when i remember that i ought to forget those two and a half weeks

• you, standing next to my piano, pretending to peruse old photos on the wall
• grabbing gas station wine
• running for coffee and Hannaford muffins
• smoothing white sheets and white sand and rubbing white sunscreen into our tanning backs
• letting our waitresses and the coffee girls and that sexy artist believe we were a couple from "The City" on holiday
• your fingers tickling the air when you talk
• acknowleding my stony disappointment when you talked about your four-year-long Him
• hating/needing/loving that final dinner together (thank you, Subway) before your four-year-long Him showed up for the opening of our show
• smiling because you're a bitch-of-a-flirt (but so am i) even when your four-year-long Him is around
• trying to assuage your appalled frustration and eventual fuck-its when she re-clumped/re-staged/re-choreographed your show
• your teeth, lined up like tight soldiers
• your arms
• your red swimming briefs
• you
• being late to "lobstah" dinners and being okay with being tardy
• neither of us stopping the rumors that we were show-mancing each other
• letting the rumors fuel fiery undercurrents
• trying to convince myself to keep a difficult boundary
• you, not letting anyone else sit next to me when we all went to the beach to watch 4th-of-july fireworks
• me, not letting anyone else to sit next to you when we all went to the beach to watch 4th-of-july fireworks
• acknowledging i'd let myself have my first crush without feeling any sort of guilt or fear or self-condemnation
• you, telling me i was the only "option" you would've pursued
• me, wishing i could have talked myself into yielding
• now, glad i didn't yield
• missing you so much more than i expected i would
• arguing with myself each time we've communicated since you left
• looking at some lessons learned
• knowing that even though i tripped in the water and probably broke my foot, this day was one of the best and happiest days of my life.  #becauseiknewyou

  

Young Women Lessons, or How I Bawled Out a Bunch of Pre-Teens

Sam and I decided we'd go to an improv show a few Friday nights ago. It was going to be the show's 6th or 7th anniversary show, so we thought we'd better get there early to save a spot in the line. We thought right. Excitement pulsed through the line as we anticipated the show. The line snaked through a large room and people started crowding into each other as the room in which we were standing filled with sweaty, excited people. We are not going to lose our place, I thought. "Sam," I said (loud enough for the people in front of, beside and behind us could hear) "make sure you stay right behind our neighbors." He looked around, his eyes widened and gave me a look that read You're crazy if you think we're going to be in the same place when they open the doors, but nodded his head.

People rushed the door as soon as the ticket office lights were lit, and all seemed lost. I watched as the young men ahead of us speed-walked toward the ticket line, their smokey-eyed dates in grip and dragging behind them. I pulled some cash out of my wallet as we maneuvered through the throng, readying myself to make the ticket transaction as efficiently and quickly as possible--I really wanted to get to a good seat. We maneuvered through the throng of people and pretty much maintained our spot in line. It'll be fine, I thought. We're still pretty close to the front of the line. There aren't too many people who've butted in front of us. We'll get good seats. And then, I looked to my right. A group of about six pre-teen girls meandered and shuffled next to us, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I wasn't sure where they had come from, but I knew they weren't anywhere near us in the earlier line. I got a little bitchy.

"Hey! You girls!" I pointed in their direction and shouted, relishing how quickly their quick-texting fingers stopped all movement, their mouths gaping from shock as I bawled them out. "What? You think that just because you're shorter than most of us your mom can drive you here five minutes before the show and you can sneak in here and butt in line in front of us when we've been waiting for a half an hour? Or more?!? I did not see you there five minutes ago. Not cool, ladies."

I'm not sure what scared them more, the fact that I'd called them on their complete disregard of ticket-line etiquette, or that I was a 25-year-old man yelling in registers that were higher than their 12- to 13-year old voices. They didn't move, except to look at one girl (I'm assuming their queen bee: their alpha female: that girl in every group of junior high girlfriends who intimidates the others with her hair, her clothes or her newly budded boobs and thus has the power to command, coerce, and connive against the others) and silently ask, Shit. What do we do now? Twilight didn't prepare us for this!!! I smirked at them and turned back around to talk with a chuckling Sam.

"Oh, Nic," he laughed, "I think you scared those poor girls more than you intended."

"Good," I retorted, "Maybe they'll learn their lesson."

I turned around to see their huddling shoulders. They looked a little more than intimidated, and I started to feel a bit bad about my outburst. "Ok girls, so here's the life lesson to be gleaned from tonight's run-in with me." They looked at me, horrified at what else I might do or say at their pride's expense. "You never, never, never cut in line in front of a gay boy, ok? We will call you on it every time. We're just that way."

They only responded with a few slight nods of their heads. I looked down at their young, awkward little selves. The make-up was a bit too brightly applied; the hair was in need of a bit more coiffing and smoothing; the clothes were a study in badly matched cuts and colors. I felt sad for them, but I knew there was hope. "Oh, and when you grow up and go to college, you'll love the gays: We'll help you pick out great shoes and clothes; we'll discuss whether or not your new haircut is right for you; and we'll always talk with you about the stupid boy problems you'll run into. You'll see: we're indispensable, even if we do call you out when you cut in line."

Their eyes lit up at my mention of "boy problems". They all circled around their queen bee and started up a chorus. "Oh! Oh! She's having boy troubles right now." "Help her! Help her!" "Tell us what to do to get him back!"

We were next in line to buy tickets. I turned around, cash in hand, and left them to figure out their own solution for their broken-hearted alpha. Sorry girls, I thought. You're not gonna get that lesson until you learn you don't cut in line.

