Buck Naked in McCorkleville -- Part I

I can pinpoint the exact moment when my relationship with Miss McCorkle, my elderly landlady in Charleston, S.C., during the early 1980s, went from barely civil to Civil War.

It was during a late-afternoon summer squall, causing the shutters outside my second-story apartment window to suddenly bang violently against her pink Gingerbread Victorian house. At that moment, I was buck naked, packing furiously for a trip, and yet I knew I had to do something right then about that damned air conditioner window unit. But more on that later.

I had come to live in Miss McCorkle’s home, which I decided to call "McCorkleville," under less dramatic, though still urgent, circumstances. It was the spring of 1982, and I had just accepted a job at the News & Courier in Charleston. The pay was minimal, but I was thrilled to be moving to Charleston, a jewel box of a Southern city.

I had only one weekend in which to find an affordable apartment, and I was determined to live in Charleston’s expensive but beautiful historic district. Having combed through the newspaper classifieds (remember them?) for unfurnished apartments, I found nothing remotely within my budget. Then I spotted an ad for a furnished apartment in the historic district, which promised to be ‘reasonable.’ Though I owned a full set of furniture, I dialed the number. Miss McCorkle answered my call almost immediately. I asked a few questions, then inquired about the rent.

“I don’t believe in discussin’ money over da phone, don't you know,” came the answer. She spoke in that curious old Charleston accent—a bit of Gullah (that curious Southern sea-island dialect) mixed with what sounded like a twist of Boston Irish, with a twinge of German thrown in to keep me completely confused.

Miss McCorkle agreed to show me the apartment and gave me the address. The house was in a prime location, in the lovely and (back then) untouristy Ansonborough neighborhood. It was the only Victorian on the block, if not the entire neighborhood. I had already learned that true-blue South of Broad Charlestonians regarded Victorian architecture as vulgar and desperate for attention, like a heavily rouged spinster.

6 Wentworth Street--formerly "McCorkleville"

I rang the doorbell. Presently Miss McCorkle materialized behind a parted front-door window curtain, her mouth forming a small ‘o.’ She appeared, at first blush, to be a heavily rouged spinster herself. “Come in, come in,” she said, impatiently ushering me into her parlor.

Miss McCorkle was blue-haired, bony, and wiry, with a long thin face that often contorted into an expression resembling an exclamation point. If some Hollywood studio had had the poor judgment to make a movie about a senior-citizen Popeye, Miss McCorkle would have been ideally cast as the octogenarian Olive Oyl.

I stole a few furtive glances around the McCorkle parlor. The shutters were closed tightly, blocking out as much of the afternoon sun as possible. Dust particles danced in the few cracks of sunlight that managed to break through, galvanized by the softly whirring blades of a World War II-era fan sitting atop a lace-doily-covered table. A complete tea set was laid out on a center coffee table, with four white porcelain cups, a small fissure in each one. Upon further examination, I noticed the tea pot was cracked, too. Miss McCorkle noticed me observing her tea set. I expected her to ask if I’d like some refreshment.

“You married?” she asked. Oh, how I hated it when little old Southern ladies asked me that question. 

“No ma’am,” I replied. I'd been with Nick for about a year at this point, but for obvious reasons, made no mention of it.

“I never got married neither,” she said. “I’ve lived in this house all my life. I was born here. My daddy built it. He was from Germany. My mother, she was Irish.”

“How old is the house?” I asked. Judging from its Victorian style, I guessed the house was circa 1900 and, judging from Miss McCorkle’s blue-gray hair and ambered appearance, so was she.

Miss McCorkle ignored my question. “Let’s go on up,” she said, leading the way to the apartment, which consisted of the entire upstairs: a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and an enormous bathroom dominated by a bear-claw bathtub with separate hot and cold spigots but, unfortunately, no shower head. The ceilings were about 10 feet high, the furniture rickety and uncomfortable, and the floral wallpaper faded and curling. There was a large  balcony, however, facing out onto Wentworth Street, as well as a back entrance.

Only at the conclusion of our meeting did Miss McCorkle reveal the rent: $175 a month. Even in 1982, this amount was an unparalleled bargain and my heart lept. She didn’t require a deposit or a lease, and she didn’t ask for references. I gave her a check for the first month's rent on the spot.

As I turned to leave, Miss McCorkle mentioned that her younger sister lived with her. “She was married to the mayor of Summerville,” she added with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. I wasn’t sure if Miss McCorkle was expressing disapproval of her brother-in-law, politicians, the town of Summerville, the institution of marriage, or all the above. “But he died and now my sister, she can’t take care of herself no more, don’t you know, so I got to do it.” This time, rather than roll her eyes again, Miss McCorkle moved her head from side to side to illustrate her displeasure--a look I was to see all too often.

Part II next week: Unearthly moans from downstairs, a disdain for strangers, and the first air conditioner confrontation. 

Top 5 "Only in San Francisco" Things to Do

"Only in San Francisco" is a term that's spoken in either a positive tone, with a warm smile and a beat of the heart, or a pejorative one, accompanied by an intolerant eye roll. Today, a few days after the Bay Area celebrated the 75th birthday of the Golden Gate Bridge, I'm feeling the love for my adopted home. So for any of you planning a visit, here are five of my favorite "only in San Francisco" things to do (in no particular order of preference). 

1. See a movie at the Castro Theatre. 

 It's a 1922 neighborhood, single-screen movie palace that still shows films most every night--usually of the vintage and independent variety--and still has a guy playing the Wurlitzer organ before screenings. Do you have one of those in your town? I thought not. 

