WHO SPITS?

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    So, I’ve been watching a lot of baseball this summer, and I just want to know one thing:

   WHAT’S WITH ALL THE SPITTING???

   I don’t get it. It’s everywhere, in the dugout, in the outfield, behind home plate! They’re all spewing chocolate streams of juice, (I know it’s not really chocolate.) decorating the floor and walls of the dugout or killing off patches of grass in right field. The other night I found myself wishing Fenway Park would bring back spittoons. The health nuts on the team have taken the American Cancer Society’s advice and substituted sunflower seeds. While this is certainly better for their health, it’s no less disgusting to watch, particularly since the seed-eaters don’t actually spit. Instead, they push the seed hulls out of their mouths and let them dribble down the fronts of their uniforms. Pretty. Very pretty. Perhaps if one eats enough sunflower seeds, one reverts back to high-chair manners.

    This odd behavior doesn’t seem to extend to other sports. Tennis players don’t spit. They do occasionally vomit, (Sorry, Pete Sampras), but no spitting that I’ve ever seen. Basketball, soccer and hockey are so fast spitting might go unnoticed, so who knows? Imagine if figure skaters spat. Not only would it make a mess, it might even melt the ice. Equestrians don’t spit, though their horses not only spit, but often drool when the race is over, but that’s the only time I’ve seen it, outside of baseball. I suppose the odd football player spits now and then, but with all that equipment on their heads, well, how….? Ewww!

   Spitting was considered proper male behavior back in the days of spittoons, although I don’t believe they did it in front of “the ladies”, as opposed to today, when they do it on national television. Hurray for progress. Speaking of “the ladies”,  here’s my final observation on this damp subject: I’ve NEVER seen a woman athlete spit, in any sport. Just saying. 

Gayness???

   Someone asked me if I was offended by the article in last week’s Provincetown Banner that asked the question “Is Provincetown Losing It’s Gayness?”  At that point, I hadn’t yet seen said article, and it just seemed silly to me, so I laughed. Later, I wondered what it meant. Losing our gayness? What is gayness? Is it even a word? The article, which I finally read, was worried we are losing the magic that attracts so many tourists every summer, especially to Carnival. How times have changed! I remember BC (Before Carnival), when “gayness” was, shall I say, not celebrated quite the way it is today. Being gay myself, I enjoy the freedom of the day as much as anyone, but somewhere inside a tiny voice is saying, “Be careful! Remember when you could get arrested for walking down Commercial St holding your lover’s hand.” Lovers. That’s what we used to call our mates. There were no “husbands” or “wives”, except in the most sarcastic terms, because we never imagined we’d be able to get legally married. But, I can change with the times. It’s great to be able to refer to Betty as my wife, and really mean it. I love watching the reactions, too. Lots of people take it in stride, but some really don’t know how to deal with two elderly lesbians who refer to each other as “wife.” Forgive me, but I revel in their obvious discomfort. Anyway, back to the point. Are we losing our “gayness”? Maybe. Provincetown is not the gay destination it was because the world is becoming more accepting of gay culture, so many more destinations have made themselves attractive to gay people. Personally, I didn’t notice a decrease in the number of people in town this year, though I admit I have no idea how many were gay. No one really does. We had a good summer. There were a lot of people here, and we managed to keep them entertained, fed and housed without too much drama. Did they come here looking for “gayness”? Who knows, and what difference does it  make? If we can remain an attractive, fun, interesting destination, maybe we don’t need to worry about “gayness.”

What's the PLOT???

Okay, here’s the challenge:

Devise a plot that explains why someone would violate a primary directive of the public office they hold, when they are contemplating a run for the White House within the next eight years.

   Sound familiar? I’ve been mulling it over all day, ever since I watched the Sunday morning talking heads discussing the state of affairs in our nation’s capitol. I think I have finally been convinced that Hillary Clinton is lying about the email. This hurts. I was a huge Hilary Clinton fan and a huge supporter of Bill Clinton. It didn’t particularly bother me if Bill was having a dalliance with an intern. What business was it of mine? He’s not my husband. We all know he’s not the first President to play around. So what? What got me was he lied about it. That changed him in my eyes. It made him seem weak and a bit silly. However, it still doesn’t change the fact that I think he will be remembered as one of the great Presidents.

   But back to my challenge, which begs the question: Why? Why, Mrs. Clinton, would you chose to break one of the basic rules of your public office, and then decide to run for President? You are a Washington veteran. You must have known this would come out. You and your husband have been working on this White House thing since Yale. I want to know why it happened. If there’s a good explanation, let’s hear it.

   I’m angry at Hillary. I think she had a good chance of being elected and I thought she would make a good President, but she has disillusioned me by not being forthcoming, and she has given her opponents the ammunition they need to sink her campaign. I’m disappointed. I really wanted her to run. Part of me is certain that women should be running things in this country, and I was hoping we were about to get a good one to do it, but I’ll be amazed if she even gets the nomination, let alone gets elected.

    I’m pretty sure that if Joe Biden decides to run, I’ll be voting for him. 

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.