Time Fries! (13 page)

January 2012

D
INNER FOR
S
EVEN

While an epidemic on the cruise ship was avoided, sometimes there is just no avoiding the homophobia bug. This particular cruise was a family vacation with my stepmom Joan, our son Eric, and his partner. So we grabbed a Royal Caribbean special, in lieu of our preferred Olivia cruise option and hoped for the best.

Me: “Hello, Royal Caribbean? Before I book this cruise, can I be totally certain our family can get a table for just the five of us in the dining room?”

RC: “Absolutely.” I should have listened for the sound of their pants going up in flames.

On our first night aboard, New Years' Eve (after our lifeboat drill!), our gussied up party of five arrived at a table set for eight. As you can imagine, I immediately marched off to find the maitre ‘d, who said he'd look into the snafu.

Returning tableside, I found two more travelers seated with us, a man and a woman. They were introducing themselves as recent retirees and newlyweds, from Iowa.

“That's wonderful,” said Joan. “Congratulations to you. I'm here with my daughter and her partner who are celebrating their upcoming 30th anniversary!”

The newlyweds' faces went as white and starched as the tablecloth.

“And,” said Joan, oblivious to their gape-jawed stares, “this is my grandson Eric and his partner.”

The couple all but gagged. Happy New Year. What is it, 1956?

At which point, the appetizers arrived and the newlyweds clasped hands, bowed their heads and prayed—perhaps for culinary abundance but more probably for our souls. Either way, what ensued was a most uncomfortable meal, as we learned of the Iowans' upcoming Priest-accompanied pilgrimage to Rome
so they could walk among the saints, countered by our attempt to discuss anything at all without mentioning our entire lives as sinners.

Finally, we gave up and got into the party favors, with Eric donning the Happy New Year tiara and me plunking the plastic top hat on my head. Eventually our contingent fled to the piano bar to await midnight.

Bright and early on day one of 2012, I was at the ship's customer service desk discussing dinner arrangements, sad that we still needed this discussion in 2012. The clerk stared blankly as I told of the embarrassing table introductions and our companions praying into their soup.

“Look,” I said. “We're here for a relaxing vacation and this is beyond uncomfortable. I think these people were praying to save our souls. The only thing we need saving from is dinner with them.”

“What?” said a passing supervisor. “Say what?”

I started repeating the story, and the very animated supervisor interrupted with, “Girl! You're kidding, they did what???”

I had found a friend of Dorothy (and if you don't know what that means, read on).

By dinnertime we had a private table for five, in a secluded alcove, with ultra-friendly wait staff and the start to a marvelous week of gourmet meals, Bahama Mama cocktails, celebratory toasts, and family bonding.

We'd also been directed to the bulletin board announcing a Friends of Dorothy cocktail party at 6 p.m. that night and every night of the cruise in an upstairs lounge. That evening we met several gay couples hailing from places like Chicago, Utah, Colorado, and even Singapore. We talked jobs, relationships and gay rights, and had a blast.

We did notice that the crowd seemed middle-aged and up. “I bet some of the younger folks don't even know the friends of Dorothy reference,” somebody said, and I agreed.

So the next day, at the adult pool (thank goodness for that!) Bonnie and I spied some younger FOD candidates and
mentioned the get-together. They were delighted, but had no idea that Friends of Dorothy was code for LGBT people.

“Dorothy, like in
The Wizard of Oz
? Like Judy Garland?” I ventured. They were clueless. Go figure. But they joined us that night, and throughout the week several more couples found us. It was just the addition to cruise activities we needed. And we loved introducing some of the more youthful homos to the secret codes of gay history.

As a whole, the cruise was delightful. The enormous ship had so many activities, bars, and restaurants, it didn't seem like there were 4,000 men, women and screaming children aboard. We made our own fun, including swimming with dolphins in Jamaica, touring beautiful Grand Cayman (but not spending money there, because we hate their homophobic politics) and soaking up sunshine, tequila and lime in Cozumel.

