The Day After …

To Everyone Who Read or Shared my “Open Letter” post —

When I sat down to write that post I merely wanted to share my thoughts. I had no expectations at all as to what would happen. I posted it to my Facebook page, tweeted it to Rosie, Sheri Salata (a major player with Oprah’s production company), and Oprah herself. (Who knows if they’ll actually see it?) I also individually tweeted a few folks on Twitter.

And that was it. I was done with it. And ready to get back to the book.

Well, not exactly.

Writers and bloggers are curious as to how their work is received. We have only three ways to gauge the reception of our work outside of nagging friends and family —

1. converse with readers face-to-face
2. read comments left by readers
3. check the daily readership stats of our blog

I checked back a few minutes after making the “Open Letter” available for public viewing—one comment. That was cool.

I checked back a few minutes later, and the count was up to twenty. I found that impressive as my weekly total hits for this year averaged at about 60.

A few hours later, the count jumped to 75.

I wish I had taken screen capture images to show you the tide of hits, but to make a long story short my total views for yesterday came to 527 views. As of this writing, today’s totals are at 732 views. Apparently, bigotry and short-sightedness (no pun … well, okay, it was intentional) tend to raise people’s hackles—as they should.

Obviously, this overwhelming response happened because you guys were moved and shared the post with your friends and family. Thank you for your support, comments, sharing, and the very gracious things you’ve all posted about me. You inspire me to become that guy you wrote about.

For the longest time, I thought people really didn’t “get me.” Apparently, I was quite mistaken about that. You’re the best! Thank you.

An Open Letter to Rosie O’Donnell

Ms. O’Donnell,

The first time I watched the above clip my reaction was tepid as it wasn’t the first time I’d heard of someone having an anxiety over Little People. Since I’m considerably shorter than 99% of the adults on the planet, I’ve pretty much heard and seen it all.

I can understand the irrational nature of your fear/anxiety of Little People as that’s the defining characteristic of an anxiety: it doesn’t make sense. And that anxiety is born of a lack of exposure to, experience with, or ignorance about that which is feared. And in this case, it’s a group of people who are physically different from yourself.

Throughout history one group of people has ridiculed other groups of people (Blacks, Jews, the disabled, Gays) without taking their humanity into account. What’s cool about the moniker “Little People” is that in its essence it needs no further explanation. Short-statured people are not halflings to be pitied, pets to be pampered, nor are we objects to be fetishised.

We are people.

We are people with parents, husbands, wives, partners, and children. We are people who make valuable contributions to the world as writers, entertainers, lawyers, doctors, bartenders, IT gurus, and in other professions too numerous to mention. We are Black, White, Asian, Mexican, and Chinese. We are straight and gay. We are Christian, Jewish, Atheist, Agnostic, Hindu, and undecided. We are people with hopes and dreams. And like you, we are a people who hope to some day live in a world without being subjected to the demeaning and ill-conceived misconceptions of others.

The thing that leaves me aghast and disappointed to my core is that with all the work you’ve done for Autism Speaks, Human Rights Campaign, and other charities; how could you in good conscience voice the opinions in this interview? With a national platform such as yours, how can you justify engaging in such thoughtless and bigoted conversation?

As you’ve probably guessed, I am a Little Person. I also graduated with a state of Florida honors diploma in high school, graduated college, climbed the ranks to become the top Donald Duck performer at the Walt Disney World Magic Kingdom, became an award-winning print art director in Walt Disney World Resort Design and the then Disney University, moved to California and designed merchandise for The Disney Stores, did time with Disney Imagineering in Glendale, worked in Beverly Hills with a film production company, acted in TV and film, and have performed for many years in both traveling companies and the flagship production of the Radio City Christmas Spectacular.

(Whew! That was probably the world’s longest run-on sentence.)

A few years ago, friends encouraged me write my memoir. At first mention, I dragged my feet in committing to the project. I mean, really. Who thinks their life story is the stuff people want to read? But finally, I saw the value in writing an autobiography. And when I see clips like the one above, I realize that even in 2012 there’s a need for such a book to educate and hopefully inspire people.

My memoir entitled Walking Tall—which will be released late May 2012 for iPad and Kindle—deals with not only with my experiences as a Little Person, but also as a Black-Christian-gay man, and how I came to embrace those facets of myself others might consider deficits or challenges, turning them into assets, and moving on to live a fulfilling life, even in the face of those who would disparage my God-given right to do so.

