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July 01, 2003

Pride Goeth Before the Fall of Saigon

Like a lot of people, I have a mother. I love her, I respect her, and though I don’t always like her I’m the youngest of her children and I’ve always been the favorite and I’m unmarried, and as one of the Missing Beatitudes states (from “Four Gospels: The Director’s Cut- Special Features- Missing Scenes”) “Blessed is the youngest child, the one without children, for he shall inherit Mama.”

UPDATED

So- I love/respect/and even to a degree like the woman, though there have been times when I didn’t like her. One of the times I didn't like her the most was when she learned that I am “not like other boys”, then later when she learned I was gay as well. My fault to a degree- I never told her because

1- It’s not an easy subject to bring up even to the most liberal of mothers (“Do you wanna pack some fudge into this care package for Aunt Meridian? And speaking of….”)

2- My mother’s NOT the most liberal of mothers

3- I was 30 years old, had never been seriously involved with a woman (well, there were the ones I slept with and the one I married, but she didn’t know about any of them), never missed a Johnny Depp opening, knew every showtune ever written (in some cases I knew the songs before the composer was finished writing them), I collected nesting dolls, and can name every member of the Supremes- HELLO! But, to borrow a line from AMERICAN BEAUTY, “never underestimate the power of denial”

4- My mother’s had a thoroughly out of control roller coaster (of the $1 General Admission travelling sort you'd see on a Primetime expose featuring Diane Sawyer and a guy in a wheelchair who now makes lawn ornaments with his tongue) of a life (hillbilly birth, engaged to a much older man at 14, ladies' wrestling champ at 20, head turning socialite at 25, wealthy at 35, destitute widow at 45, a thoroughly bizarre 50s featuring a Passion Play story that I'll never tell, health scares throughout and a horrifying absence of psychotropic meds througout, etc.) and while she’s dealt with more bad breaks than a merciful God would allow she hasn’t dealt with them quietly or gracefully if you receive my meaning (think Eleanor of Aquitaine crossed with the Reverend Jim Jones, but that's another story). The words of the Wicked Witch from THE WIZ, “Don’t nobody bring me no bad news…” could be her motto.

5- I’m an adult and reckoned it to be precisely none of her business what parties constitute my sexual congress.

So for these and many more reasons I never told her then she found out both this little bio-factoid about her youngest/favorite child as well as a valuable lesson on “why you shouldn’t read your grown son’s private correspondence” all on the same Fourth of July weekend a few years back.

For those who don’t know my mother, think “Norma Desmond as played by Carol Burnett’s Eunice and written by Tennessee Williams”. Eventually she calmed down, after a few days of screaming, a few attempted “suicides” (much more like Harold’s “attempts” than Maudes), a few months of not speaking, and even a few lines of dialogue. My hypothetical sex-life has become the dead rat in the family beehive.* It’s simply a subject we don’t address, so if you find yourself in our company please do not use the words “gay”, “homo”, “queer”, “total Mo”, fudgepacking sissyboy”, “pantywaisted fruitwhip”, or “confirmed bachelor” unless you want some really stern looks and small caliber firearms to enter the conversation.

Now, speed ahead to the present. Since my mother is something of a recluse but loves the theater, and especially loves for reasons known to her and the Jade goddess the overblown "Aaron Spelling does Broadway" MISS SAIGON(nowhere near the play that its full sister LES MIS is, but she prefers it, but I digress), I decided for a belated Mother’s Day to get her out of the Old Virago’s Home for the day and take her to see the play at the Fabulous Fox in Atlanta. It seemed a natural: it gets her out and about, she can ride MARTA and feel all cosmopolitan and then be serenaded by doomed Southeast Asian whores under the beautiful planetarium ceiling of the historic theater and have a story to tell when she goes home if she ever hires a friend. Seemed a good idea.

Remember what I said about “don’t mention gay stuff around my mother?” This extends to “don’t even watch WILL & GRACE with her in the room” or “Don’t even mention Truman Capote [the late kinsman of my even later father] while she’s around” or it becomes tense.

