How To Market Yourself, As Shown By Two Weeks Of Junk Email

July 16. Try to sound hard to get. Let people know that you're a fresh new face on the market.

July 17. Emphasize your positive attitude. Don't even think about the negatives: if haters want to figure out that all you're giving them is a fuckin' $2.80 an hour, let them. Others will see the chance to get your three shiny quarters and not realize they'd get a better return at McDonalds. Hang onto that optimistic outlook even if you don't offer anything better than folks could find in the cushions of their couch.

July 18. It's official: you're boring. Maybe get some blonde highlights.

July 23. Well, you did your best. Now it's time to hook the procrastinators. Let them know you're not going to be around forever. They gotta act fast because tomorrow they'll be fuckin' out of luck.

July 25. Hey, if you had any shame, you wouldn't have had twelve 30th birthday parties. Slap that "Going Out Of Business!" sign on your forehead and take advantage of clueless newbies for a year or two. Sure, half the neighborhood will be, like, "GO OUT OF GODDAMN BUSINESS ALREADY!" but there are going to be a few saps who don't know what's going on.

July 26. "GOING OUT OF BUSINESS: THIRD YEAR." Yeah, you're desperate, but who gives a fuck? Let all the losers talk about pride.

July 26. I SAID I'M NEW HERE! I AIN'T GOT NOTHING TO DO WITH THAT TIRED OLD BITCH WITH THE CHEAP HIGHLIGHTS WHO USED TO HANG AROUND HERE ALL THE TIME.

July 27. The bartender's turned off the music and turned on the lights, but who gives a fuck? Your optimism can stand tall against harsh reality. Maybe all the men with teeth have found other partners, but there are nicer parts on a man than his smile.

Dear Mayor Bloomberg:

You're an idiot! Get your hands off our 16-ounce sodas. We're adults. We don't need to be told what to do. We just need our food put into little tiny bags because otherwise we just can't stop ourselves.

Yours, RomanHans

Anthony Weiner's Health Care Sexts

Really, baby? Your wish is my command. Let's talk health care.

I can see you don't need vision care coverage because, honey, you are a vision.

This specialist is gonna send you completely out of network.

Don't think about what's out of pocket: concentrate on what's out of pants.

My single-payer health care plan covers outpatients too. If I slip out, baby, have some patience.

You prefer an HMO? That's fiiiine, baby. You give me a HM and I'll give you one motherfuckin' O.

Maybe I can't be your PCP, but I can be your PNS.

Nobody's gonna need COBRA with the snake I got right here.

I'll even give you a free periodic health exam.

Yeah, baby -- you're having your period.

I'm not a fan of The Great Gatsby. Not the book -- the title. I mean, a book's title is supposed to capture the reader's imagination while hinting at the vast possibilities of excitement or intrigue. What's F. Scott Fitzgerald given us? The. Adjective. Alliterative Name.

Wow. Brilliance. Great American Novel. I'm just sorry he died before he could write the sequels.

• The Groovy Gottfurcht
• The Winsome Woodcock
• The Territorial Trickle
• The Crackerjack Coutlangus
• The Waspish Wilcox
• The Methodical McCracken
• The Disobedient Dumfart
• The Theatergoing Titcombe
• The Five-Star Felcher
• The Celtic Cooter

Ya know, I was totally sympathetic up until the "1,000 insider points from Sephora" line. That means she spent $1,000 there. That's some kinda makeup. Chick doesn't need a man -- she needs a shovel.

As a young boy in 1820, Joseph Smith wanted to know which church was true. As he searched the Bible for help, he read that he should ask of God. Acting on this counsel, Joseph went into the woods near his home and prayed. Suddenly, a light shone above him and Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to him. When Joseph asked which church he should join, the Savior told him to join none of the churches then in existence because they were teaching incorrect doctrines. Through this experience and many others that followed, the Lord chose Joseph to be His prophet and to restore the gospel of Jesus Christ and His Church to the earth.

There are several billion reasons why I'm suspicious about God's miraculous appearance to average Joes, but one big one is this: whenever God talks to people, he always tells them to build a new church.

He told Moses to start one a couple thousand years ago. And Moses did. He started a big church. God spent lots of time with Moses, and even gave him stone tablets with all the rules. Evidently that didn't cover it. God decided they're "teaching incorrect doctrines," so rather than try to fix the thing he's asking another dude to give it a shot.

