[Editor’s Note: Kyrle Lendhoffer’s column Behind The Proscenium has been on a management-ordered temporary hiatus for the past couple of weeks. Mr. Lendhoffer would like to set the record straight on recent events and give you some insight into what transpired. Manka Bros. and the Manka Bros. Publishing Group supports an individual’s right to personal security and does not support alleged criminal behavior by our employees.]
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A Personal Note From Kyrle Lendhoffer:
Stalker. It is a dirty word. A dirty word for dirty people.
I am not dirty, and yet the press – most of whom I thought of as colleagues and friends – decided to paint me with that brush. And once painted one cannot become unpainted, even if one did not deserve the lash of the brush that would paint one with the world “stalker” – metaphorically, smack dab in the forehead. I was forced to wear the scarlet “S”. Painted on by cretins… and foul and ugly mists of vapours!
Where do I begin? When one has been thrown in a trash heap, how can he recall the steps in reverse? From the moral refuse dump of the damned, back into the dump truck, back into the city collection scow where he (ME) was dumped from the ash can after being unceremoniously and callously tossed away – BY PEOPLE THOUGHT TO BE FRIENDS!
And yes! I did intend the all caps to be a primal yell from the heart! My broken, bleeding, weeping heart.
You see, recently I began a series of interviews with (I find it almost unbearable to type his name) Zachary Tisdale.
We first met a month ago or so at the Manka Palace Theatre when the Tennessee Williams masterwork “Haunted Alligators” was in rehearsal. Before I knew any better, I began to believe that Zachary was a paragon of acting as well as that of chiseled manhood (how God would have allowed such amazing pectoral muscles to be attached to such a clod I will never know, but I digress).
After our second or third interview together (only one was allowed to be printed by the Manka Bros. Corporate Gestapos!), I began to feel as if we had started to forge a special relationship. He would be the artist above the rest of the world, a God in a pantheon that few people outside of “show business” would ever understand.
I was positioned to be the conduit that would allow the world to see his brilliance – and let the hoi polloi hear his honeyed voice, yet help maintain the buffer that his kind of genius needs from the great unwashed.
To set the record straight: On the night of February 8th, I did not STALK Mr. Tisdale. I had earlier that evening witnessed his God-like brilliance in Haunted Alligators and simply wanted to offer my congratulations.
I approached him without warning in an alley outside of the theater, just as any resourceful and professional writer would have done. Although we were quite close at this time (despite what Zachary says now. Oh, Zachary, why do you still try to hurt me?), I thought that by taking him unaware it would make for a more open exchange of pleasantries.
And I was so right! If the courts would ever allow me to enter into the official transcript my side of the story, dear reader, you would be in heaven.
Flush with the glory of that night’s success, I decided that the time was ripe for another interview. Why so soon? I was at a bar (unnamed, they no longer get my business nor shall they get yours) with several (ex) friends celebrating Haunted Alligators’ triumph. Little did I know, as I downed Brandy Alexander after delicious Brandy Alexander, that I was having a hand in my own epic downfall. Drinking at a bastard Judas bar, surrounded by bastard Judas barflies.
As the sweet nectar rushed to my brain, my (ex) friends suggested that it would be a perfect time to get a follow-up interview from Zachary. And in my state of inebriation, I agreed that it was a magnificent idea.
To make a protracted saga petite, I did NOT (at 2:25 a.m. as the police state – yes, Police State!) stand in front of Zachary’s brownstone shouting unsuitable comments at the top of my lungs. I was merely trying to ascertain if Mr. Tisdale was in his apartment, and if so, why he wasn’t answering his buzzer. He could have been in distress (a push-up accident or some other work out calamity – well, “damn me to hell” for my generous concern). The police and, ultimately, the courts disagreed with me. So be it. The Pope disagreed with Galileo and we all know who was right in the end!
I must stop now – my plea agreement allows me only so many words to attend to this event. But I feel better. I feel as if my words are the kerosene that helps me remove this hideous “S” from my forehead.
And as for you, Mr. Tisdale, I know you think that your daring tongue scorns to unsay what it once hath delivered – but I know better.
And I will accept your call… and your apology over dinner. Because I am not “dirty”. I am not… a STALKER!
Kyrle Lendhoffer – Behind The Proscenium
P.S. – For the time being, I am allowed to work – and I have just seen the most delightful production of Romeo & Juliet @ The Circle In The O (review coming tomorrow!)
