Southern Fried Pride: Memories, Legends and Tales from South Florida

By Art Greenwald

In Southern Fried Pride, writer and journalist Art Greenwald shares his “best of,” a collected works of comical, serious and sometimes bittersweet essays, in-depth features and thought-provoking interviews.

Part autobiographical, the ex-Pennsylvanian showcases some of the legends, personalities, places and events that have transformed South Florida into a thrilling, thriving, and vibrant gay mecca.

Greenwald serves up a mixed bag of stories, first chronicling his life in “Tales from the Gayborhood.” He reveals his hormone-drenched player days in the ever-changing gay club scene while coping with aging in a youth-centric culture. He takes readers on a wild, nostalgic trip with his candid Club Copa confessional and tribute to a bygone era. Toss in an endless love story among friends, a horrifying dance with death at a stripper bar, a cocaine addict’s struggle to stay clean, and a famed collector with his lifelong love and devotion for Judy Garland.

The author also profiles community activists and leaders who have carved out powerful legacies, making a difference and inspiring pride with their courage, sacrifice, and perseverance. Greenwald additionally pens his chaotic struggle for the self-acceptance of his sexuality from his time in his native Altoona, Pennsylvania, through his college days at Penn State, and then, as he finally settles in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

His opinion pieces and gay-intensive quotes tackle taboo topics with straight, in-your-face honesty, shattering stereotypes while exposing rank hypocrisy. Reading his quirky, tongue-in-cheek pieces will sometimes lighten your daily load, and other times provoke you, but will always invigorate you.

Southern Fried Pride will leave both gay and straight readers laughing, smiling, feeling nostalgic and occasionally sad, though hopefully with a more humane understanding of the gay experience and its joys, triumphs, heartbreaks, and struggles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665502603

Art Greenwald

A writer and journalist for four decades plus, Art Greenwald launched his career covering sports at 16 for the Pittsburgh Press and for his hometown newspaper, the Altoona Mirror. As a Penn State University student he earned national awards for his feature and humor articles. Greenwald profiled such prominent figures as Howard Cosell, Roger Kahn, David Frost, Marcel Marceau, Betty Friedan, Ellen Burstyn, Jerry Rubin, Bruce Springsteen, Mike Reid, Edward Villella and Ralph Nader among others. He also worked as a newsman, sports director and hosted his own AM Top 40 radio show at 18. After graduating, armed with a B.A. in journalism, he wrote on the Baltimore Orioles of the late 1970's and subsequently became editor, columnist and feature writer for a Pennsylvania weekly. His "Works of Art" column garnered national acclaim, a frank and insightful take on significant issues, personalities and newsmakers, local, regional and national. Greenwald has since written eclectically for a number of niche magazines and newspapers while both a news and feature editor for Florida publications. His humor, profiles, op-ed, Q&A's, features and hard-hitting news accounts have appeared in over 40 publications nationwide. The author also holds a Masters of Science Degree with honors in Counseling Psychology from Nova Southeastern University and has served as an addictions, mental health and family and couples counselor in Florida from the 1990's and on into the "2000s." Southern Fried Pride is his second book. Art Greenwald can be reached at [e-mail].

Book preview

THE THRILL IS GONE

You don’t wanna be here!! Chuck shouted over the blast of a Lady Gaga remix at a trendy gay nightclub in Fort Lauderdale. He noticed the hangdog look, for he’d seen it before, only far too frequent of late.

Not surprisingly, Chuck pegged me perfectly, given our 35-year friendship forged over shared passions—sports, 1960’s music, Godfather trivia and club carousing. We bonded through like sensibilities, backgrounds and a late awakening to our true sexual natures, first favoring female, yet feeling a powerful tug elsewhere.

In January 1980, I ditched the cold confines of Central Pennsylvania for the tropical tug of South Florida, where the New York state native, Vietnam vet and now retired tavern owner pilgrimages every winter. Late bloomers escaping the constraints of small-town conformity, our lives intersected and we played out our pleasures in venues formerly foreign to us. Free at last! Free at last!

