This is a blog called ‘The Gay Recluse.’ Here you will find words designed to provoke or stimulate or anger or entertain or bore you to death. Moreover, ‘The Gay Recluse’ is a fictional character written by another fictional character named ‘Matthew Gallaway,’ who in turn is played by ‘an actor’ named Matthew Gallaway.

Just as this is a photograph of a bridge and not the real bridge, Matthew Gallaway — again, via The Gay Recluse — should not be confused with ‘the real person’ — i.e., the actor — much less his past or future, which is sometimes depicted here in ways that to the uncritical observer might appear to ‘resemble the truth.’

Rather, we ask readers to consider these words as you would lines in a movie, which while at times may appear very close to a ‘biopic’ should not be confused with ‘real life.’  Most of all, we beg you to resist the temptation to use these words to bludgeon or provoke those who — like children or the mentally infirm — are suspectible to confusing words with reality, or for whatever reason lack the acuity (or desire) to appreciate this construct.

Or to put it more plainly: whatever you do, please don’t feel compelled to tell our fifth-grade teacher Mr. W___ (if you happen to bump into him) that we made fun of the polyester pants he wore (not to mention his ‘macho perm’) so that all of sudden we have him yelling at us on FB! (Note: this is a metaphor, and in no way should be understood to be something that ‘actually happened.’)

This is a blog called ‘The Gay Recluse.’ It is filled with words and images. It is a story about life (i.e., it is not a Tumblr). It is a fabrication. It is meaningful/meaningless only as a work of art. Any insight you gain from it is into your own soul, not ours.

My fifth grade teacher, Mr. W, was a large, macho man with a mustache and a tight perm. (You could actually be macho and have a perm in 1978.) He liked to aggressively talk about boys and girls “dating” and “kissing,” and professed his intention to treat us “like adults,” which all bothered me for reasons I couldn’t quite ascertain. (Beyond the fact that this was the first year we were going without recess.) He wore lots of cologne and had a big butt he covered with shiny black polyester-blend dress pants and thick, wide shoulders and a hairy chest he stuffed into wide-collared dress shirts. He seemed very stupid to me — he couldn’t spell “recipe” — and considered himself a “disciplinarian,” which meant that he liked to yell at the class a lot, if say, he surprised us with a quiz and (most) everyone failed or if people hadn’t done the reading. I’m not sure why I took it personally: I always did every scrap of homework, was one of the fastest runners in my grade — this counted for a lot among students and faculty — and was always at or near the top of my class in every subject. I had also played hockey for six years by this point, too, so it wasn’t like I was a stranger to large, macho men who yelled a lot. But I knew I hated him, and — though I could barely understand this at the time — it seemed like there was only solution to my problem: I needed to kill myself.

Because I was only ten at the time, and like some junior-varsity version of Harold — I had seen the movie — I wasn’t exactly adept at the art of suicide. For example, I spent an hour or so after school one day cutting the top of my wrist instead of the bottom, which only resulted in a nasty gash I covered with a band-aid or two and which eventually scarred over without too much difficulty. (When my mother asked about it, I explained that I had cut myself by accident on a rock while running through the leaves.) One night after watching Fantasy Island and Love Boat I decided to drink the cleaning supplies, but I couldn’t manage more than a sip before I relented and returned to bed, where I liked to stay up late reading Lord of the Rings or maybe Dune. I secretly wrote long suicide notes in red pen encouraging all of my (much older) siblings to follow their dreams and become famous and — for those who played hockey — to “go Division 1.” I reassured my parents that none of this was their fault.

For their part, my parents didn’t know what to do with me. Later I found out that they arranged meetings with the principal and the hated teacher himself, both of whom seemed very perplexed given that I was basically a model student who gave them no real problems to speak of (except for a crazy, desperate mother who was in their faces at these meetings, presenting them with a vision of her son that had nothing to do with the kid they knew). We didn’t have grades at this point, but I had never received an “unsatisfactory” in any of the fifty-thousand or so categories that made up our quarterly report cards.

