America, You Sexy Bitch (44 page)

Many of the others agree. They say that their Republican colleagues don’t care about their sexuality, that it’s other gays and Democrats who give them the most grief. Another guy acknowledges that DC may be an aberration. He says he was basically “driven out” of his hometown in Florida because of his sexuality, that nobody in politics “on either side of the aisle” would hire him after he came out. He’s wearing tight white denim pants, and when talking about the difficulties he had finding a job and says, “There are certain offices you walk in where you can just feel the flames coming off of people” I respond that, to be honest, I can feel the flames coming off him. It gets a laugh.

As liberal as I like to think my own industry is, one guy mentions that he was dating somebody in the media, a reporter for one of the networks, who could not come out because “in the media
world it’s not an asset.” This troubles me because he’s right. Hollywood has an image as the most socially liberal city in the world, but it’s true that when their money is threatened, as they fear it might be if big stars start coming out of the closet, they get a lot more conservative. Who are the huge gay movie stars? There are none. Everybody knows that the arts attract homosexuals in greater numbers than other professions, and yet when it comes to actors and actresses, the image is almost uniformly that of beautiful straight people. This just isn’t reality. In every other aspect of society, we have a word for beautiful men with perfect skin, amazing clothes, and an incredible figure. That word is “gay.”

The Log Cabin Republicans make their case to us: that they are conservatives first and gays second, that they are more interested in tax policy than marriage equality, that they can do more good working from the inside than the out. Their earnestness is compelling, but it also bums me out.

I’m sure it’s true when they tell me that, behind closed doors, the various congresspeople they work for support gay rights. I’m sure it’s true that they catch no grief about their sexuality in Washington, DC. But it’s also true that their party is known for being almost stridently anti-gay, a party in which nearly all of its presidential candidates favor
amending the Constitution
to prohibit gays and lesbians from marrying. This is a party that routinely equates homosexuality with deviant sexual behavior such as bestiality and incest. The party of small government and freedom wants to leave everybody alone until they decide who to love. Then they want to legislate.

Why?

Money. Like all things, it comes back to money. The Republican Party has so closely aligned itself with the religious Right and has become so dependent on their money and support that most Republican candidates cannot stray from evangelical orthodoxy if they want to get elected and stay in office. Perhaps they think, like all these sincere people sitting in front of me, that they can do more good by being inside than out, but I don’t believe it. The way they
can do the most good is by speaking up, even if it costs them votes. Even if it costs them their jobs. The status quo is definitely changing regarding gay-rights issues. Eventually gays will be able to marry in every state. Eventually we will wonder why there was ever a fuss about this to begin with. But the change is not occurring because of brave Republicans like these guys; it is happening
in spite
of Republicans.

So when I hear Ann Coulter (who once called John Edwards “a faggot”) telling GOProud, a conservative gay group that is rival to the Log Cabin Republicans, that “marriage isn’t a civil right—you’re not black,” I get angry. Because the issue of gay marriage, or gay rights in general,
is
a question of civil rights. In fact, it is the definition of civil rights: “the rights of citizens to political and social freedom and equality.” Incidentally, Ann Coulter is now serving on GOProud’s advisory council as “Honorary Chair.”

Self-loathing, anyone?

Back at Larry and Ellie’s, I keep thinking about the Log Cabin Republicans and the seeming futility of their organization. But the more I think about them, the more I realize something: yes, they are a small, largely ineffective group who spend their days running around trying to change an entrenched majority to their point of view, but isn’t that Washington as a whole? Isn’t that exactly the way our entire country works? A few people decide something’s a good idea, get together, and make it so. That’s America, from the Revolution on out. I’m not comparing the guy tonight in tight white denim pants to Sam Adams, but I do find myself feeling moderately better.

