Wednesday, March 26, 2008

STRIP SEARCH

After saying he would locate an experienced, reasonably priced back-up helper sometime this week, my "Polish brother" Handyman today brings in a Romanian stripper (WINDOW stripper) to do some detail work: Stripping, sanding, and restoring the beautiful old oak windows, room entry arches and some spotty hardwood floor areas which have been covered by wall-to-wall carpet for as many years as I've been in that house -- almost three decades.  

Having someone here to pick up the slack in that area allows Handyman to focus on bigger projects, like drywall, leveling the kitchen floor and carpentry repairs. A few minutes after he introduces the new guy to me, Handyman excuses himself to run to Home Depot to get some supplies. Window stripper rather looks like Bluto in the Popeye cartoons -- but grayer, meaner and more fierce. Blubbery Bluto wanted to bop Popeye; NeuBluto would bludgeon him.

NeuBluto sports a volcanic eruption of salt and pepper hair and a furrowed unibrow that starts at each temple (and probably wraps around his entire scalp) and ends at his nose, forming an bushy exclamation point. His bulbous, splotchy nose suggests a propensity for barrooms and barroom brawls. Despite his harrowing demeanor, Bluto is friendly and immediately gets to work, sanding the wood in the kitchen archway leading into the dining room.  

I'm seated at the kitchen table, maybe six feet away from him, my face buried in the computer. In less than five minutes, Bluto bleats, "I got a girlfriend.  She can't keep up with me, if you know what I mean." 

He winks, I cringe. 

"I'm divorced. Twice. I got three kids." He studies me. "The youngest one, the boy, is gay." He pauses. My fingers freeze on the keyboard.  

"I don't know how he turned out gay, my other two kids are straight. I'm straight." He clearly needed to make THAT point. "But it doesn't matter to me if my son is straight or gay.  He's my son and I love him. And I'd fight anyone who tried to make trouble for him."

At this point, I hit the "s" key 35 times without stopping.  I didn't know what to do.  He's sending me a message. But what do I DO with that?  Say something?  Is he fishing? Is it code for "I got a gay son,  I got YOUR number!" 

Then, I'm thinking, it's none of his business, I've known him five minutes, this isn't friendship, he's working for me and...uh-oh, he's gonna tell Handyman. And then what's to become of our "I'm your Polish brother" riff?  Our chatty lunches?  Our male bro' to bro' bonding? 

Will he spook and run?  Will it ruin our working relationship? 

I HAVE AN ENTIRE HOUSE TO REHAB AND WHAT IF HANDYMAN WALKS OUT NOW?

Mind you, at this moment, as Bluto takes a breath, I've played this out -- twice -- in my mind within twenty seconds. 

Just as I'm about to say something in response, Bluto shifts gears. "When I said I'd fight to protect my son if anyone gave him crap for being gay, I mean it. "

I smile.  I'm thinking, this rough-and-tough bulldog is a softie! 

Bluto scrapes the arch wood with even more vigor. "I'm not afraid of a fight, I can tell you that. In fact, I have to go to court next week.  I hit a guy with a baseball bat."

I winced at the visual. I could almost feel the air swirl as the bat grazed my forehead, as I stumble to find something suitable in response that won't get me hit with a bat.

"Uh, why did you hit the guy with a baseball bat?"

"I think he was gay and he was coming on to me."

Clearly, our 'gay son' bonding moment is over and I quietly close the laptop so Bluto can't see my multiple gay.com chatroom conversations. 

I say something idiotic, like, "It's really serious, hitting someone with a baseball bat."

"You got that right. It gets better! Turns out, the guy is a cop."

"I guess it you're going to hit anyone with a baseball bat, a cop would be the last person to do it to, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah, but how could I know? He wasn't wearing a uniform."

"Was he wearing anything?"

Bluto gives me a dirty look and I start dusting my computer top with my fist.

Bluto resumes scraping the wood. "It doesn't look good for me. But, you know, I'd do it again if I had the chance. It wasn't my fault. I was...provoked."

I don't think I had blinked for about five minutes at that point. I nervously looked at my watch, wanting Handyman to COME BACK NOW. He had only been gone twenty minutes. In the dead air of silence, it was just Bluto and myself. I think he heard my beads of sweat hit the computer. I jump up from my chair, asking him, "Would you like a beverage?"

