how different are we?

We reason, we regret and we choose. This makes us human. We fight, we hunt and we have sex. This makes us animal. As a species we have survived and counterintuitive to the logic of Darwinian selection, we have somehow allowed ourselves to become sentimental. Puzzling but despite how we fancy ourselves to be evolved, how different are we from animals?

I stood on the wrong side of a velvet rope on Saturday night. It was the first time in a long while that I even attempted to brave the nightlife in this town. An acquaintance of a friend had organized a party which was held at a club on La Cienega Blvd. Republic, in case you ever want to not go there.

Cash Money and I approached the thumping doorway, through which the sexy brought themselves back. Low pink lights threw their beams against explosed flesh. Something cinema was projected onto the wall. It was all very au courant. The soon-to-be sexy crowded around us, boxed out by the dark, velour partition designed to keep the (out in the) cold from the hot. And in front of us, in the very center stood the valve that controled it all: a 5 foot tall alpha-female bouncer in a long black leather coat that looked like a discard from the Matrix set.

Clipboard tucked firmly under her arm. Gaze unimpressed. I watched her unhook the rope for two tall model types with four impossibly enormous plastic tits between them. Human. Or human-made rather. She allowed women in. No men. The golden rule of clubs: the more women you have inside, the more selective you can be with the men who crowd and peer and lust for admittance. Definitely animal. Cash Money and I weren't sure what to make of our chances. It was midnight. We were tired. The host of the party was probably nowhere to be found. Cash Money made a go at the ice queen who had approached us as if to speak. She asked the ice queen if she had the guest list to which the ice queen responded by walking away, not even acknowledging the question or our presence. It was one of the rudest things I have ever seen. How dare she give us a cursory evaluation and decide that we were not worthy of her time. That we were not worthy of getting in where we would have to pay some $20 to be given the opportunity to spend some $20 on alcohol. Cash and I humanly decided we were not going to subject ourselves to such disregard. We were proud. We headed to our cars, along the way passing a variety of inebriated young things dressed like expensive prostitutes. We may have growled.

The next day, a different friend and I drove forty miles north to a small town called Acton. My friend, an animal lover, met a woman from the basset hound rescue at a pet parade in Long Beach. She gave him a brochure about their facility and after carefully navigating a gravely dirt road, we found ourselves at their door on a sunny Sunday morning.

As we approached the gate, it rattled with the excitement and barking of what I can only estimate to be twenty-five basset hounds. There were many more hounds, ninety-six to be exact; some of them wandering farther off, some still in their kennels but only twenty-five seemed to show immediate interest in us. We were careful not to let them escape as we slid through the gate and swam the sea of floppy ears and short legs. They crowded around us, stepping over each other, barking at friends who jumped the line. We nearly drowned. We didn't have enough hands to pet them. Everyone wanted some attention. Animal? Some of them stayed at the outskirts of the frenzy, preferring to observe and have their space. Human? An older, matter-of-fact woman in a basset hound t-shirt named Carol began introducing each of them by name. Sugar Momma, Gracie, Turbo, Honey nee Freckles, Wilson and Charlie were a few. It was one thing to recall all the names, but how could she tell them apart? She carried no clipboard. It was incredible.

We were given a tour of the facility. A rainbow of leashes hung on nails in the wall. Stainless steel dog bowls were stacked next to the sink. Each cage had a bed and a tenant. In the kitchen, Katie (a hound) slept on the floor. Katie was deaf and blind. We heard the stories of their most tragic cases. One of their dogs had been lynched as part of a gang initiation. He was presumed dead by a police officer who thought it'd be best to cut him down before the students from a nearby school got out for lunch. So the policeman cut the rope, the body fell to the ground and as he removed the noose, the dog took a breath. He had barely survived. I feel bad I can't remember his name. A rescue worker who didn't know his history grabbed him by his neck when he tried to jump out of her car. He bit her. She ordered him put down. Due to a paperwork error, Dawn the rescue coordinator we met (by far, one of the most wonderful human beings on the planet with hair that looks like it's dancing on her head) fought for a year to have him brought to her care. She finally won but it took another six months before he allowed her to put a collar on him. Eventually he did and she saved him from his immediate fate. "He'll live out the rest of his days with us," she said.

