by Fay Jacobs
I’m off to grab a Sherpa guide Schnauzer and scale Mount Kilimanjaro on the way to bed. “Hey, Bon, roll to the middle.”
February 2011
THE BOOK FAIR THAT GOT MY GOAT
With my book publishing business I can go from sublime to ridiculous in a flash.
Since my three books all started as columns, I feel like I’m talking to family when I report how things are going. And they are going great. The reception I’ve gotten here at home for the new book has been wonderful. Books are flying out of my garage warehouse from sales, both online and in line at local bookstore signings. I’m humbled and happy.
But possibly to ensure that my head doesn’t bloat I have been treated to some matchless experiences hawking the books—and a book tour, however delightful New York, Chicago, or P-Town can be, has its ups and downs.
Literally. I’ve traipsed up and down creaky staircases lugging cartons of books until I’ve actually screamed “for frying out loud!” And I’ve survived readings for just a handful of hardy audience members, filled out, fortunately by my own blood relatives.
And all the travel isn’t exactly glamorous. Thank goodness for GPS when I found myself careening through the narrow streets of Staten Island, NY, seeking a tiny LGBT bookstore sandwiched between Household of Love Church and Our Lady of Pity Ministries. Loved the owners, loved the crowd, can’t say much for the neighborhood.
Not that I’m having an Our Lady of Pity party. It’s been a real blast networking at book conferences and meeting readers in bookstores, signing and selling lots of books. Gay Days at Disney was a hoot, and at some readings I get laughs like I was doing stand-up. Of course, Women’s Week in P-Town was grand.
Then again, it’s sobering to be partying with readers and selling books Saturday night to find myself reading on Sunday in a dark, dank, mostly empty bar, still reeking of the previous night’s beer blast. Oh, that would be the bar reeking of beer, not me. Then again, it was Women’s Week P-Town, so who’s to judge?
But it wasn’t hard to be judgmental about a book fair in Dover at the Delaware Agricultural Museum, a place, as you can imagine, I had no idea even existed. It houses antique tractors, cotton gins, and all manner of rural artifacts. And it sits across the street from the NASCAR track, which might have been a clue for urban me.
I arrived to discover I was to set up my display in front of the museum’s goat breed exhibit, which I found instantly hilarious and appropriate. After dragging a six-foot folding table, a lawn chair, and several book cartons from the parking lot to the door, I felt pretty much like an old goat myself.
As I unpacked, I noticed I was underdressed. There were authors in full Civil War garb, writers who appeared to be dressed for a White House state dinner, and a couple of women who might have been palm readers and/or still dressed for Trick or Treat.
The man next to me boasted of having published 30 different volumes about Hessian soldiers in the Revolutionary War, though his plastic spiral-bound books seemed to have been published by Kinko House.
I was surrounded by authors peddling badly bound copies of books with titles like Last Chance for Jesus and Sex with Unicorns—How I Talk to God.
A young woman came up to my table, read a blurb about A&M Books and asked, “What exactly is a feminist press?” I sized her up. She seemed to have most of her teeth and wasn’t dressed for a Rebel encampment so I took a chance.
“Actually, it’s a lesbian press, but in the 70s no printer would touch a lesbian book,” I answered. The woman said nothing but actually took a giant step back, apparently afraid to catch, as Rachel Maddow says, “the gay.”
Once everybody was set up, a dribble of patrons came through the doors. People would walk by, pick up my book, smile at the cover and turn it over to read the back. I could tell the exact moment they got to the word gay. They plopped the book down like it had cooties.
Instead of twiddling my thumbs waiting for somebody to come up and insult me I spent time checking out the goat display. Goats are kept for milk, meat, or hair, and some are also kept as companions. All goat breeds are very hardy, curious, and intelligent. Hey, maybe they’d like to read some essays or at least eat the book cover. Nothing else was happening.
