Seniors view with wonder the Gay America of today: schools with gay/lesbian clubs; mainstream businesses that openly court us; books which once got you arrested are everywhere; marriage and military service are now possible. Proud to be an American? You bet.
Sad to say, things are still not perfect and bigots, like the poor, will always be with us. They will be in full flower this month when America’s Pride comes to town with the first-ever uniformed military contingent making headlines. Wild with rage, the hate groups will certainly increase their barrage of lies and curses. We must be strong and creative in our counterattacks.
I witnessed one such action during a Pride parade a couple of years ago. The usual group of concerned Christians was (for our own good) yelling, screaming and holding up love messages condemning us to hell, when a large gay marching band suddenly stopped in front of them, turned smartly to face the bullhorns and blowhards, and with an electrifying rendition of “Jesus Loves Me,” silenced them! Plus, as if on cue, the nearby crowd joined in loudly singing the great message. What a victory; and who knows, for those few moments maybe one or two of the hatemongers got something to think about.
We must keep singing – louder and longer – so that someday you younger readers will enjoy the America of our dreams. Don’t forget the ones who made it possible. See you at America’s Pride.
Eat to live, not live to eat
I prefer simple foods, but I am often forced to endure steak oozing blood, raw tooth-breaking vegan delights, ethnic stews of murky content or salad bedewed with a “fab” new dressing of raspberries, honey, vinegar and a dash of chili – all decreed “must try” by the cook/host. Bull feathers!
Last year, my friend with great fanfare presented us his “Filet de Sole Almandine.” Very pretty, but it was a fish! Naturally, as an American, I requested some ketchup. What a scene. You’d think I had killed a kitten.
Now, whatever I eat at their house, even a dish of ice cream, a bottle of ketchup is slammed down beside it. (I find the slamming a bit of over-kill.)
To add insult to injury, I don’t drink. A dinner with five wine glasses per guest signals an evening of grim conviviality. Each course begins with a genealogy of the nectar (maybe $100 a bottle; imagine!). The tasting follows with its obligatory chorus of comments and witticisms, all in a mystifying vocabulary known only to “The Chosen.” Why this orgasmic ecstasy over a bottle of grape juice? Whatever happened to Ripple?
Finally, my third sin; my feelings toward the cheese people who proudly present terribly expensive, imported slabs of cheese smelling like dirty feet. No thanks. Give me good old Velveeta; that staple of my paper bag school lunch with mustard and Miracle Whip on white bread, a banana and four Oreos. Oh, happy memories.
