GOLDEN GIRLS


The G-8 Summit interests me not because I’m a Political Junkie and sitting on pins and needles about the results. No, I have a deeper connection to the meeting on Sea Island, Georgia. My Paternal Grandmother retired to live in what is called a “cottage” on the Island (hers was a 3 bedroom house) and I spent many summers there as a boy.

Reports would have you believe the resort is a Super Sized Martha’s Vineyard and perhaps it is now. (I haven’t been in over 20 years.) When I was young it was notoriously low-key (and proud of it), home to vacationing families and a year round coven of widows of which my G. was a ringleader.

Like all resorts, Island life revolved around Social Functions. In my universe, these were divided into three areas:

1. My G. and her cronies would meet every day for cocktails at someone’s home. Five-ish. I acted as Junior Host when they were held at my G’s meaning I mixed drinks and tended appetizers. We even had a little teeny hibachi which sat on her dining table and held about 3 coals on which I’d grill “cocktail weenies”. The main attraction, however, was the booze. Widows must have bladders the size of beanbag chairs. At the ripe age of 10, it cemented my future as a Fag.

2. The Cloisters hotel had Bingo every Tuesday night. For males, shirt and tie was required and women wore long dresses. My G.’s designer of choice was Lilly Pulitzer. Everyone sat at huge round tables and for $2, you’d get a Bingo card with little plastic doors to cover called numbers. “B1” = Twiggy’s Number. “I22” = couple of ducks. “O75” = Top of the House. I once won $50 which made me a zillionaire. After Bingo, there was a live jazz band for dancing. They also played the Hokey-Pokey.

3. Every Friday night there was (I kid you not) “The Plantation Supper”. There’s only one road down the middle of the Island and a golfing cart/tram (like they use in studio tours) would drive past at 7 and you’d hop on. It would carry you to the end of the Island, past a locked metal gate and continue down a dirt road to a waiting outdoor bar-b-que/dinner. Oh, it was very interracial. We, the White People, would eat while They, the Colored Folk, would cook, serve and entertain us with Negro Spirituals. Just like before that damn war! I can only assume this tradition has been discontinued.

Maybe. Change in the South is like Liza in rehab. Nice idea but... The biggest Celeb rumour of the time involved Elvis Presley owning land for a house, a possibility my Grandmother thought sounded Common. If she were still alive, I’m sure she’d be ranting and raving after a few rum and cokes about that Damn Bush tying up traffic.



3:30:21 PM    sro home /

LOVE SOCKS


From an article in today's New York Times on the restoration of the Guggenheim Museum:

"In the rotunda, some socks have been discreetly tucked behind paintings hung on brackets away from the walls. The museum has also had to deal with leaking pipes."

Dear Guggenheim,

I read today about your Facelift good fortune. Good luck with all that. You know I always wanted the best for you and think of you sometimes when I’m trashed fondly. However, I couldn’t help but note an interesting tid-bit. You are hoarding socks. I am missing socks. Coincidence? Is anything?

I’m not exactly clear on the purpose of your socks. It seems they were “discretely tucked”. Not the actions of someone with a Clear Conscience if you ask me. Did you quickly stuff one behind a painting while the Japanese snapped your vertigo interior? Was there a *wink wink* meeting called to divert the Staff while you slipped one behind a DeKooning? We have called you all here to reiterate our policy against rolling marbles down the museum floor.

It’s not about the socks. If my socks left to pursue a calling in the Arts, more power to them. Been there. In fact, I’ll send their forgotten partners as well. You can surely offer them a better life than I. Highly Controlled Temperature for starters. My single socks forlornly wonder why I haven’t stuffed them behind one of my many Picassos. I would if I could. They deserve it.

So no Hard Feelings. Really. I know I left you in NYC and these things happen. I probably even have one of your Brittany CDs and while I’ve never played it, it does make a great coaster me think of you. Keep the socks, let me know if you need more. I’ve let go and dealt with my socks, openly. Maybe one day you’ll give up the “discreet” act and do the same.

Best of Luck - Hugh

PS. “Sock stuffing”? I mean, come on. So Englebert Humperdink. I’m just saying.

11:13:02 AM    sro home /