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?

From Russellville, Arkansas: Possible nuclear disasters, a writing injury, surprising information about Super 8 Motels, and Dennis Hensley's new podcast leaves me torn between loyalties to strangers.

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.

Necessary Luxuries: Jesus Chris, It's Easter!

Happy Easter, everybody! Chris is risen!

Necessary Luxuries: Scratch and Sniffles

Sad Paula, Happy Furniture.

Necessary Luxuries: Chasing the Right Dream

American Idol, and fun with puppets.

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.

Necessary Luxuries : No Go HoJo

From a Howard Johnson's in Knoxville that is certain to haunt my dreams.

Necessary Luxuries: High Fashion and Hidden Holes

Day two in Ohio.

Necessary Luxuries: You Think You Know a Person...

Entering that 21st Century everyone's been talking about, with the launch of my video blog.

Where the Heart Is

It’s a travel day, which means we hop on the tour bus at dawn and drive ‘til sunset, stopping for meals and smoke breaks along the way. I’ve downloaded the audio book of Jane Fonda’s autobiography, which is a curiously intimate experience. I feel like I’m taking a road trip with Barbarella, and she’s regaling me with stories for seven hours. By the time we get to Atlantic City, I’ll know her better than most of my friends.
Jane’s right in the middle of a fascinating story about when Greta Garbo told her to become an actress (Garbo was naked at the time. Seriously, read this book) when we stop in a random South Carolina town for lunch at Subway. Most of our meals are at Subway now, because my costar and I are trying to get skinny, so audiences will find us funnier. It’s a proven fact that audiences prefer their quick-change comedies performed by people with flat stomachs. It’s in a book somewhere. Look it up.
Our sound guy Max had been snoozing on the bus, and when he emerges he takes a moment to survey his surroundings. It’s disorienting, falling asleep and waking up in different cities all the time.
“Holy shit,” he says at last. “My family lives here.”
Our company is made up of theatre gypsies who’ve spent their adult lives chasing work from city to city, so it’s fairly common for at least one of us to have a story about whatever locale we pass through. I suggest Max call up his people so we can see who managed to create our bizarre sound man, but he shoots the idea down. He hasn’t been home in seven years. His mother’s no longer alive, and a twenty-minute reunion with his father over five-dollar footlongs wouldn’t really work out so well.
Max is silent over lunch, which is unusual for anyone in this group. I choose to let him keep his own counsel. When we stopped at a mall food court in Gainesville, Florida, I was overwhelmed by memories of the last place I called home before Atlanta. I was nineteen, and dating a U of F student whom I adored in that all-consuming way you can only really pull off the first time you’re in love. He was also the first boy to rip my heart out and pulverize it. Every inch of Gainesville served as a reminder of that wound. I didn’t eat lunch that day. Instead, I sat outside the mall and smoked, which only made it worse because I was beside the movie theater where we saw The Phantom Menace on our first date. A shared hatred of Jar Jar Binks became the foundation of our relationship. But that's a story for another time.
It’s a disquieting discovery I’ve made on this tour of America: When you leave a place, no matter how much time elapses or how thoroughly you think you’ve changed, part of your heart stays frozen in that precise moment in time. If you ever come back, that little piece thaws, and it feels as though minutes have passed instead of years.
This weekend, we journey to my home state of Mississippi. It’ll be the first time I’ve performed there in over a decade. When I left, I was doing children’s plays for a hundred kids or so. I return on the national tour of a two-man show, performing in a thousand-seat opera house. I’d say it’s a dream come true, but I honestly never considered the possibility of something like this ever happening. My entire family will be in attendance, plus folks from my hometown, and my fiancé Preppy’s parents. Preppy himself will be stuck working in Atlanta, which I’d seen as kind of a bummer, but now that the day is upon me I realize his absence actually scares the shit out of me. When I’m confronted with that much of my history all at once, I need an anchor to remind me I’m not an anxious adolescent anymore.
But the reason Preppy can’t be there is because he’s at home, maintaining our life, and I’m latching on to that. I’ll deal with the little piece of my heart which defrosts when I return, secure that Preppy’s absence is a reminder of where the rest of my heart lies. My talkative new friend Jane Fonda says with each passing year we become ourselves just a little more. I like that notion. The version of me approaching thirty has plenty to offer the place an optimistic eighteen year-old left behind.

Man In Motion

My bed in the Greenville, Alabama Jameson Inn is freakin’ huge. You could throw some ropes up and hold an exhibition wrestling match in here, like those gay wrestlers used to do in Suburban Plaza.

