by Fay Jacobs
I got louder. “Unauthorized use of a little plastic thingy with rainbow colored DOGGY PAWS on it?”
By this time, dozens of sleepy people who had been waiting since Christmas for their ever-lovely drivers license portraits began staring at us, because I was still standing there shouting to the clerk “Our insurance rates are skyrocketing because we bought a decorative license plate holder with red, green and yellow PAW PRINTS on it?”
“That’s it,” said the clerk, hoping this crazy woman would take her photocopy of the law and go away. “That’s it.”
But I assure you, that wasn’t IT.
Butch and Sundance had to wrangle with several different insurance companies before we found one that would give Bonnie a reasonable rate despite this scandalous driving record. And now we have to go and try to get this absurd conviction off the books, because every time somebody checks her driving record it’s going to come up with those terrible words “unauthorized use” and she’s going to seem like a smarmy little felon.
So let this be a warning to you—and you know who you are—who have the audacity to surround your Delaware plates with little personalized license plate holders—those little rainbow frames, those audacious “Go Eagles” accessories, those patently illegal plate holders advertising your brand of car, your auto dealer, or heaven forbid, your love of animals.
Go ahead and buy those goodies if you must—some of my favorite stores have them displayed all over the walls—but please, please put them on the front bumper and not over your damn license plate. We don’t want to see you on America’s Most Wanted.
Frankly, I’m surprised Woodward and Bernstein missed this one. Hey, maybe there’s a book deal here, or a TV show…Paw and Order, Criminal Intent.
June 2005
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
FRIED & TRUE
It was 93 degrees out by noon, as we stood right up at the police barricade at Fifth Avenue and 22nd Street waiting for the front of the New York City Pride Parade to reach us.
In my sweaty hand was the 2005 Pride Guide, a glossy magazine listing events, the parade route, Pride organizers, judges and grand marshals, and a page headed Accolade. It described the awards ceremony, to be held in the fall, to honor those individuals and organizations which embody the diversity of pride throughout the year.
I stared at the page. Above the story, in italic typeface, was the quote “Pride parades were born of brave individuals having the courage to come out as gay in often hostile, unsafe environments,” and it was attributed to Fay Jacobs, As I Lay Frying.
I had no idea who chose to put the quote there, when the decision was made, where they bought my book, or what prompted Pride organizers to use those particular words—although I’m happy they did.
I knew ahead of time about this honor. A friend e-mailed us the previous week, saying there was a quote of mine in the New York Pride Guide and I was pleased and curious. I couldn’t imagine what kind of quote (Schnauzers, boating or lawnmowers didn’t seem appropriate) but I figured it was probably going to be a quote among many, having something to do with diversity.
But there were my words, all by themselves, heading the page, in a publication in the hands of thousands and thousands of people and on the window sills or stacked up, free for the taking, in hundreds of New York City bars and restaurants.
I was by parts astounded, honored, flattered, and incredulous. And proud, for I meant what I said and this was Pride 2005. It made me think about how far I had come over the decades, from confusion to panic, to a toe out of the closet, to building a life with Bonnie, wonderful friends and family, to Rehoboth and life as a writer, to a Canadian same-sex wedding and now to a sweltering New York street surrounded by thousands of people with their own complex coming out histories.
When I showed the quote to Bonnie, her face lit up. “Cool!” she said.
But it was far from cool as sweat trickled down our necks, and the sun beat down, as we strained our eyes uptown to see if the parade was near.
And then we heard it. The thundering sound of motorcycle engines revving their way toward us. Ah, dykes on bikes leading the parade! They were followed by the New York Police Department marching band, followed by a three hour parade of floats, dancers, music, placards, whistles, shouts and cheers. Along with the marchers, floats from bars, churches, health organizations, gay sports teams, liquor companies, banks and more, there were lots of laughs and some somber moments. This year’s parade theme: “Equal Rights, no more, no less” was never far from peoples’ consciousness. And the true diversity of the New York community shone bright. Latino contingents (Ah, the costumes and good looking people from Brazil!), Harlem Pride floats, Asian groups (“OUT, not take-out!”) black, brown, white all together, it was a refreshing and joyous mix. Gay firefighters, police contingents, flight attendants (duh!), rugby teams, you name it. We loved D-Flag (women and their dogs), gay dads with a sign “We love our straight son,” the naughty signs, and so much more.
