SOMETHING ABOUT MARY

After getting dumped in Denver and checking into the hotel, I had to book my flight home, tail between my legs. Sitting in a nondescript hotel room with an ugly sofa and a clunky black desk way out of proportion for the space—Evan would have hated it—I imagined an automated voice saying, You have reached your destination. Please, no. But the voice didn’t relent and say, Recalculating. This was it. Hello, humiliation.

 

Back in the car with Evan, I’d known I had two stress-based options to respond to the breakup: fight or flight. I had enough self-dignity to sense that the first option was useless. Why up the humiliation? So flight then. Quite literally. I scrolled one-way options, all pricey given the short notice, some offering a quick turnaround. Yes, I thought. Just get me home. ASAP. Let me crawl into my own bed and fall apart. In a span of thirty-six hours, all of it centered on travel, this final episode would be over. Exhausting, to be sure, but I’d be exhausted under any scenario given the circumstances. 

 

But then I chose to delay my retreat by a day. Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I held out hope that Evan would come to his senses and text, “Where are you?” I’d respond: “I’m still here.” Geographically, metaphorically, desperately(?). 

 

It’s programmed in me to stick with things. Thick or thin…whatever that means. But what I actually told myself was that, while he’d ended us, Denver was just an innocent bystander. If I stayed and spent an extra day, maybe it wouldn’t be forevermore known to me as The City Where I Got Dumped. It felt kinder to myself if I stuck around and let the unfamiliar surroundings distract me. My bed at home would bring on full wallowing. Maybe a slow release—or, at least, a delayed release—of pain would be healthier. 

 

As I walked the streets of Denver, one of Evan’s misplaced criticisms kept popping in my head. “You’re only here for fun. You’re not here to help.” It was a gross diminishment of me and of us. Still I could hear him saying, “See? I told you so.” Crazy. He’d turfed me. He’d shut down any opportunity to prove myself. (Just the thought of having to prove myself two years into a relationship feels sad.) I did what I often do in my own city and in other places. I snapped photos. Specifically, I went on a mural hunt. It wasn’t so fun. Instead, it was forced distraction. More murals, Denver. Please.

 

The city came through. Thank you!

 

My return trip mirrored the one from forty-eight hours prior with the layover in Seattle being a little longer. Blessedly less stress about making the connection. First, I had to manage Denver’s airport which has always felt especially chaotic. I didn’t even try. I flagged down personnel for guidance and they were incredibly nice. Could they sense the old guy needed to be treated with kid gloves? Did they see the L on my forehead? 

 

When I boarded the plane, I glanced at the screen attached to the back of the seat in front of me. I rarely pay attention to in-flight programming. The little headphones don’t suit me. Even at full volume, I can’t hear a lot of the audio. Does it even count if I say I watched West Side Story on the plane when I can’t lipread?  

 

I don’t know if West Side Story was a choice. I didn’t scroll through the movie menu. Instead my eyes stared at the current slide—3 of 25—and I knew in an instant I had a way to sit through this flight without my mind obsessing on what the hell had happened to my relationship. Pass the distraction baton from Denver wall art to Mary Tyler Moore.

 

My Mary! In a true moment of need.

 

I can’t fully explain it, but no TV series has had a bigger impact on who I am than The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Sure, I adored St. Elsewhere, I longed for a house like Hope and Michael had on thirtysomething where friends always popped by—ditto an apartment complex like 28 Barbary Lane in any incarnation of Tales of the City—and I have often wavered on who best represents me on Sex in the City (mostly Miranda, but with moments of Carrie or Charlotte, never Samantha). But I connect with Mary Richards to the core, someone always trying to do the right thing while navigating wackiness all around her. In the pilot episode, Mary Richards is fresh off a breakup and has to make it on her own. (Suddenly, an extra connection.) The theme song’s nods to notions that “love is all around” and “you might just make it after all” always lift my spirits, offering hope and making me believe I’ll one day throw my hat in the air at a busy intersection as a gesture of celebrating success and a joie de vivre while the busy-ness of life surrounds me.

 

I’m not overstating this. I’ve read my hardcover copy of Jennifer Keishin Armstrong’s engrossing Mary and Lou and Rhoda and Ted (Simon & Schuster, 2013) multiple times and it’s chalk full of Post-its marking various passages. During COVID, I conducted several online searches to finally acquire an MTM t-shirt. (There were copyright issues.) Throughout the series, she’s open to dating, but accepts being single, shrugging off bad dates. I often listen to the theme song (“Love Is All Around”) on YouTube for an instant pick-me-up and I still love to watch episodes on the internet. Most telling, however, is the fact that, in 2015, I planned a weeklong trip to Minneapolis, where the show was set, just to see the places Mary Richards was filmed in the opening and closing credits. (I wrote six blog posts about it, beginning here.)

