Contraband

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia:

April 15, 1999

At dusk on Thursday, the call to prayer began. It's wailing chant permeated into my hotel room, declaring the end of the week and the start of another Muslim Sabbath in the Kingdom.

Alone on the bed, I sat tucked into the corner of my dorm-like room, and waited. It felt respectful, although I didn’t know when the prayer would end.

Forty-five minutes passed and that seemed good enough. I went to the window and closed the curtains, and then turned to the desk built into the wall and started my laptop. It whirred as it awakened, starting very slowly. I opened a drawer in the desk and took out a small candle. It wasn’t the correct candle for the prayer, but it didn’t much matter. I was a novice anyway, an aspiring convert to Judaism.

Then I got up and crossed the room, turned off all the lights except a small desk lamp. That and the glow from the computer screen helped me find my way back. Sitting in front of the computer I double-clicked the illicit document.

I started to read softly, not really afraid, but aware that what I was doing was illegal.

“Yeetgadal v' yeetkadash sh'mey rabbah”

(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)

Wafting in from the Streets of San Francisco

I can hear the theme from The Godfather from a solo saxophone is coming in through the window of my hotel room . It's rare that you can open a window in a hotel, or any window above the 2nd floor.

"Extra" or the "Insider"? I can't decide and I don't know the number for the channels so I scroll forward through the channels until I get one or the other, re-starting the rotation at each commercial interruption.

USA Today and an empty wrapper from peanut M&M's litter the empty side of my king size bed. I'm working my way through a half bottle of Clos du Bois merlot from the mini-bar.

Billy Bush is a douche.

Who is playing that music? Now it's "Memories" from Cats. No. Wait. It's the theme from the Godfather again. Or something like that.

Will Britney Spears get nominated for an Emmy? Stay tuned.

3 Years Later

I met my husband Mark three years ago yesterday - June 7, 2005.

"I can't believe you remembered!"

Outlook remembers for me and reminds every year, 2 days in advance.

"You pushed me up against a dirty bathroom wall at The Phoenix!" He never leaves out "dirty" when he retells it.

"You liked it." That's my part when telling that anecdote.

I gave him his present, wrapped up in plain brown paper.

He laughed at it, like the laughing came from his toes out the top of his head.

"I love it!" He held it up - a DVD - and read out loud the title: "Paging Dr. Finger. It's exactly what I wanted."

I came up behind him as we looked at the cover.

"Do you think that's real?" I asked.

He scrutinized the photo for a moment. "Maybe. But he's a small guy."

Stop Worrying Where You're Going

Seeing the 'Sunday in the Park with George' revival at Studio 54 last week - and specifically the song 'Move On', reminded me of a story I wrote 10 years ago. Taking another look at it now gave me a chance to see myself younger - not just in the facts of the story per se, but some of the unabashed phrases. See for yourself. This is vintage. As a fun fact, I performed this story at a Queer Stories reading, dressed as a 6'3" man in Little Orphan Annie drag - from red 'fro to red dress to shiny black shoes!

The Sun Will Come Out

I was walking my lamb “Cole” as I did every afternoon. I had named my lamb after Cole Porter. I was fifteen years old. Cole and I were walking through the deserted grounds of the Maricopa County Fair in Phoenix, Arizona. The ferris wheel stood still as the carnival rides sleep late into the afternoon. The sunset was still hours away as were the lights and the laughter and the screams. The Fairgrounds had opened at noon, but only the agricultural contestants and livestock were found before dusk.

I was a boy with his lamb surrounded by silent giants. We hadn’t passed a single person during our walk today. We were on our way back to the show tent when I spotted her. I had heard her before I saw her. In a cement band shell at a considerable distance a wee moppet in a red dress with a head full of red brown curls sang out with alarming clarity and volume. There were at least thirty rows of benches in front of the band shell, yet there wasn’t one person in the audience. In fact, I couldn’t see anyone else, anywhere else. There wasn’t even an accompanist. It was just me, Cole, and Little Orphan Annie.

“Tomorrow! . . Tomorrow! . . I love ya tomorrow!” she yodeled. Cole and I stopped and stared for a moment ...

(Read the rest of the story by clicking here.)

Pest Control?

"Goddammit! She's back!"

Mark ran to the balcony doors, swung it open and shooed away the mama pigeon who had made a nest in our herb garden.

"I admire her tenacity," I said, although that wasn't supportive.

Mark had just thrown away the two eggs she's been sitting upon all week and hardly moved. Her dedication has been remarkable. We debated the termination of the unborn this morning as we walked aisles of Home Depot, looking for - and finding - a plastic owl. Our neighbor Ed swears the owls will scare away the vermin-with-wings. He got two. Today we got the last one left on the shelves. NY pigeons are tough, renowned for their persistence and disdain for the cars and people around them. A fat pest will fly up and away only a few inches to avoid us and then set back to scavenging or waddling.

"Oh. The other two pigeons are attacking her." He stood at the window providing me the play-by-play. "Now she's back and, jeesh, she's - yes she is - she is sitting herself down, probably to lay another egg. I give up!"

"Let me try."

I went out with a roll of irri-tape, scissors, and a stapler. By the time I added three or four more strips of the halogenic-metal, it looked like a mini-prom. She couldn't come back without walking through it and the light and sound has been designed to irritate the pigeons. Last fall I found a piece built into new nest. Still, there is nothing better, so I try again.

She didn't come back. Perhaps she lost her rumble or the deterrents worked or she had nothing to come back for.

When I came back inside, Mark was sitting on the sofa with his laptop in front of him. He had been searching for a second owl to mail order.

"Hey, look. This one has a bobble-head."

Reality Call

The towncar pulled up across the street. I put myself into the backset.

"What is your car number?" I asked.

"25"

I took out my wallet and called the dispatcher from my Blackberry.

"Hellohello. New Bell."

"I'm in car 25 going to JFK. I'd like to pay with my credit card."

"You travel too much." Then he laughed. "You travel too much papi."

"It's all for work," I replied.

"It's a living, papi. It's a living."

Barking Hassid

He started barking at our golden retriever as he passed us on the sidewalk.

First we looked at each other, amazed. The Golden barked. She's an old lady and easily provoked. Dogs, anyone wearing a hood, and wheels set her off. I pulled Maddy back while my husband tried to restrain our two other dogs, lest then join in the melee.

"What the f-ck are you doing? Jesus Christ. What the f-ck?" We both shouted back at him.

The man puffed out his chest and spread out his arms in some kind of macho gangsta pose. And he smiled back, self-satisfied.

I cannot imagine in what parallel universe, he seriously thought he could pull off that pose of bravado. He was tall and skinny and pale and covered in a black frock coat to his knees, where the white silk stockings took over. Thick, black rimmed glasses further withdrew his credibility in this stance, but the giant mink sphere on the crown of his head ruined any hope for tough guy posturing.

But he just continued his posing as he backed away from us smiling, as we shouted and herded the dogs away.

I turned to Mark, "Is it a full moon or something?"