Lesbian Linking Lands- 2500

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A Belated Veteran's Card- Dissolving Barriers at Home while Abroad

In a hundred years, how will historians describe our state of being—being gay in America?  I think ahead and believe that all Americans will enjoy equal rights before I die.  But, I imagine that homosexuals who lived and fought during the American Revolution anticipated equal liberties.  “As soon as the war is over, I’ll protest” I imagine that’s what they told themselves when our nation began. “There are more important things to worry about than my needs.”  Despite the "All men are created equal" and representation with taxation, homosexuals have not yet been granted the same equality as heterosexuals. 

Slowly headlines are changing while soldiers of all heritages, colors, and preferences fight side-by-side and dissolve barriers.  One result of this unification is the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.  For all that people said it wasn't, it was a monumental move to provide gays with the kind of consideration that the majority of Americans enjoy and expect (and demand).  It wasn't the solution but it, ironically, started the conversation about gay rights which toppled one of the two most significant strongholds.

When our soldiers come home, will they expect Americans to practice here what it preaches there? I hope so.  I hope their collective hope causes it to be so.  Many of them will be different after viewing humans with different norms but the same universal spirit that breathes in their friends and families.

But, I can't expect and wait for these soldiers to provide all of my freedoms. They've done enough over there. It will take the majority.  Someone smarter said it first:

Bear in mind this sacred principle,
that though the will of the majority
is in all cases to prevail,
that will to be rightful must be reasonable;
that the minority possess their equal rights,
which equal law must protect,
and to violate would be oppression.              

                              -Thomas Jefferson

I embrace this quote.  A collective of this kind of someones must change policy in their world for our world.  Knowing this, I feel free to wag my metaphysical finger at heterosexuals who like and love me.

They must see that this plight is too monumental for my tiny minority. Why haven’t they friend'd each other through my Facebook collection and coordinated a protest on Washington?  Surely, they must be wondering what to get me for Pride Day.  If all of my gay-friendly friends found all of your gay-friendly friends and all of their gay-friendly friends, the nation would see the army of Americans who believe in freedom for all.  We could close this chapter of prejudice and bigotry in American history.

But, one of the other guys who contributed to the Constitution would correct me.  He would say: 

The U.S. Constitution doesn't guarantee happiness, only the pursuit of it. You have to catch up with it yourself.

                                - Benjamin Franklin 

I think Ben and Jiro would have a great conversation about self-reliance.

Perhaps us and them and even fringe dwellers in the They-Them camp can learn from the soldiers, melding and creating a new majority that ensures freedom for all Americans.  When the soldiers come home, they can say, "So, I see you guys have been cleaning (out dysfunctional ways) while we've been gone," or "This is the America I fought for."  It would be nice to give all of the soldiers the homecoming that so many have fought for since the American Revolution.

This month, two additional states voted to protect the rights of gays, granting marriage.  The nation voted for a President and Vice President who have been the first to voice support for gay marriage.  All of this happened without rioting in the streets, toppling of dictators, or rewriting the Constitution.

Hooray!

It's an evolution without a bloody revolution, “).

Note: I started this a few weeks ago when more and more people from overseas started tapping in. I assumed some of these were a result of  Support for Our Troops? (See: http://twogirlsarebetterthanone.blogspot.com/2012/10/support-our-troops.html).

I have written and rewritten this entry more times than any other entry.  I want it to be perfect, but there is so little that I know about what you do for us.  There are no, nunca, nil words that can repay you for my, our, freedoms.  I can only vote to support your care and causes, and pray that you are safe until you are with your families and your country(wo)men.  

Cheers to each of you! 

Ghandi's Parks for Uganda

After an early T-day lunch with co-workers and dinner at Mic-Monk’s house, I realized that I’ve been really missing the energy swapping with humans.  I’ve been travelling so much that I feel out-of-touch and the weekend was, in itself, monumental.   I tap into Facebook (because Martha mentioned a few friends who might want to be my friend).

Half-way down, I see a “sign this petition” link from GayRights: “URGENT! The Speaker of Uganda's Parliament has vowed to pass the ‘Kill the Gays’ bill within the next two weeks, calling it ‘a Christmas gift.’”  It seems that the “leader” of Uganda can’t live with lesbians or gays.  I, on the other hand, can’t live without them.  This world is so much better with all human varieties, any good leader knows this fundamental. 

Here’s what I’m not going to do next—cry for civil minded Americans to sign the petition.  But, if you want to sign the petition, here it is: http://www.change.org/petitions/citibank-and-barclays-condemn-uganda-s-kill-the-gays-bill .   I’m going to take a different approach.  

The originator of this petition, Collin Scott Burton, has brought attention to an injustice in a part of the world that is remote.  However, nothing on this planet can be “remote” as that implies it is tucked in a corner or is difficult to see.   On a globe everything is on an arc’d surface and equally visible.  In any case, Uganda is difficult to see from America and Coll—you can call him that if you’re family—is bringing this horrific plan into our awareness. 