I took it upon myself to pet a very still hound named BJ who has cancer. She didn't seem to notice that I was there. I don't know if it made her feel better that I singled her out but, it made me feel better. I am human after all. Her cancer has metastaticized (spread) and I think it may have contributed to her fatigue. Had we the time, Dawn would have told us the story of each and every dog in her care. We were just too busy. We had a bounty of hounds upon us; climbing on us for hugs, leaving dirt and saliva on our clothes, leaning against our legs as we sat on the ground, poking their muzzles under our arms to perhaps squeeze in for some affection, pawing us to pet them. These are the dogs that no one wants. I wondered if it was a trait of the breed or a byproduct of their dire circumstances that made the basset hounds so hungry for our touch. Nature or nurture? Neither mattered. Though our laps had a maximum occupancy limit and our arms were only two (four) we did not turn any dog away. Every hound was VIP.

From the moment someone walks through the gate, Dawn can tell what type of pet owner they will be. It's instinctual. Animal. In telling us this secret, I gleaned our acceptance from her. Perhaps the ice queen/ mean valve also sized up Cash and me accurately. We were party poopers who, once inside, would only become increasingly judgemental of the melee rather than sling expensive drinks down our gilded throats. I will reluctantly concede to this possibility. Dawn knew my friend and me would be good visitors. One must learn a thing or two from working the door night after night, Sunday after Sunday.

The junior high discomfort of not being approved as part of the pack (no matter how biased the jury) is human. The bitchy comments whispered as slutty 20 year-olds gallivant past you is also human. The joy of being a part of the pack is animal. The need to be loved and to be petted once in a while?

i couldn't have done it without the following people

Let me give thanks to...

E-C for checking in every night with unwavering concern; for being impressed that I am trilingual; for saying "the inspired" and "not the obvious." The words you use with me have become a language I lean against when I simply can't speak anymore. I thank you so whole-heartedly.

Burbank's Finest for laughing at my meanest side; for buying me Pinkberry on a cold night and being OK with eating it in my warm car; for letting me admit to you how sad I am. When you have a respite from being strong and allow yourself to enjoy a laugh, I feel at peace.

512 for being touched that I was there for you in your hour of need. I will always be there for you because I owe you dinner. Being indebted has never felt so comforting.

The Manties for not being typical TV gays who are always affronted by everything. I can't imagine my world without your humor and sensitivity. Thank you for being my family.

Cashew for calling at the absolute best and worst moment and not hanging up when I said so; for feeding me pizza and letting me hang out on your couch; for your ingenious assertion that calling marriage a "civil union" would be akin to giving gays a separate but equal drinking fountain. One day, when you find that elusive Italian sunbeam, I hope you'll see the light you shed on me.

An for the bottle of champagne and for making me breezy. May we one day find ourselves in the same city again. Even if it means driving for hours and hours and hours. We've done it before and we've always made out safely. Did I say made "out"? Oh god, I meant made "it". We always made IT safely. (nervous laughter)

The PC for calling me on your days off and for having survived. During tumultuous times, I met you at the turn of the century and while it makes me feel old to realize this, it reminds me of how much I love you. So there, I said it. SOMEONE has to.

WG for Paris and the conference calls that make me laugh and sigh. The night of the ear-wiggling, you shone like an angel in the very dim kitchen. You told me to put a sheet on the couch and I did because I respect you and your furniture.

Clah for being my activities director in London; for letting me into your home; for wanting me to never leave. Your wit carves deep grooves into my minimally groovy brain. Your strength brings me to my knees with admiration. Admiration of your pink suede boots, you sexy bitch.

The Shrimp for telling me that nothing is as bad as the first year of law school. Nothing.

Meow Mix for washing my car, filling it with gas and telling me she'd do it again if it would make me smile.

The Romantic for getting me drunk on sake, beer, ridiculously good sushi and the idea of bubble gum taster as a career. One day, you will meet a woman who can smoke a pork shoulder with more flair and panache than you could ever imagine and at your wedding, I will still try to steal you away from her. You're far McDreamier than Patrick Dempsey.

DC for coming to see me perform poetry and telling me that I needed to quit my job to pursue it full time. Your mind is a brilliant diamond placed in a setting which simply cannot do its clarity justice.

7K for expense accounts and Falcor and our impending trip to Belgium to see Falcor or Mischa Barton. No difference.

SR for looking me in the eye every day and not flinching; for our lunches on the terrace; for hashing and hashing and hashing "things" out until "things" looked like a silken powder of mistakes and brave choices. Your understanding comforts all the molecules that comprise me.

DMA for hugging me when I ask you to and then making a dirty joke about my boobs and the various ways you'd have sex with me if you were to stoop to having sex with an actual woman. No one makes me laugh as much as you do.

Ceviche for knowing what it's like. The silent door upon which no knocking falls is the serenity of ourselves.

CJ for telling me it was ok to run away as long as I didn't get lost. Well, I didn't and I came back in one piece. I can't wait to see you and get your autograph because it will be worth more than Kerry Washington's one day even though you look the same.

