Fried & True (35 page)

October 2006

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

UNDERAGE MALE PAGES

I am a gay American and I'm disgusted.

Naturally I'm talking about the Mark Foley scandal. What was he thinking???

I
know
what the conservative commentators are thinking, because they're shouting it. No matter what words they use to discuss the scandal, they are really just shouting “See, we told you gay people are perverts!!!!!”

WE ARE NOT. There is exactly the same percentage of perverts in the straight community as on our side—too many to take any comfort in that, by the way.

If you've been floating in a hyperbaric chamber for two weeks, Mr. Foley, a Florida Republican, resigned his House of Representatives seat last Friday after journalists discovered he'd been sending sexually explicit e-mails to teenage boys in the Congressional Page program. Yeccchhh,.

Thank you, former Congressman Foley, for giving the religious right another gay boogeyman. Thanks, too, for staying in the closet during your whole freakin' legislative career. All your buddies in the Party knew you were gay, all my friends in Florida knew you were gay, but when you got caught doing something really, really disgusting you hold your coming out party. Go ahead, pile “gay” on top of “alcoholic” and “I was abused” as part of your “I'm a victim” defense. How dare you. Same goes for Jim “I'm a Gay American” McGreevy, the ex-governor of New Jersey. While I'm happy that he now has a steady boyfriend and peace of mind, I'm furious at him for waiting until he was caught in a sleazy nepotism scandal to announce his membership in our club. The usual suspects had a field day with that one despite the fact that McGreevy didn't resign because he was gay, but because he was corrupt. Although I have to hand it to him—flinging himself from the
closet on the national news probably took some of the spotlight away from his specious hiring practices.

But being gay had nothing to do with it.

Unless, of course, you factor in repression. The closet. The stress of leading a double life. When people, especially very public people, spend their whole lives hiding in the closet it takes a toll on their mental health. Voila! Some of these people finally crack up and do “inappropriate things.” Let's not forget the very repressed members of the clergy, shall we, both homo and hetero.

As for “inappropriate things,” Mr. Foley, farting in public is inappropriate. Pedophilia, even with someone close to the age of consent, is reprehensible.

And then there is the Nixonian question of WHAT DID THEY KNOW AND WHEN DID THEY KNOW IT.

Let me pose a question here. Picture somebody telling the Speaker of the House “I think one of your Congressmen is typing inappropriate e-mail messages to boys in the Page program.” Picture the reaction.

Would the Speaker say:

1. “Gee. Go tell him to knock it off. How ‘bout those Redskins” and promptly forget the conversation, or

2. “I knew that little fag would embarrass us some day. I want his head on a platter. Get him to resign immediately for personal reasons and then pray the truth doesn't come out. You have 24 hours to take care of this or you are toast.”

Now there's a forgettable conversation.

One of the Speaker's spin masters even had the nerve to suggest the delay in addressing this issue (we call that a cover up, by the way) was because they didn't want to seem homophobic.

I can't stop laughing. The party that's trying to write discrimination against gay people into the Constitution says they were afraid they'd be called homophobic if they ratted on Foley? Puleeeeeze. That ship has sailed. They
dream
of being called homophobic so their voter “base” will stay with them.
Being seen as homophobic is their reason for getting out of bed in the morning.

So what's to be done, besides cringing at every mention of the scandal on TV?

Attention Family Values crowd: I have a plan. You can start by opening your hearts and minds to the idea that all people ARE created equal. What a concept. I know it won't be overnight, but sooner or later, society might become a more welcoming place for closeted gay people. Ergo, by eliminating bigotry and hatred, more people might have the freedom to live honest and open lives.

And some in that small but insidious contingent of homosexual perverts might not be tortured into the kind of mental tizzy causing at best, poor choices and at worst predatory behavior.

Flash! Helping to root out homophobia and making the world safe for gay people is one way to actually PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN! It's a lot better than your current protection plan, which relies on demonizing homos and abortion providers while teaching youngsters Hate101.

So there you have it. A plan for rooting out homosexual predators. But what should we do about heterosexual predators? I cannot say. That problem will have to be tackled by the straight team. And all those repressed and predatory priests? The Church better look those statistics in the eye and make some adjustments.

One slight comfort in all of this has been certain media reactions. I notice that the usual game of “blame the homosexuals,” is being played only by spokespeople and talk show hosts from the right side of the aisle. Many journalists and left aisle commentators have gone out of their way to focus on the facts and the possible cover-up rather than buying into any gay bashing. In fact, one commentator, upon hearing Foley's statement announcing that not only is he an alcoholic, but that he had been abused as a child, and is, in fact, gay, said, “That statement is so insulting to gay people.”

That's progress, I think.

In the meantime, I'm sick and tired of seeing unhappy, repressed lives, gay or straight, unravel on TV.

I am a gay American. And I am pissed.

November 2006

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

NOSE FOR NEWS

Let me say a word about health insurance. Auuggghhh!

One recent Friday I called several insurance agencies to get quotes. I'm in the rotten position of requiring a policy for a group of one. Any schmuck at a big company can get coverage for his whole family and Shitzu for less than I pay.

I spent most of the day filling out questionnaires asking “Have you ever been to a doctor?” Then I had to check a box if I've have ever had flatulence, hiccups, or a sty. The paperwork warned of loss of insurance or death, whichever comes first, if you forget so much as a 1978 nose bleed. For the record I do
not
have diabetes, kidney disease, high blood pressure (although I don't know why) cancer or heart disease. However, I did have a stress test last year for what turned out to be world class gas.

