Take Off: Filming Five Women at an Airport

That’s a wrap on my first full musical production as director, and my first feature film as director, the glorious filmed musical, "Five Women at an Airport.
"

 

This piece. 

This experience. 

This team. 

These WOMEN. 



I will never know what I did to deserve this perfect alchemy of passion, commitment, humor, depth and talent— but we got it all and then some, all in 20 days that felt like 20 years. 

What we achieved artistically, emotionally, and all ahead of schedule (?!) was a miracle. 

 

A few months ago my dear friend lyricist, playwright, and musical book-writer David Goldsmith approached me about an idea conceived by the great Paul Gordon, who David describes as the "Jobs to his Woz," and this idea as the proverbial Silicon Valley garage. And you, dear audience will be the potential proof of their genius concept.

 

David and his fellow creatives Wendy Perelman (book) and John Kavanaugh (music) had a piece of material that they deeply believed in. 

A piece of musical theatre they felt needed to be seen. 

They called that piece “Five Women At An Airport.”



 

At the same time, we had a broken industry. 

Paul and David wanted to figure out a way to democratize more than merely was what was produced and celebrated within it, but what was ever seen at all. 

They came up with an idea, and called it Virtual Stage Lab. 

They wanted to film our musical within weeks, not months; and not as a finished product, but as a video demo filmed on a stage at the highest possible level. The focus would be on the story, music, lyrics, and the performances of the actors. 

And then they intended to post it online, for free. For anyone and everyone to see the work, and the work of their colleagues and collaborators. 

If any productions came of it—or any licenses derived from it—all of those artists would share in a royalty pool that, in success, would bring them revenue in perpetuity. 

Plus everyone would get some beautiful footage, doing beautiful work. 



 

That was the idea.

 

I was entranced. And I cannot believe they asked me along for the ride. As the DIRECTOR. (I mean. Were they insane? Didn't they know the only thing I've ever directed in my life was countless scene study classes and like six Greek tragedies at a conservatory? What were shot lists? Who was going to costume this and design the lights and keep everyone on schedule? ME?! That's insane. That's for adults...)

 

They didn't care. David knew. He saw something in me I didn't even dare to see in myself.  It also came with the unparalleled trust of its genius creators John, and Wendy— who created a work of such indescribable truth and beauty; a work about real, mature, fully-embodied, nuanced women speaking to one another like real human beings. These are roles women can savor, relish and feast upon for eons to come. 



 

I’ll never fully have the language to express what this three weeks meant to me. 

I’ll say until my breath runs out: in show business it is not the work you make, where you make it or the tens of dollars we are sometimes paid for the privilege. It is, above all, about who we share it all with. 



 

 

None of this would have been possible without the entire technical team — Ian, Tais, Dylan and our magic MD Andy Collopy and genius Director of Photography, Konstantin Yelisevich. Dreamboats ALL. And above all; the literally jaw-dropping organization of our Stage Manager Morgan Holbrook who kept us on track at every turn. 



 

But to my beloved ladies — Bryonha Marie Kate Rockwell, Elena Shaddow Katy Geraghty and Cailen Fu— I have never had an experience like this. One of instant collaborative and temperamental alchemy. From the word “go” you generously offered me not only your time and infinite talents, but your trust and hearts and souls. Thank you for making my first directing experience such a dream. I passionately love you.



 

And now? That’s a wrap. 


See you at the movies. 


Director (and Karole)—out.

 

Watch this space in 2025 for the full feature film. 

 

Favorite "Comfort" Movies: a List

What About Bob?

Topsy Turvy

When Harry Met Sally

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

Sister Act (and Sister Act 2)

French Kiss

A League of Their Own

Amalie

Groundhog Day

Bedknobs and Broomsticks

The Jerk

Enchanted April

Labyrinth

Ghostbusters

my hometown movie theatre: the Birmingham 8

Baby Steps

(1-3 weeks on…give or take…)

“Dr. Marvin…You can help me…for the first time in my life, I feel like there’s hope…”
—What About Bob?

*


What About Bob was on.
Of course.
It had been on, solidly, for a week.


