“We’re heading to the Whitney.”
“What’s happening at the Whitney tonight?”
“…art.”
Awesome.
Today at the bus stop
I met a man named Alaska Bob, so named for his origins. He told me of his life, as a local hero working on a fishing boat on the north shores of Alaska, meeting the woman of his dreams, marrying and having two kids, “one alive, one dead, you know how it is” I told him I do. I asked him what his son did and if he kept in contact, he said that he worked as a set designer for stage productions in Hollywood, but that he didn’t keep in touch with his father because he thought him to be a worthless bum. Though Bob smelled strongly of alcohol and wearing a novelty sailor hat, Alaska Bob was nice enough to say hello and ask every person who passed how their day was going, so I thought him far from worthless. I asked what his plans were, and he told me that he was headed back home to Alaska to settle down and retire where he could see the sea, and I told him that that was my only complaint about living in Colorado, that I could not go to see the sea. He told me he knew I was an intelligent person from the way I speak, but if he may divulge some personal information to me, I said I didn’t mind. He told me that his son is gay and that though he had known from the time he was born that he was, he didn’t mind and loved him, but never knew how to tell him that. I insisted that the world is a more progressive place in modern times, and that he need not worry about his son, and that homosexuals are widely accepted, especially in a city like Los Angeles. He told me he was glad I understood and that he appreciated hearing it from a gay man like myself, since he knew I was gay from the moment he saw me. Not knowing how to respond to this and not wanting to offend Alaska Bob, I held my tongue and was glad that my bus came five seconds later. That’s the nicest way I’ve ever been called a faggot.