Here is his request: “Ask Citibank and Barclays to publicly condemn Uganda’s ‘Kill the Gays’ bill, and send a loud message to Ugandan legislators that criminalizing homosexuality with lifetime prison sentences and the death penalty won’t be supported by major international businesses.”

 Next to this statement is a graphic:

Below it is an entry form.

At this point, I am no longer grateful for the originator’s efforts and am no longer feeling like an altruistic being.  I do not want to fill in the form.  Scotty Collin Burton requires my personal information.  Then, I notice that he is an employee of the bank.  Hmmm.

I toggle back to GayRights and compare his message with theirs.  They might have written a different—more informative and less excitable—explanation about what Collin “Scooter” Burton wants us to do.

However, I don’t get away that easy.  Part of my brain still wants to sign.  I might be the straw that weighed upon CitiBank-Barclays to negate profits and withdraw from a nation that brutally slaughters human beings.

I look at the rolling graphic and counter with evidence from the count.  283,819 supporters have already looked deep within, withdrew a decision, and filled out the form to state that they—in fact—don’t want humans to be murdered.  Scooter, and/or Citibank-Barlcays, and/or Uganda only need a few more votes.

Huh?   I’m confused.  Does this mean, with the receipt of 16,181 votes:

 a .    Barclays will send a letter to the “leader” of Uganda and tell him to stop it 

      b.      Barclays will shut their doors until the “leader” of Uganda stops it    

      c.      The "leader" of Uganda will stop it

      d.      People have created excitably horrific news for the purpose of collecting my personal info with  absolutely no intent or ability to change the minds of “leaders” at Barclays or “leaders” in the Uganda government

With the assumption that “D” is not the answer, and that Rita Balaka is a real person, why does anyone really need to vote? 

My question isn’t so much about whether or not the originator has mal intent or will be successful in inciting LGBTs who have no voting power.   My question is—what’s in a vote for Rita Balaka?  If 300,000 people state that they don’t want LGBTs to be imprisoned for life or murdered, will this convince Rita Balaka to find her soul and initiate change?  See a, b, or c options above.

I don’t understand the magic of 300K votes.  Is 283K not enough to enlighten Rita Balaka’s soul?  Maybe I’m being *smart*, but I’m getting more serious.   If we (LGBTs and the heterosexuals who love us) think that voting will cause Rita Balaka to step into action and/or cause the “leaders” of Uganda to step up and step down to get some counseling and get into a straight jacket—we will always be a target, a kicking bag and a scapegoat. 

Voting has its benefits in a society that counts the votes.   In this scenario, 1 to 300,000 to 300,000,000 votes are undeniably worthless.  I commend you Scooter for taking the initiative and making it real to Americans who can’t see around the circular corner of this globe.  I hope that this petition reaches the person who has the finger on the button labeled “Justice,” even if that person is Rita Balaka who (according to the “sign the petition” site) can’t find justice on her own.  

It’s all here, clear as crystal.  [This country, this continent, and this globe need a solution that incorporates but supersedes couch-potato voting.]  If not, we get nothing.  We lose—good day sir!  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKG07305CBs

P.S.  I’m not saying I have as much gumption as Collin Burton, who has been renamed “Scott" by my fatigue-filled mind.  I’m just—hold on, I need to flick these potato chips from under me on the couch—saying that voting for a psychopath to change his mass manslaughter ways isn’t the most immediate or effective plan to make a change. 

P.S.S  I want to end this misaligned diatribe with a statement by Ghandi because I believe our freedom lies in peaceful resistance, but I can’t bring myself to do it. 

I had no idea that history was being made. I was just tired of giving in. 

– Rosa Parks (1913-2005)

Love's Gay Impressions

4:44 am – My bones are excited that they’re going to Texas.  I get up, get coffee and work for a few hours.

1:21 pm – the chick-a-sticks, pretzels, and pear did me in. I am full.

1:22 pm – current buzzards-in-the-sky count = 11

1:23 pm – got out of car and dragged a rusty bumper off the bridge and roadway

6:03 pm – Park behind the bars off Cedar Springs.  I find Sue Ellen’s when I turn the corner.  I’m a bit overwhelmed.  It’s a really nice bar; it’s a good sized bar and feels empty with only a few women.  After exchanges, the bartender makes the connections for us.

Somehow the conversation gets personal really fast.  I hear the older lady say that she had been married. “I lost my husband and baby.  They were in a car wreck.”  She started a new life after.

The bar tender talks about her pre-teen son. She raises him with her ex-partner and the stepmother.  They are a family who share everything from holidays to rising costs.  She beams because she knows how important it is to do your best with a tender little soul. 

“It must impress the other parents,” I am thinking while she tells that she eats lunch in the school cafeteria with the little guys who make up her basketball team.  They call her “coach.”  I proselytize to her passion and devotion to them. I think of how she's teaching them to love a lesbian before the boys become men.

8:25 pm - The bartender and the barback have both been named Sarah by the patrons.  I begin to wonder if this is a generic name for lesbians like Mary is for gay men.   The other two ladies left and the third bought me a second Shiner, but I have to shoot down Cedar Springs to Dallas Love Field.  My mom is flying in from Birmingham.

