Dark Corners of Grateful Hearts

There's nothing unusual about the southwest corner of 9th Ave. and 23rd St.. It's just another corner in an innumerable series of corners that form whenever two streets meet on the island of Manhattan. I have stood on that corner at every hour, during every season, under every conceivable variant of precipitation, through every extreme of temperature, waiting for countless lights to change, nearly being hit by bikes going the wrong way on the wrong side of the street. The corner is, as far as corners go, unremarkable.

Until tonight.

     Tonight I was waiting for the walk signal when I heard some commotion to my right. I turned to see a group of six people, all forming a single file line, with their left hands on the shoulders of the next except the front two who had walking sticks. These six were all blind. It was literally the blind leading the blind.

The signal changed, giving me lighted permission to cross the street. Instead I stayed put. I wanted to see the ones who couldn’t see as they navigated this corner. I wanted to watch how they made their way, how they worked as a unit to communicate where they were going and how they would get there.

    It isn’t unusual to see the blind in New York, especially on 23^rd.  Selis Manor, a 14 story residence for the visually impaired, sits between Sixth and Seventh Avenues and its residents navigate the streets with the aplomb of sighted city dwellers. I have a blind acquaintance that lives in the building who puts my running ability to shame with the many marathons he has run. In fact, José’s perception is so attune that you’d not know he was blind if it weren’t his white cane or guide dog.

    
    What is unusual is seeing a group lined in a row, a full two long avenues west of Selis Manor, making an effort to cross the street together. They had apparently just deboarded the Access-A-Ride bus, the City’s paratransit system that operates to help those with disabilities for whom the subway and standard buses are not easily accessible (though I’m constantly surprised at the amount of blind passengers on the subways). The bus driver, who was also on the corner, did not help them get wherever they were going. And, from all appearances, the group preferred it that way.

     Such an encounter would hardly prompt me to write an essay. If I wrote a piece for every highly unusual thing I saw, I’d not have much time for much else. This city, for all its legend and pomp, and in all its supposed scrubbed-clean-Giuliani-Bloomberg glitz, is still a uniquely strange place to live. No, it wasn’t the group of six visually impaired people holding on to each other to get where they were going that led me to write, though that is truly a remarkable thing to happen upon.

What was remarkable was their joy.

     New Yorkers are notorious for their hurried pace, the seeming speed with which they move to get from one place to the next. There's a determination in their eyes and God help the person that unknowingly gets in their way or slows their step. It's a tough city, and its occupants are hardened to fighting their way to get where they're going. The word ‘joy’ would scarce be used to describe a typical New Yorker on a typical commute.

       Which is why the six were so remarkable. Not only were they reliant on each other as a group, they were joyful in their pursuit. 

When the two leaders with their white canes both ran into the same trash can at the same time, the group erupted in laughter.

       When they realized they needed to navigate around a light pole, the group heaped words of encouragement and instruction, one to the other.

      When they needed to listen intently to the sounds of traffic, the group hushed in unified determination.

      
       And each of the six did each of these things smiling, holding on to each other, never once snapping or moaning, never once with a hint of giving up.

        I wonder sometimes about my capacity to endure. I often let my mind drift to scenarios that find me struck blind or deaf or without the use of my extremities. And just the thoughts of such things strike me with such fear, I can't imagine what actually living them would do.

        But I do know what I do now. I do know when a group of tourists flank the sidewalk and shorten my gait, I default to anger. I do know when a person has the audacity to sit in the empty seat next to me on the subway, I audibly groan. I know that when the trains are late, or the baby cries, or an elderly man boards -- prompting me to get up, not out of sense of respect (though there is surely some of that) but out of a sense of wanting the entire train to see my noble action or at least not see me stay seated -- my whole demeanor resents every second.

      I know that at any given second in any given morning can turn on nothing more than a funny look from a stranger. I know that when I ruminate on my life, my ruminations dwell in the messy spots, on all that is wrong, on all I don’t yet have or haven’t yet experienced. The money is never enough, the friends are too superficial, the loves too shallow, the needs too great.

