2006-08-19 - 12:50 p.m.
Well, the truth is, I should never go on vacation. Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m on holiday. I’ve gone with my folks to Wyoming this week. I have come to visit the state where they crucified Matthew Shepard to a fence post. In fact, I have a feeling it was THAT fence post, right there. With the bits of skin and blood dripping from it. And the little sign, written in black crayon, hanging from it, reading “Yoor Next Fagit!” In spite of all this, I am here to tell you that I find the state of Wyoming quite delightful. I don’t think I’d move here, mind you, but it’s certainly lovely to visit on a holiday.
And so here I am, typing at around 10 PM, after a long day’s hiking down a mountain, in the lounge at the Jackson Lake Lodge, which is this oh-so-charming resort in the middle of the Grand Teton National Park. It’s so purty here! The lodge was built in about 1950s, I think, and they haven’t changed it since, so the whole place has this quaint atmosphere of timeless retro nostalgia. The walls are slate grey stone, the sofas and comfy chairs are the same model as they probably had during the Eisenhower regime.
Outside the gigantic, towering windows is a tableau of gigantic spiky mountains, poking into the darkening skies. There’s a meadow, full of marshy grass and ponds, where at dusk the moose can sometimes be seen to graze. And then, for dinner, there is barbecue! You know how much I am into spare ribs and barbecued chicken and blackberry cobbler and various dishes of Wyoming haute cuisine.
And yet, I am rather morose. I’m sure I can’t really tell you why. I should be as happy as a clown. After all, I am surrounded by all this beauty, and my parents are delightful and congenial company. Still, though, I have to admit that every time I feel a moment’s joy, I start to think that some sort of horrible thing is going to happen. Does anyone else live their lives this way? Thinking that every happy moment will pass, and the sad moments are huge and looming and will be far worse than even the most fleeting seconds of pleasure that you’re able to grab while on holiday? I didn’t think so. Clearly, I am deranged.
We flew out of LAX for Salt Lake City on Sunday, two days after the British government managed to defeat this plot to blow up 10 planes flying from the UK to the several US cities, including Los Angeles. So it is no surprise that security was rather tight. But, my lord, they have gotten persnickety. And my stepdad, dear old thing that he is, attempted to check in using a driver’s license that had expired three years ago.
My stepdad, as you may or may not know, is rather an abstract fellow – and, as he has aged, he has evolved into an archetype midway between the Absent Minded Professor and an Irish blarney-spouting rogue. He is rather like the Buddha or the Dalai Lama. The things of the world do not penetrate his universe.
He is absorbed only with the things of the mind – his poetry and the abstractions of world politics and philosophy. And that’s it, really. As a child, I found him to be an, at times, distant father figure indeed, mainly because he didn’t really give a rat’s ass for anything that wasn’t a philosophical or literary abstraction.
So he was quite bemused when the Delta Airlines ticket clerk took one look at his ID and started screaming, “Expired! Expired! You are a terrorist! Lord help us! A terrorist! Summon the torturers! Release the rabid guard dogs! Set up the sodium pentothal and the whips and toe clamps!”
“But…it has my photo on it,” mused my stepdad genially.
“No! No! Terrorist!” she squeaked, and ran off to alert the proper authorities.
A few moments later, these two gentlemen appeared out of nowhere, standing next to my poor ole pa. They were conspicuously dressed down in drab, normal-person clothing – golf shirts and beige Dockers slacks. The look seemed meant to suggest a middle aged businessman heading off on a golfing trip to Myrtle Beach. One fellow was in his 40s, I suppose, with a well manicured graying beard. The other had the wrinkle-creased face of a lifelong soldier – and a soldier who had killed people with his bare hands besides.
Not the slack jawed, babberlipped, tobaccy-chewing laggards of the TSA, these: These guys were Security Agents from a Security Agency that probably Didn’t Really Exist and who were doing the Real work of keeping Arabs with bombs off the planes. They were scary. If they didn’t like you, it is clear that they’d drag you off and torture you with iron prods and bear traps until you screeched out whatever Al Q’aida secret they wanted you to reveal. Although they were almost calculatedly dressed so as not to draw attention – indeed, their intentions seemed to be that they should be totally invisible – they were distinctly terrifying. They took one look at my portly, disheavelled stepdad, in his dusty blue sweatpants and oxford button up shirt, and they had only one thing to say.
