Category Archives: The Basics

My father had been ill for quite a while.  He managed to live with his cancer for several years.  Over the past few months, things took a turn for the worse.  I have been traveling back to DC to see him.  The last few trips ended up with me caring for him — like caring for him as a nurse.  Giving shots, changing bandages, managing the hospice people, etc.  Every time a new hospice nurse would stop by, they would want to chat with me privately to get an assesment of the patient before seeing him.  I would always start out with this statement:

“My dad is a shit kicker.  He’s going to tell you how to treat him and he’s going to have things his way.”  The nurse would always tense up with defensive body language that signaled she was ready for a fight causing me to put my hand out and say, “He’s also very charming and engaging.”  It never failed.  By the time the nurse was wrapping things up, my dad would have her eating out of his hand.

“Oh Mr. Barnett, it was so nice to meet you — and your son.”  She would chirp. “You just let us know if there’s anything else you need.”

His main hospice nurse would always kiss him on the forehead when she left the house.

I was on my way home on November 30th.  I had been there for a total of sixteen days, with a four-day break back in Bisbee.  I bent down and hugged my dad.  He kissed my cheek.  It was an obvious “good bye”.  As I was walking away, I stopped short of his bedroom door, turned around and put my palm out.  He returned the gesture.  Our eyes locked as our spirits acknowledged each other in a wordless gaze that reassured us both that we were indeed saying our final good bye without leaving anything unresolved.  We shared all that needed to be shared, said all that needed to be said and he let me know how thankful he was not only for me, but Ray as well.  (Ray, is and always will be a saint! I could not have done it without him.)

During my time with dad, I was able to thank him for adopting me.  I’m the only adopted child out of six.  My father (and mother) raised me with as much love and care as their five biological children — there’s something to be said about that. I put them through hell as a teenager with drugs, stealing, running away, getting in trouble with the police and being kicked out of school.  It took me a long time to grow up.  After thanking my dad, he smiled and told me I was a great addition to the Barnett family. It took every amount of effort and restraint I could muster up to say thanks and get the hell out of the room so he wouldn’t see me burst into tears. I absolutely broke down and sobbed over that because I had felt like a failure to him for so long because of my past.

Back in Early July, I started writing this all down as one blog post that kept getting longer and longer.  I have elected not to post my writings about my father.  Instead, I’m going to make an attempt to make it a book.  Novel?  Novella?  Short story?  I don’t know what it is, I just know that it’s too long to be a blog post and to good of a story to remain untold.  My father took me on an amazing journey that had me laughing and crying at the same time.  I just hope I can organize my thoughts and get it written down.  It was pretty amazing.

There is one thing I have to share about my dad:

As he was rapidly starting to fail, he was having a discussion with my sisters about who was coming to see him on what day (this is from memory over a phone call so I may be paraphrasing a bit). We had family lined up to visit all the way through Christmas.  He started to fall asleep so my sisters left him alone and went down stairs. A moment later my sister Anne went back upstairs and quietly said with a soft compassionate tone, “Dad, don’t feel like you have to hang around just because people are coming to see you. It’s OK if you don’t want to hang on just to see them.” My father opened his eyes and huffed, “Are you kidding? I’m trying to get out of here!” My family has quite the weird sense of humor.

Well, he finally did get out of here.  Last Saturday my father passed away.  After the ordeal I went through, I was more in “relief than grief” mode. Without going into extreme details, I have to say, from my perspective, my father had a slow lingering death.  Being at his side, at times, was unbearable.  He had developed a fistula on his abdomen and it had become very productive.  Basically, whatever went into his mouth came out of the hole near his navel.  He needed constant bandaging and was in a lot of pain.  He knew he was dying, he had this thing that constantly oozed and he was in a great deal of pain…and yet he never complained.

That’s my dad.  The shit kicker.

I’m kind of checking out this holiday season.  No parties, no tree, no decorations and no travel whatsoever.  I wept a little when I got the news.  I had already done all my crying when I was with him.  It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with in my life.  I’m proud to have been there for him and feel privileged that I got to have full closure and a solid “good bye” while he was still lucid.

All of my brothers and sisters are awesome. We all made it back to see him. Some of us managed to go twice.  I talk about how hard it was for me but I have to acknowledge that it was just as hard for them — if not harder.

I am blessed to have had that experience and thankful to my dad for inadvertently teaching me an amazing lesson of compassion.  My father and I were fortunate to share a long period together at a level of intimacy that is undescribeable to anyone who has never experienced it.

NOTE TO READERS: Don’t wait to patch things up with a loved one.  Don’t wait until they’re dying to clear the air.  I am so glad to have had the opportunity to make peace with myself and my relationship with my father.  I was not close to him as a child, he left when I was twelve (but continued to provide for the family).  I got to know him a little bit better as an adult.  I am so glad I got to know so much more about him during the last few months of his life.  He was is a great guy.  Huge thanks to my friends, relatives and whatever higher power there may be who were there for me at a time when I didn’t know where to find strength.

