Total Turnaround

I’m staying outside Tulsa, Oklahoma in the Will Rogers Inn, mere days away from my homecoming. My fiancé and I are having a phone date, which I’m totally ruining by watching CNN and screaming. The topic? Reverend Rick Warren, author of The Purpose-Driven Life, recent presidential inauguration invocation designee, and a man who casually lumps me with pederasts, polygamists, and men who wanna bang their sisters.
“Oh no,” he says. “Listen here, Topher Payne. You were supposed to calm down after the election.”
“I was hoping I’d get to,” I say, feeling my audacity of hope losing its gleam.
So here we go.

2009 is off to a rousing start, with President-Elect Obama choosing one of America’s most revered Evangelical pastors to participate in the celebration of all the efforts of the presidential election. Look him up, if you haven’t gotten the goods on this guy yet. I’m seriously beginning to question Obama’s taste in ministers.
You will hear that this is a strategic move on Obama’s part, and that it’s all part of his master plan. That may be true.

As my friend Jo pointed out, the highways are littered with people who underestimated Barack Obama. Maybe opening the speech with Warren and closing with Lowery is some sort of changing of the guard- One last time, here’s the crap you’ve been hearing for eight years, and now on to the good stuff. Or maybe he’ll have a whole roll call of hatemongers, with a few words from a jokey Anti-Semite or a mannered misogynist, to show how far he’s willing to go to unite us all. But the last time a verbose, gay-friendly president told us to trust him and watch things play out, we got stuck with Don’t-Ask-Don’t-Tell and DOMA. Those are two disasters we’re struggling to overcome a decade later. Actions speak louder than words, and the action here indicates that those who seek to deride us, to promote misunderstanding and panic, have a place at Obama’s table. That is not okay.
If Warren had made equivalent remarks demonizing single mothers, African Americans, Dairy Queen employees, or Methodists, we’d call him a lunatic. But say it about gay people, and people defend the man. Why is that? If one of my straight friends, for even a moment, defends Warren’s comparisons, I am going to go over to their house and break something pretty. Nothing too expensive, but enough to express my frustration.
I do not begrudge Rick Warren’s right to believe what he wants within the context of his church. I will defend that right. If I disagree with him, I will not go to his church. When I was growing up, the Southern Baptist church in my town didn’t allow dancing. My family loves dancing, so we became Methodists. Ain’t Freedom of Religion great?
There are plenty of people in this country who don’t support gay marriage. Members of my own family do not, but I love them still. President Elect Obama does not, but he still got my vote. We’ll keep that conversation open and hope hearts can be turned. But Reverend Warren doesn’t just oppose gay marriage. He has mobilized his support base with misinformation and fear-mongering. He has said that the difference between his ministry and the incessant nightmare that is Focus on Family is “A question of tone,” but not belief. He has stated that legalizing gay marriage would lead to hate-crime prosecution of ministers who believe homosexuality is a sin. By this logic, pro-lifers should also be prosecuted since abortion is legal. Rick Warren knows this is patently untrue, but it’s an effective sound bite.

For those of you up on your Ten Commandments, God calls this “Bearing False Witness.”
The outcry has been justified and satisfyingly loud. But they’ve already sent out the invites and everything, so it looks like this one is a done deal. That is why I am asking you to make a very simple, basic gesture on Inauguration Day. When Rick Warren is presented, turn your back. If you are at home, or work, or a party, or in D.C. watching it in person, just turn around until he is done speaking.
Out of respect for the President and the event, I wouldn’t want to see people yelling or protesting. But we can show that our community and its supporters are capable of a more graceful act of objection. We needn’t spread hate or fear. We don’t have to follow their example. We can simply turn our backs. Imagine how proud we’d feel seeing that on CNN. Or, I guess seeing it played back later, since our backs would be turned at the time.
People will say that Rick Warren represents a majority. The narrow majority which passed Prop 8. The majority that prevents us from adopting or marrying in state after state. The majority who refuses to call this an issue of civil rights. There’s a quote I love which addresses that pesky ol’ majority.
"Bear in mind this sacred principle, that though the will of the majority is in all cases to prevail, that will, to be rightful, must be reasonable; that the minority possess their equal rights, which equal laws must protect, and to violate would be oppression."
It’s from another Inaugural address. Thomas Jefferson’s. The guy who wrote the Declaration of Independence. But what the hell did he know?
On January 20th, turn your back on Rick Warren. Pass it on.

