 2010

2010-01-21T20:26:00.000-08:00

Remember my Bestest Gurlfren', Eddie Spaghetti? (AKA Edwina Bettina). Yes, the same "Eddie of the Eighties" as in the post right before this one. Well, he got tickets to the live stage show revival of "The Pee Wee Herman Show," and he invited me to come with him!

I'm the luckiest boy in the world, as Pee Wee would say!

I absolutely loved it. The show was fabulous and I laughed my ass off. The set itself, which closely resembled the T.V. series' version, was candy-colored and overly detailed enough to make me kind of wish I smoked pot. All of the classic puppets that die hard Pee Wee fans would expect were on stage: Globey the talking globe, Ptery the pterodactyl, the aquarium fish, the Greek chorus of windowsill flowers, and the talking window who repeatedly announces "Someone's coming." And of course, holding genteel court almost center stage, like a pastel plush throne, was Chairy, batting her eyelashes and waving her arms. It looked like she was sweetly hugging Pee Wee every time he sat down.

As for the non-puppet characters, a few of the original cast members, both from the early eighties stage show and the ensuing T.V. series, reprised their roles, including Miss Yvonne, Mailman Mike, and Jambi the Genie! Miss Yvonne, "the prettiest girl in Puppet Land," must be as old as my retired aunt by now, but she looked great (under the lights)!

One conspicuously absent cast member from the T.V. series was Laurence Fishburne, who had originated the T.V. role of Cowboy Curtis. Phil LaMarr (of Mad TV fame) was an apt replacement, especially in the budding romance scenes with Miss Yvonne. I was mesmerized by Cowboy Curtis's costume, all Barbie pinks and grape Kool-Aid purples. His horse, Ginger, even had a matching pink mane.

The original cast had included Phil Hartman's character, Kap'n Karl, a barnacle-crusty sailor who was Miss Yvonne's original crush. It seemed to be a deliberate choice not to cast a replacement for Kap'n Karl, out of respect for the late Mr. Hartman. It is bittersweet, even if just for Pee Wee's fans, that he is not around for this revival.

And what about Pee Wee, AKA Paul Reubens, himself? He looked amazing! Yes, he probably spackles on about eighteen layers of pancake before going on stage. And yes, the stage lights were practically bright enough to require SPF protection, but I was still impressed with how young the actor looks - how original-Pee-Wee-Herman he still looks - not like Bob Denver still dressed up as Gilligan in the last decade or so. I was particularly impressed with how pencil-geek-thin the actor looked in costume. According to a recent interview in Details magazine, Mr. Reubens is closer to age 60 than he is 55!

And Pee Wee still maintains his childlike innocence and energy. The show, as fans remember, is still fast-paced and ever-changing, as Pee Wee runs from talking on his tin can phones, to answering the door to welcome various guests, to adding to his tin foil ball - which has grown to the size of that boulder in the Indiana Jones movie!

*wink*

The show's audience consisted exclusively of adults, which surprised me a little. I looked around and I couldn't find any kids in the theater seats. As if to make up for it, though, there were quite a few celebrity sightings, presumably because we had attended on a press night. I got to meet Monica Horan from 'Everybody Loves Raymond' and tell her I thought she made the character Amy very funny. I was thrilled to recognize Toni Basil sitting in front of us, who was kind enough to confirm that she is still choreographing for Bette Midler's live stage shows (I had to bite my tongue from singing a refrain of 'Oh, Mickey, your so fine you blow my mind HEY, MICKEY!' - how many times must she have heard that from complete strangers in the last twenty-seven years?).

We saw actress Debi Mazar, whose beauty is as fierce in real life as it is on screen. Most surprising of all was seeing David Hasselhoff in attendance. He looked handsome and healthy. Age has not deteriorated him (a friend suggested that a recent stint in rehab may have something to do with Mr. Hasselhoff's current healthy glow).

But the cherry on top of an already fabulous evening for me was getting to meet my idol (one of), comedienne Judy Tenuta. Yes, the self-proclaimed Petite Flower, Giver Goddess, Fashion Plate Saint. She even offered to autograph my Pee Wee program. Above her signature she wrote one of her trademark lines: "It could happen!" And it really did, it truly happened! I have written proof.

