Till Death Us Do Part

It's a quiet Sunday afternoon.  The weather is picture perfect and my belly -- Jerry's too -- is full of a delicious egg casserole I made yesterday.

The egg casserole was made in layers in a clear 9 x 13 inch Pyrex dish.  The bottom layer was 1 pound of bacon from Costco.  Well, almost 1 pound -- we each ate 1 rasher because the fumes overwhelmed us.  I cooked the bacon first in the oven to make sure we did not get trichinosis -- a disorder and a scary word which of course both have their derivation from the Greek.  In my opinion, anything scary like eating pork before it's done just because you are so hungry you can't wait to swallow it whole should certainly, definitely, POSITIVELY come from the Greek language.  Its etymology -- itself a Greek word, see how how this is a fantastic circle back to my own people??? -- is "thrix" which means hair -- at one point, shortly after my sister Garifalia was born, my parents were seriously considering naming her Thrix because she had such a good thick pelt.  But, then, they figured that it sounded too much like "tricks" which I won't go into right now.

Anyway, trichinosis is caused by a worm inside of you so this is some heavy shit.  Nobody wants a hairy worm to ruin their Sunday brunch, Egg McMuffin or favorite German sausage.  That would only be an inconvenient and gut wrenching interference from reading The Washington Post and contemplating when next you can safely take a nap.

So, suffice it to say, I cooked the bacon first.

The next layer was a beautiful combination of sauteed onions and cubed new red potatoes, skin on.  I sauteed one whole onion and about 10 potatoes in 8 tablespoons of salted butter.  I also added some black pepper, red pepper flakes and a smattering of shredded sharp cheddar cheese.  On top of that little bundle of deliciousness and cholesterol, I laid asparagus spears from a can, yes, from a can.  No fuss, no muss, just dump and go.  Then, about 9 beaten eggs seasoned with white ground pepper.  Pour it on.  More shredded sharp cheddar cheese because I got too vigorous and shredded an awful lot.  Well, I was hungry of course and that sort of thing happens.  Finally, what I consider to be the best part -- crushed pretzels.  I took 4 handfuls of pretzels, put them in a Zip-loc bag and beat the hell out of them just for fun.  I mixed in some minced parsley and sprinkled this over the top.  Voila!

Once the casserole was assembled and in the oven (steam oven at 300 degrees, 60% humidity), I sat down and rested, waiting to eat, making sure I did not lick my fingers to get some of that good bacon trichinosis or wholesome eggy salmonella either.  You know, it is sad that the only thing that keeps from vomiting my guts out -- and pooping so violently I resemble an Atlas rocket booster -- is the off chance that some hairy worm will inhabit my diaphragm or some motile enterobacteria will invade my typically iron stomach.

It's a known fact that salmonella can be contracted by eating too much poached salmon at elegant gay cafes where all the waiters are named Evan or Fernando.  It's also a known fact that salmonella is named after Daniel Elmer Salmon, an American veterinary surgeon and is not, repeat, is NOT, derived from some Greek word.  "Say what?  Are you fucking kidding me? as my dear old sweet yiayia would have said to me -- if she could have spoken English and if she had known what salmonella was.  And if she had known it was named after Daniel Elmer Salmon and not a Greek work.  And, most importantly, if she had been a fucking potty mouth like me.  I can see her smiling face right now, wondering what the hell I was talking about, who the heck Daniel Elmer Salmon was and why the hell she hadn't had a daughter so she could have named her Salmonella. We did, after all, already have an Aphrodite, Athena, Evanthia, Anthoula and little Elpiniki in our family -- why not Salmonella? 

Anyway, back to my disease-free casserole.  After about 1 hour, it was ready.  It was so good that our cleaning lady, Meditha, ate 2 helpings, the weight of which was heavier than her 93 pound frame -- soaking wet, I imagine.  Anyway, I want her to eat because it makes me happy, makes her happy and, hey, you need nourishment to open my dirty laundry drawer and wade into what I like to call "no man's land."  We've lost more cleaning ladies after they look deeply into my underpants, cross themselves, mutter quickly in Spanish something like "mi Dios" and run for the nearest INS office to turn themselves in.  God LOVE Meditha who keeps coming back, eating my egg casserole and, most importantly, dutifully washing out my dirty lingerie!

Okay, back to today.  Jerry and I had just finished the majority of the egg casserole and were sluggishly lounging on our black leather -- of course -- couch, leaning up against each other for moral support and post-sustenant napping.

As I lay there, barely able to put 2 coherent thoughts together other than "I wish I had put a little jalapeno in with the pretzels" and "I should not wear white underpants anymore now that I am over 50," I realized that this is what married life is all about.  Cooking and cleaning and laundry and napping together and going out with dear friends on a Saturday night to PassionFish in Reston Town Center.  Jerry and I are living the married life.  He, a periodontist by day, and me -- now that I am retired -- his receptionist, or office manager, if  I am trying to be uppity about it -- are just 2 spouses on a weekend, enjoying each other's company while not saying a word to each other, the warmth of each other's bodies enough to communicate our feelings of companionship and comfort.

Jerry and I cannot of course marry because the laws of Maryland -- where we are legal residents -- do not allow it.  Strange, isn't it, that Maryland -- one of the bluest of the blue states in the country -- on the issue of same sex marriage, lags far behind such liberal, outlandish and cutting edge states as New Hampshire and Iowa -- yes, Iowa for God's sake.  Oh well, I suppose that this is the part of the beautiful and delicate balance of freedom, insanity and stupidity that Maryland is -- beaches, tony Washington DC suburbs, small towns with little main streets, inner cities, smelly chicken farms and just a touch of impoverished hillbilly.  Yes, this is the state to which I pay my exorbitant income tax -- or at least I used to pay exorbitant taxes when I was working at comedy central.  But -- let's not get off track today, on what is roughly the 55th day of the rest of my life -- yes, I think I am losing track as well as losing my touch with reality.  If Maryland is as enlightened as Annapolis thinks it is, shouldn't this gay marriage thing be a slam dunk for the Free State?  Just how free are we gay boys and dyke girls if we cannot marry???  They can get hitched right across Western Avenue, for God's sake.

