From Freddie Donovan, appearing as Philly Buster in THE GAY AMERICAN:
I was sitting at work, not sure what I was working on, probably a spreadsheet, when my phone buzzed on my mouse pad. I always have my phone on my mouse pad. One time it buzzed while my boss was sitting at my computer showing me something. That was embarrassing. Anyway, it buzzed, and tearing myself away from Excel, I saw that my friend Allison had texted me. She wanted to know if I would be interested in coming to Chicago for two months to do a show called The Gay American, in which I would play a Congressional page named Philly Buster who moonlighted as a go-go dancer and had a penchant for older male politicians. Given my own sordid past as Private Dancer for the Cheney family, I was intrigued.
After reading the script, I decided that the insane story of a gay governor, his strange estranged wife, their disturbed daughter and a pedophile Congressman was a little hard to swallow. If you know what I mean. It was too outrageous when it wasn't being hilarious and bizarrely heartwarming. There was no way a cast could make this story believable. But then I found out that the story was TRUE. I was apparently the last person to hear about Jim McGreevey when I Wikipedia'd him in February. But that's beside the point. I knew I had to be a part of something this biting, outspoken, real, and most importantly, important.
Upon arriving in town, I knew one of the first orders of business would be to find Buster's footwear, as he is often found within the pages of the script wearing rollerskates and go-go boots. The first time I skated was when I was on a third grade field trip, and I was the proud recipient of the Most Bruises Award, which consisted of a cheap certificate and a package of glow stars to stick on my ceiling. The second time I skated was Easter Sunday 2010 on a sidewalk by Lake Michigan. The x-rays showed that the damage was minimal. Onwards and upwards!
As for the go-go boots, Allison and I scrounged around Boystown one sunny day looking for the perfect pair. I wanted a pair that exploded with neon pink or orange and went up to my knees. After an afternoon of zero leads, I went out a few days later, once again in the town of Boys, for an altogether unrelated purpose, when I saw them: shiny, slick, and although not neon pink or green, they did explode with the patriotic fervor of a thousand Fourth of Julys. It made me want a hot dog real bad.
The perfect pair of go-go boots.