Goodbye dad.  I love you.

A few months ago, after blogging about meeting John Leguizamo and seeing him perform. I was inspired by the experience and was thrilled to be contacted by Bisbee’s Obscure Productions shortly thereafter. They asked for my participation in their annual comedy show. I decided to see if I could take blogging one step further by a performing an original monologue.  From page to stage!

The show wrapped up this weekend. I really did quite well and feel satisfied with myself for making the attempt and succeeding. The performance was taped but alas, it was the Sunday afternoon matinée and the small, very sober audience made the gig fall kind of flat — OK, smooshed is more like it. In lieu of an embedded video, I have decided to post my script. Sadly, the timing and facial expressions (as well as my physical antics) are missing from the performance.  Please use your imagination. I have to give a special nod to Doug for inspiring me with the story of his friend who shares the same disorder with me that is mentioned in the monologue.

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Ramblings From the High Desert

You ever notice these days everyone seems to have some sort of a disorder or dysfunction? ADD ADHD OCD ED.

I was visiting my mother a few weeks ago. She was sitting there in her rocking chair doing her needlepoint with the TV blasting away in the background and every other commercial was for Viagra. Here I am with my eighty-year-old mother, Eunice, and the Viagra guy comes walking down the street talking to his reflection in the window.

Going to the doctor?
Yeah.
You going to ask him this time?
About what?
Our erectile dysfunction!

What really creeps me out is the fact that all the people in Erectile Dysfunction land are oblivious about this guy talking to himself.  If I was walking along in Bisbee and saw some guy talking to his reflection in the window about his erectile dysfunction, I’d probably — actually in this town, I’m surprised I haven’t seen that yet…but it’s only a matter of time. Dog, Cat, Mouse guy…Erectile Dysfunction guy! He’s not so bad. He’s just a big old softie.

Then the announcer does that whole fast-talking thing about all the scary shit that may happen should you decide to try Viagra. Heart attack. Drop in blood pressure. Stroke!

…well I certainly hope so…it’s Viagra…

Then, my favorite part comes on with the announcer saying, “In the rare event of an erection lasting more than 4 hours, seek immediate medical help to avoid long-term injury.”

Oh my God! I’m sitting in a room with my mother while the man on TV is talking about a four-hour long boner!!!

ADD ADHD OCD LMNOPD — I don’t know… These are real conditions and millions of people have them. I’m not trying to poke fun but I often wonder; are that many people really developing all these conditions or are we just taking normal personality traits and defining them as disorders? Of course I can’t really imagine a connection between Erectile Dysfunction and someone’s personality…

For years, I considered myself a very normal, down-to-earth guy. I’m not that complicated. It was surprising to find out that my independent little idiosyncrasies have now been categorized into some sort of “condition”. Yeah…I have a disorder.

You see, it’s no secret, I yearn for the attention of others…as evidenced by me standing on this stage. The desire to entertain and hang onto your attention is great enough for me to put myself in the spotlight — doing my own material — and risk looking like a complete ass. People say to me, “You just have that type A personality. You thrive on chaos. You love the thrill and excitement from putting yourself into extreme situations.” Well I’m here to tell ya…this is not thrilling. It’s scarier than shit. But I can’t help it.

This desire is not just set for the stage. If I walk into any establishment where there’s karaoke…well, let’s just call it a night ‘cause I’m not leaving until I’ve done Boots Are Made For Walking — twice. I also have a tendency to be Mr. Lampshade at parties. I get rather “on”. People frequently approach my partner of 16 years and say, “Oh my God! Cobban is so funny. You must love living with him. I bet he constantly has you in stitches.” To which my partner says, “Yeah…he’s a laugh riot.” Then he gently warns them, “I’m only going to say this once; If you keep paying attention to him, he wont stop.” I had no idea these traits have now been defined as a condition. I have CADD. — Center of Attention Deficit Disorder.

My diagnosis of CADD brought a lot of clarity to me. I didn’t know how much of a self centered ass I really was. My therapist says it was in denial. A couple of weeks after I was diagnosed, I was sitting alone in my living room kind of revisiting my childhood. You do that when you have an epiphany. Revisit the past and make connections. Suddenly everything started to make sense! As a kid, when I was alone, I would make up dialog in my head and then say it out loud with feeling. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I just knew I had to find a way to make people pay attention to me.

Over time, I started to get sloppy. On several occasions, my mother caught me. It was so embarrassing having her walk in right when I was in the middle of a dance number. <<pantomimes doing big dance number and getting caught>> “…nothing, I’m not doing anything”, or a heated argument scene. <<pantomimes arguing and getting caught>> “…don’t look at me.” Eunice would just shake her head and close the door. Even though I was filled with shame, I just couldn’t stop doing it.

I knew something about me was different — the kind of different you don’t tell people about. At school, in the hallways, I heard them. The other kids. Whispering behind my back, calling me a thespian.

