If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard

Every two weeks, she would walk or hitch a ride over to Ann Cleaver's house.  Ann Cleaver's husband, Charles, was an old friend of my father's -- one of the few old friends who was not a Greek -- and the guy who made sure that my father had all the insurance for life, home and business that anyone could ever want.  Ann and Charles lived over on Oliver Lee Drive, about 2 1/2 blocks from our house.

I hated that street name and always said it, if I said it, with some disdain.  When giving directions to my house, I never mentioned Oliver Lee Drive because, to me, Oliver Lee sounded like Billy Bob or Thelma Lou.  It sounded hoosier, tacky and low class.  I didn't want Oliver Lee in my neighborhood, tainting the beautiful, resort-sounding Sunset Drive on which my family lived.  I didn't even want Oliver Lee in Belleville, which means, as I love to tell people, "beautiful village" in French.  That hoosier street name made me feel cheap and dirty, not beautiful like I should.  Now, as an adult, I know that there was really no difference between the houses on Sunset Drive and Oliver Lee Drive -- they were just as big, they were just as nice and they were filled with the same nice people decorating their rooms with family pictures and Blue Boy and Pinkie knock-offs and little porcelain vases in the shape of beautiful lady heads with plastic flowers.  But, really -- Oliver Lee?  Why had the mayor given that street so close to mine 2 names like a hillbilly?  It made us all look bad.  Worse than that, it made Belleville look bad. 

Anyway, Ann and Charles lived on Oliver Lee Drive and Charles had taken the garage of their house and, with his own 2 hands, turned it into a beauty salon for his wife.  In the world I knew back then, that was called true love.

Ann was one of my mom's favorite friends, another anomaly because she wasn't Greek either.  She did have dark hair like the rest of my mom's good friends from church -- but she couldn't make baklava or church bread if her life depended on it.  And she was a beautician.  In my world, Greek ladies were not beauticians.  They were cooks, mothers, aunts, restaurant owners or, in Barbara Doudouvini's case, a single working gal in downtown St. Louis.

But Ann was a non-Greek beautician in her garage salon built on love.  The problem with Ann was that she was not a very good beautician.  She was a very nice person and always told funny stories -- but, styling was, well, let's just say that styling was just not her style.  She did not pay much attention to detail and she drank too much.  Mom would shake her head and say that "Ann's breath smelled like shampoo again."  This, I found out when I was in 7th grade at Emge Junior High School was Stella-talk for vodka.  Because of Ann, anyone who drank was said to "love the shampoo" and all shampoo was vodka.  Anyway, or so goes the Stella story, Ann would nip into the shampoo while she was watching her stories (Stella-talk for soap operas) after Charles left for his insurance office every day.  Since Mom's hair appointments were always late in the afternoon -- she liked to watch her stories too -- Ann was well on her way to being the most shampood up lady in Belleville.  This was true at least if you heard all the breaking shampoo bottles hit the bottom of the garbage truck every Monday when it came around Oliver Lee Drive.

When Ann put the old lady blue dye on my mom's hair -- "it's not dye, I don't dye my hair," Mom always said, "it's only a rinse.  That's why it comes off on my pillow case, dye doesn't do that.  I don't want to look like Irini Gotschoff with her hair still coal black at age 60.  All that does is make her wrinkles look worse" -- Mom always felt pampered, turning herself into a proper little old lady.  She knew that the blue dye -- I mean, rinse -- was just for old ladies and, frankly, she did not care.  She was an old lady, was proud of being an old lady and she had earned the right to be an old lady with her hair dyed -- I mean, rinsed -- blue.  To be honest, the blue was not really blue but steel gray, like an old battle ship or destroyer from World War II.  It actually looked good in Mom's silky smooth, naturally wavy hair, always soft like she had conditioned it which she hadn't.  So, bottom line, if the rinse made her happy, dye away.  I mean, rinse away.

But, poor Mom -- what she went through to get it just the right shade of blue.  In addition to her hair, Ann also "rinsed" Mom's forehead, the tippy tops of both of her ears and a weird pointy Dr. Spock like area on the back of her neck.  Those errant blue rinsed areas rubbed off on her pillow case too after a while, but, for a few days anyway, Mom always  looked like she had been eating blueberries. Vigorously.  Without using her hands.  Sometimes, Mom would change her appointment day with Ann to make sure that there was plenty of time between the rinse and some big special event like a wedding, the AHEPA May Festival, or the Philoptochos Annual Dinner, so that the blue dye -- I mean, rinse -- would wear off her forehead, ears and Dr. Spock neck.  "It was a small price to pay," she said, "for such a dear old friend."

Dear old Ann also poked Mom in the face and head with the scissors and the brush handle.  For several weeks after one styling, she had 2 scabs dangerously close to her eyes.  After that appointment, she started wearing her glasses while Ann worked on her "so I can see what the heck you're doing to my hair, Ann."  Other fresh wounds and red marks appeared periodically but even those did not deter my mother.

Worse yet, Ann passed gas a little each time she took a step.  "Whether it's from weak muscles or too much shampoo or because she doesn't care, I just don't know but it smells AWFUL so I think it's the shampoo, you know, messing up her system," Mom sometimes confided.

My mother never said the word "fart" because she considered that word to be common, dirty, a 4 letter word, the real F bomb of the late 60's/early 70's.  Back then, nobody I knew ever said the real F bomb that sounds like a familiar old friend to me at this fucking point in my life.  As a sheltered little Greek kid, though, "fart" was the worst thing that I or anyone else could have said.  "Picture yourself this close to where it happens" Mom would say, trying to get me to not say the F word.  She would then hold up her thumb and forefinger about a quarter inch apart.  That seemed to do the trick.  There was no "pull my finger" at 229 Sunset Drive, oh no.

So, when someone in my family passed gas, which no one did very often in the freedom of our house and amongst the love and familiarity of our family unless we were in the bathroom where it was okay, according to Stella Evangeline Hassett Hages, we called it "plutzing.

