Fried & True

by Fay Jacobs

  And I find that admirable. In fact, I was really impressed by the various wine reps and winery owners who visited Rehoboth for the wine tasting weekend recently. Bonnie and I sampled some wonderful selections, and enjoyed as many events as we could.

  Apart from the wine itself, my favorite moment of the weekend happened at the Bedazzled B&B’s Friday afternoon wine tasting. More than a dozen folks stood around the living room, some talking amongst themselves, some listening to a description of the wines by the visiting vintner and some taking a look at the dazzling movie memorabilia in the room.

  Suddenly, the flat-screen HDTV, that had been playing old TV shows flashed with the most stunning scene. There it was, in black and white, Judy Garland and Barbara Streisand doing a duet. If, for some reason, it had been important to know who was straight and who was gay in that room, you would have had no trouble with the head count. All the gay people immediately stopped talking and stared at the two icons on the screen. Gawwwd, we can be so predicable at times!

  But it was a magic moment of wine, women and song. I’ll drink to that.

  May 2004

  LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

  KEEP IT SIMPLE, STUPID

  I want to simplify my life but I don’t have time.

  It’s the latest self-help craze. You can go on the web and find hundreds of sites touting the pleasures of veering into the slow lane. From simplifylifedotcom to simplelivingdotnet, people are rushing to tell you how to slow down.

  I originally thought I was simplifying my life by moving to the beach. Ha! I’m busier than ever. So the thought of slowing down intrigued me.

  I was stymied from the first. “Write down all the things that are complicating your life….”

  If I had time to write down all my complicating factors I’d never have gotten my book to the printer.

  Skipping to a list of small steps you can take to simplify things, I sought to identify a magazine that I subscribe to, but don’t have time to read (add “and feel guilty about not reading” for those of us of the Jewish persuasion).

  Okay, I’ve subscribed to People magazine since the day it was first published in 1974, but now not only don’t I have time to read it, but ninety percent of the stories are about celebrities I’ve never heard of. That they are celebrities without passing through my radar, or even my gaydar in the case of Peter Paige and the whole Queer As crew, scares me. I have left the popular culture zone and I’m in a purgatory between cool adult and doddering biddy. Will somebody please tell me why I should know the name (never mind how to pronounce) Avril Lavigne?

  Zapping People was the easy part. Unfortunately, as I tossed the invoice into the trash, I unearthed a New Yorker solicitation.

  Now a few years ago, in an effort to keep navigable paths in my home, Bonnie and I adopted the “nothing comes into the house unless something goes out” rule.

  With a slot now open on my periodical list, I ordered the venerable New Yorker. I won’t have time to read that either, but it will look much more erudite than People stacked on my coffee table.

  Seeking more ideas I checked out realsimple.com, and found that it’s just another magazine wanting me to subscribe. False advertising!

  Flunking magazine deletion I moved on to “identify responsibilities you’ve taken on that you are better off without.” Whoa. That’s the whole adulthood thing. I could get rid of it all if I could just go back to fifth grade (of course then I’d have to learn to be a computer whiz).

  Let’s see, I would be vastly better off without the responsibility for paying my mortgage or pharmacy co-pays, but I’d be homeless and anxious. No good. There must be some responsibilities I can delete. Maybe plant watering…I have a 15-year old Jade plant with baby Jade plants sprouting in pots all over the house. I could recover about 15 minutes a week if I just stopped watering. Of course, I’d have to spend weeks watching the plants shrivel and croak, so it’s not a wise trade.

  I love the hallmark advice of the simplification movement about “finding a quiet time for yourself, when you can turn off the TV, CD player, computer and cell phone.” I already have a time like that. It’s called bedtime. Next!

  Anti-clutter activists define simplification as getting rid of what’s bogging you down. Okay, that would be my thighs, and I’ve been trying to get rid of them for years.

  Apparently, clutter is the enemy of simplicity. To get rid of unnecessary possessions, simplifiers want you to ask yourself “If a natural disaster approached and you had to get out of your house suddenly, what would you take?”

