outies

"My name is Marcia Ramode, and I am United States Army Recruiter. I saw your resume on Career Builder and we have lots of vacant positions...."

Gays in the military, 2007.

A quick search of current Google News stories turns up plenty of exciting progressive thought on the matter. A New Hampshire paper chirps, "It's time to recognize contributions of gays in the military." They offer a summary of the history of gays in the United States military from the editor of the forthcoming "Ask & Tell: Gay and Lesbian Veterans Speak Out." In Tennessee, the Robertson County Times ran an editorial entitled "Openness would strengthen US military, not weaken it." The Atlanta Journal-Constitution featured an expose called "Immorality: US abuse of gays in military," while ABC News reports that "an estimated 65,000 active-duty military are gays or lesbians" and mentions new legislation being pushed by the Human Rights Campaign to repeal Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

But in a recently publicized email exchange between one military recruiter and a gay college student, the military's homophobic and rageful underbelly has been exposed.

"Awesome! Sounds great! The US Military has so many vacant positions and opportunities. I had no idea. I'm seriously considering contacting you.

"One thing, I'm not up on current politics but since it's 2007, I imagine also that I am able to serve in the US Military as an openly gay man, right?"

The exchange, circulated widely as a PDF file, has been covered in news outlets as diverse as the University of Illinois' Daily Illini, the Jersey Journal, the Advocate, WCBS News in New York, and the Army Times. The astonishing thing about the exchange is the speed with which the formerly friendly and encouraging recruiter, Marcia Ramode, switched to her homophobic, all-caps-using Mr. Hyde counterpart:

"WELL I FYOU ARE GAY WE DON'T TAKE YOU YOU ARE CONSIDERED UNQUALIFIED."

Openly gay recruitee Corey Andrew's switch to bitter sarcasm in response was less surprising. And if he had stuck with sarcasm, this might have been a traditional story of "the homophobic military versus the angry homosexuals." But instead, he and Ramode quickly began hitting below the belt.

"Wow! Unqualified to serve my country just because I'm gay? It's because they think I might all of a sudden desire one last kiss from my fellow male soldier if ever facing death at the hands of the enemy in a fox hole, isn't? Yup, that's it.

"Funny, the US Government doesn't mind taking my 'gay' dollars every tax season or out of my paycheck every two weeks. I'm stunned that the US ARMY could afford to be so choosey when I see sergeants on my school campus and in the shopping mall like pedofilic predators, everyday, begging teenagers to enlist. Then if I factor in the 10 solicitations I've gotten in just one day through CareerBuilder.com, in which even YOU clearly stated the ABUNDANCE of vacancies and positions waiting to be filled in the Army, I would say the US military's recruitment tactics are self defeating wouldn't you? By the looks of it, especially with Iraq, looks like you kids could use all the help you can get. By the way, you might want to avoid emailing in all caps, because it represents shouting and hostility, unless of course, in this case, as I suspect, you are homophobic. Then it's all relative.

"Best of luck,
"C."

And despite Corey's outrageous comparison of military recruiters to pedophiles, the recruiter recognized that they would have to agree to disagree. The email conversation ended there. Corey went on with his life, stopping only to scoff with his friends at how ridiculous it was that this recruiter had reverted to all caps to tell him he was unqualified to be in the military because he liked boys and not girls; Marcia shook her head sadly at having to turn down yet another promising recruit because of a silly policy, and went on to do her job elsewhere.

Oh, wait. I must have been thinking of two other people. In reality, Corey's saucy reply touched off an explosive "my country love it or leave it" response deep within Sgt. Ramode's borderline soul. Crazy-gluing her Caps Lock key in the "on" position, she began her quest to make headlines across the country and doom her upcoming promotion:

"YOU ARE DEFINITELY UNQUALIFIED. NOW TAKE YOU GAY SELF SOMEWHERE ELSE WE DO NOT TOLERATE GAY PEOPLE LIKE YOU IN ANY PART OF THE MILITARY....

"AND IF YOU DO NOT LIKE ME WRITING IN CAPS THEN DELETE MY EMAILS AND DO NOT RESPOND I THINK IT SCARED YOU TO DEATH. YOU SHOULD DEFINITELY SAY THANK YOU TO THE US ARMY FOR PAYING THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS EVERY MONTH SO THAT YOU CAN POST YOUR RESUME FOR FREE ON CAREER BUILDER AND FURTHERMORE IF YOU DON'T LIKE GETTING ANY EMAILS FOR THE US ARMY THEN TAKE YOUR RESUME OFF CAREER BUILDER BECAUSE WE PAY FOR YOUR FREE SPACE THERE....

"FURTHERMORE WE ARE NOT DESPERATE AS YOU MAY THINK SINCE IF WE WERE DESPERATE WE COULD GET PEOPLE LIKE YOU OFF THE STREET AND SEND THEM STRAIGHT TO IRAQ....

"YOU SHOULD SAY THANK YOU MILITARY PEOPLE FOR WHAT YOU DO SO THAT YOU CAN LIVE A FREE LIFE IN THIS COUNTRY. FREEDOM IS NOT FREE. THE US MILITARY GIVE YOU THAT FREEDOM OF SPEECH SO YOU CAN SEND EMAILS LIKE THIS ONE TO US. SO ENJOY YOUR FREEDOM WHILE YOU CAN BECAUSE WHEN YOU MOVE ON TO ANOTHER COUNTRY YOU WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO SEND EMAIL LIKE THAT THEY WOULD PUT YOU IN JAIL....

"DON'T FORGET WHEN YOU SEE THE NEXT SOLDIER BE KIND SAY THANK YOU FOR THAT FREEDOM YOU SO ENJOY EVERY DAY AND ALSO SAY THANK YOU SO THAT YOU ARE ABLE TO POST YOUR RESUME FOR FREE ON CAREER BUILDER."

I so badly want that to be turned into a commercial for careerbuilder.com. It could be read over triumphant patriotic images of flags waving and soldiers kissing babies. It would be so lovely. Sadly, it is not to be (unless I get my YouTube on), because the military does not actually fund CareerBuilder.com. The reality seems to be that CareerBuilder is owned by AOL, and their partners include more than 900 different organizations from retail to education, including 16 in the "defense and government" category. Since there are 53 partners in the "healthcare" category, more than three times those in "defense and government," it would have been three times as accurate for Sgt. Ramode to order Mr. Andrew to thank the next nurse he saw for the freedom to post his resume there. Of course, with their high pay, high demand, high rates of unionization, great benefits, lack of brainwashing boot camps, and low rate of being shot at, the nursing profession currently has no need to send ten emails a day to anyone posting their resume on AOL.

