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  Sunday night. The pups had it with the leash thing and longed for their fenced backyard with its doggie door. I’d had enough of the traffic and hassles. On the city-bound lanes coming back from the beach, vehicles crept bumper to bumper with weekenders returning from the shore. On our side, it was clear sailing toward home.

  Now I’m not saying that the lone Cherry Tree starting to blossom on our lawn can hold a candle to Washington’s Tidal Basin display, or the dwarf azaleas getting ready to bloom are worthy of a garden tour, but it’s home sweet home to me. Without the armed guards or Homeland Security codes, thank you. Home. Land. Security. Ahhhhhh.

  May 2007

  FILM, FINALLY, AT 11

  The trouble began when I slowed down. I’m sure you’ve heard me whining about needing time in the slow lane. Well, Sunday was it.

  In fact, the morning rain inspired me. I didn’t put on my glasses until 1:30 in the afternoon and then, only to dial the phone to cancel plans. I didn’t get out of my pajamas until 5 p.m., spending the entire day on the sofa with Bonnie, the dogs, the TV remote and a staggering assortment of junk food.

  Sadly, immediately following Face the Nation, the television offerings turned into a wasteland. Between Pet Stars (“Let’s welcome Hoagie the ping-pong playing pooch!”) and Shear Genius (Hairdressers, rev your blow dryers!) Sunday viewing is not fit for (wo)man nor beast.

  Sometimes it’s not fit for man and beast – like the game show where contestants drop a ferret down their pants to clock how long they can keep the thing from crawling out their cuffs. You should see the screaming and clutching of clothing. By the ferret. Hey, big boy, is that a ferret in your pocket or are just you glad to…I could not possibly have made this show up.

  In the midst of this ferret commotion, the incident happened. My 12-year old 27-inch television got the hiccups. The screen erupted into black & white squiggles accompanied by ear-splitting static.

  I dropped the cheese doodles, unfolded myself from the sofa, the dogs, and my mate, marched over to the set and gave it a whack. Everything returned to normal, or as normal as it can be when you are watching a man with a ferret in his trousers.

  Life was good for another hour or so (thankfully, we’d found a movie to watch), until the screen exploded into a purple haze, requiring me to disturb everybody again and go whack the idiot box.

  By late in the day, I needed that product they are advertising ad nauseum Head-On, apply directly to the forehead, and the television needed a whack job every 15 minutes.

  The inevitable conversation ensued. Do we see about fixing the TV or do we do what we really want and buy a big honkin flat screen TV?

  For a few minutes, Bonnie and I pretended there were two sides to the argument. Ultimately we realized that neither of us was in physical shape to drag the monstrous antique TV into the car to seek medical attention. Also, TV repair persons went extinct so long ago we were still calling them TV repairmen.

  Negotiations broke down so we went to bed. In the morning I talked to my friend the accountant, who generally doles out conservative financial advice. He said to junk the TV After all, in two years, when Digital TV becomes the law of the land (ahead of, I’m sure, the Employment Non-Discrimination Law) our current TV will be obsolete.

  Alrighty then. We went to the Sony outlet. “Just to look.” I didn’t believe that either.

  Have you tried to buy a TV lately? You need a diploma in quantum electronics and the patience of a saint. Question One: LCD or Plasma? After a 50 minute lecture from a pimply teenager I still couldn’t tell them apart, except that plasma would bleed my bank account. We chose LCD.

  Next we had a choice of a set with 1029 interlaced pixels or 720 progressive pixels (I always lean toward the progressive), different aspect ratios, viewing angle specs, and something called a bit rate. I bit my lip and stared at the clerk like he had sprouted antennae.

  “I want one with a black border,” I said, hoping Bonnie could figure out the rest.

  In the darkened display theatre I stood watching seven screens simultaneously show copulating moths while Bonnie listened to the salesperson drone on about color temperatures and video dithering. Meanwhile we dithered at Sony trying to keep our heads from exploding. (Head-On, apply directly to the forehead).

  I awoke from my technology coma to ask “Do we just take one of these home and plug it in like a regular TV?”

  “Just like a regular TV” said the adolescent clerk.

