Please Stand By

I haven't posted in a few days now, and I can sense the rising disquietude.  You've been feeling anxious and on edge lately.  Your spouse/partner/lover/dog/cat/fish have noticed it too.  Everyday you type "www.gefiltefishblues.com" into the address bar -- perhaps several times a day, depending on how boring your job is -- and everyday your heart breaks a little when you see no new postings.  Why did I commit to this, you wonder.  Why did I open up again to another blogger who already found a more productive hobby than blogging, like crocheting or cockfighting?  Damn myself for loving again!  I'll never read another blog as long as I live!

But before you go flushing both your husband and goldfish down the toilet, never fear -- a new story is working its way through the pipeline of my psychotic little brain as we speak.  I'm not one of those fly-by-night bloggers who get your hopes up with wickedly witty insights into the human condition, and then suddenly disappear into oblivion without so much as a goodbye.  You know the type.  They're the heartbreakers of the blogging world.  They give blogs a bad name.

But I'm no heartbreaker.  I'm a master blogger (cue: eye roll at the bad sexual pun), and I'm not going anywhere.  So direct your fear of abandonment towards a more appropriate subject, please.  Might I suggest your father?  That's always worked for me.

That being said, I'm currently in the midst of a major life change.  Of course, given my OCD, almost every change in my life is a major one.  I'm a creature of habit.  It takes several hours of debate and a box of Kleenex to convince myself to throw out an old pair of underwear.  When they discontinued Entenmann's Chocolate Chunk cookies, I needed crisis counseling.  And when my last manicurist told me she was retiring, I tried to bribe her to stay.  I gave her a new pair of cuticle scissors wrapped in old Christmas paper.  She took the gift, but never came back.  Ingrate.

But this one is an actual life change.  I moved apartments on Monday.  My new apartment is fabulous and sure to play host to many exciting events, like the annual I Love Lucy marathon, or the national BDSM convention.  But only after I moved all my crap did I realize that this apartment is four times larger than my old apartment, with four times less closet space.  And that was a fatal error.  I don't need more room to live -- I need more room to store my shit.  Like my eighth grade science fair trophy, when I made cold cream out of sour cream and shampoo.  I didn't win first place, but still, a trophy is a trophy.  Or the faded t-shirt which proclaims that "I rocked out at Jonah's Rockin' Bar Mitzvah!"  I didn't come out of the closet voluntarily.  There was just no room left in there for me.

So I've spent the last two days organizing and reorganizing my stuff into and out of boxes.  Since I refuse to throw anything out -- what if I need my 80 pound first generation laptop with a cracked screen and half of a keyboard again one day? -- I'm currently embroiled in a war against physics and my living space to maneuver my 3000 cubic feet of junk in 20 cubic feet of closet space.  It's me versus the apartment.  I'm going to win, even if it takes a can of gasoline and a match.

Either way, please stay tuned -- I promise to have the next story finished by the end of the week.  Of course, you don't have any recourse if I don't actually deliver.  So this may be just one of those many empty promises that you hear in life, like "you won't feel a thing," or "I do."  But life is pointless without a little faith.  If you can trust your doctor or your spouse, you can trust me.

Ok, I'm off to master blog before bed.  It always makes me sleepy.

Moment of Truth

Brace yourself for a rare moment of non-sarcastic clarity from yours truly.  Well, somewhat non-sarcastic.  You can't expect me to go cold turkey.  At least not without a Methadone drip.

Thanks to Sitemeter and my non-medicated OCD, I've become aware that people are actually reading this thing, more than a few of them complete strangers.  To my surprise, none of them have referred me to the local authorities, or petitioned to have me involuntarily committed.  But to my bigger surprise, it seems that these people are actually enjoying my stories, and a few are even commenting to that effect.  If I had a yearbook, they might sign it something like, "[heart-shape] your blog!  BFF4EVR!"  At least, they would in my imagination.

I know that, in the grand scheme of things, my blog -- indeed, most any blog -- is pretty inconsequential.  There are lots of really important things happening in the world at this very moment.  Right now, the New York Times is featuring a spot on combat trauma on the front page, while Tyra Banks is providing her secret path to Fab Abs on the CW.  Clearly, whatever I have to say cannot compete with that.  (Side-note:  Has anyone ever gone to Tyra's website?  It basically takes over your entire computer.  When I closed the window, I half-expected Tyra's face to pop up and ream me out for "giving up on myself.")

And I also know that the "blogosphere" (whoever came up with that word should be honored and then shot) is already eyeball deep in narcissistic ruminations by people who probably should spend more time thinking about others and less about themselves.  Maybe, as a general matter, I fall into that category.  After I started the blog, my ex-boyfriend Jason told me that I think more about myself than anyone he knows.  I think that was his roundabout way of saying I'm self-obsessed, although on second thought, perhaps it wasn't so roundabout.

But despite Jason's unintentional slur -- which he'll surely pay for in a future post, natch -- I don't really write for myself.  Blogging is not therapeutic for me.  I have a full-time, well-paid therapist who fills that role.  And she earns her keep, believe me.  I don't think her many years of schooling could have prepared her when I walked through that door.  Most people present with one or two disorders, but I'm a psychological onion.  So understanding myself better is not the goal of this blog -- I understand myself well enough, thank you.  (But not too well.  I need to sleep at night.)

