Fried and convicted, p.16
Fried & Convicted, page 16
And even if I could snag an aisle seat, we’re all now members of the mile-thigh club, haunches hanging over the teeny seats, obstructing the forward progress of the drink carts. I hate deplaning bruised and battered, having been sideswiped by a six-pack of Snapple.
So they think snacks will help? The headline on CNBC said, “Airlines get back to basics again.”
Seriously? To me, basics are not Dutch-style, waffle-shaped cookies called “Stroopwafel,” as the online article noted. To me, basics are legroom and my seat-mate’s elbow out of my kidney.
One deluded airline employee noted, “We know that even the smallest detail can make a big difference in the travel experience.” Really? How about a small detail like being able to exhale without arranging for the adjacent traveler to inhale?
Oh, and get this. The airlines are starting to free up these sugary Stroopwafels because . . . wait for it . . . the price of oil is cheaper! Seriously? Airlines think that doling out 40 million Stroopwafels (yes, I love writing that word) is a better choice than giving us another inch of knee room? Or another nonstop flight?
Ever since the adoption of the ubiquitous hub system, passengers have to fly through Atlanta to go anywhere at all. If you’re going to hell you have to go through Atlanta first.
Although one thing I appreciate about flying these days is that flight attendants have developed a sense of humor. I overheard one recently announce, “In case of loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will descend. Stop screaming and put one over your face. If you have a small child with you, secure your mask before assisting with theirs. If you are traveling with more than one child, pick your favorite.”
Another stand-up flight attendant warned, “There may be 50 ways to leave your lover but there are only two ways out of this plane. If it’s a water landing, feel free to take your seat cushion as a souvenir.”
Vaudeville aside, flying is not fun anymore. Between arm-wrestling for armrests and the game of “will I or won’t I” get my bag into the overheads, it’s torturous. I’m a white-knuckle flyer at best anyway, and fearing Ebola from the hacking cougher man-spreading into my personal space just adds to my angst. Returning my seat to an upright position should not risk breaking my nose.
So what are airlines doing to solve these pressing problems? Launching a snack attack, apparently. At this point the three biggest U.S. airlines have announced that free snacks are back, even in steerage.
Restoring complimentary snacks has been deemed the solution to all manner of airline customer complaints. The airlines call this “investing in the passenger experience.” I call it investing in bakery products.
As for the customer experience, it’s the Stroopwafel, the whole Stroopwafel, and nothing but the Stroopwafel.
June 2016
AMERICAN NINJA WANNABE
American Ninja Warrior: Those who can, do; those who can’t, watch. And I’ve been watching.
Have you seen this show? Technically it’s a reality show, but the level of athleticism needed to compete is astounding, making it a very fascinating program.
The athletes do the most challenging things, on an almost impossible and wacky obstacle course. I’m insanely impressed and love to watch the men and women do, what seems to me, the impossible. Well frankly, to me it is impossible.
Although, for most of the challenges, I can compete with them for my own personal bests.
One of the first Ninja challenges on the course is the ring jump over the pegs. Athletes dangle from a bar on two giant red rings, and use their entire body strength to leap up and over eight-inch-high pegs atop the pole. They travel that way, leaping and moving along toward the next challenge. Failure means dropping into water below.
For me this is not unlike my leaping up to hang stuff on my closet’s severely too-high clothes rod. It takes my entire body strength to leap up and catch the plastic hanger on the bar. If the plastic hanger breaks, I go, not into the water, but into a pile of shoes. Water would hurt less.
It’s a thrill to watch these muscular Ninja women hold onto a horizontal one-inch ledge with their heels, thighs and fingertips, then drop to a vertical position, holding on only by their fingertips. The announcers go crazy about the strength of their fingertips.
Have you ever tried to open a Tupperware container of dog kibble? Once that Tupperware has been burped, to reopen it takes the same Herculean fingertip strength those Ninjas use. Struggle for a while to pop the top without success and you’ll wish for a dunking instead of the pitying look on the schnauzer face below.
