The First Item on My 'Do Not Do' List

A few months back, a cousin from North Carolina visited San Francisco on business. Nick and I had dinner with him and his business associates at an upscale restaurant in the city's North Beach neighborhood.

That evening led me to start a "Do Not Do" list.

I ordered duck, which I love but don't often eat, from the menu. So did at least two others at the table. When my dish arrived, I gazed upon the entree with alarm. It was the color of eggplant, looking like it had been barely introduced to a flame. The others who had ordered this foul fowl dug in and seemed to be enjoying it. I showed it to Nick, who curled up his nose and suggested I send it back to the kitchen immediately.

I decided to be brave and plunge ahead. The duck was sliced into medallions. I ate one and a half medallions before I accepted the fact I was simply enduring my meal, not enjoying it. I sent the duck back for additional cooking. But the gastrointestinal damage had already been done. I'll spare you the details of the unpleasant aftermath, except to say that the dish should have been named Daffy's Revenge.

The next day, once I had sufficiently recovered, I decided I'd reached a point in life when it was time to be clear about what I would not be doing again, ever. "Eat rare duck" became my "Do Not Do" list's first item.

That incident occurred back in January. To my surprise, I've only added four items to the list since, and they're rather half-hearted items that I probably will do again, such as "Going out more than once during the workweek."

As it turns out, I feel old enough to not want to waste time and effort, but not old enough to shut the door forever on a list of things. For example, I was tempted to add "Eat anything rare that is usually cooked" to my "Do Not Do" list. But then, about a month ago, I (hesitantly) tasted a friend's tuna tartare appetizer and loved it.

So for now, I'm living each day with a seemingly endless "To Do" list and a really short "Do Not Do" list. Somehow, the imbalance between the two feels right.

An Unexpected Hero in the Boston Bombings

I'm running on the gym treadmill. I change the TV screen's channels until I come to Anderson Cooper, reporting the latest news about the Boston bombings. Three people are dead, including an eight-year-old boy named Martin Richard, and more than 140 injured.

The camera closes in on a picture of Martin who, about one year ago, was photographed holding up a sign he made that read, "No more hurting people."

I grab the treadmill rails, not sure I can go on. I slow the speed to a walk instead of a run, to give myself time to recover. I can't think of anything but this: If I'm having trouble going on right now, imagine how the people of Boston feel. How Martin Richard's family feels. Or how everyone else in the world feels, frankly, when faced with senseless, horrible acts of violence.

By now, I suspect most of us have found a way to cope with terrorism. For some, it's religion and prayer. For others, alcohol and anti-anxiety meds. Psychotherapy. Meditation. Crying. Avoiding large gatherings. Giving someone you love a longer hug than usual. Exercise.

I look around the gym. The treadmills are all occupied, and many of the screens are on CNN. I'm the only one who has slowed down. Am I being overly sensitive? Should I keep going on like my fellow treadmillers in the tried-and-true "Keep calm and carry on" style? After all, the moment we let terrorists disrupt our lives or fill us with terror, they win.

I continue walking on the treadmill, absorbed by the news reporting, struggling with emotion--an eight-year-old boy! My attention drifts back to the screen. CNN is showing an interview with Bill Iffrig, a Washington state resident and veteran Boston marathon runner. Iffrig was just 15 feet from the finish line when the first bomb went off. He fell to the ground, where he was widely photographed--his picture made the cover of this week's Sports Illustrated and is probably a shoo-in for next year's Pulitzer prize in photography.

Shaken but unharmed, Iffrig said he continued to the finish line and walked back to his hotel six blocks away. And get this: He's 78 years old. He's been in 45 Boston marathons.

In every tragedy, heroes like Iffrig emerge. He reminds me there are far more heroes in the world than terrorists. Just watching a few minutes of the news about Boston makes this fact obvious. So I turn up the treadmill speed and start running again. I know how to go on now.

Why I Loathe the Word "Like"

Agony, that's what this is. Sitting on a plane, waiting for it to taxi down the runway, but it's not moving, there are six or more planes ahead of us. Meanwhile, directly across the narrow coach aisle, sits a young woman chattering to a young man. They just met. She's telling him about herself, he's nodding his head, occasionally interjecting a question or comment of his own. But it's not easy, because the young woman speaks in an endless stream of words. Unfortunately, the vast majority is only one word.

