Of fools and kings...

...and I think we "fools" in this case might be smarter than the kings.

(Or: rants about the inability of our fucking government to repeal a stupid, stupid law, despite all evidence showing that it should.)

Now, I ain't no politico. (Imagine me as an armchair warrior, saying that with a good Southern drawl, slow and deliberate.) I seldom get riled up over politics. I usually keep my head down, and don't talk about things over which, aside from voting in this (har-de-har-har) democratic nation, I basically have very little control. But this is a fucking travesty.

As one of my friends put it, only in America can a 17-vote majority not pass legislation. I'm talking, of course, about Don't Ask Don't Tell. (There's a seldom-mentioned third part to that: Don't Pursue, but meh...niggling details, right?) Didn't pass today by a vote of 57-40. (Needed 60 to pass.) Gadamighty, but I am so disillusioned by our gummint. Indulge me in some no-solution spleen-venting, m'kay?

I have no desire to be in the military, nor have I ever. But I do have a great deal of respect for the men and women who live and work in service to our country in one of the most honorable ways I know. Soldiers put themselves in harm's way regularly. They do what they can to protect our country and preserve the stability thereof that helps to ensure a pretty damned productive society. I like the statement, overblown though it may be in some cases, that soldiers write a blank check to the nation for the total up to and including their lives. Quite true.

Not gonna go that much into the extra sacrifice that gay men and lesbians make. We all know it. Under DADT, they can't tell the truth about who they are and what, at a very core level, defines them. They live a lie so they can serve their country. Being honest about who they are places them at risk of being discharged. It also places them at significant risk of being harassed, physically and otherwise, although that's decreasing day by day as we're becoming more visible and more accepted.

But here's what really galls me. Despite such overwhelming evidence that out gay men and lesbians do not pose a risk to a unit's morale and ability to function; despite a recommendation by the motherfucking PENTAGON, for crying out loud, that DADT should be repealed; despite a majority of servicemen and servicewomen who believe that DADT should be repealed; despite a majority of Americans who believe that DADT should be repealed, it remains intact due to the asshattery of Congress.

If I ever met John McCain (thanks to Sarah Silverman, I know his name rhymes with "shit stain"), I'd spit in his face. Hypocrite that he is, he originally stated that he would go with whatever recommendation the Pentagon handed down regarding DADT. I'm sure he did that figuring that such a conservative, old-guard entity would never recommend anything other than maintaining the status quo. Well, oops. Now with this recommendation, he's been making flippy floppy and leading the charge to keep DADT intact. He's stated that more research needs to be done, more thought needs to be put in, and it shouldn't be repealed. He's even gone so far as to say that the recommendation is that DADT can be repealed, but the recommendation doesn't say it should. Good God. Get me a battleaxe.

With this position, McCain is saying that we should continue to accept convicted felons into the military to serve our nation, however warped they might be. But out gay men and lesbians, regardless of how morally upright they might be, or how powerful, or intelligent, or diplomatic, or dedicated, or self-sacrificing, or honorable they might be, should not hold a position in our military, and if found out, should be discharged. In essence, gay men and lesbians (assuming they are not felons themselves) hold a lower status in the military than felons.

He's also saying that the priority should be placed on discharging out gay men and lesbians, regardless of the position they hold, or of the scarcity of their talents. Witness the soldier whose fluency in a number of Middle Eastern languages, and subsequent value as an intelligence expert, was trumped by who he's attracted to. Never mind that there was no one nearly as qualified as he was to do his job. Never mind that his expertise - which I'm sure came in pretty handy about 5 years ago - was judged inconsequential when placed beside his orientation. And especially never mind that the end result of this could have contributed to a breach of security in our country, no matter how small. (He and over 13,000 other soldiers were discharged because of DADT. How's about THAT for a loss of valuable men and women who would otherwise protect our country?) McCain and his fellow blithering idiots believe that we should just plain get rid of the queers.

