An Unexpected Goodbye

Esmeralda’s life was never an easy one — until she met me of course. She spent the first eight years in a cage being bred as much as three times a year in a puppy mill. Then, she ended up in a hording situation with aggressive dogs and an obese, chain smoking white woman with mental problems. Then, she was adopted by the Chatty Giant (guess who that is?), who thought it would be cool to move from a luxury apartment to a trailer park. Well, the last two years weren’t so bad, were they?

One morning while walking and looking for just the right spot to pee, Esmeralda collapsed. She wouldn’t get up and was breathing heavily. I thought she was having a heart attack. After a few minutes, she decided to get up and finish the walk. For the rest of the morning, everything seemed fine.

After lunch, she collapsed again and wouldn’t get up, so I carried her back to the house and called the veterinarian.

Unfortunately, her regular doctor was not in, so the doctor on duty examined her and said everything seemed fine, so it must be her back. I argued and said she had developed a cough, and it looked like congestive heart failure. All my dogs have lived to old age, so I have seen all the illnesses and ailments associated with old dogs.

The doctor wouldn’t hear of it, and she put her on Prednisone.

After five days, Esmeralda was miserable. She couldn’t catch her breath, and she was getting bloated.

On Tuesday, July 3, I came home from work early, and this time, she wouldn’t walk at all. I called Mrs. M to come over because I wanted to be sure I was not imagining her symptoms. As soon as she arrived, she confirmed that Esmeralda was not doing well at all even though she was fine during her two times outside. Then Esmeralda tried to stand up but couldn’t and sort of flopped around the room. She let out a scream and pooped all over herself. I dreaded the worst.

I cleaned her up the best I could and drove her to the Baltimore Emergency Animal Hospital.

They were very good and took her back immediately. The veterinarian came out and said they put her in an oxygen crate. I immediately protested and told them she would scream if put in a cage, but they assured me there were no bars. It was a Plexiglas enclosure, and Esmeralda had nested immediately. She then offered to let me come back and see her.

Esmeralda didn’t even react when I came back. She was just so uncomfortable and trying to catch her breath.

The doctor confirmed what I said all along. She was experiencing congestive heart failure. I asked if the Prednisone made it worse, and she said yes.

I was advised to go home and call back in a few hours to see if there was any improvement. Reluctantly, I did. For the first time, I was alone in the house.

At around 10:00 pm, I called back. There was no improvement, and they wanted to keep her overnight.

I prepared for bed, confused as to what to do, since I was used to walking Esmeralda first.

At 10:45 pm, the doctor called me and said she wanted to try another treatment, but I told her to wait, and I would be down in fifteen minutes.

I was dressed and in the car in five minutes, and yes, my hair was done, and my lipstick was on. I may have been distraught, but I was still me!

They immediately took me back, and Esmeralda looked worse. She didn’t even react to my arrival. I asked if she was on a medication that was making her drowsy, but she wasn’t. She was still struggling to breathe.

I then asked the doctor what the prognosis was. I was told that if she pulled out of this, she would no longer be able to walk outside on hot days. Her mobility would be limited, and she might have nine more months, but probably less. If the temperature was higher than seventy degrees, I would need to carry her outside, put her on the grass, and after she did her business, carry her back inside. She would also be on medication for the rest of her short life. In addition, since this had gone on for so long, her heart was becoming more damaged and weak with each passing hour. The doctor was also disappointed in the lack of any improvement in her condition. Esmeralda was not responding. She was clearly suffering.

The entire time I was petting her and the doctor was talking, Esmeralda had no emotional reaction. The look on her face said it all.

I told the doctor that I am a firm believer that if a dog cannot run, jump and play, she does not have a dog’s life. I also am not one to over medicate or put a dog through painful and miserable treatments just to assuage my own guilt or prolong the inevitable and avoid a tough decision. I also know that I would not want a life where I had to be carried everywhere and could not go outside for more than five minutes.

I was the one who had to ask my mother if she wanted a DNR. No one else in my family could handle it. I also have a DNR.

For the second time in my life, I had to make a decision no one should have to make alone. I decided to put Esmeralda out of her misery. The doctor didn’t even argue, and I could tell from her body language and speech that she agreed I was making the right decision.

They had me sign the papers and pay the bill, including the cremation arrangements. I guess it is easier to get money from someone who isn’t hysterically crying.

Then, they carried Esmeralda into the room. She just lay there. No reaction. She was so uncomfortable and struggling so hard to breathe.

Before giving her the second shot, the doctor said to her, “I’m sorry.” I felt more sorry for the doctor than for Esmeralda. My poor baby’s heart was so weak that it took much longer than it did for Serena, two and half years earlier, for the medicine to do the deed.

Then, it was over.

I stayed with her for a few minutes, arranged for her to be cremated then left the room.

There were people in the waiting room who knew what just happened in that room, so I avoided their eyes. While I enjoy being the center of attention and can be a drama queen when appropriate, I do not like pity. I left quickly, got into my car, and cried hysterically for ten minutes.

We had two years and two months together. Two crazy years while I tried my best to show a rescue beagle, I named Esmeralda because she sneezed, that humans can be nice and life can be good outside of a cage.