Like.

"I'm like going home to LA for like the weekend?" "I'm like a sociology major at school?" "I like speak like a little Polish because like my father is from Poland?" "I like thought it would be cool to like talk Polish with him?" 

Like like like.

I look over at Nick, who is already scrambling for his earplugs and rolling his eyes. I realize my ear corks are deep in my bag in the overhead compartment. We aren't allowed to stand at the moment because the plane will accelerate down the runway any moment. Portable electronics are also at the moment verboten. So I have only a pair of earbuds as a defense against the Los Angeles Liker.

When did a fairly meaningless word such as "like" become so endlessly, tirelessly, appallingly overused? And why do Likers also tend to speak declarative statements as if they were questions, their voices swooping up at the end? 

It's easy to blame Los Angeles for creating a generation, if not more, of Likers. I first became aware of their existence in the parody song Valley Girl in the early 1980s, about teenage girls in the San Fernando Valley. The song was followed by the (surprisingly good) movie version. 

Perhaps L.A. is the Liker's native homeland. But when the Grammar Guards were fast asleep in their watchtowers, the Likers slipped across the borders. There was no Ellis Island through which they had to file, no stern English teachers to interrogate them, find them wanting, and refuse to stamp their passports. And so, the Likers were free to spread wide and far and spawn. 

Like like like like like.

Why do people speak this way? Is it a generational thing, primarily popular among teens and 20-somethings, and people at these ages tend to speak and act as their peers do? Is it based in uncertainty? Is that why you'd say "she's, like, all mad at me" instead of "she's mad at me?" Because you're not sure she's really mad at you? Do Likers grow out of it? (Yes, please!)

The most pressing question: What to do now that the Like genie has long escaped its bottle. We have freedom of speech in this country, and amen to that. However, freedom of speech means the freedom to heavily sprinkle every sentence you speak with more  'likes' than Justin Bieber's Facebook page.

Of course, disabling the Liker temporarily can be accomplished through ear plugs or listening to music with Like-cancelling headphones. However, this isn't always practical, such as when riding a bus or train. You might miss your stop and end up in Tuscaloosa when you meant to embark in Tucson. Mentally tuning out a loquacious Liker is challenging as well, because the sing-songy intonation of their speaking worms its way into your ear canal, where it's free to tap dance on your ear drums (and your last good nerve). Invoking the "Don't speak" command from Woody Allen's Bullets Over Broadway is the most tempting course of action, but it's one that my Southern upbringing won't allow me to do. 

Perhaps we may politely request Likers to donate $1 to the charitable organization of their choice every time they use the word as filler. And above all, just as in the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers, we must be careful not to become Likers ourselves. In the past 24 hours, I caught myself using the word "like" unnecessarily--twice. And that is something I do not like. 

The Best of the Worst Blog Spam

Nearly every day, this humble blog receives at least one comment from someone who wishes to remain Anonymous. Usually, the comments have nothing to do with a post I've written. They are what's known as blog spam, intended to direct traffic to dubious websites. 

The vast majority are written in cracked English. And while I find spam comments individually annoying, collectively they could form a slim volume of hallucinogenic haiku poetry. Here are some of the best of the worst blog spam comments I've removed from my blog in recent months. The first two are ridiculous; the last one, outrageous. 

In response to my post on A Piggly Wiggly piggy bank, a pie bird, and other Southern essentials: "One is designed to prevent herpes infection, and the other to treat herpes, so those are promising projects. capitalists would, and he wrote that "the two value model presented here most resembles Eysenck's hypothesis. Job interviews serve the purpose of the employer and the potential employee meeting for a face-to-face interaction, with the employer getting a chance to assess first hand the suitability of the candidate for the position."

A comment left for my post Why I love Tennessee Williams' stage directions -- and Elizabeth Taylor, too: "This is a powerful, biological urge. Put on a happy face. Applying a penis vitamin cream (most health professionals recommend Man 1 Man Oil) can help to ensure that the area has an ongoing supply of skin-rejuvenating, disease-fighting and sensation-enhancing nutrients to keep it looking and feeling healthy and sexy."

