I. Quarantine Reading
It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but I wonder sometimes if my post-college life has just been one long struggle to re-learn how to read. When I say this, I’m not talking about the mechanics of reading or basic comprehension. I mean that it’s been hard to find ways to integrate reading just for the sake of reading into my daily life. Over the past 20 years, I know my eyes have done plenty of work: emails, work documents, news sites, social media, and so on. But for long periods of time, I would feel so mentally and emotionally drained at the end of the day that the last thing my brain wanted was to focus on any reading, even if it was for light entertainment.
Oh, I would try! If the topic held my interest, sometimes I would make headway. Weekends were easier, but then the work week would interrupt, and I would lose my focus. Or I’d press so hard to stay engaged that I wouldn’t retain much of what I took in. It was like my brain was just overstimulated with all the other necessities of life. Case in point: last summer I decided to re-read Michael Pollan’s bestseller, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, which I’d started many years ago but never finished. The bookmark I found on the page where I left off? A receipt dated May of 2008. Ouch.
Fresh Eyes in the Morning, Pages Keep Turning
Starting a Doctoral degree actually provided some relief, believe it or not, because I could make it my main job to do heavier academic reading and writing. Early on, I learned that if I wanted to successfully read a 500-page book every week (no exaggeration), I needed to hit it while my mind was fresh. So, I flipped my schedule and blocked mornings for the more intensive work. This proved to be pretty helpful, but as time moved on and I got past the written exams, that habit drifted away.
Since graduating in mid-2015, I’ve done a lot of reading related to my work: textbooks, journal articles, archival documents, and enough student papers to haunt my dreams from now to eternity. It’s been hard to keep a partition, however, between reading for work and reading for pleasure. If it’s something that might have bearing on the content of my book, I want to take notes, which means I have to follow the narrative line by line, check its sources, corroborate accounts, and so on. Reading for pleasure should be, well, more pleasurable, but the eyes and brain weren’t having it when I’d try to pick up a book in the evening for the fun of it.
In that sense, the COVID-19 pandemic, despite its dispiriting and disruptive duration, has provided a small silver lining for me. Early on, I made a decision to devote 30 minutes every morning to reading that’s not specific to any other work. That doesn’t mean the material doesn’t bear some relevance to those interests, since I tend to enjoy creative nonfiction and well-written history, especially involving LGBTQ communities. Half an hour isn’t a great deal of time, but it’s enough, especially when setting aside the glowing computer, phone, or tablet screen, to knock out a few pages. Moreover, it means that I get to sit with the same book for weeks at a time, rather than speeding through it to get to the next title. Somehow, I feel like that’s helped me find a longer-lasting familiarity with the subject matter.
II. Quarantine Writing
For an author, the two most immobilizing words in the English language must be these: “Write something.”
In the years I’ve spent developing this book, I’ve mostly stuck to the same formula. First, I would try to get all of my other work done for the week. Then, I’d block off the rest of my days for writing (or research, depending on what was in front of me). This preference was a major reason why I didn’t pursue a full-time position after finishing my Ph.D. I wanted more freedom and flexibility to set my own schedule, with fewer obligations like advising students or attending committee meetings. Until last year, this was mostly working pretty well, except for a few prolonged battles with writer’s block.
Now, you’d think a global pandemic that forces people to shelter at home would be a boon for someone like me to hunker down and churn out page after page, chapter after chapter. For a myriad of reasons, the reality has been a bit more complicated. From about mid-2020 onward, I was noticing that my cherished blocks of writing time were being nibbled away, slowly but steadily, by a variety of demands on my attention. So, I made a pact with myself this past New Year’s (I hate calling them resolutions), to make a small but necessary change to my routine. While I would still try to dedicate as many full days to working on the book as I could, I promised myself that, at a minimum, I’d spend at least 30 minutes a day on it, no matter what.
The idea was based partly on the success I had with adding the half hour of reading to my mornings, which I described above. Usually I do this right after lunch, so that Randy gets my energy and attention before I hit any afternoon slump. It also gives me a chance to capture any fresh ideas that may have popped into my head while sleeping (which has happened), showering (which has definitely happened), or working out (less likely, but yes, this has happened, too).
