Fried & Convicted, page 12
I never rode that bike again, and in fact, it was last seen rusted to the garage wall, conveyed to the home’s new owners when we moved to Rehoboth 15 years ago.
So why in heck did I just get a brand-new Schwinn? And why did my spouse happily return from K-Mart with handlebar streamers, a horn, and a deck of cards to put in the wheel spokes?
Because my new Schwinn has three wheels. I’ve named her Lucretia.
September 2015
GAY AS A CULTURE
I’ve written about this before, but I had a compelling experience last weekend, and I want to share.
I performed my reading Aging Gracelessly before a mostly straight audience in Annapolis. While the performance was a success, with lots of laughs and much appreciation, it was very, very different than doing the show with a mostly gay audience here in Rehoboth.
For instance, when, performing for our crowd, I said, “Back in the early ’80s, when I read up on homosexuality, the news wasn’t so good. I thought I’d have to learn to play softball,” our gay gang laughed like hell. In Annapolis, the six lesbians and four gay men in the house laughed and snorted, but that was pretty much it.
Yes, it’s a cultural thing. Straight folks had no touchstone about mid-20th century lesbians naturally finding each other on softball teams. At another point, I realized I should skip the lesbians and the U-Haul joke.
The night brought home to me that gay is a culture all its own, and we may be in danger of losing it. With all of our forward strides in equality and assimilation into the mainstream community at large, I think we have to work hard to keep our culture from disappearing altogether.
Recently there was an online flap about the trailer for the new film Stonewall about the 1969 uprising in Greenwich Village, NYC. I’m glad there are folks still around to take exception to the preview showing predominantly gay white men front and center. In fact, it was transgender Latinos and black drag queens, along with some butch lesbians front and center, as well as the gay white guys.
The first people in the paddy wagon at the start of the riots were the feisty Latino transwomen. The producers of the film recognized that the trailer upset folks and promised that the film is actually accurate.
We shall see.
But in the meantime, does anybody remember the name of one of those heroic drag queens? We should. For the record it was Silvia Rivera, who passed away recently. She was central to the story, along with other drag queens as well as many of the middle-class, white gay men at the bar.
But the truth is, our gay culture has a lot of pioneering activists and celebrity performers whose names and stories have been central to our history—and whose names today mean nothing to many, many folks in our community. And that’s a shame.
I think we owe it to ourselves to pass along gay history and culture to our succeeding generations. After all, unless they are lesbians or gay men, the parents of our younger generations are not going to pass this culture on to their children. It’s got to be our job. Here’s a test. Billy Joel’s song “We Didn’t Start the Fire”—with new words. How many references do you know?
Harvey Milk, Harry Hay, Laramie, Come Out Day San Francisco, Bayard Rustin, tiny church named Westboro Larry Kramer, Phyllis Lyon, Stonewall Inn, brothers dying Northampton, Provincetown, Rehomo and men in gowns HRC, Barney Frank, Rita Mae, we all drank Liberace, Cleve Jones, Pride parades and macho clones Bar’bra Gittings, silver screen, England’s own Elton queen Matthew Shepard, MCC, Ask, Tell and Kameny Katherine Forrest, Naiad Press, Quentin Crisp was a mess Truman C, Danny Kaye, yelling “Queer!” is not okay| They helped to start the fire
The streets were raging
And the world was changing They helped to start the fire . . .
How’d you do? Do you know the names Troy Perry or Paul Lynde? How about film director George Cukor? Perry Mason himself, Raymond Burr? A-plus if you do. If not, we need to spread our history around some more.
I have a friend who loves classic movies with a gay sensibility or story—such as The Women, All About Eve, The Children’s Hour. He invites gay friends who don’t know the films over for a Gay 101 night. I love the idea.
If I had Lesbian 101 at my house I’d start with The Killing of Sister George, The Fox, Desert Hearts, and Tipping the Velvet. That sounds like such fun I think I’ll do it. And while I’m at it I’ll casually ask if anyone knows who Del Martin was, or Mary Martin, for that matter, or if they’ve ever heard of the Daughters of Bilitis. Or Mrs. Danvers?