It just goes to show you the difficulty that we Americans have with this issue.  It is a developing issue.  It is a difficult issue.  It separates religious people from secular people.  It separates the 6 states (including New York as of 2 days ago) plus Washington DC that have approved same sex marriage from everyone else in the good old USA.  It is an emotional, divisive, complicated, often explosive and not altogether comfortable matter to consider.

Freedom, yes, Apartheid no, Freedom, yes, same sex marriage, no!  Is that really how the chant is supposed to go?

Well, if so, it doesn't have the same ring, it doesn't sit well, it doesn't even rhyme or have a good beat.  Is same sex marriage a civil right or just a bunch of slender, well dressed boys -- wickedly sarcastic -- who want to wear long white dresses and throw big cocktail parties (pun intended)?  Oh, come on, of course, this is a gross over-simplification.  The gay marriage issue also includes handsome muscular women with spiky haircuts who want to wear tuxedos and pierce their labia with matching wedding bands.  Ewww.  Sorry.  You see, it is a perplexing and surprisingly nauseating conundrum.  Even for me!

I am happy that the New York legislature voted to legalize same sex marriage, don't get me wrong.  I acknowledge that for many of my gay and lesbian "brethren and cistern," this marriage thing is very important.  It means equality and recognition and registration at Bloomingdale's.  These are not small accomplishments.

But, to be really honest, for me -- personally -- I am not sure that I think the marriage route is a perfect fit, or 100% right for Jerry and me.  I believe that homosexuals and heterosexuals are different -- and this is more than our innate ability to decorate and keep our nails trimmed "just so."  Just like men and women are different -- a fact I learned in the 6th grade when Mary Joe and I used to play "Playboy" in her garage -- no amount of legislation will ever make little boys throw down their toy guns and NFL t-shirts for Barbies and pink-alicious frills and leggings.  Homosexual couples -- like homosexual people -- are different than heterosexuals.  They just are.  Not better or worse, or dangerous or beneficial.  Just different.  I simply cannot imagine Jerry marching down the aisle to "Here Comes the Bride," rose petals being crushed into oblivion by his freakishly large size 11 and 1/2 hairy dogs.

I think that a State-sanctioned Love Connection -- and NOT the one hosted by Chuck Woolery -- comes in

2 varieties:  (1) a church, synagogue, temple marriage between 2 people, usually a man and a woman, sanctioned by a recognized religious organization; and (2) a civil union, recognized, recorded and granted by a state government.  This system almost exists already.  For lack of a better, more articulate phrase (after all, I already told you that my stomach is full and I am ready to nap), let call these 2 varieties "shack up things."

Each of these "shack up things" -- independently and all by themselves -- should be equally recognized by the government and should grant spousal status to each person in the couple.  And each of these "shack up things" should grant to the couple all of the tax, legal and monetary benefits that only federal, state and local governments can grant.  In some cases, a couple -- whether same or different sex -- will qualify for BOTH "shack up things" -- if, for example in the case of gay couples, their religious affiliation deems it okay to marry them.  If not, only the governmental "shack up thing" will be available.  Couples who have no religious affiliation can elect to do the governmental "shack up thing."

If a given religious organization --let's call it the Church of "What's Happening Now" -- soul searches and decides that its deity -- Lady Gaga -- and its body of teachings -- let's call them the "Rules of Etiquette for the SkyBar at the Mondrian Hotel in Los Angeles -- allows same sex couples to get "married," well then so be it.  But, if those Rules of Etiquette do not recognize same sex marriage, then there will and should always be some sort of "shack up thing" allowed by the screwed up, bankrupt state government of California so that a particular couple -- let's say Rosie  O'Donnell and Kelli Carpenter -- does, in fact, have the same equal protection under the law that can be gained by people who get married in the Church of "What's Happening Now," presided over by Father Lady Gaga and attended by all the Happening Now Monsters that can fit into whatever sweatlodge they pull together.  We can only hope that California's "shack up thing" will cover the "divorce and separation of marital property thing" and OH YES you know Kelli does too!  These things come with marriage just as much as flowers, and "I love you's" and "why the hell do you have to make that revolting noise when you gargle every night?"

But, to me, as long as we live in a society like ours in which we are allowed to practice our religious beliefs, if any at all, as we wish -- so long as nobody is killed or eaten -- don't the "same sexers" have to recognize that the Baptist church or the Greek Orthodox church or the conservative synagogue -- or whatever -- may be morally opposed to same sex marriage and therefore should be equally free to NOT like and/or to NOT participate in gay marriage?  I think that is sacrosanct, I really do -- even as I recognize that I am uncomfortable with that position, too.  Acceptance is not a 1 way street to drive on only when it suits your own personal route in life.  And this also means I want other people to honor the decision that Jerry and I will make -- should we ever be that lucky -- to NOT marry.  After all, why would we do that?  For the kids?  I don't know, maybe for the party.

On the other hand, we do live in the United States of America -- thank God for that -- and we do have equal protection under the law -- thank God for that -- and I just don't see how anyone can justify the governmental benefits of marriage being granted to only 1 sort of couples and not granted to another sort of couple.  WRITER'S NOTE to the "slippery slopers" -- the word "couple" assumes both people in a couple are, well, people, human beings!  Please stop arguing, you dolts, that people will marry chickens or horses or spatulas if same sex marriage is allowed.  It's demeaning to you, to me and to the argument at hand.

Okay, sorry for that rant.

Now, getting back to me -- the most interesting part of this posting after all -- I certainly want Jerry and I to have the tax, legal and monetary benefits that some sort of official governmental "blessing" of our 17 year relationship might bring.  I want the ease of real estate purchases that recognize us as tenants by the entirety, each of us having an undivided 100% ownership in the property.  I want the tax benefits that Kaiti and Jason got the minute they marched down the aisle but that I still don't have more than 17 years after Jerry and I started sharing Polo shirts.  Nothing against my dear friends, believe me.  I'm just focusing on the inconsistency.  I also want the option to have a real hoopla "wedding" of some sort if I change my mind in the future, which I doubt -- but it could happen.

And, really, I desperately want the certainty that I will have the inalienable right to visit Jerry in the hospital if, God forbid, something terrible happens to him -- as an example only, let's say he contracts trichinosis from eating undercooked bacon in an undercooked egg casserole -- shouldn't I have complete freedom to be by his side, holding his hand, looking into his eyes and saying "I told you it should have stayed in the oven for 15 more minutes, you hairy wormy trichinosised-up bonehead."  That seems to me part of what marriage is all about.

