The New Beginning

Preppy and I were marching in the Pride Parade with the crew from Southern Voice and David Magazine. Everybody’d dressed as “Newsies,” which my gal pal Slutty Mandy had still managed to turn into fetish wear. It’s a talent, folks, I’m tellin’ ya.
We’d just returned from our honeymoon, and my column that week was simply a wedding photo accompanied by the note “Sorry boys, something came up…” We thought it was pretty damn cute. As Preppy and I walked the parade route, a couple of overgrown paperboys holding hands, I was a little stunned, and pleased as punch, by the number of people shouting out congratulations. I suppose I shouldn’t have been. Our long road to the altar was well-documented, with weekly updates.
“It’s like the biggest wedding reception line ever,” I told him as we strolled down Peachtree Street. This was almost as good as the gift registry. These people didn’t know me, but the connection through more than four years of reading the column made them feel like a friend had found the right boy with whom to settle down. Their support has meant more to me than I could ever hope to express.
I have learned over the years that so many fears, frustrations, and hopes really are universal- it doesn’t matter if you like boys, girls, or some point in between. We all want to find our place in a community, and have a sense of purpose. We have a basic human need to connect. Having an outlet in which to do that every week has been one of the great blessings of my life.
Another “paper of record” will emerge in the Atlanta GLBTQ community, whether that’s online or in good ‘ol print, because as my friend Rich said, “There’s still people who want it, and still people who want to do it.” And I look forward to what happens next. But I’m sad to see this particular chapter in my life close. I loved our little magazine, made great friends there, and think we all did a damn fine job. I am forever grateful for being welcomed in some small way into people’s lives. Thank you, thank you for that.
The challenge to myself, and I guess to others as well, is to find a way to continue that connection. I found my voice and my inner activist in the last four years. I’ll keep writing, and I’ll go back to posting it on www.topherpayne.com. God knows I’m in no danger of running out of things to say. So this isn’t really a goodbye, just a change in the state of things- a new adventure. And experience has taught me that no matter how things might seem at the time, that’s never really a bad thing.
Love,
Topher

Necessary Luxuries: On Our Marry Way

The first video from our trip to Massachusetts to get married.

Wish List

“Topher, take those off the list,” my fiancé Preppy says, tapping the computer screen.
“What? I need new shoes,” I protest.
“You can’t put shoes on our wedding registry. It’s trashy. And they’re not even good shoes. Go back to looking at blenders.”
“I already found a blender. What if I get married in the shoes? Someone could buy my wedding day footwear. They’d be in every picture. That’d be really gratifying for the buyer.”
“You can take them off now, or I can do it while you’re asleep, but they’re not staying. New rule: You don’t put anything on this list without us both agreeing to it. You can’t be trusted. You’ll put light bulbs and Clorox on there.”
“Like we don’t need those things? Those would be very practical gifts.”
We’re on the Target Club Wedd website, registering for our gifts. I really thought we didn’t require that much around the house, but once I started looking, I discovered a slew of items we desperately needed. It’s like when the annual Sears Wish Book would arrive in the mail back when I was a kid. I’m enjoying the shit out of this. Any gay person who’s on the fence about supporting the necessity for marriage needs to create a wedding registry. They’ll be on board for equality faster than you can say “Kitchenaid Mixer.”
We’ve been infuriatingly elusive on setting a specific date for our wedding- Preppy’s got a huge work thing that’ll take up most of the summer, then his parents are renewing their vows in September, and I’m up for a role in a play in October… it goes on like that until roughly July of 2012. We have been operating under the assumption that two weeks will magically appear in both of our schedules, and that’ll be our wedding. I have no idea why we thought that would happen. It has never occurred before. Our mutual days off are as rare as unicorn sightings, but we held out hope.
Then Club Wedd asked us for our wedding date, and we had to come up with something or it wouldn’t let us create our wish list. Flush with our desire for a new lawnmower and 600 thread-count sheets, we agreed upon October 17th as our fake date. Funny, that materialism was able to get an answer out of us, after friends and family have been begging for months. My pal Slutty Mandy has been resorting to threats.
I can’t speak for Preppy (even though I do, constantly.) But I know the reason I haven’t been in a huge hurry to set a wedding date is because even though it’ll be the biggest event of my life, when we leave Massachusetts and return to Georgia, nothing will have changed. We’ll have this wacky marriage license that’ll only work in some parts of the country. It’ll be like my Sprint service when I was on tour, fading in and out of range as we drove from state to state. My desire to get married has been overshadowed by the more immediate concern of having that marriage actually mean something wherever we go.
The night we get home from our Cape Cod nuptials will likely be very similar to what we’re doing right now: I’ll prep dinner, he’ll make sweet tea. We’ll watch bad reality television and fold laundry. He’ll do some planning for work and I’ll make him read whatever I’ve been writing. Not exactly Earth-shattering stuff, but it’s the life we want. If flying to another state and getting a piece of paper lets folks know we plan to have a whole lifetime of nights like that, then it’s probably worth making room in our schedules.
“You wanna just go with this October 17th date?” I ask. “It’s as good as any other day.”
“Sure,” he says. “We can do that.”
We both open our planners and cross out two weeks in October. I write “GETTING HITCHED” with a Sharpie. We’ve set a date, thanks to the good people at Target. When we return, we’ll still have about forty miles of bad road toward getting that marriage recognized in our hometown. But our lives will be noticeably different: We will have new sheets, and a lawnmower if anyone’s feeling generous.

