She Lit Up My Life

Tharon Musser passed away last Sunday. She was born on January 8, 1925 in Roanoke, Virginia. Her dad was a clergyman.

Her name will, most likely, mean little to you unless you're a real afficianado of the Broadway stage. Tharon was a lighting designer, which is a little like saying that Picasso was a painter. Both are true but there's a lot more that could, and should, be said about the subjects.

Tharon lit the shows of my youth. Not incidentally, she also lit the shows of Stephen Sondheim. She lit "Follies." She also lit "A Chorus Line." And "Dreamgirls." She won Tonys for all of those. She also designed the lighting for "Applause", "A Little Night Music", "Pacific Overtures", "The Act", "Ballroom" and "42nd Street (original stage production - 1981)". I'm here to tell you, this woman could paint a stage in light. And she painted a lot of them.

She was an innovator. "A Chorus Line" was the first B'way show to use a computer to activate the cues. It was considered radical at the time. She used computerized lighting more and more as the years went by. Anyone who saw the original production of "Dreamgirls" will instantly recall the 4 giant, castered lighting towers that whirled and spun around the stage during the show -- uncredited chorus members who danced from beginning to end -- the entire show being (mostly) lit by them in computer-controlled, lightning-fast changes that dazzled the audiences of the time as much as Jennifer Holliday's rafter-rattling rendition of "And I am Telling You (I am not going)".

Tharon Musser did that. And today, 27 years later, the hairs on the back of my head still stand up as I recall that knock-dead evening of theater. Thank you, Tharon, for being a part of it.

Tharon is survived by her life partner, Marilyn Rennagel, who is also a lighting designer.

The Third Story

Charles Busch's new play, "The Third Story", opened last night. Here is the poster for the show:



That's Charles over there on the right, brandishing the gun. Yes, he's in drag. Great drag. Drag that would make Barbara Stanwyck proud. Drag that would make Bette Davis eat her frickin' heart out.

My college roomie and I saw the play on Saturday. I thought it was wonderful. Ben Brantley, in today's NYTimes, didn't quite agree with me. He thought Mr. Busch's co-star, Kathleen Turner:



didn't have enough to do. "Hey", I said to myself when I read that, "She's an old broad. What the frig did he expect her to do? Cartwheels, ferchrissakes?" He also bitched that it was overwritten and could use some judicious weed-whacking.

Okay, so it's a couple of movies within a play. It's complicated. It's fun. If you can't keep up, stay the frig outta the theater. TV is for the brain-dead. Theater is for those of us with a few brain cells left.

The cast is terrific. The audience obviously adored Kathleen and Charles (myself included). And unlike at those overpriced Disney-fied productions you see uptown, the audience did NOT instantly leap to it's feet upon the final curtain to lavish unwarranted praise upon a bunch of class-B performers in a class-C production. The audience I saw it with applauded (and "bravaed") lustily, but respectfully kept it's seats until the cast had left the stage.

It's playing at the Lucille Lortel Theater, down on Christopher Street (deep in the heart of Greenwich Village). If you're in town and looking for a fun way to spend a couple of hours for about sixty bucks, go see it.

And if, like me, you're of a "certain age" it will undoubtedly stir up memories of your childhood, which you spent hiding out on Saturdays in movie palaces of yore, while golden goddesses of the silver screen stirred your fevered imaginations and who, decades later, still make us feel all warm and cozy inside. Even while brandishing a gun.

TiVo

The guys from Verizon showed up on Wednesday morning to install the Super-Secret Decoder Cards in my new TiVo.

Thank God one of them had actually "seen" a TiVo before Wednesday. Between the 2 of them it took less than 2 hours to do what a qualified technician should've been able to do in 1 hour. This is known as "job security." In all fairness to them, they are "phone company" employees which, in the past, meant hours of boredom hanging off of telephone poles, or down in freezing cold manholes, splicing miles of copper cable together in order to form "The Bell System." These days, though, it's just as likely to mean "the cable company" or "the computer guys." They don't know what the hell their job descriptions are any more. I feel for them.