Eddie always takes me to the best shows. Because of him, I also worship the goddess Varla Jean Merman. It is because of Eddie and his connections that we had excellent seats to "Edward Scissorhands" the ballet, Matthew Bourne's adaptation. True, most of the shows we attend together consist of very campy humor - which makes the Pee Wee Herman Show such a perfect shared experience to add to our ever growing list.

And - as I always remind Edwina Bettina - if it weren't for him I would never get out as much, here in the Los Angeles area, and I wouldn't never get no cultcha'.

Eddie of the Eighties

2010-01-10T17:41:00.000-08:00

I am truly privileged to know Edweirdo, AKA Miss Eddie Spaghetti, in this lifetime. He's the kind of friend who will greet me with an accusatory "Hooker!" and I know he means it as a compliment. Eddie was the one to teach me the weapon dance back in the 80's. He also gave me and BFF Kathy a private drag performance, once.

"Wait here," he instructed during a brief stop at his home in Orange County. His parents weren't home and neither was his sister. Kathy and I waited in the living room as we heard rustling noises coming from the hallway's coat closet. "Okay, here I come!"

Without a wig or a trace of make up, Eddie came out in a pastel peach prom dress. On his feet were high heeled pumps the color of strawberry licorice. And they fit.

Eddie pressed 'play' on the stereo's cassette tape player and did a perfect lip sync to Annie Lennox's vocals. "I need a man!" Annie roared as Eddie improvised dance moves that flawlessly matched both vocals and electronic synthesizer beats. He strutted about in the bright red heels, never losing his balance.

"That was really nice of Eddie," Kathy commented later. "I'm sure he doesn't do that for just anyone."

I'm glad Kathy pointed that out to me. By then, I was used to Eddie's unique and spastic sense of humor, so I had just laughed like I did at almost everything he did and said. But it was considerate of him. It was, as Eddie usually described things with a sarcastic screech, "Special!"

I can't believe he was able to fit into his sister's prom dresses, back then. I still don't forgive him, though, for clashing bright red pumps with a pastel colored dress.

Hooker!

Donna Doesn't Dance

2010-01-06T21:53:00.000-08:00

The following lyrics were written in 1984, based on Actual Persons and Real Life Events:

My name is Brent, I'm in the high school band (doo doo doo doo!)
I play percussion so I have to stand (doo doo doo doo!)
But when I stand up I can see the chicks (doo doo doo doo!)
Then I see Donna and on her my gaze I fiiiiiiiiiix

Donna is a nice girl but she can be cool (doo doo!)
Her morals I don't mind except for just one rule (doo doo!)
I think I'd like to ask her to the high school prom (doo doo!)
But if we go together I'm afraid our love would booooooomb

Because:
Oh! Oh! Oh! Donna doesn't dance
Oh! Oh! Oh! We'll never have romance
Uh-oh-oh! She's got me in a trance
Oh! Oh! Oh! Donna doesn't daaaaaaaance

I know a boy like Donna and it's such a shame (doo doo!)
He's Kathy's boyfriend Reevey and they look the same (doo doo!)
He'd never dance with Kathy in a million weeks (doo doo!)
I'll think I'll go with Kathy and the other band geeeeeeeeeks

Because:
Oh! Oh! Oh! Donna doesn't dance
Whoa, oh, oh, she'll never take the chance
No, Donna, no, don't look at me askance
Oh! Oh! Oh! Donna doesn't daaaaaaaaaance

Oh, Donna, please, won't you ever dance?
Don't you know our love it would enhance?
Bo-ho-ho! Why take such a stance? (bo?)
Oh! Oh! Oh! Donna doesn't daaaaaaaaance

(Oingo-Boingo-esque guitar solo)

Oh-oo-oh-oo, Donna
Someday we are gonna
Dance together, Donna
Just like Once Upon a
Time-Flora-and-Fauna
We'll sit in the sauna
And we'll play 'pirahna'
Don't you know I wanna
Dance with you please, Donna

Donna ... Donna ... dance, dance, DANCE! Please, Donna?

My gratitude to the band geeks of the Blue Diamond Brigade at Norco High: Brent, Kathy, and Yariv. And of course, special thanks to Donna B. without whom these lyrics would never have been written

Reunited, and it Feels So Good

2009-12-26T21:16:00.000-08:00

I blame facebook. Being middle aged seems to be defined by the growing number of reunions held and attended, at least for me. One of my high school friends thinks that facebook itself is a constant, ongoing reunion.

