WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE...

I have a friggin' closet full of clothes, and still I find myself almost daily standing in front of it unable to pick out an outfit. Hell, I actually have two closets full of clothes, and I have difficulty finding anything I want to wear. I've stood there, utterly baffled and simultaneously disgusted; I've actually yelled, "I have nothing to wear!" And that's just not true. I have two closets, a dresser, and a bookshelf (yes, a bookshelf) full of clothes. And yet, I seem to hate everything I own. Getting dressed has always taken me forever, but now it's almost impossible.

And today it's even worse because what I really need just isn't in the closet. You see, I've been invited to a Halloween party and I don't have a costume. (My friend and co-star from "Ten Lives," Michael Silva, moved to L.A. a few years ago and thoughtfully invited to me to his soiree; he thought it would be a great way for me to meet new friends.) Like Jamie Lee without a good push-up (or a weapon), I'm absolutely useless. What am I going to do? Originally I was really excited about the party. But the fact that I don't know any of these people yet changes things; it adds so much pressure. If I show up as Paris Hilton or Elmo what would that say about me? Plus, if my face is full of make-up...okay, full of more make-up, how will they know what I even look like? Oh, the pressure! I just can't take it!

Normally these issues aren't a concern at all for me at Halloween. I'll slap a pound of cover-up and a Frederick's Of Holywood teddie on anytime. No excuses, no explanations. (And not much prodding, either.) But this is like my Debutante Ball, my Coming Out into Hollywood society. It's a big deal; right? Okay, maybe not as important as the election that's 7 days away, the ultra-repugnant Foley/Page scandal, or the big tadoo last week over whether Hillary did or did not actually have a face lift. But it's imortant to me. So, just like when Jamie went out and bought herself some boobies, I decided to take myself shopping.

Now, tell me, where in Hollywood does one go to get a really good costume? Hmmm...I decided to head straight to Paramount Studios. Hell, I only live a few blocks away; so why not? I thought it was a great idea, but apparently the security guard didn't, even after I explained my whole debutante conflict thingy. So, I left the mightily protected walls and palms of Paramount for better (and safer) shopping. I actually headed straight to Hollywood Boulevard which, contrary to popular belief, isn't very sheik. It's full of tourist traps, dive bars, and - yes - costume shops! (It also happens to be host to the Hollywood Walk of Fame, replete with all of those lovely stars - Jamie Lee Curtis included.)

I went to Hollywood Costume which is like the Home Depot of costumes, props, and wigs. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. It was like a gay man's paradise (except Terrence Howard and Seal weren't there; neither, to my surprise, was Harvey Fierstein). So I ran up the aisles like George W. Bush looking for his conscience. Only I was having a lot more fun. If only they had dressing rooms; but they didn't. You had to buy on the spot; and no returns either, so make sure you're sure. I meandered, wandered, and coveted for what seems like hours. (Wait a minute. I was in there for hours! I realized this when I got back to my car and had a friggin' parking ticket. Shit. That's my fifth one since I moved here.) But at least I did I finally find the perfect costume. Nothing with make-up; nothing too freaky; nothing that will make me look fat. I decided to go as an Angel with Priority Problems - he can't decide if he wants to be good or bad. (Something I can actually relate to, so I won't have to ask: What's my motivation?) I bought these great Barbarella wings, along with horns and a tail. I'm going to wear them with white semi-see-through pants and a tank top, with just a touch of glitter. It's not going to get me an Emmy; but it did satisfy the bizarre technical requirements I had this year; and it's going to get me into the party. Which is a good thing.

LIVE FROM LOS ANGELES!

For the last ten years or so, Los Angeles has been the nexus of all television and film work. Of course, right when I get here, New York mayor Michael Bloomberg does some fancy wheeling and dealing and WHAM - LA loses 30 per cent of its share. Making me feel just a tad like the girl who wants to be fashionably late and arrives to the party well after the caterers have cleaned and the Prince has found the shoe. No worries, though. Kevin Costner already taught me, "Build it, and they will come." (And, don't take yourself so seriously; and, don't screw the natives.) So, on I press. And, like the theme song from Alice says: There's a new girl in town. So I've busted my butt to help promote myself out here in Hollywood. While the internet is the world's largest repository of porn, surprisingly, it is also used for other things, like: spam mail, scam mail, and sending stupid forwards that just aren't funny. So, In lieu of actually hiring a real pimp to beat the crap out of agents and casting directors for them, many actors are using the web to help pimp themselves. Like Carson from Queer Eye, I took notice of the trend and have been working with a web designer to help get a site up on the internet.

