A Zebra Walks Into a Bar...

I trot up to the watering hole and order a shot.  I need something to bring my heart, bring my mind back to life; I need something colorful. I salute the bartender—, a monkey who’s been in the circus and knows what I need before I have a chance to set my right hoof on the toe kick.  It grounds me, knowing that brass rod is stable and fixed to something sturdy. Glad that it's reliable.  

The monkey slides a shot glass my way.  I like its layers of colors—, a fitting shot, and I nay while I bring my head up.  Then, the solution hits the back of my tongue, and I make an uncharacteristically loud charging sound.  I can't help but to swing my muzzle from side to side with such voracity that any loose moisture from the shot or my saliva release and splay across the mahogany bar. Embarrassing. All of the peacocks are staring. I’ve startled them. They’ve got their tail feathers up and all spread out.

“Go on. That’s why you’re here,” the monkey encourages, and the bar keep— a llama, of course—winks with approval. 

I’m grateful to the chap, but I wouldn’t ever date a monkey.  They keep the world going—with their various services—but they’re unpredictable and only as attractive as a canvas bag.  Canvas bags are good.  I needed one in college. Function is about all you'll get.  Llamas can have ‘em. 

Wouldn’t date a llama either.  Who wants to always be waiting for them to check in and tell you what crazy ass thing they brought back from their daydreams?  It’s like dating someone on ‘shrooms. Shrooms for breakfast; shrooms for lunch; shrooms for a midnight snack.  Llamas would starve to death without monkeys.  But—, I guess we all would.

I love me some peacocks. God knows I do, but I gotta be careful. Peacocks kill me every time. 

Sveiki, Ta shiu cheet, Quechua, Zdravo, Goeiedag, Sallam, As-Salamu 'alayki, Вітаю, xin chào, Hola, Sveiki, Здравейте, Саламатсыңбы!, नमस्ते, Сәлеметсіз бе?, Habari

                                     
                                     All Around the World, Love Crumbles for Cats!

When I was a young one, and a young lesbian, there was this woman—I mean she was a real woman and not another college co-ed—who asked me out. It was going to be a real date.  We had been working together, so I was scared to go for at least two reasons.

On our second date, she brought her ex. I didn’t have one to bring because I was new at all of this and had only dated—slept with—one other female who was… let’s say 'unobtainable.' 

“Anyhoo!”

I remember exactly where we were, enjoying dinner.  I often drive by the empty, boarded-up building that will soon be a music venue off Manchaca and then glance over to where we worked together. I try to forget all of it.

To be fair, we worked at a psyche hospital, and it’s true what people say, “The staff is crazier than the patients. They're just better at hiding it.”  So, there we were—two female staffers on a date who worked on the same psyche unit—only a block from where we worked (so that anyone coming off the shift could peg us), and we were talking about what went wrong in her last relationship.

“Why did you break up?” I asked.

“She was crazy.”

“Really crazy, like in a psyche hospital crazy?” I hitched my thumb toward our stomping ground.

“No, get this—.” My date wrapped her mouth around a ball of spaghetti noodles, and then offered, “She was jealous of my cats.”

My neck cranked back like it still does 30 years later when I tell this story. (And, I tell it a lot!)  

“Who would be jealous of a cat?" I moved in with emphasis, demanding an answer from the victim. "How could someone who loves you be jealous of your cats?”  And then I sucked in my spaghetti noodles, and later we hooked up because that’s a successful lesbian date.  The exs come for dinner; they are dismissed; and, we get naked because we can’t get pregnant from...kissing.  

I knew we weren’t right for each other. To be honest, I just wanted to have the experience, and there were 2 months between semesters; also, we worked together. I wasn’t going to break up for at least two reasons or until I found someone. That’s what lesbians do.  They hook up; they get naked; and, they find a replacement so that they can keep getting naked because we’re gonna be around other girls anyways so one of them might as well be a girlfriend.

But, my date/colleague was a bit older.  She was able to visualize alone time and didn’t really have the parameters of “I’ve got nothing to do between now and Spring semester registration.” So, one day when I phoned to see if we were going to hook up, she said, “I haven’t really been at home much.”  And, “I need to hang with my cats.”  The next time she said, “I need to practice being alone… and be with my cats.” And the third time she said, “I’m not spending enough time with my cats.”

“I hate your fucking cats,” I said to myself really loud on the inside, and then I remembered the night we ate spaghetti, and how we had dismissed her ex.  “Who hates their lover’s cats?” I had thought, but there I was … being a hater.

The truth is, well you know it.  Everyone’s got someone or something; everyone’s got an excuse for not doing what’s uncomfortable. Maybe they’re avoiding a form of intimacy, a co-ed, a mundane task, etc etc.

“Who knows?”

“Whatever.”

But, I learned something during that Christmas break which was more valuable than … most other stuff I’ve learned. 

“Order your spaghetti, invite in the ex, and look for her cat—whatever name it might go by."

Right?  It’s just best to get it all out before the end of the second date. We all know what happens then.

Let’s welcome some cool cats from all around the world : Latvia, Isle of Man, Peru, Serbia, Suriname, Kuwait, Pakistan, Belarus, Vietnam, Argentina, Lithuania, Bulgaria, Kyrgystan, Nepal, Kazakhstan & Uganda

That puts 2girlsR>1 in 67+us nations after 3 years. Woo-hoo! Thanks to all my sisters with wanderlust and a desire to note our presence. WE are not invisible; we are your friends, siblings, children; we are everywhere.  Thanks for making this happen, :)

Guest Blogger: How I Wound Up Moving to the Second-Most Conservative City in America…Twice

My feelings have ADD.

I sit on the bed in the back room of my friends’ house with my two dogs, reliving the day into which I managed to pack three major life events. But because I’m a lesbian who somehow forgot how to date, this story cannot begin here.

The twists and turns of life that led me to this point resemble the wad of emotions in the bubble above a confused cartoon character’s head. Or maybe it’s my head.

I grew up on such a sheltered, isolated patch of West Texas, attending an extraordinarily conservative church three times a week that the concept of homosexuality never appeared on my radar until I was a senior in high school. This despite a childhood in which (a) I often longed for the day I would become a boy so I could live as wonderful a life as my older brother; (b) I rejoiced that my younger sibling was a girl, to whom I could bequeath the ridiculous number useless dolls I’d been given in my six short years; and (c) my mom clarified to a new friend who asked about the genders of her children by saying, “I have one of each.”

So as a freshman in college, when I first kissed a girl—for 45 “non-straight” minutes—I shook for an equal amount of time in the dorm’s community bathroom expecting either to go to hell or to get thrown out of my church-affiliated school in short order. I spent the next decade in spiritual turmoil, trying to ignore my gayness while dating my first two girlfriends.