Leaning, Leaning. Leaning On The Everlasting Arms.

I look so much like him that when I visit my hometown of Belleville Illinois and go to Sts. Constantine and Helen Greek Orthodox Church -- where he spent every Sunday of his life and many other days and nights as well -- the handful of gray haired old people who knew him almost gasp.  They shake their heads and smile, their eyes tighten and they click their tongues against the roof of their mouths, remembering one of the gentlest souls and finest men they have ever met.  Last time I was there, Mrs. Pangos crossed herself and hugged me tight.

"For a minute, Elia mou" -- my Lew -- "I thought it was Jimmy.  What a wonderful man!"

I purposely fight the urge to remember his face myself and reply "I know -- there is no mistaking whose son I am."  And then I ask her how her son John is doing.

It has been 17 years, 9 months and 26 days since he died.  With the stabbing grief of his death folded into a dull and permanent ache that is simply part of me like the shape of my stubby Fred Flinstone feet or my never ending appetite -- I am glad that a heart attack took him quickly.  I could not stand the thought of him going through a long and painful death.  It is true that I did not get to say goodbye to the man who set me on my life's path, but I am at peace knowing that, if there was pain for him at the end, it was brief and it passed before it hurt him too much.

Selfishly, I wish and pray that he was still here with me of course.  But I know in my heart of hearts that he is with God in a better place, happy, peaceful, content and without pain, worry or sorrow.  For eternity.  I gather the most comfort from knowing that he is with his wife, his parents and 2 of his sons.

The sad truth for me is that I love this man so much that I have trained myself to not think of him too much and to not see photographs of him too clearly -- I kind of look sideways at photos with him in them --conjuring up only broad generalities and fuzzy images of him as my father.  I pray for him on Sundays, I thank God for the blessings of a father who selflessly guided me through childhood and young adulthood, his hand always on my shoulder literally and figuratively.  But it's still too difficult for me to look too directly at his face or to remember his voice.  Instead, I move on in my life, standing on his shoulders, using his lessons -- "when not in use, turn off the juice" -- remembering his warnings -- "drive like all the other people are stupid because they are" -- and taking great comfort that I look so much like him that I frighten old women.

Beyond that, though, I try so hard to keep his memory blurry for my own peace of mind that I am afraid sometimes that I will never remember who he was.  To a great extent, he has become a collection of hard data.

I.  Born -- July 28, 1921 -- 89 years, 10 months, 22 days ago today.
II.  Counted as a US citizen on April 3, 1930 -- listed one line below Louis and Cherrie Hages on the 1930 East St. Louis, Illinois census by census taker Myrtle Tyers -- he was 8 years, 8 months and 6 days old at the time.
III.  Enlisted for World War II -- September 20, 1940 -- he was 19 years, 1 month and 23 days old and weighed 129 pounds.  He was 5'4".

IV.  Married to Stella in the largest wedding the church had ever seen -- September 30, 1945 -- he was 24 years, 2 months and 2 days old.  They had to remove the pews from the church to accommodate all the guests and people still talked about it when I was in high school 30 plus years later.

V.  Died -- August 23, 1993.

My father was a hard working man, always doing the best for his wife, his daughters, his son, his grandchildren.  He did not have a flamboyant personality -- my mother was always the loud, funny, naughty life of the party with a quick wit and a practical jokester mentality.  I always think of my mother as a force to be reckoned with -- he, on the other hand, was a constant gentle presence.  Always there, always ready to do something for you, always thinking of others and of me.  He wrote me long letters when I was in college and there was always a check or cash wrapped tightly in the pages.

He liked bologna sandwiches with mustard on them.  On hot vacation days, he wore long bermuda shorts that came down to the top of his kneecaps and long, over the calf socks -- called men's hosiery or manty hose by me -- that went up to the bottom of his kneecap.  He had no hair on the calves of his legs.  I only remember him having 1 pair of dress shoes.  He had thick wavy dark hair that only got salt and pepper as he got older.  Of course, his scary thick eyebrows remained coal black and had a life of their own.

When I went away to college, he told me to work hard, get straight A's, have fun, stay out of alleys and always keep my tie in my pants.  I thought he was stupid, thinking that we were supposed to dress up at U of I for classes or certain dinners or something.  You see, he did not go to college and I thought he just didn't get it.  It was years later that I realized his "tie in the pants" thing was just a safe sex message long before that sort of thing was necessary.  College or not, who really was the stupid one here?

I never heard him raise his voice to his wife or to me.  If he didn't like someone, they never knew it.  When he got mad -- which wasn't often -- he would get real quiet and go outside to do yardwork.  Even in the winter.  Even at night time.

I only have one memory of him getting mad at my mother.  I was a little kid and do not know at all what they were arguing about.  Her voice was raised, his was quiet, plaintive in response.  At some point he had had enough.  He walked calmly through the back room to the back door then returned into the kitchen.  He must have run his hands through his hair because it was sticking out all over like Harpo Marx, only dark.  Then he came through the backroom again, one red and white vinyl-covered metal kitchen chair in his hands.

I was scared.  I didn't know what he was doing with our chairs.

I soon found out.

He opened the back door and threw the kitchen chair out into the darkness.  I was wide eyed and silent, trying to recede into the knotty pine paneling when I heard the metal chair clanking down the concrete stairs to the patio.  "Oh my God, will our neighbors, the Minivers, hear this and think my dad has gone crazy?"  I sure did.

Then, one by one in a calm and solemn procession, he carried the other 3 chairs through the back room, to the back door and clankety clank out into the darkness, resting on the patio.  After the last one, he walked into the kitchen again.  It was deafeningly silent for a moment then I heard my mother talk -- "well, I hope you're proud of yourself."  I guess he was because the fight was over.

He retrieved the chairs the next morning but one of them had a bent leg that he never fixed.  That was his chair and nobody else ever sat in it.

I am crying as I write this, my face tight and hot.  The right sleeve of my "Bush-Cheney" t-shirt -- thanks, Beastmistress -- is damp from my tears.  It is hard to believe that I have  been able to live without him for 17 years, 9 months, 26 days.  With him here, I know that my life would have been better, richer, happier.

