Does Marriage Equality Lead To Polygamy After All? (Spoiler: Yes, Probably)

So, I have a boyfriend.

This would not be especially unusual, except that I also have a husband.

And just to make things slightly more interesting/complicated, my boyfriend is also my husband’s boyfriend.

This is not what I’d planned — it’s not what any of us had planned — but I suppose that’s the way life happens.

Out of respect for the boyfriend’s privacy, I won’t go into much detail. I’ll simply say that Jonno and I have always had a flexible relationship. We love each other very much, but we also give one another space, literally and metaphorically. We know plenty of other couples — straight and gay — who’ve had three-way arrangements, but this is the first time that we’ve found ourselves in one.

I’ll also say this: it’s not easy. In fact, it’s a little like Jonno and I rebooting our relationship and starting over from scratch.

For those of you in relationships: remember those early months, after the shiny shock of newness had worn off, after you’d stopped spending every spare minute in bed trying to learn one-another’s bodies, when you really began sinking into each other? When you were trying not to get upset about someone’s habits in the bathroom or their inability to wash dishes or take out the garbage or their tendency to tip up their cereal bowl and drink the leftover milk? (That last one was a pet peeve of a previous boyfriend. To this day, I don’t understand what the big deal was.)

Anyway, it’s like that, except instead of dealing with one person, I’m dealing with two. Getting the balance right is tricky. It requires transparency, diplomacy, strong communication skills, and an ability to read people’s minds.

Oh: and a king-size bed.

So far, so good. But a few sticky issues remain:

Ludmila, The Lost Cosmonaut

A couple of weeks ago, I saw Skin Horse Theatre’s Nocturnes. It’s a new work, and it’s probably the best thing I’ve seen in years.

Nocturnes was a meditation on space — not architectural space or three-dimensional space, but honest-to-goddess, rocket-boosting, helmet-wearing, air-sucking outer space. It was performed in four or five movements, each in a different style, each exploring our desire to go where no one has gone before.

It was a little like an episode of Space 1999 as performed by Mummenchanz and the Wooster Group, if that makes any sense. (P.S. For your sake, I hope it doesn’t.)

One of the most poignant moments in the show — the thing that stuck with me, the thing that remains on my mind weeks after seeing it — came during the second movement, which was staged a bit like LSD: Just the High Points. The cast was seated at a long table, reciting essays, poems, song lyrics, and other documents having to do with space travel.

And among those tidbits was one I’d never heard about: the transcript of a “lost cosmonaut” named Ludmila.

The backstory is a little complicated, but the gist is that a couple of amateur radio operators in Italy set up a listening station near Turin in the late 1950s. From their bunker — dubbed “Torre Bert” — the two brothers claim to have recorded ground-to-air communications between the Soviets and early cosmonauts.

Their most famous is Ludmila’s recording, which dates from May 1961. It’s a brief clip, only a couple of minutes long. It is the sound of a woman slowly dying — a woman being burned alive as her craft re-enters Earth’s oxygen-rich atmosphere:

The End Of AIDS: Are We There Yet?

People are getting antsy.

Thanks to an international army of scientists, activists, therapists, and friends, people with HIV are living long, full lives. In fact, there’s evidence to suggest that some HIV-positive individuals may outlive their HIV-negative peers because they see their doctors more regularly and pay closer attention to their health. (I’ve lost the link to that study: if you have it, please share it.)

HIV treatment options are improving, too. The fistful of medications that patients used to take at precise intervals throughout the day have been reduced to one pill. There’s talk of longer-acting treatments that could be administered monthly or even annually. And every few weeks, we hear of breakthroughs that may lead to a cure for HIV: this week’s centers around a completely synthetic molecule that prevents HIV’s ability to replicate.

And so, people are getting antsy.

