MARRIAGE - IOWA STYLE...

When I voted for Obama, I expected the gay marriage thing to be handled with dignity, class, style and taste. Instead, what I'm seeing is an endless string of bucktoothed country rubes who look like they're stopping off to take a leak at a service station on their way to a fish fry at the Odd Fellows lodge...

JOHN LENNON - CLOSET GAY-BAITER...

John Lennon was a closet homophobe.

No doubt about it.



Example: "Give Peace a Chance" was released in 1969. Here are the lyrics:

Ev'rybody's talkin' 'bout
Bagism, Shagism,
Dragism, Madism,
Ragism, Tagism
This-ism, that-ism,
ism ism ism
All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give peace a chance

(C'mon)

Ev'rybody's talkin' 'bout
Minister, Sinister,
Banisters and Canisters,
Bishops, Fishops,
Rabbis and Pop Eyes,
Bye bye, Bye byes
All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give peace a chance

(Let me tell you now)

Ev'rybody's talkin' 'bout
Revolution, Evolution,
Flagellation, Regulation,
Integrations, mediations,
United Nations, congratulations
All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give peace a chance

Ev'rybody's talkin' 'bout
John and Yoko,
Timmy Leary,
Rosemary
Tommy Smothers,
Bobby Dylan,
Tommy Cooper
Derek Taylor,
Norman Mailer,
Alan Ginsberg,
Hare Krishna
Hare Hare Krishna
All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give peace a chance

(Repeat 'til the tape runs out)

Those are the lyrics. So far, so good. However, if you listen to the song, the first line sounds like:

Ev'rybody's talkin' 'bout
Faggots faggots faggots

Don't believe me? Have a listen for yourself...




Sounds like faggots, yes? And I recall around campus (I was going to college at the time the single was released) hearing kids singing it as "faggots." And I think that's exactly what John Lennon intended. He had a mean streak. A new book about him recounts his cruel, diabolical side.

"Give Peace a Chance" fooled a lot of people. Here's a great story one lady posted on an Internet message board:

...it happened in the late 90s when I was working for Tower Records. We had the Lennon Legend album on and Give Peace A Chance starts playing as I work the register. I was at the main register and had about 4 customers in line. A black lady was getting some assistance from a co-worker at the register about 15 feet away. And then a gay white dude comes to my co-worker's counter, interrupting the black lady in mid sentence, and starts complaining about the music.

Gay White Dude: Please turn off this music! It's offensive.

Co-worker: It's Give Peace A Chance. What's the problem?

Gay White Dude: It's disrespectful because it says faggot. Please turn it off.

Black Lady: Excuse me. I'm trying to get some help here.

The Gay White Dude turns on her with a vengeance.

Gay White Dude: How would you like it if they were playing a song that said nigger in it?

Black Lady: What did you say, faggot?

At this point everyone stopped what they were doing, including me, to watch.

The Gay White Dude says a little louder: How would you like it if they were playing a song that said nigger, nigger, nigger in the store?

Black lady screams: Faggot, faggot, faggot!

White dude screams: Nigger, nigger, nigger!

And they keep going back and forth at the top of their voices. All the while, the chorus "All we are saying, is give peace a chance" is playing over and over. Completely nuts!

Eventually the police came and took the Gay White Dude away.

All I could think to say to my customers was: If you enjoyed the show, please tip your waitress.

It was sooo surreal...


Certainly not one of John Lennon's finer moments, n'est pas? And here's a sidelight on the lyrics. It seems the scrap of paper on which John composed the song was purloined in 1969. And now, the purloiner is selling it.

News Update: This post made the New Yorker magazine. Woohoo!

The 100 Million Dollar Son - a one-act play by Dale Andersen

QUESTION: IF THEY ATTACK YOUR HOUSE OF WORSHIP, CAN YOU IN GOOD CONSCIENCE KICK THEIR ASSES? ANSWER: FUCK, YEAH!

This is in Friday's New York Times...

MY LESBIAN PLAY...

Cast of Characters

Joan..................Female, age mid 20s
Toni....................Female, age early 20s

Technical Requirements

A sofa, a chair, 2 doors, sound-effect of a Christmas party in next room

(Inside a room. Sounds of a Christmas party in the next room. Two doors. One door leads to party. The other leads to a bathroom. JOAN paces, drink in her hand. She sips nervously,
glances at watch)

JOAN:

Toni. Come on. Please, Toni. Please don't be late. Please don't be late for this. Toni, come on. I need you, Toni. Come on, Toni. Toni, walk through that door. Now.
(Sends telepathic message to door)
Door opens. Toni enters. Joan sighs.
(Snaps finger, sees nothing has changed)
Darn!
(Sits, takes out cellphone)
Love stinks. Sometimes.
(Dials. Listens)
Toni, where are you? Toni, please pick up. People are waiting. I'm waiting. Mitch is waiting. No, darn you! I. I will not leave a message!

