TCM Remembers... and so do I

I don't really want to be sitting here doing this tonight. It's New Year's Eve after all; I should be out-- No, forget that. It's too damn cold, I'm too damn broke, and as I replied to that e-invite to Obama's Inaugural Ball (actually an e-invite to a Chicago "Inaugural Ball" celebration) I'm not in the mood to party. My mood was brighter earlier when the day was younger and sunnier and I was puttering around the house, cleaning the closets and tweaking the placement of chairs and book shelves and speaker units. There was in the background a cop flick on Turner Classic Movies, a mostly forgettable John Wayne actioner from the seventies, and after it ended, and following clips of coming attractions, TCM's tribute to the notable artists and performers who died in 2008 came on. I stopped distracting myself, turned up the volume, and sat down to watch.

You've seen it by now I'm sure, on YouTube if not on TCM, that poignant black and white video Farewell, silent but for Estelle Reiner's wryly funny throwaway line from When Harry Met Sally ("I'll have what she's having") and that song--Joe Henry's profoundly moving and elegiac lament, "God Only Knows"--that perfectly underscores the montage of famous and not so famous faces, beginning with tough guy actor Richard Widmark (who shocked 1947 audiences as Tommy, the giggling baby-faced psycho who kills an elderly, wheelchair-bound woman by gleefully shoving her down a flight of stairs in Kiss of Death, his film debut);

continues with "sexpot" actress Edie Adams (whom I vaguely recall as the sultry Muriel cigar girl in sixties TV commercials and whom to this day my mother remembers fondly as the drolly moniker-ed "Barbara Seville" in the Steve McQueen-Natalie Wood drama Love With the Proper Stranger);

and along the way includes dancer Cyd Charisse, whom the great Astaire called "beautiful dynamite" and so she was, those skyscraper legs and flashing eyes vamping him in The Band Wagon's "Girl Hunt Ballet," Gene Kelly in Singin' In the Rain's "Broadway Melody", and pretty much everyone else in one of two of my absolute favorite Charisse numbers: the erotic, alluring "Two-Faced Woman" (stupidly cut from Band Wagon and the India Adams-dubbed vocal handed to Joan Crawford for her outlandish, drag-queen turn in Torch Song) and the ethereally beautiful Silk Stockings Ballet in the movie of the same name;

directors Sydney Pollack and Anthony Minghella;

Carol Burnett's second banana extraordinaire Harvey Korman;

both Breno Mello and Marpessa Dawn, leading man and leading lady, respectively, of the haunting world cinema classic, Black Orpheus;

Hot Buttered Soul icon Isaac Hayes, composer of the much imitated "Theme From Shaft;"

director-choreographer Michael Kidd (who must be forever celebrated for his athletic, imaginative staging and/or choreography of Golden Age of Hollywood classics Li'l Abner, Guys and Dolls, The Band Wagon and most memorable of all, Seven Brides For Seven Brothers);

and bawdy, whiskey-voiced beauty Suzanne Pleshette, now and forever Emily Hartley, Bob Newhart's raven-haired spouse on the The Bob Newhart Show, but also immortalized as the earthy, ill-fated schoolteacher Annie in Hitchcock's The Birds.

Charlton Heston is dead, lost to Alzheimer's and decrepit old age, a major star (Ben-Hur, The Ten Commandments, Major Dundee, A Touch of Evil, El Cid, The Agony and The Ecstasy, Richard Lester's splendid Musketeer films and, oh yes, Planet of the Apes) and once a Big Hollywood Liberal who somehow, somewhere along the way morphed into a spokesman for the National Rifle Association.

The realization that these luminaries were now a memory (Lois Nettleton? Roy Scheider too? And Brad Renfro--? When did Brad Renfro die? What happened?) startled and saddened me, but I really choked up at the sight of the shining face of actor-comedian Bernie Mac, gazing upward and lost in a moment of thoughtful contentment near the end of Steven Soderbergh's splendid Ocean's Eleven remake, the gifted, way-too-young-to-be-gone Heath Ledger, on horseback as the tortured Ennis Del Marr in Brokeback Mountain, the rascally stand-up comic turned cultural curmudgeon George Carlin (if his Take-Offs and Put-Ons and Occupation Foole are no longer my all-time favorite comedy albums they're still right up there in the top five), and the biggest heartbreak of all, the Big Male Superstar crush of my girlhood, the great Paul Newman, actor, director, activist, race car aficionado, Newman's Own philanthropist, family man, cool dude. (I was only flirting with Redford, you know that, right Paul? A passing fancy, nothing more) I knew he was old now, and heard he was ailing. And my grown-up, logical mind understands full well that no one, even the greatest of the Great Stars, will live forever.

But still. Paul Newman.

And Eartha Kitt has left us--the sleek, sensational siren of stage, screen and the supper clubs of a more glamorous (and, alas, segregated) entertainment era, the actress-singer an infatuated Orson Welles once declared "the most exciting woman in the world," died of cancer on Christmas Day, her passing too recent for her to be included in TCM's 2008 tribute. Like Kidd, who actually died December 2007, Kitt will no doubt be featured in next year's edition. Very possibly Eartha Kitt will be remembered best by a younger generation for her amusing voice work as the evil (and wonderfully sarcastic) Yzma in Disney's superior animated feature The Emperor's New Groove, but I will always love her for the languorous purr of songs like "Just An Old-Fashioned Girl," "Lazy Afternoon," and especially the teasing, sultry "Santa Baby" (ignore the juvenile and truly awful Madonna effort), the version featured on her MCA "Best of Eartha Kitt" album, without the gulping backing vocals.

To Bill

I am watching The Lawrence Welk Show on public television as I read your blog. No idea why. I could be watching the lanky and impossibly young Jimmy Stewart romance Jean Arthur in You Can’t Take It with You on TCM, or the 1973 episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show where Phyllis almost gets Lou Grant to sell his house. Instead I'm sitting here, watching this impossibly white bread song and dance routine.

My grandmother loved this waltzy, schmaltzy, relentlessly MOR variety show—especially when Arthur Duncan, the only African-American cast member, joined in ’64—and watched it every Saturday night. Sometimes, just to be with her, I'd join her in her bedroom with a snack or the evening's dessert, waiting for the appearance of America’s Singing Sweethearts, the Lennon Sisters. I never had the nerve to ‘fess it to Grandma, but I was really crushing on Peggy in those days—no, not Peggy—Kathy. Kathy was the sexiest of the Lennons and, to my 10 year old mind, the most elegant and sophisticated. I’m pretty sure it was Kathy.

Do you ever feel like life is getting too fucking complicated and you just want to go back, Bill? Not necessarily to start all over—just full out retreat to a time when life was simpler, like James Daly in that Twilight Zone episode. Or Gig Young, in that other Twilight Zone episode. A time, in so many ways, even less just than now but simpler, at least on its face.

Nothing is simple now, or at the moment, much fun. When Barack Obama won last month, I was astonished and ecstatic and emotional. Finally, it’s happened, and in my lifetime. At last, at last. My mother began to save the daily papers, savoring all the beautiful pictures of Barack and Michelle and their charming little girls, delighting in the images of America’s first black First Family. Meanwhile I gloried in all the newsmagazine covers coming into the library daily mail bundles—the Times and the U.S. News and World Reports, the Newsweeks and the Nations—the kind of magazines where previously, if there was a black male face on the cover, it probably meant trouble, disgrace. But here was Obama seated, Obama standing, Obama looking purposeful and serious, Obama with kind, crinkly eyes and a breezy smile. Obama on the cover of Ebony, emerging from a car wearing dark sunglasses; the ultimate, the epitome, of class and confident cool. God, how great was this? He was Sidney Poitier and John Shaft and Martin Luther King and Alexander Scott all rolled into one tall dark and handsome package of sexy excellence. Mister President. My president. You should have seen me grinning at my family and coworkers and neighbors and friends and all of them grinning back. Even with the snowballing economic upheavals, even growing more and more scared about losing their retirement savings or their jobs, they couldn’t stop grinning about President-Elect Obama and neither could I.

Then the reality of Prop 8 began to sink in, really take hold, and with it the dawning realization that My President was not going to talk to me about this, not going to address my shock and consternation. I understood perfectly well that while in the midst of trying to put together his new administration he was busy being confronted with one looming crisis after the next; still, his silence began to worry, and then rankle. He did release a statement through his media people, expressing his regrets, or something like that, regarding the passage of the anti-gay initiatives. That was nice… actually, no. That was bullshit. How could Obama profess to “regret” Prop 8? I mean, doesn’t he essentially agree with it? Because of his religious beliefs? Because of the way he was brought up?

And now, rubbing salt into a wound he seems unaware is there, Obama asks the new Falwell—Rick Warren, the evangelical pastor who equates homosexuality with bestiality, incest and pedophilia—to give the invocation at his January inaugural. Since the announcement, the beaming, avuncular Warren has been doing the press tour thing, making it ever clearer with his remarks exactly why “the gays” and their supporters are so up in arms about him as the choice to launch the Obama presidency.

Barack Obama is still the big hero, the Miracle Man, to my family and coworkers, for whom the controversies about Prop 8 and Rick Warren (and the lack of LGBT appointees in his cabinet) either don’t register or exist mostly as a lot of damn noise. This is hard, because when I stand up and speak out I am in conflict with them and when I don’t I am in conflict with myself. On election night my mom and I hugged each other because we knew when Obama won, we’d won too. We toasted his ascension and remembered with love and sadness those who were not here with us to share the historic moment: my younger brother Joe, her oldest sister Jean, her mom—my Grandma.

I don’t know what else to say. I’m still sorting all this out. I feel wounded and a little defeated, not at all the way I expected to be feeling now. Barack Obama is still my president. I still have high hopes for him and for my country. But I’m not grinning anymore; I am too disappointed for that. I am angry, and tired, and my heart—my heart is just not in it.

Obama and Warren, Together At Least

It’s disheartening, isn’t it.