I managed to survive to Christmas, when all of my siblings descended for a few days of bliss and celebration; but when they flew away, my depression reached a new low and I declared myself incapable of getting out of bed (which I had in the meantime stocked with more knives, carefully hidden under the covers, as if I might be able to complete in my sleep what I lacked the courage to do while awake). My mother — her eyes rimmed red with frustration — paced the hallways and finally my father came in to have “a talk” with me.

He explained that life was often hard, but that I needed to be a fighter and not a quitter. He brought up the example of my older brothers — fearless giants in my young eyes — and explained that they too had suffered in ways that I could not yet imagine, but they had proved themselves incapable of being brought down. In short, it was time for me to pull myself together and “be a man.” I did not laugh or cry as a result of this speech, but nodded and agreed that what he said made sense. I promised to do better.

As it turned out, the talk had the desired effect. The following day I got out of bed, (secretly) returned the knives to the drawers and resigned myself to returning to school.

We had new seats following the break, and it so happened that I was placed near two girls in my class to whom I had never paid much attention; they were neither popular or unpopular; they never raised their hands or talked unless Mr. W called on them. I obviously knew their names, but I had never said more than a few words to them “after school.” One day, however, I noticed during a break that they were calling each other by strange names: one was “Cardo” and the other “Lombardo”*: furthermore, I managed to catch a glimpse of a note being prepared by one in which a list was being prepared declaring who was or wasn’t a “Cheddaball,” which I soon gathered was a slightly pejorative term whose parameters were maddeningly (to my ten-year-old brain) mysterious, so that one person might be a Cheddaball one day but not the next. Once or twice, they informed me with appropriate sorrow that I was a Cheddaball, but that it wouldn’t necessarily last forever, and in fact, the following day I was relieved to be told that I had been safely (if not permanently, they warned) removed from the list. I had to figure it out!

*My memory is patchy here, and the names may not be exact.

In the days and weeks that followed, I also learned something even more incredible: there were at least two other girls in this secret society, about which I and — as far as knew — all of the rest of the students knew nothing. (Those designated Cheddaballs were — except for me — never informed but only silently mocked.) Nobody suspected the existence of this important underground conspiracy, least of all the hated Mr. W, who was often the biggest Cheddaball of all.

One day, I was informed that an exception to the society rules had been allowed, and I was going to be made a member. Accordingly, I was given a name of my own: “Jobardo.” At the same time, I learned that what determined whether you were or were not a Cheddaball was nothing more complicated than a color of your clothing, picked in advance by Cardo (or in her absence, Lombardo) so that none of the other society members would wear it on the following day and suffer the indignity.

It was not as if I lacked for friends before this point in time, but at this point — in this class, with this teacher — the friendship of these girls and their mysterious society was the salve I needed to cope, if not survive; the girls saved me from drowning in something I had yet to fathom. It was not as if I now loved fifth grade, but the aggravation — somewhat ill-defined to begin with — seemed bearable; moreover I had allies in my hatred of authority.

We remained friends for several years, until I left for boarding school and we inevitably drifted apart. (I grew more than a little embarrassed of my fifth-grade self, even as I confronted bigger versions of the same demons.)

I haven’t spoken to any of them in twenty-five years, but one of them recently “friended” me on Facebook. We didn’t discuss our past in too much detail, though; just a lil “Wall-To-Wall” on which we briefly alluded to our imaginary society.

These days when I wake up and get dressed, I can’t help but wonder if Cardo is somewhere out there, and if — by dint of her designation — I’m a Cheddaball until further notice; often it seems likely, but perhaps even more now than I did then, I understand that there could be much worse fates.

Today was a tough day on Capitol Hill, where the topic of hot gay statues was taken up and — as usual — soundly defeated. Fortunately, the issue is not entirely moot, and reader Tyler Green was kind enough to point us in the direction of something that until now had escaped our attention:

[This statue is called "Man Controlling Trade" and is by Michael Lantz] the brother of Walter Lantz of Woody Woodpecker fame, from outside the Federal Trade Commission HQ in DC.

