Margo Christie's Blog
June 1, 2016
The Power of Running Away - A review of Cara Lopez Lee's memoir "They Only Eat Their Husbands"
I met Cara Lopez Lee at a writing workshop she conducted at the Denver Woman’s Press Club in the fall of 2014. She’d recently released her memoir “They Only Eat Their Husbands,” and was using a few excerpts from the book as jumping-off points to get participants writing about their own travel-related growth experiences. The workshop was excellent. Lopez Lee has a style that’s confident, approachable and relatable. Her exercises were easy to get into, and they provided the inspiration I was looking for in styling my own writing workshop.
I’m not much of a memoir reader. Perhaps this is why I feel “They Only Eat Their Husbands” is about 50 to 100 pages too long. Lopez Lee is excellent at no-holds-barred observational writing, the sort of which is especially noteworthy when applied to one’s own life, but I feel the book lacked unity. In short, not all of the numerous travel-related growth experiences she describes so well warrant inclusion in a work subtitled “Love, Travel and the Power of Running Away.” The book is alternately about love or travel, but rarely is it about the effect on the narrator of the two combined. If there’s anything that could be left out, it’s the initial scenes – I feel it’s safe to call them set-up scenes – in which she describes her upbringing with a narcissistic father and irresponsible mother, her subsequent passing-around from relative to relative, and other events that led her to embark upon a year-long globe-trot from her home in Alaska, where she worked as a TV reporter. Though Lopez Lee is from Los Angeles, she lived in Alaska - the scenes there did not speak to me of running away or travel. Of course, there was the search for love there, the longing for it with the wrong men, Chance and Sean; but Lopez Lee revisits these experiences by way of flashbacks throughout the narrative anyway. As well, her relationships with her much younger step-mother and step-sister might’ve been left out too. Though I acknowledge the value of these relationships in knowing the real Cara Lopez Lee, it is the author’s relationship to Chance and Sean and her discoveries about herself by way of this that is the make-or-break in this reader’s understanding of why she had to “run away.”
On the love theme, the episodes with Chance and Sean were infuriating. With Chance, I wanted to scream, “Can’t you see this guy’s an A-hole?!” The scenes with Sean warranted a bit more sympathy – In Cara’s “just friends” scenes with him, he is sweet and admirable. When he graduated to “hook-up” then later to boyfriend, the interaction between them became annoyingly toxic; its participants loathsome in their addiction to it. There were times when I wanted to jump through the pages and put a good choke-hold on one or both of them! Perhaps this is because I’m addictive and co-dependent; that essentially I’ve been there, done that. More to the point though, it speaks volumes about Lopez Lee’s ability to make the characters in her real-life drama compelling. If Sean and Cara weren’t so skin-crawlingly co-dependent in these scenes, they would not have elicited such a violent response from me.
Like the subtitle, the title itself seems out-of-whack with the themes. Though it refers to the narrator’s encounter with a praying mantis in Thailand and her humorous curiosity about whether or not the insect would harm her – “They only eat their husbands,” a neighbor informs – there isn’t much in the story that suggests predatory husband-eating. Rather, it would be more accurate to infer that women looking for love among alcoholics will likely fall prey to their manipulations; or that women travelling alone in male-dominated cultures might occasionally find themselves caught in an opportunist’s web. Not that I admonish Lopez Lee for going wherever and doing whatever she wants. On the contrary, I’ve travelled alone and know first-hand that getting hit-on by male chauvinists who assume alone equals desperate is but a minor irritation compared with the foot-loose, fancy-freedom of travelling solo. One of my favorite scenes is of the narrator being lured into “drinking coffee with the family” of an elderly male villager in the idyllic town of Xania, Crete. As it turns out, there is no family in this sleazy former politician’s snare; and it's soon apparent why: His trickiness is enough to drive away even the most patient and doting of old world wives!
Another favorite sequence has to do with a Spanish man of similar seniority to the Cretan trickster. After a few days of gallivanting around with him, Lopez Lee is confronted with the fact that this man is married and that their chumminess seems inappropriate in this small Spanish town. Here, I am reminded of how American the narrator is. Throughout the book, she’s more drawn to male companionship than female; and one of her remarkable “breakthroughs” seems to occur earlier, in Nepal, when she buddies up to some fellow female “trekkers” and acknowledges feeling encouraged as a result. An American woman and a loner besides, I myself have often felt more at-ease with male friends than female. Still, the co-dependent in me is well aware of the obvious benefits; i.e., the ability to flirt and manipulate, in such a tendency. Still, I couldn’t help but feel for Lopez Lee when a well-intentioned woman accuses her of indecent behavior with the gentlemanly Eduardo of Cuenca, Spain, who seems to want nothing from Cara but to share with her the beauty of his ever-changing-and-not-for-the-better hometown.
Ironically, it is in Dingle, Ireland that Lopez-Lee first acknowledges awareness of her Americanness. In a café, where musicians of English, Scottish and American heritage play folk music that is rooted in the blues, she informs the reader that this is her music, her American heritage. This was another favorite of mine. Pride in Americanness seems more appropriate to Nashville or Chicago than Ireland and I was proud of Lopez Lee for having this revelation in a less than expected place.
Unfortunately, all of the above are, for me, travel experiences that don’t necessarily correlate with Lopez’s love travails. They are eye-openers though- If nothing else, travel expands one's mind. A re-reading with my own mind open to prospective better titles might yield one more appropriate for this memoir. As for the sub-title, I've already landed on a superb one: Eliminate "Love" and "Travel" and simply call it “The Power of Running Away.”