To be funny, my father would sometimes stand in the doorway between the kitchen and the back room and lift one of his little hairless chicken legs up in the air, slipper dangling and smiling that big goofy toothy grin he had, pretending to be ready to plutz if someone didn't pay attention to him.  Oh Jimmy" Mom would say, seriously angry "stop that.  Go upstairs to the bathroom if you need to do that."  He would laugh and wave her away, then smile back at me, our little joke against Mom.  One time when I was in the 5th grade, he, well, let's just say he mis-calculated, and after lifting his little chicken leg in the air and pretending to hunker down a little, a terrible accident happened.  The look on his face changed from mischief and glee to horror and shame, and he took off up the stairs, as fast as those little chicken legs could carry him.  "That serves him right," Mom said, "I hope he has to change his shorts."

We may not have been allowed to say "fart" but we sure did talk about plutzes a lot amongst ourselves.  I could also recognize each family member by their distinct plutz signature.  My dad's were the worst of course -- he was the lion of the plutzers, something to aspire to.  My Mom's smelled like little bursts of "My Sin," her favorite perfume.

Sharon's plutzes always smelled like root beer floats and Jeri's, like tartar sauce.  My cousins, like us, also didn't use the F word but they refused to call them plutzes -- too lower class for them, I guess.  They called them "litseys" which just seemed too uppity and embarrassing to me and I think it's just a varation of plutz anyway.  If you're going to re-name something, either make it better or just surrender and use the best word possible even if you didn't think of it.  They were always stealing our lines and pretending to be better than us.

Anyway, even with Ann's plutzing, my mom liked getting out of the house just a little bit once in a while.  She would usually ask Thela to drive her over for her hair appointment or, if the weather was nice, she would walk the 2 1/2 blocks down Sunset Drive, up Werner Road and over onto Oliver Lee.  She would look at people's houses and the flowers and the trees.  This was like a little vacation for her.

Mom also knew that, if she didn't go to Ann for her hair, the only hair that Ann would be styling was on dead people at Kurrus Funeral Home and Mrs. Wright who was about 90 years old, only had about 3 snow white hairs and couldn't hear the plutz with each step Ann took anyway because she refused to wear her hearing aids.  Apparently, Mrs. Wright thought that hearing aids could signal the aliens and "under no circumstances am I gonna help them damn aliens take over the earth.  No sir."  In the summer, I used to jam toothpicks into the Wrights' doorbell just to hear it ring all day long until her husband, Leroy, got home from work.  The sound of that ringing over and over again for hours made me and Mary Kay McNamara laugh so hard we almost wet ourselves, lying in the grass in the Wright's side yard.

At the time, I could never understand how Mom could could go to Ann Cleaver to get her hair done, putting up with the pokes, prods and plutzes much less why she would dye -- I mean, rinse -- her hair old lady blue.  When I questioned her, she usually didn't respond or she would say "you'll understand some day" or "where else would I go?"  Well, she could go to the House of Charles in downtown Belleville but, really, "why would I go all the way down there when Ann is so close?"  And so dear.  And, to be honest, I don't think anyone else in town had the right shade of blue for my mom.  Oh, I don't know about that -- what about Cy Vernier's Paint Store?  Suffice it to say that Mom knew the old lady blue hair was a joke to some but, to her, it was simply age appropriate.  A badge of honor.  She was over 50 and it was just what she was supposed to do.

So, there, in the quiet late 60's/early 70's in Belleville Illinois, where life was simple and you didn't have to lock your doors or worry about where your kids were after dark, my mom lived with the old lady blue hair, the scabs and blueberry stains and, yes, even the plutzes of one of her favorite and dearest friends.

I'm not a nice person

A friend of mine delights in telling me that he has a hernia.  He looks me squarely in the eyes and his lips curl up like he's about to laugh that mad scientist laugh -- mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!  Mad scientists have the craziest laughs, don't they?  Then he pauses, thinking about the best way to attack this juicy bit of news.  "I have a hernia," Gary says, his voice almost proud, hauty, condescending.  Scornful because I don't have one.  It's like a person who buys the newest I-phone, I-pod, I-pad or maxi-pad and clearly wants to make you envious of them because they have the latest technology, they have something you don't have and they are hoping you will be jealous of them.  But, really, a hernia doesn't seem to fit into this category, does it? 

He announces this news like he's Yahweh at the burning bush and I am Moses.  I guess I am supposed to write this hernia thing down on a stone tablet and pass it around to all the men I know who have testicles.  That leaves quite a few of my friends out.  Anyway, Gary can't lift the stone tablet because it is heavy and that would only aggravate his hernia so he needs an accomplice.  When my doctor told me not to lift anything heavy, I just stopped using the urinal.

Anyway.

I do not take the bait.  I just stare at Gary, slack-jawed and hoping he will stop at "I have a hernia."  Of course, that doesn't happen. 

"You wanna see me push it in?"

No.  I really do not want to see him push it in.  I decide to deflect with humor -- "Can you push it in with your tongue?"

This annoys Gary because he wants the star of this party to be him and his hernia.  He is tired, I suppose, of me always being the belle of the ball (to use a very appropriate analogy here).  I always seem to rain on people's parades but what can I say?

"No, I can push it in with my 2 fingers.  It's really cool."

I think otherwise.  To me, that area of the body is a temple, sacred, something to be honored, something serious, something to be thought of and contemplated in the privacy of your own home or in the bathroom of a university student center.  If I want to think of someone's "down there," I prefer to think of it as a proud, tall, sequoia-like stalk of angry red happiness.  Maybe maybe that's just me.

Gary continues to talk about this hernia thing.  Telling me when he first noticed it, how big it gets, how the skin gets pulled thin and taut like a balloon.  Theoretically, I know all this and, to be honest, I really prefer to leave this information as mere theory.  The reality of it scares me.  I have heard that you can strangle on these things and I am a Taurus with the nagging throat problems that seem to afflict people with that sign.  Strangling on my hernia is something that frightens me. 

I feel my throat start to tighten up.  I might gag.  For the first time in months, I can specifically feel my uvula.

I cut to the chase.  "When's your operation?"

"The Tuesday after Memorial Day," Gary says.

"Good.  I'll send flowers or chocolate or girlie magazines.  But I will not visit and I will not look at your scars and I will not listen to what the doctor said to you about your hernia being as big as a Florida grapefruit."

Because, to be honest, I just want to think about my friends, Gary included, as healthy, young, unimpaired, vital and completely intact people who will live forever with their proud, tall, sequoia-like stalks of angry red happiness ready to go at a moment's notice. 

Is that so wrong?

