A Fan's Report: "Diary of a Mad for David Strathairn Housewife"

Though I am not regularly updating this blog anymore, I recently received a wonderful essay written by a David Strathairn fan. It was about her journey across the U.S. to see Mr. Strathain in Hannah and Martin. Be sure to read it below and, should you want to, feel free to respond and share your own Strathairn encounters.

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Diary of a Mad for David Strathairn Housewife
By P.V.

Let’s face it, the last time I felt this way was when I used to drag my parents to nine am mass on Sunday so I could stare at the back of Dave Del Grande’s head. It was a crush so powerful, I forgot to pray for bigger boobs, smaller lips, and a 1600 on my SAT. I forgot everything. Except to wear my tightest, sexiest jeans.

I’m in “love” like that again. But now, all I have to do is turn on my DVD player. David Strathairn, David Strathairn, David Strathairn…. Isn’t his name amazing? I keep saying it out loud until my husband and two young sons just roll their eyes. “Are you watching “Limbo” again, mom?” they sigh. You may not recognize his name, but I’m sure you’d know his face. He’s the tall, dark and handsome actor who played Eddie Cicotte in Eight Men Out, the poker faced pimp in LA Confidential, the smooth-talking, pathetic high school teacher in Blue Car. He excels at playing complicated men-- the quiet thinker, the tortured everyman, the conflicted pervert.

And because my devotion to him knows no bounds, I am forced to do the one thing I despise more than anything. Travel.

He’s in a play in New York, and I’m going. By myself. This is no small day trip, as I live in Los Angeles. I’ve bought my plane ticket, booked my hotel, and packed my tightest jeans. I’m petrified. I’ve never traveled alone, have only been to New York once before, and my nine years as a stay at home mom have cemented my love for routine. Get up, make coffee, fix lunches, feed frogs… From the steel-enforced bubble of my air conditioned minivan, New York seems like a frightening cauldron of chaos, the subway system a labyrinth from hell. I am deluged by images from the 1980’s-- blackouts, muggings, the Central Park Jogger…

But still, D.S. is there. And so I must go.

My five year old helps me pack. He insists I bring a fancy outfit and a checkers set. He says he won’t miss me at all.

I walk onto the plane, sans card games, Star Wars books, string cheese and sippy cups. I keep checking my bag, feel like I’ve forgotten something. Oh yeah-- my family! As we take off, I realize that this is more than just a trip to see an actor, it’s a journey back to my life before marriage and kids. A trek back to ancient days before two a.m. feedings and carpools, before every plastic container was evaluated on sight as a possible barf bucket. To a time when I was, pure and simple, a theater geek who loved to sit in the dark and dream. My youngest son is about to begin kindergarten and I’m feeling the vague urge to restart the writing career I abandoned when my kids were born. But here’s the question. Do I have the energy, the passion, the courage to try again? Have I waited too long to go back?

As my taxi approaches Manhattan, I press my nose to the glass. I feel like Marjorie Morningstar, about to arrive at South Wind. Like I did when my parents drove me up to my freshman dorm. New York City, in all its elegant glory, stretches out before me. I want to simultaneously do a war whoop and run screaming back to my Honda Odyssey.

I step into my hotel room, and breathe in the silence. It’s weirdly like church. Dave Del Grande is nowhere in sight, but I realize how much I’ve missed having a quiet place to be alone. I sit down on the bedspread and actually start to get weepy as I realize I can hear myself think. And that I’ll have to face these thoughts. What the hell am I doing here? Have I really flown across the country to see an actor I think is cute? Am I insane? I dress for dinner, nervous. One of my biggest fears about this trip has been having to eat alone, as in L.A. this is tantamount to having the word “loser” stamped on your forehead. But as I enter a nearby pub, its hushed darkness comforting, I relax. I sit and have a glass of wine, eat my food slowly. There is no jabbering, milk spilling, fighting. I can taste my fish, my salad, the bread… All around me are men, eating by themselves. I feel their power.

After a few glitches (intending to go to Ground Zero, I end up at Coney Island), I find my city legs. I ride the subway everywhere—to the Met, the Frick Collection… I go see “Assassins” at the Roundabout Theater and “Bug” in Greenwich Village. When I want to speak to people, I do. When I don’t, I’m silent. I don’t shout the words, “Stop that!” even once. Instead, I wake up late and eat croissants. I stare deeply at Jackson Pollock paintings. I smile. I write furiously in my notebook-- page after page after page after page. Where are all these ideas coming from? And where have they been hiding all these years?

Finally, the day arrives. I wake up and wonder why my stomach hurts. Then I remember. Today is the day I’m seeing D.S. I’ll be just a few feet away from him. I look at a plastic ice container and start evaluating it as a barf bucket for me. I suddenly realize that maybe you’re not supposed to actually see your movie star crush in person. Maybe you’re supposed to stay like, 3,000 miles away. Will I start sobbing/shaking when he walks onstage? Turn into one of those insane Beatles fans who drag their fingernails down their face?

I get to Soho early and try not to have a heart attack. I walk around, pretending to shop, then at 2:30 head to the Manhattan Ensemble Theater to watch “Hannah and Martin”-- a play about the real life love affair between German philosophers Hannah Arendt and Martin Heidegger.

I sit down and realize that this moment, my sitting in this chair, is why I came.

The lights dim and the play begins. I am lost. Lost in my theater past, lost in the experience of watching a play about something important—the complexities of love.

When the lights come up, I am stunned to find that I don’t feel like dragging my fingernails down my face at all. D.S.’s performance as Heidegger is amazing—deluded, brilliant, frightening-- and during the after play discussion, I stare at him. He’s wearing jeans, a white shirt, his hair rumpled, looks like a regular guy. And suddenly I understand that I’m not actually in LOVE with David Strathairn, but instead want to BE David Strathairn. Doing something I’m passionate about, and doing it well. I’d trade nothing for having my children, kissing their sweaty heads, rushing to the emergency room in the middle of the night, hearing them sing when they think no one’s listening… But I miss me. Seeing this actor, in this city, has reminded me of the complexities of what I love. Of who I am.

I step outside the theater. The sun is going down, the streets are emptying. I grab a cup of coffee and walk toward the subway. A French tourist asks me for directions. For the first time in nine years, I feel like I belong in my own skin.

Underground, I watch the subway whiz by then screech to a stop. I step inside, ready to go home.

I laugh out loud to think that my crush was really on myself. And that I can finally ditch these jeans.

Thank God. Because damn, they’re tight.