Remembrances of a Terrible Ghey

For the past few weeks I’ve been living in the Boystown area of West Hollywood, better known as Weho, an unintentional misnomer for the neighborhood; I’m sure it’s been observed before that BigHo might be more appropriate. This is a temporary arrangement that will likely last the rest of the summer, which we don’t mean the same way in Los Angeles. It’s been observed before by anyone who’s ever set foot in Southern California that we don’t really have seasons, rather three stages of the year that might be titles taken from a Gershwin songbook:

Karl Lagerfeld

Imagining Lagerfeld: Symposium in the Sex Shop

Whenever the Paris collections roll around, I’m reminded I haven’t touched base with my imaginary best friend, Karl Lagerfeld.  As some readers may recollect, he and I have had our discussions—none of which have ended well, sadly—first over a gourmet sandwich, then at rock-n-roll Ralphs in Hollywood (during which he tried to brain me with a canister of Ajax), and over a workout at Golds Gym

We Own You, Marcia Bachmann

It would appear that we have called it right and that there is something not quite straight about the Marcus “Marcia” Bachmann story.  The ex-gay therapist, who would appear to be ex-gay himself, is being hounded all over the media, from Jon Stewart’s Daily Show to the Daily Beast, for his—how do we put this discreetly?—underperformance of the American performance of masculinity.  To put it indiscreetly, Marcia behaves like a screaming queen.

Sign language for “I’m a raging homo”: The fabulous wrist action of Marcia Bachmann.

However much you want to scrub “barbarian” Gheys* from the face of the planet, or at least from this Godly country, and pack us back to England and France, we still own you, Marcia Bachmann; you are clearly one of us and always will be.  Your ex-gay clinics are the sort of movement that is indirectly responsible for the viral bullying gay children are suffering in school, the beatings to death of your own kind, which is the preferred way to murder us.  Never mind.  You are forgiven.