Laid Bare: Essays and Observations Read Online Free PDF Page A

insane has nothing to do with it and I resent the implication.
     
    But this does raise a broader question: why does a “redeemed” soul, after a life of sex/drugs/crime or crime/drugs/sex or crime/crime/ drugs/politics or drugs/politics/sex/drugs/crime, always wind up at the feet of Jesus Christ? Why do J.C. and his Dad always get to be the Last Exit Before Toll on the Highway to Eternal Damnation? Born-agains praise the Lord for giving them a new chance at life; He is always given credit for the good things in the world while mankind seems content to take the blame for the bad. There’s an old show business saying, “If you believe the good reviews you also have to believe the bad reviews.” While you’re on your knees thanking God for clearing up that annoying rash remind him he kind of fucked up big-time with Hurricane Katrina.
     
    No, I’d think twice before handing myself over to the aleatory whims of the Big Christian God.
     
    Which begs the question, how come nobody--Sammy Davis, Jr. aside—converts to Judaism as the cleanser for a dissipated life? And why is religion—any religion—the default concept to “find” when pursuing redemption? Why not “find” something like--oh, I don’t know—something like… fudge . A pound-and-a-half of chocolate fudge with walnuts would set me on the straight and narrow for sure. Or how about praying to a Technics Dual Cassette Deck with Auto-Reverse? A gadget like that, with its ability to play forever without stopping, offers the acolyte a clear and true vision of infinity. But if it must be a personage, why not somebody like, say, Rickie Lee Jones? Now, there’s a deity that would keep you on your toes. You could never be sure if she would offer you blessed salvation or try to steal twenty bucks from your wallet. You’d be so busy watching your back you wouldn’t have time to indulge in any vices.
     
    I’m just not buying this Born Again business as an antidote to profligacy and corruption. I believe there are some things that are simply innate that even the Gospels can’t dispel. Years ago a good friend of mine who was an ex-everything addict (and a really big queen) started behaving mysteriously and eventually came out of the closet as a Mormon/heterosexual convert. As we left the restaurant after our farewell lunch before shedding his old life completely I asked about the crazy lady who lived next door. “I feel like I’m Olivia DeHavilland in ‘The Snake Pit,’” he complained. “Girl,” I said, draping a friendly arm on his shoulder, “there’s not a straight man in the history of the world who has ever referenced ‘The Snake Pit.’”
     
    Like Mr. Papardelle, I have recently left the world of gay porn to pursue other interests. Unlike him I still hold the industry and the people in high regard. I’m not joining the clergy; I’m going back to the theater. But it’s funny, just like David Papaleo (the former Tom Katt,) Tom Judson (the former Gus Mattox) will be appearing before the multitudes, donning representative garb and declaiming from a sacred text.
     
    Can my own church be far behind?

THE LONGEST MILE
     
    The parking lot behind the theater in Provincetown is never quiet; the exhaust fan from the café runs 24/7 and there’s always either a vehicle or a bicycle entering or leaving.
     
    But the image that has really tickled me over the summer is brought on by the surface of the lot itself; a medium-size gravel. It’s not my beloved Item 4, which eventually compacts into a solid mass. It’s a loose, gray stone roughly the size of Kraft Caramels. It shifts here and there based on the 3-, 4-, 5- and 6-point turns that vehicles must make to facilitate driving forward through the narrow alley rather than having to back precariously into the very busy street.
     
    Sometimes, if I’m not really paying attention, I’m fooled into thinking there’s a light rain falling outside when the gravel is trod upon.
     
    But beginning in the