brother, Josh, is on page 22 of last week's STAR magazine. He is
standing on a street corner in New York next to his fiancé,
a rock star, in a candid paparazzi shot, under a hot pink smudge
that reads "Couples News."
that everyone has been secretly wondering how all of this has been
affecting me, so I've decided to take just a moment and address
the rampant speculation that I'm certain has been zipping back and
forth between the hand-held wireless devices of my friends and acquaintances.
I am happy to report that I'm holding up just fine. My youngest
brother, Caleb, appeared in the pages of the October issue of Details
this past fall, modeling a vest -- they're back, who knew? It was
his first fashion editorial since being signed by Boss Models last
spring. So, this is all old hat. I just want to thank everyone for
your concern, and assure you that I am completely at ease with the
idea of my brothers appearing in the national media.
to kick them both in the nuts.
someone please explain to me how this happened? Would someone please
tell me how my two younger brothers have both managed to appear
on the glossy, four-color pages of the entertainment press before
I did? I want to cackle like a mad man, or just slowly slump to
the floor in a corner, my hand at my mouth, failing to contain my
great, wet, hiccupping sobs like Rachel Ward pining for Josh Morrow
in My Stepson, My Lover on Lifetime. Instead, I eat Breyer's light
ice cream bars by the box full, trying to ignore the gnawing fear
in the pit of my stomach that I have become a failure by default.
that moment as a little boy when I first witnessed Julie Andrews
twirl across the Alps in a Christmas Eve network broadcast of The
Sound of Music on my grandparents' television screen, I have wanted
nothing more than to be a famous actor. I began picturing myself
on magazine covers shortly thereafter, posing for imaginary photographers
in the bathroom mirror while wearing my robes. My robes were actually
big pieces of double-knit fabric that my mother had used for tablecloths
until they became too stained for Sunday company and they found
their way to the dress-up box. You see, when you're a fundamentalist
minister's son, and there is no TV to watch in the family room,
you are encouraged to read and play dress-up. And when you play
dress-up, you dress up like Bible characters -- preferably "Great
Men of the Bible." This was fine by me because as we all know,
men in Bible times wore robes -- long, flowing robes -- especially
Moses. Moses wore especially nice robes, I decided. According to
the book of Genesis, when Moses was barely two years old he had
been rescued from the Nile River by an Egyptian princess after his
desperate mother, Jocabed, sent him floating away in a basket made
of bulrushes rather than allow the Pharaoh's men to kill him along
with all of the other male children born to the Hebrew slaves. The
princess had fallen in love with baby Moses, and taken him to the
palace to raise him as her own.
playing this young, sexy, late teens/early twenties Prince Moses
-- tan, well-groomed, dashing about in a chariot like he owned the
place, caught somewhere between bulrushes and burning bush. Then,
after I tired of killing the Egyptian taskmaster who beat the Hebrew
slaves too hard, I'd pretend to be Julie Andrews in a guest appearance
on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. My robe would become an
elegant evening gown, and Johnny and I would laugh and chat about
my humble beginnings singing in bomb shelters during World War II.
We'd reminisce about how Walt Disney had cast me as Mary Poppins
for my ability to whistle, and then Johnny would ask me to the mic
to sing "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music,
and I would -- to thunderous applause.
after watching Julie Andrews solve a problem like Maria on national
television, I was given the opportunity to act on stage. When I
was four years old, my father directed me in my very first play
at the Calvary Bible College where he taught in Kansas City, Missouri.
I played a little boy who was struck and killed by a Roman chariot
while running across the street to meet Jesus. This all happened
off-stage, of course. The budget for a one-act Biblical drama at
the Bible College did not allow for an actual chariot, but I did
have 17 lines and two costumes. Mom had sewn identical, pale green
linen tunics with an emerald green trim at the neck, sleeves and
hem. One of these had been distressed so that it appeared to have
been on the body of a small boy who had met an untimely demise beneath
pointy horse hooves and chariot wheels. I believe my mother took
a cheese grater to it at one point, though I can't be sure. I do
know that it had been ripped and smeared with dirt and plenty of
red grease paint meant to look like blood.
the last scene in which I appeared alive, my mom and one of the
college girls in the play would take me downstairs to the ladies'
room and bloody me up with the same red grease paint. They also
used brown stage dirt and eyeliner, smudged to look like bruises,
and the occasional hematoma. The make-up always took forever to
get out in the shower, but I remember thinking that it was all worth
it for the gasps that we got when the college guy who played the
head servant walked out with me, limp in his arms. All in all, they
did a pretty good job roughing me up. I remember catching a glimpse
of myself in the mirror after the transformation one night. Frankly,
it was startling, and I made a mental note against death by chariot.
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