Screaming From The Rooftop

         Behind all their bluster and bravado, behind their high claims of righteousness and Godliness, behind their jingoistic pap are people who are, at their core, very afraid and little people. They pine for years gone by. Years where people were relegated to the back of the bus due to the color of their skin, where women were subject to the whims of men, where children slaved in sweatshops without protection, where gays were voiceless pariahs. These are the people who vote for amendments that etch hate into the heart of sacred documents. These are the people whose time has come…and whose time will soon go.
         So let them wax nostalgic about the supposed “good ‘ole days”. Let them speak of protecting an institution that their actions otherwise mock. Let them attempt to take God hostage as means to their own twisted, selfish ends. It simply does not matter.
         We’ve already won. We’ve already won because we live and dwell in truth. And truth, no matter how hard they may try, cannot be amended.

I started running for one reason and one reason only. To save face.

When Ric was at his worst and could not even feed himself, much less prepare even a simple sandwich, I signed him up for God’s Love We Deliver. For those that don’t know, God’s Love, as their mission statement states, prepares and delivers “nutritious, high-quality meals to people who, because of their illness, are unable to provide or prepare meals for themselves.” They do this at no cost to their clients and they have never…I repeat, never turned an eligible person away. In addition to their meals being amazing, they deliver special “feasts” for holidays, a cake for birthdays, “blizzard kits” for storms when they can’t make a delivery and so much more. They literally saved Ric’s -- and by extension my – life during a time when I didn’t know if either of us would survive.

My gratitude for the work of God’s Love cannot be adequately put into words. The ineffable love I have for this organization is such never to be forgotten. And it was because of that love that I signed up for the 2009 annual Race to Deliver, a four mile fundraising race in Central Park for God’s Love.

Shortly after signing up I began raising a significant amount of money. So much so that I was the lead fundraiser for a race that would end up having 4,768 runners cross the finish line. I realized early on in my fundraising that I was going to have to actually run this thing. After all, my thinking went, what if I was still the lead fundraiser by race day, or even 2^nd or 3^rd, and I couldn’t complete the four miles? That would be slightly embarrassing!

So I started to train. Having quit smoking three months prior I was certain that, after a couple of weeks of training, I would breezily cross the finish line to the applause of the adoring masses. I was wrong.

My first day of training netted less than a quarter mile before I nearly fainted and died. The second day, just over a quarter mile. The third, back to less than a quarter mile. I was, um, out of shape. Come race day, I would cross the finish line in 39:49 at a 9:57 minute/mile. I stopped three times, walked a half mile and wasn’t even in the top five of fundraisers. It was nothing like I’d imagined.

But what it was was so much more. That race sparked something in me that would carry me through some of the darkest hours and days of my life. Running saved me from myself. It carried me above and beyond any and every thing I thought possible.

During those first months of training my friend Charles L. bought me a new pair of running shoes because the pair I had were not only five years old but a size too small. He bought them for me because I couldn’t afford to get them myself. My friend Helen C. invited me to her Saturday morning running group where I was able to socialize with other like-minded people. People from my daily life offered advice and tips.

Those first few months I suffered knee injuries, ankle injuries, plantar fasciitis and so much more. I was homebound weeks at a time incapable of even a walk to the mailbox. But that spark! Oh, that spark! It couldn’t be extinguished!

Now close to two years later, I run almost every day.

I live in the hilliest and highest part of Manhattan. Washington Heights is hills and slopes and stairs and everything else and then more hills and more hills and just when you’re about done, more hills.

The first mile of most of my runs is the most brutal. My first mile of running is almost entirely uphill. The truth is by the time I hit half a mile I want to give up. My body, to this day after hundreds of first miles, tells me to turn around, go home and go back to sleep. It wants nothing to do with 5:45am uphill running. But my mind, my mind usually has different plans.

Go for it, it says. This mile is almost done and then you have a downhill reprieve, it whispers. Don’t give up now, it pleads. And nine times out of ten, my mind wins.

