Laugh til You Cry

Well, summer has come to a close. My thoughts harken back to days spent at Lagoon with its gigantic roller coaster, Wild Mouse, Terror Ride and the Million-gallon swimming pool with “water fit to drink.”. Remember the Fun House—that insurance underwriter’s nightmare? It was the best part of the park. My siblings and I would spend the better part of the day there while Mom and Frank played “air-conditioned” Fascination and chugged beer at the Fireman Day pavilion.

Ah, The Fun House—mortal danger from the second you set foot into its chaotic, cavernous walls. Upon entry, you’d start off with the obstacle course, a stockyard cattle maze with NordicTrack-like sliding planks. They led you to the lily pad discs which were round wooden stepping stones that would pivot on posts and most certainly were the cause of many a sprained ankle. There was the rolling metal pipe section where you could roll like airport luggage and the canvas web—another orthopedic delight.

The obstacle course would lead you to the tilted room. It was a darkened room lit with a black light and turned on an angle. This made it hard to walk up one direction then the other direction would send you like a runaway truck crashing into the carpeted wall. Without exception, some husky kid would come smashing into you knocking the wind out of you. In one of the walls, there were small windows filled with neon ping pong balls for added enjoyment.

If you made it through all of that unscathed, you were into the main room. There were lots of great attractions there. Interspersed between them were air jets on the floor that a bored carny would use remotely to blow up girls’ skirts or just annoy the boys.

There was a huge rotating tunnel painted with a red and white spiral inside that would hypnotize you into having fun. The game was to walk from one end to the other in your stocking feet trying to avoid a broken elbow, concussion or a grand mal seizure.

On the far end of the room was the slide. It was made up of two long metal slippery slides that descended three stories. If you survived the stair climb to the top without some big kid knocking you out of the way, you would grab a gunny sack with a foot pocket for use in avoiding cuts and abrasions as you slid to the bottom.

There was a big wooden tub which acted like the spin cycle on a Maytag. You would stand against the perimeter and it would spin so fast that the centrifugal force would keep you against the wall as the floor dropped out from beneath your feet. The force would also keep the vomit against your own face rather than the kid’s across the way.

The most memorable attraction, though, was the spinning floor wheel. It was a huge spinning disc on the floor painted with yet another red and white spiral. Kids would all sit in the center and hold on for dear life as our friend Mr. Centrifugal Force would throw you off into a padded wall sustaining floor burns all the way.

But the Fun House days are gone. Years ago, it was drawn and shuttered. The Haunted Shack is gone, too, as is the miniature golf course. I’m too old for Bulgy the Whale. I’d be a bit more wistful, but frankly, these days I need to pop a dramamine even for Pioneer Village. 

Down Boy

Liberty Park has always been my sanctuary. Fond memories of family reunions and rides on their cranky old carousel still bring a smile to my face.

The past few years I have come to love strolling its one-mile perimeter. I’ll kick pine cones and listen to Scotty’s Greatest Hits on my iPod, while getting some fresh air and exercise. I’ve also come to get a bit jealous of the happy couples and families and dogs getting their park fix, too.

One afternoon, after completing a lap, I sat on a bench to watch the ducks and geese. It was a gorgeous day. A little boy was next to his mom throwing bread to the seagulls and laughing his head off. The pond was twinkling in the sunlight.

As I sat there in my bliss, a barking, snarling dog lunged into my lap. It was a big, mangy German Shepard. I raised my arm to fend him off. Luckily, his mouth was muzzled and he only drooled instead of bit. “Leave It! Leave it!” its tugging owner shouted and managed to pull him off of me. She and her boyfriend (both quite riff-raffy) just walked away without an apology. I watched in disbelief as they walked into the distance. The guy turned around and saw me staring. “Woof! Woof!” he shouted—laughed— and continued walking. I sat there shaking like a leaf until I could gather my wits and drive home.

Although I desperately need the exercise and head cleanse, I’ve only been back to the park a few times since then. The geese and the pine cones are still there. Sadly, the love is not.

