by Fay Jacobs
Her echo of the connection theme proved a teeny bit spooky. But divine.
So I’m retooling the end of this column and as soon as I send it, I’m going to lift a Martini in memory of my rescuer Mary Jane, consider having some tofu in honor of Marge (it’s the thought that counts, right?) and look up the recipe for an official New Orleans Hurricane.
Here’s to recovery down South, precious friends, Gay Pride and Vodka without tonic.
October 2005
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
GET THEE TO A NUNNERY
I intended to write a fluffy column this time. Following weeks of flood coverage, with Anderson Cooper interviewing anybody wearing waders, I felt we needed a break.
But that was before I read about the Vatican’s new edict on gay priests. While I know little about the Catholic hierarchy I do know something about gay people. And the former has just pissed off one of the latter.
To be specific, if the Church does this dreadful discriminatory thing, seminaries nationwide will soon post “For Rent” signs. Ban gay guys from giving compassionate assistance to congregations and who’ll be left in the profession, Nascar Dads?
It would be like banning lesbians from the military for goodness sake. Oh, right, our government thinks it does that.
But this new Salem-style witch hunt is so wrong-headed, so totally bass ackwards, it’s delusional. You mean the Vatican just found out that a portion of the flock is queer? Give me a break.
Barring gay seminarians will make gay priests who have been serving admirably feel appallingly betrayed. Why stick with a fraternity that would blackball you from pledging? It’s the reverse of Groucho’s famous line that he’d never belong to a club that would have somebody like him for a member.
Let’s face it. Young people questioning their sexuality haven’t had it easy. Rather than crumble under pressure to conform, lots of gay people escaped to the priesthood, the nunnery, the military (mostly for the girls) or, God love it, musical theatre (mostly for the boys).
By the time gay people figured out why they felt “different” they were already enmeshed in the clergy, the infantry or dinner theatre.
Presumably, the troops and troupes had a little more freedom to express their newly uncloseted orientation. Not so with the priesthood. A vow is a vow.
Or is it? I’ll never forget Father Frank putting the moves on a friend of mine after officiating at her sister’s wedding. The affair lasted several years. There are gay priests who lead double lives, too. The bottom line is that a vow of celibacy is tough for anybody. I’ll bet the strays are equally straight and gay.
But what, pray tell, about pedophiles? Everybody but bigots knows that gay people and pedophiles are not synonymous; both hets and homos can suffer from the illness of pedophilia.
But in a shameful, scandalous history, the church has refused to recognize the rampant pedophilia in its ranks. In fact they colluded with the abusers by playing Sick Priest Hopscotch—spiriting pedophiles out of towns before they could be tarred and feathered and then unleashing the beasts on other unsuspecting communities.
In this whole sorry mess, the priestly pedophiles have been shuttled around like astronauts, sheltered from criminal and civil prosecution. Want to travel? Be a pedophile priest.
But has the Vatican announced a rooting out of this problem? Nooo. They’re protecting the damn pedophiles by scapegoating gay folks.
I’m mad and concerned. Exactly how will the authorities screen for homosexuals? A questionnaire?
“Did Stephen Sondheim write Company or Mama Mia?
“Would you rather wear Prada or Keds?”
“Who played Vickie Lester opposite James Mason in A Star is Born?”
And if they do ban homosexuals from the priesthood, when the dust settles the Church will be made up of a few compassionate and truly religious heterosexual men, a bunch of offended gay priests, and a trove of pedophiles taking refuge in the church because it’s a great place to meet kids—or more likely, men whose Church-ordered repressed sexuality, homo or hetero, has caused them to behave very, very badly indeed.
Meanwhile, gays are barred from serving. The poster priest for this debate should be The Rev. Mychal F. Judge, the New York City Fire Department chaplain who died in the 9/11 rubble.
Judge was out to his friends as a celibate gay man, admitting his orientation but keeping his vows. This man gave his life to assist the New York firefighters trapped in the towers. According to The New York Times, this man had a 40-year career, ministering to firefighters, their grieving widows, AIDS patients, homeless people, Flight 800 victims’ families, and countless others. He was, and still is, one of the most beloved Roman Catholic priests in New York—in fact, there is a movement to canonize him.