Sounds like it might be worth a look?

Whoas. That guy’s controlling something, and it may or may not be “trade.”

Hey, that’s one way to end your “Depression.”

Thanks for the tip, Tyler. Let’s hope the “stimulus plan” delivers everything we were promised, including not only more hot gay statues in the nation’s capital but in every town with a population greater than 100.

Photo credits: Andy961 on Flickr (first) and Eric Marc Crawford on Flickr (second).

The Hot Gay Statue round-up:

• Rules and Guidelines
• Dan Savage Endorsement
• Washington Heights (New York City)
• Washington, DC
• The London Eye Clarifies an Important Issue
• Florence (Italy)
• The Park Avenue Amory (Upper East Side/NYC)
• Murray Hill (New York City)
• Madrid (Spain)
• Los Angeles
• Philadelphia
• The London Eye: “In Your Face”
• The J-Man Inspires
• George Washington
• Georgia (Republic of)
• New Orleans
• Columbus Circle (New York City)
• Two Davids (Florence)
• Franco Harris Statue (Pittsburgh)
• London Firefighters and Other Heroes
• Columbus Circle Mall (New York City)
• Miami
• Paris
• Grand Central Station (New York City)
• Albany, New York
• Chicago
• Albany, New York (Hot Gay Statute)
• The Metropolitan Museum (New York City)
• University of Southern California (Los Angeles)
• More Getty Villa (Los Angeles)
• Union Station Centurions (Washington, DC)
• Hot Gay Ladies in Washington Heights (New York City)
• Honolulu
• Stockholm
• Florence (Italy) II
• Vienna
• San Francisco

Click through for “hi-quality” on YouTube or watch on Facebook.

Stay tuned for the fifth and final installment of “City of Dreams.”

THE CHAOS DETECTIVE

City of Dreams (Part 1)

City of Dreams (Part 2)

City of Dreams (Part 3)

Friends! The government may be embroiled in scandal, and the legislation you seek may be decades away from the governor’s desk! Obviously these are not good economic times, unless you’re a professional athlete or a high-powered financial executive or really pretty much anything not related to old media and real estate and the auto industry. Whatever! Through good times and bad, we must always remain cognisant of one essential truth!

Yes, friends, not every cat is a lolcat.

Recently Reader Lloyd put us on notice about the existence of an entire army of hot gay statues gracing the colonnade at Union Station in Washington, DC. Which ok is awesome, but his note also contained a scandalous rumor, which we reproduce in full:

I was told about the statuary in Union Station by a friend in San Diego, now 65, who attended seminary in Washington, DC, as a youth. Floods of seminarians used to go to Union Station to view the statues before the shields were installed. The statues, all similar, ring the second level of the atrium-like entrance lobby, maybe 25 to 40, and are over life-size. They all hold shields which cover their bodies from feet to chest level. Once when waiting for a train, I tried to check them out, but access to the gallery behind them was not possible.

We wondered if this could be true, and found some pix on Flickr of the statues in question:

Hey, who are those hot guys on top of those columns? (Photo by mattherbison on Flickr)

Whoas! This guy’s pretty hot. Definitely gay, too.
(Photo by jcolman on Flickr)

Pretty smokin, frankly. (Photo by jcolman on Flickr)

Ok then, so there’s like a hundred of these smokin’ Romans milling around, but srsly, what’s up with the shields? According to one DC art blog, the shields were added after a public outcry in 1907, when the station was opened. Here’s the full story:

Apparently when the sculptor, Augustus Saint Gaudens — who was a pretty popular public art and monument sculptor at the turn of the century — received the commission for the centurions, he asked if he was to make the Roman soldiers historically accurate.

He was told yes.

