On Theater, Awe and A Long and Rich Tradition of Magic

As I sat in the back of the theater on my lunch break, I realized with growing excitement that live theater may be the last great magical form of entertainment left.

Movies can be thrilling, but who among us is not aware that everything we see on screen is created by a computer in a small room somewhere far far away from the world created in the film? Special effects can dazzle, but they can no longer truly awe. Too many movies have come and gone for the audience not to have seen every trick in the book. Too many special features on too many DVDs have explained away any magic that may have remained in the art of filmmaking. The silver screen has lost much of its glamour and mystique.

Seeing a man beheaded on stage, however, is quite another story. Later seeing that headless man wander a set that appears to be as real a forest as any actual wooded glen is another marvel. The sun rises and sets as it does in the natural world. Men and women fly. Set pieces and actors appear and disappear in the blink of an eye.

And all of this is happening live right before your very eyes. No computer created a trick of fancy animation. No stylish editing was used. It is the magic of the theater that brings these marvels to life.

I have always been a fan of theater. From a young age, I acted in numerous productions. In college, I not only dabbled in acting, but I also tried my hand at playwriting. I have seen hundreds of productions in my day. And now I find myself working in one of the most popular and culturally significant theaters in the city of Chicago.

After all of that exposure to theater, all of that time spent on stage and all of the long hours spent backstage, the magic of theater is still very much alive for me. I still get a rush when the lights go down and the orchestra kicks in. I still find myself getting lost in the world on stage and forgetting who and where I am. I still wonder, just as I did as a child, how it is they do it.

For all of these reasons and a thousand more, I am glad that theater has survived the test of time. I’m simply gleeful that movies and television have not killed this art form. I am thankful that the works of the great master playwrights live on as new works are created every day.

And I am proud to be a part of this long and rich tradition of magic.

On Titus, Sprakonius and My Life as a Roman

Last night I got home (no social obligations to uphold), kicked off my shoes, settled down on the couch (no laundry to catch up on) and plowed through the first disc of the first season of the television series Rome.

I have since decided I want to be a Roman.

For one thing, I’m kind of digging the Roman fashions. I think I’d look rather good in a toga. I’m a fan of draped fabric, especially if it hides the natural folds God (and a lifetime of unhealthy living) has given me. I’m also rather keen on sandals. Shoes and socks are so constricting and suffocating. My toes yearn for the freedom of fresh Roman air.

I’m also a sucker for drama, and the Romans did it better than anyone. Mothers are selling their daughters into marriage to move up the social ladder. Lifelong friends don’t bat an eye and betraying one another for political power. Adultery, prostitution and corruption are par for the course. It’s all so tawdry and delicious. I just know I could thrive in a society that prides itself on backstabbing, greed and lust.

Speaking of lust, those Romans were some mighty horny bastards. Everyone is banging everyone else, and in most cases there is a live audience. I may come off as slightly prudish, but I could really get into some of that kinky stuff. And while I currently have no evidence to back it up, I am sure the Romans were just as likely to succumb to homosexual desires as the Greeks. Some of those horny Italians were off at war for years and years at a time. They had to clear the pipes somehow, right?

And what I wouldn’t do to clear the pipes of some of the Romans I saw last night. With names such as Titus and Lucius, you just know these men were sexy as all get out in bed. And if I played my cards right I could be rocking the world of one young Mark Anthony. I’d gladly kneel down before the altar of a heathen god for the chance to kneel down before that man.

The best part about being a Roman is that I would also get a new name. I’d be known as Spakonius. How hot is that? And I’d totally be in the senate and lie and bride my way to the top. It would be a truly marvelous thing. There would be books written about me long after my death. Great plays would tell my story. Songs would sing of my adventures and power.

And then one day far in the future, HBO would produce a television show about my life.

On Republicans, Closets and The Physical Attributes of Homosexuals

Wouldn’t it be phenomenal if all gay men and woman had some kind of distinguishing physical attribute that denoted them as being homosexuals? Perhaps we could all have green hair or blue skin. Maybe we could all be born with bright yellow eyes. It would make life so much easier.

It would also make life a whole lot harder on some.

Gone would be the days of men suppressing their homosexuality, becoming Republican senators, enacting hateful laws and then being caught doing raunchy things in public restrooms. No longer would gay men be able to marry women and then give me lustful leers on the train. All of those frightened closeted men would have no place to hide.

And I, for one, would be happy to accept them into the fold with open arms.

I know a man who is clearly gay. In fact, he is one of those gay men who makes me feel quite masculine when I spend time with him. His lisp, swishy wrists and swinging hips are dead giveaways. It would all be rather comical if I wasn’t also good friends with his wife.

