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.

I'm Transitioning

HA! I knew that would get your attention!
I guess I'm going to have to change the name of this blog now that I am Normino in New York City. Or Normino in Brooklyn. Or, more specifically, Normino in BedStuy, if you want to be specific. Although we don't intend to be in BedStuy very long, so no use changing the name just yet.
I arrived at 5:58 am yesterday morning to our sublet after having instructed my cabbie how to get here (to a place I had never been). There are some things about getting older that I do appreciate. The fact that I take charge more than I used to and don't always just allow others to take the reins. My cabbie seemed to have no idea how to get to my sublet. I had to GPS it for him on my phone; and, even then, he almost exited the expressway too early and I had to tell him "Next one!" before he did. I was vigilant, and, consequently, had a very cheap ride from JFK. He also drove like a Buenos Aires cab driver so I saw my life flash a few times.
In a very short time, I arrived here-->

The one on the left.

I have never lived in a brownstone, so it's pretty cool. We are renting the garden apartment which is the one on the street level. The first floor would be up the steps. Oftentimes, the steps (or "the stoop" for us locals) are used for sitting, visiting with friends or, on occasion, asking passersby to zip you up, as one lady did to Tommy when he was walking Godzilla).
We enter using the iron gate here under the stoop-->

Then we walk through a hallway and enter our private apartment. We have a pretty bomb kitchen-->

And, the piece de resistance-->

Our own private patio and garden. Godzilla is finally using the garden to poop. It took him a while because I think he thought the garden was still part of the house and he had to wait for a walk to go potty. He's so sophisticated. He also likes to go insane whenever squirrels are running across the telephone wires from tree to tree.
So we are pretty fortunate to have a nice place to call home until we find a more permanent place to call home. Tommy found this pad. Nice work, babe!
Backing up a bit, prior to arriving in NY yesterday, I was in Portland, staying in a borrowed condo, performing in The Music Man at the Broadway Rose. It was a great show, and I am glad I got to be a part of it. During that time, I occupied my days eating and drinking my way through Portland and seeing friends before the big move. By my last day there, I felt ready. I had said my goodbyes, consumed entirely more calories than was healthy, and I had even sold my little Ford Escort that has been with me for NINE years!
The flight to NY was a bit bumpy, thanks to some storms happening in the northern states. Every time the plane hit a pocket, my heart would race and I'd stop breathing. This happened quite a bit so it wasn't a very restful flight. But the pilots were sober ( I assume), and we landed safely in NY where I got in the cab and told the guy where to go.
Yesterday, Tommy went into the city (that means Manhattan for you Westerners!) to see some clients, and I explored a little locally. We are four blocks from the C line of the subway which goes all the way from Washington Heights, down through Manhattan, into Brooklyn and almost to JFK. That's a long way. I took it just a few stops to go to Office Max which I discovered is right across the street from Barclays Center, a huge venue that hosts the New York Nets along with various other events. I thought, since it's so close, I would get us tickets for an upcoming event. The two things happening this month are Katy Perry and Cirque du Soleil with minimum ticket prices of $179.50 and $200 respectively, so that's not happening. I never thought I'd say this, but it's cheaper to see a Broadway show!
For dinner, Tommy took us to a FABULOUS place around the corner called Saraghina which made me feel right at home as it is fancy pizza and other delicious dishes, along with creative cocktails, all served up by handsome men. It reminded me of our first night in Portland at Caffe Mingo. We also paid a visit to our local pet food store which is also right around the corner, called "Who's Your Doggie?". The woman running it was very nice, and we were able to stock up on food and treats for G. I have to say that all of the people with whom our paths have crossed have been very pleasant. This is a nice neighborhood. While it isn't quite as walkable as The Pearl, it also is not full of tweakers and crazy homeless people. And when the people you meet on the street talk to you, they actually seem civil and intelligent as opposed to, say, high on meth. So there's that.
Today, Tommy has several appointments in Manhattan, so it's just me and G hanging out. Of course I want to get out and explore, but I am lying low because I somehow injured my left foot last weekend (I'm sure it was the Shipoopi which should really only be performed by excellent trained dancers), and yesterday it kept flaring up while I was gallivanting. So, today, I am keeping it elevated and occasionally iced while drinking coffee and reading Jonathan Tropper's This Is Where I Leave You. I like his writing. It reminds me of how I think I would write if I wrote and could get it published. Just like Colin Firth reminds me of how I think I could act if I could act and be in the movies. And was British. And stunningly handsome.
Speaking of acting--Yes, I still plan on doing so, to the extent I can in this city of a billion actors. There are scads of auditions happening every day it seems. I would love to be attending some today, but I think it best to take care of my body first. It is, after all, a temple. So that's my boring story today. But I figure I will not be bored for long in this incredible city. I do miss Portland already. We have an amazing network of friends there, and it's an incredible place; but we always wanted to have the NY adventure, and I am excited that we have the chance to do it.
I will try to be more diligent about blogging than I was in Portland. But we'll see. You know how it goes. Life, stuff, I lack self-discipline.
Oh, I almost forgot-the weather here. It was quite warm yesterday. I think it topped out at 89 degrees and probably 89% humidity. As the local weatherman stated, it was a "high discomfort day." But then we got some rain last night into this morning, and today it is just lovely. A little cloud cover and a cool breeze. I am sure it will remain just like this until fall.

