AFTER THE PARADE-CARNIVAL 2015

   I don’t know about you, but I was a bit disappointed with the Carnival parade this year. It’s my favorite annual event, or it used to be. We’ve had some really great parades over the years. One year, we had an elephant! Her name was Ruthie, and she lived in Harwich. I think Ron Robin hired her for the parade, and it was a well-kept secret in a town not known for secrets well-kept or otherwise. We may think we have secrets, but really, everybody knows just about everything about everybody else here, don’t they? And an elephant is a big secret to keep well! But she came rumbling through town, amazing all, patiently plodding along Commercial Street in the Carnival Parade.

   Another year there were no motorized floats. Everybody was either on foot, skateboard, or bicycle, and it really brought out some fabulously creative parade-ers.

   I used to be in the parade. I did it for three or four years, when I worked at The Crown & Anchor. The year we did “PIRATES OF PENZANCE” in the Back Room, the whole cast was in the parade, riding on a flatbed truck with all the drag queens. The following year, they rented a vintage car for me and Michael Greer, who dressed as Max Headroom. It was lots of fun, but the only problem with being in the parade is you don’t get to see the parade. Also, it’s very long, as anyone who has waited west of Johnson Street can tell you. There were several years when B. and I used to go to Ray Peloquin’s party, ‘way down by the Coast Guard station. He’d lay down an oriental, position couches and cocktail tables all around, set up a grill and a bar, and we’d relax in comfort watching the shreds of the parade limp past. Maybe not the best way to do it, but certainly a fresh perspective. You notice things, like after a long, hot ride in the sun, makeup and wigs are the first to go. Then heels.

   Having managed an apartment building on the parade route, I am not a fan of the tradition of throwing candy, but I realize I’m in the minority on this. It’s not just the Carnival parade. All the parades do it, and it’s very hard to clean up. Given the theme of this year’s event, I can’t help imagining Commercial Street as something akin to flypaper right around now.

   Even if the floats were a bit ho-hum this year, it’s still a great feeling to see so many gay people in one place having such a good time. Every year I get all teary and proud as I watch the celebration, and so if one year isn’t quite as good as others have been, it’s still the same pride and joy and it’s so good to see and feel it.

Augustitus

  

    No, it’s not the name of some hero of Greek mythology you’ve forgotten you ever heard of. It’s the annual affliction many of us suffer from and it isn’t pretty. It’s that time of year, when Memorial Day is a memory and Labor Day seems years ahead. Tempers are short, temperatures are high, leisure time is non-existent and 18 hour days are getting very old. Remember the anticipation, the hope of April and May? The snow was gone, (almost), and we had nothing to look forward to but sunny days and good pay. We basked in golden thoughts of paying all the bills that had piled up over the long, work-less winter. We relished the thought of cook-outs, dove into dreams of sitting poolside, even burned for the days we could spend lying in the sun. Well, those days have arrived and the only ones I see lying in the sun are leaving by ten on Saturday morning. If we are lucky enough to have a day off, we spend it not by the pool, but usually by a washing machine somewhere, doing a week’s worth of dirty laundry. As for cook-outs, we barely have time to wolf down a sandwich in the 15 minutes between jobs. So, if we’re a little grouchy, well, look at the calendar!

   Augustitus is a lot like the hiccups in that everybody has a cure. Some say take a walk in the dunes at dawn. The town is certainly a different place at 6am. Even downtown is quiet and sedate, if you can ignore the occasional tattered butterfly doing the walk of shame. Many people tell me they conquered the affliction by insisting on a full day off, but that’s chancy. Over the summer people leave employment, and you could be stuck doing doubles in mid-August, never a good thing. Getting enough sleep is crucial to fighting this condition. Even if you don’t have time for anything else, GET SOME SLEEP!  For many years I tried to cure it with drink, but that never worked and doing a shift behind the bar with a hangover is hell.

