Dying traditions

Old-timers -- those old enough to remember, say, the drive-in theater on Stock Island -- also remember that most funerals out of Bahama Village used to feature a brass band leading the guest of honor to the cemetery.

We still have a few funeral parades, but the bands are a rarity now. Which is why, when I heard the ruckus more than two blocks away the other day, I knew it had to be for Candyman Butler.

He had played bass all around the city, and when he died at 90 it made Page One of the Citizen.

The players brought the Candyman along Truman, across Duval, up Simonton to Angela and then to the big iron gates, taking "Just a Closer Walk."

There was one big difference from the old days: Back in the day, the players for Village funerals were almost all black. Now they needed the oomph of Bubba Low Notes (yes, that's his real name now) on his wildly painted sousaphone, and the snap of Skipper Kripitz on the snare drum. Nobody is mourning the color bar.

Fasten your seat belts

We're bracing for a double dose of Chris, whom we went to see the other night at the cabaret.

He was terrific: Lucy, Cher, Streisand, Liza, Judy . . . and of course the best Bette. (Sadly, no Peggy Lee this time, though that one makes me sore laughing.)

I think the Divine Miss D will be emceeing the Oscar Gala at the Tropic, for which we have tickets and to which I've been pledged as a nibble-maker to the stars. Heaven only knows how many devils on horseback I'll have to saddle up.

And then soon on Oscar's heels comes "BitchSlap!" at the Waterfront, where Chris will again play Bette, joined by Randy Roberts as Joan Crawford. In breathless anticipation, I was sure to record "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane" when it played on Turner Classics over the weekend.

The other night, before "Doubt," I heard Danny Weathers, the artistic director, asking around about wheelchairs. I can't wait.

Hearing the bird

It was one of those days.

Robert had been playing bridge with Adelaide, the Taiwanese woman who is about as sensitive to cards as she is to people, and finished 12th out of 15. He was not happy.

And I had been here trying to get the water heater that supplies the kitchen and guest rooms fixed.

The brand is Eemax, and if you have any sense, you will run from it as you'd run from a pump spewing airborne plague.

In the year and some since we've lived here, we've replaced each of our two water heaters at least once, and the circuit boards within maybe twice or three times each. They know me at the factory now, and that is not a good thing.

Our plumbers have discontinued contact with the company, except to call in this warranty claim. And the circuit boards they sent went in today. And did not work. At all.

So after I stopped hyperventilating, and ordered a new Bosch heater from an entirely different supplier, and got out to the porch, there was the bird of paradise starting to sing.

The start of the paradise song was beautiful, at last.

Where I've been

No, I have not been on jury duty for the last two weeks.

On that fateful Monday, when we were kept in a freezing (but beautifully appointed) courtroom (in the spanking-new Freeman Justice Center) for several hours that allowed me to make significant progress in "The Trial of Socrates," we were finally dismissed by the presiding judge, who told us that our presence had intimidated two defendants into accepting plea-bargains.

And for that bit of civic duty as a live round in the State of Florida's loaded gun, I will get a $15 check in the mail.

But by the time I got home to tend further to Robert's wounded foot, shown here in reduced size in deference to those who, like me, do not care to look closely at rent flesh, I realized that I had stepped into a social maelstrom.

In short order, the lonely-for-company Robert had ordered up guests who called for cocktails (and hors d'oeuvre, and dinner) here, more snacks, more drinks, another round of dinners here, the occasional light foray out to the cabaret, more lunches, more dinners, and. . . . You get the picture.

There were two complete sets of friends from Chattanooga and environs, two complete sets from Nashville, all here several times. And mixed into all that were record cold temperatures, record gray days and the attendant midwinter malaise that has affected me every year since at least high school, which is many a drear year indeed.

But now, with the stitches finally out, and no company due for at least a week: Though I still have not heard the voice of the turtle, I can try to sing along with Solomon that the winter is past. Selah.

Call to duty

I've been reading I.F. Stone's "The Trial of Socrates" lately, and I've been struck by how many things I'd forgotten from my freshman course through the Greeks.

Socrates was no friend of civic participation, nor particularly of democracy. He hated jury duty.

