The Test

New Year's Eve 2013. The setting is a bar. It is late... or early, depending on how you look at it.

Me: Before we make any decisions here about tonight, I wanna put out there that I'm HIV positive.

Handsome Fella: Oh. OK. I'm not. I really appreciate you telling me though. And I'm fine with that. 

Me: Cool. 

(beat)

Handsome Fella: You kind of use that don't you? 

Me: What? 

Handsome Fella:  When you tell people. It's great that you're up front about it but you kind of use it. It's like a test for you. To see how people react. You sort of judge them by their reaction. 

Me: ...Huh.

A Chapter In Which I Almost Ruin Christmas For Some Poor Kid

Dear Charlotte,

 

A little elf told me you had a not so great experience in Youth Group a couple of weeks ago. In our discussion of Santa Claus it appeared to be revealed that Santa Claus does not exist. Now I have a little secret to tell you... I still believe in Santa.  And while I am pretty good lookin' , I am considerably older than you! I also believe that there are magical worlds to be visited on the other sides of rainbows, through wardrobe doors and down rabbit holes - but maybe that's because I'm a little cray cray :)  But how could I not believe in Santa? He's everywhere. In fact, I'm looking at him right now on my can of Diet Coke! Santa has existed for hundreds of years and in hundreds of forms for hundreds of cultures. Sinterklaas, St Nicholas, Father Christmas, Pere Noel. In some cultures he doesn't give gifts at all but creates a feeling of Christmas spirit. In some countries he visits on the 5th or 6th of December and others on the New Year. Sometimes he has deer. Sometimes he flies alone on the wind. Sometimes he wears red, other times green. He's kinda like Madonna, he just keeps reinventing himself. In any case how can something so enduring and that is here only for the forces of good and all that is freakin' awesome not be real???  I reject that.

 

And maybe you can't explain it all. Is he a real dude that slips down your chimney in the middle of the night? Does he have an army of industrious, mischievous, little elves? And does he really  know what is going on in each and every household in the world? Frankly it all sounds a little creepy to me. But maybe he exists in different ways. In 1897, in the most famous editorial ever written, Frank Church wrote: " Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished." 

 

Ok,  a tad wordy and dramatic, but he makes a good point!

 

Looking back, I realize we were all wrong in letting this conversation go the way it did in Youth Group. Whether Santa Claus exists or not is often a hot button topic at the holidays, particularly among the young folks like yourself and I fear we let the conversation pass too quickly. Unitarian Universalists are known for sharing their various beliefs and personal ideals... A LOT!  We do this the most when it's about things that are mysterious or magical. UU's are also known for questioning commonly held beliefs. But most importantly, UU's are open to and accepting of the beliefs of others. This is true in regards to our understandings of Jesus, Mohammed, Moses, Heaven, The Bible and yes, even dear old Santa Claus!  And we were wrong in Youth group to only spend time on the one idea that Santa does not exist.

 

So you can and should go ahead and believe whatever feels right for you. Even if it seems totally cray cray. And sometimes, ESPECIALLY when it seems totally cray cray.  Like the Journey song says and the cast of Glee reminds us... don't stop believing! I certainly won't.

 

Merry Christmas,

Dan

In The Valley of the Dolls

"I want a doll! I want a doll" -Neely O'Hara in Valley of the Dolls





After careful and extensive research and experimentation I have learned that my HIV medication does not interact adversely at all with wine. 


Particularly Yellowtail Chardonnay.

Such. A. Relief. 

The leap into the world of pills (aka 'dolls' for all of you camp philistines) I am happy to report has been fairly simple and so far successful. The build up was hard. The decision to go on meds was not an easy one. It really was something like facing my disease anew. Between deciding to go on meds and the first few days of actually taking them I sort of felt like I had been diagnosed all over again. 

HIV, my case anyway, is a little like the Emperor and his new clothes. In a good way. It's this great big emotional ordeal that has very little to show for itself. As I mentioned, since testing positive I have been considerably healthy and most of my reasons for going on medication were emotional and psychological. Maybe it's also part of getting old. I've been thinking a lot about health and longevity and finally figuring out just what the fuck is going on with my 401K. I've also taken to knitting doilies and I keep trying to take my teeth out before bed.