What third grader knows what a thespian is?

One day, our class decided to do a play. I went to parochial school. The story was a modern-day retelling of the Prodigal Son. I got the role of the father. Arthur Frontzak got the role of the son. We rehearsed a few times. I had no problem delivering my lines. Then something strange happened, our teacher, Mrs. Lawton, switched Arthur and me. I was playing the Prodigal Son. I was playing the lead…

From what I remember, the play went well. It all went by so fast. My first applause was like heroin. It changed me. Don’t be fooled by those elementary school plays! You know, where one of the kids is a big flower. It’s a gateway device that leads you to the harder stuff. I was hooked. The next thing I knew I was doing improv — never did mime though. I always stuck with the natural stuff. Miming…you don’t know where that shit comes from.

As I grew up, I was determined to become a star. Not just an actor, a star. I wanted to be famous. I did more theater, considered porn, joined a band and tried modeling…modeling…now there’s a fucked up business. Imagine being an insecure nineteen year old with center of attention deficit disorder and being at an open call where the agent picks up your headshot in front of everybody and goes, “Uhhh…hello! We’re looking for perfection…<<drops the imaginary headshot>> and you’re not it.”

It’s one thing to hear that once, it’s a whole different ballgame to hear it repeatedly. It really damaged me.

And really, modeling, when you look at all those magazines in the checkout line…does anyone really look like that? I have to tell you, as a guy; I can relate to yet another disorder, BDD — body dysmorphic disorder. People with BDD can’t stop fixating about a flaw with their appearance. It doesn’t matter if it’s minor or imagined. With all those unrealistically beautiful “touched up” models staring at us off the magazine racks, it’s no wonder people develop these conditions.

For most of my life, my one ear stuck out farther and lower than the other. Many people I knew said, “Oh you can hardly tell. You should love yourself for who you are.”

Yeah? Well, screw you. I hated it.

I’d see a photo of myself and my ear was like the first thing I’d see. There’d be this giant ear with my little head attached to it going <<vocal SFX: wah wah wah – like a glowing ear>>

It got so bad, I started super gluing it to the side of my head when I went out on dates. One time, I was in a hurry and I didn’t put enough glue on. Halfway through my dinner salad, the seal started to give way on my ear and it suddenly went pop! Subsequently, my date’s eyeballs also went pop! It was like one of those first and last dates. It was shortly thereafter that I came into a bit of money and went to a plastic surgeon and had my ear fixed. It was by far, one of the most painful things I have ever experienced in my life…and I’d do it again.

When I’m in the checkout line, I see the Men’s Fitness cover with the with the guy sporting the big pecs and huge arms (the guns) wearing a Speedo — because he CAN, and I think, <<full body droop>>  “I’ll never be like that.”

I work out, run and eat well and I will never look like that…because that guy on the cover goes to the gym for a living and has probably been Photoshopped beyond recognition. And seriously, I feel sorry for him. He’s smokin’ hot, filthy rich and can basically have sex with anyone he wants. He’s not happy…

Modeling didn’t work so, as a last ditch effort, I tried to screw my way to the top. The only problem is; I slept with all the wrong people…a lot of the wrong people. Note to self: hookup with the director, not the driver and the gardener…and the UPS driver — I thought he could deliver my script. I thought I had a connection. Some people screw their way to the top. I screwed my way into…the free clinic…but people payed attention to me. <<insert girlish giggle>>

I think what finally helped me learn to control me CADD was age. Yeah…aging. Getting older. When you’re young, all you can think about (other than yourself) is how life is affected by you.

“Oh my god there was an accident in the next county? I wonder what I was doing to make that happen?”

Young people ponder the great intensities and mysteries of life. What makes things work? Why do people act that way?? Why do these things happen to me in this life???

When you get older, it gets so much easier. You do not come to some grand conclusion. You do not figure out the great mysteries of life and how everything works. You just don’t give a shit anymore.

Why did that person say that to me??? ‘Cause he’s an asshole! Ta dah! Mystery solved!

Another great outlet for managing my CADD is community theater. This is like my methadone clinic. I get my attention fix in a controlled environment with professional help — <<looks offstage>> what? I’m running out of time?

<<moves front and center stage>> My name is Cobban.  I’m recovering actor and I have CADD….. <<to the audience>> OK, that’s where you’re supposed to go, “Hi Cobban!” Let’s try it again.

My name is Cobban. I’m recovering actor and I have CADD. ((Hi Cobban.)) Thank you for letting me share with you. You’re all part of my recovery.

I woke up an hour before the alarm went off this morning.  I laid in bed trying to shut off the dialog looping in my head.  The setting full moon illuminated the room.  I rolled over and latched on to Ray just as the kitty hopped up on the bed.  The white noise machine whirred away in the distance.  I savored that moment.  I felt safe — a feeling I have not had for a while.

