Keep Manhattan, Just Give me That Countryside!

Okay.....it began as a simple aside. My friend Jonathan Kitzen was up at the house last year, not long after I had made the trek from Los Angeles to the Catskills. He surveyed the land and (casually) commented on the fact that since there were maple trees on the property, come next year (in other words, now) I could be making my own maple syrup. Hmm.

“Really?” I responded. “What a festive idea!” and let it go at that. Little did I know what was in store. Surprised that I even survived the Winter (which bit my flat white ass like an Evil Bitch from the gaping maw of Hell itself) I observed the snow melting and began to notice plumes of steam rising into the atmosphere from various farms scattered all over the county.

“That would be sap boiling” was the answer from the very talented and fabulous Ellany Gable when I inquired as to the source. “It’s maple syrup time”, which triggered the (casual) comment from Kitzen....

I began to muse. “Was it really possible to make my own maple syrup from my own maple trees in my own back yard?” The idea seemed ludicrous, yet alluring.... Ludicrous ideas are probably better off left to their own defenses, me thinks. Hind sight? 20/20.

Internet searches began to creep into my psyche. Apparently, it was in the realm of possibilities. There are literally hundreds of sites dedicated to instructional manuals on the how-to’s of producing maple syrup from the one-man-band, boil at your own risk, (not for the faint of heart) method of maple syrup production. Remember Lucy stomping grapes? Child’s play.

According to Randall B Heiligmann at Ohio State University (shoulda been my first clue- what the hell do they know about maple syrup in Ohio?) the process is simple. A few necessities- A drill for the spouts (aka Spile) being used, buckets or bags, plastic tubing, elderberry stems, (WTF?) gallon jugs, storage tanks and various and sundry pans, pots, canning jars and materials for straining the boiled sap during the last steps of the process. Hmmm.

Being a man, it did not occur to me to read all of the instructions or feel as if I needed to follow them to the letter. I don’t stop at a gas station to ask for directions... why then, would I stop by a farm and ask for helpful hints? I guess simply assumed that I could do my own IKEA version. Tap the damn tree and the sap will flow. Hmm.

Having (admittedly) skimmed my manual, I overlooked the possibility that I might need a hydrometer (whatever that is) and that this process should always be conducted outdoors.
“The raw sap needs to be boiled at temperatures in the range of 200-230 degreesF. Steam given off during boiling carries small amounts of sap and syrup that can be very sticky” Hmmm.

I drilled. I tapped. I waited. Unless weather conditions are idyllic, there can be days when there is no sap flow. Other days can produce up to several gallons of raw sap from a single tree.("This", I tell myself, "explains why three ounces of genuine, honest-to-god maple syrup costs $28.00" The trees and buckets must be checked constantly, since there are very strict time frames involved. Too cold out? No sap for you! Too warm out? Sap can turn rancid on you in a New York minute. Too busy to check the buckets? Bucket (and highly prized contents) is overflowing and attracting insects of every shape and size.

The sap flow began slowly, teasing me with visions of Vermont and log cabins, Amish folk toiling away for tourists. I’m guessing my fingers were a bit sticky and I must have missed page 11 of the manual.

Elated that I had by now (about 5 days in) collected @ 5 gallons of raw materials, I unglued the pages only to discover that it takes FORTY-THREE gallons of sap to produce ONE GALLON of syrup and that in order to produce the syrup, I needed to boil somewhere between 16 and 28 hours at a time, adding sap to the pot as I went along, reducing it to a mere fraction of the opening bid. Hmmm.

I figure “Can’t hurt to try, I’m already a bit sticky” and so I begin. Setting up the fire outdoors (as freshly instructed) I find that to reach the temperatures necessary for a continuous roiling boil, I then have to check my pots on a minute to minute basis and continue to add raw sap as the liquid boils down, stoke the fire, tote that barge, lift that bale.

I move the process indoors “Just for a minute” I tell myself, to see if I can speed up the momentum. Well, it boiled on the stove all right. “I have a vent” I tell myself, as the steam rises into the air, neglecting the fact that we have 16 foot-high ceilings. I put the timer on 30 minutes as I work at the computer. I continue to add sap (per instructions) and feel quite pleased with myself that (against all warning) the boiling method (indoors) seems to have great advantages. About 5 hours in, I notice that the air in the kitchen seems, well....moist. as I gaze at the 16 foot high ceiling, something clear and warm drips onto my face. I look up again. I scream. “Hmm, guess i oughtta get that sap outdoors again” I rasp, as I race around the house, sopping up what is now a continuous downpour of steam, sap and syrup literally raining down on me (and of course, the dog).

I throw out yet another teflon pot, toss my second pair of shoes into the trash and begin again, more determined than ever before. I will not let a tree get the best of me, regardless of how sticky it wants to be. I dedicate items of clothing to the event. (They call me Mister Sappy Pants)

Five days and many, many gallons of raw, undiluted, tasteless sap later, I have reached "critical mass" and the once clear liquid is about to experience the magic of molecular change from sap into syrup. Having skipped page 14 altogether, I am unaware that this “miracle" takes place within a 3 minute time frame and if you miss it- you have a gooey, sticky, burnt piece of rock-hard maple candy (Oy!) at the bottom of your (once again destroyed) Teflon pot. Hmmm.

I call my mother in hysterics, to inform her that I have not slept for days and that I was quite possibly in over my head. I hauled sap, I boiled. And boiled. I spilled sap down the front of my shirt. On my shoes. On the dog. I stepped in (clear) sap and walked through the house. I picked bugs out of buckets and then boiled a bit more. At this point, I had successfully produced over one ounce of maple syrup and "was done", I shrieked at my poor Mother, "Done. No more syrup!"