Radio Days

I have no idea exactly how it worked, but I built it and it did. It was a Crystal Radio that I got for my birthday and put together all by myself. It sat perched on my bedroom window sill to get the best reception it could—even then it was fuzzy at best. Paul McCartney’s “Hands Across the Water” was the first song I heard it play. Today, I laugh at that old staticky “butter wouldn’t melt so I put it in the pie” part. I thought that old, crackly, filtered sound was just my radio reception. But no—I guess Sir Paul recorded it on his home-made Crystal Tape Recorder.

When I was a kid there was no escaping radio. Not that we wanted to. 1320 KCPX, was the radio mecca for my anybody who was cool. The music was all top 40 and the deejays were all top notch. Lynn Lehman, Wooly Waldron and “Skinny” Johnny Mitchell all laid down the stacks of wax interspersed with news, weather and plenty of contests. The contests were fun unless you had a rotary phone. Those 9s and 0s took forever to dial and speed was of the essence if you wanted to be Caller Number Three.

One day, I sat down and wrote “Skinny” a letter. I asked if he would play my three favorite songs in a row so I could record them with my portable cassette player. He actually wrote back telling me to tune in that Friday at 8:00 and he would do just that. And he did. “Seasons in the Sun,” “Spirit in the Sky” and the totally obscure “Gimme Dat Ding” by the Pipkins. I was the happiest kid on earth.

While getting ready for school one morning, I had the radio on waiting to hear the “Lehman Lemon Award”. I told myself that the next song that came on would be my and Wendy Deters’ Love Song. She had no idea I had a crush on her so it would be my little secret. The song ended up being “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”—my favorite. It was destiny.

KCPX was also the home of Casey Kasem’s “American Top 40.” We’d listen to the countdown every weekend writing the songs down in order—always excited and never surprised to hear what the number one song would be that week. “Love Will Keep Us Together,” “You Light Up My Life” were a couple of standouts. After a few months of writing them down, we realized it was easier to pick up the printed list from Broadway Music. Of course, the end of the year Top 100 was epic. We’d spend all day with pen in hand keeping track of the most important news of the year..

One Easter, on a rainy drive out west, our family sludged down a muddy road. The windshield wipers on our Suburban kept the beat to the “Bennie, Bennie” of “Bennie and the Jets.” We had no idea how such an amazing act of synchronicity could happen, but it did. Every time I hear that song, I remember my family in our wet Levis and mud-covered tennis shoes, sludging and singing along.

Weekend nights were cool, too. That’s when Dr. Demento came on. An hour full of Weird Al, Tom Lehrer and crazy novelty songs like “Dead Puppies” and “Roly-Poly Fish Heads” gave me my musical version of MAD magazine.

KCPX wasn’t the only station played in our home. Mom liked to listen to KALL 910. Dan Tyler, Tom Barberi and Willie Lucas would jabber as she vacuumed and dusted. Musical programming was all of the adult contemporary stuff like Dionne Warwick and Sergio Mendes. I can’t even guess how many Corey Anderson Pies she won in their Thanksgiving phone-in “Turkey Shoots.” At dusk, they would “put the sun to sleep” to the strains of “Also Sprach Zarathustra” (the 2001: Space Odyssey theme music). Mom would always doodle along with it by drawing a setting sun on her notepad.

Sports broadcasts were something that Mark and I took very seriously. The Utah Stars, The Salt Lake Angels and hockey games were not to be missed. When we couldn’t attend an actual game, we would lie on Mom and Frank’s bed with the Westclox radio tuned into KSL 1160 and listen to the Salt Lake Golden Eagles games. We could almost feel the chill and see the tiny puck zip across the ice as Jim Fisher did the play-by-play. We kept track of every goal, assist and penalty as the Eagles fought off teams like the Dallas Blackhawks, Seattle Totems and the Phoenix Roadrunners. Mark filed our scoresheets away in a Pee-Chee folder until the next game.

CBS Mystery Theatre was also on KSL. Very spooky stuff and a bit too dark as far as I was concerned. David loved it. It would open each week with an audio clip from “The Shadow.” The spooky, haunting voice would ask “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” That was usually enough for me. I’d go into the living room and turn on “The Jeffersons.”

It’s funny how my parents and grandparents recall the days when they’d huddle around the radio listening to “The Lone Ranger” and “Fibber McGee and Molly.” They seem to think that they had the monopoly on good imaginative entertainment. The hours we spent huddled around our own little clock radios were every bit as good. I feel sorry for the kids growing up in today’s radio wasteland. Years from now, the stories told to their grandchildren will consist only of the LowBook Sales jingle those free hot dogs once given away at a place called RC Willey.

The Boys Next Door

The first house I bought was a little brick bungalow on 300 East—a busy street in a working-class neighborhood. The houses were small and taken care of for the most part. The people were, by all rights, pretty nice. But I guess as anywhere, you’re bound to find a house full of riff-raff like the one behind me.

In the spring of 1988, I was in my backyard planting a carload of flowers and scattering redwood chips. Bronski, my trusty little bichon frise, was sniffing around the yard, exploring its perimeter. It was about ten in the morning and looked to be the first nice Saturday of the year. It was t-shirt weather, the birds were out, and the neighbors behind me were involved in a game of  horseshoes—laughing and popping their morning beers. Our two yards were separated only by a low chain link fence so we had learned to ignore each other even though we seemed to get along  well enough. They played their game. I planted my petunias.

Their game progressed and the conversations eventually got harder and harder to ignore as I heard an occasional “queer” and “homo” popping up from among their chatter. I peeked out of the corner of my eye and leaned my ear toward them. One of the guys (who had always been pretty nice to me) came up to the fence and asked if I actually was gay. Sheepishly, I told them I was. That’s when they all started to groan. One guy said “That makes me sick!” Sensing the uncomfortable conversation ahead, I decided it would be best for me to take my leave and just avoid them. As I turned away they yelled “faggot!” One of them said something about my “fag dog.” I grabbed Bronski and went in the house. Tick a lock.

As I sat at my table in a whirl of shock as to what just happened, I saw the men walk to the front of my house and start throwing beer bottles onto my lawn. I’m sure a few neighbors peered from behind their curtains to see what was going on, too. I decided to call the police who were of no help. They said if they intervened, it would just make matters worse later on. My boyfriend Chris pulled into my driveway and they yelled some unspeakable things at him as he walked up my porch. Sensing our lack of resistance, they grew bored after a while and went home.

Late that night, we heard some pops and hissing coming from outside. Apparently, their abuse during the day wasn’t enough. They decided to fire a dozen bottle rockets at my bedroom window. A neighbor yelled at them to stop. They did, but by the next day, their daytime abuse continued.

That’s the way it went. Day after day. Anyone who came to my house would suffer their taunting—even my Grandma. The guys would sit on their front porch yelling that anyone “would get AIDS if they went in that house.” Where they got a vocabulary that included “syphilitic homo bastard” was beyond me. It was embarrassing and infuriating and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.  I tried contacting the homeowner— a slumlord in California who couldn’t have cared less. One compassionate neighbor who new these guys well enough, asked them to stop it but his request fell on deaf ears.

The harassment continued all summer. One night, I was asleep in bed when I heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the back of my house. My heart stopped. Sensing the worst, I jumped out of bed and looked out my window to see the haters’ house go up in a ball of flames. Apparently, someone who detested them a bit more than I did and was tired of their bullshit, decided to serve them a Maltov cocktail to go along with their Old Milwaukee. I muttered a silent “woo-hoo” and put on some clothes to go watch the fire crews. I hoped to get a glimpse of them to wave goodbye, but by that point, there was no sign of them. Thankfully, I never saw or heard from them again.

I put my house up for sale anyway.

Wiggle, Jiggle and Hobnob

For years, Utah was the Jello Capital of the World—that is, until that pesky Iowa came along and swiped it from right under our high-held noses. In order to reclaim our birthright, Bambara, a local restaurant, staged a Jello sculpting contest to show our devotion to flavored cow hooves.

