I went to my first gay bar at 14. It was terrifying. Not because I was afraid of homos–I won’t detail my sexual history, but rest assured, I was a very precocious child. And not because of the whole “gay underworld” thing, either–though it did take a while to get used to the sight of men dancing with other men. No, it was terrifying because this was Mississippi in the 1980s, and we had to drive miles and miles of unlit backroads to the one and only gay bar in the area, on the outskirts of the tiny town of Hattiesburg. Then, after backing into a parking spot along the wall (yes, there were churchwomen out there taking down license plate numbers), we huddled into the front room of what must’ve once been the world’s smallest diner, and I had to talk my way past the cashier.

If I made it through all that (and I always did, thankyouverymuch), then, as the bar was closing at the stroke of 11:50pm, and the music cut off, and everyone was trying to figure out where the afterparty would be, I had to avoid the police officer (sometimes two) who’d stroll in to take a look around the place. I just knew that one day I’d feel a tap on my shoulder, and I’d turn around, and there’d be a big ol’ redneck policeman asking to see my ID (which, obviously, I didn’t have), and I’d be hauled off to jail to wait for daddy to come pick me up. We’d fight, and then I’d have to run away, assume a new identity, work as a waitress in a truck stop restaurant….

As terrifying as all that was, though, after several weekends it gradually became routine. The cashier got to know me, so talking my way in wasn’t a problem. I became friendly with some of the clientele (you know what I mean). I could mouth the words as every goddamn drag queen in town lipsynched the Uptown Girls’ version of “(I Know) I’m Losing You”. Not too shabby for someone still four years underage (this is back when you could drink at 18, of course).

Then, one Saturday, as I bellied up to the bar for another Coke (it would be several years before I discovered the joys of beer), I ran into my Uncle John.

I should explain that John wasn’t technically my uncle. He was a close friend of my mother’s family (crazypsycho mother, not biological mother), and I guess they didn’t have any uncles of their own, so they sort of adopted him. I’m not sure why. He was crusty and curmudgeonly, and he wasn’t particularly attractive or wealthy. He did tell a good story, though, and he traveled a lot–I guess that counted for something.

I wasn’t close to John myself. He dropped by the house a good bit, but he tended to hang out in the kitchen with my mom and drink coffee and smoke cigarettes, and I was always out riding my bike or rehearsing shows or playing truth-or-dare with the most attractive neighborhood boys I could find. Frankly, I didn’t pay him much attention at all. Until that moment at the Cha-Cha Palace.

When I saw him standing next to me, I did a double-take. Honestly, a double-take. I though about ducking and covering, but he was six slender inches away. It was far too late for evasive maneuvers.

John seemed completely unfazed, like he’d been expecting me. I think I mumbled a “Hello,” and I think he said something to the effect of “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell your mama” as I slunk away. If that’s what he said, he must’ve kept his word, ’cause crazypsycho mom never mentioned anything to me, and I saw Uncle John at the boy bar a number of times after that.

All of this comes to mind because I was on the phone with dad this weekend, and we were talking about nothing in particular–fishing, the farm, mom’s latest stint in rehab–and out of the blue he mentioned that Uncle John died a couple of weeks back. Emphysema. It was a little casual for a death notice, but then, dad’s a poker-faced kinda guy.

So, farewell, Uncle John. I hope they’ve got lots of nice, nubile Thai boys up there to keep you company. If not, try John Paul II–I’ll bet he can find you some hot, young Poles….

This faggotini has a new-found love and respect for Veronica Lake after watching Sullivan’s Travels last night. Sure, I’d seen I Married a Witch (the inspiration for everyone’s favorite Elizabeth Montgomery vehicle, Bewitched), and I’ve commiserated for Lake ever since I learned of her government-inspired tragedie de coiffure, but Sullivan’s Travels…. I mean, who knew the girl had it in her?

In other movie news, someone else has finally acknowledged the genius behind pornoeuvre Edward Penishands. They’ve even posted a blurry vidcap from my favorite moment–the (ahem) climactic scene in which Susanne declares her love for Edward and…well, let’s just say it’s an imaginative, excessive, spunky tribute to Winona’s snowdance.

Okay, here’s a coupla questions for all you Catholics:

The pope is infallible, right? But what if the cardinals who select the guy fuck up? What if it becomes a popularity contest and the wrong man wins? What if Zbignew from the Transvaal is all like, “No way am I choosing that troll–she made a pass at me in the middle of Easter mass!” and Ngugi from Kenya is like, “Oh, please. At least he knows how to use a freaking abacus. That guy you’re rooting for couldn’t count to two on his thumbs!” And Eugenio from Abruzzi chimes in, “Dudes, let’s just put the names in a goddamn hat! Seriously, I got a hot date tonight. …Now where’s the can in this joint?”

And then some newbie from Uzbekistan becomes the next pope, and he’s throwing parties in the papal apartment and mooning Alessio Vinci and the rest of the press. Meanwhile, the [allegedly] infallible guy grabs a slice of pizza [cheese only, ’cause he’s feeling kinda ascetic], washes it down with a cheap glass of table wine at some crummy Sicilian tourist trap, then throws himself in the Mediterranean.

So, um, what does the church do if that happens?

New Orleans is so medieval.

How medieval is it?

New Orleans is so medieval that I learned of the pope’s death on Saturday afternoon not from the television, not from the world wide interweb, but from the church bell, ladies and gentlemen.

I heard the bell strike once, like it always does on the first quarter after the hour. Out of habit I looked down at my wrist, just to see if I was keeping accurate time, but my watch read 2:20. And I thought, “Well, that’s odd. Someone’s slow today.”

A few long seconds later, the bell rang again. Not being a Catholic myself, I called out to Jonno, “Hey, what’s up with the bells? Is this some kinda post-Easter thing you Romans do?” Then the bell rang a third time, and I said, “Oh, nevermind, someone must’ve…OMIGOD, THE POPE’S DEAD!”

Jonno dove for the computer, and sure enough, there on the cover of the New York Times was a stunning pic of JP2, decked out all in white like he was opening for Mariah Carey at the Viking version of Lollapalooza. On site after site, inevitable phrases followed, like “For millions of young Catholics, John Paul II was the only pope they’d ever known.” Ding, dong, the pope is dead.

That’s how medieval New Orleans is.

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.