The Freudian Road

The Freudian Road

I know it was a mistake the moment it was over.  I can certainly see my horizon  well enough, and purpose is very apparent, but sometimes my bleakness begets unrest, and I am torn with conflicting thoughts.  My day- to-day is often mundane .  I walk this earth and I consume.  The sun rises and sets, with a sameness clouding any real joy.  Still, there is angst and hope and curiosity all tugging on my psyche like children pulling at mother’s skirt for attention.  There has to be more.  Relentlessly wearing down my resolve . . . no, not resolve; more complacency- eroding me. The power to change waxes greater and greater until it overwhelms caution. I am a driven creature and the incidental diversion becomes a monument, obscuring my rational view.  Obsession pervades. I am beguiled  Yes, there is risk.  There is always risk, but sometimes it must be wagered against for any true change.  And that pervasive “sameness” is powerful in obfuscating any dangers.  Confliction causes my hesitation.  But a tide of boredom washes clean those thoughts and I decide- not in any thoughtful or contemplative manner, but with a sudden impulse to action. It’s funny how the actual happenstance can be so serendipitous.

So ,resolute, and yet hesitant, I put one foot ahead of another and walk on the asphalt, feeling the night’s coolness.  At least that feeling is different.  Perhaps the journey is the purpose?  I’m confused. Slowly at first and then with conviction I walk across the road. I have arrived. I consider  my new “now.”  I look to my new perspective.  Nothing has really changed.  Not better or worse.  Oh, dear.  It has been all for naught. I should have been happy where I was at

Now my “There” is “Here” and the sameness is apparent.  My action was totally unwarranted and I am relegated to walking and eating and letting the same forces build within me all over again.  I look at the old “Here” that is now “There” across the road with a wistfulness.  Should I have remained?  There has been no gain in my venture.  I  become nostalgic.  For what?  

A rising  sun slides me forward to another day, bringing with it a gentle  breeze.  I can almost hear the whisper the wind carries:

“Oh, go lay an egg.”

-Jerry Wendt

That Night at BeBe's

That Night at BeBe’s

As long as you keep buying I’ll tell you about that night at BeBe’s. As in BeBe’s Lounge and Gentlemen’s club.  Actually, there was never no lady owner at BeBe’s.  It was a guy named Anthony Castellenato, A greaseball who had some uncle in Jersey that was connected and fronted the money for this joint.  He had the dirtiest fingernails I ever saw. Gross.  Which was funny because the only thing he ever touched was the money and an occasional quick feel as he passed through us girls’ dressing room.  Actually we gals thought that BeBe’s was one of those, ah, what’s it ?- “nim” words; you know, like synonym or acronym or sumthin that stood for Bodacious Bazooms. Just a little joke between us girls, you know.

But I digress

That night one of the new gals was on first. She went by “Dee Lite,” though I think her real name was Shirley DeLucca. Now Shirley may have been new but she realized she had to have some gimmick to get the bucks.  So Shirley had gotten this Panama albino python snake from some guy that sold smuggled pets like them parrots with a big feather hat on top, “Cocka-something” they’re called, I think. Anyway Shirley. er, “Dee,” got the snake to put it into her act doing the old bump and grind, but with the snake wrapped around her.  The snake was big, but Shirley was told by the guy that if she kept it fed and gave it tranquilizers, it would remain harmless.  She did.  We all named the snake “Tina”. However greaseball Tony did not like the thing and he had a cage made that Dee had to perform in, assuring that Tina wouldn’t get out.  He feared that these so-called macho men would stampede if the thing got free.  Men always brag how manly they are, but put a spider or snake near ‘em and they scream like little girls.

But I digress

That day Dee had the flu and she wouldn’t listen when we told her to drink a lot of water, so when she got into the cage and started her gig, she got dizzy and passed out.  They called the paramedics to come and Dee got carried out of the cage and taken to the ER by ambulance.  Now, that left Tina by herself, and they didn’t know if they had closed the cage door immediately after they got Dee out or not.