  For the finale we had to deal with the size question. Did we size queens want a 32-inch or 40-inch flat screen LCD? Standing in the 8,000 square foot store, we were pretty certain the puny 32-inch was way too small.

  Our first clue should have been the trouble the Sony kids had getting the box into the car. We drove it home minus the carton. Then, our second clue should have been the compulsory gymnastics routine we executed getting the appliance in the front door. But we dragged it inside and perched it where old reliable Mr. 27-inch (don’t go there) once stood.

  Whoa! TV where you taking that living room?

  Let’s just say it looked like the I-Max landed in the confines, and I mean confines, of my little house. Aesthetically speaking, it was the TV that ate the room.

  Recognizing my decorating dilemma Bonnie sensibly said “Well, let’s sit down and watch something and then decide.”

  Righteeo. The thing had a gazillion inputs and outputs and peepholes and plug-ins. I wanted to stick the little Sony clerk into one of them. I’d never seen so many cables. An hour later Bonnie had accidentally enabled picture and sound simultaneously and we sat down to watch Anderson Cooper because by this time it was very late.

  God, you could see each strand of his gorgeous silver hair and determine what color Max Factor foundation he’d used on his baby face. I should have been listening to news about the G8 Summit and all I could think about was whether Anderson should have had that lower front tooth capped. What? Mom Gloria Vanderbilt couldn’t afford the orthodonture?

  Omigod, political reporter Candy Crowley had a big zit on her chin. Next, on Law and Order, they were checking the blood spatter patterns in what seemed like my entire living room.

  I LOVED the big screen picture.

  My spouse then informed me we weren’t even watching in High Definition yet.

  For that pleasure we’d have to pay an extra $5 a month to Comcast. But more importantly I’d have to wrestle down my aesthetic demons. How could I have a TV bigger than my cocktail table?

  So did we go back for the measly 32-inch screen? No. For once in my life did I choose function over form? Yes. One look at a Dodge Durango commercial with wide-screen mountains narrowed my resolve. A bigger than life head shot of Sandra Bullock and I was cooked. So what if my living room looks like the RKO Multiplex.

  Now I can’t wait for Sunday to see those giant ferrets in humongous trousers. Head-On, apply directly to the MasterCard.

  June 2007

  AN AGE-OLD RITUAL

  Dammit, it happens annually. I get a year older.

  Last year, on the morning of the anniversary of my birth, my cell phone rang. I answered and all I heard was a cat meowing the Happy Birthday song. The whole song. Then the cat hung up. I figured it was my sister, who lives in New York with way too many cats in a two bedroom apartment. Never did find out for sure.

  I was still trying to place the timbre and tone of the meow mix when the phone rang again. This time is was a New York cousin, a wonderful Gay man, who proceeded to sing Happy Birthday to me in perfect Ethel Merman, followed by an encore of “There’s Noooo Birthday Like Yourrrrr Birthday, Like Nooooo Birthday I Knooow…unique to say the least.

  That same day I was talking with my father and I asked him “What were you doing 58 years ago today?”

  “Same thing I’m doing now,” he said.

  What??? Pacing in the hospital? Watching a vaginal delivery? Drinking Johnny Walker?

  “I’m yelling at the Yankees. They stink.” Well, it’s true, he’s been hol
lering free advice to the Yankee manager of the moment for over eight decades. My father was listening to a game on the car radio on June 29, 1948 and missed my birth entirely. I anticipate a call from him on June 29 this year to wish me Happy Birthday amid his snarling at the Bronx Bombers.

  I have a love-hate relationship with birthdays. I enjoy celebrating them. But actually having them is getting old, like me.

  You know, I wouldn’t mind turning 59 so much if it wasn’t for all the bad news reports about Baby Boomers. This week alone I have read: “Achy baby boomers aren’t aging gracefully. A wave of baby boomers may be hobbling toward retirement in worse health and with more aches and pains than people born….”

  That’s encouraging. Take two aspirin and call me in the….

  And Newsweek had “The generation that vowed to stay forever young is coming up on a major milestone…they’ve been hippies and yuppies; and now it’s the time of the ‘abbies’: aging baby boomers….” If the Beatles were still together would they be singing Abbies Road?