Tell me this, if you watched another television host say the things you and Chelsea Handler said about “lesbians” or “the transgendered” or “gay parents” instead of Little People, what would your reaction be?

Rosie, my hope is that you’ll come to expand your current view of Little People and realize that you have a lot more in common with us than you could ever imagine.

Sincerely,

Clay Rivers

Y’all Rock!

Facebook is such a wonderful tool. When I first joined the king of all social media services, I didn’t know what to expect. It seemed silly to me to let the world know what was going on in my life, but I figured what the heck and signed up anyway. And within a few days, an old friend of mine I hadn’t seen since college friend-requested me as if by magic. Soon I ventured out and reconnected with friends from around the corner, across the country, and years gone by.

I noted the changes in my friends’ lives and how they’d changed, but found having easy access to all that info a little voyeuristic. And there were the thoughts of  ” … wow! The last time I saw them they were ten years younger and at least twenty pounds lighter! They got old.” Of course, I completely deluded myself that I hadn’t aged a day or gained a pound.

(To those of you reading this who are under twenty years of age and have no grasp of the concept of the havoc time can wreak on a body; as my Grandmother Mamie used to say, “Keep living, you’ll find out soon enough.”)

Since my foray into social media, my friends have made my birthday a very special occasion: they all come out of the woodwork and post birthday wishes on my Wall! (I type this with the fervor like I’m the only person on the planet this happens to.) And I love it! I eat it up! No, really, I do! With every one of those birthday wishes—be they the short and succinct “happy birthday” or something of a higher word count—a broad smile creeps across my face as my mind is flooded with memories of interactions with the sender.

I know it probably only took the sender a couple of seconds to type “happy birthday,” but it meant a whole lot to me. So … with all that said, I extend a heartfelt thank you to those of you who posted birthday wishes on my wall.

(And to those of you who missed the opportunity, don’t worry; the celebration lasts throughout the entire month of February.)

Untitled.

The past few months have been full of more stops, starts, and detours, than L.A.’s 405 freeway while under construction. I began last year with several extensive re-writes of my manuscript—thanks to the input from a few well-read and honest friends.

Once I polished the manuscript as best I could, I wrote and re-wrote my agent query letter in the hopes of piquing the interest of that perfect agent who would ultimately shepherd my manuscript to the right publisher.

Together, my agent and I crafted a pretty solid book proposal which was submitted to publishers great and small.

Finally came a sprinkling of tepid responses from publishers who couldn’t wrap their brains around the notion that a book can appeal to a broad audience based on psychographics, not just demographics.

So almost a month into 2012, after hesitation, consideration, and wringing of my hands, I’ve decided there’s only one thing I do—

[drumroll, please]

—to forego the traditional publishing route and self-publish my manuscript as an e-book that will be available for iPad, Nook, and Kindle just before summer 2012.

[exhale]

Do I know what’s down the road? Nope.

Trust me, this was not a road I ever dreamed of traveling, but it seems that with the help of some good friends, a lot of faith, and a God-given skill set that’s been nurtured for a project like this my whole life, everything’s going to turn out fine.

Hey, come on along! The more the merrier!

And Now a Word From Our Sponsor.

This blog, its previous iterations “TuffyPants,” and the many “ChristmasIs” incarnations have been in existence for about seven years. These blogs grew out of a desire to share my on-the-road experiences with friends and family who either couldn’t attend the performances or were curious about my holiday hijinks. I blogged about everything from soup to nuts.

But unbeknownst to me, something else took place. Thanks to you, I found my writing voice.

You rewarded me with your commentary on some blog posts and withheld your thoughts on others. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the posts I haphazardly cobbled together got few responses; but the essays I poured my heart into—whether the tone was somber or sardonic—resonated with you and you let me know it.

When whispers of self-doubt dogged me into inactivity, many of you rallied around me, gave me time to get it off my chest, and then summarily rendered well-tempered words of encouragement— along with a swift kick in the pants when necessary.

What prompted this outpouring of gratitude? This—

The number of hits for my blog for the first eighteen days of this year is already 25% of my total hits for the last seven months! That’s not to say that large numbers of blog hits are indicative of good writing, but what the numbers do say is that you’re coming back and in doing so you encourage me to strive to become the best writer I possibly can. And for that I extend to you a heartfelt “thank you.”

The take-away: pay it forward and thank someone who’s encouraged or is still encouraging you.