She asked me how it tasted. Tasted? Had not occurred to me to check. After the six straining's through gauze and spending 2 days cleaning the floor (and dog) and tossing my second pair of sticky sneakers into the trash, tasting it was the last thing on my mind. I was still haunted by having found myself in my pajamas (during a snow storm) stirring boiling sap and weeping quietly with Liza the wonder dog (ever present) at my side.

Earlier that day, my neighbor told me had spied me screaming at a maple tree, pounding it with my fist and demanding that it start flowing. Evidently, she had observed me flailing my arms about, gesticulating wildly and calling the tree a selfish bitch. Hmm.

I hung up the phone and approached the jar holding over one ounce of golden liquid and stuck my finger in. I tasted it. I swooned. I think I wept for a brief, shining moment. I picked up my drill and my taps and my buckets and marched my sorry ass out into the yard. Had a brief chat with the trees and apologized for my outburst earlier in the day. I decided that if the tree was willing to do it’s part and flow (on a good day), then I was willing to give it another shot.

Everyone I spoke to made sure to let me know they wanted samples, even while I assured them I had produced enough syrup for (possibly) one pancake, (which I don’t even eat). Hmm.

I am now 2 weeks into the process. After spending hundreds of hours boiling, straining, collecting, cajoling, crying and throwing away clothing, I have @ 8 ounces of syrup. But this is no ‘Aunt Jemima Original Recipe” (which apparently means that it contains absolutely no maple syrup whatsoever) high fructose corn syrup, cellulose gum concoction. This is a sticky, gooey slice of heaven in a jar. Better than sex. (Hmm) This is my life now, my raison d’etre, the reason why I was put on earth.

The story is far from over. I have yet to check my buckets for the day. Time is running out, sap season is almost gone. After spending 12 hours boiling the other day, I happened to look in the mirror and saw something white sticking out from the back of my neck. Upon inspection, turned out to be a piece of cheese cloth stuck to my hair (For all you home hobbyists- maple syrup makes an excellent glue!)

I have tasted the nectar of the Gods and am undaunted in my task. I will (come hell or high water) make enough syrup to have french toast this weekend. (Or die trying, whichever comes first.) As far as sending syrup to all my friends? Yeah, right- as soon as they start spinning straw into gold.

When I told my pal Greenlee that it had been on my “bucket list” to make maple syrup before I die, he pointed out that it was probably the only thing on my list that required an actual bucket. Hmmm. Food for thought.

The Hanukkah Story......Still Illuminating After All!

I think I was five years old when the light bulb went on, eliminating any shadow of doubt....Christmas and Hanukkah were not the same! I guess it was Kindergarten that set the flood gates open. Until then, I had been either at home or nursery school, which was held at Temple Concord, so my only experiences were all based on being raised in a Jewish household.

Being exposed to all of my new classmates , out there in the “real world”, set in motion the many changes that take place as children begin the adventure of learning about the world around them. I came home filled with questions about Santa Claus, Christmas trees, Stockings filled with toys...even a few about Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Somehow, in the good ole’ days, my mother always seemed to be one step ahead of me. Ever prepared, she brought out a new ‘Golden Book’ which I vaguely recall being entitled “The Festival of Lights- the Story of Judah and the Maccabees”. I tried to find it on Ebay, but no luck yet.

“After all, you can read now” my mother reminded me, “I think you’ll find the story illuminating” she added. “Let me know if you have any questions”

I ran up to my room, excited to know that there was a great big book, filled with illustrations, that would provide the answers to all of these new and perplexing queries. Until that moment, I had assumed that every family on every street was lighting the candles, one at a time, and speaking Hebrew. It was the same year that the concept of giving...and receiving gifts, really started to take hold.

I read that book over and over again. I was entranced with the very idea that a small but determined group of people
led by Judah Maccabee and his brothers, could band together and find like-minded individuals, who all believed that they had the right to choose their God.

Jerusalem had been under siege by Antiochus Epiphany, who dreamed of being as powerful a ruler as Alexander the Great had been over 100 years earlier. In his ignorance of the Jewish faith, coupled with his desire to change and dominate the people who lived in the land he had seized control of, Antiochus began the destruction of the Jewish Temples, and drove those who would not obey, into the hills.

It was hiding in those hills and knowledge of the land that allowed the Maccabees to build their resistance and and become a tiny faithful group that, after months of planning and praying, began to fight back- winning battles that seemed impossible to the great Syrian army that had been sent to destroy them originally.

Against all odds, The Jews were able to finally reclaim Jerusalem and Judah found a Temple that had been defiled, but not destroyed. Knowing that his first task was to rededicate the Temple, he gathered the holy men to help. Traditionally, in the days before Antiochus, all sacred temples had oil lamps that continuously burned, as a symbol of the peoples faith and their dedication to Judaism.

Finding only enough oil for one night was a blow to Judah and the Maccabees, as they needed more time to spread the word that the fighting was over- and that the hundreds of others who had been in hiding could safely return and rejoice.

Judah knelt before the altar and prayed that the lamp would remain lit, allowing them the time they needed.Miraculously, the oil continued to fuel the flame for eight nights. Some say that it got even brighter with each day. The Temple once again glowed with the symbol of the Jewish Faith. Those eight days and nights came to be celebrated with an annual festival and ever since then, Jewish people all over the world have celebrated this event.

Suddenly, the menorah made sense to me. The gifts exchanged, one per day, over the 8 days also had new significance. I don’t remember being sad that I didn’t have a Santa Claus, or midnight mass. What I remember is a renewed sense of what it meant to be Jewish and that people all over the world had many different beliefs.

