a placeless world

Here in Utah, where the act of voting is more of a formality than it is a contribution to social change, I typically rejoice to see any teen engaged in the process of democracy.

But when I saw him, clad in a "No on 3" shirt and walking outside the downtown library last week, I felt no joy at all.

It's not that I disagreed with the purpose behind the shirt. Indeed, I'll be voting likewise on the measure, which if passed would amend the state constitution to specifically define marriage as an institution between a man and a woman and bar any benefits to those engaged in other partnerships.

But the shirt's message — "It goes too far" — saddened me.

The state's governor and attorney general — both conservative Republicans — both oppose the measure, not because they seek to protect the rights of gays, but because its passage might affect the rights of "others" who have chosen to engage in nontraditional partnerships. (Before you say 'polygamy,' recognize that practice is already banned under the provisions of the state's constitution, thus these Republican leaders were most likely speaking about heterosexual partnerships, including common-law marriages.)

By their logic, it's OK to specifically target the rights of homos to live the way they want, but let's not hastily infringe upon the rights of the rest of us straighties to live the way we want.

Nice 'eh?

But with virtually no chance of defeating the measure by appealing to Utahns' progressive attitudes, an alliance of gay rights activists has resorted to promoting the very same concept as our Republican leadership: that the measure is not only bad for gays — but for everyone.

Ergo, "It goes too far."

In a lot of ways, I hope the young man at the library — who was wearing Italian shoes and carrying a satchel with a half-dozen rainbow buttons on it — missed the irony. I hope he didn't realize he was wearing a shirt that, in essence, asked voters to limit their spite to homosexuals.

But I doubt that's the case. It's more likely that the boy, as have so many Americans, has accepted and resorted to a paradigm that has so poisoned our democracy — a logic that suggests that preventing the greater evil is ensuring the greater good.

As is most often said by third-party candidates during presidential elections: "the lesser of two evils is still evil."

In this case, I'm not even confident that "it goes too far" is indeed a lesser evil.

Even with two of the state's most popular Republicans in opposition, Measure 3 will pass — probably in a landslide the likes of which this state is pretty much used to.

And if, by some miracle, the entire population north and south of the Salt Lake metro area stays home and the measure indeed fails, the forces that support it will regroup and rewrite.

An outright ban on gay marriage will be back on the menu in six months to a year. It will be presented in language that leaves no doubt that the only targets will be homosexuals.

When that happens, oppositions forces will no longer be able to say "it goes too far." They'll only be able to say what they should have said all along: That it is wrong.

And by that time, it will be too late.

American dream finally realized, I swept my wife off her feet and carried her over the threshold of our new home.

I set her down on the kitchen counter, plucked a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. We toasted our future.

It was one of the best moments of my life. Also one of the most frightening.

I'm no stranger to debt. My sister used to front me money for the ice cream man — at 10 percent interest. I bought my first car — a 1969 Ford Mustang — from a friend for $1600 plus the promise of $200 more a month until it was paid in full.

I've done the tango with a few high-rate credit cards. Jitterbugged with Visa and Mastercard. And I'll be waltzing with student debt — one-two-three one-two-three — until my legs fall off.

But not like this. Nothing like this.

This week I signed my name — over and over and over and over — on a book of legal documents fiscally obligating me throughout the next seven presidential elections. In doing so, I assumed possession of a home built during the Roosevelt administration — Teddy Roosevelt, that is.

I'm not complaining. The house is beautiful — a big brick bungalow with arching doorways and three — count'em three — chandeliers. The kitchen's magnificent. The front porch is big enough to play a game of football on. And the basement... well... let's just say my gin mill's going to have a real spacious home.

A claw foot tub. A cute little backyard. Four bedrooms.

Yes, four bedrooms. Yes, that's one for me, one for my wife and one for each of our two cats. You try finding a small home in Utah.

So we got a big one. A big, beautiful one. Because if you're going to go broke, you might as well do it in style.

In reality, we're not going broke — even though it might feel that way for a while. We're building wealth — the financial gurus tell us — by putting our money into equity.

Equity and interest, that is. And that's part of what makes this all so scary. The interest is there to remind me that I get very little room to screw up now.

Can't go out and spend my paycheck on the most recent object of my fancy. Can't go backpacking through Europe for months at a time on a few hundred dollars of savings. Can't storm out of my office when my editor and I have creative differences.

That's the trade-off. And it's one I've made happily. Excitedly.

But nervously.

After toasting our future, we toasted each other. And then I refilled my glass.

I may be doing that frequently over the next few months.