I’m not much of a memoir reader. Perhaps this is why I feel “They Only Eat Their Husbands” is about 50 to 100 pages too long. Lopez Lee is excellent at no-holds-barred observational writing, the sort of which is especially noteworthy when applied to one’s own life, but I feel the book lacked unity. In short, not all of the numerous travel-related growth experiences she describes so well warrant inclusion in a work subtitled “Love, Travel and the Power of Running Away.” The book is alternately about love or travel, but rarely is it about the effect on the narrator of the two combined. If there’s anything that could be left out, it’s the initial scenes – I feel it’s safe to call them set-up scenes – in which she describes her upbringing with a narcissistic father and irresponsible mother, her subsequent passing-around from relative to relative, and other events that led her to embark upon a year-long globe-trot from her home in Alaska, where she worked as a TV reporter. Though Lopez Lee is from Los Angeles, she lived in Alaska - the scenes there did not speak to me of running away or travel. Of course, there was the search for love there, the longing for it with the wrong men, Chance and Sean; but Lopez Lee revisits these experiences by way of flashbacks throughout the narrative anyway. As well, her relationships with her much younger step-mother and step-sister might’ve been left out too. Though I acknowledge the value of these relationships in knowing the real Cara Lopez Lee, it is the author’s relationship to Chance and Sean and her discoveries about herself by way of this that is the make-or-break in this reader’s understanding of why she had to “run away.”
On the love theme, the episodes with Chance and Sean were infuriating. With Chance, I wanted to scream, “Can’t you see this guy’s an A-hole?!” The scenes with Sean warranted a bit more sympathy – In Cara’s “just friends” scenes with him, he is sweet and admirable. When he graduated to “hook-up” then later to boyfriend, the interaction between them became annoyingly toxic; its participants loathsome in their addiction to it. There were times when I wanted to jump through the pages and put a good choke-hold on one or both of them! Perhaps this is because I’m addictive and co-dependent; that essentially I’ve been there, done that. More to the point though, it speaks volumes about Lopez Lee’s ability to make the characters in her real-life drama compelling. If Sean and Cara weren’t so skin-crawlingly co-dependent in these scenes, they would not have elicited such a violent response from me.
Like the subtitle, the title itself seems out-of-whack with the themes. Though it refers to the narrator’s encounter with a praying mantis in Thailand and her humorous curiosity about whether or not the insect would harm her – “They only eat their husbands,” a neighbor informs – there isn’t much in the story that suggests predatory husband-eating. Rather, it would be more accurate to infer that women looking for love among alcoholics will likely fall prey to their manipulations; or that women travelling alone in male-dominated cultures might occasionally find themselves caught in an opportunist’s web. Not that I admonish Lopez Lee for going wherever and doing whatever she wants. On the contrary, I’ve travelled alone and know first-hand that getting hit-on by male chauvinists who assume alone equals desperate is but a minor irritation compared with the foot-loose, fancy-freedom of travelling solo. One of my favorite scenes is of the narrator being lured into “drinking coffee with the family” of an elderly male villager in the idyllic town of Xania, Crete. As it turns out, there is no family in this sleazy former politician’s snare; and it's soon apparent why: His trickiness is enough to drive away even the most patient and doting of old world wives!
Another favorite sequence has to do with a Spanish man of similar seniority to the Cretan trickster. After a few days of gallivanting around with him, Lopez Lee is confronted with the fact that this man is married and that their chumminess seems inappropriate in this small Spanish town. Here, I am reminded of how American the narrator is. Throughout the book, she’s more drawn to male companionship than female; and one of her remarkable “breakthroughs” seems to occur earlier, in Nepal, when she buddies up to some fellow female “trekkers” and acknowledges feeling encouraged as a result. An American woman and a loner besides, I myself have often felt more at-ease with male friends than female. Still, the co-dependent in me is well aware of the obvious benefits; i.e., the ability to flirt and manipulate, in such a tendency. Still, I couldn’t help but feel for Lopez Lee when a well-intentioned woman accuses her of indecent behavior with the gentlemanly Eduardo of Cuenca, Spain, who seems to want nothing from Cara but to share with her the beauty of his ever-changing-and-not-for-the-better hometown.
Ironically, it is in Dingle, Ireland that Lopez-Lee first acknowledges awareness of her Americanness. In a café, where musicians of English, Scottish and American heritage play folk music that is rooted in the blues, she informs the reader that this is her music, her American heritage. This was another favorite of mine. Pride in Americanness seems more appropriate to Nashville or Chicago than Ireland and I was proud of Lopez Lee for having this revelation in a less than expected place.
Unfortunately, all of the above are, for me, travel experiences that don’t necessarily correlate with Lopez’s love travails. They are eye-openers though- If nothing else, travel expands one's mind. A re-reading with my own mind open to prospective better titles might yield one more appropriate for this memoir. As for the sub-title, I've already landed on a superb one: Eliminate "Love" and "Travel" and simply call it “The Power of Running Away.”
October 15, 2015
Many Hats: Making the Most of Your Author Platform
We all know the challenge of selling fiction to the reality-crazed techie generation. Time and again we’ve been told we need a “platform” – that area of specialization that enables us to sell books to people who aren’t necessarily shopping for them.
