Bad Fag

**This was originally posted on the Bear Mailing List on March 18th, 2004**

**WARNING -- The following post is rated "PI": Politically Incorrect. As if you couldn't tell by the title. You have been warned.**

I'll admit it. I'm a bad fag. I'm a decent homosexual, and I have been called an excellent cocksucker, but alas, I'm a bad fag. I'm not good at showtunes. My shirts don't come on a rack, they come folded 3 to a plastic bag. I wince when I hear Barbara Streisand, and I hated Martha Stewart even before she became a felon. Even my own mother wonders where she went wrong, bless her little heart.

So, when a friend of mine asked me if I wanted to go to the Indianapolis Flower and Patio Show, I gave him an incredulous look. We were eating at a buffalo wing place, and I was up to my nipples in chicken bones and spicy garlic sauce. I belched loudly in protest and said, "No thanks, not my thing." But, he told me that he didn't want to go alone, and it would be a learning experience. I've told a straight guy or two "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it", so I thought I should follow my own mantra. So, off we went to the Indiana State Fairgrounds.

After getting my ticket, I walked into the main pavilion. I saw all types of people walking around pointing at fountains, plants and other things, kinda like in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I took a moment to wonder what I had gotten myself into. Then we started strolling.

I'm not the type of guy that likes to be approached with a sales pitch. I don't even like it when Heroin Addict Carnival Barkers at the State Fair ask me if I want to with a stuffed animal for the missus. If I wanted to throw loops on a pole, I would do so with a bag of Funyuns and a couple of Viagra at home. Anyway, it wasn't long before I was approached by a guy selling German Roasted Nuts. I told him that I already had a set of my own, and walked off.

Then I ran into a southern woman named Debbie who was trying to sell me a gazebo. I thought it was a kind of bean, so I said, "No thanks, I've already eaten." At the next booth, another southern woman who was the spitting image of Bea Arthur, was selling reusable heating pads. After showing me how they worked, I told her that I was impressed. My friend walked up just as she said, "...and we have a sale, so you can get two for cheap. One for you, and one for your...friend." True, we dated in the past, but that well dried up years ago. I guess in this atmosphere, if you see two guys together, it's safe to assume they are blowing each other. Correcting her, I told her that if he wanted one, he can buy his own.

Her eyes widened at little because of her apparent mistake in her assumption. Sensing her tension, I then told her that I would go ahead and buy two, one of them being for my mother who has a bad back. This seemed to sate her, since her gaydar was still in good working order.

I was a little hungry, so I looked for a place to eat. In doing so, I noticed something odd. Apparently, there wasn't enough gay stuff to attracted your stereotypical homosexual. There were three different booths that sold fudge, which was proudly being packed fresh daily. There were two places that sold delicious nuts, and one place that proudly sold foot long hot dogs to anyone willing to plunk down 7 bucks.

After sucking down my foot long in one bite, I was a little over it. The novelty of seeing Gutter Guards, Oriental Gardens, Pooper Scoopers, and more plant bulbs you can shake a spade at was beginning to wear off. Even with all of that exposure, I still didn't get it. There were queens and old people everywhere, and they were acting like this was Utopia. To me, it was flowers, dirt, and a whole bunch of shit I couldn't afford in three lifetimes. My friend was a little over it too so we decided it was time to go. Before we left, I wanted to get some fudge on the way out. Standing there, trying to make my decision, a man approached me from behind and asked me what size shoe I wore. I turned around to see that there was a booth nearby for those shoe pads that are supposed to help get rid of back pain. Can't a man get some Bailey's Irish Cream Fudge without being attacked by these leeches??? Loudly, I said to him, "10 1/2 Wide, sir, and that doesn't just apply to my feet!" He almost knocked over a Ficus plant trying to get away. He must have been a straight guy. Pity, 'cause he was kind of cute.

Walking back to the car, I thought about my day. Did I learn anything? Nothing that involved flowers, I can tell you that much. My biggest lesson was that fudge and beer are not as tasty as you might think.

Hugz and growlz,

William
(putting the MO' SEX back in hoMOSEXual)

Red Day and the Stuffed Animal Incident

Whether we want to admit it or not, karaoke is an American staple despite it's Japanese namesake. There is something about going to a bar on a Thursday night, getting hopped up on Potato Skins and Draft Beer, and humiliating yourself in front of friends and strangers alike. There are false theories that say that Karaoke is Japanese for "Tone Deaf", but if I had any say in it, I would vote for "Gay Drunken Stupor". Anyway, my first taste of karaoke was at an amusement park, as a spectator.

Do you remember that episode of the Brady Bunch where the Brady's went to an amusement park? You know, Mike Brady gets a job building an addition for an amusement park, but his important blueprints get mixed up with Jan's Yogi Bear poster, and hilarity ensues? That was King's Island Amusement Park, located near Cincinnati, OH. At the time that episode was filmed, the park had just recently opened, but now, it has been bought by Paramount, and is now a showcase for endless movie promotions, and movie based rides to make a newborn yawn. But this isn't a critique on the park, it's a story about pride, song, and a poor defenseless stuffed animal. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Several years ago, I was at King's Island, andi t was "Red Day" at King's Island. The entire park was awash with red shirts and rainbow necklaces. Red Day was considered an "unofficial" gay day at the park, in which Gays and Lesbians wore red shirts to show their pride on the first Sunday of July. For the most part, the rest of the attendees of day were caught completely unawares, often staring in astonishment as men and women in red shirt stood showing affection to their boyfriends, girlfriends, or people they just met out in the parking lot.