I remember my mother filling in the gaps and explaining diversity and faith. I remember feeling special that our family had different traditions than my friends up the street. I remember going to a neighbors to see them light their tree and their family coming to our house for latkes and the ceremonial lighting of the menorah. I remember reading about Judah and The Maccabees. As I remember, it’s still a pretty good story.

THEY SHOOT AUTHORS, DON'T THEY?

I am not a political pundit, nor do I have any desire to act as such. While I may have an opinion about almost everything, political agenda has never been a platform from which I choose to dive (head first or otherwise).

This election year has been most stimulating, however- and while I usually go out of my way to steer clear of such conversation at the occasional cocktail party or the Elks Lodge pancake breakfast, I found myself chatting with a neighbor last week at the local crafts fair petting zoo.....and Sarah Palin finally managed to get my goat.

An article in TIME MAGAZINE www.time.com/politics/article/0,8599,18379,00html
two weeks ago referred to certain actions that Ms. Palin took during her term in office as Mayor of Wasilla, Alaska in 1996. Apparently, these factoids are a matter of public record.

According to Vicki Naegele, (then managing editor of the Mat-Su Frontiersman) Palin told department heads that they needed her permission to talk to reporters- “She put a gag order on those people, something you’d expect to find in the big city, not here” says Naegele. “She flew in there like a big-city gal, which she’s not. It was a strange time, and (The Frontiersman) came out very harshly against her”

Palin went on to attempt to inject religious beliefs into her policy at times. “She asked the library how she could go about banning books”, according to political opponent John Stein, “because some voters thought they had inappropriate language in them- the librarian was aghast” That woman, Mary Ellen Baker, couldn’t be reached for comment, but news reports from the time show that Palin had “threatened to fire Baker for not giving ’full support’ to the Mayor”

A contributor to http://www.librarian.net/ names the books that Palin attempted to ban from the library. Here’s where it gets personal. (and the canker gnaws, not unlike the aforementioned goat)

The first book on her (to be burned) list was A WRINKLE IN TIME by Madeleine L’Engle. When I was seven years old, my mother took me by the hand and led me to our local library in downtown Binghamton, New York - which started my journey on a lifelong path of discovery and enlightenment called reading.

It was a bright, sunny day and I was still young enough to believe that the world was a beautiful place. My life was filled with joy and laughter, climbing trees and Kool-Aid. Tears and sorrow, disillusionment and pain were yet to be thought of- still light years off, in a galaxy far, far away.

With the help of our (long dead) librarian (I still have my very first library card, buried in the abyss ) and the gentle guidance of my mother, I scampered out of the library, my first ‘borrowed’ books clutched ever-so-tightly in my tiny, innocent hands and flew to my room to read (all by myself- for the very first time) A WRINKLE IN TIME .

I was instantly, magically, transported to a new world- one of imagination, creativity and excitement. A world that flung wide it’s arms to me and opened the floodgates that, to this day, amaze and delight me every time I crack open a new tome, another chapter in the
"NEVERENDING STORY" that is literature.

A WRINKLE IN TIME revolves around a too-smart-for-his -own-good little boy (I could relate), his older (too-nerdy-for-her-own-good) sister (I had one of those) their loner-boy neighbor (yup) and their wild and crazy adventures through space and time in a quest to find and connect with their (too-often-absent) father . The enchanting and Nebula Award winning story made me think. Made me learn. Made me laugh. Made me cry.

It was that moment that steered me toward the path I still meander. I was lucky- I had the “Leave it to Beaver”, stay-at-home Mom that told me to “look it up in the dictionary” (ooh, that reminds me- WEBSTERS NINTH NEW COLLEGIATE DICTIONARY was on Sarah Palins’ list of “objectionable” books) when I came across a word I did not recognize. Reading actually taught me, inspired me, nurtured me and ever so gently nudged me forth into a BRAVE NEW WORLD (yes, Aldous Huxley is on “The List”) - a world that the Sarah Palins of the planet would control if they could.

This frightening thought gives me pause. If Palin had been around in 1962 to dictate what books I checked out of the library (free will intact) would I be who I am today? Would I have matured into the man I am at this moment? Would I still possess the desire to learn, to imagine, to grow? Would I have developed the desire to write my own thoughts on a blank page?

There are other authors names on the now - famous list......Chaucer, D.H. Lawrence, Arthur Miller, Shakespeare, Steinbeck and The Brothers Grimm to name a few. I can’t even imagine a world without them. In fact, I’m still trying to imagine what “LIPSTICK ON A PIG” would look like.

A RAY OF SUNSHINE

Reprinted with express permission of The Towne Crier www.crierwired.com email comments or questions to: criernews@yahoo.com


9/07/08

“TWO MEN TALKING” CREATES STIMULATING CONVERSATION

By Jonathan Fox
The Towne Crier

The Tusten Theatre in Narrowsburg, NY is a charming venue nestled in the Catskills and apparently produces a variety of interesting and thought-provoking productions in association with the Delaware Valley Arts Alliance.

Last nights performance of “Two Men Talking” was certainly no exception. The authors, Paul Browde, MD and Murray Nossel, PHD are not actors, nor is the non-scripted production a play, per se. The gentlemen - and the production are nonetheless highly entertaining, thought provoking, often very amusing and theatrical and the audience arrived in droves, during a torrential downpour, no less, to show their enthusiastic support.

This “Performance Piece” is unusual in many respects- there are no sets nor props, the “staging” is non-existent and yet the mood created by these two men, alone on a bare stage is both moving and inspiring.

