Before several of them passed away...addiction sucks.
Maybe their best song?  And look how much fun they're having! 

This band meant a lot to me.  Maybe as much as the B-52's, which is strange, because they couldn't have been more different.  As a matter of fact; way back in the day I used to receive the B-52's Fan Club Newsletter and one time there was a questionnaire.  One of the questions was: "Who are your other favorite bands?"  When the results came back, the Pretenders were named as the most popular second choice.  They even toured together once!  
That is all.
​CFR   12/2/22​

I recently wrote about "self-absorption" in a blog.  In it, I pondered whether or not looking at my own image, or simply putting it forth, was a sign of over self-involvement.  In a nutshell was it tacky of me to do that?  Was it wrong?  I mean, we're a pretty visual culture.  And vain.  We invented something called the "selfie-stick."  Am I some kind of vain, narcissistic poseur who can't get enough of their own reflection?  Let's examine this... 

The gentleman in the above photo is Koo-Koo Boy.
Koo-Koo boy is the alter ego of my friend, Scott Coblio.  He assumed this alter-ego as the front man of his band, also called Koo-Koo Boy.  They were based in Rochester, NY back in the 90's. You can find his music online.  Scott is one of the kindest, funniest, most generous, most artistic people I know.  His creativity knows no bounds.  And he loves photography.  And one of his favorite photographic subjects is himself.  He tells me he has thousands of pictures of himself from throughout his life.  He more or less photo-documented it, particularly during the Koo-Koo period.  Do I consider this an act of thoughtless vanity?  No. I think of him as an archaeologist/anthropologist of his own life. After all, artists have been fascinated by their own visages since the pencil and mirror were invented.  The artistic self-portrait is something that pretty much every artist comes around to producing, often more than once.  And I understand why.

The title of the above painting, by Paul Gaugin from 1897, is: Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?
Some very good questions.  I wondered if Gaugin had done any self-portraits.  I couldn't think of any.  Sure enough:

Just one of many.
So, why do artists feel so compelled to self-portraitize themselves through whatever medium?  I think it's because artists are blessed/cursed with a larger helping of curiosity about the questions most of us want to avoid.  Gaugin couldn't have put it better: Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?  (That painting is in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts and I've had the pleasure of standing in front of it more than once).  Also, I think, artists kind of marvel at their own creativity.  Not necessarily with braggadoccio; but a kind of awe.  Like, why did God decide to give me these talents?  Where did I come from?  Why does my mind seem to work in a way that other people's don't?  For example.  I have never seen my dad so much as doodle on a scrap of paper.  I have no idea if he has any skill at drawing; for I've never seen him draw anything.  That's not to say he's not artistic in some way.  And he loves the Arts.  I wonder if I put a pencil and paper in front of him and asked him to draw himself what the result would be.  How would he respond to the request?  I might try it next time I see him.  My mother too.  She has a very artistic bent; but I've never seen her draw anything.  Here's an interesting "fact."  All children draw.  Like ALL.  Some continue on and some simply stop.  Why?  I'm thinking it's because they reach a point where some critic tells them they're no good, so, shamed; they stop.
Which brings us to me.  ME ME ME!
Anyhow...
This is not a self-portrait.  It's a picture taken of me when I was seventeen.  It was for a play I did in high school: Peter Shaffer's The Private Ear​.

Not the best picture.  To me, I seem unformed.  Still a boy, not yet a man.  Haven't grown into my looks yet.  My teeth look too big for my head.  In any event, this picture pops up on BING if you do a search for me.  One of the neat things about BING is that it pulls up dozens of photos that it thinks are similar to others.  So, you can look (now this may be a bit narcissistic) at what the algorithm or A.I. (or whatever) thinks matches your image.  It's fun.  You can get a totally objective opinion on who you think you look like; or people who people have told you you look like.  I used to get Tom Hanks a lot.  And sure enough, the computer had no less than five pictures of him in the lineup:

​In fact, I got several "celebrity" hits (see if you can name them):

Don't look at me...a computer picked them!  Also these "non-celebs."

I definitely skewed with Latino looks, for whatever reason.  I mean, I couldn't be more Irish.
​Have I done any self-portraits you ask?
Yes.  Exactly two.  The first, done some twenty years ago, is still unfinished.  And I wouldn't consider it a true self-portrait, as it was based on a photograph, taken by someone else.
My first true self-portrait was done quite recently.  I took a class at the Y for painting.  I did not know that it was going to be a class in "alla prima"; which is technique where you paint the image directly onto the canvass, without an underdrawing and the paint is "wet on wet."  I couldn't decide what I wanted to paint so I just threw up my hands and decided to paint myself.  Here is the result:

And with the optional sunglasses:

So, that's what I think I look like.
But then again not really.

