The Brady Bunch

Teenage Dream

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brady2A friend of mine shared a video on Facebook of two little boys lip-syncing to a Katy Perry song. He captioned the video, “Honey, the gay babies.” I clicked to watch it and it appeared to be two little boys, perhaps in the Philippines, one in a dress and one in a bikini top and a towel wrapped around his hips like a long skirt. I’ve posted the video, you can see it here for yourself.

I watched it and I must admit, I had a complex reaction. Don’t get me wrong, I am rooting for these little boys. I want them to grow up to be fabulous and I believe that they will, but there was something, I’m not exactly sure what, that unsettled me.

The biggest night of my life, when I was 8, was going to be the little talent show, my cousin Susie and I were to put on in my living room for New Year’s Eve. I had a tape recording of The Brady Kids singing both It’s a Sunshine Day and Keep On. Susie and I had worked for days learning the songs, the choreography. On the afternoon before the show, Susie accidently taped over about 10 seconds of one of the songs. When I realized it, I became inconsolable. I really thought there were going to be talent scouts in our home in rural Kansas for the 8:45 New Year’s Eve show. Every one tried to calm me, it’s okay, it’s just a few seconds. But even then, I was easily crestfallen. Still the show did go on. After we returned from bacon-wrapped filet mignon dinners at the Whistle Stop restaurant, Independence’s fanciest steak house, Susie and I changed into our costumes and sang and danced our two songs. By then, something had been lost. There was polite applause from my parents and relatives, but I couldn’t hear it, I was still bereft. My odds of being in The New Mickey Mouse Club with Lisa Whelchel and Kelly Parsons were slim to none.

I couldn’t help but think of that little 8 year old me. (Susie, if you’re reading this, I apologize for being the world’s most annoying, high maintenace 8 year old. It’s a wonder you still talk to me, I love you!) But these little boys reminded me of this fire I had, really I always had. I always wanted to be on a stage, prancing about. And because the performers I loved most were women, they were the ones I emulated. I really did want to grow up to be Carol Burnett. Or Jan Brady.

As I watched, I told myself that it was chiefly the sexual element of their dance moves that bothered me most. I don’t want kids to think about sex, I want everyone to stay as innocent as possible. I’m like Mary Jo on Designing Women who, on one memorable episode, said, “Don’t have sex,” under her breath every time she talked to her teenage daughter.

But as I watched these boys, I wondered if I was disturbed also by how feminine they were. I know that when I was that age, I received a lot of messages from a number of different sources, to butch it up. Act like a boy, don’t play with dolls. Don’t put a towel on your head and pretend it’s your long blond hair. My first grade teacher, Miss Bartlesmeyer, punished me for talking to the girls too much by making me go a week of only talking to boys. I got caught at one point whispering to my friend Sheila and received an added week of punishment. (Miss Bartlesmeyer, if YOU’RE reading this, I don’t think you had the best approach to teaching.)

So I have posted this video here, feel free to weigh in with your thoughts. You might have your own reactions when you watch the video. If I am a little uncomfortable about watching this, does it mean I have my own unresolved internalized homophobia?

I do want to say, I think these little boys are amazing. They are talented and confident and inspired and fabulous and I hope the world is always kind to them and tells them they can accomplish anything, because they can.

I Love L.A.

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10649791_10152729980567755_6169964462608463712_nOn Saturday, I started feeling a little guilty about how much I’ve been writing about my recent visit to New York. I’d written two very NewYorkophilic (new word?) blog entries and was on my way to writing a third when I stopped myself and decided I needed to step away from the computer and you know, stop spreading the news…

I had the afternoon free, my morning swim done, a backyard barbecue to attend in the early evening. And I know this sounds nerdy, but I wanted to go on a little date with my other city love, my main squeeze, Los Angeles. So, I drove downtown to one of my favorite haunts, the Central Library. I parked my car in the garage, since parking is only $1 all day on Saturday and Sunday, during library hours. And lucky me, as I was stepping into the grand entrance, I saw a sign that said a free tour of the Maguire Gardens was starting in front of the gift shop at 12:30. I looked at my watch. 12:28. I scurried to the gift shop where I found a petite woman, a little older than myself, in comfortable shoes and a sensible straw hat. She was standing alone.

“Are you here for the tour?”

“Yes, I am.”

“It’s going to be a good one because you’re by yourself.” And we were off, and her words were prophetic. We toured the gardens for some 45 minutes while she shared the history of the library, pointed out key architectural and artistic features, including the friezes of Herodotus, Virgil, Socrates, Da Vinci and Copernicus, the Ceramic Fountain, Jud Fine’s Spine Sculptural Installation, the Grotto Fountain, the World Peace Bell, and much more. And because I was an eager student of one, she took me inside and gave me a little history about the Rotunda, the card catalog elevator, and the Therman Statom chandeliers, too.

While we were walking around, I asked her how I might find some old pictures of my neighborhood, Larchmont Village and specifically, the street I live on. “Oh my goodness, I used to live on that street.”

“Which building?” I asked.

And she gave me my own address. “That’s my building!” She told me that she had lived there 11 years in the 70s and 80s. She remembered Mae West living just down the street. I told her that I’d lived there since 1998 and she said, “Wow, you’ve been there a long time too!”