Well, the hell with that Socratic method. I'm reporting Monday morning, just as I did in 2007.

Best-dressed

Steve said he found these little wine-bottle covers somewhere along his trail as gay tourism ambassador for Key West.

I opened the package and grinned. And am still grinning.

Gray and Mary dropped by tonight -- it's her first time in the Keys -- and grinned, too.

When in doubt . . .

. . . start with a roux.

Fortunately for Thursday's dinner, I'd already made the bulk of the jambalaya (everything but rice), and was just finishing up the last steps of the chocolate mousse Thursday morning when Robert hurt his foot.

Had it not been so, I might have let him bleed out while I folded it all together.

But his wound was well timed, so all was ready (except for getting the greens for salad later in the day), and on the coldest night of the year, we served a very warm meal indeed.

Thousands cheered.

It's a wrap

Turn away if you can't stand blood.

Robert was using the leaf-blower this morning to get ready for dinner tonight -- John and Steve, and Steve and Paul -- and hit a stainless-steel fitting on the deck that pulls up the access panel to our plumbing.

I think it was the weather (we hit a new record low for the island, 48 F), and the ring on the fitting pulled up, and he scuffed his foot across it and . . .

I said we had to go to the E.R., considering the depth of the cut and the rate of bleeding.

Robert scoffed.

Matt the electrician was here on an unrelated crisis and was glad to be recruited for a second opinion, and to offer his services wrapping the wound in duct tape, and in persuading Robert that the E.R. staff really doesn't care if you've showered and applied cologne.

Six stitches later, plus a lovely demonstration of small-island syndrome (the three guys Robert brought here for a drink after bingo a month ago were Harvard Biz School grads who had been waiting for the surgical nurse's daughter), we got home.

So for him: no step. For me: fetch.

Change has come

Moments -- really, just moments -- after President Obama took the oath of office (oh, Lord, does it feel good to type that), the official White House website was updated. You can find the whole thing here, but these are the bullet points, verbatim, under the heading "Civil Rights: Support for the LGBT Community":

• Expand Hate Crimes Statutes.
• Fight Workplace Discrimination.
• Support Full Civil Unions and Federal Rights for LGBT Couples.
• Oppose a Constitutional Ban on Same-Sex Marriage.
• Repeal Don't Ask-Don't Tell.
• Expand Adoption Rights.
• Promote AIDS Prevention.
• Empower Women to Prevent HIV/AIDS.

Pinch me.

Going in style

One literary scene came to mind as I saw Dick Cheney in his wheelchair. It's from "Red Dragon," the grisly thriller from Thomas Harris. To wit:

Dolarhyde stopped the wheelchair in a bit of littered shelter between a dumpster and a parked truck. . . .

Lit with a whump and shoved, sent rolling . . . eeek, eeek, eeekeeekeeek the wheels.

The guard looked up as a scream blew the burning gag away. He saw the fireball coming, bouncing on the potholes, trailing smoke and sparks and the flames blown back like wings, disjointed reflections leaping along the shop windows.

It veered, struck a parked car and overturned in front of the building, one wheel spinning and flames through the spokes, blazing arms rising in the fighting posture of the burned. . . .

Morning in America

The day after my birthday, I posted a picture of the rust-besieged plumeria sprouting a new flower stalk, under the headline "Springing Eternal." (You can take a look at it with this link.)

And sure enough, it has sprung, as you can see in this picture. And as I felt in my heart over the weekend, despite any hubbub about Bishop Robsinson or anything else.

After the inaugural concert, I considered taking a salt pill to make up for the tears of joy and wonder I shed: Who would have imagined Little Stevie Wonder, even if not so little after all these years, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial? Pete Seeger? Queen Latifah? The Washington Gay Men's Chorus?

That doesn't even count Renee Fleming, and that national treasure of a voice.

I had to pull off the road yesterday listening to Rep. John Lewis remember Dr. King on Terry Gross' show. All that madness he endured, and here he was arguing in his quiet way that it was time for gays and lesbians to get equal rights, too.