10:01 pm – We arrive at Auntie’s house. I go in and hug her and her partner, Murph. Susie is there too.  She’s been my aunt’s friend for as long as I can remember.  Memories of them together at different stages of my life create gravity for my fatigue-filled mind.

After a few exchanges, Auntie says, “I want you to know, today is our 35^th anniversary.”

We congratulate her without champagne, a ballroom dance, or a proper celebration.  Still, we’re all just grateful to be together.

7:35 am - I get up early to talk to my aunt. 

8:35 am – A neighbor comes over and brings frozen trail mix varieties that are the leftovers from a bulk purchase.  After a few exchanges, the neighbor asks about the doctor’s prognosis.

“What’s the good news?” I asked him. Auntie shares the exchange.

“There’s not any good news,” the doctor said soberly.

“He hugged me.  I got a hug out of him. That’s the good news,” Auntie said.

 

9:01 am – An old friend called. That call was followed by a series of calls from all over the US.  Later, a lady from San Antonio called.

“Is that the woman who was a nurse?” my mom, the nurse, asked.

“Yes. The other one died,” Auntie angled the phone away. 

I had met this pair of lesbians in the late ‘80s.  I think they took me on a road trip during the second year that I was “out.”

11:24 am – I am ready to drive Murph to the beauty parlor.  It’s one of the businesses on this retirement campus.  It’s next to the “protestant” and catholic churches, a laundry room, and a consignment store. 

 “You guys have more activity in one morning than I have the entire week,” I’m smiling and pulling on my socks.

“Just wait until you’re dying,” Auntie says.

“I hope I’m as lucky.”

11:30 am- I’m putting on my shoes.

“Where’s Murph?”

“She went to the beauty parlor,” my mom said.

“Did she push her walker there?”

“No, she drove,” mom said.

“The golf cart?”
“No, the Toyota,” Auntie said.

“Should she be driving?” I ask.

When we go in, Murph’s hair is already in curlers.  She’s under the dryer.  The beautician takes my aunt to the back to wash her hair. I hear them talking.

“She’s a lesbian,” my aunt says out loud because her ears are underwater or because my aunt is an external thinker.

I’m sitting next to Murph who is an observer like me.  I believe this is why we’ve always had a secret alliance.   Also, she would pull beers out of the garage fridge and toss them to me.  Before they moved to the retirement campus, they had property and a kennel service.  We would walk over and look at the day’s variety of dogs.   But today, we’ve gotten into a bucket of left-over Halloween candy, choosing a variety of pieces and pretending that we’re not high from too much coffee and sugar.

2:10 pm – Lunch with Martha who is a friend of my aunt’s from Corpus.  That means they’ve been friends for more than 35 years.  And, that means that she and my aunt were young(er) lesbians together, running the streets and going to bars. 

4:00 pm – The others take naps. I go to Trader Joe's for a trunk full of carbohydrates

7:00 pm – Murph and I chill a bottle of wine

8:00 pm - My aunt takes me to her room and asks me to help her create a letter.  We talk about everything except the letter.  Just when we get a sentence typed, my mom comes in.

“It’s Buddy,” she says.  “He wants to talk to you.”

I look over at the top of the dresser where there’s a picture of Buddy when he was young and in Dorothy's Wizard of Oz dress.  He’s been in Auntie’s stories since I was a kid in Corpus.  I think he talked—counseled seems to be too strong a word—to my brother when he came out of the closet.  (See "Fleas on a Hot Tar Roof."). Not that it was a secret.

When my brother was 11, he put on my mom’s dress, wig, and high heels, and then he walked the neighborhood sidewalks. He came out when the neighbors told my mom what she already knew.  It was good that my aunt had a lot of gay male friends who looked out for my brother during his young adult years. I'm sure Buddy was one of them.

“Hi Puss.”

PAUSE.

“Lisa is here.  You remember Lisa?” 

PAUSE.

“Did you happen to touch her like you did her brother?

“You two are not right!” I yell toward the phone.  I imagine that this is an inside joke that they've shared for three or four decades.

Auntie chuckles, and then they talk, swapping more inside jokes that are funny and bad too.  Before Auntie hangs up, she says, “You’re going to get a letter from me.”

PAUSE.

“Bye-bye, honey.”

During the conversation, she mentioned another friend Clifford.  I was at his house, in Corpus, that night my aunt talked about my being gay.  It had been a short conversation.  She remembers that I shouted, “I’m gay,” from Clifford’s balcony.  I remember that she said very soberly, “So, you’re mom tells me you’ve kissed a girl.”  We’ve always observed the world from different angles and haven’t done so well as a result.  This weekend is the first I’ve spent with her in 15 years.  Still, she gave me great advice that night and on many weekends while I was in college.   

Now, I’m sitting on her bed and about to write the letter. I feel honored.

“Do you remember Clifford’s boyfriend?” she asks.

“Yeah, he was younger, right?”

“I ran into him in an airport. I couldn’t believe it was him. I hadn’t seen any of those guys in so long.  He was a real sweet guy,” She pauses to reflect.  “He’s in Houston.  Buddy saw him.” 