How about Katharine Hepburn and her housekeeper, or Eleanor Roosevelt and journalist Lorena Hickok? Or Agnes Moorehead on Bewitched? Now there’s real culture for you. We’ll have wine, we’ll discuss women and song and a whole lot more. Pass it on.
September 2015
DRIVING ME BERSERK
People talk about traffic and gridlock at my beach resort as if our Route One is New York’s 42nd Street. They complain that you could gestate a baby there on Sunday afternoons. That nobody dares go “out on the highway” on Saturday from 11 to noon. That we should all age in place Fridays 5-9 p.m. and Sundays 4-7. Well I’m here to tell you, our traffic can’t hold a candle to the real 42nd Street.
I’ve just been a part of it, New York, New York.
And while I’m a Big Apple native, I have not lived there for over 40 years. I did, however, think I’d still be king of the hill and top of the heap with my big city driving and honking skills. No way.
I spent an entire hour circling midtown Manhattan at up to 13 mph, dodging trucks, Uber limos, taxis, pedestrians, racks of clothes in the garment district, bike messengers, and dog walkers, as we tried to get to a specific garage where I had prepaid for parking.
Apparently, since I last trolled the city that never sleeps, the mayor added NO LEFT TURN signs at every intersection, except for the ones with NO RIGHT TURN signs. The streets are mostly one way so you have to cross the entire Isle of Manhattan before they let you turn, lest you wind up in the East River.
On our second cross-town tour, when we turned off Park Avenue toward 43rd Street, we got caught up in the maze of roads going right through the very heart of it, New York, New York’s Grand Central Station building. We traveled in a dizzying circle, only to be spit out facing uptown.
Following an illegal U-turn, (But officer, we’re from Delawhere??) we inched back down this gridlocked island purchased in 1620 by the Dutch from Native Americans for 24 bucks. We spent at least that in gasoline looking for our stupid discount garage.
And for much of the hour, there was an ice cream van up ahead playing shrill calliope music, although it was way too late for us to have lost our minds to that. We crossed through Times Square so often Madame Tussaud should have put us in her Wax Museum; we saw the same homeless man twice, both times talking on his iPhone; we crept so slowly I could jump out for a street vendor pretzel without running to catch up.
In Times Square, people crossed our path dressed like giant M&Ms, Minions, and the Statue of Liberty. You could buy bad art, Prada knockoffs, and a phony Movado wristwatch by just reaching out your car window. I saw a naked cowboy and two women with their breasts covered only by body-painted American flags. I’d say they stopped traffic but it was already stopped.
At long last, when a legitimate, allowable right turn was in sight, our glee was dashed by a honking fire engine coming from behind and forcing us to the left side of the street. In our quest for the so near and yet so far West 43rd street, we had to make a brand-new start of it, in old New York.
One driver took the law into his hands, stopped by a parking space with a bright orange cone blocking it, removed the cone, parked, and stashed the cone on the roof of his car. People in traffic applauded.
Flowing masses of pedestrians crossed in front of, behind, and alongside cars. If it would have helped, they’d have opened rear car doors, scooted across back seats, and hopped out the other side. People alternately carried and protected themselves with briefcases, trash bags, luggage, and pizza boxes; people pushed walkers, strollers, vendor carts, and each other; a young woman crossed by our hood ornament in a skirt so short you could see up to Madison Square Garden.
From high fashion to low life, people wore business suits, short-shorts, jogging gear, designer dresses, pajamas, and rags. There were yarmulkes, headscarves, ear buds, and Yankee caps. It was 91 degrees out. Everybody’s little town blues were literally melting away.
Finally, a full 55 minutes since we started this round robin, we hollered “Uncle,” forfeited our prepaid parking, and pulled into the nearest parking garage.