Honestly, why would he bother? If I hired random humans to paint my portrait and their first fifteen attempts looked like Pauly Shore eating sausage, I don't think I'd keep turning up at ateliers saying, "Hey, let's give it another go!" But God does. He keeps materializing in bedrooms everywhere, saying, "Build a new church!" until the entire world is wearing funny hats and there's Klingon weddings advertised on Craigslist.

If I did believe in God, I'd think he'd occasionally have a different message. He's allegedly everywhere and eternal: can't he pop up just once to say, "Man, I really dig that outfit!"? Hell, even Justin Bieber occasionally turns up in children's hospitals, and he's booked through 2093. God's calendar is pretty much empty except for that one day where he's pencilled "RAPTURE!!!"

But no, all these people are special. God wants them to start his one true church. All of them. Sorry, I don't buy it. It's like reincarnation: sorry, chicks: not everybody gets to be Cleopatra.

This same crazy specialness seems to prompt people to start new charities. Really, do we need more charities? There's actually a Make A Wish to Make A Wish Foundation for healthy people who just want go to Disney World. So why would idiots like Wyclef Jean start a new charity to help Haiti? What's his excuse: no hit-wonders get discount rates on Bactine? He doesn't want to deal with all those egotistical fuckers from the Red Cross?

And why the hell would football players start charities? It's like they're all standing in front of a mirror saying, "There are billions of charities around, and altruistic geniuses have failed attempting to start new ones, but nobody's gonna waylay this chunky ball-tosser's goodwill!"

So, I don't believe it. I don't believe God appeared, and I don't believe God told anybody to do anything. And I'll only reconsider after I read a newspaper article where a blinding ray of light illuminates some Mongolian shepherd and he hears a ghostly voice say, "Join the Catholics! Dude, they are totally doin' it right!"

Fine Art Monday

Art is so uplifting. It's what differentiates man from animal. It makes you think, and it appeals to your finer nature. That's why on Mondays I frequently feature fine art.

Today I offer Eugène Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People. It's not the painting I really wanted to post, but I couldn't find a GIF of Progress Continues Unabated, where the metaphorical protagonist's shorts fly up.

I spent the first half of this week in Philadelphia. I really love it there: it's the living embodiment of American history. Nearly every relic from our country's rocky road to freedom is on view there, from the Constitution to the Liberty Bell to Betsy Ross' house. The quaint streets and alleys are still illuminated with gas lamps and paved with the cobblestones that rang with the hooves of Paul Revere's horse.

At the Liberty Bell, a Ben Franklin lookalike wanders around, eager to explain historical events to curious bystanders. Wandering the streets, a Minuteman plays his flute, perhaps enjoying a few minutes of freedom before his unit is called back to the battlefield. At the Betsy Ross House, a young girl in a gingham dress and milkmaid's cap sews small, precise stitches into a flag. And in the train station, a withered old man exposes himself to anybody who'll look.

Now, I'm not the average tourist, but one of these glances back into history profoundly affected me.

I'm taking a leak in the men's room when this insanely old man comes in. He is ancient: his few strands of remaining hair are pure white, his skin is blotchy and mottled, and his face is a mass of wrinkled, saggy flesh. He shuffles over to the urinal next to me, his shirt held up by a skinny wire hanger of shoulders. He slowly pulls down his zipper, extracts his equipment, and starts playing with it.

I ignore him for probably a minute or so. I think, well, since this dude's sex life is clearly in the rear view mirror, he's just trying to wake that shit up so he can take a leak. But he keeps wrestling it, manhandling it, like he's trying to get the last squeeze of toothpaste out of the tube. And pretty soon his bits are at half-mast and pointed straight at me.

Suddenly it hits me. He's exposing himself to me.

Naturally I'm, like, Ohmigod! This crazy city thinks of everything. I mean, all the major cities are trying to attract the LGBT tourist, but hiring someone to represent an all-but-forgotten era in our history just goes above and beyond.

As I watch him try to wring life into his limp bits, I sigh with contentment. I feel like I'm actually there, looking through a window into the past. I'm seeing the exact same thing that a Minuteman might have seen a hundred years ago, if this old dude had thought he was hot.