 Somebody had to go into that cage and see what was up.  Tony certainly wasn’t going in and all the bar backs suddenly got very busy washing glasses and stuff.  So guess who it was left to? - Me… famous as Miss Kitty Tang, K.T. for short, and still going strong strutting my goods after 23 years.  The other gals are strippers, but me; I’m an “Icky-dizziest,” which means a really much classier stripper, I heard that once. Anyway I have bigger man-berries than any guy in the joint. Why, once I got cornered by four lunkheads by the back door one night after closing.  I didn’t even call for Tony. It was “Mace-in-the-face” and kick in the balls for em all and they ran like turkeys in a field before Thanksgiving.

But I digress

The cage that Dee did her act in was in a corner and kinda dark without her stage spots on. They didn’t want to make a big kerfuffle, because it was a Saturday night, which was our biggest money maker. Tony was afraid that any attention would clear the room, so I had to go in to see what was up with Tina.  Tina had gotten loose once before from her tank in the back, and they found she had gotten a nice cool spot coiled in a toilet bowl in the ladies room. She was just fine there until Cindy (aka “Honey Potts”) had come in for a dump above her, which upset Tina, who bit her in the ass.  Well, we found Tina, and Cindy only needed 3 stitches.

But I digress.

Now Tina had teeth, and I didn’t know how much Prozac she had or when Dee had fed her, so going into this cage I had to be cautious. Pythons kill by squeezing their food to death but Tina was big enough to give a decent clomp if she hankered to. Honey could attest to that.

 I had only a penlight and a glitter baton to assist me.  I didn’t even know if Tina was still in that cage.  I stepped into the dark cubicle, shining the light, fussin around with the baton. No Tina.  Crap.  Now what?  She had gotten out. Geez, I had to think fast.  Gracious Giselle, a twit with big tetas, was on and I was supposed to follow two acts after her. I wasn’t even dressed yet. What to do?  Tony wouldn’t do shit, but if I didn’t do something and Tina was discovered in the lounge and cleared the joint, he sure as hell would blame me.  Besides I had to go on and get my tips.  I saw this cute cut-out bra in the Fredrick’s catalogue that would add some pizzazz to my act and needed the bread to order it.

But I digress

I smiled, I schmoozed, and I batted my big Maybelline lashes as I circled the room, trying to be casual, looking under tables and in the cubbies.   The joint was jammed and it was dark except for the stage. Nothing. And more nothing.  It was time to get ready. I went backstage and put on my string, pasties and signature cat hat and whiskers, came out, and did my act.  Sixty bucks I picked up from those dumb ass johns all slobbering and sloshing as I went through my gig, all the time listening for a scream from some dork discovering a 6 foot snake under his chair.  Didn’t happen.  So after my act and 2am call, we shut down the joint- I’m sorry. “We shuttered the lounge,”  I had gone through the kitchen under the fry station and sinks, in the johns again, the dressing room, the beer store room and even Tony’s office, where I saw tote wager slips from the track . That S.O.B. was skimming at the races again and that makes me angry. 

But I digress.

 Tina wasn’t in any of those places. . But I won’t leave you hanging out to dry here, pal, - And I’ll take another Appletini, please. Thanks.  No, the next day this salesman from Cleveland; I think he sold tractor parts; he drives home and parks his Lexus in his driveway and goes in to go sleep. His old lady takes the car keys and drives to the market and … and, well the Cleveland Heights paper reported “Suburban matron finds huge tropical snake in car and crashes into store in a panic.” Hey it was probably warm with the car sittin in the sun and Tina got active so when the babe got in the car to go home she slithered her way up from the back seat to see what was going on .  I would loved to see that broad’s face when she turned and saw Tina lookin back at her.   We all heard about it. I bet that guy had the you-know-what beaten out of him by his old lady.  So, you’re gonna ask , how in hell did Tina get into that car?  Hey, babe, you’re talking to Miss Kitty here.  This is one cookie who knows which side she’s buttered on. In this business, ya got to keep your wits. That night I actually did find Tina. She was curled up a nice and cozy in the nook the public phone is in, by the front entrance.  I couldn’t carry her back into the club and through it, ‘cause Tony would have a fit if I brought the snake thru, scaring all the johns. Bad fer business. So I lugged Tina up over my shoulder and lurched out to the parking lot and put her in the first car I found unlocked. I knew the owner would never dare say where the snake came from and admit to his dirty little secret nights out, so we were cool.  I thought I really pulled this one out of the wringer. Although Dee was pissed when she got out of the ER and found I had dumped her prop.

