Leon Acord's Blog, page 7

America is...

With Trump desperately trying to turn America into something I no longer recognize, I sat down and wrote a few words to remind myself what America was, is, and must always remain. Please let me know if you agree!

America is black. America is brown. America is yellow and white and every shade in between.

America is female. America is male. America is CIS and trans and non-binary.

America is Christian. America is agnostic. America is Catholic and Muslim and Jewish and Buddhist and atheist.

America is straight. America is gay. America is bi and queer and questioning and asexual.

America is everyone fighting to recover from trauma

America is everyone struggling against mental illness.

America is everyone refusing to be defined by a physical disability.

America is every immigrant striving for a better life. Every dreamer with something to offer.

America is the student, going to school while working full time.

America is the postal worker, still delivering off the clock.

America is the librarian trying to keep kids’ lives as normal as possible.

America is the teacher buying school supplies out of her own pocket.

America is the janitor, working to keep us clean and safe.

America is the grocery worker, risking her life to keep us fed.

America is the nurse working a 12-hour shift to keep us alive.

America is the social worker protecting at-risk children.

America is the veteran who risked all to serve and defend our country.

America is the self-made millionaire who takes pride in paying his fair share of taxes.

America is the delivery person, the Lyft driver, the fast-food employee, the trucker, who keep us moving.

America is the peaceful protestor, the good cop, the honest politician.

America is fighting fair, playing by the rules, keeping your word.

America is science. America is diversity. America is justice. America is truth.

America is a representative democracy.

That means, America is us.

All of us.

Don’t let anyone tell you that you are not America.

Don’t let anyone suppress your vote.

Because America is all of us.

Changing Channels

NOTE: I recently wrapped the "virtual book tour" for SUB-LEBRITY. It was a fun four weeks -- thank you to Goddess Fish Promotions. Part of the tour was writing "guest blogs" for select book blogs. Near the end, I was running out of ideas for all those blog posts!

Luckily, I had a few chapters I cut from the book that I was able to repurpose.

Here is the original final chapter to my book, written before Indy Shorts and Heartland Film came along to honor Old Dogs & New Tricks (and gave SUB-LEBRITY a new, much happier ending), edited slightly for one of those blogs.

Recent, rapid technological advances have been huge game-changers in show business. Yes, it’s made exposure more accessible to all. It even helped me finally create my own sitcom after over twenty years in the industry.

But it’s altered film and TV as much as the publishing and music industries, in ways large and small. Sometimes I barely recognize my industry at all anymore.

Television had already changed drastically since the 1970s, when it first inspired me to be an actor. But advances in just the past decade are mind-boggling. When we first launched Old Dogs & New Tricks in 2011, Amazon was just a place to buy CDs and books. Netflix was still in the DVD rental business.

Now, every company short of the Waffle House has its own “network.” Netflix, Hulu and Amazon dominate the Emmys as HBO once had. Literally hundreds of shows come and go. It seems next to impossible to keep up with so many shows, harder still to accomplish “market penetration.” Small loyal audiences are now just as impressive to advertisers as casual large audiences.

There is a plus side. Once the bastard stepchild of Hollywood, the television industry is now more respected than the feature film industry.

On the downside, it’s harder than ever for unknowns to break in.

When I grew up watching TV, there was a stable of journeyman actors, respected in the industry but otherwise unknown – actors you’d recognize in the supermarket without remembering their names – who made their careers in guest-starring roles, season after season.

Those days are long gone.

With so many former “big names” now scrambling for work – any work – those one-and-done episodic guest roles now go to them. It’s called “stunt casting” and it gets ratings. I know; I’ve done it myself when casting guest stars on Old Dogs & New Tricks.

Perhaps the biggest alteration in the show-biz fabric? You’re holding it in your hands. Its social media.

To stay relevant, stars and wannabes alike must post constantly – fab photos on Instagram, witty political bytes on Twitter, upcoming appearances on Facebook. (And even more apps this old fart doesn’t use.)

Producers, networks, casting people want “influencers.” Now, the number of followers an actor has is often as important as the amount of talent s/he offers – sadly, sometimes more important. It often makes the difference between who gets the part and who doesn’t.

Some young “actors” make mint not by starring in some sitcom or releasing a hit song, but by simply posting photos of themselves drinking this energy drink, wearing those sneakers, checking into that hotel.

Speaking of social media, there’s a reason your favorite A-List movie stars are lining up to star in TV series on cable and streaming services, and not just because the quality now exceeds films, or because the seasons are usually shorter than network shows.