They should have a Ninja challenge like the trial posed by my fancy new washing machine. The warrior would bend completely in half to retrieve a small object from a revolving drum, well below the tiny platform where they are perched.
I stand on a wobbly footstool, bent in half at the waist, flailing wildly, trying not to plummet headfirst into the washing machine, just to retrieve a wet pair of underpants. These new appliances are so bottomless that short people like me wind up on ladders, leaning down to retrieve socks with salad tongs.
I love to watch the Ninjas leap into midair to grab onto a swinging cylindrical boxing bag, landing on the tiniest ledge around it. It rivals my getting up a good head of steam, jumping onto the back of my giant rolling trash can, leaning back to the proper angle and propelling a week’s worth of stinky garbage to the curb. Wheeee! Go, Waste Management Warrior!
Then there’s the Warrior Escalator challenge. The contestant has to jump from step to moving step, legs almost horizontal, hoping not to miss a foothold and get dunked in the water.
It’s really pretty similar to the happy dance I do in the yard to avoid puppy land mines. I repeat, landing in water would be better.
And finally, the Ninja Challenge course ends with the Great Wall. These mega-athletes take a running start and exercise a superhuman leap to propel themselves straight up a nearly vertical barrier. For the very few that make it, it’s on to the finals.
Ha! They have nothing on me, leaping up the sheer face of the refrigerator hoping to open the cabinet above where I’ve hidden the Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies. For the very few times I make it, I’m on to the final wearing of my current size shorts.
Now in order to be cast on the program and to compete as a Ninja, there’s a whole application process. First, you have to fill out an essay about why you want to compete. Frankly, I’m pretty sure I can handle that challenge. Second, they say that since it’s a reality show, in addition to your physical training you must have a captivating backstory. What do you think? Mine sure wouldn’t be the same old workout and physical fitness tale.
And finally, you have to send them a video of your training program and glimpse of your training regimen.
I’m in the process of doing a video selfie of me fishing for dish towels in the washing machine and executing my poop-dodging backyard choreography. I’ll probably have to enlist the help of a videographer to film my two-handed Girl Scout cookie lunge and rescue.
All in all, American Ninja Warriors inspires my quest to stay fit and accomplish the activities of daily living. And it really entertains me. Maybe my video application can do the same for the show’s producers.
Ready, set, hang up those pants! Film at eleven.
June 2016
ADVERTISING’S DISTURBING
CREATURE COMFORTERS
I’m here to talk about Big Pharma and the birth of the snot monster. Now I am so sorry to be this disgusting so early in my column, but I have just about had it with drug company commercials on TV. And the Snot Monster (his given name by the ad agency who birthed him) hawking the drug Mucinex is just the tip of the ice bag.
It’s hard to believe that the agency which first came up with animated mucus did so a decade ago. Apparently, this terrible idea was born because nobody on TV was talking about mucus. Are we surprised?
So agency illustrators drew the little lumbering Mucus Man (not to be confused with the Broadway musical of a similar title) to waddle around, peddling the drug Mucinex.
And it worked. Really well. So, in the decade following that Green Blob’s first gooey footsteps came a new era. Body parts and bodily functions morphed into endearing little anthropomorphic cartoon characters. Television has been overrun with bouncing body parts ever since.
From squirming, dancing bladders to creepy creatures representing sleep deprivation, these ads are the 21st century equivalent of highway accidents: You ought not stare but you cannot look away. I mean, how often do you get the chance to see a roiling lower intestine? Too often, I say.
The only good thing about this alarming advertising trend is that I am no longer able to eat while I watch TV, and that’s a good thing. Prescription advertising mascots have curbed my appetite like no diet plan ever has. They’ve also curbed my enthusiasm for prime time, alas.
Face it, one minute you’re watching football and the next there’s a giant animated toenail on your 55-inch Sony, showing off its high-definition foot fungus. Say hello to the Jublia Big Toe. If you ask me, this is advertising putting its very worst-looking foot forward. Quick, post a Fund Me page so this digit can get a pedicure to hide the fungus among us.
