Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Check Your Right Guard



I have seen it in person. The NAMES Project honored my request and shipped it, at the last minute, to Centre College in Danville, Kentucky, for a commemorative event. It was the last block unfurled during the ceremony- it took a few minutes for me to make my way across the room, and when I got there...

I disintegrated.

Though I have beaten it to death, I have always felt that Roseanne Barr nailed it when she said that if it weren't for gay men, fat girls would never go anywhere. Stacy made sure I went somewhere...band camp. Marching contests. The movies. Dances. Drum corps competitions. Cruising the square. Our backyard, his parents' basement, the local park. To town. To Campbellsville. With Steve; with Sherra; with Will; with Sarah...or not...in the yellow car. In the brown car. Somewhere, anywhere, when we were bored or at loose ends, or run to death with 'band this' and 'band that'.

The usual greeting was running forward, arms flung wide, squealing at the top of his lungs- which scared the unholy crackers out of my senior-year boyfriend, Joe, who was a stick-straight Church of Christ football-playing farmbo who'd never seen anything like that in his life. Therein lay the absolute proof that Joe wasn't going to last, while Stacy endureth forevermore, amen...if in spirit alone.

For those of our friends who read this, two words: Ray Charles. If you were at the prom in 1985, then you remember "Seven Spanish Angels". Ray Charles was never whiter (or gayer) than when portrayed by my redheaded, very caucasian friend.

Oh, how I miss him.

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