Leon Acord's Blog, page 4

Leon Acord joins Nicholas Snow on Promo Homo TV

Leon recently sat down with Nicholas Snow of PromoHomo TV to talk about his new book Expletives Not Deleted.

Watch the video below, and please support PromoHomoTV ,HERE!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LokKXmbNTJI

Buy Expletives Not Deleted in paperback or e-book today ,HERE!

Expletives Not Deleted in Provincetown Magazine

A gigantic THANK YOU! to Provincetown Magazine for including an excerpt from Expletives Not Deleted in their fabulous 2023 Entertainment Season Preview issue! You can read it for free at www.provincetownmagazine.com

Expletives Not Deleted comes out May 30!

BOOK EXCERPT: Where There's Smoke, There's Ire

[The following is a selection from Leon's new collection of comic essays Expletives Not Deleted, available May 30, 2023 in paperback & e-book.]

I’ve been with my wonderful husband Laurence for over 30 years.­­

And I’ve been good friends with my very first boyfriend, Erik, for 40 years.

Yet my longest-lasting relationship isn’t with a man. My most passionate, tortured, “on-again/off-again” love affair has been with a lady. Perhaps some of you have also been seduced by the evil bitch’s lethal charms and false promises of tranquility.

I’m talking about Lady Nicotine.

Now, I don’t believe in playing “blame the parents.” But in this case, I was clearly genetically predisposed. Norm and Judy both smoked while I was growing up. In those days, Dad was rarely seen without a smoke. In fact, on horseback in his cowboy hat, flannel shirt, and a cigarette in hand, he was the spitting image of the Marlboro Man.

Mom was more discreet. But she loved tobacco just as much, smoking while pregnant with both my older sister Tammy and me. (No judgments, please. It was the early 1960s, before common sense and the Surgeon General’s warnings really kicked in. Everyone smoked, everywhere. Mom is and always has been a wonderfully conscientious woman and mother.)

I wasn’t always a full-blown nicotine addict. In fact, as a child, I was an extremely militant anti-smoker. In grade school, I terrorized my parents with photos of black lungs and discussions of the “artificial lung” a teacher used to demonstrate the immediate dangers of smoking. When I checked the mail, I put any and all solicitations from the American Cancer Society or the American Lung Society right on top.

For a while, I was truly terrified that Mom and Dad would drop dead of cancer at a moment’s notice. But my non-stop harassment did not one bit of good. You truly can’t make an addict change unless/until he/she/they is/are ready.

I was just as insufferable as an early adult. In fact, my first roommate smoked. So inside the decorative ashtray Mom had given me as my first housewarming gift, I placed a card. It read: “Not for Use as a Real Ashtray.” Roommate Dee Dee knew I was deadly serious.

It all changed when I first saw the 1981 film Only When I Laugh. Actress Marsha Mason played a troubled, alcoholic, chain-smoking actress in this film version of her husband Neil Simon’s “serious” play The Gingerbread Lady. Now, I fancied myself a tortured artist back in those days – or at least I aspired to be one. And boy, Ms. Mason made smoking look so fun, so fulfilling, so fucking cool.

Within two hours, the movie erased over 17 years of militancy. After the end credits, I left the theatre, went to a drug store, and bought my very first pack of cigarettes – for 63 cents!

I started with Carlton, the brand so low in tar and nicotine that they’re practically almost good for you. In fact, writer Fran Lebowitz wrote that smoking a Carlton was less like smoking, and “more like inhaling deeply in a warm room.”

Ah, Fran! Perhaps the only person who loves smoking more than I!

Once I was able to fully inhale, I switched to Marlboro Lights (although I think I must have tried almost every brand at least once before I turned 21). Soon, I was a full-blown, foul-smelling heavy smoker. And I absolutely loved it.

What happened to the Leon who despised smoking? Why did I fall so hard, after being so humorless and judgmental just a year previously? In those days, many actors smoked in their films without a content warning. I’d grown up worshipping all things Hollywood, so it was an easier shift that one might expect.

There was also a “daredevil” aspect to it that appealed to me, especially since I never got that kind of charge from playing sports. Yes, I’m comparing smoking cigarettes to playing sports. That Lady really can twist your logic.

Additionally, I was a bit of a spazz back then (still am, some say), and smoking gave me an excuse to stop, sit back, and do nothing but just be – at least for a couple of minutes at a time.

Smokers hadn’t yet been relegated to sidewalks and alleyways, but being an open, unapologetic smoker in the early 1980s was still a bit punk, a sign of subtle rebellion. Smoking fit into the iconoclastic personality I was trying to adopt. I was just too cool to care when people complained – including co-workers, friends, and potential boyfriends.

When a disappointed date told me, “I just can’t be with a smoker. The smell makes me go limp,” I replied, “Your loss, dude.” I wasn’t about to give up on my “main squeeze” for a potential “side piece.” Occasionally I tried to muster through an entire dinner-and-movie without indulging – but I don’t think I ever made it.

Protestations, such as, “How can you smoke a stinky cigarette after such an incredible meal?” were usually answered with “Shut the fuck up,” but said with a shit-eating smile, natch!

Eventually, I made a few half-hearted attempts to stop. I vividly remember the first time I tried to quit. After work, I sat in my dark apartment, watching videos, and tried, tried, tried not to think about smoking. But it was all I could think about. After about only an hour, I was rocking back and forth on my sofa like some deranged mental patient. About thirty minutes later, I was at the corner store, buying a pack and giving up on giving them up.

Those early attempts never stood a chance. As I stated earlier, addicts never change until they want to change. I knew it would behoove me to quit, but I never truly wanted to. So I never did. Eventually, I began a hot sexual affair with a guy who didn’t say anything about my smoking, so I more or less gave up on dating for real … for a while.

By the early 1990s, smoking was considered only slightly less offensive than, oh, child molestation? And the addiction itself was only slightly more affordable than a cocaine habit.

But I still didn’t quit.

When people complained about second-hand smoke, I reminded them I didn’t drive a car1/ but they did (which creates more carcinogenic pollution than my mere ciggie), so again, words to the effect of shut the fuck up.