This is what my TiVo looks like from the front:



This is what it does: It's a digital video recorder. It has an onscreen program guide that puts Verizon's to shame. All you have to do is "point and click" to record any show on the schedule. You can even tell it to record an entire season for you with just a few clicks. It holds up to 180 hours of regular programming (or 20 hours of HD programming). I can stick another (external) hard drive on the thing to up the recordable ante to nearly 200 hours of HD programming and nearly 1,000 hours of regular.

It does all kinds of other "tricks" with time and space (it's nearly as good as an episode of "Lost"). My favorite trick so far is, if I'm watching a show in "real time" and the phone rings all I have to do is hit the "Pause" button on the remote. The picture will instantly freeze. I take the call and after I hang up, 20 minutes later, hit the "Play" button and it will continue playing, as though I had been playing back a tape or a DVD.

It also learns and makes suggestions about things I might enjoy based on my past viewing patterns. This is both good news and bad news.

I am very excited about my TiVo. I'll be even more excited when the TiVo company issues me a refund for the defective unit they originally sold me.

Meanwhile, though, I'm a happy camper.

p.s.

Tomorrow I'm seeing the new Charles Busch play "The Third Story" also starring Kathleen Turner ("Body Heat", "War of the Roses", voice of Jessica Rabbit in "Who Killed Roger Rabbit?")

Full review to follow.

Crossdressing for Fun and Profit!

Somebody said that the photo I posted yesterday of Rudy Giuliani, in full drag, reminded them of Dame Edna Everage (Barry Humphries - red-blooded Australian heterosexual, just like Hugh Jackman).

Well, damned if he doesn't! It's the eyeglasses... and the makeup... and that gown ... AND THOSE SHOES!!! UGH.

Speaking of drag queens, Joe, over at JoeMyGod, went to the theater last night to see a live production of Charles Busch's silver-screen triumph, "Die, Mommy, Die!" As Joe himself finally admitted, he's well on his way to becoming a Show Queen (I think he's already there).

Joe mentioned seeing CB in "Lesbian Vampires of Sodom" when he first moved to NYC back in the 80's. My ex and I caught that one, too. I don't remember too much about it, but I do remember an over-the-top performance by Busch who seemed hell bent on bringing out his inner-Norma Desmond at every opportunity.

But for my cross-dressing money, nothing could ever beat the late, great Charles Ludlum in a succession of wildly insane farces at the Ridiculous Theatrical Company's world headquarters on Sheridan Square.

One of the first plays I saw when I landed in NY in 1978 was their production of "Camille... a Tear Jerker." I, and the rest of the audience, was in stitches from the time Charles first (literally) flounced onstage in an empire gown whose hem was coquettishly held aloft by a circle of helium filled balloons, revealing a lovely set of pantalettes beneath, until he drew (one of many) last breaths in a death scene that just wouldn't quit. ("Nonette... I'm cold. Throw another faggot on the fire." "I'm sorry madame, but there isn't another faggot in the house!!!" "Not another faggot in the house??? TELL ME ANOTHER ONE, NONETTE!!!") His plays were loaded with cultural references from life, art, opera, theater, books, street talk and ballet. The zingers, sarcasm and puns flew. To see Charles and his company of fellow lunatics perform was exhilirating and inspiring.

But their crowning glory, in 1984, was a 2-man production of "Irma Vep" a gothic horror story and cross-dressers delight. The two people in the cast were Charles and his lover Everett Quinton. It was a tour de force and my ex and I saw it several times, and dragged out-of-towners to see it whenever we could.

Charles passed away from AIDS 20 years ago this past spring, but I have never forgotten this brilliant man of the theater.

Wacky Shit from All Over!

Jesus Died on the Cross So Kathy Griffin Could Win the Emmy!

(best headline today!)

The Miracle Theater in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee spent $90,440 for a full-page ad in USA Today that condemns Kathy Griffin for her jokes about her Emmy rather than using the money to feed the hungry or to do something like, ya know, like Christian, with the money.

Personally, I’d like to know where a pissant theater company, anywhere, gets that kind of bread to blow on bullshit ads rather than putting on actual productions. If you ask me, them getting that kind of scratch was the real fucking miracle.

The Senate passed a bill condemning MoveOn.org for the Betrayus ad (thereby sending a clear message loaded with irony to the rest of the world about our double-standard regarding free speech.)