My creation was a green beehive embedded with dinosaur bones and portraits of modern-day prophets. Perched on top was a mother with a baby cradled in her arms standing amid a showering of sparklers. It won first prize and got a mention in Carolyn Wyman’s book titled “Jello: a Biography.”

Word spread to New York. One day in 2002, I got a call from a producer of NBC’s “Today Show.” They were broadcasting the Salt Lake Winter Olympics from a Park City mountain lodge and doing several spots on local culture. She said that I was considered Utah’s Jello expert and asked if I could create something to present on the show. As I am prone to do in situations like this, I nearly peed.

After a couple of days of pondering, I decided to make a huge Jello torch—a tribute to “The Olympics: Past, Present and Future.” It was made from lemon, orange and strawberry. The “past” depicted photos of various scandals such as Tonya Harding vs. Nancy Kerrigan, Claudine Longet and Spider Sabich and our own Mayor Deedee Corradini and Salt Lake Olympic president Tom Welch. “Present” contained an array of medals embedded inside with the flags of all nations on top. “Future” was a puff of smoke with a few flying tickets to events. I had hoped some goodly benefactor would see the show and gift some to me. I gave it a couple of finishing touches, emptied my fridge to make room for my creation, and sleeplessly waited for morning.

A big black SUV pulled up to my door at 4 a.m. In it, were the producer along with two other women who would be on the show. Call time was that early in order to make the trek up the mountain and be there in time for the viewers on the east coast. 

When we got to the lodge/studio, I was led to the Green Room where I was introduced to the other guests from that day’s show—Donny and Marie Osmond, gold medalist Picabo Street and Governor Mike Leavitt. Bill Cosby was running late since his driver couldn’t find a Starbuck’s at that ungodly hour and 7-Eleven coffee just wouldn’t cut it. While I was waiting for hair and makeup, I tried to watch the broadcast on a little monitor. I craned my neck to see but Marie was blocking my view clenching a piece of bacon.

Finally it was my turn. I was taken downstairs to the makeshift studio in the lobby. I could barely walk due to my legs wobbling in terror. I was introduced to Matt and Katie, then took a deep breath. The cameras started to roll. Bill Cosby had finally shown up and hogged most of our segment with his “roly-eyed num num” shtick. The crew all laughed in amusement like it was all new to them. When they got to my sculpture, Bill reached over to take a piece of Jello from the top of its flame to pop into his mouth. What he didn’t notice was that one of my hairs was dancing on top of it. I didn’t have the time or nerve to stop him and in it went. He gagged a bit. Num num, indeed.

So that was my claim to fame. A few short minutes shaking like a Jello cube on national TV. Not knowing what to do with the sculpture afterward, I placed it for posterity on a bookshelf when no one was looking. It’s probably still there. Cow hooves have a very long shelf life.

Rockets and Sockets

It all happened in about three seconds.

Remember those toy rockets you would fire by pumping water into them? Well, I had one. I was playing with it in our driveway one day when Jeff Chatwin went walking by.

“Hey, Jeff!” I yelled, and fired the rocket into his chest.

What I didn’t realize was that he was carrying a dandelion digger, which instinctively he threw, ninja-style, into the top corner of my eye. Blood was everywhere.

It was that August afternoon that my eye socket was introduced to stitches and Jeff’s ass was introduced to my grandpa’s foot.

Gym and Jabberwocky

School is back in session and I’m remembering some of some of the teachers I had back in the day. There was Mrs. Bertagnole, the queen of the sidearm eraser throw; Miss German, who nearly set me on my way to fame and fortune on the Broadway stage; and Mr. Maher, who introduced me to Monty Python and sacrament meetings. Don’t get me started on that.

You always hear about the “teacher who made all the difference.” For me, that was Mr. Larson. I was an eighth grader at Jordan Junior High and he was my English teacher. He was also my gym coach. After a miserable year as a seventh grader, he found a way to make me feel like a real human being again.

