Authors: Fay Jacobs
Fried & True (25 page)
October 2005
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
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 internetâofficial 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, Rehoboth 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 partyânot, 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
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 forâbut 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 looks her age.
Forgive me thoughâit 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 goateesâa 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 Hartâand 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.
Meanwhile when the rain held up for an afternoon, we walked the wet beach, explored the pier, visited that enormous P-Town monument and joined a zillion other lesbians walking their canine companions up and down Commercial Street. Oh how I'd love to see the same kind of women's week parade in Rehoboth. And there's no reason we can't make it happen.
In fact, Rehoboth mirrors P-Town in a lot of great waysâgay friendly small town beach resort, fabulous restaurants, adorable B&B's, an artist's haven, etc.
Unfortunately, we share some not-so-good things as well: quaint properties being bulldozed while condos and town-houses multiply like rabbits; skyrocketing housing prices, and both locals and young visitors being priced out. Oh, and P-Town's biggest dance club, the historic Boatslip has been sold for, what else, condos. With our Renegade club gone we are twin cities, separated at birth.
Here in Rehoboth we should be able to ramp up our festivities and roll out an even bigger welcome mat than we do now. I'm envisioning our Spring Women's Weekend growing into a nationally known party, bringing women, their pets, and their cash to Rehoboth each Spring.
We'd love to see you visit! You'll probably find me walking the boardwalk, Moxie & Paddy in front, me at the rear, holding a little plastic bag. To them I'm one of the pack, not an author with a book at #341,853 on
Amazon.com
.
