Livin' the Dream

Originally posted on www.cbtheatre.org

My fellow actors and I have a saying between us: “Livin’ the dream.” This is the most common response to the question, “How are you?” and it answers a lot.

We went to school because we were chasing a dream of becoming more than we were. At one time or another we were inspired to become artists, and we undertook an educational challenge that would hone, amend, and strengthen our talents. I became an artist because I wanted to inspire in other people the same dynamic experiences that books and movies and music and television and video games invoked in me as an audience.

When I was in middle school my primary inspiration was Star Trek. I owned a copy of the Star Trek Technical Manual and a copy of The Klingon Dictionary. I wore a Next Gen communicator pin on my jacket. These things pulled the fantasy out of the television and allowed me to carry it around at all times; though the ownership, display, and perusal of these materials did nothing for my popularity. I was already an outsider due to my physical size (I was six feet tall by the age of twelve), and my non-mainstream behavior served to keep my schoolmates at a distance that was, if thin, certainly palpable.

Worf was my favorite character because I felt I could best identify with him. He was an outsider. Physically different from his colleagues, intimidating, and had no one to share his passions. For Worf those passions included duty, honor, and the culture of his ancestry. For me those passions included what was deemed to be (among my schoolmates) a derisive nerdy sub-culture with which – like Worf – I could rarely find someone who shared it.

Flash forward twenty-two years. I’m at the end of my academic career when a classmate passes on an audition notice for A Klingon Christmas Carol. This . . . this was nerdiness doubled. No, trebled. Someone had taken the Dickens classic and merged it with a far future epic. Of course I had always wanted to be an actor on a Star Trek property in my youth, but what were the chances of that? Now I was not only a trained actor, but a trained martial and stage combatant as well as experienced in studying various foreign languages and English dialects. Never had I been in a better position to tackle any role as this.

When I was cast, I did the most epic happy dance ever.

My first involvement with the play was to attend the 19^th annual meeting of the Klingon Language Institute. Three days of hanging out with people who . . . there are no words. Dedicated fandom doesn’t cover it. Jovial souls isn’t strong enough. Kindhearted doesn’t scratch the surface. I was also extremely impressed by the level of intelligence; I have a Master’s degree, and I’m pretty certain I had the lowest level of education in the room.

As inadequate as these words are to describe the people who attended the meeting, imagine what it was like for me to finally discover this group of people and count myself among them. Also in attendance was Marc Okrand, the linguist who authored the Klingon Dictionary which had been sitting on my bookshelf since my thirteenth birthday.

No aspect of what you may call “nerd culture” is compartmentalized. A Klingon Christmas Carol finds the intersection points of two beloved classic properties and blends their worlds, strengthening the individual value of both. My small contribution was, after spending three days building up the nerve, to ask Dr. Okrand how to say “Your argument is invalid” in Klingon, thus creating a tighter bond between Star Trek and one of my favorite internet memes. I’m proud to say that the phrase (literally translated as “Your fighting technique is obsolete”) is now an official idiomatic expression in Klingon.

So awesome.

Rehearsals for the play began about six weeks after the KLI meeting, and again the feeling of coming home washed over me in a way I’ve never felt. I’m in a room full of people who are both professional actors and Star Trek fans. One of the first things we did was, at director Eric Van Tassell’s suggestion, to introduce ourselves by talking about what things we’re nerds for (sports, hobbies, stories, and so on). Historically this is the kind of thing I always kept quiet about, so being in a room with nearly two dozen like-minded people was so refreshing and relieving. I found comrades-in-arms on so many topics I’ll be stunned if I don’t walk away from this production with new lifelong friends.

The first week’s worth of rehearsals exposed an even deeper well of appreciation for this production. The script contains references not only to classic Star Trek tropes and ideologies, but also contains one of my favorite quotes from Shakespeare. We had two language intensive rehearsals, four hours apiece, with a third on the way. We aren’t merely learning to pronounce this language, we’re learning vocabulary and conjugation and sentence structure. We have movement rehearsals as well, which aren’t merely stage combat intensives, but also examinations of how this culture of Klingons walks, stands, sits, marches. None of it is easy, but I learned a long time ago that nothing worth doing is easy.