  Web MD says “baby boomers are about to do something utterly conventional and predictable. They’re going to start getting old and begin developing health problems. One big question looms over these developments: Will those years be vigorous and healthy, or will baby boomers sink into the pain and disability of chronic disease?”

  Good god, by this time the Beatles would be singing “If I Fell” (and I can’t get up) and “We can work it out” (on a Correctol commercial).

  Auuuggghhh! Of course, if this health stuff isn’t bad enough, the financial news is worse. Even the congressional budget office is weighing in. “Studies suggest that the average baby boomer’s prospects for a comfortable retirement could face serious challenges.”

  Being in trouble on a personal level is bad enough, but the report continues with “Over the past 15 years, the retirement prospects of the baby-boom generation have become a source of public concern. Some experts contend that low saving by boomers could limit economic growth in the United States and compound the financial pressures that face government programs such as Social Security and Medicare.”

  Not only are we in danger of having less than financially secure retirements, we’re going to be blamed for putting the federal government into financial chaos (like its not there already thanks to you-know-who, whose name I cannot even mention).

  The survey also revealed that Baby Boomers have saved an average of only 12 percent of the total they will need to meet even basic living expenses in retirement. Twelve percent of my living expenses just about covers my bar bill. Cue the Beatles, hopefully, “All You Need is Love,” because everything else will be too expensive.

  And don’t get me started about clothing. Trying to find attractive age-appropriate garments is like trying to find a drag queen at Nascar. All the fashionistas think they are doing a good thing by making trendy looking clothes in large sizes. Those huggy, midriff showing lacy things look great on Britney, Lindsay and Paris, but excessively stupid on Flopsy, Mopsy and size 16 Cottontail. Nobody wants to see a 59 year old belly button.

  I did read that the fashion business is expected to undergo a “seismic mood swing” over the next few years in a trend they call “age-accepting” fashion – featuring more “realistic looking models, grey hair, and emphasis on empty nesting, retirement and widowhood in advertising.”

  Wow. That sounds like fun. Subscribe to the new magazines: Harper’s Bizarre, Done Housekeeping, and Ladies Rest-Home Journal.

  This is truly depressing. I’m working myself into quite a pre-birthday snit. I have to go have some ice cream. (She gets up from the computer.)

  (She returns.)

  Okay, I just looked at my June-July calendar. It includes several golf outings, dinner engagements, a pool party, four art openings, two book signings, a weekend of Broadway shows, a doggy play date with my pups and their friends, a ladies Tea Dance and goodness knows how many laughs.

  Hell, growing old may be inevitable but growing up seems to be optional. And that’s a good thing. Quoth The Beatles, “I’ll Get By With a Little Help From My Friends.”

  Happy birthday Boomers….

  June 2007

  GAY, GAY, GAY, GAY, GAY, GAY, GAY

  Is there anything gayer than standing in front of the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street in New York’s Greenwich Village? I was there on Thursday, and never felt more gay. It felt good.

  During Rehoboth’s July 4th Fireworks, I listened to patriotic songs and desperately tried to separate them from the mess over at the U.S. Executive Branch, where Dick Cheney may or may not work (what does he do, have a desk on the Pennsylvania Avenue median?) and where W. just poked his finger in the eye of our entire Judicial Branch. Rehoboth may be Gayberry RFD, but by July 5th I needed a great big dose of Urban Gayboys and that Isle of Lesbos off the East River.

  Get thee to Manhattan and the 14th Street B&B where we checked into a room adorned with a six foot head shot of Audrey Hepburn. Pretty darn gay.

  If that wasn’t enough, I read through the B&B welcome letter and noted that the special security code to get you in the door if you forget your key is Judy Garland’s real name. That’s so gay, in the very best sense of the popular phrase.

  In fact, it reminded me how the Stonewall riots really happened. It wasn’t particularly political or born of a well-oiled plan. It erupted because after Judy Garland’s funeral that morning a contingent of gay fans and drag queens went to the Stonewall Inn to drown their sorrows. When cops raided the place for the umpteenth time that month, those queens rose up and said “not tonight, Josephine” or words to that effect and the bottle throwing began. On that hot, humid day, June 28, 1969, a lot of sad, soulful mourners turned into pissed off queens and kicked some serious police butt. Some say the uprising really launched the entire gay rights revolution. It’s a daunting history for an unpretentious looking watering hole.

