Radio God

Last night I went to a private screening of a new documentary, "Mission to Matrimony," put together by a friend and co-worker of mine. It's excellent; look for it as it starts to make the rounds at film festivals.

During the long walk back to the subway through a cold, dark, drizzly lower Manhattan, the thought occurred to me that the spiritual mind is like a radio antenna. This antenna picks up all kinds of signals, and not everyone gets the same range or detects the same frequencies. Surely you know people who can tell exactly what you're thinking at a given moment; sometimes this occurs even with total strangers. Other times, some people just don't pick up on what you're trying to avoid having to say literally. We all know people who are just permanently disconnected from society. We say they "don't get it."

Some of us have the ability to connect with animals or nature at large. All of us, however, are hooked up to the two spiritual extremes. You might think of it like basic cable: not everyone has HBO, but we've all got CNN and Fox News. (Sorry, I'm getting cable on Saturday, it's on my brain.) We all get regular broadcasts from Light and Dark.

There are challenges, however. For example, you wouldn't tune into Darkness and hear heavy metal music followed by a DJ saying, "You're listening to Radio Satan! Coming up next, sounds of women screaming and a live broadcast of a cat being cut in half by a chainsaw, so don't touch that dial!" That would be too obvious.

Likewise, what we might call "Radio God" is not harp music alternating with Bible pleasantries and the latest from Kenny G. In fact, a lot of Radio God is telling us things we probably don't want to hear. God is not "easy listening."

If anything, Darkness would be the "easy listening" station. (Apologies to Burt Bacharach.) Goodness requires focus and dedication; Darkness is suited best to apathy.

It takes concentration and practice to keep tuned in to Radio God; different medium (but appropriate simile!), but Darkness is more like internet pop-ups, always distracting you and trying to get you to focus on something else.

The two "stations" are more alike than you might think. Just as propaganda is often disguised to look like real news, it's often difficult to distinguish between the two messages in your brain; in fact, one of Satan's most effective tools is to deceive you, by taking advantage of your arrogance, into thinking you are being moral when you are really being cruel.

The only way to tell the two apart is to submit your conscience to humility. If it's quick and easy, if you hear your mind telling you things like, "no one will notice" or "everybody does it," you need to adjust the frequency. When you hear yourself think, "This is hard, this might be unpleasant, but it's the right thing," stay tuned.

When Christians Attack

Back in the late '90s, FOX television began pioneering "reality tv." During ratings season, clip shows thrown together from amateur and news videos were ubiquitous. Even I succombed to "World's Scariest Police Chases IV" and "When Good Pets Go Bad." (Look for the upcoming "When Homosexuals Queen Out," featuring me with this guy performing the duet "A Boy Like That" on the C train.)

Though most of these shows today have a tenuous relationship to "reality," and despite the fact that we marvel and despair at people's willingness to exploit their frailties and air their dirty laundry for a shot at fame and some cash, they are exceedingly popular. Their influence is such that even fictional shows, such as Battlestar Galactica, are filmed as quasi-documentaries.

Currently zooming its way around the internet is a clip from a recent episode of Fox's Trading Spouses. (Hat tip.)

I have to say this is truly one of the most terrifying things I have ever seen.

I'm sure a lot of people find it hysterical, but honestly for me it's profoundly disturbing. For one thing, the poor woman featured in the clip is clearly insane; skeptics of religion (in particular evangelical Christianity) probably assume that either insanity made her susceptible to the influence of religion, or vice versa, and they probably don't care which because it comforts them to think that religion and insanity are related.

Partly I found myself mad at this woman. She is monstrous; preposterous, overblown and offensive. She practically begs us to mock her pathological sincerity. But in the end, I can only pity her, and hope that she finds the help she so clearly needs.

The larger issue is that this clip now adds a newer, more terrifying dimension to the public perception of Christianity shaped by lunatics like Pat Robertson and George W. Bush, who claimed God told him to invade Iraq. I wonder if God forgot to tell Bush that Iraq no longer had WMD's, or if God was also duped by the CIA.

What's even sadder, though, is not what nonbelievers think Christianity means, but what some Christians apparently think it means. There is nothing in Margaret Perrin's rant that suggests even a passing familiarity with the Gospel. Prefacing your insults with, "In the name of the Lord" doesn't excuse or justify them. One might as well shout, "Go fuck yourself, in Jesus' name!" She seems inordinately terrified of "books on witchcraft" and astrology. Astrology? If I'm not mistaken, the three wise men were led to Bethelehem by reading signs in the heavens; literally, they followed a star.