In writing my debut novel, THESE DAYS, I was partly motivated by the resurgent interest in the Depression-era art of burlesque. THESE DAYS takes place on an historic burlesque strip, The Block in Baltimore, which also happens to be where I came of age in the late 1970s.
In 2007 when I sat down to write, “New” Burlesque was in its formative years. I was 45 – well past “formative” but still agile enough to compete as a performer. And I had that special something that appealed to aficionados of the art: I’m a “baby legend”: a performer who was around at the tail end of old burlesque. As one who bridges the gap between the old and the new, I knew my tale of coming-of-age on a notorious burlesque strip would appeal to the newbies of the craft. With the aid of social media, I connected with the Denver burlesque scene and began performing. Author/Burlesque Performer: I wore two “hats.”
Unfortunately, that didn’t make me an instant success. I’ve sold books at burlesque shows and discussed burlesque, old and new, with bookstore audiences. I’ve given readings in towns where I’ve performed, thus tying the two together. Still, selling books in areas where I’m unknown hasn't been easy. I have little trouble getting events in Baltimore, where THESE DAYS takes place, or in Denver, my home for 16 years. Other cities have presented more of a challenge, however. While performing in Laramie, I gave a reading to a bookstore audience of four, one of whom was my husband and two of whom were employees – I’ll let you do the math.
This past winter, while on my third Baltimore book tour, I reached out to a bookstore in Philadelphia, ever-hopeful but expecting the usual spiel regarding the need for a local following. That came, but with a twist: “Can you teach a writing workshop?”
I hadn’t taught a workshop, but I’d talked with many in the burlesque and literary areas of my life about the process of creating. I sat down with literary and burlesque friends to brainstorm. The concept that came up most often was that of dressing up.
Writing fiction and performing burlesque both involve dressing up. In burlesque, performers spend countless, unpaid hours fashioning elaborate costumes. To entertain and amuse, we create characters that are sub- and super-human; over-the-top, even. In fiction we want our characters to be relatable; down-to-earth, yet we still strive to give them that extra “umph” that will make them walk, talk or dance their way into readers’ hearts.
We also strip them bare, manipulating them in and out of tricky situations to show what they’re made of. We do the same in burlesque, but with flair and tease – There’s nothing like expectation to keep audiences on the edge of their seats. We can make a tight-fitting gown without spending our extra dollars on sequins and rhinestones. It will suffice for peeling out of at just the right moment, but will it pop off the stage, shining at its biggest and brightest best?
No. Nor will our fictional characters be their best without details, details, details. Their backstories, motivations and predicaments are what make them shine. For better or worse, details are their “sequins.”
At Philadelphia’s Big Blue Marble Bookstore, I filled a room with aspiring writers and a few curious passers-by. I sold a dozen or so books and gained a bit of a following in previously uncharted territory. Thus I discovered “hat” number three: Workshop Presenter.
On November 7, 1-3 p.m., I will present “Dressing Up and Baring All: A Workshop for Fiction Writers” at the Standley Lake Library in Arvada (Denver). Bring a sample of your writing and be prepared to “dress it up.”
For more information, visit http://rmfw.org/events
July 14, 2015
Blaze Starr and Burlesque's "Big To-Do"
Blaze Starr: My Life as Told to Huey PerryFrom the 1950s through the 1970s, Blaze Starr was a world-renown burlesque entertainer. On the home town front of this author, she was the famous as the owner of the Two O'clock Club on the Baltimore adult-entertainment strip known as the "Block."
Miss Starr and I never crossed paths. She sold the Two O'clock Club in 1975 and I hit the Block three years later. Hardly a day passed on the Block in which some stripper-turned-barmaid or old-school booking agent didn't mention her, though.
Rarely have I felt more honored than I did last June 15, when the Baltimore Sun called me for a quote in her obituary. Over the days that followed, that honor translated into a remembrance I wrote for the Sun's Editorial Page.
Enjoy! And keep reading!
September 13, 2014
Gas Jockeys and Lonely Hearts
In small town America in the 1970s, gas stations were called filling stations. Locally-owned franchises where you could get a tune-up as well as a fill-up, they employed full-time attendants known as "gas jockeys" and a mechanic you could trust - You knew they guy, his wife and kids and where he lived. He knew what was under your hood as well as he knew what was under his.In Catonsville, the small town outside Baltimore where I grew up, one local filling station was Inglewood Amoco. More than just a place to fill up or get your brakes re-shod, Inglewood Amoco was a meeting place; a place where friends gathered to hear the latest gossip over a 15-cent can of Coke from the machine.
Inglewood sponsored a car, Number 95, in the stock car races every Saturday night at Dorsey Speedway. A blue '55 Chevy with "95" on the doors and "Inglewood Amoco" emblazoned down the rear quarterpanels, it was commandeered by Will, their head mechanic. One summer evening, my next-door neighbor, LouAnn invited me to go with her to Dorsey.
At first I wasn't sure. I liked LouAnn okay. She was fine company on our quiet street, where there wasn't much going on; but she was geeky and pudgy: a big kid. Her sisters made fun of her for playing with Barbie dolls at her age, 18. Plus, Dorsey Speedway was rundown. Situated in a clearing at the end of a rutted dirt road in the poorest part of Howard County, it consisted of a rickety stack of bleachers, one lousy concession stand and a packed dirt track. When things really got going, cars roaring and crashing into each other on the dusty track, a noxious haze hovered in the glow of the overhead lights.
