My Summer of (Gay) Love

Today I woke up next to my husband with the morning light soft against the curve of his back, a deep calm blanketing our two-bedroom apartment. I couldn't help but stare at him. As he slept, I cried. Two days ago we were two gay men, "partners" living and striving together but individually. Today, we are one.

I cannot begin to describe the feeling of marriage. Emotional clichés abound in my mind: Beautiful. Amazing. Joyous. Wonderful. Actually, as I write these words, my heart is an ocean. It is all of these things at once and much more. The significance of this moment hasn’t quite settled and yet I feel deeply moved and fundamentally changed. Our union is ours but it’s also a part of something larger than the two of us.

On Monday, July 1, 2013, Wil woke me at 7:30 am from a deep sleep to tell me that West Hollywood was expediting same-sex marriages within a six-hour window. “Let’s go. Let’s get married.” I shot out of bed and managed to cobble together an outfit suitable for a wedding – my own. As I was dressing, I realized we didn’t have our rings. We didn’t even have a marriage license. And for a brief moment, on the hottest day of the year, I shut down. I thought to myself: We should wait… Then (thankfully) my real sense kicked me in the head. We grabbed two rings from our jewelry box and headed to the Beverly Hills Courthouse.

At 8:45, the courthouse was crowded with mostly older gay couples dressed in comfortable, casual attire. Monday was sudden for all of us, even those who had waited decades to officiate their unions.  Wil and I waited three hours for our license. Charles King and Carlo Celoni, a 60 year-old couple next to us, waited 24 years. Another couple, 50 years. There was a lightness to it all, a feeling of hope and joy, as if some innocence had been restored.

Marriages were performed near City Council Chambers in West Hollywood. We were married at 4:15pm by Mayor Abbe Land. The proceedings were simple, organized and absolutely beautiful. Wil and I cried, almost forgot each other’s names (and our own) as we exchanged vows and rings. We kissed. We laughed. We kissed again. It was magical.

The road leading to this day has been easy for us. Our families and friends are supportive. We’ve both lived most of our lives in cities like New York and Los Angeles where the gay community is visible and largely accepted. Sure, we had moments of fear and doubt along the way. When are we getting married? What if this doesn’t happen? Does it matter? The answer is, yes, it absolutely matters! The LA Times reported that Los Angeles County issued 621 marriage licenses to same-sex couples on Monday alone. The significance for us, and for the generations before and after our own, is monumental.

As gay people, we have endured hatred and intolerance. We’ve survived epidemics of suicide, drug abuse, disease and murder. We’ve been physically, emotionally and spiritually abused at the hands of those we loved the most. We’ve been used to further political and religious agendas that would murder and maim us. We’ve been stigmatized as degenerates and pedophiles and casually treated as second-class citizens. We’ve carried all of that on our shoulders and in our hearts for centuries until now.

The Supreme Court’s decision to overturn DOMA and the repeal of Proposition 8, along with the dissolution of bogus organizations like Exodus International, will have "profound consequences,” as pastor Netz Gomez a spokesman for ProtectMarriage recently stated. (He was inferring that those effects would have a negative impact on society, of course.) I’m not religious but I would cite Christ here since so many presume to speak against the gay community on his behalf. A tolerant society built on compassion is what Christ envisioned. Christ did not die for sin -- he died at the hands of sinners -- intolerant, hateful men who feared his revolutionary message of universal love and acceptance. Christ would have surely blessed my marriage on Monday.

The only "effect" my marriage has had on me and on those around me is one of overwhelming and profound joy. Now when I stare at my husband (even when he doesn’t know it) all of the strife washes away. Self-doubt is replaced by resolve, the fear by love. It matters for us all. Happy 4^th of July!

The Case for Cannibalism:

One TPers Modest Proposal

By: JAY SWIFT

The contagion that is the Liberal Agenda is on a dangerous parabolic curve racing toward an amoral infinity. Equal Rights for Aliens? Pshaw! Patriots, I ask you to unite under this progressive banner: I say, Let's eat 'em up! Literally.

(Article coming soon!)

Burning Down the House:

10 Rules of House (When You Ain't Got One)

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I spent about four months couch surfing--give or take a month or two--before settling into a place of my own. (It should be noted here that by "a place of my own" I mean to say my boyfriend's apartment, which is technically "ours"--sorry, was ours, but now I'm getting ahead of you.) In fact most Angelenos have spent their first formative months curled in fetal position on a bestie's Crate and Barrel second-hand-me-down. I've bartered for room and board by dog-sitting, cat-sitting, cleaning house, cooking--you name it, I've done it. Actually that's only mostly true. I haven't done everything. I would never do yard work, for example, nor would I exchange sexual favors for a place to sleep--that's a freebie.

