The cutest guy in the bar

It is never a pleasant experience to encounter as an adult the barrel-chested gym coach who tormented you — perhaps unconsciously, but mercilessly — throughout junior high and high school phys-ed classes. Memories of standing, vulnerable and cold in a wood-floored arena, robbed of the relative dignity of your Toughskins and sweatshirt and reduced to thin blue polyester running shorts and a wrinkled white t-shirt come flooding right back, your brain naggingly reminding you that any second, the barked order to undertake a running drill or rope climb or painful calisthenic will come.

If a sight or sound or smell can take us back to childhood — cotton candy at a fair or the theme music from Captain Kangaroo — none can more easily reduce us to awkward adolescence than the sight of that coach, a little hunched, a bit thicker around the waist but still, undeniably, the man who made third period a little slice of hell.

If you're going to have such an awkward and unexpected reunion, however, there is really no better way than after a few drinks, when you are relaxed and comfortably on your way to a pleasant buzz, and while you are making out languidly with the cutest guy in the bar.

The coach, in this case, was Mr. Jackson, Richard's phys-ed nemesis for three years, from freshman to junior years of high school. Rich spotted him across the room, through a miasma of smoke, just beyond the pool table, nursing a longnecked beer and glancing, a bit nervously, around the room, his eyes darting up to take a quick look and then returning just as rapidly to contemplate his bottle.

The cutest guy in the bar, incidentally, was me, an admission which says less about my vanity than it does about the crowd at Magnolia's on a wintery Saturday night.

Bad timing

I have incredibly bad timing. I've come to accept it.

Oh, I can tell a joke or sell a laugh line like nobody's business. That's in no doubt. But in all other endeavors — say, romance or professional advancement — my timing sucks.

I used to believe that my inability to make a move at the right moment was just a matter of cosmic forces beyond my control: coincidence, wily fate, El Niño maybe. But more and more I'm aware that it's just me. I apparently emit some sort of emotional distortion field, some force that surrounds me and renders me incapable of collimating a connection.

As recently as five years ago, I was more or less all about, for lack of a better word, nesting. Having sown a healthy helping of oats in my teens and 20s and, against the odds, living to tell the tales, I was unabashedly on the boyfriend hunt. Settling down, fella. That was the path for me. In spite, even, of having had my heart not merely broken but separated from my body and stomped upon just a couple of years before, I wanted a relationship.

And everyone else? They were into "hooking up", tricking and taxi dancing as fast as they could.

My pendulum has swung back though, friends. These days, I couldn't care less for a stable relationship. Hell, I can't even keep a long distance telephone service provider for three months at a time. There's no way I can keep my house clean and pretend to be able to cook long enough to snag a man anyway. And suddenly, inexplicably but unapologetically, I'm back at the other end of the spectrum.

I'm in the market for casual connections, frankly. Anonymous if necessary, "friends with privileges" ideally. I'll take my intimate relations with an eye toward variety, in size, shape, color and venue, thankyouverymuch. Towel-clad in a sauna on Saturday night? Sign me up.

And who are the guys I'm meeting now? Of course. The same ones who wouldn't have been caught dead putting "LTR" in their personal ad when I was desperately seeking are now totally into pairing off and hoarding Fiestaware. Turncoats!

But then there's Wes, my best-of-both-worlds boy.

Wes and I stumbled across each other a few weeks ago. We "met cute," as The Giant Queen used to say, our initial liaison a classic sitcom confusion laden with clever banter. We found each other in a mall, for pity's sake, and something just sparked.

Damn but he's nice looking, an unfortunate haircut notwithstanding, and he's just nearsighted or polite enough to think I'm cute too. We have almost nothing at all in common, which makes our friendly, brief conversations a delightful bramble of fascinating discovery. Even better was finding that, when the lights and the jeans are low, we have damn near everything in common, which makes the privileges a real privilege.

Wes is also moving to Arizona next week, taking a job there after living in St. Louis all his life. Last weekend, the final Saturday we'd carved out time to fool around, he was pulling on his boots as he said, "Damn, why couldn't we have met a long time ago? We coulda had a good thing going all this time."

"It's my fault," I said. "I have incredibly bad timing. I've come to accept it."

