Crazy Enough (37 page)

James and the band, though I'm sure they had harbored fantasies of letting me have it a time or two, refused.
I can't hit you, dude
was the consensus among the musicians.

“Fuck. Mark?” Mark Tynan, my stage manager in
Cabaret
and
Crazy Enough
, was always good for a hug and soft, spiritual words of wisdom. I was a mess, snotty and red-faced, in a near panic at my inability to pull my shit together. I knew Mark could do something to calm me down, he'd been doing this forever with far crazier broads refusing to go onstage for far stupider reasons. I was sure he wouldn't hit me, though. It was not his style and Equity probably frowned on that sort of thing, but I needed something to get me back from my fevered pitch of shrieking nerves to my normal and manageable level of neurosis. My leaking, red eyes pleading with him to do something. I cried at him again. “Hit me.”

He held me at arm's length by my shoulders and gave me a gentle shake. He was tall and very warm. “Sweetheart . . . look at me.” He made me look into his bright aqua eyes. “Breeeeeathe,” he said, smiling.

“Please . . .”

“Shhhhhh . . . sweetheart.” His eyes pulled mine into them. He breathed deeply, I breathed with him, then he said, “Relax your neck.”

Hunh?

WHACK! The band jumped at the sound that suddenly cracked the air. Mark had fully roundhouse, open-handed smacked me and made my left cheek his little bitch.

“Yessss. YES! Other side, other side!” I said, pornographically, my eyes tearing from the bright, pinking sting. KA-RACK!!

“God bless you, Mark Tynan.” I saw tiny sparkles as I stumbled into my dressing room to clean myself up . . . finally back on the ground.

“I love you, too,” he sang merrily.

I got my makeup and outfit on, did my normal pacing backstage, and headed out onstage sure that I was going to get the runs in front of everyone.

Sucky as it was to perform under those circumstances—broken-hearted, sick, burnt, wiped, and scraped empty—I am a staunch proponent of “The Show Must Go On.” I am the show, so on I go. Like that Longfellow poem, “Excelsior.” The little guy denies himself comfort, shelter, safety, even love to fulfill his quest, whatever that is. For me, it's performing. Lonely as it's been at times, I'd rather die than give up my crazy life.

And the greatest performances I've ever seen or given are not unlike the most incredible sex one can ever have. It's when you are truly torn open and powerless, and you lose it completely. You can call it God, or spirit, or art, or whatever chaotic mystery that sounds right to you, but when you are stripped of all your defenses, that's when
miracles happen. Maintaining composure during those experiences is beside the point. It's so much better to feel like you might not survive the encounter, shit the bed, and touch the infinite.

Even though Mark Tynan had done me a solid with the mighty slap across my face, it was a tough gig. My voice was rough from the day's emotional mayhem, and I cried openly at bows. Only my band could see it. My body flopped over, tears streaming into my hair, but the audience roared to its feet and gave me my sixtieth standing ovation in a row.

James, myself, and the band all convened at his house after the show. We sat on his porch, drinking and laughing and toasting each other. Nobody brought up my meltdown. I had muscled through, no need to tear the scab off. Nothing to see here. We told terrible stories from the road and beyond over chilled white wine and fancy homemade gin drinks. A shambling clutch of stage dogs having a postgig hang, smoothing away the rough day in the balm of a summer night and the company of great friends. I was in a rough patch, but these guys had my back, front, and sides. I still didn't want to fall apart on anyone, but if I had to, I couldn't think of better friends to put Humpty Slutty back together again. I knew I'd be all right.

A few days later it was my fortieth birthday.

Standing backstage, once again with my intestines sweating, the stacks of programs staring at me, my heart broken, and the house full, I was there. Hanging by a microthin thread . . . but alive and wide awake.

I took a shaky breath and walked through the dark to the microphone stand at center stage.

I grazed my lips across the metal screen ball of the microphone, looked up into the dark potent nothing, and mouthed silently as I did before every show:
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

It was another tear-soaked bow at curtain.
I'm fucking forty and all alone.
The applause was a whitewash of rush in my ears, punctuated with whistles and woo-hoos. I stayed bent over until I wasn't completely sobbing. The tears all streaked up my forehead while in the deep bow, maybe it'll just look like sweat. I stood up to call my band over for the second bow and as my tear-smudged vision cleared a bit, I saw the entire audience on its feet still slamming their hands together and cheering even louder, gushing at me with an epic-loving roar.

