by Judson, Tom
The heat, humidity and the cardio workout necessitated frequent rests the further along the trail I got. A pair of hikers came out of the mist on their way down. “Did you have a view” I asked? Nope—just clouds. That’s the thing about Mt. Scenery: the clouds that make it so scenic from below tend to make a mockery of its name once you’re at the peak.
As the trail finally leveled off I came within yards of the radio tower that sits on top of the mountain. I don’t want to think about what went into carting the materials up here to build this behemoth. And from the looks of things, it’s not even in operation. The weird orange moss growing everywhere reminded me of the photos of the Titanic at the bottom of the ocean. Corroded cable hung from the structure and huge satellite dishes lay foundering on the rocks at its base. The top of the tower was enveloped in roiling clouds and the constant wind made everything mysterious and spooky. Yes, it was altogether ooky.
I continued past the tower to the summit. There, a huge slab of rock affords a perfect spot to rest and take in the view. When there is one. Yesterday there was nothing but clouds. I stared into the abyss. It was impossible to tell what was past the end of the outcropping: it might have been more rocks or it could have been just a sheer drop to the sea. I kept my distance from the edge.
Since I had no schedule, and to rest up for the equally taxing climb down, I wedged myself into a cleft in the boulder and took out my book, the mist and the wind making it almost chilly. I got through a couple of chapters when I found myself squinting and felt my face turn warm. The sun! I bolted upright and looked out onto an amazing panorama of most of Saba. There, far below me, was the town. To the right, the road to The Bottom. To the left Windwardside and the way down to the airport. Just as I reached into my pack for my camera, the clouds came back and obscured the view. Brigadoon-like, the vista had disappeared into the mists.
But for a brief moment, I had a view.
September 25, 1 A.M.
I’m not really into the miracle thing, okay? I mean, I’m a big ol’ atheist and all, so the concept doesn’t quite fit into my non-belief system. But I experienced a miracle tonight.
I just finished watching “Angels In America” on DVD. Bruce and I had seen it on Broadway. Neither of us liked it; we thought it was pretentious and silly. And there was enough acting going on up on that stage to fill three theaters. When that damn angel broke through the ceiling at the end of Part I it was all we could do to keep from giggling out of control.
So, fast-forward—what—10 years? You can imagine my skepticism upon hearing of the movie version. Yeah yeah yeah Mike Nichols was directing it and it had a cast that really doesn’t make sense because, since many of them are big stars, no one could afford them all. I suppose it had everything going for it, but, Bruce and I just hated it so much, how could it possibly be good?
I watched Part I last night and finished it off tonight with Part II.
And it was so good. I was practically crying at the opening credits as at the ethereal helicopter shot flying over America on a day when the entire country is experiencing weather from heaven—from heaven. At the end of the sequence the camera comes swooping down to the Bethesda Fountain (like the character in the story, one of my favorite spots in Central Park) and the whole movie just got better and better as the hours flew by.
What happened? Is it possible it was the production itself in the 1990s that left us cold? I mean, it’s the same story, and, from what I can recall, sticks very close to the original. Was it the acting? The day we saw it? Maybe what Bruce and I had for dinner beforehand stuck in our craw as much as the play. Gosh, it could just have been our seats.
I don’t have a theory on this one. I just know that Mike Nichols & Co. performed a bit of alchemy and transformed a piece I thoroughly despised into a long, long movie that moved me tremendously.
Miraculous though? Nah. That ain’t no miracle.
The miracle occurred while I was watching the end credits through tear-filled eyes. I’ve experienced this miracle before, but with decreasing frequency and not for a very long time. It wasn’t a long miracle. In fact, it lasted no longer than the time it took for a tiny little electrical charge in my brain that had been tripping along very nicely, thank you, to become distracted by something. A pesky lobe? A sunset over the left hemisphere? Who can say, really? Anyway, this electrical charge became distracted and hopped onto the wrong neuron!
And at that instant I thought to myself, “I have to remember to tell Bruce how good this movie was.”
And for that miraculously short length of time--so brief that scientists have no unit of measurement for it--Bruce was alive once more.
And that was a miracle.
CICCIOLINA, MISS AMERICA AND ME
All my life it seems as if I’ve been running from something; full-time employment, serious relationships, Little League... Once I even ran from a neighbor’s goose as it chased me around the yard and up onto the hood of their Chrysler Imperial. So, imagine my surprise, earlier this year, when I found myself running for a seat on the Equity Council, the governing body of Actor’s Equity.
