Fried and convicted, p.8
Fried & Convicted, page 8
After leaving the exam, he was back outside on campus, when he suddenly had an epiphany and shouted, both as expletive and quiz answer, “Rectum!”
I feel his pain.
February 2015
DO YOU KAVA????
OMG, my tongue is numb. I knew thath what wath thuppossed to happen but . . .
I’d had my first drink of kava. Heard of it?
Kava is some kind of South Pacific pepper plant. Its scientific name is Piper methystickum, which is how you sound if you drink kava and then try to say “Messy stickum,” which is actually what the liquid looks like in the plastic cup.
A friend and I stumbled upon a Kava Bar, thinking it was a coffee bar in a coastal Florida town that shall remain nameless. The slogan for the little beach town is Keep (name of town) Weird, and after a sip of kava I began to see why.
We were searching for a standard iced coffee, and instead were introduced to kava by a barista who told us you don’t drink it for the taste, you drink it for the effect. He mentioned euphoria, relaxation, and mental clarity. That sounded good until he added, “Actually, it tastes like muddy water and will numb your tongue.”
That ringing endorsement should have been enough to curb our kava curiosity, but nooo, we said we’d sample some, on the promise it was good for us, would cleanse our liver and would make us sleep well.
This last promise bothered me, as it was 9:30 in the morning.
“Yes,” the kava barkeep swore, “the drink’s Latin name means intoxicating.”
Okay, so he was saying I could just as easily smoke weed or knock back a Bahama Mama for the same effect as chugging a liquid that looks like the contents of the bucket after you wash your car. What’s this all about?
A chalk-written sign in the establishment noted that kava is a drink made from the roots of a plant that has been used for centuries as a ceremonial and recreational drink and is mostly consumed in cultures like that of Polynesia, Hawaii, and Micronesia, to name a few places I’ve never been. It is touted to elevate your mood and cause talkativeness. It is often used to treat social anxiety.
I do not have social anxiety but I was beginning to get anxious all the same as three very social, hippie-ish gentlemen converged behind the bar to toast to the kava virgins. They each hoisted plastic cups of the hooch, not their first of the day I suspected, and grinned at us. Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow” pulsed from the speakers.
According to these mellow fellows, kava is to be consumed as a group activity, launched with the hearty toast “Bula!” which either means “to long life and good health,” or “you schmucks just paid money to drink sewage.”
“Bula!” they chanted as my friend gulped the odd brown liquid, curling her lip a bit, but soldiering on. For some reason, when it was offered to me, I took a gulp as well.
It tasted like somebody mixed chocolate YooHoo and Febreze. And that’s when my tongue went completely numb.
When offered more, I answered “No thangth.”
Then, after my friend finished her cup of sludge, came the warning. “Oh, and don’t mix kava with alcohol; you’ll feel sick.”
Oh, no! We were on our way to watch an Orioles spring training game, which surely could not be accomplished without beer.
Exiting the kava bar, we went next door to the coffee shop we thought we were going to in the first place. There, we ordered actual large javas to wash away the kava’s gritty aftertaste. We kept waiting for something interesting to happen but nothing ever did. I didn’t even seem extra talkative, although my pal said “How would we know?” I don’t think it was a compliment.
On our way to the ballpark I googled kava. In the South Pacific the plant is used not only as a recreational drink but for everything from treating leprosy to use as a surgical anesthetic. It can be chewed, ground, or pulverized.
And, of course, there were Google ads for the stuff hawking “Premium Hawaiian Kava, direct from the farm, ships same day!” You can even get convenient capsules of kava, presumably to avoid the sludge factor.
But then came the warnings. According to WebMD there are big health concerns about kava causing liver toxicity and damage. You are supposed to stop taking it immediately if you develop jaundice or other symptoms too grisly for mention in a family magazine. It has already been banned in Germany, Switzerland and Canada. Oy!
