Friday, December 04, 2020

Charity Begins at . . . the Moment You Decide to Be Charitable

by Dick Mac

My mother became a single-parent in 1963, with four children between the ages of 0 and 5.  My sister was an infant and I was the oldest. I remember 1964 and 1965 being very difficult years. We lived in poverty in the projects. My mother knew nothing about receiving aid from the government, not that there were many programs that provided support. The church had shunned her because of her marital decisions and there was no charity coming from them.

One memory has stayed with me: It was evening, the baby was put to bed and it was dinner time.  My mother explained that we were going to play restaurant. She put on an apron, took a pad of paper and a pencil, and asked for our orders. She then went to the kitchen sink, filled three bowls with water, brought them to us with spoons and announced to each of us that it was our “hotdog” or “burger” or whatever we’d ordered. She joined us in conversation as we “ate” our bowls of water and when we were done, she cleared the table and washed the dishes.

One of us said we were still hungry and she apologized and said the restaurant was closed and it was time to go to bed. We all went to bed.

Sometime not long after that night, my uncle (her brother) Joe and a couple of his older kids came by the apartment to check on her. He visited because he was concerned that our father was going to come back and beat her up again (and again and again). It was nighttime and I said I was hungry. She shushed me and told me to go to my room. I whined that I was hungry and it really irritated my uncle. Some uncomfortable and confusing words were exchanged, my uncle said “just give the kid something to eat, Nancy,” and my mother burst out crying, admitting that there was no food in the house and she didn’t know what to do.

My uncle was furious. Why didn’t she tell him? How long had this been going on? Voices were raised, but not violently the way it got when my father was present, just sounds of frustration and anger.

The neighbor across the hall heard the yelling and walked into the apartment to make sure everyone was safe. She sat down with my uncle and mother, all the kids went to the bedrooms.

The next day my uncle arrived with a bag of groceries, and did that for a few weeks. Eventually my mother learned about the Surplus Food Program, and when she could get a ride would go to Egleston Square and collect our allotment of canned and bulk food, most of which was better quality than you could get at the supermarket. It said USDA on the packages, which we pronounced Use-Da. We jokingly referred to is as USED food; and we ate it happily.

Christmas of 1965 is the first Christmas I really remember. Everyone was sent to bed on Christmas Eve, except me. My mother went to an apartment upstairs and came down with a big box and told me that Santa Claus had left this stuff upstairs and she needed my help getting it ready for Christmas morning. Inside were gifts for all of us. This box of presents was from Globe Santa, a charity created by the Boston Globe publishers. I remember clearly a board game titled “The Globe” with the logo of The Boston Globe on the front. I know there were other toys and games, but that is the one I remember. We had that game for years.

1965 was our last year of abject poverty. In 1966, my mother got a job as the bookkeeper of a social service agency created by Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society poverty programs. We never got Globe Santa again, and we always had food.

The surplus food program and Globe Santa are the two programs I remember being so important in my life as a child. I hate hearing Americans complain about “welfare” because we all have benefited from many government programs that exist for the middle class and wealthy, but some want to deny those in need the bare necessities of life. I may complain about the IRS, but I would never complain about paying taxes. I may complain about the government, but I would never complain about any money we spend feeding the hungry, or clothing and housing the homeless. And every Christmas I make a donation to Globe Santa because they made my life a better life that Christmas, just as they have for tens of thousands of other children over a half-century.

If you are in a charitable mood, please consider a donation to Globe Santa:
https://globesanta.org/

And stop complaining about poor people. Most of them are children whose parents are doing their best to get their kids out of poverty.

Charity begins at the moment you choose to be charitable.

Happy holidays!

Sunday, July 05, 2020

That Movie I Like is Racist

by Dick Mac

In 2006, I published a list of the movies I’d watch again and again: The Movies I'd Watch Again (and Again).

