I met Damon Intrabartolo on November 5, 2000. I was twenty-four years old. I had never had a boyfriend. My friend Mark told me he was going to take me to his friend Jon Hartmere’s play, “bare.” Jon was single and Mark thought we would hit it off. We arrived at the Hudson Theater in Los Angeles. I was so busy crying through the show that I didn’t notice that above the actors, a manic young man conducted the band. After the show, I met Jon Hartmere, and then I was introduced to that manic young conductor. We looked in each other’s eyes and felt an instant connection. We drove the same car. We had the same Kate Bush CD in our cars. Everything was a sign that we knew each other in a past life. The night we met, he spelled my
I am thrilled to announce that my short film "Revolution," about an Iranian boy's coming-of-age, is now available on YouTube and Vimeo thanks to the FramelineVoices project. Hope you enjoy it. It was very much a labor of love. The film stars Mojean Aria, Busy Philipps, Sheila Vosough, David Diaan, and Zach Cumer. The original score was composed by Vampire Weekend's Rostam Batmanglij.
I first read Andrew Holleran’s mesmerizing novel Dancer From The Dance over a decade ago ago, long before I was completely comfortable with my sexuality, long before I realized I could be a gay dad and a sexual being. I tore through the story of men running wild in late 1970s New York with a deep sense of nostalgia for a time I never even knew. When I was in high school, a teacher showed us the documentary The Life and Times of Harvey Milk, which told the inspiring and ultimately tragic story of Harvey Milk’s life and death. The movie began my love affair with gay life in the 1970s; that small pocket of time when the gay community was sexually liberated and AIDS didn’t exist. I used to wish I could have been a gay man in the 1970s. I
It seems as if everyone who lives in West Hollywood has a Faye Dunaway story. I have heard of sightings at the cheese counter of Whole Foods, Faye berating some poor soul because they don’t have the manchego she likes. I have heard of sightings at the Virgin Megastore (remember CD stores?), Faye accosting a manager because she was displeased with their classical selection. I have heard of sightings at local coffee shops, Faye mistaken for one of West Hollywood’s Russian babooshkas. But despite living in West Hollywood for fifteen years, my Faye Dunaway story happened long ago and faraway from the city of Angels. Wallingford, CT. 1994. After two years at the tony New England prep school Choate Rosemary Hall, I had finally come out of my shell and started to express myself. And a big part of that self-expression came through
Despite all the salacious stories included in Ava Gardner: The Secret Confessions, my favorite story from the book is fairly chaste, revealing nothing about Mickey Rooney’s libido or Frank Sinatra’s penis. The story involves an aged Gardner meeting Dick Snyder, the CEO of Simon & Schuster, the publishing company planning on publishing her memoirs. “Didn’t anyone tell you?” she objects. “I stopped auditioning a long time ago, honey.” Desperate to live up to her image as “the world’s most beautiful animal,” Gardner called in her favorite cinematographer Jack Cardiff, who rearranged the lamps in her living room, placed a key light above her chair, and placed a shadow over the half of her face that had been frozen by a recent stroke. The story reveals the crafty ambition and aching vulnerability behind Gardner’s tell-it-like-it-is persona. Perhaps the reason the story resonated