I've seen everything here from the sing-a-long versions of Grease and The Sound of Music to Up in 3D to countless film noirs to Fun in Boys' Shorts, a staple of the annual Frameline gay and lesbian film festival. At the Castro, you're part of a community, not just an audience member--and it's OK to hiss the villain on screen, if not expected. Tip: Before the show, smuggle in a freshly baked treat from Hot Cookie, a few doors up the street.

The Castro Theatre

2. Check out the naked guys.  

The Castro is San Francisco's--if not the world's--main 'gayborhood.' In recent years, it's also become home to a tiny minority of nudists (in which "tiny" refers to their membership ranks, not necessarily their "members"). Mostly guys, mostly older, mostly not physically attractive, the clotheless contingent walks around the neighborhood as casually as if they were going grocery shopping. (Imagine them in the produce aisle, carefully selecting cucumbers.) 

The 'naked guys' also congregate in the public parklet across from that staple of middle America, Pottery Barn. Sometimes, the Creme Brulee Cart sets up shop nearby, though I think a hot dog stand would be more appropriate. 

Oddly enough, public nudity isn't a crime here (unless something lewd is occurring), though a citizen could make a beef about it if he or she wanted to. Do I love seeing these guys naked in public? The truth is, no. But I love what they represent: freedom and lack of shame. Here, in one of the country's most liberal cities, you can be who you truly are--and you can do it with pride. Tip: I've heard some of the naked guys will pose for pictures with you (if you ask nicely, of course). Won't that be something to show your friends back home?

3. Ride a vintage streetcar. 

I'm not talking about the cable car. I'm talking about hopping aboard one of the many mid-20th century streetcars from cities around the country--and some from abroad. (The loud orange trolley cars are from Milan.) Here again, this is where San Francisco goes against the grain. These cars had been cast aside, considered archaic by cities like Boston. San Francisco bought and restored them and now runs a fleet of them along Market Street, the Embarcadero, and a few other above-ground rail lines. To my knowledge, no other city has amassed such a collection of trolley cars. Tip: You can ride a vintage trolley to the Castro, if you're dying to see a movie and public nudity. And if you're lucky, you might even get to ride NewOrleans' streetcar named desire. 

Vintage streetcar in San Francisco

4. Ride the California Street cable car. 

I sensed your disappointment when I wrote about streetcars, not cable cars. Of course you must ride a cable car when you're in San Francisco. To many people, it's the definition of an "only in San Francisco" experience, as no other city in the world still operates cable cars. 

But don't do what every other tourist does and wait in the interminable lines at the Powell Street cable car turnaround. Instead, jump onto a cable car at either the top of California Street (at Van Ness Avenue) or at the bottom, near the Hyatt Regency on Market Street (not far from the Ferry Building). For some odd reason, the California Street cable car carries far fewer riders, so you'll probably be able to board without waiting. 

And frankly, I like the views better on this route. Along the way, you'll pass the financial district, Chinatown, and Nob Hill landmarks. And you'll go up or down some steep hills, depending upon where you board--which is, in itself, another great San Francisco experience. Tip: Fares at most times are $6 each way (with no transfers), which can you pay the conductor. Try to have the exact fare, if possible. If you plan to ride a cable car more than three times in a day or ride other local buses or trains, get the $14 day pass (which the conductor will also sell you).

California Street cable car

5. Eat a hamburger at Zuni. 

I know what you're thinking: You can eat a hamburger anywhere. But Zuni is and always has been, practically from the moment it opened, a quintessential San Francisco restaurant. Just about everyone I know who lives here loves it. You'll see all types at Zuni, from local politicians to leather queens (sometimes they're one and the same) to film directors. I once spotted cult film director John Waters having dinner here, went over, introduced myself, and enjoyed a brief chat with him. (He's as funny in person as you'd expect.) 

I almost always take out-of-towners here, who uniformly love it. Which brings another Zuni story to mind. Years ago, Nick and I brought visiting relatives of his from Alabama, a conservative but sweet couple of retirement age, to Zuni for lunch. They sat with their backs to the huge windows that look out onto Market Street, with Nick and I facing the windows. At one point, a trickle of leather queens in full regalia began parading by, including an unusually short man chain-linked to an unusually tall one. The trickle soon turned into a flood, as I realized that it was time for the annual Folsom Street Fair, a celebration of all things leather and kink. Nick and I struggled to keep from reacting as his relatives enjoyed their lunch, completely unaware of the parade going on behind him. 

Oh yes, the hamburger! I almost forgot. The Zuni burger is the bomb. Zuni mixes the meat with salt and lets it sit (refrigerated) for 18 to 24 hours. Then they cook it just to your liking, throw on some Gruyere cheese if you want, and serve it on fresh focaccia bread. Order it with the shoestring fries and you'll soon be smacking your lips double-time. Tip: You can only order the burger at lunch or after 10 p.m. 

Zuni's burger

Now it's your turn. What are your favorite "only in San Francisco" experiences?

Uncle Stafford's 85th Birthday Party: Tales of Fried Chicken & Gin in the Baptist Ladies' Punchbowl

It's my Uncle Stafford's 85th birthday party, a big, happy affair with my entire family gathered around a long banquet table at a restaurant. Stafford and his younger brother--my father--are in rare form, telling stories on each other.

It starts with the fried chicken.

