www.jasonsdisasters.com

When Jason's Happy, or Getting It Right

2011-07-10T15:43:00.000-04:00

I’ve worked in customer service positions in some capacity for the past 20 plus years. I started in 9th grade working at a McDonald’s restaurant very near where I grew up, and I took the job very seriously. I then became a cashier at a local buffet restaurant, where I prided myself on being able to move the line during peak times more efficiently than any other cashier and keeping my cash-drawers penny-perfect.

Over the years, there’s been lots of retail, salons, cruise ships and gyms. All of my jobs have always had a huge customer service component. This may be why I’m so routinely annoyed, frustrated and bothered by the incredibly low bar that is currently set for most companies when it comes to customer service. Nothing annoys me more than handing over my hard-earned cash to some teenager who is too busy talking to another employee or texting on their cell-phone to even acknowledge me. That cash that I’m handing over is going toward that individual’s paycheck and he/she can’t even be bothered to notice that I exist.

Even worse than indifferent customer service is the downright bad customer service- I’ve written about those experiences before (Vegas, anybody?) but lately I’ve been lucky enough to have some really great customer service experiences, and I wanted to take a minute to tell you about them so that if you have the chance to patronize one of these businesses, you’ll consider these companies (remember, every time you spend a penny you’re either supporting, encouraging or voting in some way).

The first was when my boyfriend and I went on a cruise for spring break (one of the advantage to being an adult returning-student is that you can afford actual vacations when you get a break) and we took off to the Caribbean on Holland America Cruise Lines. Everything about the trip was amazing. The staff offered amazing (and personalized) customer service without ever seeming insincere, the ship was amazingly clean, the food was delicious. It was a perfect experience from the time we arrived on the dock to the (early) morning we left the ship.

Sure, we had some transportation issues and made some mistakes in our planning, but everything that we paid for from Holland America we got and then some. I can’t imagine choosing to travel with another cruise line without having some really compelling reasons because I had such a great experience with Holland America.

The next company that’s recently wowed me was Dunn Tire on Bridge Street in Dewitt. I purchased new tires from them shortly before the holidays. I got a flat last month. When I purchased my new tires, I paid an extra twenty bucks per tire to get lifetime service on them. I called Dunn when I noticed my flat. Ten minutes later a truck arrived to put my spare on for me. I took my car to Dunn, they checked out the tire and said it would take too long to fix it, and they knew I was on my way to work, so they just replaced it instead. In the process everyone I encountered was incredibly kind, polite and accommodating. Clearly I will never go anywhere else for anything tire related. And neither should you.

The final company is AT&T. Remember that cruise I went on? Well I added a service to my phone for that month so I could get a certain number of minutes (my mom’s birthday was that week and I wanted to be able to call her from the ship in the middle of the ocean) while on a cruise. It cost $35 and was supposed to last just for March. Trouble is, I found out when looking at my July bill that not only was I charged in July for the same service, but I’d been charged (and paid) in April, May and June as well.

So off to the AT&T store I went. Before the door had closed behind me, Kyle had introduced himself and asked what I needed. I explained my situation as he pulled up my account. Within minutes he’d credited my account for the amount I’d overpaid, canceled the service going forward and asked for my permission to check my minute usage as it appeared to him I may be overpaying for my monthly service. Two minutes later, he’d put me on a plan that would save me $25 a month, and I’d still come nowhere near using all the minutes AND he upgraded me so that all my calls to wireless phones (regardless of the carrier) are free.

I was in and out in ten minutes, had my issue resolved AND would be saving $25 a month? Well, who cares that Verizon has the iPhone? Who cares if they get whatever the next newest, coolest, most advanced gadget is? Why would I ever leave AT&T after getting that kind of service? It’s simple - I wouldn’t.

Okay, I’m done rambling. I’m just happy I finally have some great customer service experiences to talk about. And if you’d do me a favor, please consider patronizing Holland America, Dunn Tire and AT&T if you ever get the chance. These companies are getting it right, and this is one happy customer who will be with them for life!

You are NOT so O.C.D.

2011-05-25T00:05:00.001-04:00

I overuse words. I’m going to try to not do that in the interest of explaining my viewpoint as directly and succinctly as possible.

1. People who say “I’m so O.C.D.” who really don’t are idiots. Obsessive compulsive disorder is a mental disorder and therefore a noun. Not an adjective. Furthermore, if you’re not clinically diagnosed: shut up.

2. If I call you out on #1 and you respond with, “well, actually, I’m just really anal about my things,” be prepared for me to punch you in your stupid face. You like your bed made a certain way, I have a chemical imbalance in my brain that makes me physically unable to continue with the basics of life until I touch the “three o’clock” spot on all my doorknobs; these are NOT similar issues, so shut up.

3. You would never say “I’m so lung cancer,” because it’s offensive to people who actually have cancer. So shut up.

4. You would never tell a person in a wheelchair, “Just take a deep breath and walk,” so don’t look at me when I’m having a panic attack and say, “Just take a deep breath and don’t let it bother you.” No, instead- shut up.

5. I don’t know if you’re uncomfortable so you’re pretending to be amused, or if my anxiety is actually amusing you, but doing something that you KNOW is a trigger and will cause a reaction is like walking into a hospital and pinching someone’s oxygen tube. It’s cruel. It’s mean. It makes you an asshole, don’t do it. Shut up, instead.

I hope I haven’t offended you. But let’s be honest, if you’re offended it’s because you’re guilty of something I’ve pointed out here, and you probably offended me then so let’s consider ourselves even. And if you’re still offended, well? Shut up.

Even If Your Voice Shakes

2011-02-16T22:59:00.003-05:00

Bad Poetry

2011-02-13T23:41:00.002-05:00

A few years back, when Ryan and I broke up, I wrote some really bad poetry. It was bad, but honest. So here it is again. I'm not sure why...

1.

I changed towels the day after you left,
I put the two beige towels away,
not in the laundry, I don't know why,
but they don't belong in the laundry.
I can't spin, rinse or repeat away what they are.
...what they were.

Now I have only one towel in the bathroom,
it's all I need now.
It's red.
Beautiful.
Passionate.
Deep,
Blood red.

2.

Let's not make this any harder than it needs to be,
it was only about you, it was never about me.
You let go of my hand so that you could run off and ahead,
you felt like you were trapped, but that's not what you said.
Your heart beats and pumps on empty, I know.
Don't pretend you're unsure, just do it: just go.
A new city, a new job, a new apartment, a new start

but you'll be disappointed to find it's the same empty, old heart.

The Customer Is Always Right?

2011-02-13T23:07:00.000-05:00

These are transcripts from calls I’d taken years ago at work. I found them today, and if you’ve ever worked in customer service, you’ll understand why I decided to blog them again.

CALL NUMBER ONE: Saturday Morning Cartoon

Me: Thank you for calling [Business Name Here]. My name is Jason, how can I help you today?

Caller: Is [employee’s name] there?

Me: No, I’m sorry. She doesn’t work on the weekends. May I give her a message for you on Monday?

Caller: Well, I’m trying to get a hold of her about my account.

Me: I’d be happy to take your name and number and have her call you back on Monday, or attempt to help you with your request myself.

Caller: No, I have to talk to [employee’s name], she’s not there?

Me: No, I’m sorry. She won’t be in again until Monday. But as I said, I’m more than happy to take a message.

Caller: Will she be in tomorrow at all?

Me: Well, tomorrow’s Sunday, so no. She’ll be back on Monday. She’s off all weekend.

Caller: So she won’t be in today at all?

Me: That’s correct.

Caller: So there’s no way I can talk to her before Monday?

Me: Certainly no way that I’m going to be able to facilitate. Can I leave a message for you?

Caller: Yes, can you tell her to call me back at [phone-number] before tomorrow [Sunday] evening?

Me: [giving up:] Sure.

CALL NUMBER TWO: A swimmingly good conversation.

Caller: What time is the pool open until today?

Me: Seven o’clock this evening.

Caller: Oh. Will I be able to go swimming at eight?

Me: No, I’m sorry, the pool closes at seven today.

Caller: Oh. You can’t swim after the pool closes?

Me: No. That’s what we mean by ‘closed’.

Caller: Does it open again tonight?

Me: No, in fact, the entire club closes at nine.

Caller: So I can’t swim between seven and nine?

Me: Not here you can’t. I’m sorry.

Caller: Oh. What time is the pool open tomorrow?

Me: From seven until seven.

Caller: Oh, that’ s not long.

Me: Well, sir, it’s twelve hours.

Caller: Can I swim at eight tomorrow evening?

Me: Not here you can’t.

Caller: Why not?

Me: Because the pool will be closed. It will close at seven again.

Caller: Oh. And you’re sure you can’t swim when the pool is closed?

CALL NUMBER THREE: The Fogetting Follies

Caller: What time are you open until tonight?

Me: Nine o’clock.

Caller: AM or PM?

Me: PM. You asked what time we’re open until tonight.

Caller: (laughing) Oh, yeah. Sorry. Okay, so nine o’clock.

Me: Yep.

Caller: Thanks.

[The caller hangs up. Two seconds later the phone rings again;]

Me: Thank you for calling-

Caller: [interrupting:] Yeah, what time did you say you close tonight?

Me: Nine.

Caller: PM?

Me: [sighing] Yes.

Caller: Is that just tonight, or every Saturday night?

Me: Every Saturday night, sir.

Caller: Are you ever open later?

Carry-On Baggage

2011-02-13T22:46:00.000-05:00

The short woman clad in a poncho and sandals (despite the sub-zero temperatures) in front of me, upon hearing her grocery total, beings to dig through the large backpack she's set upon the conveyer belt looking, I assume, for her wallet. I look at the twenty-plus bags sitting in her cart and wonder why she waited and watched the obviously capable cashier scan each item, realizing she'd need to find a method of payment only after the total had been tallied, displayed and announced.

As she begin to search, with an obvious lack of urgency, I begin to wonder why this woman has to carry such a large backpack to Wegmans. Is she afraid she may have to camp out in the aisles between minute-rice and cans of tuna packed in water because they checkouts are just too far away, and she‘s grown tired while shopping? Maybe the bag is full of medical emergency supplies because she has an OCD that compels her to be prepared for possible traumas, although she has no formal medical training? Perhaps it’s her latest knitting project and she’s brought it with her in case of long lines. I decide that the camping supplies are the most likely scenario and return my attention to her scavenger-hunt for payment.

I'm relieved when she exclaims, "Ah-ha!" and pulls something from her backpack. My relief is short-lived though as I see her extract a wallet that is roughly two-thirds the size of my car's trunk. At this point, even the cashier has given up on the idea of being able to easily collect payment from this grocery store camper and is having a conversation about how long her badly she’s craving ice-cream with the cashier in the checkout lane next to ours. I half-expect our shopping camper to pull out an ice-cream scoop and thirty-six flavors to choose from.

It's not that I'm in a hurry and wishing she'd hurry up the transaction necessarily (although that would be nice), it's that because her large bag and it's contents (a tent that sleeps six to eight, a battery powered George Forman grill, three sleeping bags, the extra two in case of company and a lantern, I assume) is now sprawled out across the black, sticky conveyer belt. Of course, I'd decided I didn't need a cart and now my arms are starting to fall asleep as I cling to the sixteen items: if only I'd passed on the bread, I'd have qualified for the fifteen items and fewer lane which appears to moving along without issue, none of the people in that particular line carrying luggage with them. So now my sixteen items are creating a bizarre pattern of flesh-dents that will take hours to fade.

When the woman finally manages to locate her Wegman's card (really? I‘d hoped we were looking for a debit card to get this moving along already!), the cashier scans it, giving her a new total. This causes Miss Packs-a-Lot to begin the plainly painful process of deciding what tender type to make her payment with. I imagine this being the most difficult decision she's been required to make in some time (aside from which mountain survival amenities to carefully pack for this shopping expedition) because she goes from frantic-card-finder to deeply transcendent meditationalist with the seriousness of a surgeon attempting to construct an artificial aorta using only generic-brand Play-Dough.

After settling on cash, and accepting her change, the woman is yet unable to clear the aisle for the next customer (me), because now begins the process of inspecting each bill before being placed in her cash-trunk, then checking her quarters (I fully expect her to announce she needs only New Jersey to complete her collection) and then repacking her just-in-case-I-get-lost-in-the-mountains-when-I-go-to-the-largest-grocery-store-in-central-New-York bag.

After what seems to be at least a day and a half (I may have to start marking the passing of time by tracking the relationship of Brad and Angelina via the tabloids that line the aisle that I‘m afraid I may die in), she looks back and notices the ten people waiting in line behind her, as if discovering for the first time the store was open for business and not solely for her shopping/camping pleasure. “Sorry,” she says as she lifts her satchel from the belt before zipping the bag shut, causing the entire contents to spill across the belt, aisle and surrounding counties.

As the last of the feeling fades from my left arm, I remind myself to next time pack a camping bag of my own, in case I’m again stuck behind another shopper hiking her way across America, one supermarket at a time.

My Letter to The Imperial Palace, Las Vegas

2011-01-19T11:44:00.002-05:00

I was given this email address via the Imperial Palace Twitter account regarding a recent stay at the Imperial Palace in Las Vegas.

On Wednesday, January 12th my boyfriend, MT, checked in to the Imperial Palace which was booked using his Rewards Card. In that first night at the hotel, Matt was assigned to four different rooms and experienced several issues including: broken bed, broken door to balcony, room door that wouldn't lock and cleanliness issues.

After three rooms assignments, Matt asked to upgrade to a suite and paid the difference using his Discover Card. The cleanliness of the suite was also unacceptable and the fact that the suite had no actual shower wasn't communicated to him before the move. Matt chose to move back to a Luv Tub room and was told his card would therefore not be charged for the upgrade.

I arrived on Thursday, January 13th and was horrified to find that the room Matt was then assigned to had used soap in the shower, a toothpaste tube cap in the drain of the sink and trash on the floor beneath the sink. Additionally, the wallpaper was torn, the sheets were torn, and the towels frayed. I stopped by the desk on our way in from dinner to let them know about the soap and toothpaste cap. The woman working at the desk stared blankly at me and asked, "What do you want me to do about it?"

I immediately asked to speak to a manager. At the very least I would have expected something along the lines of "I'm sorry to hear that your room wasn't acceptable. Let me inform a manager of your situation and have someone from housekeeping stop by your room to take care of the problem." I don't even work in hospitality and I was still able to come up with a better response than "What do you want me to do about it?"

The manager that came to help us was a night manager named Kevin. Kevin was apologetic and took notes. I asked Kevin if we could use our Rewards to move to another property. Kevin said he would make calls for us and then leave a message on our phone letting us know if he was able to find anything.