Robert Larson was a middle-aged, barrel-chested man with whitish-blonde hair and a ruddy complexion. He had a hearty laugh and reminded me of the Skipper from “Gilligan’s Island.” 

Mr. Larson had a knack for making education fun and interesting. He’d draw cartoons of burping monsters on our assignments and read “Dracula” to us by candlelight in the darkened classroom. He often spoke of doing a production of “Ransom of Red Chief”—a play about a scrappy, foul-mouthed kid who gets kidnapped and no one wants him back. The play never happened but just the idea that Mr. Larson was thinking about me to play the title character did a world of good for my self esteem. 

But the thing that made Mr. Larson such a hero to me was his role as my gym coach. 

I was a scrawny kid who was always getting crushed in football games by my brutish classmates. Mr. Larson recognized this and went out of his way to ensure my safety. On a few occasions, he would turn the other kids loose at their gladiator games then take me aside to walk around the perimeter of the school grounds. As we strode, we’d talk about The Muppet Show, MAD Magazine and occasionally my life at home. On our walks, I got the feeling that he genuinely cared about me. He championed my creative spark, my twisted sense of humor, and made sure I got my exercise at the same time.

I ran into him a few years ago at a Riders In The Sky concert. I got the chance to update him on where time had taken me, thank him for all he did for me, then shook his hand. He died the following year.

Here’s to you, Robert Larson—Patron saint of the lost and scrawny.

A Thing of Beauty

In the second grade, I got some pet seahorses. Not Sea Monkeys® like my other friends had. These were honest-to-god seahorses—teeny ones, only about the size of my pinky fingernail, but genuine, bonafide hippocampinae.

I only had them for a week until they met their sad, mysterious demise, but our short time together was sweet.

They seemed too small to bury and flushing seemed sort of harsh, so I turned to the packaging information for wisdom. At the end of the care and feeding instructions, there was a section on what to do with them after they perished. One of the suggestions was to “make beautiful jewelry.” All one needed was a barrette, some glue, gold spray paint and a few dead seahorses.

I stole a barrette from my sister Gail’s room and carefully adhered the dearly departed with three tiny dollops of Elmer’s glue. Once it had dried (which seemed to take forever) I hit them with a gentle mist of gold spray paint from Mark’s model car supplies. Voila!

It was the prettiest thing I had ever seen and I knew just who the recipient would be... Angie! I had a big crush on her and if this didn’t win her over, nothing would.

I placed it carefully in a box the next morning thinking that recess would be the perfect time to present it to her. That afternoon, nervously, yet giddily I walked across the playground to the tricky bars. There was Angie. She was radiant. 

“I made this for you,” I said handing her the small white box. She raised an eyebrow and opened it. She took one look, eyes opened wide and asked me what they were. “They’re seahorses!” I beamed. She dropped the box with a giant “Ick!” and ran screaming toward the other girls.

I gathered up the pieces and walked back into the building.

Maybe a bolo tie for one of the boys would have been a better idea.

It's the Shoes

Years ago, I transferred our old home movies to VHS. As my mom and I watched them, the memories washed over us with chuckles and sighs. There was Grandma Aggie (Mom went on again how cranky she used to be) and “Uncle Bus” (where the hell did that name came from?) Kids growing, elders dying off and then it happened: Total Silence.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” mom looked at me and shook her head in shame. “It’s all my fault.”

The image on the screen was of me—her little Scotty at age four —dressed as Raggedy Ann. I waved at the camera like a good boy. Mom put her hands in her face. So I guess it started way back in the Kennedy era—Jackie in her pink suit and Scotty in Red braids and gingham.

Next stop, high school. In our pep assemblies, I wasn’t the least bit hesitant to don a frock and wig and lip sync to everything from opera to Julie Andrews. The girls thought I was funny. The football players called me a fag and pushed my car into a ditch.