Happy new year

All in all, it was quiet start to the new year. I'd had a mild stomach complaint that pretty much drained me of enthusiasm for much hoo-hah, so I spent New Year's Eve lifting a glass at a friend's 60th birthday party and then, to everyone's astonishment including my own, departed before midnight.

If I had driven a little slower, 2003 would have arrived while I was on the road home but I pulled up to the house about five minutes before 12. I shed my suit, pulled on a snuggly sweatshirt and jeans and watched the First Night fireworks from a few blocks away.

The new year showed up while I was chatting with a dear friend in California, and we talked long enough that the tape-delayed Dick Clark special hit him before we said so long.

All told, 2002 wasn't that bad hereabouts — travel, fun, meaningful rewarding work, time with friends old and new — although the last few weeks were a rotten end. You just keep reminding yourself that lifetimes are made of years are made of days are made of moments, and you focus on the good ones out of each.

On New Year's Eve, I got champagne, comfort and companionship, and on my own terms. Not a bad beginning to the next 364.

Ya Say You Wanna Resolution?

I will call him on his bullshit.

And by "him" I mean, of course, "me".

I will finally accept that I am not going to spontaneously develop a "six-pack" and will therefore start going to the gym regularly again to do something besides pay my bill.

No matter how tempting -- in a "driving-slowly-past-a-horrific-car-accident" way -- it is, I will not watch Joe Millionaire.

I will flirt with straight boys less.

But more productively.

I will make at least one meal each week that does not rely on the microwave and vacuum-packed foodstuffs.

I will pretend not to care what my TiVo thinks of me.

I will be true to my school.

I will try to stop ribbing Mark about his singing. Unless, you know, he actually does it.

I will try to stop relating every single thing that happens in my day-to-day life to "that one episode of Star Trek where...".

I will acknowledge that "embracing change" does not mean hugging a stripper whose G-string is stuffed with singles.

I will smile more, and with good reason.

When people ask me what I do, I will not assume they mean professionally and will talk about my passions and hobbies more.

I won't let what he wrote bother me or stop me from taking chances. He didn't really know me then, and I didn't really give him a fair shake in the aftermath.

I will start taking tap dancing lessons. Again.

I will make my bed. At least once.

I will stop referring to Jeff's fashion sense as "committing random acts of blindness."

I will develop a retirement plan more sophisticated than "win Powerball jackpot at age 66."

I will tell fewer lies of omission.

I will leave before last call. Sometimes.

I will endeavor to dress better. And undress slower.

I won't let my friends down.

And by "friends", I mean me, too.

Helpless

It should go without saying that when a friend is in trouble, there is only one thing to be said ("I love you and I'm here for you.") and one thing to be asked ("How can I help?").

It should go without saying, but apparently, it doesn't.

There are a few people who are going to have to work very hard indeed to regain my faith in them, and a few I never doubted and who have in these recent rather horrible days made me indescribably proud to call them friends.

Our friend is in trouble and we've said and asked what's expected. Now we just have to figure out what to do.

34

Since my birthday usually falls smack in the middle of Thanksgiving, it's rare that I get to spend much quality time celebrating with friends who scatter across the country for family dinners and football watching. For a few years, I hosted "holidays for the homeless homos" -- turkey, pumpkin pie and all the rest -- for a small band who had nowhere else to go for food and fellowship but one of the few drawbacks of increased acceptance of gays and lesbians in recent years has been a declining interest in such an affair. My friends are all going home, where they finally feel they belong.

So for Turkey Day, it's just me and Mother Graham these days.

But my birthday celebration this year has been simply grand, thank you, observed as it was over the past five days (and the final, "cooling-off" day tomorrow) as the Season of brAdvent. It's provided an opportunity to dine and drink with small groups from my chosen family, to share good conversation, humor and hugs before everyone goes their separate ways to feast.

The fact that I've not paid for a meal, been recognizably sober or slept alone since Thursday is a happy side benefit. I have a feeling brAdvent will be a welcome addition to my holiday calendar from now on.

(My Jewish friend Marsha, who also has a November birthday, expressed some jealousy that I was taking six days to celebrate. I suggested that next year she might want to observe "Marshashana".)