I realize all tourists are different. Maybe that track-suited mom identifies with the flag-sewing Betsy. Maybe that dad in khakis feels a kinship with the down-to-earth Ben. But this is the man who opens the door for me. Back in our forefather's time, I probably wouldn't have joined the infantry, or learned how to play the flute, or sewed flags by candlelight. I wouldn't have played whist or danced the quadrille with the local girls until I found myself a wife and started a family. I'd have listened to Fibber McGee and Molly on the wireless, took my ration book to the butcher for a rasher of bacon, and -- it seems impossible to believe, since my broad shoulders and firm pecs get roughly 800 messages a day on Grindr -- I'd probably have hung around bathrooms exposing myself to anybody who'd look my way.

Suddenly the reality of that hard-fought history hits me, and tears well up in my eyes. My grandparents had always told me about how difficult their lives were, with death everywhere and food in short supply and blah blah blah. But now their stories hit home. Could this gay man spend half an hour comparing and contrasting photos of hotties before committing to one? With one touch of a button could he limit his possible sexual partners to thuggish dudes with eight inches or more?

I mean, where is the quality control? What if you're in the bathroom on the day all the hot dudes were busy? I shudder to think what kind of trolls our brave forefathers had to blow.

Anyway, I applaud Philadelphia for providing the perfect vacation destination for every historical-minded tourist. I think that's why I'll always return. No matter who you are, it's a window into your past, and it should never be forgotten. Heck, I'll probably never forget it, and not just because I've still got the taste of pee in my mouth.

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I've officially hit middle age.

When you're young, you can't even contemplate dying. It's unimaginable, it's impossible. Death can never, ever touch your life. There's so much fabulousness coming up for you, it should be literally impossible for anything to cut that short.

When you're middle-aged, though, that changes. You've seen it all. You've done it all. Now when you face the Grim Reaper you look at your calendar and see you have a DVD to get back to the library and a party at Adriana's on Saturday and you tell him, "Yeah, I guess that'll be okay."

Adding another straw to the camel's back is what I keep hearing about the future. There's good news and there's bad news.

The good news is, because of incredible medical breakthroughs, anybody who can manage to survive for the next twenty years should be able to live FOREVER. That's right! Leading scientists think that in twenty years we'll have the means to halt and even reverse aging, and then nanotechnology will augment our human flesh to make death a thing of the past.

The bad news is, the overuse of antibiotics has created new strains of nightmare bacteria that will infect our bodies and be impossible to kill.

Strangely, nobody seems to be correlating the humans will live forever thing with the antibiotic apocalypse. Because when you add them together you get a pretty interesting picture of the future.

You'll live forever and everybody will have syphilis.

Got that? Yes, you'll meet people who could be four hundred years old and they'll have syphilis. And you thought meeting new people was horrible now:

HOT GUY: Hey, good-looking! Are your lymph nodes swollen or are you just happy to see me?

YOU: Hey, muscles! My lymph nodes are swollen.

HOT GUY: I don't mean to be forward, but the spotting from your secondary rash really highlights your cheekbones.

YOU: Oooh, you sure know how to sweet talk a guy! Wait'll you see my warts.

So, what do you think now? Still want to live forever? I don't know about you, but this pretty much makes Adriana's summer soirées look like It's A Wonderful Life.

"Roman," you say, "I'm an optimist. I'm pretty sure there will still be some people somewhere who won't have syphilis."

Really? You are an optimist. But let's imagine what will happen after, say, 90% of the world gets syphilis. All the billionaires will have syphilis -- I know this is gross already, so don't picture Mayor Bloomberg here -- but they won't want to have sex with syphilitics. They'll want pure, clean flesh. And will those old Amish ladies be able to resist their cash when they've got eternity facing them and horses that need new shoes every year?

But yeah, maybe you'll get lucky and find a few people who have different bugs. Would tuberculosis make you feel better? At least you could have sex with them, though if I'm going to end up covered in white goop I'd rather it not come from somebody's lungs.

Either way, you're welcome to it. Enjoy the future! But count me out. I'm fine fading away, like grandma, with memories of non-syphilitic boyfriends in my head. Into each life of bliss and happiness occasional rain must fall. We console ourselves that we've enjoyed good times, and the bad times only highlight them. It's what I'll do when the Grim Reaper comes, and why I answer the phone when Adriana calls.

RuPaul's Drag Race winner Jinkx Monsoon came to town last night with a fabulous new cabaret show called The Vaudevillians. I loved Jinkx on RuPaul so naturally I had to be there. The show was hysterically funny, an absolutely perfect night out, marred only by a couple of drunk straight girls sitting at the table next to me. It seemed like they just had to show Jinkx how much they loved her by laughing too loud, clapping too hard, and WOO!ing just about every time she blinked.