I’m lounging on a pile of pillows, engaging in my nightly ritual of loading up my I-pod with music and podcasts for the drive to our next tour stop. I’ve been working my way through the NPR catalog of podcasts. Also, as we drive, I’ve taken to writing down the names of songs I haven’t heard in a while and downloading them when I get to the hotel. That’s pretty much the extent of my life right now. Two hours of performance, followed by eight hours at hotel, and the rest is driving.
Not that I’m complaining. It totally has its upsides. I’ve listened to so much NPR on these daylong drives that I’m now better-informed than at any previous point in my life. I’ve got an amazing handle on this whole financial bailout thing. Plus, after listening to him talk for up to ten hours at a time, I think I have a crush on This American Life host Ira Glass. I already had a crush on Atlanta public radio personality John Lemley, so now I feel like I’m cheating on him with Ira. Sorry, John.
I’m also hearing songs I haven’t even thought of in years. Like “Walk the Dinosaur,” and the theme song from St. Elmo’s Fire, which took a minute to find because to my surprise it isn’t called “St. Elmo’s Fire.” It’s titled “Man in Motion,” and I’ve listened to it so many times I’m pretty sure it qualifies as my theme song. I totally love it, and am convinced that I too can be where the eagle’s flyin’, higher and higher. All I need’s a pair of wheels.
My co-star Jef and I have begun to notice the result of lengthy bouts of inactivity followed by trips to Wendy’s and Burger King. Zippers on our costumes began to catch. Pants which once fastened without resistance started to put up a fight.

Three meals a day from the dollar menus are officially taking a toll.
“Jef,” I say at last one night in an Arkansas Days Inn. “Have you seen Super Size Me?”
“I know where you’re going with this.”
“Where I’m apparently going is to the Big and Tall shop, and I’d really like to avoid that. I refuse to get fat. I can’t afford a new wardrobe.”
“I’m game for a boot camp if you are,” he says, and an idea begins to form in my mind.
Several years ago, I hired a personal trainer named Drew, who managed to get me in the best shape of my life. This was despite my resistance at every possible turn.

With my newfound biceps and less expansive ass, I managed to trap myself the man I now intend to marry. And I never touched a free weight again.

Until now.
Apparently personal “training” turned out to live up to its name, because I still remember everything that buff bastard taught me. I’d just blocked it out, like a childhood trauma or a the details of a car accident. And that information’s been lying in wait, knowing eventually I’d come waddling back, and do those damn lunges again.
I wrote out routines for upper and lower-body workouts. Weights were purchased, and early-morning plans were set. And against my own body’s protests, I was back in motion. But this time, my cohort is a man who’s sobbing right alongside me, missing cheese. I think it also helps that this time, I’m kinda in charge, which I really dig, because I like to be in charge of things. I’m never happy as a student for very long. The responsibility of setting a good example is the number one thing getting me out of bed.
If we keep this up, and maintain our united front insisting on Subway for lunch and dinner, when I return home this June I’ll be in great shape for whatever the hell I’m doing after this tour ends. Which is probably the next thing I should tackle- come summer I’m gonna need something else to do for money.

I’ll think about that while I do crunches. As long as I keep moving, something good’s bound to happen.

Stuff I Learned When I Almost Died

I got an e-mail this morning from a regular reader of my column- I can’t use the phrase “fan mail” because those are letters dedicated to flattery and asking for photographs. I worked at “Party of Five” star Mitchell Anderson’s restaurant for a number of years. That man gets real fan mail. I get critiques of my columnist photo and occasional requests for information on home repairs.

But this letter was different. The reader had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and as I’d written a little about it in the past, she was requesting a few pointers from my experience. She included her phone number, so I just gave her a call.
When asked why I’ve never written in detail about my experience with B-Cell Lymphoma, my stock answer is that I’m saving it for my one-man show. It’s my clever slight-of-hand which keeps me from having to discuss it. As I’ve said before, I firmly believe there are some challenges in life which we need not revisit. Just extract what lessons you can and get on with things. Maybe that’s unhealthy, but unlike a physical disease, one’s methods for maintaining emotional well-being really can’t be questioned. Whatever you’ve found keeps your shit in one sneaker is what works for you. Rosie O’Donnell likes to hang upside down. If it makes her less Rosie hosting “The View” and more Rosie hosting The Tony Awards, let the woman pretend she’s a vampire bat for an hour or two.
That’s why I hated my few attempts at therapy. You sit in a dimly-lit room with a stranger and talk about all the horrible moments from your life. How awful. Just put on a pot of coffee and a Pixar movie, and I’ll be right as rain in no time. As for all the traumatic crap, I’m a fan of good old-fashioned Southern suppression.

But then a moment like this comes up, and I’m on the phone with a stranger, navigating the land mines of my own history.
So okay. I’ve told you about my life for four years. We’re friends now. So here’s the two big things I learned from the period when I was trying really hard not to die.
Thing one: I insisted in my first course of treatment that I face it on my own. I went to chemo by myself, met with doctors by myself, the whole shebang. This was because I needed to know I was strong enough to fight on my own power. I know now that doing this caused a fracture of truse in my relationship with my family that took years to repair. The effect it had on my boyfriend at the time was never repaired. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. It is smart, strong, and brave. When you’re in for the fight of your life, utilizing every resource you have means utilizing the people around you. It’s tough for them too, and during times that you’re doped up and delirious, you get to have a little break. They don’t.