Simply put -- I write, dear reader, for you.  Because, for better or worse, I believe there's no higher calling than making people happy, in whatever way, shape, or form you can.  Mother Teresa did it by feeding the poor.  I do it by making penis jokes.  Perhaps not equally impactful or self-sacrificial acts, but we all contribute as best we can.  Sure, I don't have the strength or resolve that she had, and my fragile stomach could never handle living in Calcutta, but if we went head-to-head in a raunchy humor competition, I'd surely come out on top.  You can't make a good penis joke if you can't even say the word penis.

And don't underestimate the power of laughter.  A laugh might not cure cancer, but it can give it a run for its money.  I survived high school by making bullies laugh.  You'd be surprised how quickly someone forgets about beating the crap out of you when you crack a good fart joke.  And a laugh can organize the chaos.  If a butterfly flapping its wings in Montana can make it rain in Phoenix, think what a smile from a law student in Virginia could do for the Amazon.

So screw the grand scheme of things.  My goal is to make every person on this planet laugh, at least once.  I'm anticipating a few obstacles -- Martha Stewart hasn't laughed since 1983, and I might have to slip Dick Cheney a laxative to get a chuckle out of him.  But if you've read the last post, you know I've got plenty of time.  Between this goal and reading War and Peace, I'm going to need every one of those 117 years.

And for those who have already laughed, my sincerest thanks for your support so far, and KIT.  You're 2 Good 2 B 4 Gotten.

Dying for a Vacation

When I die, I want a destination funeral.  I would rather have a destination wedding, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be allowed to get married in this lifetime, so I’m going to have to settle for a destination funeral.  I don’t think Republicans can outlaw that, though I suppose they can try. Anything can be outlawed if enough people make a stink over it.  Just ask Anita Bryant. 

This isn’t the first time I’ve planned my post-death activities.  When I was 15, I decided I wanted to be frozen when I died.  Not like Lenin, though; frozen heads are so 1964.  And not stuck in some mausoleum with a bunch of gawking tourists.  No, I wanted to be frozen and sat on my couch with a remote control in my hand.  Of course, the remote control would automatically change the channel every so often to make sure I didn’t get bored.  Sports-related channels would be blocked, except for swim meets.  Death is no match for a well-fitting pair of Speedos.

But before anyone goes planning any interventions, let me be clear -- barring unforeseen circumstances, my destination funeral won’t happen for several decades.  I have a lot of living left to do, and several tasks I'd like to accomplish before I go.  Read War and Peace.  See the pyramids.  Figure out why the Golden Girls spin-off failed so miserably.  And even if I never accomplish any of these tasks, I’m not planning to go anywhere until gay marriage is legalized in Texas, so everyone has plenty of time to prepare.    

Still, we all have to go sometime, so when 2073 rolls around, and I've had my fill of pool boys, sponge baths, and oatmeal, I want to be ready.  

The biggest question, of course, is where to have it.  Somewhere warm would be nice for the guests.  Maybe Disneyworld.   I went to a wedding in Disneyworld once, it was surprisingly fun. Mickey and Minnie cut the cake and then they did the watoosie with the bride and groom.  No one can be unhappy in Disneyworld, not even during a funeral.  Maybe they could shoot my body out of Space Mountain.  Still, I think getting the Disney people to agree to a destination funeral would take a lot of convincing, unless I can persuade them that my body is animatronic. So Disneyworld is probably out. 

Even so, it would surely be pleasant for my guests to get away for a weekend to a lovely tropical spot, like Hawaii.  Of course, Hawaii could be expensive, but you only die once.  And they wouldn’t have to feel bad about taking a trip.  There’s always a bit of guilt when you take days off from work for happy occasions, like a vacation, or a Bette Midler concert.  You’re out of the office, enjoying your day, singing along to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, while your colleagues are toiling away, covering for you, seething with jealousy.  No one would seethe with jealousy over a funeral.  Well, maybe they would if it was in Hawaii, but expressing that sentiment would be in very poor taste.  Gee, they might think, I wish my friend had just died so I could go to Hawaii, but they would never actually say that.  At least not the polite ones. 

I also want people to hook up at my funeral.  What’s the point of a vacation without a little nookie?  Because I have more female friends than male ones, and because women generally live longer than men, I realize there's a good possibility that the guest list will be XX-heavy (although, the way they're going, some of my male friends might be women by then).  I suppose if there are some lesbians on the guest list they could hook up with each other, but for the straight widows it’s probably too late for them to switch teams at that point.  They need some options too.  Maybe I'll hire a few male prostitutes, just for them.

Another question is when and where to register.  I think I’ll pre-register; all gifts must be received between now and my 75th birthday.  That will give people plenty of time to plan.  Plus I can register for really expensive shit, maybe set up some kind of savings plans for the gifts.  So instead of registering for bed sheets and fondue sets, I can register for trips to Barbados and Mercedes.  All they have to do is save a few dollars a day for forty years – walk to work instead of taking the subway, buy generic detergent instead of a name-brand, send little Johnnie to state school instead of Yale.  Little sacrifices, big payoffs.  For me at least.

Of course, the fear is that people will procrastinate and not buy anything until it’s clear that I’m on my way out.  It’s difficult to yell at someone for buying you a crock-pot when you’re 94 years old and hooked up to a respirator.  So I plan to drop subtle hints of my eventual demise over the coming years.  

“I heard that Cuba is re-building its nuclear arsenal. You think we can avoid obliteration twice?” 

“How about that Ebola virus? No telling when that little bugger might hit. I’m feeling a bit feverish myself.” 

"Is it a bad sign when you can see your own kidneys?"

If none of that works, I'll just wear a black t-shirt with a skull and crossbones and an arrow pointing towards my head.  