And oh, what a dizzying time we had, tamped down versions of SNL’s wild and crazy guys on the prowl minus the dreadful duds, the drugs and the dopey rap. Testosterone-driven and as debauched as your average, repressed queer unable to tame our hormonal urges, we found fun, romance, and adventure, even love in arenas not yet tainted by androids, attitude and AIDS. Alpha dogs, we had game.

Fast forward nearing four decades and we’re still peripherally in that game amid the fresh faces, battle-fatigued and wiser for the ware, yet feeling displaced and awakened to a new-fangled reality, not unlike that Rip Van Winkle Caper Twilight Zone episode. Both in our 60’s, dinosaurs by gay standards.

We’re Mantle and Maris reduced to Horace Clarke and Tom Tresh, I said wistfully, a fitting metaphor for the once high-flying to bottom-dwelling Yankee days of the 60’s. Dude magnets we’d become relics, yesteryear’s disco dandies committing that unpardonable gay sin of aging, our glory days clearly behind us.

Forget that we’d aged finer than wine, looks that belied our years. Tall, Sicilian handsome and self-assured with a natural-looking athletic frame, Chuck’s standout sports skills mixed with a disciplined diet has kept him lean and taut. And hung like an Irish mule in a world where size still counts—not attributed to any strategically-placed sock or blue pill—that once drew them in with rock-star ease. And I, still in prime physical shape, a regimented, almost demonic six-day-a-week gym rat with a musculature that skews far younger, single-digit body fat, jacked arms, carved shoulders and protruding pecs to boot.

No matter. Like us, gay bar life had radically changed, requiring frank and unsettling admissions. The high of the hunt and the power trip of the catch, the late-night trysts and the fleeting, lusty romps hardly fueled our deeper desires for love; a young buck’s game of numbers and notches we have since disowned. Our raging Mr. Man hungers harnessed, we craved more than empty encounters, ready again to re-enter into deeper and more sustainable connections, no longer stuck in that quick-fix world.

And yet for the most part, save for scatterings of sustenance, the well of prospects had run dry. Unable to dismiss as mid-seasonal slumps, I’d seriously considered retirement; exit, stage right. Since turning 50, I’d taken several sabbaticals from the scene; emerging once a week to once a month to stretches in which I disengaged, swore off altogether.

I’m sooooooo done with this bullshit, I snapped at Chuck for the umpteenth time, flinging my hands skyward and wailing a woefully off-key take of The Thrill is Gone, that would’ve sent Simon Cowell into long-term therapy.

An approving grin slipped across Chuck’s face for he’s old enough to appreciate BB King and he’s more than dialed into my moody-broody writer ways. Lord knows, I’ve bailed cold turkey countless times before, only to return from exile when Chuck, forever the carefree, rollicking snowbird struts back into town.

Just when I thought I was out, you pull me back in, I remind him, a beaten down Michael Corleone in Godfather 3. Typically after some arm-twisting by Chuck, we meet out, scope out the field and if nothing’s brewing, we wile away the hours, yapping the night away—everything from politics to health to history to music to books to sports, an area in which Chuck shines brightly.

In fact, he’s a sports savant, his stat-geek brain rife with frivolous factoids. Despite holding my own, I’m no match for Chuck, who’s reeled off starting rosters of nearly every World Series played from the 1950’s on. Blew me away when he guessed Pittsburgh Pirate catcher Smokey Burgess in a can you name this major leaguer after just one hint? A frustrated pitcher, he sacrificed a potential MLB future enlisting in the military and returning to assist in the family business.

Chuck peers in for the catcher’s sign while fake-jawing a gum wad, shakes his head dismissively, than nods obligingly as he strides into a pitcher’s wind-up and follows through with an air ball, drawing vacant stares from onlookers. While cute and charmingly OCD, it’s a deal-breaker, though I lacked the heart to tell him so.

