493 posts categorized "ME"
Follow me on Instagram, but only if you have a high tolerance for male beauty, among other kinds.
Boy Scouts and adult leaders of the Scouts have ignored the rules and worn their uniforms in a Utah Pride Parade.
Aside from the fact that my hair is a travesty (use voice of Vivian Vance), I had some fun at BEA, the big book-publishing convention. Grindr was quiet as a mouse (bookworms...harrumph!), but I was 0 feet away from Gabby Giffords (whose astronaut hubby was a tad overqualified to be our photographer), Tim Conway (who was scolded for not smiling by the random guy who took our shot, even though he did!) and Jim Carrey.
Carrey's was the only real production, including a lengthy line and crazed fanboys and fangirls. One, Eva, wants to marry him and totally deserves to. They'd be cute together! Carrey was doing the quickie/across-the-table pic-withs, so that is always a great way to bring out my double chin. But the lovely girl who took the shot did well by us.
When I had my 4 seconds to speak to him, I had figured I'd blurt out something about Phillip Morris, but I instead found myself referencing Duck Factory (!) before telling him to please keep giving 'em hell on Twitter, even if hell doesn't exist. "Yeah...it's a crazy world," he offered, perhaps thinking a promo even for a kiddie project wasn't quite the right place to dwell on deeper topics.
An adorable "power reader" (I prefer power bottoms) on line with me features in my video.
The only other celeb I bumped into was James Frey, and I didn't know it was him until after. He was very friendly. He kept eyeing me in a non-sexual way, and I later figured maybe he was wondering what my opinion of him was? Nice, though.
BOY CULTURE REVIEW: ** out of **** for the documentary, **** out of **** for the Q&A
I was invited at the last minute to see Surviving Mommie Dearest, which is billed as a multimedia one-woman show starring Christina Crawford and executive produced by Jerry Rosenberg. Christina is, of course, Joan Crawford's 73-year-old adopted daughter and the author of the book that blew the lid off of her late mother's carefully constructed image. How could I miss this sure-fire campfest, right?
When I arrived at the theater, I recognized 50% of the audience assembled for the special press performance. Several volunteered to me their contempt for Christina, who they view as having made up her story of abuse or who they think should be "over" it by now even if it were true. I regularly get into Facebook scuffles about Christina vs. Joan, with my take being: She's very likely telling the truth, we know she suffered some kind of abuse, why can't we admire Crawford as an icon and actress and still acknowledge she was nuts? (Maria Riva makes that case for her muti dearest, Marlene Dietrich.)
The show itself is not distinguished. It consists of Crawford doing some interstitial narration and a long documentary played on DVD. That Crawford is standing and talking in the DVD, too, makes for a static presentation. The filmed documentary is not as professional as it could be, with amateurish edits and a strong need for better direction and at least a few better takes.
When I was a kid, attending Elms Elementary in Flushing, Michigan, my best buddy at school was named Craig Combs. To my recollection we were the Laurel & Hardy of the first grade—I was the fattest kid in the class, he was the smallest. I vividly recall being weighed in front of everyone on the day we received a scale to work with, then being branded the "sixty-five-pounder" by Craig. But that was okay, because I felt a kinship with Craig—he could say anything.
I remember him at my birthday parties (in one of his missives to me, he complimented my mom on the "delicious" cake), and other classmates recall his rapier wit, such as the time in third grade when the kids were asked what they knew about Hamlet, to which Craig replied, "It's a an omelet made with ham!" A natural ham joking about a ham. He was destined to be an entertainer or artist of some sort.
I always felt Craig was like me, even if I didn't know what that meant. And outside. So when I moved away—I received a handful of letters from him, in which he very helpfully informed me that a first-grade teacher from our old school had died of a heart-attack—I always wondered about him. Over 30 years and several Google searches later, Craig popped up on the grid. He had gone through a health crisis, testing positive for HIV in his thirties, and had entered the poetry scene, publishing his first book, Taking Tea in the Black Rose: Singing Through the Shadows Until We're Dancing in the Light.
When I reached out to him, he didn't remember me. (I don't blame him! It was forever ago, and I'm sure I've forgotten better people than myself.) He asked his mom to jog his memory about "Matt R" (we also had a "Lisa J" in our clique; she does not fare well in one of Craig's kid-era letters to me).
We've had a friendly correspondence since then, even though I suspect our personalities couldn't be more opposite—which is a cool thing. Readers of my blog will know me as a non-spiritual person (this is not exactly a selling point), a lover of words and yet the opposite of a poet, and the last person to embrace almost any conspiracy theory (the ultimate of which says that everything in the world is connected, the penultimate of which says everything happens for a reason—maybe we are and maybe they do).
Still, it's a kick to be able to connect with a person who represents a fragment of my past, and to see how he grew and changed after we moved apart.
I e-interviewed my old pal, whom I finally found but who's still about as far away from me as it felt like he was when I moved after the third grade...
Above, see all the stars as they appeared then...and as they appear now!
At the most recent Hollywood Show, held at the Westin Los Angeles Airport, I was discussing with one of my A-hound (that's "autograph") buddies just how long we could continue coming to these shows, considering so many of the attendees are people we've already met, and other potential guests are dropping like flies.
Don told me, "Oh, I'll be here in 20 years in my Rascal, scooting around for Lindsay Lohan's autograph." He was joking, though. He couldn't care less about LiLo or most modern stars. For him it's Jane Withers through about Dallas, Don and most of the others who attend these shows can't be bothered. When does it end? I guess, as with life, it ends when it ends, so have fun while it lasts.
This was my shortest show. I only spent part of the first day and a few minutes on the second, since I had the GLAAD event and other stuff to do. But I couldn't not come, not with Angie Dickinson, Earl Holliman and Mamie Van Doren in the mix.
Here are my interactions, in order as they occurred: