Barbary Lane Dispatches Podcast

Here’s a transcript of the video:1969 was a very memorable year for many of us who lived through that time.The main thing, I think, was the moon landing, which had us riveted to our television sets and fascinated by what was happening with Neil Armstrong as he landed on the moon. The whole nature of space exploration was ignited in that moment.There were other things, of course. There was the Stonewall riots in New York City, although it wasn’t widely known at the time—but it happened then, in that year. Woodstock. A lot of things that we think of as culturally significant in America — and in the world, really — happened then.What happened for me was I had sex with a man for the first time. That’s what made it memorable for me. I was living in Charleston. I was in the Navy at the time. I had been on a tour of duty in Naples on a destroyer tender, which just goes somewhere and parks.I came back to Charleston and got a little carriage house on the Battery, down at the tippy end of Charleston. It was an old cottage filled with charm, and it put me next to the Battery, which was where the first shots of the Civil War were fired. So it made sense that that’s where I fired my first shots.I went down to the Battery one evening, the last time I ever did that in all innocence. I was sitting on a bench admiring the moon when a man approached and began chatting me up, for want of a better word.He was a little bit country, a little fae, and rather nervous talking to me. I finally said, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for.”He apologized profusely and beat a quick retreat away from me.I thought about that for a while, sitting there admiring the moon not far from the Confederate monument, and I thought, “You’re crazy. You’re exactly what he’s looking for.”So I went back to find him. He was on another bench chatting up someone else, and I said, “I have to apologize for the way I behaved back there. Can I make it up to you and fix you a drink at my house?”Somewhat baffled by what I was doing, he followed me back to my carriage house, and it was there that we did the deed. I don’t remember it lasting very long or being much of a hit in any direction, but it was significant to me because it was the first time I’d ever had sex with anybody.So that moment of semi-passion in my bedroom was stuck in my head when I came back to the ship the next morning in my little Sunbeam Alpine. “Morning Girl” was playing on the radio.If you’re old enough, you remember that song by the Neon Philharmonic, which is about a young woman, I think, losing her virginity. It was:“You’re several ages older now,so go out and find your manwhere the wild wind blows, Morning Girl.”I didn’t have a sense of camp at the time — well, I must have had it, because it seemed campy to me even then — but I had been waiting. I was not officially gay until that moment, and I had been waiting for a sign that I was. And that was pretty much all I needed… to hear that song.I felt like a freshly minted human being for the first time. I’d finally held another man’s body against mine, and the world had not come to an end. I was full of the joy of that when I boarded the ship. The officer of the deck saluted me, welcoming me aboard, in effect, as we did.I wasn’t an idiot about this. I knew there were consequences for a naval officer to be caught in such a situation as I had been in the night before. I had sat in on a court-martial, as a matter of fact, where a fellow enlisted man was drummed out of the Navy. I remember watching him leave the ship in ignominy.This wasn’t a dishonorable discharge as such. It wasn’t honorable either. It was just a way for the Navy to get it over with as soon as possible without any embarrassment. But the ignominy was there.So I made up my mind to keep sex strictly confined to shore, and that had some consequences that weren’t entirely pleasant.I went home one time with a guy who had an epileptic fit in the middle of going to bed with him. He peed all over himself, and he was hugely embarrassed and humiliated and shooed me away — just got me to leave. The next day I saw him. He was a checker at a local grocery, and he wouldn’t even acknowledge that I was the person he’d been with the night before.On another occasion, a married man was blowing me in my Sunbeam. I can’t say that phrase without laughing.And then a cop car pulled up. He was very drunk, the man that was with me. So I said, “Let me handle this.”I pulled myself together and stepped out of the car to speak to the police officer, and thought I was doing a fine job of seeming innocent.He just said, “Be careful, Ensign,” and went on his way.I looked down and realized that my shirttail was hanging out of the front of my fly like a little cotton penis, and that I hadn’t fooled anybody. It was a hilarious and humiliating moment at the same time.On another occasion, I went home with a guy who had porn magazines scattered all over his house. I’d never seen anything so shameless before. He played me a song from a Broadway show about sodomy and fellatio. Years later, I would realize that it was the soundtrack of Hair, but at the time it was just unimaginable.I figured he was the one who gave me crabs, but I had no idea how to treat them. I was worried that if I went to the ship’s doctor he would know the difference between gay crabs and straight crabs.So I tried Mennen Skin Bracer. Not a good idea. I was screaming in agony the first time I threw that pure alcohol onto my crotch. Next, I tried soaking in a hot bath, hoping that would drown the little f*****s. They just enjoyed that bath. It didn’t do anything at all, so I was finally driven to go to the doctor, who didn’t flinch. He’d seen this all the time. Apparently, the ship was riddled with crabs.So that summer of ’69, I had a grand old time down on the Battery. I wasn’t in any way becoming an evolved gay man. I was just finally enjoying myself with my sexuality. It wouldn’t be until years later that I became really comfortable with being a gay man. San Francisco made that happen.And it’s interesting to look back on that summer of ’69 and think of the moon landing, because I actually had occasion to meet Neil Armstrong years later. Chris and I were invited to a small event in Santa Fe, where we were living at the time, and Neil Armstrong was the guest speaker.We were all just flabbergasted. It felt mythic to meet that man, and he was very kind, very sweet. He had timed his speech in such a way that at the end of it, the moon was rising over the mesa, as if he had summoned it. It was an amazing, extraordinary thing, and kind of a witty comment on his responsibility as far as that orb was concerned.He was very fond of saying that he was just a technician, that he didn’t do that much really — he was just there to perform certain functions technically. But he felt very personally involved in it at that moment, and we loved it.That evening, I got to introduce him to Chris and describe Chris as my husband, and I realized how far I had come from those early days in 1969, when this man landed on the moon, to being a happy, well-adjusted gay man. It felt so good.To have him there as a kind of witness to that fact made it even more special. He was such a kind man, and I’ll always remember that about him. He didn’t flinch when I told him what my relationship with Chris was. We were just overjoyed to be in the presence of this iconic man.So that’s my story of the summer of ’69 and how it changed me — and changed a lot of us in different ways.So thank you for coming along this time, and I hope I’ll see you next time. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of the video: I want to tell you about the first time I fell in love—and the amazing connection we shared that I didn’t fully realize until years later.I was living in Charleston at the time. It was 1970, and I had rented an apartment at the house of Elizabeth O’Neill Verner, who was a very famous artist—or at least in Charleston. She was an older woman who sold her work out of the house itself, so customers and tourists would come in to see her paintings. I was living in her attic apartment, but I would come down to the ground floor, where all the drawings and paintings were, and hang out. It was just a fun place to be.One day I was down there, and in came a couple—a man and a woman. She was a striking brunette, and he was a beautiful blond. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I chatted them up—their names were Curt Dawson and Barbara Caruso. I tell you this because they became permanent parts of my life in ways I didn’t expect.Curt Dawson had the most romantic name I’d ever heard. It sounded like something out of the Old West—Curt Dawson. And he was gorgeous to look at. They were both so friendly, and so kind to me.It turned out they were actors from New York City, on their way to Atlanta to be in a Chekhov play together. I assumed they were a couple because they were so intimate—so jokey and familiar with each other.I invited them out and gave them a little tour of the town. I took them to Middleton Plantation. I remember being there, and a couple of times when I was alone with Curt, I felt—well, I won’t say he was coming on to me—but he would smile at me in a way that was, at the very least, distracting. Mostly, though, it was just three friends getting to know each other.They invited me to come see their play in Atlanta. I didn’t know what my lodging situation would be, but when I got there, it turned out I’d be staying at Curt’s apartment.He had a party while I was there—a cast party, for The Cherry Orchard. And I remember being struck that night, watching people gather, by what a rare and wonderful thing it was to see actors in their natural habitat. They laughed together—men and women all having fun. It was nothing like anything I’d ever seen back in North Carolina. They felt connected to each other in a way I couldn’t quite fathom. They worked together, played together, and loved each other.I still wasn’t sure whether Curt and Barbara were a couple until that night, when he very gently took me into his bedroom. Up until that point, I had only had random, anonymous encounters on the Battery in Charleston. I wasn’t comfortable with my sexuality. It was something that happened in the dark of night, and that was that. Curt was the first man who made me feel like it was something to celebrate. And he did that very effectively that night in his bedroom.After that, Curt and Barbara invited me to go with them to a cabin in North Georgia. I can’t remember exactly where it was, but it was a sweet, private, wooded place. Curt had an amazing appreciation of nature. Not in a scholarly way—he wasn’t a botanist—but he would stop and really look at something beautiful and absorb it. I saw him do that many years later in California as well.I realized I was really falling for him—seeing him as someone who could be permanent in my life. I had never felt that way about any man before, certainly not the ones I met on the Battery.So I fell head over heels. And he had to let me down gently. He said, essentially, “We’re having fun—but you don’t love me.”He then said something to me that has stuck with me since: “Don’t worry about it. You’re just a young queen, and I’m an old queen.” He was 33 and I was 27—it was ridiculous, really. But I understand now what he meant. He had experience; he’d been in New York. I had none. So naturally, I thought the first gorgeous man who was nice to me must be the one.I was heartsick for a while, but I got over it. I went to visit him in New York, and by then it was clear we were friends. I accepted that, because I wanted to know him. I wanted to be in his life.Not long after, I moved to San Francisco. He came to visit me there, and we took a trip to the Russian River. We stayed in a lodge that was known for people parking up above and picking each other up. We had a great time—just hanging out as friends.We stayed in touch over the years. I even saw him in After Dark magazine—a theatrical magazine with a very queer flavor. An older woman named Norma McLean Stoop interviewed him, and she was obviously as taken with him as I had been.I found the magazine at my corner store in San Francisco, and it made me feel like he was still part of my life. We’d talk on the phone occasionally. I would get a report on what he was doing and the soap operas he was working in, as well as the serious theatrical ventures. He was mostly a stage actor, but he made his bread and butter doing soap operas. Sadly, he died of AIDS in 1985.Years later, I spoke with Barbara, who told me about the end. When he was too weak to get out of bed, she came to him and said, “Come on, darling, we’ve got to go to the hospital.” It was said in a very loving and resigned way that seemed totally like her and totally like him as well. I love knowing that she was with him—that he had a great old friend to be with him at the moment he left the world. In 1994, I was at Stonewall 25 in New York. Ian McKellen was performing a show called A Knight Out, reminiscing about his life. I’d known Ian since the ’80s, so it was quite a shock when he spoke about Curt Dawson as someone he had fallen for when he was young.Ian had met him when he was just out of Cambridge, and Curt was just out of RADA. They’d done an amateur production together. This was before Ian was getting any professional work. Ian really fell for this all-American boy from Kansas—Russell, Kansas—and said Curt had serenaded him with “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.” It had an effect. He’d been completely charmed by him and I think he fell in love with him for a brief time. After the show, I went backstage and said, “I can’t believe it—Curt Dawson—we have that in common.” And Terrence McNally, the famous playwright who was there in the room too, said, “Oh yes, me too.” Meaning he had also been smitten with Curt. After that, we jokingly referred to Curt as “Lover Zero,” because everything seemed to trace back to him. He broke a few hearts along the way, but never in a way that would be considered cruel. It was always done with love and tenderness.I’m so grateful to Curt, all these years later, because he opened my heart to the possibility of love. The fact that he did that for others too only confirms what a wondrous soul he was.I’m so happy he helped me move beyond the sense of shame, the thing that I had lived with since I was a boy. And of course, San Francisco helped me put an end to that once and for all when I arrived there shortly thereafter.Thank you for coming along today and listening to me ramble. I really appreciate it—and I hope I’ll see you next time.I don’t know the credit for some of the images in this post—if you know the source or are the photographer, please let me know. Thanks, Chris This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of the video: When I was a little boy, I had a terrible recurring nightmare. It wasn’t about a specific thing—it was just a kind of feeling, a sort of thrumming in my head that scared the hell out of me. And inevitably I would end up going into my parents’ bedroom and crawling in between them to feel safe from that nightmare.Then I developed the technique of telling myself a story at bedtime to get to sleep. It’s really where my serial fiction began in that form. I would tell a story and then make it continue the next night. I’d usually have a couple of stories going at the same time.I remember one was set in Florida, in Tarpon Springs—or at least that’s where the movie was set. I saw something called Beneath the 12 Mile Reef that really affected me in terms of making me fascinated by the undersea world. It was about these Greek-American fishermen who were going underwater with those big steel diving helmets, and it just made me think about the whole world of the undersea.The other one was something I called The Secret Crossroads, which was inspired by the Hardy Boys, really. A lot in those days was inspired by the Hardy Boys.I still tell myself stories sometimes at night. It’s an old habit, and I haven’t broken it easily. But that’s where most of my stories came from—from that habit of putting myself to sleep, a sort of self-hypnosis when I was a little boy.So storytelling really came first. Writing kind of crept up on me.I kept a diary when I was nine years old in which I recorded all sorts of useless information—but I still have that diary somewhere. I would write about movies I had seen and what I’d had for lunch. It was all over the place, really.I would write about my friend Bobby Ballance who, on the bus with me, would make up stories about mysterious murder cases and how we were going to solve them. Bobby was the only person I knew who had a tape recorder—a reel-to-reel recorder—and we would go over to his house and record the clues on the tape recorder.About the same time, I took shirt cardboards from my father’s shirts and used them as things I could write on, and I created a comic book called Little Tallulah, which was a merger of the two things I loved most: Little Lulu, the comic, and Tallulah Bankhead.As a child I would hear Tallulah Bankhead on the radio doing her “Big Show”, and I loved her. She had a voice that was as deep as a man’s, and a very warm way about her that was appealing to me as a little boy.At Ravenscroft School—which is where I went to grade school—I had a teacher named Mrs. Robertson. She brilliantly gave us an assignment called Word Pictures, where she would give us a postcard and ask us to describe what we saw in the postcard.She gave one to me which evoked a whole story about the Old West—a saloon at night with lights coming out of the window—and I built a story around it. I wrote about a piano tinkling at night, footsteps on the path, and a mysterious stranger coming into town. It started to build my imagination.I count her as one of my first really serious influences when it comes to telling stories—to writing. She read my story aloud to the class, which thrilled me and made me very proud.I wrote a story in the seventh grade about a boy that’s fixating on a girl—a beautiful girl in his class—and he thinks of her as a goddess, really, until he discovers that she has a vaccination mark, you know, a sign of her human nature. I was obviously trying to talk