I received my prescription on a Thursday and promptly dropped it off at the pharmacy. The usually ornery, young, Asian American girl who would probably be so much prettier if she hadn't been born and raised in Flushing, grabbed the slip and curtly asked for my address. I gave it and she began to type in the information on the prescription. I don't know if I am imagining this but I swear I could see her face soften. Her expression became slightly sweeter. Did she know what Complera was for? Did she know I had HIV and was now getting all soft on me? Is that why she asked me what time I'd like to pick it up rather than barking "One hour!" ?

The next afternoon right after lunch, I opened my not so little bottle of jumbo sized dolls (3 in one!) and started to put it in my mouth. Realizing this moment deserved some dignity, I turned down the volume on the rerun of Melrose Place I was watching, popped the doll into my mouth and ceremoniously washed it down with a gulp of Diet Coke.

On my way to work that afternoon, for some ridiculous reason, I waited for my doll to "kick in". Like a hit of Ecstasy. I imagined all of my cells wildly trembling and pulsing. I thought I would soon be getting flushed, light headed and sweaty. I envisioned my biceps and chest enlarging, tearing through my T-shirt and being surrounded by a white force field standing in front of a giant skull like structure, holding a large sword and screaming "I HAVE THE POWER!!!" 

And then I thought of what a Tom of Finland daddy Man At Arms was and I got horny and the whole thing derailed. 

After starting the medication, I was still hemming and hawing about whether this was the right option. Not that I have any distinct notion what a hem / haw is, but two things happened. I had a great doctor visit and a kick in the pants from a good friend.

The dolls are doing their thing. I am nearly undetectable after one month of medication. My viral load went from 26,000 to 330. If you don't know what a viral load is you can click here cuz gurl this entry is long enough already!  This information provided by my very warm and caring nurse practitioner who I sometimes want to a little bit do it with was very encouraging. The other bit of encouragement came from my friend Scott who in his no nonsense fashion laid it all out for me. Scott explained that while he understood my hesitance he ultimately looks at taking meds as no different than a diabetic taking insulin. It's actually even simpler. He also pointed out that there are millions of people around the world without access to HIV medication. And here I am bitching moaning about taking them.

I'm feeling pretty good about this change in my life. It's been a new step in confronting the 'ol High 5. It's an experience that has brought me closer to the people I love, placed a more thoughtful attention on my body and health and is making me healthier each day. I'll keep you posted on the progress but I have to say, not too bad for one not so little pill!

Critical Bitch #1: Into The Woods

Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine hail from a generation of artists absolutely smitten with psycho-analysis. Through this love affair and with the inspiration of Bruno Bettelheim's Jungian breakdown of classic fairy tales The Uses of Enchantment, 'Into The Woods' was born. The orginal musical as created by Sondheim and Lapine is a magical, grotesque, rarely sentimental and often heartbreaking in depth analysis of parent / child relationships and their repercussions on the community in which they exist. The Public Theater's solution to the psychological angst played out in 'Into The Woods' is typical of the current generation... simply take an antidepressant! 

The prozac in this production under the direction of Timothy Sheader and Liam Steel comes in the form of a little boy (played in rotation by Noah Radcliffe and Jack Broderick), straight out of an 80's Spielberg family summer blockbuster, replete with red hoodie and sleeping bag. The unnamed boy, we'll call him Zac for the purposes of this review, (get it?) fulfills the duties of the traditionally older and omniscient Narrator. Zac, whose shoehorned story serves as bookends to each act, is a cute device throughout the lighter and zippier Act 1. However, in Act 2 his role becomes much more muddled, particularly at the point where the denizens of Fairy Tale Land essentially decide to feed him, (god? fate?) to the giant and take the story into their own hands. 'Wait!' you're thinking 'they've killed a little innocent boy?!' Not to fear. Lights immediately bump up downstage on his double, soundly asleep. It's all a dream! Phew! No danger here. 

It's that lack of danger that cheapens the proceedings. The stakes plummet and Zac's treacly reunion with his father at the conclusion of the play gives us assurance that the nightmares of childhood or the terrors of parenting are simply no match for the warm embrace of a father and his run away boy. 