The past few weeks have been troubling.  Both my parents have been ill.  Mother was in the hospital for a bit but she’s home now.  Sadly, my father is really starting to slow down with his cancer.  The doctors recently gave him a finite “months to live” period.  I’m going back to DC to see him next week.  This has been a very difficult period for me and my family.  It’s really hard to look into my father’s eyes.  They’re dimming as if part of him is slipping away.

Lately, I feel like a peeled nerve.  Every emotion is throbbing with amplification.  I was talking to my dad the other day and he told me his estranged brother called.  They have not spoken in years.  My dad said to him, “So…what are you doing?” and his brother replied, “I’m sitting in your driveway.”

My uncle lives in the Pacific Northwest.  Dad is in DC.  After all those years, he just showed up.  It made me cry.

Fuck! Everything makes me cry these days.  The worst part is the fact that I am doing an original monologue for Bisbee’s Obscure Productions Annual Comedy Show called No Shenanigans this *weekend.  I’m just not feeling very funny right now.  It’s been very difficult to write.  The piece is good but there’s room for improvement.  I tried to refine the material, make it better but I just have this sinking feeing in my gut.  I don’t have the energy to focus on making others laugh when all I want to do is sulk.  If you do see it, just laugh.  I don’t mind the “courtesy laugh”.  At this point, I’ll take all the laughter I can get.

Doing this show is part of my new “What The Hell Have I Got To Lose?” philosophy.  I have always dreamed of being an actor/performer/singer/songwriter/writer/photographer/dancer kind of person.  With my father’s declining health as a reminder that life is indeed fleeting, I have been challenging myself to get out there and do it.  Express yourself!  I’ll be damned if I’m just going to sit around wondering what if…

Last month, my friend told me that Oprah was having a Karaoke Challenge.  I recorded an audition video and submitted it.  I found out this week that I didn’t make the cut.  It surprised me. I actually thought I might have had a chance but I guess I was wrong.  The important thing is that I tried and trying is all that matters — seriously.  Even though I didn’t even get close to the finals, I tried and, as dorky as it sounds, that makes me a winner.

I’m not very religious but I believe in the power of prayer (collective positive thoughts if you will).  Favor? Just shut your eyes for a sec and think of my mom and dad.  Send them some good vibes will ya?

For your viewing pleasure I have included my audition for the Karaoke Challenge.  It ends abruptly because it had to be under two minutes. I’m going to dedicate this little performance to my dad (I would dedicate the song itself but once you hear the lyrics, it would be kind of creepy).

*Playing at 7:30 p.m. on November 6 & 7 and at 3:00 p.m. on November 8.  Central School Project, 43 Howell Ave. in Old Bisbee.

After four years of trying, I finally, finally caught a meteor with my camera.  With my Nikon D90 and a 50mm lens, I shot a 2.5 second exposure at f/1.8.  Orion’s belt is at the top of the photo.

Ray and I got up at 4:30 this morning, made coffee and set up in the backyard.  Sadly, the camera did not pick up how brilliant it really was.

This morning’s shower was the Orionids. There were several meteors in the sky but they were rather faint.  This one, was not faint and the camera just picked it up.

This makes me very happy!

When I first moved to Bisbee, I had this crazy idea to tell people my name was Cobban.  I was ready for a change and Bob, my first name, was nothing but a boring old monosyllabic palindrome.  Bisbee was an artist’s community and Cobban, my mother’s maiden name and my middle name, seemed fitting for someone who was struggling with a deeply repressed artistic side.

I remember the first time I introduced myself as Cobban.  I had gone to Hot Licks BBQ for a drink and struck up a conversation with someone at the bar.

“I’m Cobban.”
“What?”
“Cobban.”
“Corbin?”
“No, Cobban.”
“Carbon??”
“Cobban. Caah-bin.”
“How do you spell that?”
“C O B B A N.”
“Hmmm, that’s weird.”

People were having a strange reaction to my new name that somehow incorporated a furrowed brow so I chickened out and returned to boring old Bob.

As I was settling into my new job with the county, I was introduced to a woman named Carrie Mitten.  Upon being told my name was Bob, Carrie said, “Oh yikes, another gay guy in Bisbee named Bob?  Ugh, what’s your middle name?”

I reluctantly told her it was Cobban.

“Cobban??” she blurted.
“Here it comes.” I thought.  I knew she was going to poke fun.
“That’s so cool!” She squealed.

The next morning, the name plate on my office wall had been changed to Cobban.  My phone extension and email eventually changed too.  Every time I was with Carrie and someone new came along, she’d proudly say, “This is Cobban.”

Carrie and her husband Kevin seemed to know everyone in Bisbee — and everyone in Bisbee knew them right back.  Anytime there was a social event, fundraiser, potluck, barnraising – you name it, Carrie & Kevin were there.  They were like some sort of unit.  A matched set bound by an ampersand.  Seals & Crofts, Bonnie & Clyde, Sonny & Cher, Carrie & Kevin.  Because of those two, Ray and I became indoctrinated into the Bisbeeland community.