Let Nothing You Dismay

My birthday was a quiet affair, celebrated at a hotel in North Carolina. There was an indoor pool and a hot tub, so I spent a few contented hours wandering from one to the other until my hands were as wrinkled and pruny as a pre-facelift Cindy McCain. Afterward I stopped by The Food Lion for some sandwich stuff and beer, and on impulse bought myself a slice of coconut cake.

Back at the hotel, I made a little picnic on my bed and watched 30 Rock in my underpants.
I’m not sure when hangin’ out in my underwear became the pinnacle of decadence for me, but now it’s really a benchmark of quality in my mind.

If I got to perform everyday tasks in my Ginch Gonch, it was a damn fine day. This is even more bizarre because it’s not something I’m comfortable doing in my own home. I fret that the UPS man or Carlos the lawn guy will stop by. In hotels, you needn’t worry because you’ve got the “Do Not Disturb” to ward off all potential pests. If I put that on the front door of my residence, I know folks would pay no heed and disturb me anyway.
I was really happy with my party for one until three days later, when my beer-and-cake splurge caught up with me and I ran out of money long before my next paycheck. I pulled all the small change from my backpack and managed to work a little magic at the McDonald’s dollar menu, but then that money was gone too. I might’ve flat-out starved if there hadn’t been a shining beacon to give me hope:

Our Hilton in South Florida had a free Continental breakfast.
I set my alarm for ten minutes prior to its start the next day. I wanted full selection and few watchful eyes. I took my computer bag down with me, which I set next to my chair in the corner. I started toasting English muffins and bagels, which I would bring back to the table and using my computer as a shield, I’d wrap the baked goods in napkins and drop them into the bag. I made four trips to the counter using this method, helping myself to oranges, bananas, waffles, handfuls of Splenda, boxes of Honey Smacks, whatever they had. It was after the fourth trip that I aroused the suspicions of a steel-jawed Hispanic housekeeper with long hair and a short fuse.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, approaching my table. “You cannot take food to your room.”
“I’m not,” I said, closing my bag and hoping she didn’t have the right to search it.
“You have food in your bag.”
“No I don’t. I have various kinds of documents. I am a writer. Nothing but my documents in there.”
“No more, sir,” she said, and walked back to a corner with her arms folded, watching me.
I wanted to say, “Look, lady, show some fucking charity, I’m poor and it’s Christmas,” but I’m guessing a middle-aged hotel housekeeper wouldn’t be moved by pleas of poverty from a twentysomething guy holding a Blackberry and an I-Pod.
Even so, we had a standoff for like thirty minutes before she finally pushed her cart away, at which point I tossed six Danishes in my bag and filled an Aquafina bottle with apple juice. I’m not letting one Scrooge cause me to go hungry.
It was our day off, so I had my lunch of bagels and bananas on the beach, wondering if perhaps the Christmas spirit eludes those who get no cues from the weather indicating the holidays are upon us. I know I felt much more Christmasy last week in snow than I did sitting in my swimsuit at the ocean. Even Atlanta has our traditional slightly-frozen rain to signal Santa.
The unexpected lesson from touring America for the last two months has been learning what I can live without. There’s the big stuff, like the house, or my fiancé and friends, that I saw coming, but the little stuff has been very instructive. This is how one eats on ten dollars a day. This is how one spends twenty-four hours in a hotel room without putting on clothes. This is your life when it’s simmered down to just you, without all the clutter.
I talk less than you think. I listen to podcasts for hours on the bus, and then I’ll leave my headphones on and pretend to listen to music while I think in silence. And you know what I think about? Clutter. I miss the clutter of my life. Making a home, loving someone, maintaining friendships, it’s messy. And I think I’m at my best when I’m in the midst of that mess.
When I’m finally home again after Christmas, there won’t be presents under the tree, and I’m okay with that. My present to myself this year is a new appreciation for the home I have. I know that’s so stereotypical and sappy that I can’t even muster the energy to mock it, but it’s true. When you take a step away from your life, you’ll often find you’ve got most everything you need.

And then all you really want is to get back to it.