The “42nd Street” tour I had recently finished was a mixed experience: we had a terrific show with a wonderful cast, yet my salary—as a principal—was one-third of what it had been in the chorus of the National Tour of “Cabaret”. The producers and presenting organizations (including Clear Channel, irrefutable proof of the existence of Satan) bore some responsibility, but Equity caved to almost all the demands they were presented with.
I wanted to do everything in my power to see that this situation did not repeat itself. Getting involved in Union activities seemed like a good way to start. But, since leaving the show, I had gone into porn. Wouldn’t that complicate a campaign? Or would the membership of Actor’s Equity agree that they needed a representative who could not only kick some butt, but who could lick it as well?
Where on Earth could I turn for advice on that?
Cicciolina.
Hard-core porn star and Member of Italian Parliament for 15 years. I e-mailed her for advice:
“…Would it be possible for you to jot down a few lines telling me how your porn stardom helped (or hurt) when you ran for Parliament? Your insight would be greatly appreciated.”
I hit “send” and went back to work on my campaign.
There were three available seats on the council and seven of us on the ballot. If I could make my case and reach enough people, I figured I had a good chance. To that end I prepared an e-mail blitz and set up a webpage detailing my position. Yes, the webpage had a picture on it. I, myself, have voted for Equity Council based solely on candidates’ photos. If there’s a cute guy on the Council, I helped put him there.
But if, in addition to my mug, I could boast an endorsement from an international porn star-cum-politico, I’d be a cinch. When would I hear from Cicciolina?
Several weeks before the election a meeting of the full council was convened and we candidates were given three minutes in which to read a statement. So, it’s come to this, I thought; I’m auditioning for actors.
The room was packed and stuffy when I arrived. Ah, there across the room… an empty seat next to a raven-haired, statuesque beauty. From the way she studied her note pad it was clear she was a fellow candidate. She possessed a certain regal bearing, almost as if… as if there should be a crown on her head. Hold on now, there was a crown on her head at one time.
It was Kate Shindle and she was one of our Sally Bowleses in “Cabaret”. But, more to the point, she was a former Miss America. No fair! That’s sure to sway some voters, I thought. (At least I wasn’t running against Vanessa Williams. She’d have had the Miss America thing and the porn thing and would have mopped the floor with me.)
I plunked myself down next to Kate and we wished each other luck. Only in the theater would a Miss America and a gay porn star be on the same ballot.
Before the meeting, one of the mucky-mucks from Equity approached me and said he had receive
d an irate, anonymous e-mail saying it was shameful I was allowed to run. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I looked at your site. I enjoyed your, uh, writing.”
Hmmm… the only reason I hadn’t been riding on Gus’s coattails was that I didn’t think it would be right to campaign with an unfair advantage. Was I letting a great marketing ploy slip through my fingers? I thought it best that I let my record speak for itself.
From the road I had written a “report” on our lousy contract. It had spread like wildfire throughout the union, so my bona fides were in order, as far as my commitment to the cause went, and my name was out there as an activist. In the process I had also done a nifty job of blacklisting myself. I became known as the Norma Rae of the company and if I never work again I won’t have to wonder why.
From that experience, however, I knew that e-mail was a powerful tool for reaching lots of folks I didn’t even know. I sent out a notice announcing my candidacy and waited for the responses to pour in. People wrote saying they remembered my report and would vote for me. I was starting to let myself become cautiously optimistic.
But, still no word from Italy. Where were my pearls of wisdom; my words of encouragement? Where was the quote for my webpage?
After a second round of e-mail campaigning I received a note from a stranger saying, “I don’t know how you are as an actor, but you’re a helluva campaigner.”
Things were looking good.
As it happened, the day the ballots were counted I was on location north of San Francisco shooting a video. Someone from Equity would be calling with the results and I imagined being borne shoulder-high around the set after receiving the good news while Chi Chi playfully squirted me with lube and my costars presented me with a bouquet of condoms.
It was a tough B-Roll shoot that day, and I had forgotten about the election when, during a break, I checked my messages.
“Hello, this is Actor’s Equity calling with the election results…”
“Sshhhh! Quiet everybody. I think this is it!”, I hissed.
The voice continued: “We’re sorry to inform you that you did not…”
I gently closed my phone and stuck it in my bag.
I finished the day sporting a stiff upper lip (among other things) and rode silently back to the motel in the back of the van. After a shower I logged on to check my e-mail and, at last , there it was in my inbox:
“Caro Gus,
I hope you yet visitation my beautiful official site where you can find and buy my beautiful book "Memorie" a colours of 192 pg. (photographer a colours) where you find any response for your many questions...