When my father, C.W. Martin, and Stafford were boys in Virginia and it was Sunday night, it was more than likely going to be fried chicken for supper. Stafford and C.W. would watch their mother grab a live Rhode Island Red chicken in the backyard, hang it upside down, tie its feet to a clothesline, whack its head off, and throw the head into the bushes--all the time singing a Baptist hymn like Old Rugged Cross. Stafford and C.W.'s job was to pluck the hapless bird after it had been scalded.

Uncle Stafford (left) and my father, C.W. Martin, in Roanoke, Va.

"It was terrible to watch," my father says.

"But man oh man," Uncle Stafford pipes in, "that was the best fried chicken you'd ever eat." 

A waiter appears and wants to know if Stafford would like something to drink. "I believe I've earned a gin and tonic, don't you?," Stafford asks.

"Absolutely," the waiter responds, and off he goes, leaving Stafford to launch into another tale about my grandmother.

 "She was a right staunch Baptist, in case y'all hadn't noticed," Stafford says. "One afternoon, she had a women's missionary society group over for punch. My friend Bob---"

"The bald-headed guy with the glass eye?," my father wants to know.

"That's the one. Well, he and I got hold of a bottle of gin, and when Mother wasn't looking, we poured it into the punch bowl."

"Oh my God," my mother says, laughing. "Not the whole bottle?"

"It was just half a bottle," my father replies.

"If it was, it's because you drank the other half," Uncle Stafford jokes.

"I was twelve," says my father.

"Details. Anyhow, all those ladies lapped up that fruit punch. I heard several of them ask Mother for the recipe."

"Did she figure out what happened?" This question comes from my nephew Stafford, named for the man we are here to celebrate.

"No, thank God, because she'd have taken a buggy whip to us if she had," Uncle Stafford replies.

At this precise moment, Uncle Stafford's gin and tonic arrives. He examines the wedge of lime, squirts it into the drink, takes a small sip, and looks around at the presents piled up before him. "Which one of these lovely things wants to be unwrapped first?," he asks mischievously. I push my gift toward him eagerly. He smiles at me warmly and slowly accepts the brightly colored package, unwraps it, puts on his reading glasses, studies it.

"Is it..." he begins.

"A radio. It plays radio stations from around the world, over the Internet," I explain. Uncle Stafford is a radio fanatic, having built them himself when he was young.

He's pleased. "I'll never leave home again," he says. "Thank you, Jimmy."

As a young man, Uncle Stafford used to build radios, first out of crystals, then out of tubes. It was a huge deal when, after working on a radio for what must have been months, there suddenly came a popping, crackling sound, followed by a broadcast from KDKA in Pittsburgh. He and my father danced around like lunatics, whooping it up.

When I was a boy, Uncle Stafford tried--oh so patiently--to teach me how to make a radio. He didn't succeed. "Why build something when you can buy it?," I'd ask. "Because it helps you learn how to think," he'd say. He did manage to infect me with a love for the radio programs of his youth, and during my family's visits to see him, Uncle Stafford and I would spend hours listening to his tapes of old shows. "I think it's time you heard The War of the Worlds," he said to me when I was about 15.

"I saw the movie," I shrugged.

"You don't know the half of it," he said. And so I listened, riveted, as Orson Welles' brilliant 1938 radio hoax--which had most of America convinced an alien invasion was occurring--unfolded. 

Uncle Stafford in uniform

Uncle Stafford's mastery of radios was put to use during World War II. He enlisted, rather than waiting to be drafted, and soon enough found himself operating the radio on a B-25 bomber over the Pacific. It was there, over the dense Burmese jungles in October 1944, my Uncle Stafford's plane was shot down.

His body was never recovered.

Only his "dog tag" and those of his six fellow crew members were discovered and later buried in the Louisville National Cemetery in Kentucky. You see, the truth is that my Uncle Stafford never had an 85th birthday; he didn't make it past 36.

Though the stories of him and my father I've shared actually happened, the party and my experiences with Uncle Stafford are only something I wish were true. He died 14 years before I was born.

On more than one occasion, I've imagined watching him surrounded by our family, celebrating a landmark of old age, laughing as he and my father needled each other yet again--their way of showing affection. And at this imaginary 85th birthday party, amidst the clatter of cutlery and glasses and conversation, I sit next to my beloved uncle. In this moment, I have his complete attention, so I look him in the eyes, I squeeze his hand, and I say "Thank you." I know he understands exactly what I mean, because he squeezes my hand back.

'67 Camaro Convertible: The Car of My Dreams, and Screams

In last week's post about North Carolina's same-sex marriage ban, I mentioned that years ago, I had owned a 1967 Camaro convertible.

After reading that post, my colleague and FB buddy Fred Sandsmark wrote: "You buried the lede. I want to see pictures of that yellow 1967 Camaro convertible." 

Several others commented on the Camaro, too, which sent me reeling back to my days with "Cammie." Days when I sweated profusely. And screamed. And cried. And sang along to eight-track tapes. And lost all my savings. And skipped school a million times. And feared for my life, more than once.

I'll start at the beginning.

My father bought the '67 Camaro in 1970 as a car for my sisters Mimi and Julia and me. The idea was that as each of us came of driving age, we'd share the car. Being the youngest, I lucked out. There was no one I'd have to pass the car onto.

Cammie and me, circa 1980-81

I'd never been in a convertible before, not that I could remember, and once I rode in the Camaro, I knew convertibles would forever be my style. (I still drive a convertible, a Mini Cooper.) Cammie had character. You got attention riding around in it. You felt slightly rebellious.

