Following my week at home for Easter, I went back to Columbus, Georgia for a brush-up rehearsal before resuming our national tour of the play. Our next stop is glamorous Tulsa. Try to contain your jealousy.With an evening free, I stopped by Fat Cat, which recently opened as the second gay bar in Columbus. I’m pleasantly surprised that this city can sustain two homo watering holes, although I’m not entirely convinced- I recognized most of the faces at Fat Cat as regulars from my visits to the other gay bar, leaving me to wonder who was over there now. Maybe there’s some sort of timeshare scenario worked out. I should investigate this further next time I’m in town.
“Heeey,” slurred a man at the end of the bar.
I chose to ignore him, and pretended to answer a text message. I was actually just reading the latest from Demi Moore on Twitter, but how was he to know?
“Heeeey! You! Red!”
I sometimes wonder how drunken strangers would address me if I dyed my hair dark brown. None of my brunette friends ever get “Brownie,” or “Walnut,” or what have you.
“I know you kin heeear meeee.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can hear you.”
“Firecrotch! Do people call you that? I bet people call you that.”
"No," I seethed. "No one has ever called me that."
A woman in a baseball cap and polo shirt settled on a stool between us. She squeezed my hand and flashed a warm smile.
“There you are! I’m sorry I was running late.”
This was unexpected. I wanted to tell her I had no idea who she is, but my memory isn’t that reliable. It was entirely possible I did know this Izod-clad lesbian, and that I made plans to meet her at the bar. My life’s a bit of a jumble these days.
“That’s Ricky,” she said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “He goes after anybody who’s alone. You looked like you could use some help, dude.”
I have a weakness for lesbians who use the word “dude” in casual conversation. I believe they can handle any trouble if it arises, like a fight or an unexpected problem with my car.
“There you are! I’m sorry I was running late.”
This was unexpected. I wanted to tell her I had no idea who she is, but my memory isn’t that reliable. It was entirely possible I did know this Izod-clad lesbian, and that I made plans to meet her at the bar. My life’s a bit of a jumble these days.
“That’s Ricky,” she said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “He goes after anybody who’s alone. You looked like you could use some help, dude.”
I have a weakness for lesbians who use the word “dude” in casual conversation. I believe they can handle any trouble if it arises, like a fight or an unexpected problem with my car.
In short, I feel safer with them around.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m…”
“I know who you are. You’re David Magazine, right? What’re you doing down here?”
She said it as though my actual name is David Magazine. Perhaps Dave, to friends. It’s not a bad name. Sounds vaguely French. She introduced herself as Cindy, which was just about the last name I would’ve given her. I think of Cindys as cheerleaders or Baptist youth group leaders. Not necessarily PBR-chugging roughneck girls in baseball caps. But it just goes to show you can’t judge nothin’ by a label. Cindy lived in Atlanta back when she was with, as she put it, “This bitch,” at which point she lowered her shirt collar to reveal the name ‘Allie’ tattooed in script on her shoulder. Allie had introduced her to my column.
“Dude,” she said. “You and I seriously have been through so much of the same shit. It’s crazy.”
I’ve had that moment more times than I can recall. I called my column “Maybe It’s Just Me” as a legitimate inquiry, wondering if anybody could relate to my daily frustrations, or if I just needed to be on some sort of medication. In the nearly four years that followed, I found that it’s that very uncertainty which unites us. It crosses all boundaries- gay, straight, male, female, and all points in between. It’s been very reassuring.
So this week, my column gets a new name. Part of it is a fun little bit of marketing synergy: Necessary Luxuries is the name of my book, CD, and YouTube vlog (please subscribe,) so it seemed like time to bring the column under the same banner.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m…”
“I know who you are. You’re David Magazine, right? What’re you doing down here?”
She said it as though my actual name is David Magazine. Perhaps Dave, to friends. It’s not a bad name. Sounds vaguely French. She introduced herself as Cindy, which was just about the last name I would’ve given her. I think of Cindys as cheerleaders or Baptist youth group leaders. Not necessarily PBR-chugging roughneck girls in baseball caps. But it just goes to show you can’t judge nothin’ by a label. Cindy lived in Atlanta back when she was with, as she put it, “This bitch,” at which point she lowered her shirt collar to reveal the name ‘Allie’ tattooed in script on her shoulder. Allie had introduced her to my column.
“Dude,” she said. “You and I seriously have been through so much of the same shit. It’s crazy.”
I’ve had that moment more times than I can recall. I called my column “Maybe It’s Just Me” as a legitimate inquiry, wondering if anybody could relate to my daily frustrations, or if I just needed to be on some sort of medication. In the nearly four years that followed, I found that it’s that very uncertainty which unites us. It crosses all boundaries- gay, straight, male, female, and all points in between. It’s been very reassuring.
So this week, my column gets a new name. Part of it is a fun little bit of marketing synergy: Necessary Luxuries is the name of my book, CD, and YouTube vlog (please subscribe,) so it seemed like time to bring the column under the same banner.
But moreover, it’s because the initial question I had has been answered: It ain’t just me. It never was. Now I can focus on appreciating the little things in my life which truly define it- the necessary luxuries.