If the Goddess of Good Etiquette, Miss Manners herself, were still alive she'd tell you: The art of crashing pad is never overstaying one's welcome. There's a fine line between free-spirit and freeloader. But what if you are forced into homelessness by, say, a fire? Three weeks ago, my apartment building went up in flames. One-hundred and fifty two of LA County Fire Department's finest extinguished the blaze within hours. They also declared the building "uninhabitable" and, consequently, our leases were terminated by the landlord. (Don't even get me started on the landlord.) As of this post, my boyfriend Wil, my dog and I are living in our third loaner in three weeks, gypsies squatting in friends' homes while they are on vacation or away on business.

It's weird living in a house or an apartment that doesn't belong to you. You try your best to carry on as normal: You shower every morning. You cook dinner. You might even do a load or two of laundry. Life must continue, you reason, it's survival. But the whole time you're playing house, you're surrounded by other people's stuff. Their furniture. Their food. Their booze. This brings me to the first and most important tenet of guest etiquette:

1. Behave as if the people whose house you are staying in were home with you. Seems obvious enough but it's incredibly hard to keep up appearances, particularly when you've grown accustomed to certain modes of behavior (e.g., writing in your underwear, letting it rip, going "Number Two" with the bathroom door open, etc.).

2. Keep running lists--of food, of damages (it's best to be upfront about these things), of decors "suggestions." Replace food you've eaten with the exact brand. Value brands are not substitutes for name or premium brands. "Natural" is not the same as organic. If you're lucky, your friends shop at Trader Joe's.

3. Liquor etiquette. This is probably the second most important rule but I've placed it at three because, frankly, I don't want to read like a lush. In light of our circumstances, Wil and I absolutely required alcohol every single night to keep from plummeting into a vortex of self-pity and inertia. If your gracious hosts happen to have a bottle of Goose stashed in the freezer or even -gasp!- a full bar, never ever ever, under any circumstance, dire or not, should you finish the bottle unless you are willing to replace it. The Golden Rule of Sip: a little here, a little there. Measure it out. Keep count. See Rule 2. Using water to refill bottles might have worked on your parents but it will not work on your friends. On the flip side, for people who are going to be loaning their homes to friends-in-need, I urge you: Hide the expensive shit. It will be tapped. Deep down, you know this.

4. Mind your children, especially if said "children" run around on four legs, poop outside and shed fur like a motherfucker. When the alarm sounded the morning of the fire, the first thing I thought to grab was my dog. This is promising as it means that if I'd had an actual flesh and blood child, I would have grabbed him/her instead of my MacBook. It's easy to be homeless and single. Add a boyfriend and a dog and things get a little more complicated. If you have a pet you've most likely become accustomed to a certain amount of animal hair. Your friends, however, have not. Sweep, Swiffer, lint roll, whatever it takes, to remove your pet's hair from sofas, cushions, bedding, etc. If your kid's prone to misbehaving--and be honest here--keep them confined to certain areas where you can do the most damage control.

5. Don't mess with Direct TV. While you're in the interim you might miss a few episodes of Real Housewives or the Rachel Zoe Project. If you're lucky--and your friends aren't monks--they have cable. Do not change series settings or delete any shows that are being recorded. OK, so your host queues episodes of Glenn Beck and the O'Reilly Factor. You may be tempted to sabotage this disgusting backflow of misinformation. Don't. Save it for the next dinner party then out their asses.

6. Clean the toilet. Everybody poos. If you're like me, you absolutely cringe at the thought of dropping an S-bomb in somebody else's crapper. Eventually you're going to have to get over this (or hold it for however many days, weeks, months). Chances are--you're gonna go. If you observe this little golden nugget they'll never know what you did there.

7. Do the dishes even if they're not yours. Most people leave a few Kashi-crusted bowls when they quit town. You'll be tempted to leave them, too, especially if they've filmed over with a funky slime-mold. Just do 'em.

8. No sex. Your host has graciously fitted their bed with a set of comfy clean sheets and invited you to rest your weary bones. It is absolutely bad form to have sex in somebody else's bed. Period. (To note "sex" is defined as any act that includes ejaculating into or outside of an orifice.) But what if you and your LTR have been without it for over a month? Libidos climb in times of crisis. What about the shower? The yard? Make like monks and fuggetabotit. (Or just cross your fingers and hope it all comes out in the wash.)

9. Leave everything the way you found it only cleaner. This is something you probably learned from your parents (or from that book Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten). Ask yourself: Would this pass my mother's inspection? If so, nice work! Otherwise, get back to scrubbin'.

10. Say "Thank you." You'd be surprised how often this fundamental act of civility is overlooked. Leave a gift and a card. The gift doesn't have to be out of your price range. For example, a good bottle of ten to fifteen dollar wine is fine. But absolutely--let me emphasize this again--absolutely NO Barefoot or Yellow Tail. Seriously. Would you drink that shit?

