Tales from the dark hole
Being gay sometimes means hiding for safety
There’s a dark little hole the gay
population of Lincoln funnels into
every weekend. If you get there
early enough - before 9 p.m. - you
can save a few bucks and avoid the
cover.
You stick around long enough,
and the dark little hole begins to
beat in classic techno style, and the
hole fills to the brim with a cross
section of Lincoln’s finest. The
name of the bar: The Station.
The scene in The Station is pret
ty much the same from week to
week. Early in the evening, the tape
looped music, while still quite loud,
is low enough to be safe for your
ears. In the hours before the official
bar opening (around 10 p.m.), you
can pick out enough of your neigh-1
bor’s words to conduct a reasonable
conversation.
During a certain stage in my
identity development (ha, ha), I
would hang out there on the week
ends with two friends, Mike and
Chris. We would come for the danc
ing, but that wouldn’t start for a
while, so we would camp out in a
booth and talk about whatever was
on our minds.
Mike’s a shorter fellow, his black
hair frames his dark brown eyes,
reminding me of sitcoms from the
’50s - he has that same, gelled-back
look. Chris is a taller, skinny type,
his hair a platinum fake-blonde, his
ears pierced repeatedly, and his
tongue, too. He frequently juts his
tongue-bar through his lips and pulls
it back - that familiar nervous ges
ture that most people with tongue
piercings share.
My mends consistently invested
the money they saved by avoiding
the cover in the first pitcher for the
night. In the dark blue light of The
Station, the cheap, brown liquid
took on a smooth, appealing look.
That pitcher would be replaced at
least twice through the evening,
though I would drink none of it.
We talked about various things,
but one day our histories came up.
Mine wasn’t too interesting or
eventful, so I listened as they relat
ed.
Mike’s from a small Nebraska
town. He came out and met his first
boyfriend about eight years ago.
Their parents kicked them both out,
and they lived in a car together for a
few years. The relationship ended
when Mike’s boyfriend was killed in
a car accident. He was driving the
car the two had financed together at
the time.
Chris never was kicked out but
has lived without a mother since she
divorced his father. His life had
become a familiar, well-trodden
cycle. He would work at a bookstore
in Omaha, then on the weekends, he
would come down to Lincoln to visit
his friends here. A weekend of hav
ing fun, often visiting The Station,
would follow, trying to dance away
from the stresses that overburdened
his kind soul.
Both were unapologetically out.
“One time, I was at this conven
ience store,” Mike said, his voice
made rough and deep by an unend
ing smoking habit. “And I saw this
guy, and he was hot,” raising his
eyebrows, for emphasis. “So I whis
tled at him, and he just kinda turned
and smiled this cute little smile.”
Mike gnnned to himself as he
ashed with a faggy flick of the fin
gers.
“Doesn’t always work like that
though,” he said, looking at me, the
youngest and most naive of the
three. “I’ve been gay bashed once,
or I should say, I’ve straight bashed
once.” He chuckled.
“This one guy was like, ‘I’m
going to break your nose,’ and so I
let him try. When I was done, I was
like, ‘Should I pick up your teeth or
should I leave that as evidence?’ The
guy never had a chance; he was all
skinny and crap.”
And certainly, no skinny guy had
a chance against Mike. He sipped at
his beer, while I tried to glean some
sort of reaction from his face. He
wasn’t one to let a guy in deep emo
tionally, so there wasn’t the faintest
glimmer of regret or fear in his eyes.
“Yeah, in high school, I got crap
all the time,” Chris chimed in. “This
big kid wanted to fight me, and
there wasn’t no chance in hell I’d
win in a fight with him. So I started
to act all crazy. I just looked at him
and smiled real crazy. I said, ‘Go
ahead, hit me, I want you to hurt
me.’ And I took the cigarette I was
smoking and put it out against my
arm.”
He paused, as we put the image
together.
“And the whole time, I was look
ing at the guy and smiling this crazy
smile. It hurt like a mother, but I just
smiled and stared right at him.
Eventually, he said, ‘This guy’s
crazy. Let’s get out of here.’”
They sat silent for a moment,
letting their cigarettes bum and let
ting the beer go stale. I sat and
watched them, with no cigarette or
beer in front of me, and tried to
imagine the lives they’d led in
Nebraska.
I am a thoroughbred Nebraskan,
after all, and I pass easily as a het
erosexual. Being perceived as
straight in this state isn’t difficult
when everyone assumes you are
anyway. I haven’t been gay bashed
because I’ve kept my mouth shut
(until recently). Who knows what
the future will bring?
There’s a current of fear that
flows through the veins of every
man or woman in Nebraska who is
more attracted to people of the same
sex than the opposite sex. It’s a fear
for their jobs, a fear for their homes,
a fear for their lives. While the “gay
issue” seems distant when it lies in
the headlines, this nervous fear
flows even as closely as the desk
next to you in history class.
We don’t necessarily choose
lives lived in dark holes or in silence
or in flabbergasting flamboyance. In
the darkness, one finds peace. In the
silence, one finds invisibility. In the
flamboyance, one out-shouts one’s
fears. In a world flooded with
hatred, is it any surprise we take to
the driest ground?