Nobody gives them anything to take the pain away.
Thing two: People who survive chronic illnesses are not “survivors.” They are Veterans. They have been to battle, fought like hell, and all they want is to get back to the life they were fighting for. Don’t treat them like a sick person. No one is ever “dying.” You are alive until the moment you aren’t anymore. So don’t make the weepy “You’re dying” face when you see them. They hate that.
The expression, “You were spared for a reason,” implies others are DEAD for a reason. Granted, I’m not in charge here, but I find it hard to believe that people with children, houseplants, partners, and a lot to offer the world are getting snuffed out for a reason. Living through an illness simply gives you an appreciation for the unpredictable length of life. No one can predict how long they’ve got, so just marvel at how extraordinary RIGHT NOW is. And if in that moment of now, you find you’re not happy with what you see, get busy changing it. Because yesterday and tomorrow are both completely beyond your control.
That’s what I learned. Use it as you see fit.

Fun and Games

It all started with Word Challenge. My fiancé Preppy found a Facebook application that’s sort of like what would happen if Boggle and Scrabble had a baby, and within a week it was consuming every free moment. He was delighted. I’d sit by him on the sofa and help him find words, but spend half that time arguing with it about words it refused to recognize. Despite what that know-nothing Word Challenge will tell you, “indices” is a word. I looked it up to prove my point. But it’s a hollow victory when one manages to outsmart something that isn’t actually, you know, ALIVE.
Anyhoo, eventually I signed myself up for Word Challenge, and my sister Shannon quickly followed suit. That’s when things turned ugly. My sister is a college graduate who spends all day feeding her insatiably hungry newborn. She beat Preppy’s and my high scores within two days. This roused the competitor in me. Emerging as the Word Challenge champion became an obsession. We would have hour-long conversations about strategy.
Not coincidentally, around this time my fiancé lost all interest in the game. Apparently my sister and I had raised the stakes beyond his ability to enjoy it. We have a tendency to do this in my family. My mother’s mother, Memama, would play remarkably contentious Scrabble games with my Uncle Paul. The games would last entire afternoons, and none of us would be allowed in the room while the death match was being held. So we’d sit by the door and listen, since the language was much more colorful than anything on TV.
“God…Dammit, Shirley! That is NOT a goddamn word.”
“Go ahead and look it up, Paul, if you’re willing to risk the points. You were wrong about ‘striven,’ but maybe you’ll be right about this one.”
“God…DAMMIT, Shirley!”
Then we’d hear her delighted little chuckle.
“Alright, so that’s a triple-word score…”
Memama was a teensy slip of a woman from Arkansas without much education, up against the 300-pound Shell Oil executive who’d married her daughter. In any other scenario imaginable, he’d have the obvious upper hand. But Memama had one hell of a vocabulary, and on the battlefield of Scrabble, she was a formidable opponent who could knock your highfalutin’ ass down a few pegs, ‘til she could look you in the eye.
She taught her grandkids that simply by sharpening a few well-chosen skills, you could take down any opponent. The trick was always making sure you were playing your game, not theirs. It was a life lesson that served us all very well.
Leaving my sister and I to battle it out over Word Challenge, Preppy moved on to a new Facebook game called Pet Society. It’s a benign little enterprise where you create a big-eyed cartoon animal which you can play Frisbee with and dress in little outfits. You can also earn coins to purchase home furnishings for your pet by visiting strangers and washing or feeding their animals. Once my Shannon and I discovered this, the game was once again on.
“I’ve neglected my own children all morning while I sat online bathing strangers and feeding them pineapples,” says Shannon on the phone. “But I got four hundred coins and bought a chandelier!”
“Preppy says we’re ruining another game,” I say, brushing a random rabbit and stocking up on coins.
“He’s just saying that because we’re winning. If you’re that worried, buy him a present.”
So, sitting in my hotel room hundreds of miles away from my man, I send my pet over to his pet’s house. Preppy was a few beers in when he created his animal and accidentally misspelled its name, which apparently one cannot change, so he’s stuck with a cat named “Butterscotche.” I spend the coins I was saving for a new sofa and buy a bunch of presents for Butterscotche. This may all sound insane to the uninitiated, but it’s a significant choice in Pet Society: I’m not winning anymore.
But the next time he opens the game, instead of seeing how high I’ve managed to push my score, he’ll find a room full of gift boxes. It’s not the same as me being home with him, but it’ll do, and it’s another good life lesson for me. Sometimes, when you lose, you win.

I Can See Clearly Now

For the last two years, my fiancé Preppy and I have had a little game. Okay, he might call it something different, but to me it was a little game. Whenever we went to a restaurant, I would ask him to read the words on signs or television screens across the room. He’d crane his neck and squint his eyes, straining to make out the words.

