For Frying Out Loud
REHOBOTH
BEACH DIARIES
By
Fay Jacobs
For Frying Out Loud
REHOBOTH
BEACH DIARIES
By
Fay Jacobs
Copyright © 2010 by Fay Jacobs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Cover and book design by Murray Archibald
Typeset by Steve Elkins
ISBN 978-0-615-34291-7 (Trade Paperback)
Also by the author
As I Lay Frying – a Rehoboth Beach Memoir
Fried & True – Tales from Rehoboth Beach
To
BJQ and the Usual Suspects
Foreword
BY ERIC C. PETERSON
The last couple of years have not been kind to Fay Jacobs. She moved to the seashore only to be buried under a foot of snow (which is not … supposed … to happen!), she’s been bossed and chastised by a synthetic voice on the dashboard who apparently never heard of the Verrazano bridge, she’s been threatened by bats in a literal backyard belfry and many other disconcerting adventures...
But who are we kidding? The last couple of years haven’t been kind to any of us. The planet is getting hotter, our bank accounts are getting smaller, and all of those little gadgets we were told would make our lives so much simpler have only made them more complicated than ever before.
It’s a good thing for us that Fay Jacobs has a sense of humor. Fay learned early on in life that while tragedies certainly do happen, most of them can later be turned into funny stories that can be shared with friends. And the laughs can make all the heartburn worth it.
Well, some stories are more worth it than others, but you know what I’m saying. It’s a philosophy that
helps Fay get through the tough times. It’s a philosophy that Fay has passed on to me during our seventeen years of friendship, and it really does work. Of course, the difference between Fay and I is that she has a lot more friends than I do.
And I’m no wallflower, either. Hey, I’ve got people. But Fay has a readership, built from years of writing a regular column in her hometown’s newsletter for the gay, lesbian, and allied straight communities of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware (Letters from CAMP Rehoboth) and from two collections of essays and reflections (As I Lay Frying, Fried & True), both published by A&M Books.
This readership isn’t just a group of fans. They’re a group of friends. They’ve known Fay at her best and her worst, and she’s made them laugh both times. Only a friend can do that.
So I guess I should amend that first statement. The last couple of years have been awfully good to Fay Jacobs. Okay, stuff happens – but when you’re Fay, most of that, um…“stuff” …can be turned into a funny story, and hundreds of people can soon have a good laugh about it.
And if you knew Fay like I know Fay (and since you’re reading this, I’m guessing you soon will), it doesn’t get much better than that.
Table of Contents
2007
Big Apple to Big Scrapple
Going to Extremes
A Whirlwind Friendship.
Moon Over the Military
You Can Go Home Again
Film, Finally, at 11
An Age-Old Ritual
Gay, Gay, Gay, Gay, Gay
A Whole Lotta Ugly from a Whole Bunch of Stupid
I Should Live So Long
The Terrorists Have Won, Part Two
Attention Melting Pot: Gay Is a Culture.
Tune in for the Fry Babies
Where
are the Dykes on Bikes?
2008
Oh Come All Ye Fruitcakes
Anchors Aweigh, It’s Gay
Shredding Some Light
Get Your History Straight and Your Nightlife Gay
Falling In Love Again
The Handwriting Is on the Wall
Is It Real or Is It “Memoir”?
Apocalypse in 2012?
Adding Insult to Injury
I Will Not Be Erased
Too Darn Hot
Don’t Hassle Me, I’m Local
I’m Here, I’m Queer, I’m Talking About It
Winds of Change
Only as Old as You Feel???
The Bitch on the Dashboard
2009
I (sort of) Witnessed History
Crying Wii, Wii, Wii all the Way Home
Schnauzerhaven Under Siege
Floundering on the High Seas
Going Bats
The Gayest Week Ever
I’m All Atwitter
Mermaids and Satyrs Unite!
The Gayby Boom
Climb Ev’ry Mountain
Eight is Enough
What Comes Around
Health Insurance Isn’t Insurance; It’s Pre-paid Healthcare
March On!
Expedia Dot Bomb
How Rehoboth Lived Up to Its Biblical Name
2010
It’s a Small Ride After All
The Snowpocalypse!
Are Wii or Are Wii Not Fit?
Home
Improvement Porn
Thanks for the Mammeries: Pre-Quake Sunday
A Rolling Home Gathers No Moss
Get Your Summer Read On!
My Name Is Fay J, and I Am a Carboholic
Who are the Real Boobs Here?
What’s Up With Your Vuvuzela?
Positively Stranger Than Fiction
Better Him Than Me, But Still
Mort Rubenstein, 91: Madison Avenue Ad Man
I Have Questionable Content. Woo-Hoo!
Fay and Bonnie’s Fabulous RV Adventure
The Times They Are a Changin’...or Are They
January 2007
BIG APPLE TO BIG SCRAPPLE
WHY
I LOVE THE DELAWARE COAST
I’m not a Delmarva native. Darn few of us here are. In fact, before I arrived I didn’t know that Delmarva meant the Delaware, Maryland and Virginia eastern shore. Delmarvalous. Frankly, to be considered an old-timer you have to have arrived with the Dutch or been born in a manger in a chicken coop.
So I’m an interloper. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love lower, slower Delaware.
Of course, when I first
arrived, mid-1990s, everything was a culture shock for this New
Yorker. Fresh off a daily one-hour commute, people here considered
the one-mile ride from downtown Rehoboth to Route One going “all
the way out on the highway.” At best, a New Yorker might carve a
pumpkin, but would never consider making one a prize-winning
projectile like they do here at the Pumpkin Chunkin’ Fest.
Most tellingly, folks in Sussex mostly looked baffled when I
mentioned Matzoh Ball soup.
As a matter of course, I was
suspicious of any event celebrating live chickens or dead Horseshoe
Crabs. And no true New Yorker would ever be caught ordering a flat
breakfast meat called scrapple made of spare pork parts too peculiar
for sausage.
Sure, my real estate agent provided full disclosure that I was moving to Rehoboth Beach, but frankly it never occurred to me I’d be living in rural Delaware. The first time I ventured outside my comfort zone was to the DMV. At first I thought some patrons were civil war re-enactors but it turned out they were
dressed for agribusiness. Who knew.
