Dad

Jerry Keith Wilson was born on November 13, 1935 in Plymouth, Michigan to Mary Alice and Kenneth Thomas Wilson.

He grew up in Detroit with brothers Earl and Norman and sister Dolores. 

In 1954, he joined the US Marine Corps in which he served until 1957. For a while during his tour of duty, he was stationed in Japan.

After leaving the corps, he returned to Detroit for a couple years, but he soon grew restless and headed west to follow his brother Norman who had established a photography business in Long Beach, California. Once settled, Jerry found work as a bartender and as a vocational nurse at the Metropolitan State Hospital, a public hospital for the mentally ill. Jerry had a sharp sense of humor, and a warm charm, both of which served him well at the hospital. He was highly valued for his ability to engage with and calm patients who were suffering stress and anxiety.

It was during this time that he befriended Stan Beam who would remain one of Jerry's best friends for many years, as well as Sharon Barley who would soon become his wife. Another of his colleagues, Merle Smith, began dating Sharon's sister Janice. One of their first double dates was seeing Porgy and Bess at the Highway 39 drive-in, a historic landmark where they would take their kids for several years to come.

On June 2, 1961, Jerry and Sharon wed alongside Janice and Merle in a double wedding. Jerry then adopted Sharon's four-year-old daughter, Caron Alicia. On January 23, 1962, Jerry and Sharon welcomed their first son, Vance Trent. Shortly thereafter, Jerry and Sharon bought a home on Morningside Dr. in Garden Grove, CA, where they would live and raise their family until they divorced in 1986. Two more children followed-Valerie Shawn in August of 1965 and Norman Kenneth in September 1971.

Early in their marriage, Jerry made extra money bar-tending, as well as hustling pool (a point of pride he shared with me when we played on a league together) until he was employed by Vons Grocery Company where he worked for 37 years. During his tenure there, he managed produce departments and warehouse operations among other roles. While he worked for Vons, there was always rocky road ice cream in the freezer and banana splits whenever guests came over.

Aside from work and family life, Jerry coached Bobby Sox for several years and served as league president one year. Both Caron and Valerie were star players. Jerry instilled in his children a love of music, competitive spirit and the ability to respond to life's curves with humor and compassion. He loved all kinds of music from classic Hollywood musicals to Big Band to Elvis. But his favorite was Sinatra. And he could croon with the best of them. Jerry did karaoke before karaoke was cool. At the Westbrook Bowling Alley and Gaynor's Lounge in Garden Grove, Jerry introduced his kids, Valerie and Norman, to the wonders of karaoke, and they would sing with him often.

Jerry loved entertaining and would often host gatherings for family and friends. His sense of humor, inappropriate as it could be, was well known and adored.

In 1986, Jerry and Sharon divorced, and he was a bachelor once again for several years until 1993 when he and long-time friend, Mary, acknowledged their mutual attraction and became a couple. 

For several years, they lived in Garden Grove managing a storage facility and shooting competitive pool together for The Oasis Pool League. They had a very active social calendar and many, many friends. In 2006, they tied the knot and later moved to Bullhead, Arizona where Mary worked as a money counter for Don Laughlin, and Jerry enjoyed retirement. They made many dear friends in Laughlin and Bullhead, including neighbors Angie, Pam, and Billy. And they continued to entertain frequent visitors John and Brenda Montoya (John was Jerry's best friend from the Vons days and for many years thereafter), nephew Scotty and Rachel Norfolk, son Vance, Mary's son Robert, grandkids, Mary's brother and sister and their families. In November of 2015, Mary organized a surprise 80th birthday party for Jerry which brought together the whole family one last time.

When I listen to Sinatra, when I do a crossword puzzle, when I eat a cinnamon gummy bear or rocky road ice cream, when I think of that really inappropriate comment and have to filter myself, I will always think of my father. He was, is and will always be in our hearts and happily in our memories.

The Rocky Horror (Picture) Show

Rehearsal has begun for The Rocky Horror Show at The Lakewood. Our cast is sensational. Our producers and creative team are excited about the show and light up when they talk about it. And I am playing one of the most iconic roles of all time. Saturday night, I attended The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Clinton Street Theatre with our director and a few of our cast. It has probably been close to twenty years since I have gone, and, while much is the same, I find the differences interesting.