In today’s blink-and-the-conversation’s-moved-on era of total media saturation and one million channels, stars (and their managers and agents) realize starring in one big-budget film every 12 or 18 months isn’t enough to stay in the dialogue longer than a week or two. By next week, everyone will be talking about something else. New product is needed constantly to keep fans engaged, and you need to be in as much of it as possible.

It’s all just too exhausting to think about.

Laurence tells me, I’m a better actor now than I’ve ever been. And he’s right. I have chops. My emotions are fluid. I no longer require “prep time” to “get into character.”

The irony is, while I’m better than ever, I’ve never had fewer opportunities.

I’ve also never felt less ambitious to chase after them – which may be the biggest seismic change (at least personally) of all!

But even auditioning is completely different now – altered even before COVID-19 sent us all home. Self-tape? Seriously? That’s no fun! I don’t like taking selfies!

I’ve also been spoiled rotten by working with a thoroughly prepared and professional crew and cast on Old Dogs & New Tricks. It’s much harder to bite my tongue now when new colleagues don’t match the professionalism to which I’ve grown accustomed. Sometimes I don’t bite my tongue at all – not the best way to generate work or a reputation. Case in point:

Huddled in a shadowy North Hollywood storefront to avoid the blistering sunshine, actor Wenzel Jones and I waited for our extremely late director to show up for rehearsal. When the director arrived some twenty-plus minutes later, he informed us he lost the keys to the theatre. We’d have to rehearse on the roof, he said, until the theatre owner showed up.

“I am not rehearsing on the roof in this heat!” I snapped. And I didn’t stop there. “I expect my director to be inside the theatre, waiting and ready to start rehearsal on time. Why should we care about being punctual if you don’t?”

Rightly cowed, the director scrambled off. Feeling instantly guilty, I turned to Wenzel.

“Why can’t I be one of those actors who can go off on a director without immediately feeling bad afterwards?”

“There’s a name for actors like that, Leon,” Wenzel deadpanned. “They’re called ‘stars.’”

One thing I know: I am not, never have been, and never will be a “star.” I know what I am. And I’m quite happy with my obscure status of “sub-lebrity.” Perhaps now more than ever!

A Twisted Vein

I’m a believer of the “vomit draft.” Meaning, when writing a first draft, you write down everything that comes to mind. Future drafts are about cutting, condensing and deciding on and strengthening your “thesis.”

So, after the first draft of SUB-LEBRITY, I realized my book was the mostly comic tale of an out-and-loud gay actor from Indiana now living and working in Los Angeles. If a story wasn’t about being gay, being an actor, or being a gay actor, out it came. There was no room for family dramas or medical traumas.

But here’s a chapter which I cut from my book, all about my scariest “medical emergency.”

A Twisted Vein

I had somehow arrived at middle-age without ever breaking a bone, having surgery, or even spending a night as a patient in a hospital.

Pretty good, huh? Especially considering my childhood was filled with jumping off barns, riding horses and mini-motorbikes, and farm work!

But that’s not to say my life has been free of scary medical-show drama.

Around 2003, I began to notice, while reading, that text was becoming a little blurry. I attributed it to my age (40 at the time), and mentally made a note to buy some reading glasses.

I also noticed colors on TV became muted when I closed my left eye. Again, I assumed it was just a case of aging eyes.

Then one day, as I was walking to work in San Francisco’s Financial District, I looked up at a high-rise building.

Is that building bulging? I wondered.

I closed my left eye. The building did, indeed, appear to have a small bulge -- one or two floors warping outwards.

How is that possible?

I quickly made an appointment with my regular eye doctor, a wonderful woman named Dr. Christine Brischer.

As we sat down, I explained to her what I was experiencing. She looked into my left eye, then my right, with her lighted pen. Then, without a word to me, she spun around in her chair, picked up the phone, and called a leading ophthalmologist.

“Hi, its Christine. I have a patient who needs to see you immediately. Can he come this afternoon? Good.” The seriousness of her tone shook me to the bone.

She hung up, and spun around to face me.

“I hope you have good insurance,” she said cryptically. “This is going to be expensive.”

I left her office in a daze, and immediately called Laurence. He left work early and joined me at the ophthalmologist’s office.

After a thorough and grueling examination, the specialist explained to use what was going on.

A small artery behind the center of my right retina had sprung a leak. The blood that was spilling out was pushing the retina forward, thus causing vision in that eye to appear warped.

The ophthalmologist conferred with his team. They suggested urgency. Considering the leak was located directly in the center of my eye, they recommended the “big guns” -- a “hot” laser eye surgery. It would leave me with a permanent blind spot in the middle of my right eye, but the heat from the laser might -- just might -- seal up the leaky vein. We agreed.

