The Family You Choose

I never need any reminder how lucky I have been with the family I chose.

My California Road Trip, which sometimes seemed more like a shlepp down Memory Lane, reminded me of the importance of family. I don't mean the family which shares my gene pool, I mean that handful of people who, for whatever reason, have stuck with me over the years.

In fact, I don't think it is the family I chose. It is the family that chose me.

I've been lucky to have recently reconnected with a few folks with whom I grew up in Atlanta, but as these relationships hibernated for several decades, they are somewhat new to me now. So, in my mind, my oldest continuous friend is, hands down, my Claudia.

I don't remember the exact moment we met, but I do remember the exact moment I first laid eyes on her. It was my first day of Play Production class at Kennedy High in 1973. I was already nervous about my new surroundings, so when the back door of the theatre burst open, it gave me a jolt. That was just the beginning. A large rotund Latina charged down the center aisle of the theatre, in pursuit of a lanky Samoan boy. This was Los Angeles, after all. The air was filled with a robust laughter which has not changed to this day. Claudia had made the kind of entrance that any actor would dream about. But instead of entering the stage, she entered my life.

My mother had just been diagnosed with the cancer which, ten years later, would take her life. I was not free to discuss this with anyone, but subconsciously, I was longing for someone to take a strong maternalistic interest in me. Claudia did exactly that, and over the years, she has remained resolute in her determination to make my life better.

We sailed through our college years, occasionally working together onstage, but more often, having real life. When my mother succumbed to breast cancer, Claud was one who went out of her way to be there for me. That aspect of her character, to always want to fix things for others, can sometimes be overpowering, but I wouldn't trade any aspect of her personality. When, decades after we left college and we were still best friends, I moved from LA to pursue my MFA, she decided it would not stand in the way of our relationship. She has visited me a dozen times, in South Carolina and in DC, and we remain the oldest and dearest of friends. She is my family.

Similar to my experience with Claudia, I don't remember the exact moment I met Scott, though I remember the exact moment I first saw him. During my undergraduate career, I had a hell of a time getting cast in the theatre department's plays, but Scott had no such trouble. His performances in "A Flea in her Ear" and "Lysistrata" are ingrained on my memory. Somewhere during those years, we met, possibly through his partner at the time, Ric. I can remember countless evenings spent in the shoddy apartment they shared in the middle of the Valley, screaming with laughter as they entertained. Ric and Scott eventually broke up, but I remained close friends with Scott. We worked together onstage exactly once, but the experience was so spectacular that we cannot help ourselves when we are together today, 25 years later. We just have to reminisce. Scott and I have a very similar comic sense, and our comic timing complements, rather than competes, with each other. It made "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum" a pivotal moment in both our lives, and today, that complimentary humor makes our time together full of laughter and, more importantly, soul.

I eventually moved into that shoddy apartment mentioned above, around the time that Drew came into my life. All our lives, actually. The year I spent living with Scott was also the first year of their relationship, and though our first few meetings were rocky (Drew had some crazy notion that the Two Scotts were linked by something other than friendship), Drusis soon became a member of my family. I suppose he's the level-headed one of the couple, the one who gets the bills paid on time and arranges retirement investment. Yes, Scott and Drew have been together a whopping 25 years, and who among us can claim that?

My life would be far less rich if Drusis had not come into it.

It must have been my second year of undergrad when Judy slipped into my life, never to depart. She directed me (and a lot of other journeymen actors) in a couple of Shrunken Musicals, "Cabaret" and "West Side Story" (we did them each in under an hour). Every actor in the dept. scrambled to work with Judy, somehow knowing that her direction, though a student's, was superior to that of our faculty at the time. So, our rehearsals usually began at 11 PM, after everyone had completed their Main Stage shows or rehearsals. Judy and I had an immediate connection, but I suppose it was our landing in the same acting class which cemented our artistic bond. It's difficult to count the number of times Judy and I worked together over the years, it must number in the dozens. She afforded me many of My Firsts: My First Lead in a Musical ("Bye Bye Birdie," which included another first for me, My First Ballad!), My First Lead in a Shakespeare (" Twelfth Night," where I made my first entrance flying down from a hanging platform on a rope, swooping over the audience; we climbed the walls, turned the swordfights into food fights, and included the audience, seated all around on cushions, in the action. It was the most artistically satisfying production I did in college...the faculty hated it), My First Production in Hollywood ("The Time of Your Life"), my First Tap-Dancing Ego-Maniac ("George M"). She also gave me my First Out of Town Gig, when she invited me to appear in her first thesis project for her MFA in Directing at the University of Utah ("The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail").