Obviously homophobia is a problem, as is the kind of general lack of boundaries and pent-up rage that leads one to suggest, in all caps and in a professional capacity, rounding up "people like you" to send "straight to Iraq." But there are greater problems lurking under her brick wall of giant words: like the kind of mental gymnastics it takes to forget that not so long ago, women weren't allowed in the military either.

As we will see, this is not the only "divide and conquer" situation going on. It's not the only situation in this email exchange where someone from one oppressed group turns around and lashes out at another, perpetuating the same attacks that have been used on them. I suppose it's a form of recycling.

It illustrates the cycle of abuse very beautifully. Without acknowledging abuse and its effects on our lives, then doing whatever it takes to release the shame and other self-harming effects of the abuse and heal our relationships with ourselves and others, we... well, we risk writing emails like this. In his reply, Corey does an excellent job of identifying some of that abuse and rejecting its source:

"Before you go on waving your flag all over the place let me first inform you, that as an African American who's ancestry is most likely MORE deeply rooted in American history than yours will ever be, I don't need to run around in a green ensemble... with boots and dog tags to profess my patriotism to America, so sorry that you do. Furthermore, I respect the millions of soldiers fighting to protect my rights every day, but just so you know, those rights include me being gay, so you think about THAT the next time you see two boys smooch on the sidewalk sweetie, and you feel queasy.

"How sad it is that you have the audacity to belong to an organization that is as discriminant as any racist organization ever was during segregation while insinuating that I should be fine with it, because I've been allowed to put a resume on-line in a government funded space....

Cheers,
Queers."

"YOU HEAD OF FTOTHE GAY LAND OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE NO MORALS AND GET RID OF YOURSELF. PERSONALLY I THINK BEING GAY IS DISGUSTING AND IMMORAL. AND ANOTHET THING THINK AGAIN YOU AS AN AFRICAN HAVE NO PLACE TO SAY YOUR ROOTS ARE DEEPLY ROOTED HERE."

I'll give you a moment to take that in.

Yeah, she said that. She totally was all, kidnapping people and selling them into slavery on another continent hundreds of years ago means that their descendants on that continent have no roots. Didn't Alex Haley finish that question off decades ago?

P.S. you should go back where you came from to the gay land of people who have no morals. You know, not the one with the legacy of slavery. I know it's hard to tell them apart.

But I don't mean to cut her off. Marcia has so much more to say here....

"MY ROOTS ARE MUCH STRONGER THAN YOURS YOU WERE BROUGHT HERE BEING YOUR WILLPOWER WHEREAS MY ROOTS RUN FROM THE NATIVE AMERICAN INDIAN. I HAVE MORE RIGHTS HERE THAN YOU AND MY ROOTS HAVE BEEN HERE EVER SINCE BEFORE THE AMERICAS WERE DISCOVERED.

"YOU TAKE YOUR GAY ASS OFF SOMEPLACE AND GO TO SOME OTHER COUNTRY AND BAD MOUTH THE MILITARY.

"FREEDOM ISN'T FREE YOUR FREEDOM OF SPEECH WAS GIVENM TO YOU BY THE US MILITARY....

"TAKE YOUR ASS BACK WHERE YOU BELONG NOT HERE."

Of course, this reveals another issue as well: the failure of the United States educational system. This sergeant clearly never learned that freedom of speech in this country comes from the first amendment to the United States constitution, in the Bill of Rights. You could credit them to the Virginia State Constitution, to James Madison who adopted and adapted them for the Bill of Rights, to the individual states and members of Congress who ratified the amendments, even to the balance of powers and the legal process that allows us to amend the constitution. You could credit democracy, or imagination. You cannot, however, credit the military. When a country without freedom of speech invades us and threatens to take it away and the United States military is the one to successfully repel them, I'll allow as how you might be able to credit our continued freedom of speech to those folks. But given that our military history is largely one of invasion, control, or defending countries in which we have an interest, I think Sergeant Ramode needs a quick history lesson.

And how does anyone graduate from the educational system with such a warped understanding of slavery? I can easily see how someone might leave school without any understanding of African American history, or Native American history, or the reality of any one group's "rights" over another's in this country. I wouldn't even be surprised if she didn't know that there was a time when she wouldn't have been allowed into the military in the first place, or when she couldn't have entered combat, or couldn't have made sergeant. Or if she thought that was hundreds of years ago. Unshocked, me. But the level of sheer offensive ignorance displayed here is monumental.

Our educational system is both incredibly underfunded across much of the country and politically blinkered, worn into a rut that limits our understanding of global and local history significantly until about the college level. I know; I went to school in California. But it is clearly not all the educational system's fault here. Because this kind of talk is not a normal part of basic training, although the kind of abuse that produces hair-trigger rage does often lead people to enter the military.

I'll leave you with the climax of it all:

"....I'll tell you what's 'disgusting' - idiots with big mouhts and little brains, spewing hatred under the guise of being 'American'. I would advise you to look up your Native American history you are so proud of and research their position on homosexuality. They are very tolerant and accepting of homosexuals believing that the inner spirit is true to itself in it's nature. They are less tolerant of fools than they are of homosexuals. So take that to your next rain dance and STFU!"

"GO BACK TO AFRICA AND DO YOUR GAY VOODOO LIMBO TANGO AND WANGO DANCE AND JUMP AROUND AND PRANCE AND RUN ALL OVER THE PLACE HALF NAKED THERE AND PRACTICE YOUR GAY MORALS THERE THAT'S WHERE YOU BELONG. I AM REPORTING YOU AS SPAM AND ADDING YOU TO MY BLOCK SENDER LIST SO I DO NOT HAVE TO HEAR FROM YOU AGAIN.

"YOU NEED TO CHECK YOUR SPELLING SO ARE THE ONE WHO SO ILLITERATE. OBVIOUSLY YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND IF YOU ARE GAY YOU ARE OUT OF THE MILITARY YOU ARE DISQUALIFIED. SO WHAT'S THE BIG ISSUE HERE. YOU ARE UPSET YOU DO NOT QUALIFY. I BET THAT'S TRUE. YOUR INNER SPIRITS ARE NOT TRUE TO YOU SINCE YOU DO NOT KNOW IF YOU ARE MALE OR FEMALE. YOU MUST BE A TOTAL IDIOT AND SO STUPID TO PRESUME THAT YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT GENDER YOU ARE.

