My partner and I recently went to the Brown Elephant to drop off some old books and clothing (spring cleaning!).
I knew that this trip would result in us picking up some new items, because Brad almost is incapable of coming home from the Brown Elephant empty-handed — which kind of defeats the purpose of removing clutter from our home. But I digress.
On this particular trip, Brad somehow managed to find the gayest vinyl LP ever (among hundreds upon hundreds of records there): “The Best of Judy Garland.”
I know what you are thinking, and it’s the same thing a few co-workers asked me when I relayed Brad’s purchase to them the next day: Don’t all gay men love Judy Garland?
Hell to the no! Not this gay man.
While I don’t mind an occasional Judy tune, I have never been a friend of Dorothy in that manner.
It’s not only that I don’t care for her singing, but also I don’t want to perpetuate some of the gay stereotypes that exist. Not all gay men love crappy diva music from Judy, Cher or Barbra. Definitely not this gay man. Give me Depeche Mode, Rogue Wave or The Police any day.
In fact, I’d rather go down with the Titanic than listen to Celine Dion warble about how long her heart will go on.
Let me also say that Brad is very into music and has introduced me to bands I can’t even pronounce like !!! (Apparently said like “chk, chk, chk.”) So I was taken aback to see him with a Judy album.
“I don’t know what came over me,” he said as he put the album on the turntable. “I was just feeling the gay today.”
I’d prefer he felt it somewhere else — perhaps out of earshot. But he wanted to listen to his purchase. As Judy sang, we discussed why she is considered a gay icon.
She had many struggles and tribulations in her life forcing her to constantly fight to get ahead — the gay community can relate to this. She had several failed marriages, kids at a young age, suffered from drug abuse, and often exhibited erratic behavior. We decided that she must have been the Britney of her day — except Judy actually could sing.
After 15 minutes of debating and listening to her album, my head was ringing. If I had to hear one more ding-ding-ding from the trolley or clang-clang-clang from the bell, I was going to scream.
But then an interesting thing happened: As the music played on, Brad became increasingly annoyed while I found myself reluctantly humming along and tapping my foot to some of the tunes.
I was busted. Despite all my protests, I found myself actually enjoying the album somewhat. But Brad had had enough.
So we agreed to shelve Judy for the time being. We then immediately went out and bought Madonna’s new album.
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