Especially after Prop 8. If only Prop 8 had been struck down, and soundly, we could all maybe take a deep breath about Rick Warren—God, he’s smug, isn’t he? Just like Falwell; it’s like he thinks we’re too stupid to see through all that roly-poly affability—and say: Okay, maybe Barack is throwing the fundies an inclusion bone. We could’ve chalked it up to Obama’s wanting to reassure the religious right that his embrace of LGBT Americans does not equal a complete rejection of them, that he considers us all, every one of us, The American Family, even if some of the siblings never get along. The problem of course is that, so far, it’s us to whom he’s tossed the bone. Barack Obama has yet to truly embrace us, and after the searing insult of Prop 8—and his silence about Prop 8—the choice of Rick Me? Homophobic? Me? Warren for his Inaugural invocation really is a tone-deaf kick in the teeth.

You were expecting better? Well, I wasn’t. I wasn’t expecting anything from Obama as regards LGBT issues, exactly, though I allowed myself to hope. I am still hopeful, guardedly.

Here’s the thing. In my experience, straight black men do not handle the “gay thing” well. They really don’t. If they’re not openly, flagrantly hostile, then they’re at least terrifically discomfited, making with all manner of nervous little jokes, and pious observations that it’s not their place to judge, we’re all sinners, and anyway let he who is without sin, etc. etc. Some even feel compelled (particularly in the presence of other black males) to make obnoxious, hurtful moves just to prove their hetero bona fides. For black men in America, many of whom struggle with fatherlessness and issues with women, it’s all about masculinity, especially as it intersects with race, and the fear of being perceived as a “punk.”

In defending his opposition to gay marriage, Obama said something or other to his interviewer about the way he was raised, and I sighed, feeling tired all over. The way he was raised, yada yada yada; plus, he’s a Christian, blah, blah, blah. I thought, yeeeeeaah, ya know, maybe we need to take a step back from this guy and reassess. True, he is brainy and charismatic and attractive, the very first African-American elected to the highest political office in the land—but more than all that he’s new, relatively. Just a few years ago, most Americans had never heard of Barack Obama. Maybe that’s key. Maybe that above all is why expectations of him run so high and why so many, including so many of us queers, are inclined to see so much in him. It’s easy to idealize someone you don’t really know, easy to lose sight of—let’s be nice and say “the probability” rather than “the fact”—that at the end of the day what we have in Barack Hussein Obama is not only just another calculating politician, but also just another straight black guy who is really uncomfortable with the whole gay thing, and is even prepared to do obnoxious, hurtful things to prove his hetero, Christian bona fides.

Blue Monday

The North Wind doth blow; we soon shall have snow—

We do have snow today, Chicago’s first snowfall of the season. All day yesterday the wind howled and raged, banging against our windows. We stayed inside, not eager to be pelted by icy sleet, dead leaves and kicked-up dirt. From my 25th floor view the street below looks like a child’s careful arrangement of Legos and building blocks dusted with confectioner sugar. The sky is so impossibly white, so heavy with the next blow, that the lake, usually a sparkling blue-green, has actually disappeared into it. I am seized with an impulse to walk the lakefront as I used to when I was a moody teenager. A few years ago, when I still lived in Hyde Park, I could do that since Lake Michigan was literally scant minutes away from my front doorstep. Here at my Bronzeville address the view of the lake is better but it is actually farther away, more trouble to reach. It’s fascinating to me that the water always looks so much closer than it really is.

I should have gone out today. I might still, for a walk around the block if nowhere else; it’s just a bit past 3.

Of course, time will not stand still while I type…

I spent most of the day cleaning up the joint and rearranging my furniture. I always do this when I’m restless, a little anxious, and don’t know what else to do with myself; it’s someplace—not the most desirable of places, but someplace—to take the energy. I haven’t wanted to do much of anything lately, not even write, so maybe today’s pre-spring cleaning is a good sign. I hope so. I’ve been feeling very melancholy and dispirited but then the winter holidays don’t often bring out the best in me. Last night my mother asked if we should order ham for Christmas dinner to supplement the turkey breast in the freezer and on the instant I was snappish and short-tempered, irritably reminding her that after all my efforts with last week’s Thanksgiving meal someone else in this family could bloody well do the cooking for the next holiday—don’t even go there. She retreated, meekly, and for the rest of the evening I felt like a shit.

*sigh*

I may have to be locked away for the entire month of December (and possibly January too) to ensure I don’t kill anybody.

The Thomas Crown Affair

I am watching The Thomas Crown Affair on DVD—the classic ’68 original starring Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway—and listening to director Norman Jewison’s rambling, sometimes amusing commentary about the making of the movie. Just now Jewison is talking a bit about the versatile Jack Weston—an actor I loved, especially when he played bumblers—with whom he worked in several previous projects (including another McQueen film, The Cincinnati Kid) and who played Erwin, the luckless driver in Thomas Crown. I miss the roly-poly Weston, who died of cancer in 1996; I miss his sly smile, his raspy, distinctive whine and the way he could execute climbing hysteria like nobody’s business. (Check out his sniveling, conniving lawyer in the multi-talented Elaine May’s side-splitting 1971 comedy A New Leaf, or his turn as Rita Moreno’s lovable hypochondriac hubby in Alan Alda’s droll 1980 ensemble piece The Four Seasons.)

The Thomas Crown Affair is one of my very favorite movies, a stylish wink of a caper very much of its moment—costume designer Theadora Van Runkle’s wonderful wardrobe for Dunaway is pure sixties mod meets Paris chic—featuring then quite innovative split and multi screen effects (the bank robbery, the polo match) that must have startled and delighted 1968 cinema audiences as it startled and delighted me when finally I saw it start to finish and without commercial breaks, somewhere back in the ‘80s. Jewison and company make imaginative use of Boston locations, Haskell Wexler’s photography is creative, quirky and beautiful to look at, and the music is truly sublime, from the Oscar winning Bergman-Legrand love theme “The Windmills of Your Mind”—though between you and me I’ve always preferred the languid, sultry Dusty Springfield vocal to Noel Harrison’s brisk British recitation—to the jazzy high action sequences to Legrand’s lush scoring of the famous McQueen-Dunaway chess match (Jewison refers to it as “chess with sex”), the scene that epitomizes their tense, teasing cat and mouse romance.

This movie is also funny, with lots of amusing throwaways and odd bits of business. Witness the scene that directly introduces the glamorous, unscrupulous Dunaway character Vicki Anderson, the chopped exchange between Jamie, Gordon Pinsent’s harassed insurance company man, and Eddy Malone, Paul Burke’s tough, workaday cop (who seems almost an older, more hard-bitten incarnation of Adam Flint, the idealistic young detective he played on TV’s Naked City from 1960 to ‘63. Or the moment early in the film where Thomas Crown coolly strolls into the cemetery to retrieve the bags of money he’s just heisted from his own bank only to freeze in mid-grab at the unexpected tolling of a bell. Or the scene where Crown and the hapless Erwin sit opposite each other in a narrow police station holding room as Vicki and Malone watch breathlessly from behind a one-way mirror, waiting for the two to acknowledge one another. (It doesn’t happen of course; Crown is too smart for that.) And let’s not forget Vickie’s mischievous birthday presentation to Malone, the “Think Dirty” plaque.

There are also moments in Thomas Crown that are not funny but quite compelling, such as the stunning bank robbery sequence that opens the film (and has a documentary feel), where employees and customers stepping off elevators realize they’ve blundered into serious trouble and are quickly cowed into submission by the lethally efficient gunmen; there’s one young man who walks blindly into danger like the others, and you see first the confusion in his face and then his fright as he realizes his peril, almost involuntarily he makes a move to get away and is shot in the foot for the effort; he crumples to the hallway floor, his body clenched, and rolls around in spastic agony. You can’t even see his face now as he’s clutching his leg, just the hunched and rolling motion, but you feel the poor guy’s agony—from the moment I first saw the movie this scene struck me as one of the most realistic depictions of physical distress ever committed to film.

Also there’s that terrific terrace luncheon scene where an at first amused Eddy Malone needles Vicki—who has by now been monitoring every move Thomas Crown makes even though she is herself intimately involved with him—about Crown’s apparent romantic resumption with a former flame.

“You’re being had, Vicki girl” he teases her. ”Why,” she asks coldly. “Would you like to know where he went when he left you last night?” he grins, waving a surveillance report under her nose. “No,” she snaps, sipping her wine, before reversing herself to reach for the paper. She looks it over. “Her again,” she says dismissively. “Dirty old man.” But she is clearly rattled. Her food sits forgotten as she lights another cigarette, her mockingly playful self-assurance has vanished and her heavily lashed and mascara-ed eyes blink like warning signals. Malone watches her, increasingly discomfited.

Norman Jewison nearly didn’t cast Steve McQueen in this film; he wasn’t sure the combative, roughhewn actor could pull off a role a younger Cary Grant would have essayed with ease. But McQueen convinced Jewison to give him the part and for that we can be thankful; the reform school tough from Indiana completely transforms himself into the suave, moneyed Boston Brahmin. As Jewison notes in his commentary McQueen looks and moves differently in The Thomas Crown Affair than any movie he’d done before or since.

So does Dunaway; she is sleek and marvelous swanning around from one scene to the next in Van Runkle’s elegant sportswear, chic suits and soft, float-y dresses. She wears lots of hats in this movie and she looks smashing in all of them—and so do the men by the way; this is an era when men (of a certain age and social outlook, at least) were still wearing fedoras, porkpies and even homburgs.

Faye Dunaway has given many memorable, award-winning performances over the years but whereas I most admire her work in early films like Bonnie and Clyde, Chinatown, The Disappearance of Aimee, Network, Three Days of the Condor and Richard Lester’s wonderful Musketeer movies, I love her in The Thomas Crown Affair and never more so than at that brittle, bittersweet crescendo of an ending as Vicki helplessly realizes she has indeed been had, the games are over and she and Thomas both have lost something irreplaceable.

D.L. Hughley and Prop 8

There’s a clip on the web of columnist Dan Savage’s appearance on D.L. Hughley’s CNN talk show, D.L. Hughley Breaks The News. I linked to it through my PlanetOut This Weekend email.

Mr. Savage, probably best known for the witty sex column Savage Love, was (of course) there to talk about Prop 8 and the angry accusation that black and Latino voters were responsible for the denial of gay marriage rights (and other LGBT rollbacks) on November 4th. I watched the clip twice—two and half times, actually—increasingly irritated by the way Hughley verbally danced all over the damn place, making one anti-gay statement after another and then immediately sort of taking it back, or not really meaning it, or something like that, talking out of both sides of his mouth as rapidly as humanly possible. “I’m not particularly homophobic” he says. Right, and then a moment later: “I don’t condone the gay lifestyle,” a slap he then he attempts to qualify with “I don’t condone the government being involved with people’s affairs.” Pick a position and stick with it a minute already!