Paul Browde is a psychiatrist in private practice in New York City and Murray Nossel is an Academy Award nominated documentary film maker and practiced as a clinical psychologist in their native South Africa.

These men are both adept at story telling and their personal stories have intertwined in fascinating ways over the span of two decades. While no two performances are exactly alike, like snow flakes, they are each unique and beautiful and they weave their spell over the audience each night in different ways.

From their boyhood meeting as privileged, white upper-class South African Jews- to their adult lives - which take many twists and turns over the years as gay men dealing with the issues of Apartheid, AIDS, family and friends, their tales range from charming to alarming in the blink of an eye, the whole while captivating the audience with their wit, intelligence and panache.


From the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem to the streets of London to the decadent decade of “Sex, drugs and Rock ‘n Roll” in San Francisco, their stories are infused with humor, pathos and entertaining anecdotes that kept the audience mesmerized for 75 minutes or so, with no intermission.

An informal “question and answer” mini-event was held after the performance and surprisingly, the vast majority of theatergoers stayed in their seats for an opportunity to ask some probing and thoughtful questions of the authors, providing yet another opportunity to be entertained and informed about the variety of topics covered in the too-short addendum to the show.

The pair have performed this piece, in it’s many incarnations, all over the world and have formed a company that takes their unique perspective to private corporations and various organizations, encouraging the “private sector’ to share their own personal stories as a path to personal enlightenment and emotional growth.

How fortunate we are, that even here, tucked away in upstate New York (where both men own homes and spend much deserved “down time”) there is a place where we can gather as one and share some of these very special moments together.

SMALL, NOT FUNNY...... NOT FINE

9/06/08
Norman Duttweiler, Producer
Forestburgh Playhouse/Theater AMDG, Inc.
39 Forestburgh Road
Forestburgh, NY 12777

Dear Norman:
(I address you informally, since I feel as if we know each other- I have been attending shows at the theater for almost eight years.....and you appear to recognize me when I walk through the door- one of the many charms of a night out at the FBP)

I am writing you in regard to my most recent experience at the Playhouse: “GYPSY”........

One of the reasons I am doing so is that you and your associates ask us for feedback, on stage and in the programs- the insert questionnaire makes it clear that you are interested in what we, the viewing audience, think and feel in response to the various performances- and while I wish I had more positive comments regarding this particular production, please be aware that I have enjoyed many shows in the past and have contacted you in other seasons with praise as well........so my interest in doing so is not an isolated incident.

I’m an avid theater enthusiast and have enjoyed many performances at the Forestburgh Playhouse over the years- therefore I implore you to receive this in the spirit in which it is intended. I am a fan and shall remain so- however, for me, GYPSY was a disaster- from the second the overture began.....and remained so until I left at intermission- something I have done fewer than six times in the fifty years I have been attending live theater.

It would be fair to say that I have a soft spot in my heart for GYPSY- it has always been one of my favorites and I was thrilled to see that you were mounting a production this summer- I have seen the show done many, many times, in assorted venues, from Broadway to Summer Stock, so it would be unfair to assume that I arrived with any sort of preconceived notion of what was to come.

That being said, I felt strongly enough about this particular production to share my thoughts with you and purposely waited a good period of time before doing so, since my initial reaction (aside from horror and dismay) was one of pure anger.

I, as an audience member, felt cheated and betrayed on Tuesday, July 1st, perhaps even more so because I was excited to be seeing one of my favorite shows- in one of my favorite places- the Forestburgh Playhouse!

I think I am fairly well versed in the theater and have had my share of experience both on and off the stage , which gives me some insight to both viewpoints (in my own humble opinion)- so without further ado- I will now share.......

I think that there are some pieces better left to their own devices- and GYPSY to me, is no exception. While it might be “fun” to play with Shakespeare and set MACBETH in the Wild, Wild West- it is not necessarily a good idea, nor (in my humble opinion) is it a good idea to “rethink” the role of Mama Rose and make her playful, sweet, adorable,sensitive, lovable, naive and vulnerable. I believe that Jule Styne, Arthur Laurents and Stephen Sondheim were well aware of what characteristics they wished to portray in Rose- and made fine decisions regarding when to manipulate the audience into realizing those various aspects of a such a dynamic and multifaceted individual.

The fact that the character of Rose is based on an actual living human being also comes into play. While GYPSY is “suggested by the memoirs” of her daughter.....one cannot escape understanding that the show was written about real people and that certain basic and fundamental aspects of their personalities were facts and not necessarily open to interpretation.....

This remains another good argument (in my humble opinion) to not reinterpret a role which has virtually become a part of the American Theater Landscape. When one thinks of the term “Stage Mother” one conjures up a vision of Mama Rose.....and I believe the role should be interpreted by both actor and director as such, along with the respect due the authors of such a brilliant piece of Theater History.

Honestly, I was horrified. If I didn’t know that I was supposed to be ‘surprised’ by Rose’s entrance from the back of the house, I would certainly not have made that assumption based on the entrance made by Leslie Alexander. Given her meek and totally unimposing interpretation of the character, coupled with a choice to have her not be loud, obnoxious or “over the top”- hardly left room for her to appear vulnerable or for the audience to feel for her when her guard is finally let down later on in the show.






The only emotion I felt was one of pity for some of the other performers, who had to work with Ms. Alexander and her incredibly boring, ill-conceived , one-note interpretation of Mama Rose. (Of course, this is only my humble opinion)

Even though I have allowed time to pass between my seeing the show and putting “pen to paper”, I still shudder at some of the unbelievable choices that were made. I phrase this carefully, since I do believe these were, indeed, choices. It would be far more forgivable to think otherwise.