Margaret's faith is fear-based. She perceives "darkness" everywhere. She's not wrong, of course, but she seems to have zero real comprehension of God's power. As mighty as Darkness is, anyone who really knows and believes in the Lord knows that they have nothing to fear from a book, no matter what's in it. "Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil." I am always amazed that the most publicly zealous believers tend to display no real confidence in their faith.

This pervasive perversion of Christianity, which ignores the Gospels in favor of a literal but out-of-context reading of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus and Revelation, and promotes the idea of an angry, easily-insulted God waiting to smite you the moment you step out of line, must be denounced as the heresy that it is. This is not Christian doctrine. The damage such beliefs cause can easily be witnessed by watching the Perrin children flinch in terror from their mother.

That's reality.

Let There Be Cable

It is done.

After months of hemming and hawing, I finally called up TimeWarner and placed the order. My cable/RoadRunner package will be installed this Saturday.

I am very indecisive and lazy about a lot of things. At work I'm focused, organized and efficient. At home, I'm a disaster. Seriously. I just couldn't get my butt in gear. Plus, among other phobias, I'm mildly afraid of commitment and I don't like having strangers in my apartment. (And I wonder why I'm single? Oh yeah, I'm also fat.)

So what motivated me? This email from AOL:

WARNING: THE USE OF SOME OF THE FOLLOWING TELEPHONE NUMBERS MAY RESULT IN LONG DISTANCE CHARGES. IN SELECTING YOUR ACCESS NUMBER(S), PLEASE NOTE THAT ALTHOUGH AN ACCESS NUMBER MAY BE IN YOUR AREA CODE OR LOCATED IN YOUR GENERAL GEOGRAPHIC REGION, IT MAY NOT NECESSARILY BE A LOCAL NUMBER FOR YOU. YOU MAY INCUR SUBSTANTIAL TELEPHONE CHARGES IF YOU CHOOSE ACCESS NUMBERS THAT ARE NOT COVERED BY YOUR LOCAL CALLING PLAN.

Nice, right?

Anyway, I'm all excited. Now I get Jeff Corwin, Jon Stewart and Anderson Cooper all in the privacy of my home.

192

Oh, dear God.

I happened to weigh myself on the scale in a friend's bathroom over the weekend. (No, I don't own one. That's going to change.)

Yeah, I could use a little more physical activity. I've been slacking on my yoga. But the real problem is my diet. I don't really like to cook, and when I get home I want something fast and easy. I eat frozen pizza way too often. Then I wash it down with beer and ice cream. For breakfast, I usually get a croissant or a muffin from my hot cart guy on Wall and Pearl. On bad-mood days, I augment it with a chocolate donut. That needs to end.

For lunch I often get a turkey sandwich, which isn't so bad, but it's usually accompanied by a small bag of chips. And maybe a cookie. On Fridays I get panini dripping with melted cheese and bacon.

Another huge problem is alcohol. I drink almost every single day. I'm not an alcoholic; at least, I don't think I am. I don't get "drunk" very often. But I have mild-to-irritating anxieties, mostly stemming from my crowd phobia. (And when you live in Manhattan, a crowd phobia is inconvenient.) When I get home from work, I find that having one drink really improves my mood; and if I'm in a social situation, I'm a lot more relaxed and friendly once I've had a drink.

I can do it; I give up alcohol for Lent every year. And I think if I restrict myself to just having a drink or two on Friday nights when I'm with my friends, that should help. But a major behavior shift is in order.

Sorry if this post is horribly boring and self-centered, but I needed to make this commitment to myself public to keep on track. My goal is to lose about 20 pounds. (I'm 6'1, for the record.) I can't propose a timetable right now because the holidays are coming up, and we all know how that goes.

Sunday Photo Blogging

Hi. I'm still here. This past week at work was exhausting. There was so much to do and I really didn't have a spare moment. I've been coming home and collapsing, and my brain has had nothing it wanted to contribute to the blogosphere. It still doesn't. Here for your viewing pleasure are some pictures I've taken.

Lionfish, Musée National des Arts d’Afrique et d’Océanie, Paris

Historical marker in Tingen, Germany

Rialto Bridge, Venice

New Mexico desert, outside Taos

Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco

Columbia River Gorge, Oregon

Takeoff from LaGuardia Airport.

The Meaning of Privacy

In the comments section of my last post, I lashed out at a reader in a manner that many of you recognized as uncharacteristic of the general tone of my blog. Not only did I depart from my usual respect for all points of view, my response was, to put it bluntly, vulgar.

I've been thinking about this over the past couple of days. I stand by what I said, and the way I said it. Here's why.

