As I Lay Frying Read online

  Not only were we horrified for us, but a mother and her preteen daughter standing close by were appalled as the jerk continued to scream threats. I was scared for me, embarrassed for the scene, and sick to my stomach.

  “Dykes! Dykes! I’ll kill you, goddamn dykes!”

  Bonnie ran to get the license plate number, I ran toward the nearest restaurant to call the police, and our brave friends turned on the creep and shrieked at him with a dose of his own medicine. His girlfriend finally hauled him back into the car. When the vehicle finally squealed away, we stood, stunned, in the street.

  “Are the police coming?” Bonnie asked.

  “No, they said if nobody got hurt they don’t bother.”

  But we were hurt. And it took a lot of tears, discussion, and venting our anger to calm us down. And none of us would ever think of Key West quite the same way again. It was a lesson I wanted to pass along to our local police force.

  On the night of the sensitivity training, we joined the police chief and the summer police recruits to watch an excellent film about hate crimes. With its emphasis on racially motivated hate crimes, as well as synagogue defacing and gay bashing, I realized, eerily, I could speak to two thirds of the problem.

  When Steve got up to speak, he introduced himself as a gay man, eloquently described the mission of CAMP Rehoboth, then introduced me by name, adding that I was a lesbian.

  Oohph. That was the first time I’d been introduced to a roomful of people by my sexual orientation. And there was even a reporter from The Washington Post covering the meeting. Well, one of the things we try to explain about our lives is that the process of “coming out” is evolutionary. It’s not just once; it’s a thousand little “coming-outs” over a lifetime. For me, as open as I am about my life, this particular coming out was a milestone. I smiled at the fresh-faced young recruits to acknowledge the introduction, and turned my attention back to Steve.

  His short presentation touched on the diversity of the gay community itself here in town and the expectations we have for professional conduct by the police, whether it be enforcing the laws or investigating criminal incidents. Steve made a special point of breaking down stereotypes; noting that not all gay men are effeminate and not all lesbians drive pick-up trucks. It was a light and humanizing presentation.

  When it was my turn, I introduced myself as a non-pickuptruck-driving lesbian, evoking smiles from the normally reserved crowd. I went on to tell the Key West gay bashing story. “It ruined my entire vacation there,” I said. “And it was the total indifference of the police which made it doubly hurtful. Here in Rehoboth, you have the opportunity to do better.”

  If racial, religious or anti-gay hate crimes, harassment or name calling occur here (and, let’s face it, ignorant jerks happen) our police force has the chance to treat the incidents with the kind of sensitivity which could salvage people’s feelings about their experience and our town.

  I told the crowd that they could really make a difference. And the eye contact and feedback I got from the presentation told me that we have a group of young men and women on the Rehoboth police force who understand the value of diversity in this community—and who will do their best to behave both professionally and sensitively.

  For me, it was a wonderful evening, because I was doing just the kind of volunteer service I was never able to do in my hectic, suburban, commute-filled life back in Maryland.

  Oh yeah, the liar part. Within days of identifying myself as a non-pickup-truck lesbian, Bonnie went out and bought a bright red Chevy S10. You should see this baby! Holy Sussex County! Why, we can plug in our radar detector and cigarette lighter at the same time!

  And here’s good news—the doors stay open without the dome light shining, to keep from scaring off the deer during hunting season. I know I’ll be using that feature a lot.

  But if you see those police recruits, please tell them that it’s Bonnie hauling concrete patio blocks and 2x4s from Lowe’s. The only time I intend to get behind the wheel is for an annual power shop back at Nordstrom’s. Yeee-Haw!

  June 1999

  A WEAKNESS FOR THE PREAKNESS

  It’s not enough that media hungry Rev. Jerry Falwell made a laughing stock of himself by proclaiming TV’s purple Teletubby a gay poster boy, now he’s messing with one of the powerhouses of popular music, the Lilith Fair.

