Martin took me to the Dina Martina Christmas Show this past Friday at Rebar. You should go to this show. If you like bizarre and blasphemous Christmas humor as much as I, you will not regret it. It's not even necessarily a drag queen thing. More like a very original mix of mid-western tea cozy warmth with sheer garish insanity. Dina sang a medley of "White Christmas" & Laid Back's "White Horse". Need I say more? How awesome.

Which makes it all the more annoying that my Appreciation for Obscure Homo Theatrics was called into question by some pompous gayass. Repeatedly. Even during intermission. It started with us trying to find a seat and spying 2 at the bar that looked open. I approached and asked if they were taken, thereby opening a can of judgmental worms. Whatever his name was was very nice and told us to sit down since his boyfriend was at the bar. Ah, how cordial of him. Then he starts talking to me, asking me if I'd seen the show before. Fair enough. Nice convo opener. When I said 'no' he morphed into Bobby Trendy and goes, as though someone just waved a dirty diaper under his nose, "Why did you come here"? And me, still being the nice, aw-shucks friendster said, "Oh you know, just heard it was a great show". "Yeah, but how did you END UP HERE? WHY would you come to this show"? I was getting a little befuddled. "Where are you FROM"? He kept looking me up and down. I couldn't shake his disbelief. Looking around the room and noticing all of the other NON-GAYS there, it wasn't like some private affair. Am I giving off some Republican vibe I don't know about? Jesus. I don't shop at Talbot's, I'm not sipping on white zin. What gives? 

"For the first 15 minutes of the show, you're gonna be like (opens mouth in jaw-dropping gesture), it's just, I can't even explain it. WHERE did you say you were from? WHY did you come here again?"  DUDE. I don't know what words are going to convey to you that I have the proper street cred to appreciate your oh-so groundbreaking and subversive fat guy-dressed-as-lady with Santa hat and Carol Channing wig. You're just going to have to trust me, OK? I promise when my mind shatters into a thousand pieces after the opening number, I'll try not to get any in your Stella. Or on your pointy Kenneth Cole loafers. Or your pointy head.