And finally, this one is my favorite. It's a comment left for my post Is Southern Hospitality a Myth?:  "Ground cover can be added to pedophile the landscape. And your shoes will not be tracking soil into the house. This same person spread several yards of the mulch around their house before they realized the problem, and it ruined many of their plants."

It All Began With a Marijuana Lollipop

The lollipop in my fridge

On April 12, my play Lollipops, which has a bit of fun with medical marijuana, debuts as part of an evening of short comedic plays, I'm Not OK, Cupid. The production, by Left Coast Theatre Company in San Francisco, showcases plays that depict the hilarious travails of modern romance and online hookups. Left Coast is posting interviews with the production's featured playwrights on its Facebook page. Here are the questions they asked me, followed by my answers.

LCTC: The story of Lollipops centers around a middle-aged-recent-divorcee-neo-lesbian who is trying to get back into show business. What and/or who inspired such a dynamic and conflicted character? Did the character appear out of thin air or build upon itself as you were writing?

Martin: I've known more than one middle-aged woman who, after years of what seemed like a happy marriage, suddenly found herself alone, wondering what the hell happened, why did my long-time spouse or partner leave, and where did the time go? This often creates a sense of urgency, a need to make up for lost time--now. When you have a character in this situation who also had deferred her big dream--as so many people do--the stakes are suddenly very high. Sandy, the main character in Lollipops, hears the clock ticking loudly. She wants to leave something of meaning behind, she wants a legacy. Faced with this situation, a character like Sandy makes uncharacteristic choices, which is what I find so compelling.

LCTC: Where did the idea of ‘magical lollipops’ come from? Have you ever eaten ‘magical lollipops’? How does one make ‘magical lollipops’? Do you know if Paula Dean has a ‘sugar free’ magical lollipop recipe?

Martin: I have had one magical lollipop in my life. A friend gave it to me. He has a prescription for medical marijuana, and he prefers to take in lollipop form. I'm totally in support of medical marijuana, but I just find the concept of prescription lollipops hilarious. But the idea for Lollipops came to me in Dolores Park on a sunny afternoon. I was enjoying the weather with my partner, Nick, and this young woman walked by selling "ganja lollies." I was intrigued enough to beckon her over and ask her a bunch of questions about them. Since I'd cross-examined her, I felt obliged to buy one of her lollipops. It is still in my refrigerator. For whatever reason, I don't trust it, and yet I don't want to throw it out, either. How ridiculous is that?

BTW, Paula Deen doesn't eat anything without sugar, with the possible exception of steak.

LCTC: Your last play, The Buck Naked Church of Truth, really played into the world of San Francisco politics. Do you want Lollipops to have a similar message or voice? What was your motivation and drive behind this piece?

Martin: Whenever I write a play, I want to leave the audience with something more than just a pleasant experience. I want them to discuss their reactions to the play with whomever they see it. With The Buck Naked Church of Truth, I wanted the audience to figure out where they stood on the issue of public nudity in SF. Were they for or against it, and why? Lollipops is less political and timely and much more personal, for me. Yes, it touches on medical marijuana, but in a farcical way. What I would like the audience to think about after this play is: What dreams have they deferred? Have they given up too much for their long-term spouse or partner? And what would they do if they were suddenly free to start all over again in mid life?

---

I'm Not OK, Cupid runs April 12 through May 4 at the Shelton Theater, 533 Sutter Street, San Francisco. Tickets are $20 online at Brown Paper Tickets. Nick and I will be there opening night, April 12.

The Runaway Resident of the Memory Care Facility

Nearly every time I walk into the Alzheimer's facility in Greensboro, I see her sitting in the community area. Her reddish hair is hard to miss. But what truly sets Hazel apart is her warm smile and her playfully pointing finger.

That's her way of saying hello, pointing at me repeatedly. The pointing eventually becomes a beckoning, her hands clutching the air, aimed toward me. Even though I'm on my way to my mother's room, I can't resist Hazel. I go to her, lean down, and hug her. I know nothing about this woman, nor does she know me, but her embrace is as tight as mine.