But I wasn’t really concerned. During our ceremonial slurp we didn’t swallow much of the evil pepper root. Besides, from our seats in the bleachers, while the Orioles lost to the Minnesota Twins, we gamely sweated out any residual kava. The two ice-cold beers and a hot dog chaser worked their usual magic.
While we were not feeling especially mellow, the good news is we weren’t turning yellow either. Bula!
Later that night, as we walked past the Kava Bar, we saw that the sign touted “Kava, a way of life!”
Maybe in Bali H’ai, but not for me. I’ll just have a Bloody Mary, thank you.
March 2015
WILL IT BE 50 SHADES OF FAY?
I now make a plea for help and assistance. And you could even win dinner out! Here’s the scoop. After a dozen years as author and publisher, I’m going on the stage. That’s right, in my dotage I’m breaking into show business.
I’ve put together a reading, an entertainment, an afternoon or evening of stories based not only on my books and columns, but on some personal history and more than 35 years in the fight for LGBT equality. The idea for this project came from my years of attending writers’ conferences and reading my stories in classes, at organized readings, or at happy hours. Lots of colleagues urged me to put together a “show,” so here I am.
As Billy Joel sings, “you may be right, I may be crazy,” but it’s happening.
So far, I have performed this nascent “thing” twice for fellow writers/critics and we have been work-shopping the script to get it right. And I thank my writer colleagues for being so constructive and willing to work with me to make changes.
I’ve done some readings in Florida and have an evening scheduled in the Carefree lesbian community in Fort Myers at the end of this month of March. The upshot is that I’ve got two short acts (with an intermission for cocktails!) based on my insistence that nothing is ever so horrible if it’s worth the story you can tell—and that includes the closeted 1980s, discovering Rehoboth, fighting against discrimination and for equality, not to mention surviving the scourges of zip-lining and puppy training.
So here’s my challenge to you, dear readers. I need a title for this gig. And I need it fast. This reading will be presented in Rehoboth for the first time in May and ad deadlines beckon . . . so what is this thing called?
Originally, I named it Fried & Prejudice: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Equality . . . but that title was fun only if people knew my book titles. Besides, the show is about lots more than just the fight for equality.
At a recent dinner a pal suggested calling it 50 Shades of Fay. When we got done spitting our Cosmos across the table, we figured that one might have a short shelf life. We could call it Aging Gracelessly, One Story at a Time, but I don’t think it conveys the whole picture.
So that’s where you come in. I want title suggestions emailed to me. There’s dinner for two at stake. Oh, and tickets for the reading, whatever it’s called, will be on sale beginning April 1 at camprehoboth.com.
Yes, April 1 and I guess I’m the April Fool.
April 2015
SILLY, SAVVY, SPOT-ON SUGGESTIONS SPILL IN!
It’s true. Letters readers are a clever lot. Also generous, as so many of you wrote to me over the past month to suggest titles for my new project—now officially named Aging Gracelessly: 50 Shades of Fay. Yes, that was my pal’s Cosmo-fueled joking suggestion, which, as it happens, stuck.
But other suggestions, very descriptive, exceedingly clever, and perhaps too long or too insider to work as an advertising graphic, made opening my email a blast all month long. But in fact, some are so good I may use rotating titles for subsequent bookings! Readers, I cannot thank you enough for the effort!
There’s not enough ink or word count to list them all, but here are some of the entries by deadline time: Faybles!—I love this, although I’m not sure it would help advertise the show. Perhaps it could be A Sop’s Faybles. Is sop a word?
Ashes from the Fray, which certainly describes this old activist, perhaps Ashes from the Fay.
As I Fried, Drank, Screamed and Aged in Rehoboth—a title which covers the subject more closely than I care to admit.
From the Closet to the Coast: Four Decades with Fay and Friends—a damn good description.
Fayme: She’s Gonna Live Forever—a truly scary thought. Oh what a feeling.
Baby, I was Born This Fay—thanks, Gaga fans.
Oh, that’s so Fay—as shouted in the school yard.