Somewhere along the "rehearsal road” someone made a choice to use a stuffed animal instead of a real, live dog. This seems inconceivable, yet it’s true. One of the many charms of the Forestburgh Playhouse is it’s intimate setting and that there isn’t a “Bad Seat in the House”......why then, even attempt to make me believe that the poor creature is holding a real dog- this isn’t ANNIE for God’s sake......the dog is hardly an integral part of the story line. If a live dog couldn’t be found, or there wasn’t money in the budget, or the dog that had been cast (if only!) died on opening night, why oh why, did someone not just open their mouth (anyone- even the Janitor) and say “For Christ’s sake- just cut the damn dog” ?

To fail so miserably to create the illusion (perhaps I should say “specter”) of poor ‘Chowsie’ immediately set the tone for the evening ahead and barely ten minutes had elapsed.

Quincy Confoy gave a competent and vivacious performance as Baby June. For some bizarre reason, Tim Mulalley was apparently directed (?) to portray POP as a grinning, foolish New York Cabbie who smirked his way through a thankless role, made even more so by the actor’s performance.

Unfortunately for the audience, (and I must say, the lack of response was palpable) we then had to suffer, as a group, through Ms. Alexander’s rendition of ‘Some People’. Weak, unfocused, tuneless and ineffectual are only some of the words that come to mind. I thank God she wasn’t dragging the “Pound Puppy” behind her on a string or holding an “invisible dog leash” from Disneyland in the hand that wasn’t calculating each and every second she had to endure before grabbing that damn plaque off the wall, since we could actually see the actor calculating each and every move she was about to execute before doing so.


By some stroke of extraordinary luck, we had the good fortune of some talent appearing in this train wreck. Bruce Sabath (as Herbie), Jessica Wagner (as June) and Laura Beth Wells (as Louise) were the proverbial “breath of fresh air” in an otherwise talent-free cast. This is a wonder to me, considering the enormous pool of talent that the theater has at it’s disposal. Considering it’s proximity to New York City and the vast array of actors available for the season, it seems incredible that there were not other fine casting choices that could have been made.

Bruce Sabath brought depth and a fine singing voice to the table and must have had difficulty working opposite the wooden, one-note (off key, no less) performance of the aforementioned Leslie Alexander.

While “Small World” could have been a golden opportunity for the audience to catch a glimpse of what lies underneath the facade of false bravado that Rose presents to the world at large, we had already been given little else from her and as a result, the number fell flat on it’s face, despite the valiant efforts of Mr. Sabath.

Suffice it to say that “no comment” is the best tactic to employ rather than discussing some of the other musical numbers in the show. While Quincy Confoy (Baby June)did her best with “Let Me Entertain You” she was backed up by a clumsy gaggle of girly-boys, who apparently were given as little direction as everyone else on stage that evening. The very same group limped their way through “Mr. Goldstone”, a number that is usually performed with vigor and enthusiasm- sadly, this time, not so much.

The clouds parted briefly as Laura Beth Wells took the stage alone to offer her beautiful and plaintive rendition of “Little Lamb” giving the audience a moment to sit back and remember that “GYPSY” was written beautifully and artfully, even though the actress was singing to some sort of stuffed animal- probably the synthetic-fleece version of Chowsie from Act One, Scene One.

Ms. Alexander continued to sedate the audience (and undoubtedly her costar) while performing “You’ll Never Get Away From Me”, which reminded me of the old adage about the “Pink Elephant in the Room”, since all I could think about was “getting away from her” as we suffered through the barnyard sequence and were finally rewarded with two talented people on stage, at the same time.


Jessica Wagner and Laura Beth Wells sang their hearts out (“If Mama Was Married) and roused the audience into showing our collective appreciation for their efforts. As far as I can recall, this was the first time there was actually a positive reaction from the audience, including myself, and we all enthusiastically applauded. Funny, isn’t it?

The role of Tulsa is a plum for any actor lucky enough to pluck it from the audition process.....Not only does the character play a pivotal role in the story line, but has one of the best numbers in the show, which is saying a lot, since the show is (under normal circumstances) chock-full of ‘show-stoppers”.

Apparently, the director (Edward Juvier) did not feel it necessary to cast someone who was capable of both singing and dancing at the same time- since Scott Patrick Allan was in no position to do so, even though it is the only requirement for the actor chosen for the role. Mr. Allan was clearly not up to the challenge since he was literally huffing and puffing
half -way through the routine and clearly had no business attempting to do so, once again leaving it up to Laura Beth Wells and her wig, ( which apparently was a football helmet covered in fake fur-) to salvage the scene.

At this point in the show, one is normally deeply involved in the story and therefore moved by Mama Rose’s reaction to June and Tulsa running off, along with the Newsboys (couldn’t wait to see them go!) and Act One has built up enough momentum to allow Rose to knock us out with one of the show’s signature songs, “Everything’s Coming Up Roses”. Sadly ,I was wishing that I had been knocked unconscious, rather than having to suffer through yet another poorly executed hatchet-job. Everything may have been coming up roses, but in this case, they were already wilted and instead of a lovely lingering scent, they left behind the stench of death and decay.

It was never my intention, even after the curtain fell on Act One, to abandon ship- since there were so many wonderful moments in the show still to come. The Toreadorables, the Strippers, Louise’s transformation from ugly duckling into the amazing Gypsy Rose Lee, the list goes on- but I was afraid of what might lie ahead. Act One was such a disaster, I could only imagine the butchering of Act two and I just didn’t have the heart to see it unfold before my already saddened and disillusioned eyes.


