Uncle Poodle & Being Gay in the South

Will Uncle Poodle get his own reality TV show? If so, will I be able to watch it?

I didn't even know what an Uncle Poodle was until Tuesday, when I discovered he's Honey Boo Boo's gay uncle. I'd been researching potential topics for a short, farcical play about fairy tale characters and wondered if Honey Boo Boo might be potential fodder. After all, one of the definitions of fairy tale is "a made-up story usually designed to mislead." If that doesn't describe reality TV, what does?

So I Googled 'Honey Boo Boo' and discovered Uncle Poodle. I've seen perhaps three minutes of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. It was an episode in which everyone was getting hosed off before jumping into a red-clay mud hole. (I wrote about it in my October 2012 post "Does Honey Boo Boo Get Spanked in School?") Three minutes was all the Here Comes Honey Boo Boo I could consume. I felt it presented negative, country Southern stereotypes so that viewers could feel superior to them (as if most people don't already secretly feel superior to Southerners).

Uncle Poodle and My Great Nephew

But now, I'm intrigued by Uncle Poodle, who apparently got his nickname because Honey Boo Boo calls all gay men her "poodles."

Uncle Poodle and Honey Boo Boo

Uncle Poodle's real name is Lee Thompson. He's the brother of Honey Boo Boo's father, Sugar Bear. (Now there's a fairy tale character name to love.) Uncle Poodle is openly gay in a place--rural Georgia--not exactly known for tolerance and inclusion. Apparently, however, the Honey Boo Boo clan loves their Uncle Poodle. They accept him for who he is--a gay man who also happens to be HIV positive (which he revealed recently).

A Southern family's acceptance of a close gay relative isn't especially new, at least in my experience. Many people outside the South forget that Southerners, as a rule, are big believers in family. And if your uncle or brother or sister happens to be gay, so what? They're family. This is why it's not unusual in the South to meet a woman who votes Republican, listens to Rush Limbaugh, and yet loves her gay brother and his partner. I should know; I'm lucky enough to have such a sister, and three other equally supportive sisters.

One of my favorite examples of my family's "what's the big deal?"attitude occurred in the early-mid 1990s. I was talking to my great nephew, Banner, who grew up in a town outside Greensboro, N.C. Banner, who was about five or six then, suddenly pointed to a home nearby and said, "See that house? The guys who live there are gay." I breathed in, waiting for him to say something unkind. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders. "That's cool," he said.

The Liberace of Littleton

The acceptance of gays in the South extends beyond families, of course, and this isn't exactly 'new news,' either.

In the early 1980s, when I was a reporter for the Roanoke Rapids, N.C. newspaper, I became involved with a nearby small town theater company (thanks to Nick). In this town, Littleton, lived a flamboyantly gay man who played piano for the theater company's productions. Appropriately enough, he was nicknamed "The Liberace of Littleton." Despite his status as an unapologetically flaming queen in a small Southern town, countless Littleton parents hired him to give their kids piano lessons. This was a small farming/paper mill Southern town, and the parents adored the gay piano teacher. And not once did I overhear a resident speaking badly about him behind his back.

I hasten to add that many people who live in or are from the South have not had the most positive experiences being out. At the same time, we can't assume that someone who grew up on the 'more enlightened' West Coast has had an easy time being gay, either. I know of at least one gay man who grew up outside San Francisco and whose parents, after he came out to them, had nothing to do with him for 15 years.

But back to Uncle Poodle. According to recent news articles, he wants his own reality TV program in order to show what it's like to be "gay in the South." If he succeeds, and I hope he does, I'll have to watch at least one episode. But I suspect my own tolerance boundaries--for reality TV--will be severely tested. Especially if they start hosing each other down and leaping into mud holes.

Southern Storytelling - The Preacher and The Cigarette

The setting is Margie's Diner, a reliably greasy eatery in the small industrial city of Roanoke Rapids, N.C., in the early 1980s. It's a workday afternoon, and Adrienne Ivey, a lifetime resident of the city and the local newspaper's top reporter, sits in an upholstered booth. She sprinkles salt on her chef's salad, takes a deep drag off her cigarette, spots "The Preacher," and sighs. "Here we go," she thinks.