Believe it or not, this has been a pretty decent habit! The downside happens on days when I get on a roll, but absolutely have to set it aside and get back to grading, meetings, or working on grant proposals. On those days, the 30-minute window feels like I’m scrambling to finish a timed exam, with stacks of books on either side of me, laptop or notebook balanced on my knees, jotting down every remaining note so I know where to pick up my thoughts at the next opportunity.
To be blunt, having to quickly change gears and redirect my attentions makes me pissy. Since I love making a deep dive into my thoughts without interruption, I’m beginning to better understand why certain creative types of people get a reputation for fussiness. The challenge is in keeping myself from getting too frustrated, and remembering that even one little thing – say, jotting down a couple pages of ideas in a notebook – moves me further ahead.
Great (But Realistic) Expectations
For me, the key has been to focus on what, specifically, I want to accomplish, and making it realistic for the time I’ve given myself. If I’m stuck in the narrative, I like to write out my thoughts by hand with a notebook and pencil, which is perfect for a 30-minute time limit. I’ll also use that time to review interview transcripts and pull quotes that will add exposition or color to the narrative, or to edit passages that I’ve recently written. While it’s still easy to get frustrated and wish I were further ahead, I keep reminding myself that every little bit helps, that it all contributes to my overall productivity, and that these blocks of time will make the days when I can devote hours to writing much more fruitful.
Has it worked? Yes, but with somewhat different results than I was used to with my old writing patterns. I’ve learned to be okay with this, however, because I’m also at a point in the story – Randy’s research and writing of And the Band Played On – where I feel like there’s a lot of complexity to sort through. The risk, especially with diving deep into the material for long blocks of time, is getting so lost in the weeds that I lose sight of the central, underlying narrative, which for my purpose is his intimate life story.
These daily, time-limited sessions have been great for forcing me to pause, look back on what I’ve just worked on, and think through any contradictions or counter-narratives I need to address. They’ve also pulled me back from those riskier “deep dives,” where Randy disappears entirely in the swirling environment of political gamesmanship and scientific rivalry he was trying to portray. Plenty of other writers have covered those fights; my job isn’t to re-tell those stories, but use them as the context for the tale I’m trying to tell.
Self-Study, Lessons Learned
As a general rule, making changes in our lives begins with identifying what we want to change, figuring out our plan for doing it, and deciding what we’ll accept as satisfactory results. Ultimately, the audience for our efforts is exactly one person, which is why I tend to be hesitant at offering one-size-fits-all suggestions. I also have some built-in advantages in my life, in that I more or less control my own schedule, and I have a home work space where I can sequester myself from other distractions. But for anyone trying to change their reading and writing habits, my advice would be to:
1. Make it a realistic amount of time.
2. Don’t create extra expectations, like number of pages per day or per week.
3. Give yourself leeway in what you choose to do, and give yourself permission to adapt to what you’re experiencing on any given day. For me, the more “oughts” and “shoulds” I try to create, the more futility and frustration I feel.
4. Honor your accomplishments, and use them to develop realistic next steps.
For me, this has made the extended period of time, in which our social patterns have been so disrupted, a bit more productive. I can’t say that these habits won’t change as communities re-open, but I’ve learned a lot about what I’m capable of doing with the time and resources available to me.
In Part I of this essay, I offered a quick reflection on a piece by New York Times opinion writer Charlie Warzel, whose interview with scholar Michael Goldhaber raised concerns about the role of our modern “attention economy” in stirring the political discord of recent years. While any profession which uses media is participating at least nominally in the attention economy, Warzel singles out those which primarily rely on information sharing to survive, including, unsurprisingly, journalism. From what I’ve learned in my research on Randy Shilts, even though he passed away just as the Internet was beginning to proliferate, he was most assuredly, for better and for worse, a skillful player in the attention economy of his time.
As a social work researcher and aspiring biographer, I’ve tried to consider a variety of factors when examining Randy’s thoughts, feelings, and behaviors, including his developmental experiences and the context in which he lived and worked. So, let me circle back to Maslow’s Hierarchy for a moment. To repeat: Maslow posited lower-level needs must first be fulfilled before our “higher order” needs can be met. From lowest to highest, the five levels are: physiological needs, safety, belongingness and love, esteem, and self-actualization. From what I know of Randy’s working-class upbringing, his lowest-order needs were pretty consistently met. His father Bud worked in lumber for many years, and although money was never abundant, the Shilts family always had a roof over its head and food on the table. However, things get a little more complicated for Randy as we move up the Hierarchy.