​CFR  12/1/22
​

A BIG HOLLYWOOD STUDIO EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM, HOLLYWOOD U.S.A.
Seated around one side of the table are various and sundry good-looking people in expensive casual wear from Fred Segal, Kitson, Prada, etc.  Through the large glass windows, we can see palm trees lazily swaying in the Santa Ana wind.
A FEMALE ASSISTANT in a Chanel suit enters.
FEMALE ASSISTANT
Your three o'clocks are here...
MALE EXECUTIVE PHIL
Great Marissa, send them in...(to others)...I can't wait to hear their vision! (Everyone nods in agreement)
The door opens again and Marissa escorts in an entourage of more good-looking people, mostly in black, expensive casual wear from Fred Segal, Kitson, Prada etc...They take seats on the other side of the conference table.

PHIL
So great to have you all here.  Let me introduce the team.  This is Bill, Will, Jill and Lil from development and John, Don, Von and Kwan from production.
AHS EXEX DAN
Thanks Phil.  And this is our writing team of Pam, Sam, Jan and Stan.  And our producers Gary, Larry, Harry and Mary.
(Greetings are exchanged)
PHIL
So, let's get to it.  What do you have for us for Season 11, Dan?
DAN
Al Pacino!
PHIL
Al Pacino...where are you going with this?
DAN
Cruising!
PHIL
Are you referring to the 1980 film by William Friedkin?
DAN
Bingo!
JOHN
Wasn't that about the gay leather scene?
KWAN
Yeah...it was...and a killer who was murdering gay men...

JILL
Isn't that movie considered, well...a turkey?
DAN
It's been reassessed.  It's now considered a classic!
JILL
Is it?
WILL
Is Pacino the murderer?
JAN
No, he's a cop who goes undercover into the leather scene to try and flush out the killer!
STAN
But it turns out he gets in over his head and--
PHIL
Okay...I get the gist.  Murderer in leather land; conflicted cop...period piece?
DAN
We're setting it in 1981, at the beginning of the AIDS crisis...
KWAN
Why?
DAN
To give it verisimilitude.  And an extra layer of creepiness and horror...
KWAN
I would argue that Cruising is already a horror movie; so why not just straight up remake it?  Or just set it now and do like a Grindr killer type thing?
DAN
We need that metaphor!  AIDS was fucking scary man!  It's like our secondary element of horror in this...
KWAN
So, you want to make the AIDS virus an actual horror element?
DAN
Well, of course...
KWAN
You do know that AIDS was a real thing right?  That AIDS actually happened and a lot of people who lost people to it and almost lost themselves are still alive and kicking, right?
DAN
They'll love it!  Here's one of the posters for the marketing...we didn't have time for a Powerpoint on this so; Gary...if you will...
(Gary opens a large black folio, removes a poster and puts it on an easel):

PHIL
Is that a corpse?  Was he one of the murder victims?
DAN
Oh, no...he's still alive...but barely...
KWAN
Don't tell me...he's dying of AIDS...
DAN
Bingo!  You're getting it Don!
KWAN
I'm Kwan.  So he's dying of AIDS but he still puts on glam-leather?  I mean, would he actually have the...strength... to do that?
DAN
You're overthinking it...
KWAN
Am I?
DAN
You're starting to harsh my buzz, Ken...
PHIL
Thank you for your comments Kwan.  Do you have any more artwork for us?
(Dan gestures and another poster is placed on the easel):

VON
Oh, is Madonna in this?  I love her.  Does she have AIDS?
STAN
Oh, no, that's not her.  She's not even a character in the show...
JOHN
Then why is she on the poster?
DAN
​'Cuz she looks cool; You guys are really overthinking this...
​(Another poster is produced)

PHIL
More women...so your version is about leather lesbians in the early 80's?  Was that a thing?
PAM
Well, we wanted inclusivity in our version.  The original was kind of man heavy...(laughter from her side of the table).
KWAN
Wasn't that the point?
DAN
Are you on board here, Shawn?
PHIL
Look, you know, I've been around.  I was in New York in the late 70's. I stumbled out of the Mineshaft at dawn more than once; but I don't recall a lot of heavy leather lesbians in men's clubs.  Show me another poster with some man-candy.
(A poster is quickly put up):