I never could convince her that window treatments are not the enemy or wall-to-wall carpet is not a lawn.

Ironically, it was on the anniversary of Esmeralda’s first attempt to run away that she left me for good.

Who knew a trailer could be so quiet and lonely.

My friends, Brian and Ed, also lost their rescue dog, Jasmine, just a few hours before Esmeralda. July 3, 2012, was not a good day.

Maybe the Mormons Are Right?

Did I get your attention? I became intrigued while riding the train to work late one morning last week. My car decided to quit transmitting – in other words, my transmission quit – and for the first time in thirty-one years, I had to call for a tow truck. After dropping it off at the garage, I rented a car and drove over to the Metro station. Rather than ride with my usual commuters at 7:45 am, I was now in a train filled with tourists at 10:15 am.

While I appreciate all that the tourists do for our economy, I will never appreciate what these morons from the Midwest do in our trains and on our escalators. One family actually walked through the emergency doors between cars, while the train was moving. This was the same group of fat asses who blocked the escalator rather than stand to the right. When the train arrived, they pushed past a blind woman to get on that car they eventually vacated.

The funniest thing is watching them choose a seat. They never sit next to anyone who isn’t white. I guess there are no Asians, Hispanics or Black people in Idaho or wherever they eat three-bean salad the other fifty weeks out of the year. Whenever one sits next to me, I have to stop myself from pulling out my latest copy of Yeshiva Hotties, opening it to the center-fold, and saying in my most fey voice, “Look at the payot on that hunk of kosher salami!” (My Jewish friends will notice my mixed metaphor – the rest of you can look up payot.)

I have decided to take my next vacation in Idaho and be obnoxious and annoying in all their public places next summer. No one will notice.

Where was I? Oh yes, the tourists on the train.

So there I was, trying to read my paper and hearing, not in their inside train voices, “Which stop are we?” “How many stops is that?”  “Why is that man’s skin so dark?”

I looked up and noticed a family standing in front of me (they weren't loud and obnoxious). Unlike most tourist families, this one looked happy. I have mentioned how my friend Chris would always say, “Most divorces happen after a family vacation.” The family was also unusual, consisting of one man, five children and obviously, two wives.

They were not one of your Jeffers compound families. They weren’t wearing Little House on the Prairie clothes and saying "thou" this and "thine" that. The adults were wearing walking shorts and polo shirts, and the kids were dressed like any other American kids. Even more surprising was how attractive they were. He had a shaved head and a beefy football player build, and his youngest child was in his baby backpack (what are those called?). In the right wardrobe, he would be a hit at the Eagle on any given Saturday night. The wives were quite hot and looked similar. I assumed the first wife was the one pushing the more expensive carriage. Both were blonde and looked to be about the same age.

Seeing this family dynamic got me thinking. Why are we so down on polygamy? What mother doesn’t need a little help around the house, and what tired mother just doesn’t want to swing her heels behind her ears some nights and wishes her husband would fulfill his needs in the other bedroom for a change? These guys never have affairs, they just bring home another wife, and when they do, wives one and two say, “I wonder if she does windows?”

Unfortunately, polygamy gets a bad rap in the Bible, but if it hadn’t been for polygamy, there would be no Jews, Muslims or Christians.

In the Bible, Abraham sent his second wife, Hagar, and his son, Ishmael, into the dessert at the urging of his first wife, Sarah. Ironically, Sarah arranged the marriage in the hopes of Hagar giving birth. Abraham was the first husband to say, “I’m so confused; just tell me what you want?”

A few decades later, one of Abraham’s descendants was quoted as saying, “Where did all those fucking Arabs come from?” Blame Sarah.

Jacob married Leah thinking she was Rachel, which is the reason brides must lift their veils and reveal their faces before the groom makes his vow … or vomits. Jacob eventually married Rachel then he treated their son, Joseph, better than the others. His other sons sold Joseph into slavery in Egypt. Then the rest of the family went there, had too many kids, became slaves, then left, became Jews and banned polygamy, eating pork, wearing cotton/poly blends, and other fun things.

Moses led them to the promised land and died before getting onto the tour bus. Then, there were kings and queens, and one of David’s descendants became a carpenter, tore his tunic on the way to synagogue one day and found a tailor, who made him a beautiful blue and white tunic in a few hours, so they opened a store and called it Lord & Tailor.

Had Abraham not married his second wife, we would all be Pharoists today, and cemeteries would be filled with miniature pyramids.

Back to the polygamist family. While I find all those compounds and cults disturbing and disgusting with their child brides and treatment of women, there is another way to look at polygamy.

In the gay world, poly-amorous relationships have existed for a long time. There are couples who bring in a third to add some sizzle, and somehow they make it work. Of course, rarely are there children involved, and the dynamic of three people of the same sex is much different than Jack, Janet and Chrissy sharing an apartment they rent from the Ropers.

Maybe, I have been going about this all wrong all these years. While I have resigned myself to being single to the end, mostly due to the fact that I prefer my own company to that of others, would it make more sense for me to seek a couple instead?

I could go off on my own and not worry about either of them being left out or alone. If I got bored with one, I could hang around the other one. And if I just wasn’t in the mood, I could send one into the other’s bedroom.

