Ron and I had dinner at El Mariachi and then came home to watch the remainder of Idol (girlfriend-beater Scott remains on the roster).
We decided we’d celebrate the warm weather by getting some ice cream.
We’re walking down Aldine to the intersection with Broadway and we hear something behind us. A beer can was thrown near us by a passing beat-up van with three guys in it. Saying,
Oh I’m sorry. I dropped that.
And then they stopped at the stop sign.
They said and then drove off.
You’re in the wrong fucking neighborhood, fucking assholes!
They drove away.
Destructive rage gripped my veins. I wanted to slash tires, firebomb the car, embed that fucking beercan in that guy’s face.
I was so mad I couldn’t think clearly. Here we were, equidistant between three gay bars, bookstore, coffeeshop, gym and bathhouse and this kind of bullshit happens.
After a mint chip cone I realized I had several options besides screaming:
- I should have embraced Ron and dipped him and kissed him fully in front of them, fighting hate with love.
- Picked up the can and returned to them saying, You dropped this. Fighting hate with courtesy.
- Spoken the license plate number into my cellphone for filing a complaint. Fighting hate with legal action.
When the weather is warm the bigots come out to play.