       And yet the six without supposed sight turned my world alight with a lesson on what we do when life doesn’t live up to all that we expect it should. These six, all smiling, bumping and fumbling on their way, had more sight than most any sighted person I saw today. And the lesson they taught me was this:

     Be grateful, not for what you have, but for what you don’t. Be grateful for the friends who will travel with you along roads of darkness, and be grateful for the ones that won’t. Be grateful for the lack of money because you’ve seen what it does to those who have it. Be grateful for disease because the illness taught you things that health never could. Be grateful for the lack of anything beyond your next breath because it made you trust in the unseen things that are more real than the air you breathe. Be grateful that the world didn’t give you anything close to what you had imagined because what you had imagined was far less than you could ever have dreamed.

     Be grateful for blind joyfulness, for the smiling few who will never see another smile, the ones who laugh when they stumble and the ones who quiet when the world rushes by. Be grateful for the six who knew beyond anything I have ever seen how to see things beyond which I will never know.

    
     And finally, be grateful for the dark corners. Because there you see glorious, illuminating joy etched on the faces of a wonder filled few for whom a guiding light is seen, not with their eyes, but with their hearts.

Before the Miracle

Editor's note: I wrote this just after the 2013 ING NYC Marathon. It was shared on the facebook page of the marathon and received over 10,000 likes, 1,200 comments, and 600 shares. It was, and remains, a great honor. 

At mile 14 I knew. I made the rookie mistake of going out way too fast and, though I knew to slow down, I didn’t. It was all falling apart and there was nothing I could do about it. Though I was still on pace to hit my goal of 3:45:00, at 14 everything shifted. My quads began to tighten, my body stiffened, and all my fears were being realized. I started walking instead of running through fluid stations, the cheers of the crowd were starting to be replaced by the doubts in my mind.

Just past the 24 mile mark I was defeated. I just couldn’t go on. My whole physical being was wrecked and my mind begged me to just give up and give in. And for the love of God let my legs give out. It was over. Maybe next time I will listen and slow down at the beginning and maybe next time I will finish. Not this time though. It’s just too much. That’s what my mind said. The dream wouldn’t be realized this time. Let it go. No shame in quitting.

Don’t quit before the miracle. That’s what they say. Don’t quit before the miracle. Mile 25. Don’t quit before the miracle. Mile 26. Don’t quit before the miracle. Crawl over the finish line if you must, but don’t you dare quit before the miracle.

If I could put into words what yesterday was like, I still couldn’t do it justice. The crowds, those multiplying crowds, their roar as I was making the descent from the Queensboro into Manhattan. Mark Sam and Christopher in Brooklyn, my rock George and his beautiful, gracious, amazing wife Lauren in Queens. The strangers who screamed my name. The thousands upon thousands of kids and adults alike with their hands extended for a high five. The ones that society has labeled ‘disabled’ running and walking and rolling their way to the finish. The signs, the noise makers, the smiles, the bands, every single of the two-million spectators. All these things and then…

And then there they were at mile 17. My Wendy, my gorgeous Wendy who inspires me every single day to be a better person. And my Ric. And my brother, Grant. And my ineffable mom who flew my 92 year old Gran up from Texas just to see me run. There they all were, at mile 17 with signs and screaming for me. You want to know how to make a grown man cry? That’ll do it. If ever there was a memory that will be forever etched in my mind’s eye, that’s it. A tableau of love and heart, of friendship restored and life brought back from the brink of death. A young man for whom a big brother could not be more proud. A mom whose heart has mended mine, a Gran who is one of the few angels among us and who embodies the words service and godliness.

And at 24 when the whole thing was closing in, there was Quentin, whose enthusiasm and pep was what I wish every person could see when crossing their own 24 mile mark. In fact, every person on this earth should be blessed enough to have a Quentin in their lives.