  Fallwell, or his editorial disciples, are warning parents to beware of the demonic legend behind the popular Lilith Fair concert series. Wheras his indictment of Tinky Winky made me go out and buy a plush Tinky for myself, this latest outcry sent me directly to the Internet for research.

  I learned that according to ancient Jewish literature, Lilith was created by God as Adam’s first wife, but left Eden after refusing to be submissive to Adam. Hmmmm.

  According to Lilith tour publicists, the concert, featuring some of the nation’s best women musicians, who played to over 800,000 music lovers last year, in 37 cities, “got its name from the character’s original philosophy, a woman seeking equality and independence.”

  But Falwell’s conservative National Liberty Journal says there are many conflicting accounts of the Lilith character. Their favorite is the pagan legend, often associated with lesbianism, where Lilith dwelled with demons after leaving Eden and went mad after witnessing the execution of her children. That, in turn, caused a killing spree, where she seduced and murdered her own demonic male offspring. Oh good.

  From reliable eye witnesses at last season’s Lilith Fair in Columbia, MD, the most demonic thing the group did was leave the outdoor concert venue a lot cleaner than they found it.

  By contrast, anybody ever sit in the infield at the Preakness? You want demonic? I’ve got demonic. It’s a disgusting ritual at Pimlico Raceway in Baltimore, which I only attended once, which was more than enough. But the damn thing happens every year. Where was Falwell’s warning in May about the demonic influence of the Preakness?

  Bonnie and I were recruited (oh, no!) to take part in a crude (operative word) attempt at a heterosexual pride day, with a pagan band of Coors-worshipping idolaters. Our cabal set out in a van, armed with 18 cases of beer, three ice coolers, 40 fat-laden Italian subs, 100 yards of rope (what the heck for???), a dozen tomato stakes, two handcarts, a fold-up luggage carrier, a tent, and a port-a-potty. I prayed that the last two items would be used in tandem.

  With backpacks, handcarts, tent and toilet, we set out for the races. Hundreds of other fiendish spectators, shlepping provisions and surging toward the track, jostled for position like the horses they’d come to bet on. People had extension ladders laden with beer cases, kegs in wheelbarrows, a ping-pong table piled with pilsner, and enough camping gear to make Falwellians suspect lesbianism was surely afoot.

  Breaking through the crush, our wicked tribe charged the field, and staked out a 15x15 foot claim with the tomato stakes and rope. From our vantage point, through a maze of tents, canopies, coolers and bodies, you could almost make out the track fence. If the horses stopped, jumped up and waved, we might get a glimpse.

  With a whoop, the ritual drinking began. A plastic cup of some awful red liquid came by and I sampled. Yum, vodka and red dye #2. I was told it was a Yucca Flat, named for the A-Bomb test site. This was 10:30 a.m., with post time for the first race at noon, and the Preakness at 5:30.

  All our coven did was drink, sopping up liquid with the occasional baloney/pepperloaf sub. A far cry, I’m sure from the tofu and pyramid of food groups revelers at Lilith Fair will be sampling.

  Then some guys opposite our encampment, who had not thought ahead in the port-a-potty department, started making like garden hoses. Here’s your tinky winky, Jerry. Where was the Falwell watch when you needed them? I’d never seen so much male equipment in my life. It was like a giant pee-a-thon. Ennui forced some disgusted women in our camp to start holding up paper plates with magic-markered numbers on them, rating the boys’ endowments on a scale of Tinky-Winky to Ten.

  Finally, our jury could only watc
h in horror as the infield turned into one enormous fist fight. With the drinking and peeing out of the way, all the revelers could come up with next was drunken brawls, as bored girlfriends and wives wished they’d stayed home watching QVC.

  Finally, as a sure sign of higher power displeasure, the heavens opened with a Noah-inspired deluge of rain, turning the whole infield into a mucky mess, which then inspired mud-wrestling and trash bag luge racing. Yo! Falwell! Looky here. (And, now that I think of it, why doesn’t Falwell have something to say about the position those guys have to take on that 2-man Olympic luge sled, anyway? Just wondering….)