Coming out to mom was a no-brainer, she sensed it from day one, but Dad was another story. Although he was married to the ex-wife of a gay man, he was a bit squeamish that his son would rather sauté a fish rather than gut one. As I told him not to worry and slugged him on the arm. I told him I was just “the same old guy,” and wouldn’t be all of a sudden wearing dresses, he seemed somewhat consoled. On my way out the door, I covertly asked his wife if she’d help me with my Halloween gown.

A week later, I was standing in Dad’s kitchen as Rose stitched the hem of my size 14 wedding dress. He came home from work and his jaw hit the floor. Yep, I was the same old guy—who went on to dress as Cleopatra, Little Orphan Annie, Norma Desmond, Baby Jane Hudson, Jon Benet Ramsey, Monica Lewinsky and the Flamingo Hotel and Casino.

One Halloween, I called my friend to inform him I had finally found a pair of size 12 double wide flats with little polka dot bows on the toes. I couldn't keep my eyes off them as we went on to discuss other news of the week. As we spoke, I walked around the living room, breaking them in.

I hung up and decided it was time for dinner. I headed for the Avenues Smith's. 

When I arrived I breezed through the parking lot. Life was pretty good and I took a deep breath of crisp autumn air. I grabbed a cart and waved to a friend—Ol' Whattsizname—and headed through the sliding doors.

"Clickety-clack, clickety-clack!"

I looked around to see if Ben Vereen was tailing me, but to my horror, the tapping was coming from my own two feet. And not only that, they did nothing for my flannel shirt and 501s. I ran back to my car as fast as one can in crepe soles and started shopping at Albertson's from that day forward.

All this, but I must confess to you one thing. I've never been to Coronation. You'd think with the hours I've spent at the D.I. evening wear rack, that I would have attended at least one of those organza extravaganzas. But I leave this highest of holy days to the pros. You see, I have a hard time separating my flannel from my flounces. I tend to be more Indigo Girls than  Bob Mackie. It must be hereditary, my mom couldn't tell her Raggedy Ann from her Raggedy Andy.

Idol Worship

I saw the light in 1971. Long before “Les Miz” and “Wicked” came along, I went to the Capitol Theatre for my very first time. Stepping into that wonderfully ornate cavern adorned with red carpet, cherubs and filigree, I took my seat. Magically, the massive red velvet curtain opened slowly to unveil Sandy Duncan and Dean Jones in “Million Dollar Duck.” It was a moment I’ll never forget and the beginning of a lifelong love for movie theatres.

As a kid in Poplar Grove, The Arcade was our neighborhood movie house. It was a little box of a theatre that had been around since my parents were kids. I saw “Live and Let Die” there in 1973 and don’t remember much other than alligators and a dixieland funeral procession. Oh, and the Paul McCartney theme song. 

Just a short bike ride away in Glendale was the Jerry Lewis Theatre. It was in a strip mall between Gibson’s Discount and my dentist’s office. One day they had a “Planet of the Apes” marathon where we could “Go Ape for a Day!” The manager dressed in an ape suit and scared the bejeebus out of us as we exited the auditorium. In 1972, I went to see the Poseidon Adventure with my sister Gail. She had seen it already and pointed at the poster in the lobby telling me of all the characters who will die by the end. I was furious.

1976 was a landmark year. I took the No. 17 bus from Poplar Grove to my favorite block downtown. JC Penney, Keith Warshaw and Co. and Broadway Music were there —and The Broadway Theatre. They usually played Kung Fu movies if I remember correctly, but that day it was John Wayne, Lauren Bacall and Ronnie Howard in “The Shootist.” I don’t remember much about the movie. I just remember it was a momentous day. It would be the first of my many solo trips to the movies.

The Utah Theatre was the Grande Dame of Main Street. By the time I started going there, it had been split into two theatres—the Utah 1 and the Utah 2. It was even more glorious than the Capitol Theatre and has been vacant for a few decades now. There are hopes for a renovation but sadly, the wrecking ball seems more likely. As a kid I went there to see “Murder By Death,” and “Earthquake.” It was in Sensurround! “Midway” was, too, but I’ve never cared for war movies. I went just to feel the seats rumble.  As a teen I remember going to a midnight showing of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” doing everything in my power to stay awake. The last movie I saw at the Utah was “Caravaggio” — a foreign film that was so dull, my friend Jonathan and I chatted full voice in the balcony about work and whatever during the first half of the movie, then left.