Does the Constitution explicitly enshrine and define a "right to privacy"? No. But many top legal thinkers throughout American history have perceived limits on governmental power to regulate our personal lives, to the extent that a general "right to privacy" is a well-established presumption of law. Such right to privacy ranges from the prohibition against reading mail not addressed to you, restricted access to personnel and medical records, client-attorney privileges and recent acts like anti-spam legislation and the National Do Not Call Registry.

In 2003, the United States Supreme Court ruled in Lawrence v. Texas that sexual activity between consenting adults, regardless of gender, cannot be criminalized on the basis of traditional prejudice. The case arose after police in Texas responded to a false report of a domestic disturbance and entered a private residence whereupon they discovered two men engaging in a sexual act that was prohibited by law. The men were arrested.

Much of the national debate on this case centered around the idea that the sexual activity was taking place in the "privacy" of their own home, and seemingly liberal pundits talked about "getting the government out of bedrooms" and respecting "what goes on behind closed doors."

The problem is, I am not gay only when I'm having sex in my bedroom. I am still gay when I'm not having sex. I am gay when I get up and go to work in the morning, I was gay when I went to vote last night, I'm gay when I pay taxes every April, and I'm still gay when I'm sitting through mass in church. But on the basis of sexual activity, I am discriminated against by law.

In the Lawrence ruling, Justice Kennedy wrote, "The petitioners are entitled to respect for their private lives." I think everyone would agree that our private lives extend outside of the bedroom. I am open about my sexuality, but it's still a private matter. Private does not mean "secret," it means no one else has authority over it.

And so yes, I get angry when people whose civil rights are not and will never be under any threat from this kind of legislation glibly assert that there is "no right to privacy." How lovely it must be, by virtue of genetic coincidence, to have been born into the majority and to live comfortably knowing that you will never have to worry about being a victim of discrimination.

Up, Up and Away!

Supercat to the rescue!



VERY busy day at work today. Enjoy!

Why Roe Matters to Gays

In a high school health class, my teacher asked us to write a researched opinion paper on abortion. I hadn't really given the subject much thought, but eventually I decided that while I thought abortion was most definitely a bad thing, there seemed to be good reasons for keeping it legal.

I failed the assignment. The teacher told me explicitly, "You can't sit on the fence on this issue!" I took the paper to the administration, and they ordered the teacher to give me a passing grade. At 17, however, I already knew I was gay, and I felt awkward discussing the subject of abortion because I knew it wasn't something that was going to be relevant to my life.

Over the years my understanding of the debate has become more nuanced, but my position really hasn't changed, and until recently, I still wondered what business gay people had having an opinion on the subject.

Even though I recognize that a conservative person who opposes abortion is statistically likely to also oppose gay rights, I distanced myself from people and groups who made a habit of assuming that someone opposed to abortion was also anti-gay. After all, I know gay people who are opposed to abortion; furthermore, opposition to abortion is a legitimate ethical stance, whereas opposition to homosexuality is merely prejudice.

However, the Supreme Court nomination process has helped me to understand why this is such a crucial issue for the gay community. Roe v. Wade is not really about abortion; it is about a right to privacy.

Jon Davidson, legal director at Lambda Legal, recently explained it this way to the Gay City News: “Roe is the foundation for Lawrence [v. Texas, the 2003 Supreme Court ruling which overturned all sodomy laws in the U.S.]. The privacy right of what you do with your body that was the foundation of Roe is inextricably linked to Lawrence. If Roe falls, Lawrence could be in jeopardy.”

Roe, in turn, draws on 1965's Griswold v. Connecticut; you might recall that early in the doomed confirmation process of Harriet Miers, Senator Arlen Specter (R-PA) initially told the press that Ms. Miers had expressed her support for Griswold and believed in a Constitutional right to privacy. Shortly thereafter, however, Specter had to issue a correction that Ms. Miers had expressed no such support and he must have misunderstood.

This is why these rulings matter; the issue of abortion is a red herring. Conservative activists want these rulings overturned not so much because they care about unborn children (though I am not accusing them of insincerity, just ulterior motives), but because they stand in the way of the right wing's plans to legislate their morality for all of us.

Das Wandern

O Wandern, wandern, meine Lust,
O Wandern!
Herr Meister und Frau Meisterin
Lasst mich in Frieden weiterziehn,
Und wandern!

Perhaps the only thing I really truly loved about living in Switzerland was that I could quite literally step out my door and walk into the wilderness. Zürich is small and centralized enough that you don't have to go far at all to find yourself in the middle of nowhere. As I was deeply unhappy and exceptionally poor, wandering through the forests of the Alpine foothills was relaxing, interesting and affordable.