My head was strapped into a chair. I was warned against moving in the slightest for the 60 seconds the laser was shooting into my eye, as the laser would burn (and blind) anything it touched.

The terrifying procedure began, and the entire time, I wondered What if I have to sneeze? What if there’s an earthquake? What if I fart?

I didn’t, there wasn’t, and I didn’t.

I was appearing in the play Worse Than Chocolate at the time, and assured director Jeffrey I’d recover sufficiently in time to return to the show following the mid-week break in performances. And I did, despite incredibly distracting “halos” that stage lighting caused in my recovering eye.[1]

That weekend, during a performance, as I’m “firing” Jaeson Post and demanding the office key from him, he dropped it as he handed it to me. I looked down. With my impaired vision, the brass-colored metal key vanished against the similarly colored wooded floor.

I looked at Jaeson. Rightfully remaining in character, he refused to pick it up.

I got on my hands and knees and felt for the keys with my hands, like a young, manic Patty Duke-as-Helen Keller. The audience actually loved it, loved seeing the heavy of the show (me) reduced to crawling on his hands and knees after being such a prick, but it was a very scary moment which I think I played off.

We returned to the doctor for a follow-up a week later. We were both disappointed when told the vein was still leaking. So now, I had warped vision plus the blind spot right in the center of my eye. I began to question the wisdom of using the “big guns” right away.

The doctor suggested we try the hot laser again. But one blind spot is enough, thank you very much. So, we opted for the less-powerful option: inject me full of photo-topical chemicals, and shoot a “cold” laser into my eye, through the retina, at the leak. Then hide from direct sunlight for the next three days (not so easy to do in Los Angeles), as the chemicals would leave me susceptible to serious sunburn within minutes.

That didn’t stop the leak either. So, we tried it again. Then again.

After seven more expensive cold laser surgeries over 18 months, the leak was finally catheterized.

What caused the vein to pop a leak in the first place?

That question left the various eye professionals stymied. Until over a year later, when we consulted with a vision specialist on the campus of UCSF.

“Did you grow up on a farm?” he asked within moments.

“Why, yes, I did, why?”

“Histoplasmosis,” he answered, explaining the infection – caused by inhaling dried bird droppings – is common in people who live(d) on midwestern farms. Most people carry it without ever developing symptoms. Yes, as a matter of fact, I did spend a few months as a kid raising chickens and selling the eggs to neighbors and family members. And I remembered, Mom had battled the same thing when I was a young kid -- in her case, it attacked the veins in her legs, putting her in a wheelchair for a week or two.

Then again, it may be the kicked-up piles of dried pigeon shit I inhaled while shooting OUT’s climatic mugging scene in that disgusting San Francisco Tenderloin back alley.

Over the years, my blind spot from that hot laser has continued to expand, basically leaving me effectively blind in the center of my right eye. If I live long enough, the slowly expanding blind spot will eventually leave me legally blind in that eye.

I’ve gotten used to it. The human eye is an amazing thing, and fills in blind spots with the colors surrounding it. I only really feel impaired when taking a conventional vision test, while watching a 3D movie, or if I’m driving in an unfamiliar part of town after dark.

The plus side? I have to subject myself to rigorous eye tests every six months to ensure the leak doesn’t reopen. Since most of the patients of my ophthalmologist are elderly men and women battling macular degeneration, every time I show up for an appointment, I enjoy the very rare sensation of being the young person in the room -- a feat I rarely accomplish in LA!

Or anywhere else these days, now that I think about it...

[1] I should’ve worn the eye patch I’d been sporting after the surgery on stage, but critics already felt my villain was a little too over-the-top!

Road Trip!

I was born in 1963 and grew up in rural 1970s Indiana.

The nation’s network of interstate highways was born shortly before I was, and we grew up together.

My Dad, not much older than a teenager himself, immediately embraced the concept of driving cross-country – with a vengeance!

When my sister Tammy and I were still quite young, Dad began what would become an oft-repeated family tradition: loading us and Mom into a car, usually attaching a camper, and driving … driving … driving … throughout the Midwest until we arrived at our destination.

Dad didn’t screw around. Sleep? Forget about it! Motels were for soft city folk. Once we were on our way, stops were kept to an absolute minimum, and only when necessary: to refill the gas tank, or to empty our bladders.

Dad never began a trip with less than a full tank, so the first stop, made hours into the journey, was almost always due to me and Tammy.