We saw a new Broadway musical called Something Rotten. It was hilarious. But clearly, the title referred to our excruciating pre-show traffic challenge.
Just so you know, I have officially renounced my Big Apple driver’s license. If I’m in New York, New York it will be Uber or Yellow cab from now on. The convenience of a roadside Nathan’s hot dog stand or a grab-n-go New York cheesecake slice aside, these particular vagabond shoes are longing to stray back to Delaware.
Start spreading the news.
October 2015
LEARNING TO BARK
You probably think the headline above is about my dog Windsor, but you would be wrong. It’s about me. I have learned to bark.
I was in Provincetown, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod last week for Women’s Week, signing books and doing my Aging Gracelessly show. And, as I knew, all performers in P-town follow a somewhat degrading, but ultimately beneficial tradition of barking.
The performers walk up and down Commercial Street, handing out postcards advertising their upcoming shows, shamelessly self-promoting to unsuspecting and often uninterested or occasionally hostile pedestrians. It’s a throwback to the long-held American tradition of circus barking, as in standing in front of the circus tent, encouraging patrons to come inside.
The streets of P-town are filled with barkers—comics Jennie McNulty, Poppy Champlin, and Karen Williams do it; the comedy troupe The Dykes of Hazard did it; drag kings and queens do it; rich and famous entertainers hire other people to do it for them.
According to Wikipedia, “a barker is a person who attempts to attract patrons to entertainment events . . . by exhorting passing public, describing the show . . . to incite listeners to attend entertainment.” Barkers are also called touts, described as “any person who solicits business in a persistent and annoying manner.” Oh fun.
And the information you pass along as you bark in an annoying manner is your spiel. Although in my culture we pronounce it schpeel, as in “stop with the schpeel already and hand me a bagel.”
I arrived in P-town on Tuesday afternoon, and my show was set for Wednesday night, so I needed to get barking and “exhorting the passing public” in a hurry. After all, there were at least five comics and many more musicians with shows at the exact same time as mine on Wednesday. The only saving grace was that Kate Clinton, Poppy, Jennie, Suzanne Westenhoefer, Vickie Shaw, and the others had shows every night, and I was only doing mine once—so thankfully, if folks took time to come and see my show, they still had lots of opportunities to check out the real lesbian celebrity comics, or celesbians as I like to call them.
After watching celesbians Jennie and Poppy chat confidently with passersby (they had great spiels) and hand out postcards about their shows, I steeled myself and hit the streets to pimp myself out and give folks my spiel.
Somewhat hesitantly I headed toward a group of women and, postcard in my outstretched hand, tipped said hand, so to speak, and they avoided me like I had cooties. With the next group of gay girls coming down the street I tried the stealth system—saying, “Hi,” then springing the postcards on them. They were polite but not particularly enthused.
Next came the apologetic approach. “Hi, I’m a new performer in town, just learning this street-walking thing, won’t you take my postcard?” This seemed to elicit some sympathy and piqued their interest. Several women actually looked at my postcard and asked a question or two about the show. Progress.
Ultimately, I combined the apology tactic with the smiling moron methodology, walking along, grinning, and inserting myself into the conversations of strangers. That one was pretty effective, as a couple of women even promised to come to the show.
After about an hour and a half, including a stop for a lobster roll, I gave up and went to Poppy’s show, followed by Jennie’s performance. They were both awesome, with the audience, me included, screaming with laughter.
Now I was scared. I’m doing a show in P-town??? What have I gotten myself into??? How can I compete with these Queer Queens of Comedy??? Not to mention my idol Kate Clinton. Oy.
By the next morning I was in a cold sweat, thinking about all the barking I had yet to do and the performance I was scheduled to give. Was I barking up the wrong tree? Why did I agree to do this silly thing???
I joined my friend, author Lynn Ames, and my author colleagues from Bywater Books (Marianne K. Martin and Georgia Beers) for a book signing at the venerable Womencrafts bookstore. Yes, it’s still there after all these years.
