Saturday, August 26, 2006


The Dutch cultural season was kicked off in Amsterdam this weekend. The "Uit-Markt" - which lasts for three days - showcases songs and scenes from various theatrical performances that will be in the Netherlands this coming year. So there we were, sitting just a bit away from the stage with the "Musical Sing-a-long" when Joachim says the unthinkable to me... Imagine my shock when he said "I don't like musicals." Me, the very person who was originally destined to becomes the very face of musical theatre. An updated version of Tommy Tune only with style. I thought he was kidding. I thought it was a sick joke. I thought perhaps it was an iced-tea induced moment of dimentia, but he stood by his statement with a conviction I found truly upsetting. Perhaps it's just a phase. Perhaps there are drugs he can take. Shock therapy? There must be a sort of Betty Ford for the culturally resistant. I have decided to make it my very own personal mission to show him the error of his ways and point him toward the light and hopefully he will soon be singing along to the tunes of the Moulin Rouge.

It seems there is nothing sacred anymore, not even the pain one endures while visiting the dark side of beauty. In an earlier post I told about how Kenneth, the guy that cuts my hair convinced me to go for a male Brazilian waxing, telling me it wouldn't hurt and that he himself had laughed through the whole process. So today, I went walking in that very same salon with Ulco and Kenneth starts teasing me about having to stop the process before being completely hair-free down there. I told you I would be laughed at by those with smoother buns than mine and it appears that I was right. Perhaps someday I will write a musical about it... I can imagine the title song now... "I'm gonna wax that hair right off of my buns."

Speaking of down there, that reminds me of an incident that happened several years ago. I went to London for a weekend to visit my friend Ann. She had asked me a few weeks prior to my visit if I was interested in seeing a play. I was thinking "Chicago", "Les Miserables" or something along those lines. What she ended up getting tickets for was "The Vagina Monologues." I asked her if she was aware that this was, in fact, a collection of monologues about "down there" and she assured me she was. Now why a straight woman would think that a gay man would be even remotely interested in topics of a vaginal nature, I am not sure, but like a good tropper, off we went to the little theatre. It was the largest collection of lesbians I had ever seen and the only thought that came to mind was "two drink minimum", so I took four as I didn't want to run any risks. So there I am, sandwhiched between my straight friend Ann and a lipsitck lesbian waiting for the insanity to begin. In the event you don't know what a lipstick lesbian is, lesbians come in a few categories. The larger ones with very short hair that look like they drive lumber trucks, and those that know what eye-shadow is. A lipstick lesbian is one of the latter variety. Don't be fooled, they will still kick your ass, but they will do it in a pair of Jimmy Choos and look fabulous while they take you out.

Just as I started the 3rd glass, ok, plastic cup full of wine, it started. I have to say I was surprised. It was at times sad, funny, political and just plain thought provoking. I did have a hard time imagining Oprah reading one of those as she claims to have done at a performance in NY, but then it is like thinking of one's own parents having sex. It just isn't something that seems possible. I was having an unexpectedly good time when it started.

I hate the "C-word". I personally think it is one of the most vulgar and disgusting words in the English language. Normally, that's not a problem, I just choose not to say it. This night, something happened that I never even imagined possible. The whole theatre began chanting the word. Over and over it was said, each time a bit louder until suddenly women started standing up, hands in the air shouting it at the top of their lungs. I was mortified, shocked, appauled and left speechless. I have seen many things in my life, but several hundred women happily shouting the "C-word" at the top of their lungs is one memory I could do without. Even the lipsticks lost themselves in the frenzy of newly declared vaginal power and not wanting them to out butch me, which the usually do, I forced myself to join in. I shouted it as loud as I could, but as luck would have it, I was too late and the only one that screamed it out at that moment. The lesbian to my left looked at me in disgust, her painted lip brought up in a Billy Idol sneer and I was scared.

That was when I decided to give up vaginas forever, no matter what you might call them.

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