At some point in blogs past, I coined the term Project Monday, and much like my then-favorite Bravo reality show that inspired the name, every week some new drama accompanied the new challenge, and - also like that show - some queen was probably going to wind up in tears at some point in the episode.
the Old Black Man would casually announce that he was going to a) mow the lawn, b) trim the hedges, or c) build an addition to the house - requiring plumbing, electrical work, and immediate access to a fire extinguisher. I would pretend that I could ignore the subtle call-to-action and would, in fact, succeed for an hour or so of general TV viewing. Then, my father would ring the doorbell. Repeatedly. Until I wandered out to the front porch, to find some heretofore unseen piece of rusted machinery laid out on the sidewalk, my octogenarian father down on his knees, cradling the disassembled lawnmower motor in his lap - like the head of a fallen comrade in the Battle of Winter Grass.
the Old Black Man would invariably mumble and drawl some explanation of what he was trying to do, which it was then assumed I would do with relative ease - since he'd loosened it up for me already, and suddenly I am sitting on the sidewalk - with a wrench, a screwdriver, and no idea how the hell WD-40 magically makes everything better.
But that was then; two heart attacks later, the Old Black Man has to take his projects as they come, between spells of gout, occasional chest pains, and when it is not - as it is now - over a hundred degrees. It is Summer in South Texas; those moments are few and far between. His aegis egressed, to a certain preference for napping on the couch.
The vanity lights in my bathroom have been out for nearly a month, since shortly after I escaped Lindsay's clutches and returned from the kidnapping. Being (un)handy, and expecting things to be magically fixed when I turned my back, I said nothing about it - for two weeks. It was actually easier just to shower during the day, pee by memory (while listening for the sound of stream hitting pond), and shave in the kitchen. On a particularly dark night, while attempting to shave by indirect light from the hall, I decided to bring up the problem with Dad.
As I was dressing to go out - moments later - the Old Black Man opened my door and said simply, "I done fixed that light." I was surprised by the promptness, but not really - until I walked into the bathroom, looking forward to not peeing by Braille. There was light. Dad hung a bare bulb on an extension cord over the side of the vanity and plugged it into the outlet controlled by the light switch.
Admittedly, I am fond of indirect lighting ... but that's usually in the context of the subtle charm of the Hotel Valencia's V Bar lounge, not the effect created by this very hot, bare bulb dangling over plastic and 40 years old knotty pine paneling, e.g. "Blair Witch"... in hell. It smolders, and I look like I'm holding a flashlight under my chin when I shave.
If anything, my father busies himself with minor errands he can conduct from the couch - while ordering me around; in the past three weeks, I ordered DirecTV, met with plumbers we didn't hire, air conditioner repairmen we couldn't afford, and looked into changing our insurance service, cell phone carriers, and had to explain - twice - that the computer-generated voice telling him his car warranty is expiring soon (on a car we no longer own, mind you) is not his friend.
On the plus side, I'm fairly sure I'm in the top 2 on this particular reality TV, but I have the distinct feeling, I am not going to win.
Mark
Showing posts with label photo shoot with Lindsay Lohan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label photo shoot with Lindsay Lohan. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
While I was gone ...
While the last time I disappeared for a while was for the photo-shoot with Lindsay Lohan, this time around the hateful heifer kidnapped me. There I was, minding my own business, mourning the loss of the Czarina Warrenina Joskes - Keeper of the Faith, Queen of the Steppes, Empress of all the Russias - a Living and Breathing Deity Who Deigns to Walk Among Us to Bring Us Grace and Beauty, mourning her in appropriate fashion - hitting every bar in town, when all of a sudden, in the midst of some illicit activities with Leopold and Loaded, la Lohan came along and suckered me down her primrose path.
Now, admittedly, she only inspired me to be bad, rather than making me behave badly, but the damage was done - and my PO was none too pleased. All things considered, the kidnapping went smoothly. I was briefly in Bexar Co. jail, where they were staging "'Oz': the Reunion Special - a Gangsta Rap Musical," but after a limited run there, I took the show on the road - to San Diego, Texas and a little slice of heaven run by the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. It was like prison - replete with white uniforms and open-air toilets, but with counselors and an over-arching theme of recovery.
It is typically true that wherever I go, there I am ... and I say that not to be philosophical but to make the point that I am a bit much in a big city. I am a whirlwind of gay and wit, not unlike a Noel Coward production, and no one was putting on "Blithe Spirit" in San Diego, I assure you. It was just south of Hell, 105 degrees when I got there in August, with no air conditioning and a prison full of overweight Hispanic prison guards with small-town attitudes and a tendency to giggle when I walked into a room.