I have a good sense of direction and there are many paths or Wanderwege leading out of Zürich, so I rarely made any plans and seldom relied on a map. I would just see where my feet would take me and then, when I was tired, I would find my way home.

I recall one occasion where I did unfortunately get turned around, and instead of heading for home, I was unknowingly going further away. It was a cold, dim, overcast day (as per usual) and I couldn't rely on the sun for direction until it was too late and the sunset turned the clouds a gentle shade of lavender. I came upon an enormous, unfamiliar lake, and decided it was time to pull out the map, which I consulted in the alpenglow.

I realized I had reached the Greifensee; after hiking for three hours and then thinking I'd turned around and headed an hour toward Zürich, I despaired to realize I was now four hours by foot from home. It was getting dark. Based on the map, I decided to head for the town of Uster on the other side of the lake and then take a train back. It took me another two hours to reach the station. I was exhausted when I finally got home, but it was a great adventure.

It's a pleasure I find difficult to replicate in Manhattan, having traded alpine forests for the urban jungle. New York is one of the best places for walking, sure; but for indulging in a bit of escapism and isolating yourself from distractions to be alone with your thoughts, Sixth Avenue and Houston isn't really ideal. The closest you could come would be Central Park, but even there you're hard pressed to be truly "alone" anywhere for more than a few minutes. I love getting lost, but you can't do that in a city built on a numbered grid; even deep in The Rambles, the soaring skyscrapers permanently orient you.

The Wanderlust, as the Germans would call it, has been nagging at me again. For the last two mornings I've awakened and left earlier than necessary for work, getting off a few stops ahead and walking. Monday I got off at Canal Street and walked east toward the Bowery, then down Water to Wall Street. Today I left even earlier, got off the A train at West 4th, and zigzagged through the West Village, SoHo, Chinatown and the financial district. (For a little perspective, a forty-minute subway ride from my apartment got me to a location that is one hour by foot from my office.)

No, there are no quiet, gurgling streams to come across, and I'm not likely to catch a sudden glimpse of a deer or a heron through the trees, much less crest a hill and find myself gazing at a panoramic mountain view, but New York has an infinite and inspirational beauty all its own.

Ach, Bächlein, liebes Bachlein, du meinst es so gut;
Ach, Bächlein, aber weisst du wie Liebe tut?
Ach unten, da unten, die kühle Ruh!
Ach, Bächlein, liebes Bächlein, so singe nur zu.

*All photos by the author.

Noted

If you're gay and bored and looking for casual conversation or...???..., don't go to your neighborhood bar on "Ladies' Night."

The Trouble with Casey

There are good reasons for liberals to be concerned about the nomination of Samuel Alito to replace O'Connor on the Supreme Court; I recommend Dahlia Lithwick for a crash course on Alito's significant decisions, but this New York Times Op-Ed is an exceptionally objective supplement.

As always, the nominee's position on abortion is going to play a central role in the confirmation process. However, it would be irresponsible -- for both liberals and conservatives -- to conclude that Alito will vote to overturn Roe v. Wade based on his dissent in 1991's Planned Parenthood v. Casey.

"Casey challenged a Pennsylvania law that required a woman to receive extensive information about the fetus and the abortion procedure, to wait 24 hours, to sign a statement of informed consent, and—most controversially—to tell her husband about her intention to have an abortion. A panel of three appeals judges on the Third Circuit upheld all the regulations except for the spousal notification. Alito, who was on the panel, dissented from the part of the ruling that struck down the requirement that women tell their husbands before obtaining an abortion," summarized Emily Bazelon in Slate.

Bazelon claims "Alito's opinion in that case would have limited the right to abortion more severely than Sandra Day O'Connor, whom he will replace if confirmed, has ever been willing to do." That is a categorically incorrect conclusion.

The requirement would not restrict abortion in the slightest. It is essential to note that the husband's consent was not required, merely a notification. (Additionally, there was no requirement for proof of notification aside from the woman's statement that she had complied. If you're asking yourself, "Then what's the point?" you have already discovered the toothlessness of both the law and the dissent.) I disagree with the Supreme Court's eventual ruling that this somehow meets O'Connor's standard of an "undue burden." (There should be a judicial bypass option, however.)

Furthermore, I would argue that the law does not go far enough, restricted as it is to married women. Since a woman must endure the hardship of pregnancy, the final decision ought to be hers. However, does the father have no right whatsoever to know that his partner is carrying his unborn child? Does he have no right to an opportunity to discuss the situation with the mother and attempt to dissuade her if he wishes?