WILL
Does he have AIDS? And why is he dressed like a thorn-bush?
DAN
He's a deer...I'll let our head writer Jan explain...Jan?
JAN
There's a leitmotif in the storyline, featuring animals; specifically deer, as a source for the AIDS virus.  It's a metaphor for Nature's indifference to Man's plight.
KWAN
The virus came from chimpanzees.
JAN
Well, they skewed a little too...funny...(more laughter).
PHIL
Anymore artwork?
(Still another poster is produced):

JILL
Who is this character and does he have AIDS?
DAN
He's not a character...it's more conceptual...
LIL
What's he doing to that skull?
BILL
Does the skull have AIDS?
DAN
Probably...
KWAN
He's fucking the fucking skull Lil!  That's what he's doing.  The entire image equates gay sex and leather with death.
DAN
Well, yeah...that's the point.
KWAN
Do you people recall when Cruising first came out and there were protests in the gay community because they were finally getting a movie about gay people but all it was about was them fucking in public and being murdered for it?  Don't you think your little season 11 is doing the same thing?  And then making an actual real life disease that killed millions of people window dressing for your  stupid horror series?
DAN
That was a long time ago, Cal...
KWAN
1981 was forty-one years ago.
DAN
Yeah, so who the fuck even remembers...
KWAN
Let me ask you Jan...how old were you in 1981?
JAN
Well...you don't ask a lady her age...(hesitant giggles in the room)
KWAN
Sorry Jan, but you people have summoned my inner QUEEN; and she's a bitch.  You look like you're on the backside of forty to me--
JAN
Excuse me--
KWAN
So, you were like, a fucking child during the majority of the AIDS crisis, correct?
JAN
Well...I suppose...but that doesn't mean...that I can't write about it...
KWAN
Did any of your friends die of AIDS?
DAN
I've had enough of this dude's sanctimony, Phil, could we have him removed?
PHIL
I actually had a lot of friends die of AIDS, so I'm interested in where this is going...

JAN
Okay, say it wasn't AIDS...say it was the Black Plague.  Would that be wrong?
KWAN
No...because that was seven hundred fucking years ago Jan.  There are no seven hundred year old people who had friends die of the plague around anymore...for like a good six-hundred-and-seventy years.  
JAN
Our scripts are paying homage to the suffering.  They are transformative...we've even got references to Angels In America!
PHIL
I've read some of the episodes...and I have some questions.
DAN
Shoot!
PHIL
So, you've got this cop who's in the closet and he goes to Fire Island and his apparent first gay sex experimentation involves an S and M encounter wherein he literally fucks a young man to death.  And then his friend calls a gay hit-man to clean up the scene and his solution is to bury the young man in the sand...right behind the house?
JAN
I didn't write that one.

PAM, SAM AND STAN
Oh yes you did!
​PHIL
And then later on, when the body is discovered...four of the characters, one of whom is a reporter, blithely handle parts of the corpse, on the Fire Island beach at the height of summer in broad daylight, yet...and not a single other human soul walks by?  And not one character has any remorse about this, including the cop and the righteous reporter...that maybe the corpse's family might want to know what happened to their son?  And why didn't the couple who discovered the body call the Fire Island police?
JAN
Well, because...uhhmmm...well....you see...
DAN
Because the script needed them not to; that's why.
PHIL
So, every single character in this...your leads no less...are all completely morally bankrupt?
DAN
Of course!
PHIL
And why is this reporter character such an unrelenting sourpuss for the whole thing?  By the second time he was about to be killed, I was rooting for the killer.
DAN
The character is really authentic...
PHIL
How was he able to use his typewriter if all ten of his fingers were bandaged after having red-hot needles jammed under his fingernails?
DAN
(To Jan) Is that in the script?
JAN
Huh? What? (Looks around quickly) Oooh, brownies!  (She grabs one and starts chewing).
KWAN
I just got a great idea for season 12!  How about Freddy Krueger going on a killing spree at a Khmer Rouge reeducation camp?
DAN
I LOVE it! (enthusiastic agreement on his side of the table).  "Freddy Vs. Pol Pot"!  So Phil, is it a go?
Phil raises his finger.  He pours some water into a glass.  He takes a sip.  He pauses, raises the glass and flings it's contents at Dan.
PHIL
​Get out.
DAN
Why you!!! (stands) My Balenciaga! Come on people, we're taking our business to A24!!! (They file out the door).
KWAN
I so wish that had been a slushie.

And scene!