We went back to the room to discover that the drain in the shower wasn't functioning. I called the desk. The phone rang for OVER FIVE MINUTES before anyone picked up. I asked for Kevin, he said he'd make note of the issue. That was the last we heard from Kevin (no message about him calling other properties on our behalf) and nobody to look at our drain.

Friday morning I went to the desk to find out what Kevin had discovered. Nothing. Cassandra was the manager on duty at the time. She got me a day pass to the gym for my troubles.

Saturday I finally found a housekeeping manager and brought her to my room to show her the soap and toothpaste cap, which had been reported on THURSDAY and still unattended to. I was able to accomplish on my own (and with no salary, mind you) what TWO MANAGERS were unable to accomplish for me.

On Sunday, we'd had enough. The staff was incredibly loud each morning hollering to eachother in the halls, we made our own arrangements to change hotels. At the desk we asked for a manager to check out and share our frustrations, and once again Cassandra came out to help us. Upon expressing our concerns to Cassandra, I was HORRIFIED by her response to my complaint about the drain in the tub. She said, "If you waited three days for someone to fix it, don't you think you should have come back to the desk?"

WHY would it be the guest's responsibility to follow up on an issue that had been reported to TWO SEPARATE MANAGERS? The fact that Cassandra had STILL NOT APOLOGIZED for our negative experience and furthermore, was indicating my frustrations were my own fault was the final straw.

But wait- it gets worse. We then discovered that the upgrade charge that was made on the Discover card on Wednesday night had still not been removed on Sunday, and we were charged an upgrade for Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Cassandra then acted like she was doing us a HUGE favor by refunding the charges for a room we didn't even stay in.

Individually, these issues would be no big deal, but when you combine the room issues with the completely unacceptable customer service we recieved the result is a stay in Vegas that has left me incredibly angry as a consumer. I plan to use my presence on Twitter, Facebook and my popular blog (where I will repost this letter) to share my experience. I will also be contacting my ex, the Editor of Q Vegas Magazine, to share my exprience with him as well.

Sincerely Disappointed,
Jason Jaquays-Tarbox

The Price of Love

2010-11-22T22:09:00.003-05:00

There's a musical that I have to admit I'm a little bit obsessed with. It's called Next to Normal and it's a musical about mental illness. (But that's not the point of this blog entry.) There's a lyric at the end of the show that I've always thought was beautiful: "The price of love is loss, and still we pay, we love anyway."

Today someone on Twitter posted another great line: "The price of love is your ego."

I don't know if I've ever heard two truer statements about love. Because you DO have to lose something to love, and we're programmed to cling so desperately to everything we have that it can be really scary to love some body else some times.

And it's even more scary that you can resign yourself to be okay with whatever you personally have to lose to love only to have it not work out and end up having lost and still ending up alone.

I'm a secure, well-adjusted and intelligent guy. When it comes to my relationship I can be (at times) insecure, maladjusted and stupid. I'm thirteen years older than my boyfriend and there are moments when I feel like the most immature idiot on the planet. I find myself apologizing for something I've said, or something I've asked or how I've felt because in retrospect (sometimes just moments after saying, asking or feeling it) I realize that what's happening in my head is ONLY happening there. Or worse, that what's happening in my head doesn't sync with what's happening in my heart. That's REALLY tough. My iPhone syncs, my calendars sync, my iPods sync, WHY don't my head and heart always sync?

And none of this is about him. It's all about me. How I process, how I relate, how I feel. And what I have to lose.

Sure, in Next to Normal, they're talking about more than just the loss of your ego. And maybe I'll get to the point where I have to write about that, too (but I hope not). For now, I'm going to focus on being okay with the fact that I have fleeting moments when I'm not the best version of myself, but I hope that by acknowledging that I can spend most of my time being the guy I mean to be.

2010-10-11T11:04:00.002-04:00

An individual with whom I'd had a professional relationship in the past (I the customer, she the service provider) has recently begun sending to my email address emails supporting a political candidate with a strong anti-gay sentiment.

I'm offended by the support in general, but more so by the fact that this woman assumed it was acceptable to begin promoting a political candidate because we'd had a business arrangement in the past. I think it's bad business, what do you think? (Of course, this is also why I'm boycotting Target and Best Buy.)

Here's my email response:

XXXXXXXX,

As a proud and productive gay member of society you'll understand that I have HUGE issues with many of Paladino's intentions and beliefs. His recent remarks are damaging to the continued struggle for equal rights for those in the LGBT community.

As a candidate I respect his right to promote his beliefs. As a human being I'm devestated by the lack of understanding and compassion that are common place in our society.

While I encourage you to support any candidate you feel best represents your beliefs and needs, I hope you'll understand my offense at being subjected to his homophobic and limiting messages.

Please do not include me in any further communications expressing support for this candidate.

Respectfully,
Jason Jaquays-Tarbox

Opening Night Notes to Me, Or My 10 Commandments for Right Now

2010-10-07T14:45:00.003-04:00

1. Do not ever make the mistake of imagining you're bigger than the material. You are only the pipe, it's the book and the score that are the crack.

2. Don't ever get so caught up in the character that you lose sight of the story. Remember who you are, what the story is, and then tell it.

3. The audience loves a talented actor, but a cast loves a generous one. Share the stage, the moments and the story.

4. There are no small stages, only jerks with bad attitudes. I will treat every stage like it's a Broadway stage and every role like it was written for me. I will fill each performance with detail, affection and gratitude.

5. Every performance on the stage is unique and one-of-a-kind. I will find something to love in each and every one, even when they don't go the way I'd planned or was expecting.

6. It's a privilege to be onstage and telling an audience a story. I will not take that for granted for a single second.

7. Even when playing a goofy, out-there character you have to ground him somewhere. I will embrace the parts of me that are goofy and out-there and love in me what I love in Will.

8. When I look at Emily (my Ado Annie) on-stage it's easy to glow. Every time I've gotten a note about how "in love" I look, it's not really a compliment to me, but for her. She's a generous actress and gives so freely when we're onstage together. I will express that gratitude by returning the favor.

9. There's talent all over that stage. Some of it we'll see, and some of it we won't discover for years. I have a chance to be a positive force in developing those talents that will bloom years from now. I will be thankful for that opportunity.

10. I love to be onstage. I will not cheat myself out of that experience. I will revel in every moment. I will be a reveling rebel.

Rebel Without a Pulse, If His Heart Could Beat- It Would Be Full

2010-08-16T18:06:00.003-04:00

I haven't blogged in FOREVER, but I've been super busy. I promise to be better about that(blogging, not being busy).

I just wanted to take a moment to brag about my first OFFICIAL Roller Derby bout with CNY's first Men's Roller Derby Team: The Quadfathers! I am so honored and stoked to be a part of this, that I'm not sure I can even articulate it.

I was very excited because for our exposition bout earlier in the season (you know, the one where I broke my wrist) I was a blocker, but in our recent scrimmages and in this bout, I was a Jammer!

If you're not familiar with Roller Derby, or the differences between blockers and jammers, check out this (quick) fun video that reviews all the basics:

Some early photos are up from the bout (I'm sure there will be many more) and some are on my Facebook page: Click Here

And, finally, there's a bout recap on the offical blog for the Quadfather's that gives me a nice little shout-out (in case you don't know, my Roller Derby name is Rebel Without a Pulse [Roller Derby skaters typically skate under an assumed name and in as an alternate personality, Rebel is Roller Derby's Little Dead Derby Dude. Yes, he's a ZOMBIE!) and I get a special shout out about half way through the article! Check it out here: Official Quadfathers Blog

I am ABSOLUTELY and COMPLETELY in love with Roller Derby. We MAY have one final bout this season (which was a nice surprise I discovered in my email inbox this morning, as of Saturday's bout we were done with all but our scrimmages) on September 19th. If you're in town and/or available I'd love for you to see the roller-sport that's stolen my heart!

And in case you missed it, I wrote an article for the Syracuse Post Standard, it appears here: Syracuse.com

It's Still 1989 In My Head, or How I Became Cyndi Lauper's Personal Hero

2010-04-27T10:50:00.000-04:00

Nostalgically, I consider the last time I laced up a pair of roller skates. As a teenager in the 80's my diet consisted mainly of gummy bears and fruit roll-ups, Cyndi Lauper was my personal hero and my wardrobe contained a quantity of neon rivaled only by the Vegas strip. Even though none of those things have changed much since 1989, somehow this feels different.

The last time I went roller skating, for a classmate's birthday, my skates were accessorized with yarn pom-poms [note to self: I MUST find some of those yarn pom-poms] but this time they're paired with seventy-dollar knee pads, elbow pads, wrist guards, a mouth guard and a helmet. Instead of sharing the bench with a dozen other pre-pubescent Saved By The Bell super-fans, I share it with a dozen guys who all look bigger, faster and physically more stable (yet mentally less-so) than me.

It's my first roller derby practice. Roller derby, a popular sport in the 70's and 80's with a history stretching as far back as 1922 has recently experienced a huge revival in the DIY and punk scenes. Don't be fooled: this isn't a social event, this is an American-born full contact sport infamous for it's ability to break bones, create killer bruises and incite near frenzy in its fans.

As a skater, derby involves endless skating around a circular track (though most people are familiar with the banked tracks made popular in the 80's on television and again in the recent Drew Barrymore-directed movie WHIP IT, we skate on a flat track) with skaters attempting to lap, block and sometimes temporarily disable each other. There are so many rules to learn that I actually gasped when I opened the PDF file sent to me containing the official rules and regulations (but then, I do tend to be dramatic and also gasped when I read the weather report this morning), and there's a little more technique to learn in derby than there is doing the moonwalk on skates to impress that ninth grader you've had your eye on.

The first practice is rough. We finish with a scrimmage and while removing my skates I estimate that by morning my body will be host to at least four new bruises. I'm excited, reminded of a time when socialization didn't involve a computer and a virtual social network but actual people and toe-stops. I'm also a little bit proud, I had several good blocks and a couple of solid hits which isn't bad for the guy who's Kool Aid-stained face was usually the last chosen for any team in gym class.

As I put my bright-red roller skates with neon green laces away and open a new bag of gummy bears, I can't help but think had she been there to see me skate, Cyndi Lauper probably would have been impressed.

2010-04-07T16:12:00.001-04:00

Planet, Schmanet

2010-04-07T16:08:00.001-04:00

Bedroom Scenes (Act Two)

2010-04-07T16:06:00.001-04:00

Eddie's Teddy (Clip)

2010-04-07T16:00:00.000-04:00

I Can Make You A Man (Reprise)

More Clips From Rocky Horror ALIVE On Stage!

2010-04-07T15:50:00.003-04:00

The Floor Show / Don't Dream It, Be It

I Can Make You A Man

3:10am

2010-03-28T03:10:00.002-04:00

1. The hot bartender seems to hate me. It may be because I sent some inappropriate texts to him while we were both at the Coheed & Cambria show at The Westcott on Wednesday. He liked the opening band. I thought their moth-ridden ponchos were the only palatable element of their performance. I didn't mean to offend him (with my review of Earl Greyhound [the band] OR my flirtatious jokes) but I think he may hate me. I just want to sing Take Me Or Leave Me with him. It probably won't happen now.

2. Everywhere Smackie and I go, we're approached by somebody from Singers. Seriously- we're accidentally famous. Tonight we went to The Edgewater in Baldwinsville, for Christ's sake, and we had fans there. Fans who GOT IN THEIR CARS AND FOLLOWED US TO ANOTHER TOWN. No joke.

3. Letizia and the Z Band are the most fun you can have in Syracuse. Seriously- I told her I was leaving and all of a sudden they played Don't Stop Believing and Girls Just Wanna Have Fun back-to-back. That bitch totally has my number.

4. I have to amazing new friends who each have gay sons: Lisa and Steven. They're both adorable, and they both give me faith. I know I'M LUCKY because I HAVE AMAZING PARENTS, but it's nice to see that other kids do, too. We've come a long way as a society and these two make me feel like we can move mountains.

5. Poor, poor Jeff. He's the dude I did shots of Jim Beam with at the bar, who then asked if he could ask me a personal question. "Are you gay?" If you're asking: you already know the answer. I asked him why he wanted to know. He never really explained that. I told him not to move while I went to the bathroom. When I came back, he was waiting right where I left him. So now I say: it's okay, Jeff. I'm obviously hot and popular. I go to straight bars and they love me. It's okay- you can come out of the closet now. But I'm still not making out with you.

6. Stephanie who sang Journey at Singers tonight? Yeah. I'm TOTALLY making out with you.

7. Smackie? Don't cry, but seriously- life is better with you in it. So. Much. Better. SERIOUSLY. Not only can we abuse vodka and karaoke together, we both know all the lyrics to Madonna's Evita. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

8. Did I mention I have amazing parents? I did. Oh, well get used to it. I don't say it enough, so I'm going to start saying it more.

After the Migraine Meds... or, Remember the Hot Bartender?

2010-03-14T03:37:00.001-04:00

Epiphany, or Duh

2010-03-03T23:17:00.002-05:00

I somehow just realized that while I was going on that "I'd met an underwear model..." someone (an underwear model, perhaps?) was going on about how he'd "met this yoga instructor."

How crazy that sometimes we so easily forget our worth or value when blinded by the shine of somebody else.

New Year's Revelations, or A Year In Review

2010-02-27T22:32:00.001-05:00

The other day I was thinking about how I didn’t make any resolutions this year because I was busy during the holidays and wasn’t thinking much about the traditions of New Years.

I’m not sure what I’d like to resolve this year, but I know what I’d like to do. But before I get to what I’d like to do, let me start with where my thought process started- reviewing the things that had happened to me in 2009. It was quite a year.

1. I started working with a vocal coach and performed publicly for the first time in 10 years.

2. I started volunteering for the CNY Pride organization, which was a huge step toward self acceptance for me by allowing myself to be more than just a gay man by becoming a part of the gay community.

3. I went to Vegas and reconciled with a summer crush with whom I’d fallen in love this past summer (his confessions as confusing as our fling: flattering and offensive all at once), reconnected with a summer crush I’d fallen in love with two summers ago (realizing that time and circumstance can be gears and cogs in the clock of life) and met a new summer crush with whom I immediately fell in love.

3.5 I learned that I fall in love quickly, and I decided to embrace that as an asset and not a liability. It might mean a lot of broken hearts littering my past and looming in my future, but it also means the opportunity to be honest with my big, old, bleeding, worn-on-the-sleeve-at-all-times heart.