   So, what to do? Tough it out, Baby, tough it out. You’re not alone. We’re all in the same boat, and while it might feel like it’s sinking into the litter of Carnival right now, Labor Day is coming. This is the last big push. It’s all good from here. Just get through the next week. Pep talk over.

   Another stop on the Great Bars I’ve Known tour would have to be The Pilgrim Club. It was across the street from Wuthering Heights, out on Shankpainter Road. These days it’s a private residence, but back then it was my second home for a whole winter, from opening at noon to closing at 1am. That winter I was, like so many of my friends, collecting unemployment, so I had a lot of free time. We all did that in those days. It was an integral part of Provincetown economy. You worked, usually at two jobs, seven days a week all summer, (“We only have 100 days!” I remember being told.), and then in the fall we’d all sign up for unemployment until we went back to work in the spring. Of course, it was a lot cheaper to live here in the seventies, and we all took care of each other, something which, thankfully, hasn’t changed.

   The Pilgrim Club was owned by Reggie Cabral, who also owned the A-house on Masonic Place, downtown. I don’t think he was the original owner, but he owned it while I was a patron. Reggie’s wife, Myra, didn’t like me, so he used to push me out the back door whenever she arrived. However,  I spent every second I could there for one reason and one reason only: pool. You know that song from MUSIC MAN, “Trouble, Right Here In River City”? That was me. I was totally seduced by the game. My instructors were George McGraw, Digger O’Dell and Bobby Cardinal, and they taught me well. And I practiced. And practiced. And practiced some more. Sometimes, if the smelts were running, someone would come in with a big batch and fry them up in the kitchen. Deep-fried smelts with Tabasco sauce and lemon are fantastic, if you ever have the chance. I can’t remember now what I was drinking, but it must have been beer, which was fifty cents a schooner. I’m sure I couldn’t afford anything else.

   We were all different people then, and Provincetown was a very different place. Back then I didn’t even know Bobby Cardinal was an artist, and I’m pretty sure nobody knew I was a singer. I have no idea what happened to Digger or George, but whenever I shoot a game of eight ball, they are right there with me. I can’t eat fried foods anymore, so smelts are out, and beer is also off the menu, and I don’t shoot nearly as much pool as I used to, but then nothing is forever, is it? We all thought the Pilgrim Club would last forever, and the Fo’castle, too, but then we thought we’d be young forever, too. Oh, well

The Fo'castle

I’m not much for looking back. I have very few keepsakes, and most of the photo albums are filled with pictures of dogs and cats. In spite of the fact that I was in show business for many years, I don’t have a single scrapbook. I don’t know why this is so, but it is. That’s why I am so surprised to be captivated by a Facebook page celebrating people who were here in the seventies. The page is Provincetown In The Seventies, and it’s really worth the trip if you’re at all curious about what it was like here during those years.

   I was here then. I arrived in 1968, and after surviving that first summer, I moved to Boston for a few months, only to return here on New Year’s Day, 1969. I spent the next four winters here before moving to Chicago. Those four winters contain some of my fondest memories. I waitressed at The Fo’castle Bar, which is now The Squealing Pig, and which, at that time was one of the only places open all winter. On the weekends, if the fishing had been good, the place rocked and I made enough money in two nights to last me all week and still make my rent. Joe Perry, the owner, was an easy guy to work for, and I was very happy there. The Fo’castle was an old bar, decorated with whatever people had left there over the years. I remember a wall of curling business cards, and a lifesaving ring from the Andrea Adoria. There were some old posters from past shows, and for some reason, straight-backed chairs, hung close to the ceiling. There was a bowling machine and a juke box, both of which got a lot of action. Every time I hear “Hey, Jude”, it takes me right back to The Fo’castle.