I am NOT getting on this guy's bad side. I'll send a car and a driver for him the morning if that keeps him happy and bat-free in my direction. Better yet, I'll give him double his pay NOT to come back.

"Nah, thanks." He pauses, squinting his eyes. "You're not married, are you?"

I shake my head, no.  

"I didn't think so."

It's only 10:30AM.  





















Sunday, March 23, 2008

THE EX FACTOR

An unexpected package arrived in the mail...from my ex. He sent me a card and my pair of reading glasses (with case) which, he wrote, was found when foraging through luggage I borrowed from him some time ago. It was a nice gesture. I wasn't sure if it was a method of him resuming contact (on some level) since I left L.A. -- or simply that he was returning eyeglasses. I told you I'm great at fabricating drama. I'm also a master at creating subtext when none is there. Or, at least, not the script I'm working over and over in my mind.  

I've been so busy with the home renovation that I didn't respond via email for a few days; in the apex of our romance, I would have replied in five minutes. When I was agonizing over our break-up during much of last year, I would have waited 30 minutes, but likely would have spent half a day writing, rewriting, but finally deleting the email I sent to him (thank God we both have AOL to make THAT feature possible!). Undeterred, I'd start all over again...go from anger, to sentimental, to being pissed off to being contrite to overwriting (ME?) to cutting it down to one sentence. Another two hours spent writing to him saying we shouldn't write to each other.

This time, I delayed replying simply because I was so busy, it slipped my mind. Or I thought about getting back to him when I was driving or shopping or unpacking or packing...someplace where I'd have the thought and then just as quickly forget. I guess it means another step away from being caught up in a past relationship when you don't jump all over it and make it the center of your world...you write back, like a normal person, and say thanks. And that's it...

That said, a few days after I wrote him, I had a very ominous feeling that something was amiss, either with him or his aging, infirm parents. I emailed him and asked if all was OK and he wrote back, saying at the exact time I got a "hit" that he was in trouble, it was true - something had happened in his life and I was on the money about my premonition...and precisely when it happened. Just shows, no matter what...there is that connection between two people who once loved each other.

Funny how life works...I never would have thought in a million years -- more accurately, in the bloom of our relationship -- that I would migrate to Chicago, move into and rehab my mom's house...with my ex also in Chicago at the same time -- and for an added dash of irony, is staying with his current boyfriend...who, by chance, lives in Chicago. It's getting so inbred that I wouldn't be surprised if they rent the about-to-be-empty one-bedroom apartment next door to me. What could be more delightful? 

What matters is, my ex and I wish each other well, we have made peace with each other, admitted our mistakes and have peace in the shared awareness that we were right for each other at a certain time in our lives.  We said goodbye three different times in the last week I was in Los Angeles...the first time, we both cried; the second time, I blubbered; the third time, he sobbed. Sadness, regret, loss, yes...anger, resentment, blaming, no.

No matter how it ended, I'll remember the apple pie we baked, the Halloween pumpkin we carved, puddin' pies, many cozy nights watching episodes of the British '70's comedy series,"Two's Company" (complete with his dead-on "Stritchie"impression), the Sunday afternoon stroll on the beach in Malibu...and how he taught me how to love, and to be loved in return.


Monday, March 17, 2008

MY FIRST TIME

Friday afternoon was spent with Handyman on a jaunt to Home Depot -- my first time! The surreal aspect of all of this -- home rehabbing and learning about drywall and pony walls and pocket doors and 3 ton central a/c systems, 2x4's and and studs (OK, I knew about that last part) is becoming more and more real as I absorb it and, hopefully, learn, and increasingly grasp the words I once only parroted back and now am more and more understanding and absorbing -- connecting the dots -- as it all starts to make sense..as I start to see the whole..."the vision" as designer extraordinarre CB calls it...

Beware of being overcharged! As I felt like an astronaut stepping onto the surface of the moon for the first time, that was my foray into Home Depot. If it wasn't for protective Handyman -- who scanned the receipt and checked off the purchases of lumber, 2x4's et al, I would have been screwed aka overcharged $150! The clerk ran up double the amount of 2x4's we actually had and charged me for "birch" which was not anywhere NEAR my cart.  That was my first lesson. Don't let shell-shock stop you from looking at your receipt.  HD reversed the charges, but still.