It may not have been fair to the performers, but I already felt that they and the director (and ultimately, the artistic director of the company at large) had been incredibly unfair to me. Apparently, I was not alone - as I made my way to the parking lot, there were others leaving, undoubtedly as disappointed as myself, some heatedly discussing it, some simply shaking their heads in disbelief.

When I got home, I called my Mother and told her the bad news. Her reaction? “How do you F***K up GYPSY”? she asked.
“I don’t know, Mom” I replied. “You’ll have to ask Norman Duttweiler. After all, he’s the producer”

CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS

I am on a fairly restricted diet: no seeds, no nuts, nothing with “skin”, no additives, no preservatives, no colorants, no spice, nothing acidic, no popcorn,(arrgh!) no liquor, no flavor, no nothin’......probably should become a Breatharian.

My Doctor would be thrilled if I ate turkey and mashed potatoes for every meal, three times a day- for the rest of my bland and colorless life.

About ten years ago, I had several surgeries resulting in the inability to enjoy food again. Ever.

But, of course, that’s another story.

Suffice it to say that occasionally....maybe a few times a year- my taste buds revolt and cry out for something baaad. Preservatives, additives, technicolor snacks that will force my dinner plate into a state of chemically enhanced frivolity- taunting my palate with demonic glee.

It’s true what they say- “You are what you eat”- and every great once in a while, I wanna feel goood!

I crept out at 10:30 P.M. under the cover of darkness, to satisfy my wanton lust for some verboten treat- something that would make the tree hugging, wheat germ huffing, organically correct, over zealous staff at Whole Foods literally gag.



I set my sights on Cocoa Puffs, hold the soy milk.


As I perused the cereal aisle scanning all of the other choices (Lucky Charms, Count Chocula, Frosted Flakes!) I noticed that the word “sweet” was conspicuously absent from the psychedelic boxes designed to lure the kid in all of us. I began to tremble slightly and wondered if I was about to actually swoon over the possibility that even Corn Pops (nee Sugar) had morphed into something ‘healthy’.......

The room began to spin as I stretched out my quivering hand for the treasure. Cocoa Puffs within my grasp, I hit the floor and everything went black.

When I came to I noticed several things at once. I was surrounded by a mound of cereal boxes, there were people screaming.....and my head hurt baaad.

Apparently, I had passed out cold while convulsing uncontrollably, writhing on the freshly buffed floor of aisle nine. Naturally, I was a bit confused - gazing helplessly into the eyes of several panic - stricken strangers, some on cell phones, one woman weeping, amid the clatter of paramedics screeching around the corner, gurney at the ready.

As they came to my aid, I attempted to sit up but realized I was in pain and slumped against the mountain of Rice Crispies - slurring some words in answer to the barrage of questions hurled at me. Did I know my name? Who the President was? Where I lived?


I answered them all, pleased that I had passed their weird test- and then the ultimate question.

The cute guy in the blue jumpsuit pointed to the timepiece on my left hand and asked me what it was. I looked at my wrist and pondered his question. Nothing came to mind.

I looked at him and then at his equally adorable partner. I looked back at that thing with the numbers on it- it was clearly marking some sort of passage of time- and yet what it was still eluded me. It was then that I realized something was wrong. Something baaad.

After what seemed like an hour, I cleared my throat and announced that it was a clock. A clock......sounded right to me. The guy who couldn’t make it through medical school patted me on the head and said “That’s good, Jonathan- not the answer I was looking for- but good”

By now I was on the gurney and informed I was going to the emergency room. I sat up and yelped back that I was not and that I was fine, no worries. It was then that it occurred that I was drooling (ever so slightly) and that my left arm was swinging freely, unencumbered by that pesky socket. I suggested a compromise. I would go to the hospital if they would allow me to drive myself and asked mock-doctor McDreamy if he had any idea how much a joyride in an ambulance costs these days.

He shook his tousled mane (not unlike the Breck Girl of days gone by) and told me that he had no choice. The state of California apparently dictates how he handle the situation, much to my chagrin.





The next few hours are a blur. I remember being asked a LOT of questions. Calls to my personal physician, tests, tests, tests.

Slowly, as if in a dream I began to hear the doctor’s words. I had endured a seizure and suffered a small stroke (Hmm) . Apparently, while I was doing the “Horizontal Mambo” alone (So what else is new?) on the highly polished dance floor, I self-inflicted a “Severe Brain Injury” (heretofore known as S.B.I.)and dislocated my left shoulder. My left eye drooped a teeny bit. I couldn’t make a fist with my left hand, nor walk with my left leg.
I looked gooood.

Somewhere around three A.M. I was informed that I was to be admitted. By this time I had heard the theme song from “The Adams Family” play endlessly in my head a thousand times, begging the nurses to make it stop. I was told this was not “uncommon” (WTF?)

I begged the attending to get my Doctor on the phone again and cried into the mouthpiece. He gave me the choice of going home to my own bed, after being told that they were just going to ‘observe’ me as I pointed out that I was not made of money (“Insurance only covers eighty percent you know!”.....)

I agreed to let the staff get me a cab rather that waking any of my neighbors at that Godforsaken hour and slinked out of the wheelchair into the grimy back seat of a taxi, trying my best to appear chipper to my driver, Achmed.


I slipped him an extra ten to take me to the grocery store parking lot where he unceremoniously dropped my ass off and sped into the night, cursing the stupidity of all Americans.

With diminished faculties, I revved the motor of my trusty pickup and drove off, suddenly realizing how difficult and challenging driving a stick shift can be when you only have one hand, one eye and one leg.