One of the most touching groups (a few marching, a few riding) were some Stonewall riot veterans, one with a sign “Class of ’69.” They got sustained cheers and thanks from the crowd.
And of course politics had its day. New York Mayor Bloomberg led the way, with prospective mayoral candidates battling for applause behind him. Al Sharpton shook hands, led by TV crews moonwalking backwards in front of him for film at 11. There was Senator Chuck Schumer, Congressman Jerry Nadler, and so many more. A huge whoop of joy and cheers went up for political superstar Hillary Clinton, clad in her ubiquitous black pants suit and waving to crowd shouts of “Sister Hillary!”
A contingent of VW bugs chugged by with the waving Fab 5 of Queer Eye, and walkers skipped along with “Honk if You’re Queer” bumper stickers. The new gay cable network Logo had a float, as did the Gay and Lesbian Task Force, and P-Flag with a float advertising their “Stay Close” campaign—with a huge photo of Chrissy Gephardt and her parents.
As bystanders right against the rail, we were handed dozens and dozens of stickers, hand-outs and postcards advertising events plus a lifetime supply of condoms, which we passed back to some boys behind us.
Sharing elbow room with us at the front were two lesbians from Brooklyn, and it turned out that one of them had, until recently, worked at InsightOut Bookclub, and knew of my book. Disney had it right. It’s a small world after all.
By 3 p.m. we were parched, sweaty and risking third degree sunburn as the parade showed no signs of abating. We had a friend volunteering at a party in the building behind us, at the In the Life offices. If you are not familiar with the show, it’s a terrific PBS gay news magazine and I’m a big fan. We took refuge at the air conditioned party, toasted Pride with a Mimosa and still had an awesome view of the parade from the In the Life office windows.
From there, as the parade chugged along, Bonnie and I fought our way through the throngs lining Fifth Avenue, down to 10th Street and across to Christopher Street to the food and souvenir vendors. The streets were packed as far as our queer eyes could see.
We met friends at Julius’, and in small world Part II, my cousin Kenn was there, with a group of his friends and we all had a reunion, burgers, and beer.
Then, after buying the requisite Pride T-shirt with the Keith Haring design on it and swigging our third large bottle of water we realized how far we had walked and how much further still we had to go to get back to our car on 25th Street. It seemed physically impossible.
“We’ll never get a taxi down here,” Bonnie whined as I spied a yellow cab with its vacancy light on. But a group of young guys signaled the cab just as we saw it and it stopped to pick them up. The guys looked at us, we looked at the guys, and they must have taken pity on the two old sunburned lesbians clutching pride guides, staggering unsteadily and looking like Stonewall survivors ourselves. They insisted we take the cab. To those anonymous guys, we will forever be indebted.
And as we slowly pulled away from Christopher Street, I could see the streets still teeming
with people, the gutters littered a foot deep in plastic water bottles and other garbage, and the corner trash can bursting with, among pizza boxes and coke cans, hundreds of discarded Pride Guides.
Fame is so fleeting. Happy Pride 2005.
July 2005
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
THE COSTUMES, THE SCENERY, THE BUG SPRAY, THE PROPS…
I knew my foray into golf had gotten out of hand when somebody called me a jock. Quick, phone The New York Times.
It had nothing to do with my actual golf skill, but that my golfing buddies didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain.
We’re on the course and it starts to drizzle, then rain, then pour. I expected CNN’s Anderson Cooper to arrive to broadcast while being blown horizontal.
Several players gave up at drizzle and almost everybody was in the bar by rain. It was considerably into pour by the time I could drag my soggy butt off the course. That’s what I get for playing with three serious golfers.