Anyway, around 3:27 this morning, I officially began my 35th year and, I've got to say, 34 has been just swell so far. The Fifth Feast of brAdvent, followed by an evening at the theatre with friends (Pippin, and what better way to mark by birthday than with the musical story of a young man who -- much like myself -- goes through the trials of war, love and politics before finding himself?), still beckons.

I may not yet have found my "Corner of the Sky", as the title character of the play yearns to do, but my little corner of the Earth suits me just fine, thankyouverymuch.

People who need people

When I got home last night, there was a message on my answering machine from The Movie Star. "Call me when you get in. I need a favor."

Mind you, I haven't seen -- except on the screen -- or talked with the guy in almost two years, but small talk and pleasantries were overlooked when I returned the call. "What was the name of that frozen yogurt stand you took me to the last time I was in St. Louis?" he asked.

"Ted Drewes," I said, "and it's frozen custard. There's a difference."

"OK, whatever. It's delicious. And you said they ship tons of the stuff out of town, right?"

This much is true, if a little exaggerated. Apparently, Ted Drewes -- which has only two locations and is available only in St. Louis -- has fans all over the world, many of whom will pay for overnight shipping and dry ice enough to get their fix long-distance.

The Movie Star came quickly to the point. "I need you to order a batch for me and ship it to a friend in Chicago," he said. "It's for a birthday party, on Friday. Can you do that?"

"Glad to," I said. "And I'm fine, by the way, thanks for asking."

"Good, good." He then reeled off a Visa number and a Gold Coast address. "Thanks!"

I read the information back to him. "So, don't you have people to do this sort of thing for you?" I asked.

"You've been watching too much E!" he said. "Anyway, in this case, you're 'my people'."

The conversation went casual after that and life updates and work grouses were duly exchanged, as well as a promise to buy me dinner the next time I hit the coast.

I suppose if I can't have people of my own, being someone else's people is the next best thing.

It’s possible

Autumn has always been, for me, the season of possibility. There's something about the crisp air and the brightly colored leaves falling from the trees (I do so love seasons -- and men -- that announce their arrival by getting undressed), about the school term finally kicking into rhythm, about taking down the sweaters from the top shelf, that jump-starts my optimism and makes me...well, more frisky than usual.

Which may explain why lately my mouth has been writing a lot of checks that my ass may not be able to cash. Literally. Ah, but it'll be one hell of a ride to the bank.

Batter up

Jill and Jackie have adjourned to powder their noses -- you can sue me, but I find it thoroughly precious when a gal as butch as Jackie actually uses that phrase. "I feel bad," Jeff turns to me and says as soon as the women have left the table. "I should have gotten Jill a gift. This is a big birthday for her. I'd like to give her something."

This last nearly makes me choke on my wonton but, fortunately, Jackie returns just then with Jill -- who I see has collected a fresh round of beers from the bar -- close behind. "She loved the card," I whisper back before she takes her seat. "It's enough that you're here and sharing the gift of your sparkling personality."

This dinner has been months in the planning, and not simply to toast Jill's 35th. Just when I think it might not, the conversation tilts to the prescribed route when the third round of drinks arrives.

"So you're not moving to Chicago after all?" Jackie asks. To my surprise -- and practically everyone else's -- Jeff recently turned down a job in what he claims as one of his favorite cities.

"No," he says simply. "I need to stay put for a while. I'm basically happy at work, my friends and family are all here, and I just like the stability. I don't need to do anything to really shake up my life right now."

Jill catches my eye with a slightly stricken look on her face, but I've already considered this data point. I give her the smallest nod; it's safe to proceed.

"Well, speaking of changes," Jill says, "we have some news." She meets Jackie's eyes.

"We've decided we want to start a family of our own," Jackie says. "We want to have a baby."

"That's fabulous!" Jeff says. "And it's about fucking time!"

"Wow," I say, pretty convincingingly, I think.

"Yeah," Jill says. "Wow."

"And Jeff," Jackie says, "we'd like you to be the father."

There follows an incredibly long silence, during which Jeff maintains his composure about as well as Don Knotts facing down a stampeding herd of cattle. After much stammering, he finally turns to me, noticing I seem unusually placid. "You knew about this, didn't you?"

"Well..."

"You might as well know, we asked Brad first," Jill says, "but from the beginning, you were both tied for our top choice. You're our best guy friends and no matter what happens, we want you both to be a part of our child's life."

