Showing posts with label Tom Judson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tom Judson. Show all posts
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Sunday, November 14, 2010
One Man Shown
Tom Judson is fifty and today is his birthday. What better way to celebrate than to stand in front of a sold out crowd in just a jock strap and some boots? Earlier in his dressing room, when the strap and boots were brought in, one of his friends asked if that was part of his costume. “Or is that your whole costume?” I added, half joking, although it turned out I was right.
The one man show is, quite literally, a singular sensation. I am not an actor but sometimes I think it would be fun to do such a showcase. For me, it is less about having something to say for ninety minutes and more about just needing to be the center of attention. Inside my head, I am the star of my own perpetual movie. For the most part, it is a quirky romantic comedy in the first two reels before the lead meets cute with whoever the romantic foil is supposed to be. Apparently I’m still waiting for the third reel to begin.
I popped out of the subway in Chinatown looking for the Dixon Place Theater. The saber dance was playing on my iPhone as I playfully leaped across the dirty sidewalks and dodged the dodgy characters at every turn. It was just like a movie. Once inside the theater, I made my way down to Tom’s dressing room for a pre-show party for his closest friends and me. I knew no one, which always makes me feel awkward. Everyone had some champagne, which I waved off because I don’t like it. But to seem like a team player, I helped myself to an olive from the food platter. Suddenly, it was time to leave the dressing room and scanning around, the room had no trash can. What am I supposed to do with this olive pit in my mouth? Cut to me abandoning any sense of dignity and quickly spitting it into a napkin that I left next to the sink as I made my hasty retreat.
The one man show is, quite literally, a singular sensation. I am not an actor but sometimes I think it would be fun to do such a showcase. For me, it is less about having something to say for ninety minutes and more about just needing to be the center of attention. Inside my head, I am the star of my own perpetual movie. For the most part, it is a quirky romantic comedy in the first two reels before the lead meets cute with whoever the romantic foil is supposed to be. Apparently I’m still waiting for the third reel to begin.
I popped out of the subway in Chinatown looking for the Dixon Place Theater. The saber dance was playing on my iPhone as I playfully leaped across the dirty sidewalks and dodged the dodgy characters at every turn. It was just like a movie. Once inside the theater, I made my way down to Tom’s dressing room for a pre-show party for his closest friends and me. I knew no one, which always makes me feel awkward. Everyone had some champagne, which I waved off because I don’t like it. But to seem like a team player, I helped myself to an olive from the food platter. Suddenly, it was time to leave the dressing room and scanning around, the room had no trash can. What am I supposed to do with this olive pit in my mouth? Cut to me abandoning any sense of dignity and quickly spitting it into a napkin that I left next to the sink as I made my hasty retreat.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Forever, For Now
Nothing really stays the same. And this is frustrating, though hardly a surprise in a city like NYC. Manhattan is changing constantly, sometimes right before your very eyes. I really hate change. I like life to be a long stretch of moments frozen in time, like tiny raindrops caught in one of those cool moments in the Matrix where the camera is moving but the action is still.
In 2003, Sean and I joined Scollay and Mickey in Florence and one day we were sailing through the Uffizi museum. It was near closing time and Sean and I happened upon Venus on the half shell, as she is more casually known. And there was a small bench for the oldsters to sit and gaze up. So we just sat there and in the last few minutes the museum was open, we just sat somewhat quietly and beheld the Venus, unobstructed by other tourists and writ large on the facing wall. The experience lasted for just a few moments but in the endless loop of my mind, I am forever there, witnessing the birth of Venus.
Tom was on the show tonight and he is so handsome and brilliant and marvelous, it always puts me in an introspective, just-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life kind of mood. For me, Tom is like Geena Davis at the end of Thelma & Louise. “Let’s just keep going,” he seems to call out to me and just spending a few minutes with him makes me want to slam the gas pedal down in that Thunderbird and take flight.
After the show, we met up with Erik and the three of us trudged downtown to The Park. Erik was with me there last week, but Tom had never been before. He loved the space, but thought the whole thing was too dimly lit. “How are you supposed to see who you want to go home with?” he asked, perplexed, and then more seriously, “How are they supposed to see if they want to go home with you?” I had to agree with Tom that the lighting was especially dim, though punctuated frequently by the sudden glow of ultra bright iPhone screens as text messages were checked and sent. I suggested that anyone using a new iPad in there would have the unpleasant effect of switching on a searchlight.