Then there’s the requisite “DJ or band” decision.  DJs are more middle-class, though a band is always risky.  “Wind Beneath My Wings” (the funeral’s theme song, along with “Margaritaville”) can really be butchered in the wrong hands.  Although perhaps by the time my funeral comes around music as we know it will be obsolete.  I bet Cher will still be around, though.  Maybe I can pre-book her.  I hear she gives a free toilet scrubber with each performance.

I expect that the sensationalism of the event will draw spectators and press, and there will be people clamoring to get on the guest list.  A destination funeral?  How unique and inventive! What genius came up with that unique and inventive idea?  He must be quite a unique and inventive fellow!  Maybe there should be a bouncer to keep out the undesirables, e.g., guys who pop their polo collar, and people who don’t own a television set.  Not owning a television set doesn’t say “I’m intellectual” – it says “I’m boring.”  And polo collars are made to point down. If you want to rebel against society, do it the old-fashioned way – get fucked in a public restroom, or vote for Ralph Nader. 

I’ve taken online life expectancy tests to help me estimate the date of my destination funeral. I don’t think they are accurate.  They ask questions like, do you smoke, and do you wear suntan lotion.  I don’t smoke, and I always wear suntan lotion.  I’ve seen too many yellow-teethed, leathery-skinned queens at gay bars and Long Island diners to do otherwise.  And I always eat my vegetables.  I'm particularly partial to zucchini, the most sophisticated of the phallic squashes.  According to these online tests I’m going to live to be 117 years old.  Which would be nice, but given that I have at least two panic attacks a day and often lose feeling in my extremities, unlikely.

I need a personalized life expectancy test instead, with questions like, how many times a day do you masturbate (twice), and do you dry heave when you call your mom (yes).  Other factors that should be considered in my personalized test: 

Have you ever lived in New York City?  Yes.  Like a Liza Minnelli therapy session, New York is not for the faint of heart.  When I first moved to New York, I went out with a guy who asked me if he could inject saline solution into my testicles.  I politely declined, at which point he told me I would never last in New York.  Apparently you can’t make it in New York unless you’re the type of person who enjoys having salt water injected into his balls.  Minus six years. 

Do you drink laundry detergent?  Yes, in a fashion.  I have a compulsive biting habit.  When I was little I used to bite myself, my sister, and other family members.  As I got older I realized that biting people could be construed as offensive behavior.  So I started biting inanimate objects.  Now I bite my pillow, blanket, old t-shirts -- anything within twelve inches of my mouth when I'm sleeping (which might account for my lack of boyfriend).  I’ve probably swallowed several gallons of detergent by now.  That can’t be healthy, although my stomach acid probably smells lemony-fresh at this point.  Minus three years. 

Do you keep clean?  Yes.  I live in a super antiseptic home.  Now, that sounds like a good thing, but it’s not in the long run.  My home is so clean I haven’t been exposed to a germ in decades.  Eventually a superbug will come along and my immune system won’t be ready for it.  I’d move into a plastic bubble, but I’m claustrophobic.  Minus two years. 

That’s already eleven years off.  I suppose I have a few things going for me though.  I never kick puppies, I give up my seat on the subway for old people (as long as they are sufficiently decrepit), and once I even helped a lady carry a baby stroller down a flight of stairs.  Granted, I was doing it to impress a cute guy holding the door, but good karma is good karma.  Plus two years.  I watch a significant amount of reality television, which puts my body into a sort of hibernation state during which I do not age.  Plus five months.  I never drink from a bottle when the safety cap is already popped and I wasn’t the one who popped it.  Plus three months.  I’m a very selfish lover; I pretty much just lay there like a tuna.  Less strain on my heart.  Plus one year.  So it’s not all bad news for me. 

Optimally, this would be a surprise destination funeral and I wouldn’t have to plan anything. But for that to happen I’d need a boyfriend to plan it, and that’s looking more and more doubtful with each passing year.  My hairline has steadily been receding since I was 25.  It’s now about half an inch from gay death.  Gay death occurs when you no longer resemble an Abercrombie & Fitch model -- you are not actually dead, but you might as well be.  While gay death is directly correlated to age (every gay man over 40 is technically dead) some gays were born dead.  You might be suffering from gay death if you: 

Have a waistline over 32 inches. 

Can go online without being solicited for prostitution. 

Shop at Sears. 

Haven’t needed a haircut since the 70s. 

Remember the 70s. 

This is not an exhaustive list.  If you think you may be suffering from gay death, please visit the nearest Jenny Craig or Hair Club for Men.  No one besides a trained specialist or any 19 year old twink can accurately diagnosis gay death.  The only cure for gay death is actual death.

But if I am partnered when I die, I think my partner should assume some of this responsibility. After all, a tacky funeral reflects poorly on him – this is the guy you spent the last forty years of your life with?  So I think I’ll leave some details open at this point, like hair, make-up, party favors, selection of a Cher impersonator (or Cher herself, sans toilet scrubber).  Relationships are all about compromise. 

I’m not looking forward to death, and if I could live forever, I would.  I'm fascinated by too many unanswerable mysteries of life, like what's the sound of one hand clapping, and how in the world did Michael Jackson procreate.  But if all these people are going to get together to celebrate my life one day, I want them to enjoy themselves.  Your funeral is the last memory people have of you.  It’s your last chance to make a good impression.  I’ve spent my whole life building up a reputation as a good host.  Why spoil it just before the finish line?

The Golden Rule

When I first came out to my mom, she repeatedly expressed concern for my safety, as if the villagers were waiting outside my door with torches and pitchforks.

"Lots of people don't like the gays, you know," she said, referring to "the gays" as their own species.  "Why would you want to put yourself  in danger like that?"