I start to remember the late-80s.  When I would come home for holidays or summer break, I would hear from my brother about the men in that circle who were dying.  It was overwhelming.  Somehow Clifford, Wes, Buddy, and my brother survived Reagan’s plague.

9:45 pm – We finish the letter.  “I’ve had a good life; I’ve had a fun life,” she says while I type.  I think about how my aunt is always looking for a reason to smile a mischievous smile.  Aside from making her family crazy, she fills so many lives with light and support.  I will be blessed if I have half the friends.

11:59 pm – Auntie, Murph and mom are awake. I am in bed with ear plugs and the fan is on high to create white noise.  “I can’t wait to go home so that I can sleep without these party animals,” I pop an over-the-counter blue pill and roll over.

8:00 am – Auntie is up.  I get up. 

10:35 am – The reverend is making announcements.  Martha slides between me and Murph.  The room is full, and it’s wonderful to see so many different LGBTs filling the pews, wrapping their arms around each other, and singing with reverence to God while people all over the nation are singing too. 

“This is the life I thought I would live,” I remember the world that my lesbian aunts built.  When I would come for the weekends, their lives were balanced and full with good friends that made everything seem normal, perfect.  

“I want to acknowledge Auntie and Murph’s thirty-fifth anniversary,” the reverend says.

1:00 pm – At lunch we talked about the church and the day’s service.  During the program, they acknowledged new members, announcing a total of 560 with the recent ones.  There was a straight couple on the stage, holding hands.

“They had a gay son,” my aunt explained about them. “When they moved here, they tried a lot of churches.  So many preach against homosexuals.  Finally, they looked and found our church.”

“Wow,” I thought. “It’s an evolution.”

2:10 pm - There’s a storm coming and I have an 8 hour drive. I hug and don’t linger.  There’s too much to sort out and there hasn’t been time to talk.  I’ll have to get back before too long. We have to figure out how to take care of Murph.

9:37 pm – At the base of the Mississippi River bridge, I pull a warm beer from the Trader Joe’s bag that’s behind the driver’s seat.  I put it in the ice chest because I’m 15 minutes from home. I can’t wait to hear my dogs go nuts.

“It’s nice to love and to be loved.”

In the course of a few days, I was introduced to so many different approaches to gay life.  It was serendipitous to hear the ladies at Sue Ellen’s and sit with the congregation at Celebration Community Church.  I wanted to share.  Also, I hope this story about my aunts’ long relationship gives you stamina someday.  It’s possible to find love late in life and love that will happily follow you to a retirement campus.  I think the secret to Auntie and Murph’s relationship is so very simple.

“You just don’t leave,” Murph said.

Know the (X-Chromosome) Code

After my two years in Southern California, fish tacos are my default (fastfood) desire.  The entire region between California and Florida (except in Austin) doesn’t have a Wahoo’s, so I go get a burrito.  I grab a spot on the covered patio and begin to deconstruct the five pound beast because—in the beginning—I never intend to eat the whole thing.

I like to play in it.  This finger-in-the-food thing goes back to the summers that Velma and I cooked and cleaned for campers in a 150 degree kitchen in West Texas.  Did I tell you the stories about 300 pieces of chicken-fried steak or 15 trays of lasagna?  Maybe it will come up if Velma or Victwa chime in.

I can’t help but to hear the one-way conversation at the next table.

“He worked part-time jobs in East Texas,” the lady explains.

PAUSE.

“Nothing really.  He never really made any money.”

PAUSE.

“It’s that ‘Y’ chromosome.”

Huh? The Y chromosome = X chromosome money (x) 25%+.

“Foul!"

How often does the average heterosexual female use the Y trump card?  We don’t have one.  Y not?

We can't bow out and say women! and then disappear with a buddy for a weekend of “hunting” or go to a strip club and look at women to get women off our minds.  For us, they are everywhere.  And if I'm lucky, one will always be somewhere near to irritate me really deep inside the niche where only she can burrow.

When you reach a difference with your favorite one, you might throw a dart and put her in a category. Maybe, then, you'll use a non-gender trump card like clueless, insensitive. or jerk.  Still, you can't write off half of the other side of the world.  You belong to it. 

With that said—maybe that’s bad.  Maybe this ability, to pull out the chalk and draw a line—across the kitchen tile, living room hardwoods, or wherever you like to fight on floors—leads to a healthy lack-of empathy.  (Say it with me, "Empathy enables."  That inner strength triggers my southern female indoctrinated co-dependencies before the logical sector of my mind gets a vote.)  Jiro would say, “Suck it up.” Then, he would hang out with young apprentices, making sushi while his wife found a means to strengthen her female deficiencies.  When faced with a difference, heterosexuals get to lift an eye brow and quietly shout, “I can’t figure out that gender.” 

The bond of the heterosexual variety is an unlearned one.  Men who marry women who marry men have boundaries that are perpetuated by nature as well as nurture.  At first, each side faces a Berlin wall with colorful graffiti that warns of the enemy on the other side.  Slowly, self-awakening events force out their similarities.  Brick-by-brick each one decides when and Y to pull the edifice down. For, the first time I think that gender differences that are perpetuated by nurture are a good thing. Maybe there's more than madness to these human methods?