Our speed-schmoozing lasted past closing and into the wee hours or until one of us tapped out, the yawns multiplied and the attention spans sputtered. And yet we rarely departed without dissecting it all, picking apart the past and combing distant memories while cursing the present, a scene semesters removed from the one we once reveled in and recall with relish.

As we went on like two yakking yentas on a park bench prattling on about the good ol’ days,(or so we thought), the more I envied Chuck’s ability to embrace change as I sprint far from it, stuck in the spokes of yesterday. Credit his coping style, how he adjusts. Never one to over-dwell, he reins me into reality, guides me toward quasi-acceptance, first with kid gloves followed by a Louisville Slugger upside the noggin.

No doubt about it Art, you look great, kept yourself up nicely through diet and exercise, Chuck said. But you’re older and age means losing things.

Jeez Louise, thanks, I shot back, bracing for his oft-repeated, annual Debbie Downer sermon on aging and the unforgiving, impending decline—the bone thinning, the sagging skin, the Basset Hound jowls, the muscle mass loss, the lines, the expanding ears, the spare tire aka love handles—grisly changes that unspool over years. Then there’s the encroaching senility, every body part stiff but the one that matters most. Chuck stoically inspects himself in a nearby bathroom mirror, tightens his jaw, and then stretches his cheeks to confirm his case, etched egregiously on his face. And, nothing fast-tracks your vanity back to earth quicker than fluorescent lighting.

A deflating silence fills the air. He pauses to collect himself, as if shockingly reminded of nature’s karmic kick to the groin. Oh, the neck, he adds, letting out an extended sigh. You can always tell a person’s age by his neck, gobble gobble. And your spinal cord shrinks, so you’ll get shorter and shorter. And did I mention the arthritis, back and creaky joint problems, the plumbing issues, the E.D., the incontinence, more gray pubes to pluck, dangling nose hair and the fatty deposits collecting on…

All right already!! Shut your hole, Mary, I screamed, clearly in full Dorian Gray distress as he led me down a visual path I so preferred to bypass. I’d heard enough and entertained thoughts of tossing Chuck onto the street into the path of an oncoming truck. That’s just no way to talk to a friend with unresolved aging issues. Was this his best shot at soothing the sting of aging, of lifting me out of my existential funk? Were we becoming the old lechers we once cracked on?

Age has a sneaky way of creeping up on everyone, he added, driving the dagger further into my chest and twisting it. All you’ve done is buy yourself time by eating right, working out, staying out of the sun, rejecting alcohol and drugs, downing fish oil. Change happens whether you choose it or not. Physical attributes don’t last. You’ll see. Besides, you’re more than your body.

Arrrggghh! ENOUGH DICKHEAD!! STOP!! I shouted. Before I could la, la, la him into a more tempting topic, nature’s latest casualty breezed by and we struggled not to stare. Yet, we could barely look away, horrified at yesterday’s A-list head-turner now a monstrosity, from hunk to chunk. Only 45, but a hard 45. Gone forever was the perfectly toned gymnastic body, the angelic face and milk-fed skin, replaced with a sun-dried and puffy profile of cracks and crevices––Yogi Berra’s catcher’s mitt—the green, rotting teeth, the blonde mane down to scattered wisps, a chin like a pack of Oscar Meyers, rogue hairs poking out of his ears and dangling from his nose, and the undersized half-cut tank revealing a Buddha belly where a 28 inch waist once rocked. And how could we forget the piece de’ resistance, the once perfect, melon-shaped, golden ass gift from the gay Gods now the consistency of an air-bag.

Stooped over, shoulders slumped and sagging, he waddled about in a desperate and forced gait, seeking and failing to connect at every turn, night after night, we were told, swatted away like an annoying fly. As he hit on multiple prospects—the crypt keeper hitting on the US Olympic Swim Team—who snubbed him outright and not so delicately, we both felt a perverse blend of pity and pleasure, proper penance for the same instant rejection he had ruthlessly wrought on others, fitting payback for his former cruelty.