So title suggestions are still coming in. And the reading itself is being fine-tuned and rehearsed. I did an evening in Carefree Resort in Ft. Myers—the first time before a really large crowd, and I am happy to report that I survived. In fact, I had a grand time and it was reported to me that the audience did, too.
I’m walking a fine line here between trying to promote this reading thingy and not coming off as a shamelessly self-absorbed old poop. But my wife reported that I got a standing ovation at Carefree. It’s odd that when you are on stage, a place I am unaccustomed to being, you don’t even notice those things. I was too busy trying to get the hell off stage without tripping down the steps.
So, the truth is, I’m getting inquiries about doing the “show” (it’s a reading, not exactly a show, but anybody got a better way to describe it?) at events from P-town to New Orleans. So I gotta keep going, performing, and fine-tuning.
If this is aging gracelessly, I’m all for it.
April 2015
SIT DOWN YOU’RE ROCKIN’ THE BOAT
I love kayaking except for two things: getting in and getting out.
My first adventure was on a tributary of the Bay of Fundy. As my mate and I schlepped toward the river bank, dragging two heavy kayaks behind us, I was already questioning my sanity.
Then, at water’s edge we dropped the vessels into the bay and mine started to leave without me. When I hurriedly stepped into the boat with one leg, the kayak launched itself downriver, pitching me backwards, and slamming me down into the kayak cockpit like Whack-a-Mole. Both my hips and thighs took hits, while my right leg hung over the side, dragging along like a rudder. By the time all of me was in the boat, I realized my paddle was still on shore. Yes, I was literally up the creek without one.
As my spouse’s boat neared and we made the paddle hand-off, bruises had already popped up on my hips. But I was eventually able to relax a bit and try paddling. Surprisingly, I could propel the craft forward without tearing a rotator cuff.
It was peaceful on the water. For a while there, kayaking put the fun back in Fundy.
But, of course, we had to come back. And while we were gone, the infamous Fundy tides had receded, making the path to our launch site a quarter of a mile of murky sludge. When I tried to extricate myself from the boat I couldn’t pry myself up. Clearly my bruised hips and thighs had swollen a trouser size larger from the entry wounds.
My struggling inevitably tipped the kayak and I capsized into the sea of brown goo. That sucking sound was me lifting my head up, my Ray Bans staying behind. At least I was able to sink my hands into the gunk and drag myself, on my belly, out of the kayak and crawl the 30 yards towards shore. Staggering up onto the bank, I was a half-dead ringer for the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
For some reason, in Nova Scotia, we kayaked again. Our guide told us to get into the boats from a standing position in knee-deep water. This time, I fell in just as badly but much, much faster, thanks to the insanely frigid water.
When the instructor described a safety maneuver to right a flipped boat, he called it the “Eskimo roll.” Fat chance of my being able to do that. I’d be going glug-glug with the fish, doing a sushi roll.
But I have to say, the scenery on this trip was gorgeous, kayaking along rocky inlets and stunning vistas. Although for the whole adventure I obsessed about having to get out of the damned boat.
And the resulting experience lived up to my fears. Once again I couldn’t dislodge myself on my own, so I did a reverse Eskimo roll, leaning over the side and sliding out of the boat, landing on my hands and knees in six inches of chilled water. I got a glacial facial and complimentary hypothermia. For future reference I should restrict kayaking to warm water venues and hire a personal trainer to haul my ass out of the boat.
Glutton for punishment, but in a warmer climate, we most recently joined a dozen women of a certain age kayaking on a Florida canal. As we all got ready to launch our boats, we were given little square seat cushions with sturdy handles on two sides.
“We’ll use them later to help get you up out of the kayaks,” our guide said. “They’re called Lady Lifters.” Wow, clearly I was not the only one who needed a new exit strategy. I might, however, have been the only one thinking it was a sexist name for the little pillow with handles. Offensive name or not, I knew I’d appreciate the assist. As for getting into the boat, at least there was now a padded seat when I came crashing down.
