Fried & True (8 page)

February 2004

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

CONTRITION THY NAME IS JACOBS

Okay. Uncle. I apologize. To readers who took umbrage, and in fact, to those who were purple with rage when I wrote my 2001 column criticizing the then-new Showtime drama about gay men,
Queer as Folk
, I offer a sincere request for forgiveness. I should be flogged.

You know where I'm going.

I'm absolutely, positively head-over-heels addicted to Showtime's new drama about gay women,
The L Word
. I can't take my eyes off it, can't wait for Sunday, and can't imagine television allows us such provocative lesbian voyeurism.

And the truth is, in its own way,
The L Word
flashes the same kind of gratuitous sex and stereotypical mostly white, mostly wealthy gay people, often behaving badly, as
QAF
does.

But frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Call me a charlatan, call me a hypocrite, but call me when it's show time. I beg for clemency.

It's amazing, after a lifetime of watching TV characters reflect other people, to finally watch some of our own. It's startling and comforting all at the same time.

Now to be sure, things have changed since 2001. And even as I apologize, I have to defend myself a little.

While I still think the initial season of
Queer as Folk
showed us extraordinarily mean-spirited, sex-obsessed, drug-absorbed characters, it's since gotten better and braver. At the time it was pretty much alone in offering that much sex and salaciousness on television. I was embarrassed that the only purportedly realistic gay characters on TV were those naughty, naughty boys.

But time and trash marched on. Several seasons of racy hetero
Sex in the City
and prime time “reality” slut fests have desensitized us to TV sex and bitchiness. Exactly who's reality do these “reality” shows show? And
Survivor
makes the
QAF
guys seem positively charitable toward one another.

As for scantily clad actresses, we can hardly complain given the recent Janet Jackson bra-ha-ha. Thanks for the mammories, hon. On the radio this morning somebody called it a tempest in a C cup. With all the other nudity in entertainment, why, on the eve of a national primary election, and on a day when countless people were being blown up by terrorists, was Janet's tit front page news? Just asking.

A woman bared a boob at the Superbowl and America acts as if it's the beginning of the Apocalypse. What is wrong with us?

Of course, the fact that Janet wore a nipple shield, on the remote chance that her costume would fall off, pretty much blows Justin's claim of “costume malfunction.” Timberlake wins euphemism of the year, though. But I digress.

My point is, that with
Queer Eye, Will & Grace
, and politicians weighing in on same-sex marriage, being out is positively in America's face these days. Timing is everything for
The L Word
.

On the cover of
New York
magazine, over a gorgeous photo of all the sexy women in the
The L Word
cast, a banner exclaimed “Not Your Mother's Lesbians.”

Gee, I didn't know my mother had lesbians—except for me, of course. But that's a whole other ballgame.

And speaking of ballgames, the magazine story about Showtime's new series made a point.
The L Word
highlights nary a flannel shirt or softball game. Representative of a wide spectrum of gaydom, it's not. The women are all gym-bunny thin with gorgeous clothes, expensive cars and Trump-like careers. It's very, very upscale Los Angeles. One of my friends called it Melrose Place for lesbians. In
The L Word
, Jennifer Beals is to most gay women as
Sex and the City
's Sarah Jessica Parker is to the majority of straight gals. Hence, it sure is pretty to watch. And not as shocking as it would have been only a few years ago.

But if we think the three years since the debut of
Queer As
Folk
have made a difference in the way we perceive television or movies, what about 18 years?

I remember attending the 1985 premier of the movie
Desert Hearts
in Washington, DC. Most AARP-eligible lesbians remember the film as the very first movie featuring a lesbian love story where two women actually rode off into the sunset together—rather than some tragic ending where calamity befell one or both of them.
Personal Best
premiered in 1882, but predictably Mariel Hemingway went back to boys by the end.

But I remember the
Desert Hearts
premier like yesterday (probably better than yesterday, alas), seeing hundreds of women converging on the theater and loitering outside. I'd never seen so many lesbians in public before. Seedy bars in bad neighborhoods, yes, but here we were along Pennsylvania Avenue in the nation's capital. The motorists driving by had never seen such a thing either, leading to, I swear, a number of screeching tires and at least two crunched fenders in the half hour before the theater doors opened.

But it was inside the theater where history happened. The audience watched, transfixed, as prim Helen Shaver and cute Patricia Charboneau, a “hottie” in today's vernacular, met, intrigued each other and had an affair—including a beautifully filmed love scene.

As the women kissed, you could feel tension in the theater. At a literally climactic moment, somebody got carried away and screamed, “Oh my!” The rest of the crowd burst out laughing.

Heterosexuals had been watching themselves clasp and gasp on film since
Birth of a Nation
, but this was our very first chance to experience a filmed love story about people like us. It was magic.

So, too, is
The L Word
.

Of course, by comparison,
Desert Hearts
was G-rated for clasping and gasping.
The L Word
has abundant sex, lingerie, strong language, strong women, nudity and more abundant sex.

It's great and terrible all at the same time. Sure, I wish there was more diversity in the characters, less sex for sex sake, and a cast that looks more like lesbian America.

But why quibble. The show is about people I know, have known, or might know in the future. And despite its flaws, that makes it very, very special.

Time wounds all heels. I'm sorry I was so hard on your show, fellas.

The L Word
is for learned my lesson.

March 2004

LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH

TWILIGHT ZONE, N.Y.

