big day for the gays

Folks, some monumental things have been happening in The Land of Queer:

1. Today, the NY State Court of Appeals is listening to oral arguments for and against the Constitutionality of same-sex marriage.

2. Batwoman is a lesbian and a "lipstick lesbian" to boot (Source)

3. Anderson Cooper TiVos My Super Sweet Sixteen and Tiara Girls and he's not afraid to admit it. (Source)

4. Michelle Rodriguez was released from jail early because of prison overcrowding which means her dangerous hotness is free to be drunk and disorderly on the streets near you (if you're lucky). (Source)

5. Kate Moennig was spotted coming out of her play "The Guardians" (see my thoughts on that one below) and showing some PDA with a lovely young lady named Julie(?). (Source)

6. In case #5 was too subtle, it would appear that the notoriously private Moennig might in fact be coming out? Check this out and you make the call: (Kate'sGotASecret)

It's either the greatest day on earth or a sign of the Apocalypse. Either way, I'm basking in the rainbow glow so don't go raining on my parade.

and you thought the homophobes couldn't get any stupider

Like being the only witness to some fantastic astronomical event, I actually felt a little bit giddy reading the news today. I spotted an article on an issue so bizarre and convoluted I actually had to read it twice: Congress is passing a bill preventing demonstrators from protesting at military funerals. You're probably asking yourself if I've lost my mind and chosen to ignore the fact that the government always seems happy to limit our First Amendment rights and that I should actually be furious. My response: my fury is overshadowed by the turn of events that led to such a bill in the first place. The spanking new "Respect for America's Fallen Heroes Act" (this country just loves it's frothy titles) is in direct response to a Kansas church group, led by the raving lunatic and world-class idiot Rev. Fred Phelps (the same guy who protested at Matthew Shepard's funeral), that has been protesting at military funerals claiming that the deaths of U.S. soldiers is a sign of God's anger at the U.S. tolerance of homosexuals. First of all, WHAT tolerance of homosexuals? This country isn't exactly waving the rainbow flag or donning leather chaps to go march in any Pride parades. We're still in grave danger of having THE Constitution amended to deny gays and lesbians the right to marry. Secondly, if there's any government organization that REALLY doesn't have tolerance for gays, it's the military. So all of this begs the question, what the heck is Fred Phelps and his wacky band of pranksters doing protesting at military funerals? Well, Phelps doesn't know it, but through the wonders of reverse psychology, he's actually aiding gay rights. The folks attending these funerals are probably not that gay-friendly to begin with so under any other circumstance Phelps might have had a few more supporters. This might be a stretch, but I'm thinking that the last thing on any mourner's mind during the funeral for their son, daughter, mother, father, friend is politics. Mourning is the great equalizer for the living. There's no color, creed or sexual orientation in death and people of opposing beliefs tend to come together when they're unified over tragedy. By interrupting a funeral service, any funeral service, and associating the death of an individual with God's wrath against an entire group of people - in this case, not the wartime "infidel," but homosexuals - Phelps is unwittingly forcing those mourners to support a cause (gay rights), and a people (gays and lesbians), that they might not have otherwise considered supporting. Is it possible that Phelps' extreme hate demonstrated at a time of great collective sadness, might lead otherwise like-minded, homophobic individuals to be more tolerant? Grief in the face of death forces us to be introspective and account for our own lives. Do we want to take our hate-mongering to the grave? I like to think not.

While the enactment of a bill in direct response to the protests of a handful of traveling homphobes, was more about keeping the peace and revering the pomp and circumstance of a military event, the fact is the government still reacted and it was a reaction of common deceny. Perhaps sooner than later, that common deceny will extend to include everyone, including gays. In a weird, cosmic, grasping at straws way, this almost seemed like a first step: anger and action against the homophobes not the homosexuals. This is bigger than Hale-Bopp.

don't let the life insurance lady kill you

While Britney was finding new and improved ways to get on Child Protective Services Top 10 Hottest People Who Shouldn't Be Parents list, Jackie and I were living it up at a children's birthday party where I almost lost an eye to an overzealous kid wielding a bat originally aimed at a pinata. We also got to sacrifice a little bit of dignity during our life insurance medical exam. We were awakened at 8am on Saturday by a lovely "Port-A-Medic" wearing pink scrubs. She took our blood pressure, made us get on a scale (note: my pajamas weigh 10 pounds), grilled us on our family medical history (marred by my bloodline's willingness to lay down life and limb for cream in their coffee and a buttered roll), drew blood (In my case, a geyser-like event that resulted in a sizeable stain on the couch. Hopefully there will be no criminal investigation in our home anytime soon) and finally- my favorite - pee in a cup. Due to a life of continuous stomach trouble, I'm getting pretty used to being up close and personal with my body and its excretions, but for some reason peeing in a cup - without a lid, I might add - turned into a vile display. On a good day meaning not at the crack of dawn before you've had any coffee, peeing in a cup is tough enough. Peeing in a cup the size of a thermos and presenting it to a perfect stranger as if it's a cocktail is a whole other situation. I will just say that my hand could have been steadier. And that I got her back for the blood-letting on my couch.