There is one problem. I, being a number eleven and, therefore, an alpha, would need to find two betas that have managed to stay together. I could seek out two separate betas and create my own polygamous hell, but that would require more work than seeking out one beta, and we all know how good I am at that.

Oh hell. Screw the whole thing. Observing one happy polygamous triple doesn’t make it the brightest idea. And with my luck, one of my descendants will start his own religion and cause tensions in the Middle West.

If you like what you just read, follow me, or better yet, BUY MY BOOK by clicking here! The Gay Jew in the Trailer Park on Amazon Kindle now; hard copies available in September 2012.

Hi, I'm Forty-Nine and Butch!

They say when a man gets older his testosterone level goes down, while for a woman, testosterone levels go up. That is why Grandpa has titties and Grandma has a beard. If they live long enough, they can shop in the same department. You can’t afford a sex change operation? Wait a decade or two.

This also means that the fems become even more fey with age. Can you imagine? Ironically, all those butch lesbians get even more manly with age. What is scarier is that the bears end up with furry boobs, which brings us back to my Aunt Paula. Or, maybe we should just leave that one alone.

As I approach a certain mid-century milestone, I have noticed certain changes. The biggest change is that I make sure everyone knows how old I am, and I don’t know why.

“How does this shirt look on me? I’m forty-nine years old.” “You can’t touch your toes? I can, and I’m forty-nine years old.” “I’ll take a pound of the Lebanese bologna and a half pound of macaroni salad. I’m forty-nine years old.”

Now, I have always said that if a day went by that someone didn’t mention my height that would be the day I died. I have yet to go for twenty-four hours without hearing anything similar to or actually the following:

“If someone Milton’s size were to attack you, what would you do?”

“Wow, your head just missed the door frame.”

And my favorite every time I get into a car: “That seat goes back further.” My reply is always, “It is back all the way.”

So, it isn’t enough that I am a freak, I have this incredible need to point out that I am also an old freak. As I said, I cannot help but tell everyone my age. I am like Marie Osmond on Dancing with the Stars, a show by the way I hate. Every night, she would tell Tom Bergeron, “I am forty-eight.” Finally, she said, “As a woman my age …” and he interrupted, “You are seventy-three, right?” Even he was sick of it.

Like Tom Bergeron, I am sick of hearing myself mention my age. Sometimes, I feel as if I am on the outside observing myself and wondering who this annoying age-obsessed moron is.

Have you ever found yourself doing something annoying repeatedly, and you don’t know why? Maybe all of us have a little bit of a split personality.

As I grow older, I am also obsessed with my aging body and especially my dropping testosterone levels. I read somewhere that peanut butter is good for maintaining good testosterone, which is why I am constantly standing in front of the cupboard with an open jar of Skippy’s and a soup spoon.

However, there are certain things you cannot stop. For example, my ass is a full three inches lower and much more jiggly than it was twenty years ago. If I go jogging, I think someone is tapping me on the shoulder, and I look as if I am smuggling sofa cushions. I have always had a big ass, and while it has been a curse at times, the blessing is that when I do turn eighty (and believe me, you will know when I turn eighty), my pants will still have a good shelf upon which to rest.

While women complain about falling boobs, men also experience the effects of gravity. Our balls drop. If I walk across a room naked, I get rug burns on my scrotum.

Then, there is the sex drive. That drops, too. The first sign that your sex drive has diminished is when you cannot answer the following question: “When was the last time you jerked off?” If you have to think about your masturbation schedule …

In your teens, the answer was always within an hour. In your twenties, the answer was usually no more than twelve hours. In your thirties, a day, maybe two. In your late forties, you can’t remember.

And although masturbation is good for prostate health, you still don’t have the energy – or the time – to do something for your own well being.

While all the above has happened to me, I am experiencing a strange phenomenon since moving into my mobile home.

I got rid of all my old drag wear, except for one pair of stilettos and Nana’s pearls. In addition, I now do a lot of physical manly things.

Even though I have been a life-long fitness nut, in the past year, I have taken my physical activities to a whole new level. First, there was Krav Maga, which now I am so obsessed with that if I miss a class, I do everything possible to make it up, even driving thirty miles to the sister facility to take a Sunday class. While I had no intention of completing the six-hour belt testing when I first signed up, now I am training to test to the next level in September. If I am partnered with a young guy in class who is out of breath while I am still going strong, I always ask how old he is then tell him how old I am. I never miss an opportunity to say, “I am forty-nine years old, and I can do this.”

I competed in one of those extreme obstacle courses where I sprained and broke my ankle, and now I have signed up for another one. “She’s a cool one; she’s returning to the scene of the crime,” said Ethel Mertz. The best part of these obstacle courses is that I get to compete in the Men 45+ category, which gives me another opportunity to tell everyone my age from the people assigning bibs and chips, to the woman with the walkie-talkie monitoring the race, to whoever is standing next to me at the starting line. None of them give a shit, but that doesn’t stop me.

Next year, I will be like Sally O’Malley on SNL – “I’m fifty! I can kick and stretch and kick again. I’m fifty!”

This past week, I was asked to participate in an experimental boot camp at my gym. Six people were asked, and they signed up, but only three of us showed up for the class. Two women in their thirties and I. You guessed it. I made sure they all knew how old I was. “Hi, I’m Milton. I’m forty-nine.”