Like any experienced Jewish son, I quickly disregarded my mother's concern as paranoia. This is a woman who would triple-lock her bedroom door living in a convent (probably to ward off any lesbian nuns).  When I became a lawyer, she suggested I change my last name and pretend to be gentile, because "law firms might not like the Jews."  I informed her that in fact many of the most prominent law firms had Jewish names, but my mother wrote that off to an "attempt to be politically correct."  According to her, those Jews were probably just figureheads.  Apparently the Pope is the real mastermind behind the American legal system.

But despite the results of loaded polling and a few bad apples, I don't think most people really care where I put my penis (though perhaps I should care more).  Sure, there are still some intolerant people out there, but people will always find a reason to dislike you if they feel like it.  If it's not my sexuality it might be my taste for ketchup on pasta.  Personally, I cannot stand people who use correct punctuation in e-mails.  They make the rest of us look plain lazy.

By the time I came out to my mother I had been out of the closet for the better part of a decade, and in all that time I never once felt physically endangered because of my sexuality.  Ok, a bunch of frat boys did yell "fag" at me from a passing car once, but that epitaph seemed motivated more by a general desire to insult someone than a direct reference to my sexuality.  Though I'm not the most masculine guy in the world, most straight guys have horrible gaydar, and cannot accurately determine another guy's sexuality, especially from two hundred feet away.  Despite their tendency to call each other "fag" and "homo," straight guys generally don't like to think anyone is actually gay, probably because that would mean that they could be also.  I had a college roommate who, after I came out to him, insisted that I "prove" to him that I was gay, even though the VCR was always set to record The Golden Girls and my CD collection spanned Liza's career from rise to meltdown.  I offered him a blow job as proof; he politely declined, but my earnestness was enough to convince him that I was telling the truth.

Although my mother's concern for my well-being was misplaced, it was not completely irrational.  It's not the hostile straights she should have warned me against, who are easily dismissed and avoided.  No, had my mother known better, she would have warned me about the hostile gays, who run the homosexual social network with a latex fist.

  

The act of exiting the closet involves more than just fessing up to your sexual orientation.  It also includes reentering a world of behavior that had been previously discarded at the playground gates.  For a certain type of gay, coming out of the closet is a license to tease, taunt, and torment with impunity.  And it's not just the heavy, bald, and/or old who suffer as a result of this mass regression.  Something as small as wearing last season's man clogs can destroy an entire evening.  The gay gene exists in conjunction with the teenage girl gene.

Of course, the homosexuals don't have a monopoloy on superficiality.  There's certainly no America's Next Top Electrical Engineer, or Make Me A Supernerd, and there's a growing number of Botoxed, retoxed, and detoxed women out there who may not be biodegradable anymore.  But its the homosexuals who have turned a character flaw into a pathology.  

I knew I had entered unfriendly territory the first time I went to a gay bar.  Naively, I decided to go alone, hoping that people would be friendly and welcome me with open arms.  Sort of like a gay Cheers, without the bad lighting and all the mahogany.

"Oh, hey everyone, it's Jonah!  He just came out of the closet!  Let's give him a big cheer!"  At which point they would lift me on their shoulders and perhaps do a hora, depending on the Jew to gentile ratio.

The reality was slightly different.  No one cheered when I entered, there were no horas in sight, and everybody neither knew my name nor cared to.  Instead I found a crowd of men standing self-consciously around a dance floor, eyeing each other with looks that were equal parts suspicious, derisive, and sexual.  Each time someone caught another person's gaze, the first person would quickly look away -- no no, I'm not interested in you, I was actually looking at your friend, you know, the hotter one.  It was a junior high school dance, except everyone had a drink, a cigarette, and a penis.

I downed my first vodka cranberry quickly.  It tasted curiously like Robitussin, and I wondered if the bar had the same vodka supplier as CVS.  I ordered another one, and downed that one as well.  I wasn't trying to get drunk -- having a drink in front of my face just gave me something to look at, because whenever I looked up I inevitably saw someone who was better dressed, better coifed, or better looking than me.  Were my ears always this pointy?  Is my right eye bigger than my left?  Is that a third nipple?  How did I let myself get to this point at all?  I felt the birth of a new psychosis coming over me; pathological self-consciousness.  Coming out was supposed to decrease my therapy bills, not the other way around.

The second vodka cranberry hit me quickly -- I have the bladder of a munchkin -- and I abandoned my safe corner stool to venture to the bathroom.

Several guys stood in front of the bathroom, carefully judging every person coming in and going out.  They reminded me of the old Muppets who sit in the balcony and make fun of the various goings-on below them, except they were wearing Diesel jeans and two hundred dollar t-shirts.  They were also significantly less urbane than their felt counterparts.

"Hey did you see the butt on him?  Do you think he needs the jaws of life to get him out of a car?"

"That hair looks better on my dog." 

"I've seen smaller love handles on Dom DeLuise."

Ten years ago, these same guys were being stuffed in lockers and hung from flagpoles.  Watching them disparage everyone who crossed their path, part of me wished their high school tormentors would swing by and give a command performance.

Fortunately, I entered the bathroom behind a group of heavyset men (heavyset by gay standards, average by straight ones) who attracted their attention, and the evil Muppets did not notice me.  Only then did I realize that using the facilities might be more complicated than I expected.  The men's room consisted of a long troth with a mirror above it tilted downward, the goal presumably to give its users the opportunity to urinate and window shop at the same time. Fortunately I was sufficiently tipsy by that point that I didn't notice the gaggle of men staring at me, or more precisely, at it.  But I was not so tipsy as to hang around for one moment longer than I needed to.

