How to do the wrong thing right

My lovely, 20something niece from New York was recently in Dallas — her final interview for a job she ultimately didn’t get — and I was taking her out for a conciliatory steak dinner.

“I don’t know, Uncle Howard,” she sighed, examining where best to first stab her steely knife into the 24-ounce, bone-in, just-killed beast placed before her. “They made it sound, you know, like this last interview was really, well, just a formality.” She swilled her lemon drop martini in a single gulp, tousling back her brunette mane. “Maybe it’s my resume,” she puckered. “I’m thinking it may need a tad more creative tweaking. Could you possibly, like, glance over it for me?”

“Me?” asked I, averting my eyes from the slaughterhouse on her plate. “How ‘creative’ is your resume, sweetie?” (Had the poor butchered thing even been dead yet back in the kitchen?) “I’m not quite sure how could I be of any help with it anyhow.” (There! I know I heard a moo!)

“Uncle Howard,” she coddled airily, holding aloft her empty martini glass and mouthing silently, “Refill, please?” to a random waiter across the room, “there’s nobody else here I see seated at our table who’s a published author! Or do you no longer bother with such yesteryear trifles as what constitutes a fine resume?”

Apparently, every born-and-raised Southerner residing in New York City is obligated, sooner than later, to burn out and return home, urbanely snarkier for it. Regardless, I distinctly recall it taking me about 10 full years to reach Manhattan meltdown, a feat my worldly niece seems to have breezily accomplished in only half that amount of time (though things were a bit tougher back in my day, when wooly mammoths still grazed Central Park). “Honestly, sweetie,” I answered, “I wouldn’t know the first thing about what constitutes a fine resume — I’ve never had one.”

The look on my niece’s face couldn’t have been more uncomprehending had I assured her, “Honestly, sweetie, I wouldn’t know the first thing about what constitutes a fine bowel movement — I’ve never had one.”

Fortunately, the rescuing waiter refilled both our martini glasses (mine being a real one, pure Stoli, replete with requisite ice crystals floating atop; plus, a buoy of bleu cheese-stuffed olives on a legitimate wooden skewer —no adolescent sugar-rim here!).

“Then, how’d you get to be an advice columnist, Uncle Howard — I mean, minus having any sort of physical, paper calling card?” She reached for her rectangular totem, atop her bread plate, and began punching at its face frenetically. “Or were there not such crass things as competing resumes back then? When did you start being ‘Ask Howard’ anyhow?”

Never one to reminisce much, I started succulently into my pungent olives first. “Oh, a few years ago, I guess.” (Whoever came up with the brainchild of replacing those ghastly red pimentos with bleu cheese truly deserves a Nobel!) “Three or four years back, maybe?”

“O-M-G,” she chortled, thrusting her phone toward the centerpiece orchid. “Three or four years? Try a little further back—the Bush administration, why don’t you. Uncle Howard, you started in 2005 . . . more than 13 years ago!” She licked a dab of butter off the corner of her totem. “Look, they even used your real photograph way back when — stud-a-roo-hoo!”

Suddenly, it was my turn to raise a drained martini glass aloft. “It seems almost prehistorical these days,” I winced, laughingly. “You know, sweetie, in the beginning I’d pick up my questions from an actual post office box — in real envelopes! Hey, now that’s how you’ll get your resume noticed: Send it out old-school — snail mail. In a real envelope. With a stamp. Hand-written.” We clinked martini rims above the orchid. “It practically reeks of diligence, earnestness and patience, eternal; why, I’d sure hire a Millennial like you, in a 13-year second, I would.”

Hence, bois and girlz, arrives a tasty amuse-bouche of what I’ve consequently exhumed since that dinner with my vivacious, avocation-venting niece: The following are a randomly few selected Q&As from Ask Howard, circa 2005 — verbatim! What’s most surprising now to Dear Howard is how very little gay men’s problems have actually changed during these baker’s dozen years. On the one hand, I’m amazed by the comparative innocence of my questions back then (keep in mind, this was pre-Facebook, pre-Instagram, pre-Snapchat, pre-Grindr, pre-Twitter, pre-everything that most anyone these days would deem societally impossible to live without); on the other hand, kids, we’ve all subsequently become intolerant of any gratification less than instantaneous… well, that, and the only sexual taboo, circa 2018, now being vanilla. Gosh, darn it, let’s just get right to it.

Jan. 28, 2005

Dear Howard: I’m so unhappy and I don’t know what to do. My life feels like it’s out of control. I’m just 22, but already caught up in the whole “gay” lifestyle. I’m attending college in name only. I never go to classes. I’ve lived on my own for the past eight months, which is when my troubles really began. I’m out all night long, every night, doing who knows shat with nobody I can even remember the next day. To say that my life is “unsafe” would be putting it mildly. How do I put the brakes on? — All Guns Blasting

Dear Twelve O’Clock High: Ah, the billion-dollar question: For starters, Blaze, ever consider moving back in with Mom and Dad? If that’s not an option, there’s always just saying “no” to the party favors (that I’m sure people are only too happy to ply you with free-of-charge at 22). It’s never too late to rein it in a bit. At the very least, put a self-imposed curfew on how late you’ll stay out on school nights — even just a good night’s sleep will clear your mind considerably. Start small. Try halving your partying to every other night at first. You’re not going to miss anything. Trust me, the party will always be there.

April 29, 2005

Dear Howard: I’m 33 and keep in excellent gay shape: I shave my testicles, wax my back and keep sparkling clean where it counts most on Saturday nights. I’m friendly, have a good job and dress age-appropriately. I don’t do drugs. I do use condoms, and I volunteer at the local food pantry once a week. I do everything a good gay man is supposed to do plus some… and I absolutely hate it! I’m not one step closer to getting a boyfriend now than when I was a pimply-faced, fat teenager. What gives? — Hunky and Lost

Dear Holocaust: What gives, man, is that you sound as boring as a Falcon video: Going through the motions does not a good fag make. Where’s the lust in your life? The spontaneity? Where’s the you? Hell, get an ear pierced, take up tarot reading, buy a good butt plug… do something that elevates you beyond honorary membership in The Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

Aug. 12, 2005

Dear Howard: Am I the only gay man on the planet who can’t abide shopping, pets, Mariah Carey or grooming products? If it weren’t for my jig-is-up porn drawer, even I would think I was straight: I dress like a straight dude (like I put my clothes on blindfolded), I think all dogs and cats belong in zoos, Mariah Carey looks like a rejected sex doll prototype, and the only “products” I buy regularly are Crest, Zest and Old Spice. But let me tell you, pal, my bed never grows cold, either. Are at least some other gay men out there as disinterested in the “lifestyle” as I am? Surely, I’m not alone? — Duke

Dear Pal: No, you’re the only one. You’re different, you’re special. Other than merely perpetuating the gay stereotype, what exactly is the purpose of your reverse superiority here, Duke?   

Dec. 30, 2005

Dear Howard: I’ve noticed lately that a lot of the guys at my gym have shaved legs — butch, roided-up muscle dudes, all of them. Is this some kind of new metrosexual trend I’m not in on? Is there a reason behind it? — The Caveman

Dear Cavernous: Yes, pure vanity — actually, a peculiar amalgamation of purest vanity mixed with Napoleonic Complex insecurity. Have you not noticed that all these smooth-legged, glassily-bronzed muscle boys are short? (Or, if not short, exactly, then certainly short of being tall?) A man over six feet shaves his legs for only two reasons: If he has a drag show tonight or Olympic swimming trials tomorrow.

P.S.  To those of you who were wondering, my niece nailed the next job she sent her resume to — snail mail.

— Howard Lewis Russell