4. Fall brought double pneumonia which was followed by adult onset asthma. Definitely less awesome than the other stuff that happened.

5. Emboldened by my experience returning to the stage in a benefit concert, I went back to musical theater in a show about creating a home away from home and building an unconventional family- and it couldn’t have rung truer in my heart if it were “Jason- The Musical.” [Hey- now there’s an idea.]

A lot of things happened last year, this is just a short list of things that raced through my mind while I was driving home from Target , jelly beans in hand, considering my lack of resolutions this year. There were passionate kisses in the rain straight from the movies, there was the thrill of some amazing new (and sure to be lifelong) friends, there was the little girl who showed up and stole my heart, there was the wedding that made me believe in happy endings for everyone, there was all the roller skating, there was reconnecting with so many amazing people from my past, there was Bea and now Blanche, there was the summer of riding my bike everywhere I went, there were mini getaways with a new love, there was the crush of heartache. Like I said, it was quite a year.

And so today, after I finished the third novel in the Wicked series (A Lion Among Men, arguably the best of a convoluted series), my thoughts returned to resolutions, as I’d previously considered setting a goal of how many books to read this year.

Ultimately, I decided not to make any resolutions for 2010.

I decided to start the decade fresh. I don’t care how many books I read this year. I don’t care how many pounds I weigh at the end of this year (well, yes I do, but we all know I don’t need a resolution for that- that’s what I have a mental disorder for). I don’t care whether or not I quit smoking (but honestly, the only reason I don’t care is because I don’t and have never smoked, so quitting is going to be a snap, in fact- wow!- look, it’s done!).

You know what I do care about? Giving up the habit of criticizing myself for everything that doesn’t work. Blaming myself for failures that aren’t mine. Being hyper-critical of myself while excusing the bad guy for his villainy.

I won’t stop from getting up onstage because I’m worried you won’t like the song.

I won’t stop myself from saying what I feel because I’m afraid it will make you uncomfortable.

I won’t hide my heart from you because I’m afraid you’ll break it. And when it does break, I won’t blame me.

Bring it on, 2010. I think I’m ready for you. And if I’m not, there’s always 2011.

Too Late For Videos, or OMG!

2010-02-21T03:02:00.002-05:00

It's 3am and I'm a hot mess. I tried to video-blog this, but in the interest of your vision, I decided to write instead.

So today was DeafGeoff's birthday so we started at the Syracuse Winterfest Cosmopolitan walk at 1pm. Then I went to rehearsal for Greg's show. Then
Wegmans. Then Greg's show, and then Singers for karaoke.

Britney (Geoff's girlfriend) and I sang Summer Nights from Grease. Then Meg showed up and signed me up for Defying Gravity. Yeah- Elphaba's big act one show-stopper. Wicked. That one.

But let's back up- Eric. The HOT bartender. The HOT gay bartender who sings Linkin Park and My Chemical Romance. The HOT bartender who sings Linkin Park and My Chemical Romance who just broke up with his boyfriend (unsubstantiated).

So I get up on stage and Defying Gravity starts. In Bea Aurthur's key- twelve octaves below my own range. And who shows up? Eric. With a broomstick. Yeah, Eric, the HOT gay bartender who sings Linkin Park and My Chemical Romance who just broke up with his boyfriend (unsubstantiated) brought me a broomstick for my Defying Gravity.

Did I mention the Miley Cirus number? Or the stip-off? Or the singles I took out of my pants? Or Greg the hot, skinny dude with the 00 flesh tunnels in his ears who said it's totally okay to crush on him before he introduced himself?

I love Singers, it's the most amazing bar in Syracuse. And I love the folks that go there and let me gay-it-up with some Broadway and totally cheer me on. And I love the DJs that host an amazing party. And I love Eric, the HOT bartender who sings Linkin Park and My Chemical Romance who just broke up with his boyfriend (unsubstantiated). And I love that next week Eric and I are singing What You Own from Rent together. You should totally be there.

The Boyscouts DO NOT Scout for Boys

2010-02-14T23:31:00.000-05:00

Martini Walk (Apparently Isn't a Charity Walk/Run)

2010-02-14T13:21:00.000-05:00

Rocky Horror Video

2010-02-06T23:24:00.004-05:00

So let's get the obvious out of the way- the picture and sound quality below are horrible. I used my flip while playing a DVD. I need to find some quality conversion software, but in the meantime I wanted my far-away friends and family to have a chance to see some of my performance as Dr. Frank'N'Furter in The Rocky Horror Show.

This is a video of my big entrance- Sweet Transvestite. You could not ask for a better entrance; 20 minutes into the show I get to appear from behind a sparkle curtain wearing six inch platform heels and sing a song about being a hot tranny mess. The audience reaction was different every night, and entertaining every night. From my first appearance to the "unveiling" I had to really focus to not laugh-out-loud at the audience.

This next video is my ballad at the end of the show. I struggled with this number quite a bit during rehearsals because I had created a specific "sound" for Frank and I couldn't get the number to work with the sound. Eventually (after a late night "talk-through" of the number with Peter, the director) I decided to strip the performance and artifice away and focus on the story and Frank's desire to stay. This is what we ended up with.

And this I added mainly for my ego. I've longed for the production where when I make my appearance in the curtain call, the audience stands. I finally got what I've been waiting 34 years for...

A Message to the Rocky Horror Crew

2010-01-27T01:19:00.002-05:00

The Final Rocky Horror Blog (A Sad One)

2010-01-27T00:09:00.000-05:00

2010-01-24T13:54:00.001-05:00

Amazing Pomegranite Blood Orange Martini: 2 parts orange flavored UV
vodka, 2 parts Wegman's brand orange pomegranite mix, 1 part Rosie's
pomegranite mixer, 1 part fresh squeezed blood orange juice. Combine
ingredients over ice in cocktail shaker and shake vigorously, strain,
pour and serve in chilled martini glass. Whoa.

Venting So I Can Focus, Or You've Got To Be Kidding Me, Right?

2010-01-16T15:41:00.003-05:00

I'm trying to be grateful and centered. I've been SO fortunate to play this role in this show. I've been so fortunate to work with such an amazingly talented cast and production team. I've been so fortunate to perform for audiences that are really enjoying the material.

But don't get me wrong- I'm tired, I drive an hour each way to the theatre, it takes hours of prep and post-show work to get into (and out of-) Frank'N'Furter and set my costumes and items for the next rehearsal/performance. It was an extremely short and intense rehearsal period. Spanning the holidays. And I tried to take minimal time off from work. And I worked hard on this show. Really, really hard.

Through out it all, I've been tweeting, posting, blogging and vlogging about the experience and doing my best to promote the show. I've been saying for weeks that the show was going to sell out, if not for months. And then today, half-way through a limited run (four performances only- that's all it was ever going to be) two dozen people blow my phone up ON MY ONLY DAY OFF to see if I can get them tickets.

Do these people understand the difference between acting in a show and selling tickets in a box office? Or are they really so sure of my talents that they assume I might have built the sets, too? Nope. All I do is show up and perform (and that's enough work- if you've never been onstage you don't know how much work that is). I don't sell tickets, I don't track the ticket sales, I don't reserve seats for the people who were going to not heed my warnings and assume they could buy seats at the door for a show that was available through TicketMaster. I mean, come on.

I love you all. I do. And I'm glad those two dozen folks want to see the show. I'm just disappointed that they all decided to pay attention to me after it was too late for me to help them. And then put me in a position where I have to say, "I'm sorry..." when I've been telling everyone all along (seriously- I thought I probably posted about it TOO MUCH).

I'm just venting. I'm not angry with anyone, I just had to get it all off my chest before I go start assembling Frank'N'Furter. I need to shake all the stress that a bunch of people decided to throw at me on a show day, I know you don't mean it because you don't know how hard I'm working on this show and in this role. I'll forgive you. But if you DARE make any comments to me about missing the show- I swear I will bitch slap you silly.

LOVE AND GRATITUDE EVERYONE!

Becoming Frank, or More Backstage Shenanigans

2010-01-13T01:05:00.000-05:00

The Rocky Horror Show Blogs Again

2010-01-11T00:15:00.002-05:00

So the only time I ever think to pick up my video camera is when I have an entrance coming up. But in this video you can (vaguely) hear a little bit of The Time Warp and you get a glimpse of Magenta and Frank backstage.

Do you have your tickets yet?

We're Not Doing The Movie, or We Won't Embarass You Personally

2010-01-09T13:56:00.001-05:00

There are essentially four ways to see The Rocky Horror Show:

1. In it’s most popular form: The Rocky Horror PICTURE Show which is the movie version of The Rocky Horror Show, which is a live stage musical. You can rent the movie and play it in your dvd player in the comfort of your own living room (and then wonder to yourself, “What the hell?”)

2. In it’s exciting movie/audience participation form: The Rocky Horror Picture Show is often shown with re-enactors in front of the movie screen pantomiming and often lip-synching to the musical numbers and popular scenes. In these circumstances the audience usually screams lines back to the movie and insults the re-enactors. There is also usually stuff flying through the audience (toilet paper, rice, playing cards, etc.) in response to the action on the screen. This is the viewing that often involves the habit of embarrassing “virgins” (first time audience members) in front of the crowd.

3. In it’s original form as a live stage rock musical, The Rocky Horror Show. This is the stage musical on which the movie was based. There are a couple of different licensed versions of the show floating around, the most popular being the 25th Anniversary production license.

4. In it’s original form as a live stage rock musical, The Rocky Horror Show WITH audience participation including props and shouting back at the actors onstage. This is what we’re hoping the Players of Utica production will be: all the excitement of a live staged rock musical with all the fun of the audience participation. You’ll see things that are VERY similar to the movie, and you’ll see things that are completely original to our production. (But nobody in the audience will get singled out or embarrassed, in case you’re worried.)

I guess I should say there are five ways to see it, the fifth being WITH ME IN THE LEAD ROLE! I know, I know, the whole world (okay, at least my limited internet-world) all knows that I’m playing Frank’N’Furter in the Players of Utica production. I’m hoping to capture some fun with my Flip camera at tomorrows tech run-through so that I can post a video blog.

While I’m working on that, why don’t you work on calling 315-724-4000 for tickets? The show runs FOUR PERFORMANCES ONLY From January 14-16 at 8pm and January 17 at 2pm at Strebel Auditorium at Utica College. Or you can get tickets at www.ticketmaster.com

The Rocky Horror Show Tickets

2010-01-02T02:55:00.004-05:00

Richard O'Brien's Original Rock Musical
The Rocky Horror Show
Players of Utica at Strebel Auditorium
January 14-16th at 8pm and January 17th at 2pm
tickets at www.ticketmaster.com or by calling 315-724-4000

Come see me as Dr. Frank'N'Furter in my first onstage musical performance in OVER A DECADE! Bring your newspapers, rice and other assorted Rocky props for a great night at the theatre!

Vocal Warm Ups

2010-01-02T02:47:00.001-05:00

First Rehearsal!

2010-01-02T02:23:00.002-05:00

Second Draft, or I Washed The First Draft Away With Some Sobbage

2009-12-22T01:06:00.004-05:00

I wrote a really long blog about a morning that happened a couple of winters ago when my Grandfather was in the hospital. I hadn't slept well the night before, so I drove out to Utica early and arrived at the hospital before anyone else. It was the last time I got to have Grandpa all to myself.

It wasn't long, only an hour or so, before my Mother and Grandmother arrived, as they did each long day that he was in the hospital, to sit with him until someone convinced them to go home and sleep (repeating this day after day after day). It wasn't long at all. But it was the most important hour of my decade. Watching my Grandfather sleep, and wake up in his bed in the Intensive Care Unit, I learned more about what really matters in life than I did in all the other hours in the entire decade. I wish I'd know sooner, when I could have used the information to have been a better Grandson.

So, yeah, I wrote this really long blog about it. Then I cried. Hard. I erased it, and wrote this instead. I decided I didn't want to share that hour with anyone else: I'm keeping that for Grandpa and me.

On Being a Bernadette and Not an Audra, or Voice Lesson

2009-11-22T19:33:00.000-05:00

In the world of musical theater you have your Audras and you have your Bernadettes. The Audras are the singers whose crystal tones vocal flexibility make them an interesting casting choice, musically. The Bernadettes are the singers who possess distinct and unique sounds. They’re the singers whose tonal character and off-beat sound make them an interesting casting choice, artistically.

I’m oversimplifying, obviously, there are a million sounds falling between the Audras and the Bernadettes on stages all over the world. But at the same time, on some level, everyone is either an Audra or a Bernadette. I’m not referring to the difference between actors who sing or singers who dance either. And I’m not saying that the Audras of the world have an exclusive ability to caress a melody with their pipes, anyone who believes as much needs only looks as far as Bernadette Peters’ work at Carnegie Hall in the nineties. But still, while Bernadette’s ‘Not A Day Goes By’ is affecting, it certainly isn’t pretty in the classical sense of the word.

And I’m not talking about women, there are the Curlys of Oklahoma and there are the Will Parkers. There are the Sky Mastersons and there are the Nathan Detroits. I fall squarely (and with a resounding thud) into the second category (in fact, at one point in time, I WAS Will Parker), I am a Bernadette. While I can emulate an Audra using technique, my true sound, my pure voice, is a Bernadette.

The register of my voice is low, but my sound isn’t necessarily deep. I produce vocal resonance, but not always warmth. And I’ve come to terms with this. I will never be cast in an Andrew Lloyd Weber musical, except maybe CATS, and let’s be honest- I’d never audition for that.

What’s all this ranting and raving about, you ask? (Or maybe you don’t, maybe you stopped reading after the first paragraph- and act I wouldn’t condemn.) Being sick for several weeks (bronchitis and pneumonia) has taken a toll on my, already decidedly not crystal-toned voice. And I kind of like it. I’ve been using the technique and warm-up cassette tapes that I brought on the cruise ship with me years and years ago, and the sound is rough and raw.

It helps that I’m getting ready to go into rehearsals for a rock musical and not a Gilbert and Sullivan piece, but I’m getting to a point in life where I LIKE my voice. I haven’t necessarily disliked it, but I’ve never been completely comfortable accepting any indication from others that potentially hints at talent and I’ve certainly never honestly embraced any compliments. But maybe that’s changing. I’ll never take to the stage and read a review later about my clear tones, affecting baritone or controlled technique (not because I don’t have controlled technique, but because I’ve never met a reviewer smart enough to acknowledge it). I’ll never play Sky Masterson, Curly, Tony (forgetting the age issue) or The Boy From Oz and that’s okay because I shouldn’t.

