My mom, in a photo booth snap from her adolescence. She drew on her own halo, then wrote on the back: "I'm an angel, with horns."
Who else could've been MY mom?
I was dying to see this show for reasons well known to you
BOY CULTURE REVIEW: ** out of **** for the documentary, **** out of **** for the Q&A
I was invited at the last minute to see Surviving Mommie Dearest, which is billed as a multimedia one-woman show starring Christina Crawford and executive produced by Jerry Rosenberg. Christina is, of course, Joan Crawford's 73-year-old adopted daughter and the author of the book that blew the lid off of her late mother's carefully constructed image. How could I miss this sure-fire campfest, right?
When I arrived at the theater, I recognized 50% of the audience assembled for the special press performance. Several volunteered to me their contempt for Christina, who they view as having made up her story of abuse or who they think should be "over" it by now even if it were true. I regularly get into Facebook scuffles about Christina vs. Joan, with my take being: She's very likely telling the truth, we know she suffered some kind of abuse, why can't we admire Crawford as an icon and actress and still acknowledge she was nuts? (Maria Riva makes that case for her muti dearest, Marlene Dietrich.)
With the radiant Rutanya Alda
The show itself is not distinguished. It consists of Crawford doing some interstitial narration and a long documentary played on DVD. That Crawford is standing and talking in the DVD, too, makes for a static presentation. The filmed documentary is not as professional as it could be, with amateurish edits and a strong need for better direction and at least a few better takes.
When I was a kid, attending Elms Elementary in Flushing, Michigan, my best buddy at school was named Craig Combs. To my recollection we were the Laurel & Hardy of the first grade—I was the fattest kid in the class, he was the smallest. I vividly recall being weighed in front of everyone on the day we received a scale to work with, then being branded the "sixty-five-pounder" by Craig. But that was okay, because I felt a kinship with Craig—he could say anything.
I remember him at my birthday parties (in one of his missives to me, he complimented my mom on the "delicious" cake), and other classmates recall his rapier wit, such as the time in third grade when the kids were asked what they knew about Hamlet, to which Craig replied, "It's a an omelet made with ham!" A natural ham joking about a ham. He was destined to be an entertainer or artist of some sort.
I always felt Craig was like me, even if I didn't know what that meant. And outside. So when I moved away—I received a handful of letters from him, in which he very helpfully informed me that a first-grade teacher from our old school had died of a heart-attack—I always wondered about him. Over 30 years and several Google searches later, Craig popped up on the grid. He had gone through a health crisis, testing positive for HIV in his thirties, and had entered the poetry scene, publishing his first book, Taking Tea in the Black Rose: Singing Through the Shadows Until We're Dancing in the Light.
When I reached out to him, he didn't remember me. (I don't blame him! It was forever ago, and I'm sure I've forgotten better people than myself.) He asked his mom to jog his memory about "Matt R" (we also had a "Lisa J" in our clique; she does not fare well in one of Craig's kid-era letters to me).
We've had a friendly correspondence since then, even though I suspect our personalities couldn't be more opposite—which is a cool thing. Readers of my blog will know me as a non-spiritual person (this is not exactly a selling point), a lover of words and yet the opposite of a poet, and the last person to embrace almost any conspiracy theory (the ultimate of which says that everything in the world is connected, the penultimate of which says everything happens for a reason—maybe we are and maybe they do).
Still, it's a kick to be able to connect with a person who represents a fragment of my past, and to see how he grew and changed after we moved apart.
I e-interviewed my old pal, whom I finally found but who's still about as far away from me as it felt like he was when I moved after the third grade...
Above, see all the stars as they appeared then...and as they appear now!
At the most recent Hollywood Show, held at the Westin Los Angeles Airport, I was discussing with one of my A-hound (that's "autograph") buddies just how long we could continue coming to these shows, considering so many of the attendees are people we've already met, and other potential guests are dropping like flies.
Not even kidding—this hearse was in front of the hotel as I first drove up!
Don told me, "Oh, I'll be here in 20 years in my Rascal, scooting around for Lindsay Lohan's autograph." He was joking, though. He couldn't care less about LiLo or most modern stars. For him it's Jane Withers through about Dallas, Don and most of the others who attend these shows can't be bothered. When does it end? I guess, as with life, it ends when it ends, so have fun while it lasts.
This was my shortest show. I only spent part of the first day and a few minutes on the second, since I had the GLAAD event and other stuff to do. But I couldn't not come, not with Angie Dickinson, Earl Holliman and Mamie Van Doren in the mix.
Here are my interactions, in order as they occurred:
Today is the 20th anniversary of the 1993 March on Washington in D.C. I took the bus down alone, reading an uncorrected galley of the Randy Shilts book Conduct Unbecoming, which I'd gotten from my co-worker Michael Denneny. Denneny is in the news lately for confessing that "Patient Zero" was a made up ploy for publicity for Shilts's And the Band Played On.
Once there, I recall meeting up with friends and being awed by the sheer numbers. I made sure to get a numbered wristband: Mine was #669! I guess I was early.
I remember this image was everywhere:
I've never felt so blown away by being a part of the gay community, not before, not since.
QUESTION: Who'da thunk it that just 20 years later, gays in the military would be a moot point and we'd be pushing rapidly toward full marriage equality? ANSWER: We thunk it. We did. That day, everything seemed possible. And you know what? It was.
Above, Daft Punk + Giorgio Moroder + Nile Rodgers = heaven.
WeHo realtor brain dead from bacterial meningitis. Get the shot.
Kmart becomes cool with just one commercial.
MILKIN' IT: Mama cat adopts orphaned bunny.
Follow Boy Culture's (Work Unfriendly) Tumblr.
Cyndi Lauper pleads veggie on Lady Gaga's meat dress.
Men's fall/winter '13 collections are here.
PUBIC NUISANCE: Hugh Jackman gets pubic-bombed at gym.
Justin Bieber really is an idiot.
But so is Sen. Susan Collins (R-Maine).
A list of the BIGGEST male stars, like Steve "12.4-inch" Cochran.
Brian Shimansky works it on out.
Is La Toya the "most relevant living Jackson?"
In the Deep Web series about friends with secrets.
Is Walt Disney World "an unconstitutional form of government?"
Scott Brown to carpetbag New Hampshire?
YESTERGAY: San Francisco's forgotten gay bars.
Best Star Wars parody ever?
Which has the Weitz stuff?
A (Work Unfriendly) Tumblr: Guys & Pits.
Hot young models with crazy hair.
1st look at Darius Goodworth's FU e=fu8 Underwear shoot:
Five-card stud