Now given all of the above you might be wondering if I actually saw 'Into The Woods'. I assure you I did. But fear not 'Woodsies'! Much of what you love about this show is still there and in many ways improved upon. The physical production is glorious, embracing our cool, New York urban sensibilities with the magic of nature and the sense of escape one might feel getting lost in Central Park. No small feat in an open air, 1800+ seat theater, Sheader and Steel provide raucous and whimsical staging that tells a clear and engaging, if misguided version of the story.  Donna Murphy is terrifying and resplendent as the all too human, evil witch. Her unstoppable vocals and dramatic choices quite possibly take us deeper into those woods that Sondheim and Lapine envisioned than any before her. While not known for their musical prowess, Dennis O'Hare and Amy Adams as The Baker and His Wife provide a very elegant and thoughtful exploration of the frustrations encountered by couples grappling with infertility. Adams, however has taken a bit of the prozac and can't quite move past her sunny Disney Princess persona, which again, becomes problematic in the darker Act 2. O'Hare's baker is indeed rich and moving yet it must be said that some of the music should have been adjusted to do away with his longer held notes. Our remaining principals Gideon Glick, Sarah Stiles, Jessie Mueller and Ivan Hernandez do a fitting job bringing to life the charmingly satirical characters of Story Book Land. 

The sentimental streaks inflicted on this production by Shaeder and Steel and their red cloaked creation Zac, seem to create an ultimately overly simplified and tidy affair. Sondheim's brilliance has never owed anything to tidiness. My advice to the theater goer that has camped out overnight for her two coveted tickets is to skip the prozac. Arrive after the first 30 seconds of each act and leave 60 seconds before they come down. This way you might better enjoy the twisted and tangled 'Woods' Sondheim and Lapine sought to lead us into.

A PHOTO ESSAY OF ME WATCHING BREAKING BAD

Magenta

"Magenta. That’s what I call it when I get that way. All kinds of feelings tumbling all over themselves. You know, you’re not quite blue, ‘cause you’re not really sad. And although you’re a little bit jealous you wouldn’t say you’re green with envy. And every now and then you realize you’re kinda scared, but you would hardly call yourself yella’. I hate that feeling! I just hate it. and I hate the color magenta. That’s why I named it that, Magenta."

 - Blanche Devereaux

I did two things today. I got a haircut and then I got my first-ever-in-my-life prescription for HIV medication. One of these things has made me feel rull rull magenta. And yeah, I'm not quite blue about it, not like depressed or anything. I'm a little bit "Why me?" but not exactly envious of those who are not HIV positive or don't need HIV medication. I have some nerves and concerns but I'm not "yella" (Oh Blanche!). So yes, I'm just kinda angsty, twisty, a bit gloomy, ya know...magenta.

I've been HIV positive for over 7 years now and I am just starting medication. HIV is a very mysterious disease and I’ve yet to really experience any of the physical effects of the disease. I mostly wasn't taking medication because I am physically healthy. But there is a part of me that is afraid to go on meds because that means, I’m sick. It’s a little reminder every day that I am infected and need treatment. It's a new stage of acceptance I guess.

I go to the doctor four times a year for labs in which they test my blood to see how all of my cells are doing and to see how much of the virus is in my blood. I go in one week before my actual appointment. They draw the blood and then I wait a week for the results. I hate that week. I think of these as my Seasonique weeks. Ya know that birth control pill where you only get your raging intense period 4 times a year? Yeah. It’s like that. Blood and all.  After the blood is drawn I spend the rest of the week wondering, what if this is it? What if this is the round of labs where I find out I’m unhealthy? Where I find out I’m sick?? Where I find out that my T-cells have plummeted and my viral lode has exploded??? And I am scared of it. All of this causes a certain amount of anxiety that I have to combat every day.

...So I'm a bit over this frustration.

There is another reason I have decided to start swallowing a pill every day. I WANT A FUCKING BOYFRIEND! Ok. not really, but yeah, kind of.  Turns out that being on medication, having a low to non existent viral load makes you much more marketable. Being able to bandy about the phrase "Undetectable" on your on line dating  / gay butt sex hook up profile basically adds 4 inches to your cock size. Despite the fact that you might not feel any different, being undetectable makes you seem healthier and more attractive and less toxic to both positive and negative guys alike. I can't tell you how many times I've had negative guys ask me on line if I am on medication. But that is another topic for another time.