One from column A, one from column B

I have a very distinct memory of being about 9 and swinging on the swingset in the backyard of my house in Belleville, Illinois, the dirt from burying Barnabas still fresh in the creases on my young knuckles.  The sun was high in the sky and it was hot and humid, that soupy, thick, moist air that the St. Louis area is famous for.  But, here, in my own backyard, it was nice and cool.  The big trees that lined the yard between mine and the Winters provided lots of shade for my swingset and a great place to be when the weather became oppressive in August and September, just before school started again.  I know I was no older than 9 because by 10 our house had air conditioning -- the 1st family on Sunset Drive to get it, thank God -- and I never again went outside during the dog days of the summer.  From then on, it was legos and soap operas with Mom while she was ironing.

But, at this point, too young to sweat and not yet afraid of worms and bugs and neighbors, I was in the backyard underneath the shade of the biggest trees in the neighborhood.  Coincidentally, this line of trees was also home to one of the largest pet cemeteries in southern Illinois.  I don't really know this for a fact, I'm just guessing, but I think my guess is pretty close to the truth.  We had several dogs, some big moths -- I know, what was I thinking -- various body parts cut off the annual Greek Easter lamb (I definitely remember a lung and a hoof in 2 separate burials) and a whole flock of unrelated birds buried there.  Each unmarked gravesite was centered between 2 trees because that seemed most fitting and particularly dramatic -- just right for dead things.

The avian funerals were my favorite.  I prepared their little feathery bodies myself and buried them among the tall, swaying trees in our backyard, in little metal recipe boxes with hinged lids that my mom gave me.  Each recipe box was different, depending upon what line of those no-longer-available sundries that Mr. Tzinberg at Shopland happened to carry at the time.  My favorite recipe box coffin was the white one that had a big red lobster (what's a lobster?) and randomly-placed fresh vegetables along the bottom and the word "Recipes" in fancy girly script on the front of the hinged lid.  It had connected blue curly-cues as decoration.  This was the one I used for Barnabas.

To assure a nice soft eternal resting spot, I thoughtfully lined each recipe box coffin with no more and no less than 1 paper towel.  Paper towels were precious to my parents and they would never have allowed me to over-cushion my dead birds but dad in particular had a soft spot in his heart for pets so I was allowed the 1 paper towel as a funereal accessory -- for the birds only, never the moths.  I suspect that the paper towels were not really precious, just expensive to these Greek immigrants who had lived through the Depression, eating corn for dessert and saving things like buttons, used tin foil and little slivers of soap because "waste not, want not."  Anyway, PS, 1 paper towel.

After I had gently laid my newly dead bird in his or her coffin lined with the 1 paper towel, usually bending them at the neck to fit their bodies in, my mom would allow me to clear off the dining room table.  I would move the old dusty silk flower arrangement in the big plaster planter -- yellow, orange and brown flowers because, after all, this was the late 60's/early 70's -- and the table would be clear.

Our dining room table was immense and the source of great pride in my family.  The mahogany table with gracefully sweeping legs accented by fluted brass caps and 3 big leaves was always covered with the same tablecloth, the one that Uncle Andy had brought back from Greece. It was gorgeous.  Pristine white linen with lace inserts and lots of fancy looking, delicate cutwork in it.  It was one of my mom's favorite possessions both because of its beauty and because it was from Uncle Andy.  She took great care of this tablecloth, patting it very carefully with a sponge dipped in baking soda water at least once a month, whether we had eaten on it or not.  It was always covered with a clear plastic cover so Uncle Tony, Tom Thanos or Aunt Sophie would not soil it when they were at our house for dinner.  As a result, it was still in perfect condition some 20+ years after Uncle Andy lovingly gave it to Mom.

Once the table was cleared, I would somberly place the dead bird in the recipe box coffin right in the center of the table, carefully using the lowest crystal on the chandelier above as a guide.  The chandelier had a dimmer on it and I would turn the lights down low to reflect a somber mood -- it was after all a funeral.  Only when I could squint and see the bulbs twinkling like stars in the big mirror on the wall was I happy that I had set the proper mood.

Then, I would put something on the stereo, usually some slow Greek song that I didn't understand or the Andrews Sisters singing "Apple Blossom Time," and mom and I -- there was no need to invite others -- would sit tightly on the shield-back chairs just for a minute or 2 -- it was after all just a bird.  I would then close the coffin lid and we would both do our crosses 3 times.  She would go back to preparing something for dinner, or sewing something or cleaning something, and I would slowly process through the dining room, the kitchen (making sure my mom looked at me) and finally the back room, through the back door and to the bird's final resting place outside.

I would mournfully place the closed recipe box in the pre-prepared grave and push the dirt over the top by hand.  Then I would do my cross again -- usually several times more than necessary in case Mom was watching out the window.

I knew these were just birds but each burial made me sad.  They were my birds.  I would never see them again, never see the glee on their faces as I let them fly free around my bedroom and roost on the drapery rod, a look of superiority on their faces because they, not I, could fly.  It was sad.  The hardest burial of all was this one for Barnabas -- a green parakeet named after Barnabas Collins from Dark Shadows.                                                   

I loved Barnabas like he loved Josette and it was only the thought of him going to his resting place and being with her that eased my own pain.

After the burial of Barnabas, I distinctly remember swinging on the swingset under the shade trees in the backyard, dragging my feet in the dirt worn by several years of hard use.  Swinging always made me feel better.  Hey, I was 9.  Anyway, I was thinking of Barnabas and Josette and how I would never see him again unless my parents let me buy another green parakeet which I vowed right then and there to name Barnabas II in honor of him.  I wondered why he wanted Josette so bad -- she was a girl.

Why did he want a girl?  Why not a boy?  What did it mean to be a boy, what did it mean to be a girl.  And, most intriguing, which was better.

Boys get to run and play soldier or elk like I did almost every good weekend with Robby Dombek.  I used to love to pick just the perfect fallen tree branch from my backyard or his backyard and pretend to be an elk -- Robby would do the same.  Then we would run and paw the ground and joust each other with our make-believe elk antlers.  We would do this for hours and hours until all that was left of our antlers was a harmless little twig or 2 -- or one of our mothers made us lunch -- whichever came first.  Oh man, that was living!  But boys, I knew, had to go to war and some of those boys died in battle because they shot at each other or fell off ships when they were stupid or drunk.