Then I met Laurence.

God love him, he didn’t pressure me to quit although he often encouraged me to give it up. In fact, he was one of those annoying people who could smoke one or two cigs a day without developing a full-blown addiction.

Bastard.

I soon fell in love with the bastard. We moved in together. I dangled out of windows to smoke. I perched over the edge of balconies. He sometimes joined me. But he never stopped his casual campaign for me to give them up.

Laurence’s subtle nudges were far more effective than the constant incessant hounding of others. As much as I loved to smoke, I realized how much easier life would be if I didn’t. I wouldn’t have to pop breath mints constantly. Or spend a fortune at the dry cleaners. Or wash my hair twice a day.

Then there was the expense. A pack no longer cost just 63 cents. Between inflation, price hikes, and ever-increasing state and federal taxes, cigarettes had more than tripled in price – and continued to climb. Consuming a pack a day was getting pricey. Now that I was a full-blown professional actor, I had expenses like classes and headshots and union dues. Since I was also now in a serious relationship, I had to at least consider the desires of my partner.

By then, both my parents had kicked the habit. They encouraged me to join them in the smoke-free world. And I couldn’t tell my parents to “Shut the fuck up.”

Okay. Let’s get serious and give quitting another try!

I gave up my beloved Marlboro Lights and switched to American Spirits. I figured, between the higher cost and the change of taste, I’d find it easier to give them up.

Ha! Within a week, I loved American Spirits, and realized that Marlboro Lights tasted like formaldehyde.2/

When I discussed quitting with my doctor, he joked that nicotine was probably in my DNA by now. At least I think he was joking. He prescribed the anti-depressant Zyban, and I tried to quit for real.

I lasted until 3:30 p.m.

Soon, I tried again. I lasted half a day.

Then again. For a full day.

Then again. Three days.

And again. For about two weeks!

Eventually I endured eight months without lighting up. I was very proud of myself. So was Laurence.

At least he was. After a heated argument – I no longer remember about what! – I was so pissed off, I wanted to lash out. I rushed out, bought a pack, and smoked them furiously – destroying eight months’ of self-discipline.

Boy, I really showed him, didn’t I?

If at first (or one-hundred-and-first) you don’t succeed, try, try again!

Ironically, stress rarely brought me back to that wicked weed. In fact, during one particularly stressful week after moving to particularly stressful Los Angeles, my cat died, I was diagnosed with pre-melanoma skin cancer, and I wrecked my car. Yet through all of that, I was never tempted to take even a single puff.

It was usually good news that unraveled my ever-increasing willpower. As soon as I nailed a sought-after audition, or landed a part I really wanted, or got a mention in a really good review, I had to celebrate with my good old friend, that vexing vixen named Lady Nicotine.

But she and I were no longer hot and heavy lovers – more like exes who meet for occasional hook-ups.

Then I’d climb back on the wagon and manage to stay there for increasingly longer periods each time. I’d abstain for about six months, smoke for about six months. Rinse and repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Well, at least I’ve cut my smoking by half! I rationalized after a few years.

As much as I worshipped Lady Nicotine, I had nothing on my older sister Tammy. She and the Lady first became acquainted in grade school and remained life-long buds.

I worshipped my older sister, whom I called “Sissy,” in our earliest years. I followed her like a shadow; I even went with her on visits to the bathroom. I’d sit on the floor, and we’d just continue talking as though there was nothing at all peculiar about it! We played Barbies together. Watched scary movies together on late-night TV. Made up dance routines to some of Mom’s old 45 records.

Tammy was what was called a “tomboy” in those days. She still liked girly clothes and make-up when the occasion called for it, but she also wouldn’t hesitate to punch a kid if he said something nasty about her. Or about her baby brother.

Me and my Sissy

Once we were both in grade school, she became embarrassed by this delicate little sissy boy who was her brother – especially since I spent the first several days of first grade bursting into tears and wailing her name when I saw her in the lunch room.

“Sissy!! When are we going home??”

Like smoking and swearing, her hormones and blonde good looks also kicked in during grade school. Tammy didn’t have much time or purpose for a clingy baby brother. By fourth grade, she’d already developed a reputation as a boy-crazy wild cat for making out with boys during recess. She also never hesitated to throw herself into a fight in the school yard, against girls and boys. If my parents had been millionaires, her behavior would’ve been described as “madcap.”

I was more of a quiet book worm, and two and one-half years younger which, by the time we reached middle school, was a huge “generation gap.” We no longer had anything to talk about. She got into big-hair rock music. I became obsessed with TV. We drifted apart – but she’d still “have my back” if “push came to shove” with bullying classmates.

One day, Mom found Tammy’s hidden pack of Kool’s. Mom sat Tammy down on the staircase of our house and forced her to smoke every cigarette left in the pack. Perhaps Mom thought Tammy would turn green, get sick, and swear off smoking for good. Not my big sister. Tammy sat there and smoked. And smoked. And smoked.

And she never, ever stopped.

By the time she was an adult, she easily smoked at least two packs a day. She’d joke she was born with a lit cigarette in her mouth (to which I’d always reply, “How painful for Mom!”)

Whenever I flew home for a visit, Tammy and I bonded over many, many, many smokes – as well as other smoke-able weeds. Despite our many differences, our shared dark senses of humor always helped us find common ground.

I never once worried about her heavy smoking because she seemed indestructible by this point. She’d survived a number of serious car accidents, numerous spills off horses and motorbikes, four marriages to some real jerks, a stint behind bars for bounced checks, a few health scares, and more. She never met a recreational drug she didn’t like, yet she remained tougher than old shoe leather. In many ways, I think Tammy was the son Dad always wanted.

Every so often, I’d see cracks in her tough exterior. Once, in the 1990s, she was shocked – shocked! – by Nine Inch Nails’ song “Closer.” She was aghast that her teenaged daughters were listening to lyrics like “I want to fuck you like an animal.” I chuckled as I reminded her of how aghast Mom had been by some of the music Tammy listened to as a teen.