[On screen:  We are in Dr. Leo Marvin’s fancy Midtown-Manhattan office. There are awards on the wall, sleek metallic lamps, a large window overlooking the city behind the small, and a bronze bust of Dr. Sigmund Freud that surrounds an arrogant psychiatrist wearing a navy jacket and red tie. After listening to Bob Wiley—his newest patient for only a matter of minutes—Dr. Marvin recommends the following…]

    Dr. Marvin: Bob, there is a groundbreaking new book that has just come out— ah!

[Dr. Marvin selects one from dozens of copies of the same, completely visible, book…]

    Now not everything in this book, of course applies to you, but I’m sure that you can see, when you see the title, exactly how it could… help.

    Bob:  [reading the title] “Baby Steps?”
    Dr. Marvin: —It means setting small, reasonable goals for yourself, one day at a time. One tiny step at a time.
    Bob: [wonderstruck] …B a b y  S t e p s…
    Dr. Marvin: For instance, when you leave this office, don’t think about everything you have to do in order to get out of the building, just think of what you must do to get out of this room, and when you get to the hall, deal with that hall, and so forth. You see?
    Bob: Baby Steps!
    Dr. Marvin: Baby Steps.
    Bob: Oh boy…


Baby steps…
    deep, right?
Hilariously deep.
And agonizingly accurate.


*


Grey had moved the television from the master bedroom into the upstairs office across the landing. The master bedroom having a kind of force field around it at this juncture—invisible and undiscussed. I think all of us were aware that we did not want to be those people, whoever they were. Those people—the ones that got all histrionic about the loss of a loved one. As if that were somehow not okay.

Mom and I spent a lot of time wondering if we were reacting “normally.” Grey, Lilly and Kent spent a lot of time wondering the same thing. What do you do when you are eighteen and nothing this devastating has really ever happened to you yet? You can’t say things are “okay” or “allowed” or “understandable” because you have no idea if they are or aren’t— you are eighteen. You are a fetus.  The closest you have ever gotten to death is the class guinea pig dying in kindergarten.  You do not yet realize what you do not yet know.

So, in that vein, we did not actively close off The Room of Death. No. We just operated under a silent agreement that all would be quiet. We’d keep it light. We could and would pretend that all comings-and-goings to and from The Room of Death were nobigthing. Look at me Death, our silent attitude would manically screech, check me! Check me as I casually use the Master Bathroom as a legitimate alternative to other household bathrooms! I am using it because there is a shower/bath, and because it is a valid option and therefore should be utilized as such. The ‘someone died here like 5 minutes ago’ thing? Yeah. It is nobigthing.
It was.
It was a big thing.
So despite the odd gesture to waltz in and out of the room like dingbats, it pretty much remained untouched.

Hey-You-Guy-Brenda and Kent had gotten to work on the master bathroom (or, The Bathroom of Death, if you will--and I hope you will)— sorting through every pill, tube, catheter, plug, prescription bottle, and machine and, without a great deal of ceremony, threw all of it away.
    “We disposed of the disease” Kent said after returning from wherever these trinkets had been discarded, “and left the man.” Indeed—the gold watch, the spare loose coins he always counted as he thought and calmed himself, the scraps of paper covered in his signature all-caps scrawl, the distinctive cologne that smelled so much of him it pierced directly into my heart.

Those days were full of harrowing little tasks like that.

The death-sheets were cleaned and folded, the bed made anew, the room scrubbed down, the machines carted away—as if none of it had ever happened at all. Mom’s friends, along with mine, took on the duties that would eventually create The House of Death we came to know after the act itself was long past. All that could remind us of the horrors of terminal disease remained burned in our memories alone.

But the absence of objects is, too, a kind of silence.

No one could have prepared us for the pulsing soundlessness that perpetrated every waking moment, that the lack of Michael, along with the lack of his artifacts (both of the life and the lack-of-life variety) would in fact leave us with no touchstones to our anguish, no weapons with which to dig out emotions trapped so deep within our chest cavities only crude surgery could release them.


*


Dad’s office across the hall already had a small twin bed in the corner, and was now doubling as, what could only be described as “Mom’s Temporary Place of Sleeping.”