On the other hand, I wanted to be a girl so I could be like my sister Jeri when she was a maid of honor in the May Festival Court at the AHEPA cotillion in St. Louis.  She got to have her hair teased and piled way up high like a cow pooped on her head -- but in a good way -- and wear an elegant long dress that was shiny, gathered at the waist and had sequins all across her boobies.  That night at the Stouffer's Riverfront Hotel ballroom in downtown St. Louis had been so cool and everyone at our church -- well, almost everyone, except for the Kontos bunch who hated our guts -- talked about my family really really nice for a long long time.  That made my mom and dad really proud.  But girls did have to have babies and I knew for a fact that some girls died when they had babies because Mrs. Taratsas died when she had her daughter, Fat Georgia.

So it always seemed to be a draw -- there didn't seem to be an overwhelming advantage to being either a boy or a girl. 

More ominously than anything, though, I just didn't seem to have an overwhelming preference to being a boy or a girl, although, to be sure, I clearly thought I had the option of being either.  Or both -- at any time or times.  It was not "do I have an option?" it was "which would I rather be?"  "And at what times?"  Confusion reigned.  Is this what Chaz Bono went through, I wondered, long before there even was a Chaz Bono.

As I mulled over the pros and cons of being a boy versus being a girl, I pumped my legs on the swing, going higher and higher.  Doing this was my way of working off the increasing sexual tension, I suppose.  I tried to hit my head on the trees behind the swingset when I was on the backside of the swing.  But I never did.  I guess I had been swinging for a long time because suddenly the door opened and Mom was there.  "Come on in and have your sandwich," she said, her loud voice both firm and loving.  No options.  I never disobeyed anyway because:  (1) she was Mom; and (2) I was always hungry even then. 

Funny how my mom's good bologna sandwiches with 2 pieces of bologna, 1 piece of generic shiny yellow cheese and Miracle Whip swished from corner to corner on the top slice of bread only was almost always the deciding factor in my agreeing to remain a boy when I was 9.

Almost exactly 1 year later, I dug Barnabas up to see what he would look like.  Seriously, he was a vampire on TV and I wanted to make sure that he had stayed put.  The recipe box still looked like it did when Mom plucked it from her counter, dumped the recipes and handed it to me for the funeral -- the big red lobster and assorted fresh vegetables were in perfect condition.  Would Barnabas be the same?  I lifted the lid and, behold, there he was -- one gooey soupy mix of greenish decomposed flesh and little itty-bitty bones, including the beak.  Except for that beak, I never would have recognized him.  There it was, plain as day and the nose on my face.  Barnabas was not a vampire, just a dead parakeet.  And I was "not a girl," my mom said, just a boy, a regular 10 year old boy, a good Greek boy who liked to eat my mom's good bologna sandwiches, play make-believe elk with Robby Dombek and dig up dead birds.  Nothing wrong with that, is there?

My biscuits are to die for

Yesterday morning I woke up with a fire in my belly.  Yes, that's right, I needed biscuits.  Well, Saturdays being what they are, I never got around to hauling out the flour, the baking power, the salt, the sugar, the milk and other necessaries.  Instead, I let Jerry make some of the nicest scrambled eggs I have had in a long while.  He whipped them with a hand mixer, adding both water and milk.  As additions, he sauteed onions, used grape tomotoes and, when all were cooked and almost ready to eat, he added an ingredient from the top of the list of the food of the gods.  Yes, this time, as you may have guessed, it was feta cheese.  This feta we had this time was so creamy (but not too creamy), so salty (but not too salty) and had the best texture, just enough structure to dampen your teeth before they click down together.  It finished off the eggs beautifully.  Not a word was exchanged as we devoured the Greek delight breakfast -- made by a skinny little Catholic boy -- on that Saturday morning.

Now to Sunday.  The fire in my belly had grown to 3 alarm. I had to have biscuits.  I was hungry because it was already past noon.  I found a Paula Deen recipe, y'all, that I have used before and went about my business, Jerry sacked out on the terrace, in a lounge chair, after a long sleepy affair called Greek Church under his belt.  He deserved my biscuits.  I deserved my biscuits.  I smiled, imagining how he would react when he walked into the kitchen and smelled the biscuits in the oven.

I mixed all the dry ingredients together.  I cubed the butter and began cutting it into the mixture.  For some reason, this is a very satisfying and pleasurable (yes, Joe, pleasurable) experience.  The way the flour, sugar, salt and baking powder start to combine along with the butter is a process you don't ever experience anywhere else.  It is smooth like rubbing velvet together -- and slippery -- all at the same time.  It is sensual.  But the slipperinesss and the sensuality are only momentary (just like real sensuality).  Before I got too used to it, before I could take it for granted, the slipperiness changed to dry powder like corn meal.  So, for one brief moment, there was a seductive ooziness that I alone experienced.  I felt the sensation with my fingers but I received it in my brain -- the most sensual of all human organs.  There is nothing like it.  It's a rush.  Once you do this enough times, you just know when the mixture is ready and I knew that this mixture was ready.  Now.

I added some of the milk.  Yech -- my least favorite part of making biscuits.  Sticky, gooey, like wallpaper paste.  Stuck to my fingers, stuck to the hair on my hands, collected underneath my fingernails.  Appetizing, huh?  But a necessary part of the process.  I have read that the mixing of dough for biscuits and other baked goods requires oil from human skin to make the baked good really, really its best and I expected, wanted, demanded that my biscuits be their best.  So, I mixed the milk into the dry stuff like there was no tomorrow, ending up almost plastered up to my elbows -- okay, not that far up but you get the picture.  I did have a bit of dough on my nose because I had an itch there right in the middle of the process.  Why does my nose itch every fucking time I mix biscuit dough?  Does that happen to everyone?  Is it a rule of nature? Whatever -- it always happens.  At least to me.

And, then, in an instant, the stickiness, the gooiness, the pastiness, subsided -- just a bit, just ever so slightly.  And I knew I was done.  The dough was done.  The mixing was done.  Thank God.

Floured the counter and spread out my dough.  Slightly golden from the butter, slight flecks of shininess also from the butter.  OMG I could eat this shit raw.  I took out a wine glass and begain circling out the biscuits.  All in all, I had 19 biscuits.  A good haul.  The oven was already at 440 so I popped them in, dropped the temperature to 420 and started the frantic clean-up.