There is nothing like the feeling, when the world seems about ready to break you in two and all your problems are crashing in all around you, when you are running and, at a different point every time, those pressures vanish. They seem to literally melt away. There is nothing but the road before you, the miles behind and the hope within you. Each person on God’s great planet should be blessed to experience that feeling just once in their lifetime. I get to experience it nearly every single day.

There are many miles between the day I signed up for the Race to Deliver and today. There has been much heartache and triumph and everything in between . Ric is thriving in Ric’s own way, God’s Love still comes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and I still don’t know how we’re going to make it.

But I do know this. I know that tomorrow morning I will run. I know my body will tell me to turn around and I know my mind will push me forward. I know that at some point during that run all will be right with the world. I know that, probably between miles three and four, I will reach my hands towards the heavens and whisper a prayer of thanks. And ultimately I know that even if I am never able to run again, running will continue to save me from myself.

I've recently noticed a dramatic uptick in traffic on this site. Though I can speculate as to reasons, I do not know for sure.

However I wanted you all to know that I will be returning to this site to post more of my writings, especially many more installments of Angels I Don't See, which have been written but I have yet to publish here.

I will also be writing more about my life and spiritual growth and less about politics and world affairs. At this point in my life I can't focus on anything that might detract from my peace and serenity.

Mad love to all the recent visitors and the ones that have been around for a while. The Rooftop is open again so check back frequently.

"We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We shall meet your physical force with soul force. Do to us what you will, and we shall continue to love you. We cannot in all good conscience obey your unjust laws because noncooperation with evil is as much a moral obligation as is cooperation with good. Throw us in jail and we shall still love you. Bomb our homes and threaten our children, and we shall still love you. Send your hooded perpetrators of violence into our community at the midnight hour and beat us and leave us half dead, and we shall still love you. But be ye assured that we will wear you down by our capacity to suffer. One day we shall win freedom but not only for ourselves. We shall so appeal to your heart and conscience that we shall win you in the process and our victory will be a double victory."

The Maude episode, “Vivian’s First Funeral”, aired the day I was born. There they were, two girls that were indeed golden, seamlessly bouncing lines off each other as if it were in their very bones…which of course, it was.

Vivian, played by the incomparable Rue McClanahan, had never been to a funeral and it was left to Maude, the inimitable (except by great drag queens) Bea Arthur, to allay her fears and get her through. Of course, after it is realized that Vivian’s broach that she leant to Maude was now on the deceased, hilarity ensues.

Years later, living in McLean, Va, a 13 year old boy, unable to untangle the feelings deep within, would every Saturday sit at the foot of his parent’s bed, eating Hawaiian pizza, Doritos and drinking coke, and watch The Golden Girls.

I was drawn to the four “girls” in a way that could not be explained but it did not matter. I loved them. I loved them so much and knew that, in a way, they could untangle the feelings and quiet the noise within me if they only knew me. Sure, I knew it was fictitious, and sure I knew that they were just characters. But they were characters that spoke to me. And at that point in my life there was nothing more comforting than knowing that on the other side of that screen in my parents' bedroom there were four broads that had my back.

I especially loved Blanche, the saucy, slutty, unapologetic Blanche that never backed away but beneath her vivacious façade was a tender, loving, compassionate soul. I adored her. I wanted to be her. I wanted to know what it was like to have so many vying for my affection. I wanted to know a man as Blanche knew men. She saw me through my secrets in my teen years. I imagined she held them as her own until I was ready, and courageous enough, to reveal them.

Therefore it should come as no surprise that when I heard that Rue McClanahan passed away I cried. Actually, to be honest, I bawled my eyes out. I cried for hours and did not leave my apartment. It was odd, really. I don’t recall ever crying upon learning of a celebrity’s death but Rue was different. When Rue left, she took a little part of me with her.