 

I could elaborate but I think I’ve said too much already.

 

With the plane still sitting at the gate, I glanced up from the screen and saw a flight attendant approach, holding up those cheap headsets I didn’t think were still offered. My fastened seatbelt kept me from leaping into the aisle. I waited patiently and was rewarded with my swag item…way better then those miniature cookies or pretzels. 

 

Just as captivating as Laura Petrie
on The Dick Van Dyke Show.

Immediately, I plugged in the earphones and began watching Being Mary Tyler Moore. There were interruptions, of course. The standard blah-blah-blah about my seat cushion as a floatation device—between Denver and Seattle?—and federal regulations prohibiting vaping and smoking. (A reminder that not everything was better about flying in the old days.) 

 

Back to Mary (and a fairly decent audio!).

 

Most of Mary Tyler Moore’s story was familiar to me. It made some of her personal statements in interviews stand out even more. Prior to being cast in Ordinary People (1980), her roles had been sunny and optimistic. Prior to my breakdown at forty-nine, I had clung to a similar façade in life. She described herself has having long been protective, reserved and afraid to show imperfection and one segment described her as a “self-styled workhouse.” I’d always related to the character, Mary Richards, but there was more to connect with regarding Mary Tyler Moore. I needed this. I needed to connect to someone, even a dead celebrity (and icon!).

 

The documentary lasted almost the entire flight. Sugar for my brain on any other occasion but true medicine on this day. Yes, sometimes a sugar pill is exactly what a wounded soul needs. Relief for two solid hours. 

 

   

 

A GOLDEN ANNIVERSARY: LOVING “MARY”

Fifty years ago, when I was a kid, there were no gay role models. No out gay actors, singers or athletes; no gay candidates for president; no gay family members or neighbors. And so I went with Mary Tyler Moore.

On Saturday, September 19, 1970, the world met Mary Richards, hoping to make a go of things in the big city: Minneapolis. As the main character of CBS’s “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” Richards represented a different kind of woman to American viewers: she was still single at thirty. (Network execs balked when creators James L. Brooks and Allan Burns pitched her character as a divorcee.)

Apart from Phyllis’ daughter, Bess, the sitcom was kid-free and I felt very mature, staring into a window of adulthood. Mary Richards was sweet, smart, stylish and solidly single. She had her share of bad dates and seemed to shrug them off. Not her thing. Certainly not the ultimate thing.

It never dawned on me to look to the guys. I liked news writer Murray Slaughter well enough, always with a quip at the ready. I simultaneously cringed and laughed at vain, dimwitted anchorman Ted Baxter. Through Mary’s eyes, I even learned to see through her boss Lou Grant’s gruffness and consider him a softy.

Still, my eyes were drawn to the women. Long before “The Golden Girls,” “Sex and the City,” and umpteen incarnations of “Real Housewives,” my nascent gay leanings clicked with the strong, quirky female characters surrounding Mary: dowdy, self-deprecating Rhoda Morgenstern; flighty, self-absorbed Phyllis Lindstrom; sly, sexual Sue Ann Nivens; and pie-eyed, wholesome Georgette Franklin. These women were independent by choice or by default. (Technically, Phyllis was married to a never-seen Lars, Rhoda married—and divorced—Joe but that was on another show and, while Georgette eventually married Ted, she had a way of keeping him in check.)

In every scene, I first checked out what Mary was wearing. I marveled at her ribbed turtlenecks. wide-legged pants, diagonally draped belts, plaid skirts and that iconic blue beret she triumphantly tossed in the air as she crossed a busy downtown street in the opening credits. She had a flair and carried herself with confidence. Who wouldn’t want to be like Mary?

Even the wood-block “M” nailed to the wall of her apartment seemed like a savvy accessory. M for Mary, M for Mine. Her place and hers alone.

There weren’t any regular LGBT characters, but I witnessed my first outing of a gay man on the episode, “My Brother’s Keeper,” which originally aired on January 13, 1973. When Phyllis’ brother, Ben, visits, she is intent on matching him up with Mary, but he hits it off with Rhoda instead. Phyllis is despondent—even ruining a party Mary hosts—until Rhoda says, “He’s not my type.” Phyllis, ever volatile, turns incredulous, saying, “He’s witty, he’s attractive, he’s successful, he’s single—”

“He’s gay,” Rhoda blurts, matter-of-factly, to which Phyllis replies, “Oh, Rhoda, I’m so relieved!” Phyllis’ reaction says more about what she thinks of Rhoda than where she stands on homosexuality, but the episode closes with a quiet scene, Mary and Rhoda cleaning up as Phyllis sits beside Ben while he plays the piano. Being gay is tacitly accepted as utterly normal. Groundbreaking for a top ten show in 1973.

