Sins of Omission

If you’d like to recreate the experience of visiting the Midwest, stand in the middle of a football field and turn on a wind machine. Productions of “Oklahoma” should include cowboy hats flying off heads and dancers being knocked on their asses by malicious tumbleweeds. En route to a post-performance party in Kansas, I note turbulent waves suitable for surfing in a hotel swimming pool.
Despite the bracing winds, the area does have its charms. Everyone I’ve met in Kansas is downright cheerful. And not that fakey Southern "Bless-Your-Heart" cheerful. It’s a genuine placid contentment I can’t help but envy.
My costar Jef and I arrive as the guests of honor in a lovely home thematically dedicated to rabbits. Seriously. They’re everywhere. Cloth, ceramic, wooden, any material you can imagine. My mother does this with roosters, so I’m not gonna judge. We are feted and fed, enjoying the rare chance to interact with the folks who paid to see us onstage.
“Alrighty,” says our hostess. “Which one of you is getting married?”
My biography in the show’s program mentions I’ll be getting hitched when I’m done with the tour. I include this info because I’m very proud of it, and as an unexpected bonus, mentioning weddings makes most of the women in the audience like me before the show even starts. Straight baby boomer women love weddings.
“That’s me,” I say. “I’m very excited. I like your concrete rabbit table. Did you paint it yourself?”
“Tell us all about the wedding! Where is it?”
“Coast of Massachusetts.”
“Is that where she’s from?” asks another woman, joining us.
“Both from Mississippi,” I say, artfully dodging a pronoun. A crowd is forming. They all start peppering me with questions about my intended bride, her dress, if she’s driving me crazy with all this wedding nonsense…

I maneuver around every awkward question with evasive dexterity Anderson Cooper and Queen Latifah would envy.

I never lie to these people, not once. I do, however, end up with a few odd sentence constructs, like when I’m asked if my fiancée is in theatre as well, and I say, “No. Retail manager.” I sound like Captain Caveman.

When a woman asks what the bride’s name is, I take a long sip of my soda and admire another rabbit until I can take the next question.
Back at the hotel, my sense of accomplishment begins to fade. I confess to Jef that the entire exchange left me feeling deceptive.
“Yeah, no offense, but there’s no way I would’ve done what you did tonight,” he says.
“Well, you wouldn’t ever have to,” I snap. “If you and Lucy ever get married no one’s likely to fucking hate you for it.”
“Whoa. I don’t think anyone in there would’ve hated you, Topher.”
“Really? The gay marriage ban passed in Kansas with seventy percent of the vote. Seventy Fucking Percent. Statistically, a good number of those party guests don’t believe I have the right to get married. And no matter what moral code those nice people or Miss California or whoever wants to wrap that up in, it is still a kind of hate.”
“Then why didn’t you just change the subject?”
“Because I didn’t wanna be some fag shooting the shit about bunnies with bigots! I’ve never had the chance to just talk about the wedding and get marital advice from strangers, and I thought it would be nice to feel normal for once.”

"Well, was it nice?"

"No, Jef. I felt like a fraud."
It’s exhausting feeling like I have to be an activist every time I leave the house. I didn’t want to go to all the effort of selling them on the validity of my life with Preppy. And yet when I decided to remain silent, I ended up feeling like a sleazebag because I never gave them the chance to hear the truth. Maybe the reason a lot of Kansans voted against equality is because they hadn’t met and liked anyone who was personally affected by it. If I’d told them the reason we’re having a destination wedding is because we have to travel to someplace legal, it’s possible I could have changed someone’s mind.
The day I decided to live my life openly and honestly, I accepted the responsibility of defending it. Sometimes that means standing on the steps of the Capitol, and sometimes that means having the balls to speak up in a rabbit-filled Kansas living room. Next time, I will. My life is worth talking about.

It Was Never Just Me

Following my week at home for Easter, I went back to Columbus, Georgia for a brush-up rehearsal before resuming our national tour of the play. Our next stop is glamorous Tulsa. Try to contain your jealousy.
With an evening free, I stopped by Fat Cat, which recently opened as the second gay bar in Columbus. I’m pleasantly surprised that this city can sustain two homo watering holes, although I’m not entirely convinced- I recognized most of the faces at Fat Cat as regulars from my visits to the other gay bar, leaving me to wonder who was over there now. Maybe there’s some sort of timeshare scenario worked out. I should investigate this further next time I’m in town.
“Heeey,” slurred a man at the end of the bar.
I chose to ignore him, and pretended to answer a text message. I was actually just reading the latest from Demi Moore on Twitter, but how was he to know?
“Heeeey! You! Red!”
I sometimes wonder how drunken strangers would address me if I dyed my hair dark brown. None of my brunette friends ever get “Brownie,” or “Walnut,” or what have you.
“I know you kin heeear meeee.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can hear you.”
“Firecrotch! Do people call you that? I bet people call you that.”