"You're both incredibly important to us," Jackie adds, "and you each have qualities we'd like our child to have."

"Right," says Jill. "Brad, you're smart and funny and generous--"

"Hey!" says Jeff.

"And Jeff, you're good looking and you make a lot of money," Jackie finishes.

My turn. "Hey!"

A pause.

"You turned them down?" Jeff asks.

"Actually, we had some tests done. It turns out my little guys can't swim any better than I can," I say. To Jill: "By the way, I never want to hear the word 'motility' again, please."

There are two more rounds of beer before Jeff can really speak in complete sentences again. Jill and Jackie have to go. "We love you very much," Jackie says. "Just think about it, let us know if you have any questions. We'll get together again soon, yeah?" Of course we will.

"What do you think?" I ask. We're sitting in the parking lot and there's another long pause. "This could be the most important thing you ever do."

"I know," Jeff says finally. "I know. And...I think I want to do it. I--I'm not sure, but I think I do. How..." He gets quiet again.

"It's pretty simple up front. You go to the clinic, there are some tests, nothing you haven't done before," I say.

Jeff takes my hand. "Am I grown up enough to do this? Father a kid? If I go through with this, you're gonna have to help me."

I smile, squeeze his hand, and I know he'll scoot past his doubts soon enough. "Help you? Hon, they've got dirty magazines at the clinic for that."

I’m a rocker. I rock out.

Somebody told me last night that the "theme" for National Coming Out Day this year is "Being out rocks!". Honestly, I couldn't stop laughing for half an hour.

I remember

Scurrilous supposition and rumors to the contrary aside, I did not spend that entire weekend at the tubs. A boy has to eat sometime, and egg salad sandwiches from a bathhouse vending machine are far dodgier prospects than any of the goings-on elsewhere thereabout.

According to The Rules of the Baths (#32), if after you leave you can recall the title of what was showing in the "rest area", you did not have a good time. I can assure you, however, that I do and I most certainly did.

Friday night, 3:32 am: Discovery channel documentary about Navy SEALs. Three viewers, one languidly smoking, one making a cell phone call, one drifting in and out of sleep.

Saturday night, around 2 am: I Love Lucy, the episode where Lucy and Ethel work on the candy conveyor. Two viewers, apparently acquaintances, discussing the travesty that was Mame, the movie.

Sunday night, just past midnight: Ab-Roller infomercial. Deserted.

Monday afternoon, 2:15 pm: Oprah and Dr. Phil. Thirteen viewers devoting full attention to the screen, except for the blond number in the jockstrap licking his own bicep.

Well, it was Chicago, after all.

Best laid plans

This was going to be the day, the night. It was the one island I could spot in the sea of busy, a little laundry, some TV, picking up a book and playing with my dog, then earlier to bed with a vain hope to be healthy, wealthy and wise, or some subset thereof.

But the phone tickles my waist as I'm about to turn onto the interstate and, as I curse myself yet again for becoming one of those people, I fumble to flip it open and attempt, at the same time, to keep from causing a five-car pile-up. It's not a number I recognize flashing on the screen and I know as I glance to my left that if I were the guy in that Celica I'd be flipping me off about now.

"Hello?"

There are days and weeks at a time when, despite the fact I can't actually see over the pile of paper on my desk, I feel as though I can see around corners, can lift a ton, that I walk on earth so solid beneath my feet that it might as well be forged steel. These are days and weeks I feel invincible, that my world is in order, that my life is changing in all the right ways and my family is safe and my loves are assured.

And two martinis later, that world is questions and doubts and the ground not so much steel as tin that crimps and bends and threatens to give way.

I know my friends so well they could easily live inside my flesh and sometimes it feels, in every way that's holy, like they do, and still I can be surprised. Saddened. Speechless.

"Yes, I can be stricken speechless." Not aloud, but two empty glasses between us and another round on the way and in my mind I'm already parrying the quip from Curt or Jeff that I know will come in another hour or so when I relay the news.

The Twins are splitting up.