At 20, you arrive to the theatre with six friends in tow and emerge from your Hyundai Excel, all toting duffle bags full of rice, newspapers, toast (or tortillas once, as I recall), wieners, lighters, party hats, toilet paper, noisemakers, spray bottles, balloons, rubber gloves, and the occasional flask.
At 40, you arrive with a piece of toast, a handful of rice, and the Business section from Saturday's paper, which you take home with you after the movie remembering you hadn't read it yet. I'm not wasting a roll of toilet paper. Toilet paper is expensive!

At 20, you yell at the screen until you are hoarse, you run up on stage and dance, and you hardly ever listen to anyone else as your primary goal is to deliver the most perfectly timed and most clever callbacks.
At 40, you hardly speak because it's been twenty years and there are so many new cultural references, you just want to hear what everyone is saying. Also, it takes less yelling to go hoarse at this age.

At 20, after the movie, you drive home up Beach Blvd, with at least five of your six original friends in tow, do a couple red-light green-lights, go home and chat, listen to the B52s, watch TV and go to Denny's at 7 am for breakfast. Staying up for 36 hours straight is a normal weekend.
At 40, you plan your Saturday strategically with naps and coffee in order to stay awake for a midnight show.

At 20, you know every single word of the script and score.
At 40, you are lucky to remember your own lines.

I will never forget the first time I attended The Rocky Horror Picture Show with my fabulous friend, Nicole, at the AMC Marina Pacifica in Long Beach, California. I had no idea what was in store. I certainly didn't know that I would be sacrificed for being a virgin that night. I remember being miffed that Nicole and all her friends would just assume I was chaste and throw me to the wolves. Then, of course, I learned that virgin means something different in Rocky World. I have lost touch with Nicole, but I am sure she is still fabulous wherever she is. We met working in a call center. I was so young I had to obtain a worker's permit and get parental consent to have a part time job. Nicole would come over some days, and we would raid my brother's stash of small liquor bottles and play my Cabaret movie soundtrack. She would be Sally, and I would be the emcee. She nailed Sally Bowles. I think she even painted her fingernails green. We only occasionally argued when we would listen to a different soundtrack like Annie or Gypsy when we both insisted on playing the female lead.
Anyway, that first screening was overwhelming. I didn't understand much of what I saw or heard. But I certainly understood Tim Curry as Dr Frank N Furter, and a lifelong love affair began. A couple years later, I started going on the reg with a group of friends I'd met working at The La Habra Depot Playhouse. Our dressing rooms were literally old train cars behind the theatre. We thought we were making some cutting edge theatre, let me tell you.
I bought the movie soundtrack AND the original Roxy Cast recording. I learned every word and every inflection, right down to the part where my vinyl album of the movie soundtrack skipped. It was right where Tim sang "Dig it, if you caaaaan." CaaaaanCaaaanCaaaan. So when we would listen to it, that's how we would sing it.

The Balboa Theatre in Newport Beach, California, was a historic and sacred place. Originally opened as The Ritz Theatre in 1928, it had been purchased by Pussycat Theaters in 1973 and was used for adult films until 1975 when Landmark bought it. In 1978, they started using it to play Rocky on Saturday nights. There were a limited number of 35mm reels of the film available. So Balboa had to share theirs with the Wilshire in Fullerton. The Wilshire would start their showing before midnight and then send a courier with the first reel of the film down to Balboa to start theirs at midnight (or whenever the courier arrived). And so on until all reels had been delivered and shown. By the time I started going, the Wilshire had closed and the Balboa owned the print.

There was a group called Midnight Insanity that would shadow the film on the stage. When the Balboa closed, they moved the show up to The Art Theatre in Long Beach which, it so happens, was four blocks from the apartment in which I lived for twelve years before moving to Portland! So I would still see the show occasionally. But, by then, I was no longer an avid Rocky goer.

Rocky was special for me for so many reasons. Putting the seal of approval on "otherness" and encouraging showy performance art and engagement with other "freaks" did a lot to nurture the person I am today. Yep, you can thank Rocky for that. I also associate it with so many memories of hanging out in Newport Beach. If you drove further down the peninsula from the theater, you would reach the jetties where friends and I would go late at night and walk out to the very end of the jetties where the waves would crash up on to them and you could see the crabs scurrying down into their crevices. I remember taking my first girlfriend AND one of my first boyfriends down there. Not on the same night.

