Photo by Camilo, taken Dec 30, 2003

Okay, I'm not quite getting married yet. But I have to say Gavin Newsome, that fine mayor of the city I'm proud to call home, has become my hero. I don't fully understand his motives, and, as a cynic, I have trouble believing he did it out of conviction, but his practical backing of gay marriage has really catapulted this issue to prominence. What makes it funnier is that Newsome was the right wing candidate for mayor. Or at least right wing compared to the screaming, quasi-socialist liberals who ran against him in the last election.

I've seen much discussion of gay marriage on the news channels (for reasons I'll go into in a minute, I've watched a lot of television the last few days), and when they air the views of the right wing "defenders of marriage" I find myself not getting in the least bit hot under the collar. Instead, I find myself laughing at them, because they're so obviously battling a losing cause. I don't care that 65% of the country still opposes gay marriage. The dam is broken. People will see that gay marriage does nobody any harm, and it will become a movement that's unstoppable. Now I just have to find somebody to marry.

Not that I was likely to find somebody to marry at the Roxy on Saturday night. I went there with Chris and his Argentinian friend Fernandez, and was soon, predictably, stripped of my shirt, and (less predictably) dancing on a podium. Now, as a formely acutely self-conscious six-foot-sixer, I've never been one to voluntarily draw attention to myself. But Chris, who loves to dance on the stage, propelled me up there, and I figured what the heck. It was only today, at work, when I saw myself in the mirror in the elevator - a man getting into his middle age - that I thought myself, oh gosh, what was I doing.

Anyway, I had a fun time at the Roxy. I met, as seems usual these days, yet another gorgeous guy with whom I danced closely - this time a foxy, lithe African-American, and made out in the love den behind the dancefloor. And I never even learned his name. I didn't go home with him, however. He finally admitted to me that he had a boyfriend, with whom he didn't have an agreement about having sex outside the relationship, and I decided to not let sleeping dogs lie with me. So I went home alone, and promptly threw up all night long. All Sunday long I lay in my hotel bed either snoozing, groaning, or watching bad television, in between running to the bathroom to let loose from one orifice or another. It must have been my meal with Chris and Fernandez at a Thai restaurant in Chelsea.