(Note: Please don’t get freaked out if your picture isn’t in the image above. There’s way too many of you to fit into the collage. Besides, it’d have taken me at least a good year or two to create the graphic.)

Elves Do Not Travel in Packs for a Reason.

Working the Christmas Spectacular is a blast. Radio City pays me a crazy amount of money for the work I do—that’s not to say they’re not getting their money’s worth. I get to hang out with some insanely talented and genuinely nice people all day. Both my ego and need for approval are sated with the applause (translation: adoration and gratitude) of roughly 5,000 to 6,000 people in the audience at the end of each performance.

When the day is done, I go my merry way and slip into an imagined cloak of anonymity as I get twenty feet from the stage door. Sometimes I’ll hear an unobtrusive “nice job” or random “good show” waft by and that’s about it. It’s like the audience has uniformly memorized the seven words that make up the How to Handle Stage Actors chapter in the New York City Theatrical Patron Code of Conduct Handbook—Avoid direct contact with actors at all costs.

Imagine seeing Ringo Starr (feel free to insert a member of your favorite pop music boy-band or girl-group) on the street after a Beatles concert; no biggie, right. If you’re like me you’d probably try to do everything in your power to maintain a level of coolness comparable to ol’ Ringo’s and give a cool wink, a nod, or a wave and as soon as he has responded in kind and moved well out of sight you’d do some frenetic happy dance and tell all your friends how you chatted Ringo Starr up. I don’t know about you, but I’d still tell friends I “chatted” with Ringo. I’d let the lie live just long enough until I saw the wave of envy creep over my friends’ faces, then I’d confess that the encounter was little more than a sighting.

Don’t judge me. If you haven’t pulled this stunt before, you haven’t lived.

But that cloak of anonymity is rendered null and void if my Elfmates and I travel within two blocks of the Music Hall en masse. If we’re all together within that radius, previously unfazed New Yorkers turn into photo hounds of the worst kind. I know what I’m talking about because back in October a bunch of us went to the 9/11 Memorial and nary a picture was sought nor a word spoken to us. Well, I take that back. There was the time—that same day—in a downtown Starbucks a young woman who had to be under the influence of an unknown controlled substance none too subtly suggested that I join her and the senior upon whose arm she was draped for a late afternoon tryst. But that’s post for another day.

Folks, I’m not making this stuff up, I’m a non-fiction writer.

One night after a full day of shows, my Elfmates and I decided to go to del Frisco’s Double Eagle Steakhouse for a nightcap, well within the two-block radius. En route to the restaurant, my friends and I waded through the post-show crowd when we heard a woman shriek some twenty paces ahead of us—

“Oh, my Gawd! They were in the show!”

The crowds parted and the six of us stood before a living nightmare before Christmas: a rabid Jersey girl on a mission (and I make no reference to any member of Bravo TV’s Real Housewives of New Jersey franchise). My friends and I, didn’t have to look at one another, we knew what we were in for. Miss New Jersey reacted as if she had come in contact with John, Paul, George, and Ringo.

“Hold on, nobody move! I gotta get pic-chah,” she said and began scrambling to corral us underneath the Radio City marquee like we were feral cats. “Tony, get the camera? You guys are so cute!”

Lucky for Miss New Jersey, I was not a feral cat. Because I was I would have clawed her eyes out at the mention of the word “cute.” Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. Footage of twin baby boys having a conversation with one another in a secret language is cute. Adults who are under four feet six inches tall and wear mall elf costumes in a stage show are not “cute,” nor do we like to be referred to as such.

“You stand over here, and you here,” she said. “And I’ll stand in the middle. Tony, hurry up!”

While Tony searched feverishly for the camera, Miss New Jersey cleared sight lines between us and her would-be photographer. This spontaneous photo session prompted the same reaction from other patrons of the show: everyone in the immediate area began whipping out their camera phones.

“We love the show. It was fabulous. We’ve seen the show ever since I can remember. Are all you guys from New York? How long have you been doing the show?” And thus began the interview portion of the night’s adventure.

“I found it! I found it,” Tony yelled and fumbled with the camera. “Okay. One, two, three.”

“Hold on! You gotta turn on the flash. The pictures never come out without the flash,” Miss New Jersey said and bolted over to help Tony.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Right here, for Gawd’s sake,” she said, indicated, and scurried back to us and extended both arms around her subjects. “Now take the picture.”

