Why I Thank the Drag Queen Gods

As the alarm goes off in my bedroom I cock my head and say what I usually say. “What the fuck Sherman!” I never remember that I am living in the middle of a forest with a big black bear that may or may not even understand English—either way, he gets it better than I do. “Why do those birds need to start at the crack of dawn?!”

“They’re birds Scott. That’s  kind of what they do,” Sherman responds. Sherman is quite possibly the nicest person on the planet. When I found myself unemployable at the beginning of the summer he offered me honey and a place to stay in his cave with a mountain-top view and a wrap-around terrace. Despite my unrelenting bitching, he continues to provide me with food and shelter. Like I said, he is the best. How I lucked into him I will never have a clue.

“You’re right,” I smile.

“Don’t apologize,” Sherman says. “Just try not to be crazy.”

That’s good life advice. Sherman should probably be a judge. I would actually love to see that.

Sherman starts the fire and begins to brew some coffee. “You better get a move-on,” he chuckles. “It’s your family reunion today.”

“Shit!” I stammer. “I forgot about that. That’s the last thing I want to do today.”

“What is the first?” Sherman asks. I get it. I have been in a bit of a rut lately. Who knows, maybe some time with my relations will be the kick-in-the-ass I need to pull my life together. Well, that and the fact that Sherman will be hibernating in a few weeks. Since I am an insomniac, I need to figure out a plan B.

“Bathing would be a change of pace,” Sherman suggests. I should probably take this as an insult, seeing as how it is coming from a bear. But, one of my finer qualities is that I have no shame, so I don’t.

“Nah,” I snicker. “Maybe go for a jog, but that’s about it."

“You make me so proud,” Sherman says, brimming with sarcasm.

“Why thank you Sherman,” I gloat. If he had wanted to prove a point, he really should have said “You make me so un-proud.” Not that I would have cared, but at least he would have said his piece and been done with it. I used to be a family counsellor and am well aware of the fact that suppressed emotions are the down-fall of most relationships. Well, most relationships not involving Angelina Jolie. “Okay, I’m out!”

“See you tonight,” Sherman says. I must say, he looks a little crest-fallen that I will not be spending the day with him.

“You know, the offer still stands,” I say. “You can come with.” I point at myself as though I am a sixteen year old rapper, because I like to think I am cool like that. I ain’t.

“Thanks, but I don’t think your family is prepared to meet me,” Sherman says.

“Oh Eyore.” I walk over and rub his big bear belly. “I’m sorry the world hasn’t caught up to us yet. But, you are far more personable than I am, so at the very least I could definitely see them disowning me and keeping you. And my drag-queen of a father is a big fan of yours.”

“Really?” he questions; his eyes widening.

“Oh yeah,” I smile, curling up into his lap. “My dad is always looking for someone to divert attention from his bald-spot.”

“Well, I think I’ll stay here. I promised Richard Hatch we would go for a walk,” he smiles. Richard Hatch is my female cat. She doesn’t have a million dollars, but she has been to jail. It is one of my favourite characteristics in any cat. “But thanks Scott.”

“No probs. I’ll bring you a treat when I come back.” Sherman loves treats. Who doesn’t, and he certainly didn’t get one shacking up with me.

As I pull my car out of the forest I start thinking about the direction my life has taken. Actually, first I flip-off a family of blue jays for waking me up every morning, but then I start thinking about my life. I might live in a fucking forest with no assets and have my predominant interactions with a black bear who may have lice, but I am really glad I don’t still live in the Ozarks that my family is from.

Growing up, I always thought my father was super cool because he always dressed better than the women in our village. He also had less facial hair. I actually still think of him as pretty rad, but mostly for what he puts up with on a daily basis now. He is considered a hippie solely on the basis of having long-hair. My first job, at the local ice-cream shoppe was spent warding off orders for marijuana.

 “Janet, my drag-queen father doesn’t even smoke pot. I doubt he has some for you.” I would say. When that didn’t work, I shaved some oregano and charged his ‘clients’ market value. I like to consider this my humanitarian period and am still waiting for Nobel to issue my award. But, in the meantime, my father has mellowed considerably.

He is actually a full-fledged lesbian now. After he started balding on top he settled down with a cattle-rancher named Sheba. They recently purchased a couple of Oxen, but forgot to close the gate, so now just own a rather large, and empty, farm. She seems to make him happy though.

As I pull-up to the bush area that my family has rented for their ‘family retreat’ I notice my father. He is easy to pin-point, as he is the only one wearing formal evening wear.

“Holy shit!” I holler, as he hugs me. He seems deceptively taller than me, but that is only because he is wearing platform sneakers.