At the time we had one of those late-90s TVs with a built-in VHS player. It would swallow the already war-worn copy of Bob, and every time it reached the end of the tape it would automatically rewind, eject, and the VHS tape would sit in the open mouth of the TV, awaiting instruction—a blank face with its tongue sticking out.

Before a second of silence could go by I would panic, rushing to the machine to push the cassette back in. There are no words to describe how much I loved the way it swallowed the tape with such efficient, satisfying obedience, and adored the sound of the pre-digital cogs churning within, of each electronic stage it took to bring Bob’s infinite wisdom back to me again.

    Dr. Marvin: Are you married?
    Bob: I'm divorced.
    Dr. Marvin: Would you like to talk about that?
    Bob: There are two types of people in this world: Those who like Neil Diamond, and those who don't. My ex-wife loves him.

And again.
Bob— with his judicious ability to ask for exactly what he needs.

    Bob: [to man on bus] Hi, I'm Bob. Would you knock me out, please? Just hit me in the face…

And again.
Bob— knowing there is soundness even in folly.

    Dr. Marvin: I want some peace and quiet!
    Bob: Yeah, I'll be quiet.
    Siggy: I'll be peace!
    [Bob and Siggy burst into giggles]

And again.
Bob— reaching through the screen and speaking the truth directly to me…

    Dr. Marvin: Why are you always wearing black? What is it with you and this death fixation?
    Siggy: Maybe I'm in mourning for my lost childhood…

It was in this period that I came to know Bob beyond reason or sanity. In that week I exceeded being comforted by the light, harmless comedy. Not surprisingly, in fact, I did not laugh at all. I watched because it comforted me. I watched it because the “this moment,” and every moment that clicked along, really sucked, and it reminded me of life, of everything, before it.


Bob— on endless loop.
Bob— more comforting than any therapy (be it “Baby Steps,” “Isolation,” or “Death” therapies) or friend or food or love.

*

I would jolt— Dad and Bill Murray always shared a kind of “cadence,” particularly when Bill Murray went into his “child-like comedy” mode. “HA!” Bob would burst out, and I would jolt upward, certain Dad was back before I remembered, and sank back into myself, and the bed, once more. If I kept it on, somehow Dad would come around the corner any second and join me.

After a few days a family friend came over and into the room. She stood over me and glanced over my particular state of wretchedness and attempted to conceal how much the sight of my despair turned her stomach. She caught herself mid-shudder and plastered a frighteningly cheerful smile on her face,
     “I see we are doing a little too much sitting in this bed and not enough getting on with things?” My eyes moved toward her but my body remained motionless too dazed to be embarrassed, and, with the concern and temperament of a toad, my eyes peeled away form her and back toward the screen, not even daring to respond. She sighed and left the room slowly, unable to stir me.

She was trying to help.

Was she trying to tell me that my love of Bob was wrong? Because if Bob was wrong, then I didn’t want to know what right was.

*

I had been in the bed for a week. Pajamas filthy, hair matted, and Bob on a bender of inexhaustible re-runs. I did not know what time it was. I did not know the day. All I knew was that it was dark. In every sense. And that I was alone.

But Bob was there, and the blue flame from the small television flickered, more comforting than a fire.

I opened my eyes to discover Bob helping little Siggy to dive...

My beloved Bob approaches the dock to discover Siggy, dressed fully in black and all alone, sitting on an upright wooden post, red bicycle discarded beside him, despondently playing a hand-held video game. Siggy’s father Dr. Marvin has insisted Siggy learn to dive despite Siggy’s paralyzing fear, and earlier on, dropped Siggy in the water without warning. Bob is elated, having just returned from his first experience of sailing, and is still draped in his orange life-vest which he has left casually untied atop his bright blue shirt that reads “Don’t Hassle Me, I’m Local.”

Bob gazes upon Siggy and approaches slowly.

Bob: Notice anything different about me? 
Siggy: [he contemplates Bob for a moment] No. 
Bob: Do you sail? 
Siggy: No. 
Bob: Well I just picked it up. Heh! [He chuckles] Wonder what I’m gonna pick up next? 
Siggy: Try diving. [He retorts sarcastically, returning to his video game] 
Bob: Alright, diiiiiving… 
Siggy: I know a great teacher. [He sighs. Considers for a moment, before venting a confession to Bob] I mean, my dad just dropped me in the water. Without warning me first. I mean, I nearly drowned! My whole life passed before my eyes. 
Bob: You're lucky you're only twelve. 
Siggy: It was still grim.