Which made this past Wednesday all the more magical. There I was, all 34 years old of supposed grown-up, standing in the Manhattan apartment of none other than THE Rue McClanahan! Sure, I had produced hundreds of book signings that included many of the most admired people in the world. I had met enough celebrities to fill ten lifetimes. But standing in Rue’s apartment was different. She was my golden girl and I was standing in her home.

A few weeks ago my friend Michael J. La Rue and I got to talking about things and we realized we had a mutual friend who had a connection to Rue. I then learned that not only was Michael one of Rue’s closest friends and the producer of her Broadway bound show “My First Five Husbands”, but he was also the person to whom Rue’s family had entrusted to settle her estate.

“You should come over sometime. I’m there all the time organizing her stuff and preparing most of it for auction”

Are. You. F’in. Kidding. Me!?!?!?!?! COME OVER???? Um, let me think about this

“I’d love to come over!”

And with that, a couple of weeks later, there I was in Rue’s east side apartment, having tea and conversation with Michael.

It was true. As Michael took me through her apartment and told me wonderful stories about Rue and each of her belongings, he also talked about the auctions. Plural.

I was there for a reason, of course, and it was not to drool over Rue McClanahan’s belongings. Michael enlisted my help in getting the word out about the auctions and the film (see below) given my background in publicity and marketing. I was there on business. Nevertheless, I drooled. A lot. But get the word out I will. My girl wanted it that way.

You see, Rue was adamant about a few things. One of those things was that there be no funeral. She believed that the funeral industry preyed upon the vulnerable in their time of need and she wanted none of it. It was her wish that she be cremated and that there be memorial services in her homes for her family. She also wanted all her belongings, from her costumes and wardrobe to her personal effects, save the things her family wanted, to be auctioned off. Just call her No to-do Rue.

So Michael plans on doing just that. “I’m going to have close to ten auctions throughout the country. I want as many of her fans as possible to come and, even if they can’t buy anything, at least see some of the great things she owned. You know she got to keep most of her wardrobe from Golden Girls? Actually she kept every damn thing she ever owned!” That was for sure. I saw the woman’s prom dress. Her prom dress! Which, by the way, is in mint condition!

As we toured her home, I realized how multidimensional this woman really was. In the music room that led to her bedroom were book shelves filled with the most diverse selection of books that you’d be hard pressed find anywhere. In her closets (and believe me, this woman had closets) were shoes from Golden Girls and Maude and Broadway as well as shoes she bought herself. In addition to clothes and shoes and books , Rue owned over a thousand pieces of jewelry, including the gold Tiffany’s bracelet that the producers gave the gals on The Golden Girls at series end that was engraved with the initials GG and inside the clasp was etched the number 7 for seven seasons.

Every last bit of it and more will be coming to a city near you in the near future. And, per Rue’s wishes, every last bit will be sold. And soon enough someone else will own her apartment. Also, be on the lookout for a documentary about Rue, produced by Michael, to be out in the near future. The documentary was originally intended to follow Rue and Michael through the preparations and production of the Broadway bound autobiographical “My First Five Husbands”. Sadly Rue passed before that dream was realized. However Michael is now using the footage as well as so much more for a documentary about Rue.

She’d have it no other way.

And neither would I.

The 13 year old boy was with me last Wednesday. And as we walked through Rue’s home, the 34 year-old on business and the wide-eyed boy on a dream fulfilled, that boy never imagined 21 years ago that he would be in the very home of the woman to whom he had entrusted so much yet never knew.

So thank you Michael. Thanks for letting me travel down that road and back again. Thanks for letting me say goodbye to Rue. Thanks for letting me be a part of this journey moving forward.

Thank you, most of all, for being both our friend.

The room seemed larger then. Much larger. Some nine years ago when I walked in, terrified and alone, making one last attempt at saving my life so that I wouldn’t ultimately take it, the room appeared electric, almost as if were I to touch anything the current would kill me.

To be exact, the date was April 2^nd, 2001 and I was just 24 years old. I’d not even lived in New York two months and it seemed as if, to turn a phrase, I was not going to make it there or anywhere. After weeks of drinking and tilting at windmills, I did the only thing left to do…I gave up.

