I Am Lana Turner

Except for time at work today, the past 30 hours have just about all been spent in the company of the Baron von Philadelphia.

Yesterday (that would be Sunday), I picked him up at the train station in Doylestown, and we headed up to NYC for Pride festivities. On the drive up, we talked politics and economics. Well, I kept my mouth shut mostly, because I know better at this point than to argue with the Baron about politics. We arrived in the city at about 3 pm, found parking in my newly discovered parking spot haven (like I'm gonna tell you where!), and positioned ourselves at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 24th Street.

Timing couldn't have been better. At least, I can't think of any contingent that I'd want to see that I missed out on. I saw the leather/fetish/BDSM groups (Go GMSMA! Go Eulenspiegel Society! Go LSM!). And, I was treated to the spectacle of all five of the Fab Five from Queer Eye riding in convertible VWs. (I nearly wet my pants.) (Carson, Ted, and Thom waved back to me.) And then, we saw the religious affiliated contingent. And, the Episcopalians sure constituted about 75% of that section. (Go Home Team!). And, newly ordained openly gay Bishop Gene Robinson was on hand. I was hoping to get a blessing out of the Bishop, but he was just in smile-and-wave mode. Purple is definitely his color though!

So that was all very cool.

The Baron and I grabbed some food, wandered down to the Village, hung out for awhile, grabbed some more food (at Mamoun's on MacDougal Street--Woof! to the guy behind the counter, worth the trip all by himself, not counting the best humous and falafel anywhere), and then slowly made our way back to the car.

More non-stop-turn-down-the-radio conversation on the way back home. Not about politics this time, so I plunged right in.

We arrived back at the Humble Abode at a decent hour, and I got a good night's sleep.

After work today, I headed home to retrieve the Baron, who was my houseguest for the night, and then we went to hang at Starbucks until the Baron's train arrived to take him back down to Philadelphia.

"So," asked the Baron,"When are you going to get published?"

I hemmed. I hawed. "Well, y'see..."

The Baron took me to task. "You," he said, "should be a columnist. You should be writing for the Voice, or for Instigator. Or somewhere. What you should do, and what I suggested you do two years ago, is put together a sampling of some of your best writing and send it off to every publication you can think of and..."

No.

No, I told the Baron.

No.

I care too much about my writiing. And I can't do that. When I put together my poetry and sent it off to the fine folks at the MFA program at Temple University all those years ago, and received in the mail the thin envelope instead of the fat envelope, I stopped writing poetry then and there.

I just can't deal with rejection. And every time in my life that I've tried to compete in that way, I've failed. And it hurts terribly.

The Baron countered that I'll never get published without doing that. That's how the game works. You write, you send off your stuff, you get rejection after rejection after rejection, but then maybe your hard work will pay off, and you'll get a letter of acceptance. Why, if you were an actor instead of a writer, it would be all about going to auditions...

And then, the proverbial lightbulb came on.

Not quite, y'see.

I've met with a lot of success in my life. I've had some wonderful romances. I've had some great jobs (I was the Executive Director a non-profit organization with a staff of 25 and a budget (when Ieft, after increasing it by 500%) of $4 million.

But, none of those successes came my way by putting my hat in the ring and hoping for the best.

I operate differently.

And that's when I thought of Lana Turner.

You remember Lana Turner, right?

There she was, sitting at the counter of Schrafft's, sucking on an ice cream soda, wearing her pink angora sweater, when in walked some big Hollywood director or producer or someone who took one look at her and signed her on the spot.

Okay. So I leave it all up to chance, huh?

Uh uh. And neither did Lana.

Lana decided to eschew the route of running to all those auditions with all those other hopeful would-be starlets. She knew that Hollywood types frequented Schrafft's. So she strategically positioned herself at the counter, and made sure she looked radiant, and dressed in something eye-catching, like a pink angora sweater.

And that's how I operate, too.

Not the pink angora sweater part though.

I don't send out my resume to eighty different ads I find on Craig's List and hope for the best. Because that's never worked for me. And when it doesn't work for me, I go into an emotional tailspin. I don't have the fortitude for that. It would wreck me.

Rather, I look for opportunities in the modest situations that my daily life presents to me wherein I can shine. When I meet people, I do my best to be friendly and engaging. When I'm given the opportunity to have the spotlight, I do my best to rise to the occasion. I try to come off as warm, thoughtful, smart, and fun. (And I am, pretty much, warm, thougtful, smart, and fun.)

And every once in a while, someone notices and approaches me with an offer. "Would you consider...?"

The Baron was not impressed.

"But," he countered, you can't count on that. Lana Turner was all of eighteen. If she had tried that at 40, the result might have been different."

Not so fast, Baron!

"Yeah, but here's the thing. Even though I make $10 an hour, even though I can't go to Florida, even though this guy from LA that I'm wild about takes me for granted, even though my father makes me crazy on a regular basis, even though I'm no longer tooling around NYC and getting laid as much as I like... I am happy. I am at peace. I might not like my life, but I like living it. I like what I do at work. I like sitting at Starbucks and shooting the breeze and making cute boys nervous with my Scorpio gaze, I like going to the gym despite the fact that I'll never be a big muscle-bound thug, I like walking my dog and seeing the fireflies every night. Life is good. I am happy. And if, perchance, someone out there says, "Hey! I've read your blog! I really like your writing! How would you like to be a columnist for my publication?", well then that's gravy.

So screw the whole sending off what I affectionately refer to as "my stuff" to several dozen publications. And dying a slow death by a thousand knives in the following weeks.

I'll be at Starbucks. Enjoying my iced venti quad one-pump-vanila easy ice latte. Waiting patiently.

And if my patience goes unrewarded, then I'll head to Lake Galena and enjoy the sweet breeze and the sunshine and working my muscles paddling my kayak for a few hours.

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