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.

Pride, gratitude and compassion

As a rule, I do not make new year resolutions. Or, more accurately, I don't declare them. I often have private resolutions of the usual ilk--I will spend less time at the gym, I will increase my alcohol tolerance, I will eat more cheeseburgers, etc. Some years, I actually attempt to meet these goals until mid-January or so. Most of the time, however, any goals I set for myself quickly dissipate in a drunken haze.
However, after reading a very interesting article in the NY Times on Sunday, I am enlightened. Self-control is an issue many of us deal with, but there is another side to the story. Those of us who fail to keep these resolutions we make for ourselves may be lacking in the following: pride, gratitude and compassion. These traits, the article suggests, reduce the human mind's tendency to discount the value of the future. Let's discuss.

Pride--I feel pride for my friends all the time. I love hearing about my friends' achievements. That's what Facebook is for. Well, that and cat video links. I know Facebook can be the devil, and some people should be forced to go through shock therapy to cure their need to post every waking thought they have. But it can also be a wonderful way to keep track of all the positive experiences our friends are having. What I realized though is that I rarely feel proud of myself. Now, don't get me wrong--I am often arrogant. But I have recently learned that arrogance is not actually the same as pride. Pride is a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements. Or a pack of lions. Or a really sweet movie about a bunch of British gays raising money for mineworkers.

When I am cast in a show, I generally am too busy obsessing over all of the technical things I have to be thinking about while being totally present and in the moment. And I usually end up just beating myself up for not being better. Moving forward, I resolve to be proud of my own accomplishments just as I am those of my friends. After all, if I am up on that stage playing that role, it's because somebody thought I was the best guy for the job. And, obviously, audience members who aren't laughing are slow or hateful.

Gratitude is a cinch. I know 2017 was a less than stellar year for many people. In fact, knowing a lot of the pain and grief that others have suffered in the last year, I have absolutely nothing to complain about. But I do have a hell of a lot to be grateful for. Like Saoirse Ronan films! And I need to take more time every day to express that gratitude. Gratitude can easily be expressed internally and on paper, but I think it's a lot more effective expressed outwardly to others. And that's where I need to focus.

Now, compassion....Compassion is not my strongest suit. I definitely lean more dispassionate. In fact, I can be downright heartless, a truth in which I take great pride. I've spent years hardening this block of ice in my chest. But, even when I am feeling all warm and fuzzy, I often don't take the time that I should to show compassion to others. I get impatient. I get complacent. I wallow in my own junk. And I forget that others are fighting a harder fight than I could even dream of fighting. So this is where I need the most focus. And I certainly don't feel compassion for myself. I mean, why should I? I am a healthy, moderately successful, loved and supported white male. Why would I ever deserve compassion?! But I do. We all do. Why are we so abusive to ourselves? Why am I often my own worst enemy? Time to stop that. I cannot be a compassionate, caring friend to others when I am incapable of being that to myself.

So why am I sharing all of this when I haven't posted a blog in two years? Because I figure if this information is helpful to me, it may help others too. And part of being grateful and compassionate is being generous of spirit and wanting to see others succeed. So here's to a new year of new possibilities and focusing on strengthening qualities that better ourselves and boost others at the same time. 

I encourage you to read the NY Times article that inspired my little rant. Here is the link: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/12/29/opinion/sunday/the-only-way-to-keep-your-resolutions.html