Hilarity ensued as I wound my way down Colorado Avenue, weaving drunkenly and narrowly avoiding crashing ‘round every bend as I traversed the six blocks to my crib (Crib? No, that didn’t sound right at all!)

Once I was home, safe (yet not quite sound) I collapsed onto my bed and began the long, slow adventure that would be my healing process......a journey that I am still on. I can walk (albeit a bit cockeyed), I can once again make a fist (albeit slowly) My eye no longer droops, yet I see the world in an entirely different way. The headaches have diminished ( although my S.B.I. haunts me from time to time) and I lost the entire summer to a pack of rehab ghouls who clearly enjoyed torturing me into submission (under the guise of “good health”)

Apparently, I am going to make a “full recovery” (still waiting for THAT to happen!) and have cheated Death once more.......Every once in a while, I have to slam my shoulder back into place while debating the pros and cons of surgery to make it permanently honor the agreement between ball and socket.



Have not worked in a while.....although my overall likeness to the “Hunchback of Notre Dame” could come in handy, now that Halloween is upon us. Managed to go camping once, a few weeks ago. But of course, that’s another story.

Lions and Tigers and Bears!

Every year at this time, I wait with anticipation for the opening of "Buckhorn", my favorite campground in the greater Los Angeles area.......although 'season' is supposed to be from April 15th to November 15th- this seems to NEVER be the case & I start dialing the ranger stations for updates in early May. This year was no exception and my fingers (and nerves) were practically raw from constant inquiries regarding same.

Finally, my persistence paid off & Buckhorn opened it's heavily wooded gates last Friday. Sometimes I think they open it just to shut me up- I probably called 20 times in 2 weeks and no doubt John the ranger was glad to get me (figuratively) off his (way too hairy) back.

Leaping around the living room with manly glee, I pinched myself (I still think a nipple-twist would have been more effective) to be sure I wasn't dreaming and began to mentally ready myself for the task at hand-

I looked at Liza the wonder dog and shrieked "let's go camping"! (Again, in a very manly way). As I flew (as if on gossamer wing) to the closet crammed with camping accoutrements, I began to envision using my new fire-engine red spatter ware dishes that I had received for Christmas.....I suddenly remembered that there were also some new "flameless" candles packed away for 'ambiance' on the picnic table. (How did Ellen put it? oh that's right- "Yep, I'm gay"!)

although we (me and the dog) often go camping alone, it is fun (sometimes) to bring along a friend or two. Once in a while, we even make NEW friends in the woods- but that's another story.....

Sure enough, a friend immediately jumped at the opportunity to go along and I agreed to having her join us, even while recalling that she was THREE hours late for departure last year........a mental note that was still stuck in my craw (wherever THAT is).

For sake of argument, we'll call my friend Rosanna,

Pack, schlep, haul.......we're there. Gorgeous and serene. Vibrant and alive. Practically empty, there were maybe three other campsites with people scampering about. (It's possible the actual "scampering" might be in my head)- they were probably tending fires, playing frisbee with their dogs and reading up on the local wildlife whilst hanging between trees on a spider-web of nylon that also rolls up into a ball the size of your fist. ( I LOVE camping "stuff")

Regardless, the place was peaceful, to say the least. To my sheer (and manly) delight, my favorite site was devoid of people, welcoming me with her always outstretched limbs of wooden yearning. I swear, Buckhorn is just as happy to see me as I am to see her- a comforting (if not oddly delusional) thought.

The usual regime of unpacking and setting up began. It's become traditional to literally take everything but the kitchen sink with me. Over the years I have accumulated a huge and diverse array of camping equipment and toys- Rosanna on the other hand, had virtually nothing but a suitcase (not even a duffle bag? A suitcase?) and a bag of tortilla's. Fortunately for her, I had brought along an extra guest-tent, sleeping bags,, air mattress, etc.

After checking out MY tent set-up, she was dismayed to see that I had end tables, carpeting, a front porch (complete with astro-turf) , a tent heater (it was 37 degrees the first night!) and a portable DVD player set up for my viewing pleasure. Apparently, my hosting skills were severely lacking, since I had not provided DVD players for my guest rooms and had completely neglected to leave a mint on the pillow I had so thoughtlessly provided.

The first few days were heavenly. Good food, beautiful warm weather,(during the day, anyhow!) a roaring fire to sit by, while gazing at the beautiful night time skies. The Buckhorn experience at it's finest.

And then Rosanna decided to go on a hike.................Dumb, da dumb dumb... DUMB!

There is a beautiful, well travelled hiking trail up there called the Burkhart Trail. It is traversed yearly by hundreds of visitor's. It is a well known, well marked-yet "challenging" hike which ends in a waterfall and swimmin' hole- the perfect day time camping adventure, one which I have experienced many times and had NO intention of doing on this trip.

I had made that clear and Rosanna was going to do it alone, a notion that in itself did not concern me in the slightest. People do it all the time, myself included, so it did not occur to me that I should try to talk her out of it. Rosanna is a grown woman and she prepared for her hike, trying her best to adapt my manly demeanor and set off at two P.M.- sandwich and water bottle in tow. Ever prepared, I provided her with a walkie-talkie, made sure we were on the same wavelength, and sent her on her way with the usual cautions- "Stay on the trail", "Don't hike more than two hours on the way in" (can't forget that means two hours on the way BACK), "Pace yourself" and remember.......you are in a vast, national forest that does indeed house bears and wild cats and deer, oh my!

In other words, "Be alert, be safe, be smart and have fun-off you go"!

I was happy to have the woods to myself and had already scheduled time for napping (in my own nylon spider web), collecting pine cones ( I spray paint them in pastel colors and sprinkle glitter on them for the holidays- very manly) and maybe watch a little porn on that DVD player in the tent.......a full day at Buckhorn.