Our artistic lives and our personal lives were lived together in those days, and Judy and I became inseparable buddies. She welcomed me into her extended family of Armenians, and she was the only one of my friends to know of my mother's battle with cancer.

Over the years we have occasionally lost touch for a while, but in our souls, we are always a part of each others' lives.

That's true of all my chosen family. One of the most special, most heartfelt memories I carry with me is the last birthday gathering we had in LA, the summer before I moved away. We gathered at my apartment nestled in the hills of Silverlake, shared a huge meal of our special treats, lounged on the deck which looked out onto the Hollywood sign, hooted with laughter as we reminisced, toasted each other, and caught up with each others' lives, as we had countless times before. Underneath it all, there was a poignancy which still catches my throat. We already knew that I was leaving in a month, moving east to attend graduate school, and though no one wanted to say it, we all knew that I would not be coming back. Not to live, anyway. Thankfully, I've been able to return several times over the intervening years, and when I do, we pick up as if we had never been apart.

Judy, Scott, Claudia, and Drusis. My family I chose.

Quit Dicking Around

Gotta raise another eyebrow at the Washington Post, that bastion of free-thinking. Their Theatre section is sending mixed messages to the Washington Shakespeare Company these days. Their rave review of WSC's "Kafka's Dick," running in rep at the scrappy company's warehouse in Arlington, contained everything but the title.

This internationally read, Pulitzer prize winning newspaper is a little too embarrassed to report the title of the show they are giving thumbs up to? A show which has a substantial pedigree, by renowned playwright Alan Bennett? Are things so bad these days that the Post's editorial staff has to be careful to be "family friendly," even when it means refusing to print the show's title in its own review? (This when that slang term is being bandied about on basic cable every night.)



Those delicate and demure arts critics did it again with today's Backstage column, in which Jane Horwitz interviews the show's director but still declines to name the play, citing it was "edited for publication here."

Not only a cowardly stance on the part of The Post (I guess they might get a letter! For printing the title of the play! Yikes!), but completely hypocritical. On the opposite page from the Backstage Column, the Post's Guide to the Lively Arts prominently displays the full title, "Kafka's Dick," in bold, capital letters. Of course, the Lively Arts listings are paid for by the theatres themselves, so there is some money involved.

The Washington Post believes this play so important that they went back and interviewed the director and actors for a follow-up piece. But they still maintain their "high standards" by refusing to print the name of the play.

Except when somebody pays them to.



Update as of 12/21:
In Friday's Guide to the Lively Arts, the WSC's ad, for which the theatre pays, has now been censored. It no longer displays the title "Kafka's Dick," but rather coyly, "Kafka's D**k." But the Smut-Snatchers at The Post have still overlooked their Weekend section, where the show remains correctly and completely titled in the Mini-Reviews section. It's even a critic's pick.

A censor's work is never done!

Can A Christmas Tree Have Bed Head?

There is plenty of room in my one bedroom condo. I just can't find any of it. I'm drowning in Christmas decorations, Christmas Cards, dirty laundry from 11 days in LA, and hundreds of vinyl records which sit on my file cabinet, taunting me, waiting to be converted to digital.

I do all this to myself. I've always been a sucker for Christmas decorations, though I have no sense of style or proportion. Any junky old thing with Santa or candy canes and out it comes, to be placed in a nook where nobody would ever see it anyway.