myself out of having a romance with anybody… I must have been dealing with that.But the person who really made a difference to me was Mrs. Phyllis Peacock, who was my senior English teacher.We’ve all had one of those teachers—or if we were lucky, you’ve had one of those teachers—that you remember all your life, and who changed the way you think and work and create.A lot of people thought she was kind of a loony because she was melodramatic. She would jump on a chair to make a point. But I thought she was charming—and the fact that she liked me had something to do with it, I suppose.She had two other students, Anne Tyler and Reynolds Price, both of whom became famous writers, and she was always telling me that she thought of me in the same way—that I could do that.She singled me out, in other words, and paid special attention to me. And while it must have annoyed the hell out of some of the other students, it charmed me and made a difference.I think she sensed that I was a bit of a wallflower—maybe even a prude—and so she gave me an assignment to explain the origins of the maypole.I had no idea what that meant, but I went home and asked my parents and saw great embarrassment in their faces… they couldn’t talk about it. So my mother left an Encyclopaedia Britannica on my bed with it open to “Maypole,” where it explained that it was a phallic symbol.So I went in to talk to Mrs. Peacock the next day, and she sat there, eyes twinkling, while I explained about penises and whatever symbolism was involved. She knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted to get that out of me—I look at it as an act of benevolence now.So the big finale for the year was a stage performance that we would do in the theater of the high school. I was comfortable with this because I had already been in the production of The Desperate Hours at the Raleigh Little Theatre—a grown-up play where I was the little boy on stage. The hardest part about being in that play was coming in with a football and throwing it around as if I knew what to do with it.So Sarah Pierce and I, a classmate, were assigned to do this performance that I called Sleep in Literature. We dressed all in white. We made columns out of Pine State Creamery ice-cream cartons—made Corinthian columns—and we read “The Lotus Eaters” by Tennyson.At the end of the reading, I looked out into the audience to see what kind of response I was getting, and Mrs. Peacock was feigning sleep. Her head was over to one side… and then she very melodramatically woke up.It was her way of telling me that it was doing exactly what I thought it would do—that she had fallen asleep in the course of listening to my poem.She was one of those rare teachers who really inspired me to do better—to create, to write, really.She died when she was in her nineties in 1998, I believe. And I certainly didn’t keep up with her at that point, but she lives in my memory so vividly. And a lot of other writers as well—not just writers, but people who loved her—remember what she was like, how inspirational she was, and how much she cared about what she did. It was an amazing thing to be a part of.The last time I saw her was when I went back to Raleigh for a book signing. I was signing a book for a couple of leather queens in full regalia when I looked up and there was Mrs. Peacock behind them, sort of twiddling her fingers at me and letting me know that she was there.It’s a perfect last memory of her, really.I was so blessed to have her—as well as my English grandmother—to be a kind of fairy godmothers to me in my youth. I don’t know what I would have done without them. They made a difference.So the person I turned out to be, for better or worse, was greatly due to those women, and I shall always be grateful that I had them in my life.Thank you all for coming along, and I’ll see you next time.A bit more about Phyllis Peacock (1904-1998):Reynolds Price who won the National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction wrote of Mrs. Peacock- “She was a formidable guardian at the gates of good old censorious, rule-ridden, clear English and a magical teacher who worked a sort of inexplicable voodoo on her students.”Anne Tyler who won the Pulitzer Prize for her novel Breathing Lessons, dedicated her first novel - “To Mrs. Peacock, For everything you've done. Anne.” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of the video: I moved to San Francisco in 1971. I got a job with the Associated Press. They first offered me Buffalo, and I had several people tell me that Buffalo was one place you don’t want to shuffle off to. So I turned them down. I was very disappointed, but I didn’t think I could handle Buffalo.A few days later they came back and said, “We’ve just had an opening in San Francisco. Would you like to go there?” So I leapt at that one, of course.I drove across the country in my little Opel GT — a ridiculous car, very tiny. You practically had to lie down to drive it. Along the way I stopped in Clinton, Iowa, to visit my friend Tom Nielsen, who had been in what we called “the commune” in Vietnam. While we were having dinner with his parents, a call came in from the White House saying they wanted Tom to come there for an event, a meeting with the president. And by the way, did they know where Armistead Maupin was? So they got two birds with one stone. It was very exciting that I was going to be invited to the White House.I guess I was just full of myself. I went to Washington to meet with Richard Nixon and bragged about it when I got back to San Francisco to anybody who would listen — which was not many people. They were mostly horrified. It would be like saying today that you’d met with President Trump. It was just that bad.I was a young conservative. I’d grown up that way. I didn’t realize how different it was in San Francisco, how people didn’t feel that way there, for the most part. I had never been around a liberal community, and I didn’t realize how much I was about to change because of living there, because of knowing the people who lived there.I found a place off Lafayette Park in a little Victorian. A pretty little place. I had a parrot at the time — I’d forgotten about that parrot — a real pain in the ass. He could say about two things: “How are you?” And I think that was about it. He drove me crazy, constantly taking my temperature.I discovered that Lafayette Park was a place where gay men hung out at night, and I had a few adventures there because it felt so random and anonymous. Eventually I found a more permanent place to live over on Russian Hill. I had the top-floor flat — I called it the “pentshack”, because it was a little house on the roof. Very small, but it had this breathtaking view.There in the pentshack I came to the realization that I had landed in a beautiful place, a magical place, where the people were really nice and I felt quite free all of a sudden. I hung a picture of me shaking hands with Nixon on the wall, and it was amazing how many people came in and looked horrified. What was I doing with that? How did I have this nefarious connection?I had people who helped me adjust to the new city in a very nice, understanding way. Peggy Knickerbocker was one — still my friend after all these years. She showed me places, we did things together, and she was so funny and sweet. Another was Jan Fox, this flaming redhead who, in a way, inspired Mona Ramsey. I was picking little pieces out of the air as I was there, trying to find my story.I remember making a vow to myself that I would not go into a gay bar. That didn’t last very long. I discovered the town was full of queers, and I wanted to meet some of them. At first the bars were on Polk Street. I didn’t get over to the Castro for a number of years.In Charleston I had had sex a couple of times — well, maybe more than a couple — with people I picked up on the Battery. But I’d never really marched into a gay bar and had a good time. It was always about how do you meet people and how do you keep it quiet. San Francisco was a revelation. There were bars everywhere on Polk Street, and it was easy to meet people. I quickly began to realize it wasn’t something I needed to keep quiet.When I stammered and was hesitant about the secret I had to tell Jan Fox, I said, “I’m gay.” And she said, “Big f*****g deal. Half of our friends are gay.” That was the biggest eye-opener of all. I needed to relax into myself. And that’s what I began to do.Talk about born again — I was born again in the sense that I was really feeling like a human being for the first time. Truth would set me free. Pretty soon I was confessing to everybody. Cab drivers would hear my story because I wanted to be honest, wanted to be truthful.Very early on I made up my mind that I wanted to have a lover, some permanent person in my life. I didn’t let go of that for the longest time, and it took the form of making some bad choices. They tended to be kind of stuffy and conservative — not the kind of person I’d want to be with anymore. It didn’t matter in the long run that I was unsuccessful at falling in love. I could find sex, and that was a brand-new substitute for everything.It was as if I had landed in