Under the Vatican’s new rules, this man would not have been allowed to be ordained.
In this shocking burst of wrong-headed bigotry, the Church is blaming homosexuals for its own inability to call a pedophile a pedophile.
Someday, and I hope sooner than later, our country will wake up, follow the lead of more progressive nations and see that homosexual Americans, in the religious or secular life, want a “Gay Agenda” that looks suspiciously like the aspirations of The Constitution of the United States.
And, like previously racist politicians or vocal anti-Semites, the Catholic Church is going to be very embarrassed. Very.
Let my people come…to any calling they choose.
October 2005
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
OUR INNER CHILD
Sitting in the movie theatre with a newspaper on my head, uncooked rice-a-roni dripping from my hair and people pumping water from super-soakers into the back of my neck, I doubted whether my parents ever behaved this way on a Saturday night in their fifties. Or The 50s for that matter.
Somehow I cannot picture them heaving minute rice, tossing toilet paper (Great Scott!) and screaming “Asshole!” and “Slut!” at a movie screen. No, the Rocky Horror Picture Show is my generation’s schtik, and we’ve been having our way with it for more than a quarter of a century.
In celebration of another anniversary of what is inarguably the worst movie musical of all time (okay, musical comedy queens, except perhaps for Lucille Ball defaming Mame), when Halloween comes around, so does Rocky Horror.
For readers who are Rocky Horror virgins, having wondered what the fuss has been at midnight shows since the 70s, here’s the scoop. This horror movie spoof starred a young, handsome Barry Bostwick and an even younger, gorgeous Susan Sarandon, as hopelessly boring newlyweds who stumble into the castle of a Transylvanian transvestite (Tim Curry), a man with an equal-opportunity libido.
Suffice it to say that the film was so awful moviegoers started talking back and throwing things at the screen. Pretty soon it became a cult thing, with a script of sorts and specific props for audience participation. It’s a stunning example of mankind’s ingenuity in the face of artistic failure.
And the damn thing is still playing nightly all over the country. Theaters full of purported adults everywhere are doing Time Warp choreography and screaming “Slut!” as scantily clad Sarandon gets turned to into plaster a statute. Dead Woman Walking.
And if you think Tim Curry in fishnet stockings and a black leather corset is outrageous, you should see how some of the audience members show up.
On this particular night I passed on the chance to run around in a Sarandon-like slip or dripping in ghoulish makeup and blood-red lips. Others were not so timid. Some of the most genteel people in town showed up in scandalous garb, mimicking their favorite characters.
While I didn’t dress, I prepared.
Yesterday, I checked out the more than 40 Rocky Horror sites on the internet—official and unofficial audience participation scripts, on-line memorabilia shops, fan club pages and some really disgusting suggestions for activities to engage in while the movie is showing. I will spare you.
While Rocky Horror is a Halloween staple, Rehobot
h has also been the scene of a well-attended Sound of Music sing-along, costumes encouraged. Nuns, novices and bitchy baronesses came out of the woodwork. I’ll never think of solving a problem like Maria the same way again.
While Halloween may be the ultimate gay holiday, Labor Day’s no slouch. We have a Drag volleyball match every year with thousands of people swarming to Rehoboth’s Poodle Beach to watch the delicious spectacle. Oddly, it’s damn good volleyball, too.
Two teams of burley guys (and one brave drag king this year) take to the court in meticulously planned drag get-up, complete with team musical numbers and choreography. The cool thing is that these queens can really play the game. They may be amateur drags (and therein lies the fun) but they certainly can spike and serve.
Over the years we’ve had many team themes to admire. From a troop consisting entirely of Dorothys from Oz to one sporting the many incarnations of Madonna; a crew of Trashy Barbies to Famous Royalty, and most memorably Broadway divas vs. the Bridal Party from Hell with a rainbow of bridesmaid gowns. Close your eyes and picture Evita spiking the ball to the Mother of the Bride who, in turn, pounds the ball back to Liza Minelli. It’s a volley hard to forget.