Her eyes are wide, joyful. I wonder if she's always been such a happy person? I'm no expert on the subject, but I've come to believe dementia can make the elderly both more of who they were and less of who they are.

I ask Hazel if she's been behaving herself. "Oh no," she says, shaking her head. This is something else I've learned about Alzheimer's sufferers: They often love being asked this question. Maybe it makes them feel like they're still capable of mischief, which means they're still a force to be reckoned with.

And they can be. Just a few days before I arrived, I received an email blast sent to those with family at the facility. The message said that "a resident has again found out the door code" needed to exit the building.

"We believe the resident had figured out to look in the back of the visitor's log and was able to peek at it while assisting some other residents out of the front door for an outing." From now on, the memo continued, the exit code will no longer be written in the back of the visitor's logbook. The message gave the new code, with the implication that you'll have to keep it handy or remember it. I must admit, I love the irony of needing to remember a code to exit a memory care facility.

Back to Hazel. As we talk, her hands grab mine and hold on, firmly. I think she's even flirting with me, so I flirt back. We are adoring each other, laughing and talking. And then, her tone grows quieter, her smile fades, a desperation comes into in her eyes.

"Can you take me home?" she asks. "Please?"

Entrance to the memory-care facility

I've been asked this before where my mother lives--sometimes, my mother is the one asking. It always destabilizes me, like a mild earthquake. For a second, I don't have a response. My mind flashes back to the runaway resident I read about in the email. Was it Hazel? It could have been. It could have been just about any of the residents, except perhaps for those I always see slumped in chairs or staring blankly ahead.

The truth is, Hazel is home. I won't tell her that, however. I know that at this stage of her life, the truth is as meaningless as a lie. But the truth continues to sting; the lie offers fleeting hope.

I hug Hazel once more and tell her I'll be happy to take her home, but I must first visit my mother. Her smile returns, though not as brightly as before. Perhaps she knows, intuitively, that although where she is may not be home, it's where she must be.

My Own Version of '56 Up'

How much do you believe you change every seven years? Does your personality, the essence of who you are, evolve? Or is it simply the surface stuff—your demeanor, knowledge, looks, attitude, situation--that shifts?

If you aren’t sure, or want to see that question played out cinematically, catch 56 Up. Currently playing in some U.S. theaters, 56 Up is an acclaimed British TV documentary series. It began in 1964 with the release of 7 Up, a look at a group of U.K. children at age seven. The filmmakers asked them what their dreams were for the future, what they liked, disliked. The same group of Britons have gone before the cameras every seven years since. With the recent release of 56 Up, we see how those cute kids have evolved in middle-aged adults. 

The entire series is a powerful, unique record of how we age, the choices we make, the dreams we defer, the relationships we develop. The movie left me wondering: What would my own 56 Up look like? 

Age 7. I’m a gregarious kid living with my family in Greensboro, N.C.. I wander the neighborhood, entering neighbors’ homes through their unlocked doors, asking what they’re having for dinner, and if it pleases me, asking if I might join them. Miraculously, no one seems to mind in the least. I spend hours drawing cartoons using the downstairs hallway as my desk, causing everyone to step around me. Here, too, no one seems to mind. I feel safe, loved, and because I’m the only boy with four older sisters and I'm the youngest child, special. (My sisters would lovingly add “spoiled.”) I’m having a great childhood.

Me at about 6 years old, on "The Old Rebel" TV show

Age 14. I'm skinny, with braces and a bad shag haircut, and most of the time, I want to disappear. I've become the butt of jokes in school, the last one to be picked for any sport in P.E. I’m completely inept at sports and not doing well academically. I spend many hours in my room, drawing cartoons, writing plays and stories. Not even the teachers in my school seem to be on my side. During a social studies class, everyone has to go to the front of the room and present a book report. As I try to present mine, homophobic hecklers in the class mock me, calling me “Sweets” and other such names loudly enough for everyone to hear. The teacher tells them to stop, but they don’t, and he says nothing more. I can barely speak as I stand before the class, fearful and hurt. This moment creates a dread of public speaking that remained with me for decades. Completely alone, the only thing that gets me through is the knowledge that one day, I'll leave my hometown forever. (Note: Not surprisingly, I haven't found any photos of me around this age. But if I find one, I'll upload it.) 