Biz

Why can't I think? I want to say something, but I can't find any words. I try to form a coherent thought, but all that comes to mind are questions. I feel emotionally stunted because I still cannot quite accept this awful truth. How can you possibly be gone when I still feel your life force? I watched an entire community scramble together in a frenzy and support you and each other. It happened so quickly I couldn't believe it. I thought to myself, "This is not really happening. People are overreacting. You are going to be fine. You are going to snap out of it and wake up and recover and we are all going to harass you for years to come about the day you panicked our entire community."
But then the texts and the calls started coming in, and I could hear the pain and the sadness, and the tragic reality hit. I was dumbstruck. I still am struggling to accept this surreal and unfathomable situation.
We met in the summer of 2011, and I liked you instantly. Initially, I liked you because you were Tommy's dance partner, and you felt no need to ever mince words with him or with anyone. You were funny, talented, outspoken and totally adorable. I learned quickly that, if you were sassy and fresh, it meant you liked someone. And you could be sassy and fresh. But you truly had a heart of gold. I don't think there is anything you would not have done if a friend needed you. You were one of those rare people who would drop everything at a moment's notice to help out a friend or a family member. And we were all your family members.
You loved your family with every fiber of your being. When I wanted to throw a party for Tommy's birthday, you wanted to contribute to the planning and the decorations and everything. You seemed to always be there to help with everything. It's like you were omnipotent! You were at the theater early to help people learn dance combinations. You were there late to practice. You were always present in social groups offering your wit and your gorgeous smile. You were just always there. If we needed someone to sit with little G, you were there, and he'd be in your lap in seconds. And there he'd stay.
You just possessed a warmth that is enviable, something to which we all should aspire.
When Tim J was involved in the horrible accident, you were ever-present, talking to the press, setting up accounts to help with his medical costs, helping coordinate his benefit. Honestly, I can't think of a single important event in the last four years where you wren't contributing in some way.
When Tim was in the accident, and miraculously survived, it only re-enforced my false sense of safety for all of us. I never assume anything bad is really going to happen to any of us. We are invincible. We are a strong group. This is, I think, why I still am struggling so with this reality.
Just a couple weeks ago, I texted you. We hadn't spoken in forever. I was just walking to Central Park, and I thought of you and missed you, so I sent a text to tell you so. You shot back a reply saying something like "Get a job." But, within minutes, you texted again saying "Just kidding! I miss you!". I replied that you wouldn't have to miss us for long because we are coming home. You texted back saying "Don't lie to me, Norman!". I wasn't lying, sweet girl. We are coming! I want to see you again. This is so unfair. This is so fucked up. I want to hear you laugh. I want to see you misbehaving backstage. I want you to help my two left feet understand a dance step. I want to see you snuggled on the couch with G watching trash TV with Tommy. I don't know when it will get easier to understand this. My inclination is to try to find a lesson or a reason or a moral to this story. But the truth is-sometimes, there isn't one. Sometimes, there is nothing to be gleaned except that life can suck and you can lose a friend in minutes. And that is a cruel and merciless truth.
I know you are dancing in heaven and trying to ignore my whining and probably occasionally rolling your eyes at all of the fuss. But I just want you to know that I don't like it one bit and that you've left a gaping hole in our community and that someday I am going to see you again and, after I yell at you, I am going to hug you for an eternity.

Living Off-Broadway

It's a rainy Saturday morning, and this is the most inviting place in my apartment right now--->