 

Unfortunately, although I escaped unscathed when I went into the bathroom, I wasn't so lucky on the way out.

"What do we think of the hat?," referring to the wool ski cap I was wearing that night to keep my ears warm in the chilly Boston night.  I didn't know that a five dollar hat could also be a fashion statement.

"It could work, if his face wasn't so chunky."  No one had called me "chunky" since ninth grade, when I was slightly overweight due to an excess of quarter-pounders and a deficiency of physical activity.  Gym class didn't keep my weight down, probably because I hadn't actually participated in gym class since I learned to successfully forge my mother's signature.  Luckily my gym teacher wasn't too smart.

"You were mauled by a polar bear?," the coach asked when I handed him a particularly inventive note.  "Don't polar bears live in the Arctic?"

"Oh, no.  There has been a rash of polar bear attacks on Long Island lately.  Damn global warming!"

Unfortunately, during junior year my not-so-smart straight male gym teacher was replaced by a more intelligent lesbian version who didn't take kindly to my increasingly pathetic excuses and was increasingly suspicious of the constant notes.

"You know, I think I'm going to call your mother and check on some of these notes of yours," she told me.

"Oh, ok, yeah, go ahead," I said, calling her bluff.  "But don't call after 1pm.  That's when she has -- what's it called again -- chemotherapy?  And after that she's usually vomiting most of the night, but if I hold the phone up to her ear she might be able to talk in between heaves."

My mother's imaginary cancer aside, I decided to kick it up a notch, ditch the freak accident route, and instead develop a physical ailment that essentially prevented me from participating in all but the most innocuous physical activities, most of which involved sitting stationary for prolonged periods of time.  Fortunately I had a very sympathetic pediatrician who backed me up, probably because he knew my parents were insane and was always two steps from calling child protective services.

Looking back, I should have participated in more gym classes.  I might have developed a thicker skin if I had.

"Yeah, he sure is chubby," Muppet #2 replied.  Again, no one had called me "chubby" since high school, when John Leclark told me I had "chubby hair."  I'm still not sure what that meant.  

"His head is actually much larger than the rest of his body," he continued, taking a sip of a clear drink.  "I'm surprised he doesn't tip over in a stiff wind."

"And did you check out the shoes?  Can we say payless, suffer more?"

Well, that was it.  I may have been newly out of the closet, but I knew that a shoe insult was akin to a bitch slap, and required a reply.  I stopped dead in front of them.

"You know I can hear you, right?" I said to Muppet #1.  I chose to address him because he was smaller than me, and I thought I could take him if it came to blows.  Though at that time in my life I was so out-of-shape that Punky Brewster probably could have beat me up.  But there's no shame in that.  She was one scrappy lesbian.

It didn't come to blows.  It didn't even come to words, really.  They both stared at me for a minute, and then Muppet #2 said:

"So?"

And that was that.  I stood there for another moment, considering whether to escalate the situation, and decided against it.  There were already enough drama queens under this roof, and one more might have exceeded the building's capacity.

But there was another reason to let it go -- it just wasn't worth it.  Standing directly in front of them, I felt not anger, but pity.  In their $200 t-shirts and jeans three sizes too small, these guys had become caricatures of themselves.  They had queer-eyed themselves to death, and in the process, forgotten the dictates of general human decency.  And for that, I felt bad for them.  Perhaps feeling bad for them was actually the greatest revenge of all.

A few minutes later, I looked up from my third vodka cranberry -- the drinks were tasting better with every passing moment, the miracle of alcohol -- and saw them still standing there, except now Muppet #2, the taller, more aesthetically pleasing one of the pair, had made a new friend, and Muppet #1 was now left to fend for himself.  Something told me this was not a new experience for him.  Muppet #1 was still scanning the room for victims, but now he had no one to share his fabulous misery with.  All those insults, gone to waste in his head.

It was then that I made a resolution, never to become a caricature of myself.  I promised that night to be kind to everyone, regardless of race, ethnicity, age, weight -- I even promised to be kind to those that others wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole, like lepers, or Republicans.  Not out of pity, but solidarity.  Together we could take back the night from the evil Muppets and their ilk.  I promised to be the saint of every gay bar I'd go to for the rest of my life.  I would treat every individual with the dignity and respect that I expect to be treated with myself.

But only if they're not bald.  Even saints have limits.

Make me your favorite -- it's good karma

Creatively Derivative, or Derivatively Creative?

Thanks to the awesome power of Google (the wonderful website that has transformed stalking from punishable by 1 to 3 in the state pen to a legitimate pasttime), I made a startling discovery today. Despite my conscious attempt to be completely original in every aspect of my life -- I would even wear my pants on my head if not for gross indecency laws and my preference for non-breathing cotton polyblends -- the words "gefilte fish blues" have been used before.

From Curb Your Enthusiasm:

[Larry pretending to be Orthodox Jew to suck up to the guy in charge of organ donation]
Larry: I was in the band, ok. The girls were pretty interested, you know, with the guitar. They liked that.
Ben's daughter: Like a rock band?
Larry: Jewish folk music, Jewish folk songs.
Ben's daughter: Oh, like what songs?
Larry: Um.."Gefilte Fish Blues"...