  Purportedly this answers clutter problems. But I don’t think I’d be happy living with just 27 photo albums, an 8×10 glossy signed by Sharon Gless, and extra underpants.

  I’m a closet case. Once I managed to come out of the closet it’s been impossible getting me back in there to organize the thing. It’s overstuffed with wardrobes in three different body sizes—current, the elusive one-size-down, and pup tent in case I revert.

  I understand we’re supposed to mark time on our calendars specifically for clutter clearing, scheduling it like any other important activity. Would that be the twenty minutes after the full day’s work and right before the next political fundraiser? I could unclutter instead of showering and dressing, certain that showing up nekked, with poor hygiene would limit future invitations and give me more time for clutter removal.

  One book on simplicity asks why we hang onto so many possessions. Keep reading and they suggest…get this, converting to Buddhism. Folks, I want to throw away tchotchkes not convert to a new religion.

  “Why do we get so buried and overwhelmed by our stuff?” asks a clutter guru. I was tempted to scoff until I opened a kitchen cabinet last night and got caught in a Tupperware avalanche. Here’s the real question. How many plastic won-ton soup containers do I need? And frankly, where do the lids go? Are they in the crawl space with solo socks from the dryer?

  Buried in burpware, I managed to kick some of the containers toward the trash can, but they immediately became dog toys and are now cluttering up a dozen different places in the house.

  Who started this simplification craze anyway? I checked the credentials of one clutter management expert and want to know what it says when the author’s first book is Simplify Your Life, with her second, Panic and Anxiety Disorder. Coincidence?

  Let’s face it, simplifying takes a lot of time. One suggestion had me subscribing to Simple Living magazine, getting a pack of index cards, and jotting down favorite tips. They suggest listing one idea per card, subject on the back, details on the front and then, after incorporating the tip into my life, checking it off in red pen. If I took time for that I’d have to give up the quiet bedtime thing.

  “Do it now!” is another simplifying mantra, so you don’t have to take time to write the chore on a list. Hell, I’m a “do it now” kind of girl. Especially when it comes to ordering a second Cosmo. Actually, in the do-it-now spirit, I’ll wrap it up here and e-mail this column to Letters immediately.

  As the Simple Simon’s say, simplify your life and you can do what you love and love the life you live! Hey, overscheduled, and cluttered though I may be, I already do. Right now, for instance, I’m heading out to acquire another soup container, then going to another political fundraiser. But the day after this edition comes out, I’m having a great big yard sale, selling off baby Jade plants, books I can part with, a sofa (no points here, another one is entering the house the same day) and all the tchotchkes I can schlep to the driveway. Of course, it’s to make room for upcoming book cartons!

  Stop by and simplify my life. Or at least say hello.

  May 2004

  SIGNING BONUS

  I didn’t believe this adventure was real until I actually felt the book, my book, in my hands. Although a lot of things had happened prior to the cartons of books showing up on my driveway. Some things relative to As I Lay Frying, even involved money—amazingly, coming in, not going out. Last month I sat at a table at the CAMP Rehoboth
Women’s Conference, and blindly, 63 people plunked down $15 for a book that hadn’t even been released yet. These brave souls will pick up their signed copies at an upcoming book party at CAMP. If nothing else, they’ll make decorative doorstops.

  Okay, this is where the fraud theory comes in. Fraud, not Freud, although he probably thought this up. Psychologists say that actors, singers, and writers—although I bet it happens with everybody at some point—get carried along in their careers, taking it on face value that their good reviews, compliments and reputation for whatever it is they have done are, if not deserved, then at least a lucky accident.

  I’ve had a good run. People seem to like my columns. Folks come up to me in restaurants saying “Aren’t you Fay Jacobs?” and when I admit it they give me compliments to be polite. Of course, some people just say “I thought so” and leave, which is always a little worrisome.