They see their HIV-positive friends living normal, healthy lives. They hear about medical advances that make it seem as if HIV will be cured tomorrow or, worst-case scenario, the day after. They think, “Is HIV really that big a deal? What’s all the fuss about?” And then, “Why the hell am I still using condoms?”

It’s understandable. Folks under 30 have never known a world without HIV/AIDS, never been able to express love or lust without the specter of disease looming quietly in the background. Even those of us who are older, those of us who can remember the first few years of the epidemic and the fear of the unknown — even we’re starting to squirm, to willingly forget what we once knew. Which perhaps explains why nearly 60% of gay men have ditched the rubbers and had unprotected sex within the past year.

Now, I’m not here to be a schoolmarm, to tell you, “Wear a condom, or else!” Frankly, I’m not sure that terror is the best strategy in today’s war on HIV/AIDS. And even if it were, I’d still rather people approach HIV from a position of knowledge, not fear.

So, with that in mind, here are a few suggestions on this World AIDS Day:

The Book I Would’ve Liked To Have As A Kid, Featuring Lovecraftian Monsters & On-The-Fly Sex Changes

I read a lot when I was a kid. I took whole duffel bags of books on family vacations. I was never a fast reader, but I loved a good story.

Then, two unrelated things happened:

1. I figured out that I was mostly probably almost certainly gay. And over time, I realized that, as much as I might love Ariel or Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, I didn’t see any gay characters in any of those books, no one who was going through the same things I was. In fact, in some novels — like those embarrassing Xanth things — I recall authors mocking queerness and effeminacy. That was a turn-off.

2. I went to college, which was pretty much the nail in the coffin. I don’t care how much you enjoy reading, being saddled with weekly, 300-page death marches through Victorian novels, metaphysical poetry, and experimental Modernist literature is enough to knock that enjoyment smack out of you.

It took me years to re-learn how to read for pleasure. And in the meantime, I discovered the joy of writing. I mean, faced with the option of plowing through the works of über-schmuck Ezra Pound or hammering out my own stuff, the choice became obvious.

Please note: I have no illusions about my writing abilities. My talents are marginal. If I have one thing going for me, though, it’s that I’ve made writing a daily habit. (I know I don’t post here nearly as often as I used to, but that’s because I’m banging out a thousand words or so every morning for other folks.)

Ultimately, that discipline led to a book: The French Quarter Drinking Companion. It’s not the Next Great American Novel, but it was fun to write, and it taught me a bit about today’s publishing industry. And what I learned was this: don’t write fiction. Or rather, don’t write fiction and expect to see a profit. Just write it for yourself.

So, I did. And I do. And what I’ve been tinkering with on and off over the past few months is a story that I would’ve enjoyed as a young adult reader. It combines:

1. Something I read plenty of as a kid: science fiction/horror in the Lovecraft vein, particularly works like Notebook Found in a Deserted House; and,

2. Another thing that I could never quite find during those days: the story of someone like me, a gay teen growing up in tiny-town Mississippi.

And because I’m realistic about the grim prospects for a book like that, I’ve been posting it one chapter at a time on Movellas. If people read it, great. If they don’t, no loss. Either way, at least I don’t have to beg a publisher to book me on morning talk shows to discuss it.

If you’re interested, you can skim the first four chapters here. Or, if clicking isn’t your thing, I’ve posted chapter two below.

Also note: I’m not sold on the title, Birthmark, Or How My Grandmother Taught Me To Love Myself And Save The World. It’s a little funny, and it’s a little apt, but man, it’s a mouthful.

Also also note: It’s appropriate that I’m posting this story about grappling with gender/sexual identity today, on the Transgender Day of Remembrance. Learn more about that here.

* * * * *

When I was six, I turned to mama and told her flat-out, “I want to be a girl”. We were stuck at a stop light that had just turned red, but she kept her eyes focused on the road.

