How Y'all Doing? Misadventures and Mischief from a Life Well Lived

by Leslie Jordan

I launched into my usual schtick. I made the character younger, Southern and gay. I did everything but tap-dance with sparklers and turn cartwheels. I was my usual shameless self.

Max is the gayest straight man I know. I mean this as the highest compliment possible. He embodies the best of both worlds and is a spectacular human being. And I adore him.

Years ago, I had been told by Barbara Miller, the legendary casting director, that when I died, on my tombstone, it should read, HERE LIES THE OTHER WAY TO GO.

At that time, I used to end my show by saying, “Happiness is a choice. Happiness is a habit. And happiness is something you have to work hard at. It does not just happen.”

I began to wail, “But why? I don’t know how! I barely know how to do Facebook. Technology scares the shit out of me. I am an old man, Tess.”

Millions and millions of followers. The irony of a sixty-five-year-old gay man acquiring this huge number has not been lost on me. I just love that folks want to hear what I have to say!

Snobby people sometimes ask me why I read USA Today. Because I want to.

But, my friends, it has been writing this book that has given me true comedic freedom. Who knew that writing for the printed page could send an artist soaring? To be able to tell not only the story but the backstory as well. And the story that led up to the backstory. To find out how to segue here and there, and then segue back. To stray off into parts unknown. And then figure out how to make it all track back and make sense.

When I first arrived in Hollywood in 1982, I had a fantasy where I wanted to be like a gay Hugh Hefner. I envisioned myself living in a huge mansion in the Hollywood Hills.

I have identical twin sisters who are twenty-two months younger than me. They have run interference between me and my somewhat conservative Southern Baptist mother practically since birth. My sisters have always had their thumbs on the pulse of how my mother feels about certain things. They seem to know way ahead of me whether Mother will or will not be upset.

There are those outside our community who cannot understand why grown men would want to dress up and lip-sync. Even within the gay community, the drag world has always been somewhat insular. There are gay men and women who love drag. They show up at all the shows and pay homage to their favorite performer by tipping dollar bills. It is almost like a religious ceremony. But there are other people who do not understand how outrageously fun and entertaining it is.

My mother did not pull out her Bible, which I thought was going to happen. She just looked right into my eyes and said, “Leslie, if this is the path you choose, I am worried you will be subject to ridicule. And I do not think I could bear that. Perhaps you could just live your life quietly.”

I read somewhere once that our parents “did the best they could with the light they had to see with.”

Because of the bond that the tragedy of my daddy’s death secured, I have always valued her opinion above all. Perhaps I valued her opinion too much,

Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Am I really listening to Debbie Reynolds talk about Elizabeth Taylor’s stealing Eddie Fisher away from her? Am I getting the inside scoop? I was just a kid from the suburbs of Chattanooga, Tennessee. I did not feel worthy. This was like a Hollywood exclusive. As Carrie Fisher pointed out in her brilliant one-woman show, it was today’s equivalent of Angelina Jolie’s stealing Brad Pitt from Jennifer Aniston.

What could they possibly be talking about? I thought. What was Debbie Reynolds going to say to my mother about me?

Debbie Reynolds told my mother she must not let anything I did in Hollywood be a reflection upon the way in which she raised me. “Peggy, you must trust that he will do the best he can to not embarrass you, and even if it does happen, you cannot hold him solely responsible. My daughter, Carrie, has told me that Leslie is a good egg, and my daughter, Carrie, is a good judge of character. Even though she sometimes loses sight of her own good character.”

We talk so openly about my career and my life in West Hollywood now. It has really changed our relationship. We have no secrets, and that is very freeing. I talk to her more now as a friend than as my mom.

I am the funny actor who comes in with the zinger. That is my job. I have been doing it for a hundred million years. I’ve even won an Emmy Award doing it.

Wes Bentley is so handsome. He is handsome like a movie star. Oh wait, he is a movie star. He is my hero. And always will be.

You must understand, for a gay boy of my generation, all we had when our hormones got going was Tarzan, gladiator movies and the men’s underwear section of the Sears, Roebuck catalog.

I have just learned how to pull my weight without exerting myself too much. Oh shoot, who am I kidding? I’m just lazy. And much too busy in my real life to do all that “an actor prepares” stuff.

You would not believe what is involved in getting the polished look of American Horror Story. We had smog machines to make it look spooky, dark and smoky. We had cameras on tracks so they could scoot along with us through the woods. We had humongous lights hanging up on sky-high poles to give the effect of moonlight through the trees.

I lay there exhausted under Lady Gaga wondering, How do I get myself in these situations?

Unlike some actors, I love being recognized. It is nice to be appreciated for my work. Plus, I am just a show-off.

Dylan McDermott was in the room. I have loved Dylan McDermott forever. He is in possession of that easy kind of masculinity that is so attractive to me and yet scares the shit out of me. Why would butch men scare me? Well, honey, it was not exactly a picnic on the playground growing up. I have learned over the years that the only really frightening behavior with butch straight guys happens when they are in a pack. They are like wolves showing off for each other.

Straight boy after straight boy. Crush after crush. And there were floods of tears and plenty of drinking to help ease the pain. Unless you’ve been in the throes of unrequited love, it’s hard to explain how dark and dismal it is.