And if I play my cards right and ask nicely, I might get some brand-new shoes.

Play Ball

My summer job took me by surprise. While I was in the midst combing Craig’s List, applying for jobs as a veterinary assistant, coffee slinger, dog groomer- basically anything that didn’t involve much counting or moving heavy objects- I got a call from my friend Jennifer. I was her children’s babysitter when they were in diapers, but now they’re both pre-teens, which is confusing to me.
I don’t understand how time continues to advance for those kids, while I’ve barely aged a day. It must be one of those paradoxes they talk about in the Star Trek movie.
I’d really appreciate it if you just let me go on believing that.
Anyhoo, Jennifer was looking for child care for the summer, but can’t call it babysitting because the very idea of being babysat makes her twelve year-old apoplectic. After quick negotiations and scheduling, I got back into the “manny” business. It’s really a fantastic way to spend the day. I am simultaneously reminded of why I love kids, and why I have no intention of ever having any of my own.
It’s fairly easy to entertain them when they’re young. My nephew is three, and pretty much anything you come up with is compelling to a preschooler. You can put a piece of Scotch tape on their hand and they’ll keep busy for fifteen minutes. The trouble with age ten and up is that they stubbornly insist upon having their own interests, and you’ve gotta get on board.
My mother says one of the happiest days of her life was when I quit playing clarinet in the school band, and she never had to suffer through another student concert slaughtering the likes of “Louie, Louie” and “Wild Thing.” Despite the claims of many, no adult has ever had any genuine interest in kids’ activities or performances. They go to basketball games, concerts, and school plays out of love for the child, and hope the experience will be mercifully brief. It never is, but one can hope.
So that’s why I’m in the back yard today, playing catch with ten year-old Jackson.
“That’s not bad, but you’re hesitating on your release and losing speed. Just power through the pitch,” I instruct.
Oh wait, I didn’t say that. HE said that. Because Jackson can actually PLAY baseball, whereas I am just one giant bag of suck. The last time I played baseball, I was eight, and I was terrible. My coach kept me in the outfield, where I would sing to myself and chew on my glove, enjoying the musky taste of leather. Occasionally the ball would manage to land in my general vicinity, which would fill me with dread, because I’d never see where it landed. I would meander around, scanning the grass for the ball like I was in an Easter egg hunt, never terribly invested in how this enterprise turned out.
I lasted one season before being allowed to return to the fudge and Murphy Brown episodes I’d been longing for the whole time. The only thing I missed was the uniform, because I liked costumes.
“Jeez, Mister Topher,” shouts Jack as I evade another pitch. “It’s like you’re TRYING not to get near the ball!”
That is exactly what I’m doing. I’m also resisting the urge to start chewing on my glove.
“Jackson, with all the things I’m good at that we could do together, do you realize how huge it is that I’m willing to do stuff with you that I’m terrible at? That is true friendship, pal.”
“I know that, Mister Topher,” he says. “But I really think you can get better.”
That thought hadn’t occurred to me. I had long since crossed out baseball on the list of things I’m capable of doing without humiliating myself. That list also includes, but is not limited to: Dancing, dribbling a ball, and wearing a swimsuit. But this kid believes I can improve, which is a stark contrast to the kids on my little league team. I am lifted by the belief of this child that I can learn. So we continue to toss the ball, and I actually manage to catch it a few times without flinching.
It’s probably for the best that Jackson and his sister won’t let us call this babysitting, because right now I’m not certain which side is benefitting more from it. I wonder if this kid can teach me to dribble a ball.