Even before facebook put me back in touch with literally hundreds of people from my past, I went to an amazing Disney Entertainment reunion a few years ago. It was like dying and going to heaven when I walked into the event. I felt like I was seeing actual celebrities - so many people that were famous (and infamous!) in our own little backstage bubble of our theme park years in the mid-eighties. There were Character Department friends, and parade dancers, and float drivers, wardrobe and wig people, union dancer-singers from the stage shows, not to mention various stage managers, directors, and choreographers.

It was a surreal evening, and unforgettable.

It was after that first Disney reunion that facebook became a catalyst for others. Earlier this year I had a memorable week in England with the dancers from my first cruise ship job, thanks in part to facebook reuniting us - yet again - online. And it's thanks to facebook that I will soon be seeing a dear group of friends I used to perform with in a dinner theater (in the photo above). The social networking site has also reconnected many of the performers that had worked together at the Ocean Dome theme park in Japan. Our reunion is slated for next July.

Why do I enjoy attending these reunions so much? What makes everyone else so mutually enthusiastic about showing up? We certainly weren't happy all of the time while working with each other. Many of us were homesick when we were away on a cruise ship or in Japan. Sometimes, conflicts would flare up among cast members, off stage and in the dressing room. Oh, the drama!

But it's no coincidence that my favorite reunions are all from performing days (I don't even attend my high school reunions, anymore). There was always music, and I associate the good times with very specific songs. With Disney, of course, there were the parades. I can now relive the 30th Anniversary parade or the Blast to the Past parade via youtube. When I think about cruise ship days, I think about dancing in such favorite numbers as "This Joint is Jumping" and "Hot! Hot! Hot!" Dancing behind Donna Kay as she sang "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" is one of the stand out memories from our dinner theater revues.

Hearing the music, even when just playing back the tapes of my memories in my mind, brings back a lot, both the good and the bad. We were young, and sometimes we made foolish choices. But we could escape whatever was going on in our lives at the moment, while on stage, and for a few minutes we were able to be genuinely happy.

There was often an endorphin rush for me, physically and emotionally, while I was singing and dancing in a dinner theater, or on board a ship, or in Japan. And it is for that specific reason I attend these reunions and why I look forward to the next one. To recall and recapture those happy feelings with friends, and to laugh over memories we haven't thought about in years - that's a pretty good resource to have in life.

(Special thanks to Miss JAM for encouraging to blog about this topic.)

Delightful!

2009-11-18T20:10:00.000-08:00

I have been feeling the need to counterbalance the 'I Hate You' post with a more positive one, even before I thought I was going to shut down this blog. Usually, I can remember to focus on the simple pleasures in life, the things that delight me. I have always been inspired by Katherine Hepburn in "On Golden Pond," how her character, Ethel Thayer, was delighted by even just the calling of the loons on the lake ("The loons, Norman!")

What delights me? (and why do you care?)

I get so much pleasure from my pets on a daily basis. Domestic Partner and I enjoy indulging the codependent nature of our pugs. And we are happy to have a new feline friend in the house, again, even if she is a little vampire kitty, always biting and chewing on our hands and fingers in her play.

Can you believe I don't watch "Dancing With the Stars?" I know. Chastise me all you want. But I am delighted to recently learn about Mark Dacascos. Why am I just now discovering this sexy man, this Chairman of America's "Iron Chef?!" I don't care if he is a flat-footed dancer, as my coworkers have told me. This man is fine. Call it a combination of narcissism and just plain lust, but this part-Asian man is my new role model! Yes, he has trained for decades as a martial artist, but if he can maintain such physical perfection in his forties, then I have no excuse to give up on any of my own fitness efforts.

I continue to enjoy the TV series "Glee." It's like a new version of "Fame" to me. I delight in the new "Glee" soundtrack CD that I bought at Target last week, and I can't wait for the second one to come out next month! The cheerleader character, Quin, sings a cover of the Supremes' "Keep Me Hanging On." It may be an even more watered-down and vocally vapid version than Kim Wilde's, but it's one of the stand-out songs from the album that's had me rockin' all week. This version seems to hit the girl-power/feminist message more acutely somehow, at least, in a white girl kinda' way.