But the phone wasn't exactly ringing off the hook for me. Earlier that school year, I'd lost all my friends, having to do with a good-looking, big-mouthed guy named Angelo and something we'd done under a railroad bridge - Teenagers can be so cruel. So I decided to give LouAnn and Dorsey Speedway a go.
Turned out it was fun, whooping and hollering as souped-up shells of cars went 'round and 'round. Will white-knuckled Number 95 with ease, and ended up finishing second.
After the races, I followed LouAnn to the pit, impressed that here at Dorsey, she seemed to know exactly what to do. There, Will, surrounded by swooning women and awestruck men, went about the business of loading Number 95 onto a trailer. Chewing a toothpick, he paused now and again to wink at the women and laugh with the men. This reminded me of a song, "Rapid Roy," from an album in my Dad's collection, "You Don't Mess Around with Jim" by Jim Croce. Dad and I having played that album to death, I knew all the words to every song. As Will flirted with pudgy LouAnn then tossed me a conspiratorial wink, I knew, without even thinking about it, that he, like Rapid Roy, was a charmer.
Off to the side lingered a baby-faced guy LouAnn had introduced me to in the stands. Bobby was Will's brother-in-law, a junior at Catonsville High, where I'd be in a year. He was cute, though not in the way I'd found Angelo cute. With bushy hair and a slouching stance, he was awkward and kid-like, like LouAnn. As he continuously shifted to make room for the older, better-looking others, I felt sorry for him. Later, when it seemed no one was looking, I slipped him my number.
Before long, we were an item: high school sweethearts.
Bobby was a gas jockey at Inglewood Amoco. Three nights a week and all day Saturday, he pumped gas and cleaned windshields, for two-fifty an hour plus customers' nickels and dimes. He was 18, LouAnn's age, but in eleventh grade, having been held back a year. Far from a scholar, he got bad grades and couldn't spell. I didn't care about that. After a year of getting ignored by my so-called friends, of avoiding the lavatory and the cafeteria for fear of the whispers that seemed always to follow me, I now had what most girls my age merely wished for: a boyfriend with a job.
In his '68 Ford Custom, Bobby and I made the rounds of Catonsville's hangouts. For fries with gravy, there was Mr. G's Drive-In; for cheese steak subs, it was the Tiffany or Ciafalo's. Always on Saturdays, it was Dorsey Speedway and, when Smoky and the Bandit hit the big screen, there was the Edmondson Drive-In, where we delighted to watch Burt Reynolds wheel a black Trans Am as effortlessly as Will wheeled Number 95. Always, at some point during every date, we wheeled into Inglewood Amoco, for just a Coke and to see who was hanging out.
No longer the de facto president of the lonely hearts club, I now had things to do, places to go. This was important, for at the time, my parents' marriage was falling apart. Dad drank a lot and slapped Mom around. She spent a lot of time out. Supposedly she was in classes at CCC but, listening to cheating songs on the Country station in Bobby's car, I got a feeling there was more to their fights than Dad's constant drinking.
Sometimes Dad got so drunk he accused everyone in the house of lying to him. That was when I'd spend my evening with Bobby at the Inglewood. While he raced between the pumps and the cash register, I kicked back at the bulky metal desk where Bill Schraff, the owner and also a mechanic, wrote estimates while shouting jokes to Will, in the bays.
I spent all of ninth grade and half of tenth thinking I'd graduate high school and marry Bobby. We'd get a house and have some kids and spend the rest of our lives in our small burg outside Baltimore. That didn't happen and, for the best. Mom and Dad were lousy parents. I likely wouldn't have been much better.
Within a year of those steamy summer nights killing time with Bobby at the Inglewood, Mom left. My sister quit school and married a guy who abused her, and I, following in Mom's path, starting looking around for something better than what I had.
Kenny was cooler than cool. Ten years older than me, he had a Harley Davidson and a stripper ex-wife. I moved into his apartment at a roach motel of a complex called Meadow Lane, known to those who lived there as Ghetto Lane. One day, he took me to a notorious former burlesque strip in Baltimore known as the Block, and I became a stripper, too.
It was 1978. The country was in the throes of a gas crunch. Cars formed snaking lines to fill up at record high prices. To save money, people pumped their own. But the Harley didn't burn much gas, and I had a job making way more than nickels and dimes.
Changing Times, Old Neon Signs
Something about this place - an old travelers motel on US 85 alongside downtown Littleton Colorado - touches my writer's soul, speaking of loss, struggle and decrepitude, of the days before Interstate Highways and Air Travel, when small towns, not highway interchanges, gave respite to weary businessmen, truckers and travelers.
Nowadays it's hanging in there. An anachronism alongside McDonald's, Arapahoe Community College, and the Littleton Light Rail Station, it gives respite to ne'er-do-wellers and the down-and out of a new era.And I love old neon. The lights have obviously been removed from this one. I hope the scaffolding doesn't mean it will soon come down! Happy to preserve it here. #OurAmericanStory, #neon, #oldneonsigns
September 9, 2013
GOODREADS BOOK GIVEAWAY
GRACIOUS THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO SIGNED UP VIA GOODREADS TO WIN A COPY OF "THESE DAYS." I'M TICKLED PINK AT THE TURNOUT. 523 PEOPLE ENTERED TO WIN ONE OF THREE AUTOGRAPHED COPIES OF MY DEBUT NOVEL! IN THE WEEKS TO COME, "THESE DAYS" WILL BE IN THE HANDS OF READERS IN LIVERPOOL ENGLAND, VICTORIA AUSTRALIA AND ONTARIO CANADA. I LOVE THE THOUGHT OF FOLKS WORLDWIDE READING MY BOOK!