Yes, this outrageously flamboyant man who lives for musical theater and clothes shopping is married to a woman. Judy Garland help us all.

Recently this man has been spending a lot of time with another man. This other man is openly gay. It’s fairly clear to all involved that a homosexual affair has begun. And the poor little wife just sits there with a dopey grin on her face, living in cold denial.

It’s just sad. I want to slap them both. I want to scream and yell and make them all see how ridiculous and wrong they are. I want to throw a big gay scene.

But if the man had just been born with a mole on his left cheek like all gay men and woman, none of this would have happened. He would have been forced to accept his homosexuality at an early age, and his wife could have married a man who actually wants to throw her down and make mad love to her.

Just think of all the pain and heartbreak that could be avoided if we could genetically alter the human race to make homosexuals instantly recognizable. Sure, it may make committing a hate crime a little easier as well, but not being able to spot a gay man from across the room has never stopped bigots before. And the good far outweighs the bad. Flirting would be a piece of cake. Dating would become less complicated. No one would ever have to come out of the closet.

And the religious right would shrink in numbers as all of their top supporters were forced to run out and buy the latest Madonna album.

On Holds, Secrets and Wishing Happy Birthday to a Ghost

I woke up this morning and remembered that today would have been your birthday. Even though we never celebrated the day together, it was a date that I tucked away in my mind. I figured I’d use the knowledge one day. I was wrong.

You would have been 38 today. When we met, you had turned 36 just a few days beforehand. You will be 36 forever.

I don’t think of you as much as I used to. I don’t cry myself to sleep as often as I once did. You are still a presence in my life, but that presence fades a little more every day. The hold you had on me is loosening.

I often wonder if I really did love you. Even more often, I wonder if you really did love me. You said that you did. Even after you were gone, your claims of love continued. I wanted to believe you. I did believe you. There were just so many things that made believing difficult. There were too many lies and too many secrets. There were too many tears and too many arguments. There was the simple fact that for so long you pretended to be someone you were not.

And yet I still loved you. I fought it, but I could never win that battle. It was beyond me. Perhaps I was desperate for affection. Perhaps I thrived on the heartache. Or perhaps I really did love you despite all the reasons you gave me not to.

If you were here today, I wouldn’t call you. I wouldn’t send you a card. I would know that you would be doing what you should be doing. You’d be having a nice dinner with the people in your life who mattered more than me. You’d be eating cake with a family that could never include me. You’d be happy. And I’d be wondering why I let you do what you did.

But you are not here. Those people and that family are spending today remembering you as you were. They are remembering a man I never really knew.

Even now I find it so hard to speak ill of you. But at least I am speaking about you. That is a big step. For too long you were locked deep inside me and I could never let you out. That is starting to change. It’s all a part of letting you go.

I do miss you. And I do love you. But I am glad you are no longer a part of my life. I wish you were still happy somewhere, living the life we both know you wanted more than anything else. I wish it all hadn’t ended the way it did. I wish you were blowing out your candles today and blowing the last traces of me from your life.

Unfortunately, wishes rarely come true.

On Revealing, Transforming and Holding on to One Thing I am Used To

And now, for the moment you have all been waiting for – the first look at the new and (not exactly really at all) improved Dr. Sparky.

Voila!

Yes, the glasses are little trendy for someone of my humble nature. Yes, the hairstyle is a little past its cultural prime. Yes, my face still betrays me as the long-lost lovechild of the Pillsbury Doughboy and a Butterball turkey. But in the end, I am hoping against hope that the complete picture is at least a slight improvement over what was there before.

If you happen to disagree, please refrain from commenting.

There are still a few things that need to be tweaked on my new look. For one, I need to perfect the maintenance of the hair. Luckily, it was cut in such a way that allows me to wear it up (as in the picture above) or down (as in the way I wore it every day of my life for the last ten years or so). Now I don’t have to be the trendy Dr. Sparky who put his finger in a light socket every day.

The other issue that needs attention is the glasses. I’ve been wearing them for a few days, and I am beginning to think that the prescription may be a bit off. At first I attributed it to the fact that the glasses were just new, but now I am not so sure. At return trip to the optometrist is in order.

Once that is all taken care of, all I need to do is drop the weight of large first-grader, and I am set. I’m not sure what I’ll be set for, but I’ll be set.

And I hear being set is a relatively good thing.

In the meantime, I will continue to feel completely self-conscious about my look. I’ll continue to assume people are laughing at me behind my back. I’ll continue to live my life as the most strangely unattractive guy to ever step foot wherever I am happening to step foot at the time.

But, unlike the new haircut, those feelings are something I am very used to.