At the time, the park had a Karaoke stage which had a showcase of talent from people who volunteered throughout the day. The stage was set near the base of the park's one third scale model of the Eiffel Tower, which was one of the parks oldest attractions. About an hour before the show, they would start taking names, and every hour on the dot, a new karaoke show would start and a crowd would gather.

On this day, however, the area in front of the stage had a sea of red shirts, camped out as if Woodstock was about to start. Gays, Lesbians, and Transgendered people waited to either perform, or to cheer and jeer the poor sap who got the guts to perform. There is something about karaoke that draws homosexuals like mosquitos to puddle of water.

There was an emcee, named Geri, who was perky. Very perky. Katie Couric at an Espresso Bar perky. I could picture her being the host of a cable access kids Christian TV show. I could also picture he going home to her one bedroom flat after a long day, popping a couple of Xanax and opening a bottle of Brandy. Slowly sipping, she would go into her bedroom, take out her pistol, and just sit on here bed, gun in one hand and snifter in the other. Just sitting there and debating.

Anywho, I appeared for each show on this particular day. this was several years before Reality TV hit the airwaves, so gawking at the unfortunate was considered a fresh form of alternative entertainment. I have to say, that most of the performances weren't bad, from a lesbian couple singing "Summer Nights" from the musical Grease, to a lumberjack-type bear, complete with flannel shirt and cowboy boots, singing "On My Own" from Les Miserables. Then there was the guy who decided to do Pat Benetar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." He was a husky guy wearing a baggy, hole ridden white T-shirt, cutoff shorts, and brown workout boots. He carried up a large white stuffed bear he must have won at one of the countless game kiosks scattered throught the park. Geri gave an extra perky introduction with something like, "This is Randy from Cousinluvin, Ohio!" or something like that. After setting down his toy and picking up the mike, the music began and Randy began to sing.

When he opened his mouth to sing, those who were standing near the stage instantly checked their foreheads to see if their eyebrows were still there. This guy was belting out the tune with his arms flailing, and legs kicking. He was like a cross between a lawn sprinkler shooting fire, and Rip Taylor on a bender. However, things came to a head when there was a guitar solo, and without anything to top the cartwheel he just performed, he picked up his stuffed bear, dropped it on the floor of the stage, and began to dry hump it to the music. Geri suddenly looked as though she wished she was at home with her Xanax and her endless internal struggle. The audience gasped, and then burst out with cheers and raucous laughter, myself included. In fact, if Randy hadn't stopped when he had, Geri would have exploded, and I could have had an anuerysm from laughing.

Luckily, it was the last performance of the evening, but if it hadn't been, I'm sure the following performers would have conveniently disappeared. I mean, you really can't follow up an act like that, no matter how good you are. It was dusk and the crowd dispersed, off to tell their friends who decided to wait in line for two hours to ride The Beast about what just happened. Then, while telling the story, would squeeze into the line. I, however, thought it was about time to head home. While on the way home, I thought about Geri, Randy, and the poor Plushie that was violated on stage. I pictured Geri back at home with her pills and her dilemma. I envisioned Randy out in the parking lot of the park, hooking up with some stranger in the back of his dad's cargo van. And the Plushie? Well, I'm sure it watched on as Randy and his new friend played naked Twister, grateful that the baton was passed, and it could go on just being a cuddly toy.

Just an footnote: I actually had to look up the specific details of that Brady Bunch episode, since I had only seen the episode once, and I was half asleep at the time. Just a disclaimer absolving me from the fate of being labeled as a Brady Bunch fan. This is coming from someone who plays Dungeons and Dragons and drinks Diet Rite. Proudly. I would rather attend the Republican National Convention in drag with a Pro Choice bumper sticker on my ass. *That's* how much I hate the Brady Bunch.

Thank you for your time.

White Expo

"I just think it's time we realize that racism is a two way street." This nugget of wisdom came from a friend of mine several years ago while we were eating Chinese Food here in Shelbyville, Indiana. This is a subject that I avoid altogether, and I sputtered and choked on my egg roll since this subject surprised me coming from out of nowhere. After taking a drink of soda to prevent more cabbage to go flying across the restaurant, I said, "Where did that come from?"

My friend picked a piece of pork from the bridge of his nose as he continued, "Well, look the Indiana Black Expo. I mean, come on. What if we were to have a Indiana White Expo? The shit would hit the fan then, huh?" I set down my drink, cleared my throat, and said, "We do have an Indiana White Expo."

"We do, what a Klan rally?" he said taking a drink of his soda.

"Yes," I said stabbing a piece of Sesame Chicken with my fork, "It's called the Indiana State Fair." This time, it was my turn to wipe the spray from my face as patrons from other tables stared and wondered what drugs we were on.