Goodbye to Pdx

Five years ago, I started this blog to keep track of my Portland adventures for myself and for those interested in following along. I failed. Staying busy and a lack of discipline thwarted my goal.

Now, here I am, five years later, in a bit of an emotional stupor about saying goodbye. Pardon me while I cry into my beer (a local IPA, of course!). 

Tommy and I have gone back and forth for years about moving to New York. He has lived there twice, but years ago when he was a much younger and different person. I have been there many times but have never lived there. We have always wanted to have the experience together, whether for one year or five years or twenty years. We always said we'd do it if one of us had an opportunity to take a job out there that would facilitate us moving. Well, that happened. Tommy has been hired as a client relations manager for Urban Electric Company. He will basically be the front man to their New York area clients, calling on them, making sure they are happy with the products and services they are receiving, probably referring new customers to the company. He will be doing a lot of chatting and schmoozing and entertaining. So, basically, being Tommy. Many people have asked what I will be doing. Well, as little as possible. I plan to be a man of leisure, lunch a lot, and by "lunch" I mean liquid lunch. No, actually, I will be pursuing the dream so many of us have pursued in NY. I will be auditioning, trying to market myself, network, taking classes, the whole New York thing. Is it a little weird and scary to be doing this at my age? HELL, YES! But that fear and that absurdity is kind of what is motivating me to do it. I'm not collecting social security just yet. I'm not infirm. I don't have any overwhelming desire to settle down and buy a home and nest. So why not now? Five years from now, I might feel differently; but right now I'm game. So my hope is that everyone who knows and loves us will just send us all the positive energy they can, as they always have. It's an interesting situation because there is absolutely no reason to leave this beautiful city; but there is absolutely no reason to not take advantage of this opportunity and have this new adventure either. When people ask me what MY plan is, I sense (and this is probably my own insecurity) that they wonder if I have doubts or fears. Do I have a backup plan? What are my expectations? Well, I haven't got any, other than my expectation of myself to support my partner in his new role, to make a home for us and to channel my own talent and ambition into navigating this new world. No one ever knows how NY is going to treat them until they get there. I plan to go in with an open mind (and probably get the proverbial shit kicked out of me) and just enjoy the ride, rough though it may be.

I am very glad to state that we already have an incredible support network in NY, so we will never feel alone. I'm thankful to be moving to a city where I already know so many amazing people. Of course, what hurts right now is what we are leaving behind.

I knew when we visited this amazing city in March 2009, there was something very special about it. And that truth was emphasized time and time again, as we settled into our new apartment and got to know our neighborhood, as we became employed, as we started scoping out the theater scene and as we started making new friends.

It's funny-and I don't mean to minimize the friendships I have back home in So Cal-but when we left Long Beach for Portland, I was ready! I was ready to leave our little 575 sq ft apartment in which I'd resided for twelve years. I was ready to donate all of our furniture. I even gladly said goodbye to 24 cabinets of VHS movies! While I knew I would miss my friends and family, I was ready for a change and eager to live somewhere new. How ironic that we'll be lucky to get 575 sq ft in NY.

Five years later, it's harder. And when I look around at our Portland family and our apartment (huge by NY standards), I have to fight this little depression that's trying to get me. I went to Powell's today to sell a ton of books. When the employee asked if I wanted cash or store credit, I felt a lump in my throat, knowing there was no reason for store credit.