The whole situation is magenta. Which I think is a really great metaphor for my relationship to HIV in general. HIV has never been red for me. It's never been volatile or dangerous. It's never been green in any emotional color. I've never become ill from it. Nor do I resent those that are not positive.  My times of yellow, fear, worry are past me. I'm not particularly blue about being positive. Each day I work past shame and guilt and I work very very very hard at not being depressed.  It's silent. It's secret. It's a big 'what if'.  It's awkward. It's a stigma. It's off center. It's tough to bring up. It's not easily understood. It's not well articulated.  It's angsty. It's moody. It's contemplative. It's magenta. And that is all it is. And all it hopefully ever will be... magenta.

Has True Blood Lost Its Bite?

I'm more than a little concerned about this season of True Blood. Something is missing. It seems that True Blood has lost it's bite. 4 episodes in and I have to wonder, where is the danger? This season's tag line is "Everything is at stake". Plot-wise this is true. I suppose. I don't know if it's any stakier than past seasons but yeah every character is heavily embroiled in some kind of southern fried supernatural trauma. But, I don't feel anything is at stake for me, the viewer. Not in comparison to seasons past. Word on the street is that Alan Ball will be leaving his show - runner duties for the next season. Part of me wonders if he hasn't already checked out

What Alan Ball has always done so terrifyingly well is to tap into our innermost, visceral places. In simpler terms, gurl knows how to portray how fucked up we can be. Six Feet Under still reigns (for me at least) as the greatest television show that has ever existed. In Six Feet Under, Ball balanced mortality with sexual exploration and angst. David's coming out in between embalming sessions and wakes, Brenda's sexual addiction (not to mention the weird ass tension between her and her own brother), Nate's womanizing and the seemingly frigid matriarch Ruth may have had more lovers than anyone else on the show.

Thematically, True Blood is a fun house mirror of Six Feet Under. It's life vs. death (or un-death in this case) wrapped up in a whole lot of sex, blood and leather pants.  True Blood is a show about desire... excessive desire. Like really, deep, dark, twisted desire. Although the incest on True Blood isn't nearly as unnerving as on Six Feet Under. I mean what's a little incest between vampires? And there is a little incest this season. But that is exactly the problem with this season. The most taboo element is neither here nor there and merely a characteristic rather than a storyline. 

True Blood has always engaged the viewer by presenting danger that excited us and that tempted us. Even when we knew it was bad for the characters in the end, didn't we all want to try V? Don't we all want to dabble in a little witchcraft? Didn't Maryann's cake and dirt eating fueled orgies seem kind of awesome? At least at the beginning? Don't we all want to have sex with Eric - a Vampire who could quite possibly suck all the blood out of us as we dig our fingers into his well formed cum drains? And most of all, don't we all more than sorta kinda want to be Vampires???

But that's all missing this season. The allure, the danger, the hurts so good -  it's just not there. It's all plot, swift action and rather disconnected or unsurprising sex. Bill and Eric and their "Vamps of Hazard" storyline is abysmal and SPOILER ALERT, Tara as a Vampire is not really all that different than Tara as a human. She still hates Vamps and herself, now just a little more than usual. It looks like Sookie might be headed towards my favorite place in the world (Alcide's arms) but let's face it, that's about as dangerous as Ross and Rachel.  


Oh sure there's the sociopolitical commentary / parable but without the danger, well, I'd rather just watch re-runs of The West Wing. C'mon Alan Ball, give us some V. Give us some sex. Give us some  sex on V. Make us feel dirty again.   

I Love Poppers and Spooning with Muscle Bears!

This morning at the gym, I was on the eliptical reading Entertainment Weekly. (What gayer sentence could start this posting other than, "This morning I was gangbanged while listening to the new Kylie") The recent issue features a cover story about gay celebrities coming out in a way that is not a big deal. So often when these celebrities have come out as gay it is riddled with statements like, "I'm gay, it's just a part of who I am." or "I happen to be gay, it's not a big deal" or my personal favorite "I'm gay, but it doesn't define who I am". 