And what’s with those critter-like fuzzy letters in the insomnia commercial? What the hell are they? Dogs? Cats? Mohair sweaters? Spelling out “W-A-K-E” and “S-L-E-E-P, ” we see little fuzzy Wake fight with little furry Sleep. I don’t know whether to notify the Humane Society or the Grammar Police. Is it animal abuse or revenge of the nouns? Frankly, it’s so creepy it keeps me up at night, which surely makes this drug contraindicated. Watch this weird commercial and you may never sleep again.
And we cannot ignore television’s friendly little bladder-boy. That’s right, a bouncy bladder buddy holds hands with a panic-stricken woman and drags her into a succession of public restrooms. I want to watch HGTV, not somebody’s over-active bladder hijacking its human. Ewwww. I mean it’s not the Syfy channel. Or is it?
As an aside to this bladder business, my pharmacological column research led me to an app for the iPhone called “RunPee.” It’s an app that summarizes movies and tells you when you can safely run to the bathroom without missing much. I’m serious. This is a real thing. RunPee. There is nothing I can say here that would be any more amusing than the name of this app and the fact that it exists.
But I digress.
Back on topic, we have the newest drug-pushing spokes-metaphor—the walking, squirming lower intestine. Yup, cutesy colon creature is brought to you by the drug Xifaxan. It’s got a sweet turtle face and slinky body and pretty soon you are sitting there, thinking he’s kind of cute and feeling sorry for him and . . . Wait a minute! You’re feeling empathy with an irritable bowel? You should hate his guts. But there they are, the very guts, dancing, winking, playing on your emotions. It gives me Irritable Viewer Syndrome. Frankly, this guy might be both the literary and figurative bowels of this entire genre.
And why are we seeing these ads anyway? Most are for products you cannot even buy without going to the doctor for a prescription. Call me old-fashioned, but I would prefer the doctor recommend a drug for me, not the other way around. The drug manufacturers are banking on me going to the doctor to request a specific medication because I’m smitten with a talking intestine? It would be preposterous if it wasn’t working.
And in fact, this whole business of pharmaceutical companies dealing drugs directly to patients, manipulating us with cutesy, often endearing creatures, makes me want to swallow a fistful of anxiety meds.
Of course, then I’d have to deal with the incessantly advertised side effects, which is another frightening thing about these kitschy commercials. Do I really want to take their sleeping pill if I have to worry about “narcolepsy, the danger of operating heavy machinery, confusion, hallucinations, memory loss, and next-day drowsiness”?
Hell, I can skip the medication altogether and earn all those side effects by operating the heaviest machinery I own—a blender—and downing an entire pitcher of margaritas.
Although adorable Mr. Liver may then have something to say about it.
July 2016
A KEYNOTE OF NOTE
Author’s note: the following speech was presented by me to the members of the Golden Crown Literary Society on Saturday morning, July 9, 2016. The GCLS is a nonprofit organization specifically for lesbian writers and their readers, celebrating the books we write and those who read them. My keynote address was on a topic dear to my heart, preserving gay culture, and as such, it may contain a line or three that you’ve read from me before. Also, it’s a wee bit longer than the rest of the chapters in this book—so if you need a break for the necessary room, now would be a good time. But hurry back. I have stuff to say.
Good morning!
I’m so thrilled to be here with all of you to make this presentation at GCLS 2016. What a conference this is—so many incredible writers and readers coming together . . . and not on Facebook, actually face to face. It’s novel. It’s magical.
GCLS 2016. A decade ago, at GCLS 2006, I was first introduced to this organization and many of our wonderful members.
I came to Atlanta, not to represent myself, a first-time author, but to accept the posthumous Trailblazer Award for my dear friend and mentor Anyda Marchant, author of the 14 classic Sarah Aldridge novels.