And about this tree. As referenced above, it has bed head. No matter which way I point the thing, one side of it looks smushed. And this year, it's really short. I've been downsizing my trees for two seasons now, which makes it so much easier to negotiate the two flights of stairs to my abode. But this year I was in a hurry to get the tree, and I just did not take enough time to examine it thoroughly. And though it was marked as a 5-6 footer, once the guy chopped off the bottom of the trunk, the thing shrank like 100% cotton.

Merry Christmas! I have a tree from Munchkinland.

Ghosts

Though I have made periodic trips back to LA over the past decade or so, I have not always been searching for ghosts. Those in my circle with whom I've kept in touch were the ones I spent time with, but a host of others were overlooked. This trip was different. A year of loss which began with my dear college (and waaaay beyond) chum Jenny, followed by the news of the death of my high school drama coach, gave this trip more significance to me. So, I made an effort this time to see some of those folks who were important to me back in The Day. I had lost touch with most of them years before moving from southern California, so some of these people had not been seen by my eyes in 20 or even 30 years.

What a treat it was to spend a long brunch with Kathy. Surely 20 years had passed since I had laid eyes on her, but during the high school years and beyond, she was a force in my life. One of the first kids to take me under her wing at Kennedy, she was a powerful presence in the bustling theatre dept there. She had a strong artistic sense, better than any of the rest of us, and in fact, she was the one who directed me in my first Shakespeare attempt, a Malvolio monologue. The intervening years have given her a son and a booming career in academia, where she is encouraging new generations of teens to find their special artistic voice. With my dearest Claud at our side, we gabbed for hours.

Three more ladies from that high school era popped up later in the week. Claudia arranged a surprise dinner for me at a local Italian joint, and we were joined by three gals I had not seen in roughly 30 years. Wow. We are all mid-life folks now, but more than vestiges of the old teen agers remain. Loretta (at left) is a stunning, statuesque blond whose exceptional appearance and talent gave her portrayal of Helen of Troy at Kennedy real truth. (Can you believe a high school did The Trojan Women? Joan Peterson was no slouch.)

Robin was another gal I remember vividly from that production from Troy, in which she played the doomed queen Hecuba. Robin remains special in my memory because she agreed to donate her time to appear in my directing project in college, a whacked out production of "The Bald Soprano." She reminded me over dinner that we narrowly avoided disaster during the show when another actor almost crushed her hand during the leap frog segment. I didn't even remember a leap frog segment! Boy, what I put those actors through. (Secretly, I admit now that having the four uptight characters of that Ionesco absurdist classic doing the leap frog is a spectacular idea. I wonder if I would come up with such stuff nowadays?)

Today, Robin's quirky wit remains intact, and she has emerged as a strong survivor of motherhood, cancer, and pilates.

Debi never met an experience she couldn't turn into a funny story. She remains the charming gal with the infectious laugh and, though it sounds cliche, a real zest for life. She was one of a handful of teen age girls who kidnapped me in my senior year, forcing me to breakfast at the Pancake House (or was it Denny's?), then dumping me at school to attend classes in my pajamas. I wonder what kids do to each other these days?

I reconnected with several of my undergraduate college folks as well.






Cris was present in my life from my first days at Cal State Northridge. He has a hilarious sense of humor and was a welcome aspect of any party or gathering. He could have me howling with laughter at a moment’s notice. We only worked together onstage once or twice, and I have long since forgiven him for snagging the Emcee in "Cabaret," one of my dream roles. (I later played it at Conejo Players, so all turned out well). Cris became a greater part of my artistic life when we both joined Bobbi Holtzman’s private acting workshop. (Bobbi had a huge influence on my artistic development, so large that I cannot describe it here. Perhaps another posting...). Since graduation, Cris has remained in the business, both as a performer and a writer, and he recently won an Emmy for his participation in a local PBS series.


