Big Kisses”
That was it? “Big kisses” and a pitch for her book? She didn’t even sign her name.
Later I learned that the meager 20% of the union membership who voted simply re-instated incumbent members. I came in 4th out of seven; Kate one from the bottom (I guess Atlantic City just ain’t Broadway.) It’s a shame, because she’s well-spoken and committed.
Since the election, I’ve made a bunch of dirty movies, Kate’s playing Sally Bowles somewhere in Westchester County, and Cicciolina? Well, she’s selling her beautiful book online.
Losing my bid for Equity Council, combined with my twin losses at the GayVNs and Grabbys, proved to be discouraging, although it didn’t shake my conviction that I can lick butt better than any of those damned incumbents.
But you can be sure that next time I run for something, it’ll be a bus.
COME OUT, COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE
A little-reported subplot in the recent resignation of New Jersey Governor James McGreevey is that persistent rumors regarding his homosexuality had been circulating since he assumed office. In other words, everyone already knew.
This is my case—inspired by several moving e-mails I have received from visitors to this site--for proudly stating (as Jim McGreevey did) that “I am a gay American.” As he said, coming out to the world will, “keep me from the pitfalls of a divided self or secret truths.”
Those “secret truths” are usually very open secrets; they’re the proverbial elephant in the room that goes unmentioned. But, by leaving things undefined, by not being clear about one’s relationship to the world vis-á-vis one’s sexuality, not only are those who would oppress us free to do so with impunity, those who love us are unable to fully share in our lives.
Dick Cheney supports gay marriage.
The one and only reason he arrived at that position is because his daughter is a lesbian. Polls have continuously shown that people who know homosexuals personally are more supportive of gay rights. Here’s a news flash for you: everyone knows a homosexual. They may not know they do, but I believe it’s more likely they’ve never had to deal with the obvious fact because the person in question has let them off the hook by remaining in the closet.
Therefore, by extrapolation, coming out helps not only the person making the announcement, but the gay population at large. Social policy is formed slowly, over time, as mores and beliefs evolve. Each man and woman who tells their loved ones “I’m gay” is helping to change the minds of six, eight, 10 other people directly and scores of others down the line. It’s not too farfetched to say that someone who comes out tomorrow is directly responsible for increasing the likelihood that gay marriage will be fully accepted in the future.
Your friends and family will appreciate it.
When a friend or relative or coworker is still in the closet, there tends to be a lot of acrobatic conversational skills in play. So much has to be talked around or ignored.
I’m not blind to the fact that some circumstances might make this task more challenging than others. In some parts of the country it is still pretty tough—if not outright dangerous—to be openly gay. Discretion and subtlety might be more suitable in these situations: why don’t you give your best girlfriend at the office an opening (and you know you have a best a girlfriend at the office) and casually mention that you can’t wait to see “Ocean’s Twelve” because you “think George Clooney is so handsome.” She’ll probably sigh and think to herself, “at last!”
People are fairly intuitive when it comes to those they love. The denial comes into play on the part of the closeted person. A friend of mine lived with his “roommate” in a beautifully decorated house with three Jack Russell Terriers and thought no one had a clue he was gay. I’ll wager even the dogs knew.
Because everyone already knows.
Your sister knows. Your father knows (although he’s running a close second in the denial department.) Brandy, the checkout girl down at the Piggly Wiggly knows. (Mike the bag boy hopes you’re gay, but, at 15, he’s not yet quite sure why he hopes that.)
Your business associates know.
A producer friend who came out late in life made a big production of taking his colleagues out to dinner—one at a time—to tell them what they had known for years. One actress breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Is that all? I was terrified you were going to ask me to do the revival of Annie 2!”
In my own case, my mother finally got fed up and said to me, “Tell me, because I know.” (Mom also confessed she knew I was gay when I was a baby. If she had any lingering doubts they were fully dispelled when, at age 13, I created a six-foot-long facsimile of Barbra Streisand’s signature—resplendent with silver glitter—on the wall of my bedroom.) We were then able to have a conversation without having to think about every word we said and were free to indulge in our normal Presbyterian hang-ups.
But, there’s one overwhelming, foudroyant reason for coming out, and it doesn’t involve your family and friends. It’s not about taking a political stance or moving the gay agenda forward. The best reason for coming out is this: it is going to make you happy. You will suddenly find that you’ve been unknowingly carrying an onerous and debilitating burden. This weight has been keeping your shoulders hunched and your arms at your sides when they could be spread wide as wings, allowing you to soar through your life, concealing nothing, no longe
r Earth-bound by “secret truths”.