Lesbians can't build a nature wall.  But, they can build a nurture one—, goodness! I can launch a war with a mouthful of pseudo-psych evaluations that sound authentic but spew like process cheese with a broken lever.  My female partner can't say "woman, what's gotten into you?"  If she was in touch with me, she would know that not-knowing is more unacceptable than whatever injustice she committed.

"Helllllrrrrr!"

Being in the same nature pack doesn't help when you're suppose to be looking out for each other as females and as minorities and, not to mention, lovers.

We need to purposefully create a false boundary so that empathy doesn’t condone every-single-thing. We need a non-genderized code word.  Heterosexual females get to escape with “It's girl’s night out.” Well, that one can’t possibly work because you and your girl share the same friends.  Suggestions?  Anyone have a code that works?  

With two females, there has to be a distinction so that one can say, “Enough.  You’re sooooo not wearing what I’m wearing” and “you’re not going out with me on girls’ night.” 

“Shut your mouth,” I heard the ghosts of previous girlfriends protest. 

“Yep.  I’m going it alone into the cold dark night." And, "Where did I put my keys?" And then, "Please warm my side of the bed.” 

Freedom and Its Eject Button

Freedom is the primordial nature, 

but Freedom 

has no direction.

Direction comes from vision

and vision 

comes with compassion, “the light.”

Compassion with skill unite time 

and space, 

frees primordial nature.

- The Dzogchen Pönlop Rinpoche’s

   (deconstructed, paraphrased and poetricized)

Because I live in this big house alone, I have at least twelve hours of weekend chores.  Because most of the weekend is spent on the yard or prepping the house for buyers, I have a lot of time to think.  I have thought a lot during these 10 months.

But, I have always been a thinker.  When I was in college, I had a friend who said that she didn’t want to party with me anymore.

"You leave. You check out."  

Still, she is my longest friend of all friends and I’ve drank more pints with her than anyone else.  And this weekend, around 1 am, someone said, “Do you observe everything?” Apparently, new beer and new friends don’t stop the thinking about thoughts thing. 

Probably the most often visited topic (when I’m alone) is the realization that I’m happier, though lonely, without a partner.  Of course I have Cally-Surfer-Girl and Sweet-Georgia-Brown and Puff-the-Magic-Dragonslayer, but—in their own way—they’re snoring bed hogs.  Also, they don’t give constructive feedback.  I need a mammal that can introduce qualitatively different what-if scenarios.

“Maybe I will be a better partner.”

“Maybe I wasn’t a good partner to Ex#3. But, we wanted different things.”

“Maybe I could have been a better partner. But I was stupid.”
“Maybe with Ex#1… We were young.”

YAAWWN.  This is the reoccurring summarization explanation that pushes its way out of my mind’s cotton candy machine with centrifugal force.  I’m tired of wondering.  I want the voices to stop feeding my head with pink and blue food dyes that spin irrelevant scenarios.  When will I have a purple treat? 

Maybe I’m happier all alone because I can’t keep my personal space when I’m with another.  I think I might need to create a niche for freedom before I meet her.  I'm sure I had a good reason for not creating it before now.  Remember, One’s primordial nature is directionless freedom.  I will add this note and pin it in my cubicle.

The problem is that I’m a creature of habit.  I like routine.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m a moth to spontaneity’s flame.  But, I like to have things in place so that when a new opportunity introduces itself, my boss won’t ask about the bags under my eyes. 

The Dzogchen Pönlop Rinpoche says that freedom has no direction until its human has vision.  Also, its vision needs compassion. I think it’s safe to say that non-monks can insert any ol’ emotion here and find a reason to move about.  My monkey mind can formulate a plan in microseconds. 

Warning:  Any ol’ emotion doesn’t guarantee the production of a Buddhist monk’s vision.

Love Heroine’s formula is this simple:

   observation of an event with a woman in the center, to the right/left, off-stage

+ an emotional uprising

    (imaginations of) sex

Dun. It’s that simple for him.

My formula is:

                   observation of an injustice

+ emotional uprising

                   why?-declaration (with soliloquy to follow)

I get in trouble because I ask, “Why?” too much.  But, why do people hinder my freedom with their lack of vision?  Please—for your sake—, don’t follow me down this path.

Warning:  Observing everything has side effects.  It may feel like freedom, but you're stuck in someone else's illusion, asking questions you're not allowed to answer.

I think I’ll take my version of The Dzogchen Pönlop Rinpoche’s quote to work with me.  I’ll print it and put it on the break room fridge and make a screen saver for the conference room 60” tv/monitor.  But, dropping off a paraphrased declaration like this is not very compassionate if your unsuspecting audience doesn't want a vision.  It might even be a social injustice that Love Heroine will have to observe. 