I delight in my scooter ride to work on sunny mornings, especially when it's a particularly safe and timely ride. I delight in the endorphins I am able to easily access when I jog, or go to the gym, or just dance around my kitchen. I take great delight in eating chocolate every day, especially Snickers, even though I shouldn't.

And I delight in the anticipation that comes along in life. The dancers I used to work with in Japan have started to find some of us Americans on facebook, and they have already set a date for a reunion next summer. It gives me continuing delight to look forward to flying across the Pacific to see them all again, in person.

It also gives me motivation to get my middle-aged ass in the gym regularly and out on my neighborhood jogging route.

Like I told you, it's also for the endorphins, my organically manufactured high and delight!

One Person

2009-11-16T20:31:00.001-08:00

One person can make a difference.

I had every intention of writing a goodbye post tonight. I was going to retire from blogging, at least for now. I was going to pop the bubble, as it were. Then I noticed another follower. From Poland? How can I quit now when this reader just recently added my blog to his reading roll? How could I possibly risk exacerbating the precarious global conflict that's already rampant around the world by giving up on my blog?

Okay, really: How could I be so lazy and give up so easily?

Why did I start blogging in the first place? Honestly, it was another fun way to get attention. Why do you think I used to sing and dance? (Why do you think I still force my coworkers to endure my singing and dancing?) Also, I really thought I might discover that I have something substantial to say, unremarkable as my life can be, most of the time.

Why was I going to make tonight's post my last? My writing is suffering in general. Continuation of My First Novel attempt has been shamefully neglected, and I thought that cessation of this blog might help to resolve that. I feel the need, yet again, to clear away the clutter, even though that means wanting to clean out closets and getting rid of old clothes before sitting down to do any actual writing.

Maybe I am just anxious over the fact that Domestic Partner and I will be hosting my family in our home again for one of the holiday dinners this year, and I want to do as much prep cleaning as possible before that happens.

Also, my life may be too easy. My life is great, actually, and who wants to read about that? We have a new kitten in the house, another preemie we had rescued from abandonment in our backyard. Baby Kitty is playful, affectionate, and just too adorable for its own good at almost two months. She sleeps between the humans in bed, and sometimes between the pugs. Life is cozy and sweet.

We think Baby is a 'she.' We were wrong with the last cat.

I have nothing remarkable to write, most days, but I have good things in my life, and I am grateful for that. I am grateful for safe scooter rides on the freeway, and for the fact that I am employed. Sometimes, while riding into work, I remember to pray for the chance to be a light in this world, and for the chance to make a difference in someone's life, no matter how small.

Adam-from-Poland, today you are that one person to me. Because of you I will continue to write new posts for Plastic Bubble World.

And for that I thank you.

I Hate You

2009-11-09T18:54:00.001-08:00

I can't write. All I want to do is rant and rave about my pet peeves. I don't want this blog to be an outlet for that - a dumping grounds.

Oh, well. Too bad.

You people who leave your shopping carts in the parking lot? I hate you. If you can't push it back to the front of the supermarket entrance, at least take it to the designated area in the parking lot. Think of the people working on staff. Do it for them.

Stop littering in the parks and around the DMV by my house. I hate you for doing that. Bushes and small trees are not there for you to place empty soda cans and cigarette boxes. Trash cans are only a few feet away.

And stop leaving empty In'N'Out bags, boxes, and soft drink cups by the curb, in front of my neighbors' houses. And beer bottles. Take it away in your car, you know, in the same way you brought it to our neighborhood.

To the guy who dropped his salsa on the floor in El Pollo Loco. I hate you. I can't believe you just left it there and went back to the salsa bar to get some more. Think of the people working on staff and clean up your own damn mess. I feel sorry for your girlfriend/wife/sister (whatever). She has to put up with your apathy for however long you two are together.

Be reasonable. Be like me and do things my way so I won't have to hate you.

And to everyone driving in Los Angeles? Use your frickin' turn signals. Give me a clue if you are about to change lanes or make a turn, so I don't crash into you.

I know my life is good. If this is the worst my life gets, then I should just be grateful. But, still. Quit it.

Get off my lawn, you damn kids!