The tactic didn’t work. I was supremely irritated at God, so we (God and I) broke up. I moved to Seattle, never went to church, and began dating a woman from southern California. Several months later she moved to Seattle, and a few years after that we moved to Illinois so I could pursue a career opportunity.

Then the unthinkable happened: at a time when I could telecommute, she landed a job in the second-most conservative city in the nation, in my home state (to which I swore I’d never return), in West Texas. The life in my heart contracted like the cracked acres of desert land in summer.

Then the unimaginable happened: I met more lesbians than I had in Seattle. I met more Democrats than I had ever known. And I met more God-loving liberals than I had let myself consider existed, primarily through a pastor, scholar, and listener named Ted.

Ted began advancing social issues at his first appointment as a Methodist minister, prodding farmers to buy shoes for their migrant workers’ children so they could attend school. Then came integrating churches, women’s rights, feeding the homeless, and the heretical idea that God might actually love gay folks just as we are. It became clear God sent me to Lubbock to meet him, for only a man of his spirit, wisdom, and intellect could convince me to consider that was true. Around Ted I felt for the first time, and thus became interested in, a God of overwhelming, unconditional love.

My partner of 11 years and I split (so amicably we should have held a clinic), in part because her time in Lubbock needed to end yet I was at the height of my professional development to that point. She returned to southern California. I should have attended a clinic on how to date. About the only thing I did right was wait a year and a half before beginning again.

It felt like I was ready. I think I was ready. I know I wanted to be ready, and this witty woman with a sultry voice reeled me in too close before I realized her overly anxious nature clashed fiercely with my overly adventurous self. At least we had not moved in together.

Too shortly thereafter, a friend introduced me to a woman who’d just had her heart broken. She was the saddest person I’d ever met, contrary to her kind, positive Facebook postings and pictures that highlighted the most radiant face, sparkling blue eyes, and vivacious spirit I’d ever seen. We started dating around Christmas. By spring I was convinced I would eventually look into those eyes and say “I do.” The evening of the longest day of the year—which happened to be the day before my birthday—she left me for a doctor. At least we had not moved in together.

After a dehydrated month, what with all of the sobbing, I reconnected with an acquaintance on Facebook. She lived in Austin. I was fed up with my town, my work situation, and myself. She possessed more confidence than my past two girlfriends combined. I liked her aura. She invited me for a visit.  I broke my two steadfast rules: never quit a job before you have another, and never, ever move in with someone before you’ve experienced four seasons with her.

We drove the literal U-Haul to her house—the very day she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Our motto of “We’re in this together” lasted several months, which puts a positive spin on the fact that it didn’t last longer. My writing business was gaining momentum, but it wasn’t supporting me yet. She encouraged me to move out as quickly as possible. The only reason I didn’t hyperventilate was my very good friends’ offer of free room in Knoxville. They no doubt would have thrown in a good bit of board as well. I love my friends. I love the beauty of Knoxville. We could have biked and hiked and skied and splashed in the pool.

But it didn’t feel right. It just didn’t seem like I was finished in Austin yet. I needed to ride it out alone instead of run to safety.

So I moved into an apartment. I found a great church. I walked miles each day with the dogs, exploring various trails, creeks, and woods. Business picked up just enough to pay for my miserly existence. But I was withering emotionally because I could not gain a foothold on the social scene, primarily because subconsciously I had sequestered myself in fear of yet another hasty relationship. The emotional and financial trauma was taking its toll.

And then Ted began to die of bone cancer.

To explain his impact on me (and others) would require a book—which I am working on. Suffice it to say it cannot be overstated. So I spent most of Thanksgiving to New Years in Lubbock, attending his last church services at the retirement home where he taught (calling it preaching doesn’t do his Biblically contextual, historical, and practical messages justice). I followed him around town to speaking appearances, holiday parties, and his listening room like a puppy dog follows its human when they haven’t seen it in too long and want to make sure the separation never happens again.

But I knew that it would. Ted was already a hospice out-patient, which meant within a few months he would be listening to Jesus and asking him how he felt in the tabernacle and in his dad’s workshop and in the garden when his best buddies fell asleep during his supreme distress.

I spent so much time in Lubbock, simultaneously grieving and reconnecting, that those liberal, God-loving folks began asking if I had or was considering moving back. The notion resided so deeply hidden from my realm of possibility that not until the fifth asking did the question wallop my head like a 2x4 and loose the idea. Just as the universe slotted every gear perfectly for me to move to Austin in record time, it began the reversal process.

Six weeks later, here I sit, reflecting on this day in which I moved back to Lubbock, attended Ted’s service, and spoke at a fundraising event for my new job. I am pondering the marvel of life; of learning lessons; of growing; of experiencing different perspectives.

And of the magical, mysterious, and maddening timing of it all. I don’t know if it’s irony, or coincidence, or what, but:

• Ted’s life brought me to Lubbock the first time. His death brought me back. I am both sad he is gone and supremely grateful for the nine years I learned about love from him.
• My new (professionally a stretch) role at a breast cancer organization would not have been possible without going through the trauma that led me to, and that which occurred in, Austin. I am appreciative for both the opportunity and the relatively quick discovery about the purpose of the trauma.
• Unbeknownst to either of us until the deals were done, I will move my belongings back to Lubbock in the very same month as my ex with whom I first moved here. I am simply shaking my head in amusement, with nary a cell in my body interested in getting back together.
• The week before I began the interview process in Lubbock, I met a “woman of interest” in Austin to whom mutual friends had been trying to introduce me for six months. I am sad, thankful, confused, curious, disheartened, and yet, against the odds, feeling a glimmer of optimism that is most likely optimistic.

But, I have gotten to where I am today—and it is one of the most solid places, metaphorically, I’ve ever been—by being optimistic, by embracing all that life offers, by seizing opportunities, by being unapologetically goofy. So I will continue to do so while at the same time practicing the concepts of taking life one day at a time and trusting myself.

If this blog survives the stringent editorial review, perhaps I will share more someday.

-Zoe Tucker

I Want Someone Who Will Wrestle a Pit Bull

I woke up sick and tired.  I mean, it's flu season and not Summer sales season.  I need to get healthy and wealthy!

After the sun hit the winter horizon, I met a friend for a movie.  Many of Austin's theaters have limited seating to make extra space for food runners who bring--not just popcorn and junior mints--but pizzas, burgers and pints of beer, so they're not exactly stadium sized.  It's a great concept but you have to reserve seats days in advance. She took the initiative and bought mine.