If a father has no right to know that he has impregnated a woman and that she has decided to terminate the pregnancy, then I would also suggest that a father has no responsibility, financial or otherwise, if the woman should unilaterally decide to carry to term a child that the father does not want.

Abortion rights should not include the option to leave fathers out of the discussion. That's not feminism, that's monstrous.

Very, Very Scary

Andy as Eminem. Sigh.

Halloween Brings out the Freaks

No, I'm not talking about witches, demons, devils, College Republicans or even people who dress their dogs up like a happy meal.

I'm talking about the Fundamentalists.

Fundamentalists, as I like to point out, come in two flavors: religious and secular. Not only do we have the traditional nitwits worried that dawning a black hat will turn you into a Satan-loving witch, we now have radical secularites opposed to kids wearing costumes on Halloween because of its religious origin.

Everyone, please get a grip.

Christians, if you're so worried that your child will become a devil-worshipper if he dresses up like Dracula, why not assert some parental control and dress your kid up like a Bible character? Sure, the other kids won't know who Simon of Cyrene is, but look at it as a teachable moment. It's so easy. If you think there's something demonic about throwing a sheet over your head and pretending to be a ghost, then sprinkle silver glitter all over the sheet and, voila! Lot's Wife!

And if you're the kind of parent who would object to that, you can always dress your kid up as an ACLU lawyer.

Choices

WNBA star Sheryl Swoopes came out this week. She also has said she believes that she wasn't born a lesbian, and that we choose our sexuality.

I certainly feel I was born this way; never in a million years would I have chosen this path for myself. That doesn't mean I dispute Ms. Swoope's assertion; I wouldn't dare. But I wonder for the gay rights movement, how much of our momentum comes from the belief or experience that orientation is biological? And, ultimately, why does it matter?

*****

Part of the broad legal strategy for achieving full civil equality for the gay community under the law in America is predicated on the idea that marriage is the constitutionally protected fundamental right to marry the partner of your choice; this is the response to the counter-argument that homosexuals are not banned from marrying in the United States, as long as they marry an opposite-sex partner.

I don't think there's any validity to the counter-argument, but I'm also not convinced that our legal strategy is necessarily accurate.

Love is not really about choosing; for me, that ties in with the whole issue of sexual orientation. It's not a question of my "choosing" a woman; the fact that I am emotionally and erotically attracted to men lies outside my power to choose.

But we also don't really choose the individuals we partner with. Not really. I mean, if I could choose who I wanted to marry, I'd have done it by now. But none of them were interested back.

So where does choice come in? Love is this bizarre, unexplainable phenomenon by which two people find themselves committed to one another in an emotional union. It's a force of nature, not something we reason out with ourselves and our partners. We don't say, "You seem nice, would you like to love me?" It doesn't work that way. How often have we met people who were perfectly nice, perfectly viable...but, we just didn't -- and couldn't -- love them in that way?

I have no answers, only questions.

Have a great weekend.

Charles Krauthammer Wins Supreme Court Death Pool

A week ago I asked for your bets on what would happen with the Miers nomination. Of those that submitted guesses, Steve came the closest (he hoped she would withdraw but thought Bush would make her see this through) and, not surprisingly, Little Cicero was way, way, way, way off.

Harriet, thanks for playing. We have some lovely parting gifts for you. Don't let the door smack your ass on the way out.

He doesn't read my blog and he didn't enter my contest, but the Washington Post's Charles Krauthammer called this one exactly right. In an editorial entitled, "Miers: The Only Exit Strategy," Krauthammer advised the President to create an irreconcilable difference over the release of internal White House documents critical to the proper evaluations of Miers' nomination.

And indeed, the New York Times reports this morning, "President Bush...blamed her withdrawal on calls in the Senate for the release of internal White House documents that the administration has insisted were protected by executive privilege."

Overheard in New York

Scene: a dim pool hall in Manhattan's West Village, Christopher Street.

I am lining up a ridiculously easy shot, 4-ball in the corner pocket.

The cue ball leaps over the 4-ball and bounces onto the floor.


Bystander: Showoff.

Practical Applications of the Martini

Last night I went to a straight bar on the Upper West Side to say farewell to a wonderful friend who's leaving New York to sing in Europe for five months.

I asked for a Grey Goose martini, dry, no olive.

What I got was a glass of vermouth with a splash of vodka. Blech. It tasted like bilgewater. (Yes, I speak from experience. No, you can't ask.)

Some other friends had just returned from a singing engagement in Brazil and brought her a pair of beautiful handcrafted earrings from a market in Rio. "Oh...but, I wonder if anyone else has tried them on?" asked my friend.

"Here," I said, passing her the "martini" I wasn't able to finish. She dunked the earring loops into the glass and then put them in her ears.