When Saint Gaudens delivered the models for the sculptures, Washingtonians on the arts panel were a little shocked to discover that some of the centurion maquettes were fully nude in uncircumsized splendor for all to see.

And so a hundred years ago Saint Gaudens was told to cover them up. In the arguments that I am sure followed, the solution came in the form of shields (which to me look historically inaccurate by the way), which would cover the Italians’ willies. They remain naked beneath them.

Really!? True or apocryphal? So far the only photograph we could find even hinting at this most tantalizing state of affairs is this one:

These guys are srsly hot, but the question remains: why the shields? (Photo by jcolman on Flickr.)

We want to extend a big thanks to Lloyd who turned us on to what conceivably could go down as the biggest scandal in the history of hot gay statues! That said, we are left with important questions: Will some kind reader in DC send us an even hotter pic of one of these centurions (and what hides behind the shields)? And if it turns out to be true, will President-elect Obama finally restore these hot gay statues to their intended glory? There can be no doubt that the world is holding its collective breath…

The Hot Gay Statue round-up:

• Rules and Guidelines
• Dan Savage Endorsement
• Washington Heights (New York City)
• Washington, DC
• The London Eye Clarifies an Important Issue
• Florence (Italy)
• The Park Avenue Amory (Upper East Side/NYC)
• Murray Hill (New York City)
• Madrid (Spain)
• Los Angeles
• Philadelphia
• The London Eye: “In Your Face”
• The J-Man Inspires
• George Washington
• Georgia (Republic of)
• New Orleans
• Columbus Circle (New York City)
• Two Davids (Florence)
• Franco Harris Statue (Pittsburgh)
• London Firefighters and Other Heroes
• Columbus Circle Mall (New York City)
• Miami
• Paris
• Grand Central Station (New York City)
• Albany, New York
• Chicago
• Albany, New York (Hot Gay Statute)
• The Metropolitan Museum (New York City)
• University of Southern California (Los Angeles)
• More Getty Villa (Los Angeles)

Charles Blow/Gay Marriage and a Moral Minority

The Short Version: The gays are not about to win over black women — who statistics show are stupid, bitter, homophobic cows — by appealing to equality. Better to appeal to reproductive health!

In his words: “More specifically, blacks overwhelmingly say that homosexuality isn’t morally acceptable…So pitch it as a health issue.”

The Score: F (Fuck off!). In this piece, Blow displays a remarkable insensitivity w/r/t the premise of civil rights generally and the gay version specifically. Let’s begin with his premise that gays need “to pitch” the idea of marriage to anyone, and especially the few hundred intolerant, hypocritical black church ladies upon whom Blow obnoxiously ruminates. (And here we cannot resist offering another lol-quote: “Women who can’t find a man to marry might not be thrilled about the idea of men marrying each other.” Ha ha, that sounds like a SATC episode, Charles!). While it’s undoubtedly true in the most mercenary sense that gays do in fact need to sell the concept of marriage (or as we prefer, civil unions for all) to various constituencies, in a representative democracy, we are not obligated to appeal to those most hostile to our cause (and we certainly don’t need to hear it blithely framed in these terms from some tool making questionable extrapolations from a CNN poll). What Blow — who from his pic appears to be an African-American dude and from his bio appears to be straight (or at least a father of three children) — might like to consider is how he would have felt if in say, 1958, we had suggested that black leaders reframe the fight for desegregation in more palatable terms to a group of KKK members, whom surveys revealed to be omg rather racist. In short, just as the promulgation of civil-rights laws were not dependent on changing the views of asshole racists, enlightened observers will understand that the same should hold true for asshole homophobes; it’s not our job to teach or sell the idea of equality to those who are obviously incapable of grasping it and for Blow to suggest otherwise is insulting.

Last November, we published an essay on the suffocation of the gay voice in American literature, and not much has happened in the past year to change our opinion of this bleak, dreary landscape. The New York Times Book Review recently published its annual selection of notable books for 2008, and although we’re not familiar with all of them, as so often happens when confronting such lists, we were struck by an apparent lack of anything on the fiction half of the list — characters, themes, authors — that could be considered even remotely gay. Similar observations hold true for Janet Maslin and Michiko Kakutani‘s respective top-ten lists.