I could probably muddle through one of those roles, but give me something rough around the edges, something that doesn’t caress your ear, that you have to actively listen to to find the pleasure and that’s when you’ll hear ME. My true voice- the one that can sing the shit out of something. The one that’s proud to be a Bernadette.

Outraged, or PISSED OFF.

2009-11-17T00:03:00.004-05:00

This is a rant. I'm tired (insomnia), sick (pneumonia) and overwhelmed (current events). So I can't promise this post is coherent, but I can promise you that it's not intended to offend, but to enlighten.

George Stephen Lopez Mercado was brutally murdered and died a horrific and painful death because he was gay. Just like Matthew Shepard did in October, 1998, eleven years ago. How far we've failed to come.

This is why I get annoyed when you:

1. Shop at Walmart (http://www.google.com/search?q=walmart+gay+dads&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a) Because Walmart doesn't think I deserve to be treated like other customers.

2. Purchase Wellcare supplemental insurance (http://www.hrc.org/news/11542.htm) Because while Wellcare wants you to be healthy, they'll be damned if I'm going to be happy.

3. Buy that Hanna Montana tee-shirt for your niece (http://queersunited.blogspot.com/2009/11/miley-cyrus-youre-vaine-youre-gay.html) And, yes, I deleted Party In The USA from my iPod and iTunes. And so should you. Just because you don't mean to demean your gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered friends, family, associates, etc. when you call someone "gay" for doing something stupid, doesn't mean you're not traumatizing a part of that young person struggling to find the strength to come out and be their true self.

4. When you accept half-assed apologies from careless celebrities that were written by their publicists (http://mashable.com/2009/10/26/larry-johnson-twitter/) Yeah, I know- football players aren't politicians. But if you want a big, fancy job that involved a big, fancy check and the perks of fame, then you have to play the game. And just because someone forced you to say you're sorry doesn't magically mean you're not a homophobic, hateful jerk.

Why do these little things cause me so much angst? Because every time we as a society excuse a minor offense, it makes it all the more possible for the major offenses to occur (http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2397832/hate_crime_gay_puerto_rican_teen_george.html). Don't you get it? By allowing a slip of the tongue using "gay" as a derogatory term, or giving your money (no matter how much or how little) to a company that condones hateful actions, YOU ARE PARTICIPATING.

I smile at people serving me in restaurants, I give change to beggars, I bless sneezing strangers because I believe that we can create the world we want to live in by making small, measurable, simple but profound changes. I think Thomas Edison was right when he said "What a man's mind can create, man's character can control." and that I therefore am morally bound to boycott Walmart, raise my voice against hate crimes (no matter how insignificant they seem in the grand scheme of things) in my community and on my planet and why I'm obligated to share with you how I feel.

I'll bet that George Steven Lopez Mercado's friends didn't think when they used slang words, that his parents didn't think about the likelihood of Gay Marriage in George's life when going to the polls. I'll assume they've laughed at some actor's stereotyped impression of a gay person (http://activism.ology.com/bruno-movie-offensive-or-hilarious/) without realizing that in some small way, this flap of butterfly wings on one side of the globe, was in a part of the horrible storm of hatred that stole George Steven Lopez Mercado from the planet.

Alright, I'm done ranting for now. But know that when I see that plastic Walmart bag in your recyclables that you're breaking my heart.

All The World's A Stage, or Craving Attention?

2009-11-11T15:19:00.002-05:00

It’s been a long time since I’ve auditioned for a show. Not because I don’t have to audition to get roles, but because the last time I did a show was almost fifteen years ago. I haven’t sung for audiences in just as long until this past spring when I sang a couple numbers in a benefit concert. And typically when I’m cast in a musical I get the sassy sidekick roles: Will Parker in Oklahoma!, Bobby in A Chorus Line, Lucky in Dames At Sea…the list goes on. In fact, the only time I’ve played a lead role in a musical was when I cast myself in You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown - which I was directing.

I like the roles I’ve played, and I’m happy with the shows I’ve done. I’m thrilled that I was able to perform Jerome Robbins’ choreography for international audiences, so there’s no time to whine over the fact that I’ll never play Tony. It wasn’t until recently, therefore, that I’d even thought about whether or not I’d like to play a lead role and since it’s been so long since I’ve performed I was taken aback when I did start thinking about it.

Let me back up for a minute- the audition. Before I left to work on the cruise ships, there was a fire that destroyed Players Theatre in Utica, which had been my home-away-from-home through much of high school for me. I had some amazing auditions (Lend Me A Tenor) and some horrible auditions (Best Little Whorehouse) in that theatre. To this day, the first image that pops into my head when you say the word ‘audition’ is me sitting in the house of Players, a nervous high school freshman, waiting to get called to the stage to sing at that Whorehouse audition. Countless auditions later, from Nola Studios in NYC to the streets of Bermuda, Players Theatre is what I see when I imagine an audition.

That was the image, therefore, that popped into my head as the director instructed me and three other actors to remove our shirts at my most recent audition. I had to smirk, removing my tank top, wondering what that nervous high school freshman would have thought had somebody told him that he’d get to dance through South America (in Hooray for Hollywood) or originate a role in a new musical (Robert in The Marrying Types) only to end up back at Players Theatre removing his top for an audition. It was all so ‘Showgirls’.

I sang (poorly, but I always do in auditions, depending on personality to make up for my nerves) and read (well, I’m always confident with script in hand) and waited. Waited longer than I’ve waited before to find out about a casting decision. While I was waiting I started a curious project- removing old totes full of stuff from my past from my parents’ basement. I found a zillion flyers, programs and posters for shows I’d forgotten I’d done (Vampire Lesbians of Sodom and The Wizard of Oz) and notes saved from opening night flowers and cards from dozens of closing nights. In discovering each memory from so long ago the desire to return to the stage grew stronger and stronger. Slowly I found myself craving vocal warm-ups and long choreography rehearsals. All of a sudden, my life needed a call board and sitzprobe.

After a couple of weeks, I’d fallen back into the rhythm of my life, the long work days, double workouts and crazy weekends. I convinced myself as time passed and I heard nothing (sure that the show had been cast, and I was not) of a million reasons I couldn’t and shouldn’t do a show right now. Then last Saturday, I was lying on my couch resting (at the end of my third week of being sick) trying to decide between napping and watching a dvd when my BlackBerry lit up. I picked it up and clicked the trackball expecting to see a work-related email or text from a friend. When I saw the email subject line “Rocky Horror Casting,” my heart stopped. As I stared at that email subject, all that newly rediscovered desire to step onto a stage again came rushing back in a fraction of a second.

Before opening the email I had a million thoughts: would I accept a role in the ensemble, what if I wasn’t cast, what if I was, could I handle a role right now; the thoughts were endless.

When I was in high school I was cast as Eugene (the lead) in Brighton Beach Memoirs (not a musical, no my earlier comment about casting holds true) and my reaction was ridiculous: it involved a lot of involuntary shaking, shouting (to nobody in particular), running around the room frantically and jumping on furniture.
I opened the email and began scanning the cast list; the guy who directed said production of Brighton Beach was cast as Dr. Scott, the girl I read with at auditions was cast as Janet, and …

That’s when the involuntary shaking, shouting (to nobody in particular), running around the room frantically and jumping on furniture began.

All I Want For Christmas, or Zombie Holiday

2009-09-24T14:00:00.003-04:00

If you're starting your holiday shopping early- be on the lookout for this pillow. I've been a VERY good boy this year.

I Can See Clearly Now, or Running Out Of Cheeks To Turn

2009-09-24T13:56:00.002-04:00

Sometimes you're just doing your thing, minding your own business, when all of a sudden life decides to serve you a bitch slap to the face that was so hard and unexpected that you just stand there with this stupid look on your face wondering to yourself, “Where the heck did THAT come from?”

I've had a couple of those moments lately.

I spend the majority of my life living with a very specific impression of who I am at any given point in time. What I've learned is that my impression is not always congruent with the way the world perceives me. And usually I'm okay with that, until it becomes an issue of not opinion, but sanity.

My first universal slap-to-the-face happened in the tanning room at the gym, not my gym (meaning: not the gym I work for) but the gym I workout at. After a fairly standard 90-minute workout I headed in for a quick six-minute skin refresher (I never go in for longer than six-minutes and never more than twice a week) and as I was preparing to enter the booth I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It was a completely different image than the one I'd seen that morning in the bathroom mirror getting out of the shower.

Now, I don't mean that the lighting was different (although it certainly was) or the mirror was hung differently on the wall, changing my perspective (although it, too, was) but I mean I saw a completely different person in the reflection. The face was familiar, but the body was like someone had photo-shopped my face on somebody else's picture.

It's not the first time I'd ever experienced this phenomenon, as a young adult I went through a period where I struggled with an eating disorder. Being body-dismorphic isn't a new thing for me, but it's been a long time since I've recognized it happening. And that's when I was slapped: what if I've been dismorphic all along and just failed to recognize it- until that moment. It's in those moments of uncertainty (that I thought I'd left behind) when I have absolutely no idea what I look like.

And I'm not sure that if you've never had an honestly dismorphic experience that you could understand exactly what I mean when I say, I have absolutely no idea what I look like.

So that was the first slap. Totally out of the blue. Totally unwelcome.

Then I was at a good friend's wedding. It was beautiful. It was a gorgeous day, maybe not the weather exactly, but the day itself, was gorgeous.

Donnie and Raelynn were married in Ithaca in a beautiful, old barn that had gorgeous string-light/paper-lantern/wagon-wheel lighting fixtures. My friend Sandra and I were sitting in the loft taking in the experience and commenting on how much we liked the barn when she said something along the lines of, “You could always throw a party here.” when I got slapped: It's unlikely that I'll ever have a wedding there. Or anywhere like it.
I'm not a pessimist, but I have little faith that we'll see legitimately legalized gay marriage in time for it to matter to me. When you're getting married after 40, you're relegated to a sort-of “mature person” ceremony that involves someone (anyone) in a straw hat and florescent lighting.

I sat there, my vodka and cranberry staring back at me and realized that the opportunity to celebrate love with friends and family in formal attire with cute favors is something I can't reasonably expect. And if and when that day DOES arrive for me, it's unlikely that it will be given the same consideration given to my heterosexual friends. Even the friends and family who are accepting of my sexuality can still be uncomfortable when confronted with the reality associated with it. After Ryan and I split up (after more years together than many marriages last anymore) support was offered awkwardly, at best. Because people couldn't figure out how to qualify and/or quantify our relationship, they were equally at a loss in processing our split.

The same fate awaits my potential eventual nuptials. And that was the second slap.

The third slap was one that is better addressed in the world of blogs by my friend Lisa (see her Spinster Chronicles here) and its sting was short lived, so I won't dwell on it, but in recovering from slap number two, I realized how for I am from it even mattering. At 34 I am no closer to (in fact, I'm rather from) requiring the services of a best man than I was at 24. And in nine months I'll be 35! I can't even wrap my brain around that.

So in recovering from these slaps, I use my usual trick, taking the beads of my gratitude bracelet between my fingers one at a time, the way the devout would handle a rosary, reciting the things in my life that I'm grateful for: my family, my friends, my work, my passions. I list the things I'm excited about right now: skating on a derby team, the gorgeous fall weather, seeing Donnie and Rae so happy. Then I list the things I appreciate about myself: my optimism, my ability to connect so easily with people, my ability to bounce back quickly from set-backs (and bitch-slaps).

That's when it hits me: I may not have any idea what I look like, but I'm lucky to see myself to clearly. And I'm really grateful for that.

(PS: I'm also really grateful for all the people who've said kind things about my blog and my writing. Thank you for reading and for sharing your encouragement.)

Hey FAGGOT!, or Sticks and Stones

2009-09-10T00:06:00.002-04:00

I'm constantly frustrated when heterosexual people who are totally gay-friendly get up in arms when you dare be offended by their cavalier use of words like “gay” and “fag”, especially when used completely out of context.

The most common example of this happening, of course, is somebody telling you that something is “gay” when they mean it’s lame or not cool. If you challenge their choice of words, they’ll immediately assure you that “you know I didn’t mean it like that,” or “that’s totally not what I meant.” What’s worse in these situations is that if you challenge that explanation or refuse to be immediately okay with their offensive slang, you’re pretty quickly brought to task for being a stick-in-the-mud, being overly sensitive or trying to pick a fight.

I understand that you didn’t mean that the movie was a homosexual. I have a fairly solid grasp on contemporary linguistic intentions in verbal communication (and written, too). I understand that you’re not attempting to convey a hidden belief that the movie, and homosexuality also, are lame or not cool.

Consider for a moment, though, how I might perceive the word. Or better yet, imagine what I might associate with the word. Do you think growing up I had an emotional reaction when the word was used to describe something? I did. Before I was “out” it was a reaction based in shame, fear and confusion. It didn’t matter if you were talking about me or the last episode of Family Ties; I had the same reaction to both. Do you think that after I was “out” I heard the word used in a negative context from people who had no right passing judgment, but who chose to anyway? I did. Do you think now, as a confident, happy and well-adjusted adult gay man I hear it and disassociate all those personally historic connotations with the word? I don’t.

So while you don’t seem to understand how I could get so up-in-arms over your casual (and to me, thoughtless) use of a word, I can assure you I’m not being flippant or dramatic. A large part of who I am today is built around strong, and often negative, emotions associated with the word you chose as your one-word movie review.

And “fag” is even worse. My heart stops beating when I hear, read or even imagine the word.

Because when you got called a “fag” in the locker room after gym-class that guy was your buddy and he was teasing you. When I got called a “fag” in the locker room after gym-class that guy was my worst nightmare and he was threatening me. So try to understand how the fact that you’re cool being called “fag” might not mean jack-shit to me. I’m not cool with it.

And I’m not trying any harder to be offensive by voicing these feelings than you are by throwing “gay” or “fag” into casual conversation. I’m just trying to be honest. Because every time I act like it’s no big deal, I’m being disrespectful to the 14 year-old me who got shit from guys in the locker room, or the college freshman me who got shit from his dorm-mates, or the twenty-something me who got shit from some random guys at the supermarket, or the me-now who gets shit when he tries to hang out with his friends in a straight bar.

Gay rights, CIVIL RIGHTS, are still making headlines daily. And until I have the right to marry the man I love, or serve my country proudly and openly, or walk through the mall without the obnoxious stares from the ignorant I reserve the right to assert myself on this issue and request, even require, that those I allow in my circle, that those with whom I share myself, honor who I am and how I feel by realizing that “fag” and “gay” are just not cool.