To really enjoy biscuits, I find that all the crap and flour and sticky messy dough has got to be cleaned up, the dishes and utensils washed off and put in the dishwasher -- out of sight and out of my mind.  I don't know why, but for me, this makes the biscuits taste better.  It also passes the 10 minutes or so while the biscuits are baking.  Without the cleanup, I just stand at the oven, leaning over, nose to glass, watching them bake, mouth drooling, eyes darting from 1 biscuit to the next and, usually, I end up mowmow-ing down on some inferior but easily accessible food because my stomach is telling me it needs filling NOW.  So, from past history, I know to do the clean up in just the right amount of time for the baking.  Today, it was perfection.  Just when the butter knife was washed and in the dishwasher, and the butter on the plate was warming and loosening up and ready to be spread (yes, Joe, spread), I looked over at the oven.  The timer said 9 minutes and 51 seconds.

The time has come.

I just stood at the oven.  Leaning over.  Nose to glass.  Watching the biscuits, watching them bake, mouth drooling, eyes darting from 1 biscuit to the next.  Sound familiar?  Each little biscuit had turned golden brown on the top and around each little, ever so gently rounded crest.  They looked perfect.  The smell was overwhelming.  The timer now said 10 minutes and 12 seconds.

I opened the oven and took out the tray.  The intense heat washed over my face, making me flushed.  Then the smell -- dough, hot flour, butter -- biscuits!  One gentle, little push on the one biscuit smack dab in the middle and I knew I would be eating soon. 

I filled 2 plates, softened butter on the edge of each, and distributed the goodies.  And we ate.  2, 4, 6, 8 and so on.  There was no silence.  We talked to each other quickly and excitedly, in giddy responses of smacking lips and "ummming" moans.  We licked our lips and our fingers, we split them down the middle and buttered them like bitches.  And we ate them.  God damn, they were good.  Who really needed the after-thought bacon.  BISCUITS. Brief crunch on the outside and then warm, fluffy, almost like cotton candy insides.  Unimaginable delight.  Unimaginable satisfaction.  Unimaginable.  As I write this post, sitting up on our high benches at the tall counter, my scrumptious little golden brown biscuits are just barely visible over the top of my laptop.  My fingers are still slightly oily from the butter and smell of deliciousness.  My stomach is smiling.  The 6 remaining biscuits are winking at me.  Job well done, sir.

Those biscuits were good.  I have done something good today.  I have made something out of nothing.  Look everyone -- Lew made biscuits.  And then he ate them.  And it was love.  The fire has been reduced to smoldering embers of a happy and fulfilled stomach.

Is there any doubt why I will never lose another pound in my lifetime?

Slow Down

Jerry and I are no different than anyone else.  We are always looking to accomplish more in less time.  Actually, we, like everyone else today, are always pushed to accomplish more in more time.  For generations in the past, you could limit your "productive" hours to 9 to 5 when you were earning a paycheck.  After that, you could coast, relax and maybe enjoy a popsicle on the front porch.  Not any more.

In today's do-more-with-less world, a 9 to 5 working day is only being a slacker.  When I was working at comedy central, long before today -- the 30th day of the rest of my life -- I was often there at 7:30 am and often there 12 or 13 or 14 hours later.  How many times did I work all through the night -- the same underpants plastered to my miserable unhappy ass for a 2nd 24 hour period?  Too many times.  But, even with that pace, it was not working extra hard by most people's standards.  It was just the expected and needed pace to, are you kidding me, keep up with the work.  Like that was even possible.  Actually, now being on the other side of things, it makes my head hurt and my heart ache that I allowed it to continue for as long as I did.

In today's world, now, when you actually leave your job to go home, you jump on your hands free phone so that you can return phone calls, catch up with friends and family, make plans, leave messages, using the time to multi-task, maybe even, if you're really lucky, lavishing yourself with attention by slurping down a Starbucks between your sister and Lisa up in Middletown.  Once home, there is precious little time to take your panty hose off and scratch, just enjoying the feeling of loose leg hair and freedom.  There is the dishwasher to empty, the washing machine to empty, the mail to read, the bills to pay, the extra chairs and tables from Easter to take down to the basement -- really, they have been staring me in the face for 5 weeks already.  What's up with that?  What's wrong with me?  Then dinner -- warming something up or, who hasn't done this, just eating it frozen -- before doing your set up for the next day.  Coffee, clothes, bathroom and valium.  That, my friends, is a day in the life.

I want to be wholly cherished like I was when I was a kid.  I want to be held tight to someone's chest for no reason other than I am loved.  And that I love.

In my household, growing up, I knew my parents loved me all the time.  There was not a whole lot of mushy and corny hand holding and hugging and singing kumbaya. 

But there was constant and uninterrupted attention to detail -- my detail.  What is best for Lew's dinner?  What clothes will make Lew look well tended to?  What are Lew's favorite foods?  What can be done to watch Lew and make sure he doesn't get hurt by those mean Catholic boys who live down the street?  What new picture of Lew can we put in the Lew shrine?  How can I make sure he gets an A in every class this year again?

Walking past me, my mom and dad never missed an opportunity to show me their love -- maybe not with the traditional outward things you see on McDonald's commercials.  But, my dad would always walk into the room and give me a noogie (tousling my hair with his closed fist).  Before leaving my side, my mother would tell me that she was going upstairs to do something important for me but that she'd be back in a minute.  On the way down the stairs, a full laundry basket of Lew's dirty clothes in her meaty, silky smooth hands, she would sing the song that still brings tears to my eyes -- the Lew-lee-o song.  "Lew-lee-o, Lew-lee-o, you're my only Lew-lee-o!"  Maybe there was not a lot of kissing and "I love you's" thrown around 229 Sunset Drive but, make no mistake about it.  It was the best sort of love I can imagine.  I feel sorry that everyone does not grow up that way.

So, last night, after a particularly hard week for both of us, Jerry and I decided to give ourselves some exquisite attention.  We got home and made an Opentable reservation at The Palm for 10 pm.  1000  points, pretty good, huh?

