Where Are My Gays?

Kathy Griffin asks that all the time. Where are my gays? A few of my friends have also asked if there are any gays in the park. Funny thing is no one ever asks if there are any Jews. I guess once we finally finished that forty-year trek through the desert in search of Chinese take-out, we decided no more nomadic living for us.

I somehow missed that memo.

I have also noticed I am the only one with a Mezuzah on his door. There are Crucifixes a plenty.

However, there are a couple of cars with HRC stickers. Could they have bought those cars used?

The good thing about having a dog, especially one like Esmeralda, who must walk miles before finding just the right spot to go potty then do the potty-dance, which consists of going back and forth and doing circles before finally going, is that I get to see the entire neighborhood at least four times a day.

In every one of my past neighborhoods, I have been known as the guy who is always walking his dog. I am also the guy who has the dogs who take forever to go. Want a picture? Imagine a six-four queen, wearing Chuck Taylors while walking a long-haired Dachshund-Yorkshire terrier mix, named Daisy, now imagine him walking a toy parti-poodle, named Serena, and now a beagle, named Esmeralda. Yes, you would give him a nickname as well. “His dog is so gay it’s a fog.”

As you know, I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks, and back in the day, I used to wear some really short shorts that were so tight you could guess my religion.  

While Esmeralda and I are out on one of our regular walks, I always observe my neighbors, and they are all so friendly. It is very easy to engage in conversation in a mobile home community. After all, you can’t be a snob. Seriously, what would you say? “Oh her, she lives in a single-wide.”

However, you want to know where the gays are. Well, let me tell you what I have observed.

There is the woman who has a Jamie Leigh Curtis haircut, lives on a corner lot, drives a compact pick-up and has large bags of kitty litter in the truck bed at all times – sometimes several bags. Is she preparing for snow, or does she have lots of pussy? You do the math. She also wears jeans morning, noon and night. And yes, the truck is a stick shift.

There is the guy with the barbed-wire tattoo on the bicep, a gay comb-over (shaved head), a yellow Hummer, and a yappy Pomeranian, who always does yard work shirtless (him, not the Pomeranian). His body isn’t all that; I’m just saying. His lawn furniture would make Martha Stewart jealous. You come to your own conclusion.

There is my next-door neighbor. His yard is immaculate. He drives a spotless pick-up, and he apparently has a work-out room in his home. I have never seen a woman come or go. However, he once had a career as an auto restorer, specializing in body work. He is very friendly, kind of shy, but a really nice guy. His nails are immaculate as if he gets a manicure weekly. I cannot figure him out. I am usually wrong when it comes to these types, so I dare not ask. I bet if I ever get to see the inside of his home, I would know immediately. And no, I am not about to shit where I eat. Nothing good comes of doing the neighbors … believe me.

My favorites are the three men who live together around the corner. One is around eighty, one around sixty, and the other is about thirty. I have never had a conversation with the eighty-year-old. Although a little chunky and always shirtless, the three of them don’t look alike. They have decorated their windows and their shed with butterflies, yet they are always working on their cars, which also have butterfly stickers. I observed their shed when the door was open, and it is more organized than a labor union. It turns out the middle one was an American Motors mechanic – not a gay thing, but cool nonetheless, and the younger one drives a vintage Jeep – also not necessarily gay but cool as well. Get this: the middle one refers to the older one as his uncle and the younger one as his nephew. So, that is what the kids are calling them these days. The jury is out, but I think deliberations will be just a few short hours.

They remind me of the time we took a trip to Felton, Pennsylvania, to look at a Chrysler New Yorker. The guy selling the car was a redneck, living with another redneck, and their overly friendly and gentle Rottweiler, named Onyx. Their house had a gondola and a lighthouse, and all their antique cars in this muddy place in a town riddled with McCain-Palin posters were just a little too pristine. Boy did they have us fooled. The entire town was gay. Not a woman in sight!

So, your gays are everywhere. You just need to know where to look!