New York can sometimes be very frustrating and stressful. It makes me break out in a rash on my scalp, like I’m allergic to the city to which I fled in 1978. So getting away has lately been enormously desirable. I spent 4 blissful weeks in New England this summer - Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, as well as the Hudson Valley of upstate NY - and, at the risk of sounded overly poetic, it was like being wrapped in a cocoon of beauty and color.

In October I was lucky enough to get away to Los Angeles, a city that also has its frustrations, usually centered around a car. Where to park it, where to get cheap gasoline (I purchased mine at the least expensive place I found, joking to my friends that this particular petroleum is made from the feces of certain Bush cronies). And even though Los Angelenos spend a great deal of time driving, many of them don’t seem to know how. Just as the sidewalks of New York have become more crowded with entitled folk pushing their baby strollers, so have the streets of Los Angeles become mired in the Hollywood aggression of SUV’s.

Nevertheless, it is comparatively serene (Thursdays notwithstanding; Thursday being the day the trash and recycling collectors come by my host’s corner 12 times, starting about 7:15 a.m. right outside my window; oh, and I’m also not crazy about Wednesdays because that’s the day everyone’s yardman shows up with his noisy leaf blower, blowing leaves from one spot to another being a desirable result I have yet to comprehend), and I am always happy to go there.

I stay with my friend Wallace and his dog Charlie. We laugh about silly things and eat milk and cookies late at night while watching TV. He and Mart Crowley and I discovered how much we like the California Pizza Kitchen at Sunset and Crescent Heights and we went there for lunch on three occasions.

Near there is the Sunset Car Wash where I walked almost every day (the sidewalks of Los Angeles are mostly deserted, which I love) to play Jr. Pac-Man. I topped my record, this time making a high score of over 180,000. It’s the best and fastest Jr. Pac-Man machine I’ve ever found.

One day on the plaza outside the California Pizza Kitchen I bumped into Jeff Goldblum and we had a long chat. He told me about some of the actresses he admires and also admitted that he had only seen any version of “Gypsy” for the first time a couple of years ago when Bernadette Peters was doing it on Broadway. I assured him that if that was the first time he had ever become acquainted with “Gypsy” then I could guarantee him he’s not gay (in case he had ever wondered).

Of course I wasn’t in LA just to play. I was there to work. Steve Cuiffo and I did “The Passion of the Crawford” at the Gay and Lesbian Center and it was fun to see Steve enjoying himself. He’s a pleasure to be around. Opening night Lainie Kazan, Bill Claxton and Peggy Moffitt, and Julie Newmar were all there and I introduced him. Lots of other fun people showed up on other nights: Cassandra “Elvira” Peterson, Paul “Pee-wee Herman” Reubens, Randy Barbato, Dennis Christopher, Alexis Del Lago (announcing her age quite loudly), Ruth Williamson, Michael Childers, Alan Poul, etc. John Glover and Adam Kurtzman came twice and invited me to their home in Mt. Washington for dinner. I took Steve Hasley with me (Hasley replaced Cuiffo for the third week and did a very good job) and we were also joined at table by Camille Saviola and Annette O’Toole.

I appeared on two radio shows (one on NPR, the other on Air America) and had a spot on a talk show on the gay network QTV. The hosts introduced me as something like “the man who never speaks,” an idea I have been trying to squelch, so I spent a good deal of the time trying to convice them and the audience that I don’t have to just lip-synch. Then they asked me to introduce a clip from the Crawford show, but it didn’t come on. I started telling them about my appearance in the movie “Kinsey” and one of the hosts said, “Oh, I think we have a clip of that,” but the clip was not “Kinsey” it was the previously missed clip from the Crawford show! So that was all very confusing and I don’t know that I went over that well. They did have the best of intentions, however.

There was a meeting with another of the gay networks (perhaps I shouldn’t say which or with whom) and I also filmed an interview for a special edition DVD of a beloved movie, although I’m reluctant to say right now which one. When it’s set in stone, I will post the info on this site.