ANYWAYS I WON'T HEAR FROM YOU AGAIN SINCE YOU ARE BLOCKED SO BYE
ADOIS
GOODBYE"

In a way, Corey wasn't so far off in his optimistic gauge of where the United States stands on gays and the military today. Where not long ago Margarethe Cammermeyer was discharged for coming out, now Sergeant Marcia Ramode - who was up for promotion to Staff Sergeant six months previously - is under investigation and has been reassigned to another position. Presumably, it's one that won't involve interacting with the public.

(Cue mysterious, almost erotic non-melodic "outer space" sounding synth notes; no background)

You have to climb Mount Everest to reach the Valley of the Dolls,
It's a brutal climb to reach that peak,
You stand there, waiting for the rush of exhilaration but it doesn't come,
You're alone. And the feeling of loneliness is overpowering...

(Cue Theme Music)

---

Imagine if tomorrow I were to enter the office of a powerful Hollywood producer and pitch this idea for a major motion picture:

Three nice girls from nice towns come to The Big Apple in search of fame and fortune in show-biz. They meet up and become fast friends. They're exploited by boyfriends, managers and one-night-stands. They try to claw their way to the top and encounter evil, more experienced actresses at every turn. Cat fights ensue. They're introduced to the glorious world of booze and pills. Two are talented but their lives are wrecked by men, alcohol and narcotic addiction. The other isn't very talented but quite voluptuous so she turns to making porn films to pay the enormous medical bills incurred by her husband, the victim of a mysterious disease. In the end, everyone goes down the toilet but for one of the talented ones, who, realizing the error of her ways, returns to mother and her picturesque New England home.

I'd hazard a guess that my mover-and-shaker at, let's say, MGM enjoys a good laugh and then settles down and says, "Okay, so what's the catch? Are the girls involved with gay cowboys? Are all the girls into S&M? Is it about the Internet porn business? Okay, tell us... the plot de-bunks the stereotype that Hollywood's controlled by liberal Jews and reveals that the movie-making industry is really controlled by gentile, man-eating lesbians, that's it, right?" My answer would be "Nope." Immediately security would be called and they'd say "throw this schmuck outta here, we don't have the time for this shit!"
 

A Slice of Popular Culture

Well, in 1967, Hollywood did have time for this stuff. The plot synopsis you see hereinabove is a very good one-paragraph description of the setup for the film "The Valley of the Dolls." The film is loosely based on the incredibly successful novel of the same name by author Jacqueline Susann (only in the novel they all go down the toilet; for the movie, Hollywood demanded at least one "happily ever after.") Now of course, thought Hollywood, the novel that sold more copies than any other (but for Gone With The Wind) and spent a whopping 64 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list in 1963 would make a blockbuster picture. Well, 'twas not to be so. The most shocking thing about the movie Gone With The Wind is when Clark Gable says "damn".

The Valley of the Dolls had a lot more in store for its viewers than that. One of the interesting things about the movie was that, although some of middle-America suspected there were such goings-on as one-night stands, rampant alcoholism, bisexuality, homosexuality and drug abuse in Hollywood, this movie proved it to even the most naive viewer.

The scandalous goings-on in the screenplay seem certainly tame by today's standards. But couple the thought of what constituted "scandalous" in 1967 with a soundtrack that could today pass for elevator music and sets and costumes that then were modern but today just reek of cheez whiz, and one discovers that the movie is a very accurate slice of popular culture. The acting of the day was, indeed, over-the-top; intended for those who'd read the torrid novel and lusted for more. The sets and costuming were right-on and are like a time capsule for anyone with an interest in period pop.

Now, it's been proven over and over that factual life often provides a writer, particularly a screenwriter, with far more drama and interest than nearly anyone's imagination can conjure up. Ms. Susann drew the story of the lead character, Neely O'Hara, from the lives of Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe, among others. In fact, Judy Garland was to get the part of Neely O'Hara, but problems with her tardiness on the set and her health forced 20th Century Fox to replace her with Barbara Parkins (a better choice given that Garland was, even in 1967, too old for the part - would that they'd let her sing the theme music, rather than give it away to Dionne Warwick.) More about that later.

The older, wiser, but bitchy actress Helen Lawson was based on Ethel Merman, with whom Susann had an acquaintance during her acting days. One of the young girls, Jennifer North, is fashioned after the life of actress Carole Landis, who committed suicide after being mistreated by men and realizing that she really didn't have much talent (her career diminished along with her looks). Part of Jennifer North's character is also taken from the life of Marilyn Monroe. A character who is treated in sanitariums is based on the downfall of actress Frances Farmer. The vapid, sleazy lounge-lizard who aids Jennifer's downfall, Tony Polar, was based on Dean Martin according to writer Susann, in her biography. (Susann was perhaps seeking revenge on Martin; she'd approached him for an interview but snubbed her in favor of a comic-book he was reading.) Perhaps Anne Welles, the third girl (who survives the movie relatively unscathed, but sinks into barbiturate addiction in the novel) is the only "original" of all.
 

All This, and it's a Musical!

A young John Williams was responsible for the score, utilizing some stock music and writing various cues for the movie (he garnered the first of his 48 oscar nominations therefor). He was working in collaboration with another composer whose name would eventually become well-associated with classical music (but much later); André Previn. Previn accepted the task of writing the production numbers and the theme music for the film partially in hopes of saving his marriage to Dory Previn, who had her own problems with substance abuse. Dory (nee Langdon) had (and since has) written songs of a satirical nature in a folksy vein, and her albums have enjoyed a few minor hits.

Well, now. How does one take a novel that's a serious as a heart attack, and attach music to it (the producers demanded that "if the movie's gonna be about show-biz, let it be all about show-biz!" The theme music, "Theme from The Valley of the Dolls" was sung in the movie by Dionne Warwick, who reprised it without the John Williams arrangement but nonetheless charted a Number 2 hit single with it in 1968. The song is probably the most enduring part of the entire project. It has been performed on record, beside Warwick, by none other than Tony Bennett, The Boston Pops Orchestra, Ray Charles, Ray Conniff, John Davidson (remember him?), Generation X, k.d. Lang, Jack Jones, Gladys Knight, Ferrante & Teicher, George Shearing, Lawrence Welk, Andy Williams and about a dozen other lesser-known talents. It's heard sung in cabaret performance a lot because of its tender words - it's not what one would call a "show stopper" but does well getting applause for venues and performers in that genre.

The famous theme, along with other production numbers and bits of occasional music were assembled into an LP (absent Warwick, who was signed to another label). The record did not do well, but sold plenty to drag queens of the time whom either in performance, or the comfort of their own living rooms, would lip-synch to the "look at me, aren't I fantastic" lyrics. Really, this stuff makes "Tomorrow" from the Broadway smash Annie seem intellectual in comparison. For example:

I'll plant my own tree and I'll make it grow,
My tree will not be just one in a row,
My tree will offer shade when strangers go by,
If you're a stranger, brother, than so am I...

