Back home tomorrow morning to good ole Hollywood. Time to get back to my life. I can't wait to see the palm trees.

And my wife.

And my kitties.

And the botox.

I get really sick and tired of people saying things like:

“Well….she’s always the same person.”

I hear that a lot about Crawford, Davis, Hepburn. Even some of my favorite men: Cary Grant, Bogart, James Stewart. First off. None of that is true. Actors play pieces of themselves, never their whole selves. So anyone who believes they actually know an actor up on screen has got the whole process backwards.

However, even if it were true, playing a part of yourself and exposing your heart and your inner life so freely isn’t exactly the easiest job on the planet. So, pretending that a lot of working actors are merely saying words and nodding their heads is like saying Napoleon ran a small goat farm and had a little war.

There’s something about Eartha Kitt that’s unmistakable. The voice, the Gestures, the brilliant use of her own Shape, all that…yes. But Kitt knows how to dig into something. She doesn’t fall into a role, she bulldozes her way in and then scratches her way out. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not just that we believe what she’s doing and who she is, it’s that we HAVE to believe what she’s doing and who she is. She makes us. She demands it.

I think one of the best parts of this clip is the very end when Rosie comes back on camera, and you see the real Kitt sparkle through her character’s thin veneer. That smile, that return to her normal Shape is perfectly clear. There is a difference. Whether it’s a matter of degree or taste, Eartha Kitt is a living powerhouse.

Simon`s Cat : TV Dinner A hungry cat resorts to increasingly desperate measures to gain attention. The latest installment in the Simon`s series.

One of my newest obsessions. Simon’s Cat is completely, unfailingly true. For all the cat lovers out there, you know this has happened to you.

Which reminds me, I gotta feed our kitties. Before they hit me with a safe.

One of my students up here in Fresno (Gabe Sunday….seriously) is an accomplished actor and a heck of funny guy. Recently, he went on an audition for a Jennifer Lopez film and lost the role because the producers told him he wasn’t “sexy enough” to be on screen with the Latina superstar. It’s a terrible thing to say to anyone, but this is how the business works.

Gabe, being Gabe, got together with some his film buddies, took some time out of their lives and made this short, thus taking charge of their own destinies.

I doubt very seriously that J. Lo will be calling any time soon. But who cares? This thing is brilliant.




(NSFW-ish)

The first time I set foot in a zoo I was somewhere around 6 or 7 years old. I was with my mom and we went to take a leisurely stroll and peer at the animals. I remember seeing the giraffes. Why I remember the giraffes most of all is a bit of a mystery to me, but that’s what I remember. Their heads were bent and their necks were hunched over as if they had all swallowed a large letter “C”.

They looked sad.

I don’t know if they were or not, but I that’s what I felt.

As we moved on, we kept trying to look at all the other animals and as we passed by cage after cage after cage, I noticed other kids clawing at them, making strange jungle sounds, or sometimes trying to call them over to the bars of their cages by smacking their lips together and impersonating a cat.

Even at that young age I knew these kids were morons. First of all, a Tiger isn’t that confused, and second of all, they were plain old lousy impressions.

I left the zoo crying. My mother never really understood why, but she never took me again.

I’ve been on various dates, and when I got married Chrisanne loved to go to the zoo as well. I’ll go occasionally, but I really have to suck it up and smile. It’s not a pleasant day for me. Whether or not they’ve been brought up in captivity or not has nothing to do with the fact that some wild animals belong out in the wild. Aardvarks and Lemurs were never meant to be potty trained.

Last week a chimpanzee escaped from a zoo in China. Here’s the video capturing the little buggers great escape. I think it’s brilliant, especially considering when the zoo people try to fire a tranquilizer gun at the animal; he literally grabs it out of their hands and throws it to the ground.

I’m sure zoos are fine for most people. I’m probably one of the few that finds them a house of torture. But honestly, if I’m wrong, and all those animals are perfectly content, why did the chimp try and escape in the first place?

The wind’s changing.

Everything for the past month has been about process and trying to figure things out. These 48 students have sobbed, laughed, fought, and flown farther than I think they ever thought possible.