Almost Home

My fiancé Preppy’s job requires him to rise in the pre-dawn hours a few mornings a week, in order to receive shipments at his store and get new merchandise on the sales floor. When I’m home, he always says goodbye and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I actually wake up enough to be cognizant of this interaction one out of every ten times, but it’s still a sweet gesture.
For the last few months on the road, I have dreamed of this exchange, only to wake up in a hotel hours later and discover that it didn’t happen. It’s kind of a downer way to start the day. My sister Shannon believes in the power of our subconscious (not in a wackadoo Sylvia Browne kinda way, just a casual sort of thing,) and it has been her belief that the mornings I dream that are when Preppy has stood in our empty bedroom and wished I was there. I’m inclined to agree, because that makes us sound like lovers torn apart by fate and circumstance in an epic novel.
I wouldn’t trade the experience of performing for audiences all over the country for anything, but I think it’s going to fall in the same mental category as skydiving: Fantastic, a little uncomfortable, incomparable, and not something I need to do on a regular basis.
An interesting thing I’ve learned in the varied locales is that cities post no signage informing you that you’ve entered the bad part of town. Neighborhoods that look perfectly lovely in sunshine can take a surprising turn after dinner (residents of East Atlanta back in the day will be happy to confirm this.) More than once we’ve dropped off our suitcases in the afternoon at a sleepy little hotel, only to discover a gaggle of vagrants upon our return.

Last week in Oregon, hunger propelled me out after midnight to a nearby 7-11 for taquitos. My return trip to the hotel on the deserted street was impeded by two guys in a pickup truck, who stopped and beat the shit out of me. I wish I were kidding. I got away pretty quickly, and ran to a grocery store where I’d seen cars in the parking lot. The police were very kind and apologetic. Apparently there’s a bit of a crystal meth problem in the area, leading to a lot of random acts of vandalism and violence.
There’s been a consistent question about whether I was jumped because I was gay. I don’t think so. I was wearing flannel and munching on convenience store taquitos, which doesn’t really fit any homo stereotypes I’m aware of. But it does bring up another missing element of my life. Where the hell are the gays in the Pacific Northwest? Okay, I’ve suspected a few, but nobody presented their membership card or openly enthused about Adam Lambert, so I couldn’t be sure.
So I’ve been on hotel lockdown ever since the assault, and my show prep now includes covering my bruises with an inch of foundation. I could be another race under all that base and nobody’d be the wiser.
My nose, however, is the size of a baked potato, and my nostrils point in the wrong direction. I’ve never liked my nose, but I now think my uninjured nose is adorable. Cute as a box of puppies. I will never complain about it again. Those are the things for which touring has given me newfound appreciation: Early mornings with my fella, and my nose. Also, gays.
This morning we entered California, our final state. As we drove in, we had to stop at an official-looking booth, where a woman signaled for our driver to roll down the window.
“Welcome to California, sir,” she said. “Are you carrying any fruit in your vehicle?”
“Just one,” I shouted. “But I won’t be any trouble.”
I’m tired of what I once called my life being a dream I have in random hotels. If I can make it home in one piece, I’m gonna nail my feet to the ground.

