Read Online Anything Goes by John Barrowman; Carole E. Barrowman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Barrowman; Carole E. Barrowman
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destructive behaviour. While filming Titans in 2000, I bought a condo in West Hollywood near LeMontrose Hotel, and Victoria and I were neighbours for a time.
When you’re young, the periods of hurt and intimidation and the awkwardness of adolescence can seem all-encompassing. But then, suddenly, you’re an adult, and you realize that if you ‘stay gold, Ponyboy,’ as Hinton’s novel says, sometimes the gay guys, I mean the good guys, do win.
‘Don’t Fence Me In’
T he summers of my American youth were glorious ones. By the late seventies, Carole no longer lived at home. She was a student at Northern Illinois University. Andrew was in high school with his own circle of friends, so he wasn’t around the house much either. I don’t want to suggest they had been cramping my style, but it seemed like overnight I went from being the baby in the family to becoming essentially an only child, and I experienced the kind of childhood everyone deserves.
We were living in Prestbury at that time and I spent May until late August in my swimming trunks. I’d pull them on in the morning, grab a towel, and head to the pool, where I’d meet two of my best friends at the time, Laura Mickey and Mike Molina. The lifeguard was on duty at the pool until 6 p.m., but we’d hang around later and whenever any adults came in, we’d ask if they’d let us swim with them taking charge. They always agreed. Prestbury was a secluded community at that time so everyone knew each other, but today, sadly, no matter how private and quiet the neighbourhood, no one on either side of the Atlantic would take on the responsibility of watching someone else’s children, never mind leaving them alone at a private swimming pool.
When we lived in Scotland, Carole, Andrew and I always had set bedtimes and curfews. Naturally, Carole was allowed to stay up the latest, Andrew went to bed an hour earlier and so on. Problem was, I didn’t need much sleep. As a result, I’d be sent to bed first and I’d still be wide awake, singing to myself in bed, reading or playing long after Andrew and Carole were fast asleep. Therefore, once my parents had adjusted to the cadences of an American summer, bedtimes and curfews shifted and were enforced only when my parents needed to lock up the house and go to bed themselves.
Did I take advantage of these loosened rules? You bet I did. My friends and I were little hellions, and not just in the summer. The roads and pavements of all the homes in Prestbury were bordered by a concrete culvert for water run-off and, during the winter of 1977, I learned how to ice skate on the narrow channel, which circled the entire neighbourhood and then drained into Prestbury’s man-made lake. Skating on that lake in the winter was like skating through Narnia. The ice was punctured with trees piercing through its smooth surface, and I’m sure my friends and I looked as if we belonged in a Christmas special as we’d swoop along the culvert in a line and then burst one by one on to the expanse of the lake, breathless from laughing and skating so fast. I learned some of my best moves on the Prestbury lake in the seventies, although when I first skated for Olga during training for Dancing on Ice, she wasn’t nearly as impressed with them as I was. Somehow, they seemed more spectacular when I was ten.
In the spring, when the ice melted, the water would run off into a creek that ran behind my friend Laura’s house. From there, it flowed into a more secluded section of the culvert, through a concrete tunnel under the road, and finally, in a rush, it would recycle into the lake. In the late spring and early summer, when the water draining into the creek was at its fullest, Laura, Mike and I would sneak behind her house, throw ourselves into the rushingcreek and let the current carry us along the culvert into the tunnel – where the water would be flowing so fast we’d pick up speed, get flipped over a few times, swallow a few litres, pop to
When you’re young, the periods of hurt and intimidation and the awkwardness of adolescence can seem all-encompassing. But then, suddenly, you’re an adult, and you realize that if you ‘stay gold, Ponyboy,’ as Hinton’s novel says, sometimes the gay guys, I mean the good guys, do win.
‘Don’t Fence Me In’
T he summers of my American youth were glorious ones. By the late seventies, Carole no longer lived at home. She was a student at Northern Illinois University. Andrew was in high school with his own circle of friends, so he wasn’t around the house much either. I don’t want to suggest they had been cramping my style, but it seemed like overnight I went from being the baby in the family to becoming essentially an only child, and I experienced the kind of childhood everyone deserves.
We were living in Prestbury at that time and I spent May until late August in my swimming trunks. I’d pull them on in the morning, grab a towel, and head to the pool, where I’d meet two of my best friends at the time, Laura Mickey and Mike Molina. The lifeguard was on duty at the pool until 6 p.m., but we’d hang around later and whenever any adults came in, we’d ask if they’d let us swim with them taking charge. They always agreed. Prestbury was a secluded community at that time so everyone knew each other, but today, sadly, no matter how private and quiet the neighbourhood, no one on either side of the Atlantic would take on the responsibility of watching someone else’s children, never mind leaving them alone at a private swimming pool.
When we lived in Scotland, Carole, Andrew and I always had set bedtimes and curfews. Naturally, Carole was allowed to stay up the latest, Andrew went to bed an hour earlier and so on. Problem was, I didn’t need much sleep. As a result, I’d be sent to bed first and I’d still be wide awake, singing to myself in bed, reading or playing long after Andrew and Carole were fast asleep. Therefore, once my parents had adjusted to the cadences of an American summer, bedtimes and curfews shifted and were enforced only when my parents needed to lock up the house and go to bed themselves.
Did I take advantage of these loosened rules? You bet I did. My friends and I were little hellions, and not just in the summer. The roads and pavements of all the homes in Prestbury were bordered by a concrete culvert for water run-off and, during the winter of 1977, I learned how to ice skate on the narrow channel, which circled the entire neighbourhood and then drained into Prestbury’s man-made lake. Skating on that lake in the winter was like skating through Narnia. The ice was punctured with trees piercing through its smooth surface, and I’m sure my friends and I looked as if we belonged in a Christmas special as we’d swoop along the culvert in a line and then burst one by one on to the expanse of the lake, breathless from laughing and skating so fast. I learned some of my best moves on the Prestbury lake in the seventies, although when I first skated for Olga during training for Dancing on Ice, she wasn’t nearly as impressed with them as I was. Somehow, they seemed more spectacular when I was ten.
In the spring, when the ice melted, the water would run off into a creek that ran behind my friend Laura’s house. From there, it flowed into a more secluded section of the culvert, through a concrete tunnel under the road, and finally, in a rush, it would recycle into the lake. In the late spring and early summer, when the water draining into the creek was at its fullest, Laura, Mike and I would sneak behind her house, throw ourselves into the rushingcreek and let the current carry us along the culvert into the tunnel – where the water would be flowing so fast we’d pick up speed, get flipped over a few times, swallow a few litres, pop to
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