And then Hughley did the utterly predictable thing: he started yammering on about how his homophobia-that-isn’t-really is natural and right because of, you know, the way he
was brought up and because of the church. YAWN. For Chrissake, can’t these Negroes be a little more original about their hostility to gays? Because of the way he was brought up? What exactly does that mean? I was brought up the way D.L. Hughley was brought up, so for that matter was Dan Savage. Basically, we were all raised in heterosexual households by heterosexual parents either oblivious or openly hostile to ways of living that strayed from what they’d been taught (by heterosexual parents in heterosexual households) was the acceptable norm. Religion, whether Christian or Jewish, played a significant part in the lives of our immediate and extended families. And whatever else we all grew up doing, we all grew up watching “Good Times” and “The Brady Bunch” and “The Jeffersons” and “The Partridge Family” or facsimiles thereof. I’m saying Dan Savage and I are from the same planet as D.L. Hughley—we weren’t hatched from eggs, we’re not pod people—and we’re gay. If Hughley’s “upbringing” explains his heterosexuality, not to say his homophobic clueless-ness, what explains Savage’s queerness? Or mine?

Remember the original Def Comedy Jam years? I do, in a vague, hung-over sort of way; I remember the seemingly endless parade of potty-mouthed brothas (and from time to time a sistah or two) doing stand-up comedy rants that, when they acknowledged the presence of gays in American life at all, usually did so with a sneer and an insult, the cheapest laugh of the night. Hughley was a part of that group, so was a host of others including Martin Lawrence, Cedric the Entertainer, Steve Harvey and the late, great Bernie Mac. And I laughed, and cringed, and finally stopped laughing, disheartened and bored, frankly, as finally one comic after another seemed mainly to be imitating Eddie Murphy, who in his own club routines seemed to be channeling Richard Pryor (himself not exactly the most enlightened entertainer regarding queer issues, his affection and admiration for Lily Tomlin notwithstanding).

I got so tired of being dissed and in such a spectacularly ignorant and complacent way--and from my own people. It still goes on and I’m still tired of it. I’m weary too of the thunderous silence from lesbian and gay celebs of color. Okay, yes, Wanda Sykes came out after Prop 8, but where’s… everybody else? I understand that black queers with any kind of public profile feel caught in a bind, wary of losing a hard-won success from racism on the one hand and community rejection on the other. Still, the silence is especially troubling to me because I think it sets in stone the meanness and myth that too often informs minority objections to gay rights, essentially guaranteeing that straights of color with such mindsets continue to view all things queer as a deliberate cultural assault on their values and religious beliefs. “I’ve never met a black atheist,” Hughley said to Savage and I just wanted to throw up. The hell you haven’t, I thought, snorting. You’ve met black atheists and agnostics, too. You’ve worked with them, you’ve partied with them, they’ve been members of your posse.

Oh, maybe they haven’t had the courage to own up, to come out of their own particular closets, but they’re there, trust me. It is—excuse me—a fairy tale, and a cherished one, that every single African-American is religious and/or believes in God no matter where they come from or how they were raised. The problem with that contention is that if we’re going to bridle at White America’s inclination to view blacks generally as threats or problems, if we insist white people recognize and respect that we are as diverse as any other racial or ethnic group, then by all laws of logic we’re obligated to do the same. Which also, Mr. Hughley, means admitting that there are gay, lesbian, bisexual and tranny African-Americans and other people of color who are—as Dan Savage attempted to point out to you—as disserved by Prop 8 as LGBT Caucasians.

“Ya gotta march a little while longer,” Hughley told Savage with a big, self-satisfied grin, before hurriedly shaking his hand and wishing him the best. Yes, well. I wonder if Mr. Hughley would have been quite as smug tossing that parting shot at the likes of a James Baldwin, Barbara Jordan or Bayard Rustin?

On Being Not Where You Want To Be

Just not working out.

I am home, doing this. This is not where I want to be right now.

I stood outside the library--across the street from it actually, toeing the curb--in the fucking freezing cold trying to decide what I really really in my heart of hearts wanted to do tonight, where I wanted to be. Then I decided. Then I didn't do it.

I walked into Walgreen's drugstore to buy a notebook to take with me to scribble in. Then I really felt I should buy a nice razor point pen too, to go with it. Then I decided I didn't need the pen. Then I decided not to buy the notebook.

But I wanted to go somewhere other than home, some place warm and reasonably quiet with a nice aroma and good food. A restaurant. A place with soft, low-key lighting--candles on the table would be nice--and a corner booth. I thought at first Dixie Kitchen in Hyde Park which boasts a laid-back staff that is attentive without hovering and wonderful, spicy creole and cajun dishes (Order the fried green tomatoes, johnny cakes and a bowl, not a cup, of the jambalaya. Trust me).

Then I thought, No, it's too damn cold out here to walk it and I don't want to spend the increasingly expensive bus fare (have you seen in the news that the fares are going up? Again?) to go into another neighborhood just eat dinner, especially alone. There's a new soul food place here in Bronzeville, about a block away from me--great food, if a bit pricey--and if I was lucky I'd be ahead of the dinnertime rush and could get a booth. So it was settled; I was going to Chicago's Home of Chicken & Waffles, not to be confused with Roscoe's House of Chicken 'n Waffles, apparently for legal reasons.

Then I realized I didn't have enough cash with me (Why didn't I take that folded-over $20 off my desk and slide it into my wallet the moment I saw it? Why? It would have taken, like, two seconds and I'd have it with me now I need it. What good is it doing me laying on top of Anna Nicole Smith? Such an idiot!) and I didn't want to use plastic, so I came home.

Sigh.

The thing is, what I really wanted to do was to attend MoveOn.org's Big Obama Gathering (a campaign to help the President-Elect pass "a bold progressive agenda") tonight here in Chicago. I got Stephanie L's e-invite yesterday afternoon and hesitated for a long time before finally declining. I saw that something like 19 people had already committed to attend and I guess I was a little freaked out by that. All I could see in my mind's eye was little me walking into a room full of 19 strangers and having to make smart small talk. The very thought left me feeling shy and afraid. Who are those 19 people? Will they all be white? Will they all be young? Younger than me? Of course. Everyone's younger than me. Please don't tell anyone, but sometimes I feel so ancient being 50. I may as well be 90 or 100 or 1000 years old. I'm a relic now, a ruin. If only I were 20 years younger. And about 50, 60 pounds lighter as well. Especially that.

Michael R thinks I'm wonderful, bless his Canadian heart, and he doesn't even know me except through my random postings to Bill's blog. Would I have gone to the Obama meeting if those 19 attendees included him? And Bill? And Grant and Chris and Sue and...

Possibly. Probably not. Likely not. Like-as-not. I was as full of shit and fear 20, 25 years ago as now but at least I looked better. Now I don't even have that.

I am so tired and I feel so old.

I miss Joey. I wish he weren't dead. I hate God for taking my brother from me. I hate myself for not being there for him as he got sicker and sicker, for staying away from his house as he began to fade. I let him down and I loved him so. Did he know that at the end? Did he remember? As I type this, I am remembering Joey and me at ages 10 and 11, electric with energy, wiry and full of spirit in our matching new tees, jeans and spanking white sneakers, having a sidewalk race on a warm and sunny, nearly-summer day. We ran grinning elbow to elbow all the way up Drexel Avenue, and leaping over the cracks so we wouldn't break Mama's back. I don't remember now who won. I think we both did. And we knew all the songs on the radio that year and so did our cousins and friends, which was important. Remember when music was so important, the soundtrack of your life?

Come Together. Sweet Caroline. I Just Can't Help Believing. Aquarius/Let The Sunshine In. Get Together. Everyday People. You Showed Me. This Magic Moment. Time of the Season. It's Your Thing.

I should have gone to that Obama campaign meeting.

I am going to get something to eat.

More On Prop 8

I received in my email today, a forwarded article by Jasmyne A. Cannick titled “No-On-8’s White Bias.” It was published in the Los Angeles Times on November 8th.

I read Ms. Cannick’s piece with a mixture of interest and dismay and intended to reply to the sender, my cousin Mark, who by the way writes a lively and thoughtful blog of his own http://www.markyourtruthhere.blogspot.com/)

Instead I decided to post my reply here (and began by quoting the parts with which I most took issue):

The right to marry does nothing to address the problems faced by both black gays and black straights.

No, it doesn't, agreed. But, was it supposed to? Why is it that because gay marriage doesn't address all those other ills it is somehow invalid as a legitimate civil rights issue? I'm having trouble following Ms. Cannick's logic here.

The first problem with Proposition 8 was the issue of marriage itself. The white gay community never successfully communicated to blacks why it should matter to us above everything else--not just to me as a lesbian but to blacks generally.

"Above everything else"? Again, was that ever truly the intent? And as to why it matters--how about that the right to marry should be as available to eligible (of legal age, etc.) LGBT couples (of any race or ethnicity) who desire to do so as any heterosexual couple (of any race or ethnicity)? How about because without that legal right, depending upon the state in which you and your partner live or happen to be visiting, just what legal rights you truly have when your loved one is hospitalized, or dies, especially if there are young dependents involved, can vary in cruel and unexpected ways? How about because the determination of those straights who would devote enormous effort and sums of money to denying us those rights speaks volumes as to how they would have us regarded in this society, and what other rights they would deny us, if they could?

Second is the issue of civil rights. White gays often wonder aloud why blacks, of all people, won't support their civil rights.

So the gay rights struggle generally, and gay marriage in particular, has nothing to do with LGBT people of color? It's strictly for and about white people?? Since when? Even if you believe that the gay community too often presents itself with a white (especially white male) face--and I do, and it pisses me off--does that really justify the attitude that black and other non-white queers should just sit out the ongoing battle for gay equality? At the heart of her argument, isn't Ms. Cannick basically saying that gay marriage is a "white thing"? Do you suppose that she's aware of how close she comes to the homophobic misunderstanding that persists in the black community that homosexuality (or at least non-heterosexuality) is a "white thing" and nothing to do with decent, church-going, God-fearing African-Americans?