  But according to shrinks, one day, when we least expect it, creative types wake up with the petrifying certainty that today is the day the public will realize they’ve been duped and all the movies, songs or novels are absolute and utter crap, the creators a fraud.

  I was sitting at the computer when I saw the printer’s truck backing into my driveway. Fraud washed over me. I immediately knew that my life’s work should be in a landfill. The manuscript would be best encased in lead and buried with nuclear waste. My writing career was a freak accident. I was a deceitful hoaxer. If I went outside I’d be pelted with rotting produce.

  Can I tell the truck driver that Fay Jacobs entered the witness protection program? Shall I send the shipment back? I won’t answer the door. Let the dogs go insane.

  I got up from the computer and looked out the door.

  “What the hell are you just standing there for?” Bonnie hollered as she pushed past me to open the door and help the truck back in. “Snap out of it!”

  There’s nothing like your spouse looking at you as if you are Mr. Potato Head to get you moving.

  So we got the books unloaded. My garage looked like a QVC warehouse. And I was certain that every single book, minus the 63 copies for the fools who pre-ordered, and one for my father, would be in my garage until the end of time or Joan Rivers’ retirement, whichever comes first.

  I have to admit. This well of fraudiness lasted, waxing and waning in severity, becoming especially virulent the day that I opened our local paper to find the following:

  BOOK PUBLICATION PARTY AND BOOK SIGNING MAY 22

  A&M Books of Rehoboth Beach announces the publication of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir by Letters columnist Fay Jacobs. The book is a collection of Jacobs’ CAMPout columns published over the last several years.

  CAMP Rehoboth will host a book party and signing on Saturday, May 22 from 4-6 p.m. at the CAMP office and courtyard.

  “We’re thrilled to be able to publish this collection of light-hearted and witty essays, based on Jacobs’ understanding of our unique gay culture,” says publisher Anyda Marchant.

  As book jacket announces, “the columns of Fay Jacobs cast a witty eye toward contemporary culture and life in a gay-friendly resort town. The essays tell a story that is sometimes provocative, sometimes political, occasionally heartwarming and always hilarious.”

  Stop by the CAMP Rehoboth office on May 22 to hear the author read from her new book and host a book signing as well. Refreshments will be provided.

  READING AND SIGNING: MAY 22, 2004

  On the day of the book signing, I knocked back a couple of drinks at the Blue Moon Bloody Mary bar, said “here goes” and headed next door to the CAMP office.

  While fear of fraud may have abated somewhat relative to book content, I realized that people would now learn my other dirty little secret—that thing about not remembering anybody’s name.

  I can get by with the generic “Hi there!” only so many times, deceitfully appearing to know everyone. I cover my disability in various ways—eavesdropping until a name comes up; enlisting trusted friends to whisper names in my ear; or proclaiming, “Well, if it isn’t Bonnie & Clyde,” when confronted with a couple whose names have gone missing.

  Help me. I knew that if anyone did buy my book, they would approach my signing table, thrust the book at me and say, “Just inscribe it to me.”

  Ba-da-bing. Screwed.

  “Pssst, Pam,” I whispered to my dear friend who understood my appalling affliction. “Help me out here.”

  We agreed she’d sit to the left of me, whisper names as people approached or intercept people she didn’t know and say “Hi, I’m Pam,” to prompt a revealing answer.

  It was a plan.

  Oddly, there were a lot of people gathering. Happily there was wine. Steve introduced me to the crowd, a sea of familiar faces, a puddle of whom I could name. There were friends and strangers.

  I got up to read, having chosen a column about taking a station wagon full of fugitive felines across state lines, out of the clutches of the ASPCA and off to a no-kill shelter. It was an adventure that included shrieking and cat fights and that was just me and Bonnie. Bodily functions were involved, which I hasten to add did not originate with me and Bonnie.

  I read the story. People laughed.

  The reading went well, the signing went well thanks to Pam’s name game, Anyda and Muriel watched it all with glee and we sold a heck of a lot of books.

  Whooo Hooo.