One woman flipped through my book, stopped, looked up and said “You wrote ‘pray for Obama Care’, I really can’t talk to you, you’re a Commie.” She slammed the book down as if it contained Anthrax. It made me want to back up and get in the pen with the intelligent taxidermied goats.
One bright spot had a man picking up the book, oohing and ahhing at the photo and then saying “Wow, that’s a beautiful dog. Cocker Spaniel?” If he couldn’t tell the difference between a Cocker and a Schnauzer, what hope was there for his understanding a lesbian smartass?
I was buoyed by a man making a beeline for my table but it turned out he wanted to read about Nubian Dairy Goats. Then I got nervous when the Civil War author unsheathed his sword brandishing it about for people to admire. I’d only been there two hours, and had a stupefying two more to go. I considered grabbing the sword and falling on it.
Finally, a lady came by, picked up the book, turned it over and read the entire back of the book and said, “For Frying Out Loud. Um…Is it a cookbook? What do you fry?”
Exit cue.
I came back to Rehoboth to discover that while I was sitting on my butt trying to peddle books to homophobes and religious zealots, I’d sold 20 books here at home at Proud Bookstore. It’s so nice to have a niche to come home to.
Next, I’m off to Giovanni’s Room, a LGBT bookstore in Philly. I expect my experience there will be a welcoming one. While we can’t always count on patrons or book buyers to be in good moods, if anybody is grumpy or gruff, at least I’m fairly certain nobody will be Billy Goat Gruff.
At least I hope not.
April 2011
WHAT WIRELESS?
It’s a hoax. This whole business of wireless communication is one big fat lie. While the communication may be wireless, its facilitation requires enough wires, cables and plugs to gag a landfill.
And of course, chargers last eons longer than the devices they power. I have souvenir chargers from every cell phone, iPod and laptop I’ve ever owned, plus miles of random cords from USB data cables, external hard drives, headphones and digital cameras. And heaven forbid a new device should use a leftover charger from an old device. Someday they’ll find me hog tied and buried in wireless wires. It’s just oxymoronic with the emphasis on moronic.
I say this, crouched on the floor, wedged under my desk, trying to plug in my dying cell phone so I won’t lose my turn in the endless “on hold” cue for Verizon.
I’m calling to ask why my Droid has the battery life of a piss ant, beeping and dying by lunchtime. Now I’ve got a Schnauzer trying to squeeze under the desk with me because he figures I’m down here sniffing for lunch crumbs.
You should have seen me one night this terrible winter in the local ER, where, fortunately, I was trying to call somebody to tell them that no, my spouse had not broken her hip, after slipping on an unsalted sidewalk.
The only plug I could use to rescue my wireless phone was in the waiting room behind a coat rack, where I had to huddle cross-legged on the floor, the hem of somebody’s ski parka draped on my head. I looked like some freaky new age Buddha, but it was lucky I had my phone charger along. Well, it really wasn’t luck. I keep a charger in my car, in the kitchen, in the den, and a spare stuffed in my coat pocket. Sometimes the wires hang out and I look like a suicide bomber. It’s not a good fashion statement.
We packed the camper for a road trip recently and I had so many charging devices on my nightstand it looked like a pot of squid ink linguini exploded in there.
Well, at least I don’t have to go to the gym. I do daily knee bends and crunches with the endless plugging and unplugging of chargers, in and out of the sockets that sadistic builders install 16 inches off the floor. For somebody my age, nothing should be just 16 inches off the floor, no
t even the dog.
I may not have the energy for this anymore but the electric company does. I read that power cords use electricity even when devices aren’t plugged in. Apparently, only 5 percent of the power drawn by phone chargers actually charges phones, while the other 95 percent dribbles out when you leave the charger plugged in without a phone hanging on it. Who knew?
It creeps me out to feel how warm a cell phone recharger can be even when not attached to a phone. Is it dangerous? Dunno, but I worry about things like this. Now I realize that worrying doesn’t solve anything but it does give me something to do until the trouble starts. And I think there could be trouble. Our next great fire won’t be started by Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow, but Mrs. O’Leary’s iPad charger.
