Monday, August 28, 2006

Who Took My Moustache?

I don't think it makes me a homophobe to say that I'm pissed at homosexuals for stealing the moustache. Does it?

When I was a kid, I had an uncle who seemed to me to be the ultimate in macho intelligence. I mean, this guy had it going on: his driveway contained a camper-van with dope in the glove compartment, a little green Saab sportscar and there was a motorcycle parked in the garage. Dude lived out in the countryside (a place called Quiggleville -- I kid you not), big garden, sexy, funny wife (my aunt), wild, happy, snotty-nosed kids (my cousins), and a big old German Shepard named "Luke." He was a man of peace and wisdom (Master's Degree in Forestry, Crosby, Stills and Nash records), but he also taught me how to shoot his handguns in the field out back, and he went deer-hunting with a bow and arrow to make it more challenging, etc. This guy had everything -- and a moustache.

Of course, after growing up -- more or less -- I grew my own moustache, more or less like his. My Puerto Rican girlfriend loved it -- or claimed to. We were living in San Francisco at the time, and years later it occured to me that perhaps the devious woman only claimed to like my 'stache (and black leather jacket) in order to make me seem as gay as possible and thus thwart any possible interest from other women.

Now here's the thing: having a 'stache was fun. I could feel the breeze blowing through it. I felt like a cat with whiskers -- attuned to sublte changes in the environment that I never felt without it. It was sensuous (which is probably the real reason my girlfriend -- who loved all things sensational -- was into it).

But unless you're gay, that sort of stash is now off-limits. It's become a neon-bright, no-mistake-about-it identifier. Akin to a love of opera or a poster of Barry Manilow on your bedroom wall.

I feel like a straight guy who loves Barry Manilow. Where's my 'stache?

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