I need skill(s).  I am here to unite my primordial space with the now.  But, the things that keep me from being in the moment are emotions that are more like goooey-processed-cheese-in-a-squeeze-can-with-a-broken-pressed-down-lever than compassion.  If I get angry, I have to time-out until the relentless spewing of goo subsides.  But these days, I’m pretty numb.  I worry more about the seductive frenzy of happy.  Who’d uh thunk?  It’s been a tough year, and I worry that I’ll go funny-farm loco if I’m introduced to the power of love.  When I get a whiff of it, I’ll want more.

Surprisingly, this leads me back to freedom.  Because I’ve been alone for a year—cleaning my mental rooms and making spaces for someone new—will I be so delighted that I freely surrender freedom?  If so, how will I be free to receive my vision which leads to my primordial path?  Seriously.  I’ve tried another’s primordial path and my feet never planted well there. 

You might think I wrote this entry to make you think that I’m a wise sage—distracting and seducing you will sillies—so that I can implant my philosophy and make you ponder.  I didn’t.  I’m being completely selfish.  So, here’s my question, “How do I be a full-time me while I’m being a part-time we?”

It would be great if you could, please, provide a list of potential irresponsible deviations that would ensure that I’m unpredictable enough, always holding a finger above my eject-the-seat-button. Or, if you have a flow chart laying around with directional arrows at each “yes” and “no” milestone of things I should do to ensure I’m free to be me, please provide.  Either of these tools would be great—so that I can reference them when I’m hiding in the public stall of the restaurant on my first next date. 

Zoinks, Scoob! It's a Lesbian Evolution!

I pull up to the counter, dragging my life-on-wheels and ask for a different room.

“I know I booked a king but I need two beds."
“Yes, Ms. Michel.”

Before I became a gold member at Hilton, I was just “ma’am.”  Now, all over Louisiana, clerks that I’ve never met call me by my name.   I wonder if there’s a database with my photo.  In cities where I’ve dropped off TwoGirls cards, I wonder if they’ve copy and pasted my profile picture in their database.  (Have these counter operators read my entries and wonder if I’m travelling with Love Heroine; do they agree that the world can’t live without lesbians; is the cute one 1 punch away from receiving a free toaster oven (Huh?-Hint: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKfEdjlRxSk)).  If they didn’t get the photo from my TwoGirls profile, they got it after first coffee and a shower because I look like a teenage bat boy before 7 a.m.

When I ask for a second bed, I feel embarrassment rising. (Velma—from “When I Had My First Hysterectomy”—is driving over the state line and meeting me in Louisiana.)  Let me ask you two questions:

Does it embarrass you to check into a hotel with a woman?

Even if the woman is a relative or friend and obviously not a sex partner, have you ever caught the clerk imagining contortions he’d like to see you and your “friend” do naked?  

I look for signs—the wrinkled forehead, the rolled back eyes, the open mouth.

I wasn’t ever embarrassed when I had a girlfriend.  I loved her, so I couldn’t be embarrassed about being with her.  But single—that’s different; I’m one lesbian standing alone with an empty excuse on my arm.  And, I feel like I’m apologizing to Gopher.  (Is this Love Boat comparison making any sense?  Who is this generation’s Tattoo?)  Let’s face it—people who work in hotels don’t care about what goes on behind closed doors as long as it can be cleaned before 3 pm.  And lucky for them, Velma and I won’t be doing any of what Gopher’s imagining.

When Velma arrives, we go out for boiled shrimp and spicy crabs.  After we’ve rinsed the red-pepper fire from our mouths, are bloated in misery with Cajun salts, and wishing I hadn’t ordered the beans&rice, we google the local gay bar. I want to drop a TwoGirls card in the tip jar or tape it to the bathroom mirror.  The parking attendant at the restaurant wants us to pull out, so he gladly gives us directions.  Then, he offers an odd expression and bids us luck. It’s been more than 6.1 seconds so he’s got a good idea that I’m gay, but Velma—no; no way.  I imagine he’s trying to figure out what we’re up to.

Lining the wall near the door is a fifteen foot strip of gold streamers on the outside wall. 

“There’s the glitter,” Velma giggles. 

She works in the art world, so she’s been (dragged) to her fair share of gay bars.  (She said she would comment on my recent blog about the injustices against and exclusions of gays in the art world because it took her two decades to find a straight man in the pack.  I truly hope she will pontificate because she taught me everything I know about writing zany stories.)  I knew she was the one for this particular adventure, so I saved it for us to share. 

Just because a gay bar looks closed doesn’t mean that it is.  We tug on the handle.  Just because it’s the only gay bar in town, or it’s the middle of the week, or it’s only 6:35 pm, doesn’t mean it’s open.

“I can’t imagine that they’re closed for cleaning.”

I worried to know how I’ll share the TwoGirls portal.

“They’ll never know about our world.”

“What now?” Velma asks.

At the race track we make dollar bets on horses we like because they wear pink, have the biggest horse to smallest jockey ratio, or remind us of Ex lovers.  Even though we watched the betting machine tutorial on the “Espanol” screen, and I accidentally bet $9 on the first race, we only lost $10 each after a few hours.  

