Treif Chic

Sign Language for "Drunk", able-eared language for "I'm having a heart attack again. Call 911... quickly. I'm as good as dead."

Anyone who knows me knows that I am an impassioned speaker. Whether I'm speaking about a snag in my nail that ruined a sweater, or Project Runway, or the genocide in Bosnia, my eyes light up, my posture improves, and my hands perform an almost Geisha-like performance enhancing every nuance of my pointless rambling.

A couple of nights ago, my companion and I headed over to a bar in the gallery district (I think that's what that district is called) for some late night drinkies. Upon entering, the maitre d', a short, hiply-clothed effeminate black man, offered us a long wooden booth, perfect for splaying oneself and drinking the night away.

In my usual effort to befriend this guy, I joked around with him as he escorted us to our table -- about what, I don't remember. As I slid into the Flintstone-esque enclave, the host leaned in over the noise to ask me something. This is the conversation that took place:

Maitre D': Do you come in here?

Me: What? (straining to hear)

Maitre D': Do you come here with the New York Deaf Society?

Me: (humorlessly and honestly) With the who??

Maitre D': The New York Deaf Society? They come here after class sometimes... at the SVA? (Ed Note: The School for Visual Arts, seemingly the ideal place for a deaf person to go.)

Me: (Laughing) No!! Why did you think that?

Maitre D': (speaking inaudibly)

Me: Wait! (chuckling) Is it because I speak so much with my hands??

Maitre D': Yes.

Me: (cracking up)

Maitre D': Are you a Gemini?

Me: No, a Cancer.

Maitre D': Are you a Jew Cancer?

Me: Pardon?

Maitre D': A Jew Cancer?

Me: (my eyeballs begin to warm) Yes! How did you know?

Maitre D': Well, you look like a Cancer, (Ed Note: tell me about it.) but you don't act like one.

Me: (using brain) Wait, did you say Jew Cancer or June Cancer?

Maitre D': June Cancer.

Me: Oh! No, I'm not a June Cancer but I am a Jew Cancer. (Eyeballs now scalding hot, brimming with tears of laughter.)

Maitre D': Well you must have a little bit of Gemini in you somewhere. (him and his tiny ass walk away.)

I've been accused of being a lot of things. But being called deaf and a Jew Cancer? It's a miracle I was in a half-block radius of Stoli Vanilla, I'll tell you that much, friends.


How can something so adorable be so thoroughly unkosher and delicious?