Was this the ghost of gay future for us, the tragic look of things to come? I reminded Chuck of our ongoing murder-suicide pact if we should ever decay thusly. Two shots in the head a piece, I said, channelling fat Clemenza in GF One.

With perfect peripheral vision and a glint in his eyes, Chuck then lunged like a Jaguar in heat toward a curvy blond arched over his I-phone keyboard texting maniacally amid the throng of socially clumsy cyber-geeks. Spotting him first, Chuck got first dibs and we never deviated from the friendship-over-floozy rule.

Upon arriving, he positioned himself closely and in a lame attempt to impress, broke into a herky-jerky, hip-shaking, spazzed-out dance move straight out of Dick Clark’s 1960’s American Bandstand. Chuck tumbled and fell flat on his ass, his glasses flew halfway across the dance floor and he bounced back up all cool and hip as if part and parcel of the move. Glued mindlessly to his gadget, blondie never flinched, blissfully unaware of Chuck’s undignified flop, hardly tribute to his former athleticism as he slinked away, egg covering his face. I nearly wet myself laughing, discharging $6 water through my nostrils.

Hey Chuck, I’ll give you fifty bucks to pry that phone from his cold and grubby, girlie boy hands and shove up his anal retentive, bubble butt, I blurted out. Knock the fabulous right out of him!

Chuck collapsed into laughter and instantly collected himself. Coulda’ had him, he said sucking wind, all Barney Fife pseudo-serious, sniffling confidently to save face. It then struck me in a flash, that jarring moment of clarity. Call it the dreaded curse, our affinity for androgyny (somebody told me that you had a boyfriend that looked like a girlfriend…) and younger by three decades. Stuck in Cougarville for reasons obscure to us, we’d stagnated, bound by a stubbornness to move past our sweet zone and expand the field. Would we, could we ever give hairy, beary, husky, hyper-masculine, leathered-up men with beer-keg tummies, full-blown careers, mortgages and sweetheart dispositions a chance? Nope! Not likely. Not in this lifetime. WE were the problem, our preferences laid bare, rigid and non-negotiable.

Unable to neither rationalize away our inclinations as lustful fancy, ageism nor control freak tendencies—aging, needy men vicariously needing to date young to feel young, powerful, attractive and in-charge—our thoughts lingered to yesteryear when the younger sought out the older for more than sketchy reasons. Was that love or dependency? I asked, daddy chasers latching on to older men of means as career currency?" Skepticism seeped in and I needed to relieve myself of such time-honored delusions.

Lots of guys fancy themselves as spiritual and will swear on the soul of Oscar Wilde that age doesn’t count. I said. "Uh-huh. Picture this ad on Adam for Adam: Hot 35-year-old model with a slammin’ body looking for a grizzled, balding fat fuck, preferably 60 and over, must live in a shoe-box size trailer on a fixed income, little or no savings nor assets, no car a definite turn-on, must rely on mass transit and dine on TV dinners. Ear hair, body odor, liver spots and dick issues a definite plus. No pre-nup required. (Enter laugh track, LMAO)

Chuck raises an eyebrow and laughs convulsively, his gold digging radar central to weeding out the shady queens that infest Lauderdale, the bloodsuckers trading on their youthful looks. Nobody’s fool, he chimes in. I hate it when one of them sashays up to me, stares up with his doey eyes and coos, ‘Buy me a drink.’ Get the fuck out! I got ya’ drink right here, sweetie! pointing to his magnum package with both hands, Chuck’s premier Pauli Walnuts, Sopranos moment. I’ll decide when and if to buy them a drink. The ballgame’s over when they demand. Fugettabout it.’’

Oh, Chuck, always with the freakin’ sports metaphors, I remarked cynically, as a nearby contingent of squealing, gushing club queens fawn over a hot mess of a drag queen with caked-on makeup, silicon-injected lips and triple B fake boobs, looking more like Bruce Vilanch than the intended Streisand. So, our social undoing comes down to our unwillingness to seek out people closer to our own age? I asked.