pedaling to nowhere at 100 mph

I've spent the past 6 months writing a lot about what it feels like to leave a high-paying career (in my case, TV producer) to become an entrepreneur (in my case, a sweatsuit wearing dairy/gluten/nut free cookie baker). I've rambled about how there's not enough light in my apartment, how everyone in the building is crazy or consumptive, how pathetic I feel when I look in the mirror and realize that I'm 32 and I spend most of my day wearing pants with elastic waistbands and talking to myself. In other words, I've had a lot of time to reflect on ME. And one of the things I've noticed about me is that old habits die hard. Recently I commented on how I realized I was becoming one of those thirtysomethings (a word only used by thirtysomethings) who check out nubile twentysomethings (a word only used by people who are officially over the hill). This realization stung a bit since I used to make merciless fun of folks who clung to their youth by injuring themselves trying to check out a younger piece of tail. Lately, however, I noticed that the problem is worse than I originally thought. I'm one of those thirtysomethings who checks out, gasp, everybody. Especially if they're even remotely attractive and work at a gym. You might wonder where the harm in this is and I can only respond that if SNL saw fit to make fun of folks who don clean white sneakers and perch by the exercise equipment for the sole purpose of spotting a non-pancake butt in stretch pants, I should be a little frightened for myself. OK, maybe I'm "embellishing" a bit here but I have noticed that I spend an awful lot of time ogling the trainers at my local Equinox like it's the early 80s and I've just gotten a free pass to The Vertical Club. My friend Karla (aka K-Hi) and I recently got on what I call "The Betterment Plan" which just means we've been going to the gym more than once a week. When we're not doing the Brazilian Tummy Tuck/Upper Cut/Butt Lift class with our adorable teacher Leandro whose musical choices leave something to be desired (last week it was "Fame" in Spanish), but whose charming "Eee-one inch higher!" commands make you want to give yourself a hernia if it'll make him smile, Karla and I are killing ourselves in a Spinning class. True, we love the fact that we come out of Spinning all sweaty and feeling like bad-asses, but my motive goes deeper. How deep? Hot Teacher deep! She wears hoop earrings, muscle tees with inspirational quotes in neon, and she's got a website touting her skills, not just as a trainer but as a life coach(!) The agony of pretending to ride up a hill while sitting in a dark, humid room staring at your fellow Spinner's rear ends will seated on a bike that's bolted to the floor is made so much better and less surreal when you've got a cute lady in the front. The muscle tees with phrases like "You Go Girl!" in neon green help too.

another actress inadvertently outs herself

Oh Jorja Fox. Why don't you come right out and say it? After last night's CSI season finale (a show I adore to the point of obsession), I'm sorry to say but there was no longer a doubt in my mind that Ms. Jorja is a lady lover. Not that I've been thinking about this a lot. Unless wondering about it since 1999, when she played lesbian Dr. Maggie Doyle on ER, counts as a lot. Don't answer that. It's just that I've always thought that Fox was, well, a fox: a skinny, gap-toothed, tough chick who made shit happen and didn't take guff from no one. I loved it when she showed up on CSI as bad-ass Sara Sidle, forensic scientist. I ignored the obvious brewing plotline about her flirtations with Gil Grissom and crossed my fingers that the writers remembered she was from San Francisco (San Francisco, people! Gaytown, USA!). When rumors circulated that Jorja was pregnant based on what appeared to be a growing stomach on the show, I took comfort in the fact that everyone knows the character loves to drink (beer gut, people!). But last night, last night I nearly died. Gil and Sara are in a relationship! And if that's not horrifying enough, the way it was revealed was enough to make you want to stab yourself in the eye. Gil is lying fully clothed on a bed talking to what we can only presume is a woman. Next, a pair of feet can be seen in a satin robe. The woman stoops down and it's...Sara! And in case you missed it, she's wearing a SATIN ROBE. A satin robe??!! You've never seen anything more incongruous than Jorja/Sara in a satin robe making bedroom eyes at a GUY, especially a guy as asexual as Gil Grissom. Here's a thought: if you're curious about an actor's sexuality put them in out-dated boudoir attire. Positively screams trying too hard. I may never be able to watch the series again if I'm left to wonder when the robe might make it's next appearance. Or, god forbid, something as equally over-the-top femme as feathery high-heeled slippers. Now that'll convince us she's straight! Why, why, why couldn't they have hooked up Sara with Katherine/Marg Helgenberger? Now there's a finale that needs no robe.

places i will never eat

You know when you see the name of a restaurant posted on an awning or a billboard and you wonder who fell asleep at the wheel? When your stomach turns at the mere thought of dining on anything from a place with a name so ridiculous that you figure the only reason it hasn't been shut down yet is because The Health Department was laughing too hard to bother? Case in point, Jackie and I were in South Beach when we discovered a little jewel called, and I'm not kidding here, "Sum Yung Gae." As in "Cream of." As in, the owners of this place either never attended sixth grade where that joke thrived like mold on bread or, god forbid, there really is a thing called Sum Yung Gae in which place someone needs to translate that sucker.