And this show is certainly worth doing. Of all the things that I adore and have been inspired by in this production, I was most struck by something Commedia Beauregard Artistic Director Chris Kidder-Mostrom (who is also the playwright) said to us early in the process. Why do we do this show? We do it because it affects lives. It affects the lives of the people who do the show, and it affects the lives of the people who see the show.

Never have I heard a more altruistic reason for doing art. We’re going on a journey together, the artists and the audience, and we’re building an experience that will leave us all changed for the better. Being a part of this production is both a validation of the child I used to be and the adult I’ve become. This show is a validation of every child and former child who has and will bear witness to its execution. This show is worth every drop of effort, and I believe in it with all my heart.

Today, when my colleagues ask me “How are you?” and I answer, “Livin’ the dream,” I’m honored to say I’m actually living several dreams at a time. And perhaps inspiring the birth of new dreams as well.

Qapla’.

Knob Job

For those of you who haven’t experienced it, many Chicago apartments are well over 100 years old.  They go through renovations from time to time, but more often than not this merely consists of a fresh slather of paint over the previous layers.

 

It also never seems to be applied by a painter, exactly; the evidence of my eyes suggests it was a nine-year-old trying to knock out the job in an afternoon with a rubber spatula.  It’s uneven and dries and hardens in long drips, like amber raindrops running down a windowpane caught in a freeze frame.  From observation of places where the paint layer is particularly thin, or has chipped away, it’s clear that my off-white dining room used to be blue, my blue bathroom used to be pink, and the strike plates on the doors didn’t used to be painted.  Next to the light switch in my bedroom the paint has chipped away so deeply I can see the previous five colors that room used to be; it’s like cutting down a tree and counting the rings. They paint over electrical outlets and picture hangers and the pocket change left on a windowsill.

 

There are no straight lines in my apartment.  Windows are cut into the wall at odd angles not exactly in line with the ceiling. Sometimes the ceiling itself has the barest slant.  This makes hanging a picture evenly a task to be completed not with a level, or some other craftsman’s tool, but rather with one eye nearly shut and the other eye bulging (think Popeye) and a fair amount of compromise.

 

Every door in my place has been kicked in at least once.  Long splinters of wood are missing from the jambs, clearly ripped away by the bolt and replaced with more paint.  Sometimes I indulge in the fantasy of a Prohibition-era thug holed up in my bathroom while impeccably dressed cops or capos kick at the latch until the door explodes inward.  Collars are grabbed and sneering faces are shoved into cowering ones.  Maybe someone was even thrown out of a window.

 

I feel less like I’m in an apartment and more like I’m in a tree fort with electricity.  It’s pretty awesome.

 

The quality of repair (if it can be referred to as such) once led to a mildly embarrassing situation.  I had been living here for about four months before I had my first guest – it was our second date.  We were watching Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (I don’t go in for rom coms, thankyouverymuch) when I excused myself to the bathroom.  As this was the first time I had company, this was the first time I had need to shut my bathroom door.

 

Trying to pee quietly when a potential romance is brewing in the other room is harrowing enough.  It’s a common enough situation, I suppose, so I presume what followed has very little precedent in the overall world of dating life.  I tried to leave the bathroom, but when I grabbed the knob I heard something tiny and metal hit the tile.  The knob pulled easily enough, but the door stayed shut.  The knob had come off in my hand.

 

I stared in disbelief at the object I held – a clear pseudo-sphere that had been masquerading as the key to my egress and back to my potential make-out session.  The door retained a hole where the knob had been, a semi-perfect round lip that matched the “O” of surprise in my face.

 

This did not just happen, I thought to myself.  It didn’t help.  I tried pawing at the door plate ineffectually like my cat does when she’s on one side and wants to be on the other.  That didn’t help either.  A square shaped prong jutted out from the hole where the knob used to be like a mocking tongue.  Nyah nyah, the door seemed to say.  You’re stuck fella, and you’re not getting out of this on your own.

 

I briefly considered calling to my date for help, but the bootheel of my pride snuffed out that glowing ember of hope before it could catch fire.  I squeezed the contemptuous prong with thumb and forefinger, barely able to obtain a grip, and twisted with the might of growing panic.  I quickly determined that only the strength of the wrath of God could get that to turn without a tool.  The consideration to call for help arose from my depths once more, but I shoved its head below the surface to drown.  Visions of the door crashing in attending high drama were replaced with visions of my date demurely letting me out as one would a pet who was put away for the day to prohibit pee stains from occurring on the carpet.