Meanwhile, this reporter cannot reveal her anonymous source despite the threat of jail, but I can divulge that the lounge conversation went like this:
Bonnie: “Oh my God, she’s going to kill me.”
League Member: “Why?”
Bonnie: “I told her to leave her raincoat in the car.”
Another League Member: “You mean Fay Jacobs is still out there?”
Third league Member: “I know she is. Her tee shot bounced off the roof of our cart as we drove by.”
For the record, I was aiming in the other direction. But it did serve them right for rushing back to the clubhouse at drizzle.
So I drip into the bar, wringing wet, and somebody says, “I can’t believe you stayed out there so long. What a jock!”
I may not be getting better at golf, but I’m having my Outward Bound.
Along with precipitation, golf offers intimacy with pestilence. Last week I was attacked by a swarm of horse flies the size of Sea Biscuit. My teammates sprang into action and spritzed me with Skin-so-Soft and a shot of Deep Woods Off. Now there’s a nice fragrance.
On the next hole I was informed that the previous week somebody had spied an electrical line wrapped around an adjacent tree. Wisely, they drove me past the site before revealing that the utility cable turned out to be a reptile. Oy, I was on an aversion therapy tour. Next week I’m expecting a plague of frogs.
At least I’m doing well in the accessory department. My fuzzy Schnauzer club head covers arrived. Call me if you ever need doggy hand puppets. Every once in a while their beards get top heavy on the clubs and a faux Schnauzer topples onto the fairway. I’m going to have to start offering a reward for their return.
And I have to say, the costumes are cool. Imagine my surprise on my maiden golf outing when I was given a glove monogrammed with a giant FJ. “You shouldn’t have…” They didn’t. Turns out that FootJoy manufactures golf stuff and everything I wear can have my initials on it. Cool. I now have FJ shoes, sox, and a ball marker. I’m looking for an FJ fly swatter.
Today, I came home and found a visor with a big FJ on the front hanging on my doorknob with a little note: “Got this for you. Has your name written all over it.”
Okay, eventually I have to tell you how I’m doing at the actual game of golf. Here’s a clue. One week my quartet included a woman actively undergoing chemotherapy, a woman with arthritis who has had at least 18 joints replaced, and a woman with a prosthetic leg. They all played better than me.
Okay, to be fair, all three gals are experienced, superior players despite their challenges, but it does make one consider the point of continuing in the sport.
Although, golf is great exercise—especially for me. If four of us tee off, three golfers then jump in the carts to ride a hundred yards or more to their golf balls. Me, I trudge the fifty feet to my ball and whack at it again. I rarely hit it far enough to even use the cart (my first off-road vehicle) and generally wind up walking most of the course. Yes, the exercise is going well indeed.
So I forge on. One day my companion sank a putt and I congratulated her on her birdie.
“Hey, you’re getting the terms down!” she said.
“Language I get, it’s sports where I suck.”
At my next lesson, my mentor made me change my stance, my grip, my swing, everything but my underpants. This was necessary because, how shall I delicately put this? My tits were in the way. We gals with large bingo bongos need to stand further from the ball so we don’t interrupt our swing by whacking ourselves in the hooters.
I made the adjustment, stood further from the ball, took a good swing, missed my boobs, and sent the ball far enough to lose it in the wheat field next to the course. I’d need a hay baler and combine to find it.
But they tell me the shot was good, despite it costing me a stroke. Better to cost one than have one, I say.
In fact, this whole sports thing may have the desired effect of relieving my stress and giving me a hobby. I could turn into a jock yet. Stop snickering. Do you know any lipstick lezzies who would spurn White Diamonds or Chanel in favor of Deep Woods Off? Me, neither.
August 2005
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
GAY SLEEPAWAY
“Have you got a column ready for me?” my editor had the audacity to ask, one hour before the CAMP Rehoboth Follies started. Like I’ve had time to write anything.
And it was an especially risky question because he knew I could retaliate by tattling that when he asked, he was wearing a pink tutu.
Honestly, living in Rehoboth is like being at adult sleepaway camp. And I use the word adult loosely. If you’ve ever been to camp or heard tales of counselors, bunks, color war or dining hall etiquette, you may relate.