This is Tommy's gorgeous new mini mid-century desk from a company I shouldn't name (since they are not paying me to advertise), but they are not called East Oak.
I love it. Who doesn't love some nice wood in their home?
I am still reeling from the wonderful show I saw last night. I have been kind of spoiled this week (different from most weeks?) because we saw You Can't Take It With You on Broadway Wednesday night with two very fun friends, and then last night and Thursday night I took advantage of the current Off-Broadway Week ticket prices, half their usual.
Last night, I went to the Laura Pels Theatre on W. 46th St at 6th Ave and saw Roundabout's production of Indian Ink.
The reviews I had read were not very complimentary so I did not have high expectations. I just knew I wanted to see Rosemary Harris perform. For those who don't know, Rosemary Harris was invited by none other than Moss Hart to leave England and do a Broadway show for him in 1952. Since then, she has appeared in many shows on this side of the pond and has also portrayed some great characters in film and TV, including Aunt May in the Tobey Maguire Spider-Man franchise.
Years ago, my friend Greg and I were fortunate to see Marian Seldes in The Royal Family in Los Angeles, and I am so glad we did. Seeing Ms Harris is another highlight for me.
Actors like these do something not all actors can do. They seem to fully immerse themselves in their roles in such a natural and compelling way that we are completely transported out of our real lives and into their story. I have such admiration for this skill, and it is something I hope to achieve in my lifetime. Ms Harris did not disappoint, nor did anyone else in the show.
But the actor who drew me in the most and, for my money, gave the most enthralling performance, was Romola Garai. Not only is she stunningly gorgeous, but her portrayal of Flora Crewe is one of the best performances I have seen this year. She actually plays the older sister of Rosemary Harris's character. Rosemary is in the now, and Romola is in the past. It's a Tom Stoppard piece and similar in style to Arcadia which was critically acclaimed. Some critics feel that Indian Ink is the less-gifted little sister to Arcadia. I disagree. I found Arcadia to be mentally exhausting when it first debuted. I understand it has been revised since then. But this show kept me engaged and I had no trouble following the plot as it bandies back and forth between now and then. Also, I find the themes fascinating-Indian attitudes toward the British during their subjugation, both good and bad; the importance placed on art, including poetry, literature and painting; relationships between people of very different backgrounds and moral values; and the way people perceive the past.
At intermission, I had a G & T at the theatre bar, and I'm glad I did because the second act starts with Rosemary's character having one, and I would have been jealous.
Thursday night, I saw Terence McNally's Lips Together, Teeth Apart, or, as the Floridian I met at the bar before hand called it, Lips Open, Mouth Closed, at Second Stage. I did not find this play quite as affecting, and that could be for a number of reasons. It was only their third preview so I imagine the cast is still finding their way together. And the script feels a little dated to me because it takes place in 1990 and there is still a lot of fear about AIDS and how it can be contracted. And the characters were pretty ignorant. And, while I know this sort of ignorance does exist, and certainly existed even more in 1990, I feel quite distanced from it. And it's always hard for me to believe that people can be that stupid. Even though they often prove me wrong.
Having said that though, the cast is strong, especially Tracee Chimo (from Orange Is the New Black and The Good Wife) and Michael Chernus as her brother. I really bought their characters and even felt a little wounded when they displayed their own homophobia. There were some really funny moments, and the production values were good.
Wednesday night, we saw the Broadway production of You Can't Take It With You starring James Earl Jones, Rose Byrne, Mark-Paul Gosselaar---wait, scratch that, Mark Linn-Baker, and a host of very funny actors. It's a true throwback to a classic era of brilliant comedy. Kaufman and Hart were at their peak and, of course, Frank Capra turned it into an Oscar-winning film. It's even more delightful seeing it acted out on the stage by really talented people.
So, as you can see, life in NYC has been all right. While I cannot say I have been cast in a Broadway show, or a TV show, or an independent film, or even in the subway, I CAN say that I have attended countless auditions, have formed a relationship with an agent and am on my way. I should be accepting my Tony and having my NY apartment decorated by summer of 2016.
In the meantime, we are enjoying all of the arts available to us, the parks, and, of course, the charming public transportation.
I continue to brag about our covered terrace, and New Yorkers I meet always stop to say "You have a terrace in the Upper West Side?" which makes me feel rich. I am eating too many bagels. I am taking full advantage of union-sponsored events like free screenings of new movies and conversation sessions with actors and casting directors. I treated myself to a membership at the Metropolitan Museum which has already paid off in spades. Tommy won the lottery for tickets to The Met and let me and my mom use them to see Le Nozze di Figaro which was amazing!
All in all, it's a pretty sweet life. To my family and friends on the West Coast, I miss you so much. Please visit. There are lovely hotels very close by.
With that, I bid you adieu and will probably feel another overwhelming urge to blog in December.
Love from Manhattan!

New York, New York! It's a wonderful town!

