Hollywood Gays (31 page)

Q: Comedians aren’t really considered actors, are they?

A: Not versatile ones. The irony is that if you can do comedy well, you can do drama. But it doesn’t follow that if you’re a good dramatic actor, you can do comedy at all.

Q: Because of timing?

A: Yes. It’s something you can’t get or build, like the craft of acting. Being funny is what you
are
; we all know people in real life who are naturally funny, and they’ve probably been told they should go on a stage or do a stand-up act.

Q: Whereas most actors start out going to Hollywood because they’re handsome or beautiful, right?

A: Yes. Somehow they think looks are a qualification for acting. Or that modeling to acting is a natural transition! My ass! But comedy is
rough
—ya don’t go from
Vogue
to comedy. Thank God!

Q: Can I ask you whether you were snide or sarcastic as a kid?

A: Are ya trying to say, “Were you
always
like this?” (Laughs.) Basically, I was. I’m just
better
at it now.

Q: Who were your comedic influences?

A: I always liked Eve Arden. I liked her in anything she did, and the way she elevated the scenes she was in. She’d appear in some gooey, icky-poo romance movie and, for a few minutes, breathe fresh air into it. And some down-to-earth sarcasm and insight.

Q: She was acerbic but likeable.

A: So am I—I hope!

Q: Who else?

A: Well, I like Pangborn. Always enjoyed him immensely, but I didn’t want to pattern myself after him. I think he was too much of a stereotype. It wouldn’t work today.

Q: Why not?

A: Because now it’s all in the open. More or less. Then, you didn’t ever have a homosexual. Not acknowledged as such. Now you do. Now the jokes tell all: “Do you have a fairy godmother?” “No, but I have an uncle we’re not too sure about.”

Q: In showbiz, are you that uncle?

A:
Moi?

Q: Well, you were Uncle Arthur on
Bewitched
....

A: Yes, but.... Oh, I don’t know. I s’ppose I am. But not
explicitly
.

Q: Does it come easily when you play a father?

A: Of
course!
That’s why they call it acting. I could play Sherlock Holmes, or a kidnapper, or a father, or someone with a lisp or a limp, or anyone who’s not remotely like me. I act.

Q: Do you think being the center square in
Hollywood Squares
, you’ve been at all overexposed?

A: That’s the nature of TV. It’s a blessing and a curse. Elizabeth Montgomery will be forever known as Samantha on
Bewitched
, and nothing else, no matter what she does.

Q: Some do transcend their TV roles. Look at Sally Field, who was Gidget and the Flying Nun.

A: Very,
very
few.

Q: A few years ago, you toured with Wayland Flowers....

A: We did summer stock. I love summer stock. Ya get to go out and meet the people, and believe me, they are
fans
. From that quiz show, they think they all know me, and they come to see me be someone else or do something new.

Q: Do they know the real Paul Lynde at all?

A: My God, I hope not! (Waggles.)

Q: Who is the real Paul Lynde?

A:
That’s
a question ya answer in the bedroom, kiddo.

Q: Are you inviting?

A: Well, I’m not rulin’ it out, sweetlips!

Q: Do you ever long for a dead-serious role, just to impress people with your range?

A: I wouldn’t mind, if I could win an Emmy for it. And if everyone saw it, and I didn’t play a murderer or something
too
gruesome.

Q: Being liked is important?

A: Within certain parameters, I’d say...
absolutely
!

Q: What about retirement? Do you ever contemplate it?

A: Only on Sunday mornings. The thing about retiring is, it pays off only if everyone knows you’re doing it. Like Sarah Bernhardt used to do—her retirement tours were legendary. She’d announce she was retiring, you know, real casual-like, and everyone would beg her not to.
That’s
the way to do it. If you announce it, and people just yawn, it’s no good.

Q: This may be a peculiar question, but do you think if you were still fat, you’d be funnier?

A: It’s not peculiar. Look at the comedians whose shtick is being fat—Totie Fields, James Coco, all the way back to Fatty Arbuckle.
I
wouldn’t be funnier fat, ‘cause I’d be too insecure, looking that way and feeling awful. I hated being fat. Some people just don’t care, but I was miserable.

Q: Also, fat people are supposed to be jolly, whereas your nervous image goes with being thin.

A: True. Fat does not go with my image. I have to
look
good.

Q: How would you describe your public taste in clothes?

A: I’m not a picky dresser. So long as it doesn’t itch and it’s not Hawaiian, I’ll wear it. I like color, and I like prints, but nothing
too
loud. ‘Course, nowadays we can wear clothes that even Franklin Pangborn wouldn’t have dared; times have changed. But one thing I try and avoid is dressing too young—nothin’ shows up an old queen like tight armpits or ass-hugging jeans!

Q: You seem very comfortable with yourself.

A: Ya like?

Q: I like.

A: Well, why not? I’m the only me I got, I may as well be comfy.

* * *

Like most people, I never saw Wayland Flowers perform live, but I caught him in the gay “comedy” film
Norman, Is That You?
, in his own video special, on
Solid Gold,
on
Hollywood Squares
, several talk shows, and in “his” TV series
Madame’s Place
. I even skimmed the autobiography of his Southern-cracked-belle puppet Madame.

One afternoon in mid-1988, I was in Beverly Center, the huge mall which despite its name is in West Hollywood. This makes it probably the gayest mall in the world. I’d finished lunch and was passing a B. Dalton bookstore on my way to my car—an ‘80s Mercedes had replaced the ‘70s Ford that Paul Lynde had described as “serviceable.”