Personally, I consider it a gift that I can make people smile wherever I go, but I am less thrilled about it when, rather than smile and move along, they decide to tell me I'm going to burn in hell. And there was the sergeant who asked me if I was a plumber, in the free world ... because I "obviously like to handle pipes." And there was the female guard who said "you shake your ass more than I do ..." and referred to me as "girl" in front of a long line of prisoners, who then took it upon themselves to jeer, cat-call and do very rude things with their hands.
A few grievances later, the sergeant who said - of the way I walk - "You're here for treatment, not to look for love ..." got fired and the guard who called me girl got moved to a shift where I never had to see her. Three months into my 6 months stay in San Diego, I became the Program Director's personal assistant - a handy job that meant I got get out of groups, had limited access to a lot of power, and my days in an air-conditioned office, writing speeches and designing presentations while my boss played guitar and sang country songs.
This particular kidnapping was a two-phase process. The first phase was the gangsta rap musical in San Diego, but the contract called for another 3 months run in Houston - at a little theater/halfway house called Cheyenne, the Cheyenne Center.
A gangsta rap musical was a bit more fitting in Houston than it was in San Diego, but - as the Cheyenne Center banned radios and, in essence, all music - my plans to hoof it next to Lohan three nights a week went down the drain, and all I got was the lousy treatment.
The truth is that I had high hopes, when I got to H-town, of finding work and starting my life all over - sober and in a new location. Times are tough, even for a star with comeback plans ... and a hell of a resume. Give or take one job interview - to which I arrived an hour late, because of one bus arriving four minutes late, and the connecting bus being three minutes early - each bus only running once every hour, and the whole trip taking 138 minutes in the first place, I only managed to secure one interview in 90 days.
And, I should mention, that upon arriving to that interview - an hour late, I had to cross a rather large lawn to get into the building. The gardeners working to maintain this beautiful, enormous yard, couldn't have known I am allergic to fresh-cut grass, and yet I still recall the look of general bemusement on their faces when, my eyes watering, I fell into a ditch.
It was a small ditch, so I was only down for a minute or two before - brushing the grass from my facial hair and off my leather jacket - I emerged, some vestige of my pride still intact and ambled into Bank of America to get to my potential temp agency employer. Needless to say, I was not impressed. The woman I was there to see came out, asked me why I hadn't called (cell phones were also banned in Cheyenne), and was mentally rolling her eyes as I tried to offer an explanation - while picking an errant piece of grass off my Armani shirt. Ultimately, she said - rather kindly, "Why don't we reschedule? You can come back ... when you're more together."
But I didn't go back, which would perhaps suggest that I never got it together. In fact, my brethren at Cheyenne - who I lovingly referred to as the homeless, illiterate, and not quite right in the head - tended to get in a lot of trouble. It started with cussin'; the staff complained that too many people were walking around casually cussin', which was dubbed "disrespectful to the female staff." Apparently, the male staff were fine with it. And then there was the epidemic of sagging pants. None of us took any of this seriously, until someone got bitch-slapped in an AA meeting. Two back-hands later, Cheyenne locked us down - no phone, no job searching, and no movement.
I spent my last 5 weeks in Houston doing nothing productive, but the last 4 weeks I was in charge. The homeless, illiterate, and not quite right in the head elected me their leader, and between my micro-managing attention to detail, and yelling at damned near everyone, I got us off lock-down - effective the day after I left town.
After all the hard work, all the (proverbial) blood, sweat, and tears, I left Cheyenne with a messenger bag full of designer clothes, wearing four pairs of shoes, and with one word, "'Bye."
I crept back into San Antonio on Greyhound, 'round midnight. And while I can't say that I'm entirely happy to be home, I've certainly been worse places. I know one thing for sure, I ain't goin' nowhere with Lohan no mo'; that white girl is hateful.
Mark
Now, admittedly, she only inspired me to be bad, rather than making me behave badly, but the damage was done - and my PO was none too pleased. All things considered, the kidnapping went smoothly. I was briefly in Bexar Co. jail, where they were staging "'Oz': the Reunion Special - a Gangsta Rap Musical," but after a limited run there, I took the show on the road - to San Diego, Texas and a little slice of heaven run by the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. It was like prison - replete with white uniforms and open-air toilets, but with counselors and an over-arching theme of recovery.