But the truth is -- even though it is the only comfort I have and maybe I just say it to ease the edges -- he is not really gone.  He is with me when I turn out the light in my closet on my way to the living room.  He is with me when I save the rubber band that was holding the asparagus together from Whole Foods.  He is with me when I try, try, try but fail, fail, fail to keep my anger in control (I guess this part of me is from Stella).  And as strange as this may sound, he is with me when I look at Jerry and feel pride at the good relationship we have built together.

I never told my dad that I was gay.  I told myself that I was being polite and respectful to someone from another generation -- someone who had lost 2 sons -- someone who only had me to carry on the family name.  But, if I am honest with myself, I didn't tell him because I was a coward, too afraid that he couldn't understand, would not be able to forgive me, that it would shame him, dishonor him.  Afraid that he would love me less or not love me at all and I just couldn't handle that possibility.  At that point in my life, I was sure I could not live without his wisdom, gentleness and constant encouragement.

Because of my lack of honesty, I will never know how he would have reacted to my news.  But on good days when I am feeling confident and strong, I remember his advice to "keep my tie in my pants" and I think he would ultimately have been okay with it.  I pray that I am right.

So, it's June 19, 2011 -- Fathers Day.  And this is my card to a man I hope I measure up to in some small way.  Happy Fathers Day, Dad.  I miss you.

A Medium Life

I have not posted in over a week -- I'm sure you all have been poised by the telephone, trying to decide if you should place a phone call to see if President Obama has tapped me for some hot diggety dog campaign position or, much more likely, was I just sick.  But, not to worry, I have not jumped the shark to the dark side and nothing has been wrong with me -- my fingers are still working and, the last time I exercised it, my mind was still pretty sharp.  The truth is much more boring than anything you might have imagined -- simply, in the last 7 days, nothing has really piqued my interest and I have been too busy to sit down, caressing my computer, for the 4 or 5 hours that I think a really good posting requires.  My days have been pretty normal, run of the mill, with no real highs or lows.  Oh sure, Jerry and I have been bickering a little bit -- it doesn't happen often really -- but even that was just 2 people who needed sleep taking it out on the easiest and closest targets.  It's not right -- we both know it -- and, if we thought about it before we barked, we wouldn't do it.  But we are over that now.

So why am I posting today?  I am not sure really but I wanted to say that -- my -- life -- is -- good.

Today, I had a pleasant 20 minute conversation with a woman I had never met before -- Maria.  She was young, attractive and interesting.  She genuinely thought about the words she spoke before she said them.  She was interested in my responses.  The back and forth was was lively and, as they say, "in the moment."

The conversation started out slow -- we didn't know how much time we had to talk or what sort of things to say to each other.  But, we quickly realized that we had some commalities.  She worked in a very similar industry doing things that I used to do in my old job.  She booked musical acts into venues in and around the Washington DC area.  Very cool.  How often do you come across someone who has met and talked to Sting and Stevie Wonder?

For some reason, I told Maria how, from about 1975 through 1982, I was a total Linda Ronstadt fan -- really more than a fan -- I was a nut case about her, in love with her.  This woman -- way too young to have listened to Ronstadt's LP's, yes, LP's, in her heyday -- knew Ronstadt because her own father had a huge crush on her too.  When I found out Maria's father was 10 years older than me, I said "well, there's no contest here.  Clearly, Linda would have chosen me because of my youth."  We smiled and swapped war stories, our speech more the comfortable back and forth of old friends than 2 people randomly thrown ino the same room together.  It was nice.  Nothing more or less.  Nice.

No expectations, no jockeying for position, no "what can I get out of this person."  Just a nice moment in time.

Later in the day, after Maria was long gone, I had a telephone call with an old colleague.  No agenda, just catching up.  A nice conversation with a woman who is just starting an exciting time in her life.  She sounded so content.

Lunch was with a dear friend of mine who is at the prime of his life.  Past indecision and lack of confidence are behind him.  His life is good and he is rising to every occasion.  His optimism and joy draw me in like he had some sort of graviational pull.  I hung on his words, looking for the meaning behind them, because they reflected his inner peace.  It was nice.  And, hey, he paid for lunch too, not bad, huh?

I emailed with someone I knew in college, many eons ago back when I seriously thought Linda Ronstadt often dreamed about that hot looking dark haired young stud in the 2nd row at Assembly Hall in Champaign, Illinois -- I know she looked right at me during Easy For You To Say.  I was wearing green corduroy jeans with bell bottoms big enough to cover my shoes and, oh yes, a plaid vest -- and I sang every word to every song, including Blue Bayou and It's So Easy.  Sheri is funny and engaging and remembers me as a relatively thin and fun-loving guy.  What's not to like?  She was one of those plain nice people then and she remains so now.  Our banters and memories are the sort of pure, lovely moments that I hope everyone has once in a while.

I was blessed to have contact with these people.

After work, Jerry and I walked home together, enjoying the best that Spring has to offer.  He held his Vente Latte in his hand and I, a Tall Vanilla Bean Frappucino -- skinny of course.  We enjoyed each other's company alot, relieved that the several days of not-so-frequent, thank God, bickering were mostly behind us.  It was so nice and it reminded me of why we have been together for more than 17 years.

In short, it was an uneventful but heart-warming day and I am fortunate to have had a day like this.  Sure, nothing big happened.  I had not won the lottery, any lottery.  I had not lost weight or grown new hair on my bald spot.  I did not have a visit from a long lost dear friend or relative.  I had not been asked to speak at the next graduation of Washington College of Law at The American University. But, in a delicate balance that only a benevolent God can grant, I had not experienced any trauma either.  No psycho-sexual abuse or gnawing loneliness slowly eroding youth and happiness and life affected me.  There was no booger in my nose that I didn't know about.  I don't have tumors or persistent swollen legs or a slow moving infection heating up my insides.

In short, it had been just a normal day, doing what has to be done, getting on with it and having really lovely conversations with some really lovely people.

I recognize that I could be richer, smarter, luckier, hipper, younger, nicer, cuter, more generous, thinner, in better shape and/or more talented -- hard to believe, I know.  But, on the other hand, I just couldn't be any happier.  Well, maybe  if I could grow more hair to cover my bald spot. . .