Even our community center fundraising occasionally requires local adults to behave like our inner children. Every year, for our huge silent and live auction, hundreds of volunteers devote hours and hours and then more hours turning the staid Rehoboth Convention Center into a hot circuit party dance club. It’s amazing what some fabric and $30,000 worth of lighting can do.
The non-artistic among us spend weeks picking up auction donations and logging, labeling, displaying, counting, accounting, gluing, framing and more.
The few hours I spend assisting is nothing compared to the sacrifice made by so many. But I often help out when the varsity squad labeling their four hundredth item suffers temporary writer’s block.
Last year, faced with a donated bust of the poet Milton, the chief writer said, “I can’t use stunning, exquisite, lovely or fabulous one more time. Quick, get me a superlative.”
Called in from the bullsh*t pen, I too, got a brain cramp after two dozen promotional come-ons. I got to a fruit and nut gift basket and described it as “perfect for the fruits and nuts at your next party.” They replaced me.
By the way, the auction and dance cleared over $160,000 for the community, thanks to all those volunteers and generous attendees.
But far and away, my favorite childish event is the annual Follies. It began many years ago, during the worst of the plague, with backyard drag. Various share houses fielded an act for a once-a-summer bash. What followed was a themed night of drinking, dancing and amateur drag, with big bucks raised for our local AIDS charity. If the police eventually arrived, the party was deemed a success.
These days, the party has come out of the neighborhoods and into the Rehoboth Beach Convention Center. The police still come, but only to watch and cheer. The diversity of the audience astounds us.
The really wonderful part is that lesbians have crashed the party—not, as you might suspect, as typical drag kings. No, some of us set out to decry the age-old myth that lesbians have no sense of humor. (“How many lesbians does it take to change a light bulb? That’s not funny.”)
In 2002 we put together a troupe making wicked fun of ourselves. Wearing overalls and painter’s pants, lugging hefty power tools, our all-girl entry was sandwiched among a dozen boy groups doing campy lip synch drag and lewd skits. We actually sang original lyrics to “Nothing Like a Dame.” The crowd thought we were a hoot and the judges awarded us the coveted Bronze Barbie for Third Place. But the best part is that the guys thought we were funny.
The next year we raised the bar by adding clumsy choreography and exceedingly sturdy scenery. Where the boys had flowing art deco backdrops, our stuff was built like a brick outhouse. In fact, it was an outhouse.
The male contestants pranced around in gorgeous, gaudy gowns while we womenfolk donned cowboy boots and chaps for a skit about a lesbian old-age home on the range. We called it Oklahomo.
That year we snagged Miss Silver Barbie.
By the third year, we figured there was only one way to win the thing. We knew it was risky, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. To compete we had to do boy drag. We conspired to do the Victor/Victoria thing and be girls dressing like boys dressing like girls.
Our drag alter-egos were charmers like Miss Rhoda Kill (dead pelts hanging from her gown), Miss Lotta Chutzpah (an enormous Menorah for a tiara) and Miss Anita Shave (hideous hairy harpie). God knows this was not lesbian chic. These particular lipstick lesbians were more Sonny than Cher, more Charles Brolin than Babs.
With oversize netting tutus, we all looked like giant kitchen scrubbies.
For the first part of our skit our sturdy scenery formed a nightclub called La Cage Aux Faux as we scampered around in high drag, singing (what else) I Enjoy Being a Girl. During the blackout after the last note of the song, we stripped to jeans, tees and cordless drills, changed the set to say La Cage Aux Lowes, and sang (what else) I Am What I Am.
We took the Gold Barbie, and, like any sensible group, Rolling Stones not withstanding, we retired at the top of our game.
Which brings me back to Rocky Horror and tossing toasted croutons at the cue “Let’s have a toast”, twirling noisemakers and shouting “Slut!” at that perky, jail bait, Susan Sarandon. With so much rice in my brassiere, a hot flash could cook dinner for two.
