Sta­ple­house

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Let’s start with man’s first walk on the moon. I re­mem­ber sit­ting with my par­ents and girl­friend and watch­ing this drama on TV. “If man can walk on the moon, I can fuck women,” I thought to my­self. An equally fan­ci­ful, world­wide myth is that the moon is made of cheese. My fa­vorite pig-out cheese for years has been Drunken Goat, a firm, aged chevre in a pur­ple, wine-soaked rind. It used to be cheap and hard to find. Now it’s ev­ery­where and ex­pen­sive. Please eat it. Next up is the re­lease of Andy Warhol’s film, “Lone­some Cow­boys.” I went to see it at Ans­ley Mall with my girl­friend. The At­lanta po­lice showed up, seized the film, and or­dered ev­ery­one into the park­ing lot. Gay cow­boys re­mind me of bar­be­cue. The best in the city is at B’s Crack­lin (2061 Main Street). The owner-chef raises his own her­itage hogs. Pick your sauce: vine­gary-mus­tardy Carolina-style, and not-too-sweet, toma­toey Ge­or­gia-style. Fed­erico Fellini’s master­piece, “Satyri­con,” was also re­leased here in 1969. I saw it with my bynow-surely-wor­ried girl­friend at Lenox Square. The movie is a Freudian adap­ta­tion of the western world’s first novel, “The Satyri­con,” by Gaius (re­ally!) Petro­n­ius. It sat­i­rizes the Greek taste for sodomy and the cult of Pri­a­pus, the god fa­mous for his gi­gan­tic pe­nis. The story in­cludes an in­fa­mously weird ban­quet. Fast-for­ward many years and I’m writ­ing re­views of weird food as I write my doc­toral dis­ser­ta­tion on the ob­ses­sion with huge dicks in pop cul­ture. When I think of big dicks and weird food, I think of

Much of the food here is very chal­leng­ing taste-wise but among the least so is the skew­ered ox-pe­nis. An ox has a 2.5’

Bu­ford High­way). Bei­jing Kabobs (5090

pe­nis. Alas, you don’t get the whole thing here; just grilled chunks of junk. If you feel cheated, get an or­der of lamb balls. I re­mem­ber the Stonewall Re­bel­lion not so much from ac­tual ac­counts of it, but it did stim­u­late long-over­due re­port­ing about gay life in New York. I re­mem­ber pho­to­graphs in Life Magazine of slen­der men sip­ping cock­tails in shad­owy bars. I have no idea why, but the most mem­o­rable sen­tence from that story claimed that ho­mo­sex­ual men are ob­sessed with sneak­ers. Since I did not re­late to that, I couldn’t be gay and my girl­friend was safe. Later, of course, I heard the story of Stonewall’s Ama­zon queens. I mar­ried my girl­friend. That lasted five years. My com­ing out was largely shep­herded by drag queens in Au­gusta. (You learn a lot help­ing a queen steal ladies’ clothes from unat­tended laun­dro­mat ma­chines.) As I’ve re­counted many times my mega-gay epiphany oc­curred at Hol­ly­wood Hots. Lily White per­formed the Fly­ing Lizards’ ver­sion of “Sum­mer­time Blues.” Sud­denly, it oc­curred to me that be­ing an out­law was go­ing to in­cur in­cred­i­ble cre­ative free­dom. When I think of Stonewall, Lily White, and sneak­ers, I think first of the Gal­lus and the Sil­ver Grill, but they are dead. There are lots of gay­ish places in Mid­town, but for rev­o­lu­tion­ary style without re­gard to sex­ual ori­en­ta­tion, I have to go with

I can’t re­count the whole story here. Just know that its cui­sine is a gor­geous out­come of a bro­ken heart. We re­late, right?

Cliff Bo­s­tock

Sta­ple­house (541 Edge­wood Av­enue).

Fi­nally, 1969 was also the year of Wood­stock and the Man­son mur­ders. When I think of acid rock and blood, noth­ing ed­i­ble be­sides mush­rooms, straight peo­ple, and rare prime rib comes to mind. I still like

High­land Tap for that stuff (1026 N. High­land Av­enue).

Cliff Bo­s­tock is a for­mer psy­chother­a­pist now spe­cial­iz­ing in life coach­ing. Con­tact him at 404-518-4415 or cliff­bo­stock@gmail.com.

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