(Door opens, laughing voices, clinking glasses.
Enter TONI, dressed Goth/Industrial,
with drink in hand)

TONI:

They're serving cuba libres out there.

JOAN:

Well, hi stranger.

TONI:

So. You were trying to call me?

JOAN:

Yes.

TONI:

Lost my phone.

JOAN:

Lost your phone?

TONI:

Yeah. Gonzo. Like into thin air.

JOAN:

How?

TONI:

Dunno. It was there one minute and.
(Drains glass)
Dog ate it, I guess.
(Laughs. Holds up empty glass)
Oh oh. Empty. Gotta go refresh.

JOAN:

Toni.

TONI:

Yeah?

JOAN:

No more after this.

TONI:

Yeah. Right.

JOAN:

I mean it, Toni. No more after this one. You know how you.

TONI:

Listen, I don't need this from you. I work fucking hard. Between Jerry Bonneau and that weasel Simon riding my ass, I earned me some R & R. Now back off.

JOAN:

I know you work har.

TONI:

No, you don't. And don't say you do when you don't. And don't gimme no speech. It's Christmas. It's okay at Christmas. I'm just one of Santa's fucking elves. Just waiting for the sleigh to pass by so I can jump on. What's the matter? Never seen a fucking elf?

JOAN:

Okay. Sure. Go. Go refresh.

TONI:

Fucking A.

(Opens door, laughing voices, clinking
glasses. TONI exits)

JOAN:

(Walks to an imaginary mirror. Mimes
brushing her hair)
We get one supremely magic night and we spend the remainder of our days trying to resurrect it. A part of us says, forget it, the effort is futile, while another part thinks our case might be the unique one. The exception to the rule. So we keep on keeping on, hoping against hope. That's how it is with magic. Even so, you could have said something. It wouldnt have cost you to say something. I wish you had. It hurt you didnt notice I bought a pretty dress. And a pretty pair of heels. I recall I was dressed like this the night we.
(Trails off. A short silence while
she collects her thoughts)
I so want things to be perfect tonight. I so want you to be proud of me. Why did you say nothing?

(Door opens, laughing voices, clinking glasses.
TONI re-enters carrying two drinks)

TONI:

Got you a fresh Shirley Temple.

JOAN:

Thank you.

TONI:

(Holds her drink in front of her close to her.
Covers top of glass with her hand)
Look uh. I'm sorry.

JOAN:

It's okay.

TONI:

No. It's not okay. Look, I'll just kind of nurse this one along. Okay?

JOAN:

Okay.

TONI:

Nurse. Nursing a drink. I wonder where that came from.

JOAN:

I don't know.

TONI:

You're the word girl. You know all the words. Why we say what they say. I just thought you might know.

JOAN:

No. Sorry.

TONI:

(Takes sip)
Bogart said the world's always three drinks behind. Did you know that?

JOAN:

No.
(Silence. Then......)
I'm thinking.

TONI:

Yeah?

JOAN:

Thinking about New York.

TONI:

Yeah, think. Hey, I got one. Who said, "What we think, we are?"

>JOAN:

Did you hear me?

TONI:

Yeah. You said New York. And I said, who said, what we think, we are?

JOAN:

I'm thinking about going back to New York.

TONI:

Guess.

JOAN:

I dont want to guess.

TONI:

I said guess.

JOAN:

No.

TONI:

Dammit, who said, What we think, we are?

JOAN:

Oh for God's sake. Kennedy.

TONI:

Which Kennedy?

JOAN:

I don't know! Toni, I'm going to New.

TONI:

I heard. Three times. We're not going to New York!

JOAN:

No, I'm going.

TONI:

No, you're not.

JOAN:

Why are you saying no? You don't want me.

TONI:

This is how it starts. When she wants to mix it up, she starts with the you don't want me.

JOAN:

You're dressed like we're going to a Goth club. You can't touch me without getting drunk. I bore you.

TONI:

And then she says bored. She doesn't know bored. I know bored. You want bored? Here's bored. Trivial Pursuit. Disco. Sushi. That's bored. Everything else is a fucking huge galactic extravaganza, so awesome it makes me come just thinking about it.

