Month: October 2019

Impressions of a Crucifixion

On October 31, 2019

In Directing, Directing Proposals, Random Topics

Hi, everyone! In the same vein as my last post, which started as another installment of the evergreen “Ask Me Anything” series and wound up focusing on a specific topic instead, I was hit with two questions in a row that were too big on their own to mix into another AMA post. (Honestly, I feel like this has been coming for a while, as my answers to certain questions have gotten progressively longer over the life of the column.) So, until something better to write about comes along, I’m going to stick with this for a while.

These questions, funnily enough, given where the discussion that led to my last post originated, concern one of my favorite musicals of all time, Jesus Christ Superstar. As I indicated in my directing proposal for the show, I’ve been brainstorming how to stage this thing pretty much since the first grade, and everybody who knows me knows that. One of them found the ask box on my Tumblr, because this is what tumbled in (shut up, you loved that pun, you liar):

Has any production of JCS come close to your vision of the show?
Anonymous

Well, I’ve had so many visions of the show that it was kind of hard to gauge how to answer this question.

My current default notion is that JCS works better as a concert than staged, one major reason being that any full staging is instantly subject to (over-)analysis because nobody has ever locked down one “acceptable” way of doing it, no “Brown Album” equivalent in terms of staging and design standards. And I think we already know why. Some don’t consider this a flaw, but it objectively is: JCS doesn’t have a spoken book, which has frequently proven problematic to directors in its long history of theatrical staging. As the show was recorded in the studio before it was performed, it was originally written for the ears, not the eyes, and consequently, some of the score is difficult to stage adequately, especially for audiences used to the more skillful storytelling of modern pop operas like Les Mis, Rent (albeit to a limited extent, suffering as it did from literal “death of the author”), and others. The structure of JCS can feel disjointed, almost like a collection of music videos, rather than one coherent narrative.

Fans say that’s because the directors who’ve done JCS are unfamiliar with opera or unable to trust that the audience will be able to accept it as opera, but a cursory glance at Tom O’Horgan’s, Jim Sharman’s, or Gale Edwards’ résumés (to name three) shows opera experience is not the barrier. We even have O’Horgan’s word on this, from Elizabeth L. Wollman’s book The Theater Will Rock: “…it just was not very theatrically constructed. When I first attacked the piece with Andrew, he said he would write some other numbers that would help make it flow a little better. But he didn’t. So we just had to create visual things that would work with the music and make it understandable.” (Whether O’Horgan succeeded in making it understandable with his “visual things” is another story entirely, depending on who you talk to, but still, “getting” opera was not the issue.)

Because of this lack of a book, and a score that’s largely inner monologue rather than exposition or explication, directors and choreographers try to give it structure through blocking and dance and the creation of “scenes” to set up what comes next. But that can get in the way, to the point of becoming a big stumbling block in some productions. It could be argued that this inability to settle on the best way to stage JCS is part of the show’s beauty, what makes it so special, but it leads to too much second-guessing; in my opinion, it’s better to strive for something more concrete.

To me, that means one should zero in on what makes it so wonderful, so historic, and so beloved by us. The music, the lyrics, the text-setting, and the lyrical phrasings… all remain brilliant after 50 years. Forget, for example, the eternal tug of war between a modern and a biblical look — concentrate on the music. A staged concert does not overly concern itself with sets, costumes, props, or a thematic concept that requires a dozen steps of thinking and rethinking; in a concert version of a musical, there’s an understanding that you’re not getting the full kit. The audience sits up and pays attention because there’s little (in JCS‘ case, no) dialogue, and rather than reading as a series of unrelated songs (as it can in a conventional staging), the full score carries the plot’s weight. It shouldn’t throw anyone nearly as much in concert as it can when one tries to make it a “standard theater evening.”

If we limit our focus to that concept, I’ve seen it tackled successfully several times.

In-person, I’ve seen JCS performed in concert by groups such as A2Z Theatrical (twice, the cast of which included JCS vet Danny Zolli on both occasions and Carl Anderson — as Pilate! — once), David Tessier’s All-Star Stars (twice), and the Ultrasonic Rock Orchestra (once), all in the New England area.
Through recorded mediums, I’ve seen many great examples from all over the map, including: Anthony Von Eckstein’s long-running JCS which played around the Bay Area of California from 1988-1992 (clips can be found here); The Noise magazine (and, later, Boston Rock Opera) presenting a JCS that was raw and more concert than theater in its early days, though frequently costumed and occasionally equipped with sets and props (clips can be found here); the justly famous 1992 Australian revival cast (now on YouTube); JCS: A Resurrection, as performed by The Indigo Girls and friends at SXSW ’95 (briefly available for sale on video and now on YouTube); Astarte Syriaca’s prog metal revamp of the score (clips can be found here); frequent performances by the Tábor Superstar Band (clips can be found here); the many renditions presented by the Horningsea Reduced Theatre Company, sometimes with a cast as small as three people (clips can be found here); and The Petty Thefts and friends, who closed their club performance of JCS with a cover of “The Last Waltz” rather than the downer of an agonizing crucifixion and a string instrumental (clips can be found here).

Each production had things I loved, things I merely liked, and things that I’d do differently, but they reflected that particular vision pretty well. Namely, for the most part, they weren’t about robes and sandals. They embraced the era of thunderous, fist-in-the-air, classic ’60s and ’70s Brit rock (The Beatles, The Who, David Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Queen, etc.) that JCS came from. This was a rock opera that changed the world, and it looked — and sounded — like it, complete with epic lighting, in-your-face sound, band and singers onstage throughout the performance… in short, a full-on contemporary rock and roll spectacle. By no means did any of these performers skimp on the story, but they didn’t sacrifice the edge to tell it either.