Handyman is pushing this huge open cart -- a shopping cart on steroids -- to fit plywood and lumber to build up the drooping kitchen floor. and I'm walking, dazed, down the aisles, looking way up at the so-high ceilings. With my mouth open and eyes as wide as saucers, I felt like a little kid  at the Planetarium. 

He grabs a 2x4, like it's a toothpick and throws it in my hand. Trying not to stagger to the floor under the weight of it, I smile and pretend to be oh-so-casual.

"I got it."
"Are you sure?  I can load these myself on the cart if you want."
"Oh, no, no. I'm your right-hand man today.  I'm enjoying this."
His eyes narrowed.  
"Have you been to Home Depot before?"
"Um, well, no."
His face brightened.  
"This is good for you, then! You learn about your house this way."
"I'm a sponge."
"Okay, hold the 2x4 in your hand tight. I know it can be hard to hold on to, because it's so thick and long."
"I can do this.  Really. I got this part down."
"Hold on to it, right near your chin and look at it all the way down. You want to be able to look at the lumber and tell if it's cut straight.  Look at it."
I peer intently at this piece of lumber, slightly trembling in my hands as I try to balance the unwieldy piece o' wood.
Conversely, Handyman holds his deftly, steadily, like he's swabbing with a Q-Tip.
He says, "Hold it right under your chin.   Can you tell if it's straight?"
I give him a look and smile. 
"Can you?"
"Every time!" 

At that moment, I realized Handyman doesn't have gaydar. It's not part of his life experience and it's not visible to him. I thought, well, maybe he figured it out about me but left it alone, but I guessed wrong...later that day, we were talking about CB. He's spoken with her a few times on the phone about her design plans but he's heard our plethora of phone calls back and forth from L.A. to Chicago.  

Later that day, when I had just gotten off the phone with her, he asked, "The two of you are so close...you speak of her with such affection and the way the two of you talk to each other." In a very good-natured way, he said, "Do you mind if I ask, are you more than friends?"

For that nano-second as I formulated a response (which way should I go with THAT one?), I decided on, "No, no, no.  She's like a SEES-ter to me!  She's my best friend.  We've known each other for almost 25 years."

I told CB about it and she laughed, "Oh, my God!  The way we talk to each other, the two of us sound like an old married couple and that's what he picked up on!"  

Handyman and I continue to bond. When I said I could move the kitchen table (my makeshift office) upstairs into what will become my office now, he said, "No, don't go upstairs.  I like to have you here downstairs near me." It was so sweet. We joke, he lustily sings DEES-co songs (it was that or country, and I opted for vintage disco) on the radio all day (he sang in a Polish choir and he has a great voice so it's no hardship on me), we have our lunch each day here.  

I made Jamaican salmon (for the first time, I might add) in my oven which will be but a memory in a couple of weeks when it's disconnected to make way for the kitchen work and we chat about life, remodeling and his life in Poland and in the Polish army, his wife and kids. As CB says, we've developed this sort of brother relationship...he's the younger one but acting like a big bro' and I'm the ever-so-slightly (AHEM) older one but in the role of the younger sib.  

It's completely non-sexual, and I'm really enjoying this 'guy time'...as one who grew up without a father, it's something I've craved and never had, really. I had a touch of it in my last relationship, but it still was framed within a sexual situation/relationship, and that's not at all what this is with Handyman. Handyman likes teaching me stuff about the house and I can't get enough of his how-to and try-this-and-why-that-won't-work hands on education.  

I'm having a/c guys and electricians and window sales people come to the house to make bids and he steps in and asks the right questions, things I didn't know to ask or he asks from a tougher POV as a handyman-contractor. I said to Handyman, they walk in the door all smiles and spine straight ready to dazzle and close a deal when they see me but when Handyman gets finished with them, asks them the hard questions and pulls the truth out of 'em, they leave, hunched over, broken and glassy-eyed, the fire kicked out of 'em.

He said, "I'm your shield.  I'll take care of you. I know this house means a lot to you because it belonged to your mom and your step-dad. They worked hard all of their lives for this house and you have changed your life and spending your money too on this house. I know this is your first-time and so think of me as your shield. I feel, what's the word, protective."