And I was rebellious. In high school, my friends and I would skip school, pile into Cammie, smoke a joint (or three), and ride around Greensboro, top down (even when it was cold; that was what the heater was for). We'd sing along to eight-track tapes of David Bowie, Alice Cooper, Elton John, and their ilk. And then, inevitably, we'd head to Krispy Kreme for doughnuts. If I ever write a story about those fun, mid 1970s experiences, I must call it Glazed and Confused.

Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes. I mentioned earlier that I'd screamed in the Camaro. That would have happened when I was living and working in Charleston. I'd left the car windows down overnight, got in, drove up the highway, and discovered a gecko on the inside of my windshield. For those of you who've seen the fantastic opening sequence in the movie Contact, you know that my scream is still floating around in space, along with Lucille Ball's laugh.

I also feared for my life in Cammie. The first time, I somehow found myself lost in the Great Dismal Swamp, a 112,000-acre wetland preserve on the N.C./Virginia border. It was dusk. I grew fearful that I wouldn't find my way out before the blackness of night set in and therefore I was doomed to be eaten by alligators. Miraculously, I discovered the exit at last and returned to civilization with all my limbs (but not all my nerves) intact.

On another occasion, I was driving the Camaro over the old Cooper River Bridge that connected Charleston to its eastern neighbors. Anyone who had the misfortune of driving on that bridge might understand why I called it the Crack Your Face bridge, because its narrow lanes and flimsy feel (to me) would quickly erode any composure you had.

The Crack Your Face Bridge

One afternoon, I was at the highest point of the bridge when traffic came to a halt due to a summer squall. For what must have been 15 or 20 minutes, I was stuck in place, feeling the old bridge sway and creak against the fierce winds and relentless rain. A couple of times, Cammie stalled, which only added to my undoing. Finally, the winds died down and the traffic moved on, and the Camaro, after a few more lurches, started up again and took me home.

I'd also mentioned losing all my savings because of Cammie. When I was working at the Roanoke Rapids Daily Herald as a reporter, I made a ridiculously low salary--just under $10,000. I had about $1,200 in savings, mostly money my father had set aside for me. During this time (late 1981), the Camaro's engine started to go. I suspected as much when I thought there always seemed to be a four-alarm fire nearby--and realized it was Cammie's engine.

I was told a new engine would cost me about $2,000. At the office, I mentioned to a co-worker my dilemma. Her husband, a mechanic, and his friends would gladly rebuild my engine for $1,100, she said.

I paid her husband the money up front, which was my second mistake. (The first was to even consider having a co-worker's no-count husband work on my car.) He and his buddies fixed the Camaro and it ran fine. For one week. And then, the black smoke returned. I insisted that my co-worker's husband fix the engine; he said he would; and despite numerous pleas and threats, he never did. I was incredulous and distraught and didn't know what to do.

"Cut your losses," Nick said--a life lesson if there ever was one. Humiliated, I had to ask my father for money to get the engine replaced.

If you'll recall, a few paragraphs back I mentioned sweating profusely. This was because Cammie lacked air conditioning. And it had a black interior. You drove it in the summer, you perspired. Epically. Like Mark Zuckerberg being interviewed on stage.

Mark Zuckerberg's famous meltdown

As a teenager, I wasn't too concerned about that. But when I started working full-time, the lack of AC became a problem. I'd sometimes carry an extra shirt to change into, so that I wouldn't arrive at a business meeting looking like a wet T-shirt contestant. When Nick and I lived in Atlanta, I'd often get stuck in horrendous traffic jams on the freeway, with no choice but to inhale the fumes of idling transfer trucks. 

Following one particularly excruciating freeway jam without air conditioning, I vowed that that summer would be my last with Cammie. And it was. 

In spring 1987, as Nick and I prepared to move to San Francisco, I decided not to have the Camaro shipped West, that it was time for me to buy a new car. I advertised Cammie in a local paper and almost immediately, the calls started. I sold her to a vintage car enthusiast who, after the deal was cinched, said he was going to paint her red. 

The night before I was to hand over the keys, I took Cammie for one last ride. I'd created a cassette mix tape especially for the occasion, with songs I'd loved as a teenager, music I listened to as a young adult, and, with a nod to my future, a few songs about San Francisco. And that was the night I cried in my Camaro.

---

I bet you've got a few tales to share about your beloved car. Put your phone down, pull over, and tell me all about it. 

North Carolina Said No. I've Said Yes--Twice

This week, North Carolina said no. President Obama, God bless him, said yes. And here we are again with the same-sex marriage debate. It's a subject I know something about, having said "I do" to not one but two same-sex marriages.

It all started with the Washington Post, when I think about it.

In the summer of 1980, I'd graduated from college and went to Washington, D.C., to find a job as a writer. With only an English degree and zero experience, I waltzed into the offices of the Post to inquire about staff writing positions.

"We may have something coming open," the human resources person informed me. "It's in the library. But I'm afraid you're unqualified."

The Post's rejection was the coup de grace that came after about 45 days of fruitless job hunting, a final setback that hurled me toward Greensboro, N.C., to move in with my parents. I'd run out of money and self-esteem.

I still had determination, however. So I set my sights lower, looking for jobs at small-town newspapers in North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virgina. After months of rejections, I received an offer for an entry-level reporting job at the Daily Herald in Roanoke Rapids, N.C.

