by Judson, Tom
LAID BARE
Essays and Observations
by
Tom Judson
About the Author
Tom Judson has written music and lyrics for film, television and the theater. He has acted both on and off-Broadway and on various stages throughout the world. His writing has appeared on numerous websites and blogs and in many different magazines and newspapers. For his work in gay adult films (as “Gus Mattox”) he was awarded the GayVN Performer of the Year Award and is, as of this writing, the oldest recipient of that honor.
LAID BARE: ESSAYS AND OBSERVATIONS ©2011 Tom Judson
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Cover photograph by John Skalicky
Cover design by Tom Judson
Earlier versions of these essays have appeared in Unzipped Magazine, Equity News, Blue Magazine, as well as various websites and blogs.
for Irwin and Arlene
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
THEY’RE PLAYING OUR SONG
TRADE WINDS
HOUSES OF WORSHIP
AN EMPTY BOWL
HOWARD, WE HARDLY KNEW YE
THE BEAUTY CURSE
THE CHURCH OF ME
THE LONGEST MILE
A MILLION MEN
LITTLE MISS INDIAN GIVER
RIGATONI WITH SAUSAGE AND FENNEL
HIM AND HIS SHADOW
RECOUNTING THE ABBOTTS
“DID YOU HAVE A VIEW?”
SEPTEMBER 25, 1 A.M.
CICCIOLINA, MISS AMERICA AND ME
COME OUT, COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE
NORMAN RAE
THE HOUSE PAINTER
PANHANDLE MANHANDLE
RATTLESNAKES HAVE BEEN OBSERVED
WE SHALL COME REJOICING
ALL WE OWE IOWA
MY HUCKLEBERRY FRIENDS
“...SO THAT WE MAY BRING YOU...”
SHOPLIFTING FIRE
VINO E CUCINA
OYSTERS, ROCKEFELLER?
SO, THIS GUY CHECKS IN TO A HOSPITAL...
WINDS FROM THE SOUTH
INTRODUCTION
My husband, Bruce, loved American popular music. Coming of age in the late 1970’s he was particularly fond of the more esoteric sounds of that era: artists like Bryan Ferry, The New York Dolls and—especially—Patti Smith. His tastes weren’t limited to the current scene, though; he also listened to the Phil Spector catalog and early Beatles. But his favorite records were the R&B singles from Motown. He knew all the great vocal groups coming out of Detroit in the 60’s and 70’s.
And that’s because he always wanted to be a backup singer. Specifically, Bruce wanted to be a Pip. An unlikely ambition for a skinny Jewish guy from Scarsdale, perhaps, but Bruce was convinced that the Pips had the best backup arrangements going. Especially on “Midnight Train to Georgia”.
It’s worth noting that Bruce didn’t want to be the star. The Pips were not in the spotlight, but they were essential. Being a Pip seemed to me to be the goal of someone who was comfortable with his place in the world. I was the hambone actor/composer in the family, but Bruce truly relished his role as the supportive spouse who rushes to the stage at the end of the performance with a huge bouquet of flowers.
When he would talk about The Pips, though, things were different. He took center stage in any discussion of their records. Bruce’s demeanor could best be described as “animated” (He’s fucking hyper! his father would say.) While I sat in a chair listening to the backing vocal of “Midnight Train to Georgia” Bruce would stand in front of me like a boxer in the ring, dancing his weight from one foot to the other, waiting to see my reaction to the song. He was right: The Pips rock on this record. Their backup almost stands on its own as a parallel song to Gladys Knight’s lead. “A superstar, but he didn’t get far…” “It’s his and hers alone…” “I know you will…” These aren’t echoes of the song—they’re separate, independent lyric phrases that form a counterpoint to the main tune.
In his quest to become a Pip, Bruce would put on his red satin dinner jacket and play the 45 R.P.M. of “Midnight Train to Georgia” over and over while improvising Soul Train choreography in our living room. His enthusiasm may have outweighed his talent, but he gave it 100% and would beam like a kid when the needle lifted out of the groove at the end of the record.
Life with Bruce was very, very good. He died of AIDS in 1996 before ever becoming a Pip.
My reliable backup was gone. I stumbled numbly around New York for a couple of years trying to figure out how the people I passed on the street could wear such happy expressions on their faces. Clearly the world had come to an end; why didn’t they realize it?
I wished I could just fade away and be done with it.
But director Rob Marshall, gay porn impresario Chi Chi Larue and fate had other plans for me; I became a chorus boy, adult film star “Gus Mattox” and a writer (in that order.)
But what about Bruce? Apart from picking his bones clean for story ideas, how did my late husband fit into my new life A.B. (After Bruce)?