"No," I seethed. "No one has ever called me that."

A woman in a baseball cap and polo shirt settled on a stool between us. She squeezed my hand and flashed a warm smile.
“There you are! I’m sorry I was running late.”
This was unexpected. I wanted to tell her I had no idea who she is, but my memory isn’t that reliable. It was entirely possible I did know this Izod-clad lesbian, and that I made plans to meet her at the bar. My life’s a bit of a jumble these days.
“That’s Ricky,” she said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “He goes after anybody who’s alone. You looked like you could use some help, dude.”
I have a weakness for lesbians who use the word “dude” in casual conversation. I believe they can handle any trouble if it arises, like a fight or an unexpected problem with my car.

In short, I feel safer with them around.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m…”
“I know who you are. You’re David Magazine, right? What’re you doing down here?”
She said it as though my actual name is David Magazine. Perhaps Dave, to friends. It’s not a bad name. Sounds vaguely French. She introduced herself as Cindy, which was just about the last name I would’ve given her. I think of Cindys as cheerleaders or Baptist youth group leaders. Not necessarily PBR-chugging roughneck girls in baseball caps. But it just goes to show you can’t judge nothin’ by a label. Cindy lived in Atlanta back when she was with, as she put it, “This bitch,” at which point she lowered her shirt collar to reveal the name ‘Allie’ tattooed in script on her shoulder. Allie had introduced her to my column.
“Dude,” she said. “You and I seriously have been through so much of the same shit. It’s crazy.”
I’ve had that moment more times than I can recall. I called my column “Maybe It’s Just Me” as a legitimate inquiry, wondering if anybody could relate to my daily frustrations, or if I just needed to be on some sort of medication. In the nearly four years that followed, I found that it’s that very uncertainty which unites us. It crosses all boundaries- gay, straight, male, female, and all points in between. It’s been very reassuring.
So this week, my column gets a new name. Part of it is a fun little bit of marketing synergy: Necessary Luxuries is the name of my book, CD, and YouTube vlog (please subscribe,) so it seemed like time to bring the column under the same banner.

But moreover, it’s because the initial question I had has been answered: It ain’t just me. It never was. Now I can focus on appreciating the little things in my life which truly define it- the necessary luxuries.

Necessary Luxuries: Stage Door

From Hays, Kansas: Backstage at "Greater Tuna," responding to a Twitter review from a compulsive gambler. Also: The Will Rogers Inn in Oklahoma is officially zero for two in the service category, and Oprah might be slaughtering cows.

Necessary Luxuries: Whose Side Are You On?

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Hard Times

I ran out of deodorant this morning, which is right up there with smoking my last cigarette: Taking care of that situation instantly moves to the top of my priority list. I’m home for a few days, and Preppy’s deodorant is right there in the medicine cabinet, but that simply won’t do. We use different brands. I associate that scent so closely with Preppy that if I use his, I spend all day distinctly aware that I smell wrong.
So it was off to the neighborhood pharmacy, where I discovered yet another symptom of the economic downward spiral: Remember when stores had four or five people working the floor during business hours? Alas, those were the days. Now, everywhere I go there seems to be a skeleton staff- usually one or two harried employees attempting to meet the needs of the masses. I try to be as patient as possible when I encounter this scenario, as my fiancé is responsible for staffing retail with limited hours and I hear the daily horror stories.
I see the only apparent employee in CVS attempting to help a customer at one of those photo retouching kiosks. As best I can tell, the customer has brought every family photo taken in the last thirty years. Seriously, the guy has a cardboard box filled with picture frames. I find it intriguing that he didn’t even bother to take the pictures out of the frames before making the trip over. What sort of retouching emergency would have someone frantically pulling photos off the walls and dashing out the door? I’m more than happy to busy myself with his imagined back story while I wait at the register. Besides, I’m just here for a stick of Degree, and as long as nobody stands too close to me it’s not much of an emergency.
The elderly woman behind me with a cart full of discounted Easter candy, however, apparently has places to be. Important places where a shitload of Cadbury eggs will be required.
“I need help!” she screams to no one in particular. I’m not certain if she’s referring to the current circumstances, or just bemoaning her life. Both seem valid. Between her leopard-print blouse, plaid pants, and bright pink scarf, at the very least she needs the help of a stylist. Then she lets out a mournful moan, which rouses the attention of the lone employee.
“It’ll be just a moment,” she says, returning to the man with the photos.
“Oh, come on!” says Candy Lady, shuffling her feet like she has to pee. Which could be the source of her anxiety.
“I think they’re short-staffed,” I say.
“Oh, you think so?” she says with an arched eyebrow. “This is foolishness. She needs to get over here and do her job.”
“She is doing her job. It’s not her fault. She’s just the only one scheduled to work.”
Candy Lady responds with a disgusted snort, similar to the sound my friend Lori’s Great Dane makes. A moment later, the beleaguered CVS girl does make her way to the counter, apologizing for the delay. I feel a bony finger poking my shoulder.
“Can I go in front of you?” says Candy Lady.
I look at my one item, and her cart full of sweets. Before I can respond, the cashier speaks up.
“You can wait, ma’am.”
Candy Lady looks comically stricken.
“I am doing the best I can, ma’am,” the cashier continues. “I will be with you after I help this gentleman.”
Right now, we are all doing the best we can. The audacity of hope we had in January has led to a grim realization that nothing is repaired overnight, and sometimes things do get much harder before they get any better. Maybe it’s just me, but lately that’s a lesson I’ve had to digest in more areas than just the economy. But the lesson remains the same: Be patient, and remember that nobody has the market cornered on hardship. We are stronger when we work together. If we show a little kindness and charity, we’ll make it through.