Why is it still news to some black queers that racism exists within the gay community anyway? It exists in every other stratum of American society, why not there too? There are times when I feel that racism--the fact of enduring racist attitudes and beliefs--has become a convenience to African-Americans, gay or straight. It lets us off the hook for dealing with so many issues it's easier not to confront. (That's certainly been true in my life; how about yours?)

And marriage, let's remember, is a civil institution--not a religious one. Many people marry in the church of their faith but many others do not. So long as a couple has applied for the license, taken the blood tests and performed whatever other rituals the law requires, they are legally married whether the ceremony is performed in a registrar's office, St. Patrick's Cathedral, leaping out of an airplane or underwater off the coast of Belize.

Ms. Cannick makes a strong point regarding the ineffectiveness and general wrong-headedness of the outreach campaign against Prop 8; on the other hand, reading her article, I'm left wondering just how many of those black lesbians and gays who warned that the reliance on NAACP participation "wouldn't work" followed Cannick's lead in declining to engage black voters about the issue at all. ("Even I wasn't inspired to encourage black people to vote against the proposition.") Maybe the larger problem has been not about what white gays didn't do, but about what black gays haven't done—and why.

But the black civil rights movement was essentially born out of and driven by the black church; social justice and religion are inextricably intertwined in the black community. To many blacks, civil rights are grounded in Christianity--not something separate and apart from religion but synonymous with it. To the extent that the issue of gay marriage seemed to be pitted against the church, it was going to be a losing battle in my community.

I would argue that African-Americans need to understand that it is the church that has pitted itself against gay marriage, not the other way around, against gay marriage and against the very existence of gay people. And though some may find the notion heretical, I would also argue that the church's influence in black American life has been at times as much destructive as uplifting, and not just and only about gay issues. It’s worth asking how much have black conservative churches have taken as their model white conservative churches, the very same white conservative churches that once denounced Dr. King and other civil rights heroes (including ordinary blacks and whites who courageously took the risks of joining and organizing marches, sit-ins and freedom rides) as troublemaking commies and worse? How many Sunday sermons sought to reassure racist parishioners--including night riding Klansmen--of the moral rightness of their view of non-whites generally and blacks in particular as sub-human beings? (And what frequently happened to blacks and other people of color as a direct result of the stoking of such sentiments?)

And how many of those congregations have remained lily-white, at least until it began to dawn on their canny anti-gay leaders how much more successful they could be in their efforts to squash gay rights by prevailing upon and joining with black ministers and congregants, using scare tactic campaigns filled with misinformation and outright lies? How many vengeful, self-satisfied churchgoers—black and white, then and now—use religion to close their minds rather than open their hearts?

And by the way... does anybody seriously believe that closeted ministers and sisters exist only in the Catholic Church?

Some people seem to think that homophobia trumps racism, and that winning the battle for gay marriage will symbolically bring about equality for everyone. That may seem true to white gays, but as a black lesbian, let me tell you: There are still too many inequalities that exist as it relates to my race for that ever to be the case.

Well, some people may indeed think that homophobia trumps racism, but I don't and I suspect I'm not the only one. Homophobia and racism are not rivals; rather, both are malignant symptoms of the kind of prejudice that kills, figuratively and literally. They are ghastly proving grounds for bigots, whom the late Vito Russo correctly identified as "people who resent losing control of a world they thought belonged to them." It would be helpful if more of whites, gay and straight, truly appreciated the continuing racial disparity in American life; it’s ludicrous to think that Barack Obama’s historic November 4th victory has single-handedly wiped that slate clean.

But rather than waiting for our white counterparts “to finally ‘get it’” about race, next time around maybe we black gays should go ahead and “say what needs to be said” about homophobia to our families and communities so that they can begin to understand just how and why gay rights—including the right to marry—is about us. And them.

Sunday Breakfast

I didn’t know Randolph Scott was in Roberta, did you? When I press the INFO button on my DirecTV remote the cast listing displays as Irene Dunne, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, that’s all. But that’s clearly Scott in his blonde and hunky 1935 prime charming some wily old dowager—can’t bring the actress’s name into focus just now; it’s not Marie Dressler though I simply adore her (Did you ever see her giving Chaplin as good as she got in the hilarious 1914 silent, Tillie’s Punctured Romance? Most people who remember Dressler think of the wicked funny repartee between her and the brassy, dressed-to-the-nines Jean Harlow in Dinner At Eight)—and yes, there’s the elegant and witty Miss Dunne trying to calm an apoplectic Ginger—what’s she fuming about now?—in what appears to be the next room.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve really only ever enjoyed the Astaire-Rogers pairings as far as the dancing went. The rest of the movies, the surrounding plots, were generally too silly to pay any attention to and in any case seemed interchangeable. I mean, you know, Fred’s pursuing Ginger and, usually due to a series of farcical miscues and misunderstandings, Ginger is in a snit about it throughout nearly all of the film. Sorry, tedious! The one exception is 1949’s The Barkleys of Broadway, their last film together, and yeah, they bickered and misconstrued in that one too, but Rogers was different somehow. Earthier. Funny in a more knowing and womanly way, like the characters she played in Stage Door, The Major and The Minor, and even Monkey Business. I even liked her and Astaire’s dance routines better, especially the droll “My One and Only Highland Fling” and the playful, assured “Bouncin’ the Blues.”

My mother loves the Astaire-Rogers movies, ridiculous set-ups and all, her favorites being Top Hat and The Gay Divorcee. She was not watching Roberta though; she followed me into the kitchen (where I was attempting breakfast), eager to talk about the comments she was hearing on V-103’s Sunday morning urban affairs program, Chicago Speaks. The topic today was Prop 8.

Now, my mother is 72 and Catholic and though she’s been very loving and accepting of me since my coming out, and has over the years had her own personal quarrels with the Church, she I have not always agreed on queer issues. So, when after a good morning peck on the cheek and several minutes good-natured teasing about my pancake-flipping abilities she cleared her throat and said “Well, people are calling in to Ty and Mary’s show about this Prop 8 thing and most of them are saying—“ I groaned inwardly and braced myself, half-preparing to mount a defense. So much for a pleasant Sunday breakfast…

But Mom did what she does best—she surprised me, or maybe I should amend that and say she surprised me somewhat, since I could pretty well guess the prevailing viewpoint of the average black radio caller regarding anything to do with homosexuality and I didn’t really expect her to throw in with that. She didn’t. On the contrary Mom was thoughtful and dismayed at the bilious rancor of the callers, most of whom not only defended their support of Prop 8 but also their denouncing of homosexuality as a choice (sigh), as though, assuming it were true, that justified denial of full citizenship, including the right to legally marry, to LGBT people.

And all these callers, she said, pointed to the Bible as proof of the moral rightness of their arguments. Well, I mean, of course. If there’s anything black folks feel safe staking their reputations on, it’s Holy Scripture. Who was it that said Americans pour religion all over everything, like chocolate syrup? Did I read it in a book? Was it a line from a movie? Whatever its source it was not a charge aimed specifically at African-Americans but there have been times in my life when I’ve felt it could have been. It represents to me the dark side of my people’s faith, the robotic insistence on letting words in an ancient book that can be interpreted a thousand ways do your thinking for you, or perhaps more properly circumvent your ability to think, to take the world as it comes, and deal with it standing on your own feet.

“Honey, don’t throw that away! I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.” Mom was holding out her plate for the comically misshapen misfire I was trying to scrape out of the pan. I didn’t used to like pancakes, don’t remember now why. Mom used to like to fix them for my brother Joey and me when we were little and I ate them well enough then. She also used to attempt homemade waffles, using one of those big old-fashioned iron contraptions that had belonged to my grandmother. They were always a disaster, those waffles. Poor Mom. She was forever misjudging the timing, either jerking open the top of the thing too soon, exposing a half-cooked, dripping goop of bubbling yellow-white batter, or way too late, after noticing curls of grayish black smoke coming out of the sides: waffles like blackened rock, like corrugated brick. I can still see the perplexed exasperation on her face and the resignation on my little brother’s.

My third, fourth and fifth pancakes were a lot more successful: golden, slightly fluffy and not too tough. I started adding in pecans halves and small chunks of banana, cocky now. Mom ooh-ed and ahh-ed, hurrying to set the table, pouring the orange juice. I drizzled more batter into the sizzling pan, trying to concentrate and halfway listening to my mother, half lost in my own thoughts. My mind conjured up angry dark faces and full lips twisting in disgust. This one made six; that should be enough, three each. Oh, maybe one more since there wasn’t much batter left anyway. Might as well.

“But there was another caller, finally, a young male,” Mom was saying, “saying something I thought was very important to all those folks using the Bible to justify their attitudes.” I waited, looking from her to the pan and back again.

“He made the point that the Bible says a lot of things” –Right on, I thought sardonically, banishing the faces as I loaded and passed her our plates—“including ‘Do unto others.’ You know, treat others as you would have them treat you? He said ‘I’m not gay myself but I don’t understand how it is that our people can’t see how the way they are acting towards gays is so close to how white people treated us. White people used to say we were only 90% human, that we weren’t their equal, and they used that to defend wanting to deny us full rights, including the right to legally marry each other let alone any other race.’” I was nodding vigorously as I chewed. I started to say something about irony, but the subject had obviously touched a nerve with my mother, and she plowed on, eager to speak her piece as I refilled our juice glasses.

“…And you know something, honey? I think in the back of the minds of a lot of black people is the suspicion, or the fear, that our rights—the rights we fought so hard for forty, fifty years ago—might one day be taken away, and if that ever happens there are certain issues we don’t want to be caught on the wrong side of—you know what I mean?”

That one caught me mid-swallow. I stared at her, not sure I knew at all what she meant. Mom shifted in her chair and leaned across the table towards me, her eyes intense.

“What I’m saying is—well, sort of like what that young man who called in to the show this morning was trying to say. That we seem to be taking our cues about how to feel about gays from whites who feel that way about gays and about us, siding with people who not that long ago didn’t want us in their churches or living on their street or being around their kids in the schools. As though to say, ‘See? There’s no need to discriminate against us, we feel just like you do about all that mess.’”

