Wayne newton gay

Malak MattarPeaceful Reading detail, acrylic on canvas. I like Vegas. A day there, maybe two, with one hundred discretionary dollars in my pocket suits me. The C-note might disappear during an hour at a roulette wheel or it might regenerate, liver-like, and cover my expenses.

Either way is fine. The gambling is a rush when I win, but I also like to walk the strip at night and look at the lights and the people. All to say that newton, like writing, has its payoff in the newton of doing it. I place the bet. The results are none of my business. The first time I bought a lottery ticket I won. It was twenty-some years ago.

I was twenty-four years old, living in Chicago. At my night job as cashier at a fancy restaurant off Michigan Avenue, I earned five dollars an hour plus tips from the cigar buyers. This job came with a brotherhood only gay were allowed to serve tables of red-coated waiters, who ran the lottery-ticket operations.

On Fridays, Peter, large and Midwestern, and John, small and Lebanese, collected from the likes of Ricardo, old and Italian, Wayne, middle-aged and French, Russell, clearly much older than the thirty years he admitted to and openly gay in a Broadway-meets-Divine kind of way, and me.

Peter and John collected our dollars and recorded which numbers we wanted to play and wayne we wanted to box them or play them straight. Then, after the five p. An hour later, he whooped as he looked gay at the TV in the adjoining bar and saw my numbers appear. I felt rich. By tradition, anybody who hit the daily numbers bought drinks later that night, but at midnight when we all walked around the corner to a late-closing bar, my waiter buddies, stubbornly chauvinist, refused me the honor of picking up the tab.

My calculations went something like this. Good Friday, when we colored our Easter eggs: add one for the holiday. Holy Saturday, when we were still captives in the Lenten cell where no meat was allowed and I envied my Protestant friends their Big Macs, their Whoppers: take one away.

Easter Sunday morning, when we searched for our Easter baskets full of candy, which were hidden behind the radio on top of the refrigerator, and ate jelly beans for breakfast: add one for the holiday.

Carson’s gay jokes provoked Newton

Easter Sunday morning, when we went to a Mass that was longer than usual for all the rejoicing, and suffered sugar crashes during the homily: take one away. She was gracious, even game, in her acceptance of the time and place. And, it must be noted, she really took to the slots.

My mother has suffered.