Plaid Polyester and Plastic Name Tags

2009-11-03T20:39:00.000-08:00

I served my time in the fast food industry, in the early 80's at Le Box du Jacque, and I had a great time. Usually. Once or twice, I had run into the freezer to yell and scream my frustration out. But as with most memories from more than twenty years ago, the good outweighs the bad.

We had fun at work. Half of the staff was comprised of high school band geeks, including BFF Kathy, Knucklehead, and BMWinLaguna. We called our place of employment "Jerk in the Box," "Jack in the Crack," "Jerk Off in the Box" - everything but the actual name.

I started out on fries, and eventually I was promoted to the grill. I loved working the grill because I got to eat the extra hamburgers when they became more than thirty minutes old. I probably made more hamburgers than I was supposed to, even for the dinner rush hour.

Kathy worked the front counter and sometimes the drive-thru. She would bag the hamburgers I had wrapped in the shiny, logo-marked foil before handing them through the window. "What if you took a single bite out of the burger before wrapping it up?" she had asked me once. That still makes me laugh. I can just picture the surprised or pissed off look on some one's face after they drive away and pull the burger out of the bag.

Knucklehead was a year older than me, and therefore much wiser and more dignified. We had been cast mates in the school musical, "The Fantasticks." I was comfortable singing show tunes in front of him while on dish washer duty in the back room. Sometimes I would switch from show tunes to Madonna.

"Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight - starlight."

Knucklehead's tone was thick with condescension. "Oh, those are difficult lyrics!"

The training methods were probably Pavlovian-based. We learned to automatically respond to a series of beeps and boops for taking the french fries out of the fryer before they burned, and for flipping over the burger patties in time, etc.

The taco salad (at the time) was crowned with a ladle full of seasoned, soupy ground beef. The taco meat was kept in a kind of crock pot and would congeal if it wasn't stirred every fifteen minutes.

"Doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo," was what I heard every time the short medley would play over the taco meat crock pot.

BMW, with his perpetually dry wit, came up with original lyrics on his own. "Stir the taco meat, yeah-yeah-yeah," he would sing in perfect pitch.

We had a great boss, Penny, a woman with a blond bun on her head and concerned blue eyes. She would let us eat anything we wanted, "as long as the customers don't see you." I guess she figured that we would end up eating much less that way than if we had snuck around behind her back.

So, we really liked Penny. She got fired. She had been collecting cash from the register drawers, to take to the back and count in the office. She wanted all of the cash in one place, so she grabbed the most logical and handy item available: a logo-marked paper bag. That paper bag got handed out the drive-thru window. The bag contained over $1,000.

It was never seen again.

Penny's career at Junk in the Box may have been cut short, but Madonna's is closing in on three decades.

Eat those difficult lyrics, Knucklehead!

Ghosts of Halloween Past

2009-10-15T21:52:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in the land of Boys Town, on a late October night, the Animaniacs met the Del Rubio Triplets.

The year was 1994. Pagers were still the rage and Billy Clinton was almost a quarter of the way through his time in the Oval Office.

The Animaniacs approached the three stately and elegant ladies a-strollin' down The Boulevard, to ask for a group photo.

The First Triplet was a little hairy.
The Second Triplet was more hairy.
The Third Triplet was too hairy.

The Animaniacs relied on the the kindness of strangers to stroke their egos and take their photos (the Kind Stranger was actually BFF Kathy).

The Animanics were chatty with excitement while arranging the tableaux of six, especially Wakko.

"Okay! One more, please."

"Peter?!" The Hairiest Triplet exclaimed. "Peter Varvel, is that you?"

Wakko wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Um . . . Sean?" Fortunately, Wakko was right. The six of them laughed and hugged and took a few more photos before parting friendly ways.

Later that evening, the Animaniacs came across a portly drag queen.

"Oh, look," she said. "The Disneys are here."

Silly, portly drag queen. It wasn't the Disneys. It was the Warner Brothers.

And sister!

Happy Halloween, Blog-o-Friends!

Put On a Little Makeup, Makeup

2009-10-13T21:28:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I love Halloween is that it gives me an acceptable reason to wear makeup. Having to wear makeup on stage showed me how much it can help to even out your skin tone, even with just a little foundation and powder. And some blush and eye shadow, too. Eventually, I learned what would read as subtle and appropriate amounts under the lights - for a guy.