I took a walk up memory lane and into the Twilight Zone last weekend.

The place was the Chelsea Pines B&B in New York City, where I climbed toward heaven in a five-story walk-up and came face to face with memories of my high school prom. Yes, me in a dress. If staring at my old prom pictures didn't make me feel ancient, schlepping up those guesthouse stairs surely did.

About a year ago, in a search of lodging in New York, I discovered that my former high school prom date Jay (Fay and Jay, it was cute) was now the proprietor of an internationally known gay B&B in the Big Apple. If we'd only realized then, what we both know now, we'd have saved ourselves a lot of angst.

But each of us, having found our way out of the closet in our own sweet time, reconnected last weekend and laughed our heads off about it.

When Bonnie and I arrived at the guesthouse, my high school honey's front desk staff greeted us warmly, with devilish grins. “Where's your corsage?” said the cute staffer. Uh, oh. Infamous. He smirked as he offered us a tour.

Jay's father had owned a movie theatre, and Jay was the proud owner of thousands of fantastic old movie posters, hundreds of which adorned the B&B walls. Each room in the 25-room building was named for an old-time movie star, and the place was high homosexual and positively wonderful.

The general manager pointed us (up) to our fourth floor Donna Reed Suite to await our host. Like luggage-laden Von Trapp Family Singers, we commenced the climb from base camp to summit.

Oh boy, (pant, pant) to borrow a line from playwright Neil Simon, if I had known the people on the second floor I would have gone to stay with them.

Winded but no worse for wear, we arrived at Donna Reed, flung open the door and (cue the eerie
Twilight Zone
music) discovered why the front desk clerk smirked. Enlarged, grainy, frightening Xerox copies of my 1965 prom pictures, yearbook photo, and other assorted artifacts adorned the walls over the movie posters. Bonnie and I used up what little breath we had left laughing.

I especially appreciated the Thelma & Louise-ish picture of me, behind the wheel of my parents' sports car, wearing a ridiculous grin and humongous, dramatically pointy white sunglasses.

Actually, when I got finished laughing and gasping for oxygen, I was touched that Jay had saved all that stuff for, omigod, 39 (!) years. It doesn't seem possible.

But almost four decades later it is. And while I haven't changed much (Ha!) movie posters sure have.

“He knew her lips, but not her name…” “Backlash! Suspense that cuts like a whip!” and my favorite—certainly prior to political incorrectness—Donna Reed starring as Sacagawea.

The film was
The Far Horizon
, IN TECHNICOLOR no less, and it was a far horizon indeed to see my high school photo plastered in the middle of the poster. Bonnie, staring at the yearbook graduation picture laughed that she had Jimmy Carter type lust in her heart at the sight of that innocent young thing. Weird!!!!

When our host arrived, he came bearing flowers and a huge smile. We stared at each other, searching for our former young selves in the middle-aged gay people we'd become. I recognized him right away, even if he was letting his natural blonde grow in (!!). I noted that perhaps he'd forgotten I was always a red head.

We only had the afternoon to reminisce, because Jay lives the life we used to: he works at the Chelsea Pines during the week and then he and his partner flee the city Friday nights for their weekend home in the Berkshire Mountains. We told him
of our five years commuting to Rehoboth.

Jay learned that Bonnie and I were celebrating what would have been our 22nd anniversary, if we hadn't eloped to Canada last August, creating a muddled anniversary date. I learned the fascinating tale of his buying a run-down rooming house filled with “bums” and slowly converting it to the now-thriving gay guesthouse. It was a lovely reunion and we talked of doing it again, maybe here at the beach.

As for the rest of the weekend, it had lots of blast from the past qualities. On Saturday afternoon we went to the Television and Radio museum on 52nd Street to see part of a documentary series on gay images on TV. The Saturday showing was The Early Years and included a 1964 episode of
Espionage
. Filmed in black and white, one year before my high school graduation, the program looked as prehistoric as my prom pictures.

Jim Backus played a diplomat investigating a rumor that one of his staff was (big wide-eyed intake of breath) “a homosexual.” Lines like “You realize he is an expert in…antique furniture!!!” (gasp!), and “Isn't he a little…light on his feet?” made the audience wince, then giggle. Frankly, as dreadful as the televised homophobia was, the treatment of women in the episode was even more disturbing, so lots of us have come a long way baby.

And we went a long way, baby, all weekend. For the record, we'd get dressed for the whole day in the morning, and not return to Mt. Donna Reed until bedtime. One Stairmaster session a day was plenty.

We spent time downtown in Chelsea and the Village, then uptown to Bloomingdale's and Broadway. By Sunday, we toasted to our anniversary at a girl bar called The Cubby Hole on West 4th Street in the Village.

In a very back-to-the-future moment, we played the state-of-the-art satellite jukebox, which can summon every recording ever made, and chose “our” song from 1982—Anne Murray's “Can I Have This Dance.”

As we sipped a drink and, to quote Anne Murray, “swayed to the music,” Bonnie slipped a bar matchbook over my way. She'd written our phone number on it, with the words “call me.”

Cue the
Twilight Zone
music.

Okay, we're back, if not to the future, at least to the present. We've got six months to argue about whether to celebrate our anniversary again in August.

In the meantime, if you happen to be heading to NYC, we heartily recommend the Chelsea Pines Inn. I'm sure my photos have been stripped from the walls by now. And I understand that the James Garner suite is fabulous. It's on the ground floor.