It started with my top ten favorites movies:

  1. Touch Of Evil - Orson Welles, Janet Leigh, Marlene Dietrich
  2. Freaks - Tod Browning
  3. Auntie Mame - Rosalind Russell, Forrest Tucker
  4. Casablanca - Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman
  5. Days Of Wine And Roses - Jack Lemmon, Lee Remick
  6. How To Marry A Millionaire - Lauren Bacall, Marilyn Monroe
  7. Hairspray - Divine, John Waters
  8. Lawrence Of Arabia - Peter O'Toole, Alec Guinness
  9. Airplane! - Lloyd Bridges, Peter Graves
  10. Salo - Pier Paolo Passolini, Paolo Bonacelli

In these days of taking a good hard look at racism in my life, I realize that some of my all-time favorite movies include stereotypes and racist depictions that I know are wrong and make me question how often I overlook racism when it’s inconvenient for me.

I want to watch Auntie Mame, because I think it’s a great story with a good script, good acting, and fantastic production. Then I remember that it glorifies Southern plantation culture by presenting it as polite, bucolic, and hospitable. It is none of these things.

There may have been some kind white people who lived on plantations, but plantations were comfortable, profitable, and “nice” because the plantation owners were slave-owners. They enslaved black people and forced them to grow the crops that were sold for profit, maintain their homes and grounds, cook their food, wait on them hand and foot, clean their clothes, and procreate only to have their children stolen from them and sold at auction. Horrific!

And what about the butler, Ito, a small Asian man in formal attire who talks in the pidgin English that was always used to stereotype and emasculate Asian men in mid-Century culture? His character is not flat or benign, he shows disdain for the horrible characters and adores the fabulous characters. His depth-of-character does not forgive the stereotype.

Does the glorification of plantation culture and the stereotyping of an Asian man make Auntie Mame an unacceptable movie that only has relevance in a historical context? Is it now a movie I should watch with my child and other young people so I can talk about plantation culture and racism? Do I now ignore Mame's anti-racist position when her future in-laws are exposed as anti-Semites, and she finances a home for Jewish refugee children on the land abutting their home? Do I ignore the witty repartee and discussions of sex and social change that were incredibly progressive for 1958?

Ito plays a major role in the scene that makes me weep like a baby each time I watch it? It’s Christmas Eve during the Great Depression. This privileged white woman raising an orphaned nephew with an immigrant staff of an Irish woman and Asian man, is in her massive Manhattan apartment (mansion), broke and worried that she has run out of money. The conversation turns to the butcher and the grocer, both of whom shut her off because she is unable to pay her bills, and the staff proudly displays the stack of bills (all marked paid), announcing that they have used their life-savings to pay off the bills so they can all eat again without nasty looks from the creditors. Again, does giving this character a depth-of-character, a humanness, forgive the stereotyping that made us all feel . . . superior(?) . . . relaxed(?) . . . around his different-ness?

Do I stop watching Auntie Mame and miss that scene I have been watching since I was a boy? As I type this, I do not know.

Two other movies on that list include troubling stereotypes:

Touch Of Evil takes place in Mexico and the depiction of Mexican characters is not progressive or flattering, even though the filmmaker (Orson Welles) was known to be a progressive, and became a public activist for the disenfranchised later in his life. The Mexican characters are depicted as bumbling fools.

Airplane! includes a scene that still makes me laugh inside, but it is totally racist. You know the scene! The actress Barbara Billingsley, famous for playing a white suburban housewife on “Leave It To Beaver,” announces: “Excuse me, stewardess, I speak Jive,” and proceeds to talk to three men in an urban patois that looks and sounds ridiculous. It’s exaggerated to make it funny, and until recently I never heard of anybody being offended by it.  I know now that it is racist.

What do we do? Do we stop watching these movies? Do we watch them and then point out the racism when it appears? Maybe I will choose the latter: I will watch it and point out the racism. Am I making them a teaching tool or making me a cop-out?

What are you going to do?

Sunday, March 01, 2020

Circle Gets The Square In Key West


by Dick Mac

It was a night between Christmas and New Years, in December, 1976. I was living on Duval Street with my boyfriend, right across the street from Delmonico's. I had been drinking since 1971, and using drugs since 1973, so I had quite a buzz going.