And our bond deepened, she asked where I was from and I proudly told her I was from Kansas. She told me that she had been raised in Pennsylvania. As she told me more about the Central Library’s history, I must confess, I was probably equally interested in her personal history. I mean, she didn’t paint a mural or build a fountain or import Italian tiles or anything, but I sensed that her story was part of the fabric woven into the story of the Central Library, too. Here it was, Saturday afternoon, and this kind woman was giving the tour of the century to an attentive party of one.

Later, she took me to the section of the library where I hoped to find old pictures of Los Angeles and specifically my neighborhood. She introduced me to a gentleman (“He’s supposedly retired, but this place couldn’t function without him.”) who kindly set me up on a computer and instructed me how to find photos with specific search words. My friend the tour guide told me I was in good hands and disappeared not unlike a fairy godmother.

And I spent another hour or so, sleuthing the library’s databases, finding old pictures of the El Royale and the Ravenswood, and Wilshire Country Club. I hoped to stumble across a picture of my old building, but alas, I did not unearth one on my first effort. I kept sending pictures to myself and pictures to Eric, who was at work. He’d text me, “Love the photos!”

And reluctantly, I had to leave, I had that barbecue to attend and I had to go home and walk the dogs first. I paid my $1 at the kiosk and drove down a quiet Wilshire Boulevard, past MacArthur Park and the Talmadge and the HMS Bounty, on my way home.

I walked my dogs and put on a white linen shirt that flattered my summer tan and I went to sit in a leafy backyard with old, dear friends where we ate grilled meats and drank my friend Traci’s signature cocktail.

Really, not a bad way to spend a Saturday. It was a quintessentially Los Angeles day. And you know what, you might be reading this and thinking, that’s not MY ideal Los Angeles day! Well, that’s one of the magical things about the City of Angels, it really is whatever you want it to be. It doesn’t take it personally when you complain about traffic or come back from vacation tittering about how amazing New York or Cabo or Portland is. It’s always changing, evolving, but also, always distinctively it’s own. It welcomes all, our crowded freeways remind you of that. It’s everything and nothing like the city you dreamed about when you grew up watching The Brady Bunch and Beverly Hillbillies and Knots Landing. And I love it, I do.

Willie’s Redneck Rodeo

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912spnDSGJLIt was one of those jaw dropping, did I really just see that moments. I was on Facebook, per usual, scrolling through posts and I stumbled upon a picture of someone’s kids in long grey beards and bandanas. That really can’t be what I think it is. And I read the attached caption. This person’s children had been at Duck Dynasty Vacation Bible School all week. I had no idea such a thing even existed.

I did a little research when I saw it, a few weeks ago. Apparently, there is a Duck Dynasty curriculum for everything: Vacation Bible School, teen programs, adult programs. That family really knows how to make money. Wow! If you go to a Christian publishing website, you’ll see how many Duck Dynasty created items are out there. I guess I didn’t quite realize the depth of their influence.

“It seems like, to me, a vagina—as a man—would be more desirable than a man’s anus. That’s just me. I’m just thinking: There’s more there! She’s got more to offer. I mean, come on, dudes! You know what I’m saying? But hey, sin: It’s not logical, my man. It’s just not logical.”

Now, I really try to keep my blog as clean as possible. I seldom swear here, I don’t talk about sexual acts, of any kind. That quote above, you most likely know, is from a GQ interview Duck Dynasty patriarch Phil Robertson gave a few months ago. It ignited a controversy, which I believe he, and the family, too, knew would erupt in the way that it did. My Facebook newsfeed was full for days, weeks, even still, with folks weighing in on the interview and the subsequent interviews. Most of my friends, obviously, expressed disdain, discouragement, disappointment. And also, a handful of people I know expressed pride. “I’m with Phil!” was posted by a guy who I only remember as being a jerk in high school and the last time I saw him, sometime not long after college, made fun of me to my face about being gay.

This family, they have struck a chord with the American public. Whether or not I like them or watch them is irrelevant. What is relevant is that they are influencing people and probably not in the best ways. The whole fallout over this initial interview was to position themselves as Christian martyrs, suffering for their faith.

In all of the interviews, snippets of episodes, merchandising, I have seen nothing that deters me from my initial reaction which is Money is their God. There is nothing they love more than making money. I don’t think living to make money is such a bad thing, sometimes I wish I was a little more money motivated. If I was, I would probably have more of it.

As a whole, I do not think they are good role models, for anyone, but it especially scares me that what they are selling is being sold to grade schoolers. This particular VBS, Willie’s Redneck Rodeo is nothing more than a rehash of the Parables of the Gospel, the implication being that the Bible itself is not interesting enough to be taught as is, so one must put a beard and bandana on it.

They proclaim that their message is not anti-gay, but it is. I am not alone in that observation. I don’t believe in talking to children about adult topics, that they should be shielded from certain life realities for as long as possible. There is just something about choosing these people who are so famous for their polarizing lifestyle that doesn’t sit well with me.

I am sure not everyone who reads this will agree with me. I wasn’t going to write about this, I generally tend to avoid political stuff because I’m no expert about anything, except maybe The Brady Bunch, The Facts of Life, and shamefully, Big Brother. But, hey, it’s been on my mind, on my heart, and I wanted to express it.

Ultimately, I guess that family reunion this weekend is still on my mind. Maybe it’s because I was raised in the church that I was a little surprised by the way my family wholeheartedly embraced Eric with such open arms, from my 7 year old cousin Angelica to a distant 80-something cousin who when Eric and I were leaving whispered in my ear, “I like your friend.” We just want to be part of the family.