Marilyn Munster

When one is a white male in America (even a gay one) it sure is good for the soul to occasionally  be the oddball in the group.  At my job there aren’t too many folks who fall into my demographic.  Turns out my nickname around the Center is “Ken,” as in “Ken Doll.”  Heck, I’ll own that one.  Besides, all those demographical categories stop meaning anything when no one is the majority.

 

Bear that in mind when I recount the adventures of the catch-as-catch-can group that assembled last week for an “educational” visit (“lobbying” is verboten under some circumstances about which I was not entirely clear) to several of our state legislators up there in Albany.  It was National AIDS Awareness Day so we figured it was a good time to approach the representatives about funding for various AIDS causes.  The halls of the Legislative Office Building were a-swarmin’ with folks who had one axe or another to grind.  Some clever organizations donned eye-catching garb (the Yellow Hat brigade made an especial impact) but most were like my group:  average citizens who felt strongly enough about their cause to take the time and trouble to visit their elected reps.

 

It was my first time and, to be honest, I was a tad nervous.  On the walk to the capitol I mentioned this to one of the women in my group.  “I’ve never done this before,” I winced.  “Sure you have,” she replied.  “Just not in this setting.”  Wow.  Insightful, huh?  (Which reminds me of one of my favorite Woody Allen jokes:  he's being dragged back to a room in a brothel by Kathy Bates.  "Wait, I've never paid for sex before," he protests.  "You just think you haven't," she answers as the camera cuts back to the street.) 

 

The visits were more structured than I had anticipated and Scott, our group leader (who has quite a story of his own,) did a great job of ringmastering the proceedings once inside the offices.  We saw only legislative aides on Tuesday; the only encounter with an actual legislator was with the minority (which is Republican, here in New York State) Leader in the hallway outside of his office on the way to our meeting.  (On the wall in the Leader’s waiting area are about 45 headshots of the statewide Republican Caucus.  Lily-white every last one of them and only a few women besides.)

 

Scott gave a brief rundown of why we were there and we took turns introducing ourselves.  Then Scott would bring up a particular issue and throw it to one of us to tell our own story.  The two women in my group… well, let’s just say they wouldn’t win extra points for grammar and vocabulary on Oratory Day at Miss Porter’s School for Young Ladies.  But they both firmly disproved the notion that “articulate” and “command of the language” are one and the same.  I sat there, rapt, as I listened (for the umpteenth time) to their personal stories.  I felt like some whiny, spoiled white boy when I took my turn and described how tough it can be for people “when their insurance lapses between union contracts” in a show.  Ugh.   

 

All three aides we met with during the day were attentive and seemed to understand that—in these times—funding for AIDS programs sort of morally outweighs, say, keeping city parks in tip-top shape.  No one that day was asking for more money in the budget.  We all were just hoping to have the cuts restored to previous levels.  Things like parks are actually very important to me, but at my job I’m seeing people who maybe wouldn’t have lunch at all some days if they didn’t have it—for free—at the Damien Center.  So, the legislators' aides conceded that restoring that fountain might just have to drop a little on the list of priorities.

 

Of course, money really is tight now, so the most we got from anyone was "we're going to try to see what we can do."  But even so, it was all--to use one of my least-favorite buzzwords--empowering.

On a related political front, Kirsten Gillibrand, who succeeded Hillary Clinton into the Senate, is my Congressperson.  I went to a meet-and-greet for the Democrat who’s running to replace her in the upcoming special election (against, by coincidence, the minority Leader who I met in the hallway last Tuesday) sponsored by my local Democratic committee.  It was at a local restaurant and was attended by what you might expect a political meeting in upstate New York to look like:  completely white, pretty old and pretty fat.  I mean, here in Greene County, even the Democrats are kind of Republican.  I introduced myself to a bunch of people who returned my greeting and then walked away.  Not especially welcoming or friendly.  (I forced a conversation with one surprisingly young fellow who told me—after what felt like pulling teeth—that he was the mayor of the neighboring town.  No worries about the hard sell from that guy!)

 

After some committee business the candidate arrived and did a generic this-is-who-I-am speech that probably would have gone over just as well at the Republican meeting.  Then came questions.  My hand shot up in the air and I rose to ask my question.  Not quite sure how it would go over with the crowd I took a deep breath and said:

 

"I'm glad to see from your website that support for families is a priority for you.  Families are important to me, too, but my definition of family also includes lesbian and gay couples with and without children.  If you succeed in inheriting this district you will have many constituents--both gay and straight--for whom LGBT rights are a priority.  The good news is that supporting LGBT rights doesn't cost anything.  In fact, if the state marriage equality act passes this year it could actually save taxpayers money as more spouses and children would be covered by private insurance.  So, I'm hoping tonight, before we all say goodbye, that we can get a commitment from you to fully support LGBT rights and an acknowledgment that all families--even those that don't necessarily resemble your own--are worthy of the full rights and protections your own family enjoys, including marriage equality."