  We never did find out who won the Preakness. There were so many drunks on the yucca flat we had to step over mud-crusted bodies to get the hell out. Folks who’d had beer piled on ladders on the way in, used them as stretchers for the fallen on the way out. The four guys with the ping-pong table carried out a whole platoon of drunk and wounded. And the remaining infield was one big toxic landfill of beer cans and trash.

  Holy Satanic Verses! Evil legend has it that this kind of infernal drinking and boys-will-be-boys reveling happens at racetracks, ballfields and stadiums all over the globe. Why Lucifer himself tells tales of our very own Delaware Punkin’ Chunkin’

  Fest, now endorsed by that conspiracy of male sensibility, the Promise Keepers (don’t get me started). And Falwell is picking on Lilith Fair?

  He’s set his wily little eye on concerts where thousands of women, their men friends and not a few Tinky-Winky carrying children come to picnic on sensible food, drink additive-free beverages, listen to some of the best female musicians in the world, and clean up after themselves before they go? Besides, in every concert city, Lilith Fair donates thousands of dollars to the local battered women’s shelters. It’s demonic, I tell you.

  The third and final Lilith tour egins July 8, and features artists including founder Sarah McLachlan, Sheryl Crow, The Dixie Chicks and Queen Latifah. As McLachlan herself is quoted saying, “[Lilith] was a great example of strong women out there doing something they love, doing something really positive.”

  Of course, that’s what Falwell and his kind find so demonic. Why doesn’t he just admit it?

  July 1999

  A POSTCARD FROM THE VERY EDGE

  It started with a postcard. A friend in L.A. sent me a postcard with her resume shot and agent’s phone number on it. It’s the kind of professional calling card those pursuing the “business” use for notes to casting directors. In this case, she used it for a message to us.

  “Dear Fay & Bonnie,

  You said to tell you when I’m in a TV show.

  Well, I have a nice-sized role in a somewhat

  shocking skit on a program you’d never watch

  if I didn’t send you this card.

  The show’s demographics are for non-intellectual

  men of 18-30. Filming was quite an experience.

  It’s The Man Show, July 21 on Comedy Central.”

  The Man Show??? Yes, I’d say it’s exactly the kind of show I’d be expected to miss.

  Early Wednesday evening I checked to make sure I could even get the Comedy Channel. Lucky me, I tuned in just in time to hear “Later tonight! The Man Show! The finest display of arrested development going!”

  Then, they flashed a clip of a young man cozying up to my former acting colleague—a very dignified, middle-aged woman—with the agitated announcer hollering, “Need some fuuuun in your life? Go on a date with Mom!”

  Oy. I could hardly wait for 10:30.

  And speaking of Moms, while I was biding my time ‘til The Man Show, I logged onto a wonderful gay and lesbian message board where my son-the-actor types back and forth with cyber-friends all over the globe.

  After lurking on the board for a while last week, eavesdropping on several different conversation threads, everything from sports bras, tattoos, Petula Clark lyrics to JFK, I posted a note myself, asking folks why they converge there.

  “It’s a meeting of the minds, a communal graffitti board & debate forum. And, yes, I passionately believe in the good stuff that can happen when good people communicate.”

  “I can’t think of a taboo subject, and the amazingly rational discussion of abortion a month or so ago confirmed my belief in the goodness, the intelligence, the caring of all members herein.”

  “I’m here as one of the conditions of my parole. Okay, I’m lying.”

  Like my son says, “much of what we discuss there has nothing to do with sexuality or gender roles. But there’s just something about that queer perspective.”

  Just the fact that it’s an accessible queer perspective cheers me up. We had nothing like this when I was struggling to meet people and come out. Hell, I was sure I was the only gay woman on earth except the already-dead Gertrude Stein and those few lonely souls I’d heard about who met in dark, scummy bars.

  Now, of course, I recognize our wonderfully huge gay community and its history, rich in achievement and enjoyment all through the ages. But who knew??? Back in the 70s and early 80s you didn’t get TV role models, you didn’t get positive press. You got lesbian potlucks and liked it.