"Spending some time apart" is how he put it, almost casually even as he was on the verge of tears, an utterly devastating thing for a man to say of another whose side he hasn't left for more than a day in almost 15 years. He won't cry, not here, not in this place that isn't the sort of place where two men hold hands, although I reach for and grasp his anyway. You wouldn't think he'd cry at all, but I know my friends so well, and each of them wears a tough guy uniform that contains a creature too gentle to live among even the noblest of we savages.

The last time I held a man who cried, the last time I was grasped by the shoulders as my body shook with my own sobs, the matters were sickness, mortality, the injustice of a game that no one can win. This, this "spending some time apart", seems just as grave, but he leaves before I can offer a comfort of arms and understanding. He will cry later, he will cry alone. It's what tough guys do.

It's been a tough year in certain circles. One of us left, one of us is leaving, two of us fell in love and two of us just fell. Jobs and money got lost. One of us made a life, and one us, finally, made peace with himself. They say the world changed around us, and certainly, a lot of our world changed within us. We danced and we sang and we drank and we kept right on living, kept right on denying that we couldn't stay just the way we were.

And now the Twins are splitting up.

Sign here

It's only eight months or so late, but it turns out this was prophetic. It turns out that the Five Man Electrical Band was right: "Everywhere, there's signs." The trick is in knowing which ones to heed.

And it's only just begun. Goodbyes and butterflies, indeed.

I been everywhere, man

Friends, I've been all over the world and, if I may paraphrase Gerty, a gay bar is a gay bar is a gay bar. Milan or Milwaukee, San Francisco or St. Louis, Toronto or Tallahasse, there's a template from which these establishments are cut and any distinction is really just a variation on the general theme.

In St. Louis, for example, I'm pretty sure there is a zoning regulation stating that all barrooms and nightclubs patronized by homosexual men and women must have walls and ceilings painted black, incorporate corrugated metal and exposed ductwork in their decor and -- this is key -- feature inadequate cooling and ventilation systems.

I was espousing my observation of the fundamental sameness to be found in the gay watering holes of the world to a friend last weekend. He vigorously insisted that the bars of his city were different and suggested that it was the patrons themselves who made them so.

The patrons, I insisted with equal vigor, tend to be even less distinctive place to place than the environs. Once you run through the list of types (they're stereotypes, I guess, but only if two of them are standing side by side at the rail) -- club kid, daddy, tweaker, twirler, mature perv, etc. -- there's nothing new under the dim, diffuse lighting.

All of which is by way of saying that the bars in Los Angeles (by which I mean West Hollywood) are no different than the bars of Louisville. Close your eyes and you could be anywhere.

Until some guy comes up to you and asks, with absolutely no trace of irony or sarcasm, "What's your sign?" Happened to me three times. Keep those lids closed, if only so he won't see your eyes rolling back in your head. You're in California. No doubt about it.

Welcome! Now go.

Without exception, everyone I met in Los Angeles had two questions for me: Why are you here? When are you leaving?

The first question was simple enough to address, once I realized it was not being posed in the metaphysical sense. During the first of my interrogations over five days, my reply was, "Well, why are any of us here, really? I think we're put on earth simply to be good to one another, to grow and to learn."

It turned out folks were interested in a more succinct, essential "business or pleasure"-type response. Well, pleasure, certainly. Yes, please. The more the better. My host was more than capable to provide that aspect, facilitating certain introductions over the course of the long weekend that were, shall we say, tactilely enjoyable, at the very least.

The second question was more troublesome, though. It was asked jocularly enough, but the frequency with which it was repeated was disturbing. It was almost like being clasped by the arm in welcome with one hand and urged toward the door with a pat on the tush with the other.

When I answered that my return flight to St. Louis departed on Tuesday evening, there was an almost measurable sense of relief on the part of the questioner.

After five or six inquiries into the duration of my stay, I finally realized the truth: People in Los Angeles are deeply, deeply afraid of visitors. They are apprehensive of strangers.

They want you to leave before there is any chance that you, evil outsider, will take their job or, worse, their parking space.

Parking is an art in Los Angeles, which is fortunate, since the movie industry has pretty much ceded any pretense of being about art and L.A. needs all the culture it can get. Even if it's simply the subtle craft of wedging between red zones and sorting out five seemingly conflicting regulation signs, it's art and it is practiced nowhere with more alacrity or finesse than in L.A.

