may 2. 2003 - J u s t 0 * 1 5 3
HUM OR
................▼................
W
Mamma mia
hat is it about gay men and their
mothers.7 Some of us are so attached
to them you’d think we were sisters.
I heard a theory once that a gay
man’s often hysterical diva worship is actually a
transference of this intense attachment.
(Think about it, boys. Her name is Madonna,
after all.) From the way some of you go on,
you’d think your mothers were constantly
descending flights of stairs into the arms of
well-scrubbed chorus boys.
Much of this is just wishful thinking. I’ve
heard more than one mama’s hoy feverishly
describe his mother as a thrilling combination
of Auntie Marne and Margo Channing, only to
discover she’s just another tired-looking
hausfrau with a had henna rinse and an overly
imaginative spawn.
But some of them truly are divas.
Like my friend William’s mother. A graduate
of Blanche DuBois Senior High School, Lila June
is a gin-soaked steel magnolia apt to pour a mid-
morning cocktail because “surely it’s 5 o’clock
somewhere.” Once, during a childhood trip to
the seashore, William complained about getting
sand in his sandwich. “Hush up, William,” she
drawled. “It gives a sandwich characiuh."
Then there’s Her Royal Highness Eydie
Feldstein, the crown princess of Lawng Island
and the mother of Dr. Peter Feldstein, the
noted gay urologist. It was Eydie who left her
husband, Dr. Morris Feldstein, alone when he
was having his heart attack so she could go
upstairs to put on makeup before the para
medics arrived. (Absolutely true story, by the
way, but with absolutely false names.)
After his father died, Dr. Pete took Eydie to a
$l,000-a-night island resort in the Great Barrier
Reef, where she decided to try snorkeling for the
Diva mothers and the men who love them
THE GOSPEL
ACCORDING
TO MARC
b y M a rc Acito
first time. But since, like many women of her
class and generation, Eydie had never actually
washed her own hair, she refused to set one pedi
cured toe in the ocean until Peter had arranged
for a hairdresser to fly in from the mainland.
Even an ordinary mom can surprise you,
like the pie-faced Midwestern matron who
asked my friend Scotty why he kept napkin
rings in his dresser drawer. When he explained
what they really were, she just said, “I’m so glad
I taught you how to accessorize.”
hen there’s my own mother, the New Age
mystic who actually dries inspire hysterical
diva worship— in lesbians. Megan Garcia is
like catnip for women who’ve given up their birth
names in favor of more euphonious-sounding min
erals and plants— y’know, the kind of women who
say, “Goddess bless you” when you sneeze.
My mom is one of those people who had a
near-death experience: the rainbow bridge, the
dead relatives on the other side, the works. Like
Carol Anne in Poltergeist, she stayed away from
the light, but she’s never been the same since.
For instance, there’s the time she calculated
the number of knickknacks on my mantle and
informed me that numerologically I was in deep,
deep spiritual doo-doo. “1 bought them at Pier
One,” I replied. “Does that change the count?”
Nothing doing. We had to cleanse the
entire house of bad energy. Otherwise I was
certain to bum forever in the fires of Heck.
She’s a mass of contradictions, my mother, jus
tifying her pack-a-day habit as the modem equiv
alent of the Native American pipe ceremony.
And I learned a long time ago it’s almost impossi
ble to win an argument with a woman
who gets her information from dead
-m
elders whispering in the wind.
*
Whenever 1 visit her, I’m
always met by a new set of
dewy-eyed groupies: long
haired women in sandals who
automati
cally
bestow
upon
me an admiration by mere association. (Chastity
and Jason, I feel your pain.) Megan’s third hus
band used to say, “You could park your mother
on the dark side of the moon and lesbians would
still show up with sleeping bags.”
It gets old.
It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally con
vinced my mother that every hug doesn’t need
to be a healing chakra balancing and that, while
I enjoy the company of my Sapphic sisters, 1
don’t necessarily want to sit naked with them in
an Indian sweat lodge. (Curiously, they feel the
same way.)
There are plenty of people out there eager
to criticize the slightly unhinged woman who
bore me. After all, Megan began her Magical
Mystery Tour when I was 12, leaving my broth
er and me in the custody of our father, who art
in New Jersey.
But I’m constitutionally incapable of hard
ening my heart to this woman. I can’t help it; I
simply adore her.
What can I say? I’m a mama’s boy. Happy
Mother’s Day, Mama.
And that, my friends, is
The Gospel According to
Marc, j n
M arc A cito iwmts to
know what the shrine to
your mom includes.
E-m ail him at
m arcacito@ attbi. com .
NOW N O N-SM OKING FO R YOUR EATING P L E A S U R E
long 1 live old town
Live jazz nightly
American Grill
NW 2 n d & C o u c h 5 0 3 .2 2 2 .6 0 7 7 ja z z d e o p u s .c o m
Where DOES one fin d
an elegant gentleman
these days?
Restaurant
& Lounge
Visit us at
www.starkys.com
503 . 230.7980
2913 SE Stark
15% OFF Dinner Entrees
between 5:30 & 7pm every day!
Peruse the Just
Friends personals
ads on page S4I
Go to W tf tf. j u s t o u t . c o m to «trito your own
free 50 word id or use the form on pago 54.