www.gay-sd.com ADVICE FROM THE


With “Mama” Cass (As channeled through Gay San Diego’s resident medium, Cuauhté- moc Kish)


Dear Mama Cass, I’ve just started dating a musi- cian by the name of Remi (just like do-re-mi). He’s quite clever with both lyrics and composition, and we seem compatible in the bedroom, making lovely music just about every night of the week. I don’t want to give this guy up. He’s not perfect, but neither am I. He’s moody, especially when he’s writing music, staying up half the night working on his compositions. I’m a writer myself, so I under- stand the need to create when the muse is dancing inside your head. However, there is one problem that drives me bonkers. When Remi eats, he furiously chomps on his food with an open mouth, mak- ing a loud, smacking sound. It’s also quite disgusting and rather off-putting to witness the mashed bits of a tuna salad tumbling around his gob like a seafood ce- ment mixer.


As long as I’m talking about his flaws, you might as well know that he’s starting to put on a few pounds around the middle. He gets upset when I inform him that if he would chew his food s-l-o-w-l-y, he wouldn’t eat as much. Without insulting him further, how can I get him to close his mouth and idle those chops? —Craving a Lips-Sealed Lover


Dear Craving,


When I got this assignment I was so delighted. Prior to this I had been assigned to write pro- motional songs for the MAN, but get this—they limited me to only uplifting words beginning with an “h,” such as “holy,” “heavenly,” “heartfelt” and “honorable” (you should have heard the thunder up here when, just for kicks, I tried to slip in “hooker,” “hand job” and “hashish”). Needless to say, I haven’t penned a decent folk song since I entered this cold, foggy place. Answering your question gave me an opportunity to put aside the pious prose and do something useful. It also allowed me a chance to clear the air on something. No matter how hard my daughter Owen and those closest to me have tried, the media-fueled dis- tortion of how I died lives on and on as urban legend. It seems the public will not listen to the truth, because they prefer a punch line that involves an extremely large ham sandwich lodged down the throat of a plus-sized woman. I guess some people really get off on these mean-spirited fictions. Trust me. Like so many of your gay male readers out there, I have never had a problem with large objects in my throat. I did not suffocate while eating a sandwich, Period. End of Story! I suffered a heart attack and died in my sleep, after a two-week sold-out run at London’s Palladium—thank you very much! If anything, I over- dosed on applause. Okay, now that that’s out of my system, I must tell you that we aren’t allowed to eat anything like real food up here in the “Beyond.” I know, that kind of sucks, but it keeps things clean and orderly. We eat what


I would call “imaginary” food. It’s all mental conjuring, noth- ing tangible. If you crave a hot fudge sundae, for example, you conjure those three scoops of vanilla ice cream and hot, melted fudge in your mind—and that’s it. No calories. Finally, a diet that works! Leave it to the MAN. (By the way, Jesus reminded me that we both died at age 33. Since he’s hanging around this pad I can only assume this must be an version of a goy heaven, and not the sheol I’d expected— perhaps some mix-up occur- ring when I changed my name from Cohen to Cass).


When I look back


at my short life on earth, it seems all the


HUMOR


musicians that I dated had twisted or irregular eating habits. Many ate on the road—no place for a lady—stopping at the worst pos- sible dives for sustenance. And they just wolfed down their food. I personally liked to savor each and every bite, even if it was just a celery stick.


But my natural appetite was always over-stimulated. Our family physician prescribed such large doses of Dexadrine (“dex- ies”) that I


couldn’t sit still in class and dropped


out of high school to seek refuge in Baltimore’s beatnik scene. All through life I suffered from the slings and arrows cast by those who thought they were superior to me—mostly skinny bitches. As some of your more fey


readers may recall, I lost the role of Miss Marmelstein in “I Can


October 8-October 21, 2010 GAY SAN DIEGO


13


Get It for You Wholesale” to a scrawny kvetsher by the name of Barbra. All I can say is that even with her mellifluent voice, it still lost money. After Streisand stole my role, I went on to work as a cloakroom


see Beyond, pg 17


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