On an Ending I'm Not Sure I Like

"So what are your plans for the trio, now that Sam and Katie are graduating?" This -- always asked by elegant socialites with silver hair, expensive scarves and high-heeled shoes, their husbands trailing behind their heavily perfumed and circuitous paths, glasses of wine or hors d'oeuvres in hand -- has been the most frequently asked question Sam, Katie and I have encountered in the past whirlwind of university events, concerts and functions at which we've performed. I never really want to answer this particular question, as it's the question that causes me to tense as my little heart gets rent while I examine the truly honest answer: our Tria Fata is most likely coming to it's close.

The three of us have each said it at least once. Sam is probably most realist in this whole "end of an era," and I'm the one who's most doggedly hanging on to it, fantastically hoping the Tria won't end -- we were discussing the opportunity to play on a concert we really don't want to play and Sam said something like, "I want to end trio on a high note. The Beethoven is really the last big hurrah we've got." I wanted to hit him for saying it. But it's true. How can the Tria continue when we're at opposite ends of the country?

We've been playing so well, I keep thinking. How can we think of stopping now? Recently returned as finalists in the MTNA National Chamber music competition, we were invited to play before the amazing Amelia Piano Trio as part of a fundraising concert for the Cultural Affairs Department at our school. We've been center stage for scholarship events. We've been in the paper, on the web, in the community. We've got friends and supporters and (dare I say it?) fans in Northern UT. I feel like we're just on the verge and now we're just letting it go, even if we are letting it go for grad school.

I want to fight to keep Tria Fata alive.

I feel a bond with Sam and Katie that I haven't felt with any other human beings I've ever met. Making chamber music together has taught us how to read each other, how to empathize with and forgive and facilitate one another. We understand in each other the depth of things we can't discuss in words. Our breathing and our movement and our ears and fingers and feelings all sync up with each other when we play; it's only when I'm playing with Sam and Katie that I feel the most safe and the most invincible and the most in tune with that which is greater than myself. There is nothing else like it: the three of us becoming part of the divine by collectively making this thing called music.

I am afraid of what I will lose without my two pals. Musically speaking, they offer a safety net. They can cover for me when I'm technically weak. They offer two different sets of detail-specific ears; two foreign philosophies about how this or that should speak; two instruments of perfectly opposite construct and sound than my own. Their playing has changed my playing, and I hope my playing has instructed theirs, too. Personally speaking, they offer a liberating, risk-taking force (usually Sam) and a voice of conservative reason (normally Katie) in many of my personal desires, beliefs and actions. I trust them more than most, and often consider what both Sam and Katie have to say more heavily than words of advice from other friends and peers. They have become a very important part in how I have shaped my life within the past three years, and I guess I fear that I will lose a hefty part of me when they aren't near.

I've been content to see myself -- and let myself be seen -- as part of this group. The split of the trio frightens me because it will mean I will need to reconsider who I am -- as a student, as a pianist, as a human merely being -- when I am again totally on my own. I will be an individual again very soon. I feel unsettled when considering this.

"What happens to Tria Fata now?" Always, at every function, we field some variation on that question. My question would be this: "What happens to Sam now? What happens to Nic? What happens to Katie?" We are the Tria, but we each are more than the Tria and the Tria is more than any of one of us alone. I think we deal with that strange duality, that I am both this and that as we prepare to leave Tria by.

Each time that question is asked, at every event, I silently go through all of that stuff above, get anxious and uncertain, and look my Sam and my Katie both in the eye, searching for some reassurance that they're cut through by it, too. Then, one of us will take the breath, smile at whoever has made the query, and say, "Oh, you know, we're not really sure. It depends on where we end up..." while the other two stare in silence at the empty cups in our hands.

Eve's Real Curse, or Why Yes! Every Girl Should Have a Gay Boy, Part II

We still giggle about that dinner, but there are times I regret we ever taught Julyn how to spot a gay. You see, she's in the theater department at a Church-sponsored school, and -- being lovely, witty, kind, sensitive, "pleasantly plump" (can I say that, Jules?), accepting and delightful young Mormon woman she is -- she's the perfect go-to for those cute Mormon theater boys who just don't want to admit they like other cute Mormon boys; those cute Mormon boys who ask lovely, witty kind, senstive, "pleasantly plump", accepting and delightful young Mormon women out on dates; those cute Mormon boys who lead those cute Mormon girls into quasi-relationships, and then call an abrupt halt without immediate explanation; those cute Mormon boys who often eventually come out as gay to those cute Mormon girls. I admit, I was one of those cute Mormon boys, and I hated myself for it.

Perhaps that's why I feel a guilty pricking in my hard heart when Jules tells Corey and Jess and I about the boys she meets during shows and in class and then asks, with both hope and doubt in the possibitly of R-E-L-A-T-I-O-N-S-H-I-P, "Do you think he's gay? He probably is. He's got most of the signs." I feel that dagger, too, when Jules reminds Corey and I that we promised we'd tell her if we ever thought any boyfriend of hers was attracted to other men. We've opened her eyes, I guess, but I don't know if that's been a good thing. She weighs her dating prospects with a much more searching scale. Perhaps we've made it difficult for any man to pass the "Is he? Isn't he?" test. The things we told her have taught her to feel like her options of marriage-able men are even more slim. I think that thought sometimes causes her great anxiety.

Traditional Christianity teaches that the curse of Eve is pain in childbirth. I sometimes joke that the Eve's real curse was Steve, the other man in the Garden. The one who joined Eve during the big shoe sales at Gabriel's, and who listened to Eve talk about her feelings over a molten lava cake, who kept his hair well-coiffed, whose biceps looked like stone, and whose high-pitched snicker could be heard all over creation. Steve, who who baffled and intrigued and frightened Adam. The joke usually gets a big laugh, but I don't think it's so funny anymore. In fact, it makes me angry. I don't tell it much anymore.

