Laid Bare: Essays and Observations

LAID BARE

Essays and Observations

by

Tom Judson

About the Author

Tom Judson has written music and lyrics for film, television and the theater. He has acted both on and off-Broadway and on various stages throughout the world. His writing has appeared on numerous websites and blogs and in many different magazines and newspapers. For his work in gay adult films (as “Gus Mattox”) he was awarded the GayVN Performer of the Year Award and is, as of this writing, the oldest recipient of that honor.

LAID BARE: ESSAYS AND OBSERVATIONS ©2011 Tom Judson

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cover photograph by John Skalicky

Cover design by Tom Judson

Earlier versions of these essays have appeared in
Unzipped Magazine, Equity News, Blue Magazine,
as well as various websites and blogs.

for Irwin and Arlene

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

My husband, Bruce, loved American popular music. Coming of age in the late 1970’s he was particularly fond of the more esoteric sounds of that era: artists like Bryan Ferry, The New York Dolls and—especially—Patti Smith. His tastes weren’t limited to the current scene, though; he also listened to the Phil Spector catalog and early Beatles. But his favorite records were the R&B singles from Motown. He knew all the great vocal groups coming out of Detroit in the 60’s and 70’s.

And that’s because he always wanted to be a backup singer. Specifically, Bruce wanted to be a Pip. An unlikely ambition for a skinny Jewish guy from Scarsdale, perhaps, but Bruce was convinced that the Pips had the best backup arrangements going. Especially on “Midnight Train to Georgia”.

It’s worth noting that Bruce didn’t want to be the star. The Pips were not in the spotlight, but they were essential. Being a Pip seemed to me to be the goal of someone who was comfortable with his place in the world. I was the hambone actor/composer in the family, but Bruce truly relished his role as the supportive spouse who rushes to the stage at the end of the performance with a huge bouquet of flowers.

When he would talk about The Pips, though, things were different. He took center stage in any discussion of their records. Bruce’s demeanor could best be described as “animated”
(He’s fucking hyper!
his father would say.) While I sat in a chair listening to the backing vocal of “Midnight Train to Georgia” Bruce would stand in front of me like a boxer in the ring, dancing his weight from one foot to the other, waiting to see my reaction to the song. He was right: The Pips
rock
on this record. Their backup almost stands on its own as a parallel song to Gladys Knight’s lead.
“A superstar, but he didn’t get far…” “It’s his and hers alone…” “I know you will…”
These aren’t echoes of the song—they’re separate, independent lyric phrases that form a counterpoint to the main tune.

In his quest to become a Pip, Bruce would put on his red satin dinner jacket and play the 45 R.P.M. of “Midnight Train to Georgia” over and over while improvising Soul Train choreography in our living room. His enthusiasm may have outweighed his talent, but he gave it 100% and would beam like a kid when the needle lifted out of the groove at the end of the record.

Life with Bruce was very, very good. He died of AIDS in 1996 before ever becoming a Pip.

My reliable backup was gone. I stumbled numbly around New York for a couple of years trying to figure out how the people I passed on the street could wear such happy expressions on their faces. Clearly the world had come to an end; why didn’t they realize it?

I wished I could just fade away and be done with it.

But director Rob Marshall, gay porn impresario Chi Chi Larue and fate had other plans for me; I became a chorus boy, adult film star “Gus Mattox” and a writer (in that order.)

But what about Bruce? Apart from picking his bones clean for story ideas, how did my late husband fit into my new life A.B. (After Bruce)?

Starting with “Winds From the South” Bruce became a familiar presence on gusmattox.com. I’d slip references to him into my blog and he appeared in the background in several essays. Bruce died fifteen years ago but he continues to inform how I view my own experiences and the world at large. Like the spider swallowed by the Old Lady, he has wriggled and jiggled and tickled his way inside me, becoming an essential part of my being.

Bruce Birnbaum’s contribution to the essays and stories in this collection is not insignificant; his spirit provided the backup that enabled me to write them.

I guess you could say Bruce became a Pip after all.

They’re Playing Our Song

I seem to be dating again. Not entirely by design, but I’ve been asked out recently by several attractive guys and I thought it might be interesting to see what I’ve been missing these past three years. Yes, it’s been that long between my last date and this recent flurry. Since being widowed a decade ago I’ve warbled duets with a feller or three, but we always seem to be singing in different keys. Believe me, I sure can pick ‘em.

