MY SECOND "OUTING"

Betty Jo Weber outed me. 

 

Not about me being gay. That was Keith Somebody-or-Other, the guy who had the locker above me in tenth grade. It’s a good sign of moving on that I don’t have a clue what his last name is. I sometimes went to class without my textbook to avoid a run-in with this guy whom I won’t call a bully. He was just an indiscriminate jerk. When he announced I was a faggot—his word, half a notch less offensive than cocksucker—I began fretting over what mannerism was the giveaway. How was this football jock so sure of his gaydar when I still wasn’t so sure myself? I had leanings, but I hoped they’d go away. Maybe I needed to watch more “Charlie’s Angels.” Maybe I should have abandoned my internal debate about which Hardy Boy had better hair, Shaun Cassidy or Parker Stevenson. (It was Parker, hands down, but I didn’t want Shaun to feel badly.) Maybe I needed to stop wanting to play with my locker mate Carol Lee Cook’s majorette baton and instead convince myself what I really wanted was to play with Carol Lee. Sometimes there’s not a shred of hope in maybe. I was gay—er, a faggot. Keith Somebody-or-Other said so.

 

Back to Betty Jo. She didn’t enter the picture until nine years after locker traumas when she became a teacher’s aide at the Catholic school where I was a special education teacher. We were at lunch or in a meeting and I’d said something rather ordinary, for me at least, when she laughed and shouted, “You’re such a geek!” She wasn’t being loud as a courtesy for our elderly, hard-of-hearing nun colleagues. (They seemed to work till they dropped; our school secretary was 83-year-old Sister Albertine.) No, Betty Jo shouted everything. She laughed loudly. She talked loudly. I can’t remember for sure, but my revisionist memory would like to say she even ate loudly. Soup and apples, every day. 

 

Admit it...you've got a Manilow
t-shirt, too.

Geek? Undeniably. Betty Jo Weber said so. I have to admit, it stung. Almost as much as finding out I was a faggot. Seriously. I was in my early twenties and I still hadn’t given up on the idea that I could maybe, possibly, hopefully be cool. Like The Fonz. Or Barry Manilow. 

 

Not only did Betty Jo laugh, but her pal and my pal, another teacher’s aide named Amy, laughed too. Up to that point, I’d thought we were something close to a cool trio but, just liked that, it seemed as though I’d forfeited my place to Sister Marie Herman, still sprightly at sixty-eight, dazzling us all with her latch hook coasters. 

 

Self-acceptance takes time. When Betty Jo declared I was a geek, I’d at least decided that I was indeed gay. (I never took to “faggot,” no matter how many times guys shouted it from car windows while I jogged or, later on, when walking the supposedly safer sidewalks of West Hollywood.) Gay, okay. Geek? I stewed over that one. 

 

There’d always been signs. While my classmates in elementary school in Ontario wanted to grow up to be NHL hockey players, like all good Canadian boys, I aspired to be an elf at the North Pole. No lie. I had the sense to keep this to myself. I figured if word got back to my parents, my mother would try to kibosh it. “You’ll get frostbite. You always lose one of your mittens. Besides every time you use hammer, you hit your thumb instead of the nail. Santa’s too busy to deal with crying elves.”

 

In third grade, my classmates rushed home after street hockey to watch syndicated reruns of “The Munsters” and the police show, “Adam-12.” I chose to watch “The Odd Couple.” (Oh, that Felix. So fussy!) I also got hooked on “Ironside,” technically a police show, too, but starring Raymond Burr as a paralyzed, retired detective. Instead of car chases and climbing over alley fences to catch criminals on “Adam-12” or “Hawaii Five-O,” the main action on “Ironside” was Burr rolling around in a wheelchair. The show felt cerebral and way ahead of its time, focused on ability rather than disability. Maybe I was ahead of my time, too—PC before that was even a thing. 

 

I also liked school. A lot. Not the trips to my locker or P.E. classes or the Salisbury steak-vegetable medley lunch served in the high school cafeteria once a week. I’d never heard of Salisbury steak before moving to East Texas. In case it’s an unknown food to you, Wikipedia gives a handy definition of what it takes to be Salisbury-worthy:

"Salisbury steak" require[s] a minimum content of 65% meat, of which up to 25% can be pork, except if de-fatted beef or pork is used, the limit is 12% combined. No more than 30% may be fat. Meat byproducts are not permitted; however, beef heart meat is allowed. Extender (bread crumbs, flour, oat flakes, etc.) content is limited to 12%, except isolated soy protein at 6.8% is considered equivalent to 12% of the others. The remainder consists of seasonings, fungi or vegetables (onion, bell pepper, mushroom or the like), binders (can include egg) and liquids (such as water, milk, cream, skim milk, buttermilk, brine, vinegar etc.). 