I am so over these sentiments! Why did you secure an interview / hold a press conference / hire a social media expert only to go on and on about how it's just a not big deal - triple question mark, double exclamation point. For once for the love of Jean Tripplehorn, I would be thrilled if a celebrity gave a coming out interview in which they said "Yes! I am a great big 'Mo. It's a big part of my life! I love poppers, her MADGE-esty, spooning with muscle bears and shopping for teeny tiny bathing suits. It is a very big deal!"
I'm sorry but my being gay does very much define who I am. It is kind of a big deal as I am kind of a big deal. It is one great, big, awesome, mother fuckin' deal. Most of my favorite qualities about myself do seem to stem from my experience as a gay person. As a little boy as I was chased down the street to the taunts of "Dannygirl" and "faggot", I began to develop my well honed sense of humor and wit. This humor and wit has evolved from being a defense mechanism or even a weapon of sorts, to being a way to bring joy and laughter into the world. Cuz as it turns out... I am high-larious.

 I felt "other" and "different" growing up, (probably because I was a giant homogaysexual) and was always looking for a place to fit in. I found that place in books, in stories of magical lands and extraordinary people. This experience developed my imagination tremendously. It left me with the desire to bring such stories to life,  igniting  my passion for and commitment to live theatre. This might have something to do with me creating my very own theater company.

This experience of being "other" and "different" has made me a more sensitive, compassionate, empathetic person. I identify with those that are also different, other, forgotten, left out. This might explain why I have a bent for social justice and why I might also be a decent shoulder to cry on.

Being gay however,  has not made me particularly humble.

I would not say that "gay" is a defining characteristic for me. Humor, creativity, compassion - these, I would safely say are my defining characteristics. But all of these characteristics come from the same experience, the same root and that experience is being a loud and very, very proud Liza lovin', Golden Girl's watchin', man - marryin', disco dancin', cock smokin' queer. It's a big deal. A very big gay deal. 


Happy Pride Kittens!
Dan

Nobody Ought to Be Alone On Christmas

This Christmas Eve, fate has decided that I should be alone. Completely and utterly alone. I have not shared a gift, a toast or a warm hug on Christmas Eve for the first time in my life. I am never one to shy away from the unconventional but this experience, though not entirely my own doing, is taking it a bit far.

I've known for weeks that this somewhat solemn night was coming and I have consoled myself with the fact that as of December 26th my holiday time with friends, food and family will be fast upon me. However it hasn't made the day that much easier. Christmas is meant to be a time for miracles and magic. I have gone about my day as any other. I woke up, did some tidying about the apartment, went to the gym, ate lunch and headed to work. All the while, various, magical, made - for - TV inspired scenarios of how the day could turn out ran through my mind. I imagined that:

A) I'd meet the real Santa Clause on a bustling mid - town street corner.

B) While at work I'd make late night reservations for a handsome hotel guest who would invite me along with him and we'd fall madly in love.

C) Through a series of comical mishaps, I'd find myself at a homeless shelter only to learn the true meaning of Christmas while caroling with charming raggedy orphans, urchins, wenches and meth heads.

Of course none of this happened. But somewhere in there lies a little bit of Christmas magic in and of itself. Christmas is a time of year where we are all children, excited about the impossible whether it be mysterious stars that guide us through the desert, fat men in red suits who deliver gifts in the middle of the night or babes that will be born and change the world. Even in this, my worst Christmas ever, I can still imagine, hope and believe.

This sense of wonder despite the circumstances, is something of a small miracle all on its own. While I am not likely to repeat this experience, I am glad for it nonetheless.

As soon as I finish this second glass of burgundy and take in a little Peter Billingsly, I'll hunker down in my bed and enjoy my Christmas slumber. Who knows? Maybe there will be some spirits that plan on visiting me...

Merry Christmas. Keep Dreaming.

All my love,

Dan

FOR BIG HAIRY NIPS...

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I'm Back!

My favorite episode of Absolutely Fabulous begins with the absolutely hysterical Edina (Jennifer Saunders) getting ready for a busy day of whining, boozing and door handle shopping . She puts on a pant suit and then looks at herself and desperately exclaims "I cannot be this person... not this person". She then rushes over to her closet and grabs a divining rod to help her select which awful, designer bit of garishness she'll throw on herself.

That moment from the dearly departed AbFab has always stayed with me. I love that expression and so often identify with that sentiment - "I cannot be this person". While I don't wear pant suits or over priced silver spandex tops, I have felt those exact sentiments when I've sat down to write in my blog. I open my laptop and look over the previous entries and attempt to replicate the tone of the majority my writing. I try to find something off beat, charming and whimsical to say. I attempt to be my best self.