And people were really, really friendly, which made me both nervous and suspicious. I’d lived in a New York City apartment building for three years and never said a single word to anyone in the elevator. It’s just not done.
My second expedition took me across the Woodland Ferry outside Seaford. I love a good ferry ride, like the one between Manhattan and Staten Island, crowded amid 30 vehicles and 4,440 passengers with, of course, nobody saying a word to each other. Twenty one million people ride it annually, racing five miles
in 25 minutes, on the most reliable transit schedule in the U.S.
The Woodland Ferry, on the other hand, takes six cars and a sprinkle of chicken catchers over a really narrow trickle of the Nanticoke River. The slower lower trip, lasting five minutes, is like an arcade ride, and I love it. And it might or might not be running Thursday mornings because it might or might not be
down for maintenance.
For sheer contrast with, say, Manhattan’s Bloomingdales, we’ve got Wilson’s General Store, and darn it, the shop was closed on the Sunday I first rode past. Their sign said Ammunition, Notary Public, Groceries, Meat, Hardware, Subs, and Coffee. You never know when you are going to need eggs
and buckshot at the same time I’m sure it surprises no one that prior to my first Apple-Scrapple Festival I was a scrapple virgin.
There I was, chowing down on this legendary farm food, negotiating it nicely until I looked up and saw the 40-foot scrapple company sign listing the ingredients as pig’s snouts and lard. Just then the Hog Calling Contest began with people wailing “Suuu-eeeee, Suuueeeee,” which was roughly the same sound I was making spitting out my pig snout sandwich.
Wisely my mate grabbed my arm and steered me toward a vendor hawking kosher hot dogs, which, if dissected, are probably the Hebrew National equivalent of snouts and lard.
Here’s another of my favorite Sussex traditions – business cards by cash registers. Back in the Big Apple or its kissin’ cousin downtown Rehoboth, business cards by the register represent realtors, day spas and concierge services. A mere mile outside town, there are cards for gun cleaning, taxidermy, and deer-cutting. So near and yet so far.
Hey, just last week I saw a wild turkey by the side of the road, recognizing it as such from my previous experience with a whiskey bottle. This turkey had an under-chin wattle just crying out for a good plastic surgeon. I was sure it was my find of the day until I passed the front yard with the camels in it. I imagine every day, not just Wednesday, is hump day in that household.
Then there’s the infamous Delaware State Fair Duck Drop. Officials literally drop a duck (albeit gently) onto a numbered grid where people have plunked down money to wager which grid gets the first duck poop. You can’t make things like this up.
We also have the prehistoric-looking horseshoe crab. They say it’s more closely related to spiders, ticks, and scorpions than to crabs and I believe them. New York has its crustaceans, mostly on menus, but I can’t remember ever seeing a horseshoe crab wash up on Fire Island. Here, in the name of eco-tourism, they throw the damn things a festival.
So my love affair with the coast and its rural neighbors continues. Not that I haven’t shared my culture with the locals. Lots of long-time Delmarvans can be found singing karaoke with me to Liza’s “New York, New York,” spearing matzoh balls at my Passover Seder, or razzing me for my allegiance to the Bronx Bombers. Don’t tell anyone, but lately I’ve been rooting for the Shorebirds, our local farm team.
But I do have to be careful. Last time I went to New York I inadvertently started chatting with people in an elevator and almost got myself arrested. I’m an honorary Delmarvan now.
Except for the Scrapple. Some traditions are just too hard to swallow.
January 2007
GOING
TO EXTREMES
The terrorists have won. They’ve turned the once exhilarating adventure of airline travel into an excruciating ordeal. Between terrorists and Big Business, air travel is now an extreme sport.
I recently attended a conference in Seattle (and Bonnie came along, not realizing travel was no longer fun) and I have never, ever, had a worse travel experience, including the time my ass fell asleep on a 25-mile bike trip. (I know, what was I thinking?)
But the very act of getting from Philadelphia to Seattle without going insane was as extreme as it gets.
From the Al Qaida security handbook:
1. Liquids, gels and aerosols must be in three-ounce or smaller containers. Rolled up toothpaste tubes are forbidden. Is a terrorist likely to commandeer a plane by strapping himself with Crest Whitening gel?
2. Liquids must be placed in a single, quart-size, zip-top, clear plastic bag. I can’t seal ziplocks correctly with leftovers in them, so you can imagine how well I do trying to zippity do dah in front of armed guards.
3. Each traveler must place their plastic, zip-top bag in a bin for screening. My shampoo gets an MRI and I get to toss my shoes, wallet, keys and phone into a bin and watch it get sucked into a black hole – while I step through the metal detector and get felt up by a security worker and her explosive
detection device. Those people have a tough job. If they’re looking for sweaty, suspicious-acting terrorists, we’re all sweaty and suspicious, praying we’ll get our valuables back before somebody
else does. All this happens barefoot of course, ever since that goofy looking schmuck tried to blow up a plane with dynamite in his shoes. Now we have to remember to spray Dr. Scholl’s foot powder in the morning so we can get barefoot without causing a concourse evacuation.
I was relieved to read you can carry breast milk onto the plane. I’ve got to assume they mean outside the body. And all of a sudden tweezers are okay again. The Homeland Security police must have been confronted by an angry mob of menopausal woman threatening to grow goatees on long flights.
Yet, you’ll be pleased to know that while a whole list of things are banned from carry-on luggage, it’s perfectly alright to carry spear guns, meat cleavers and ice axes in checked luggage. Look around when you get your bags off the carousel; you could be standing next to a psychopath wielding a meat cleaver.
Once harried travelers emerge from the strip-search it’s time to run to the gate. If you stop to gaze at the departure screen, don’t take your hand off your luggage. Like the eternally looping announcement says, airport police can swoop in and detonate your unattended suitcase.
Hell, I am now forbidden from packing anything important anyway – just a magazine, my three ounces of toiletries and extra panties in case my checked luggage winds up some place other than I do. I can see them blowing up my carry-on and having to duck and cover from exploding underpants.
So we get onto the plane and immediately everybody heaves their carry-on up into the over-heads. Of course, the man ahead of us clogs the whole boarding process by trying to stuff a bag the size of a cello over my head. Hey, Pablo, check the damn thing .