I absolutely worshipped Tim Curry. I cannot imagine anyone else immortalizing that role, even though Mick Jagger made a play for it and probably would have been amazing in a different way.
I got to meet Tim Curry once when he was touring in Me and My Girl. I will never forget it because I had this expectation that I was going to meet this fabulous larger than life character. And, of course, he IS fabulous. But I remember feeling like I was looking in a mirror. Same height, same build, similar face shape and expressions, mild mannered, polite, gracious. He was just as human as could be. And I thought "This is a master storyteller who can become these fantastic characters from a little human shell." And he has proven it time and again.

Rocky Horror has never been out of my life for long. Hearing the opening chords of Time Warp or Dammit, Janet or Sweet Transvestite can still lift my spirits and get my blood pumping. And now I get to hear it every day and sing it with a super talented cast and perform it for audiences for six weeks. Frank N Furter is a role I have always felt destined to play. And, even if I didn't have the chance to do it on stage professionally, the character would always live inside of me. I realize, of course, that the role has been played thousands of times by actors far fiercer than myself. I know I am not breaking any new ground. But the magic of theatre is, when we take on these projects, it's a moment in time. It is the only time we will be with these people telling this story this way at this theater for these patrons. So, in that, I guess we are breaking new ground, and it feels like an honor to be part of it.

Starting rehearsal and attending the midnight screening have made me so nostalgic. I have been having so many memories of those friends, late nights, singing at the top of our lungs, beautiful Newport Beach and the Balboa peninsula, the Crab Cooker, the jetties, young love.

I think also the nostalgia is hitting me because of where I am in life. Tommy and I are planning a move to Charleston, SC, after Rocky closes. Not only might this be my last show in Portland, it may be my last show on the West Coast. Heck, it may be my last show! Who knows what life in Charleston will bring. Perhaps I will finally get to be a Real Housewife. A RHoC! But I do think about my life on the West Coast and what a California boy I've always been, even though now I'm an Oregonian. But what if that's it? The West Coast chapter is over? How can I not reminisce? Half my life is behind me, and I'm moving on to the latter half in a new part of the world. I don't mean that to sound maudlin. I am actually excited to see what this next chapter brings. But I can tell you the first act of this man's story (First two acts? I'm old.) has been chock full of awesome sauce. I feel it is poignant that I am capping this part of my journey playing a role in a show that informed this part of my journey.

Hey, if you've read this far, maybe you want to come see the show. What am I saying? OF COURSE you want to see the show! Here's a link for tickets....
https://tix4.centerstageticketing.com/sites/lakewoodtheatre/showdates.php?s_id=743

Betrayal

My body has betrayed me. This guy

has let me down.

