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Archive for July, 2011

Wild blueberries flourish alongside poison ivy on Fire Island. They burst with the essence of the Atlantic. These juicy morsels grown in white sand and bits of pink seashells melt in one’s mouth.

A swimming pool suspended on stilts is found in the middle of a swamp on Fire Island where these blueberries grow. A wooden deck is covered on all sides by tall bamboo. Wild blueberry bushes offer fruit to the swimmers.

An oven warmed blueberry pie is perfect paper plate food for Fire Island parties. Only the rich would ever dare eat blueberry pie after picking ripe ones from bushes all day. When chlorinated water is both headed and lighted from beneath, stains of the berries turn to mist and the water glistens blue, just like in the nearby sea. Worries of nearby New York melt away.

Old people love pie and they love to swim in the nude. Perhaps elderly and well-worn digestive systems call for such easy to swallow dishes in the summer; that is why nature brings forth a perfect baking berry. For less than five dollars, I once rolled out fresh pastry using a few cups of flour, a scoop of vegetable shortening, a pinch of salt, and a splash of water. Although pre-made crusts are readily available in supermarket freezers, nothing compares to a pie shell rolled-out like one from the sea. I filled it with heaps of the most succulent fruit ever to be baked at 350.

Unlike peach or apple pie, making a blueberry pie is relatively easy because there is no paring necessary. A nude chef simply rinses the bush-ripened sadness of the vine, tosses them into in a glass bowl, adds a cup of sugar, the squeeze of half a lemon, and a dab of flour. Suddenly, the blues melt away. Sprinkled with cinnamon and dotted with butter. Covered with a layer of soon to be flaky pastry, In less than an hour, the house was steaming with summer wildness.

I made a blueberry pie from scratch and presented it in a fancy pie plate purchased from Lechter’s Housewares.. The pie plate, although from China was hand painted. Along the edges, tiny apples and peaches made the dish worthy to present as a housewarming. I made the pie with my own hands. I was obsessed with watching the Martha Stewart show, and after much self-taught effort, learned the art of creating a perfect pie crust. I though a pie would be a perfect gift to take when invited as a guest in someone’s beach home for a weekend. My annual salary was just over 30 pecks. It was August and blueberries were cheap at the supermarket.

Claude Winfield and his partner, British socialite, heavy-drinker, and ‘New York Times’ crossword puzzle wizard, Tilly Davis of the Upper East Side Davis’s were the ones who invited me along with my fresh pie to their home. Claude and Tilly fought tooth-and-nail over that pie, as did all the other guests at their heavily secluded, bamboo enshrouded beach palace, on the edge of what was called ‘the meat wrack’ in old, gay Fire Island, NY.

Claude and Tilly were the richest friends I ever made while living in New York City. I had to do something impressive for them. They had the nicest place I have ever slept within. They were unmarried and loaded beyond the contents of a well- made blueberry pie. The pair of dinosaurs took to me as quickly as the dessert I made for their home vanished that weekend. I had no clue that blueberries were ripe and growing all around Claude and Tilly’s swimming pool. The sight of that housewarming gift must have made them sick, but the truth is, due to the fact that I made fresh pastry, even Tilly, the rich Jewess, was impressed.

Both Claude and Tilly inherited considerable fortunes. Tilly’s husband invested soundly before he had died, Claude’s friend, a victim of the gay seventies and the blueberries of Fire Island, left Claude with more money than one could drink away in one lifetime.

