Isn't it wonderful how the Internet makes us all next-door neighbors?
That's Don Alvarado Goldfarb, who lives in Maracaibo, Venezuela.  And his
new bride is Moyra Gorowitz from Johannesburg, South Africa.  They met on
the Jewish Personals site.  This is a photo from their wedding breakfast
which they sent Spence and myself.  That's a jalopeño bagel they are sharing
with such gusto.
 

Now I don't want you to think that Spencer and I condone same sex marriages.
Any Christian knows they're against the will of the Lord.  (Yes, I 'm well aware
how those painters made Jesus look a bit whispy, but real men can be spiritual-looking,
too.)  However, an exception must be made in the case of Alfredo di Venanzo and
Berry Knapp.  They are simply wonderful fellows, and I love them both.  It appears
Berry had a home page in Geocities' West Hollywood neighborhood with a photo of himself
in his tennis shorts, and Alfredo started sending him love poems in Italian.  Well, before you
could say "Spaghetti-Os", Alfredo was flying to Los Angeles and he and Berry were having a
double-ring ceremony at a lovely place called the Pleasure Chest.  That was over a year ago.
Last month they adopted a baby and sent me this enchanting photo.  I wish them all the best.
 

The problem with Chat Boards and Romance Personals is that people don't always
tell the truth about themselves.  This happened to Dennis Sandowsky.  One night
in an Angelfire Romantic Chat Room, he struck up a correspondence with a
girl who called herself simply "Hugs".  They agreed to meet the following night
in the same chat room at the same time---then the night after that---and the
night after that---and on and on for three weeks.  "Hugs" was everything
he had ever dreamed about in a woman.  Dennis was 38.  He had never
married, for he had spent much of his life caring for his arthritic Grandmother.
   Dennis could not wait to meet her and booked plane reservations to
 Pompano Beach, Florida, where Loretta (that was her real name) lived. But the night
before Dennis was to depart, Loretta called him on the phone.  She had a
terrible confession to make.  She had lied about her age.  She did not live
in a beach condo, but rather in the retirement community of John Knox Village.
And the photograph she had sent him had been taken when she
won the Miss Cantelope contest in Sarasota in 1954.  Dennis was crestfallen.
But because he was a man of supreme responsibility, he agreed to come anyway.
After all, she seemed to get in touch with the inner Dennis more than any
woman he had ever met.  When at last he arrived at her small apartment and
Loretta opened the door, his heart skipped a beat.  Loretta was a dead
ringer for the Grandmother he had adored and cared for.  He could not
contain himself.  He wrestled her to the shag carpet and made mad, passionate
love to her.  In the process she dislocated three vertebrae.  Now they are
married, and he is caring for her just as he had his Grandmother.
And, I must add, in spite of  the age difference and the dislocated
vertebrae, they are both in seventh heaven.