Age 21. I’m an English major at the University of North Carolina in Charlotte. I’m running and working out, to build up my ‘stick arms’ and fill out my spindly legs. My grades are excellent. My teachers praise my term papers. I have many friends. I visit New York City for the first time, tagging along with my roommate’s drama class. For four or five days, we go to Broadway shows. My love of the theater is set afire. And one day, bored in biology class, I make a list of the things I want after graduation: 1. To be a professional writer. 2. To live in a big city. 3. To have a lifelong partner. 

Circa 1979, striking a pose with my sweet grandmother "Sissie"

 Age 28. I’ve achieved all three things on my to-do list. I’m employed as a correspondent for a computer business weekly, and I write travel and other freelance articles for national magazines. I live in Atlanta with Nick, who has been my partner now for five years. My job requires me to travel frequently, which I love to do: New Orleans, Miami, Houston, Dallas, Chicago, Boston, New York. And yet, I’m discontent. As I sense 30 approaching, something seems missing—until I visit California for the first time, on a vacation with Nick and our good friend Edward. 

With my friend Edward, my first trip to San Francisco, 1986

Age 35. By this point, Nick and I have been living in San Francisco for six years. I’m working at the best job I’ve ever had, as an editor for Macworld magazine. During those heady economic times, the magazine takes the editorial staff to a working retreat in Hawaii. I love my co-workers; there are few if any ‘divas’ to make life miserable. Nick and I had made three ridiculously fun trips to Europe by now. I have everything, it seems. 

With Nick and our pet ducks Dickie and Dee Dee, Florence, 1992

Except, as events unfold, my father. As he’s dying of cancer, I fly to Greensboro for a visit. My family and I have decided it’s time to bring in hospice care. The last time I see my father alive, he's in bed, surrounded by my sisters and my mother, making jokes with the hospice worker who’s come to meet him. I look into my father’s eyes before I leave to catch my plane back to San Francisco. He knows, as do I, that this is goodbye, yet we don't say it. Off I go to the airport, only to discover my flight has been delayed, and then delayed again, and once more delayed. I spend at least five hours waiting in the airport, all the while thinking: I should be with my father. Finally, I board the flight, I return to San Francisco, and I live with this regret (and others) still, 20 years later.

Age 42: I’m self-employed and doing well. Nick and I have bought a condo in San Francisco with great views of the city. I’ve been writing a novel for two years and enjoying it immensely. One Friday, in July, Nick tries calling his mother, as he does every Friday. But Mrs. P, as we called her, doesn’t answer. That’s not too unusual. On Fridays she is usually getting her hair done and after that, buying a sub sandwich for lunch. Or she’s playing golf. As night falls and there's still no answer at Mrs. P’s home, a sense of dread creeps in. We make up reasons why she might not be answering—she has been known to accidentally leave the phone off the hook. The next morning, I awaken uncharacteristically early. Immediately I dial Mrs. P’s phone; no answer. Nick calls his former sister-in-law, Margaret, and another family friend, Nancy Lee. Together they go to Mrs. P’s, as they have a key to her apartment. They find her, still in her bathrobe, on the bed. Mrs. P’s death leaves a void in my life that has yet to be filled and never will be. During her memorial, I am one of the eulogists. As I walk to the podium, my mind flashes back to that horrible social studies class when I was 14. None of that matters anymore. Before a chapel packed with mourners, I tell my favorite Mrs. P stories with ease (see the video clip of my eulogy, below). I talk about the unique relationship she and I had, and my heart is full of loss and gratitude.

Age 49: The year before, I'd faced one of the biggest challenges of my adult life: My sisters and I had to move our mother, against her will, out of the home she’d lived in for nearly 50 years, due to her advancing dementia. And so, at age 49, I join a therapy group. I'm fearful of doing it, and yet, I knew I had to. It is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Every week, for the following five years, I learn a little more about how to undo the old behaviors I developed when I was younger—things that protected me then but got in my way now. I learn how to be vulnerable in front of others (not easy for me to do, when I had to present the strongest possible façade to survive my teenage years). 