Working with the master teachers I’ve been fortunate enough to have been around has been a mass of lessons that will take me months to sort out. So I won’t pressure myself into thinking about it now. And the students….ages 19 to over 50. I watch them work and I think:

“Oh. That’s how brave I need to get. Right.”

I’ve cried for them, pleaded them, pushed them, applauded for them, and screamed bloody murder at them when I felt them backing away from their own potential. David Rasowski from Second City in Chicago was here before the brilliant Eric Hunnicut (from Improv Olympic) took over, and I love his favorite quote:

“I’m not yelling at you. I’m yelling WITH you. You just haven’t learned how to yell yet.”

But with all the madness and brilliance that’s changed me, the wind is shifting and it’s time to pack up. Tomorrow is tech for “Balm” and the next evening is the two performances. Then it’s time to pack up and get back to my life. I want to go home so badly I can’t stand it. I walk out onto the balcony here and I look up and I pray tomorrow will come faster.

And then one of the kids walks by.

They’re taller. They’re brighter. They’re literally different than they were a month ago when they sat slumped in their seats on the bleachers in the Arena introducing themselves with ego and aplomb. They’re humbled by each other. In awe. Mystified by what other actors have given them.

On this last morning of our class together I reminded them that it’s not only about accepting the gifts, but more importantly, about passing them on. I mean, what’s a present unless it’s shared? Bring what you’ve learned to the outside world, because if there’s Life in your Art, there’s going to be Art in your Life.

And as much as I want to go home, I am absolutely terrified to leave these guys. I don’t want them out in the real world. They’re unprotected. They’re naked and something could happen to them. What if the Dragons come?

Pesky Dragons.

When I called Chrisanne yesterday she gave me another brilliant quote I’ve now adopted:

“If you choose the road with the least amount of obstacles, it’s probably the road that leads nowhere.”

So…I guess the Dragons will be there and the Great 48 will have to choose that path because they won’t be able to figure it out until they have a few more battle scars. I don’t have to like it, though.

I leave on Saturday morning after the two shows. It’s been a tiny miracle. But the wind is changing, and I’ve got to change with it. And I can’t wait to get home.

Still….I don’t have to like it.

The Jib/Jab boys are at it again. This time skewering the campaign and all it's insane players. I have to say, the Obama parody is genius. I've played it back about 55 times now.

“What’s it like when you’re on heroin?”

We were sitting on the grass in the middle of some scene work for “Balm in Gilead”, the play our 47 students are putting together at the end of the week. It’s a huge ensemble piece and we’ve divided the class up into two separate casts so everyone gets a chance to perform and work.

The world of the play is filled with homelessness, addiction, prostitution, and sickness. Pretty much Tuesday for me.

But for some of these kids, students who’ve lived a life that’s just beginning, it’s a hard road for them and an almost impossible task. How do you explain to a 22 year old college student what it’s like to be hooked on heroin? Exactly how far should I go? How much history is too much history? And quite frankly, I’ve been sober now for almost 15 years; did I actually remember what it felt like?

“Well…” I said gathering my strength a bit, “…it’s really a whole process. I used to cook mine in a long bong-like apparatus. I’d buy the stuff on the street, in Cabrini Green, which at the time was known as the projects in Chicago. Now I think it’s a summer retreat. But I remember the first time I actually saw heroin and knew I wasn’t in the middle of a movie. I was homeless and had nowhere to go. To sleep. I was tired of going from shelter to shelter and I remember it was starting to get cold outside. I ran into a guy who offered me his closet. There was an old mattress in this tiny, little walk-in closet of his in a filthy apartment that, at the time, seemed like a suite at The Playboy Mansion. I was so tired, and so hungry and half crazed it could have been the inside of a microwave and I would have been eternally grateful.

I remember laying my head down and then hearing noise coming from the kitchen. I popped up, opened the door and there, around a dark table were 3 or 4 guys lighting something on fire that resembled a Bunsen burner from my old science classes in High School. I crept by the door and stared fro a minute. Then, one of them took a needle from the center of the table, stuck in into the top of the small dish that was teetering precariously, and then plunged it gleefully into the middle of his arm.