“Yes, Tony. Please hurry up and take the friggin’ picture so I can roll up outta here,” I thought to myself and held my breath.

“One, two, three,” Tony said. “I got it.”

I exhaled in relief.

“Take some more.”

My relief turned to despair.

Shutterbug Tony clicked away. And after what seemed like a lifetime, Miss New Jersey walked over to Tony and inspected the snapshots. Whether or not the pictures turned out, I’ll never know.

“I’m outta here,” I mumbled under my breath to my nearest Elfmate and made a run for it.

“Oh, these are great,” Miss New Jersey squealed.

“Merry Christmas,” we all said and scattered. A few second later we regrouped in front of the Music Hall and beelined it for del Frisco’s. Along the way a bad Santa impersonator seeking legitimacy, a Lady Liberty Wanna-be, and SpongeBob SquarePants all made unabashed attempts at getting us to pose with them for a picture. As tempting as the offers were, we continued on to the sanctuary of our destination.

Unfortunately, a scene very similar to the one with Miss New Jersey occurred at the hostess stand within seconds of our arrival and moved one member of our party to hit the eject button and left our group posthaste. Once the hostess seated us, the murmurs died down and we were treated to the inescapable sight of a couple who couldn’t keep their hands and mouths off each other during our meal.

Note, the events mentioned are not my only encounters with fanboys and fangirls. They are, however, the only incidents that I have been unable to purge from my memory.

The Return of … That Guy.

We all know that guy—the one who captures the attention of everyone in a room simply by showing up. Who hasn’t been in the company of the guy who can raise eyebrows, uproarious laughter, and sometimes hackles with the ease of drawing a breath? And who hasn’t been able to name the guy who was the subject of seemingly far-fetched stories? On a night in the middle of my eleventh season as a performer in the Christmas Spectacular, despite my best efforts I became that guy. Again.

(NOTE: To those of you who can recall any such “that guy” moment from my past, I’ll thank you now to simply relish the memory of the event and not mention it here.)

I decided early in the season to take a different approach to my Christmastime social life. I would do no dance numbers on any bar tops no matter how inviting. I would take no scandalous photos of others. And there would be even fewer pictures of me with adult beverages in my hands than in previous years. After all, I had my future as a writer to think of.

My plan worked just fine until the Monday after Thanksgiving weekend. That night my castmates and I capped off a hefty week of shows with a trip to our favorite Irish pub only a few blocks from the Music Hall. Most of the usual suspects were present. I commented to a friend that the boyfriend of one of the Rockettes (who referred to himself as “Geisel’s man”) had a new, unsightly, and hairy growth situated below his nose and above his lip. I assume he referred to himself as such to let everyone know that he accepted the fact that of the two them his girlfriend, Theodora Geisel, was the headliner in our Christmas social circle as well in their relationship.

My friend agreed, but said that Geisel was no fan of it either. Geisel who was within earshot looked over and said, ”I hate it.”

That was all I needed to hear. I set out to give a Geisel’s man a little grief about his mustache. I amped up Geisel’s stance and opined that the hairy caterpillar resting on his upper lip transformed him from an affable Everyman into the guy parents and law enforcement officers ban from school playgrounds.

“Dude, that mustache makes you look … pervy,” I said.

“I don’t care,” Geisel’s man said.

“Theodora hates it.”

“I know, but it’s staying till the end of the month.”

The mustache turned into the gift that kept on giving.

“That’s only two days away. I can shave that thing off, right now. With a flick of my wrist, both you and Geisel can be free of that thing in minutes. I have a razor and some shaving cream with me in my backpack.”

“Nope.”Geisel’s man was unmoved.

After relentlessly pressing Geisel’s man about his mustache, he confessed he grew it in support of Movember, a movement to bring awareness to prostate cancer and other male cancers.

How could I argue with that? I conceded defeat to a higher cause, congratulated Geisel’s man on his social activism, and hopped back on my barstool.

Fast forward an hour or so.

The evening was winding down when all of a sudden Geisel’s man announced at the top of his lungs, “I’m losing my mustache right now and Clay’s going to shave it off!”

Geisel’s man moseyed over and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Right?”

“No,” I said. Obviously, no one cut off Geisel’s man’s access to alcohol in time. “I’m not giving you a shave in this bar. I was just kidding about having that stuff in my bag.”

“That’s okay,” Geisel’s man said as I reached for my backpack. “Zack went next door to Duane Reade and bought some shaving cream and a razor.”