She and her late partner of 57 years, Muriel Crawford, had been two of the four founders of the legendary Naiad Press and later, by themselves, A&M Books. They had both recently passed away, both in their 90s, and they left A&M Books to me.
I was a lesbian deer in the headlights. My only knowledge of publishing was what Anyda and Muriel taught me of their antiquated, non-computerized ways.
They kept their financials in stacks of hardcover account books, like Charles Dickens’ Bob Cratchit. Their tools of the trade were yellow no. 2 pencils, legal pads, and tumblers of Dewar’s Scotch. The only part I really understood was the liquor.
And the business was just a trickle of its former self. About five or six times a month, Anyda would slowly and carefully make her way to the freestanding garage adjacent to their house. She’d find the right carton among dozens and select the requested Sarah Aldridge book.
Then, back at the house, she and Muriel would wrap the book in brown paper and send it out to a reader who, by the way, had contacted them by snail mail, or sometimes the rotary phone, requesting one of the 14 still-in-print Sarah Aldridge novels. This wasn’t 1976; it was 2006. Amazon? They had no clue.
When, just before she died, Anyda asked me to take over the business, I was honored and welcomed the job. But I was a totally accidental publisher.
My first collection of magazine columns had been published by Anyda and Muriel in 2004, and I figured the book would be a “one and done.” And there was nothing else in the pipeline to be published by A&M Books. I expected to settle into the role of archivist and keeper of the flame, nothing more.
So when I came to GCLS that summer, I hadn’t signed up to participate in panels or read my work, nothing. I was there simply for the tremendous honor being bestowed upon Anyda.
But a funny thing happened on A&M’s way to publishing extinction. I was welcomed with open arms by a flock of really friendly and fascinating women, both readers and writers.
They were curious about my book, asked what I intended to publish next, and hoped they’d get to hear me read. A couple of the women hunted down a hotel alcove and, during a refreshment break, set me up to read. It wasn’t until last week when I found an old photo from that day that I realized that two of the women in the picture are now my good friends, award-winning writers Lynn Ames and Ellen Hart.
They, and then Marianne K. Martin and Kelly Smith of Bywater Books at an early Saints & Sinners Literary Conference, took me under their wings, talked to me about lesbian publishing, and welcomed me to the community.
That I was nominally the competition bothered no one. In fact, some of the heaviest hitters in this business, from Bella to Bold Strokes to Bywater Books, have gone out of their way to help me keep Anyda’s publishing legacy alive and to help relaunch and reinvent A&M Books.
Of course, that meant a crash course for me in ISBN numbers, sell sheets, e-books, book spines, and beta readers. You’ve heard of drumming circles? We had bar code circles, sitting with friends, drinking cocktails, and stickering hundreds of books so we could sell them on Amazon.
Over the next eight years I published a new novel by early feminist icon Ann Allen Shockley, a terrific novel by television producer Stefani Deoul, a memoir by Lee Watton who had been kicked out of the military in the 1960s, and a new edition of the first Sarah Aldridge book The Latecomer, with essays by many legendary lesbian writers and entertainers—including some you see here today. I also published three more collections of my own columns.
It worked and was a blast, all nourished and helped by so many people in this room. And in fact, as of last summer, A&M Books became part of the Bywater Books family and I could not be more thrilled.
But now, in a really weird turn of events, in addition to my four published books, at age 68 I have a whole new career, as a professional storyteller.
Some of you may have seen my show last summer in New Orleans or to benefit GCLS in P-town. I’ve been touring with the show for over a year now.
This too is a direct result of GCLS and the lesbian publishing world. When I’d read my stories at the cons, audiences would laugh. Then they started to nag, asking me over and over when I was going to book myself as a stand-up comic.
Are you kidding? Break into show business? At my age I’d be just as likely to break a hip.
And I knew I was way too old to be up on my feet, bouncing around a stage with a microphone to my mouth for an hour. Besides, I can’t remember my grocery list much less an hour of material.