No matter how you slice it, domestic partnership versus full-blown marriage is still the same old “separate but equal” baloney that kept blacks in their places for nearly a century. But bullshit is bullshit despite the window-dressing of bigotry wrapped in religious fervor. (I've yet to see these same folks who blast gays condemning people who eat shellfish or pork… or who sleep with their wives during their “unclean” times, despite the fact that all the injunctions come from the same historical source).

But the enlightened Renaissance Man in Sacramento obviously disagrees.

And why am I still not hearing people demanding that government get OUT of the marriage game altogether?

Yom Kippur starts at sunset today. To all my Jewish friends, may you have a Blessed and Serene Holy Day of thoughtful introspection.

And for all my Gentile friends, tonight is one of the two best nights of the year to do anything (movies, eating out, theater). So get your asses in gear and make plans!

Mazel Tov, everybody!

Best Headline Yesterday (9/11 Anniversary)

"The only thing flying around the Pentagon today is bullshit." Wonkette

There was a time, many eons ago, when I wanted nothing more in life than to be outfitted with a Hasselblad camera (2x2 format) and sent into the jungles of far-flung places by the National Geographic Society. That time was called "High School" and I don't have many fond memories of it (I doubt that few actually do), so jungles sounded like a fine idea to me. Needless to say, God and my family had other plans.

The other thing I wanted was to be a big Broadway star. That didn't happen, either.

However, I did manage to become a big fish in a small pond at the University of Delaware between the summer of 1973 and the spring of 1976. During that time I managed to finagle my way into over 19 productions, everything from big "main stage" flapdoodles all the way down to teensy shows at the Student Center cabaret named Bacchus (after the Greek God of wine and alcoholism).

The other day I posted a picture of myself in our summer theater production (1974) of "Damn Yankees."

Today, for your edification, I post the above photo from our Winter Session (U. of Del. - January, 1974) production of Mr. Oscar Wilde's "Lady Windermere's Fan," "fan", so-called because I have the hots for her.

It's a Victorian fluff of a nothing about, well, about Lady Windermere and her fan. Well, actually two fans. One is a literal fan which she inadvertently leaves at the home of a bachelor gentleman (me) who is her "secret fan."

It's loaded with high-falootin' English talk, tons of famous Wilde bon mots ("My dear, the only thing worse than being talked about is NOT being talked about!") and ravishing costumes, as evidenced above (that's me on the right) decked out in the height of 19th Century Evening Foppery.

The gentleman to the left, whose name I do recall (and he was actually quite a looker under all that makeup) shall remain anonymous. However, he is a famous chef these days somewhere in the East and you may have actually seen him on TV at one time or another. And that's the end of that. Don't bother pressing, I shan't say another word. My lips are sealed.

Besides, I don't think he's out to his mommy yet. Or anybody else.

Anyway, I hope you get some sort of perverse kick out of watching me cruise down memory lane.

G'day, Possums!

Ah, Show Biz

Click on photo in order to (as Joe of JoeMyGod says) "embiggen."

Some people have asked me why I have such a teensy picture of myself in my profile. Well, up until this past winter, frankly, it was the most recent picture I had of myself. Yes, yes, and I was semi-disguised behind sunglasses, too.

But after a year of blogging I've decided to rummage through the pictorial trunk and see what else I could come up with to give you, Dear Reader, a couple of yuks.

I've already posted the picture of myself in boot camp, which was pretty scary. I looked like an anorexic miler.

But after the service I started to fill out a little and did some college theater. I have a bunch of photos of myself in various productions there, but this is my all time favorite photo of me (I'm the tall one, 2nd from the left) in my all-time favorite show (Damn Yankees). I loved singing barbershop quartet with the other guys (2 of whom I'm still in touch with). We did it in summer stock, on a nightly rotating rep basis, along with "Death of a Salesman" and "Hotel Paradiso." Let me tell you, it was confusion every night in the dressing rooms trying to figure out if we were supposed to be depressed or overjoyed.

