For Frying Out Loud (14 page)

September 2008

I'M HERE, I'M QUEER, I'M TALKING ABOUT IT

There was a breathtaking array of lesbiana at the state park beach last weekend. The sand and parking lot overflowed with so many dykes (and their gayboy friends and canine companions) that at one point rangers posted a temporary moratorium – cars bursting with lesbians had to wait to get into the parking lot until other vehicles filled with happy galpals left. That's a lot of women. I hear there were schools of dolphins jumping up to watch the lesbians.

As for me, I was plopped on the sand in the midst of it all, admiring the scenery. After all, as a similarly married friend reported, “Just because I'm on a diet doesn't mean I can't read the menu.”

Later, at Poodle Beach, at the south end of our boardwalk, thousands and thousands of gay men (and not a few women) staked out compounds on the sand to watch the annual Drag Volleyball game.

“Did you ever see so many good looking men in one place in your life?” I asked a straight friend on hand for the festivities.

“It's incredible,” she said, slightly glazed over and suffering from the water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink syndrome. “It's a whole world I know nothing about.”

She was right. I'm so steeped in our history and culture I forget millions of people have no idea they know any gay people, much less about our lives. And of course, those are the champion gay-haters.

Do you know the infamous story about late Supreme Court Justice Powell, who, after casting his landmark vote against Hardwick in the pivotal Georgia sodomy case, and handing the gay equality movement a thumping setback, said to his trusted aide “actually, I don't believe I've ever met a homosexual.” Of course, the aide was a great big closet queen.

The corollary is the legendary tale about General
Eisenhower who, in the early 1940s was about to issue an order rounding up all lesbians in the army and discharging them. “Well, you'd better start with me,” said his long-time secretary, handing Ike a big surprise and leading to cancellation of the orders.

Yeah, that was ages ago, but despite our current visibility it sometimes surprises me how unfamiliar some people are with our lives.

Which is why, as Oct. 11 Coming Out Day approaches every year I try to share my culture where I can. This year, a chance fell in my lap when an office acquaintance asked me to go for a cup of coffee. As she nervously started to babble, I knew we weren't talking tourism.

Sure enough, she soon let loose, panicky tears dripping down her face, reporting that her son told her he was gay. The guy's a New York actor and airline steward. How didn't she know? But then it proves my point.

“And I'm so sad because of the hard life he's going to have,” she said.

Oh boy. Where to start?

I began by suggesting that his coming out was the beginning of the
end
of his hard life.

“But what kind of life can it be, without a family, with the whole world hating him?”

Wow. I forget that people who don't know same-sex families with kids, don't have gay or transgender friends or relatives, or have no idea Liza Minnelli married two gay men, still exist. Worse, if they think about us at all, figure we come from Pluto.

Jeesh. Homo 101, here I go.

Through two Venti lattes I babbled about positive things she didn't know about the gay community and, set her – if you'll excuse the expression – straight about some things she thought she did know. I dropped so many names it was like the homo version of Billy Joel's “Start the Fire.” When I mentioned Merv Griffin, her mouth fell open. And somewhere between Elton
John and Eleanor Roosevelt I finally said, “Look, just let me tell you about my exotic weekend and scandalous gay life.”

“This weekend my partner and I went to a catered 25th anniversary party (“You're kidding. 25 years?”), went to a benefit auction (“Two women bid HOW MUCH for a cruise?”), frequented a restaurant where people don't go into anaphylactic shock if we have a romantic dinner, and ended up on the boardwalk, watching the full moon reflect in the ocean and pigging out on beach fries and custard.”

She: “Well that's not a gay thing”

Me: “Exactly”.

Okay, I admit it. I left some of the more colorful tales of Drag Volleyball for her post-graduate class.

But I think she felt a lot more hopeful about her son's future. Frankly, it sounds to me like he's having a blast.

Which is why I'm more convinced than ever we should live our lives in the sunshine. We're here, we're queer, let's talk about it. We should make an extra effort to be visible and share our culture. People really need to know they know happy homosexuals.

And frankly, I think Liza needs a girlfriend.

September 2008

WINDS OF CHANGE

Gusts of wind have certainly been howling at the beach and on television.