Other stupid-asses who have made it into holding public office believe that gay men are, across the board, wispy little fairies with limp wrists and who can't hold their own physically. Or at least that's what they say publicly. (Pandering to their constituents?) I'd love to invite them to some of the gay bars I frequent and show them the guys there - physically daunting, huge in some cases, who are awfully muscle-bound and know how to use their muscles. I'd love to introduce them to the gay men I know who are - right now - serving our country faithfully and loyally (one of them out, no less), and whose compatriots consider them tremendous assets. I'd love to show them gay men who don't know the first thing about flaming, and wouldn't know how to flip their wrists convincingly if their lives depended on it. But they could certainly handle an M-16 if given the proper training.

Oh, and of course, there's the argument that gay men are all ravenous sex machines who would try to come on to straight men if they were placed in close quarters together. Please. Soldiers - regardless of orientation - are there to do a job, and they know it. Straight men have largely proven that they can function in the field with women without disrupting morale. If a straight man is that insecure about a gay man potentially coming on to him, he needs to address why he's so insecure. (To be fair, if a gay man ends up coming on to a straight man and it does interfere with morale, then disciplinary action should be taken.) (Another non-sequitur: one of my favorite ways to totally deflate straight guys who think I'm checking them out: "Don't flatter yourself." Catches 'em off-guard every time.)

I'm done.

DADT MUST GO. NOW.

Powder blue and fuchsia...I'm thinking wedding colors now.

If you want to raise my hackles at the post office and make me wish silent death by repeated 30-gauge needle pricks, here's what you do:

- In December, wear a tennis skirt.
- Make it as bright and obnoxious a fuchsia as you can. The better to set off your unusually tan legs for this time of year, right?
- As a top, wear a '70s powder blue quilted jacket.
- Roll the sleeves back juuust enough to show the plaid pattern that brands it a Burberry.
- Do your hair back like a tennis player. Scrunchies are really fashionable.
- But don't worry about any other pretenses about being a tennis player. After all, it's December. *facepalm*
- Carry a Louis Vuitton bag.
- Check your Blackberry about that baby shower that Ashley and Kimberly are throwing for Madison.
- Look as entitled as you know you are. Blasé works as well.
- Don't even glance back at the 15-person line that's been forming behind you.
- And most of all, lug five or six packages - unpacked, unsealed, and not in envelopes - just for the poor unsuspecting postal worker to deal with for the next 15 minutes.

Why I hated 8th grade, part 529.

Omphaloskepsis: excessive introspection, self absorption, or concentration on a single issue.

Interesting dream this morning. While visiting a friend in San Francisco, I began reliving unfun times at my 8th-grade yuppie training facility. Some background: Back in the day, I decided rather stupidly to jump ship from a middle school I rather liked into a richie-rich prep school with a three paragraph-long dress code. (The parents thought that I had exhausted the curriculum at the former school, and they really wanted to say their son was going to one of the most prestigious schools in town.) Bad enough that being 13 or so is already tumultuous. Add on the fact that the kids at this school were snobs who had already formed their cliques. They were not going to be interested in having a nerd with braces, large square-rimmed glasses, an unflattering buzz cut, and more-than-lacking social skills soil them with his uncool ways. So I gritted my teeth and endured 8th grade with no lack of Sturm und Drang.

So, back to my dream. Recounted to my friend how much I hated that place. He then produced a letter out of thin air and told me to read it. It was from a guy who was among the quieter, nerdier types who, despite this, was still in one of the cool cliques (due to his longer tenure there). His letter was actually really complimentary. He said he wished we could have been better friends, and in the end, he wished me well. Whoda thunk?

Enter Facebook, for better or worse. I found...well, not this guy. Not immediately, at least. I first found another guy I had known in this former life of mine, who had well over 600 friends. And amongst them, I found quite a few names from said former life. It was wild to see how many people I had known in the past, and how many people I had turned my back on. And not necessarily for the worse, either. There were lots of kids I just plain didn't get along with. The pictures I saw were pretty telling, too. These people are now living, in part, the life I wanted to avoid as much as possible. Yuppie families, consisting of real estate agents, architects, self-employed people, and the like. All showing off their happy babies and young kids. Beautiful people smiling over fancy dinners, functions, benefits, and charity gatherings. (Never mind that I'm actually kind of a guppie myself, and self-employed too.)