I'm a Little Bit Country . . .

In my never-ending tug of war with food, there is usually -- I say usually -- one safe haven.  Sweets.  I have simply never been drawn or addicted to sweets, chocolates, candy, cakes, pies or other confections.  Don't get me wrong -- I will eat all the Kit Kats left over from Halloween or a whole bag of pastel pink and blue Hershey's Kisses from Easter just because they are there and, while I am eating them, I enjoy them.  Immensely.   They make me happy just not deliriously happy like breaded pork chops or Cool Ranch Doritos.  I can leave a few Tootsie Rolls laying on the coffee table while I watch America's Got Talent; I cannot exercise that willpower with my home-made Macaroni & Cheese.

Yes, sweets will do in a pinch and -- while I do like a pinch -- I just don't perseverate over sweet things while drifting off to sleep.  I have never dreamt about waking up early to eat more Kozy Shack Tapioca Pudding, pleading with God and gleefully hoping, praying that morning will come soon -- like the non-Greek kids who used to wait for Santa to deliver the cheap, old toys to them, after he had delivered all the good, new, expensive ones to the Greek kids like me on Christmas Eve.  I preserve this sort of fantasy nirvana for savory foods, salty snacks, crispy treats and Spanakopita.  Don't get near me when I've got meatloaf or your arms might be yanked off your skinny little body from the vacuum I can create when hungry.

But yesterday a patient brought in a cheesecake and I was there -- God was watching over me for some reason.  That cheesecake looked marvelous.  It was a Golden Girls episode with a serious problem for Dorothy, Blanche and Rose to resolve late at night. 

This cheesecake was the mother of all cheesecakes -- at least 20 pounds, as heavy as an adult man's bowling ball for a weekend league and as big around as the bucket chairs from Germany that are in our living room.  Pure creamy white cheesecake with a moist graham cracker/caramel crust and, spread out all over on the tippy top in thick, lavish layers of strawberries, ripe and moist and fresh and covered with a luxurious syrupy gooey glaze.  It was the Mona fucking Lisa of cheesecakes. 

The patient, she said, had baked it herself which was believable because she is a professional pastry chef. From the looks alone, I wanted to eat, lick, suck, devour, chow down on, gorge, have sex with and marrythis cheesecake.  I wanted to have its babies.

But, ever the closet eater, I played it off.  I was coy, sly, cagey like a fox.  I told myself and the others that "sweets just aren't my thing."  Nobody believed me.

"Don't you want just a little piece, Lew?"

"No, I'm okay."

But the reality of the situation was that the chemical reaction in my body had already begun.  I couldn't focus.  I was slurring my words.  My heart raced.  My mouth watered.  There were beads of sweat on my upper lip.  My sphincter tightened -- if only my bulging stomach could -- and I licked my lips to myself once I turned the corner into the bathroom, the wheels already beginning to turn.

I pulled my pants down and sat on the pot but certainly didn't have to poop or pee.  I just needed to clear my head, I needed a plan.  Inside, I was going crazy -- outside, well, I was sitting on the toilet with my pants around my thick ankles.  Maybe this would pass, I stupidly hoped.

But, it didn't.  The longer I sat on the pot, the more I fixated on that cheesecake.  No words came to my mind, no real plan of attack was obvious.  All I could see, focus on and think of was that damn cheesecake.  It got bigger and bigger in the windmills of my mind until that was all I saw, all I thought of.  It was talking to me, whispering my name.  "Lew," it said breathlessly, a sweet grin on its succulent face, "come and eat me.  You know I'll taste good and make you feel like someone loves you."  It was so fucking beautiful I thought I might pee.  Luckily I was in the right place at the right time.

While I tried to ignore the temptation -- stay away from the light, baby -- if I was honest with myself, I already knew I was on my way to a bender and a bad one too.

I flushed and washed my hands.  "A-B-C-D-E-F-G" and so on -- just like Stella had taught me as a child so long ago.  The alphabet and the tune came to me through rote memorization, my mom watching to make sure I didn't rush the Stella-approved hand washing technique.  I dried and sprayed a little Glade -- hey, old habits die hard.

When I opened the door, the break room was empty -- oh Thank God!!! -- except for the cheesecake, 3 Chinet plates, some clear plastic forks.  And my own conscience.  "Fuck it," I said, giving in sadly to my lack of will power.  I looked around and made sure everyone else was busy.  Patty was on the phone.  Jerry and the others were in Operatory 1 draining a fistula or measuring a particularly beautiful pontic.

I went about my business quickly, my steady hands belying my thrill at imminent eating.  I cut myself a huge piece, licked the knife and walked quickly to Jerry's office.  Once there, I put the plate behind the stack of papers to be shred so my cheesecake wasn't so obvious if someone walked in.  SHIT, did I bring a fucking fork?  "Yes, it's in my back pocket."   Good, now slow down, breathe, focus.  Savor.

And then I ate.  Slowly at first -- carving thin layers of decadent cheesecake with the clear plastic fork, then sliding them bit by bit into my mouth.  Gliding the sinfully diverse combination of cream cheese, sugar, condensed milk, vanilla extract, juice of 2 lemons and 6 eggs around in my mouth -- but then faster and faster, always glancing toward the door to see if anyone was watching, anyone could see me eating.  Nobody.  I laughed to myself and threw my head back, intoxicated by the liquor of this incredible moment.

"What a fool I am" I chastised myself  "for not eating cheesecake all the time."  I had made it before and had an excellent recipe for chocolate cheesecake in particular.  I can make it again tonight.  "I will," I promised myself.  But I knew I wouldn't.  I was just talking to the air.

After the first piece was gone, the others went more easily.  I don't actually know how many pieces of that cheesecake I ate -- or how long I kept eating -- but, when my binge was over, it was dark outside and there were no patients left in the office.  The only sounds in Jerry's dental office were the whir of the air compressor and the vacuum.  Oh yeh, and my stomach expanding and stretching to hold what must have been 2 pounds of damn cheesecake I had eaten during my food blackout.  I could hear my own belt moaning in pain.  Clearly and stupidly, I had ignored my own personal rule of thumb -- never eat anything bigger than your own head.  This clearly rivaled the 2 1/2 pounds of brisket and who knows how much potato salad that I had consumed all by myself -- during my own personal food orgy -- while cleaning up after our 4th of July party in 1997.  Jerry had fallen asleep thankfully -- that's called opportunity.  I was in heaven then and I was in heaven now.  How I hated myself and loved myself, all at the same time.  Did I want a cigarette?  No, I'd probably just eat it.