I have a love-hate relationship with the Indiana State Fair. Every year, I get a ticket, and push myself through the masses to find myself surrounded by both wonders and atrocities of society. The food, games, rides, and attractions at the ISF are enough to make Charlotte's Web seem downright glamourous.

There was one year when I found myself in the Farm Pavilion, which has exhibits showing the different aspects of agriculture, and how we use them in daily lives. Soybeans and corn are the main staples, complete with large bins in the center full of each so kids and adults alike can stick their arm up to the elbow with the versatile vegetables. There I was, watching as kids tryed to climb into the bins, when I noticed there was a restroom in the back. On my way, I saw a little old lady with a small booth next to the doors. As people walked in, she would stop them and spray their hands with a liquid. I needed to use the restroom, so I started on my way back there. I didn't think the old lady was doing anything odd, simply because at the Fair, people were hired to do strange things. So, on my way into the men's room, I stuck out my hands and let her spray away.

After taking a leak, I started for the door leading out to the Midway when the old lady stopped me, "Now, let's see how well you did." I had no idea what she was talking about, so when she reached for my hands, I didn't protest. From the table, she grabbed a black light, and began to scan my hands, which were now glowing fiercely. "Oh dear, you didn't take much time to wash your hands, did you?" I was supposed to wash my hands? It didn't register right away what she was talking about, and as I looked at my hands, I also saw that the crotch of my pants were glowing also. Suddenly, I remembered the spray, what it occurred to me what this was. I guess this lady was hired to show how well you wash your hands. I was busted. I just walked out of the pavilion not looking back to see if the old lady even cared. She probably didn't.

Ah, the Livestock Barn. Nothing says Indiana State Fair, like a huge barn filled with livestock, including the largest, as well as the second largest boar in the world. Both animals just lay there, it's massive bulk heaving up and down with labored breathing, which is the only sign of life there is in the poor creature. I looked around at some of the other gawkers, and notice that as far as weight went, some of these people weren't far off from the boar. I guess, to them, this was either something to aspire to, or a sign that he/she isn't as bad off as some.

The one thing about the Livestock Barn, is that traffic moves quickly. From the instant you step into this building, your eyes water with the horrid stench of animal excrement and sweat. One year, seeing the look of irritation on my face, one of the farmers said, "You get used to it after a while." There are just somethings a person shouldn't get comfortable in, and the smell of goat piss is one of them. Just my opinion.

There was one year in the Hog Barn where a couple of local yokels thought it would be funny to tie a fake bat on a rope, attach it to a pulley, and drop it in front of unsuspecting people, with myself being one of them. I swear I could hear every animal in the barn laughing softly as I stood there, screaming and running in place.

In another building, in another year, I found myself starting at this miniature house surrounded by a gaggle of looky loos and trying to get a glimpse of what's inside. I saw a sign off to the sign with a little fake clock with movable hands that said that the next show was in an hour and a half, so I made it a point to go back at the appointed time.

An hour and a half later, I was back at the miniature house, and I saw that some of the same looky loos were back, if they had ever left. I made my way to get a good glimpse of what was going on inside. Right on the hour, a nurse walked in carrying a cat. It was then I noticed that this exhibit was sponsored by the Humane Society. The next thing I knew, everyone was oohing and squirming, as a team of veteranarians can in and spayed the cat. It was all a blur, and my mind blocked most of the details out, but I can say, that like a bad car wreck, I couldn't bear to watch, but I couldn't look away. When it was over, everyone scattered discussing the details, since this was apparently the last show of the evening. I went outside to bury my disgust in a funnel cake. Oh, the things you see when you travel.

Food is the perfect example of how quickly love can turn to hate. Every year, there are new things to try, with a majority of them deep fried. This year, after eating a pork sandwich, and a ribeye sandwich, my friend Chuck and I were walking around to see what new deep fried culinary bastardization we could try. We both stopped dead in our tracks as we saw a sign in front of us that seemed to call out for all to see. Deep Fried Oreo Cookies. I clapped my hands in boyish delight and Chuck just started toward the food trailer that held our Holy Grail, as it were.

15 minutes later, Chuck and I were sitting on a bench, hating ourselves to no end. As delicious as the deep fried delights were, the human body can only hold so much deep fried goodness. I was almost too full to even make fun of the bad hair, muumuus, gawdy purses, or kids with pointed heads. Almost.

While I was searching for a place for something, anything to drink, my eyes fell upon another, smaller sign, on the other side of the walkway. Deep Fried Twinkies. Whether the tears in my eyes were of delight or dismay, I will never know. Either way, the sign called to me as if I were a sailor lost at sea, and the sign were a Siren, baiting me to crash upon the rocks. "One please." I said to the pimply girl behind the counter. Luckily, that trailer was near the exit where we were parked, and we both agreed that it was time to go.

As I said before, I have a love-hate relationship with the Indiana State Fair. I love the food, but I hate how I abuse my digestive tract in the course of a couple of hours. I love the sights, but I hate that cat spaying is considered entertainment. I love the smells, but I hate that it is often interrupted by the sharp sting of the Livestock Barn. I guess it is the best example of taking the good with the bad.