When I was pubescent, my dad unwittingly planned a family vagaytion to San Francisco. I excitedly bragged about it to my classmates, and an asshole wished, “Have fun in fag city!”
We stayed in a hotel near fag city’s financial district, and I felt hopeful that, though my gayness was still on the DL, I was among my paisas (Mexi-slang for COUNTRYMEN). Hope adrenalized my gaydar. It turned it hyperactive. It also adopted the cadence that Dad used to read us a bedtime classic-
Touring the city, my gaydar coyly asked, “Are you a faggot?”
It didn’t matter where in San Francisco we roamed. I stared at dead ducks hanging in Chinatown windows. Gaydar asked, “Are you a faggot?” I gawked at tourists reenacting Rice-A-Roni commercials on the trolley. Although they were clearly out-of-towners, gaydar asked, “Are you a faggot?” I watched suicidal jumpers teeter along the edges of the Golden Gate Bridge. Gaydar sympathized: “Are you a faggot?” We ate at John’s Grill, home of the Maltese Falcon, and over steak, my gaydar pondered, “Was Humphrey Bogart…a faggot?”
Recalling Lauren Bacall’s deep, Bea Arthurish voice, I realized, “Yes.”
In the same way that potential faggots lurked everywhere that summer in San Francisco, I see potential polygamists lurking everywhere here in Utah. I blame HBO. Watching Big Love gave me plig fever. (Plig is to polygamists what fag is to fags).
My pligdar was flying off the charts this afternoon.
At a Wendy’s in deepest Utah, staring at a worn out woman in sweats, I wondered, “Are you wife number one or wife number two?”
I saw sister wives everywhere.
TJ’s mind was far from polygamy. She awoke with pink eye.
She clomped about, and I scrounged leftover eye medicine from my cat pouch.
I don’t know if we saw any pligs for sure, but to make up for it, I went to work out in our hotel’s fitness room with an FLDS style bun. FLDS hair inspires me. FLDS hair makes such a statement. It says, “I’m married. A lot.”