Erik, who last week was dressed like a Dockers ad for some kind of casual Friday celebration that never seems to end, heeded my advice and went more relaxed this time with a nice polo shirt. Why anyone would take fashion advice from me is a mystery but he was so buttoned-down last week, it made me nervous, like at any moment we might be audited or asked to give a PowerPoint presentation. Erik told me that he too felt better dressing more casually, so at least in this instance, it wasn’t a total disaster.
I like to spend a fair amount of my time out at gay bars inspecting what everyone else is wearing. This is a good way to spot trends and check to see if people are still wearing any of the same things you own. I am slow to retire items from my wardrobe and it helps to decide what to toss when I look around a room of attractive gay men and see that none of them own anything like what I have in my closet. But tonight, the crowd was strange, and I don’t just mean the two guys with the Flock of Seagulls hair and what appeared to be homemade capes and caftans fashioned hastily from bed linens.
There just wasn’t anything even approaching a fashion through line to hang your spring wardrobe on. Tattoo muscle arms in a 2xist tank top, scrawny hippie in a simple wife beater, polo shirts and jeans, button down shirts tucked into pressed shorts, even some guys huddled together in the back in suits. Maybe this is finally the fashion trickle down of the bad economy. Without money left for new things, they are just throwing together whatever is left, like when you are hungry and you make dinner out of whatever the last three cans are in the pantry. This makes life for a fashion victim like me completely without hope.
Perhaps we can all learn a bit from Venus. When you have the clams, you buy whatever you want. But when you are down to your last clam, just come as you are. My mind wanders back to the Uffizi. It was drizzling there in Florence, just as it is now in Manhattan. But the Hudson is a poor substitute for the charms of the reflected glory of the Arno. Erik agreed with me that the crowd was not as attractive tonight as it had been last week at The Park. Oh well. I guess nothing is perfect even in its moment nearest to perfection and nothing lasts forever. We can keep the memories we cherish the most suspended in time, but the rest of life swirls away from the wheels of time into a dusty cloud of eternity.
And the Thunderbird just keeps going.
In 2003, Sean and I joined Scollay and Mickey in Florence and one day we were sailing through the Uffizi museum. It was near closing time and Sean and I happened upon Venus on the half shell, as she is more casually known. And there was a small bench for the oldsters to sit and gaze up. So we just sat there and in the last few minutes the museum was open, we just sat somewhat quietly and beheld the Venus, unobstructed by other tourists and writ large on the facing wall. The experience lasted for just a few moments but in the endless loop of my mind, I am forever there, witnessing the birth of Venus.
Tom was on the show tonight and he is so handsome and brilliant and marvelous, it always puts me in an introspective, just-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life kind of mood. For me, Tom is like Geena Davis at the end of Thelma & Louise. “Let’s just keep going,” he seems to call out to me and just spending a few minutes with him makes me want to slam the gas pedal down in that Thunderbird and take flight.
After the show, we met up with Erik and the three of us trudged downtown to The Park. Erik was with me there last week, but Tom had never been before. He loved the space, but thought the whole thing was too dimly lit. “How are you supposed to see who you want to go home with?” he asked, perplexed, and then more seriously, “How are they supposed to see if they want to go home with you?” I had to agree with Tom that the lighting was especially dim, though punctuated frequently by the sudden glow of ultra bright iPhone screens as text messages were checked and sent. I suggested that anyone using a new iPad in there would have the unpleasant effect of switching on a searchlight.
Erik, who last week was dressed like a Dockers ad for some kind of casual Friday celebration that never seems to end, heeded my advice and went more relaxed this time with a nice polo shirt. Why anyone would take fashion advice from me is a mystery but he was so buttoned-down last week, it made me nervous, like at any moment we might be audited or asked to give a PowerPoint presentation. Erik told me that he too felt better dressing more casually, so at least in this instance, it wasn’t a total disaster.
I like to spend a fair amount of my time out at gay bars inspecting what everyone else is wearing. This is a good way to spot trends and check to see if people are still wearing any of the same things you own. I am slow to retire items from my wardrobe and it helps to decide what to toss when I look around a room of attractive gay men and see that none of them own anything like what I have in my closet. But tonight, the crowd was strange, and I don’t just mean the two guys with the Flock of Seagulls hair and what appeared to be homemade capes and caftans fashioned hastily from bed linens.
There just wasn’t anything even approaching a fashion through line to hang your spring wardrobe on. Tattoo muscle arms in a 2xist tank top, scrawny hippie in a simple wife beater, polo shirts and jeans, button down shirts tucked into pressed shorts, even some guys huddled together in the back in suits. Maybe this is finally the fashion trickle down of the bad economy. Without money left for new things, they are just throwing together whatever is left, like when you are hungry and you make dinner out of whatever the last three cans are in the pantry. This makes life for a fashion victim like me completely without hope.