A couple years ago, at my annual physical exam, my primary care doctor asked if I would like him to include a PSA in my yearly blood panel. He said I was young for a PSA, but since prostate cancer has been getting diagnosed earlier in men, they now recommend it to men below 50. And, as you know, I am WAY below 50. So I agreed. It came back a little high. Not red flag high, but high. I spoke with a urologist who recommended a biopsy, but I declined. The biopsy seemed quite invasive and unnecessary. Two years later, my PSA had increased, so I consulted a different urologist who also recommended a biopsy. This time, I went ahead and bit the bullet. Literally, I was biting a bullet during the procedure. It isn't anyone's idea of a good time. Even with a doctor who makes cracks like "Hey, at least you're not at the dentist!" while he is in there extracting tissue, which feels like being snapped with a rubber band repeatedly. In your butt. The biopsy came back showing evidence of cancer in seven of ten tissue samples, and a few of them showed a moderate amount. This is called a Gleason 6 which is the lowest score you can get on a prostate biopsy. That's good. You don't want a high score on this particular test. What that means is, I had a slow-growing cancer, but a fair amount of it which could spread over time. Most men will have some degree of prostate cancer at some point if they live long enough. Most will die of something else. Still, prostate cancer is the second leading cause of cancer-related death in men. It can spread through the lymph nodes, into other organs and into the bones and spine. These are things you never want to deal with. My doctor recommended a robotic laparoscopic prostatectomy. He explained that he would remove the entire prostate and look for any other evidence of cancer while he is in there. Naturally, I was flummoxed. I couldn't believe this was actually being spoken. How could this even be true? There's no history of prostate cancer in my family. None that I know of anyway. In fact, I've always felt like my family has some sort of celestial shield around us protecting us from disease. None of us has suffered from any of the dreadful diseases so many suffer from, and we haven't all lived the healthiest lifestyles, let me tell ya. I really thought something was wrong with this diagnosis. Did my test get switched with some other poor patient's? Was the pathologist new? Maybe he was using outdated equipment? Is this a scam? Do they over-diagnose this to keep patients beholden to the system? Something was not right. But I let the doctor give me his advice. Tommy was with me so he took notes and asked lots of questions and even recorded the consultation. Initially, afterwards, Tommy and I agreed that surgery was probably the way to go. But I was still in denial. I went down the cyber rabbit hole and read all kinds of articles and transcripts about Gleason 6 and prostate cancer and differing opinions about what it means and how to address it. I watched two videos I found online of the actual robotic procedure to see exactly what they do in there. It freaked me out a bit that a robot is inside you cutting and cauterizing and moving things. What if the robot goes haywire? I saw I, Robot. What if the robot hasn't been oiled in a while? What if it breaks mid-surgery? What if I flinch? What if I wake up mid-surgery? This was some crazy shit around which my head had trouble wrapping. I reached out to some trusted friends who connected me to other men who have gone through this. We talked about the risks, the recovery process, the alternatives. I picked up a book at Powell's. In fact, everyone shopping at Powell's that day knows I picked up the book because I made the rookie mistake of stopping at the information desk to ask where I might find books about cancer, not realizing that the loud information agent would ask numerous follow-up questions. "WHAT KIND OF CANCER?" "ARE YOU LOOKING FOR TREATMENT BOOKS OR ESSAYS OR JOURNALS?" "DO YOU KNOW THE AUTHOR?" "DID YOU SAY PROSTATE CANCER?"

I eventually found what I needed. A book by Dr Sheldon Marks that is dated but still addresses a lot of the questions and concerns that cancer patients have. I went to a urologist in a different network, who also provides radiation therapy, to ask his advice. He agreed surgery was the best choice and that my doctor was among the best. Okay. It seemed like this is the way to go. I scheduled the surgery for April 4th. I opted not to post about it on social media. This wasn't out of shame or fear or anything like that. It really was just that I didn't have anything to say. I didn't want people to feel like I needed their sympathy or advice or whatever. I just felt like I wanted to keep it among a few people who I see or talk to the most. So why am I talking about it now? Because I want people (at least people with the time to read this diatribe) to understand what the timeline and the thought process was. It turns out I have a lot of friends who love me. And cancer is a scary thing which, evidently, can happen to any of us. Why me though? Why did I get cancer? Once I accepted that it was real, I got really upset by how unfair it is. This of course led to me saying "Well, what is fair? Is it fair that dear friends of mine have been fighting for cancer for years? Is it fair that dear friends have lost their battle?" The answer of course is "No. It's pretty messed up. There is no fairness."

Eight days before my surgery, I went in to see my doctor for a pre-op consult. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this would include a shot of anesthesia right into the tip of my little buddy and a scope inserted right through the urethra and into my bladder. HOOYAH! I screamed and jumped up from the table which is exactly what the doctor gets for not forewarning me that I would be doing this before I came in. He said he was glad to see no lumps or anything of concern in the bladder or the prostate. Great. But, after I left his office, I started thinking "Am I making a mistake? Am I jumping the gun on this? Shouldn't I maybe watch and wait?" I reached out to my primary care doctor who I adore, and I told him my concerns. He replied immediately with a very thoughtful response which basically amounted to "You are doing the right thing by having surgery." A friend also connected me to another person who had gone through the surgery, and they also sent me a very detailed summary of their experience and encouraged me to go with the surgery.  Okay, I guess I'm doing this. 