My pals got me to relax and chill a little as we met readers and signed some books. From there, it was back to street-walking for me. I girded my loins and launched into the fray, knowing this was my last chance to round up an audience for that night’s show. As demeaning as the barking may have been, an empty house would be mortifyingly worse.
But wait! The first couple I saw said, “Hello, Fay!” as they eagerly accepted my postcard. After a lovely conversation, I walked away, buoyed by the fact that they had recognized me. In fact, the next few groups of women easily accepted my intrusion and thrusting of postcards, again, with one of the gals greeting me by name even before reading the ad in her hand. This was way cool!
My head might have started to swell a little as I eagerly traversed the streets and gave out lots of postcards, chatting easily with folks along the way and being really impressed that so many people already knew me. Hey, this was starting to be fun!
It wasn’t until I stopped at Spiritus for a slice of pizza that I looked down and realized I was still wearing my “Hello My Name Is Fay” name tag from the book signing. You moron! They were reading your name, you idiot!!! So much for fame and name recognition. I had to laugh. But the truth was, once my confidence was up I really had a fun time barking and touting and promoting my show.
As it turned out, the show was a sell-out. Waaay more people showed up than I had expected, and my debut as a P-town performer went well. Poppy had time before her next show to see my first act and Jennie ran over to see my second act when her show let out. I cannot thank them enough for the support. Their complimentary comments meant a lot to me.
And for the rest of the week, since my show was over, any time I got a chance, I happily barked about theirs. Oh, and Kate Clinton’s show was absolutely hilarious; Karen Williams cracked us up, too.
So I’ve had my street-walking trial by fire. I’m honored to be found soliciting on the same street as my comic idols. Like Windsor, this last comic sitting has learned to bark her head off.
Woof.
November 2015
IS THAT A PINK QUESTION?
It was just a matter of time before somebody introduced me to Trivia Crack.
I used to love the old Trivial Pursuit game. I got my first edition of the game in . . . wait for it . . . 1981. And I still had that 35-year-old classic edition until last year. One night we got the tattered box out of the closet (reminding me that in 1981 I was practically still in the closet) and had a game. Hilarity ensued.
Not only had we players aged gracelessly, but the game aged worse than we did—incredible as that may seem. You see, that old game had questions like, “What’s the Soviet Union’s political arm called?” (Defunct?) or “When is RFK’s assassin Sirhan Sirhan scheduled for parole?” (um, the answer was a chilling 1994, but thankfully he didn’t make parole and died before his hearing came up again).
“What woman has won the most Wimbledon championships?” It was Billie Jean King in 1981, but then Martina Navratilova came along!
“British Airways and Air France” was the answer to “What two airlines fly the Concorde to Europe?” By this time the answer was “Nobody, that plane has been scrapped!” The game was seriously showing its age.
One question after another was impossible to answer, not because we were ignorant, but because the facts of life had changed (well, not those facts of life, but you know what I mean.) Everything old was not new again, and we consigned the vintage game to the dumpster.
Surprisingly, I had a never-unwrapped, 20th Anniversary Edition of Trivial Pursuit in that aforementioned closet as well. Even that game was old school, since not only had it been 15 years of life, liberty, and a deluge of trivia since the update was introduced, all of the questions were from 1990-2000. Our inability to answer most of them showed us just how fleeting pop culture has become.
Where lots of the original questions asked about history or geography or classic literature, these questions offered up flash-in-the-pan celebrities and song titles that seemed to disappear as completely as the devices we used to play them on. Cassette tapes, anyone?
When we got to the question of “What classic toy celebrated its 50th Anniversary in 2000?” we all realized we were older than Silly Putty. That was sobering.
As we failed to succeed at answering, we figured the names, places, and events hadn’t stood the test of time, or else we all dozed through the ’90s. Our gang was so horrid at this old new edition it would have been Trivial Pursuit’s 50th Anniversary by the time we answered enough questions for somebody to win the game.