Well, the class began with two trainers and three students. We did all this kettle ball stuff, and plank push-ups, and climbing stairs, and barbell push-ups with clean and jerks and other things I never saw before. I was enjoying being pushed to my limits and on the verge of cardiac arrest, but I whined more than a grounded teenager. After thirty minutes, they declared the class over. I said, “That’s all you got?”

Me and my big mouth. The trainer, who couldn't get over how I could whine for thirty minutes then ask for more, pushed me and pushed me. Straight guys may love me, but they like to try to break me, too!

I finally said, “I’m doing the best I can; I’m almost fifty. I’m just an old drag queen trying to maintain his figure.”

He said, “Who cares! Fifteen more!”

I did fifteen more. I was sweating so much he called me a puddle. He also congratulated me.

Afterward, I asked when the next class would be. He thought I was nuts but glad I wanted to come back.

I went home, took a shower in Irish Spring, put on some Old Spice, and drank a Pabst Blue Ribbon while sitting on my porch with my hound dog, Esmeralda.

The question though is when did I become so damn butch?

Is this mobile home emitting testosterone from the steel frame? Is my AMC Eagle not just a lesbian magnet but a lesbian maker? And, when did I buy a pack of wife beaters?

I think I need to go dress shopping. Any takers?

If you like what you just read, follow me, or better yet, BUY MY BOOK by clicking here! The Gay Jew in the Trailer Park on Amazon Kindle now; hard copies available in September 2012.

Lickity Split Down the Main Street of Town

Recently, I declared my disdain for some New Yorkers, and I was subjected to an earful of comments, which were surprisingly positive! This means either my fan base is mostly southern, or New Yorkers can’t read.

Well, this all got me to thinking … a dangerous thing at times. Have you ever noticed how there are some people who think anything that comes from New York City is automatically the best? My mother was guilty of this especially when it came to food. “Try these bagels, they’re from New York.” “Aren’t these knishes to die for? They’re from New York.” “It couldn’t have been the lox that gave me diarrhea; it was from New York.”

Frankly, I could never tell the difference between a New York bagel and a Newport News bagel. They both tasted like shit to me. I am probably the only Jew who doesn’t like bagels. I like bialys or Bialystoks, as some people call them. I once wrote an article for a magazine about Internet shopping (right after Al Gore invented the Internet) about bialys, their history and the fact that you could order them online from a company in … you guessed it, New York. Ok, New Yorkers, the best bialys come from New York; even I will admit that (of course, you can’t find them outside New York).

The one thing about New Yorkers that I find interesting is that they never vacation anywhere else. Sure, they go to the Hamptons, but aren’t those in New York? Do you have friends who live in New York City? I do. How many times have you invited them to come visit you? Do they? No. However, they always insist you visit them.

“Come on up for the weekend, you can stay at my place.” Oh sure, I can’t wait to spend a weekend with you in your $4,500-a-month, ten-by-twelve, studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen with a bed on a six-foot high platform that serves as your closet and dining room.

You can always tell the amateur pornographers who are from New York. In the background are a bed, a stove, a mini-refrigerator, a garment rack, a sink, and a cat who keeps walking in front of the camera. The place is usually a mess, too.

Come visit us in the South, and you can have your own bedroom, and we will serve you breakfast on the veranda. Our cats live outside along with our hound dogs, chickens, and cows.

Another reason I don’t want to visit New York is that just about every crime show on television seems to take place there. Law & Order SVU, Law & Order Criminal Intent, Law & Order Who Stole My Bagel, Castle, CSI New York, and True Blue Jew, just to name a few. And, the crimes are so heinous. You don’t just get murdered; they chop off your body parts and leave them all over the city. Someone doesn’t just steal your purse; he takes your whole arm with it.

Even my mother, New York fan extraordinaire, would say, “Don’t wear good jewelry in Central Park; they’ll cut your hand off to get a bracelet.” Maybe this is why she only wore gaudy costume jewelry. I always said she could walk through Central Park at 3:00 am, and no one would bother her.

When was the last time you saw CSI Bent Fork or Law & Order Bootleggers and Brothels?

I’ll tell you why, and the New Yorkers will love this. In the South, we do things a little bit more slowly, so it takes a while for us to catch our criminals. A case has to be open at least fourteen years before they will declare it a cold case. In addition, our criminals are also a bit slow.

In New York, they drive either white vans or black mid-size sedans. In the South, they drive a blue 1990 Chevrolet Caprice or some other car you could pick out in a parking lot full of charcoal gray Honda Accords. That is what the snipers were driving, and it took them a month to find them.

When I lived in Newport News in the 1980s, a neighbor was murdered, and the felons took off in his turquoise 1965 Chevrolet Impala. They were finally caught two weeks later in Nevada. Why did it take so long? They took a southern route.

Just listen in on a police call.