DNC: Does Not Change

One of the things that separates me from the neanderthals currently occupying the White House is that I view introspection and the ability to say, "I was wrong," as a great strength, not a weakness. After all, if you're driving a car and the road turns but you don't, you're going to have an accident. "I stayed the course!" won't look too good on the police report.

Sticking with the same metaphor, if you take a wrong turn, you'll get where you want to be a lot faster if you turn around.

So in that spirit, I may have been wrong.

A visit to the DNC website is a profoundly disheartening experience. What's at the top of the page? Tom DeLay's mugshot. Now, I, like a lot of other people, chortled over DeLay's arrest warrant. It's one thing for a private citizen to enjoy a corrupt politician's comeuppance, but it's another thing entirely -- a tacky, pathetic thing -- for the opposition party to put it at the top of their webpage.

In all fairness, Congressman DeLay has not yet been convicted. The arrest warrant and mugshot were merely legal formalities. (Click here for some really great mugshots, if you're into that sort of thing.) Democrats should not be celebrating DeLay's fall. They ought to be kicking themselves that they were so weak and so ineffectual that someone as corrupt and stupid as DeLay got as far as he did and stayed there so long. What we are seeing is self-destruction and certainly not anything we can take credit for.

The mugshot accompanies an article titled, "GOP Culture of Corruption Unraveling." Well, it does look that way, but the message is: Republicans are corrupt, so vote for us! Please. As Howard Dean said so often on the campaign trail, "We can do better."

I was attracted to Howard Dean because I felt he was speaking truth to power; getting out there and saying things that desperately needed to be said, and that in attacking Bush he wasn't being partisan, he was talking up truths that were so far away from the sugar-coated fantasies the White House was spinning they seemed to many Americans like crack-induced hallucinations. His verbal gaffes were refreshing, because they were raw and sincere, not buffed to a high-gloss by round after round of DC-spinmeisters and partisan message-mechanics.

So I was very optimistic when he took over the DNC, because I was convinced that in Dean we had a man who would really tackle the issues facing Americans today and that he would use his position and influence to do hard-hitting cost analysis of Bush's budgets to show that the President isn't doing what he says he's doing, that compassionate conservativism means apparently having a special empathy for corporations and college roommates.

But the flip side of that is offering an alternative. It's simply not enough to say, "Bush is wrong." It's not. We have to take Bush's budget figures, as one example, and line them up with a solid alternative proposition that says, "Here's what we want to do." I'm not seeing that anywhere.

There's also the text of a radio address on Iraq by former presidential candidate Wesley Clark. Now, here's a man who really ought to be speaking with authority on military operations. He asks the following questions: "How can we do a better job with less corruption in the reconstruction of Iraq? And, how can we make Iraq's neighbors a part of the solution, instead of a source of the problems inside Iraq?"

But he doesn't answer them.

As a person of faith, I am delighted that the Democratic leadership has taken notice that faith matters in this country; 60% of Democrats believe in God. But you know, it's not enough for there to be a link on the webpage for Howard Dean, a lapsed Episcopalian, to salute Yom Kippur. How about a guest article written by a Rabbi talking about how the values and sentiments expressed during the Jewish holiday of atonement translate into everyday life and how those messages can form a plan of action to make America better?

It gets worse. Click on the link for information about the Katrina recovery efforts. "Gulf Coast Needs Relief, Not a Right-Wing Agenda from Bush." Then it lists in paragraph after paragraph, everything that Republicans are doing wrong. "DNC Research has compiled some examples of right-wing policies President Bush is pushing that will hurt, not help, Gulf Coast residents recover and rebuild from Hurricane Katrina," says the story. Too bad they didn't compile any expert recommendations about how to do things better.

Congressional leadership in Washington contains some real kooks. I was appalled by Dianne Feinstein when she pleaded with stellar Supreme Court nominee John Roberts, "I'm trying to get your feelings as a man." Lady, the entire point of the proceedings is to determine that we get judges whose personal views are separate from their professional responsibilities.

Sitting around hoping to take credit for the imminent self-destruction of the current administration is not a winning strategy. The American people deserve better.

Redefining Marriage

One of the conservative buzzphrases that gets thrown around in the culture war is the idea that gay rights activists are trying to "redefine" marriage. See for example this Op-Ed in yesterday's Fort Worth Star-Telegram, where the writer argues, "Homosexuals are free to have the adult relationship they desire, but they do not have the right to redefine marriage."