 

Um…gross. This is not why I eventually became a vegetarian, but it added to my suspicion that school lunches in the U.S. weren’t about giving kids healthy meals. 

 

Back on point, yay school (with asterisks). Guys were supposed to hate school, all things academic classified as stupid, boring and/or dumb. (Developing a vocabulary was clearly stupid, boring and/or dumb, too.) I liked tests—even pop quizzes. I had the sense not to shout, “Yes!” like Troy Findlay every time a teacher told us to get out a sheet of notebook paper and number it one through ten. Now that was a geek. I got psyched up for research papers and learning the proper way to write a bibliography.[1] I loved the fact the photocopier in the library was free. There was so much fascinating information I wanted to keep handy from World Book Encyclopedia—which, damn it all, we couldn’t check out—the school subscription of Scientific American and that gem in the Dewey Decimal section 745.5, 101 Popsicle Stick Crafts. (You know your Dewey Decimals, right?)

 

Okay. The signs were always there. Always gay. Always a geek, even if I’ve never ever played Dungeons & Dragons. Like gays, geeks come in many forms.

 

I swear there was a time when being called a geek was a putdown. Nerd. Geek. Loser. All grouped together like stupid, boring and dumb. By the time Betty Jo Weber called me a geek a second time, I’m pretty sure my face didn’t turn red. (A bit rosy, maybe.) As she started saying it more frequently, she always said it with a laugh. She wasn’t totally making fun of me. She just kept marveling how I was so hopelessly out of step with the cool kids. But she always sat with me at lunch and when we had important staff meetings. Amy stuck with me, too. 

 

That's right, I drove the same kind of car as
Mare Winningham's character in St. Elmo's Fire.
Mare Winningham! She was the coolest in the 
cast...way cooler than Rob Lowe or Demi Moore
or Emilio Estevez.

In time, I learned to embrace being a geek just like I was proudly gay. On an April Fool’s Day while I was in law school, an L.A. radio station announced it was changing its format, going Retro Cool. I didn’t want it to be a joke. As I drove on campus with the top down in my Chrysler LeBaron convertible—so hip!—my friend Adrienne rode shotgun. They played Paul Anka’s “(You’re) Having My Baby” and I cranked it. Adrienne was mortified and wanted to change the station but, hey, my wheels, my tunes, right? 

 

Who doesn't love a bad boy?

When you’re a geek, you don’t have to check yourself. No one will say, “Dude, be cool” because that’s like telling me to blow a bubble with my watermelon-flavored Bazooka gum. Not possible. The world needs geeks. I’m your go-to guy when the party hits an awkward point and you need me to step in and name the Seven Dwarfs. Easy-peasy. Hell, I’ll rank them! When the same party hits another snag after saying things in Pig Latin gets old, I can dazzle everyone with my command of Esrever. (That’s talking with all words spelled backwards. I can feel your awe at this very moment, but it takes practice. My friend, Nosylla and I have been talking Esrever since freshman year in college. Man, we rocked at parties!) 

 

I still like Barry Manilow. I bought a Scooby Doo t-shirt recently…and I wear it in public. I’ve never seen “Game of Thrones” or a Vin Diesel movie, but I’ve watched every episode of septuagenarian-focused shows “Grace and Frankie” and “The Kominsky Method.” The only decorations I put up at Christmas are my plush, collector’s item toys, Rudolph and Hermey the Elf. (Okay, they were dollar store finds, but they’ll go way up in value. Mark my words.) Yeah, I never really got over the elf gig. 

 

Geek for life. And that’s okay. It’s even something to celebrate. Jason Mraz says so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

[1] Ooh, and footnotes, too! How cool that tiny, raised numbers aren’t just exponents!

THAT THING YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO LIKE

I once knew a guy who hated pizza. It wasn’t about a gluten allergy, making him crust-averse. It wasn’t on account of a lactose intolerance or even something to do with tomatoes. And because I couldn't connect it to something logical, I judged him. Surely he’s an attention seeker. He publicly bashes pizza and then secretly dials Domino’s at one in the morning—an extra large, extra cheese, extra everything. Domino’s, for god’s sake. Serves him right. In time, his declaration would become true. 