When a friend came over to take our media storage unit off our hands, the one I never thought was anything special, I felt a little melancholy saying goodbye to the little pieces of our home that made it home. This evening, I walked down to Laughing Planet for a bite to eat, most of which is locally sourced food, and I read the Portland Mercury and laughed and thought about how I will miss this ease of life, the quirky Portland sense of humor, the pride we all have in our food and beer and wine and coffee, the wonderful walkability of this city, the many pockets we have explored and have yet to explore.

Last night, we went to a small theater just a few blocks away and saw some friends in a truly impressive show and then met some other friends around the corner for cocktails. How special that we can do that without leaving our own neighborhood!

I know we are moving to what some would call the best city in the world. We will have no shortage of fine cuisine, fun nights out, theater, culture; but I will miss what we have in Portland. I will miss the parties with our amazing circle of friends. I will miss having these people close and being able to see them frequently. I will miss the kooky sensibilities of Portlanders and their pride and wacky humor. I will miss the Living Room Theater where I can see an indie or a documentary or foreign film for $5 on a Monday or Tuesday and have a cocktail and dinner brought to my reserved seat in the screening room. I will miss going to virtually any movie theater and being able to get an IPA or a glass of wine and something to eat besides popcorn and milk duds.

I will miss Live Wire Radio which I only just discovered! I will certainly miss having 850 sq ft for less than $3000 a month.

Of course, there are a few things I will not miss. Cyclists who seemingly own the road, yet are not subject to its rules. Meth heads and transients who troll our local parks at night and harass people who are JUST TRYING TO WALK THEIR DAMN DOG! Oregon drivers.

But the few things that annoy me from time to time pale next to the myriad things I will miss.

I never blogged about all of the incredible things we did here. The hikes along the Gorge, sailing in the Columbia with friends, visiting the San Juan Islands, attending the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, our trips to the breathtaking Oregon coast, Sunriver with my team from work, wine tasting through the local valley with good friends. But we barely scratched the surface of all the amazing things there are to do and see here. I can't believe five years has come and gone. Five years! Wasn't it yesterday that we met our little Godzilla at the Oregon Humane Society and kept him in a crate down in the men's dressing room while performing Sweet Charity with a group of new awesome friends?

My time can't be up here because there are still a slew of restaurants I haven't tried! There's beaches I haven't checked out yet. Crater Lake! We never got there. I could live here the rest of my life and never be bored and never run out of new adventures.

I will miss it so much. And I will miss our Portland friends too much for words. I am so thankful for the last five years and how fortunate we have been. This is really going to hurt. I miss you already, Portland!