When embarking on an evening's entertainment, the primary concern of all parties involved is not how long it will take to get there, how much it will cost, how one should dress or who one might expect to get off with at the end of the night (and how much that will cost). No, the first question to be resolved, upon which all other decisions hinge, is "How's the parking?"

Well, actually that's the first question for natives. For visitors, it's the third. Right after "Why are you here?" and "When are you leaving?"

Lessons in Los Angeles

One I learned and one I'll leave behind.

Lesson number one: Context is all. Spitting on a cop can get you sent to jail. Spitting on a top (at just the right moment, natch) can send him into orbit, and take you along for the ride.

Lesson number two: Go for it. Action is almost always preferable to inaction, and waiting for sure things means you're stuck in the lobby while the future is taking the express lift for the penthouse suite.

And here's a bonus tip: Friendship is not diluted by time nor distance, but every now and then, you just have to make time to take a trip and wave the flag in another territory, the "geek flag" though it may be. I am tired, I am blessed and I'm definitely going to have to make time for a return trip sooner than another four years.

A tip

If you're quite lucky tonight (or if you happened to be logged in on Sunday night, you naughty, naughty kids!) you might see me lounging about Chi Chi LaRue's Live and Raw Hotel. And thereby hangs a tale...

Memo to self

When a guy in a bar asks you if you enjoy "facials", try not to look disappointed when he turns out to be a cosmetics consultant at Famous & Barr and hands you a coupon. Despite your tendancy toward absurd, vulgar euphemisms, not everyone plays along.

Almost there

It's been a particularly stressful couple of weeks, but enough projects are either completed or have reached a manageable state that I no longer feel I am laboring under the sword of Damocles all the time.

The butter knife of Damocles, maybe, but that sword is right out of there.

Finders

Last week over dinner, we were talking about the "old days" (for us, meaning a period ranging roughly from the nadir of WHAM! to Madonna's "I'm Breathless" album) and somebody mentioned Boyd Harris. "Good lord," exclaimed The Giant Queen. "I haven't heard from him in years! Whatever happened to Boyd?"

There were a few moments of silence and head scratching and, finally, quiet consensus that we had among us no idea. One of The Twins was pretty sure he'd moved to Denver -- or was it Atlanta? -- at some point in the 90s, but beyond that, not a clue.

I suggested we call International Male and ask where they were delivering his catalogs.

I was only half joking. I mean, I've wondered for quite a while how that company stays in business. I never see anyone actually wearing the clothing featured in their glossy catalogs. Only once, over a decade ago, did I ever order anything from them, a mesh shirt that I promptly returned when it was immediately clear it did not make my chest look like that of the model on page 26.

Even so, I have received the catalog ever since. In fact, I have changed residences six times in the past 15 years, never leaving a forwarding address except on a few postcards sent along to friends and business contacts, and always, without fail, a properly addressed International Male catalog is the first piece of mail I have received upon settling into a new home.

It's uncanny. I have no idea how they find me. But after the third or fourth time this happened, I began to believe that clothing sales was the wrong line of business for International Male. If no one was being duped into buying the $400 creme linen suits or the shirts made out of knotted up dental floss, clearly they needed a new profit model.

Clearly, International Male is ideally suited to function as a gay missing persons bureau.

If you've lost track of an old friend or former trick, or perhaps a male relative with a flair for entertaining and an affection for divas with only one name, you could call up International Male (1-900-PIRATE-SHIRT) and ask for their current address. Easy peasy, and they wouldn't even have to change the name. "International Male," after all, implies that this service works globally.

Of course, they would still have to send out the catalogs, since a means to constantly correct their mailing list would be essential to the new modus operandi, but that's OK by me. Even if I have no need of a crocheted Central Park Knit shirt with a johnny collar and a straight hem -- I swear to God that's an actual item -- the catalog works quite well as soft porn for all us kids who grew up ogling underwear models in the Sears Wishbook, another aptly named mail-order enterprise, since I hated the clothes but always wished for the models.

So International Male can keep flinging ads for faux fur "Millennium Jackets" and "Hermosa Retro" Midcut swim trunks my way, even if they don't decide to become a worldwide homo locator. Any company which sends out catalogs using the line "Check out our featured bottoms!" on the cover with no trace of irony whatsoever is...er, tops in my book, however they choose to make money.