[A few preliminary notes/disclaimers: On the non-fiction side, there is a biography of Rudolph Nureyev, whose relatively unapologetic and well-documented appetite for men and death from AIDS makes the issue impossible to ignore completely (this is somewhat akin to real gays we sometimes see on reality teevee, which are so different than the usual stereotypes offered up by the networks, see e.g., every show ever made except maybe Six Feet Under!); in terms of the fiction list -- our primary concern here -- it's possible that some of these books do in fact deal with gay subtexts and themes (and if so, we'd like to hear about it!), but we could not glean anything along these lines from the capsules included.]

Which — i.e., this lack of “gay” — is kind of telling, given the range of other topics and themes we encounter while glancing through the list, e.g., we find authors confronting racism and ethnic stereotypes and politics and war and crime and terrorism (9/11!) and suburban/domestic ennui and the usual host of marriage/love problems. While all of these are admittedly compelling (or can be, in the right hands), we cannot help but ask: “If we were an alien coming to earth and knew nothing about humans except for these books, would we have any clue about the existence of homosexuality?” In this case, sadly enough, the answer is no, we wouldn’t.

This begs the question of wtf why, which in turn suggests three possible answers: 1) gay themes don’t really lend themselves to literature, 2) gay themes are less important than all of the above, and so we shouldn’t be any more disappointed not to find them covered here than we would if say, we were passionate about golf and found no novels on the topic in any given year; or 3) whether important or not, there were no outstanding works of fiction published in 2008 dealing with questions of gay identity.

As to whether gay themes are appropriate to literature, to say they are not would seem quite plausible if you were relying on the post-war American literary canon, because hey, there’s nothing gay about it, so it couldn’t be that important, right? This of course is casuistry; beyond obvious reference to literary masters both near (Michael Cunningham, Andrew Holleran) and far (Marcel Proust), there is a case to be made that homosexuality is the most universally reviled trait in the history of humanity — cutting across class, ethnicity, organized religion, gender and nationality — and thus the perfect window through which to examine well, pretty much anything, or at least anything related to a fundamental understanding of who we (collectively) are, which is certainly one plausible purpose (or at least effect) of fiction. (And we would go so far as to say that writers who ignore this do so at their peril, and that their works will be dismissed and forgotten as epitomizing the unenlightened tendencies of the dark ages in which we now but perhaps will not always live.)

Moving on to the importance of question number two, beyond the obvious hey-we’re-gay bias we bring to the table, we cannot help but look at the national socio-political-economic landscape of the past twenty years or and wonder if the issue of homosexuality — as much as race, class or gender — has not defined (albeit in many cases, in a largely unconscious manner) the national “dialogue” in ways that have had disasterous effects on all of us. We think back to how Reagan and Bush actively ignored the holocaust of gay men that took place on their watches, and then we observe the manic behavior of our country under the Clinton and Bush II administrations — the economic frenzy, the ascendancy of Moral Politics, the embrace of the sickeningly masculine culture of SUVs and rigidly stereotypical gender roles in Hollywood movies, etc. etc. — and we wonder if, at least in part, this could not be attributed to the failure of our country (outside of a few marginalized communities, obv) to truly acknowledge what happened twenty years ago, much less grieve or examine it in a meaningful way. Maybe it’s just us, but when we consider New York City, we are often left with the sense that there’s still a pervasive grief that hovers over a city where something like 100,000 people (mostly gay men) died, many at a brutally young age; it’s the skeleton in our closet that nobody really wants to talk about because it’s painful and depressing, but our guess is that until we address this in a broad, public forum, we will continue to be srsly fucked up in ways that both are and aren’t obvious.