Me and Tammy in 2010

I should have seen it as a sign of things to come. Tammy’s fourth marriage was to a conservative man who eventually became a MAGA maniac.

Sadly, he seemed to change Tammy’s once-liberal nature. I found talking with Tammy was now loaded with too many potential land mines. We went years without communicating.

But when “Cindy Brady” tried to sic her Trump-loving fans on me in 2016, Tammy sent Ms. Olsen a message, threatening to fly to California and personally “kick her ass” if she didn’t “lay off my baby brother.”

She still had my back, after all these years. Despite now being polar opposites, I couldn’t swear her off for good. I loved her, and I know she loved me.

One day in late summer 2019, I got a text from my niece:

“Mom has lung cancer.”

And just 41 days later, my indestructible big sister was dead.

* * *

I got to town mere hours before she died. My niece ushered me into Tammy’s darkened, crowded hospice room. A TV mounted in the corner was displaying local news, but nobody was watching. Everyone’s attention was focused on Tammy on the bed in the middle of the room, attached to all manner of beeping medicinal machines, being propped up by her husband, her daughters, and a nurse, as she desperately gasped for air.

Her battle to breath was intense and unrelenting. Sometime later, as they lowered her back onto her bed, she glanced over and saw me sitting in a corner. She seemed surprised to see me. I waved at her. She lifted a finger, weakly wiggled it at me to wave “hello,” then collapsed with exhaustion until the next battle to get air into her diseased lungs.

She lost the battle early the next morning.

It didn’t seem possible. Tammy was always so invulnerable, so willing to jump into a fight to protect her family or its honor, with no fear or worry for her own safety. It was almost inconceivable that now, so suddenly, she was … just … no more. Who would be the scrappy protector of our family now?

I decided shortly thereafter I must escape Lady Nicotine’s ruthless grip once and for all. Not because I feared Tammy’s fate for myself – a statement that is evidence of my wildly dysfunctional relationship with smoking. I finally told Lady Nicotine to beat it because I don’t want my parents to ever lose a child again.

My life goal became Saving Private Leon.3/

A week or two after I’d returned to California, a Facebook friend (who claims to be a psychic) sent me a private message. She claimed she’d been visited by Tammy (whom she’d never met, nor had she met me) in a dream. Tammy told her that it was okay if Leon needed to smoke to get through this trying time. I wasn’t sure I believed the psychic, but it did sound like something Tammy would tell me. Tammy was a bit devotional in her love of psychics. Then the psychic mentioned she was seeing leaping frogs – and I instantly flashed back to one of my favorite memories of my sister.

We were in our late 20s. I was back in Indiana for a summer visit. We had gotten wildly stoned and a little drunk with her current boyfriend, then we tried to quietly sneak back into our parents’ house well past midnight. As we opened the sliding-glass door into the dining room, we saw Mom standing in the hallway, wide awake, arms folded, clearly annoyed. We instinctively, immediately tried to “play” sober. But just then, a gigantic frog – appearing from out of nowhere – jumped between Tammy’s legs into the dining room! Tammy and I both screamed like Fay Wray, then burst into hysterical laughter as we collapsed onto the floor trying to catch it – exposing us as obviously drunken stoners to our mother.

The story became family folklore over time. But the psychic could not have known! I hung up the phone and burst into tears.

I never invited Lady Nicotine to join my mourning, no matter how sad I became over losing my big “Sissy.”

* * *

It’s now over three years later, and I’m rather surprised by how successful I’ve been.

However, in the interest of full disclosure, there have been a handful of instances when I’ve allowed myself to indulge in a smoke – or a pack – during those years.

Once was when I was invited to submit a writer’s “sample packet” to The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.

Like receiving good news, writing under deadline is still a huge trigger. So this was a double whammy! I had only a weekend to magically pull a monologue, a commercial parody, and a skit out of my ass and get them down on paper.

Fuck it, I decided, and allowed myself just one pack while I paced and spoke to myself (outside) trying out lines. I smoked as I sat in my car reading the show’s very specific “style manual” for its scripts. Once I emailed in my submission, I celebrated with the last cig in the pack, then went back to being a reformed nicotine addict.4/

That week in early November 2020, as we waited to learn the identity of our next President – Biden? Trump? – was also too stressful to resist the Lady’s delusional promise of solace. As we waited out the days for all votes to be counted, I succumbed. Laurence was less than pleased. But I promised to climb back on the wagon once a winner was declared – even if it was Trump – so he kept his mouth shut. And I kept my promise.

Perhaps it’s all about one’s mindset. Because when earlier attempts failed, it took me weeks or months – sometimes years – to work up the resolve to give it another shot. But now, when I’ve allowed myself to be a bad boy for a pack or two, I’ve been able to quit – just stop! – immediately after each lapse. I can walk away from the Lady without much stress or other signs of withdrawal. Like a reformed alcoholic, I will always refer to myself as a smoker, however, or as a recovering smoker. Never an “ex-smoker.” I haven’t quit smoking; I’ve stopped smoking. The urge never truly goes away for good. Every so often, after dinner, the urge still hits me like a punch to the stomach!

I just don’t want to be an active smoker any longer.

An unexpected post-script:

While driving home after writing the first draft of this essay, I thought, you are writing, and you’re writing about smoking. Buy yourself a pack!

I had no sooner lit up when I had a realization so definitive that I spoke it aloud to myself in the car.

“Leon, you just wrote maybe ten pages, including some very painful memories, without so much of a single puff. You don’t need cigarettes to write!”

May that be the last time I use that excuse.

But I know better than to make promises I might not keep.

If I make it to 80, I might just invite Lady Nicotine back into my life.

Stay tuned.

___________

1/ I didn’t drive for over a decade, an easy feat in San Francisco.

2/Think I’m kidding? Google “ Marlboro ingredients”!

3/Just months later, COVID descended and intensified my goal!

4/I wasn’t hired, but thanks for asking.

Copyright © 2023 Leon Acord

Burgeoning curmudgeon (or is that queer-mudgeon?) Leon Acord takes on current events (MAGA, cancel culture), modern-day life (precocious parents, technology), pop culture (theatre critics, closeted actors), and more in Expletives Not Deleted, his new collection of bitchy yet bubbly essays, all written in the same acerbic voice that made his memoir SUB-LEBRITY a five-star Amazon bestseller.

