ARE YOU A SAMANTHA OR A CARRIE?

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Okay, so Kim Cattrall and Sarah Jessica Parker aren’t as chummy as Samantha and Carrie. (Here's the link to an article on the subject, in case you've had better things to do.) I can see Jack McFarland flipping out on “Will & Grace” but the rest of us should take a long, slow sip from Karen Walker’s martini glass and get over it.

I loved “Sex and the City”. Like many gays, I inserted myself into the show, engaging in frequent banter on whether I was Carrie or Miranda or Samantha or Charlotte. Maybe I have a conflict of interest here as I always went back and forth from Miranda to Charlotte. No one would ever take me for Samantha and Carrie always seemed to be overshadowed by each of them. Who wants to identify with that?!

The entertainment business works hard to create a make-believe world, not only regarding the storylines of characters on TV shows but also as to the happenings on set. Doesn’t every actor say, “I know it’s going to sound cliché, but we really are like a family”? We’re supposed to believe that on these sets and locations, strong, warm bonds form all the time.

I’m glad social media wasn’t around way back when I connected with “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” and grew to love the characters and, in turn, the actors. I want to forever believe that that group hug at the end of the series represented pure love between characters and among the cast (even if Rhoda/Valerie and Phyllis/Cloris had already left the nest). Same with “The Bob Newhart Show”. Bob and Emily forever, along with Howard, Jerry and Carol popping up for regular smiles and yuk-yuks.

Let “Friends” always be friends. May “The Golden Girls” always commune and console over cheesecake. And I can go on imagining that those “Designing Women” of seasons one and two continue to enjoy their southern charm while tuning out any of the on-set drama involving Delta Burke. Again, we mercifully only got reports of that through weekly tabloids.

On Twitter, I’m seeing #TeamKim and #TeamSJP emerge. Mostly, it seems people are looking for excuses to tweet the latest sassy GIFs.

I didn’t read of any tensions between Cattrall and Parker until the fall of 2017 when Kim Cattrall’s disinterest in a third “Sex and the City” movie put the kibosh on it going forward. Whatever the reason, I was glad. I saw the first and found it entirely disappointing. Couldn’t stomach the second, which might further tarnish the shine of such an outstanding series. The only unfortunate part of reading that there wouldn’t be another movie was the public muck that came out.

It’s with that in such recent memory that this newest uproar arises. Kim’s brother was missing and she’d taken to social media, desperate to find him. That got attention. When it turned out he’d died, the sad news got even more internet and new media attention. Celebrities are now scrutinized for their responses or their “failure” to respond. Given what public spat in the fall, what was Sarah Jessica Parker to do? The norm now is to tweet love and condolences, often with generic wording. Enough to make a public acknowledgment. It’s the same as the sympathy cards that get passed around in our own lunchrooms. The standard sentiment is a “Thinking of you” and a signature. For celebs, silence—or perceived silence, even if condolences are sent privately—would be new fuel because, even in this #MeToo era, everyone loves a good cat fight. Let women be empowered but let the sideshows continue to satisfy the gawkers.

I’m not on either team. (Perhaps stirring up wounds from childhood when I was last to be picked, let me be #TeamNoTeam.) But why would a TV environment be any more collegial and more familial than any other workplace? The reason “The Office” was such a success is that it was relatable. A work setting brings together people who are, well, not so relatable to one another. People get on each other’s nerves. There are falling-outs. Some quit but don’t we all know of people who stick with a job because of the pay or out of fear of what else is/isn’t out there? Don’t we know people who can ruin a Friday night happy hour with an unrelenting diatribe on all their co-workers? Whether Sarah Jessica should have tweeted and whether Kim should have responded, can we just move on?

In my mind, Carrie and Samantha will always be friends. And if all that was just good acting, then so be it.

    

WAITRESS, PLEASE!

The West Coast has San Francisco, the East Coast has Fire Island. And Broadway. I have to admit I’m kind of afraid of Fire Island—all those stories and all that sand getting in unwanted places. Okay then, just Broadway. So many musicals and plays with gay storylines or with a diva to bring out the gays.

La Cage aux Folles.

Torch Song Trilogy.

