Recently, I’ve been in the market to read more.  This may stem from the mourning of my academic past, but more likely speaks to my fear of being exposed as the owner of a vanity bookshelf.  You know the type—where Proust and Kafka reside in prominence but remain (secretly) unread. 

 Not interested so much in the classics, I’ve taken to the strategy of following the literary lead of my friends.  When I hear them reference something they recently read in a book, I try my best to remember the title until my next Amazon.com visit on company time.  Once I find that perfect balance of a great price and good condition—let us not forget the vanity bookshelf, after all—I place my faith in the taste of my inner circle and click “Buy Now.”  One would think that the current economic conditions would make the Chicago Public Library a more appealing route to reading, but there’s just something about owning a book…or, I simply have a spending problem, but that’s for Suze Orman to decide.  

I now have three books that I’ve obtained in this manner.  The first was a book titled ‘Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind,’ recommended by a great friend with whom I grew up with and lived with for a year in college.  He’s the peace-seeking, mountain-loving type, now living amongst the Wyoming wilderness.  I’m about a third of the way through the book. 

The second book was the product of a date I went on.  My date and I were discussing our similar experiences working as freelancers and the difficulty in settling into a singular profession.  His recommendation was ‘Refuse to Choose:  A Revolutionary Program for Doing Everything That You Love.’  From the moment my Amazon search returned the culprit, I’ve been self conscious about reading a book with such a title.  The book—much like the romantic interest that spurred its purchase—has been shelved.

Last, but so far from least was ‘The Velvet Rage: Overcoming the Pain of Growing Up Gay in a Straight Man’s World.’  Quite a title, I know.  Ironically, this bright pink-sleeved, PhD-authored book was the recommendation of my most straight-thinking, jock-like gay friend…a psychologist’s dream from the onset.  At the risk of over-prioritizing my sexuality, I have to admit that I cannot put this book down!  Combination three years of therapy and a psychological profile of nearly every gay I know, it’s like ‘The Secret’ for homos.  Speaking of gay rage, I am even contemplating buying extra copies to distribute to those in need, with ex-boyfriends receiving special editions in which I highlight passages that I find particularly relevant to them.  Brilliant, right?

 While it is now obvious that my post-academic entrée into the world of reading for reading’s sake took on a thematic sequence, it was not until I saw the three spines stacked on my dresser one morning that the truth was revealed first-hand.

“Holy shit.  I’m 27 and own three self-help books.” 

Doing my best to remain calm, I began to question how this came to be.  Why these types of books and why now?  As much as I would love to blame them on their recommenders, I was the one who pulled the “Buy Now” trigger in the end.  I’m rather evolved (or so I like to think), but am I in need of help?

 A few days of contemplating a book-burning and envisioning myself as the overweight, sad-eyed man eating pepperoni pizza flavored Combos while flipping through self-help books in a back corner of Borders led me to realize something.  Maybe I’m taking cues from Obama here, but acknowledging your imperfections is in vogue.  Wanting to understand yourself and others is mature.  Using this information to belittle ex-boyfriends is normal.  Phew. 

 As nice as delusions of my own infallibility are, they won’t get me want I really want.  Don’t get me wrong—I put about as much weight into these books as I do my daily horoscope.  However, it never hurts to listen to someone else’s take on the world.  That’s why I’m writing this, after all. 

 So, the next time you’re in my apartment and see a potpourri of self-help oriented titles scattered amidst my vanity bookshelf, take it easy with the criticism.  If you want to judge my literary acquisitions, go h*lp yourself.

Unfortunate for Miss California USA, who staunchly supported what she has coined “opposite marriage” (a.k.a. heterosexual wedlock) in her Miss USA Pageant Q&A response, there is undoubtedly a shift underway in the fight for marriage equality.  Thank you Iowa and Vermont.

 [As a side note, I remain dumbfounded as to why beauty pageants venture down substantive terrain with the Q&A portion of the competition.  The day that Secretary of State Hills calls the reigning Miss USA for her take on handling Iran’s nuclear activity is the day I join the G.O.P. …as if they’d have me.]

 While there are many—myself included—who argue that the legalization of same-sex marriage is a civil right, it is also an enormous privilege.  It’s a privilege to be the first generation for which this wrong is being righted.  Our privileged timing comes with responsibility, however.   

 The responsibility to promote stable, long-term committed relationships?

Yes.

The responsibility to prove that love-filled alternative family structures are, indeed, healthy? 

Of course.

The responsibility to make obsolete the misery that is the conventional, heterosexual wedding? 

You bet your Sex in the City complete box set!

 Let’s not kid ourselves.  We’ve all been there:  A suburban banquet hall, the helplessness of table assignments, and buffet lines.  Cheap booze and rented tuxedos.  That “ev-ry-bod-y clap your hands” song, for Christ’s sake.  

 I‘ll say it so that you don’t have to:  Weddings suck. 

 I dread celebrating a marriage from the moment the invitation arrives.  There’s no worse way to spend a Saturday in my opinion.  And this could not have less to do with current widespread injustices regarding “I dos” and sexual orientation.  I don’t discriminate in my distaste for weddings…they’re all pretty wretched in my book.

 With same-sex civil rights on the very near horizon, we (gays) cannot under-value the opportunities we will encounter in the months and years to come.  Specifically, we have an obligation—albeit an exciting one—to define the appearance of our weddings.  Our path to the proverbial altar has not mimicked that of our heterosexual brothers and sisters, so why should our ceremonies?  And certainly not our receptions!  (If only the inventor of the chocolate fountain realized what s/he would do to the history of wedding planning…tragic, I tell you.)

 So this is it, gays.  This is our call to action. 

 Our predecessors fought long and hard for us to reach such milestones and we owe them one hell of a party.  While it’s easy to say what the gay wedding should not be, it’s not so easy to define its appearance.  The pressure is on, no doubt, as our people have a reputation as entertainers. (Then again, we carry the connotation of being a well-dressed bunch, an idea I’m made wary of on a daily basis.) 

 Whatever image gay knot-tying takes on, we should ensure that it adheres to one simple rule:  No cookie cutter weddings.  After all, if most gays avoid eating cookies, why should they try to fit into their mold?