It was pitch dark outside. I remember glancing out the window and thinking to myself that someone must have erased the sky. Not a star, not a moon, nothing. It was completely empty. Like staring at the bottom of a well.

Then, he sat back in his chair, and closed his eyes. And for about 10 minutes he ranted on and on about God, the sea, and some woman named Francis. It was incoherent babble, but I could tell, in his own head, he was making perfect sense. And as quickly as the high surged through him, it subsided and he went into a kind of half vegetative state.

The needle was shared by everyone at the table except my host, who was watching me out of the corner of his eye since my arrival.

‘Here.’ He said to me flatly.

He handed me the needle and I notice his arm was almost black. Like the sky outside the small, cracked kitchen window, there was nothing but big, black spots on the inside of his right arm. As if some small animal had walked up and down his forearm with paint on it’s feet.

I have no idea why, and to this day I can’t think of a logical reason, but I took it and jabbed it into my arm.

It was incredibly painful. I was furious. It didn’t look for one second like the others had gone through this pain, and I was ready to tear him limb from limb. And then, as quickly as my anger rose, my heart began to soar. I was happy. Then my happiness turned to elation. Things were fuzzier, less confusing, more joyful. I was almost overcome by the feeling that I was utterly invincible. I could do anything. I could take anything on. Nothing was that bad all of a sudden. So I didn’t have a home, so what? So I had no idea where my parents were, so what? Nothing really mattered, and even if it did, it was solvable.

As long as I had this.

I don’t remember much after that.

I woke up in a small pool of vomit in my closet on my mattress with a naked man sleeping next to me. I had no idea what had happened, or what day it was. And that was just the beginning.

From then on, it happened weekly, every other day, and sometimes hourly. Having the high wear off, coming down was unforgettable. It was like sitting naked with my mouth open in a bucket of live cockroaches. Biting, itching, crawling, my nerves jumping out of my own skin and every inch of me too alive and too awake. And it didn’t stop until the needle was in my arm.

It was almost 4 years later that I was able to put that thing away. Then I switched to cocaine, which I assumed was a less lethal drug.”

My student’s mouth hung open. We sat, in the middle of the day staring at each other. The sky was opening up and the sun was pouring down on us. Clouds, shades of blue and streams of light through the trees on campus as we sat cross legged face to face in the shade. Her beautiful 22 year old face shining at me and her blue eyes filling with tears and her breath a little short. She was scribbling furiously.

She then looked me straight in the eye and asked:

“Do you miss it?”

I looked right back at her and almost to myself and to God I said:

“Almost every single day of my life.”

And then I looked up and said a very, very quiet “Thank You.”

Thanks to the sweet Lord in Heaven we still have Dolly Parton. And thanks to her ginormous talents (of which there are many) she's written some of the best pop and country songs on the charts. Add that together with some sweet soul and blue grass and a monsterous hit movie and you have the makings for a Broadway hit.

Here's a little preview.

And yes, that's the delicioud Allison Janney playing the Lily Tomlin role. Perfect casting.



(Thanks to Are You There Blog?)

There's nothing better than Olberman doing his "Worst Person In The World" countdown.

Brilliant.

....and scary.

I get accused of not paying attention to my career all the time by my friends. I’m not crazy about using my Blog to pimp myself out, but once in a while never hurts, does it?

Besides, I’m proud of this one.

Back in Chicago there’s an organization that saved my life when I was first diagnosed. They asked me to do an interview for them, and I gladly accepted.

Now I suddenly feel as if I’d taken all my clothes off.

Outside on the street where John McCain was giving his big Town Hall speech, a 60 year old former reporter turned librarian carried a small hand made sign that simply read:

McCain = Bush

She was then told to leave the property and was issued a ticket by police and given a court date for trespassing. She was also told that if she stepped foot back onto the street near the Hall, that she would be arrested.

After you get over your horror and the sheer gall of this clip, rewind it and please tell me what’s up with the guy dressed like a gigantic pea pod. He’s in every shot.