I wish every human being could experience what I experienced yesterday. The marathon was life with all its ups and downs, its indescribable torment, its unbelievable joy, its pain and its overwhelming promise. I wish we all, in everything we do, would think twice when that voice is telling us to quit. I wish for all these things and so much more.

I finished it in 4:17:07, 32 minutes and woefully short of my goal. But I crossed that finish line.
         I didn’t listen to that voice.
                Indeed, I didn’t quit before the miracle.

Saving Race

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.

On Dreams Fulfilled: My lifetime with Rue McClanahan

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, drinking Coke, and watch The Golden Girls.

I was drawn to the four “girls” in a way that could not be explained But it didn't 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 Japan Run with NYRR (otherwise known as the Run of Maple Syrup Jesus)

(My post race ugly face at the Japan Run 2010-06-08)

I’m not superstitious at all. I don’t put much stock in horoscopes or good luck charms or curses or even prayers. When I pray, I try my best to pray, not for a changed outcome, but instead that I am able to handle and accept whatever the outcome might be. I ask God for a change in perspective instead of a change in events.

Having said (written) that, the Japan Day Run in Central Park on Sunday was the most horrible, terrible, no good, very bad, cursed, hot, dirty, stinky, crowded run that started last Friday afternoon. You see, last Friday afternoon, as I am wont to do, I went to the New York Road Runners (NYRR) offices on the Upper East Side at Fifth Avenue and 89^th Street to pick up my race bib and t-shirt. As I bound up the stairs and said hello to the kind volunteers I tripped.

Not in an “oops, that’s sort of embarrassing. Look at me! I tripped and stumbled” type of trip but a “hello stairs, this is my face and, if you don't mind, my face, instead of my arms, is going break my fall”. As I stood up I laughed it off and spouted something to assure the 534 people in the office who saw my 6 foot 6 inch ass fall face first into the stairs that I was ok. “It’s a good thing I fell today instead of race day, hahahahahaha” I said to no one in particular.

I’m nothing if not witty!

After leaving the offices I chalked my fall up to just some random incident and forgot about it. Well, I mean I forgot about it in the sense that I told everyone that would listen how bad I fell and stubbed my right big toe, one of the few toes left where the toenail is not black from running, but that I was a trooper, a runner’s runner, and I would brave the 4 whole long miles of the race on Sunday and prevail.

Fast forward to Sunday. It started perfect. There was no traffic up the West Side Highway and we arrived at Central Park West and West 100^th Street 45 minutes early. Then the trouble began. I figured that since the race was at the north end of Central Park, parking would be a breeze. I figured wrong. We drove around for half-an-hour and there was no parking whatsoever. It seems that the residents of the Upper West Side don’t like to move their cars early on Sunday morning. Imagine that! As we circled and circled around I realized I had about 10 minutes before the race began.

“We could just go home. God and Jesus might not want us to go. Yeah, let’s just go home. I prayed and I don’t think God and Jesus want us to go to the race.”

Since Ric has been sick he frequently employs God and Jesus to do his heavy lifting. In this respect he is much like Sarah…oh never mind…back to the story.

With just a few minutes before the race was to start I gave up on finding street parking and parked in a garage.

“Ok, I’m going to run to the corrals. I’ll call you when I am finished. Don’t get run over by runners. Stay off the course! Are you listening?”

“Yes, go! I’ll see you later”

The NYRR volunteers were moving us along. “Two minutes to start. Run up that hill and get to your corral”

I ran up the hill, found my group and waited.

Did I mention it was humid? Because it was. My nifty Japan Day t-shirt was already soaked by the time I crossed the starting line. And it started oh-so well.

They say (whoever they are) not to run someone else’s race. What that means is, don’t get caught up in the excitement and run the tempo of those around you if their tempo is not your tempo. A race, for me especially, is a race against myself. My only goal is to beat my last race time…in theory.

As we passed the 1 mile marker I remembered something my friend Charles, also a runner, told me about running the north end of the park. It’s hilly. Like really, really hilly.