Then we notice that despite paying $44 each to purchase five extra inches of leg room we’re still crammed in like sardines. Umm, we actually are flying united.
And we get to savor this experience longer than scheduled: the plane’s A/C goes up and until they fix it we’re stuck enjoying the five extra inches (is this sounding smarmy to you, too?) for 45 extra minutes, packed in a stifling aluminum tube.
Finally we are airborne and listening to the flight attendant’s instructions for grabbing our seat cushion to use as a flotation device should the plane ditch in the water. Hell, bending my arm to reach under my butt would shatter my right elbow on the window and my left on Bonnie’s jaw. I’d have to float as I’d never be able to swim.
More survivable might be an emergency landing on terra firma. But Bonnie turns to me and says “How can we get into the crash position? On the way to putting our heads between our knees we’ll knock ourselves unconscious on the seat in front of us.” Actually, it might be easier to put our heads between each others…um, I’ll stop now....
Then the flight attendant comes by with the beverage cart, but we’re packed so tightly neither one of us can get to our wallets without breaking a rib. We settle for free Diet Coke. As I raise the four ounce cup of liquid to my lips the guy in front of me tilts his seat back slamming me in the tits with the tray table and shooting the soft drink up my sinuses. Now that’s snorting coke.
Did I mention we had middle and window seats with (what else?) a Sumo wrestler on the aisle? But you knew that.
Finally, we land some place in America’s heartland, 45 minutes late for a connecting flight where the layover was supposed to be 55 minutes. We go running down the concourse, tickets, I.D.s and
chins flapping, gasping for air, screaming from shin splints, racing to the gate. Mercifully that flight was delayed by, I don’t know, sunshine? We made it by a whisker. Thank God I had the tweezers.
The second flight was, if
possible, more painful than the first, since we hadn’t sprung for
extra leg room.
By way of contrast, Bonnie and I exited Seattle
on a scenic train heading for Vancouver BC. It left and arrived on
time, had roomy, comfortable seats and a dining car serving a full
breakfast. The friendly porters had a delightfully quaint manner and
provided a startling level of service. We might have been on the
Orient Express. Sadly, we didn’t have a week for Amtrak to take us
home.
Fro pretty much mirrored To. Only instead of a cello, a fellow passenger tried to stow what looked like a John Deere tractor in the overheads.
When I got home I happened upon the Extreme Sports Channel where they mentioned “a bunch of hardened riders busting their asses.” I don’t know what sport they were talking about but it could have been the 747 fuselage team.
Actually, I looked it up. An extreme sport is defined as any sport with a very high level of danger, often involving speed, altitude and a heightened level of physical exertion. Such activities induce an adrenaline rush and the outcome of a mismanaged incident may be death.
Now I realize that statistics say flying is far safer than driving. That may be true, but these days, the extreme sport of air travel is less likely to induce an adrenalin rush and more likely to induce a persistent vegetative state.
Fortunately, the outcome of a mismanaged cabin incident may only be Diet Coke-covered clothing and inadvertent snuggling with strangers. But it sure ain’t no fun anymore.
Next, I’m off to New Orleans for a publishing convention. Let the extreme games begin....
February 2007
A
WHIRLWIND FRIENDSHIP, THEN LOSS
If you’ve paid even the slightest bit of attention to the struggle for gay rights in this country you know of Barbara Gittings. You might not recognize the name, but you remember seeing photos, from 1965, of homosexuals, men in suits and ties, women in skirts, protesting for gay rights in front of the White
House. Barbara was there, and she called it picketing. Most people call it the beginning of the entire gay rights movement in this country.
Barbara Gittings passed away too soon, on February 18 at age 75, after an incredibly courageous battle against breast cancer. She was a young 75, vigorous until close to the end, and passionate about her cause, probably until her last second of life. I’ve known of Barbara Gittings and her activist work almost from the moment I peeked my nose out of the closet in 1982, already more than thirty years into Barbara’s very visible gay rights crusade.
And while I knew of her for years, I only got to meet her last summer. And only for one weekend. But it was a total immersion weekend, filled with astounding stories of early organizing, picketing, and the way things were.
For the way things are, we can thank Barbara and her partner of 46 years Kay Lahausen. They were tireless and achieved a great deal in our struggle for equality. We all owe them – big time.
When Delaware Stonewall Democrats planned their annual fundraiser last summer, they decided to honor two different parties. Their 2006 accolades were to go to Sarah and Jim Brady, for their wonderful spirit, local and national activism, and caring.
The other honoree would be Gay rights pioneer Barbara Gittings. We had heard she wasn’t in the best of health, having fought cancer for years, and recently undergoing another course of chemotherapy. She told Stonewall organizers she was hesitant to make the drive from her home in Wilmington, DE to the beach by herself, as her partner Kay had mobility issues and wouldn’t be coming along. Bonnie and I volunteered to pick Barbara up on Friday night, transport her to Rehoboth and welcome her to our guest room.
From the minute she hopped (and it did seem like a hop) into our car, this petite and lively woman with the delightful smile started peppering us with questions. She wanted to know where we lived, how we met, what movies we liked, the last book we read, how many siblings we had, if we were out of the
closet to relatives, and dozens more inquiries. For our part we answered, exchanged a lot of laughs, and heard much of her story, too. Two hours later, when our car turned off Route One into our neighborhood, we were behaving like three old friends.
Interspersed with the life stories, Barbara cautioned that she tires easily and might not be up for too busy a weekend. No problem, we said, our house is yours for resting, relaxing and whatever you need for the weekend.
“Where’s the best place for dinner?” she asked immediately, “I love great restaurants. And can I meet some of your friends?”
While she disappeared into the guest room to change clothes, we invited four friends over for pre-dinner cocktails. When Barbara reappeared, she was wearing white tennis shorts, sneakers and a bright orange t-shirt with the slogan “Gay? Fine by Me!” on it.
Our friends arrived, I mixed martinis and Barbara sat cross-legged on our sofa, one of my dogs in her lap. She told us stories about her involvement in those White House pickets (“I insisted that we had to dress conservatively”) and the early days of the organization Daughters of Bilitis – the first and most famous lesbian rights organization. We learned the inside story of her arranging for a gay psychiatrist, disguised to protect his identity, coming to speak at the National Psychiatric Association. That event led directly to the 1973 NPA vote to remove homosexuality from their list of mental illnesses.