When I moved to Los Angeles in my mid-twenties to start a new career and finally come out as gay, I played Mary’s theme song in my head. trying to tune out the tentativeness of the first season version: “How will you make it on your own? This world is awfully big and, girl, this time you’re all alone.” In subsequent seasons, Mary had every reason to feel assured as the lyrics changed to, “Who can turn the world on with her smile? Who can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?”

I got really good at smiling. So what if I followed it up by staring at my shoelaces.

I was dating and my luck with men wasn’t any better than Mary’s. If she had her share of bad dates, why wouldn’t I? I struggled to shrug them off like Mary, but then dates didn’t come as easily to me in the first place.

In 1991, I participated in my first protest as marchers decried California Governor Pete Wilson’s veto of legislation that would have prohibited employment discrimination of gays and lesbians. As we chanted along Santa Monica Boulevard, I observed a woman get out of car on a side street. She cheered us on before crouching down to explain the moment to her young child. I beamed and felt further empowered as I realized the woman was Valerie Harper, aka Mary’s BFF, Rhoda. Sometimes the people you idolize are, in fact, good people.

Alas, after five years, L.A. didn’t feel like the place where I’d make it, after all. I packed my car, intent on heading north. Before leaving, my friend Richard popped by to give me a beret. He’d heard me gush about Mary in gay bars as I sipped club soda, trying to stay positive as men looked right through me. In Vancouver, I’d reset. I’d find a busy intersection and throw my cap in the air—a sign of exhilaration, a nod to pending triumph.

But I held off. I wanted to exude Mary’s confidence.

It took a couple of years before I felt ready. Success was sketchy at best, but the symbolic act would be an act of faith. I searched my closet, but the beret was nowhere to be found. I never throw anything away; it would turn up. But it never did.

Five years ago, I readied for my ultimate pilgrimage: a four-day road trip to spend a week in Minneapolis. I dug out a Gap baseball cap from the bottom of a drawer, the letter “G” front and center. G for Gregory, G for Gay (and, yes, for a certain store brand, I suppose).

I fell in love with Minneapolis, particularly its lakes and art museums. I took selfies outside the grand home that served as the exterior shots for Mary’s first apartment. The house had a For Sale sign and, for five minutes, I deluded myself into thinking Mary’s place could be mine...if I happened upon two million dollars.

Based on location shots in the show’s opening and closing, I connected with other Mary spots: Kowalski’s Market where Mary flinches at the price of meat; Basil’s Restaurant where she dines with someone; I even searched for the bridge area where Mary crouches down to feed the ducks. It’s a good thing that my one stint as a stalker involved a fictional person.

On my last day, I headed downtown. Destination: 7^th and Nicolett, the intersection where Mary throws her hat. I was excited and nervous. I fretted about asking someone to photograph my moment. I figured I’d work my way into it, first taking some pics of the Mary statue the city had erected on the corner. I stood there and, spun around, wondering how I couldn’t spot the statue. A city official on a Segway sensed my confusion. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m looking for Mary. The statue, I mean.”

When he said, “It’s gone,” I almost collapsed. The statue had been removed a week earlier while the area was undergoing a makeover. The worker stayed with me for a few minutes, unsure what to make of my distress. Mary Richards meant nothing to him.

I looked down at the ball cap, tightly crumpled in my hand. I couldn’t conjure up a Mary-worthy smile. Minneapolis was Mary’s town, not mine. 

Schlepping back to my Airbnb, I slipped into Sebastian Joe’s for a double-scoop of chocolate mint and raspberry chocolate chip. Mary would have resisted. Sometimes I’m more of a Rhoda.

Listening to “Love Is All Around,” the show’s theme song, still offers an instant pick-me-up. When I’ve got time, I watch an episode. It doesn’t have to be the one about Chuckles the Clown’s funeral or the premiere, featuring Mary’s hilarious interview with Mr. Grant. Any episode will do. The show has transcended beyond the easy laughs from Sue Ann’s barbs and Ted’s news blunders. I’m just thankful to spend more time with my imaginary friends. In the finale, Lou Grant chokes up and says, “I treasure you people.” I couldn't agree more.

I take heart knowing that even Mary stumbled and faced roadblocks. After seven seasons, Mary (along with Lou and Murray...but not Ted) got fired from the WJN newsroom. Although the theme song declared she was “gonna make it after all,” it would just take a little longer.

And here I am, 55 and single, living in a hastily rented apartment after the coronavirus sidelined another bold restart. It’s only a coincidence that the building is on Richards Street, but I take it as auspicious. I’m still waiting for my hat toss moment.

HEIGH-HO, WeHo!

Helsinki can wait. So can Dublin, Lisbon, Sydney, The Great Wall, Machu Picchu and the Serengeti. Even Minneapolis is on hold. (There’s a “Mary Tyler Moore Show” museum there, right?)