Back in the day, I hated these kids more than I can say. They were my ultimate nemesis. I saw a lot of what I did not want my life to be like. I saw a lot of who I did not want to be friends with. Unfortunately, what I did not see was a good view of how I wanted my life to be like.

One thing I've learned while being self-employed is that if you are to be successful, you have to have a razor-sharp clear vision of what that success looks like. And that has been incredibly difficult for me to envision. I've always known the opposite. It's awfully tough to look at things that are traditionally associated with success, and not reject them out of hand. When I was younger, my view of "success" involved a lot of business casual, a lot of snifters and highballs in the den while discussing business, a lot of easy-listening crap from the 1970s, and not a whole lot of iconoclastic fun. And the kids of these so-called successful grown-ups seemed entitled, spoiled, and either pranksterish frat boys in the making or holier-than-thou princesses. I was usually the target of these kids. Again, this wasn't how I wanted to live my life. The problem was, I couldn't find exactly how I wanted to live my life for a long, long time.

Even now, I have a hard time sometimes talking about things I love in my life, things for which I have a great passion or a great desire to see/do. Music is up there, as is writing...

Okay. This is getting even too solipsistic and What Color is your Parachute-ish even for me. I'll spare you the details.

Oh, and that dream? I'm certain there's a big lesson in there for me about how I should give these people who I grew up with a second chance. Or something.

PSA re: AIDS

Yeah, a few days late for World AIDS Day, but oh well.

The current scene regarding AIDS and HIV is one of apathy and complacency. One of my friends (in the army, no less) frightens me...young, attractive, sweet guy, who's negative, but who nonetheless is regularly putting himself in the crosshairs, sexually speaking. Like so many guys like him, he has the feeling he's invincible. (Didn't we all when we were young?)

I hear stories about "bug chasers," guys with an apparent death wish, who actually WANT to contract HIV, so they just get the supposed-inevitable done and over with. I simply cannot imagine.

On the upside, the drugs being used nowadays are indisputable lifesavers. I know a few guys who contracted HIV in the 1980s, and somehow lived through it. They're still alive and in relatively good health today. It's now more common for PWAs to actually die of something else other than AIDS. Unfortunately, death from side effects of the drugs (usually liver failure) is one of the more common scenarios nowadays.

Apathy and complacency is frightening against a disease of this sort. Which is why I find it really important, on a regular basis, to take out either the movie or (preferably) the book version of And the Band Played On. It's a compelling documentary about how AIDS was spread, the research that was hamstrung by homophobia everywhere from the federal and local government to the gay men who fell victim to it, and the pissing contest between the Americans and the French who only wanted to claim the title of the first country to discover HIV.

Another great, essential movie is Longtime Companion, which was the euphemistic title given to those surviving partners of AIDS victims. The New York Times couldn't say "his boyfriend" or "his partner" in the obituaries, again, due to internal and external homophobia. This one is more of a story of how HIV ended up slaughtering a community of friends in New York and Fire Island, and the emotional fallout from it. A certain tearjerker, with the memorable line, "What do you think happens when we die?" "We get to have sex again."

Those happy, hedonistic days of the 1970s ended up being the dreadful conduit through which HIV could flourish. A virus that could be spread so easily, enable a victim to live symptom-free for up to 6 years, then begin wreaking havoc on the immune system is just frightening. It's a perfect recipe for an epidemic, especially knowing how wild gay men lived back in the day. How many potential partners could you sleep with in six years? Some guys couldn't count the number of partners they had in just one year...upwards of 300 in some cases? The mind boggles.

If I had my druthers, I'd sit my friend down and have him watch both movies back-to-back, just so he can see what the generation before him had to endure. Living with AIDS is a lot easier now than it was 30 years ago...hell, living with AIDS is actually possible. But it doesn't diminish the import of trying to fight it and (hopefully) coming up with a cure of some sort.

Top of the World - Shonen Knife

Very little to say about this, except that it is in heavy contention for the happiest, sunshiniest, poppiest, most joyous song I've ever heard. Take Karen Carpenter's original, performed with measured contentedness and a sprightly but low-key beat. Now let an all-female power pop/punk group from Japan grab hold and blast through it.