The play was at 2:00 p.m. on Sunday, June 29, 2003. The Fabulous Fox is on Peachtree St. in downtown Atlanta. I bought the tickets months ago and did not know until the weekend of the show that there was something else scheduled for Peachtree St. in downtown Atlanta on the very same afternoon, commencing at just after 1:00 p.m. and reaching full strength by the time the doors for the theater opened. That other event happened to be ATLANTA PRIDE, the biggest gay pride parade north of South Florida and south of New York.

We’re talking more queers than in the Garland/Minelli family tree.

We’re talking more rainbows than you’d find in the delusions of 300 tripping smurfs.

We’re talking more lesbians than Lilith Faire on more bikes than you’d find in a James Dean movie.

I’ll update the story later, but it proved interesting.

II: Before the Parade Passes By

So, I learned of the “Alternative Festivities” on the Friday before the play when my mother was already en route for her state visit to M’ville. To put it mildly, I expressed anxiety-

1- She’s NEVER going to believe this was a coincidence
2- She’s going to refuse to go to the Fox (this is a woman who boycotted her oldest son’s wedding because the restaurant he chose for the rehearsal dinner didn’t allow smoking) which means I’m out the money for the tickets
3- We’ll never remember parking anywhere near the Fox

Meanwhile my sister the Millionaire Fundie (the only member of the family who doesn’t know “my secret identity”) calls to remind me that I haven’t been to pay homage to her and her husband lately and I tell her the news. After a hesitation and a lot of “what kind of pride?” “a parade?” questions, she roars. “Oh Lord, I can just see Mama all up in that now- I’ll give you $500 if you can get me a picture of her settin’ on the Grand Marshal’s float.”

I tried to switch the tickets from Sunday to Saturday but to no avail, which was really just as well since Saturday was also bad in Atlanta due to the incredible attendance at the funeral of Maynard Jackson.

So when my mother arrived I told her about the March. “You’re not in it are you?” was her only question. I assured her that crowds aren’t my scene, though as far as being in it we could well be with one wrong turn.

So Sunday we entered the Holy City, opting to park at the Indian Creek MARTA station several miles out of town and ride the train in to avoid the parking situation on Peachtree St. Before getting out of the car she asked “You don’t think that the metal in…uh… my cast” (she’s wearing a carpal tunnel style brace at the moment) “will set off the metal detectors do you?” I told her that to my knowledge there weren’t any metal detectors. This will be significant in a moment.

We ended up stealing the first ride since the token machine wouldn’t accept the $5 I had but by serendipity the handicapped gate was swinging open, so my mother loved this. “I feel like a true big city person.” On the train we encountered several marchers (she asked me how I knew they were marchers, evidently adjudicating two guys with their tongues somehow simultaneously in each other's right ears as just routine Atlantans and being, I learned, completely unfamiliar with the significance of rainbow paraphernalia - for the rest of the day she would look at anybody wearing any item of clothing with two or more colors and ask me “Is s/he queer?... Well, that's practically a rainbow, minus the green and blue and yellow and orange”) and a Hispanic street gang. When one of the latter began looking at my mother’s purse my paranoia kicked in and I suggested she let me hold it. “Oh honey, I’m not afraid of a little Mexican…” I insisted and received a curt "Baby... I love you... but YOU ARE NOT HOLDING A PURSE ON A TRAINLOAD OF.... rainbow people!"

We arrived at the downtown MARTA station which essentially requires walking up the Spanish Steps to get to the Fox Theater. Since we’d allowed for some time to kill not knowing how long it would take to get to the theater, we arrived around 1:15 p.m. and while there was a small crowd on the sidewalk there was nothing going on in the streets yet. Brava, say I, and I asked her ‘would you like to go on into the theater and have a drink or six?’ Her response surprised me-

“Hell no… I wanna stay right heah and watch the Gay Pride parade.”