With all the horror stories out there about contractors and handyman et al, I feel so blessed and relieved. Of course, there is no better than CB, who knows me more than anyone else and is fiercely protective of me too...even at the frustrating moments I create where she wants to hit me upside the head...and rightly so...

CB is pouring her heart and soul into this house for me (hours and hours) and I am overwhelmed at her generosity and caring. She even turned down a prime-time series to come to Chicago to work on my house in May -- if THAT isn't an expression of friendship to the first-degree, I don't know what is!  

Last night, she faxed two sketches of how she envisioned the kitchen. I looked at them and I have to admit, I got verklempt...what it is now (see pic) and what it will transform into is something beyond what I could have imagined. And with CB as the watchdog on every detail and cost of each item, it's financially feasible for me; it wouldn't be otherwise.

As a former apartment/condo renter in Chicago and Los Angeles, I'm someone who has never has experienced a new stove, new toilet, new bathtub or shower. Every oven had someone else's grease in it, every toilet had been, um, broken in, every tub and sink had hairs in the drain that weren't mine. I was thrilled when I got a new coffeemaker or toaster, or cell phone, that was about it for me.  The concept, the emerging reality, that my mom's home, with so many good memories, can hold all of those great years but will be transformed for me...the best combination of old and new...and create a world I have never known before.  

It's part of my Chicago transformation, I guess. A few days ago, I walked down to the neighborhood coffee shop for b'fast.  I called MS as I looked out the big window. It was a bright, sunny day, no snow, 36 degrees. I said to her, "It's glorious outside!"

She sputtered, laughing, and said, "GLORIOUS? My, how you've changed in the six weeks you've been here!"

On Saturday, Handyman and I were taking a lunch break and talking about being overcharged for the supplies. He said, well, you have to always look at every receipt, wherever you buy anything.  Then he said, you hadn't been to Home Depot before, so it was all new to you.

I said, yeah, but I got into it. I want to go back and buy more, um, whatever.

He smiled and said, "You write.  I build.  I'm Home Depot and you're Office Depot."

How could I refute the obvious?  









Wednesday, March 12, 2008

HOME SCHOOLIN'

I've spent another loooong, tiring, mind-bending day focused on home improvement...or is it, homo improvement? The jury is out on that one...

Things that meant nothing to me six months ago are now the cornerstone of my life. Words, concepts, design, related words that I didn't know or understand, not part of my lexicon or orbit, are suddenly real...sometimes, surreal...in my life today.  

What I didn't know and then could mumble, sort of phonetically..."soffit" (all I can think of is that Bette Davis play, "Miss Moffit"), backsplash (that sounds so festive and gay, why hadn't I heard THAT word before?), junction box ("Petticoat Junction," sure, but what's a Junction Box...is that slang for Billie Jo, Betty Joe or Bobbi Jo?), understanding the other meaning of the phrase, "that's prime real estate in this room" (that took me a few rounds before I got that one), why hardwood floors can be stained if they are oak but CAN'T be stained if they are maple; why homes in Chicago after about 1920 were no longer constructed with brick foundations...and the dreaded condition of brick moisture, which sounds like "effervescence" but ISN'T spelled the way a normal person would THINK it should be...and that's just Week One.  We haven't even gotten to the staircase or the second floor with the full bathroom.

Don't get me started on the difference of vinyl windows vs. wood windows and faux wood windows and two-light slider windows and schoolhouse-style windows and why it can be too "woody" to extend hardwood floors into the kitchen area.  I thought I knew about a "woody" as much as any gay man, but, I was wrong...and how do you keep a straight (...) face when someone is asking you to measure and says, "How long is it?"..."How many inches?"..."How far can it go?"..."Is it in deep or can you pull it out?"..."Is it stuck?"..."Do you need a screw down there?"...shall I go ON?

And there's the "single-hung" window vs. the much more popular and versatile "double-hung"...who wouldn't want double-hung any day?

Tomorrow, Handyman is taking me to Home Depot. We're going to buy, um, drywall and plaster. In the old days, I could see getting a dry martini and getting plastered, but now THIS. Honestly, I don't know myself lately...and I like it! Even if I fall into bed so tired I don't even get up to turn off the light down the hall. I went to bed wearing my checkered slippers (CB's fab Christmas present to me) and I was so exhausted I didn't bother to kick 'em off.  I just wore 'em until I got up the next morning.