Wake Up Amerika- F*#k Yeah!

I wanted to share an email forward that I received this morning. It pissed me off so I had to respond. I've included the sender's email address in the message. I implore you to reply to her! See my response after Ilene's "patriotic" ( and completely ignorant) message.

-----Original Message-----
From: Ilene Langham slorydr@embarqmail.com
To: Barbara Scalzo Bscalzo@embarqmail.com; CS
owen48@sbcglobal.net; Deb & Bob Schutte
debschutte@gmail.com; Karol Moore KMoore7570@aol.com;
Leona Curtis leonacurtis@gmail.com; Linda & Ron Moore
Lindr86@aol.com; Mary Cluett marycluett@aol.com; Mary
Jo and Bill Loder billjoloder@comcast.net; mvrfla@comcast.net;
Pat Harrington patharring@comcast.net
Sent: Sun, Jul 11, 2010 9:39 pm
Subject: A Map of My Country


A Map of My Country.....


From A Texan;

My great grandfather watched as his friends died in the Civil War, my
father watched as his friends died in WW I and WW II, and I watched as
my friends died in Vietnam. None of them died for the Mexican Flag.
Everyone died for the U.S. flag. Just this week, here in Texas, a
student raised a Mexican flag on a school flag pole; another student
took it down. Guess who was expelled...the kid who took it down. Kids
in high school in California were sent home this week on Cinco de Mayo
because they wore T-shirts with the American flag printed on them.
Enough is enough. The below e-mail message needs to be viewed by every
American; and every American needs to stand up for America. We've bent
over to appease the America-haters long enough. I'm taking a stand.
I'm standing up because the hundreds of thousands who died fighting in
wars for this country, and for the U.S. flag can't stand up. If you
agree, stand up with me. If you disagree, please let me know. I will
gladly remove you from my e-mail list. And shame on anyone who tries
to make this a racist message.


A Map Of My Country:

Let me make this perfectly clear!


THIS IS MY COUNTRY!

And, because I make This statement DOES NOT

Mean I'm against immigration!!!

YOU ARE WELCOME HERE, IN MY COUNTRY!

Welcome! To come through legally:

1. Get a sponsor!

2. Get a place to lay your head!

3. Get a job!

4. Live By OUR Rules!

5. Pay YOUR Taxes!

And

6. Learn the LANGUAGE like immigrants have in the past!!!

AND

7. Please don't demand that we hand over our lifetime savings of Social Security Funds to you.
please forward this even if you are afraid of offending someone.

When will AMERICANS STOP giving away THEIR RIGHTS??? We've gone so far the other way... bent over backwards not to offend anyone. But it seems no one cares about the AMERICAN CITIZEN that's being offended! WAKE UP America !!!

If You agree.... Pass this on.

If You don't agree.. Delete It!!!


Greglocklear@mac.com's response:

What surprises me most about so many educated, so-called patriotic "citizens" in this country is their dedicated display of complete ignorance and hate. Receiving this email this morning absolutely infuriated me. I MUST respond to this paranoid, racist and ANTI-AMERICAN moron.

Ilene (and anybody who forwards this message), you must realize that you are sensationalizing an issue that is far more complicated than a flag which, by the way, is a symbol, a thing, a piece of cloth, and not a person. I find it hard to believe that the kids who were wearing American flags were simply sent home for that reason. Were they being hateful toward other students who were celebrating Cinqo de Mayo? Do you know the context around these events personally? You write as if there is a conspiracy at hand. Did you also support McCarthyism and blacklisting?

Let me also remind you of one basic fact: "America" is 234 years old. The real American "citizens" who have been here for thousands of years and spoke many different languages, NOT the Queen's English, are now practically extinct. We wiped them out with disease, guns, greed, hate. They are confined to reservations--many are living in complete poverty without even the basic resources given to every other citizen.

I'd also like to remind you that all of your fathers, sons, granddaddies and great-grandaddies who fought in the great wars probably enjoyed the cheap labors of illegal immigrants. Did they and do you buy food from some of these corporate farms? McDonalds, Hormel, Tyson, Purdue? I don't because, among other things, they treat their cheap labor, i.e., illegal workers, like animals. Did you stand-up to the Mexican busboy who was working hard for tips to buy medicine for his dying grandmother and to feed his family in Mexico? He's undocumented because of the complete bureaucratic mess that is the INS. I personally worked alongside this man who should be recognized as a hero, not a blight. I agree that immigration reform needs to happen. But please be responsible about the message you send out. We're not "giving away our rights," for example. What rights have you actually given away?

This reminds me of the parable of the burning church. "Which is more important, Christ asked, the building or the people inside?"