It is typically true that wherever I go, there I am ... and I say that not to be philosophical but to make the point that I am a bit much in a big city. I am a whirlwind of gay and wit, not unlike a Noel Coward production, and no one was putting on "Blithe Spirit" in San Diego, I assure you. It was just south of Hell, 105 degrees when I got there in August, with no air conditioning and a prison full of overweight Hispanic prison guards with small-town attitudes and a tendency to giggle when I walked into a room.
Personally, I consider it a gift that I can make people smile wherever I go, but I am less thrilled about it when, rather than smile and move along, they decide to tell me I'm going to burn in hell. And there was the sergeant who asked me if I was a plumber, in the free world ... because I "obviously like to handle pipes." And there was the female guard who said "you shake your ass more than I do ..." and referred to me as "girl" in front of a long line of prisoners, who then took it upon themselves to jeer, cat-call and do very rude things with their hands.
A few grievances later, the sergeant who said - of the way I walk - "You're here for treatment, not to look for love ..." got fired and the guard who called me girl got moved to a shift where I never had to see her. Three months into my 6 months stay in San Diego, I became the Program Director's personal assistant - a handy job that meant I got get out of groups, had limited access to a lot of power, and my days in an air-conditioned office, writing speeches and designing presentations while my boss played guitar and sang country songs.
This particular kidnapping was a two-phase process. The first phase was the gangsta rap musical in San Diego, but the contract called for another 3 months run in Houston - at a little theater/halfway house called Cheyenne, the Cheyenne Center.
A gangsta rap musical was a bit more fitting in Houston than it was in San Diego, but - as the Cheyenne Center banned radios and, in essence, all music - my plans to hoof it next to Lohan three nights a week went down the drain, and all I got was the lousy treatment.
The truth is that I had high hopes, when I got to H-town, of finding work and starting my life all over - sober and in a new location. Times are tough, even for a star with comeback plans ... and a hell of a resume. Give or take one job interview - to which I arrived an hour late, because of one bus arriving four minutes late, and the connecting bus being three minutes early - each bus only running once every hour, and the whole trip taking 138 minutes in the first place, I only managed to secure one interview in 90 days.
And, I should mention, that upon arriving to that interview - an hour late, I had to cross a rather large lawn to get into the building. The gardeners working to maintain this beautiful, enormous yard, couldn't have known I am allergic to fresh-cut grass, and yet I still recall the look of general bemusement on their faces when, my eyes watering, I fell into a ditch.
It was a small ditch, so I was only down for a minute or two before - brushing the grass from my facial hair and off my leather jacket - I emerged, some vestige of my pride still intact and ambled into Bank of America to get to my potential temp agency employer. Needless to say, I was not impressed. The woman I was there to see came out, asked me why I hadn't called (cell phones were also banned in Cheyenne), and was mentally rolling her eyes as I tried to offer an explanation - while picking an errant piece of grass off my Armani shirt. Ultimately, she said - rather kindly, "Why don't we reschedule? You can come back ... when you're more together."
But I didn't go back, which would perhaps suggest that I never got it together. In fact, my brethren at Cheyenne - who I lovingly referred to as the homeless, illiterate, and not quite right in the head - tended to get in a lot of trouble. It started with cussin'; the staff complained that too many people were walking around casually cussin', which was dubbed "disrespectful to the female staff." Apparently, the male staff were fine with it. And then there was the epidemic of sagging pants. None of us took any of this seriously, until someone got bitch-slapped in an AA meeting. Two back-hands later, Cheyenne locked us down - no phone, no job searching, and no movement.
I spent my last 5 weeks in Houston doing nothing productive, but the last 4 weeks I was in charge. The homeless, illiterate, and not quite right in the head elected me their leader, and between my micro-managing attention to detail, and yelling at damned near everyone, I got us off lock-down - effective the day after I left town.
After all the hard work, all the (proverbial) blood, sweat, and tears, I left Cheyenne with a messenger bag full of designer clothes, wearing four pairs of shoes, and with one word, "'Bye."
I crept back into San Antonio on Greyhound, 'round midnight. And while I can't say that I'm entirely happy to be home, I've certainly been worse places. I know one thing for sure, I ain't goin' nowhere with Lohan no mo'; that white girl is hateful.
Mark
Saturday, November 14, 2009
So Sayeth the Diva ... So Sayeth the Flock; Get the Flock Outta Here ...