I knew exactly what he meant. 

Siggy [cont]: I mean what is it with him and diving? What’s the big deal? 
Bob: Well…[Bob walks out further onto the dock and, seeing the depth of the water declares] WHOA… [tying his life-vest on tightly before continuing] ...He probably just wants to beat it, that’s all. You know, he probably just wants you to dive, because you’re afraid of diving. 

Siggy rolls his eyes as only a twelve-year-old can, but knows Bob is right.

Bob [cont]: Did I tell you? I sailed on my first try! [Bob extends his arms like a proud child] …I just let the boat do the work that was my secret. But with diving, what’s the thing? What’s the trick? Siggy: I dunno… it’s supposed to be easy… Bob moves his feet around, revving them into the ground like a nervous foul. 
Bob: well… can you give me a handle on it? 

Siggy puts down his video game and comes over to Bob at the end of the dock.


...I don’t want to go into more detail.
I don’t want to get into the hows and the whats of the next few moments, because I want you to see the scene for yourself.

All I will say is this: Siggy dives.
And he dives because Bob helps him.

Does Bob realize he is helping? I don’t know. Every time I see this scene I change my mind again—no, I think, Bob is innocent, he doesn’t know he is the most profound man alive, an all-knowing guru of almost spiritual depth. The next time round I think yes, Bob knows what he is doing, he may not be able to help himself, but he can help this little boy…
I don’t know.
I like that I don’t know.

What I do know is this: Siggy faces his greatest fear. And he does because Bob helps him.

I burst into tears. Which was odd, because I had not yet cried. Not once. And there I was weeping into the strange un-used cushions of an unfamiliar bed in my father’s old office, across the hall from the room in which he had died what felt like both moments and ages ago, and all I wanted was for Bob to reach through the screen and help me.

The “Hogwarts Incident”

Birmingham Palladium Cinema

[In which Lilly drove up five hours in a minivan from Oberlin only to be instantaneously whisked away]

*

[At rise: Deepest winter. Al, Mom, Kent, Grey and Lilly sit around the dining room table discussing various life events. All but Lilly have been in the house solidly for nearly six weeks, contemplating existence as well as preparing their various college re-auditions, but mostly obsessively reading the first four Harry Potter books, attending the local premier of the first film, and then re-attending it every-other-day or so, particularly after going to Greek Islands diner because the movie theatre is right around the corner.]

Lilly: So Grey, you’re applying for a school in Australia?
Grey: Yep. I want it.
Lilly: That’s amazing!
Grey I just wish we could all go to school at Hogwarts.
Al/Kent/Mom: [in unison] T O T A L L Y. 

[Pause.]

Lilly: …Um…What’s Hogwarts?

[—Record scratch—crashing pause—mouths agape—plates are dropped.]

Grey: [deadly serious] Lilly get in the car.
Lilly: —What?!
Grey: [action movie, Bruce Willis, intense] —GET IN THE CAR!!
Lilly: [laughing a little, albeit nervously] Where are we going?

[Everyone begins standing, moving mechanically, like a car service team at the Indy 500]

Kent: [taking her by the arm] We’re going to the movies—
Grey: —Taking care of a serious problem.
Kent: Jesus!

[They are at the door]

Al: I’ve got her coat.
Grey: Good.
Mom: [calling from the driveway, honking, already in the car] WE CAN STILL MAKE THE 8:30!!
Kent: Buckle her in. I’ll lock up.

[They drive off down the street getaway-car-style, and “christen” Lilly to her very first Harry Potter experience. A trip we would repeat dozens of times before the winter was out. Phew. Crisis averted.]

What About Bob and The Dying (a memoir)

I am sleeping downstairs tonight. I am in a pair of light and dark blue checkered pajamas with a moth-eaten teal wool sweater I acquired from the share box at Interlochen last spring. JNF is asleep next to me, the very fact of which is off because if my Dad were not upstairs dying he would not be happy that his teenage daughter was lying in bed next to her teenage boyfriend. But there is nothing funny going on. JNF is asleep and I am wide awake and thinking about what must be going on upstairs. The Dying. 