However, that answer wasn’t enough for this person, who wanted to pin me down. They shot back with this:

What’s been your favorite staged version of JCS? (Non-concert)
Anonymous

Okay, I’ll bite, but remember: you asked for this essay, pal.

First, a list of the staged (non-concert) versions of JCS I’ve seen: two high school productions (about which you’ll hear nothing in this post; it’s unfair to judge them in competition with pros), the closing performance of the 2000 Broadway revival, two performances of the national tour that followed said revival (one of which featured Carl Anderson as Judas and Barry Dennen — Pilate on the original album, Broadway, and in the 1973 film — as Herod), and four performances of a national tour initially billed as Ted Neeley’s “farewell” engagement in the role of Jesus. In total, discounting the number of performances of each, five productions, only three of which we’ll consider here.

The 2000 Broadway revival had all the same problems as the video which reflected that production: I’m sure Gale Edwards is a fine director, but she missed the boat with this particular iteration of JCS. (Not having seen her original 1996 production at the Lyceum Theatre, which unfortunately never left that venue and was reportedly far better than what went wide, I can only comment on this version.) Her direction — and the production design that accompanied it — were full of the kinds of blatant, offensively obvious attempts at symbolism and subtlety that appeal only to pseudo-intellectual theater kids. In real life, there’s no such thing as obvious good vs. obvious evil (things just ain’t black and white, people), and any attempt to portray this concept on stage or in a film usually results in a hokey “comic book” product, which is kind of what the 2000 production was.

The first thing Edwards did was draw her line in the sand. “These are the good guys, and these are the bad guys.” The overall production design played into this ‘line in the sand’ feel as well, being so plain in its intentions as to almost beat you over the head with them. There may have been some good concepts mixed in, but for a show that runs on moral ambiguity, they were very poorly executed and did damage to the piece. Some examples:

Annas and Caiaphas were devoutly “evil,” seemingly designed to inspire fear. It’s easy to see good as so very good, and bad as so very bad; to want to have the evil in a nice little box. But it’s not that simple. As Captain Jean-Luc Picard (and now you know where my Star Trek loyalties lie, curse you!) once said, “…villains who twirl their mustaches are easy to spot. Those that clothe themselves in good deeds are well camouflaged.” Evil isn’t always a clear and recognizable stereotype. It could be lurking inside anyone, even you, and you’d never know. People aren’t inherently evil. Like good, it’s a role they grow and live into. And since history is a story of the developments and actions of humans over the ages, maybe it’s a mistake to view the characters who’ve played their parts in it so one-dimensionally. It doesn’t dismiss the evil they did, but it does allow one to understand that this potential to be good or to be evil is in everyone and that it’s not always as simple as just doing the right thing.
Judas was an almost thoroughly unlikable prick (though Tony Vincent played him a bit more sympathetically than Jérôme Pradon in the video); any sense of a fully three-dimensional person was lost, leaving us with a total dickhead constantly beating Jesus over the head with his cynicism and curt remarks. If the audience is to truly feel for Judas and appreciate his fall, they must see his positive relationship with Jesus. More importantly, it has to be readily apparent; it shouldn’t be the audience’s job to assume as much. I never saw any love, or even a hint of friendship, between Jesus and Judas in the 2000 production. Judas’ interactions with Jesus were a constant barrage of aggression, overt or covert. No hint of a conflict in him, or at least none the audience could see, and what use is a conflict or emotion if the audience isn’t privy to it?
And when not telegraphing an ultra-specific view of the story’s events, everything else about the design would’ve left a first-time viewer befogged. Young me liked the industrial, post-apocalyptic, pseudo-Gotham City atmosphere of the set. The older me still likes it (though I’m firm in my opinion it works best on stage), but realizes what a mess the costumes were. Jesus and the apostles are straight out of Rent, the Roman guards look like an army of Darth Vader clones with nightsticks substituting for light sabers, the priests have practically stepped off the screen from The Matrix, Pilate is a Gestapo in generic neo-Nazi regalia, Herod seems to have dragged along some showgirls and chorus boys on his visit from a flash-and-trash third-rate Vegas spectacular, the Temple is full of ethnic stereotypes and a mish-mosh of dime-store criminals, and a creepy mob with a striking resemblance to The Addams Family keeps popping up, but only in the show’s darker moments. Lots of interesting ideas which might work (operative word being “might”) decently in productions of their own, all tossed in to spice up a rather bland soup. The solution to having a bunch of conflicting ideas is not to throw all of them at the wall at once; you look for a pattern to present itself and follow it. If no pattern emerges from the ideas you have, it’s a sign you should start over.

You can see what my basic issue was: where other productions explored motivation, examining possibilities and presenting conflicting viewpoints for consideration, the 2000 production (when not utterly confused in its storytelling thanks to conflicting design) blatantly stated what it thought the motivation was without any room for interpretation — this is who they are, what they did, why they did it, so switch off your brain and accept what we put in front of you. Which, to me, is the total opposite of what JCS is about; it didn’t get famous for espousing that view, but for going totally against the grain of that.

