Los Angeles

Roddy McDowall’s Home Movies

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Yesterday, Eric came home from work and asked me, “Have you seen those Roddy McDowall home movies that are on YouTube?”  I told him I had not, I’d never even heard of them.  Then I went to YouTube, did a search for “Roddy McDowall home movies” and thus, uncovered a treasure.  These videos, 22 in all, are a very glamorous, gorgeous, sexy, intimate glimpse into the lives of his friends.  Most of the shorts were filmed at Malibu beach house parties in the summer of ’65.  Some of the videos annotate who is in the movie, but part of the fun is watching, trying to determine who is who.  The who’s who includes Natalie Wood, Jane Fonda, Rock Hudson, Anthony Perkins, Lauren Bacall, Tuesday Weld, Paul Newman, Samantha Eggar, Lee Remick, Sal Mineo, Christopher Plummer, Elizabeth Ashley, Suzanne Pleshette, just to name a few.

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I think Roddy McDowall had a cool career.  Not only did he get to play some of the best character roles, he also was an accomplished photographer.  He published several coffee table books that were filled with black and white portraits he’d taken of his famous friends.  IG6412-1
I’ve only reposted one of the YouTube videos, but as you can see, there are several to watch. They all harken us back to another, simpler sun-kissed time. One biography I read said that Roddy McDowall was considered “Hollywood’s Best Friend.” Watching the videos, and seeing the way his friends smile and laugh and pout and flirt when they see the camera is on them, I wholeheartedly agree.

Tonka

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ImageLast night, I was coming home from a show. I parked my car, hurrying by the neighborhood cat, Tonka. Tonka belongs to a family and they feed him, but he is the unofficial mascot of the street on which he lives. This picture does not do him justice, but he’s a lean, handsome fella. Anyway, as I was rushing to get home, I passed by him and I said, “Hi Tonka.” Usually, if I’m not walking the dogs when I see Tonka, I’ll bend down and pet him for a few minutes. He’s an accomplished nuzzler, even though he lives according to the call of the wild. As I passed him on the sidewalk, I looked back to see him following me. And then I turned around and went back to give a little love and receive a little love from him. We had a nice few moments, me talking, him purring. When I walked away again, I thought to myself, why didn’t I just stop to pet him in the first place? I thought I was in a hurry, I thought I didn’t want to have to wash my hands when I got inside my apartment. I nearly robbed myself of a nice treat.

So today’s lesson for me, and for you, if you so desire, is take time to give a little love to the Tonka’s in our lives. It’s worth the time.

Don’t Try So Hard

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Amy_Grant“It’s the stuff we love when we’re young that sticks with us the most,” said Amy Grant last night while she was in concert at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles.  I think I had thought that sentiment before, but I’d never verbalized it.  It’s something that I’ve thought about since her concert, which was amazing.  I believe everyone has a singer or music group that resonates for them the way Amy Grant resonates for me.  She is central to my adolescence and college and even early 20’s.  For my entire life, friendships have been built over a shared love of this woman.  

I experienced a wide range of emotions last night.  When she walked out after a cursory introduction and started singing You’re not Alone in this World, I was ebullient to be at an Amy Grant concert again after a 22 year gap.  When she sang, 1974, I remembered being in my Bible college dorm listening to her on my Sony Walkman.  When she sang Hope Set High, I thought about my years as a youth minister and the kids that were in my youth group and how for years after leaving the ministry, I felt like I’d let them down.  When she sang Sing Your Praise to the Lord, I thought about its songwriter, Rich Mullins, who sang at nearly every Christ in Youth conference I ever attended.  When she sang a cover of Put a Little Love in Your Heart for her encore, I thought it was a perfect choice because, in my mind, Amy Grant has always been about love.  

The crowd was very electic last night.  My friend Richard and I were sandwiched between straight couples in their fifties.  There were also young straight couples, girls night out groups, and of course, several members of the GLBT community.  Richard and I became friends when we met through mutual friends at a Happy Hour in a Mexican restaurant in Silver Lake and one of us mentioned Amy Grant.  I actually think that I gravitated to Amy Grant as a boy because I was gay. She’s Christian music’s Cher.

There was a lesbian couple sitting in the row in front of us. When Amy Grant started singing one of her new songs, Don’t Try So Hard, I saw them lean in and whisper something to each other. One of them reached out and rubbed the other woman’s back. The lyrics about the gift of God’s grace resonated with them and then I looked around at the audience, many of whom were having an emotional reaction. And I myself, absorbed the lyrics, I remembered my 17 or 18 or 19-year-old self who tried so hard to not be gay. When did I realize or will I ever fully realize that I’m lovely even with my scars?

