North to Glasgow

A steel-gray sea and green, green fields as our train follows the cliffs of the Scottish coast.  Lovely day yesterday seeing a matinee of Ian McKellen’s “King Lear” in Newcastle — three-and-a-half hours long and utterly riveting.  Wept like a baby when Lear holds Gloucester in his arms.  Ian came to my signing at Waterstone’s, four doors down from the theatre.  Had the crowd sing Happy Birthday to old chum Alison Barrow, publicist from Transworld.  C and I joined Ian and John Lahr for a late dinner at The Living Room.  John doing a New Yorker piece on Ian for The New Yorker.  Late night drinks with the RSC at the Northern Men’s Club, when C was smitten with Frances Barber (Goneril). Sylvester McCoy was there too, so the club was thrilled to have Gandalf and Dr. Who under same roof.

Catching up:  Stunning venue in Liverpool:  the Small Concert Hall of St George’s Hall, where Dickens  did readings.  All gilt and cream, like performing inside of a wedding cake. I was first gig  there since its restoration.  Charming MTF, “playing the surgery card” came to the head of the autograph line with her post-operative caretaker.  Asked me to sign her book “In the spirit of Anna Madrigal.” Also a sweet young transman who thanked me for Jake Greenleaf.  Lot of straight folks too, even a father and son.

Travel note:  the Anglican Bishop of Carlisle (my grandfather’s hometown) has decreed that the recent flooding here is God’s revenge on Britain for being lenient on homosexuals (e.g. letting them marry).  Must explain why rain is following us EVERYWHERE.

On a positive note:  Britain banned smoking in public places the day we arrived so dining here is a much more pleasant experience. Also there’s a brand-new prime minister, Gordon Brown.

Passport Blues

Spent last four days in steamy Miami, since I neglected to pack my passport at the start of the American tour.  Fed-ex two days late in getting it to me.  Mandarin Oriental not a bad place to be stranded, but I have to hit the ground running in London .  Taping of “Desert Island Discs” two  hours after I arrive.   Songs I picked for my desert island:  “Mockingbird Hill,” “Moon River,” “Maybe This Time,” “Desperado,” “Wicked Little Town,” and “The Heart of Life.”  Gooey as hell but all held significance for me at one point or another.  Am told security will be a nightmare after that flaming SUV invaded Glasgow Airport (not to mention those foiled car bombs in London.)

Missed London Pride at Trafalgar Square (and  being on stage with the great Graham Norton) thanks to passport screw-up.  C has been so patient about this.  Me, I’m kicking my ass around the block.  We’ve had a good time pigging out at Porcao, the Brazilian place across the water from the Mandarin.  Great slabs of beef on skewers, sliced at the table.  Octopus salad and Caipirinha, the Brazilian national cocktail.  Will start making those at home, we decided.

I’ve had hiccups intermittently for two days — probably all that beef.  C went online, then told me to arch my neck back, hold my breath for ten seconds, then drink a glass of water.  Actually works.  Also cured them by eating a pack of sugar.

My big gig here was at The Congregational Church in Coral Gables.  Laurie, the pastor, is a fan from way back.  Felt odd reading the “winking sphincter” passage from the pulpit (and signing books at the altar) but no one seemed ruffled.  Last year I spoke at an MCC church in Ft. Lauderdale.  Seems like the movement is run by churches down here– much the way the civil rights movement was run in the south all those years ago.  Totally refreshing, considering all the damage churches doing these days.

Catching up:  crowd of 400 at Outwrite Books in Atlanta, fanning themselves like folks at a revival.  Esther Levine, the world’s best media escort (proudly Southern and Jewish) took me lunch at the Barbecue Kitchen, where we had chicken livers and fried green tomatoes.  Told me about the Golden Dart Award — given annually at the Book Expo to least favorite client of media escorts.  Faye Dunaway won one year,  Lewis Grizzard another.  (It’s not literally presented to them, of course, just a private joke.)

Pastor Ted

In Denver at the Monaco, a hotel that gives you goldfish for your room.  Always a little creeped out by that, however humanely they treat them.  What those fish must see.  Too bad they can’t write memoirs.  Interview this morning in LA with Peter Boyles, a Denver radio institution I’ve known for years.  He’s the guy — the straight guy — who broke the Pastor Ted-and-Mike story when the local “alternative” paper (run by a gay person, I’m told) refused do so.  Cool guy and always has been.  Told me they auctioned off Mike’s massage table as a  benefit for Project Angel Food, the AIDS food delivery service.  Keep hoping I’ll run into Mike on the road.  His book is out now.  Great title:  “I Had to Say Something.” Hustlers, for my money, do far more good than pastors.