It was like Morgan Freeman looking for that tombstone in “Driving Miss Daisy.”
“Try… a… marshmallow?”
“It says margarita, baby. Try a margarita. Why would the bar be selling marshmallows?”
“It could happen. Could be the name of a shot. I’d try it.”
“Don’t try to distract me. What’s the word below margarita?”
His frustration is mounting, but I have a point to make here.
“…mojito.”
“That was a lucky guess based on context clues. Being defiant will not make you any less blind.”
He knows this. All of his friends know this, as do his co-workers. Yet, he resists. I know my random eye tests in public places are straining his patience more than his eyes, but I’ve only got a few days left at home before I leave for four months. So I have to nag him as much as possible. Because while his determination and denial have reached Hillary Clinton levels, this man I love who cannot read the names of drinks on a chalkboard is driving a car. I find this alarming, and I know I will spend the next four months waiting for a late-night phone call announcing some horrible accident. I can picture the scene quite clearly. It involves police tape and Preppy on a stretcher, weakly calling my name. I can be really detailed in my nightmares. My mind always goes to the worst-case scenario first, because it makes the trip back to reality so reassuring.
Preppy says the situation is not nearly as dire as I claim, that he’s learned to cope with it. My argument is always that we’re not talking about a mysterious condition here. He doesn’t have whatever that sleepy disease was that Cher had; he just needs to get glasses.
I admit I’m being judgmental and shrewish over this whole thing. It might as well be Lynette’s B-plot on an episode of Desperate Housewives. I don’t doubt that Preppy has learned to live life like Mr. Magoo, and to him it likely all seems quite manageable. The truth is, we’ve all got something like this in their lives- an element of our existence that has been declining in quality or payoff, but we hold onto it, adjust, try to make do.
My pal Mel lost a whole bunch of weight. No, seriously, you could have built two Jonas brothers out of the weight she lost. The newly skinny Mel met a new guy who simply was not a good match. They struggled, and tried, and wrote down goals to improve their relationship. Still, they resisted the breakup long after the relationship’s natural expiration date. Part of that was because he was the first guy she’d seriously dated since she became the new her. But staying with him was preventing her from becoming the NEW new her, which was even better. Eventually she had the little light bulb moment, and did the necessary repairs on her life.
We don’t lower our standards because we’re incapable of fixing the problem, and it isn’t because we can’t see what’s deteriorating. It’s because doing the repairs requires acknowledging that something’s not working anymore. Whether it’s the wrong job, a bad relationship, an unflattering hair color, or failing eyesight, it’s just easier to lower standards than it is to cowboy up and admit things have gotta get better.
Without any warning, Preppy came home from work last night sporting brand-new spectacles. They make him look smart, and even preppier, so I’m a fan. I’m proud of him for taking care of the problem, and I choose to believe my nagging had something to do with it.
“So, is it amazing?” I ask. “All the details you’ve been missing?”
From across the room, he smiles and studies me closely.
“You really need to touch up your roots. And when’s the last time we vacuumed in here?”
Okay. I had it coming.

Travel Wear

The challenge: Packing clothing appropriate for New Jersey in winter, Ohio and Colorado in spring, then California in early summer. Make sure it all travels well, won’t wrinkle much, and doesn’t require washing after one wear. Oh, and it’s gonna need to fit in one suitcase. And they all need to be components that’ll make cute outfits.

That last edict is a self-imposed regulation, but should be considered just as important.
I’m the sort of person who brings three changes of clothes for one night of dogsitting for friends in Smyrna, on account of you just never know what the night will bring. An unexpected spill, temperature change, or dinner invite would require a wardrobe adjustment, and I wanna be prepared. For the last few weeks, I’ve been working at the Center for Puppetry Arts a few hours a day, helping seat groups of school children for matinee shows. I have come to love my morning ritual of standing in front of the armoire in my underpants with a cup of coffee in hand, deciding what to wear that day. It’s a process that requires at least half an hour of failed combos, but when I find it, it’s such a happy moment.
Somehow I have to figure out how to condense that experience into one suitcase for the next four months, while I’m back on the road with the tour of my play. And it’s not going well. I read somewhere that Albert Einstein had a wardrobe of nothing but white Oxford shirts and khakis, so he never had to waste thought on what he was going to wear on any given occasion. I have no idea if that’s true- 90% of my knowledge base is from Wikipedia and Access Hollywood- but there’s logic to the notion. I could just wear variations on the same ensemble from city to city, and the only people who’d be any the wiser would be my co-workers. It’d be fitting, since I wear the same costumes every night and all the hotel rooms eventually start to look alike.

It’d be like one day on continuous loop, which for some reason sounds like the most depressing thing I can possibly imagine.
I think that’s why I’m placing such importance on the contents of this suitcase: It’s the one tie to home I’ll have as I go from city to city. Every sweater, every t-shirt, every pair of socks has a different memory attached to it, and I crave that connection with my home life. As the clock winds down on my month-long break, I keep questioning whether I spent my time properly. I meant to put crown molding up in the bedroom, visit my sister, finish my play… most important, I’d planned on filling the last thirty days with beautiful, romantic memories with my fiancé to reflect upon while I’m gone, which could get us through the harder nights in the months ahead. But I don’t know if I pulled that off. Most of the time, we were just back in our old routine- forgetting to take out the trash, eating pizza and watching Lost, complaining about work. Granted, those are exactly the things I’ll miss, but I wish I’d done something bigger.
So I take out the trash.
While I’m outside, I note the tulip bed by the front door, planted by the previous owner. She had talked us through how to cut them down and prep the soil every winter, so they’d return healthy and happy later. We didn’t do that. Leaves and trash piled up, giving the impression that we’re greeting visitors with our compost heap. I consider this for a moment, then go inside and Google “Tulips.” Quick as a flash, I’m outside again in my grubbies with a rake, shovel, and trowel. For the next two hours, I rebuild the flower bed, and uncover the little eager sprouts under the mulch.
In a few months, while I’m a thousand miles away, my fiancé will come home and (hopefully) find tulips in full bloom. It’ll be like I gave him flowers. Speaking as someone who struggles with being romantic, I’m pretty proud of the notion. Plus, it’s somehow fitting that when I finally figure out a grand gesture, I won’t be here to see it. But you’ve got to switch your thinking and your methods while you’re away from your own life. That concept should probably apply to my wardrobe as well. So I go back inside with renewed determination to tackle that suitcase. I don’t really need twelve sweaters.