San Francisco: City Lost in Time
San Francisco - City Lost in Time
I love this place! Always have. I've been here twice, the first time in 1988, when I drove up the coast from San Diego after visiting my long lost friend, Bettina; the second two years later when I flew out here to visit Aziz's brother Said and his girlfriend Adrienne, he a misplaced Iranian; she a misplaced Cajun, both of them kind and generous but unsuited to each other. Now it's 23 years later and this place seems little changed.
Our hotel, the Beresford, is sweet and old, an 8-story Victorian with bay windows facing Sutter Street, those bay windows so synonymous with San Francisco I wonder aloud if they're named for the city by the bay. The Beresford is in Union Square, near the Financial District, but also bordering the Tenderloin to the west. There's a photo of the hotel in the lobby, an older version of it, its name over the sidewalk in garish green neon. One glimpse of the timeless Tenderloin with its flea bag hotels piled one on top of the other, makes me wonder if The Beresford wasn't once one of those dumps, and perhaps not so long ago. If there's any visible change to San Francisco, it's that the Tenderloin has gotten smaller, a few of its hotels having been bought up by corporations that renovated them, some currently in the process. A larger one, half a block wide and a few blocks out Sutter, has scaffolding completely surrounding its two street facades -- getting a real face lift, that one.
Some -- most! -- would call this a good thing, the shrinking of the Tenderloin. I have to admit I feel the improvement even as I question the inevitable progress that brings more tourists to San Fran while displacing its poor, the ones who call these crumbling, vermin-infested rooms home. 23 years ago I wandered here accidentally, an innocent out-of-towner. One minute I was in the ordinary safety of downtown, the next I was gazing upon hill after hill of squalor and getting beckoned by doorway sneaks to buy drugs or other such un-neccesities. To this day I still feel the discomfort of wondering which way to go to get out as quickly as possible without appearing to need such escape, without revealing to street toughs my relative weakness. But today, as I witness progress; the transformation of these crumbling beauties to their grand, original purpose; the liberal in me feels sad for those who will be displaced. Where will they go, I wonder? In these relics, rancid as they are, at least there's safety. These flea-bag dwellers are not out on the streets. The halls of these buildings may be as dangerous as the streets (or more!), but once the lock is flipped and the chain attached there's safety, relative autonomy. On the streets there's crime and grime, concrete beds and knapsack pillows; unfathomable danger and temptation. I feel for the flea-bag dwellers, while at the same time I wonder is it the liberal in me that feels their pain or the artist in me who can't abide a revamped Tenderloin, its sparkling newness and appeal to tourists so very uninspiring!
In addition to bay windows, every building of four stories or more has fire escapes -- so urban! I lust to call this place home! For three and a half days, John and I will wander around discussing the possibility of a move to San Francisco in lieu of a move to Tampa, where we already own property and plan to retire. Personally, I'd like to try San Francisco. If we don't like it, the decision will be reversible, I tell John over and again. The more rigid of the two of us, he tends to think decisions have to be "right" to be acted upon at all.
At the cable car museum, I paid a quarter for a nickelodeon peek at 8 or 10 old newspaper stills of the 1906 quake and fire. Such devastation! Entire city blocks burned out, the buildings reduced to piles of rock and rubble. One still showed an old Chinese man climbing a trecherous grade with the aid of a walking stick, making his way among hills of rubble -- of nothing! -- and in search of what, I wonder? I wonder also at the devastation that reduced the buildings to nothing but left those glorious hills, one after another, still intact. What a feat to have built the nation's most beautiful city on a series of 6 - 12% grades.
We take the bus out to Ocean Beach, John and I. The weather is magnificent, never hot nor cold. Clouds in the morning give way to sunshine by lunchtime then fog and cool breezes by dinner. Amazing, this weather unfairly described by Mark Twain as winter in the summer. It rarely changes. Summer in the winter, at its best.
Side-winding down switchbacks to the beach, I tell John of my old friend Meryl. She was a hippy-ish type who wore Iggy Pop eyeliner and carried her keys around on a dead bat's feet. We danced together at the Dynasty, on Baltimore's Block. She was an art student somewhere (Towson State?), and had an apartment in Hampden where she cooked me dinner once. I remember smoking weed on a low sofa in a room decorated with beads and tie-dye, her telling me of Storyville in New Orleans, my first introduction to that fascinating place. On a slow night at the Dynasty, I told her of my years-long desire to live in San Fran, and she said I should go. I could make so much money, she said -- "20-dollar tips just for dancing"-- at North Beach's Hungry I, old stomping ground of visionary Lenny Bruce and his drug-addicted lusty stripper wife, Honey Holiday. I mention to John that perhaps I should've done that. Back then the rents, always ridiculously high here, quality of life not coming cheap, were lower. By now I'd be settled, I say, my life wholly different. Of course he knows this means I wouldn't have met him -- this bit goes without saying. But our comfort with each other's desires and regrets stands up to our insecurities, so there's no need for excuses.