Turnabout is Fair Play

When asked several weeks ago to address the Public Library Association at their annual convention in Washngton this weekend I was told that I’d be replacing Elizabeth Edwards.  I was initially concerned that this might have something to do with her health.  Turns out she’ll be in San Francisco addressing the Alice B. Toklas Democrats during gay pride.  Couldn’t be more stoked about this — the gay writer addresses the librarians in Washington so the presidential candidate’s wife can talk to gay folks in San Francisco.  The world is getting better.

Road Warrior

Don’t know about this blogging business — especially on the road. Book tours have a crushing sameness to them. All I want to do after a signing/reading is flop in my room with midnight room service and hotel porn. (Mercifully they have gay porn now. In the old days you had to make do with dickless straight porn.)

Called C yesterday — as I do every day, three or four times, since I can’t figure out how to retrieve my own messages — and caught him the the act of meeting Buck Angel at the intersection of 18th and Castro. He recognized him from his pictures, had a nice chat and handed the phone to me. Buck was pleased to find himself in MTL which pleased me, since I meant his inclusion as a tribute. He’s a pioneer really, and they’re always interesting. San Francisco truly is the land of serendipity.

Book tour has been offering shouts from the past. In SF I received a note (passed via his lovely daughter-in-law) from my junior high English/social studies teacher, Richard Craddock. Sent pics of himself, then and now. “Mr. Craddock” was a baby back then, but seemed like such an adult. Called me his claim to fame, the sweet man. Then in Seattle caught quick glimpse of Rick Alstetter, my buddy at Camp Seagull when we were both preteens. No chance to talk, sadly.

Nice man at LA Library last night told me he’d been friends with Rock Hudson too and also thought of him as “a good guy.” Realized on the way back to the Standard that he was Kevin Thomas, film critic of the LA Times. Never expect to see famous people in line for autographs. Jay Leno once rattled me utterly by waiting in line at Century City.

Book just hit New York Times list at number 18, keeping distant company with Khaled Hosseini, Michael Chabon and Martin Cruz Smith — all great Bay Area writers.  Must work harder, since they only publish the top 15.  Not complaining though.  Damn lucky, really.

Off and Running

A noontime SRO crowd at the Ferry Building’s Book Passage, among them a cable car gripman, a warden at San Quentin, and a lovely Madrigalesque woman of a certain age who brought me an Heirloom Tomato in homage to a gag in the novel. Guy from the bookstore read Michael’s Letter before introducing me. Made us both cry — and not just my usual leaky eyes. People here are the best.

Bevan Dufty, the Castro supervisor, gave me the proclamation for Michael Tolliver Day at Books Inc. that night. Bevan is a new dad and pleased as punch about it, brought the kid with him. So cute. I told the crowd he (Bevan) was Gloria Swanson’s stepson, but they seemed to think I was joking.

Father Guido’s Blessing

Tomorrow’s the launch — Michael Tolliver Day in SF.  Got the iron out to touch up just-arrived cotton jacket from The Territory Ahead — the one that makes you look like “Cezanne painting along the road from Le Tholonet to Aix.”  Love The Territory Ahead and their escapist mini-yarns about floppy jackets and dobby shirts.  Best catalog ever — and so full of shit.  Coat’s nice, though, very drapy and boho.  Or will be once I iron out the packaging wrinkles.

Don Novello left message wishing me well on the tour.  Said he liked  Chronicle’s excerpt of MTL.  Must’ve been the Shawna-as-Catholic- schoolgirl stuff that got him going.  Sweet to have Father Guido’s blessing on the eve of the tour.

Missing C like crazy.  He’s in NYC, playing Auntie Mame to his  nephew (come to think of it, our nephew), helping him shop for colleges at NYU and Princeton.  Will meet up with them in two days for the NYC part of the tour.  So far they’ve seen “Curtains” and “Spring Awakenings” and explored the Frick and the Guggenheim.   Would’ve killed for uncle like that when I was Josh’s age.

Best part of the Tony’s last night was David Hyde Pierce coming out — thanking his partner from the stage.  Another big talent sees the light.  He stood next to proudly-out Dan Butler at one too many GLAAD awards before getting real.