Every issue has its own Log Cabin Republicans, from our misguided “war on drugs” to American military intervention. There’s a group in Washington who spend all their time trying to move Election Day from Tuesday to the weekend. Everybody here has their own little passion. Even Meghan and me. After all, what have we been doing out on the road for the last month, if not that? Here we are, driving around in our own smelly log cabin, and we know
we’re not going to change anything by doing this. Yet here we are, trying. We’re our own tiny special-interest group.

One of the surprising things I discover about Washingtonians is their optimism. Everywhere else in the country, people we’ve met have berated Washington lethargy and partisanship. Here, though, people seem curiously upbeat. Even Joe Donoghue, despite his slumped shoulders, spoke to us about moments of possibility that still exist, moments when actual change occurs.

Change comes too slowly for most of us, but it comes. Depending on your point of view, it doesn’t always come for the better, but it comes. The fallacy of American thinking, I’m starting to suspect, is when people look to Washington to effect that change. Washington is a reactive city. The people here aren’t the ones banging pots and pans in the streets; when there’s a march here, it’s because people from outside came in.

The weird thing about Washington is how cynical it makes me feel about our government as a whole and yet how optimistic it makes me feel about the individuals within it. Dennis Kucinich and John McCain could not be more different, yet they both work here, doing the same job, both of them, I think, trying to make the best decisions for the people they were elected to represent. That’s not to say they don’t both also make political calculations for their own lesser good as opposed to the greater good, but isn’t that true of all of us? Don’t we all do that? The people here in Washington are no better or worse than Americans as a whole. And, as a whole, I’ve spent the past month interviewing Americans and finding them to be pretty good.

Yeah, our country’s screwed up. Yeah, we’re probably more divided than we’ve been in a long time. Yeah, there’s a lot to be worried about and a lot of reasons to be pessimistic. But we’re also resilient, and the people I’ve met here and everywhere else have surprised me with their knowledge and energy. People are engaged. That’s the main thing. If our government is ever going to get its shit together, we’ve got to have that above all else.

And we’ve got that.

It’s late when I finally get to sleep, my back rebelling against the loose springs on the pull-out couch. I’m tired and I can’t bear the thought of slipping into my filthy linen pants one last time. But in the morning, I will put them on and don my Crocs and get into the RV with my special-interest group. Tomorrow, finally, I’m going home.

 

 

 

Michael:
There might not be a worse drive in the United States than the I-95 Northeastern Corridor. Traffic is always horrible and the view sucks, particularly after you cross the Delaware Water Gap and inch your way up the New Jersey Turnpike. If I have anything positive to say about my home state it’s this: New Jersey has the most consistently excellent pizza of any state in the union. Here’s a startling, totally made-up fact: New Jersey has three pizzerias for every one resident!

Meghan has a political crush on Chris Christie, New Jersey’s blustery Republican governor. He’s a guy who prides himself on speaking his mind without hesitation, a guy unafraid to call bullshit, a guy whose demeanor would fit right in on
The Sopranos.
Honestly, I like Governor Christie too, and could see myself voting for him if I was still a New Jersey resident. But I am not because New Jersey is a sucky state.

(Governor Christie, if you are reading this, please don’t hit me.)

Over the years, I have probably eaten at every rest stop along the New Jersey Turnpike during various excursions to Atlantic City where I sometimes do charity work donating money to local casinos. New Jersey Turnpike rest stops are the only places in the world where Roy Rogers restaurants still exist, as if the highway is caught in some fast food time warp where Roy Rogers fried chicken and Mrs. Fields cookies are still considered
au courant
.

I would love to stop and eat some of that warmed-over chicken, but I’ve got to get home. I told Martha I’d be arriving sometime in
the early afternoon, but we got a late start and now the sun is beginning to set as we pass Newark airport, where United Airlines flight 93 took off from on September 11. Out our right window, at the mouth of the Hudson River, is the Statue of Liberty. Nestled into the tip of lower Manhattan, we can see the spiraling Freedom Tower growing from where the World Trade Center used to stand. Beyond that, Connecticut and home.