We took our expired gift certificate and -- get this -- leisurely walked the 8 blocks to the restaurant -- and back.  We did not hurry.  We did not rush.  Hell, we did not have the ability to hurry or rush given that Jerry's hip was hurting him right in that old man place where the leg connects to the butt bone.  We had to stroll, stroll, stroll and it was lovely.  We could not cross the streets until there were enough numbers on the "walk" sign to let him bumpedy bump bump through the crosswalk.  But, you know something, it was great.  We talked.  We connected.  We enjoyed each other's company even after 17 years together and, as one friend, Katarina, describes us, being like Siamese Twins.  We were, as my therapist used to say, "in the moment."  We actually took time to look at things and drink in the warm, beautiful evening.  We took the long way home, walking far out of our way so we would not pass the Shake Shack -- DO NOT PASS THE SHAKE SHACK --

and be tempted to have a thick, creamy $25 chocolate shake (that we both really wanted).  We even stopped to walk through the Mayflower Hotel, looking at the people, listening to their flirting and bragging and self-indulgences, looking at the crystal chandeliers and the celebrants from the Vietnamese wedding reception. 

It was, in its own special way, a magical evening. 

It was slow and warm.  It was romantic.  It was 2 people who love one another and know each other intimately.  There was no need for "I love you" or "gee, you're a really swell guy."  We already know that.  The luxurious focus and slow-motion time said it all.  And if I close my eyes, now, even 23 years after she peacefully left this world for her own infinite rest, I can almost hear my mother's crystal clear beautiful and slow moving voice wafting over me.  "Lew-lee-o, Lew-lee-o, you're my only Lew-lee-o."  What an incredibly fortunate and lucky man I am.

Are you unpoopular? Do you pop out at parties???

Today was a rough day, very bad, tense and frustrating.  My head throbbed, I needed a nap, my pants were tight, my shirt pulled at the buttons, I had gas and my ankles swelled.  For the 1st half of the day, no matter what I did or how often I checked myself in the mirror, I felt that I had a booger in my nose.  You ever have one of those days?  I rubbed my nose with my hand, I blew my nose nostril by nostril (left first as always, then right, then I checked the tissue for, well, you know), I pushed a kleenex up there looking for gold and, yes, I even picked it myself when I thought no one was looking.  But no matter how hard I tried, I never saw the least little bit of a nugget or got any satisfaction.

Many of you don't know me well so let's get something straight -- I love to pick my nose.  LOVE IT!!!  It is something I do just for myself.  It is relaxing, satisfying, can be productive, gives me a sense of accomplishment, passes the time and is just darn good fun.

I know that Emily Post, Letitia Baldridge and Oprah would tell me that nose picking is unacceptable in public and, frankly, I don't care.  Not that I do it in public of course -- well, not much anyway.  But, really, who does it hurt?  It doesn't injure anyone -- it doesn't smell -- it doesn't particulate the air around me -- I'm still able to pay my mortgage.  Just where is the harm?  Seriously, it seems like the perfect way to pleasure, relieve and groom myself without offending others.  To me, it is self love without the mess. 

Don't get me wrong, friends.  I am more than happy when my nose picking is productive.  Truly, there are few better things in life.

I learned the power of the booger at a young age.  When my sister Jeri was home from college, she would sometimes chase me around the house, index finger extended and a booger directionally placed on its tip -- in MY direction, that is -- running around the house and threatening to wipe it on me.  These booger fights ended when she got tired, or I got faster (she is 10 years older -- happy birthday by the way) or, most usually, when I tattled on her to our mother.  Without missing a beat, Stella would say "keep your big fat hand off your brother and stop booger fighting, for God's sake."  Usually, she would not even have to look up from her kapama (Greek stew with either chicken, beef or lamb and a seductively rich and thick tomato sauce), that's how often this happened.

I never terrorized others with my nose picking or my boogers -- like my sister did.  Rather, I only used my power for good, frequently amazing and fascinating my nieces and nephews with nasal gymnastics and the prizes therefrom.  Scoring a 10 almost each time, I would often show them a "filigree" (a wide flat booger that is see-through when you hold it up to the light, somewhat like a stained glass window


but with only 1 color -- a favorite of my nephew, Johnny)

                      or a "Laurel & Hardy"                            

(a large booger that is dry on one end and wet on the other)

or a "carpet booger"


(no explanation needed but suffice it to say that the removal of a carpet booger is the best of all).  Some carpet boogers feel so good coming out that I dream and wish I could put them back up in there to remove them yet again.  "Why oh why can't I do that, God?" I ask in prayer.  Alas, it never works so well in practice.

I never give my boogers proper names, oh no, that would be wrong.  I mean, what sort of sick bastard would do something like that?  I consider naming boogers to be taboo, tasteless and common, although, to be honest, I do remember receiving a booger named Bartholomew in the mail when I lived in Miami, Florida and worked for the IRS.  My niece had wrapped him up in paper, then plastic, then put him in a zip-loc bag (her attention to detail at such a young age was impressive) then into an envelope.  She then mailed the entire care package to my apartment.  I opened the envelope with great interest and was immediately introduced to Bartholomew.  I don't know where she got that name but, to this day, whenever I meet a Bartholomew, I am filled with a swelling sense of pride and familial love.  For my niece.  Every once in a while, when I am cleaning out my closet, I come across Bartholomew and I immediately think of Heather.  Now, that is family.

But, back to the point of this posting.  Today was shit.  Here, on the 28th day of the rest of my life, I found myself saying things to Jerry, my partner, like "you are not paying enough attention to me" and "just do what I say" and "this conversation is over" and "I think I can only work 4 days a week from now on."  I was being a bastard but rightfully so.  Still, I didn't like the way it sounded.  Here I was with the great fortune to work not for a slave driver or a old miser or Scrooge himself -- but for Jerry.  It's really like having no boss at all.  Hallo!

It made me wonder -- that kind of wonder you do alone, when nobody is around and you have to stop what you're doing, stop walking and look blindly at one vague spot near the ground, stop everything else and just wonder -- whether or not I was the problem in my life.  Since 1987, when I had graduated law school and begun my legal career, I had always put the blame and the focus on others.  "That partner was such an asshole," or "they simply don't have enough people to do what needs to be done," or "I don't mind constructive criticism, but does she have to be such a bitch on top of it all?" Was I just trying to rationalize?  Were these just things I said to divert attention from the real problem here -- me?

Aw jeez!  Who can really contemplate this sort of self-hate?  Maybe I should just forget about it and pick my nose.  And so I did.  And so I felt better.  WAY better.  And not in any small way because of Jerry and Jeri and Johnny and Heather and Bartholomew.  Thanks, guys.