O, Superman

This morning I woke from a lucid dream--an environmentalist's nightmare, actually. It's midnight on the Gulf of Mexico. An oil slick spreads through the gulf's waters like some Dickian alien organism. Thousands of people gather to assist clean-up of an ocean of animals seeking sanctuary. Gobs of sticky black goo render the effort nearly impossible. To make matters worse, the beach resorts will not give priority to rescue trucks over cabbies who block access to wait for fares. Revelations couldn't have described a dystopian scene more apocalyptic and grotesque.

The disaster remains a sensitive topic not only for the pundits and talking-heads but more importantly for the people who are directly affected in the region--residents, business owners, fishermen, environmentalists, everybody. Unfortunately some of these folks have turned a natural, national tragedy into political ammunition against Barack Obama. Now, I'm not an Obama cultist. I wish the president would take a harder line against Wall Street and corporate greed. I wish he would come out of the closet to overturn and reform many of this country's xenophobic policies. (Doesn't the phrase "Liberty and Equality for All" appear on some, like, really important historical document or something?) I wish he would focus less on safe bipartisan rhetoric to keep paranoid Republicans secure. Really, I wish he would just blast most of the ignorant assholes in this country with supersonic radiation that causes their brain matter to melt through their ears. But that's not going to happen and you know why? Because he's not Superman.

(A disclaimer here: I don't believe that ALL Republicans are paranoid assholes. Just most.)

In the case of the Gulf Disaster, I believe response-to-date has been largely ineffective. We can see this on live feed. We've been hearing that this is "Obama's Katrina," that Obama has somehow inherited responsibility for the spill. (Read Josh Sternberg's insightful article at The Huffington Post. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/josh-sternberg/should-government-be-resp_b_592093.html) Do I believe the president is taking it easy? No. Do I think BP is taking it easy? Maybe. They have a bottom-line, afterall. So who's the real culprit here? Government deregulation? (Thanks, Richard Nixon! Thanks, GOP!) Offshore drilling operations? Or maybe it's the billions of people who drive cars, use public transportation, fly planes, etc. The most important question after we stop this thing, of course, is how can we prevent this from happening again?

Why are fatalistic Americans so focused on response rather than prevention? Disasters, terrorism, health. Let me remind everybody that a few years ago a portion of the eastern seaboard's electrical grid shut down, for one night New York City went dark. The great fortress that is America is not nearly as strong, from an infrastructural standpoint, as we would like to think. Why? Because we don't pay our taxes. Instead we accept income tax refunds like welfare checks. (http://www.cnn.com/2010/OPINION/04/15/hodge.non.taxpayers/index.html)

We are ALL guilty. We broke it, so we bought it. If Superman were here today he would scold us all for being so irresponsible. Then he would just fix everything and save the day of course.

Life After G.L.O.W.

When I was twelve years old, my father, in one of his more subtle attempts to force me into "boyhood," convinced me to play baseball. “Lump, you’re trying out for little league,” his hands firm at ten and two. Saturday mornings were usually spent in the company of my sister Jes and the Gorgeous Ladies Of Wrestling. Jes and I would turn our usual sibling rivalries into extraordinary death matches pitting the Farmer’s Daughter against Debbie Debutante—yes, I actually hit my sister. Hard sometimes. Instead my father and I spent the next few weekends practicing, playing catch and shopping for a left-handed glove and a bat. I believe these items still remain in perfect condition in a box in his attic--I couldn’t wait to get back in front of the television.

At tryouts my father watched me as if he were watching an amputee trying to tie his shoe. A spark of hope soon dissolved into pity and mild disgust. I didn’t hit or catch a ball that day but, as one parent put it so justly, “At least he can run.” Yes, I was grateful for that. The next weekend my father told me an informer had written to the Aston-Middletown Athletics Association heralding our bureaucratic indiscretion: My legal residence was with my mother in another township so I couldn’t play. In other words, Son, you were horrible and I’m going to spare you the embarrassment of telling you with this well-constructed and, if I do say so myself, believable lie. I decided the only way to process these kinds of failures was to write about them.

Writing has since remained a process of survival. I cannot imagine coping via any other medium. Beyond the therapeutic aspects of word-purging, I have come to define and value myself in the construction of fictional worlds and characters, building meaning within vacuums and, essentially, living my common fantasies, idiosynchratic notions and subliminal insecurities. Perhaps I’m finally seeking my father’s approval: Hey, dad, I might suck at baseball, but at least I can write about it!

Some fears...

Losing friends and family to death, to time, to circumstance, to pride
Losing love
Abandonment
"Forever"
The Ordinary
Falling
Murder with the lights on
Parasites
Cars
Loss of control (See "Falling" and "Cars")
Judgment

What are you afraid of?