In the show, Kitty Witless (Jinkx) and her husband Dr. Dan Von Dandy (some guy) are 1920's Vaudeville performers who, through an odd combination of glaciers and cocaine, find themselves frozen alive. When they thaw out nearly a century later, they discover that the songs they've written have been stolen by other performers -- like Brittney, Madonna, and Abba. They then treat us to the original versions, which are totally different from the version we know. Who'd have guessed, for instance, the "original" Piece of My Heart had a jaunty ragtime bounce?

Since the tunes were so different, the only way we could identify the songs were by the lyrics. It was almost a puzzle, I thought, as different parts of the crowd recognized songs at different times, bursting into laughter as enlightenment hit. "Hey, Mr DJ put a record on," Jinkx sang, and one of the straight girls cackled propulsively. "It's Madonna!" she chirped. "Music!"

I shot her an angry glare, but if those did any good my mailman wouldn't spend every afternoon pooping next to my head. With the second song she was even faster. Jinkx sang, "Baby, can’t you see I’m -- " and before Richard Dawson could kiss her she gave the answer. "Toxic, by Brittney Spears!" she said.

This was ridiculous, I thought. I didn't fork over my hard-earned money to listen to some idiot. "THIS IS NOT A CONTEST," I whispered loudly. "It's a cabaret show! You're disrespecting the performer by talking during her act."

The woman looked appropriately chastened, and she sat in silence for the next few minutes. Then Jinkx started singing, "Didn't I make you feel -- " and it hit me. A flood of enthusiasm and excitement overwhelmed me and I just had to share it. Before I could stop myself I said, "PIECE OF MY HEART! Janis Joplin!"

Some weird sixth sense told me the drunk girls were angry. I glanced over at them, and if looks could kill I'd be in Intensive Care. From then on, it was war. It was like Jeopardy! if Alex Trebek wore form-fitting, bugle-beaded gowns. As the first word exited Jinkx's lips, I wracked my brain to identify it, knowing that even a nanosecond's hesitation could mean the difference between glory and having heterosexual Red Zinfandel fans shove mud into my face. "25 years and my life is still trying to get up that great big hill -- "

"WHAT'S GOING ON!" I barked. "FOUR NON-BLONDES!"

I might have shot a haughty look at the drunk girls before glancing over to see if my date shared my excitement. It wasn't even close. "What's the opposite of a high-five?" he whispered.

Still, all the haters couldn't stop me from basking in glory. Now that I was on a roll, they shouldn't have been surprised when I also took the next song. Before Jinkx finished, "I come home in the morning light -- " I'd nailed it. Maybe I did that "Raise the roof" thing as I yelled, "GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN!"

A few people snickered. My date shook his head. "Roman," he said, "be quiet! You're kind of embarrassing me."

I can be honest too. "'Embarrassing'?" I repeated. "I'm not the one who needs fourteen lines to recognize Cyndi."

The drunk girls and I had our hands on invisible buzzers for the next round. I don't have any excuse: I think the adrenaline must have washed all the music out of my brain. Jinkx got all the way through, "If you change your mind, I'm the first in line," and I was still clueless. "TAKE A CHANCE ON ME!" one of the girls screamed. "ABBA!"

"SHUT ... UP," somebody bigger than us snapped, and we realized the game was over. I didn't even think about our game during the rest of the show, but I was pretty sure we tied.

When the lights finally went up, I felt like everybody was staring at me. I felt like such an idiot. How could I claim to be smart when any idiot could suck me into their game? It was probably even worse for me to act stupid, since I almost had a degree from a major university. I allegedly knew better. As we stepped outside, one of the drunk girls pulled up next to me.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"BRENDA LEE!" I yelled as everyone within eighty yards spun around. The drunk girl and my date and pretty much everyone stared at me but the winner takes it all.

Orson Card Scott has a problem. He's a homophobic Mormon board member of the National Organization for Marriage who said homosexuals "suffer from tragic genetic mixups," that gay sex should be illegal, and that homosexuals should be arrested to "send a clear message that those who flagrantly violate society's regulation of sexual behavior cannot be permitted to remain as acceptable, equal citizens within that society. He said if gay marriage is legalized, the government should be overthrown.

He's also the author of the forthcoming summer sci-fi blockbuster Ender's Game. Many gays are calling for a boycott due to his homophobia. Naturally, his point of view is, um, evolving.