Kevin was one of those guys who could make/fix anything.  Welding?  No problem.  Automotive?  Vroom vroom!  Woodwork?  Where’s the hammer?  Hell, let’s break out the chainsaw!  He had what I call a Man-Garage.  A testament to testosterone, fully equipped with a beer-filled fridge, drum set and every tool imaginable.  You just wanted to hang out there forever.  There was one very cool thing about Kevin; he didn’t give a shit about gay people.  I felt at ease in his presence.

In honor of Stolen Horseshoe, Kevin welded a wind chime out of old rusty horseshoes and gave it to us as a housewarming present.  It weighed a ton and didn’t exactly chime.  It was more like a wind clunk.

There is an annual period when our wind clunk clunks.  It’s right around March/April. (Bisbee folks know exactly what I’m talking about.)  I told Carrie, “You know it’s windy season when you can hear that thing clunking.”

About a year later when I got my first motorcycle, Kevin was there to inspect the engine before I agreed to take it.  He was kind enough to ride it to my house for me too (I had not ridden in years and the bike had an impressive 1100cc engine – way too big for me on the twenty-mile ride to my house.)

After I registered the bike, I got a new license plate in the mail.  Kevin had been making birdhouses using automobile plates for a “tin roof” and jumped at the chance to make a little teeny birdhouse with the motorcycle plate.  I hung it on the mesquite tree in the backyard near the wind clunk.  It was so small!  We were quite surprised when a little bird took residence in it one Spring.  After finding an old automobile plate in the garage, I took it to Kevin and had him make another bigger birdhouse for the tree.

Near the front of our house was a baby mesquite tree.  During the construction, I used to imagine what it would be like when it matured and how it would look next to the house.  (I have a thing for big trees.)  Right before we moved in, the construction crew completely leveled it.  I was heartbroken.

A short time after we moved in a miracle occurred, the tree started growing back! (OK, now I know that it’s nearly impossible to actually kill a mesquite tree.  No real miracle there but back then I was so amazed).  I told Carrie about it and she said, “Well, you just need to call that tree Lazarus.”

So I did.

To continue the theme of naming trees, I began to address the one in back adorned with Kevin’s accoutrements as The Mitten Tree.

When I first met Kevin, he worked for County fleet.  He didn’t care too much for the job and decided to make a living as a handyman – a much sought after person in the Old Bisbee region.  Ray wanted the exterior stairs and balcony refurbished at our hundred-year-old rental place in town.  He called Kevin.  We all agreed to meet at the house one afternoon.  Upon arrival, Kevin produced his crisp new business card. It read:

Kevin Mitten
I show up!

Non-Bisbee folks might not have a clue as to how fucking funny that is.  You see, Bisbee, the artist community, has a strange dynamic, for lack of a better term.  Our neighboring town, Tombstone, is the town “too tough to die” and, well, Bisbee is known as the town “too stoned to care” and no, that’s not why we moved here.  Having a reliable handyman in this town is like gold and I have to say, Kevin was 24K.  Aside from showing up and doing great work, Kevin really took pride in his workmanship and it showed.

Originally, Carrie, Ray and I all worked in the same department.  Ray and I would go to the weekly Friday night potluck where we would see Kevin (as well as the other usual suspects).  At the time, it was lots of fun but in the long run, all good things do come to an end.  The Friday night thing dissolved and Carrie and I moved to other departments.  After moving to the new house, we became homebodies and hardly saw anyone.

We did see Carrie & Kevin on occasion – Kevin in one of his many cars rounding the Lavender Pit jutting his hand out the window with a smile and a wave.  Carrie in Building A whenever I went over to see Ray and naturally both of them at any given community event.  We would always strike up a conversation as if no time had elapsed at all.

Last Saturday while perusing my Facebook page, I got word that Kevin and another well-known Bisbee resident, Dave of  Dave’s Electric Beer, had been in a terrible car accident the day before.

They were traveling along HWY 92 just outside of town.  I believe both men were ejected from the vehicle.  Kevin was airlifted to Tucson and Dave was taken to the Copper Queen hospital and then later also airlifted to Tucson.  I can’t really say what happened because I wasn’t there and we’re all still kind of going through the “I heard from a friend who heard from a friend” period.  I have an idea of what happened but prefer to refrain from posting it online without absolute confirmation.  Not to mention, both men were placed in medically induced comas so no one could really say for sure.

Originally, I heard that the car just broke apart and seemed to have crashed for no reason.  Then I heard that Kevin swerved and lost control to avoid someone who had crossed the double yellow line.  Either way, Kevin and Dave were experiencing serious medical trauma.  Our little Bisbee Facebook community was buzzing with what little information we could provide to each other.  Someone had mentioned that Carrie was ready to talk to people so I gave her a call.  She said Dave was doing better but they just couldn’t seem to stabilize Kevin.  He broke both arms, both legs and fractured his spine.  The doctors had already started talking about “never walking again” and, at that point, all Carrie wanted from Kevin was to have him wake up and say, “You better not be spending money for a goddamn hotel room!”

