Excuse Me While I Kiss This Guy

June 9, 2011 at 3:13 am (The Easy Chair)

My mother, bless her dearly departed heart, wanted me to live forever. To do so I needed God’s approval, and if God could see and know all, he’d know I’d never be his house-mouse. Mom tried to save me from the perils of evil, and protected my virtue every way she thought possible.

I chose the perhaps less colorful path. I couldn’t make myself gay to save (or condemn) my life. I’d often wished I’d been born gay or black, so I’d have a real reason to feel picked on. Until I was about seventeen, drugs made no sense. Then I discovered LSD. (“It’s dyslexic Mormon, Mom!”)

All that's missing is Jagger's tongue...

In 1977 it was barely conceivable to be openly gay in Oregon, and that’s if you lived in Portland. Being queer was slightly worse than being a drug addict. Drugs were bad. I could never get a straight answer as to why loving someone, no matter who or what they were, could be so sinfully bad?

The Devil appeared in many forms, but mostly in the form of tempestuous young women and rock and roll lyrics. Whenever Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix would play, Mom would threaten to break the radio. Yup, she’d misinterpret the lyrics and get all hot and bothered. “That song is about queers! Turn it off!” The word ‘queer’ was spat out like a turd in her mouth.

Mom, I wish you were still around to see this. While on the MAX home last Saturday, I looked out the window and saw the cosmic lip-lock. There were no drugs or homoerotic activities anywhere near. TriMet security hadn’t a clue.


It can…

It will…

It has been done!

Am I excused?


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