I returned to the break room to put the cheesecake away.  I turned the corner and saw what I can only describe as my shame.  Only one small piece of it was left, right next to the Diet Coke I had left there.  Yeh, you heard me.  Diet Coke.  Diet Coke because, after all, every little bit helps, doesn't it?

I was sick to my stomach and needed to poop or vomit.  Or both. I felt ashamed of myself even though God had never even tried to grant me the power to stop what I had just done.  Is it really a sin if you have no choice?   I was helpless.  I couldn't avoid that cheesecake just like I couldn't turn my back on the resurrection.

It was 1823 -- that cheesecake was the Angel Moroni and I was Joseph Smith.  Like the Book of Mormons to the pilgrims of the Latter Day Saints, the cheesecake had appeared to me several times on a golden plate -- not Chinet as I had thought.  The break room had become my Mormon Temple, my Salt Lake City.  The whirring of Jerry's air compressor and vacuum was my Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  That brisket and potato salad orgy in 1997 was just me being thrown out of Missouri.  I believed and was saved.

And then later I got sick and slept for 3 hours, my left leg thrown over the back of the couch at home.  I don't really know how I got there.  I was still in my clothes.  I was tired and satisfied.  Like Mitt Romney in New Hampshire, I felt full. 

I once asked a Mormon friend of mine when his church had stopped practicing polygamy.  Without hesitation, he replied "We stopped somewhere around 1890 because the Lord had seen our obedience in the face of intense and unrelenting persecution and said 'It is enough.' "  When, oh when, dear Lord, will you mercifully say the same thing to me about cheesecake?

Did you really just take a picture of her rump?

Yesterday, I had the great pleasure of a man's day with my good friends, Marcus and Bill.  The "girls" were in Room GA2/4 in the Med-Dent Building at Georgetown University enjoying some sort of lecture I could never hope to understand entitled Maxillofacial War Injuries and Reconstruction by Dr. Michael Will of the Georgetown Dental School Class of 1986.  I understand that there was standing room only and one could barely hear Dr. Will over the grunts and chants of "Go Incisors!" and "86, your bite, we'll fix!"  I believe the Incisors were the Dental School's football team who, in the final 5 minutes of that epic game back 25 years ago -- scenes still shown on NBC Sunday Night Football flashbacks -- beat the equally ferocious University of Pennsylvania' Dental Schools "Fighting Impacted Molars."  It was a grueling game against a worthy adversary, a knuckle biter to the very end and, as you might expect, the Incisors won by --what else -- the skin of their teeth.  How sweet is victory, how bad, decay. 

Cute, huh?

The girls had invited us boys to go with them to this lecture but we politely declined, saying that we couldn't bear the thought of taking a seat away from some poor bleary-eyed denta-phile who had camped out all night on the renowned steps of Healy Hall -- only a pup tent and a thermos of hot Indonesian Kopi Luwak coffee as company -- just to get a single glimpse of Dr. Will and his cause celebre, a guy named Max -- after all, Dr. Will is taking care of our country's heroes who have suffered so that we all can remain free.  Now, I didn't know what any of that had to with their 25th class reunion, but it just didn't seem right that Marcus, Bill and I would occupy seats that were better filled by dental professionals.

So, instead, Marcus, Bill and I tried to pull together the dashed pieces of our own personal and bitter disappointment and fill our time with guy things -- you know, hunting for bison, precision urination contests or, in our case, a stroll through the Smithsonian Institution's National Gallery of Art to see Chester Dale's impressive collection of impressionist paintings and whatever else happened to be nearby.  Now this was real male bonding. 

The National Gallery of Art -- the crown jewel of the Smithsonian Institution.  The actual reason for the visit, and in close proximity to Mr. Dale's personal collection, was the Capitoline Venus.  The Capitoline Venus is a marvelous marble statue, originally created by the renowned classical Greek sculptor Praxiteles around 360 bc.  Damn, even way back then, we Greeks had it going on!  But we lose interest quickly and tend not to take care of our things, so the orignal was destroyed and replaced by a copy -- by an Italian guy, no less, named Eddy Big Thumbs I think -- who recreated the statute almost perfectly except that he covered one of her ample boobies.  As my dad used to tell me about paper towels -- but I think it applies equally to boobies -- "why use 2 when 1 will do?"

Anyway, this statue was for years at some shrine dedicated to Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love, on the eastern shores of the Aegean Sea.  In 475 AD, some nutbag took her to Istanbul for a weekend away from the kids where she got lost in the crowd and was never heard from again.  A few years later, Adrian, the guy who cuts my hair heard that she had moved to Montauk, New York with her "friend" Holly.  They were apparently running a nice little B&B and the local Dairy Queen franchise.  Oh, how far the mighty fall, but, hey, who doesn't like a good ice cream treat now and then?

Back to Venus -- this statue was the cause of not a small amount of attention in the ancient world.  The Smithsonian reports that Pliny the Elder called the statue "superior to all the works, not only of Praxiteles, but indeed in the whole world."  What they don't tell you is that Pliny the Younger was jailed briefly in the 3rd century BC for trying to clean Venus's buttcrack using only needle-nosed pliers and his tongue.  His father bought off the Roman Centurions and that's why you usually don't hear much about this.

In 1860, Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote an entire novel about the Capitoline Venus entitled "The Marble Faun."  Hawthorne's book created an awful lot of buzz and made Venus go all "Kim Kardashian" for a while and she got terribly over-exposed.  She became so famous during that time that, in 1867, Mark Twain visited her to see if they could collaborate on a line of organic skin and hair products -- which she declined -- but Twain, ever the gentleman, described her as the "most illustrious work of ancient art the world can boast of."   They must have done the horizontal rumba like dogs for him to say such nice things about her after she so dumped his hairy ass.  But the truth is that no lady ever likes being called old and, really, it seems so unkind to boast about the entire sex tape thing, doesn't it?

