Pen and Ink

Crossing the Alley.

I set out this morning for a two hour drive across Florida to the west coast of the state. With all that time on my hand, I had a chance to pretty much write this post in my head. It's mostly a stream of consciousness.

The drive was made more pleasant by the fact that I had a new CD to listen to -- Time Between the Time, the Laurie Beechman album that M sent to me (see yesterday's post). It's been so long since I lost my first copy, it was like listening to the album for the first time. What a treat!

Driving from east to west in South Florida requires one to drive across Interstate 75, otherwise known as Alligator Alley. It's a vast area of nothingness. Just swampland, exotic wildlife, and, I was surprised to note, a patch where there were cows grazing.

Here's one of pictures I snapped along the way.

The first time I crossed this road was in the early/mid eighties. As I remember it, there were lots of signs admonishing drivers not to stop and to stay in their cars. Back then the roadway was only two lanes. Today, its been increased to four lanes and there are now fences some yards on either side. So the alligators stay on their side, we stay on ours.

I did get to see some wildlife along the way. Yes, there were gators. I noticed one swimming and a whole bunch sunning themselves on the banks of the river. There were also lots of birds. It was kinda weird -- there were these fairly large black birds, sitting on the ground or on branches, with their wings spread, as if they were ready for flight. Peculiar.

I hit the west coast without incident, made it to my hotel. After a bite of lunch, I went to my conference. Learned a little bit and then went to a cocktail party and casual dinner. While I work as a fundraiser, which by its very nature requires me to be a "people person," I actually hate cocktail parties where I don't know anyone. I'm a pretty shy person around strangers and very quite in large groups. So I stayed a little bit, and then took off.

What strikes me about this part of the state is that everything seems pretty new. Near the hotel was a brand new retail development. It was an interesting mix of big box stores and mall-type stores constructed in a faux-downtown style setting. It was a pleasant night, so I wandered around a few stores.

And now, here I sit, in my hotel room, writing this post and watching E!   

On the road again.

Well, I'm off to Bonita Springs, Florida this morning to attend a conference. I'll be there through Saturday morning, when I drive up to Sarasota to meet John. He's got shows on Saturday evening and Sunday afternoon. So we'll spend a nice weekend away from the craziness of everyday life.

It will be great from a professional perspective to get away and meet some new colleagues. But what I'm really looking forward to is Sarasota.

It's been years since I was there. Once upon a time I went with some regularity to visit a former boss and friend, Claire. But since she passed away, I haven't had any reason to go.

The jewel of Sarasota is Siesta Key, right along the coast. More specifically, Siesta Beach is recognized as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. At the "Great International White Sand Beach Challenge" held in 1987 (who knew there was such a thing), it was noted for having the "whitest and finest sand in the world."

Unlike beaches elsewhere that are made up primarily of coral, Siesta Beach's sand is 99% quartz. Even on the hottest days, the sand is so reflective that it feels cool underfoot. (It's also very, very fine and a bitch to get off your body.) It's estimated that the sand on Siesta Beach is millions of years old, and started in the Appalachians and flowed down the rivers and was eventually deposited on the shores of Siesta Key.

Hopefully the weather will warm up and I can actually enjoy the beach and the Gulf waters.

Since I'll be away, though, I'm not sure how much I'll be able to write. I'm bringing the 'puter with me, but forgive me if I don't post a lot in the next five days.

Who needs Jessica Fletcher?

I love Angela Lansbury, but who needs her alter ego, Jessica Fletcher (Murder She Wrote, as if I really need to explain) to solve a mystery?

Within 11 minutes (!!!) of posting about my mystery gift giver, the kind soul (and fellow musical theater queen) emailed me. To be honest, I suspected him all along and was going to call him tonight, but I figured it would be fun to write about it.

Anyway, thanks again M!

First that, now this.

A couple of weeks ago I had a stalker/secret admirer. Today, I discovered that I have a secret gift giver. And since I haven't met the stalker, I know that the two are not connected.

Last weekend I wrote a little tribute post about Laurie Beechman. I listed her albums, and make a little side remark that I had loaned one of them -- Time Between the Time -- to someone eons ago, but never got it back.

Today, in my mailbox, was a little package from Amazon.com -- but from the UK. What what did it contain?  Lo and behold, it was a copy of Time Between the Time.  There was no note, no gift card, no nothing. Whoever sent it knew my address, so obviously they know me and I know them.