Admitting that I was in rehab is not hard to do; however, it lacks imagination. I received from that experience gifts, insights and growth the likes of which I had not previously known ... and, accordingly, I am apt to do it better justice than referring simply to being "in treatment." At this point, the phrase my best friend, Ellen, employs - "away in Europe ..." touches the very edge of the glamor and grace with which I endeavor to live my life.
So, know that when I speak of the old black man, or go into detail about being censured for the way I walk, or that if I had had sex with a peer it would have been punishable by 2 years in prison ... think not that I was confined to rehab, but that I was at a photo shoot ... with Lindsay Lohan.
While at the shoot, I was reminded of something two decades of reading Vogue emblazoned upon my character - drug addicts are hot ... and lighting can make or break anyone. Though the range of my peers spanned 50+ years - from the 17 year old who followed me around like a talkative puppy to the septuagenarian narcoleptic we thought of as 'the Godfather' - these men had about them each a presence that was determined, defiant, a bit angry and yet kind, gentle in its enforced pacificism and rough around the edges.
The men who spent time in prison posed the most interesting challenge; they were clearly bored with talking about their feelings, tired of being threatened into respecting each other, the guards, the rules ... so, to pass time, they made hypothetical drug deals, waxed poetic about their street cred, and - in the spirit of compassion and open-mindedness, occasionally offered to rape us.
By 'us' I mean the gays. There is an old line of thinking, based on some outdated study or census, that one in every ten men is gay (the 10% rule). Out of 100 men at the photo shoot, only 3 were openly gay. But oh, boy were we open.
My own flame burns bright, and I received a measure of crap as a result. So, I was told to dial it down a few notches with my walk ... and then told again. I was threatened with 'consequences' if I did not respond. I was made to walk before half the facility with my new toned down shuffle, and I was celebrated for getting off the runway. I was reminded by counselors, guards, and even the occasional admin. assistant that I must respect my peers - e.g. no peeking in the shower or random humping of my neighbors. I do not recall any similar admonitions being given to my peers, but perhaps along with hip-swaying comes sexual predation. Note: the 2 actual sexual predators at the shoot, did not sway their hips.
I digress; I received a measure of crap and my counselor - the old black man - labored under the misconception that my problems with drugs and alcohol stemmed from shame over being gay. This is also part of the problem posed by my 'intellectual denial' - of my ongoing choice to see myself as "apart from, rather a part of ..."
And yet, I was a part of ... I was one of three out and proud men, and while we did not shout from the rooftops "We're here, we're queer ... get used to it," neither did we shrink from being bold, fierce, and scandalous.
Beyonce - not her real name - is a tranny. Somewhere between doing it for fun, doing it for always ... and shakin' yo' shimmy on a street corner, the 6'5" drag queen prostitute was just this side of a diva, and - to hear her tell it - not a crack-head, but "crack-ish." From the day he arrived on the set, the scene changed. Beyonce was in the South Dorm, a place known for its rascals - many of them young, Heroin-addicted, and street wise. Rather than violent and reactive, these boys proved curious and easily amused. Some of Beyonce's stories tended toward the risque, but they had one thing in common - they all and in each glorified the diva.
Joan attempted glory. Or self-importance. At times, Joan reminded me of Joan Crawford - languishing and grand, funny and severe; at other times, he reminded me of Joan Collins - dramatic and playful, selfish but generous (so long as it served a not-so-hidden agenda). We bonded over mutual friends - from the bars and high school friends.
Joan was my jail-house ... erh, photo shoot ... frenemy, though not nearly so self-serving as the Frenemy tends to be. I recall seeing Joan right after I had a particularly moving group therapy session. I was still sniffling from the racking sobs I'd let out moments earlier, with my eyes red, swollen, my voice shaky. He saw the signs of my anguish and asked if I was okay, but right after I choked out an "I'm fine ...hard group," Joan continued on about the object of his affection.
I do not mean to suggest that I do not still feel something when I talk about the worst, darkest moments of my life ... I feel anguish, sorrow, pathos, and the occasional tear rolls down my cheek; nonetheless, I will never let personal pain and sorrow stand in the way of good cocktail conversation. So, with heavy lids and moist eyes, I look out on those who are willing to listen ... and I sing out, Louise, for all to hear.
Mark
So, know that when I speak of the old black man, or go into detail about being censured for the way I walk, or that if I had had sex with a peer it would have been punishable by 2 years in prison ... think not that I was confined to rehab, but that I was at a photo shoot ... with Lindsay Lohan.