*

What About Bob? is my undisputed favorite film of all time. In a top ten list of favorite films, Bob would take up the top three slots. I could watch it on repeat, I could probably quote the entire thing from beginning to end (with intonations and pauses, inflections, music cues and everything) if you challenged me to. In fact I dare you: challenge me to. Go on. [1]


First things first: 

[**Old World Hollywood cinematic entrance music!!**]

What About Bob? is a 1991 film directed by Frank Oz about a doctor-patient relationship pushed way beyond the office.

Bob Wiley (played brilliantly by Bill Murray), a neurotic New York psychiatric patient struggling with a whirlwind of paralyzing phobias who takes to Dr. Leo Marvin's (the equally astonishing Richard Dreyfuss) latest bestselling book "Baby Steps" like no therapy before it; and in one session alone bonds with, depends upon, and in the most charming way conceivable, subsequently follows his successful and (beyond) egotistical, callous, self-absorbed, S.O.B. psychiatrist Dr. Leo Marvin north to New Hampshire on a month's vacation.

But Dr. Marvin, is not only seeking a few weeks of rest and relaxation, he is preparing for a highly anticipated interview on Good Morning America and viewing Bob's stalking as highly inappropriate, he demands Bob return to New York. (In fact, Dr. Marvin’s unprecedented success with a patient is all the more ironic, because it would massage his massive ego if it weren't such an intolerable disruption to his vacation.) But Bob can't take a hint, and decides to indulge in his very own "vacation from his problems” in the area!  Bob is here to stay!

Meanwhile, Marvin's wife Fay (Julie Hagerty), death-obsessed son Sigmund (Charlie Korsmo), and teenage-daughter Anna (Kathryn Erbe) all take to Bob's openness, loopy charm, and sense of “fun,” none of which Dr. Marvin himself possesses and he views as an infuriating threat. Marvin's temperature rises as Bob insinuates his way into the hearts of the Marvin family— flattering Fay, counseling the previously ignored Anna and most profoundly, helping Sigmund overcome his greatest fears.


Next. Let’s get a few things clear:

    - I did not, I repeat did NOT play it so many times on VHS that it began to skip.
    - I have never claimed that “Bob” [2] is the “I Ching.” Not ever.
    - I have not quoted “Bob” to total strangers on public transportation.
    - I do not love it so much that sometimes I put it on just as “wallpaper” while I clean the house or do my taxes.
    - And above all, I did not get so frustrated by my inability to have access to Bob’s amusement and wisdom at all times that I resorted to holding a professional (purpose bought) microphone up to the television speaker in order to record the entire film on a 120 minute cassette-tape so that I might listen to it on my Walkman…or in the car… or at summer camp…

Saying any of that were true might mean that I was an obsessive crazy fool.
So… yeah…OKAY,
[*she waves her hands in the air, rolls her eyes, exhales and makes the ‘come clean’ face*]
The truth is this: I am an obsessive crazy fool!
A fool for What About Bob? and I don’t even really know why!


When listing ones favorite films I have always considered it important to designate and divide into separate categories: The Favorite Films That Are Legitimate Works of Art and Really Challenge You List— Citizen Kane and Schindler’s List type movies that are in-arguably brilliant but require focus and discipline and serious-mindedness even if the film is amusing. And The Special Favorite Films You Could Watch Again and Again Because They Make You Feel Amazing List—which includes things resembling The Great Muppet Caper and Turner and Hooch. Sometimes there is a cross-over (Amalie?), but pah! Why get into nitty-grittys? The point is I think everybody has a film or two like this: the kind of “favorite movie” where, the second it is over, you loved it so much you could press-rewind-and-watch-the-whole-damn-thing-again kind of love.

I know people who irrationally love Big.
I know other families spend entire mealtimes quoting and guffawing over National Lampoon’s European Adventure.
Or a handful of people who can’t get enough of The Jerk.


Well, for our family, it was What About Bob? and it all started with my dad. I remember the first time we ever watched it in the last home we ever had in Los Angeles. He practically sprinted out to purchase that VHS; and we watched it twice— back to back.