So instead, I became a sit-down comic, reading my stories. It works. I’ve been called the “Last Comic Sitting.” And I’m having a grand time. Who knows how long this show biz career will last, but it’s fun.
So they think snacks will help? The headline on CNBC said, “Airlines get back to basics again.”
Seriously? To me, basics are not Dutch-style, waffle-shaped cookies called “Stroopwafel,” as the online article noted. To me, basics are legroom and my seat-mate’s elbow out of my kidney.
One deluded airline employee noted, “We know that even the smallest detail can make a big difference in the travel experience.” Really? How about a small detail like being able to exhale without arranging for the adjacent traveler to inhale?
Oh, and get this. The airlines are starting to free up these sugary Stroopwafels because . . . wait for it . . . the price of oil is cheaper! Seriously? Airlines think that doling out 40 million Stroopwafels (yes, I love writing that word) is a better choice than giving us another inch of knee room? Or another nonstop flight?
Ever since the adoption of the ubiquitous hub system, passengers have to fly through Atlanta to go anywhere at all. If you’re going to hell you have to go through Atlanta first.
Although one thing I appreciate about flying these days is that flight attendants have developed a sense of humor. I overheard one recently announce, “In case of loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will descend. Stop screaming and put one over your face. If you have a small child with you, secure your mask before assisting with theirs. If you are traveling with more than one child, pick your favorite.”
Another stand-up flight attendant warned, “There may be 50 ways to leave your lover but there are only two ways out of this plane. If it’s a water landing, feel free to take your seat cushion as a souvenir.”
Vaudeville aside, flying is not fun anymore. Between arm-wrestling for armrests and the game of “will I or won’t I” get my bag into the overheads, it’s torturous. I’m a white-knuckle flyer at best anyway, and fearing Ebola from the hacking cougher man-spreading into my personal space just adds to my angst. Returning my seat to an upright position should not risk breaking my nose.
So what are airlines doing to solve these pressing problems? Launching a snack attack, apparently. At this point the three biggest U.S. airlines have announced that free snacks are back, even in steerage.
Restoring complimentary snacks has been deemed the solution to all manner of airline customer complaints. The airlines call this “investing in the passenger experience.” I call it investing in bakery products.
As for the customer experience, it’s the Stroopwafel, the whole Stroopwafel, and nothing but the Stroopwafel.
June 2016
AMERICAN NINJA WANNABE
American Ninja Warrior: Those who can, do; those who can’t, watch. And I’ve been watching.
Have you seen this show? Technically it’s a reality show, but the level of athleticism needed to compete is astounding, making it a very fascinating program.
The athletes do the most challenging things, on an almost impossible and wacky obstacle course. I’m insanely impressed and love to watch the men and women do, what seems to me, the impossible. Well frankly, to me it is impossible.
Although, for most of the challenges, I can compete with them for my own personal bests.
One of the first Ninja challenges on the course is the ring jump over the pegs. Athletes dangle from a bar on two giant red rings, and use their entire body strength to leap up and over eight-inch-high pegs atop the pole. They travel that way, leaping and moving along toward the next challenge. Failure means dropping into water below.
For me this is not unlike my leaping up to hang stuff on my closet’s severely too-high clothes rod. It takes my entire body strength to leap up and catch the plastic hanger on the bar. If the plastic hanger breaks, I go, not into the water, but into a pile of shoes. Water would hurt less.
It’s a thrill to watch these muscular Ninja women hold onto a horizontal one-inch ledge with their heels, thighs and fingertips, then drop to a vertical position, holding on only by their fingertips. The announcers go crazy about the strength of their fingertips.
Have you ever tried to open a Tupperware container of dog kibble? Once that Tupperware has been burped, to reopen it takes the same Herculean fingertip strength those Ninjas use. Struggle for a while to pop the top without success and you’ll wish for a dunking instead of the pitying look on the schnauzer face below.
They should have a Ninja challenge like the trial posed by my fancy new washing machine. The warrior would bend completely in half to retrieve a small object from a revolving drum, well below the tiny platform where they are perched.