“Full search him and let him on,” the creepy security officers muttered before turning away and heading off to protect other parts of the airport. And so my stepdad was dragged off to a separate area of the security check desk, where he was resoundingly frisked and his suitcase searched from top to bottom. Finally, the pleasant TSA Agent shook his hand and said, “You are passed. Enjoy your flight!”
However, as it turned out the idiotic TSA fellow had forgotten to stamp my poor dad’s ticket. And so, at the flight gate, my stepdad found himself asked to leave the line so he could submit to ANOTHER full search by a DIFFERENT TSA Agent. At the end of the whole ordeal, my poor stepdad was a total mess, his eyes rolling and his face ashen. And all for the sake of terrorism!
But I suppose they must do what they must – but anyone can see that the silly fellow is no terrorist. Anyone who would even suspect him of such a thing really has no awareness of human nature. They just shook the poor man down just to show that they could – as PR so to speak, because word of fear spreads better than word of efficiency. But, as my mother noted, “They could have just not let him board. They did let him on, so the system worked, actually.” And so it did, I suppose, for here we are in Wyoming.
Later that day, while en route to the Grand Tetons, we stopped off at the small Utah home of a friend of my mother’s, an Episcopal minister, who welcomed us very kindly and showed us over her charming small town, which, forgive me, looked like a desolate hell. I am just gay enough to get the willies when visiting any small town – I keep seeing horrific visions of having to open a Bed and Breakfast or an antique shop – or worse yet, a hairdresser’s salon -- in one and live there forever and ever. Can you imagine?
But the minister seems to be as happy as can be. She’s still in the position, I think, of “acting” the role of a minister and hoping that the “character” rises from the pretense. However, as any student of psychology will tell you, that is precisely what always happens under the circumstances. You act a certain way long enough, you turn into it.
In what appeared to be an attempt to show her respect for gay folk, she mentioned that she was working to start a “Gay and Lesbian and Transgender Prayer Group” in the small town. Now, while I commend her effort, I could not help but think that the notion is ludicrous. Who on earth in the town would go to such a thing? It would be like AA: Anyone who would be seen walking into the meeting would be stigmatized within an inch of their lives.
Her life, though, I must confess is unusual. She has this minister job three days a week, and then she drives to another state to join her husband, who has a high paying corporate gig. And then together, they spend a few days at a mansion they own somewhere in the Rockies. After that, it’s back to the vicarage.
She’s raising a young adopted Korean boy, too, which I think is very kind. She seems to adore the child, which is wonderful, but I must confess that I was a tad unnerved that she insists that the boy refer to the family’s cat as his “elder sister.” I myself would not enjoy being considered on the level of a cat, but that’s me. Still, her affection for the little one is obvious. Mind you, she’s raising the poor little fellow in three or four languages simultaneously! The kid burbles things to you, and it’s clear that he knows exactly what he is trying to say, but it is a polyglot gibberish of English, Korean, and Chinese. Who could understand him?
Still, it was amusing to watch my poor stepdad and mother go all grandpappy googly over the little one. Stepdad kept bugging his eyes and going, “wooogawoogawooga!” while mom smiled and burbled “blubablubabluba!” I felt a little sorry for them, really, for it suddenly became clear that they have this sad void in their hearts, and they wish they had a grandson. Alas!
You see, this is the difference I’ve noticed between Red States and Blue States. In the blue states, gay folks get all defined by their sexuality. They come out and stay gay in the Blue States. They live in the gay ghettos, go to the gay dances, and have lots and lots of sex. In the Red States, though, folks convince themselves that it’s just a phase. They give up the cock and marry a wife whom they hate. And they give birth to children. In about ten years or so, the culture will change and sexuality will be seen as being more fluid than it is now. However, I am a prisoner of my generation. What can I do?