"Ender’s Game is set more than a century in the future and has nothing to do with political issues that did not exist when the book was written in 1984. With the recent Supreme Court ruling, the gay marriage issue becomes moot. The Full Faith and Credit clause of the Constitution will, sooner or later, give legal force in every state to any marriage contract recognized by any other state. Now it will be interesting to see whether the victorious proponents of gay marriage will show tolerance toward those who disagreed with them when the issue was still in dispute." -- Orson Card Scott

Tolerance? Tolerance? After all the shit we've taken from him, now he wants us to just shut up and do nothing?

This is a patently stupid position for Mr. Scott to take. He's allegedly known for his historical fiction, so he should know history. With the words "victorious proponents," he obviously recognizes that the fight for gay rights has been a war, and that his side has lost. He should probably also recognize that when wars end, the bodies and the bullets on the smoke-filled battlefield usually aren't replaced with tailgate barbecues and Jäger shots. There's a reasonable amount of enmity still lingering in the air.

After the Civil War, I'm thinking the losers probably didn't approach the winners and say, "Well, it's over now, so I guess we'll head home! Catch you on the flip side!" And the winners probably didn't go, "Uh, dude, we killed all your horses, so how about we give you a ride?"

See, when a war ends, it resolves the dispute. It doesn't magically absolve the disputers of any blame.

Picture this. Orson Scott Card is a slaveowner. He overworks his slaves. He beats his slaves. He chains his slaves in the barnyard. He says God Himself gave the white man dominion over the black man, and he'll defend this right to the death.

And then one day Abraham Lincoln comes by and says, "All the slaves are free!"

The slaves can't believe their ears. After they rejoice, they turn to their old slave master with hate burning red in their eyes. "Congratulations!" he'll say. "You've won! Guess we can finally sit down and have that beer!"

After a war, the winners don't usually decide whether to focus on truly respecting the beliefs of the losers or rebuilding a bond of humanity that have broken. No, the choice has been whether to enslave the dudes or kill them.

OUR FIGHTING GAY ANCESTORS: So which are you going to do, me lad?

US: Neither! [Trumpets sound.] Henceforth comes the decree: Orson Scott Card shall be condemned to wearing ugly clothes and sprouting sad facial hair for the rest of his life. His children, and his children's children, will be thick as two planks. His future shall be sad and in a few short years he will become an ugly footnote in gay history.

OUR FIGHTING GAY ANCESTORS: [PAUSE] So you're just going to boycott the movie, then?

US: We don't like sci-fi anyway.

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My Life In A Luxury Apartment

My apartment is a trade-off. The building used to be a factory, so it's got huge wood pillars and exposed brick walls, but when it was converted into an apartment building it was scrubbed up and varnished and loaded with the best amenities -- like a roof deck, a bike room, and a fitness center.

The trade-off? My actual apartment is eighteen square feet. While in the rest of the world this is called a "closet," in New York it's what keeps your rent below $3,000 a month.

I rented the place for exactly one reason: the fitness center. In the gay world, muscles get you a nice apartment, not the other way around. At Boots & Saddles, for instance, nobody's going to pick you up because you have a sundeck. On Grindr nobody wants a picture of your master bath. Running to a bar while still pumped up is literally the gay retirement plan.

This fitness center isn't particularly large, which is why I'm doing crunches on a yoga mat directly in front of the bathroom. Before I'm halfway through, a blue figure appears from out of nowhere, steps over me, and closes the door behind him.

It takes a second to register. The Canadian Mounty hat, the shorts with black stripes down the legs. The mailman. Has pulled his little shorts down and is now pooping two feet away from me.

My mind freezes while my body continues to exercise out of habit. Usually I'm indecisive, but here I couldn't be clearer: I don't want to be two feet away from a pooping mailman.

I've started the bicycle-pedaling option when the noises start. You'd recognize them, I think, if you've ever seen that video where two men arm-wrestle until somebody's arm snaps. Suddenly I know how the Egyptians feel right before the Red Sea hits them. Must. Do. Something. FAST.

Despite the waves of internalized horror, my rational mind is still working, and suddenly it hits me: if I let the mailman know how thin the door is, he'll try to quiet down. "OOF!" I go, crunching again. "UNH!" With the unspoken message: you can hear me, which means I can hear you too. But somehow he doesn't get the message. If anything, he increases his efforts. It turns into a painful duet, like walruses mating or a scatological aria. It what Madame Butterfly would have sounded like if it had been set in Mexico.