Maybe nine, at most.

Pretty as a Picture

My sister Shannon and her husband are now the proud parents of another son, named Wyatt. His father likes that their newest addition shares a name with legendary gunslinger Wyatt Earp. This doesn’t impress me all that much, so I’m pretending his namesake was actress Jane Wyatt, who played Spock’s mother on “Star Trek.” I concede that’s kinda reaching, but it makes for fun trivia.
Wyatt was adopted from the same woman who gave birth to my sister’s first child, Jack. She didn’t let them know she was pregnant again until her second trimester, so the prep time for Jack’s little brother was disconcertingly brief. But what a bonus that they got another kid from the same source, ya know?

It’s like finding out they made a sequel to your favorite movie.
“I need your help,” says my sister Shannon on the phone. “I’ve got pictures from the day Wyatt was born, and I don’t have a stitch of makeup on. Can we take a trip to Photoshop Land?”
Disney World be damned, Photoshop Land is the real happiest place on Earth. It’s the magical world of meticulously clone-stamped perfection where Faith Hill has arms the size of wrapping paper tubes and Mariah Carey looks like an oil painting. If the camera adds ten pounds, Photoshop removes fifteen. In my house, no photograph is made available for public viewing without first taking a trip through the happiest place on Earth. And now my friends know that if they tag a picture on Facebook without running it past me first, I’m gonna be pissed. Usually I’ll just swipe it from their page, make the necessary changes, and e-mail them the new version.
It’s not ENTIRELY driven by vanity. That’s only part of the rich tapestry of neuroses involved here. I see digital manipulation as no different from editing stories when you’re in mixed company. My fiancé’s friends know I would rather set myself on fire than hear stories about his ex-boyfriends, so when they reminisce in my presence, they’re kind enough to edit out any references to who he might have been dating at the time. Then I get to enjoy my carefully-constructed illusion that he spent the first twenty-six years of his life patiently waiting for me. Despite my insatiable curiosity in many other areas, I have very little interest in people sharing uncomfortable moments from their pasts, especially if the story will make me uncomfortable too. That sounds just awful. Who would want that? So I edit, and expect others to do so as well, as a courtesy. Just extract the lessons and drop the stories.

My entire family does this.
Over time, photos become the inarguable link to our histories- a trip down memory lane that gives newcomers a sense of our personal journeys. I hate that. When I look back at pictures from my birthday in 2005, there’s the ex who turned out to be such a dick. There’s that zit which of course popped up in the middle of my forehead that morning. There’s George with the red wine stain on his shirt. Well, not anymore. Photoshop Land creates an alternate reality where my skin and George’s shirt remained flawless, and that ex is replaced by a carefully-positioned potted palm tree. I don’t have to destroy the pictures, as previous generations of my family have done. Our family albums indicate which eras are open to discussion. If there are no pictures from 1967, it’s best not to ask why. But now, the visuals can match the edited stories. Empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays? Click. Drug paraphernalia? Click. Regrettable relationships? Click.

This software is the greatest technological advancement ever, with the possible exception of the Sham-Wow.
This has actually made me less self-conscious about pictures. It used to be impossible to get me to open my mouth in a photo, because I hate my teeth. Now I smile like I’m in a Crest commercial and let the airbrush deal with it.
As time goes by, my nephews will become curious about their own family background, and when they look at photo albums they’ll see the world as we choose to remember it. They might not remember their mother putting on full makeup every Christmas morning, but there’s the proof in the picture. If they ask why we look so horrible by comparison when viewed in person, I will tell them not to question it. It’s best to just enjoy the moment, and we’ll review the photos later.

Side Effects May Include...

My fiancé Preppy had a friend in from out of town, so a group of us headed out to a pub to toast her visit. The liquor we managed to stockpile at our recent engagement “stock the bar” party has kept the two of us close to home of late, so being out in the world was a lovely change of pace.
“Gimme your shot glasses,” our friend Janet instructed after we’d all done a round. She pulled a bottle of Jagermeister from her purse, and passed overflowing shots to the table.

I can’t do that anymore.