Dining at The Willows Inn on Lummi Island

We've been wanting to visit The Willows Inn since Blaine Wetzel took over as head chef three years ago. The Willows has been serving farm-to-table meals to guests for over 100 years. In 2010, Chef Blaine returned to his home state (he hails from Olympia, WA) after a couple years cheffing abroad (most auspiciously at Noma, the critically acclaimed restaurant in Copenhagen) and chose The Willows as his new home kitchen. And thank God for all of us living in the PNW that he did. I have never had a more beautifully prepared meal anywhere in the world, and I got to experience this in my own backyard! And Blaine is just one of several chefs that creates the magic in this idyllic haven. BTW, our room was actually called The Haven, and it is an accurate moniker.
Arriving at Lummi Island is where the fun begins. We took the 5 up to Bellingham and then cut across to the Lummi Island ferry which comes every twenty minutes all day and takes about six minutes to cross. Fortunately, we had nothing but gorgeous weather the whole three days we were gallivanting from island to island. The Willows Inn sits on the northwest corner of the island and afforded us a glorious sunset. Upon arrival, we were greeted by Vanessa who offered us some fresh hot cider ("Now, just so you know, it does have a little brandy and Cointreau in it." "We'll take doubles, thank you.").
After checking in, we got settled and shared a nice hot bath in our spacious tub with some bath salts provided by the local spa. We walked down to the beach and listened to the surf and walked across the rocks and took silly pictures and then got ready for dinner. It was time to get down to business.
Before dinner, there is a little bar in the main house, right between the living room and the kitchen, called Taft's. Our original plan was to NOT drink before dinner so we wouldn't get drunk and forget what we ate. But dinner wasn't until 6:30, and it was only 5:45, so...
Tommy refrained by just ordering a glass of blanc-to-blanc. I had to try the Reefnetter, and I'm so glad I did. It was bourbon and benedictine mixed with a simple syrup they make by infusing toasted birch branches from their birch tree! It was ridiculously good. They also brought us two delicious oysters which were served on this cool wooden box atop ice cold beach rocks. This was a style we would see repeated a few times. The young ladies tending bar were about as sweet as could be and both were actual Lummi Island natives. Tommy asked if they attended school on the island, to which one of them replied "Only through 6th grade." "Then what?", we asked. "Oh, then we just dropped out." She quickly laughed and explained that they attended high school in Ferndale and had to catch the 7:20 am ferry every morning and then take a bus to school.
At 6:30 pm, the kitchen staff began seating. It's a nice intimate space, maybe ten tables. From the moment you are seated, you are never left unattended. If we got up to use the restroom, there was someone there folding our napkin. For us, that's probably not so great since we are moderation-challenged. The half-bottle of Viognier we were served, for example, was gone in about twenty minutes, and they had to bring us more. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
With dinner, you have your choice of wine pairings or juice pairings. Our plan was for Tommy to get the wine and me to get the juice, but that didn't work out. We both ended up doing the wine pairings because they just looked too interesting. The juice pairings looked interesting too, if I was twelve or allergic to alcohol.
To start, they served us an Eaglemount semi-sweet hard apple cider from Port Townsend, WA. It was a lovely palate cleanser and complemented the first few dishes very well. And here is where the snacks begin. Samish Bay mussels, crispy crepe with salmon roe, crispy halibut skin and, my favorite, crispy kale leaves with black truffle and rye! I wanted to raid the kitchen and find where they stash the kale and truffles.
As dinner officially began, they served us a 2011 Maurice Cellars Viognier from Walla Walla, WA. It was a perfect choice to accompany the next few courses which included tiny new potatoes in buttermilk and whey, venison tartare with wild sorrel and rye (the venison may have brought tears to my eyes because-A. It was amazing melt-in-your-mouth heavenly goodness and B. We may have seen the deer grazing while driving to the inn), grilled shiitake and yellowfoot chanterelles, weathervane scallops with parsley and dill, and grilled sunchokes with sweet onion sauce.
Each of these dishes are presented beautifully. The chefs have mastered the art of pairing incredible flavors and doing it in the most creative fashion. Throughout the meal, each of them comes out to serve each table at some point and chat with the guests. They were all charming and interesting and told us about how they each have their own projects they work on throughout the week. One of them is a hunter, one specializes in foraging (that's right), etc. They are all culinary artists, and the dishes they create are results of numerous attempts and fails.
For the next few courses, we switched to a Pike Brewing Space Needle Golden IPA which is freakin' brilliant! With it, we enjoyed smoked sockeye salmon and black cod (their smoker is right outside the inn and you can smell them grilling and smoking for hours leading up to dinner), hearth bread with pan drippings and butter (again, I'm crying and shaking the table; and this time in a wooden box atop red hot beach rocks), caraflex cabbage roasted with lemon balm, wild seaweeds braised with Dungeness crab and brown butter, and quite possibly the best ever dry aged duck with dried beets and lingonberries.
At some point in there, we switched over to a 2011 Cameron Arley's Leap pinot noir from Dundee. Yay, Dundee! It was excellent, but we were definitely slowing down by that point.
Finally, we were poured a 2010 Brian Carter 'Opulento' dessert wine, very red and very sweet, from Yakima Valley. It was like drinking candy from heaven. With it, we were served the loveliest quince granita (from their quince tree right out front) with a yogurt mousse, a dish of chestnut and hazelnut creams and little salty caramel flax bites.
Throughout the whole meal, we never once felt rushed, we never felt too attended. The staff were very warm and all great conversationalists, ready to answer any and all questions and also genuinely interested in hearing about us (and you all know how we love talking about us). Each course was presented like a fine piece of music that demanded total attention and focus. And I'm sure it reads like we were inundated with food, but the portions were actually all quite small and manageable.
When the bill comes, we think "we can pay this bill OR adopt a child from Nigeria." But, ultimately, we pay it because what we paid for was an amazing experience-food as art. This was a celebration of good food and the bounty with which we are blessed. And, for these two foodies from Portland (by way of Orange County and Tucson), it was a celebration we will remember and savor for the rest of our lives.