Like many groovy things in Austin, you learn to avoid the crowds and swim against the traffic.  So, we opted to meet on a school night. There's a bistro connected to the theater so we arranged to arrive early and meet there. She'd already ordered an appetizer and gestured toward the second half of it. I'd been rushing all day and needed to take flu medicine-- so I grabbed a few of her pita triangles and shoved them in.  Of course--in my rush from the day--I forgot to grab my wallet, and so I slid into the table, pushed a few bites of her order toward my throat and said, "I'll have to treat next time."  I have no cash.

My friend--let's call her Scooter Springs--made a sweeping gestures as if to say, "I was done" or "it's yours now that I see that you are dying of bubonic plague."  With sustenance in my belly, and a glass of water that the waitress had brought to her, I popped some delinquent cold medicine and then relaxed for a first time all day.

Scooter Springs waited and watched, and then she opted to start.

"How's business?"
"It's ok."

This question is fair game in any scenario even if you work in a cube and don't have to worry about sales.  But, it has become such a common question that I'm beginning to wonder if people are talking about my lack of business when I'm not present.  Paranoia is setting in.  I've started to notice lasting stares where friends look for twitches or tics that can verify their fears of my financial crisis.  (What will help you understand the un-comforts behind this particular, reoccurring exchange is that there's nothing the inquisitor can do about the lack of housing in Austin and there's nothing I can do unless I pick up a hammer and start building (shantys)-- so, I'm generally brief each time the question is posed.)

"It's tough with no housing inventory."  And then I return the courtesy, "How's business with you?"

Scooter Springs wouldn't accept that explanation or my nonchalance. She isn't a close friend, but I respect her insight. It was ok that she took some liberties. So, I got a soft parental lecture about the value of a real job, a "9-to-5."

To her defense, she's one of many rationalists in my life. They've probably all gotten together on some common astral plane and decided that they can't worry about me another single stinking minute. I need to get my shizzizzle together for the good of all humanity.

"I can see her point," I yielded the floor to hear her position. "I could be saying the very same thing to someone".  I imagined me sitting on the other side of me.  "If I had a pot of gold coins, I'd have them all accounted for. And, I'd be worried that one might slip out, roll across the floor, slide in an unknown crack, and forever be lost."  I thought these things while I tried to hear her point. Then, I remembered that I'd left a pit bull in my garage and wondered if its jaws could take a side out of the washer like Jaws did with that boat.  This visual disrupted me enough to realize that she was still explaining the rules of the game when my flu symptoms tipped the scales of justice and my emotions shouted, "What-the-what?!"  I guess she's saying that if I'd get my life together, people could feel better about me. Themselves. Our friendship.

Enough said?  Not yet.  What got my attention came with the second half of the soldier up sermon.  "You're not going to have a relationship until you've got a reliable flow of money."  Maybe these words shouldn't be in quotes, but that's what I heard her say.

"Wow!" echoed against the chambers of my mind until I was rescued by thoughts of:

* all the people I've met who are happy despite their lack of money
* all the people who have everything and complain all day long about nothing

* all the people who are happy despite a surplus of money

So, I shared a story with Scooter Springs.

"There are alot of people who have all of the outside things in place but the inside is craaazy."
"True," she said.
"Because my life has been in flux for so long, I always know where my anchors are."  I looked up and opened my palm, and then I pointed to my chest. "I want someone who isn't looking for more trophies on the outside than on the in."

What Kind of Love Tube has Handles, Anyways?

Hold on to your breath— I have news… I met a girl and we weren’t (I repeat, we WERE NOT) in a vodka pool.  Hooray!  She is smart, has a healthy balance, and I really like the way her hips gently move to the beat of music that’s being piped in.  We’re not even gonna go into my jealousy for that clingy turtle neck that got 1:1 privileges throughout the evening.

“Wow!”

That and more are some of the machinations running through my head while I was gulping for air and watching her make dinner last night. Of course, the (polite) introvert in me can’t find a way to enunciate those feelings because I grew up in the South where girls don’t say things like that out loud to people they hardly know.  So, I’ve got to work on communicating more concretely*… if we make it to the point where those kinds of thoughts are welcome on the outside.  Right now, we’re interviewing each other for adaptable-enough characteristics, checking for fleas, and offering reading material to address all the layers of life: head, heart, & soul. 

I’ve been knowing since I left Louisiana that I need to keep my expectations in check if I meet someone to date, and so I’m using the adage from Terms of Endearment when Debra Winger was dying from cancer and her mom, Shirley McClain, was banging on the nurse's station.  As the doctor said to her, I'm saying to myself, "Hope for the best and prepare for the worst."  But, this is just love, not cancer, right?  This relationship will either:

   >  get to the next phase

   >  land in the friend zone, and we will wave to each other from opposite ends of the same lesbian gathering on some distant day**

I mean, it’s so easy in an all-girl community to just keep being girl…friends.  In fact, the perks can be better.  You get a ton of “extracurricular” honesty that a girlfriend rarely discovers (until after the breakup).  And, there never has to be a breakup.  Looking at the event from this perspective, friendship can be the marathon while swapping intimate energy is merely a sprint.

And, at my age, how do I know I need someone enough to let them in?   When you’re young, there’s that K.D. Lang effect—constant craving.  But when older, you enter into a relationship knowing that those feelings start out innocent and then seduce you into a vacuum where you lose track of all that you are and can be, bartering your last capsules of hope for one more day of love heroin.  Once that source of euphoric power moves into your heart &/or bedroom, you’re sliding against the wet slippery sides of an imprisoning tube where benevolent beings didn’t install handles and there doesn’t seem to be an exit portal until one or the other does something so blatantly unethical or immoral that there’s a U.S. Postal Address Change Form taped to a suit case at the front door step.  Yikes!

 How does everything start out so awesome and end up so not?  Is there another way to do this thing called love?  So, I think about that love tube without handles and I wonder why the Goddess would create such a powerful experience but not create safeguards.  Doesn’t she love us enough to help us avoid unnecessary heartaches?  Then, an idea boomerangs toward me.   If we were able to stop at each good feeling and analyze it, it seems that the experience would no longer be good or a feeling but merely a one-dimensional thought.  Maybe the Goddess wants the mind to think and the heart to feel, and for both of them to make things work within the same experiences—without safeguards or advantages, one over the other.   

*Note:    Thank you Dim Sum for this morning's conversation, "How an abstract person can keep an concrete person's interest."