The problem however, is that so often, I am simply not my best self. I am often sitting down at my laptop at the end of a long, insufferable day of making reservations at "The Spicy Market" or "Peter's Lugers" for demanding and often rude European tourists. Or I sit down to write after a long day of rehearsal or auditions that has sapped me of all wit. Sometimes I sit down to write and i can't focus because I am hung up on that last sharp toned email I may have received. Or I sit down to write and I'm totally depressed because I've broken up with my boyfriend. Or I sit down to write and I'm just feeling bitchy, critical and judgmental. Or I'm feeling defeatist. Or I'm feeling too absurd. Or I'm feeling frustrated because I'm obsessing about what to write in a blog that nobody reads anyway! It's like I'm screaming into a vacuum!

So for several months, I said "fuck it". I am simply not this charming persona I set out to be and should not continue to force that ideal on myself.

This was the wrong choice, in part.

Several months later and I'm saying "fuck it" again. I am not always this charming persona but that should not stop me from writing. That should not stop me from the wonderfully creative activities of observing, analyzing and reflecting. I should not stop trying to put those observations and reflection into words that form sentences which in turn form paragraphs and ultimately result in some sort of cohesive essay. So I say fuck it. I'm not going to worry about which person I'm going to be today but I am still going to write. I'm a moody bitch and I'm just going to go with that. The best thing I can do for myself is to be honest; to write honestly. So love it or leave it, here we go... again. It may not be pretty, and I may offend one of my three readers every so often or at the very least bore them regularly but I promise... to simply be me.

Broadway Bares Vs The Black Party

This past Sunday, I attended my first Broadway Bares. For those of you who don't know, Broadway Bares is an annual 'Broadway meets Burlesque' event, raising money for Broadway Cares / Equity Fights AIDS. This year marked it's 20th anniversary. How I have never attended is a little beyond me as it is one of the gayest events of the year. And as we know... I'm like super, super gay.

Broadway Bares is held at the Roseland Ballroom. I have only been to Roseland for one other event - the infamous Black Party. Being in the space I couldn't help but compare the two events. Broadway Bares and The Black Party are oddly like twin cousins. The Black Party being the crazy Patty Lane who loses control at the sight of a hot dog and Broadway Bares would be the elegant, more refined Cathy Lane.

I am now going to break down their similarities:

• Both are held at the Roseland Ballroom drawing in over 4,000 people.
• Both bring together the gay community for an evening of sexual fun and bawdiness.
• Both in a way force their audience to embrace sexual energy that feels defiant and gives the finger to HIV / AIDS.
• Both involve a lot of scantily clad / naked men gyrating about Roseland Ballroom.
• Both have the same weird sort of retarded old drug dealer, wandering around mumbling "Coke, K, Ecstasy".

And now... for the differences

• Broadway Bares simulates water sports ; The Black Party's water sports seem a bit more... authentic
• Broadway Bares showcases a lot of glittered flesh; The Black Party showcases a lot of leathered flesh.
• Broadway Bares is a spectator sport; The Black Party requires a lot more participation
• Broadway Bares involved a lot of wax and spray tan. The Black Party involves a lot of body hair and "natural man smell".
• Broadway Bares costs about $55; The Black Party is a cool (and rough) $125.
• Broadway Bares this year, raised over $1,000,000 for HIV / AIDS services in the community - as I watched the show I could feel my T- Cells rising; The Black Party, a commercial venture, made scads of money for itself with I'm sure an "appropriate" amount going to some chosen tax shelter.

How amazing would it be if the two events could meet somewhere in the middle? What if an evening existed that was a bit dirtier and a bit crazier than what Broadway Bares currently offers, yet more socially and sexually responsible than the Black Party? What if we could gyrate in leather while raising millions of dollars for social causes? What if we were rolling our faces off on Ecstasy while dancing along to a sexy strip tease number featuring Kristin Chenoweth and Vanessa Williams followed by a hot threesome in the play pen?

Could you imagine? Nobody would leave the Roseland Ballroom for at least a week.