a world where everything was possible. Sometimes there were rude awakenings, but most of the time it was a grand adventure because everybody was out looking — for somebody for the night or for life. We were all looking at the same time. It was exhilarating to be part of.There were a lot of people like me, agreeing that they could change the world by telling the truth about themselves. There was great power in that — and power in the numbers we had. It was less a scary proposition than coming out in the Midwest, for instance. It was gay heaven, and it inspired most of us to do something about it.There was a freshness then to a gay pride march. It wasn’t about commercial enterprises showing up. It was fresh and new and inspirational. We felt we were inventing our freedom. I don’t want to exaggerate it, but it was pretty great. I think it’s inspired marches ever since.I think back on the people I knew — Gilbert Baker was one. I used to buy pot at his house. He invented the gay pride flag, which we see everywhere now. And of course there was Harvey Milk, who really put a brave face on being a queer. He wore suits and ties and knew he had to be an example from the very beginning. Harvey and I used to do events together — anything that required a queer to be present, we’d both be there. We had him for such a short time. Such a short time. Among my lesbian friends were Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon, pioneers of the movement. But it has to be said that for a long time gays and lesbians weren’t in the same boat together. We simply weren’t. I knew that wasn’t a good thing. I was building a story in the Chronicle in which lesbians figured prominently. It took AIDS, really, for the communities to come together.Many lesbians were heroic about stepping into the breach and supporting dying brothers. It was amazing to see, and I think it inspired many of us to get rid of any reservations we had. I didn’t have any at all. I think I understood what lesbians were and I wanted to celebrate them in my work. But it took that crisis to bring us all together and to get over ourselves.We tend to break into little camps and see a narrow version of the world as opposed to the inclusive one we claim to believe in. I think lesbians stepping forward in support of dying gay men touched many people and helped them see what was important.That was a special time. We had a lot to learn about ourselves, but you could feel the movement growing. Even though it was taken away from us with AIDS, it wasn’t really. Many people felt they were being punished because of the good times we had. That breaks my heart to think that anybody ever took that route.I’m grateful to have had that time and that place and that experience because it helped shape me. I learned what I could be and what I had to do to keep on being that. Those few euphoric years before AIDS showed me how beautiful life could be. And I still believe it, in spite of everything that fucked us in the end. I still believe in our goodness, in the rightness of what we’re fighting for.And I know that the work we did then has paved the way for everything today. These gay-straight alliances in high schools, for heaven’s sakes. The way the culture has changed, in terms of understanding who we are. It all started with people wanting to tell the truth back then, and who kept on telling it in spite of the fact that a terrible epidemic came along. The exhilaration we felt has infected everything in modern life. We are better because of those early days of ultimate freedom.I’m so grateful I moved to San Francisco when I did, that I hit that moment in history to be a gay man. If it hadn’t happened, I would be quite a different man today. I probably would have found my way out one way or another — maybe not in North Carolina. San Francisco taught me who I could become, and I’ve lived in that joy and freedom all these years.I was a lucky b*****d to have found San Francisco when I did. It changed who I became completely. It affected my work. It affected so many things in my life. I was very, very blessed to have come along when I did.So thank you for coming along on this visit. I appreciate it very much. I’ll see you soon. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of the video:“Well, I’m back.As some of you may already know, I fell down those stairs over there on Christmas Eve — fifteen stairs — and it’s taken me a while to recuperate. I had three weeks in the hospital — the lovely hospital, NHS care — and then another nine days in the Cotswolds. Chris was scheduled for a ski trip out of town, and I didn’t want him to miss out on that. So I went up there, which is not a bad place to be. It’s really beautiful. My sister’s there, so we would go out and have lovely meals in pubs three or four times that week.Then I came back here, and I’m gradually on the mend. I’m told that the bones — the ribs that were broken — are getting better. So yes, I don’t want to bore you with that anymore. But I’m glad to be back, and I’m glad to be telling you a few more stories.It’s nice seeing signs of spring here in London. The bluebells and the daffodils are poking their heads up, and that’s an encouraging sight. I really have looked forward to this time of year living here, because it’s different. You can really feel the departure of winter. Not completely yet — it’s still cold as hell, especially in this house, which isn’t very well insulated — but anyway, it’s nice to be back and have your company again.I really appreciate everybody who contacted me with concern after my accident. That was really appreciated. I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad I’m here.I’m grateful, too, to the friends who came just to hang out with me here at the house. Among them were Lord Cashman — Michael Cashman — and Richard Lloyd Morgan, our friend the vicar, who was very sweet and easy to be with.And of course, my husband, Christopher, who was just a marvel during all of this, anticipating my needs. He still is, as a matter of fact, because some of the aches haven’t gone yet. But it’s wonderful having someone who’s so tuned in to how I’m feeling. It’s one of the great joys of having a husband, I suppose.So thank you so much for being here and keeping me company in your own way, allowing me to do these talks. You’ll be hearing a lot more from me — and from Chris. We’re so happy to be back.I’m happy to be back.And thanks for tuning in.” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of the video: Well… it’s that time of the year again, when we’re all being forced into a state of jollity and merriment, whether we like it or not.I have done that myself in Tales of the City, celebrating a Christmas spent at Barbary Lane. I’m less likely to do it nowadays because I see it as the myth that it is. It’s not… it’s not what I need.What I need is what I get right now, which is love and peace and a state of overall contentment, because I’m with the people I love. That’s all that matters.And if you don’t have any people to love—if you’re just sitting at home right now—rest assured that I’m with you. I’m here with you right now, wishing you the best. And not because it’s Christmas or Hanukkah or anything else, but because that’s what we deserve this year, because of all the torture that’s happened in the world.It’s hard enough to do anything these days but complain, so I’m trying not to do that. My complaints will come later—probably—but right now I just wish you a peaceful, happy, and joyful part of the year.We all deserve that. And we all should believe in that. Whoever we are, whatever religion we are, there’s a time here for us to find peace in the world.It’s the coldest time of the year in most places, and that’s one of the reasons for the holiday—to stave that off. The lights, the colored lights, all of that. It’s wonderful to see them here in London when we drive into town. It’s not what I rely on, but it’s nice to have.What we need to have, no matter what, is a sense of peace and contentment with the life we’ve been given.Christopher Isherwood, my old mentor, once said, “I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of not having lived.” And that is very much my philosophy. I’ve tried to live my life to the fullest and not complain about things so much. Sometimes I’ve succeeded; other times I haven’t—but that’s what I aim for.Especially in these times, it’s easy to become paralyzed, to shut down completely because of all the wickedness in the world. And we must not do that. We must hang on to something we believe in and not succumb to the instinct to shut up, to be quiet.There are a lot of people who would love people like me to shut up and be quiet—but I’m not going to do it. As long as I’ve got a breath in me, I’ll be saying what I believe and wishing the same for others.What I wish for you right now is a lovely holiday of some sort. You don’t have to leave home to do it. You don’t have to be with somebody else to do it. You can be by yourself at home and still celebrate.The main thing is to find peace in your heart, and rely on that.Pet your dog.Pet your cat.Go out and buy a dog or a cat.I’m a great believer in the therapy of animals.And know that there’s love coming in your direction from me. Know that I’m here right now wishing you the best of times.That’s all, really.Love you. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of the video: “Hey there.I recently read that the Marina Safeway in San Francisco is about to be demolished—not by Trump, who seems to be a specialist in this—but by an equally greedy corporation that wants to put up a 790-unit apartment building, 85 of which are designated for low-income people.That’s good news. But the plan they’ve put in place is this enormously high thing right there on the waterfront.And I admit that my attachment to a grocery store is sentimental as much as anything, because Tales of the City began—the very first episode of Tales, the one that appeared in the Pacific Sun before I started writing for the Chronicle—hinged on a young woman going to the Marina Safeway, trying to pick up a guy, and ending up meeting a gay man there: Michael Tolliver.So it’s got a very sentimental attachment for me. I mean, you know, over the years I’ve celebrated the Marina Safeway.Some people are divided, rather, in San Francisco. Some people say, ‘Well, we need it. We need affordable housing,’ especially down there where you can’t get anything for less than $3,000 a month. And others are saying it’s a monstrosity that’s too big and too ugly and doesn’t need to happen.I tend to side with people who don’t like greedy developers. I’ve learned that over the years. When they come in to do something, they can f**k up a place very badly.On the other hand, Chris and I moved to London because the rental properties had gotten so out of hand. It’s far, far cheaper to live in London than it was to live in San Francisco. Londoners don’t believe that, but it was true for us.So that was part of our motivation for leaving, and I sympathize with people who want more affordable housing in San Francisco.It’s up to you to figure out what that means—especially those of you who live closer to the Marina Safeway than I do these days.Ezra Klein tells us that he believes one of the problems with liberals—and I consider myself one, and he’s one too—is that we oppose housing projects. And one of the big issues we have is that there’s not enough affordable housing.So there has to be an answer to that somehow or other, and for all I know, this could be it.I’m not asking you to have a sentimental attachment to the Marina Safeway, but I think it’s worth discussing the whole thing. It is a bit of a monstrosity, from the pictures I’ve seen.And so I’d like to know what you think. If you want to pipe up on that subject—if you’re a San Franciscan especially—let me know.”Here’s an article on the proposed development: Marina Residents Erupt Over Giant 25-Story Tower Plan for Beloved Safeway This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of the video:Today I’d like to tell you about my friendship—relationship, whatever you want to call it—with Rock Hudson.It began, as many gay stories begin, with a friend of a friend introducing us. I had met Jack Coates in the desert in Palm Springs when I went down for what I thought was a gallery opening in which Rock would be in attendance. A friend of mine and I thought that would be a good thing to go to. And he wasn’t there.We ended up in the desert with everybody but Rock Hudson—all these people who knew him and many who loved him. And I fell in the sack with a guy named Jack Coates, who had been Rock’s partner for years—lover, I think we called him back then. He’d been his lover for four or five years, and I could see why. Jack was an amazingly charismatic guy: very charming, balding—maybe even bald at that point—and he had chest hair that was architectural in its swirliness.We became friends. I thought I was in love, and he was very tactfully making it clear that we weren’t. He was actually dating a diver from the Berkeley swim team, whom I met subsequently through him. Anyway, you don’t need to know all this—stream of consciousness here.Jack took me to San Bernardino to see a production of John Brown’s Body that Rock was starring in. Even then I thought it was pretty awful. Rock was supposed to die, and when he hit the stage it was like a timber falling. He was just this big, loud whomp. It was not the best play, and I think he was told it was an artistic thing and he should do it, so he did it.Afterwards there was a line to meet him. Jack led me back into this interior hallway leading up to Rock’s dressing room. At the moment I got to Rock and shook his hand, the lights went out. The only thing I could think to say was, “Well, this is certainly the opportunity of a lifetime.” He laughed in the dark. And that’s where our friendship began. That was the moment for me. I don’t know whether he felt anything at all.Some months later I got the call that Rock was coming to San Francisco, and he put together a group of men to hang out with him. I was among them, and he really surprised me by standing up and saying, “I have a little reading I want to do.”He had been down to the newsstand at the Fairmont Hotel and obtained a copy of the Bulldog edition of the San Francisco Chronicle—the one that came out the night before. He stood up and read the first chapter of Tales of the City. He knew I had written something, and he went through the trouble of figuring out what it was. He was a little drunk at the time, but it was charming. And I think he kind of figured it would get me into bed—and it did.The next night, as a matter of fact, he and his partner, Tom Clark, invited me to join them at La Bourgogne, this very fancy restaurant in the Tenderloin. We talked about—he knew I was an activist, a gay activist—and the subject came up of when and how he was going to come out. I offered to write the story for him. I said, “I could do it. I’m the guy to do it, really, because I’m out and I know you.”His partner got a terrible look on his face and said, “Not until my mother dies.” That was a peculiar thing to say, I thought. Anybody who was f*****g Rock Hudson would be very proud for his mother to know it.At the end of that evening we headed up the hill to the hotel. Tom kind of flaked out and said he was too tired and was going to bed. So Rock and I caught a cable car together. It was fascinating to watch how the crowd reacted when they saw who he was. They were like, “It’s Commissioner McMillan,” which was the role he was playing at the time on McMillan & Wife.We got back, found Tom already passed out in the bedroom, and Rock and I sat at opposite ends of the living room making conversation. Finally he said, “Well, I should be over there or you should be over here,” which was the only signal I required.We were having a grand old time making out, but I wasn’t up to the task in any way. It was just too intimidating. There was too much clouding it all for me. Finally he came over and sat next to me and said, “You know, I’m just a guy like you.” And I said, “No, you’re not, and I’m Doris Day.”We had a bit of a laugh. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that, but it was the first time I’d gotten a chance to say it.We had better success on subsequent visits—to his home in L.A., which was called The Castle, and at the house in San Francisco. Chris was surprised to hear this. He thought my only part of the story was that I couldn’t get it up and that was that. But we had several other shots at it, and we did pretty well.He did have a legendarily large penis. It wasn’t the prettiest one I’d ever seen, but it was the biggest.Most of all, what you need to know about Rock was that he was a very sweet man. He seduced the world by being so kind and attentive. He thought everybody should have a lover. He had Tom Clark, who I thought was the world’s worst lover because he was such a b***h—so grumpy and bossy with Rock.Rock made it his mission to see that I found a lover. Back in those days, a lover was a husband. That’s what he wanted for me. When he heard that I’d met somebody and gone on a Princess cruise—on The Love Boat, no less—he insisted on meeting me at the dock. He drove down to San Pedro and met us there.I’ll never forget the look on this woman’s face when she asked who was meeting me. I pointed and said, “That tall guy down there.” And she said, “Oh my God, that’s Rock Hudson.” I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy that. I did.He felt like confirmation of what I’d always believed gay life could bring you. It had brought me Rock Hudson, at least as a friend. I had been a fan of his for many years—from Giant to Pillow Talk and Lover Come Back. Those Doris Day movies all made me love him.To find myself in a frisky friendship with him was astounding. I wrote about it in my diary—what it felt like to be at the Castle and to be his confidant. He had famous pool parties with gorgeous men—never too young; he liked men over 30, thank God. I was 32, and Jack Coates was 32.At one party a PR man named Warren Seabury showed up with Michelle Phillips, thinking he could crash it. Rock said, “He’s brought a woman with him.” I had to go deal with it. When I realized it was Michelle Phillips, I was dumbstruck. I told