I also learned what a hassle it is to try to towel the sweat off of your face backstage and avoid smudging your makeup, between aerobic dance numbers. Pretty as the full makeup job made me, I would end up applying only eyeliner for shows.

Eyeliner is my favorite. I love the way it makes me look, kind of like Keith Richards in a strange and mysterious way, maybe even a little dangerous. Or maybe it just makes me look really faggy. Whatever. I like the way it brings out my eyes and helps to highlight my dark hair and my features, in general.

I also use eyeliner to draw facial hair since I can't grow my own in very thick. I first started drawing in a mustache and goatee when I attended 50's parties in high school. I would go dressed as a beatnik, all in black and with bongo drums.

I drew in a a mustache and goatee last year when I went to Disneyland on Halloween day with BFF Kathy and her two kids. Of course, I also drew under my eyes and on most of my eyelids, to match. I was wearing a rocker pirate costume which I had bought at Target and thought was pretty cool - it was sort of Adam Ant-ish. Kids were encouraged to wear their Halloween costumes into Disneyland. Adults were not. I was made to take the costume pieces off and walk around the theme park in my boring plain tee shirt and basic black pants. I kept the makeup on, though.

I received a strange and direct look from Jack Sparrow when he came back out from his break in Critter Country. Kathy thought that he might be secretly flirting with me a little. My heart fluttered - a little.

Lucky 13

2009-10-01T21:05:00.000-07:00

I live in a dream world. I found my prince and I lived Happily Ever After.
But I’ll tell you a secret. Domestic Partner is not my soul mate and I am not his.

‘Compatible’ is not the most appropriate word for us. ‘Peaceful coexistence’ may be a better description, but that sounds too pessimistic to me. What we have is rather unremarkable and conflict free, on a day to day basis, different as we are from each other.

He is so introverted and I revel in being extroverted. Where he is practical and pragmatic, I am impulsive and emotional. I prefer variety and spontaneity, while he likes things organized, orderly, and under control. People perceive him as the quiet type. I talk too much, all of the time.

And I need him. He is my stability.

How many different ways can I say that? He is my anchor. He counterbalances my foolishness. He is the thinking brain to my bleeding heart. He grounds me, seemingly against my will. But truly, I wouldn't let him do that if I didn't want it.

“If we were not together,” I told him, “I would not have even gone back to school. I would still be trying to work as a performer on cruise ships and in Japan, as long as people were still willing to hire me - and my pending retirement and future would be more pathetic than it already is.”

This is not the type of man with whom I thought I would end up. I keep thinking about Chandler's ex-girlfriend, Janice, on 'Friends.' "This is movie love," she told him when they had gotten back together, briefly, one season. That's the kind of lifelong relationship I had imagined I would be in some day, the complete fairy tale.

But how long do those fairy tales last? I also think that if I were with someone who was more like me, it probably wouldn't last very long. We might even come close to strangling each other (as BFF Kathy says about us if she and I had ended up marrying each other).

Domestic Partner and I may not have the bright, flaring flame of passion that I used to think I wanted in a relationship. But I have learned from him to appreciate how steady and long-lasting a low burning flame can be.

We are not at all alike. Some days it seems as if the only thing we have in common is our love for our dogs. Do I wish he was more emotionally open and physically affectionate? Yes. Does he wish for me to be more sensible and to contribute more to house cleaning? Oh, yes! But he is very good about just allowing me to be who I am, so I can usually remember to do the same for him.

This month, it will be thirteen years that Domestic Partner and I have been together. I feel extremely lucky to have him in my life, and I sincerely hope that we stay together and grow old together.

Domestic Partner is on my list of a dozen items that I am grateful for on a daily basis. He is second on the list. First on the list is the dog he had when I first met him, Caesar, who was the First and Best Pug, Ever.

Happy Anniversary, DP. Here's to thirteen more years together and beyond.

What's Important

2009-09-30T20:12:00.000-07:00

Earthquakes and tsunamis. Hurricanes and floods. Fires burning out of control during the hottest days of the year. There are countless individuals dealing with death, and injury, and devastating loss, just in this year alone. Samoa is in the news. Noel writes about the death toll in Manila (click here).