And every one of them was wearing a pointy paper birthday hat.

What the . . . ?
I turned around to my guys to see if they were seeing what I was seeing, and they were on their feet, clapping and smiling, also wearing party hats.

Gotcha.

I dropped to my knees and sobbed shamelessly.

I was sung to, given my favorite red velvet cupcakes stuck with candles, got hugged a million times, and later I was gently stewed with filthy vodka martinis.

It was the greatest gift ever. Not so much all the details of the night, but the knock-over-the-head realization that I am actually doing something right with my life. In a way I am a little crazy, but it works for me. It certainly helps to be a little twisted to do what I do. I have fallen flat on my face. I have also completely ruled. I have humiliated myself in front of hundreds, even thousands of people. I have also lifted and shaken the room, like deep belly muscles in a brain-melting orgasm. Performing is the one thing I've found I can
do, that comes
from
me, it's mine, and, at its best, it is a force of good in the world, bringing joy to numerous humans gathered in the dark listening. Even if you think I suck, you are a little happier for getting to hate me.

You're welcome.

M
y Dad, for not locking me up, forgiving me, and still loving me. My big brothers, John and Henry, for helping me remember and supporting me through this process. Mari Quirk for being a wild and wonderful sorta-Ma. My Godmother, Aunt Elena; Susie Moore; Aunt Jeane Lutz, who has given so much; Aunt Bitsy (the original big girl who broke the mold); G-Bear; and all my beautiful cousins of the Carey and MacMaster clan who can, right this moment, put this book down and stop reading. The same goes for all my nieces and nephews. Here is the child-friendly synopsis: Auntie Stormy was a big loud silly pants who did some highly goofy and not smart things, but is now, mostly, a nice person. The end. And you kids know the rule: NEVER REPEAT WHAT AUNTIE STORMY SAYS EVER.

My loving friends who costar in some of these shenanigans, who dried tears, cheered me on, understood, brought me wine,
slapped me around, made me lie down or go for a walk; in a good many ways, you make me better, and I am eternally grateful: James Beaton, Daphne Leavitt, Heather Quirk, Laura Izon Powell, Mary Raffael, Stephanie Greig Templeton, Lars Fox, Quenby Moone, Joelle Flegal, Scott Weddle, Caitlynne Flynn, Frank Faillace, Laura Domela, Kevin Morris, Kohel Haver, Steve Sharp, Jennie Baker, Adam Lundeen, Sandra “Phoenix” Hillebrand, Eric McFadden, Jim Brunberg, Greg Eklund, Mark Tynan, Kavita Jhaveri, Howie Bierbaum, Narwal Kortney Barber, Byron Beck, Michael Cavaseno, Stephanie Smith and Ma and Pa Smith, Michelle DeCoursy, Elan Vital McAllister, Carmel Dean, Camryn Mannheim, Daniel Stern, Morgan Dancer, Emily Fincher, David Loprinzi, Brian Boom-Boom McFeather Parnell, Keith Smith, Hester Snow, Ashley Richardson, Red Kevin the Viking Dowling, Mike Sablone, Aaron Annis, David Conrad, Sam Gold, Randy Marie Rollison, Wade McCullum, Holcombe Waller, Thomas Lauderdale and Pink Martini, and the ever-shining Yael Esther.

The Big Brain Trust, my incredible writers group: Cynthia Whitcomb, Christine McKinley, Courtenay Hammeister, Daniel Wilson, and my beloved gay husband, Marc Acito. Marc, especially, who helped me road map the first incarnation of this book—and for being a damn good kisser.

My agent, Richard Pine, for listening to Larry Colton, and in turn, bugging me to do this thing and believing in me. You're both nuts. My sweet, first editor at Free Press, Amber Quereshi, whom I made cry and smoosh food all over her head. And thank you Leah Miller, my tireless and patient final editor, who held my giant man hands and walked me through the toughest parts. You're a badass.

My friends from when I wasn't really a rock star but played one on TV: Toby Rand, Lucas Rossi, Paul and Michelle Mirkavich. And Mark Burnett, for running a classy gig. Thank you.

Thank you Chris Coleman, Rose Riordan, and PCS for telling me to sing my story.

Thank you, Larry Colton, for telling me to write it down.

Thank you Jammer, for calling me a chickenshit and making me do both.

And thank you, Michael Shapiro, for listening. Also for knowing how to get all the candy out of the piñata. I love you.