 

The pizza hater and I never were close. I don’t think it was because of that, but I can’t say for sure. Some stances are riskier than others. Hating pizza goes against the normal flow of things. It’s akin to knocking Tom Hanks. Or Betty White. (Gasp! Beware of lightning bolts!) 

 

So let me say that I love pizza. (And Tom. And Betty.) I need you to know that I’m decent and at least fairly typical before I rattle the gay gods and have a Pride posse kicking down my door, demanding I surrender my rainbow shoes. 

Deep breath… 

Here goes...

...I didn’t like “The Boys in the Band.” 

 

Wait! Don’t go! I didn’t say I hated it. Disliking it is actually progress. 

 

Many years ago, I watched the original movie from 1970. That, I hated. I had rented it from the video store—sigh, I miss video stores—after hearing that it was a groundbreaking movie about gay men dealing with each other and their own identities when being closeted was much more the expectation of the day. The movie grated on me. I recall the main character being thoroughly insufferable. He seemed angry and hateful toward his friends and I couldn’t understand why these people would stick around for whatever the occasion was...a dinner party, I seemed to recall. I was so disappointed. A first opportunity to have a movie full of gay characters and all they could do was knock each other down. I wondered if it had the effect of keeping men in the closet. How could these characters be relatable? 

 

In January 2018, I flew to New York to see the musical “Waitress” on Broadway for a second time. (Double sigh, I miss Broadway.) After having written all the songs for the show, Sara Bareilles, whom I adore, was starring in it opposite Jason Mraz, whom I’ve crushed on for years. I was in full geek glory. As I wandered Manhattan during my stay, I kept noticing signage promoting the Broadway revival of “The Boys in the Band,” coming for a limited run later in the spring and starring a Who’s Who of openly gay actors, notably Jim Parsons, Zachary Quinto and Matt Bomer. (Mentioning Matt Bomer in a blog post, gives me an excuse to ogle him on Google Images. It may be the sole reason I continue blogging. Pardon me while I fetch my drool bib.)

With considerable star power buying in, I wondered if I may have been wrong about my assessment of the movie. Perhaps I’d watched it in a bad mood after finding no ice cream in my freezer or while ironing a favorite work shirt and getting some sort of corrosive stain from the iron on the front of it. (What causes that anyway?) 

 

As I continued to see ads for the play each Sunday in The New York Times, I flirted with the idea of another Broadway-fueled trip to the Big Apple. Alas, my budget has its limits. The play came and went and I figured that was that. 

 

Then Netflix announced that it would air “The Boys in the Band,” featuring the Broadway cast. I got excited. I marked the premiere date on my phone. I came across tweets from others, excitedly anticipating The Event. Yes, this was shaping up as must-see viewing. 

 

Weirdly, I waited a few nights before tuning in. Maybe I thought that holding off would quell the hype. Too often, high expectations lead to disappointment. 

 

It took me three viewings to get through it. Two viewings isn’t out of the ordinary for me. My only TV is in the bedroom and sometimes the setting makes me sleepy. Three viewings though is a sign of something else. Especially when I let many days go by between watching. Michael, the main character who gathers his friends to host a birthday for frenemy Harold, is still utterly unlikable. It’s not Jim Parsons’ fault. I thought the character came off worse in the 1970 movie. (Maybe this time I just had a sense of what was coming.) By the time Michael breaks down after the party is over and says, “If we could just not hate ourselves so much,” I felt no sympathy. It’s a compelling line, one that’s still potent today, but it fails to make up for Michael’s repugnant behavior toward each of his friends. I get it, he hates himself so he lashes out. I didn’t need two hours of listening to him put down and humiliate his guests. 

 

The problem is exacerbated by the fact that there aren’t any significant characters to counterbalance Michael. Harold is just as mean, more passive and yet more amused in seeing people demeaned. Zachary Quinto plays the part astonishingly well; he seems to be having a wickedly good time. Maybe that’s enough for some viewers. 

 

There are three seemingly good characters—Donald, Hank and Bernard—but they don’t have enough lines to become three-dimensional and they’re mostly doormats for the haters. Nice guys aren’t as fun to write for, but this becomes more problematic in what was originally a groundbreaking production. Watching a new version brought back my prior response, a generalized, Ew and then, Who would want to be gay? followed by the horror, So this is how straight audience members would see gays back in 1968. Would this have been progress? Thankfully nowadays we have so many more portrayals of gay lives. This is just one. 

 

But what do I know? The play won a Tony for Best Revival. 

 

At least I can say I like pizza.

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.