Shonen Knife doesn't care that their rhythms might be a bit off, or that they can't quite sing "world" right, what with its tricky "rl" combination. That's what make it so fun. They power through "Top of the World" with such unabashed playfulness, it's impossible not to enjoy it. Or dance like a Muppet or a Peanuts character with it. For me, songs like this, even more than Nirvana, guaranteed that the 1990s would not suck.

From "If I Were A Carpenter":



A slightly edgier live version complete with lyrics:

An evening in the life...

Because this is what y'all live for, right? A glimpse into the dark underbelly of yours truly. And how exciting could this get? Strap yourselves in.

What makes this evening, November 18th:

• Juno. Or at least the last 30 minutes of it. I have a bad habit of watching movies in fits and spurts. I started Juno about a month ago, and have been, give or take, watching it 30 minutes at a time. And the good news about this is that you can successfully watch it this way - in fact, I almost recommend it over seeing this in one sitting. Two things make it this way. First, anything Minnesota-related moves at a slower and more comfortable pace than in many other states. Even Minneapolis. So you can get into it easily. And although I'm a huge fan of snark, Juno herself is eons beyond. Small doses go a looooong way.
• Purple potatoes. Cookin' 'em as I type. Should be ready in about 20 minutes. That's my dinner. Why? Well...
• Some weird virus. I've been fighting something or other for a while. HATE sore throats. It reared its ugly head last night. Won't bore you with the details (and they really are boring, not gruesome...do I really need to describe what a fever feels like?), but they were debilitating enough to necessitate me calling off work this morning. And a workout. And a meeting with four people about my business. (One that was already rescheduled.) The day was just filled with exciting naps and naps. And when I get sick, I generally don't eat much. But for some reason, these purple potatoes on the counter were calling me. I'll tell you how they are in a bit.
• Kathy Griffin: Whores on Crutches. I'm not one of "Kathy's gays." But I do enjoy her comedy.
• Rebel Without a Cause. Will go on shortly after KG. One of the most influential movies in my life. Srsly. Through most of high school, I wore button-down shirts and Dockers almost exclusively. A friend of mine once asked me to sing "Runaround Sue" with him in our high school talent show. In 1950s drag: t-shirts and jeans. Except I didn't have any jeans. Fact! But after watching James Dean in action, all that Alexander Julian and Polo became obsolete overnight. T-shirts and jeans were ALL I wore the following year. And that movie, for some reason, just liberated me.
• Kiss. The Prince song. One of my friends who lives in Longmont raved about a new karaoke venue up there, in a nice, spacious auditorium. So a bunch of us boys from the local gay choir drove up 40 miles late last night to warble. Won't exaggerate: I sang "Kiss," and brought the muthafuckin' house DOOOWN. And this was amongst the likes of Luther Vandross, Phantom, Josh Groban, and Patsy Cline. A few guys didn't think I could pull off the high notes at the end. Pfft. Whatever. (Other songs I sang that were hits: Rufus Wainwright's version of "Halleujah" and Michael Buble's "Sway.")

Oh, and the purple potatoes? Not bad.

He kissed me...it felt like a hit.

Okay, all you Gleeks. This last episode SUUUCKED. Or rather, it would have, if it weren't for the stellar plotline following Kurt and his tribulations with being bullied. Or even more so, his suddenly finding his version of Hogwarts for gay boys and an absolute dreamboat named Blaine.

I go back and forth on this one. See, I understand the import of the "Teenage Dream" sequence, wherein Blaine and his fellow (all-male) glee clubbers serenade directly to Kurt, complete with knowing smiles, winks, and all other manner of good-natured flirting. God, this was adorable. Gay boys around the country now have, for posterity, a concrete vision of possible romance going right. (Read more from my compatriots Tom & Lorenzo, who really brought down how revolutionary this episode was.)

But at the same time, the guy in me who understands that Glee is nothing if not unrealistic still felt his guts go gooey in the most amazing way during another scene.

Yeah. That locker room scene. HOT HOT HOT.

That kiss. So violent and passionate. THAT'S the kind of kiss that would have sent me WAAAY over the moon back in the day. Not to mention the exact surroundings, and the exact type of guy. A slightly dopey, overgrown linebacker...who turned out to be gay, and quite possibly totally into me? Swoon. Seriously. That was my high school fantasy.