The whole reason there is any sort of "curse" is because, as gay boys in the LDS church, we've cursed ourselves, buying into the idea that we can, or that we should, or that we will someday be cured of homosexual "tendencies" by attempting romantic relationships with our naive young sisters. We are committing a crime in lying to ourselves and to the women we fool, boys, when we think we can date and marry our "guilty question" away. That sort of self-hating dishonesty is the real sin God condemns.

I am eternally grateful that I didn't fool Jules (or myself) any more than I did when we were in high school and in between our missions. I am so happy that our friendship remains, because I know I've burned bridges with other dear girl-friends. I almost believe that the fact that I never pursued any real sort of committed relationship with Jules is because she is the young woman I love best and would keep from harm most. I hope I'm no curse to her, because she has been an incredible blessing to me.

With love to you, Jules. *HEAD-HUG!!!*

Eve's Real Curse, or Why Yes! Every Girl Should Have a Gay Boy, Part I

Julyn has been my best girlfriend since the summer of ninth grade.  We have quite a bit of history, as best friends should.  She crushed on me in high school, and I also felt a deeply mutual affinity and affection for her (secret: I still do).  She's been the singular young woman to drop my jaw (with a shocking authenticity) by just entering a room (picture: Nic standing in the kitchen before a prom, corsage in hand, stopped mid-sentence by this gorgeous girl in pink, capped-sleeve and beaded-bodice wonder).  We've held each other in times of deep loss and effervescing joy.  She's been a constant woman in my life.  And I've been her best gay boy all along, even if neither of us were honest about it until about eighteen months ago.

The week I came out to Julyn was not a good one for her.  Another good friend of ours and her sister also had similar discussions with her.  She had just started a new job and it seems like midterms were coming up.  Three gays in two days is a lot to take in: Jules lost the job and failed a few tests.  I felt awful, but being the miracle she is, Jules got over the news, and things have been great ever since.

Except for this one time, when Corey and I did a (maybe) bad thing.  Corey, Jules and I drove to Provo to visit another of our best friends, Jessame, who was attending BYU's law school at the time.  We met Jessame at her apartment and then headed out for what Corey call's "a twenty-something's idea of a fancy dinner" at PF Chang's.  After we'd been seated, conversation took a turn to what Julyn thought would be the difficulty of finding other gay men to date in UT.  I spotted a cute waiter--tall, with dark hair and features--and flirted a little bit, getting a prompt, yet furtive glance back.

"How did you do that?!" Jules exclaimed, waving her arms, almost pushing Jessame out of the booth.

Corey and I proceeded to give Julyn the lesson in "How to Spot a Gay." I will now defer to a post of Corey's, listing a few of the things we shared with Julyn that night.

1. "Is the facial hair nicely trimmed?
2. "Does the hair stick up in any way (ie. a faux hawk)?
3. "Are the shoes pointy or at least Italian-looking?
4. "Does he have cologne in his car? Hair products?
5. "Is his butt tucked as he walks?
6. "Are his clothes exceptionally well coordinated? (ie. Does his underwear match the rest of his outfit?)
7. "V-necks?
8. 
   
   "Is there a gym membership on his key chain? Or a rewards card to any of the following: a high-end clothing store, a shoe store, a book store?"

 Jessame thought our limp-wristed demonstrations were, simply put, absolutely fabulous.  Jules, on the other hand, was less than excited.  She was shocked.  Mortified. A little panicked.


Trying to make light of a somewhat serious realization, Jules half-joke, "You mean I'm gonna end up marrying some ugly, fat, gut-laden, fart-spewing hick?!"  The pain and shock and almost-humour on Julyn's face sent a little guilt my way.  Trying to backpedal as quickly as I could, I said, "Oh, Jules, darling! Just marry a man with sisters.  That way, he'll have all the benefits of style and gentility, and you can still be his type!"


That mollified her for a while, but only until she started to count up the (possibly) gay boys she kept close.

Arvo Pärt and Tria Fata

Sam, Katie and I were eating pizza the other night, discussing plans for our next concert (coming up on the 18th of February) and musing, however tentatively, and with a tender, sad foreboding, on the future dissolution of Tria Fata.  I freely admit, I've cried over it.  We have each commented at various times on how we've each felt stretched and expanded by playing with each other.  Of the many things we do together as colleagues and friends in a trio, one of my favorites is doing "trio-listening" when we get together and just listen to new music we may want to learn.

Sam found a piece he wanted Katie and I to hear.  Especially excited about this new piece, he called three times this morning while I was at work.  I got to school, went to class and then met Sam for a pre-grad audition performance and critique.  He didn't play for me, but ended up leading me to the DPA lab, where he sat me down at one of the computers, inserted a CD and bade me listen to Arvo Pärt's Mozart-Adagio.  It's incredible.  It's been the only piece of music I have wanted to listen to all day.  We've ordered the music.  We're playing it on the 18th.  It will be one of our last performances.  A perfectly appropriate musical setting for such an emotional close for us.



Pittsburgh Piano Trio, St. Petersburg Conservatory, March 2006

A Kind of Thank You, or, If I Could Facebook Tag This, "Tag! You're 'It' Corey!"

I try not to envy Corey too often.  Sometimes, though, I do find my little self envying him.  He is, after all, hands-down brilliant.  His CV is stunning.  He'll have no problem getting into any graduate program he wants.  He is a caring and honest and blunt and sensitive best friend.  He laughs at my stupid jokes and he answers his phone when I call at 1:47 AM after watching heart-rending films about life and love and loss.  His is the iron (and irony) that keeps mine sharpened.  I love sharing our friendship together.  It hurts me deeply when I sense jealousy for his success, when I defend myself against the naysaying voices in my head:  I am accomplished, too!!! 