“It hasn’t been that long, has it?” he asks, as he kisses me on the cheek.

“No. I just never realized how much you look like Serena Williams,” I say, very seriously. Maybe he would have made a good professional tennis player. Not a great one, mind you, but probably a very good one. The kind that would have shaved a set off of Billie Jean King before losing in the third round of Wimbledon. “You wouldn’t have won a set off Martina Navratilova.”

“No doubt,” he agrees. “That bitch was fierce.” My drag-queen father then snaps his fingers. He has adopted this as his signature move ever since I taught him how to do it—last year. Next year we plan on mastering ‘the wink’.

He grabs his keys, heels and handbag and moves gingerly toward the door while humming It’s Raining Men. The Geri Halliwell version—not RuPaul’s. If you asked him, he would tell you that he is not a fan of classics.

He is also wearing yellow. This is a problem.

“I know I didn’t exactly get dressed up this morning,” I say, as I look down at the same worn-sweater I’ve slept in for the last three years: four months of which have been spent snuggling in a cave with Sherman the black bear. “But you need to rethink your wardrobe if you are planning on going out in public.”

He changes into his red evening gown. It’s a bit of a cliché, but it works for him. He has the figure of a coat-hanger. Well, one that has been warped to break into someone’s car. I know what this looks like because I recently paid a man with three thumbs to break into my car after I locked the keys inside. “Let’s go son. It’s party time.”

He accessorizes this statement with jazz-hands.

“Oh, so that’s what my vomit tastes like,” I say, choking down this image. “I wouldn’t exactly call dinner with our in-bred relatives, party time.”

“Well then, let’s go son. It’s time for whatever you’d call it.”

At the end of the evening I say goodbye to all of the extras from Deliverance and kiss my drag-queen father goodnight. Not on the lips mind you. He’s taking his act on a thirty-city tour and I won’t see him until Yom Kippur. “I’ll miss you Old Girl,” I smile, brushing a tear from my cheek. He hands me a ‘kerchief. It’s glitter streams across my face.

“Own it love,” he laughs. Then he snaps those drag-queen fingers once more. As I drive off he seems to disappear like that sugar plum fairy from The Wizard of OZ. Our genetics might not be ideal, but they're ours.

As I idle back into the forest that I seem to call home I see the black bear sitting by a fire. “I made some herbal tea,” he smiles. “I thought you might need it. How was the day?”

“It was alright. I have to say, I am really jealous of that bitch, Tori Spelling, though,” I say, as I unwrap the ham I brought back for him and Richard Hatch to share.

“It went that well, did it? By the way, I didn’t know Tori Spelling would be at your family reunion.”

“She’s never accomplished anything, but her father was some successful producer, so she gets all the breaks. Un-fucking-believable,” I growl, ignoring his point.

“The only thing Tori Spelling ever did was have a producer for a father,” I continue. “She’s so fucking lucky.”

“What are you bitching about,” Sherman responds. “Your father’s a drag-queen with a moderately-successful stage show. That’s way better than having a dad that produced 90210. You lucked out.”

I think about this for a minute. Sherman might be a big black bear that has fish breathe and unintentional dreadlocks, but he also has a point. I am my father’s son. That father just happens to have a propensity for red pleather and fish-net stockings. But heck, neither of us are going to pose for GQ, so what’evs.

“You’re right, Sherman. In the battle between me and Tori Spelling, I definitely came out ahead,” I agree. To put this in context, it’s not like coming in second to Michael Phelps at the Olympics. More like winning a foot-race with John Goodman. Sorry to hear about your luck Ms. Spelling. Plus, I’ve seen Dean act. You didn’t luck out their either sister.

“You should be thankful,” smiles the bear, as he ambles off to find some more honey. As he wobbles into the sunset he mumbles something to himself. “Plus, Tori Spelling looks like a crack-whore. You only look like a regular whore—no crack needed.”

I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but no doubt it was something deeply-philosophical. The kind of thing you’d find in Life of Pie, even if you were drunk. It’s that fucking obvious. This is the man/bear that knows and loves me best, after all. Despite what that dude Leviticus supposedly said, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Well, besides that herpes medication my doctor prescribed.

“I thank the drag-queen gods every day,” I say to myself, before realizing that I am talking to myself, again. “Every fucking day.” Then I notice Richard Hatch is sitting there. No, I am not talking to myself. And no, I am not Tori Spelling. Those are both things to be thankful for.

That’s not to say that I don’t thank the drag-queen gods on non-fucking days, but it’s more of a non-traditional, spiritual, sort of thing on days not considered to be over-the-hump.