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Map: Same-Sex Marriage Laws Vs. Interracial Marriage Laws

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Ten Confessions

I am not a dancer, but when I see someone en pointe, I respond by flexing my foot.
I hate hearing other people complain, even when I agree with them.
I have no problem telling complete strangers to shut up when I’m watching movies or plays. I have a increasing urge to do this outside theaters, too. Eventually, this will land me in serious trouble.
When someone criticizes me, my first instinct is to laugh.
I have a high threshold for pain. During physicals, I like to pretend it’s even higher than it is, just to watch the expression on doctors’ faces.
Though I’m not Catholic, I cross myself and say a Hail Mary any time I see a dead animal on the street or the news or in a documentary. (By “animal”, I mean people, too.)
I also cross myself when I hear emergency vehicles: police cars, fire engines, ambulances, and helicopters. Especially helicopters.
For years after Hurricane Katrina, I was afraid of thunderstorms. I wasn’t afraid that I’d get hit by lightning or that the house would flood. I was afraid that our house would lose power for days.
When reheating and thawing things, I used to have an overwhelming compulsion to stop the microwave at 13 seconds. That’s no longer true, but I do have to stop it before it reaches zero, and I always stop it on a prime number.
When my hot tea gets cold, I dump the dregs into the nearest potted plant. The plants don’t mind, but it seems a little like cannibalism to me.

Join Us For Readings, Signings, And Cocktails (Of Course) To Celebrate The Launch Of Our New Book About French Quarter Bars

If you’re in New Orleans this weekend and you have some free time on Sunday afternoon, please join me and my friends Allison and Elizabeth at One Eyed Jacks to celebrate the launch of our new book, The French Quarter Drinking Companion!

I promise, it’ll be an entertaining, low-stakes event. We’ll have some hors d’oeuvres on hand (or Chex mix, whatever we can find), and of course, the bartenders will be ready to serve up anything you might need (and some things you probably don’t). We’ll read from the book a bit, and we’ll be signing copies, too, but there’s no pressure to buy — just stop in, grab a drink, and say “Hi”. If I know you, it’s probably been ages since we’ve seen each other. And if I don’t know you, well, there’s no time like the present, right?

That said, we are offering a complimentary Sazerac with every book purchase. So, there’s that.

Hope to see you there!

What: Launch party for our book, The French Quarter Drinking Companion

When: Sunday, September 29, from 2pm – 5pm

Where: One Eyed Jacks, 615 Toulouse (map)

How much: Free nibbles, cash bar

More details on the Facebooks.

My Friends And I Wrote A Guidebook For Drinking In New Orleans, And It’s Out Now!

I don’t usually spend much time here plugging my personal projects, but today, you’ll have to indulge me, because…

It’s finally here! The book that I’ve been working on the past two years has begun arriving in bookstores!

It’s called The French Quarter Drinking Companion, and it’s a guide to the Quarter’s 100 best bars.

My friends Allison, Elizabeth, and I wrote it because we were frustrated with most New Orleans travel guides. If you’ve ever read a guidebook for your own hometown, you know what I mean. You probably cringed at the glaring omissions, the over-simplifications, the gobs of utter crap that tourists were being fed.

In the case of New Orleans, the situation is about a bejillion times worse, because every visitor gets a different story of the city thanks to an off-kilter kaleidoscope of ghost tours and shopping tours and old home tours and — worst of all — mule buggy tours, which are like little Pilgrimages of Misinformation. In New Orleans, there are guidebooks about guidebooks about guidebooks, with errors piling up year after year. That kind of thing drives us crazy.

But what also drives us crazy is trying to explain the city’s nuances to everyone who swings through town. We tell visitors, “If you’re looking for a great cocktail, start here.” A few moments later, we add: “Unless Geraldo is working, in which case you should go to this other place.” And then: “But since it’s Wednesday, you should really avoid both of those and go to another bar three blocks over.” It never ends.

That doesn’t stop us from trying, of course, When travelers come to New Orleans — whether they’re family, friends, or complete strangers — we do our best to walk them through the city’s quirks and its unique cocktail culture. And every time, we fail. Miserably.