We offered Barbara a roster of Rehoboth restaurants and she selected a lovely upscale French place, for what turned out to be a fabulous dinner filled with great food, wine, and conversation.
After dinner, our guest asked if we could go to the boardwalk, so we drove up past the Henlopen Hotel, where we could access the beach and a great view of Rehoboth by night. “Can we walk?” Barbara asked. “Sure,” we said, heading south along the boardwalk towards Rehoboth Avenue. Then we passed the Avenue, continued walking under the stars toward Funland, and quickly, all the while chatting about
politics, reached the end of the boardwalk.
“I’ll go get the car,” Bonnie said.
“No,” said Barbara, “let’s walk back. And get some caramel popcorn on the way!”
If our guest tired easily, there was no evidence that night, even as Bonnie and I huffed and puffed returning to the car.
Back at home, there was a message on the phone from Barbara’s partner Kay, asking if we would please take photos of the next day’s Stonewall event for their memorabilia collection. The next day saw breakfast out, terrific stories, sharing of views, a little shopping at our gay bookstore and then the Stonewall event.
With perfect summer weather, and a large crowd, the stage was set for the big backyard event at the home along Silver Lake. A host of officials spoke, along with attending politicos, and finally we got to the honors. Both Sarah and Jim Brady, as well as Barbara made passionate and effusive remarks.
Stonewall presented Barbara with a lovely glass bowl, which she excitedly held over her head for all to see as she challenged us to keep up the fight.
Following the cocktail hour event it was off to dinner again. This time Barbara chose a gourmet Asian restaurant where we had another wonderful meal and more animated conversation. Bonnie and I were a little sad, because our weekend together was coming to an end.
On Sunday morning, Bonnie cooked pancakes as we sat around our table chatting about Rehoboth and Delaware politics. Then it was time to return Barbara to Wilmington. I don’t think any of us wanted the weekend to end.
As we drove North, Barbara wanted to know everything she had failed to ask us on the trip down and we wanted to know more about her career. It turns out that she and Kay mostly held low-level administrative
jobs to fund their real jobs as gay rights activists. We realized all the things Barbara and her contemporaries went through to make our current lives here in Rehoboth possible.
When we dropped her off at home, we felt like we’d made a wonderful new friend and she promised to stay in touch as well.
Through September we exchanged a few e-mails, and I soon got a package – a wonderful autographed book full of interviews from the early gay rights activists and quite a bit about Barbara herself. She also told me to look for a new documentary in which she was interviewed. In exchange, I sent along the
Stonewall event photos.
I was caught up in other things last fall – writing jobs, political races and putting the finishing touches on my next book. It was a while before I realized I hadn’t heard from Barbara regarding the package of pictures.
And I was totally stunned and saddened last week when I heard she had passed away, with Kay at her side. Bonnie and I were unhappy we hadn’t gotten the chance to see Barbara again, but I was torn. Selfishly I’d rather remember her charging in and out of our house, curly grey hair askew, asking questions, laughing out loud and wearing her “Gay? Fine by Me!” t-shirt.
You’re going to miss her whether you knew her or not.
March 2007
MOON OVER THE MILITARY,
OR NAKED GUN, TOO
With an intolerant, bigoted boss like Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Peter Pace, why would a gay person even want a military career?
But gay people do. They want to serve their country and get an education. They are willing to slog through a hideous political blunder like Iraq, risking their lives, to do it.
And General Pace says they are not worthy of offering that sacrifice. It’s a savage insult to gay citizens everywhere and some people are applauding him for it. His reasoning isn’t even as sly as the usual rant against gays in the military. The prevailing idiocy allows that gays would disrupt morale and discipline. In other words, gay people shouldn’t be allowed to serve because straight people are scared of them. It’s a sad and frequently offered argument.
But no, General Pace doesn’t hide behind the morale issue. He deletes an “e” and declares it to be a moral issue. To his closed mind gays are not moral, therefore they should not serve.
I think he’s hideously wrong of course, but in America he’s entitled to his opinion. But since he’s representing the entire U.S. military, I think he should be fired faster than a speeding Baghdad bullet. That’s my exercise of free speech.
It’s indefensible that he wants his personal beliefs to govern public policy. Last time I checked we weren’t a theocracy yet.
But at least General Pace is honest. Bigots who hide behind the troop morale pretext make me
gag. These people envision gay men who would choose military careers wearing nipple rings with their uniforms, soliciting in the showers and threatening the dignity of heterosexuals as they lie in their barracks beds. You just know that’s what they conjure in their tiny intolerant brains.
Indulge me, but do you know any nudists? I do. At least I’ve heard that some people I know are nudists (or naturists as they prefer to be called). Since I’m not a naturist myself (I hear you breathing that sigh of relief) the world of naturism is foreign to me. Even a little off-putting, if you will, because I know nothing
about it and it raises thoughts of a great big social taboo. Fine. While I’d be uncomfortable at a party with naturists behaving like naturists while I try to avert my eyeballs, I have no problem with naturists who are dressed in public. What they do behind closed doors or on secluded beaches is their business.
But if the aforementioned naturists worked at CAMP Rehoboth (they don’t, so stop fantasizing) or in a corporate setting where they valued their careers, would they strip down and show me Trafalgar Square by the water cooler? Would they attend staff meetings in the nude? Not only wouldn’t they do it, but where would they stash their Blackberrys?
Let’s ask ourselves if America would put up with a public policy stating that naturists are barred from military service or corporate careers because they behave in an immoral manner in private? Sadly, now that I’ve brought the subject up, under the current political administration, they just might. But it would
be unforgivably stupid, insulting, and a complete waste of talented people who would show up to work in clothing, even on casual Friday.
Okay, you can pick at this analogy, but in a hate-the-sin,love-the-sinner scenario, it’s just as disturbing to bar gay people from the military when they are not having sex as it is to bar nudist people from the military when they are not butt naked.
Yes, I know, practicing nudity is a choice and practicing homosexuality is how we are born (besides, we don’t need practice, we are good at it). And yes, I know that being a nudist is a choice and being a homosexual is not. But face it, if we apply the ridiculous hate-the-sinner standard to both, nudists and gays would be suspect for what they DO, not who they are.
