amstel89

THE ALL DRAG BAR MITZVAH

The Bar Mitzvah. The iconic coming of age event for 13-year old Jewish boys in honor of pubic hair, deepening voices and blood engorged penises; a sort of compensatory ritual to balance the indignity and suffering of circumcision--slicing off the tip of your 8-day-old manhood before you are old enough to mount a defense in court. 

Almost had one, a Bar Mitzvah. But didn't. I got the Bris but was denied the Bar Mitzvah.

Why should I care?  I am, by most standards, a devout anti-religionist.  Organized religion makes my foreskin crawl. Oh, wait, I don't have one.  

I do very much appreciate and enjoy many of the magnificent expressions of the world's major religions in terms of art, architecture and music.  Ganesha is cool.   I'm a sucker for a Christmas Mass at Park Avenue's Saint Bartholomew's.  I adore egg matzo schmeared with butter and salt.  I own Raiders of the Lost Ark.  I am proud of my heritage and history as one of the Chosen People. I have three times in my life spent a week wandering the Zen Buddhist temples of Kyoto. I can toss coins and deliver a spooky reading from the I Ching. I was deeply moved and inspired by the writings of Lao Tzu. And I stand in awe of Chartre Bleu, the Sistine Chapel ceiling, Sainte Chappelle, and the great Pyramid builders of the Maya.

So I think I would have enjoyed the ceremony of the Bar Mitzvah, the attention, the banquet and the booty. But like heterosexuality, I was denied my Bar Mitzvah.   Am I crying over spilt mik?  Sure.  Why the fuck not?

DEEP SUMMER

EUROPEAN VACATION

I usually portray my mother and father, Fran and Lee, as two wretched, hateful and profoundly mentally ill dysfunctionals.  One of my sisters is fond of referring to our mother as The Fran Monster.  As for Lee, no one word or phrase  seems to capture his essence.  I think German was actually created so that people could describe someone like my father.  You know how the Germans string together many words to create one new word?  Very clever thing.  It would work for my father: abusiveviolentdrunkmeancruelunethicalsexoffenderadultererchildbeater.  See, that would never work in English and yet in German it would likely make perfect sense.

But life with my parents wasn't all nightmares.  In all fairness to them, we had our good times as well.  I'm certain that each one of my sisters can recount some wonderful adventure, the occasional abuse-free moment and heart-warmer like when my dying mother would hurl insults at the hospice nuns, likely driving the sisters of mercy to morphine (easily found in a hospice.)  How my mother ended up in a Catholic hospice is still a mystery to me even though it does seem like justice was served on both sides of that equation.

Recently, I was reading an article in the Times about SIENNA, a small and beautiful gem of a city in the Tuscany region of northern Italy.  The article reminded me of a peaceful moment with my parents as we stood in the center of the PIAZZA DEL CAMPO, discussing the PALIO and admiring the ancient towers.  This moment is chief among my fond memories of our one and only European vacation.

THE DARK SIDE

FANTASY ISLAND

 

 

MORNING GLORY

SUNSET

BLUSHING

TWILIGHT

THE MIGHTY HUDSON