With my sweet (and feisty) mother, 2007

Since I was 49, my life has been filled with many positive changes. After all those years, my love for theater was rekindled during a trip to New York when I was 50. Since then, I’ve written a full-length play and have had, to date, four productions of my short plays. A fifth one is scheduled this April. I co-authored a book for Random House. I started this blog and have met many fabulous people through it. My relationship with Nick grows stronger and deeper every day. I am blessed with loving friends and family.

Having turned 55 this week, days after seeing 56 Up, I couldn't help but look back at where I've been, and ahead to where I may be going. Have I become a different person throughout my own seven-year intervals? In some ways, yes. But in a sense, everything that’s happened has helped me return to the seven-year-old I once was: a boy full of hope and without fear, a kid who sprawled out on the floor drawing for hours, contentedly lost in a world of his own making.

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What would your version of 56 Up look like? 

What's Your Honey Boo Boo Nickname?

While looking at my Google Analytics, I discovered that a sizable number of people have discovered this blog by doing a Google search for Honey Boo Boo name generator.

I had no idea such a thing existed, though I have written a couple of Honey Boo Boo-related blog posts, so I guess Google took a wild leap of faith sending those unsuspecting searchers to my blog. I've since learned that Honey Boo Boo Nickname Generator is a Facebook app that, when you input a name, automatically creates the kind of nickname Honey Boo Boo might give you.

Naturally I wanted to see what HBB might call me. The answer: Jabber Maverick. I didn't care for that one, so I tried again. The second time around, HBB called me Jaclynn Mamie. On the third-ground, I became Jinxy Mini-Belle. I'll go with that one.

Curious, I typed in the names of some other Southerners. Here's what Honey Boo Boo would call them.

Scarlett O'Hara: Skylar Oinker

Blanche DuBois: Boo Boo Doodle

Tennessee Williams: Tutu Wonderful

Bill Clinton: Beauty Crustie

Rosalynn Carter: Raspberry Crybaby

William Faulkner: Willy Fairy

Lee Thompson (the real name of Honey Boo Boo's 'Uncle Poodle'): Love Trouble

Alana Thompson (Honey Boo Boo's real name): Aishlynn Trixie

It's not quite as funny as I was hoping, though I did get a chuckle out of "Raspberry Crybaby" and "Boo Boo Doodle." If you give it a try, please share your Honey Boo Boo nickname in the comments below.

Should You Friend an Old Acquaintance on Facebook?

A few months ago, I received a Facebook friend request from someone I worked with 30 years ago. We weren't friends per se; we were work colleagues who hung out a few times together. I hadn't talked to him in decades.

I learned earlier this week that he has died. And I'm left with questions.

When I received the Facebook friend request from Frank, I deliberated. If I haven't talked to a former work colleague in 30 years, what was the point of connecting now, I wondered? Was he simply trying to grow his Facebook friend total? And what if he's one of those extremely chatty Facebook people who fill up their friends' news feeds with endless minutiae? I know that you can hide posts from people, but still.

And yet, I was intrigued. Frank's Facebook page said he was living in Cuenca, Ecuador. How did he wind up there, I wondered? Why was he there?

I couldn't decide what to do at that moment, so I took no action. I would decide later, I thought. Later has turned into "too late," as it often does.

I feel a twinge of guilt. Did Frank feel rejected by my inaction? More than that, however, I feel regret. What might have happened had I accepted his friend request? I might have learned something from him, he might have learned something from me. We might have connected in a deeper, more meaningful way than we did 30 years ago. People can change a lot in 30 years.

On the other hand, none of that might have happened. I'll never know, because I took no action. I can take comfort, however, in the words of a mutual colleague from 30 years, who sent me this message after I asked him about Frank's death:

"Frank had been living all over the past 10 or so years – in California, in Mexico, in Arizona, and as of a few months ago, in this beautiful small city in Ecuador. Apparently he was very happy there. So he took his leave in a fine state of mind." 