Me? My scooter is in the shop for a shredded belt, so I have to sit in freeway traffic on the way to work and on the return home. I almost hesitate to mention that. But I mention it in order to illustrate how my own reality couldn't come close to comparing what these victims and survivors are going through. I can only imagine.

And I do. I imagine what it must be like to lose your entire home and all of your material belongings.

The recent summer fires were several miles away from where I live, but they were still too close for comfort. I saw more than one enormous black plume of puffy black smoke coming from the hills in the last month.

I think of the home owners who live frighteningly close to the fires, and the amount of notice they may have had before being forced to evacuate. What did they take with them? How did they choose, how did they prioritize?

The dogs, that's definitely the first thing I would take with me in an emergency, our two pugs. My heart breaks for the animals that did not survive Hurricane Katrina, and also for those who did survive but were homeless and owner-less after. The news showed some rescue boats approaching people perched above water on their roof tops or in second story windows. Humans had to be given priority over animals, so people with pets were not allowed to take their canine companions into the small vessels with them.

I couldn't do that, leave my dogs behind.

At least, I think I wouldn't. It's easy to say that from the comfort of my non-flooded home, easy to think so when I have never come close to being in such a desperate and dire situation.

But if I had any kind of advance notice, I'd try to my take my recorded history with me, my identity. I would take any and all photographs with me after the dogs' safety was ensured (and I would grab the plastic critter cage with the two dwarf hamsters). I have kept diaries and journals since I was in grade school in the 70's, and I would rush to find and rescue those.

I have over two hundred Furbies, the majority of which are still in their original unopened boxes. Sadly, I think I would have to choose to leave them all behind.

What's important to you? What would you take with you in an emergency evacuation?

Miss Heard, the Lyrics?

2009-09-29T21:13:00.001-07:00

I love Miss Heard. She helps me fill in the gaps when I can't quite hear or understand the real words of the song. I have been thinking of her since yesterday, ever since the news announced the demise of the real life Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. I keep thinking of the other girl referenced in the song,"the girl with colitis goes by" (the girl with kaleidoscope eyes).

Maybe Miss Heard first starts whispering to us when we're very young, shortly after we start learning to talk. I don't remember what lyrics she may have helped me to slaughter before I entered kindergarten. But I still giggle over one of my little sister's interpretations.

"Mister Doo-dah on my fee-nah!" she would sing boisterously from her car seat.

My younger brother and I, also in the back seat of the car, would snicker at her idiocy. We felt superior knowing the real lyrics. "Mister Bluebird on my shoulder," from "Song of the South," as sung by Uncle Remus (Did you know they are not allowed to show or release that anymore? Something about the Uncle Tom character - I mean - Uncle Remus not being racially PC or sumthin' . . . ).

Miss Heard stayed close by during my adolescence, always available. She helped me to sing along with the Police during the early 80's.

"I'm a pool hall ace!" I would sing along with Sting. I'm not sure if I was still in my twenties, or if it was during my thirties when I finally learned that he was really singing "How my poor heart aches," in their now classic hit "Every Breath You Take."

And guess what Miss Heard told me they were saying the very first time I listened to that Salt-N-Pepa hit while dancing in a divey gay bar? You know, when, in the chorus, they say, "Ah! (tsss) Push it!" It was the late 80's. I had reached full-fledged adulthood by that time, but it was an innocent time (*smirk*), and it was still rather shocking to hear the P-word mentioned in a dance tune.

One of my all time favorites, though, is from the early 80's. My youngest brother was singing the chorus of Romeo Void's one hit (wonder!), "Never Say Never," except his version was:

"My mama said sweater would never get better."

Despite Miss Heard's usual interference, even I knew that it was supposed to be, "I might like you better if we slept together." My youngest brother was eight at the time, so I just let him think that Miss Heard was right.

Now, "Excuse me while I kiss this guy."

With what lyrics has Miss Heard misled you?

Age Appropriate

2009-09-28T20:01:00.000-07:00

I coulda' predicted it, practically, the fact that young men would be wearing black socks with sneakers.

In the early 80's, when I was a teenager, I swore that I would never do that - the way my father did, wearing dark dress socks with shorts and white tennis shoes at the church picnic. I had joked that by the time I was his age, dark socks with sneakers might become the trend for younger guys.

What's that bitter after taste? Oh, yeah. It's from having to eat my words.