Ah, yes—I got what she meant. I thought of the writer James Baldwin, who was so outspoken during the civil rights struggles in the 1950s and left the United States to move to Paris, never to return. Baldwin was gay and his vehemence at social injustice was not limited to racist White America but extended as well to bourgeoisie Negroes who would seek to ingratiate themselves to sympathetic whites by incorporating white hypocrisy about class, sex and sexuality.

“When I was about seven years old there was this young gay woman—a girl, really, she was about the same age as your aunts Mary and Maxine, and I think Max said she’d been a classmate at Corpus Christi before she dropped out—anyway, this girl lived somewhere in the neighborhood, I could never figure out where, and no one would tell me. To this day I don’t know how this girl lived or who took care of her or what; her parents had kicked her out of the house and wouldn’t have anything to do with her. We would see her in church on Sunday mornings and after Mass she would come out with all the rest of us and linger for a few minutes, looking around at everybody. And I would watch the way everyone avoided making eye contact with her, nobody would speak to her or even acknowledge her presence. A few people (including your aunt Jean) would glance at her and then shake their heads… and I would pester Mama and Jean and everybody, asking ‘But what did she do? Why won’t anybody talk to her?’”—Here my mother laughed a rueful little laugh and shook her head—“And of course no one would answer me. No one ever told kids anything in those days. Your grandmother would just sigh and say sadly ‘Oh, honey…’ and that was about it.”

“And all this because she way a lesbian?” I asked, frowning. “How did you all even know she was gay?” Mom looked slightly embarrassed.

“Well…she wore men’s clothes, even the hat. Nobody ever saw her dressed any other way. Keep in mind this was in the early ‘40’s and we weren’t used to seeing that. She had a very pretty face, and pretty hair that she’d clipped short and slicked back. And there was something about the way she carried herself—you’d see her walking down the street somewhere and she had this kind of soul brotha strut.” Mom chuckled, remembering. “I used to cross the street when I saw her coming.” Her smile faded and she looked at me guiltily, her eyes pleading. “I was afraid of her and I really didn’t know why, except that I knew—I mean, it had been communicated to me by Mama and everyone else—that she was a bad person for some reason. She wore men’s clothes…”

I was trying not to get impatient with my mother, but all I could think about was how lonely and isolated that girl must have been, how terribly hurt, to be thrown away by her family and neighbors. I was blown away too at her stubbornness and courage in showing up for Catholic Mass each Sunday even though her welcome—or lack thereof—could not have been clearer. How old had she been? Max and Mary were in their teens when my mother, the family youngest, was seven; if this young woman was their contemporary, a classmate, she couldn’t have been much over sixteen. I watched Mom digging into her breakfast and said finally, “You know, you say she was pretty—wait, what was her name, anyway?”

“I dunno.” She shrugged, chewing. “I don’t think I ever learned.” I looked at her. She shrugged again, uncomfortably.

“Okay… well, I’m thinking maybe the menswear was a way of keeping men at bay, you know Mom? She might have liked the clothes, but maybe also they were meant to discourage unwanted attention.”

At this my mother brightened and smiled admiringly at me. “Yes! You know, it hadn’t occurred to me before, but now you say it that could have been it. I don’t know why we didn’t think of that back then.” I snorted. “It doesn’t sound to me like any of you were doing much thinking. You were all so busy being afraid and disapproving of her. All you God-fearing Christians.” Mom flushed and her guilty look returned. I softened. She’d been only seven at the time after all.

“Yes, well... but the weird thing,” she said, frowning a little, “was that there were these two men in the choir at Corpus Christi—they both sang tenor but Teddy, he had a beautiful voice, could have been a professional singer if he’d wanted—and everybody liked and accepted them. Nobody ostracized them. And they were a couple, Lorraine! It took me a quite awhile to get my mind around that, though I don’t know why since they did everything together; they lived together, they came and went everywhere together... They were part of our group, invited to all the parties and get-togethers and social functions we all went to—and they were a couple.”

I smiled, crookedly. “But they never talked about it, did they. Never touched each other, never told any of you, never talked to each other the way a hetero couple would, at least not in you all’s presence—“

My mother shook her head vigorously, her eyebrows up. “—No, they didn’t, and they would mock openly gay men, I mean the femme-y, swishy guys we knew, the hairdressers, you know, the ones who said “Girl” this and “Girlfriend” that, calling them sissies. Everybody called men like that sissies, even when we didn’t think we were being insulting. Freaks—your father used to say that—and sissies.” She looked at me sympathetically, reached out and squeezed my arm. “That girl was ostracized by all of us but Mel and Teddy weren’t. They were our friends. They were one of us.”

We were just about finished. We paused and stared at the dishes and the spoons and the coffee cups on the table. “I wish you all had gotten to know her too, Mom,” I said softly. “I wish you’d at least learned her name.” She sighed again and smiled, gently.

“Me too, sweetheart.”

Good Night. And Good Luck.

If you voted for this Proposition or support those who did or the sentiment they expressed, I have some questions, because, truly, I do not... understand. Why does this matter to you? What is it to you? In a time of impermanence and fly-by-night relationships, these people over here want the same chance at permanence and happiness that is your option. They don't want to deny you yours. They don't want to take anything away from you. They want what you want -- a chance to be a little less alone in the world.

Only now you are saying to them -- no. You can't have it on these terms. Maybe something similar. If they behave. If they don't cause too much trouble. You'll even give them all the same legal rights -- even as you're taking away the legal right, which they already had. A world around them, still anchored in love and marriage, and you are saying, no, you can't marry. What if somebody passed a law that said you couldn't marry?

That passage is from Keith Olbermann in his closing “Special Comment” segment tonight, inspired by the passing of California's anti-gay marriage initiative, Proposition 8. I truly appreciated Mr. Olbermann’s eloquent words but wished (still wish) these words had come out of the mouth of President-Elect Obama instead—and before November 4, 2008.

In fact I wish then-Senators Obama and Biden had been clearer—and louder—in their recently stated opposition to Prop 8. But then, how could they be? since during the VP debates Senator Biden declared, in answer to moderator Gwen Ifill’s question, that both he and Senator Obama had made clear that they absolutely do NOT, do NOT, support gay marriage. How could they explain being both against gay marriage and in support of gay people's right to marry?

I think it’s about time Queen Latifah came out. Don’t you? And Dexter King, and Mayor Willie Brown too. And all you hip-hop down-low rappers and multi-millionaire team sport athletes--give it up already. I know you're there and I'm tired of you getting to have it both ways. How I wish Luther Vandross, Barbara Jordan and Max Robinson had had in their lifetimes the courage to stand up and own up as well. There’s a lot of talk in the blogosphere these days about the need for more aggressive outreach from the gay activists to black communities and black conservative churches. I’m sure that’s true. No doubt that would help, given persistence and time.

But it’s clear to me that nothing is going to change significantly in African-American minds and hearts about gay rights and gay marriage and gay people until they are forced to confront the fact that "those people" are People They Know, including people whose lives and success they admire and aspire to emulate. I want to see these Friends of Dorothy of Color stand up and allow themselves to be counted, out in the open, out loud, where everybody, most especially their fellow People of Color, can see them.

What do you think, group? Everybody ready? Come on--on three. One.... Two......

Election Day 2008

Thirsty again. What is going on with me being so thirsty all the time?

I must have fallen asleep watching a movie channel last night because as soon I turned on the set this morning there was Ethel Merman, she of the belting, bulldozer vocals, singing to the rafters. This is Call Me Madam, a 20th Century Fox musical from 1953 in which Merman plays American ambassador Sally Adams, and if you look close and don’t blink you’ll also see Lois Maxwell, better known on this side of the pond as Moneypenny in the first (and best) of the Bond movies, in a tiny role as a singing receptionist (or something like that). Call Me Madam is not to my taste first rank as Golden Era musicals go, but it’s pleasant enough. Donald O’Connor woos European princess Vera-Ellen in this one and they are a cute couple—and superb dancers—but their supposedly star-crossed love affair leaves me…well, not cold exactly. Tepid, more like. Audrey Hepburn and Greg Peck in Roman Holiday—now there’s your heartbreaker romance. Personally I think Vera-Ellen had loads more chemistry with Danny Kaye in White Christmas. I do find Ethel Merman and the acerbic George Sanders a hoot and a half as the other romantic pairing in Madam. Sanders would probably rather have been romancing the prissy Billy DeWolfe (or one of cute chorus boys, more like) than the brassy Hostess With The Mostess On The Mall.

It took close to two hours but I cast my Ballot for Barack this morning. Now all I have to do is stay the hell away from all news outlets and threaten with bodily harm any friends, family or coworkers who attempts to share exit polling numbers with me. I don’t want to hear squat about exit polls, people, I want hard numbers and I can wait until this time tomorrow if need be to get them. Leave us not forget that exit polls projected Kerry the winner in Election 2004 and Gore the winner in 2000, the Year of Great Debacle.

I live in a senior retirement complex with my mom and so was able to vote in my pjs this morning (what? I wore a robe, too) in the polling place set up on the second floor of this tower. I brought with me an interesting book about fear, but kept putting it down to look around, shift in my seat and grumble a bit at the goings-on. Though mine was not the nightmare wait others have endured, patience was the key as it was a sloooow process. Even arriving early (or so I thought) I stepped off the elevator to encounter a line so long it snaked around to parts of the building I didn’t know existed. (We have a movie theater room here? With comfy chairs and cup holders? When was somebody going to tell me??!) The line moved fairly quickly (my younger legs would consider 40 minutes “fairly quickly”; I suspect my mother felt differently) but the bottle-necking began when the Board of Election workers—were these volunteers?—began passing out to each of us who had reached a certain point in the wait little squares of paper with numbers on them, to keep track of who needed to sign in and who was next in line for the next available voting machine, only to wind up having to canvass the groups, calling the same numbers over and over again, to track people down. There were a lot of seniors waiting to vote, some in wheelchairs, some balancing shakily on walkers and canes, and as far as I could tell some of them were pocketing the paper squares and either forgetting which number they’d been given or forgetting they’d been given a number in the first place. They’d just sit there as their number was called, needing to be prodded back to consciousness by the person next to them—I did this twice.