But the whole uncomfortable incident brings up something very timely and current.  The Capitoline Venus was the world's first large-scale, free-standing, fully nude female.  Yes, fully nude as in no clothes.  Naked, bare, unclothed, au naturel, birthday suit, in the buff, raw, not a stitch on and buck-ass nekkid.

I can attest to this because, I myself, saw her in her altogether -- titties, tummy, tee tee and tushy -- all right there for all to see -- for me to see -- and, oh yes, you know darn well I took a picture of her shiny marble tushy.  Why did I do that, you ask?  Well, first of all, I'm Greek and a cliche, and second of all, she left it hanging out there for all to see.  You know how I hate to disappoint.  If she didn't want it photographed by some dirty old Greek middle aged guy with an i-phone, she should have covered her ass with, say, green plaid culottes or some pastel colored granny panties -- that ass is, after all, over 2300 years old.

This is not to say, on the contrary, that her old ass isn't beautiful, artistic, classic, expertly rendered and impressive.  It is all of those things and more.

But it is also ripe, so to speak, for the picking or, a least the photographing -- all apparently A-OK with her.  Oh sure, maybe once when she was out shopping for nail polish remover at the Forum or walking along the Appian Way on the way to get a burger with her girlfriends, or later that night on the prowl at some club, she had second thoughts and modestly attempted to cover her danger zone and one full, round breast -- but it was already too late.  And, at any rate, that doesn't change the fact that she is naked naked naked and dragging her business through the streets.  If she -- or, more correctly, if the US Federal security guard -- did not want me to take a picture of her inviting rump, then they by God should have covered her up or posted a big-ass sign saying "do not take a photograph of the ass."  Of course, this might have caused mass confusion as many people would have become cautious about photographing their step children or in-laws.  But I think I've made my point.

And, really, here is the point.  Today, June 5, 2011, on the front page of The Washington Post's Outlook Section is a huge article by Jessica Valenti, leading the page with a full color picture and headline print thicker than my thumb is wide, proclaiming that the "new feminists" can be "as slutty as they want to be."  There they are, in all their glory, carrying signs, protesting -- short hair, long hair, green hair, blue hair and plaid hair -- we are sluts and we have the right to wear whatever the hell we want, and bare whatever the hell we want.  These sluts are correct, of course.

This SlutWalk in Washington, DC, currently scheduled for August 13, is just one of more than 75 now planned around the world in slutty places as far flung as Canada, Sweden, Australia and South Africa, according to Miss Valenti.  Apparently, the SlutWalk started in Canada where other cool things come from  like hockey, Canada Dry, the Canadian gallon -- bigger than the American gallon (size queens) -- Cirque du Soleil, Walter Pidgeon and Celine Dion.

Anyway, the SlutWalk is now a world-wide phenomenon.  These sluts -- including a number of men -- carry signs that say things like "My Clothes are not my Consent," "Stop Slut Shaming" and "My dress is not a yes."

Again, I say, wholeheartedly, these sluts are correct.  One's state of dress or undress, or visible panty line, is not, and should never be considered to be, an invitation, request, acquiescence, desire or demand for sex or abuse, whether consensual or not.  Only a person's overt actions and/or express words, knowingly communicated with proper capacity, should be considered to be agreements to have sex.  The whole idea that a woman "asked for it" is abhorable and should be unacceptable to all thinking people.

But, I must admit that I feel some discomfort in seeing these women in their brassieres, boom-boom shorts and thongs -- those things must get filthy -- cut low, cut high, skin and tramp stamps proudly showing for all to see and read.  But I am not really talking about the people who are marching in the SlutWalks because I completely get them.  Really.

I am talking about any Saturday night in Dupont Circle or Adams Morgan.  I can clearly and easily see nipples, butt cracks and private areas -- for God's sake, I can read their lips and they're NOT saying "no new taxes."  And while I will be among the first to argue for their right to dress in any way they please, at the same time, I recognize -- and I think they should recognize -- that their manner of dress communicates something as well.  Just because it's their right does not mean that it is good judgment.  You have to admit, whether you are proud of it or not, that 1st impressions are based on appearance and, also, that 1st impressions can and will influence how you react to, interact with and think about, people.

Back when I was young and horny and I went to dance clubs -- I know, I'm always joking, aren't I? -- I used to see guys who wore tight little gym shorts on the dance floor all the time, their t-shirts skimmed off their tight little sweaty bodies and tucked into the back of their elastic waist bands, pulling the shorts tighter so you could their breakfast.  Were they just having a good time? Yes probably.  Were they grooving to the dance beat?  Of course.  Were they also looking to go home with the good looking Latino guy named Estefan with a crotch as big as a grapefruit?  You betcha, Sister Sledge.  Action, reaction.  Observe and learn.  Pavlov's hot dog.  Tight little sweaty gym shorts on the dance floor often equal male slut.  It's as true a rule of thumb as always cut the green off before you eat the cheese.

That reminds me -- when I want to beat off, I do not grab for the most recent issue of "Interior Design" magazine -- although, as a gay man, to be brutally frank, I did feel a little warmth in my leg pit when I saw pictures of the new David Yurman store in New York City on page 54 of the May 2011 issue.  But, that aside, when I want to beat off, I reach for the closest magazine that says "hot" or "naked" or "nipple" or "butt crack" or "twins."  I completely ignore -- as in I DO NOT EVEN SEE -- my copy of "Down East" magazine and its seminal article on "Why We Love Maine's Beaches."  No, my friends, I reach for the skin and the filth.  I am goal oriented.  But it illustrates that all of us, me included, do in fact judge a magazine by its cover.

What would you say if you saw me walking down the street at say 2 or 3 in the morning wearhing nothing but a smile on my face and a Speedo covering my private parts?  Other than, "I think I'm going blind and he should be institutionalized" you would probably think that there has got to be some sort of blubber prevention law to stop this fat bulgy old Greek guy from scaring people like this.  Okay, bad example.  Let's say I was 22 years old and in really good shape -- just go with me on this one -- it would be reasonable to surmise -- because of my prior decision to show you my business -- that I was proud of my body and that I wanted to attract someone to me -- for a sexual purpose.  This of course leads to all sorts of assumptions, right or wrong, but they are reasonable under the circumstances. 

