I was reading my daily google reader crack, and Kristabella’s post ignited a memory that was best left alone. But since I’m all about the sharing, I am going to roll it out and examine it, and then laugh at what a doofus I can really be.
My nephew is a famous drag queen in Upper Canada. He does a wicked Bette Midler, even channeling her personality eye twinkle thingie. I knew he was gay the moment I met him (my brother married his mom). She, at that point, was in denial. When he lived with me for a while all I did, really, was encourage him to be the best him (or her) that he could be. So when he came out of the closet, it was totally dramatic. In full drag, with a great show routine. Thankfully, his mother did not blame me or accuse me of making him gay. I may be talented, but nobody is that talented. Except for Dixie Landers. Go on, google. You will find that he was beaten to within an inch of his life last year, and it took many healers working together to bring him out of his coma. He went back to his apartment eventually, but because he was brain-damaged, he made poor health choices, and is currently living with his Mom, under her care. He is not doing well.
Back before he was beaten to within an inch of his life, he was a constant performer. I was visiting his mom and caught one of his shows when I was in Upper Canada. It was amazing.
When I first sat down on the bar stool, I jammed my fingers between the cushion and the frame, and did a fair amount of pain-causing damage. Because I’m totally graceful that way.
With the announcement “This calls for lots of tequila”, I was well on my way to making a fool of myself. Because a lot of tequila in public? Guaranteed idiot. Plus it was extremely cold that week, record temps. I dressed accordingly. A real fashion don’t. Ugly warm shoes and all.
Yet Dixie was gracious, not once referring to me as his retarded aunt from the Maritimes. He just kept introducing me to the celebrities that came to see the show. Graciously.
One of them was a famous Olympic ice skating medalist. He politely endured my rhapsodizing about the strength and stamina he had cultivated to excel in his sport, and how Canada was so very proud and grateful to him. Which is marginally tolerable, in a celebrity-meeting-drunken-fan sort of way, but then there is the moment that is engraved in my brain and will not go away.
The snapshot where you see yourself slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, dressed in warm, ugly clothing and shoes. In a gay club. Where you are judged for your fashion. Talking to an Olympic skater who wants nothing more than to have you disappear. Yes, that one.
Did I stop there? No. No, I did not. I actually saw the light bulb coming on for the next thought that just by-passed my brain and shot directly out my mouth.
“Oh. But I like Elvis better.”
Dixie tried to administer aspirin before I went to sleep that night. I wasn’t having any of it, because I am so very wise when I’m hammered. I can’t recall which hurt more in the morning, my head or the very damaged fingers that started the whole thing.
Dixie was very sweet when I moaned about embarrassing him. He said: “You were having fun. It was cute.”
Anyone who has healing vibes for a really great guy is invited to send them his way, as he is needing all the help he can get right now. His mom would really appreciate it too.