So, I'm excited to have this CD back in my collection. And the timing is perfect, as I am driving to the west coast of Florida tomorrow for a conference. Now I'll have the chance to get reaquainted with this album again!

So to my phantom gift giver: THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU! And please, reveal yourself to me so that I might personally thank you.

Tough questions.

Good theater often asks difficult questions that make you think. Really good theater can make you squirm.

Such was the experience the other night when I saw the world premiere of A House With No Walls by Thomas Gibbons.

It was inspired by a real, present-day controversy in Philadelphia. Back in the earliest days of this country, George Washington staffed the executive mansion in Philly, which of course was the capitol at the time, with nine slaves, including his wife's personal attendant, Ona Judge. He coverted an open shed next to the manion into housing for three of the slaves, including Ona's half-brother, Austin. The small room was called the "slave quarters."

Two hundred years after the capitol moved to Washington, the site of the mansion and slave quarters was all but forgotten, with the last vestigages of the president's home lost when Independence Mall was created in 1952. However, when the new Liberty Bell Center opened in 2003, public debate over the irony of a museum celebrating liberty on the same spot where Washington housed his slaves was just starting to gain attention, thanks to the efforts of activists and historians.

Thus is the inspiration for A House With No Walls. The characters are largely fictionalized, save Ona (magnificently portrayed by Kameisha Duncan) and Austin Sheaun McKinney). Two of the central figures are Cadence Lane, a conservative, African-American historian (Karen Stephens) and Salif Camara, an African-American activist (Joseph W. Lane).

Cadence and Salif are squared off on opposing sides of the question, "Which elements of our past will we commemorate and which will we erase?" For Salif, nothing short of a replication of the slave quarters next to the museum will be acceptable. For her part, Cadence feels that commemorating the site through a museum exhibition will suffice. From those positions emerge difficult debate.

Playwrite Gibbons doesn't stop there. He makes audience members -- especially those who are white -- squirm by posing still more questions through the relationship between Cadence and her colleague/former lover Allen Rosen, a liberal -- and white -- historian. They pry open the issues of guilt and forgiveness. How much guilt should we carry for the sins of our forefathers? And does anyone -- black or white -- have the courage to say, "Enough. Let's put this behind us"?

It is a powerful drama by Gibbons (who was in the audience for the premiere Friday night) and incredible performances by Duncan and Stephens.

For my part, I left squirming.

Winter has arrived.

After two days of rainy weather, it seems that winter has finally arrived in South Florida.

Brrrr...it's low 50s right now. I'm in my long sleeve cotton jersey t-shirt and my long cotton pajama bottoms.  Too damned cold!

(Can you see my tongue firmly planted in cheek? Can you tell that I don't have anything else to write about today?)

Butt-plug.

I just learned how to imbed YouTube clips into this here blog, so indulge me for a little bit. Besides, I have a wicked stomach ache tonight, so I'm really not in the mood to write.

John found this on a site called theTravisty. It's a hysterical phony phone call. Generally I can't stand morning drive-time radio shows (except NPR), but some of the crank calls they make are pretty damned funny. This one is hysterical.

Au naturale.

"Inhale, hands together in front of your heart chakra. Exhale, extend your arms up, look up at the ceiling and slightly arch your back. Inhale, gently bend at the waist, knees straight, arms dangling."

I've just come back from a two hour yoga and meditation class. It had been a couple of months since I practiced, so I'm a little sore.

Yoga has been a part of my life, on and off, for about six years. I was practicing faithfully for a few years, taking classes a couple of times a week, alternating with Pilates mat classes. Since I moved to Florida. though, I haven't gone as regularly. And let me tell you, I feel it...physically and mentally.

But I have a little confession about yoga. I feel close to you, my readers, so I'll come clean.

Most of the yoga classes that I've attended have been done in the nude. As in naked. As in no clothes.

"Why," you ask?

I'm not sure, to be honest.

It all started about five years ago in Boston. I'd been practicing yoga for a little bit and someone told me about "naked yoga." It sounded interesting. I have no problem taking off my clothes to go to the beach (I have a fierce bathing suit allergy) or swimming in someone's pool, so why not?