Coming May 30, 2023 in Paperback, E-book & Audio Book!

​

Pre-Order the Kindle E-book Now at ,Amazon

If you enjoyed this post, please Like, Share & Comment below!

BOOK EXCERPT: Unsolicited Parenting Advice from a Childless Know-It-All

[The following is a selection from Leon's new collection of humorous essays Expletives Not Deleted, available May 30 in paperback & e-book.]

,Listen to the audio-book version!

Let’s be honest. No kid wants to be best friends with his or her (or their) parents before the age of 30. And rightly so.

It goes against nature. Moms and dads who resist centuries of basic human behavior to attempt being “besties” with their offspring are ripping the very fabric of society. You should be your kids’ boss and benefactor, but not their best bud.

This trend has been going on for a few decades now. I can’t tell you exactly when parents began going “soft.” But I have a couple of theories as to why.

Here’s one: It is human nature for parents to want to provide their kids a life “better than we had.” Perhaps these parents, already pampered a bit themselves as kids, feel they must now up the ante and spoil their children even more.

Here’s another: Maybe it’s not really about helping kids avoid the painful moments and difficult lessons that come with growing up. Maybe it’s the parents who don’t have the fortitude to endure the pain when little Dylan doesn’t get a trophy, or when young Sophia loses that spelling bee. Maybe Ma and Pop are sparing their own feelings, avoiding their own discomfort, by ensuring every child gets a trophy, win, lose or draw. If Aiden and Chloe still get prizes for merely showing up, they won’t have a meltdown on the way home. Mom and Dad can avoid an uncomfortable car ride. Hell, they can avoid testing their parenting skills altogether.

I don’t want to paint a portrait of my parents as hard and unfeeling because that definitely was not the case. They were very proud of both of us, they wanted to us succeed, and they hated it when we didn’t. But win or lose, my sister Tammy and I either won, or we lost. There was little sugar-coating of reality in the Acord household.

That’s because Norm and Judy knew that losing once in a while was important and unavoidable. (And that made winning, to us, all that much sweeter.) They knew losses were life lessons. There was no “pep talk” when I failed to get the part in that first school play. I didn’t go to them when I was being bullied for being gay. Extravagant birthday parties weren’t annual events, but rather, were saved for the “big” birthdays like 10 or 16 – and even then, they weren’t all that grand. Candles but no pyrotechnics!

And when we screwed up? No pampering then, either.

“You play, you pay,” was one of Dad’s favorite admonishments.

Believe me, I have my own assortment of hang-ups and neuroses.[1] But thanks to my parents, I take responsibility for my actions. I know how to “take a punch” without always falling to pieces. And when I do fall apart, I know it’s up to me to pull myself back together again.

Unfortunately, this is not so true for too many of today’s young adults.

However it happened, some young Americans are so easily bruised by life’s bumpy road, they should be encased in bubble wrap.

Case in point:

My husband recently hired twenty-something “Lisa” at his restaurant. On her third day of work, and without so much as an email or phone call, she strolled in over an hour late without apology.

“Uh, Lisa, you’re an hour late. What’s up with that?” he calmly asked her when she finally arrived.

“Oh!” Lisa appeared absolutely stunned at first, then burst into tears as she stammered, “I assumed your company had a grace period!”

A grace period? Of an hour? For fuck’s sake!

Ironically, while many parents no longer have the resolve to share difficult, painful losses with their children, they have become more emboldened to lash out at anyone who dares to suggest their brats aren’t winners.

For example, high-school sports and little-league baseball teams across America are cancelling games due to umpire and referee shortages.

This is due to increasingly unhinged – and sometimes even violent – outbursts from parents at games. Nobody wants to risk a punch in the face for simply declaring little Jacob or Isabella struck out!

By the way, what a wonderful example to provide for our children, as we verbally attack or physically pummel others for simply stating the hard truth!

So, what do we get when younger generations face no consequences, and no discomfort without first receiving a “trigger warning?” When we raise kids to believe what they want is all that really matters? When we give them the message that “getting” something is far more desirable than “working for” something? When they see their parents blaming others for their children’s failures?

You get people like Matt Gaetz, that’s what. Marjorie Taylor Greene. Lauren Boebert. “Pharma bro” Martin Shkreli. Theranos’ Elizabeth Holmes. WeWork’s Adam Newman. And too many online “Karens” to count.

Repugnant, unrepentant, spoiled brats all.

So if you’re a new parent, stop trying to make your children’s lives uninterrupted bliss. For God’s sake, stop trying to be your kid’s friend. They aren’t here for that.

They are here to be embarrassed by you. Occasionally, they’re even supposed to hate you. Deal with it. Endure it. And hang out with people your own age!

Besides, your kids already love you, even if they won’t admit it. That should be enough for now. There’s plenty of time to become BFFs with your offspring after they hit middle-age. Then you can all complain about “kids these days!”

And at least, by then, hopefully they can afford to pick up the check.

__________[1] After reading this far, you probably don’t need to be told.

Copyright © 2023 Leon Acord

Burgeoning curmudgeon (or is that queer-mudgeon?) Leon Acord takes on current events (MAGA, cancel culture), modern-day life (precocious parents, technology), pop culture (theatre critics, closeted actors), and more in Expletives Not Deleted, his new collection of bitchy yet bubbly essays, all written in the same acerbic voice that made his memoir SUB-LEBRITY a five-star Amazon bestseller.

Coming May 30, 2023 in Paperback, E-book & Audio Book!

​

Pre-Order the Kindle E-book Now at ,Amazon

If you enjoyed this post, please Like, Share & Comment below!

Tell-Tale Signs of a "Certain Age"

“Leon, you need to develop a relationship with your pain.”

It’s ten years ago. I'm visiting my primary-care physician with yet another lower-back spasm.

At the time, I fantasized about punching her in the face, then shouting "Develop a relationship with your pain!"