You do? Why?

“Honey, I live in Montgomery, Alabama, I'm damned near 70 and I have about one lung and half a ventricle left in my heart… when else am I gonna see something like this?”

(She has a point; Montgomery is one of those cities where there's an appropriate sized gay population but you'll never see them march, those under 30 being too terrified of their parents finding out and those over 30 too terrified of their wives finding out to participate.) So, nervous as a pregnant nun a fault line as to what from my mother’s mouth should emerge, I stand with her and wait for the "All Romanovs to the basement" call.

Nothing for a moment, then, not unlike the beginning of the show, a deafening roar followed by exhibit 1: Dykes on Bikes. There were seemingly thousands of them and it seemed as if John Wayne had returned from the dead to say “Round them lesbians in a circle” because they must have done about 592 circulations down closed-off Peachtree St. Most had rainbow flags (including variations on the Georgia flag that believe it or not STILL have the Confederate flag) with the occasional Human Rights Campaign sign or Rosenwinkle (which personally I think is distasteful to use on a festive occasion, other than perhaps in a Media Vita in Morte Sumus sort of way, but arguing with lesbians on bikes isn't a good idea).

My mother’s comments: “Is that a man? No, or if it is he has boobs… hmmm… what’s that Just Married with the Maple Leaf sign mean and why is she riding alone?… “ then as several gray haired women with unmistakable resemblances to Winston Churchill drove by she made my favorite comment “You know, I never really realized that there were old lesbians.”

What did you think Marlene Dietrich, Agnes Moorehead, and Miss Hathaway were when they got older?

“Well personally I never gave much thought to Marlena Dietrich, Agnes Moorehead, and Miss Hathaway having sex… especially not with each other.

Later, and confidentially, my mother half-whispers to me “You know, I’ve heard that Lily Tomlin is a dyke…”

Well, she’s not, but her lifepartner of 30 years is.

“And you know who else? Jodie Foster… I bet she only got that way after that man shot up Reagan for her.”

(Have I mentioned that my mother has an extensive collection of plaid, has several pairs of overalls, has an inordinate interest in Julia Roberts movies and has several times made comments to the effect of "I'm not sayin' I'm glad your daddy died, but it wasn't without it's upside" [the first such comment literally made between his death and his funeral]? Anyway...)

The bikes receded like so many receding bikes and the floats began. She was asking me the significance of things and I, through breaks in chainsmoking at the sheer absurdity and nervousness of the situation, was telling her in matter of fact style “The rainbow flag was designed in 1978 by Gilbert Baker who deliberately kept it royalty free and it has become the international sign for the openly gay… here we have the HRC equals sign…blah blah blah” . For those who’ve never heard my voice it’s often compared to a newscaster anyway which prompted another elderly she-Saigon goer who was eavesdropping to say “you aughtta consider doing that professionally… you’re better than the Macy’s people…”

My mother watches amazed, constantly asking “is that a man or a woman?” of the crowds and the float dwellers. Then, some of the people begin throw souvenirs from the floats and her focus changes altogether as she uses me as her personal shopper. “Oh… baby, run get me some of those rainbow beads… run grab me one of those leis… oh, I gotta have one of those handfans” and she left with a haul worthy of somebody from a small LA town in Mardi Gras. My favorite were the colorful pens that say “I help write the homosexual agenda”.

All in all the parade was almost disappointingly tame. There was a float filled with some salivation inducing guys clad only in bikini Speedos that prompted my mother to say very loudly “Good lawd… those things are padded! They’ve got corn cobs or quarter rolls or frankfurters or something in those things because they couldn’t walk if they didn’t… I mean don't you think so, baby, have you ever seen a... a... float like that... it's tacky... don't answer”, and there was a good bit of dirty dancing (none of it any worse than I’ve seen breeders do on many occasions; gay or straight, I wish people who did that type of Lambada on Ecstacy crap would just strip down and start screwing as that would be worth watching- the dancing is just annoying, though if I had one of the Speedo boys as a partner I might think otherwise.)

