March 1999 Cover
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Bon mots
By
Mitzel
In David Lehman's recent, and delightful, book,
The Last AvantGarde: The Making of the New York School of
Poets, he recounts this incident. We find Frank
O'Hara, one of the charter members of the NY Skool, at a reading with the Beats, including Allen Ginsberg, Greg Corso, Jack Kerouac, and others. This was not O'Hara's
usual venue, but he went to read. Corso and Kerouac had been fighting; I suspect both were rather tight. The word "faggot" was tossed about generously. Anyway,
while O'Hara was reading, Jack Kerouac-- I think that's "poor" Jack Kerouac-- jumped up and shouted: "You're ruining American poetry, O'Hara." Frank looked at Jack
K. and, with that great gay aplomb, and in his whiny nasal voice, said: "That's more than you ever did for it."
Re:Tort!
In the early 60s, just as Andy Warhol was breaking out of obscurity, he was a guest on the radio show hosted by arts impresario Henry Geldzahler, wherein
Henry would showcase the new art talent on the up. The interview went just fine-- Andy at his typical dead-pan best-- and then, time up, Henry said: "And we'd like to
thank you very much for this interview Mister Andy Warhol." There was a very imposing dead air for about five seconds. Then Andy's voice came up: "That's
Miss Andy Warhol." A simple gesture, but you could hear the balloon being deflated.
Re:Tort!
Dorothy Parker probably buried many men. In the late 50s, she had the opportunity to bury her last husband, Alan Campbell, the cute gay guy she had married
twice (having divorced him for some reason, but then promptly remarrying him). Anyway, Alan predeceased Dorothy by eight or nine years, and there was the service in
his memory at some swank Southern California grief-tank. As Dorothy left the service, and walked down the steps of the chapel, who did she run into but the
oleaginous Tinsel Town gossip maven Hedda Hopper! Hideous Hedda was famously right-wing and never liked the progressive contingent among the Hollywood writers (of
which Dorothy and Alan were solid members-- Parker left her estate to the NAACP). Hedda gushed up to Dorothy and said: "Dorothy! Is there anything I can do for
you?" Parker sized up Hopper and quipped: "Yeah, you can get me a new husband!" Hedda feigned shock. "Under these circumstances, that's the most callous and
inconsiderate thing I have ever heard!" Dorothy then said: "In that case, get me a ham and cheese on rye!"
Re:Tort!
Tennessee Williams is next up, the story via Gore Vidal. Dear Tennessee had some good priest convert him from high Episcopalianism to the actual Church
at Rome. And Ten went the whole hog. The lucky priest, knowing he got a real good catch, booked Ten on the next plane out to Roma, so that Williams could get
an audience with Il Papa, at the time, the hideous Pius XII. When the moment came, Williams in his Rome hotel suite, the limo waiting to whisk him to the Vatican for
the great Photo Op, Ten told the lackies: "I'm just not up for the Pope today!"
Re:Tort!
Last incident involves me and puts me up there with Frank, Dorothy, and Ten. It was late 70s or early 80s, and my town was about to open a gay sex club, a sort
of provincial Mine Shaft-ette. I was all decked out in my store-bought police uniform, really hot stuff, down to and including spurs on the boots. Ready to debut in
full flower at the new sex club. My companion, my driver, was a sweet Catholic boy-lover, so frightened of the world he was scared of his own shadow. Off we headed to
the sex club. We parked the car, walked over to the venue, only to find the door sealed shut. There was to be no big debut night. And I, all dressed up and nowhere to go.
I sighed and turned to my friend. Just then, a police cruiser pulled up and stopped right next to us. My friend, Miss Boy-Lover, was ready to die. There were two cops
in the car. The one at the wheel, I knew, hated me. The one in the passenger seat, he was near me, seemed to understand and was getting off on it all. Why were they
there, I wondered? Clearly, to make sure the gay sex club did not open. This is my town's curse. The cute one at the window said to me: "Come over here!" I went. He eyed
me up and down. "Why are you dressed like that?" he asked me. I knew this was a signal moment. If I got it wrong, I might next be doing time in the hoosegow in my
new cop duds-- not the right venue for this show. So I thought about my answer for about 15 seconds. I twinkled at the cop-- he was cute, just my type, and I think he
knew it-- and I said: "You know, Officer, it just takes all types to make a world." He laughed, said to me and Miss Boy-Love "Just scram!" and told his buddy to drive on.
And drive on they did. Friend and I went back to our car, and I heard Friend's take on all this, and we went to another gay bar-- and I did get blown that night in my
police gear-- it's so hard my dear!-- and if the cops had taken me in, what was my crime? All the best duds in all the wrong places? I'd give up my best quips to get my
best fantasies, more Orgasms Of Choice instead of my best Re:Torts! Is the tongue the gay organ of choice?
But this being gay life, sometimes a great retort is what we can do best. Love and sex can come later, if at all. Gert was
wrong; remarks are a kind of literature, at least for a world with 15-second attention spans and a light agenda.
**
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