Geez, that was one hell of a night at Be-Be’s. Hey, I gotta go over to the club and fluff my wig up for tonight. Good talking to ya. Thanks fer the booze.  Come see my show later. A gal always needs a little extra money for stockings, right?  I’m on last. The Star, you know.

 
-Jerry Wendt 2014

Fire Island

- Tom  Bianchi SX 70 photographs from the book "Fire Island Pines Polaroids 1975-1963"

                                     Fire Island

 Now solitary footprints on the sand, another season dissolves to dreams of those preceding.  80 years ago it began,

our beachhead strand of dunes fronting
shore heather and scrub pine. Boardwalks and stick- built cottages defined community.
 

Onslaught that stormed the beaches carried armaments of beach umbrellas, Radio Flyers , and the resolve to claim place.

Weekend trippers came in brightest Jantzen briefs
while seasoned residents wore faded Abercrombie swim trunks.

The Pines and Cherry Grove grew personalities.

Ferries docked packed with gym-honed bodies.  Looks and physique trumped all, mingling hairdressers, stockbrokers actors, professors, waiters, painters, mechanics , doctors and nurses, into a sweaty Coppertoned fleshy ménage .

 Behind dunes in the black cherry and bayberry thickets, many came of age , most retread many times over a season.  Boardwalk sideshows tested weekday repressions . Freedom found itself in sun and shade. 

 Bianchi and his SX70  immortalized frenetic daytime occupation.    Furlough followed for the beach volleyball weary.  Disco and Donna Summer held court . Low tea drinks before sunset  then high tea 3D – drinks, dinner, and dancing. Dawn marked that night’s bed relinquished for our own.

Plague hit in the 80’s.  We still came, but talk turned to who wasn’t there and what the world was going to do to us. Reagan cast us adrift. We had only each other for support.  Quiet dinners supplanted dances at Yacht Club and Botel. Music was more Simone than Sylvester. Quilted pieces monumented our losses.  The scene became more about support than recreation.

Hurricanes and mockery couldn’t dislodge us from our beachhead.  We endured ,  Homes became permanent- even luxurious.  

Two-daddy kids summer in harmony with breeder families .
Meatrack is still here, more historic site than rendezvous now. 
The island has become respectable.  Accepted. “Gentrified,” yours call it.

But it remains Ours. This dream became real.  Our home away from home .  You can all come into our world  as long as you respect our tradition.   Accept our ways.

 Waves washing away thousands of seasonal soldier’s footprints almost echo now in the winds.  The whispered conviction of the tribe can almost be heard,  “We belong here. We earned this place.”      
    
    -Jerry Wendt    2014                                                                                               

 

 

photograph by James Gavin 2014

This photograph taken end-of-season at Fire Island by friend James Gavin

inspired me to look into the history of this iconic gay resort and, in finding

the Polaroid history captured over  a eight year span by Chicagoan Tom

 Bianchi, in turn motivated me to write a prose piece that I distilled down to

this poem trying to capture what this place is. - JPW

 

Trapped in an Olive Garden

 

Lifelong living in an area of glacial lakes has fostered appreciation for summers near the shores.  Sometimes out drifting under sail, others just wistful shoreside reading , often looking  up, diverted by the moving tableau of color, light and motion, all my senses piqued in enjoyment. I took that joy with me in my travels far to far away places presenting new treasures-  none so enjoyable as Italy by the water.

Today I sit land locked in Olive Garden. I entered into a courtyard paved with faux brick, every fourth molded with the same fissure, maybe copied from the Antica Osteria in Bari. Glaring bare bulbs above  emulating  strings of lights glimmering romance into  every evening in San Remo, where masted notes of fishing boats bob to a concertina melody carried on winds  brushing through rustling palms along the sea on Via Roccasterone.

 I  lament my  table with its scalloped mats, scant reminder of those delicate little paper doilies under the sweating metal chalices mounding pistachio gelato at La Bonita in Lucca. Here,  furniture is  regimented  in disconcerting homogeny, eschewing charms of a quaint “misela dispari “ (odd mismatched  mixture) as in Trattoria al Aubergo Olivedo shoreside on Lago Como,  where even the dishes have patterned personalities.