Suffice it to say, this revelation perturbed me. It was perturbing. The essence of perturbance. (If I think of another variation on the word "perturb" I'll include it in the next post.) Although an IP lawyer friend of mine told me not to worry -- according to him, the Curb reference "doesn't present problems of infringement" (I wonder if he used legalese in case he decides to bill me for this advice) -- my friend forgets two things: 1. Larry David is Jewish; and 2. Larry David (at least the version of himself on television) is bitter. Bitter Jews are the number one cause for the sharp increase in lawsuits over the previous decade. A gentile slips on a banana peel and you've got a chuckle and a bruised ego; a Bitter Jew slips on a banana peel and you've got a fully-funded undergraduate education for his kids.

And a lucrative lawsuit might be coming at just the right time for Larry. According to the tabloids (which I never read, except when I do), Larry is enmeshed in a somewhat contentious divorce at the moment, which means he might need the money for alimony. My parents' divorce forced my father to sell his kidney and move in with his mother; he would have sold both kidneys to avoid doing the latter if he could have. Curb Your Enthusiasm might be an income generator now, but there are only so many times Larry can piss off the entire population of Los Angeles before the shtick wears out its welcome. And I have the feeling Larry has invested his Seinfeld residuals in soup and mansiers. So he's going to need a back-up plan, in case the ex gets greedy, as exes often do. And Laurie's financial independence is dubious, unless Al Gore undertakes a new cause, like saving the iguanas, or stamping out guinea pig illiteracy.

So with that in mind, here are the top five reasons why Larry David should not sue me:

1. I have no money. Ok, I have a little money. I am a corporate attorney after all. But what hasn't already gone to liquor and/or prostitutes has gone to liquored-up prostitutes, or prostitutes selling liquor. Also I have a nasty chocolate chip cookie addiction. I've joined a support group for it, and Cookie Monster -- our group leader -- promises that I can kick the habit, but I have trouble trusting anyone blue and furry.

2. I'm probably Larry's bastard love-child. He's Jewish. So am I. He's bald. I'm on my way. He's straight. Ok, no one's perfect. But if I am his love-child, suing me would be like suing himself, and whatever proceeds he gets will just come back to me, as I'll surely contest the will in court. I am a Bitter Jew, after all.

3. It would be pathetic. How would that look in the papers? "Larry David Sues Cookie-Addicted Nymphomanic Attorney For Use Of A Relatively Idiotic Punchline." It's not like I misappropriated "yada yada yada" or "not that there's anything wrong with that." Let's face it -- what the hell does "Gefilte Fish Blues" even mean? I should sue Larry for putting such a ridiculous phrase in my subconscious.

4. I came up with the idea all on my own. Originally the blog's title was "If This Gefilte Fish Could Talk," except that was way too long of a name for a website. Plus I thought it might inspire some bad acid trips, which would alienate my target audience, jews in rehab.

5. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, isn't blatant stealing, like, better?

But perhaps the most persuasive reason for not suing me is that there is no such thing as true originality anymore. There are 6 billion people on this planet, each one with a various amount of thoughts per day, ranging from the most intellectual (Stephen Hawking, the inventor of fruit roll-ups), to the least (certain politicians, whoever green-lighted Ishtar). That's trillions and trillions of thoughts everyday. The words "gefilte fish blues" must have been thought of or written down by someone else in the recent past. Should that person be allowed to sue me also? How about if they misspelled "gefilte"? My IP lawyer friend suggested I register the domain names "www.gefiltahfishblues.com" and "www.gahfiltahfishblues.com" to prevent cybersquatters (another sign that he's going to bill me). Or what if the original thought came from a gentile? Should gentiles be allowed to copyright Jewish humor? Is that what my grandmother survived the camps for?

The sad truth is, most creative work is just filler. Writers bide their time until they finally come up with something truly brilliant. Usually they never do, but by then the readers are so ashamed of wasting their time reading complete crap when they should have been doing something much more productive -- like learning a new language, or breast-feeding -- that they actually convince themselves that what they just read was in fact both funny and original.

And you're no exception. You spent ten seconds reading my various takes on the word "perturbed" when you could have been doing today's New York Times Crossword puzzle. You could have made yourself a better person in those ten seconds -- imagine what you could have done in the time it took you to read this whole blog entry. In the paraphrased words of Elizabeth Taylor, what a waste.

And if Larry does sue me, I will be perturbified.

Jonah's Choice

I took up yoga a few years back, when I felt Madonna and I were drifting apart. As youngsters, Madonna and I were both carefree, independent, and sexually promiscuous. Entering my mid-20s, I was still all of those things, but Madonna had mostly moved on. With two kids and a husband, Madonna became more of a soccer mom than a sexpot.


So to retain our deep, lifelong friendship, I had to either take up yoga or learn the Kabala. Since the actual definition for "Kabala" is "Judaism for Gentiles", I opted for yoga.


I also joined the yoga movement for palliative reasons. Among my various odd physical ailments -- the kind that won't kill you, won't make you stronger, but will annoy the shit out of you -- I suffer from Benign Posturial Vertigo, which basically is an establishment way of saying that I get dizzy (and, as a result, nauseous) unless I'm either standing upright or my head is propped up on several pillows. There are various treatments for BPV -- including yoga -- but I never pursued them, being of the mind that, as my mom says, life is suffering. Although I think when the Dalai Lama says it, he's not referring to his inability to move his bowels for three days.

But then the BPV began striking in flagrante delicto. In the interests of keeping this blog R-rated and avoiding a Tipper tongue-lashing, I'll refrain from describing in detail the situations in which BPV might cause problems in bed. Suffice it to say, porn stars with BPV could receive disability benefits. Nothing says "I'm turned on" like seeing dinner in reverse.

Needless to say, there were very few yoga positions that I could do with any success in the beginning. The Buddha himself would have kicked me out of the studio.