her the truth—that Rock had asked to have the thirty most gorgeous men in town meet him. She was a great sport and said she’d given those instructions herself.Despite all this, I was troubled by the Hollywood closet and what it required of him. I was often asked to leave when Liz Taylor or Nancy Walker came by. His closest friends—his logical family—were George Nader and Tom Clark. They went out in odd numbers with briefcases so it looked like a business meeting.My world was San Francisco, where people were out and unashamed. Rock and his circle were terrified of exposure, especially with Confidential magazine always circling. His agent even sold out other stars to protect him. It was an evil place to be.Eventually it strained our friendship. I stopped calling and let it go. I was becoming more famous myself and didn’t want a secret friendship.When he was diagnosed with AIDS, Randy Shilts asked me to comment. I did, saying he was a good man and that everyone in Hollywood knew he was gay. I didn’t realize how much backlash I’d get. People accused me of breaking a code. The word “outing” didn’t even exist yet.But Chris has told me that hearing the news as a teenager made a huge difference in his life. It gave him strength. That’s what I hoped would happen.Later I learned that when Rock hired a biographer, he told her I was the first person she should visit. That meant everything to me. I never saw him again. But he received tens of thousands of fan letters saying they loved him just as he was.He became a pioneer. He owned his truth in the end. I’m grateful I knew him, and I still get a shiver watching his movies—now with an understanding that makes all those jokes make sense.I treasure that memory, and I’d like to think I made a difference in his life, even if it wasn’t the way he planned.Thanks for coming along today, and I look forward to the next time we meet. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of the video: Welcome back to our second Ask Me Anything feature.The questions we didn’t get to the first time around, I’m going to try to answer now.This one comes from Steve Zack:“I’d enjoy hearing Armistead recount a bit his experiences/memories/thoughts on being young and living in San Francisco in the heyday of gay pride and dating and sex and fun and friendship.”Well, you kind of summed it up right there. But we’re going to do a longer feature where I talk about all these things. It really was a golden age — that little window before AIDS came, and when I was out of the closet. So we’ll do a separate video on that.This is from Richard Jones:“Will there be any more adventures from Mona and Wilfred?”No. Easy answer. I’m done with them. I’m done with the whole thing, actually.I built Mona of the Manor so it could fit into the middle of the whole series and answer those questions that people had about Mona, and I feel like we know what they are now.Frankly, I’m getting to the point where I feel like I can’t write anymore. It’s not that anything’s happening to me mentally, but I’m just burned out on it, and I don’t want to do it anymore.That’s why I’m here right now, talking to you over this machine. I have trouble typing, and I have trouble seeing. I have cataracts that have got to be worked on sometime very soon. And so that leaves me in close-up with Netflix.I wish I could help, but that’s the way it is.This one’s from Bill Moore from Columbia, PA:“Until Mona of the Manor it really seemed like you’d dropped Mona cold from Tales. Was she based on someone from your life? Was there a reason that Mona faded the way she did? What made you decide to give her a new chapter after all? Chloe Webb really nailed it for me. Did she personify Mona for you? Was there a reason she didn’t return as Mona in the second two series?Sorry for the Monapalooza!”Oh my God — my motives on Mona. I had no motives whatsoever. I didn’t mean to leave her out in the cold and was happy to bring her back in.Chloe Webb did a wonderful job. She created Mona in a way — the Mona that everybody remembers. She could be a pain in the ass, I must say that. I can’t give you specific reasons why she sometimes was, but we thought it was worth it to put up with her because she did such amazing stuff.I wish she’d come back. I really wanted Chloe back for the second series, but we just couldn’t work it out. For starters, she wanted more money than any of the other actors were paid. She felt she deserved that because of her position, having made a couple of movies. But we couldn’t accommodate that. We didn’t want to accommodate that.I begged her to work with us, but it just wasn’t going to happen. She was having a hard time in her life at that point, and it just didn’t happen. I missed having her there a lot — but that’s the deal with television. Actors come to you with all sorts of demands.Mona has always been one of my favorite characters, if not my favorite, because she embodies… well, she does so many things that I do. You can figure out what those are. I was really happy to have Mona come back for Mona of the Manor because there are so many things about her that remind me of me. I get to be cranky sometimes, as she does. That was fun.She’s always been one of my favorite characters, so thank you for asking about her.Here’s a more serious question from Pablo Simon in Manchester, UK:“Just wondering how you feel about the rise of the far-right in the UK?”Well, I think you can guess what my feelings are about Nigel Farage and company. It’s really disturbing — especially since it echoes things that are happening in the States, and I suppose worldwide. We may be in for a hard one.I hope Britain comes to its senses and doesn’t follow in the steps of the U.S. right now, but who knows? We have to keep fighting the good fight no matter what. So that’s my answer.And now from Philippe Metge:“Hello from a French fan!Just knowing what’s happening in your country, do you think the LGBTQ should fight harder, leave if they can or grit their teeth, arch their backs, hoping that it goes away fast! How do you keep humour and wits in such an atmosphere? Here in Europe we fear for all our gay friends in US to be honest!”Well, that’s lovely to hear from a French person. I do too. I fear for friends back home that are still there.You don’t get to escape it by moving to another country — it’s pretty much everywhere. We’re seeing it on the Tube. We keep up with things, in other words, and you can sweat the dangers and try not to let them rule you.Chris and I are doing political pieces precisely because we want our voice to still be heard. This is the only voice I have left, really — doing these Substack pieces and letting my thoughts be heard as an 81-year-old queer who fears for his brothers and sisters.We need to make our voices heard, and that’s what we’re trying to do in the little way we can. Everybody else out there can do the same.In the end, we have to just let it go. The reason it’s scary is that they’re trying to scare us — they’re trying to make us back down. And we cannot do that. We cannot cave in to that fear. Just make our voices heard whenever we can. Speak out. Act up. Whatever.This is from Michel Dumont in Thunder Bay — which I assume is Canada.He writes:“In the early 90s I found in Thunder Bay an autographed copy of Maybe the Moon at my local book store. I’ve always cherished this book but I’ve always wondered how a signed copy ended up way up north ? Did you have multiple signings and then distribute them? Your novels were in our gay and lesbian center where I volunteered as a phone line counselor in ‘86. Thanks for this chance to ask a question I’ve had for decades. Big gay mukwa hugs.”I don’t know how it got there. That’s the wonderful thing about books — they’re mobile. You can stay in a motel where somebody leaves it in a bedside table and pick it up and read it.Most likely, whenever I do a book signing, the bookstores ask me to sign extra copies. It must have been one of those books that made its way to Thunder Bay. I can’t even begin to theorize about it, and I won’t.So thank you, Michelle from Thunder Bay — and thank you to everyone else who’s tuned in. That’s such an old-fashioned term, isn’t it? “Tuned in.” I can’t help it.I talked to a reporter today. She asked me what “nelly” meant, and I said, “You don’t know what nelly means? It’s an effeminate gay man.” She said she’d never heard that. I asked her how old she was. Twenty-seven. So there’s our failure to communicate.But I like to think there’s enough in Tales for people to relate to that I don’t have to do that.Thank you for tuning in, and I’ll see you next time. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