Kevin is quite the lovable curmudgeon.

Over the weekend, Dave’s condition improved.  I heard that he broke all of his ribs and had his spleen removed but at least he was recognizing people and moving his arms and legs.  Sadly, Kevin’s condition continued to deteriorate.  Early yesterday morning, he changed lanes and headed for the great off-ramp in the sky.

Or perhaps an on-ramp?  I guess it depends on how you look at it.  Either way, our little town is devastated by the loss.

Were Kevin and I close friends?  No, but he was one heck of a guy who was torn from the fabric of our community.  A tear that hurts no matter how well you know a person.  You never realize how interconnected we all are until someone gets unexpectedly ripped away in an instant and all you have left is the lingering sound of Velcro and a lump in your throat the size of a hockey puck.

When we heard the news, Ray and I sat there in silence before he got up to give me a hug.  I couldn’t let go.  Death was reverberating in my head.  It’s so final.  Your heart stops and you don’t breathe.  My brain was trying to process that Kevin was not alive anymore.  I had a vision of Carrie, motionless and alone on a playground swing clutching a tattered ampersand.  The thought knocked the wind out of me.

“I need to run.” I thought, so I got dressed and headed out the door.  The sun was just rising as I started to break a sweat.  I had to run, to feel, to breathe.  I needed to be alive and running was the only thing I could do to validate that my heart was indeed beating.

As I was making my way down the street, morning sunlight illuminated the puffy Arizona clouds.  Everything seemed so vibrant and colorful.  I suddenly remembered that my world was going to contunue turning even if Kevin’s had stopped.

Thank you Kevin.  I’m sorry you had to leave so soon.  Your passing is a reminder that life and living is more valuable than, well, everything…

Every once in a while, Ray and I have to get ourselves out of the house.  We love the rural quiet and stunning vistas of Stolen Horseshoe but on occasion, the craving for a day or two (or three) of urban life becomes far too much to ignore.   Most of the time, we’ll hop on a plane and visit anyone we know in any major city that has ethnic restaurants with linen napkins and a full bar.  This past weekend, there was a bunch of fun stuff going on in Tucson so we jumped at the opportunity to stay with our friends Chuck and Jeff at their fabulous Bed & Breakfast Inn — The Royal Elizabeth.

Thursday
Ray and I planned to kick off the long weekend by attending some of the festivities for the grand re-opening of the Fourth Avenue Underpass.  The underpass provides access between the Fourth Avenue Shopping and Entertainment District and the Congress Street Entertainment District and the rest of Downtown.  Unfortunately, we were running a bit late so we missed out on the ribbon cutting however; we were just in time for dinner at Athens on 4th Avenue — my favorite Greek restaurant in Tucson.

As dinner was winding down, Chuck asked if I wanted to join him to go pick up a guest staying at the Royal Elizabeth for the weekend.  The guest was John Leguizamo who was in town doing a show.  Naturally I said yes.

Now, I have blogged about the freakish assholes I have met during my tenure in the entertainment industry.  It’s no secret that, in my humble opinion, most celebrities are psychotic wacknuts suffering from borderline personality disorder.  I have learned over the years to set my expectations low in the face of an impending encounter with someone who’s on the radar.

There was one time, while working on The Crucible, I was on the phone with Ray telling him how much of a freak Winona Ryder was.  I was bummed because I was a huge fan and had been looking forward to working with her.  I mentioned to Ray that she always seemed so normal on Letterman, so sweet in interviews and he blurted out “She’s actress!”

A few years later Ryder was convicted of grand theft and vandalism.

Chuck and I got into the airport just as the plane was landing.  In Tucson, there’s a monitor over the stairs that lead into the baggage claim area.  You can see people coming from the gate.  Chuck had a sign with John’s name on it and was watching the monitor.  I watched the stairs.

“Is that him?”
“No.”
“What about him?”
“No.”
“How about that guy?”
“No…wait, there he is.”
“Where?”
“There.”
“I don’t see him on the monitor.”
“That’s because he’s about five feet in front of you.  Hold up the sign. ”

Chuck held up the sign just as John approached us.  After a quick meet and greet, we were in the car going back into town.  It was late and John was on East Coast time.  I figured he was tired.  I know I was.  We all got back to the house and went to bed.  Ray needed a ride to the airport the next morning.  He was going to LA for a day to look in on his mother.

Friday
After getting Ray to the airport, I headed back to the Royal Elizabeth.  I wanted to get back in a hurry.

Chuck and Jeff do an incredible job running their establishment.  The service is impeccable and the rooms are appointed beautifully however, my favorite is when they do the latter part of B&B — breakfast.

At the table there was a woman with her daughter from Toledo, Ohio; John’s production manager Russ who is from Australia (but lives in New York); another man named John (who I happened to know through a friend in Phoenix) and me.  Mr. Leguizamo was out giving a radio interview.