“Hey, Marge, we need to put out an APB … oh she’s fine, just getting over a cold, but we’re getting plenty of milk out of her now … oh, you weren’t talking about her … my wife, oh the same, she switched to filter-less, and now she doesn’t cough as much … Marge, two guys just held up Tyrone's gas station … yep, they were last seen going lickity split down the main street of town … oh I don’t know … a witness says they were going about twenty maybe even twenty-five miles per hour … we got that; they were driving a yellow AMC Gremlin … uh huh with a white hockey-stick stripe … yep, I had one, too, fine car … he says it had the big bumpers, so it must be a 1974 or 75, maybe even a 1976 … nope, he said it was going too fast to get a license plate number … ok, when you come back from lunch, you put out that APB. Ok?”

If you think I’m kidding, several years ago, a couple of guys were shooting at cars in southwest Virginia, and they were driving a yellow AMC Gremlin.

It took them three weeks to catch them.

If you like things slow and bagels from Newport News, follow me, or just buy my damn book on Kindle here.

Thank God, I’m a Southerner

John Denver sang, “Thank God, I’m a Country Boy,” written by John Martin Sommers. Whenever I encounter a typical New Yorker, I am reminded of that song, but with my own lyrical twist, “Thank God, I’m a Southerner.”

What follows will probably offend just about anyone from New York City, especially Jews. It will also offend a lot of other people.

Too bad.

As you know, I was born in Newport News, Virginia. Some claim that does not make me a true Southerner, and I always argue that Newport News is an hour’s drive south of the capital of the Confederacy. My mother was born in Baltimore and raised in Washington, DC. Her mother, Nana, was born in Russia, and when she was two years old, her family settled in Newport News – the year was 1905. In the 1920s, she moved to Baltimore to go to secretarial school where she met Milton Summers. Being blond and blue-eyed, Nana had to read The Forward backward to his neighbors to prove she was Jewish.

My father was born and raised in Brooklyn. His mother was born in Brooklyn, and his father in Budapest, Hungary.  

I enjoyed eating in restaurants with my mother. When eating in a restaurant with my father, I always feared the chef was putting Visine in our food. For years, I thought his rudeness and how he treated waiters was just a part of his personality.

There was a time when I really didn’t like being a Southerner. After watching the Godfather, I really wished I had been born a New York Italian or is the correct term, an Italian from New York? There just seemed to be something alluring about being raised in a culture so rich with ethnicity. I found my Southern upbringing to be a bit bland.

They even murdered people with class. Think about it. Which is better, choking someone with a piano wire or blowing his head off with a sawed-off shotgun? One is quick and quiet, the other, loud and sloppy.

Some say I have a bit of a Southern twist to how I talk. I don’t hear it, y’all. One day in synagogue I was chanting a prayer, and the rabbi said, “You speak Hebrew with a Southern accent.” I do say, y’all a lot. My great-grandmother apparently would say, “Vas machst y’all?”

I had a few encounters with New Yorkers while involved with United Synagogue Youth (USY). Many of them found Jews from the South to be a curiosity, but I’ll never forget Aunt Flossie’s encounter with them. Aunt Flossie was born in New York, but her father moved their family to Newport News at the beginning of World War II. He was a barber, and he found work at Fort Eustis cutting soldiers’ hair. She was thirteen at the time.

A group of teenagers from the New York chapters of USY stayed at the Newport News Jewish Community Center for the weekend, and according to Aunt Flossie, who was in charge of the logistics, they just about destroyed the place.

Whenever we visited their chapters, we left things exactly as we found them. To do otherwise would be positively un-Southern.

However, my first real encounter with New Yorkers came about when I moved to Florida in 1992. Florida is a strange place. Although it is as south as one can get, everyone speaks with a New York accent, even the native Floridians.

On the day I arrived, the real estate agent, who arranged my rental of the cottage attached to the brothel (a little nuance of the property she neglected to relay), drove me around Lake Worth to show me everything. Surprisingly, she was also a Southern Jew. While telling me about my new landlord, “a typical New York Jew if I ever met one” – as she put it, she said the most shocking thing I have ever heard, which I refuse to write here. All I can say is it was about Holocaust.

Seriously, I am almost fifty, and it was the most shocking thing I ever heard. I said that already, didn’t I?

I finally met my landlord when my plumbing completely stopped working and backed up, and I could not shower for work. She sent a plumber, who had to get a back hoe to dig up the driveway because the main water and sewer lines to the house had both burst.

I complained that this was unacceptable and I needed the use of a bathroom and to shower for work and they should provide me with a hotel room. This was Florida, where the heat and humidity are so high that plastic plants grow. I worked as a waiter at the Rod and Gun at the time, and the last thing my customers needed was a smelly server who hadn’t wiped his ass.

Her response was, “Put on some deodorant and shit in the woods.”

I almost had the vapors! Who says such things?

Needless to say, I missed work that night, which in restaurant terms means a night’s pay.

When her husband came by to replace the window air conditioning unit, he tracked grease all over the carpet. I had the carpets steam cleaned, but whatever he tracked in would not come out. After I moved from the cottage, she refused to refund my security deposit because of the grease on the carpet and because I had hung pictures on the walls. I had never before, nor since, been refused my security deposit.

That may have been my first experience, but as I mentioned, I worked at the Rod and Gun – the same restaurant where Endora was told the salmon was dry.

And that is where I soon became proud to be a Southerner. I also finally realized my father was not unique.

