Today is Monday, June 10, 2024. It’s late here, owing to Elliot and I hosting our second-floor neighbors, “Cesar” and “Burton,” for coffee, tea, wine, and dessert. The desserts I bought on Sunday at Cannelle Patisserie on 31st Avenue, in Jackson Heights. Our two guests came up at 7:30 and left close to 10 p.m.

When they gently knocked on our door a little past 7:30, we hugged and took the bag of cherries that Burton brought in and Elliot took the wine from Cesar that he brought.

We all sat in the living room and immediately got acquainted. I had only met Cesar a few times in the building, but I had not met his husband, Burton. We put out the cherries that Burton provided us and some Turkish delight that Elliot had sitting around. We also provided chopped walnuts to nimble on.

Since we didn’t know either Cesar or Burton’s background, we allowed both men to introduce themselves to us while Atticus fluttered around. For some reason, our cat didn’t go up to them as we expected, but I suspect the reason for that is maybe he sensed their cat on them. We later learned that they have a 13-year-old Norwegian Forest cat, which is a large breed, with long legs, a bushy tail, and a sturdy body. We later learned that their cat, Poofy, is about 13 pounds.

Burton spoke first, speaking about his Russian heritage. He mentioned his parents were originally from Russia and eventually settled in California. Elliot knew many of the touchstones of Burton’s youth since he mentioned neighborhoods in Los Angeles that Elliot was very familiar with. Burton admitted that he went to a religious day school at first where academics were not emphasized. Eventually, he found his way to Bennington, a private liberal arts college, in Bennington, Vermont. He majored in English literature and music, as I think I heard him say.

Cesar was a little more reserved about getting out his personal story. I believe I had to coax it out of him. When he spoke, it appeared that Burton filled in some of the gaps in his story. He did say that his family was from the Philippines and that he has various siblings, while Burton mentioned he had one older sister. Cesar’s profession is that of a computer programmer.

Elliot and I soon filled our guests in about how we met, what we did when we worked, how long we’ve lived in the building (they are living here just a few years), the particulars of our first cat, Jocelyn, my interest in literature, my comic book collecting, and so on. I had also mentioned that I joined a gay men’s reading club that piqued their interest. They seemed quite intrigued with what they heard, but who is to say this will go beyond just this one meeting? We all made our way to the kitchen table to partake of the delicious desserts I chose at Cannelle Patisserie.

It was soon time to call it a night since both worked from home, we learned. I asked them how they manage to work from home in what I thought was a one-bedroom apartment, and they corrected me by indicating they have a two-bedroom apartment. “Oh, so that explains it,” I said.

We gave some cake to Cesar to take home, since Burton was unable to eat any of the slices of cake because of some dietary prohibition. We said that they do have to come back because we gave them a plate to plop their cake on. I’m actually relieved that we didn’t have most of the cakes left. I certainly don’t need those extra calories.

The story that should definitely make the rounds of the mainstream press and probably won’t is the reporting from the Orange Turd’s campaign rally in Las Vegas, Nevada, where the temperature was a scalding 100 degrees, in which the convicted felon obviously told the truth for the first time in his life, probably, when he told his besotted crowd that he doesn’t care about them. “I just want your vote.” This shocking admission was covered in an online article for OK! by Jaclyn Roth entitled “Donald Trump Slammed After Saying He ‘Doesn’t Care’ About His Supporters as ‘He Just Wants Your Vote’: ‘For Once He Told the Truth.'”

Now we must wonder if this ex-president is truly showing signs of dementia when he bluntly told his audience “I don’t want anybody going on me. We need every voter. I don’t care about you. I just want your vote. I don’t care.”

His asshole supporters still couldn’t believe their ears when Donald Duck made this blunt admission. If anyone saw the excellent 1957 film, A Face in the Crowd which chronicles the rise and fall of a megalomaniac radio and TV personality a la Donald Trump, in the guise of a young Andy Griffith, you would remember the climatic ending: Patricia Neal stops his meteoric potential rise to the White House by leaving his mic on when he excoriates his plain simple folk adherents for being so damn stupid on network television. This promptly destroys him and his career. When the fuck is this going to happen to this ogre? I wonder with a segment of the population. This should have happened long ago, but this Orange Anti-Christ is still in the race. Shouldn’t this incident spell doom for Dump too? Have we ourselves become so stupid that we don’t recognize a true conman when we see him? Just something to ruminate over as the convicted felon faces sentencing on July 11.

Tomorrow Elliot and I will be attending an 80th-birthday celebration for our good friend “Patricia,” whom we drove with across country last May. The party is going to be held at Parkside Restaurant, in Corona, Queens. The festivities begin at 5:30, so I’m not sure if I’ll be in any shape to write my blog tomorrow night. I can’t promise you anything.

So if I’m not here, enjoy your Tuesday.

Stay safe and be well.

Here is Atticus trying to snatch a piece of matzoh from the box while lying on top of the refrigerator. I din’t know he was Jewish.