The national tour at least had Carl and Barry to recommend for it the first time around, but for all the mistakes it corrected about the 2000 revival (swapping out the shady market in the Temple for a scene where stockbrokers worshiped the almighty dollar, with an electronic ticker broadcasting then-topical references to Enron, ImClone, and Viagra, among others, was a fun twist, and, for me, Barry Dennen gave the definitive performance of Herod), it introduced some confusing new ones as well:

For one, Carl — and, later, his replacement, Lawrence Clayton — looked twice the age of the other actors onstage. Granted, Christ was only 33 when this happened, but next to both Carl and Clayton, Eric Kunze (I thankfully never caught his predecessor) looked almost like a teenager. When Ted and Carl did the show in the Nineties and both were in their fifties, they were past the correct ages for their characters, but it worked — in addition to their being terrific performers and friends in real life whose chemistry was reflected onstage — because they were around the same age, so it wasn’t so glaring. Without that dynamic, the way Jesus and Judas looked together just seemed weird, and it didn’t help anyone accept their relationship.
Speaking of looking weird together, the performer playing Caiaphas — who was bald, and so, unfortunately, resembled a member of the Blue Man Group thanks to the color of lighting frequently focused on the priests — was enormously big and tall, while the actor in the role of Annas was extremely short. Big Guy, Little Guy in action. Every time I saw them onstage, I had to stifle the urge to laugh out loud. I’ve written a great deal about how Caiaphas and Annas are not (supposed to be) the show’s villains, but that’s still not the reaction I should have to them.
The relentlessness of pace was ridiculous. It was so fast that the show, which started at 1:40 PM, was down by 3:30 PM — and that included a 20-minute intermission. What time does that leave for any moments to be taken at all? A scene barely even ended before the next began. At the end of the Temple scene, Jesus threw all the lepers out, rolled over, and Mary was singing the “Everything’s Alright” reprise already. How about a second to breathe for Mary to get there? Nope. How about giving Judas and Jesus two seconds’ break in the betrayal scene at Gethsemane? The guards were already grabbing Christ the minute he was kissed. I was so exhausted by the show’s end that I was tempted to holler at the stage to please slow down for a minute. The pace didn’t allow for any moment in the show to be completed if it was ever begun; it was just too fast to take advantage of subtle touches the actors could’ve had, and as a result, I think they were unable to build even a general emotional connection because one certainly didn’t come across.
The cast was uniformly talented singing-wise, with excellent ranges and very accomplished voices. (In fact, the second time around, the woman understudying Mary, Darlesia Cearcy, walked away with the whole show in my opinion, and I’m incredibly glad to have seen her career take off since then.) But, in addition to some being more concerned with singing the notes on the page because they were there than imbuing them with emotion and motivation, the cast was undercut by the choices that production made with the music. For one, there’s a huge difference between singing “words and notes” and singing “lyrics and phrases.” When you have a phrase like “Ah, gentlemen, you know why we are here / We’ve not much time, and quite a problem here…” you sing the sentence, and if sometimes a word needs to be spoken, you do that. You don’t make sure you hit every single note like a “money note” (which you hit and hold as long as you can to make sure everyone hears it), dragging out the tempo to hang on to each note as long as you can. Generally, the actors were so busy making sure every note was sung — and worse, sung like a money note — that they missed the point of singing a phrase, and how to use one to their advantage. Caiaphas and Pilate were particularly egregious offenders. (I’ve never understood some of these conductors who are so concerned that every note written has to be sung. The result suffers from it.)

And then there’s Ted’s production. Of the three, it’s the one I liked the most, but that’s not saying much when it was better by default.

The production design was stripped-down, the set limited to a bridge, some steps, a stage deck with some levels, and a couple of drops (and a noose) that were “flown in.” The costumes were simple, the sound was very well-balanced, and the lighting was the icing on the cake. Combined, the story they told was clear.
The music sounded very full, considering the pit consisted of a five-piece band relying in part on orchestral samples.
Ted, for being of advanced age, was in terrific form vocally, if his acting fell back a little much on huge, obvious, emotive gestures and choices (the film, through editing and close-ups, gave these choices more subtlety than they were allowed onstage, where it came perilously close to resembling a “Mr. Jesus” pageant in which contestants were graded on their ability to strike all the appropriate poses from Renaissance paintings).
And there were some beautiful stage pictures; for example, there was a drop with an image of a coin with Caesar’s head on it in the Temple scene, and it fell on the crowd when Jesus cleared out the riff-raff. In the leper sequence that followed, the chorus’ heads popped out of holes in the cloth, under which they undulated, pulsing to the beat, and rather than being treated as a literal mob scene, the sequence had a very dream-like effect, a mass of lost souls reaching out to Christ. It was rather like a Blake painting, with a creepy vibe in a different manner from the typical “physically overwhelm him” approach; they frankly looked like a monster rising to eat him. He didn’t interact with them, didn’t even turn to look at them, until finally, he whipped around with a banishing thrust of his arm, hollering “Heal yourselves!” Sometimes it was over-acted with annoying character voices (remember, I saw this four times), but when it wasn’t, the effect was chilling.

My main beef with the show was, oddly enough, on a similar line to my beef with Gale Edwards’ production: it drew lines in the sand. But in this case, it drew them concerning Jesus’ divinity.

As written, JCS deals with Jesus as if he were only a man and not the Son of God. The show never suggests that Jesus isn’t divine, but neither does it reinforce the view that he is. Portrayed in detail in JCS is the mostly-unexplored human side: ecstasy and depression, trial and error, success and regret. He agonizes over his fate, is often unsure of his divinity, and rails at God. Not so in this production. Aside from “The Temple” and “Gethsemane,” there was never any room for doubt that Jesus was the mystical, magic man portrayed in the Gospels.

At the top of the show, after a fight between his followers and the Romans during the overture (a popular staging choice I’m not a real fan of, but you’ve got to do something during that moment in a fully staged version, and I understand why it’s an easy choice to make for exposition purposes), Jesus made his majestic entrance, spotlit in robes that looked whiter than Clorox bleach could produce, and raised a man from the dead. Well, where’s the room for Judas to doubt? Clearly “this talk of God is true,” we just saw it! If this guy is capable of performing miracles, try explaining to anyone that that person is “just a man”! (More than that, good luck explaining to someone who specializes in necromancy that fame has gone to his head and escaping unscathed… which sounds like an interesting idea for a story in and of itself…)

If that weren’t enough, Jesus went on to have a constant connection with God throughout the show, speaking to a spotlight that focused only on him and often served to distract him from anything else happening onstage, and at the end, during “John 19:41,” his body separated from the cross, which fell back into the stage, and he ascended to heaven.