CFR 11/25/22

It happened.  I pulled a "Karen" at Burger King.  But, since I'm a man, I guess it was a "Gary."  Or how about "Darren" since I'm gay and a man? Or should that read, "I'm a man and gay"?  And by the way, did you know that I'm gay yet?
Yeah, so I got my Darren (TM Registered Pat.Pend.) on at Burger King.  I mean, it wasn't a full on meltdown and I don't think I was filmed...although there was a guy holding a smart phone behind me...however, in my defense, I think they deserved it.
Look, I'm a pretty amiable person.  I don't really "go off" easily and it hardly ever happens.  So I'll pose the old "Am I the Asshole" query and tell you my side of what happened.
So, I get this coupon in the mail for Burger King.  Or should I say, a sheet of coupons.  And nowadays, what with prices the way they are (I mean you sort of can't get out of a fast-food restaurant without dropping nearly ten bucks) I figured I'd use the coupon.  Or had the coupon merely done its job of enticing me into the restaurant by making me crave one of BK's "Original Chicken Sandwiches"?  In this case, two; as it was a two for one deal?

Actually, my coupon was the two sandwiches and two medium fries for $6.49...so, that's kind of like I paid $1.50 for a few more fries.  And what is that price? $6.49?  Weirdly specific, isn't it?  So, I'm craving this sandwich.  It's a little low end; but it's super tasty.  I mean, it's like a processed chicken patty coated in some kind of batter; but like I said, it's delish!  I've loved them since I was knee-high to grasshopper.
So anyways, I go to the grocery store and afterwards swing by BK which is right across the street.  I notice the drive through is a bit jammed; but when I went in, there was no line.  Just a nice old lady, standing to the side, obviously waiting for her order.  She's a certain type of old lady.  Specific to these-a-here parts.  I call them Mountain Mamas.  They're usually grandma aged.  Usually gray-haired.  Long gray hair that they wear long.  They usually dress like they're still in their twenties (think halter tops and denim cut-offs).  They are quite often loud, as though they never learned to modulate their voice.  They drive big ass vehicles; quite often four door sedans from the 70's.  They are a type.  They all sort of have the same look; and as I mentioned they are LOUD; but sometimes not. Like the exact opposite.  No words at all; but if they do speak, hardly above a whisper.  Granny (let's call her) was the latter.  So I order, proudly present my coupon and then (having it MY way) ask for the mayo to be held and tomatoes (extra!) added.  This is achieved in mere seconds and then I go stand next to Granny.
And I wait.
And I wait some more.
And I wait more some more.
Granny tells me she's waiting for her order and I assure her that, I too, am waiting.
An older gentleman comes in and orders, pays in cash and then goes to the fountain to fill his drinks.  And I wait even longer.  I can see straight into the kitchen, where it seems there is one person preparing sandwiches; although there are like seven people behind the counter.  I'm watching for the chicken sandwiches I ordered, as they are oblong shaped and I'm seeing a lot of round sandwiches coming down the line.  Most of the bagged food is going to the drive through window.  Finally a girl comes out, holds up a bag and I half-hear "chicken sandwiches..."  Granny suddenly moves like a cat next to fire-crackers going off, grabs the bag, waves good-bye to me and she's out the door.  I looked at the girl and wished they still wore the uniforms from the 70's.

​So, meanwhile, I'm still waiting.
Finally, the girl reappears with another brown paper bag and looking at me she says: "Two juniors and two fries" and she dangles the bag in my general direction.  But I'm skeptical.  Nothing in my order mentioned anyone named Junior.
"Junior what?" I ask
"Whoppers...and two fries..." comes the reply.
"No," I say, "I ordered two chicken sandwiches with two--"
The manager, a Mountain Mama herself (who had taken my order), came over and looked at the girl. "What'samatter?"
"He--" 
"Oh, no honey, he had two chicken sandwiches with no mayo and extra tomato and two fries...what are these?"
"Two Juniors and two fries--"
They both looked up at the pending order screen.  By this time the little old man had wandered over and inserted himself into the dynamic.
Mountain Mama Manager turned to him.  "Baby did you order two Whopper Juniors?"
"And two fries!" he said.
"Oh," the Manager said to the girl, "these are his..."
And he goes on his merry way.  "So, where's my order?"  A lot of head swiveling and looking around unfolded at this point and then they both looked at the screen.
"Oh," the girl said, "that one already went out..." 
The Manager turned from the screen.  "Yeah, that one went out."
"Went out?" I asked. "Went out where?"
"With that lady..." the girl said, turning her not quite deer in the headlights gaze to me.
"Wait..." I said, trying to process this turn of events; events that had never turned before in my long history of visiting Burger King restaurants. "You're telling me you gave my food to that lady?"
"Well," the girl said, maintaining her equilibrium under the mounting pressure of my rising dudgeon (and I gotta say I respected her for that), "I called out the order."
Now, this, in its simplest interpretation, was basically her telling me it was my fault.  And that I was stupid on top of it.
A trap door opened under me and I plummeted into some kind of spiral galaxy where everything was backwards.  Backwards and forwards simultaneously.  Like, I was finding this whole scenario as hilarious as it was infuriating.