A few trips to Eddie Brandt’s video store in The Valley seemed in order, and I finally got to see the Rod Steiger 1968 movie “The Sergeant” as well as Maria Montez in “Tangier” and June Havoc and John Russell in “The Story of Molly X” and Christopher Jones in “Three in the Attic.” Christopher Jones makes me think of Shelley Winters (they appeared together in “Wild In The Streets") and Shelley Winters makes me think of her friend Tucker Fleming. Mart and I went to dinner with Tucker at Orso and he told us more funny and fascinating stories about Tallulah and his friends George Cukor and Judy Garland. There was one especially hilarious story about Judy having a “Ziegfeld Girl” party with her friends and Hedy Lamarr trying to unfasten the cloth buttons on the back of Judy’s dress, at Judy’s request, mind you.

Mart also took me twice to a delicious Italian restaurant on Beverly Blvd. called Angelini. It’s right across the street from El Coyote, a Mexican restaurant. Greg Proops and his wife Jennifer treated me to a fish meal at The Hungry Cat. The food was so rich and delicious (I even ate oyster chowder with bacon in it) that I was afraid it would give my stomach an ache, but it didn’t.

I hope I get to return to LA soon. It really is a marvelous spot and I know so many lovely people there. I get more socializing done there than I do in New York!

While keeping tabs on the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina (I have deep family and emotinal ties in Mississippi and New Orleans) I needed some escape, so I treated myself to several movies at the Walter Reade Theatre at Lincoln Center, certainly the best movie theatre in New York, and maybe the best in the country.

First on my list was Ralph Bakshi’s “American Pop.” I’ve always enjoyed his early 70s movie “Heavy Traffic,” and somehow I missed “American Pop” when it came out around 1980. It’s an epic film and has plenty of energy and some of the messiness that works for Bakshi. It’s very sexy and violent and even ugly in spots, all of which seemed to be a turnoff for two older ladies behind me who finally left about 3/4 of the way in.

The next day or so I ventured up again to see a British Film Institute print of Nicholas Roeg’s “Don’t Look Now” which I had not seen since 1973 at the Jackson Square Cinema, a defunct movie house in a shopping center in Jackson, Mississippi, which often showed unusual films. They showed first runs of “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They,” “The Babymaker,” “The Andromeda Strain,” “Cries and Whispers,” “The Hellstrom Chronicle,” “What’s Up, Doc?” and “The Fury,” just to name a few.

“Don’t Look Now” was slower and talkier than I remember, or perhaps I just don’t have patience for that kind of thing anymore. The famous sex scene is not nearly as shocking as it was then. Still, I enjoyed experiencing the movie again.

Even slower - as part of the theatre’s Labor Day Weekend Technicolor festival - was the Albert Lewin “Pandora and the Flying Dutchman” with Ava Gardner (looking marvelous) and James Mason. It was a beautiful print. I had never seen the film and I’m pleased I finally have. It reminded me of a Pedro Almodovar movie: a dream inside a fantasy inside a flashback. And it certainly made me want to live in Ava’s house in Spain.

“Written on the Wind,” which I have seen many times but not on a big screen for years, was loads of fun as always. In the scene by the river, the colors in Dorothy Malone’s plaid shirt match her eyes and lipstick. Sirk’s symbols are everywhere: the stairs, the mirrors, the flowers, the lighting fixtures, the colors, the cars. Objects, objects, objects. It’s a masterful, organic film. My favorite detail this time: the word “thing” in bright red letters on a pinball machine in the local booze dive. Could it be an ironic comment on Sirk’s interest in objects and objectification?

The final movie in the Technicolor Festival was the Hammer film “Horror of Dracula” and it couldn’t have been more fun. Perhaps to save money on special effects, this Dracula doesn’t change into a bat, and there is dialogue supporting that non-phenomenon. The sexual dread/desire of the movie is pervasive and well-communicated by the female actresses. When the actress who plays Lucy turns into a vampire and is confronted with Peter Cushing’s cross, I could have sworn she was Amy Sedaris pulling a face. My greatest wish is that the Walter Reade would show this movie again on a double bill with “The Brides of Dracula.”