Pre-AIDS Key West was a pretty amazing place:  hookers and politicians and rock stars and celebrities and wanna-be hookers and wanna-be politicians and wanna-be rock stars and wanna-be celebrities. I considered myself all of those things.

My boyfriend would have breakfast at the Kress lunch counter so he could see, wave to, and hopefully get to talk to Tennessee Williams, who favored that establishment over Shorty’s, which I liked. He did meet Williams, and they chatted a few times. One late morning, after chores were done and the drinking hadn’t yet started, we were walking up Duval Street and my boyfriend stopped, waved an arm in the air, and called across the street: “Tennessee, this is Richie” and he was pointing at me. I was mortified. Williams was charming, tipped his hat, smiled and continued walking. I didn’t see his eyes actually roll, but as he turned to speak to his companion, I could feel his eyes rolling. My eyes were rolling. Why yell in the streets. Ever?

Other celebrities could be seen around town, and were generally with a handler or manager who would keep people at bay. Generally speaking, though, nobody bothered anybody. You said hello or you didn’t, or you smiled and nodded or you didn’t. People just got on with their business . . . well . . . their fun, really.

I was in my early punk phase: I still had long hair, but I had switched accessories from feathers, scarves and other faggy accouterments to razor blades, safety pins and different faggy accouterments, like spurs. I was 18, pasty white and weighed bout 98 pounds soaking wet. I had empty pockets and expensive tastes, and there is no better time for that combination than when you are 18 and pretty.

There were two “gay bars” but nobody called them that.  The Monster, which originated on Fire Island, in New York, had opened a disco; and Delmonico’s was a combination of 70s dance club and 50s cruising bar.  It was haunted by young hustlers and older gentlemen. You could drink heavily AND dance AND get a date. I preferred it because it was cheaper than The Monster, the people were nicer, and it was across the street from where I lived.

One amusing feature of Delmonico’s was the face-to-face urinals in the men's room. Was there even a women's room?

One particular night, well, this particular night, I am standing at the urinal taking a leak. I hear someone else arrive, I look up and see Paul Lynde standing face-to-face with me at the other urinal smiling. I did a sort of double-take, and in that Hollywood Squares punch-line voice, and with breath like a distillery, he laughed and said: "I know! Can you believe it's me?"

Hollywood Squares
I'm certain I blinked a few times, hoping it was a dream, and was, for possibly the first time in my life, at a loss for words. So I laughed, and he laughed some more, and I laughed and expected either Peter Marshall or Alan Funt to intervene: "Smile! X gets the square! And you’re on Candid Camera!" Except, I was in a toilet and television shows rarely broadcast from men’s rooms. It was truly surreal. I wasn’t on acid, angel dust, too much refer, or a particularly brutal bender . . . nope . . . it was a drunken Paul Lynde standing across from me in the toilet at Delmonico’s.

A common flirty, bold, ice-breaker, that might lead to a one-night-stand or thirty-year marriage was to stand on your tip-toes to look over that urinal. You couldn’t actually see over to the other side, but it was an effective move. Now Paul Lynde was standing on his tip-toes, pretending to look over the urinal and asking: "What have you got down there?"

We both laughed: him enthusiastically, me nervously.

Anyway, we finished our business and I held back hoping he would go away, but he was nattering on about something - probably himself - and no matter how long I delayed, he was still standing there. After drying my hands, we exited together: he went back to the bar with the old queens and I went back towards the dance floor with the punk queers.

It was one of those 70s dance floors where you'd start dancing with one person and then be dancing with another - not really caring who was there. Suddenly, of course, Paul Lynde was in front of me on the dance floor, dancing. He danced like my father - it was rather hysterical and I did my best to make my laughter seem friendly and not derisive.  I’m certain I failed.  I was a drunk, alcoholic, 18-year-old punk.  All laughter was derisive!

He smiled and shouted over the music: "It's me again!" I smiled and nodded and looked around for friends. He kept talking and talking and dancing like my father, and I couldn’t hear a damned thing he was saying, nor did I care.