My mind is like a bad neighborhood. Honey, you do not want to go up there alone.

Thank God for recovery. Thank God for my willingness to face my issues head-on. And thank God once I addressed the issue, I never looked back.

Why, you may be asking, did I wander off into a tale of codependency and unrequited love while telling you about my time on American Horror Story? I’m not sure. Perhaps it is because I am taking my duties very seriously as the founder and guiding light of the Dylan McDermott Fan Club for Middle-Aged Gay Men. Or perhaps because it was my own personal American horror story.

Over the years, I had somehow discovered that when I put pen to paper, it slowed my mind down to about the speed of how fast I could write, and I got clarity. Then I discovered, by reading some of my writings aloud, that my story and the way I put things was interesting for others to listen to. From there, I discovered I had a special talent. I could stand in front of folks and tell stories about myself, my life, my upbringing and, yes, my struggles, and people would be wildly entertained. And more than willing to dig into their pockets to hear and see me and listen to what I had to say.

Have you ever had a friend you cannot think of nice things to say about? Well, that was my friend Ronnie Claire. I cannot summon up bad things to say about her. I just cannot think of many good things to say about her. She has been dead and gone for years now and I do not want to disparage her name. To tell you the truth, I adored her, but she was difficult, to say the least. And she admitted it.

“I cannot bear to look at her, Leslie. She has that tiny pinched face that looks like it is not quite done. Like it needs to go back in the oven for ten minutes on high.”

Witnessing someone like Marta Becket performing just for the sheer joy of doing it changed the way I thought about my career. This wild, unexpected short journey had completely renewed me.

One night as I was glued to the tube, Truman Capote prissed out onstage like an aging show pony. He had a long scarf tied around his neck and giggled like a shy schoolgirl. Johnny Carson seemed amused and did not seem to be taken aback by Truman’s effete manner. But I was horrified.

I had already been teased at school about my somewhat effeminate manner. And being the son of an extremely masculine father only seemed to enhance the issue. Somehow his death mixed it all into a rather heady cocktail of shame.

I’ve always thought the beauty of Mr. Capote is that his work can be interpreted so many ways. He never hits the nail on the head. He just wanders around it with a beautiful vagueness. But I knew. I knew what was going on. Underneath it all.

I read everything there was to read about and by Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams. Ever since that one night watching The Tonight Show, Mr. Capote has tiptoed around my subconscious.

gift I’m not sure I have been given. There is just a whole lot of ME. There is just too much of ME to disappear. I’m more along the lines of a Dolly Parton. What you see is what you get!

But we had tried everything. I had spent hours and hours running the lines with an assistant stage manager. It was all to no avail. Once onstage, dressed to the nines and looking just like Truman, I would panic. Nothing came out of my mouth. Michael Mayer even suggested that I carry a notepad and read my lines. I just felt this was a desperate attempt by the director to save the show.

Dan Butler took me to lunch and told me he had a one-man show coming up. It was opening Off-Broadway in New York. He asked me if he could tell the story of that night as me. I was a little befuddled, but I agreed. When I saw his performance, though, it was magnificent. He actually BECAME me. My voice, my mannerisms—it was uncanny. I was genuinely touched and so honored. And now, years later, he was replacing ME to do Truman Capote. Go figure.

By the time I walked away from the play, I was not in any way upset about the whole ordeal because I had learned a valuable lesson. I had learned to not be afraid to try things because I think it might not work out. I think that fear keeps so many of us from being successful at things outside our realm of experience. We love to stay in our comfort zone, but the growth only comes when we wander outside of that zone.

Honey, I could write a whole book on “gay for pay” and what all that entails.

La Crescenta is about seven miles from where Christ lost his shoes. And that, my friend, is FAR.

Cassandra began the work and founded Project Nightlight. Its goal was to make sure anyone who went into a hospice program was never alone unless they wanted to be. We would sit and listen to the patient. We would sit and read books aloud. Most important, we would sit with them all night long. I was a part of this wonderful volunteer program for many years. From it, I learned one of life’s biggest lessons: true happiness can only come from being “of loving service to others.” Especially those in the last throes of life’s journey.

So, I suppose that when this disrupter called me names in the West Hollywood Starbucks, where we had all worked so hard to make a safe place for gay people to live and to die, it struck me to my very core. I stood tall and said, calmly and evenly, “I have taken nonsense like this my whole life. But not here. Not in my house. Do you understand me? You really need to go.”

then for my final flourish, I dramatically turned around and put my hands behind me. “But if you must, arrest me. Arrest me. Throw me in the slammer. I will tell my story to the judge.” I stood with my back to the cop for a moment or two. When I turned back around, he said, “Are you done? Mr. Jordan, you are being overly dramatic. This has been resolved. We talked to the three combatants and they have agreed to stay out of this area. They are being released and you should go home and calm down.”

There is nothing worse than a stupid criminal.

I did as I was instructed. I prayed and prayed and prayed for that awful boy who called me those awful names. It did not help. My resentment was not lifted. I am just a rolling ball of resentment, and I’m okay with that. Because you don’t do that in my house.

we would always end up singing hymns. We would all sing hymn after hymn. From the youngest grandkid to the oldest grandmama or granddaddy, the hymns burst forth. We had a good time.