I stand on a wobbly footstool, bent in half at the waist, flailing wildly, trying not to plummet headfirst into the washing machine, just to retrieve a wet pair of underpants. These new appliances are so bottomless that short people like me wind up on ladders, leaning down to retrieve socks with salad tongs.
I love to watch the Ninjas leap into midair to grab onto a swinging cylindrical boxing bag, landing on the tiniest ledge around it. It rivals my getting up a good head of steam, jumping onto the back of my giant rolling trash can, leaning back to the proper angle and propelling a week’s worth of stinky garbage to the curb. Wheeee! Go, Waste Management Warrior!
Then there’s the Warrior Escalator challenge. The contestant has to jump from step to moving step, legs almost horizontal, hoping not to miss a foothold and get dunked in the water.
It’s really pretty similar to the happy dance I do in the yard to avoid puppy land mines. I repeat, landing in water would be better.
And finally, the Ninja Challenge course ends with the Great Wall. These mega-athletes take a running start and exercise a superhuman leap to propel themselves straight up a nearly vertical barrier. For the very few that make it, it’s on to the finals.
Ha! They have nothing on me, leaping up the sheer face of the refrigerator hoping to open the cabinet above where I’ve hidden the Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies. For the very few times I make it, I’m on to the final wearing of my current size shorts.
Now in order to be cast on the program and to compete as a Ninja, there’s a whole application process. First, you have to fill out an essay about why you want to compete. Frankly, I’m pretty sure I can handle that challenge. Second, they say that since it’s a reality show, in addition to your physical training you must have a captivating backstory. What do you think? Mine sure wouldn’t be the same old workout and physical fitness tale.
And finally, you have to send them a video of your training program and glimpse of your training regimen.
I’m in the process of doing a video selfie of me fishing for dish towels in the washing machine and executing my poop-dodging backyard choreography. I’ll probably have to enlist the help of a videographer to film my two-handed Girl Scout cookie lunge and rescue.
All in all, American Ninja Warriors inspires my quest to stay fit and accomplish the activities of daily living. And it really entertains me. Maybe my video application can do the same for the show’s producers.
Ready, set, hang up those pants! Film at eleven.
June 2016
ADVERTISING’S DISTURBING
CREATURE COMFORTERS
I’m here to talk about Big Pharma and the birth of the snot monster. Now I am so sorry to be this disgusting so early in my column, but I have just about had it with drug company commercials on TV. And the Snot Monster (his given name by the ad agency who birthed him) hawking the drug Mucinex is just the tip of the ice bag.
It’s hard to believe that the agency which first came up with animated mucus did so a decade ago. Apparently, this terrible idea was born because nobody on TV was talking about mucus. Are we surprised?
So agency illustrators drew the little lumbering Mucus Man (not to be confused with the Broadway musical of a similar title) to waddle around, peddling the drug Mucinex.
And it worked. Really well. So, in the decade following that Green Blob’s first gooey footsteps came a new era. Body parts and bodily functions morphed into endearing little anthropomorphic cartoon characters. Television has been overrun with bouncing body parts ever since.
From squirming, dancing bladders to creepy creatures representing sleep deprivation, these ads are the 21st century equivalent of highway accidents: You ought not stare but you cannot look away. I mean, how often do you get the chance to see a roiling lower intestine? Too often, I say.
The only good thing about this alarming advertising trend is that I am no longer able to eat while I watch TV, and that’s a good thing. Prescription advertising mascots have curbed my appetite like no diet plan ever has. They’ve also curbed my enthusiasm for prime time, alas.
Face it, one minute you’re watching football and the next there’s a giant animated toenail on your 55-inch Sony, showing off its high-definition foot fungus. Say hello to the Jublia Big Toe. If you ask me, this is advertising putting its very worst-looking foot forward. Quick, post a Fund Me page so this digit can get a pedicure to hide the fungus among us.