What kind of nonsense is that? I'm free to have the relationship I want, as long as it's not a relationship that he doesn't want me to have? Boy, that's some freedom. Let's hear it for America! (This editorial aspires to intellectualism but doesn't quite get there; for example, the writer cites "studies" which show "that children who grow up in a fatherless household are many times more likely to commit suicide, end up in prison or do drugs." But what about children who grow up with two fathers, not none? Lovely of him to cite the risks of unstable heterosexual relationships as a reason to deny full civil equality to same-sex couples. Also he writes, "the only three good things that came out of the '60s are my daughters." Yeah, too bad about that pesky civil rights movement.)

The justifications these social conservatives throw up never make any sense. Some of them actually try to claim in court that same-sex marriage should be banned because the state has a compelling interest in promoting heterosexuality for the sake of the survival of the species. Um...? How paranoid do you have to be to think that heterosexuality is on the wane?

They love to argue that we need to ban same-sex marriage in order to protect children, arguing that heterosexual marriage is primarily about procreation. But if that were the case, why would my marriage to a man be any more threatening to a stable society than any of Rush Limbaugh's three marriages, all of which ended in divorce and none of which resulted in any children? If gay people should be denied marriage privileges on the basis that they can't procreate, then shouldn't we ban the marriage of infertile heterosexuals?

While we're on the subject, let's talk parenting: gay couples have to really want to become parents. It's something they have to plan, and frequently have to jump many hurdles to accomplish, whereas any heterosexual too stupid to use a condom can become a parent.

"It's always been that way" is not a defense. If we could really make that argument, we'd still have the slave trade and women wouldn't be working outside of the home.

Besides, gay marriage is not a new, radical assault on thousands of years of tradition; first of all, today's heterosexual marriages in no way resemble "marriages" of the past millennia, where in almost every culture around the world women have been regarded as man's property, where prepubescent girls were bartered to cement financial and political contracts. Secondly, gay folk have always been around, and presumably thousands of years ago the heterosexuals in control were just as unlikely to acknowledge that we form lasting, committed stable relationships as they are now. It's not that gay marriage is new; it's that for centuries the straight world has chosen not to see what was hidden in plain sight.

So that brings me back to "redefining marriage."

Let's say that you open Webster's Dictionary and look up "zebra," where it says that "The zebra is a large, rainbow-colored mammal related to horses found in the jungles of Nevada and Wyoming."

Well, we know that definition is wrong. Changing the definition in the dictionary to make it reflect what a zebra actually is is not the same thing as proposing radical changes to the zebra itself.

If your definition of marriage doesn't reflect reality, don't blame me for changing it.

He Made Me a Mix Tape

Inspired by a friend's blogpost today, I decided to look up my first boyfriend. He lives in Florida now; I found him on the staff webpage where he works, along with a pic. He's still cute.

The story of how we met is a good one.

Picture it: Manhattan, 1994. Labor Day Weekend.

FRIDAY

I was a student at Manhattan School of Music, was working part time at Satan's Gift Shop (er, um, I mean The Shops at Lincoln Center), and had just moved in to my first apartment. It was a good-sized, spacious studio with a walk-in closet. Unfortunately the building's boiler was totally unreliable, so there was often no hot water and sometimes no running water at all.

Columbia University used to -- and still might, I don't know, I'm a little old now -- have LGBT dances the first Friday of every month. I didn't often have a lot of "luck" there, but on this particular evening I caught someone's eye, and he caught mine. I was 20, he was 23, and in law school out on Long Island, and had driven in with some friends for the dance. He had the thickest Long Island accent (what did you think I was going to say?) I'd ever heard. I was in love. He drove me back to my apartment after the dance, but nothing happened, as he was also chauffeuring all his friends back to the Island. But we did exchange numbers and I promised to call.

SATURDAY

The next morning I had an appointment in Newark to greet a friend of mine who was flying in for a one-year internship with the U.N. He was nervous about finding his own way into Manhattan so I volunteered to help. Naturally after a hot, humid fall night where I'd been out dancing and hanging out with a bunch of smokers, I woke up sticky and stinky...and there was no running water. I ran out and bought some bottled water to clean myself up with, and headed out to EWR.

I met Mike at the airport and got him settled in his room at the Vanderbilt Y. We went to dinner, and then when I got home I discovered that a) the water still wasn't running and b) there was a message on my machine from Louie. (Yeah, Louie. Remember answering machines? Oh, and the other thing about no running water is that once you flush the toilet and the tank empties, it doesn't refill...so I had no toilet, either. At least, not one I could flush.) Louie was going to be in the city the next day, and would I be free to meet?