While we're waiting on the last race that we accidentally bet on during the first race, Velma says, "I was with my friend who used to be a lesbian."  

“Huh?” she catches me by surprise.  “How’s that?”

“She had a partner, and they had a baby.”

“Did you like the partner?”

“She was nice—way better than the guy.”

“What happened?”

“Used-2-B flew to California to have sex with a man.”

“Why? Texas has a lot of men who will have sex for less money than the cost of air fare."

“I know.  Worse, the guy’s a dud.”

It turns out that Velma’s friend, Used-2-B, had the baby.  Next, she wanted a man.  Somewhere, the sum of these equals a family.

Dud leaves northern California and moves to east Texas.  Having lived in both areas, I know this guy does not make good decisions.  Velma confirms my assumptions with a story about all he left behind.

“We were invited to their beach house.  Used-2-B’s parents were there,” Velma says.  “He was sitting about ten feet in front of everyone.”  Velma adds, “It turns out, he started the day by saying something mindless to the mother. After that, he was alone in his beach chair.” 

“Wow.  I wonder if Used-2-B’s parents were longing for yesteryear—when their daughter was a practicing lesbian with a nice girlfriend?” 

“Like, zoinks!” 

“That’s right, Velma.  What’s a family to do without a lesbian or two?”  

Bonjour!

I knew it was going to be a good day when I woke up and the callous on the inside of my left foot was rubbing the itch on the underbelly of my right foot.  Cooperation, ").  Someone who was into folklore said that whenever you have itchy feet, you're about to travel.  

My brother and I talked a bit yesterday about his annual New Year's Eve trip to Paris.  See "Fleas on a Hot Tar Roof." (He's doing well after a new procedure).

"Maybe that's it?" I thought.  Sweet-Georgia-Brown and Cally-Surfer-Girl were nosing me to get out of bed. We did the downward dog together, and then I got on the road for business travel.  

After I passed over one of the fourteen mile bridge, I remembered that I hadn't checked to see if Germany or Russia joined us while I slept, so I logged on. You can imagine my surprise when I saw that 48 French lesbians/women/gay-friendlies have found us.  Bear informed me that each view counts.  So, I'm ok if only one Frenchwoman found us and read 48 posts or 6 of them read 8 posts or some multiplication thereof.  Bonjour!  We've been waiting for you!

Pageviews by Countries

Entry	Pageviews
France	48
United States	29

Riddle Me #2-How Much Can a Free Token Cost You?

Alone for two weeks, you’re wanting to find gay bars when the hands point to happy hour.  The hotel lounge has some lovers on a short couch tucked in the corner, and you think about how nice it would be if the guy would get a round of drinks or just get lost so that you could slip into his cozy position.  To your surprise, she gets up, walks toward the bar, staring at you while you’re staring at her.  You hold your firm position in anticipation.

“I can’t believe this is soooo going to happen.”

She stops in front of you and smiles. Then, she smirks. 

“It will never work,” your mind and hers seem to meld at this same breaking-off point.

To top off the insult, she gives you a once over, stopping at your shoes that scream and remind her shoes of comfort and make them jealous.  She cocks her head back and disappears around the corner.  You raise your glass to the chump who’s in your cozy position, saluting him with as much respect as you can muster before you slap a ten on the bar for the overpriced lounge liquor.  “I’ve got to find the lesbians and long necks.”

Following your GPS tool, you are downtown and the skyscrapers are blocking the afternoon sun.  It’s tough to see the signs so you decide to get out and walk.  Luckily, you’re wearing comfortable shoes.

“Good thing I didn’t bring her along,” you think of the sassy sexy in high heels.

You stop at the convenience store to get BBQ flavored Fritos and a Dr. Pepper because you want to mix it up with salty and sweet before you throw yourself into the mosh pit of women that are waiting for your loving.  Of course, you toss in five bucks for quick picks because you’re hoping to wake up with double-the-luck by morning, sweep new girl off her feet with a spontaneous flight to the south of France, and then make your way to Monte Carlo where you’ll quadruple your luck at the craps table.

You arrive at what looks like the bar, but it has changed names.  Charlie’s shows in some places but Charlene’s hangs on a crisp new banner above the door.  You look about and count the number of rainbow stickers, “1, 2, 3, 4, and ½.”  Somehow someone tore off more than a third of one of the mandatory 5 rainbows that must be posted on the window of every urban inner-city gay bar.  You step from the musty light that has escaped the looming towers and into the dark cave of a place that has five decades of cigarette resin on the walls.  The six foot five bar tender—Charlene—offers a friendly greeting and a light beer because she knows that will get you started while you look around and figure out what you really want.  Also, she slides a token across the bar and says, “Why don’t you pick a song.” She gestures toward the juke box. 

Your eyes are adjusting to the deeper part of the cave where five entities of unknown origin or gender are watching you approach.  You can feel their eyes—but you can’t use your own—and feel like an unrehearsed stripper on the other side of a one-way mirror.  You want to hide behind the juke box but these new ones are streamlined and mounted to the wall because they don’t need the space for real records like the cool ones your dad hid behind when he courted your mom with cheesy pick up lines.  To add to the juke box betrayal, it beams the only light in the room, and it’s blinding your eyes that have almost adjusted to the dark.