And thank God for him, because I know about as much about HTML as George W. Bush knows about English. This internet professional, we'll call him WebGuru, really deserves a medal. Working with a client that has attention-deficit disorder just isn't that easy; you know? I would send him e-mails with great ideas and then the next day send him another tome completely negating everything I had said before. I'd also start brain-storming and shoot off these ambitious ideas to him that would take a team of CGI animators a year to complete - like, how about creating a cartoon opening of me like "I Dream of Genie" or "Bewitched." Or how about having the Philadelphia Harmonic Orchestra do our music? WebGuru was always patient and very focused; he would always acknowledge my ideas, present the practical challenges and then devise a wonderful, creative alternative. He would also shamelessly flirt, which I'm sure helped to appease me. He's a devout heterosexual; but he's also secure enough to play the game with me. Which was always fun. Here's an example of a typical exhange between us as we worked to build the site:

WEBGURU: Hey, Cupcake. Boy you sure looked delicious in the photos you sent.
LANGDON: Thanks STUD muffin. Hey, LOVE what you did with the opening animation. But, do you think you could actually sync it up with the music? ~ big wet kisses and a few hip thrusts
WEBGURU:Everything's done; I love your site - its as pretty as I imagine your sweet california tanned ass to be
LANGDON: Thanks SO much for everything. Let me know when your wife is out of town and I'll make the final payment.

Pretty silly stuff. But it helped to defuse the tension of building a website cross-country. And now, thanks to many months of hard work (and sweet nothings) by the WebGuru, the web site is complete. Making this post the offical launch of langdonbosarge.com. So silly, so narcissistic; but so necessary in the marketing side of Hollywood. There are photos and a few clips, though more will come. It's so hard to even get footage sometimes, as independent directors often disappear without providing the promised video tape; and, much of the work is often so unbelievably bad that even an actor's own mother would cringe. Hopefully, the casting directors and agents out here won't cringe, and neither will you.

FLABOPHOBIA

I have severe adipophobia (from the medical term for fat - adipose). And, quite unfortunately, I seem to have somehow actually gotten it - fat, that is. Okay, to be fair, I know that most people look at me and think, "You're not fat, you crazy person." But in the last year I have grown exponentially. And while I don't mind the attention my newly acquired J-Lo backside seems to bring, I do have a problem with the fact the my waist size is rapidly approaching my age. Seriously, it's so bad that I don't even have to shop for Thanksgiving; I'm just going to hack a ham off of my back. (How convenient.) What's worse, my friends and family seem to love it. "You look great," so many of them recently said when I travelled back East. I appreciate their support and their opinions; but they don't understand the pressures of being gay, being in Hollywood, and being gay in Hollywood. It's really a whole different world out here. Bodies and eye candy abound. And if you're not eye candy, you're basically invisible. (Unless, of course, you're Dennis Franz. God bless him and his big bollocks for doing that historic shower scene. When I did my first - and only - nude scence, I was at the damned gym every day before I got my but on that stage.)


Which brings me to the point: I haven't actually been to the gym in a year. Between my mother's illness, my crazy ex-boyfriend, and rehearsals and writing in New York, I just kind of quit. Okay, that's admittedly a really lame excuse. I just procrastinated. I put it off. I made working out this huge difficult thing. Like balancing my checkbook, paying taxes, or listening to George W. Bush speak. And before you know it, it rolled out of control like some giant shitball from hell. So this week, after indulging hedonistically on my two week vacation, I decided to get my (growing) ass back to the gym. My friend Quincy had left what is quite possibly the cruelest message that I have ever received. He was just giving me a "helpful reminder" that I was in Hollywood now and that if I wanted to be successful...you can imageine the rest. It was actually totally good natured and I called him right back; together we had a good laugh and then I pulled up some athletic pants, put on my pumas and plopped into my car.

The decision, actually, was easy. It was the getting there that was difficult. Just the idea of going to a gym in Hollywood put me into a panic. I imagined myself bounding onto a tread mill right next to Christina Richie and immediately felt the need for an inhaler, like one of the Tri-Lams from Revenge Of The Nerds. As I drove, I thought, "How much can I throw up before I get there?" But, alas, there were no suitable containers in the car. So, I lit a cigarette instead and pointed the Jetta right toward the Hollywood sign. Crap - as if Quincy's call wasn't enough of a reminder of what I was up against, the dreaded sign was like a biblical prophesy. It was just sitting up there, all white and pretty; I could hear it taunting me, "Langdon, you big, fattie...come on, come on." So to drown out the voices, I had a second cigarette and turned the radio on. Thank God for Joan Jett. I hollered the whole way up Van Ness, "singing" along with her.