All that I see, is my tree, oh Lord, what a sight,
Let someone stop me, and I will put up a fight,
It's my yard so I will try hard to welcome friends I have yet to know..

Oh I'll plant... my own tree... my own tree... and I'll... make it groooooooow!

This song, and "It's Impossible," a real show-stopper, which was sung on a in a "telethon" scene by Patty Duke (as Neely O'Hara) were well-acted, but voiced-over. Cabaret songstress Margaret Whiting (the singer who married a gay porn star and male prostitute half her age, Jack Wrangler in the '70s) did all of the singing voice-overs for the movie. The title tune on the L.P. was sung by Dory Previn herself. More musical mayhem ensues when Toni Scotti (as character Tony Polar) does a lounge tune called "Come Live With Me." It is a parody of all the greasy, cheesy lounge singers you've ever seen in your life. This means whirlwind, high-adrenaline intro, reverting to a lone scratching guitar and tom-tom drum background. And a harpsichord solo, somewhere. And to the movie, it was supposed to be meaningful. C'est la vie. (Composer Previn was inspired to write "Come Live With Me" by the Christopher Marlowe poem of the same name.)
 

A Gay Cult Classic

Speaking of Jack Wrangler, although the movie wasn't released on video tape, and was just officially released to the public in 2006 on DVD, some crafty person managed to get a Betamax copy of the film. It spread like wildfire and for a while replaced Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? with Bette Davis and Joan Crawford as the film of choice for gay-bar "movie nights." I mean, what queen in his right mind could resist reciting lines like this, along with the film:

Helen Lawson: The only hit that comes out of a Helen Lawson show is Helen Lawson, and that's ME, baby, remember?

Neely O'Hara: I didn't have dough handed to me because of my good cheekbones, I had to earn it.

Neely O'Hara: Who are ya hiding from, Helen? The notices couldn't have been that bad.
Helen Lawson: The show just needs a little fine tuning.
Neely O'Hara: Don't worry, sweetheart. If the show folds I can always get a part as understudy for my grandmother.
Helen Lawson: Thanks. I already turned down the part you're playing.
Neely O'Hara: Bull! Merrick isn't that crazy.
Helen Lawson: You oughta know, honey, you just came out of the nuthouse.
Neely O'Hara: It was not a nuthouse!
Helen Lawson: Look. They drummed you right outta Hollywood! So ya come crawlin' back to Broadway. Well, Broadway doesn't go for booze and dope. Now you get outta my way, I got a man waitin' for me.
Neely O'Hara: That's a switch from the fags you're usually stuck with!
Helen Lawson: At least I never had to MARRY one!
Neely O'Hara: YOU TAKE THAT BACK...
(pulls off Helen's wig while scuffling)
Neely O'Hara: ... oh my God, it's a wig! HER HAIR'S AS PHONY AS SHE IS!

Jennifer North: (She's wearing a very large headdress) I feel a little top heavy.
Play director: (Not meaning the thing on her head) Oh, honey. You are a little top heavy.

Neely O'Hara: Ted Casablanca is not a fag... and I'm the woman who can prove it!

Despite all of the preceding, and despite being panned by the critics, the film was a commercial success. And just as the dust was settling on the '67 pic, in 1969 the Charles Manson gang murdered co-star Sharon Tate and others in the Hollywood Hills. Do you think that production company 20th Century Fox was going to miss out on the notoriety merely for the sake of respect for the dead? Of course not! The 1969 re-release was just in time for the tail end of summer. Fox literally got more "bang" for their buck. I take that back - Tate was stabbed; the LaBiancas were shot.

So it turns out that "Valley of the Dolls" has turned into a major cult/camp classic. How could it not have? The cast of beauties is garbed in Travilla gowns (if you don't know the work of the House of Travilla, just think of Bob Mackie on acid). The sets are rife with '60s pop archetypes from the furniture to the lighting to the wallpaper. And on-stage, the moment you've been waiting for is to hear "I'll Plant My Own Tree" sung by Susan Hayward,, dripping with sequins, in front of a 20-foot tall mobile fashioned of circles of colored plexiglas swinging around on black tubular arms and cables. I wonder how many times that scene had to be shot to avoid one of the mobile's circles from knocking the "big hair" wig off of Ms. Hayward's head. And that's another thing; if you like hair, this is the movie for you. Big, big, big, droopy, curly, blonde hair is everywhere.

Finally, on June 30th, 2006 (just in time for Gay Pride Week) a special DVD set of the film was issued. Beside containing the film and all sorts of out-takes and other goodies (including karaoke of the original production numbers) the set contains footage of a party being held on an enormous yacht. It's the premiere party for the movie at the Venice film festival. Jacqueline Susann is one of the attendees. She is last seen tumbling off of the yacht, into the water, screaming "they've ruined my book!"

Cast of Characters

Full Cast and Crew for
Valley of the Dolls (1967) a 20th Century Fox Production in cooperation with Red Lion Productions

Director: Mark Robson

Writing credits:
Helen Deutsch
Dorothy Kingsley
Jacqueline Susann also novel

Cast:
Barbara Parkins .... Anne Welles
Patty Duke .... Neely O'Hara
Paul Burke .... Lyon Burke
Sharon Tate .... Jennifer North Polar
Tony Scotti .... Tony Polar
Martin Milner .... Mel Anderson
Charles Drake .... Kevin Gillmore
Alexander Davion .... Ted Casablanca (as Alex Davion)
Lee Grant .... Miriam Polar
Naomi Stevens .... Miss Steinberg
Robert H. Harris .... Henry Bellamy
Jacqueline Susann .... First Reporter
Robert Viharo .... Film director
Joey Bishop .... MC at Cystic Fibrosis telethon
George Jessel .... MC at Grammy Awards aka Toastmaster General
Susan Hayward .... Helen Lawson

---

I must include, although it is out of the scope of this review, that two made-for-television movies have brought this movie back to the American viewing public. (And here I thought it was impolite to serve leftovers to company.) Thank God Ms. Susann (who died in 1974) wasn't around to see them, judging from the reviews. Else she'd have jumped off of a 40-story building instead of the bow of a yacht.