Starting with “Winds From the South” Bruce became a familiar presence on gusmattox.com. I’d slip references to him into my blog and he appeared in the background in several essays. Bruce died fifteen years ago but he continues to inform how I view my own experiences and the world at large. Like the spider swallowed by the Old Lady, he has wriggled and jiggled and tickled his way inside me, becoming an essential part of my being.
Bruce Birnbaum’s contribution to the essays and stories in this collection is not insignificant; his spirit provided the backup that enabled me to write them.
I guess you could say Bruce became a Pip after all.
They’re Playing Our Song
I seem to be dating again. Not entirely by design, but I’ve been asked out recently by several attractive guys and I thought it might be interesting to see what I’ve been missing these past three years. Yes, it’s been that long between my last date and this recent flurry. Since being widowed a decade ago I’ve warbled duets with a feller or three, but we always seem to be singing in different keys. Believe me, I sure can pick ‘em.
There was the beautiful blond man who broke up with me because I had never heard of Prada. (I can’t really say that I blame him.) After that came the Midwestern transplant with the great chest and the penchant for talking like an eight-year-old, followed by several short affairs that, while brief in duration, were richly saturated with drama. Shall we even mention the man who dumped me when I was out of town with a show and who refused to give back my dog? No, let’s not.
The recent medley of Mystery Dates has been uneven, but even though their exterior attributes have been promising (I said “yes” mostly due to their naked pictures online) so far no Prince Charming has opened the door to the accompaniment of 1,000 violins playing the Love Theme from our Major Motion Picture. I’d like to think lightning can strike twice, though; I believe there’s a man out there to complete my musical chord. But where is my Major Third? Who is my Dominant 9? Who, indeed?
If someone creates a musical dating service website I will be the first to subscribe. How would it work? I envision posting the usual personal ad info/fiction, but—here’s the gimmick--with the addition of the entire playlist from one’s iPod. Musical tastes would be analyzed for complementary and discordant overlaps. Knowing in advance what your date listens to could quash any fears that Celine Dion might join you in the bedroom just as things start to get hot and heavy. You don’t want Celine’s heart going on just as your date is going down.
All this is important because music can do more to the savage beast than just soothe him. Years ago I was having phone sex with some guy from the Upper East Side when, afte
r a pause, he said, “Are you listening to ‘Follies?’” I could hear his hardon wilt clear across town.
If I’m really getting back into the dating game I want to know that any potential husbands don’t have an iPod crammed full of dance music and Madonna. I’m not judging those selections—the man who listens to all that wouldn’t be the one for me, though, and we might as well find it out right off the bat. (I do listen to dance music once in a while but usually when I’m full of substances and/or performing acts the likes of which my mother would heartily disapprove.)
Granted, there are potential pitfalls to my system; based on my iPod playlist my perfect match would be a 53-year-old mother of four from a suburb of Indianapolis. Taking a quick scroll through my tunes I see four versions of “Moon River”, tons of Beatles, a smattering of Django Reinhardt and lots and lots of movie soundtracks. If you’re the kind of guy who gets a catch in his throat when listening to the bass flute featured in the Love Theme from “Quest for Fire” you can move right in. I’ll even clear out a couple of drawers for you. Are my tastes middle of the road? Smack down the double yellow lines, baby. But read between those lines and you’ll find some interesting things: oddball Joni Mitchell outtakes, Bryan Ferry doing 1930’s standards and Cuban dance bands from between the wars. And it goes without saying, several cuts from the Robert Mitchum calypso album.
It seems like my knowledge of pop music hasn’t progressed much since getting that big box of records in the mail (“10 albums for one penny!”) from The Columbia Record Club about 30 years ago. If that’s the case, so be it. Just don’t say you weren’t warned if Shelley Duvall singing “He Needs Me” from the “Popeye” soundtrack is playing when you come over for dinner.
I once went on a sex date with a guy because I liked his naked pictures online (see above) but as I climbed the stairs to his apartment I heard coming through the door vintage recordings of cowboy yodeling songs. Wow, I thought; this could be the guy for me! Oddly, I’m drawing a blank right now as to who that was. Hold on… hold on… Oh, right. That was the guy who ended up stealing my dog.
Maybe iPod Dating® isn’t such a hot idea. Maybe I should just stick with the naked pictures.
TRADE WINDS
Wednesday is a big day on the tiny Caribbean island of Saba. Like a movie set in the Old West where the settlers wait around for Wells Fargo, it's the day when the supply boat from St. Maarten comes in. Wednesday morning is a combination delivery pickup and social event. El Momo Cottages, where I was spending the summer, had arriving guests who were expected around 11 AM today so my host Patrick and I headed down to the port about 9:30. On the way down we had a couple of stops to make in “The Bottom,” one of the two main settled areas on Saba (Windwardside, where El Momo is located, is the other. Patrick and Sophie call Windwardside “the city,” but I think they may have made that up.)