Perhaps we can all learn a bit from Venus. When you have the clams, you buy whatever you want. But when you are down to your last clam, just come as you are. My mind wanders back to the Uffizi. It was drizzling there in Florence, just as it is now in Manhattan. But the Hudson is a poor substitute for the charms of the reflected glory of the Arno. Erik agreed with me that the crowd was not as attractive tonight as it had been last week at The Park. Oh well. I guess nothing is perfect even in its moment nearest to perfection and nothing lasts forever. We can keep the memories we cherish the most suspended in time, but the rest of life swirls away from the wheels of time into a dusty cloud of eternity.
And the Thunderbird just keeps going.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Uncle Tom's Cabin
What a lazy weekend. Hottie Zach invited himself up on Saturday to help around the house. His last visit had him helping Roommate and I install some light fixtures and we did have a lot of fun. I initially envisioned a painting party for the upstairs hall if I could get the wallpaper off in time and put on a coat of primer before Friday. Since none of that happened, I just decided that we should have a big country breakfast and then go swimming in Clayton’s pool instead. As it turned out, a much better plan.
Zach arrived with his dog Diva, who really lives up to her name. Mike had to share the backseat with her on the ride over to Clayton’s and she was not amused about having someone else in her space. Mike, who loves dogs, was delighted to have a canine companion to pal around with, albeit a reluctant one. At Clayton’s Diva, whose love of insects and mice is legendary, made haste into the foliage, while the four humans relaxed around the pool with mojitos made with mint fresh from Clayton’s garden.
On our last swimming adventure the previous weekend, Clayton and I spent much of our time critiquing our diving postures. We were both much improved the second time around thanks to that previous day of practice, but neither of us could hold a candle to Zach who admitted after he surged gracefully across the pool that he had been on the swim team (of course). Mike chose to relax in the sun and consume a few beers instead of joining the rest of us on the diving board. After tiring of chasing bees, Diva also got into the act, leaping into the pool ostensibly to rescue me and then later Zach, from some unknown watery fate. We capped the day with a sumptuous meal at Chili’s and then, a bit sun-kissed and exhausted, we all headed home to make an early night of it.
The next day, after a leisurely breakfast out on the sunny porch of coffee and the last of the cinnamon buns that I had made fresh the day before, Mike and I decamped to the Catskills for Tom Judson’s little summer party. Tom lives even further from the madding crowd than I do, as evidenced by the hour and a half long drive to his little cabin in the woods. A few years ago, Tom made a name for himself as a porn performer (that name was Gus Mattox), though lately he has distinguished himself as something of a celebrated house flipper thanks to his ACME Housing Company.
Tom is a dream man. He is so handsome and intelligent, plays the piano beautifully and can turn a one room cabin into something truly stunning. And I am not just waxing poetic merely because he said I looked “incredible” and “so trim” when we arrived after the long drive. Tom’s cabin has expanded greatly from its humble beginnings and has even made room for the grand piano he picked up The Plaza Hotel auction a while back. It can be lovely when all of our treasured memories are shamelessly sold off if one or two of them can fall into the hands of our friends.
Tom’s party was made up mostly of the local friends he has gathered over the last eight years, a motley crew of artist types and relaxed gays, all suitable characters for the multi-level deck that ribbons the house evoking instant off-Broadway memories of Fifth of July and its ilk. When I accused him of such obvious stagecraft in his architecture, he just smiled that million dollar smile that toured in 42nd Street and got him plenty of tail in Big Rig (among others) and left it at that.
The party was not without its small excitements. Misty rain dampened the edges but could not extinguish the torches that ringed the house nor the fun inside. Tom wandered out onto the porch in one of those grand entrances and lamented that while the entire pitcher of bloody mary mix had been consumed no one had touched the vodka bottle sitting right next to it. Party guest Scott who had consumed four of those delicious yet quietly non-alcoholic cocktails and then switched responsibly to beer in time for his drive home was suitably mortified to discover his own sobriety. Later Scott found me lounging in the “Pavilion” a freestanding lavish sunroom that has become Tom’s signature design move chatting with other party guests. I had one leg carelessly draped over the arm of the chair and the other resting comfortably on the matching ottoman and he said I resembled a 1930s movie star. Well, I only emulate the best, and when I am around Tom he really brings out the Hepburn in people.