I love this place! Always have. I've been here twice, the first time in 1988, when I drove up the coast from San Diego after visiting my long lost friend, Bettina; the second two years later when I flew out here to visit Aziz's brother Said and his girlfriend Adrienne, he a misplaced Iranian; she a misplaced Cajun, both of them kind and generous but unsuited to each other. Now it's 23 years later and this place seems little changed.
Our hotel, the Beresford, is sweet and old, an 8-story Victorian with bay windows facing Sutter Street, those bay windows so synonymous with San Francisco I wonder aloud if they're named for the city by the bay. The Beresford is in Union Square, near the Financial District, but also bordering the Tenderloin to the west. There's a photo of the hotel in the lobby, an older version of it, its name over the sidewalk in garish green neon. One glimpse of the timeless Tenderloin with its flea bag hotels piled one on top of the other, makes me wonder if The Beresford wasn't once one of those dumps, and perhaps not so long ago. If there's any visible change to San Francisco, it's that the Tenderloin has gotten smaller, a few of its hotels having been bought up by corporations that renovated them, some currently in the process. A larger one, half a block wide and a few blocks out Sutter, has scaffolding completely surrounding its two street facades -- getting a real face lift, that one.
Some -- most! -- would call this a good thing, the shrinking of the Tenderloin. I have to admit I feel the improvement even as I question the inevitable progress that brings more tourists to San Fran while displacing its poor, the ones who call these crumbling, vermin-infested rooms home. 23 years ago I wandered here accidentally, an innocent out-of-towner. One minute I was in the ordinary safety of downtown, the next I was gazing upon hill after hill of squalor and getting beckoned by doorway sneaks to buy drugs or other such un-neccesities. To this day I still feel the discomfort of wondering which way to go to get out as quickly as possible without appearing to need such escape, without revealing to street toughs my relative weakness. But today, as I witness progress; the transformation of these crumbling beauties to their grand, original purpose; the liberal in me feels sad for those who will be displaced. Where will they go, I wonder? In these relics, rancid as they are, at least there's safety. These flea-bag dwellers are not out on the streets. The halls of these buildings may be as dangerous as the streets (or more!), but once the lock is flipped and the chain attached there's safety, relative autonomy. On the streets there's crime and grime, concrete beds and knapsack pillows; unfathomable danger and temptation. I feel for the flea-bag dwellers, while at the same time I wonder is it the liberal in me that feels their pain or the artist in me who can't abide a revamped Tenderloin, its sparkling newness and appeal to tourists so very uninspiring!
In addition to bay windows, every building of four stories or more has fire escapes -- so urban! I lust to call this place home! For three and a half days, John and I will wander around discussing the possibility of a move to San Francisco in lieu of a move to Tampa, where we already own property and plan to retire. Personally, I'd like to try San Francisco. If we don't like it, the decision will be reversible, I tell John over and again. The more rigid of the two of us, he tends to think decisions have to be "right" to be acted upon at all.
At the cable car museum, I paid a quarter for a nickelodeon peek at 8 or 10 old newspaper stills of the 1906 quake and fire. Such devastation! Entire city blocks burned out, the buildings reduced to piles of rock and rubble. One still showed an old Chinese man climbing a trecherous grade with the aid of a walking stick, making his way among hills of rubble -- of nothing! -- and in search of what, I wonder? I wonder also at the devastation that reduced the buildings to nothing but left those glorious hills, one after another, still intact. What a feat to have built the nation's most beautiful city on a series of 6 - 12% grades.
We take the bus out to Ocean Beach, John and I. The weather is magnificent, never hot nor cold. Clouds in the morning give way to sunshine by lunchtime then fog and cool breezes by dinner. Amazing, this weather unfairly described by Mark Twain as winter in the summer. It rarely changes. Summer in the winter, at its best.
Side-winding down switchbacks to the beach, I tell John of my old friend Meryl. She was a hippy-ish type who wore Iggy Pop eyeliner and carried her keys around on a dead bat's feet. We danced together at the Dynasty, on Baltimore's Block. She was an art student somewhere (Towson State?), and had an apartment in Hampden where she cooked me dinner once. I remember smoking weed on a low sofa in a room decorated with beads and tie-dye, her telling me of Storyville in New Orleans, my first introduction to that fascinating place. On a slow night at the Dynasty, I told her of my years-long desire to live in San Fran, and she said I should go. I could make so much money, she said -- "20-dollar tips just for dancing"-- at North Beach's Hungry I, old stomping ground of visionary Lenny Bruce and his drug-addicted lusty stripper wife, Honey Holiday. I mention to John that perhaps I should've done that. Back then the rents, always ridiculously high here, quality of life not coming cheap, were lower. By now I'd be settled, I say, my life wholly different. Of course he knows this means I wouldn't have met him -- this bit goes without saying. But our comfort with each other's desires and regrets stands up to our insecurities, so there's no need for excuses.
August 28, 2013
Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter
Beautiful Ruins by Jess WalterMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Rare is it that a book gives so much -- Historical reference, humor, relatable characters with believable dilemnas, a deep consistent theme. Walter jumps from war-torn Italy to celebrity-obsessed Hollywood without losing relevance, and he does so in a way that informs. How often we hear post-WWII stories in terms of concentration camps and bombed-out cities; not to subtract from that, but precious little literature deals with post-war Italy and its citizens, as weary of Germans as they were of the rescuer-Americans.
This is a book about stories, those we tell ourselves, those we tell others. And the denouement at the end gives credence to the fact that our stories are, in fact, life.