There was the beautiful blond man who broke up with me because I had never heard of Prada. (I can’t really say that I blame him.) After that came the Midwestern transplant with the great chest and the penchant for talking like an eight-year-old, followed by several short affairs that, while brief in duration, were richly saturated with drama. Shall we even mention the man who dumped me when I was out of town with a show and who refused to give back my dog? No, let’s not.

The recent medley of Mystery Dates has been uneven, but even though their exterior attributes have been promising (I said “yes” mostly due to their naked pictures online) so far no Prince Charming has opened the door to the accompaniment of 1,000 violins playing the Love Theme from our Major Motion Picture. I’d like to think lightning can strike twice, though; I believe there’s a man out there to complete my musical chord. But where is my Major Third? Who is my Dominant 9? Who, indeed?

If someone creates a musical dating service website I will be the first to subscribe. How would it work? I envision posting the usual personal ad info/fiction, but—here’s the gimmick--with the addition of the entire playlist from one’s iPod. Musical tastes would be analyzed for complementary and discordant overlaps. Knowing in advance what your date listens to could quash any fears that Celine Dion might join you in the bedroom just as things start to get hot and heavy. You don’t want Celine’s heart going on just as your date is going down.

All this is important because music can do more to the savage beast than just soothe him. Years ago I was having phone sex with some guy from the Upper East Side when, after a pause, he said, “Are you listening to ‘Follies?’” I could hear his hardon wilt clear across town.

If I’m really getting back into the dating game I want to know that any potential husbands don’t have an iPod crammed full of dance music and Madonna. I’m not judging those selections—the man who listens to all that wouldn’t be the one for me, though, and we might as well find it out right off the bat. (I do listen to dance music once in a while but usually when I’m full of substances and/or performing acts the likes of which my mother would heartily disapprove.)

Granted, there are potential pitfalls to my system; based on my iPod playlist my perfect match would be a 53-year-old mother of four from a suburb of Indianapolis. Taking a quick scroll through my tunes I see four versions of “Moon River”, tons of Beatles, a smattering of Django Reinhardt and lots and lots of movie soundtracks. If you’re the kind of guy who gets a catch in his throat when listening to the bass flute featured in the Love Theme from “Quest for Fire” you can move right in. I’ll even clear out a couple of drawers for you. Are my tastes middle of the road? Smack down the double yellow lines, baby. But read between those lines and you’ll find some interesting things: oddball Joni Mitchell outtakes, Bryan Ferry doing 1930’s standards and Cuban dance bands from between the wars. And it goes without saying, several cuts from the Robert Mitchum calypso album.

It seems like my knowledge of pop music hasn’t progressed much since getting that big box of records in the mail (“10 albums for one penny!”) from The Columbia Record Club about 30 years ago. If that’s the case, so be it. Just don’t say you weren’t warned if Shelley Duvall singing “He Needs Me” from the “Popeye” soundtrack is playing when you come over for dinner.

I once went on a sex date with a guy because I liked his naked pictures online (see above) but as I climbed the stairs to his apartment I heard coming through the door vintage recordings of cowboy yodeling songs. Wow, I thought; this could be the guy for me! Oddly, I’m drawing a blank right now as to who that was. Hold on… hold on… Oh, right. That was the guy who ended up stealing my dog.

Maybe iPod Dating® isn’t such a hot idea. Maybe I should just stick with the naked pictures.

TRADE WINDS

Wednesday is a big day on the tiny Caribbean island of Saba.  Like a movie set in the Old West where the settlers wait around for Wells Fargo, it's the day when the supply boat from St. Maarten comes in.  Wednesday morning is a combination delivery pickup and social event.  El Momo Cottages, where I was spending the summer, had arriving guests who were expected around 11 AM today so my host Patrick and I headed down to the port about 9:30. On the way down we had a couple of stops to make in “The Bottom,” one of the two main settled areas on Saba (Windwardside, where El Momo is located, is the other.  Patrick and Sophie call Windwardside “the city,” but I think they may have made that up.)

“The Road,” however, really is the official name of the one thoroughfare on Saba.  It goes from the airport on one side of the island to the port on the other and lies across the mountain like a tangled piece of twine.  The switchbacks and turnarounds are legendary because the terrain is so mountainous that it’s impossible to go for more than a few meters in a straight line. The inclines and declines also make it pretty tough for one’s car to go any further than that without downshifting.  On my first trip to The Bottom I found myself clutching the door handle with white knuckles.  It’s not uncommon to round a steep switchback just to find a car headed in the opposite direction but in the same lane.  Most of the cars and trucks here are miniature to compensate for the narrow width of The Road.