First off, they eat dinner at 4:30 pm in what I soon learned was something called an Early Bird. I honestly did not understand the concept until my third night working there. Soup or salad, coffee or tea and dessert for $14.95, but you eat before the sun goes down.

At 4:15 pm every night, the doors were opened, and they all arrived in groups of four, six or eight – never two!

For those who have never experienced the Early Bird crowd, let me give you some typical scenarios:

“I want my salmon broiled dry.” I deliver the salmon, and the lady says, “The salmon is very dry.” My response, “That is how you ordered it.”

If I had a nickel for every time I heard “on the side,” I wouldn’t be living in a singlewide.

“I’ll have the thousand island dressing on the side.”

“I want hot tea, tea bag on the side.” I will never forget that one because her husband said, “Tea bag on the side? You sound like a fucking idiot.”

At least ten times an evening: “I’ll have the prime rib. I want an end cut.” One night, I finally said, “How many feshtungina prime ribs do you think we have back there?”

My all time favorite was when a group said, “We are all diabetic, so we need to be served quickly.” After dinner, I brought them sugar free Jello for dessert without asking. “What is this? We want cheesecake.” To which I replied, “I’m sorry, you are all diabetic, so you can only have sugar free Jello. Here is your check. Have a nice evening.”

And, more times than not, I heard, “This is ridiculous! I want to speak with the manager! I want compensation!” or “I am not as happy as I thought I would be.”

But my all time favorite was, “I was in the restaurant business.” Really, how many delicatessens are there in New York, since every goddamn one of you owned one? I thought it; I never said it.

I became the manager of the restaurant (big surprise since I am a number eleven), which was when the real fun began.

We never took 5:45 pm reservations because the Early Bird ended at 6:00 pm, and the rule was one had to be seated by 6:00 pm. So, 5:30 pm was the last time one could make a reservation for the Early Bird.

I don’t know how many times I heard after saying to someone over the phone, “We do not take 5:45 pm reservations and one needs to be seated before 6:00 pm,” “Well, we are going to arrive at 5:45, and we expect to be seated for the Early Bird.” I always felt as if I were talking to a wall.

The most hilarious was “We drove all the way from Boca to have your cheesecake.” The restaurant was in Delray Beach, one stoplight from Boca. I replied, “I drove all the way from Lake Worth to tell you we are out of cheesecake.” Lake Worth was five miles away.

My all time favorite was Mrs. Posner, a little one-hundred-forty-five-year-old pain in the ass who once dated Moses. I was at the host stand, and she came barreling through the door at 5:45 with her party of six yelling as her foot crossed the threshold, “I have a 5:45 reservation for six for Posner, and we expect to be seated immediately for the Early Bird.” All before she made it to the host stand, which means she was rehearsing her speech in her Crown Victoria with the left turn signal on the whole drive to the restaurant.

I looked right at her, and I said, “Really? We don’t take 5:45 reservations.”

“Well, I called today and made one.”

“Whom did you speak to?”

“The manager.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A woman.”

“Mrs. Posner, I am the manager, and you are lying. I am the only one who answers the phone here or it goes to voice mail. You did not make a 5:45 reservation. We don’t take 5:45 reservations. I will seat you when a table opens up.”

She was actually speechless. I did seat her at 5:55, and when her waiter took sick, I actually took over her table and served her and her guests with the utmost efficiency. Needless to say, no one in her party gave me any shit that night. They didn’t even tell me the salmon was dry.

But, I have to say something in their defense. New York Jews ALWAYS tip! I will never forget the waiters complaining about only getting fifteen percent tips. Obviously, they had never waited on Southern Baptists from North Carolina visiting Williamsburg, Virginia, as I did for more years than I care to admit. They leave one dollar for every check on the table. Whenever I approached a table of Southern Baptists from North Carolina, even a family, I would ask, “Separate checks?”

I finally left Florida and my cousins from the North, hoping never to wait on them again. But in our world today, which brings people from all over closer together, I was bound to have another New Yorker encounter – this time a Gentile.

And, you Goyim thought you were off the hook this time. Ha!

I am president of the Straight Eights Gay Car Club, and this year we are hosting the Lambda Car Club International (LCCI) Grand Invitational. That means we won’t just get a sprinkling of members from all over the country, we expect more than three hundred people from all over.

We had an Early Bird registration period that ended recently, and as always whenever one approaches any kind of deadline with an inviational, the nasty people come out. One of my fellow chapter presidents, a New York Gentile, complained about the price of the invitational and made the following statement: “Just want to mention that a number of my members find the price of $180 per person a bit high during these hard times. I hope the food and activities justify the cost!”

My first inclination was to reply “fuck you.”

Just so you know, our invitational covers four days and six meals and two snacks along with every other expense that goes into planning such an event. In addition, his chapter has a reputation for being the snottiest in all of LCCI. They do not let anyone who doesn’t own an antique luxury car participate in their events. Not only that, they have NEVER held an invitational (we hold a regional every year), let alone hosted a Grand Invitational. And one more thing, this is a car club filled with people who will spend thousands and thousands of dollars on “classics” some would consider used cars, yet they are the first to complain about a $5 increase in a fee. I am not kidding.