To this day the closing night of Damn Yankees remains one of my most cherished memories of my college years. By then the show had developed a following in our college town of Newark, Delaware, and the place was packed with DY groupies who anticipated every joke and gave us rousing ovations after every song. And the more they loved and gave to us, the more we loved and gave to them. The intense feelings of euphoria poured across the apron of the stage in both directions that night. It was magical.

It was especially flattering to me because some fan kept stealing my headshot from the company bulletin board in the lobby throughout the run of the show. I think we had to replace it 3 or 4 times.

I had bigger roles in my 4 years of stage acting, certainly more "important" roles in Shakespeare or Chekhov, but none of them ever gave me the sense of joy and satisfaction I got from playing "Smokey," a member of the quartet, in "Damn Yankees."

Show-Business

Note the hyphen in between the "Show" and "Business" in today's title. That's because there ain't one without the other. I could never get that through my thick skull. I thought if I were as well-loved and funny on stage in New York as I had been, well, at the University of Delaware, my career was assured -- along with fame, wealth and a corner booth on the main floor at Sardi's.

I had to settle for being a member of SAG, AFTRA and Equity which, if you remembered to bring your union cards with you, would entitle you to ask for "the actor's menu" at Sardi's, whereupon the prices were about half what the unsuspecting tourists would pay.

Every year, on this magical night, I start to watch the Antoinette Perry Awards (aka "The Tonys") which are not to be confused with the Sarah Siddons Society Awards, which you see Eve Harrington receiving in the opening scene of "All About Eve." But I digress.

I moved to NYC, in the Spring of 1978, having some vague notion that I was embarking on a glamorous career in show business. It turned out, of course, that in addition to a desire to be famous and wealthy, you also had to be incredibly talented and phenomenally lucky. I was passably talented (good enough for regional ... well, dinner... theater). But I never had a lick of luck at anything (other than surviving every feeble attempt I made to kill myself with liquor and drugs).

And every year, as I watch the Tonys being handed out to an increasingly younger and demonstrably gayer crowd of theater denizens I think to myself, "What have they got that I haven't.... oh, wait. That's right. Now I remember."

But as a lonely, gay teenager, hiding out in my bedroom, watching the first network broadcast of the Tonys in 1967 on a grainy black and white set, wondering who or what would ever come along to rescue me from the clutches of the Evil Queen (my alcoholic mother), my imagination caught fire and I got some hope. Maybe, someday, I would be up on that stage, accepting an award for best actor in a musical from Angela Lansbury or Joel Grey. And that would "show them", them being the people downstairs who were sucking the life out of me at such a tender age.

Well, I never got that award, and that's okay. I'm content to be who I am today. I'm content with me. And I don't need any awards to validate me. I certainly don't need to "show them" anymore because "them" are long since gone.

They say that "living well is the best revenge." You know what? That's true. I don't have squat, yet I still live better than most people I know.

Best of all, I get to write all my own reviews.

You call this "dating?"

I have a "date" today, only neither of us is using the "d" word to describe what it is that we're doing.

My friends all think it's "dating", so I guess it is. I just don't want to jinx it by calling it that. As far as I'm concerned it's just two gay guys going into Manhattan to see a show then have dinner at a quaint little French bistro I just adore on the West Side called "Chez Napoleon." (My friend Bev will instantly attest to the quaintness of this place, since I once dragged her and Walt there, too... only that wasn't a "date", but I'm stalling, aren't I?)

Oh, alright, if two gay guys are going to be dining at a quaint little bistro AND seeing an off-Broadway show together (it's "Bill W. and Doctor Bob", about the two founders of Alcoholics Anonymous, which, by the way, has no opinion about this show, but the NYTimes critic did, and she loved it) and, I'm stalling again, aren't I?

OKAY, IT'S A "DATE"! THERE. SATISFIED NOW???!!!

Sheesh.

My friend Rosemary practically beat the crap out of me yesterday morning until I admitted that it was a "date." So why am I still putting quote marks around it? Am I that afraid?

YES.

This is so stupid. It's just dinner and a show with somebody I really like, have known for at least 8 years (I met him not long after I got sober), and somebody who's a lot of fun to be around and who makes me happy and feel good inside and ....

Would it be okay to refer to him as "My Activity Partner"?

I'll keep you posted.