   The window seats were the most popular, and tended to be occupied by the regulars. The tables were pieces of thick wooden beams, heavily urethaned to a dull gleam. The windows were bay windows, and there were benches within the bays. I’m trying to remember what kind of chairs there were, but that fact eludes me. I do remember that in those days smoking was allowed in bars and most people did. Big, flat clam shells were used as ashtrays, and the air was full of the smell, but we didn’t notice. The first time I ever heard someone complain about second-hand smoke I thought, “How prissy!” To quote an old cigarette commercial: “We’ve come a long way, Baby!” I’m not sure if the walls were ever white or if they were originally painted that sienna brown color. (If you’re going to look back, don’t forget the atmosphere!)

   The Fo’castle could be a sort of family bar, if it was someone’s anniversary, birthday, wedding, funeral or some other occasion. Whole families would arrive, covered dishes in hand, and by the time it was over, whoever was the object of the gathering had received his or her due respect. Usually, though, the list of regulars remained pretty static, at least while I was there. They all took me under their wings, particularly that first winter. It was pretty snowy that year, but The Fo’castle was always a warm place where you could get a drink and meet some friends. The people I met and worked with there helped me decide that this was where I belonged. No matter where else I have gone, Provincetown is my home, and the memories of those early days are precious. 

IN THE GARDEN

   What a summer! My tomatoes are out of control! They seemed to grow overnight this year. Like many others, my garden was under two or three feet of snow from February to April, and I guess we can thank last winter for something, after all. All the flowers seem more profuse and brighter this year, and the flowering trees this spring were spectacular. How much of this is sheer joy at seeing anything except snow and how much is real doesn’t matter. I’m loving it, whatever the reason. The vegetable garden is the best it’s ever been. I’ve already harvested peas and beets and we’ve eaten them all. I learned how to cook beet greens, just in oil, a bit of garlic and salt and pepper, until they wilt, and boy! Are they good! I also made a lovely roasted beet, feta cheese and orange salad that went over well. I just combined the ingredients and made a dressing of orange juice, honey and a dash of sesame oil. PLEASE! If you try this, go easy on the sesame oil. I really mean a dash, less than a ¼ teaspoon. It’s just to add an earthy note. Toss this all together and serve cold. You need to overlook the pink feta. Beets do that to everything. The next time I make it, I’m going to try chopping a bit of mint into it. That might be good. We also had our first corn last night. I grew shoe peg this year, a small kernel, white variety. Last year I made the gigantic mistake of trying to grow two different kinds of corn in a very small space, resulting in something that resembled the feed corn I used to see in the mid-west. Not good to eat. This year it’s lovely and sweet and gone too soon. There are more blossoms on the cucumbers and egg plants than I have ever seen before, so I look forward to a good crop from them, too. And did I mention the tomatoes? I grew all heirlooms this year, ordered online, and raised in the house until I was sure they’d stand the weather. I actually carried them in and out for about two weeks, and it paid off in huge plants with lots of flowers and now lots of green tomatoes. I thought I’d planted them far enough away from each other, but they’ve gotten so big that I’ve had to do some creative staking so they can all get sun. When I was doing that I discovered a pepper plant I thought I’d lost to the advancing tomatoes. It had pushed up through the tomato leaf canopy and was reaching for the sun, with many flowers on its branches. I carefully staked the giants away so that brave pepper plant could grow. Anyway, it’s a fabulous garden year for sure, and I thank the gods of winter for the snow, the goddess of summer for the beautiful, even weather, and my friend Angie from Truro for the truck load of horse manure last fall, which certainly had a lot to do with all these wonderful veggies!  I’m out in the garden tomorrow again, trimming and weeding and staking. If I know you, you will probably get some tomatoes. And if I think of any more recipes, I’ll put them in the next blog. Happy Summer, everybody!

IT'S A BIRD, IT'S A PLANE, IT'S A DRONE!

 Well, I’ve seen my first drone. On July fourth, there was a drone hovering over Spiritus Pizza. I heard it before I saw it. The sound is quite annoying, enough to make me wish this new craze doesn’t catch on, but somehow I think that horse has left the stable. I don’t know what made me look up, but I did and there it was, little red lights blinking madly, suspended in the sky by its tiny propellers. For one insane moment I imagined Spiritus was delivering their pizzas by drone. Nah.