Now, though the former was admittedly played to excess (some reviewers unkindly compared Neeley to a homeless man with Bluetooth), there are arguments to be made in favor of both choices: a Jesus who constantly seeks a connection with God that isn’t reciprocated, searching for guidance or at least a clue, is great foreshadowing for his eruption — and acceptance — in “Gethsemane.” As for the ascension, depending on how it’s staged, there’s room for argument that it could be interpreted more metaphorically than literally, as the moment when Jesus’ spirit is born, as Carl Anderson once put it (meaning, to me, that his message is given life and strength when his body fails him). But this production didn’t have that level of shading and layers to it and coupled with the resurrection at the start, it defeated the rest of the story.

None of ‘em’s perfect, and I don’t think I could create the perfect one. Thus, concert. I hope that clears it up!

PSA to Writers: Know Your Rights!

By performingartsadvice

On October 16, 2019

In Random Topics, Writing

Today is a very special blog entry. It was going to be the start of a fresh installment of “Ask Me Anything,” but this question is so important that it merits a singular post. First, a little backstory, and then the meat of the dish. Shall we?

In addition to my many gigs in the outside world, I wear more than a few hats on the Internet. Among them, I help administrate the number one online fan community for Jesus Christ Superstar. Our discussions about JCS are pretty wide-ranging, and they often involve the level of creative control that Andrew Lloyd Webber exercises over current productions of the show. This led to a question from a composer/performer named Andrew J. Simpson, who, in addition to conducting interviews with JCS luminaries for the site, is one-half of the duo GASM, which specializes in thematic rock (by which I mean three-quarters of their discography is concept albums).

Simpson would be the first to admit that he’s not particularly savvy when it comes to the business side of the arts, but I’m always happy to help when he has questions. Remember, everyone — there are no stupid questions, only questions some of us already know the answer to. The quest for knowledge includes confusion and involves learning, and just because one person may know less than others, doesn’t mean they should be afraid to ask. Pretending they already know won’t always serve them well, and isn’t the most effective way to learn.

Simpson’s question was as follows:

I’m curious. Let’s say you’ve written a show and got it produced. You’re the author (or co-author) of said show. How much control over the show/final product do you have or want? Do you want to be at the auditions? Do you have an idea for who directs the show? Do you agree with the concept of the director? Will you be allowed at the rehearsals? These and other such questions. Or… Do you just want to give the script to the producers and say “Have at it. I’ll see you opening night”?
Simpson, in a forum post

(For context, his question was spurred by the eternal debate over whether or not Lloyd Webber’s control over new productions of JCS has been a tad overbearing. I think that stems from the original Broadway production, where several factors were the opposite of what he and Tim Rice wanted. Funnily enough, this is a great illustration of the point I’m making with this post: they were new to the process, and probably unclear on how best to exercise the rights afforded to them. Rice and Lloyd Webber were dealing with an unprecedented level of success and had so much other stuff on their plate that they didn’t take full advantage of the rights they had, assuming they knew them to begin with. A producer like Robert Stigwood, well used to the artist/manager model of the music world, was probably all too happy to assume unilateral control in their absence, and not always to their benefit.)

Back to the topic. As a working producer, I thought it important to answer Simpson’s question, but I noticed the way his question was worded indicated he may not know the basic rights all writers have. Indeed, it may be a common question for writers new to musical theater, and how much control they’re able to wield.

In theater, you only get a certain amount of creative control if you’re not steering the ship, so to speak. To make your choices about every aspect of production the final word on the subject, you’d have to produce your project yourself, like Lloyd Webber and Really Useful. But the important thing to know is that you’re allowed to make choices and that your opinion as the author holds weight. Take a look at his question again. He doesn’t seem to know that the type of creative control he’s treating as optional, or at some producer’s whim, is guaranteed to him.

There’s a level of compromise when it comes to every decision, as in any collaborative process, but it’s part of an author’s rights to have the approval of any script alterations, attend whatever steps of the process (auditions, rehearsals, previews, opening night) that they choose, approval of the cast and creative team and the director’s concept, etc. Anybody who says you can’t do that is violating the basic rights accorded to authors. (The Dramatist’s Bill of Rights, prepared by the Dramatists Guild, is important to note — all of this is covered in the first three.) How much or how little you use of those ingredients is up to you, but they are part of the recipe.

Don’t get me wrong, there are times when these prerogatives won’t be as important:

Say that you’ve become a success already, and you’ve worked with a producer or creative team so often, and it’s gone so well, that you know it’s in good hands. After the initial selection process, you may opt to stay out of the way.
Or let’s say your show is so successful that it’s being revived. First of all, congrats! Secondly, unless sweeping changes are being made, you only need to weigh in as necessary; your show already has an established reputation, so you don’t need to be “hands-on” like with the very first production.
There’s also plain old stress. Being present at absolutely every turn of events in the production is impossible. It’s easier on a smaller scale like in readings, workshops, or labs, but the bigger the production gets, when you can easily have a hundred people or more working on the show, the more you simply don’t have time to focus on everything. That’s okay, as long as you have time to focus when it counts.

The only sin is to remain ignorant of your options, especially willfully so. Some people, for whatever reason, don’t give a shit — a low point in their career, a show they don’t feel they put their best effort into so they don’t care if anyone else does, etc. Or they feel that shouldn’t be their job; it should be looked over by someone else with their best interests at heart. Sorry, hon. Sometimes your biggest champion is you.