Rosanna was planning to make dinner that night (hence the tortilla's) and had alerted me to that, which meant kicking back for me, so I proceeded to scamper (for real) through the woods, high on Jesus.

I believe it was around 4:20 in the afternoon when I surveyed camp- and all my handiwork, admiring my manly outdoor skills. The pride flag was fluttering in the gentle breeze, being supported by my pair of G.I. Joe dolls, set up in their usual compromising position. There were battery operated glitter lights in the trees, "flameless" torches flanking my tent doors, replete with gold tassels and a tiny chandelier hanging inside.my manly tent. Mounds of kindling surrounded the fire pit. As I sang along with the "Pussycat Dolls", I surveyed my domain and gave a manly nod of approval. All was well with my world.

5 P.M. came and went.....as did 6........By 7 P.M. I was hungry and slightly irritated that Rosanna was not back, since she was supposed to cook dinner ("Carne Asada"? What the hell IS that?) and should have been preparing it by then. At 7:30 I went off , Liza in tow ,to the trail head, actually calling her name and repeatedly paging her on the walkie-talkie. Nothing. I began to get concerned, darkness was a comin'......it had not occurred to me that she would be gone over 5 hours.......it is, basically, a 3 hour tour.....a THREE HOUR TOUR. I ran into a hippie camper down by the trail head who said he had not seen her and talked me down (momentarily) from panicking. He asked me if she had a flashlight on her (which I doubted- she had brought 3, none of which worked and had been "borrowing' mine for the past few nights, anytime she had to see anything, anywhere..... breaking one of the cardinal rules- "always provide your own flashlight" (and chair)

I allowed hippie camper to soothe my frazzled nerves for a moment and wondered (while I took a moment to check him out) where the conversation might have led, if I hadn't been about to burst into manly tears. I guess that's another story. He advised me to go back to camp and wait until actual darkness before becoming more alarmed than I already was. I was torn between mounting hysteria and keeping a clear head- somewhere between those two worlds, I still somehow thought it was 4:20.......which added to my slightly disturbed state of mind.....

I spent the hour between 8 and 9 P.M pacing around the fire muttering things like "I can't believe she would do this to me", "This can't be happening" and "What the fuck?" At 9 P.M. all sirens in my head went off at the same moment and I realized my worst fears. Something was indeed wrong and I had to spring into manly action.

Because of the abundance of wildlife in my precious forest, I could not drive off leaving multiple coolers and bags of M & M's laying about, so hurriedly packed everything edible into the back of the pickup (Manly, no?) threw the dog in the front seat and took off in search of help- flashers on- down the Angeles Crest Highway at 5 miles per hour, in case I should pass someone who could help along the way.

I got to a call box about a mile down the road and pulled off, heart racing, literally freaking out. It was pitch-black out, on a Tuesday night in the middle of the woods, and my camping guest was definitely missing. In 25 years of camping California, this was a new experience. I ran to the call box only to discover that it was ripped off the pole ( by vandals, no doubt- probably teenage boys- sounds like another story) and I was confronted with bare wires gaping uselessly at me. Back in the truck, hyperventilating, I drove off again at a snails pace, flashers on.

One other vehicle passed me but did not slow down and I found another call box after a few more (endless, grueling, mind numbing) miles. This one was operational and apparently requires a degree in rocket science to figure out how to use it, this being the 21st century and all. Very high tech. By the time I spoke, in English ( I had dozens of language choices) to a real human being, it was 10 P.M. and I told my tale, chain smoking, gasping for breath, head between my legs, blowing into a brown paper bag..... intermittently praying for death to take me.

Once 'Search and Rescue' had all the vital info, they dispatched helicopters to the mountains, a car to meet me and volunteers to begin combing the woods looking for Rosanna's mutilated, bloody corpse. I had already envisioned my trial and subsequent imprisonment for her death, should the body not be found at all- and was resigned to a life behind bars, cursing the name "Rosanna" 'till the day I gasped my last, raspy (yet somehow manly) breath.

CHP instructed me to "pull it together" and drive back up the mountain to meet them at the entrance to my (now sullied) Buckhorn, flashers on, blah, blah, blah. It took all of my effort to not lose it and just drive off a cliff. Terror was rising ( like lava at Mount. Vesuvius) and I felt as if each moment might be my last as I crept back up the mountain.

This time when a car passed, he slowed to match my crawl- unrolled his window and asked if I was Jonathan? I stopped the truck and got out while he told me that he had found Rosanna on his 112 acre orchard at his ranch in Apple Valley- a mere hour and 1/2 drive away! . Apparently, she had Hmmmm, wandered off the trail. It being 4:20 and all, she became a little 'dazed and confused' and wandered aimlessly through the National Forest for NINE (9) glorious hours! At this point, Mr. Kindly Rancher (wouldn't have happened to me ) offered to DRIVE her ALL THE WAY back to camp, apparently having a cocktail along the way to soothe HER jangled nerves!

I stood in the middle of the Angeles Crest Highway and wept like a (manly) baby. I thanked him, took his name and number and turned around once again, to call off the posse. I spent 25 minutes in
call- box- from -the- future hell, and finally managed to stop the taxpayers from spending three hundred thousand dollars on "helicopters for Rosanna" ( sounds like a worthy telethon)

I drove back to Buckhorn, re-learning how to breathe, and found her- safe and sound. I fought the urge to scream and hugged her tight, truly thankful that she was alive and well, while making a mental note to screen my camping guests even more rigorously from this point on. Camping is not for sissies.....and if it is- they had better provide their own glitter!