Monique for taking me to a party where I realized I had grown up. Your delicious love stories are always a welcome meal for my starved soul. I keep a wish in my pocket that you will never stop conjuring new recipies with your beloved sous chef.

Monique (the other one) for sitting with me in my apartment and repeating what I had repeatedly told you and making me listen to myself. If a picture paints a thousand words, then I would paint us in your car, traipsing through CD tracks and lifting the wisdom that we know is buried deep, deep down.

KAA for asking me questions so compelling that they make my responses sound like flatulence. From the smallest task to the biggest obstacle, you make everything look easy without diminishing each moment's importance. The day I move to San Francisco, I am proposing to you so tell your boyfriend to begin moving his stuff out now.

Krusty for letting me laugh at you when you probably don't want me to and for buying me pastries when I thought I was getting sick. You are one of the most thoughtful people I know. One day, I will have broken you down enough that you are too weak to fight falling in love which you do ever so courageously.

Penny for your laughter and greeting cards. You're the world's booster, cheering on every single person who crosses your path and the Duke is luckiest to have you. You will never know how amazing you are because you are just that type of humble amazing.

The Scotsman for filling my imagination with the colors that make the future look inviting.

Brother for being so goddamn matter-of-fact. I have nothing poetic to say to you.

My parents for doing the best they could with their rumpled mess of a firstborn. I'm going to be just fine.

a proposal of disproportionate importance

When I was sixteen, I fell in love with a boy with freckles and red hair. He wore a long green canvas jacket with a brown leather collar that shone slick along the edges that rubbed against his neck. We gingerly held sweaty hands when we drove to the mall in his parents' boxy car. We stood spooning inappropriately in public places as high school stupids do. I was like a tortoise with her teenaged boy shell. We kissed, crumpling the K-mart blanket on his twin bed while his younger brother played pixelated video games in the next room.

Though it wasn't always Sprite and carnations, it was a sufficient estimation of love. We played like grown-ups. We had rosy cheeks and late night phone calls. We ate at restaurants with an air of solidarity as a young couple. He bought a red sports car. I went to Paris on a school trip. We went to two proms, his then mine. We graduated from our high school, he then me. He enrolled for classes at a local community college while I applied and was accepted to UCLA. These were grand accomplishments in our small town minds.

On an early summer afternoon before I left for college, he came to visit me at my house. My parents were in the kitchen cooking dinner and I recall the smell of garlic and soy sauce being heated and tossed in the steel wok. My sisters were probably watching some ill-conceived sitcom re-run. We sat in the front room, away from the bustle and likely spoke about his latest car accessory purchase. It was all very plain. When it was time for him to leave, I walked with him to his car which was parked along the curb in front of our house. He opened the door and sat down in the driver's seat. I stood between the door and his leg which was still outside of the car. I remember this clearly.

It was then that he took my hand and said "I have something to ask you." I asked him what it was.

"Will you marry me?" No knee, no ring, no plan.

My response: "What? I can't marry you!" No fainting, no crying, no hesitation.

"Why not?"

"Where would we live?" I was incredulous.

"With my parents."

"We can't live with your parents."

Even at the hopeful age of seventeen, I knew that this sweet boy with a penchant for car accessories would not a good husband make. No, no, no. My answer was no. Even to this day, it is one of the easiest questions I have ever answered. My response was unfiltered, unabashed and steadfast.

It was not for lack of love or money that I declined my first marriage proposal. It was for lack of substance. There was no foundation beneath his decision. He didn't have a life-changing epiphany about the effervescent glory I possessed. I wasn't rich or pregnant. It was more about his insecurity than it was about my fabulousness. It may have been a fleeting idea he had as he walked out the door. A thought akin to remembering to bring your wallet or sensing a chill in the air and grabbing a sweater. A casual thought. Later he would divulge that he just didn't want me to go away to college and meet another boy. He didn't believe that I would stay with him and marriage was the solution that the simpleton in him favored. He was right. In the end, I did leave and no marriage could have prevented me. I believe in the gravitas and honor of marriage. I don't think he even thought or was even capable of thinking that deeply. But even without any sense of devotion, this young man would not be deterred.

"Ok, don't make a decision now," he coaxed. "Pinky promise me that you'll think about it and we can decide in a year." PINKY PROMISE. He looked tender. So, being the good girlfriend I was despite what I knew in my seventeen year-old heart, I hooked my pinky with his and forced myself to mutter "Ok." We broke up a few months later but for a time, during the summer of 1995, I was briefly, mildly engaged/pinky promised to a very sweet but simple boy with red hair and freckles.