I realized he was asking me a question that I couldn't hear, so I sort of leaned forward a bit to make it seem like I was listening. He was yelling over the music and his face was getting red, a bit of spittle flying through the air. I shrugged my shoulders and held my hands palms-up, in that universal sign that says “I can’t hear you.” In this case it meant: “I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU, YOU DIRTY OLD QUEEN, AND I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU'RE SAYING."

Funny how each person interprets gestures differently in a loud club, late at night, with a few drinks under our belts. He interpreted this gesture to mean: Please get very close to me, put your hands on either side of my face, and try to kiss me on the lips.

I squirmed and I suddenly heard him scream.  It was loud.  You couldn't miss his scream of pain, even over Sylvester!

Dangling from a paper clip in my left ear was a double-edged razor.  Schick or Gillette or something.  It was old and used.  Some people wore razor blade jewelry - well, I just wore razor blades, and he had managed to cut his thumb on one when reaching under my hair to grab my face or neck.

I pushed him away and screamed "DON'T BLEED ON MY CLOTHES!" and found a corner with some friends.  He was furious.  All my friends laughed.  Then many of the old queens laughed as word spread through the bar about the incident.  He was rushed back to the manager's office where she put a band-aid on his wound. And he eventually returned to his bar stool.

I wanted to make sure he was OK and walked towards him, but he was scowling at me, so I decided I really didn't care if he was alright.  Perhaps he'd get tetanus or something!  Who fucking cares? If he’d kept his hands to himself he wouldn’t have cut himself on my jewelry.

The manager came over to our group looked at my earring, laughed and ejected me from the bar. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so she did it very nicely; explaining that I was always welcome back but I should probably just go elsewhere for the rest of the night.

I probably went to The Monster, or a straight biker-club with a good jukebox and pool-table.

I guess he actually went to the hospital that night because his hand was seriously, professionally bandaged the next day. I saw him on the street a number of times. I would always smile and wave. Depending on his level of intoxication he would either smile and wave back or just scowl.

He didn’t get laid. I didn’t get to have a fascinating conversation with him about Hollywood. But I have this memory that I’m glad I shared with you.

Oh, and remind me to tell you about Robin Williams.

Wednesday, January 08, 2020

Dear David Bowie:


by Dick Mac

Good morning, sailor!

Haven't heard from you again for quite awhile.  It reminds me that you likely won't be writing to me again; but I hold out hope.  Against my own better judgment, I still cling to some romantic and religious notions of people who've fled this mortal coil will magically deliver information to me or others in some paranormal manner.  You won't.

Be that as it may, I am in Dublin for your birthday party.  As usual, I was awake at stupid o'clock and took a walk in O'Connell Street down to the River Liffey, listening to music and day-dreaming about delicious morsels from Hot Donut (which dream will be reality). "Do The Strand," by Roxy Music and "Irish Rover" by Clancy Brothers & Tommy Makem were highlights of the walk, but as I settled in to write to you, I have the distinct pleasure of listening to Kendrick Lamar singing "For Free."  I think he might be the one singer who, since the release of the song "Ziggy Startdust," most successfully makes reference to penis-size sound perfectly sensible and acceptable.

But, I digress.  (As I do.)

Yup, KingTommy, PrincessRamsey, Cavebat, and Shakeh and I continued our "Better Living Through Bowienet" lives and flew over from the States to see Holy Holy this Saturday night.  The flight was fine (as flights are), and we had some laughs about how bad airline travel has become.  Who has time for sailing?

Last Sunday, we were in Philadelphia to see Donny McCaslin and Gail Ann Dorsey (you know them) perform at Ardmore Music Hall.  Were we ever there together?  I don't think so.  It's poorly run, but a great space and amazingly tidy toilets.  Almost makes one suspicious:  wait, this is a music club, why are the toilets so clean and spacious and well-lit.  A weird thing to notice, I know; but sometimes these are the mysteries that explain so much about life, that answer those questions that remain unanswered.

Speaking of unanswered questions . . . on "Young Americans" is it " .  .  . you and your idol singing falsetto," or " .  .  . you and your id singing falsetto"?  I remember that the original lyric sheet said one thing and you sing another.  You see . . . just another one of those nagging questions, like my suspicion of well-lit toilets, that neither matters nor needs actual answering.