“Dad, please! We gotta pee, I can’t hold it any longer!”

“Didn’t I tell you to go before we left home?” he’d scold us.

Eventually, Mom would finally admonish him. “Oh, now, come on, Norm. They’ve held it in long enough!”

Then we’d take the next exit and stop at the nearest Stuckley’s (whatever happened to those?). Once done in the little boys’ and girls’ rooms, Tammy and I would buy candy and soda, then rush back to the truck. You did not want to keep Dad waiting.

At the end of those endless drives, amazing adventures always awaited. Camping in Iowa; King’s Island amusement park outside Cincinnati, Ohio; Mackinac Island in Michigan.

As we got older, the campers got bigger, and Dad’s wanderlust shifted into a higher gear. We began driving the Eastern seaboard.

First, up North, all the way to Niagara Falls. (Mom and Dad never had a proper honeymoon, I realize now, so…). It was an impressive spectacle – but I was far more amazed by the Adam West “Batman” figure we saw in a nearby wax museum.

Then South, to Disney World, via never-ending, maddening stand-still traffic jams in Georgia.

After the Happiest Place on Earth, I got my first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean. I ran into the water, ecstatically about to take my first swim in an actual ocean, completely ignorant of how strong ocean waves are! I quickly found out. A large one knocked me over and dragged me under. I tumbled head over heels, over and over, until I eventually emerged, gagging on sea salt, with seashells embedded in my hair and down my shorts.

I’ve hated swimming ever since.

When I was 12 or so, Dad was required to attend a UAW convention in 1970s Los Angeles. He could have flown solo. But he decided to take his family (and a large “fifth-wheel” camper/trailer) to LA on the mother-of-all-road-trips and see much of the country along the way.

What followed was a week-long drive into the Deep South, then through the Southwest.

And we saw it all. Grand Canyon (“Now get back in the car!”), Petrified Forest, (“Come on now, you saw it!”), Painted Desert (“Let’s go, let’s go!”).

Alas, a tire on the fifth-wheel trailer blew out as we crossed the Arizona desert (while my sister and I were inside it, but that’s another story!). Once Dad was able to control, then stop, the wildly careening vehicles, we found ourselves stranded in the hot, dry desert on the side of the highway. Hours passed as we waited for roadside assistance. Mom wouldn’t let us venture too far, for fear of rattlesnakes.

Once help arrived, Dad learned he’d have to leave his beloved trailer in Arizona for repairs.

That may have been a blessing, because I can’t imagine Dad parking it where we stayed in Hollywood -- the Sheraton Hotel near Universal Studios! (For details on that trip, read SUB-LEBRITY*).

Dad became a farmer when I entered high school, and that pretty much ended our family road-trips. And I did finally start flying, in my early 20s and, boy, did I make up for lost time once I did!

But now, as my “golden years” sparkle on the visible horizon, I’m longing for those road trips of old. My husband Laurence and I have talked often about buying a trailer and driving across the country once we retire.

We used to worry being together that much, that long, would drive us crazy! Now, five months into COVID-19 and counting, we’ve realized we can take it!

From my desk to yours...

I’m always fascinated by people’s desks. You learn much about a person by his or her workspace. It’s a sneak peek into their brains. One of the writer magazines, back in the day, had a monthly feature where they’d feature the desk of a new well-known writer each month. I always flipped to that page first when my copy arrived in the mail.

So, I was thrilled when Fabulous & Brunette asked for a photo of my workspace with a legend of the most meaningful items that surround it.

In no particular order, here are some treasures (and why) you’ll find on my desk.

· Even though I have a desktop PC for most uses, my MacBook is never far away. I use it for editing movies, prettying up photos, and for those other “arts” tasks that Apple simple does better. But when it comes to writing and business, I need my big keyboard, a big screen, Word, Excel and all the rest of it.

· There are show posters and other memorabilia from my career all over our two-bedroom apartment, but the most meaningful artifacts hang above my desk: various graphics from my TV series Old Dogs & New Tricks (watch it on Amazon Prime), including its first DVD cover, our NoH8 photo, and news of the show’s Indy Shorts screening in my hometown newspaper; the poster for The Butterfly Effect, a fundraising benefit I produced and hosted for my late friend Jeffrey Hartgraves when he was battling cancer; a floral painting by actor Johnnathan Korver; my favorite photograph by David Wilson from almost 20 years ago, and my “chair back” from my days on film sets.

· I must have a bulletin board. It keeps important stuff within reach, while livening my workspace with mementos that make me smile.