The lanky man lumbering toward Adrienne isn't an ordained preacher. The Preacher is simply his nickname, one he wears proudly like a new Stetson hat. He earned the nickname because he's apt to preach. He tells you exactly what he thinks whether you asked for his opinion or not, and usually, you didn't ask.

"Afternoon, Adrienne," says The Preacher, towering over her. He glances at the empty seat across from her and then back to Adrienne, with all the subtlety of a silent film actor.

Adrienne Ivey at her desk

"Be my guest," Adrienne replies, knowing she has no other alternative but to be rude. As The Preacher takes his seat, Adrienne alternates between bites of her salad and deep draws from her cigarette. The Preacher's nose twitches. Small talk is exchanged; who's been at church lately, who hasn't, that sort of thing.

Adrienne exhales more smoke, this time a bit closer to The Preacher's nostrils, which flare with indignation at each of Adrienne's exhalations. The Preacher tries to ignore the smoke and continues with the small talk, which consists primarily of his opinions about who's up to no good.

Finally, Adrienne lets out a stream of smoke like something you'd see from a rocket ship blasting off. "Adrienne," The Preacher says, his voice lowering, "I'd rather commit adultery than smoke a cigarette!"

Adrienne narrows her eyes, looks squarely at The Preacher, and says, "So would I, Preacher. But I've only got 30 minutes for lunch."

--

My previous post about Southern storytellers brought Adrienne, and this story, to mind. Next time: Adrienne catches me in a 'white lie' during my first week on the job--and saves me from a dreadful fate.

Are Southerners Natural-Born Storytellers?

"Southerners love a good tale. They are born reciters, great memory retainers, diary keepers, letter exchangers...great talkers."

Eudora Welty

The above quotation comes from a woman who epitomized Southern storytelling to generations of readers, Eudora Welty. The Mississippi writer's quote evokes images of Southern folk in creaky rocking chairs on weathered front porches, drinking bourbon out of Mason jars, swapping stories late into the night, to an hour when even the crickets and 'lightning bugs' (aka fireflies) have retired.

But was Welty right? Are Southerners inherently good at spinning a compelling yarn? Or is it a myth, perpetuated by the enduring reputations of Southern writers (Welty, William Faulkner, Margaret Mitchell, Truman Capote, Harper Lee, Flannery O'Connor and such)? And if it was true in Welty's time (1909 to 2001), is is still true today in the age of Facebook, Twitter, and text messaging?

Truman Capote

I think there is some reality to Welty's quote, but there's also some wishful thinking behind it--which, come to think of it, are frequently the ingredients for a good Southern story.

It's true that Southerners tend to be 'great talkers,' but that's not the same as being a great storyteller. Ask the typical Southerner a question about, say, a favorite food, and he or she is likely to tell you the entire recipe or the name of the restaurant that serves the particular dish plus directions for how to get there--all without a pause.

Flannery O'Connor

One of my closest Southern friends has this habit, especially when talking about someone else (something we Southerners love to do). He'll start off with an interesting piece of information but soon gets bogged down in irrelevant details. When I see this happening, I try to stop him by saying "Mother's maiden name!" This is code between us that means: Stop before you tell me everything I don't need to know about this person including her mother's maiden name!

I've known some fascinating Southern storytellers, but they're usually not great conversationalists. Recently, I ran into a man I knew years ago when I lived in Charleston. He was seated at a table in a San Francisco cafe. Once I said his name and he recognized me, his one-man show began. What followed were a string of hilarious, witty, and at times poignant stories. But not once did he ask how I was doing, as I had a few stories of my own to share. When I tried to tell him, he changed the subject back to himself. Narcissists, whether of Southern, Yankee, Midwestern, or Japanese extraction, are often fascinating but ultimately tiresome people.

Southerners, in general, often have a heightened sense of drama and frequently possess a terrific sense of humor, especially about themselves, which helps a lot when telling a good story. The Southerner's slower sense of pacing also contributes, as does the accent. Some Southerners are keenly aware of their region's reputation for good storytelling and feel a duty to preserve it, as well. There's even an organization called the Southern Order of Storytellers, based in Atlanta, whose mission is "to bring storytelling to wider audiences and help make storytelling once again an integral part of culture and entertainment."