Today I was bemoaning the sales reps who gave me horrendously (to me, anyway) over-inflated bids for an a/c update for the house and windows to replace the rotting ones, which haven't been replaced since the Magna Carta. The wall a/c in the living room is so old that it uses more electricity than a modern central a/c system would use to cool the entire house!  As I was talking about the window rep and the a/c salesman who came a' callin' today, straight, Polish good guy Handyman said with a grand gesture, "You talk about the window salesman, you talk about the air conditioning salesman...what about me?  What about MY feelings?" 

We broke up laughing and that was the running gag for the rest of the day.  I make coffee for us in the morning (with sugar and half-and-half for him, H&H only for me) and he brings me popcorn shrimp and he eats some other fresh, non-breaded fish and fish parts I won't go near.  Yesterday, for his lunch, he brought a big hunk of fish tail.  He asked me, innocently, "Would you like a piece of my tail?" He paused. "It's very fresh and it's very good for you."

Talk about a perfect straight man...!

 


Tuesday, March 11, 2008

EVERYTHING BUT THE KITCHEN SINK DEPT.

Thanks,  long-time L.A. friend, Tracy, for your comments about the blog...(and thanks to everyone else who posts comments, or who write privately to me about it)...you asked for a picture of the house as it kicks into rehab gear (there's that 'rehab' word again!)...here's one pic I took yesterday.  I'll take more and post 'em as we go along.  Perhaps this shot is a metaphor to my life and my house right now...stripped down to the bare walls...

Saturday, March 8, 2008

FOOTE NOTES

It's Saturday morning at 8:45 as I write this. I'm sitting in the kitchen, looking out the bay window into the frosty, snow-tipped back yard. It started snowing again last night as MS and I made our way home from the third, and final, installment of The Goodman Theater's Horton Foote Festival. MS's strong ties with Chicago's theater community resulted in snaring tickets and great seats for one of the final preview performances of "The Trip to Bountiful." 

The production, in the larger of the two theaters within The Goodman, was first-rate, from the ingenious, spectacular sets and lighting (but still properly low-key and fitting with the tone of the play), to the top-drawer performances of the lead, Lois Smith (who not only plays the aging mother, but inhabits the role from within), a remarkably shaded turn by Hallie Foote (the daughter of the legendary playwright, Horton Foote), and that of every actor in the play, down to the non-speaking parts.  Each made an impression, each created interesting subtext. 

While I had minor quibbles with a few aspects of the play, overall, I enjoyed it tremendously. Mr. Foote has the great ability to flesh out all his characters and make them multi-faceted; no one is a cliche, painted too broadly or one-dimensional -- every one of them is human, flawed, sympathetic (in varying degrees) and all understandable in their actions and motives. 

At the start of the play, the audience sees a single window, framed in a stylized representation of a house...with the theme of the play about a mother wanting desperately to return to her home, the place where she was born...Hence, the title of the play, "The Trip to Bountiful."  

You can run but you can't hide dept...my yesterday was spent on kicking into the first phase of the house renovation...of the home that was my mom's until her passing.  "The Trip to Chicago"? I can't escape!...I was with the handyman all day yesterday until 6:15PM staring the first "official" day of renovation (after a month of prep, more or less)...after meeting with a rep for a window company wanting to sell me 21 windows at a cost that could probably build a hospital in Africa.  

I am doing this home rehab, and could ONLY do this, with the lead of the amazing, generous and supremely talented CB (and, did I mention, gor-gee-ous!) at my side (by phone and later in person) every step of the way.  And, thanks to our mutual, life-long friend, GW, I have a great all-around handyman who is taking a personal, protective interest in getting this neglected house back in shape...especially since this is my first time tackling home renovation. I've never owned more than a cat and a plant (and they're both dead, what does THAT tell you?), and to be suddenly gifted with an aging, two-story, nearly 100 year old house without advance notice AND it needing lots of work..yikes!  Like me, it needs professional help.