To be frank, there were plenty of times when his home life wasn’t great. While Randy’s father traveled frequently for work, his mother Norma struggled with the burden of raising 6 boys over 40 years, resulting in long bouts of depression and chronic alcoholism. Her temper often got the best of her, so that the gifted and sensitive Randy came to look for attention and approval from his teachers as a refuge from the home environment. School was a double-edged sword, however, as even at a young age, he had bullies waiting to jump him on his way home.
Ambition, Addiction, and Legacy
Throughout his life, Randy struggled to feel a sense of belonging and love, although college and coming out significantly helped to boost his self-esteem. During these years, he developed a small number of core friendships that lasted until the end of his life, but he also wrestled with intimacy and body image insecurities, especially as the sexual revolution of the ‘70s intensified the emphasis on perfectionism in gay social and sexual settings. Like his mother, Randy also battled alcoholism. Unlike Norma, he did eventually quit drinking and embraced 12-step recovery, right around the time one of his close friends died during the worst period of the early AIDS crisis. Perhaps it’s not surprising, then, that his personal writing around this time started to include more terms like “self-actualization,” which Maslow used to describe the highest-order growth needs in the Hierarchy.
To be clear, Randy was most certainly ambitious. As a young English major, he dreamed of becoming a famous novelist before going into journalism, where his aspirations steadily climbed. This was especially true when he began appearing on Bay Area television, which gave him clout for picking up men in the local bars and bathhouses. But he was far from the only member of his generation to seek that kind of attention. To be the “first openly gay fill-in-the-blank” was a mark of status, which distinguished a person as a courageous trailblazer within their field. Even before And the Band Played On, Randy had acquired a somewhat dubious reputation among some of his peers due to his ambitions, but to be frank, a fair number of them were trying to build their own following in the tiny world of gay news and entertainment. These tensions seemed to increase after Randy made the leap into mainstream journalism; some of his rivals’ attacks could come across as hair-splitting or sour grapes from those who resented seeing his byline in a major daily newspaper, rather than their own.
Quitting alcohol didn’t eliminate Randy’s ambitions, but it did give him pause to consider how his childhood experiences with parental abuse, bullying, and loneliness had shaped them. Written in the years following his embrace of sobriety, And the Band Played On is sprinkled with veiled allusions to addiction, above and beyond its characterization of gay men’s sexual habits and rampant drug use. The concept of addiction, as Randy implicitly used it, can extend to any number of areas where the need for fulfillment and/or conquest becomes a single-minded obsession. By delving into the all-too-human preoccupations with politics, power, profit, and fame, he was forcefully denouncing the veritable clusterfuck of systems which had converged to prevent an effective response to HIV/AIDS at a point when it could have prevented hundreds of thousands of deaths, including his own.
A Zero-Sum Game
This, of course, brings me to Gaetan Dugas, the “Patient Zero” albatross who weighs conspicuously on Randy’s legacy. In elevating the story of how this French-Canadian air steward became a prominent case in early research studies, Randy was quite intentionally making an example of someone who, even after learning his diagnosis, had frustrated public health officials and some gay activists by continuing to put others at risk. And while Randy was not the first person to call attention to Gaetan Dugas (who had been chased out of several establishments by other gay men), his characterization of this man cemented his own complicated legacy when it came to trafficking in the attention economy.
As Warzel points out, “Any discussion of power is… ultimately, a conversation about attention and how we extract it, wield it, waste it, abuse it, sell it, lose it, and profit from it.” And in the context of the 1970s sexual revolution, Dugas was evidently a powerful player. These aren’t details Randy invented, but which came directly from his sources who knew Gaetan, including a few of his personal friends. While And the Band Played On contains numerous examples of people making questionable use of their powerful positions, Dugas stands out, not simply because of the lurid sexual details of his story, but also because he was beautiful, charming, and funny, a man who commanded instant attention in the bars, bathhouses, and parties where he turned up. In the circles where Dugas ran, the man was popular, and therefore powerful. Not that Randy couldn’t hold his own when he went out cruising, but in the attention economy of sexual liberation, Dugas had the currency to easily get whatever he wanted.