Finally, there are lots of eccentrics in the South--people who know they are outside the mainstream. Rather than denying it, they flaunt it; eccentricity is their calling card. These are the characters who tell the richest stories, or who are the basis of stories others tell about them.

In other words, a Southerner isn't by nature a great storyteller, but the South has its fair share of them. But for how long? The Internet, globalization, and other forces are flattening out regional and cultural differences, so it's only a matter of time before Southern storytelling becomes yet another lost art form.

In the meantime, however, we have Leslie Jordan.

Jordan is a gifted actor from Tennessee best known for his roles in Will and Grace and Sordid Lives, the film and the TV series. During a recent one-man show in San Francisco, Jordan held his audience in rapt attention for two hours as he spun one Southern story after another, many of them featuring eccentric characters (himself included). If Southern storytelling is a dying art form, Jordan is single-handedly keeping it alive. I'll conclude with two examples.

Leslie Jordan

An anecdote Jordan re-enacted on stage was about how, as a boy, he would hang out in the local beauty parlor with his mother. One day, in walked the town tramp, her torpedo tits "entering before she did." Jordan's recounting of this story was full of small details, from the clothes the woman wore to the cigarettes she smoked. At one point, the hair stylist asked the town trollop if she wanted her hair teased. "Teased?," the woman responded. "I want it terrorized!"

In another anecdote, Jordan recounted a chance meeting with a Southern drag queen who called herself Kitty Litter. Jordan had been friends with Kitty in Atlanta years ago, in their wilder days. During their unexpected encounter years later, Kitty asked Jordan if he still drank; Jordan said he stopped long ago. "Me too," said Kitty. "I only have a little Peppermint Schnapps now and then to sweeten my breath."

And then, after a beat, Kitty added, "Sometimes, my breath is so sweet, I can hardly stand up."

----- What do you think? Are Southerners great storytellers? Do you have a great 'Southern' story to share? Let me know in the comments below.

New Year's Resolutions for Southerners and San Franciscans

Time to make New Year's Resolutions. Even though most resolutions have the life span of a butterfly with a bad cough, it never hurts to pause, reflect, and vow to be a better person in the coming year.

In the spirit of the season, the following are New Year's Resolutions from imaginary Southerners and San Franciscans--two demographics I admire, love, consider myself a member of, and, yes, enjoy poking fun at. I've also added some vintage New Year's Eve photos I found online, just for the heck of it.

Weight

The Southerner: "I want to see my shoes again while standing up. Mostly to make sure they're not white and it's after Labor Day."

The San Franciscan: "My goal is to keep my weight down and my Klout score up."

Getting Organized

The Southerner: "I resolve to stop storing my pistol in my makeup drawer."

The San Franciscan: "I will remember that after drinking my Starbucks non-fat-one-Splenda-extra-foamy-double-tall latte, I will put the used cup, brown paper 'sleeve,' and wooden stir stick into the composting bin. The plastic lid goes in recycling. And those bottles of 'ethical' plastic water bottles I bought go into my messenger bag so I won't have to pay the 10 cent paper bag fee."

Budget

The Southerner: "Start putting pocket change into my Piggly Wiggly piggy bank. Those summer shag dancing competitions in Myrtle Beach don't come cheap!"

The San Franciscan: "I resolve to not blow my budget this year for medical marijuana lollipops and leather chaps for the Folsom Street Fair, and to add money to my budget to offset my carbon footprint whenever I drive my Prius to Whole Foods."

Giving Back

The Southerner: "It's time for me to give back all those casserole dishes my cousins brought to my house for MeeMaw's 105th birthday party."

The San Franciscan: "I will stop hogging the electrical vehicle charging station in the Noe Valley Walgreen's parking lot."

Career

The Southerner: "I resolve to leave my job as a banker in Charlotte for something totally different--like being a banker in Atlanta."

The San Franciscan: "It's time I left my exhausting job at Google and got an exhausting job at Facebook. Besides, Facebook's chef is, like, way better than Google's."

Your Resolutions?

Whether you're a Southerner, a San Franciscan, or something entirely different, what are your New Year's resolutions? Serious or silly, I'd love to hear them.