"Peace and tranquility my ass. Get your poseur butt out of my class," he would have demanded, briefly leaving the palace of eternal bliss to ream me out.

Still, the drive for non-vomit inducing sex kept me motivated. Eventually I improved to the point where the instructor, Steve, did not instinctively frown at the sight of my entering the class. I've even started frowning myself when I see a novice struggling to perform a simple move.

"That's it, Nora, you can do it," Steve said to a recent newcomer in downward dog.

"Excuse me, Steve, can we move on?," I asked. I have a tendency to say what everyone else is thinking but don't say. It rarely registers in my brain that maybe they're not saying it for a reason. "Perhaps Nora could practice in the corner?"
It's amazing how quickly you forget your own failures when you achieve mediocrity.

To avoid Nora’s contemptuous glares, I kicked it up a notch and joined a more advanced class. My new instructor, Lesley, is a British expat, sales director turned physical trainer/spiritual healer/burgeoning musician. Although she is probably in her mid 40s, she can contort her body in ways that would make Ron Jeremy blush.

“Now, put your left heel over your right shoulder, turn both wrists 180 degrees counterclockwise, and lick your index fingers while humming the 1812 Overture,” she directed only half-jokingly in our last class.

Like most sales directors turned physical trainers/spiritual healers/burgeoning musicians/circus freaks, Lesley is also a lesbian. In fact, she is the second of two “Lesleys” I know who is a lesbian. I wonder if naming a girl Lesley is like naming a boy Jeeves – you’ve pretty much mapped out the course of that kid’s life on his birth certificate.

Lesley says she got out of sales because it wasn’t challenging, but I think it was because, like me, she lacks the inner voice that tells you what to say and what not to say. Some call it tact. I call it honesty. Whatever you call it, it’s a trait that’s not conducive to careers that require bending the truth or outright lying, like acting or politics.

I knew exactly how Lesley felt, because I felt the same way during my brief stint as a BabyGap sales associate.

“Excuse me,” a lady once asked, holding a leopard-print onesie up to her daughter’s body. “Is this the right size?”

“Yeah, that’s the right size,” I responded, “but it makes her like a bit hippy.”

I didn’t last there very long, especially when I started a running tally of ugly babies in the break room.

During today’s class, though, Lesley pushed the honesty a bit further than expected. We were attempting to perform a position that I haven’t seen since I discovered my dad’s porn collection in the basement. Hunched over, with my arms balanced on my right leg and my butt straight up in the air, a posture I usually only assume after a few drinks and some jewelry, Lesley tried to coach me into the position.

“That’s it. Now, stare straight ahead at the lovely lady sitting in front of you,” she directed. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

I smiled, politely. She was indeed attractive; a shapely Israeli woman with an olive-skin complexion and long, curly hair that fell below her shoulders. The only problem I had with her appearance was her shorts, which declared the name of her alma mater on the backside. If women want their butts to look smaller, they should try not writing on them.

Lesley continued, as I lifted one foot in the air, teetering on the brink of oblivion.

“Of course, she’s probably not your type, eh?,” she said, nudging my arm slightly. “A bit too feminine?”

And with that comment, I was outed to a class of twenty-two strangers, including the beautiful woman who might have been the next Mrs. Haslap.

Of course, I’m overstating things here, considering that the farthest I’ve ever gone with a woman was the peck on the cheek I gave my high school prom date, who shortly thereafter became a full-blown lesbian herself (she went to Smith, and it took), and the closest I’ve come to touching a female body part was when I got hit on the leg with a soccer ball in gym class, which caused a sizeable lump on my shin that my friend Mike called a “leg breast.”

And it’s not as if I had any plans to join the ex-gay movement myself. I haven’t been in the closet since I was a teenager, and I’m not planning to go back in. In my whole life I have only had one bona fide date with a girl (I don’t count the lesbian prom date, as I already had a pinky toe out the closet door by that point). When I was 12, Jennifer Lee asked me to the sixth grade bowl-a-thon. I knew it was morally wrong to accept her invitation, but her parents owned a really good Chinese restaurant in town and I thought I could score some free food out of it, plus I knew it would freak my mom out to date a gentile (although Jennifer was Asian, which, according to my mom, is one of the “good” gentile groups). But from the minute her dad picked me up for the date, I knew it was all a lie, a horrible, horrible lie. I still regret what I did to that poor girl. Those three hours at the Cherry Hill Bowling Alley must haunt her to this day. She probably thinks she turned me, although I shouldn’t discount that possibility. Maybe if she hadn’t been so flat-chested, I wouldn’t have spent the evening staring at Mr. Mostorino, our muscular and slightly effete gym teacher. One well-placed box of Kleenex could have made all the difference. But that’s all water under the unstuffed bra now.

Still, I didn’t appreciate the comment. It wasn’t the outing so much as the assumption. I had a similar feeling of resentment when I came out to my father while sitting at a local Starbucks over mochafrappucinos.

“Dad, I’m gay,” I said, not expecting a big reaction from him. My father never passed judgment on anyone, which could be the result of his being a therapist, but is more likely the result of his supreme narcissism. Of course you don’t judge other people when other people only exist to serve you. Still, his non-judgmentalness was often a welcome respite from my mother’s near-universal criticism. My mother could find a way to criticize Mother Teresa. Actually, Mother Teresa would be an easy target, what with the vow of poverty and all.

His reaction was a bit of a surprise, though. Without looking up from his coffee, he shrugged and said,

“Oh, I’ve known that since you were 6 years old.”