Tilly loved gay men as much as Claude loved booze. She too could put a few down without blinking, but Tilly was a silent, closeted drinker. She drank casually with her houseguests, and by 1:00 every day, was usually pretty lit. A guest in the house never witnessed Tilly refilling her glass. It was amazing to learn as the day progressed, she would sneak behind the backs of those whose glasses she never let go dry, distracting us all for an instant I suppose, and quickly topping herself off, quickly slurping it halfway down before any of us turned back around to noticed any of the bottles had gone a little drier. She often retreated to a soft cozy couch in the shared flat, where she read thick novels and inconspicuously kept a pealed ear for the needs of the household, and any needs a visiting guest may require, she sprung to like a jackrabbit. There were fresh, fluffy white towels at every shower and every dip in the pool—Tilly running downstairs, under the suspended pool, to a laundry room where she kept a washer and dryer churning constantly. Like a nun, the Jewess took care of the Fire Island convent for queers like a priest his coven of secret lovers. Mornings were best when Tilly did the ‘New York Times’ crossword. She often shouted out clues to all of us, none of us cultured or well read or old enough to know the six letter word with both an L and a G.

When I was first introduced to Tilly by her partner of sorts, Claude, months before being invited out to Fire Island, I had no idea she was filthy rich, for she did not wear her dead husband’s wealth like a blueberry stain. Even while at the considerably extravagant beach house, it did not appear to me that Tilly was as rich as Claude let on. She took off her t-shirt before jumping into the beach house pool, revealing the most pretty set of well formed breasts. She could have had work done, but Tilly did not strike me as the type. The baroness certainly could afford it. Her face, a little like a prune from all the booze, brightened up as she shed an old ragged t-shirt to jump in as soon as the sun reached the back of the house and its rays made their way over a large weeping willow tree. Her tits were like the surface of a blueberry and she swam like a mermaid even though she chain-smoked Parliaments when not being a busy body.

Before visiting their home on Fire Island for the first time, with blueberry pie wrapped in tinfoil, I was invited to Tilly’s mansion on the Upper East Side. The woman owned an industrial-size oven in her kitchen Claude wanted to show me an idea he had for Bailey House, a hospice where be both worked. That was when I realized just how rich the humbly dressed Jewess was. Tilly lived next door to the then highly watched and popular television talk show host, Sally Jessy Raphael. We took an extended lunch break to get away from the office of the AIDS hospice and spent the afternoon star hunting in Tilly’s back yard. Claude treated me to a bitter salad a Lola’s in Chelsea before we arrived at Tilly’s that day.

Claude and Tilly had the most unusual of platonic relationships I discovered when Tilly greeted us at her door. I felt instantly like a third-wheel in a twisted love triangle. I know Claude hired me because he thought I was cute. I must have been his type. He seemed to love taunting his wealth in front of me, as if I were the type to fall in love with such madness. He even spoke with a seeming natural English accent. We spent most of the day sipping mimosas that Tilly made from champagne in black bottles and orange juice squeezed in the most intricate of automated kitchen appliances I had ever seen. Being the cook that I am, I nearly fainted. I learned Tilly had four gay male roommates. She liked being around them after her husband died. They each had their own floor in the coveted brownstone. Like Claude, I was so taken by her. She was so quiet, so gentle, so convenient and motherly. After seeing her kitchen, I wanted her to fall in love with me too. It was in Tilly’s kitchen that I was invited to go to Fire Island. “Do you have a lover, dear,” Tilly asked, smiling ever so slightly at me through heavily stained coffee teeth.

“Oh yes, you must bring your lover,” Claude offered, pretending to forget that it was with my lover than I volunteered at Bailey House before becoming a staff person there. “Why not bring along that John Landesman and his girlfriend too,” Claude suggested, referring to my lover’s best friend, a straight Jew, who most certainly to me, appeared to have a few gay traits in him, but none the less, donated his free time along with Linda in helping gay men who were dying from AIDS at Bailey House.

“What can I bring?” I asked, holding up my glass, suggesting perhaps that they recommend a wine.

“Just come pretty, as your are,” Tilly insisted.

The two often flew from New York to Paris on the Concord, I learned over the afternoon cocktails. They run an exclusive catering business appropriately titled “Winfield/ Davis Caterers”. Business cards announced– “New York, London, Fire Island Pines”. Their place on Fire Island was a means to grow old in style without being alone. They catered to the rich, David Geffen types who had summer cottages out on the island. They both loved to cook and drink. Tilly was a volunteer at Bailey House. She used her classic French culinary skills learned in the world’s most prestigious culinary institutions as a volunteer in the kitchen at the AIDS hospice. That was where the two of them met, according to Claude, as he explained to me, speaking in real English elegance, how it was he came about purchasing a most exclusive piece of property on one of the most sought after pieces of sand, west of East Hampton.

