Gay Couture: I wish I could’ve stealthily taken a picture of this guy.  Seriously, if there was any way to do it without being totally mean and obvious – I would have.
Instead you are stuck with my witty repartee and quippy description of what I saw last week at the favorite chinese restaurant of our family.
Firstly, the chinese restaurant is the best I’ve been to – ever.  And that includes all the places I’ve been to in DC and SF and NYC, all known for incredible food.  This place is not too clean (sometimes not at all) and they have the freshest fish – like in tanks at the doorway.  If I were educated in (what I believe to be) mandarin, I could read the menu in it’s entirety.  Unfortunately I get the american version.  When the bigshot feels adventuresome, he orders by point and query from the handpainted signs hung around the large open dining room.  We’ve been going there since we moved to this godforsaken place and the owner’s son is the same age as Kin.aked and has often been there under her watchful eye as we dined and the kids played together.  She thinks I’m a good mama from across our cultural divide and appreciates my husband’s gastronomical bravery, so we often get the best dishes and excellent treatment from the kitchen.  It’s hard for us not to the love the place.  
Secondly, the locale makes this place interesting too.  It is deadcenter in what was formally the gayghetto of the city.  That community has since largely dissipated, but there is still a clear following from people who are still or used to be of the neighborhood.  
And this is what I saw:
A guy walks in who clearly used to be quite buff and fit.  He appears to be quite gay, as in ‘out,’ or ‘flamin’ and comfortable with his sexuality (a feat in itself around here)  He is covered in sundrenched skinned tattoos from head to foot.  Not in a grotesque scary guy sorta way, just literally from the head down to his flipflopped toes (which are, I noted, quite nicely manicured).  I know this because he stood around at the pick-up area (really next to the door wedged between the fishtanks at the opening of the great room) so I got a really good view for a substantial amount of time.  He was wearing old, torn, and faded yellow sweat pants that might have been banana color when they were new.  The pants looked as though they fit him at some point, but were stretched and bedraggled (I’m sure with love of wearing) by now.  He had on an old tee that did not quite cover his manpaunch and the stretched out elastic waistband of the pants fell low enough to reveal an unshorn happy trail with no undergarments to intercede the view.  Given the tatooing and the  pantsizing, it seems as though he probably has acquired the gut with a solid combo of agedness and beering.  Yet in his extremities there retains a solid memory of trim and fitness of his past (much unlike my schlumpy mamaness in comparison).  He was carrying with him an expensive and fine leather manbag (or purse, as you might like it).  It was an over the shoulder, squarish, kinda businessy, kinda faggy looking accessory.  A swarthy european type might be able to pull it off while vacationing with family, but with the rest of the ensemble on this particular fellow, the bag screamed gay.   
Now this whole picture was a little stark in relation to the environs, but what put it over the top was the raccoon tail decoratively attached to the manbag.  
Read it again.  
Yes, indeed I did write; “what put it over the top was the raccoon tail decoratively attached to the manbag.”! In your minds eye, can ya see why I’m bummed I couldn’t politely take a picture?!   Even thinking about the whole scene as I write this, I am still laughing!
And when I was young I would have rudely guffawed heartily and made some remark in an attempt to share my amusement with the target of my laughter, because I think it’s important to laugh at myself on a regular basis to keep my foibles in perspective.  As an adult, I have since learned that most people do not want to engage that way and don’t think self-depreciating humor is funny at all.  Kinda the reason that Kathy Griffin is a D-Lister and I’m an unpaid blogger.  But it is still f*cking funny! which is why aforementioned comedienne sells out shows and people I don’t even know read this silly diatribe.
So in a state of maturity, I did not whip out my trusty cellphone camera to attempt photographic documentation of the hilarity, and therefore you must rely on my own written genius to get across the amusement.  I hope it was as good for you as it has been for me!

a bitchin feminista mama at the intersection of political quagmire and real life.

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