A couple of years ago, things go so bad that we decided to write a guidebook of our own — a different kind of guidebook. Instead of giving tipplers a fair-and-balanced list of every watering hole in town, instead of aiming for absolute, unbiased accuracy, we chose to profile our French Quarter favorites with 100 vignettes, anecdotes, snapshots. Sure, we’ve included the usual practical information: hours, prices, phone numbers, and so on. But the real focus of the book is the stories of our experiences at those bars.

Eight Years Ago, We Realized Something Was Wrong

When I went to bed on August 29, 2005, everything was okay. At least, news footage of New Orleans implied that everything was okay. There were no hints of lingering problems, other than lots of powerlines down, lots of shingles in the streets.

Jonno woke me up as he crawled under the sheets a bit later. He said: “The levees broke. New Orleans has flooded.”

And in my usual, nonchalant, Pollyanna way, I said something like, “Well, we can’t do anything about it tonight. We’ll take care of it in the morning.”

The next morning, eight years ago today, was the only time during the whole Katrina ordeal that I cried, hugging my friends who had taken us in, not knowing that they’d be hosting us for another seven weeks.

This is what I wrote:

I can’t tell you what it’s like to be in New Orleans right now. I can only tell you what it’s like to want to be there.

Obviously, I want to know that my house is okay. I’m not too worried about the things in it–we managed to secure most stuff before we left–I just want to know that it’s still standing. It’s a stupid psychological thing, but to me, if the house is still standing, there’s a possibility that things will return to normal at some point down the line.

I want to stop thinking about the minutiae of my daily life. I want to stop thinking about work, and the multiple jobs I had running at the print shop in Metairie–a print shop that is most likely underwater now–and how that’s going to affect my marketing plans for the year. I want to stop thinking about our theatre company and how our schedule is going to be seriously thrown off, and how we’re going to have to postpone the Facts of Life: “Carrie” project that we’ve been giggling about for years. I want to stop thinking about other things, other plans, other projects that will have to be cancelled, put off, or drastically re-envisioned. I want to stop thinking about paychecks and bills and all the practical things that I don’t usually think about–things that, thanks to direct deposit and online bill payments and other modern miracles, would normally manage themselves.

I want to stop watching the news. It’s deadening, and the broadcasters are prone to get things wrong. Yesterday, reporters kept talking about a levee break in the 9th Ward (my neighborhood), when, in fact, the break was in the Lower 9th Ward, which is further away and is separated from us by another system of levees. I guess the confusion is to be expected when you’ve got non-New Orleanians trying to make sense of our byzantine neighborhood naming systems–but that doesn’t make it any less unsettling.

Not least of all, I want to express my gratitude to our hosts. The mayor is saying that we won’t be able to get back to town for another week, and that utilities won’t be up and running for several more. I love spending time with Drew and Don, but I feel very, very uncomfortable imposing on them for that long. Hell, I wouldn’t feel right camping with my own family for that long. But Drew and Don have been nothing but accommodating.

And to CNN: would it kill you to do a flyby of the Faubourg Marigny? I mean, really, just one good pass up Royal Street…

Eight Years Ago Today

Eight years ago, I thought everything would be fine. I thought everything would go as planned.

It was not fine. It did not go as planned.

But it started out fine because I was clueless:

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, as you’ve likely surmised, the boyfriend and I have evacuated. (I mean, I may be nonchalant and glib when it comes to hurricanes, but I ain’t no dummy.) We’re with the Drew in Lafayette. We’ll be here ’till Tuesday morning at least–maybe a little longer, depending on how things go and when la Nagin et al decide to let us back in. Bottom line: we’re here, we’re safe, we’re comfortable, we’re among friends. Still, I wouldn’t object if you were to send some luck and love vibes our way. See y’all soon…

sturtle [dot] com

Author: Richard