Back to this birthday trip:  oh, and Happy Birthday, by the way.  So we are here in Dublin, staying in a smelly Air BnB in Parnell Street, to see Holy Holy this coming weekend.  This means Tony will be here.  He and Woody and the rest of the band will arrive Saturday - rumor has it that they are rehearsing in London.  We hope to see them before or after the show. We usually talk about you at some point during our visits, and since it's your birthday, I'm certain we will remember kind stories.

What's happened in the past year?  What's new there?

Vinyl recordings are selling like crazy.  Oddly, vintage vinyl prices have dropped, while new vinyl prices are sky-rocketing.  I suspect quality has something to so with it:  a vintage Dynaflex copy of "Hunky Dory" barely plays, while the newer Parlophone 180g release sounds gorgeous. 

You would have loved the marketing ploys around the 50th Anniversary re-release of "Space Oddity"!  They released it in different colo(u)rs of vinyl and people were buying multiple copies of it trying to get this color or that color.  It was a good laugh, and yet very exciting when someone posted that they'd gotten the sky-blue-pink version numbered #87457265926. 

I finished my collection of all Apple singles released in the United States.  Yup.  Have them all.  Last month I listened to them all in reverse-catalogue-number order, which I think made a George Harrison record first and the Mary Hopkins single second-last.  Now, of course, I have to upgrade some of them because they may not be in the best condition.  I've learned a lot acquiring this collection. What a fun collection of songs it is.  They probably have them wherever you are; I suggest you give the entire catalogue a listen (yes, even the tedious Paul McCartney singles from the mid-70s).

Rodney, in Los Angeles, found me a pristine copy of the "Cold Fact" LP by Rodriguez.  You don't want to know how much it costs to get a copy of that record!  How come you never told me about Sixto Rodriguez?  You know many of us relied on you for music tips.  Perhaps you never heard the record, so hunt it down and give it a listen.  And watch the documentary about him.  You must be totally bored with all the Bowie documentaries that have littered the airwaves.  (You know all those stories anyhow.)   So, watch "Looking For Sugarman" and let me know what you think of him.  Or not.  I know you must be busy, doing whatever we do wherever you are.

I moved since I last wrote.  Still in Brooklyn.  My daughter is 15 now.  OMG!  Sometimes I find it difficult to accept that she is at the stage of life that requires her to rebel and ignore me and treat me with disdain.  My fears tell me that other young women do not behave this way, that YOUR daughter would never be like that, but then I remember it has nothing to do with me, and everybody's 15-year-old behaves exactly as they do.

Still working and I like my job.  As soon as I get back to New York, I have to get ready for a business trip.  Life is hectic.  And good.

Dublin is lovely.  You know I never saw you perform here!  I was a new-dad when you played here last, and although a bunch of friends traveled to see you here, I couldn't travel at the time.

I've acquired some new art.  Brooklyn has a great art scene (like New York used to have), and I think you'd be very excited by it. One Brooklyn artist did a multi-media piece about you that I acquired; another did a piece that I did not acquire. You're pretty big in Brooklyn, at least 5'10" (but like all of us, you're not as thin in Brooklyn as you once were).  Remember the Brooklyn Marathon show at St. Ann's Warehouse?  OMG!  You sang "Bewlay Brothers"!  I'll never forget it.  We were talking about the Marathon Tour recently.

Well, the morning is getting away from me . . . the others are moving around upstairs (they all sleep so late - the sun's already up).

Tonight we will see a band, and tomorrow night we will see a band, and then Friday night we will see a band, and then Saturday night we will see a band.  Maybe I'll report back about the shows, maybe not.  Probably not. I will likely forget all the details before I write next.

Today we will take a tour of Dublin and see some architecture and trees and rivers and hills and gardens and stuff.  Wish you were joining us.

When you have a moment, open the window and holler down the road to me, like you used to do.  I miss that.

Happy birthday, old man.

Everyone says Hi!