 

I am a man, I thought to myself.  A macho man who has done home repair.  A man who was suave enough to talk himself into a second date.  I can get out of this.  But these thoughts were only shouts in the storm compared to the simple plank of wood, securely fixed, that stood between myself and the hallway.

 

Suddenly I remembered the ting! I heard at the start of my little adventure.  I searched the floor and found a tiny screw.  Bitty.  Insignificant.  Barely worth notice.  But worthy enough to be shoved through an equally tiny hole in the doorknob, grip the metal protrusion, and twist my way to freedom.

 

Success!  I got the door open and suppressed a derisive cry of victory.  The first order of business was to grab a screwdriver and fix the knob with, at least, the illusion of permanence.  I couldn’t have my date suffer the same indignity I just had.  I was simply grateful she didn’t go in first.

 

I rejoined her on the couch where we finished the movie and ignored the fact that I a) took too long in the bathroom and b) developed a problem in there that could only be solved with a fucking toolbox. 

 

I’m lucky I have other things going for me.

Sacred

I used to have a Perfect Sunday.

I’d wake up around 8:00 without benefit of an alarm clock.  For years I’d worked a 9-5 job in the loop, and had finally acclimated to shifting my schedule to living by the sun instead of the moon.  With no meatspace social outlet (my only friends were on-line) I never had a reason to stay up or out late. 

The first order of the day was to brew my special Sunday Coffee:  HEB brand Texas Pecan, first gifted to me by my elder sister in a care package to celebrate my new apartment, moved into the same week I came to grad school.  It was not the same coffee I would drink during the rest of the week.  This coffee was special.  Tastier.  Drank for the sheer pleasure of the flavor instead of a simple morning jump start.

As that began to brew I’d begin making breakfast to extend and compliment the orally hedonistic experience initiated by the coffee.  Could be I’d make a batch of Kirby Lane Pancakes (again, made from the mix sent me by my sister).  Could be an omelet using a modified Mom’s scrambled egg recipe plus a compliment of red onion, bell peppers, and mushrooms.  Most frequently it was the Grilled Cheese Fried Egg Sandwich Om Nom Nom.  This was an egg, sunny side up, added to a slice or two of Swiss cheese, melty and dripping from between the buttery toast coated with just a hint of mayo inside.  Drippy, greasy, delicious.

Post breakfast would find me sitting at my computer, sipping coffee, sucking a cigarette, and checking the latest batch of Postsecrets.  My whole morning was soundtracked by soft jazz using iTunes Genius to create a playlist based upon Dave Brubeck’s Take Five, reminding me starkly of the kind of jazz my father would play during my childhood.

Coffee mug empty, cigarette stubbed to ash, and the last Sunday Secret read, I’d check the nearest movie theatre for earliest showtimes.  About 20 minutes north of me is a theater whose first showing of each movie each day is $5.50.  It’s a first run theatre, so it’s large and comfortable and not a bad evening spot (there’s even a piano bar in there, complete with a full kitchen and pool table).  But getting there early on a Sunday meant I got to watch whatever I wanted without a massive crowd to shuffle through taking up the best seats and talking through the movie.

It didn’t matter what I went to see.  Indeed, the point of going to the movies wasn’t ever about the movie itself so much as the event of going to the movies.  To sit in the dim and watch people file in.  To catch the teases of other movies that promised to excite, to inspire, to amuse.  To watch a story unfold before me and pay attention to the art of action, of direction, of design.  To sit through the end credits like my mom always used to do, listening to the final selections of the score.

I’m discovering a lot of my favorite things are those which bring me closer to family.  My parents in particular.

It used to be that I’d only go to the movies at night; they’d be the final event of the evening, frequently the last showing of the day.  Though it’s been many years since I had that particular habit, some part of me still expects to emerge from the darkness of a movie house to the darkness of the night, head home and straight to bed.  Thus I was always refreshed walking out of my Sunday Morning Movie; there was still so much daylight!