“But … “

Before I could finish my next rational excuse for not shaving a face that was not my own, Geisel’s man ushered me over to a couple of tall tables for two that had been pushed together and with a glass of warm water, a Bic razor, a can of Barbasol.

“Okay, Clay. Get to it,” Zack (the boyfriend of another Rockette) yelled while slathering a mound of shaving cream all over Geisel’s man’s face.

I looked over at Geisel and she gave a subtle nod of approval. And my friends, the lot who thoroughly enjoy witnessing me become that guy, rallied spontaneous cheers to get the show on the road.

Seconds later, there I was kneeling atop a barstool gingerly giving Geisel’s man a shave. In a pub. All the while trying not to draw blood with the cheap0 razor. After a few strokes, I realized the guy’s facial hair was über thick and not coming off as easily as I would have liked. The feat progressed at a snail’s pace.

“Oh, come on. We don’t have all night,” Zack said.

I gladly handed over the razor and let Zack finish the shave. Seconds later there were streaks of blood all over Geisel’s man’s face.

“That never happened on my watch, Geisel,” I said.

Eventually, Geisel’s mustache came off and the New York Health Department never found out about the incident. (Thank God, because chances are they would have shut the joint down.)

The take-away? There are two.

1. Never joke about doing something you have no intention of doing
2. Never underestimate the power of peer pressure. Ever.

Lights Out.

photo by Jason “Cha Cha” Perez

So. With the 2011 season of the Radio City Christmas Spectacular under my belt, I’m ready to get back to the task at hand: becoming a published writer. I garnered the interest of a literary agent, Claire Gerus, in late October and as I mentioned in an earlier post at the beginning of the season, rehearsing during the day and putting together the requisite book proposal at night proved challenging to my sanity.

Once the show opened, I was at a loss for time, energy, and motivation to focus on writing anything longer than a tweet; and even those strained my concentration. That meant my morning pages (a writer’s version of quick morning run) and a sufficient number of pithy blog posts all pretty much fell by the wayside.

But I’m back now, with a plan to flex my atrophied writing muscles. Over the next couple weeks I will cull inspiration from some of the season’s most prime photos and bring your up to speed as to what went on over the past 83 days in New York.

Sound good?

Good.

You get caught up on the highlights and I get back into the non-fiction groove. Everybody wins.

The Spiritual Significance of the New Year.

If you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time you know that I’ve spent the past three months in New York rehearsing and performing in the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular. And you also know that the relationships I’ve formed over the years with cast and crew alike are a source of great personal joy, life lessons, and countless other epiphanies.

Otis, one of the Music Hall’s most grounded stagehands and friend of mine, sent me an email that moved me so deeply I felt it necessary to share it with you.

Enjoy. And happy new year!

From the spiritual point of view, the new year has a specific significance. One the eve of the new year, a new consciousness dawns on earth. God once again inspires each human being, each creature, with new hope, new light, new peace and new bliss. God always wants us to move ahead; He does not want us to look back. We know that while a runner is running fast, if he looks back, he drops to the ground. Similarly, if we are constantly looking behind at the year that we are leaving aside, we will think of our sorrow, misery, frustration, failure and so forth. But if we look forward, we will see hope dawning ahead deep within us. We will see a new light illumining our consciousness.

Each new year is like a rung on the ladder of consciousness that we have to climb up. When the new year dawns we have to make ourselves conscious of the fact that we have to transcend ourselves this year. We have to go beyond our present capacity, beyond our present achievement. When we have that kind of firm determination, God showers His choicest Blessings upon our devoted heads. God says, “The new year dawns and a new consciousness dawns within you. Run toward the destined Goal.” We listen to God. We listen to the dictates of our Inner Pilot and we run toward the ultimate Reality. The new year energises us, encourages us and inspires us to run toward that ultimate Goal.

—Sri Chinmoy, God-Journey’s Perfection-Return, Agni Press, 1975.

My Favorite Christmas Music Video of 2011.

The folks I work with onstage and backstage at the Christmas Spectacular are some of the most talented in the country. Zac Hammer (a member of my cast), Alex Karigan, along with a few of their friends turned their sites to spreading a little Christmas cheer with their music video “Miracle on 42nd Street.” As you’ll see, it’s smart, funny, irreverent, and was done in only one take. Ellen Degeneres, if you’re listening … you need to have them on your show.

Sit back and enjoy, this little ditty is guaranteed to put a smile on your face!