Faces of people I'd like to meet.











































































































































































































........and a million more.

It was my very first day and I was terrified. Uta Hagen, an acclaimed and vilified acting teacher (maybe one of the best) was in Chicago for 6 weeks and was teaching an acting intensive. I was 20-something years old, still on drugs, and dressing like Emmet Kelly.

But I needed to act. I wanted to learn HOW to act.

I was living on the edge of the north side of Chicago and still working in drag clubs in and around the City and was completely and ultimately bored. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t get thoughts to stay in my head for a long period of time and I knew something was wrong. I had transitioned already and my parents had left my life for what I assumed, was for good. The only thing I had was an abusive, alcoholic boyfriend, my own heroin and cocaine addiction, two cats, and some Bob Mackie in my closet. I was lost. My soul was empty.

So, I took a chance and signed up for her class. When I signed up, I noticed that in order to even get in to see her for a consultation, everyone had to audition. Having been in the theatre when I was very small, I new I needed some monologues. I went to an actress friend of mine and she gave me something from a play that I don’t remember, and then I put together a Shakespeare piece from “Twelfth Night” which was the show where Chrisanne and I met in High School.

I auditioned on a Monday night, and it was raining. Those big, dew drop sized balls of rain that plummet from the earth and fall with a thud at your feet. I had forgotten an umbrella and although I took a cab downtown, just the walk from the door of the cab to the door of the theatre was enough to turn my teased up-do, into a flat, stringy mess.

I marched myself up the long stairway that took me to the lobby where I sat with about 20 other struggling actors. All of them in jeans and T-shirts, old shoes, scuffed and worn, and some in rented suits. With rented ties.

We were all trying our best to impress Ms Hagen.

“Alexandria Billingsley?”

My head jerked up, I’d been called a lot of things in my life, but never that.

“Alexandra Billings?” I said, correcting her as kindly as I could.

“You’re on deck.”

I had no idea what the heck she meant.

“I am? How’m I doin?”

No one laughed.

I found out later in my life that On Deck means You’re Next. Why they couldn’t have just told me I was next still boggles my mind, but everyone has their own language I suppose.

Finally, a woman walked out in tears holding on to her purse as if it were about to explode and charged out the front door. I was now officially terrified.

I walked down a hallway littered with pictures, ads, comic strips and peeling paint. As I rounded the bend I heard a gruff voice from beyond a huge yellow-ish door say:

“Come in.”

I walked around the corner, pushing the door to my left and was immediately face to face with Uta. She sat there, Grey haired, chain smoking, with a cigarette dangling out of her mouth and another one in her hand, and wrapped up in a scarf and a black coat.

“The weather here is Christ awful.” She said, sounded strangely like Elaine Stritch.

“It’s raining.” I announced.

She stared at me.

“What are going to do for us?” she said, her voice getting deeper.

She was the only person in the room, which initially, startled me.

“I’m doing a monologue from Twelfth Night.” I said shaking.

“My favorite.” She said flatly.

I inhaled and spoke as quickly as I could hoping I wouldn’t forget any of the words. I just rambled. As if someone had punctured me with a pin, I just let out all of the text at once and strung all the sentences together. I finished, sighed, and almost collapsed.

Uta sat staring at me. Her eyes were more slits than anything else, and they suddenly got smaller. The rain began to pat on the window behind me.

“Breathe.” She said to me.

I tried. I failed.

“Breather GODDAMIT!” she commanded.

I did. Immediately.

“Do it again.”

I did.

“Good. Better. Do it again.”

I did.

“Good better. Do it again.”

I did.

“Now…..speak the words.” She demanded.

I did.

“Good. Do it again.”

I did.

“Better. Do it again.”

I did.

“Good. Do it again.”

I did.

We did that for almost 15 minutes, which, when you’re doing Shakespeare is about 14 lifetimes. By the time we finished our repetition. I was exhausted. Every piece of bull I had walking in that room fell away. I was open, ready, and for me, for where I was in my life at that time…..available. I put myself back in the scene, and before I left, I did it one more time, and it was better. It wasn’t great, but it was better.