Love Me,

Dan

GORDO

There is a man who washes dishes at the hotel where I am employed. I am not kidding you, he is seriously one of the most unfortunate looking people I’ve ever seen. I am not writing this in retaliation to his estimation of my physical dimensions of which you are about to read. I just need to impart to you how absolutely crazy ugly this dude is so that there is no irony lost here.

For years I’ve seen him in the back of house hallways of the hotel and done my best not to avert my gaze. I’ve nodded quick hellos on the street on the way to or from or work. I’ve tried not to throw up in the locker room where I’ve seen him scratching his stomach and washing his feet. I’ve always thought, “that is the ugliest non-deformed individual alive”. He really looks like something that might have escaped from Middle Earth.

I don’t want to get into the particulars of his unpleasant visage and unseemly shape. I’ll let you form your own image in your brain. I simply do not have the literary prowess to do justice to this man’s ugliness.

So anyway, he’s ugly. Right? Well, we’re riding the elevator together. It’s late. We’re both leaving work. We’re alone on the elevator. We exchange the obligatory exchange about a long day and how leaving work is always nice. He has a thick Mexican accent with a voice that always sounds like he’s about to spew sediment.

Aside from my usual angst about being in elevators with people I don’t know, I am now wrestling with the guilt I feel about my sentiments towards this man’s mug. I am trying to be very casual, leaning against the elevator wall. Staring down at my totally uninteresting Converse clad footsies. As I stand there, leaning against the filthy metal of the service elevator wall, he points at my slightly protruding carrot top and asks “Whass going on Papi? You no make exercise?”

And yes folks... I've just coined the phrase "carrot top". I want credit. Something good has to come of this.

Love Me,

Dan

TOTALLY NELLIE!

I love Little House on the Prairie. I always have. I always will. While I enjoyed Laura’s spunk and Mary’s lack of vision, there was one little prairie girl I always had a certain amount of extra affection for. This would be none other than Laura Ingalls’ tormentor, the prairie bitch herself, Nellie Oleson.Nellie Oleson, might be tied with Blair Warner from Facts of Life for the title of My First Gay Icon.

Nellie, primarily used as the antagonist in most episodes she appears in of Little House, was in my opinion, ultimately simply misunderstood. Here was a young girl who appreciated the finer things in life. Her dolls were from France and her dresses were from New York. She took piano lessons and spoke French. These refined qualities ultimately resulted in her being an outsider in the uncultured and uncouth community of Walnut Grove, Minnesota. Nellie was not quick to squat down in the dirt and shoot marbles or go climbing trees on the banks of Plum Creek with 'Half Pint'.

Sure Nellie was petty, judgemental and extremely manipulative but I always kind of identified with her. She was different than everybody around her. She was a passionate character with extreme emotions (that often resulted in various toys being smashed to bits) and she totally rocked a petticoat.

...and let’s not forget that her mother, Harriet Oleson was a total drag queen!

Nellie grew up as the series progressed. She married a Jew (*gasp*) and gave birth to twins, one of which would be raised Christian, the other Jewish. Nellie Oleson: Social Equality Pioneer.

...and let’s not forget those delicious blonde ringlets!

Nellie Oleson really shouldn’t steal all the credit (although she’s not above it!) Ms. Arngrim gleefully portrayed her in all of her rage and glory with a campy zealousness. Arngrim is something of a gay icon herself and a good friend to the gay community. Her Little House on screen husband, actor Steve Tracy died of AIDS in 1986. Since then Nasty Nellie Oleson, AKA Alison Arngrim has been a very vocal AIDS activist.

...so, yes, let’s not forget… Nellie married a queen!

Prairie bitch or prairie revolutionary? I’ll let you decide. I however know for a fact that if I had a choice between bailing hay with Laura and Mary and sucking on gumdrops while playing with a new phonograph with Nellie… I’d chose the latter.

..and finally, let's not forget the gayest thing of all ... her name is NELLIE!

Love Me,

Dan

Letters to the End of the World

At Hand Theatre opens another show today. The play is called Letters to the End of the World. This show is not written by me. It is not directed by me. I'm not even in it! Not even a walk on! I know, why bother right? Here is why:

1) I worked very hard at getting this play produced.

B) it might be one of the most beautiful plays I've ever read.

This funny and moving play, gracefully flashing back and forth between New York City and Zambia, introduces us to a remarkable group of innocents as they confront the AIDS crisis and question their own ability to love and connect.

