I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING
I’m a writer. Apparently. I have wordy opinions to express. I review stage performances, and want a place to link them. I like to share little snippets from my life, memoir-style, and if you think I’m going to fact-check anything that’s beautiful or dramatic in my memory, you must be daft.
So I’m introducing myself in this, my first ever blog post. I’m a little bit British. And a little bit Loretta Lynn.
I’m an actor. There is some irrelevant chatter on this point. Some say that when I play people who are very different from me I am too much somebody else and not enough myself. I forget the names of my detractors. In the sunlight.
Something cheery here, yes? I’m enjoying being an old grump. I observed others for years, watched a few YouTube videos, took a distance-learning course, practiced with my invisible friends, and now I can be flagrantly grumpy at the slightest instance and snigger about it as I round the corner. List and learn.
I was an opera singer. I had the smallest local career as an opera singer in the history of Nellie Melba. For more than 20 years I made a significant amount of my income as a classical singer, and sometimes I made all of my money exercising stringent control over my phonation. I am now blessed with a “geriatric voice,” which means I haven’t shut up altogether, but you don’t want to sit next to me in the church choir. I am intensely proud of that period of my life. I did something that few people ever do, ever CAN do. Many people lined up to tell me I couldn’t do it. I paid tuition money for that advice. I spent a retirement fund in voice lesson-money to many who told me I probably couldn’t be a singer, although, if it were possible at all, they were the only ones who could help me reach my goal. As I grow older, more and more of those people are dead. What? It’s just chronology.
Blogs are supposed to have pictures on them, and links to other Internet pages, right? Better you should take a number and have a seat in the waiting room.
I am also a little bit Jewish. YOU pay my ancestory.com bill.
I’m a director. I’m probably better at this than at any of my other professional meanderings. Probably because I never needed it as intensely. Dreams slip easily through clutching fingers.
I am relatively homosexual. After dark. If there’s a whiff of leather. My principal orientation is to women, except while aging from 10-30 when I could get sticky gazing upon a well-honed hunk of plywood. I finally tried it off with men after 27 years of being bullied at home and at school for being soft. Something about what others reflect to you about yourself… Hey, my girlfriend and I were on a break. “Friends” did not invent that phrase. It turns out that plumbing is just plumbing, after all. Sometimes it’s about the other person. I’m now married to the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. As that person is of the male persuasion, I am thought of as gay, and I’m terrific with that. If I claim to be bi-sexual now I am immediately asked how long ago it’s been since I’ve had it off with a female. And how many times I’ve had it off with females. And in what positions I’ve had it off with females As if math supplies the adhesive that allows the label to stick. Only Alan Cumming gets to be married to a man and retain his self-labelling as a bi-sexual now. So I claim to be an ineffectual opportunist.
I’m supposed to be introducing myself here, right? ”Am I on yet? How’m I doin’?” Just a little bit of Ethel Merman humor. I’m gay enough for show tunes.
Now I just have to see if I can upload this thing to the Internet and get enough people to read it so RuPaul and The Chicago Cubs will buy advertising from me. That’s what those pictures on the sides are about, right?