PDX Kids Are All Right

Thank GOD my boyfriend is a social butterfly and actually pays attention to what is going on in town because it was due to his recommendation that I saw Ablaze at Brunish Hall last night. Billed as an a capella musical thriller, and starring a bevy of young young actors, I went in with a great deal of curiosity and perhaps just a little cynicism. I came out a convert.
Not only is Matthew B. Zrebski's composition thrilling and exciting, the execution of it is mind-blowing. Every single actor is gripping and engaged from start to finish. These are professionals with talent to spare. The staging is brilliantly choreographed by Jessica Wallenfels, and Eric Nordin handles the music, so I think it's fair to say that you can't find a stronger more gifted team. And I have to give a shout-out to Erin Shannon who assisted Jessica, and those of us who have worked with Erin know that she is a mighty force of talent and creativity herself.
There was not one boring moment in this show for me. In fact, there were several moments I stopped breathing or my heart stopped. At my age, of course, that could be dangerous, but I was too enthralled to be scared. I know that not everyone will have the exact same experience as I did, but EVERYONE owes it to themselves to see this show. I couldn't just write a brief post because it affected me too much.
Ablaze is a thriller, it's a horror story, it's a psychological drama. It is not a teenage story of angst which, as most of you know, would make me angry. I do not like young people demanding more attention than I. I suggest you go with someone (or sit next to someone) you feel comfortable grabbing because there are shocking and frightening moments. And sometimes the performances are so heartfelt and so good you just need someone to grab and say "Are these kids for real?!"
And that brings me to my one main point. I did not intend to sit here and write a review. We have professionals for that. What I really wanted to say is that the greatest thrill for me in watching this show was the realization that these kids are the future of theater! I think we could all say that we have attended professional theatre wherein seasoned veteran actors have not even been able to save the show from being boring or static or uninspiring. What Ablaze gives us is the next generation (and they are a THRILLING generation) of talented performers showing us what we have to look forward to.  I am so proud to call these actors my neighbors and peers. If Ablaze was not on your radar, I strongly suggest you put it there and schedule a time to see it within the next two weeks. Whatever effect it has on you, you will be thrilled to get a preview of what our next generation of amazing talent has to offer.

Precious Wasted Time

I have a confession to make. Well, now I have two. Number one, I am using what is probably one of the most commonly used opening lines ever, and I feel guilty about it.
Secondly, I like commercials. I do. Unashamedly. When I watch a recorded TV show, I do NOT fast forward through the commercials. I sometimes find the commercials more entertaining than the show I am watching. I love watching my fellow actors hawk the latest cold medicine or bed mattress. Sometimes, their performance is funny. Sometimes it's sexy. Sometimes it's ridiculous and makes me laugh at how stupid it is.
I like the teasers from the news networks. I like to see what their top story is that I am going to have to wait through the entire hour of their broadcast to see.
I love trailers for movies! Love them! Even if I have seen the trailer a dozen times. I love the previews of other TV shows that I may have never seen and know nothing about.
What I love most though is the sense memory I feel during a commercial break. I remember Dad saying it's time to dish up Rocky Road ice cream or banana splits, or Mom running into the kitchen to pull brownies or fudge out of the oven. I remember my siblings racing to use the bathroom. I remember frantically answering a question on my homework assignment.
I guess those interruptions awaken my inner child. I do occasionally fast forward through them if I have limited time or I'm crazy excited to get back into the plot of the show. But, usually, I enjoy the break and all the memories and amusement that come with it.

A Call For Compassion

So you are not a drug addict. Good for you! Neither am I. We are united in that holier-than-thou circle of straight (so-to-speak), sober and intelligent people. We are so good. How fortunate we are that we do not suffer from such crippling insecurities and external pressures that we succumb to drugs and alcohol.
Does this mean we can't have compassion for those who do? Does this mean when a legend dies we should gloat? "They chose their life."
Good for you. You've expressed yourself. You are now even more superior to the junkies.