· Like every other actor and actress today, I have a ring light. I’m still not a fan of self-tape auditions, but it certainly comes in handy for all the Zoom meetings and online cocktails of late.

· I’m publishing Jeffrey Hartgraves’ wonderful script to the stage comedy Carved in Stone (in which I was lucky enough to perform in both SF and LA) next, so I have a stack of my favorite published plays to study for layout and style. He bequeathed to me the rights to the play, so I want the world to read his brilliant work!

· A Wonder Woman toy or two, just to stay in touch with my inner child (Heck, if I were any more in touch with my inner child, I’d be arrested!) And a “love bear” from my husband Laurence.

· Speaking of WW, I have Wonder Woman postcards handy for all the thank-you notes I’ve sent since SUB-LEBRITY came out!

· My favorite snapshot of two of my nieces as little girls (they’re both over 30 now!) next to my current journal, datebook (yes, I still use paper!) and to-do list.

· Down below are books I’m reading (currently, Erika Atkinson’s wonderful travel journals) and newspaper articles I’m saving for … something! Also, office supplies, a box of my book, files, binders, electronic wipes, hand sanitizer, journals, old calendars and stuff I’ve not gotten around to filing.

· I never drank coffee my first 55 years. I’ve made up for lost time the past couple years! I’ve been cutting back. Now, to get over that afternoon slump, and to reward myself for a good day’s work, I allow myself one ice-cold bottle of Mexican Coke around 3 or 4pm. Aren’t I wicked?

But now I’m worried. What did you learn about me from my workspace? I showed you mine! Now you show me yours!

Funny, Not Funny

“The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote to the emptiness of existence.” Gertrude Stein

Thanks a lot, Gertie! You clearly never lived through a pandemic!

Whoops! Google quickly reveals Ms. Stein was born in 1874, meaning she was 43-ish when the “Spanish Flu” ravaged the world.

I stand corrected. So much for that opener! So, let’s cut to the chase.

My point is, it’s a damned tough time to be a comic actor or writer.

Yes, the world could use more laughs right now. And even with most of “legitimate” entertainment industry shuttered for the duration, many artists are finding inspiring new ways of working, and of sharing that work.

God bless everyone who have risen to the occasion, from Randy Rainbow to Tordick Hall to every TV show that has staged a Zoom-based reunion. I even did one of those myself, with the cast from my 2011-2016 gay sitcom Old Dogs & New Tricks (shameless plug: you can watch the reunion HERE and the series on Amazon Prime).

See what just happened? My train of thought completely jumped the tracks, right off the bridge, and into a ravine below. (Again!)

That’s the problem, at least for me, during this bizarre time. The longer it goes on, the harder it is to focus. As life becomes more depressing, finding “the funny” gets more elusive.

Case in point:

I was recently invited to submit a writer’s packet to a very respected, late-night network comedy program, for an opening on said show’s writing staff. It was the chance of a lifetime, right?

One little problem: I’ve never written “stand up” – much less political stand-up – in my life. When I wrote Old Dogs, I always “found the funny” with the interaction of the diverse characters. My show rarely resorted to “punch lines.” While we sometimes made political statements, we never directly commented on current events (save for when marriage equality became law. We had to address that!)

In my recently released, tongue-in-cheek memoir SUB-LEBRITY* The Queer Life of a Show-Biz Footnote, most of the humor is self-deprecating, stemming from almost 30 years in this bizarre business called show.

But I love a challenge. I can do this! I lied to myself.

Since I was a kid, I’ve always followed current events. But for the next three days, I nosedived deep into the news. I read the Los Angeles Times front to back (well, I skipped Sports). I watched CNN, MSNBC, even (gasp!) FOX News. I scoured the Times’ and the Post’s sites. I held my nose and went for a swim in the sewer that is the presidential Twitter feed.

But try as I might, the more informed I became, the less funny I grew.

Adding to the pressure? These shows are written fast! There’s no time for indecision or navel-gazing as you comment on the news viewers just watched before your show came on.

I’m a writer who’ll spend an entire day agonizing over a sentence’s structure. I’ll spend an hour searching for the most concise, descriptive word. My work style seemed in direct opposition to the task at hand. But I still refused to give up.

I finally pulled together a monologue I was proud of, and a “roll in” – a fake commercial for the “Portland Tourist Bureau”. I wrote a pithy cover email and hit “send.”

Ordinarily, I forget about a prospective gig as soon as the audition ends, or right after I drop the script in the mailbox. Not this time.

Leon, you made yourself sick this week, watching and reading the news, trying to find humor out of this national nightmare, trying to turn out ‘the funny’ on the dime, I scolded myself. What if you actually land this gig?”