Reluctantly, I accepted. I packed up my yellow, 1967 Camaro convertible and drove to this small city, with its smelly paper mills and hick farmers and Bible thumpers. Along the way, I had a talk with myself. "Forget about meeting someone," I said. "For the next year, focus on your career, get some experience. Maybe then you can try Washington or New York or another big city."

About one week into my job, I looked up from my computer terminal and saw Nick Parham.

Nick had come to the Herald to socialize with another reporter, Adrienne. He was the director of PR and community affairs for VEPCO, the local utility company. Nick was handsome, tan, and dressed in a Pierre Cardin suit. He did not belong here, I thought as I eavesdropped on his conversation with Adrienne.

Nick was showing Adrienne pictures of his recent vacation in Cancun, Mexico, which included, to my dismay, photos of topless women sunbathing on the beach. Now I was even more intrigued, and I finagled an introduction.

A week later--specifically June 3, 1981--I ran into Nick at the Planters National Bank. It was a Wednesday, and each Wednesday, practically the entire town went to the bank to cash their paychecks. I was thrilled when Nick said he'd read my Sunday column, even quoted it to me, and said he'd heard about my infamous review of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown. I said something that he thought was funny, and for the first time, I witnessed the famous Nick Parham laugh. His head tilts back quickly and this joyful, unrestrained laugh bursts forth, sometimes accompanied by a few drops of spittle, which landed on my arm that day and caused a tingle I still feel.

Nick invited me to his office after lunch. I went. He invited me to his house for dinner that night. I wore a Polo shirt purchased in the boy's department at Belk's. He grilled steaks on the deck of his lake house. We talked for hours about movies and books and our ambitions, and I still wasn't sure he was gay.

Finally, at 2 a.m., I decided to end the mystery without revealing too much about myself (though I wasn't exactly hiding anything by wearing a boy's Polo shirt). 

"When you go to Raleigh for business, do you go out for fun?," I asked. "You know, to a bar?"

"Yes," Nick said. "The Capital Corral."

Jackpot--the Capital Corral was a big gay bar in Raleigh. We ended the night with a hug, and I returned again to Nick's house that weekend.

I moved to Charleston, S.C., less than a year later, and we continued our relationship long distance. We moved in together in Atlanta in 1984, then made our way to San Francisco in 1987.

In February 2004, when then-mayor Gavin Newsom defied every law on the book and invited same-sex couples to marry, Nick and I said our first vows. Within about a month, all those marriages were annulled. Four years later, for a few months at least, same-sex marriages were legal in California (until Prop 8 passed), and Nick and I took another trip down to City Hall to say "I do."

Jim and Nick, the second time around

We're still married, even though same-sex marriages are currently illegal in California. But for how long? Will the state of California, the U.S. Supreme Court, or some other institution declare our marriage unlawful again? Will some other organization decree that, despite the fact Nick and I have been with each other nearly 31 years, we constitute a threat to the sanctity of marriage?

I used to be philosophical about this. When Nick and I re-married in 2008, a TV reporter asked me what I thought it would take for same-sex marriage to stick. "Time," I said. "It's going to take time."

Now, with the news this week from North Carolina and President Obama, I'd have a different answer for that reporter. "It's going to take a fight," I'd tell her. "And this time, I'm ready."

12 Reasons Why You Should Visit Charleston, SC

What makes a city great? In my view, it's usually two things: A distinctive character and a nearby, preferably large, body of water.

To me, the great cities of the world share these two traits. San Francisco, Boston, New Orleans, Paris, Sydney, London, Venice, Florence. These are all places to which tourists flock and for which former residents pine.

To this list, I add Charleston, S.C. Despite the hotly contested influx of tourists and cruise ships, this beautiful peninsular city has lost little of its character. Sure, Charleston is relatively similar in superficial ways to Savannah, Ga. For me, however, Charleston possesses a cultural vibrancy that the comparatively sleepier Savannah lacks.

But let's not rehash that tired old Charleston vs. Savannah debate. Instead, I'd like to share some of my favorite experiences of Charleston, where I lived from 1982 to 1984 and to which I have repeatedly returned in the years since. These are my top 12 things to do, eat, and see in Charleston, in no particular order because they're all so damn good.

1. Eat she crab soup in the courtyard of 82 Queen restaurant. And if they're serving fried green tomatoes, well, you know what to do.

2. Eat the Coca-Cola cake at Jestine's Kitchen.

Coca-Cola cake, Jestine's Kitchen

3. Go for drinks to the Market Pavilion Hotel rooftop bar. You get a gorgeous view of the city, amazing cocktails (like the blueberry mojito, below). If you go, make sure no one in your party is wearing flip flops or cut-offs, because they're kinda persnickety about their dress code. 

Blueberry mojito at the Market Pavilion rooftop bar

4. Take a private walking tour of the historic area from Laura Wichmann Hipp of Charleston Tea Party Private Tours. Laura gives an unforgettable tour, and she may even get you into a private mansion for a look-see and some mint tea made from a local tea plantation. Call Laura at 843-577-5896 and tell her Jim and Nick in San Francisco sent you.

5. Go shopping on lower King Street. Gorgeous (and expensive) antiques, interesting women's clothes, some highly traditional men's clothing store (that would be you, Berlin's), and lots of chain stores like Gap and Apple. A pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

The 'latest' men's fashions at Berlin's

6. Shop on King Street north of Calhoun. This is where you'll find quirky, interesting shops and restaurants you won't see anywhere else.