At some point in my mid-twenties my reaction to shots of that sticky sweet evil licorice liquor abruptly changed. It went from being a guaranteed night of delighted debauchery to a guaranteed night of blubbering and hugging the toilet. But I’ve made my peace with it- I had fun while it lasted, at least according to the vague, fuzzy memories I have of those nights.
But everybody else was doing it. So, okay, one shot. Or four. Preppy reminded me that I haven’t drank much since I started taking meds for my ADD, and I should be careful. I dismissed this. I felt fine.
Time and experience eventually reveals what kind of drunk you are. I am not a mean drunk, for which I am grateful. I am a sappy, silly, chatty drunk, which is fairly benign by comparison. As long as I’ve got a ride home, it’s not a big deal. But sitting in the pub that night, I was feeling neither sappy nor silly. I was feeling concerned.

I was becoming increasingly certain that Janet wanted to sleep with my fiancé.
As I watched the two of them laughing and hugging, I wondered how I’d never seen this before. My guard must’ve been down because she was a girl. But just because he’s not attracted to females doesn’t mean a female wouldn’t make a move. I realized, sitting there fuming, that I must be able to spot the warning signs now thanks to the magic pills. I couldn’t focus on these little details before, because of all the bright, shiny objects distracting me. Fuming, I did another shot and considered what else I might have been missing.
Preppy works retail, and has to do a lot of overnights at his job. But what if... WHAT IF… All those times he said he was doing overnights he actually had this whole other life I didn’t know about? What if while I’m on the road he’s living it up, having a blast? And here I’ve been looking like an idiot, feeling awful because I thought he was working so hard?

I decided not to say anything, to keep my own counsel here because I’m so much more perceptive than I ever was before. I could talk to my sister about it, except… I realized when I call her for advice, she’s secretly mocking me. Sitting at home with her little perfect family, her little perfect life, making fun of her faggy brother and all his faggy problems. I thought I had this amazing support system, but the more mulled it over, I realized I was totally alone in this world.

Why had I never seen this before?
At this point, I’ll go ahead and note that the most common side effects of mixing my new drug with excessive alcohol consumption are paranoia, anxiety, and psychotic episodes. But I did not consider that at the time. Nor did I think about it in the three hours that followed, after we’d returned home. I was enraged. I revealed everything I’d figured out to my very confused fiancé. I knew I sounded insane, and he certainly reinforced that point. He suggested this might be a drug/alcohol thing, but I dismissed it, because everything I was saying made so much sense in my head. I felt it so deeply. It had to be true. When I was too tired to scream anymore, I fell asleep.
The next morning, I remembered every word I’d said. I. Was. Mortified. I called my aunt, a doctor.
“I had the strangest experience last night,” I said. “We went out and had a lot to drink…”
“Oh no,” she said. “You shouldn’t do that on your meds. Did you go crazy?”
It’s an odd feeling, knowing I’ve surrendered my brain to a drug. In the last few weeks I’ve experienced so many of the intended results; it stands to reason that I’d also experience the worst-case scenario side effects. I never believed that would happen to me. I thought I would have more control, and be able to spot trouble before it hit. Never mind that the whole reason I started taking the drug was because I thought I was maintaining a level of control I didn’t actually have.
A major step in improving yourself is establishing boundaries. That night I learned a very clear one for me is when the bottle of Jager comes out of a purse. But beyond that, the harder lesson that has nothing to do with the medicine or the booze is that sometimes the people who love you can see you more clearly than you see yourself, and you have to learn to trust that.

They don’t make a pill for that one.

Interview with Topher

A little off topic from the usual posts- An interview from darynkagan.com (great website, you should go see.)

Earning My Keep

“I came up with a great way to make some extra cash before I go back on tour,” I tell my sister Shannon on the phone. “You know how I had to study massage techniques back when I was in school?”
“No, I did not know that. You went to art school. Why on earth would you study massage?”
“Dance classes, movement classes, we had to learn massage. It was educational.”
“Your school was so fucked up.”
“Will you please listen to my idea? Preppy went to massage school, years ago. He’s still got the table and all the supplies up in the attic. I could be a traveling massage therapist! Spend my day going to houses, helping folks release their tension.”
“Topher. You have to be accredited to do massage therapy. Even on Craig’s List you gotta put your license information in the ad.”
“That’s only if you’re claiming to be a certified therapist. I think they call it something else if you’re not certified.”
“Yes. Prostitution.”
“Well… crap. Okay, then I don’t have any ideas. It’s a shame, too. I think I’d be really good at helping folks get rid of tension, even if it is illegally. I have large hands.”
“And you’re creative enough to be a good drug mule, but I wouldn’t recommend that either. I know times are tough, baby bro, but let’s stay inside the law here.”
I’m home for another month before the play I’m in goes back on the road. I’m enjoying being back, but the delight is dampened by the fact that I’m earning virtually no money while I’m here. I’ve managed to pick up some odd jobs here and there, but these are harsh economic times. I’m competing against people who have things I don’t, like education and experience.