So now I have ten minutes added to my nightly ritual. Lock the door, put the thermostat down, let the dogs out, unplug three cell phone chargers, unplug two computers, unplug the toaster, let the dogs in, take two Ibuprofen and start over in the morning. I’ve turned into my grandmother.
I thought there was good news with the invention of the wireless charging pad to do away with charger wires. But no. Using the thing requires special adaptors on all your electronics, insuring, once again, that when the devices are dead you’ll be left holding the bag of adaptors.
What about Bluetooth? It took me a while to get that Bluetooth referred to electronics, not dental disease, but I have since noticed that half the population walks around wearing hearing aids like Secret Service agents. It’s gotten pretty hard to tell whether somebody is talking to somebody else by Bluetooth or talking to themselves by Schizophrenia. But okay, it’s all worth it because this contraption is really, really wireless.
Not so fast. Since Delaware now requires hands-free cell phone use in cars, I got a Bluetooth ear set myself. Imagine my disgust in discovering that the damn thing needs to be charged just like a cell phone. So now I’ve got one more stupid charger to work into my stupefying daily routine.
I did find out that my Droid car charger actually has a spare USB port in it so I can charge my phone while I drive and charge my Bluetooth device in piggy-back fashion in the same plug at the same time. I’ll be lucky if I don’t choke myself behind the wheel.
Pretty soon cars will come equipped with multi-outlet surge protectors for all the add-ons and accessories needed for ET to call home, and it will be built right into the car’s padded armrest. Before then, I may well wind up in a padded cell.
Meanwhile, I’m still on hold with Verizon.
“Verizon Customer Service. May I help you?”
“Well, I hope so. I’m wondering why my Droid battery has the life expectancy of a fruit fly.”
“Hmmm. What model phone…?”
At which point, as if I wasn’t wired enough, I reached for my coffee cup, accidentally yanking my phone charger from the wall. Mr. Droid beeped, bleeped, then croaked. And, I became completely, irrationally, unplugged.
I’m off to call Verizon from the antique land line dumb phone. You’ll find me tethered to the kitchen. What wireless??? If smart phones are so smart, let them solve this problem. Just don’t hold your breath.
May 2011
KEEPING IT CIVIL
It’s been a month of highs and highers for me since my last column, with just one or two dips from the euphoria.
First, for me, the Rehoboth Beach Women’s FEST was a blast, just as I hope it was for the many hundreds of women who attended. Comic Jennie McNulty really enjoyed her introduction to Rehoboth and can’t wait to come back. We took her out on the town after her performance and all our watering holes were packed. We did get to crash a bachelorette party at one of our cherished spots, watching drunken straight gals pole dance, show their thongs, and otherwise behave in an embarrassing way.
“We’ve come a long way,” said Jennie. “The gay people are in a corner laughing at the straight people.”
Far be it from me to indict a whole class of people for the behavior of a few, but just like we have our assholes, they have theirs—and a gaggle of theirs were on display.
What I will take away from the weekend (besides the awesome crowds, money raised with the Broadwalk for Breast Cancer on the Boardwalk, and so much more) is a strategy Jennie suggested we use from now on. In her show she told us just how to get gay marriage passed in this country. “Lie,” she said, “just like the opposition does with their made up statistics about the horrors gay people cause.” She said, “Just say that erectile dysfunction in men goes down dramatically with the rise of gay marriage.” Ha! More brilliant advice I could not invent.
And speaking of marriage, in Delaware, starting January 1, 2012, gay couples will have all the civil rights afforded to married couples. In a brilliantly orchestrated campaign by Equality Delaware, and our wonderful House Majority Leader Pete Schwartzkopf, civil unions passed the Delaware General Assembly almost before the homophobes and hate-mongers had a chance to rev their despicable engines.