So I get there, park the car and get stopped on the way in for an autograph. The fan obviously thought I was Oprah Winfrey and I didn't want to disappoint her, so I signed a parking ticket I recently received. (Maybe she'd pay it, too, I thought.) It's easy to see how the mistaken identity occurred: afterall, I am a beautiful black woman; I was sweating like a pig and hyperventilating; and, when I hit the doors of the gym, my knees nearly buckled. Just like the real Oprah this past week at an important ribbon cutting ceremony in Mississippi. (Sorry. Despite multiple searches of every celebrity gossip website, I couldn't find a single delicious picture. Oprah's attorneys must have been on that one like Kate Moss on a plate-full of coke.) But on the flip side, if you, Dear Reader, can find and send one to me, I'll give you a dollar.)

With great trepidation (and gastronomic distress) I entered the gym and was happily surprised to find it filled with normal people! Sure, there were some model-types and gorgeous hotties; but there were also a significant number of average Joes (and Joannes). Regular folks with regular bodies. There were even a number of elderly men and women doing their doctor-prescribed daily tonics. This gave me great relief and I actually did a full work out. I did a nice cardio on the bike for thirty minutes and then hit the weights. I don't know if it was the effects of dehydration and starvation, or the wonderful release of endorphins; but, when I finished, I felt fantastic. I had finally done it, I had faced my fears - and my flabdomen. I really did feel absolutely fabulous, just like Ugly Betty did this week after her ghetto make-over. Now, I just hope that America Ferrera (who's a wonderful actress - and not at all ugly), "Ugly Betty" (her fantastic hit - and my pick for best new show) and myself can all keep it up.

SMOKING AFTER SEX

You know the old joke:

Do you smoke after sex?
I don't know...I never looked.

Well, I can tell you that I have smoked after sex. Before sex. And, yes, even during sex; but, I'll spare you the details. The point is - and I hate even saying it - but I love smoking. There's nothing - nothing, I tell you - like that first morning cigarette. I wake up, put on the coffee, and while it brews I do my "mini-Yoga" session. Very heathly; right? And as soon as I'm done I head to the balcony (read: fire escape) with mug in one hand, cigarette in the other, and lighter at the ready. Remember that old cartoon with the old classical musical score playing as morning was breaking in the forest? That's the feeling. Ah! (By the way, if you can tell me the name, I'll send you a pickle; despite multiple searches, I couldn't find it. It seems my "Some-timer's Disease" has wiped my memory yet again. Either that, or the smoke is clouding my brain.)

For most smokers, a pack of cigarettes is like a best friend. It's always there for you. It makes you feel better when you're down. And it tells you that you look wonderful, even when you don't. And quitting feels just like losing that friend. It's absolutely horrible. Imagine being locked in a small (poorly decorated) room with your three worst enemies; just for shits and giggles, let's say that in our example you are confined along with Condoleeza Rice and her sourpuss, George W. Bush, and Carl Rove. All naked. Brrr! A terrible chill just ran down my spine as I typed that...And you know what? That doesn't even come close to describing the sheer horror and pain of the quitting process. The last time that I quit I would actually show up at work, give out the assignments to my staff, and then lock myself in the bathroom to cry. Whitney didn't have a thing compared to me; I was a wreck, I tell you.

And now it seems that the time may well be upon me to quit again. You see, Californians have the disgusting habit of being exceptionally healthy. They hike, bike, work out, and eat algae. And they don't smoke. At least, 83% of them don't. Maybe the Universe is trying to tell me something. Or Mother Nature. If not her, certainly the cute boy I saw out and about the town Friday night was trying to tell me something. He was clearly flirting as I stood outside with my friends. And when I lit up a cigarette, he rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes! That is the gay kiss of death! That is like getting voted off the island, or fired by the Trumpinator. Truly, it was Heidi Klum saying, "You ah out." I even heard the dramatic drum beat. (Which is eerily similar to the one they use on "Lost.") That was it. Final. I was dismissed.

Now, as if that wasn't enough motivation, there is always the terrible medical reality that they just aren't good for you. I'm sure you already know this, but cigarettes have been linked with a terrible disease. The sort of thing people only whisper at dinner tables. You know, wrinkles. Now, that should give me some extra umph to quit; right?

