I encountered you last night at the intersection of Fairfax and Sunset:
Inanimate objects, as the saying goes, do not have a sexual orientation. (At least, this is what what you're supposed to say to idiots spouting ignorant vitriol in a high school-tastic "That's GAY" situation.) But let's proceed with the assumption that in this case the license plate is a reflection of the you, the driver rather than your car's predilection to have the tow hitch of a burly Ford F-350 inserted into its tailpipe.
First off, do we, your fellow drivers, need to contemplate who you might be boinking while we're driving behind you? Is that an interruption in our collective traffic-induced reverie that you've earned the right to mandate? Part of me thinks not. And second, I have mixed feelings about this level of self-promotion, indeed, self-proclamation. For isn't that what this is? This feather boa of license plates, this last Sunday in June celebrated at intersections across the city all year long? At best, Gay Mini Driver, your license plate is a dash of whimsy that might make a few people chuckle. At worst, a wanton bellow of unsolicited in-your-face sexual hubris rearing its head.
And, Gay Mini, haven't we moved beyond this era of assertive self-expression, at least on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood? Is this still a battle for exposure and acceptance we're fighting? And if that's not your goal, why EVER get a license plate that expressly identifies your gayness?
Maybe if you were a sassy, Broadway-bound 16-year old in Dubuque, emboldened by the It Gets Better campaign, phlying your phreak phlag saddling your grandmother's inherited LeSabre with "GAYBUIK" hammered out in GSA-tastic splendor courtesy of one of Iowa's citizens doing hard time, I could understand. But, Driver of the Gay Mini, you're not that. You're a middle-aged man - evidenced by the gray in your temples I can see reflected in your rearview mirror. And presumably this isn't a holdover from a more youthful era, as they haven't made Mini Coopers for that long.
Here in Los Angeles, that hearts and minds battle for gay acceptance has been won. Indeed, won long ago. So what's left to be found in this gesture? One last gasping "hey HEY hey" of attempted relevance as you fade into leather-skinned middle age? Or merely tasteless attention-mongering?
An HRC sticker implies a civic march forward, a rainbow sticker is quaint. GAY MINI is just too much.
And besides... a Mini, when driven by a man with buzzed hair in a tank top... we pretty much already get the idea.
Sincerely,
Dear Crabby
PS. Happy Gay Pride month.
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