Out of B. Dalton bustled Wayland Flowers, with a large shopping bag. He himself was rather large, so it amazed me when only months later I heard that he had AIDS and was near death. I contacted his personal manager Marlene Shell and learned that Wayland was spending his final days at Hughes House on Ogden Drive in Hollywood. The small, intimate hospice for patients in the final stages of the disease was later forced to close due to funding constraints; however, it reopened in late 1989 and was renamed Flowers House, in honor of the gent behind Madame.

I was informed that Wayland wasn’t seeing most potential visitors, so instead I sent flowers to Hughes House. The card said, “Thanks for the wonderful talk at Beverly Center.”

That day at the mall, I had followed Flowers up the escalator to the food court. To my delight, he headed straight for the Muffin Oven and ordered one of my favorites, carrot cake. And coffee. I milled about a few minutes, and since he didn’t look to be expecting anybody, I ordered a cup of coffee and headed his way.

Our eyes met, and he smiled a tight but expectant cruising smile.

“May I join your—”

“Be mah guest.” He moved his bag from the table to the spare chair.

“My name’s Boze....” After a swig of coffee, I said, “I wrote a protest letter when they canceled
Madame’s Place
, and I have some of the episodes on video, including ‘Barbra Streisand Nose’, a parody of ‘Bette Davis Eyes’.”

“Well, now,” he drawled, “a man right after mah own heart.” He sidled closer, and I offered him a cigarette. When he declined, I put the pack away. ‘‘Honey, Ah gotta be careful what Ah put in mah mouth. All the good things are taboo now,” he said with a wink.

He told me a bit about himself, his background, and Madame’s genesis. He laughed uninhibitedly—heads turned—when I mentioned that for some reason Madame always reminded me of Mary Martin. Then he told me an involved Mary Martin lesbian joke.

In the way of most celebrities, he didn’t ask much about me, outside of what I did for a living. I told him I’d interviewed Paul Lynde.

A: Where did it appear?

Q: The part that appeared was in a women’s magazine distributed solely to beauty shops across the nation.

A: Paul would have loved
that!

Q: What sort of man was he?

A: Very, very funny. Underrated.

Q: Not by gay people.

A: No, just everyone else. The guys who run television. Ah swear, he had more
pilots
....

Q: Sexually?

A: (Guffaws.) Yes, well, he
may
have, but Ah meant TV pilots.

Q: I wish he’d done more movies.

A: You wish. But he was a big, big star in summer stock. In his home state of Ohio, he’d regularly break all the box-office records in the cities. He used to say he could run for governor in Ohio.

Q: Maybe he should have.

A: Honey, no! Paul was no Harvey Milk!

Q: You knew him close-up. Did he have to work at being funny, or was it all
there
?

A: He worked on his expression. Like the head thing?

Q: The waggle?

A: Tha-at too.

Q: Richard Deacon told me Paul Lynde’s body language was just naturally funny.

A: Sweetie,
no
body is “naturally funny.” You gotta groom it.

Q: And you gotta have a gimmick? Like you with the puppets, and Paul’s nervous, kvetchy manner, right?

A: A gimmick, I’ll grant you. But you gotta stay flexible within your range. Old Richard has no range. I mean, had.

Q: He was funny in whatever he appeared in.

A: In a stiff way. I’ll grant you that.

Q: You’ve been called campy, and so has Paul. Do gay comedians ever mind that?

A: Depends who says it. We
are
campy. That’s why people come back for more. But if some lard-butt newspaper critic says it, he means it derogatory, like it’s beneath him. Straights don’t even know what “campy” means, honey. Some jerk once wrote that Lily Tomlin’s one-woman show was “campy.” Now; the girl may be butch, but she’s no bitch—not like Joan Rivers is bitchy and campy. Joan just appropriated gay humor.

Q: So did Bette Midler.

A: Bette’s an honorary gay man.

Q: Do you think Paul Lynde was too campy for his career’s own good?

A: Who can say? How do you second-guess fuckin’ life?

Q: Can you offer a few words or an impression of the individual if I mention some gay comedians of the past?

A: A verbal Rorschach test? Shoot!

Q: Paul Lynde.

A: Brilliant, funny...temperamental.

Q: Franklin Pangborn.

A: You know what he reminds me of? Whenever you see him in some old movie, he looks like he’s just discovered an unpleasant smell in the room. A fart-finder!

Q: Hmm. Wally Cox?

A: Ah dunno, ask his ex-roommate Marlon Brando....

Q: I mean Wally Cox as a comedian.

A: Small reaction. Mr. Milquetoast. He was “Mr. Peepers,” wasn’t he? How far can you go doing
that?

Q: Jack Benny.

A: Ah
loved
his swishy walk. And his body language, his long, questioning stares. He was a hoot! And gutsy too, doin’ what he did in
those
days.

Q: James Coco.

A: The jolly pink giant? What can Ah say? Honey, he is such a closet queen—or
was
. Did you talk to him too?

Q: Yes.

A: When did you meet Paul?

Q: In ‘78.

A:
One
interview, right?

Q: Two. One at his home, one at a restaurant. Why? Was one his usual limit?

A: In or out of bed, you usually only got one chance with Paul. He didn’t think he could impress people, time after time.

Q: Really. Well, how about Divine?

A: Very, very funny. Even just the way she looks. Oh, shit!
Looked
. (Divine died in March, 1988.) She was real smart, because it’s the height of camp to turn female impersonation over on its head by being a glamour queen, but a 300-pound one! She was fabulous!