If you are a regular or long-time reader of this little blog, you’ve probably figured out that I’m not exactly shy and quiet, nor am I particularly good at keeping my thoughts to myself.

(And why should I? Those thoughts are muuuuuuuuch too big to be contained in this cute little body!)


And if you’ve ever had this nagging suspicion that I just might be a walking megaphone, blurting my internal narrative to the world at large 24/7, gold star for you – you’re right. I mean, I keep a blog, right? That, right there, practically screams s-e-l-f-i-m-p-o-r-t-a-n-t.

Indeed, my track record would indicate that a life of quietude, reflection, and contemplation is simply not in the cards. Probably not ever.

There was that time in first grade when I told dear old Mrs. Faust (one of a score of teachers who retired after my year…coincidence?) that I wanted – nay, DEMANDED – a transfer because she was trying to make me do math.

Then there was that incident with the hateful third-grade Mrs. Lowry (also retiring!), who SLAPPED me for being a wee bit mouthy and telling her, in effect, that I wasn’t going to put up with her wrinkly old ass telling me what to do. (I know…imagine that)

And then there was the inter-school team-building/leadership retreat in the eighth grade when I got a stern admonition for alienating an entire visiting school team – and nearly causing a cultural i-n-c-i-d-e-n-t – when I frustratedly (and loudly, apparently) exclaimed to one and all that working with the shy students (who hailed from a tiny rural Y’upik eskimo village and were culturally more reserved than I was accustomed to) was akin to talking to a bunch of brick walls.

And so on. And on. Ad nauseum.

Factor in my propensity to loudly opine how fucking retarded/crazy/stupid/irritating/slow/cataclysmically tragic my fellow light rail riders (and restaurant servers…and grocery store cashiers…and students…and old people…and kids…and so on…and on…ad nauseum, etc.) are, my inability to slip quietly into the office without stopping to chat at least half a dozen times on my way back through the hall, and my affinity for hogging center stage at recruitment presentations…and my reputation as a t-a-l-k-a-t-i-v-e a-t-t-e-n-t-i-o-n w-h-o-r-e is pretty much sealed.

All of which renders what happened last night utterly incomprehensible.

You see, Dan Savage was on campus giving a lecture.

For those of you who might have been living under a rock the past twenty years or so, this is the Dan Savage of Savage Love sex advice columnist infamy.

This is the noble and good Dan Savage of It Gets Better (a generally awesome campaign that provides hope and inspiration for young baby gaylings, fledgling sapphists, and confused young queers), the generally in-your-face-yet-articulate sometimes-spokesman for the gay community who has, in the effusive words of one attendee last night, “done more for the cause of gay rights than anyone in the past twenty years.”

And, last but not least, this is the dimpled, muscly-armed, quirky-smiled and quick-witted man who has been my personal hero and idol for over five years and is the only man over forty who I would ever ever EVER fuck. That’s how awesome he is, folks.

In other words, this was the one occasion in which, I, He of Big Big Mouth, could be reasonably expected to run into overdrive like a hyper-caffeinated auctioneer, babbling something that – if slowed down – would sound something like this: “ohmygoddansavageIloveyouIloveyouIwanttobeyouwhenIgrowupcanIpickyourbrain


Instead of begging him to read my work and consider publishing an anthology with me, telling him his book on adopting a kid with his partner helped change my mind about ever possibly having kids, or even telling him how much I adored and worshiped him and how smart and witty and insightful he is and how much I totally remind myself of him……….I didn’t.

When The Man Himself made eye contact with me, worked his way through the crowd to take and sign my books, and asked who he should make them out to, all I could do was nod like an idiot. And there might have been drool involved.

Me. The giant overactive mouth stuck to two skinny legs. The verbal slayer of the wrong-headed and stupid, and champion of water-cooler gossip. The guy who never met a guy too hot to approach and talk to. The lover of all things center-of-attention.

Silent. Agog, even.

Not shy. Not intimidated. Not bashful. Just…silent, as if the sheer awesomeness of meeting him actually just plain broke my brain.

Luckily, Lee was there to step in and answer those suddenly-challenging questions (‘Hi, I’m Dan. What’s your name?), and I think I recovered my wits enough to not leave Mr. Savage thinking I was either chromosomally-challenged or a potential stalker. And he did leave us with his personal email address (‘not the one for all the whiners and hate mail’) and an invitation to check in with him and let him know how the wedding – which Lee thankfully remembered the date and location for – goes this August…so I guess all ended well.

But still. Me. Silent. The very thought of it renders me, well, speechless.

Horrors…may it never happen again.