“We start on Monday. Don’t be late or I’ll kill you.” She said growling.

The class changed me and gave me something, Uta sitting in the back, in the dark screaming, yelling, pawing at the air, and sometimes granting us wishes. Giving us the gift of seeing ourselves naked and in a new light. Giving me hope. Making me believe there was something else out there for me. Wrapping herself up in a big black coat her grey hair flung over her shoulder, on the very last day of class, it was sunny and windy and she turned to me as she picked up her big black suitcase and said:

“Keep going, Billings. You have something to do.”

My kids and I are at the beginning of Repetition. There’s some opening up going on and it’s scaring us all. But we’re in free-fall right now. We’ve taken a huge step off a cliff and now we’re in mid flight with our arms outstretched waiting to see what happens next. And I know that all of them will survive this. Because I know if I have something to do….so do they.

About a month ago I wrote a short skit called “Paris Is Pissed” about the life and times of Paris Hilton and her freaked out posse. We did the performance at Sacred Fools Theatre (one of my favorite new hangouts in LA) and recently we were informed that our little skit was up for 2 Thursty Awards.

That’s right….two!

Best Celebrity Impersonation, and ofcourse, Best Cross Dressing (Matt Valle).

I also found out that one of the other skits that I actually appeared in was up for some major awards as well. This was called “Cathy’s Clown” and written by my good friend and our brand new roomie, Heather Hopkins. Although gorgeous, brown haired and soft spoken, Heather has a streak in her that’s a bit diabolical. Probably the thing that keeps us friends

If you go the website you’ll see that I’m up for Most Naked. That’s right…..best use of tassels in one evening.

My career is rising in the East like the sun.

A MeMe I got from the brilliant mind of Sheila O’Malley. You're only supposed to answer in one word, and then never repeat the same word twice.

I've never been crazy about rules, but in this case, I took it as a challenge.


1. Where is your cell phone? Desk

2. Your significant other? Wife

3. Your hair? Streaked

4. Your mother? Gone

5. Your father? Respected

6. Your favorite time of day? Dark

7. Your dream last night? Blank

8. Your favorite drink? Tea

9. Your dream goal? Broadway

10. The room you’re in? Dorm

11. Your ex? Tall

12. Your fear? Many

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Happy

14. What you are not? Rich

15. Your Favorite meal? Burger

16. One of your wish list items? Health

17. The last thing you did? Talk

18. Where you grew up? California-ish’

19. What are you wearing? Gap

20. Your TV is? Computer

21. Your pets? Two

22. Your computer? Doorway

23. Your life? Huge

24. Your mood? Heavens

25. Missing someone? Chrisanne

26. Your car? Old

27. Something you’re not wearing? Shirt

28. Favorite store? Fields

29. Your summer? Brilliant

30. Your favorite colour? Purple

31. When is the last time you laughed? Lunch

32. When is the last time you cried? Breakfast

33. Your health? Great

34. Your children? Learning

35. Your future? Bright

36. Your beliefs? Mine

37. Young or old? Neither

38. Your image? Sharp

39. Your appearance? Fabulous

40. Would you live your life over again knowing what you know? Definitely

This woman can do anything.

Literally anything.

She is completely open, available, brave and works in fearless and reckless abandon. It's everything I want to be. Who else could make a piece of Architecture become a living scene partner?



(Massive thanks to my wife, Chrisanne)

I landed here in Fresno with a thud. It's only a four hour car trip away from where we live but flying in the air for an hour is a lot like bad sex. It happens very quickly and with your eyes closed.

I was grateful for that.

The last two days have spun me around in a circle. Meeting with other teachers and dealing with 42 students has been mind blowing. I’ve realized how untrained my brain is at remembering who’s who. I’ve now taken to associating each person with someone famous.

Oh…Paula….like Abdul.

Oh…Elizabeth…..like Montgomery.

Oh…..Diatra……like nothing I’ve ever heard of in my life.

And so it goes.