“Hey—play some Straight,” one of them hollers out.

“Oh, it’s lesbians,” you think and are grateful that they weren’t gargoyles, or bats, or aliens with wings that might swoop down and carry you away.  You turn toward the voice that bellows from the dark but can’t communicate in any way other than a “huh?” unless you choose to move toward the unknown chasm.

“I like ‘Ocean Front Property.’”

“Ok,” you mumble.

You push Charlene’s token in the slot and assume that you can or should join the veteran viewers.  Still, you can’t see them because your eyes have readjusted to the beam of the juke box.

“Wanna go to the beach?” a different voice offers from the middle of the booth. 

She has short blonde hair that looks like the boys who threw newspapers during the Depression.  Two of the women get up.  The first one is the thickest and seems to be the blonde’s bouncer who has been released of the duties of collecting cover charge for a non-existent band.  You assume they are standing to let you sit next to this woman who’s picked you out of the non-existent crowd.  But, they are getting up to leave and the blonde one is scooting across the knife-ripped plastic seat covering.

Now, your eyes are adjusting and you can see that the blonde has small shoulders but wide hips.  The idea of a bowling pin comes to mind, but you like bowling because it reminds you of your uncle who wrote letters to you from prison and taught you how to hustle for money with a fast and hard hook shot.

“He was nice,” you say to yourself while you reach for the blonde lady’s hand who has offered to lead you out of the darkness.

There’s just the three of them and you.  The first two drove up in an 80s Bronco.  By default, they have commandeered the front seat.  You climb into the backseat behind the woman who has wavy brown hair like your aunt who always slept in big plastic curlers until your uncle went to prison.  (Now, she owns a curling iron but only does her hair on Saturday nights when she’s headed to the VFW.)  You’ve already noticed that she has tiny hips that support the forty pounds around her belly.  You wondered if all the lesbians in this town are unnaturally proportioned but your mind starts to make everything fit.  The blonde’s bowling pin build fits the brunette’s belly like complimentary pieces of a torn apart valentine heart.

The co-pilot pushes a cassette and Garth Brooks is in the middle of belting out if tomorrow never comes.

“No,” you hear the driver answer a question that you forgot you asked. “They were together before we were.” 

You put together the pieces and realize that everyone in this car has dated the other and this makes you think of cousins who shouldn’t procreate, but that can’t really matter, not really, with lesbians. The blonde throws her arm around your shoulder and pulls you in close.  She whispers something that you can’t understand in a language that sounds like French and Australian and you nod in a way that says, “No.”  She pulls four beers from the cooler in the back and the co-pilot reaches for two of them.

“It gets dark early,” you offer something to say because you want to contribute to the social dynamics.  And, you’re away from the city under the open sky.  The scenery has changed, and you’re far from anything that has ever looked familiar.   Everything suddenly looks flat and deserted.  You wonder if you should say something else, or stop talking, or if they like the ‘80s stereo to blast while they drive to somewhere you don’t know.  You think of that movie you watched with your cousins, Lost Boys, and decide that you’re never watching anymore vampire movies ever again. 

You sink back in your new surroundings and are grateful for new friends.   There’s a cooler in the back, so you help yourself to a second cold beer that will go down slower than the first.

“I wonder what else we’ll do while I’m in town.  Maybe they’ll take me to other gay bars?” 

You remember there was only the one in Google and hope you’ve met the girls who play poker during the week or have bonfires on the weekends.  You try to remember what they were wearing and wonder if you brought the right clothes. 

By the time you make it to the beach and the Bronco rolls up to the public bathrooms, you have a couple of ideas about how to move to this city, buy a house with a short commute, and make a life with the nice blonde who might be a good bowler with some lessons in fast hook shots.  When the brunette with tiny hips gets out to smoke, you smile and she nods.  The phone slid out of your pocket but that's ok because you don't want to drop it in the toilet like you did in St. Louis or the sink like you did in Dallas.

The three of you are like blind mice, falling into the stalls because everyone is toting at least two beers in the lower extremities.  You wash your hands and check your look, wishing you had a baseball cap like the driver—though yours would be pink or some pastel with a flower embroidery and not have diesel oil on the lip.  “I wonder if they have wood for a bonfire,” you wonder while you’re moving past the concrete walls that have four decades of paint peeling from under the current coat.  You take a breath of beach air, but it seems to suffocate you with sand remnants.

You hear a horn and walk toward it, but two teens are waving to a guy behind you.  You hear another horn to the right, but there’s a creepy man slouched in his seat.  It’s dark and you’ve lost your bearings.  You walk passed the first row of cars, tracing your steps. You walk passed the second row of cars and face the open landscape that buffers the public area from the beach.  You:

1. Think about how lucky you are to have found the beach on the first night
2. Roll the dice with the creepy guy and ask for a ride back to town
3. Look down at your comfortable shoes and calculate the miles back
4. Are grateful that Trick-or-Treat only comes once a year— Happy Halloween!