Next I’d hit the grocery store and pick up the perishables I’d diminished during the course of the previous week, then head home and immediately change into some exercise clothes before I’d lose momentum, grab my bicycle, and ride down Lakefront Trail to Navy Pier.  It’s an eleven mile trip from my home to the pier, and I’d ride both as a meditation and exercise routine, trying to race south as fast as my legs could take me.  I’d rest at the far end of the pier for ten minutes or so, taking in the boats and the skyline and watching tourists take pictures of one another.  Finally I’d walk down the pier counting all the different languages of conversation around me, listening to the family friendly tunes piped in over the speakers, the squawk of the seagulls, and smelling the pretzels and the roasted almonds and the biomass.  Finally I’d cap my ears with headphones once more and ride home to a Pavlovian induced exercise focus.

Still riding high from the elevated endorphins of exercise, I’d start cleaning my apartment.  This could take minutes or hours depending on whether I felt my place needed a spot check or a scour.  Stone Temple Pilots would press me while I began in the kitchen, cleaning from the countertops down to the floor.  A broom and a mop would take me from the kitchen into the dining room, then south to my bathroom and bedroom, the hallway, and finally the furniture and floor of my living room.  Somewhere in the middle of this I’d halt everything to take a smoke break once Sour Girl played, and I’d take a moment to sing along and reflect on the Greatest Hits of Ending Relationships.  Sometimes I’d listen to Foo Fighters instead and do the same thing during Stranger Things Have Happened.

My apartment finally cleaned and ready for company should I ever convince anyone to come over, I’d shower and put on my favorite In for the Night clothes; flannel pajama pants, a rather baggy long sleeved shirt that makes me feel like I’m seven wearing one of my dad’s shirts, and puffy slippers made to look like running shoes.

Finally I’d put on some headphones – it was getting late, after all, and I don’t want to use up too much goodwill with my neighbors – and crank the volume on the Foo Fighters’ Live at Wembley Stadium DVD from 2008.  I’d fill a 32 ounce cup with ice, Jim Beam (white label), and Coke and start cooking all the lunches I would need for the week.  This would involve the thawing/seasoning/searing of some chunks of chicken breast, mixing up some penne and devising a Sauce of the Week.  This was different each and every time as I was always too drunk to remember what I’d done in previous weeks, and it was almost always freaking fantastic.

Due to the drinking, the effects of Sunday didn’t end until sometime Monday morning.  I’d awake and try to reconstruct hazy memories of the previous night’s kitchen activities, frequently in a mild panic as to whether I’d left something uncooked sitting on the counter all night.  More often than not I was delighted to discover what a joy my drunken self took in housekeeping duties.  Nearly every Monday morning I’d awake to discover my kitchen cleaned, dishes washed and put away, lunches portioned out into individual containers in the fridge, and coffee brewed and awaiting my travel mug.

Then one day I found myself in the frequent company of a lovely lady who took unwitting ownership of my time and attention, and the events of my Sunday Ritual became a thing of memory.   I still do these things in fragments as the rest of my life has since been complimented with IRL friends and hobbies.  But lately I’m longing for a return to the things that used to matter.

Perhaps next week a variation of this will reemerge. 

Dispelling the Notion

You know that ultra-romantic notion of “one true love”?  Bullshit.  I’ve been in nine major relationships (as opposed to the occasional fling), and each time I have loved as deeply as I am capable.  I bent all my energy and will toward those women.  I fought for them with every method, tool, and weapon in my heart’s arsenal.  I screwed up more than once, and in more than one way, and sooner or later I lost each of them.

 

I loved them each in different ways for different reasons, because of course I did; no two people are the same, nor was I the same man each time I met someone new.

 

I’ve heard people talk about their first love being the greatest, the definition by which all future relationships are judged.  And that first breakup is frequently regarded as the most painful.  Again, I call bullshit.

 

I have to say each successive breakup is harder than the last.  I recognize that I may be approaching the idea from the wrong angle, but it hurts more because I think I’m supposed to have this whole relationship thing figured out by now.  I’m supposed to know how to behave, how to treat my partner with love and respect and keep the magic and excitement alive.  Each time a relationship fails I try to figure out where I went wrong, what I did that made them want to leave.   Each time it hurts worse because I still haven’t found the woman who would ultimately choose to fix a problem with me than start over with someone else.

 

And every time it ends I ask myself: do I have the strength to do this again?  How many more times can I handle a heartbreak?

 

The answer always comes back the same: at least one more time.

