Ultramundane: It’s Just Not Natural

…which is, I suppose, at least better than stereotyping.

Update: speaking of type, as it turns out, at first I didn’t use the correct one. So I had to go in and, er…Change.

You should hear the screaming and shouting and horn-honking here in the Mission district of San Francisco at 8:01pm. The Boyfriend stopped to get champagne on his way home at the BevMo and the shelves were almost bare. I think we had a suspicion. I think there might be just one America, and not two afterall.

So there’s half of the party going on tonight in the Castro. We’ll see what happens as the State counts its ballots; hopefully we will be drinking champagne in celebration and not to dull the pain.

The conservative course is not to banish gay people from making such commitments. It is to expect that they make such commitments. We shouldn’t just allow gay marriage. We should insist on gay marriage. We should regard it as scandalous that two people could claim to love each other and not want to sanctify their love with marriage and fidelity. –David Brooks, New York Times

While a group met in San Diego for a prayer meeting for ‘traditional’ marriage on Sunday, we like other people across the state went to a last-minute wedding with a different kind of prayer. I’m not one to say Amen, but it’s hard to disagree with a Presbyterian minister when she says that the love celebrated in a wedding is not a political act, but a divine one. She prayed that not only would Bill and Branden be united as husbands to God and community, but also would remain so in the eyes of the state and become so for the whole country. It was likewise hard not to burst into applause after everyone had signed the license and she noted softly, “It’s legal.” Amen, sister.

It’s a little bittersweet…the rush by the couples trying to get this done before the uncertainty of Tuesday’s election; the possibility that complete strangers can look at Bill and Branden, or our neighbors and friends, or even at me and The Boyfriend, and say to our faces, “You don’t have the same rights we do. We don’t think you deserve this.” We as gay people must be crazy to want this. That’s why they call it an institution, I suppose. For now we sit on pins, waiting to hear if the majority really will uphold the rights of the minority.

Bill and Branden, a million wishes for your happiness, whatever the voters decide. Forgive the gallows humor, but let’s hope the marriage lasts longer than Wednesday.

On Halloween night, I am drinking a glass of absinthe while watching a History Channel show on notorious subterranean locations in ancient and Victorian England.

Suddenly I suspect I am not wearing enough eyeliner.

When I took this in the mirror I said to myself, “Happy Birthday, old man.”

The Boyfriend got me a very nice Absinthe spoon along with glasses and a bottle of Lucid. And after I opened presents we went to Absinthe for dinner. Kind of a theme going there. My parents got me Rock Band 2 and an iPod, continuing on the theme that they rock.

And being both old and tipsy, you can imagine I fell right to sleep.

Posted here mostly because I got a different result than most of the people I’ve seen take it.

The customer service agent at the airline had to put me on hold for a second while she checked on getting me a vegetarian meal for the flight. Suddenly my ears were filled with Dale Bozzio singing “Destination Unknown.”

I’m not sure which number to press in the phone tree if you don’t know your destination.

As it turns out they discontinued any ‘special’ meals, even in First Class, back in 2002. “Hope there’s something on board you can eat!” she said, sympathetically. I’m surprised the hold music wasn’t “Hungry like the Wolf.”

There is a spot on my shirt.

I am not certain if it is salad dressing or not, though this seems to be the most likely culprit given the balsamic dressing and the small brown dot down the front of me. It’s not the milk from breakfast, nor is it coffee. I know I haven’t spilled coffee on myself today, not even on my pants, like yesterday. Which was fine, since it covered the food splatter I didn’t notice from making dinner in those pants the night before that.

This shirt is extraordinarily wrinkled too, since I sweat through it powerwalking my way to work. I suppose it’s a fair trade since the wrinkles the hanger left on my trousers smoothed out at the same time. I’m thankful the cleaners only costs a dollar and half; money well spent for the 20 minutes of crispness I got impressing the people on BART who weren’t looking at me.

Hopefully this weekend I will remember to wash the bathrobe I have sat in most of the weekend before. As well as the pants that retained the odor of the public restroom I used at lunch. 

Can I have the hose and a do-over for last week’s clothes, please?

Friday I walked past the Missing Cheezburger poster on the light pole and the woman with a Obama clipboard and a CHANGE t-shirt to cross the street. Passed the Anonymous graffiti outside of the Scientology building. Gave a hearty “Ahoy Mates!” to the people on the folding chairs in their PARK(ing) space. Walked into the store, past the guy with a McCain/Palin button who was buying Moose Drool beer. It was at that moment that I considered there might be too many internet memes in my life.

And that’s when Rick Astley started playing over the store’s PA.