My imagination jumped a year ahead. I saw my future self smoking furiously (even though I gave it up last year), drinking Maalox for an ulcer I don’t yet have, pacing like mad, driven crazy by the pressure to be funny, each day, every day, no matter how horrible the headlines.

I imagined leaving California, my home for the past 35 years, and relocating to Manhattan. When I was younger, New York City was enticing. But, at 57, was I ready now to trade LA mellow for NYC chaos?

Get a grip! They’ll never offer you the job in a million years, I reminded myself.

And I’m thrilled to report, I was right!

I’ve never been so happy to be rejected (and the email was very complimentary).

I realize, until our national prognosis improves, I’m lucky to pull off a mere blog post. I’m not so sure I was “lucky” this time!

To see how what a good writer I used to be, when I could “find the funny” and maintain my point for more than just a few paragraphs, please read SUB-LEBRITY*.

It might not provide an “antidote” to the despair we’re collectively going through, but it will provide you a temporary escape from the current headlines. And, I hope, more than a few laughs.

PS: Please vote!

5 Fab Show-Biz Bios

I’m not a fan of “woe is me” show-biz bios. I prefer to read about actors and actresses who have what my grandma called “gumption,” those who get back up each time they’re knocked down.

These books have provided inspiration throughout my acting career and inspired me again as I wrote my own show-biz memoir, SUB-LEBRITY* The Queer Life of a Show-Biz Footnote.

By Myself, Lauren Bacall.

The gold-standard of show-biz biographies – perhaps the only one to win a National Book Award. You’ve heard many of her stories before, I’m sure – how quivering nerves lead her to create “The Look,” her passionate love affair and marriage to Humphrey Bogart, her rocky relationship with Sinatra. But if you’re like me, you’ll most enjoy the last third of the book, where she discusses her New York theatre career and her triumph on Broadway in Applause. Think actors have an easy job? She will correct you of that notion, with details on how hard she worked to headline that musical. (Her routine would’ve killed an NFL linebacker, but it won her a Tony!) She writes just like she talked – direct, no bullshit – which is what makes her book so much fun. You totally hear her voice, 100%, as you read. No ghost writers for Betty Bacall of Brooklyn, New York, thank you very much!

Shock Value – A Tasteful Book About Bod Taste, John Waters

Crackpot – The Obsessions of John Waters

I love pretty much anything he writes, but these collections of biographical essays are my favorite. These first two collections, when he was still a relatively underground cult figure, are the best, in my humble opinion. First, in Shock Value, he writes about making of Pink Flamingos and Desperate Living, his early collaborations with drag icon Divine, his loving relationship with his parents, “Why I Love Violence,” “Baltimore, Hairdo Capital of the World” and more. I thought it couldn’t any campier, any zanier, any better. But then it does, in his follow-up Crackpot. Now the fun really begins, with “John Waters’ Tour of L.A.,” his jaw-dropping interview with Pia Zadora, why he loves Christmas, and “How to Become Famous.” But the two best essays in this second collection would be a challenging writing exercise for any writer. In “Hatchet Piece” he manages to incorporate 101 things he hates into a single narrative piece. Then does the same with 101 things he loves in “Puff Piece.” (I tried to do it. It’s not easy!)

Born With Teeth, Kate Mulgrew

The newest edition to my shelf of all-time favorite celebrity memoirs. I know most people read it for all the dirt on Star Trek: Voyager, but I was a fan of Ms. Mulgrew way back in the late 1970s when she briefly played Columbo’s wife in a not-very-well-thought-out spinoff called Mrs. Columbo (which then became Kate Columbo, then Kate the Detective, then Kate Loves a Mystery, all within one season, before disappearing forever). I feared she’d either give this minor credit on her resume short shrift, or ignore it completely, but no, she goes there! My favorite part? When young Kate Mulgrew tells then all-powerful NBC programming chief Fred Silverman “No, thank you, I’ll pass” over lunch in his boardroom. Can you imagine the chutzpah?

If Chins Could Kill – Confessions of a B Movie Actor, Bruce Campbell

A very funny, working class, zero-bullshit look at indie filmmaking, the perils of series TV, and the challenges of earning a living in this crazy business we call show. Even if you’re not a fan of the Evil Dead film series (frankly, it’s one of the few horror films I do not enjoy), you will love this memoir. Mr. Campbell has no pretentions, and he calls ‘em as he sees ‘em. Even if it wasn’t one hell of a fun read – and it is – you gotta love anyone who bashes stuffed-shirt Charlton Heston in print. All the books on this list influenced me while writing SUB-LEBRITY – but none more than this one!