Perhaps I was a little hungry and after staring at images of food for nearly twenty minutes, I was perhaps now "hangry."  Perhaps I was anxious as I had Italian ice melting in the trunk of the car.  I mean, I was a little light headed as I started saying things like: "...this is supposed to be fast food, not twenty minute food!"  or: "...I don't have time to wait...I have kids!" (I don't)...(maybe I said this because I was clutching not one; but two Burger King crowns in my trembling hand). Then, I really started spiraling out as I started to wonder where Granny's order now was.  I mean where did it go?  She had clearly been waiting for some time before I ordered, so how did my order get in front of hers in order for her to dash and dine with it?  Or had she like ordered Chicken Fries and when she heard "...two chicken sandwhiches..." that sounded like a much better dinner to her, so she seized a "window of opportunity." To wit: DID GRANNY JUST STEAL MY TWO ORIGINAL CHICKEN SANDWICHES WITH TWO MEDIUM FRIES FOR $6.49 DEAL!!?!!!???

So Mountain Mama Manager, who also was completely unflappable in the face of my Looney Tunes-esque come-apart says: "She's goin' ta fix two more right up for you honey!"  And I said: "I don't have time to wait another twenty minutes (which was true; I mean waiting 40 minutes for your "fast" food, I'm pretty sure, disqualifies it from actually being "fast" food) Can I just get my money back?"
"Well, I'm gonna need your receipt for that..."
I delve into my pockets, where, of course, I can't find it.
I deflate in defeat.  Now I'm embarrassed that several people have witnessed me in a moment of, shall we shay: emotional dishabille.  I come up with nothing; both figuratively and literally.  My spiral galaxy grinds to a halt.
"Well, here are the sandwiches right now, 'hon..."
"Fine," I sigh, "fine..."
A bag is handed off.  Now my sense of divine comedy returns and I really want to know where Granny's dinner went.
"So, what happens when that lady gets home and finds out it's not what she ordered?"
Mama shrugged.  "This happens all the time.  That's her problem."
But wasn't it also now my problem?  And how is that for some cold comfort?

Oooops.  Wrong restaurant again.

So then I guess I apologized. I mean, I think I did say sorry.  I explained: "I'm hungry and it makes me edgy..."
I don't think she was all that concerned with my psychological well-being; edgy or otherwise.  So I take my new deal and get in the car and I start laughing.  I laugh long and hard.  I smell the irresistible scent of the french fries they sell and I reach into the bag for some on the drive home.  Fresh and hot from the fryer!  I take another handful between guffaws.  I never eat while I drive.  I wonder where Granny lives.  I wonder why, if Burger KIng has retro-branded themselves with their 70's vibe as of like, last week; why haven't they brought back, at least, THE HAT?  Probably because they couldn't get anyone to work there if they asked them to wear the hat.  I think back on Burger King in the 70's and muse that Burger King in the 70's must've been the most 70's thing about the decade of the 70's.

I laugh again and then wonder if maybe I've gone more than a little crazy along with the rest of the world, getting upset about my fast food order when another five innocent people were gunned down in Colorado. I think about the recent deaths at fast food restaurants where customers lost their lives over their orders.  I stopped laughing and retrieved my empty hand from the paper bag.
Welcome to America, the land of fast food, fast guns and fast death.  You want fries with that?

CFR 11/23/22

Here's the deal:
You can win your very own piece of artwork, by moi.  A signed, limited edition artwork of "The Astronaut's Wives," seen above.
You can choose which version too!  Black and white pencil etching or full color.  Your choice!  All you have to do is send a postcard to me at 103 Woodvale Court, Vinton VA.  Mark it "ART CONTEST."  Tell me which version you'd like and of course, tell me where to send it.
​You have until Saint Patrick's Day, 2023.  I will draw three winners from whatever cards I receive.  If I receive no cards, well then...screw it.  Nobody wins.  If I get only one card, that person gets both versions.  That is all.  Good luck!