So I am up early this morning to welcome the sun, the new dawn in so many ways. One that will shine so fully, at long last, after such a long night.

Hope blooms.

The bishop's prayer

In case you missed it -- and you did, because the Inaugural Committee scheduled it for five minutes before the coverage went nationwide -- here's Bishop V. Eugene Robinson's invocation for the official ceremonies:

Welcome to Washington! The fun is about to begin, but first, please join me in pausing for a moment, to ask God’s blessing upon our nation and our next president.

O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will…

Bless us with tears – for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.

Bless us with anger – at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.

Bless us with discomfort – at the easy, simplistic “answers” we’ve preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.

Bless us with patience – and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be “fixed” anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.

Bless us with humility – open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.

Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance – replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.

Bless us with compassion and generosity – remembering that every religion’s God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.

And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States.

Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln’s reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy’s ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King’s dream of a nation for ALL the people.

Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.

Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.

Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States.

Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.

Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters’ childhoods.

And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we’re asking FAR too much of this one. We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe. Hold him in the palm of your hand – that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.

Amen.

Carmen

As the playbill said: The singer, not the opera.

And there she was Saturday night, Carmen Rodriguez, singing her life story to a sold-out Waterfront Playhouse.

It was a remarkable show, tying numbers together with a seamless career travelogue: Key West to Way West to Las Vegas to time on the road and then back home, with everything from Carole King to Beatles to Donna Summer to Rogers and Hart to Sondheim.

Danny Weathers joined her for one number, and did all he could to steal the show with his own fine voice, but she held it as effortlessly as a spray of calla lilies.

And afterward, over drinks in the courtyard, she was as gracious and sweet as her voice.

Nice to know I can still feel a crush at this advanced age.

Breathless

Diane, from down the street, was walking Pinky first thing.

She was bubbling as they passed:

"You know, I've never been to the fights, so I went to Mallory Square last night and . . . .

"Well, they had chairs set up and everything, and caterers, and all the lights and people yelling. CNN carried it -- or maybe it was ESPN [it was] -- and all the excitement. . . . It was wild.

"And the guys," she paused, and gave a big grin.

For the record, Cuban native Damian Frias, shown here at the weigh-in, won his light welterweight bout.

Absolutely amazing

Hot spots

"Ten on that side, and eleven on the other," Robert said. "You've got to get a picture."

It's true -- the hibiscuses on either side of the gate are going wild again, so apparently our frontal attack on pink hibiscus mealybug is bearing flowers, if not fruit.

Our current cold snap -- overnight lows near 60, daytime highs not even at 70 -- has everyone here breaking out sweaters and sweats; but considering the conditions elsewhere, we're not complaining too much.

Besides, the chill apparently extends a hibiscus' one-day bloom to a two-day stay.

It's also a great excuse to make chili, which I threw together for Harrell and Barry last night. Hot and delicious -- with poached pears and zabaglione for dessert.

Not guilty

The bougainvilleas near the den are putting out tons of bracts -- and shedding tons of others.

And when I noticed one stray bit of their colorful litter that had blown over toward my Crocs, I looked around for the Fashion Police.

I swear, officer, I was NOT trying for a match.

Welcome to the world

Considering all the departures lately, it's quite a joy to announce an arrival.

She's Mary Alden Miller, a new first cousin twice removed (in the grandchild age group, if we had grandchildren).

She looks a lot less happy to be here than we are to have her here.

Leftovers

From the bridge party, at the end of their fridge life, before they have a chance to go bad: a few fat pieces of bacon, chunks of goat cheese, dollops of tapenade.

Add a few cups of thin-sliced onions that have been turned into a confit (with lots of white wine) over an hour or so, some leftover roasted garlic, some thin-sliced fresh garlic, a few spoonfuls of tomato sauce, many grinds of black pepper, some herbs and a few shakes of red-pepper flakes, and a handful of cheese.

Layer it on fresh pizza dough and bake HOT.

Smell.
Eat.
Live.

The more things change . . .

"The Salomé turned out to be very expensive and even more depressing than I had imagined. A few stage lesbians and some young men with plucked eyebrows lounged at the bar, uttering occasional raucous guffaws or treble hoots -- supposed, apparently, to represent the laughter of the damned. . . .

