Put Some Gay In Your Day, Dallas!

Olivia Is The Word

In a week where there is so much to choose from, I can’t really gather my thoughts and present them before hitting the one thing that happened that really stuck in my craw.  And not for the first time, it was Texas senator Rafael Cruz.  I call him that because I don’t use chummy nicknames with people I don’t know, much less that I don’t want to know.

Cruz seems to believe these days that he is part stand-up comedian, so he started his “not ready for amateur night” set at CPAC by saying, “My name is Ted Cruz, and my pronouns are ‘Kiss My Ass.’”  Well, all right then, Rafael, let’s get physical.  You may think wearing a boxy jacket that looks like a bad re-interpretation of Willi Smith hides it, but I can still hear your body talk.

You see, Rafael, you may be an ass, but no one can kiss your ass because you haven’t got one.  The male ass, Rafael, so you will know, is composed of two mounds of hard muscled flesh that a hand travelling down a man’s body will find after coming through the valley of the lower back.  The gluteal muscles drive external and internal rotation of the hip and are situated so that an effective pelvic thrust isn’t possible without their being strong.  To put it simply, Rafael, the ass provides the “motion of the ocean.”  And you haven’t got one.

Those tragic images at the airport related to your run to Cancun show conclusively that you don’t have an ass.  Or a waist for that matter.  A hand travelling down a physical form such as yours wouldn’t encounter anything hard until it reached your kneecaps.  What you have is a butt—two soft, fleshy sacks of flesh that tuck in and slide under to form something for you to sit on, but that no one wants to hold onto.  

Someone might be thinking, “You’re going too far.  It’s off-limits to make fun of how someone looks.”  But then, Rafael is the one who diminished the entire transgender community and joked about Lia Thomas’ looks.  So go high when he goes low if that makes you feel better, but Rafael Cruz can kiss my…well, you tell me.

When I heard on Monday of this week that Dame Olivia Newton-John had left our troubled world for her personal Xanadu, I was saddened in the way most of us were, remembering her through her work and the stages of her career that so often were a counterpoint to the phases of our own lives.  Unlike some singers who could be compared to a beer in a long neck bottle or a martini, up and dirty, Olivia was like sweet tea—always refreshing and somehow comforting.

Then there’s Grease.  It made 60 times its production cost with a box office adjusted for inflation of $1.636 billion.  I didn’t think many folks, gay or otherwise, identified with Olivia’s Sandy (or John Travolta’s Danny, for that matter).  That was more likely to fall to Stockard Channing’s Rizzo, although I’m self-aware enough now to realize I should have been looking to Marty Maraschino (“you know, like the cherry”) as she was the one with the thing for older men.

By the end of the movie, though, Sandy makes her transformation to skintight black pants and red springolators to get her man, foreshadowing the shift to Levi 501’s and cowboy boots that a generation of gay boys would soon be adopting.

Scrolling through social media, every other post seemed to be about Olivia, many providing links to favorite songs.  I never saw one for “Something Better to Do,” and suddenly Hillary Clinton was showing up in every third post—a shared meme of her ”just having some Chardonnay in my non-FBI-raided house.”  Something was up. 

I googled “FBI raid,” and the news came tumbling out of my smart phone like Rafael Cruz’s shirttail out of the top of his pants.  Of course it was Mar-a-Lago, and of course the raid was owning the Trumpers.  

By the time Trump himself was taking the Fifth on Wednesday in New York, giving us another former presidential first, those hopelessly devoted to him had preemptively plowed the political ground at Trump’s suggestion so that anything incriminating the FBI found would have been planted at Mar-a-Lago.  Talk about believing in magic…

Watching television about these shifting stories, thinking how it’s a bitch sorting out Trump’s many lies, I heard something on the skylight.  I looked out the window, and falling from the sky for the first time in Dallas for 67 days was beautiful, silvery rain.  

So despite Rafael and Trump, and with a little more love from Olivia, we can get through all of this by just remembering that sometimes and suddenly, life has new meaning.  Thank you, Olivia, we will always honestly love you.