Only partially, Chuck said in earnest, sparking further debate over the sweeping, seismic changes in gay club life. We’ve lost the beauty of face to face chat, I jumped in, revving up for my usual militant rant centered on America’s unhealthy servitude to the screen, creating a generation of zombies plugged into their techno toys day and night, technology gone berserk. For God’s sake, before you can even talk to anyone nowadays, you’ll need to call Verizon and set up a text messaging plan. Anomalies, neither of us owns a portable phone or any mobile chatty device, which only adds to our feelings of alienation from the pack. (That would change).

I then locked eyes with a stunner that sucks the air out of you, though wary of the stereotype, the hottie you’re mesmerized by until he opens up his mouth and you sprint for the hills before he can complete a semi-coherent sentence. With a nod of approval behind sparkling, sky blue eyes and a sexy hair flip, he beckons me over to his table.

A flypaper for cute, I take the bait and the dazzling vibe oozes from him and more. He reads. He listens. Smart and thoughtful, he ignores his phone when it rings and then shuts it off. Class. Considerate. He seems self-aware and admires individuality, disdains drama, loves the Beatles, hates pretension. Doesn’t drink or drug. Has a job! OMG! He impresses by not trying to impress. He’s a keeper, BF material and 40, though looks early 30’s, an interior designer.

Nice age and hopefully not yet jaded, but savvy as a fox. After a while I boldly ask him for his phone number and he says ‘sure, where’s your phone? No phone, only a landline, I replied sheepishly as if committing social suicide while I scurry about desperately for a pen and a sliver of paper, as old-school as my feathered back 70’s hairstyle. Really? he asks, staring at me as if I had three eyes and two noses. He never called. Cocktease!!!

I returned to Chuck who headed off my over-the-top diatribe against the evils of wireless gadgetry, a surplus of ADHD’ers with suckass attention spans and the countrywide erosion of communications skills, spreading faster than syphilis and not as easily curable.

AIDS changed the whole ball game, Chuck added, signalled a generational shift in attitudes and behavior, wiser words bestowed upon me. What’s your HIV-status and top or bottom inquiries have replaced what’s your sign?"

Boom!! Chuck nailed it on the tragedy of AIDS, a ton of talented, creative, beautiful and brilliant young souls with so much hope and promise dying in droves, at least two funerals a week we attended for years, not something we’re anxious to relive. We often wonder how we survived it all. But by the grace of God…

There’s a new mindset, a cultural sea change out there and we must adapt or be left out in the cold, Chuck added.

Funny, I already felt that relentless chill of change and identified with the bloke we both recognized on sight, dumped after a long-term relationship, confused and uncertain and stepping out solo for the first time in abject horror. I don’t know how to be single today, he whined, like a lost middle-school girl on an island alone, the poor thing. Should I cut my hair, let it grow out, go bald, get a belly-button ring, face studs, piercings and tattoos, wear Abercrombie, get a bathhouse membership and worship at the altar of Lady Gaga? Who should I pretend to be now? We had nothing to offer in the form of glistening insight, for we felt as adrift as he sounded, the rules of engagement changing as rapidly as the South Florida weather.

Still, all is not lost. Fortune favored us more than once in smoke-filled, dimly-lit bars, the seeds sown of stable and grounded relationships that taught us lessons about love, life, and sacrifice, loyalty, trust and commitment and that intimacy and sex is as different as day and night. We remain grateful to those ex’s who taught us about human nature and ourselves and put up with our neuroses, shortcomings and roving eyes.

But that was then. Now, clubs have given way to Grindr as primary meeting places, hedonistic humping sites in which deception, isolation and superficiality rules, grab a quickie and haul ass before you clean up. Oh, and what’s your name again? Call me! (Yeah, right). You can be whomever you want to be. People venture out in posses and you can’t crash those ferociously formed, cock-blocking cliques. It’s an epic battle to connect, though Chuck, who’s crisscrossed the USA and Canada, insists it can happen, if you scuttle all expectations.

"You