Dad loved this movie for reasons I may never fully know, and desperately wish I did. Perhaps it had something to do with the odd take on psychotherapy. Perhaps it had to do with Bob’s innocence or Bill Murray’s irreverent but child-like sense of humor (that actually reminded me so much of his). Perhaps it was because the film, at it’s core, has a really touching central message without taking itself too seriously. Perhaps it was just amusing, I truly don’t know, but what I am realizing as I type this is that the film became important to me because it was important to him. We would watch it together, laugh, quote, laugh some more, and as I grew it took on it’s very own significance.

When I woke up in the morning he would often greet me with:
    “Good morning Gil… I said good morning Gil.”

Or the casual greeting of:
    “Ahoy!”

Or if someone asked how he felt about something he might respond with:
    “There are two types of people in this world: those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t.”

Or if someone were mean to me at school he would quote Bob’s wisdom:
    “You know, I treat people, as if they were telephones, If I meet somebody I think doesn't like me I say to myself, I say; ‘Bob, this one is temporarily out of order.’ You know, don't break the connection, just hang up and try again!”

Therein lies a great deal of the draw: Bob Wiley, it would seem, is oddly enlightened, and What About Bob? oddly profound. With every viewing I discovered another level of profundity in a manner in which only Bill Murray seems to be able to deliver on the knife’s edge of comic insanity (Groundhog Day and The Life Aquatic being perfect examples). And every time I watched Bob and found a new nugget of hilarious, but deeply perceptive human observation; I not only felt smarter, or wiser, but I felt closer to my Dad.


So, incongruous though it may seen, it is fitting that it all began there...

About two-thirds of the way into the film, we find Bob sleeping over at The Marvins’ Lake Winnapesawke home due to a torrential rainstorm. He shares a room with Siggy, Dr. Marvin’s 11-year-old son that Bob has, earlier in the day, helped to overcome his morbid fear of diving. They lie there in their PJs, in angled twin beds, staring at the ceiling into the darkness. Siggy looks terrified as his voice utters quietly, 

Siggy: Bob?
Bob: Yeah?
Siggy: Are you afraid of death?

Bob is caught off guard. He is suddenly frightened too— his eyes grown wide and searching, like a child trying to keep their cool.

Bob: Yeah.

Bob answers, as in a “Yeah, so?!” kind of way particular to children one-upping each other. It's cute.

Siggy: Me too. And there’s no way out of it. You’re going to die. I’m going to die. It’s going to happen.

Siggy blinks, clearly the fear is very, very real.

Siggy [cont]: …And who cares if it’s tomorrow or eighty years? ...much sooner in your case...Do you know how fast time goes? I was six, like, yesterday.
Bob: Me too.
Siggy: I’m going to die. You are going to die... what else is there to be afraid of...?

I think.
I think about The Dying.

And in this moment, as I lay downstairs in ratty checkered 'share box' pajamas beside the love of my youth, that very scene from that very stupid, over-quoted, over-played, trivial and pathetically beloved movie, is all I can think of.
My Dad is going to die.
There is no way out of it.
And who cares if it really is tomorrow or in eighty years?
It is going to happen.
And if he dies I am very certain I might die too.
Siggy is right:
    what else is there to be afraid of?



[1] I will do it…
[2] which is the term I give the entire film, not merely the character of Bob Wiley himself

As Soon As Possible: An Essay in praise of Carpe-ing that Diem

for Adam & Tasha, on and for, their wedding day

*

“when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone,

you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
 - Nora Ephron, When Harry Met Sally

*

Have you ever seen the zany hospital dramedy called Scrubs? Hands? Anyone? Well, if you haven’t what you need to know is that a sassy Dominican nurse named Carla is engaged to the charismatic and slightly cocky surgeon Christopher Turklington.

They agree to write their own vows and read them aloud at the rehearsal dinner. But, stuck for romantic inspiration, the groom Turk leaves the writing of these vows to Carla’s brother… who has a long history of hating him. “A peace offering from Carla’s kid brother!” says Turk, and he eagerly agrees to this relationship-saving offer. Turk doesn’t bother to read through the vows until the big moment and when it arrives, he looks to Carla’s brother, smiles, and Carla’s brother nods proudly as Turk begins to read:

“I love how you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out. I love how it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love how you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend a day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes and love that you're the last person I want to speak to before I got to bed at night. I realized that when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

And Carla looks at him… menace in her eyes.