It did amuse us that the ship scheduled both a toga party and a 70s costume party onboard without advance word to travelers. I'd like to see them try that on a gay cruise. By happenstance, a surprising number of passengers had fashion-backward 70s wear in their regular wardrobes, so all was saved. We traded seeing middle America in togas and bell-bottoms for the ice-dancing show (lots of friends of Dorothy on the ice) and the Royal Caribbean Broadway Review (more boys from Oz).

When we weren't going metaphorically overboard eating or drinking, we spent the remaining fraction of time at the pool, piano bar, spa, or in our cabin. Joan, Bonnie, and I shared a stateroom and Bonnie was assigned the upper bunk. She won the honor because she, unlike Joan or myself, did not require a 3 a.m. potty break. I know, TMI. But I didn't want you to think it was random cruelty toward my spouse.

Actually, sharing the cabin worked well, and it should be noted that the most chronologically mature traveler among us was the one who wanted to stay up the latest and party the most. Go Joan!

A straight cruise is fine for a visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. My friend Dorothy would click her ruby red slippers, take us back to Gayberry and exclaim, “There's no place like home.”

February 2012

M
Y
A
NGELA
L
ANSBURY
C
ONNECTION

As a college freshman, in 1966, I went to see the Broadway musical
Mame
with my high school sweetheart. He was an adorable musical comedy devotee on the verge of leaping out of the closet. I was still more than a dozen years away from coming out and becoming a lesbian anachronism—a female musical comedy queen.

We adored
Mame
for its humor, style, and most of all, heart. And we loved its star, Angela Lansbury, then in her early 40s, for pretty much the same reasons. We treasured her and Bea Arthur, later TV's Maude, singing the friendship anthem “Bosom Buddies.”

I was so taken with the show and its star I followed up by watching every old movie—
The Harvey Girls, Gas Light, Manchurian Candidate
—Lansbury ever filmed.

Then, holiday season 1968, when my mother was working for the Actor's Fund of America, I volunteered to be a theater “basket passer,” collecting money at intermission for the Actor's Fund Home in New Jersey. Basket passers got free tickets. In prior years, home for college vacation, I would see eight shows in a holiday week. In 1968, however, I practically camped at the Winter Garden Theatre, passing the basket at eight consecutive performances of
Mame
. I met the cast between the matinee and evening shows and mingled backstage. I was a
Mame
groupie before that term was coined. Angela Lansbury was gracious and warm to this star struck teenage hanger-on.

When my mother died from breast cancer the next year, at age 49, it was a shocking and horrible blow. But I didn't meet it head on. I swallowed my grief, put off dealing with it, and threw myself into my own blossoming theater career. I gobbled up as much live theater and theater lore as I could. That included seeing Angela Lansbury again in the short-lived musical
Dear World
. It was a showcase for her, but not as the
glamorous star everyone wanted to see after
Mame
. Still, I loved hanging over the back wall in standing room, watching her work.

Grief. Denied. Sexuality. Denied. Life. Making do. Theater kept me grounded while I flailed around socially, finally marrying a man to prove my normalcy. I fed my emotions with musical comedy humor and happy endings, and made do with intense friendships with the leading ladies I was directing.

In 1971, I was lucky enough to get a balcony ticket to the Tony Awards 25th Anniversary Celebration, where I saw Angela and Bea Arthur in a sparkling recreation of “Bosom Buddies.” Then in 73 Angela came to Washington, DC, in
Gypsy
at the Kennedy Center. I worshipped at the altar at least twice, maybe three times. A year later Angela appeared with a tour of
Mame
at a tent theater and again, I was there, soaking up the glow.

When, in 1978, I finally got my chance to direct my own production of
Mame
, my make-do marriage was crumbling and my whole world was held together by my theatrical adventures. I wrote a fan letter to Ms. Lansbury that summer, telling her about my production and letting her know that my director's note for the program would dedicate the show to her. I felt silly the moment I put the note in the mailbox.

