10:45 a.m. - Monday, Feb. 23, 2004
Ms Leslie, Freakin' at the Freaker's Ball
I�ve seen a lot in my half century. I�ve been to fondue parties in the seventies, at which an entire table was filled with bubbling pots of deadly boiling oil, cheese, or chocolate. I�ve smoked opium with speed freaks in their bare but spotless house. One of the more endearing qualities of some people who�ve dedicated their lives to that drug is that under its influence, they feel they must keep busy day and night. To this day, I�ve never pissed in a cleaner toilet.

I�ve been to starched linen soiree�s with the leaders of our country and others as a humble staff sergeant in the protocol office of the commander of US armed forces in Europe. I should write about my second military experience. I did a second tour of duty in the military. This time, it was the Air Force and a tour in Germany, where I worked for Alexander Haig when he was still a lowly four star general.

In my earlier life I�ve been, of course, to a Mormon trinity of plays, parties, fairs, potlucks, ice cream socials and fireside chats. The absolute number in a Mormon trinity has never been ascertained. As with the number of Mormon gods, it falls somewhere between one and a gazillion, depending on how you define �god�. But that�s a rant best savored another day.

I�ve been to dances and sock-hops, sado-masochism parties, baby showers, bluegrass festivals, Jimmy Buffet concerts, Led Zeppelin, hippy fairs deep in the secluded woods of northern Washington, and family reunions that seemed to go on forever.

I�ve seen a lot, but I have never seen anything to rival in the least the thing I saw last night��. The twenty-first annual New Orleans Lords of Leather Mardi Gras Grand Ball Masque.

The Lords of Leather, as I�m sure you can guess is composed mostly of gay, leather-clad men. Well, most of them, at least, are leather-clad. Some aren�t clad at all.

Mardi Gras ball are a great tradition in New Orleans and other cities along the gulf coast. They�re held by the many krewes, which are the various organizations that plan and roll the dozens of Mardi Gras parades each year. The balls are exclusive, invitation only events, which are further divided between tabled attendees and those which must simply sit in the balconies and watch the revelry below. I sat at table thirty as a representative of SMART, my local BDSM group, between some of my new friends from RSVP on the one side and NOBLE of New Orleans on the other. Those of us who weren�t in leather or other fetish costume were required to wear formal attire. I went formal, with a slimming black gown, a pashmina wrap and more costume jewelry than I could afford. Together, we spent the evening eating finger sandwiches and drinking wine, surrounded by an amazing variety of handsome cops who were not cops, Canadian Mounties who were not Canadian Mounties, and Dolly Partons who were not Dolly Parton. There were hundreds of men, each one of them elegant and dashing in their black tuxedos. I don�t think I ever realized what a tux can do for a guy.

There were collared slaves, cigar fetishists holding huge unlit cigars between their teeth. Ladies (real ones) were delectable in their formals, some of which were really awfully racy for a formal dress. Others wore costumes incorporating strict corsets and bustiers, red panties, crimson lined black capes and even an Indian princess.

It�s a clich�, I know, but clich�s are grounded in truth, so just think of �YMCA�, give it an overdose of LSD and then power it with a dilithium crystal and you�ll have an idea what the scene looked like. It was that word I hate to use�.. AWESOME!!

On the giant stage and runway, we hooted, whistled and clapped as one after another, the Mardi Gras tableau was presented. Last Xmas, I was dis-abused of the notion that all gay men have good taste. Now, last night, I think I might have been re-abused. Or maybe I�m just losing whatever taste of my own I might have once had. The costumes were absolutely over the top with height, sparkle, imagination, and OMG, knock down drag away, knee shaking, out loud gasping, beautiful men, as well as women of the same class and drag queens in a class of their very own.

The confetti and streamers drifted like jeweled snow until it covered shoulders, tables and floor while beads and other baubles arced in the air towards us as giant eagles with wings of gold and bodies of black leather sashayed gracefully round and round the runway, their flowing trains being constantly straightened by a barebacked attendant. The theme was �Wild, Wild, really Wild West� so all the floats and costumes and scenes that had been planned and constructed all year were in that vein. There were a dozen or more separate displays and each one was fantastic. The costumes weighed upwards of forty pounds and reached heights of ten feet or more. There were dancers doing moves that might not be allowed in a more public venue, and singers and skits that were both entertaining and hilarious.

The fact is, after all this writing, I�m still having a hard time finding the words, or knowing how to describe the scene. It was surreal. It was like a family with no secrets enjoying each other with no judgments. It was complete celebration by an array of characters usually found only in those secret fantasies you know you have but would never admit.

But here�s the thing that most impressed me:

At the moment the Ball Masque was to begin, as the very first order of business, we had the presentation of the colors, and we all stood and sang together, �The Star Spangled Banner�.

AS I stood there amid them, my hand on my heart, I remembered the rodeo I recently attended, and the ceremony there, in which the National Anthem was sung and then Old Glory was raced around the arena by a cowboy on a fast stallion. I remembered the high school football games, always with the flag presentation. I stood there, singing off-key and realizing that we are all still connected. We do different things. We hold different beliefs, ideas, and values, yet we somehow find the tolerance to let each other exist.

Those leather boys and the corseted women, the hooting, whistling lesbians and sashaying queens all love our country as much an anyone. They struggle and work, laugh and play, love and grieve, just exactly the same too. I can�t think of a better place or way for me to realize that than to see them teary-eyed and singing our song together, their voices rising up and spreading out into the universe to join with those of the cowboys and players, the scouts, parade-goers, and political delegates for more than two hundred years since this country was made.

It made me proud.

Happy Thoughts, Deep Breaths,

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