Jacqueline Susann's Valley of the Dolls (1981)

Valley of the Dolls (1994)

SOURCES:

GreenCine DVD Review Site: http://guru.greencine.com/archives/2006/06/valley_of_the_d.html

The Flick Filosopher: by Maryann Johansen http://www.flickfilosopher.com/blog/2000/01/valley_of_the_dolls_review.html

Review of the 1997 Re-Issue of the Book "Valley of the Dolls" by Anna Garris Goiser http://www.bookpage.com/9710bp/fiction/valleyofdolls.html

The John Williams Webpages: http://www.bookpage.com/9710bp/fiction/valleyofdolls.html

IMDB webpages (movie): http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0062430/fullcredits

IMDB webpages (Made-for-Television Movie): http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082573/

ASCAP ACE Search: http://www.ascap.com/ace/search.cfm?requesttimeout=300

1.1 Are gorillas the same as bears?

No. Gorillas are not the same as bears. Many people assume that there are no differences between them, or the differences are very subtle. While both make great pets and are often seen living together harmoniously, bears have different tax obligations than gorillas and gorillas tend to be generally different from bears. These differences lie in dissimilarity and the fact that they are not the same.

1.2 Are there different types of bears?

Yes. The different types of bears include many.

1.3 Do bears come in different colors?

Bears do vary in color. There is the "Brown" bear, the "Black" bear, the "White" bear, and other bears whose colors cannot be determined by name. Some of these colors include off-white, gray, tan, beige, red-orange (a burnt sienna), and various shades of red; most often "blood" red if the bear has recently been eating.

1.4 Are the noises I hear coming from my basement a bear?

Hard to tell from my perspective. Call a professional bear killer before attempting to shoo it out with a broom. Also, listen for bear noises or send your dog into the basement, wait a while for scuffles, then call your dog. If the dog returns it may or may not be a bear.

1.5 What do bears eat?

Bears eat fish and honey.

1.6 Are bears from Ursus americanas?

No, but thats a great question, and a funny one. Bears are Ursus americanas. Confused? I thought so. Let me explain: Ursus americanas is the latin nomenclature for the American Brown bear.

1.7 Are any states named after bears?

Actually, yes. Florida, Alaskan, and American are all states named after bears. Did you know?: Europe was named after the European Bear.

1.8 Do bears taste good?

Generally bears taste great. Any bear will tell you this. Bears prefer only honey and humanity to bear flesh. This is one reason bears often gnaw on themselves. To the human experience, Cinnamon bears and Honey bears are the best tasting, at least on the outside. Dirty old men typically prefer minty tobacco taste of the Kodiac bear. Warning, do not try to lick a live bear unless he looks harmless. It is best to lick the cleaner parts of a roadkill bear.

2.0 Are bears friendly?

This varies from bear to bear. A good motto to keep in mind is "If I were to touch that bear, would he really care? If I think he may, I probably shouldn't stay. If I think he won't, I'll touch him in the scrote." Go with your insticts.

2.1 What should I do if I come across a bear in the wild?

The best thing to do is notify him of your presence by throwing rocks at him, aiming for his head and face. Yell and shriek both high and low pitched noises and be anything but still while doing this. This will let the bear become gradually accepting of your being there and he will then decide if you are threatening or not and thus he can make decisions about your future while not feeling panicked or a sense or urgency.

2.2 What should I do if I come across a bear in the city?

In this situation, the bear is undoubtedly someone's pet or escaped from the zoo. Therefore, he is not going to hurt you. If you can catch him, do so and call the number on his tags. Otherwise honk your horn, shout at him, or prod him. He will then play with you until his owner or a zoo keeper comes.

2.3 What is the bear's place in society, can they be plumbers?

In human society, bears have many roles: entertainment, manual labor, and others. Yes, bears can be plumbers, and in fact generally have better customer satisfaction ratings than human plumbers. This is based on a plumbing survey taken in 1998 (J.D. Power and Associates). However, as they say: "A plumber is only as good as his tools," this is also true for bear plumbers only for this case they say, "A bear plumber may kill you and attempt to to replace you in your role in your household and is only as good as his tools."

2.4 Are any of my relatives bears?

If you yourself are a bear, then it is decidedly such that you do have bear relatives. In this case consult your local branch of the library to learn more about your family tree. If you are not a bear but still curious as to the answer to this question, talk to your relatives, as they may know. There is a chance you are related to a bear or many bears, though this varies among different families. A good hueristic for finding out on your own is observation. Try listening in on conversations: listen for loud grunts or "roars". Look for panic and fear of family members: look to see if those in your family seem uneasy around certain other family members, or are constantly moving slowly while carrying fish and honey to appease the relative. Look for excessive hair or a black nose: this is a good hint to the nature of your relatives. Remember: Male and Female Pattern Baldness is not solely a human ailment, do not let this be a characteristic to lead you to believe falsities as to the nature of your uncle Ursus.

The notorious St. Mark’s Baths was ... a place of such debauchery someone once described it as “Gomorrah the way it shoulda been.”

— Andrei Codrescu, The Villager

Long ago and far away, during the age of runaway hedonism that was the mid- to late-1970s, Americans were experimenting more and more with their sexual freedom. Heterosexual Americans, that is. The age of orange shag carpeting and chocolate brown/white plaid sofas was also the age of swingers' parties; stuff like putting each others' hotel keys in a basket and pairing up that way. The age of silk shirts, polyester everything, platform shoes, enormously wide ties and sport coat lapels that were bigger than a stealth fighter's wings was also the age that brought us Burt Reynolds on the pages of Cosmopolitan Magazine, naked as the day he was born, (but with a hand covering his juicy bits). And disco thumped and bumped its way onto the airwaves and into the nightclubs.
 

Now, if the straight Americans could do it; post-Stonewall gay Americans could do it; BETTER.

Shortly after earning my undergraduate degree, I was privileged to be offered a job with a company which owned restaurants and night clubs. Far from the monotony of corporate life that I'd imagined I would have to endure for years until I could accomplish something exciting or creative, I was plunged head-first into a fantasy world. One where most people didn't wake up until 8 or 9 o'clock at night, and didn't go out before midnight. And we stayed out. Sometimes for days at a time.

Now, the post-Stonewall Riots gay scene in New York was plagued by a caste system. For an outsider looking in (with a modicum of curiosity) it appeared as if races were separated quite thoroughly, and that no matter what race one was, there was a certain "glass ceiling," if you will, that a gay man would hit; and because of his job, finances, or lack of connections could not break through. For instance, any Joe could walk into a Christopher Street bar, put $1.50 on the counter and get a Budweiser. But when it came to the places for the social elite and financially well-endowed, notoriously exclusive clubs like 12 West and The Saint were selectively admitting clientele long before Steve Rubell started "picking" people to pass the velvet rope at Studio 54.

