Summertime serendipity

What do fancy yellow diamonds, green college freshmen and feisty orange kittens all have in common? Not one single, colorful thing. Yet we Americans hold our breath in unison, suspending disbelief at what’s to become of us all the normalcy-annihilating Election Day.

Meanwhile, am I alone here in assessing that our current summer season seems bizarrely defined by a series of most unusual occurrences happening at a personal level on almost a regular, daily basis? Is it only me, or is this summer’s bizzarro-factor just off the charts?

In homage to the late Shelley Duvall, her award-winning Faerie Tale Theatre is the template I’ve chosen to incorporate here, via a troika of short vignettes, experiences from my own private life’s odd reality during this anxious summer.

ACT ONE: J. PACETTI PRECIOUS JEWELS
To be fortunate enough to ever meet my friend Joe Pacetti is to never forget him throughout eternity. A “by appointment only” fine jeweler now for over 45 years, Joe is brawny, burly, deep-voiced and saturated in alpha-masculinity. And he never leaves the house without his diamonds; multicolored ropes of them and finger rings of flawless gemstones so large they extend knuckle-to-knuckle. An evening spent in Joe’s company — a mesmerizing dichotomy of the prurient and the puritanical — is something breathless to behold.

A few weeks ago, my husband unexpectedly flew home to Dallas. Subsequently, Joe had us over to his place for a sit-down dinner for 12, casually mentioning as we entered to pay no mind to the film crew, “As you two lovely men are to be our august representatives of my North American gay clientele.” Uncharacteristically, my husband didn’t so much as flinch an eyelash.

To put this in perspective, my husband is not remotely “out” in any way. Nonetheless, out of his sheer respect for Joe, he consented to be filmed for primetime German television, and on a popular show titled, of all things, Explosive!

This summer also checkmarks the 30th anniversary of when my husband and I first met, although I no more expected him to actually remember this milestone any more than he does my own birthday. To say that my man isn’t exactly known for his romantic gestures would be a bit like saying Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet is a comedy. Imagine my surprise then, just before dessert arrived, when Joe presented to me a tray of fabulously assorted baubles: “Choose whichever’s your favorite,” smiled my husband. “Happy 30th anniversary!”

Dazedly, I whispered, “Of my bucket list’s top 100, number 99 has always been to get either a tattoo or a piercing.” With a shaking hand, I held aloft a black velvet box containing a single, lemony-yellow gemstone earring: “Looks like piercing won out.”

Joe explained, “Young man, what you’re fondling there is called an elongated, 70-faceted, radiant-cut fancy intense yellow diamond, of 2.5 carats, compared to, say, an emerald-cut diamond, which has only 28 facets, or a round brilliant, which has 58 facets. It is a natural diamond, too — not a lab-grown specimen like so many of them are nowadays — with certification papers from the Geological Institute of America recognizing the color-grade and the clarity that it is. The GIA is our jewelry industry’s bible when it comes to authentication.”

At the piercing parlor, that following morning, I was their first customer through the door. My husband does have his moments.

ACT TWO: FLY WAY UP HIGH, MAGGIE WING
During a recent weekend in Philadelphia to visit my friend, Elaine, Elaine was hosting a block party to celebrate both her 18-year-old daughter Manzanita’s high school graduation and the 20th birthday of her son, Ezra. Afterwards, she and I had plans to go out to dinner together, just the two of us, and catch up with old times.

The Philly weather that Saturday couldn’t have been more perfect; the block party a big hit, and as the whole neighborhood gathered under a shade tree watching all the high school graduates take a swing at pummeling a pinata full of condoms., Elaine casually says to me, “Howard, would you mind if Ezra took my place having dinner with you tonight?”

I countered, “Oh, honey, why don’t you all just come? We’ll do ice cream afterwards! Where is Ezra anyhow . . . the bouncy house?” I glanced about. “Don’t tell me he’s down in the basement again, splicing RNA molecules from a hermit crab?”

Elaine shook her head. “No, no, Howard, just dinner with Ezra, alone. He needs someone to talk to — someone not of his immediate family, but whom he considers family.” She paused a moment, for effect: “Howard, Ezra now goes by the name Maggie.”

Well, knock me over with a feather boa. Elaine nodded: “She first told me last fall, asking I keep it secret until yesterday, when Maggie agreed I could tell a few select people. She only started her estrogen therapy three months ago. You can’t really notice much of a difference yet, but she’s begun letting her hair grow out, and her voice has inched upward a few octaves.”

I held her hand. “Elaine, I’ve got this covered. Maggie and I are gonna have a fabulous dinner together tonight. I’ll give her my private email and phone numbers and assure her that I’m available 24/7. No matter where she is or whatever the circumstances are that she finds herself in, I’ll be there ASAP.” Elaine sniffled, and took a pinch of cotton candy. “You know, the media has so demonized transgenders that I couldn’t even get approval for her estrogen here in Pennsylvania. Thank God she attends college in Oregon, though. She’ll be able to finish her transitioning in Portland.”

Thus did I enjoy one of the most memorable dinners of my entire life that weekend, and with a lovely, six-foot-three vision of androgyny named Maggie Wing, our future Nobel laureate in chemistry, circa 2074

ACT THREE: RUSSELL’S WEDNESDAY TUSSLE
And as the cherry on top, a brand new furry member came into our family this summer — feisty little 4-month-old Wednesday. His top half is orange, his bottom half white. I inherited him last Wednesday afternoon (thus, his name) at the local pet food store, as the cashier was ringing up my weekly haul of Fancy Feast tins for Roo and Miss Pineapple.

Suddenly, in dashed some dude tossing a kitten towards him, all profuse with frenetic apologies: “I can’t afford to keep it; find it a good home!” Then out the doors he vanished. Blank-faced, the cashier continued ringing up my two senior felines’ final can of food, passing little Wednesday at me, stifling a yawn, “And one free kitten on the house.” Then he added, “Cat carriers, aisle 2 . . . Next in line!”

—Howard Lewis Russell

For all you BDSM enthusiasts out there harboring secret curiosities unrequited, you know where to turn at AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.