With the line of hurricanes blowing by and the string of partisans blowing smoke on the tube it's been quite a few weeks.

Of course, my favorite storm was Hurricane Fay, spelled correctly at that. Bonnie and I had a glorious time listening to all the reports (Fay is intensifying; Fay is boomeranging; Fay is heading for Guantanamo!) but as the saying goes, it's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt. I was gearing up to have great fun at Hurricane Fay's expense, not to mention columnist Fay's expense when I heard that the storm had killed a lot of people. Ditto for Gustav, Hannah and Ike. Suddenly it's not such fun anymore.

Which is just as well since there are sooo many other things to focus on from the past few weeks.

Speaking of forces of nature, I have to mention the passing of Del Martin, one of the true pioneers of lesbian rights. She and her partner of 55 years, Phyllis Lyons, started the very first lesbian rights organization in this country, the Daughters of Bilitis – named for a fictional friend of Sappho. As a couple, Del and Phyllis reminded me so much of my friends Anyda and Muriel, also together over half a century before they both died in 2006. I have to laugh, because Muriel always said that the term Bilitis sounded like a terrible disease and she wanted no part of it.

Together, Del and Phyllis wrote the book
Lesbian/Woman
published in 1972. I remember lurking in the dark, outside the Lambda Rising Bookstore in Washington, D.C. in 1978, screwing up my courage to go inside and buy the book. While the picture of 1972 lesbian life wasn't pretty – women's softball, seedy bars in bad neighborhoods and butch/femme partnerships, Del
and Phyllis were the first to tell me that long-term lesbian relationships did actually exist and that a satisfying life might be possible – even without playing softball, god forbid.

The sadness of Del's passing was assuaged a little knowing that she and Phyllis were invited to be the first legal gay union in California. A photo of the 80-somethings cutting their wedding cake looked gorgeous on the front pages of newspapers across the country. In a statement after Del died, Phyllis Lyons said, “I am devastated, but I take some solace in knowing we were able to enjoy the ultimate rite of love and commitment before she passed.” Amen.

The political conventions were forces of nature on their own. I almost lost my mind listening to pundits babbling about the speeches, even stooping to babble during the speeches. I was forced to turn to CSPAN just to get some peace and quiet.

Leaving the subjects of the economy, universal health care, the economy, the Iraq mess and the economy aside, let me just focus on the potential for gay and lesbian equality, relative to the two parties.

Um, Barack and Joe are our friends. They want to get rid of that stupid “Don't Ask, Don't Tell,” favor making it illegal to discriminate against us in housing and jobs, and actually believe we should be treated equally – including making certain we have the same rights as married couples whatever the convoluted language turns out to be.

With the dismissive back of the hand, McCain and especially Palin are against civil unions and equal rights, and think discrimination against gays in jobs and housing is just fine. Not to wish Cindy or Mr. Hockey Mom any harm, but I wonder if John or Sarah will ever have to sit, crying, in the emergency room and, considered to be scum, kept from visiting their critically ill loved one? Just asking.

And how about Hillary? What part of the line “Were you voting for me or what I stand for?” don't the gay women threatening to vote for Sarah Palin understand?

In the annals of “cutting off your nose to spite your face,”
this is a doozy. Let's elect a woman who doesn't want women to have a choice regarding reproduction even if it's rape or incest; a woman who voted to take back partner benefits from Alaskans; a women who wanted to ban books from the library; a women who supports “Don't Ask”; a woman who wants to teach creationism in public schools and a woman who, despite compelling evidence to the contrary, thinks Abstinence Education works. Good God, it's Phyllis Schlafly in mukluks.

One bright spot can now be found weeknights at 9 p.m. on MSNBC. Rachel Maddow, an incredibly bright, insanely clever, terribly attractive young lesbian now has her own left-leaning TV news and commentary show. I know she will be preaching to the choir, but watching her makes me smile, cheer and realize I am not alone in my views. In fact, I finally understand why a brigade of dittoheads loves to listen to Limbaugh. Well, at least this is one for my side.

Meanwhile, do you want the person who is a heartbeat from the presidency to be someone whose top credential is field dressing a moose? Did I say that with my outside voice???