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How We Didn't Meet

It’s the day of my performance in Mississippi, which has become a homecoming of sorts- my parents arrived with a group of nearly thirty people to see the play. All of these people brought food. My costar and I have agreed to put our fitness regimen on hold for the weekend, because of all the awesome fatty foodstuffs we’d miss out on otherwise.

There’s a reason Mississippi’s the fattest state in the country, and that reason is because lard-based cuisine is freakin’ delicious.
My fiancé Preppy’s parents are staying in a hotel across the street from my family’s mob, which is smart because the Paynes tend to get loud and raise the ire of innkeepers. I meet Preppy’s mama in the lobby .
“Daddy’s back is all bound up from the drive,” she says as we embrace. “But he’ll be fine for the show. I’m not giving him a choice. Come up and say hello.”
Preppy’s stuck in Atlanta this weekend, because the store he runs just started selling bras. It’s a much bigger deal than you can imagine. He’s been angling for those bras for months. There’s always money in boobs. To make up for his absence, I have been texting him with consistent updates since we crossed the state line.
We reach the door of a hotel room, and my future mother-in-law turns to me with a mischievous grin.
“I have a surprise for you.”
She opens the door. Revealing my fiancé. I burst into tears, which alarms him.
“I thought you’d be happy!” he says, holding me up.
“I am, I… muh huh huh… I thought you (sob)… bras… and I tried so (sniff)… pragmatic.”
“I know, darlin’. But both sets of parents? We’d never make you deal with that on your own.”
Then the bathroom door opens. My best girl Slutty Mandy enters, in a towel, appropriately enough.
“I had sex with the hottest rugby player last night, and I drove seven hours just to tell you about it.”
And now my life is complete.
An hour later, I’m ironing Preppy’s shirt for the show while describing the family members the assembled group will be meeting later.
“My Aunt Ellen is the only other actor in the family. She did plays in high school, always played the maid. One of my cousins told me she was in blackface, but she denies it.”
“Mississippi in the fifties,” says Mandy. “Seems entirely plausible.”
“And my Aunt Grace, she’s married to my Uncle Big Bub.”
“Father of Little Bub,” Tommy clarifies for his mother, who’s new to all this. “Big Bub’s real name is Roger. They used to live in Vicksburg, you and Dad might have known them. Roger and Grace Patterson?”
Preppy’s mama’s face goes gray. She stands, turns toward the door, then turns back.
“Mom,” says Preppy. “What’s wrong?”
“Roger and Grace Patterson are your aunt and uncle?”
“Oh God,” I say. “Did Uncle Big Bub sue you? He likes to sue people. My family has weird hobbies.”
“No, no… They were divorced at one time, yes?”
I nod. It was back in the early nineties. She got a little house, which I was allowed to visit once. She made Frito Pie, which I think proves she was keeping herself together pretty well. People in total crisis don’t make Frito Pie. They go to Sonic or something. In the family we refer to this entire episode as “Aunt Grace’s Vacation.” But I’m digressing, and there’s a panicked mother-in-law standing before us stammering.
“Son, you remember when your Daddy and I were separated for a bit. I dated that nice man who had the pool and the catfish pond… That was… Topher’s uncle.”
Our happiness is so ridiculously dependent upon timing. Had that brief courtship not ended with Preppy’s parents reconciling and my aunt and uncle remarrying, things could have been quite different. My future husband would instead be my cousin. If that ain’t the most perfect damn Mississippi story ever told, I cannot imagine what is. And had Preppy not decided to forsake his bras and join me at my side, we could have missed out on what is certain to become our favorite story of how we didn’t meet.

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