An old, gay friend.

My mom ran into the mom of an old friend of mine. We went to jewish day school together – which is to say we both suffered through jewish day school together. This kid was my “bad influence.” I tried my first cigarette with him, a Newport menthol (this was in Bensalem, PA if that means anything to anyone). We would go to the mall and eat sausage pizza, a major sin in the world of jewish dogma.*

Following this random meeting of divorced women who situate themselves socially based upon the current activities of their deadbeat sons, I was duly updated.

“Are you ready for this?” my mom asked me, the news just barely held behind her lips. “I ran into so and so’s mother the other day, are you ready for this?” she asked in an exacerbated manner. I could hardly wait for the punch line – my mind abound with assumption.

“He’s an orthodox jew, living in a settlement in the west bank, with eight kids and wife who, it’s rumored, is capable of producing another four to bring the total number of grandkids to a cool dozen,” was the standard cliché I most expected to hear.

But, rather, “He’s gay!” I was informed.

Sorry, but what? It’s fucking 2005, this isn’t news. At best, an amorous preference for or inclination to casually fuck members of the same sex is a side note, background information, color - if you will – for a larger story. There has to be more information to go along with this so that there’s context. Luckily, there was.

He’s also managing a sushi place in Manhattan and has a serious lover. Happy day! I’ll stop the presses, you put on a pot of coffee.

On another note, Arafat was gay. It’s true, a racist friend – who also happens to be a jewish nationalist – told me so. To be sure, I went to visit his grave.


I was murdered shortly after this photo was taken.


No shit. It was crazy; I should write about it some time.

*or godma, think about it…ooohh, freaky!!!