I spent the summer of 1986 working at the new Sheraton Plymouth Village Landing, overlooking the waterfront of America’s hometown. It was not a glamorous job, but the Sheraton held some cachet in my college mind, and I had wanted to work there more than anyplace else. I had visions of delivering room service and encountering sexy, secret rendezvous with alluring, inviting guests. Instead, I was a houseman—I vacuumed the lobby and hallways, polished the brass in The Pub, and emptied the trash from the executive offices.
It was perfect. Hours after hours of mindless, rote work where I could let my mind wander to anything I wanted. I mentally drafted poetry, mused over new song ideas, and designed a myriad of projects… all while my hands did other work. And at night, I left all the baggage of work and went home. I couldn’t have dreamed of a more perfect job.
That summer the Great Woods Center for the Performing Arts opened in Mansfield, Massachusetts—a new outdoor amphitheater built on the South Shore within easy access of Providence, Boston, and Cape Cod. The venue opened on June 13, 1986 with a performance by Yo-Yo Ma. Great Woods was the summer’s hottest ticket and would grow to feature nearly 80 concerts per season.
Four days after opening, Great Woods hosted The Pointer Sisters. Hot off their Grammys for “Automatic” and “Jump (For My Love),” they dominated radio with their hits like “I’m So Excited” and “Neutron Dance.” By some strange stroke of luck in a work contest, I happened to win tickets to their performance. I never won anything! I was elated. Until I was confronted by my fundamentalist father.
Of course, I couldn’t go, he lectured. I knew all they sang about, right?
I stood dumbfounded, because I obviously didn’t know what The Pointer Sisters sang about, I guess.
SEX.
There was no way I was going, period.
Little did I know, this would be my last summer at home… ever. That fall, I would crash and burn at school in a near nervous breakdown. Faced with ever more conservative parents, who secretly hid my financial aid forms instead of submitting them, I literally did not know how to cope. I returned to Plymouth—and the Sheraton—but couldn’t survive even 90 days under their suffocating roof. By spring, I would escape to Philadelphia.
This was 40 years ago. I’ve come a long way since then, but I still wish I had told my father to go to hell that summer. I’ve learned a lot of things over the years, including the power of owning yourself and your sexuality. Turns out, the power of self and the power of sex aren’t all that different. Today, I would have wiser, more time-proven words for him:
Sex is a survivor. Sex always finds a way. Sex is better than you.
Fuck yourself.
This letter has a companion episode. Listen here, or view the Episode Page for the weekly song links and any technical notes.
Episode 228: I Want a Man with a… Slow Hand