Don’t throw caution to the wind, be you new to the process or an old hand. Know your rights. Talk to someone at one of the following links. They’ll be happy to help.

…to mention just a few. Seek out resources in your area as well!

National Coming Out Day: A Self-Reflection

By performingartsadvice

On October 11, 2019

In Random Topics, Writing

(The author of this blog nervously shuffles into the room, where expectant faces await him from a circle of chairs, some with a marked undertone of resentment.)

Hi, everyone. It’s been a bit since I used Ars Pro Concreta as a soapbox for practical performing arts advice. Life in the form of my day job, my side gig, finally having active social interaction regularly, and just plain lack of a sense of direction for the blog has gotten in the way.

However, I’ve got something personal I’d like to share with you today, since October 11 is National Coming Out Day. Namely, it’s the story of how I came out, my early missteps in romance, and where I stand about stuff like the relevance and importance of Pride celebrations. If you want to loosely tie it to the arts besides their being my profession and my life, consider this my audition for Paul from A Chorus Line. That description, though tongue-in-cheek, is accurate to a certain extent, as you’ll soon discover for yourself.

(Also, minor warning: I speak in traditional gender norms for much of the post as it pertains to recounting my life experience. As far as I’m concerned, trans women are women, trans men are men, and there’s room for everyone in this world wherever they fall within — or without — the binary, but it wasn’t a concern in my head at the time I lived these experiences. If it seems exclusionary, it was, but it was a lack of knowledge at the time, not a willful omission, on my part.)

I was in the range of 7 to 9 years old — single digits, at least — when I met the first guy I ever fell in love with. I’ll call him Roxy since I always kind of felt like the Cyrano to his Roxane. We were close enough that we considered each other family (and I remained on good terms with his family for the longest time, even through some of the events I’ll be talking about shortly), but I could tell my feelings were something more, especially when I began admiring his physical form (specifically his ass) during sleep-overs, though what that “something” was I couldn’t define until I was a little older.

I’m not 100% sure if it was because of my crush on Roxy, but I remember getting very upset when other kids at school called me gay as an insult (as kids did back then), and confiding in my mom, who was trying unsuccessfully to calm me down, that I was only so emotional about it because I thought they might be right. She was doing what she thought was best, and certainly not homophobic in her intention, but she shut me down: “Would you love a man? Would you hug and kiss a man?” Well, no, and I told her so, but in my head, she was asking me about a grown-up when she said that, not about someone my age. I didn’t get crushes on grown-ups. Ew! (Still not fond of significantly older men to this day; some stuff never changes, I guess.)

But life goes on, and when you’re a clueless teenager, shit happens. I first came out in eighth grade, in the middle of creative writing class, and it was assuredly not meant to happen. I had, and still have, an awful habit of starting a train of thought in my head and finishing it out loud. This was one such occasion; namely, I was puzzling over confusing feelings about both guys and dolls (see, keeping it theater), because kids think in very binary terms once that’s been introduced to our thinking. I knew I was into dudes, no denying it, but I was confused that I got along with women and could appreciate their beauty. My limited experience from exposure to straight men was that they liked girls and they hated the thought of being with guys to the point of disgust, so I assumed a gay man was supposed to be the exact “vice versa” opposite. From this, I (mistakenly, as it later turned out) concluded I must be bisexual. And that was the part that came out of my mouth in a room full of judgmental assholes, as most people are in their early teens. Worse, a classmate overheard me, and the problem was compounded when I repeated it without thinking when she asked me what I’d just said.

After an initial hubbub of attention and nonsense that died down when I never actually “dated” a guy and tried to pursue what I thought were crushes on girls, complications were added on top of complications as the next few years rolled by. Among those complications, what I’ll call “stuff” started happening at sleepovers with Roxy. And it continued, growing increasingly sexual by the time we were in our junior year of high school. I’m not gonna say it happened every time he slept over, I’m sure there were times it didn’t, but most of the time, and “mild contact” gradually spilled into our waking hours as well. The more this happened with Roxy, the more any presumed attraction to women died off.

He never once complained or gave any indication that he didn’t want to hook up, for lack of a better way of putting it, or that he was uncomfortable with the guy-on-guy stuff, and it didn’t affect our friendship. So, in my naivete, I believed that this meant if I was gay, then he must be gay too. (In retrospect, and in the present day, I respect and accept his self-identification as straight, but honestly, my vote’s in the “bi” category. Nobody enters a massive crisis period like what I’m about to describe if they weren’t frightened by what our encounters might mean about them.) Turned out my mistake was in thinking we were on the same page.

I repeat, with a slight emendation: when you’re a careless, clueless, and horny teenager, shit happens. During a sleepover, assuming everyone else was out like a light, Roxy and I got down to what we usually did. Well, you know what happens when you assume… turned out someone in my family saw some stuff they shouldn’t have. More than that, it was someone who wasn’t known for exaggeration, so if they told others, I couldn’t get out of it by saying what they saw didn’t happen without being utterly disbelieved by everyone, or, worse, without the story getting back to adults (and as a teen, though some of my family knew about my orientation, I didn’t consider my escapades their business). So when this relative raised the issue to mutual friends because who the hell else could they talk to, and these friends asked me about it, bearing the above in mind, I decided not to deny what was going on.

This was a big mistake. Roxy was not interested in confirming any of this. My once-constant friend went completely berserk for a few years — distanced himself from me for a long time for “trying to bring [him] down with [my] shit,” became a substance abuser, a thief, and a klepto (in no particular order), and had a series of increasingly unsuccessful relationships with women.

