From: shellyr@bridge.net
Date: Tue, 3 Jun 1997 15:34:35 +0000
Subject: (Fwd) ROBERTS' RULES: Blind Side


ROBERTS' RULES by Shelly Roberts


BLIND-SIDED.


Well, pally pals,

This is national shelly-has-another-little-bitty-book-and-it's-Pride
month. Which, I know, comes as no surprise to you.

It's a month full of frequent flyer miles, and frequent motor mouth on
any media my publicist can nag into a booking. A time when recluse
shelly roberts changes places with persona Shelly Roberts, then morphs
into THE SHELLY ROBERTS, an odd phenomenon if you're still learning
how while trying to look like they gave you the queen wave and
shoelace lessons together. 

So when the invite to this show (fortunately airing on a weekday,
instead of Sunday, when everyone could say "Hey, saw you on TV!") I
said "Sure." I'd be happy to talk about the cultural aftermath of
Ellen's uncloaking. 

On arrival, the polite assistant came out to the lobby- this is a
local access UPN variant, so there's no green room, no bagels, no
chilled, fresh squoze cranberry juice, just a dumpy leather couch
that's seen better station management in its lifetime- and gave me the
show rundown.

"So Gary (a pseudonym) - a charmer, a litigation lawyer, and frequent
spokesgay for his county - I'm in Broward where Ft. La-di-da lives.
He's in Dade where Anita Bryant used to call Miami home) will be on
with BLAH BLAH from the Christian Coalition, and then you'll be on the
final segment."

"Oh, thank god," thinks I. Gary can handle BLAH. He's good at it,
knows issue specifics, and keeps his cool. I'll do followup amusing,
spontaneous chatter which I've fully prepared.

At the break the host says to Gary, "Okay, you step down, and shelly
you're in the chair. BLAH, stay there while we get her miked." 

AAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!

 Ambushed.

I wasn't prepared to be in the middle of one of THOSE debates the
media likes to call "balanced" meaning
Jenny-Jones-was-a-programming-genius, and I think of as, for example,
having a show on Jewish Holocaust survivors, and inviting Himmler to
sit in for "objective debate." This man isn't my opposite or my equal.
This man is a bug who ought to be squashed by someone with bigger dyke
shoes than I wore to this particular dance.

I take my cue from Gary, whom, fortunately, I'd been watching closely.


BLAH talks falsely. I interrupt corrections. He talks pathology, I
roll eyes to camera, and interrupt (BLAH never breathes in
interruptible places) again and often (because he has brought papers
and is quoting discredited studies) reminding viewers that the
American Psychiatric Association has removed homosexual from its list
of pathologies. "Political !" he humphs. He asserts invitation to
homosexuals wanting cure to call somewhere (probably his house), and
biliously  assert on child-rearing households . I counter with
Internet gleaned studies from reputable universities recognizing
children raised in our homes have about the same percentage of
psychotics, neurotics and normal as everyone else, but add that our 
kids are more independent and socially adept. I don't make these
things up.

He gavottes on, and I struggle to recall good techniques with
overbearing losers. Dismissal, not engagement. I am really in a
discussion with the audience, not with the opponent. 

I hope I am handling it well. It is an adrenaline pass-or-fail test.
He comments about Ellen DeGenerate, and I remind the audience that it
was a Falwell quote. He catapults Ellen's response that it didn't
bother her because she's heard it all her life. I interject, quickly,
because the host is leaning forward, his signal of the segment's
conclusion, that she really said that the last time she'd heard that
was in fourth grade, and wasn't THAT nice coming from a minister? The
host breathes out, thanks the audience for watching, and the bell
rings signaling the end of this compulsory extemporaneous exercise.

I don't get a chance to use the good lines about 61% of the population
knowing who Ellen Degenerous was, and that she is a lesbian, while
only 32% know the Secretary of State. (ALL RIGHT, a hint: Her first
name is Madeline.) I don't get a chance to look confident, cool and
charming. Witty is hard to wedge in. I hope I didn't look hostile. (I
was, but I hope I don't look it.) I know I will be judged by my own by
my every utterance later under a fine tooth magnifying glass.

We shake hands around, and on the way out, Gary said I did fine. I'll
watch the video tape sometime in the millennium and see.

I figure out brilliant responses on the ride back home.

I try to remember that the closer you get to winning, the more
fervent, and feverish your opponents get. I stop at the 7-11 near the
house to get a coke slurpee and a Boston creme donut for dinner.

We all do the work in our own way.

________________________
(C) 1997. Shelly Roberts. All rights reserved.
May be commercially reprinted only in its entirety with written
permission.

Shelly Roberts is an internationally syndicated columnist, and the
author of the brand new best-seller Roberts' Rules of Lesbian Break
Ups. (Spinsters Ink.)