For Richer, For Poorer

“How have you never seen this movie?” says my fiancé Preppy, marveling at how delighted I am by the antics of Will Farrell’s Anchorman.
“I just plain don’t trust Will Farrell. He’s like Sandra Bullock. That woman has burned me too many times now with shit heap movies. I simply cannot take the risk anymore.”
“This is early Will Farrell, though. You’re safe with the early works,” he says, sifting through a pile of snacks on the bed. “Hey, you got a Hershey bar! This night keeps getting better!”
It’s almost my birthday, so Preppy took a little road trip to join me on a tour stop. Now we’re piled up on the bed in a Comfort Inn watching Will Ferrell movies in our underwear, drinking Cokes, smoking cigarettes, and eating candy. So basically I’m spending my twenty-ninth birthday acting like I’m sixteen, which is just fucking awesome.
I’ll be home for Christmas soon. I haven’t done any Christmas shopping, because in my off time I have only seen hotels and fast-food restaurants, and because there really isn’t money for material expressions of devotion this year. Lately having money for keeping the lights and water on at our house is an impressive feat, so we’re not really the target market for a plasma screen.
“I thought of what you can give me for Christmas,” I say, dumping the ashtray and pausing to check out the haircut I gave myself with a pair of sewing scissors earlier in the week. It’s amazing my hairdresser still talks to me. All I ever bring the woman is repair work.
“Homemade dirty movies,” I continue. “I can watch ‘em on the road. You can e-mail them. That’s my dream gift.”
“That’s exactly what it is, because your dreams are the only place those movies will exist. You’ve seen homemade flicks. The lighting’s always awful and people get caught at weird angles. Nobody needs to see that.”
“I’d do it for you,” I say.
“Of course you would,” he says. “You’re a total exhibitionist. You’d get naked for free sandwiches. I would not.”
He’s only half-right. It’d take a really good sandwich to get my clothes off.

Like a Panini or something.
“Fine,” I say. “Then you can pay for the save-the-date cards as my present, and I’ll pay for the stamps as yours. The next six months have to be devoted to wedding expenses anyway.”
His face hardens. I’ve said something wrong. I quickly review: Will Farrell, dirty movies, stamps, wedding expenses. I go with the most likely offender.
“I know you’re worried about the cost of the wedding. But we can totally scale back. Make the reception B.Y.O.B, or maybe have some carnival games they have to buy tickets for. I’ll have Jennifer make homemade Twinkies. Just gimme a budget.”
“This is beyond budget. I’m trying to pay property taxes. Insurance for a house, two cars, and a former cancer patient… Darlin’, I think we need to reschedule the wedding.”
“No! We already did that once for the theatre tour. If we reschedule again, people are going to think that you’re getting to know me too well and it’s never gonna happen. I can’t hold back my neurotic side much longer.”
“Are you saying what I’ve been living with the last few years WASN’T your neurotic side?”
“See? Now you have doubts.”
“I don’t have doubts about anything but our ability to pay for this thing.”
“Okay, well what if I could find someone to sponsor our wedding? Like, Coca-Cola presents Preppy and Topher’s Wedding, followed by the Delta Airlines wedding reception?”
“I don’t think Coke will pay for our wedding.”
“Why not? They’re real gay-friendly.”
“Topher. I am serious. We need to let the church know, and call people. There is no way our big wedding is happening in June.”
In my mind, our beautiful little chapel in Candler Park bursts into flames. Our attendants run screaming from the building as the reception tent falls to the ground. There goes my mother in her cream-colored suit. George’s flower arrangements. Slutty Mandy and Preppy’s girlfriends in complimentary dresses. I watch in open-mouthed horror as the dream wedding slips from my grasp. Little laser beams taking it all out, making little Pew pew pew sounds while they vaporize my fantasy. Goddamn it, I didn’t even WANT a wedding three years ago, now it’s ripping my heart out that it won’t happen. We were on our way toward being real grown-ups having a real wedding. Now we’re just a couple of poor people in some random city, eating candy in our underwear.
And that’s not so bad.
Because the day after our wedding, we’d still just be destitute candy-eating homosexuals, with nothing to show for our efforts but photographs, once we could afford to buy prints. We wouldn’t even have a marriage license. Which gets me to thinking.
“How much you think it costs to file a marriage license in Massachusetts?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” he says. “Why?”
“What if we just drive up to Provincetown this June for a long weekend and get married at the courthouse? If our friends want to come, they’re invited, but we ain’t payin’ for nothin’ but some Uncle Ben’s to throw at our heads?”
“Hm,” he says after some thought. “That sounds possible.”
“There. Problem solved. We’re eloping.”
We shake on it, and then I settle in next to the fella who so help me Baby Jesus, I will be married to this summer. And when it comes down to what actually matters, the only people I really dream about being there are already in this room eatin’ candy.

