Well, I’m told that you don’t actually WIN the Acclaim Award, that it’s not a competition, that the Acclaim people merely recognize excellence in theater in Cincinnati and that I’ve just earned this Acclaim Award, the first to be announced for the 2006 season…wow, they sure know how take the fun out of the syntax.

Anyway, I’m thrilled. This award is apparently very prestigious there in that really cool arts town, so no matter what verb I describe the getting of this thing with, it certainly rocks to be Acclaimed. The unusual thing about this honor is I don’t really know what I’m being honored for. They don’t announce the actual catagory that you have earned recognition for (oh, just let me say “won”, for gyshsakes,) they just announce that you are to be honored at their chi-chi ceremony next May. (Yes, I’ll go. Of course, I’ll go. I’ll wear the dress, bring my mother, make the dignified speech and the rest of the crap you and I have fantasized about. And for the rest of my life I can say, “Hey! They love me in Cincinnati.”) So they may be honoring me for “Best Home movie footage in theatre in Cincinnati.” Ya don’t know till you get there.

The coolest thing about not winning this award is my brother’s voice on the phone when he told me. He’s pretty not so lively on the phone. King of the awkward silence. He called to tell me this and you could hear the biggest smile in his voice. He was more animated than I’ve ever heard him in any conversation since my childhood. Warmed my heart…
Tracy web goddess put up the link - look to the right of the blog window and click away!

So, back in LA for a while now and since it’s been all real life stuff, I haven’t blogged. Re-entry was tough, I must admit. One of the first things I heard upon my return was that an old friend, Tracy Theilan, had died of an overdose. I know Tracy from the Iguana Cafe crowd. The Iguana became my living room when I was homeless in ‘91. It became the anvil on which I forged a new artistic identity soon after. It was a great place to grow and hang. Tom closed the Iguana in ‘95 and I cried for a week. No break-up, no death, no anything ever had cried so much that I got ill. I cried myself into a fever of a hundred and one and was off work for five days. I had ended enough eras to know that this one was gone for good and my heart has ached for it ever since.

Tracy was one of the singer-songwriters that peopled the Peoples Republic of Iguanaland.  But he was a non-pareil.  He was brilliant in that off-handed manner, that type of brilliance some artists have in spite of themselves.  He played a little guitar.  Literally little.  Don’t know what it’s called or why anyone would choose to play it, but the fact of it was funny.  And he was funny.  Not funny-ha-ha.  Funny-whoa-shit.  Political, insightful, sardonic,  and self-effacing.  Now, as I’m writing this, know that I did not know Tracy.  We were contemporaries but we did not hang.  All this stuff I write I do from seeing him play countless times and a few fleeting conversations where he smiled and nodded and sweat a lot.  He was not at ease with me and I have no idea why.  Maybe he didn’t like me, but I don’t think that was it.  He did like my work and told me so in a couple of those awkward conversations.  I wish I had known him.  We love so many of the same people.

At his wake, I saw so many of these people that are my crew.  There’s a familial feeling between us all – even those that I don’t know well.  We watched videos and heard others perform his music and read his poetry.  As Nelson Gary said, “It sucks that he’s dead.”

Tracy’s not the only passing to deal with.  Jose Payo passed on July 1st.  I cannot possibly eulogize him yet.