Put Some Gay In Your Day, Dallas!

Fizzlers & Sizzlers

Those who were expecting fireworks from the Mueller testimony at this week’s Congressional hearings got lots of fizzle and precious little sizzle.  The reluctant former special counsel stuck to his plan of staying inside the four corners of the report that bears his name. And clearly, those corners were “correct,” “I can’t speak to that,” “outside my purview” and “I direct you to the report.”  Not exactly must see TV, even for political junkies.

Mueller seemed intent on nothing but the truth, as outlined in his report, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth.  His performance was described in some quarters as “doddering,” and even the most charitably inclined observer would have to conclude it was less than stellar.  To quote Macbeth, Mueller seemed “a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.” Except in this case, it was mostly fretting and not much strutting.

I suspect Mueller may draw comfort from having done, essentially, what he set out to do—at least once he agreed to testify.  Rather than being candid and completely honest, his testimony was measured and often halting. In his mind, he did the right thing, which seems to be of paramount importance to septuagenarian men.

At the risk of hanging myself, this “damn the torpedoes!” attitude from guys on the gray side of 70 has been on full public display quite a bit lately.  Joe Biden doubled down on his civil rights record after he was confronted by Kamala Harrison in the first Democratic debate on his position to oppose certain busing measures to integrate public schools some 40 years ago.  Bernie Sanders in his trademark grandiloquent style has gone all in on in-prison voting and his brand of democratic socialism. Of course, Donald Trump is the absolute master of political bombast, tweeting and speaking in a seemingly endless loop that reinforces his narrative to his followers.  These guys are always right, they’re never wrong, and they all get on my last nerve.  

In the interest of full disclosure, my husband is in that club.  For him, it’s not about race, or prison reform, or health care, but sure as shooting, he didn’t let the dog into the front yard, and somebody else either drank or threw away the last of the cranberry juice.  Bless his heart.     

On a lighter note, I was tickled by some younger guys acting so wrong that it looked like right.  Back in my day, we would respond to antigay protestors/religious zealots shouting into a megaphone, “Where will you spend eternity?  Repent or burn in Hell!” with eyerolls, slut struts and finger snaps. But coming across a similar group on the Santa Monica Pier recently, two young gay adult film performers named Dante Colle and Michael DelRay had a better response.  I’m confident some of you know who they are and that some of you wouldn’t know them from Adam.  

Please note that I did not refer to them as porn stars.  That term which has a somewhat negative connotation, although that is not the reason I avoided it.  It’s just that gay porn star should have names like Bruno or Johnny Harden [sic], not Dante and Michael.

So what was their response?  They started making out, then stripped off their shirts, at which point one of them jumped up on the other one and began what is indelicately called dry humping before falling onto the ground.  All of this in less than a minute. Just so wrong, but just so right.

Now that I’ve seen that, what will happen if Karl and I should ever encounter some Westboro Baptist wannabes?  It’s happened before, but not in a long time. Will we both say “damn the torpedoes”—even if I’m not a septuagenarian—or will my goal of not breaking a hip before at least one other person in my social set does so prevail?  After all, if I did that jump up on Karl expecting him to catch me, would he do it? Could he do it? Better yet, can I even jump that high?  

Oh, well, let’s just leave that sort of thing to the young’uns.  More sizzle, less fizzle.

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