So sitting in that bar, covering
my ears as the music’s volume
steadily increased, I wondered about
what life would be like without this
constant apprehension. What would
it be like, to be able to ask any guy
out, without worrying about being
sent off with a kick in the pants?
What would it be like to be able to
use the word “gay” in a conversation
without having to keep the volume
level down? What would it be like to
be able to refer to your boyfriend or
girlfriend without drawing a whole
classroom’s attention?
I wondered what it would be like
outside the deafening, dark hole.
Jacob Glazeski is a senior music and math major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist.
Get rich quick
Invest in business to create kingdoms and watch the money roll in
The position of the United States
as the preeminent global superpower
was bom of revolutionary business
people, entrepreneurs, inventors and
capitalists who were ahead of their
time. The business leaders of our
country risked life and livelihood to
build the United States from a mud
dled group of colonies into the most
solid nation in the world in only 225
years.
Unfortunately, these captains of
industry earn almost all the income; it
seems that by the time we common
folk hear about these overnight suc
cess stories, they’re already million
aires, and one would have to sell a kid
ney or small child to be able to afford
even one measly share of their stock.
Every red-blooded American
wants to be rich -1 think your citizen
ship is revoked and you’re deportedto
Russia if you don’t. It ’s nothing to be >
ashamed of; these feelings are natural ^
and part of being human.
The problem is that most people,
including 99.33 percent of the student
body at UNL (so that probably means
you), are simply just too stupid to get
rich. They don’t have the spark or die
creativity required to create some
product that no one needs, but every
one thinks they do. And they don’t
have the luck to get in on a good ven
ture on the ground floor.
Well, today is your lucky day. If
you’re interested in adventure, travel
and money, keep reading. If you are
more the type who enjoys whittling
Hostess brand cupcakes into barnyard
animals, turn the page. I don’t want
your eyes disgracing my fantabulous
announcement.
I’m going to introduce to you a
concept so revolutionary, so astound
ingly unbelievable, that you’ll proba
bly want to stab yourself with a com
mon marmot. Go ahead, but your eyes
aren’t deceiving you; the Mexican
National Land Appropriation and
Burrito Company is open for busi
ness.
Let me explain the concept. Rich
Americans (of which there are plenty
these days) always want the newest
fad or gadget they can get their hands
on. So, they send their butlers otf to
Best Buy or The Sharper Image to
purchase it, and they find satisfaction
in how advanced they are compared to
John Q. Public.
Eventually, however, this techno
high will wear off, and what then?
Technology is amazing, but everyone
knows it breeds geeks and nerds and
their ilk, and that’s not desirable. The
rich of this country soon will want
something more permanent and ful
filling, an acquisition that just keeps
on giving. That is the service we
intend to provide.
1 hink how much more satisfying
(and profitable) it would be to rule a
sovereign nation. No environmental
standards. No child-labor laws.
Nothing but sweet, sweet profit.
. A good friend of mine and I, being
tile smart fellows we are, realized this
is the trend of the future. And, to use
an incredibly stupid but catchy phrase
... the future is now!
The Mexican National Land
Appropriation and Burrito Company
will lead military expeditions, provid
ing supplies, effective corporate lead
ership and soldiers, if requested, to
commandeer the plot of land that will
become one very lucky investor’s per
sonal kingdom.
I’m sure many of you are dying to
ask, “This sounds like a fantastic
opportunity, but is it legal?”
Technically, no. But I checked
with the U.S. government, and thanks
to the efforts of the World Trade
Organization and others like them,
corporations now wield supreme
power on our shiny little planet.
Our expeditions are 100-percent
satisfaction guaranteed. We will not
fail, and we will not be undersold by
our competitors. No one can
stop us from successfully
setting up our corporate
nations.
Sure people can
fire at us, try to kill us,
sic dogs with bees
in their mouths on
us, but there is lit
tle to worry about
because private
citizens in the
United States
have almost unlim
ited access to the
highest quality
firearms in the free world.
i UKe to believe l Know a tning
or two about Mexican culture, and
ruling the natives should prove
quite easy. Apparently, Mexicans are
mad for small, annoying dogs, and
Dale Chihuly. We will provide our
customers with a large starter quantity
of both to be handed out in times of
trouble.
Obviously, Mexicans can be used
for cheap labor, but we also will be
sending expeditions into Canada to
round up our northern brethren for
additional bodies. Once the Canadian
realize how dreadfully monotonous
their desolate nation is, they undoubt
edly will be more than happy to come
with us to Mexico, and if not, we lay
into them with the nightsticks.
By now, I’m sure most of you
can’t wait to sign up before this
company skyrockets, taking
everyone associated
with it on a wild,
opulent ride.
The job opportu
nities with the
Mexican National
Land Appropriation and
Burrito Company and our
subsidiaries,
Canadian
Roundup,
Ltd. and the
Midget
Ranching
I
Corporation, are limitless. We have
positions open that encompass the
abilities of every individual on this
campus, from field marshal to town
drunk. (I’m sure many of you would
be perfect for this job.)
So join the revolution while you
can: Getting rich by exploiting
Mexicans is the wave of the future!
Megan Cody/DN
Chris Gustafson is a sophomore agricultural economics major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist.