Kurt and I are most decidedly not cut from the same cloth. He shoved that galoot away when he tried to go in for a second kiss, and totally should have. Me, I would have thrown all caution to the wind, gone in for seconds, and within 2 minutes, we would have been caught up in some wild-ass monkey sex.

Randomless meanblings ram. Seattle version.

Ah, Seattle. So stately, calming, grounding, pretty. And potentially so depressing. Kindasorta remember why I hightailed it outta the Pacific Northwest after school 7 years ago, but for a weekend visit, it's hard to beat. Rained yesterday, but today, the sky actually had pretty layers of all shades of periwinkle, steel gray, deep blue, and white. And the simple, minimalist architecture just accentuated its beauty. Not your typical fall/winter day up here. I'm so used to the monochromatic, monolithic pea soup fog that permeates the sky, the soul, and the brain - and utterly etherizes you. But today was just gorge.

I was grateful to see that the typical naturopathic chic fashion was not in display at this conference - not like February. Green and purple Columbia sportswear fleece and scarves (at 50 degrees!?) ruled the place last time, and the place was filled with the stench of entitlement...the kind that gives liberalism and environmentalism a bad name. I could, if I put my mind to it and had nothing but time, write a satire about naturopathic culture...but the appeal would be WAAAY too narrow.

But I do feel more ready to attack autoimmune disease of all sorts and heal/cure it more effectively than my medical compadres. For my sake and for the sake of future patients, this is an unequivocally good thing. Do MDs really want to squash us out of existence? Fine. Let's see how well they handle autoimmune disease with their arsenal of steroids and...uh...yeah, that's about all they have, isn't it?

Now, how to get word out...

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Don't bug me. Like the rest of America (or the part that actually cared), I was LIVID on Thursday night. But life goes on. As one charitable woman put it to Sir Tim of Gunn, Mondo's got his career. Gretchen needed the money to get out of debt. In a way, it worked out. Somewhat.

But Meana Garzilla and Duchess L'Orange got a LOT of 'splainin' to do otherwise. It's not just the title they're bestowing. They're fucking fashion experts. They're naming The Next Best Thing, and their peers are gonna hold 'em to it. (Or, to really vulgarize it, they've named America's Next Top Fashion Designer.) Heidi, you're acquitted. (Tangentially, Jessica Simpson has officially joined the ranks of those who look gorgeous with voluptuous curves. I say: Let her quaff milkshakes! See also: Carey, Mariah; Hendricks, Christina.)

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Confidential to CDOT: It's nice that you've been cleaning up the I-70 Viaduct for these past few years. At a pace slightly faster than a snail on bennies would be nice, though. And does completed construction mean that there shouldn't be ANY sudden gravity-defying foot-deep dips in the asphalt, or am I wrong? Can I get a confirmation on this?

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Sometimes shyness sucks. See a guy on the dance floor, mentally grope him for a half hour (combined time...I dance, wander and get drinks, see...), and finally see him in the men's room as we're washing hands. We stand next to each other...the sinks are a comfortable elbow-rubbing distance apart. He says hi, I say hi, we smile at each other, and...that's it. He soon leaves with his friends, none of whom are particularly hard on the eyes, by the way. But this one...rowr. (And yes, I do have free license to, *ahem*, window shop. And a bit more. We have our version of "the rules" written down. But as aforementioned, my shyness keeps me from moving any further, not "the rules.")*

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*This last message brought to you by the Cuff Complex in Seattle, about 5 Cape Cods, Kylie's "Can't Get You Out Of My Head," "Blue Monday," (as if I need to say who's responsible for this slice of heaven), Daft Punk's "One More Time," and because it's 2010 and it's unavoidable, goddammit, "Bad Romance." (Again...do I need to state the source?) Oh, and about half a pint (so far) of Ben & Jerry's Magic Brownies. Which, actually, aren't as magic as they purport to be. Just raspberry and chocolate. Tasty, but not so "magic."

Long live 2003. The longer, the better...so 2004 can be squished out as much as possible.