On April 3rd, I stopped eating solid food and drank an entire bottle of Miralax. You can guess how that evening went. April 4th, I reported to the good sisters at Providence St Vincent's hospital for surgery at 6:30 am.  They took good care of me and prepped me for surgery. At 8:15, the anesthesiologist came in and talked to me a little about the sedative cocktail. I remember he explained it, he started administering it, he said it was time to head up to surgery, and I remember nothing after that moment until I woke up at 2 something back in the little waiting area being tended to by a very cute young nurse named Joel. I mean, I think he was very cute. I was seeing through tiny eye slits and under heavy medication. Eventually, I was rolled up to my private room, room 758, with a lovely view. Tommy was with me the entire time, which was a very good thing as I had two vicious attacks of pain that evening and the next morning where I thought I might actually be having a heart attack. My stomach cramped, my chest tightened, pain shot from my stomach up through my right shoulder, and I could only take short shallow breaths. It was incredibly scary. Due to those attacks, my doctor ordered that I stay one more night and have an EKG, a chest X-ray and a CAT scan. The CAT scan is really freaky like a Kubrick film. "HOLD YOUR BREATH." "BREATHE." Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh. And then again. Trippy.

Fortunately, all those tests came back just fine. No heart issues, no blood clots in the lungs. But I stayed in the hospital well into the next day. I was finally discharged at 6:30 pm on April 6th. It felt so good to get out of there, into the Portland rain and the cool spring air and walk. They did offer me a wheelchair out to the car which I absolutely refused.

Recovery is going very well. Tommy is an excellent nurse. He insists on doing everything for me. Quite honestly, I don't know how I would do all this without him. Furthermore, scads of friends have reached out and sent words of encouragement, flowers, candy, food, funny cards, etc. I can finally eat solid food after FIVE DAYS OF CLEAR LIQUIDS. That first taste of oatmeal and apple sauce was heaven. I can't wait for enchiladas.

Throughout this process, I have really questioned "why" a lot. I want a solid answer. Why did I get prostate cancer? Was I too reckless with my prostate in my teens? And twenties? And thirties? Is God punishing me for being a judgy b? But I need to let the need for an answer go. Why am I not a movie star? Why am I not on Broadway? Why have I never won the Oregon St Patrick's Day Raffle even though I buy MULTIPLE tickets EVERY FREAKING YEAR? These are questions that are never going to return definite answers. I can speculate all day long. I wasn't born into the movie business. I didn't spend ten years in New York doing workshops and regionals and tours. The Oregon St Patrick's Day Raffle is a hoax, and NO ONE EVER WINS IT! But there really are no definite answers to these questions. Just like there will never be an answer to why did I get cancer. I did. And I am truly grateful that I was born into privilege, that I am a healthy able person, that I am supported and loved, that I live in a community of people that would carry me on their backs if I was weak. I mean, the stronger ones would. The little ones would cheer them on. I live in an epicenter of great cancer care. I have friends who have fought a much harder fight than I have had to fight, and there are plenty of people in the world suffering much greater difficulties than this. With no sarcasm intended, I am truly blessed.

I had a check-in with my doctor yesterday to hear the results of the biopsy. It was not the news I wanted. The samples from my lymph nodes came back totally negative. YES! However, they did find a slightly higher grade of cancer peripherally outside the prostate. This means I need to continually monitor this. I will have a PSA in six weeks and again every quarter for two years to see what the number does. If it stays low, I am probably in the clear, though I will always continue to check it. If it goes up, that means the cancer is growing and should be treated with radiation. This is not the news I was looking for. BUT the prostate itself is out. That was the mountain. The lymph nodes show no cancer. So we watch it. Hopefully, it will never do anything. If it does, than we put the gloves back on. HA! I just realized the gloves could mean latex gloves. I've seen plenty of those in the last six weeks! WHEW! I meant fighting gloves. But either way.

My point, and I do have one, is I want everyone to know that cancer does not discriminate. Be diligent. Get checked. Yes, it is scary and annoying. But value your life and your health, and be proactive. You are your best advocate. Take care of and cherish your body. 

I also want to thank you because A. If you've read this, you are an incredibly patient and compassionate individual. And B. You are probably also one of the cherished friends who has made this journey a lot easier. I truly count myself so fortunate to have the love and light and support and encouragement and laughter (although I can't really laugh right now, so don't make me) I have in my life. Thank you so so much for being the light. I am not the demonstrative one when it comes to reaching out and keeping people abreast of my stuff, but it does mean a lot when others reach out to me. It lifts me up. And I feel like I am fighting a fight with hundreds of strong, funny, loving, fabulous people around me. And that is a really good feeling.