But over the past decade, I’ve come to realize just how correct she was. Damn it.

Because, while I once hoped to die without pain, it’s increasingly apparent that that’s a pipe dream.

With my 60th birthday just weeks away, I’ve realized, by a certain age, you can’t even live without pain!

And that's not the only thing I've realized as I learn to accept my segue from "pretty young twink" to "grumpy old queen."

Here are some other tell-tale signs that confirm why I must prepare to adopt the title of “senior citizen,” whether I like it or not. How many of them can you relate to?

You accept stuff that used to piss you off. Or at least learn to tolerate them. Like wrinkles. And Republicans.

You avoid things that upset your stomach. Like red meat. And Republicans. You must now occasionally coax things out of your body that you used to expel easily. You now see that your parents aren’t superheroes who’ll always be able to fly to your rescue. You prepare yourself for the possibility that, some day, you'll need to be a superhero who flies to his parents' rescue. You've accepted that that evil – no matter how hard we fight it – has always existed and always will. Sex stops being the driving force in your life. You no longer recognize stars and celebrities on the cover of magazines. You still read magazines. You have three sets of lenses for three different purposes. After screaming “Move it, Grandpa!” at a driver on the freeway, you drive past said driver, turn to glare, and see they are half your age. You stop trying to explain yourself to people who think you’re an asshole. You accept that, often, you are an asshole. You avoid using slang because you can no longer keep track of what “they” are saying now versus what “they” were saying then. You now get more excited about an evening with no plans than a night out on the town. Your doctor is younger than you. Your boss is younger than you. Those clothes you’ve kept in storage all these many years have finally come back into style. All those back-in-style fashions you saved no longer fit!

What realizations have you had about getting older? Come on, fess up! Please post them below!

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If you enjoyed this blog, and would like to read more pieces like it, check out my new book Expletives Not Deleted, coming May 30, 2023 in paperback, e-book & audio book!

,Pre-order the e-book now at Amazon!

Why I Loathe/Love LA

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for almost 20 years.

And it’s true what they say. Familiarity breeds contempt. At least it does when it comes to me and the City of Angels.

My husband Laurence is a native Angeleno, and he’d really hoped I would learn to love it.

Alas, I seem to grow more irritated with each passing year.

It’s not the serious problems and dangerous threats, like homelessness and wild fires, that set my teeth on edge (though they should be taken seriously).

The things that drive me nuts here are menial and shallow. (Like me, I guess.) The longer I live here, the less tolerant of these almost-everyday annoyances I become.

Here’s a by-no-means comprehensive list:

It often takes an hour to drive 12 miles Most people here think it’s perfectly reasonable to spend an hour driving 12 miles One car with a flat tire on the 405 can ruin the fun for thousands Endless constant sun and a lack of real weather Despite the endless constant sun and a lack of real weather, temperatures often span 20 degrees or more within one day When it does rain, most people react as though it’s the end of the world “What are you working on now?” is considered a greeting Pneumatic breasts on women Butt implants on men 65-year-olds working at McDonalds 55-year-olds wearing skinny jeans 30-year-olds running movie studios 16-year-olds driving Teslas 8-year-olds with gold AmEx cards Traffic. Again. Because it never goes away A small one-bedroom bungalow costs $2.5 million Working actors are treated like gods and goddesses Non-working actors are treated like hoodlums and whores Road construction during rush hour Two people are legally considered a carpool Despite that, most people still won’t carpool People who bring their (uninvited) dogs to parties The brown/tan/orange-ish baby puke/Taco-Bell-esque hue of paint that seems to cover 80% of commercial buildings Strict no-smoking ordinances in a city with endless exhaust fumes Leaf blowers Racism Artisan everything. Artisan laundry detergent. Artisan personal lubricant The “Fake Red-Carpet Crowd" who show up to anything with a step-and-repeat where they can take their own photo

At this point, I must sound like a grumpy old curmudgeon. A “queer-mudgeon.” Maybe I am.

In hopes of proving that I’m not, however, I sat down recently to make list of everything I love about Los Angeles.

It was a long 20 minutes of brainstorming.

But in the interest of full disclosure, and in a half-hearted attempt to offer some balance and lighten the fuck up, here’s a begrudging manifest of things I don’t absolutely hate about living here.

In no particularly order:

Paley Center for Media, née the Museum of Broadcasting, which hosts annual television festivals and retrospectives, where they screen episodes of favorites old and new on the big screen, and gather the casts and creators for often-hilariously candid Q&As. You can also find pretty much anything ever broadcast in their vast library, and watch it in their pods. It’s Nirvana for former TV addicts like me Between all the “has-beens” who used to work in the industry, all the young “wannabes” who inspire to work in show biz, and all the people who actually do make their living laboring in movies, TV and music in this town, there really is artistic genius living on almost every city block There’s a lot of old-Hollywood history casually laying around. I currently live less than a mile from Sony Studios (previously known as MGM), and walking distance from Culver Studios, a.k.a. David O. Selznick’s old studio, a.k.a. that big white mansion that served as Selznick’s “logo” that opens Gone with the Wind I bitch about constant sun and the lack of weather. But I’d be lying if I said I missed those cold, dry, snowy, blistering Indiana winters. (God knows, we got plenty of weather this winter after two decades of drought) Palm trees and the wild parrots that live in them Palisades Park is gorgeous, with some of Santa Monica’s most elegant high-rise condos on one side, the gorgeous Pacific Ocean on the other, and the Santa Monica Pier off in the distance. It's a great place to "people watch" Beverly Hills is another wonderful place to people watch – you'll see everyone from the ultra-rich to the struggling to survive, bizarre sci-fi-esque plastic surgery and some of the most tasteless-yet-casual displays of wealth imaginable University of Southern California, where I made many student films, met some good friends and great connections, and did some of my best work on film (sad as that is to admit) Authentic Jewish delis Authentic Mexican food Deserts, mountains, forests, the ocean, and even San Francisco are all less than a day’s drive away (if you can stand the traffic)

Okay, I did my best. Now I’m exhausted.