I remind myself, sometimes, that I'm a winning individual.  I keep good company because I am good company.  I'm a talented musician.  People like me.  I can bake as well as anybody.  I'm quick and witty.  I don't often have to use spell-check.  I am a winning individual, dammit!  So why, when my dearest friend shares some of his successes with me, or when I see that his writing evokes a wide and varied response, or when I (don't) compare his successful romantic endeavors (I'm the first person with whom he shares his date stories, for Pete's sake!) with my inexperienced attempts (he's the first to hear my "Did I do the right things to keep him interested?"), do I still sometimes feel that little, green, jealous, weedy seedling souring in my belly? why do I feel the need to keep up? the self-inflicted pressure to compare and compete?  I want rip it out before it begins to thrive, keep the licked-wound wedge from souring my admiration for him; however, I've decided that when I stop pitying myself long enough to really look at why those jealous, competitive feelings rise up, I will shift my thinking.  I will remind myself to turn whatever those particles of envy are into opportunities to refine myself and my work as an artist and a creative human being.  Corey, without knowing it (or maybe he does) gives me a quiet measuring stick against which I can place myself.

We are such a part of each others' lives people have dubbed us "The 'Uncouple' Couple."  For all intents and purposes -- excluding attraction and sex -- we have pretty much earned that nickname.  We call each other every day, just to visit and keep tabs on each other.  We see each other at least once a week, for dinner parties, friend shin-digs, movies, outings to the theater or the opera or whatever.  I call him for advice, and he has this way of knowing what not to say when I need him to say what it is I want him to say, and he remains silent and allows me to feel out my own choices on my own.  It aggravates the hell out of me.  I probably tease him too much.  That, my dears, probably aggravates the hell out of him.

A couple of weeks ago, over ice cream, he was telling me about a new guy he's interested in.  I was honestly happy for him, but, of course, I had to open my mouth and invite my unique brand of awkward-moment-making.  Teasing, I asked, "What are we going to do when I'm not the most important man in your life?" Neither of us had the answer.  He just glanced down at the table, wrote something in his ever-present, lovingly scribbled-in notepad, and smiled.  I let it go and finished my peach frappé while we continued talking about boys, music and literature, and our plans for the weekend.  In the days since, I have thought about my question--quite a bit, actually.  Affirming that I believe Corey and I will always entangle ourselves romantically with men other than each other, the question still remains: What will I do when I'm not the most important man in his life?  What will I do when he can't be the most important man in my life any more?  We've had friends who have gotten married, and we've all learned how to deal with that kind of shift in friendship and its accompanying loyalties, but I'm not sure how to make that change with Corey when it happens. 

It's somewhat sobering to think I'll miss that little bit of envy mixed in with such a great deal of love when my best friend's chosen to make Somebody Else his most important, even-more-best friend.  I'd feel a little lost, I think, without him and his steady, silent way of encouraging me to stretch myself.

The Brilliant New Phrase Coined by Nic and Corey (Because They're Brilliant)

"I wouldn't touch him like classical music won't touch Sarah Brightman since The Phantom!"

Ha!

My Christmas Carol

I locked my heart to the holiday spirit this year.  Yes, I played in holiday concerts and yes, I wished everyone holiday cheer, but I just didn't want to feel it.  But Christmas is insidious, winding and slithering its way into the heart of even the most stony Scrooge, and there were a few nights when I was caught up in the glimmering, hearty holiday and invited to ponder on the reasons why Christmas is so special.

Sam (my cellist), Katie (my violinist) and I (our pianist) were finishing finishing up a Tria Fata rehearsal last Monday.  It had been a great rehearsal -- we'd made some noticeable progress in the Mendelssohn C Minor, and the Babadjanian was just as exciting as ever; an added bonus: Sam's fiancee, Anna, had done a superb job of turning my pages.  As Sam was putting his cello back in its case, he said we'd been invited to play in "a living room concert" at the home of one of his students.  Katie wasn't too keen on the idea, and my only focus after a rehearsal is finding the nearest place to eat, but we decided we'd all go after, of course, finding Nic some food.  We needed the practice performing anyway, as we were preparing for an upcoming competition in Hawaii.

We giggled in the car on the ride over about Katie's newest crush and told her she should just go for it! I smiled as Anna scolded Sam over driving too fast around the icy corners of the twisty canyon.    And we all fawned over the loveliness of Anna's lemon-head-scented lotion while slathering it over our arms and hands.

We finally drove up to a beautifully lit, big and inviting house, its long front drive packed with minivans and SUV's.  It was a gorgeous house.  We're playing in there? I thought. We've played in mansions before, but this takes the cake.  A walkaround porch framed the perimeter, and large windows let their lights spill out on the snowy ground.  We knocked on the the heavy wooden door, soon to be ushered into a large foyer littered with shoes and coats and mittens of all sizes.  A brawling herd of five- and six-year olds ran, zipping around us to climb the stairs as we added own winter wear to the haphazard collection.  A big black lab sniffed at our instrument cases, and deciding we weren't a threat, wagged his tail and licked at our hands.  Paintings of a beautiful mother and each of her seven children smiled warmly, looked thoughtfully and embraced us quietly as we walked down a short hallway to the kitchen and music room  where everyone was gathered.