I've moved on to bench pressing when the door finally opens. I shoot him a friendly look, to give him the chance to apologize. You know, maybe give me a "Sorry -- I guess I shouldn't have eaten that chili!" face. But he doesn't. He doesn't show the shame that a loud pooper should. I guess it makes sense: if he cared what people thought, he wouldn't be taking loud poops two feet away from them.

The next day I've barely laid down when that little blue figure materializes again. I can't believe my eyes, and my luck. I'm baffled. I think, What the fuck is wrong with him? I mean, really -- I don't want to sound blasphemous, but I'm pretty sure Jesus would have cried uncle if a pooping mailman had been his cross to bear. And what's up with his timing, turning up in the afternoon? Isn't pooping pretty much a morning thing?

He closes the door and I hear the shorts drop. I don't need any further prompting: my survival instincts take over and once again I turn into Steffi Graf. Every little movement prompts an anguished outburst. I move a leg: "UNG!" I squeeze my abs: "OOF!" The repeated gusts of air actually make my shorts rustle and my ears ring, but I don't give a damn. I don't care that I'm repeating something that didn't work in the past, which is pretty much the definition of psychotic. I do it anyway.

I grunt. I groan. I howl until Steffi Graf herself would tell me to shut the fuck up when another figure walks in. It's a guy who lives down the hall, dressed in workout clothes. I stop OOF!ing and he shoots me a look of relief. "Oh, thank God," he says in a voice loud enough to travel. "I thought you were the mailman."

There's More Than One Way To Skin A Cat.

Getting an electric mixer tangled in its fur works pretty darn quick. But I is what I is and I ain't gonna change.

Thoughts on the Gay Pride Parade, Take 2

I actually had a great time at the Gay Pride Parade. I got a free cupcake at the Betty Crocker booth, I got a free Choco Taco at a Good Humor truck, and I got a free bottle of Honest Tea. I don't think anybody scored like I did, unless they met a stranger and had sex.

Whenever I See a Couple of Midgets

I want to paint dots on their heads and pretend they're salt and pepper shakers. But I is what I is and I ain't gonna change.

Thoughts on Yesterday's Gay Pride Parade

I know it's not politically correct, but I have to say something about the Gay Pride Parade yesterday in Manhattan. At the risk of sounding out of touch, I just don't get it. I watched all eight hours of this auspicious event, and I didn't see a single example of true gay pride. What I saw was just an endless parade of indecency!

"Oh, Roman," you say, "you should be happy that all those people turned out to support the gay community." Support? You call that support? Because if you think these people are helping our cause, you're mistaken.

Picture this: A conservative Christian stumbles upon the parade, perhaps not hearing the endless media warnings that eight million half-naked homosexuals are going to shut down Fifth Avenue. They won't see that they're just like us: all they'll see is wigs and feathers and tutus and bare flesh. They'd look at these people and say, "What the hell is that?" just like if they'd seen a Kracken, or a kangaroo. They probably wouldn't touch us with a ten foot pole that says "GOD HATES FAGS" on the end.

Do you think they're suddenly going to vote pro-LGBT after seeing eight miles of big-titted creatures in skin-tight spandex? No! These aren't the kind of people who should be representing our community: they should be in a hetero club in the Meatpacking District drinking $18 martinis. Another stereotype is confirmed, and there goes a prime opportunity to educate one of our enemies, though fifty years of reason haven't worked.

Really, people -- is that what we want?

Let's look at a constructive alternative: celebrating something without actually celebrating. For instance, when I lived with my mom, I threw a Fourth of July party that was absolutely amazing. Everybody was respectfully dressed, and we didn't play any music or drink alcohol or light fireworks. Everybody had an incredible time before they suddenly remembered they had to be somewhere else.

I guarantee you, if any Christians had dropped by, they'd have said, "Wow, are these people really homosexual? Because they're just like me! God will surely take them to his bosom and say, 'Hey, my child, I will give you eternal life in heaven because your days on earth just sucked.'"

I'm an atheist so I don't believe in heaven, but I still see it as scoring major points when somebody who's seriously deluded thinks we're okay.

My main point, though, is this pride celebration was way premature. I personally think we won't have any reason to celebrate until we're equal, and we won't be truly equal until celebrations for gender, race, or sexual identity are completely unnecessary. Then, and only then, will I proudly stroll down Fifth Avenue. I won't have a sign and I won't high-five anyone but somehow I know people will see me and go, "Whoa, is that dude gay or what?"