The young daughter was getting ready for her second year at the University of Arizona.  She’s studying astronomy.  The other John was restoring the old historic church across the street.  Russ had never been to Tucson before and was intrigued by the saguaro cactus.  He had flown in the day before.  Breakfast was delish and, as one would imagine, the conversation was very pleasant.  When we were finished, the group dispersed.

I had nothing to do for the rest of the day so I decided to venture out and go shopping.  Chuck and Jeff planned to join me but had to wait for a delivery and get a few other things done.  They were apologetic about the holdup but I didn’t mind.  I’m quite fond of C&J and could chat them up for hours — not to mention the opportunity to converse with other like-minded gay men hardly presents itself living out in the sticks.  I was happy.

By the time we were ready to go,  I was getting hungry (what a surprise).  We headed out to a place called The B Line for lunch.  In addition to a glass of crispy cool Pinot Grigio, I had farfalle pesto bow tie pasta tossed with homemade basil pesto, served with toasted pine nuts and garlic toast — foodgasm!

I’m not really into shopping so I can’t really say much about the mall experience — other than the fact that I cannot for the life of me understand the whole Abercrombie & Fitch thing.  Tight teeny-tiny clothes all bearing the A&F branding intentionally made to look distressed for way too much money.  If I’m going to wear ugly-assed shit covered with branding, A&F should pay me.  There was one shirt that I thought was kind of funny.  In big letters across the chest it said, “Buck Fuddy”.  I would have bought it except directly underneath the “Buck Fuddy” was the word Abercrombie.  Fail.

Determined to make a purchase on my shopping excursion, I went to Old Navy and got a t-shirt for $5.00.  The gal at the checkout informed me that the next day, the shirts would be on sale for $3.00 each.  (Yes,  I did go back and get one in each color to the tune of $18.00 — about a third of the “Buck Fuddy” shirt.)

Naturally, a trip to the mall isn’t complete without something from the food court.  I was floored when we found an Orange Julius.  Hadn’t had one in years.  When we got back to the Royal Elizabeth, I snagged a disco nap so I would be fresh for G2H2.

G2H2 — Gay Guys Happy Hour — takes place the third Friday of every month in a new location around town providing Tucson’s gay professionals a different venue to meet, network or just hang out.  A big room in a fab location with a bunch of handsome gay men (with cocktails) was the perfect remedy for my be-anywhere-but-the-middle-of-nowhere break.  I felt sorry for Ray.  He was sitting at home with is 92 year old mother while I was reveling in a sea of testosterone.

On the way home, we stopped for some takeout Thai food.  I had been cocktailing it so I don’t remember the name of the place.  C&J knew the owner (They know everyone!) and the food was good.  After chowing down, I retired to my room and passed out.

Saturday
Breakfast was to be served a little later that morning.  C&J and I planned to take an early morning hike but Tucson got some good rain that night and I actually slept in.

This time the guests had changed.  The other John returned to Phoenix and in his place was a couple from Simi Valley, CA — the neighboring town where I grew up.  They were also dropping their daughter off at the U of A.  Mr. Leguizamo was there as well.

Again, the chatter was casual.  Both John and Russ were totally cool and great conversationalist.  The couple from Simi Valley were fun.  I sorta slipped into my “on” mode (what a surprise).

Look, I refuse to deny it, I’m a recovering actor.

I started to act at a very young age.  I couldn’t help myself.  Sometimes when alone, I would make up dialog in my head and then say it out loud with feeling.  I didn’t really know what I was doing — or why I was doing it for that matter.  Over time, I started to get sloppy.  On several occasions, my mother caught me in the act of acting.  What an embarrasment having her walk in right when I was in the middle of a heated argument scene or a dance number.  I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

Once, in third grade, our class decided to do a play based on the Prodigal Son.  I got the role of the father.  Arthur Frontzak got the role of the son.  We rehearsed a few times and then something strange happened, Mrs. Lawton switched Arthur and me.  I was playing the Prodigal Son.

From what I recall, the play went well.  My first applause was like heroin.  The obsession to act soon was joined by a new passion — directing.

That same year Elton John’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road album came out.  I would listen to Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding over and over again.  The instrumental part used to conjure up images and a storyline  in my head.  I’d lay there imagining I was directing an epic movie to go along with the song — right down to the closing credits!   I was eight.

By the time I got out of high school, I was ready to take on the film industry.  I did community theater, made little films with my dad’s Bell & Howell 8mm camera and had some black & white headshots taken.  I remember my excitement the first time I got an appointment with a modeling agency.

“We’re looking for people who are perfect — you’re not.”

Something inside of me died when I heard that.  I was surprised how a few words that took a split second to say, hurt for the rest of my life.  Even though constant rejection and my lack of self esteem eroded away at me like cancer, I still kept trying to get in the biz and eventually squeezed my way into production accounting.   I stayed there for years paralyzed by my apparent lack of perfection while settling into the notion that I would never be anyone.  After ten years being a sucky accounting clerk who was always told he was on the wrong side of the camera, I burned out and left the biz.