7. Go to the Unitarian Church cemetery by way of the alley. On King Street, across from the Charleston historical society/library, there's a wrought-iron gate surrounded by two brick walls. Past the gate, you'll find a path that leads to the cemetery of the Unitarian church. It's Southern gothic at its best, with Spanish moss dripping off ancient live oak trees, and crumbling tombstones from the 1800s with inscriptions such as "They were lovely and pleasant in their lives together" (this was for a married couple, buried together).

Unitarian Church cemetery

8. Go to the Piggly Wiggly. Just because you can. There's one at 445 Meeting Street. If they have a red cooler bag like the one below (which I bought at the Folly Beach Piggly Wiggly), get it. I use mine all the time.

One reason why "I'm big on the pig"

9. Eat at Old Towne restaurant, which is an old-school (but recently refurbished) Greek restaurant on King Street. And buy a bottle of their Greek seasoning to bring home. Nick and I sprinkle this stuff everywhere: on chicken, pork, steak, potatoes. I've considered putting it on my toothbrush. That's how good it is.

10. Walk around Ansonborough, a beautiful neighborhood in the historic district without all the tourists. I used to live here, at 6 Wentworth Street--conveniently located near the Harris-Teeter grocery store and a tiny ABC store. (An ABC store, for you Yankees out there, is where Southerners go to buy hard liquor.) This is where I accidentally dropped an air conditioner out of a second-story window while completely naked, but that's for another blog post.

6 Wentworth Street

11. Spend an afternoon at Folly Beach. It's a funky, Left Coastish town, a touch of Santa Cruz on the Carolina coast. The far western end of the beach is often sparsely populated and quite beautiful. Worth knowing: George Gershwin spent a summer on Folly Beach during the 30s while composing his opera Porgy and Bess (which is set in Charleston).

The stark beauty of Folly Beach

12. Walk south on Church Street, beginning around St. Philip's Church. Just do it. You'll thank me. And if you see an alley, here or anywhere else, enter it. Charleston alleys aren't like the ones in your city or mine, trust me.

St. Philip's Church

Above all, wear comfortable walking shoes, because you will be walking. Dress lightly, because if it's warm, you will be sweating. Go during the Spoleto festival if possible, which is the last week of May and first week of June every year. If you get the chance, read something by Pat Conroy before, during, or after your visit, preferably The Prince of Tides, South of Broad, or The Lords of Discipline. And when you return from your trip, please tell me all about it. I never tire of hearing people's Charleston stories.

Rick Santorum Gets Joansmacked

Don't you wish Joan Crawford were around to smack some sense into our politicians?

Surprise. She is.

In my last post, I fantasized about interjecting a virtual Bette Davis to spice up live theater, just as Tupac Shakur was resurrected for a recent concert. A reader of that post, Paul, told me about a YouTube video in which Joan Crawford listens to Rick Santorum's televised babblings and lets him know exactly what she thinks.

Here's the video. Joan, you go, girl!

Tupac Shakur or Bette Davis? I Vote for Bette

On Sunday night, the late Tupac Shakur performed "live" in concert with Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg at the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival.

Resurrecting the rapper, who died in 1996 after being shot in Las Vegas, was accomplished by special digital effects from Digital Domain, the company that made Brad Pitt look old and ugly in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Tupac's likeness was projected onto a piece of glass on the concert stage, which then bounced the image onto a Mylar screen. Apparently, the effect was awesome: Through technological magic, Tupac was alive and well and singing to his fans once again.

My first thought was: Look at those abs. Tupac should've changed his name to Sixpac.

Sixpac Shakur

Then I thought: Who else would I like to see, digitally resurrected from the dead and interjected into a live performance?

Bette Davis, for starters. Let's say you're watching a Broadway play, and there's a scene in which two pretentious characters start speaking French to one another. Suddenly, in vivid black and white, there's Bette Davis, as Margo Channing in All About Eve, quipping "Enchante to you, too!" That would perk the audience up.

Bette Davis in All About Eve

In fact, you could make a hologram Bette Davis a recurring gag on Broadway. Audiences would never know when or where Bette might appear and make a bitchy remark. In Death of a Salesman, now running on Broadway, Bette from The Little Foxes could suddenly materialize and say coldly to Philip Seymour Hoffman: "I hope you die. I hope you die soon. I'll be waiting for you to die."

Or how about this? Immediately after a love scene in a play, suddenly there's Bette from Of Human Bondage, shrieking contemptuously: "After ya kissed me, I always used to wipe my mouth! WIPE MY MOUTH!"

I'll say it first: hologram Bette Davis = viral sensation. 

Some other late, great, dearly missed performers I'd love to see 'live' on stage, in no particular order:

* John Gielgud, from Arthur

John Gielgud

* Dixie Carter, from Designing Women

Dixie Carter

* Marty Feldman, from Young Frankenstein

Marty Feldman

* Madeleine Kahn, from any movie she ever made

Madeleine Kahn

* Edward G. Robinson, from any movie he ever made but particularly Key Largo

Edward G. Robinson

* Joan Crawford, in her circus performing drag from Berserk! Imagine Joan suddenly popping up in a Cirque du Soleil show.

Joan Crawford in Berserk!

Your turn. Which performer(s) would you love to see resurrected again on stage?

Did You and I Perish on the Titanic?

Toward the end of Titanic in 3D, I had a sinking feeling. Could I be the reincarnation of someone who perished on the ocean liner 100 years ago? An Irish passenger, specifically?