And what’s with those critter-like fuzzy letters in the insomnia commercial? What the hell are they? Dogs? Cats? Mohair sweaters? Spelling out “W-A-K-E” and “S-L-E-E-P, ” we see little fuzzy Wake fight with little furry Sleep. I don’t know whether to notify the Humane Society or the Grammar Police. Is it animal abuse or revenge of the nouns? Frankly, it’s so creepy it keeps me up at night, which surely makes this drug contraindicated. Watch this weird commercial and you may never sleep again.
And we cannot ignore television’s friendly little bladder-boy. That’s right, a bouncy bladder buddy holds hands with a panic-stricken woman and drags her into a succession of public restrooms. I want to watch HGTV, not somebody’s over-active bladder hijacking its human. Ewwww. I mean it’s not the Syfy channel. Or is it?
As an aside to this bladder business, my pharmacological column research led me to an app for the iPhone called “RunPee.” It’s an app that summarizes movies and tells you when you can safely run to the bathroom without missing much. I’m serious. This is a real thing. RunPee. There is nothing I can say here that would be any more amusing than the name of this app and the fact that it exists.
But I digress.
Back on topic, we have the newest drug-pushing spokes-metaphor—the walking, squirming lower intestine. Yup, cutesy colon creature is brought to you by the drug Xifaxan. It’s got a sweet turtle face and slinky body and pretty soon you are sitting there, thinking he’s kind of cute and feeling sorry for him and . . . Wait a minute! You’re feeling empathy with an irritable bowel? You should hate his guts. But there they are, the very guts, dancing, winking, playing on your emotions. It gives me Irritable Viewer Syndrome. Frankly, this guy might be both the literary and figurative bowels of this entire genre.
And why are we seeing these ads anyway? Most are for products you cannot even buy without going to the doctor for a prescription. Call me old-fashioned, but I would prefer the doctor recommend a drug for me, not the other way around. The drug manufacturers are banking on me going to the doctor to request a specific medication because I’m smitten with a talking intestine? It would be preposterous if it wasn’t working.
And in fact, this whole business of pharmaceutical companies dealing drugs directly to patients, manipulating us with cutesy, often endearing creatures, makes me want to swallow a fistful of anxiety meds.
Of course, then I’d have to deal with the incessantly advertised side effects, which is another frightening thing about these kitschy commercials. Do I really want to take their sleeping pill if I have to worry about “narcolepsy, the danger of operating heavy machinery, confusion, hallucinations, memory loss, and next-day drowsiness”?
Hell, I can skip the medication altogether and earn all those side effects by operating the heaviest machinery I own—a blender—and downing an entire pitcher of margaritas.
Although adorable Mr. Liver may then have something to say about it.
July 2016
A KEYNOTE OF NOTE
Author’s note: the following speech was presented by me to the members of the Golden Crown Literary Society on Saturday morning, July 9, 2016. The GCLS is a nonprofit organization specifically for lesbian writers and their readers, celebrating the books we write and those who read them. My keynote address was on a topic dear to my heart, preserving gay culture, and as such, it may contain a line or three that you’ve read from me before. Also, it’s a wee bit longer than the rest of the chapters in this book—so if you need a break for the necessary room, now would be a good time. But hurry back. I have stuff to say.
Good morning!
I’m so thrilled to be here with all of you to make this presentation at GCLS 2016. What a conference this is—so many incredible writers and readers coming together . . . and not on Facebook, actually face to face. It’s novel. It’s magical.
GCLS 2016. A decade ago, at GCLS 2006, I was first introduced to this organization and many of our wonderful members.
I came to Atlanta, not to represent myself, a first-time author, but to accept the posthumous Trailblazer Award for my dear friend and mentor Anyda Marchant, author of the 14 classic Sarah Aldridge novels.
She and her late partner of 57 years, Muriel Crawford, had been two of the four founders of the legendary Naiad Press and later, by themselves, A&M Books. They had both recently passed away, both in their 90s, and they left A&M Books to me.