I always meant to get those.
So I’m at home with plenty of time to write, which is fun but not a quick way to earn cash. I also have my schedule clear to closely observe the effects of the medication I’m now taking for Attention Deficit Disorder. And lemme tell ya, that’s been an adventure. Three days ago I decided to clean the bathroom, which I never do, and I noticed how dingy our grout is. After scrubbing the floor with pure bleach for twenty minutes, it was still a yellowish-gray. Puce, maybe? I forget what color puce is, but I think it was puce. Undeterred, I found a white paint pen, and for the next four hours, I repainted every line of grout on the bathroom floor. It looks fantastic in there now. I mean, that floor sparkles like it’s in a Pine-Sol commercial. I can’t decide if I was admirably thorough, or dangerously unhinged.

I suppose it’s possible to be both.
The next day, I accidentally left the back door open, and a squirrel got loose in the house. Let me repeat that: There was a goddamn SQUIRREL in my house. Thing one, those bastards look three times bigger when they’re not outside. Thing two, even though it was the squirrel’s choice to enter my house and it could have easily left the way it entered, it began to freak out run amok in my very clean kitchen. While I was profoundly disturbed by the event, I still was able to formulate a plan for its departure by building a maze out of Christmas decoration boxes and suitcases, then shooing it out the door with a broom. I was impressed with my own level-headedness. I think my little orange pill might be working.
Another benefit is that I’m rarely hungry on the drug. I feel this is me contributing to our financial state, since now it costs much less to feed me. And thanks to a recent engagement party where the theme was “Stock the Bar,” Preppy and I have enough vodka from our friends to last us the entire Obama administration, including if he’s re-elected in 2012.
So I am doing my part, as best I can. Granted, it’ll be better if I can figure out a revenue-generating enterprise soon. But in the meantime, I keep the grout clean and the house rid of squirrels, don’t eat much, and try to be ready with a cocktail whenever my breadwinning fiancé comes home.

If I can’t help strangers alleviate their tension, I can still try to reduce his.

On a Very Special Supernanny...

My fiancé Preppy will tell you it’s no cakewalk trying to live with a writer. Every moment of our shared life holds the threat of becoming art. Preppy has endured the surreal experience of watching actors reenact our arguments for paying audiences. He has discovered his supervisors at work read about his sex life in a weekly magazine. He has sat smiling at book signings as I demonstrate what his snoring sounds like.
Dating a writer ain’t for sissies.
In my defense, he was warned. Early in our relationship, I gave him a binder containing all of my columns, with the explicit understanding that he’d be signing up for a life of full disclosure, told from the perspective of a crazy person who would always cast himself in the role of the hero. That’s an important element to consider: You’re always getting my side of the story, where every action is, if not defensible, at least explicable. I don’t pretend I’m faultless, but I suppose I’ve reached a point where I accept there are things about me that aren’t likely to change. I am well-intentioned, yet hopelessly scatterbrained. I’m devoted, but unreliable. Caring, but self-centered. My mind works funny, but the positive spin is that it helps me see the world in an interesting way.

And isn’t that worth the hassle?
It was a Friday night, and both of us were on the sofa with laptops in front of us, working. I’d disabled the wireless internet on my Dell so I couldn’t fall in a Facebook or YouTube K-hole and inexplicably lose six hours of my life. Supernanny was on. I love that show. A solidly-built British nanny named Jo is calls upon American households, where she observes for a few days and then explains in a stern but loving voice why the parents are unfit to raise children. It’s delightful.
In this episode, the parents had the most severely ADD child ever to walk the planet. They’d chosen not to medicate him, which is fine, but they also had made no provisions whatsoever to deal with raising a hummingbird on crack. Nanny Jo found this “totally unacceptable” and commenced working her stern but loving magic.
“You know, I was diagnosed ADHD when I was in my teens,” I said.
“I do not find that at all surprising,” said Preppy. “Were you on meds?”
“Yeah. Ritalin. High dosage.”
“Again, not surprising. Did it work?”
I thought back for a moment.
“You know what?” I said. “It did. That was the only time in my life I was a good student. I made it through Chemistry and Spanish II in a month of summer school, with A’s. Then I got back to school and by the end of first semester I realized I could sell it and make some decent cash, especially during exams. So I stopped taking it, and then I dropped out…”
This gave me pause.
“Do you think I still have it?”
“Yes,” he said without the slightest hesitation. “You absolutely still have it.”
“Well, even if I do, I’ve found a way to deal with it.”
“I guess so,” he sighed. “God knows I’ve had to.”
It’s been thirteen years since I sat in a psychiatrist’s office, sobbing in confusion and frustration over my impatience, procrastination, and insecurities. I remember the overwhelming sense of relief my parents and I felt when the evaluation gave it a name, something we could examine and attack. I still had that assessment in a box of old paperwork from the 90s. I found it, and re-read it.
Every word of it was still true.
I went online and started reading about Adult ADD, how it can impact everything from communication in your marriage to car maintenance. I felt violated reading the personal accounts- every one of them seemed lifted from my own life. I considered my last desk job, where I would sit in my office paralyzed by inaction and never able to understand why. My boss and I would fight constantly. He saw me as unconcerned. I knew how hard I was trying, yet had little evidence to show for it. I’d have the same conversations at home, when it took me nine hours to clean the kitchen. I cannot count the number of times people have come to me bewildered, wondering why a seemingly capable man could not accomplish the most basic tasks. I’ve been accused of not caring, of being lazy, of being unreliable. Deep down, I feared it was true, despite my intentions.
And all this time, I had an answer. I’ve had an answer for thirteen goddamn years, and I’ve done nothing about it. I was too ADD to deal with my ADD.
Three days later, I took care of two long-overdue tasks: I wrote a letter of apology to my former boss. I didn’t go into an explanation of my psyche. I just told him I was sorry, and that for the first time, I could see his side. And then I made a visit to my doctor.
There’s a lot of things I’ve asked Preppy to accept in our life together, and he has done so with grace and aplomb. Living with a man who has given up on improving himself shouldn’t be one of those requests. The little orange pill is just a tool- the work falls in my hands, and I intend to try. I believe Supernanny would be very proud.