Last night I went to see Curtis Harrington’s “Games,” a movie I try to not miss whenever there is a screening. It was at the Anthology Films Archives, perhaps the least comfortable theatre in the world, but bless them for having a Harrington festival. The print was a gorgeous, widescreen, flawless copy. Curtis was there and did a little interview beforehand. He talked about Simone Signoret and Katharine Ross. Signoret is, of course, marvelous in the movie and Ross is very good. I wondered if Ross looked up to her and received any wise advice from the more experienced lady. Afterwards, I told Curtis only he would have the brilliant idea to put Marjorie Bennet and Don Stroud in the same shot! Together! Alone!

Regarding Hurricane Katrina, it seems to me that the hurricanes get worse each year due to global warming. The Bush administration continues to deny the existence of global warming, as the forests are torn down and money goes into the pockets of those in the oil business. I’m afraid the human race will do itself in. A wise president could help stop that neurotic behavior. The Bush people are not wise, only greedy. Greed may destroy our country, our world.

February 8, 2005

Last night Scott Wittman and I went to the New York premiere screening of Randy Barbato and Fenton Bailey’s newest film, “Inside Deep Throat.” It’s probably their best film.

It’s about the 1972 porn movie “Deep Throat” and tells the stories of all the principals involved in the making and distribution of the movie. It also raises many issues about censorship, women’s rights, the Bush administration and the porn industry, and the final note that’s struck is terrorism.

All of these are of course complex subjects and it would be impossible to go into detail about all of the in one film. Sexual/physical abuse towards women is not dwelled on, much to the chagrin of Linda Lovelace’s (the star of the original movie) female lawyer, who has a black and white sort of Gibson Girl hairdo. She said that Linda is “raped” in the movie and that by watching the movie last night we had all “raped” Linda again. (So now, I’m not only a “drag queen” but a “rapist” too?) Or maybe she said we had all seen her raped again. Whatever it was, it was odd.

She spoke on a panel which also included Alan Dershowitz and the two of them are obviously adversaries. Dershowitz kept saying that he thought she was using the word “rape” a little too freely, but at one point he said that, as children, we had all been abused. However, he didn’t explain what he meant by that. Sexually abused? Emotionally? Anyway, he never espoused further, but he didn’t have a chance because the moderator Elvis Mitchell had to end the discussion which also included Judith Regan, the publisher (her son was very charming at the party afterwards when he happened to join his mother’s makeup artist sitting at our table) and the writer Peter Boyer, who turned red when he used the term “fisting.”

Across the aisle from us during the filming were Tina Brown and Erica Jong. Sitting in the same aisle as them was Harry Reems!

At the party afterwards (at 8 1/2, a restaurant next door in the basement of 9 W. 57th St., the beautiful curved building) we chatted with Randy and Fenton and Fred Schneider and the Republican Ron Silver, who was very nice to me. Hmmm. Peggy Seigal promoted the event, and I introduced her to Scott.

At one point while we were sitting with Regan’s son and makeup artist, she came along and plopped her heavy Louis Vuitton purse on our table and then muttered, “Sorry.” I don’t know how I never heard about this woman before, but as it turns out she’s the publisher of Robert Trachtenberg’s upcoming book which I participated in!

“Two Girls On Broadway” is the title of a Lana Turner movie, but it just came to mind as I started this, my first blog entry. Reason being, I’ve just lost two friends with Broadway dreams: one who brushed Broadway very closely, and another who came nowhere near.

Dick Gallagher lived in New York, on West 19th Street. Dick was a beloved composer, accompanist, fine musician, and gentleman. Shy and self-effacing, it was often difficult to talk to him, his modesty was so great, and went hand in hand with a kind of social awkwardness. Also very proud, he spent his last weeks in St. Vincent’s hospital, wasting away. If anyone went to visit him, he would pull the sheet over his head.

Dick’s funeral service will be held at Frank Campbell Funeral Home, which is entirely appropriate, since it was the setting for the eulogy of Judy Garland.

Unlike Dickie G., Dwight Adcock could only imagine what a life in the show business world of New York would be like. He never left Mississippi, and died there on Tuesday, January 18, 2005. Flamboyant and eccentric, he was the first truly Bohemian I met and was a seminal influence. Tall and usually overweight, excitable, intelligent, witty, he was a presence that couldn’t be ignored. I first saw him in a school production of “Abelard and Heloise” at his beloved Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi, where he was a drama student. He stole the show, effortlessly.

