See you tonight, Stevie

Tonight I will be seeing Stevie Nicks perform with her backup band, Fleetwood Mac, at the Mohegan Sun Casino in Connecticut.

This will mark the third time that I've had the pleasure of seeing the rock temptress in concert. The first time was on my 30th birthday.My then-girlfriend Patti grudgingly bought the tickets as a gift, and I dragged her along mostly against her will. Upon arriving, she took one look at the other audience members and declared, "This looks like a Harley convention at a trailer park." I always thought the reason we broke up was because we were double-homo and much better off as friends, but maybe it was because of that comment.

The second time I saw Stevie was also on my birthday, two years ago with my friend Buddy. I had come down with a nasty case of bronchitis for the second time in three months. (I was sick because I was out trawling for skanks with Buddy in the bars of West Hollywood every night back then, and my delicate constitution was not made for such shenanigans.But that's another story.) Buddy's sister got us great tickets at the Santa Maria State Fair (is that a contradiction in terms?) and we were happy to make the two and a half hour drive to see the show.

I was running a fever and taking labored, wheezing breaths, but I really wanted to be in top form on this important night. So I doubled up on my antibiotics and took some Sudafed for good measure. As we pulled out of town, I remembered that Mucinex had once worked wonders for deglazing my gooey lungs, so I took some of that too.

It was a Bad Idea. Soon after, I realized that I was being delivered to Santa Maria via a Magic Carpet Ride. By the time we got there, I was in a low-grade state of delirium.

Someone (thankfully not me) drove us to the fairgrounds and we followed the intermingled scents of grease and hope through the main gates. We arrived just in time to hear Joan Jett say, "Goodnight, Santa Maria!" on a smaller stage, so we just kept walking toward the main arena for the Stevie concert. By "main arena," I mean "bullpen." Rows and rows of folding chairs were set up in a patch of soil that had just been the site of steer-roping. I didn't care that our amphitheater had likely been constructed by rodeo clowns, I was in heaven (or another nearby planet).

From what I remember, the show started on time, Stevie looked and sounded great, and even had rare photos of herself, her friends and family flashing on the screen behind her as she sang. I'm pretty sure that I took some pictures, but I'll never know for sure because I lost my camera somewhere in the dirt that night. Whoever found it was treated to some blurry shots of Stevie and some photos of me and Buddy that would indicate that we probably should have had a chauffeur that day for the ride up the coast.

So I get to see Stevie for a third time tonight because my wife loves me. Really loves me. (Stevie's music? Not so much) And, as fate would have it, I'm sick again. I'm working from bed at my in-laws' home, trying to rest a little before heading over to the casino for the show tonight. This time, I'm staying away from the Mucinex and I won't be the one carrying the camera.

My favorite picture of Stevie

In preparation for the event, here are my top 6 reasons for loving Stevie Nicks:

1.) Her tambourine skills.

2.) 40+ years of bangs.

3.) Lyrically, her songs usually make no sense but somehow they still work. That is impressive.

4.) She has made an entire career out of writing songs in minor keys.

5.) Women are rarely allowed to achieve the status of "Rock Legend" but Stevie has done it. Ditto Ann and Nancy Wilson (see you at the Greek Theatre in October, ladies!)

6.) She helped me come out.

After Princess Diana (I know), after Jessica Lange, Stevie was one of my first female crushes and therefore a stepping stone to me becoming a big lesbian.

And I am not alone. I don't know why so many lesbians love Stevie. Maybe it's because she's so over-the-top girly with her chiffon shawls and skirts (I was very upset when I saw wearing pants in the video for "Bootylicious"), or because she sang love songs that were pronoun-free (or named after women, e.g. "Sara"), or maybe because she often shared a single microphone with her back-up singers when she didn't have to (like in her Solid Gold performance of "Nighbird" in 1983, when her face was so close to that of her back-up singer that I thought they were going to start making out mid-song. Alas, they did not--which is probably for the best, as it turns out they were sisters-in-law at the time.)

For whatever reason, I love Stevie in a completely un-ironic, snark-free way that is immune to sarcasm. And I can't wait to see her tonight!

Frivolous Purchase of the Week: Outdated Celebrity Statues from The Hollywood Wax Museum

Today, I read that The Hollywood Wax Museum is auctioning off more than 200 wax figures, props and original costumes. I'll be headed over that way tonight when I go see State of Play (despite, not because of, Russell Crowe), and it's going to take every fiber of self-control that I can muster (which is less than you will find in a bowl of Shredded Wheat) not to run over and purchase a lifesize, waxy statue of The Fonz. And Laverne. And Shirley.

