Laid Bare: Essays and Observations by Judson, Tom (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

I watched Part I last night and finished it off tonight with Part II.

And it was so good. I was practically crying at the opening credits as at the ethereal helicopter shot flying over America on a day when the entire country is experiencing weather from heaven—from heaven. At the end of the sequence the camera comes swooping down to the Bethesda Fountain (like the character in the story, one of my favorite spots in Central Park) and the whole movie just got better and better as the hours flew by.

What happened? Is it possible it was the production itself in the 1990s that left us cold? I mean, it’s the same story, and, from what I can recall, sticks very close to the original. Was it the acting? The day we saw it? Maybe what Bruce and I had for dinner beforehand stuck in our craw as much as the play. Gosh, it could just have been our seats.

I don’t have a theory on this one. I just know that Mike Nichols & Co. performed a bit of alchemy and transformed a piece I thoroughly despised into a long, long movie that moved me tremendously.

Miraculous though? Nah. That ain’t no miracle.

The miracle occurred while I was watching the end credits through tear-filled eyes. I’ve experienced this miracle before, but with decreasing frequency and not for a very long time. It wasn’t a long miracle. In fact, it lasted no longer than the time it took for a tiny little electrical charge in my brain that had been tripping along very nicely, thank you, to become distracted by something. A pesky lobe? A sunset over the left hemisphere? Who can say, really? Anyway, this electrical charge became distracted and hopped onto the wrong neuron!

And at that instant I thought to myself, “I have to remember to tell Bruce how good this movie was.”

And for that miraculously short length of time--so brief that scientists have no unit of measurement for it--Bruce was alive once more.

And that was a miracle.

CICCIOLINA, MISS AMERICA AND ME

All my life it seems as if I’ve been running from something; full-time employment, serious relationships, Little League... Once I even ran from a neighbor’s goose as it chased me around the yard and up onto the hood of their Chrysler Imperial. So, imagine my surprise, earlier this year, when I found myself running for a seat on the Equity Council, the governing body of Actor’s Equity.

The “42nd Street” tour I had recently finished was a mixed experience: we had a terrific show with a wonderful cast, yet my salary—as a principal—was one-third of what it had been in the chorus of the National Tour of “Cabaret”. The producers and presenting organizations (including Clear Channel, irrefutable proof of the existence of Satan) bore some responsibility, but Equity caved to almost all the demands they were presented with.

I wanted to do everything in my power to see that this situation did not repeat itself. Getting involved in Union activities seemed like a good way to start. But, since leaving the show, I had gone into porn. Wouldn’t that complicate a campaign? Or would the membership of Actor’s Equity agree that they needed a representative who could not only kick some butt, but who could lick it as well?

Where on Earth could I turn for advice on that?

Cicciolina.

Hard-core porn star and Member of Italian Parliament for 15 years. I e-mailed her for advice:

“…Would it be possible for you to jot down a few lines telling me how your porn stardom helped (or hurt) when you ran for Parliament? Your insight would be greatly appreciated.”

I hit “send” and went back to work on my campaign.

There were three available seats on the council and seven of us on the ballot. If I could make my case and reach enough people, I figured I had a good chance. To that end I prepared an e-mail blitz and set up a webpage detailing my position. Yes, the webpage had a picture on it. I, myself, have voted for Equity Council based solely on candidates’ photos. If there’s a cute guy on the Council, I helped put him there.

But if, in addition to my mug, I could boast an endorsement from an international porn star-cum-politico, I’d be a cinch. When would I hear from Cicciolina?

Several weeks before the election a meeting of the full council was convened and we candidates were given three minutes in which to read a statement. So, it’s come to this, I thought; I’m auditioning for actors.

The room was packed and stuffy when I arrived. Ah, there across the room… an empty seat next to a raven-haired, statuesque beauty. From the way she studied her note pad it was clear she was a fellow candidate. She possessed a certain regal bearing, almost as if… as if there should be a crown on her head. Hold on now, there was a crown on her head at one time.

It was Kate Shindle and she was one of our Sally Bowleses in “Cabaret”. But, more to the point, she was a former Miss America. No fair! That’s sure to sway some voters, I thought. (At least I wasn’t running against Vanessa Williams. She’d have had the Miss America thing and the porn thing and would have mopped the floor with me.)

I plunked myself down next to Kate and we wished each other luck. Only in the theater would a Miss America and a gay porn star be on the same ballot.

Before the meeting, one of the mucky-mucks from Equity approached me and said he had received an irate, anonymous e-mail saying it was shameful I was allowed to run. “Don’t