Fried & True (20 page)

June 2005

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

PAW & ORDER—SPECIAL VICTIM'S UNIT

With murderer Scott Peterson safely behind bars and Michael Jackson's infamous acquittal on child molestation charges (don't get me started on that) the country is abuzz with legal groupies. Story after story fixates on those who stray from the righteous, flaunt the rules, and laugh in the face of authority.

Of course, the airwaves (or cables) are filled with this crime stuff (Runaway Bride! Aruba Tourist missing!) so nobody has to cover any real news and find out how many people are being killed in Iraq or how low the dollar has sunk in foreign lands.

The line between news and entertainment (infotainment?) is blurring so badly that real juries are letting people go free because they aren't getting the kind of proof they see every night on CSI. I hope the acquitted Robert Blake is appropriately appreciative of what prosecutors are calling this
CSI
effect.

And now that the Watergate scandal's Deep Throat has been revealed, the only mystery left is whether or not I have aged as badly as Woodward and Bernstein. Gee, did you look at those guys? Do we look as old as they do?

Since crime is such big news these days, with criminals all over the evening news, I was shocked that nobody got wind of one of the biggest criminal cases ever to hit Sussex County. We are obsessed with criminals and they are us.

It's true. My mate and I did something so heinous, so egregious, so totally against the law that our auto insurance rates skyrocketed, people smirked as they viewed our driving records and we were sentenced to spend an entire afternoon wrangling with the geniuses who work, and I use that term loosely, at the Motor Vehicle Department.

What was this wicked attack against convention, our crime of the new century? You'll be aghast.

The whole sordid affair began when my spouse called me
at my office to say we were looking for cheaper car insurance. Okay, whatever.

After getting her new quote she called back, shrieking that she was about to be charged a whopping $75 extra each month because of some serious black mark the insurance company discovered on her driving record.

Okay, she's been caught speeding a time or two but this sounded worse than going 37 in a 25 mph zone in Ellendale.

“The clerk said it was something very, very bad, like resisting arrest, or stealing a car,” Bonnie told me.

“What do you mean LIKE resisting arrest? Either you did or didn't.” I pictured my mate being handcuffed, thrown to the hood of the Volkswagen and frisked by some surly female trooper.

“Don't you think this is something you might remember?” I suggested.

And if she had stolen a car, why wasn't there a Cadillac CTS in my garage? Stealing a car? I think not.

“The report didn't say exactly what you did?” I inquired.

“No,” Bonnie whined, “the insurance company just said that the code for the infraction indicated something really, really bad and I'd have to pay a lot if I still wanted insurance.”

Certain this was some bureaucratic boondoggle I drove home, picked up my criminal element and set off for the county seat.

Ah, Bonnie and Clyde arrived at the DMV. At least when you take a number at the bakery, your wait is rewarded by a bagel. At the DMV, you wait and all you get is attitude. A snippy clerk searched Bonnie's driving record.

“Yes, it's right here,” she said. “You were stopped in Bridgeville, got a $45 ticket, which you paid several days later.”

Ah, lovely Bridgeville-if-you–lived-here-you'd-be-home-now-Delaware.

“It was for unauthorized use,” continued the clerk.

“Unauthorized use of what?” I asked. Hell, it was Bridgeville, maybe it was unauthorized use of scrapple.

The woman slowly, painfully slowly, reached for the code book and looked up the offense. With the urgency of a sloth she found a page and slowly, slowly, walked over to the copier and started printing the information.

“Wait a minute,” Bonnie said, with a glimmer of recall.

She proceeded to remind me of our being stopped by an officer under Bridgeville's towering Rapa Scrapple sign and being written up for having a license plate holder that covered up a little bit of the '04 sticker on her car's tag.

“That's it? Unauthorized use of a plastic license plate holder?”

The clerk slowly, very slowly picked the copy up from the copier and painstakingly handed it to us.

There it was: Unauthorized use of an automotive accessory that obscures the license plate date sticker…. Or something to that effect.

I got louder. “Unauthorized use of a little plastic thingy with rainbow colored
DOGGY PAWS
on it?”

By this time, dozens of sleepy people who had been waiting since Christmas for their ever-lovely drivers license portraits began staring at us, because I was still standing there shouting to the clerk “Our insurance rates are skyrocketing because we bought a decorative license plate holder with red, green and yellow
PAW PRINTS
on it?”

“That's it,” said the clerk, hoping this crazy woman would take her photocopy of the law and go away. “That's it.”

But I assure you, that wasn't IT.

Butch and Sundance had to wrangle with several different insurance companies before we found one that would give Bonnie a reasonable rate despite this scandalous driving record. And now we have to go and try to get this absurd conviction off the books, because every time somebody checks her driving record it's going to come up with those terrible words “unauthorized use” and she's going to seem like a smarmy little felon.

So let this be a warning to you—and you know who you
are—who have the audacity to surround your Delaware plates with little personalized license plate holders—those little rainbow frames, those audacious “Go Eagles” accessories, those patently illegal plate holders advertising your brand of car, your auto dealer, or heaven forbid, your love of animals.

Go ahead and buy those goodies if you must—some of my favorite stores have them displayed all over the walls—but please, please put them on the front bumper and not over your damn license plate. We don't want to see you on
America's Most Wanted
.

Frankly, I'm surprised Woodward and Bernstein missed this one. Hey, maybe there's a book deal here, or a TV show…
Paw and Order, Criminal Intent
.

June 2005

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

FRIED & TRUE

It was 93 degrees out by noon, as we stood right up at the police barricade at Fifth Avenue and 22nd Street waiting for the front of the New York City Pride Parade to reach us.