When I was a teenager, Whitney Houston entranced me. She was the voice of my generation. I would sit in my car and belt out her songs, trying to match her inflections and, believe it or not, pitches. I wouldn't try that today. Last weekend, upon hearing of her death, I tuned Pandora to the Whitney station and sang along to "Where Do Broken Hearts Go", "How Will I Know" and, the one that made me fall in love, "Savin' All My Love For You." I couldn't believe I still remember all those songs so well. I never bother to learn lyrics to pop music anymore. That's a testament to the power of that music.
Yes, I know there are thousands upon thousands of people suffering from drug and alcohol addiction. And, sadly, many die every day. That doesn't make this any less sad. It truly hurts my heart when I read callous comments about Whitney's death as if she deserved to die. Nobody knows what she endured in her life but her. I can imagine that she had a pretty difficult time considering she was thrust into celebrity at 18 years old, and I seriously doubt that anyone in her life was concerned with her physical and emotional strength. She was a commodity and was worked as such. I don't know how that feels. In all my dreams of celebrity, I have never been able to truly relate to that feeling (although my imagination runs wild with it).
I mourn her loss not because of her celebrity status but because I grew up with her music. Her talent was inimitable. No one came close. No, we are not related. I never even met her, but that feeling of kinship is still there. As a performer, I know that we all dream of being able to make a life using our talent. Most of us will never see that become as lucrative a reality as we dream. But imagine if you could. We are all human, and we all have our limits. How would we deal with being a marketing machine day and night, having it not just be a recreation but a requirement to socialize, to schmooze, to promote ourselves on very little sleep and probably no companionship or moral support? I know that would be a struggle for me. And then imagine hooking up with a person who is even needier and more messed up than you!
We have all made decisions that we regret, and we usually learn from those experiences and try to move ahead in a more positive, productive way. But some people are on such a fast track they never get back ON track.
I am sorry that junkies die every day. I am sorry that there are hundreds of homeless, sick and addicted people all over Portland that have nothing. But this person touched me. This person's voice was with me for thirty years of my life. So the loss of this person is extra sad.
I feel sad for people who cannot express compassion when a famous life is lost. Why not? Why shouldn't we? Because they had fame and fortune and blew it? So that makes it less of a loss. So we better ourselves by judging them and their choices? And that improves the situation?
How would you feel if you had a brother, sister or kid who battled drug addiction for thirty years and, when they died, people posted comments like "Well, they chose that life. They had it coming." Really? Even if you agree with that, do you want to read it? Does it make you feel better about their passing? Does it justify negative comments about them after they're gone? Not to me it doesn't. Anyone who knows me knows my love for inappropriate comments. I can verbally bash with the best of 'em. I love to hate on Gwyneth. Do I truly hate Gwyneth? Of course not. Does she deserve to be bashed? Well, maybe. But if she died eating Mario Batali's cooking, I wouldn't say "Well, she died as she lived." There's no need to be callous. It doesn't accomplish anything. It won't discourage your Facebook friends from following in the dead person's footsteps. No one is looking to you for words of judgment. God is not impressed by your level of critical thinking and moral superiority. In fact, no one is.
This Valentines Day, my wish is that people will think before reacting dispassionately to a celebrity's death. Can we try not to be jealous of what they had and gloat in what was wasted during their life? Can we just mourn the loss, and even mourn the loss they experienced when they lived?
Whitney Houston was far from perfect. So are you. Any life lost through drugs and alcohol is a waste. So it is a waste to not appreciate what that life gave us when it was here on earth.

Normino in Copenhagen

Not a cloud in the sky. Det Kongelit Theatre to my left, the impressive new opera house across the canal, the gateway to Nyhavn behind me, I am looking across the water at the gold-spired churchtop in Christianshavn. The sun is shining on my face and glistening on the water. The city is quiet, not at all as it will be in another hour or two. Days ago, my sleeplessness and the cold and the wind and the rain and the noise and the crowds got me down. Down to where I briefly forgot what a blessing this is. But last night, walking back through Nyhavn with my handsome partner at 10:00 pm in the sunshine with two young lovers in their 70s walking hand-in-hand ahead of us, I remembered. As our Danish mother stopped to point out each and every memory, as she stopped to gaze in wonder at how her city has grown and changed, as I watched her eyes shine with love for her home and pride in showing it off, my cold heart melted. This is the romantic city of which I read. This is the historic home of castles and canals and colorful rowhouses and kings and queens and parks where the natives strip themselves in front of the warm glowing sun as soon as they get the chance. This is the small proud country where, despite the growing need to teach their children English, they continue to speak their historic and beautiful native language, the language of Vikings and of royalty, a language older than the country I call home. This is a place of stunning green countrysides, ancient fortresses where brave countrymen guarded their prized land and charming ancient fishing villages where the locals continue to shop for the best herring, salmon, eel, plaice and all the bounty the Oresund provides.
The crowds in the Stroget can be exasperating, the weather unpredictable and the prices wallet-busting; but, at this special moment, there is no crowd, no inclement weather, no cost to sit and watch the sun's rays dance on the water, the little mallard sleeping next to me with its beak nestled in its wing, listen to the chirpsong of the gulls and jays, feel the sun's warmth on my neck, sip my morning coffee and appreciate this romantic beautiful city I am blessed to visit.
Copenhagen, I love your spirit, your sass and your smorrebrod. I love the Louisiana and your appreciation for all things artistic. I love your fighting spirit when your team plays the World Cup and your determination to keep the party going long after the losing play.
Tak for alt, CPH.