**Note:  Unlike most multiple choice tests, the longest answer is not necessarily the correct one

Let's Not Talk About It

We need to talk about it.  I've shied from the topic, but there's a threshold that each of us, ladies and drag-queen fakers, will cross.  That's when we will cry like banshees—releasing our pain into vacuous winds.
I want to be clear that I haven’t seen 'it.'  But--, it is throb, throb, throbbing on my horizon like a neon sign in a border town, short'd-out.  Everyone knows that I'm moving toward it.  This moment of matriculation waits, sandwiched and dormant between my smile scars.
Younger friends don't linger as long as they used to. That prompts me to fear that 'it' is obvious. So, I'm not sure what to do or how to dismiss or contain the anx that my young friends have for me... and for themselves (eventually).  'It' is a hateful thing, it is.  And, it will have me.

I'd only been back to Austin a few weeks when a strange guy from Cuba (literally off the plane from Miami, and then coming from a free night's stay with Austin's finest officers) said at the bar, in the boy's bar, “What was it like?” I knew exactly what he meant.  “I haven’t crossed that threshold, yet—thank you very much!”  And then his boyfriends distracted this country’s visitor with a sugary shot of something fruity that he didn't need (more of). 

         Since I know that I’m headed to the other side of Promise Land—, I’m not sure what I think I can do about it.  Did I ever, in the course of the last 30 years, receive a courtesy call on the 27th day?

         "Hell no!" 

         And, it’s not like I get to check a box:

⃝ go

⃝ NO GO!

…somewhere, and send my mandate to the Comptroller of my biological ecological order. If I'd ever had such an option--, it got lost in the mail that was forwarding from Baton Rouge.  Anyhoo, it's probably too late because I’ve begun to glisten.  (NOTE: I said ‘glisten’, not break out in hot hives.) 

         I can always date someone who might show me how to get through it.  She can reassure me of life on the other side. 

        “I’ve always dated women a bit older than me—two weeks, four years, and eight years older,” I tell myself.  “And it’s not like it slowed any of the other, older, women in my life.” 

        But, I feel like a vampire with a heightened sense.  Their blood flow has a different rhythm—I can feel it ooze, trudging uphill as if it doesn't have enough iron to get all the way up to the heart and freshen their systems.  Healthy bloodflow is like those pantyliner commercials where butterflies dip down to dance on sundropped hillsides. 

        “Why does the voice change?” I ask my mom.

        “I don’t know,” she says politely.

        She’s been a nurse for 30 years.  She knows. So, I present my question another way.
       “It’s not like my ears can detect that extra bit of bass in real life. But, there's a difference when we're on the phone.”

       “I don’t know,” mom repeats.

       She’s known me long enough.  It's not safe to follow some of my thoughts into the tunnel of despair.  She sits quietly until some other random stimulus interrupts our car ride and brings us to the junction of ice cream or margaritas or something yummy.  

To Have and to Hold Love

“How long?”

I raise an eyebrow like Mimi taught me.  It adds a slant to my pirate eye, complimenting my grin. It's my most readily available weapon.

“Hey there, I ask about you. That's my job. I'm you're friend."

I reply with a shrug, and I look passed feeble oaks with naked limbs.  “Three; it's been three. You know that.”

“Well, you look like a ghoul or something.  Besides, don't act bothered that I ask—, about you.”

I get up. The water is boiling or it's about to, and she is pricking anticipations that were pounding before I pushed the door bell button.

“I’m sorry—, but you're carrying so much dead weight. You need…” I hear her walk toward me in the kitchen nook.  "This isn’t healthy.”

My throat is full with something dry and heavy. I push out words while I hear her too close behind me. But, it's not unhealthy.”  I press her sternum, looking for a button so I can breathe, get space. I don’t look up. “We’re just too different.”

She finds enough of the pot handle to steer it.  The glass body drops and three microscopic bubbles sear my hand. She guides my other one with a loose lead, and I follow the folds of her cotton hoody. 

“I’m just going to take this off.”

I hold my breath. I hold the top buttons.

“No?” She looks up and cups the side of my face. “Ok, I’ll take these off.” She laughs that Joker laugh of soft glee while the five steel nubs pop in series, and then I’m standing with my flaky-white skin exposed in her intimate room with all the others who have been with her.  Here. 

She raises my hips to the top of her mattress, and I stretch out of my coat.  She opens every other inch while she talks of the first time I made her laugh, of that food fight that took us years to clean, of that weekend at the beach with her crazy ex, of that week in a cabin with mine, and of her love for me. 

“I love that we can share this love.” 

She presses, pulling the top sheet over us.

...but You Can Still Kiss Your Girlfriend at the Hippie Bizarre!

If there is some intelligent entity governing my life, I imagine that she is quite pleased with the timeliness of this personal project wrap-up.  Two years to the same weekend that #3 officially consummated her affair with ‘Diapers,’ the house closed.  So, this is full circle in linear time. 

Back then, I had been in Austin for the week, seeing old friends and checking out bands at The Armadillo Bazaar.  The plan was to hang and get grounded after a whirlwind of multi-state moves.  So, I’m standing there, listening to a familiar singer and I think, “I’ve got to find a way to get home (but we just bought a new one).”  I don’t know how I'll do it; #3 won’t ever agree to it.  So, I follow Bestie to the line for a lunchtime pint and decide that I will adult-up before the trek home. 

In less than 48 hours, the break-up email would come. I would be in IKEA, reading a list of measurements for new blinds for the new office in our new home, when hemorrhoids that I didn’t even know I had would drop and begin to implode inside. “Something is terribly wrong,” I would tell myself. And there on a public toilet, I would try to avoid the pain, playing with my smart phone that would effortlessly relay a crafted email.

“Stay with friends. I won’t be here when you get back,” #3 promised.

So, you can see—for the sake of closing this personal perseverance project—I must go to The Armadillo this year. I must stand where I stood two years ago when I knew that I needed—but didn’t yet know why I needed—to come home so that my feet might be anchored when the thundering effects of Fate’s synchronicity comes around the bend and knocks me in the chest.  “NOW,” It will command.  Through this ritual, I can really, truly know that everything will begin in the land of soy and honey.

This performer, Terri Hendrix, was the last band I saw before #2 and I packed a U-haul for Tallahassee.  On a Sunday afternoon, 2 dozen girl-girl dance partners scooted across the floor—with about a hundred straight people—in the oldest dance hall in Texas.  We got there first and got to drinkin’ first, and so we set the tone.

“The lesbians will be having fun today.  We won’t be sitting on the wayside and watching other people with the good legs God gave ‘em scoot on by.  Everyone will just need to grow up,” we declared by feeling and doing what straight people take for granted while they aimlessly exhaust about the earth. It was one of the last impressions I had of Texas and I took it with me on my many moves, silently self-professing that my love could dance if gays (and exhausting breeders) could get over themselves and grow up.

