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Seasons
in the Amiss
I want to warn you not to read this, ok? There was your warning.
I just got back from the fag bar. Lest you think I’m
a queer, I’ll go ahead and recount to you all of my
homosexual experiences, so you can see that every one was
the result of either trickery or ignorance. By far the most
entertaining of said instances took place in Nuevo Laredo,
Mexico at a whorehouse by the name of “Dallas Cowboys.”
I was with two other friends of mine, both of whom I’ve
mentioned in previous articles. I’m going to go ahead
and leave them anonymous at this point, because being mentioned
by name in “Offsides With Chad Holt” for any reason
has proven to be nothing more than the kiss of death for several
people. (Literally, in one case.) I can only imagine what
being implicated in a story about picking up transsexuals
in a dirty Mexican whorehouse would do to someone’s
reputation.
Anyway, the three of us were on a pill run down on the border
and, as custom dictates, headed into “Boy’s Town”
by taxi in order to sew our wild oats. When our cab driver
dropped us off, he pointed out Dallas Cowboys, the club, and
warned us in a mixture of broken English and Spanish not to
go there because, well, “Son Hotos.” I had been
to Nuevo Laredo at least three times before, and considered
myself an expert on the local culture and customs. On top
of that, I refused to believe there would be a queer whorehouse
named Dallas Cowboys, complete with the silver and blue star
logo. I explained to my two friends that the whorehouses and
cab drivers of Nuevo Laredo were all in cahoots, and we had
simply been brought in to town by a taxi driver who was in
league with rivals of Dallas Cowboys, and had thus been instructed
to lead tourists away from the establishment. (I see this
shit all the time in Clint Eastwood movies, but it’s
usually a little boy telling the gunfighters which hotel to
stay in,) Assuring ourselves there was nothing to fear, we
eventually found our way into Dallas Cowboys.
I always have the weirdest feeling when I’m fucked up
on downers in the company of transsexuals and transvestites.
It’s like half of my brain realizes that something is
amiss, but the other half refuses to address the problem;
almost as if I just don’t want to know what’s
going on. When in this state of mind, I’d fuck Patrick
Ewing if he were wearing a wig and some make-up. This being
said, when my “date” squirmed up next to me at
the bar, I found something about her very exotic, but couldn’t
quite figure out what.
After the typical haggling and bartering, homeboy and I retired
to her chamber in the back, which looked something like a
cross between a gas station bathroom and a slave’s quarters.
I swear to God, the donkey had a better stall than this bitch.
While we were tussling about, the feeling that something was
amiss kept growing stronger and stronger in my psyche. I was
being haunted by the cab driver’s prophecy; “Don’t
go there. Son Hotos.”
It took a side profile of the dude with his mouth open to
finally jar me out of my stupor. I remember just yelling “HEY!!!”
and scurrying up on to the head of the bed, wrapping my jeans
around my waist. I must have looked like a housewife running
from a mouse. The argument that ensued was very heated, violent
even. The funny thing was, I just wanted to leave, but this
guy was all pissed off that I “thought” he was
a man. We threw each other around his room a couple of times,
attempting to argue in each other’s languages. I remember
waving a ten-dollar bill around with the crux of my argument
being “Well then let me see your pussy. Here, here’s
ten more dollars let me see your pussy. You’re a hooker
and you won’t even show me your pussy for ten bucks?”
Eventually, he ran over to his dresser and snatched a framed
picture off of it. “Mira!” he yelled, thrusting
the picture in my face, “I HAVE BABY!!!” Sure
enough, it was a picture of the dude, in full drag, standing
on a beach holding a baby. I just started laughing and walked
out of the room. As I left, I turned and said, “Cute
kid. Give my regards to the missus.”
Not wanting to be a bad influence on any Rank and Revue readers,
I feel like I may need to make a bit of a public service announcement
at this point. If you ever find yourself in Boy’s Town
looking for transsexuals, for God’s sake stay on the
beaten path; in reputable clubs such as Dallas Cowboys. A
trip around the backside of Boy’s Town could easily
wind you up in a room the size of a closet with some eighteen-year-old
punk who chopped off his own dick and replaced it with a paper
towel tube stuffed full of catgut.