I was buzzing with the invisible, effervescent pillars of joy pulsating throughout the house full of adults and teenagers and children, all gathered to sample holiday treats and listen to a myriad of carols played by an array of performers.  I could not stop smiling.  Anna was standing next to me, "Can you feel the happiness?" I asked her.  She turned and looked at me, grinning that specifically elvish, Anna-grin.  "Yes," she whispered.  The mother-in-the-paintings came from the kitchen to greet us, welcoming us and telling us about the little girl who was at the piano, playing an Easy Note version of Jingle Bells.  She halted every time a new line of music began; she played a few bad notes; her rhythms weren't always perfect, but when she stood up, she was beaming.  So was everybody else, and we applauded like we'd just heard Krystian Zimmerman perform Beethoven's three last Sonatas at Carnegie Hall.  It was supreme, and it was delightful.

We heard all sorts of performances that night, all of them accompanied by the racket of boys chasing each other on the floors above us.  Some performers were beginners.  Others were a bit more experienced.  Some played classically rendered holiday favorites, others were a bit more down-home and twangy.  We heard fathers playing violin duets with their young daughters; middle-school girls singing sweet hymns penned by Christina Rosetti; and we watched young mothers directing their toddling youngsters  in dances about Santa Claus and sugar-plum fairies.

We were announced, and we went to the front of the room.   As Sam and Katie set up their chairs and stands, I stood up to say a few words.

"Oh, you guys," I said to the room full of happy people sitting on folding chairs from the nearest ward building, "We have had so much fun watching and listening to all of you who've performed!  As a trio, we play a lot of music over and over and over, trying to get it just perfect.  Sometimes we forget that music can be just a lot of fun.  Each of you has had so much fun!  Sometimes we classical musicians need reminding that music can bring people together, like it's done for all of us tonight.  Thanks so much of reminding us of that."

And then we played parts of our Mendelssohn and Babadajanian.  It wasn't seasonal music by any means.  We couldn't really hear each other.  We couldn't really see each other.  But we played, and we loved it.  And our audience loved it.  And it didn't matter that babies were crying or that dogs were barking or that the dishwasher was running on its highest cycle.  We were making music in a house that was brimming with love and merriness and cheer, and that was what we all needed.

The holidays are special because they do give us what we need -- Christmas invites us to take time to reflect upon the love in our lives.  It gives us means to recognize the need we have to share love with others.  As my best friend, Corey, put it in his blog,

"No matter who you are, how you were made (or how you believe you were made), or how people treat you, there are good people out there that love you in this world. There is no greater Christmas lesson than that."

I'm so glad I was reminded of this lesson in time to appreciate spending my Christmas with the people I love most.  I hope you had Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, too.

Cabaret Night

My best friend, Corey, sent me a text last weekend, "Hey, my plans fell through this evening.  Are you doing anything tonight?"  I smiled and rolled my eyes, trying to remember who it was he was supposed to be going out with that night, but he has too many admirers to keep straight.  Nice, I thought, a bit ascerbically. I really just love being the back-up plan when his dates cancel.  Rehearsals had gone long that Friday afternoon and I hadn't had any food; I was in a sour mood.  "I'm going to Cabaret Night tonight.  A few of my friends will be in the show.  You're more than welcome to join me," I texted back.  "Meet me around seven."

I was late meeting him, as I usually am.  He was waiting, smirking as I got out of my car, rushed and flustered and carrying an empty Arby's sack.  I offered my apologies, "Sorry I wasn't here right on time.  I had to grab a bite to eat."  We ran inside, payed the suggested donation and waited outside the door until we heard applause after the first performance.  After entering the room, we scouted out a couple of chairs on the back row and sat ourselves down.

We enjoyed the numbers, gasping with delight when Kaylyn sang Sunday in the Park with George; clamping our hands to our hearts as Angela belted about leaving the schmuck she'd been wintering with; sighing as Cameron sang a lovesong from Adam Guettle's Myths and Hymns; and getting "the church giggles" as Liz milked it like crazy in "The Alto's Lament."  I was as impressed my friends' performances as I've ever been, and I quite liked watching Corey's varied reactions to the powerhouse talent at Weber State.

"And now, for something a bit out of the ordinary," Gregory, our MC for the night, introduced the next performer.  "Please welcome Harrison to the stage as he performs a dance piece he choreographed."

I wasn't quite sure what to expect.  Now, in the kindest way possible, Harrison is just not always someone I understand, and I was a little embarrassed for him as he bumbled along, setting up his CD player at the front of the room.  Isn't that a little tacky? I wondered.  Bringing your own CD player onstage?  That should've been set up before the show--

"Um.  So okay, guys.  This is a dance choreographed to Ingrid Michaelson's 'Men of Snow,'" Harrison announced.  "I'd just like to thank you guys for allowing me a venue to perform this in."  Oh, our Utah grammar makes itself known, I silently chided.  Someone should tell him it's "a venue in which to perform."  My sense of smug, snide superiority sometimes worries me.  I thought, I'm a bitch.

And then the music began--

Once I made a man all out of snow
He had the darkest eyes and a button nose
I told him all my sadness and my fear
And he just listened with a snowy ear...

And Harrison danced.  Beautifully.  With a snowman he created in the air.  He looked so happy to be dancing with this invisible man of snow we all could see.  He used such long, lyrical movments in connection with short, sharp, almost seizing guestures.  I was taken aback, and I coudn't take my eyes off him.

But when I came around the next day
My friend had gone and melted all away
I saw his eyes lying on the ground
And I made a sound that was something like crying

We watched as Harrison bent down and picked up the snowman's eyes, shock and fear filling his own.  He continued to repeat those siezing guestures as he moved and circled across the floor.  I imagine it was his way of expressing the ceaseless question of "Why?  Where did you go?"

Oh one day you will go away from this
Oh one day you will know we're men of snow
We melt
One day

I heard that lyric in the chorus, "you will go away from this," and I thought of Grandma.  I wasn't prepared for the ache in my throat which was the ache in my soul which was witnessing the poignant beauty and sorrow in life and death expressed in dance.  I tried to keep my composure, but my tears started to fall.  I continued to watch Harrison dance, safe with the belief I'd just cry quietly and no one would notice.