Not gave up in the negative sense but gave up as in surrendered. I realized that I was not like the other fortunate people in this world who could drink with impunity. My giving up essentially saved my life. Had I not, I am more than certain I would be dead.

The interesting thing about returning to that room yesterday was the realization at how much my life had changed. If someone had told that scared 24 year old boy from Texas that within the span of 9 years his life would be where it is today, that boy would have turned and run away. I suppose that’s why we don’t get an advance copy of the script prior to the director screaming action. If we each knew the inevitable pain and adversities of life, we might never move forward.

If I could go back in time and talk to that boy from nine years ago I would tell him that, no matter what, everything was going to be ok and turn out just as it should. I would tell him that no matter how many broken hearts and broken promises, no matter how many shattered dreams and shattered confidences, no matter how many countless relapses and counting days, life would always find a way to work itself out.

I would tell him that happiness is not really the goal but instead is the result of a life well loved. I would tell him to live within the now and cling to that still small voice that reassures us all. Keep showing up, I’d say, because it may not get better but it will get easier and the troubles will seem less daunting and the pain will seem less severe.

The room seems so much smaller now. Much smaller. Yeah, that’s what I’d like to tell that young man from years gone by. I’d like to tell him that as you grow up and move on, the rooms will always grow smaller.

And he...well, he will always grow stronger.

The latest chapters of Angels I Don't See have been written and I am excited to announce that they will be posted here soon.

There is hope!

With each day that passes we are one step closer to finding a cure. The rapacious executioner that AIDS was is no more. The idea that it is a plague is a thing of the past.

However, as my household knows all too well, AIDS still debilitates and scars and even still sometimes kills swiftly. And until we find a cure, we must remain vigilant.

Did you catch that?

We.

It is up to we to find a cure for this disease, it is up to we to care for those afflicted. It is is up to we to make sure that this disease does not claim thousands more lives. We give, we pray, we hope, we live.

And we walk.

I am walking this year in the AIDS walk in New York City. It would be such an honor if you could sponsor me. The link below will take you to my fundraising page where you can give anywhere from $25.00 to $1000.00. If you want to donate less than $25.00, just email me and I will give you instructions.

Thank you in advance for giving of your hard earned money to help in the fight against HIV/AIDS.

I will walk on May 16 for Ric. I will walk for my friends. I will walk for me. I will walk for you.

I will walk, most importantly, for we. Until there’s a cure…we

Donate here: Jon-Marc's AIDS walk page

I was a bit nervous when Ric and I walked into the Midtown Theater to see Leslie Jordan’s new one man show, My Trip Down the Pink Carpet, and I realized it was cabaret. We were quickly escorted to table 20 where a waitress promptly took our drink order.

Crap, I thought. I didn’t see anything in the press notes about this. What the hell? Isn’t Leslie in recovery?

“Yeah, I’ll have a ginger-ale and he’ll have a coffee” I said to the waitress, still a bit put off by the entire setting.

I mean the tickets didn’t say anything about a drink minimum. I hate this. I hate this!

About that time I looked at our table and noticed a special drink menu made specifically for My Trip Down the Pink Carpet.

Well ain’t that a kick in the balls! So glad I could come to this booze fest with a splash of Jordan for good measure.

There is no drink minimum the top of the menu declared.

Oh?

Well, uh, ok! That works. Very well then. Carry on. Don’t mind me and the conversation I am having with myself. Nothing to see here.

The show started about 15 minutes late but that was quickly forgotten the second Leslie stepped on the pink carpet.

What can I say about this show? It’s crude, foul, chock full of tawdry anecdotes and lurid details about some very bold faced names.

It’s also fall on the floor, laugh until it hurts and your ass falls off, downright hilarious. From the beginning until the end Jordan captivates with stories so cray-cray (wearing gold flecked contacts in the desert with Boy George, anyone?) you begin to wonder if he can top himself (ba-dum-bum). And he, of course, does!