"The audience consisted chiefly of respectable middle-aged tradesmen and their families, exclaiming in good-humored amazement: 'Do they really?' and 'Well, I never!' We went out halfway through the cabaret performance, after a young man in a spangled crinoline and jeweled breast-caps had painfully but successfully executed three splits.

"At the entrance we met a party of [young people], very drunk, wondering whether to go in. Their leader was a small, stocky young man [with glasses], with an annoyingly prominent jaw.

" 'Say,' he asked Fritz, 'what's on here?'

" 'Men dressed as women,' Fritz grinned.

"The [little fellow] simply couldn't believe it. 'Men dressed as women? . . . Do you mean they're queer?'

" 'Eventually we're all queer,' drawled Fritz solemnly, in lugubrious tones. The young man looked us over slowly. He had been running and was still out of breath. The others grouped themselves awkwardly behind him, ready for anything -- though their callow, open-mouthed faces in the greenish lamplight looked a bit scared.

" 'You queer too, hey?' demanded the [fellow], turning suddenly on me.

" 'Yes,' I said, 'very queer indeed.'

"He stood before me a moment, panting, thrusting out his jaw, uncertain it seemed, whether he ought not to hit me in the face. Then he turned, uttered some kind of wild college battle-cry, and, followed by the others, rushed headlong into the building."

-- Christopher Isherwood
A Berlin Diary, Winter 1932-3

Perspective

I woke up to the sound of sprinklers hissing.

Sector 2 -- the one to the north of the front gate, for the impatiens, the north plumbagos, the overwatered and rusting dwarf plumeria, half of the hibiscus and half of the ixoras -- had been going since 4 a.m., and showed 5 hours left to go on the timer.

I turned it off as soon as I could, and hoped beyond hope that not many people would notice the profligate amounts of water darkening the gravel out to the street, and that the plantings wouldn't be killed.

I was pissed off that City Electric had, yet again, worked its magic on our power supply and screwed up the electronics.

And then I clicked into The Citizen and found out that the outage had killed Franko Richmond, a really fine local pianist, who was dying of cancer anyway, but had his fate sealed when his air pump went dead.

Call 'em crazy

Used to be, you'd see someone walking alone down the street, gesticulating and talking loudly, you'd assume the poor dear was a little off the bubble.

Now, it's a bluetooth headset to the cellphone.

Same behavior, same conclusion.

Out on a copper sea

We went to Mark Barauck's memorial service tonight, at White Street Pier, along with many hundreds of others.

Lovers, partners, friends, family and associates told of broken hearts, and Steve Torrence, at the center in the picture above, said the Kaddish. Sweet guy and former MCC minister and current KWPD sergeant and all, he's still a goy, and called it a kiddush.

But no matter. Bruce Moore sang Mark's favorite song, "I Am What I Am," and Julia Nixon sang "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going," and Jean-Claude spoke, and Lura spoke, and Mark's sister spoke, and Debra, standing next to me, needed a Kleenex when I did.

So we all took fistfuls of rose petals and tossed them into the sea.

We were on our way back down the pier, to go to La Te Da for a drink, and just behind us were Richard from Blue Heaven and the divine drummer Skipper Kripitz.

The sun was just going down. "That's Mark's sunset," said Skipper. And we all looked left and said our own blessings.

Heckuva job

Bedecked

Three or four o'clock in the night, you hear patters on the roof. Almost footsteps, but in very tiny shoes. So you take a deep breath, roll over, pull the blanket up, and go back to sleep.

And then, sure enough, you go out just as the sun comes up and find that someone has dropped diamonds across every plant you have.

Harry Winston, eat your heart out.

Trying to re-focus

So, typing with some difficulty, I keep trying to elevate my eyes and thoughts, and ignore the pain in my hand and arm.

That's why I picked out a picture of the vine growing over the shower, because lavender is a calming color (the blossoms have no scent, but the soap from Besame Mucho down the street, from Provence, has little nubs of real lavender in it and feels fantastic against the body and releases all sorts of scent and . . . well, you just have to go there and get the soap).