Which begged the question – what exactly was I doing when I was 6 years old that would send the message that I had a preference for penis? Did I sing “Bingo” with a lisp? Was I partial to thong diapers? Did I dress Kermit in leather chaps?

In a perverse way, I preferred my mother’s reaction. Although she was not surprised either, her assumption was at least based on 28 years of experience with me, and on the opinion of several radio psychiatrists, who she called several times to inquire about my sexuality. Though I never heard one of those calls personally, I imagine they went something like, “My son is 28, single, thin, and likes show tunes. Is he gay?” Not a difficult judgment call, that one.

But my dad’s reaction – and, to be fair, the reaction of most of my friends and family, including my grandmother, with whom the entire conversation consisted of “Grandma, I’m gay,” and “That’s nice, you want more pasta?” – belied something about me that I usually choose to ignore.

I couldn’t be straight if I wanted to. Not that I want to – being gay has imbibed me with various positive characteristics, including a profound sense of empathy for anyone in pain, and an aversion for anything plaid. In fact, if I wasn’t gay, I think I’d be quite boring.

No, it’s not a matter of internalized homophobia. It’s a matter of options. I like to have as many doors open as possible at all times. What if I choose Door Number 1, but Door Number 2 was the right one? If I was a contestant on the Price Is Right, the episode would be eighteen hours long.

“Jonah, you have to choose a door,” Bob would demand, becoming more infuriated with each passing minute.

“But Bob, what if it’s the wrong one? What if I choose Door Number 1, but Door Number 1 has an lifetime supply of chili, while Door Number 2 has a Corvette? That would be horrible, I don’t know if I could live with myself after that. I don’t even like chili, it gives me gas!”

“Just pick a goddamned door!,” Bob would shout, his effervescent enthusiasm quickly devolving into utter hatred. Eventually Rod Roddy would have to escort me off the premises.

But any illusion of options when it comes to my romantic life is just that, an illusion. Besides the whole, sexuality is not a choice thing – something I generally, if not universally, believe – even if I actually was straight, I’d have to be gay. It would be easier to learn to suck a cock than to stop humming along to Gershwin and voguing in the shower.

Lesley’s presumptuous comment only reminded me that not everything in life is under my control. Not only can I not control who I’m attracted to – I can’t control who people think I’m attracted to either. Even if I was straight, it wouldn’t matter. Society has spoken. I am a gay man.

Leaving class, I smiled again at the pretty Israeli woman. She giggled with her friends, though I’m not sure if she was giggling with or at me. Either way, our future together was shot. It would have been a beautiful wedding, too. She would have worn white, natch, even though we would have had a quickie before the ceremony. And we would have had many beautiful Israeli-American children. The youngest, Zoe, would have attended Harvard undergrad and Oxford, perhaps on a Rhodes Scholarship. She’d study philosophy, or architecture, or the philosophy of architecture – something very high-brow and elitist. Eventually, my Israeli wife and I would come to a compromise whereby we would share the pool boy; she would get Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and I’d have him the rest of the week.

It could have been the perfect life, or it could have ended in disaster. I guess we'll never know.

Thanks to Lesley.

Some blogs begin with a bang...

and some begin with a whimper.

Since I have no delusions that any more than 4 people will read this -- 3 of those being other personalities of mine (currently, I'm particularly partial to Chastity, an asexual Lebanese prostitute cum dolphin trainer) -- I'm not expecting a bang.

But just in case, to be perfectly clear, this is not just a hobby for me.  I'm not a happy soccer mom using her blog to celebrate these moments of our lives, nor am I interested in blogging about anything that has any real relevance to your life.  You won't find pictures of my two-year-old nephew on here, or intellectual ruminations on Goethe.  I'll just come right out and say it:

I want to be famous.  

And not just rock star-famous.  I'm talking monuments.  I'm talking shrines.  I'm talking Popemobiles.  I am a fully self-aware narcissist.  And I have no problem with that.  Narcissism is the most underrated psychological disorder.

But I'm also a realist, which is basically the same as a pessimist with a less negative connotation.  I know that there are millions of blogs on here, and doubt that anyone of any importance (probably including you) will ever read this.  Plus, I'm Jewish, so I'm genetically pre-disposed to half-empty containers.  If I wasn't a realist they might sew the foreskin back on.

So basically this whole endeavor is pointless, except there's a little part of me that says, well, it has to happen for somebody, doesn't it?  Maybe I deserve it.  I give up my seat for old ladies on the subway.  I don't kick puppies.  I even volunteered at a soup kitchen once.  That last one was mostly a resume padder, but the homeless people didn't know that.  They don't care if I was helping them just to get into a good law school.  Better to be a benign sociopath than a malicious one.

And before anyone comments on it -- should anyone actually ever read this -- yes, I use humor as a defense mechanism.  I don't have a problem with that either.  It was either humor or drugs, and I'm too cheap to shell out money for shit you cram up your nose.  I spend most of my day trying to get shit out of my nose.

If all you see is humor in my stories, though, you might be missing something.  The best jokes leave a modicum of truth in their wake (except for the ones that would get me arrested in Oklahoma).  Read between the lines.  Sometimes a cigar is really a tear.

But at a minimum, Chastity and I hope you will find these tales entertaining.  The worst compliment you can give me is a platitude.  The best compliment you can give me is a smile.

So enjoy, and come back often, if only to find out how much my hairline has receded since the last post.  I have a special measuring technique that involves a magnifying glass, three mirrors, and an extension cord .  (Sometimes I use the same technique on another body part.)

And if you do have any connections to the publishing world, let me know, and make me famous.  I deserve it.  I volunteered at a soup kitchen once.