Necessary Luxuries: Idolizing Home

Back on home turf, and happy as can be. Thoughts on American Idol finale with Paula Puppet, and Queen Latifah's new single.

Back to the Future

We have the night off in Sandpoint, Idaho, the birthplace of Sarah Palin. I fully expected to see a statue or effigy of some kind in her honor, but so far no dice. Maybe ever since her grandbaby daddy popped up on Tyra and she guested on American Chopper, she’s become more like the mildly embarrassing relative they wish people didn’t notice.

My costar Jef and I spent our afternoon doing radio interviews. The last was with a podcast called The Quasi-Glamorous Life, which is the best description I’ve heard of my current circumstances. It was an afternoon of technical gaffes, odd delays, and dropped cell phone calls. I’m terrified I ended up sounding like Paula Abdul when she does those morning shows via satellite.
Now the night is my own. I would stick around the hotel and watch TV, but there’s really no point- When I talked to Preppy tonight about my post-tour job opportunities, he told me how American Idol wound up. Because of the time difference, it ended for him before it even starts for me. As if the distance between us wasn’t bad enough, now my fiancé actually lives three hours in the future.
I grab my trusty notebook and head out into the night, settling on a coffee shop on the town’s main stretch. There’s a view of a rushing river and an extraordinary mountain range. If I in any way liked nature, it’d be breathtaking. My time in the Pacific Northwest has confirmed a long-held suspicion: I’m simply not a nature person. I like vast expanses of concrete and tall buildings.
The only other occupied table in the coffee shop is three college-age friends, two guys and a girl, sipping those frozen milkshake things coffee shops sell to people who don’t drink coffee. They keep shooting looks at me, which we get a lot when we stay in smaller towns. The locals sniff us out as strangers pretty quickly. Finally, curiosity gets the better of one of the guys, who approaches my table to ask if I go to school around here. I explain what brought me here, and as I do, the three of them join me at my table. Introductions are made.
“So you signed up to tour the country, and you wound up here?” says the girl, Susan.
“And a lot of places like it, yeah. But it’s cool, actually. After all, this is what Sarah Palin calls Real America.”
I am awarded points for my Palin shout-out. In short order, it’s decided that if I’m stuck in Sandpoint for the night, I should get the grand tour. So we head out to see the sights and soak up a little history. I learn the locals are much more proud of their other notable native: Viggo Mortensen, whom the guys, Robert and J.T., declare “badass,” and Susan calls “yummy.” I agree with Susan, which takes care of me coming out to them.

They find the fact that I’m gay “awesome.” I like these people.
We jump a locked gate into the town graveyard, and J.T. gives his reviews of local bars as we weave through the tombstones.
“There’s a few 18-and-up places. Are you over twenty-one?”
“Yeah,” I say. No need to elaborate on my upcoming 30th birthday.
“They let us in because we won’t drink, so nobody gets in trouble.”
They’re all under 21. I’m spending my evening breaking into graveyards with people a decade younger than me... and they don’t know. I want to call every casting director I know and tell them I can still play a college student. Provided it’s dark outside.
My newfound Idahoan pals walk me back to my hotel, bemoaning the fact that none of us have a camera to commemorate the night.
“Dude,” says Robert. “Can I have your hat? It’ll be like a souvenir.”
Before I can answer, he’s removed his Puka shell necklace, and is offering it for trade. How could I turn him down? I give him my baseball cap, put on the necklace, and hug them all goodbye.
Then I walk back into my hotel, where writing, interviews, and a job search await. After a lovely evening out pretending to be twenty again, I have to lay the groundwork for getting back to the future.

