What a World

What I did on my summer vacation

By Nancy Ford

SO OTHER THAN DEALING WITH THE global pandemic and coughing up Saharan dust, how’s your summer? I hope it’s just peachy!

How is mine, you ask? Well, though it can’t be described as a laugh-a-minute knee-slapper, my summer has been… memorable. And busy, busy, busy! Every day has been a veritable whirlwind — nay, more like a rollercoaster, jampacked with excitement and unexpected twists and turns, leaving me dizzy and nauseous on, pretty much, a daily basis.

In the short span of a mere six-week period, I have — —Physically recoiled at the thought of the infinite variety of germs, bacteria, and morsels of state dinners that reside in John Bolton’s moustache; —Questioned why rubber bullets aren’t used to break up mobs of redfaced, heavily armed, mostly white men and women as they shriek against the inequality of having to skip a few appointments at Supercuts; —Considered adding a helmet to my wardrobe of personal protective equipment in anticipation of a million cicadas getting ready to emerge from underground after germinating for 17 years and beginning their mating cycle once again by emitting their 100+ decibel love buzz; —Learned that Verhoyansk, a remote town located in Siberia in the Arctic circle, hit 100-degree temperatures on the first day of summer, even though all this talk about global climate change is just another Chinese hoax; —Watched helplessly as the 50th anniversary celebration of the Houston Pride Parade wisely was cancelled, then sympathetically revived in support of Black Lives Matter, then wisely cancelled again; —Mourned as friends and loved ones whom I have long respected reveal a surprising and naively shallow side of themselves by insisting that All Lives Matter; —Had a conversation with a particularly treasured, elderly aunt who explains that FOX News is her sole source of information “because she’s a Christian;” —Tried to resolve the unmitigated hypocrisy of Texas Governor Greg Abbott being praised for finally adopting a public mask policy that Harris County Commissioner Lina Hidalgo was chastised for recommending weeks earlier; —Cringed as a man who thousands of evangelicals consider

to be sent from God turned the Holy Bible into a stage prop; —Developed respect, perhaps even admiration, for the author of a new tell-all book even though her last name is Trump; —Wondered if I will ever realize my dreams of sipping French wine in a quaint little café on the banks of the Seine or standing on the hallowed stage of The Cavern in Liverpool where The Beatles launched their career because Europe is closed indefinitely to American travelers; —Feared that South Dakota’s governor insistence that shooting off fireworks at Mount Rushmore is perfectly safe and wouldn’t set the surrounding national forests ablaze; —Blinked at the too-real hallucination of Honest Abe’s mournful, granite face turning even more stone cold the night the Lincoln Memorial was transformed into a backdrop for a Fox News/Trump propaganda spectacular; —Raised every strand of both eyebrows while being told that the blazing sun was beating down on the stage at West Point cadet’s graduation ceremony, yet the ramp leading to that same stage was like an ice-skating rink; —Listened to a small group (hehehe) of mesmerized lemmings squeal with glee in the BOK Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma at the sight of a 74-year-old man demonstrating his strength and virility by drinking a glass of water with one hand then throwing said water glass across the stage. —Realized that Meghan McClain has become a solid voice of reason in the Republican Party; —Viewed in amazement as Ch-ChCh-Chia plants sprout from the heads of previously immaculately coiffed late-night talk show hosts; —And have been quarantined from my beautiful, beloved, essential-worker partner for what seems like an eternity.

But otherwise, I’ve had a great summer.

I’m immensely thankful that my loved ones and I have remained Covidless. I have shelter, food, clothing, a solid internet connection, an extensive premium cable package, and enough allergy meds and Ambien to last until Jesus comes.

And not for nothing, I’m thankful that my condo is within reasonable walking distance of a Spec’s liquor store.

Perhaps best of all, I’m thankful that despite the Orange Menace’s best effort to pack it with antiequality justices, last month the Supreme Court of the United States actually ruled in favor of protecting LGBTQ+ citizens from workplace discrimination. Free(ish) at last. Yes, all things considered, it’s been a great summer. Pass the Coppertone and hand me a beer. e Image via MeriCherry.com

MY LIFE BEHIND BARS part Four:  A tale as old as time. The beauty was a beast

e By Randall Jobe

I’LL CALL THE DRAG QUEEN IN THIS piece “Homo Siedel” for reasons that will become apparent. Homo was a beauty, a popular club emcee best known for her “put down” humor. She could rip you a new asshole and stuff a cabbage up it. She made Joan Rivers look like an Ingalls offspring straight from their little prairie house. To call Homo “potty mouth” was a compliment. She was a sewer spouting swill and she made no apologies.

Around the same time that Homo was at her height of popularity, I was hosting an amateur strip show on Mondays — the absolute worst night of the week. Yet I somehow managed to build a decent following that would drag themselves out at 11 p.m. on a school night. Of course, the cheap drinks and the cute-enough boys willing to strip to their underwear for the chance at a half decent cash prize might have boosted attendance.

The pee-pee parade was presented on a stage that consisted of two wobbly platforms that, surprisingly, held up my ample ass. But then again, they had been tested to their limits by several drag queens that outweighed most barges in the ship channel. (Here I am tempted to name names, but suffice it say you can take her black or with cream and sugar. Love you, girl!)

My brand of humor was similar to Homo’s, but I don’t think I ever managed her level of chewing

the bystanders’ faces off and spitting chunks of them back at them (though that might create some debate.) I did often get the audible gasps along with laughter and some outright screaming.

To call Homo vicious was to call Hitler “naughty.” I did not see her act very often and I can’t remember if I actually enjoyed her, but my guess would be that I winced and laughed along with the crowd as some poor straight girl was reduced to tears. What I could not have known was that behind the comedy was a dark mask of mammoth proportions. At an after-party for a huge annual charity function with everyone sporting tuxedos and ball gowns, I was having a cocktail when Homo approached and struck up a conversation. Dressed in a gorgeous sparkling evening gown with lavish rhinestone chandeliers dangling from her ears, she was a bit tipsy. I was on my first beverage so all that would transpire was crystal clear to me. She began to compliment my onstage humor saying she had seen me several times. She suddenly announced, “You know, we do pretty much the same thing. The only difference is that when I read them, I really mean it. You are joking, but I really hate them.” As abruptly as she had appeared, she was gone. I felt a chill up my spine and I physically shuddered. Soon enough I would understand why. I turned to the bar and ordered a double vodka, neat. I heard the sordid story in bits and pieces, each tidbit more horrific than the next. It seems that at the very time Homo stood speaking to me in her up-do and designer shoes, she had already murdered a young girl, whom she had, in her male personae “knocked up.” Word was that she professed her love to the mom-to-be and was unceremoniously rejected. In a fit of rage Homo beat the poor girl to death and dumped her body. It would be discovered wrapped in a blanket and weighed down with cinder blocks in a lake outside of Houston, not far from Homo’s parents’ home where she would be found hiding in a laundry basket.

Homo was sentenced to prison and to my knowledge sits there still some 25-plus years later. I heard rumors that she actually did well behind bars. After all she was a young, not-so-bad looking male. I would assume she became somebody’s bitch, which could offer some level of protection. Every few years I hear there is a release pending, but nothing ever comes of it.

The thing that haunts me almost as much as the horrible loss of an innocent girl, is that, for weeks after an act of brutal murder, Homo could carry on doing shows and attending events without batting an oversized eyelash. I hope behind the carefree act there was a tortured conscience. I also hope that we were not so much alike as she believed. I do know that the odds that we will share the same fate are nil. First, I would have to get a girl pregnant. I’m good. e