Scarlett O’Hara’s Younger Sister, Evelyn Keyes

Racy, juicy, and a who’s who of classic Hollywood. Keyes worked in Hollywood from the late 1930s to the 1970s. She knew everybody. And she slept with most of them. I first read this in junior high back in Indiana, before I even knew who most of the “names” were, and when I was too young to understand most of her erotic references. But I was intrigued by the tag line “She was never famous! Find out why!” (Kinda like my book!) What an education she provided! My favorite story (and she has many) is when she crashes her car on a rainy Christmas Eve in Hollywood. She knocks on the door of the nearest house, and who should answer but Katherine Hepburn, with tea and sympathy and warm towels! No, Ms. Keyes did not have sex with Ms. Hepburn. But I’m sure if she had, she’d written about that one, too!

I highly recommend them all. Check them out – but only after you’ve read SUB-LEBRITY*, of course!

The "Doorway Effect"

Let’s face it. It’s more fun to have written than it is to be writing.

It’s even more fun still to finally see your work in print.

Since releasing SUB-LEBRITY* (*The Queer Life of a Show-Biz Footnote), I’ve learned there’s something even better than that!

It’s feedback from readers. I had hoped I’d make them laugh with my silly stories. But I’m completely humbled and sometimes absolutely floored how closely some readers identify with my tales of growing up gay in rural Indiana, or how others related to my struggles as an out-and-outspoken gay actor. Reading their emails, and the life stories they offer in exchange, has been an unexpected perk at the end of this long journey.

But after their always-unique stories and comments, practically every email- and message-writer ends with the same question. Friends, family and fans alike all want to know:

“How did you possibly remember all of that? Do you keep journals? Scrapbooks?”

I understand their surprise. I’m just as stunned! At 57, I often walk into a room then immediately forget why I did. (Scientists call it the “Doorway Effect,” and say the brain “resets” as we pass through a doorway. Just wait, you’ll get there, too, someday!)

And while I do write in a journal daily, I don’t keep them (except for one volume containing 1989). I’m a firm believer that journals are for writing, not for reading. And while I also used to keep detailed scrapbooks, that pretty much ended around the turn of the century as digital replaced film, prints, hard copies, letters and the rest of the “scraps” you’d glue into the books.

So, it was just me and my memories.

Accordingly, when I first decided to write SUB-LEBRITY, I conceived it as a book of comic essays, each about a specific life event I could remember – childhood events, certain films or plays I’ve done. I assumed there would be many, many gaps in my memory. I’d just stick those gaps in-between essays, and leap over them without a second thought to continuity (or senility).

But when I began writing – at the risk of sounding like a click-bait headline – what I found instead completely stunned me!

Let’s go back to my “walking into rooms” motif, and say each memory is a “room.” As I wrote each story – and relived each memory – I’d “cross that room.” And almost invariably, when I reached the far side of the room, there’d be a door awaiting me, leading me to the next room/memory. And that room led to another door Another room. Then another.

Fortunately, passing through those imaginary doorways did not reset my brain, like doorways do in real life. I was quickly stunned by not only how much I remembered, but much detail my memories still contained.

That “book of essays”? Forget about that! I now had more memories – more stories – than I possibly could use. After getting it all down on paper, I had to start cutting.

SUB-LEBRITY is about the challenges and rewards of being a gay actor. Any stories not related directly to being gay, being an actor, being a gay actor, or what that led me to become all-of-the-above, were CUT!

(OK, I may have bent my rule once or twice for a truly funny or moving piece of my history.)

No, I didn’t remember everything. After all, I came of age in the late 1970s and 1980s. I inhaled.

For example, I almost always forget auditions quickly unless I get a call soon inviting me to a callback or, better yet, giving me the role.

And while I discuss many of the “frogs I kissed” in the book, there were more – many more, in fact – whom I didn’t list because I could remember neither the names nor the details. (Oh God. I’m a slut.)

And as for all the other things I’ve forgotten for good? If I can’t remember them, it’s like they never happened!

Wait, what was the point of all this? I forget.

Oh, yeah. I remember! I encourage you to get to work, to write your memoir. Whether you’re a writer or not. Whether you have the nerve to publish it or not.

Because in the act of writing, of walking through your “rooms,” you’ll find many treasures long thought lost and forgotten. Most importantly, you discover lifelong patterns, habits, even themes, that were there all along, that played out your entire life, but perhaps you never before noticed.