Leslie has more energy on stage than someone (moi) twenty years his junior. And with the sweat pouring down his face he keeps moving. Pratfalls abound, he’s on his knees, dancing on a box, jump-roping with a pink velvet rope, jumping and bumping from here to there in no time flat. In fact, one of the best lines in the whole show results from Jordan’s profuse sweat (I won’t give it away, but you’ll know it when you hear it)

The thing that makes this show so effective is that a) it’s true and b) Jordan weaves just enough tenderness into the story that you walk away not only with new laugh lines but also with new lessons learned.

“The saddest thing in the world is a man at war with his own nature” Jordan proclaims in clarifying seriousness. At that moment you realize that Jordan’s trip down the pink carpet is meant to serve more than just laughs. It’s meant to make us think. About us. About what we think about ourselves. About our own “internalized homophobia” and self hatred.

To say that I enjoyed this is an understatement. There are not enough superlatives in the English language to attach to this show. Go see this. Go laugh. Go learn.

But whatever you do, don’t go order the ginger-ale. It sucks!

My brother's play, based on my writing, will debut on [technically] Broadway this April! Please go to Grant's site and click on the words "Spotting Love". Click here

"Do not depend on the hope of results. When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the rightness, the truth of the work itself," - Thomas Merton, "Letter To A Young Activist"

h/t Sully

I received this email from a friend today. After researching the content, it seems the author is unknown. However, I claim this as my clarion call for each day of the new year.

“Be careful of every vain hope; it is in reality, a temptation to despair. It may seem very real, very substantial. You may come to depend far too much on this apparent solidity of what you think is soon to be yours. You may make your whole spiritual life, your very faith itself, depend on this illusory promise. Then, when it dissolves into thin air, everything else dissolves along with it. Your whole spiritual life slips away between your fingers and you are left with nothing. In reality this could be a good thing, if only we could fall back on the substantiality of pure and obscure faith, which cannot deceive us. But our faith is weak. Indeed, too often the weakest thing about our faith is the illusion that our faith is strong, when the "strength" we feel is only the intensity of emotion or of sentiment, which has nothing to do with real faith"

"If we want to understand alienation, we have to find where its deepest taproot goes--and we have to realize that this root will always be there. Alienation is inseparable from culture, from civilization, and from life in society. It is not just a feature of "bad" cultures, "corrupt" civilizations, or urban society. It is not just a privilege reserved for some people in society. . . . Alienation begins when culture divides me against myself, puts a mask on me, gives me a role I may or may not want to play. Alienation is complete when I become completely identified with my mask, totally satisfied with my role, and convince myself that any other identity or role is inconceivable. The man who sweats under his mask, whose role makes him itch with discomfort, who hates the division in himself, is already beginning to be free. But God help him if all he wants is the mask the other man is wearing, just because the other one does not seem to be sweating or itching. Maybe he is no longer human enough to itch." ~ Thomas Merton, Why Alienation is for Everybody, 1968

"The earthly desires men cherish are shadows. There is no true happiness in fulfilling them. Why, then, do we continue to pursue joys without substance? Because the pursuit itself has become our only substitute for joy. Unable to rest in anything we achieve, we determine to forget our discontent in a ceaseless quest for new satisfactions. In this pursuit, desire itself becomes our chief satisfaction." ~ Thomas Merton, The Ascent to Truth, 1951

"The deep secrecy of my own being is often hidden from me by my own estimate of what I am. My idea of what I am is falsified by my admiration for what I do. And my illusions about myself are bred by contagion from the illusions of other men. We all seek to imitate one another’s imagined greatness.

If I do not know who I am, it is because I think I am the sort of person everyone around me wants to be. Perhaps I have never asked myself whether I really wanted to become what everybody else seems to want to become. Perhaps if I only realized that I do not admire what everyone seems to admire, I would really begin to live after all. I would be liberated from the painful duty of saying what I really do not think and of acting in a way that betrays God’s truth and the integrity of my own soul." ~ Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island, 1955