On campus here there’s more than just the Steppenwolf roaming around with pencils and papers and books and various copies of “The Cherry orchard” tucked under our arms. It’s alive with millions of other artists from all over the world. Dance troupes, photographers, painters, writers, sculptors, people from all walks of life coming together for a month to learn and share their knowledge and get bigger and broader and wider and come out the other end, whole.

Sitting in the cafeteria brings up a smorgasbord of relentless terror for me. In High School going to lunch was always a gamble. Who was going to throw their Jell-o at me today? Where would I get hit? Could I make it to gym class without getting shoved into a locker with a mouth full of pizza burger? Angst filled me. Looking around the room at the popular people at their popular tables laughing, touching each other, slapping backs and cracking jokes made me feel unwanted and alone. I usually drifted toward the theatre kids which only propelled my tormentors to ridicule the entire group of us instead of singling me out.

So, here in Fresno, going down the line with my little tray and my pile of tasteless chicken surprise riddles me with memories I thought had long since been buried.

Then I realize, as I head into the main dining room, that I have tags. I’m a teacher. I have things around my neck that tell each student there’s nothing they can do to me. I’m protected. I’m an adult now. You can’t hurt me. I have my Tag Shield.

As I sat down with the rest of the Steppenwolfians, I notice the kinds of people around the room. This wasn’t the same High School gaggle of rag tag collectives I remembered. Everyone was everywhere. Colors, shapes, sizes and ages. No one was judging anyone. No one was smashing into anyone. People were talking Art. Their love of it, there need for it, and how to get more.

I was enthralled.

I wandered over to an adjoining table get a Coke and sitting next to me was a young 23 year old artist named Jose, who spoke very little English. I sat next to two of my students, and the smile on Jose’s face widened. He was alone and around him was language that made very little sense to him. My students and I smiled at him, and finally I leaned into him over my dry and brittle chicken sandwich, and said:

“Hola. Me llama Alejandra. Y tu?”

His smiled got bigger. He looked up at me with his humungous brown eyes, batted them a bit, and went into a diatribe of Spanish that left me breathless.

When he finally paused, I said to him:

“Enchilada.”

It was the only thing I could think of to say.

I tried as best I could to speak to him, and he tried as best he could to speak to me, the rest we dealt with in laughter and rotten sign language. We left the table and congratulated each other on how well we thought the other one did.

As night came and my classes ended and the magic of these amazing students began to wash over me, I headed back to my dorm…which is about the size of my kitchen at home. In the grassy knoll that separates the students from the teachers, there was a female drum circle going on. Five African American women and a drummer in the middle of the grass with the night air raining down on them and a light summer breeze they were stomping, grinding and writhing in circles. The beat of the drum and the black, back night somehow gave me this strange sense of peace. Here were these women from another part of the world dancing in the middle of Fresno California with me carrying plays from Russia. It was but much at the moment. Completely stunned at what I was looking at, one of my students Gabe turned to me suddenly and said:

“I have to dance.”

“Then you should dance.” I said back to him.

He threw his books on the ground and bounded to his place in the circle. It was amazing. Worlds colliding 10 feet away from me, and without any casualties. No judgment, just pure joy at the thought of someone else coming in a speaking their language.

I seemed to have been thrown into paradise without warning. I’m taking it in one step at a time, but I feel before this is done, they’ll be hundreds more worlds to peek in to. And I'm walking around feeling changed in a way that’s not possible to put down on paper. Something is turning in me. Something real and scary and huge. And I don’t want it to stop. I’m just praying that while all this is happening, someone in the cafeteria learns how to make chicken that actually has taste.

"I support the efforts of the people of California to recognize marriage as a unique institution between a man and a woman, just as we did in my home state of Arizona. I do not believe judges should be making these decisions."

As I sit getting ready for the 5 million students I have this morning, I was sent the link to Amy and Mine's newest online broadcast. I constantly think to myself that people must be sick and tired of hearing my story, but.....well, here it is again.

If you have nothing else to do, while your boss isn't looking, go ahead and take a tiny listen. Hopefully it won't put you to sleep.