And then there's places like the one photographed above that I noticed during a midday stroll (entrepreneurs like to stroll especially during the middle of the day) through Brooklyn. It says "Be Healthy. Dial HOT BIRD. No fat." Come again? (No, not you Sum Yung Gae). HOT BIRD?! Seriously, this has got to be one of the all time greats. I tried the number and it would appear that HOT BIRD is mercifully no longer in business but it's legacy lives on.

32 going on 14 (aka Shane, why hast ye forsaken me?)

When I was a teenager, I'd look at people in their thirties and wonder how they felt about being just inches away from old age, retirement, death. For sure, there are benefits to being a member of AARP and, hey, who doesn't like a senior discount? But it always struck me as tragic when I'd see a guy in his thirties craning around his Wall Street Journal to check out the high school cutie in a miniskirt on the subway or a woman in white leggings and a half shirt spray-painted with the popular phrase "Gag Me With a Spoon." As a good friend of mine said at the time: "Stretch pants are a privilege, not a right." I laughed at her insight and gorged myself on Corn Nuts, another privilege also exclusively bestowed on the young whose metabolism cares not that nature never intended for corn to be deep fried and dusted with bbq spices.

This past week, I officially became one of those thirty-somethings I used to heckle. It started when some friends and I went to see "The Guardians," a new play going on at the Bleecker St. Theater. The tragedy was not in the fact that we paid $45 a ticket to see an Off-Off-Off Broadway show loosely based on the Abu Ghraib photo debacle involving Lynndie England, the remarkably butch looking soldier whose "boyfriend" allegedly forced her to humiliate Arab prisoners. No, the tragedy was that we went to see this play for the sole reason that Kate Moennig, aka Shane of "The L Word," was starring in it. We giggled like little lesbian school-girls when we arrived at the black box theater - chock full of other lesbians and a handful of old folks who cashed in on the senior discount - and took our seats in the second row. My heart palpitated at the thought that in minutes, my TV crush would appear live and in person before me (Note: even as a teenager I didn't have TV crushes unless you count Nicholas of "Eight Is Enough" which is just embarassing). Guess I shouldn't have wished so hard because when Kate/Shane/Lynndie finally took the stage wearing a prison-issue orange jumpsuit, a ponytail weave and THE smallest sneakers I've ever seen on an adult woman (this girl's feet are TINY), I could feel my crush draining out of me. Pasty skin, skinny body, feet that look like they were bound at birth. The final suckage of crush occurred when Kate/Shane/Lynndie opened her mouth to speak her monologue in a fake Southern accent that sounded like an outtake from "Deliverance." Cue Dueling Banjos. Clearly I wasn't the only one in pain. All the lesbians, so eager to see La Hotness de Shane, felt disappointed at the reality. A collective sigh went up. A heavyset gal in front of me checked her Blackberry. Another yawned audibly. An older woman fell asleep with her mouth wide open in the front row in full view of the actors and the other audience members who envied her gumption (oh to be a defiant old lady). The last time I felt this way was when I finally saw Lou Diamond Phillips in the flesh after loving him in "La Bamba." Fresh off being dumped by his wife for Melissa Etheridge, Lou wasn't looking his personal best either. "I guess I've finally crossed over" I thought while watching Kate cluck like a Steel Magnolia and do something with her hands that I can only say resembled something you'd do if you were in a church choir or retarded. When the old woman who had slept through the entire production got up during the curtain call and walked in front of the actors in her hurry to get out the door, I knew the dew was officially off the rose.

Well, almost off the rose. Instead of hanging around to listen to a discussion with the Vanity Fair writer who had actually covered the Abu Ghraib case and began her talk with "The real Lynndie England didn't talk that way," we slipped out of the theater, leaving our friend Jim to listen to the lecture, and waited in the lobby. We told ourselves we were waiting "for Jim," but we knew what we were doing. I could feel the excitement rise in me again. Maybe Kate/Shane will pass by me on her way out and give me a look, maybe a wink, hopefully a smile that says "You were my inspiration." Even though the play blew, it's always nice to be someone's inspiration.

Suddenly, we saw her. The ponytail weave and orange jumpsuit were gone, replaced by a sexy cap and tight jeans. She rushed past staring at her cellphone. There was no time to do anything except stare with our mouths open. Somehow the jaded feelings of fifteen minutes ago faded and I was 13 years old again. Rather, I felt like I was 13. I looked like a nerdy thirtysomething minus the Wall Street Journal and white stretch pants. 20 years ago I would've hated me. Now I just want to know if I should bring flowers the next time.