 

Much to my pleasant surprise, before I finished the final words of my speech, the crowd burst into applause. 

 

And the candidate’s response?  One word:  “Absolutely.” 

 

It’s gotta be Obama, right?

Needle Drop

Since I’m going to be away from home for three months in the summer (and who knows how long after that, if I even have a home) I decided to—finally—digitize most of my LP collection and install it on my computer.  

I was a major record buyer back there in the Stone Age and so far I’ve been resistant to abandoning them altogether.  Even to the point where I’ve packed up and moved the entire collection (and we’re talking thousands) more times in the last ten years than I care to remember.  I always loved the way empty boxes from the liquor store seem to have been made especially to cart 12-inch LPs.  True, every move has included a judicious pruning of the more extraneous titles.  The French movie soundtrack to “My Fair Lady”?  Gone.  Diana Ross and The Supremes sing the score to “Funny Girl”?  Outahere.  Nelson Riddle and his Orchestra Play The Beatles Songbook?  You say hello/I say goodbye.   

 

The collection has steadily reduced from thousands to hundreds to what is now mere scores, but I still own—in 2009, please remember—vinyl versions of records that have long since gone to CD or even the iTunes store.  Those were the first to get the axe this go-'round. 

 

But even that left me with piles of record jackets to pore over to decide if the entire album should be transferred to my laptop, if just a few selections should come along, or if the music on the disc—while basically worthless—was contained in a cover that was irreplaceable. Think:  a Chinese pop album from the 50s with a hand done block print pasted on the jacket, or “The Color Purple” soundtrack album on purple vinyl, or, especially, the Japanese cast album to the musical version of “Gone With the Wind”, known as “Scarlett.”   In Japanese.  The cast photos alone make this relic worth saving.

 

I found some nifty freeware that makes recording the albums a snap.  The one drawback is that, obviously, the recording has to be done in real time.  But that does mean that I get to listen to these songs which have not seen a turntable for, in some case, years.  Gently flexing the album cover and sliding the disc out of its paper sleeve is the best sense-memory exercise one can imagine.  Balancing the record at the center hole on an extended middle finger while stabilizing it with the thumb makes one instinctively reach for the Discwasher brush no audiophile was ever without.  

 

Some Peggy Lee platters made the cut, along with one of the great, underrated albums of all time, “Duet,” by Doris Day and André Previn.  And lots of little-known bands from the 20s and 30s, such as Hal Kemp, that never made it to CD but were definite keepers.

 

But the most fun has been LPs I genuinely like, but just haven’t listened to in ages because it’s so much easier to fire up the iPod and hit “shuffle.”  Things like the soundtrack to the musical remake of “Goodbye, Mr. Chips,” with Peter O’Toole and Petula Clark.  Or, “Oooooooo,” a Jackie Gleason album that defines schmaltz and consists of molasses-like arrangements of standards sung by a choir that simply mouths “ooo” rather than sing the actual lyrics.

 

As for keeping the Robert Mitchum calypso album?  Well, ya just gotta, right? 

Old Dog/New Tricks

My new job is pretty swell. It’s the first job I’ve had in years where I have set hours and go to a workplace. I think the last gig I had like that was eight years ago when I tended bar at a gay bar in Albany. Truly six of the more depressing months of my life. To give you an idea of how stulitfying this place was, when 9/11 happened it livened things up. One bitter guy used to come in every Happy Hour (a savage joke of a name if there ever was one) and announce to the room the number of days he had left before retiring from the state on full pension. Six weeks after leaving his job he hanged himself.

Since then I’ve either worked for myself or been in a show or made movies. Hardly repetetive, any of it. So I was a bit apprehensive about taking a job that entailed 45 minutes of travel each way with a salary that basically pays for the gas for the commute. (Now that I think of it, it’s also the lowest-paid job I’ve had in a gazillion years.)

So imagine how pleased I am to find that I really like it. The goings-on at the Damien center shall remain confidential, per their policy, but I can talk a little about my own reaction to things.

First of all, it’s the first time I can think of in any employment I’ve ever had where the primary goal of going to work is not to be fabulous. I mean, even tending bar I had to be charming and flirt. Same with waitering. Being on stage? “Fabulous” is the total modus operandi. Renovating a house? See how fabulous I am to do this? And isn’t the house fabulous, too? Writer? Fabulosity.

