I knew someday the press would be after me to get the dirt. I just didn’t think it would take me fleeing the state to make the media realize that I am a veritable treasure trove of tantalizing stories just waiting to break over Bay Area audiences.
I just got off the phone with a reporter from a small weekly paper from where I used to live. Back in the day (aka two months ago), I routinely pitched this very same paper to cover a couple of my theatres. I got quite a lot of coverage, God bless them, but mostly they would copy-and-paste a portion of my (extraordinarily well-written) release and reword a few sentences, although sometimes not even that. They never sent a reviewer and they never wanted to do a feature or an interview. It’s a very small paper with an even smaller staff, and with print coverage shrinking even with the major dailies, I was pretty stoked.
It’s sort of a less insidious drug deal. I provide the (brilliant, engaging) goods, they deliver it to the masses. Sure, I would have liked to set up an interview, but meh, I got ink, they got content, the theatres got coverage, the readers get told. Everyone walks away happy.
I hate to ruin the magic for y’all who still read newspapers (it’s where they print words on physical paper, like those packing slips you get in the mail when you order online instead of going into a store. A “store” is . . . never mind), but, sometimes, you’re just reading my release. A hard-nosed reporter didn’t go through eight pots of black coffee to write about a rollicking musical comedy or the hottest holiday ticket gleaned from embargoed information he dug up from an anonymous lead. That was me. You’re welcome.
It turns out this paper is doing a big schmeary features on weddings in the area. So they searched for celebrities who recently celebrated their nuptials nearby and, finding none, they called me. Yes, *I* was interviewed. I talked about all the important things, like my awesome photographer, the good food, the sexy corsetry that made my dress, how I was too cheap to drop $5k on a DJ to play songs I’ve never heard of — you know, 20 minutes of breaking shit, let me tell you. And after I hung up, I was giddy, oh how pleased I was that SOMEONE still cares how I got my hair did. And then I felt stupid that I was still giddy over my wedding from a year and a half ago. . . not over marrying my husband, although I’m sure I mentioned him in the interview somewhere (love ya, M Fox!), but over the actual wedding. Stupid society, stupid gender norms. Best day of my life, BFFs 4EVA!!!!!!!!!
But mostly I felt stupid because of this. After three years of blatantly stretching the truth about where Ensemble Member #8 was from (“He grew up here, or his grandma did, or his babysitter bought coffee here! I SWEAR his dog pissed on that one bush downtown, I was there!”) or finding some obscure angle that could force the show to be more locally relevant so that the editors would grant me the boon of an actual story instead of just printing my (delicate, yet powerful) release, all I had to do was get married in the vicinity.
So, in my mind, the lesson is this. California needs to get its ass in gear on gay marriage, because then my theatres will have no trouble getting coverage.