View all my reviews
August 5, 2013
HOW THINGS MIGHT'VE GONE FOR "OLD" BURLESQUE
HOW THINGS MIGHT’VE GONE FOR OLD BURLESQUE
HAD THE FOCUS NOT BEEN ON “SKIN”
Of the cultural phenomena that can be said to have struck a blow to old burlesque, one is the sexual revolution of the 1960s and its greater freedoms for women. Consider, for example, the bikini, popularized by Ursula Andress (left). Though two-piece swimsuits were popular on American beaches in the early 40s, these were mostly the high-rise version that concealed the navel and upper thigh. The modern bikini, with low-rise bottoms and string sides, debuted in France in 1946 but would have to wait until 1962, when Bond-girl Andress emerged from the sea in this scene from “Dr. No.”
Andress’s era, the early 60s, roughly coincides with the beginning of the end of old burlesque, and one look at Andress’s dripping-wet, barely-clad form reveals why. By comparison, burlesque queens like Kitty Lynne (right) must’ve looked rather quaint. Andress’s image is empowered (holding a knife) and freely sexual (out in the open), where to see Lynne display her charms one had to buy a ticket and risk social stigma. With the advent of sexual freedom, no longer did the American male have to duck into the dank darkness of an inner-city burlesque theater to see beautiful women so scantily clad. Andress’s bikini is cited as the most famous bikini of all time, and sales of the bikini skyrocketed in the wake of its pivotal debut.
As a performer of “New Burlesque” and an 1970s stripper, I happen to prefer the image of Kitty Lynne to that of Ursula Andress, but to each his own. The bottom line is that the 1960s ushered in an era unprecedented in freedoms for women. Where women in the first half of the 20 century were raised to be sexually chaste, women in the second half could openly express their sexuality. The differences in costume, make-up and hair notwithstanding, the obvious difference between the two images is locale – Ms. Andress’s beauty is on display out-of-doors; Miss Lynne’s is confined to the theater, a place of some questionable repute in the first half of the 20century. Odd it strikes me that while women were gaining greater freedom in the arenas of politics and career, women in burlesque and the offshoot strip joint became further objectified. No longer could striptease entertainment be seen as a glorifying of the female form. Women were gaining greater power and independence across the board, and some males responded by further objectifying them. The strip joint remained the one place where men retained power over women, even if just in a fantasy sense. From personal experience I know this to be true. During the late 70s, when I started stripping on Baltimore’s Block, my mom, an office administrator, could fully expect to be paid less than her male counterparts as a matter of policy. She could also expect to be labeled a secretary regardless of her job duties and to be sexually harassed with little or nothing in the way of recourse. Yet the male strip joint customer in those years was, generally-speaking, a gentleman who treated the girls and women of The Block decently, if not respectfully. It seemed that though his businessman’s lunch might call for a little titillation, there was no need to be crude about it! As time wore on, however, as the 80s and 90s ushered in greater equality for women in the workplace and in politics, this no longer seemed to be the case. The 90s were the years I remember as the most difficult to be a stripper. Those were the years when it seemed men came to strip joints to humiliate and wield power over women.
Striptease entertainment hung in there post-1970s by way of explicitly showing more and more skin. Performers competed with pornography and changing sexual mores by going full-nude. Today, as a performer of “New Burlesque,” I find myself wondering how things might’ve gone for old burlesque had producers put their focus on the quality and variety of show rather than competing with pornography by showing more and more. On Baltimore’s Block, there were some – notably Pam Gail of the Oasis Nite Club – who did this. Along with a partner who’d spent his life working in carnivals, Pam booked burlesque acts into travelling carnivals as late as the mid-80s. My dear friend and mentor Lynn Christie was one of the acts she booked.
In the late 80s Pam’s partner, a guy I remember only as Eli, started booking acts into a porno theater he owned. A fan of classic burlesque, Eli insisted his performers strip out of gowns, gloves and boas, and strip no further than pasties and a g-string. Imagine the challenge of stripping down to pasties and a g-string in a theater that showed XXX porn between live burlesque shows! In 1986, I got booked to work at Eli’s theater, The Lee, in Richmond. I’m certain it was a loss for Eli. The crowds were slim and during one show I got booed! Not to worry, though, I’d been struggling to maintain a burlesque-y image in my stripping for 5 or 6 years by then, so I considered a badge of honor to get booed in a theater whose patrons were there for hard-core porn. My girl Lynn Christie carried it off, though, and one look at her 5’2”, 38-24-38 figure reveals why! She performed burlesque in porn theaters in Baltimore and beyond and always kept it classy! (Hats off to you, Lynnie-Belle!)
The operation at The Lee went like this: It was open from 7 a.m. - 1 a.m. At noon, 3, 9, and midnight, the burlesque act – one dancer at a time, rotated in on a weekly basis – would be announced. The theater was then cleared and tickets re-sold. This tended to eliminate the patrons who might be inclined to boo the poor burlesque dancer! Though the crowd thinned considerably with the announcement of live burlesque, it was gratifying to see some came specifically for that. There were even a few regulars! Though we weren’t inclined to mingle with them like we would’ve if the venue had been a strip joint, it was gratifying to see there were some who still came out for burlesque.