Ronnie was responsible for my first professional gig, "Poof!" at the old Company Theatre in downtown LA. We worked together on various projects during our undergraduate years, including an updated version of "The Menaechmi," by Plautus, translated as "The Twins" and slanted toward children:




(That's Ronnie on the far left, myself on the far right)








Ronnie recently revealed that he caught my over-the-top performance as Mortimer, the Man Who Dies, in "The Fantasticks" at Valley College, while he was still in high school! Ronnie has also continued in the business, playing comic roles on stage, film and television. Remember the MAC vs PC commercial, with the PC who had a virus? That was Ronnie.












Valerie was responsible for gathering this group together for lunch this week. I have never really lost touch with Val, who took me under her wing at CSUN and always included me on social occasions. She introduced me to Sondheim, wrote the occasional song for me, and included me on a variety of yearly events. For years we had an annual Easter Brunch, but it was her Christmas Bash with a Twist which was the highlight of the season. Everyone brought gifts, which were passed out indiscriminately. After all the gifts were opened, each guest presented some kind of little performance piece which reflected the gift they brought. Then, everyone tried to guess who brought what.














Valerie also directed "Perfectly Frank," which became one of my all-time favorite performances. She is now known as "Madam V" at Louisville High in Woodland Hills, CA.

So, I reconnected with more than a half dozen souls from the distant past. I wonder if ghost hunting is always this much fun?

California Road Trip: Dinner and a Show

I lived in Los Angeles, off and on but mostly on, for 20 years before heading east to grad school. I've returned to the scene of all those crimes many times since leaving, but this has been the longest stretch between visits.

The problem seems to be that when I am out of work, I can't seem to justify to myself the expense of a vacation. And what if an audition pops up while I'm out of town? And when I AM working, well, there is no time to travel.

So, four years have slipped by.

I was lucky enough to snag a cheapo flight from National Airport to Burbank, rather than LAX, which is convenient to NOTHING except traffic getting to wherever you are going. I was UN-lucky enough, however, to be seated next to a gigantic woman in the middle seat who never relinquished the armrest. Not once, in five hours.

I picked up my bags from the baggage claim carousel, which is located OUTSIDE. Only in LA.

My hosts for my fortnight's stay are dear friends who kindly let me take over their guest bedroom and bath (Alternately known as "the west wing" and "Skipper's Guest Bedroom," after Barbie's little sister. Don't ask). I came and went as I pleased. I lined up some teaching at Notre Dame High School from my best friend Judy, who runs the theatre program there. Three days of my trip were spent running movement workshops for 40 energetic teen agers.

I also spent some time driving around the Valley, looking up some old haunts. Get a load of these swanky digs, where I worked several times during those formative years:

This is actually the Granada Hills Woman's Club, from which the Granada Theatre sprang, like snakes from Medusa.

This little hut housed some of my early and probably most eye-rolling performances. Sadly, my debut performance at Granada, as Motel the Tailor in "Fiddler on the Roof," seems to have gone undocumented (at least in photos; I write about the experience here). I admit I am most proud of my performance as Pseudolus in "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum:

After "...Forum," I appeared as the neurotic drunk Dr. Einstein in "Arsenic and Old Lace:"

That's me overacting on the left. Note the hair, similar to Suzanne Pleshette on a bad day...

(I described my experiences in ...Forum and Arsenic here.)

I also attempted, and mostly failed, to play that tap-dancing ego-maniac "George M" during this period:

Ah, youth...




After a while, Granada Theatre gave up sharing their space with the Woman's Club, and moved into their own little theatre, where I appeared several more times. TWICE I played Prince John in original musical versions of Robin Hood:

I was also in an embarrassing original Christmas musical called "Winter's Magic." It was really just a cheap fund raiser for the theatre, which was always on the cusp of bankruptcy:

I'm sure the most fun I had during this period was as part of "Perfectly Frank," a musical revue of Frank Loesser's work:

The truth is, Granada was not an easy place to work, and I eventually outgrew the place. There was little chance of "being seen" by important industry people, and since I was waiting tables at the time, I usually lost money by being in the shows. And the pay? A single glass of wine after the show.