Anatomy of a Scene

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This was photographed by her then husband, Terry O'Neill the morning after she won an Oscar for Network.

This was photographed by her then husband, Terry O’Neill the morning after she won an Oscar for Network.

I got into a fight with a pregnant lady today.  I’m not proud of it.  I’ll tell you what happened as objectively as I can.  As I’ve written about before here, I like to start my day with a swim at the pool where I have a membership.  In the winter, it’s not too crowded, but in the summer it’s very hectic, almost the entire day, with people trying to swim in one of the five lap lanes.  Today, when I got to the pool, I saw that lane #4 was open, but the others were occupied.  I also saw there was one name on the waiting list, but I assumed that person was gone or had already gotten a lane and was no longer waiting for an available lane.  I even looked around to see if anyone looked like they were coming toward the pool.  I wrote my name on the board that includes the waiting list as well as who is in what lane.  I wrote my initials in the box for #4 and started to disrobe.  As I was shedding my clothes (I was wearing my suit underneath my clothes), a 30-something pregnant woman walked over to the lap pool from the other pool, a family pool where she’d been swimming. She saw that my name was on the board at #4 and then began to get into my lane.  I said, “That’s actually my lane.”  She said, in an English accent, “No, it’s my lane, I was on the waitlist.”  I explained that when I came to the pool, the lane was empty, so it was my lane.  She told me that one of the workers was supposed to be watching to tell her when a lane opened.  I told her that he did not do that, that the lane had been empty for awhile.  She went to complain to the guy and I got in the pool and started my swim.  After my first lap, “Victor” came over to tell me that it was her lane.  I said that the lane was empty when I got there.  I also said that she could share the lane if she wanted.  The lanes are a bit too narrow to share comfortably, but the rules of the pool are if someone wants to share with you, you have to let them.  When I told her we could share, she said, “I’m NOT going to share a lane.”  I said, “Actually, it says right there on the board that you have to share the lane.”  She said to me, “You’re going to kick my BABY!”  I said, “I won’t kick your baby, I know how to share a lane.  You’re welcome to share the lane, if you want.”  And then I resumed swimming.  A few minutes later, there was another available lane, but I noticed that she didn’t take it.  Apparently, she left the pool not long after our scene.  The entire time I was swimming, I vacillated between righteous indignation and exploring the possibility that I had behaved poorly.  Actually, I can tell you right now, I did behave poorly.  I should have just taken the high road at the beginning and said, “Fine, take the lane, I’ll take the next one.”  I didn’t do that, though.  By the time I was done with my swim, I was ashamed of myself.  I played out how I might apologize the next time I saw her.  Maybe we would become pool friends.  I do love England.

Then something happened.  As is my ritual, I shower after I swim.  I bring my pants and towel into the changing room with me while my shirt hangs on the chaise lounge.  When I came out of the changing room, I started to put my shirt on and I realized my shirt had been covered by a wet towel for at least 30 minutes.  It was soaked.  Someone had put that towel there on purpose.  I said something to Victor who acted like he didn’t know what happened.  I said something to the pool manager who feigned shock and outrage.  The pregnant lady was long gone by this point.  I really don’t know who soaked my shirt, but I thought about it the entire 90 minutes I was walking around wet at work.  Some might say that it was my comeuppance, but I actually thought it was sort of funny.  I also enjoyed telling the story to my co-workers, who graciously agreed with me that she was most in the wrong.  I’m sure that she spent the day telling her friends about the effeminate fat American guy who stole her lane at the pool, too.  In fact, there is a possibility that you reading this have heard the account from both sides at this point.  And if you have heard her version and my version, be honest, who was in the wrong?  If you think it was me, don’t tell me.  

Mugs

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A couple of weeks ago, a few days after my birthday, Eric and I were walking around at the Grove.  As we passed by Anthropologie, Eric said, “Oh, I just remembered one of your gifts that I forgot to give you.”  We went inside and meandered around the store.  We pointed out various objects to each other, as people tend to do when they’re in a store together.  I saw some cute mugs with dogs in hats that I pointed out.  I told him they were cute, but I bet they were delicate.  He said that he thought they would be okay if cared for properly.  From his reaction, I had an idea that I knew what the forgotten gift was.  Indeed, when we got home, he dug a package from the closet and I opened it and inside were the mugs you see in the above picture.