I’m lowering the black-out shades to block out that God-damned sun, turning on the white-noise machine to drown out the fucking leaf blowers and car alarms, and taking a much-needed nap.

Like a grumpy old queen does.

#####

If you enjoyed this blog, and would like to read more pieces like it, check out my new book Expletives Not Deleted, coming May 30, 2023 in paperback, e-book & audio book!

,Pre-order the e-book now at Amazon!

A Hatchet Job/Love Letter to LA

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for almost 20 years.

And it’s true what they say. Familiarity breeds contempt. At least it does when it comes to me and the City of Angels.

My husband Laurence is a native Angeleno, and he’d really hoped I would learn to love it.

Alas, I seem to grow more irritated with each passing year.

It’s not the serious problems and dangerous threats, like homelessness and wild fires, that set my teeth on edge (though they should be taken seriously).

The things that drive me nuts here are menial and shallow. (Like me, I guess.) The longer I live here, the less tolerant of these almost-everyday annoyances I become.

Here’s a by-no-means comprehensive list:

It often takes an hour to drive 12 miles Most people here think it’s perfectly reasonable to spend an hour driving 12 miles One car with a flat tire on the 405 can ruin the fun for thousands Endless constant sun and a lack of real weather Despite the endless constant sun and a lack of real weather, temperatures often span 20 degrees or more within one day When it does rain, most people react as though it’s the end of the world “What are you working on now?” is considered a greeting Pneumatic breasts on women Butt implants on men 65-year-olds working at McDonalds 55-year-olds wearing skinny jeans 30-year-olds running movie studios 16-year-olds driving Teslas 8-year-olds with gold AmEx cards Traffic. Again. Because it never goes away A small one-bedroom bungalow costs $2.5 million Working actors are treated like gods and goddesses Non-working actors are treated like hoodlums and whores Road construction during rush hour Two people are legally considered a carpool Despite that, most people still won’t carpool People who bring their (uninvited) dogs to parties The brown/tan/orange-ish baby puke/Taco-Bell-esque hue of paint that seems to cover 80% of commercial buildings Strict no-smoking ordinances in a city with endless exhaust fumes Leaf blowers Racism Artisan everything. Artisan laundry detergent. Artisan personal lubricant The “Fake Red-Carpet Crowd" who show up to anything with a step-and-repeat where they can take their own photo

At this point, I must sound like a grumpy old curmudgeon. A “queer-mudgeon.” Maybe I am.

In hopes of proving that I’m not, however, I sat down recently to make list of everything I love about Los Angeles.

It was a long 20 minutes of brainstorming.

But in the interest of full disclosure, and in a half-hearted attempt to offer some balance and lighten the fuck up, here’s a begrudging manifest of things I don’t absolutely hate about living here.

In no particularly order:

Paley Center for Media, née the Museum of Broadcasting, which hosts annual television festivals and retrospectives, where they screen episodes of favorites old and new on the big screen, and gather the casts and creators for often-hilariously candid Q&As. You can also find pretty much anything ever broadcast in their vast library, and watch it in their pods. It’s Nirvana for former TV addicts like me Between all the “has-beens” who used to work in the industry, all the young “wannabes” who inspire to work in show biz, and all the people who actually do make their living laboring in movies, TV and music in this town, there really is artistic genius living on almost every city block There’s a lot of old-Hollywood history casually laying around. I currently live less than a mile from Sony Studios (previously known as MGM), and walking distance from Culver Studios, a.k.a. David O. Selznick’s old studio, a.k.a. that big white mansion that served as Selznick’s “logo” that opens Gone with the Wind I bitch about constant sun and the lack of weather. But I’d be lying if I said I missed those cold, dry, snowy, blistering Indiana winters. (God knows, we got plenty of weather this winter after two decades of drought) Palm trees and the wild parrots that live in them Palisades Park is gorgeous, with some of Santa Monica’s most elegant high-rise condos on one side, the gorgeous Pacific Ocean on the other, and the Santa Monica Pier off in the distance. It's a great place to "people watch" Beverly Hills is another wonderful place to people watch – you'll see everyone from the ultra-rich to the struggling to survive, bizarre sci-fi-esque plastic surgery and some of the most tasteless-yet-casual displays of wealth imaginable University of Southern California, where I made many student films, met some good friends and great connections, and did some of my best work on film (sad as that is to admit) Authentic Jewish delis Authentic Mexican food Deserts, mountains, forests, the ocean, and even San Francisco are all less than a day’s drive away (if you can stand the traffic)

Okay, I did my best. Now I’m exhausted.

I’m lowering the black-out shades to block out that God-damned sun, turning on the white-noise machine to drown out the fucking leaf blowers and car alarms, and taking a much-needed nap.

Like a grumpy old queen does.

#####

If you enjoyed this blog, and would like to read more pieces like it, check out my new book Expletives Not Deleted, coming May 30, 2023 in paperback, e-book & audio book!

,Pre-order the e-book now at Amazon!

The Right's Ridiculous War on Drag

Forget about school shooters and pedophile priests.

Apparently, drag queens are America’s Public Enemy #1.

Yes, you read that right. At least, that’s what the GOP wants you to think.

Lawmakers recently introduced 14 bills seeking to restrict or criminalize drag in eight states, including (what a shock) Texas, Florida, and Arizona, the “three stooges” of American states.

What’s triggering these conservatives? “Drag Queen Story Hours.”

In Florida, Governor Ron DeSantis recently revoked the liquor license of the Hyatt Miami because it hosted a Christmas-themed drag show.

Tennessee has made it a crime not only to perform in drag on public property or anywhere a child might see, but it’s a felony if you do it more than once.

In other words, Tennessee State Police could show up at Pride celebrations in the state and arrest anyone they deem “in drag.”

It’d be wildly laughable if it didn’t feel like something out of late 1930s Germany.

Why the sudden nonsensical attack on drag artists, an art form that’s been around since Shakespeare’s day?

Because conservatives can no longer target LGBTQ. They want to, God knows. But they know they can’t directly attack us these days without getting serious blowback from our allies and families.