JOAN:

I dreamt I was in a cage. And you were watching me. I said, Toni, touch me and you looked away.

TONI:

Then she trots out the dreams and the psychic shit. I touch her. Sometimes I touch her. See?
(Touches JOAN's arm. She jerks her
arm away)
You're not going.

JOAN:

Yes. I am.

TONI:

No. Case closed.

JOAN:

You won't stop me.

TONI:

Buddha!

JOAN:·

I mean it.

TONI:

It was Buddha!

JOAN:

This is dying. This thing. This thing we have. It's dying. I'm dying. You're dying. We're dying.

TONI:

Look at me. Do I look like I'm dying? It was Buddha. Buddha said, What we think, we are. Now Buddha's a stupid fat fuck. And what's worse, a stupid-looking fat fuck. A stupid-looking fat fuck who sits and jacks off. Look how he sits. Crosslegged on the floor. With that shit-eating grin. That's the jackoff position. But every so often, the fat boy comes up with a gem. Something simple. Something clean. What we think, we are.
(Takes a sip. Sees her glass is half-full)
Hey, guess what? I think I'm a drink. I'm gonna have them kind of top me off. You okay with that?

(Starts to exit)

JOAN:

Please, Toni. Please don't upset Mitch.

TONI:

Brother Mitch can bite me.

(TONI opens door, laughing voices, clinking glasses. TONI exits)

JOAN:

(Walks to imaginary mirror. Takes out
handkerchief and dabs her makeup)
I went to see Mitch last week. I didn't tell you. I wanted to see how we stood. He's not like you say, Toni. He's nice, he's a gentleman, he makes you feel important when he's talking to you. And he listens. I like that. He said, thank you, Joan. I was taken aback! Thank you? Thank you for what? Thank you, he said, for bringing some sanity to my sister's life. Thank you. Wow! That was a shocker. It's been a while since anyone said thank you to poor Joannie.

(Door opens, laughing voices, clinking glasses.
TONI enters carrying two drinks)

TONI:

See? Still sober. Got you a fresh Shirley Temple.

JOAN:

I just don't want you being sick.

TONI:

Don't start on me, Joan. Mitch says we go in ten.

JOAN:

No.

TONI:

Okay, fine. Make it twenty minutes.

JOAN:

No.

TONI:

What do you mean, no?

JOAN:

I mean.

TONI:

No way you're standing me up with Mitch out there. That dickhead would ride me till my dying day.

JOAN:

Toni. Toni, please. Lets just.

TONI:

No! Were gonna do this. No is not an option. You're gonna back me up. Remember, you're on my side.
(Drinks half her glass)
We're gonna go out, hand in hand, just like we said. I'm gonna look at you and smile and say bla-bla-bla.

JOAN:

(Starts slowly backing toward the bathroom)
No.

TONI:

(Advancing toward her, hand outstretched)
Yes. You're gonna smile and flutter your eyelashes.

JOAN:

(Backing away more)
No.

TONI:

(Advancing)
Yes. Mitch is gonna grin from ear to ear. All the guestie-guests are gonna go, awwww, ain't that sweet?

JOAN:

(Backing)
No.

TONI:

(Advancing)
Yes. Now come on, let's do it. Let's roll.··

JOAN:

(slips inside bathroom)
No.

TONI:

Hey come on. Don't do this to me.
(Sound of door locking)
Oh shit, she did it.
(Knocks on door)
Joan. Come on. Come on out. Joan, please, we got to do this thing. We got to do this thing right now. Mitch is getting everybody ready. We gotta be there. Cause this is for us. They can't have it without us. So please come on out.
(Pounds on door)
Damn it, Joan! You can't leave me alone and naked! You get your ass out here and stand by me.
(Silence, then......)
We have good times. Sometimes we do. Good times. Fun times. Maybe not like we used to. But. Well. Right now there's this one thing. She wants me to go to meetings. She won't go. Says I'm the one with the problem. So I have to go. Well, they. They want you to go together to these things. Someone's gonna say, wheres your mate? And see, I'd have to invent something. Well, I'm not going to do that. I don't make up stories. That's not my way.
(Knocks softly on bathroom door)
Uh look, I'm sorry. Sorry I'm drunk. Sorry I rained on your parade. I know, I know. Don't have to say it. I'm like one of those jerks who dances with his wife maybe once every ten years and has to be shitfaced to do it. I'm clumsy, awkward. I fall over stuff. I don't know how to act. Sure, I admit it. Like a bull in a China shop. All thumbs? Yeah, that's me. A stumbler? A bumbler? You got my number. But you gotta remember, Joan. You picked me. Out of all the women you could have picked, you picked Toni. And, let me tell you, I want to thank you. I know I don't show it so good, but I want you to know it's an honor to be with you. To know people are saying, You see her? That's Toni. Her and that Joan chick got a thing going. They all talk about how Joan is so cool, so reserved, so controlled. And I have to tell you it drives me a little crazy sometimes. Like I don't know how to act around you. I'm like the clang and the bang and the crash on the the edge of your calm. I need your calm. I need you touching me so I know it's okay. I need some rules so I don't act stupid. I don't need someone to stand back and watch me fall on my face and say, Just look at her. That's Toni, that dumb bitch. I'm scared, Joan. I need you. I need you with me. I need you next to me. I need you now.

