Drag Queen Fight
Not only the streets, but the sidewalks were congested with screeching girls waving banners and chanting, not nearly in unison "Oh my GOD, Oh my GOD". Mental note to self: "Avoid walking past MTV studios during Total Request Live's broadcast.

Above the din, cops discuss their wives and kids, throw their heads back in laughter, succinctly followed by that specialized cop smirk. The screeching escalates and I begin to experience trauma over the notion that a huge percentile of these young women will eventually procreate.

I notice standing in the throng, three boys, aged perhaps thirteen or fourteen, holding a sign collectively above their heads:

"Go ahead, ruin music."



I smile, give them the thumbs up and dash into the subway stairwell.

My wait for the train is accompanied by a flutist on the uptown platform and a man with his face, body and clothing painted completely gold. This guy is a follower. He stole that act from SilverMan.

SilverMan finds his general haunt in the bowels below Union Square and Astor Place. I like to think that he lives to embody the spirit of women's suffrage; why I am not quite sure, but, you know, he has that sort of look.

The downtown 2 thunders into the station, one of its conductors leaning out of the window, beaming with pride. Yes, folks, HE got laid last night. The metro card clerk, however had not and informed me that she "Don' get paid 'nuff to ansa yo stupid kestins". I like her. She is a ravenous bitch, but consistently so and that is a comfort in a world where gold men try to be SilverMan.

The brakes screech to a halt (Remember to avoid TRL) and the doors slide open. "Let them off the train. Let them OFF. Please step aside and let the passengers OFF the train FIRST. MOVE THE HELL OUTTA THE WAY."

I was wrong. No booty for him last night. He must be dating the metro card clerk.

I take a seat, remove my book from my Pod Race book bag and concentrate heavily on the fine art of pretending to read on the New York City subway. I actually want to read this book, but after some time and experience I have learned that if you tune out whilst on the downtown 2, you miss out on at least 3 varying styles of entertainment. I'm eavesdropping.

To my left is a couple. He is assuring her that he is sterile. "I love you, baby. I wouldn't lie to you." That looks like an incredibly cliché and insipid line when typed up, but let me assure you that *I* almost believed him. This guy was smooth. Super slushy smooth. I wanted to talk like this guy.

She was hesitating slightly and he continued on. "Baby, you got me all flyin'. You got me soarin'. You got me all over." I'm telling you, it was the opposite of chunky peanut butter, the words were rivers from his mouth and I felt like jumping up, shaking her and saying, "Aren't you LISTENING? He's sterile! You can believe him - listen to the way he says it! He's a soul love song DJ, you can't resist him! Let him have it! You got it all over him: Can't you see how he digs you?"

I resist.

To my right, a suit is sifting through the cyber layers of his palm pilot. I notice that whenever the African American man next to him shifts in the seat, he clutches his briefcase tightly between his legs as if any black man who shifts in his seat is obviously about to make his move to steal a briefcase.

I decide to play a game with him.

"Hi." I say.

He ignores me and punches more optic buttons on his palm pilot.

"Hi." That's me again.

He shifts his eyes quickly toward me, moon darts flicking to the left. "Hello." He says.

This did not mean "Hello." This is New York Business Talk for "Leave me the fuck alone, you blue-haired freak."

Fun toy! Fun toy!

"I like gumbo." I tell him, whispering as if this is privileged information. "I like it, lots."

His name is Sam. Somehow, I am thinking I know that his name is Sam. I've never met this man before, but this is a Sam if I ever saw one.

"That's great." He says.

Liar.

Sam hates gumbo. Sam has probably never even TASTED gumbo. Sam is a putrid, gumbo-hating liar.

"Liar." I say. He looks up from his palm pilot, but not at me.

"I can play 'Amazing Grace' on my nose. My Grandmother; her name is Grace and she plays the organ so well at her senior center that they call her 'Amazing Grace'."