The end of a perfect weekend is never fun. It is hard to say good bye to good friends when they return to the city with loving dog in tow, or when you have to depart from a quiet sliver of paradise in a lush wood. But I suppose all good things must come to an end. A former boss at SIRIUS once told me after I lamented a particularly crappy show that if you never have the lows, how do you really know how high the highs are? I suppose the same is true of weekends. If we didn’t have the dull work patch in between, how would we know the weekends we had were so great. Though I suspect this would have been an amazing time, even if it had lasted forever. Clayton and Zach and I are already plotting a pool and slumber party to cap the end of summer, so you never know. Maybe this time we can defy the odds and make the moment last forever.
Zach arrived with his dog Diva, who really lives up to her name. Mike had to share the backseat with her on the ride over to Clayton’s and she was not amused about having someone else in her space. Mike, who loves dogs, was delighted to have a canine companion to pal around with, albeit a reluctant one. At Clayton’s Diva, whose love of insects and mice is legendary, made haste into the foliage, while the four humans relaxed around the pool with mojitos made with mint fresh from Clayton’s garden.
On our last swimming adventure the previous weekend, Clayton and I spent much of our time critiquing our diving postures. We were both much improved the second time around thanks to that previous day of practice, but neither of us could hold a candle to Zach who admitted after he surged gracefully across the pool that he had been on the swim team (of course). Mike chose to relax in the sun and consume a few beers instead of joining the rest of us on the diving board. After tiring of chasing bees, Diva also got into the act, leaping into the pool ostensibly to rescue me and then later Zach, from some unknown watery fate. We capped the day with a sumptuous meal at Chili’s and then, a bit sun-kissed and exhausted, we all headed home to make an early night of it.
The next day, after a leisurely breakfast out on the sunny porch of coffee and the last of the cinnamon buns that I had made fresh the day before, Mike and I decamped to the Catskills for Tom Judson’s little summer party. Tom lives even further from the madding crowd than I do, as evidenced by the hour and a half long drive to his little cabin in the woods. A few years ago, Tom made a name for himself as a porn performer (that name was Gus Mattox), though lately he has distinguished himself as something of a celebrated house flipper thanks to his ACME Housing Company.
Tom is a dream man. He is so handsome and intelligent, plays the piano beautifully and can turn a one room cabin into something truly stunning. And I am not just waxing poetic merely because he said I looked “incredible” and “so trim” when we arrived after the long drive. Tom’s cabin has expanded greatly from its humble beginnings and has even made room for the grand piano he picked up The Plaza Hotel auction a while back. It can be lovely when all of our treasured memories are shamelessly sold off if one or two of them can fall into the hands of our friends.
Tom’s party was made up mostly of the local friends he has gathered over the last eight years, a motley crew of artist types and relaxed gays, all suitable characters for the multi-level deck that ribbons the house evoking instant off-Broadway memories of Fifth of July and its ilk. When I accused him of such obvious stagecraft in his architecture, he just smiled that million dollar smile that toured in 42nd Street and got him plenty of tail in Big Rig (among others) and left it at that.
The party was not without its small excitements. Misty rain dampened the edges but could not extinguish the torches that ringed the house nor the fun inside. Tom wandered out onto the porch in one of those grand entrances and lamented that while the entire pitcher of bloody mary mix had been consumed no one had touched the vodka bottle sitting right next to it. Party guest Scott who had consumed four of those delicious yet quietly non-alcoholic cocktails and then switched responsibly to beer in time for his drive home was suitably mortified to discover his own sobriety. Later Scott found me lounging in the “Pavilion” a freestanding lavish sunroom that has become Tom’s signature design move chatting with other party guests. I had one leg carelessly draped over the arm of the chair and the other resting comfortably on the matching ottoman and he said I resembled a 1930s movie star. Well, I only emulate the best, and when I am around Tom he really brings out the Hepburn in people.
The end of a perfect weekend is never fun. It is hard to say good bye to good friends when they return to the city with loving dog in tow, or when you have to depart from a quiet sliver of paradise in a lush wood. But I suppose all good things must come to an end. A former boss at SIRIUS once told me after I lamented a particularly crappy show that if you never have the lows, how do you really know how high the highs are? I suppose the same is true of weekends. If we didn’t have the dull work patch in between, how would we know the weekends we had were so great. Though I suspect this would have been an amazing time, even if it had lasted forever. Clayton and Zach and I are already plotting a pool and slumber party to cap the end of summer, so you never know. Maybe this time we can defy the odds and make the moment last forever.
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