The Boys in the Band.

Rent.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Angels in America.

Hello, Dolly.

But not Cats. Please, no. (Except for that one lovely song. I prefer the Betty Buckley version to Barbra’s. Is that scandalous?)

Amidst all the flashy colossal signs, the throngs of tourists, the honking taxis and opportunistic Elmos, there’s a veritable gay Mecca. And for me to say I flew from Vancouver to New York City for the sole purpose of seeing a Broadway show, well, that’s gotta make up for the Barbra slight. 

Perhaps the particular Broadway show, however, may be a head scratcher. I didn’t go to see the revival of Angels in America. I’d seen a production of it in Vancouver long ago and, well, I’m not sure I have the attention span to sit through it again. A one-time experience. Neither did I go to see the revival of Hello, Dolly. (Bette Midler’s finished her stint and now it’s Bernadette Peters whom I’ve always found annoyingly nasal. Sacrilege?) I didn’t even go for Dear Evan Hansen. Would have loved to have seen it but, frankly, I’m too cheap to opt for a show that doesn’t have discounted prices through TKTS. Blame it, in part, on a lousy exchange rate for my Canadian dollars.

(Miss you, Blockbuster.)

This trip was about the musical Waitress. I’d seen the movie with Keri Russell, Nathan Fillion and Andy Griffith years ago. (Side note: Whenever I’m in New York, I make a pit stop at a Dean & DeLuca because that’s where Keri Russell’s character on “Felicity” worked while attending NYU.) The movie "Waitress", a quiet charmer, wouldn’t have been enough to make me see it as a musical. Not in and of itself.

Over the last three years, I’ve grown into becoming a huge Sara Bareilles fan. I was already familiar with “Love Song” and “King of Anything” but Sara’s songs took on more meaning when I bought her “The Blessed Heart” CD because of the song “Brave” and then became wowed by every song on it. “I Choose You” is a joyful celebration of love I wish someone would play for me someday, “Manhattan” is a lyrically melancholy masterpiece and I could go on. Search for these songs online if you’re not familiar with them (or just click the links).

A couple her other songs took on greater poignancy after I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. “Gravity” could be a song linking someone to the wrong partner or referring to a struggle with addiction, but for me it’s all about the hold depression can have over me. Somehow I can bawl my eyes out as the song plays and it’s therapeutic. Instead of unsuccessfully trying to banish depression, the song offers a means of acknowledging it and that, in turn, makes it bearable. Then came “She Used to Be Mine”, a song Sara wrote for the musical Waitress, and the links deepened. Like that guy in Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly”, Sara flipped the gender but the words seemed to be mine:

It's not simple to say
That most days I don't recognize me
That these shoes and this apron
That place and its patrons
Have taken more than I gave them.
It's not easy to know
I'm not anything like I used be, although it's true
I was never attention's sweet center
I still remember that girl.

She's imperfect, but she tries
She is good, but she lies
She is hard on herself
She is broken and won't ask for help
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine.

It's not what I asked for
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person and makes you believe it's all true
And now I've got you.
And you're not what I asked for
If I'm honest, I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew

Who'll be reckless, just enough
Who'll get hurt, but who learns how to toughen up
When she's bruised and gets used by a man who can't love
And then she'll get stuck
And be scared of the life that's inside her
Growing stronger each day 'til it finally reminds her
To fight just a little, to bring back the fire in her eyes
That's been gone, but used to be mine.

Sara Bareilles wrote the music and lyrics for all of the songs in Waitress and that’s what made the show such a draw. I knew when Waitress was to debut on Broadway: April 24, 2016. I couldn’t make it then due to work. I waited until August of last year to finally go. And I loved it! I couldn’t have been happier.

Until mid-November, that is, when I read that Jason Mraz was going to play Dr. Pomatter for seven weeks or so, beginning in early December. (I’m a big fan of his music and, incidentally, his vegan principles.) I wanted to go again but held off. It was too soon since I’d last been to New York and I chose to go to Sweden instead. (Depression finds me always needing to be on the run.)