So who can they target to fuel their ridiculous “culture wars”? To trigger their base’s homophobia? To distract from their failures on crime, climate change, inflation, guns? To keep their voters from seeing the GOP’s own corruption?

Story-telling drag queens (and kings), of course!

Gee, I feel safer already! Don’t you?

If these states were truly so concerned about children, why is child marriage still legal in most of them? (Look it up if you don't believe me!)

Never mind that school shootings, lack of education, food insecurity, climate change, and poverty are the true threats to our children. The GOP is, as always, in total denial about those very real dangers.

Instead, they simply must save the kids from drag-queen story hours!

If you think it will stop here, you're dead wrong. Need proof? Florida's toxic DeSantis just announced his "Don't Say Gay!" rule -- originally enacted to "protect" grade-school kids -- will now be expanded to prohibit free speech in junior-high and high schools in his state as well!

The GOP longs to return to the "good old days"

I'm not one bit surprised.

No, the GOP is just beginning. How far will they take their new war?

Will they make it illegal to screen films like Tootsie, Victor/Victoria, and Mrs. Doubtfire without an "X" rating? Will high schools be forbidden to perform Charly’s Aunt? Will M. Butterfly become verboten for opera companies? Will Tyler Perry need to find a new career?

See how ridiculous these Republicans truly are?

I asked my good friend, San Francisco superstar and self-proclaimed “male actress” Matthew Martin, known for his spot-on impersonations of Judy Garland, Bette Davis, Peggy Lee, and more, to weigh in on this ridiculous assault against drag and drag performers.

Matthew’s one of the most honorable people I know. I’ve never heard him say a single negative word about anyone in over 20 years. So naturally, he was hesitant to speak out. But he finds these new bans “ridiculous,” and went on to say:

“For God’s sake, it [drag] has been entertaining audiences for centuries. No well-known comedian or actor has not played a female part. Laurence Olivier was lauded for his female Shakespearian roles. Some Like It Hot is still the number-one comedy of all time.”

The many faces of Matthew Martin

Drag queens do a lot of good works. And not just with the story hours that entertain kids but trigger conservatives. Take San Francisco’s “Emperor and Empress” pageants, for example. The “Imperial Court System” is a grassroots network of organizations that works to “build community relationships for equality and raise money for charitable causes through the production of their annual Gala Coronation Balls.” Some of the charities that benefit include the AIDS Emergency Fund, American Association of Political Consultants, and the Horizon Foundation.

The typically clueless GOP underestimates its new targets. Drag queens do not run from a fight.

After all, there would be no modern-day gay rights movement if not for the queens (and trans women) who fought back against police aggression at Stonewall in 1969.

Ask the Proud Boys. They showed up last week to protest a Drag Queen Story Hour in Manhattan. Some were bloodied and arrested after queens and their allies confronted them; others fled the scene in fear!

Our drag queens are strong, resilient, independent, and brave. If you ask me, we should celebrate them, because these qualities make them undeniably American!

“But the children!!!”

Again, this isn’t really about kids. The sight of a six-foot rodent in a bow tie doesn’t traumatize them at Disneyland. Hell, they practice active-shooter drills at school. But we’re supposed to believe children will be forever scarred by the sight of a man dressed like a woman (or vice versa) reading a story?

Utter hogwash.

One Halloween several years ago, I squeezed into my Wonder Woman costume to greet the throngs of trick-or-treaters. Of the hundreds of kids who came to our door, only one girl commented on the fact that I was a guy in drag.

“You’re a dude,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Why are you dressed as a girl?”

“Because it’s Halloween,” I replied. “This is one day when we can dress up as whoever we admire, and I admire Wonder Woman!”

"But you're still a dude!"

"Yes, I am!"

The girl smiled, shrugged, and that was that.

Behind her, her mother mouthed the words “Thank you!” to me. Then they moved on to our neighbor’s house.

I’m sure that girl will be in psychotherapy the rest of her life because of our interaction!

Laurence & Charlie, our neighbor Ruth, and a drag queen terrorizing children on Halloween

These absurdist, hateful laws flagrantly violate the Constitution’s promise of freedom of expression. Therefore, they must eventually be struck down in our courts.

What do we do until then?

Go to a drag show! Attend your local library’s drag-queen story hour!

Call and email your representatives and tell them to cut the shit & focus on the real issues!

And if you’re really brave, slap on some guy-liner, slip into a pair of pumps, and go on vacation in Tennessee – but take your lawyer with you!

####

If you enjoyed this blog, and would like to read more pieces like it, check out my new book Expletives Not Deleted, coming May 30, 2023 in paperback, e-book & audio book!

,Pre-order the e-book now at Amazon!

Stop Blaming Oscar

First, the good news. Ratings for this year’s Academy Awards telecast were up 12% -- clearly last year’s slap drew more folks to this year’s show, perhaps hoping to see more drama.

Now, the bad news. It was still among the lowest-rated Oscar telecasts.

So here comes the annual barrage of Hollywood hand-wringing. Another round of headlines asking “Is Oscar Out of Touch With America?” More articles wondering how the Academy can attract new audiences.

But here's a radical proposition. Ready for it? Maybe the Academy isn’t to blame.

Perhaps the real question we should be asking is, “Is America Out of Touch With Oscar?”

After all, the Oscars haven’t changed very much in the 80 years they’ve been handed out. The films and stars are different each year, to be sure, but the televised show itself is always sluggish, star-studded, cringe-inducing, inspiring, overlong, funny, boring, glamorous, tedious, self-serious and overblown.

The average American has never heard of most of the nominated films, much less seen them, the argument goes. Why should they care?

This is true. But that has almost always been the case, hasn't it? Mr. Joe Blue Collar didn’t see My Fair Lady or The Sound of Music in the 1960s, nor Cabaret or Annie Hall in the 1970s. Maybe he hadn't heard of them either. But his household still usually tuned in every year back then.

It was event television. Must-see TV, whether you'd seen the films or not.

So what has changed?

We have changed.

So maybe it's time to stop blaming the Academy Awards.