Now, almost every morning we drink our coffee out of these mugs.  I suppose it’s a form of narcissism, but since we think our dogs are the most attractive dogs in the world, we buy each other little statues or bookends or jewelry boxes or mugs that have dogs that remind us of Ricky and Millie.  The dog on the mug looks more like Millie, but with that bright fez, clearly evokes the spirit of Ricky.  

This evening as I was washing the dishes, I thought to myself how much I loved the mugs and I probably loved them more because of the way they belatedly came to me. With tender loving care, I washed and rinsed each mug. Like so many of us, they are a little delicate, but are okay if cared for properly.

Neon City

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When I first met Eric, one of the things we bonded over was a love of Los Angeles history. He told me he was a tour guide for the Museum of Neon Art‘s bus tours. Soon thereafter, I went on one of the tours, called Neon Cruises, and I must say it’s a magical experience, riding through downtown, Chinatown, Hollywood and West Hollywood, looking at neon signs and learning about Los Angeles signage and architecture and neighborhoods while drinking a glass or two of wine from the perch of a double decker bus. Now, when Eric works as a tour guide, I often come along as the navigator and wine pourer. Tonight we worked the Neon Cruise and I’m posting some of the pictures that I Instagrammed. I must say, I don’t think I’ll be getting professional work as a photographer anytime soon. That being said, our Lovely Lady Los Angeles still shines brightly in every photo.

Firework

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1005728_10151750988452755_1748725305_nI swear I am trying to write a blog piece that doesn’t provoke controversy.  I attempted to do that with my previous post about how we should all love one another, but even that had it’s detractors.  So…

I like fireworks.  Tonight, Eric and I watched the fireworks in our neighborhood, as we did last year and as I’ve done nearly every year since I moved to Larchmont Village.  A couple years ago, our first 4th of July as a couple, we were driving on the freeway from Playa del Rey to our home and the entire sky was filled with the fireworks going off in every Los Angeles neighborhood.  

Everybody knows that New Years’ is a time where we look at the year that has passed and we look at the year ahead.  But for some reason, every Independence Day, when I look at a sky filled with fireworks, I think about where I have been and what the future holds as well.  Two years ago, the year we were barrelling down the 710 to the 405 to the 10 to the 101, I thought about how lucky I was that I’d met this guy with whom I was building a new life.  Last year, my heart was heavy worrying about the surgery my Dad was days away from having.  And every year, there is a part of me that feels like a kid again, watching the Riverside Park fireworks from lawn chairs on Russell Road.  

One of our neighbors, a 90-something woman who used to be something of a, forgive me, firecracker was in her front yard tonight watching the fireworks.  When I first moved here, we would chat, she on her daily walks and me walking my dogs.  She’s wheelchair bound now, seldom ventures outside, and when we spoke briefly, it was clear she did not know who I was.  Still, when the fireworks were in full swing, I looked over at her and her mouth was agape and her eyes sparkled.  For a few brief moments, she was a child again. She wasn’t the only one.

Gingerbread Rogers

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When I was 28, I lived in San Francisco. I went there to do a play and met a guy and we fell in love and I ended up staying there for a year and a half. The play, written by David Dillon, was called Party, and it was about seven gay guys who get together for a party and end up playing a truth or dare type game and guess what, everyone gets naked. (It was the 90’s.) I played Andy, the innocent one, who at one point emerges from the kitchen buck naked only to lick whipped cream and M&M’s off a guy’s bare torso. (It was the 90’s.) Every night after the show, I would come out the stage door and my boyfriend Gary would be waiting for me on his motorcycle. Because there was a certain amount of attention for the play, there were always people waiting outside to meet the cast as we exited. Still playing a part, I’d shyly and politely wave to the fans and get on the back of the Gary’s motorcycle, put on my helmet and then we’d ride away. We’d ride down Geary on our way to our home near Alamo Square Park and we’d sing songs we’d made up at the top of our lungs. Our favorite was this uptempo modified version of Dolly Parton’s tearjerker Me and Little Andy. Basically, we’d sing the song to the tune of Lullaby of Broadway. “Ain’tcha got no gingerbread, Ain’tcha got no caaaandy, Ain’tcha got an extra bed for me, me, me, meeee. Hey! I’m little Andy!” Just reading this, I’m pretty sure the memory is not completely translating to the page, and I suppose that’s okay. When you are in love you have these inside laughs that only make the two of you giggle and they don’t really make sense to anyone else. Even our nicknames for each other didn’t make sense. He was Gorgeous Rogers and I was Gingerbread Rogers.