You get the idea.

At the Damien Center my workday can be counted as successful if during the time I’m there I manage to help someone else. Fabulous doesn’t enter into it. For that matter, “thank you” usually doesn’t enter into it. It is the least ego-driven gig I can envisage. So imagine how surprising it is to find the job so satisfying.

I’ve also--in just three short weeks--learned that I can be a) extremely patient and b) very polite. Most of the people I’ve waited on in restaurants over the years are snorting (and all of my friends guffawing) at this point. Can’t say I blame them. But it's true!  I'm polite!  It almost makes me want to be a waiter again to make up for my surliness in the past.

Almost.

2 Good 2 B Forgotten

Maybe it’s just because I’m so old, but I still can’t really figure Facebook out.  There’s something so high school about it that makes me uncomfortable. Cyber-cliques and all that.  And I don’t understand why some things people post to their wall show up on my homepage while others don’t.  Or why my list of “friends” shows status updates for almost everyone but only a few show up on my main Facebook page.  I’m always feeling left out of the cool party.  I probably need to find a 12-year-old to explain it all to me.

 

But the thing that really gets me is friend requests.  Yes, I’m a bit of a snob, but I generally don’t respond to people who don’t send an accompanying note with their request.  Especially if I haven’t been touch with the person for a while.  I recently received a request from someone from my high school with whom I have had absolutely no contact since graduation day.  It arrived with no note.  And I seem to recall this person didn’t really like me when we were in high school!  Why does she want me as her “friend” now? 

 

And I never add as a friend someone I truly don’t know.  And why am I getting requests from people I don’t know, anyway?  I suppose a certain number of them recognize me from my G.M. days, but certainly not all.  I mean, I have a couple of hundred friend requests from strangers.  Does this happen to everyone?  Do Facebook addicts just send out requests willy-nilly to whomever they happen to come across?

 

I do like the way that it’s sort of a cross between a party line and a bulletin board, and it’s nice to get an overview of what (actual) friends are up to on a semi-regular basis.  But I’m convinced I’m inadvertently offending people I don’t even know. 

 

I’m waiting for some jock type to anonymously write “faggot” on my wall in little tiny type to approximate mumbling under his breath.  Then my day at Facebook High will be complete.  

So, why Saba?

Bruce and I used to travel quite a bit.  Every year we tried to go somewhere:  out West… Spain… Italy (although we never did make it to Capri.  Sort of.)  But after Bruce died I kind of lost interest in, well, in everything, actually, but especially in traveling.  I finally pulled it together a few years later to drive cross-country, though, which started a run of events that led directly to Broadway.  How it led there is another story for another time.

 

After that, while working in the theater and in porn, I did little else but travel;  either while working (touring for almost two years with one show and 12 long months with another) or for work (flying back and forth between New York and California regularly to shoot a movie.)  So when I wound up living up here in the woods I became a major homebody.  In part because I was tired of so much traveling, but also because I just  love where I live.  Both the area and my house in particular.

 

Last summer, however, I was in the middle of working on my latest, greatest and—apparently--ultimate house project and was fully aware that when I was finished I was going to need a big dose of R ‘n’ R.  I just love doing all that carpentry/ renovation stuff and this last house was, I could tell, going to be my Piece of Resistance.  Everything about it was turning out better than I had imagined.  My schedule for most of the project was 7 days-a-week, 10-12 hours-a-day.  I’d wake up at 5 AM and would have to kill time at home so I didn’t get to the job site too early as I was always conscious of disturbing the neighbors.  I’ve never worked so hard in my life.  I just loved seeing that house come together! 

 

But I knew at its conclusion I was going to be T-I-R-E-D.  And, what’s more, that I would need a little break amid new surroundings.

 

I didn’t want to go too far because I didn’t want to take more than a long weekend.  I figured I’d be through by October 1^st so by then I’d also want someplace warm.  But nothing with a scene.  And maybe even a place where there was nothing in particular to do so that if I decided to do nothing for five days I wouldn’t feel guilty.  I Googled “quiet Caribbean” and came up with Saba.  Not only had I never heard of it, I didn’t even know how to pronounce it.  (It’s pronounced SAY-buh.)  Sifting through the (very few) choices of places to stay on the island I came up with El Momo Cottages.  The photos made the place look extremely relaxing and a little hippie-dippie.  And cheap.