When the Trolley Theatres opened in the 1970s, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Four theatres in one building and huge murals depicting some of Hollywood’s legends. The ushers dressed like Keystone Kops. “The Muppet Movie” and “Airplane” were a couple of the standouts from those days. One night, my friend Russ and I went to see “Coal Miner’s Daughter.” We were the only people in the theatre so we lied down in the aisles. The flirty concessionaires yelled down asking if we wanted popcorn or anything. 

The seventies were also my Centre Theatre era. It was a gigantic art deco beauty with a long hallway and a lobby that faced the corner of Broadway and State. It showed some of the greatest movies ever—”Star Wars,” “Alien” and “Animal House” which was my first R-rated movie. I somehow managed to get by Checkpoint Charlie without the proper ID. “Silver Streak” also played there. It was one of the rare times we ever saw a movie as a family. Mom and Frank howled as Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor delivered some of the funniest lines they’d ever heard.

Across the street from the Trolley Theatres was Trolley Corners. It had one big screen and two smaller ones. I remember going to their grand opening where they showed “the World’s Greatest Lover”. I sat on the very front row at the farthest seat to the left. The mammoth screen distorted Gene Wilder’s head like a fun house mirror. Trolley Corners was also the home of Swensen’s Ice Cream where I was a waiter. When work was slow, my manager would tell me to go next store and watch a movie. I think I saw the first part of Peter O’Toole’s “The Stuntman” a dozen times before getting called back in to serve banana splits.

The Regency was another one of Salt Lake’s big screens. It was a big white modern box of a theatre on Parley’s Way. Its big velvet curtain was blue. The Regency was as far from my home as you could get in the Salt Lake Valley. My cousins took me to see “Jaws” there in 1975. It really scared me to death. In 1980, I went there to see “The Blue Lagoon”—probably three times. I had a big crush on Christopher Atkins and felt rather seedy going to travel so far to see it so many times. I probably needed a trench coat like those other seedy men who drooled over Brooke Shields. “Fantasia” was also a treat shown on that big screen, too. Especially, when we were on ‘shrooms.

As I grew older, I developed an affinity for foreign, cult and independent cinema. The Blue Mouse was my foray into that world. It was next door to the Cosmic Aeroplane, so I got to look at art books and import albums before heading down stairs to the theatre. That’s where I saw “Harold and Maude”, “Babette’s Feast,” “The Bicycle Thief” and of course, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” We’d go to that show nearly every Saturday Night after Swensen’s had closed. We didn’t have time to shop for props so instead of throwing rice we stole barley from the restaurant’s stock room. Toilet paper, too.

When the Blue Mouse closed, the short-lived Cinema in Your Face took its place for a while. I only saw a couple of movies there, but one was a real standout. It was called “Love is a Dog from Hell.” The windows were plastered with copies of the Deseret News’ review calling it a vile, repulsive, disgusting and reprehensible movie—so I bought a ticket. Who would have thought that a film about alcoholism, acne and necrophilia could bring me to tears? Well it actually did.

My favorite haunts these days are The Broadway Centre and The Tower. I’ve been to more movies there that I could possibly count. One time at the Broadway, during Woody Allen’s “Sweet and Lowdown,” I sat with my feet up in front of me with a platter of nachos on my belly. Suddenly, I was awakened by a woman who whispered that my “snoring was awfully loud.” I skulked out of the auditorium and checked into a sleep clinic later that week. But that’s another story.

I could go on and on—“Raiders of the Lost Ark” at the Villa and “Risky Business” at the Cottonwood Mall. And drive-ins were another story all together. I guess movie theatres have always been my sanctuary. Dark cathedrals where on Sundays I can go to partake of the popcorn and Diet Coke and worship at the feet of my idols. Matinees are almost sacred to me. I’d ask you to join me for Sunday Service, but I confess, I kind of prefer to worship alone.