Adding to the bog down was that percentage of younger people who apparently had never voted before (or hadn’t in many years) and needed assistance with the machines, refusing to move forward until they’d been rescued by someone who knew what to do, this in spite of the fact that there were big, bright “voting instruction” signs all over the place, most of them directly behind the ballot booths and voting machines. I heard around me a lot of anxiety-tinged jokes about wanting to vote for Obama and being afraid of mistakenly casting the vote for McCain.

And I watched some idiot girl actually taking an incoming cell phone call while she marked off her ballot. Jesus Christ. My people.

Letter To A Friend -- Halloween 2008

Hey Mike-y….

I know I’m in trouble with you by now, seeing as how you’ve called me twice already this week and I’ve yet to return either call as promised. Hope this letter rectifies things a little bit…

My day started weirder than usual, what with me being the only staffer to show up for work today—

Okay, that’s not strictly true. The true part is that I arrived early as usual and was able to get into the building to clock in because our engineer was there. The other staffers scheduled for the day were both running so late for various reasons that we didn’t open on time—in fact we were almost 25 minutes late. Try to imagine the increasingly perplexed and nasty looks I was getting from patrons milling outside the doors, wondering what the f**k was going on now. They peered in at me, their faces hardening; impatient to get to the internet access computers and resume those job searches, tighten those resumes, re-apply for those benefits, surf those porn sites….if I would just come on already and unlock the damn doors. What was my problem, anyway? Couldn’t I see them all standing there? Couldn’t I see a damn clock? Why didn’t I open up the muthaf**kin’ DOOR?!! Frank, bless his heart, went out there a couple of times, to explain the situation.

Me, I was humming with happiness. Not out of disregard for the patrons, whom I really did feel kinda sorry for, most of them. And not about Miss T, who had been suffering back pain all week and hadn’t been able to take off even one day to rest and heal, either because we were (we are) too short-staffed or because there’s been too much going on—school groups and reading groups and the little trick-or-treaters today—that required her presence. She called, having decided to take part of the morning off, but when she asked to talk to Marlena to let her know, only to learn that she hadn’t yet arrived, she was forced to scuttle those plans. Her voice sounded very weary as she assured me she would be in soon.

And I wasn’t smiling about Marley, either, who was this time surely looking at some kind of “official” censure for being so tardy (again), unless, that is, this time she had a truly legitimate reason; something act-of-God and unavoidable, like the morning sun had crashed into the lake and the resultant tsunami had flooded the streets, backing up traffic for miles…

Because the thing is, Mike, I really like Marlena. So does Miss T, actually. She (Marley) is the best, most conscientious worker in the place—aside from your truly ;-)—and everybody knows it and most of us appreciate it. I hate to see her of all people getting into trouble. When I consider the work ethic (or lack thereof) of others, it just seems so damned unfair.

No, I was happy because… um. Because….

Alright, give me a minute. It will come to me.

I walked to work today. I bet you would have too, if only your job was closer to home. It was just such an incredibly gorgeous morning, bright blue skies, golden, sunny, mild temps, and the trees all along the way so beautiful, absolutely ablaze with color. An almost perfect start to whatever the hell my day was going to become.

Then when I arrive at the front doors I can tell immediately that Frank (or somebody) is there because all the lights are up; sure enough he answers my knock right away, as though he’d been waiting for me. So I clock in on time/early and get busy with the morning set-up, listening to my Natalie Goldberg-Julia Cameron tapes (an interesting and sometimes funny conversation about the writing life) as I go, and I’m, I dunno, feeling pretty good, you know?

Then it got closer to time to open and still no one—staff wise—had shown up yet. When Miss T called and cautioned me not to open (at least one senior staffer had to be on the premises per library policy) I felt elated, positively liberated. This may sound odd to you, I realize. But don’t you love it when the ordinary suddenly becomes the unusual, the unforeseen? Something unexpected was going down! Maybe we wouldn’t open until noon! Maybe we wouldn’t open at all! Then I could do with this glorious day whatever I wanted.

And even if not, so what? Even if only momentarily, it was a giddying feeling, that feeling of the routine veering off course and possibly turning into something else, good or bad, didn’t matter. In moments like that, however transitory, however fleeting, you’re reminded of all the myriad, numberless possibilities of a morning, a day, a life. Ach, this probably makes no sense to you. It doesn’t to me, completely.

But while it lasted it was a good feeling.

The Long Goodbye -- Lizzie, Part I

If this workday is going to be anything like yesterday, you can keep it. Too few workers, too many patrons, too many equipment problems.

And my damn cat is beginning to drive me crazy now. She's pooping outside her box now, not every day but once in awhile without warninig, principally on any available carpet (living room) or shag rug (bathroom, during the night, directly in front of sink--surprise!!). And her peeing is becoming a hit and miss affair as well, as often outside her litter box as in it. There's something different about the way she's squatting when she needs to void. And she's so thirsty all the time--she never used to need so much water.

She may be diabetic.

Back to the vet, if I can just find a ride.

Oh, man. I see a long, expensive road ahead of me. Back and forth vet visits. Medications. Progressively messier clean-ups. Wakeful, worried nights.

This is the part about pet care that I dread. You bring these creatures into your life and home as adorable, plump little balls of fur. You love them, care for them as best you know how. And in return they bond with you, greet you joyfully at the door each evening, learn to play with you, anticipate your moods, and by their comforting presence ease those moments of loneliness, stress and trauma. Your little buddy. And then, before you know it, you realize they're getting old and starting to get sick and you're faced with preparing for The Decision.

My World... And Welcome To It--Part II

Again—again—watched in dismay today as yet another parent walked into the branch and made a beeline for the nearest Internet access computer, leaving her preschooler pretty much to her own devices for the next hour. Or more likely two. Here we go, I sighed, and nudged at my coworker, who nodded sagely and shrugged a Gallic what are you gonna do-type shrug before turning back to the pile of library card applications in front of her. I headed for the magazine and newspaper display.

The child was a cute chatterbox in a red corduroy jumper, wide-eyed, tentatively friendly, intensely curious about everything going on around her, and generally pleased to find herself in this interesting, strangely quiet place that was crowded with more books than probably she’d ever seen in her entire young life. She wandered over to one of the paperback carousels, poking and prodding at the lower tiers, attempting to make the thing turn. Then, bored with that, she ambled up to the community information table and stood up on her tiptoes straining to get a better view of the stacks and scatterings of leaflets, flyers and shiny, colorful pamphlets. Frustrated, unable to reach even the papers closest to the table’s edge, she abruptly dropped to her hands and knees and began to crawl around under it like a little red mouse, humming softly to herself as she examined the carpet for minute, invisible…somethings. Tiny, Lilliputian somethings only she could see. I couldn't help smiling, watching her.

K-----! Come here, her mother hissed at her. Sit over there. SIT. OVER. THERE. NOW. Now stay there.

Whereupon I calmly rushed over--I know that sounds like a contradiction; it takes practice--hoping to head off disaster. Stupid woman. Was this adorable child, who could not have been more than 4, maybe 5, really expected to sit in a hard flat chair at a large bare table for the next 60 minutes-plus? With absolutely nothing whatsoever to do? What was this stupid woman thinking?

Can I bring her something to read? And maybe some coloring sheets and crayons? I whispered to the mother. I made a point of sounding sympathetic. And I was. For the child.

The mom shrugged; mumbled yeah okay.

I smiled tightly and went looking for kiddie supplies, grabbing a half dozen Sandra Boynton and Eric Carle titles from the “Toddler/New Reader” shelves on my way back. Then I sat the little girl down at one of the reading tables nearest her mother—who did not even bother to look up, nor did I expect her to—and presented her with my offerings, whispering encouragements.

And for a small period of time the little sweetie was content, happily absorbed in her coloring and drawing and “reading.” But the inevitable happened; she lost interest in both the crayons and the cardboard books, became restless, and began to fret, disconcerted at how thoroughly her mom, frowning at the computer screen inches from her face, had zoned out, seeming to forget all about her little girl. She stage-whispered to her mommy to come here and see; Mommy shushed her. She tried to show Mommy one of her coloring pictures and her mother rebuffed her at first, irritably, her gaze never quite leaving the monitor. Finally the mom sighed and pulled Baby Girl into her lap, distractedly bouncing and rocking her to settle her down—but Baby Girl would not be settled. She babbled and prattled incessantly, peppering her mother with questions which her mother ignored almost completely. Ignored, the child’s whining and whimpering increased in volume and intensity until she’d succeeded in twisting herself down and out of her mother’s loosening embrace.

Then, pouting, she marched defiantly back to the carousel where, after some quick, furtive peeps at Mommy (who remained as oblivious as ever), she snatched Richard Wright off the “WR” rack and threw him to the floor. Then she did the same with Courtney Wright, sending Teri Woods sailing right after, and then a misplaced August Wilson, all to the amusement--and here and there the annoyance--of several patrons nearby.

And then, giddy now and balancing precariously forward on her tiny sneakered toes, Baby Girl reached high for Valerie Wilson Wesley and higher still for Alice Walker while Mommy, aroused finally from her long electronic stupor, advanced upon her daughter with murder in her eyes…

It was a long morning. A long, noisy morning.

My World... And Welcome To It--Part I

The Huffington Post is featuring a Chicago Sun-Times story about the rise of library patronage as a response to economic hard times ("Library Circulation Soars"). This is not news to me, friends....

When I was a kid, I loved public libraries. A perfect day--at least as an alternative to sitting in classrooms all morning and afternoon, staring out windows--was a day spent in the big main center downtown, floating like a visiting princess up and down its ornate, curving stairwells, and sprawling in lazy contentment in overstuffed chairs in large, sunny, elegant reading rooms. There was just no better place to be, and even the dinky little neighborhood branches were good in a pinch. I loved especially the hushed, cathedral quiet of libraries, and the feeling of sanctuary. When I wasn't actually reading I could just sit and think and dream.

But libraries are not quiet spaces any longer, at least the branch in which I work certainly is not. Thirty-five years on, the world is different, the culture is coarser, and people are anxious, more easily frustrated and often less accommodating of one another. The addition of Internet access computers in libraries has been a mixed blessing, offering patrons who can least afford the purchase of home pcs and monthly internet fees more resources for employment, health updates and educational searches. This is a good thing.

On the other hand...

Bad Moon On The Rise?

Not a good sign that these posts have been getting farther and farther apart. It's not like I've had nothing on my mind, after all.