Until I remember: This hotel has a freakin’ waterslide.

Maybe the future can wait ‘til morning.

Necessary Luxuries: Bruised But Not Broken

A random act of violence, covering bruises with makeup, and a re-creation of the title sequence of Mommie Dearest, just for fun.

Hey Mama

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!
I’m sorry I don’t call as much as I should. I know I don’t write, well, ever. But honestly, who writes cards and letters anymore? I don’t even keep stamps in the house. If you held a gun to my head, I still couldn’t tell you how much a postage stamp costs these days. Are they fifty cents yet?
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t include the image of someone threatening to shoot me in a Mother’s Day letter. You shouldn’t be distraught on your special day. You should be wearing a large corsage, and having breakfast in bed. I myself am not a huge fan of breakfast in bed. I find I get toast crumbs in the strangest places, and those lap trays always scoot around when you try to tear off a piece of your waffle, which knocks the orange juice over. It’s kinda like using whipped cream in romantic encounters- seems like a decadent idea, but it’s really just a lot of cleanup.
I also should not be talking about sexy whipped cream in your Mother’s Day letter. Crap.
Oh, crap, I said crap. This is going terribly. I’m just going to start over.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!
I’m sorry I can’t be with you on this special day, but know that you are in my thoughts and in my heart. Not just on this day, but every day. Particularly when I see a screaming child in a shopping cart terrorizing his mother, or overhear a kid asking an embarrassing question in a public place. That always brings back memories.

I want you to know that, in case you had doubts, you were a really great mother. You weren’t one of those perfect moms like Claire Huxtable, or the Fresh Prince’s Aunt Viv, or Harriette Winslow on "Family Matters" (it is widely accepted that all the best TV moms of the early ‘90s were African-American.) I admit there were plenty of times I wished you were just like those sitcom moms, mainly because they often arranged musical numbers in their houses involving the whole family. That was something we were really lacking in our house, but I have since made my peace with it. As a grown man, I often have musical numbers at my house starring just me, so I didn’t miss out completely.
But the lack of choreography notwithstanding, you loved me, and I knew it. And you were perceptive enough to recognize you had a kid who marched to a slightly different drum. You didn’t always know what to do with that information, and you may not have been fully prepared for how different that drum really was, but you never let me forget I was loved.
I see kids now who are coming out at fourteen, or fifteen, and that boggles my mind. What would things have been like if I’d done that? I wonder if either of us could have been that strong. I know the most unexpected benefit of me coming out to you has been the closeness we’ve shared since. It’s amazing what happens when you trust loved ones enough to be honest with them. I am very grateful for that. I know this journey has not been easy, but in my defense, think back to my childhood: Being my mother has never been easy. That’s not because I was a gay kid, it’s because I was a bizarre, difficult kid. The gay thing was a seperate challenge altogether.
Our journey together isn’t over. You taught me to believe that it isn’t enough to be content in your own life; you have to help others find peace in theirs. We’ve had a long road to get to the relationship we now enjoy. The next step is taking that relationship into the world. Don’t worry, I won’t make you march in a parade.
It’s as simple as this: If someone makes a gay joke, you call them out on it. If someone speaks against same-sex marriage, you tell them about the couples you know. When you’re talking with the ladies at church, bring up the 11 year-old boy who saw no way out of the pain caused by bullying, and ask what communities can do prevent such tragedies. This is activism on the most basic level: Defending and supporting the people you love.
I love you so much, and I’m proud to call you my Mama. Enjoy your day.

Your Son

Necessary Luxuries: Would You Quit for $200?

An oversight on my bank account leads to disaster and epiphany. Updates on a script that's almost out of my head, and one on its way to the stage.

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.