Mercury Poisoning Part 3

                Not too long after my daughter is born comes the announcement that Freddie Mercury had AIDS.

There's no time to even absorb this shock when his death is confirmed. What the hell? I now know there had

been rumors circulating for years regarding Freddie's declining health, much more in the UK than here in the

States, but all I remember is everybody just being completely floored by the news, myself included. My own

musical tastes ran more toward bluesy classic rock like my much loved Rolling Stones -my blood still runs Black

& Blue- with hip-hop thrown in to the mix as well, and I can admit it: at this time I was by no means a hardcore

Queen fan. That, as Freddie once said, requires a bit of musical sophistication I didn't yet quite possess, but I

was a big Queen fan in general and a huge fan of Freddie's on a purely shallow and superficial level- to put it

bluntly, he was hot as hell!  I remember seeing the video for "Another One Bites the Dust" (sickest bass line

in history, by the way), and just being in awe. That hat with the horns, the yellow tank top, those tight jeans?

Good times. That ass shake at the end? Perfect. Is it horrible for me to say that? I fear maybe I'm being a bit

disrespectful when I objectify him like that but I can't help it if my mind goes to a pervy place every once in a

while and besides, I think he would understand. He was one sexy bitch and he knew it. Freddie rockin' out

onstage in just those short- shorts, feet bare, a baseball cap perched on his head and a kerchief tied jauntily

around his neck? Come on! How many men could pull that off? I was young and could not have told you what

"sex appeal" was exactly, but I knew he had it in spades and was fifty times more exciting than any weird guy

I could find in my basement, or in all of Ohio for that matter. I prefer my Freddie butch, by the way. The butcher

the better. Both of my sisters drooled over him with long hair and nail polish, but in my opinion that cropped hair

and thick moustache took his hotness to a whole new level. I think in a really weird way he might have even had

a bit of a "dad" look to me as well and yes, this speaks volumes about me psychologically and yes, it is really

fucking scary. Thanks for noticing. But in my defense, the concept of a father is about as real to me as say,

Santa Claus so it's not as twisted as it sounds, right? Almost, but not quite. It also seemed to me like Freddie at

his most natural- just neat and tidy. Fastidious and precise, maybe even? Like almost everyone on earth I can

easily rattle off Queen's biggest hits in my head without hesitation, and I recall being so impressed by Freddie

at Live Aid. I was just fourteen at the time, but even a mere child could see he clearly blew every other act out

of the water that day. He looked so happy and healthy and of course to me at least, perfect in simple jeans and

a wifebeater. His hair was shiny, his beautiful teeth were gleaming and he sounded spectacular. He owned that

whole damned show and he knew it- beautiful! Happy to see that basically the whole world agrees now.



                "Bohemian Rhapsody” is played and played and played again, both on MTV and the classic rock

radio stations in a seemingly endless rotation, and as I watch and listen, I seem to find myself getting a little

emotional about him. I think it's a mixture of my newly diagnosed post- partum depression and the increasingly

fragile state of my marriage as well that causes me to start to take this to heart. This was just a dark period for

me in general. Plus, it was just so sad, right? That Bo Rap video is etched in my mind's eye: Freddie at the

piano, his hair long and shiny, cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass and last but not least, that beautiful

mouth. Let's take a moment to be thankful that Freddie was born in both a time and place where orthodontia

wasn't an everyday occurrence. Were braces even an option back when Freddie was a teen? Were they ever

an option in Zanzibar? Well, I for one am happy they weren't an option for him. Is that a selfish thing for me to

say? Maybe his life would have been easier had his teeth been "fixed". But to me, fixing implies there's something

wrong to begin with, and I look at those big white carnivorous teeth and I think they're perfect, at least in Freddie's

mouth. I just can't fathom him with a mouth full of boring, well behaved teeth. And who knows how his voice may

have been changed if he started monkeying around with his teeth? I shudder to think of that. I soon find myself

scouring the newspapers and rock mags for whatever I can find about this self described "lush creature". How

fierce is that? Most of the time they can't even be bothered to get his birth name right. The focus is all on his

"flamboyant lifestyle" and the very sad cause of his death, and most of what was written seemed a tad gossipy

and glib to me. Sadly, it is nothing when compared to the the shit some losers feel compelled to write about him

now on the web. There seems to be a large number of freaks trolling the web who are completely and utterly

obsessed with the idea of Freddie and his homosexuality. They are so quick to dismiss it as wrong or immoral

or sick, but they just cannot seem to get the idea of it out of their heads. Hmmm. "Methinks thou dost protest too

much" comes to mind, but then again, what do I know? I never even finished high school. And while I'm venting:

Yes, Freddie adored cats- any Queen fan worth his or her salt figures that out pretty fast. If you are one of those

who feel compelled to comment that "for a fag, Freddie sure loved him some pussy" or other words to that

affect, heed my advice: Save yourself time and embarrassment and don't post it. It's not offensive because

it's a bit homophobic or misogynistic, although it kind of is, it's offensive because it's dumb and not funny

and it's been said a million times.



                "Camp" and "flamboyant" seem to be the key words that pop up when describing Freddie. Hmmm.

I can read between the lines. My husband and his friends are discussing Freddie over beer and weed when

that vile word "faggot" is thrown about in an "I told ya so!" way, along with a few AIDS jokes. In my heart of

hearts, I really don't think they meant to be horrible. They were just young stupid guys from Ohio who, most

likely, were uncomfortable with the idea of a "rock god" being gay, and with homosexuality in general, but I

just can't let it go unchecked. I tell them, "I think he was beautiful". And I mean it. My husband seems a bit

embarrassed- not sure if it for me or because of me- and his friends look really uncomfortable but I couldn't

fucking care less. These guys all pretty much have me pegged as the huge buzz kill that I am because I

don't want their cigarette, or more importantly, their pot smoke around my baby girl and I also make it quite

clear that I don't relish playing hostess to a bunch of cackling drunks blasting Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin-

no offense to either band, they're both exceptional, but they are really loud! Yeah, I guess maybe I have

turned into a raving bitch at this point. My anger and frustration at my husband gets bigger by the day.

So do I, it seems. I just want him to spend some time with me and his daughter. I want him to be sober for

us. I want him to love me. I see now that I was driving him either further away with all of my neediness.

Desperation is not very attractive. At least I can honestly say that's a mistake I never made again. These

were bad times. Too bad my husband wasn't gay, we might have stood half a chance. Sadly, I'm only kind

of joking here. I am growing to hate even just the idea of sex at this point and almost recoil from his touch.

He is, understandably, not too pleased with this new development and doesn't hesitate to remind me of the

olden days when I laid everything but the linoleum. Well, those days are over buddy. Sucks to be you.