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HAD THE FOCUS NOT BEEN ON “SKIN”
Of the cultural phenomena that can be said to have struck a blow to old burlesque, one is the sexual revolution of the 1960s and its greater freedoms for women. Consider, for example, the bikini, popularized by Ursula Andress (left). Though two-piece swimsuits were popular on American beaches in the early 40s, these were mostly the high-rise version that concealed the navel and upper thigh. The modern bikini, with low-rise bottoms and string sides, debuted in France in 1946 but would have to wait until 1962, when Bond-girl Andress emerged from the sea in this scene from “Dr. No.”
Andress’s era, the early 60s, roughly coincides with the beginning of the end of old burlesque, and one look at Andress’s dripping-wet, barely-clad form reveals why. By comparison, burlesque queens like Kitty Lynne (right) must’ve looked rather quaint. Andress’s image is empowered (holding a knife) and freely sexual (out in the open), where to see Lynne display her charms one had to buy a ticket and risk social stigma. With the advent of sexual freedom, no longer did the American male have to duck into the dank darkness of an inner-city burlesque theater to see beautiful women so scantily clad. Andress’s bikini is cited as the most famous bikini of all time, and sales of the bikini skyrocketed in the wake of its pivotal debut.
As a performer of “New Burlesque” and an 1970s stripper, I happen to prefer the image of Kitty Lynne to that of Ursula Andress, but to each his own. The bottom line is that the 1960s ushered in an era unprecedented in freedoms for women. Where women in the first half of the 20 century were raised to be sexually chaste, women in the second half could openly express their sexuality. The differences in costume, make-up and hair notwithstanding, the obvious difference between the two images is locale – Ms. Andress’s beauty is on display out-of-doors; Miss Lynne’s is confined to the theater, a place of some questionable repute in the first half of the 20century. Odd it strikes me that while women were gaining greater freedom in the arenas of politics and career, women in burlesque and the offshoot strip joint became further objectified. No longer could striptease entertainment be seen as a glorifying of the female form. Women were gaining greater power and independence across the board, and some males responded by further objectifying them. The strip joint remained the one place where men retained power over women, even if just in a fantasy sense. From personal experience I know this to be true. During the late 70s, when I started stripping on Baltimore’s Block, my mom, an office administrator, could fully expect to be paid less than her male counterparts as a matter of policy. She could also expect to be labeled a secretary regardless of her job duties and to be sexually harassed with little or nothing in the way of recourse. Yet the male strip joint customer in those years was, generally-speaking, a gentleman who treated the girls and women of The Block decently, if not respectfully. It seemed that though his businessman’s lunch might call for a little titillation, there was no need to be crude about it! As time wore on, however, as the 80s and 90s ushered in greater equality for women in the workplace and in politics, this no longer seemed to be the case. The 90s were the years I remember as the most difficult to be a stripper. Those were the years when it seemed men came to strip joints to humiliate and wield power over women.
Striptease entertainment hung in there post-1970s by way of explicitly showing more and more skin. Performers competed with pornography and changing sexual mores by going full-nude. Today, as a performer of “New Burlesque,” I find myself wondering how things might’ve gone for old burlesque had producers put their focus on the quality and variety of show rather than competing with pornography by showing more and more. On Baltimore’s Block, there were some – notably Pam Gail of the Oasis Nite Club – who did this. Along with a partner who’d spent his life working in carnivals, Pam booked burlesque acts into travelling carnivals as late as the mid-80s. My dear friend and mentor Lynn Christie was one of the acts she booked.
In the late 80s Pam’s partner, a guy I remember only as Eli, started booking acts into a porno theater he owned. A fan of classic burlesque, Eli insisted his performers strip out of gowns, gloves and boas, and strip no further than pasties and a g-string. Imagine the challenge of stripping down to pasties and a g-string in a theater that showed XXX porn between live burlesque shows! In 1986, I got booked to work at Eli’s theater, The Lee, in Richmond. I’m certain it was a loss for Eli. The crowds were slim and during one show I got booed! Not to worry, though, I’d been struggling to maintain a burlesque-y image in my stripping for 5 or 6 years by then, so I considered a badge of honor to get booed in a theater whose patrons were there for hard-core porn. My girl Lynn Christie carried it off, though, and one look at her 5’2”, 38-24-38 figure reveals why! She performed burlesque in porn theaters in Baltimore and beyond and always kept it classy! (Hats off to you, Lynnie-Belle!)
The operation at The Lee went like this: It was open from 7 a.m. - 1 a.m. At noon, 3, 9, and midnight, the burlesque act – one dancer at a time, rotated in on a weekly basis – would be announced. The theater was then cleared and tickets re-sold. This tended to eliminate the patrons who might be inclined to boo the poor burlesque dancer! Though the crowd thinned considerably with the announcement of live burlesque, it was gratifying to see some came specifically for that. There were even a few regulars! Though we weren’t inclined to mingle with them like we would’ve if the venue had been a strip joint, it was gratifying to see there were some who still came out for burlesque.
0 Comments
July 14, 2013
Creative Quote of the Day
As I work through
The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron
, I'm moved by the many quotes sprinkled throughout her pages, all of them geared toward inspiring expression of one's unique creativity. Thus I've decided to periodically post creativity-inspiring quotes on my blog. Moved as I've always been by jazz music, I'll start with one by incomparable, always-creative pianist, band-leader and composer, Duke Ellington:
"I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues."Hope you find this moves you to turn your troubles into inspiration. As his enormous body of work testifies, Duke surely did!