In my sweaty hand was the 2005 Pride Guide, a glossy magazine listing events, the parade route, Pride organizers, judges and grand marshals, and a page headed Accolade. It described the awards ceremony, to be held in the fall, to honor those individuals and organizations which embody the diversity of pride throughout the year.

I stared at the page. Above the story, in italic typeface, was the quote
“Pride parades were born of brave individuals having the courage to come out as gay in often hostile, unsafe environments,”
and it was attributed to Fay Jacobs,
As I Lay Frying
.

I had no idea who chose to put the quote there, when the decision was made, where they bought my book, or what prompted Pride organizers to use those particular words—although I'm happy they did.

I knew ahead of time about this honor. A friend e-mailed us the previous week, saying there was a quote of mine in the New York Pride Guide and I was pleased and curious. I couldn't imagine what kind of quote (Schnauzers, boating or lawnmowers didn't seem appropriate) but I figured it was probably going to be a quote among many, having something to do with diversity.

But there were my words, all by themselves, heading the page, in a publication in the hands of thousands and thousands of people and on the window sills or stacked up, free for the taking, in hundreds of New York City bars and restaurants.

I was by parts astounded, honored, flattered, and incredulous. And proud, for I meant what I said and this was Pride
2005. It made me think about how far I had come over the decades, from confusion to panic, to a toe out of the closet, to building a life with Bonnie, wonderful friends and family, to Rehoboth and life as a writer, to a Canadian same-sex wedding and now to a sweltering New York street surrounded by thousands of people with their own complex coming out histories.

When I showed the quote to Bonnie, her face lit up. “Cool!” she said.

But it was far from cool as sweat trickled down our necks, and the sun beat down, as we strained our eyes uptown to see if the parade was near.

And then we heard it. The thundering sound of motorcycle engines revving their way toward us. Ah, dykes on bikes leading the parade! They were followed by the New York Police Department marching band, followed by a three hour parade of floats, dancers, music, placards, whistles, shouts and cheers. Along with the marchers, floats from bars, churches, health organizations, gay sports teams, liquor companies, banks and more, there were lots of laughs and some somber moments. This year's parade theme: “Equal Rights, no more, no less” was never far from peoples' consciousness. And the true diversity of the New York community shone bright. Latino contingents (Ah, the costumes and good looking people from Brazil!), Harlem Pride floats, Asian groups (“OUT, not take-out!”) black, brown, white all together, it was a refreshing and joyous mix. Gay firefighters, police contingents, flight attendants (duh!), rugby teams, you name it. We loved D-Flag (women and their dogs), gay dads with a sign “We love our straight son,” the naughty signs, and so much more.

One of the most touching groups (a few marching, a few riding) were some Stonewall riot veterans, one with a sign “Class of '69.” They got sustained cheers and thanks from the crowd.

And of course politics had its day. New York Mayor Bloomberg led the way, with prospective mayoral candidates
battling for applause behind him. Al Sharpton shook hands, led by TV crews moonwalking backwards in front of him for film at 11. There was Senator Chuck Schumer, Congressman Jerry Nadler, and so many more. A huge whoop of joy and cheers went up for political superstar Hillary Clinton, clad in her ubiquitous black pants suit and waving to crowd shouts of “Sister Hillary!”

A contingent of VW bugs chugged by with the waving Fab 5 of Queer Eye, and walkers skipped along with “Honk if You're Queer” bumper stickers. The new gay cable network Logo had a float, as did the Gay and Lesbian Task Force, and P-Flag with a float advertising their “Stay Close” campaign—with a huge photo of Chrissy Gephardt and her parents.

As bystanders right against the rail, we were handed dozens and dozens of stickers, hand-outs and postcards advertising events plus a lifetime supply of condoms, which we passed back to some boys behind us.

Sharing elbow room with us at the front were two lesbians from Brooklyn, and it turned out that one of them had, until recently, worked at InsightOut Bookclub, and knew of my book. Disney had it right. It's a small world after all.

By 3 p.m. we were parched, sweaty and risking third degree sunburn as the parade showed no signs of abating. We had a friend volunteering at a party in the building behind us, at the
In the Life
offices. If you are not familiar with the show, it's a terrific PBS gay news magazine and I'm a big fan. We took refuge at the air conditioned party, toasted Pride with a Mimosa and still had an awesome view of the parade from the
In the Life
office windows.

From there, as the parade chugged along, Bonnie and I fought our way through the throngs lining Fifth Avenue, down to 10th Street and across to Christopher Street to the food and souvenir vendors. The streets were packed as far as our queer eyes could see.

We met friends at Julius', and in small world Part II, my cousin Kenn was there, with a group of his friends and we all
had a reunion, burgers, and beer.

Then, after buying the requisite Pride T-shirt with the Keith Haring design on it and swigging our third large bottle of water we realized how far we had walked and how much further still we had to go to get back to our car on 25th Street. It seemed physically impossible.

“We'll never get a taxi down here,” Bonnie whined as I spied a yellow cab with its vacancy light on. But a group of young guys signaled the cab just as we saw it and it stopped to pick them up. The guys looked at us, we looked at the guys, and they must have taken pity on the two old sunburned lesbians clutching pride guides, staggering unsteadily and looking like Stonewall survivors ourselves. They insisted we take the cab. To those anonymous guys, we will forever be indebted.

And as we slowly pulled away from Christopher Street, I could see the streets still teeming with people, the gutters littered a foot deep in plastic water bottles and other garbage, and the corner trash can bursting with, among pizza boxes and coke cans, hundreds of discarded Pride Guides.

Fame is so fleeting. Happy Pride 2005.