A Little-Known Fact

“Greeneville, Tennessee is the only one with an E on the end,” I report to my colleagues on the tour bus. “Every other one in America spells it ‘Greenville’, without the E.”
“Well, that’s pretty classy, isn’t it?” says my costar Jef. “I wonder if they add random vowels to anything else in their town.”
“Ooh, I hope so,” I say, looking out the window at the snow-covered town, hoping for a Texacoe or a Tacoe Belle.
It’s a travel day, meaning we’re just driving for twelve hours before checking into another hotel (a Hiltone, perhaps?). My i-Pod died a few hours ago, and I don’t think I can beat my new high score of 6500 on Brickbreaker, so I’m entertaining myself by looking up historical factoids on my Blackberry about the towns we’re driving through. It’s fun and educational, and since everybody else’s electronics are also in need of a re-charge, they have no choice but to be educated as well.

They’ll thank me later, when they’re smarter.
My fiancé Preppy has expressed concern of late that I never have much good to say about being on tour with the play, and I gotta admit he’s right. Other than the actual experience of doing the play, I’ve really been pushing the whole “glass half-empty” mindset, much to my own frustration. The nomadic spirit I possessed at a younger age was carefully beaten into submission in the last few years of nesting, and now I’m just supposed to pick up and enjoy being rootless again. Preppy encouraged (ordered) me to start finding the good things about being away from home.

Funny thing is, there really are advantages when you start looking for them.
Case in point: Last night the whole company went to one of those Brazilian restaurants where they give you the little coaster that’s red on one side and green on the other. When you want more meat, you flip it to green. When you can handle no more meat, you flip it to red. I gave those gauchos the green light for an obscene amount of time. As I dug into the better portion of a side of beef being served to me in myriad appealing preparations, it struck me that this restaurant would be my vegetarian fiancé’s notion of Hell.

So there’s a happy little moment right there. I don’t have my man, but I do have a dazzling variety of beef. That’ll do for now.
And now there’s this new history-of-unknown-cities hobby, which means I’ll be coming home with a better understanding of America.
“Greeneville is the former capitol of the state of Franklin,” I announce to no one in particular. I get a lot of furtive glances from the group, but no one takes the bait. “Doesn’t anyone want to know what the state of Franklin was? Gina? Calvin?”
“Oh, fine,” says Gina. “What was the state of Franklin, Topher?”
“I’m glad you asked. In the late 1780’s, a few western counties seceded from North Carolina and formed their own state, but the U.S. government refused to recognize it, and they made them go at it on their own for a while. And when the Indians realized they didn’t have military support, they started attacking Franklin like crazy.”
“And then Franklin became North Carolina again?”
“Nope. The governor borrowed money from Spain to keep it running, but he didn’t read the fine print and accidentally placed it under Spanish rule for a minute. To get out of it, they said they’d come back to the union, but only if they didn’t have to be part of North Carolina. So Franklin got tacked on to Tennessee.”
“Topher,” says Jef. “Will the history lesson end if I let you borrow my i-Pod for a little while?”
“Y’all be nice to me or I am seceding from this bus and declaring my seat a separate state.”
“Hope you got rich friends in Spain for when the Indians attack.”
I retreat to my own research. Poor Franklin. They wanted to venture out on their own, but eventually learned that sometimes it’s best to stick with the group and work your shit out. I can relate. I’m trying to find that nice moment when we all connect, but you can’t force that sort of thing. Friendships and alliances build slowly. One must be patient. I continue my Googling, and then hit upon a new idea.
“Hey Gina!” I say. “I don’t know it it’s your kinda scene, there’s a couple in Wheeling, West Virginia looking for a hot female to spice up their love life. Oh wait, they said no brunettes.”
“What the hell are you looking at?”
“I got tired of historical factoids, so I switched to Craig’s List. I’m checking out the sexual fetishes in towns we drive through.”
“That is twisted, Topher,” says Gina, returning to her book. Then she looks up. “What the hell do they have against brunettes?”
“The other girl is probably brunette,” says Wes, who I thought was asleep. He sits up. “She’s probably really insecure.”
“Then she shouldn’t be doing a threesome,” says our driver. “That’ll mess with her head.”
“Insecure people are always the first ones to agree to threesomes,” says Gina. “And the last ones who should. Let’s find one for Wes! See who’s looking for a skinny guy in Illinois next week!”
And just like that, united by a common, filthy cause, we finally begin to form a more perfect union.

