"The true story of a marriage (not really), a lovable and relentless mother, a six-year old who says his parents cannot get married (but wants to go to the reception), a partner who doesn't want to act like a straight person, and the author, who has written a hilarious and poignant memoir about making ""The Commitment.""
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September 22, 2005
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Excerpt from The Commitment by Dan Savage
I can't shake the feeling that I've lived this moment before.
Maybe that's because, like Jennifer Lopez walking into divorce court, I have lived this moment before ' over and over, again and again, for close to ten years now. Consequently, a sense of dread creeps over me when I'm about to get into a car with my boyfriend, Terry. For I know that just as soon as I buckle my seat belt, he will inflict the same headache on me that he's inflicted on me hundreds of times before. It's a pounding headache that prevents me from reading or sleeping or doing anything at all ' anything, that is, except for fantasizing about the elaborate murder/suicide that presents the only hope of ending this misery.
For I know that just as soon as I get into the passenger seat, the car's resident disc jockey ' that would be Terry, who operated a pile-driver in a previous life or will in a subsequent one ' will begin blasting loud, monotonous dance "music" through speakers inches from my ears. Lately I've been treated to worse than dance music, which, as much as I may hate it, I have some sort of genetic affinity for as a gay man. It is, after all, the music of my people. That is decidedly not the case with the White Stripes, the Faint, or Grand Theft Auto, noisy rock bands that we've been listening to lately, groups that leave me longing for the days when Bj ' rk, the Icelandic lunatic, was the most offensive thing I had to listen to in the car.
Terry isn't all that into the White Stripes, the Faint, or Grand Theft Auto, so he claims to feel something close to my pain. It's the budding music snob strapped into the car seat behind us who requires rock. Our six-year-old son, D.J., has rather sophisticated tastes ' and it's not just new bands he likes. After hearing one of their songs on the soundtrack of a skateboarding DVD when he was four ' four! ' D.J. asked Santa to bring him Black Sabbath's We Sold Our Soul for Rock 'n Roll for Christmas. Santa came through, and Black Sabbath has been on regular rotation ever since, always played at top volume.
In the car.
I blame myself for D.J. turning out this way. I had to be the go-to-work parent, the one who just ached to pay the bills, the one on the receiving end of all those mortifying cat's-in-the-cradle moments. ("He's walking ") My boyfriend, home alone with our impressionable son, drove him to preschool, playdates, and the grocery store while blasting selections from his enormous CD collection. I did my best on nights and weekends to undo the damage Terry was doing, bringing home the DVDs of Mary Poppins, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and, naturally, The Wizard of Oz. But my musicals were a quiet drop of water in Terry's terrifyingly loud ocean. It became clear that all was lost when, two months shy of his fourth birthday, D.J. refused to be buckled into his car seat until Terry went back into the house and got a Daft Punk CD ' and not just any ol' Daft Punk CD, mind you, but Discovery, the French dance band's retro-disco/techno-beats CD. You know that Daft Punk CD, right Yeah, me neither.