 

Exactly what I was looking for.  I booked the first weekend in October and proceeded to finish the work on the house.  It went on the market October 1^st.  The last three houses I did were on the market for:  one week, three weeks and one day.  This one?  Uh…  But that, too, is another story.

 

My connections from JFK to St. Maarten were flawless.  Even the harrowing landing on Saba was not as bad as I was led to believe.  There was one other passenger on the final 15-minute flight from St. Maarten.  She was a Saba native and filled me in on a lot of the history.  It’s been Dutch almost since it was first settled.  No indigenous people were tossed off the cliffs here—no one really wanted it.  There’s one road on the island and it goes from the landing strip to the seaport on the other side, with a couple of small arteries halfway across at the settlement of Windwardside (which is where I’ll be.)  The island juts high out of the water and most of the population resides at a lofty altitude.  (The island residents like to refer to their home as "the highest point in Holland.")  So, scorching as it’s likely to be when I’m there, it should be a wee bit cooler than the resorts back on St. Maarten.

 

I’ll write more about El Momo later on, but when I finally caught my breath after climbing the (what felt like) million steps up from the road to the hotel I knew I had chosen right.  It’s not for everyone, to be sure—it’s very rustic—but it was exactly what I was looking for after laboring so hard over the summer.  And, apart from scuba diving and hiking to the top of the mountain there really isn’t much to do on the island.  So I spent most of the weekend lying around the pool and the only work I did was on my tan in a bathing suit that I really should have been ashamed to be seen in (but wasn’t.)

 

Patrick and Sophie (much more on them later, too,) the temporary caretakers of the place were so welcoming that by the end of the weekend it just felt like I was visiting friends on Saba.  I had shown them the page with the photos of the house and they were very complimentary.  “If we get to take the place permanently we want to do some work on it.  Maybe you could come down and help!”  they joked.  “Oh, yeah, sure!” I kidded in return.

 

Hah ha ha ha ha.

 

We’ve kept in occasional touch since last fall and shortly after New Year’s I mentioned in an e-mail how things had changed so radically and unexpectedly in my life and that my future was pretty much up in the air.  I closed with, “and what’s going on with you guys?”  And that’s how they thought to extend the offer of coming down to help them with what is now their permanent gig managing El Momo. 

 

Insert the cliché of your choice here:  ______________   (Please include the words “door closes” and/or “mysterious ways” .) 

 

Happy V.D., Y'all!

I’m half-convinced that most holidays were invented to reassure the parties concerned that whatever they’re involved in is the way to go.  Case in point:  Valentine’s Day.  Don’t couples already have their anniversary to celebrate?  And, apart from the chocolate, aren’t both events usually celebrated in more-or-less the same way?  The big difference is that on February 14^th The Rest of the World is right there at the next table proving their love by publicly expressing their undying devotion.  (I once broke up with a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day after the waiter kept trying to give me his phone number.  So much for that theory.)

 

But Hallmark and Russell Stover and the Vermont Teddy Bear Factory keep telling us how important the day is.  And through all that repetition we start to believe it ourselves.  I know it seems silly, but admit it:  clever marketing has left you with a very defined mental image of the Easter Bunny.  And surely Jesus exists!  Why else would there be so many presents under the tree?  Specious arguments, to be sure, but then why do I—single, proud and happy--find myself gritting my teeth when the mid-point of the second month comes ‘round and feeling a patronizing resentment for those paired peoples who have something special to do?

 

Because “they” have brainwashed me, that’s why.  I went in to Li-Lac Chocolates the other day to get a little sweet for myself and made a point of telling Susan-behind-the-counter that I had no Valentine and that the milk chocolate Napoleon Bar was for me and me alone.  So what did Susan do?  She gift-wrapped the single piece of candy in a little white box with floral paper and a gold metallic ribbon.  And she even put a card inside that said “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

 

And I loved it!  Damn you, Susan!  You’re nothing but a facilitator!

 

I guess what it really comes down to is not so much resenting the chance to go ga-ga over some guy (trust me on this one; I really don’t feel the need to be in a relationship) but more the missed opportunity to be creative in a way that is only available to couples.  One year I made a meal for Bruce that was entirely red and pink.  Pink champagne… kidney bean hummus… red cabbage slaw and beet risotto.  And a strawberry soufflé.  Honestly, it was a very weird meal, but it made us laugh.  Mickey (my cat) couldn’t care less if I dyed her chicken pieces in gravy red, pink or paisley.  She’d probably just throw it up, anyway.  And then eat it again.

 

So what do I, a bitter, resentful single person, have planned for this Valentine’s Day?  I’m going to join my fellow volunteers at the Empire Pride Agenda table and lobby some state legislators for the right of same-sex couples to marry.

