Small Town Gay Bar, and Boy

I had to miss Matthew’s opening at SFMoMA last night, and Björk and Matmos, to see Small Town Gay Bar at the Castro with D, my furry ward. I’m going to tell myself, and you, that I made the right choice. It was the perfect gay film festival movie, with everyone hissing at the Right Rev. Phelps and cheering at the drag queens’ acerbic right-on comments. The girls in the row in front of us were the “best friends” of one of the bar owners, and kept wooooo-ing it up and crying. I was afraid their emotion was going to spill over into my row and they’d make me dance with them or something, but they seemed content with the wooooo-ing and arm waving. It made me very homesick, and this morning my southern accent, which I never actually had, staged an imaginary comeback during a phone conversation, “I’m fixin’ breakfast, hun…” I’m planning a trip back to Bamie in August, to spend a few days with my mom and dad and buds, and then driving down to Florida with my mom and dad to visit my siblings on the beach. Not only is this the absolute hottest time in the south, it’s the height of hurricane season in Florida. I totally can’t wait. When I go back home I like to be enveloped by it, from the thunderous skies down to my dripping rarely-used sweat glands.