Sam is imagining what it would be like if my intestines shot out from my mid-section and created a noose for my obnoxious neck. Bonus fun toy.

"Is that so?" He says, the word "so" trailing off and I get the sudden impression that I am a part of a "Kids in the Hall" sketch and armed with that understanding, I decide to kick up the wacky factor a few notches. This is taken care of for me when the train doors slide open and in steps a drag queen screaming, "Never seen a fucking homo before? Quit fucking staring at me."

It is my firm belief that this was aimed in the direction of someone standing on the platform and not to anyone within the yellow & orange, graffiti-illuminated train car. Nevertheless, the screaming had attracted the eyes of the passengers. (Remember to avoid TRL)

"What the fuck are you all staring at? Fucking assholes never seen a homo in this city?"

I surveyed the train car. Most everyone had gone back to pretending to read. I had not because...well, you should have seen this drag queen. Imagine Mel Gibson attempting to be Cher. Something like that. It was vulgar in ways that God has yet to postulate.

He/She/It mumbled, breath baited about the "Stupid fucking homophobes." and yelled the occasional "What the fuck you looking at?"

Perhaps in some sort of familiarity bond, when she snapped at Sam, I came to his defense.

This is me, feeling suddenly cool:

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Oprah face. She gave me an Oprah face. You know just what I mean. My ex used to watch Oprah all the time and I had to see those audience members and panelists make that face, that "Did you just SAY that?" face, constantly. You know the one. That face. She gave it to me.

"Excuse me? What is wrong with ME?" Oprah side-to-side head motion combined with Oprah face.

"Yeah, what is wrong with you?" I was thankful I wore my trenchcoat and had decided against my "Muppets from Space" jacket. Somehow, I think these words would have been less effective, in that situation.

"What is wrong with me is all you fucking assholes gotta care where I stick my dick, that's what's WRONG with me." She had taco bell for lunch. Probably a gordita, but maybe a soft taco and a bean burrito. I am reasonably certain that it was not Nachos Bell Grande. Reasonably.

"No, I think what's wrong with you is that you are attacking a bunch of people who did nothing to you." If smoking was allowed in the subway, I would have wanted to light one up right now and be extra cool. If I could talk like that sterile guy, I could definitely get away with it. People would be high with my voice, they'd be thinking, “Sure, he's smoking, but listen to the way he's telling off that drag queen!"

Alas, no smoke: I consider and reject the idea of smoothly emptying a pixie stick into my mouth.

Not the same.

"They the ones that are staring at me like they've never seen a fag. This is New York City, assholes."

I momentarily find myself on the set of "Space Balls", Lord Dark Helmet screaming "How many Assholes we got on this ship?...Keep firing, Assholes!"

Where was I? Spaceballs....Assholes....New York...Drag queen.

"They're staring at you because you're screaming at them."

"Oh, so only STRAIGHT people are supposed to talk? Is that how it works?"

"Anybody can talk."

"Oh, so only if they don't talk about being queer, it's okay!"

"Who here said anything about your sexuality?"

"They all did - by staring at me!"

"Because you were yelling!"

"Oh, who's yelling?"

"Fuck you!"

"Oh, fuck you!" You may see this as being harsh or abrasive: Unless you live here, you can't understand that to us, this is merely the opposite of a handshake.

"These are NICE heteros, concerned heteros. They don't seem to care about your sexuality. Good breeders!"

"Who the hell are you to tell me about my sexuality? You don't know what it's like. You didn't have to tell your parents you're gay, you didn't have to deal with what I had to deal with."

"I don't think you're special."

"You're a homophobe, that's what YOU are."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Am I?"

"You know it!"

"Maybe you're right, my boyfriend tells me that all the time."

I got slow motion, here. I really got slow motion in the film of my life. It's slushy. Two girls near the end of the car put their hands over their mouths. That made me feel even more solipsistically cool. And then, the drag queen was just silent. Everyone paused, then went back to pretending to read. I sat down next to Sam.

"Hi."