(Postscript: Joining the military straightened him out some — no pun intended — and he’s now married with two kids, one of whom I was supposed to be the godfather. I remained close to his family for a long time, at least until political differences drove a deep fissure into our relationship, and reestablishing contact was probably easier than being awkward around me. We don’t talk about back then, and we’re not nearly as close as we used to be, because time and distance wound all heels, as John Lennon once put it.)

I wish we’d at least been able to talk about it, unpack how we both felt, and proceed from there; I feel like the friendship could/would have been a lot stronger as a result. But, aside from occasionally wondering what might’ve been had he been a little more secure about being bi, that’s my only regret. Sexually speaking, I had a good time once I knew what I was doing, and more importantly, he had a good time once I knew what I was doing. I have much deeper regrets about what happened next.

Shortly after I began the long road to accepting that a relationship with Roxy was a non-starter, a road sprinkled along the way with several boyfriends that I wouldn’t consider any kind of serious, sex and the tangled webs we weave with our partners almost wrecked my life.

From the time I was in third grade, I’d been friendly(-ish) acquaintances with a guy I’ll call “Tom” (not his real name). We grew up a few streets away from each other in the same neighborhood, and while I wouldn’t call us close per se, we got along and knew each other pretty well. I always suspected he was gay, but I never let on. In high school, our social dynamic changed. He wasn’t really in the popular crowd; for that matter, neither was I. But we considered ourselves on opposite sides of the fence because we disagreed (high school, I find, always brings out the most unpleasant side of people). We’d spar at the lunch table, trading barbs and wisecracks like a couple of bitter old queens. (I remember that his term of endearment for me was “smegma bucket,” which gives you some clue of the quality human being he was; that said, I don’t fault him for this particular sin, as he and one of his female friends had just discovered what smegma was and so they were using the word in nearly every sentence, like a toddler who’d learned a swear.) Now and then, I’d write him, trying to rekindle the friendliness, or at least clear up that I didn’t mean the shit I said and I hoped he didn’t either, to zero response. One time, on a desperately lonely night when I was horny and knew he lived nearby, I took the risk. I asked him if he was gay and he denied it.

During my issues with Roxy and attempting to figure out what was going on with Tom, other stuff was going on in my life, including my mother’s divorce. I couldn’t control what someone else did to us, but I also couldn’t help feeling that maybe there was something else I could’ve done. I developed a self-destructive personality. A lot of things happened that I had no control over; sometimes I made the wrong choices just when things were getting better, with disastrous results. A series of those wrong choices was with Tom.

I was dating a guy, “Shane,” who lived a state away at the time, and for reasons I won’t go into, we temporarily lost contact with each other. (That part is relevant, and will come up later.) During that time, a high school chum died in a really bad car wreck, and I ran into Tom at his memorial while I was emotionally distraught, to the point of nearly physically leaning on Tom. That night, he wrote me asking if I wanted to hang out. So I said sure and named a day, and he came over and brought me to his place.

That day, two things rapidly became apparent: Tom was lying when he said he wasn’t gay, and my having a boyfriend seemed no obstacle to his coming on to me. I’d blame it on mixed emotions following my friend’s death, issues stemming from my mom’s divorce, or loneliness because I couldn’t get in touch with Shane, but no explanation excuses what happened: Tom and I began a sexual relationship. I was still technically with my boyfriend, but, during the time he wasn’t able to reach me, I was nearly always over at Tom’s place, messing around, to the point that I was very nearly (according to him at the time, anyway) the first person to “top” him.

There was a reason I chickened out of that, though. Anyone who’s ever been cheated on will say the cheater can’t imagine what their loved one is going through once they’ve found out. I’ll tell you… before Shane ever found out, I was feeling far worse. I’d never been in this situation before, and as fun as things were with Tom, I felt like absolute shit for letting it continue to happen (I say this because I feel like I was never completely in control of the situation; there was a long time in my life back then where I mentally checked out and things had a knack for “just happening”). I cared deeply for Shane (how deeply did not become apparent until much later), and my conscience made a lot of noise. So when it came time to be Tom’s first, an alarm sounded in my head that this was putting things on a far more intimate level than I was ready to accept.

It seemed fate had allowed me an easy exit when Shane reestablished contact, and we concluded that our feelings for each other had died mutually during the time of little to no contact, so our relationship fizzled out, though we didn’t stop talking as friends. You’d think this would mean I could now embark on a relationship with Tom guilt-free, but on top of still feeling guilty about cheating on Shane, Tom didn’t want to make things official because he felt our chemistry in high school reflected the reality of our relationship, and he didn’t want us to tear each other apart. (I suspect it was also less fun for him without the forbidden aspect.) I resented that massive assumption, but I wasn’t going to push the issue, so we both tried to ignore how we felt about each other. Big mistake.

At this time, I was starting my second semester of college, and I was attracted to a guy I’ll call “Neville.” He was a bouncy, eccentric, stereotypically effeminate-sounding fellow, with a stereotypically masculine look (plus or minus the occasional long hair). He was also the type of person you couldn’t help having fun with. (Indeed, long after the events that follow, I still enjoyed his company — assuming he wasn’t being bitchy — when I ran into him in social settings; just the kind of guy he is.) But when I got to know him personally, I learned he had a lot of demons which he camouflaged with his fun-loving personality. More than that, he had a very self-loathing side — he’d seen a lot of the fuzzy end of the lollipop when it came to the LGBT community, at one point referring to himself as an “honest homophobic homosexual.” This young man, starving for positive attention and affection he hadn’t received in childhood, had become easy prey to the awkward roads some of us walk, and developed a negative view of himself and his fellow gays.