So, one may wonder, was Randy jealous of Gaetan Dugas’ good looks and easy popularity? I doubt it, given the point at which he learned of the case-control study which designated Dugas as “Patient O” (or “Patient Zero”, depending on how you read it). By this time, Randy had become well-versed in 12-step recovery, when self-actualization seemed to matter more to him than wealth or fame. He did, however, believe the role of a good journalist was to always scrutinize the powerful. In his career, he’d already taken on a variety of powerful figures including city leaders, gay political elites, bathhouse owners, and gay newspaper publishers. In Gaetan Dugas, he recognized a person who’d grown very comfortable in his power to command attention, and who seemed to value that privileged position above changing his behaviors to match the urgency of the times. In that sense, Gaetan offered a near-perfect embodiment of the “no retreat” stance adopted by the staunchest sexual revolutionaries of the time, even as the worsening pandemic radically shifted the context of their revolution.
Sharing the Wealth
Randy never fully escaped the Patient Zero controversy, nor did he shy away from it. And the Band Played On very deliberately leaves certain depictions open to interpretation, allowing for arguments to be made on all sides. Without a doubt, however, it contributed to Randy’s most prominent moment in the national spotlight. The question for me, then, is what did Randy do with the attention he received and the power it afforded him? In both the documents I’ve reviewed and the interviews people have given me, a couple of interesting answers stand out.
First, he continued to offer help to younger up-and-coming gay journalists who were arriving in San Francisco. In the San Francisco Chronicle’s newsroom, he treated his newer gay and lesbian colleagues almost like siblings, who became A-list guests at the annual “Shiltsmas” parties at his Guerneville home. One broadcast journalist shared with me how Randy encouraged him to be open about his sexuality because it would provide him with an abundance of stories, even though technically they were competitors at the time. Notably, during a time when the Bay Area Reporter was attacking him regularly on its editorial page, Randy was privately offering encouraging notes to one of its reporters on how to improve his writing. And after Band’s release when Randy became a popular figure on the lecture circuit, he would give his own time to meet with local gay and HIV/AIDS groups, especially on college campuses, in order to help them raise their profile and attract new members.
The most compelling stories of Randy’s generosity, however, come in his follow-up to Band, when his fame was at its peak. The decision to move from covering AIDS to military issues caught some of his fellow journalists by surprise, as the topic of gay and lesbian service members’ persecution lacked currency in the attention economy of the time, both within mainstream media and major gay rights organizations. But it resulted in what is arguably his greatest (and most overlooked) achievements as a journalist. For example, Randy helped launch the story of Colonel Margarethe Cammermeyer into the national spotlight by inviting her to speak for several minutes during his keynote address at the inaugural convention of NLGJA: The Association of LGBTQ Journalists, resulting in the eventual publication of her own memoir and a television biopic starring Glenn Close.
While Conduct Unbecoming did attain bestselling status, Randy’s failing health and inability to go on a book tour kept it from achieving the popularity of Band. It did, however, play an influential role in changing popular sentiment toward military policy, the effects of which can still be seen in today’s efforts to end the ban on transgender service members. Among the veterans who have spoken with me, including Col. Cammermeyer, the prevailing sentiment remains one of gratitude for Randy’s efforts on their behalf, even as he battled and ultimately lost his life to HIV/AIDS.
With respect to the attention economy, Goldhaber notes, “We struggle to attune ourselves to groups of people who feel they’re not getting the attention they deserve, and we ought to get better at sensing that feeling earlier.” While he’s making this observation about those who recently tried to overthrow the 2020 election, the comment gives me pause because I think it applies quite aptly to the stories of ordinary people that Randy often featured in his work. To the extent that attention functions as currency in our society, what can we make of someone who was undeniably ambitious, yet tried to use his journalism to help lesser-known and less powerful individuals?
To answer this, I keep coming back to Maslow’s Hierarchy and the idea of self-actualization. In realizing our own potential, there exists the possibility of identifying with the capabilities and struggles we see in others, making the exchange of attention less of a momentary transaction and more of a sustained, mutually-beneficial relationship. When I think about Randy in the later years of his life, I see a person who was beginning to reflect more critically on the choices he made and the relationships he formed. I don’t know how he’d feel about the attention economy as it exists today, or how, as an old-school journalist, he would try to use it to his advantage. I do, however, think that he would continue to search for ways to help people by drawing attention to the stories of those who are easily overlooked in a society that’s grown even more favorable to the haves over the have-nots in the years since he passed away.