It's an enormous undertaking (no pun intended), because I take the responsibility of getting this house in good -- no, great shape -- because it represents 25 years of my mom's life, her life savings and emotional investment as well as my stepfather's lifetime of hard work. It's a great gift to have this bestowed upon me -- and a great responsibility, too. 

When Handyman was leaving here yesterday after an impromptu half-day of sweat-inducing work (pulling up old carpet, etc.) he said, "I'm a simple guy.  I do good work, I work hard, I provide for my wife and kids, I'm honest.  I do what I say I'll do, I show up and finish the job and I never have to turn away and avoid eye contact with someone if they see me on the street, because I tell the truth and do what I say.  Life is very simple if you don't complicate things."

Those words really hit me. I'm a great over-thinker. I can complicate anything and revel in it, often to my detriment.  I can create drama out of where to put a stamp on an envelope to dissecting conversations and relationships that have been over for eons.  Yet, because I'm smart (oftentimes too smart for my own good), I think being intelligent means I'm interesting and complex and multi-layered and all those nice phrases I favor (like "I'm a handful"as if that's necessarily a good thing)...

I got a new sponsor the other day (thanks, MO!) and I couldn't help myself but say that to him after we met for a delightful lunch to find out if we are a good fit as sponsor/sponsee.  He's a great guy, smart, funny, and I can't get anything over on him. Aw, crap...but that's really want, exactly...I don't want to get away with anything in terms of working a good, strong program...but that doesn't stop me from trying...or from giving him that faux warning, "I'm a handful" -- an ex bf of mine ruefully called me a "rich dessert" -- that sounds good, for a second, a variation on "you're a handful," but I don't want to be an event...something that you can only take for a few bites and push away...it's great to be something special -- but I want to be good to go for the day-to-day aspects of a relationships, too.  

In my last relationship -- my most adult, deeply felt romance to date -- I learned many things. One of the most important insights was discovering that the so-called "small moments" are perhaps the ones that are most remembered (when looking back) and can be the most vital, the most important in terms of strengthening the bond, deepening the love and strengthening the relationship from its foundation.  My ex and I did many "big" things together, such as concerts, co-hosting a dinner party to introduce ourselves to friends as a couple, birthday celebrations et al, but I look back on those days together and what really warms my heart and brings me the greatest sense of being loved are the intimate times (and I don't mean sexually)...cooking meals together, making a pie, cuddling and watching a DVD, carving a pumpkin (my first!) for Halloween.  Those are the things romance is made of...and that was a revelation.  It doesn't have to be CinemaScope-sized events...it is the quieter times, the "shorthand" a couple creates in communicating in a lower key when you're alone together and not afraid to be authentic.

MS and I were talking about this last night -- she's happily married for decades to a great guy and it's a perfect fit.  Where do you find THAT?? And they are both smart, funny, complex, attractive, accomplished people...but, maybe the key, they started out as friends.

CB and I were talking about a variation on the "where you find that?" theme a few nights back. We agreed, our society makes it much harder for a single, straight woman over 40.  Guys that age, it seems, more often than not, want a young chick because of the desire, no, perhaps more accurately, the conceit (whether they act upon it or not) to procreate.  And the allure of wanting a fresh, young thing...even if they are Grandpa Walton-esque.  

For a gay man over 40, or more...it's somewhat the same.  The competition is fierce, good men (straight or gay) seem to be in short supply, and the older 'ya get, it feels (true or not) it's the less likely you'll find someone...not just someone you "settle for" or you're pals and companions, or "sisters," but that one person who goes the distance AND gets you hot and you know feels the same way about you.  Is that gonna happen if you're over 40,. 45 or 50?  And, even if a woman looks great "for her age" or passes for a decade younger, attractive, stylin', has more energy and sense of adventure than a 20 year old (as is single CB on all counts and more) is that enough for a guy who's focused on finding a woman who can't be more than 32, preferably 28, to be acceptable candidate -- and, even if he's least 10, 20 (or more) years older? 

I think it's brutal for women out there, especially for bright, successful women who are perceived (and are) independent, financially and otherwise...and in its own way, it's much the same for a single gay man over 40...I've had four dates in the last month (the one with "Junior" I wrote about last week, and two really nice dates with a 29-year old who is attracted to "older men." I had a great time (on many levels) with "Cubby," but, that said, I don't want to be in the constant role of being "Daddy"-- whether it's something spoken or played out or not. I also had a very nice date with someone near my age, a doctor...alas, we didn't have romantic sparks, but I felt very comfortable with him in the sense that we were close to the same age, had accomplished different things in our lives but could relate to each other's experiences.  

