November’s “Idiot of the Month” award is proudly offered to Rich Tafel and his pals in the Log Cabin Republican Club. Granted, this team of faggots would be shoo-in candidates for idiots of the DECADE. But they’ve made particular asses of themselves this month by courting George W. Bush and then expressing shock that he wasn’t interested in their advances.

Imagine that: a Republican candidate for President wasn’t interested in meeting with a group of sell-out gay Republicans. What a surprise. When will Rich and his merry band of Aunt Marys ever realize that the Republicans they so idolize would be thrilled if these particular suitors disappeared from the face of the earth.

The Log Cabin types remind me of gay men who spend their entire lives chasing after totally unobtainable straight macho men. They’re absolutely nuts about individuals who (by and large) feel nothing but contempt for them. If they’re drunk enough, they might let a fag suck them off, but they’re never going to return the favor, and they’re certainly never going to take one home to meet Mom.

Same with the Republicans: they may take money and support as long as the fags don’t expect any acknowledgement or support. Bush, has indeed stated that, while not agreeing to meet with them, he WOULD accept a donation or endorsement from the Log Cabin Club, thus qualifying him for the “Hypocrite of the Month” award. The really frightening thing is that, as the Republican front-runner, Bush probably will ultimately receieve an endorsement.

Or maybe the Log Cabin Republicans can all join the Reform Party and bend over for Pat Buchanan in a back room at the convention. Hope they don’t plan on getting near the podium, though…

Home again. Bags unpacked. Clothes put away. Car stowed in a relatively legal parking space. Ears still popping from the flight.

Coming shortly, essays and photos related to:

• Squirrel shit.
• Raccoons.
• Okra, collard greens, and sweet tea.
• A party in Dennis Hopper’s place which Linda Lavin and I were at.
• Sleeping in the same motel room with my parents.
• Condos, apartments, and even houses I could afford.
• Thoroughly adorable Bosnian young’uns.
• The Raleigh-Durham airport and the evils of air travel.
• A 50-year-old supermarket on Walker Avenue.
• Mom and Dad’s anniversary party.
• The iMac.
• Tearooms (or lack thereof).
• Cheap cigarettes.
• How much I don’t want to live in San Francisco anymore.

But I’m tired, so all of this will have to wait. I wouldn’t count on a lot of email responses for a couple more days either, but I’ll be working on it. Soon…

Lunch at the cafeteria in Burlington, and off to Raleigh and the airport. We said hurried goodbyes and I checked in at the front desk. At the metal detector, a guard (LIzzie Wright is her name, by the way) wouldn’t let me go through with my fake bullet necklace.

I wasn’t really so upset that she stopped me (even though she admitted she new it was nothing dangerous). I was upset that she was so rude and hateful about it, refusing to even let me sit it down while I went to get an envelope to mail it to myself. She obviously wasn’t concerned that it would explode or anything, otherwise she would have been worried when I threw it in the trash. Which I did, since I I didn’t have time to argue anymore.

This wasn’t a security risk and she knew it (she even said so). She just didn’t want to have her fat ass bothered by actually helping someone resolve a situation. Lizzie was nothing but a bitch and a control freak. Period. So I threw it away, thanked Lizzie for her southern hospitality, and got on the plane.

After paying $120 for long-term parking (cheaper than the tickets I would have gotten otherwise), I got on the freeway toward San Francisco. I flipped off two people on the way home, got tailgated three times, and got cut off twice. I suddenly had a strange longing to be back on Merritt Drive in Greensboro with its quaint little “aggressive driving enforcement area” signs.

Welcome home.

 

I slept as badly as I knew I would. On the way out of town, we visited Carolina Beach and stopped at a barbecue joint in Garner. I grabbed refrigerator magnets and cheap cigarettes at a huge outlet in Burlington. And we came home.

Dinner at the J&S Cafeteria (see a trend here?) and my Dad and I went back to Harris-Teeter so I could get more provisions. I washed clothes.

I really didn’t want to go. I felt like crap, and I wanted to relax a bit and spend more time in Greensboro. But I didn’t say so, and we left early for Wilmington. My cousin and her husband had purchased a building downtown (the Masonic Temple no less) from Dennis Hopper. They were having a party celebrating the opening of the theatre and roof deck on the fifth floor.

Interstate 40 between Raleigh and Wilmington is hideously boring. I nodded off a few times. When we arrived in Wilmington and checked into the Hampton Inn, I really wanted to sleep. I was also a bit leery of sleeping in the same room with my parents for the first time in a good twelve or thirteen years. But there’s no polite way to say “I don’t want to stay in the same room with you so I’m getting one of my own. I’ll pay”

  

Wilmington was nice, if a bit of a traffic nightmare. The historic district downtown has not yet succumbed to the twin pressures of Starbuck’s and terminal cuteness, although a bar called “Dot-com” was a bit off-putting. I found a great dusty old used bookstore and actually spent a few bucks.

 

We had dinner in at the Front Street Brewery. These places aren’t known for their food in general, but this place was just plain awful. I got jerk pork. Ever eaten jerk pork with no spices at all? I don’t think they even used salt.

The party was fun. There was a play. There was music. There was beer, but I didn’t have any because I already felt rotten enough. Linda Lavin was there, although no one could quite pick her out. The view of the Cape Fear River from the roof deck was amazing. I know this because the roof deck was also the smoking area.

After the party, my Dad and I walked to the Waffle house by the motel and had real food.