(Door opens. JOAN enters)

JOAN:

Say. Youre Toni, aren't you?

TONI:

Yeah, that's me. I'm Toni.

JOAN:

Don't you and that Joan chick have something going?

TONI:

Yeah, we sure do. She's some gem.

JOAN:

Thats what I heard. I heard she's a gem. I heard you two are doing the thing tonight.

TONI:

You heard that?

JOAN:

Everyone's heard. Talk of the town. Christmas Eve commitments are special.

TONI:

Yeah. That was Joan's idea. Shes smart that way.

JOAN:

She must be. Well, I just had to come. I hope I'm not late.

TONI:

(Offering arm)
You're right on time. It's just about to start. Grab onto me. I'll escort you in. You'll get the best seat in the house.

JOAN:

Thank you.

TONI:

Oh, say.

JOAN:

Yes?

TONI:

That's a nice dress. Nice shoes too. Real classy.

JOAN:

Thank you.

(They walk together arm in arm. Blackout)

The End

STARMAN! STARMAN! STARMAN!

An ego-booster yesterday. The Spring issue of The Dramatist arrived and there I am, mentioned not once, but twice. Misspelled, of course. If your name's Andersen, everyone west of Denmark writes you (off) as "Anderson." Like the Strother Martin character says in Butch Cassidy, "Morons. I've got morons on my team."





























The reason for my being mentioned was a reading of my Starman monologue on December the fifth at ASF. Thanks to Alan Witchey, by the way, for providing the venue and the support (chairs, snacks, etc). I got lucky at ASF, because one of my favorite actors, Michael Csoppenszky, read. Michael is unbelievable when he's in his zone. Very edgy, very intense, a little scary. I get chills watching Michael work. I always know when I'm in the presence of a really good actor. My chills act up. For those of you who've never experienced Michael, this is what he looks like:










Starman's been good to me. I wrote it on a train. I was on AMTRAK going up to Alaska for Edward Albee's Last Frontier Theatre Conference in 2004 and I read that Pete Knight had just died. Pete Knight was a famous fighter jock who set speed and altitude records. He retired and turned to politics. The California homosexual community remembers him unfondly as the author of Proposition 22.

It gets better. And it's the kind of story you could not make up in a hundred years. Only one of Pete's six kids followed him into the Air Force. David. David became a fighter jock and flew combat missions during Operation Desert Storm. When David left the Air Force, he publically announced that he was a homosexual and wrote an op/ed piece in opposition to Prop 22.

I imagined a scene with David returning home for the funeral. I imagined some moments alone in the viewing room. And I tried to imagine what he would say, And I wrote that.

Starman got productions at FirstStage up in Hollywood (it shared the bill with Edward Asner) and at some off-Broadway venues. Not bad for ten minutes' work on a train.

Okay. Enough! Here is Starman:

STARMAN

A monologue

By

Dale Andersen
©2005

Synopsis

A powerful man, who in life was a prominent politician, gaybasher and war hero, is dead. His gay son, long estranged, has come home to pay his respects and heal. Based on a true story.

Character Breakdown

DAVID.......................early 40s

Technical Requirements

A coffin, subdued lighting

(A viewing room at a funeral home. An open coffin,
subdued lighting. Enter DAVID, age 44. He
approaches coffin with trepidation. He comes
to at ease by degrees. Finally.........)