We weren’t able to answer all of your questions in this first segment, but we’ll get to more in next week’s AMA video. Stay tuned Steve, Richard, Pablo, Philippe, and Michel — your answers are coming soon, with even more to follow the week after (Joseph, Mike, Randy and more). Here’s a transcript of this video:We’ve started a new Ask Me Anything feature on the Substack thingy, and we’ve gotten some questions from people out there in the great beyond. Thank you to all of you who’ve sent things in. This will be a regular feature, so you’ll have other opportunities to ask. I hope there are some rude questions.This first one is from Monica in Macon, Georgia.“I’m putting together a panel on his work for the Society for the Study of Southern Literature’s spring conference. Inspired by the exchange in the Netflix series, when Anna Madrigal says she has practically memorized Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man is Hard to Find, I’d like to know if Armistead enjoys the southern gothic—whether Flannery O’Connor or others. Does he consider his writing as part of this tradition? It certainly has had its gothic moments!”Well, yes it does — and I’d be honored to be considered part of that tradition. I’ve never particularly thought of myself as being Southern Gothic in the way those great writers are, but I’ve certainly been influenced by them. I’ve felt them in my life. The presence of Tennessee Williams has always been there, and I think all Southerners have something in common with him in that way.Do I enjoy it? Yes. Do I consider myself part of that tradition? Well… it certainly has its Gothic moments — yes, it does. And I suppose I got that from Southern Gothic writers. I don’t know. It’s hard to attach yourself to a tradition that’s rooted in another place.I suppose some of my Gothic stuff came from the South. I’m from the South, so it’s certainly part of who I am, and it must come out in my writing somehow.I actually wrote an essay when I was in high school decrying these writers — hating them — because they felt like traitors to the South to me because of the stories they told. That’s how far gone I was.Years later, it was wonderful that I had an opportunity to meet Tennessee Williams. We were both invited to some gallery south of Market Street in San Francisco. I remember it being very over-lit — painfully.The look on his face was astonishing to me. He was surrounded by people who all tried to get in a picture with him, who wanted some of that glory, and he looked stricken. I thought: That is not an enviable position to be in.I went out into the parking lot and lay on a car there. It was a handy place to lie down. Tennessee Williams entered shortly thereafter and came over and joined me.He said, “Do you mind if we share your car?”And I said, “Well, it’s not my car.”We talked about nothing — the beauty of the moon and the sky and the temperature of the evening. It was really a non-conversation. But at the end of it all, I felt like I had met the soul of the man. That was a wonderful thing to have happen. I loved that he could strike up a conversation with a stranger like he did with me. I don’t think it had anything to do with my age… but it might have.Chris reminds me that I smoked a joint with Tennessee Williams — which does seem a noteworthy thing to say, to brag about — and maybe it made it easier for us to be in the moment. I don’t know.Chris asks (off camera): You mentioned earlier in your response that you railed against those writers as a young man? Was that because they were too liberal for you when you were a young conservative?Armistead: Yes — exactly. That’s what it was.I came to understand what he was writing about. I was unbearable, I think, in my youth — just unbearable.Thank you, Monica, for that question from Macon, Georgia. I wish you luck in your pursuits, and thank you for writing.The next one is from Alison Barrow, who’s a friend of mine — and also, by coincidence, my publicist at Penguin. We’ve known each other for many, many years now, and I feel quite close to her.“I would love to ask you about a favourite (anonymous) story from the many encounters with your fans over the years. I recall meeting a couple of beautiful men in line for an event with you about 10 years ago. I was chatting with a few people as they waited for their books to be signed. These two told us that they had first met while waiting to meet you at another event over five years previously. They had not known each other before. The queue was over an hour long. In that time they talked, shared their love of your writing, swapped stories. Five years on they were in line again. They had married the summer before. The most heart-tilting story. It has lived with me since that day. Can you share another?”God, that makes me a little misty. That’s very sweet. I love when people share their love for each other with me.Alison also asks if I have any other similar stories.I hesitate to talk about these because it just sounds kind of grand, but I do hear from a lot of people who say how much the books meant to them — that they came out of the closet, they became their true selves, that I saved their lives. I hear that a lot. I’m embarrassed already, but I do appreciate that, and I enjoy it when it happens. It’s amazing what it feels like. It’s quite exhilarating.I have a funny story for you — at least I think it’s funny.I met a couple of Frenchmen, as one tends to do when you hang out in a bar in the Marais, and we got drunk on pastis together. I invited them back to my hotel. I remember getting there was a bit of an ordeal because they were trying to avoid the Princess Diana tunnel — what they call the Princess Diana Tunnel, where she died, of course.But we got to my place, and we had a frolic, the three of us. And when it was over, one of them looked at the other and said, “You ask him.”The guy replied, “No, no, no — you ask him.”And it was back and forth like that. Finally I said, “For God’s sake, will one of you ask me what it is you want to ask me?”And one of them finally said:“Why did Mary Ann become such a b***h?”That is something fans of the books have always asked me. I don’t think she became a b***h. I liked her, actually, at the end — but she’s seen that way by some people.I feel like Mary Ann was a cautionary tale to myself — to not be enticed by fame or anything, to not be seduced by the world. And she sort of was, for a while there. So I was talking to myself, really.Thank you, Alison, for the question.And here’s the next one, from Gerald Wilkie in Charleston, South Carolina.“I’m enjoying BL Dispatches very much as well as Chris’ yoga instruction. Thanks for both!I’m curious about your decision to live in London and what, if anything, do you miss about the USA. I live near Charleston, SC, am disillusioned about our unending corrupt politics which does not respect anything but $$$ and try to understand how it came to be this way.”I loved Charleston myself when I lived there. It was a wonderful, beautiful place — a real charm.The decision to move to London was something Chris and I agreed on very early on. We had both spent time here. We both had happy memories — different eras of living here. And we wanted a new adventure — something we could do together that would be new and special and fresh. And I had old friends here anyway, so that made it even better.Part of our reason to move here was political. I did not like what was happening in the United States, and I didn’t want to spend my remaining years — I’m 81 now — living in that poisonous atmosphere.It was easy to live here because it’s a beautiful place. There are many beautiful people here. I love realizing that when I go down to the Sainsbury’s on the corner I can meet people of every race who are all friendly and have the basic gentility of Londoners in dealing with each other. It’s amazing to me.One of the things that affected the decision was the fact that both Chris and I have family members that have become vocally homophobic after years of knowing us. So that was all I needed to see. I don’t need to be part of that anymore. I don’t even need to cultivate those friendships — even if it is with family members, especially if it’s with family members, because they should know better.We’re very happy to be here, but we’re constantly hoping for a better America. I can do that from a distance.Next one: Andrea Stoeckel.“I have recently done a complete reread of all your books ( yes I am a huge fan like forever). Outside of Tales, what is your favorite of your books. And...which was better in your opinion: PBS or Netflix version of Tales”The Netflix version relied on a writer’s team, and they invented new storylines — some of which I think are wonderful, others of which didn’t land well with me, but I kept my mouth shut.My favorite book outside of Tales in my canon is Maybe the Moon. I think it was successful in a way the other books were not. It really nailed a feeling. You’ll have to read it yourself to see whether you think that’s true, but there’s a chance it’s going to be a movie soon — there’s some talk of it. I’m always dubious until these things come through, but there’s serious interest.Thank you, Andrea, for that question.We’ve discovered there may be more questions here than I can answer in one video, so we’re going to do a second video and try to answer the rest then. Thank you so much for writing in. I’ve enjoyed talking to you. