John Cameron Mitchell

       Woke up with a sore throat yesterday. Canceled last night’s Hedwig show even though a hot young Gen X magician was coming to see it. He is looking for a collaborator to create an off-Broadway show that, according to my agent, “will tell the story of the Bible through magic.” Found a doctor who would see me on short notice on the Upper East Side, not convenient given that I live on the Lower West Side. I almost killed myself getting there–seven staircases at the subway station. The doctor’s diagnosis: exhaustion. The setup was suspicious. There was no problem changing my appointment at the last minute. I was ushered into a cubicle instead of the empty waiting room. I had to make a credit card imprint before I was allowed to see the doctor. Had I stumbled into a Blockbuster Video? When I asked the receptionist if he was sure they were in my HMO network, he said, “I think so. Can I get tickets to your show?”
       Tired and sick all day. Played CDs and cable-surfed until I felt a shortness of breath. It felt as if I were editing my own embarrassing music video–forever. Screened incoming calls. Screened outgoing calls. Had to get out. Took my Dirt Devil to the repair shop. Had cheap sushi. Noticed a gay couple holding hands and was interested by how uninteresting such an event has become. Had to lie down. Caught up with some mail:

  • A nice note from a Hedwig idol, Madeline Kahn, thanking me for inviting her to opening night. Wrote her a thank you note. Will she write back to thank me for it?
  • A Screen Actors Guild check for 14 cents compensating me for the fourth Serbian rerun of a MacGyver episode.
  • A letter from a woman I remember as a sweet 14-year-old who came to see me in The Secret Garden many times. She is now recording songs, on her own label, that deal with her recovery from sexual abuse.
  • A letter from a Canadian guy I met at a bar a hundred years ago. Colored feathers fell out of the envelope. He congratulates me, in a zany font, on my reviews. I remembered introducing him to my friend Derek (now at Microsoft) and later telling Derek this guy was a model. He was silent for a moment. “A foot model?”
  • A letter from someone wanting me to contribute to a book titled How to Be Successful in America. Other contributors include Bart Conner and Norm Crosby.

       On the lobby floor of my apartment building is a monthly flyer from the New York Hemlock Society addressed to a Mr. and Mrs. Clive Small. Handwritten next to the address: “No longer at this address.”