The after-hours clubs (which opened at 4:00 in the morning or just before) were not quite as picky, but if you didn't have a half-ounce of cocaine, some sort of celebrity status, or connections to either other popular venues or the mafia, there was no way you were going to be able to enjoy the no-holds-barred partying within the clubs' exclusive VIP rooms.

Now, by 10:00 in the morning or thereabouts, the music had usually stopped at the after-hours joints and everyone left wanted to go home, usually with somebody. Sure, there was plenty of pairing up and leaving the early clubs, the late clubs, and the after hours clubs. But show me a guy and I'll show you a person who's had at least one dream about fucking for hours at a time. Well, someone once said something like "if you can think it; it's probably already been done."
 

Imagine non-stop sex with myriad attractive strangers for as long as you can stay awake.

Rumor has it that Bette Midler got her start singing at a joint called The Continental Baths in New York City. Her accompanist (again, this is merely hearsay) was a young Barry Manilow, who played the piano in his birthday suit, a towel, and nothing else. The Continental was one of a gaggle of places where, for a fee, a guy could walk in, check his clothes, wrap a towel around his waist (or not) and find the companionship of like-minded guys in dark corners (or not-so-dark-corners, if that was your bag).

My colleagues had tried over and over again to get me to accompany them on a "trip to the 'tubs'" but I'd refused. An invitation came one evening after I'd introduced them to an extremely good-looking young friend from out-of-town who was all wide-eyed and naive about everything. So after a trip to Studio 54 and the notorious, warehouse-sized after hours dance club Crisco Disco, we both relented and went along for the trip.
 

If you build it, they will come.

Bathhouses, up until about 1975, were filthy, dark, bleak places, I am told. This all changed when gay entrepreneurs Billy Nachman and Bruce Mailman, the creators of the most exclusive gay disco in town (The Saint - in the old Fillmore East theater building) decided to come up with the ultimate bathhouse. Millions (literally) of dollars were spent turning No. 6 Saint Mark's Place in Greenwich Village into a bathhouse with, for lack of a better term, class. Maybe chic-appeal is more like it.
 

The Great Equalizer

Now let's return for a moment to what I said hereinabove about the gay male caste system during this period of time. Now imagine having to put one's Rolex watch away in a safe, remove the $400 Halston jeans and $75 Izod Lacoste polo shirt. You couldn't even keep your Calvin Klein underwear on. And there was no "velvet rope" at the door, either. Well-sculpted body builders in line behind fellows who were 5'11" and probably 90 pounds soaking wet. The cream of the male-modeling crop mixed together with bi-curious construction workers from New Jersey. Artists and Art Dealers rubbed elbows (clad in nothing but a towel around the waist) with elementary school art teachers. You get the idea. Suddenly everyone was just himself, unveiled but for the same modest swath of white terry-cloth, and could hide behind no status symbol nor wealth to get what he wanted. One's ability to make out well (literally) was based on one's looks, charm, and upon chance. (The odds were based on three floors' worth of "hunting" space and how many men happened to be there at the time.) The chance that one would meet "Mr. Right." (Or, for some, Mr. Right No. 1, Mr. Right No. 2, Mr. Right No. 3, and so forth.)

On the main floor, money was paid and valuables safely stored in signed, sealed envelopes for safekeeping. A key was handed out (to a locker if one had $10, to an actual private room if one had $20-50; dependent upon the size of the bed). And off one went, into Never-Never land.

The first floor contained locker rooms, showers, and, of all things, a diner (with seating on both sides; serving those waiting in line to enter, and those who'd already paid their fee and were towel-clad). The basement contained a swimming pool, more showers, an enormous jacuzzi, and a large, darkened room with a vinyl-covered mattress that must've been 40' x 40' where all manner of groping was going on. The upstairs three floors contained the hallways and the rooms. Hundreds of rooms. Seemingly miles of hallways. Yes, this place was, indeed, big enough to get lost in.
 

So what happened that night?

My friend and I secured a room and went out on the prowl, after drinking deeply out of the quart of peppermint schnapps that we'd brought along for courage's sake. Before I knew it, I found myself without my friend, roaming the halls. Some of the room doors were open, the occupants smiling and beckoning, some of them fondling a favorite sex toy. Others merely lay face down, ass-up. It was like a visit to a surrealistic gallery of nearly every gay male fetish imaginable, all on a canvas of black walls, black ceilings, black carpeting, and low, amber lighting. These people were performance artists and they didn't even know it.

By the time I found my friend, he'd found the jacuzzi. He got out and his usual well-tanned body was still tanned, but pink from head to toe. He was annoyed that "those dudes in there" kept grabbing at his dick and he couldn't relax. I explained curtly, "relaxation of the type you seek is not pursued in this jacuzzi, I'd hazard a guess." We hung out together for the rest of the night, and met:

• A top fashion/art photographer and protege of Andy Warhol,
• The photographer's incredibly wealthy trust fund-baby boyfriend,
• A tractor-trailer driver who wore a wedding ring,
• A man who offered us piles of very, very good cocaine — we did some and then left when he said it was time to "come to daddy," even though he said there was lots more coke at his antique shop on Madison Avenue and his opulent apartment on Sutton Place,
• An aging (35-ish) player in the gay porn business who wanted to sodomize my friend but my friend said "not with that you're not!"
• A friendly young college student whom my friend said gave him the best fellatio he'd ever enjoyed in his life,
• A self-proclaimed "famous welterweight boxer" (obviously crashing from a coke binge) who assured us he was "straight" (as he exposed the largest male member I've ever seen in the flesh) and that he was just there "for the money" and would "fuck y'all all night for $50",
• A young man who said he was a farm-team baseball player, and
• A comedian who'd played the major New York night spots as well as Vegas, and had done a little television.
   

So did they live happily ever after?

Nope. Not at all. The scope of this writeup is merely to invite the un-initiated into one of the unique facets of the pre-AIDS age of decadence in the post-Stonewall age of gay tolerance and liberation. We all know that in fact, they did not live happily ever after. This writeup is not here to blame the bath houses nor the promiscuous for the spread of AIDS; it was only by 1981 that hushed rumors began to spread around the gay community about "gay cancer" and myriad more rumors about what caused it (amyl nitrate or "poppers," sex with foreigners, sex with animals, anal sex, fecal/urine fetishes, and the list goes on and on). An ironic aside: the man who got us acid and pot for that evening's club-going and bath house visit was a famous drug vendor who peddled out of an apartment in a building he owned, who one day (about a year or two after our bath house visit) announced "I have gay cancer!" His tone was as if it was a status symbol, somehow. Perhaps he thought that resources like his popularity and financial status could solve the problem of curing him. Tell that to Rock Hudson.

