The year was 1973. Richard Nixon had just started his second term but all anyone could talk about was Watergate (the bestest 'Gate' of all the gates). The Vietnam War still raged. Hippies were starting to fade into the woods. Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy had just been released (check out Jimmy Page's bitchin' double guitar, though one of them is a 12-string, so really, it's like a triple guitar, bitches).
And then there was little Jonny Gold, 13 years old and already an accomplished stoner, who was about to become a man.
Why am I carving the corned beef? Fuck if I know. Why were there cherry-stuffed pineapple rings on top of it? Fuck if I know.
My brother Richard lighting a big fat spliff for me. Man, I could roll the fattest joints.
This is the cousins table. Let's start with Jew 'fro, back row, second from the right. That's cousin Burton who is now an evangelical christian and divorced from his born-again wife (not the woman he's standing next to, I don't know who that is). To the left of Burton, with the porn star mustache, is Clyde (not kidding), married to my cousin Jenny, next to him. Several years earlier, my adult cousin Jenny, raised in Colombia, SC, was so bereft of accurate information about sex that she had to ask her pre-adolescent NY cousins what '69' was.
Long divorced from Jenny, Clyde is now in prison for the same crime that catholic priests never seem to go to prison for.
To the left of Jenny is Richard's girlfriend of the week. I did not know Richard had recently (like, the day before) changed girlfriends and I greeted this one by the name of the previous one. Oops.
The Jew 'fro in the center of the bottom row is cousin Larry, the family cautionary tale before I took over that role. Larry was directionless in his youth, dropped out of school, held a series of meaningless jobs, did what he wanted. At one point I think he was an elevator operator (yes kids, it's true that was once a profession, just like a cooper or a typesetter).
Throughout my lackluster academic career, I was often asked, "Do you want to end up like cousin Larry, unemployed? in Greenland?" I may be misremembering the bit about Greenland, but you get the point. And I did follow somewhat in Larry's footsteps. I dropped out of school and I held a series of meaningless jobs. I did what I wanted. I bought a motorcycle and rode it cross country. I married a shiksa (that's yiddish for 'female pork eater').
Cousin Larry is now a doctor. I now own two restaurants. My two older brothers, who clearly did not choose to be like cousin Larry, both have multiple college degrees, are underemployed, underpaid, and unhappy. So, kids, when someone asks you if you want to be like cousin Larry, smile and say, 'Yes, please."
Why is my friend trying to give me a hot foot? Fuck if I know. Who's the douche-nozzle giving me bunny ears? Some Carolina cousin whom I'd never met before. Also, dig the ginger suede shoes and ginger tie on the ginger kid on the right. He be stylin'.
Here I am getting kissed by the two hottest girls from Barnum Woods Elementary School, class of '72. Lana, on the right, is looking askance at the camera, and is clearly mortified that there will be photographic evidence of this moment. She should be, she is wearing a giant bandana as a floor length dress.
Why is my brother Michael staring straight ahead like some weirdo while the rest of the family participates in this staged, yet touching, scene? Because Michael is odd. He has always been odd and will always be odd. It's why we keep him around.
Rockin' sideburns, Harold! Also note the stylin' jacket, which in just a few short years would morph into a leisure suit. Thanks for the gin, Dad, although I couldn't help but notice that I didn't get the good stuff. Where's the Tanqueray?
I have little doubt that the sawbuck my dad is giving me is the last of his money; that ten'er is the equivalent of over $50 today and the several thousand dollar cost of the party would be about $15k today. And he had to pay for four of these shindigs.
This inscrutable moment is my Rosebud. It haunts my waking moments, it darkens my dreams. I will be going about my day, minding my business and then suddenly the image of this boot will appear before my mind's eye like a cognitive non-sequitur. There is no escape from it. The boot has no inherent meaning in and of itself but it's unknowable metaphorical significance casts a shadow upon my entire existence. I am utterly alone and without purpose, like a boot that has no foot.
friends have been by to visit