I hate that commercial

 where the old codger is discussing insurance polices with his wife— and they suddenly discover that (wow!) they can sell their insurance polices now that  they are pretty much older than death. ‘Who knew?’ says the old codger, with a rueful smile. Well I’ll tell you who knew! Faggots dying of AIDS knew. I remember back in the 80s hearing of greedy insurance companies who were buying back the policies of gay men — some who didn’t even have AIDS. The rationale? ‘Well you’re probably going to die of AIDS some day soon, so why not make a little money for the….well I know you won’t have grandkids — but maybe, to go to Acapulco, or Key West, or wherever else you fags go on vacation.’ (That is not an exact quotation of course, but I’m sure that’s what went through their minds.) Yes, the fact that you can sell your insurance policy when you are practically dead is a little known fact. And yes, again, this fact is one which gay men  — for a tragically long time — have been fully conscious of. And there’s a lot of other things we fags know. Although we are not dying anymore — that is not more often than anyone else — our culture is disappearing. All because of victim politics. I went to a very traumatic queer performance theatre conference (Q2Q) in 2016.  I have never quite recovered. A cranky trans person told me that camp was somehow unacceptable — I’m not sure whether they wanted to abolish drag queens, or ban them, or just somehow wipe them off the face of the earth, but they came up with this idea: ‘camp humour is cruel.’ Damn right it is. Any ‘humour’ in its right mind is cruel as hell, because comedy comes from anger, and if you don’t have anger then you don’t have real wit, you have what was labeled 'gentle wit' in the 19th century, which means warm, loving comedy, which isn’t funny at all, but heartwarming, like the kind of 'jokes' you find in Hallmark movies on the Life Channel. Not that camp is mean, or drag queens are mean. Cruelty is something quite different than meanness. Meanness is personal, it’s the way one person treats another, and most drag queens, believe it or not, are sweet as pie once you get to know them. Cruelty on the other hand is a necessary evil. My favourite lesbian professor (who is into s/m) talks about how she is ‘cruel but fair’ with her students. And, indeed, cruelty -- when allied with fairness -- can be a virtue. (In other words, if someone stinks and you tell them, they might go out and buy some deodorant.) At any rate, camp humour is high on the list of primary elements of gay culture that are quickly becoming extinct. And if you mention Ru Paul,  I will say this. Yes, I do love her, particularly the performer Ru Paul — that brilliant, statuesque crusader for gender rights and gay rights  — but I don’t like her stupid show. I had to inform a young man the other day of my detestation for Ru Paul Drag; I tried not to hurt his feelings. (He sent me a link to something called ‘UNHhhhh’ on youtube.) I’m sorry, I really tried — I always try with Ru Paul, but it just wasn’t funny. It took me awhile to figure out why. First of all, well — those girls look like clowns. And frankly no real girl wants to look like a clown. And you might say — ‘But isn’t that the point of drag — that you’re not  a real girl?’ Let me correct this misconception. The purpose of drag is to look as much like a girl as you can, but the point is you will nearly always miss, because you are not a woman, you are a man — even if you have to pull out your penis to prove it. (Which most drag queens are quite pleased to do.) But why is Ru Paul Drag not funny, outside of the fact that those poor girls are dressed like clowns? The problem is that it’s not obscene enough. Sorry; I’m oversimplifying. It’s not bar drag. What is bar drag? It’s real drag, it’s where drag originated, and it is gradually disappearing. Bar drag is not for you and your girlfriend (i.e your actual heterosexual girlfriend who you have sex with) — or your grandma. It separates the men from the boys. Like porn does. When I talk about drag I mean Pepsi, who was my favourite drag queen in the 80s. She was a gorgeous southeast Asian gal, with a very foul mouth. She was also enormously politically incorrect. She would often point to some poor southeast Asian fag in the audience and say ‘Have you found a rich white sugar daddy yet?’ This was truly offensive. Almost as offfensive as George Girl —my favourite drag queen — who — when she’s trying to get some poor boy to show is ass in the ‘Best Ass Contest,’ promotes the $100 prize by saying: ‘Well, it’s easier than sucking off an old guy!’. This is the kind of wisdom you can’t get in school. Because, indeed, showing your ass in the best ass contest at Woody’s is better than sucking off an old guy, unless of course you are into sucking off an old guy (and some people are — thank God!). The point is, you can’t say that kind of stuff on TV. Also, real drag queens don’t just lip-synch pop hits, they desecrate them, I mean, take a shit on them. (Donnaramma used to do the most gorgeous coked up version of Britney Spears!) Well, now that political correctness and victim politics is killing gay culture, you won’t have us campy queens to kick around anymore. Do you know about the Fire Island Widows? Every year the drag queens from NYC descend on Fire Island. They get all dressed up and take the ferry over, and all the not-drag-queen-gay—guys are there -- to greet them with love, and hopefully, also, to screw them. (I did it one year, and it was a blast; a friend and I dressed up as twin Scarlet O’Hara’s - but he did too much coke or — well, it’s a long story) Anyway, one year during the AIDS crisis, a bunch of Fire Island drag queens dressed up as Old Italian Widows, in mourning, all in black. My understanding of Italian culture is that an Old Italian Widow is obligated to remain in mourning for her husband for the rest of her life. In other words this is no amateur performance of pain this is the whole friggin’ drama played out in real life. So the Fire Island Widows were very funny and truly tragic at the same time. And the message was: ‘We mourn our men, just as much as you do, even if we go out tonight and have sex with some stranger on a Fire Island Beach. So there!’  And that is the lesson I must leave you with . And if it’s befuddling,  then so be it. The best lessons usually are.