And then around Christmas I Googled Sara because I was wondering when she’d have a new album out. No mention of new music. Drat. What I discovered instead was that she was going to play the lead role, Jenna, in Waitress for six weeks, two of which would overlap with Jason Mraz.

And that’s how I ended up feeling the pull back to Broadway. Two full days of travel—one each way—but it was entirely worth it. 

There’s a term for Rent fanatics: Rentheads. Is there one for Waitress groupies? Am I a budding Piehole? I could go once a month. There’s something about knowing the songs better and appreciating the jokes more. Even after seeing it twice, I enjoyed comparing actors in some of the other roles that had changed since August. More than anything, to see the musical with Sara and Jason together had me downright giddy, a remarkable reaction considering how profoundly I’ve struggled over the last few months. Gay again, in the Broadway way and in the old-fashioned "happy" way.

WHAT HAPPENS IN NEW YORK CITY...

I don’t relate to my hair stylist. She’s twenty-four and it can be painful trying to carry on a conversation. When I first started going to her a year ago, I was firm about scissors only. No razors. (I’d had a traumatic experience not once but twice with a surfer/hair cutter twenty-five years ago. He took a razor to the whole back of my head when I’d gone in for a trim.) I’m starting to think a razor might be good. It would speed up the encounter. The problem is, whenever she says something, I’m at a loss for how to respond. “Uh-huh” is all that comes to mind.

Oh, my God! I so hate honey. My mom will try to slip it in a shake or something and I just know. I’ll say, “You put honey in this” and she knows she’s busted. Honey is just really so disgusting.

Uh-huh.

I don’t even have an entry point with her topics—Hipsters (they’re like honey), broken artificial fake nails (somehow they’re very painful), televisions in kitchens (Certain channels are okay, but I didn’t follow with the explanation.).

She goes to Cabo San Lucas every year and she knows all the really nice hotels, but she doesn’t stay there because the party hotel is way better. It’s where things happen.

Uh-huh. I could have said more. I could have said, “All I want is a decent night’s sleep.”

Uh-huh.

And that’s my problem. Okay, it’s not a problem, but it makes me feel different from not only my hair stylist but from most gay men. Not gay men my age—although quite a few of them, still—but gay men at some point in their lives. Younger. Nearer to the time they came out. I’ve heard the stories. The twink in Sydney. The threeway in New Orleans. The hors d’oeuvre, the main course and the late night snack in London.

When away from home, have at it. Hook up. Let a local show you his bedroom (or dark alley) hospitality. Bring someone back for hotel sex.

I don’t have a problem with it. Do what you want. My only qualifier is, if you’re in a relationship, you honor it and whatever agreements you and your partner have made before the trip. Have a good time. I want to be clear that I’m not a prude. (Maybe a little.) I entertain the fantasy of hotel sex or something else (probably not the alley though). Wouldn’t it be freeing?! No strings! Or maybe a same-time-next-year kind of arrangement.

When I’m single, I think about this possibility before every trip. And on my trip last week to New York City, I felt open to it. But the same thing happened that always happens. I arrive and I am absolutely certain that’s not what I want. I don’t even Google gay places anymore—clubs, baths, piano bars. I know I’m not going.

I’ve thought back on all my trips and I realize I haven’t had a What Happens in Vegas/Stockholm/Dublin/Peoria experience…ever. Where’s the possibility of a relationship? I get the sense that makes me an anomaly. Again, not a prude. (Can you detect the defensiveness?) The idea is exciting but I know myself too well. The experience would be empty. Good in the moment but then…nothing. I’d rather try for that decent night’s sleep so I can pack more things in during the next day, taking in art, green space, coffee culture and observing the similarities and differences in how people interact and get around in the place I’m visiting. Nowadays it’s easy enough to have a hookup at home. The ensuing emptiness seems more fitting to deal with there than messing with my mind and time on vacation.

Without any defensiveness whatsoever, I can say I thoroughly enjoyed my trip to The Big Apple. What happened in New York may bore the hell out of some gossip-hungry gays at a Vancouver gay bar but, no surprise, I’m not going there either. So, yes, I can entertain the thought of something random here on home turf, but, as you might imagine, I think I still would prefer trying for more sleep time.

Uh-huh.