And just like my dad used to tell me never to drive my car down any alley anywhere because that is where nails and broken glass and thieves and murderers are found -- and I might get hurt or worse -- the same goes for dressing suggestively.  Right or wrong, there are consequences in life and nobody but you are responsible for your own safety.

I see it in downtown Washington just like I saw it in the National Gallery of Art when Marcus, Bill and I were enjoying the Capitoline Venus.  I was taking a picture of her rump, because I could, because it was there, because it wasn't covered and because it looked juicy.

And the entire time I was exercising my Greek prerogative, I noticed both Marcus and Bill -- red-blooded all-American men and sexually active heterosexuals married to beautiful and stunning women -- I noticed them enjoying, staring, ogling and imagining the statue's perky bosoms, alluring curves and fertile crescent staring them both right in the face.  And thank God they have both the drive and desire and testosterone to enjoy all those things -- in a delicate balance with the decency, restraint and respect of enjoying it from afar -- without touching or licking.  But, the sad truth is that not all men or women -- or people -- are as decent and polite, or have as much control, as Marcus and Bill do.

Believe me, you will never know from just looking whether Joe or Brandon or Estefan, those guys you will meet when you are out for a good time on a Saturday night and scantily clad -- either because it is warm or just because you want to dress that way because it makes you feel good -- are there to meet a new friend or Miss Right or just Miss Right Now -- or whether they are even thinking of anything other than a "thrilla in your Manila."  Dressing to attract attention seems okay if you are a naked 2300 year old marble statue, ogled mostly by Pliny the Elder getting his Roman rocks off reading "Slavegirl" magazine

or Lew James Hages staring at your bum in the National Gallery of Art -- because the potential consquences are not so dire.  Believe me, at my age and in my condition, I am harmless except for the random rogue toenail.  Of course, I can't speak for Pliny and, to be honest, I have my own suspicions about how he got that nickname.

But, where the consequences are potentially severe -- wrongly or rightfully -- it seems prudent and an exercise of good, safe judgment -- to protect yourself by wearing more rather than less.  It's a lesson in life just like not standing too close to the edge of a cliff.  Yeh, you can stand right on the edge of the cliff if you want to -- nobody but your mommy will stop you.  But what happens if you get a chill?  Or vertigo?  Or get pushed?  Weigh the risks and act accordingly, Little Miss Hide the Sausage.

And, please, never ever, let a short little Greek man with his lips slightly open and one hand in his pocket take a jiggling picture of your rear end because you know for sure that THAT is just going nowhere good.

As my good friend, former US Senator Bill Frist, has said, "Our top focus - protecting our Nation - must go beyond homeland preparedness; America will only be secure if we deal with threats before they happen, not just after they happen."

To be sure, of course, he was talking about keeping the United States of America safe from terrorist attacks.  But, if you think about it just a little bit, the same thing really applies to keeping your own coochie hole safe.

My bologna has a first name

Am I the only person in America wondering what a 46 year old Jewish Congressman from New York City, whose parents' names are Mort and Fran, is doing taking a picture of his Johnson?

To me, the real question is not "why isn't the FBI involved" or "was Anthony Weiner's Twitter account hacked into or not" or "does Mr. Big Deal Democratic member of the Committee on Oversight and Investigations know or not know a certain 21 year old coed in Washington State."  The real question in my mind is what is a grown man who's supposed to be a champion of middle class values -- married less than a year to a beautiful and successful young woman, powerful in her own right -- doing photographing Mr. Happy for the public.  It's not right, it's un-American and, frankly, it's making me more than a little uncomfortable.

I will be honest with you.  I have formed my own Oversight and Investigations Committee.  I have googled Little Mr. Hot Pants' picture to see what all this fuss is about. Here are my conclusions -- (1) that half smoke is erect; and (2) that dog probably will bite; and (3) that pee pee has a nice profile; and (4) that dynamite stick is happy to see someone; and (5) how much time and effort does this US Congressman put into selecting his boxer briefs?  Anthony Weiner's underpants are really nice.  Maybe that is what separates the upper ruling class from those of us normal types who are more normal and smelly.  The Congressman's underpants seem unusually, well, fresh and, dare I say, not at all what I would expect someone from Brooklyn and Queens, much less Rockaway Beach, to wear.

When I wake up in the morning, it's all I can do to make sure that I put my underwear inside my pants.  I don't give a flying batshit what they look like -- I don't even care if they have more holes in them than I need for my legs.  I just want something between the general public and my danger zone.  Period, end of story, no more thinking about it.  Maybe if I knew that my log roll was going to have a glamor shot (oh, there's a joke there somewhere) later in the day, though, I would think differently.  But, the fact is, I don't really know because I have never photographed my hot dog.  Why would I?  If I was missing my peepee real bad and had an overwhelming and uncontrollable desire to see my peppermint stick right in the middle of the day, for example, I just figure it would just be easier to, oh, let's say, sneak behind my desk, unzip and take a look down.  Call me crazy.  Call me old fashioned.  Call me a cab, you crumb.  Have you ever photographed your smoked sausage?  I bet you haven't -- at least not since you turned 13 years old.

But, here, we have a prominent member of the United States House of Representatives saying to Luke Russert of MSNBC that he cannot say with "certitude" whether the photograph of the purple headed warrier is him or not.  Really?  Putting aside his use of the word "certitude," I don't know about the rest of you guys, but I am pretty sure that, if I ever did see a picture of my schwangy-schwangstein, I would be able to know with 100% certitude whether it was my lollipop or not.  Of course, that will never be an issue because I have never photographed and will never photograph my applehead!

The Congressman also told FoxNews that he was taking a "hard" look at the situation.  I bet.  Anyone who has seen the photograph already knows just how hard.  His commitment to this is obvious.  In a statement that I find more confusing than anything -- especially about his knowledge of the male anatomy -- he told the Huffington Post that he wanted to get to the "bottom" of this.  Say what, Batman??? 


And, finally, I have to ask, am I the only person in America wondering if there is just the tiniest bit of irony that his last name is Weiner?

Let me end with a song.

"Oh my Congressman is horny.

That's h-o-r-n-y.

Oh my Congressman is naughty.

That's d-i-r-t-y.

Oh I love to hear him every day

And if you ask me why I say.

He Tweeted for a little kick

a picture of his hard dipstick.