Bobby and Brad

I was in Washington, DC last week for the Stephen Sondheim Celebration at the Kennedy Center, seeing the musical Company. That show has always had a particular appeal to me, since it's about a man -- Robert -- who finds himself on the outside of relationships looking in and constantly questions on which side he belongs.

The poster for the show, seen in the thumbnail here, shows a single male wedding cake figure set apart from several bridal figures. That's me peeking over Cake Bobby's left shoulder in the larger photo (duly submitted to The Mirror Project) reflected in the glass of the Kennedy Center marquee.

Lawbreaker

It is against the law in the state of Missouri for gay people to have sex.

It's true. Missouri is one of a couple dozen states where consensual, same-sex sexual relations are a crime. It is particularly annoying, since the specific statute is part of a broader law criminalizing rape and the like, under the ominously titled "Sexual Misconduct Law".

(While gay people are sexual outlaws in the Show Me State, here is no law prohibiting bestiality in Missouri because it was not deemed to be a serious enough offense to warrant a punishment. Faggots bad, farm sex OK!)

In 1986, after the United States Supreme Court ruled, in the amusing to say Bowers v. Hardwick case, that there was, in essence, no right to personal privacy in the the land, a group of concerned citizens in Missouri set upon the task of overturning the gay sex prohibition portion of the Sexual Misconduct Law.

At one community meeting where various legislative strategies and tactics were debated I, who had been asked to lead a team brainstorming public relations and communications efforts, suggested only half in jest that we all just turn ourselves in.

That is, I proposed that we choose one day and encourage gay people throughout the state to swear out affidavits affirming that they had violated the law, then go to the police station and demand to be arrested. Law enforcement, we would contend, could hardly fail to uphold the law. (If nothing else, I thought, this campaign would appeal to those who, while not generally considering themselves "activists" at least held a uniform or handcuff fetish.) The resulting volume of "criminals" would temporarily overwhelm the system and, as a consequence -- because you know I'd call the media -- call attention to the utter absurdity of the law.

I suggested we call it a "Day of Civil Obedience".

Unfortunately, the idea didn't catch on and today, over 15 years later, the offensive law is still on the books. Although seldom enforced, it is nonetheless trotted out all the time to justify not enacting gay civil rights legislation. After all, the reasoning goes, if gay sex is a crime, why should criminals be granted equal rights with law-abiding folk?

Still, every June -- the traditional month when gay and lesbian pride is celebrated throughout the land -- I think somewhat nostalgically of myself at that time, so confident that bold, brazen acts would bring down the walls, and I consider swearing out an affidavit just for myself.

It's the sort of thing I could fold up, stick in my pocket and present as credentials at the various bars, nightclubs, baths and other gay emporia. "Hey baby," I could say, whipping out my papers. "I'm a sexual outlaw. Wanna come back to my place and help me violate RSMo. 556.090?"

When's the last time you heard that pick-up line?

Super Mario

The university is in the midst of a bit of a construction boom, the latest project being a five-story library building going up just outside my office window. It's not slated for completion until the autumn of next year and, already, the noise and dust are driving me insane.

I must say, however, that it seems to be going quickly. Over the past couple of weeks, the workmen have erected a latice of structural steel that currently spans four levels. There are half a dozen red ladders scattered between the beams, and hard-hatted workers scurry up and down them all day.

Right now, the whole project resembles nothing so much as a life-sized game of Donkey Kong. All that's missing is a giant gorilla and a few rolling barrels.

Oh, and in real life, Mario is tall, blond, muscular and hot.

Coping strategies devised for eventual use upon discovering the beginnings of a bald spot

• resolve to hang out only with people shorter than self


• convert to Judaism, pledge to wear "perma-yarmulke"


• change name to Bo, join NBA, shave "B" into top of head


• purchase bushy red wig, lobby fashion press to hail Carrot Top as a trendsetter


• begin developing detailed list of friends' flaws and shortcomings to point out as diversionary tactic

Advice

A word of advice, gentlemen, if you are an otherwise even-tempered man who startles easily: Turn off the ringer on the telephone and send the dog into the backyard before embarking upon any personal grooming task which requires you to bring a sharp blade in contact with your...er, twigs and berries.

Trust me.