That being said, I’d like to turn your attentions towards
Mardi Gras, New Orleans, another place where I have unwittingly
messed around with men. Some of my loyal readers may remember
the article about me smashing out a bunch of windows at Big
Daddy’s Topless and Bottomless Bar on Bourbon Street
with Chris Marquardt, and how we then absconded into the gay
side of Bourbon to escape prosecution. This all might have
happened, but I would be lying if I told you that we knew
we were at gay Mardi Gras all along. No, it took several bouts
of trial and error to figure that out.
First I kissed this girl who had her face painted up all white.
I gave her some beads and kissed her with tongue, but I could
never get her to talk; not even to tell me her name. Due to
the white face-paint, I just dismissed her as some sort of
beautiful mime. Next, I came across a young twenty-year-old
Vietnamese girl with a short haircut. She was so petite and
lovely; I offered her some beads for a kiss as well. When
I heard her talk, I realized that she was not a twenty-year-old
Vietnamese girl, but a fourteen-year-old Korean boy. This
kid was too young for me to even be out with past curfew,
much less bang, even in Louisiana. It was at that moment when
I realized why the mime hadn’t talked to me... because
he was a fucking man.
Speaking of fucking men, I remember an evening back in 1977
when a babysitter, pawned off to me as an “uncle”
due to a patchwork family relation, introduced me to (his
version of) the game truth or dare. It was the night that
“Captain America” debuted on television, for those
of you who are keeping score at home. The rules of the game
were explained to me something along the lines of “Well,
you say truth or dare, and if you say truth, you have to say
something that’s the truth, and if you say dare, you
have to do a dare.” I must have lost this game because
I ended up beating the guy off on my trundle bed. I don’t
remember him coming or anything, but then again I didn’t
remember the shit happening at all until I saw him at a funeral
like seven years later. Upon seeing the perpetrator, I remember
thinking What a Prick! (Then I thought about the guy.)
So, you guys like football or what? I absolutely love football,
and consider it to be the most important thing in my life,
period. When I talk to people they are like; Dude, what if
you go to jail, what about your kids and your parents and
the band and shit? I’m usually thinking; Yeah that’s
all horrible, now what about fucking football?? Am I going
to be able to watch the games, or what? How am I going to
update my fantasy roster?
Writing for a music magazine in “The Live Music Capitol
of the World”, it is my job to tell you that the best
five or six shows all year are put on at DKR Memorial Stadium
by your Texas Longhorns. On top of that, there are multiple
high school football contests each weekend that rival any
bill put together in a club downtown.
I go to all Longhorn home games no matter what, and usually
take in a high school game or two each weekend as well. I
am considering the formation of a social club that meets down
on Red River before and after such events, so please address
me if you are interested, and look for details in my next
issue. Rank and Revue readers can also expect high school,
college, and pro football updates in each issue as part of
my column, as I am seriously running out of stupid shit to
talk about and need to waste space. (I mean I resorted to
telling you I’m queer earlier, obviously I need some
more material.)
Before Al Quaeda, I had mastered the art of entering sporting
events without a ticket. At my peak, I was walking into stadiums
with numerous friends, all of us dressed as cooks and waiters
carrying empty cardboard boxes collected from dumpsters the
preceding week. Now days, under the Patriot Act, you can be
executed on the spot if you get caught doing something like
this. (Sometimes I imagine that the government allowed The
New England Patriots to win the Super Bowl immediately following
9/11 in order to make people more agreeable to the Patriot
Act.) Bottom line is, I need to come up with a new way to
get into the Longhorn games for free, or extremely cheap.
Only about five short years ago, the common man could go to
Randall’s and buy Stampede Zone tickets to most Longhorn
games for Six Dollars each. Now tickets in those same spots
are at least Thirty-Five Dollars apiece, and you have to go
through ethnic cleansing just to get yourself in the position
to buy one. I am currently trying to get a press pass, seeing
as how I’m the sportswriter for this respected local
magazine. I’m now signing off, as I have hours of research
to do for my up and coming fantasy football drafts. I’m
also deeming this my shittiest article ever. Late.
- CHAD HOLT
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