So, I found his complaint about the price to be a bit nasty. Using my Southern charms, I responded to him about what is involved and how we calculated the registration price based on expenses divided by the maximum number of attendees, and we still offered the discounted Early Bird price to help people out. I did not display any offense or anger; I just laid out the facts. I ended by telling him that I found his statement, especially from a fellow president, to be a bit nasty.

He responded that I should not get offended and angry and then proceeded to insult our hotel, Rehoboth Beach and the last two Grand Invitationals which were hosted by chapters in Detroit and Arizona. His response was ten paragraphs about how we were doing this wrong and that wrong. Did I mention, they have never hosted an event!?! He ended with this: “I am a tough Native New Yorker and I am right to the point. It works!! Trust me!” (copied directly with no change in punctuation).

My response was just the following: “I was not offended or angry. I am from the South, and we are not condescending and nasty. Trust me. It works.”

Thank God, I’m a Southerner!

If you are offended by what I just wrote, buy my book, The Gay Jew in the Trailer Park; it is available on Amazon Kindle by clicking here. Hard copy release in September.

The World's Greatest Chest Model

No one, and I mean no one, has tried harder to get his picture in any publication more than I have, yet, I never appear anywhere. I am tempted to get a billboard that says, “Appearing Nightly in a Trailer Park in Jessup, the One, the Only …”

I am beginning to feel like Jeannie. She could not be photographed, so a mannequin stood in for her when she married Major Anthony Nelson.

There are those people whose pictures appear all the time in the newspaper, magazines, local flyers, etc. No matter where they go, a photographer is always present. We have a local rag called MW (Metropolitan Weekly). Every week, they have a spread of pictures showing who was at this A-list event and that A-list event – with everyone dressed in tuxes and holding cocktails. Every week, I see the same goddamn faces. I can actually document how people have aged since I moved to the area fifteen years ago. Some, not so well. There is one person who has had a sex change, and I have watched the transformation totally in the pages of MW.

Since I don’t go to or get invited to A-list events, I have no chance in hell of appearing in MW’s weekly spread.

Every year after Capital Pride, they have spreads in MW’s print and online versions of every picture they took during the parade and at the festival. Since moving here, I have participated in the Pride Parade on a float six times, and I walked between two antique cars handing out beads two years ago. I participated in the festival in one way or another for the first twelve years I lived here. Photographers would come around and take my picture, but get this. Whatever pictures were taken of me were never posted or published!

No pictures of our entire Straight Eights Car Club contingent were published! I take full responsibility. Had I not participated in the parade …

When I was in my twenties, I was constantly told I should be a model. I never pursued modeling because my portfolio would have been all blank pages. Maybe I could have been a ghost model?

My brother appears in the newspaper all the time in ads and in spreads about his business.

I must confess that I did appear in the newspaper a long, long time ago in a land far, far away. The summer of 1969, a reporter and photographer from The Daily Press, both of whom were friends of my mother’s, came to our house to take pictures of me and interview my mother about my beginning first grade that fall. I appeared in a two-page spread with a girl who was also in my class. The first day of school, Mrs. Diggs (the greatest first grade teacher of all time) put the newspaper spreads on the bulletin board for everyone to see. I was so proud.

But, my mother must have made a deal with the devil because that would be the last time anyone would publish my picture.

Once when appearing in a musical review, a photographer and reporter were sent to cover the rehearsals. The director decided that the three of us who were performing “Money” from Cabaret should be the subject of the photo spread. There I stood with these two women on either side of me. All of us were in long sleeve black tops with gold coins sewn onto our costumes. I was finally going to appear in the newspaper.

I was so excited when someone called to tell me that the article and picture were published the following day. I immediately opened my paper, and what did I see? The two women who were in the number with me; their faces were in front of a black backdrop with coins sewn onto the fabric. That backdrop was my chest. My head was cropped from the picture. Seriously!

I was so mad because those two women were the most annoying prima donnas I had ever met.

Whom does a Jew have to blow around here to get one goddamn picture in the newspaper?

A few years after I moved to Washington, DC, I was on the board of Bet Mishpachah, and with my good friend, Ellen, we planned the twenty-fifth anniversary celebration of the synagogue. A reporter and photographer from the Washington Blade, a gay newspaper, came to the event to interview us. They took quite a few pictures. The following week, the article was published with one picture of everyone doing the “Electric Slide.” I was completely cropped out from the left side of the picture. Seriously!

As I have mentioned ad nauseam over the last few weeks, I participated in the Hero Rush obstacle course benefitting fallen firefighters. Before the race, I bought a picture package from a professional sports photography company. I figured that since the pictures were for personal use and not publication, I would have a chance to have some photographs to share after the event. Five days after I took first place in Men 45+ (I cannot stop mentioning that), I was supposed to get an email telling me my package was ready for download.

On the Hero Rush Facebook page, I managed to find three pictures of me that their staff had taken. I immediately downloaded them even though I look terrible in all of them.

Five days went by, and I heard nothing. Two weeks later, I received the following email:

“Hi, what is your full name and bib number? We cannot seem to locate any pictures of you?”

My response:

“Look for the two snotty women running in front of a sweaty dark green backdrop. That backdrop would be my chest.”

I clearly should have been a chest model.