There are worse places to be on a hot summer day than the Main Branch of the New York Public Library. The space itself is nothing short of breathtaking, its interior a throwback to classic Beaux-Arts design with plenty of oak and marble flourishes to humble a first-time patron. Searching the assortment of boxes I’d requested from Special Collections, I was grateful for the climate-controlled environment, knowing that outside, the temperature and humidity were starting to rise. Still, as I was approaching the end of my scheduled time in the reading room, the usual distractions were beginning to set in: sore back, stiff neck, and tired eyes, the result of rapidly scanning each container for information that might add insight or color to my book.
The “Silent Scream”
Compared to the West Coast collections I’d previously scoured, the NYPL had relatively little archival information pertaining to Randy Shilts. Still, so far I’d come across some important finds – an exchange of letters, for example, between Randy and Dr. Lawrence Mass, who played a crucial role in sounding the alarm about AIDS among New York City’s gay men, beginning in mid-1981. The back-and-forth between the two, though cordial, revealed some hurt feelings over how Dr. Mass’s efforts were given lesser attention in And the Band Played On, a fact that Randy acknowledged while explaining that he’d never meant for Band to be an “honor roll” of all the early AIDS heroes, but to call attention to the ways that prejudice, political gamesmanship, and self-interest had allowed the disease to reach disaster levels.
Aside from that discovery, most of the papers I viewed that day were copies of what I’d already found in San Francisco, so I wasn’t feeling much urgency to stick around. Turning through page after page, the voice in my head that hates being uncomfortable was telling me, “Close it up. I have to use the bathroom. I’m hungry and thirsty. There’s nothing new here, so let’s go.” Soon, I was down to one last piece of paper to examine, which I was sorely tempted to skip. After all – what could I possibly find, that I hadn’t already seen?
Thankfully, the disciplined inner researcher in me overruled the whinier parts of my brain: I would be finishing up in a minute anyway, so just suck it up and take a look, I told myself. Quite literally, the very last item in the final folder of the final box I’d requested stared up at me with this mocking, oversized headline: “The Human Side of Hitler.”
It didn’t take long for me to figure out what I was reading: a manually-typed leaflet excoriating Randy for a freelance story he’d written in the late 1970s. Later, I learned it was the handiwork of an author an activist named Arthur Evans, who was known for papering San Francisco’s gay neighborhoods with these screeds under the pseudonym, “The Red Queen.” At the moment, it was all new to me – a juicy, gossipy morsel that would add phenomenal color to the facts I’d already gathered from that era. Fighting to control my natural impulses, I allowed myself a “silent scream,” scrunching my face and pumping my fists in a gleeful little moment of triumph. Then, I quickly gathered the information I needed and quietly finished my work. This was, after all, a library.
Finding the Narrative, One Artifact at a Time
Compared to my other research trips, that morning in New York was fairly typical: bouncing around the city conducting interviews while spending blocks of time in library reading rooms, the pleasant hum of classical or indie music streaming through my earbuds as I carefully thumbed through box after box, folder after folder, document after document. Combing through collections like Randy’s is seldom a speedy process. To gather what I need, I’ve had to spend hours at a time, hunched over tables with my laptop and iPad beside me, making brief notes about any relevant materials I found and taking digital photos to help me later with the writing. In my experience, people who conduct archival research either love it or hate it. And for all the back pain, stiff necks, sore eyes, and angry bladders I’ve endured, I have to confess – I actually kind of love it.
Not surprisingly, the earliest visits left me feeling pretty overwhelmed. We’re not talking about a handful of boxes here: in the San Francisco Public Library’s James Hormel LGBTQIA Center, the Randy Shilts Papers are fairly comprehensive, beginning with his early life, poetry and diaries from college and young adulthood, correspondences, clippings from his early journalism, notepads, press coverage of his work, audio and video recordings, and research files from each of his three books. The total collection takes up 120 cubic feet and includes more containers than I can be bothered to count. And this isn’t the only collection, as more of his papers can be found a few blocks away at the GLBT Historical Society.
With so much raw material to examine, I worried at first that I’d never find my narrative. Over time and across numerous trips, however, I’ve gotten pretty savvy at knowing which containers to request before making my visits. This is because on my earliest trips, I took as many pictures and wrote as many notes to myself as I could, seeding my later writing with reminders of where to look for certain reference items in the future. The note-taking has gotten more precise with time – “add this to Chapter 10,” or “consider mentioning this in the sections about the bathhouses” – because I’ve come to recognize where certain artifacts (i.e., letters, news articles, or handwritten notes) correspond with specific periods in Randy’s life.
