Dog Fighting

Bad luck wind been blowin’ on my back
I was born to bring trouble wherever I’m at

– Danzig, 13

Some days, you look for a fight. Other days, fights look for you.

I took Indy and Bosceaux to the new dog park in City Park today. To make a short story shorter, Indy decided to pick a fight with a Great Dane (a fight Indy was winning, I’d like to point out) and we left early.

Not even five steps outside the dog park, an old drunk guy asks me to swipe my magnetic card to let him in. After living in the Quarter for so long, I instinctively replied with “Sorry man, no can do.”

Apparently, no can do would not do. This old guy lost it, started yelling at me. He had a clear plastic go cup half filled (empty?) with a brown colored liquid – in all likelihood it was booze.

To make a middle-length story short, he yelled things like “faggot queen” at me, then proceded to get in his car and block me in so I couldn’t leave. Well, fuck that shit – I just called the cops – but by the time the City Park Police came by, he was gone. After giving the officer the license plate and a description of the guy, his dog, and his car, he took off and so did I. I did call NOPD first, but since I couldn’t give them an address or street corner, I was S.O.L.

I kept my distance from him at all times though – nothing takes the fun out of a fight as much as having your opponent be a drunk septuagenarian. The whole drive home though, I couldn’t let something go. I kept mulling over what it was he called me, and whether it was better to be a “queen faggot” or “faggot queen.”

I’d rather be the Faggot Queen with a fabulous army.


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