 

Meghan:
The final RV ride from Washington, DC, to Michael’s house in Redding, Connecticut, is an absolutely miserable experience. The RV has reached an utterly disgusting state: cluttered with dust, food crumbs, old magazines, trash, stained pillows, and Cousin John’s ass sweat. The toilet is almost completely broken, and the stench from inside its little cubicle has murked into the rest of the space. The air-conditioning has never worked properly, but on this final ride to Connecticut I think it’s completely dead. The pump from the generator makes an incredibly loud, annoying, buzzing noise and only serves to circulate the stagnant air to the back half of the RV.

I hate that stupid RV air-conditioning. Advertising that the RV came with working air-conditioning was a total lie and, as per usual, all of us are in a constant state of sweating through our clothes. Yeah, real glamorous and sexy. We have eaten our last few lunches on the road at gas stations and fast food restaurants, at a Subway if we were lucky. Pretzels and diet Dr Pepper if it was a longer day. I think it was finally really starting to wear on all of us. On the trek to Connecticut I feel bloated, sweaty, tired, and in desperate need of a healthy meal.

The only thing that hasn’t changed is the simple fact that I am still having a great time with Michael, Stephie, and Cousin John. By the time we left DC on our way to Connecticut, I knew so much about Stephie and Michael, and them about me, that they felt like old family members. It’s nice. It’s also a little weird because I’ve only known them for three weeks.

 

Michael:
We cross the George Washington Bridge and head up the I-95 into Connecticut. I scoot up to the front seat beside Cousin John for the final sixty miles or so. We chitchat as I give him directions. He’s going to hang out with us in Redding for a day, then take a few days to drive the RV all the way back to Austin. From there, he’ll fly home to Aspen, where he does not know what he’s going to do. Maybe go back to work at the hotel. Maybe drive tow trucks again.

Meghan has decided to move back to New York after a miserable year in Los Angeles. The city, and its men, didn’t suit her. She went to school in New York so she knows what she’s in for. Over the years so many of my friends have made the opposite journey: New York to LA. I’ll be glad to have a friend make the reverse migration.

The big New York apartment houses slowly shrink behind us, until they disappear altogether, replaced by single-family homes and trees. The road is wet; a big, quick storm has just blown through, and now it’s dark as we cross into Connecticut. I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve seen so much road over the past few weeks, but as we make our way north, nothing looks familiar, and it is occurring to me, as embarrassing as this is to admit, that I’m not actually sure how to get to my house.

Normally when I drive home from New York City I take a different route because, as I said, I-95 is the worst road in America. I try to play it cool as the exits feel increasingly foreign. Eventually I just pick one and direct John to make various rights and lefts in the hope that the road will eventually lead me someplace I recognize. It does not. After about forty minutes of aimless wandering, it’s pretty apparent to everyone that I am completely lost.

 

Meghan:
I wake up from a nap sometime in the early evening to the sound of Michael and Cousin John bickering. I have no idea where we were, but it doesn’t look like New Jersey or Connecticut, which it should have been by now. We seem to be swerving around and driving in circles. I sit up from my bench and see the concerned
look on Stephie’s face, which causes me to surmise that we are probably lost and the two Magellans in the front seat probably couldn’t find their way out of a theme park, let alone to Connecticut.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?” I ask, not at all surprised that Michael would not be able to find his own house with both hands. He looks back at me from the front seat, clearly embarrassed and annoyed.

“No!” he snaps.

I am already nervous about going to Michael’s house, and now I am stressed out that we are not going to make it at a reasonable hour and will proceed to piss off his entire family. I met Michael’s statuesque wife, Martha, before we went on our trip but have not actually spent any significant amount of time with her. I’m not really in the mood to make a bad second impression.

I am also worried that Michael’s kids will not like me. I have found from experience that I have very little in common with most children and don’t always interact well with them. I also know how much I used to hate it when random people would come home with my father. I equated them with taking his attention away from me. Home time was home time and I did not appreciate strangers invading it. I pretty much figure Michael’s children will have the same reaction to me.