CFR 11/21/22

If you've read my blog "A Letter To Tom Hanks for My Mother"; you may recall I was discussing the custom of "head shots" for actors and how embarrassing it can be.  I also mentioned that I had had some taken in the early 90's, when, I suppose I was considering being an actor.  But I never did pursue it, nearly the entire time I lived in L.A.  I often ask myself why and I think I know the answer; but I don't want to get into that here...
So, this was taken circa 1993-94.  So, I'm like 28, 29...facing down 30.  Remember turning 30 and being depressed because you felt old?  Ha, ha, ha.  I look like a freakin' baby.  And I used to suntan (child of the 70's. Teen of the 80's). And I used to party relatively hearty.
So the picture was taken by a Mr. Douglas Baker.  I first met him in 1983 when I was a senior in high school.  He was the "new teacher."  He taught English and Journalism.  I took his Journalism class.  After I graduated and attended Boston University, he ended up studying there as well. So, our orbits kept crossing. He also had a photography studio,  which is how the head shots came about. Now, of course, he's a therapist; and since this makes him something of a public figure, I will post a picture of him:

Oh, and what the heck...how about a video?

Thin as a reed!  All that yoga...
So, he took my first official head-shots; one of which is seen at the top of the page.  I think he lit my eyes quite well.  Brown eyes are hard to make pop.  Of course, it's a black and white photo...but still.
So, if you're in the Boston area and you need some yoga and/or psychotherapy, Doug is your man.  He offers his services online as well.
Yes, he's a kind and lovely human.
So, what was this supposed to be about?  Oh yeah...miscellany...which the head shot is.  I mean, I said I would post one when I found it and so there you have it.  Now, in doing that: posting an image of myself; am I engaging in self-absorption?
I mean this webpage is about me, right?  In essence, it boils down to an attempt to monetize my creativity. It sounds a little mercenary. But isn't it what all artists (or most...at least those who like to eat and have a roof over their head) try to do in life.  Take what makes them happy and try and make a living out of it?  Sure!  What about the personal revelations I'm revealing to you: mostly strangers?  Well, as a writer, I suppose I seek connection and a kind of catharsis by offering the world my experiences in an attempt to share them in a humanistic way.  Maybe I do disclose too much; but then, maybe some of us don't disclose enough.  I don't know.
But really, aren't we all self-absorbed to a certain extent.  I mean, yes, you can be "selfless"; But wasn't someone like say, Mother Teresa, even, self-absorbed?  How can you not be?  Your mind is literally absorbed by your brain.  Your personality resides in the body you were given at birth that you have to live with until...
We're the ones who have to live with ourselves all our lives.  Or should I say: I am the one with who I have to live with all my life.  So, if you're tired of hearing about my life or looking at my mug, I suppose you're just a click away from not having to.
But I think I'm pretty good company.  I like hanging out with myself.  And nowadays, I actually avoid mirrors as much as possible...which sometimes, maybe I shouldn't.  You wouldn't believe some of the outfits I go out in, in public.

CFR 11/23/22

Her new song: "Pulp"

Before I shock you, I just wanted to mention a few more things about my Empire Hotel peep-show.

The resident directly across from me was a violinist.  He would practice his violin directly in front of the window.  You couldn't have framed it more cinematically.  He did his violining fully clothed.  However, the viewing angle only allowed viewing the violinst from the waist up; so it was moot; as well as mute.  So, of course, I kept hearing violins, and seeing people carrying violin cases.  This may have been less "synchronicity" and more "staying in a hotel next to a violin school." I mean, Juilliard was right there...and an opera house.

​One of the apartments was pitch black; but someone was moving around in it by the light of a smart-phone.  It really was like a scene out of a movie!  I mean, what was that about?  Was it simply a case of not paying the electricity bill or something more...creepy
Speaking of creepy, in a good way I suppose, was a conversation my husband and I had yesterday.  We were talking about Hogan's Heroes, which we do more than you'd think.  It's on ten times a week on MeTV and we sometimes watch it, when there's absolutely nothing else on.  As a child, when we only had one TV, and HH went into repeats, I'd have to suffer through it every night. My older brother was obsessed with World War II for some reason (don't ask...my older brother has been a thorn in my side since we were in diapers) and so it was Hogan's Heroes, at 7:30, every night, for most of the 70's.  My least favorite genre of filmed entertainment, after Westerns, is War Movies.  But I'd sit there with glazed eyes and watch that show, because, well, what else did I have to do?
I mean, now, as an adult, I can appreciate its quality.  It's quite well written and produced.  They did 168 episodes, with basically the same plot.  Colonel Klink is hosting some Nazi high mucky-muck at Stalag 13; one who is in possession of information that Hogan and his boys want.  They pull the wool over Klink's eyes and blackmail Shultzie by reminding him about the Russian front.  The high ranking Nazi is duped, often ending up going to the front and Klink waves his finger and says: "Hooooogaaannnn!" The End.  See you next week, more or less.