Back in the 1950s through to the early seventies, weekly TV variety programs like The Ed Sullivan Show and Omnibus brought the greatest opera singers, dancers, mimes, and Broadway stars into our homes every Sunday night.

Even if you weren’t a fan of classical music, you knew who Leontyne Price was.

If you lived in Peoria, you still knew about the biggest musicals on the Great White Way.

And even if you hated ballet, you still probably knew what Rudolf Nureyev did for a living.

Throughout much of the previous century, many Americans saw the arts as something akin to eating your vegetables. One might not like them, but one knew they were good for you. A necessary evil.

That mentality has all but disappeared from our society. And there are many reasons why.

One is the multitude of modern-day entertainment options, and the resulting splintering of audiences. There’s simply too much to watch out there.

And with so many choices, one never has to see anything one doesn’t want to see. There is no “eating your vegetables” in today’s entertainment landscape.

All these choices have also made us lazy. Too many of us refuse to pay attention to anything that doesn’t directly appeal to us. We don’t have to, because there’s so much out there to choose from. (I'm just as guilty as anyone else.)

One can always find something just for them. Why spend three hours watching an awards show you might hate, when you could use that time binging your favorite sitcom or reality show?

We’ve also dumbed down as a society (the causes are many and way too complex for a single blog post).

Too many Americans would rather watch some true-life crime documentary series on Netflix than sit through something thought-provoking like Triangle of Sadness or disturbing like Tar. Today’s average American wants to be merely entertained. To feel without having to think too much.

The current anti-elite sentimentality is also to blame. Many Americans (and not just conservatives) see the entertainment industry as leftist and hopelessly elitist.

A wave of anti-snobbery is infecting our nation. Anything “high brow” or artistic or “woke" -- be it high-quality films or a college degree or even science -- is considered elitist by too many Americans. They simply aren't interested in recognizing excellence, unless it's on a sports field or in an arena.

Seeing a bunch of well-paid, well-dressed celebrities celebrating themselves apparently drive a lot of folks nuts these days, especially if/when winners use their acceptance speeches to make political statements.

These “anti-woke” folks would rather ignore high quality, or even ridicule it, than acknowledge it. It’s easier to say “That movie sounds stupid” than to ask “Have I become ignorant?”

Another reason? Back in the days when most households had only one television, families had no choice but to watch just one show, together, like it or not. If Mom wanted to watch the Oscars, the whole family watched.

With the exception of the Super Bowl, there simply are no more family-viewing events. Mom is watching the Kardashians in the kitchen; Dad is in the living room watching ESPN or CNN; the kids are in their rooms, immersed in TikTok or God knows what else on their phones or pads.

And then, there is the sorry state of cinema itself. COVID and streaming have completely blurred the lines between TV and film. These days, even folks who claim to love cinema are loathe to see a film outside their home. They love movies, but hate going to the movies.

It also seems like the era of the movie star is dying. Smaller, character-driven films are rare. All the superhero movies are beginning to blur together. Reboots and "requels" are less risky and come with built-in buzz. Is it any wonder cinema is losing its hypnotic hold on us?

One final reason? The Oscars used to be the only show in town. (The Golden Globes was merely it's poor bastard cousin until recently.) Now we also have the televised SAG Awards, the MTV Movie Awards, the People's Choice Awards, the Critics' Choice Awards, the AARP Movies for Grownups Awards...

Long story short, awards shows have become as ubiquitous as superhero movies. The Academy Awards can't help but be damaged by the glut of golden statues being handed out at ceremonies on TV, most within weeks of each other.

The Academy Awards are not in danger. Hell, for-your-consideration campaigning alone has become a multi-million dollar industry itself. But the show may need to adjust to being just another awards show.

Because when I bring up the Oscars with friends, most have the same reaction:

So let's stop putting the blame on the Oscars for attracting smaller and smaller audiences. For seeming irrelevant to many of us.

The fault isn't with the show.

It's just that much of America frankly doesn't give a damn anymore.

P.S.: In the interest of full disclosure: I grew up watching & loving the Oscars. These days, I hate-watch it more than anything ... but I still watch!

If you enjoyed this blog, and would like to read more pieces like it, check out my new book Expletives Not Deleted, coming May 30, 2023 in paperback, e-book & audio book!

,Pre-order the e-book now at Amazon!

Valentine's Last Dance: Southern Love Lost & Found

"Well, butter my behind and call me a biscuit!"

I'm really happy to be back "on the boards" again, my first time on stage since 2014's Setting the Record Gay. (Though I must confess, I haven't been looking that hard for theatre roles until recently -- and this one almost literally fell into my lap!)

This time, it's in Valentine's Last Dance, a dramedy about lost love and female friendship set in the deep South. It's written & directed by Destiny Fletcher-Dwyer, and plays until Feb 12 at the venerable Hudson Theatre Mainstage on Hollywood's famed "Theatre Row."

I play "Xavier Lenox," the "one who got away," in an flashback sequence told by "Pamela" (Alex G-Smith) to her girlfriends.

After so many years away from the theatre, I'm actually grateful to play a small supporting role this time -- it's just what I needed to get my confidence back. But it's also been harder than I expected!

Xavier is described by Pamela as confident, handsome, self-assured, and to the point. Gulp! After a couple of decades of playing neurotic need-bags, sassy best friends, and agoraphobes, portraying smooth-as-Southern-silk Xavier has been a challenge -- but one that I've really enjoyed!

It also gives me a lot of time in my dressing room, time I utilize by multi-tasking during the second act -- making one last swipe at the manuscript of my upcoming book Expletives Not Deleted (coming out in June!) for one thing.

And fair's fair. I've half-joked to the female leads that, after a century of actresses taking a back seat to actors, I'm happy to help counter that inequity and play "the boyfriend" to one of the leads.

If you're in the Los Angeles area between now and Feb. 12, I hope you'll come on down for this unique mix of Real Housewives and Steel Magnolias! For info & tix, click HERE!

The cast of Valentine's Last Dance: (l-r) Michelle Redman, George Oliver Hale, Shelly Day, Damian Dwyer, Destiny Fletcher-Dwyer, Leon Acord & Alex G-Smith