I think it’s ridiculous to bar homosexuals and nudists from the work place even when they are not practicing, in public, for all the world to ogle, the act that labels them homosexuals or nudists in the first place.
Ooh, here’s another imperfect but illustrative analogy of naked is as naked does. While I may not be a nudist (sorry to remind you of that image again), I do have a tattoo. A small one, on my ankle. But years ago I knew a fellow who went into a tattoo frenzy in college. By the time I met him, he was reconciled
to wearing long sleeves, even on sweltering days, just to look appropriate at client meetings. He may have been a proud tattoo owner on Friday evening, but during the work week he wore his corporate drag.
Would a person who wants to show off, all the time, tattooed arms, legs, and cheeks in both possible locations want to work in a place where everybody else covers up with Armani? I think not. Likewise it would be pretty brainless for a nudist to expect to be able to show up in the Board room without his pants.
So too, even pea-brained bigots have to realize that a gay man who wants to succeed in the military would not jeopardize his career by wearing a feather boa with fatigues or a tank top saying “You Go Girl” while he’s in a tank.
I’m using the boys as an example here because we all know that the military would collapse without its lesbians. But the women who value keeping their jobs will behave correctly as well.
I say we judge everybody by the same behavior standard. There are disciplined gays and lesbians, nudists, and tattooed ladies and gentlemen along with the requisite few misbehaving naturists, tattooees, straight people and homos.
Let everyone who wants to serve do so. After that, go to town making sure everybody behaves appropriately for the military. What’s so hard about that?
I’m so furious, that this tattooed gay gal wants to strip and moon the military, starting with General Peter Pace. Close your eyes, sir, I’m not kidding.
April 2007
YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN
BUT YOU CAN’T STAY VERY LONG…
When I moved to Rehoboth full-time eight years ago, I thought I’d constantly be doing a reverse commute for Washington, D.C. weekends. How could I live without Thai food, theatres, museums, or national politics? I envisioned frequent caravans for culture. Hasn’t happened.
The Rehoboth I moved to already had gourmet restaurants, and more ethnicity soon followed. Rehoboth had live theatre and more has developed; many of our friends were already weekenders, with an astonishing number having made the move full time. And frankly, knowing that most people make
their closest friendships early in life, I never dreamed I’d meet so many people and enlarge my circle of friendships so meaningfully here in Sussex County.
Oh, and the Rehoboth Museum is on the cusp of opening. It’s not the Smithsonian, but it’s ours.
Not feeling the pull to go West, as the Village People might sing, it’s been a rare trip back to civilization.
Bonnie and I (and the dogs) made the drive to Maryland on a recent Friday to stay with friends, see The Heidi Chronicles at Arena Stage and enjoy D.C. in the spring.
Upon our arrival we walked the dogs through lush mounds of fallen Cherry Tree petals, and gazed with wonder at all the old-growth landscaping, bursting with bright red and pink azalea blossoms, Dogwood blooms and those ubiquitous and almost-but-not-quite-finished-blooming Cherry Trees.
On a driving tour we were gape jawed at Bethesda and Silver Spring, once sleepy diner-dotted suburbs, now morphed into towering urban metropoli. Asian fusion food, gobs of galleries, and behemoth Barnes & Nobles punctuated the cityscape.
Blues skies and a sunny day accompanied our winding drive down Rock Creek Parkway toward the D.C. waterfront, all the while passing the well-known architectural edifices devoted to our nation’s history. Adjacent was the sparkling Potomac River, people in paddle boats and city streets bursting with activity.
I’m loathe to admit that I suffered a momentary pang – was it regret? – for leaving all this behind and running off to the Delaware beaches. Dare I say it? Had I erred? Could small town Rehoboth ever compete with this?
The Capitol Dome loomed, bright white against a perfectly blue sky, looking glorious in the humidity-free air. This was a perfect 10 for a Washington, D.C. day.
But Lo! What were all those clunky concrete barricades and big black fences? And Military Police with weapons? My God, the place was practically shouting “Code Orange!” for Homeland Security and our government buildings were cowering inside their own terrorist-proofed Green Zone.
Security-blocked roads made navigation dicey on the way to the Maine Avenue seafood district. As the car whipped from Southeast to Northeast, around this circle and that, I started to long for my one tiny Rehoboth Avenue traffic circle, with its one bicycle cop in shorts and no AK47.
On-street parking eluded us so we entered an underground bunker offering $5 for the first hour and your 401K for the rest. The shiny quarters reserved for the Rehoboth meters were useless here; credit cards with increased limits encouraged.
Upstairs, the famed waterside seafood restaurant sprawled from dining room to dining room, with no less than five massive buffet stations offering deep fried, steamed, broiled, and sauced seafood, fried chicken, jambalaya, chowder, a beef carving station, copious salads, butter-drenched corn, mountains of caloric desserts and an entire buffet table devoted to breakfast blintzes, burritos, pancakes, and hominy grits.
The bounty could bring weight watchers to their knees, but it was all astoundingly mediocre – a word not associated with Rehoboth eateries. Besides, for $25 per person at home we can have breakfast or lunch anywhere in town, stroll the boardwalk for a funnel cake dessert, buy a t-shirt, and still not top twenty five bucks a head.
In the interest of full disclosure, the matinee was pretty good. You can’t beat the production values money can buy. But truthfully, although the cast had wonderful resumes, some of the shows I’ve seen at the beach have had more heart. That surprised me.
Heading out of the fortified Green Zone and the atmosphere of Martial Law, back to the slightly smaller city of Bethesda, we got tangled in traffic. Passing the tony Chevy Chase Metro I was astounded and saddened to see a homeless woman living in her own Green Zone of cardboard boxes right
there at the station. Welcome to the big city.
Driving along Maryland and Virginia highways and past mature neighborhoods put my local concerns for overdevelopment in perspective. Maryland and Virginia are full, completely used up, every inch developed, like a Monopoly board. I realize that we’ve cultivated a huge crop of townhouses recently, but lucky for us we still have our chicken coops, rural roads and undeveloped waterfront. At least for now.
And Washington, D.C. doesn’t have the Apple-Scrapple celebration and the amazing Delmarva Chicken Festival. Yes, I am claiming them as mine.