If you would like my picture, follow me, join me, get on my mailing list.

I Cannot Run in Flats

Have you ever watched a baby learning how to walk? They run first. Actually, they run, then fall, then get up, then run. It is easier to balance yourself when you are moving quickly, which babies figure out immediately.

Have you ever watched a man try to walk in heels for the first time? They go slowly. The take a step, they whine, take another step, they whine. Why does it take them so long to realize running in heels is much easier than walking in them? They call them high heel races for a reason! A race is a blast. A high heel walk would be annoying with all that whining – like watching a bunch of very slow cats.

You heard it here first. Walk quickly in your heels, and you will be ever so graceful, which brings me to this:

In my ongoing quest to do crazy shit before I turn fifty, I decided to do one of those extreme obstacle courses that have become popular in the last few years. As a matter of fact, they are so popular that you need to sign up for one at least six months in advance.

A few of my gay friends in other parts of the country have completed these, and they said they were a blast. Everyone was muddy and shirtless and looking all smoky and hot. However, I couldn’t get one gay friend around here to do one with me; they wouldn’t even come and watch.

As I searched for an extreme obstacle course with any open slots, I came across a new one called Hero Rush, benefitting fallen firefighters. They had openings, so I signed up as a VIP (you get better parking), competing in the Men45+ category. The race was to take place on April 28, so I figured the temperature would be hot enough for good eye candy while I lay flat on my back after falling off a wall or something.

The day was approaching, and the weather was not looking too good. At the beginning of the week, they were calling for temperatures in the sixties, by the end, in the fifties, and the day of, cloudy and in the forties. Well, that discourage me from falling on my back and watching the hotties fly by.

With this being the first of the first for this particular event, I figured they would have some kinks to work out, but I decided to go with the flow. I arrived an hour early as instructed, and they had postponed the first wave as only ten people showed up, so they combined it with our wave (they call each group a wave), and at 9:00 am, the bell rang and we were off. It was actually a 911 call since this course was designed by insane firefighters, who moonlighted as serial killers.

The first obstacle was a flight of stairs with no railing then you grabbed onto and slid down a pole. I have done a lot of things with poles over the years, but I never slid down one. Once you did that and crossed a black rubber strip, your time began. All of us wore chips like runaway dogs, so our owners could find us, but for the record, even Esmeralda is not crazy enough to try something like this.

There were obstacles that involved hopping over walls, crawling through smoky mazes in the dark, dragging dummies through tunnels and pulling hoses over walls. Photographers were supposed to be stationed at each of the nineteen obstacles, but I found out later there were only six photographers. A girl needs her photo op.

What I did not realize was the amount of running involved – and not on pavement, but through woods and fields and on rutted pathways. A third of the way in, I twisted my ankle.

Honey, I just can’t run in flats!

Being the Neanderthal that I am, I just put some dirt on it and walked it off. The only problem I had was the zip line. Apparently, they had a weight limit and did not tell anyone. You can bet that whenever there is a weight limit, I am over it. I grabbed onto the zip line, and down I went – straight down! I didn’t even zip! I thought, “That can’t be good.”

Then I twisted my ankle again. I put more dirt on it and walked it off.

Toward the end, you first wade waist-deep in a pool of green muck that is supposed to be like hazardous waste. Since when do firefighters wade through waist-deep green muck?

The last stunt was wading through ice cold water (did I tell you it was forty degrees outside) while a bunch of kids spray fire hoses on you. Do you know how much pressure comes out of a fire hose? I went under, and when I came up, my hair was a mess. I didn’t even want to know how my face looked. I did take a mental picture of every one of those brats (a Sephardic curse would be in their futures).

Once extricated from the pool, you run some more then hop over three lines of fire – real fire, but you are soaking wet and freezing, so catching on fire would have been the least of my problems.

I finally saw a photographer at the end.

I actually enjoyed it, and believe it or not, would do another one, but next time in July!

After changing in the men's tent alongside a rather attractive Jewish straight man in his thirties who was behind me the whole time and who was a delightful conversationalist – so my demographic, I walked the grounds and went to the food pavilion. I ordered two hot dogs. I figured no one knew me here, so who was going to look down on my plate. It was 10:30 am.

While scarfing down my post-obstacle treat with a root beer, I heard the following from two guys at another table who had just finished the race:

“After Cobalt, we went to Nellie’s for a drink, but no one was there.”

“Were you able to get the Lady Ga Ga tickets?”

I found my gays!

I walked over and introduced myself and noted that we may be the only three members of the family there.

Now that I had found my gays and one straight Jewish man, all I needed was a middle-aged yeanta, and my audience would have been complete!

Later that day, I found out the first place finisher in the race was a nice Jewish boy in his twenties.

In case you were wondering, or if you weren’t, I am going to tell you anyway. My score was #1 in the men45+ at Hero Rush (I think I was the only one over 45, but that is just between us girls). Official Finish: 00:48:03.4; Overall: 17; Men: 16; M45+: 1.

Not bad for an alta cocker Gay Jew living in a trailer park.

And yes, I did sprain my ankle. Battle scars are hot.

If you like watching hotties while you lie on the ground follow me, join me, tell Andy Cohen I need my own reality show!