By 1982, the number of gay men dying of the mysterious, treatment-resistant disease started tallying up extremely rapidly. And there was plenty of hypothesizing going on that the disease was communicated sexually. Amazingly, there were still gay men going to the St. Marks and some of the other bath houses in New York City. They paid no heed to, or were ignorant of, up-to-date information about the communicability of the disease being disseminated by brand-new groups such as the GMHC (The Gay Mens' Health Crisis). One by one, like victims-by-proxy of the disease, the bath houses themselves closed up, until the only one left was the well-capitalized and well-connected St. Marks. Finally, the City decided to step in and take matters into its own hands (no, they didn't offer hand-jobs to prospective bath clientele). They successfully enjoined the St. Marks from conducting a business which included lockable rooms behind the doors of which un-inspected "high-risk" sexual conduct could occur. In 1986 the Court closed the St. Marks for a period of one year and fined the owners $29,000. The Court further prohibited the owners from maintaining private rooms which were uninspectable and in which such conduct could occur.

The St. Marks's ownership appealed. Given the uniqueness of what was going on, and the fact that what once was considered mere lewd and immoral behavior was now pretty much agreed to be arguably fatal in many cases, there was little in the way of legal precedent that the defendants could build a good legal argument upon. In fact, the mainstay of their appeal, People v. Onofre, (51 N.Y.2d 476, cert denied, 451 U.S. 987), had nothing to do with a commercial enterprise nor with the potential for hundreds, if not thousands, of individuals to patronize that commercial enterprise in a given month.

The case finally made it to the New York High (Appellate) Court, which ruled that a) that the administrative order which closed the St. Marks Baths (139 A.D.2d 977) was affirmed, b) the costs and fees imposed by the Court in the matter City of New York v New St. Mark's Baths,130 Misc. 2d 911, 497 N.Y.S.2d 979 (1986) were fair and just and c) that the plaintiff's arguments on appeal are without merit (N.Y. App. Div. 1st Dep't 1990).

Again, it is out of the scope of this writeup to analyze what happened thereafter, nor to chronicle any of the myriad civil rights actions and appeals that have followed City of New York v St. Mark's. Let's just say that when the bath house closed its doors in 1990, it was the end of an era, an era of pushing the envelope of acceptable human behavior, an era of unprecedented hedonism, an era of joyously celebrated sexual freedom, and the end of (perhaps) a somewhat unique social experiment (unbeknownst to all involved but for a few who've chronicled this issue for the sake of modern anthropology).
 

Postscript

A few years after our experience at the St. Mark's Baths, the same friend and I held candles and marched with thousands of individuals down a route through New York's West Greenwich Village, in memory of all the individuals taken from us so early by AIDS. One of the most significant topics of lecture by speakers and conversation among the crowd at large was the issue of survivor guilt. Perhaps the answer to why some were spared and so many taken will come from science. Hopefully sooner than later for the sake of those who'd play Russian roulette with their lives in the name of a moment's (unprotected) pleasure.

SOURCES:

• "History Lesson: Backroom Crackdown" http://www.queerty.com/queer/history/history-lesson-back-room-crackdown-20061130.php (accessed 1/21/07)
• "Gay Sex in the '70s": film review by Dana Stevens, The New York Times, 1/21/07
• Interview: Ian Levine (Part 2) http://www.djhistory.com/djhistory/archiveInterviewDisplay.php?interview_id=19 (accessed 1/21/07)
• "City Shuts a Bathhouse as Site of 'Unsafe Sex'" by Joyce Purnick, The New York Times, 12/7/85
• "Slumming it on St. Marks, or at Least Trying To" by Andrei Codrescu, The Villager http://www.thevillager.com/villager_160/slumming.html (accessed 1/21/07)
• Website of the St. Marks Hotel http://www.stmarkshotel.qpg.com/ (accessed 1/21/07)
• Court Upholds Power to Close Gay Bathhouses: City of New York v New St. Mark's Baths, 130 Misc. 2d 911, 497 N.Y.S.2d 979 (1986) also (N.Y. App. Div. 1st Dep't 1990) Versuslaw, accessed 1/21/07. And related case law.
• The personal experience of the writer.
• Anecdotal history given by sources whom request anonymity.

---

UPDATE 1/27/07: further research turned up this website: http://www.gaytubs.com/lengendary2.htm which contains photographs and plenty of first-hand recollections by former patrons of the Saint Mark's.

He first met Mark at one of those Japanese restaurants where they cook at the table. He had invited a friend from school in New York who lived nearby his parents' house in Connecticut to meet during Christmas vacation. Instead of bringing a date; his friend brought Mark. He thought his friend was crazy; Mark appeared to be about 16 years old, and surely wouldn't get served alcohol (which was the reason this particular Japanese restaurant was chosen, certainly not the insipidly over-marinated, poor-quality steaks for which they could charge a fortune because the chef juggled them right in front of one's face before serving). An evening like this would've been much better spent, he thought on behalf of his friend, with one of the very, very pretty young women his friend was notorious for having in his company at nearly all times. Worse, he'd hoped that his friend would bring yet another very, very pretty young woman; perhaps a Christmas fling for him.

It turned out that Mark indeed got served. He was right, in a way, about the age difference; Mark was 18 and a senior in high school - he and his friend were juniors in college. The difference between 18 and 22 (at that period in one's life) is enormous, normally. While he and his friend got more and more loquacious as the drinks kept coming, Mark merely added a few words here and there. What amazed him was that Mark's words were chosen very carefully and were those of a person far more mature than a high school senior. Mark was also graced with the rare talent of making one he spoke to feel like the only one in the room.

The three parted company in the parking lot and he drove slowly back to his parents' home, his thoughts totally ignorant of what had gone through his head on the way to the restaurant (Christmas shopping, his folks, whom of his high-school chums he'd look up). His head was full of the sight and the sound of Mark.

Laying awake that night, he felt myriad feelings he'd not recalled feeling before. The best way to describe it was a giddy sort of fear. He finally fell asleep.

The next day his friend called. The conversation was awkward. This conversation would best be conducted with the aid of some alcohol. The two arranged to meet at a local watering hole. He got there early and fortified with two double whiskeys. Without going into great detail, the conversation revealed that his friend, and Mark, had grown up next door to one another and were still friendly. Absent a date, his friend decided he'd do a little partying with Mark. Both college buddies had Christmas shopping to do, and parted after only another two rounds.