Sick Day

As difficult as it may be to imagine, it’s actually much harder to take a sick day when one works from home. It’s enough of a challenge for me to convince people I’m actually working when I’m at the house, because I get to wear my jammies and take lots of smoke breaks.

Also because no one actually pays me TO write, they pay me when I’m FINISHED writing, the pressure’s always on to get to that completed product as quickly as possible. It’s a dicey proposition. My friend Steve Yockey, a very successful playwright, appears to have a new script ready for production every month. I average about one a year. And it’s not like he’s writing crap, they’re really good plays, which makes me hate him. I’m trying to become more prolific, devoting a minimum of five hours a day to being imaginative. I’d been making fairly decent progress on a romantic comedy this week… and then I got sick.
I woke up this morning around four, all sweaty and icky, so I went to the kitchen wanting peanut butter and some milk. It’s a habit my sister and I share- an unexplainable need to get out of the bed in the middle of the night and have peanut butter and milk, naked in the light of the refrigerator. Just to be clear, we’ve never done this together. Neither of us even knew the other did it until she was oversharing on the phone one day and I fell over from shock.

I had no idea anyone else in the world did this, let alone that it was a family trait. She squats on the floor while having her snack, but I stand. If I squatted, my balls might touch the linoleum, and that would be cold. I’ve warned Shannon that she has to stop this before her children get old enough to go wandering late at night. If I’d ever seen my mother crouched naked on the kitchen floor with a spoonful of peanut butter and a glass of milk, I would have blinded myself with the nearest convenient sharp object. I expect her kids would have the same reaction.
Normally my little late night forage does the trick and I feel right as rain, but I had an inkling there was trouble brewing in my body. I woke up at seven feeling like I’d been hit by a train. Coughing, hacking, fever, pounding headache, the works.
“Ugggggh! Baby!” I called out, but there was no response. My fiancé was already at work. Damn it. Don’t you hate it when you feel like hell and there’s no one around to watch?
I stumbled into the bathroom, searching for the leftover mega-strength Ibuprofen I’d gotten from my dentist a few months ago. I found it, choked down four, and laid on the bed, waiting for sweet release.
That’s when I remembered we’d run out of those Ibuprofen back in October.

So what the hell did I just take?
“You’re up early,” said my best galpal Slutty Mandy when I called.
“I think I just took a drug overdose. Tell Preppy I love him and I didn’t do it on purpose!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought it was Ibuprofen! Quick, get some paper, I have to tell you how my romantic comedy is supposed to end. Make Steve finish it. He works quickly.”
“What did you take?”
“Four muscle relaxers.”
“Oh, please, Topher. I could take four muscle relaxers and go to a spin class.”
“I don’t have your freaky drug tolerance!”
“You survived chemo. You’ll survive this. Just get back in bed and sleep it off.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’ll sleep like a rock. Oh, make sure you pee first, you don’t want to deal with the consequences of that one.”
I fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed about the play I wasn’t writing. I wish I could remember details, because then at least I kinda would’ve been working. When I woke up a few hours later, I was groggy and it felt like a muskrat had taken up residence in my mouth. I was floppy and couldn’t move. This happened to me the last time I smoked pot. We had a houseguest who broke out a gravity bong, and I wanted to show I was hip and could be part of the fun. I lost a whole Sunday as a result, lying on the bed convinced that I had actually damaged part of my brain. The room swirled in and out of focus for an entire afternoon, as I slowly returned to sobriety and accepted that I’m simply no longer a party boy.
Now the bedroom was once again spinning, but I’d painted since the last time, and the green made it much more pleasant. I tried watching TV, but abandoned it when I couldn’t take Kathie Lee Gifford for one more second. When and why exactly did they unleash her on the public again? She’s a horrible, horrible woman. I think she really tries to make her guests feel uncomfortable. I’ve got a cousin who does that. I thought about calling her and telling her off. The cousin, not Kathie Lee. I don’t have Kathie Lee’s number.

And it’s a good thing I don’t.
I drifted off to sleep again, and dreamt of Kathie Lee Gifford interviewing me while I ate peanut butter. This had nothing to do with my play, but was certainly imaginative, which was all I’d wanted out of the day in the first place.

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.