Neither needed a job, but they sought out a means to do something for others through Bailey House. I was there because I needed a steady income, and in a sense, like the two of them, had a sick sort of compassion to help those who were withering away like blueberries on the vine in late August.

A bottle of wine seemed a little thoughtless as a gift to take with me on my first trip to Fire Island, even though I did know that Tilly was a classically trained French chef with a British accent. Maybe I was just showing off to Claude, I do not know why I made that pie. My lover, Anthony had just finished eating a blueberry pie with John and Linda when I shared the news over dinner in our back yard. With bits of blue still clinging to his fat lips, Anthony suggested that I make another and take it with us. “It’s as expensive as hell to get out there. I don’t want to go anyway,” Anthony insisted. “Claude’s a coon with a fake English accent. Why the hell do I want to waste my weekend around him?”

“Are you crazy?” Linda asked. “You guys should go. I have class this weekend”

John immediately agreed, because Linda controlled him like Claude controlled Tilly With this news and one of my pies, the three of us departed for Sayville on the Long Island Railroad.

Continued at this link

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Same-sex couples are now permitted to marry in New York City. Media hog and certified lesbian, City Council Speaker, Christine Quinn is already lapping up the benefits of a legal-binding ceremony. Although already in a certified domestic partner relationship, and having appeared on the cover of many gay-friendly New York magazines, the red head that almost all of straight New York is sick of, found it necessary to get married again yesterday. Rather than kissing her bride, Christine Quinn spent the afternoon blabbing in front of television cameras, expressing how hard she and others like her have it in life.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg, who could easily pass as a rich, flamboyant queen, married two male members of his cabinet yesterday. Not a single reporter asked the mayor why he has so many old gay Jews on his cabinet and why they are gay, even though everyone in New York City knows that gay men are the most talented in all of society. Although the new law has brought joy to the hearts of many, it is a sad reality that the only individuals appearing before news cameras in light of the new law are sexually repulsive people like Christine Quinn.

My lover of many years nearly choked on his own spit after I described what was before our eyes on local news yesterday– “Look at that! They are a bunch of old dinosaurs, days away from extinction, not understanding what that bright light is in the sky. Who would ever want to fuck any of them? Where are all the young and beautiful gay men who we see cruising the parks late at night? You sure as hell don’t see them running downtown to City Hall like their hair is on fire. Where are the beautiful people like us, who do not care that we are gay, but live this way because the sex is good?”

“Aint’ that some shit?” My lover asked, shaking his head in disbelieve, purposely rattling the strings of beads that enclose the braids on the back of his little head. “There isn’t a single sexy soul on that line. There’s something not right about this gay marriage thing. You would think there would at least be a young and tender gold digger waiting to take one of those old bastards to the bank! That’s so fucking funny– ‘a bunch of old dinosaurs’. That’s so true.”

“Gay men are smart,” said I, “When you are young and beautiful, everyone wants to marry you and will give you the very shirt from their back. It’s only when a man knows he has someone wrapped around his finger that his dick goes soft. Please promise you will never ask to marry me, ‘B’. I don’t want to be a Tyrannosaurus and you a big Triceratops.”

My closeted lover simply smiled at me while resting nearby on a soft pillow. His gold tooth sparkled in the glow of a little seashell night light plugged into an outlet near our little love nest “Hey, rub my back again,” he insisted, as if I belonged to him like cattle, land, or a slave.

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The transition from the military to a civilian job is difficult. For those who are trained to kill, but lack a documented education, finding employment is worse than fighting on the front line, especially in the age when war is no longer good for world economies.