Feeding the Homeless isn't really the time to make a Fashion Statement in a See-Through Blouse

So there is this big deal right now about whether or not the US government should release the pictures of Osama Bin Laden with his head blown apart, a "made in the good old USA bullet lodged in his cranium and dark red blood drying in his scraggly beard.

Some fancy schmancy special people have already seen the pictures.  Some of those fancy people are senators, congressmen, cabinet level officials and Obama's mother-in-law.  Pretty soon, the US Synchronized Swimminig Team will have wallet sized pics of Osama bin Ladin looking slightly under the weather.

Anyway, those who have seen the gruesome photographs have differing opinions on whether the rest of us stupid schmucks should see them.  Some say that his death is a great accomplishment and the photos should be released to help us process the information and to encourage the healing process.  I see some logic in that although, to be honest, I think most of us have moved on from denial, anger and bargaining to "let's kill the bastards."  Seems like the healing process has taken root already and Elizabeth Kubler Ross would be so proud of us for that.

Others say that distributing the pictures serves no purpose at all, that Usama Bin Laden is dead and that is that.  Plus, this group usually cites a fear of whipping up these radical Muslims into a frenzied lather as another reason to keep the pictures to ourselves.  I am not so sure.  These hopped up crazies are already looking to kill us and anyone who looks like us -- they don't need another reason.  I really don't think that a picture of dead Usama Ben Laddin will incite them to more violence than, oh let's say, my shopping for a new chandelier for my living room or, to revel in the banality of it all, our democratic and open way of civilization will.  To accommodate our public policy positions around a relatively small group of marginalized nutbags wearing filthy cheesecloth robes and Jesus sandals doesn't seem necessary or appropriate. It's not like Al Zawahiri is in his cave saying "oh, those nice people" -- translation: spawns of the devil -- "who shot my brother" -- translation: he had a bigger gun than me -- "won't release the photos of my slain comrade" -- translation: and it was aimed at my head.  "I think I should send them some flowers or a nice edible arrangement." No.  He's ready to poison our water supply or kill our children anyway, with or without the photo.

Osamma Bin Laddin is dead.  He was shot in the head by US Navy Seals while courageously trying to hide behind one of his wives (at least that is one of the stories told by the Obama administration).  The truth will set you free, right? .  A fact is a fact.  As Mahatma Gandhi said "there is no god higher than truth."  It happened.  Doesn't a free and open society depend upon things like pictures of a dead guy who murdered so many of our friends and neighbors?  I mean, I did not know personally any of the people who died on 9/11 but I know, for me, that I would like to see what we did.  It would help.  Somehow.  But even if, in retrospect, it doesn't, it is the truth.

I don't really know what the right answer is -- seriously, I don't even know if there is a right or a wrong answer here.  I know that I am uncomfortable with my desire to see the pictures just like I am uncomfortable with the videos of young people celebrating in front of the White House that Sunday night when news of OBL's death got out.  I think most of us have wondered whether or not that sort of jubilation was appropriate although, to be sure, it clearly was to those young GW students trying to get out of finals.  And I guess that is my point here.

My discomfort aside, there is something I know in my heart -- I WANT TO SEE THOSE PICTURES.   And I have a definite problem with the Obama administration pretending that it knows better than me if it's right or wrong. 

To be more specific, this is not a case of Lindsay Lohan going bra-less on her community service day. That's not truth, or dialogue, or justice or news or anything other than bad judgment.  The UBL photos are news and, I would argue, among the biggest and most enduring images since Jackie O crawled across the back of a Lincoln Continental convertible to retrieve a part of her husband's brain.

The Good News: They can be bribed with summer sausage

It is May 7, one day after my day of days, my birthday, and 1 day after the 20th day of the rest of my life.  I am contemplating myself and all my various components.  My never ending battle with food of course is foremost on my mind.  Last night, I had an absolutely exquisite dinner.  Jerry took me to a fabulous place -- I have a dear friend who delights in telling me constantly that my unabashed use of words like "exquisite," "fabulous" and "delight" makes me gay.  It couldn't be further from the truth.  Language, words and yes even sentence structure do not make me gay -- having sex with another man makes me gay.  So, once and for all, Jim, let's put that crazy theory to rest, for God's sake.  Anyway, Jerry took  me to a way cool place -- Alain Ducasse's Adour at the St. Regis Hotel in Washington DC.  At the corner of 16th Street and Connecticut Avenue, its location is the very intersection of high-priced real estate and world power.  The hotel lies in the core of Washington DC's central business district and has hosted both celebrities and dignitaries, presidents and prime ministers -- and now Lew and Jerry.  The hotel's structure was built in 1926 as another hotel (funny how that works -- 1st it was a hotel and now it's a hotel) by one of the foremost architects of his time and his name is absolutely unpronouncable (please don't tell anyone but I think the guy might have been a Muslim).  But thank God he designed this place, and thank God even more that the building survived the 1970's without being covered in Abitibi panelling, lime green shag carpets and portraits of Donny & Marie.  It underwent an extensive renovation in 2008 during which time it was closed for business for about a year and a half (I understand the same thing happened to Tori Spelling).

Anyway, back to Alain Ducasse's Adour at the St. Regis Hotel in Washington DC.  The dining room is stunning (don't go there, Jim).  The original 1926 ceiling is still in place with its carved wood timbers and Moroccan-inspired decoration.  See how those Muslims ever so subtly try to pursue world domination?  Even in hotel ceilings -- seriously, Western civilization stands no chance.  I mean, would we ever think of prosletizing in a ceiling -- Voice of America is simply no competition.  The rest of the dining room at Alain Ducasse's Adour at the St. Regis Hotel in Washington DC is brand spanking new -- chrome tables and chairs covered in the softest, warmest, finest white leather I have ever seen.  Could it be Corinthian leather?  Perhaps.  The table tops are covered in something that looks like mother of pearl and then clear-coated so the greasy droppings from your mouth do not unintentionally stain its beauty and finish.  Huge walk-in wine cellars flank the dining room and are housed in floor to ceiling, side to side glass with a mirror-finish chrome superstructure.  The sconces on the wall are also mirror-finish chrome and can only be said to look like some sort of sea anemone in full sexual flower.  The end result is this beautiful old world, vaguely Muslim out-of-this-world ceiling, punctuated with sparkling, gleaming, shiny rays of light.  Brilliant.  Really.  Beautiful.  And the food matched the surroundings. 