Normino in Amsterdam

Surprise, everyone! I am not sick! I have not visited a hospital yet, suffered food poisoning, had an emergency root canal. No major injuries or illnesses. Nothing other than feeling ugly. If you have spent any time in Amsterdam, you may understand what I mean. Are there any unattractive Dutch people? We feel it is inappropriate for the beautiful Dutch to flaunt their loveliness shamelessly in our faces. The coup de grace was the construction workers conveniently situated across the canal from where we had lunch our last day in town. It was like a Pepsi commercial. I kept expecting one of them to pause, wipe their brow and open up a cool one and start drinking.
Anyway, I am not starting at the very beginning, and that is a very good place to start. Our trip began in Portland when our taxi picked us up, we zoomed off for our adventure and promptly had a flat tire before getting on the freeway. I thought "Well, why not? Why wait to be overseas before the mishaps begin?" Fortunately, our cabbie was very fast at replacing the flat tire with a spare from his trunk. As he was at least 65 and panting like he was having a heart attack, I felt bad for him; but not bad enough to offer assistance. I can't be getting dirty right before an international flight.
Eventually, after a 4 hour flight to Dallas, a 9 hour to London, 4 hours sitting in Heathrow, a 90 minute to Amsterdam and a terrifyingly fast taxi trip, we arrived.
The Hotel Wiechmann is a charming B and B sitting right on the west bank of the Prinsengracht canal. Our window overlooked the canal and made for great people-watching. It really is an addictive pastime in Amsterdam. The cyclists alone are thrillingto observe. Do not mistake this for exaggeration when I say that we would see a man dressed for work with a child in the front basket, a child straddling behind him, a coffee and cigarette in one hand, a cellphone between his ear and shoulder, one hand on the handlebars, and he would be flying down the street. Along with him were numerous others, all racing to get to work, school, synagogue and who knows where else.
One morning, T and I rented bicycles and rode to Westerpark. At one point, riding beside Tommy, I hear a bell jingle and a voice say "Hallo!" and there behind me is a woman of at least 60 years in a dress and heels impatiently on my back tire trying to pass. I quickly slowed and got behind Tommy and she sped past me. We stayed single file thereafter.
And the cyclists are hard-core in Amsterdam. Woe is the pedestrian out for a leisurely stroll who happens to walk anywhere but on the 1-foot-wide pedestrian sidewalk. They will be clipped by a truck or run over by a raging cyclist. Fortunately, the Amsterdammits have no qualms about yelling at pedestrians with their loud commanding frightening voices.
Anywho, aside from being scared into submission by the locals, highlights included the Anne Frank Huis which was amazing. So brilliantly put together with an interactive installation at the end which gives visitors a chance to weigh in on more recent events targeting certain ethnic or cultural groups.
The Rijksmuseum is currently under renovation, but they have assembled a "greatest hits" wing which is quite complete on its own. We should have stopped there, but we tried to conquer Van Gogh on the same day. At a certain point, my brain just refuses to accept more information. I quickly grew annoyed with my audio tour at Van Gogh and started just sprinting through the rooms trying to find the exit. Those museums are not easy to navigate quickly especially when other visitors are trying to stroll or, worse yet, STAND and view the works. I may have seemed callous when I knocked that 9-yr-old girl over, but after reading about a man depressed and crazy enough to chop off his own ear, I am sure she has other scars to deal with. Thanks, Mom and Dad.
Well, I better sign off for now. It is 7:40 am here in Copenhagen (yes, I am a little behind on this update), and Tommy is sure to be awake soon and ready for some wienerbrod. It's Danish, people!
I will post again later when I actually have something to say. Oh, who am I kidding? I rarely have anything real to say. I will rant some more soon.

Did You See Today?

Lora Ethylene Wilson died March 2, 2010 at 84 years of age leaving behind five children, six grandchildren, five great-grandchildren and numerous nieces, nephews and friends. Her body and spirit, until January 6th of this year, was more like that of a woman half her age. Throughout my life, she inspired and impressed me in many ways at many times.

My first memories of Aunt Ethylene go way back to my childhood. Growing up in Garden Grove, California, my favorite times were those when the aunts, uncles and cousins would come over to our house for holiday dinners and open houses. We had some of the most fun, witty and interesting aunts and uncles. Aunts Ethylene and Dolores were two of my faves. Both outspoken, boisterous, loud and unafraid to speak their minds, they would keep my siblings and I laughing for days after seeing them.