 

If there is a karmic balance to be achieved, I can pretend this keeps happening because I was very selfish and disrespectful early on, and I’m paying for it now.  If that’s true, I firmly believe I’ve completely and totally paid for my sins.  Which is not to say I’m karmically due a perfect happiness from here on out; rather I’m back to a level playing field.

 

So here I am again, Universe.  Arms open wide and ready to give as good as I get.  Bring it on.

Mister Boddy

I host burlesque shows, and I adore it.  I love the community.  I love the attitudes of people brought together by sexy, sexy fun times.  There’s a perception of debauchery, but really it’s wrought a sense of celebration in All Things Human.

Burlesque is the acceptance of all people.  All body types are represented, all shapes and sizes and ethnicities and attitudes, all definitions of the phrase “sexual identity.”  I have never felt more comfortable being my true self than I feel when I’m with the people of burlesque.

I’ve been overweight most of my life.  This isn’t to say I’m unhealthy by a medical definition, but I’ve typically had more cushion around my middle than I’ve been comfortable with.  I’ve always known what it would take to get into the shape I want, but I’ve rarely been able to exercise the necessary discipline to obtain and maintain success.

But in burlesque, it doesn’t matter.  I’ve learned to accept the fact that as long as you’re comfortable with yourself, there is someone out there who wants exactly what you are.  Several someones, in point of fact.  The more I can feel accepted by others, the more I accept myself as-is.  It’s a lovely, self-sustaining cycle.

In mid-March of this year I was given a present.  I had recently been honored with the task to host the 3^rd annual Windy City Burlesque Festival, and a woman very close to my heart presented me with a gift of celebration; a vest and tie to wear on stage (which I wear shirtless, because sex).  Both items were of high quality to begin with, but they had her added touch of decoration that made them extra special.

And the vest didn’t fit.  I tried to put it on, but as much as I sucked in my belly and stretched the fabric the buttons still had a good four inches of torso to cross before they could reach the buttonholes.  It was awfully embarrassing.

With three months until the festival, I began to cut weight.  I lifted weights, I jogged, I cycled, I cut loose in an African Dance class.  For the first month I exercised an average of two hours a day, six days a week.  When my schedule became too cramped for the gym I switched to an all salad diet, and my torso began to melt like a candle.

I was able to button the vest in time for the festival.  When I’m gaining weight and denying it I keep my belt tighter than it should be, and the notches look like the horrified screams of the melting Nazi faces in Raiders of the Lost Ark.  Not so with this vest; I was still a little too big for it, but not grossly so.  Many out-of-town attendees from the previous year’s festival noted I had lost a lot.  The pride I felt in such a personal victory was a delightful antidote to the (unrelated) emotional distress I’d been through about that same time.

But with the festival now two months behind me I find myself way behind in the measured structure of weight loss.  I’m doing well at keeping a maintenance level; I haven’t put any weight back on, but I’m not losing any more either.  I’m pleased with this, but I still have further to go before I get to where I want to be.  Before I look the way I want to look.

But why, with so much acceptance and support from my fellow burlesquers (presently the most important people in my life), do I still feel the need to alter who and what I am?  Two reasons.

First; because I know I can.  I love setting physical goals for myself and achieving them.  The last time I lost a significant amount of weight (three years ago), I was running 7-8 miles per day.  A few months prior I could barely do two.  I love watching myself change.  I love feeling the difference in how much further (and easier) I can run during a 34 minute playlist compared with the previous month.   I revel in the kudos from people I haven’t seen in a while who remark at my success.  It’s a validation of hard work having paid off. 

Second; well, second is more shallow.  I’m finally at the point where once again I’m ready for romance (I think/I hope/who-the-fuck-knows, but I’m gonna try it again anyway and find out).  This inspires me to be the best version of myself I can be.  I want to be wholly worthy of Ms. Right, whomever and wherever she is, and I know physical aesthetics are a part of that.  They’re a part of the initial stages of attraction.  I want to be seen and known and loved for who I am in my heart and mind and soul, but I don’t want those deeper parts of who I am to be overlooked because “he’s cute, but chubby.”

Frankly, I don’t like having these shallow thoughts.  Maybe they’re approaching my goals from the wrong motivational angle, but not liking these thoughts doesn’t make them go away.
So now, while I have the time and the resources to do so, I’m getting back to it.  Cycling.  Running.  Lifting.  Bag-punching. 