Alas, we eventually broke up and I moved back to Los Angeles. For a few years after my return I had a very difficult time moving forward. Every guy I dated paled in comparison to Gary. Superficially, they weren’t as well dressed or as cute or as financially secure as Gary, but mainly they could not make me laugh the way Gary made me laugh. One day, a couple tormented years later, I called Gary to tell him I could not talk to him anymore, with tears in my voice I said it was just too painful. He kind of laughed and said, “But Gingerbread, why?” I said, “And you can’t call me Gingerbread anymore! It’s too intimate.” He said okay and then I told him I’d call him when I was over him and he said okay.

I’ve probably only seen him a handful of times in the last 10 years. I did eventually get over him. I’ve spent time with his current partner of 12 years, a guy that I like a lot and the two of them have built a fabulous life together. As for myself, I met Eric a few years ago, and I’d like to think we, too, have been building a fabulous life together. There are many things I love about Eric, not the least of which: he makes me laugh.

Which brings everything up to yesterday when I picked Gary up at LAX. He’s in town for a conference and I brought him to his hotel and Eric met us there so we could have a quick drink before Gary went on to a dinner that was part of the conference. The meeting was friendly, jovial, uneventful. We talked about the things 40-something urban gays talk about: real estate, New York, Bravo, our dogs, Barbra. I was waiting for them to bond over their shared feelings about my driving skills, but thankfully, it did not happen. Then before I knew it, we were saying our goodbyes and Eric and I walked away, on our way to our own dinner at a restaurant that the two of us like going to together. It was so regular but it was also a special moment for me. For years, I wondered if I would ever love someone as much or more than I loved Gary and as it turns out, I would and I do.

Morning Swim

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If I’m lucky, every morning I start my day with a swim.  About four years ago, I joined a gym with access to an outdoor pool and ever since, swimming has been a regular part of my life. Because I swim, I tend to have a bit of a tan year round and at least once a day, someone will ask me where I got my tan.  I’ll tell them I swim regularly and they will always respond, “Oh, I loooove swimming.”  It amazes me how every time I start my first lap, I instantly feel like a child again.  I’m not a doctor or scientist, (insert best joke here) but I believe we love to swim because it subconciously reminds us of swimming in our mother’s bellies as fetuses.  Feel free to quote me on that.

The other reason I think we love swimming is that it’s sensual.  This blog adheres to a strict PG-13 guideline so I won’t elaborate too much further, but swimming is sexy.  People with attractive bodies look hot in swimsuits. 

I’ve compiled an album of swimming pools, please peruse, comment, if you feel compelled.  Summer’s here, it’s time to dive into the pool!

From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

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Many times in my adulthood, I have thought about this book I read in my youth where two kids run away to New York and live in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. For whatever reason, I could never remember the name of it. Recently, I was reading the New York Times online and I saw an obituary for an author named E.L. Konigsburg who wrote a book called From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I realized that was the book I remembered, so I ordered it on Amazon and now I am rereading it. It’s a fun read about a twelve year old girl named Claudia who is cautious (about everything but money) and here nine year old brother who is adventurous (about everything but money). I had clearly forgotten much of the story, but reading it now, I have a sense memory of being this small town, Midwestern boy and the book being my window into a new exciting, adventurous world. From the time I was 12 or so, I knew I wanted to live in New York. I didn’t even know why, but I think it was books like this and The Westing Game (and maybe watching Diff’rent Strokes and The Jeffersons and I Love Lucy) that beckoned me softly, “Come, come to Manhattan…” In Konigburg’s book, she describes Claudia and Jamie walking from Grand Central Station to The Met via Madison Avenue. Written in the mid-60’s, it could be my walk today or it could also be a walk I took a hundred times when I lived there in the 90’s. I only lived in New York for three years, and now I visit the city about once a year. I aways feel at home there, yet I also always feel like a 12 year old boy discovering the city for the first time. I’ve now lived in Los Angeles nearly 20 years. And as much as I love LA and my life here, I always get wistful when I think about New York. And just like when From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler took me on a trip there 35 years ago, it’s nice to know I can take the journey again anytime I pick up the right book.