Moreover, the experience of interviewing almost 70 people so far has helped me place certain life events in the context of his writing. When one of my sources told me about an off-color joke Randy told while addressing the International Conference on HIV/AIDS, I knew exactly where to look – both for a paper copy of his prepared remarks, and a video tape of the occasion. It turned out that my source’s recollection was pretty spot on: I found the exact joke, almost word for word as he described it to me, plus a lot more in terms of off-the-cuff comments and audience reactions (plenty of cheers, along with some boos and heckling).
Celebrate in Silence. Then Thank a Librarian
I never forget a “silent scream” moment, because it signifies the uncovering of something buried away and seemingly forgotten, which I know will be significant to the story I’m trying to tell. I even remember my first silent scream! It was a couple years before I started this project, when I came across the first ad for STD testing in gay bars and bathhouses that was ever printed in The Advocate, circa 1976. For the research I was doing at the time, this was a big deal. Here was proof that even before AIDS was discovered, gay and lesbian public health workers and activists had been mobilizing to deal other health issues that were plaguing the community, which Randy had accurately characterized as “pandemic-level” during those times. And personally, having spent much of my first five years in social work doing outreach and HIV testing in bars, I felt a connection with those earlier workers, who’d set the precedent for how my colleagues and I would continue these important efforts nearly three decades later.
I’ve heard it said that librarians are the unsung saviors of civilization, and I can’t find a good argument to counter this. At every turn, archivist librarians have helped me with professionalism, courtesy, and near-encyclopedic knowledge of their materials. Given how easily I start to grumble and whine whenever I’m hunched over a table, thumbing through page after page, I can only imagine the dedication and patience it takes to convert these stockpiles of raw information into the carefully catalogued, painstakingly preserved collections that researchers like me depend on. Thinking back on the history of atrocity and repression that so many cultures have endured (including but by no means limited to LGBTQ), I shudder to think how much more would have been lost, if not for the efforts of so many to protect the documents which verified the depth, complexity, and meaning of their lived experiences.
Normally, the drive from San Francisco to Guerneville would’ve been easy enough: cross the Golden Gate Bridge and head north on Highway 101 for about 50 miles, and then go west on River Road past a number of vineyards, which ease into the towering redwood forests sheltering the many single-stoplight towns dotting California’s Russian River. The previous spring, during what many were calling the state’s worst drought in years, I’d made the same day trip to Guerneville with my friend Jason – who has generously hosted every one of my Bay Area research trips – so we could visit Randy in the town cemetery. This time, as Jason navigated us through the worst rainfall in recent memory, we saw ditches filled to the point where the roadway looked like it would be flooded at any moment. Thanks to his GPS, we managed to navigate a safe detour around the washed out sections, arriving just a few minutes later than we’d originally planned.
Origins of “Chez Rondey”
I should take a moment to explain why we were making this return trip, and what we were hoping to see. With the success of And the Band Played On, Randy, had significant money of his own for the first time, and while Band didn’t make him a millionaire, it did allow him to make a few big purchases. The most significant of these was his first home, a rather plain and rustic looking suburban-style ranch house, tucked just off Guerneville’s main roadway, which he had renovated and expanded into a chic-yet-relaxed ranch-style cabin. With the help of a few of Randy’s friends, I’d made contact with the current owners – a gay couple close to his age who were well-aware of the property’s significance, and who readily agreed to letting me visit the property. From 1988 until the end of his life, this was Randy’s retreat from the fractious worlds of journalism, media tours, and politics. It’s also where he passed away in the early hours of February 17, 1994.
The house, which he’d lovingly given the playful quasi-French name “Chez Rondey,” was built in a hollow surrounded by a steeply sloped forest of ancient redwoods, exuding an energy of respite and healing which was palpable as soon as we turned onto the long gravel driveway connecting the house and road. From the photos and home movies I’d previously seen, it was obvious that Randy’s home had been lovingly maintained, with much of it still bearing the characteristics of his time as owner. Stepping from the car, we could see the doghouse that had been built for Dash, his golden retriever (although it’s doubtful that Dash ever spent any time in it). To enter the house, we climbed a wide set of wooden front steps framed by columns made of thick river rock, from which the front landing connected to a wide, flat hardwood deck wrapping and stretching all the way to the back of the house. That deck had been a prime gathering spot when Randy would host his annual “Shiltsmas” birthday parties every August.