 I look  to louvered windows awninged with faded red canvas sheltering dusty bushes fronting an asphalt sea vista, thwarting  thoughts of alluring viewscapes at Castel dell'Ovo, clustered behind café’s goose-gaggled with red umbrellas along a promenade closed to traffic, giving all panoramas of the real volcano looming across Napoli’s  bejeweled bay, ominous reminder of the  fragile transience of life .

Now, choosing one from a column A and column B menu  loaded with limitless breadsticks , chewy and floury. I select pieces of naked chicken ladled over with thick white congealation  so berift of seasoning. it tries to seep and hide in its pasta nest, leaving only waning  memory of  real-life Alfredo with his gold forks serving up steaming noodles blessed with bechmal sauce orchestrated with a symphony of tastes to the palate as intricate as the hodgepodge of the streets of Rome itself.

In spite of this all, my mind wanders as I relive those precious days spent in all too brief tastes of the real Italian way.  Would I, could I,  fades as I am pulled from my reverie with a tug at my shirtsleeve. An Italian apparition chides “Meglio per i suini,” “best for the pigs”, they would say of this place.

I reflect with a pensive wistful smile.  If only for a day, I yearn. Maybe a road trip up to Lake Geneva Wisconsin could rekindle my spirit beyond just memories of halcyon  days spent by Italian shores.



 Cernobbio, Lake Como



Napoli- promenade overlooking Vesuvius

Villa D'Este dinnerware

Lake Como- Villa d-Este Veranda

Sunset Lakeside on Lake Como at Villa d-Este

Seaside, San Remo on the Italian Riviera

Lake Como- Villa D-Este and the town of Cernobbio beyond

 

RACING

My mind is racing blind,

yet seeing world thru echo location.

Synapses perceive reality from experience.

There is wonder in how being and living are related.

The question intrudes:  Is sleep a death of being

or a temporal suspension of life ?

I ponder waking up as a revival or resurrection.        

I churn thinking about the corporal

because I can’t imagine this race ending.

Even in finite laps, I postulate

my uniqueness, willing to wheel on,

 silly hopes trumping reality.

 Very learned people say matter is never destroyed, only mutated.

So, will  I become part of a greater?

I don’t remember being for my first four years of life.

I weigh this between  memory loss or just life before being.

I am vested in the intrigue, 

But my race suspends in a pit stop.

Even the eternal will pause for a warm tuna melt and iced tea.

-Jerry Wendt 2014

Queen of the Night

My home has a Ficus tree, orchids, two palms,  a Dracaena and bamboo plant. I have floral arrangements in just about every room. They are all silk.  In my old age with failing eyes, I don’t see dust  and all my friends are evidently too polite to point out the patina.  Real petunias and impatiens my landscaper gave me last year all died or were eaten by deer.  I am a serial plant murderer.

My writers group gave us assignment to write a story about gardening. To fulfill this assignment and not let you down failing to come up with a gardening story considering my lack of success with things green and flowering, I do offer one plant tale that is unique and worthy of repeating.

Every year for 35 years I have been part of a wine tasting week lakeside in Michigan guesting at the summer home of a dear friend, who is an eminent microbiologist. He is also an expert gardener and botanist with a large greenhouse attached to his cottage.  In it we have been fortunate to have seen some rare and beautiful plants, but none as notable as the one we saw one summer.

Our host was extremely excited in greeting us that year as his night blooming Cereus was about to flower.  This rare primitive cactus lily is much admired by garden enthusiasts. Known as “Queen of the Night,”  Epiphyllum oxypetalum is notable because it blooms just once a year for only one single night, dying at dawn. Its blooms are extravagant dinner plate-sized white flowers that emerge from pods as dusk sets in. 