Is Southern Hospitality a Myth?

I hadn’t seen my friend Scott for several months. As we were catching up, I asked if he and his family had been on any interesting trips lately. He mentioned they had rented a beach house outside Charleston last summer; it was their first time there. A native New Yorker now living in San Francisco, Scott said he had barely spent any time before “down South.”

Then he asked, “Do you believe there’s such a thing as Southern hospitality?

Being Southern, I thought it hospitable to encourage him to continue before offering my opinion. “Do you?” I asked.

“I think it’s a myth,” Scott answered. He explained that the owner of their rented beach house had misrepresented its amenities and wouldn’t fix a major problem Scott had called to complain about. He said the wait staff in several restaurants they’d been to in Charleston had been indifferent and unaccommodating.

“So I don’t buy this Southern hospitality thing at all,” Scott concluded.

Feeling defensive, I explained that Charleston, being a hugely popular tourist destination, has a lot of people living there now from outside the South. (A poor excuse, admittedly.) Also, Scott and his family had gone to a top tourist destination toward the end of the tourist season. By that point, no doubt every restaurant server’s last good nerve had been plucked more times than a banjo string at a bluegrass convention.

And yet, Scott’s question left me wondering: Are Southerners truly more hospitable than people in other areas?

Yes Ma'am

At a minimum, I believe most Southerners are polite. They still say “yes sir” and “yes ma’am” and “thank you” and “you’re welcome.” They will hold the door open for you, regardless of your sex. And Southerners are generally friendly. When you’re out for a walk in a residential neighborhood, a Southern stranger will say hello to you, even wave from across the street.

True hospitality, to me, is something much more than politeness and friendliness. It’s a willingness to take action out of compassionate regard for the needs of others, even when they’re strangers and it’s of no real benefit to you. I’ve certainly seen this in the South—and many other places as well.

No Worries, Mate

On a 1996 visit to Melbourne, Australia, Nick and I became completely lost, so I ventured into a corner market to ask for directions. After waiting my turn in line, I asked the young woman behind the counter how to get back to our hotel. She gave me convoluted directions I had trouble grasping.

I was aware there were three people in line behind me. Not wanting to keep them waiting, I thanked the friendly clerk and started to leave. To my astonishment, she insisted on walking outside with me so she could point out the way. She left the cash register unattended, not to mention those three people waiting in line. Once she had set me straight (so to speak), I stuck my head into the store. The three people in line smiled at me, and I thanked them for their patience. “No worries, mate,” one of them responded, and they all wished us luck.

In London two years ago, I was leaving the theater with a group of people. We became confused as to how to take the tube back to our hotel. A young woman overheard us, said she was going in that direction, and invited us to follow her. She sat with us on the train and stayed past her own stop, to ensure we departed at the correct station.

Losing it in Times Square

And then there was my first trip to New York, way back in 1979. Toward the end of my visit, I discovered, to my horror, that I had lost my wallet—in Times Square. Fortunately I was with a group of college friends and I rode back to North Carolina with them. I figured my wallet, along with the money in it, was lost forever. (I didn’t have a credit card at that point.)

A day after my return, I received a collect phone call from someone in the New York City area. The caller had found my wallet. He offered to mail it to me but wanted permission to deduct the shipping cost from the bills in my wallet. A few days later, my wallet arrived intact, with all my money minus the postage costs.

And so, hospitality exists everywhere—even in Times Square. It’s by no means indigenous to the South. On the other hand, jerks are everywhere, too. You get into trouble trying to generalize about any group of people, whether it's where they live or how they live.

Even so, I feel the need to defend the notion of Southern hospitality and to do my meager part to ensure its survival.

In San Francisco, when I see tourists confused as to which way to go, I will sometimes stop and offer directions. When I notice a tourist taking a picture of his friends, I’ll often ask if they’d like me to take the picture. Partly, my motivation is for them to go home and say “Those San Franciscans are very friendly.” But at the end of each encounter, I always say in my best drawl, “Y’all have a nice day."

==

What do you think? Do you believe Southerners are more hospitable than other people? What's been your experience with a stranger being truly hospitable to you in your travels?