I was a little nervous attending my first class. It was in a dance studio in Cambridge with about 18 guys. People came in, took off their clothes, and sat down on their yoga mats, stretching and preparing for class. There was some chatter, as a lot of the guys knew each other. Soon our instructor, a former ballet dancer, came in, took off his clothes, and started putting us through a series of stretches and warm ups before we began the postures.

It was all...well...very natural.

I mentioned the class to two of my gay neighbors up the street and they were intrigued. So I brought them with me one night and they were hooked. It soon became our weekly ritual. We'd drive together, take class, and hit the Indian restaurant below the studio for dinner. I really got to know them quite well through this experience. Eventually, our little dinner group merged with a slightly bigger dinner group and before we knew it, we were 10 guys dining regularly after class.

When I moved to Florida, I found a similar class in Fort Lauderdale. But I didn't care for the instructor's style or the vibe of the class. Then about two years ago I heard there was a guy starting classes in Miami. I checked it out and knew that I had found a new yoga home. The men were friendly, and in fact, the first person I met when I entered the studio is the person I now call my best friend and vice versa.

Todd's classes are generally no more than 10. He, too, is a former ballet dancer, and is one of the kindest, gentlest souls I have ever met. His particular way of yoga practice calls for relaxation between poses, so the pace is gentle. He's a caring guide and infuses just a bit of spirituality into his teaching.

But back to your question of why.  Why not?

For me, yoga is about getting in touch with my mind, my body, and my breath. Clothes get in the way, literally and figuratively. There's also an energy that is shared among the men in the class.

Now I know what you're thinking. Get a bunch of naked gay men in a room and they're be going at it within minutes.  Well, after five years of attending these kinds of classes, I've yet to see an erection. There's no sexual energy in the room, as people are there to practice yoga. We don't gauk at each other, we don't leer, we don't stare. We work on our poses and we enjoy each other's company.

Try it sometime, by yourself, in the privacy of your own home. See what you think.

Ommm...shanti.  Namaste.

Stand by your man.

Some folks dream.

I fell in love with a woman once.

It was 1982 at the Royale Theater in New York City. Her name was Laurie Beechman. She was starring as the Narrator in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

"Some folks dream of the wonders they'll do, before their time on this planet is through." 

As soon as she walked out on stage, I was captivated. Her presence on stage was grand. Her movements and vocalizations, expressive. And could she belt them out with the best of them.

My affair with Laurie grew as the show proceeded. For those who haven't seen Joseph, know that it's relatively short. To extend the time, there's an elaborate finale recap of many of the numbers. During the original Broadway production, the cast came up the aisles singing.

I was sitting one seat off the aisle, next to my friend Susan. Laurie came up our aisle during the finale. After, Sue said, "You should have seen the look on your face!"  I was enthralled. After the show, I did something I had never done before and haven't done since: waited by the stage door to get her autograph. I still have it hanging on my wall today, some 25 years later.

From the first time that she walked out on the stage as "Star to Be" in the original Broadway production of Annie, theater audiences knew that Laurie Beechman certainly was a star to be. Her belter voice and magnetic acting abilities caught the attention of manh, including Andrew Lloyd Weber. He tapped her to originate the role of the Narrator in the first Broadway production of Joseph. She created the role of Grizabella in the first national tour of Cats, and took over on Broadway when Betty Buckley left the cast. Laurie was with the show for five years, and returned numerous times, including special performances. (I believe she performed the role more times than any other actress.) In 1990, she joined the cast of Les Miserables in the role of Fantine.

Laurie achieved success in New York's cabaret community, and recorded four solo albums including Listen to My Heart (1990); Time Between the Time (1993; I used to have a copy, but stupid me loaned it to someone and never got it back); The Andrew Lloyd Weber Album (1995), and No One is Alone (1996). At least one of these is now out of print.

Sadly, after a nine-year battle with ovarian cancer, Laurie passed away on March 8, 1998.

All my "theater-queen" stuff aside, I'm honored that I ever had the chance to see this amazing talent on the stage.

A couple of years ago, my friend Erik and I introduced each other to an important woman in each of our lives. He gave me Jane Olivor. I sent him a cd mix of Laurie's music, starting with her song from Annie and Joseph's Coat. He called and said it nearly brought him to tears, especially hearing some of the tracks from Listen to My Heart.

"Some folks dream of the wonders they'll do, before their time on this planet is through. Some folks don't have anything planned. They live their life with their heads in the sand."

She died way to young. But I hope she felt like she accomplished some of her dreams.