While at the shoot, I was reminded of something two decades of reading Vogue emblazoned upon my character - drug addicts are hot ... and lighting can make or break anyone. Though the range of my peers spanned 50+ years - from the 17 year old who followed me around like a talkative puppy to the septuagenarian narcoleptic we thought of as 'the Godfather' - these men had about them each a presence that was determined, defiant, a bit angry and yet kind, gentle in its enforced pacificism and rough around the edges.
The men who spent time in prison posed the most interesting challenge; they were clearly bored with talking about their feelings, tired of being threatened into respecting each other, the guards, the rules ... so, to pass time, they made hypothetical drug deals, waxed poetic about their street cred, and - in the spirit of compassion and open-mindedness, occasionally offered to rape us.
By 'us' I mean the gays. There is an old line of thinking, based on some outdated study or census, that one in every ten men is gay (the 10% rule). Out of 100 men at the photo shoot, only 3 were openly gay. But oh, boy were we open.
My own flame burns bright, and I received a measure of crap as a result. So, I was told to dial it down a few notches with my walk ... and then told again. I was threatened with 'consequences' if I did not respond. I was made to walk before half the facility with my new toned down shuffle, and I was celebrated for getting off the runway. I was reminded by counselors, guards, and even the occasional admin. assistant that I must respect my peers - e.g. no peeking in the shower or random humping of my neighbors. I do not recall any similar admonitions being given to my peers, but perhaps along with hip-swaying comes sexual predation. Note: the 2 actual sexual predators at the shoot, did not sway their hips.
I digress; I received a measure of crap and my counselor - the old black man - labored under the misconception that my problems with drugs and alcohol stemmed from shame over being gay. This is also part of the problem posed by my 'intellectual denial' - of my ongoing choice to see myself as "apart from, rather a part of ..."
And yet, I was a part of ... I was one of three out and proud men, and while we did not shout from the rooftops "We're here, we're queer ... get used to it," neither did we shrink from being bold, fierce, and scandalous.
Beyonce - not her real name - is a tranny. Somewhere between doing it for fun, doing it for always ... and shakin' yo' shimmy on a street corner, the 6'5" drag queen prostitute was just this side of a diva, and - to hear her tell it - not a crack-head, but "crack-ish." From the day he arrived on the set, the scene changed. Beyonce was in the South Dorm, a place known for its rascals - many of them young, Heroin-addicted, and street wise. Rather than violent and reactive, these boys proved curious and easily amused. Some of Beyonce's stories tended toward the risque, but they had one thing in common - they all and in each glorified the diva.
Joan attempted glory. Or self-importance. At times, Joan reminded me of Joan Crawford - languishing and grand, funny and severe; at other times, he reminded me of Joan Collins - dramatic and playful, selfish but generous (so long as it served a not-so-hidden agenda). We bonded over mutual friends - from the bars and high school friends.
Joan was my jail-house ... erh, photo shoot ... frenemy, though not nearly so self-serving as the Frenemy tends to be. I recall seeing Joan right after I had a particularly moving group therapy session. I was still sniffling from the racking sobs I'd let out moments earlier, with my eyes red, swollen, my voice shaky. He saw the signs of my anguish and asked if I was okay, but right after I choked out an "I'm fine ...hard group," Joan continued on about the object of his affection.
"He didn't even look at me. I saw him talking to the other guy last night, and they were all flirty and cute, and he is not even going to talk to me. I am so over it. We're broken up ..." To which I replied, "I thought you were already broken up? When did you start speaking again?"Joan came into the photo shoot with an agenda - stay busy, keep distracted, and get through the program without fuss, muss, or - most importantly - change. Despite being on a second, or was it third? DWI, Joan was neither open to change nor interested in what the program had to say about that. So, he did what several of us did - he acted as if, and in his down-time, he maintained a crush on one or two carefully selected pieces of eye candy. During treatment (i.e. working) hours, Joan took advantage of a tool that Joan Crawford, and many gay men I know, mastered - the ability to cry ... on-cue. What the old black man and the other dedicated counselors and support staff perceived as break-through (break-down) moments were - for me, Joan, and Beyonce the time to shine.
I do not mean to suggest that I do not still feel something when I talk about the worst, darkest moments of my life ... I feel anguish, sorrow, pathos, and the occasional tear rolls down my cheek; nonetheless, I will never let personal pain and sorrow stand in the way of good cocktail conversation. So, with heavy lids and moist eyes, I look out on those who are willing to listen ... and I sing out, Louise, for all to hear.
Mark
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