So here I am years later chatting over a meal with someone who’s doing what I’ve always wanted to do — and he’s cool.  It would be easier if he was a dick.  Then I could dismiss him and “that business” all over again and forget about  it.

Again, breakfast was the highlight of the morning.  We all mingled for a while and then went our separate ways.  I had to pick Ray up and wanted to run some errands.  When we got back, it was pool time.  Ray made drinks and we lounged around the pool for a couple of hours.  I flirted with the idea of catching another disco nap but the evening was approaching quickly and I was excited about two things; dinner at Cafe Poca Cosa and front row tickets to John’s show.

Cafe Poca Cosa is fucking awesome.  Hands down, it’s one of my favoirte restaurants in Tucson.  Great service, drinks, ambiance and most importantly — food.  The menu changes a couple of times a day to reflect what chilies, spices, vegetables, and ingredients are fresh in the kitchen. The first time I ate there, I had the Plato Poca Cosa.  Each plate contains three items from the menu and every plate is different so if two people get it, both plates are unique and no, you can’t choose what you want.  The chef does it for you.

After dinner, we headed to the theater for the show.  I’d first heard of John Leguizamo years ago from his early stage shows, Mambo Mouth and Spic-O-Rama.  When “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar” came out, the movie did nothing for me, but I noticed John did the drag queen thing way better than Wesley Snipes (too muscular) and Patrick Swayze (too bland).  That’s probably why he snagged a Golden Globe nod for best actor in a supporting role.  Swayze got nominated for best actor which still surprises me but hey, Madonna got a Golden Globe for acting — I rest my case.

The show was about John’s career (Speaking of Madonna, I had no idea he was in her Borderline video.)  He was brutally honest about his experience working in the business and spoke frankly regarding exchanges with other well-known actors — which of course had me in stitches (John does a great De Niro).  As the show went on, I became inspired and was reminded of what every writer I have ever known has said to me. . .

Be honest and just fucking say it.

My tens of readers know that I try to live by that.  No matter what the story is, honesty will make it engaging.  Don’t write what you think people want to read, write what you know and don’t hold back.

The show was lengthy.  I’m assuming that’s because it’s in development.  By the time it gets to full release, it’ll probably be tapered down a bit.  While I enjoyed it, I was heartsick at the end.  It all reminded me of how badly I wanted to see my name in lights.

The subject matter was familiar.  I could relate to it.  My mind was flooded with memories of trying to be an entertainer and how I let my lack of confidence get the best of me.  If only I was as confident then as I was now.  Deep breath.  Exhale.  Forget about it.  Really Cobban, forget about it.

Chuck and I collected John and Russ at the Royal Elizabeth after the show and headed for the Hotel Congress to join the rest of the gang.  As we walked through Tucson that night, random people recognized John and were calling out his name.  I realized how much that would suck if you just finished two shows in a town you didn’t know and just wanted to get some dinner.

We sat down at the table and immediately some busty starfucker chick plopped herself right down between John and Russ.  I tried to ignore her as she launched into some sort of pitch.  John was polite.  I have no idea if he found her annoying or not.  She was annoying to me.  At one point she said, “You wanna know how I spell my last name?  It has an umlaut in it.”  I said, “Like Mötley Crüe?”  She whipped her head around at me and snapped, “No!”  Then she got up and left.

Yet another reminder of the perils of celebrity.  People in restaurants just sitting down right next to you pitching their ideas as if you were interested in collaborating with them while you’re trying to eat.  They treat you like you’re some sort of commodity.  Like they got a piece of your real estate.  (Of course, knowing my luck, her people have talked with John’s people and she’s just secured a development deal with HBO and she’s going to do a skit about some shithead who poked fun at her umlauts.)

We all had a good time eating and drinking.  I got to chat a bit more with Russ who was really very nice.  Early the next morning as Chuck dropped them off at the airport, Russ said, “Check your fridge mate.”  When Chuck got home, there was a bottle of Champagne and a thank you card signed by Russ and John.  OK, OK, maybe not all actors are assholes.

Sunday
Ray and I headed back home.  I pondered the events of the weekend.  What would it be like if I could do a show?  Hell, what would it be like to have a production manager??  Is it too late to try?  I don’t live in LA anymore.  How does one pitch to HBO?   Maybe I should add an umlaut to my name.  Cöbban?  Or perhaps, I should get a video camera and make my own little shows…start small.  Post them to YouTube…

While we were gone, I’d received an email from Bisbee’s Obscure Productions.  I have done a few shows with them in the past to keep my theater muscles flexible.  They are putting on their 6th (Almost) Annual Comedy Show entitled, “No Shenanigans!” and wanted to know if I would be interested in doing an original monologue…

Hey, why not, right?  What the hell have I got to lose?