We all anxiously gathered in the green house to witness this botanic wonder unfold. Indeed, at sunset, the large pods began turning upright, sure sign the spectacle was at hand.  What our host had failed to tell us was that this flower is pollinated by nectar-feeding bats. To attract such bats, nature has given the Cereus an odor most attractive to them, that of decaying vegetal material. Not only that, but the rotten fruit smell carries miles to reach these bats, inviting them to “come to the table” so to speak.  The flowers opened. Our appreciation dwindled as the smell also grew more pervasive and noxious. We moved out of the greenhouse, shutting the door. Didn’t help. The smell was overpowering. We could not eat or drink, got headaches and became nauseous.  The whole house smelled like a garbage dump. It was sickening. We moved outside, setting up blankets and cushions to sleep on the patio.  Nope.  The smell was so strong we were afraid neighbors would complain.  Of course bats don't generally bother people and couldn't get into the house to their enchanting siren, so they fluttered about frustrated with no bother to us.

Luckily the cottage was too small to overnight the entire group, so several had taken accommodation at a Quality Inn over by the Interstate.  Eight of us snuck in, occupying their one room for that night. Wine and air conditioning had us quickly in good spirits. The following morning, when we returned early, the Cereus has died and the smell abated. All was well and I was extremely gratified knowing that none of my dusty silk plants would ever cause me to vacate my house.

The Greenhouse and the Cereus in full bloom. Ugh !
 

 

Changes

I remember

running on our gravel road

 

past a couple crackerbox tract houses

onto the main road , just two unpaved troughs through the swamp

lush with green cattails before their fuzzies came

and red wing blackbirds

everywhere, flashes of color.

There was the smell of

loamy wetness and green freshness while

summer breezes and  bright sun forbade

mosquitoes trespass until  dusk freed them later.

 I would be home by then, washed off of dust

that tasted of oatmeal,

Mom making me

mustard sandwiches

and cherry Kool-Aid in a big pitcher

with condensation running down the sides

drawn with faces,  finger etched in the frosted surface.

I was always thinking about that running

relishing the wind in my eyes and a  good soreness in my legs

from journeys leaving me feeling as complete as I ever would.

Journeys that abruptly ended

with Dr Soaper telling Mom I needed glasses.

Clumsy heavy things that slid down my nose and made other kids mock “Four eyes, Four eyes.”

Things that smudges and sweat and dust had to be constantly wiped from and that felt so unnatural and limiting, I hated them.

They stole my freedom.

While making things clearer

It was not pretty like the impressionist world I saw without them.

I was always taking them off ,but Mom always made me put them back on .

 I was saddest that I could no longer feel the wind on my eyes running.

 Because of those glasses 

running just wasn’t fun anymore.

 

Then we moved to town.

Mom got a divorce.

 

I remember.

Because  things were never the same again.                                        


–Jerry Wendt 2014

Carlotta on Facing Fear

Carlotta’s Corner

Dear Carlotta:

The other night “Psycho” came on TV and I was all alone, and then I heard  a scream. What should I have done? -Nervous Nellie       

 

 

Dear Nervous-

I am the worst sort of “namby-pamby.”  The cry of a screech owl at night is enough to send me doing Rosary, and I’m not even religious.  To this day, when I hear that “Dum-Dum, Dum-Dum, Dum-Dum” sound sequence from Jaws, my Earl Grey ices over.  When I think of the Mummy and that waste of good gauze, when people in Ethiopia are running around with open sores, I shake with emotion. O.K.,granted, that may be more rage than fear, but you get the point. I am a VERY sensitive individual. But, also a proactive one

There is no reason to live with fear. With proper precautions, we can all sleep soundly and go about our lives without it. Why, just the other week I was up late alone and on came Psycho.  You would think that this would send me screaming “willy-nilly” through the house in terror. But no, I was prepared and will graciously share my precautions.

 I found a chain maile shower curtain on one of those Dungeon and Dragons Goth sites.  You can’t go stabbing through one of those babies, I can assure you.  You may have to reinforce your curtain bar somewhat as these things hang pretty heavy.  Also get some “Rust-Away” from the start to overcome that problem, unless of course your bath is decorated in earth tones, in which case you’re O.K. Before I step into the shower I sprinkle a box of tacks in front of the bathroom doorway. You will shower unbothered or at least have advance warning of any entry.  Here, I must interject.  All those pretentious friends that are always telling you how fabulous their Dyson vacuum cleaner is are blowhards. There are some things that even a Dyson won’t suck up.

