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2002: The year in review
Notes from the Marchive
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ight hundred words. That’s all I get. Eight
hundred lousy words to transport you to
places you’ve never been, like the set of a
gay pom movie or Liza Minnelli’s bridal
registry or the inside of my pants.
But the stories don’t end there— life isn’t
lived in 800-word increments. So with another
year coming to a close, I thought now would be a
good time to follow up on some of those stories.
For instance, I didn’t have enough room to
tell you that when Tino Lopez, the star of
Pomstruck A/, couldn’t deliver the goods on com
mand, the director turned to the crowd and usked
if anyone wanted to be the stunt ejaculator.
I was this close to saying yes, but I started to
worry about what would happen if I couldn’t
finish, either. In retrospect, I’m sorry I didn’t go
for it; I could have gotten a whole other col
umn out of it.
In other news, you’ll be pleased to know
that my house no longer smells like dead fish.
After numerous attempts, the stench was neu
tralized by a deodorizer. Now my house smells
like a dead fish wearing Right Guard. It’s all
about progress, not perfection, I tell myself.
Speaking of progress, four months after their
wedding Liza and David finally got around to
sending me a thank-you note for the butter
spreader I bought them at Ttifany.com. Eighty
bucks I spent on that sucker (including tax and
shipping), and what did I get in return? A laser-
printed form letter on copy paper— no water
mark, no embossed monogram, nothing. That’s
it, those two are off my Christmas list. From
now on, I’m only buying for Loma and Joey.
And I still haven’t gotten a fruit basket
from Rosie O ’Donnell either, despite the fact
that I’m absolutely certain she came out of the
closet because of pressure from the Great
Bo inking Boycott. My call to queer people
everywhere to abstain from sex with closeted
celebrities has been something of a nonstarter,
I’m sorry to report. But it’s only a matter of
time before word gets out. After all, just a year
ago this column was only running in three
papers. Now it’s in 12.1 tell you, The Gospel is
spreading faster than herpes at a bathhouse.
My homage to the well-endowed was certain
ly a big hit (pun intended). The ever-priapic
Jonathyn Andrews told me that visits to his
Web site, JonathynAndrews.com, tripled after I
mentioned it in my column. When he asked
how he could repay me I told him he should
simply endorse his organ donor card over to me.
that the first person who recognized me was a
gay pharmacist filling my prescription for
anti-depressants. I couldn’t very well say they
were for someone else; my damn name was
on the bottle.
One of the consequences of being a public
figure (however minor) is that people feel
compelled to say to your face that you suck.
One guy crossed an entire room just so he
could tell me: “Y’know, I love your columns. I
mean, some of them are lame, of course, but
for the most p art....”
A t least he didn’t call it my “little column,”
like my friend Jon does. No man likes being
told his column is little.
One sure sign of success is the increase
in hate mail. W ho knew losing 60 pounds
would piss so many people off? But I
absolutely refute the notion that I am fat-
phobic. I do not harbor an irrational fear of
fat people; I do, however, harbor an irra
tional fear of complex carbohydrates.
So just because I’m shallow and vain
enough to loathe my own fat doesn’t mean the
sentiment extends to yours. Frankly, I’m too
self-absorbed to notice what the rest of you
look like anyway.
I don’t try to piss people off; I just seem
to come by it naturally. I thought I was
reaching out to female readers when I wrote
about my musical version of The Vagina
Monologues (Vagina/ The M usical). But the
best-laid plans of mice and M arco often
go astray.
One woman wrote to say my column was
“the M O ST disgusting, insulting, hurtful,
misogynistic writing I have ever seen in ANY
publication, let alone a ‘gay’ publication....
Marc should write only about that which he is
familiar with: the toilet bowl.”
Sh e’s got a point: I’m the perfect person
to write about toilet bowls. Thanks for the
creative input, and look for the whole poop
in 2003!
I just hope I can limit myself to 800 words.
And that, my friends, is The Gospel
According to Marc.
O
f course, with increased awareness o f the
column ' comes increased awareness of me,
12th ave. 503.224.2604
too, which should be thrilling, except
Send your other column ideas to M arc AciTO at
marcadtc@attbi.com.
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