The first time I played Uno was sitting at our kitchen table with my older sisters, Mom, Dad, Uncles Dick and Earl and their respective wives, Dolores and Ethylene. I won, but I am pretty sure I was allowed to win. Even so, I was teased endlessly by everyone for having beginner's luck. I was teased a lot as a child, but I was also very loved and even coddled by my aunts and uncles. I was always so excited when they would come to visit.

Early on, we lost Uncle Dick, Uncle Earl and Aunt Dolores; but Aunt E lived through it all. She did more than live; she loved life and embraced each day. She loved her family, and she doted on me, even well into my adulthood. She enjoyed her home and her garden, and she was a consummate hostess, always ready to entertain.

When I became involved in theater, she was right there with Mom to support me at every show, always commenting that she "couldn't see anything better on Broadway." I knew full well that was not always true, but it thrilled me that she thought so highly of my work. Her voice always made me smile. She had this kind of gruff, but still feminine, voice with a hint of her Virginia heritage behind it. Her southern sensibilities were always there beneath the Southern California woman she had become.

At times over the last decade or so, I have thought about the day she would leave us. I never thought about it very long because it was too sad and too unimaginable that this amazing woman would ever not be here. But on January 6 of this year, she was involved in a fatal car accident. Her son, Barry, and his wife Barbara, were taking her back east to their home in Florida, after a wonderful Christmas she spent at her home in Orange County with her whole family. Something happened--none of us know what--and Barry lost control of the car. He was killed, as was their dog, and Barbara and Aunt E were left in crirical condition. Later, we found out that Aunt E had actually been found dead on the scene and was resuscitated.

The last two months have been an ordeal for her and for her family. She has gone from critical condition to recovery and back again more than once. This last time going back into CCU was it for her. She had taken all she could take.

Come to find out, Aunt E had stated in her will that she did not want to be resuscitated. No surprise really. She was one of the strongest women I have known and certainly never one to be weak or needing of assistance from others. Once when she was sick, her son told her she should lie down for a while, and she replied "I've been lying down all night. I can't lie down anymore."

One of my favorite memories of Aunt Ethylene was when she and my mom came to see a show of mine on a night that happened to be Gay and Lesbian Night at the theater. I swear, I didn't plan it. At one point while people were being seated, in full voice because that was the only voice Aunt E used, she said to my mother "Well, it must be husbands' night out. All the men have left their wives at home."

Her style was always direct and confident and smart. One time discussing death, she told my mom she wanted to be cremated. My mother staunchly opposes cremation and told her so to which she replied "Well, have you ever considered what happens to your body after it's buried?"

She always had a smart response because she was a smart lady.

Since January 1, we have had mostly warm sunny days and very little rain here in Portland. Ironic when you consider we moved up her to experience "weather", and, since we moved, So Cal has had more rain than we have. Anyway, in recent months I find myself asking Tommy "Did you see today?" with a wonder in my voice. This is a result of the beauty I have been noticing that I failed to notice in the past. I see the sun shining on the river and the flowers in bloom. I see the opportunity we have and the bounty with which we have been blessed since we moved. I see the gift of friendship in the people with whom I work. The traits and nuances of each cast member with whom I perform and each banker with whom I spend my days and the ways they color my life. And I feel very blessed and fortunate to have this love and laughter and energy around me. And I find myself saying this phrase "Did you see today? Wasn't it beautiful?" I find myself bragging to Tommy about how talented my fellow actors are, how nice my co-workers are, how rewarding my job is. And recently, I wondered where did this phrase come from?

Last night, my sister called to tell me of Aunt E's passing, and this morning I woke up with the realization that it came from her. She is the origin of that question. She saw every day. Her appreciation of the world and life and the beauty and fun it brings is what inspires that question.

My Aunt Ethylene was one of a kind. A few weeks ago, I sent her a card to tell her I loved her and couldn't wait for her to recover and come see Portland. After sending it, I beat myself up over suggesting such a ridiculous thing. She was struggling to live, and I was telling her to plan a trip. The impetus came from my optimism, or, rather, my hope that she would be well. In retrospect, it was ridiculous and inappropriate. But my request may not have been in vain. I think she may be visiting after all. I think she may be passing by for just a moment to make sure I saw today. I did, Aunt E, and I love you very much.