Cha said "Show him your gray hairs," but by then he was letting me in. I guess I was flattered that he thought I looked young, but the way he said "this dude was born in 1969"--as if that was completely shocking--was more than a bit insulting.
The Purple Parrot is, like much of Rehoboth, a cultural hodge-podge. Make no mistake, the gays and the dykes rule the Parrot, and outnumber breeders to a considerable degree. We were pleased to see some regulars we'd seen last year, like the 6'5" blond tranny who sings Travis Tritt tunes and calls herself Amanda Cruz, and the diminutive cowgirl lesbian in a biker vest and straw hat who line dances to every song. Last year she freak-danced my mother-in-law, which was rather hilarious (see above photo). She also goosed me tremendously as I sang a Sinatra tune during our 2006 visit. We were down at the shore for a wedding last year, and were still thirsty after the full top-shelf open bar reception.
But back to the hodge-podge. A good chunk of the clientele at the Parrot last Saturday were gun-totin' Bush-lovin' NASCAR types. It was amazing to see the dance floor full of gays and rednecks and redneck gays and lesbians and gay black men and old gay men and young Dale Earnhardt in memorium T-shirt types all having a good time together. Such a melting pot display makes me feel the forgotten goodness and exciting potential of the United States of 'murka. I'd like to think of our experience at the Parrot as a good send-off for Karl Rove, whose divisive brand of politics I hope has been discredited, along with his boss's administrative capabilities. I saw a mulleted crew of tough PA boys line dance with a drag queen. It made my day.