  From that historic monument we strolled up Christopher Street to the Oscar Wilde Bookshop, the City’s only exclusively LGBT bookstore. I was delighted when the proprietor instantly greeted me by name even though I looked tubbier and more disheveled than I do on my Photoshopped book cover. Oscar Wilde is a great bookstore and, like other independent bookstores, is having a tough go of it.

  Suppertime found us uptown dining with an old friend of mine and his husband. I love writing: “his husband or her wife.” Those word combos are starting to sound natural. I remember being blown away reading an obit which referred to the deceased being survived by “his husband.” Way to go, Newsweek, but after all, the couple lived in Boston, where same-sex marriage is legal.

  My dinner companions ordered très gay cocktails (Manhattans, Cosmos, and Kir Royals) along with a fine meal and non-stop dish. And by “dish,” I mean several yummy courses and nonstop gossipy gay chatter.

  Then there was Broadway. The Great Gay Way. My reputation as a show queen is often at odds with my lesbian credentials. I adore those Broadway divas along with the boys, and I admit (just a bit embarrassed) that I would rather be in the third row cheering for Audra McDonald or Chita Rivera than Melissa Etheridge.

  As for 4-time Tony Award winner Audra, we saw her give a stunning performance in 110 in the Shade, a dusty, creaky old musical made splendid by her electric performance. Theatre queens from the balcony to the orchestra stood and shouted “Brava!”

  Friday night found us seeing Grey Gardens, which just as easily could have been called Gay Gardens. It’s gayer than La Cage Aux Folles. Not in the literal sense, but this musical, fashioned from the cult documentary film about lesser Kennedy relatives (Jackie’s Bouvier cousins) living in squalor in East Hampton, fairly screams “gay!”

  Mary Louise Wilson stars as nutty Edith Bouvier Beale and Christine Ebersole as her daughter Little Edie, a walking fashion police violation with delusions of sanity. Singer wannabe Edith’s bachelor piano accompanist would have made Noel Coward look butch. You should have seen the boys lining up to give homage at the stage door. />
  It was great seeing Wilson again. I last saw her on stage playing the Stripper Tessie Tura to Angela Lansbury’s Mama Rose in a 1974 production of Gypsy. Why do I know these things but cannot remember my computer passwords? Oh, right. I’m a gay man trapped in a lesbian’s body.

  And speaking of Lansbury, we saw her on Saturday night in Deuce, an anemic play about two aging tennis stars, where she played opposite Marian Seldes. Here’s another gay connection–Marian played the long-time partner of Vanessa Redgrave in a brilliant but heartbreaking one act play televised as part of the movie If These Walls Could Talk several years ago.

  But Angela Lansbury is royalty. To most folks she’s that busybody from Murder, She Wrote, but theatre queens worship at her feet for her bitchy turns in the films Gaslight and The Manchurian Candidate and her Broadway musical comedy triumph in Mame.

  And if all that isn’t gay enough, she’s done Sondheim. Enough said.

  Deuce was nothing more than a vehicle for two legendary actors (there are no actresses anymore; my adoptive gay son informs me that we’re supposed to call them all actors, but frankly I’m more used to saying “his husband” than calling Angela Lansbury an “actor”) and it shows these two tennis stars pondering their careers, regrets, and relationships (not Sapphic, but that didn’t stop them from talking about the lesbians on the courts and in the locker rooms). To say the play was a gay old time would not be a stretch.

  Also during our long weekend we visited the Museum of Modern Art – inextricably gay. Dozens of male couples held hands as they browsed among Picasso (not gay), Van Gogh (did he have a thing for Gaugan?) and Andy Warhol (see title of article).

  We dined at the new museum restaurant called Modern (not an innovative title, but an exquisite establishment) and three quarters of the incredibly attentive staff was surely gay.

  Wrapping up the weekend, we visited New York’s LGBT Community Center on 13th Street, which was in the thralls of celebrating a $9 Million grant from the City of New York to kick off their capital expansion program. The funding came from the Mayor and City Council. Oh my. Would that something like that could happen here at home.