The Reluctant Daddy

Now that the California judicial system has graciously decided to throw us gays a bone by concluding that Proposition 8 was wildly unconstitutional, I would like to turn our collective attention to a matter whose graveness cannot be understated. Perhaps you think I refer to the firestorm of protests by those right wing nutbags who believe that God will strike us all dead if we permit gay marriage to continue in the holy state of California. You may even think I refer to the costly legal process we fagelas must undertake to preserve this victory in the United States Court of Appeals for the 9th circuit or our eventual battle before the Supreme Court, headed by Alfred E. Newman lookalike, John G. Roberts. While appealing to the court of public opinion and surmounting legal challenges loom large for marriage equality, these things seem trivial to me when faced with the ultimate matrimonial predicament we marriage-minded gays must face; Bridal Registry.

Two years ago when the man I live with (We’ll call him Zac Efron to protect his identity) decided it would be ‘crazy-fun’ to get married, Zac convinced me that our well-healed friends should not buy us gifts, but rather donate to the ‘NO ON H8′ campaign. As it was fashionable to throw money at charities in those days, I reluctantly agreed. When the day of our nuptials arrived, Zac and I reported to a small park in West Hollywood where a dower-looking lesbian married us in under two minutes. We then zoomed over to our reception where our loopy friends managed to miraculously consume $6000 in cocktails. After I cut their drunk asses off, our kind friends each packed into their politically correct Toyota Prius and made off into the clear, cold California night.

You might suppose that after our boozy reception, Zac and I drove home peacefully, our young son asleep in the backseat, content in the knowledge that we were now ‘officially’ married, and in our own small, selfless way had advanced the gay marriage cause.  You would also be fucking wrong.  Zac and I launched into a cataclysmic argument over a Williams Sonoma espresso machine that I lusted after and was now denied due to our ‘philanthropy.’

I share this cautionary Bridal Registry tale with all of you straights, gays and gayelles from a ghastly Starbucks in Hollywood, for if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this whole gay marriage ‘thing,’ is that civil rights, like my Williams Sonoma espresso machine do not come easily or cheaply.

(Continued from NEO CLASSISM PT. 5)

Several years ago, I found myself traveling cross country on a plane with a friend I’ll call ‘Bethany,’ whose pat-response reaction to her hideous children’s demands for attention was the ceaseless dispensing of 100-calorie packs of Animal Crackers, Oreo cookies, and Snackwell Pastries.  Bethany, whose transit itinerary consisted of pouring over back issues of IN-STYLE, THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER, and PEOPLE had giddily deferred her on-board parenting role to the frazzled flight attendants and the good people at Nabisco, Pepperidge Farms, and Frito Lay.  Were Bethany’s children to take ill and need defibrillation during our flight, I’m certain she would have reached into her enormous Gucci knockoff purse, pull out a handful of junk food and while never taking her eyes from her tabloid, hurl the contents at the gasping, choking sounds emanating from the seats directly behind her.

When I questioned Bethany about her ‘technique’ she shrugged her shoulders and said that it was either the junk food or the administering of Children’s Benadryl, whose narcotic, coma-like effects on even the rowdiest children are well known.  At the time, I was utterly horrified and took it upon myself to entertain both her children and my son Ethan for the entire five hour plane ride.  My philanthropy ended 45 minutes later after Bethany’s dangerously wired 7 year old son, Jacob, told me to fuck myself after I denied his request for a Red Bull. When I mentioned Jacob’s ‘Fuck you’ remark to Bethany, she gave me a ‘what-can-you-do’ look, reached into her purse, turned, and lobbed a pack of Fig Newtons at Jacob hitting him painfully in the chest.

Standing in the men’s department of Saks being drilled about professional baseball by my relentless son Ethan, Bethany’s ‘what-can-you-do’ look floated into my mind.  It became clear that no amount of bewildering Yiddish cliches or fruity tangents concerning hand stitching was going to throw my son Ethan from the Los Angeles Dodger trail. Drastic times call for drastic measures.

“Ethan, I think we both could use a little Mr. Softee ice cream right now!  How about it?”

Ethan mercifully abandoned his baseball inquisition as he and I charged up Fifth Avenue in search of the ONLY man in America I’ve ever been faithful to, Mr. Softee.  As Ethan and I sat on a bench in Central Park licking our ice cream cones, a homeless man shuffled up to us with plaintive look on his face.  Astonishingly, Ethan, without any provocation from me, offered the man his ice cream cone.  The homeless man smiled graciously, but declined Ethan’s generous offer.   While Ethan returned to devouring his ice cream cone, I placed my head on his small shoulder, magnificently content as the life lesson I had so meticulously planned, melted away like the Mr. Softee vanilla ice cream cone with chocolate sprinkles I held in my sticky hand.

(Continued from NEO CLASSISM PT. 4)

When I’m neither compulsively e-shopping nor immersed in unspeakable computer porn, the thing I like most to do is browse the Internet for the worst parenting cliches and sayings I can use on my son Ethan. Far from being one of those parents who SWEARS, ABSOLUTELY SWEARS to never say the retarded things I heard from my parents, I feel it’s my duty to not only pass on to Ethan the pearls of wisdom offered up by my stunningly unenlightened parents, but to improve upon them.   Naturally, the ‘while-you-live-under-my-roof-so-you’ll-do-as-I-say!’ or ‘because-I-said-so!’ are constant, enduring classics, I find myself inexplicably attracted to the more obscure, Jewish or Yiddish sayings.  Why, you may wonder, has Tod, the W.A.S.P. worshipping, nose-job-getting, secular fruitcake, who until VERY recently, thunderously adhered to his devout atheism, embraced his shitty, Jewish-Ashkenazi background?  One could chalk it up to a steady diet of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF, YENTL, and FUNNY GIRL, or my shameless attempts at befriending Madonna, Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher, and Britney Spears by pretending to embrace the tenants of Kabbalah. (I never met Madonna, Demi, Ashton, or Brtiney, but I did wear that fucking red thread bracelet for a week or so) In the end, I believe that no matter how far one tries to run from one’s ghastly background, the second you pump out that kid, hook or by crook, you invariably turn into your parents.

As I stood with my son Ethan in the seemingly boundless men’s department at Saks, and Patrick, the gayest sales assistant in America fluttered about us, Ethan continued to probe me about my newfound affection for the Los Angeles Dodgers. I struggled to find something, ANYTHING, that I could say to appease Ethan who was by now working my last nerve. All at once an ancient Jewish proverb appeared in my mind.  I’m not certain where I dredged it up, it could have come from my long-dead Brooklyn grandmother, Natalie the dumpy Jewish girl on THE FACTS OF LIFE, or been one of my recent Internet ‘finds,’ but it seemed to my addled mind, wildly appropriate in this moment.

“Ethan,” I said theatrically, ” I have found in my long life that baseball is much like shopping, while I can run, I’ll run; while I can walk, I’ll walk; when I can only crawl, I’ll crawl. But by the grace of God, I’ll always be moving forward.”

I have no idea if my subterfuge worked on Ethan, but Patrick the gayest sales assistant in America applauded while a small tear rolled down his carefully powdered and rouged cheek.

(To be continued)