As gay forces mobilize in the fight for marriage equality (or as we like to refer to it, civil unions for all), there seem to be practical implications to the sadly straight state of American literature in 2008, namely in the startling lack of stories (by which we mean the literary fictive kind) upon which this movement can turn for solace and inspiration; where, for example, is our James Baldwin? Sure, there are big gay filmmakers on the cultural landscape, but isn’t there something a little unsettling about throwing money at an industry where out gays cannot be considered for leading roles? Where we have to rely on Sean Penn — who omg was willing to “play gay” — for distribution? Whatever the case with movies, the desperate fervor with which these crumbs are gulped down by the gays suggests a strong demand that is largely unmet in the literary context.

Moreover, what books offer that movies do not is the ability to present characters as multifaceted, complex distillations (or reflections) of the kind of people we meet in the real world, i.e., those who do not conform to stereotype and generalization. Relevantly, this includes depictions of gay sex! Because high-minded notions of equality to the side, it’s also important for some significant percentage of the population — i.e., certainly more than could be said to exist now — to understand that cocksucking and assfucking (and whatever gay ladies do) are — or can be — equally valid means of sexual expression, as much as anything our straight peers might want to entertain among themselves, even if it leads to procreation. Bottom line: to be successful politically, we gays need to fight the “ew” factor, and having straights pretend on film is more of a disorienting spectacle than an honest depiction of this fairly serious aspect of our humanity (i.e., something that both separates us and brings us together, to be kind of “Hallmarky” about it!).

Except all of that said — and most depressing of all for us to consider — we have no obvious candidates for inclusion on the sad NYT “notably straight” list. It’s not like we’re outraged that ______, the new novel by _______, in which issues of gay identity are eloquently explored in the context of ______, was left off the list. (But if we’re missing something here — and it’s possible, because we’re not professional critics — please let us know!) The point it, it seems like a ridiculous state of affairs that there are not at least a handful to pick from every year, and we find the absence of gays no less startling that we would if the same were true of women or ethnic minorities. Until we see these books written and accepted (i.e., both critically acclaimed and commercially successful), and in a consistent, regular manner, there will continue to be a somewhat grotesque quality to how we’re viewed by those on whose good will (at least in part) we depend for the political reform we seek.

So today we read a most excellent post on marriage at Emily Magazine, which we strongly recommend (and not just because we’re quoted at some length in it, lol!)

We have to wonder, is it a coincidence that the only two bloggers to link into our post against marriage are both (straight) lady writers (Emily Magazine and the always eloquent Writer’s Block)? We think not! If there’s anyone who’s suffered more at the hands of this odious institution, we’d like to hear about it. But alas, why aren’t the gays more attuned to this? And why aren’t more straight ladies joining in the fight for their own sakes as much as their gay bffs?

One obvs theory is that both groups have been too oppressed for too long to really think clearly. Let’s face it: the women’s movement has struggled with homophobia since the beginning; it’s not hard for us to remember how our own mother — co-president of her N.O.W. chapter in the late 1970s! — had to confront accusations from certain factions in her organization who did not want to be associated with “a bunch of lesbians,” lest this interfere with the quest for (mainstream) acceptance, which was deemed critical to the passage of the (sadly doomed, by just three states!) E.R.A. As for the gays, we too (or at least the men) have long tended to objectify women in a way that frankly does not help form potent political alliances with femiladyist orgs, and a quick scan through the leading “gay culture” blogs doesn’t exactly give us hope that this is changing. (Which is not to say our hands are exactly clean in this regard, either!)

But as Emily points out, the fight against marriage extends well beyond the political and into the psychological (the crushing pressure to be “happy,” which for girls in particular is so cruelly tied to marriage) and philosophical (what it means to be alone, and how this both cripples and releases us).

This makes us remember how, for most of high school and college, we spent all of our time ingratiating ourselves to the cool and artistic crowd — the MFAs who dyed their hair and shoplifted and took acid on school days — and then in our twenties, we could never understand how these same friends could so easily succumb to conventions like marriage and children: did they really want to become new versions of their parents so soon? We were so disappointed, and in turn they hated us (and in many cases, still do) for being so judgmental!