Ingrid sang the last verse, telling us that "...It won't really matter when we disappear."  There is a slight break in the music before the last chorus.  The chorus, accompanied by strings and a choir of voices, rises up the scale and crescendos beautifully.  I rose with with it, and Harrison's choreography became such an active evocation of passion and grief -- so much honest movement.

Then, the piano played its motive, passing the song to the strings and chorus.  He stopped dancing.  He heaved his shoulders and sighed the heaviest, saddest sigh.  He stayed there for the remainder of the song, on one side of the stage, staring down at the floor, where a man of snow once stood.  The image was too much.  I broke.  I sobbed.  I tried to ignore the fact the the people on either side of me (one of whom was my dear Corey) were concerned at my emotional purge.

I left during the applause and found the nearest bathroom and wept and wept and wept.  I knew that Corey, kind friend that he is, would be coming to find me if I wasn't back by the next number (and he later told me he was considering doing that very thing), so I took time to compose myself and then went back to see the rest of the show.

I love the theater because it does that sort of opening-up-thing to you when you're least prepared for--and when you're in most need of--being open up.  I wasn't even thinking about the deep, heavy parts of my life when I met Corey in the parking lot that night.  I was late and rushed and in a hurry to get inside and sit down and ride the wave of a light and entertaining show.  But Harrison's dance piece invited me to stop, take stock, and remember how to feel.  I'd sent my feelings on vacation for quite some time, but it was nice to have them back that night.  And every day since.

Thank you, Harrison, for reminding me that deep beauty can be found where you least expect it.

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part III

I walked over to a rack where Jenny was fingering the green scarf she had worn earlier  as well as another in a deep maroon shade.

"Ok, Jen," I said, using my most commanding voice, "You're getting the coat."

"But I can't--"

"No, not another word.  We're doing this for you because you deserve something nice.  It's about time somebody treated you to a thing like this, and we're doing it.  Somebody grab that coat before somebody else does.  Corey, give Jules your twenty.  I'll give her what I've got, too.  Jen, you get yourself a couple of scarves.  They're two for twelve.  You can afford that, right?"

"Yeah, I think so," came the shocked response.  "You don't have to do this."

"We know," Corey and Jules both said.

"We're doing it because we want to do something good for you.  How did you feel when you put the coat and the scarf on?" Jules asked.  "Pretty great, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Then let us get it for you."

"I'll pay you guys back when I get a little bit of money.  Really?  You're really doing this?" Jenny couldn't believe it.

I loved every bit.  "You bet we are, my dear."

We walked up to the register, where Julyn bought the coat.  We walked out to the car, where Jenny promptly put it on.  We arrived at the reception just barely in time to see the ring ceremony.

I've thought a lot about how great it made me feel to do something like this for Jenny.  I didn't feel any anxiety about giving up a chunk of money that could have paid for a tank of gasoline of a couple of nice dinners with friends.  I wasn't worried that I may not see that money come back to me for a while.  I wasn't upset about any of that because I was so happy to see my friend happy because she felt good about how she looked.  It was totally worth it.

We often hear about people giving the clothes off their backs to show love and support, and Jenny has always done that for all of our friends.  She has been one of the first to show love and the last to mete out condemnation when any of us have struggled.  She is a beautiful individual, and I want her to see herself as such.  I guess, in a small way, we kind of did that for Jen when we bought a coat to put on her back.  We did it because we're old friends.  We did it, because, really, when it boils down, we've become family.  And families -- including the ones we create outside our biological ones -- work best when we build each other up and help each other feel our bests.

And Jenny LOVES her new coat!  :D

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part II

We all knew she looked good, too, and our chorus of compliments grew in crescendo.

"You've got to get it, Jen," I said.  "It's a good, warm coat, and it looks great on you!  The way it cinches around your waist is superb -- so flattering."  Jenny was just smiles.

And then, she looked at the price tag.  One hundred some-odd dollars.  A sum far and above what Jenny has ever been willing to pay for any item of clothing she purchases.  "No," she shook her head in disappointment and started untying the scarf wrapped around her neck, "I've got some bills to pay and a few other things and payday isn't until next week.  Still, it was fun to try it on and pretend for a minute."

"But Jenny," I was incredulous, "it's 50% off."

"It's totally worth it, Jen," Corey concurred.

"And," chimed in Jules, taking the scarf from Jenny's hands, "if I buy it for you 'as a gift,' I can add my employee discount to the sale price."

"I just can't do it right now," Jenny argued.

"What if Corey and I put in the cash, and Jules adds the discount, Jen?"

"And you think of it as your Christmas present," Jules continued.

"And maybe part of your birthday, too?" Corey finished.

Again, Jenny refused, "I'm not going to let you guys do that.  That's nice and all, but I just can't have you do that."

Oh, we were disappointed, but that didn't stop us from dressing the rest of us up in coats and sweaters and scarves.  We had a grand time selecting winter fashions for each other, modelling our picks for the dressing room attendant, and posing as she took our picture.

When we took our items back to their tables and racks, I took Corey aside.  "We've got to do something, Corey.  It will be a tragedy if she doesn't walk out of here wearing her coat.  It is the last one in her size.  I checked.  I've got about $40 I can give her for it."

"And I've got about $20.  Let's do it," he motioned Julyn over, explaining our idea to buy the coat for Jenny since she wouldn't do it herself. 

Jules was all for it.  "Did you see how happy she looked when she was wearing it.  Sometimes, a girl just needs a good piece of clothing to help her feel good.  Give me the cash, and I'll buy it.  With my discount, $60 should be about right."