As for the Maryland Monopoly suburbs, every time we passed GO, in the shops or on the highways, it was time to pay $200 in sales tax and highway tolls – another reason to appreciate tax-free Rehoboth.
Sunday night. The pups had it with the leash thing and longed for their fenced backyard with its doggie door. I’d had enough of the traffic and hassles. On the city-bound lanes coming back from the beach, vehicles crept bumper to bumper with weekenders returning from the shore. On our side, it was clear sailing toward home.
Now I’m not saying that the lone Cherry Tree starting to blossom on our lawn can hold a candle to Washington’s Tidal Basin display, or the dwarf azaleas getting ready to bloom are worthy of a garden tour, but it’s home sweet home to me. Without the armed guards or Homeland Security codes, thank
you. Home. Land. Security. Ahhhhhh.
May 2007
FILM, FINALLY, AT 11
The trouble began when I slowed down. I’m sure you’ve heard me whining about needing time in the slow lane. Well, Sunday was it.
In fact, the morning rain inspired me. I didn’t put on my glasses until 1:30 in the afternoon and then, only to dial the phone to cancel plans. I didn’t get out of my pajamas until 5 p.m., spending the entire day on the sofa with Bonnie, the dogs, the TV remote and a staggering assortment of junk food.
Sadly, immediately following Face the Nation, the television offerings turned into a wasteland. Between Pet Stars (“Let’s welcome Hoagie the ping-pong playing pooch!”) and Shear Genius (Hairdressers, rev your blow dryers!) Sunday viewing is not fit for (wo)man nor beast.
Sometimes it’s not fit for man and beast – like the game show where contestants drop a ferret down their pants to clock how long they can keep the thing from crawling out their cuffs. You should see the screaming and clutching of clothing. By the ferret. Hey, big boy, is that a ferret in your pocket or are just you glad to…I could not possibly have made this show up.
In the midst of this ferret commotion, the incident happened. My 12-year old 27-inch television got the hiccups. The screen erupted into black & white squiggles accompanied by ear-splitting static.
I dropped the cheese doodles, unfolded myself from the sofa, the dogs, and my mate, marched over to the set and gave it a whack. Everything returned to normal, or as normal as it can be when you are watching a man with a ferret in his trousers.
Life was good for another hour or so (thankfully, we’d found a movie to watch), until the screen exploded into a purple haze, requiring me to disturb everybody again and go whack the idiot box.
By late in the day, I needed that product they are advertising ad nauseum Head-On, apply directly to the forehead, and the television needed a whack job every 15 minutes. The inevitable conversation ensued. Do we see about fixing the TV or do we do what we really want and buy a big honkin’ flat screen TV?
For a few minutes, Bonnie and I pretended there were two sides to the argument. Ultimately, we realized that neither of us was in physical shape to drag the monstrous antique TV into the car to seek medical attention. Also, TV repair persons went extinct so long ago we were still calling them TV repairmen.
Negotiations broke down so we went to bed. In the morning I talked to my friend the accountant, who generally doles out conservative financial advice. He said to junk the TV. After all, in two years, when Digital TV becomes the law of the land (ahead of, I’m sure, the Employment Non-Discrimination Law)
our current TV will be obsolete.
Alrighty then. We went to the Sony outlet. “Just to look.” I didn’t believe that either.
Have you tried to buy a TV lately? You need a diploma in quantum electronics and the patience of a saint. Question One: LCD or Plasma? After a 50 minute lecture from a pimply teenager I still couldn’t tell them apart, except that plasma would bleed my bank account. We chose LCD.
Next we had a choice of a set with1029 interlaced pixels or 720 progressive pixels (I always lean toward the progressive), different aspect ratios, viewing angle specs, and something called a bit rate. I bit my lip and stared at the clerk like he had sprouted antennae.
“I want one with a black border,” I said, hoping Bonnie could figure out the rest.
In the darkened display theatre I stood watching seven screens simultaneously show copulating moths while Bonnie listened to the salesperson drone on about color temperatures and video dithering. Meanwhile we dithered at Sony trying to keep our heads from exploding. (Head–On, apply directly to
the forehead).
I awoke from my technology coma to ask “Do we just take one of these home and plug it in like a regular TV?”
“Just like a regular TV,” said the adolescent clerk.
For the finale we had to deal with the size question. Did we size queens want a 32-inch or 40-inch flat screen LCD?
Standing in the 8,000 square foot store, we were pretty certain the puny 32-inch was way too small.
Our first clue should have been the trouble the Sony kids had getting the box into the car. We drove it home minus the carton.
Then, our second clue should have been the compulsory gymnastics routine we executed getting the appliance in the front door. But we dragged it inside and perched it where old reliable Mr. 27-inch (don’t go there) once stood.
Whoa! TV, where you taking that living room?
Let’s just say it looked like the I-Max landed in the confines, and I mean confines, of my little house. Aesthetically speaking, it was the TV that ate the room.
Recognizing my decorating dilemma Bonnie sensibly said “Well, let’s sit down and watch something and then decide.”
Righteeo. The thing had a gazillion inputs and outputs and peepholes and plug-ins. I wanted to stick the little Sony clerk into one of them. I’d never seen so many cables. An hour later Bonnie had accidentally enabled picture and sound simultaneously and we sat down to watch Anderson Cooper because
by this time it was very late.
God, you could see each strand of his gorgeous silver hair and determine what color Max Factor foundation he’d used on his baby face. I should have been listening to news about the G8 Summit and all I could think about was whether Anderson should have had that lower front tooth capped. What? Mom
Gloria Vanderbilt couldn’t afford the orthodonture?
Omigod, political reporter Candy Crowley had a big zit on her chin. Next, on Law and Order, they were checking the blood spatter patterns in what seemed like my entire living room.
I LOVED the big screen picture. My spouse then informed me we weren’t even watching in High Definition yet. For that pleasure we’d have to pay an extra $5 a month to Comcast. But more importantly, I’d have to wrestle down my aesthetic demons. How could I have a TV bigger than my cocktail table?
So did we go back for the measly 32-inch screen? No. For once in my life did I choose function over form? Yes. One look at a Dodge Durango commercial with wide-screen mountains narrowed my resolve. A bigger than life head shot of Sandra Bullock and I was cooked. So what if my living room looks like
the RKO Multiplex.