One week later, just before opening night, I received a hand-written letter in blue ink on light blue Tiffany stationery from Mame herself, wishing me and the cast well. She noted her delight at having the show dedicated to her performance of a dozen years before.

Over the next few years, as I contemplated poking my head out of the closet, I continued directing and listening to
Mame
,
Gypsy,
and other Lansbury recordings until the vinyl wore out. I was in New York for a 1979 preview performance of Angela's Tony Award-winning performance in
Sweeny Todd
. They hadn't quite worked out the special effects yet, and sitting in the second row, I was happily splashed with fake blood from the grisly musical. I loved it and listened to the cassette tape of the music all the way home.

Then, in 1980 my life righted itself. I finally leapt from my self-imposed, self-hating closet and dealt with much of my emotional baggage. After some early escapades and laughable misadventures dating women, I finally met a great group of friends. Two years later I met Bonnie.

“Who's Angela Lansbury?” she asked. It was opposites attracting. She'd seen a touring musical or two but was by no means the theatre nut I was. For my part, I got to learn about softball.

In July 1983, on our way home from a week in Provincetown, I snagged tickets for a just-opened revival of
Mame
, with Angela re-creating her role. This was just before she became a household name in TV's
Murder, She Wrote
. Maybe Ms. Lansbury had insufficient star power for a new generation, or maybe rock musicals were eclipsing the golden age classics, but, after glowing reviews but disappointing box office numbers, the show had already posted its closing notice.

But it didn't disappoint me. Bonnie and I cheered for the joyous and faithful revival, starring my favorite performer. I wondered if the producers remounted the show just so Bonnie and I could share an experience that had meant so much to me.

As Bonnie and I built a life together, Angela Lansbury solved scripted murders. She spent the next dozen years as sleuth Jessica Fletcher, winning Emmy Awards and entertaining millions. Only after the series ended, and she took a good long time off, did she make her way back to Broadway.

It was the new millennium by then and we were all getting older. If Bonnie and I were headed for our 60s, Angela was entering her 80s. When it was announced she'd return to Broadway in the two-woman show
Deuce
, about aging tennis rivals, we knew we had to be there. After all, how many more times would she appear on the Great White Way?

Plenty, as it turns out.
Deuce
was an anemic vehicle, panned by critics who raved about Angela anyway. It was bliss watching her verbally decimate the show's second character,
as she used some quite un-Lansbury language. Shockingly fun.

Her next vehicle was the comedy
Blithe Spirit
and again we ran to Broadway. “After all, she's at least 83 by now. This could be her last show.” Ha! Next came the role of the Countess in Sondheim's
A Little Night Music
. Bonnie and I started to joke about going broke on her farewell performances.

Then, back in December 2010 came the piece de resistance. A friend asked me to volunteer backstage at the Kennedy Center Honors in Washington, DC. Songwriter-lyricist Jerry Herman, who wrote
Mame, Hello Dolly!
, and
La Cage Aux Folles
was an honoree. Nobody knew yet who'd be on tap to give tribute and perform for Jerry, but we had mighty high hopes.

It was still hush-hush the week before the event when a clue came from a member of the Gay Men's Chorus of Washington. The group was invited to perform “The Best of Times is Now” from
La Cage
. Penciled onto their sheet music for the verse were the names Chita, Carol and Angela. Chita Rivera? Carol Channing? Angela? I was a wreck with excitement.

My friends and I were assigned as escorts to the stars set to appear in the tribute to Jerry. Other cast members included Christine Baranski, Christine Ebersole, Matthew Morrison from Glee, and many more. Other tributes were going out to Sir Paul McCartney and Oprah, so this was not going to be a lightweight evening backstage. But for me, being in the wings with Angela Lansbury would be a fantasy come to life.