I was initially introduced to him by a high school acquaintance as someone I might approach when I was desperately seeking what I’ll call a friend with benefits. They were wrong, and my initial advances — unskilled and blunt as they were — led him to despise me the entire time he knew me, painting me with the same stripe as others who’d used him. With his past, who could blame him? But I was unaware of either his past or his feelings at the time. I wanted him desperately. At the same time, I still had the residual thing with Tom.

The night before Valentine’s Day, 2009, Tom and I were hanging out when Neville reminded me we’d made plans. He’d later paint this after our relations had soured as me ineptly trying to lure him into seduction, but in reality, we’d talked about this for a couple of weeks prior, and had been trying to find a day to get together. I was going to sleep over at Tom’s, a fairly common occurrence at this point, and I figured, “Tom’s a hang loose kinda guy, I’ll invite Neville along.” So I did.

Here’s how that night played out from my recollection: Tom wanted to play “Never Have I Ever,” I didn’t want to drink because alcohol is disgusting to me. Between the two of them, and a little nudging from me and Neville thinking we’d have a kooky drunk to laugh at, the bottle of wine disappeared. As it did, so did any sense that there were sparks for Neville and me. I sensed something growing between them, electricity in the air, but as much as I tried to ignore it and pretend I could deal with it, I could feel the other shoe about to drop. And finally, it did after they went into Tom’s younger brother’s room, where pot was readily available, and we all know what pot does for one’s libido. That night, I found myself in Tom’s bed trying to sleep (and crying quietly when I could manage them not hearing me) while Neville and Tom consummated their new-found passion on a futon on the floor.

In looking back, I realize I was traumatized on many levels by the almost-psychotic rudeness of that act, both in general (you don’t get explicitly sexual with someone if a non-consenting third party is in the room, period, end of report) and specifically (I had feelings for both of them, they knew it, and yet they were the kind of people who cared little enough about that to hook up in front of me).

The next morning I wanted to just leave and forget the whole thing happened. I collected my stuff from various corners of the room. (Neville would later claim I trod on/over them trying to wake them up or make things unpleasant, but things couldn’t get worse than they already were, and I remember my “mission” being to grab my stuff while trying to avoid looking at them wrapped around each other like kids clutching teddy bears. Forcing a confrontation was the furthest thing from my mind; I wanted to avoid waking them at all.) And I left a note along the lines of “You two seem to be happy, I’ll just leave you here. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Break a leg, enjoy your freak show, au revoir.” Okay, the last one was only in my head, but still… a rational, if bitchy, response to the situation, frankly.

It’s a testament to how fucked up I was about this emotionally, an accurate gauge of how badly this messed with my head, that I immediately followed a rational response with an irrational one: I returned to Tom’s place later that morning. I felt bad about the way I’d left, and that I should show them I was okay with what had just happened! When no reasonable person would be! As it happens, I didn’t get much satisfaction from attempting to be the better person; Tom was hung over and, as far as I know, hardly together enough to think of pretending to be asleep to make me go away, much less doing it, as Neville later alleged was their plan to make me leave. No one said much, although I believe I was scolded for writing the note. Ain’t that a bitch!

If this were a fictional account, I’d make myself a stronger person, pretend I didn’t stick around to watch — and play a part in — what happened next. But that’s not what happened. I was fresh out of high school, a rebel without a clue, and traumatized, and I decided to try to hang on to a friendship with the two people who’d done it. They had a whirlwind, long-term, off-and-on relationship in which they loved each other one moment, but couldn’t stand being together the next, and I was stuck in the middle trying to maintain both friendships. Sometimes I’d even warn them when each plotted against the other because rather than let karma deal them a hand, I felt bad. When it was over, and it often was, Tom always blamed me for introducing them. (Never mind that I’d warned him what he’d be getting into, based on Neville’s track record, and that he’d flipped out, asking why I couldn’t ever be optimistic or happy for him. I felt like responding, “Well, prick, given the circumstances…” I sometimes wish I did.)

At one point in their affair, they were “models” together on XTube. The videos are still up, and not worth watching. As porn goes, it’s amateur hour basically, and I can’t imagine who’d pay for it. But somebody did, because money started coming in, and to administrate their income from it, they started a joint bank account. I don’t care how in love you think you are, it’s a stupid decision — that only crazy kids could make — to start a joint bank account with someone to whom you’re not committed for life, and even sillier to act surprised when one of you continues using it after you separate. I don’t recall specifics, but someone drained it, to the point of issues with the bank; each accused the other and acted surprised such a thing would ever happen to two people who broke up; and Neville, who’d removed the videos at Tom’s request when they were done being “models,” put them back up and used the revenue to alleviate that issue, a plan with which Tom wasn’t thrilled. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there head over heels for both of these ten-grade whackaloons, maintaining the friendship and hoping it’d be my turn next… as Bill Engvall once said, “Here’s your sign!”

Further complicating my emotional state, when Tom and Neville weren’t sniping at each other, they were unloading both barrels on me, playing new, torturous mind games. Example: they somehow befriended Shane, my ex with whom this whole ball of wax began, through the dating site on which we’d met, and I can’t recall whether they genuinely liked him or thought they could hold my past with Tom over my head. Either way, when he came down to visit them (they kept him from seeing me, as I wasn’t talking to either of them at the time, even though he wanted to), they were in the middle of a prickly patch. That night, karma was a bitch and revisited Tom in the worst way: Neville and Shane hooked up on one side of the bed while Tom tried (and failed) to ignore it on the other.

But turnabout was fair play: Tom and Shane hooked up as well, and, even though Tom mouthed off to me about Shane becoming dependent and needy, they began dating. Somehow, that hurt even worse than the first trauma I experienced at Tom and Neville’s hands. I think — rightly or wrongly — I felt I’d have a second chance to do right by Shane somewhere down the line, and that door was slammed in my face because the only thing worse than two people you want to be with linking up is a group of people you want to be with linking up. Soap operas had nothing on this.

