Today is Randy’s birthday, so I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge that.
I met Randy in Atlanta during gay pride in 1991, if I recall correctly. Went out two-stepping and boy if he didn’t stick with me all night waiting for his chance. Three pitchers of beer and the boy was only slightly buzzed, and had an unaffected southern charm that was so sincere it was irresistible (although it took me the better part of the night to realize it). Thankfully I was smart enough to invite him to spend the night at my hotel, and despite the fact that he was rather lit by the time we actually got there, we had a wonderful night. Spent the rest of the day together watching the parade and hanging out at the festival (even got a picture of him wearing purple pearls, in his cowboy boots and hat no less).
I know a good person when I meet one, so we stayed in touch. He ended up moving back in with his mother in Texas, and then with his father in Arkansas. When once pondering our respective single status, I asked, “Why don’t I have a boyfriend,” and his apt response was (in a southern drawl no less), “'Cause I live in Texas and you live in Pennsylvania.” How could you not adore a guy like that?
Through a very odd set of circumstances he even ended up dating someone I knew, T’Ger, who I see every year and we always end up talking about him and his cute, if sometimes innocent, even self-defeating ways. Still, nothing but love from the both of us for him.
We even went a year once without talking, but he actually made a concerted effort to get back in touch with me, and I was grateful to hear from him. He finally ended up moving in with a boyfriend in Kansas City, Missouri, and things were starting to look up.
That’s when some homophobic subspecies of humans, on Christmas Eve no less, killed him. Found his burned out truck a few days later, and found his decomposed body on a riverbank six months later - they had to identify him by his dental records. I was informed by a short letter from his mother shortly afterwards.
So, Randy, on your birthday, I’d just like to say that you’re not forgotten, and by God you deserved better. I hope that when it came it was quick, painless, and came without warning. These lowlifes will probably never come to justice, but if there is any kind of cosmic justice, they’ll get what they deserve. In the meantime, I’ll always remember two-stepping with you, spending such a wonderful weekend in Atlanta with you, and everything good about you. If I drank beer, I’d have three pitchers just like you used to, my red-necked, blue-collared, white trash cowboy. 
I miss you.
And now, I will go listen to Garth Brooks and Chris LeDoux sing “Whatcha Gonna Do With A Cowboy,” the song that reminds me of you most.
Esprix