When the YouTube video of Michele Bachmann’s husband started circulating, the one that purported to show what a screaming queen he was, it was of such low quality, it was hard to see. Stupid cell phones; is this what killed the Flip? Then I watched it again, and OK, it’s there — he’s the kind of man who throws his hands in the air and wiggles them around as a way of greeting others. Swish, for sure. Gay? Jury might still be out. Then I watched it again, and thought, Nance, you are slipping. Mr. Gay from Gaytown, right there. Population: Him.
I’m embarrassed it took me three viewings to pick it up.
And then this morning I watched the clips from last night’s Daily Show, and hello, Mary. The relevant portions start around 3:30, although you should watch the whole thing, so you can behold the misery etched on the face of one of Dr. Queerton’s “patients,” who went to him (he’s a clinical psychologist) for how-not-to-be-gay therapy. His specialty. Yes, the irony is downright cartoonish, isn’t it? And while I know it helps to laugh at people like this, that laughter is really the only defense possible against such sparkly queens and their enablers, like the Bachmanns, I still get pissed. I’m more aware of the time slipping past every year, but I really, seriously cannot wait until we look at these two, and all their ilk, as the 21st century equivalent of people who sold bleaching creams to black people in the 20th. They aren’t just ridiculous figures, they are evil. Speaking of Satan.
I’ve known gay people who get these sort of mailings from their parents, helpful books and brochures and spiritual advice on how not to be gay, on how to reform and renounce or, if you can’t do that, to simply live a celibate life, as Jesus is calling you to do. I’m pretty sure that even though they’re laughing when they tell me about it later, that they weren’t laughing when they got the mail that day. They likely weren’t laughing at the Thanksgiving table last year, or at Christmas, or whatever. One of them told me that when he came out to his family, his father started going to Mass daily — a daily Communicant, as the good Cat’liks say — to pray for his son’s deliverance from evil.
So no, I can’t laugh at the Bachmanns anymore. Although I do crack a smile, imagining their sex life.
Meanwhile, relationship advice from a gay man. Pretty sane, I’d say. (But language makes it NSFW.)
Looks like we’ve transitioned into the bloggage, then? Let’s hop to it:
So, a friend from way back in the day called the other night, and mentioned going to the Ohio State Fair. Which made me think of Miss Citizen Fair, about which I’ve bored you before, but led me to google the phrase “You are Miss Citizen Fair.” Hit No. 1: Me, in 2007. Hit No. 2: Bob Greene, two years later.
I’m not sure what this means, but it certainly freaked my cheese. We traffic in a certain amount of nostalgia here, but I hope it’s distinct from the Greenian school of Everything Was Better Then. The column linked above is from Bob’s book about the good ol’ days of the newspaper business, when Bob fell in love. In fact…
It was a time when newspapers were still such a fundamental part of everyday American life that there really were too many young women on the fairgrounds who fit the Miss Citizen Fair profile, too many young women for us to narrow down the field.
Too many young women walking around the Ohio State Fair carrying copies of that morning’s local newspaper. It was utterly common: a person at the fair, young or old, carrying the latest edition. It’s what people did: Purchase a paper every day, and carry it around with them.
Yeah, yeah. And men wore coats and ties to a baseball game. We get it.
Emmy nominations today, but nothing for “Treme.” Sorry, Khandi Alexander.
And as the hour grows late, I think I will fly.