  Afterwards, Anyda and Muriel and dozens of our friends, young, old and in-between gathered on Laurel Street, in the house and on the porch, to raise a glass to A&M Books. The publishers glowed.

  Sweet.

  Well that was fun. How long will the other several thousand books stay in my garage before they get hauled off to Mt. Trashmore?

  June 2004

  LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

  THE SPYWARE THAT SHAGGED ME

  Now I’m being spied on. And not by Attorney General John Ashcroft, who I would expect to do so. No, I’m being spied on by my own household computer. Although Ashcroft may have my file on his desk as well.

  Is this what being published brings? Is it the result of my name and the word lesbian being inexorably linked in some Google algorithm? Or maybe it’s random. Or maybe it’s not.

  Now before you call me completely paranoid, I have to tell you that this was NOT to be my topic for this column.

  In fact, I was surfing the net for confirmation about a factoid I wrote about Cicadas—those beady-eyed disgusting shrimp-sized bugs that have descended on the D.C. metro area in recent weeks.

  I was set to tell you that there are about a million reasons why I love that I moved to the beach, but right up there, especially this month, is that I missed the attack of the 17-year locusts. I’m delighted that the vermin don’t cross the Chesapeake Bay and invade Delmarva.

  Truth is, I was going to relate my run-ins with the swarm of Brood X Cicadas (not to be confused with Generation X, which swarms in our local watering holes) that came out in both 1987 and way back in 1970. Point of fact, I came out in 1980, having nothing to do with locusts. But those tales will have to wait.

  A funny thing happened on my way to the Cicada story. My computer was invaded by spyware. I went to Google to search for Cicadas and I got an eyeful of pop-up ads, followed by strange grinding noises from my hard drive and then my computer went on a slow-down strike. I could eat my dinner, and in fact, did, while waiting for Google to do a search. I came back and tried to get my e-mail but the machine worked like it had swallowed a fistful of Quaaludes.

  When the thing worked at all it was with pop-up ads for casinos, prescriptions by mail, liposuction clinics, and methods of enlarging an organ I do not have.

  “You have just won!!!!” “Get the drugs you need!” “Sweepstakes Winner!!!” and my favorite, “Be Bigger and she’ll love you!” Boy, are they barking up the wrong tree house.

  I tried to close the ads and the computer froze up like a lesbian in a room full of Promise Keepers. Did this have something to do with the wireless cable doo
dad under my desk that’s been blinking at me ever since I threw over dial-up for broadband?

  “Hello, Comcast? My computer pops up then poops out.”

  “Hmmmm. It sounds like spyware has invaded your system.”

  Do I call Bond. James Bond? Do I go to the C.I.A.? Ghostbusters?

  The tech support guru explained that my computer had a bad case of this spyware phenomenon. It’s not a virus or a worm, mind you, but software that watches what you are doing and zaps you with ads against your will. I’d rather have a virus. This feels more like a rapist.

  How the hell did this happen?

  “I have no idea,” said techguy, “but it happens a lot.”

  “But my machine was fine yesterday.”

  “Yeah, it can happen in a minute. One click, one piece of spam, you never know.”

  Then he told me to go to Download.com and find a free software called Spybot, download it and run the program on my machine. If the instructions hadn’t come directly from Comcast, I would have been very wary, indeed. But I checked out the site, downloaded the program and ran the “Search and Destroy” feature. I would have laughed at the video game nomenclature if I hadn’t been so pissed off.

  But here’s the shocker. The Spybot program located 66 different spyware programs that had invaded my computer between noon yesterday and today and were lurking there just waiting to help me enhance my breasts. Or my bank account. Or my sex drive.

  In the ten minutes it took to seek all the spies and destroy them, I learned spyware names like Scratch and Win (at least it wasn’t scratch and sniff), Gratisware (thanks for nothin’), FunWeb (who says?), I-SPY (does it come with Bill Cosby?), ICU2 (not if I see you first), and my favorite, Usucker (exactly).