Sticks, stones and roller derby may indeed break my bones, but irresponsible use of the language might just break my heart.

Square Peg/Round Hole, or A Different Kind of Gay

2009-09-08T00:47:00.000-04:00

I don’t have the new Whitney album. I probably won’t buy it. I’ve never purchased a Britney album. I don’t own any Abercrombie. In fact, until very recently I thought there was a “m” in that word somewhere. I don’t pop my collars, I don’t own any white sunglasses and I’ve never been to a Madonna concert. Ever.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to claim that I pass for a heterosexual man. I’ve seen every episode of Queer As Folk, been compared to Emmett more than once (and have always been flattered), I have a soft-spot for Disney movies and I own enough cosmetic products to deal with pretty much any situation.

But I also have a six foot tall coffin in my bedroom lined with a hundred Living Dead Dolls, I have thirteen tattoos (Day of the Dead skulls, one good and one evil, a chest piece, a couple prison tattoos and some of those ubiquitous nautical stars), a hoop through my right nostril, gauged earlobes and a significant collection of zombie movies. We won’t talk about the skull fetish where my decorating is concerned.

When dating things typically progress like this: I meet somebody and we spend some time together and we hit it off. Then comes the inevitable, “What do you want to do tonight? A movie? Sure, sounds good. Oh, rent? Here? Um, okay.” This exchange is followed later in the evening with something along the lines of, “No, it’s not just for Halloween, I keep it out year round. Yeah- that’s a coffin. What? No, it’s for my dolls.” I won’t even go into what happens when they find my knitting needles.

And if things go well enough I’ll hear this at some point, “Wow. Another tattoo, huh? Are there any others I should know about?” And a conversation I’ve had more than once in my life has centered around my utter disbelief that somebody doesn’t know that before Vagrant Records, Chris was on Fiddler. And I can’t count the number of guys who don’t know who I mean when I say Chris.

It’s not just my passion for indie rock, my love of body art and horror, it includes my ability to discuss any book on the Times’ best seller list but my total lack of ability to recognize any American Idol contestant from any season. Ever. Then there’s the fact that I live for roller derby, live music in crappy bars, and eat a diet that consists of primarily grilled chicken and steamed vegetables.

So it seems that I naturally narrow my field of prospects pretty significantly just by being me. Throw in the fact that I could never be with a smoker, someone who doesn’t feel passionately about fitness and wellness, someone who doesn’t love animals, and it has to be someone who won’t be embarrassed to hold up a big sign at a derby bout with a gay-looking zombie on it. And this is just the start of the list.

I could pack up the dolls, put the coffin in storage. I could buy the new Whitney album and buy some Hollister crap. I could get cable and watch American Idol and America’s Next Top Model. I could trade in pieces of me to be with somebody I don’t really like. I could give up something unique and important about who I am for some time with somebody who I’ll grow tired of in four months and resent in six.

Or I can decide that I’d rather be exactly who I mean to be and be single than trade in what I love about me for what I might like about somebody else.

And now I’m going to dust my dolls’ little hatchets and vampire-steaks.

The Notebook (Not The Crappy Movie), or Finders Keepers

2009-08-25T11:06:00.000-04:00

I flipped open the sketch book that I pulled randomly out of a pile of journals, notepads and sketchbooks that fill two shelves in the small hall-closet. The first page is a small heart with a banner that reads “Funny Valentine” across it, pierced by an arrow. Across the top of the heart lie the letters J-A-S-O-N and beneath it, R-Y-A-N. I can only assume this was intended at some point to have been my next tattoo. The next page holds ink sketches of gothic-looking folks inspired, no doubt, by some long-ago-watched episode of Buffy. The third page, a favorite, has a number of Day of the Dead style skulls and skeletons with the words “Sinner” and “Saint” in bold block lettering running through the sea of skulls. Another tattoo, I wonder? Maybe.

Further in lives a comic I’d written and illustrated called “Stinky Butt Skull Guy” that predominantly features two characters that look a lot like a younger me and Ryan. I study the detail of each panel, wondering why if I demonstrated such promise, this was my only attempt at writing a comic? It’s not half bad. Then comes a sketch of a layout for a long-abandoned zine idea (that’s what we kids used to do to express ourselves before blogs), two Mexican skulls in tuxedos marrying and a beautiful black skull against a Tim Burton inspired heart,

Another page in and I stop flipping. It’s one of his sketches. All of a sudden my tattoo designs, comics and expressions are nothing more than meaningless doodles scribbled in the margins of scrap of paper. His pages are striking. Beautiful. Engaging. Provocative. Even in the pages of a shared sketch book we were at odds, a poor match. My work so clearly speaking to my interests and the contents of my heart. His so mysterious, so personal and private. The expressions (and lack thereof) on his subjects’ faces communicate so much. I look at the drawings and wonder who he was and what was inside him that created these. And I know that he wondered that, too.

Notes from meetings (his), floor plans for merchandise shifts (his), a brilliant logo for an as-yet-unwritten play, “Poe” (mine, the font gloriously old-fashioned the “o” replaced by a skull) and then the page that stops me in my tracks. I freeze. The atmosphere in the room changes, it takes me several seconds to figure out why- I’ve stopped breathing. A single page across which he’s written over and over again the words “I Love You.”

I don’t recall the page within a specific context, but it wouldn’t be unlikely that he’d left it sitting somewhere I’d find it one waking up one morning after he’d long left for work in the days he was driving 90 minutes to and from his job. Or that he’d decorated that page while we watched Angel on DVD, only for me to find it when he set it down on the chest that sat in front of the futon to use the bathroom. I’d assumed at whatever time I found it, in whatever circumstances it was left, that it was a message to me. A simple statement. Now I realize that much like the drawings that proceed that page, they’re a question, an exploration. A vain search for something. Anything.

He wasn’t telling me anything. He was asking himself something. He was asking a question that he wouldn’t answer until years later when he walked out of my life.

Months ago, with the courage of the bottle and the support of the best kind of friend, I purged my “Ryan Box.” That magical keepsake of items either once-belonging to or gifted by and ex. I decided my heart carried more memories and better keepsakes than a shoebox ever could. And now I look at this sketchbook and wonder if I should banish it to the land of dumpsters where it can rest forever with it’s brethren.

But like a poem, meaning something different every time I read it, there it sits. A testament to a relationship that, not failed, just no-longer, has helped to shape what I write, sketch and dream now. A documentation of an experience that made me who I am right now. An account of events that led me to choose to be exactly who I mean to be. I decide to keep it, opening the closet door and shoving it back in among the books on the shelf when another falls out of line and into my hands. The cover says “Fredonia State University” across it.

I open it up to a random page and find the hand-written script I’d written freshman year of college. A play about the relationships and adventures of a group of actors touring with Romeo & Juliet. I read a sample lyric from the opening number, “Shakespeare had it in for us, touring tragedy on a bus!” and “Equity! Equity! Can’t you see how they’re treating me? Perform all night, rehearse all day, all for sad and measly pay.” I wince. Decide I don’t need to explore any more pages. This one goes in the trash.

In front of the bathroom mirror I watch my electric toothbrush do its job. I notice the fine lines around my eyes and wonder how I got to be so old, and how it took me this long to figure out who I wanted, or needed, to be. I wonder how Ryan is. I wonder if he’s answered any of the other questions he asked, indirectly, in that sketchbook. Not the question about me, but the questions about him. I wonder what might have been different if we met now instead of then. And worse, I wonder who we’d be now if he hadn’t left then.

I rinse my toothbrush and put it away reminding myself that what-ifs and coulda-woulda’s don’t do anybody any good. Leave the past in the past. I start thinking about the other notebook. That horrid script? Proof that the past belongs put away, or even thrown away. What was I going to do, rewrite Kiss Me, Kate (another musical about a group of actors touring with a Shakespeare play)?

Of course, if it were a play instead of a musical, and if the actors were touring with a staging of The Raven, and if the costumer were in love with the actor playing Edgar. Now that could be interesting. And I have an idea for a logo…

I fish that old college notebook of the wastebasket and sit down to my computer to type.

“Act One, Scene One. A dressing room with of little distinction other than a black and white photograph taped in the lower corner of a mirror surrounded by naked bulbs. At rise, an Actor sits at the mirror applying makeup. His costume, a Victorian suit of blacks and grays hangs on the back of the dressing room door. In the opposite corner, a changing screen. The door opens, the costumer, Jason, enters…”

I Should Wear Sleeves, or The Perils of Being Pretty

2009-08-12T00:35:00.002-04:00

It's like a catch-22, I know. You lose a bunch of weight and when people comment all you can hear is that you were heavy before. It's a problem that isn't really a problem at the end of the day. But it still ticks me off a little bit, so I'm gonna blog about it. If you don't like people whining about inconsequential details, close this window.

Things said to me recently, that probably were meant as compliments, but didn't sit right with me:

1. “Of course he can say no to chocolate! Look at his body.” (Um, hello? I'm sitting right here. I can hear you. And I would never say, “Of course he will eat the chocolate! Look at his body!”)

2. “You're a sex-pot!” (I don't know what a sex-pot is, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to be one, thanks anyway.)

3. “It IS hot in here. You should take your shirt off.” (Or you could just open that window behind you.)

“If my husband looked like that, he'd get lucky a lot more often.” (I didn't even know how to respond to that one, so I tried just walking away, which was working until someone called after me, “Did she basically just say she wants to f*%! you?”)

Things said to me recently that actually made my day:

1. "Have you been working out? You look really fit.” (Some nice girl needs to snatch Tony up quick, he's like a genuinely nice guy. For real. Who knew they even existed?)

2. “You're sexy when you smile.” (I'm pretty sure it was a line, but damn did it make my day. Hell, it made my month. Maybe even my summer.)

3. “Your abs look even better than xxxxx's!” (Okay, this one should probably be in the first list, but based on who said it, and what they were referencing- it totally made my day.)

4. “Maybe I'll switch to chicken and broccoli.” (Thanks for the compliment, and for giving it in a way that didn't make me feel icky, gross or whore-ish. [PS- that one was my mom.])

I know I'm to blame for the first list. I wear tight jeans, tank-tops and sleeveless shirts. It's like the girl in the low-cut top complaining that all the guys are staring at her boobs. But I'm hot all the time and I sweat like it's my job, so I'm more comfortable in less clothing. And I don't think it matters- people shouldn't assume they have free reign to make comments on anything they can see. (Wow, your mole is huge. Have you always been cross-eyed? The way your thighs jiggle makes me think of the ocean.) No, it's commonly accepted that somethings are inappropriate to say. So let's add to that list anything that indicates your husband's marital needs would be better met if he lost some weight. Okay? Thanks.

If I were actually to compile a list of the comments and suggestions that I get, you wouldn't believe they were true. Let's just say that in the last week, my nipples were a topic of conversation at a local not-for-profit organization's meeting, a bartender emailed topless photos of himself to me and a stranger offered his genitalia for inspection to my friend Shanna and I in public. I couldn't make these things up if I tried.

I guess the reason this gets me so riled up is that it makes me worry that people don't take me seriously, and it makes me wonder what kind of impression I'm making on them. Is this why my relationships are better suited for horror stories on reality television than a story to pass on to future generations of little Jaquays-Tarbox-Whoevers? Is this why people assume I'm dumb?

Frankly, if I didn't like a good martini as much as I do, I wouldn't take any of the drinks constantly passed my way because I know I'm not getting them for my wit, literate banter or insightful social commentaries. I'm getting them because I have nice pecs. And I hate that I don't have a stronger will against the free drinks. I really do. (See? I told you this was a catch-22 situation.)

In high school, I hated the beautiful people (some of you are on my Face Book, you know who you are) because I thought you had it all. I assumed that relationships were easy, and that you had your pick of all the boys and girls. And I assumed that people wanted to be with you for all the right reasons (I hadn't yet considered that there could even be wrong reasons).

My acne-ridden six foot, hundred pound frame didn't get invited out a whole lot, but he never wondered if people wanted to be with him for the wrong reasons (am I a good friend, or a fun drunk, or someone who makes you feel pretty or someone you think helps attract attention in a gay bar) or if anyone doubted his qualities that weren't cultivated in a gym.

I grow up, get a little bicep going on and discover that maybe I had it wrong all along. Maybe there are always people saying shitty, inappropriate things to all of us. Maybe it's all a question of how we allow the way other people react to us to influence our self-perception. Maybe what you say about me says more about me and my insecurities than it does your sick, perverted mind. Or at least, maybe it should.

Maybe it's the universe's way of telling me who's worth my time and heart (“Your laugh is so sexy,”) and who isn't (“Do you have any naked pics?”). So thanks for the heads up, universe! And I'll try to be more forgiving and slower to annoy, but I can't make any promises. Now, who wants to buy me a martini?

Becoming Less Made Me More, or The Corniness Continues

2009-07-26T22:17:00.000-04:00

May 30th, I hadn't been onstage since 1999 in any formal capacity (in other words, my appearances were limited to staggering drunkenly onto stages in clubs to win prizes I probably didn't want in the first place).

So on March 18th I joined a gym. Those of you who know me know that I work in a gym. In fact, I manage one of the largest and most beautiful health clubs in Syracuse. Working out at work resulted in a lot of “it's been a long day, I just need to get out of here” excuses, and “I can't workout without being interrupted a hundred times, there's no point in working out today.” So I decided to join a low-price, basic amenities gym a stone's throw from work and home.

What I did next was sort of odd for a man in his thirties; I started keeping a calendar and on the days I made it to the gym to workout, I'd place a shiny heart-shaped sticker on the calendar and on days when I made it to the gym AND went for a run, I'd place two shiny stickers in my calendar. Yes, I used a technique commonly used to get children to perform chores or to track attendance in kindergarten.

But what happened was remarkable: I've worked in gyms and fitness centers for the better portion of my adult life, but joining a gym where I didn't work made me hold myself accountable the same way I'd been telling clients all these years that they'd need to hold themselves accountable. And then the changes started. The show came and went and still I stuck to my plan, making it to the new gym five to six days a week, filling my calendar with up to nine stickers some weeks (six workouts and three runs).

Then I changed my diet. No more junk food, less alcohol (hey- everyone has their vices, and I'm the happiest drunk ever, so I couldn't just cut it out, you know?) and a lot of grilled chicken breast and steamed broccoli. A lot. And then more changes came. Physically I've been happier with myself than ever before.

But something more important happened, too. Much more important.

As I became healthier (shedding twelve pounds and eight percent body fat in the process) and my diet became cleaner (I miss french fries) my attitude became healthier and my mind became cleaner. Do I owe it all to the gym? All to my workouts? Probably not, I probably owe it to an overall will to change. But where ever the credit goes, I'm so happy for the changes.