All in the vein of holding myself to a higher standard, and hopes of a brighter future all around.

Ally to Activist

A few weeks ago I had an experience I’ve not quite been able to digest fully until now; I helped prevent a man from killing himself.

I was standing on the platform of the Belmont CTA station at the tail of Pride weekend.  Stevie Ray Vaughan was in my ears and I had just buried my nose into a game of Words With Friends when something strange registered out of the corner of my eye.  I looked up to see a man standing so close to the edge of the platform that only his heels were on the concrete; the rest were dangling off.

At first I took him for drunk and stupid.  It was about 2:30 in the morning, and the streets were filled with hundreds of people staggering their ways from one locale to the next.  I took off my headphones and put my phone into my pocket so I could be prepared to catch this man if he started to fall.  Then I noticed a wallet and cell phone on the ground beside him, and it occurred to me I had seen him drop those while the brunt of my attention was checking the latest Facebook updates a moment before.

I approached the man, placed my hand on his chest, and asked him, “Why don’t you take a step back?”  Finally I started to take in what this man looked like.  He was my height, which is a rare thing for me to run across.  Short blond hair, a piercing in the side of his nose, and huge holes in his earlobes that could only have held some huge gauge earrings; big enough to get your finger through.  I noticed a trace of silver glitter by his right eye.  And his eyes were dead.  Cold.  I’d suppose he was, at that moment, virtually incapable of seeing what was in front of him. 

I had to ask him to step back a few times before he did, but it was a grudging step that left him inches from the edge.  He kept pointing ahead of him, I thought to the other platform.  Then I realized he was actually pointing at the rails.  I kept asking, never removing my hand, and finally he stepped back to a safe distance. 

At that moment a woman on his other side, who had been trying to figure out what she should do, also came up to him and tried to hand him back his things.  “Take these,” she kept saying.  He regarded them for an instant and only answered, “Give them to my mom.”

She kept insisting he take back his belongings, and finally emotion crawled into his eyes.  It was a deep, crushing pain.  He turned to her and demanded to know why he should take his things back.  “My mom doesn’t even know me,” he said with a deep anguish.  “Do you even know my name?” he asked accusingly of the woman.  She shook her head.  “Do you know my name?” he asked of me.  Suddenly I became aware I was holding his wallet and phone.  “I only just met you,” I told him.

At that point the fight went out of him and he collapsed to the ground against the barricade beside the escalator.  The woman tried to engage him in conversation, and I made sure she felt confident to stay there with him while I told her I was going to try and find an officer.

Back on the ground level I caught the attention of the CTA worker sitting in the kiosk.  When I told him there was a man trying to fall onto the tracks, he leapt into action.  I led him back to the man, who at this point was standing and looked like he was trying to find his way downstairs.  I tried to hand him back his wallet and phone, but he wouldn’t take them.  Finally I stuffed them into the front pocket of his shorts.

The CTA worker took over from there.  He engaged the man like he was professionally trained to handle a suicide attempt.  Told the man his name, asked for his (I didn’t catch either).  Led him downstairs.  On the way down I heard the would-be jumper confront the worker, “Did you come out to your mom today?  Tell her she was never gonna have grandkids?”  The words stabbed me in the heart, and all I could think was how much worse it was for him.

I decided that was about all I could handle.  It had been a long day, he seemed to be in safe hands, and my train home was finally pulling into the station.  I got on.

Immediately I felt selfish for leaving.  All I did was stop him from immediate danger.  I didn’t convince him to live, I simply stopped him from dying.  Once.  I realized I had no way of knowing where he went, what he did, or what he wanted to do.  All I know of him is that he had been rejected by his mother in the most fundamental way, and that his despair was so great he believed he had no one else in the world to turn to for help.

As a straight man I have always felt out of place when it came to advocating equal rights for gay people.  I’ve never been disenfranchised, mocked, or harassed for my sexuality.  Thus I never felt I had the power or passion fed by those experiences to do justice for the fight.  I’d stop harassment when I came across it, but that was about it.  I suppose I felt I had no place.

But that’s where the “A” in “LGBTQA” comes from – Allies.  That speaks to me there is an acceptance, an understanding that includes all people.  My presence is welcome.  This isn’t a gay issue; hell, just look at that acronym.  It keeps getting longer because human sexuality is such a complex creature.  There keeps being a new way to identify, a more specific way describe one’s identity. (Note - since originally writing this three years ago, I've come to learn that the A more commonly stands for Asexual. I'm still proud to be an ally, however).