We dykes may be getting older, but, thank god, we’ll never mature.
November 2005
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
AIN’T NO SUN UP IN THE SKY
The weather graphic showed seven little clouds, spewing rain. “Chance of rain 80% for the next week.” “An historic convergence of storms.” Grab your galoshes and welcome to P-Town’s Women’s Week 2005.
Bonnie and I packed ourselves, rain gear and dogs for a road trip. A&M Books had sent me on a press junket! Bonnie and I would have gladly paid our way for the privilege, but the ever-generous Muriel insisted on slipping Bonnie a check for expenses.
I was due in Provincetown, Massachusetts for a book signing and reading on Friday, Oct. 14, but we headed up on Tuesday to experience the wonders of this legendary P-town extravaganza.
It was raining cats and dogs, which if you think about it, is appropriate for a week with lesbians traveling with their pets. With howling winds and roiling surf (not even the butchest dykes dared to whale watch), the week still rocked.
No less than nine comediennes performed all over town, most with a couple of shows a day and one funnier than the next. We laughed so hard we ran out of panties.
Three shows ran simultaneously at the Crown & Anchor, and four other venues offered comics along with blues, jazz, folk and any other kind of music you could want.
In between deluges, it was raining (wo)men behind Town Hall. Two teams of scary-looking gals played touch football, refereed by Kate Clinton. The game involved lots of fumbling and falling into weather-induced mud, plus requisite tackling, grunting and cheering.
But that was nothing compared to the Good Old Fashioned Lesbian Revival inside Town Hall. Kate, Cris Williamson, comics Vicki Shaw, Suzanne Westenhoefer and Judy Gold stood together on stage, testifyin’ about coming out, kickin’ butt and fightin’ for equal rights. Naturally the revival included a signer and Indian drum corps. I felt the power. I was healed.
Rubbing elbows with thousands of lesbians in bars and restaurants is a dream come true anytime, but when you’re eating lobster, and clam rolls, it’s to die for—but not without guilt.
Our luck, my book tour took us to P-Town on the holiest Jewish holiday of the year, the Day of Atonement, when my tribe is supposed to fast all day. Strike me dead. I broke the fast right out of the sack with freshly made Portuguese rolls for breakfast. By lunchtime I disgracefully chowed down on a lobster roll, a big religious gaff, requiring extra atonement in some circles. I’ll be atoning until Joan Rivers look
s her age.
Forgive me though—it was all worth it. So was the evening’s wet t-shirt contest. I know, I’m supposed to be past trivial pursuits like ogling. But how could we turn away from firm young things jiggling in the bar’s inflatable swimming pool? Help me out here, is this kind of thing degrading to women when womyn run the contests? Just asking.
We did get some real culture and laughs at a play at the Provincetown Playhouse about a lesbian adopting a baby and a younger sister transitioning into a younger brother.
The audience was as entertaining as the play. It included a cornucopia of women who might have been men, or the other way around, oldsters, youngsters, boomers, pierced eyebrows, mullets, shaved heads, lipstick lezzies, gals with goatees—a profusion of dykedom and the people who love them.
The next day we saw a one-woman show about journalist Lorena Hickock, who lived in the White House with her “special friend” Eleanor Roosevelt. In this meticulously researched show, we shared the charming and sometimes sad tale of a clandestine love story that smoldered despite politics, war and impossible circumstances. Now that’s dyke drama.
As for the book business, I had a blast. The reading took place on stage at the Crown & Anchor, and lots of women showed up at 9 a.m. on a bleak, rainy morning to hear well-known authors like Karin Kallmaker, Radclyffe and Ellen Hart—and unknown author, me.
I have to admit, it was exhilarating to read one of my columns out loud and hear people laughing about life in Rehoboth. And I was pleased by the number of women who showed up later at the friendly Now Voyager Book Shop, to chat with me and buy my book.
Any illusions of grandeur were easily quashed when later in the day I found myself walking, in a squall, dogs in front, me in back carrying their poop in a plastic bag. Reality check.