   More interesting were the reactions of others on the street. It was very crowded, and I witnessed delight on quite a few faces, and rage on many others. One guy was standing in the middle of the street, shaking his fist skyward and yelling, but I’ve seen him before. He does that all the time. Some people actually ducked, though there was no danger of being hit. Maybe they thought the drone would fire something at them. Some folks looked sad, I suppose because these little flying machines carry with them the promise of invasion of personal space and privacy, big time. We’ve all heard the stories of celebrities being photographed by camera-equipped drones. Amazon proposes using drones for their deliveries in the near future, but with the amount of business they do, drone-jams are a real possibility. I mean, think of the number of boxes with that smile one sees on porches, in mailboxes and doorsteps and of course, at the post office. It would take a rather large flock of drones to deliver all that. And when would they deliver? Not at night, I hope. Talk about noise pollution! What if something had to be signed for? And that all important question, should I tip the drone and if so, how much? Sigh. I hope it’s in the far future. I’d rather my skies were full of birds, singing sweetly, not drones, buzzing loudly. 

Wonderful Car

  

   There are so many stories from the past! One of the earliest I can recall happened during the first winter I spent here. There was a nor’easter blowing that day in January, and when I climbed into my 1952 Plymouth Plaza to go do some errands, I soon realized I was one of a very few cars on the road. Granted, in those days at that time of year, there weren’t many people on the roads when the weather was perfect, but that day the storm kept most people inside. The Plazamobile was a tank, though, and plowed through the weather like a hot knife through butter.

   A moment, dear reader to pay homage to one of the best autos I have ever owned. The year was 1968, so she was already 16 years old when I got her, but they built pretty good cars in the early 50s, and except for the rust, which was epidemic here because of the salt, the Plymouth Plaza was my friend, my trusty steed and occasionally, when I’d gotten just too drunk to drive, my bed. As for the rust, my friends and I spent one inebriated afternoon applying duct tape to the rust holes and spray painting the fenders blue. Unfortunately we didn’t have enough paint to do the whole car, so somebody had the bright idea to paint waves along the sides so she looked like she was floating. We all thought it was great and we were certain the guy at the inspection station would agree and give me a sticker. He did. Her right headlight was imprinted upon the face of the Pilgrim Club due to some creative driving on my part, and somewhere under many subsequent layers of paint, that imprint lives on. I like knowing it’s there.

   To my neighbor’s endless chagrin, the Plaza started up obligingly in any weather, rain, snow, whatever, so I could get out and about when no one else could. Wonderful car! However, even cars have life spans, and she was no different. She finally gave up, so a group of friends helped me push her to the dump. These days we call it “The Transfer Station”, and it’s a very different place, but in 1969, it was a deep pit. We pushed the car over the edge of the pit, and she landed at the bottom on her roof. I wept at the sight of her four wheels in the air. I know, I know, it wasn’t environmentally friendly and I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing these days, even if I could, but back then lots of people took their old wrecks to the dump and pushed them over the edge. I have no idea if she’s still down there. The pit is now a hill. Maybe someday an archeologist will excavate that hill and who knows what wonders will be found?  All I know when I bought the Plymouth Plaza it was the best $50 I ever spent.

   So, there I was on a snowy, blowy morning in January, 1968, making my way down Commercial Street. Just past the library, (the old one on Freeman Street) was Dr. Heibert’s office and as I passed I noticed a very pregnant young woman knocking on the office door. On I went, to the post office, the A&P and Conwell Lumber, all of which took about two hours, and caused me to pass Dr. Heibert’s office again as I went home. Remembering the woman, I glanced over at the door, and at that moment it opened and she came walking out, baby in her arms. Wow. I couldn’t believe it. But there they were, right before my eyes. All I could think of to do was slam on the brakes, open the door and say,

   “Can I give you a lift?”

   She climbed in and I drove her and her new son home in the Plazamobile. I’ll say it again. Wonderful car!