Once there, I don't think I would have the will to walk away from Hee Haw's Minnie Pearl (who, without her famous straw hat, looks more like Don Knotts in drag).

As I scrolled through the list of auction items, I couldn't help but think of my friends and family, and how much all of them needed these wax figures in their homes too.

If money were no object, I would purchase the following:

Sonny Crockett, for my mother (she always liked how Don Johnson tongued his cigarettes on Miami Vice):

John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, for Buddy:

Dolly Parton, for Patti (Doesn't Dolly look like Candy Spelling here, and isn't it disturbing to see royalty going barefoot?)

Zombie Michael Jackson from the "Thriller" video for Stacie:

Mr. T for my brother, Frank (when he was a kid, he wanted to be Mr. T)

Jodie Foster in Maverick for Nancylee and Paige (because they need more Western-themed shit at their house)

Also available on the auction block are statues of Ann Margaret (looking more like Laura Linney after falling into a bottle of Nice 'N Easy Medium Mousey Brown), a whole slew of U.S. presidents, athletes, and a bunch of religious crap.

There's also a really butch-looking version of Princess Diana. I would get that one for my wife, though I don't think I'd leave her alone with it.

Sagittarius For a Week

I'm conducting a new experiment that begins tonight. It's called "Being a Sagittarius For a Week."

I have always had Sag best friends who know how to have fun, chill the fuck out, and take life with a come-what-may attitude. I envy and admire them for these qualities.

So I decided over dinner (and 2 margaritas) that I need to try to take the Sag approach to life. I suspect that this will be a short-term experiment, as I am too uptight and outcome-oriented to carry on this charade (pronounced Sha-Rahd) for very long. A week seems do-able though.

So here's a tip of my hat to all of the freewheeling Sag's whose bad attitudes I admire: Buddy, Liz, Double D, Lance, Paige, my grandmother Strickie, Keith Richards, Tina Turner, Bruce Lee, Jimi Hendrix, Billy Idol, Flip Wilson, Ellen Burstyn, Gregg Allman, Jim Morrison, Christina Aguilera, Milla Jovovich, Little Richard, Sinead O'Connor, Anna Nicole Smith, Billy Strayhorn and Marisa Tomei.

Bottoms up, bitches!

Are You A Yes-er?

That's the question I'm going to use to open all of my conversations with people who want my money. People who voted "Yes" on Prop 8, aren't entitled to my money, or my time.

It's crazy to think that something like this would even come up in any kind of business discussion, but it did for me today when I called a broker to help me deal with my now worthless condo.

Like lots of other people who got screwed by George W. Bush over the last eight years, I'm in a pretty bad spot as a homeowner. I am trying to figure out how to make my situation better, and I called a broker who was recommended by a friend (a fellow lezzie) whose situation is similar to mine. She said his firm had been very helpful to her and she felt she was in good hands.

I got my first hint that he might not be the right broker for me when I asked him how he was doing. You know, the polite conversation opener that's really a rhetorical question. He cheerily told me that he was doing great because he walks with The Lord.

That wasn't the answer I was expecting. And, actually, I thought he was kidding. But when it became clear that he wasn't, I just said, "Well good for you!" and continued our conversation.

Personally, I dislike all organized religions equally for numerous reasons. But I could care less about whether or not others are practitioners of those religions. Plus, there is so much else for two people about to do business with one another to talk about, why would we ever need to discuss something as personal, and irrelevant, as spiritual beliefs?

The guy, let's call him Troy, had a lot of good information about my options in dealing with my home. He was very knowledgeable and very encouraging that I could indeed find a solution and that it was all going to be okay.

Unfortunately, he had to constantly pepper our conversation about property values and loan modifications with references to his faith. At one point, he told me that God was his employer and that in helping me with my complicated situation, I could count on him to do the right thing because he was good Christian and because we would work within the law, and that our law came from God's law—which meant we'd all be safe and sound.

I ignored my urge to launch into a tirade about the separation of church and state and kept throwing questions at him about my home, my loan, my financial future—you know, the stuff I called him to talk about. The stuff it's his job to tell me about.