And because showering outdoors, with the sun filtering through like that, is part of why I'm here.

And because I need the reminder. Badly.

We went out to dinner tonight with two of Robert's bridge buds. One of them, Taiwan-born, fancies herself as a physiotherapist (and as a cinephile, and as a philosopher, and as . . . oh, screw it), and had to show me exactly how she could cure my arthritic fingers. So, just as the wine was coming to the dinner table, she had me put my right arm out and administered "pressure" points that would have fit Richard Loo as a propaganda villain with thick, round glasses sneering "We have ways of making you talk." She hit nerves, deep, that have nothing to do with calcium on bones.

Since it's not proper etiquette, I didn't just paste her with the arm that still worked. But I couldn't pick up a knife, let alone a wineglass, with my right arm for the rest of the night.

So I think of lavender, as a color if not a scent, to restore calm.

Though I want to think of a very deep red. One that clots.

Back to Square One

If you cast yourself back to the night before the night before Christmas, you'll recall Al, the guy who parked his Jeep in my plumbago hedge. Since then, I've been doing several things.

-- Plucking further dead shoots and branches out every day, and watching the hole grow.

-- Reflecting on how much effort I've put into the hedge -- feeding, weeding, and daily primping, pruning -- and how many times I've basked in the joy of people saying how lovely it is.

-- Establishing some perspective. This is a hole in a hedge, after all.

-- Realizing that the hole isn't going to look better by itself.

So, out with the loppers I borrowed from Don at Duval House. And alternate with the little clippers. And with a rake. And with my fingertips. Two hours later . . . it almost looks as if it were planned that way.

And maybe in another year it will turn again into a cascading wall of green dusted with blue flowers.

Until then, it's just a hedge I tend, and feed, and trim, and primp. And don't prune much at all.

Stark

The plumeria on the back deck -- which our landscaper, Jon, gave us -- has lost its foliage for the winter and turned into bare-branch sculptures, as most of its species do.

But it is still blossoming against the stark blue of our fine, clear, cool skies ("cool" being so relative: about 80 late in the day).

This stands in contrast to the plumeria that our erstwhile landlord, Steve, gave us: a dwarf that does not drop its leaves, aside from those beset by rust. It, too, is ready to bloom again. Which gives me, as I hope you, reason to stay tuned.

Lost in transition

Mark Barauck is the Mark on the left, one of the best people in town.

The Mark on the right is Mark Watson, one of the Broadway Three-Ways who perform at the Crystal Room of Mark-on-the-left's La Te Da, and also a wonderful guy.

Mark on the left became a partner in the complex in 1999, and took over ownership in 2003. The consummate host, he always made us feel as if we were the only guests in the place -- even if it was elbow to elbow, and even if we were bidding against him for Fantasy Fest set pieces (which he used to decorate the resort/cabaret/restaurant). In fact, La Te Da and the coronation events -- and other fundraisers for AIDS Help, like Share the Wreath -- have become synonymous because of his generosity.

We had family dinner there on Christmas Eve and said hi. So it was a great shock when he took ill on Christmas Day, apparently from an ulcer, and was airlifted to Miami. He went into a coma and, we have now learned, died on New Year's Eve, age 51.

We join in the entire island in saying he is irreplaceable.

All downheel from here

The shoe was ready, Sushi was ready, CNN was ready and it was actually pretty sane a few hours before midnight.

Then the cops closed Duval and Petronia to cars and things started getting tight.

Frankie, our neighbor, was clucking: "People are drivin' crazy. Where do they think they're going to park?"

Cars went up our little street and came right back down. Between one-ways and the closures, there was nowhere to go but out.

So they moved in on foot, a few thousand of them, anyway. It's a great place to be if you like getting your toes trod on, or being half pushed over when a drunken teenage girl lurches past, or deafened by hyperactive sound systems.

So after hearing the umpteenth "Say hello, Key West!" for Anderson Cooper's benefit, I left the street to braver souls -- including Andy Newman, who got this crowd shot for the Tourism Development Council.

Someday I'll learn: It may be a block and a half from home, but I don't need to go there.