I'm done now. Maybe the meteorologists were right when they described Hurricane Fay as a wide swath of gusting wind. Sorry if I've offended. But this election, not only is it the economy, stupid, it's all the rest of the issues. And I hope people vote based on them, whatever their choice.

My name is Fay Jacobs and I approved this column.

October 2008

ONLY AS OLD AS YOU FEEL???

I'm going to get the senior ticket price at the film festival this year and I have decidedly mixed emotions about it. Sure, saving a buck sounds good, but the implications of accepting the discount are horrifying.

Turning 60 hit me like a ton of Metamucil.

So I decided to monitor my behavior to determine if I was merely mathematically challenged or if I was actually a bonafide old fart.

You be the judge.

At a recent 20th anniversary party, revelers of a certain age crammed the dance floor for the disco tunes, hands waving over our heads for “Gloria,” while the stomping and clapping for “We Are Fam-i-ly” shook the party tent. Nice and spry.

Later, as dozens of women headed to their cars, I heard somebody whisper “sciatica,” and another cop to a frozen shoulder. Feeling youngish, Bonnie and I only let out a few small wheezes.

The next day at a golf league party, about a hundred women rocked to the music and sang along with ABBA. I have to admit to drinking straight champagne instead of Mimosas because these days it's not the bubbly that causes Acid Reflux, it's the orange juice. But I danced like a fool, so I'd call it a draw on the Old Fartometer.

Then came the golf tournament. I know, you're wondering who would be dumb enough to ask me to join a team that hoped to win a golf tournament. Well it turns out that this was the Comcast Client Appreciation Golf Tournament and I was the client to be appreciated. I was paired with my equally non-athletic account rep but brought two ringers with me for the foursome. In fact, they were so good that a rumor whipped through the player roster that the only all-women foursome
included two semi-pros. That was a good thing because the other two of us were semi-conscious.

Since we played “best ball,” my Comcast buddy and I mostly teed off for laughs and retreated to our cart to await the frequent arrival of the adult beverage truck. While our shills made one par or birdie after another, we just enjoyed our cocktails and the bayside scenery.

Frankly, the more Yuengling I consumed, the better golfer (in relative terms) I became. By the 17th hole I whacked the ball like an Amazon, sending it farther than I had ever launched one before. It wasn't until I turned to walk back to the golf cart that I discovered I'd also attempted to remove my hip from its socket. Good lord, where is that beverage cart when you need it. My post game wrap up was an ice bag.

This discomforting reality show was followed two days later by my spouse's birthday celebration. She'd kill me if I failed to note here that as of this birthday she is not, repeat, not, yet a Film Society Senior. This birthday.

Anyway, at dinner, six women and two men consumed enough Chinese food and Saki to feed half of Beijing, then waddled out of the restaurant at 9:45 – and decided to pass up dancing and a night cap. 9:45 on a Saturday night for pity's sake and we all retreated to our respective pre-assisted living residences. Confucius say these people really old.

To be fair though, I felt a little less decrepit the next morning when one of our young boyfriends, sporting a dandy hangover, called to say “I should have gone home when the lesbians did.” At least he didn't say old lesbians.

But the final test of my senior citizenhood came yesterday on a bright fall afternoon. The Delaware AIDS walk took place in Rehoboth Beach for the first time and I participated. I suspect, in addition to wanting to raise money for the cause, I was trying desperately to hold back the hands of father time and refute my claim to a $1 break on a movie ticket.

No, I thought, there's still hope. I shall defy the clock.

I raised a lot of money. Let's face it, people donated partly
out of sincerity for the cause and partly because the very idea of me voluntarily walking 3.5 miles outside of a shopping mall made them giddy.

Ya know, 3.5 miles is longer than it was in the Mesozoic era. By the time we got half way through, I was panting only slightly less than the Rottweiler behind me. Although my tongue may have been hanging out as far.

On the plus side, I am pleased to note I didn't have to utter the old fart classic “I've fallen and I can't get up.”

And the fact that I could get out of bed unaided this morning gave me hope.

I proclaim that I am not yet a total old fart. But as far as the Film Society is concerned let's not let on.

See you at the movies.