8 GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE ~May 11, 2001

letters tothe editor

Still looking for Keith's murderer

To the Editors:

Remember last Memorial Day weekend, when the fatal shooting of Keith Fitzpatrick occurred on May 26, 2000 in the parking lot outside of the Interbelt nightclub in Akron?

According to police reports, a gunman held a gun on John Simler, a friend of Keith's, who was sitting in Keith's GMC Jimmy while Keith jumped into the vehicle. The gunman asked for John's wallet at which time Keith tried to close John's side of the door and was shot. The gunman ran off after the shooting and the wallet was found in the GMC Jimmy.

Nearly a year has passed, and it's almost Memorial Day weekend, and the gunman of this senseless crime is still at large.

On May 27, Keith's son will have another birthday without his father in his life. Keith's mother and six other siblings miss him terribly at our family gatherings. He was such a special father, son and brother. Keith has many, many friends that will not hear his laughter and see the smile that lit up the room. Keith was a shining star for so many people whose lives he touched.

Fitzpatrick

Anyone reading this who knows anything, no matter how small, please report it to the Akron Police Department. Perhaps you wit-

speakout

Finding my redneck within

by Kirk Read

For the gay individual in a small town, there comes a time when everything starts to look good. I call it rural dementia. I live in a town of roughly 200 people, depending on the season. Sometimes I'll hang out at the post office, swapping gossip with our gay postal worker. In walks a completely gnarled up specimen of manhood. Not classically handsome. In Lake County, California, men are like comets. You see one that's remotely attractive and you run for the telescope. Six months ago, I'd have thought "Road kill," but nowadays I burn his visage into memory for later use.

I've always been drawn to genuine bluecollar guys, not the guys who wear brand new construction boots and meticulously rolled T-shirt sleeves. I get weak when I see beer bellies, three-day stubble and greasy cap brims. I can't explain it. I grew up around guys like that, so many of my first crushes were on mechanics and farmers. My reaction to such men is visceral and potent.

It's somewhere between "Be my sweet cowboy" and "Make me your bitch.” I now live across the street from a trailer park, so there's no shortage of potentially sweet cowboys. At any rate, there's no shortage of beer bellies.

My friend Jerry shares my obsession. The other day we went to Wal-Mart because he needed Polaroid film so he could snap nasty pictures of himself and send them to a married man in Fresno. I told him I hope to God I'm still that perverted when I'm 58.

Jerry has gone full-tilt into the redneck thing. He lives in a trailer and has an enormous 1969 Ford pickup truck, replete with a Jesus Saves sticker on the bumper. He even fires up yard debris on the county's eagerly anticipated Burn Day. The first time I smelled

Cruising in Wal-Mart is about

the filthiest thing I've ever done, and that's a considerable assessment, given my rap sheet of. misadventure.

smoke, I called the cops. The man who answered calmly explained the concept of a burn day to me in a soothing baritone voice. I wanted to ask him to come anyway.

Jerry's redneck pose is totally convincing until you realize he takes notes during Martha Stewart and arranges the yard in complementary color zones. In a word, he's versatile.

I have great ambivalence about shopping at Wal-Mart. They donate mad amounts of cash to the right wing and force their employees to do a group pledge of allegiance ritual at the beginning of each workday. I limit myself to things I can't get at other nearby stores or things that are far cheaper than the small businesses I'd prefer to support. But in this area, being a small business doesn't mean that

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nessed this horrible act and for some reason won't come forward. Please consider coming forward, knowing how you would feel if someone had information about your loved one's murder. Please help us find the murderer of our brother and help our family get closure to this senseless crime!

Contact Capt. Elizabeth Daugherty of the Akron police at 330-375-2490.

Think, if this happened to someone in your family, how would you feel? Help the police solve this crime. Please! Sandra Fitzpatrick Daiello Keith's sister Tolland, Connecticut

The Cleveland Lesbian-Gay Center will also take information anonymously, at 216651-5428 or toll free 888-429-8761.

they're any less homophobic than Wal-Mart. So goes the dilemma for a rural queer on a budget.

In my shopping cart, I had a package of blue light bulbs. I've resorted to four-watt night lights to save power in my kitchen and hallway. The power crisis in California has been a mixed blessing. It's the first time in years that we've had a public dialogue about energy conservation. Naturally, President-Select Bush and his cronies are using the hysteria of Californians to tear the shit out of Alaska and who knows where else. Are you ready for more trickle down? We're there, kids.

The other thing I had in my shopping cart was one of those plastic toilet seats, the pillowy ones that hiss when you lift up off them. My booty gets special rights, like lotion-enhanced toilet paper. The energy crisis has meant that my bathroom is always icy cold and I've just had enough contact with that cold

seat.

Getting a plastic-cushion toilet seat is, to be sure, a redneck rite of passage. My next purchases will be a strawberry air freshener for the rear view mirror and vinyl doilies for the kitchen table. My inner redneck is coming out, and it's not all pretty.

Jerry and I spied one very surly looking man standing in the middle of the audio-visual section. He was the epitome of blue-collar fantasia. He's the guy that all those Colt videos have been aping for years. Jerry and I took hold of the cart to steady ourselves. Our Dirt Track Romeo seemed lost, staring up at the ceiling's hidden cameras. We started dry heaving and shaking. You could smell his testosterone drowning out the Britney Spears video pouring out of a wall of television sets.

Handlebar moustache, two days of stubble, muddy jeans, faraway blue eyes.

His jaw was clenched tight and I knew in that moment that he knew how to barbecue. Jerry and I got our fill and headed for the fabric department to see what was on the dollar-a-yard table.

Cruising in Wal-Mart is about the filthiest thing I've ever done, and that's a considerable assessment, given my rap sheet of misadventure.

Sometimes it's comforting to fly under the radar, talking to these men in the aisles about mufflers and unsalted almonds. They have no idea they're being studied.

Once we got to the checkout line, Jerry fixed his gaze on the man in front of us, whose jeans hung down just over his ass crack. Jerry doubled over the cart, smiling with euphoria.

me.

"I have X-ray vision," Jerry whispered to

I do too. And out here in the boonies, that's such a blessing.

Kirk Read's book "How I Learned to Snap" will be released in June. He lives in Northern California and can be e-mailed at www.temenos.net/kirkread....

GAY PEOPLE'S▼

Chronicle

Volume 16, Issue 45

Publisher: Martha J. Pontoni

Business Manager: Patti Harris

ISSN

Editorial Board: Brian DeWitt, Christine Hahn,

Patti Harris, Martha Pontoni

Associate Editor: Brian DeWitt

1070-177X

Staff Reporters: Anthony Glassman, Eric Resnick, Janet Macoska

Reporters & Writers:

Doreen Cudnik, Mubarak S. Dahir, John Graves, Mark J. Huisman, Kaizaad Kotwal, M.T. Martone, Jeffrey Newman, Kirk Read, Bob Roehr, Harriet L. Schwartz, Rex Wockner, Andrea Wood, Jeff Woodard, John Zeh

Art Director: Christine Hahn Photographer: Janet Macoska

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Rivendell Marketing 212-242-6863 David A. Ebbert 800-426-5947

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