Here at Camp Runamuck we swim, go boating, have cookouts, do arts and crafts, play sports, have dances and do every damn camp-like thing except wake up with reveille and gather at the flagpole in the morning. Hold it. When I go to the boardwalk, I walk right past the flagpole.
Of course, back in the day, I was cranky as hell because I was sent to a co-ed camp. Worried that I wasn’t boy crazy, my parents were probably the only ones hoping their daughter would climb out the bungalow window to sneak over to the boy’s bunks. Little did they know I was suffering in silence with a crush on my counselor.
So just like my tortured past, here at our adult camp, we have separate boys’ and girls’ waterfronts (although there’s a great amount of crossover), many co-ed activities (which I now love, go figure) and that mid-summer tradition, “Sing.” For the uninitiated, Sing is a competition, where different age groups present songs and skits making fun of various counselors, activities and camp lore.
I can recall sitting up late at night with my pals, re-writing popular songs with silly lyrics to take good-natured jabs at our friends and shared experiences. Wait a minute, that was last week when I was re-writing popular songs with silly words for the CAMP Rehoboth Follies. And we made lanyards to hang pink triangles on our costumes.
Yup, the correlation between summer camp skit night, where we’d rehearse for two days and be willing to humiliate ourselves for a laugh has amazing resonance here. Just ask Tinky Winky, a.k.a. my spouse, who was drafted for Follies.
And speaking of the Follies, I have to report that the following morning in the dining hall…er, Crystal Restaurant, the Delmarva Divas ate their bacon and eggs with their Gold Barbie, won the night before, sitting on the table. Honest.
Actually, the old fashioned mid-twentieth century generic summer camp is probably extinct. Specialized camps are all the rage now, with computer camps, dude ranch camps, fat camps (the kind where you trim the fat as opposed to what’s happened to me at adult camp) and of course, drama camp. We’ve got that one covered in spades.
I guess our corollary to Wilderness Camp is an overnight to Western Delaware.
I just read about a Hogwarts camp where Harry Potter maniacs can make potions by mixing Alka Seltzer and Jello. I don’t know about you, but I just wen
t to a party where Jello shots were available—that would be Jello and Vodka. We waited until morning for the Alka-Seltzer.
Ahhh, all those starry nights, with boys sitting around the campfire telling scary stories and girls sitting around the campfire gossiping. I think we reverse the roles around here, but we have horror stories and gossip to beat the band. No marshmallows, though.
Hey, remember lights out when the counselors yelled, “One more sound and I’m coming in!” Now we have a noise ordinance to deal with and our bars and restaurants get pretty much the same treatment. And just as we did as kids, we try to behave, but every once in a while….
And though I’ve never heard of Rehoboth bunk mates short-sheeting a friend’s bed, I do not put it out of the realm of possibility. Actually, it would be a great hint to guests who overstay their welcome. As for another tradition—camp Visiting Day—instead of once a summer, we have visiting day around here weekend after weekend after weekend. I wonder if I remember the correct technique for short sheeting?
Oh, we were so bad as teen campers. As a 16-year-old counselor-in-training I would run off with my friends to smoke Newport Lights (ptooey!) clandestinely in the bathroom stalls. Do we see any parallels here?
And while we don’t have an official Color War, which splits the whole camp into two teams at the end of the summer, we do have our annual Drag Volleyball (how campy is that!) with its two rival teams inviting hundreds of campers to take sides and cheer.
We’ve come a long way baby from Kool-Aid and lousy camp food, but we’re still happy campers. That’s because along with our Rehoboth camp activities we have five star restaurants, legendary happy hours, and S’Mores.
Oh Lord, Kum-Ba-Yah.
July 2005
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
HEART OF THE COMMUNITY
The CAMP Rehoboth Community Center is now a reality. After a lot of planning, public input, lesbian processing, successful fundraising, gay guy decorating, and plenty of hard work, we and the bank now own two buildings, with a beautiful courtyard between them in downtown Rehoboth Beach.
