…every member of the Hollywood audience who continues to pretend that they are straight when they are not. I know, I know, all of my gay friends continue to insist that all of the good looking male movie stars are gay. Nope, they don’t mention Seth Rogen as a probable giant homo or Mr. Bean as a flamer. Never heard ONE person discuss knowing a friend of a friend of a friend who did it with Charles Durning. It’s always people like John Travolta, Tom Cruise, Will Smith and certainly the most confusing to me, George Clooney. I’m sure they are wrong on some counts. But I’m sure they’re right on some, too. As my friend Gene points out…who did do theater in high school?? Who sang like birds and danced and pranced like queers? That’s right, queers. The boys with the Barbie collections who actually wore cashmere sweaters before they grew up and realized, as mere lads, the benefits of cashmere were both classic fashion and warmth. Who knew how to really cover zits with light cover up and a quick dusting of powder and that yellow made you look sallow and who could make you feel better when that football playing idiot picked the girl with the big boobs and easy access to them, over you who had neither the boobs or the concept of access. “Sag, sag, sag”, they used to say, and somehow, this idea, so abstract at 16, made you felt better. Yes. They were the primary male theater performers in every high school in the nation so it would make sense that at least a few of them would end up in Hollywood. And yet, by my count, the only gay guys in Hollywood are, hmmm, let me think for a minute, Okay, there’s…oh, wait, he’s not out…and then there’s, oh, right..we don’t know that for sure…and then, um, but I’m not sure…. Hmmm. So the only one I can come up with who’s actually out and honest about it is Pee Wee Herman. And he was outed by the police. Oh, and Paul Lynde. But he’s been dead for years. Even though I’m sure he’s still gay. And last week Ricky Martin. Ricky Martin was my crush right after my firstborn arrived. I would sit staring at the TV in a stupor and watch him sing “Living La Vida Loca” while the first man ever to truly worship at my tiny breasts fed himself to sleep and I would imagine my own “Vida Loca” with Ricky. But even I knew he was gay. Which was, after delivering a nine pound baby boy following a full three and a half hours of pushing with no epidural, just the kind of sex I was after. Gay sex. Which didn’t involve me.

I just spent a day in Washington. I had a blast wandering those not so hallowed halls getting winked at by seventy year old men in power suits and twenty year olds in Brooks Brothers. I decided that whenever any of my friends are contemplating facelifts we’ll just do a trip to the ole Capitol of graft and corruption. Wander the halls and get hit on constantly and you’ll decide that the lift idea was a bit premature and it’ll save you some cash not to mention some bruising for few more years. Never mind that the Capitol is devoid of women with the exception of Nancy Pelosi and Olympia Snow and I’m not sure they count. Never mind that the seventy year olds are so anxious for any sort of approval, voter or non, and that their eyesight is severely diminished. And never mind that twenty year old men have been known to have sexual encounters with holes in the wall and find it satisfying. Not to mention sheep. I found Washington good for the almost fifty year old ego. I was lobbying for cash for my community but all around me were people lobbying to kill the good old “don’t ask don’t tell”. The same people who believe that gay people should be allowed to marry (as I keep pointing out to the gay people I love, it’s a goal I am not sure should be that high on their list) and that gay people should have the same rights as straight people. Shockingly founding fatherish of them And that they should be allowed to serve in the military and be open and honest about who they are. Now, serving in the military seems to me a lot like getting married. Something we should all avoid unless the country and the world are in direct and immediate danger that can only be solved by us serving or marrying. That said, however, should you choose to do such an insane thing, you should certainly be able to put a picture of your loved one in your duffle, regardless of their gender. I have a dear friend who was drummed out of the military a few years before Vietnam heated up because, at the ripe age of nineteen, having fled a sad home life by joining the army, he found himself in the brig because he’d had the audacity to mention to the chaplain that he thought he might, just might, it was still in the pondering phase, be attracted to men. The army did the only responsible thing it could do and locked him up with a fellow miscreant who had LOVE tatooed on one set of knuckles and HATE tatooed on the other and who’s clearly equal deviant crime was, yes, you got it…MURDERING a fellow soldier. Weirdly enough, these two misfits hit it off like the toys in the Rudolph Christmas Special and survived the grueling multi week process of getting thrown out of the army (being interviewed by shrinks, countless questions, no contact with any other NON deviants). At the end of their time together they said a polite goodbye, the murderer went to prison, and my friend found himself standing on the streets of Columbia, South Carolina in an army issue brown polyester suit with two hundred dollars to send him on his way. Because, in fact, my friend WAS gay, he promptly went to Woolworths, bought a snug pair of jeans and a tight white t-shirt and threw the hideous polyster suit in the trash, then boarded a bus to NY City where he found out that no one actually cared if he was gay and many faghags preferred it and he made a fabulous life for himself.

So what’s the point here. The point is why does anyone in the military care who’s gay or not gay. They always site the ole “who I want in my foxhole” line. But I think they are confusing morality with mortality. Cause I know, should I find myself in a goddamned foxhole, I won’t give a damn about what the person next to me does in the bedroom and I’d trade a “missionary position with a cheerleader” type for a gay man with many earrings, a taste for light bondage and a degree in sharpshooting, any day. And while we’re busy avoiding dying, I suspect (having had and survived a few near death experiences) we would be a little too busy trying not to die to actually discuss bedroom antics. I personally would find it far more confusing to share a foxhole with someone whose idea of a good sexual time involves getting pooped or peed on. Or one that involves hitting the one they love with a riding crop while the other pretends to be a horse while wearing little people saddles and bridles. Or having sex with only those missing limbs or dressed as furry stuffed animals. But the interesting thing is, I probably know and like people who do have those interests. Or at least maybe I do. I know, you’re thinking I’m making these predilections up but I am not. I saw them on HBO’s Real Sex. I’m serious. Google it. You’ll see. At any rate, I’ll never know if I count a pretend horse or a turned on furry animal among my friends. Because not only won’t I ask and they won’t tell, it’s not part of what we share about ourselves with pretty much anyone. Unless you join the” Human Riding Club” or the “Make Love to a Furry Stuffed Animal Club” but then you’re showing off.

I wish we were clearer about what parts of human nature are important. I wish actors didn’t have to pretend to be something they aren’t and that soldiers could love whomever they loved. The funny thing is, I think as people, individuals who have to live on the planet and earn a living and pay our mortgage and raise our children, we don’t give a damn. The TV folk and the politicians, they’re the ones who try to tell us what to feel. The silver heads, who winked at me in Washington, clamoring for votes or illicit sex. The most judgmental people I know are clearly and always the most suspect. Any time I hear a politician railing too loudly against anything gay, in my head I say “Yup, definitely a guy deep in the closet”. When Rush Limbaugh used to get going about liberal deviants, I knew in my head something was up. Turns out he was in the pain pill abusing business. I don’t know what his excuse is now. Maybe he’s in the furry animal closet. He’d look so cute dressed as a little pudgy panda. I don’t know what drove Ricky Martin out of his closet and keeps the rest of them in it. I don’t know why anyone would want to serve in the military but, if they do, we should let them. My god, is there any greater patriotism on earth than a willingness to lay down your life for the freedom of your nation and any greater hypocracy than the government trying to control who you lay down with before you do that.