Bloodletting (20th Anniversary Edition) - Concrete Blonde

I've already referred to Concrete Blonde twice here, so it only makes sense that I should pay homage in full to their kick-ass 1990 album, Bloodletting. This has to be one of the best albums for this chilly, sinister, skittish time of year. Though only two songs show direct inspiration from Anne Rice's vampire books, Bloodletting is dark throughout. Still, as an invitation to don your broomstick dresses and black eyeliner and lipstick, it's the most accessible goth album ever made. (That honor might otherwise go to the Cure's dolorous Disintegration, but sometimes those 9-minute dirges are a bit tough to plow through.)

Lead singer Johnette Napolitano is one of the coolest women in all of post-punk rock. Her blood-stained voice cracks and trembles throughout; indeed, she seems incapable of not expressing emotion. Even on the Dead Can Dance-worthy "I Don't Need A Hero," she nearly whispers naked vulnerability, then shows occasional flashes of rebellion on the chorus.

Aside from the wild, punky "The Sky Is A Poisonous Garden" and "The Beast," it's evident that Concrete Blonde's strengths lie in midtempo rockers. The title song sashays through New Orleans with a singalong chorus that's as fun as it is sinister. And the two singles ("Joey," "Caroline") take their time, with guitars fading and notes being held out for effect and increased tension. Despite their obvious status as singles, neither is light and fun. "Caroline" mourns the broken dreams of a vagabond who has suddenly skipped town. "Joey" chronicles the pain of a woman in love with a self-destructive alcoholic (with the memorable line, "I know you've heard it all before, so I don't say it anymore/I just stand by and let you fight your secret war").

Bloodletting's emotional nadir is its last song, "Tomorrow, Wendy." An autobiographical account of a friend who was dying from AIDS, this one bleeds anguish, bitterness, and irreverent rage against the powers that be. ("I told the priest, 'Don't count on any second coming. God got His ass kicked the first time he came 'round here slumming.'") But the most devastating words cut any hope for a happy ending off at the knees with the force of a blunt axe. ("Underneath the chilly gray November sky/We can make believe that Kennedy is still alive and/We're shooting for the moon and smiling Jackie's driving by and/They say, "Good try. Tomorrow, Wendy, you're going to die.") Ouch.

So why the need for a remastered 20th anniversary edition? Well, this is Concrete Blonde's best album, and some cobwebs really needed to be swept away. The sound is noticeably crisper and louder. And more songs were added, mostly to the album's benefit. A few worthy B-sides appear at the end, including a gorgeous rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Little Wing" that would have fit perfectly in the Singles soundtrack. From a live show, "The Sky Is A Poisonous Garden" blasts past even the original's meteoric tempo, while Napolitano does a nifty call-and-response rap in "Roses Grow." The only unlistenable bummer is an unfortunate bilingual version of "Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)," wherein Napolitano sings the last chorus over and over in French while her bandmates sing it in English, producing incomprehensible cacophony. But really, in an album that now stretches over 16 songs, having only one clunker is pretty damned good. If you liked the original Bloodletting and are looking for a reason to pull it out, or if you just want to feel some sinister glee you haven't felt before, treat yourself for Halloween and get the new version. Very worthy.

Yes, it truly does get better.

Nowadays, it's the best of times and the worst of times for gay men in America. DADT was just deemed unconstitutional, and a federal judge barred the Pentagon from pursuing any action under the policy. Of course, with such a volatile issue, we can expect a lot of wrangling before the dust settles. (UPDATE: Yep, the "stay" was just stayed itself. No surprise, but still a major bummer.) In the meantime: the result? Utter pandemonium and dissent in the ranks? Decreased morale and resignations by those disgusted by their fellow gay and lesbian soldiers? It's still early, but you can be the judge.

In addition, although the run seems to have slowed down, 5 states and Washington D.C. now allow gay marriage, and 3 more legally recognize it. And on a lighter note, Denver reprazents on Project Runway...at Fashion Week, and my money's on Mondo to take it all.

But on the other side of the coin, Logo is shilling the worst gay minstrel show on TV that should be avoided at all costs ("The A-List: New York"). Seriously, I never felt so good about being a suburban quasi-guppie in middle America after seeing this show. If that's the A-List, I want nothing to do with it. And if straight America wants to get their worst suspicions confirmed about gay men, then that's their show. Me, I cringe, and thank God that it's not being shown on a (slightly) more mainstream network like Bravo or Lifetime. Those guys certainly don't represent how I live on a daily basis...or how the vast majority of gay men in America live.

