Savage Inspiration If there is one person who can say the wrong thing at the wrong time, I most certainly will do it. And if given one chance, I most certainly will blow it. The latter is why the grade school basketball league was such a horror for me. I almost never got the ball. I know why, too. By the time I figured out which court I was supposed to be in, John (the jock) was shooting for the basket, while I was still playing defense and swiping annoying beads of sweat from my eyes. Our coach never articulated it, though. Instead, he said I was a "hustler"-always in the right court before everyone else. Who was he fooling? I never left the court. I've come to learn over the years, if I'm going to win, I need to prepare. Arrive early and prepare. So when I heard my literary hero and inspiration Dan Savage was coming to town to read from his book, "The Kid", I blocked out my calendar from four in the afternoon on. I was going to have one opportunity--just a moment--to connect with him. To touch him. To feel like I'm part of some bigger communal understanding. Leave it to me to blow it. Just like the shot from the foul line with the score tied and seven seconds on the clock, I didn't even brush the net with the ball. Dan Savage is only the greatest writer of my, well, I don't even know if he's part of my generation. He's got the looks of a 28-year-old, but the wisdom of a 60-year-old, a keen eye, and wonderful sense of what makes people tick. It all comes through in his sex advice column, "Savage Love", which is syndicated in over 50 newspapers; his book of compilations of the best columns by the same title; his monthly column in OUT magazine; and anything else that he writes. His thought process is wicked: claiming to lick door knobs in the campaign headquarters of ultra-conservative presidential candidate Gary Bauer in hopes of stalling the campaign with flu-infested saliva; or, scoping out unsuspecting straight men because he has a baby strapped to his back while in the produce section of the super market. His acerbic observations leave me dumbfound as I mumble, "Yeah. What he said." When I get my OUT magazine in the discreet plastic wrapper, I rip it open and turn directly to Dan Savage's column. Even if the magazine lands in the "To Read" pile where it may sit for as long as six months, it does not get there unless Dan Savage has been read. This month he spoke of his beautiful boy phobia, and how it stems from childhood when he'd be accused of being gay simply by looking at the beautiful boys. Today, even as an adult, beautiful boys set off an asthma attack in him for fear of getting his ass kicked. Yeah. What he said. Tony and I are sitting at Outwrite Books, our local gay bookstore and coffeehouse. We've arrived early enough to get a seat just five feet from where Dan Savage will sit. I'm thinking of all the questions I want to ask him. Where did you go to school? How did you get from Chicago to Seattle? How does an openly gay man land into the role of writing a main-stream sex advice column? What do you read when you're not writing? Do you write in long-hand, pound it out on a keyboard, or talk into a mini-cassette recorder like a romance novelist? Are you hungry? Would you like to get a bite to eat? Moments before my watch said he was to go on, I looked around the bookstore to see if I had enough time to pee. It looked as if there was still some organizing to be done--a hype-stall--to build anticipation. So I run for the beverage counter to ask for the restroom key with the 'M' when I breeze by him. Whoa. Wait. His publicity photos have done him absolutely no justice. He _is_ one of the beautiful boys. And he's articulate. I could hardly breath. I bailed on the restroom concept and returned to my seat next to Tony. "I thought you were going to use the restroom?" "I was. But he's there." "Where?" "Right there. They're gonna start. Any moment. It's here." "Why don't you relax. Go use the restroom." "Okay. But make them stall. That store manager obviously has a crush on you. Use it to your advantage." My head was spinning. The manager Phil introduced Dan Savage, who was to read from his book, which is about his efforts to adopt a kid with his boyfriend, Terry. Dan admitted he hates reading. That's the worst part. He'd prefer just to talk. Oh my God. What if he looks at me? Is it obvious that I'm about to burst? Can he see that I'm so excited my eyes are seeping? The book is wonderful. He illuminates the most mundane in a magical way. And after what seemed like only minutes, he put the book down, breathed a huge sigh of relief and said, "Okay, can we talk just talk now? Am I done?" Yes. Yes. Whatever, Dan. Read. Talk. It's your choice. He answered the audience's questions until there were no questions. And I did not ask a single one of mine. Too afraid that the beautiful boy in front of me might laugh off my silly questions, and in front of a crowd. He started to sign autographs, and Tony and I loitered in the back of the store. I convinced Tony that if I ate at home every day next week, I'd have money to buy the book. I had run through the scenario many times, and still couldn't get it to work: "Ah, Dan? I don't have any money to buy your book this week, but, well, I just wanted to say... I think your column on beautiful boys was brilliant. And are you hungry? We're going to get a burrito? Would you like to join us?" I had to have the book in my hand. I lagged behind so I could be the last person to have a book signed; I was wrought with excitement. A couple years back, I bolted after Chasity Bono spoke about here book and didn't consider buying it, let alone crack the spine with curiosity. I approached Dan with my new purchase, and that's when it happened. I didn't get near the rim, the hoop, or even the backboard. I might as well have tripped on my shoe lace, fallen flat on my face and been accused of traveling. "Who is this for?" he asked. "For the Barnes Place Library," I said. His face contorted as if I'd thrown a toxic chemical at it. "What's that?" he asked. "That's my house. All great places in the South have names." "No, I mean, wha'd you say?" "Oh, Barnes Place Library. B-A-R-N-E-S P-L-A-C-E. Two words. Library." I was about to puke. I had messed it up. He was totally freaked out. I couldn't possibly say another thing more. 'Your column last month really touched me.' No. He'd throw the book at me. Tell me to go touch myself. The manager with a crush on Tony swept in and placed about 50 books on the table. "Okay, sign away," Phil said. Dan was rescued, and he buried his head in his pile of books. Despite all my in-mind practice sessions, it was over. Not only was I on the wrong court, I wasn't even in the game.