This adorable and talented Ms. Hendrix is the performer I watched when I had my epiphany at The Armadillo two years ago.  http://www.terrihendrix.com/music/  Clearly, Fate is telling me that she should be gay.  I should tell her.  I think I will, and we can live happily ever after.

“Why don’t you write a blog?” Dim Sum had phoned during the Hendrix show. I got back to her after I caught Anchorman2, a pint and a gourmet pretzel at the Alamo Drafthouse.

“I’m just taking in all of the pictures—sensory data is colliding.  Nothing connects enough to build a rhythm, to make a story.”

“Write about that. It seems to help.”

“I know—but the blog is supposed to be about lesbian dating, and I’m not doing, or watching, any of it.”

“Why does it have to be about that?”

“I don’t want to be a bore!”  But, I’m thinking and not admitting out loud, “I’ve spent the past five days walking around with Dicken’s ghost of Christmas Past. He won’t shut up about how stupid I was with #2.  God, there’s so much material.”

I glance over at two grass baskets that I bought for my house host, Betts.  She wants to put roots in them—potatoes and onions.  They are identical to two baskets that I toss’d during the move a mere three weeks ago.  I glance over.  They’re just on my front seat, rolling about with a bunch of other stuff I’d picked up throughout the weekend—not in bags with the store names on them.

“Wow! Walmart is already out of bags,” I had said when Betts and I were buying Christmas. The clerk was stacking our purchases on the turnstile that had empty arms for bags.

“No. We’re in Austin.”

“Hh?”

“No plastic bags anywhere in the city limits.”

(I remember when I shopped at the very first Whole Foods.  It was an old inner city store. You could roll an orange down the length of it, and the employees weren’t required to bathe if they didn’t have a rental agreement or know anyone who had a shower.  I always said, ‘There must be a required amount of THC in the bloodstream to work here.’ But, one guy shared an adage that I pocketed and shared in Tallahassee, ATL, OC, Roll Tide Land, and Cajun Country.  He looked up from an induced haze, retracted the plastic bag and refused to give my granola and OJ a co-habitating home, ‘Save the earth [man].’  Clearly, he was a prophet. But, this dictating of blind authority and refusing bags for others to choose or not to choose to save the earth reeks of communism and conservative controls.) “This measure is extreme even for the hippies.”

It’s always weird to start over, beginning again in a new city.  But, this is my city. And, I get lost every time I try to find once-familiar entrances to parking lots and theaters… or highways because there is this super toll road that is in the way of everything, and it is always empty. 

“Wow! Did anyone ask the hippies if they would pay to use this monstrosity?  Wait, are there any more hippies in Austin? Who the hell is running this joint if they aren’t?”

On the phone with Bestie—who was apologizing that I drove 37 miles to see a show on a Sunday afternoon and couldn’t find parking—said, with exasperation, that she and hubby got there 45 minutes early.

“We barely got a seat.” 

“I know. I have to get used to this pace. I remember what it was like—always leave 30 minutes early and expect at least one wreck along the way.  It’s just that it’s ‘break.’  I thought with the kids being gone (UT/St. Ed/ACC students) things would be a bit slower.”

“Yeah, not really. Austin is different.  You don’t really notice if the students (70,000+ of them!) are here or not.”

I stop to think about those 110 degree summers that were bearable because (at least) there is room for the wind to blow and for a spirit to breathe, and then I wonder deep inside—where authentic wonder and hemorrhoid pain comes from—, “Did anyone ask the hippies if this is what they wanted?” 

No More Voo-doo Until I Find My Mojo

I do love Voo-Doo. I wish there was some where I work so I could dash in for a quick one at lunch break. But, I have to think of reasons to not eat here.

I've got this ritual, covering the tops of saltines with burnt orange love sauce and then counting drips that fall from holes before the whole ka-bang is in my mouth.

"I need extra sauce," a take-out patron demands with heroine-addiction impetus.
"Oh yeah--you do!" I applaud in my mind but not out loud (because my mouth is full with a poor-man's appetizer.)

Besides, we patrons need to stick together, keep it quiet. No one here wants management to know how bad we need their spicy cane juice. They'll start charging to leave the bottle at the table.

Voo-Doo definitely has the best BBQ in my neighborhood--probably in the whole city. I came here after I lost a court case that my ex left me to fight. I came here after the master bedroom flooded. I came here immediately after...

I'll definitely need me some Voo-doo at the next stop.

"Wherever that might be".

Oh, I know! I told you I was going to Austin, but:

• the kids gotta eat 
• the job that i hated became my life-jacket
• life is wherever I breathe
• even if i'm single for the rest of my life
• because i could still be alone in Austin
• and, i have to start over
• and, i have to find a job
• and, i have kids to feed

Tonight, I don't have to make sense of it. I just need to eat my yummy 'Mardi Gras with smoked turkey, dried berries, diced mango, and hold the stinky-sock-goat-cheese salad', please. Tonight, I play in the yummy blackberry vinaigrette, drizzling non-sensical circles.

"I don't know how these crazy Cajuns haven't figure out how to batter this shi-zizzle, deep fry it, and cover it with more sauce."
"This $4*t is serious!"

I can't ever decide which one is best. I pick blind and then get too committed to remember THERE ARE OTHER OPTIONS. By then, I'm half crazed in a way that I haven't felt since the last time I was in Voo-doo. I look at the spice rack that has holes for other choices and reach out. I don't care which one. I just need to feed this force.

"I could easily stay with this one for the rest of my meal."

I've already covered all of my saltines with one of the two when I realize I'm halfway through my pallet refreshing pint, but I haven't tasted the third sauce. I hold its label to the light, savoring the last act.

"'Mojo'! Why did I ever go for the 'Tangy' or 'Traditional' first?"

And then--after two years of involuntary celibacy-,-this entire conversation resembles a dating pattern.

"God--I soooooooo need a girlfriend!"

Tools (only) My Heart Has

          My heart has already

          gone to Austin, and I

          fear that my mind

          doesn’t’ have the tools

          to lure it east of the

          Lone Star state line.

I got notice yesterday that we’re—finally—closing on the house next month. So, I text'd these thoughts to DimSum after a night of not sleeping. 

Tonight, I’m on a business trip with Love Heroine and some others I rarely travel with. We’re playing darts in a pub. I’m up against New Guy. I aim for ‘20’ but hit ‘4’.

“I’m going home,” I think of the lights that shine on the state capitol at Congress Avenue. 

In rapid succession, I think of five friends who will be less than 10 miles away from wherever I live. I think of homemade tortillas and Town Lake. My whole body shivers with excitement, and I’m glad that I have this wonderful secret.