We explored the canal for two hours, enjoying the tropical foliage, blue herons, ibis and what appeared to be a floating meat loaf, but was actually a manatee.
Along the bank we spied an enormous snoozing alligator and I paddled by with as little gusto as possible. This was no time for premature eject-u-lation. When the gator opened his eyes and took a step toward the water I froze, but mercifully he stopped in his tracks. We were paddling toward our lunch stop and I wanted to eat lunch, not be lunch.
After a wonderful afternoon, we returned to the boat ramp. When it was my turn to disembark, two muscular women waded ankle deep in the water, to either side of my kayak. They each grabbed a seat cushion handle and on a count of three lifted this lady up and toward shore like Queen Victoria in a sedan chair. Success!
Knowing that a dry landing is now possible, I’m ready to tackle Rehoboth Bay and the canal to Lewes.
But first, do you know anyone who can take an old seat cushion, sew extra-strength handles onto it and make me a Person Lifter?
Then I’ll be ready to rock and roll, Eskimo or otherwise.
May 2015
OH, NEW YORK, NEW YORK
Thanks to generous friends who had time-share points to use or lose, Bonnie and I recently wound up with five free nights at the decadent St. Regis Hotel in New York City.
The St. Regis, at Fifth Avenue and 55th Street, is the most gratuitously luxurious hotel I have ever stayed in or will be likely to stay in again. In fact, the accommodations were so stupefyingly self-indulgent I felt guilty: How can I enjoy this when people are homeless and starving and . . . Well that lasted about a minute.
My not using the complimentary butler service or not plunging into the 800-thread Egyptian cotton sheets was not about to solve world hunger. Although I was stunned that the actual cost of the room would have been more than a dollar a thread count per night. But I dove right in anyway.
The next morning, our wake-up call was a real person instead of a digital robot, saying good morning to us by name—although our friend with the time-share points booked the room, so our butler called us by her name, which is a little unsettling when you first wake up.
The butler arrived with our coffee (one with cream and one with soy milk as requested), set it down on the coffee table (under the Waterford chandelier), and asked if he should pour it for us. By all means. Oh, and he brought back the shoes I’d put out the night before for polishing. It may have been the first time the staff polished dilapidated Clark’s clodhoppers. Now they looked new.
Each day we also got a complimentary fruit basket, an ice bucket refilled several times a day, and a newspaper of our choice. Favorite touches included the lavish bathtub, shower and twin sinks, along with plush bathrobes and fuzzy slippers. The replica Louis IV bedside tables had phone-charging stations on the side.
But my fave by far was the television embedded in the bathroom mirror, like magic, no frame, no dials, just an image that eerily comes up on the mirror when you push a button. I watched a PBS fundraiser with clips of Ethel Merman singing “There’s No Business Like Show Business” while brushing my teeth.
This whole hotel experience flew in the face of our usual experience. We go for cheap and clean, saying “how much time do you spend in the room anyway?” But this time we spent a lot of time lounging in the room, forgoing the nightcap or early walk for more time to luxuriate. Was the room $735 a night better than the Sleep Inn or Motel 6? Yup.
Of course, our free stay had its downside. We had to hoof it to breakfast at a bagel place down the street because the hotel menu offered the lowly plain omelet at $42. A jumbo mortgage was required for French toast. The service charge alone for room service would buy a delicious breakfast for two at IHOP. A glass of orange juice in the dining room was $4 more than a glass of orange juice AND Grey Goose at favorite watering holes.
Did you know that the Bloody Mary was invented at the St. Regis in 1934? Or so they claim, but I believe there are dissenters, like Harry’s Bar in Paris. However, we read the history of their bartender concocting the drink but calling it a “Red Snapper” because the name Bloody Mary was just too vulgar for the time. I read the tale but didn’t taste the official hotel signature drink because it was $25, making it much too vulgar for me. I got one in the theater district for eight bucks.
And this hotel is so over the top there’s an employee in the lobby just to push the revolving door for you. God forbid you should move a muscle.