The Road Worrier

I’ve been at my parents’ house all of ten minutes, and I’m wandering around outside in the dark, calling for a cat. I don’t even know this damn cat. It’s my Uncle Big Bub’s ancient feline, a calico named Calico. As soon as we walked in the house, Uncle Big Bub was on the doorstep, asking for assistance. How do you turn away an elderly man missing his kitty? So we grabbed the flashlights and headed into the night.
“Calico!” I call out, trying to sound warm and inviting, watching other beams of light bouncing in the distance.
This isn’t really Calico’s fault.

He lived his entire life in the same house until last week, and now he’s just confused. He keeps trying to go home. Uncle Big Bub (father of, you guessed it, Little Bub) and my Aunt Barbara recently built a house on the same land as my parents and my Aunt Merry, meaning we now have an actual family compound. You know, like the Kennedys. Only instead of playing touch football, we play flashlight tag with a semi-feral cat named for his physical description.
The tour of my play is performing in Louisiana tomorrow, and as a favor to me, they adjusted our travel route to spend the night at a hotel near my parents. That way, I could stave off homesickness a little with a family meal and a bed that isn’t at a La Quinta Inn. That last part is really appreciated, because I keep having terrible dreams in hotels. Is that normal? I can barely remember my dreams at home, but on the road it’s been vivid, detailed visions of large animals chasing me, my nose falling off, my parents divorcing for no reason, and me getting my foot caught in a bathtub full of quicksand. This crap stays with me the next day. I’m assuming it’s standard anxiety about being away from home and all that, but I wish my subconscious would let me get some decent rest.
Other than while I’m sleeping, I’m adjusting fairly well to life on the road.
That last sentence was a complete lie.
I’m fine as long as I’m WORKING, either performing on stage or getting ready to be there. But as soon as the show ends, I launch into my new hobbies: Overanalyzing phone conversations and worrying about what Preppy’s eating.
“I worry he’s not eating vegetables,” I told my best gal Slutty Mandy a few days ago. “He’s disinclined to have them when I’m home cooking, and I’ll bet he’s given them up altogether. Do you think he’s just eating microwave popcorn?”
“Yes,” said Mandy. “Of course he is. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it from hundreds of miles away, so just deal with it, sweetie. You’ll be home for Christmas. You’ll make green beans. Feel better?”
“No, I don’t feel better. And Preppy told me today our washing machine’s broken, too.”
“Well, shit,” said Mandy. “I guess you’d better quit the damn tour and come on home. Come fix the washer, steam some broccoli for your fiancé, and forget all this acting crap.”
I got it, I got it. It takes getting used to. The smart choice is to just keep looking forward, accept that the life you had before is not your life anymore, and adjust.
My sister Shannon and her husband got a call last week from my nephew’s birth mother. They’ve kept up with her over the years, sending occasional photos and updates regarding his growth and inherent genius. Birth Mama called to alert Shannon that she’d accidentally gotten pregnant again, and would she be interested in taking this one too?
They hadn’t really planned on adopting again- certainly not soon- but they couldn’t turn down the opportunity. They agreed, only to discover she’s due in SIX WEEKS. This would be shorter than usual. Most people, you might have heard, get nine months. Shannon’s taking it all in stride, and adjusting. I envy her malleability.
“I got him!” hollers Aunt Merry with triumph, and everyone cheers.
“Damn! That little so-and-so just scratched the hell outta me!” she then shouts, throwing the cat away from her, and we all give chase, which is a stupid thing to do when trying to catch a skittish housecat. I take a break for a cigarette and a phone call home.
“Hey baby,” says Preppy, sounding like someone beat him up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sick. Possibly dying. Might be flu. I’ll be okay.”
“We’ve got Theraflu in the master bath. And get some orange juice. Drink lots of water.”
“Already doing that.”
“And you should eat better. I think there’s tomato soup in the pantry.”
“Topher. Darlin’. Have you forgotten I took care of myself for a long time before I ever met you?”
The man has a point. But it made me feel needed to problem-solve. He simply refuses to sink into any kind of obvious misery over my absence. Not one tear shed, not one freakout, and frankly, I’m kinda disappointed. I was fully prepared to reassure him and hold him lovingly, telling him all will be okay. But he hasn’t required it.

God, nothing makes you feel more neurotic than a conversation with a sane person.
My Aunt Barbara walks into the light, smiling broadly and holding the cat tight to her chest.
“He’ll be fine,” she says. “He just needs to adjust to his new surroundings.”
I’m right there with you, Calico. Right there with ya.