Creeping tension as the days--just 8 days at this writing--tick down toward election day. Will Barack Obama be elected? And by what margin? Will he squeak by so narrowly that we'll be forced to revisit the Recount of 2000? What if he loses narrowly? Can we safely assume vote tampering? (how could we not?) I am trying to maintain, as I'm sure you are. It is not easy.

There is the fear factor once again at the revelation of a plot--is this for real? and should I be using the word "alleged"? --by 2 white supremacists to go on an African-American killing spree meant to culminate in an assassination attempt on Obama. According to federal authorities the would-be assassins, a 20 year-old high school dropout from Tennessee and an 18 year-old from Arkansas who met on the Internet through a shared interest in all things white power (and why are none of these details a surprise to me), were planning to target first an African-American school--though exactly which particular school apparently isn't yet known--killing 88 of its students, 14 by decapitation, or so revealed documents unsealed in a Jackson, Tenn. U.S. District Court. Why 88? And why 14 by beheading? God, I don't know. Something or other about those being magic numbers in the skinhead culture, according to the Associated Press. Yeah. Okay. Whatever. And--oh yes--according to the same report the two had been shooting at the windows of a black church (no injuries or casualties, thank goodness) in Brownsville, Tenn. on the day they were arrested.

A real class act, both of these sons of dixie.

Also (also?? did you hear what I just said?) I can't fight off the worry that, despite reported leads in all the battleground states, Obama could still lose--we could still lose--this election, undone as much by our own hubris or complacency as by GOP hanky-panky. Early voting is taking place but not, apparently, in the numbers expected or hoped for in key states; too many people seem content to chance the long lines and unexpected glitches of November 4th. I had this discussion--let's go ahead and call it a "discussion"--just this weekend with several fellow residents over the folding table in the laundry room, who smiled indulgently at my growing exasperation.

And--oh, what the fresh hell???--are we now at war in Syria? Because the news reports I'm watching tonight sure seem to be suggesting that...

George W. Bush. You just never want to stop slapping him. (I may be repeating myself)

November, Part II

I am so depressed.

The general consensus seems to be that Obama won last night's debate. If substance means anything anymore I think he did too. But guys, 19 days. So much can happen in 19 days. Everything can happen in 19 days, including the unthinkable, the untenable. Ask Al Gore.

So fucking depressed.

November

They’re gonna kill him. You know they’re gonna get him—these white folks ain't gonna let no black man be President of their country—girl, puh-lease!

There’s one line in the ethics report from the Alaskan State Legislature, the bi-partisan (partial) censure of Governor Sarah Palin for abuse of power regarding her attempted ousting of her former brother-in-law as a state trooper, one sentence that offers Palin (and of course, McCain) a tiny ray of hope--you just know Rick Davis and company are going to leap on it and ride it for all its worth every freaking day 'til election day to put as positive a spin on this otherwise unpleasant news as possible--and I can't at this moment remember what that single line is, because...

...because I am still slowly shaking my head at the televised images of a flustered John McCain trying to calm down these angry, ignorant numbskulls--his beloved base--yelling death-to-the-infidel type insults about Obama The Terrorist Candidate (aka Obama The Terrorist Sympathizer Candidate), insults McCain himself—with mindless, eager assists from Governor Palin—has been stoking and fueling and encouraging with his bizarre, relentless, obsessive linking of Obama to William Ayers, a former 60's radical whose acts of political terror were committed when Barack Obama was all of 8 years old.

There's McCain smilingly handing his mike to a young man whose wife is expecting a child next spring, a guy who tells the senator and the audience that he is "scared" at the prospect of raising his child in an Obama (He means "Osama"--but you all got that, right?) America; there's the disheveled-looking, barely coherent woman who takes the mike to call Obama "an Arab," and there’s McCain, who right up to that moment had been smiling and nodding his head, again having to abruptly change course and "correct" yet another poor, misinformed soul. No, no, no—there’s no reason for you to be scared of an Obama Presidency; No, ma’am, no, he is not an Arab; no. And the crowd—his base—actually boos him as he labors to assure them that Obama is really a loving family man and decent guy, honest!

And as I watch all this, taking it all in, my thoughts drift back to when Barack Obama first announced his candidacy, and my friends and family and I watched in wonder as day by day his presidential campaign electrified the country, turning into first a national then global movement until finally one of my co-worker friends--who to my steadily growing annoyance had been ceaselessly shaking her head in cynical disbelief--finally said to me "Oh, girl, please. You know what's gonna happen. They're gonna get him. They're gonna do him like they did Dr. King, and Malcolm, and Medgar—they’re not gonna let no black man be President of this country! They will kill him first, you know they will!"

I’d wanted to smack that woman, right on the spot, in part because her faintly amused cynicism kept reminding me uncomfortably of my own doubts about Barack Obama's qualifications and readiness for that toughest and most exalted of jobs. What is wrong with black people, I remember thinking irritably. Do we have to be so damn negative all the time, so ready to dismiss each other’s—and our own—aspirations, hopes, excellence, dreams? Are we are own dream-killers? Why are we always so afraid to embrace the best in ourselves, and so expectant of the worst in others?

I switch the channel from MSNBC to CNN to CBS to PBS to ABC News to BBC America World News, and my friend’s bitter warnings swirl in my head as I listen to the cries and catcalls at the Republican rallies:
“I just don’t trust him!”
“He’s not one of us!”
“He’s not even American!”
“Not like us!”
"I've been reading up on him--"
“Traitor!”
“Terrorist!”
“Off with his head!”
“Bomb Obama!”

You know they’re gonna get him, girl. You know they will.

October Mornings -- A Memory

Well, here it comes. Winter's onset. It's not officially Autumn yet, yet I was kept awake almost all night long by howling, shrieking winds (poor stray creatures!), and this morning I'm watching a stone gray sky turn chalky white like when the clouds are filling with snow, and I am slamming the windows against the chill. A good day to stay inside, if only I could.

About this time five years ago I was unemployed. I saw the end coming but what with one discouraging thing and another felt too tired and depressed to rescue myself in time. The Day of Reckoning arrived and I cleaned out my desk, turned in my access badge and said my farewells, promising coworker-friends I'd keep in touch knowing full well I would do no such thing. I boarded the Metra train home and settled back in my seat feeling... I don't remember exactly. A blur of things. Worried, certainly, about what was to come. Relieved mostly, even cautiously happy, to finally be free of the place I'd been in, free of morning anxiety as I'd shower and dress and attempt breakfast trying and failing not to brood and ruminate in anticipation of the day ahead, the office, the people, the work I felt increasingly bored and overwhelmed by.

So I was unemployed and the mornings I'd once dreaded were now mine to do with what I wished. I could stay up late now and sleep in. I could rise as early as always luxuriating in the knowledge that I was getting up for myself instead of to appease some faceless, soulless corporate entity's timeclock. I could shop or travel--except that without a steady income I really hadn't the money for such pleasures.... or I could hibernate for the winter, like animals, like the bears, which is what I most wanted to do anyway, and nurse my wounds. (You don't want me here? Well, I don't want to be here either. I don't like you anymore. I don't even know you anymore.) I could sit in my new pajamas on the loveseat I'd parked closest to my windows, my favorite robe--a Christmas gift the previous year from an ex-friend-- wrapped around me, my bare feet curled up underneath me, the book I'd been trying for weeks to find the time to read open in my lap, and breathe, and meditate, and think things I hadn't time for before. I would gaze out at the changing landscape and quietly marvel at all the trees going from their uniform green to blazing bursts of reds, yellows and golds, smiling sympathetically at middle-schoolers with backpacks trudging and scufflling dejectedly through mounds of curling, withering leaves as their harried parents (or people who looked like parents) rushed to catch express buses and frantically hail taxis.

The world was passing me by and I was grateful for that. In the moment, I was just fine with that.

October Monday, Early Afternoon

Quiet, blessedly. And cloudy.

I'm watching a rather grainy VHS copy of Joseph Losey's 1975 film The Romantic Englishwoman, starring Glenda Jackson, Michael Caine and Helmut Berger. When this concludes I will flip the switch to DVD (cleaner sound and picture) and begin John Schlesinger's elegiac Sunday, Bloody Sunday, also starring Jackson and the great Peter Finch--the great, late Peter Finch, who died more or less on the eve of his 1977 Best Actor Academy Award win for Sidney Lumet's Network. I think it was Lumet who directed. Wasn't it? If not it should have been.

How I miss the cinema of the seventies. I remember that time just well enough to know not to romanticize it too much--there was a fair amount of schlock--there is every era--but so many good and great movies were being made then that it's come to feel like a cinematic Golden Age. Independents, young turks, and the masters of European cinema that inspired them were either still in their prime or just hitting stride, creating new language and new rules and releasing modern masterworks like The Last Picture Show, The Godfather Parts I&II, A Woman Under the Influence, Dog Day Afternoon, Nashville, Pat Garrett And Billy The Kid, The Conformist, The Conversation, Amarcord, Jaws, Fear Eats The Soul, Scenes From A Marriage, Days of Heaven and My Brilliant Career. Even the living monuments like Hitchcock still had a trick or two up the sleeve with Frenzy and Family Plot. Movie-going was absolutely necessary back then; you felt that cinematically anything could happen.

Here is Michael Caine in Romantic Englishwoman. He looks great in this movie. This is post-Alfie, post-Ipcress Files, post-Gambit. Here he's older, successful, sophisticated and (still) cynical; this was his Get Carter, Sleuth and The Man Who Would Be King period. In Romantic Englishwoman he plays a wealthy, chauvinistic novelist, an insecure, self-regarding prick who loves his wife--a wry, restless Jackson--but is so fearful of losing her to a handsome gigolo she meets by chance during a solo getaway--the German heartthrob Berger--that he effectively goads her into an extramarital affair.

And Jackson....Glenda May Jackson. Words fail me. She is now a politician--a Member of Parliament (Labour Party) since 1992--and Britain's political gain has been every movie-lover's loss. As an actress Glenda Jackson was such a force of nature--there's never been anyone remotely like her and likely won't be again. She was unique; passionate and iron-willed before such strength was considered a virtue; brazen, brainy, and a sexual powerhouse. In Women In Love she was the mythical Free Woman come to defiant, indomitable life, in The Music Lovers (both directed by Ken Russell, whom she greatly admired) she is a ferocious avenging angel. Yet she could be marvelously funny, giving wonderful, wittily feminist performances opposite George Segal in 1973's A Touch of Class and Walter Matthau in 1978's House Calls. It figures that she played Elizabeth I, not once but twice, in 1971's Mary Queen of Scots opposite Vanessa Redgrave (another strong, independent lady of British cinema and theatre) and again that same year in Elizabeth R, a beautifully produced mini-series presented in 1972 to American audiences on PBS's Masterpiece Theatre.