I know I did. For example, do you realize how it feels to realize your parents were right all along? At least they loved finding that out!

I’m curious what you will discover! You won’t know until you start!

Screw You, Socrates!

“The wisest man is he who admits 'I don't know.'”

That paraphrased quote from Socrates, plus the general rule of "save the funny" until the end of the sentence or paragraph, and my first few glimpses at foreign films, are my only memories from my admittedly sporadic college career.

But I've kept Socrates' line in my back pocket ever since, always within reach, to draw like a pistol when others called out my ignorance, or to mentally protect myself when I found I was the one beating myself up for not knowing something.

Lately -- as we face greater collective unknowns than we could've ever imagined pre-COVID-19 (or pre-Trump) -- I'm finding very little comfort in that old Greek's words.

Admitting "we don't know" may seem wise, but these days, it doesn't make us any smarter -- or any safer.

We're all wondering, "When will this end? Will life get back to 'normal'? Or is life forever changed?"

We just don't know.

Sadly, accurate predictions or "models" are impossible because there's been no true federal response to our national disaster. Only bluster, blame-laying and bullshit. (What else is new, right?)

So let's focus on some questions we can answer.

Can we accurately predict when (or if) COVID-19 will be controlled if we don't have widespread testing?

No. We can't.

Is it possible to even attempt contact tracing without thorough testing and follow up?

No. It's not.

Will this ever truly "go away" if the Republican Party continues to literally encourage its membership to keep spreading it?

No. It won't.

Should your kids be forced to go back to school if you still have doubts?

No. Absolutely not.

Can we trust promises of a vaccine from a president who lies repeatedly on a daily basis to save his chances of re-election?

No. Never.

Will our loved ones still be alive if/when we get ever ,do ,"get to the other side"?

We can only hope and pray (and, in the case of me with my family, nag! nag! nag!).

Another piece of my personal philosophy has been, "Assume nothing." Since the early days of my acting career, I kept my sanity in this roller-coaster business by repeating the motto "Only react when there's something to react to."

That particular leitmotif sure is getting a work out these days, as my unemployment-insurance extension nears its end, our savings quickly dwindle, and day jobs prove as illusive as a leading role in a four-camera network sitcom with a live audience.

Will Laurence and I be living in our car six months from now?

I don't know. But so far, I haven't given up hope.

And speaking of hope, here's one thing I do know. I'm voting Democrat in November.

Are you waiting for the "funny" at the end of this story? I'm not that good of a writer.

Dispatches from Day #114

I'm 10 months without a cigarette, and over 5 months without a haircut.

My dreams no longer have plots -- they're now just rambling monologues of gibberish that continue all night long.

So, in that vein, here are some random thoughts -- thoughts I can't work into a single narrative, even though they're all about the same thing:

A fine line between gratitude and guilt...

Each morning, over coffee, I list 25 things I'm grateful for. That my family has thus far been spared from the virus is always top of the list. I can then quickly scribble out the next 15 or so entries, because in the scheme of things, Laurence and I are pretty lucky. We're OK for now.

Those last 5 entries are often difficult to write, though, precisely because we are so lucky. I start to feel guilty, and my gratitude begins to feel petty.

Today, for example, it occurred to me to be grateful COVID didn't happen 20 years ago, when I was a very busy stage actor in San Francisco. Or 30 years ago, when I was single and sex-crazed.

And speaking of which...

Zoom only goes so far...

What are social butterflies and sex addicts right now doing to cope?

A coffin is comfortable!*

If Barbra Streisand & Karl Malden had a baby, it would been born with my nose. Poor bastard. My point is, if Ms. S and I can wear masks over our gigantic honkers, you can wear one over your adorable little button nose. Honestly.

If one of those whiny, maskless assholes gets within 10 feet of me, I'm whipping off my mask and make like Jim Carrey all over their air space.

* I took a nap in one once, while shooting a horror film at a real-life mortuary.

If prisons are unsafe, so are schools

Donald Trump seems to think Americans are like frogs in a pot of water on the stove -- that we won't notice as the water heats and begins to boil. As with everything else, the man is sadly and sorely mistaken. Perhaps kids should be home-schooled until at least January 20! Every parent and teacher in this country should make their voices heard in November! Vote like this election is your last -- because it could be, in more ways than one, if you don't.

I'm not that good of a writer!

The longer this goes on -- the more people that die, the more people who become permanently disabled, the more families that are financially ruined, the more careers and companies that go under, the longer our federal leaders live in denial -- the less appropriate or effective my attempts to find a lighter side become.