DAVID:

Well. Well well. Just look at you. All decked out in your astronaut's garb. Dressed to kill, aren't you? Was this how you planned it? To do your exit as a starman? It does become you, you know. Really, it does. So tell me, are you braced for tomorrow? Have you dialed in your humble mode? You know they'll be sending you out as only the Air Force can. Full military honors. A flyover with the missing wingman. And they'll retell how one time you flew so high, you tweaked the chinwhiskers of Zeus himself. And they'll retell how you throttled that demon out at mach seven. Yes yes, I know it's all true, but remember, the order of the day is humility. They'll want to see your aw shucks side. Not funny? Sorry. I'm trying to be clever. Guess I'm not very good at clever.

So. Here we are. Finally. And I guess I should be happy. But I'm not. And I guess I should feel a sense of release. But I don't. I take no pleasure in seeing you this way. I feel no joy in witnessing your departure from this level of existence. It consumes a part of me that we never were able to come to terms. We should have been able to move past the differences. We should have been able to live and let live. This I know. There's no winning and there's no losing in concerns of family blood. It matters not a whit who fired the first shot. No one remembers anyway. But once the knives are out, once there's the smell the blood, it's father against son, son against father, the old king against his heir, and hard words all around.

You're damn right I blame you. You know how the media loves a good fight. And you know how easy it is to manipulate them. And you know how to craft a tight sound bite. What was you told them? "We love Davey. But we don't love what he's become." Why am I still Davey? I'm forty-four. And who is this we person?

I had a dream. I was four. I mean, in the dream I was four. I must have been sixteen or seventeen when I was having the dream. I'm not exactly sure. After all, this is from nearly thirty years ago. We're in a single-engine Beech. Just you and I. We take off from Hammer Field in Fresno and we're somewhere out over the Coast Range. The engine starts kicking in and out. The smell of burning oil. You shout, I'm taking her down, Davey. We break through the cloud cover. There was black smoke in the cockpit. You point to a stream below. If I don't make it, follow the flow of the stream. You hear me, Davey? Follow the stream. I'm crying, Okay, Dad. I promise. Just leave me, Davey. If it's my time, nothing you can do. If it's not, they'll send a search party. I can hear you laughing. You're working the controls, You're muttering, "Okay Pete, show me what you got."

I hated that dream. I buried it deep. My psychiatrist said I repressed it. Well, of course I did. It needed repressing. Deserved repressing. I don't need to be reminded that my being close to you entails my being scorched in your sun. That's how you see us, isn't it? All of us in orbit around you. Except for those who found a way to break free of your gravity.

Another dream. We're in a car. You and I. And you're driving me to prison. It wasn't clear why I was going to prison. But there I was, sitting next to you on the passenger side. Neither of us speaking. The road running across a flat featureless landscape. We stop at a railroad track to let a train pass. Then we drive on into the night. My psychiatrist wondered if, while the car was stopped, had I tried to run away, would you have tried to stop me. I told him no. I said you would have let me go. I lied.

Another lie. Joseph and I living our lives together invisibly. Just out of your reach. Just under your radar. Hoping someday you'll change. Or, if not change, then die quietly, letting things sort themselves out naturally.

I never wanted to be a poster boy. I never wanted to fight you. But, regardless of what you kept saying, that Defense of Marriage Act you promoted reaches beyond the grave. And that is wrong. It is one thing for the old to dictate to the young. It is quite another for the dead to dictate to the living. And that's what you intended. When that thing became law, you had your house set in order, so that you could leave and nothing would change. Like a pharoah in a pyramid.

So in the end, we fired our guns. No direct hits. But I did some nice stitching on your fuselage and you, on mine. You said of me, "I love Davey, but we continue to disagree. And because this is a private issue, I do not wish to respond further." Every pause, every tilt of the head, every clearing of the throat. All too perfect. All too practiced. There was nothing private. It was public. It was political. And you intended it so. The Lambda people called me every day. Make a statement, they said. Make a statement, David. They called me David. Someone finally called me David. I said of you, "His is a blind, uncaring, uninformed, knee-jerk reaction to a subject about which he knows nothing and wants to know nothing." You deserved that. Because you used me.

Finally, in my mind, I went back to the crash site. The smashed single-engine Beech. I saw dried blood on the pilot's seat. The pilot-side door was kicked open. And ten feet away, I saw an old weathered glove on the ground. The glove fit a man's hand. And inside the cockpit, I saw parts of a little boy's skeleton. Some of the bones were missing. Rats and coyotes, no doubt. It told me what I already suspected. Davey died in that crash. And there hasn't been a Davey for a long, long time.

But there's a David. And he's alive. And he's doing okay.

Farewell, starman. Godspeed.

(Salutes. Blackout)

End of Play