I recently wrote about the growing appeal of a gaycation due to my being so isolated where I live. Now I’ve gone and done what I thought I’d never do. I’ve booked a summer vacation in West Hollywood.

San Francisco would be nicer, but I have another reason for choosing a destination with “Hollywood” in its name. I have completed screenplays and television spec scripts that need to get in the hands of Steven Spielberg, Ryan Murphy and Chuck Lorre. I need agents to aggressively woo me. How wonderful to have Emma Thompson and Ben Affleck negotiating for me to collaborate with them on their next writing projects!

Dream big, right?

You see, I’m not just delusional about finding love, I’m dreaming like a sixteen-year-old of overnight success in the entertainment industry. (I just happen to be 3 sixteen-year-olds rolled into one. Sometimes you have to spin that silly age number.)

While awaiting that momentous day when I find the love of my life AND I’m signed to CAA, I can continue to write, work out and reconnect with a few L.A. friends I am still in touch with after moving nineteen years ago. I’m also attending the 3-day summer conference of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), an event I attended three years ago and found to be massively inspiring. (I also have several picture book, middle grade and young adult manuscripts at various stages of completion.)

Regardless of what happens (or doesn’t happen) during my month just off Melrose, the change of venue should provide creative renewal and a bigger picture point of reference for the coming year when I am back in my scenic, oh so quiet regular environment.

Just booking the trip has triggered a sense of renewal, a twinge of hope and something to look forward to beyond a way of living that has become a comfortable rut.

Perhaps I will have a more updated view of what it means to be gay and I may discover cultural references more current than “Will & Grace” and Andy Gibb. Or maybe I’ll just find a kindred spirit who spouts off favorite moments involving Jack & Karen (& Rosario). Maybe he’ll even just want to be my everything.

As my first true gaycation is still in the anticipation phase, anything can happen.

HEART IN FACE

Oh, here it comes again. Valentine’s Day. My local drugstore had the displays up on New Year’s Day, but the holiday is officially in my face when my Starbucks cup has a big red heart on it. Somehow the brew seemed bitterer as I drank it. (Seriously?! Bitterer is a word? My Microsoft grammar check prefers it to more bitter. Alrighty then.)

Yes, I am not in love with Valentine’s Day. No surprise since I am not in love at all. I don’t need a day to separate me from the haves. I can feel it every day If I want to. True, this day is not about me at all. The have nots simply need to find other things to pass the day. Sudoku. Oven cleaning. Old episodes of our hero, “Mary Tyler Moore”. (She still rocks those bell bottoms.) If you’re in love, lucky you. You don’t really need a day to tell your partner how you feel, but throw in your support for Hallmark, Hershey’s and other providers. No doubt about it, I would too.

My disdain for the day came relatively late in life. Back in elementary school, I had teachers who admonished students and parents that all children in the class had to receive cards or Be Mine heart candies. Or both. My teachers taught me that Valentine’s Day is for everyone. Liars. They also colluded with my parents in feeding me lovely ideas about Santa, the Easter Bunny and that creepy bedroom imposter, the Tooth Fairy.

In high school, I learned the truth. V-Day is for the select few. In Texas, the girls who already flashed their boyfriend’s class ring and wore his letter jacket received roses, mums or balloons. Public displays of affection became more obvious as the couples took over the courtyard benches for hand holding, hugging and kissing. It was just as well that I was sexually confused back then. I didn’t stand a shot at enticing either gender with my overly enthusiastic case of acne and my white boy afro. I had a pick that I kept in my back pocket to poof it up several times a day—big on big hair. (Maybe I was harkening my inner Janis Ian as I wallowed in the words of “At Seventeen”.)

Even when I fell in love for the first time, Valentine’s proved to be a disappointment. Before going for dinner, John handed me a wrapped gift, eager for me to open it. I tried to follow mature unwrapping etiquette, tugging at the taped folds instead of savagely ripping the wrapping to examine my first ever V-D present. John beamed with anticipation. Look at him, I thought. He truly loves me. At last, Etta, at last.

I pulled back a corner of the wrapping to reveal the back of a picture frame. Yes! I’d finally reached Have status. A photo of us I could proudly display in my apartment! Uh, no. As I flipped the frame over, it was just John in the pic. In drag. From a time before we were together. Hmm. He laughed with glee. What a drag indeed.

I have only a week to wait out the holiday. There will be no online messaging, no coffee dates during the awkward interval. You don’t start something right before Valentine’s. Truth be told, holding off is not a sacrifice. It’s just part of my V-D whine.

I’ll get through it. Always do. Janis Ian, Jann Arden and Adele can keep me company. And tomorrow I’ll be ready. I’ll remember to bring my plastic mug to Starbucks and pass on the paper cup with the heart. It’s better for the environment. And my psyche.