I want a level playing field, with someone my age, who shares similar life experience of being around the same age...the same cultural references; I do remember the death of JFK and RFK and I can recall The Beatles on Ed Sullivan...even though my most vivid memory was watching Judy Garland sing "Ol' Man River" on her weekly TV series...an early gay alert, you think? :)

My mom and I never had the "gay" talk until I was 40 or so.  She didn't mention it, so I didn't mention it, or vice versa.  Since we didn't discuss it, I thought, well, she knows but doesn't want to deal with it...so I'll respect her silence and go along with it...and it took the easy way out, even though I didn't see it that way then.  FINALLY, at the REAL doorstep of 40, I tentatively asked my mom when she thought I might be...well, you know.

She smiled, gave me a look I shall never forget, and said, "Well, my first inkling was when you were about 12.  I came home from work early one day and you were dancing around the house lip-syncing to Judy Garland singing 'Never Will I Marry.'"


Tuesday, March 4, 2008

WE'RE ALL FRIENDS OF DOROTHY

Forget Sunday in the Park with George.  I had Sunday in Chicago in Oz Park with my great galpal, MS!...What better way to spend a leisurely afternoon, as the weather "warms" up (a piping hot 36 degrees, where's my thong?) and many slowly-defrosting Chicagoans take to the outdoors to thaw out and socialize.  Oz Park (in Chicago's historic and bustling Lincoln Park area) envelopes you as you take it in...even though we had to leap through puddles (I swear they were six feet deep) to get close to first-rate artist renderings of The Tin Man, The Cowardly Lion, The Scarecrow and Dorothy (complete with Toto and picnic basket, of course).

Who isn't in love with "The Wizard of Oz," or at least feel it's a special part of their childhood?  

One of the glorious moments in strolling through Oz Park was seeing dozens of children (and their parents), blissfully ignoring the sprinkle of rain and puddles, frolicking (I don't use that word often, but it certainly fits here) with such joy and abandon in the Oz-themed playground. I was worried about getting my butch lace-up (supposedly) water-proof work boots wet in those deep puddles.  Well, that's what happens when you get older.  One day it's splashing in puddles, the next you fret about damp shoes...when did I become my grandmother?

As a pair of Judy Garland devotees (talk about getting in deep!), Oz Park is a particular treat for MS and myself to share together, all the more so because MS is knee-deep in its history and splendor and got to play tour guide on this day for my first time in the park. 

As she explained, in the early 1990s, the Oz Park Advisory Council and the Lincoln Park Chamber of Commerce commissioned artist John Kearney to create a Tiny Man sculpture, which was installed in October of 1995; The Cowardly Lion followed in May, 2001, with the 7 ft./800 lb. cast bronze Scarecrow joining the others in June of 2005.  In Spring, 2007, Dorothy and Toto were unveiled in Oz Park, to much acclaim and fanfare, marching bands included.

Thanks to MS for generously providing several of her great shots from Dorothy's debut in Oz Park last year.  Additional thanks, my dear MS, for a great day, a memorable afternoon and her kind of delicious, factoid-filled tour I probably wouldn't get at The Smithsonian. 

I didn't want the day to end at Oz Park -- keep in mind, I was rocket-fueled by a caffeine-spiked White Chocolate Low-Fat Mocha the size of a water pitcher from the nearby neighborhood Starbucks -- MS then took me on a guided tour of the "new" (for me) Lincoln Avenue..I never knew so many faux Irish people had so many Irish-named bars! And all on one block...although a matinee live performance was underway, we silently made our way into the gloriously restored Biograph Theatre (back in my day, it was known as the place where Dillinger got shot), now billed and fabulously reborn as The Victory Gardens Theater.  

The manager welcomed us in and invited us to look around the grand lobby...and bar area, where a large-screen monitor broadcasts the live performance.  The theatre brought back a lot of warm memories for me...when I was in high school, The Biograph was known then as THE place for revivals of great old movies...and with the added bonus of great prints, rare gems not often seen...and, often, with top-flight stars and directors present for Q&A with the audience.  