Veterans are led to believe while wearing a uniform and risking their tender lives, that in civilian life, after they leave an environment where everything is taken care, that society will offer them dignity, and a way to earn a living.

The Army mess hall caters to the minds of content, worry-free hogs. Although not the most eloquent of dining atmospheres, at least in the chow hall, soldiers obtain the sense that mothers offer to their hungry babes. Brest-fed soldiers are discharged from the bowels of a federally sponsored job with all-you-can eat specials and left to learn to fly on their own,

The transition to life outside of eggs- over- easy every morning is torturous, and many end up on the streets with drug addictions and most go hungry. Life in the real world often leads to homelessness and poverty for those spoiled by Uncle Sam. America’s homeless veteran problem is rooted in delusion, where the real cause of the fall of so many is due to an unwritten ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ policy that fools so many into believing that experience gained in the military can be used in the civilian sector. Most are shocked when they learn, while applying for jobs, that they were never told the truth; employers assume that anyone who spent time in the service is mentally-ill.

When soldiers leave the comfort of a controlled society and attempt to find work in a country with human resources departments more impressed with masters degrees than the knowledge found only in serving freedom, they are left to rot. Many choose to re-enlist, put their lives on the line once again, and secretly hope to die.

There is no respect offered by civilians who have never served a single day in their life when it comes to reviewing resumes. Jobs are not granted to those who chose to skip college to serve a nation. Only degrees from accredited colleges are honored by GM. When weeding out potential candidates for high-paying jobs in an economy that has bombed, most turn the page when they see work experience involving time served.

Young men and women who have grown accustomed to structured job promotions are gassed by the realities of the private sector, where almost every potential employer gasps when attempting to understand how job experience as a trained killer can be transferred to an office. Most look down upon the armed forces as pure stupidity and a poor career choice. Very few veterans take advantage of the G.I. Bill because when they are dropped without a parachute from such an easy, care-free life, they have to hit the ground running, and out here, it’s every dog for himself.

Former soldiers miss sleeping in the barracks. Payday is always the same for everyone in the Army. Young men and women sit atop black footlockers that are filled with neatly rolled brown t-shirts, matching underwear, and shoe polish wrapped in white cotton rags, and learn all there is to know about alcoholism. They drink together on payday and life for everyone is party. It is easy to believe that in the civilian world, things are the same. The world seems simple and in love on the last day of every month. They grab dog tags dangling over muscled chests and tell loud stories from where they grew up. Louder and louder, the conversations grow, often ending in shouting matches and fist fights that are in a sense, just love taps shared among the strong.

On the last day of every month, the world seems in perfect harmony; there is no better way to earn a living than in the Army. The sacrifice seems simple when life, for at least one day a month, ends in party. The joy that one finds when joining with friends and co-workers for a few cold beverages in the Army is better than a job anywhere on Wall Street. In the civilian world, everyone returns to their own home at night. In the Army, the drunk sleep with their heads nearly touching.

There is no better way to restore freedom, jobs and democracy to America than to enlist and invest everyone into the war machine. America must start a new war, but one that demands new technology and is fought on foot, by the many in the Army. It is the only way for the Federal Government to employ so many who are currently out of work. We cannot continue to give loans to so many stupid high-school graduates who obtain useless degrees from city colleges. There will be no work for them when they graduate anyway.

Our nation should invade someplace on foot. Perhaps the Holy Land is the best place to conduct such maneuvers. Let the factories re-open and let us make Israel the 51st state. Let us restore rule to the Mount of Olives, at least then, payday will be the same for almost everyone, as we drink the blood of Jesus in the land where it was originally shed.

When college students become dispensable like our service members and are drafted into such a comfortable lifestyle, our economy will once again thrive, because in the Army, everyone lives from paycheck to paycheck and Wall Street is so far away. Our world will become a heaven for junkies, homelessness will be a thing of the past, and even the gays will learn to enjoy the ambiance of the Army mess hall.

War is the only answer, but we need a real religious war, where the ground is too sacred to drop bombs from drones upon.

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