 

Me and Susan:  cut from the same cloth. 

 

"Bumbles Bounce!"

Our story so far…

 

1960-1980:  youth.

1980-1990:  apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.  I become very gay and decide I know everything there is to know.

1990-1996:  I marry Bruce and have wonderful life with him in East Village

1996-1998:  Bruce dies, world comes to end.

1998-2000:  surprised to find world hasn’t really ended.  Realize I actually know next to nothing.  Somehow get cast in tour of “Cabaret.”  Buy shack in upstate New York after being on road with show.

2000-present:  boyfriend/dog/"42^nd Street” tour/lose boyfriend/lose dog/become world’s oldest porn star/start renovating houses/economy falls off cliff along with livelihood.

 

Alrighty!  That about sums up the first 48 years of being Tom Judson.  I suppose I left out one or two things, but I’ll probably get around to mentioning them in this blog.  My mind tends to wander and I find myself writing in scream-of-consciousness mode, so who knows what I’ll get to.  I may even recount that Art Garfunkel story at some point…

 

The impetus for this particular blog is this:  I have found that my life seems to go in 10-year cycles.  Every decade (give or take) I seem to have an entirely new profession, live in entirely new surroundings, picture an entirely different future for myself than what I had imagined.  Honestly, the only constant in my life has been poverty.  Self-inflicted poverty, to be sure; I’ve said many times I'd rather be broke than have a regular job.  Which is the only kind of job I have not had.

 

As stated in the timeline above, my most recent occupation was buying and renovating little houses in my area (which is upstate New York.)  Now, you may have noticed the nation is sliding into an economic K-hole.   Country homes are not on people’s priority lists so that line of work is kaput.  To take up the slack I just started a part-time gig at a community AIDS center in Albany, NY.  The position is “peer advocate” and I, being HIV-positive myself, am indeed a peer.  My responsibilities are basically those of a camp counselor:  in my first week-and-a-half on the job I’ve done everything from greeting people at the door to refilling the toilet paper dispenser to filling out paperwork to attending off-site organizational meetings to serving in the kitchen to taking out the trash.  It’s a swell place and a swell job and the folks who work there and utilize the services we provide are an inspiration.

 

But even before the economy flushed down the ter’let I had been hankering to simplify my life.  Somehow in the first decade of the new millennium I had become a person of possessions.  Three cars, often two houses, lots and lots of books and pictures and... crap.  My inner bohemian was being subsumed by things like piano insurance.  Piano insurance!  And while I loathe to use the word "rut" my life had settled into a fairly predictable pattern.  So last year I had decided by the time I turn 50 in 2010 I was going to have divested myself of all my possessions.  Then I would be able to start all over with a clean slate and with my only encumbrance being unlimited choices on what to do next with my life.

 

Imagine my surprise when—minding my own business!—a perfect storm of financial conditions of which I had no part coalesced to bring me once again—you guessed it!—to a state of poverty.

 

I’ll write more about all that when the loose ends have been tied up, but suffice to say that I am going to find myself free of those pesky possessions much sooner that I had anticipated.

 

But look again at that lifeline at the top of this posting; there’s a whole lot of picking-myself-up in that list.  It’s something I have a talent for.  I picked myself up off the couch after Bruce died and—for reasons that involve a chance meeting and an accordion—got cast in a Broadway show.  I picked myself up after a depressing stint as a bartender in a local Albany gay bar and went back on the road.  Like the abominable snowman in "Rudolph", I bounce.  

 

From each of those things, which at the time could have appeared foolhardy or desperate, corollary opportunities I never expected presented themselves .  After the first show I was able to buy a house.  After the second I found myself a middle-aged sex symbol. 

 

And after this apparent calamity?

 

Well, on the very first day of my new job at the AIDS center I got an e-mail from the young couple who run a hotel I spent a long weekend at last October asking if I’d like to come to the Caribbean for a few months over the summer and help them renovate the place.  A mere six weeks ago I would have had to say, “Thanks for the amazing offer, but I really can’t.”  But in February of 2009 there was absolutely nothing to stop me from answering “Yes!  When do you want me there?”       

 

So that’s where things stand:  I’ve got stuff to do here at home for the rest of the winter and early spring (with plenty to write about, certainly) but after getting those ducks in a row I’ll be heading to the island of Saba.  By June 1^st at the latest.  I don’t know exactly what I’ll be doing there, and neither do Patrick or Sophie, my Dutch friends who run El Momo Cottages.

 

And that, my friends, is my idea of heaven.