Scapegoats and Sacred Cows

The other night I had a dream that I gave Zachary Quinto a coming-out gift.  It was a ceramic platter with the Chili’s logo in the middle.  The platter had a huge crack in it.  I woke up at that point and pondered the depth of my relationship with Zachary Quinto.  I wondered if he hated me after that crappy gift and I lost him forever.  Or maybe he and I were so close that the crap platter was a special, private joke. 

Perhaps it was a reminder of a special night out together.  We both flirted with the waiter and drank too many cocktails with names like Triple Fruity Drinkini Kiss.  When we left, I yanked the platter from the wall where it hung like a proud trophy and stuck it in my giant bag. The crack happened when I banged my bag against the cab door.  We shared a chuckle over my tipsy clumsiness.

You see, I encouraged him to come out that night.  I assured him that his fans would remain loyal, and he would still find acting work.  When I gifted him the stolen platter, we shared a moment of deep nostalgia.  He looked at me with a smile that read, “You know me best, dear friend, and thanks for assuring me that I don’t have chronic gay face.”

If I were his fruit fly, I’d ask him the following questions:

1. Can I borrow your scarves and hats?  You seem to have a fantastic selection.
2. Why did Heroes start to suck as soon as the cheerleader stopped dating her uncle?
3. Did kissing Uhura make it move?  I mean, come on, Zoe Saldana’s a knock-out.

I realize this is ridiculous.  Zachary Quinto would never take me to Chili’s.  We’d only go to hip places that no one knows about.  (Maybe we already do and no one knows.)  I also realize that my lack of a Michigan-based gay sidekick is becoming a problem.  Most of all, I realize that my need to work out possible scenarios of dreams is one of the reasons why I don’t get enough sleep.