It's All Relative Read Online Free PDF

New Year.
    Which is why, this time around, Gary celebrated
our
New Year’s Eve by leaving the restaurant sober, in love, and very much in control of his life.
    I batted one for three.

THE OSCARS AND MISS AMERICA
The Gay Grifters
    I knew I had met someone special the afternoon I picked Gary up to attend our first Oscar party together. I was running late and arrived to find my new boyfriend standing by the curb, his head and neck wrapped tightly in shimmering gold lamé.
    He
was
Oscar.
    And I was smitten.
    Since this was the Gay Super Bowl, it was the equivalent of a straight man picking up Pam Anderson in a mesh Patriots half shirt.
    A half hour into the party, however, I simply became irritated; the gag had gotten old fast and I was tired of leading a blind, sweaty, suffocating Gary around the party by the hand. I loved the Oscars—make that I
lived
for the Oscars—and wanted to focus not only on the red-carpet fashions but also on completing my Oscar ballot.
    So I began to pawn Gary off on people, or leave him leaning against a wall or a dessert table, returning to help only when I could hear him aspirate the gold lamé that kept sneaking into his mouth and nostrils.
    Fittingly, I hit Oscar gold twice that night.
    The first time came when I smacked Gary, hard, on his rear, andtold him to stay put by me on the couch the rest of the night so I could focus. The second time came when I hit on roughly 90 percent of my Oscar picks, even predicting the Academy Award winners in little-hyped categories like Best Animated Short, or Sound.
    I walked out of the party with a Benjamin in my pocket and a trunkload of movies, popcorn, and Milk Duds.
    â€œDo you know what I learned tonight?” I asked Gary on the way home.
    â€œThat lamé is highly chafing?” he said.
    â€œI’m not just a film buff, I’m a savant!”
    â€œYou got the gift!” Gary said, unwinding his golden mummy bandages.
    â€œAnd you got the rash!” I said, mortified by his red, welted skin.
    â€œI got it, too,” Gary said.
    â€œYou sure do.”
    â€œNo,” he answered. “The gift. Except mine is for pageants.”
    I put Gary’s ability to the test watching the Miss America pageant. (Gary, by the way, prefers only to watch Miss America, and not Miss USA, because he considers Miss USA “trashy,” since they allow contestants to enter who have had breast jobs and cosmetic surgery.)
    I challenged Gary to pick the top ten finalists based on appearance as soon as they walked onstage for the first time.
    â€œNo problem,” he said confidently. “That’s pretty much how I’ve chosen to live my life.”
    The cheeseball music started and we eyed the contestants, quickly but secretly scribbling on our pads of paper. I made lists of Definites, Maybes, and Be Thankful for Your State Crown. During the commercial break, we trimmed our lists to ten and then exchanged them so we could grade each other’s work.
    When the top ten was announced, I hit 50 percent.
    Gary batted a whopping 80 percent.
    â€œHow did you do that?” I wanted to know.
    â€œI told you: I got the gift. I mean, how do you know Best Animated Short Film? You just do.”
    â€œI have to know some of your tricks, though,” I pressed. “Tell me.”
    Gary got off the couch, a piece of half-eaten pizza crammed in his mouth, and snapped the curtains shut in our TV room. He then picked up the phone, listened for a dial tone, and, seemingly content, placed it back down.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked.
    â€œPeople would kill for these,” he whispered. “They’re not your standard Vaseline-on-the-teeth-to-keep-your-lips-from-sticking, or masking-tape-on-the-ass-to-keep-your-suit-from-riding-up secrets, but deeper ones—Harry Potter secrets. I developed these after years of sneaking into my bedroom to watch the pageant and dreaming of being on that stage, the talent