---

A question for you: How do you respond to Facebook friend requests from people you didn't know all that well and haven't seen in years? Do you have a story to share about your acceptance, or rejection, of that friend request?

How I Escaped From the Hotel Diva

It was a warm, early February afternoon in 1987. It was Friday, I had the rest of the day off. So I had an idea: Why not see if the hotel where I was staying had a rooftop deck? Wouldn't it be nice to get some sun?

I took the elevator to the top floor of the Hotel Diva in San Francisco. I found an entrance to the roof, opened the door, and peeked out. It was just a bare, flat roof, with no formal sunbathing area. A sign on the door told me the roof was not for guests.

I returned to my room, grabbed one of those plastic laundry bags, and stuffed in it a couple of towels, some sunscreen, and the local newspaper. I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and off I went to the rooftop, energized by mischief.

Onto the roof I ventured for a delightful two hours. Whenever I grew restless, I'd walk over to the edge of the roof and look down on busy Geary Street below, with the Curran Theatre across the street. The theatre had me thinking that I'd like to see a play soon. Or maybe I'd go to a movie that night. I'd just seen Woody Allen's latest, Radio Days, and was hungry for another good film.

Then it hit me. Radio Days! There's a scene in the film in which Mia Farrow and a man venture onto a rooftop and later discover the door has locked behind them! So I rush to the door, pull its handle. It's locked.

Since this event happened 26 years ago, I had no cell phone in my possession. I banged on the door and yelled, but no one came. The sun was starting to slip behind some of the nearby highrises. On one side of the building, which fronted an alley, there was a rickety fire escape. Relieved, I gathered my stuff and began my descent. The first hallway window I came to, directly off the fire escape, was locked. So was the next. And the next. When I reached the bottom of the fire escape, I discovered a two-story drop. There was a ladder built into the fire escape that would presumably stretch down to the street level, but I couldn't get the ladder to release. It looked as if I had a big jump to take.

By now it was dusk. I climbed back up the fire escape, looking for windows off to the side that might possibly be open. I traveled up what must have been six floors until, at last, I found one window open.

The window led into a hotel room. I called into the room, to see if there were someone who might help me. No answer. I listened closely, but heard no sounds coming from the room. It was difficult to be sure, however, because of the street noises below. I took a chance, creeping into the room as silently as possible.

About midway from the window to the door, I heard sounds coming from the bathroom. How shall I put this? The bathroom occupant had explosive diarrhea. I inched my way to the door, hoping to not make a sound. It was then I noticed my plastic hotel laundry bag had developed a hole in the bottom; my room key had fallen out.

I looked around and spotted the key, on the floor back towards the window. The man experiencing gastrointestinal distress went silent, experiencing a lull in his operatic evacuations. I froze for what felt like ten minutes but in reality was probably ten seconds. His stomach gurgled and rumbled, a signal that another wave was arriving, and when it hit, I quietly went back to retrieve my key and make my way to the door. Just as I opened it, the man in the bathroom experienced an explosion that made the Krakatoa volcano sound like a July 4th fireworks show.

As I hurried into the hall and back to my room, I felt a thrill. This had been the end of my first week in San Francisco, and my new life here promised to be full of adventure.

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.

A Light in the Darkroom

It is my first week on a new job and already, Adrienne Ivey catches me in a lie.

The time is May 1981. I've just started my first real job out of college as a reporter for the Daily Herald in Roanoke Rapids, N.C. During my job interview a few weeks prior, the newspaper owner had informed me that not only would I be reporting, I'd be taking pictures as well.

"You know how to develop pictures?" he'd asked.

"Sure. My father's a professional photographer." The second part of my statement was true. As for the first part, I assumed I'd never have to actually develop film, as the newspaper had a staff photographer.

I assumed wrong.

That first week at work, one of my assignments is to write a story about an elderly woman named Grace who was being sprung from the local hospital after an extended stay. Her church is hosting a homecoming party for her. My editor, Dick Kern, who always mumbles with a pipe in his mouth and rarely makes eye contact, assigns me to cover the story. He wants photos.