“It’s time.”

New guy makes up crazy ways to throw the darts, and I think of soon-to-be Saturday nights in Austin. For New Year’s, I’ll be dancing in a room that’s sticky and smelly with not-so-straight-people. My heart races at the thought that the girl in a blue dress could be in the same spot at Oil Can Harry’s. I aim for ‘19’ but it bounces and the point sticks in the floor.

“I’m going home!”

The text to DimSum caused me to think of unknowns that come with moving to this ridiculously popular city. Sure, I have friends there, but I don’t have a job or place to live with my 3 pets. I have savings; but, will it last? Then, tears release anx when I feel truth knot up in my throat.

“At least I finally know where I need to be.”

It won’t be Florida—not Georgia, not Alabama, not Louisiana, not California. I’ve been on an incredible adventure this past decade, but it’s not easy to be a stranger in the South when you’re gay. My heart hurts for familiar faces that calibrate my soul.

“I’ll be home for the Armadillo Bazaar, SxSW, and Pride. Ahhhh, Hippie Hollow!"

It’s been 11 years.  #2—who I don’t write about but was the best thing that ever happened to my relentless frame filled with too much wanderlust—taught me about unconditional love and about making a home feel inviting. But, the world was my oyster; I needed adventure. So, we moved to Florida and then Georgia.  Whatever I was looking for wasn’t in Atlanta—with her—, so I followed #3 to California, to Alabama, to Louisiana where she would leave me for a 27-year old. (Not that there’s anything wrong with marrying someone who was in diapers the summer you left for college).

It’s all good; I’m better for the toils and troubles that come with this many moves and mysteries. I finally appreciate simple breaths and beliefs from random beings. I never took the time for strangers until I was one. 

“I’m going home.”

Tossing darts with my eyes not looking toward the bull’s eye, I'm thinking about how good it will feel to play darts at Gingerman on a Sunday afternoon with a pint of St. Arnold Brown in my bellly. And, I’m thinking about outdoor concerts at Bestie’s and Bestie Jr’s. I can feel the summer Texas heat rise through my thighs, and it makes me shiver.

A few months ago, I interviewed for a job with a great company that could give me a good job title. I can stay ‘there’ for the rest of my adult career, my life.

“Maybe they’ll call back before I pack everything?”

This crazed-hope scares me. It would mean life in a small city-town. I think of that last weekend in Austin, having breakfast with Wingman the morning after Pride, and thinking of all of the people who were celebrating their life in public. There were thousands. And, I am remembering the feeling I had, hoping to touch the hips of the girl in the blue dress.

Last weekend, trying to stay positive—so that I can put food on the table for Sweet Georgia Brown, Cali Surfer Girl, and Puff the Magic Dragonslayer—, I got a voyeur’s license for Cupid.com. I searched within 100 miles of that city-town. Not one lesbian seeks companionship.

“Can a place like that ever be home?” 

I think about living with a lover there and know that I’ll be half living. We won’t be out; I’ll for forever be introduced as her friend. Yuck.  Even if I never find another lover in Austin, I’ll be 3-D. There, lovers hold hands in broad day light.

“Imagine.”

“Everyone should live this life wherever they are.”

Kumbaya & Cowabunga!

There’s a crazed muse in me.  She has erratic but invigorating energy that lifts when it flows.  She’s responsible for most of the 2girlsR> posts, but my day reality has been so heavy that she can’t get in and lift the muck or find room to dance. That’s why I haven’t been writing; it’s not fair to drag you through it.  Also, there are no lesbians in Baton Rouge.  

I’m in Austin for a much needed R&R and PRIDE.  Things, they are a changin’.  In the mile long parade, the majority of floats and participants come from local churches. The not-haters are carrying signs. 

“We welcome you.”  

“God has a rainbow covenant.” 

Ahhhhhhh, Christians are embracing Christ’s spirit, and the proportion of haters:lovers is upsetting the status quo.  All of this kumbaya is wonderful and great but I need to find a lovely in my size and temperament.  

So, I look toward the end of the parade to be sure I can beat these 1,000+ partiers into Oil Can Harry’s. I go to order a tall and refreshing beverage, and it’s already packed. Temperatures are high and bodies are reeking.  I push and press toward the back patio where my wingman is making friends. She points to a pack of youngin's.

“I asked that girl if I could buy her a drink.”

“What happened?”

“I turned around and she took off with her beer, and mine.”

“Crap!”

Next to them is a lovely in a blue dress.  She looks like some(gay)one I used to admire from afar.  With the doubIe-whammy of familiarity and interest, I can’t help but to stare.  But, in a place like this on a night like this, staring at someone screams, “Horny stalker.” 

I’m too shy for this nonsense. I grab Wingman and we head to the dance floor.  After a beat and a bounce, I know I’ve made a mistake. I need to go back and utter non-sequitors. I jump off the stage and bump into a straight girl who wants to mock grind, I bob and weave to race down the half stairs.

Blue is gone.  Her friends are gone. There’s no trace that they were ever there, and it’s only been the length of half a song.

“Is there a chance she was treading water in this sea for the past hour because she was waiting for me?”

“Crap!”

“She’s just what I want; she’s just what I need.”

After ~2 years without someone significant, I do need someone.  Plus, I’m getting old. If I’m ever going to be intimate with someone before I get wrinkled, it needs to happen soon.  I need for the last special someone to have a “when you were still attractive” memory before we get old and grey and too broken to get it up—our ‘love energy’ that is.

The woman in blue haunted me through the night. By the bewitching hour, I gave up and walked back to the hotel alone, crossing the bridge along Congress in the night sky’s light.  

“Alone.” 

I’d already dreamed of Blue a few times when Wingman rolled into the other bed.  This morning, I’m wondering if Blue will be at the breakfast buffet, reaching for her custom egg white veggie omelet.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I could say. Sure—I can find the words, now.

I imagine us exchanging digits in a hurried craze because we only have an hour to seal our love and eat our complimentary meals before the coffee kicks in and carries us to our disparate realities. I would reach for the sugar, or the salsa, before I remember that I hate long distance relationships.  But, I would promise to try…for the sake of love.

Hell.  There’s too much going on in my life to insert someone now.  With all I’ve been through, the tsunami has merely reached its crest, and it will fall before 60 more days if we don’t sell this house.  For the sake of love, I couldn’t involve someone in that muck.

“I can be strong as long as someone doesn’t tell me it’s okay to be weak,” I tell Wingman during breakfast. 