“You realize,” she says, terse, through gritted teeth, “that that speech is from When Harry Met Sally…?”

…Turk looks in panic and detestation at Carla’s brother who grins at him nodding a distinct bwahaha on his face.

*

Now, you're probably thinking why is this tall American girl talking about a TV show? Well I mention this because despite Turk’s foolhardy attempts at sincerity the sentiment of his stolen speech is true: we all want both certainty, and for 'the rest of our lives to start as soon as possible.' What is it, exactly, that we are waiting for?

*

I have the distinct pleasure of having known both partners in this couple both individually and as a couple for the last 5 years.

I remember every one of Adam’s early dating escapades.


I remember his bachelor loft in Zoe Rainey’s flat complete with pellet gun and hidden diving knife craftily housed beneath the bed, and thinking: how is he ever going to end up here…?

I remember meeting Adam with Tasha outside the St Martin’s Lane Starbucks and thinking what a sincerely gorgeous couple they made.

I remember walking through downtown Plymouth with Tasha to our theatre before a two-show day of Carousel and hearing the entire story of their courtship told with utter adoration and affection… no. detail. spared.

And I remember clearly the day after Adam proposed to Tasha. She reported to work, called me up to her Savoy Theatre dressing room and showed me the ring in a fit of squeals.

But most memorable, and a moment I feel so honored to have been in the presence of, was that same evening, Tasha was on for the role of Carrie, the character that sings about her engagement and upcoming marriage to “Mister Snow.” I watched as Tasha sang a song filled with being the joys of marrying the man you love, and witnessed the reality of her marriage to Adam dawn on her as she sang. It was an unbelievable moment filled with what can only be described as the unutterable. When it was over we embraced in character as Julie Jordan and Carrie Pipperidge, but Al and Tasha were weeping.

*

We’re bombasted with messages throughout our lives to Seize the Day, to live in the moment, No Day But Today, to Carpe Diem. But so often we are filled with doubts, with fears and crippling insecurities about our life choices.

All our lives we wait.
We wait and hope to find a partner who is a reflection of all that we cherish-- Love reflected in a their tiniest gestures; in their distinct, irreplaceable Selves.

Poet Carl Sandburg claims that

"Love is a little white bird
and the flight of it so fast
you can't see it
and you know it's there
only by the faint whirr of its wings
...
and you'd like to write it
but it can't be written
and you'd like to sing it
but you don't dare try
because the little white bird sings it better than you can..."

To adore a person with both our reason and our spirit.
That is, we surmise, the greatest reward in life.
Adam and Tasha have found such a love. And how wonderful to be in love’s presence, and on so momentous a day.

Love, I believe, exists at the core of everything Holy, and in moments such as these we are closer to understanding a connection to that Greatness. Love is not, in any way, a sacrifice; it is the transmission of life.
That requires no hesitation.
That is certainty.
Love such as this begs only the question “what are we waiting for?”

So.
Seize that day.
Carpe that Diem.

For it is true: when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

*

Men of Parts

There was a period of time in 2010 when I lived with Tyne Daly.
I know.
I know what that sentence sounds like and—just to anticipate all of your questions—yes, it was everything you thought and imagined and hoped it would be. There were late night musings, strong drinks, records of Olivier's Hamlet, trips down memory lane, chandeliers given by June Horvath, hours and hours (and hours) of shared poetry, and crucially: hot pink bed-sheets; all in an apartment that once belonged to Lotte Lenya. She’s both a classy broad and a true lady, an old soul who can play like a child with a sharp-as-cheddar mind and the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen.
I love her.
We’re family.
I’d give her a kidney.

Tyne does not have a television set, but someone, (I am thinking either the Emmy Voting committee or her television-loving friend Rosie O'Donnell?) bought her a small screen DVD-only player. I am not going to lie here, I really love television. In fact, I'm pretty passionate about it. I am not someone who casually watches or just has it on all the time, no. Televisual consumption is an active thing, I sit down with a box set and dive. in.