Determined to make his mark on the college, he dressed in loud, colorful clothes and wielded a look-at-me cigarette. I desperately wanted to be his friend, thinking that friendship would be unnattainable. But it wasn’t, and he encouraged me to go with him and his friend Danny to see the tacky drag shows at the local Jackson gay bar, and helped teach me to see the entertainment there as something bigger and deeper than it actually was.

One night around 1974 at this decadent dump - it was called Mae’s Cabaret, and the building is still standing on Farish St. in downtown Jackson - it seemed as if everyone in the place was in some sort of drag, glitter rock influences having finally drifted to Jackson rather late in the game. Dwight was divinely androgynous in his makeup and a single feather earring. Later, he went all the way and performed in drag himself, lip-synching to Mama Cass in a bright-colored MuuMuu, and calling himself Sister Mary Elephant, a dig at himself and a dowager he resented in his hometown.

After he graduated, he had a state office job, but also directed shows at The Little Theatre of Jackson ("Cabaret,” “Cat On A Hot Tin Roof"). His apartment was always a mess, the floor covered in magazines (adult and otherwise) and at least one cat adding to the dirtiness. The cat I remember most vividly was called Mistress Paula Kitty, named after the actress Paula Prentiss, a beloved icon.

He sat in a chair amongst his clutter like a guru, smoking a cigarette (legal and otherwise) and pontificated about movies and theatre, art and books. He had many wild and wonderful ideas, but they never came to fruition. His finest moment, however, may have been a kooky, avant garde production of “Alice In Wonderland.” Kevin Sessums, who later was a writer at Vanity Fair magazine, was one of the actors in the show.

When it came time for Little Theatre to hire a full-time director, the board did not choose outrageous Dwight. Angry and embittered, he moved back to Kosciusko (about an hour away, northeast from Jackson on the Natchez Trace) where he grew up and where his mother still lived. Although avoiding Little Theatre, he would come to visit us in Jackson every couple of weeks.

In 1978, I and two of his other friends made the move to New York. Dwight stayed behind. I thought perhaps he would dare to make the trip someday, but he never did. He had to take care of his mother, he said. He lost his weight on the Weight Watchers plan, and even traveled around a bit, lecturing for them. But the weight returned, his mother died, his health turned bad, and then it was too late.

Around 1984 I lost track of him, but he called me out of the blue in the summer of 1994, saying he was embarrassed. I’m not sure why. Perhaps embarrassed that he hadn’t stayed in touch. Maybe embarrassed that he hadn’t done anything with his life and all his ideas about movies and theatre. These thoughts remained just that: dreams.

We talked on the phone occasionally, and then sent emails. I went to visit him a couple of times in the past few years. His health got worse. There were so many problems that I couldn’t keep track of them. At one point, doctors thought he would have to have a leg amputated. Ultimately, it was only one two that was removed.

Recently, he went back to St. Dominic’s hospital for yet another visit which he probably thought would only be routine. Just days ago I got emails from him about the movies that are winning awards at the end of the year. But his heart finally failed him. He had two faithful friends in Jackson who wanted to help him, and wanted him to move back there so he could be close by people with whom he could truly relate and laugh. Those friends are Lynda Speaks and Danny Jones. They both went to Dwight’s dignified funeral only yesterday. The conservative Jackson newspaper, The Clarion Ledger, had a short obituary, leaving out his local accomplishments.

Dwight told me he wanted his ashes strewn in three spots: Broadway, Sunset Boulevard and a third that I can’t remember. The first two, of course, he never actually saw. And he apparently left no written instructions, so he wasn’t cremated after all. But this blog serves as what might be Dwight’s “artistic eulogy.” He certainly deserved trips to Broadway and Sunset Boulevard, and I’m sorry he didn’t’ get them. Let this blog/eulogy serve as a warning to all those who have dreams and don’t pursue them: YOU BETTER! Or it will be too late.