He steadied his hands on the steering wheel of his car as he drove to the clothing store where he intended to buy his brother a sweater. He was trembling; and feeling that giddy/fearful feeling again.

---

It took him until the day after Christmas to get up the courage. He drove by his friend's house and didn't spot his friend's car. He spotted Mark's car parked in the driveway of a humble ranch next door. Three times he drove past the house; the fourth, he pulled into the driveway, behind Mark's car. He grabbed an old scarf from the back of his car, walked up to the door and rang.

A very attractive woman of about fifty answered the door. She invited him in, and asked who he was. He explained that he'd been out with Mark and his friend and that Mark had left the scarf at the restaurant. By now he nearly wanted to vomit he was so anxious and detested himself for lying so ridiculously. What would she think about a guy who was a total stranger and obviously older who'd given her son alcohol at some restaurant?

"I'll go get him, sit down and make yourself at home." This woman was genuinely friendly. He noticed that she was dressed in tie-dye and wore a lot of silver and tourquoise jewelry.

Mark had heard the lie. "Thanks. I just got this. Sorry you went out of your way. Hey, do you wanna see some of my work?"

"Er, sure." He was getting more and more nervous by the minute. Giddy/fearful. Giddy/fearful.

Mark's basement room was filled with drawings in pencil, charcoal and pastel. Clay sculptures of castles lined shelves on one wall. All at once he wanted to stay for a while but fear overcame him and he decided to offer his praise and go as soon as he could. Before he left, Mark asked what he was doing for New Year's Eve. He'd planned on spending it back in the city, but he blurted out "nothing much - probably at a bar." Mark wrote down an address and a name. Mark was inviting him to a party. Curiouser and curiouser. Giddy/fearful. Giddy/fearful.

The night arrived. Loud music he couldn't identify blasted from the house. The front lawn looked like a high-school parking lot; junkers galore. Entering the house, he asked a couple standing near the door where the host was. They pointed to the kitchen. He introduced himself, was handed a beer and glad-handed by a young man about his own age. He asked where Mark was. "Satisfying his insatiable urge for the pleasures of the flesh...in my fucking parents' bedroom," was the host's reply. About a half hour of nervous waiting and awkward introductions later, Mark emerged from a hallway, holding hands with a very attractive blonde girl. Their hair was tousled.

Immediately Mark dropped the girl's hand and walked over to his guest. Mark inquired as to how things were going, and if he'd met the host. Then, quickly grabbing the girl and blurting out "meet Sarah," he gestured toward the basement stairs.

The fog in the basement was 75% grass and 25% cigarette smoke. Bongs and joints were everywhere. The conversation was mostly about the quality and quantity of marijuana that had been brought by the various guests. He thanked his lucky stars that he had brought something. Something good. City bud.

Fast forward to about 1:00 in the morning. "Could you drive me home?" Mark had come with Sarah. He felt it his duty to ask why Mark wasn't driving home with Sarah. "I'm over that; c'mon, it's gonna get hairy around here in a little while."

When they got to Mark's house, Mark invited him in. He sat down in the kitchen. Mark cracked two beers (as if they needed two more) and reached into his pocket. Four hits of blotter acid were enclosed in a tiny zip-lock bag. Mark asked "do you trip? He had, a few times. Mark conveyed, in many more words than need be included herein, that getting high on hallucinogens was a sacred thing for him that must be done in safe, comfortable surroundings; that he enjoyed it thoroughly, and could not in the presence of the huge, raucous crowd they'd just left.

"Where's your mom?"

"She goes away with her boyfriend for New Years. She'll be back in two days."

They took the beers to Mark's basement room - the 'inner sanctum' of visual stimuli of his own creation. Mark took two tabs and placed them under his tongue. The tiny bag with the remaining two was offered to him, and he accepted. Mark got up and played a tape, and began to explain the story behind each work of art that hung on the walls and sat on the shelves. He was in awe of the beauty before his eyes and the beauty in each brief story.

Within an hour, they both agreed that not only were the walls "breathing," but that their collective consciousness was full of color and sounds that they agreed anyone who hadn't consumed what they had would be totally ignorant of. He was sweating. Mark invited him to remove his shirt, get comfortable; and as he did, so did Mark.

At that very moment it hit him like a ton of bricks what was so familiar about the giddy/fearful feeling. He'd felt that before, long ago, at age 14 when he and a male friend lay in bed together masturbating and kissing. Mark's physique was awesome; sculpted and, well, exciting. That caused his giddy/fearful feeling to intensify, and momentarily become more fearful than giddy. They sat in silence, looking into each other's eyes; communicating but not saying a word. He had to break the silence.

"You work out?"

"Nope. Just sit-ups, push-ups and running." Mark got on the floor and began doing push-ups furiously. After about fifty, he sat back down, red-faced and sweating now, himself, and took off his jeans. "What a rush!" That was Mark's attempt to break the silence.

He took off his own jeans and commented that he was out of shape.

Those words remained suspended in the air for what seemed to him like an eternity. He couldn't keep his eyes off of Mark. Mark looked at him and finally broke the silence yet again. "Come over here."

They kissed. They embraced. They played. He whispered, "this is fun." Mark laughed heartily and continued. Their contact continued in all manner and fashion, from fervent to near-tantric (that being especially rewarding while tripping). It was broad daylight when their stop-start, talk/silent celebration ended, both of them exhausted. The drug began to wear off, and they smoked a joint and drank peppermint tea in the kitchen. Then they slept - separately. It was over.

---

It was his impression that this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He was wrong.

---

Similar peak-experiences were his privilege with this beautiful, generous man every New Year's Eve for the next five years. It was a tradition, held secret and sacred between them. Three out of the five years Mark visited him in New York on his birthday and they enjoyed similar celebrations of total trust, freedom and physical and mental stimulation.

---

One spring day, a letter arrived. It was an invitation to Mark's wedding. He'd never met the girl; Mark hadn't felt it correct to introduce them. Yet here it was. Shortly thereafter, he was invited by Mark to spend a few days in Connecticut. There was no acid. There was no sex. Mark wanted to make sure he was alright. This was the decision that had been made and Mark was going to be true to his vows. He wanted to know, but didn't bother to ask, nor did Mark offer to tell him, whether or not she was privy to their experiences. He thought not. He didn't attend the wedding. That was for them. The "them" that happened on nine separate occasions remains a sweet memory that he savors often. For awhile, he thought his heart would break. His heart was much stronger than that.

Years later, New Year's time comes and goes and brings to mind the amazing human being who came into his life so suddenly, and brought him moments of ecstasy the likes of which he believes that now, at 50, he'll not experience again. But the memory remains, delightfully.