There was an incident when an obviously intoxicated dude on one of the floats began throwing ice water into the crowd, getting royally cussed by the bystanders. My mother’s comment: “He’s just lucky he didn’t get me… I wouldn’t have shot him but I’d have damned sure made him run for cover…”

With what? You don’t have… Mama, are you packing heat?

Innocent pause. “Just my little derringer.”

I really don’t think it was

“Well you said MARTA didn’t have metal detectors and this IS downtown Atlanta, and if they don’t have metal detectors for good guys then they don’t for bad guys either so I’m just protecting myself under the Second Amendment.”

The parade was almost over by now and it was 10 minutes until curtain time*, so my mother made a great quote in which she didn’t see the humor but I thought it was the perfect capstone: “Well, I’m tired of looking at gay people. Let’s go into the theater and watch the musical.”***

All in all, it could have gone a lot worse. Afterwards, we ate at Picadilly Cafeteria, for if you’re over 65 and it’s a Sunday, it’s the law.

*(Metaphorical explanation: Rats love them some honey. Hear what I say? I say rats be loving them some honey. But them old bees, baby, they ain’t be feelin’ much about rats, or sharing, or particularly sharing with no damn rats.
Periodically a rat will say to hisself “Aw fuk it- honey just tastes too damn good- I gotta get me some a that” and he’ll break into a beehive to steal some. Once in a while he’ll get out and he’ll be all high on the honey and the other rats be sayin’ ‘Hey, that the mofo got the honey’ and his little rat women be giving him some and next thing you know he has 4 million little descendants roaming the Earth from the labs of Mary Kay to the rectums of Middle Eastern political prisoners, but more often the rat doesn’t make it out. Most worker bees being predominantly Shi’ite, they’ll make suicidal surgical stings on the little bubonic express rider until several bees and one rat are lying there dead.
Now a bee hate hisself (or, more likely, herself) a mess, but see, a bee cain’t be liffin up no dead ass rat. So what they gone do?
Well suh, heah it is: they coat the rat with wax. Takes a while, but worth the effort. They just keep dropping that wax until Ol’ Brer Ratcorpse is worthy of Madame Bee-Saude’s Mu-bee-um. The rat is still in the hive- don’t ever think he ain’t- and he’s still 40 times bigger than you are, but he’s essentially that big pile of wax between the futon and the entertainment center, a dead rodent you can live with.)

**My sister took it a bit better than I was expecting, considering that she once blamed a hurricane on a gay pride parade. This was when Opal wiped out a lot of the Florida panhandle; “Well you know why? It’s hardly any wonder. They had a big Queer Circus going on in Pensacola just a few weeks ago. This is God’s way of sayin’ that ‘If you sissies wanna see a Blow Job, I’ll give you one…. WWHOOOOOSH!” I pointed out the oddity that God would punish a gay pride parade by wiping out another city several weeks later, but received a conversational equivalent of a dial tone- Kathi’s attention span is roughly equivalent to that of a goldfish with early stages of Alzheimers.

***The play has changed quite a bit since the last time I saw it, incidentally. The special effects have been pared down and there are fewer sets. You’ll remember that the original attempted to out Lloyd Webber Lord Lloyd Webber by having a helicopter land on stage during the Fall of Saigon flashback along with other effects. Now, the helicopter is a much cheaper though still effective CGI while the 18 foot statue of Ho Chi Minh that is drawn through the streets of Saigon during the Morning of the Dragon number is replaced with a complex puppet show. The only real loss is from the Engineer’s feverish fantasy sequence “My American Dream” , which used to climax with him humping a Cadillac that descended from heaven , now ends much more tamely to a filmed montage of Americana and capitalist symbols. However, Jon-Jon Briones (who plays the Engineer), a Filipino Sammy Davis Jr. clone (complete with the flat greasy head), is the best I’ve ever seen in the role.