BECAUSE I SAID SO

I have a good friend. Let's call him “Ed,” on account of that's his name. Ed is a damn good friend of mine. He's such a good friend that he once drove me to the mental hospital and didn't tell anyone. Now he can tell everyone if he likes since I just beat him to it. Anyway, in addition to being my friend, Ed is also a heck of a bartender who often vends me liquor and that's an easy way to influence my opinion of someone, like Ed.

Now, there being no reason for politically correct inanity among friends like Ed and me, I'll just come right out and say it: Ed's a fag.

Simmer down. I know I'm not supposed to write “fag.” Well, I just did and it was about my bosom pal, Ed (a fag), and it didn't hurt a soul. Still, I'll probably hear from some of you. By way of preemption, I will tell you what I have always told people who don't like the words I use: They're words. They don't hurt. Know what else doesn't hurt? What other full-grown people do with their privates in privacy (although some of it would probably hurt me a ton, at least the first time). But that's their business. It doesn't matter one bit if Ed's gay; he's my friend. He's also an important part of my community and my personal life. About his sex life I couldn't care less. It doesn't affect me or anyone else one way or another.

Moving on, the other day Ed and his friend/partner/roommate/other person (let's figure out a term for that this year, please) decided to do a little something for themselves.

Some of you might recall that on Sept. 19, 2003, then-Gov. Gray Davis signed into law the Domestic Partners Rights and Responsibilities Act (AB 205) that grants to same-sex couples most of the rights and privileges (but certainly not all of them) theretofore restricted to married men and women in this state. You go, Gray! Three years thence, Ed and his “special friend” went down to get themselves one of those licenses to make them just second- and no longer third-class citizens in this state that purports to be the very paragon of progressivism.

Here's what happened: Ed, as I said, slings booze. Although he's getting by just fine, he's living not too fatly off the hog. It's not like he sells crack or something. But he does enjoy the one benefit that comes with booze-slinging: He's mostly cash-and-carry. Sure he gets a check every week, but it's for chump change. The majority of his trade is plied in legal tender-and one would think to one's self, That's cool, but it isn't always so cool. Take this case for instance:

Ed and his buddy loaded themselves into their big lavender Suburban (that's a joke) and drove down to the building housing whatever ridiculous office it is that issues permission to devoted grown adults to be treated like other grown adults. It was an impulse thing. I wasn't invited and that's OK. We're not talking Charles and Di here-we're talking Ed and someone I've not had the pleasure of meeting. Whatever. I'll get over it. But I'm taking back the gift certificate to Crate and Barrel.

In they strode just happy as you please, all set to tie the knot, and no sooner had they done so than they strode back outward as unwed as before they strode in the first place. (My New Year's resolution was to find a way to use the past tense of “stride” thrice in one sentence.) You see, for the sake of obtaining a domestic-partnership thingamajig in California, your greenbacks are worth precisely squat. That's right-the government of this state will not accept U.S. currency. Neither will it take plastic. Ed was told to hie himself homeward and fetch his checkbook.

Upon hearing Ed's tale, I concluded two things: 1) The older I get, the less sense the world makes, and 2) our state really is a lot smarter than the other 49. Not only does our be-crutched governor get played onstage to Aaron Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man at his swearing in, we also don't trust the U.S. government's promise to pay anything. In California, Ed's signature is worth more than a fist full of dollars, as it should be. I would sure as heck rather have Ed's checkbook than a bunch of cash. After all, Ed's more stable than the Treasury Department. But it still makes no sense to me that one cannot transact official government business with government currency.

But maybe I need to concede that the California Department of Alternative Lifestyle Licensure is just way ahead of me. Maybe I need to overcome my anachronistic curmudgeonliness and embrace the truth of a new day and age. Maybe I should accept that a government's promise ain't worth the paper it's printed on, but Ed's promise is. I'm going to be 41 tomorrow. It's high-time I get a grip on the world, and by god, I'm ready to start gripping.

From today forward I will not carry any money of any sort to buy anything, anywhere. I will carry little slips of paper with Ed's account number instead. And that's just the half of it. I will never again go to a store. If I want something, I'll go online and charge it to Ed. When it comes time to underpay my rightful income taxes in April, I'm sending in a stack of Ed's checks. And when my landlord comes knocking because my rent check bounced, I'll give him Ed's phone number. They can straighten things out between themselves.

I feel better already. Letting go of my connection to the federal government is just the relief I need as I soldier forth into my 42nd year of life. Ed's a much lighter load to lug around than a whole big government institution. In Ed I trust and E Pluribus Edum.