“The Road,” however, really is the official name of the one thoroughfare on Saba. It goes from the airport on one side of the island to the port on the other and lies across the mountain like a tangled piece of twine. The switchbacks and turnarounds are legendary because the terrain is so mountainous that it’s impossible to go for more than a few meters in a straight line. The inclines and declines also make it pretty tough for one’s car to go any further than that without downshifting. On my first trip to The Bottom I found myself clutching the door handle with white knuckles. It’s not uncommon to round a steep switchback just to find a car headed in the opposite direction but in the same lane. Most of the cars and trucks here are miniature to compensate for the narrow width of The Road.
We made a stop at the hardware store to try to find light bulbs for some lamps Pat and Sop had brought from Holland. The hardware store is tiny by American standards but is the only game in town on Saba. I noticed a lot of the items on the shelves are the Walmart store brand, Home Goods. But while Sabans may be “living better,” they are definitely not “paying less.” A tube of silicone caulk? Ten dollars. An eight foot pressure-treated 2x4? Well, that’ll set you back a cool twelve bucks. In the grocery store eight dollars and fifteen cents buys you a tin of Spam. Since literally everything on the island has to be brought in, the markups are breathtaking.
It turned out Patrick’s lamps were fitted with a particular European-size socket. The only option? Travel to St. Maarten—to the French side—and find them there. So the lamps will remain dark until enough things are needed to warrant a trip over. (Again, like the old west.)
After the hardware store we had to stop for gas. The gas station is just outside the port down the hill from The Bottom. The Bottom is something of a misnomer as the road from there to the port drops precipitously. Steep, curvy and constantly threatened with huge boulders that careen down the mountain every now and then.
This week Saba is experiencing one of its periodic gas shortages, the reason for which I couldn’t quite glean, but it meant that one had to wait in line at the gas station and each car was allowed about seven dollars worth of fuel. Until next week. The needle barely moved on the gas gauge, so driving will be kept to a minimum for a while.
The port was hopping; the cargo ship was still in its berth, almost completely unloaded. Cars and small trucks were parked here and there along the quay while their owners caught up with the news since last Wednesday. I witnessed a lot of back-slapping and good-natured ribbing along with some late-morning beer guzzling between unloaded pallets of goods. The men then took their turns retrieving their orders. The atmosphere here—with its combination of salt water and diesel fumes and workers calling to one another from the pier to the ship—brought to mind less an old western and more one of those steamy melodramas from M-G-M about characters getting into each other’s way and each other’s beds in romantic, remote outposts. “Red Dust,” specifically. Griffin, the man in charge, could have been Clark Gable had he been wearing a pith helmet and jodhpurs.
Wielding a clipboard and an authoritative air, he checked the bill of lading and told Patrick the butter he had ordered was in the cooled container on the right-hand side of the ship. Sure, we could just go ahead and get it ourselves. (Imagine that in liability-crazed America!) We climbed onto the ship’s deck, dodged a couple of forklifts and walked over to the open door of the mammoth metal box. There at the end of the empty container sat one lonely little parcel: a taped-up cardboard box which originally held packages of Oreos with a hand-written sign taped to it: “El Momo Cottages.” In a movie, the image would have been accompanied by a clanging metal echo. We retrieved the butter and hopped back onto the pier.
The other delivery we went to get—a new toaster—was buried somewhere on a pallet but we were on the clock and had to get back to make sure Patrick was there to greet the 11 AM arrivals. So Griffin offered to bring it up to Windwardside with him when his work was done. (As it happens, I just saw him drive by the café where I’m writing this so I may stop by and see if I can get it myself.)
We headed back up The Road, dodging parked cars, oncoming traffic and even wild goats, and made it back to El Momo ahead of the new guests.
I always loved those “remote outpost,” “tramp steamer,” “isolated rubber plantation” black-and-white potboilers I used to watch on the Million Dollar Movie when I was a kid (all of which seem to have featured Thomas Mitchell.) Even then I suspected the situations and locales were overly romanticized and the characters too broadly drawn.
After just one week on Saba I’m not so sure.
HOUSES OF WORSHIP
There is a house in Pennsylvania. Discreetly placed in the forested hills at the western edge of the state, this house was conceived to be one with its environment while simultaneously enhancing its surroundings. It was built as a rarefied place where its owner could spend a few days unencumbered by the pressures of his life as a successful businessman. A house of serenity, this house.
There is another house in Missouri. Standing on the sere, open plains at the western edge of the state this house was not intended to blend into its
setting. It was meant to be seen from afar as a beacon for those coming to pay homage to the building itself, and to the cultural phenomenon that financed it. A house of worship, this house.
As might be expected, both houses were conceived and built by men of determination and conviction. Their work was not something they chose to do; they were compelled by forces greater than they. One man by the gods of art and nature, the other by God himself.