And most seriously, the biggest news item lately: the teen suicides that are occurring as a result of homophobic bullying. Five of them within the past month, right? Although I don't want to minimize the suffering of these five teenagers and their devastated families and friends, it has to be said: Those are only five that have been publicized. There's plenty more casualties. I won't go deeply into statistics, but thousands of teenagers yearly take their lives, and queer youth are nearly 4 times more likely to commit suicide than their straight counterparts. You can do the math.

These suicides have spurred a lot of overdue action and publicity. First bit I saw was the Give a Damn organization, showing videos by all sorts of celebrities discussing the fears and agonies so commonplace to queer kids of all sorts. Pretty poignant, these. And they're a wonderful contribution.

Dan Savage - the outspoken sex advice columnist of Savage Love fame - started the It Gets Better channel on YouTube. Being a teenager really sucks, and it really, really fucking sucks if you're a gay teenager. And if you're gay, you can't easily look up to teachers who are out and proud and happy to be mentors and role models...because they're pretty few and far between. And schools won't bring in gay men and lesbians from the outside, lest parents accuse us of something absurd like recruiting or trying to inculcate moral depravity. So Dan did what he felt was the next best thing: He opened up a place for any LGBTers and straight allies who survived their adolescence and subsequently saw their lives get exponentially better to post videos about their experience, so gay teens could see gobs of living proof that people lived through that hell, and are now living wonderful lives. What an amazing idea. Hundreds and hundreds of videos have appeared, filled with fascinating and often heartbreaking stories.

God, have I been there. It started when I was 13. I woke up from a rather vivid dream and suddenly put two and two together...did this mean I was gay? Scared me to death, as you might imagine. And indeed, within the year, after moving schools, becoming a complete outcast and nerd, and being accused of being gay numerous times, I nearly took my life. I had my head in a noose a classmate had jokingly made and hung from a rafter. I had one foot off the chair, and felt the other one begin to lift off, but then decided not to follow through, for whatever reason.

Then came high school. While many of the popular kids were totally getting it on and following their instincts, I was struggling to simply plant a first kiss on my girlfriend - just one, after she had asked me, after months of being together! - and feeling deep down in my core that this was wrong, so wrong, no matter how cool and sweet and pretty and intelligent and understanding and just plain fucking awesome she was. While some friends were going to parties and making out (I'd imagine), I was staying home and taking a knife to my arms and legs because I felt so different and wrong and misunderstood and because...well, if there's something wrong with me, there's only one person to blame and punish, right? And while lots of classmates were excited about their futures and wondering what they would bring, I was morbidly predicting that I would not live past the age of 17...that in fact, it would be wrong for me to live longer than that.

That was over half a lifetime ago. Now, every day that I live is in large part in gratitude to my 13 and 16 year-old selves for not taking my life. Every day, I also try to prove to that boy and that young man how amazing my life has now become, and how much better it keeps getting every day. I keep coming closer to becoming who I was fully meant to be every day. I'm in a wonderful, tremendously loving relationship with a really amazing guy; we just celebrated our 9-year anniversary a few months ago. I have a multitude of friends who love, accept, and celebrate me just as I am...and the sentiment is definitely returned. My work is very fulfilling...I see people grapple with health issues every day, and I do my best to help them overcome these issues and become as healthy as they want to be. At the end of the day, I'm thrilled to just plain be alive.

Normally, I don't go in for being so forward...particularly when there's a lot in just this blog post that could defame my character, let alone the rest of my blog. (I long ago wrote off running for public office.) But maybe I could reach a kid who has lost all hope and is about to take a horribly drastic action, and prevent him or her from taking that action. Or even just help someone who needs some reassurance after a tough day. For that, I will step out from behind this blog.

And if you're that kid reading this, I'm glad you're here. Stop. Take a deep breath. You're not alone. And trust me, and the thousands of people beside me who have already posted videos: Yes, it truly does get better. Hang in there.