​I see nothing!  Nothing...!

What's going on in that picture?  When I was looking for a picture of John Banner, who played Schultz, I found one on on some gay website and one caption read: Are you gay for John Banner?  Another: Do not be ashamed of your crush on John Banner.
So, as we were discussing the show for the nth time (speaking of crushes) I mentioned that the fellow on the show who gave me "childhood tingles" was Louis LeBeau.

Why?  I don't know.  I guess I had a thing for short haired brunettes with comfortably handsome faces.  I still think young Jerry Lewis was hot.  Apparently, so did Dean Martin:

I see everything!  Everything! (and you sure can with the rest of these pix!)

Distracted by prurience once again...
Anyways...so the point of this is synchronicity.  
So, we're discussing Robert Clary, who played LeBeau on HH and I'd read somewhere that he'd actually been in a concentration camp.  So, I wanted more information.  I pick up my smart phone.  I look up Robert Clary, one of my first childhood crushes, for the first time in my life.  A picture pops up.  His birthday: March 1, 1926.  His death: ...oh wait, he's dead?  His death: November 16, 2022.  Wait, that can't be right.  I turned to my husband.  "What's today's date?" His reply: "The 16th of November."  This was two days ago.  Wait...what?  Mr. Clary had literally just died, more or less.  I looked at my husband in stunned disbelief.  "He's probably still warm..." he said.
Maybe it's me; but I think that's pretty friggin' weird.  Like, had his ghost popped by our house when he was on his way into the light?
Reposez en paix, Monsieur Clary.
Also:
The one who gives me tingles now, watching those reruns, is Werner Klemperer.  He's weirdly sexy.  Or maybe I'm just weird.

                                                                           Robert Clary - 1926-2022 

​CFR 11/18/22

So, I was recently in NYC with the hubs for a two-day, let's see a play jaunt.  We stayed at the Empire Hotel in Lincoln Square.  Very tiny; but very cool; but would it kill them to put a mini-fridge and a coffee maker in the room?  No it wouldn't. 
Now, I don't want to give you the wrong impression of me.  Like, that I'm a pervert or something.  However, I really can't say that I'm not.  I have a hearty interest in sexuality and erotica and seeing people naked (well, that is, the people you'd want to see naked).  So was it wrong of me to spend most of my time in the hotel room gazing out the window at the back side of an all-glass, high-rise apartment building, scrutinizing the occupants and hoping for glimpses of hot guys; some of whom might be willing to put on a show; as they say that many of the denizens of Manhattan are wont to do for one another?  I say, NO! 
I mean, it wasn't just to get a glimpse of somebody naked.  There was also my interest in sociology at work.  And also my cinematic eye.  I mean, it was like a total Rear Window sitch.  The building (seen below) was even bathed in the extremely cinematic red glow of the hotel's neon sign.  The only thing it didn't do out of a movie, was flash on and off.

So, we went to dinner at a restaurant near the hotel.  It was extremely busy.  Every place in the vicinity was extremely busy, which makes sense, at the height of the dinner hour in NYC.  So I talked to the hostess and she put us on the wait list.  She was a petite blonde, young, attractive, gregarious.  She was juggling her duties seating people and taking reservations and was the very picture of grace under pressure.
Anyways, after we'd eaten and I was waiting for my husband to return from the rest room; I got to chatting with her.  I complimented her on her hostessing skills and (already knowing the answer) asked her if she was an actress.  Yes, of course she was; but also a singer, a performer and a writer.  Her name is Erin McMillen.  We exchanged information.  We both have websites (find her at erin mcmillen.com). Here she is:

Any of you Hollywood types out there reading this...get busy.  This woman is not going to be a star.  She already is a STAR.  Here she is, nailing The National Anthem; arguably one of the hardest songs to sing; let alone sing well.