As an appetizer, I had some sort of foie gras deli sandwich -- one strip of bad ass duck liver sandwiched between a thin row of Amish chicken meat.  While I was savoring this food of the Gods, I pictured those  devout little chickens, one minute riding in quaint but frustratingly slow black horse-drawn carriages, wearing unflattering hats and starched dresses with little blue flowers on them -- the next minute, huddling on my plate waiting for the big bite.  They tasted good, dude.  My main course was halibut and asparagus.  Asparagus spears, poached to perfection.  Asparagus jus, thick and rich.  Asparagus froth, light and fluffy but still asparagus and therefore ultra hip.  Little asparagus droppings placed in concentric circles around the outside of the made-in-Italy white shiny plates.  It was great.  For dessert, I had something poached -- yes, again, this food item was poached, just like the asparagus and there were other poached items on the menu too.  Alain Ducasse's Adour at the St. Regis Hotel in Washington DC makes a big deal about poaching food.  I once read that Muslims use to poach Christians they caught during the Crusades -- did you ever read that?  Anyway, this poached thing I was eating was rhubarb with milk ice cream and a completely separate rectangle thing of pastry filled with cream.  It was wonderful and a great celebration of the day I was born so many years ago.  Both the food and I were on cloud 9.  Jerry paid the bill of course and we both thanked Marisa, our cute waitress who looked a little like Julianne Moore, as we left this Muslim stronghold.

I was so full.  One more bite and my underwear would have cut off the circulation to my legs.  That did not, however, stop me from eating 7 bites of kritharaki I had made the night before with chicken broth, sauteed onions and grated cheese.  This kritharaki (it's like orzo pasta but Greek so therefore much, much better) had been fantastic and I, as Jerry and I walked home from Alain Ducasse's Adour at the St. Regis Hotel in Washington DC, could not stop thinking about how good my kritharaki was.  So, when we got home and thankfully Jerry fell asleep like the drunk periodontist he was right then, I put on my slippers and tippy toed to the kitchen.  Only after I had consumed those additional 7 bites of kritharaki and was so stupidly full that I felt slightly sick to my stomach could I fall asleep, comfortable with the knowledge that I had eaten some of the best food in my life -- and also some food from Alain Ducasse's Adour at the St. Regis Hotel in downtown Washington DC.

Drifting to sleep with HGTV's House Hunters International on -- please, no, not show that episode about that blindingly blond girl from Park City Utah moving to Turin Italy again -- honestly, who is she sleeping with to get so many repeats? -- I could only think of one thing -- Osama bin Ladin is kind of hot.  I mean strip away his evil nature and his intense and unprovoked hatred of Americans and his dastardly mastermind machinations in the unforgivable killing of so many innocent people around the world, and -- oh yeh -- that really nasty Beverly Hillbilly beard that he dyes to hide the gray -- he was nothing more than a tall (between 6'4" and 6'6" I read -- that's tall and, as I always say, tall is good), fit, lean, dark, pouty-lipped, swarthy Mediterranean cutie patootie with dreamy eyes.  What's not to like?  Okay, okay -- maybe that nun habit thing on his head and those dirty looking robes that must smell underneath.  But, really, lose the Islamaphobic bias and look at the man behind the religion and, seriously, face the facts.  Osama bin Ladin is hot.  Dead, yes.  But also hot.

And baby makes three

I went to a baby shower last night.  In the old days, there would be no men at a baby shower and the party itself would have been thrown on a Saturday afternoon.  The ladies in attendance would sip tea or some sort of zesty punch and eat dainty things like rice salad with apple wedges or perhaps a chilled soup with watercress salad.

Well, this is 2011, I am gay and so is my partner and those days are gone.

This party started at 7 pm on one of the best nights of the year.  The weather was perfect -- just a hint of chill in the air and no humidity.  There was not a cloud in the sky.  Loud alternative music blasted from the stereo (do people still call them stereos???) and people -- probably more than half of whom were men -- stood around talking, laughing, telling stories to each other and, mostly drinking.  I looked for some zesty punch because I always like that sort of thing but instead I found something better.  Bourbon.  The host poured me the best bourbon and coke I have had in a long time.  I drank 3 of them.  In between catching up, meeting new people and getting a tour of the well-done renovated rowhouse, I ate.  Pasta, chicken tacos, chips and guacamole and, to my great pleasure, dolmades.  Perfect little delectables, balancing nicely the lemon and the oil, the grape leaf wrapping strong enough to hold its contents safely inside so it didn't drip all over me or my $19.90 Cole-Haan shoes (yes, I'm proud of that deal).  The dolmades were delicious and I ate every single one that was on the plate.  You see, even in public I have a food problem.  I am addicted but this posting is not about me and my problem so let's move on.

Across the room, or standing next to her, Jen, the woman carrying the new little life inside her, was holding court.  Everyone wanted to be around her.  She is an unusually articulate person in general but, here, among her best dear friends, there was something new, something different.  When she and I talked, I felt like she looked right into my center, directly into my personality.  She connected with me in a stong and direct way -- she did the same with everyone, I suspect.  It was as if the baby inside her made her focus not internally but, rather, on the great big world out there that she would soon introduce her new daughter to.  The conversation was so easy and so pleasant.  There was a new energy in her and an increased intimacy around her.  She looked great -- happy, truly happy, a happiness that comes from an inner peace and confidence.  The smile was toothy and genuine, not put-on because a party was being given in her and her husband's honor. Her hair looked great, her skin looked great, her eyes were twinkling and it was my great joy to be in the same room with her.  There was an attraction to being around her, next to her, talking to her which, to me personally, is a little strange because to be honest I am just the least little bit afraid of that swollen belly with a person inside.  Really, how does it breathe in there?  I watched her throughout the evening and talked to her numerous times, realizing something.  That glow that everyone talks about pregnant women having is not really a glow.  I mean, for sure, light and/or warmth were not literally emanating from Jen's body.  It is peace and contentment and satisfaction and happiness.  Pure, raw, unadulterated happiness.  And who the heck isn't attracted to that sort of thing?  I know that I was.