our hero goes on the town

Someday I'm going to write a song, and it's going to be called "97 Dykes, 2 Gay Boys, and Me".

I went to one of the Rock for Choice events, downtown at the Railway. And the breakdown was about like that. (My co-conspirator would say it was stupid tax. Who did I expect to be there?)

The room was swarming with 20-year-old dykes and they were just so Happy! To be! Themselves! They were Queer! They were Radical! They had Really Good Hair! They hugged and laughed and flirted until I just wanted to get them into a big group hug and forcefully bonk their heads together.

But I'm not bitter.

As usual, the gay bioboys don't make eye contact in case they might accidentally trip and sleep with me, and the young butch girls are all scoping my beard wondering where I buy my spirit gum, and whether I'm competition, and deciding I'm not because how could I possibly compete with their size five faux-alligator jeans with the studs in the shape of a woman sign?

But I'm not bitter.

The thing is, I want to go to exactly that same event, except I want it to be yards of trannyboys, so really, how can I begrudge? (And yet I do begrudge. Ah, life's mystery.)

And let me herewith issue an open invitation for gay biomen to get the sticks out of their butts and put something more interesting up there. (Not you, o reader, should you happen to be one. You are All Right.)

In fact, I managed to have a fairly good time, once I'd worked through my deep issues with happy people. The band was reliably together and fun to listen to. And at least some of them were over 30.

Clearly, the thing to do, rather that whine, is to Get Out There and Get Involved. But chaotic systems have more organizing skills than me. So I will have to remain a critic.

Which explains a lot about critics, actually.

rf