Getting Holiday Decorations With a Gun

Who the heck would shoot mistletoe out of a tree?

A Georgia resident named Bill Robinson, that’s who. Robinson was featured Tuesday on the “Ridiculist” segment of Anderson Cooper 360 on CNN because he'd used a 12-gauge, double-barrel shotgun to blast mistletoe out of a tree on private property. While Robinson may be applauded for his clever labor- and money-saving strategy, the authorities were not pleased and he was booked. 

Your mind may be reeling at the potential consequences this scenario presents, as mine did. For instance, would someone find it romantic if you went out and shot some mistletoe on their behalf? What if, as you were smootching your significant other under said mistletoe, a bullet dropped into your beehive hairdo? And if other people hear about what you've done, might you incur the wrath of some organization that advocates non violence toward holiday decorations? Would you be splashed with red paint in public as someone screams "Mistletoe is Murder!" in your face?

After considering these and other potential outcomes, my thoughts turned to Nick’s Uncle Burnley.

Burnley never married and lived with his mother in a large house on a sizeable plot of land in rural Georgia. Nick has often told me tales of how Uncle Burnley would sit on his front porch, take out his shotgun, and blast pecans out of the trees. Every Christmas, Burnley would mail Nick's mother (Mrs. P) a shoe box full of pecans. To my knowledge, no one ever broke a tooth biting into a buckshot-filled pecan.

I met Burnley twice. The first time was in the mid 80s, when I attended his mother's funeral with Nick and Mrs. P. After a Southern church service funeral, everyone gathers at the home of the bereaved to eat fried chicken, corn muffins, and such. (Funeral food in the South is good eating, I can assure you.) The home in which Burnley resided was decorated in a style best described as "Benign Neglect" or perhaps "Early Boo Radley." For example, when Nick and I sneaked away to check out the rambling, creaky, once-grand house, we discovered a broken second-floor window--with grass growing on the floor.

Nick's Aunt Doris, Nick, and Uncle Burnley

Many years later, in 2003, we visited Burnley again. We'd heard he was in declining health and decided we'd better see him while we could. I don't believe Nick had had the occasion to talk to his uncle in several years (they did correspond with Christmas cards for a while). And yet, here comes Burnley to greet us at the front door, and the first thing out of his mouth is, "Have you fixed Jimmy Carter yet?" 

A few years later, Burnley moved into a nursing home and gained notoriety by rolling down the hallways on occasion, naked, in his wheelchair. He passed away in 2007.

You probably have a relative like Burnley, if you're lucky and you're from the South. If not, well, bless your heart, happy holidays, and go get some mistletoe.

Welcome to Y'all, a Restaurant That Doesn't Exist

This past Saturday afternoon, Nick and I went with some friends to a broadcast of The Kitchen. It's a superb play staged by the National Theatre in London and beamed by satellite to movie houses around the world.

The play, set in a frenetic restaurant kitchen, got me thinking about the restaurant I would create, should I temporarily lose whatever shreds of sanity I still possess and go into that business. In other words, it ain't gonna happen. But it exists in my mind, and this is what it looks like.

My restaurant is called Y'all. It's in San Francisco's Castro because I love the neighborhood and it could use more good places to eat. When you call the restaurant, a pleasant voice answers with an authentic drawl, "Hey, welcome to Y'all, how can I help you?"

Y'all is neither upscale nor downscale but somewhere in between. The exterior has a front porch with white-painted rocking chairs and a screen door, with at least one dead bug on it. You hear the sound of crickets chirping from the porch. 

The restaurant's neon sign looks like it came from the 1950s and features a couple of chicken drumsticks dancing. There is a a tin roof, rusted.

Just for Fun: A No-Pest Strip on the Ceiling Fan

After venturing past the screen door (which will creak when opened and bang behind you), your eye will be drawn to the gently circling ceiling fans. Way in the back, if you look closely, you will spot a Shell No Pest Strip twirling around because it's hanging from one of the ceiling fan blades. Just for the fun of it, really.

The hostess will be extremely friendly but a bit sassy as well. She wears just a teensy bit too much makeup, and when you enter, she'll unsuccessfully attempt to hide her gum. She'll seat you in a cozy booth, with overhead lighting that flatters the over 40 set. 