The best part? My heart is so happy. I don't have everything I want by a long shot, but I have everything I need. And that makes my heart happy.

I don't have everything figured out, but I'm totally committed to the years of life lessons to come, and excited to continue growing and developing as a person through those lessons. And that makes my heart happy.

I've learned that you don't always get what you want, but when you put positive energy into the world (or negative, for that matter) you'll always get what you deserve. And that makes my heart happy.

I have a lot of work to do on my life. But instead of being overwhelmed, I'm excited. I'm so grateful for the opportunity to shape what's coming for me. And that makes my heart happy.

In fact, most everything makes my heart happy these days. It feels full, to the point where a beautiful sky, a kind word or even a perfectly quiet moment brings me full, complete and encompassing emotion.

And that? Makes my heart HAPPY.

Things I'm Not Thrilled About, or I Take That Back

2009-07-24T21:58:00.003-04:00

1. My leg infection. I'm not a big wearer of shorts, but now even if I wanted to- shorts are off limits for the rest of the summer. Oh, and then there's the antibiotics and the whole gross-I-have-an-infection thing, too. Then again, I know there are plenty of people who have to deal with health problems that trump a little infection that's going to clear up in a couple of days. So I take this one back.

2. I missed two days of work to get antibiotics pumped into my system, which now means I have to work this weekend. I know that there are plenty of people who would love to have to work on the weekend, or to work at all and that I have no right to complain. So I take this one back.

3. Bea Arthur (my car) died and I'm having to get around via Betty White (my bicycle) these days. Which means I can't get as far as I like to, and I need to plan ahead more than I'm used to. Although, I suppose there are lots of people who can't ride a bike who'd love the opportunity. And even more who can't leave their houses at all. So I take this one back.

4. I only just started watching Tru Blood, and everyone else seems to have been on to this one since day one. I like being in on these things from the beginning. Then again, I suppose there a lots of people who don't have the fortune of television, and internet, or even radio, so I guess I'm lucky I get to see it at all. So I take this one back.

I guess there's no point in continuing this list. Apparently I'm too damn happy to complain. But I guess there are a lot people who could stand some perspective. So I take that back, too.

What Happens in Vegas Doesn't Always Stay There, or Winning Big in Sin CIty

2009-07-18T14:23:00.003-04:00

Some Things Don't Stay In Vegas, or Winning Big in Sin City

I'm sitting in the airport, three hours before my return flight to New York from Las Vegas where I've spent the last five days in a mix of work obligations (for the annual Gold's Gym International Convention at the Mandalay Bay Casino and Resort) and play ("Jew down know me!"). The obvious question is why am I three hours early for my flight? It's not because I haven't had a wonderful time in Vegas (in fact, it seems like the latest chapter in a self-penned book about my life getting better and better by the day) but I AM ready to get back to the real world.

It seems ironic to me now that MTV would have filmed a show called The Real World in a land that is anything but. Everyone wears Ed Hardy or Affliction or some equally douche-like apparel with too many studs, rhinestones and now-ubiquitous skulls, snakes and daggers (including the women). Everybody wears their sunglasses indoors (I blame poker tournaments on ESPN). The ridiculously short dresses, overly exposed breasts and casually un-tucked white oxford shirts make their nightly appearance at almost seven o'clock exactly every night.

But that's not the point of this blog. I don't mean to discuss the things about Vegas that annoy me. I want to share with you the amazing things that happened to me in Vegas and the phenomenal lessons I've learned as a result.

1. Sometimes somebody you've just met can read your heart with more accuracy than you can yourself.

I met a beautiful and amazing Italian man from London who works in fashion (Armani, anyone?). I spent the night with him. Before you go making assumptions about what that means- I didn't do anything that a) I'm ashamed of or b) a good boy doesn't do. But let me also clarify- good boys make out. A lot.

So how did an amazing night with Giorgio (I swear that's his real name) lead to an important life lesson? It started at the club (Krave - located outside Planet Hollywood. If you're ever in Vegas on a Thursday you need to be there, when the club is hosted by nakedboynews.com's J.Son, but more on Krave later) when he told me, "You are so popular here." The look on his face when I told him that I'd only been there about an hour and it was my first time in the club was priceless. I explained to him that I'd recently been told that when you're the kind of person you'd want to be around- people want to be around you. With that said, shout-outs to my new friends, especially Lady Shug, from Krave. Giorgio's response? "You are beautiful."

That's a good response.

The next moment leading to my latest epiphany happened on the moving walk (those dumb flat escalators, of which Giorgio commented, "No wonder Americans are so fat." I would have been so offended if he hadn't already made his impression of my physique clear at the club while we were dancing (DJ Sobe was FUN!) leading into Excalibur. He said, "In America what is the reaction when two hot men kiss?" And of course my response could only be, "Let's find out." Now, I'm secure in who I am and how I'm perceived so I had no problems being kissed by Giorgio in full view of dozens of drunken tourists, most of whom applauded. The amazing part? He knew exactly what I was thinking/feeling as we both broke our embrace laughing. Whoever thinks laughter can't be sexy and passionate has a lot to learn about life.

The final stage of this lesson? When he held me as the sun rose over the strip and used that glorious accent to whisper into my ear, "You are a good person, Jason. I can tell. You deserve to have good things and to be happy."

Four hours after our first dance and Giorgio read my heart note for note. He left at 9am that morning, hours before I'd even made it into bed (though I still haven't REALLY slept) to visit the Grand Canyon with his parents. But he left an important lesson: I know my heart based on my perception. Sometimes someone else's perception can be so important. Thanks, Giorgio. I'll see you in October.

2. Sometimes when you clear the air, you clear your heart, too.

Remember Jeremy? From that other blog? Want to know why I'll ALWAYS love and respect him? Because over the course of a crazy fast food dinner (Pollo Loco, for real- pics soon) and a walk through The Palms, we were able to clear the air in an objective, honest and productive
way. I was able to say how I felt and explain why I hurt. He didn't try to diminish his role or responsibility in any of that. He admitted fault. And he also called me out on some of my faults.

I was also recently told that people who require of their friends that the accept them just as they are are stupid. You should want friends who expect more of you, hold you to a higher standard and make you a better person. I've had plenty of people in my life who accepted me just the way I was. Those people are commonly known as enablers.

Jeremy isn't having any of that crap. If he's going to take responsibility for being unclear and letting me get attached then he's going to make sure I take responsibility for being kind of crazy. At the Pollo Loco I had to come to terms with the face that I can be Jason Loco.

The best part of the air-clearing process with Jeremy is how it never felt like an argument, there was no blame-slinging, and we were able to interrupt our moments of seriousness with bouts of laughter and genuine enjoyment.

The result of clearing the air? My heart feels lighter. I feel I can be Jeremy's friend AND fan again. I can be genuinely happy to count him among the people in my life, and especially as one of the people in my life that helps me be better at being me. Thanks, Jeremy. I'll see you in the fall.

3. Sometimes you're so busy seeing how you were "done wrong" that you fail to see the wrong you did.

See number two, and discover that before clearing the air Jason Loco might not have been entirely aware of what I'd done to contribute to how I felt. I won't go into it big time here, since this blog is getting longer by the second. But I hope that Jeremy is able to forgive me the way I've forgiven him. So Jeremy, if you're reading this I'm sorry.

4. Life is what you make it.

That's what Gramp used to say. I understood it with my head when he did. Now I understand it with my heart. I played a black and white machine Friday night. As Gramp got older, his vision began to fail him and the contrast on the black and white machines was all he could see in the casinos after a while. So this year, like last, I spent some time in Vegas with Gramp at one of the machines. And I won.

BIG.

Nothing came shooting out of the slot. No sirens sounded, no lights went off. There was no more cash in my pocket when it was all said and done than there was before (in fact, like many others in Vegas, there was less). I won bigger than that.

I realized that the man who'd given to everybody his whole life, was still at it. Still giving. Giving me something more amazing and more important that I could ever dare to expect from someone- a better life. I cried right there on the gaming floor. Some of the tears were because I miss him, sure. But most of the tears were because my heart was (and IS) so full, that sometimes some of that emotion has to spill out. I cried in the elevator, I cried in my room, and now I'm crying a little bit in the airport. Not because I'm sad, but because my life really IS what I make it. Thanks, Gramp. I'll continue to see you everywhere there is life.

Well, my heart is full, but my belly is empty. Let's see what I can dig up in the airport for lunch. I'm so glad that not everything that happens in Vegas has to stay there.

Things I'm Excited For Tonight, or Why I Can't Sleep

2009-07-11T01:52:00.003-04:00

* Las Vegas

I leave Monday morning. I return late Saturday night. I'm staying at Mandalay Bay, and I will see Martini and Kiki there. I'm excited.

** I Would...

*** Blues Fest/Honor Bright

Tomorrow Geoff and I are hitting up Blues Fest downtown and Honor Bright at The Lost Horizon. You should come, too.

**** SyraCLUES web series

Discover the hidden treasures that make Syracuse a REAL CITY. (Sorry haters, all you Syracuse-Sucks-Sayers can back off now.)

A Million Questions, or a Random Rant on Moving On

2009-07-10T18:18:00.002-04:00

I'm not going to blog about that experience again. I had no idea how self-involved and ridiculous it must look to the world to see me going bonkers-in-the-heart over three weeks of my life.

But since I'm not going to blog about it again, I might as well get something off of my chest here: what's a week, or a month, a year? Did I mourn the ending of a long relationship more than a short one? Or was I really just moody because I was adjusting to a new way of life, a single way, a way that didn't include multiple daily phone calls, a constant date for all events and an ear willing to listen at any hour? Was it the actual relationship or the amenities I'd grown accustomed to?

If I had to argue it, I'd say that I mourn the shorter relationships more because there are so many unknowns still associated with them (what if I had, what if we'd...) as opposed to the longer ones where you know how each day, each situation and every variable will play out (he always, we never...).

Or maybe it's apples and oranges. Or maybe it's love and lust (although I don't think so, I'm not a very lusty-guy). Or maybe it's the brain trying to hard to quantify and understand the umpredictable behavior of the heart.

And why do we spend so much time contemplating what went wrong, even when we're completely satisified with the outcome? Would I take any of my ex-boyfriends back? Probably not, but still I think about what would happen if I did. And not just Mr. Recent, or Mr. Long Term, but Mr. First and Mr. Oh-Yeah-I'd-Forgotten-About-Him.

Questions, questions, questions. I think instead of working on the answers, I'm going to distract my brain by leading my heart on it's next adventure, doesn't that sound like more fun?

Sharing Is Caring, or An Independent Heart

2009-07-04T11:12:00.003-04:00

It is unfortunate that sometimes we're so busy assigning reason to the things we feel, that we misinterpret and misrepresent. I learned a couple years ago that whenever a new feeling enters you, the best thing to do it lace up your running shoes and hit the road to give your head and heart a chance to talk it out and figure out what's up.

Recently (okay, a year and a half ago) I made a resolution to not date anyone for a year. Take some time to just focus on what was happening in life and not worry about somebody else. Turns out it was a pretty good decision. I did go on some dates, but they were straight-dates. I was able to focus on my friendships and my family and figuring out where my head and heart really were. Then two months ago (a few months beyond my 12-month resolution) I started dating again, and it's been an interesting experience.

In the past two months, I've dated two different guys, we'll call them Ken and Jeremy. I have NO IDEA why Ken and I dated. He was (and I'm sure still is) a giant fun sponge. He was able to sit through a roller derby bout and never once raise his voice, clap his hands to threaten the life of one of the refs. I mean, who does that? The only time he ever really seemed interested in anything was when he was discussing the daytime-tv-worthy drama at his office.

And Jeremy? Well, Jeremy was like Jekyll and Hyde; amazing and wonderful in private and a selfish self-promoter in public (to be fair- that's from my selfish perspective and probably not 100% accurate since self-promoting is 99% of his job). It wasn't long before the pain the public Jeremy caused me far outweighed the joy the private Jeremy brought me. I'm just not the kind of guy who can flip a switch and be okay with living two different lives.

With Ken, I knew it was just a chance to rehearse before returning to the big, bad world of dating. There were no expectations, no hopes, no excitement over what might be. With Jeremy, I decided to just enjoy the experience and company, because I knew the nature of his job (life?) would be taking him away soon. And somewhere along the way my heart filled up (that happens a lot, I can't help it, I'm an emotional guy with a full life- I'm bound to have some excess love built up now and then) and I misinterpreted what I was feeling and credited somebody else with the feeling I'd generated myself. I behaved as if Jeremy had somehow opened my chest cavity while I was sleeping and stuffed a bunch of love in there for me to discover when I woke up the next morning.

It took several runs, two pair of laces and about a hundred miles, but I finally got my head and heart back in step, and learned something really profound and amazing in the process.

Those feelings were there before Jeremy and they're here after Jeremy. Sure, it was nice to have Jeremy around to share them with, even if he wasn't entirely deserving (and he certainly wasn't grateful) but in the end I gave up that feeling by somehow assigning it to him. And I'm lucky because this time it only took me a couple weeks to get that feeling back and realize it was mine. When Randy (also not his real name) left it took me a couple years to rediscover love inside my heart, and even longer to realize that it was there all the time, not just when there's a guy standing next to me.

So now, on Independence Day, which seems appropriate, I'm making a new resolution, one without an expiration date. I resolve to remember as I move forward that my love is mine, it's beautiful, it's unending and it's real. I resolve to share it generously with my friends, my family, and anyone else willing to accept it. And if that means someday there's a guy who deserves to be on the receiving end, I'll certainly share it with him. But I'm never giving it away again.

I resolve to spend the rest of my days living with that love in my heart. I resolve to know that I'm worthy of that feeling single or otherwise. And when I'm full of love and a little bit spills over, I'm going to learn to love the mess.

It's Not A Relationship If You're In It Alone, or The Heart Hears What It Wants To Hear

2009-06-24T15:41:00.001-04:00

It's Not A Relationship If You're In It Alone, or The Heart Hears What It Wants To Hear

(*the names and places have [mostly] been changed to protect the jerks who've broken my heart)

My first relationship was when I was in college. I suppose other people would argue that I'd had relationships with them before college (I'll get into this more later), but the first relationship that I felt in my heart, and recognized in my head, happened in college.

I'd see Greg in the computer lab (we didn't all travel with laptops then) almost daily, with his beautiful golden curls and soft, delicate features and I'd have to stop to remind myself to breath and blink. I'm sure the years have allowed me to embellish the memory, but I envision a cherub emitting a soft glow among the monochromatic computer screens. I met him in the most embarrassing way: by discovering his username and chatting with him online before admitting to the fact that I was sitting at a computer across from him. This virtual-flirting led to his coming to see a performance of mine with my friends, and then to a movie night at a friend's dorm room.