Still, I drove down to check out this second Granada space. I didn't take a picture. It's now a Korean grocery store.

Album Droppings: Duplicatus Interruptus, or, "What Were They Thinking??"

I have proudly been making headway with the outrageous task I have given myself: to convert my huge collection of vinyl recordings to digital format. I've made it through the "G's".


But my monumental task is being interrupted, for at least several weeks. Christmas is rearing its unforgiving head, and I've had to break in order to get my Christmas Cards out. Due to my upcoming trip to LA, from which I won't be returning until the middle of December, it was necessary to dispatch my cards this week. All 109 of them. Don't even ask.


So, music duplication has ceased. But not before I marveled at several albums which must be labelled "What Were They Thinking?"


I mentioned earlier "Doonesbury the musical." Why oh why would anyone think that the very topical, very current comic strip "Doonesbury" could be translated into a standard musical comedy? In spite of having in its cast Kate Burton (Richard's daughter, and a Tony nominee lately), Mark Linn-Baker (later on TV in "Perfect Strangers"), and Gary Beach (recently a Tony winner for "The Producers"), the show is a true disaster. The creators, which included Gary Trudeau himself, placed the music in the hands of Elizabeth Swados, who never met a melody she couldn't deconstruct. (Her big claim to fame was the fluke hit "Runaways," which I bet I'll have something to say about once I get to the R's. But we're still on the D's here...). Her atonal music sinks an already shaky concept, and "Doonesbury" failed to follow in the footsteps of other comics-to-musical hits such as "Annie," "L'il Abner", and "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown."



I've run across two more "What Were They Thinking?" musicals in my collection. I've already confessed to being a Hermione Gingold fan, so when I ran across an album with her name on the cover, I pounced. The show happened in the late 50s, and was called "First Impressions." It's the musical version of (are you ready for this?): "Pride and Prejudice." Yes, somebody thought Jane Austen's novel would make a good musical. They were wrong. Gingold played the mother, and two of the daughters were played by Phyllis Newman and Polly Bergen (who's currently chewing the scenery on "Desperate Housewives"). When, in the opening number, Gingold laments the fact that she has Five Daughters who need husbands, I was reminded of Tevye and his five daughters, all of whom are more interesting than this bunch.









Perhaps the weirdest of this set of musicals was scored by none other than Charles Strauss, who should have known better. Who in the world would have thought that "Flowers For Algernon" should be a musical? This is a real corker, with a pre-Phantom Michael Crawford fawning his way through the thing as the retarded Charlie who suddenly gets better, grows up, sleeps with his doctor, then regresses to his childish state. I kid you not, there is even a vaudeville-type number between Crawford (as Charlie) and Algernon. In case you've forgotten who Algernon is, get ready: he's a mouse.







Truth be told, there is one number in this stinker which deserved some life outside, maybe in cabaret acts, called "I Really Loved You." But the ballad is rendered unlistenable by the slurred delivery of Crawford.







Wow. And yet I press on, loading these losers onto my hard drive, then burning a homemade CD. Who's the real loser, I wonder?

"The Shakes" on a Roll

I made my second trip to the "new" Harmon Center for the Arts. "New" is in quotes because I went to the old part of the new center. It's the same old Landsburg where The Shakespeare Theatre Co. has been in residence for decades, but for fundraising reasons, the building is now part of the "new" Harmon Center.








Whatever. The show, "Taming of the Shrew," is a homerun for the hometeam. Inevitably, the two leads were imported from New York, but director Rebecca Bayla Taichman, making her debut at The Shakes, was smart enough to use her knowledge of the local talent pool (she's had success at Woolly in the past), and surrounded her leads with smart DC actors. It's terrific to see local kids make good, and they do, like gangbusters. Aubrey Deeker, Bruce Nelson, Erika Rose, and Fred Shiffman are among the local gang who are tearing up the Landsburg with jazzy, snazzy, leading performances.





So, with the terrific "Edward II" running at the Harmon's new New Space, The Shakespeare Theatre has a couple of swells running.