Now, we just had to convince Jenny.

Jenny Gets a New Coat - Part I

Oh, the joys of living the Life Trendy in Small-Town, USA!

Julyn, Jenny, Corey and myself had just finished the delicious wedding luncheon of our dear friends Jamie and Dan, catered by the most expensive restaurant in town.  Jamie was one of the most beautiful brides I've ever seen, and Dan was radiant with joy.  It proved to be a lovely dinner: Jules and I, being naturally theatrical and a bit flamboyant, serenaded our table-partners with the old standards of Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra while Jenny and Corey sat at the end of the table, giggling together about our musical antics and commenting on the intricate, silvery beadwork on Jamie's bodice.  And now, we had two hours to kill before the reception was to begin.  What to do?

Jenny suggested we drive to the nearest Borders and peruse the shelves.  "That sounds like a great idea!  What's better than spending a pleasant, drowsy afternoon in a fabulous bookstore?  Let's go," I agreed.  So we left the restaurant and headed down the street.  Five minutes later, we were parking our cars at the strip mall where our Borders was located, neighboring our town's only Old Navy clothing store.

Julyn, recently employed by Old Navy, advertised their latest special to our quartet, "We're having an exceptional sale on outerwear this week.  Everything's 50% off."  Then, whetting the impeccable taste for fashion Corey and I share, she smiled and teased,  "Oh, and boys, our argyle is to die for!  And, the scarves that came in the new shipment are great, too.  Wanna go in for just a minute?  I need to check my schedule, anyway."

No one objected, and we marched right in.  After indulging the boys for more than a few minutes in the men's clothing section, the girls meandered over to the women's.  Following them, my eye lit on this wonderful ode to American style and seamstering.  I called Corey over.

"We have to find a way to get Jenny to try this on.  It's perfect for her.  Look at the cut, and the buttons!  Oh!  The the lining! -- that's a superb shade of fuschia!  It'd pair beautifully with that black handbag up there.  Where did those girls go?  They're not at the clearance rack, are they?!"

"You're not kidding.  It is beautiful," Corey agreed.  "Jenny!  Jules! Get over here, and bring a couple of pretty scarves with you.  We've got a little something we want Jenny to try on."

I could tell Jenny wanted that coat as soon as she saw it.  I sensed we had to find a way to convince her she had to get it as soon as she started slipping her arms through the sleeves.  I knew we couldn't leave the store without that overcoat in a sack on Jenny's arm as soon as we had buttoned it up.  It fit her perfectly.  Corey, Jules and I were speechless for a moment (a feat in and of itself), and then Julyn started tying a green, sparkly scarf around Jenny's neck.

"That scarf doesn't match the dress I'm wearing," Jenny tried to protest.

"That doesn't matter at all," Jules asserted. "You can wear whatever color of scarf you want with this coat, and no one can tell what you're wearing under it.  This camel color is perfect -- it'll match anything.  Now, take your ponytail out and let your hair down."

"Jules is right," Corey said.  "And it looks great when you fluff the scarf up like that."

"Here," I added, "try this bag.  No, it's not too big.  Yes, it's black.  No, it doesn't have to match.  It's just right.  Trust me."

Once we had Jenny all spiffied up and accessoried, we took her to a mirror to see our handiwork.  The moment she saw herself is one of the priceless memories I'll always keep tender.  Jenny is not the kind of girl who wears make-up.  She doesn't really agonize over what she's going to wear (she works as a teacher's aid in the schools, so how fancy does she need to be?).  I don't think she really considers herself "pretty."  I watched Jenny as she appraised the image in the mirror.  The slump of her shoulders straightened up.  The shuffle of her feet took on a more confident step.  Her smile put the overhead flourescent light to shame, and you could see in her eyes that she knew she looked good.

Last Sunday's Brunch, or "You Ever Been Crossed by a Black Cat Like That?"

Ah, Sunday brunches at Karen's on 25th with the select elite: my favorite musical theatre folk.  We gather, never quite sure how many of the gang will show up, but always quite certain we'll have a gay old time, full of gossip, dirty jokes, Jenn's effortless grace, and, of course, the the coffee, carbs and grease.

I walked in late this last week, after having stopped at school to pick up some scores for a collaboration coming up next spring.  Not sure where my group was sitting, I listened for the corner of the cafe broadcasting the most vibrant laughter and choruses in various shades of witty sarcasm and mimicry, exclaiming things like "Oh no, honey!  Professor So-and-so is more like this..." or "You know s/he's got the best [insert any explitivie or noun here] of anyone in the department."  I spotted Phil (a fabulous friend and fashionable mentor), my lovely Tiara (she lives up to the name, but you'd better not say it like the fashion accessory!), the divine Miss Jennifer P. (yes, she really is divine) and the ever-welcome and -welcoming Jean-Louise (our own kind of Mary Poppins, but with a Sewing with Nancy, punk-rocker chick mix), and sat down at their table, expecting as uneventful a brunch as we ever have.

They had all cleaned their plates, so I ordered a glass of water, and took up the tail-end of the conversation.  Soon, it was time for everybody to grab their tickets, walk up the the ancient stove-top sagging next to the cash register, pay for their meals ("I had the Fisherman's Breakfast.  Shouldn't have, but I did."), and bid adieu.  I offered to drive Phil -- who was uncharacteristically ill and rather a bit flushed following a lovely bout of surgery-- home.  He had some fabric he wanted to show Jean, so she decided to meet us at Phil's place.

