Gay hole 

I'm not very good at being gay. I merely give good head. Thus, it should be considered perfect irony around this time of year that I should painfully coexist in homosexuality's most hotly traversed metaphor malaise, Gay Days (if you will ... and you should), and typically find myself stewed in inadequacy. I've got cotton mouth as I write this telegraph. Therein, your evidence.

But this year was to be different. What with Cyndi Lauper making a return to her stalker's (me, er, mine) paradise for The Parliament House performance, and a Star Wars weekend at Disney's MGM Studios (including an appearance by, gasp, Chewbacca), all of my T-shirts were miraculously turning red.

But red bleeds.

Personally, I blame Pat Robertson for the sniffles I'm currently swabbing across my face, surely a result of the fact that I spent the entire weekend weighing a good 125 pounds soaking wet. Maybe we all are going to hell. Or worse, maybe we're already there.

You might sense here, dear reader, that I'm trying to find a really long winded way to say that it rained. You might be right. I was, however, able to cull a fair amount of miscellanea from the events at hand, as wet as they might have been, to present a portrait of the Gay Days at hand. Wetly. And not in a sexual way.

The clouds parted on Saturday night for the Cyndi show, although the fact that it didn't occur until 1:30 a.m. ensured that I wouldn't really remember anything. A cavalcade of drag performances of things that always sound like Whitney Houston made for some entertaining viewing in the warm-up. Just not close up, pancake. Even better was the fact that each drag performance was accompanied by a drag sign-linguist.

Gay-oh. Oooh, gay-gay-oh, midnight come and we wanna go home.

That's gotta be a good gig.

Then came Cyndi, who I sometimes think that I am, performing something like five songs to a backing track of circuit-queen dance thump. "True Colors" isn't really a dance song, but if you're gay it is.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, among the cedar-chipped ground that would make any queen feel like a hamster, I bumped into city commissioner Patty Sheehan, who is awesome for letting me be an asshole and letting everyone else be gay.

"I've never gotten the chance to be in your column," she tarted.

"Maybe tonight," I scribbled.

(I think we're up to seven uses of the word "gay" by now. Nice work.)

Nonetheless, it was to be Sunday's Star Wars festival that should have provided ample material beyond the word "gay" (Eight!) For my column. Although, surely the connection between Chewbacca's body hair and Gay Days would hardly have been glossed over.

Had I been there. Had I been there.

Well, I was there. But I might well not have been. Torrents of punishing drizzle made sure that my hair would look even worse than the Wookiee's, and finally encountering something that was supposed to be a Star Wars fan convention sent a thud through my dampened midsection. Two lesbians and a light sabre, and I'm not even kidding.

"Is this where the celebrities are," I dripped into a magical street minder.

"Um, yeah," she chewed her soul. "But I'm afraid you won't be getting an autograph without a wristband."

Um, I don't wear wristbands. Not anymore, anyway.

Anyway, heart-told Chewbacca (Peter Mayhew, in human terms) is set to be returning to the Star Wars franchise in "Episode III," along with the likable gay couple, C3P0 and R2D2.

"I'm delighted to return as Chewbacca," he told the Star Wars website. "I think his reappearance in this film is a fitting way to tie the whole saga together, especially for Wookiee fans."

Oooh, and am I ever! I've been imagining our encounter for some 20 years. I would lean in with a regrettable question about life and the meaning of it, and he would look at me blankly.

"Hwoooooar, hoooooooah" he might bark back, before embracing me in a bear hug that only a gay man could appreciate (What are we, at 37 now?)

Unfortunately, given the dampened climate and the smell of body odor and perfume misting over the gathered, er, 10 people, my meeting does not materialize. Boba Fett's here, too, I hear. But I don't give a damn about Boba Fett.

I do give a damn about my hair, though, so in a last-ditch effort to salvage my scripted being, I ran for cover beneath the overhang of the Star Wars ride situation. There I found a couple of Natalie Portman imitators working their difficult poise for all the $6.50 an hour it was worth. One might not have been Natalie Portman per se, and rather Jar Jar Binks, or something, but I do so hate science fiction that I can't be bothered to ask. Makeup, however is a different story, so I fashioned my one legitimate question for the day(s).

"How long does it take for you to look like ... this?" I shivered.

"Four hours," she painted.

"And what time does that mean you have to get up?" I shook in concern.


Wow, she gives good head. Ba-dump-bump.

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