Now I can’t wait for Sunday to see those giant ferrets in humongous trousers. Head-On, apply directly to the MasterCard.
June 2007
AN AGE-OLD RITUAL
Dammit, it happens annually. I get a year older.
Last year on my special day I was talking with my father and I asked him “What were you doing 58 years ago today?”
“Same thing I’m doing now,” he said. What??? Pacing in the hospital? Watching a vaginal delivery? Drinking Johnny Walker?
“I’m yelling at the Yankees. They stink.”
Well, it’s true, he’s been hollering free advice to the Yankee manager of the moment for over eight decades. My father was listening to a game on the car radio on June 29, 1948 and missed my birth
entirely. I anticipate a call from him on June 29 this year to wish me Happy Birthday amid his snarling at the Bronx Bombers.
I have a love-hate relationship with birthdays. I enjoy celebrating them. But actually having them is getting old, like me. You know, I wouldn’t mind turning 59 so much if it wasn’t for all the bad news reports about Baby Boomers. This week alone I have read: “Achy baby boomers aren’t aging gracefully. A wave of baby boomers may be hobbling toward retirement in worse health and with more aches and pains than people born….”
That’s encouraging. Take two aspirin and call me in the….
And Newsweek had “The generation that vowed to stay forever young is coming up on a major milestone…they’ve been hippies and yuppies; and now it’s the time of the ‘abbies’: aging baby boomers….” If the Beatles were still together they would sing Abbies Road.
Web MD says “baby boomers are about to do something utterly conventional and predictable. They’re going to start getting old and begin developing health problems. One big question looms over these developments: Will those years be vigorous and healthy, or will baby boomers sink into the pain
and disability of chronic disease?“
Good god, by this time the Beatles would be singing “If I Fell” (and I can’t get up) and “We can work it out” (on a Correctol commercial).
Of course, if this health stuff isn’t bad enough, the financial news is worse. Even the congressional budget office is weighing in. “Studies suggest that the average baby boomer’s prospects for a comfortable retirement could face serious challenges.”
Being in trouble on a personal level is bad enough, but the report continues with “Over the past 15 years, the retirement prospects of the baby-boom generation have become a source of public concern. Some experts contend that low saving by boomers could limit economic growth in the United States and compound the financial pressures that face government programs such as Social Security and Medicare.”
Not only are we in danger of having less than financially secure retirements, we’re going to be blamed for putting the federal government into financial chaos (like it’s not there already thanks to you-know-who, whose name I cannot even mention).
The survey also revealed that Baby Boomers have saved an average of only 12 percent of the total they will need to meet even basic living expenses in retirement. Twelve percent of my living expenses just about covers my bar bill. Cue the Beatles. Hopefully, “All You Need is Love,” because everything else will
be too expensive.
And don’t get me started about clothing. Trying to find attractive age-appropriate garments is like trying to find a drag queen at Nascar. All the fashionistas think they are doing a good thing by making trendy looking clothes in large sizes. Those huggy, midriff showing lacy things look great on Britney, Lindsay and Paris, but excessively stupid on Flopsy, Mopsy and size 16 Cottontail. Nobody wants to see a 59 year old belly button.
I did read that the fashion business is expected to undergo a “seismic mood swing” over the next few years in a trend they call “age-accepting” fashion – featuring more “realistic looking models, grey hair, and emphasis on empty nesting, retirement and widowhood in advertising.”
Wow. That sounds like fun. Subscribe to the new magazines: Harper’s Bizarre, Done Housekeeping, and Ladies Rest-Home Journal.
This is truly depressing. I’m working myself into quite a pre-birthday snit. I have to go have some ice cream. (She gets up from the computer. She returns.)
Okay, I just looked at my summer calendar, filled with golf outings, dinner engagements, a pool party, four art openings, two book signings, a weekend of Broadway shows, a doggy play date with my pups and their friends, a ladies Tea Dance and goodness knows how many laughs.
Hell, growing old may be inevitable but growing up seems to be optional. And that’s a good thing. Quoth The Beatles, “I’ll Get By With a Little Help From My Friends.”
Happy birthday Boomers....
July 2007
GAY, GAY, GAY, GAY, GAY, GAY, GAY
Is there anything gayer than standing in front of the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street in New York’s Greenwich Village? I was there on Thursday, and never felt more gay. It felt terrific.
During Rehoboth’s July 4th Fireworks, I listened to patriotic songs and desperately tried to separate them from the mess over at the U.S. Executive Branch, where W. just poked his finger in the eye of our entire Judicial Branch.
Rehoboth may be Gayberry RFD, but by July 5th I needed a great big dose of Urban Gayboys and that Isle of Lesbos off the East River.
Get thee to Manhattan and the 14th Street B&B where we checked into a room adorned with a six foot head shot of Audrey Hepburn. Pretty darn gay. If that wasn’t enough, I read through the B&B welcome
letter and noted that the special security code to get you in the door if you forget your key is Judy Garland’s real name. That’s so gay, in the very best sense of the popular phrase.
In fact, it reminded me how the Stonewall riots really happened. It wasn’t particularly political or born of a well-oiled plan. It erupted because after Judy Garland’s funeral that morning a contingent of gay fans and drag queens went to the Stonewall Inn to drown their sorrows. When cops raided the place for the umpteenth time that month, those queens rose up and said “not tonight, Josephine” or words to that effect and the bottle throwing began.
On that hot, humid day, June 28, 1969, a lot of sad, soulful mourners turned into pissed off queens and kicked some serious police butt. Some say the uprising really launched the entire gay rights revolution. It’s a daunting history for an unpretentious looking watering hole.
From that historic monument we strolled up Christopher Street to the Oscar Wilde Bookshop, the City’s only exclusively LGBT bookstore. I was delighted when the proprietor instantly greeted me by name even though I looked tubbier and more disheveled than I do on my Photoshopped book cover. Oscar Wilde is a great bookstore and, like other independent bookstores, is having a tough go of it.
Suppertime found us uptown dining with an old friend of mine and his husband. I love writing: “his husband or her wife.” Those word combos are starting to sound natural. I remember being blown away reading an obit which referred to the deceased being survived by “his husband.” Way to go,
Newsweek, but after all, the couple lived in Boston, where same-sex marriage is legal.
