Fairfax, VA, USA. Sharon and I are married. Not in the eyes of the Commonwealth of Virginia, not in the eyes of the Government of the United States, and certainly not in the eyes of the Internal Revenue Service or various religious sects.

If some god is above us, some divine creator without which none of this would be, I am certain he would bless us. Would a god deny our love just so he or she could angrily exercise some godly reasoned distinction originally intended to encourage the human pair bond and discourage the male of the species from raping the female every time some passing male desired sex?

In any event, no god has smote us over the years we have been pair bonded. Perhaps we get a free ride because of the eight children we have between us. Perhaps the prohibitions are man’s and not god’s.

It matters not. Sharon and I are married, pair bonded, ‘til death do us part and all that.

Fairfax, VA, USA. I find it comforting to know that Rock and Roll can still be threatening enough to have a performer banned from a television show.

Adam Lambert is neither the first or the last rock singer ever to be placed on the forbidden list by the powers that be. We can debate whether the ban was the result of Adam being out and gay or the result of a typical knee jerk reaction by the suits.

The facts are this: on the same television broadcast Janet Jackson grabbed a guy’s crouch without any particular uproar; Adam kissed a guy and he’s out of here. I will let you do the math.

I’m not particularly interested in Adam’s sex life. I’m not into gay guys, nor are they into me. He is, however, an attractive male, good looking with an undeniable stage presence.

What he does off stage is none of my concern but I find his music interesting and have spent some time thinking about his roots. What follows may not be entirely correct, but I think it a good platform for discussion. Start with the music on his first CD.

Fairfax, VA, USA. We Americans, you and I, spring from some Platonic conception of ourselves, forever remodeling our past even as we reconceive our multiple futures. The possibility of success, tempered by the memories our well accomplished failures, bedevils us until our dying days.

We worship a dual headed bitch goddess, pursuing fame, thinking it is success. [N1] In this, the early decades of a new millennium, we confuse our good intentions with actual accomplishment as if the act of aiming at a target is sufficient. [N2] We no longer actually have to hit the target to become famous. Being famous is enough, a well laurelled goal, in and of itself.

Success? Everyone wants success but no one admits to wanting it. If we achieve success, we are half apologetic that we climbed our own personal Mount Everest. The ideal American archetype is a Tin Star who, having just rid the world of the bad guys, responds to praise from the townspeople by casting his eyes down and mumbling semi-audibly Aw shucks, I was just doing my job.