Around you, the walls are decorated with vintage posters and photographs from Southern restaurants past and present: Mary Mac's Tea Room and the Colonnade in Atlanta; The Court of Two Sisters in New Orleans; Charlotte's Penguin Drive-In; 82 Queen in Charleston, S.C.; and so on. There will be no flat-screen televisions anywhere in sight. Not even a tiny tube TV in the kitchen, for the Coke-guzzling cooks to watch. 

Buttermilk Biscuits, Without Having to Ask

For appetizers, you can munch on fried green heirloom tomatoes and sip she crab soup with a healthy dose of sherry, which will taste nearly (but not quite) as good as it does in Charleston. Entrees? Fried chicken cooked Mrs. Johnson style; lamb shank; fried flounder and catfish; country-style steak (cooked for hours); barbecue sandwiches (North Carolina style, naturally); and for a touch of the exotic, spaghetti (which my Virginia-born, meat-and-potatoes father used to call "foreigner food"). You'd have your choice of two sides, which would include tater tot casserole, hush puppies, crinkle-cut french fries, green pole beans, fried okra, and a mixed green salad with pecan bits. You receive buttermilk biscuits and soft butter without having to ask.

Now it's time for dessert. Do I really need to tell you there will be banana pudding? Key lime pie? Pecan pie? I didn't think so.

The Blanche DuBois Cocktail

Oh, I almost forgot: beverages. Along with the required sweetened ice tea, you can order Cheerwine, Nehi Grape and Orange, Coke, and Mountain Dew, all in ice-cold bottles. 

The cocktails will be creative and delicious (and served in big glasses): a passion fruit and mango vodka punch, a mint limeade martini, or a pomegranate-limoncello cosmopolitan, for starters. Every week, Y'all offers a specialty cocktail honoring famous Southern writers and their literary characters. The Blanche DuBois, for instance, is a lemon coke with chipped ice and lots and lots of bourbon, prepared by a put-upon woman named Stell-aaahhhh! Come to think of it, this being San Francisco, Stella will be a man in drag. 

When the bill is presented, you'll be astonished at how affordable it all is. And as you leave, the sassy hostess will smile sweetly, quietly pop her chewing gum, and say, "Y'all come back now, ya hear?"

And there you have it: my vision of a Southern restaurant outside the South. What would you want to see on the menu, or inside the restaurant?  

A mint muddler and other essentials for surviving Southern earthquakes

Yesterday's earthquake, with its epicenter in Virginia, rattled window panes and nerves throughout the South as well as that place above the Mason-Dixon line. The quake and its aftershocks surprised a lot of people, but honestly, such seismic events aren't completely unknown in the South.

In the 1970s, somewhere between my pre-pubescent and post-pimple years, I experienced my very first earthquake, and it was in my hometown of Greensboro, N.C. I was taking a shower when, suddenly, the shower glass doors began to tap against each other. I assumed it was one of my sisters trying to scare me yet again (which happened so often, I believed "Boo!" was simply another form of saying hello). I grabbed a towel and ran downstairs as the shaking continued. "Oh law!," my mother exclaimed, as the dishes she had just placed in the dishwasher danced. "Earth tremor, Earth tremor!" I believe her next move was to light a cigarette.

Having lived through that earthquake and several others of greater magnitude in San Francisco, I feel obliged to offer y'all some earthquake survival tips, should there be another "Earth tremor."

1. When the ground shakes, stay inside. You don't want to go outside anyway, what with all the humidity and mosquitoes and no-see-ums.

2. Stay away from glass. Unless there's a cocktail in it. Which raises a question: Is there a mint muddler in your disaster survival kit?

3. Get under a table. Which raises another question: When was the last time anyone actually cleaned down there?

4. Don't try to call anyone afterwards. Cell phone networks will likely be overloaded. A better option is to text your loved ones to tell them you're alright and, if they are out and about anyway, ask them to pick up dinner at Chick-fil-A on their way home.

That's it for now. If I think of any other helpful tips (or any tips that are actually helpful), I'll pass them along. In the meantime, where the heck did I put my mint muddler?