Well, I had to work on Sunday, and I didn't fancy showing up at Lincoln Center after two days in hot, humid weather without a shower. So I called a friend of mine and asked if I could crash at his place so that I could have a shower in the morning on my way to work. I called Louie back and left a message that I had to work until late afternoon, but that he could call me and hopefully we could meet up afterward. (This was before cellphones.)

So it was about 10 p.m. and I was waiting for the 1 train in the station at 190th Street. A guy came and sat down on the bench near me and started talking. I didn't really pay any attention to him until he said, "I'm real hungry, do you know what I mean?" as he pulled back his coat to reveal the handle of a pistol tucked into his belt. Fortunately he let me keep my wallet in exchange for my cash.

Then he asked my name. "What for?" I wanted to know.

"You seem like a good guy, I want to pray for you." (This coming from an armed mugger.)

I said, "Just tell God, 'the blond in the subway station,' I'm sure he'll remember." Just then the train came and I walked far away from him. No, I never reported it.

When I got to my friend's apartment he said, "Jeez man, you look like hell."

I said, "Well, I haven't showered in two days and I just got mugged at gunpoint." I wasn't sure if "at gunpoint" counted since I only saw the handle, but I didn't feel like being technical.

SUNDAY

The next morning I had to borrow $1.25 (!) from my friend in order to buy a subway token to get to work. I had also just switched banks from Shittybank to Chase and Chase had put some sort of 14-day hold on my deposit so I wasn't able to withdraw any cash. I hadn't really figured out what I was going to do; I surely wasn't going to tell my parents I'd been mugged by a guy with a gun. They didn't need to add that to their anxiety.

At some point in the afternoon, Louie called. Yeah, it was a major violation to be receiving personal calls on the job, but he was worth breaking rules for. He asked how my weekend was going and I told him. "Oh my God!" he said, "God" coming out kind of like "Gwawd!"

School didn't start for me until Wednesday, and I didn't have to work again until Wednesday night, so he invited me to come spend Labor Day with him at his house on Long Island. I could at least be guaranteed of a shower. He met me at Lincoln Center as I was getting off and we traveled back up to my very humble apartment in Washington Heights (not the one I have now).

"Oh my Gwawd, you don't even have a bed," he said. (Or running water, for that matter.) I packed some clothes and we headed back downtown and got on the Long Island Railroad bound for Mastic-Shirley.

When we finally got to his house, out in the middle of frickin' nowhere, there must have been 20 cars parked in front. A teenager was throwing up alongside the front walk. "Waw, fuck!" said Louie. His sister Dawn (pronounced, "Duwawhn") was throwing a big party with all her high school friends.

"Oh my Gwawd, Duwawhn, what are you doing? Mom and Dad are gonna be here any minute!"

"Wah? I thought they were coming back tomorrow?"

"No, shithead, they're coming home tonight!"

"Waw, fuck, okay, everyone, out of my house NOWWWWW!"

Of course, Louie knew full well that his parents weren't coming back until the next day, but it worked like a charm getting rid of his sister's friends.

MONDAY

I spent the night in Louie's bed. Nothing happened! I was a good boy. I was determined to wait for "the one."

That day we went out to Fire Island. I had never seen anything quite like it. It wasn't really beach weather; as I recall the temperature had plunged and it was extraordinarily windy. Still, I thought it was very romantic. I remember a beautiful sunset as we took the boat back to Sayville. Back at his house, he tried to get me to smoke pot. I declined.

I spent the night in his bed again. I guess I had decided he was "the one." Something happened.

TUESDAY

His parents had come home sometime the day before. His father was ill with some condition or other, so I never actually saw him. He was a Titurel-like presence, a disembodied voice emanating from the back bedroom. His mother looked like Charo and sounded like Patty Bouvier impersonating Harvey Fierstein. I had been warned not to let on that Louie and I were "together." My cover story was that I was just a friend from college visiting for the weekend.

"I like you," rasped out Louie's mom. "You're not like Louie's other friends. He's always bringing around faggots." She made us waffles with cigarette ash for breakfast.

Louie and I drove around Mastic-Shirley running errands for a while. Everywhere we went, I felt like people were staring at me. The little old lady in line at D'Agostino's seemed to stare at me knowingly, "You took it up the ass, didn't you, you little whore."

Anyway, I went back to the city late that afternoon, and indeed the water was back on.

Louie and I broke up a few weeks later; the "distance" thing was an issue, plus he smoked and liked to go clubbing and smoke pot. And he was stupid. Very, very, very stupid. Nice, but...sometimes that's not enough.

He hadn't returned my calls for over two weeks, so I wrote him a letter announcing that I was breaking up with him. I was too naive to realize I'd already been dumped.

I still have the mix tape he made me, though.