In my mind the nights we spent holding each other in a dorm's twin bed and my invitation to his work Christmas party solidified our relationship. We'd spent weeks seeing each other after my late night rehearsals, I'd been to his house (he was a local student) and met most of his on-campus friends. I'd even been to the local mall to purchase an outfit just for his holiday gathering. I wanted to look my best for our first public social engagement.

A week after the party, I went home for break, and by the time I'd gotten back to college, Greg had had the same experience with two other guys and a girl. Apparently, I was the only one in that relationship. I was totally surprised that, although the subject never came up and nary a conversation regarding the issue was had, we were not in an exclusive, monogamous relationship headed straight for domestic partnership. Forget what was (or in this case, wasn't) said, I felt in my heart that it was just me and Greg.

I met my next boyfriend at work. I was in charge of the apparel section (this is going way back in time) at Pier One (it was called Passports and it no longer exists) and he would come in with his then boyfriend and was always super nice to me. Sean had dark, curly hair and lived with his aunt in an apartment on the bad side of town. He drove a ridiculous car and wore really bad gold chains and white tee-shirts. I thought the way he'd followed me around my store one day was adorable. The I saw him at his work and he followed me again.

Sean knew fun people, went out to bars (which I didn't do at the time) and liked to go to concerts and camping. Scott and I spent about a month in each other's constant company. We even went to see Melissa Etheridge in concert together (apparently we thought we were lesbians, but she was SO good). Then one day I was at work and Sean came in. With his boyfriend. But this time he wasn't super nice to me. Again, I was in a relationship, but again, I was the only one there.

I first met Brian when he was walking through my bedroom to get to the bathroom (it was a funny apartment and the only way into the bathroom was through one of two of the three bedrooms) and I thought he was the cutest guy I'd ever seen in person. He'd just spent the night in my roommate's room (the one room without access to the bathroom) and to this day there are different versions of what happened that night floating about, but it didn't matter to me. Brian was interested in me, and didn't seem annoyed by me and appeared to want to spend time with me (all things opposite from my roommates).

To be fair, Brian left me a note after one long night of talking and sharing and innocent spooning on the windshield of my little blue car. He wasn't looking for a serious relationship. He liked me, and wanted to spend time with me and see where things went, but he didn't want to get serious, and he didn't want me to get hurt in the process. I did anyway.

As things progressed and that one night of secret sharing led to another and another and finally a routine where Brian would sleep beside me, waking up at four to go home for a few more hours sleep and a shower before work, I was convinced that even if he said it wasn't, it was still a relationship. But it wasn't, well not to him- just to me.

Tim, Matt, Kevin, Jay, Bruce, Ahmet: they were all variations on the same story. In my mind and in my heart I was in relationships that to them were nothing more than, “I'm seeing this guy. We'll see where it goes.”

The one exception was Randy. We were with each other for most of my twenties. Randy would openly refer to me as his boyfriend. To our cat. To our families. But to friends, it was implied. Randy wasn't a social extrovert and we spent most of our time home watching Buffy and Alias on dvd.

We'd say “I love you, “ and we made promises. Promises that eventually gave way to time, routine and change. Our promises, like plans made by best friends in the third grade, by graduation meant little to anyone.

Randy lives across the country now, attempting to be the person I'd always seen inside him, the person he couldn't let free when he was with me. I'd waited and waited for him to come out of his shell. And when he finally did, when the guy I was in a relationship with had shown up, we were already over.

So it should come as no surprise that now, as Jeremy prepares for his final days in town, and to board a plane and fly back to Chicago that again I look back at the events with a knowing chuckle, seeing that once again I'd had a relationship. All by myself.

He makes an aside, “Jeremy and Jason, that'll look so cute on the wedding invitations!” as a joke meant to elicit a laugh. I take it as a solemn promise. He tells me I make him smile and I assume it's a skill no one else might possess. He puts his arms around me and I'm sure nobody else in the world fits in them quite as rightly as I do. And all of a sudden, with the guy who's “hanging out to see what happens” I'm in a relationship. I'm in love.

Why do I fall in love with the ease most associate with tying their shoes or zipping their coat?

When reality comes crashing down on me like an anvil dropped from the rocky ledge above meant to send stars orbiting my head Wiley Coyote-style, I think to myself, “I did it again. I assumed this was something. That we were going to try to be something.” And every time I go into mourning for what I think I lost, whoever is exiting the “non-relationship” with me looks at me like I was crazy.

Me: To be fair, I thought we were together, too.
Him: We were hanging out, seeing what might happen.
Me (To Myself): Why didn't I know that?

Is my heart so easily played? A player piano that requires no one at the keys? Or have I chosen to open my heart to the types of people who enjoy the access without the responsibility?

And the next question, of course, becomes: have I ever done this to other people? Unknowingly? Maybe those people who were in my life before college (see? I told you I'd get back to that) thought we had something, were something, but my eyes and my heart saw the situation differently.

Maybe a passing friend who'd hopes for something different, something more? I'd like to think not. That I'd know someone assumed we were headed somewhere we weren't. That I'd be sensitive enough to recognize it happening and kind enough to prevent it. But would it matter? I've had letters left on my windshield, after all. The heart hears and sees only what it wants.

And apparently my hearts sees and hears possibility. And even though the heartbreaks shatter for a moment, I'm not sure I'd have it any other way. May I never give up the hope that the next guy might be “the one.”

2009-05-26T23:46:00.002-04:00

Ever said to somebody, "Dude, that's gay." when they do or say something you thought was stupid?

Ever called a friend "fag" or "queer" when they did or said something you thought was stupid?

I was the little boy/adolescent/young man in earshot who took every single one of those comments and stashed them in a dark place where they would grow and fester and cause me to doubt myself and question who I was for so long that I never even met the "real" me until college.

Once, when I was a teenager, my whole (extended) family was gathered in the living room of my grandparents' house. Back in my teen years, there were plenty of occasions when the room would be full of aunts, uncles and cousins. This was one of those times, a room full of family. Someone mentioned an old school-mate who worked down the road at McLaughlin's Department store, a short walk from my grandparents' house. I don't remember what was said about this man, except that he sold ties at the department store. What I do remember is my father saying "He's...you know, ..." and then extending his hand in that gesture we're all familiar with: arm extended, wrist limp and pinky extended.

I'm not sure I knew exactly what he meant at the time, but I knew that this guy was different, and that that was bad. That's why I never officially came out to my dad. I let my mom do that, which led to his telling me, "I never knew that Melissa Etheridge was one, too."

I couldn't count the number of times my brother or father's brothers would call people (or me) fags, homos, queers. And those are just the times I was there, when I was within earshot.

Every time somebody said something insensitive or ignorant they weren't just exposing their intolerance (or fear or ignorance), they were taking something that didn't belong to them. They were taking something from me; they were taking away my ability to be me.

So all this babble is really to ask you a question: Have you ever taking something from someone? Have you ever stolen a little bit of what makes them who they are?

THEN GIVE BACK! I need volunteers for Pride on June 20th. If you can help, even for just an hour, email me at jason.jaquays.tarbox@gmail.com and I'll get you some details. MAKE A DIFFERENCE!

On Biggotry, Bea Arthur and Showtunes

2009-04-27T23:16:00.003-04:00

1. You know how Facebook tells you when your friends are "fans" of something? Like, "Water! 2 Friends Are Fans. Become a fan." Well, what happens when a friend (or worse, family member?) becomes a "fan" of something that is contrary to WHO YOU ARE and what YOU BELIEVE?

Yes, a friend (or family member!) recently became a "fan" of "Marriage 1 Man + 1 Woman". I know, I know: everyone has a right to their opinions. But is he (or she!) really serious? My last long-term relationship lasted almost twice as long as his (or her!) marriage. And no breach of trust ended my time with Ryan; maturity did.

So the conundrum is this: remain friends on Facebook (remaining family isn't really a yes or no kind of choice) and accept that this individual believes that I should be denied a basic happiness allowed to so many others who abuse the privilege or become a "fan" of "Marriage 2 People Who Love Each Other And Respect Each Other And Whose Happiness Has No Direct Bearing On Yours." (Or I suppose there's a third option: delete this person from my friends list.)

Oh, what? There isn't any such group? Well maybe it's time for me to learn how to start groups, then. Or maybe it's time for people to stop acting like it's the dark ages, open your minds, open your hearts and remember that gay means happy while straight means rigid and unbending.

2. Bea Arthur has passed away. I cannot tell you how profoundly sad this news made me? Would you think less of me if I admit that I cried? If you would then go read some other blog, because I bawled like a baby. She was talented, funny, striking and positive- a real class act. Check out how these talented, funny, striking and positive folks paid tribute:

3. May 30th, 7:30pm "Clinton Music Parents proudly present An Evening with Bonnie and Friends Saturday, May 30, 2009 7:30pm Clinton Performing Arts Complex Join us for a wonderful evening of cabaret performances by many familiar faces and some new! All proceeds to benefit the Bonnie Hibbard Vocal Excellence Award Mark your calendar for a fabulous evening!" --From the 2009 Spring Musical (The Boyfriend) Program

Yes folks, I'm dusting off the vocal chords and hitting the stage for the first time in over ten years (yikes!) performing Luck Be a Lady from Guys and Dolls and Worlds Apart (with Peter Loftus- I wonder which of us is playing Jim?) from Big River as well as performing in some group numbers. It's my honor to be involved in an evening to raise funds for an award that celebrates the most amazing teacher the public school systems ever hosted.

Bonnie was my vocal music teacher from sixth grade through graduations, as well as my choral director, director of my first-ever musical (Bye Bye Birdie), and music theory instructor. Now I'm so incredibly humbled that she would count me among her friends (there was a recent awkward email exchange in which she asked my, politely, to stop calling her "Miss Hibbard" and the switch to "Bonnie" still seems odd or disrespectful). I'm equally humbled that after hearing not a single note from me for over ten years, she would invite me to join a talented roster that includes Peter Loftus and Jenna Reynolds (who was once Bonnie's student teacher whilst I was a student) among others.

So PLEASE mark your calendars and cheer me on in my return to the stage and help support and AMAZING award that serves as a testament to a woman who affected countless high school kids and made music magical for so many of us!

Why I Shouldn't Watch YouTube Videos

2009-03-31T00:44:00.001-04:00

After watching YouTube videos of people performing and doing what they love, I could only think, "Great. And I get to get up at six tomorrow to listen to people complain about dumb things like not being able to read the 'fancy writing' labels on shampoo dispensers." Really.

There must be a solution that doesnt involve me with a label maker. There must be.

Out Tonight

2009-03-30T23:24:00.001-04:00

O. M. G.

I WANT THIS.

2009-03-28T19:58:00.002-04:00

Mmmmmm. I read something today where somebody compared American fashion to candy. Perfect analogy. And now I want this Gucci jacket.

Televisions Show I Used To Love

2009-03-20T20:45:00.003-04:00

Shows I used to love back when I watched television.

I like to imagine I'm much more important than I am.

2009-03-18T18:45:00.001-04:00

My blog's billboard downtown.

2009-03-17T21:29:00.001-04:00

This is so cool...

2009-03-15T00:56:00.001-04:00

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

The List of Fours

2009-03-14T23:17:00.000-04:00

The most amazing skin care product ever: aloe vera.

The most amazing weight loss product ever: water.

The most amazing mood enhancing device ever: the sun.

The most amazing good-feeling generator ever: volunteering.

The second most amazing skin care product ever: homemade aspirin/honey exfoliating scrub.

The second most amazing weight loss product ever: a journal.

The second most amazing mood enhancing device ever: a bicycle.

The second most amazing good-feeling generator ever: smiling at strangers.

The WORST skin care product ever: anything with petroleum [a carcinogen].

The WORST weight loss product ever: Alli Pills [anal leakage and damp flatulence].

The WORST mood enhancing device ever: the television.

The WORST good-feeling generator ever: marijuana.

I am in love with Greg Laswell...

2009-03-04T23:47:00.001-05:00

There are times when I'm listening to live music when all of a sudden I realize that I'm in EXACTLY the right place at the right time. I realize that of every place in the universe in all it's expansiveness, there is no other spot, time-zone, planet or galaxy that I'd rather be. It's in those moments when I realize that what I'm experiencing won't be replicated, at least not exactly, ever again. When it's good, really good, you're watching an artist share something so intimate and personal and you're not listening to a filtered version, watching an edited version; you're listening to their soul pour out. And in those cases, it's the most beautiful thing you can experience.

You learn new things about songs you've been listening to forever (Greg Laswell's Sing Theresa Says was written about his grandmother after he had a dream about her) that make you love them even more, or hear them in a brand-new way. You hear the songs the way the artist hears them, without a producer interpreting the sound for you. When it's really good, it's really raw, and it's not just something you hear: it's something you experience with all your senses.

And because tonight at Greg Laswell's show at Funk N Waffles all my senses were involved, the smell of waffles will forever be implied in every Greg Laswell and Anya Marina song I hear. And that's okay.

I was surprised to discover that I was familiar with some of Anya's work, although not her name. I'm almost glad I wasn't anticipating her, because had I known I'm not sure I could have handled (nor could anyone following my tweets over on twitter.com) the excitement had anymore goodness been thrown into the mix beforehand.

Not only is Anya amazingly talented (I could listen to her for days and never get bored; in between songs she told us about an Acupuncturist she saw who had a God-complex that manifested in short fortune-cookie style visions delivered a la Margaret Cho impersonating her mother) but she's also super sweet (especially for a girl from LA- okay I take back some of the negativity I love so to associate with the west coast). After my friend Geoff proposed to her, she signed his CD with “Geoff, Geoff, Geoff, The answer is YES!” and then sketched my portrait on another CD in a thought bubble connected to a self-portrait that read “Jason, this is you [my sketch] this is me [her sketch] Anya” and all I can say about that is that it's a really good thing that Geoff had already proposed to her or I might wake up tomorrow married.

My favorite Anya moment was when explaining how I was familiar with her work, unexpectedly, I said, “You're somehow in my iTunes, and I'm not sure how you got there.” and she said, “Me either. But please let me out! It's hot in your iTunes!” Swoon.