WE DID IT! We are Upper West Siders! When we started talking about moving to New York, Tommy said he always wanted to live on the Upper West Side, but we thought it would not be in the budget so we were looking elsewhere like Hell's Kitchen, Harlem and parts of Brooklyn and Queens. There was a building we liked in Hells' Kitchen that offered "affordable housing" if you met a certain income requirement. We applied for that one, and we really thought we had it, but they ended up declining us based on my "income potential". Even though I am unemployed, they said "based on our earnings from last year", there was no reason to expect we would earn the same or more. I vowed that I had no intention of resuming work in the banking industry, and that I have very little potential, and they should consider me a deadbeat, but they demurred.
Saddened AND forlorn, we resumed looking around, and that day there just happened to be an open house for this one property on West 79th St that was just above our budget. We made an appointment to look at it with the broker and immediately felt a connection to it upon arriving. The neighborhood, the funkiness of the unit, the covered terrace which is totally random and does not exist in any other apartment on our block. We said we'd think about it but were feeling pretty positive. The next day, we met a couple other brokers and looked at some different places. None of them spoke to us. Wait. I take that back. One of them spoke to us; it said "I am disgusting. You should run like hell." That was the one still occupied by the pig owner and his cat, and it had so much stuff piled up everywhere we couldn't see the floor or much of the furniture, or the stove under the caked unidentifiable substance.
We quickly contacted the broker and said "We want it! Is it still available?" There was one other tentative offer, but she relayed our interest to the management and they accepted us.
Now, one thing we have quickly learned as new New Yorkers is that NOTHING is ever easy. NOTHING! If you want anything done, you better pull up your big boy pants and steamroll whoever is in your way to get it done. No one has any interest in making anything easy for you. This would seem to include little things we take for granted on the west coast like cleaning an apartment before turning it over to new tenants, changing the locks, checking the water pressure, etc. We got to our new apartment and it had been painted. That's it. So the dirt and dust and grime was just mixed in with paint chips. The kitchen cupboards were thick with grease residue from, I'm guessing, 1995. The oven had clearly never been cleaned. And the refrigerator may have been used for science projects involving the growth of alien flora. Some of it remained.
Our movers arrived with all 100 boxes of furniture and items from our previous apartment that was double the size of our new one. We scrambled to arrange boxes in a way that would allow some bodily movement. We managed to fit our king size bed in our queen size bedroom. And we commenced cleaning. I think I speak for both of us when I say we have never worked so hard to make a place nice, but the payoff has been great. After about three days of scrubbing, scouring, dusting, vacuuming, swiffering, unboxing, organizing and making umpteen trips across the street to the Goodwill store, we had a little apartment to enjoy. It is a small one-bedroom. In fact, it's not even a true one-bedroom. It is actually a large studio that has been separated with a fake wall. But it works for us. And the terrace is the best part! I am sitting on it currently! We have our coffee, breakfast, happy hour, recreational drugs (just kidding, Ma!) all out here as we peek over the side and people-watch. I am so tempted to yell out "YOU! The cute one. You come up. The rest of you keep walking!"
If we walk two blocks west, we are at Riverside Park which is my favorite. Not only is it a huge beautiful green space, but there are multiple dog runs AND before 9:00 am, the whole 79th to 86th St portion is off-leash. This makes Godzilla very happy. Two blocks to the east is the Museum of Natural History where there is also a lovely surrounding park including a dog run. Just on the other side of the museum is Central Park West. Directly below us is an incredible coffee shop called Irving Farm which has quickly replaced Lovejoy Bakers as our favorite go-to for coffee, goodies and lunch. We have three-yes, three-laundry/dry cleaners right out our front door. We have an animal hospital, the aforementioned Goodwill and a historic Irish pub across the street. And we have myriad restaurants and markets mere steps away. The subway is ON OUR STREET which is going to be very nice come winter. It's literally less than 100 feet away. When I told Mom about our new apartment her first concern was "Is there a grocery store nearby?" I think at some point somebody (it might have been me) told my mom there are no supermarkets in New York City because this is always her first question. Well, Mom, hold your hats and hallelujah-YES! Fairway Market is the world's greatest grocery store, and it is four blocks away! And if I ever don't want to go that far, there's a Westside Market two blocks away.
While we don't have the amazing luxury building we had in Portland, we have managed to replicate a lot of what we loved about being there, such as the restaurants, the walkability, the park space and, most importantly, the proximity to everything. We are kind of smack dab in the heart of the city, BUT not mid-town which would probably be much noisier and busier. But from where we sit, it is so easy to get anywhere, and we have a nice central home that I hope will also be home (until 11:00 pm, of course) to our friends because it's easy to get to from anywhere else.
All of this to say, we are doing very well and happily settling in to our new digs. We can't wait to show it off so please make a visit to see us here!*
Oh, also, any and all invitations for complimentary seating at Broadway shows will be entertained.

*"seeing us" does not mean "staying with us." We love you, but we have less than 500 sq ft. Get a freakin' hotel.** Come over for happy hour.

**Unless your name is Mom. You gave us life. The couch is always here for you.