In this age of HIPPA—a government edict requiring medical personnel to swear on a stack of invoices they will never ever tell anybody anything about your health, I found it ironic that I was out sourcing my entire medical history by faxing it to a call center in Bangladesh.

The following Sunday morning I attended a Dead Pool Society Brunch. Remember the drill? We select names of elderly luminaries, ante up ten bucks and if “your” celebrity kicks the bucket you get the money and have to throw a party to usher out the dearly departed.

On this particular Sunday we were sending off that mother who knew least, Jane Wyatt. And she tried to take me with her.

First let me say, I did not even have a cocktail at the party. Honest. There are witnesses.

But as several of us left the house (I will not identify where, as I hold our charming hosts harmless), I had a teeny accident
and fell flat on my face.

Based on Bonnie's forensic analysis (learned by watching
C.S.I
.) the trace evidence of mud on one of my shoes and not on the other, told the tale.

As I walked toward the driveway I put my left foot on the front of a flagstone slab. The square stone flipped up in the back, catching my right foot (hence mud on that shoe from
under
the slab) and sent me flying, face first onto the blacktop driveway where I landed with a gigantic thud. And I landed, with my full and considerable weight, entirely on my nose. A lot of things crossed my mind. While I didn't seem to be dead, I wished I were, because a platoon of my friends had just witnessed this nose dive.

Finally, as blood started trickling down the driveway, Bonnie crouched down at my head repeating “Are you okay,” in varying states of panic. I mumbled, directly into the pavement, “broken nose.”

By this time, somebody summoned a Dead Pooler who, when she was not waving farewell to deceased movie stars, was a nurse. She took charge, gently determining that the rest of me seemed unbroken and all that suffered was my nose. Unless, of course you count injured pride.

Somebody passed me a towel and some ice, as I heard someone else whisper “Let's see if she writes about
this
.”

I was helped to my feet, shuffled into my buddy Larry's car and transported home, where Bonnie plopped me in a chair while she, Larry and a painter who happened to at the house edging the guest room, stared at me in horror. The painter started shaking his head and announcing “that looks real baaad.” Thanks a lot for the expert opinion.

Soon, consensus held that the cut on the bridge of my nose might need a stitch or two after all.

A five hour emergency room wait was not appealing, so, with a bag of ice held firmly to my ballooning schnoze, we set off for the Route One “Doc in a Box” emergency clinic (even knowing I'd have to pay through the nose, ba-da-biing). It's the
clinic with the 12 foot sign out front advertising “Open Seven Days a Week.” It was closed. Is this a great town or what?

So we went home, where my ice bag and I flopped onto the sofa and, like Scarlett O'Hara, decided to worry about it tomorrow.

By morning at the battered woman's shelter, every bone in my body ached, both wrists and knees were solidly black and blue, and my face looked like I'd gone ten rounds with George Foreman. And losing by a nose. I had black eyes, swollen lids, large puffy bags under my black eyes, plus a nose that rivaled Jimmy Durante (ah, a name only us Dead Poolers may remember). I looked like a victim of spousal abuse.

By mid-afternoon I had seen the doctor and he sent me for x-rays. Now here's where we tip over into farce. At the radiology center, a nice woman carefully positioned my face on the machine and took pictures of my lumpy nose from every angle possible—and at this point my nose had a lot of angles.

Very quickly she checked the film and determined I could leave.

“So, is it broken?” I asked.

“You know I'm not allowed to tell you.”

“Listen, I just faxed my medical history to Asia. The entire secretarial pool at Bangladeshy Insurance knows when I had my last colonoscopy and you can't tell me if my nose is broken?”

“Nope.”

Back at my car, my cell phone rings. It's an underwriter from one of the insurance companies I had auditioned for, following up.

“Why do you take cholesterol medicine?”

“Because I don't want my arteries to congeal.”

“Why did you have a stress test in 2005?”

“Gas.”

As I'm answering, nose bandaged and raccoon-eyed, I recall my obligation to be forthright with the almighty insurance pooh-bahs.

“I have to tell you,” I interrupted. “I've just had my nose x-rayed and it might be broken.”

“Is this something that will require surgery?” the underwriter asked in a morbidly curious tone.

“I have no idea,” I said, “but whatever happens it will be before January first and not on your company's watch.” She seemed satisfied by my honesty.

By the time I got home, Bonnie was in the kitchen with an ice bag on her hand. She'd smashed it moving furniture. Great. Between her swollen hand and my bruised face, Rehoboth nosy buddies with their noses for news would promulgate the spousal abuse story.

As it turns out, my nose is broken and I have a deviated septum. I've been called a deviate before, so I wasn't shocked. I find out tomorrow whether surgical intervention is required. Hell, if they fix my nose maybe they can do my eyes at the same time.

For the moment, the black and blue is yellowing, my cut and scraped beak is healing and the only thing permanently bruised is my ego. I've fallen on my face many times before, but never this literally.

And
of course
I wrote about this. It's no skin off my nose.

Editor's note: Fay did need surgery. Now, her nose is back where it belongs, but she had to walk around in a hard cast nose cone. That happened to be Rehoboth Film Fest week, the one event where Fay was guaranteed to run into everyone she knew so they could admire her nose bra. Timing is everything
.