This is a human issue.  It affects us all.  It’s not about gay rights, or gay marriage.  It's about rights.  It’s about marriage.  Wherever you stand, however you identify, this is about you as much as it is about anyone and everyone else.  Before we are sexual beings, we are human beings.  I consider myself a person before I consider myself a straight person.  I consider you as a person before I consider your sexuality, your ethnicity, your career, your hobbies, your country of origin, your politics, your favorite movies, your sense of humor…  I firmly believe we should all belong in this frame of mind if we are to continue to progress as a species.

Step one is education.  Educate yourself.  Make material available to others.  No one is a freak, no one is a weirdo.  We’re all just people, and we all have the right to live the way we choose as long as we do not infringe upon the rights of others.

Equally important is to find your own circle of support.  I keep thinking of that poor man on the platform whose name I wish I knew.  In the deepest despair, unable to accept himself because he had placed his entire self-worth upon the opinion of just one person.  That’s too much responsibility to give to anyone, and too many things can go wrong too easily.

Finally, I’ll repeat here the thought I shared in the minutes after my encounter with this man: Be proud of who you are. Be respectful of who you're not. A man like this shouldn't want to die simply because you can't accept the way he lives his life.

Now get out there and do some good.

Failure Is A Gift

I’ve had a couple of opportunities lately to explore and examine the ramifications of a discovery I made a few years ago.

In 2005 I applied to grad school for the first time.  Despondent that my life was a dead end I reached out to a few universities in the hopes that I could begin to transition into something resembling adulthood.  I had rediscovered my passion for performance and needed more than an outlet; I needed someone, or something, to guide me to a better version of myself.

I won’t say I got nowhere, but I didn’t get in anywhere.  I was given instead an exotic and romantic opportunity to study in Moscow, and suffered a real belly drop when the opportunity was taken from me at the last minute.  Frustrated isn’t a strong enough word to convey what I felt after a year and a half on a relationship destroying, personal effects selling, cash wasting (Russian lessons instead of getting out of debt) venture.

So I came to Chicago instead, following a relationship that only survived a few months after the move.  Another relationship bloomed and suffered a long, slow death.  Jobs were won and lost, along with about forty pounds.  I got into graduate school, finally.  I found a fulfilling hobby.  I even loved and lost again (a lifelong thematic element, it seems).

I’ve spent the last couple of Saturday mornings staring at a room full of college graduates and high school seniors, many of them with fear and anxiety in their eyes as they audition for the school from which I’m about to graduate.  I’m of two minds about watching what they’re going through.  Of course it’d be nice for them to succeed, but frankly, if they’re like me… it may be better for them if they didn’t.  Not at first, anyway.

Failure is a gift.

Failure at one opportunity isn’t failure forever.  If you don’t get the job, or the university, or the audition, no one will stamp your hand and force you to choose another life path.  You don’t get this one, but there are other worthwhile paths to take.  The glorious mystery of what could have been may sharpen the pain of loss, but I’ve also secured plenty of opportunities I later regretted taking.  Or going for.  Or wanting in the first place.

If I’d made it into school the first time I would never have been to Moscow, where I affirmed my talent and passion for performance without the pressure of passing the class.  If I’d stayed in Moscow I would have forsaken an old dream for a new one, and now I live in Chicago – a place I’d wanted to be since I first visited half a lifetime ago.

And I’ve learned the lesson applies on a smaller scale, too.  I regularly host a burlesque show, a task which involves writing and performing comedy.  I’m constantly searching for the best joke and the best delivery, but no matter what I come up with it always ends up better when I fail.  A joke falls flat, or some bit of tech craps out, or a well-timed unexpected audience response throws a speed bump in my delivery.  The way I react to any of these failures grants a better audience response than anything I have ever done intentionally.

Life moves on whether you’re moving with it or not.  Pain will come either way.  But staying put in your pain instead of moving on and taking the next risk will only beget rot and stagnation.  Indeed, I can trace the origins of my every success to the failure that spawned it.  Am I happy because, or in spite of the fact that I never got my first choice?  I’ll never know.  But failure has taught me to appreciate everything I do have, and to take nothing for granted.