I know you just rolled your eyes; I could see it. In fact, I just rolled my own eyes. I'm not a huge believer in reincarnation. But I don't actively disbelieve it, either. And there must be some reason why I've felt this strong emotional connection to the Titanic saga for so many years.

In the mid 90s, before James Cameron's epic spectacle Titanic was first released, I became completely absorbed by the Titanic. I read numerous books, devoured old movies (especially A Night to Remember). I even joined the Titanic historical society. I became a Titanic geek.

I can account for my Titanic obsession logically, to a point. I'm still fascinated by all the mistakes that were made, before and after the iceberg collision. I mean, they didn't even have a pair of binoculars in the ship's lookout tower at the time the iceberg approached!

I'm also a wee bit drawn to disaster tales. For this, I have Irwin Allen, the producer of all those 1970s disaster epics like The Poseidon Adventure, to thank. And the rapid technological changes occurring at the time of the Titanic's sinking, such as the advent of the telephone and automobile, fascinate me as well.

Isidor and Ida Straus

Then there are all the human dramas that unfolded on board Titanic the night of April 14-15, 1912. One that touches me the most is the well-known story of the Strauses. Isidor Straus, Macy's co-owner, refused to get into a lifeboat while there were still women and children aboard. His wife, Ida, remained with her husband, though she was offered a lifeboat seat. "Where you go, I go," she reportedly told him.

Last weekend, as I watched the ship sink in 3D, I felt flooded with sadness. Not because of the movie's love story, which I still find contrived. Not because of the 3D effect, though certainly it made everything more vivid, like a dream turned into nightmare. I've never gotten choked up during a disaster movie in my entire life (not even when Stella Stevens died in The Poseidon Adventure). What was going on?

The Titanic picked up 123 passengers in Ireland, most of them poor emigrants; only 44 survived. I have strong Irish roots, certainly on my mother's side. Could it be that I'm the reincarnation of an Irish passenger who died on the ship?

There's another explanation, of course. I recently turned 54. Could it be that disaster stories are no longer just the "cool" spectacles of mass destruction they were for me when I was younger? Given my stage in life, am I more emotionally attuned to the loss of life?

Because I'm a relatively practical person, I'll go with option number two.

And yet, amid all the Titanic anniversary commemorations going on now, it's important to remember that 1,517 people died. The tragedy created countless widows and orphans; it changed more lives than it ended, and for decades to come. Maybe you and I weren't on board the ship 100 years ago. But isn't it possible that the ship's sinking had some unknown impact on who we are today?


    

A Memorable Meal at the Dementia Diner

In tragedy, there is always comedy. If you ever doubt this, have dinner with the residents of your local Alzheimer's facility.

Ruth and her grandson Stafford

While I was in Greensboro this week, my nephew Stafford and I visited with my mother, Ruth, during the evening meal at the 'memory care' facility where she lives. There were three others at the table. One was a rather blank-faced woman who, on previous visits, I've seen rocking back and forth in her chair, taking her glasses on and off, on and off. She didn't wear glasses this time but still rocked back and forth, though not as much as before.

Next to her was a man who wore thick glasses, hunched over his meal, barely made eye contact, and didn't say a word.

The third resident at the table was a petite, jovial, bespectacled woman with white curly hair and a love of song. She asked if we knew the song Yankee Doodle Dandy and then promptly began to sing it, punctuating each lyric by thrusting her index finger at me.

"Yankee Doodle went to town,
Riding on a pony;
He stuck a feather in his hat,
And called it macaroni."

What Does a Feather Have to Do With Macaroni, Anyway?

The woman laughed and said something like, "My sister and I used to sing that all the time when we were kids, and I always wondered what a feather had to do with macaroni?"

"That's a good question," I replied, not really knowing what to say. 

Stafford and I were trying to get Ruth to eat her dinner, which was carved-up chunks of grilled chicken and the most dreadful vegetable ever devised, cauliflower. Ruth ate a few bites, reluctantly, as the floor show resumed.

"I used to love My Melancholy Baby," the songbird continued, immediately launching into a rendition.

"Come to me, my melancholy baby
Cuddle up and don't be blue
All your fears are foolish fancies, maybe
You know, honey, I'm in love with you."

She paused to recollect something her father used to say about the "foolish fancies" part and continued:

"Every cloud must have a silver lining
Just wait until the sun shines through
Smile, my honey dear, while I kiss away each tear
Or else I shall be melancholy too."

Just as I was thinking how amazing it was that this chanteuse could recall that much of an old song, my mother looked at me and rolled her eyes extravagantly. The woman, unaware of Ruth's disapproval, happily concluded her song:

"So smile, my honey dear, while I kiss away each tear
Or else I shall be melancholy too."

A Hand, Moving Stealthily Into My Peripheral Vision

Stafford and I applauded. About this time, I saw a hand moving ever so stealthily into my peripheral vision. The hand belonged to the woman to my right, the one who tends to rock back and forth. For whatever reason, she gingerly placed a chewed-up piece of chicken on top of the cellophane-wrapped Easter cookie Stafford and I had brought Ruth. When the woman wasn't looking, I slowly moved the cookie away and shook off the masticated meat.

And so went another meal at the "Dementia Diner." Forgive me for having a little fun here; humor is what helps me endure this situation. I'll leave you with one more example.