This sentiment brings a tear to both of our eyes because we’ve been friends since we were teens. I know it hurts to think of all that I’ve been through and there’s nothing she can do; plus, we’re both really hung over and emotions are way too convenient after 12 straight hours of drinking and then a night of dream dancing with a girl in blue suede shoes.

I need to paddle toward the tsunami and hope that I can shoot through the tube. I’ll be a better lover when my feet hit the shore. 

“Peace out, the surf's up!"

Guest Blogger #4: Merit for Marit's Sake

This entry was connected to a comment. But, it is a story in and of itself, ") :

I have an issue. I don't like to write in black and white. I certainly don't see the world in that way at all. Not to say grey, but; "Live in living COLOR."

But as it took me as long to type in this whole longggg address, I may as well make the most of it;-)

I pondered as I was nursing looming tendonitis from keyboarding the previously mentioned address; Is this rather cute woman I've been sending often rambling, lacking any sense of order sending me on a wild goose chase, just to send me to the land of "yer weird & bugger off?" I'm glad that isn't the case... yet.

I smoke like a flipping chimney out of Mary Poppins. She was kind of a prudish nanny and supercalifagilisticxbalocous aside, Miss. Poppins would have a heck of a time getting me off the ceiling. Weeee, flight from laughing too much!

Ah, yes, my smoking. true it is smelly habit. I started only five years ago, in Baton Rouge to be exact. Somebody said 90% of models smoke for weight control. Boom! I found me the nearest7/11 and bought Malboro's because that was only cigarette I knew the name of. Better for the waist line than bags of Bit-o-Honey's.

I will quit, someday. I will just wake up one morning and be done with them. That day has yet to arrive. Smokers are now quite a sub culture. 

We are banished to the outside nearly everywhere & when it is -15 degrees outside ya tend to band together.

Normal. You mentioned normality as being individualized, so true Grasshopper. Getting older, 'tis good to embrace ones individuality. FFolks, either like me or more often tThan not, after the polite niceities (so no how to spell that) people either think i'm a hoot or a glaze comes over their eyes as they look for a quick exit. I happen to like being quirky and wow, what I wouldn't do to to meet a woman who also isn't afraid to jump in puddles and are willing to not only take a risk on occaision, but to stop dead in their tracks because there is a field of daisies. Slow down enough to appriciate the beauty that surrounds us.

My dinner is ready. Loaded potatoe sticks and warm cookies. Yeah, that's the way to stay healthy ;-O

Goodbye and good luck i'd now like to sign, from the cheerleading squad of Edison High!   - Marit

The Truly Revolutionary Promise of Our Founding Sinners

This book, Skipping Toward Gomorrah, has been on my night stand for about 2 weeks. It looks lonely.  Maybe I should sprinkle salt on it? I’m sure that would cause the raising of an eyebrow for conservatives who are fingering through my personal items while pretending to want to buy my home.  It would be the first whammy!, coupled with the Hindu-Buddhist-Muslim-Goddess-Christian altar that is in the bonus room immediately above the master.  Near it is a framed pastel of my guardian angel and a 4 foot oil of the prophet Isaiah. Otherwise, I’m sure my realtor would have instructed me to put the silliness away (so that I don't offend) for the sake of a sell.

I’ll need to return the book, so I thought I would skip church and read a few chapters.  Within the first, I’m uneasy and don’t know why.  I like that the author, Dan Savage, is pounding the social conservatives, and I kind of like the tongue-in-cheek angle that he’s taking.  (And, I liked him and the things he said in his NPR interview: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=186926890). But then, he summarizes with a sentence:

There are millions of ethical, fully moral sinners in America, and I’ve grown sick of listening to the right wing bitch and moan about them while the left wing refuses to defend them.

Again, I'm surrounded with my own agreements.  I like that he differentiates between ethics and morals.  Theses words are different but are often used interchangeably in debates. The slight-of-hand switch allows scold mongers to skew the conversation just enough that you're no longer talking about what you were talking about. Savage calls out this tactic:

        By successfully framing the debate as virtue versus sin, and not the laws versus your freedoms,
       the virtuecrats have succeeded in silencing their political foes...

And, I like that he calls out the left for not defending the American/God-given right to pursue peculiar happinesses. But, I know why I’m gradually letting my fingers loosen from the box car on his runaway train. It's the word ‘sinner.’ Up to this point, this author defends the right of (American) humans to pursue happiness, but then he acquiesces to the enemy’s position that homosexuals and other happiness-seekers are sinners.  What happened during the 8-10 pages of defending the right to follow one's own pleasure principle?

I look back to the opening sentences:

The truly revolutionary promise of our nation’s founding document is the freedom to pursue happiness-with-a-capital-H. Unfortunately, this promise is considered problematic by some Americans. The very pursuits that make some Americans happy (some very happy indeed) are considered downright sinful by social conservatives.

The opening position seems to contradict the concluding one. Did Mr. Savage convince himself that the “moral scolders” were right, or did he always secretly accept that homosexual interactions are sinful? If my guy is in flux, I don’t want to depend on the fire-spitting protestors who stood at the doors of the casino (where the Baton Rouge PRIDE event occurred yesterday).  Those people were certain in their beliefs even though they were unbelievable.

I might have found my answer at the thinking church.  I intended to go because all ages and models of Unitarians came out to support our gay rights march to and up the Capitol steps. But—, I checked the sermon topic—I can’t make it on Father’s Day.

I tried to remove this holiday from my “smart phone” calendar, but it kept coming back! I haven’t spoken to my paternal-DNA donor in about twenty years, and it’s been longer than that since I believed his unbelievable truth.

“You’re going to hell,” he had said with delusion.

He was (and possibly still is) an uber-conservative prison-preacher who has the audience that he always demanded—a captive one.  (That’s a slow-rising joke). 

In high school, I had wanted to be a missionary, but God did all he could to steer me away—save coming down, wrapping flesh around his holy spirit, and pointing a big fat waving finger, “NO!”   So, after funding couldn’t be allocated for my mission-field training, I opted for a student loan and landed on a college campus with 20,000 pagans. 

“She just needs to get to the ‘Psychology of Women’, and then all will fall in place,” God must have said. 

I can attribute my gay awakening to this undergraduate class, and my spiritual awakening to a ‘Bible As Literature’ class in graduate school.  The latter was conducted in the most conservative part of the south that I’ve ever perpetuated in.  (To give credence to this claim—I’ve lived in Texas, Florida, Georgia, Alabama, and Louisiana.) So, I found it surprising that an atheist who was also a lesbian would replace the local Southern Baptist preacher and be this university’s chosen professor.  

On the first day, she had us bring a Bible—the only required text.
“Which version,” many of us asked?

