To anyone traveling inbound on I-10 Wednesday afternoon, I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.
It started innocently enough: I’d grown weary of the same ten cds in my car and was flipping through radio stations in search of something interesting. And after a couple of scans, I heard the unmistakeable piano riff of “It’s Raining Men” by the Weather Girls. The song’s never been a particular favorite of mine, but it was better than anything else I’d found, so I let it play.
Seconds later, I recalled an episode that happened at the Bourbon Pub nearly two decades ago, a couple of years before I came out (well, came out again, but that’s another entry). Anyway, I was there with my girlfriend, and we were goofing around, and the dj played “It’s Raining Men,” and I starting singing along and doing this little dance, and my then-girlfriend just laughed, thinking it was cute, but later she asked me, earnestly, “Richard, are you sure you’re not gay?”
Like, duh, lady. How many straight men know the fucking lyrics to “It’s Raining Men”? How many would lip-synch the words in the middle of New Orleans’ biggest fag bar? …I mean, sure, I denied it, and I guess I’m a good liar, but come on, sweetie. Clueless girlfriend, there’s a call for you on the white courtesy telephone.
So day before yesterday, when I heard the song, I thought of that and I laughed at the absurdity of it all. Then I had a little nelly break. While driving. Not exactly a safe thing to do–it’s hard to steer with your hands that far up in the air.
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