So that's Erin...and I can say..."I knew you when..."
So here's another bizarre coincidence.  When we were looking at the menu in the window, I decided on a chicken sandwhich; not realizing I was looking at the lunch menu; not the dinner menu.  So I had my heart set on that.  When the waiter was taking our orders, I didn't see said sandwich.  "Was there not a chicken sandwich on the menu?" I asked. "Only at lunch..." Not wanting to peruse the menu any longer, my eyes randomly landed on "Chicken Pot Pie" which is what I ordered.  Apparently, it's one of the place's specialities.  How could I have known this?  I couldn't.  But it was delish!!!  Here it is:

So, I have this friend, Greg, who is a dyed in the wool New Yorker.  He and his husband go to see EVERYTHING on Broadway, Off-Broadway, Off-Off Broadway...however "off" it is; if it's still on the island of Manhattan, they go to see it.  Maybe in New Jersey even.
So anyways...my husband and I were exploring Lincoln Center, which neither of us had ever seen before, and there was a show going on in one of its theaters: The Old Man and the Pool.  It's star, Mike Birbiglia, who I'd never heard of up until I saw a bit of his interview on Late Night with Seth Meyers, was talking about his battle with bladder cancer. I was only paying half attention; but I was intrigued.  I was explaining this to my husband.  I also told him how, as a child, I received the Metropolitan Opera's Gift Shop Catalogue from about 10 years old until well into college.  As to how I got on their mailing list; I couldn't tell you. I mean, at least, I can't remember. And now, here I was, some forty plus years later, at last in the actual gift shop itself. We bought a Christmas ornament.
It gets weirder.

So, Peter Grimes is an opera, in the English language, by Benjamin Britten.  I would hazard a guess that it's rather an obscure work for most humans; even though it is well known by opera lovers.  The only reason I know what it is, is because when I did my first play in high school, Peter Grimes figured into the plot of the play.  The play was by Peter Shaffer: The Private Ear.  The Private Ear is about a shy young man who can't seem to get a date with a woman.  His suave friend fixes him up with a working girl but the dinner date proves to be a disaster and our hero is left high and dry by his date, who goes off with his friend.  The young man retreats further into his insular world of music.  His favorite opera is Peter Grimes, which he tries to explain to the girl as to why.  He empathizes with Peter, you see, because both he and Peter are outsiders. Why does he empathize with Peter Grimes, an outcast fisherman who may be responsible for the death of two young men?  Well, the subtext is that both Peter and the hero of The Private Ear are more than likely homosexuals; their outsider status being a fairly straightforward metaphor for being gay in an unaccepting world.  Although, both the characters seem unaware or in denial about the true nature of their sexual identities.  Pretty loaded play to put on at all boys school.  Of course, I was something of a Peter Grimes at my school which the teacher, a gay man himself and also a Peter Grimes must've recognized; for he literally begged me to be in the show.  I remember going into a record store in Cambridge with him to get the soundtrack for the opera.
In any event, my thinking was: "How odd is that?  That the Met just did Peter Grimes when I happened to go into the gift shop for the first time?  And was selling a hand-made "Peter Grimes" jacket for $500.00.  But really....where would you wear that?
I talk a lot about "messages from the Universe" and "synchronicity" in these blogs.  Fine; call me corny...but why did all these Peter Grimes references all pile up one night in NYC?  Or that The Hours is now an opera and it's a work that I make fun of with not one; but two of my good friends, who don't know each other?

"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself..."

​

I'm sorry; but that movie is simply off the scale pretentious.  It's like a parody of itself.  And don't even get me started on Nicole Kidman's nose.  Or Meryl Streep's hair.  Or that Michael Cunningham makes you stand ten feet back while he signs your copy of his book.
That line about the flowers.  WTF?  Why are they being so portentous about it?  She's gonna buy the fuckin' flowers herself.  So?  Who gives a shit?  Buy the fuckin' flowers already.  Stop talking about it.  Remember how hard everyone creamed over that movie?  Sure, when was the last time you watched it?  Fuck off The Hours.
So let's shake that off!
Back to NYC...
We went to see Kinky Boots.

A great time was had by all!
​So, while we were there, I was thinking: wouldn't it be interesting if we ran into Greg and his husband.  We didn't.  But when we got home, Greg had been posting on Facebook.  These are from like the night we were wandering around Lincoln Center.  The caption: "Great night for chicken pot pies from P________'s"

Greg and friend.

So don't go tellin' me there ain't no such a thing as synchronicity...or messages from the Universe.  'Cuz that's proof right there.

CFR 11/15/22