“Whatever you like,” she said.

So, we all show up with everything from KJV to The Living Bible versions. The class unanimously agreed that one guy’s bible was paraphrased by rappers. 

The prof would review a book (of the bible) and point to someone to read a verse.  Then, she would point to someone else to read the same verse.  And then, she would point to someone else to read it.  The most amazing revelations would occur when comparisons were made because within the English language the meaning proved to be inconsistent.

“’Man’ wrote this book,” I finally had to accept.

Biblical scriptures have been translated from Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic and/or Greek, and then carelessly documented into English, reflecting social prejudices of the 17^th Century.  I had learned from a Rabbi (when I was young) that the word ‘homosexual’ (as it is used today) didn’t occur in ancient scriptures.  Early communities accepted same-sex couplings except where older men had sex with young men. This act, rightfully, would have been viewed as pedophilia &/or rape.  This caused me to have an "ahh-ha" moment, realizing that the woman who turned around in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah was an example of the "salt of the earth" because she had so much compassion for the people who were burning that she couldn't not look back and save her own life. 

It was difficult for me to write the required papers for that class.  I offered topical treatments of the subjects that had little to do with the Bible and more to do with socio-political struggles that the allegorical figures, in their hypothetical communities, were presumed to have participated in.  Throughout the semester, I tried to process how all of my pre-college positions had foundations in something so unbelievable.

Knowing that the words can be so easily replaced with words that appear to be synonymous, I can’t place my spiritual faith in man and his static words.  When I hear the fire-spitters reference the Bible and claim that I am a sinner, I want to ask, “Do you believe in the Holy Spirit?” I imagine the conversation will go this way.

“Do you believe in the Holy Spirit?”

“Of course, I do!” the spitter would spit.

“Then, you believe in the spirit of the Law?”

“Of course, I do!” the spitter would spit and maybe stomp for emphasis.

“How do you believe in the spirit of the Law and the letter of the Law?  These contradict each other.”

At this point the spitter would spit, quoting Bible verses that defend hatred.  In response, I would not offer all of the verses that represent God’s (inspired) love.  With love and logic lost, I’d be wasting valuable energy on this hate monger. I’d rather channel it toward people who understand Christian charity. 

On my way past the fire-spitters, I’m in step with a girl who is walking toward the entrance. 

“Grab my hand,” she commands.

It takes me a minute to understand her words, but I follow her inviting smile.

“Good call,” I say when we release and reach for the doors of the PRIDE party. 

She smiles.

“It’s always surprising to me that prisoners get care and compassion, and we get that.”

She smiles and shrugs, heading toward a group of girlfriends who are reaching out for her sweet embrace. 

If the Gays Jump'd off a Bridge, Would You Jump Too?

I met Colt for dinner. We talk about anything. I'm a bit giddy with him like I was when I dated boys. I have to calm myself, but it takes some time because I just love this guy.  Weird, huh?

We talk about health and happiness. We talk about softball (girls) and baseball (RBIs).  And when I'm lucky, he explains—with judicial authority—why this country is at the brink of a radical change for gay rights.  Girl, I get giddy then.

I think he is a true believer which is odd since I'm the one who should be telling straight-man lawyer how things should be. It's me who should be pointing a wagging pointy finger. But, in fact, he's the one telling me.

"It is unconstitutional that the law does not extend the same rights to gays that it extends to straight couples," Colt is talking about surrogate parenting laws.

I did not know but a current case is hanging in the balance. I'm bad; I didn't take note of all of the specifics. I remember he said that the straights could lose their rights to use surrogates because the courts—or the conservative majority (which may be the same thing)—fear that this ruling will allow same sex couples as well as gays to use surrogates [sperm or egg] to perpetuate a lineage.

"If they allow the straights, this law will allow the gays.  So, here's where the fight is," Colt says.
"That's awesome!" I pound my fist on the table. "It's like when all the boys were dying from AIDS, Reagan turned his head and no one cared until the straights started dying. Then and only then did the nation care about what AIDS was doing to citizens."
Colt is visibly alerted.
"This is what gays have always needed," I'm amp'd and awake.  "We are a small minority. Until what they want is what we want, gays can't get empathy, grounds for commonality."
Colt shakes his head.

I'm not sure if he's disagreeing or searching through his '80s memories for some similarities between then and now.  He begins to talk about how great it would be [for any lawyer] to present a case to the Supreme Court.  I offer to help him have this opportunity.

"Let's go out and get me a girl to marry, right now." I pound my fist on the table, gently.  "Tomorrow, we'll demand that Louisiana marry us. You can defend us."
"Yes, that would be nice of you," Colt smiles because he knows that my motive has less to do with getting him to a higher court than it has to do with getting me to a higher state.
"If I can't find a girl, I'll get a rope and a goat! That will get you the case before the court," I am thinking of the Faux news statements about how the nation's acceptance of homosexuals will cause some percentage of humans to want to marry any old beast of choice.
"No—because the goat can't offer mutual consent," Colt offers a trump smile, again.

After a long conversation about who will pay the bill and what significant things might happen this week, we part ways with a hug and a promise that we'll buy tickets for the baseball game on Friday. I head home and pass the gay bar. MacTiger's car is there, so I pull in for 1 beer. He gives me a hug and a few of us enter into a conversation about the differences between male and female bonding.  MacTiger has a good friend who is straight.  She talks about need for personal space.

"I want to go for a vacation without feeling like he [the boyfriend] must come. Don't get me wrong; if he walked in right now, I would light up," she says.

I get her.
I get that we live, today, with fewer gender laws.
We live without grandparent's social laws.
We struggle to find norms.
I thank the good Lord.

I opted to spend the evening with my straight male friend while MacTiger sat in the gay bar with his straight girl friend. And to complete the circle, Colt has been in the bar a few times with his gay (male) friends. Life is changing whether (us) old farts are ready for it or not.  The questions for the next generation is, "Will you accept your right to be free-er? Expect it? Demand it?"

Colt's words reassure. The stand against gay rights has taken "a mortal blow." The proof is that a conservative Supreme Court Justice (Scalia) can't find justification for denying rights to homosexuals who seek marriage equality.

"Well... if the Supreme Court doesn't vote the way of the land, can you imagine the day they don't award us our rights?" I paint the picture of a drag queen ass-whooping. "We will riot like no other minority ever."

Colt sits back. He is alerted.

"They broke glass; our boys will break stilettos. And, there will be pink triangles spray painted across this land by every Zorro mask'd lesbian who drives a semi."

Colt imagined the worst that we could do; and, he smiled, knowing that we'd be righteous in our long-time-due rainbow rebellion.