Volunteer rules were strict: no photos, no special requests, just do your job and be professional. On the rehearsal day before the Honors show, I arrived at Kennedy Center early to escort a college chorus from Oprah's Alma Mater to their rehearsal. When my job was done I walked down the hall to one of the rehearsal rooms. As I approached, my friend Patrick appeared, with none other than Carol Channing on his arm. Frail at nearly 90, her wigged head and artfully made up
countenance still presented a confident, bigger than life Dolly Levi.

“Miss Channing, this is my friend Fay.”

And in that inimitable voice, with its liquid vowels, Miss Channing said, “Hell-yow, Fay,” as if she'd uttered ‘Hell-yow, Dolly,” and I thought I'd melt to the floor.

I followed Patrick and Carol into the rehearsal room, where I stopped and stared. At the piano stood Angela, tall and elegant in a brown tweed blazer and perfectly pressed trousers. Chita Rivera stood beside her in a stunning black turban and a flowing black outfit. Miss Channing slowly made her way to them.

Next, came one of the kindest, most generous moments I've ever witnessed, as superstars Chita and Angela helped the slightly befuddled Channing with the words and simple choreography for their musical number. With a Broadway legend on each arm, Carol Channing, at least a legend and a half, came alive—and the trio brought down the room. No doubt, bringing down the house would come later.

A lot of wondrous things happened that day and the next. As I was introduced to Angela Lansbury by her escort, I tried not to be a blubbering fool. She looked so energetic and youthful for 84, with her ramrod posture, and quiet, graceful demeanor. I wound up having a short conversation with her during a break, mentioning my Actor's Fund experience at
Mame
. Angela was gracious and sweet to me, then smiling broadly but with melancholy, she spoke of her bosom buddy Bea Arthur who had recently passed away.

By Sunday morning, the day of the show, the pace quickened. At dress rehearsal all afternoon, I found myself milling about backstage with the casts of all the tributes, plus the elegant Caroline Kennedy, the lovely Jennifer Hudson, and the surprisingly grumpy Chris Rock.

As the curtain rose that night, Angela, dressed in a shimmering silver outfit, began the Jerry Herman tribute standing at a lectern, summarizing his musical career. When a five minute
video came on, the stage lights dimmed and Angela walked backstage left and stood right next to me. When the film highlighted Jerry's ambitious flop
Dear World
, Angela shook her head, looked at me and said, “They just didn't want to see Auntie Mame look so frumpy.”

Instantly, I was that 20 year-old, with my standing room ticket, watching
Dear World
and thinking the exact same thing.

As I stood in Angela's shadow in the wings, we watched Carol Channing open the musical part of the tribute with, what else, “Well, well, Hello, Jerry…” followed by singers and dancers celebrating his best words and music. Chita Rivera swept onto the stage from the opposite side, singing a song from
Dear World
. On the first notes, she gazed directly, with great affection, at Angela in the wings before turning her head to the crowd.

Minutes later, Christine Ebersole and Christine Baranski took the stage to sing “Bosom Buddies.” The instant the intro began, Angela smiled and began moving to the music. So did I. She glanced at me to her right, winked and started mouthing the words, adding some in-place choreography. And for about a minute and a half, the two of us stood together, miming the number and smiling like fools.

I've struggled to find the perfect words to describe how I felt during those 90 seconds, but I can only come close. Thrilled, of course; bursting with emotion, sure; a life cycle of emotion spanning more than 40 years from my scared and conflicted youth, to my secure, satisfying present. Absolutely.

For the tribute finale, it was left to Angela, Chita and Carol, backed by the Gay Men's Chorus to sing Jerry's words that probably do sum it up for me. “The best of times is now.” And Angela Lansbury has been with me for almost the whole ride.

I never did volunteer again for Kennedy Center. I just didn't want to clutter up the memory of that night. Long may my idol wave, long may I rave. To my mind, we've always been bosom buddies.