It's maybe too early in the morning for a good cry, but if you're sitting in a private office or don't give a shit if people see you sobbing in your cubicle, or you just want to read a piece of beautiful writing about being the most lucky of mama's boys, here's what I've got: Dan Savage wrote an incredibly heartbreaking, amazingly honest column in tribute to his mom, who died on Monday.
I had this weird, long discussion about sexual politics with a pop singer last week, in which we debated at length the appropriateness (or not) of calling people "faggots," and that of course made me think of Dan Savage. I'm pretty sure his original advice column for The Stranger -- in which readers' letters all began, "Hey faggot," before asking for their kinky problems to be solved -- was the first place I consistently read that word in any kind of reclaimed, powerful context.
If I knew Dan well enough to send him condolences -- he pleads, "In lieu of flowers, please send pictures of your boyfriends' rear ends. (Lesbians may send flowers.)" -- the card with my bouquet of lilies would probably read, "Hey faggot, I'm so sorry for your loss. Please take as much time as you need." Instead I'll do what bloggers do in times of despair and link you all to his column. Then I'm going to go call my own mom to say thanks for being proud of the fact that I write gay jokes where everyone can read them.
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