 Earlier that day, two of my sisters and I spent a chunk of time with Ruth in her room at the facility, answering the same questions repeatedly. Ruth kept asking, "Was I married?" "Who was my husband?" "Is he still alive?," and so on. At one point, Ruth asked how old she was when she married.

"You were 20 years old, and Dad was 28," I answered.

"Twenty years old?," Ruth exclaimed. Then she looked at us and asked, "Why did y'all let me get married so young?"

My mother, a few years ago, horsing around with my niece Marcy. The wheelchair was for my mother, but she pushed Marcy all the way down the hall in it. Just for laughs.

Superfluousness in the Sky

My late, great friend Mark was once riding on an airplane when he spotted a product he wanted in the SkyMall catalog. The experience ended, as many experiences with SkyMall must end, in humiliation.

At the time, I think it was circa 1999, Mark picked up one of the seatback phones and dialed SkyMall's phone number to place an order. Those otherwise extraordinarily expensive phone calls were free, as long as you were calling SkyMall. Anyway, Mark tried to tell the customer service representative which item he wanted. The rep couldn't hear him and asked Mark to repeat the item by name, louder. Embarrassed, Mark did as she asked, but the rep still didn't understand him. Please say it again, she asked, and this time, even louder.

"I want to buy your nasal hair trimmers!" Mark finally was forced to blurt out, for all to hear.

I think of Mark every time I spot the SkyMall catalog beckoning from the seatback pocket, that bastion of bacteria and the occasional baby iguana. In those moments during takeoff and landing when my iPad must be put away, I can't resist opening up the catalog and, once again, being amazed at the superfluous and silly products being paraded before my disbelieving eyes.

On a flight yesterday, here are a few things I saw in the current SkyMall catalog. And all of these were in just the first few pages, mind you.

A $500 "luxury pet residence," aka, a cage for your pooch. It's made of "solid hardwood with integrated roller shades" and a "plush foam mattress." A Tempur-Pedic mattress for your terrier, in other words. And get this: Assembly is required. Seriously? I pay you $500 for a dog cage and I still have to build the thing?

Does this luxury residence come with a doorman?

A $40 cream, DermaTend Mole & Skin Tag Remover, promises to "remove your unwanted moles and skin tags at home" using "a natural herbal remedy." In just a few days, "you will be free of your ugly moles or skin tags for good!"

First of all, the marketing copy sounds a bit judge-y. How dare they assume all moles are ugly and unwanted? Haven't they ever heard of "beauty moles," like Anne Francis used to wear?

Anne Francis and her mole. Did she and Peggy Lee get them from the same supplier?

Second of all, those pictures they offer as proof--how in the heck can I be sure that's the same nose, before and after the mole? Is it me, or do I detect some slight deviation between the nostrils?

Most importantly, what exactly happens to your mole? Do you suddenly wake up one morning and it's lying on the pillow next to you? Or does it slowly shrink, like Lily Tomlin in The Incredible Shrinking Woman?

Then there's Thundershirt, a "rugby" style shirt costing $40 to $45 that's designed to calm a dog's anxiety. I realize dogs, like people, get anxious. But honestly, that's what Xanax and cosmopolitans are for.

Anyhow, the Thundershirt's "gentle, constant pressure has a profound calming effect for most dogs when anxious, fearful, or over-excited. It is similar to swaddling an infant or to people with autism using pressure to relieve persistent anxiety." The shirt is supposed to calm dogs during thunder, fireworks, separation anxiety, general fearfulness, barking, jumping, and more. Oddly, there's no mention of coyotes or bears. I mean, if I were a dog and suddenly encountered a hungry coyote, I don't think a pressurized rugby shirt would relax me.

The "Thundershirt"

But about the thunder. As I was reading about this shirt on the plane, the captain announced we were facing thunderstorms ahead. "Fasten your seat belts," he advised. Suddenly, I wondered if the Thundershirt came in my size?

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Have you ever bought something wacky from SkyMall? If so, did it do what it promised to do? Or did it leave you wondering where life went wrong? 

Worst Poem in History - Move Over, Waffle House

On Friday, the Huffington Post declared a poem about Waffle House, which the chain restaurant posted on its Facebook page, as the worst in history.

I took that as a challenge: to write verse that's even worse. But not about Waffle House, that's been done. No, my poem is an ode to Chick-Fil-A.

But before I inflict it upon you, here is the Waffle House poem:

Waffle House Waffle House
We are home grown
Where the Customer is king
And every booth is a throne

Waffle House Waffle House
Home away from home
Scattered Smothered Covered Diced
The All-Star zone

Waffle House Waffle House
New home of the Toddle House
Come one come all
Bring the whole family out

Waffle House Waffle House
We're here 24/7
Bert's Chili, Alice's Tea
Welcome to heaven
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Okay, here goes my wretched Chick-Fil-A homage. You've been warned.

I love fried chicken

Nick expressing disapproval

And adore Chick-Fil-A
I could eat there all the time
Except, of course, on Sunday

I love waffle fries
And Chick-Fil-A's sure are tasty
They're even cooked in peanut oil
And they're 35 percent Vitamin C!

I'll be in N.C. soon
And Chick-Fil-A is all around
I'll eat there once or twice
And put on many a pound

It's true I must confess
I loves me my Chick-Fil-A
But why don't they don't love me too?
Silly me, it's because I'm gay


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Are you feeling inspired to wax poetic about your favorite chain restaurant? If so, please share. Go ahead, knock the crown for putrid poetry right off my head!