While it took eight long years to pass the anti-discrimination bill, thanks to great legal preparation and a massive team lobbying on the ground, Civil Union legislation passed in a mere few months.
If you didn’t have the pleasure of being at Legislative Hall on that Thursday evening in April to hear the debate and watch the final vote, let me give you an image of what it was like.
As I sat in the first row of the balcony, looking down at the action on the House floor, it was magical. In the face of the ridiculous amendments and only slightly concealed bigotry on display, watching the bill’s House sponsor, Rep. Melanie George, refute some of the opposition rhetoric was like watching Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in the film To Kill a Mocking Bird make a plea for 1930s-era civil rights.
From the ornate state house surroundings to the heat in the balcony and our rapt attention to the speakers on the floor below, the moment mirrored Atticus Finch’s courthouse stand. With the balcony filled almost 100 percent by gay and gay friendly supporters, the scene also echoed that film as the discriminated against parties listened to their ally, Rep. George, eloquently speak out for doing the right thing. And, yes, it was so hot up there we were fanning ourselves, just like in the film.
When, just one week after the bill cleared the State Senate and after hours of often painful-to-hear debate, the bill passed 26-15, the balcony and floor below erupted in cheers and tears, with supporters hugging each other, most smiling, some sobbing, as discrimination in Delaware took it on the chin.
The photographers aimed their lenses toward the balcony to get the crowd reaction and the photos appeared on front pages all over Delaware. Then, they were picked up on the AP wire and showed up on the internet and in newspapers all over the country.
As luck would have it, the Nikons caught me in the delta between cheers and tears and friends all over the country saw a photo of me gape jawed like I’d been kissed by George W. Bush. Never mind, it’s the event that counts. Really, really counts.
Within minutes for some, hours and days for others, folks all over Delaware were being proposed to. “Will you civil union me?” It’s a little longer than “Will you marry me?” but unless we’re counting the cost of words for a skywriter to blow exhaust across the horizon, it makes no difference at all.
As for those dips in the euphoria, one came from a tragedy and one from a celebration. When a gay couples’ home burned two weekends ago, the house and contents of the owner were insured but not the belongings of the same-sex partner—her name had never been added to the policy. Who knew??? A spouse would have been covered automatically.
The second detour was more subtle. A couple we know, having been married in all but name only for almost 30 years, laughingly announced their engagement in anticipation of a January civil union. The news was greeted quite seriously, with cheers and congratulations by their straight but not narrow friends and colleagues. And all that support felt really good.
But in a strange way, that their announcement was taken so seriously and so literally carried a little
sting of insult. So many couples have been in an equivalent marriage for so, so long, and it felt a bit like those years were being negated.
Maybe I’m being a little overly defensive. After all, we can’t help the reactions of straight people. It’s not their fault. They were born that way and we love them equally anyway. It’s not their fault they don’t understand the nuance of our specific culture. We often don’t understand theirs.
Besides, when all of us do start civil unioning in 2012, we certainly want the goodies that go with it. His and His towels, Hers and Hers bathrobes, and of course, new kitchen appliances. I sure hope local merchants set up civil union registries.
Thanks to our wonderful legislators and activists taking the lead on this, hold onto your hats caterers, beverage providers, DJs, etc.…here come the civil unioneers. Yee-Haw!!!
May 2011
QUEER CAMPING IN SHEVILLE
For years this column has been called CAMPout for no specific reason except, I guess, a cutesy name for the CAMP Rehoboth magazine, and let’s face it, I am out.
But lately, with our acquisition of an RV, things are changing. We appear to be CAMPingOut and oddly, after more than 15 years, this column is aptly titled.
And last month we camped out in Asheville, North Carolina, where I was invited to speak about lesbian publishing for the University of North Carolina Queer Conference. Did you gulp at the phrase Queer Conference? I did. I know gay kids are reclaiming the word queer, but to tell the truth it still gives me the yips.