When he wasn't talking about his "Lord" and he was sticking to business, he was giving me the first glimmer of hope I've had in 6 months, so I was kind of invested in keeping our conversation going. As we began to wrap things up, he told me not to worry, that it was all going to work out and he was going to help me out every step of the way. Even though he didn't "morally" agree with my "lifestyle."

You'd think I would have seen that coming, wouldn't you?

But I hadn't. It stopped me cold. I interrupted whatever he said next and asked him how he expected me to do business with someone who was against me and my family. He was shocked. Oh no, no, no! He wasn't against me, I hadn't heard him right at all! He told me that he had many gay friends who he loved and cared for, and that he loved me too! His morality issue was between him and his God, because he knew what God's law intended.

He said as a Christian it would be wrong for him to judge me or anyone. He assured me that his religious beliefs had nothing to do whatsoever with his concern for me and my well-being or his desire to help me deal with my financial predicament.

I asked him why he had felt the need to make the comment to me in the first place. If his "moral opposition" to me had no bearing on our work together, why had he said it? Why not keep it to himself and be non-judgmental of me in the privacy of his own mind? I asked him if he said because he thought he could get me to change my evil homo ways by voicing his disapproval.

He said he just wanted to be honest, so that I would know who he is so that we can be open while doing business together. He added that he had made the comment to assure me that he wasn't one of those "bigoted" Christians. (Presumably, he's the "love the sinner, hate the sin" kind. As if the two aren't exactly the same.)

I told him that what he just said made no sense to me at all. I told him that what I was dealing with in terms of my home was stressful enough, I didn't need to be treated like a second-class citizen on top of it. I told him I didn't want to deal with people who had a problem with me, or who would think they had a right to control whether or not I could get married.

He said he totally understood, and that he knew I would understand where he was coming from as I got to know him better—which, by that time, was presuming a lot. He said he knew in his heart that I believed him, that he meant me no harm or judgment or pain.

And he was right about that. I know that in his warped mind, he really didn't mean any harm, really didn't think he was judging me, really did think he loved his gay friends and me. His sincerity was real, he really believed what he was saying.

But that didn't make it true.

I'll never do business with him, but not because I'm hurt by his "moral" opposition to my lifestyle" He's dealing with the wrong homo in that department. I have been disinterested in and unmoved by religious bigotry my entire life. When I was on the social awareness circuit in college—you know, when the gay club comes to your sociology class to field the dumb straight kids' questions about anal sex—if anyone ever tried to argue scripture with me I would just say, "Oh, but I don't care." And I don't. I never have, I never will. I think the greatest gift my family gave me was not ever forcing religion down my throat. They let me figure it out for myself—and it could have easily gone the other way, as I grew up in Southern Baptist territory.

So psychologically, I am immune to religious bullshit. I want my civil rights. Other people can hold out for approval from their god or their congregation, but I'm not interested. I only care about religion when it gets mixed up with my government. The separation of church and state is the answer to many of the world's ills. Maybe now that the fundamentalist Christian crazy president is being replaced by an actual lawmaker, that separation may once again be upheld.

In the meantime, I know it's not just the Troy's of the world that are a problem. Not everyone is homophobic because of religion. Some people are just assholes. Or stupid. Or self-hating closet-cases who are all pinched up because they've had nothing but shitty sex their whole "normal" lives.

So whether or not their brain-washed or repressed or jerks or dumbasses, homophobic people aren't getting my money. When I used to work at a gay bookstore, we sold a self-inking stamp that could be used to emblazon the words "GAY MONEY" on that $20 bill in your wallet, or the check you wrote to the electric company, or that donation you made to the Red Cross. I always liked that idea, of marking our funds, showing our participation in the economy and in the culture in the most obvious way possible. In fact, if I still had one of those things I would use it on my income tax paperwork this year.

Troy would have been happy to take my GAY MONEY, even if we wasn't happy with my gay "lifestyle."

It's like when I'm driving in on the freeway and someone with a religious, anti-gay bumper sticker wants me to let them merge into my lane and enter the flow of traffic. I speed up and box them out, I say (aloud), "Ask God to let you in!" and then I flip them off.

Similarly, I'm not letting Troy enter the cash-flow of my life. He obviously doesn't need my money, because his Lord is taking care of him.

I'm off to find a new broker, one who is interested in talking about business. But this time, before I bother to ask them how they're day is going, I'm going to ask them if they voted Yes on 8.