Upon our arrival, we met a Jean-Louise who was trying to avoid the mangiest, sickliest black cat I had ever seen.  I thought it was a sort of early Halloween prank some kids were pulling.  You know, drug a black cat and leave it on somebody's porch -- see what kind of bad luck they could wreak.  But nothing of th sort: the cat, having decided Phil's porch was a sunny little spot upon which it could convalesce, sat directly in front of the front door, bending its nose awkwardly to the porch floorboards, breathing heavily and trying to die while at the same time blocking the path we all needed to take to get inside Phil's cleverly decorated and richly furnished house.  Phil grimaced in disgust at the animal's black muzzle, strung with foamy saliva and (with me following closely behind) took the intrepid step to join Jean on the other side of the ill-fated feline and unlock the perfectly shabby-chic, distressed front door.

As soon as the key was in the lock, the cat started yowling.  It was the most terrible sound I've ever heard.  Jean put her hands over her ears, I began nervously giggling, and Phil, drugged with expensive pain-pills, groggily whined, "Ugh!  I can't handle this today!  Do something.  Well, do something after you see this gorgeous fabric for Piazza."  Trying to ignore the death-cry comgin from the wailing cat on the porch, Jean and I admired the shimmering fabrics and spectacular lace overlays  (they really were "gorgeous" with exceptional italics) and then set to work trying to find the number for local Animal Control using Jean's iPhone apps.  When that didn't work, we just 4-1-1ed the number.

I called Animal control while Phil and Jean tucked their heads in the curtains to watch the black cat on the porch.  The phone kept ringing and ringing and ringing.  Phil gasped -- I thought he'd ripped a stitch or something, but he said, "It's...it's....it's convulsing or something.  Oh, God, this is awful.  Oh, oh God!"  I walked over to the window to see, and it was awful.  The poor cat shuddered, its ears folded back, eyes half closed and its tongue hanging out its mouth.  Jean looked horrified, and I was impatient for someone from Animal Control to pick up the phone.

Finally, an answer, "Thank you for calling your local Animal Control Center.  Our office hours are Monday through Saturday, nine to five.  We are closed Sunday..."  What?!? I'm thinking.  How can animal control be closed on Sunday?  What are people supposed to DO when they are experiencing an animal emergency?"  I looked at Jean and Phil and told them the office was closed until Monday morning.  Their reactions, deflated at how local civil agencies had again let them down, were exact copies of my thoughts.

"So what do we do now?" Phil asked.

"I guess we try calling dispatch or something?" I offered.

"Yeah, that sounds good," Jean-Louise confirmed.

Dispatch:  "Thank you for calling local dispatch.  What is your emergency?"

Nic:  "Um, we have a dying cat stuck on our front porch.  We think it's a stray.  What do we do? Can someone come remove it?"

Dispatch:  "Animal control tells us that they're closed on Sundays.  They can't come out until tomorrow morning."

Nic:  "Yes.  We got that from their answering machine when we called.  Isn't there someone else who could help us?"

Dispatch:  "They really don't do house calls for cats.  Maybe if it were a dying dog or something, then somebody could come out.  But you're pretty much on your own for cats."

Nic, with an increasing sense of futility: "Um, it's foaming at the mouth and we really don't want to touch it."

Dispatch, with mounting frustration:  "Like I said, we really can't do anything, and they won't come out for cats."

Nic:  "Um, ok.  I guess we'll figure it out on our own, then.  Thanks."

By this time, I can see Phil and Jean in that place where they didn't really want to keep looking at the convulsing cat, but they didn't quite know how to quit watching.  The poor dears, they were just in shock.  I decided we had to rescue Phil's porch and do something to get this cat away from the house.

"Phil," I took control, "go find us a cardboard box and a sack.  We're gonna take that cat somewhere else."

Phil rummaged in the back for a minute and came to the front room with a department store sack and a soup-stack carboard lid.  Fearless Jean and opened the door and went out on the porch to pick the cat up and put it in the box.  The cat had stopped seizing for a minute, and I stooped down with the plastic sack to pick it up.  It started moaning again, "Yeeee-ooowww.  Yeeeeee-oow."  I said, "I know, cat.  I know.  We're just gonna cover you with this sack so we can pick you up and put you in this box."  I didn't think the pathetic creature had any energy left to fight me too much; what a startle when it tried to get up as I reach down to wrap it and pick it up.

Jean held the box as I tried to get it in the box.  The box was to short -- I was nervous the cat would get out and find its way back to Phil's porch.  We must have been a sight.  "Phil," I called into the house, "can you find a taller box so this cat can't escape."  He came back a few minute later with a box that was just a bit better.  We picked the cat up and kind of scooped it as carefully as we could into the taller box.  The thing was just yowling.  It was pretty awful.  I kept laughing nervously, and poor Jean carried the cat-box and all across the street to an empty parking lot.

Jean left.  Phil was worn out.  The porch was covered with wet spots where the cat had spat up.  I asked Phil if he had any bleach and dish soap.  He directed me to the kitchen where the supplies were.  I fixed up a bucket of sani-water and commenced to sloshing the porch in hopes of disinfecting the place where the cat had been.  Finishing the job, I rinsed the bucket out and thoroughly washed my hands with hot water and antibac soap.

"I'm gonna go home now, Phil," I said.  "Call me when animal control comes tomorrow.  Get better, and stay outta trouble.  Hopefully, no bad luck:  we didn't cross that black cat, it crossed us. Right?"

I picture us, a week later now, and I have to laugh.  What a sight we must have been.  A recently stitched up convalescent, a fashionable young musician and a wicked-awesome seamstress, stooping over some dying black cat, doing everything we could to keep it as comfortable as possible so we wouldn't catch bad luck.  The silly suspicions we adhere to.

Guess our kindness didn't work.  Swine flu hit a week later  Damn cat!