Once inside, the living room evoked a sense of intimacy, even with the hardness of its wooden floors and paneled walls, and the airiness of its vaulted ceiling and central skylight. Facing away from the towering front windows, I recognized a sofa with southwestern-style upholstery, which had been a very contemporary piece in the late 80s: it was where Randy and Dash had sat for the back cover photo of Conduct Unbecoming. The room’s focal point, a massive stone fireplace, seemed like it was inviting us to curl up with a blanket to escape the chill. Anyone who’s ever spent time in a proverbial “cabin up north” would recognize the musty scent of old pine, as well as the mounted deer head on the wall. For Randy’s friends and family, however, I was sorry to report that his stuffed Kodiak bear, a towering behemoth which stood on hind legs and wore a fetching set of pearls, was nowhere to be found. Behind the house, the view extended into what felt like the deepest recesses of nirvana itself – a surrounding hillside so peaceful and sheltered that I now understood why he’d kept a small meditation altar back there.
The Time Traveler
It was a lot to take in over the two hours Jason and I spent visiting the property. Just as I’d considered it important to visit Randy in the cemetery, the pilgrimage to Chez Rondey provided a foundational experience during the early stages of my research. If I was going to convey the tactile experience of this space as Randy had known it, I needed to relate to it with all of my senses. On one hand, I felt like I should have been approaching it like a classic field researcher, cataloguing my observations in a dry, neutral manner and preserving the details as accurately as possible. But we were also there as guests of two very kind and welcoming people, who invited us in from the rain with fresh coffee and chocolate chip cookies, and who’d already extended the courtesy of letting me take pictures.
It gave me a lot to think about as Jason and I said goodbye to our hosts. We went from there to the closest watering hole, the Rainbow Cattle Company, where a friendly off-duty bartender bought us drinks and asked if we were spending the night (we weren’t). Back in San Francisco, ten more days of research were waiting for me. As a writer, I considered the trip to be a good and useful exercise. I’ve always had a stronger vocabulary for systems, feelings, and behaviors compared to places and things, and I knew that having to describe a space with such deep personal meaning would stretch my skills. By stepping into the role of biographer, I realized that I’d taken on the part of quasi-time traveler, putting myself in the same place at different moments and connecting what I’d witnessed in archival footage with the evidence provided by my own senses.
Moreover, I found that sharing the details of that visit brought Randy’s closest friends some peace of mind by bridging the years since they’d last seen the property with the present day. Chez Rondey had been a hub for Randy’s work on his final bestseller, but it was also home to dog birthday parties, summer water fights, and group cake making projects with Beatles music wafting through the kitchen. There were Shiltsmas parties with exquisite catering, massive sheet cakes, and piles of gifts from many well-wishers (Randy’s inner child always loved opening presents). One year during Thanksgiving, Linda Alband idly flipped the oven’s cleaning switch and found it couldn’t be reversed – only to produce the most perfectly roasted prime rib that any of the guests had ever eaten. And less than a year before Randy’s passing, there had been a hastily organized commitment ceremony in the backyard, officiated by Randy’s oldest brother Gary.
Reverence and Reflection
Setting aside the many feelings I have about Randy, the only word that comes close to describing that visit is “reverence.” As I’ve noted previously, my aim in writing this biography has been to explore the intimacy of Randy’s lived experiences, the better for understanding what made him not just a prolific journalist and lightning rod for controversy, but also a gifted and flawed human being with his own vulnerabilities and blind spots. It would be tempting to slip from reverence into sentimentality, overshadowing the “warts and all” depiction I’m working to produce. At the same time, standing inside the home that he so deeply cherished left me with a powerful awareness of the lasting imprint that people and spaces can make on each other.
Reflecting on that visit, I can’t help but think about my own home, an 1880s farmhouse in the heart of Minneapolis, where Jaxon and I have hosted holidays and dinners and backyard hangouts with our friends and family for the past 13+ years. More than a few of our loved ones have told us, “I just feel so at home in your house.” And for at least a couple hours on that rain-soaked afternoon, I felt like I could relate to Randy’s experience of truly being at home.