But we understand why they did it. Life is exhausting enough without having to think about the implications of marriage, and — except under the most unusual and often dire circumstances — the majority of people are not interested in being revolutionaries. But for gays like us who do want to dispense with it entirely, we would be smart to pay close attention to our feminist allies; like so many revolutions, this one may be led not by outsiders but by those who have seen firsthand everything society has to offer and responded with a “no fucking thanks.”

Since we are gay and in a long-term relationship — almost ten years! — we are constantly besieged by frenz and relatives with questions that more or less could be summed up as this: “Oh it’s so sweet that you’re together! If you could get married, would you?”

In the past, we’ve generally hesitated before offering something along the lines of: “Well, maybe — but since it’s not going to happen anytime soon, let’s not worry about it.” This answer, of course, is disingenuous to the degree that we would get married in a second if it meant we could receive the same tax/legal benefits that ”straight” couples currently receive. We would even like to throw a party — a$$uming we’re not bankrupt — because even though we’re reclusive misanthropic curmudgeons, “weddings” are fun and offer a few hours of unadulterated optimism before sending us back to the hard travails of daily life.  (Note: we do not ever want to call this a “commitment ceremony” – even if that’s essentially what it is – because omg “precious moments” barf!)  

And yet yet yet! The vocabulary of this process — marriage, engagements, bridezillas, groomzillas, fiances, even weddings — strikes us as distasteful and cumbersome to the extreme, and it’s really this — we now realize — that has been the root of our hesitation. In truth, we don’t ever want to get “married”; after fleeing the wasteland of suburban America — where every single house featured two people who were or had been married – we have no desire to return to that sad landscape of desparation and conformity. Along the same lines, we have never liked the words “husband” and “wife” and frankly never want them to pass our lips when describing our relationship partner, because these words are indelibly tainted by association with an outdated, homophobic, misogynistic and bourgeois mode of thinking (and society) that has absolutely no appeal to us (except in campy movies and teevee shows).  

Though we are obviously not the only gays to express frustration with marriage and everything it implies in this regard, we are often surprised by the failure of those doing so to make the following point, which to us is most critical in the current (and quickly evolving) political climate: it’s possible to be against marriage — even, or especially, gay marriage — but in favor of equality for all, and we should frame our political objectives in terms of the latter, while dispensing with the former. This, of course, is what Obama implied in the debates about “gay marriage,” and we should hold him to it!

Practically speaking of course, this would entail the promulgation of legislation that would strip the word and concept of “marriage” from federal laws and regulations (and by implication the states) and replace it with a ”civil union” that would be open to any two people, regardless of age, gender, sexual orientation or even family status. (Because really, there’s no reason why say, two sisters living together shouldn’t have the option of filing a joint tax return and receiving whatever other advantages are offered to “married” couples.)

The reason this is important to consider now is that there is a huge opportunity to make this happen at the federal level and we (collectively speaking) should not squander it by squabbling over “gay marriage.” (Which careful observers should note is the term of choice for Republican assholes and fundamentalist nutjobs, i.e., “the gays want gay marriage! Outrage!”)

As any (good) lawyer will tell you – not to mention any political campaign strategist — legal fights are won and lost based on definitions of the terms involved. Let’s be honest with ourselves: ”gay marriage” is needlessly provocative and moreover a losing proposition in our seriously homophobic country, as California just demonstrated, particularly when we can express the same objectives in terms of ”equality,” which is more often a winning argument. 

So if people want to limit “marriage” to a man and woman, we should happily grant this, but at the same time press our allies (starting with Obama) to acknowledge that the state needs to get out of the business of ”marriage” asap in order to ensure equal treatment for all of its citizens. ”Civil union for all” is the most elegant way forward, and we should join the ranks of the enlightened countries that have already recognized this.