HOME-A-PHOBIA

I left home at age 16 to go to college and haven't returned except, of course, for family visits. I used to go home all the time when I attended the University of Florida; you know, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Laundry Day. I would time my visits to coincide with the last pair of clean underwear. And, of course, with my funds; when the ATM told me that I had just enough to pay the road tolls, I headed home. (In and between my parents still had to bail me out of financial quicksand more times than Elizabeth Taylor got married.) They were great. The food was, too; both of them were from the true South and, so, from cornbread, greens, and Shrimp Gumbo to Beef Wellington and Steak Au Puave, they really cooked their asses off. And yet, for years, I seemed to dread so many of the family visits. I used to time it and limit my visits to three days. "Small doses," I'd tell my friends. I knew I'd be okay on day one. By day two, my eye would start twitching; and by day three, I was feeling homicidal. I knew I had to leave or I'd wind up doing something that would get me 30 years in a 9 by 9 with a large and very friendly roommate named Bubba, Jesus, or Jamal. So, instead of taking a trip through the judicial system, I'd promptly kiss my Mom and Pop, race to the car with my laundry basket, and hit the road - screaming to myself and anyone that would listen, "Kill Me!" like Sigourney Weaver in Alien III, all the way up the Florida Turnpike until at least Orlando.

This is not to say that my folks are bad people. Far from it. Both were humanitarians who did tremendous good for the people of Southern Florida; and they put up with me - a hyperactive, epileptic drama queen. No easy task; I assure you. My fear (tension really) about going home was not a result of not liking them. I love them very much, actually. They just happened to possess certain traits that just happened to drive me crazy - you know, like making my eye twitch. To really paint you a picture, let me admit to you that for years after seeing films like Terms Of Endearment and Home For The Holidays, I assumed I was being watched. I just knew that super-secret Hollywood agents had somehow hidden a camera or a tape recorder in my childhood home and captured our goings-on for years, decades even. Where else could they have gotten that material from? It wasn't fiction. It was my life! They knew. And they were getting rich off of my dysfunctional family. (Actually, I prefer the term "semi-functional family," because they really did so much, so well, and for so long...I finally realized this once "The Brady Bunch" was canned and no longer on the air.)

This time, going home held no trepidation for me. I was actually looking forward to my visit with my Pop, brother, and newphews and niece. (I even met my brother's new girlfriend, Felice, who I mistakenly called "Febreeze.") I changed roles, though, and found myself cooking my ass off for them. Loads of hot pasta, garlic shrimp, and expensive steaks. I even baked brownies and a cake. Oh, God! Was I turning into Martha Stewart? Or, was I just learning how to spend time with them, to give back, and to create comfortable enviornments within which to simply experience each other? I prefer the latter, especially seeing Martha's latest public appearances. (Though I did play her once in wonderful video for the comedy troupe, "Circle In The Squirrel.")

And a good time, as they say, was had by all. We ate, drank, and talked about everything under the sun. My niece gave me the latest celebrity and local gossip; my nephew told me who was cool and who was so not cool in the music world; and my Pop reviewed all of world history and regaled us with fantastic stories of his childhood, growing up in Bayou La Batre, Alabama. Who knew that being of such white trash roots could be so utterly fascinating and fun? Really.

My Pop is a trip. No other way to put it. He's brilliant and blind and walks with a lop-sided gait from arthritis for which he won't take any medicine. (The only fights we have are when he catches me crushing Alleve and trying to hide it in his food.) He was a teacher and had to retire when his eyesight finally went kapluey. But he never stopped learning, or teaching. You can ask him anything about history and he can give you the complete scoop. (I always fought to have him on my team when playing Trivial Pursuit; you just couldn't lose with him.) On this trip, he cooked his famous Slumgullion (don't ask; the ingredients might scare you, but it's totally delicious). And I took him on a "Man Date" to an old fashioned New York barber. We sat, side by side, as the barbers shaved both of our heads. It was great. I almost choked, though, when he asked his attendant (who was female) if women had the problem of pesky hair growth like men did. He was referring to the bushels he had springing from his ears. She laughed, conspiratorially said, "Yes," and proceeded to tell him about the waxing of ladies' moustaches. That's my dad: awkward, charming, and utterly adorable. If he were slicker, he could have been the politician, like my mother. Instead, he was just quiet and sort of omnipresent, like sun, wind and other natural forces.

The only seeming negative of the trip home was the constant reminder of my age. I nearly fainted when I saw my fourteen year old nephew - he towered over me at a whopping 5'11. So much for his old nickname, "Little Drew;" it, like so many of his shoes, just doesn't fit anymore. I couldn't help saying, "How could you do this to me? How could you grow up like that?" (Like it's all about me; right?) And I thought, "Hell, I used to change your diapers!" Now, he can kick my ass. But that's really a small price to pay - especially when there's Botox - for all of the warm benefits of home.

It's nice to be able to say that.

(Okay, it's nice to be able to say that and mean it.)