The playwright and director, Anton Dudley is a sensitive, thoughtful, hilarious and very gifted artist. I have spent years courting this script and trying to work with him on making it happen. Last summer, while I was preparing my own show (maybe you heard of it, it's called MY AiDS by Dan Horrigan?), I also directed a staged reading of 'Letters'. This experience, this play... how do I say this without sounding totally ridiculous... made me a much more expansive person.

No not expensive - I'm still totally cheap - expaaaansive.

At the time I was writing all about me and my view on and experience with HIV, I was also directing this reading of a play that addressed the AIDS crisis on a much more global scale. More importantly, the play uses AIDS as backdrop or even a metaphor for both the pain and beauty in this world that asks us all to share in the same collective human experience.

Working on Letters to the End of the World made me feel small and curious. It also made me certain that I am an awesome part of a much larger experience. I am part of an experience that's bigger than me. It's bigger than America. It's bigger than Africa (and that's pretty damn big!) The play inspired me to be a better artist... and a better person.

While I hope to have already sold you on this show, below you'll find a more literal description of the play as well as a link for tickets. Hope to see you there!

Love Me,

Dan

AT HAND THEATRE COMPANY PRESENTS:

LETTERS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

Written by Anton Dudley

April 29th - May 16th, 2010

Thursdays-Saturdays at 8pm, Sundays at 7pm

at Theatre Row's Studio Theatre

410 W. 42nd St. (btwn 9th/10th Aves)

A revealing article about the African AIDS crisis, buried deep in the pages of a fashion magazine, leads a young gay man in New York City to form an unexpected correspondence with a woman in Zambia. The friendship takes him halfway around the world to discover that Africa is much closer to his heart than he thinks.

Written and directed by Anton Dudley, the production stars Shannon Burkett (Dead City), Francesca Choy-Kee, Tyrone Mitchell Henderson (The America Play, The Tempest with Patrick Stewart), Peter O'Connor, andCharles Socarides (2006 Tony-winning Awake & Sing!), with set by Eli Kaplan-Wildmann, lights by Ryan Bauerand costumes by Nicole Wee. Donald Butchko serves as the Production Stage Manager.

Tickets are $18 - available HERE or by calling 212-247-4200.

Equity Approved Showcase.

Bold Betty

Last Week Wednesday, Ugly Betty aired it's final episode. I am pleased it's over as I think all TV should have a four season limit (tops!) but I am of course sad to see it go. While it had it's ups and downs this season proved to be a landmark season particularly in terms of queer visibility.

I am sure Betty herself deserves all kinds of coverage and speculation as the show was about her but all I really cared about this final season was little Justin Suarez. I thought the development of this character's coming out was groundbreaking.

It was not groundbreaking in and of itself that Justin came out.

It was not groundbreaking that Justin was a teen coming out.

It was not groundbreaking that he was a teen coming out and kissing his new boyfriend on national television.

It was groundbreaking because Justin Suarez was effeminate. He was sprightly. He was bitchy, catty, sweet, stylish, sometimes foppish. There was often very little difference between his character and Haley on Modern Family! He was a ladyboy coming out, kissing and experiencing first love. I couldn't have been more proud of both Justin and his portrayer Mark Indelicato. But mostly I was proud of UB producer and writer Silvio Horta.

Horta had the balls to bring us gay characters that were not "straight acting" or "butch" and he made us fall in love with them, identify with them and root for them. Horta managed to create a show where the not altogether masculine character could be over the top, queeny, sexual and still deserving of romance and love. How refreshing to see a little queen not only have hormones but also same said queen gets to act on those hormones! Ugly Betty broke the boundaries of what was 'palatable' (a most distasteful word) with nary a bit of self consciousness. It strut about in it's various time slots over the years, just like it's gay characters - being whoever the fuck it wanted to be.

When sweet little Justin had his first technicolor kiss, I thought, 'Jesus had this happened on Wednesday night at 9:00 when I was in highschool, my whole life woulda been a little different.' Every day that a gay marriage ban is enforced is another day that our government, our nation tells young gay people that they are not worthy of love. I am in awe of the Ugly Betty folks for telling them otherwise... and for letting them know you can be full of sass to boot.

Love Me,

Dan