Proposition Crazy 8

I am just going to say this once. I'm really, really tired of hearing about Proposition 8.

For those of you who do not live in California, or live in California under a large rock, Proposition 8 is a proposed amendment to the California Constitution that will, if passed, remove the rights of gay people to marry in this state. As much as I vehemently oppose such a notion, I almost have a hard time getting worked up about it, perhaps due to its sheer lunacy.

A few months ago, the California Supreme Court declared that denying gay people the right to marry is an outmoded form of discrimination, drawing an analogy to the now-absurd but once-held belief that it was somehow wrong for interracial couples to marry, and demanded that gays be afforded, gasp, equal rights. Yay. Well, here's where it gets fun. A group of concerned California citizens said to themselves, "Hey! No fair! I want to keep discriminating!" and they hatched a plan to amend the California constitution to allow said discrimination, operating under the logic "well, if I have such a strong desire to deny other people rights that don't harm me in any way, maybe at least fifty percent of the California electorate will agree!" And thus, Proposition 8 was born. California is truly a magical place, where we allow our citizens to demand that hate be etched into the very fabric of our legal system, trusting the good people of this great state to do the right thing. To hate or not to hate. Hmmm. God bless.

Gays began marrying here in the middle of June. Since then, the sky did rain blood a few days and there have been reports of infant males who reject their mothers' breasts for the opportunity to suck on nice fat cock instead. Homosexuality is rampant among our youth now, and as the fundamentalists feared, it leads directly to drug use, necrophilia, and an epidemic of jaywalkers. Church-goers fear for their safety, huddled in their places of worship, while lawless bands of leather clad queens linger outside smoking cigarettes and discussing Project Runway, menacingly. The very fabric of society has been shred and only Proposition 8 can save us.

Or... no. Just like in Massachusetts four years ago, nothing changed, except a great number of gay guys and women were allowed to have the happiest days of their lives, finally. Give it time, the proponents of Prop 8 say, ignoring, again, the example of Massachusetts. When polls revealed that maybe less than 50% of the voting population was as eager to engrave outright discrimination into the constitution, they started making stuff up to scare people. Mormons, world-renowned for their traditional marriage values, donated heaps of cash. People insisted they were doing all this "for the children," never quite answering the question: what are you so afraid the children will see? A man wearing a wedding ring nicer than Mommy's?

I served as the witness for the marriage of two of my friends in June. It was one of the most surprisingly magical moments for me in recent years, to witness, in a legal capacity, the official union of a couple who had been together for fourteen years, and I get angry when I think that there are people out there that would have denied me that experience, and more importantly, denied my friends the opportunity to symbolically and legally declare their union the same way heterosexual people do every minute of every day. Angry and cranky.

But you know what else makes me cranky? Being constantly hounded to contribute my time or money to the campaign to defeat this ridiculous and vile amendment, being constantly asked what I'm doing to prevent its passage. Here's the thing: I have no money. I suppose I could skip meals for a day and donate $9 to the campaign and I would feel better about myself after the psychotic low-blood-sugar crankiness subsided. Or I could volunteer at a phone bank even though I'm the guy who has panic attacks about the thought of talking to strangers on the phone. Or I could get one of those NO ON 8 posters to put in my window, even though my window faces... nowhere. Or I could just feel guilty because I'm not doing enough when there really is nothing I can do. Or I could write an angry essay about it, and well ... I guess I just did.