Having never had Sky Plus or Tivo, I have never been able to record TV, so I have been perhaaaaaps known to schedule stuff around programming. (Tuesday nights in Glasgow when I was in college and should have been partying or studying or doing something suitably youthful? I said this sentence more than once, "Tuesday? Ooo I can't I have plans so sorry." Which roughly translates to: "Sorry dude, back-to-back CSI is on. I have crime to fight.") So living in a flat/apartment without one was... a true test. So thank goodness for Emmy voting season and Tyne's ‘For Your Consideration’ box sets and my still-clinging on Region 1 DVD collection.

Tonight? I watched Shakespeare in Love.

And I have to say, I do not feel that I have ever truly watched this film. When it came out in 1998, I was 15-- already a great lover of the theatre, but unfamiliar with so many of the British actors who grace the screen (and many who would become my friends and colleagues), with so much of the factual nods, the inside jokes, the delightful word-play that peppers the incredible screenplay, nor was I as appreciative about the natures of both creativity and love itself as I would eventually grow to become. I was still a teenager. I enjoyed the film, it was about everything I enjoyed but I did not 'get' it.

I did not get it until tonight.

My Dad really loved this film, he watched it over and over again, sometimes all by himself. Dad was a certified genius and it took a lot to get him to focus on television for an extended period without his mind wandering to the thousands of calculations and ideas that constantly flooded his brilliant mind. But this film? He adored. And tonight I profoundly understood why. I don't want to go into the why too much, but I will say that it had a great deal to do with this quote:

"The Master of the Revels despises us all for vagrants and peddlers of bombast. But my father, James Burbage, had the first license to make a company of players from Her Majesty, and he drew from poets the literature of the age. We must show them that we are men of parts. Will Shakespeare has a play. I have a theatre. The Curtain is yours."

I think we all experience moments such as these, but how curious: adult Al profoundly connecting with adult Dad. And so absolute was the understanding, so acute was this moment of connection, I actually picked up the phone to call him and share...

... I know what you are thinking. But you know what? It wasn't sad. Rather, it felt that for a brief moment he was still here. In fact, this experience is proof that in so many ways, he still is. Alone in a beautiful apartment on the island of Manhattan I looked briefly out at the sky and put my phone down. I smiled.

Love keeps going.

Al & Dad - 1998

Domestic Happening, Episode 9: Star Trek

It went like this:

**STAR TREK SPOILERS**

D: Wanna go to bed?
A: Sure. Wanna watch something in bed?
D: Sure. What?
A: Lost?
D: The Pilot of Lost?!
A: No. Star Trek?
D: Really?!! Excellent! Which one?
A: 6?

[Horrified pause]

D: What...?
A: ...six...?
D: Um, Al.... which Star Trek did we watch yesterday?
A: 2?
D: And... what about 3 4 and 5? You wanna just miss those out?
A: But you said 6 was your favourite. [D throws a stern look A's way] ...didn't you?

[thought gathering. there has clearly been a communication breakdown here. "This is MY fault" thinks Damian, I will try again to share the importance of the sequential order thing...he speaks again, VERY. SLOWLY...]

D: ...At the end of the movie when MISTER SPOCK DIES...AND HE TOUCHES McCOY and SAYS "REMEMBER..." ... um.... you don't... ya know?... wanna.... know what happens there....?
A: [Searching for the right answer] ...not particularly.....?
D: [Sigh] Okay, Al. What is the title of Star Trek 3 [Gets Star Trek 3]?
A: "The Search for Spock"!
D: Yes. [Patiently reads the back of the DVD jacket] "IN the wake of Spock's ultimate act of sacrifice, the crew of the USS Enterprise returns to Earth from the newly formed Genesis planet. Upon arrival, the crew learns that life back home will not be easier: Scotty get reassigned, Doctor Bones McCoy appears to be going insane, and the Enterprise is to be decommissioned. It is only when Kirk is to be confronted by Spock's father that he learns his old friend may have another chance at life. If the crew can survive the Klingon interference, and return to the Genesis planet..." I mean, my GOD Al! How can you NOT want to see what happens next?
A: [Thoughtful pause] But... you said 6 was your favourite...?
D: [Hangs head in shame] You cut me deep Al.... you cut me deep...

Fin.