- 9:24 p.m.
Warning: classic LONG, WORDY, RAMBLING situation to follow.
Sorry, that’s just me…. Looking for sympathy for this mother f’n not-a-cold/not-the-flu/dragging my ass situation. Apparently, if I had a regular job-situation I’d be totally bummed that my ass is draggin’ on such a corporate-official 3-day weekend in honor of our troops, but since EVERYDAY feels like a holiday in honor of our troops, I’m just fine with it.
Sure, we put out our little flag (that’s little flag, not little fag) and we’re having a bunch of lezzie’s over for grillin and chillin and spillin tomorrow (mmmmm, can’t you just smell the damn veggie burgers now??? Damn veggie friends that I love more than life itself.
Of course we’ll dedicate an entire side of the grill and keep it kosher for the veggie burgers. Of course we’ll use a separate set of tongs and flippers and flipper-tongs for your items.
BUT—then we’re gonna sit you right next to the beef-eatin’/sausage munchin straight boys who love to party with us. They’ll sit there tossing back their shots of tequila and they’ll have beef/sausage juices smeared on their faces and they’ll politely ask you how your ex-girlfriend is and if her rash ever cleared up. Our straight-boy buddies LOVE hangin’ with the lezzie’s at Lakeridge. They’re just THAT cute… and we love them… and we don’t even love them because we want to harvest their sperm to make our own "girl on girl" babies. Nope. We don’t want their sperm. Just their ever-lovin/tequila-shooting/blues-listening/sausage (actual sausage) munchin’/ straight-boy selves. Pure and simple.
So.. yeah, anyway—that’s what our clichéd memorial day will be all about. Oh, that and as many short-viewings of THE JERRY LEWIS LABOR DAY MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY TELETHON that I can possibly manage (or womanage). I grew up with it, I always pledged money… and wept at the stories…. And loved the entertainment—camp value included, but with a side order of sincerity. Bottom line—it was all for the kids.
Digressing further, I must share/dump as brief a version as I can muster of something I’m calling:
“Getting my dragging/coughing ass outta my sick(ish) bed and driving with my girlfriend/same-sex partner/lady-lover/meal-ticket/driver of choice 2 hours to some suburb(ish) place to see a friends daughter in a middle school production of Bugsy Malone on the Friday evening of the Memorial Day Weekend”.
Did the title give too much away? Did it? Did I shoot my woman-load?
Don’t worry. I know I did. Here’s a Kleenex.
Friday afternoon. Me. Bed. Cough. Girlfriend/same-sex partner/lady-lover/meal-ticket/nurse of choice bringing me ZINC lozenges and WELLNESS situations and HOMOSEXUAL-a-pathic remedies of all sorts. I enjoy the attention.
Phone rings. I answer with my sexy/throaty/raspy/coughy/slightly-disturbing voice. It’s a friend. A friend with a 12-year-old-daughter who NEXT WEEK is performing in her middle school’s production of BUGSY MALONE that we promised to attend.
Me into the phone: What? What do you mean it’s tonight? (cough/weez/shit! (the exclamation, not the body function). Well I know we promised her we’d come... Of course... Of course we’ll be there (cough/weez/shit!). No problem, we’ll just leave YESTERDAY…since it will take us 24 hours to travel the 50 miles from Hollywood to Anaheim-whatever on the FRIDAY AFTERNOON of the MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND.
Yep. We’ll be there. Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little cough.
Here’s the problem. I’ve known the Mother forever. She knew me in my 20's when I was with MEN… yes, pre-lezzie. She LOVES my Girlfriend/same-sex partner/lady-lover/meal-ticket almost as much as I do. We’ve known the 12-year-old-daughter since BEFORE the mother decided to not divorce her husband, give it one more try and voila—a baby came along. That’s how long we’ve known these people. So, yeah… we had to go to the middle school’s production of BUGSY MALONE on the FRIDAY AFTERNOON of the MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND.
2. 5 hours. 2.5 hours in the Land Rover (and Rove we did). I took DAYQUIL (be gone, all you healthy-homeo-erotic-opathic remedies) and we drove. My Girlfriend/same-sex partner/lady-lover/meal-ticket/driver of choice. DID NOT COMPLAIN once.
She didn’t complain when we arrived and found ourselves surrounded by the MOST WHITE-BREAD BORING KNOTT’S LANDING/PRIVATE SCHOOL kind of suburb(ish) parents ever non-imagined…. Dressed as “gangsters” and “flappers” for the BUGSY MALONE theme. Note: We were NOT theme-dressed.
She didn’t complain when we found out that it was going to be a “dinner theater” situation, and that we would be seated at crowded table-rounds and served salads with “Italian”(ish) dressing and pasta (ish) and garlic bread (ish) and a few other food (ish) items would be served to us by very borderline sweet/spoiled little 7th and 8th grader girls who will probably never have to waitress a day-in-their-charmed-lives and the irony wasn’t lost on me and I wanted to be mean but couldn’t.
My Girlfriend/same-sex partner/lady-lover/meal-ticket/date of choice didn’t complain when we were TREATED to an opening act made up of TEACHERS dressed as “flappers” and “gangsters” singing “non-songs” about inside-jokes that we knew nothing about.
Nor did she complain when the show ran 2 hours. And that's 2 "Middle School Dinner Theater" Hours, not regular hours.
We went, we sat, we smiled, we were 2 lezzies among 350 non-lezzies.
And, in the end, when our dear, sweet little 12-year old pal, who we came all that way to see, was being held up on the shoulders of a big tall 8th grade boy, and she rose high above the rest… and all those “bugsy malone-dressed kids” sang their finale and the silly-string guns shot their loads and the confetti dropped from the ceiling…I wept. (or maybe just a result of itchy/water eyes on overload??). Then our little 12-year-old-pal came running right up to us and hugged us both with all the energy and excitement of a 12-year-old girl who just finished performing in her middle school’s production of BUGSY MALONE on the FRIDAY EVENING of the MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND. She was so excited that we had been there…. and it was all worth it.
Have a happy holiday all you gang(sters) and flappers.