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript for Armistead’s talk: “The inspiration for Anna Madrigal was initially a trans woman I discovered while living in Charleston, South Carolina. Well, I didn’t exactly discover her—she was a local character—but that’s where the concept first came to me. When it came time to actually create the character, though, I relied on someone else entirely: my grandmother, Marguerite Barton, whose spirit was very much that of Anna.When I knew her, my grandmother lived in Arlington, Virginia, in a little apartment complex. My parents would sometimes send me up to stay with her for a week or two when they went on holiday, and I was always glad they did, because I got a full dose of my Grannie—who was a very airy-fairy kind of person.She was an Episcopalian — an Anglican — but she believed in reincarnation and various other beliefs that were prevalent in the early part of the twentieth century in England. I loved being with her because she made all things seem possible to me. She read palms — she read my palm frequently — and would often tell me what was going on, though she was a little mysterious about it too. She told me she thought I was the reincarnation of her cousin Curtis — her bachelor cousin Curtis — her very creative bachelor cousin Curtis. Without actually spelling it out, she let me know that she knew where I was heading.I have very distinct memories of Grannie asking me what I wanted to be in life. I told her I wanted to be a lawyer like Daddy. She knew that was a lie from the beginning. She knew I didn’t have it in me. But she sort of closed my hand — she was reading my palm at the time — and patted it, saying, “We’ll get back to that, don’t you worry.” She knew me before I knew me. That’s the best thing I can say about her.The last time I saw her was in her rest home in Alexandria. I’d been warned she might not recognize me, and she didn’t—not at first. I said, “It’s Teddy, Grannie,” and she made polite conversation, but I could tell she didn’t know who I was. I dwelt, in a very morbid way, thinking I’d lost her finally.When words failed me completely, I put my hand out for her to read — because she knew what that meant. She took a look at my hand and said, “Teddy, you’re in your thirties now.” That was the best thing I ever heard her say. She knew me. And she knew me through my hand — amazingly.I shall never forget her. I never have. I’m not alone in that, either — there were a lot of kids. I was the oldest of her grandchildren, so I was one of the few to really remember her. But there were others who loved her just as much as I did, for their own reasons — because she sussed out what everybody wanted and needed, and she gave support.She gave me permission to be who I was going to be. I wasn’t even aware myself that I was queer, but she seemed to know it early on. I’ll always be grateful to her for giving me permission to be myself at a time when I lived under very rigid rules at home in North Carolina, with a conservative father. She was the person who showed me the way into the light, really.She’d been a suffragist in England, actually touring the country for women’s rights. I didn’t realize until near the end of her life that she had never married my grandfather. He left behind a wife and family in England to be with her in America. I can understand it—I’d have left anyone for her too. But it must have been a traumatic thing for everybody at the time. They settled in the mountains of North Carolina, which is how my father came to meet my mother. Later, after my grandfather died, Granny lived in Alexandria and took a job teaching elocution to Episcopal priests at the university there. I think she was perfectly suited for that — she was a brilliant public speaker, and she knew how to tell people how to do it.So when I had to create Anna Madrigal, I went for the sweetest person I knew — my grandmother. So many things about her were handy in creating Anna: the fact that she read my palm, did spooky things like that, and read the Bhagavad Gita, for heaven’s sake — which Anna did too. There are many, many similarities between my grandmother and Anna.So yes — I relied on my Grannie completely for the creation of that transgender character. I learned a little bit about transgender people from Dawn Langley Hall in Charleston, but Grannie was the heart and soul — the spirit — of Anna.It was easy, because I knew there had to be some trans people out there who would feel the same way she would, and behave the same way she did. I didn’t have to rely on a character who was unpredictable or unknown to me. She was the source of love for me — Grannie — and remained so throughout her life.Now that I live in England, I feel another connection with her — that I’m in the place where she started out. My entry into England was through an Exceptional Talent visa — such an embarrassing name — and I’m fond of teasing Chris that he’s an “Exceptional Talent Spouse,” which is what it says on his papers.But it was because of Grannie that I was able to get citizenship. When I was sworn in, I felt that connection to her.On that last visit, Grannie told me she knew she was on her way out. She said, “When I die, if you feel a little breeze in the room, you’ll know that’s me.” Well, I’d like to say I felt that breeze — I never did. But I connected with her to such a degree that I feel she’s always with me.She’s especially with me in the character of Anna Madrigal. She makes herself manifest in that character — and I’m really happy about that, because it means I’ll never lose her. It’s also the way I’ve been able to share my grandmother with the world.It makes me feel especially good that people know what she would do under any given circumstance.”Many thanks to Armistead’s sister, Jane Maupin Yates, for providing us with so many wonderful images of their grandmother to use in the video and this post. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Here’s a transcript of his talk: I’d like to have a few words today with my gay and lesbian brothers and sisters.I have noticed — on my page on Facebook and elsewhere — that there have been people who identify as gay or lesbian, but who think that entitles them to exclude trans people from the equation. I came from a time and a place where we were all talking about “LGBT,” and that meant including trans folk.Now, there are people who are telling me — oh, what is the line they use? “It’s not a binary situation.” You know… all of this is gobbledygook for people who want to exclude some people from the right to exist. And it would be shameful, on the part of anybody I know, to support that thesis.I can’t remember a time — since the beginning of the gay rights movement — when we weren’t in this together. It was not an alien thing to me to support trans folk. In fact, it made sense on some level, because they were a variation of our own experience that I couldn’t personally experience. But I understood their right to be who they are. And I realized that we were fighting against the same foes — the same people that hate us, hate the trans community.And, you know, Nigel Farage wants to eliminate the Equality Act in England. And in doing so, he would take away all of our rights. I mean — I shouldn’t have to appeal to your self-interest here. The point is that we are stronger together — always have been — and to settle back into some cozy, middle-class sense of what we are as a gay or lesbian person, and not include trans people, is a really bad mistake. And it’s an unkindness, frankly, that you can’t be guilty of.“We are stronger together — always have been — and to settle into some cozy middle-class sense of what we are as gay or lesbian people, and not include trans folks, is a really bad mistake.”I don’t want anybody to be left out of the picture.And so here I am — this 81-year-old queer — asking you to do the same: to stand up and fight for trans people. And not just because we’re in it together, but because it’s the decent thing to do.The noise against trans folk has been greater than it’s been in years. And I think that’s why some gay men and lesbians are sort of chickening out and want to abandon trans people. We cannot do that. We have to stand up for everybody. And we have to realize that that’s where our strength comes from.So I hope we can fight this battle together — basically because that’s the only way we’re going to win. And I’ve long ago stopped worrying about winning, because I’m 81 years old, and who knows — there’ll still be a fuss going on after I’m dead — but I hope we’ll stay on the side of the good guys, our own side, and support trans folk whenever it’s necessary.It’s often necessary right now. That’s why I’m even saying this — because it’s the one fight that seems to be still up for grabs, and that is not the time to leave these people behind.We cannot do that. We must be good guys. We must be good queers. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe

Armistead was invited to the Oval Office when Richard Nixon was President (don’t worry, it’s not a moment he’s proud of). He reflects on what it was like being at the White House, as well as this physical manifestation of Trump tearing America apart. If you haven’t read the Maureen Dowd piece that came out yesterday on the subject, it’s a great read. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit armisteadmaupin.substack.com/subscribe