I shall never forget an evening at the Biograph in '74, I believe, where the legendary director, Vincente Minnelli, introduced his MGM masterpieces, "Meet Me In St. Louis" and "The Clock"and spoke to the audience about his love affair and marriage to Judy Garland, the star of both films and the filmmaking process in Hollywood's Golden Age. I came away with many fragmented memories of that night now so long ago, but what remains is Vincente's great affection for Judy Garland, his enormous respect for her talent...and his still-potent love (perhaps even adoration) for her, which had not diminished over decades.  

I'm falling in love more and more with Chicago each day...and if the temperature keeps rising, so will my passion for this city. What I find here, which I didn't find much of in L.A., is a sense of community.  People look out for each other here in a way I didn't find in Los Angeles; with good friends, yes, of course, but not in general.  One of my neighbors cheerfully describes Chicago as "the biggest small town in the world"...and I think he might just be right.

(ALL THE OZ PARK PHOTOS ON THIS BLOG ARE COURTESY OF THE PHOTOGRAPHER, THE DIVINE "MS"...THANKS FOR SHARING THESE GREAT SHOTS, MY DEAR FRIEND!)








Sunday, March 2, 2008

A BLOGGY DAY

It's, as they used to say, a "trip" for me to get responses to my blog entries.  Some from people I know, others from those I haven't met.  Thank you for taking the time to read the blog -- and for posting comments.  It's terrifying, to lay nekked, as it were, in this blog....but it's an adventure that I'm enjoying -- and one where I'm clearly learning as I go along.  It's interesting that two of the comments posted re my last entry are from women friends dear to me for many years, one I've known since high school, who lives in Chicago; we've resumed our friendship for the steady course and not just shotgun-style, from back in the days when I'd visit Chicago to see my mom for a week or two at a time. And to get a comment from my dearest galpal, CB...my best friend since 1983...and also from MS, my new, fabu Chi-town friend and old kindred spirit.  I'm blessed to have them in my life.  Later this afternoon, MS (Kate Hepburn incarnate)invited me to join her for a romp through Oz Park...what more perfect for a crisp Sunday afternoon?

A few days ago, I also ventured out further in the blog waters by sending a group email to about 15 friends to let them know that I had started a blog.  Of course, I forgot to include the blog address (sending mixed messages...or just my latent fear? LOL), so I had to resend the info to everyone. 

I've been told that blog readers don't have a lot of time...and that my posts are perhaps a tad (!)  too long...I was gently advised that I could have cut my last marathon post into thirds...and that every post doesn't have to be a blog entry of epic proportions!  

Before I head to church this morning, I wanted to make mention of two first-rate blogs...they are highlighted in the "Blog Cabin" box, but if you haven't checked 'em out, I know you're in for a treat.  Blue Dog Stew, from my LA pal, Blue Doggie, is a forum for his sharply observed and very well-written musings, usually focusing on current political and social issues.  Blue Doggy is an enormously intelligent, compassionate and extremely passionate man when it comes to politics, law and the inequities of our society and his blog is one of the best.  He takes an unexpected, delightful turn from the kind of topic he usually focuses his high-beams on in his most recent blog entry called "Tooth or Dare," a highly amusing post on his recent foray into being the victim of cosmetic dentistry.

If you haven't hit upon Marc Olmsted: Trash Whisperer yet (link in Blog Cabin), it's blog gold. Marc, a friend from my L.A. days for many years, is the inspiration for my blog and, I'm sure, for many others.  

He's a first-rate writer, and his observations about L.A. life,  his writing career, his family, relationships, sobriety, dating, and on and on, are always thought-provoking, often provocative and invariably on-target.  His blog is the standard to which I aspire...and, even this early on in my blogging career, I am in awe of how he produces great stuff for his blog every day.  He's given me encouragement, advice and praise and criticism every step of the way with my fledging blog, and for that I am most grateful.  

I defy you to read his blog just once...you'll find yourself going back for more each day.  At least, that's how it is with me.  If anyone should get a book contract for writings derived from his blog, it's Marc Olmsted.

Heading off to church (and not a moment too soon)...happy Sunday to all.