"You'll need to develop the pictures," Mr. Kern mumbles. Phil, the paper's photographer, called in sick that day. "I need them before you leave today."

A Frantic Call to My Father

Heart pounding, I wait for the newsroom to empty after the noon press deadline and dial my father's studio in Greensboro. I'm hoping for an impromptu lesson by phone in darkroom techniques. My father had often tried to teach me such things when I was a kid, but my head wanted to fill itself instead with I Dream of Jeannie, Lost in Space, and The Wild, Wild West.

"He's out on a photo shoot for the rest of the day," my father's secretary says. "Why don't you call him tonight at home?"

"Why don't I look for another job?," I wonder. I glance at the darkroom door. Maybe if I venture inside, I'll discover written instructions explaining how to develop film. I open the door and leave it open, so I can see because, being a darkroom, it is dark. My eyes glaze over at the bottles of chemicals, which look familiar and foreign at the same time. I open a drawer, then another and another. One of them contains a stack of blank paper. I keep opening drawers until a woman's voice startles me.

"What in Sam Hill are you doing?"

It's Adrienne Ivey, the paper's long-time city reporter. She is probably not much taller than five feet, with short hair red like the tip of a matchstick. As she speaks, she removes her small, rectangular-framed sunglasses, revealing the hardened expression of someone who'd grown up in a mill town (Roanoke Rapids). Deep crinkles circle her eyes as she sizes me up.

I decide to come clean, telling her I didn't have a clue how to develop film. I never expected that I'd have to actually do it, I explain.

"Yeah, well, you're gonna be doing a lot of things around here you never expected," Adrienne quips. Her gaze lands on the stack of paper in the drawer. A smile that is partly a smirk, an Adrienne trademark, creeps across her face.

"Let me enlighten you, pun intended," Adrienne says. "You see that stack of paper? That's what you print pictures on. When the paper hasn't already been exposed to light. Which it has been now, because someone left the darkroom door open."

I try to swallow. "You mean..."

Adrienne nods, still smiling at me in her particular way. She picks up the stack of photo paper. "This is every bit as good as Confederate money."

"Is there any more paper?" I ask, hopefully.

"Of course not," she says, smiling.

What if Mr. Kern Finds Out?

I apologize profusely, mortified at my stupidity, fearful of being reprimanded, afraid of--dare I say it?--being exposed. Like an astronomer studying the night sky, Adrienne knows exactly what is going on in my head.

"What will Mr. Kern say when he finds out?" I ask.

She kooks at the useless paper, at me, at her watch. "He ain't gonna find out shit,"she says. With the stack of paper in hand, Adrienne walks out of the darkroom and heads toward the press room, with me close behind. She stuffs the papers deep into an enormous trash bin, then stirs up other rubbish--banana peels, old newspapers, leftover lunches and such--until the photographic papers become invisible as well as unusable.

"Thank you Adrienne," I say when we return to the still-empty newsroom. "But what will I say when Mr. Kern asks me--"

"Good Lord child," Adrienne says. "You'd like to worry me to death." She lit a cigarette, studied me. "I can handle Dick." After a beat, she smiles mischievously. "Maybe I should rephrase that."

Gaslighting Mr. Kern

About an hour later, Mr. Kern returns from his lunch break. Adrienne informs him there is no film-developing paper. "That can't be," he responds. "I just bought a bunch last week."

"Well, there's none now. How do you expect us to develop pictures?"

I say nothing, busying myself at my desk. Within a few minutes, Adrienne not only assures Mr. Kern there's no paper; she convinces him it's his fault and to go out and buy more. I go on to my assignment, after Adrienne tells me to meet her back at the office later that afternoon, to show me how to develop film.

I do as I'm told. As we work together in the darkroom, the photos I'd taken of an elderly woman, transported on a gurney back to her home, begin to take shape. They're not bad, I think; my father would probably like them.

"See?" Adrienne says. "I told you that you'd be doing things here you never expected."

Adrienne and me, mid 1980s

---

I wrote about Adrienne in my last post, "Southern Storytelling - The Preacher and The Cigarette." I have another Adrienne story I'll share later. It takes place in the middle of the night--at a murder scene, no less.

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.