I was a lesbian deer in the headlights. My only knowledge of publishing was what Anyda and Muriel taught me of their antiquated, non-computerized ways.
They kept their financials in stacks of hardcover account books, like Charles Dickens’ Bob Cratchit. Their tools of the trade were yellow no. 2 pencils, legal pads, and tumblers of Dewar’s Scotch. The only part I really understood was the liquor.
And the business was just a trickle of its former self. About five or six times a month, Anyda would slowly and carefully make her way to the freestanding garage adjacent to their house. She’d find the right carton among dozens and select the requested Sarah Aldridge book.
Then, back at the house, she and Muriel would wrap the book in brown paper and send it out to a reader who, by the way, had contacted them by snail mail, or sometimes the rotary phone, requesting one of the 14 still-in-print Sarah Aldridge novels. This wasn’t 1976; it was 2006. Amazon? They had no clue.
When, just before she died, Anyda asked me to take over the business, I was honored and welcomed the job. But I was a totally accidental publisher.
My first collection of magazine columns had been published by Anyda and Muriel in 2004, and I figured the book would be a “one and done.” And there was nothing else in the pipeline to be published by A&M Books. I expected to settle into the role of archivist and keeper of the flame, nothing more.
So when I came to GCLS that summer, I hadn’t signed up to participate in panels or read my work, nothing. I was there simply for the tremendous honor being bestowed upon Anyda.
But a funny thing happened on A&M’s way to publishing extinction. I was welcomed with open arms by a flock of really friendly and fascinating women, both readers and writers.
They were curious about my book, asked what I intended to publish next, and hoped they’d get to hear me read. A couple of the women hunted down a hotel alcove and, during a refreshment break, set me up to read. It wasn’t until last week when I found an old photo from that day that I realized that two of the women in the picture are now my good friends, award-winning writers Lynn Ames and Ellen Hart.
They, and then Marianne K. Martin and Kelly Smith of Bywater Books at an early Saints & Sinners Literary Conference, took me under their wings, talked to me about lesbian publishing, and welcomed me to the community.
That I was nominally the competition bothered no one. In fact, some of the heaviest hitters in this business, from Bella to Bold Strokes to Bywater Books, have gone out of their way to help me keep Anyda’s publishing legacy alive and to help relaunch and reinvent A&M Books.
Of course, that meant a crash course for me in ISBN numbers, sell sheets, e-books, book spines, and beta readers. You’ve heard of drumming circles? We had bar code circles, sitting with friends, drinking cocktails, and stickering hundreds of books so we could sell them on Amazon.
Over the next eight years I published a new novel by early feminist icon Ann Allen Shockley, a terrific novel by television producer Stefani Deoul, a memoir by Lee Watton who had been kicked out of the military in the 1960s, and a new edition of the first Sarah Aldridge book The Latecomer, with essays by many legendary lesbian writers and entertainers—including some you see here today. I also published three more collections of my own columns.
It worked and was a blast, all nourished and helped by so many people in this room. And in fact, as of last summer, A&M Books became part of the Bywater Books family and I could not be more thrilled.
But now, in a really weird turn of events, in addition to my four published books, at age 68 I have a whole new career, as a professional storyteller.
Some of you may have seen my show last summer in New Orleans or to benefit GCLS in P-town. I’ve been touring with the show for over a year now.
This too is a direct result of GCLS and the lesbian publishing world. When I’d read my stories at the cons, audiences would laugh. Then they started to nag, asking me over and over when I was going to book myself as a stand-up comic.
Are you kidding? Break into show business? At my age I’d be just as likely to break a hip.
And I knew I was way too old to be up on my feet, bouncing around a stage with a microphone to my mouth for an hour. Besides, I can’t remember my grocery list much less an hour of material.
So instead, I became a sit-down comic, reading my stories. It works. I’ve been called the “Last Comic Sitting.” And I’m having a grand time. Who knows how long this show biz career will last, but it’s fun.