As I was running at pace with the 7min/milers and began the ascent up what was the 57^th hill of the day I noted to myself to tell Charles he was right. That is, if I made it to the end. Having already sweat half my body weight I was not certain I would ever see a finish line again. The race was beginning to kick my ass.

Just about that time, there she was. She being a pedestrian of no more than 5 feet tall that decided she might attempt to cross through the race about 2 feet in front of me.

“HOLY SHIIIIIIIIT!” I screamed as she stopped directly in my path with a look that put deer-in-the-headlights on the map.

If I were not the vision of grace and elegance that I am, I would have probably run into the sorry sack of impatience. But luckily for her, I managed to swerve around and just miss her.

At mile two, Jesus was calling…audibly. I could hear him. He was calling me home.

Oh, have I mentioned that I smelled maple syrup?

“You clearly are not cut out for this race” he said in that holier than thou Jesus way that gets on my last nerve. “Just crawl on over there to that lovely patch of grass and give up.”

When I later told this to my mother she jokingly told me it was the Lord’s subtle rebuke for choosing to run the race instead of go to church (At least I think she was joking).

Instead of listening to the good Lord I soldiered on and started to walk. I never regained my breath but I did start to run again. When I finally made it to the finish line I fumbled for my phone to call Ric. My phone was soaking wet and I had trouble getting the touch screen to respond to my trembling touch. Finally I dialed.

As I expectorated the last of my lungs, Ric answered.

“Babe, I fell. I’m really cut up and bleeding. I am sitting down on a hill and there are a bunch of people around me”

Calm, Jon-Marc. Stay calm.

“Ok, I need more information than that. Where are you? What do you see? Are you by the course? Are you by the bagel and water station?” I asked in full panic mode.

“I don’t know. I am just around people. On a hill. Bleeding”

“Ok, stay on the phone with me. Just describe to me what you see”

“There is a lady…”

My phone died. My $400.00 piece of phone caca that cannot hold a charge died and I had no idea where Ric was. I only knew that he said he was bleedingon a hill somewhere in Central Park and that I was physically exhausted. This was all too familiar.

After aimlessly wandering around in circles looking for Ric, I heard his voice.

“Babe, over here” he yelled.

And then, like a parent finding their lost child in a department store, my relief turned to relief with a tinge of anger. And by tinge I mean full on white hot

“What the hell happened?”

“I was walking to the race and got caught up in all these people and someone knocked me over and I fell. Then all these people ran over to help and gave me bandages and alcohol swabs and one lady poured water all over my cuts”

That’s the thing I love about the running community (and by community I mean the runners as well as those that come to cheer on the runners). There is a spirit, an unspoken code. Every person at that race, I truly believe, wanted every other person at that race to do their very best. And when someone was hurt – a perfect stranger to everyone there but me – people gathered around him and made sure he was ok. They didn’t know he suffers from dementia and how unbelievably scared he was but I’m certain even if they did it would not have mattered. Their only concern, based on what Ric told me, was making sure Ric was ok.

“Can you go get the car and pick me up?” Ric said, still sitting on the grass.

“No, the park is closed to cars. You are going to have to walk”

With that, he stood up, leaned on me, and we began to walk west towards the garage. What should have taken 5 minutes to walk took 45 but, after stopping many times so Ric could rest, we finally made it.

Hey, I know I don’t usually ask for outcomes to be changed I prayed as I drove us home, but it would really help if you could heal him quickly. Also, I want to tell you how amazed and grateful I am for the human race at times like these. Those people that gathered around Ric and took care of him were incredible Thanks for them. Also, and this is just fair warning, if it is ever that humid again during a race I will immediately cease believing in you. Amen

Oh yeah, the other thing is, I still smell maple syrup. Pancakes anyone?

Angels I Don't See (Spotting Love) returns soon

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.

My Trip Down the Pink Carpet with Leslie Jordan

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!