This summer marks the first warm weather season for Double Trouble's new outdoor patio. The simple and attractive brick patio extends the bar's reach right up to the sidewalk. Passersby mingle with customers at the edge of the patio, blurring the line between bar and city.


The weather gods were giving it their best this day, sunny and seventy-five with a gentle breeze.


Blurring ourselves on the edge of the patio we sit waiting for Slim. Which is not like Slim at all.


Dan has monopolized the conversation with his concerns about Paris Hilton's recent incarceration.


“...and after all that Paris has been through it seems crazy that it turned out for the best, she really seems to have found herself in that jail. Did you watch her Larry King interview? I would think Barbara Walters would have been elated to interview her,” Dan questions.


Frustrated, I look directly at Dan, bring my open right hand up to eye level and slowly close it, then with my left hand I grab an invisible zipper and quickly move it from one end to the other.


“Oh-no you did not?!” Dan jumps. “Nobody shuts and zips...me!”


“If you do not get off the subject of idle celebrity gossip, I'm going to shut, zip, and move you!” I say using my closed right hand to point to another table.


“This,” Dan begins, then reconsiders, adding, “This attitude is exactly why you are alone with no one to caress your receding hairline and expanding love handles!”


“The reason I don't have a boyfriend is because of my condition,” I respond.


“Come on, what...condition?” Dan asks.


“I suffer from AF: Asshole Fatigue. And before you start, it's not what you're thinking.”


“We need to simply move on to a new subject,” I say, pause a moment then add, “How about Jerry Falwell?”


“So sad, Jerry Falwell...one day he's going to work, alive, and then...” Dan begins.


“What?” I quickly interrupt. “What I meant was, how about Jerry Falwell as in ding-dong the bitch is dead!”


“Everyone liked Jerry Falwell, I read he was a really nice guy”


“Nice guy?” I ask, then add, “What have you been reading The Repressed Gay Times?”


“I read Rev. Jesse Jackson and even Larry Flynt called him a great friend upon his death,” Dan proudly pronounces.


“Jerry Falwell was Satan disguising himself as a human being.”


“Sometimes you need to put behind your differences with people, especially once they have departed”, Dan says. Then, genuinely, “You may have disagreed with Jerry Falwell, but don't we live in a society that values differences in opinion?”


“You're a mess!” I stammer, briefly considering throwing my bubble-gum martini in Dan's face.


“I killed Jerry Falwell,” I declare, pointing at my chest. Dan looks up, slightly raises his left eyebrow, looking sufficiently bewildered. “Jerry Falwell blamed me for 9/11 and Jerry Falwell blamed me for Katrina, I'm certain he's sitting in hell right now blaming me for a premature death, so why not take the blame and glory of killing Jerry Falwell.”


Dan squirms uncomfortably forward a bit from his white plastic chair, takes a swig of his bubble-gum martini. “Why would you believe that Jerry Falwell blamed you for 9/11 and Katrina?” he finally asks.


“After 9/11 Jerry Falwell attempted to explain to America why it had happened. He blamed gays. Jerry Falwell asserted that God had stopped protecting America because he was angry at the acceptance of gays.”


“Jerry Falwell was more than just a differing opinion. No sir,” I continue. “Jerry Falwell once said of a gay inclusive church, 'One day they will be utterly annihilated and there'll be a celebration in heaven'.”


No Doubt is in the CD player of a passing marine blue Mercedes C-Class coupe and Dan air-strums along with, “BA-NA-NAS,” and then, “Bananas!”


“There was nothing nice about Jerry Falwell, he was not interested in comparing notes or bridging differences with us, he wanted us gone – it's that simple.”


Dan looks around as a handsome six foot one man in tight Seven For All Mankind jeans, bootcut in Tijuana, as he brushes past us. “Jerry Falwell was a man of God and like it or not the church does not accept being gay, that does not mean that every Christian is a bad person,” he says softly when his eyes return to me.


“Jerry Falwell did not stop at a simple rejection of homosexuality, he was first to promote the idea that it was a Christian obligation to hate gays. He did not want to be seen as a hate monger, instead he blamed gays for catastrophic disasters, citing them as God's punishment for acceptance of homosexuality. By doing so he created a justification for the annihilation of all gay people and unleashed an army of foot soldiers to do his bidding. If terrorism is merely a consequence of low moral standards and if America wants to stop terrorism then it would need to destroy gays first,” I explain with conviction.


“When someone outright hates you with the blessing of God, how exactly do you counter that?” I ask.


Three bubble-gum martinis and the hot summer sun had dulled Dan's reflexes. He slowly leans back into his chair, a vacant look comes over him and his eyes well up a bit.


“Are you OK?” I ask. He nods yes and then adds, “I'm OK.”


“I'm sorry,” I say.


The sidewalk talk stirs up a bit and I turn to see Slim has arrived. “What's the deal?” he asks.


“Jerry Falwell,” I respond.


“Oh, I hated that bitch!” Slim says.