An alternate escape:  I did try to get one of those emergency escape tube slides that attaches to the window, but was informed that wouldn’t be practical for a window 20 inches from ground.

The salesman was very nice though, and sold me a hammer for only nine dollars.

Be sensitive to messages from the spirits “beyond.”  I learned from Shirley MacLaine that those that have passed are constantly trying to help us avoid adversity. So, for example, with our Psycho case, you must note sudden repetition of certain key words such as in “Anxiety exacerbates your arthritis,” or “We are offering big rebates” The departed are trying to warn you of impending doom.  A Ouija board is of no help. You’ll usually get a guy partner who delights in “assisting” the pointer to spell out “fart”  which has no relevance at all, other than greatly amusing your companion at your expense.  Trying to Ouija with your cat is also of no use even when the pointer is rubbed with tuna juice.

Instead of interjecting at your monthly Bunko party, “We’re all gonna die,“which can cause digestive problems - especially when Clarice’s scones are involved in the first place, just take additional steps to prepare.  ( keeping in mind that a few of those scones stowed away in your bag will come in handy warding off those rudely beeping at you as you wheel your grocery cart full of precious dumpster diving items down the middle of the highway.)

While sleeping, wear an old style string mop head (a new one is best) and a cameo broach at your neck.  You will appear to any deranged killer as Norman’s Mother, Jonathan Winter’s “Maude Frickert,” or “Judge Judy,” any one of which would frighten away any psycho.  If you are a guy and this is an affront to your masculinity, instead rub talcum powder on your face and get a plastic Easter lily at the craft store.  You will look as though in final repose, and we all know no respectable killer will mess with someone else’s work. It’s professional courtesy. So with Psycho, or any other fright movie, one has only to be prepared to avoid distress. If all else fails I’ll have my dear friend Freddy come over and have a glass or two of elderberry wine with you . He makes excellent company and lives just over on Elm Street.   - Carlotta

I was tired of writing these drama pieces on "dark and stormy nights" or "screams in the night" so I decided to just have fun with this piece which was supposed t be based on a reaction to seeing "Psycho" late in the evening alone. I hope I engage you with a little humor in this one-jpw

Currency

Currency

 

Gnarly ruts, cracked and parched by unrelenting sun,

breach long piles of tailings hauled from the mine centuries ago

by men who sat at kitchen tables covered with oilcloth

wondering what would come first; paying the mortgage off

or the collapse of tunnel roof rock.

A withered and wrinkled sentinel now sluices this rubble panload by panload,

swirling scrapes and washes, scrapes and washes abrading

 driven yearning to find  flakes of a bounty

depleted long beyond timely generations of memory .

 

Lovely lacquered “Passion Red” nails

front fingers tap, tap, tapping on a table

in a jazz club just up the avenue from the peacock palace

where the polished band on  her next-to-pinky finger  was purchased .

Impatient and bored, her tapping is muffled only by the

crisp, starched and ironed  cotton cloth

 matting drops from her third-of-the-evening Gibson sipped alone. 

That she bothers at all, an enigma to even herself.

“All that glitters, darling, it’s only money. Whatever.”

 

Crispy craggly old  Alabama stems berift of their fluffy bols

picked by house-sized harvesters, and sent bundled in clouds to Pakistan

Where young children sit 14 hours whirring, whirring at machines,

happy to have factory shelter over their heads

where it doesn’t leak in monsoon rains like the cardboard roofs of home.

They  sew  labels of people they never heard of

into jeans carried by fast jets to markets where they lie in ordered furrows

of warehouses as vast as the fields they were born from, 

waiting for the swipe of plastic cards and journeys to lofty purpose.

 

Scratching, scratching with determined expression, the teen dawdles

in a laundry room, creating her  masterpiece

sandpapering the knees of her Gautier pants

just out of the washer for the 8^th time, for  proper patina.

Her accents of strategic cuts and scissor frays for style

are worn for  great admiration of future lounge lizards

and educated dunces vying for position and the right lot size

 for their 3 bedroom tract castles with a whole room just for dirty clothes,

all washed by a  not-of-this-neighborhood Mexican lady who comes in twice a week for  grocery money.

 

It's easy to understand the currency

but really hard to grasp the value. 

-jerry wendt 2014