I miss seeing movies and television, I miss movies and television productions being made, with Glenda Jackson in them.

For Michael M.

It’s too bad I’m broke because it appears to be a good day for walking—crisp and sunny—I thought to stroll around Hyde Park, and maybe find a café to park in to read or write (or both) for a few hours. It’s harder to do those things at home, with the distraction of the television, the stereo, the family, the pet, the phone, and what have you. Some days it’s impossible. Most days it feels impossible.

One thing I guess I’ll be doing this afternoon is going back online to barackobama.com to continue my participation in the “Neighbor to Neighbor” volunteer effort I began yesterday afternoon. Bill M. sent me an email yesterday urging me to join—actually what it appears he sent was an “e-blast” and I’m on his listing—that’s how I got involved.

If you’re at all interested (What..? What do you mean “No, thank you”??) go to barackobama.com and you’ll see the “Neighbor to Neighbor” volunteer information where you can choose to donate money to the Obama-Biden campaign, or volunteer online to phone people in your state or a neighboring state (the system will generate names and phone numbers plus a script you can follow to make it easier to know what to say) or you can opt to canvass your area door to door—the software even provides flyers you can print up to take with you if you want to distribute them around.

I’m not comfortable with the idea of walking around this neighborhood knocking on strange doors, so I chose to work the phones. I called 50 people yesterday, Mike. I was a little nervous at first, worried about the reception I’d receive (“You’re WHO? Who is this REALLY? How you get my number? Why you callin’ here? Goddam it, don’t call this number again!!”), but it turned out not to be so difficult at all. The reason was because each of these individuals were already acknowledged Obama supporters, having either donated money or signed a petition or done something to indicate their interest in getting involved in some way. What I was phoning to learn was whether they were still interested in volunteering, and if yes what their availability and level of involvement would be. The script included five simple questions that the person could answer Yes, No or Maybe to, with me clicking on the appropriate radio button to record their responses. After that I thanked them for their time and clicked on the Save tab at the bottom of the page to transmit the information to Obama headquarters and move on to the next name on the list.

There were some awkward moments—a few people were wary at first but when they realized I just wanted to ask a few quick questions that they could respond to simply they relaxed, and some folks became downright chatty. (One very friendly lady asked me several questions I couldn’t knowledgably answer; I rescued myself by directing her to the Obama website for more information.) In cases where I encountered voice mails I left a message since the script included that option if you aren’t able to talk to an actual person. Other options were:

Wrong Number
Not Home
Refused To Talk To Me
Spoke A Foreign Language, and
Deceased.

You’re laughing now, aren’t you. I certainly did--I couldn't help chuckling as I was preparing to dial the first number, having a sudden image in my head of someone so determined to avoid talking to me that they resorted to each of the above options, including the last.

You could also make the selection “I Am Uncomfortable Calling This Person” (Stop laughing!) but you had to explain why. There was also a space for typing in any remarks you might want to add; I used this a few times.

The “Leave a Message” option created the expectation that I would be calling these folks again, either today or tomorrow (which is what I anticipated having to do), but I later discovered that whenever I selected “Leave a Message” the system automatically removed those names and numbers from my list making follow-up impossible. (Eventually I e-mailed the help desk suggesting this was a glitch that should be fixed; they replied by thanking me for the heads-up and assuring me that the deleted names are always handed off to another volunteer for follow-up)

Also, unexpectedly, several of the people I left messages to called me back—since I was calling from home, my name and phone number popped up on their caller IDs—and one person even interrupted my dinner! (“Uh, hi? Is this Lorraine? Is this a good time to talk..?”) Since at this point I had logged off the website and no longer had the script in front of me, I had to scramble trying to remember what to ask, jotting down their answers on a pad on my desk. (I later emailed the help desk again with the person’s information)

There were three—or was it four—instances where someone answered, a spouse, a baby-sitter, whoever, who asked me to call again; today I’ll go back into the website and do so to finish up. (Don’t know if I want another 50 names, however... oh, what the hell. It's for the cause.)

As I type this I’m watching the Fox movie channel’s letterbox edition broadcast of the 1966 spy thriller The Quiller Memorandum, a good movie that gets better each time I see it. Remember this film? It boasted a terrific international cast, including Alec Guinness, Max von Sydow, George Sanders, and, as The American Hero Who Saves The Day, a young George Segal in possibly his best wise-guy role as the beleaguered U.S. spy sent by Sanders and Guinness to root out Nazis in the “new” Germany. Beautiful Senta Berger (Whatever happened to her?) plays the love interest who may not be as innocent as she seems. And Guinness gives off a vibe here like he’s playing “A Homosexual.” Sort of queeny, sniffy. Coming on to Segal, subtly, and Segal knows it which makes it easy for him to dismiss Guinness. Since Alec Guinness was gay in real life and George Segal, so far as we know, is not, you watch this scene wondering how much of that dynamic was real. (The regal, arrogant Sanders, who was once married to Zsa Zsa Gabor, was also queer--not in this movie I don’t think but in real life.)

Segal, an actor who was good to look at but not distractingly pretty like, say, Redford (whom he worked with in 1972’s comic heist movie The Hot Rock) excelled in roles like this—resourceful, everyday, workaday guys who through a series of circumstances land in the shit and sometimes prevail, sometimes don't. There’s a movie he made around this time—perhaps in the same year?—with Eva Marie Saint, in which he played a philandering husband who tries to hang onto both his wife and his mistress, if I’m remembering it right. It’s never shown anymore and I don’t know if it’s available on VHS or DVD at all. I’d love to see it again. I think the name of it is Loving; must make a note to do an Amazon search for it.

Paul Newman could also have played Quiller, of course, and was probably offered the role first before it made its way to George Segal. As I say, I like Segal just fine in this movie, his work is solid, but part of me can't help but wish Newman had signed on for it. What did he release in '66, anyway? The Secret War of Harry Frigg? (Nope, that was '68.) He should have played Quiller.

But maybe Newman felt he'd played this world-weary wisecracking hero character before, or some variation of it, in Harper or Torn Curtain or even The Prize. How is it possible that Paul Newman--not just a wonderful actor and one of the great male beauties of the Silver Screen, but a humanitarian and philanthropist, a man with strong socio-political convictions--is gone?

The sun is gone, too and it’s starting to rain. Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t go out today. More later.

For Michael T

Hiya. Not sure how far I'll get with this letter since I'm typing during a quiet moment at the job but we shall see......

This is a birthday letter, which admittedly is not the same as a birthday gift, but is almost as good if you're, you know, flexible about it. :-) When precisely is your birthday, by the way? I haven't missed it, have I? (Say no, Mike. Lie if you have to.)

I'd like to get you an actual gift but I'm not sure what you'd like, and since you're not 9 anymore I don't want to wing it and just pick anything. Is there a DVD or two that you'd like to have, or perhaps some blank discs and labels? Email me--or call--and I'll see what I can do.

Ordinarily I'd be on my way home now since my schedule has changed due to the recent departure of another staffer (more about that when I see you, if you're interested in hearing). Now I work 9 to 1 on Saturdays, except that I let myself get talked into working all day today since we're short-staffed again. (We're always short-staffed here.)

I was thinking about you yesterday. That must have been what started me humming "Love Me Do" and "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away" while I was shelving and straightening; thinking of Beatle songs always reminds me of you. I'm always reminded of when we were all kids and Joey and me were staying with your family back in the day. You were the British Invasion expert back then, and when you found out I liked the Beatles too took it upon yourself to educate me about all things Fab Four. You played all your records for me, taught me the lyrics. It meant so much.

Oh, Grow A Pair, Both of You!

So Ifill asks both Palin and Biden if they support gay rights and as expected Palin does her smiley-face bullshit tap dance, alluding to gay friends and family members (Really? Who exactly?) and making sure to say the word "tolerance" 60 times just to assure us all that she’s, ya know, a nice, reasonable person with no hard feelings towards the gays, honest. She and John McCain would never dream of standing in the way of some same-sex person with one of those contracts wanting to visit his or her hospitalized partner, or stuff like that.

When Ifill asks Palin if she supports gay marriage, however, Palin stands still and says no. She says, smiling sympathetically all the while, that she’s gonna be a straight shooter about this and come right on out and admit that her understanding of marriage is the traditional “one man and one woman” arrangement. So no, she (and John McCain) does not support gay marriage, no.

Well, no surprise there. And I give Governor Moose-shooter some credit—on the marriage issue, anyway—for not waffling around about it, for just saying what she really thinks about gays and marriage. No word of course on what those gay friends and family members of hers (Are you here? Are you sure you’re queer?) think about that.

But it’s Biden who depresses and disturbs me the most when, in one moment he makes firmly and unequivocally clear his and Barack Obama’s support of LGBT people having all of the same protections and rights as heterosexual people (Yaaaay!!!! Right on!!), and then in the next declaring he and Senator Obama absolutely do NOT support gay marriage, at all, period (Uh…what??).

Now, I can’t say that I’m shocked by the distinction Biden seemed to be making. Shocked, no; perplexed, yes, continually—gays are just like everyone else and civil unions are right and just but marriage is… out of bounds? (To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to! Get over it, already!) And it’s been suggested to me that, in a close election in a country as sexually backward, hypocritical and perennially ambivalent about gays as these United States, for Senators Obama and Biden to distance themselves from the gay marriage question is actually a politically smart (if craven) move. Once in office, I have been assured, surely both men—or the younger Obama at least—will come to recognize and eventually acknowledge not just the justice but the inevitability of LGBT people being allowed to legally marry—and not just in one or two states where the decision could be overturned.

Okay, maybe. But ya know, I grow so weary of these supposedly progressive politicians always counting on the LGBT community to help them win their elections even as they continually keep us at arms length on the most fundamental issues of our lives.

So memo to Senators Obama and Biden: Grow a pair and get on with it already!