Words are few I have spoken. I could waste a thousand years. Wrapped in sorrow, words are token. Come inside and catch my tears. You’ve been talking but believe me. If it’s true you do not know. This boy loves without a reason.

November 06, 2026

Good morning, my fellow coffee drinkers.

The rain was pouring down when Steve and I pulled into a parking lot in Kansas City. Earlier that day, I had scored tickets from a motel manager. Steve knew we were going somewhere. He just didn’t know what I had up my sleeve.

A couple enjoying drinks in a Kansas City speakeasy on a rainy night, with a performer singing on stage amidst a lively atmosphere. — **Ben & Steve out & uptown in Kansas City!**

By the end of the evening, we would be having cocktails in an old gangster bar and standing pressed against a stage, looking directly up at Boy George.

Behind us stood a group of women whose enthusiasm—and boobs—were firmly planted against our backs. The crowd, which I didn’t think about packing in around us.

We weren’t going anywhere. Even if we had wanted to.

There he was in that funny hat. A familiar face with a few more years on it. I suppose he could have said the same about us, although we hadn’t been consulted about our costumes.

I first knew George through his music, back when he and Culture Club were getting their start. Steve had some of that same flair in those days. I admired it, even while worrying about what might happen if the wrong people noticed. (Steve didn’t have that much.)

In western Oklahoma, looking different could attract more than disapproving glances.

There were people who went looking for someone like us. Some came by the truckload, carrying enough hatred to make up for whatever else they lacked.

George kept singing, “Do you really want to hurt me?”

Well, no, George. I didn’t.

But I knew people who did. And that was the part of the song I understood without needing anybody to explain the lyrics.

I was a lawman. I figured I could keep the peace.

Or so I thought.

A badge gave me a job to do. It didn’t erase the fear of what might happen if people learned too much about the man wearing it.

Then along came “Karma Chameleon.”

Now, a chameleon knows something about blending in. Plenty of us in Oklahoma had already mastered that particular skill. We could change the subject, watch our words, and make certain nobody saw us looking too long in the wrong direction.

George, meanwhile, wore the hat, put on the makeup, and gave the world something to look at.

He and those merry bandmates brought color into years when some of us were trying very hard to remain invisible.

Somewhere between the music and the nerve it took to present himself that way, he made the world feel a little bigger.

Even out in the Oklahoma hayfields.

And yes, there were boys in those alfalfa fields who might have enjoyed flying from bale to bale like Peter Pan, trailing glitter and a generous sprinkling of fairy dust.

Some of us just knew to save the dancing until nobody was looking.

We had chores. We had families. We had reputations to maintain and people whose reactions we couldn’t afford to test.

So, years later, there Steve and I stood in Kansas City, looking up at a man whose songs had followed us through all of that.

For that evening, I could enjoy the music beside the man I loved. The surprise had worked, and nobody was asking us to explain ourselves.

Although, with those women pressed against our backs, a little more room would have been appreciated.

Love the person standing next to you, folks.

And if you’re at a crowded concert, you may have to love them at considerably closer range than you planned.