  These days, people struggling with their identity, those just getting to know the gay community and those who need a link from their small towns and small-minded families have this and other marvelous cyberplaces to go.

  One message said, “I have friends (gay and straight) all over the world. I’ve laughed and cried with people whose faces I could not pick out in a crowded room. The town in which I live is tiny, but the world in which I live is gigantic and as close as the keyboard.”

  For people not lucky enough to live in a community like Rehoboth, the Internet is the missing link. And if the folks on this particular message board don’t mind a lesbian mom lurking and providing a stray comment now and then, I’m delighted to have the chance to participate.

  But on Wednesday night, I traded communication central for Comedy Central.

  Bonnie and I microwaved popcorn and sat down for The Man Show.

  Oh. My. God. From the opening seconds featuring nearly naked girls (Let’s hear it for the Juggies!”) to the skit called “Drunks Say the Darnedest Things” with live, in-person, actual barfing, Bonnie and I sat gape-jawed and stunned. Then came an “infomercial” for flesh colored wedding rings (“for the best of both worlds”) and Household Hints from Adult Film Stars” with a bimbo rubbing red wine off a wet t-shirt. I was not amused.

  Finally, we got to my poor thespian friend, playing a woman on a date with her gooney adult son—dining out, whirling around a dance floor, attending an amusement park, getting drunk and then, goon-boy and mom…going to bed together and…yech!!!!! What does he think, come Emmy time he’ll be recognized for best actor in a compromising position?

  “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” said Bonnie.

  I was too stricken to talk. Appalled as I was by the theme, I was even more aghast that hundreds of studio audience imbeciles roared with laughter and cheered at this colossal pile of unfunny poop. A.K.A. The Moron Show.

  And I didn’t tape it! With no evidence, how could I circulate a video of this offensive, sophomoric heterosexual menace through the halls of Congress? Damn! I would have had the perfect tool to counter those wingnuts circulating film of gay pride parades.

  Just imagine. For every gay person outraged at being broad-brushed as evil by films of a few nearly naked gay people having a little too much fun at parades, we could have all the diverse and wonderful straight people we know branded evil heterosexual louts by sending out copies of The Man Show.

  Heck, we could use the identical “Protect Our Children” diatribes that usually accompany the parade films. I bet it wouldn’t take five minutes for the ignorant masses to realize what bright gay and straight people have known for eons: The Man Show doesn’t represent the entire heterosexual orientation any more than a few naughty boys in leather or tough girls on Harleys represent our side. Duh….

  But
it sure would be fun trying to make that point. I’m going to float the idea to the online message board and hope some young filmmakers want to give it a try. The Man Show could do more for gay equality than all the lobbying in the world.

  And I’ll help circulate the video. The only thing I refuse to do, with apologies to my friend in L.A. is ever watch it again. The Juggies and goons will have to survive without this mother.

  August 1999

  CHANGES TO NORMAL

  I stared at the computer screen and mumbled obscenities. I’d already spent the better part of a day trying to diagnose a conflict between my hard drive and my printer and frankly, Scarlet, I no longer gave a damn.

  On days like these I agree with my father who, at age 80, refuses to be in the same room with a computer. “They were supposed to make our lives easier. Everybody I know with a computer has nothing but trouble. Who needs it.”

  He may be right. It’s hard to love your PC when your monitor is flashing “fatal error.” Do I call the techie or the coroner? I tried Feng Shui and moved the computer to a different spot in the room for more fortunate energy and blessings. The damn thing still didn’t work so I scrawled a document in long-hand.

  Interestingly, that night ABC had a whole show on technology—charting man’s genetic quest to go faster and faster. His examples were as exasperating as they were fascinating. Like who really needs the five seconds we got back changing from rotary to touch tone dialing? And are we better off with an expensive plastic spout on the orange juice container when it only took a second or two to claw open the cardboard flap?

  And, fresh in my mind, is “what damn good is a pentium computer when your day’s work is trapped inside, forcing you back to a Papermate pen?”