Ta-daa!

First, I told my friend Trish. She was cool with it.

Next, I told my boss Brad. He had already assumed as much.

Then, I...

Well, here...

I had dropped hint after hint to my mom that I was gay. Some were unintentional like the Windex shine of my room as a boy and the belting of show tunes coming from behind my bedroom door as a teen.

As the time got closer to telling her, the clues became (at least to me) a bit more obvious. The show tunes turned to The Village People, I became a bit more fastidious in my grooming and the biggie: I got an apartment and moved out on my own. This was done after my cousin Joe did the same thing to my Aunt Peg. Peg got the hint. Mom didn’t.

One night, I decided to just bite the bullet and tell her. I drove to my old house and sat in Frank’s recliner next to her. He was at work at the fire station for the night. I began to hem and haw and could tell I was detracting her from Jeopardy. I hemmed and hawed some more and asked Mom if she’d like to go out to dinner. This, I know, would be a long shot since she only ate at our own dining room table or in her recliner. Plus, she had filled up on chips and salsa. She said she didn’t want to go.

I squirmed in my chair and decided to go for the fool-proof method of getting her out of the house where I could have her undivided attention.

I said “Let’s go have a beer.” She perked right up.

***

The China Doll Lounge was a dive bar/Chinese restaurant about a mile from the house. Mom and Frank spent lots of time there and I knew this would be well in her comfort zone. I never cared for the place, but throw a plate of bad sweet and sour in front of me and I’m in my comfort zone, too.

We got in my truck and headed west to Redwood Road. The March rain was drizzly and the air was cool. The wipers kept time with the clicking of my brain.

“What’s this?” Mom said as she picked up a flyer from the seat. The flyer in question was left on my windshield in front of The Sun - a local gay bar. “Jim and John’s Country Kitchen? Why, John is the guy who does my hair,” Mom said, unaware just where this was all headed.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said.

“Ohhhhh...” Mom said, putting two and two together. “Well, that’s okay. I already knew,” she said and proceeded to ask my if other members of our extended family were gay, as well. I told her no — that I was the only one I knew of —and pulled into The China Doll parking lot.

We sat at a booth and ordered beer and food. Not much more about the “gay thing” was said for a while as I downed my dinner and mom picked through hers.

She finally asked if I was being careful and if I was dating anyone. She also said that we could never tell Frank. Through a mouthful of fried rice she said “So where do you go for fun?” I told her I mostly went to The Sun. She said The Sun used to be the old Kozy Korner and that she and Frank hung out there for years before it became a gay bar.

I said “It’s a pretty fun place. Tuesday Night is Beer Bust. Wanna Go?”

Her eyes lit up like a disco ball. We paid our bill and hopped in my truck.

Not much was said about anything gay on the way there. Apparently, nothing needed to be. She knew and always had known. I didn’t have a lot to add to the story. We were now just two pals headed out for a night on the town.

We got to The Sun and parked near the dumpster. It was still pretty early so the crowds hadn’t yet arrived. We went in, showed our IDs and bellied up to the long, mirrored bar. Bud was on tap for a quarter a glass. A few of my friends walked past and I introduced them. They gave her a big hug. A couple more walked by and did the same thing.

Music was pounding from the dance floor in the next room. Talk Talk started to sing “It’s My Life.” I told mom over the noise that it was one of my favorite songs. She yelled “Let’s go dance!”

We danced some more to Eurythmics and Aretha singing “Sisters are Doing it for Themselves” and, as luck would have it, Bronski Beat’s “Smalltown Boy” was next. I told her that was the song that played as I moved out to my apartment - that it was sort of my theme song. We danced more happily than ever.

All in all, what started out to be an iffy night, turned out to be quite magical. I eventually started to fade and said I had to be to work in the morning. She said “One more beer.” So we did. She said (again) that we could never tell Frank and toasted each other. That was that. We hugged and went home.

The next morning, she told Frank.

He already knew, too.