My dinner companions ordered très gay cocktails (Manhattans, Cosmos, and Kir Royals) along with a fine meal and non-stop dish. And by “dish,” I mean several yummy courses and nonstop gossipy gay chatter.
Then there was Broadway. The Great Gay Way. My reputation as a show queen is often at odds with my lesbian credentials. I adore those Broadway divas along with the boys, and I admit (just a bit embarrassed) that I would rather be in the third row cheering for Audra McDonald or Chita Rivera than Melissa Etheridge.
As for 4-time Tony Award winner Audra, we saw her give a stunning performance in 110 in the Shade, a dusty, creaky old musical made splendid by her electric performance. Theatre queens from the balcony to the orchestra stood and shouted “Brava!”
Friday night found us seeing Grey Gardens, which just as easily could have been called Gay Gardens. It’s gayer than La Cage Aux Folles. Not in the literal sense, but this musical, fashioned from the cult documentary film about lesser Kennedy relatives (Jackie’s Bouvier cousins) living in squalor in East
Hampton, fairly screams “gay!”
Mary Louise Wilson stars as nutty Edith Bouvier Beale and Christine Ebersole as her daughter Little Edie, a walking fashion violation with delusions of sanity. Singer wannabe Edith’s bachelor piano accompanist would have made Noel Coward look butch. You should have seen the boys lining up to give homage at the stage door.
It was great seeing Wilson again. I last saw her on stage playing the Stripper Tessie Tura to Angela Lansbury’s Mama Rose in a 1974 production of Gypsy. Why do I know these things but cannot remember my computer passwords? Oh, right. I’m a gay man trapped in a lesbian’s body.
And speaking of Lansbury, we saw her on Saturday night in Deuce, an anemic play about two aging tennis stars, where she played opposite Marian Seldes. Here’s another gay connection–Marian played the long-time partner of Vanessa Redgrave in a brilliant but heartbreaking one act play televised
as part of the movie If These Walls Could Talk several years ago.
But to me, Angela Lansbury is royalty. To most folks she’s that busybody from Murder, She Wrote, but queens worship at her feet for her turns in the films Gaslight and The Manchurian Candidate and her Broadway musical comedy triumph in Mame. And if all that isn’t gay enough, she’s done Sondheim.
Enough said.
Deuce was nothing more than a vehicle for two legendary actors (there are no actresses anymore; my adoptive gay son informs me that we’re supposed to call them all actors, but frankly I’m more used to saying “his husband” than calling Angela Lansbury an “actor”) and it shows these two tennis stars
pondering their careers, regrets, and relationships (not Sapphic, but that didn’t stop them from talking about the lesbians on the courts and in the locker rooms). To say the play was a gay old time would not be a stretch.
Also during our long weekend we visited the Museum of Modern Art – inextricably gay. Dozens of male couples held hands as they browsed among Picasso (not gay), Van Gogh (did he have a thing for Gauguin?) and Andy Warhol (see title of article).
We dined at the new museum restaurant called Modern (not an innovative title, but an exquisite establishment) and three quarters of the incredibly attentive staff was surely gay.
Wrapping up the weekend, we visited New York’s LGBT Community Center on 13th Street, which was in the thralls of celebrating a $9 Million grant from the City of New York to kickoff their capital expansion program. The funding came from the Mayor and City Council. Oh my. Would that something like
that could happen here at home.
By Sunday we piled our gay selves back in our gay car (Diesel for diesel dykes) and headed south toward Delaware’s Oz.
If you are in the mood, New York can surely be all gay, all the time. In today’s political climate it’s good to have a total immersion gay experience every once in a while. It reminds us to be out, loud and proud.
And you don’t really have to go to the Big Apple to experience it. In fact, when we pulled back into town, there was disco music emanating from any number of establishments in the community, with gaggles of guys and gals all over.
I’m as much for integration of gay and straight as the next person, but you know, it’s great to retreat into an all-gay space every once in a while, if only to gather strength to fight for our rights.
Like little Frances Gumm (that would be Judy Garland) once said, there’s no place like….
July 2007
A WHOLE LOTTA UGLY
FROM A WHOLE BUNCH OF STUPID
I was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Recently, a controversy has been raging over the new musical film version of the fairly new Broadway musical of the old non-musical film version of Hairspray. Who says America doesn’t recycle?
For the vehicle that began as an edgy John Waters movie, then made a huge splash on Broadway and is now at your local multiplex, it’s been quite a ride. But following an opening shot from the Washington Blade, which seeped into the nation’s blogosphere, there has been a dispute between a variety of
gay spokespeople, official and otherwise, over the casting of John Travolta as Edna Turnblad in this latest Hairspray.
The Blade editor wrote that gays should boycott the movie specifically because Travolta is a Scientologist. Responding, John Waters defended Travolta as a joy to work with, a fantastic actor, and not in any way anti-gay.
(Disclaimer: I think Travolta has done some pretty decent film work, but his connection to Scientology, with their much publicized intolerance toward gay people and prescription medications bothers me and tars and feathers Travolta in my eyes. Then there’s the maybe-he-is-or-maybe-he isn’t-a homo aura to his personal life. But neither the actor’s acting chops, nor his choice to stay in the closet if he is a homo, plays much of a role in my feeling about this particular dispute.)
The Travolta clash morphed from a discussion of whether a Scientologist should play Edna, to a secondary dispute regarding the history of the story and the gender of the actor who has, in the past, been cast as rotund Edna Turnblad. Edna is rotund Tracy’s mother, and Tracy dances her way into the hearts of 1960s Baltimore and simultaneously manages to integrate the town.
If you are not a Hairspray groupie, in the original John Waters film Edna was played by portly drag queen Divine, who starred in Water’s early, really edgy, well, very edgy, kinda disgusting films.
But 1998’s Hairspray introduced Divine (and Rikki Lake as Tracy) to all manner of mainstream households through Waters’ very sweet movie. It was funny, had a message, and no one did any of the revolting things they did in the earliest Waters’ films.(Google Polyester or Pink Flamingos). One of Waters’ films was called Pecker, and despite its nasty title was a charmer. I adored writing a review with the headline “I loved John Waters’ Pecker.”