Even this I could have lived with, in my fragile mental and emotional state, were it not for the fact that this wasn’t the last time for Tom. He seemed to glom on to every guy I spoke with, to the point that I almost felt like I was being stalked. On at least two occasions, after I started talking to guys, Tom not only struck up conversations with them and dated them, but turned them against me. Finally, like we’d done frequently in what I couldn’t bring myself to call a friendship anymore, Tom and I “had had enough of each other” and separated for — truly — the last time. I haven’t spoken to him in seven years.

As for Neville, I got tired of wishing for things I knew would never come to fruition. When I found an opening to leave that friendship, however immature it may have been (a fight over not being invited to a social occasion I did not expect to be part of in the first place), I took it. I suspect we were equally willing to be rid of the other, and have remained in blissful ignorance of each other’s activities since, barring brief periods when a mutual friend tried to patch things up and we just couldn’t hack it after all the water (and caps locked, profanity-laden rants and slanderous blog entries, on Neville’s part, in the waning days of LiveJournal no less) under the bridge.

So, I had all this energy from fighting to maintain worthless relationships, and nowhere left to put it. What was I to do?

I’d always had an ambivalent relationship with Pride celebrations. The parade — and everything associated with it — looked like a lot of fun, but I’d never really gotten into it, in part due to Tom and Neville’s influence. Whenever I brought up going with them, they dismissed it (some of these quotes are verbatim):

“Do you want to be in a place with that many homos?”
“I’m sorry, but being in a place with that much rainbow color makes me a little iffy.”
“I just feel uncomfortable going to it, it gives me a bad feeling.” (In Tom’s case, that may have been true; until later on in his relationship with Neville, he was still very uncomfortable with explicitly identifying as gay.)
“The only reason I go is that friends are there, and trust me, I don’t stay long. Every cheating, lying homo in R.I. is gonna be there. Besides, I’m gay and I hold my head high every day. I don’t need a special day to do it. I don’t see the straights having a straight pride. The way I see it, it’s a way for people to make big fools of themselves.”

So I avoided it. I didn’t feel comfortable going without friends, and my two most actively gay friends wanted no part of it. But once they were out of my life, I took a second look at Pride and — for once — did some thinking of my own.

Why didn’t they have straight pride? Well, that seemed easy to answer, on the face of it: Pride is about awareness, most of all — making straight people aware that LGBT people exist, and are worthy of the same rights and privileges they’ve enjoyed without a second thought. It’s impossible to be unaware of heterosexuality. When a negative stigma was associated with heterosexuality, when straight people needed to muster the courage to come out as straight (aside from, say, wandering into the wrong bar and getting hit on by the biggest gay biker in the room — that, I could maybe understand), when straight folks had to hide their sexual orientation from anybody for fear of reprisal, then they could throw a parade. Until that time, their pride celebration would be their ability to walk around free to be themselves every day. We’re still not, and we’re gonna keep the fire burning in this grill until the food is cooked, you dig?

Could gay people hold their heads high every day without a parade? By and large, no. People think because the world, in general, is so much more accepting now in certain places and that we’ve made certain strides forward, we’ve won the war; we haven’t. Many would argue we lost it in the early to mid-Eighties during the AIDS crisis, that we lost it when they found Matthew Shepard beaten to death and tied to a fence, and that we continue to lose it any time discrimination or hatred runs free. For people who can hold their head high every day, and believe it or not, there aren’t many, then Pride is a time to remember that you’re able to hold your head high in the first place, a time to remember who did it first and made it possible for you to hold your head high now, and to encourage others to keep their head held high in the face of adversity. Pride celebrations are your opportunity to be the bigger person that people weren’t to you, to help erase the shame for people who shouldn’t have to live in fear.

Do gay people have something to be proud of? Well, we should be proud of coming this far, if you ask me, but that’s not why Pride is called Pride. We don’t call it Pride because we’re proud of ourselves. Gay pride does not mean that gay men and lesbians are proud of their sexual orientation itself. As George Carlin once said about ethnic pride, it’s hard to be proud of something that’s an accident of birth. Rather, in this context, “pride” functions as an antonym for shame. It means that we have overcome the shame we once associated with being different, revealed our sexual orientation or gender identity and allowed ourselves to seek happiness as queer folks rather than settling for a miserable, closeted life. That’s what it’s all about. It’s important for the same reason that “I’m black and I’m proud” was shouted during the civil rights movement. It’s people declaring that despite the ignorance, hatred, and violence that exists out there, they refuse to back down.

As for their more specific complaints about “lying cheating homos” and people making fools of themselves, all I could say to that was a) trust is earned, not automatically granted, and b) anybody will invariably make a fool of themselves at a party, which is what Pride is. Gay or straight, people make fools of themselves every day. What’s one more opportunity?

Once I stopped avoiding the parade and started marching in it, I found the sense of community and pride that I was looking for in these misguided relationships. I discovered my place in the world, for which I’d searched for so long. When I’m ready to try dating again (beyond the odd hook-up here and there), I’ll do it with a wealth of experience under my belt to help me know what to avoid, and with self-love that wasn’t there when I started walking the walk.

So, if it’s safe for you to come out and start expressing yourself, give it a try. Seek out your community, and try to be a part of what it does. And before you object, do me a favor: listen to Harvey Fierstein. He might have something to say about any of the fears or concerns you have about all that. As for dating, don’t sweat it, and don’t rush into it. That’ll come along in its own time, experience breeding wisdom.

I’m gay, and — at long last — I’m proud. Are you?