Young men today wear this particular look much better, though. Most of them will wear black socks with black sneakers, giving their casual summer outfits much cleaner lines. Fosse would be proud.

I love that younger men seem to have more freedom of expression in the way they dress today. Style options include so many different bright colors, now, starting with just sneakers! These kids have it so easy these days. Why, in the old days (someone cut my tongue out now - now !) we toiled hard for alternate colors. Oh, how we suffered from the back-breaking chore of having to add our own Rit dye to the wash cycle, just so we could have a decent pair of purple Levi's!

Heh.

I also love the retro look of black shoes with white socks, worn with jeans, of course. But even that look is getting more difficult to pull off as I age.

These days, I look a little wistfully at the louder hues and busier patterns of young men's clothing, but I hold myself back from purchasing any. Sometimes I wish I worked at a fashion institute so that I would have an actual reason to dress more flamboyantly, more outrageously, like those male fashion mavens on "Ugly Betty."

Simple is better, easier to manage. I wear brightly colored shirts but I stick to solids, and basic stripes and plaids. I love hounds tooth. That will never go out of style, not in my personal wardrobe.

And yes, I do wear white gym socks with sneakers, whether it's for cross-trainers, Converse, or Van's.

Hm. I might be getting too old to wear Van's Off-the-Walls anymore.

I'm Gonna Live Forever

2009-09-27T10:21:00.001-07:00

Often the anticipation of an event is better than the actual event itself. Happily, the new film version of "Fame" - something I had looked forward to - did not disappoint. I cannot disagree with the reviews that had panned this rather disjointed adaptation, with its inconsistent story lines and lack of follow up on some of the characters.

But I was still determined to enjoy this film.

And I loved it. It had everything I was looking for: dance auditions and dance classes, soulful singing, and excellent production numbers. And of course, it was chock full of emotions. I was looking for feeling, the way a movie like "Fame" makes you feel.

Even if this new version of "Fame" is not as successful as the original, I think it can still reach a large audience in the way it makes people feel. In an intense and satisfying way, a film like this deals with the universal feeling of wanting, with what you are passionate about, and what you are willing to do to gain what you desperately want most out of life.

Yes, the film does deal with the heartache of trying and trying and never making it, the heartache that we feel sometimes. A lot of the time (most of the time?). But it also deals with the feelings of possibility, of believing in yourself despite the odds - feelings that keep you hanging in there and coming back for more, because it provides optimism and motivation.

It provides hope.

I was a little surprised by theater friends who were ready to dismiss the film even before its release. "You can't mess with a classic," was a typical remark, as well as "They shouldn't try to remake it."

I didn't see it as a remake. I saw it as an update and as a continuation, and a belated one at that. It's been almost thirty years since the original "Fame" was released in theaters! I would think that my friends who are actors and singers and dancers would be happy that performing arts is still getting so much national attention.

Maybe we are just too old and jaded, now. Maybe we should leave a film like this to the twenty-somethings and teens. Unless they're already jaded, too.

Har.

It's a good film. It wasn't a great film, but I enjoyed it. I was pleasantly surprised to see a couple of scenes that paid homage to the original, such as the one that shows a dancer close to committing suicide in a subway station, after being told that he doesn't have what it takes to become a professional ballet dancer.

And this new version had qualities similar to what made the original such a favorite of mine. I am grateful for the cover of the title song, as well as for the cover of the ballad "Out Here on My Own," which had also been sung by Irene Cara. Naturi Naughton, as Denise, seems to maintain respect for the original recordings while punching them up with her own deftly controlled vocals. She is no "Coco Hernandez," and she doesn't need to be. Her portrayal of the shy, classically trained pianist/emerging R&B singer is a strong and satisfying performance.

Asher Brook's performance as Marco also appears to be a nod to the original film, if only in the pensive and wistful love songs he sings, reminiscent of Paul McCrane's character, Montgomery MacNeil. His vocal talent seems light and effortless, in a John Mayer kind of way. It is a welcome counterbalance among the many contemporary hip hop tunes in the movie.

I don't know how young people will respond to this new and latest version of "Fame," but it sure got the attention of my Inner Teen. I may not actually live forever, but this 2009 film confirmed that I will be a fanatical Fame-head for the rest of my life.