Cut to Greg Laswell on stage with Jay Nash (originally from Syracuse, Greg quipped that Jay was born “just across the street” at Crouse Hospital) and his band. He opened with “What a Day” one of my favorites, and held my attention until his last song, “How The Days Sounds.” He was amazing every time he opened his mouth. But my all-time favorite Greg Laswell on stage moment was when during “Comes And Goes (In Waves)” (my most favorite Greg song) the band joined him as the song modulated and he sang the chorus again up an octave with a raw unabashed quality (“you are not alone, you are not alone, you are not alone, you are not alone”) and I was quite literally NOT BREATHING. But then I'm sure I'd stopped breathing when he introduced the song explaining that 2007 was a really bad year for everyone he knew; his friends, his family, his band; everyone (my family had a year like that last year). And this song is how he dealt with 2007.

This one's for the lonely, the ones who seek and find

Only to be left down time after time

This one's for the torn down, the experts at the fall

come on friends get up now, you're not alone at all

The song goes on, and it's quite beautiful as written. But here's the amazing part: performed live there were at least twenty “You are not alone” lines sewn in to the fabric of the song in such a way that I didn't realize until driving home listening to my iPod that the song had been changed so dramatically in its live performance.

And that's what you miss when you're in the wrong spot or time-zone, or on the wrong planet. Nobody else ever gets to see/hear what we saw/heard tonight, and I'll never be able to paint a picture that matches the beauty of what we witnessed, I'll never be able to tell the story, never even hint at the complexities and the nuances of those performances.

Most of you know that I've been looking forward to tonight for several weeks. And it lived up to every expectation and more. To quote Greg, “What a day...”

I'm Breaking Up With MySpace

2009-03-01T15:28:00.000-05:00

So last night I copied all the photos from my MySpace photos that hadn't been saved to my external hardrive yet (some of them were posted back in the "old computer" days) and started deleting. I wasn't just deleting photos; I deleted my background, my interests, my blogs, all of it. I then confidently clicked on "Delete My Profile" only to discover that I would have to wait through a confirmation email and then a 48 hour period, during which at some point MySpace would then delete my profile.

I haven't been spending much time on MySpace lately, so it shouldn't have been a huge deal for me, but I find the hours ticking away waiting for MySpace to get around to deleting me to be fairly difficult.

Now, I realize that I don't spend any time on the site anymore and I've found many more real-life friends' pages on Facebook, MySpace remains a place where I don't know a lot of my "friends" in the real-world. I also realize that MySpace has a much younger median-aged-user than Facebook and that I am far older than that median age. But there's something about being able to open my MySpace page and get "Friend Updates" and read bulletins full of random and useless trivia about my "friends" that can make a lonely Friday night at home seem a little less sad and a little less lonely.

I enjoy updating my profile with a cool new background or clever, witty headline. Doing this allows me to develop my online personality even if I've decided that sweatpants with holes in the seams are completely acceptable evening attire, and the most interesting activity I participate in is tweezing my eyebrows. Somehow, I can develop and progress easily on MySpace, at least more easily than I have been in real-life.

I use the excuse, "But it's so easy to learn about new artists online." when in reality, I friend-request bands after I've seen them play. I don't really have the time to search for new bands on the site and listen to their uploaded songs.

Another excuse that I've used more than once is, "It's nice to be able to post a bulletin and get information to a lot of people at once." but let's be honest- I'm not Britney Spears. There's little going on in my life that requires a quick online post to inform the masses.

And so I wait. I'm sure if I was in MySpace's target demographic I'd think a 33 year old single guy with a MySpace page was pretty creepy- so I just keep focusing on that. I'm getting less creepy. Sure I'm going to lose the ability to cyber-stalk some ex-boyfriends and lose touch with some online friends who were once good for my ego, but maybe this will force me to find a new (productive) means to express myself. Maybe now when I want to be more creative, I'll actually create something instead of slapping a new background on my MySpace page. And I'll always have good, old reliable Facebook for keeping in touch with the folks who I actually have met face-to-face.

So goodbye, MySpace. It was fun while it lasted, but now I'm breaking up with you.

Top 5 Vanity Items Today

2009-02-27T00:17:00.000-05:00

Top Five Vanity Items; At Least For Today

Product 1: The Fill Monty by Soap & Glory featuring “Virtual Retouching Technology.”

http://www.boots.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/ProductDisplay?langId=-1&storeId=10052&catalogId=11051&productId=121348

I'll admit that I don't know what “Virtual Retouching Technology” is, but I like it. This is an “instant facial line filler” that is essentially a heavy crème moisturizer that plumps thinner, more delicate skinned areas thereby diminishing the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles.

Products like these are a dime a dozen, so what makes this particular product worth $19.99 for 0.4 ounces? First, what helps products like these work is when they are a consistency that is absorbed slowly making the effects last longer. The Fill Monty is the perfect blend between a crème and a wax, which (when applied overtop your usual facial moisturizer) really does make your eyes look younger and somehow more alert. Second, The product comes in a thick glass jar which keeps the procut cool, which has a constricting effect when applied that causes skin to look more taught and well-rested.

Product 2: Maybelline New York Define-A-Lash Volume Mascara.

http://www.maybelline.com/product/eye/mascara/define-a-lash-volumizing-washable.htm

Whoa. Two big scores on this one, folks. One: the packaging. I love the bright tube and cool transparent disc at the top of the wand handle both make me smile when I pull it out of it's appropriate drawer. Two: the brush on the wand isn't a brush, but rather a rubbery-tenticled/bristled contraption that acknowledges the fact that traditional wands don't brush through your lashes, but run over your lashes coating them. These “bristles” are shorter and stiffer than regular bristles which gives you significant control.

My best recommendation relative to this product is because of it's one drawback- the mascara itself is very thick so I suggest following up its application with a lash brush or comb to thin it out a bit and avoid tarantula-leg-lashes.

Product 3: Softlips SPF 20 Raspberry Lip Protectant/Sunscreen.

http://www.totalbeauty.com/reviews/product/6275531/softlips-lip-protectant-sunscreen-spf-20-raspberry-with-green-tea-extract

Glides on all smooth-like and tastes like dessert. Yummy. What's really cool about this is that if you use it as a base product before (the-didn't-quite-make-the-top-5-list-today) Soap & Glory product: Sexy Mother Pucker lip plumper- you get chocolate raspberry! [ http://www.target.com/gp/search/175-4522476-6174120?field-keywords=mother+pucker&url=index%3Dtarget&ref=sr_bx_1_1&x=0&y=0 ]

Okay, so there's nothing remarkable about the cosmetic-benefits of this product, but it tastes really, really good. And so it makes my top five list today (mostly because I've been sick and I'm really, really hungry).

Product 4: The Body Shop's Flawless Skin Protecting Concealer.

http://www.thebodyshop-usa.com/bodyshop/browse/product_detail.jsp?categoryId=cat528004&productId=prod618811

This goes on so easily (especially applied over Olay Definity Eye Illuminator [http://www.olay.com/boutique/definity/products/de1006] ) and blends perfectly (especially when used with The Body Shop's Eye Shadow Brush [http://www.thebodyshop-usa.com/bodyshop/browse/product_detail.jsp?productId=prod4940047&cm_mmc=CSE_GOOG-_-makeup-_-null-_-eyeshadow_brush&mr:trackingCode=0B3B7C0B-0904-DE11-96D7-0019B9C043EB&mr:referralID=NA] and it evens your skin tone, hides dark circles and is virtually undetectable (which is exactly how you want your concealer to work).

Product 5: e.l.f. Healthy Glow Bronzing Powder.

http://www.eyeslipsface.com/face/healthy_glow_bronzing_powder?gclid=CPu275L1-5gCFQHyDAod2zy9nw&SK1=1&SKCID=elf+bronzing+powder

It's so many things: it's a traditional bronzer, it's an eyeshadow, it's a sculpting powder, it's a dramatic blush. Best of all? It's only a buck. As in one dollar. Seriously.

2009-02-17T20:36:00.000-05:00

5 Things I'm Excited For RIGHT NOW...

1. Greg Laswell is coming to Syracuse on Wednesday, March 4th. He's performing at Funk n Waffles. I hope I don't drool on myself. Actually, I'll be too busy to even notice if I DO drool on myself. I will be so busy trying to stop myself from proposing and embarrassing myself again (see: Anthony Rapp, Chris Carrabba and Margaret Cho). Or maybe I'll be too busy trying to commit each memory to detail to notice if I drool on myself. Maybe I'll be too busy drooling on whatever fool agrees to go with me (anybody interested?) to notice if I've also drooled on myself. I am SO excited to see Greg Laswell.

2. Renting Religulous. I'm not a huge Bill Maher fan, but I like the premise of this movie. I like the clips I've seen where Bill asks some fair questions about faith and how people choose to apply faith. I'm sure it's not going to revolutionize the way devotees think of religion, but I'm sure it's going to present some interesting concepts for me to mull-over. And you all know I like to mull things over.

3. Somebody's having a birthday party on Friday. I assume it will include drinks. I like two things: parties and drinks. What's not to be excited about?

4. Eclipse by Stephanie Meyer. We all know I adored Twilight and devoured New Moon. Words can't possibly describe how excited I am to go back to Forks and get lost in that world all over again. Oh, Edward. Oh, Jacob. Oh, Edward. Oh, Jacob. Oh, Edward.

5. A Haunting in Connecticut. Spooky shadows, house used to be a funeral home, not all spirits who wander are lost, ghost children: nothing new here. But horror films excite me none-the-less. This one looks like it at least has some neat cinematograph and some interesting plot devices. I just hope I don't end up excited like I have for every horror film since 28 Weeks Later. (Prom Night not withstanding, Geoff.)

Currently on repeat.

2009-02-07T18:03:00.000-05:00

So I was a big fan of RENT back in the day. As in the day it transferred uptown to the Nederlander Theatre where it ended it's record-setting run last September. I saw it on four different occasions on Broadway (the first being with the original cast with my Mom) and once on tour in Albany back in the 90s.

The show is back on my radar because last Tuesday a dvd was released of the show filmed live on stage (not to be confused with the Home Alone-directed film version from a few years back) the was pieced together from the last two Broadway performances. I grabbed the dvd on Wednesday and have watched it, either in its' entirety or significant portions thereof, daily since buying it.

Part of it is nostalgia, part of it is amazement at the quality of the craft of the actors onstage, it translates so well on film. Part of it is what will always be an undying affection for the score. Which brings me to the score I just bought on iTunes for BARE...a pop opera.

Being a music snob (says the guy with Circus and Sasha Fierce on his most played playlist) it's not always easy to impress me with a new musical theatre score. In fact, of several recent seasons, the only score that has earned multiple-listenings from me is Duncan Sheik's brilliant Spring Awakening. And I have to say that I can assume at this point (if only for the best-ever track, God Don't Make No Trash [a sampling of lyric: "Inside every gay man is a black woman."]) BARE will receive more listenings than Spring Awakening.

The vocals are pristine (so, so clean) and the production is top-notch (this is a studio cast, not a cast album based on a physical production) and doesn't sound at all like the usual bunch-of-unknowns-rent-a-studio-and-record-hit-musical fare.

So, anyway, I guess the point of this post is to tell you that I won't be listening to anything else for the next couple of days, and if you see me with my earbuds firmly embedded and I'm smiling away- please don't interrupt me. I'm in a happy place.

Items I'm Crazy For Right Now

2009-02-03T22:13:00.000-05:00

FIVE ITEMS (or products) THAT I ADORE RIGHT NOW.

1. Definity Eye Illuminator Illuminating Eye Treatment by Olay.

This product really does what it says. My dark circles are visibly diminished when I use this product (which is every day now). Half an ounce of the product costs a little under twenty dollars, but you use so little, that it makes it one of the least expensive per-application products that I use.

And by the way, the product itself has a cool swirly creme compound that runs up the middle (it's hard to see it in the picture) so it's a really cool looking product to sit up on your vanity, too.

2. Raspberry Body Butter from The Body Shop.

This is the sort of product that you stumble upon by accident and when you do- you wonder how you ever lived without it. I was already a fan of Body Butters from The Body Shop. They are a heavy moisturizer that makes your skin feel absolutely amazing. I used to purchase Satsuma (a fresh, clean, citrus scent) in all my Body Shop products, but now...

It smells like a dessert, it feels like a dream and it tastes like - JUST KIDDING! While I haven't actually eaten it yet, it may only be a matter of time before I break down and do. I would be totally surprised if it didn't taste like heaven.

3. Mineral Foundations by Neutrogena.

This mineral foundation is so light, it's like you don't have anything on your skin at all. However, every time I take out the handy container with built-in brush (one of the few products with a built-in brush that is actually a quality built-in brush) and swipe some of the barely-there across my t-zones, somebody will inevitably mention my skin in the next hour.

Aside from being a fantastic product that makes your skin look amazing while still letting it breathe, it's also super compact and easy to tote around in your coat pocket, if you so desired, making quick touch-ups on the go super-easy.

4. Twilight by Stephanie Meyer.

Yes, I know, I know. It's a book for teenagers. Teen-aged girls, more specifically. Having been such a huge fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I thought this book would annoy me, essentially being the story (as I understood it) of Buffy and Angel, minus the complication of one being the Slayer and natural-sworn-enemy of the other.

But that's not it at all. I have a HUGE crush on all the Cullens and I just started reading the second book in the series, New Moon, last night. And I'm pretty sure it's not going to do much to quell my new-found addiction to teen literature, but oh well.

5. The iPhone by Apple.

Okay, I was the biggest and most hardcore BlackBerry fan out there. I belonged to online forums, knew all the secret tricks and took great pleasure in being the go-to guy for every single one of my friends as they joined the RIM bandwagon and got their first BlackBerries.

Every...single...friend. Yeah, remember when iPhone came out and EVERYONE had one? Now they all seem to have BlackBerries. Every single carrier (T-Mobile, AT&T, Verizon, Sprint- EVERYONE) now has at least the Curve, if not the Pearl as well. And I'm not really much of a phone snob, contrary to how this makes me sound.

Anyway, my BlackBerry's trackball died and I had to decide if I was going to shell out $400 on a new one (just a couple of months before the newer, better version comes out) or spend under $100 on an unlocked, refurbished iPhone. I decided to save some dollars.

Best decision I ever made (regarding my cell phones anyway), and not just because I saved some serious dough. I was already in love with my iPod, so it only made sense that an iPhone would make my heart beat a little bit louder, and a little bit faster.

I love having my music with me everywhere I go (and yes, the iPhone's iPod capabilities really ARE so much better than the media capabilities of the BlackBerry), I adore the Pandora internet radio application (with customizable channels!) and the virtual QWERTY keyboard is just as reliable as the BlackBerry's actual keyboard once you spend a couple of hours using it.