Life in the E.C.

Now that I have a blue Buick Century with a camouflage ribbon on the back bumper, I've been touring Western Wisconsin, where the sconny beer is cheap as water. The official line is I've been doing some soul searching in Econolodges and small town fag bars, but in reality, I'm simply in love with my newly-acquired automobility.

A few days ago, T arrived from NYC, and I drove him to Eau Claire (a.k.a. The E.C.) for a weekend of small town debauchery.

That's a photo of Ida, T's mom's doll, reposing on the couch in the Packer Room. Every single goddamn house in Wisconsin has a Packer Room, adorned with shrines to Lambeau Field, framed jerseys and tickets and trading cards, stacked with bobble heads and replica pigskins. T's Packer Room had a meticulously carved wooden replica of the Vince Lombardi trophy [named after a packer], lovingly painted silver. Take a Sconny out of the E.C. and he's just like you and me. Put him back in his Packer Room and he will defend The Favre with fisticuffs, if necessary.

I kind of like the idea of a Packer Room. I think if I were ever to be suffocated, I would like it to be in a Packer Room. Quite interesting crime photos, those would be.

I chipped my tooth at Scooter's, the gay bar in The E.C. We were with a gay stand-up comedian as well, named Dave. Sitting in my Buick, in the parking lot of Scooter's, listening to Toby Keith and doing things we probably shouldn't have been doing, Dave suddenly curses and says, "Cops are here." I notice the headlights slowly cruising the parking lot a few rows back.

Without warning, Dave jumps out of the car and proceeds to do a strip tease in front of us. I sit there, stunned. T goes, "oh no, what is he doing?"

The cops pull up. "You boys having a good night?" Corn fed, thick-necked, Blond Boys. Daddies probably work for Menards Corporate.

"Oh yes officers," David says. By now he is shirtless. I ash casually out of the window, trying not to draw attention.

"You boys don't have any guns or bombs in that car, do ya? You aren't terrorists or nothing, are ya?"

With that query, Dave saunters up to the cruiser's window. "No, we're not terrorists, officers. But I'm a FAGGOT and I will TERRORIZE YOUR ASS!"

My fist jumps down my throat. But it does the trick. The cops merely chortle, wish us a pleasant night, and drive off.

The moral of this story can't be told on such a family oriented blog as mine. It involves waking up with T in his sister's old childhood bed, surrounded by mirrors.